Chapter III (4)

These regiments, commanded by General Warner, arrived at Longueil on the morning of the same day that Carleton was preparing to cross, but did not display their force until the British had nearly reached the shore. He then suddenly opened upon them with both musketry and artillery, killing many of the soldiers, and scattering and disabling their boats. By a most fortunate coincidence, at the same time, and with similar orders, Easton, Brown, and Livingston approach McLean, who, losing all hope of support from Carleton, hastily withdrew to his boats and descended the St. Lawrence.

This gratifying intelligence was immediately communicated to General Montgomery, who presented them in a written form to the commandant of St. John’s, urging the impossibility of his deriving any relief from Carleton, and the useless effusion of blood, which must necessarily follow any attempt to prolong the defense. After proper consideration the garrison surrendered. The next step to be taken, was a rapid movement on Montreal, but which was much impeded by the disaffection of the troops; this was only overcome by a promise of discharge at Montreal. Under this arrangement, he was enabled to display a force in front of the town, which on the 12th of November secured to him a full and peaceable possession of it, and of eleven armed vessels left by the enemy. Though now master of a great part of Canada, Montgomery’s labors, far from becoming lighter or fewer, were much augmented in both number and character.

The pursuit of Carleton, (who had retreated to his fleet, with the hope of making his escape through that avenue; but finding this impossible, entered a small boat with muffled oars, and at midnight passed through the American fleet without being perceived and hurried on to Quebec,) and an experiment on the strength of Quebec, were objects sufficiently indicated by his own judgment, and the hopes of the nation. To prosecute so desperate an action required means of which he was greatly deficient.

His situation described in a letter to R. R. Livingston, then a member of Congress, is a faithful picture of the embarrassments under which he labored. He says:

“I need not tell you that until Quebec is taken, Canada is unconquered; and that to accomplish this we must resort to siege, investment, or storm. The first of these is out of the question, from the difficulty of making trenches in a Canadian winter, and the greater difficulty of living in them, if we could make them; secondly, from the nature of the soil, which, as I am at present instructed, renders mining impracticable, and, were this otherwise, from the want of an engineer having sufficient skill to direct the process; and thirdly, from the fewness and lightness of our artillery, which is quite unfit to break walls like those of Quebec. Investment has fewer objections, and might be sufficient, were we able to shut out entirely from the garrison and town the necessary supplies of food and fuel, during the winter, but to do this well (the enemy’s works being very extensive and offering many avenues to the neighboring settlements,) will require a large army, and from present appearances mine will not, when brought together, much if at all exceed eight hundred combatants. Of Canadians I might be able to get a considerable number, provided I had hard money, with which to clothe, feed, and pay their wages; but this is wanting. Unless, therefore, I am soon and amply reinforced, investment, like siege must be given up.

“To the storming plan there are fewer objections; and to this we must come at last. If my force be small, Carleton’s is not great. The extensiveness of his works, which, in case of investment, would favor him, will in the other case favor us. Masters of our secret, we may select a particular time and place for attack, and to repel this the garrison must be prepared at all times and places; a circumstance, which will impose upon it incessant watching and labor by day and by night; which, in its undisciplined state, must breed discontents that may compel Carleton to capitulate, or perhaps to make an attempt to drive us off. In this last idea, there is a glimmering of hope. Wolfe’s success was a lucky hit, or rather a series of such hits. All sober and scientific calculation was against him, until Montcalm, permitting his courage to get the better of his discretion, gave up the advantages of his fortress and came out to try his strength on the plain.

“Carleton, who was Wolfe’s quartermaster-general, understands this well; and, it is to be feared, will not follow the Frenchman’s example. In all these views, you will discover much uncertainty; but of one thing you may be sure, that, unless we do something before the middle of April, the game will be up; because by that time the river may be open and let in supplies and reinforcements to the garrison in spite of any thing we can do to prevent it; and again, because my troops are not engaged beyond that term, and will not be prevailed upon to stay a day longer. In reviewing what I have said, you will find that my list of wants is a long one, _men, money, artillery, and clothing accommodated to the climate_. Of _ammunition_ Carleton took care to leave little behind him at this place. What I wish and expect is, that all this be made known to Congress, with a full assurance, that, if I fail to execute their wishes or commands, it shall not be from any negligence of duty, or infirmity of purpose on my part. _Vale, cave ne mandata frangas._”

On the 19th of November, General Arnold having crossed the St. Lawrence in safety, was joined by Montgomery, and on the 4th of December, took a position before Quebec. The first thing was to obtain a knowledge of the extent and structure of the enemy’s works; the force and strength of his garrison, and the means possessed by the inhabitants to supply the wants of the troops.

