Chapter VIII: Part II (2)

At the end of three years, an event obliged her to leave this solitude. Madame de Cernan fell dangerously ill. Wilhelmine, terrified by the peril of her mother, forgot her grief, and made preparations for immediate departure. A celebrated physician resided at Brussels, and it was decided they should travel to that city. The tenderness of a daughter is sometimes as inexhaustible as that of a mother; and only those who have seen their parents on the brink of the grave, who have experienced the agony of their loss, can comprehend the profundity of filial love. Wilhelmine dreaded the moment when she might read in the physician’s eyes, the sentence of life or death for her mother; and at length that moment, so feared while it was desired, arrived. The doctor reassured her concerning the illness of Madame de Cernan; but her convalescence, he said, must be tedious, and they must not think of removing their residence for several months.

Wilhelmine was for some time faithful to her preconceived plan of living alone with her mother. She could not, however, refuse forming a few acquaintances. Madame de Cernan had met with one of her early friends; and the _sauvagerie_ of the young widow was not proof against the pressing solicitations of this lady. She consented at first to see her unceremoniously, then accepted invitations to her _soirées_, and finally avowed she found them exceedingly entertaining. In truth, the very best society was to be found in the saloons of the Comtesse D’A——, for they united all that Belgium contained of the lovely and the intellectual. Among the gentlemen, the nephew of Madame D’A——, Edmond de Gaser, was distinguished by the beauty of his person, the original tone of his mind, and the uncommon variety of his acquirements. Among the ladies, Wilhelmine soon occupied a prominent station; and her gentleness and reserve prevented the jealousy her loveliness and talent were calculated to awaken.

There was a continual contest as to who could most surround her with homage, who bestow the most flattering tokens of friendship.

Edmond de Gaser speedily became very devoted to Madame de Breuil, and, indeed, this conquest could not have failed to gratify the vanity of any woman less destitute of _coquetterie_—for Edmond had been reared with strict principles; his few years of life had already been shadowed by trouble, and he had acquired by severe and philosophic studies a judgment of rare solidity. Edmond combined with the advantages of rank and fortune, those qualities of mind which, in all social communities, elevate a man above those otherwise his equals.

Wilhelmine never dreamed of incurring danger in encouraging the sentiments of benevolence and interest inspired by M. de Gaser. Knowing nothing of what is commonly called love, except through the medium of a few novels, she imagined the dawnings of passion were attended by the violent and peculiar emotions of which she had read such false portraitures; and she calculated on defence from these in the purity of her own heart. This dangerous security proved fatal to her peace.

When she at length perceived the nature of her sentiments, it was too late to subdue them—for she loved M. de Gaser with all the devotedness of an ardent nature, and a vivid imagination; remorse even added depth to her affection. Since the moment she had comprehended that her feeling for Edmond was neither esteem nor friendship, but a more absorbing attachment, the recollection of her husband arose in her heart with all the impetuosity of an appealing conscience. She would have taken refuge in flight, but winter was at its height, and she dared not cause her mother to undertake at that time, a journey whose consequences would have been fatal to her health. Every thing was in opposition to poor Wilhelmine; the representations of her mother, who treated the griefs which engrossed her as mere idle scruples; the opinion of the world, which might have served to authorise in her own eyes a second marriage; and, more than all, the constant presence of Edmond—for had she ceased to see him, it would have seemed a tacit confession of weakness. The tears she almost continually shed, destroyed her health; and when, on the arrival of spring, they prepared to leave Brussels, it was not for Madame de Cernan, but for Wilhelmine, the journey offered dangers, so completely had she been, in a short time, exhausted by grief.

