V'*?^T.'A 'V.^*^ * -' /^rx*^>'!.r\:''- .V \ \^5elf and cliild, fare sufficient, though homely, and procure comfortable attire, though of the coarsest fabric. Time passed on, and she was generally known throughout the city as the 'melancholy washerwoman with the pretty child;' for from the hands of no other did the linen come as purely white, or the frill or ruffle as neatly plaited. And never was any epithet better applied than the above to Clara and her mother; fur the face of the one was motionless as the sea of oblivion, while that of her child was like a rivulet flashing in sunlight and dimpled by the soft fingers of every zephyr. The melancholy of Mrs. Lawson had in it nothing of dissatisfaction with outward circumstances, or of repining at labor to which her constitution was une- qual — it was the deep settled gloom of a mind where the sun of hope had ceased to shine — of a heart whose warm feelings unkindness had congealed. She was young and ardent, and attributing to her suitor excel- lencies that, in him, had onl}- an imaginary existence, gave her hand to him with all the devotedness of woman's first love; and when the clouds of error were dissipated, and the creations of fancy gave way tv- 5* 54 LITERARY AMARANTH. painful truth; in the midst of unkindness she endea- vored to 'hope against hope;' and even when he had abandoned her and her infant, continued to cherish the recollection of him who had won her early affections, as the ivy enfolds the ruined, rotten trunk of its early embrace. Her bruised spirit would have sunk beneath the pressure of sorrow, but maternal love nerved up her strength, and enabled her to make exertions for her child that she could not have made for herself. Often when she would have fainted over her wash-tub with fatigue, the sight of Clara, as she sported over the green with a countenance like an angel, inspirited her, or her innocent laugh as her little arms plashed in the water, playing with the soap-bubbles; or her soft voice as she hummed the infant hymns her mother had learned her. Modest merit is unobtrusive of its griefs and is per- mitted to suffer, while forwardness is hearkened to, and relieved from its very importunity. Although the thin form of the heart-broken woman for four years was seen gliding like a spectre along the streets, during the week, laden with the clothes of her daily toil; and her little child, with piles of linen, over which her bright locks fell in ringlets, like sun -beams on flakes of snow; and although every Sabbath they occupied the same humble seat at church, no one had inquired into their destitute condition, nor had endeavored to put them into a way of earning a livelihood more suited to the THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 55 mother's failing strengtli. 'The melancholy washer- woman and her pretty child' came from the lips of many, as before, but was a sentiment of the lips, in which the heart had no share. It created no charitable desire to cheer the melancholy of the one, or shield the frail, unprotected beauty of the other from the hard- ships and snares of an evil world. Paler grew her cheek, slower the step, and more stooped the figure of the lone daughter of sorrow, yet with her wasted hands worn through the skin by attri- tion, she continued late and early to ply her accustom- ed labor, while deeper and deeper shadows spread over her countenance — the dull twilight of life darkening into the night of deatli. It was a morning in May; the sky was flushed with the rosy tints of the rising sun; and the hum of the distant city, with the gush of waters and the song of birds, came like the music of enchantment on the fresh air, scented with the breath of the flowers of spring. Every thing around smiled in the beauty and peaceful- ness of Eden. Deeply did Mr. Letour and his warm- hearted lady drink the influence of all that surrounded them: for the virtuous and charitable alone are calcu- lated to enjoy the calm beauties of nature. They had risen earlier than usual and had continued their walk beyond the precincts of the city, until they came to the humble suburban habitations of the poor. The sun had not risen, yet the smoke was curling 56 LITERARY AMARANTH. up among the clustering boughs of the weeping-wiilows, from the fire in the open air, where, beside the spring^, the slender form of the washerwoman bent over her daily task. They had often marked the sorrowful countenance of the deserted woman, as slie and her little daughter took away, weekly, and returned the clothes which they gave her; but the peculiar hardness of her fate had not presented itself to them until, in their morning ramble, they saw the unmitigated toil to which she was subject, and contrasted her cheerless poverty and wakeful labors with the extravagant and indolent day-slumbers of the wealthy. If the lux- urious inhabitants of the city would give to morning exercise the hours they waste in feverish sleep, and witness the hardships and the toils which the poor, late and early, have to undergo for a scanty subsist- ence, how often would pride and haughtiness learn a lesson of humility— how often would avarice listen to the dictates of charity, and the glow of benevolence ex- pand the breast that wraps itself up in its own narrow and sordid interest. As they approached the humble cottage, the cries of a child, from the thick bower of willows, arrested their attention. They proceeded hastily to the spot from which the noise came. The water was bubbling in cauldrons over a brisk fire — confused heaps of dry clothes dotted the green grass over, like islands — there lay masses that had already been washed, in twisted r H E R O Y A L P R U F E S S O R . 57 rolls piled together — there stood the tub with its con- tents, from which the excited bubbles had scarcely dis- appeared, and beside it lay extended the washerwoman, as she had sunk down from exhaustion — pale, motion- less, stiffening in death. Beside the corpse was her little child, with her face buried in her arms, w-eeping aloud. In the firm grasp of the dead was a crumpled letter that she had received that morning, which told the story of her woes. It bore the post mark of New Orleans. This letter was from her husband, and was full of touching penitence for the manner in which he had behaved to her, and entreaties for her forgiveness. The conclusion was by another person that gave an account of his death. Labor and ill health had reduced her form to a mere skeleton — hope, the oil of life, was extinct, and the sudden excitement had quenched the feeble light of existence, as the gentlest breeze ex- tinguishes the dying snulf that flickers in the socket. Restoratives were resorted to, but in vain; the sufferer had reached that peaceful clime where the *weary are at rest.' The dead was committed to the tomb, and her orphan child found a home in the family of the charitable Letour. Clara was now in her eighth year, and was taken by Mrs. Letour into her nursery, to assist in taking care of her young children. She had received from her mother some elementary instruction, and was able to read with considerable ease. Madame Letour had 58 LITERARY AMARANTPI, been educated in Paris, and was a woman of handsome acquirements, having, besides a knowledge of the mo- dern languages of Europe, an acquaintance with the ancient classics, together with the belles-lettres. She spent the half of each day in the nursery with her children, instructing them. The sprightliness and good sense of Clara soon attracted her notice; she made her a pupil with the class of her own daughters, and in the different studies to which she directed her at- tention, was pleased to see her make astonishing pro- gress. During five years Clara continued in the fami- ly, doing service half the day, and devoting the residue to study; and in that time obtained an education, such as few young ladies had then an opportunity of getting. She was tall and well grown for her age, and her countenance was ever lit up by intelligence and cheer- fulness. If she had any faults they were those of excessive energy of character, and of her mixing with the world in her infancy; a confidence bordering on forwardness; a lively perception of the ludicrous, and a keenness of wit and satire that, while it excited wonder, created fear. About this time, a certain Miss Margarette Lawson, an antiquated maiden lady on the wrong side of fifty, the eldest and only surviving sister of Clara's father, came over from Endand. She found out her inter- esting niece in New York, and took her to reside with her in one of the little villages in the western part of THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 59 the state, which, for sake of convenience, we will call Bloomingville. How much soever Miss Margarette might resemble her brother in features and national prejudices, she certainly had nothing of his extrava- gance — for a more sparing housewife never lived. By a rio;id stintino; of table and wardrobe, she had not only kept unbroken the principal of a small bequest made to her in her more girlish days, but had laid up also some guineas of the interest. Some few dresses of coarse grey stuff, comprised all her every-day wearing apparel — while a rusty silk gown, venerable enough in cut and color to have belonged to her great-grand- mother, with a black silk-hooded mantilla, made up her dress of state for extraordinary occasions. Four years passed away in the village of Blooming- ville, and Clara had grown up to womanhood, and a beautiful and interesting girl she was, truly — yet she seemed a flower destined to "waste its sweetness on the desert air;" for her high-toned sentiments, and mental acquisitions were ill understood by the inhabi- tants of the village in which she lived, who were noted for a plainness and simplicity, bordering on stupidity. Reader, take an example, and ''ex uno disce omnes.^' Shortly after Clara came to Bloomingville, she asked one of the rustic beaux of the place if he liked novels. "Novels! Novels!" responded the interrogated, "can't say, for I never eat any, but I'll tell you what, I'm tremendous at a young 'possum." (50 LITERARY AMARANTH. The reader, no doubt, has met with this anecdote twenty times; but as there is the same interest in deter- mining the place of origin of a good stor}^ as of fixing the birth place of a great man, I am sure he will feel indebted to me for establishing its locality, although it is not likely that as many cities will strive for the honor as contended for the glory of giving birth to Homer. The school -master of the place, a tall hand- some personage of twenty-four, was the only one, in any degree, able to appreciate Clara's abilities: yet Reading, Writing, and a limited knowledge of figures, Grammar and Geography, were the radius that de- scribed the cyclopasdia of his lore. The slight preten- sions that Herman Lincoln had to learning, established something like a community of feeling between them, which soon grew into a warm attachment. I hope my readers will not hastily conclude to des- pise my humble hero of the birchen-rod — but will recollect that, in 1800, (to which date the above histo- ry belongs,) the village schoolmaster who could read Dil worth's Spelling Book and the Psalter, and cypher through Gough's Arithmetic, was no inconsiderable person — and if, in addition to these, he had a smatter- ing of Grammar and Geography, and could survey and plot a field, he was set down as a prodigy. To resume our story, Herman certainly was the only one of any intelligence or reading in the place; and he had drawn upon himself the envy of the 3"0ung rustics, on account THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. gj of supplanting them in the affections of the village belle; though their envy had nothing of bitterness in it, for he had grown up among them, and his amiable disposition prevented any feeling of the kind. The months of July and August were a busy sea- son; — and, as the youngsters were too much engaged in harvesting to attend to books, Herman took advan- tage of the recess of school to visit the West, where he had some friends. Clara found the village rather duller than usual, after he had gone, and availed her- self of his absence to pay a visit to the friend of her childhood, Madame Letour, in New York. She was received with the greatest kindness by her benefactress; and, after spending seven or eight weeks in a very delightful manner, returned home, bearing many little presents that she had received, — and, among others, all the necessary cosmetics, perfumes, powders, &c. &c. for a fashionable toilet. These, to be sure, were not needed to deck Clara's peerless beauty; but Madame Letour was a French woman, (which is another name for rouge,) and delighted in perfumes; and human nature is so constituted, that, in making presents, our self- love often induces us to present what we prize, without consulting the taste or the circumstances of others. Important changes often occur in the space of a few weeks. During Clara's short absence, revolutions, to her highly important, had taken place in the small vil- lage of Bloomingville. The sun was nearly set, as the 6 (32 LITERARY AMARANTH. stage rolled in sight of the place. The eyes of the maiden were directed to the elm trees, through which a glimpse was caught of the school-house. The door opened. The swarm poured forth, with laugh and song, and merry shoiit, and hats and bonnets tossed in air. And now the maiden's heart fluttered, and the color came and went on her delicate cheek — and now she caught the glimpse of her — could it be? — her own Herman. The figure emerged from the shade. It was not the tall manly form of her lover, but stood in the light, in outline, more like a short, thick sack of wool, than a human being. But was he the teacher? Was there no other person in the room? Did not that small white-washed log cabin of twenty feet by twelve, contain one of more estimation, in her view, than all the opulent proprietors of the princely piles of brick and marble that she had seen in New York? No! The locking of the door — the bundle of books under his arm, and the pompous, philosophical strut of the stranger dispelled all her hopes, and left but little more to doubt or fear. Her lover was dead, dismissed, or had removed forever — afresh instance of the incon- stancy of mankind — even a parting farewell unsaid. As she came near a group of children who were behind the rest, and who seemed to be particularly intent on their books as they walked along, confused voices reached her like the hum of bees; and presently she could distinguish hie hdsc hoc, hujus hujuo hiijus THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 53 — bomis bona bommi, boni bonse boni — spero speras spsrat, speramus speratis sperant, ^^c. but O temporal O mores! such pronunciation — such barbarous Latin had never been heard since the days of Romulus! I should mention that the inhabitants of Bloomingville were a mixed population. There was the deep guttural accent of the German, the broad Irish, and the stam- mering American mouthing Latin. The sounds, mingled together, were like the confusion of Babel, or the yell of triple-headed Cerberus himself. It was past all doubt. They had a new master, and a lin- guist. Clara entered the house with a melancholy heart. Scarcely had she embraced Aunt Margarette, before the old lady, in breathless haste, informed her that *'they had gotten rid of that fool of a fop, Lincoln, what knew nothink at all, and had gotten in his place an English gentleman, a royal prophesier of all kinds of larnen — what knew every thing. Lincoln writ on that he was sick, in delicate health, and expected to come as soon as he got well: but you see, Clara dear! they warri't going to wait, but took the royal prophe- sier.'''^ Clara could scarcely refrain from tears — yet indignation at the manner in which Lincoln had been treated, and irritation at the language of her aunt, gave her energy, and she replied to her aunt in a warm manner, "Professor, I presume you mean, aunt! — and, as the gentleman professes every thing, I would /jro- 54 L I T E R A R Y A M A R A N T H . pheny that he knows nothing. I suppose that he is some boasting blockhead that has come to this country to prevent his head from being brought to the block. lie is certainly no gentleman to undermine another, especially while he is confined to a bed of sickness. I cannot see why people should be so foolish as to drive from among them those they know, and take in strangers, about whose talents and morals they know nothing, as if no one had any brains or worth, unless he came from over the sea." *'And why arn't it so, Miss? Don't the choice of every thing come over the sea — wines and silks and tlie like, and why hain't folks there more brains too? Ar'nt they more 'lightened?" "Why, as to that, I can't say," replied Clara; "but, '//"they have more brains over the sea, most persons take care to have their heads lightened of a large por- tion — for I generally find them as addle-pated as you seem to think the Americans." Clara here perceived a tremendous cloud on Aunt Margarette's brow, and hastened to escape from the torrent of abuse that followed; but, as she tripped up stairs to her room, she heard repeated the words — 'im- pudent — fool — and personal 'flections.' The next morning Clara was confirmed that she was correct in the estimate which she had made of the Pro- fessor's abilities, by the perusal of the following card, which her aunt produced; THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 55 "J. Card. — Henry Hardigan, Royal Professor from London, where he has taught several of the princes of the blood and sons of the nobility, announces to the public that he has taken the Academy in ihe village of Bloomingville, where he will teach the following branches: Orthography, Kaligraphy, Brachygra- phy, Reading and Geography, Numerics, Optics, Katoptrics, Hydrostatics and Pneumatics, Algebra, Fluxions, and Saxeo- pontine Constructions, ihe Mathematics analytically, syntheti- cally and geometrically, Demonology, Psychology and Mytho- logy, Ontology and Dontology. Also, all the ancient and modern Languages, together with whatever is comprehended in the most extended cycle of the cyclopedia of art and science. Great attention paid to the morals of the pupils, and the most polite perfections and genuflections of the finished courtier instilled. Terms moderate. It was true, the faithful services of young Lincoln were forgotten. Parents were anxious to procure for their children the blessings of an education which thej had not themselves; and, with a pitiable credulity, which is still an American characteristic, exalted a foreigner over one identified with their own interests and honor. The Royal Professor was engaged, and the inhabitants of the village of Bloomingville expected the goddess of Wisdom to break a shower of knowledge over the place, as Jupiter had formerly done a shower of gold over the Rhodians. Plain English and useful knowledge were eschewed — and to please the impor- tunity of the children — to pay proper respect to the teacher, whose dignity might not brook plain learning 6* (jt) LITERARY AMARANTH. SO well, and, furthermore, to gratify the foolish vanity of parents — boys who could not tell the difference between the centre and the circumference, or distin- guish a noun from an interjection, were forthwith put into Latin. The children were delighted with the change — the change of teachers, and the change of lessons. Each one looked with contempt on his former studies and the teacher who superintended them; and looked forward to the period when they should become royal professors themselves, and have royal times of it, and take very Parnassus by storm. Time passed on, and the inhabitants of Bloomingville congratulated themselves on having secured the ser- vices of so eminent a Professor. He was regarded as the greatest philosopher of the age. He not only un- derstood all the discoveries made since the flood, but made some himself, with which he contemplated soon to 'astound the natives' — not of our humble little vil- lage, but of the world. He had also formed very long and learned theories, which were exceedingly mystified, and so the people did not understand them. This, however, was a proof of the correctness of the theories, as any which they would have understood, could not have been correct. Of these theories, I will cite one of the shortest and most plain, that my readers may judge of the deep sagacity of the Professor's inquiries into the nature of truth. That the days are longer in suuuner than in winter, THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. (37 is a natural fact — that all bodies expand with heat, and contract with cold, is a natural law — that the days in summer are expanded by tlie heat, and the days in winter contracted by the cold is a natural inference. Was there ever a deduction more natural? The above was the theme of one of the Professor's lectures, delivered in the school-room a few evenings after he had come to the village; and, after detailing some interesting experiments which he and his young friend. Lord Stanhope, had made in London with a //geometer, an instrument which, the Professor said, gave the con- densif action and rariflication of heat: to determine the phenomena of the long days in summer, and also some experiments which he and Earl Musgrave had made, with a spyrometer — an instrument that shows the radiation of cold, to explain the phenomena of the short days in winter, he was enabled to demonstrate the truth of the above law and inferences to the entire satisfaction of his astonished auditors. He boarded at the village-tavern, and lodged in the upper room of the school, which was a building of a story and a half; and here, late at night, when every light in the village was extinguished, would be seen the gleam of Professor Hardigan's lamp. He was polite enough to drop in of an evening, and see his neighbors for a few minutes: but such, he said, were his studious habits, that he enjoyed social intercourse as the dessert of life, but hard, abstruse study as the 68 I' I T E R A R y A M A R A N T n . substantial meat. At first he called on his friend and country woman, Mrs. Margarette Lawson, almost everj evening; but, after Clara's return, his visits were more seldom, and less lengthy — which was strange, as the intelligent like to mingle with those of kindred spirit; and certainly she was the best fitted to comprehend and enjoy the Professor's profound erudition. When he did visit her aunt, Clara used her ingenuity to draw him out on particular subjects, that she might sift his pretensions somewhat; but aunt Margarette and the Professor were both so fond of talking, that she could scarcely edge in a word at all, much less enter into a thorough unravelling; — besides, when she had an op- portunity, she was afraid to proceed very far, lest she might oftend the gentleman, and provoke the ire of her aunt, who had not sufficiently studied Blair, to have proper regard in her rhetoric, for the decorums of time and place, v/hen in a wrathful mood. In addition to his voluminous reading, Professor Hardigan devoted much of his time to astronomical observations, and had converted the window seat of his attic dormant into an observatory. Here he sat of evenings, with several lamps around him; and with arms bent like an Indian bow, supported a small tube directed towards the stars. From many a window in the village, were turned the eyes of sire and son, to the star-gazing man of science, as they thought upon the stupendous discoveries likely to be made — and all THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. (39 by the teacher of their school, too, — 'twas overwhelm- ing to think of it. True, the tube was a very small one: but by some discoveries which the Professor had made in optics, he had so improved it, as to bring the moon sufficiently near to enable him to hear the roar of its sea. That the instrument was a good one, may be inferred from the fact, that by nice calculations made with it, assisted by a good almanac, he had actually come within five minutes of the time of an eclipse, by the landlord's watch. In addition to a valuable philosophical appa- ratus, contained in a large chest, he received from Al- bany, shortly after his coming to the village of Bloom - ingville, a box containing philosophical instruments to be used with his telescope when looking from his ob- servatory. These instruments were a present from the Astronomical Society of London, on account of some discoveries which he had communicated some time before his leaving England. The instruments were put into the sanctum of his attic bed-chamber, whither no one had access — not even to make his bed, and so the anticipated pleasure of seeing them was lost. A slight accident, however, happened in the using of the above philosophical instruments jointly with his telescope, which, perhaps, may be of some interest to my readers. The astronomer had mounted his obser- vatory as usual, and commenced his starry specula- LITERARY AMARANTH, tions. He was in the habit, generally, of muttering to himself while so engaged; — but, this evening he was more boisterous than ever. One of the villagers, who was curious in astronomical matters, had gone to the school -room for the purpose of hearing, if possible, what the philosopher was saying. The villager was a simple-hearted man, and had heard that wicked men, by magical incantations to the stars, had ^wrought much mischief; and it was not clear to him, that the strange conduct of the schoolman, had good in it. He placed his back against one of the elms, and continued to witness the behavior of Professor Hardigan,and listen to his singular language, until he fell asleep. The astronomer, meanwhile, continued his specula- tions, until his large head and shoulders declined rather much from a perpendicular — he lost his centre of gravity — his centrifugal force overcame the centri- petal — there was a crash of the dormant-window -seat observatory, and the rattling of chains and telescope — the burning lamps fell on the head and breast of the affrighted star-gazer, setting fire lo his gorgeous ruffles and his greasy, bushy head, — and, Phseton-like, he was hurled towards the earth, ''flamma rutilos populante capillos.^^ The noise awakened the sleeping villager; — and, opening his eyes, he looked up with consternation. He had not time to move his limbs — ^but the action of the mind is quicker than that of the body. As the fiery meteor descended, he recollected that Hardigan THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 71 had said he had often drawn down the moon; and the idea presented itself, that he had now drawn down a star — or, remembering that the Professor dealt in as- trology, he thought he had drawn down the devil upon him; and the next instant he thought just nothing at all — for the astronomer's large bony head struck his, fairly knocking out his senses — and both lay extended on the ground. The attic dormant was dim, for the observer, like the lost Pleiad, had vanished from his place. When the royal professor was taken up to his dormitory, he exhibited every appearance of being royally drunk; and the fumes of his breath rather bore testimony against him: but yet it was hard to judge rashly, for he had never been known to purchase a glass of drink of Mr. Krause during the time he boarded at the tavern. The key was left, however, a few days after, in the door which led into the upper apartment, and as boys will be prying into mysteries, they endeavored to get a peep into the box of philosophical instruments from Albany; and, on looking in, discovered two kegs, neatly packed, which, to credit the evidence of the olfactory nerves, contained brandy. But, says one of the little boys, more considerate than the rest, "Well! what if it is brandy? May it not be one of the transparent media that the professor tells us about, through which he contemplates the moon?" Who knows that the simple youth was not right. 72 L 1 T £ R A R Y A M A il A N T H . We will now turn our attention to another person, of whom we have lost sight for some time. Herman Lincoln returned; but ere he had reached the village, rumor apprised him of the sad reverses that had befallen him — the loss of his school, and, worse than that, of the loss of his sweet-heart; for it was also reported that Professor Hardigan was unremitting in his attentions to Clara; and cold must have been the heart that could have resisted the soft rhetoric of so learned a man, Lincoln was still in feeble health, and this intelligence was any thing else than a balsam. He was disposed to be a little jealous, and could now readily credit the faithlessness of Clara, since his patrons had cast him off. The parents, in fact, were ashamed to see him, after the manner in which they had treated hitn, but the children had all their former regard awakened at the sight of one who had always treated them with so much kindness. They fared differently now; for the pro- fessor's bony knuckles, like a bag of marbles, were continually rattling about their little republican heads. This they and their parents considered a violation of their reserved rights; for while they left all that exten- sive territory from the collar i^ertehrx on the north to the ankles on the south, to the full sweep of the rod of empire, they constituted all the more northerly regions a free territory. However, as Latin was a good thing, the parents allowed that it was to be gotten at the THE ROYAL PROFESBorv. 73 expense of— a little siiftering in the flesh. Children thought differently, and would greatly have preferred conning their simple multiplication-tables, which they could understand, to being beaten with the royal pro- fessor's sceptre, a huge hickory, through Latin, of which they could understand nothing. He appeared to copy after the Indian orators, who distribute rods among their auditors at successive para- graphs to assist the memory; for no sooner had he finished any explanatory remarks to his class than he endeavored to aftbrd mnemonika to all and sundry, by a most liberal distribution of the rod. But what of Clara? Was she pleased with the at- tentions of the learned Englishman which had become so frequent? Had the solicitations of aunt Margarette disposed her to listen to his addresses? Could she so soon forget the object of her early affections? Frailty! thy name is woman. Herman's lynx-eyed jealousy discovered from her conversation a real or pretended preference for his rival. If real, it was most ungrate- ful — if pretended, cruel. Clara Lawson was a volatile girl — volatile girls are often fickle — sometimes mis- chievous. But more anon. The village of Bloomingville was a healthy place, and did not much require the services of a physician; yet Dr. Grayson, a young licentiate, ratlier a disciple of Momus than vEsculapius, selected it as the scene where he was to study medicine and practise — jokes. 