Chapter III (5)

Long before the time fixed for the termination of Agatha’s visit, Alice had urged her to prolong her stay, and, when Mr. Wentworth added his earnest entreaties, she was induced to promise that she would set no other limit to its duration than such as circumstances might create. But as week after week fleeted by, Alice began to doubt whether she had acted wisely in making this request. She was ashamed to acknowledge even to herself the feeling, but, somehow or other, she was not quite as happy as she had been before cousin Agatha’s coming. She attributed it to the nervous irritability from which she was now suffering, and endeavored to think that when she should once more recover her health, she would find her former enjoyment in Agatha’s society. But Agatha sometimes made such singular remarks;—they were uttered with the utmost simplicity and _naïveté_, her smile was full of sweetness, her tones like the summer breeze when she spoke, and yet the import of her words was excessively cutting and sarcastic. There was often an implied censure in her manner of replying to Alice—not in the words themselves, but rather in their application, which the young wife, sick and dispirited, felt perhaps too keenly. Alice was uncomfortable and yet she scarcely could tell why. A shadow was resting upon her path, and she felt, although she saw it not, that there was a cloud in her sunny sky. The idea that she was no longer absolutely essential to her husband’s comfort sometimes crossed her mind. During the many hours which she was obliged to spend in her own apartment, she found that Henry was fully occupied with his game of chess, or his favorite book in company with cousin Agatha, and though it seemed only a realization of her own wishes, yet she was not prepared to find herself so entirely thrown into the back-ground of the family picture.

At length Alice became a mother, and in the new emotions awakened in her bosom, she forgot her vague feelings of discomfort. Mr. Wentworth was too proud and happy to think of anything but his boy, and when Alice beheld him bending over their cradled treasure with a feeling almost of awe as well as love, she wondered how she could ever have felt unhappy for a moment. Cousin Agatha seemed to share in all their joy, and in the presence of the father she fondled and caressed the child as gracefully as possible.

“Do you not think, Alice,” said she one day, as she sat with the babe lying on her lap, while Wentworth bent fondly over it, “do you not think your sweet little Harry resembles poor Charles Wilson?”

“No, indeed I do not,” exclaimed Alice, quickly, while the blood mounted to her pallid cheek and brow.

“Well, I certainly see a strong likeness; there is the same peculiar dimple in the chin, which neither you nor Mr. Wentworth have, and even the color of his eyes reminds me of Charles,” said cousin Agatha.

“His eyes are like his father’s,” said Alice, “and nothing is more common than to see in the face of a child a dimple which entirely disappears in later life.”

“Well, Alice, dear, I did not mean to awaken any painful reminiscence by my remark; I did not know you were so sensitive on the subject.” These words were uttered in the blandest tones, and the sweet smile which accompanied them was as beautiful as a sunbeam on a troubled sea; but Alice felt both pained and vexed. Agatha had recurred to the only unpleasant recollections of her whole life, and she could not determine whether it had been done by design, or was merely the result of thoughtlessness. The remark had not been without its effect upon Mr. Wentworth. He saw with surprise the evident vexation of his wife at the mention of Charles Wilson’s name, and while he feared to ask an explanation from her in her present feeble state of health, he determined to satisfy his curiosity by appealing to cousin Agatha.

“Did you never hear of Charles Wilson?” exclaimed Agatha, in great apparent surprise, when, a few hours afterwards, he asked the question.

“Never until I heard you mention him,” was the reply.

“Then I ought not to tell you anything about him, because I cannot betray the confidence of a friend.”

“But as a friend I entreat you to tell me.”

“It is impossible, Mr. Wentworth:—what Alice has thought best to conceal I certainly will not disclose: strange that she should not have told you; there certainly ought to be the most perfect confidence between husband and wife.”

“Agatha, you have excited such a painful interest in the secret, whatever it is, that I must know it.”

“You will not betray me to Alice if I tell you?”

“Certainly not, if secrecy be the only condition on which I can learn the truth.”

“And you promise not to think harshly of poor Alice?”

“It would be strange if I should think other than well of one whose purity of heart is so well known to me.”

“Well, then,” replied the insidious woman, with a slight, a very slight sneer on her lip, “since you have such undoubting faith in your wife there can be no harm in telling you. But really we are making a great affair of a very trifling occurrence. Charles Wilson was a clerk to Alice’s father, and while she was yet at school, he made love to her in the hope of enticing her into a clandestine marriage. Alice was only about fifteen, and like all girls of her age was delighted with a first lover. He lived in the house with, us, and of course enjoyed many opportunities of meeting her, so that before we knew anything about it, an elopement was actually planned. I happened to discover it, and as my duty required, I made it known to her parents. The consequence was that Wilson was dismissed and Alice sent to boarding-school; I dare say she has thanked me for it since, though then she could not forgive me. You look pained, Mr. Wentworth. I hope my foolish frankness has not made you unhappy. I really thought it such a childish affair that I felt no hesitation in alluding to it to-day, supposing that Alice had lost all sensitiveness about it, and I was never more surprised than by her evident agitation. However, I confess I was wrong; I ought to have known that an early disappointment is not easily forgotten even in the midst of happiness.”