Nevertheless, the day for their departure was fixed. Wishing to avoid a final interview with M. de Gaser, she denied herself to visitors; but Edmond, charmed at the thought of Wilhelmine’s no longer suffering, entered by a different door, and penetrated into the garden of the hotel. He stood fixedly regarding the windows which he supposed were those of Madame de Breuil’s apartment, when suddenly, in a turn of the path, he perceived her walking slowly, her eyes bent on the ground, like a person giving way to most profound abstraction. The exclamation uttered by Edmond on recognising her, aroused her from her reverie. Wilhelmine being no longer able to control her emotion, Edmond realised that he was beloved; and this belief lent him courage to declare a tenderness which had until now been only told by his looks. Troubled and irresolute, Wilhelmine seemed not to hear him, but, nevertheless, every word re-echoed through her heart. At last, with that impetuosity of determination which sometimes succeeds to prolonged uncertainty, she answered, “In six months I will be your wife!” and then hastily quitted him, leaving M. de Gaser intoxicated with happiness.

The next day Madame de Cernan and her daughter were on their homeward way. The nearer Wilhelmine approached the places she had frequented with M. de Breuil, the sadder became her thoughts. When the sombre turrets of the castle became visible, enveloped in the morning clouds, a torrent of tears flowed from Wilhelmine’s eyes. “Never! never!” she passionately exclaimed, and threw herself in the arms of her mother. Madame de Cernan did not endeavor to repress the emotions which the aspect of these places was calculated to call forth in the refined mind of her daughter; she waited patiently until time should familiarize her to these memories; but the time which calmed the paroxysms of sorrow, also restored all her incertitudes. No longer to love Edmond, seemed a sacrifice beyond her strength; and would he not, then, have the right to reproach her with the loss of the happiness she had promised him? Unfortunate woman! she should have concealed her love; then, at least, she would have suffered alone. There were even moments when Wilhelmine wished to go and reclaim her marriage-ring; when she would revel in all the horror inspired by the thought, and encourage it in a spirit of penitence; again, she would repel it with fright and indignation; but, nevertheless, this idea pursued her incessantly, and even in her sleep she heard a voice murmur to her, “Go, seek thy ring in the tomb!”

Madame de Breuil consulted the venerable priest who had always instructed and guided her. Under the sacred seal of confession she implored his counsel; prostrate at his feet, she entreated him to decide her destiny. Never had the confessor directed a penitent in a case so difficult; he paused for many moments, and seemed unwilling to pronounce—but the young widow insisted.

“My daughter,” at last said the minister of truth, “it has been said, ‘Thou shalt not swear!’ and you have failed to follow this command; you have disobeyed God—you ought to submit to the consequence of your fault. It has been before Heaven; beside a dying bed you have pronounced a terrible vow—this vow you must fulfill.”

“O, mercy! mercy!” cried the penitent

“Yes, my daughter, I but repeat the words spoken to you by the voice of conscience; I only say to you what you say each day to yourself. Either renounce Edmond, or demand from the dead your marriage-ring.”

“My father!” replied Wilhelmine, trembling and overwhelmed, “my father, to renounce Edmond is impossible, I love him a thousand times more than myself; he is dearer even than M. de Breuil, whom I loved so well. In mercy, curse me not! for all will be expiated to-day. You decree that I should descend into our family vault. I will go. You tell me to touch the hand of a skeleton. I will touch it. You order me to ask from the dead the ring which alone can unite me to Edmond. Well, I will ask it, even if I must die in the sad place I go to sully with my presence!”

The worthy confessor, alarmed by this tone of excitement, sought to calm her, and recommended the deferring until a future period an undertaking so solemn.

“Father! it is this very hour I must perform the deed; but my mother knows nothing of it. My poor mother! she would never consent to her child’s passing through such an ordeal. One person only must accompany me in this mournful visit, and he is the man who knew the secret, the man who advised it—yourself! Will you consent to follow me?”

The venerable priest, surprised by a resolution so sudden, surprised, above all, by the change which had come over the mind and language of Wilhelmine, could not resist the impetuosity of his penitent, and yielded, in opposition to his better judgment, to the ascendency of a strong and overbearing will.