7 74 L I T E R A R Y A M A R A N T H . He was the soul of fun and frolic. His liveliness and intelligence could not fail to render him agreeable to Clara — here was another rival more formidable than the professor. Herman was unhappy; he had lost his school; Clara had ceased to love him, or had so little regard for him as to take delight in teasing him and keeping him in suspense. He determined upon ar- ranging his affairs and forever leaving a place where he had been treated with so much ingratitude and in- justice. Halloween is a time of festivity, of fun and frolic, of cake-making and nut-cracking. In 1800 it was a more joyous season than it is now — for modern refine- ment has either obliterated or lessened the good old customs of our fore-fathers. The inhabitants of the village of Bloomingville could not be without their share of sport; and there was to be a merry making — Will you believe it reader? — at aunt Margarette's. Yes! that sparing, stinting housewife, after great im- portunity from her niece, had resolved to give a feast to others, though she should fast herself afterwards sufficiently to make it up. Yet a part of the guests, at least, were not to go scott-free, for the old lady contemplated on making them sew to the amount of the entertainment; so a quilting was determined upon — that best of merry-makings of the olden time. **Why, Clara!" said aunt Margarette, entering the room, "You astonish me! Not dressed yet! Why, THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 75 railly now, Clara! with jour milk-of-roses, your co- log-ne, and jour pearl-powder, jou'll take up half the evening at jour toilet, as jou call it — and a toil jou make of it now, to be sure. I wish jou would stir jourself and get readj. You know I must be in the kitchen at the cake, and no one will be readj to receive the gals as thev comes in. Besides, I want jou to mark out the diamonds of the quilt before they come, that as little time as possible maj be lost. I dare saj, with their giggling and laughing thej'U not do much, no how. Come, child! haste!" "Yes, aunt," said Clara, "I am in haste; but we are to have the gentlemen, jou know, and I want to be a little particular." ''Yes, that's well enough,'' sajs her aunt; "but I don't think jou need be very particular, for I can tell JOU the Professor is over ears in love, alreadj." "Well, aunt," said Clara, with a laugh, "that is not verj deep, to be over the ears of such a duck-legged mannikin." "But he is in love very deep,'^ resumed aunt Mar- garette, "and let me tell jou, Clara! he is an English- man, and hates the French and all their fooleries, as I do mjself — he'll like jou none the better for being powdered and perfumed over. Confound that French woman, for turning jour head with such nonsense." Her niece was irritated at the disrespectful language used respecting one to whom she owed so much, and replied readilj — 76 L 1 T E R A 1?. Y A M A K A NTH. "Suppose I was to tell you, aunt! that I am an American, and hate the English and all their fooleries?'^ and the arch little maiden, with a roguish smile, con- tinued to twirl the long golden tresses through her lingers, while her graceful neck assumed every variety of attitude, as she studied her looks in the old-fashioned mirror that rested on the bureau, by the side of which she was sitting. Aunt Margarette's countenance, which was cheerful, became serious. She could not tell whether her niece was in earnest or in jest. A cloud began to rise on her brow — the precursor of a storm — and a storm with aunt Margarette was no small affair. It was a real hurricane — a tornado of passion. She informed her niece that the Professor contemplated making a formal tender of his hand to her; and then opening the bureau, she showed Clara a large amount of gold in a secret drawer, and informed her, that the reception of that, at her death, depended upon her listening to the addresses of Professor Hardigan. Of all rhetoric the silent eloquence of cash is most persuasive. Yet Clara had a head and a heart on which nature had stamped freedom — she was not to be moved by aunt Margarette's gold. A smile at her aunt's earnestness, and a laugh at the Professor's expense, tended to excite our irritable dame of the black silk hood. Clara was sarcastic—her aunt became abusive. I will not repeat what passed. Suffice it to say, that aunt Margarette was furious, and gave unrestrained THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 77 vent to her madness in ''thoughts that breathe and words that burn." She attributed all the mischief to the airs which that "vile French woman" had put into her niece's head, and seizing up the paraphernalia of the toilet, cosmetics, perfumes, &c. &c., hurled them over the house. Never was a room scented better with cologne, or a young ladj whitened with powder. How great is a calm after a storm. Aunt Margarette sat in the room with a countenance brightened with cheerfulness, enjoying the conversation of the evening. Only one thing was wanting to make her happiness complete — the presence of her countryman, Mr. Har- digan. Ever and anon she went to the window to look out for his advent. She desired his coming ardently, for she thought Dr. Grayson appeared to engross too much of Clara's conversation. Herman Lincoln thought so too, and so did many of the rustic beaux who were assembled on the occasion. Presently the sound of footsteps was heard along the rude pavement, like the roll of a drum, and the royal Professor was descried moving along, puffing and blowing like a steamboat. That he was a man of great impetuosity might be gathered even from his walk. He came driving on at a tremendous rate, and as he entered the door with vehemence, and was about taking aunt Margarette's extended hand, the toe of his boot stuck in the carpet, and his head drove against the ribs of the old lady with the force of a battering ram, knock- 78 LITERARY AMARANTH. ing her against the door. Clara said something to Dr. Grajson about "polite perfections and genuflections'^ which caused a titter. "Plague take the fellow's head," said a rustic beau to the tavern-keeper's daughter, "he nearly knocked daddy's brains out the other night, at the school-house." Here was a general burst of laughter. When the Professor entered the room he was the 'observed of all observers.' Reader! would you see him? Well, then, fancy to yourself a low, square- built man, five feet high, and six feet thick, cased in grey stockings, black breeches that fitted as tight as the skin, and an old claret-colored coat, dotted over with metal buttons as large as a crownpiece. But you would hear of the features. I will particularize. The head was large enough to have suited a statue of Atlas, and was covered over with long, bushy hair of the deepest red. The brow was low and wrinkled, and — strange to say! — had nothing philosophical about it. The mouth had an expression of — openness, say three inches and a half. The eyes were large and protruded, between a blue and a green, and had that appearance of inflammation which generally is the effect of nocturnal lucubration. But the most prominent feature has not yet been described. His nose — Shade of OvidiusNaso! behold yourself surpassed! — his nose, I say, from the plain oi {\\t plainest face in Christen- dom, towered up, like Mount iEtna, huge and undu- THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 79 iating, and like Mount ^tna, red and fiery at the ajiex. And, what is unusual, his nose bore a conspicuous part in conversation, for it warmed with his animation; and, by sundry twitchings and gestures, seemed to second the force of his arguments. Such were the figure and features of Professor Hardigan, as they appeared to Dr. Grayson, who was a caricaturist, and to Herman Lincoln, who was a jealous man. They may possibly be a little overstrained. The Professor had been ^9enj9a^e^«ca//?/ engaged, as he classically expressed it, and as it was one of those very warm evenings which will sometimes happen in Indian summer, exercise had heated him. He felt op- pressed, and scarcely had he taken his seat between Clara and Dr. Grayson, and found time, after his in- troduction, to inquire of the latter at what college he had graduated, when he so far forgot the proprieties of courtly etiquette, which he professed to teach others, as to pull off his claret-colored coat and throw it upon the bed which stood in one corner of the room. Such strange conduct excited surprise; but a smile was on the countenance of every one as they glanced from their needles to the coat that was spread out on the counterpane — forming a circle, or rather an oblate spheriod; for it was broader than it was long. Clara was provoked at the disrespect which the Professor had shown, and looking first at the coat and then at its owner's nose, apparently entering into the conver- go LITERARY A M A R A N T H . sation which had been started, asked the Professor if he had not graduated at Brazen-Nose-College. The roar of laughter was now immoderate, and all joined in it except Clara and the person interrogated; for, not perceiving that any thing was intended, he proceeded regularly to give the history of his collegiate course. This gave her an opportunity of drawing him out in conversation, which she gladly improved, while Dr. Grayson, who sat by, listening to their conversation, kept thrusting his red pocket-handkerchief into his mouth until it had nearly disappeared. Strange con- duct, indeed! Was it done to prevent his laughing? During a conversation on caloric, in which Dr. Grayson incidentally mentioned the fact, that dark bodies radiate heat more rapidly than light ones, Clara asked the Professor if he suffered much from cold hands in winter — glancing at the same time at the clasped hands of the Cyclops, as he sat twirling his dingy and begrimed thumbs. Finding caloric rather a warm subject he passed speedily to some remarks on electricity, but he was met here again by the mischiev- ous little wit, who, when he had observed that the electric shock is generally felt in the weakest part of the body presumed that he had been accustomed to feel the sensation in his head. The young ladies and gentlemen were all attention, though they could seldom comprehend either question or answer. One reply, however, which the Professor THE UUYAL PROFESSOR. gj^ made, they readily understood. While he was speak- ing of astronomy, Clara interrupted him to know what was meant by an apside of the moon. The upside of the moon, did you ask? Why the upper orn, child! to be sure. They had become familiar with his swallow- ing the letter h, and readily received orn for horn, as it was intended. After a long dissertation on demon- ology the Professor related some freaks of witches, in which he believed implicitly. During his essay, the tavern-keeper's daughter amazed at his display of learning, whispered Clara to ask the Philosopher if he knew where the philosopher's stone was to be found. "In the professor's head, instead of brains," she re- turned, in a low voice. Dr. Grayson caught the re- mark; his head shook as with a palsy, and he appeared eating his bandanna, as before. Mr. Hardigan now commenced Mythology and History. In the former he made occasionally some slight errors, merely of numbers, such as the seven Fates, the 7iine Graces, the thi^ee Muses, &c. Roman history he inflicted next, from the time that Romulus called on Jupiter Stator to arrest the flight of the Romans ad finem. Jupiter Stator, by-the-bye, was a favorite deity, for all his ex- clamations were made to him. After he had proceeded for some time, he made mention of the "wolf Nero,'' as he was pleased to call him, and in his remarks attributed to him some actions that belonged to ^Eneas. How he bore from Troy, 82 L 1 T E R A K Y AMARANTH. which he had set on fire out of pure v/ickedness, his aged father Anchises — and the like. Clara fixed her bright, piercing eye on the Professor's face — paused, and then begged to know in what he had read the won- derful account. "In the liannals of Tacitus, the Latin istorian.^^ Clara unlocked a little drawer, and put Tacitus into his hands. Professor Hardigan was surprised — Dr. Grayson laughed — Herman Lincoln straightened himself up in his chair, where jealousy had been transforming him to a statue, to prove that he had not become all stone — the girls stuck their needles in the quilt and looked on, wondering what was to be done next. Clara evinced no emotion, but patiently awaited the result of the Professor's investi- gation. Professor Hardigan was in a quandary. '^He thumbed the leaves carefully, and then with triumph pointed to the passage, on a page where the name of Nero stood conspicuous. Clara begged a translation of the part. He regarded the expressive countenance of the girl cautiously, and then began — but seeing symptoms of an irrepressible laugh on her lips, conjectured that Clara had some knowledge of Latin, and was not to be humbugged. So he ceased translating, and acknow- ledged that he had made a mistake; and that the actions of the savage "wolf Nero," could not be found in the "hannals^' of Tacitus. Aunt Margarette was hurt for her countrvmari, and endeavored to assist him. She THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 83 trotted away into atiother room — and returning, said to him, "If the wolf Nero could not be found anionic o the 'hannimals' of Tacitus, may be you'll find him among the hannimals of Goldsmith;" and so sayino-, she threw into his lap Goldsmith's Animated Nature. He was silent and continued to look at the pictures. At length he closed the book, repeating some lines from his favorite poet, Ovid — probably his ancestor — which had come over his mind like inspiration. Clara went to her drawer, and a copy of Ovid was soon in the hands of Professor Hardiji;an. "It was a mere lapsus Hnguas—he meant to say Virgil." Clara handed him Virgil, desiring to be favored with a sight of the pass- age. "How could he blunder sol — It was Persius." Persius was oifered him. "No! No! Jupiter Statorl What made his senses fly from him? — It was Theocri- tus." Clara's hand dropped into the drav/er for another book. Professor Hardigan mounted up from his chair horrified — a chill had ceased him — he ran to the bed. His herculean shoulders were encased in his old claret coat, and he would have been off instantly, had not aunt Margarette just come in, to announce tea, and forcibly detained him. Clara had subjected the pre- tensions of the royal Professor to a fiery ordeal. In the course of the evening, without perceivino- it, she had drawn him out upon all the branches set forth in his card, (with the exception of one,) and proved him to g4 T, I T E E A R V A M A U A N T H . be a rojal blockhead and impostor, much to the amuse- ment of Dr. Grayson, and the relief of her lover. The girls had plied their needles faithfully. Theii; labors were unremitting — not even the laying out of a diamond occurring to break the monotony — for all the quilt was laid out when they came. They were pleased with the relaxation offered now from work, and, to- gether with the beaux, followed aunt Margarette to tea. The quilt was nearly finished. Aunt Marga- rette's expectations were so surpassed by their des- patch, that she felt an unusual expansion of heart, and did the service of the table in the most hospitable man- ner, and with as much grace as could be expected. The *'tea'' was not like the tea of modern times, but was a substantial feast of roasted, boiled, and fried — light-bread — cakes, various as those made by the epi- cure Apicus, and pies. There is much philosophy in eating. It diffuses a calm over the feelings — the melancholy man forgets his sorrows — the angry man his ire, as the process of mastication goes briskly on. It was thus with Pro- fessor Hardig-an and Herman Lincoln. You will re- collect, reader! that I said Clara had an exhibition of the Professor's skill in all the branches which he professed, with the exception of one. That one was the science of "rfo/i^o/o^?/;" and to do the man justice, I will say that he understood the use of teeth as well as any man living. As plates of cakes disappeared THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 'g^ before him; and spare ribs, and whole broiled partridges were craunched beneath his teeth, Clara had before her, barring the two eyes, the Polyphemus of Homer, preying upon the bodies of Ulysses' companions. In fact, she looked upon him as the only type of that **monstrum horrendum'' which she had ever seen. After disposing of some half-a-dozen cups of tea with a proportional quantity of meat and bread-stuff, he gave a final proof of his skill, in performing that most difficult of mathematical problems, the quadrature of the circle, by taking a quarter section of a pumpkin- pie, about eighteen inches in diameter. Herman's jealousy during the evening had been put to rest, pretty much, so far as the Professor was con- cerned; — but Dr. Grayson excited his fears. He was very attentive to Clara; — their understanding appeared to be good: and their whispering together sometimes, convinced him that she had merely thrown aside one of his rivals to take up another. However, he soon experienced relief, at least for the present — for the young Jilsculapian had a professional visit to make, which compelled him to tear himself away from the company. That Dr. Grayson should have a profes- sional visit to make, was something wonderful! Her- man had now an opportunity to enjoy Clara's company, and came to the conclusion that she had not entirely forgotten him. I will not describe to. my readers the rustic games with nuts, the naming of apple-seeds, and 85 LITERARY AMARANTH. other innocent trifling of the evening. They have all seen and taken part in the like. The cheer vras good — - all v/ere delighted, and the company broke up at a late hour; the beaux waiting on the young ladies to their respective homes. But it was Halloween, and more was to be done before sleeping; and it w^as therefore resolved that the gentlemen, according to the good old custom, should try their sweethearts by dipping the right sleeve of their shirts in south-running water, — and then placing them by the fire, see or dream what lady was to come and turn them. But where was there a south-running stream? No such stream could be found, except one that burst out, in a long subterranean cavern, near the village. A beautiful spot it was — fit residence for a naiad — two apartments, with sides and ceiling of moss- grown rock, widi a narrow opening like a door, con- necting them. But Professor Hardigan did not like to study its geology by night — much less on Halloween — the holy-day of witches and warlocks. Nevertheless, so much had Clara interested him, notwithstanding her quizzing him, that he determined to perform the ablution, if another would only enter, and do so before him. Some thirty yards from the mouth of the cavern, they stood debating who should enter first. At length one volunteered; and leaving the band of his comrades, boldly entered the cavern and returned, having per- THE ROYAI. PROFESSOR. g7 formed the ablution. The Professor's courage was now put to the test; and, in truth, he proceeded valiantly, that he might not be outdone by his predecessor. He entered the cave with his imagination filled with witches, and continued his walk, cautiously feeling his way along the rocky sides, towards the spot where he heard the gurgling of the waters. At length he reached them, and had stooped down to perform the rite, when he heard the rattling of chains; and, on looking up, saw in the passage between the caverns, a horrid looking fiend, robed in a mantle of fire, with eyes lambent with flame, and blazing horns! — During the 'reign of terror,' within the cavern, there v/as terror without: for a most unearthly-looking being passed by the group that the Professor had left, striking fear into the hearts of the most hardy. Mortal it could not be! — Witch it might have been, had it been bestrid- ing a broom, or had it glided noiselessly by. But its tread was like the footfall of a giant, with the clank of the heaviest clogs that ever shod the foot of an Irish- woman. Professor Hardigan was spell-bound in the cavern;-— but, recovering his strength, he rushed from the dread being, who rattled his chains, and carae driving on to poke him through with his long horns: but, in running from one fiend, he encountered another more frightful, at the mouth of the cave, for it addressed him — "Och! Hinry Hardigan! ye rogue ye! Is it frim your wife g8 L I T E R A R Y A M A R A N T H . and three clulder ye hiv rln away, to try svvatehearts in Immerica? Och hone! but I'll see ye hanged yit! Shame on ye! Pll" but Henry Ilardigan heard no more, for he had reached the open air, and was run- ning with a speed which Jupiter Stator himself could not have arrested. Need I inform my readers that Dr. Grayson had paid a professional visit to the cavern, covered over with a luminous coat of olive oil, and phosphorus, and a respectable pair of horns, to person- ate his Satanic majesty; and that the wife of Professor Hardigan had come over from England to claim her rightful lord, who had absconded from her bed and board. The village of Bloomingville had lost its brightest ornament — for their philosopher, astronomer, and Pro- fessor, had decamped, and was never heard of after. Parents were taken in, for they had paid, in advance, for a quarter, only part of which had been put in. The landlord had received nothing as yet for board, — but he considered himself safe, as the Professor's apparatus would more than pay his demand. Accordingly, he levied on his telescope, his chest of philosophical in- struments, and the hex of instruments from Albany. The telescope was not of great value — for it was a plain one, of easy construction, being the handle of an old warming-pan, with glasses neither convex nor concave, but j)lano on both sides, such as is generally used in windows. The chest contained jugs — the box, kegs. THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. S9 These jugs and kegs had contained brandy, but now contained — nothing. Never had so great a rig been played upon a humbugged people, as the royal Profes- sor had played. But what became of Herman Lincoln? *'The course of true love never did run smooth." Its termination, however, does sometimes. Will you believe it, reader? there was another company at Aunt Margarette's, and Clara Lawson dressed in white, with Herman Lincoln at her side, stood in the middle of the floor — a minister before them, and the villagers gathered round in a circle; and they, whom rivalry and fears had separated, 'became one flesh,' to be disjoined no more. The morning after the wedding, Aunt Margarette felt sorry that she had destroyed the neat little box which Madame Letour had presented to her niece, although it did contain French perfumery. It would have been some little ornament to the bridal bed-chamber, which was very plain. But her regrets could not re-unite the disruptured fragments of the box. She therefore did what she could, to repair the matter, and presented her niece with an old-fashioned box that had belonged to her grand-mother. This box was valuable, because it was a relic of antiquity; but more so, because it con- tained five hundred guineas. Herman Lincoln obtained his school; — and the vil- lagers, to repay him for the injustice which they had done him, gave him a greater patronage than ever. He gv 90 I, T T E K A R Y A M A TJ A N T H . taught English by day, and studied liatin at night, under Clara. *'-Tis sweet to be schooled by female lips," says Byron. So thought Herman. His profi- ciency was astonishing — he soon became a perfect linguist; and a neat two story brick building, with tall spire and bell, occupied the place of the old white log school-house; and the pure Greek and Latin were, at lenp;th, heard within its classic shades. The village of Blooming-ville increased in size — in intelligence and population. Dr. Grayson became an eminent practitioner of medicine, as well as jokes; and was ever the family physician of Mr. and Mrs. Lin- coln, and all the young Lincolns. Clara attended to her domestic duties like a faithful housewife, yet found time, occasionally, to write a poem or essay, which, in gratitude for the five hundred guineas, she always dedi- cated to "My Dear Aunt, Miss Margarette Lawson." Aunt Margarette, notwithstanding the abatement of some of her anti-American prejudices, was still an Englishwoman; — and, as she turned ud her nose at all American Magazines, sent all her niece's productions to England, where they appeared in the different peri- odicals. ■;»:- * * * * * * * * What a plain tale! exclaims the critic. Well, I have heard it said that a good moral will redeem the dullness of a tale, barren in style and in incident; and, fearing that this may have been without sufficient interest, I THE ROYAL PROFESSOR. 9I have endeavored to redeem the dullness of it bj making it have three morals: — Firstly. Let not married men, who have wives living, take the trouble of trying sweet- hearts on Halloween. Secondly. Let Royal Profes- sors be examined, before they are engaged. Thirdly. Let aunts, who are anxious to marry their nieces to foreigners, first learn whether they have not wives already. THE DOVE The fields have faded, the groves look dead, The summer is gone, its beauty has fled; And there breathes a low and plantive sound From each stream and solemn wood around. In unison with their tone, my breast, With a spirit ol" kindred gloom, is oppressed; And the sighs burst forth, as I gaze, the while, On the crumbling stone of the reverend pile; And list to the sounds of the moaning wind As it stirs the old ivy-boughs entwined. Sighs mournful along through chancel and nave. And shakes the loose pannel and architrave. While the mouldering branches and withered leaves Are rustling around the moss-grown eaves. But sadder than these, thou emblem of love, Thy meanings fall, disconsolate dove, In the solemn eve, on my pensive ear. As the wailing sounds of a requiem drear. As coming from crumbling altar stone. They are borne on the winds, in a dirge-like tone — Like the plaintive voice of the broken-hearted, O'er hopes betrayed and jo3^s departed. Why dost thou pour thy sad complaint On the evening winds from a bosom faint? As if thou hadst come from the shoreless main Of a world submerged, to the ark again, With a weary heart to lament and brood O'ei' the wide and voiceless solitude. THEDOVE. 93 Dost thou mourn tliat the gray and mouldering door Swings back to the reverent crowd no more? — That the tall and waving grass defiles The well worn flags of the crowdless aisles'? That the wild fox barks and the owlet screams Where the organ and choir pealed out their themes'? Dost thou mourn that, from sacred desk, the word Of life and truth is no longer heard'? That the gentle shepherd who pasture bore To his flock has gone, to return no more'? Dost thou mourn for the hoary-headed sage, Who has sunk to the grave with the weight of age"? For the vanquished pride of manhood's bloom"? For the light of youth quenched in the tomb"? For the bridegroom's falH for the bride's decayl That pastor and people have passed away; And the tears of night their graves bedew By the funeral cypress and solemn yew? Or dost thou mourn that the house of God Has ceased to be a divine abode] That the Holy Spirit, which erst did brood O'er the son of man by Jordan's flood, In thine own pure form, to the eye of sense. From its resting place, has departed hence; And twitters the swallow, and wheels the bat O'er the mercy-seat, where its presence saf? I have marked thy trembling breast, and heard, With a heart responsive, thy tones, sweet bird. And have mourned, like thee, of earth's fairest things, The blight and the loss— Oh! had I thy wings From a world of woe, to the realms of the blest, I would flee away, and would be at rest. EVENING AT ATHENS Gone is the burning brightness that unfurled Its blaze of glory o'er the noontide world; Spent are the beams, that, late, with living light, In flood effulgent, drowned the aching sight; And from the axle of departing day. The purple flashes gleam with mellowed ray. Morea's hills, lit by the hues of even, Lift up their olive-cinctured heads to Heaven; The iEgean waves, with many a glittering isle, Brighten and blush beneath the day-god's smile, Whose softened beams with farewell fondness kiss The turrets of the fair Acropolis, And linger on the airy Parthenon, When every ray from tower and hill has gone, Until o'er Delphi saffron tints, afar. Streak the pure West, as sinks his golden car. The spirits of the dead, by fancy's power, Rise in the silence of this solemn hour, And crowd thy wastes, O Athens, as I stand Amid thy fanes, and gaze o'er sea and land, And muse upon the glory, and the shame, That gild and darken thy immortal name. Behind yon hills, the plains of Marathon, The record bear of freedom's victory won. EVENING AT ATHENS. 