Montgomery having satisfied himself on these points, next presented a summons to surrender in the customary form, a cannonade of the fort from a battery of five guns and one howitzer; a display of the American force in full view of the British garrison, in the hope that the enemy would forego a contest; but this was done without producing any effect. At this moment a circumstance took place which threatened the whole project with defeat. Three companies of Arnold’s detachment (whose term of service was on the point of expiring) having taken offence at the conduct of their commanding officer, the cause of which offence was never properly explained; seized the present occasion to make known their intention of quitting the army, unless, in the approaching movement they were permitted to attach themselves to some other corps. Upon investigating the affair, General Montgomery found the complaints so absurd, that he promptly determined, in justice to Arnold, to reject the proposal. But before officially announcing his decision, he thought it most prudent to try what could be effected by expostulation; in this attempt he finally succeeded, and brought them back to a sense of good order and obedience, without coercive means. The mind of Montgomery was not yet at ease, and suspecting that the flame of the late controversy might not be extinguished, he resolved to call a council of war, in which he submitted two questions,—“Shall we attempt the reduction of Quebec by a night attack? And if so, shall the lower town be the place attacked?” This seemed to infuse new life into the officers, and both questions were affirmatively decided, the troops were ordered to parade in three divisions at two o’clock in the morning of the 31st of December; the New York regiments and part of Easton’s Massachusetts militia, at Holland House; the Cambridge detachment and Lamb’s company of artillerists, with one field-piece at Captain Morgan’s quarters; and the two small corps of Livingston and Brown at their respective grounds of parade. To the first and second of these divisions were assigned the two assaults on the opposite sides of the lower town; and to the third, a series of demonstrations or feigned attacks on different parts of the upper. This arrangement was made to meet the expectations of colonies, who looked to Montgomery for the capture of the capital, and speedy reduction of the province. But they understood little of Montgomery’s difficulties; the steep heights which fortified the upper town rendered the passage from one to the other almost impassable. The number of soldiers in the garrison consisted of about two hundred and seventy marines and regulars, eight hundred militia, and four hundred and fifty seamen. The movement began between three and four o’clock in the morning, from the Heights of Abraham; Montgomery advancing at the head of the first division by the river road, round the foot of Cape Diamond to Aunce au Mere; and Arnold at the head of the second, through the suburbs of St. Roque, to the Saut de Matelots. Both roads were so obstructed by snow and thick masses of ice, as to render their progress very difficult. These obstacles being at last surmounted, the first barrier was approached, vigorously attacked, and rapidly carried, and the troops after a moment’s pause pushed on to the second.

A moment, and but a moment, was now employed to re-excite the ardor of the troops, which the fatigue of the march and the severity of the weather had somewhat abated. “Men of New York,” exclaimed Montgomery, “you will not fear to follow where your general leads—march on!” then placing himself again in the front, he pressed eagerly forward to the second; he assisted with his own hands in pulling up some pickets which hindered the march. Near this place a barrier had been made across the road, and from the windows of a low house, which formed part of it, were planted two cannon. At his appearing upon a little rising ground, at the distance of about twenty or thirty yards, the guns were discharged, and the general with his aide-de-camps fell dead. Thus terminated the life and labors of Major-general Richard Montgomery, in the thirty-ninth year of his age.

Upon hearing of the death of their commander, both divisions made a disorderly and hasty retreat to the Heights of Abraham.

The fortune of the day being now decided, the corpse of the fallen general was eagerly sought for and soon found. When the corpse of Montgomery was shown to Carleton, the heart of that noble officer melted. They had served in the same regiment under Wolfe, and the most friendly relation existed between them throughout the whole of the French war. The lieutenant-governor of Quebec, M. Cramahé, ordered a coffin to be prepared for him, and decently interred within the walls of the city, where friends and enemies united in expressions of sorrow, as his remains were conveyed to their final resting-place. Ramsey, in his History of the Revolution, has the following appropriate remarks:

“Few men have ever fallen in battle so much regretted on both sides as General Richard Montgomery. His many amiable qualities had procured him an uncommon share of private affection; and his great abilities an equal proportion of public esteem. Being a sincere lover of liberty, he had engaged in the American cause from principle, and quitted the enjoyment of an easy fortune, and the highest domestic felicity, to take an active share in the fatigues and dangers of a war instituted for the defense of the community of which he was an adopted member. His well-known character was almost equally esteemed by the friends and foes of the side of which he espoused. In America he was celebrated as a martyr to the liberties of mankind; in Great Britain, as a misguided good man, sacrificing to what he supposed to be the rights of his country.

His name was mentioned in Parliament with singular respect. Some of the most powerful speakers in that assembly displayed their eloquence in sounding his praise and lamenting his fate. Those in particular who had been his fellow soldiers in the previous war, expatiated on his many virtues. The minister himself acknowledged his worth, while he reprobated the cause for which he fell. He concluded an involuntary panegyric by saying, “Curse on his virtues, they have undone his country.”

“In this brief story of a short and useful life,” says his biographer, “we find all the elements which enter into the composition of a great man and a distinguished soldier; a happy physical organization, combining strength and activity, and enabling its possessor to encounter laborious days and sleepless nights, hunger and thirst, all changes of weather, and every variation of climate.

“To these corporeal advantages was added a mind, cool, discriminating, energetic, and fearless; thoroughly acquainted with mankind, not uninstructed in the literature and sciences of the day, and habitually directed by a high and unchangeable moral sense. That a man so constituted should have won the golden opinions of friends and foes, is not extraordinary. The most eloquent men of the British Senate became his panegyrists; and the American Congress hastened to testify for him their grateful remembrance, profound respect, and high veneration. A monument to his memory was accordingly erected, on which might justly be inscribed the impressive lines of the poet:

‘Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career;
His mourners were two hosts—his friends and foes;
And fitly may the stranger, lingering here,
Pray for his gallant spirit’s bright repose;
For he was Freedom’s Champion, one of those,
The few in number, who had not o’erstept
The charter to chastise, which she bestows
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o’er him wept.’