“I will follow you!” was his reply. He silently selected the key of the vault, where lay the remains of the members of the family of Breuil, he lighted a torch, and advanced toward the chapel, beneath which the tomb was situated.

“Madame!” he said impressively to Wilhelmine, “this is the moment to have courage. The action you are about to commit is a solemn one, but it should not dismay you. You are fulfilling a sacred promise, you are acquitting yourself of a painful duty. God approves it, you have nothing to fear;” and taking her hand, they descended together the stairs that no step had trodden since the death of the baron. They entered the vault. Wilhelmine concentrated all her energy; she advanced, still guided by the priest. He lifted the stone which covered the tomb, and removed every obstacle. Wilhelmine, with averted eyes, put forth her hand; she wished to accomplish her vow without contemplating the hideous spectacle before her—but the ring must be grasped. She looks, and a cry of astonishment burst from her lips. She had expected to behold remains disfigured, and perhaps not recognizable; but she sees her husband, such as he ever was during the happy days they passed together; his countenance still retained its expression of goodness and tenderness. It was still M. de Breuil, the husband so well-beloved; doubtless he reposed, he only slept. Alas! soon he may awaken, to ask an account of the fidelity which should have been eternal; he may speak to her in threatening words; he may crush her with scorn, on learning the cause of this, her first visit. Such were the thoughts that startled the young widow, as she gazed on her husband’s form. She had not strength to bear such a scene, and striving to support herself on her companion’s arm, she faltered, tottered, and fell lifeless. The priest, fearing this pure spirit had departed to rejoin that of the dead, carried the young widow to her apartment, and informed her mother of the cause of this terrible shock.

Wilhelmine recovered her consciousness, only to sink into the most alarming delirium. A burning fever attacked her, and during several days her death was momentarily expected. But at last her youth triumphed over this crisis, she recovered her health, and at the end of two months had regained sufficient strength to walk a few steps in her chamber. She passed before a mirror, and accidentally glanced at its image of herself; what was her amazement at beholding a face whiter than alabaster itself. She tried to close her eyes, but could not cease regarding it. It was herself, these were indeed her features, but could illness have produced a change so sudden and mysterious? Alas! this paleness never departed more!

Her former intentions were irrevocably arrested, she resolved not to see Edmond again, and the prayers of her lover and her mother were equally unavailing. She consecrated herself solely to good works, and to those exercises of piety and benevolence which her too exclusive affection for M. de Gaser had for a time interrupted. She lived the life of a saint, shedding blessings around her, and endeavoring to procure for others the happiness she could no longer obtain for herself.

Wilhelmine’s appearance continued as she had seen it the first day of her convalescence. She had now forsaken the world, and the world speedily forgot her; but a small number of friends ceased not to offer her pity and consolation. While still young, she was attacked by a disease of languor, which left no room for hope, and ere long Wilhelmine had reached her last hour. A few moments before her death she bade a touching farewell to all her friends, and turning to Madame de Cernan, she said—

“My mother, relate to them the particulars of my history; tell them to beware of making rash vows; it is a vow which has killed me!”

My aunt shed tears as she concluded this recital, and I wept bitterly over the mournful destiny of the pale lady. After the day I learned this mournful chronicle, I evinced as much solicitude to avoid finding myself in the vicinity of the portrait gallery as I had hitherto displayed anxiety to visit its attractions. I could not pass before her picture without my heart beating quicker at the remembrance of the sorrows of Wilhelmine. It seemed to me as if I heard her speak her last words, and I would repeat to myself as I glided in terror before her—“O! beware of rash vows, for it is a vow which has killed me!”

* * * * *

* * * * *

AN ASSINIBOIN LODGE.

The travels of Prince Maximilian, of Wied, in the interior of North America, give us an interesting account of the Assiniboin tribe of Indians in the far west.