95 There rocky Salamis still rears its head Of crested foam above the Persian dead; And the blue waters of the iEgean deep, Still dash and murmur round their hero's sleep,* And every mound shows where the avenging brand Smote foes and tyrants, through the storied land. Hail! land of Heroes! Hail! immortal Greece! As first in arms, first in the arts of peace, Where woke the shell, swept by the Olympian nine, And bright-eyed Science piled her jewel'd shrine; And where the statue, from the chisel came, Enkindled by the true Promethean flame, Of matchless form and symmetry, and rife With all the rarer attributes of life. See where the olives o'er yon ruined walls Entwine their shade, rose Academus' halls: Within those halls, pure Plato taught and strayed, And mused on Heaven beneath that classic shade; And where yon river pours its tide of song. The truths of virtue, to the listening throng, From Socrates, in sweeter echoes, came And lit the altar of each breast with flame: The sage is gone — the crowds have passed away, And now Ilyssus winds his solitary way. Above the ruined Pnyx, whose broken piles Of marble choke its long deserted aisles, The rostrum rises from its rock, where stood Demosthenes high o'er the billowy flood, ^Themistocles— ihe waves of the sea wash away his tomb. 95 LITERARY AMARANTH. And heard, unmoved, behind, the deafening roar Of the wild sea, and wilder hosts before. Now silence with hushed lip of reverence broods, In solemn musings, o'er these solitudes; And the tired eagle rests his flight alone, And folds his wings, and perches on the stone, From which the Orator, like awful Jove When stooping down, for vengeance, from above, Awed Macedonia's proud and bloody czar, And hurled the flaming thunderbolt of war. Where are the myriads, that through yon defiles, Pressed on to hail Athena's reverend piles; Or swept, in solemn pomp, along the plain, To worship at Eleusis' mystic fanel Oblivion hides them; and deep gloom comes down Upon the queenly city's fair renown: Fallen are her temples — melancholy shines The moon's pale beam upon her ruined shrines; Low lie her halls once learning's favored seats, Their statues ground to dust amid the streets; And on her columns, scored by mighty hands. The awful "TEKEL" of destruction stands. Great was thy power, O Athens, but it stood In arms of flesh distained with human blood — Thy boasted knowledge — and thy ethics vain. But earthborn meteors playing round the brain — And while thy superstition raised in pride. Temples to men and vices deified, Among thy deities remained alone The one true God, unhonored and unknown. EVENING AT ATHENS. gy And at the frown terrific of that God Proclaimed by him who yonder mountain trod,* And him who drank the hemlock at its base,t Have fled the splendors of thy storied place; Yet he, whose glance — the whisper of whose breath, Marks and consigns the nations o'er to death, Can smile on this Golgotha, and relume. With light of life, the ashes of the tomb; Bid desolation's darksome reign be o'er, And freedom shine, and arts revive once more. Lo! where yon lamp through ruined casements steals,? Where heavenly truth, a better lore reveals. Than taught the gorgeous Parthenon, I see And hail the genial dawn of hope for thee; There kneel thy children— there the incense prayer Of infant lips is borne upon the air. And mingled tears of love and pity fall For him that shed his precious ])lood for all. There holy precepts of eternal truth, Shall fire the minds and bosoms of thy youth. Till thou be famed for virtue, and fair Greece Wear freedom's robes, and bear the branch of peace; And learning flourish, and the arts again Resume their sway, and hold their golden reign. * St. Paul from top of Mars' hill. t Socrates— his prison is still visible at foot of Mars' hill. i Missionary school and station, A PORTRAIT, Through the gazer's breast is stealing A pure rapture, sweet and wild; While thy face, its charms revealing Fair as snowflakes undefiled, Speaks a woman with the feeling And the lightness of a child. With thy locks like sunlight streaming, Thou art beauty's self, fair one; With thy cheek in beauty beaming, From high thoughts and fe.elings won; And thy lustrious eye outgleaming A bright sabre in the sun. As the bird in tropic bowers Ever waves its sportive wing, 'Mid the bright and balmy flowers, Without voice of sorrowing; So 'mid joy and smiles, thy hours Flit, thou light and fairy thing. May no cloud of earthly sorrow, Shade thy brow or dim with tears Thy bright eye; but may each morrow Shed a rainbow o'er life's fears, And a milder radiance borrow From the gentle flight of years. • \ THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS AN HISTORICAL TALE The fifth crusade was ended, and the religious spirit, that had animated thousands throughout Europe, to gird on the sword of battle for the succor of the Chris- tians of Palestine, had, in a great measure, become extinct. Shortly after, however, influenced by the exertions of two monks, a number of young children, of both sexes, assumed the pilgrim's habit; — and, with scrip and staff, set out for the Holy Land. This cir- cumstance reached the ears of Pope Innocent III., and quickened the pious feelings of that enthusiastic Pon- tiff, and caused him to exclaim: "While the aged and powerful slumber, babes and sucklings are awake to the glories of Christ's kingdom." An encyclical letter was sent around, calling for Christian aid against the Infidels; and a Council of the Lateran called, in which the Pope announced himself as leader of the Crusaders. Cardinal De Courcon, as an itinerant prelate, preached, with great pomp and power, the new enterprise in favor of the Cross, and induced Andreas, King of Hungary, the Dukes of Austria and Bavaria, and many distin- guished German bishops and nobles, to arm in the holy cause. The Teutonic knio-hts and the whole chivalfv IQO LITERARY AMARANTH. of Germany and middle Europe became warmly inter- ested, and sio;nified their ea2:erness to second the efforts of the Cross against the Crescent of Mahomet. The affairs of Hungary at this time were in an un- settled state; Andreas, the King, was a weak prince, entirely under the control of Count Rhetian, a dissolute and wicked courtier, who often instigated him to acts of injustice and oppression, against which the martial spirit of the nobles, infused by former crusades and feudal strifes, disposed them to rebel. As a means, therefore, of removing from the kingdom the agitators of internal disquietudes, he readily adopted the expe- dient which the crusade held out, and, while he deter- mined upon taking with him all the wild and refractory nobles, he wisely resolved, before setting out, by the exhibition of military games, to gratify the commons, that they might remain tranquil during his absence. A great tournament was therefore proclaimed in the neighborhood of the palace. Never, from the unclouded sky of Spring, did the sun look abroad on a lovelier scene! Far to the North, a succession of mountains belted the country with azure zones; — while nearer, the hills descended gradually towards the plain, till tliey terminated in a circular ridge, covered with trees, like a vast amphitheatre erected for a contemplation of the scenery around. This was very beautiful; the winding vale smiling in tfte loveliness of May; the waves of the river Theis THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. JQl rejoicing in the sunlight; the venerable city of Her- manstadt, with the battlements and towers of the palace of Hungary cresting its temples, like a crown upon the brow of age — and the distant campaign country diver- sified with cottages, cultivated fields, castles, vine- yards, and groves of trees. But, within the amphitheatre formed by the hand of nature, was another, in the construction of which human art and taste had blended all their powers of embellishment. It was built of wood upon arches handsomely fashioned, and painted in the most tasteful manner. The galleries were richly decorated with silk, and cloth of gold, hung in festoons; and proud banners and scutcheons rich as the clouds of sunset, flaunted their gorgeous folds in the winds. The inan- imate part of the scene was eclipsed by the display of youth and beauty assembled from different parts of the kingdom, resplendent in all the brilliance of dress and jewels, bending forward from the circular gallery in a rainbow of smiles. But, of all the distinguished ladies that were present, the young Princess Cornelia was the most beautiful, and she sat in the purple pavilion of her royal father, with a mild, placid countenance, as if alike unconscious of her beauty and the increased interest which she herself added to the tournament. The King's page at length waved a scarf from the top of the royal stand — heralds and pursuivants were seen gliding over the fields in every direction, arrayed 9* ] Q2 T. I T E R A R Y A M A R A N T II . in particolored dresses; and the loud burst of martial music announced the approach of tlie King-at-arms, and judges of tlie field, who were to award the prize, a Golden Lion, to the successful competitor knight. Thej advanced, accompanied by their retinue, and took their station near a small stand covered with crimson, on which were placed the shields of the challenger knights, four in number; for, by the law of chivalry, the shields of challengers were required to be exposed some w^eeks in the neighborhood of the lists, that the pretensions of the knights might be canvassed, and accusations preferred against such as had proved them- selves unworthy of knighthood. Presently, the music struck up again, and the gates of the lists, at the eastern and western extremities, were thrown open for the entrance of the challengers. First, came on a sorrel charger richly caparisoned, the Count AUeman, a Teutonic knight, in great favor with the King, like Count Rhetian, and like him proud, malevolent, and wicked. He vv-as tall and powerful, with dark swarthy features; and his black piercing eyes scowled haughtily upon the knights, as he glanced hastily around the lists, to number the future triumphs of the day. He was clothed in Damascene plate- armor, highly polished and ornamented in arabesques, with a rich inlay of gold; and through the links of the steel net-work that united the plates, appeared the crimson folds of the silk gambesoon, that enwrapped THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 103 his brawny chest. He rode up to the stand, scarcely deii^ning to lower his lance in obeisance to the king; and received from his squire his massive shield, which bore the device of the sun and an eagle volant, with the motto, "Aspicio imperterritus," — "Fearless I behold.'' He was followed by two knights on bright bay horses, with beautiful trappings — Heinold de Richer, and a low-built, thick Teutonic knight, in a suit of plain armor, and a tall Templar, who had seen service in Palestine, clothed in heavy mail of steel-links, that settled to the graceful proportions of the knight it covered, and reflected in bright flashes the rays of the sun. They rode up to the stand together, and received tlieir shields; that of the Teutonic knight having the device of a battle-axe, with gutfx in gules, and the motto — "Fit via vi;" that of the Templar, a cross erect upon a lune in detriment, with the motto — ''Jlltior.^^ The fourth challenger did not make his appearance; and many were the whispers that passed, and the inquiries made in the galleries. The King-at-arms, Count Rhetian, however, without awaiting the advent of the fourth challenger, proceeded to assign a station to the three who had appeared, and ordered the heralds to proclaim the laws by which the tournament was to be governed. The usual cry of ''largesse" followed this announce- ment, and was answered by a shower of gold and silver from the spectators. The animating cries of "Sons of 104 LITERARY AMARANTH Chivalry, stand forth! Glory to the brave! Victory to the generous! Bright eyes behold your deeds!" arose from the heralds, accompanied by the full swell of the martial bands. Scarfs were seen waving from many a fair hand, as the knights hastened over the field to the area which w^as thrown open to receive them. The three challengers took their stand at small intervals from each other, and awaited the approach of combat- ants to oppose them. There was a considerable delay, perhaps less owing to fear, than a desire of giving place to the older and ^nore honorable knights, who might wish to take part in the passage of arms. A short time after, three knights, of gallant bearing and ac- knowledged bravery, advanced, — and, touching the challengers' shields with the reverse of their lances, determined the contest to be with arms of courtesy, viz. with blunted weapons, and lances bearing a piece of thick board upon the point. The knights retired from each other in opposite directions, and rode to the extreme lists, while the spectators encouraged them with animating cries. There was then an universal silence, as they rushed against each other with a shock that threatened the dashing to pieces of horses and riders. The advantage was on the side of the challengers — for the two Teu- tonic knights hurled their antao-onists with violence from their steeds; and the Templar, aiming at the hel- met of the knight whom he encountered, made him reel THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 105 in his saddle, while he himself remained firmly seated, though he received on his cuirass the lance aimed by his adversary. Loud acclamation attested the satis- faction of the spectators, and the burstof music sounded the triumph of the victors. The Templar and his antagonist received fresh lances, and, retiring from each other with the encour- agement of the heralds, rushed to the encounter with redoubled energy. The Templar's horse was borne down by the weight of his adversary's; and the Temp- lar himself receiving the lance in the lower net-work of his breast-plate, was borne from the saddle far beyond his steed. The Templar's lance struck against the bosses of his opposer's shield, and was splintered to atoms. The knight, however, firmly retained his seat in the saddle, and was greeted by the universal voice of the multitude, as of one man. Two of the challengers still remained masters of the field, but the discomfiture of the Templar gave encour- agement to the knights who had remained spectators, and the shields of the cliallengers readily met the reverse lances of champions accepting their challenge. Five courses were run by each, and five several knights unhorsed or otherwise vanquished; and the calls of the heralds, ''Splintering of lances! Love of Beauty! Honor to the Chivalrous!" failed to bring forward new champions against the successful challengers of the field. The Kin2:-at-arms, Count Rhetian, assembled 106 LITERARY AMARANTH. the judges of the field and marshals, and, after a short consultation, ordered the heralds to sound — "The Count Alexin de Alleman, first in arms, according to the laws of chivalry, conqueror of the field, and entitled bj award to receive the Golden Lion at the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the peerless Princess of the House of Hungary." Ere the heralds sounded, the shrill notesof a clarion v/ere heard at the western gate of the lists; and the order was for a moment stayed. The eyes of the mul- titude were turned in the direction of the sound, and above the tops of the low larch trees, was observed the nodding of a solitary sable plume. It appeared like a thing of life, with regular undulating motion, to move along in the air, wholly unconnected with any other body, until a bright, star-like blaze was distinguished, which appeared to support the plume without consum- ing it. Anon the head of a horseman was visible, whose helmet bore the plume and its fiery appendage. He was tall, and of a slight, graceful figure, to appearance fitted rather for the hallet than the battle- field. He rode a powerful coal-black charger, with curb, saddle, and horse furniture of the same color. His armor was highly polished, and of a glossy jet, his coat of mail partly of plates wrought in scales, and partly of links, covered a thick gambesoon of black velvet, over the collar of which his dark hair fell in beautiful shining ringlets. His helmet was black also. THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 107 with the exception of the enormous star formed of brilliants, that bore his tall plume — and his dark eyes, flashing from his closed visor a light that electrified the soul, gave evidence of a spirit fierce and indomitable in fight. The multitude sat gazing on the advancing knight with a mixture of awe and admiration, while they scanned narrowly every part of his dress and armor with increasing wonder, at finding every thing black, even to his gauntlets and spurs. The trumpets of the heralds, braying out defiance in a blast of death, arrested the attention of the spec- tators; and their eyes were turned from the knight in black, to what was passing within the arena. The King-at-arms raised his baton with a threatening ges- ture, and waving it to the marshals, they advanced two and two, to meet the knight, with crossed truncheons, to impede his approach to the arena, while, in the meantime, the harsh notes of the heralds' trumpets, waxed more awfully loud. The herald that accompa- nied the stranger knight, still kept his trumpet to his mouth, and the blast, though less loud, was unremitting as the swell of defiance which assailed his master. Accompanied by his squire, the knight in black con- tinued on towards the centre of the lists. His closed vizor prevented his features being seen; but the fixed, unmoved position of the head, the fiercer light that flamed from his eyes, burning in their sockets like liquid jet; the tension of the sinews of the arms and 108 LITEI^ARY A 31 AR ANT PI. leffs, the swellins: and eiilar";ement of the chest, and the proud straightening up, and heightening of his body, attested undaunted courage, kindled by indig- nation into fury. His steed appeared to participate in the spirit of the rider. The prickings of his master's spur, and the brazen clash of the trumpets had given him the enthusiasm of the battle field. His mouth was whitened with foam, the muscles of his breast swollen, and his neck proudly arched, as, fiercely champing the curb, he spurned the earth beneath him with the loud, angry stamping of his feet. Approaching the crossed staves of the two marshals foremost in advance, he received a blow across the head. The ears of the generous animal were bent back upon his neck, in rage — the fiery breath rolled from his nostrils; with a loud snort he sprang forward, and with his feet struck to the earth the truncheons from the hands of the marshals. Stunned b^^ the violence, they gave way, and falling back, formed a line in op- position, with the King-at-arms in the centre. Arriv- ing here, the knight checked his charger, and came to a stand. Every eye of the multitude was riveted upon the arena, and with a painful impatience awaited an explanation of the strange occurrences of the day. Count Rhetian motioned to a herald — the following was sounded: "Hear! Knight of the Sable plume! fourth challenger of the pass de cirmes of the Abbey of Hermandstadt, hear! I, Godolph Rhetian, King-at- \ THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 109 arms, upon the accusation of the redoubted knight, Alexin Alleman, well and trulj made, do charge thee with cowardice and treachery, and proclaim thee here, before these witnesses from the four winds, perjured knight, false traitor, discourteous gentleman, and coward; and order thee to quit these lists of the brave and honorable, or thy armor shall be broken in shivers before thy face; thy shield, with its arms eft'aced, trailed reversed through the dirt, and thou, disgraceful knight, covered with the pall in the Abbey of Hermanstadt alive, hear the funeral service that attests thy death to knirrhthood, to honor, and to fame!" This scene ac- counted for the long absence of the fourth challenger, and the studied concealment of his features. The trumpets again brayed in dissonance, and the hissings of the multitude assailed the dishonored knight. He sat motionless upon his steed, with head bowed beneath the reproaches that fell upon him, then leaping to the ground, knelt before the King-at-arms and the Abbot of Hermanstadt, beneath whose cloisters accusation had been laid against his shield. This act further increased the estimation of cow- ardice in which he was held, and King Andreas, whose impetuous spirit refused control, demanded that the tournament should not be disgraced by his presence; and that he should be hurled over the palisades of the lists. Presently the knight unloosened the lacings of his corselet, and produced a morocco wallet, from which 10 > ^^0 LITERARY AMARANTH. he took a small oblong reliquary of gold, and presented it to the Abbot. The reverend father took from it a small parchment scroll, over which he ran his eye has- tily, then looking into the reliquary, while pious tears flowed down his cheek, he seized his crozier, and mo- tioning to the King-at-arms and Marshals, fell upon his knees, repeating a ''pater nosterf^ in this religious exercise he was followed by all those in the arena, with the exception of Alleman, who appeared to regard the ceremony with scorn and contempt. A circle was formed by the Marshals around the Abbot and King-at-arms; and a low, yet most earnest conference, that appeared to be going on, left the spec- tators perfectly at a loss to comprehend the import of what had passed, or ivas passing. Count de Alleman sat upon his steed evidently deeply interested in what was being transacted. "When about to receive the prize of the day, vanity had led him to bare his head, that all the multitude might enjoy a contemplation of his features; and in his countenance the traces of con- cern and anxiety were evident, and occasionally that paleness of the cheek which argues fear, and a slight quiver of the lip, notwithstanding the haughty curl which pride endeavored to maintain. The conference ended, and the Abbot and King-at- arms approaching the knight, who still remained upon his knees, assisted him to arise. And that especial honor might be paid to one whose character had been r H E HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. m unjustly traduced, while one held the stirrups, that he nlight mount his steed, the other bore from the stand his shield. This contained across, supported by a lion rampant, with a sword in one gamb, and an olive branch in the other, for a device; and a short motto in charac- ters unknown. His shield also was black; and the motto formed of gems similar to that of the helmet. The knight in black, with a lance in rest, rode to his false accuser, and in a voice that echoed through the amphitheatre, addressed him: "Liar! Forsworn Knight! Traitor! Coward and Felon! proven so to be, before those assembled knights, just and true, I do further en- gage to prove upon thy body. I scorn thy recreant base- ness, and though combat with thee as a knight, be infa- my, it will be merit to rid the world of a miscreant!" So saying, he struck the shield of AUeman with the sharp point of his spear, and determined the combat to be at outrance; that is, with sharp weapons. With a look of bitter scorn, the Teutonic knight re- turned: "Back on thy head, I hurl thy charges, and defy thee, Coward! I spare thee words, thy proper weapons, blows are the answers of the brave. Shrive thee thy soul! Look on the heavens thy last, this day thou diest!" Thus having spoken, he laced on his hel- met, mounted a fresh steed, and prepared for the onset. In the meantime, the heralds in prospect of a recom- mencement of the tournament, ventured a second time the cry of "Largesse! Largesse! brave and fair!" And 1]^2 LITERARY AMARANTH. the golden harvest which they reaped, far exceeded the first, a proof of the high interest awakened bj the ex- pected combat. The arrangements of tlie parties having been com- pleted, the King-at-arms raised his batoyi to the her- alds, and the flourish of a thousand trumps sounded the attack, as the champions retired to the extremities of the lists, amid the encouragement of the vast mul- titude. The contrast was striking; AUeman armed cap-a-pie in bright armor, with a. white plume, and mounted on a milk-white steed. His adversary in black, on an ebon-colored charger. The stretch of fancy was not great, to imagine the contest between a spirit of light and a spirit of darkness. A breathless silence prevailed. The knights spurred their steeds towards each other, and met in the centre with a force that stunned, for the moment, both horses, while their riders remained unharmed, each having splintered his lance against the shield of his antagonist. The address and equality of the knights elicited the most enthusi- astic admiration. Having received fresh lances, they again retired, and rushed against each other, even with greater im- petuosity than before. The Teutonic knight unhurt, received upon his shield, the lance of his adversary, which went to shivers, while he directed his lance against the helmet of the knight in black, and striking the star in the centre, shook from it the disintegrated THE HUNGARIAN P H I N C E S S . 113 particles of the jewel in a shower of light; and caused the knight to fall back in his saddle till his head nearly touched the trappings of his horse. The exultation here was less than before, and discovered to the haughty Teutonic, that, notwithstanding his good fortune, he was less in favor with the multitude than the object of his unjust accusation. Thej received a third lance from their squires, and again retiring, rushed together with a violence that hurled to the earth both horses, and enveloped them in dust, from the view of the spectators. The riders retained their seats, though violently injured by the concussion; the Teutonic knight receiving on his hel- met a deep indentation from his antagonist's spear, while a part of his own spear splintered against the shield of the knight in black, and glancing off broke through the links of his cuirass, inflicting a wound from which the blood trickled down in great heavy drops. Plumes, scarfs, and gloves, showered down from the ladies in profusion, to animate the combatants; and a rich cashmere scarf and bracelet, from the Princess Cornelia, while it flattered the pride of the stranger knight, incited him to redoubled valor — though he staunched not, as bidden, with the precious token, the flo wings of his wound. Ere their horses arose, each unsheathed his sword; and steel clashed against steel; — blow followed blow, in quick succession, till the whole place echoed with 10* 114 LITERARY AMARANTH. the din of their arms. The interest of the multitude was increased, and scarfs, plumes, and bracelets, again showered down, as the spectators bent forward from the galleries to behold the combat, and shouted and cheered the combatants. The blood still continued to flow from the knight in black, who had made upon the Teutonic but little impression, when in his endeavor, by a sudden wrench, to disengage his sword, which had become fastened between the plates and links of Alleman's armor, the blade was snapped in twain near the hilt, and he left, in a measure, unarmed, to bear the fury of his foe. Siezing, however, the battle-axe from his saddle-bow, he sprang on his feet (as his horse still lay apparently lifeless on the ground,) while at the same time, the horse of his adversary arose. The Teutonic knight taking an advantage of his situation, ungenerous, and contrary to the laws of the tourna- ment; spurred his steed towards the stranger kniglit, intending to ride him down; and ere the marshals could interpose, the knight in black sunk beneath Alleman's charger, which at the same time fell to the earth. As the steed fell, however, by a quick evolution of the body, the knight escaped from beneath him uninjured, and rising, dealt a blow upon his adversary's helmet, as he descended, that made him fall back from his horse. Notwithstanding the urgent cries of the spec- tators, to follow up by blows his advantage, with a generosity of soul, noble as it was unmerited, he rested THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. J] 5 his battle-axe till his antagonist arose, and then the contest was resumed with quickened ardor. In strength, the Teutonic knight was superior, owing to the loss of blood which his antagonist had suffered; while in ra- pidity of motion and address, he was greatly inferior. The cries of the spectators had ceased, for absolving interest enchained every faculty, until they forbore to breathe, in intensity of feeling. The blows of the combatants were unremitting, and apparently with equal advantage. A wound, received in the fleshy part of the back, appeared at length to enkindle the fury of the knight in black to the uttermost; like a wounded ti^er, he sprang forward, and his battle-axe assailed the helmet of his adversary with repeated strokes; till the solid brass gave way, and the weapon crashing through metal and bone, extended at full length upon the sand the blood-stained quivering body of the giant Teutonic. There was a short pause, and then clarion, trump, her- ald, and people lifted up their voices in one simulta- neous swell; and mountain, forest, city, hill and valley echoed back the sound. The knight in black now mounted his horse, which, at length, recovered from the stunning shock he re- ceived, had risen up, apparently little injured; and riding to his herald, bid him sound a challenge to the iield. No one appearing to answer the challenge, the King-at-arms, and judges, awarded the prize of the llg LITERARY AMARANTH. day to the stranger knight, and escorted him, amid the plaudits of the people, to the royal pavilion, that he might receive the prize at the hands of the Princess Cornelia. Richly habited in a violet-colored robe, confined by a clasp of brilliants, and wearing her laurel crown with bandelets of gold, she extended the prize; and while her fair delicate hand shook with a slight tremor, placed the Golden Lion over the plume of the helmet where she had the gratification of beholding her own bracelet buckled as a gage. Receiving the prize with lowered lance and graceful inclination of the body, the knight threw around the shoulders of the Princess her cashmere scarf, and, turning to the King of Hungary and knights around, said: "Sire, and ye gallant knights! we meet in Palestine with mace and spear against the Infidel, to bear the banner of the, cross." Then de- clining the Princess' invitation to a banqueting, he inclined his head again to the King and the multitude, and reining up his charger, rode from the lists accom- panied by his squire and herald. As he turned from the royal pavilion, the device of his shield caught the eye of a spectator in one of the lower seats — a female shriek arose, and a young maiden in the bloom of youth and beauty, fell down in a swoon. This circumstance arrested the attention of the multitude, and especially of the King-at-arms, who recognized in her habit and appearance a Jewess, that, THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. ]j7 contrary to an edict published before the tournament, had presumed to attend. She was therefore seized, and brought trembling before the King-at-arms, who ordered her, as guilty of a serious oifence, to be carried to his chateau, and there kept in custody during his pleasure. The fell horror that o'erspread the cheek of the beautiful girl, the wildness of her dark lustrous eye, her tears and entreaties, and the entreaties of the young princess in her behalf, were unavailing, — she was hurried away to endure the insults of a wicked and licentious man. Oppressed by the heat, and the emotions that had been excited in her bosom, Cornelia threw back the scarf that was wrapped closely around her. She perceiv- ed something weighty in one of the corners, and unloos- ing, discovered a golden plate in which was wrought, in enamel, the miniature of a Jewess, that appeared to bear a striking resemblance to the virgin removed from the lists. On the reverse was the likeness of the identical knight in black, divested of his helmet, and with features so noble and commanding, that a crown could have added nothing of dignity thereto. While motives of delicacy disposed the princess to keep the matter of the miniature profoundly secret from her royal father, the strange adventure prompted her to use all her influence with him to rescind the order of the Count Rhetian, but his reply was firm and final: ''Andreas is King of Hungary — Count Rhetian, King- IIQ LITERARY AMARANTH. at-arms;" and the lovely and innocent Jewess was left to her fate. The tournament for the day thus ended, the vast cavalcade moved away, followed by the people on foot; — and the lists were deserted, till the morrow's sun should bring again the season of amusement. Ezra Emanuel and Jabez his son, had visited Bel- grade, on matters relating to money, and being detained beyond the time appointed for their return, travelled night and day, scarcely allowing themselves time for refreshment and repose, that they might reach home ere the show of the tournament, in order to protect their dauHiter and sister ao;ainst the insults which the Jews of Hungary had at all times to suffer, but es- pecially at such times as the minds of the people were awakened in a lively manner against all the enemies of the Cross of Christ. They reached their mountain residence a few hours before the break of day, and, unwilling to disturb the repose of Miriam, quietly loosened the secret fastening, and entered. Jabez, overcome by weariness, sank down into a seat; but the old man, full of affection for his beloved child, lighted a lamp, and proceeded to her apartment. Perceiving her couch vacant, he gazed around the room in a stupor of astonishment, and, wringing his hands in agony, by his groanings awakened his son. As they searched the house together, narrowly examining every part, a knocking was heard at the door. It was opened; Miriam rushed in, bathed in tears, with countenance THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. ng pale with sorrow, and garments rent in pieces; and fell into her father's arms in an agony of woe. The tears of the father flowed down the channels of his time- furrowed face. Kissing the pale, cold cheek of his child, he called her by every tender epithet; and con- jured her to make known the cause of her grief and distressful appearance. Amid sobs, that rendered her articulation incompre- hensible, she attempted a recital, but the only words she could utter were, "Count Rhetian — Count Rhe~ tian." Turning to her brother, she shrieked, in a frantic voice, *'Avenge your sister's dishonor!" then, seizing a small stillette which lay upon a table, buried it to the hilt in her bosom. The old man tore his beard in agony, and attempted to staunch the wound, but Jabez plucked the steel from her breast, and pressing the reeking blade to his lips, called on the God of Abraham for vengeance; and, catching up his bow and broad- sword, rushed from the dwelling. The sun was high up in heaven; and his rays, throuo-h the waving branches of a lime-tree, entered the win- dow, and fell tremulously upon the long blood-stained tresses of the maid — the light advancing and then receding, as if by an instinctive dread of blood. The heavy stupor at length passed off; Father Ezra raised his gray head from the bosom of his child, and, care- fully covering up the corpse, abandoned the dead, in anxious concern for the living. 