“To express the high sense entertained by his country of his services, Congress directed a monument of white marble, with the following inscription on it, which was executed by Mr. Cassiers, at Paris, and was placed in front of St. Paul’s church, New York:

THIS MONUMENT
was erected by order of
Congress, 25th January, 1776,
to transmit to posterity
a grateful remembrance of the
patriotism, conduct, enterprise, and
perseverance,
OF MAJOR-GENERAL
RICHARD MONTGOMERY,
who, after a series of successes,
amid the most discouraging
difficulties, fell in the attack
on Quebec,
31st December, 1775,
aged 39 years.

“The remains of General Montgomery, after resting forty-two years at Quebec, were, by a resolution of the Legislature of the State of New York, brought to the city on the 8th day of July, 1818, and deposited with an imposing solemnity suited to the occasion, near the monument erected by order of the United States. The following inscription was placed upon the additional coffin. ‘The State of New York, in honor of General Richard Montgomery, who fell gloriously fighting for the Independence and Liberty of the United States, before the walls of Quebec, the 31st of December, 1775, cause these remains of this distinguished hero to be conveyed from Quebec, and deposited on the 8th day of July, 1818, in St. Paul’s Church, in the city of New York, near the monument erected to his memory.’”

It has been stated in several histories of this lamented officer, that the body was privately interred in the evening by a few soldiers; but this is not true; and justice to his generous adversary requires that we should vindicate the reputation of the lieutenant-general of Canada from such a stigma. John Joseph Henry, Esq., who was under Montgomery, and being taken by the enemy, had an opportunity of witnessing the honors that were paid to his memory, writes thus: “It was on this day that my heart was ready to burst with grief at viewing the funeral of our beloved general. Sir Guy Carleton had, in our former wars with the French, been the friend and fellow-soldier of Montgomery. Though political opinion, perhaps ambition or interest, had thrown these worthies on different sides of the great question, yet the former could not but honor the remains of his quondam friend. About noon the procession passed our quarters. It was a mournful sight. The coffin, covered with a black pall, surmounted by transverse swords, was borne by men. The regular troops, particularly that fine body of men, the seventh regiment, with reversed arms, and scarfs on the left arm, accompanied the corpse to the grave. The funeral of the other officers, both friends and enemies, were performed the same day. Many and deeply heartfelt were the tears of affection shed that day; of affection for those who were no more, and of greeting and thankfulness toward Carleton. The British soldiery and inhabitants appeared affected by the loss of this invaluable man, though he was their enemy. If such men as Washington, Carleton, and Montgomery, had had the entire direction of the adverse war, the contention in the event might have happily terminated to the advantage of both sections of the nation.”

* * * * *

THE TWO PALMS.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

As the last column of a temple vanished,
A Palm-tree, in a city of the West,
Stood, like a hero from his country banished,
A proud though lonely guest.

Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain,
Or radiant valley of some tropic isle,
Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain,
By Jordan or the Nile.

And oft its high and tufted crest beholding,
In each vibration of the arching leaves,
A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding,
As when an exile grieves.

For solemn is the air of isolation,
And that lone offspring of the desert wild
Wore to my eye a look of consecration,
That sympathy beguiled.

No more around it eastern balms were stealing,
But smoke and dingy vapors of the town,
No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling,
Nor caravan sunk down.

Before it once the sandy ridges heaving,
Spread like an ocean, limitless and free,
And the mirage its panorama weaving,
Rose beautiful to see!

Now waves of eager life beneath it swelling,
With restless care mock oriental ease,
And chimney-stacks, tiled roof and murky dwelling,
Shut out the sun and breeze.

Yet even here I marked, each day, appearing
An aged Syrian, sorrowful and calm,
With folded arms, wan smile, and looks endearing
Cast on the lonely Palm.

And once he murmured, as the night descended,
While gazing fondly through unconscious tears,
“Fair tree, _the promise of thy life is ended_,
_For here thou hast no peers_.”

How near the good we distantly are craving!
The Syrian long had weary vigil kept—
One morn his country’s tree was gaily waving—
It blossomed while he slept!

Some far-off nook of that vast city treasured
Another Palm by careless eyes unseen,
That drearily the lingering years had measured,
Yet put forth shoots of green;

Until its ripened flower-dust uplifting,
On the strong currents of the tideless air,
With certain aim to his pent garden drifting,
A mate encountered there!

Thus seeds of Truth their noiseless flight are winging,
And Love instinctively steals through the crowd,
To hearts receptive consolation bringing,
They may not breathe aloud!

Accept the omen, thou who toilest lonely,
And patiently Life’s blossoming await,
Where God has planted thee be faithful only,
And thou shalt conquer Fate!

* * * * *

“A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.”

A SLIGHT SKETCH.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

“Health to the art whose glory is to give
The crowning boon that makes it life to live.”
HOLMES.

Start not, my fastidious reader, when I announce that the young gentleman, in whose favor and fortunes I would enlist your friendly sympathies, as the hero of this sketch, is, or rather was, a _medical student_. Now I am very well aware that medical students are proverbially “hard cases”—wild, spreeing, careless, skeptically inclined young gentlemen, whose handkerchiefs smell of ether, and whose gloves are strongly suggestive of rhubarb; whose talk runs large, with bold jests on _grave subjects_, sly anatomical allusions, and startling hints at something

“Mair horrible and awfu’,
Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”

and whose very laughter has a sort of bony-rattle about it.