“All on a sudden,” he says, describing their visit, “we heard some musket-shot, which announced a very interesting scene. The whole prairie was covered with scattered Indians, whose numerous dogs drew their sledges with the baggage; a close body of warriors, about 250 in number, had formed themselves in the centre, in the manner of two bodies of infantry, and advanced in quick time toward the fort. The whole troop commenced a song consisting of many broken, abrupt tones, like those of the war-whoop, and resembling the song which we heard in 1814 from the Russian soldiers. Many of these warriors had their faces painted all over with vermillion, others quite black. In their heads they wore feathers of eagles, or other birds of prey; some had wolf-skin caps; others had fastened green leaves around their heads; and long wolves’ tails were hanging down to their heels, as marks of honor for enemies they had slain.”

We continue the extract to afford our readers a description of the manner in which the Assiniboins erect their rude dwellings. “At noon a band of Indians had arrived, and twenty-five tents were set up near the fort. The women, their faces painted red, soon finished this work, and dug up with their instruments the clods of turf which lay around the lower part of the hut. One of these huts, (see the plate in the present number of “Graham,”) the dwelling of a chief, was distinguished from the rest. It was painted of the color of yellow ochre, had a broad, reddish-brown border below, and on its sides a large black bear was painted, (something of a caricature, it must be confessed,) to the head of which, just above the nose, a piece of red cloth, that fluttered in the wind, was fastened; doubtless a medicine. We now saw the women returning in all directions from the forest, panting under the weight of large bundles of wood, which were fastened to their backs.” The scene, brief as it is, affords a characteristic view of the life of the children of the prairie.

* * * * *

THE AUTUMN WIND.

BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

The Autumn wind is rushing by,
And in its wild career
It beareth on its mighty wings
The beauty of the year;
And mournfully its deep dirge rings
Upon the spirit’s ear.

How drear the sound that sweeps along
The forest and the vale,
Those solemn tones, they chill the heart,
Like plaintive funeral wail.
I’ll sit me down on these dead leaves,
And question of its tale.

“What tidings hast thou—where hast been
Since last thy voice I heard,
Since last the quivering of thy wings
The leafless branches stirred,
And frighted from its moss-clad home
Each gentle nestling bird?

“Ah, wherefore didst thou swell the storm
When good ships went to sea;
And why was bent the tall, stout mast—
The cordage rent by thee;
And why, when shattered bark went down,
Thy shout of victory?

“Oh! bring back tidings of the lost
To many an anxious ear;
Bear to the mourner, mighty wind,
The last words thou didst hear;
One token give—some simple things
From those who were so dear.

“And tell us—” “Mortal, why dost ask
These tidings of the wind—
Dost think that of the unfathomed deep
The secrets thou shall find?
As well might hope, with filmy thread,
The storm’s wild rage to bind.

“If o’er the ocean I have swept,
And lashed its waves to heaven,
While high before me on the surge
The hapless bark was driven,
And loud and fearful rose the cry
Of men from warm life riven.

“Or if I kissed the pale, calm brow
Of some fair bride of death,
And colder made the cold pure snow
Where froze her heart aneath,
And mingled with mine own low moan,
Her last faint flitting breath.

“If I have stilled the infant’s sob
Upon its mother’s breast,
While closer, closer in her arms
Her treasured one was pressed,
Until my wailing lullaby
Had hushed the babe to rest.

“I did His bidding who doth hold
In his all-powerful hand
The whirlwind that hath swept in might
O’er ocean-wave and land;
I questioned not why such things were—
Can mortal understand?

“Enough, that thou hast wept the dead,
Since last was heard my tone;
Enough, that thy poor human heart
Has sorrowed not alone;
Enough, that when thou hearest now,
I tell of treasures gone.

“There has been beauty in my path,
And I have whispered low
To rose-buds till their cheek has flushed;
Have fanned eve’s crimson glow,
And dimpled founts, where sunbeams danced,
And mingled with their flow.