120 LITERARY AMARANTH. Knowing that the Count Rhetian, from his office, must necessarily be present at the tournament, Jabez, like a tiger thirsting for biood, under the cover of a tree, awaited his coming at a narrow pass; and as the kniglit, accompanied by his train, rode proudly along, unconscious of impending fate, a well directed arrow entered his vizor, and striking the right eye, pierced through brain and bone, till the iron point impinged against the back of the helmet. A faint cry was uttered, and the count fell heavily to the earth, ere his companions had notice of the winging of the deadly shot. The lists were filled with champions. The king and cortege had arrived; and all awaited with impatience the arrival of the King-at-arms, that the games might commence. The sound of trumpets at length diffused animation among the galleries; but it was succeeded by the slow mournful notes of a military band. The folds of a black banner were seen floating in the air, and, as it was borne along, appeared the body of Count Rhetian, supported by four marshals, and followed by pages, carrying his armor in mourning, — his war-horse capa- risoned in black; and a long train of retainers and vassals, with a man in chains, bringing up the rear. The body of ihe dead Count was laid at the feet of the kins:; and, when his murderer was discovered to be a Jew, the v/hole multitude, with one accord, demanded THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 121 his destruction with a violence of uproar that made the earth tremble, as with the throes of an earthquake. A short conference passed between the king and his principal knights, and the Jew beheld the faggots blaze beside him, that were to reduce his body to ashes; yet in his countenance there was nothing of fear. Not a murmur escaped him — not a limb — not a muscle be- trayed emotion; but with proud look of scorn and defi- ance, he returned the wrathful glances of the eyes that glared upon him. Fanned by the wind, the fire went briskly up, and the work of torture began. Confined to large cylinders of wood by the hands and feet, with iron staples, he was branded and burnt with red hot bars of iron, in the arms and thighs, till the odor that arose from the fried and crisping flesh, darkened and scented the air — yet not a groan escaped him — not a petition was ottered up for mercy to his cruel tormentors. As the heated irons burnt their way, and descended through the skin to the more quick and sensitive parts of the flesh, his body was moved with painful contortions; and, in the agony of suffering nature, his limbs raised up, and let fall the massy timbers to which they were attached, so that the bystanders were compelled, by sitting upon them, to confine them to the earth. The first irons were removed, and others, glowing hot, applied to the deep cavities that had been burnt into the limbs — also to the more vital parts — the head, 11 -[22 LITERARY AMARANTH. the stomach, and the heart. Nature, nerved up to the greatest endurance, could not sustain the suffering; the cries of the tortured Jew went up in appalling shrill- ness, outswelling even the fiendish exultations of the vast multitude around him; his whole body was con- vulsed and quivering; the tensely drawn eye-lids were entirely removed from the eyes; and the huge dark eye-balls, straining from their sockets, glared round in awful glances, more lurid than the lightning. The Abbot of Hermanstadt, who had stood by, per- ceiving his groans to become weaker and less frequent, approached the dying man, and, standing the crucifix before him, desired the Jew to abjure his religion in his extremity, and win heaven through his sufferings on earth. Pain and rage endued the tormented with supernatural strength; he started forward with a vio- lence that burst one of his eyes, and made it trickle in blood and water down his cheek; and tearing through the iron staple his hand, seized the cross, and with a violent blow levelled to the earth the priest who bent over him. This act of impiety exasperated the people more, — and though his torture afforded satisfaction, yet, in their eagerness for his destruction, they called out for more violent torment. His arm was accordingly fastened down; and the former plates being removed, a great red iron cross was taken from the fire, and laid upon him, stretching from his head down the body, and across his THE H U ?J G A R I A N PRINCE 123 arms. His cries were redoubled as it burnt its \vay, but became fainter and fainter, as oppressed nature seemed to sink into insensibility. The smoking flame went up exhaling its strong fleshy odor, and the dying Jew appeared unconscious of suffering. The iron at length made its way to the brain; — all the sensibilities were quickened and centered into one shock of agony, and his dying cry cleft the air with a piercing shrillness that struck horror to the hearts of all that heard it. Although the Jews, as the early enemies of Christ, were hateful to all crusaders, many of whom contended that they, as the rejectors of the Saviour, ought to be subjected to indiscriminate slaughter, — and, although the crime of Jabez Emmanuel appeared heinous in their eyes, yet, such was the awful nature of the punishment, and such the feeling, half resembling awe, that the dead body of an enemy will excite, that few shouts followed the last dying agony of the tortured Jew. The eyes of the multitude remained fixed upon the corse, but their attention was suddenly arrested by a cry of appalling terror, and, on turning, they beheld a Jew — the miserable father of the dead man, standing upon the velvet-colored platform, that had supported the shields of the knights. His head was without cov- ering; and the long silver tresses, floating in the air, gave to his features a wild, yet venerable expression, as he rent his garments and tore his beard, in an agony bordering upon madness. 124 LITERARY AMARANTH. Raising his ejes and hands to heaven, with a dis- tinctness that rendered every syllable audible, he cried: — ** Vengeance, Lord God of Abraham, of Isaac and of Jacob! — Vengeance upon the heads of this prince and people! Unjust, wicked, and inhuman King! Be- lievest thou in the punishment of that hell thou preach- est up, and yet dost sanction robbery, violation, and murder? Thou hast filled thy coflfers with my gold! — With the blood of a violated daughter, these gray locks have been reddened, and my eyes and ears have at- tested the dying miseries of my tortured son! Are these the inculcations of the 'Prince of Peace,' in whom you profess faith? Did Jesus, (himself a Jew,) enjoin the robbery, violence, and murder of the Jews? You have made my house desolate! The pillars of my age are broken down; — two are lying low in their blood; and, alas! alas! agony insupportable! the third, cor- rupted byyour priestcraft, and imbued with your hy- pocrisy, has apostatized from the house and religion of his fathers! Yet there is justice in heaven; — vengeance will come. The God of Abraham will be to you a whirlwind and a storm. Pestilence and famine shall devour you, and fire and sword consume your house, your family, and your people. Tremble and fear! — for, as the Lord God liveth, so shall it be done unto you." Awed by the terrible denunciations of the Jew, and his wild prophetic manner, they permitted him, unmo- THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 125 lested, to retire. The king him selfevidentiy affected by the occurrences of the day, announced that the tournament was ended; and the multitude issued in one living mass through the gates, divided into innu- merable bands and companies, moving to their respec- tive habitations. The King of Hungary having arrang- ed his affairs, left the administration of his kingdom in the care of some of the most trusty nobles, and set out for Palestine accompanied by the Princess Cornelia, his barons, the Teutonic knights, and many German, Austrian, and Bavarian bishops and nobles, with their retinues. Ezra Emmanuel, with that instinctive loveof money, peculiar to his race, deternrined upon raising by a levy on the subjects, the amount of which the king had de- spoiled him; and the natural acerbity of his disposition towards the Christians having been increased by the wrongs which he had suffered, he seldom failed to glut his love of vengeance, as well as money, by coupling robbery with murder. All the different passes, for many leagues around, were infested by the Jew and his marauders, and every attempt to entrap him, proved utterly abortive. Apparently possessing ubiquity, while closely pursued by the soldiery in one place, his presence was suddenly made known in another, many leagues distant, by the mangled throat, and cleft scull of the peasant or traveller. Such was his terrible power, and exerted in a manner so ruthless and deadly, 11* 125 LITERARY AMARANTH. that he was believed to be in league with the prince of darkness, or even to be the arch-fiend himself; and the council of regency accordingly implored the assistance and denunciations of the church against the fearful deeds of the blood-stained robber. The sun had sunk behind the hills of the west, and the gray shades of twilight began to fall softly o'er the plain, bringing on that sabbath season of the day to the brown sons of toil and the pious worshipper. The bell of the abbey had told the hour of vespers, a large mul- titude was assembled, and a number of tapers forming a cross around the relics of several departed saints, brightly burning. After the ceremonies had proceeded some time, the abbot took up the relics, and holding them in his hands as the people bowed down their heads in adoration, repeated in aloud impressive tone, the following execration: "Nomine patris, filii, sancti spiritusque. Execratus sis in mente ac corpore, in membris acspiritu. Obtenebrescant oculi tui qui con- cupiverunt, arescant manus qu^e rapuerunt, debilit entur omnia membra quae adjuverunt. Semper labores nee requiem invenias, fructu tui laboris priveris. For- mides ac paveas a facie persequentis et non persequen- tis hostis ut tabescendo deficias. Sit portio tua cum Juda traditore domini in terra mortis ac tenebrarum donee cor tuum ad satisfactionem plenam convertatur. Ne cessant hae tuse maledictiones scelerum persecutri- THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 127 ces quamdiu permaneas in peccato pervasionis. AmenI fiat! fiat!" The last^a^ was scarcely uttered, when the tremen- dous voice of the robber himself, was heard in the chapel. "You that murder with the cross, perish by the cross!" — and as the awe-struck multitude lifted their heads, the severed head of the Abbot fell upon the pavement. A fiendish laugh of exultation followed; the Jew swept his sword around carrying before it the rows of lighted candles, and with a slow, measured tread, retired from the church. Roused to the hio-hest indignation, the whole neighborhood joined in pursuit; but the Jew was no where to be found, and was not heard of after. Lest my readers complain, that in my story there is too much incident, and too little feeling; and that in the descriptions of the deeds of knights and robbers, I have lost sight of my fair heroine, and the love making part of the story, I will inform them that the Princess was deeply interested in the knight in black; and that although a certain writer having a good knowledge of mankind and womankind also, has said that **love passes to the heart of a lady, through the ears; and from the heart, through the eyes," yet in this case it was diiFerent, for it entered through the eyes, and passed out in sighings through the lips. The military bearing of the stranger, his generosity and courage, had excited in her bosom emotions strong, yet unde- 128 LITERARY AMARANTH. fined, to which the marked preference of the miniature gave the definitiveness and warmth of love. Hoarding the secret in her own breast, Cornelia welcomed the winds that wafted her to Palestine, and the din of the battle-field, where she hoped again to behold the starry crest of her knight lighting the path of victory. Ere the expedition set out, Pope Innocent III. died, and Andreas, in his stead, conducted the crusaders to Cyprus, and thence to Acre, where the infidels, who had heard littleof this crusade, and were consequently unprepared to meet them, fell in myriads beneath the Christians' swords. Concentrating all his strength with a large reinforcement from France and Italy, the King lead them from Acre to the siege of the fort, built by the Saracens on Mount Tabor, commanding a difficult and important pass. Having arrived at the foot of the Mount, they encamped, and began making the necessary preparations for storming the fortress. The King having possession of a strong building, whose thick stone walls had evidently been constructed as a protection against violence, had given all necessary orders for the night, and retired to repose. The Prin- cess had entered a small chamber, which was fitted up as a chapel, and bending before the holy emblem of the Christian's faith, her petitions arose from the altar of a meek heart, pure and holy as the breath of incense. The triumph of the cross, was the burthen of her prayer, but her low sweet voice was heard in behalf of her THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. [29 father, and of one who was in her affections as purely and tenderly enshrined. Rising from her knees with a brow like a rainbow, all peace and beauty, she ap- proached the window, and loosening her robes, and throwing off the thin figured simarre that covered her swan -like neck and shoulders, sat recumbent, resting her cheek upon her richly-rounded arm. As she con- templated the mild beauty of the deep-blue sky, and enjoyed the balmy wind which appeared to wanton with the rich clustering tresses that escaped from her golden-banded tiara, a slight motion of the arras and the noise of a spring broke her reverie; and turning, she beheld the long grizzled beard, and terrific features of the robber Jew. With rusty scull-cap, corselet, and baleful, staring eyes, he looked a demon of the waste, rather than a man; and advancing with drawn sword, and a scowl that froze the very blood of the Princess, he thrust a cloth into her mouth, and hurried her from the. apartment through the secret passage. Entering the wood with his burden, the Jew hastened on, until he came to a large rock, which had been cleft asunder by the earthquake, leaving a chasm dark, dis- mal, and deep. Throwing a leathern thong around a point of the rock, he caught hold, and sunk into the frightful chasm, with a rapidity and smothering sensa- tion that took away all consciousness from his victim. When she opened her eyes, she was in a great rocky cave, in the centre of which a fire was fiercely blazing. 130 LITERARY AMARANTH. Her inhuman tormentor was intent upon inflicting upon her, the same punishment which her father had inflicted on his son; and assisted by a Saracen, of appearance equally as hideous, was busily engaged in forming a pile beside her of the most combustible wood. Tearing the gag from her mouth, the doomed Prin- cess uttered loud lamentations, which reverberated in awful echoes through the cavern. With a demoniacal laugh at her fears and misery, the Jew seized the un- happy maid, and binding her upon the pile, put the flame beneath, which readily caught, and began to burn. In this extremity, the thought of the miniature and Jewess, darted across her mind, and hope brightened in a last struggle for life; she threw the miniature to the Jew, but the crackling flame rose fiercely, and she sunk into insensibility. When she awoke to conscious- ness, the companion of the Jew, and the Jew him- self, with cleft skulls, lay before her; she herself was supported in the arms of his son and slayer, the knight of the sable plume. Hillel Emmanuel, the stranger knight, was the eldest son of Ezra Emmanuel, who was descended in a direct line from the last king of the Jews. Early in life, when from home, he had suff"ered an attack of the plague; and being kindly attended by a Christian pil- grim, when every one else forsook him, he listened meekly and gratefully to the teachings of his pious benefactor, and became a happy convert to the Chris- THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 131 tian faith. Warm and enthusiastic in temperament, he entered into the service of the crusaders with ardor, and from his prowess in many conflicts, had conferred upon him the order of knighthood. His father Ezra, hated and oppressed by the Saracens, and indignant at his son, who had renounced the Jewish religion, had quitted Palestine in disgust, and, travelling over Europe, had at length settled in Hungary. The horrid calamities which he had suffered there, in the persons of his daughter and son, had affected his mind with madness, and, burning with revenge, he had steeped his hands in blood to satiety. After the murder of the priest, he had fled again to Palestine, either contem- plating deeper vengeance against the king, or actuated by the desire of again beholding his country, the land of promise, endeared to the Jew by a thousand delight- ful associations. It so happened that the very house which the king and suite occupied, had been the former residence of Ezra, before abandoning his country. His son was acquainted with the cavern into which the Princess was conveyed, and attracted by her shrieks, rushing in, smote down the Jew and Saracen, and freed the victim at the time when the fire was about envelop- iag her body. I will not here attempt describing the feelings of Hillel, when he snatched up the plate containing his own, and his sister-s miniature from the hands that clasped it, and in the strongly-marked features of the 132 LITERARY AMARANTH dead, discovered the person of his own father: nor will I attempt to express the joy that filled the breast of the King at the rescue of his child, and of the whole army, who had been suddenly aroused from their slumbers, and were engaged in the search. The father in the overflowings of a grateful heart, after learning the horrid death from which his daughter had escaped, tendered her hand to the knight in black, who had won her, both by the preservation of her life, and by his for- mer services in favor of the Cross. Hillel Emmanuel afflicted with horror at the thoughts of slaying his father, and endued with a certain divine fury, tendered his services to the King, in leading a night assault against the fort on Mount Tabor. The whole of the forces were soon in motion, and, after encountering innumerable difficulties in the ascent of the mountain, they arrived before the fort. The outer embankment was soon carried by the victorious crusa- ders — ^the arrows fell in hail of death — sword clashed with sabre, and Christian and Saracen grappled in deadly conflict; and, while the wild-fire of the Infidels streamed through the darkness, falling in deluge of torture among the Christian ranks — the shouts of be- siegers and besieged went in echoes down the vallies, like the blast of a tornado. Rallying the forces that recoiled from the liquid flame, the knight in black, o'er heaps of dead and dying, that his right arm had borne down, urged forward his steed, and planting his stan- THE HUNGARIAN PRINCESS. 233 dard upon the bastion, sank oppressed by the weapons of the thick ranks that closed around him. The descendant of the last Prince of Judah was no more, and with him perished all the hopes he had en- tertained of the moral renovation of his race, mingled with the thoughts of personal aggrandisement, and his airy dreams of the diadem and sceptre. Disconcerted by the wild-fire, and panic-struck at the death of their leader, the troops gave way, and the crescent continued to wave in triumph from the fort of Mount Tabor. The young Princess did not long survive her lover. The oil was wanting, and the lamp of life grew pale, flickered — and all was dark. Wasted by sorrow, she fell an easy prey to the diseases of the climate, and reposed with her lover-knight beneath a beauteous mausoleum bearing his arms. There, often, in after- times, the eye of love brightened, and the pious orisons of the young aspirant in arms, rose upon the dewy wing of morning. 12 SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES. — Ibi tu calentem Debita sparges lacryma favillam Vatis amici. — Hor. Beneath the axle of departing day The weary waters, on th' horizon's verge, Blush'd like the cheek of children tired in play; As bore the surge The wasted poet's form with slow and mournful dirge. On Via Reggio's surf-beaten strand, The late-relenting sea, with hollow moan, Gave back the storm-toss'd body to the land; As if, in tone Of sorrow, it bewailed the deed itself had done. There, laid upon his bier of shells — around The moon and stars their lonely vigils kept. While in their pall-like shades the mountains bound, And night bewept The bard of nature, as in death's cold arms he slept. The tuneful morn arose with locks of light — The ear that drank her music's call was chill; The eye that shone was seal'd in endless night; And cold and still The pulses stood that 'neath her gaze were wont to thrill. SHELLEY'S OBSEQUIES. {35 With trees e'en like the sleeper's honors sered. And prows of galleys like his bosom riven, The melancholy pile of death was reared Aloft to heaven; And on its pillared height the corse to torches given. From his meridian throne the eye of day Beheld the kindlings of the funeral fire, Where, like a war-worn Roman chieftain, lay Upon his pyre, The poet of the broken heart and broken lyre. On scented wings the sorrowing breezes came, And fanned the blaze, until the smoke that rushed In dusky volumes upward, lit with flame. All redly blushed, Like melancholy's sombre cheek by weeping flushed. And brother-bards* upon that lonely shore, Were standing by, and wept, as brightly burned The pyre, till all the form they loved before, To ashes turned. With incense, wine and tears, was sprinkled and inurned. * Byron and Leigh Hunt. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. ON THE DEATH OF AN INTERESTING CHILD. While my cheek with joy was flushing, Like the morning's ruddy glow, I have watched thy beauty blushing, As a peerless rose-bud blow; Till the tide of love out-gushing Did my surcharged, heart o'erflow. Brilliant spread the scene before thee, Without cloud to dim or veil; But the blast of death blew o'er,ihee, And thou sunk beneath the gale, And the heart of her who bore thee, Trembled o'er thy features pale. Oft I bent me o'er thy pillow, And a mother's sorrows shed, While my tresses like a willow Fell around thy dying head; And I felt the rising billow Of despair my breast o'erspread. But the silver chords that bound thee To this doating bosom proud, Now are broken — death has found thee, And the many memories crowd. As I stand and see around thee Wrapped the long funeral shroud. THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 137 The bright beaming eyes that blessed me, Sleep beneath their lids of snow; The pure lips that once caressed me Now have lost their rosy glow; And the tiny hands that pressed me Ne'er will press again below. I have treasured many a token, Of thy infant love, my child, Many a word which thou hast spoken, Many a charm when thou hast smiled, But the golden bowl is broken— And thy mother's brain is wild. God stay me in my sorrow! Thou wilt come no more to me, And the cold turf by to-morrow Shall thy place of resting be; Yet from this I solace borrow, I will go at length to thee. There's a land of deathless flowers, By the feet of angels trod, Where the amaranthine bowers Ever shed their sweets abroad, And the sunshine of the hours Is the beaming smile of God; There, where sickness cannot sever, And the reign of death is o'er; By the pure and crystal river On the bright and golden shore, We will meet to walk forever. And will part again no more. 12* STANZAS. Thou art beautiful, young lady: on thy cheek Glows the rich brown of fair Italia's girls, And the dark tresses shade thy forehead meek^ In glossy curls, Like raven's wings, spread on a vase of pearls. And 'neath the dark arched brow thy soft eyes glow- Like stellar gems that spangle night's blue throne; And from thy rosy-like lips thy accents flow In a sweet tone — Calypso and her nymphs might fancy for her own. Thy sylph-like step and the high spiritual air, Bespeak the presence of a noble mind, And thy calm face a soul devoid of care, Where lie enshrined. Like goodly gems, virtue and truth combined. Brightness attend thee, lady; may the founts Of science quench thy thirstings, and the muse Lead thee to Poe^sy's enchanted mounts, And round diffuse Honors and blessings pure as Heaven's sparkling dews. As slowly winds a bright meandering stream, Through landscapes gemmed with forests and with iflowers, Rich as the picture of a painter's dream, When fancy's bowers Are pencilled by the rosy-fingered hours: STANZAS. 139 So glide thy life through friendship's flowery vale, Bright, beautiful, from storm and tempest free, Dimpled in smiles by fortune's prosperous gale, A tranquil sea Bound to the ocean of Eternity. And as the sun in western skies sinks low, Dying in grandeur on his throne of fire- While evening's tears in pearly dew-drops flow, And round his pyre The grief— flushed clouds pale, languish and expire. Such be thy exit— round thy dying head May Virtue shed her most benignant ray, While Love and Friendship gather round thy bed, And mourn thy clay, About to "Rest In Peace" till full meridian day. OBADIAH LEATHERBY; OR, THE TIGHT SHOE, How strangely inconsistent are the actions of men; While the real benefactors of mankind are often dis- regarded — while the philanthropist, like a gentle stream diffusing verdure and fertility along its banks, glides unheeded on his noiseless way, till, like the stream, he hides his head in the Ocean of Eternity — while the political economist, whose reasonings, like the winds of heaven, winnow and purify the civil hori- zon, descends to the grave unmourned — and while the inventor of arts and sciences that, like the all-behold- ing sun, shed blessings upon all, on whom their light smiles, passes from the sight and the recollection away — men perpetuate the remembrance of the scourges of mankind, and pile the everlasting monument to those who have swept o'er the earth like a flood — who have overturned states, governments, institutions, and the forms and usages of life with the fury of the tor- nado, or, like the volcano, marked their fiery track with desolation, and struck with the lurid glare of their awful greatness, the sight and the senses of men. And as it is at the present day, so was it formerly. OBADIAH LEATHERBY. 14| While obelisk and pillar and pyramid, consecrated to posterity the memory of Egyptian heroes, distained with massacres and blood — and shrines and temples deified those illustrious only for their vices and their crimes, to an extent that it was said by one of another nation, that it was more difficult in Egypt to find a man than a god — yet neither mausoleum nor pillar marked the humble resting-place of Theuth, the inven- tor of letters, who, more than any Egyptian — more than any son of Adam, is entitled to the love and gra- titude of mankind, and their everlasting remembrance, for the magnitude ot the benefits he has conferred. Nor have men been more grateful (so far as exter- nal manifestation is concerned) to the inventors of the sister-arts of painting and engraving, than they have been to the inventor of writing. Not only are memo- rials wanting to perpetuate their memories: — but obli- vion has been permitted to obscure even their names. Yet here Ralschin, or Maroumzin, (whichever you may be,) of the former, and Melanger, or Laurentius, of the latter, one at least of posterity, acknowledges the deep indebtedness of past ages and the present, to your inventions — and, in doing so, gratefully erects one stone to your memories. Many are the important uses to which letters are applied. Besides the every -day exchange of senti- ment, through that mysterious intercourse which "wafts a sigh from Indus to the Pole,'' they bind 142 LITERARY AMARANTH, together the past and the present, and collecting all that is truly valuable in science and morality, serve to abridge the labors and increase the knowledge of every student and moralist, successively, to the end of time, enabling the earnest inquirer to comprehend more clearly truth, duty and interest, the real objects of living — and by a proper estimate of which, we are alone fitted to die. Poetry has employed her charms to adorn and recommend truth and virtue, and to throw a soft enchantment upon the otherwise dull, and, often, bar- ren pathway of life. History is another important subject on which writing is employed. It accomplishes over time the triumph which the telescope achieves over distance^ and brings to the eye the great luminaries of other worlds. It makes us contemporary with the men of all ages and all countries — and sketches out, en masse, upon its ample canvass, the countless myriads that have been swept to dust — leaving the general features of their characters and lives for our contemplation and benefit. But to few purposes have letters been applied, more useful and interesting than biography. While history, in giving the outlines of a nation, affords a faint idea of particular persons; biography, in delineating the characters, fortunes and lives of individuals, is enabled to exhibit every light and shade, and specify minutely OBADIAH LEATHERBY. 143 all those little natural peculiarities that distinguish a man from his fellows. And while biography, in thus presenting us with a transcript of the features of the mind and the soul, redeems them from oblivion, it has powerful auxiliaries in the arts of painting and engrav- ing, that snatch from the remorseless fangs of time the features of the face, and, stamping them with immor- tality, bid the smile of beauty still mantle them, when they shall be shrivelled with age — aye, or wrapped in the dust of decay. What then do we not all owe in general to letters, painting and engraving;' — and you, Obadiah Leatherby, in particular? Yes! there thou art, Obadiah! 'Tis thy very self, with thy rounded waxen arms displayed like a prodigal beauty — thy tasselled cowl, a le moine, and thy apron black and blurred as Vulcan's, falling in folds o'er thy corduroys. Thou standest the real Obadiah, as I have seen thee in days of yore. Look at him, gentle stranger! and if you never saw the original — take the word of a friend — 'tis a fac simile of the late Obadiah Leatherby. Consult his physiognomy! (I would ask thee to study his crani- ology, as is the fashion now-a-days, were it not for the folds of that reverend cowl which he has upon his head.) Consult his physiognomy! I say. Note his brow, observe the movement of his eyes and eye- brows, and read the open expression of his mouth, and the lines scored upon his cheeks, and if you do not say 144 LITERARY AMARANTH. that 'Obadiah Leatherby must have been an easy, sim- ple, good-natured, good-for-nothing kind of a man/ why then / will say it for you. Well, Obadiah! thy painter and engraver have done more for thee, than they have done for some other geniuses whom I could mention; they have given the features of thy face, and the form of the outward man, most true to nature; and now. Oh most mighty Theuth, first of writers, assist me, the last and least of thy descendants, to sketch the inner man, the striking- features of the mind, and also the fortunes of the late lamented Obadiah Leatherby. "I never saw the man in my life," I hear the reader exclaim, *'but I will warrant it an excellent likeness — it is so much like a cobbler: but who are these on the right? — the little man in the hunting-shirt, with a face shrivelled as the witch of Endor's, and the one lean- ing over him, with the large nose and the larger chapeau,^' Now, reader! that is right— I am glad to see you interested — but your curiosity is running into a wrong channel; and whereas I had proposed merely to give you the biography of Obadiah Leatherby, I shall be compelled so to alter my original intention, as to give you a small sketch also of the personages respecting whom you have made inquiry. Be patient now, ask no more questions, give undivided attention, and I will tell you the history of the whole. OBADIAH LEA T HERB Y". 