But our friend, Will Ashley, fortunately belonged not to the Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen class of Esculapian disciples. He was a man of refinement, intellect, education, and principle—pleasing address, fine person, and good family. Republican as I am, I can but think much of _good blood_—pure and honorable blood, I mean. He had no bravado, no pretension, no recklessness, no skepticism about him. He chose his profession at the first, from a real, natural leaning that way, and pursued it with true enthusiasm and untiring constancy; and this partiality and devotion have been rewarded with the happiest success. Dr. Ashley is now regarded by his many patients, with a remarkable confidence and affection. To them, there seems “healing in the very creak of his shoes on the stairs,” his cheerful smile lights up the sick room like sunshine; his gentle words and sympathetic tones are as balm and “freshening oil” to hearts and minds, wounded and distempered with the body, and his bright laugh and playful wit are a positive tonic to the weak and nervous and fearful. But I am anticipating; my story has perhaps most to do with the student-life of Ashley.

When William was quite young—a mere boy indeed, he became much attached to a pretty cousin of his own—a gentle, dark-eyed, Southern girl, who made her home for some years with his mother and sister, in the quiet, New England city of H——, where she was attending school.

Jessie Archer was, in truth, a lovely creature—with a heart full of all good and kindly feelings—with a soft, endearing manner, but with very little strength of character, or stability of purpose. She tenderly loved her Northern relatives, and parted from them at last, from her cousin William in particular, with many tears and passionate expressions of regret. She was not positively betrothed to this cousin—such a measure would have been opposed by their friends, on account of the extreme youth of the parties—but she knew well his love and his dear hope—that he looked upon her as his future bride, and she was well content with this understanding.

As a matter of course, and lover-like necessity, William Ashley corresponded with his cousin. At first, the letters on both sides were frequent, long, and confidential; but after the first year of absence, those of Miss Jessie changed gradually in their tone, and became “few and far between.” But William, who was faithful and believing, made a thousand kind excuses for this, and continued to write out of his own affectionate and changeless heart. But at length his Jessie ceased to write altogether. Two months went by, and then poor Ashley, in much distressful anxiety, wrote to her, entreating to be told the cause of her strange silence. There came a reply at last—a brief reply, written in the dear, familiar hand, but bearing for a signature, a strange name. She had been a fortnight married to a wealthy Virginia planter.

This home-thrust at his heart by a beloved hand; this sudden annihilation of his dearest hopes, by her whose sweet source and centre they had been, almost prostrated the young student, mind and body. He was proud, sensitive, and twenty-one; he had the heart and was at the age to feel acutely, to suffer and despair. His ambition died out—his energies flagged—then his appetite _went by the board_; his eye grew spiritless, his step heavy, and his cheek pale. “He must give up study,” said his mother. “He must take a journey,” said his sister, speaking one word for him and two for herself. This last proposition, which was strongly pressed, was finally acceded to; and the young gentleman set forth, dispirited and ill, under the care, (“protection,” she called it,) of his charming sister, Ellen. They went directly West, for a visit to the Falls; the very journey which William had always looked forward to as his bridal-tour. Now it seemed but to depress and sadden him the more; he was restless, moody, and abstracted—the very worst traveling-companion possible to have. Ellen found it exceedingly difficult to divert him from his melancholy thoughts and tender recollections, “pleasant and mournful to the soul.” The fine scenery along their route, constantly reminded him of the double pleasure he had anticipated in first viewing it with his beautiful bride.

At Buffalo, our travelers took the afternoon boat for Chippewa. It was a bright and breezy day, early in in July—water, earth and sky were lit up gloriously by the declining sun, as they swept down that grand, immortal river. As the brother and sister stood on deck, silently drinking in the rare beauty of the scene and hour, they noticed a party near them, distinguished amid all the crowd, by a certain quiet elegance of dress and manner, with a bearing of perhaps unconscious superiority. This was a family party, and consisted of an elderly gentleman, Mr. Harley, a wealthy banker, and an honorable citizen of New York—his wife, a sweet, motherly-looking woman—their daughter, Juliet, a fair and delicate girl of eighteen, and their only son, Master Fred, a lad of nine or ten.

Ashley was a thorough republican—poor and proud; and being now more than usually inclined to coldness and reserve, instinctively shrunk from all contact with this party, in whom he at once recognized the air patrician and exclusive. But toward evening, Mr. Harley made some courteous advances, and finally succeeded in getting up quite a free and animated conversation with his young fellow-traveler, with whose well-bred air and thoughtful countenance he had been attracted and impressed. They discoursed on the magnificent scenery around them, then on the battles and sieges, bold generalship and grand fighting which had made classic ground of the wild Niagara frontier; and Ashley, who was an admirable talker, soon became earnest and even eloquent, in spite of himself. All at once, in looking up, he met the beautiful blue eyes of Miss Juliet fixed upon him with evident interest and admiration. The young lady dropped her gaze instantly, while a deep blush suffused her bright, ingenuous face. An involuntary thrill of pleasure agitated the heart of Ashley, and his cold eye kindled with a new fire; but as thought returned—the thought of all the fickleness and coquetry, and heartlessness of woman, his brow clouded, he bit his lip, and with a few hasty words, turned abruptly, and drawing his sister’s arm within his own, walked to the side of the vessel, and there stood, silently and moodily, gazing down into the darkening waters and off into the deepening twilight.