“Many a shout from a merry troop
Of children at their play,
And gladsome tone of mirth and joy
Have I borne in my flight away;
And odors of heaven my wings have caught
Where the holy knelt to pray.

“Do thou His bidding—question not,
Nor cower like frighted dove,
There’s a home where the storm-winds never sweep,
In the heaven of heavens above.
Thy jewels are garnered in that bright land
With their God—and God is Love.”

* * * * *

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

In golden dreams the night goes by,
And sweet the world of sleep to me;
For, moon-like ’mid her starry sky,
My brightest dream is still of thee.

As swells the sea beneath the glance
Of moonbeams in their midnight play,
So ’neath thine eyes my bosom pants,
My heart’s deep midnight wakes in day.
A.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie. By Henry Wordsworth Longfellow.
Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

We are glad that Professor Longfellow has, in this volume, produced a poem which, while it indicates his capacity as a writer, is practically a triumphant answer to various depreciating criticisms on his writings. It has been said that his strength lay in small lyrics and didactics; that he had not sufficient force of feeling and imagination to create a poem. Here is a long and elaborate effort, extending to some hundred and sixty pages, where the strictest unity of effect is combined with great variety of character, incident, scenery, sentiment, and description. It has been said that his love of thought, if not his imagery and ideas, were borrowed from foreign sources, and that he rather polished than created. Here is a poem almost entirely American, blooming with flowers, and fragrant with odors peculiar to his own continent, and reflecting in its beautiful verse the streams, valleys, and mountains of his native land. It has been said that a certain foppery and effeminate elegance characterized his fancy; and that he dared not trust himself in the delineation of actual homely objects, where the poetic effect could not be produced by cunning combinations of words, but must result from the exercise of a pure and bright imagination. Here is a poem, in which whole pages are devoted to the delineation of humble, hearty farmers and mechanics, evincing an almost Chaucerian trust in things as opposed to words, giving clear pictures of objects and characters, replete with a sweet, humane humor, and producing poetry of effect by intensity and clearness of imaginative conception. Basil, the blacksmith, and Benedict, are as vivid and true as the delineations of Crabbe. Any farmer or smith would instantly recognize them as genuine. Yet the poet, by his subtil power of discerning the spirit beneath the rough external appearance, has given them an intrinsic beauty and dignity which would entitle them to rank with kings. He has, with a severe simplicity, fixed his gaze steadily on the human heart and soul, and we recognize in his delineations, humanity as well as the externals of rural life.

If Mr. Longfellow has in this poem thus practically illustrated his possession of rare powers, for which a few critics have not given him credit, he has also done something which, from the time of Sidney, has been pronounced impossible by English criticism—he has written a long narrative poem in hexameter verse, and managed it so admirably, that it seems the best he could have chosen for his purpose. We cannot conceive of the poem as being recast in heroics, octosyllabics, blank verse, or the Spenserian stanza, without essential injury to its effect, and a limitation of its range of character and description. In this Mr. Longfellow has clearly performed “the impossible;” and it should be a source of gratification to every American, that one of his own countrymen has achieved what no English poet has been able to perform, and what few have dared to attempt. The composition of a poem in hexameter verse, which can be read with as much ease and delight as “Gertrude of Wyoming,” we conceive to be the most original peculiarity of this original work.

The character of Evangeline is, perhaps, Mr. Longfellow’s most beautiful creation. It is both conceived and sustained with wonderful force and truth. The sweetness, purity, energy, holiness, and naturalness of the character, as displayed in her life-long wanderings, the unforced religious elevation which envelopes her, and through her the whole poem;

—“The hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience,”

which she endures from her early youth to that period when, old and worn with constant endeavor, she presses the lifeless head of her long-sought betrothed to her bosom, and “meekly bows her own, and murmurs, ‘Father, I thank thee,’” all combine to consecrate her to the heart and imagination as one of those pure conceptions of humanity, which none who once cherishes will willingly let die. The author has well addressed the class of readers who will appreciate the deep seriousness of his purpose, in a few of the opening lines:

“Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient;
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion;
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.”