145 Obadiah Leatherby, the son of Aquila and Abigail Leatherby, was born in the village of Baltimore, on the 22d of July, 1744. I like to be particular in dates, and give the day, the month and the year, with all accuracy. In answer to the why of the reader, here is the wherefore. The day on which the infant Obadiah entered the world, was the identical day on which the Sun entered the constellation Leo; and his mother, who was particularly fond of astrology, immediately pre- dicted that her son would be a roarer. Moreover, she was confirmed in her opinion, by his being born in a remarkable year. Now, it may be well enough to in- form the reader that all years which contained any two figures alike, were considered extraordinary. Full of the idea that her son would one day rise to be the 'enlightener of nations,' Abigail brought up her child with a great deal of tenderness, instilled into his youthful mind an aversion to labor, and a love for her own particular lore, astrology, until he bid fair to be- come as lazy and silly as herself. Obadiah's father paid but little attention to his family, and contented himself with such enjoyments as a neighboring tavern afforded. The genius of our young friend was not, therefore, unnecessarily cramped by restrictions: for he was permitted to grow up free, fearless and 'wild as the young ass' colt.' Dividing his time about equally between going to school, fishing in the Patapsco, and hunting, Obadiah continued to blossom for greatness, 146 LITERARY AMARANTH. in his mother's eyes, until he was fourteen years of age. It appeared evident to his mother, that he was about to distinguish himself in the world of letters. His genius evidently leaned that way, and was discovered in his fondness for her astrological rhymes, for a rhyming dream-book, and also some poetical snatches which he had learned from his father, such as the fol- lowing: "And had the flood been liquor good, And Noah's sons such lads as I, We'd drunk the deluge where it stood, And left the ark and Noah dry," He was even said to have made, at an early age, several couplets, and to be very smart in finding out rhymes. But Obadiah was destined to meet with obstructions, as all great men do, in early life. He was deprived of both his parents in one year, poor fellow! and was left inheritor of the astrological fanaticism of his moth- er, and the idleness and passion for strong drinks of his father, and — of property not a groat. Many re- nowned men have risen without the aid of money, — why should not Obadiah Leatherby? Our young friend fell now under the care of the trustees for the poor, and was placed at the dull un- poetical trade of shoe-making, with a worthy old gen- tleman in the village. So the reader will conclude his genius was soon cramped gvos the cramping -irons and lap-stone. It is hard to take out of the flesh, what is O B A D I A H L E A T H E R B Y , 147 bred in the bone: 3^et Obadiah's master, by a vigorous plying of the strap, made laziness ooze out of the spirit, while blood sometimes oozed from the back. The consequence was that, although Mr. Shoeinghorn spoiled a good poet, he succeeded in making a pretty good shoemaker. "Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined." Now, if Mr. Shoeinghorn, who was a very correct Quaker, could have had the bending of our young twig, he would have made a fine sappling of him; but his inculcations were merely as the fork th^t resists the early bent, which, being removed, the trunk in a good degree resumes its former tendency. The love of poetry and astrology, and idleness and brandy, though restrained in Obadiah, by the efforts of our plain joro- saic Quaker, was not extinguished, but was secretly indulged in. In fact. Friend Shoeinghorn 'had scotched the snake, not killed it;' and Obadiah only wanted fit- ting opportunity and temptation to prove 'Richard's himself again.' In music, there are seven notes; — but, in the sound of the lap-stone, only one; — I therefore need not detain the reader long upon the apprenticeship of Oba- diah Leatherby. There was no variation. It was the same dull routine of scolloping leather, twisting thread and waxing it, hammering heel-taps, and joining to- gether of the soles and bodies of shoes, late and early, until the soul and body of Obadiah were nearly dis- 248 LITERARY AMARANTH. joined. The poor apprentice thought he had a sad time of it. His spirits were too much depressed to admit of his indulging the spirit of poetry, until, sometimes, in taking home shoes to customers, he dropped in at the tavern and obtained a glass; and then his 'genius plumed his heavenward flight.' But, among Obadiah's greatest privations, was that of music. His master being a Quaker, would allow no singing in the shop, so he was denied the use of what would have been, in some measure, the solace of his woes. When he did get out though, he made good use of his lungs, until he made the welkin ring again with the songs that had pleased him in childhood. xpuA Tixv<^^ «>«?«' — necessity causes inventions — was true true in the days of Homer. So was it in the days of Obadiah Leatherby, and proved to be so in his own history: for, unable to sing in the shop of friend Shoe- inghorn, he hit upon a happy substitute, the playing of his several tunes upon the lap-stone; and although, as I said before, it contained but one note, by giving a stroke of the hammer to each note, he was enabled to make the resemblance of music, to his own infinite relief, and the annoyance of his Quaker master. But his apprenticeship was at length ended; and it seemed that, from habit, he and his master had become better satisfied with each other. They concluded an agreement, as journeyman and boss, to continue their fortunes together. His master had discovered, by O n A I) I A II I. E A 'J' H C R iJ Y. 149 instinct and a peculiar shrewdness of character, (what Gall has since scientifically proved,) that, where ide- ality and construdiveness exist in the same person, it is no difficult matter to transform the poet, the builder of lofty rhyme, to the mechanic — the builder of loffy palaces — aye, or the builder of loivhj shoes, provided you can overcome the poet's natural laziness. Now, being a Quaker, David Shoeinghorn execrated all flights of imagination in general, and Obadinh's in particular; yet, although he could not endure his poetry of wordSy he was greatly delighted with his poetry of works. Reader! this is not a hard doctrine. I will settle the point. "Poetry is the language of enlivened imagination." If this language be addressed to the sense of hearing, it is the poetry of ivords; if addressed to the sense of sight, it is the poetry of vwrks. His admiration of Obadiah's poetry, in the latter sense, discovered good taste in Friend David; for Obadiah appeared to have an innate perception of the sidjlime and 6eaw/2yw/, although he had never studied Addison; and he understood all that Hogarth has written upon square and rotund, and straight and curve lines, albeit he never heard of Hogarth's name. And his concep- tions were sublimely embodied m substantial creations of leather and wax. I say, then, David Shoeinghorn acted sapiently in retaining Obadiah as a journevman: for, in so doing, he secured the services of one of the neatest and best workmen in the country, if not the 13* 150 LITERARY AM ARANTH. very best. Whether some breakings out of the light of Phrenology, in the mind of the worthy man of leather disposed him to select him, I cannot say. But, reader! do you believe in Phrenology? If not, let me convert you to it by an observation of Obadiah's head, when you see how it agrees with his character, as detailed and to he detailed in his history. See be- side the ear, No. 9, co?istructiveness strongly devel- oped — adjoining that, No. 32, tune, equally strong — adjacent to that, No. 19, ideality, stronger — and, if we could lift that envious cowl, and examine No. 18, 7nar- vellousness, I would lay a wager that we should find it the strongest development of any of the organs. By-the-bye, I think it a good sign, v/here a young man out of his apprenticeship, remains in the employ of his former master. For two years, Obadiah wrought journey-work with him, and had become quite grave and serious, since we are unconsciously assimilated to those with whom we live. At the end of this time, David died; and Obadiah, who had laid by most of his earnings, took his stand, and continued the business. Changes took place. I have heard it remarked that a man's dress and work-shop, discover his character — and a woman's house, the house-keeper. I have thought so myself. The plain, Quaker-looking sign of David Shoeinghorn, that contained simply his name and calling, was taken down, and a dashing sign put up in its stead, with the name of Obadiah Leatherby, sur- OBADIAH LEATHERBY. 151 rounded bj shoes of all colors, lying in gay confusion; and the following lines above, whether original or not, I cannot say: *'Sing! — Sing, ye heavenly muses! While I mend my boots and shoeses." Would not this sign at once proclaim the poet-cobbler? But this was not the only change — the shop itself un- derwent some revolutions; and, as if to make up for lost time, the lap-stone with the accompaniment of Obadiah's voice, was going most uproariously, from morn till even. Young men are often surprisingly attentive to busi- ness, at first setting out. They are pleased with their new honors, and try to make themselves respectable, and increase their stock of worldly gear. The good advice of his master had been of much service to him, and it was hard for him to lay aside the restraint it had imposed. Yet Obadiah would sometimes break out and frolic for a day or two. His affairs, however, con- tinued to prosper as much as they could with the at- tention which he gave them. On the 8th of August, 1772, he was married to the widow Carter. The reason for selecting this singular day was, because the Sun representing love, was mid- way between Leo and Virgo^ the representative signs of the two lovers, or nearly so, as the lady strictly speaking, could not be called a virgin, having been married before. Besides, the year had two sevens in J 52 LITERARY A IM A R A N T II . it. The honey-moon passed away, as honey-moons generally do, and so the succeeding moons, for a sea- son. Obadiah, then, spent less time at home, less at his shop, and more time with the tavern-keeper, and those who assembled at his house, to engage in village gossip. Something was going wrong, evidently. Some said he had gotten a scold for a wife — others denied it — some attributed it to his natural laziness, and others to his love of brandy; and so, while every one enjoyed his opf/iion, nothing to a certainty was knotim. At length, it was whispered that Obadiah and his wife did not live happily together. Although it had been only a little more than a year since they had become one, yet a neighbor, on going to the house, declared that he heard noise enough to dispose him to think they were a dozen. But what did they find to disagree about.^ That is not hard to answer. When did persons who wished to disagree, feel at a loss for something to differ about? Where there is a want of mutual concession, there will soon be sufficient cause for umbrage. But, in this instance, Tea was the subject matter of dispute. Do not be incredulous, reader, for if it set two coun- tries to war upon each other, we may readily suppose it the cause of family quarrels. As is usual in difierences between man and wife, there were faults on both sides: for, while in spite of the voice of public opinion, and of 'men in high places,' OBADIAH LEATHERBY. I53 the wife of Obadiah continued to drink warm tea, he himself drank cold tea, alias brandy. It will be recol- lected that the English Parliament of 1773, had deter- mined to permit the East India Company to export their tea to the colonies free of duty. The objection- able impost y however, which was laid upon the tea, aroused the indignation of the colonies, and disposed persons to unite, to prevent all use of it in families. Obadiah was a thorough-going rebel, attended all the meetings that were held in his village, in any way growing out of the oppressions of the mother-country; and read and descanted upon the various articles that appeared, from time to time, in the Maryland Gazette, published in Annapolis, calculated to arouse the people to a sense of their danger. But, in taking care of the affairs of the country, he forgot his own, as happens with public men, generally; more than half his time was spent at the tavern, to the great neglect of his business. His wife, who foresaw that ruin must ensue from his idleness and intemper- ance, endeavored to persuade him to purchase a small house and lot, which was offered for sale in the village, that in her dowry, she might have some trifle to depend upon, which could not be spent. He had the actual sum, three hundred and sixty dollars, in hard money, but could not be prevailed upon to make the purchase. Imbibing the spirit and the ideas of the writers of his favorite journal, Paca, Chase, Carroll 154 LITERARY AMARANTH. and others, Obadiah said, he plainly foresaw a war, but he was unwilling to pledge his 'fortune' in the cause, however he might have pledged his 'life and sacred honor.' He thought, in the event of a war, his property might sufter, and he therefore preferred hav- ing money, a more portable article. Obadiah was a great friend to all liberals, but every drinking man must have his croncy: Obadiah's was Giles Halloway. The reader will presently learn who Giles was. Like Xerxes, who declared that he would no longer buy figs of Attica, but have figs of his own; the colonies came to the resolution that they would have no more tea of England — but, if they did use it, it should be of their own — and making arrangements to prevent any tea being landed, they proceeded to dis- cipline the militia, that they might be prepared for any emergency. Giles Halloway was the corporal in a company so raised. In addition to this, he was one of the committee of vigilance, whose duty it was, after the manner of the ancient Epliori, to inquire into every man's way of life, and see that no tea was used. The committee further had authority to destroy all tea found in houses, and to break the vessels containing the in- terdicted article. Obadiah and his particular friend Giles, had spent the night at the tavern, as they often did; and, in the morning, about breakfast-time, went together to Oba- diah's house, for the purpose of destroying the obnoxious O B A D I A H L E A T H E II B Y . 155 tea, and demolishing the tea-pots. Corporal Halloway, after some hemming a.nd hawing, explained the nature of his office and his visit; and made Mistress Sarah Leatherbj acquainted with the fact, that her husband had been informer against her. Mrs. Leatherbj had not gotten up in the most pleasant humor; and the appearance of her husband and his friend, after the night's debauch, on such an errand, was not calculated to improve it. Her name-sake had called Abraham, lord, but she greeted her husband in rather a different style. I will not mention the title, but suggesting to the reader that it beo;an with a D , leave his imasi- nation to fill it up. She upbraided both, and especially the corporal, for carousing on her husband's money, and then coming to disturb her in the little domestic enjoyment which their intemperance had left to her. But expostulation and entreaty were in vain; the inexorable corporal proceeded to do his duty; he called for the tea-cady, and took up the smoking tea-pot from the table, to pour out the contents. Mrs. Leatherby was enraged; and, as the corporal seized the tea-pot, she seized the tea-kettle, and commenced a regular sprinklino^ of the legs of the intruders with the boiling liquid. Obadiah and the valiant corporal were panic-struck, and rushed from the house, pell-mell— one treading upon the other; and making good their retreat, reached the shop with 156 LITERARY AMARANTH. rather less skin than they had when they entered it last. This was the corporal's first engagement, and was rather unpromising, as it proved, however well he might stand fire, he could not stand water. But there was not all the 'pomp and circumstance of war,' to bring his courage to the sticking-place. By the time Obadiah reached the shop, and began to consider the manner in which he had acted, the spirit which his wife had evinced, and the rapidity, with which the man of war run from a woman, his natural good-humor returned, and he burst into a fit of loud laughter. The corporal did not appear to relish the joke so well. After he had been there some time, a stranger enter- ed, and desired to be shown a pair of shoes. He was a stout little man, of most singular aspect, dressed in a hunting-shirt, and wearing a neckcloth of blood red silk. Obadiah was struck with his appearance, and endeavored to recollect where he had seen him; and, on recollecting, it appeared he had seen him the night before, in a dream. This would have seemed remarkable to any one, but particularly so to Obadiah, who put in dreams much faith. After trying on a number of shoes, he appeared to obtain a pair that were likely to fit; but it took up so much time, that the corporal became hun- gry for his breakfast, and departed before the stranger OBADIAII LEATHERBY. 157 had fitted himself. As soon as the corporal was gone, who often ridiculed faith in omens, dreams and tokens, Obadiah proceeded to tell the stranger how singular it was, that, although he had never seen him before, he knew him as soon as he entered the shop, for he had a vision of him in a dream. The stranger observed a grave demeanor, and a mysterious silence, while Oba- diah's tongue, like the tick of a watch, wound up with a certain length of chain, kept clattering away, until it had run out the usual chain of dreams, omens, astrology, poetry and shoemaking, and then was still. By the time Obadiah had finished his speech, the stranger, who had all this time been busily engaged prying with the shoe-horn, had succeeded in putting on one of Obadiah's best. Now the shoe was a neat one, and retained its handsome appearance, despite the lever-like operations of the shoe-horn against the fulcrum of the stranger's heel, and the shapeless mass of meat on which it was re-lasted; and the delighted man of wax, throwing his arms in every variety of attitude, looked ''things unutterable," was in as much ecstasy in beholding the workmanship of his hands, as Pygmalion of old, and exclaimed, in the fulness of his raptures, "Fits you beautifully! A splendid shoe! A very superior article, indeed! Oh! it really fits you to a tl It's slick as the skin of your foot, stranger!" *'Yes! and a good deal tighter," said the traveller*, then working his toes about, which had been blistered 14 158 LITERARY AMARANTH. in walking, and puckering up his face from pain, until from the wrinkles, you might have supposed him to have been the grand-father of the Sybil of Cuma, he called for another pair of shoes. Obadiah's wrath bep-an to be excited, "I say, stranger! you have tortured about a dozen of my shoes out of shape with your crooked foot, and I cannot have my stock spoiled. The shoe fits you neatly — it's the very thing." " 'Tis not the very thing.'' *'Can't I see that it fits you." "Can't I feel that it don't tit me." *'It appears to me to be large enough." "It is certain to me that it is too small. You can't tell where it pinches me, but I feel it; I can't tell where your conscience goads you, when you err, or how your wife mars your peace, and yet I am sure — for astrology" "Astrology! did you say? Why really, now, stran- ger, give me your hand — you believe in astrology? — it reminds me of my poor dear old mother — rest her soul! Well, I am glad I find one person of my way of thinking. I thought it strange that you could tell me about my conscience and having a termagant for wife, and all; why, she scolded me out of doors this morning. But stranger, do you believe in dreams?" "Don't 1 believe in them, and dream them too. But is it not strange, that I should have the vision of you OBADIAHLEATHERBY. 159 the identical night that jou had one of me? Yes, I believe in dreams and astrology, and understand it too; and, between astrology and this cane, which you see has a Sphynx-head, I can tell any one's fortune. You must know Sphynx was a great Egyptian fortune- teller. Did you never hear of Sphynx?" *'Not in all my life; but I'll warrant my mother knew all about him." "To be sure she did. But look at my cane, you see it has a Sphynx head." ''Certainly! it has a beautiful Sphynx head." *'Now look,'' said the stranger, "and see what takes place." As Obadiah gave attention, the stranger breathed upon the head of the cane, and the eyes of the monster moved. Obadiah was amazed, and opened his eyes wider to get a better view, and his mouth with them. The stranger immediately after appeared to be under- going violent emotions, like those priests that sat upon the tripod of Apollo, and, as if full of inspiration, spoke. "Thy destiny is remarkable; thou wast en- dowed with the spirit of the Lion at thy birth, but thou hast cast aside thy dignity and beaten back by Virgo, art declined to the Crab, and like the Crab thou art going with a retrograde movement. But what do I see?'' "Yes! what do you see?" eagerly demanded Oba- diah, 260 LITERARY AMARANTH. *'What do I see? I see a contest between Leo and Virgo, for a purse. Hark! don't you hear money jin- gling; it falls between the Lion's feet." The stranger then commenced, and in a solemn voice, counted one, two, three, four, five, &c., until he counted three hundred and sixty. He said that was all the purse contained. Obadiah was over- whelmed with astonishment at finding the stranger able to name even the number of dollars contained in the purse, which had so often been the bone of con- tention between him and his wife. He had a smatter- ing of planetary influence, but whew! what did he know in comparison with this new Hermes? Either the Sphynx, or his priest had now gotten out of breath, for the stranger sat for a minute in perfect silence, seemingly unconscious of Obadiah's notes of interrogation and exclamation. But presently he began again, detailing many things of which Obadiah supposed himself alone conscious, perhaps, excepting Corporal Hallo way; and ended by saying that his stars and Obadiah's ran together in an astonishing manner. The shoemaker had always coupled his star with the corporal's. At length the stranger obtained a pair of shoes that did fit him, in his own estimation, and demanded the price. Fifteen shillings were named as the price. *'Why do you ask of me," said the stranger, *'two shillings more than you demand of others." Obadiah admitted that he was right, and made the deduction. OBADIAH LEATHERBY. IQl Deeply interested in the stranger, who appeared to understand every thing, and, anxious to hear from him, more particularly wherein their fates ran toge- ther, he asked him to go with him to the tavern and take breakfast, as he was afraid to go home to break- fast after the occurrences of the morning, with which the reader has already been made acquainted. A morning potation put our two friends in good humor with themselves, and with each other; and gave them a sharp appetite for the hot muffins wliich were served up. They talked incessantly, or rather the stranger did; and his wisdom, in the estimation of Obadiah, outsolomoned Solomon himself. Obadiah's love of the marvellous disposed him readily to accede to most matters which his strange friend strangely recounted; but when he told him that he believed in, and actually could produce the philosopher's stone, Obadiah laughed outright. "What! the philosopher's stone," said Obadiah, *'that turns every thing to gold which it touches? Pooh! nonsense! Don't think you can impose stuff like that on me. I'm not to be gulled so easily. Now let me tell you, although I believe firmly in planetary influence, and in dreams, I am not such a fool as to believe in witches that turn men to asses, simply by touching them : nor in the philosopher's stone, that converts to gold whatever it is rubbed against. Don't take me for a numbscuU!*' 14* 1(52 LITERARY AMARANTH. "I do not," replied the stranger. "I take you to be a very sensible man; but as we have finished our breakfast, let us go to a private room and I will con- vince you. I see you entirely misapprehend the sub- ject," When they were seated in an upper room, the stranger resumed, "I see Mr. Obadiah Leatherby, that the film has never been removed from your eyes, that you might see the beauties of Alchemy, that science which embraces the doctrine of the philosopher's stone. To be brief, Mr. Leatherby, my name is Hiram Fudge; my residence Massachusetts, and I am a Freemason." As Hiram Fudge uttered the last word, Obadiah's hair began to bristle up, for although he did not believe in witches, he was firmly persuaded that Freemasons could raise the devil; and he was terrified at the idea of being alone in a chamber with a man who could call up impey at will. '*As I have just said, I am a freemason, and have devoted twenty years of my life to the recovery of that sublime science, the true spirit and meaning of which was lost when my namesake, Hiram of Tyre, the widow's son, was murdered at Jerusalem. You recollect of read- ing of Hiram of Tyre in the Bible. I hope you are not an infidel! Do you believe in the Bible, Obadiah?" **Yes! I believe in the Bible, in dreams and in planetary influence, but I don't much believe in stay- ing in the room with a man who can raise *old Harry at will.' " OBADIAH LEATHERBY. 163 "But be easy, for you are safe; and I will convince you. You recollect of reading, that, at Jerusalem, 'ffold was as the stones of the street, and silver as nothing,' from its abundance; but persons have never been able to determine where Solomon's Ophir was, from which this gold was obtained. Two or three Ophirs have been found, but none of them abundant in gold. Now, Masonry explains the whole fact; this gold was obtained from other metals, by changing, through the power of the Philosopher's Stone; and the two Hirams and King Solomon had the base metals, copper and iron, &c. transmuted into gold, in foreign parts, and brought from Ophir by ships.'' **But say, Mr. Fudge, why have not all persons, from the days of Solomon, made gold?" "The reason is soon given. The two Hirams and King Solomon had solemnly obligated themselves to impart the secret to no one, unless by consent of the three; and Hiram, of Tyre, being suddenly slain, the secret was thus locked up forever." "Well, that is satisfactory; but please inform me how the gold is changed, and what the Philosopher's Stone is, and where it is to be obtained?" "The Philosopher's Stone, then, is not a stone at all — it is a kind of powder — ^but I will explain the whole to you. Excuse me, if T should appear lengthy. The system of the universe is stupendous, and past finding out. Yet, although every thing in it is so 164 LITERARY AMARANTH. complicated, the first elements of things are exceed- ingly few; and, in order to form any substance, we are only to understand the constituent parts, and the proper portions, and unite them, and the substance is immediately formed." *'Stop a minute now,'' said Obadiah; "what you say now, proves nothing for you — for if I take the proper constituents and the proper proportions to form wax — it does not follow that, if I touch that wax with a stone, it must become gold." "Yes, you are correct, but you forget that there is such a thing as a creative principle, that produces its like. There is the male principle and the female principle in the animal kingdom, producing their like; and you know, in the vegetable kingdom, there is the male principle and the female principle, producing their like; and in like manner I maintain, in the mineral kingdom, there is the male principle and the female principle, producing their like, by a proper union; in fine, it is a law of nature, pervading the universe. The only thing necessary, then, is to extract from gold the male principle, and to unite it to the female principle of some other metal, and gold is produced in any desirable quantity. The influence of the planets" — here Obadiah was much interested — "upon the metals, is great. In fact, the sun and planets are representatives of the metals in the earth — the sun represents gold — the moon, silver — and the OBADIAH LEATHERBY. 165 other planets, the other principal metals. These planets cause the transmutation of metals in the earth; — as a proof, in the same mine we find several ores together; — it is owing to this cause. And it is not wonderful, for if the moon rules the tides of the ocean, and influences the mind, as is a fact, surely it may be thought to have effect upon the metals of the earth. But, is not that an Irish hone you are whet- ting your penknife on?" *' Yes, it is an Irish hone brought over by my grand- father; it was a piece of hickory once, but was con- verted to stone, in one of the loughs," replied Oba- diah. Hiram Fudge triumphantly seized the hone, and asked if it was more difficult to convert copper to gold, than wood to stone? This was unanswerable, and, added to planetary influence, which had been descanted upon, made our cobbler a convert to Alchemy and the Philosopher's Stone. Reader! do they not convert you? Only one thing puzzled Obadiah, which was, that the Freemason v;ho must have been bound very solemnly by an oath to divulge nothing apper- taining to his craft, should tell him every thing which he knew. He, therefore, demanded of Hiram, how he could believe ihetoordofi a man who had not regarded his oath? This was asked timidly, as he feared the supernatu- ral power of Hiram. The answer was very satisfac- 166 LITERARY AMARANTH tory. Hiram had never been regularly initiated, but had obtained possession of a Freemason's books, who had died at his house; and, giving almost unremitted attention, to interpret the obscurity of the language, had at last found a key that unlocked the whole mys- teries, and put boundless wealth within his grasp. He was now on his way to the South, to find a distant re- lation of his father's, who, he did not doubt would enable him to put successfully in practice, his amazing discoveries. He had always known that there was some one whose destiny was linked in an especial man- ner with his own, and he was surprised to find that person in Obadiah; and he was confirmed in the reality of the matter, by their having a vision of each other on the same night. Any metal would answer to com- mence with, but it would take five times as long to transmute lead as silver; and as Obadiah had plenty of silver, if he would only commence with ten dollars of that, and make a trial, they could use any larger sum thereafter, if successful. There was every thing to induce Obadiah to join in the enterprise — he would no longer be compelled to bend over his shop-board for his daily bread — he would be immediately raised to independence— all the pre- dictions of his mother were about to be realized, and his own aspirations. At all events, should they fail, it would be a small loss. Before coming to any final determination, he tliought O B A D I A H L E A T H E R B Y . 