Owing to some detention, the boat was later than usual, so that it was quite dark when they landed at Chippewa. On leaving the boat, Mr. Ashley and his sister found themselves directly behind the party with whom they had been conversing. Mr. Harley looking round and seeing them, began making some inquiries respecting the hotel of which they had made choice, when Master Fred, who, in his boyish independence, was walking alone, suddenly stumbled and fell—fell from the broad plank over which they were passing, into the river below. There were screams and shouts, and rushings to and fro, but no rescue was attempted, until Ashley, breaking from the clinging hold of his sister, leaped boldly into the deep, dark water. For a few moments, which seemed an age to the spectators, he searched in vain along the narrow space between the vessel and the wharf, but finally he espied the lad’s head appearing from under the boat, caught, and drew forth the already insensible child, and greatly exhausted himself, swam back to the plank with his precious burden. They were drawn on board together with joyful shouts and earnest thanksgiving.

As Ashley stood in the gangway, staggering and half blind, the crowd cheering and pressing around him, his sister flung her arms about his neck, and hung upon him, laughing and weeping hysterically. But the poor fellow was faint and chilled, and strove to release himself from her passionate embrace. But just as he stood free, he felt his hand clasped, but gently, timidly, and looking round, saw Miss Harley at his side. She hastily raised that cold, wet hand to her warm, quivering lips, and kissed it gratefully, while her tears, her irrepressible tears, fell upon it, as she murmured—“God bless you! God in heaven bless you!” and then hurried away to attend upon her brother, who had been carried back into the cabin. The little lad soon recovered sufficiently to be able to join the party, who together took their way to the Clifton House.

That night, after supper, which he had served in a private parlor, Mr. Harley sought the room of Ashley—his heart overflowing with gratitude toward the young hero, and his thoughts busy with plans of generous recompense. At the door he met a servant bearing away a wet traveling-suit, which sight quickened even more his warm and kindly feelings. He entered, to find Mr. Ashley wrapt in a dressing-gown, sitting by a table, his head bent down on his hands, a plate of light food, almost untasted, and a cup of tea, half drank, pushed back from before him. He was looking even paler and more spiritless than usual. In fact, our friend was completely exhausted by the excitement and exertion of the evening, and consequently deepened in moodiness and reserve. He rose, however, as his visiter entered, and bowing politely, begged him to be seated. But Mr. Harley came forward, took his hand, and pressing it warmly, looked kindly into that pale, quiet face, his own countenance all a-glow, and tears actually glistening in his deep-set, gray eyes. Ashley cast down his own eyes in painful embarrassment, which Mr. Harley perceiving, took the proffered chair, and strove to converse awhile on indifferent topics. But he soon came round to the subject nearest his heart—dwelt long and at large on his paternal joy and gratitude, not seeming to heed the impatience of his sensitive auditor, and finally closed with,

“I trust that there is some way in which I can _prove_ my gratitude—in part reward you for your generous heroism. Tell me, my dear young friend, can I repay you in any way?”

To Ashley’s jealous ear there was a tone of patronage—an insulting jingle of the banker’s purse in these words, at which he involuntarily drew himself up, and curled his short upper-lip; and when Mr. Harley earnestly repeated his question, thus:

“Is there no way in which I can serve you?” he replied with a sort of nonchalant hauteur,

“Yes; by never mentioning this little circumstance again. I but did for your son what I would do for any fellow-creature. It was _a mere act of humanity_, I assure you.”

Mr. Harley, quite taken aback, chilled, and withal deeply hurt, rose at once, and with a stately bow and a cold “good-night,” parted from the rescuer of his child, the young hero, with whom five minutes before he would have divided his fortune. Tired and indifferent, Ashley flung himself upon his bed, and slept soundly till late in the morning; then rose with a headache, made a light breakfast, and hurried down to Table-Rock with his sister, who had been up since daybreak, impatiently awaiting his appearance.

Ashley was long lost in that first contemplation of the grand scene before him; his soul seemed born to a new life—a new world of beauty, and power, and dread, overwhelming sublimity.

The day was wondrously beautiful, and floods of sunlight were mingling with the waters, and pouring over that stupendous precipice; into the darkest deeps fell the fearless, glad sunbeams, sounding like golden plummets those terrible abysses. There hung the rainbow, and Ellen, as she gazed, remarked a wild-bird, who seemed sporting in the spray, pass through the illuminated arch, and become glorified in its midst; and it seemed to her like an innocent, confiding spirit, coming near to the might and grandeur of Deity, through the beautiful gateway of love.

Ashley was at length roused from his trance of high-wrought rapture, by feeling a small, timid hand laid on his arm, and turned to see Master Fred standing at his side, with a faint glow on his cheek, and an affectionate pleasure shining in his sunken eye. The lad, to-day something of an invalid, was accompanied and half-supported by a servant. Ashley felt an instinctive attraction toward this child, who was a fine, intelligent boy, by the way, and talked with him more kindly and familiarly than he had ever felt disposed to converse with the elder Harley.

On leaving the rock, the Ashleys overtook Mr. Harley with his wife and daughter. Juliet blushed painfully, as her eye met that of William, but he bowed and smiled, as she bade the brother and sister, “Good-morning.” Mr. Harley merely lifted his hat, but Mrs. Harley, who had been so absorbed the evening previous by her intense anxiety for her son, as almost to forget his brave rescuer, now, dropping the arm of her husband, and grasping the hand of the young student, poured the whole story of her boundless gratitude, of her deep, immeasurable joy, into his _not_ willing ear. But after all, the blessing of that mother sunk into his heart—a good heart, though somewhat wayward, and sadly out of harmony with life just now.