We cannot refrain from making a few extracts from this poem, although we must warn our readers that they can obtain no clear idea of its merits, and the artistical relation, of the characters to each other, and the scenery to the characters, without reading the whole. We will guarantee that it possesses sufficient interest to be read at one sitting.

We will first give a few lines partially indicating some of the characters. Benedict, Evangeline’s father, is thus described:

“Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters;
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered with snow-flakes;
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the
oak-leaves.”
• • • • • • • •
“In-door, warm by the wide-mouth fire-place, idly the farmer
Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the flames and the
smoke-wreaths
Struggled together like foes in a burning city.
Faces clumsily carved in oak on the back of his arm-chair
Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter plates on the dresser
Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of armies the sunshine.
Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of Christmas,
Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers before him
Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Burgundian vineyards.”

The following is a picture of the good notary:

“Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of the ocean,
Bent, but not broken, by age, was the form of the notary public;
Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the maize, hung
Over his shoulders; his forehead was high; and glasses with horn bows
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom supernal.
Father of twenty children was he, and more than a hundred
Children’s children rode on his knee, and heard his great watch tick.”

The blacksmith, the very impersonation of strength, is well delineated; but we have only space for a few lines:

“Silenced but not convinced, when the story was ended, the blacksmith
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but findeth no language;
And all his thoughts congealed into lines on his face, as the vapors
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes in the winter.”

The following view of the little maiden on a Sunday morn, is very beautiful:

“But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her.
When she had passed it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.”

The descriptions of rural life in Acadie, of the scenery of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, of the wilds of Oregon, are replete with force, beauty, and finely chosen details. They are all too long for short extracts to give an adequate impression of their excellence; and besides, the author has connected the scenery which surrounds the heroine with her feelings on the occasion of viewing it. The description of the burning village is grand, but we have space only for a few lines:

“Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were
Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, _like the quivering hands of
a martyr_.
Then as the winds seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and,
uplifting,
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled.”

The following exquisite passage, on the mocking-bird in the far west, is, perhaps, the finest and most life-like description in the poem:

“Then from a neighboring thicket, the mocking-bird, wildest of
singers,
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o’er the water,
Shook from his little throat such floods of delicious music,
That the whole air, and the woods, and the waves, seemed silent to
listen.
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad, then soaring to madness
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied Bacchantes.
Then single notes were heard, in sorrowful low lamentation,
Till, having gathered them all, he flung them abroad in derision,
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the tree-tops
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower on the branches.”

Here we have a view of our own city, for which we are reasonably grateful to the poet:

“In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware’s waters,
Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn the apostle,
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the city he founded.
There all the air is balm, and the peach is the emblem of beauty,
And the streets still re-echo the names of the trees of the forest,
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose haunts they molested.”

Mr. Longfellow shows in this poem, together with much that is new, his usual felicity and breadth of imagery and comparison. We cannot take leave of his book more pleasantly than in quoting a few of his separate excellencies of thought or language:

“And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps,
As out of Abraham’s tent young Ishmael wandered with Hagar.”
• • • • • • • •
“Life had been long astir in the village, and clamorous labor
Knocked with its hundred hands at the golden gates of the morning.”
• • • • • • • •
“Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the chamber.
In the dead of the night she heard the whispering rain fall
Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore tree by the window.
Keenly the lightning flashed, and the voice of the neighboring thunder
Told her that God was in heaven, and governed the world he created.”
• • • • • • • •
“Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate whisper,
Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her forward.”
• • • • • • • •
“Whither my heart has gone, there follows my hand, and not elsewhere;
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and illumines the
pathway,
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden in darkness.”
• • • • • • • •
“Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden
Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and
confessions
Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthusian.”
• • • • • • • •
“Bright rose the sun the next day; and all the flowers of the garden
Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and anointed his tresses
With the delicious balm that they bore in their vases of crystal.”