167 he must see what Astrology had to say. It was on the 19th of January — on that day the sun left Capricornus — wherefore he came to the conclusion that he was called upon to quit the stitching of goat-skins, sheep-skins, and all other kind of skins, and follow fortune, where fate led the way. Obeying the instructions of Hiram, not to let any one know of their agreement — not even Corporal Halloway — Obadiah went home, and proceed- ed out on the Philadelphia road two miles, to a little vacant hut near to a black-smith's shop, where he and Hiram were to make their first attempt. Hiram had not all the necessary apparatus, yet set to work, and after drawing several singular figures with his Sphynx- head, and repeating some unintelligible language, prob- ably Egyptian, and blowing the fire, and stirring the melted silver, and mixing it, succeeded in obtaining from the lower part of the crucible a very bright yel- low-looking metal. Obadiah had kept generally out of the shop; for the fear of seeing some horrible apparition was upon him. He could not, in his mind, separate Alchemy and the Philosopher's Stone from the Black Art. When he saw the shining metal produced, he was in ecstasy; but he still felt some misgivings that it might not be gold, until he and Hiram hastened back to Baltimore, and under- stood from a jeweller, who kept near to the present Christ's Church, that it was pure gold. He tested it with aquafortis, and pronounced it the "real grit." 168 LITERARY AMARANTH. Never was a man in as much ecstasy as Obadiah Leatherby; but he had been particularly instructed by Hiram Fudge to moderate his joy, as it might prevent their success, and make their secret a public affair. Restraining himself as well as he could, he thought this was the time 'to make a spoon or spoil a horn,' and determined on having the whole three hundred and fifty dollars fused at once, and a ' tremendous quantity' of the gold made. The Alchemist prepared himself with a bottle of aqua fortis, to test the gold which they should make — and Obadiah, with a bottle of brandy, and a boiled ham, and a loaf or two of bread, to stay the clamors of the stomach during their labors — and both set out again for the place of former operations. When they ar- rived, Obadiah insisted that Hiram should fuse the whole amount of silver, as it would finish the work at once, and make them independent in a few minutes. Such is always the way of the world — they think they can never get rich fast enough. Hiram stated the danger of a failure, and would not consent to melt more than ten dollars at a time. After making a pretty hearty meal, Hiram set out to the shop with his ten dollars, and the bottle of aqua fortis; but Obadiah, who did not understand the pro- cess of transmuting to gold, and was rather afraid to be in the neighborhood of the practice of a science which he considered intimatel}'^ connected with the OBADIAH LEATHERBY. jgg Black Art, was coatented to remain with the brandy- bottle, and hack away at the ham, the dissection of which he appeared perfectly to comprehend. Hiram, every now and then, came in and pledged Obadiah in a cup, at the same time taking but little himself. After a time, night set in, and Obadiah's head became heavy, and he laid it against the window-board, on which were the candle and his purse, that he might rest. In fact, his head had not resisted the action of the aqua ignea, or fire-water, as well as Fudge's gold had the action of the aqua fortis — he was pretty considerably drunk. When he had been there a short time, a large serpent came into the room, having a head in the form of a Sphynx, and began to wind itself around him, and, as he shrieked for help, the Author of all evil himself entered the room, enveloped in flames, and upbraiding him for invading his peculiar province in studying his own particular science, was about to bear him off, when, by a great exertion, Obadiah roused himself up from sleep, into which he had fallen, to perceive with dismay, that his purse was gone, and that the candle had burnt his coat into the neck, and had set fire to the old house. Looking in vain for his purse through the room, he hastened down stairs, and to the shop where he ex- pected to find Hiram Fudge, but there lay the cruci- ble — the fire was out on the hearth-stone of the furnace, and the alchemist gone; gold, philosopher's stone, Sphynx-head and all. Obadiah thought he detected 15 170 LITERARY AMARANTH. a strong sulphurous smell in the shop, and he came to the conclusion, that the fiend who had so opportunely called upon him, in visions, to save him from death, had appeared in reality to his less favored friend and hurried him away. He warmed his shivering limbs by the fire of the hut as it blazed up and crackled in the midnight air, and then hurried back to the tavern, with a speed to which fear gave wings. It is always customary, reader, after writers have created a difficulty, to explain it away. I suppose I must do the same. On the evening before Hiram Fudge called at Obadiah Leatherby's store to get a pair of shoes, he was at the village tavern. It was there Obadiah had his vision of him, although he was so drunk that he did not recollect that his bodily eyes were, at least open when he saw him. That night, as Hiram lodged in the room adjoining the one in which Obadiah and his particular friend, Corporal Halloway, slept, he overheard all that they said, and so drafted his imposture to suit the folly of Obadiah's character. I need hardly inform the reader, that the gold which he took to the jeweller was not transmuted silver; and that having made Obadiah perfectly drunk, he had made ofF with his purse. So it appears that the cun- ning and Sphynx-head of Hiram was rather much for the credulity and sheep's head of Obadiah Leatherby. Obadiah passed the night at the tavern. The villa- gers became acquainted with his severe loss, and the I OBADIAHLEATHERBY. 171 tidings were soon carried to his poor wife. Long after breakfast, he returned to his house. It was on the 20th January, 1774, — the sun entered Aquarius — the man with the watering-pot — the imitator of the sun's course entered differently, for Obadiah entered with a brandy bottle. His wife, who had evidently waited breakfast for hira, did not enter with the watering-pot y but the tea-pot, about which she and her husband had contended so often. Sarah Leatherby had been an aff'ectionate wife, but the' unkindness and intemperance of Obadiah had, in a great measure, alienated her affections. She had in- treated, she had remonstrated, she had scolded, in order to reclaim him, but in vain. He had neglected his business — deserted his home — and, at last, lost their only resource against the emergencies of an unseen futurity. She quietly set down the tea-pot on the table, and making no reply to the reproaches of her husband that fell on her as an 'enemy to the country,' went to the cradle of their infant child, and taking it up in her arms, burst into tears. Obadiah sat reprov- ed by the sorrowful silence of his wife, his conscience assured him, as he looked upon his family whom he had wronged, that although his wife had been an enemy to her country, he had been an enemy to his own flesh and blood. He besought his wife's pardon for all the past, and proposed that if she would only give up English tea, he would forever give up Irish whiskey 172 LITERARY AMARANTH. and French brandj. The wife and husband were locked in each other's embrace. They caught up de- canter and tea-pot — the vessels dashed against the pavement — and the 'hot tea' and * cold tea,' that had so often caused dissension and estrangement mingled their streams together. Obadiah became a changed man. He was always in his shop, and not merely in it, but working night and day. His business extended itself; he had need of more workmen; and in the increased attention paid by his apprentices and journeymen, owing to his own personal oversight, his profits were greater. In fact, he gave up poetry, dreams, astrology and the philoso- pher's stone, to repair, by hard labor, the breach which his own folly had made in his affairs. Nor was he un- rewarded, for his labor and despatch secured a more profitable custom. He left the other men of the day, as usual, to attend the tavern and discuss the politics of the time, but he remained in his shop. He was still pleased to hear of the patriotic proceedings of the 'rebels,' but although he listened to his old friends who came to tell him the news, he always worked at the same time. The Cor- poral called often to see his old friend, yet he could never prevail on Obadiah to go to the tavern with him. He had a smile for the Corporal, as before, and a hearty shake of the hand, but no time to idle away with him. He had thrown away all the earnings of his early life, O B A D I 'A II L E A T H E R B Y . I73 and was intent on making them up. He always re- turned from his shop 'erect,' and met his wife with a smile, which was acknowledged by the same; and never was there a trifle to interrupt their happiness. Sarah never complained of her cup of milk, and, in time, came to relish it very well. The domestic tea subject between Obadiah and Sarah had come to a happy termination. Not so the national. After some madcaps in Boston, in the overflowings of their zeal, had made a 'tea party' for the monsters of the deep, the clouds that had hung lowering, burst in warfare o'er the land. Troops were collected in every direction to repel the invasion. Maryland was not behind the other colonies in furnishing men and sup- plies; and patriotic Baltimore, as she always has done, bore her part. The company to which Corporal Hal- loway was attached, at length had orders to march. The Corporal left the village with much regret, whether from love of Obadiah Leatherby or aversion to English bayonets, I will not pretend to say. In course of time the Corporal was present in an action, and, unable to run as erst he had done from the tea-kettle of Mrs. Leatherby, he stood his ground manfully, while bullets whistled about his head in every direction; and when, at length, it came to the use of the bayonet and he had received a slight wound in the left arm, he hewed about him with the fury of a wound- ed tiger, until the dead were piled around him in every 15* 174 LITERARY AMARANTH. direction. Tie was praised bj his superiors — praise be2;ot confidence — he determined to become, and actu- ally became, one of the bravest men in the company. His good fortune and his bravery continued with him, until he was promoted to the rank of Major. I will not pretend to describe Obadiah's feelings, wdien he first noticed the account in the Maryland Gazette. Tears of gratitude poured down his face, and he shouted and laughed and clapped his hands, as he ran with the paper to the house to tell his wife, until she feared that he had broken the compact and taken to drink again. He soon had the pleasure of receiving a letter from Major Halloway himself, who informed him of his 'hair-breadth escapes' and the honors that had repaid them. Obadiah felt every link in friend- ship's chain brightened up by this mark of condescen- sion in the Major, in recollecting him, and indited a long and affectionate epistle in return, informing him of his own good luck, and of the amazing wealth which he was likely soon to realize by his indefatigable atten- tion to his trade, in which he was assisted by five apprentices and seven journeymen. Althouo;h Obadiah did not find time to talk at the tavern, as before, he thought as much about his coun- try as ever, and was able to do more; for, when the citizens of Baltimore, during the revolutionary strug- gle, almost stripped their own beds to send blankets to the suffering army, Obadiah Leatherby sent a large OBADIAH LEATHERBY. ]75 box of shoes to Major Halloway, to distribute to such of the privates as were without them. Charity often has its reward even in this world — and so it proved in this case; for the officers were moved by the magnani- mous spirit of a man in humble life; and large supplies were ordered for the troops, from the store of Obadiah Leatherby. The increased custom trebly repaid the present. The engagement at Yorktown was the closing scene, and ended the war — giving to the free and independent States, the right of governing and taxing themselves, and of .having tea imported according to their own notions. After peace was proclaimed, and the army disbanded. Major Halloway returned to his native vil- lage. His first visit was to his old, particular friend, Obadiah Leatherby. He found him and the family of the Leatherbys, in a very beautiful, three-story brick dwelling, which belonged to them, neatly furnished, and in the possession of a valuable stock, with ten times as much silver as the Alchenjist had run away with. Mrs. Leatherby appeared almost as glad to see him as her husband, and endeavored to assist in enter- taining him; namely, in listening to him; for the Major had so many battles and skirmishes to describe, that no one else could find opportunity to speak. He appeared anxious to conciliate the lady's good opinion, patted the cheeks of her little daughters, and attached his sword to the eldest boy, who appeared to 176 LITERARY AMARANTH. be almost as proud of it as the owner. Supper, after a time, was ready; — and the Major looked about for the appearance of the tea-pot; — and when he sat down to a white cloth, covered with an abundance of every thing except tea, he made his supper with good meat, bread, cakes, and pure sweet milk, with the best relish imaginable. He could not, however, refrain from think- ing that tea was kept from the table out of compliment to himself, that he might not be reminded of the scalded ankles which Mrs. Leatherby had once given him. Now Major Halloway was fond of his glass, and would have found his imagination assisted a Jittle by wine after supper, though perhaps at the expense of truth; yet, as every considerate man will respect what- ever is done from principle, he was pleased to find that a strict regard to their agreement, had prevented the wife from preparing tea, and the husband from obtaining liquor, to entertain even a friend. During the course of the evening, the Major proffered to pay Obadiah, himself,, for the shoes which he had been so kind as to send to the army; but Obadiah informed him that he had plenty of this world's goods without, and that all he would exact of him would be the love and friendship, in future, which he had shown to him in the past. The Major, unfortunately, had contracted in the army a bad habit, which is too common with our mili- tary men — swearing — and putting a few blessings OBADIAH LEATHERBY. ' 177 on the head of Hiram Fudge, of alchemical memory, he wished to know if Obadiah had ever heard of him. **Speak no evil of that man. Major!" replied Oba- diah Leatherbj; "if there is a man in existence, to whom I am particularly obliged, 'tis to that man. He cured me of all my fooleries — dreams, astrology, and all — and robbing me of the little I had, discovered to me the truth that the true philosopher's stone, is in- dustry and economy — that these turn all to gold. I wish that I could see him, of all men, to thank him for what he has done for me." Scarcely had Obadiah ceased speaking, when a boy came in from the store, to inform him that a tinman wished to know if he would trade shoes for some * notions in his line.' Obadiah excused himself for a few minutes to his friend, and presently returned, accompanied by the veritable Alchemist, Hiram Fudge. When the Major was informed who he was, he scowled at him, as if he would have looked him through, and felt as if he could make daylight shine through him, with his good sword. Presently Hiram fumbled about in his old great-coat, and, sitting down to a table, pro- duced a purse, which Obadiah readily recognized as having belonged to himself; and counted out three hundred and sixty dollars, somewhat sooner than he had done before, when under a fit of inspiration. He offered to add the interest, but Obadiah would not receive it. 178 LITERARY AMARANTH. Such a meeting of friends on the same day, and squaring up of accounts, was singular. Though he had no faith, now, in dreams or astrology either, Oba- diah could not help consulting his magna charta of planetary influence, just for fun. It was the 23d of September, 1784; the sun, on that day of balances, en- tered Libra. It was strange! A project entered the head of Obadiah Leatherby, and what do you think it was? Why, to call in a painter, and have a sketch taken of tlie trio — the Ma- jor, Hiram, and Obadiah, as they appeared on the morn- ing that Mrs. Leatherby had put her husband and the Corporal to flight. It was also proposed to have, in the background, the dwelling of Obadiah, and Sarah in the door, where she remained conqueror of the field. The project was carried, nem. con.; and Obadiah, who, like Patrick Lyon, gloried in his trade, was taken in due character. Hiram Fudge was taken in his hunt- ing-shirt; but Major Halloway had an objection to ap- pear in citizen's dress — which was the actual dress, on the morning referred to — and required to be shown off in his military coat and chapeau, and wearing the heavy medal which his hardy valor had won. The painter was careful, and the likenesses capital. I have nearly come to a close. The Major, full of honor, retired on half-pay, and continued to drink brandy, to the inflammation of his large nose. Hiram Fudge continued to be an itinerant vender of small OBADIAII LEATHERBY. ^^79 wares; and in time, declined in favor of his son Seth, who was the inventor, it will be recollected, of horn- flints and wooden nutmegs. Obadiah and his wife lived happily together — still abstained from hot tea and cold — and, in a good old age, were gathered to their fathers, leaving behind them a worthy family, with a rich inheritance, in money and in honesty of character. To MY SISTER WITH A MANUSCRIPT VOLUME OF POEMS, " In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree; And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. " Byr07i. Dear sister, though the heartless world's applause 1 covet not, and down life's stream would glide, E'en as the bark that leaves no track behind, Yet I would make thy fond and faithful breast An urn in which love with its sweet perfumes My memory may embalm, when the bruised reed, Thai oft has borne the buffet of the storm, At last is broken, and my fevered pulse Shall throb no more with anguish. On my locks The untimely snows of age are cast, and lines Are traced upon my features: yet my heart Is grayer than my head, and furrowed o'er With deeper wrinkles than deform my face. The God that formed the soul, alone, can know Its secret workings — its mysterious pains Of impulse and of action, when the blood Wrung from the spirit and the oil of life In incense offered up to knowledge, make The son of genius wearier than the hind. Who when the toil of day is done, throws by His spade and lieth down to pleasant rest. TO MY SISTER. 181 And life to me has been a fevered dream Of restless aspirations — wild desires, Corroding cares, fears, phantasies, and hopes That lured my youth, yet mocked my manhood's growth, And now, when all the 'life of life' has fled, Presentiment and melancholy fold Their ebon wings above a heart, consumed E'en like the Phenix in its own lone fires. Yet still, amid the ruins of the past. Dear sister, I have treasured up thy love, E'en as a priceless pearl, and on these leaves, That here enfold my miniature, have traced The features of my mind; while I essa)'-ed My melancholy song, or tried to string The silent harp of Judah, that when low My head is laid in ashes, and the chords Are broken of the poet's lyre, my form And mind, forgotten else by all the world, Distinct in all their features may remain Within thy faithful memory enshrined. E'en as the visit of the bird of spring Has been thy presence; and thy gentle smile And cheerful voice have wiled my mind from thought, Recalled the faded rose upon my cheek, And through my heart diffused the glow of joy; But thou wilt go away, and I will miss Thy smile at evening, and beside the hearth Will see thy vacant chair; and o'er my brow And melancholy cheek again will fall The pensive shadows of a darkened soul. And I will woo again the silent night, When thou art gone, and weave the plaintive songj Whose echoes soothe my melancholy mind, 16 182 LITERARY AMARANTH. And when life's dream is o'er, I joy to think That I, who struck to humble notes on earth The trembling string, 'mid patriarchs and kings, And Israel's royal singer, shall essay Heaven's highest theme, and sweep the golden lyre, In ceaseless praise, to God and to the Lamb. LINES TO A JEWISH SHEKEL Thought's fount is stirred; and as my vision dwells Upon thy disk, light of the darksome mine, To fancy's ear full many a tale it tells Of Palestine, Land of the goodly olive and the vine. Perhaps, when by Euphrates' turbid stream The maids of Judah sorrow's vigil kept, Upon thy emblems, by the moon's pale beam, They gazed and wept. Till spent with tears and woe they laid them down and slept. Perhaps amid the temple's wealth, the light Flashed back from thee when Heliodorus came For plunder; and a steed of awful might And wondrous frame, Struck the intruder down, with eye and breath of flame. Or when for goodly gifts the treasury Its cumbrous brazen doors had opened wide, Cast in by some self-righteous Pharisee, In scornful pride Thy gleam fell on the widow's mite that lay beside. Perhaps when he, the Lord of Earth and Heaven, To man, his creature, tribute deigned to pay, Thou by the tenant of the deep wast given, When bent his way The prompt disciple to Tiberias' distant bay. 184 LITERARY AMARANTH, Or when the meek and lowly Jesus chose To assert his power; and cleanse his father's shrine, Where mammon's altar by Jehovah's rose, His hand divine O'erturned thee 'mid the piles on loaded boards that shine. Perhaps among the thirty pieces paid, The traitor's fingers told thee as he led The soldiers to Gethsemane's dark shade, Where Jesus' head The sweat and blood poured forth, in deathly anguish shed. And thou the price of blood, paid for the field Of blood, hast borne to a far unknown clime The deed of blood, by blood and vengeance sealed, A hideous crime. Marked with a blighting curse throughout all after time. Whate'er thou art, whatever thou hast seen, Thine is a history of tears and woe. Like Zion's outcast wanderers thou hast been, Nor home shall know. Where Salem's palm-trees waved, or Siloa's waters flow. Lo! on thy surface flames the censer still, But oh! alas! the temple is no more: Fled is the glory from fair Zion's hill, Where flowed the gore, And sped the torch till ploughs were driven the ramparts o'er. Thou bearest the olive. Salem's trees have sunk, Smit by the heaihen axe, yet still uprears Gethsemane its witness, many a trunk Wet by HIS tears, Gray, scored with the deep lines of near two thousand years. JEWISH SHEKEL. j^gg The anger of a sin-avenging God, 'Gainst those who spurned his Son in fleshly veil, Lone wanderer, thou hast published far abroadj Oh may thy tale Teach the believing heart to bid the Saviour hail. 16^ TO THE NYCTAN^THES The Nyctanthes, gen. Diandria — ord. Monogynia, is called the Sorrowful Tree. Drooping during the day, but blossoming and emitting a delightful odor at night. Light has faded from the bowers, Where the star-like petals gem, During daylight's golden hours, Flora's purple diadem; And nodding are the flowers Each upon its bended stem. When their full blown pride was flushing^ In the beamy smilings, won By their beauty and their blushing, From the gay enamored sun, On the air thy heart was gushing, Sad and melancholy one! Now when silken bells are sleeping. Shut and folded from the sight; Wet with dew-drops that are weeping From the eyelids of the night, Thou thy vigils lone art keeping Witli the lamps of starry light. TO THE NVCTANTHES. IQJ And as hope from deatli dotli borrow Light, when passing from the world. So thy cheek, pale child of sorrow, To the breezes has uncurled, Brightened charms that by to-morrow Will be withered, spent and furled. Like the branches of a willow. That are bending o'er the dead, Shadows hover round thy pillow, Where the starry radiance, shed Like the frost foam of the billow, Gleams upon thy dying head. From the gleam of fortune's dower, From the pageantry of pride, From the blaze of worldly power — Fame and glory would I hide; And like thee, pure, modest flower, Down life's gentle current glide. When life's setting sun is shining. And the shadows of the tomb On my heart are fast declining, May the spirit's flowers bloom, Earth and life, like thee resigning With a smile and sweet perfume. THE GROUP OF THE LAOCOON. Or, turning to the Vatican, go see Laocoon's torture dignifying pain, A father's love and mortal's agony, With an immortal patience blending — vain The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp The old man's clench, the long envenomed chain Rivets the living links— the enormous asp Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.— Ryron. A CRITIQUE upon this inimitable production of art requires some preliminary generalities upon the arts of design, which have for their object the representa- tion of the human form. This introduction is the more necessary, especially as this chef d'oeuvre of the Gre- cian chisel, is an embodying and a model of all the rarest excellencies of the different degrees of the art, exhibiting the oppositions and gradations of nature, and ideality, sublimity and grace, power and beauty, repose and motion, in the greatest variety and with the highest effect, "Shade unperceived so softening into shade, And all so forming an harmonious whole, Thatasthey still succeed, they ravish still." As embraced in works of art, we will consider the following principia. ^IT'-^UiUic;/! ^y\jt^^s THE LAOCOON 189 Anatomy. — The lowest effort of the art sculptorial, (and which is but one remove from the mechanical,) is that which aims at the mere representation of the parts of the human body, their forms, their dimensions, and reciprocal relations. Proportion. — Rising a degree above this is the knowledge of proportion, which is attained by a dili- gent study of the difference of the parts as to form and effect, so as to present by symmetry, graduation, and contrast, the separate and isolated qualities which, taken together, give individuality and character to a work of art. Proportion, therefore, may be denomi- nated the measure of relative configuration. BEAUTY.--It will not be sufficient, however, to insure excellence in a work of art, that the parts are repre- sented according to anatomical rules, with the due expression of limb and muscle; nor that the figures are consistent, and the arrangement of the parts evince a thorough knowledge of proportion as to characteristic effect. The subject, in order to be attractive, must not only express nature to the life, but of an elevated organization, endowed with all those qualities which constitute personal and intellectual beauty. Repose. — A work, self-subsistent and unconnected in its parts with any thing else, is said to be in repose, when it is represented in a tranquil manner. Free from all excitement, the features, limbs, and muscles, are more regular and symmetrical in their dispositions. 190 LITERARY AMARANTH. and the eye glides iu easy transitions over the parts with the most tranquil pleasure. Figures of delicate beauty, which depend for effect upon their configura- tion, are executed in repose with the happiest advan- tage. So also are majestic figures;but the feeling which they excite is rather of sublimity than of beauty, and depends upon the appearance of dormant muscular force and intellectual vigor. Such is the effect pro- duced in the beholder in contemplating the Jupiter of Phidias with the thunderbolt resting upon his knees, of Juno in repose, or the Goddess of Wisdom medi- tating. Motion. — This opens a wider field for the artist tlian repose, for it includes not only the expression of limb, and muscle, and the draping, together with the intellectual characteristics of selfsubsistent figures in mere locomotive energy and exercent action, but pass- ing to the animated and impassioned significative, it embraces every variety of human action, and the dis- play of the passions as excited by, dependent upon, and connected with, other objects. Thus, recreative and operative scenes of self-subsistent figures, but especially compound tragic ones, are the subjects of motive display. It may be well here to observe that a solitary figure is not necessarily self-subsistent. Thus a Jupiter Tonans is not self-subsistent. The attitude, the poised thunderbolt in his hand, and the severe and awful majesty of his countenance forcibly array before THE LAOCOON. jgj^ US those who have excited his ire, and are about to become the objects of his vengeance. The same may be said of the Apollo Belvidere. The sublime energy of the frame, and the terrible anger of the countenance immediately suggest the writhings of the Python, or the agonies of the children of Niobe that have felt the force of his vengeful shafts. Or view the Lord of the unerring how, The God of life, and poesy, and light — The sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow All radiant from his triumph in the fight; The shaft hath jnst been shot — the arrow bright With an Immortal's vengeance; in his eye And nostril beautiful disdain, and might And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, Developing in that one glance the Deity. Grace. — While beauty, consisting in the due and symmetrical configuration of the parts, relates to the two first named principles, anatomical structure and proportion, grace depending upon attitude and gesture, has especial reference to the latter principles — repo&e and motion. Oval figures, of gentle curvature, the parts of which slide into each other by insensible gra- dation, are ever most agreeable to the eye. A fio-ure, therefore, to be graceful, either in repose or motion, must not have its parts disposed in straight lines, and interrupted by sharp angles, so as to press upon, con- fuse, and encumber each other, but must be arrans-ed with such gentle inflections as give rotundity to the 192 LITERARY AMARANTH. portions and secure ease and composure to the body. Beauty, in a word, relates to the natural organization, grace to the arrangement of parts by volition — -either of attitude or movement. Ideality. — Rising above the other enumerated ex- cellencies, this completes the mystic circle of the arts of design, and stamps acme upon the whole. While the former are in themselves merely imitative and re- stricted to actual forms, Ideality bursts the circum- scriptions of nature, and endowed with creative power, revels in a world of new forms and beautiful creatures of its own formation. To attain the ideal, the artist must possess an imagination strong to conceive ele- vated subjects, judgment to give consistency by propor- tion; and reflection and patience, to chasten the parts into graceful and harmonious unity. Of the ideal there may be said to be two species — the natural ideal and i\\Qpure ideal. The natural ideal merely exceeds the bounds of reality, and elevating its subject above nature, assigns to it ideal degrees of beauty, and powers of action consistent with them- selves, yet superior to and inconsistent with real na- ture. The pure ideal represents subjects that are imaginative alone, having existence only in the world of thought, within suitable limits of form, proportion, and grace. The high pleasure arising from novelty will always add great interest to ideal figures, as they tend to arouse the mind from its dormancy by a sen- THE LAOCOON. 