A short time after this, Ashley again saw Miss Harley. They met in a fearful place, behind the sheet, on Termination Rock—the secret, dread abode, the dim, awful sanctuary of sublimity.

Even then, Ashley, exalted by poetry, solemnized by grandeur as he was, could but remark the miracle of beauty which made the young lady look lovely as ever in the rude, grotesque costume, the clumsy waterproof dress provided for this adventurous expedition. He next noticed the fearless, yet awe-struck enthusiasm, the high, rapt expression of her face, as, sheltering her eyes from the storm of spray with her fair hand, she gazed upward, to where the huge columns of water, dark-green, and snowy-white, leaped over the shelving precipice, and plunged with a thunderous roar into the black abyss at her side.

In after days he often thought of that fair creature, as she thus appeared—so young, so delicate, yet so brave—so lost to herself almost to life, in a deep trance of awe and adoration. He often thought of her thus, as his last sight of her; for after this they parted—he and Ellen passing over to the American side, saw no more of the Harleys during their brief stay at the Falls.

Ashley was, almost in spite of himself, much improved in health and spirits by travel; and on his return resumed his studies with a sort of dogged devotion, if not with all his old enthusiasm. Yet sometimes, as formerly, the vision of a fair being would come to disturb and distract his thoughts—would flit across his humble room, be almost palpably present to his waking dreams. But it hardly seemed the “lovely young Jessie,” the “beloved of his early years;” this was a fairer, slighter form, clad, oddly enough, in a heavy dress of yellow oil-cloth, with a sort of hood, which, half-falling back, revealed a sweet face, all glorified by sublime adoration. He saw—how distinctly he saw, the deep, abstracted eyes, the bright, parted lips—ah, those lips! whenever he recalled _them_ by some mysterious association, his eye would fall on his own right hand—a tolerably symmetrical hand, surely, but with nothing more peculiar about it, that I could ever see.

The fall succeeding the journey to Niagara, William Ashley received his diploma, and the next spring opened an office in his native city. Not possessing wealth, or much family-influence, and being young and modest, he had at first few, very few calls. But he was always at his post, never employed his leisure unworthily, or was idle or desponding. He studied as diligently as ever, and waited patiently for those patients whom he rested assured, in the future—the fair, golden future—were “bound to come.”

It happened that the young physician’s way home from his office, lay past, and very near to the elegant residence of Mr. N——, a wealthy and somewhat distinguished citizen of H——; and, pouring through the open windows of this mansion, he one night heard the sweetest singing that had ever met his ear. It was a clear, fresh contralto voice, artistic in execution, yet sweet, and full of feeling.

Ashley, a fine singer himself, was passionately fond of music; and he lingered long before that house, walking up and down beneath the thick shadows of the grand old elms.

This was but the beginning of pleasure; night after night, for some weeks, found the young physician in the same spot, when he was almost always so happy as to hear that rare, delicious singing, thrilling and quivering through the still and dewy air. It was generally accompanied by the piano; but sometimes he would see a gay group on the piazza, and among them a slight figure in white, looking very fair and delicate in the moonlight; then there would come the tinkling of a guitar, and sweet love-lays of Italy, or wild ballads of Spain.

And thus it went on, till Ashley, the invisible listener, had become altogether enchanted, spell-bound—_in love with a voice_, till fast and far in the dim distance, faded away that late familiar vision in yellow oil-cloth and falling hood, and fair, kindling countenance. He now spent as many hours over his books as ever, but his thoughts, alas! were far enough from the page; for, to tell the truth, and expose his boyish folly, he was constantly dreaming out the form and features of the dear, unknown—of her with the voice. Unlike his former self, he now looked searchingly at the fair promenaders whom he met on the street, and he there saw pretty young ladies enough, but no one in whom he recognized his idea of the sweet singer.

At length the hour of good fortune came alike to the physician and to the lover.

Just at sunset, one pleasant evening, a young horseman came dashing up to Dr. Ashley’s office, to summon him to a lady who had dislocated her ankle in springing from her horse. Our hero’s heart beat quick as the messenger directed him to the house of Mr. N. The doctor was shown into a small parlor, where, on a lounge, clad in a white wrapper, reclined his first patient. A wealth of rich, golden hair, somewhat disheveled, first attracted Ashley’s eye; there was something strangely familiar in those bright curls, and he was not taken altogether by surprise when Mrs. N—— presented him to her niece, “_Miss Harley_.”

The lady was lying with her hands over her face, to conceal the tears drawn forth by her acute suffering; but at the mention of the doctor’s name, she removed them, and looked up eagerly, smiling in the midst of her pain, with pleasure and surprise.

But this was no time for more than a simple recognition, and the next moment saw the doctor bending professionally over the throbbing and swollen foot of the sufferer.

The setting of the dislocated joint caused this young girl excruciating torture; but she bore herself through all with heroic patience—the silent resignation of a true woman.

Yet when all was over—the ankle bound up, and a composing draught administered, as the doctor took leave of his interesting patient, he saw that her cheek was deathly pale, and that her lips quivered convulsively.