“How long since this happened?” asked Mr. Wentworth.

“Just before I was married—I suppose about eight years ago; I wonder Alice did not tell you the whole story, but she is such a timid creature that I suppose she could not summon courage enough to be perfectly frank with you.”

Wentworth made no reply, but the poisoned arrow had reached its mark. His confidence in his wife was shaken; he had not been the first love of her young heart,—she had loved and been beloved,—she had plighted her faith even in her girlhood, and the creature whom he believed to be as pure in heart as an infant, had narrowly escaped the degradation of a clandestine marriage with an inferior. He was shocked and almost disgusted; he felt heartsick, and even the sight of his child, connected as it now was with the similitude of the early lover, was painful to him. He recalled a thousand trifling circumstances which would pass by unheeded but for cousin Agatha’s kind attempts to explain Alice’s meaning, and all now corroborated his suspicions of his wife’s perfect sincerity. The more he discussed the matter with Agatha, the more dissatisfied did he become with Alice; and in proportion as she fell in his estimation the frank and noble character of Agatha arose. There was a high-toned sentiment about her, a sense of honor and an intensity of feeling which added new charms to her expressive countenance and graceful manners. Wentworth was not _in love_ with Agatha, but he was a little _out of love_ with his wife, and the constant presence of such a fascinating woman, at such a moment, was certainly somewhat dangerous. More than once he caught himself regretting that Alice was not more like her cousin, and long before Alice was well enough to leave her apartment, he had become quite reconciled to her absence from the drawing-room. Alice felt his increasing neglect, but she dared not allow herself to attribute it to its true cause. Cousin Agatha was so kind, so attentive to her, and studied so much the comfort of Mr. Wentworth, that she almost hated herself for the growing dislike which she was conscious of feeling towards her.

One day, about two months after the birth of her babe, Alice, who had been suffering from a slow fever, felt so much better that she determined to surprise her husband by joining him at dinner. Wrapping a shawl about her, she slowly proceeded down stairs, and finding the drawing-room door partly open, entered so silently as not to disturb the occupants of the apartment. Mr. Wentworth was lying on a sofa, while cousin Agatha sat on a low ottoman beside him, with one hand threading the mazes of his bright hair, while the other was clasped in his. The face of Agatha was hidden from her, but the wretched wife beheld the eyes of her husband upturned towards it with the most vivid expression of fondness and passion. Her very soul grew sick as she gazed; she turned to glide from the room and fell senseless on the threshold. Weeks had elapsed ere she recovered her consciousness. The sudden shock which her weakened nerves had sustained, produced inflammation of the brain, and for many an anxious day her husband watched beside her sick bed, dreading lest every hour should be her last. She lay in a state of stupor, and her first signs of returning consciousness was the shiver that ran through her frame when the voice of cousin Agatha struck upon her ear.

Mr. Wentworth was conscience-stricken when, aroused by the sound of her fall, he had beheld Alice lying lifeless on the floor. He uttered not a word of enquiry, but he readily divined the cause of her condition, and, as he bore her to her apartment, he almost hated himself for the brief delirium in which his senses had been plunged. He could not be said to love Agatha, but her fascinations had not been without their effect upon his ardent nature. He did not attempt to analyse his feelings, but yielding to the spell which enthralled him, abandoned himself to the enjoyment of her blandishments. Hour after hour had he spent in listening to the false sentiment which fell from her lips in the most honied accents,—evening after evening had he consumed in attending her to parties of pleasure,—day after day had been bestowed on the completion of her portrait, while Alice was left to the solitude of her sick room. But now, when he beheld her stricken down at his very feet, the scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and his infidelity of heart appeared to him in all its true wickedness. The toils which the insidious Agatha had woven about him were broken as if by magic, and his wife, his long-suffering, wronged Alice was dearer to him than all the world beside. He watched by her with all the kindness of early affection, and well did he understand her abhorrent shudder at the presence of Agatha. His devoted attention and the _adieus_ of cousin Agatha, who now found it necessary to terminate her visit, had no small share in restoring Alice to convalescence.