193 sual shock that is at once startling and pleasing. To the former class belong female figures of loveliness and grace surpassing nature, as the Magdalen of Titian and Ariadne of Vanderlyne — or figures of more than natu- ral power and energy, as the fighting Gladiator of Agasia, or the Hercules of Canova. To the pure ideal belong such works as "The Last Judgment" of Michael Angelo, "Daybreak and Night," by the same, " The Aurora'' of Guido, " The Demons" of Fuseli, and " Madness" and '* Melancholy" by Gibber. With these premises we proceed to a notice of the magnificent group of the Laocoon. With the extinction of liberty in Greece, the arts began to decline, and continued to do so until the Ro- mans, (after the contest with Philip,)^declared freedom to the Grecian states. The people then awoke to wonted energy, as from a long slumber, and with the re-animating spirit of liberty, philosophy and the arts revived. Of the latter, several distinguished masters arose, such as Antheus, Polycles, Callistratus, Ages- ander, ApoUodorus, and Athenodorus. The last three immortalized themselves by the production of the sub- ject of our critique, the Laocoon. It was thus execu- ted several centuries before Christ; and in the time of Pliny, who makes mention of it, was in the palace of Titus. During the sacking of Rome by the Goths and Vandals it suffered in the general ruin, and was found 17 194 LITERARY AMARANTH. in the sixteenth century, partially mutilated, among rubbish, in the baths of the above-mentioned emperor. It will, therefore, be readily perceived that the Lao- coon is a misnomer, and that, instead of the Trojan priest of Virgil's being the original of the group of the Laocoon, the statue is the original of the tragic Epi- sode of the /Eneid; for it existed long antecedent to the composition of that poem. Neither does there appear in the historical or mythological accounts of the Trojan war by writers before Virgil, any allusion to a cir- cumstance of the kind. Hyginus speaks of it — but he is of an age subsequent to Virgil, and in f^ict commented upon some of his writings. Had any thing of the kind transpired. Homer would certainly have woven it into his epic. Besides if the principal figure in the group had been intended to re- present a priest in the act of offering sacrifice, as Viroil describes, he would have been invested, at least with the sacred fila and villas. In Grecian, Egyptian, and other sculpture, in the absence of all other draping, it has been usual to mark distinctively the profession, where it can be done without disadvantage — the fillets and vifti£ would certainly have detracted nothing from the principal figures. It is, therefore, absolutely certain that the Laocoon is a misnoiner; and that the statue gave rise to the idea of Virgil's tragic Episode of the priest of Neptune, is equally certain. Indeed in the poet^s description of the father, I' H t; 1. Aocoox. 195 "Ille simul manibus tendi '' ivellere nodos, Clamores simul horrendos ad sidera tollil/'" we have the very attitude and gesture of tlie father^ struggling with mighty energy with the fate that had befallen him and his children. Virgil in his anxious desire to free the ancestors of the Romans from the imputation of fatuity in admit- ting the Wooden Horse within their wails, while gazing upon this stupendous work of art, conceived the happy idea of excusing the act by religious superstition, and transforming what was merely intended to represent a father and his children in the agonies of serpentine enwreathment into a divine vengeance, translated (if I may use the expression,) the sublime sensual beauties of the sculptor into the animated language of poesy. But as is the case with all translations, tho. copy is far inferior to the original — and Virgil, who has imitated with felicity many of the excellencies of Homer, and in many places even surpassed him, appears to have had transfused into him but a small portion of the di- vine power which created the living, moving, animated, and sublime group of the sculptor. The first impression produced upon beholding the Laocoon, (for, I suppose, " Usus erit norma lorjuendi,") is that of extreme terror. An electric shudder per- vades the frame on discovering ourselves in proximity to animals, dangerous, both on account of their venom and their magnitude. But the pain of the first sensa- 196 LITERARY AMARANTH. tion is lessened on percei, ing that we ourselves are out of danger, as the serpents have infolded others; and accordingly, in the idea of present security, we are ""enabled to contemplate the scene before us with more complacency, and with an interest, melancholy yet pleasurable. The mind being thus prepared to embrace the work as a whole, is struck at once with the unity of the tout ensemble — the athletic form of the father, the limbs of the pubescent son, and the fragile figure of his younger brother, all interlaced and convolved m a wreath of living death, by the scaly folds of their serpentine assailants. The endeavors of the sufferers to extricate themselves by their own power, and the invocations of foreign assistance, for which the children turn confidingly to their parent, and he again to the gods, tend further to increase the unity, while the pe- culiar form of the serpents, impressing by their motions uniform force upon the whole group have the same effect. Appalled by terror, a passion which absorbs all others by reason of its intentness, the eye, at first, sees only the objects that cause the emotion; then, as the first feelings begin to subside, it encompasses the group in its unity, after which it passes with gentler affections to the observance of the work in its details; and varied emotions of pleasure and pain succeed and relieve each other, as the designs and execution of the artist are developed. THE LAOCOON. 197 After the first paroxysms of passion are over, and a glance has been taken at the whole mass, the eye in- stinctively rests upon the principal figure in the group, which is that of the father — instinctively, I say, for the primordial causes of sublimity are to be found in him more than in either of die sons, whether we con- sider his size, his muscular power, his energy of action, his physical or intellectual suffering, or the moral dig- nity of his effort to free his children from the death that is pressing upon them. The figure of the father is that of a man past the vigor of manhood. Therefore his diminished ability to exert power, and sustain suffering, deepens the pa- thetic interest of his situation. He is still robust, however, and the expression of the muscles shows that paternal fear and love have nerved his energies up to the highest effort. Enlaced by both serpents, with his left hand he has seized the one by the neck, which, from its position, appears to have been ready to prey upon the elder son, and grasping the body with his right hand, endeavors, by a violent exertion, to sunder the chord that binds him. But, as this wrench is made (and the development and tension of the muscles of the arms and breast, as well as the repose of the brawny and firm -set feet, show the violence of the effort,) the serpent irritated at the grasp, turns and seizes him with his teeth, and there is a revulsion which changes the figure from the active to the passive or suffering 17* 198 LITERARY AMARANTH. state. The serpent seizes him in the side, just below the ribs, a point intensely sensitive; and there is a convulsive shudder, causing a reaction of the whole frame — starting the right foot from its position, making the body shrink to the opposite side, the chest advance, and the shoulder and head decline, while the contracted brows, the corrugated forehead, and the distorted countenance, exhibit the extremes of pain, terror, and despair "Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots, Through the wrung bosom of the dying man," for those his self- devoting love has failed to save. The serpent is just biting, and we perceive at once in Laocoon the termination of past action, and the incipiency of present suffering. Never, perhaps, did any work of art exhibit the mingled workings of a mightier nature. The energies of his frame excited by great paternal solicitude and fear, he has grappled with the dread monster, to merge action in suffering, affection in unavailing regret, courage in despair; yet even his agonies cannot wholly rob his features of stern dignity, but disclose, as he turns his face heavenward, a scene worthy of the gods, a great and good man struggling with his fate. The sensation produced by a contemplation of this figure is terror. The giant self-confiding energies of a manly nature, battle with the destroyer, and in the horror and moral dignity of the act, we are not touched with tenderness of feeling. THE LAOCOON. IQQ We see him in the instant of receiving his wound, and shudder as the teeth of the serpent meet together — his suiFering is too great, too instantaneous, and terrible to excite compassion — a mightier, wilder, all-absorbing feeling fills the soul — sublime terror. The second figure of the group in interest, is the younger son. We turn to it with softened feelings after dwelling upon the figure of the father, and sen- sations less painfully pleasurable, are perceived — those of compassion. The figure is just such an one as is calculated to excite that emotion — for compassion is based upon love and admiration; and the slight, grace- ful and beautiful form of the youthful sufferer, is calcu- lated to inspire us at once with love, and touch us with pity. All our softer sympathies are awakened at see- ing the contortions of a child, who, by reason of his age, has not intellectual vigor to sustain suffering, and who can oppose to the involving and wound-meditating monster only the feeble resistance of a gentle nature. His feet are interlaced painfully, and a coil of the serpent passes around the arms. The right arm is uplifted, a position caused partly by the constriction of the monster, and partly by a vain effort of the child to extricate himself. The head of the serpent winding its fold in closer embrace, and threatening to bite, appears around the right breast, and the sufferer gently pushes it back with his left hand, influenced alike by the pain of greater compression, and the fear of its 200 LITERARY AMARANTH. bite. The movement is a gentle one, (as is shown by the position of the hand,) and suits the nature of the child, who has neither the intellectual nor muscular power fitted for vigorous action. Pain and fear, which often madden manhood into supernatural exertion, diminish, on the contrary, the powers of youth. The slight resistance of the hand, then, is admirably con- sistent with the fears and feelings of the child, who, regarding the bite of the serpent with more horror than its constriction, would be careful not to ao-o-ravate his own sufferings by irritating it to inflict a wound with its teeth. Such is the force of sympathy in gazing upon this figure, that we almost feel ourselves compressed by the serpent coil which is ready to crush the tender limbs of the devoted sufferer; and the heart yearns within us as we behold the tortured features of the child in the instinctiveness of filial confidence turned to the father for aid, who has hitherto been his shield and support. Awed and terror-struck by the horror of the father's situation, and softened and subdued by the melting miseries of the younger son, the feelings experience a degree of relief in turning to the third figure, where Hope begins to relieve the darkness of the scene of passion. Inlaced slightly by the left foot, and the right hand, there is to the elder son considerable chance of escape, and the hope of this comes in like a THE LAO COON. 2Q1 cordial to enliven and renovate our exhausted feelino-s. His attitude is that of flight, and the position of the right leg and foot show with what vigor he is endeavor- ino; to eft'ect his disentanfrlement. His face is turned to his father with an expression of inconceivable horror. The attitude of the head and the expression of the countenance are determined by the reaction that has taken place as the father is stricken by the serpent. The convulsive recession of the father's body from the bite of the serpent, which enfolds both him and the arm of the elder son, arrests the latter, who is struggling to escape in a different direction, his head is instantaneously directed towards his father, and his face pictures the horror of the scene which he beholds. His situation is rather that of a spectator, as he is less painfully enwreathed, and has great hopes of escape, and we look upon him in some respects like ourselves — -being, personally, interested the least of all in the terrors and sufferings of the sublime spectacle. The artist has wisely selected the most appropriate time for the development of his creation. He has chosen a moment in which the fio;ures are in fugitive motion, and by shutting and opening the eyes, we animate the group, and appear to behold the living, moving mass before us. The effect is also the same when it is viewed by the uncertain light of torches. The judgment of the artist is shown also in the graduated size of the figures, and the appropriateness 202 LITERARY AMARANTH. and variety of suffering exemplified in each, according to their respective ages and strength. The sublime and terrible are well committed to the powerful and athletic frame of Laocoon, as he is best fitted to exhibit the extremes of action and suiFering. The pathetic is displayed with great effect in the sufferings of the younger son, who excites more compassion than could be excited by either of the other figures; and the elder son has the chances of escape, who could not awaken powerful emotions by action; nor by suffering stir all the compassion of the heart as is the case with his younger brother. In all the figures strict conformity to anatomical rule is observed, the parts of the body are duly repre- sented, and the muscles, quiescent or active, properly developed with their interior and exterior configura- tions, under all those modifying appearances, which the passions are calculated to effect. The artist has also finely observed the law o^ proportion as to charac- teristic effect, in the grouping parts; the character and distinctive expressiveness of the several figures are given in the most perfect and effective manner. There is also in the group and in its component figures, repose, and motion, voluntary and involuntary — motion of the former kind being excited by fear and a desire to escape danger — that of the latter by pain. We are further presented with beauty of form, and grace of attitude; but the highest effort of the artist has been in THE L A O C O O N . 203 that which admitted of the highest effort — the ideal, — and in this we meet with a charm surpassing all others jn the display of conflicting passions elevated above nature, and mingled in moving, melancholy beauty. Never, perhaps, did any group exhibit in like per- fection the sublime, the beautiful, and the pathetic, with all the varieties and excellencies of the arts of design, so disposed by graduation and contrast as to diminish or increase the effects desired to be produced. As a whole it may be considered as superior to any work of ancient or modern times. The right arm of Laocoon is of burnt clay, and was restored by Ber- nini. There are besides this many other restorations; the right hand of the elder son, the end of the nose, and part of the belly; the right arm of the younger son, the end of his nose, and several of the toes of the left foot, were restored by Cornachini. It may be proper, in conclusion, to say that for some of the ideas adduced in this notice of the Laocoon, I am indebted to Goethe. TO MY MOTHER. "My mother! At that holy name, Within my bosom there's a gush Of feehng which no time can tame, A feehng which for years of fame, I would not, could not crush." MORRIS. Amid this world of care and pain, Of treachery and guile, Where vows are breathed to break again, And friendship is a wile- Where flattery disguises truth, And envy wounds with aspic tooth, And hate with demon smile— I would my weary head recline, Mother, upon thy bosom's shrine. A mother's breast no change can know, In sunshine or in tears; Her smile's the same in youth's warm glow As in the frost of years: At least such have I proved thy breast. By manhood's weighty cares opprest, Or bowed with youthful fears; The love o^ others has grown chill— Thine is unchanged, and changeless still. Though gentle Spring with healing art Bids faded nature bloom, She cannot heal a broken heart, Nor the dim eye relume; MY MOTHER. 205 The fragrance of her spicy breath Cannot restore the cheek that death Has marked out for the tomb: Long ere the summer-breezes blow, This fragile form may be laid low. My miniature I leave to thee, Not that it may recall My features to thy memory — Thou wilt remember all; To others anxious to forget I would not wish the task to set Of memory. The pall— The show of grief— the funeral tone— They'll leave me to oblivion lone. Of all the goodly sons that grew Around thy smiling hearth, And filled thy soul with joy, how few Hold yet a place on earth. Gone are the forms on which you smiled, Their voices, and their rapture wild. And hushed their cheerful mirth; And soon you may be called to mourn Above another's marble urn. And yet, above my early grave, I would not have thee weep — There fortune's tempest cannot rave, Nor sorrow break my sleep. Ere long thy sainted form will come And join me in the silent tomb, And angel-wings will keep Their vigils o'er our sleeping dust — For God and heaven laid up in trust. 18 WASHINGTON MONUMENT In stately majesty thy shaft aspires, To hold companionship with cloud and sky, And wins the blush of morning's early fires, And the last glances of the day-god's eye, When on the horizon fades the purple dye In hues of glory to the light clouds given: How, like thy patriot's own sublimity. Thou risest in the atmosphere of even. Above the lowly earth to lose thyself in heaven. Oppression has not wrested from the hands Of poverty a boon to royal pride; War has not garnered up from wasted lands Her spoils, where carnage swept in purple tide. For servile hands to rear a pile to hide Ambition's end — or gild a hero's name: Thou art the gift of freemen far and wide, By freemen reared — made sacred by his fame, As altars sanctify their ofierings by their flame. The mausoleum's pile— the pyramid With its broad base outlives the names of kings Who vainly hoped beneath the rocky lid To escape the blighting of Oblivion's wings — Thine is the fame, oh! Washington, which springs From godlike deeds— thy name in every clime. Graved on the heart, when age revolving biiags The adamant to dust, throughout all time. Shall freedom's watchword be — eternal and sublime. WASHINGTON MONUMENT. 207 Thy glory was immaculate of guilt — Thy greatness was a blessing to mankind — The blood which thy victorious falchion spilt, Flowed not to pamper an ambitious mind, But in libations fell for liberty designed: And when the olive bound the laurel bough, The camp was for the senaje hall resigned: There truth and wisdom having wreathed thy brow, Thou went a second Cincinnatus to the plough. As in the musing twilight hour I stand, And gaze upon thy statue, thickly crowd Upon my breast the miseries of the land; And in deep pra5^er my inmost soul is bowed, That thy pure spirit would itself enshroud In glory to some modern Numa's eye. And calm the storm of strife and faction loud, — Chase from our land misrule and anarchy, And bid the nation live in peace and harmon}^ THE POWER OF TRUTH. "Before thy mystic altar, heavenly truth! I kneel m manhood, as I knelt in youth." Truth, although less dazzling in its sphere of action than many of the virtues, is perhaps the most important of all: for without it the others can have no permanent existence. It gives firmness and stability to the whole fabric of human excellence, and exerting, in morals, the law which cohesion does in physics, binds together the moral elements of the universe. And even when the other virtues have yielded — when in the devasta- tion of passion they have been involved in promiscu- ous ruin, should the love of truth remain erect and unscathed like the goodly column of a ruined temple, let not the philanthropist despair — the pedestal remains on which the statue of honor may again be elevated, the rocky foundation stands sure on which the moral superstructure maybe reared again in its proportions, in integrity and beauty. The reflection that we are all dependent upon each other, and obliged to exercise a mutual confidence, serves to show the importance of truth, — since the happiness of social intercourse, nay existence itself, is suspended upon it; and its dignity is evident from its POWER OF TRUTH. 209 being the proper use of the high prerogative of speech, vouchsafed by the Almighty to man in contra-distinc- tion to the other animals of his creation. Should the following lines tend, in any degree, to illustrate the force and beauty of this virtue, of which every thing that is fair and pure, either in nature or art, may be considered a type, or give an additional motive for the practice of its dictates, the author will have obtained his desire and find sufficient compensa- tion, in the reflection that he has thrown his moral mite into the great treasury of human happiness. "I am glad to notice the rapid improvement in your reading, my son," said the widow, as the little boy closed the book in which he had just concluded his evening lesson; and she parted the golden ringlets of his hair, and kissed his fair forehead, while the eyes of the child brightened, and the smile of gratified pride and filial affection, shed a sweet expression over his soft features. But there was another person present that shared in the pleasurable feelings of the mother — the grandfather of the child, who had returned from a foreign consul- ate, to spend the remnant of his days with his only daugiiter; and his praise served to deepen the blush that tinged the transparent cheek of the young scholar. *' Yes! you read well, George!" said the old gentleman, *' and if you make the same progress in other studies, you will soon be fit for the counting-room of the mer- 18* 210 LITERARY AMARANTH. chant, or a clerkship in some of the offices of your country." " Grandfather/' replied the youth, " 1 try to improve in all my studies, but I like reading better than any; for I learn many wonderful thiBgs; and, then, I have to read to mother every evening, who always tells me some pretty moral or revolutionary story when I have read my lesson well. But some months ago," continu- ed the boy, " mother received from one of the cities, the large picture which you see hanging over the mantlepiece. She would not explain to me what the painting represented, but promised as soon as I knew enough of the history of our country to tell me a beau- tiful story connected with the picture, which would be upon Truth, and a true story too. So grandfather, it is to be a moral story; and from a knowledge of our history being required to understand it, I suspect it is a revolutionary one; but what pleases me most of all, it is true; mother says nothing is really good that has not some truth in it." The heart of the good old man was stirred within him when he perceived the intelligence of his grand-child, and the pains his daughter had taken to impress upon his young mind, the leading principles of morality and virtue. He pronounced a silent blessing upon mother and child; and taking the latter on his knees, exhorted him ever to preserve the same reverence for truth, which his mother had inculcated. POWER OF TRUTH. 211 "Oh! I always try to speak the truth," replied the child, " for the Bible says ' God is truth; and hateth whomsoever maketh a lie:' but," said he, resuming the subject which to him was so full of interest, "you cannot tell, grandfather! how much I have thought about that picture, and how I have stolen whole hours from play to read and study Parley that I might be able to understand the story. And you need not think it strange, for I assure you there is something very ex- traordinary connected with that picture. You see that strange-looking building in the background. Well, about a year ago, as mother and myself were going in the stage to Boston, we passed through a village, in which she pointed out a house exactly like it, and said there was something of great moment connected with the house, which she would one day tell me; and as she said it, the tears stood in her eyes." We listen with unalloyed pleasure to the simple lan- guage of youth, we enter into their little interests, cares and perplexities, in the very spirit of childhood; and watch with complacency the varied expression of their features, as they brighten with the light of enthu- siasm, or are shadowed with care or anxiety — it is therefore not strange, that the grandfather listened with silent pleasure while the stream of his grandson's conversation flowed on in an even and uninterrupted current. " To be sure, the figure in front appears to be a man's 212 LITERARY AMARANTH. figure, yet I have often thought the face very like mother's. Don't you think so too, grandfather?" And as he now turned his eyes from the painting and looked up in his face, the youth exclaimed, * La! grandfather! I v/ould think the picture like you, but the hair is black; and your hair is white" — as he said this he played with the grey locks that hung in curls from his temples. *' And the face of the picture is smooth; and yours is wrinkled,'' he continued, as he ran his soft little fin- gers, in the confidence of youthful innocence, along the deep furrows that time had ploughed in the vene- rable features of his grandsire. ''However, I will hear the story, this evening, I ex- pect; for I have just gotten through Parley the second time, and can tell the principal events of our history, at least — the discovery, the landing of the Pilgrims, the wars with the French and Indians, the taxing; of the colonies, the disturbances about tea, and the battles of Lexington, Concord, Uunkerhill, and others — down to the closing scene at Yorktown. But you and mother must examine me, and see if I know enough of history to hear the story. And, now, grandfather! I am glad you are here; I shall enjoy it so much more, and I think you will like it, too, for, indeed, mother can tell a beautiful story.'' The examination was referred to the old gentleman, who assumed his spectacles, and commenced the task with sundry misgivings for the ability of his grandson, POWER OF TRUTH. 2|3 to accomplish what he had undertaken. Contrary to his expectation, however, the young scholar replied promptly to all interrogatories, and the grandfather concluded with the most lively admiration of the memo- ry of the youth, and of the service which Peter Parley had rendered, in adapting histories so important to the comprehension of children. THE STORY. *' Well, my son, if your grandfather thinks you have sufficient knowledge of history, I will tell you the story which has been promised so long; and I am equally pleased that your grandfather is permitted to be pre- sent with us to hear it." In the commencement of the differences between the American colonies and the parent country, many per- sons were disposed to advocate the cause of Great Britian. "But they were traitors, mother!" said the child, interrupting her, ''for Peter Parley says so." "How traitors, George?" asked the grandfather. *'There is truth in action as well as speech, and if they, conscientiously, .believed it wrong to resist the enact- ments of the English Parliament, were not their actions true, and they themselves lovers of their country?" *'Not exactly, Grandfather! Believing a thing to be true does not necessarily make it true, for I heard a little boy, in reciting his multiplication table, the 214 LITERARY AMARANTH. other day, saj that seven times six made forty-four, whereas the truth is seven times six make forty-two. But when a person acts according to his convictions, his actions are true, so far as he himself is concerned, that is, he acts from principle, though under wrong impressions of duty. Mother has told me, there are two kinds of truth. — What do you call them mother?" ^'Relative and absolute, my dear.*' "Yes! that is it, grandfather; when we act conscien- tiously, under wrong impressions, it is relative truth, so far as our intention is concerned: and when we act conscientiously, under proper impressions, it is abso- lute truth." *'A very nice distinction, George! but can you show, wherein it was not conformable to absolute truth, to continue in allegiance to Great Britain, and wherefore persons in so doing, in opposition to the general wish of the Colonies, were not lovers of their country? Had not the mother country the same right to govern the colonies that a parent has to govern a child? Would you rebel against your father, if he was living, or refuse to obey your mother?" **No! grandfather! I hope not. My parents were always too kind to me. Being a little boy, however, I am ashamed to contend against one so much older and wiser; yet if I may express my opinion freely, I would say, I suppose the abuse of any right would, in strict justice, annul it. There is a little boy at our POWER OF TRUTH. 215 school whose tather was always getting drunk, and beating his wife and children half to death, and spend- ing their money; and the law interfered and took away his property, and appointed a guardian for himself and his family. You see he ceased to have the right of a parent over a child, from the abuse of it. And since you have mentioned my dear father that is dead, he used to say to me, that when I grew up and became of age, I would then have no one to control me, but I would govern myself; and until that time he would govern me for my good. Now, although England had the right to govern America, which a parent has to govern a child, yet as she abused the right, like Job Long, the right was naturally lost; and the Colonies having grown up and become of age, had a right to govern themselves, as I shall have when I grow up to be a big man and am twenty-one years of age." " Really! grandson! your mother has told you moral stories, and taught you moral philosophy to some pur- pose. Your discrimination is nice; and your justifica- tion of the conduct of the Colonies ample, and the more striking from its simplicity. But what do you say of those Americans who took part with England from conscientious motives?" '* Why I think, grandfather, they were enemies to their country, although they desired to be friends— their actions were the result of wrong impressions. 216 LITERARY AMARANTH. They were unintentional traitors, erring on the side of principle." " Well, you appear to be right George, and now let us hear the rest of the story; for our discussion inter- rupted your mother, ere she had well commenced. I think she must begin again that we may fairly hear the whole." The widow who had sat, all this time, listening, with deep interest, to the above conversation, com- menced the story again as requested. In the commencement of the differences between the American Colonies and the parent country, many per- sons were disposed to advocate the cause of Great Britain. Here the little boy gave his head a nod to one side, as much as to say, they were traitors though for all that. While the most of those who did so were actuated by a sordid interest and the fear of the loss of property, there were some of generous feelings, who maintained their allegiance from integrity of principle and purity of motive. Of the latter class was a poor man in the western part of Massachusetts, who was in the habit of attending all the different meetings that grew out of the usurpations and oppressions of England. At the same time that he did not attempt to justify the measures of the Parliament, he endeavored, in his plain, rustic way, to palliate them, and deprecated the POWER OF TRUTH. 