From that time, for some weeks, day after day, the young physician might have been seen (by Mrs. N——) kneeling by the side of Miss Juliet’s couch—bending over that poor foot, bathing and dressing it, watching with intense interest the subsiding of the swelling, and the disappearance of the discoloration, till it became at last white and delicate, like its mate and former fellow-traveler.

It is strange how, through all this time, the late music-mad young gentleman existed without listening to the beloved voice, for now, through the windows of that parlor, through the vines and roses of that piazza, no sweet singing floated out into the moonlight.

I told you, dear reader, that Dr. Ashley used to kneel by Juliet’s side to dress her ankle; but when that was better—very much better, almost well, indeed, and clad in silken hose and slipper—it happened that once, when quite alone with his fair patient, at the dreamy twilight hour, the doctor suddenly found himself, by the force of habit, I suppose, in his old position. This time Miss Juliet bent over him till her hand lay on his shoulder—till her long, bright curls touched his forehead, till they mingled in with his own dark locks. She said but a word or two, and the young practitioner sprung up, impulsively and joyfully, and took a prouder position by the side of his beloved patient. His arm was soon about her slight waist—to support her, probably, as her recent indisposition had left her but weak; her hand was in his own; and as he held it thus, he mentally observed—“Quite the quickest pulse I have ever felt.”

Miss Harley called herself well, but she did not seem perfectly so, while she remained with her relatives in H——; at least her physician called more and more frequently, nor did it appear that her poor ankle ever quite regained its strength; for when she took her evening strolls with Dr. Ashley, they were observed to saunter along slowly, and she was seen to lean heavily on the arm of her companion.

It is said that there are men who think that a slight lameness imparts a new interest to a lovely woman—and Dr. Ashley was probably one of these.

One fine morning, early in September, Mr. Ogden Harley, the rich banker, and respectable citizen, was seated in his cushioned arm-chair, in his elegant library, in his princely residence in Waverly Place, in the city of Gotham. He was looking as easy and comfortable as usual—as well pleased with the world, and its ways in general, and its ways toward himself in particular; and even more than usually happy and genial.

Mr. Harley was not alone on this morning. There was then and there present a young man, rather tall, and quite handsome, modestly, yet elegantly dressed—(our friend, the doctor, to let you into the secret, dear reader)—who, with a very red face, and in a manner half proud, half fearful, was just making a confidant of the old gentleman—telling him a love-story of his own, in short. The good man seemed greatly interested in this history, badly told as it was; and at its close, he rose, quite hastily for one of his aldermanic proportions, and going up to his visiter, and laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, said,

“With all my heart—with all my heart! I will give you my Juliet, and place her fortune in your hands—for I honor and like you, young man.”

Ashley, quite overcome, could only stammer out,

“Oh, Mr. Harley, my dear sir, how can I ever repay you for this goodness—this great kindness!”

“_By never mentioning this little circumstance again!_” replied Mr. Harley, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. “I saw, my dear boy, what a sad condition you were in, and this is A Mere Act of Humanity, I assure you.’”

* * * * *

KING WITLAF’S DRINKING HORN.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed;

That whenever they sat at their revels
And drank from the golden bowl
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty,
They remembered one Saint more.

And the Reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil’s homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead!

Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!”

* * * * *

STANZAS:

TO A FRIEND, WHO COMPLAINED OF WINTER AS A SEASON OF ENDURANCE.

BY A. D. WILLIAMS.

What if the snowy drapery
Of winter clothe the earth,
And rude “north-westers” chase thee
To the quiet fireside hearth?

And if the sportive wildness
Of others please thee not;
If summer’s balmy mildness
Comes not from grove or grot?

If in the narrowed towers
Of granite walls and gray,
Thy spirit mourns the flowers,
Through all the live-long day?

The muses still are beaming
Their radiance on thy way;
With light and beauty gleaming—
Dread shadows flit away.

And Art the breast is filling
With generous impulse, free;
The Poet’s lyre is thrilling
The soul with melody.

The student’s vigil proffers
The hope-lit spirit’s aim;
And honored duty offers
What truth and virtue claim.

And friendship true is smiling
In confidence and joy,
The lonely hours beguiling.
With sweet and loved employ.

Nor think that oft it fadeth,
On earth’s cold chilling stream,
Through many a heart pervadeth,
More than a “poet’s dream!”

And should thy soul be weary
Of mundane joys and ill,
Yet think not winter dreary,
For heaven the soul can thrill.

Bright, strong-winged Hope is pointing
In gladness to the skies,
And Faith, with Heaven’s anointing,
Bids brighter visions rise.

Then, call not winter dreary,
Sigh not for summer’s joy,
Nor let thy soul be weary
With dutiful employ.

* * * * *

THE RUMSEYS:

OR THE PEOPLE WHO KNEW EVERY BODY AND WHOM NOBODY KNEW.

BY AGNES L. GORDON.

“My dear Mrs. Armitage, I am delighted to see you; I have just this moment heard of your return, and hastened to claim the privilege of an old friend, in being the first to welcome you home again.”

So saying, little Mrs. Grey carefully navigated her way amid the piles of trunks and band-boxes that strewed the hall, and warmly saluted her friend, who was superintending the arrangement of the baggage.