Alice was slowly regaining health and strength; the faint tint of the wild-rose was once more visible on her thin cheek, and her feeble step had again borne her to the room so fraught with painful remembrances. But far different were the feelings with which she now revisited that neglected apartment. Cousin Agatha was gone,—she was once more alone with her husband, and with true womanly affection she willingly forgot his past errors in his present tenderness. But there were some things yet to be explained before perfect confidence could exist between them. The serpent had been driven from their Paradise, but its trail had been left on many a flower;—the shadow of distrust still lay dark upon the pleasant paths of domestic peace, and yet both shrunk from uttering the mystic word which might chase its gloom forever. But the moment of explanation came. A letter from cousin Agatha was placed in the hands of Alice, and repressing the shudder with which she looked upon it, she proceeded to peruse it; but scarcely had she read three lines, when, with an exclamation of surprise, she handed it to her husband, and telling him it interested him no less than herself, begged him to read it aloud. It was as follows:

“My sweet Cousin,

“I write to repeat my thanks for the exceeding kindness and
hospitality which I received while an inmate of your family. I
feel especially bound to do this, because, as I am on the point
of embarking for France, I may be unable for several years to
offer my acknowledgments in person. You are doubtless surprised,
but you will perhaps be still more so when I tell you that I am
going to join _my husband_. Our marriage took place more than a
year since, but we thought it prudent to conceal it both on
account of my then recent widowhood, and because my husband was
not then of age. His guardian was opposed to his union with your
penniless cousin, and he was sent off on a European tour to
avoid me; but we were secretly married before his departure, and
as he has now attained his majority, he has written to me to
meet him in Paris, where I hope to find that domestic felicity
which I failed to derive from my former unhappy connection. By
the way, my dear Alice, I fancied, when I was at your house,
that there was some little coldness existing between you and
your husband. I sincerely hope that I was mistaken, and that it
was my love for you which rendered me too observant of the
little differences which frequently occur in married life. I
think Mr. Wentworth was piqued about your early engagement with
Charles Wilson; you had better explain the matter to him and he
will probably find as little cause for his jealousy as, I assure
you, there was for yours. Don’t pout, dear Alice, you certainly
_were_ a little jealous of me, but I only flirted harmlessly
with your husband _pour passer le temps_; and perhaps a little
out of revenge. I wanted to try whether a ‘_little dowdyish
red-nosed woman_’ could have any attractions for him.”

“By Jupiter! she must have been listening at the door when I was discussing the subject of her ill-looks just after her arrival,” exclaimed Mr. Wentworth.

“Yes, and mortified vanity will account for her well-practised seductions, Harry,” said Alice; “but let us hear the end of this precious epistle.” Mr. Wentworth resumed:

“I hope he has fallen into his old habits again and is as fond
and lover-like as I found him on my arrival. One piece of advice
I must give you, my sweet Alice; do not trust him too much with
those who have greater powers of fascination than his little
wife, for believe me, he possesses a very susceptible nature. Do
not be such a good spouse as to show him my letter. Remember I
write to you with my usual impudent frankness. Kiss little Harry
for me and remember me most kindly to your amiable husband.

“Ever your devoted friend and cousin,
“Agatha.”

“P.S. Can I send you any _nicknackery_ from Paris? I shall be
delighted to be of service to you.”

“Well, that is as characteristic a letter as I ever read,” exclaimed Wentworth as he flung it on the table; “how adroitly she mingles her poison with her sweetmeats; and how well she has managed to affix a sting at the last: I wonder whom she has duped into a marriage.”

“Some foolish boy, doubtless, for she speaks of him as being just of age, while she will never again see her thirtieth summer,” said Alice; “but what does she mean Harry about my early engagement with Charles Wilson? He was a clerk to my father.”

“She told me a long story Alice about a proposed elopement between you and this said Charles Wilson which had been prevented by her interference.”

“Good Heavens! Harry how she must have misrepresented the affair. Wilson was in papa’s employ and probably fancied it would be a good speculation if he could marry his employer’s daughter. He became exceedingly troublesome to me by his civilities, and finally made love to me in plain terms, when I communicated the whole affair to cousin Agatha, and begged her to tell papa of it, because I was such a child that I was ashamed to tell him myself. She did so, and Wilson was dismissed; but I was then only a school girl.”

“You seemed so agitated when she recurred to the subject that I readily believed her story.”

“I was vexed, Harry, because she insinuated that there was a likeness between our dear boy and that vulgar fellow.”

“How I have been deceived by a fiend in the form of an angel,” exclaimed Wentworth; “we should have been saved much suffering if she had never entered our doors.”

“Indeed we should, Harry, and I shall never cease to reproach myself for my folly in introducing such a serpent into our Elysium.”

“Your motives were kind and good, Alice; and though it has been to you a severe lesson in the deceitfulness of the world, and to me a still more painful one in the deceitfulness of my own heart, yet, I trust, that to both of us it may not be without its salutary influences.”