217 active measures of the Colonies as a subversion of all ■ order, and the introduction of anarchy and confusion. He was a simple-hearted man, but eminent for integrity and a love of truth; so much so, that in his own neigh- borhood his word was considered as good as a bond — therefore, while his arguments against the resistance of the Colonies were not permitted to weigh a feather in the scale of popular opinion, his undoubted honesty of heart exempted him from the hatred which the "tories," as they were called, at that time, so commonly excited; and from the exhibition of that hatred in the usual forms of forcible ablution and the coat of tar and feathers. Affairs at length reached a crisis. The battles of Lexington and Concord roused the people to arms, and the Congress which assembled at Watertown resolved to raise thirty thousand troops; and the business of enlisting and drafting was immediately commenced with great vigor. There was, therefore, no alternative left for the simple rustic of whom I have been speak- ing, but to take up arms against England contrary to his conscience, or join the forces under General Gage. He determined on the latter, and in doing so, experi- enced all that bitterness which is incident to civil war, in leaving his wife and children unprovided for, and to the protection of those who necessarily became his enemies. 19 218 LITERARY AMARANTH. It was a beautiful evening in the early part of May^ The labors of the day were over, and the father had returned to enjoy the hour of rest with his little family. He occupied his usual seat in the arbor by the door of his whitewashed cottage. Before him were two children playing on the green grass plat — a third lay in the cradle, and beside it sat the mother engaged in preparing the little articles of dress for another ex- pected visitant. How many were the pleasant images of past conjugal happiness and paternal love that busy memory conjured up in the stillness of that soft even- ing hour — but the very recollection of them caused melancholy forebodings to cast a gloom over the spirits, for they were now to be fore -gone for a time — perhaps forever. Bland was the air around, and laden with the fra- grance of flowers; but the brow of the countryman was hot and feverish — bright the landscape before him which he had so often admired, and the distant hills with the golden hues of sunset; but he felt not their beauty. He looked upon his children— he heard the music of their happy voices, and then turned to the pale, interesting features of his wife. There was sorrow at his heart — the convulsive twitching of the muscles of the mouth attested the inward working of his soul; and he turned aside to wipe with the sun- burnt hand of toil the tear-drops from his manly POWER OF TRUTH. gl9 features. He attempted to speak, and while he so much needed consolation himself, tried to infuse comfort into the heart of his afflicted wife. Supper was at length ready, and with an expression of gratitude to heaven they sat down to their frugal repast. It was in that solemn silence which sorrow imposes when the surcharged heart, like the brimming goblet, requires but the slightest touch to make it over- flow with tears. It was probably the last time the father would ever break bread with his family. The hour of prayer arrived, and oh! with what earnestness did the parent wrestle with heaven, and implore its protection for the young and helpless he was leaving behind. The parents shed copious tears from the overflowing sensibilities of nature, and the children wept from sympathy and from an undefinable sensation of evil, which they could not comprehend. Yet there was relief in those tears, and the sanctifying efficacy of prayer calmed the tumults of the breast, and poured a soothing balm into the wounded feelings, which was not of earth. The children were put to rest. The father kissed them affectionately as they lay smiling in slumber, unconscious of the bereavement they were about to sustain — embraced his disconsolate wife, again and again, took up his musket and started for the British camp. As he pursued his way, the moon that had been obscured, broke forth from the surrounding 220 LITERARY AMARANTH clouds, and, on turning to take a last look of his dwel- ling, the lamp shone through the opened door in which his wife still stood to catch the last echo of his foot- steps. The light of heaven and of faithful love he felt were united, to cheer him on his journey. On the evening of the following daj, as he approach- ed Boston, he fell in with the scouts of the American army then parading in the vicinity, and his answers not proving satisfactory, he was captured and taken before the proper officers. He did not disguise his intention, but made known his determination of joining the royal army. He was accordingly sent up into the country and lodged in gaol in one of the western towns, to await his trial. The place was about thirty miles from his own home, and, as whatever of interest transpired was made known through the different committees of correspondence, the true character of the prisoner was soon learned. The piety, the un- doubted honesty of the prisoner, the affecting circum- stances in which he had left his family, and the awe of punishing a man with death, who had followed the dictates' of his conscience in what he believed to be his duty, all conspired to awaken intense interest in the breast of the sheriff, and he determined upon giving him an opportunity to escape. He accordingly observed to him one evening, "These chains I fear will gall your ancles, I will therefore substitute smooth pieces of leather for the iron bands. POWER OF TRUTH. 221 but don't you cut them off, and break out, for I will certainly catch you if you do.'' "You need not fear me,'' replied the prisoner, as a slight smile passed over his features, and he bade the keeper good night. The sheriff retired to bed with alight heart, determining to take a nap in the morning, of an extra length; but he was disappointed, for the loud voice of the prisoner chanting his morning psalm, as usual, broke his slum- ber. The next night on leaving his prisoner he in- formed him that "There was something; the matter with the key, and that unable to lock the door he would tie it with a rope on the outside.'' At the same time he charged him not to think of escaping, as he had a very fleet horse and could certainly overtake him. As he walked away he muttered to himself, "The fellow is a fool if he does not understand that." Next morning the prison door was open; but on en- tering he found the prisoner as he had left him, a wind during the night having blown open the door. The honest-hearted rustic considered himself in the hands of lawful authority, and could not be tempted to break the obligations of that authority; holding, as he did, the maxim which his Bible had taught him, that he who breaks the smallest law of order, is guilty of a violation of principle, which tends to subvert the whole. He then thanked the keeper for the kindness which he had shewn him; and as he had given him opportunities of escape, which he could not conscientiously use, he 19* 222 LITERARY AMARANTH. besought him for permission to go into the harvest fields by day, and earn bread for his suffering family. The request was granted — the leather straps that bound on his chains, were severed, and during the months of harvest, and for some time after, the prisoner went out daily to labor, and returned by night to be locked up in his cell. One evening the keeper waited in vain for his return. The sun set — twilight set in, then darkness — and yet he came not. He waited until a late hour in the niglit, and then retired to sleep, assured and gratified that his charge had fled. The next morning on awaking, he found the prisoner lying with his head pillowed upon the steps of the prison, where he had sunk down from fatigue. During the day and night the miserable man had been to visit his family, and in going and returning, had travelled a distance of sixty miles. The time of his trial came on, and the sheriff made preparations to conduct him to Springfield, where he was to be tried for high treason before the council of Massachusetts, at that time the supreme executive of the state. The prisoner assured him that it was un- necessary to incur the trouble and expense of a jour- ney, in order to take him there; as he could go, as well, by himself. His word was taken without hesitancy; and he set out upon his melancholy journey, to present himself for trial and certain condemnation. POWER OF TRUTH. 223 As he proceeded onward, night overtook him in a large wood, and coining to a cross-road he was in doubt, whither to direct his steps. Fatigued widi walking, and full of uncertainty, he sunk upon his knees and poured forth his soul in an agonj of prayer, until he was aroused by the tramp of feet, and on looking up beheld a person on horseback beside him. The stran- ger had heard his pious petitions, and with kind soli- citude inquired into the nature of his journey, and all tlie little particulars of his liistory. He took him to his own home, and having entertained him for the night, sent him on to Springfield in the care of a friend. The officer (for it was an officer of justice in whose care the stranger placed him) conducted him to Springfield, and the trial began. The country was then strusidin"; a2:ainst a sea of troubles, and compelled to restrain the agency of trea- son, by prompt and condign punishment. The crime of the prisoner was substantiated by ample proof — he even admitted it himself, and was accordingly declared guilty. Before reading the sentence, however, the President put the question whether a pardon should be granted. Scarcely had he ceased speaking, when a member occupied the floor, and in that spirit which the temper of the times appeared to demand, portrayed in glowing language the aggressions of England, the unavailing supplications and remonstrances of the Colonies, the 224 LITERARY AMARANTH. slaughter of their brethren in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the conflagration of Charlestown by tlie vandal torch of the invaders. He then spoke of the difficulties they had to encounter — of the power of the foe with whom they were grappling; and concluded by expressing a hope, that not a member there would sa- crifice the great interests of the country, by granting impunity to the subtle and destructive agency of trea- son. Several speakers expressed similar sentiments with equal warmth; and the unfortunate man ceased to indulge a hope. For himself he dreaded not death; but in the yearnings of nature, his heart trembled for his wife and children; and concern for them clouded his manly features with melancholy. He did not weep — he bent not his head, but stood erect and pale as monumental marble, while his thoughts, abstracted from the things around him, were with his family, and with that God, who is the protector of the widow and the orphan. As the vote was about to be taken, the hasty tread of feet was heard, and Mr. Edwards, a prominent member of the council, made his appearance. He de- sired the President to forbear for a moment, and hav- ing recovered breath, addressed the council in behalf of the prisoner. The condemned immediately recog- nized the voice of the strano;er who overtook him in the woods — he heard him speak of himself, but half uncon- scious, knew not what it was, nor to what it tended. POWER OF TRUTH. 225 ■ The speaker drew a distinction between the treason that results from sordidness of interest or unholy pas- sions, and that unintentional treason which is the result of a misconception of duty, and having in some mea- sure justified a dissent from the verdict, he proceeded to give a detail of the private character of the prisoner, his scrupulous adherence to truth, his unexampled conduct while in confinement, his coming to trial un- guarded, and concluded by saying that he believed it would be politic in the council to pardon the offence, and that he for his part must consider the sacrifice of a man of so much integrity and truth as a stain, not only upon the Colonies, but upon human nature. Many a heart warmed with sympathy and admiration, as the character of the simple-vhearted countryman was un- folded, and he was pardoned without a dissenting voice. As his word had been sacredly kept they consented to consider him as a prisoner on parole, and permitted him to return to his family. As the vote was reported, the acquitted, who had hitherto in the prospect of death restrained himself, gave vent to his feelings, and wept like a child — then turning to thank his deliverer, his eyes fell upon the pale, bloodless features of his wife, who, unnoticed, had glided into court, and was standing behind him with her infant in her arms. As she hastened to meet him, the child fell from her embrace; and overpowered with joy, she sunk insensible at the feet of her husband. . 226 LITERARY AMARANTH. The good Mr. Edwards was so much interested in the occurrences, that he had a painting executed of the gaol and a likeness of the countryman going forth with his sickle from prison to daily toil. My story is now told, and may you, my son, learn, by this illustration of its utility, to have the same regard for the purity and holiness of truth which the countryman cherished." *'I told you, grandfather," said the little boy, "it would be a moral and revolutionary story," then turn- ing to hismother, he said, "there are two things, mother, I should like to know. Did the countryman continue to take part with Great Britain; and was the little child that fell, killed?" "No! my dear, the Colonies on the fourth day of July in the following year, declared themselves free and independent, and then the hero of our tale, clearly comprehending his duty to his country, and taking up arms in its favor, rose to the rank of captain, and assisted in gaining several important battles which perhaps he may some day relate to you, himself, better than I can. The countryman, whose history I have given you in this story, is Richard Jackson, your grand- father; and the infant, which fell from his wife's arms, is your mother that speaks with you." The little boy kissed his mother and grandfiither by turns, and clapped his hands; and the tears of the three were mingled together in virtuous joy. The hour of the night was far advanced — they knelt down; and the POWER OF TRUTH. 227 hearts of three generations united in thanksgiving to God. The good old man had obtained the promise to the virtuous, — he had reached a green old age, and been permitted to see his children and children's children treading in his own footsteps to honor and prosperity. The critic and the admirer of love-sick tales can sneer at our plain story; we will reply in the simple words of the youth, *'What pleases me most of all, it is true; and nothing is really good that has not some truth In it." VENUS APHRODITE Orta salo suscepta solo, patre edita coelo.— ^3wsoniu.s. The chariot of Aurora now had rolled In burning beauty from the reddening sea, And parted was the tissue veil of gold Enshrouding earth within its drapery, Smiles lit the ocean waves, the stream, the grove, The rugged mountain peaks; and harmony, Awakening around, beneath, above. With voice of music-hailed the heavenly queen of lore. ' Amid the light and gossamer foam the world Of waters gathered, as it rose and fell Like beauty's heaving bosom, slowly curled From out the depths a rosy-colored shell. That tinged the waters with the blash it wore; As with a merry chime, in fluctuant swell, Afar to Paphos' gold-bespangled shore, The ocean's richest pearl in glittering bark they bore. There in her rosy car of shell, reclined The ocean-born with brow and eyes of light — The dew-gemmed tresses flaunting on the wind, Her naked beauties shading from the sight. That else with pain the senses had oppressed; While in her smile th' enamoured waves grew bright, And the cool airs around her cheek and breast Grew warm, and by their blush the Deity confessed. Jfct> '^'^'^ ijr A.AJfy^^i£4- TUSTTDTS VENUS APHRODITE. 229 And on that crescent bark's transparent prow Sat Cupid waving his bright purple wings, To cool the fervor of his mistress' brow; And while the keel through sparkling waters springs, The lovely Graces, with their zones unbound, And the Nereides, in living rings Of beauty, did the goddess circle round, To whose imperial sway, creation was the bound. 20 THE GIFT 'Tis the divinity within That stirs the soul of man to win Remembrance, and a deathless name, Among the lofty sons of fame — And is an earnest of its fire, Which shall burn on when suns expire. To wrest his memory from the gloom Oblivion draws around the tomb. The simple shepherd mars the oak, That from his sleep the sunbeams broke,- And chisels on the shapeless block His name, or on the mossy rock. For this the son of genius pines, And pours life's oil at glory's shrines, To be, when he has gained the goal, Emblazoned on her starry scroll. For this the hero drives his car O'er foes and cities crushed in war — And column and triumphal arch Tell ages his victorious march. Let others bid the scroll of fame Save from forgetfulness their namej Or pile th' eternal pyramid Above the corse in spices hid; Or grave upon the storied urn. The characters that time shall spurn; Oh! be my memory, for years, Embalmed in love's perennial tears— THE GIFT. 231 And my name, written on no stone, Nor graved on brass, to stand alone Amid Time's wrecks, in hall or grot, But traced upon a holier spot, Unmarred and unprofaned by art— The tablet of a female heart. How blessed my lot! could I remain Engraven on thy breast and brain, And Friendship bid my memory stay, When all beside has passed away, — And this fair Gift a token be Of faith, and friendship felt for thee. THE PERPS SONG, A WELCOME to Ocean, a rest to thy form, From the whirlwind's commotion, — the tempest's wild storm. Beneath the dark billow, in the untroubled deep, I have made a soft pillow, to lull thee to sleep. Thou shall slumber in quiet; the billowy whirl. That shouts in mad riot, the dark waves that curl In eddies around thee, shall never intrude. When sleep has once bound thee, in sea's solitude. Our seamaids shall lighten the sleep of thy bed; Their gold powder brighten the hair of thy head; They'll plait with caresses, thy soft sunny curls; And stud the long tresses with diamonds and pearls. Thou shalt drink from our fountains of chiystal, and rove. On Ocean's high mountains, o'er the red coral grove. Thro' whose stone boughs the glances of sunlight shall pour. Like bright golden lances, in arrowy shower. Beneath the waves darkling, surrounded by walls Of emerald sparkling, are adamant halls, "With sapphire roof gleaming, and pavement of shells; With light from them streaming, like naphtha from wells. To the music of waters, by the moon tuned to song, Here Ocean's gay daughters their dances prolong: With the fairest, the brightest, come join then thy hand; As she trips It the lightest upon the gold sand. CARMEN SIRENIS Te grator ad mare, hie pax est formae, In quieto lare a turba procellne: Sub aquis marinis, in imo Jeni, Vestimentis ostrinis tuum torum stravi. Dormieris quiete: fluctuosa gurges 0,1135 fertur impete, undae tortiles Verticibns circura, ne perturbent te Sopore sepultum, in ponto leniore, Puellas levabunt soporem lecti; Crines illustrabimt arenas auri; Detexent coinarum cirrhos stndiis Ornabuntque, gemmarum luce, ac baccis. Bibes crystalli fontes lustrabisque, nostros Submarinos per montes, saltus corallinos. Per ramulos quorum, profluet solis Splendor radiorum lanceis similis. Imo maris patentis, septse mcenibus Smaragdi lucentis, magnetis domus Ostendunt splendentes sapphiros tecto, Et testas nitentes in pavimento. Lunse radii agunt fluctus in numerum, Ac Sirenes satagunt velocem chorum; Age manum puellse formosissimEe, Ac maxime bellce supra aurum terrre. 20* THE ENCHANTED GROTTO. Passing through a long tract of country diversified by the ruins of stately cities and temples, o'er whose walls the ploughshare of desolation had been driven, many of which have passed awa^, and left not even a name behind them in the records of antiquity, I came to Heliopolis, — the city of the Sun, as its name indi- cates — so renowned for its magnificent temple dedicat- ed to Apollo. As I contemplated its dilapidated walls covered with the scurf of time, its magnificent fluted pillars, its colonnades of stucco and marble, and its nu- merous friezes of men, beasts, birds, fishes and flowers, I noticed an octagonal column, which from its hiero- glyphics T soon perceived had been dedicated to the Phoenix. I felt much interested in the discovery I had made, and being anxious to learn all I could respecting this remarkable bird, commenced decyphering the hiero- glyphics with the utmost care; and after some calcula- tion discovered that the five hundred years had elapsed since the appearance of the last, and that consequently the Phoenix must shortly appear. Elated with this further discovery, I burst into an exclamation of delight^ and expressed a wish that I ENCHANTED GROTTO, 235 might be so fortunate as to obtain a sight of the extra- ordinary bird. As I finished speaking I found at my side a person of antique and venerable appearance. His locks were gray and his long white beard flowed upon his breast. In his hand he held a large scroll. His eye was not dimmed with age, but beamed with a mild expression of calmness and intelligence. Addressing me in a tone of familiarity, he said, ** I have heard thy wishes; follow me, and they shall be gratified." Sup- posing him to be a priest, who, attached to the impos- ing splendors of the temple, had made a faithful repre- sentation of the same with all its sacred appurtenances, I followed him, after instructing my guide to await my return at the ruin. We proceeded down a little valley whose sloping sides were covered with terebinth, and cocoa, and tall cedar trees, interspersed with shrubbery that exhaling their sweets, filled the air with a profusion of perfume. Twilight had spread her gray mantle over the earth, and threw a solemnity over the feelings as we reached the bottom of the vale. The mouth of a dark cave there presented itself, into which my conductor imme- diately entered. I followed with a mixture of awe and fear, which was heightened by the solemn echo of our foot-steps as they sounded through the reverberating cavern. The floor and sides consisted of layers of smooth stones, as evenly disposed as if piled by art, and covered at intervals with moss, which afforded an 236 LITERARY AMARANTH. agreeable relief to the eye. Through apertures in the roof light was admitted sufficient to enable us to dis- cern our way, which we continued forty or fifty feet, until we came to a narrow portal that opened into a hall much larger than the one we had quitted. Fol- lowing my conductor within, I found myself in the presence of a young female of exquisite form. She was sitting at a table covered with a cloth of gold and purple, in which were wrought some of the principal events of history. Her attention was deeply fixed on a ponderous vol- ume that lay before her, written in oriental characters. A gorgeous lamp of fretted gold threw its pale light upon her face, and discovered a set of features singu- larly beautiful. Her complexion was pale, and her countenance wore a soft and languid air approaching to melancholy. Her dark tresses thrown back upon her shoulders, displayed a high arched forehead as if destined in an eminent degree to be the "proud em- pire of thought." Struck with the beauty of the fair mortal before me, I gazed upon her with wonder and admiration, without noticing any thing around me, until the old man advancing towards her, said, "Daughter, the stranger before thee would behold the Phoenix and the grand festival." She raised her head, as if for the first time conscious of our presence, displaying a pair of mild blue eyes of the softest expression I ever be- held, and pointing to a dark curtain that covered the ENCHANTED GROTTO. 237 eastern part of the cavern, bid me behold what I desired. The curtain began slowlj to upfurl, the lamp emitted a paler light, and the grotto itself appeared as if undergoing a change. Emotions of fear began to steal over me, and I turned to look for my conductor, but he was gone. The curtain was entirely upfurled, the grotto appeared to have fled away, and I found myself with the mysterious female by my side, standing on an elevated summit at the banks of the reedy Nile. Far as the eye could reach o'er the dark waters, myri- ads of light galleys were glancing, each of which was illuminated with a profusion of lights that made the waves appear a sea of glowing flame. The sound of the tabret and cymbal, mellowed by the softer notes of the flute and other instruments of oriental music, the shouting of the votaries, and the lively chants of the priests increasing in loudness as they approached the shore, announced the grand quincentesimal sacrifice. Having landed upon the shore, they entered upon the grand and imposing procession. Before went the priests with solemn step, attired in their long hiero- glyphical habits; then came the different sacred animals of the Egyptians, all fantastically adorned, among which I observed the crocodile, curiously ornamented with shells, rings, and chains of gold. Next followed choirs of maidens attired in shining robes, bounding gracefully along to the sound of the music, while countless myriads of votaries and strangers, bearing 238 LITERARY AMARANTH. offerings of gold and frankincense, and myrrh, closed up the long procession. As they continued on, I ob- served at a distance, through the obscurity of night, a huge pile which I concluded was the august temple. The dark shades of night had begun now to soften into the sober gray of morning twilight; after which the rays of the rising god diffused rosy tints over the eastern sky, that soon deepened into the thickest crimson and gold. They played the majestic air usual on such occasions, and prepared to enter the temple. The sun in godlike grandeur now flashed upon the gilded colonnades of the temple, when all thrice bowed reverently to the deity, (the last time falling upon their faces,) and then entered within. To attempt describing the gorgeousness of the scene would be vain; the following, however, will serve to give a faint idea of it: The interior of the walls was of the finest Thasian marble, with its beautiful veins height- ened and polished until they resembled pictures of the most delicate finish. The floors were tessellated with marble squares of different kinds and colors united to- gether with gold, and disposed and contrasted so as to have the most striking and beautiful appearance. In one corner of the temple stood the lavers for the priests to wash in, before and after sacrificing. They were of the purest ivory, inlaid with gold, and variegated around the brim with studdings of carbuncle and topaz, and other most precious stones. These lavers were ENCHANTED GROTTO. 239 supplied with water, that gushed like sparkling silver through pipes of richly fretted gold, terminating in the heads of sphinxes. Among the massy colonnades of curiously wrought marble, that supported the frescoed ceiling, were disposed, in endless variety, statues of the different sacred animals, and small golden pillars, the tops of which were inlaid with gems, in such a manner as exactly to form the different sacred flowers; every color and tint being accurately represented by gems of similar hue. In the centre, upon a throne of polished gold irradiated with emerald and carbuncle flashing like fire, crowned with a diadem that resembled rays, was a grand representation of the god himself, so placed as to receive the full light of the sun. Circled around his radiant throne, like pages to attend his commands, stood the light -winged hours. Without this circle was formed another circle of months, that grouped in com- panions of three each, formed four minor circles, in- cluding the four seasons — rosy-colored spring, with her mantle of light green, and her garland of flowers; sum- mer with her crown of golden wheat; autumn, purple as to his buskins, with the juice of trodden grapes; and hoary winter, with his glassy eye, and snowy beard. As I gazed on the beauty of the splendid scene, there suddenly reigned universal silence through the temple. Not a sound was heard, save the light footsteps of the priests and their attendants, as they prepared for the most august rite of their ceremonies. Presently the 240 LITERARY AMARANTH. smoke of the incense arose until the temple was dark- ened; the music burst forth in one peal of astounding sweetness, and shouts of "the Phoenix," "the Phoe- nix," were heard in deafening acclamations; until the confusion of voices and music resembled the rushing of mighty waters, mingled with the awful sound of raging winds. On came the Phoenix, soaring through the air, seemingly without exertion, — for its broad pin- ions were spread out motionless upon the breeze — and sailing in royal majesty along, it approached the tem- ple, bearing on its broad back the excavated mass of myrrh, in which it had deposited the embalmed body of the parent bird. At the vestibule it alighted, furled up its broad pinions of gold and crimson, and placed on the threshold the sacred burthen it had borne; and then spreading its beauteous wings on the breeze, sailed again through the light air towards its spicy country. I continued gazing with admiration on the airy volant, until it was nearly lost in the distance, then turning to look upon the priests who were about closing the cere- monies I found the temple fading on the view, and receding from the sight, until, it became hardly dis- tinguishable in the distance; the dark curtain began to fall, and shortly universal gloom reigned through the grotto. The mysterious female was gone, but in re- turning again from the cave, the light of the moon poured through clefts in the rock that formed the ceiling, and on looking up I read, " Grotto of Imagi- ENCHANTED GROTTO. 241 nation," the letters of which were formed by light breaking through the openings of the rock. Then did I know that the Genius who presides over ruins, had transported me to the cave of Imagination. 21 EST VITA SIMILIS ROSiE MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.' Est vita similis rosse, In sole novo florenti, Sed, antequam cadunt umbrce, Sparsse ac mortuse humi; Sed super foliis rosse Rorescunt noclis lachrymae Plorantis fatum flebile; Sed nuUus unquam flebit me. Est vita mihi similis Autumni arenti folio Q,uod tremit lunsB radiis Casurum, moriens solo; Sed ante cadet, ramulos Deflebit arbor viduos, Venti spirabunt arbore; Sed nullus aut lugebit me. Est vita mihi similis In Tampae litore sicco Cedentibus vestigiis Q,uum fluctus ssevit ex alto; Sed, ingemiscens irritas Humani generis notas Reboat mare in litore, Sed nullus lamentabit me. OMOTOS BIO2: ESTI MO I. MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE." jOfAOiOf fiiog iirri fAoi As TrpoTipov vu^ uo-dyoi Ird^ovcriv VVKTog S'uKpuet As OvSili KOLTUKXcLVa-it /Ui- TlrZo-ijuu) rZ iv\ ASvJjOOV KlVOV/UiVOV E^ov nAipuov, OiiK ctv smri/uviigl TlXiiym ^uxoKOTTi E^;^?; KU.I Tov Kop/uov Holkaiov /u» jccTrn, TIpo; vi<^» >i/ufxiVQv\ UctlC ^iTiK^ iV 01CVa>, AvTOU -^v^av er}clav; H^AO-iv i/uipav: Miimp niKVx.^ h^'ii, TlaTUp Ti^-CtXTTi /Ui — 2^a^ot/ SnxpuoL, Apug TTAXctin irr)i[ 2' STAipi, eec ^^'^' ^^^C.^ O s • • OHO- ^ O > V «• ^ • **' <^^ , «. ' » WERT BOOKBINONC t>ran(viUe Pd !ul>-Aue 1985