The pathos of Evangeline it is impossible to develop in our limited space. The chief beauty of the poem is its unity of interest and feeling. The reader soon comes to admire the unaccustomed movement of the verse, and he is carried onward with its majestic sweep to the conclusion, without any faltering of attention. We end our notice with a portion of the concluding lines, which fitly close the sweet and mournful story of the lovers:

“Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow,
Side by side in their nameless graves the lovers are sleeping.
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church-yard,
In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed,
Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,
Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and for ever;
Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy;
Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their
labors;
Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey.”

* * * * *

_Tam’s Fortnight Ramble, and other Poems. By Thomas Mackellar.
Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._

The modest preface of this elegantly printed volume is enough to smooth the wrinkled front of criticism. The writer is, we believe, an intelligent printer, who has made verse the solace, not the occupation of his life. It would be hard to try his volume by any severe requisitions of criticism. It is hearty, earnest and genuine, and fairly expresses what is in the man. The little poem entitled, “The Editor sat in his Sanctum,” has been very popular. The principal fault of the author is his habit of disturbing the train of serious feeling which he often awakens, by some expressions which trail along with them ludicrous suggestions.

* * * * *

_Appleton’s Railroad and Steamboat Companion, being a Traveler’s
Guide through New England and the Middle States. By W. Williams.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

We allude to this book, not so much because it is the best and most complete traveler’s guide ever published in the United States, as for the information it contains respecting the cost and fares of railroads, and the sketches of every town and village they pass through. It is not until we see them all set down together in one book, that we appreciate the money expended, and the obstacles overcome in building them, and the vast impetus they have given to the productive energies of the country, and to civilization.

* * * * *

_Washington and the Generals of the American Revolution. With
Sixteen Portraits on Steel, from Original Pictures.
Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 2 vols. 12mo._

These volumes contain upward of ninety biographies, varying in extent, according to the importance of the subjects and the means of obtaining accurate information regarding them. As a whole they are interesting, well written, and reliable. A book on so important a subject cannot fail of success.

The best biography in the volume is that of Washington. From the small space in which the events are crowded, the writer had not an opportunity to do justice to his artistical powers, but the view taken of Washington’s mind is the truest and most original we have ever seen. Every American who has been accustomed to consider the Father of his Country, and one of the leaders of his race, as being a man of great virtues but of moderate talents—a view which seems to obtain among the warmest eulogists of Washington—should read the searching and profound remarks with which the writer precedes his narrative. There is one slip of the pen, however, which it may be as well to note. After showing that Washington possessed the most eminent qualities of mind and feeling, he says, toward the end, that Hamilton’s “talents took the form of genius, which Washington’s did not.” The writer should have recollected that he had been describing a high though not obvious genius throughout his eloquent and profound statement; and that he was using the term genius, not in its primal, but in one of its secondary applications.

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_Scenes in the Lives of the Patriarchs and Prophets._

Two years ago Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston issued a beautiful volume, under the title of “_Scenes in the Life of the Saviour_,” and last year succeeded it with “_Scenes in the Lives of the Apostles_.” The last of these works, was prepared under the supervision of the Rev. H. Hastings Weld, a gentleman whose name is familiar to our readers, and who possesses all the qualifications to fit him for the editorship of works of this character. The volumes referred to met with great favor in the literary world; and they are now followed by a third, prepared under the same auspices, entitled, “_Scenes in the Lives of the Patriarchs and Prophets_.” We do but simple justice when we declare that it has seldom fallen to our lot to notice a book which possesses so many and such varied attractions. Mr. Weld has gathered from the best writers the most beautiful of their works, in illustration of his theme, and prepared for the reader a rich literary repast. We are assured that the volume before us will, like those which preceded it, come acceptably before the public, and be a favorite offering during the approaching holyday season.