After the first greetings were over, Mrs. Armitage led her visiter into the drawing-room, that looked cheerless enough, draped in brown Holland and shrouded in gloom. When the ladies were seated upon one of the veiled divans, Mrs. Armitage said—

“I need not apologize to you, my dear Mrs. Grey, for the disorder in which you find me. We have but just arrived, and the covers are not yet removed from the furniture—nothing is in readiness for our reception, because our return is entirely unexpected. Mr. Armitage was obliged to be in the city, or we should have staid at least a fortnight longer. I am quite at a loss to know how you should so soon have heard of our arrival.”

“Why, I called upon Mrs. Leonard, this morning,” replied her guest, “and there met your friend Mrs. Rumsey, who came down in the cars with your party; she said she had just parted with you, and on that hint I rushed off, regardless of etiquette, that I might give you the warm welcoming I felt.”

Mrs. Armitage pressed her friend’s hand in acknowledgment, and then with a puzzled look exclaimed:

“Mrs. Rumsey! Who in the name of wonder is she? I know no person of that name, neither have I any recollection of it.”

“Not know her!” ejaculated Mrs. Grey, now surprised in turn. “Not know her!—impossible! Why she was entertaining Mrs. Leonard with a long account of your sayings and doings, and went off in ecstasies over Helen’s beauty and musical talent.”

“Very strange!” repeated the other lady, musingly. “Mrs. Rumsey—Rumsey—I cannot remember any such person. However, there were so many people at the hotel that I did not see half of them, and of course only made acquaintance with those who pleased me. Certainly this Mrs. Rumsey was not among the number.”

“Well, you certainly must have had some conversation with her,” said Mrs. Grey, “else she would not have repeated remarks that you made to her, and beside she told us how very intimate Helen was with her daughters, and what delightful strolls you all took together. Perhaps you have not heard her name aright?”

“Perhaps not,” answered Mrs. Armitage; “what kind of looking person is she?”

“Oh!” replied her friend, smiling, “she has not much in appearance to delight one, certainly, though her _tout ensemble_ is rather striking, and I should think not easily forgotten. She is rather short, and rather thin, with a quantity of light frizzed curls, surmounted with pink flowers and marabout feathers—she seems to make up in drapery what she lacks in solidity, and wears deep flounces, and a quantity of lace trimming, beside a very elegant watch and chatelaine. Altogether, she was rather over-dressed, but must be of some standing, for I heard her mention many of our first families in the most familiar manner.”

“And perhaps with no more claim to their acquaintance than she has to mine,” replied Mrs. Armitage in a provoked tone, for she prided herself a little upon her rank in the world of fashion. “I am sure I have no acquaintance with the person whom you describe, and as for her daughters—but here comes Helen, let her answer for herself.”

As she spoke Helen Armitage entered the room. She was a graceful, beautiful girl of eighteen, with a decided style, though quiet in manner, and justified the proud glance which her mother bestowed upon her, as she advanced to welcome Mrs. Grey, who was deservedly loved by all the family.

“My dear Helen how well you are looking,” exclaimed their visiter. “Really you fully deserve all the encomiums that I have heard lavished upon you this morning by the mother of your friends, the Miss Rumseys.”

“Helen, who are these Rumseys who seem to know us so well? I have no recollection of them,” interrupted her mother.

“Really, mamma, I cannot tell,” replied Helen with a smile. “I think there must be a mistake—where did they say they had met us, Mrs. Grey?”

Mrs. Grey then repeated all she had previously said, and added—“You must surely remember them, Helen, since I understand that the young Mr. Rumsey, Samuel Rumsey, junior, was your devoted cavalier.”

Helen shook her head—“I do not think I can claim the gentleman as upon my list of admirers,” she said laughing; “and as for the young ladies, I have no recollection of them.”

“Really, Helen,” said her mother, a little impatiently, “I wish you had been more discreet in your choice of associates, it is not pleasant to have one’s name connected with every ill-bred person whom you may meet at a watering-place. You must have had some intimacy with them, or they would not presume to mention you so familiarly.”

“I assure you, mamma, that I made no acquaintance except with those whom you approved. Of the Rumseys I have not the slightest knowledge. I remember now, that the day before we left, our general picknick party was joined by a group who had arrived in the morning. The eldest lady answered to Mrs. Grey’s description of our unknown friend; she was accompanied by two younger ladies and a gentleman, whose style of appearance, as well as her own, was rather _outré_, and they were evidently strangers. One of the young ladies addressed a remark to me upon the beauty of the scenery, to which of course I replied, and the gentleman upon whose arm she leaned showed a desire to continue the conversation, but as I had not been introduced, and he was moreover, an ignorant, ill-bred person, I merely bowed and passed on. What their names were I cannot tell, but they might have been the Rumseys.”

“Very likely,” said Mrs. Armitage, with a half smile, “but they say they came down with us, and seem to know me.”

Helen laughed outright—“I remember that they were in the same car with us. Don’t you recollect, mamma, that a lady sitting behind you, very considerately pulled your shawl up on your shoulders, saying she feared you would take cold? That was the same person whom I supposed to be Mrs. Rumsey, and her polite son quite stared me out of countenance during the journey, while his sisters seemed comparing notes together.”

“Taking an inventory of your dress and charms, Helen, that they might be able to describe you correctly,” laughed Mrs. Grey, who began to enter into the spirit of the affair, and was a good deal amused at her friend’s evident annoyance.

“But really,” she continued, “you should not have cut your brother’s college chum so decidedly. I understood that Harry and the young Rumsey were a second Damon and Pythias.”