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_Oregon Missions and Travels over the Rocky Mountains in
1845-6._

Mr. W. J. Cunningham has laid upon our table a handsome volume, bearing this title, published by Mr. Dunigan, of New York. It is from the pen of Father P. J. De Smet, of the Society of Jesus, and embodies an interesting view of the manners and customs, traditions, superstitions, &c., of the Indian tribes of the Rocky Mountains, as gathered by the Reverend Father during an extended missionary tour amongst them. The book will be read with interest, and numerous lithographic illustrations of the text add to the attractiveness of its pages.

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_The Mirror of Life_ is the title of a magnificent volume which Messrs. Lindsay & Blackiston have published, the matter of which is entirely original. It is ornamented with a number of plates, beautifully and expressly prepared by American artists, and the letter-press is really superb. Mrs. L. C. Tuthill, who edits the work, has acquitted herself admirably, and has gathered together many choice literary gems.

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_The Crater, or Vulcan’s Peak, by J. Fenimore Cooper, Author of
“Miles Wallingford,” “The Pathfinder” &c._

Mr. Cooper is so great a favorite with the American public that any thing coming from his pen will be sought for with avidity. We do not regard “The Crater” as one of the best of his works, but coming from almost any other living writer it would be regarded as extraordinary. The invention of Mr. Cooper seems to be inexhaustible; age cannot stale nor custom wither his infinite variety; and we have in “The Crater,” and especially in the scenes descriptive of the working of the “Old Rancocus” among the breakers, evidence that the genius which has won the admiration of all civilized communities, still holds its wand with an unrelaxed grasp, and possesses spells powerful as at the first. His sea-stories surpass those of Smollet even in power and verisimilitude, while they bear no taint of his grossness. The best of these, the ocean tale, “Rose Budd,” now in the course of publication in this Magazine, has been pronounced, by all who have read it, one of the most fascinating and valuable contributions to American literature.

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_The Arabian Nights._

A beautiful and cheap edition of this universal favorite among the young, has been issued, and a copy has been laid upon our desk by Messrs. Zieber & Co. To speak of the work would be supererogatory, but we may remark that all which typographical skill and enterprise could do to add attraction to it, has been done by the publishers.

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_The Christiad._

A volume of poems on various subjects, of which the principal one is entitled The Christiad, has been published by the author, _William Alexander, Esq., A. M._ The work is brought out in handsome style, and a cursory examination induces us to believe that it contains many passages of merit.

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DESCRIPTION OF THE FASHION PLATE.

Toilette de Ville.—Dress of violet colored satin, _à la Reine_; skirt plain; corsage high, _à la Puritan_; hat of shaded yellow satin, and ornamented with a shaded feather, or with shaded garnets velvet; sleeves large, slit half way up the arm, and falling back upon the sides.

Toilette de Bal.—Dress of white muslin; skirt ornamented with three rows of embroidery, in festoons, or scollops, with large spaces, and surmounted right and left by a bouquet, composed of three daisies, with foliage. The same trimming of embroidery and flowers on the corsage, which is very low, with the point somewhat rounded, and without sleeves. The head-dress, in perfect keeping with the toilette, is composed of a (_franche_) crown of daisies, those of the front part of the head very small, and those of the sides and back much larger.

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The sketch by Fanny Forester published in our last was sent originally to the publisher of Graham’s Magazine, and was set up from the manuscript for our last number. We mention this to correct a misapprehension of the newspaper press, and to relieve the author from any imputation. The fault was our own, in leaving the article so long unpublished.

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for preparation of the eBook.

page 295, _perfume_ I might loose. ==> _perfume_ I might lose. page 297, he replied. “Her’s ==> he replied. “Hers page 315, for the childrens’ ==> for the children’s page 322, in each others ==> in each other’s page 328, days they past ==> days they passed page 328, long wolve’s tails ==> long wolves’ tails page 331, life in Arcadie, of ==> life in Acadie, of

[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 6, December 1847]