* * * * *

TO HELEN IN HEAVEN.

I think of thee by night, love,
In visions of the skies,
When glories meet the sight, love,
That dazzle mortal eyes—
I think a waving cloud, love,
A golden cloud I see,
A half transparent shroud, love,
That moveth like to thee!

I hear a voice of singing,
A sound of rushing wings,
A joyous anthem ringing
As if from silver strings,
A chorus loudly swelling,
A low sweet voice alone—
And I know thou hast thy dwelling
Beneath the eternal throne.
A. A. J.

* * * * *

AN APPENDIX OF AUTOGRAPHS.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

In our November and December numbers we gave _fac-simile_ signatures of no less than _one hundred and nine_ of the most distinguished American _literati_. Our design was to furnish the readers of the Magazine with a _complete_ series of Autographs, embracing a specimen of the MS. of _each of the most noted among our living male and female writers_. For obvious reasons, we made no attempt at classification or arrangement—either in reference to reputation or our own private opinion of merit. Our second article will be found to contain as many of the _Dii majorum gentium_ as our first; and this, our third and last, as many as either—although fewer names, upon the whole, than the preceding papers. The impossibility of procuring the signatures now given, at a period sufficiently early for the immense edition of December, has obliged us to introduce this Appendix.

It is with great pleasure that we have found our anticipations fulfilled, in respect to the _popularity_ of these chapters—our individual claim to merit is so trivial that we may be permitted to say so much—but we confess it was with no less surprise than pleasure that we observed so little discrepancy of opinion manifested in relation to the hasty critical, or rather gossiping observations which accompanied the signatures. Where the subject was so wide and so necessarily _personal_—where the claims of more than one hundred _literati_, summarily disposed of, were turned over for re-adjudication to a press so intricately bound up in their interest as is ours—it is really surprising how little of dissent was mingled with so much of general comment. The fact, however, speaks loudly to one point:—to the _unity of truth_. It assures us that the differences which exist among us, are differences not of real, but of affected opinion, and that the voice of him who maintains fearlessly what he believes honestly, is pretty sure to find an echo (if the speaker be not mad) in the vast heart of the world at large.

The “Writings of Charles Sprague” were first collected and published about nine months ago, by Mr. Charles S. Francis, of New-York. At the time of the issue of the book, we expressed our opinion frankly, in respect to the general merits of the author—an opinion with which one or two members of the Boston press did not see fit to agree—but which, as yet, we have found no reason for modifying. What we say now is, in spirit, merely a repetition of what we said then. Mr. Sprague is an accomplished _belles-lettres_ scholar, so far as the usual ideas of scholarship extend. He is a very correct rhetorician of the old school. His versification has not been equalled by that of any American—has been surpassed by no one, living or dead. In this regard there are to be found finer passages in his poems than any elsewhere. These are his chief merits. In the _essentials_ of poetry he is excelled by twenty of our countrymen whom we could name. Except in a very few instances he gives no evidence of the loftier ideality. His “Winged Worshippers” and “Lines on the Death of M. S. C.” are _beautiful_ poems—but he has written nothing else which should be called so. His “Shakspeare Ode,” upon which his high reputation mainly depended, is quite a _second-hand_ affair—with no merit whatever beyond that of a polished and vigorous versification. Its imitation of “Collins’ Ode to the Passions” is obvious. Its allegorical conduct is mawkish, _passé_, and absurd. The poem, upon the whole, is just such a one as would have obtained its author an Etonian prize some forty or fifty years ago. It is an exquisite specimen of mannerism without meaning and without merit—of an artificial, but most inartistical style of composition, of which conventionality is the soul,—taste, nature and reason the antipodes. A man may be a clever financier without being a genius.

It requires but little effort to see in Mr. Sprague’s MS. all the idiosyncrasy of his intellect. Here are distinctness, precision, and vigor—but vigor employed upon _grace_ rather than upon its legitimate functions. The signature fully indicates the general hand—in which the spirit of elegant imitation and conservatism may be seen reflected as in a mirror.

Mr. Cornelius Mathews is one of the editors of “Arcturus,” a monthly journal which has attained much reputation during the brief period of its existence. He is the author of “Puffer Hopkins,” a clever satirical tale somewhat given to excess in caricature, and also of the well-written retrospective criticisms which appear in his Magazine. He is better known, however, by “The Motley Book,” published some years ago—a work which we had no opportunity of reading. He is a gentleman of taste and judgment, unquestionably.

His MS. is much to our liking—bold, distinct and picturesque—such a hand as no one destitute of talent indites. The signature conveys the hand.

Mr. Charles Fenno Hoffman is the author of “A Winter in the West,” “Greyslaer,” and other productions of merit. At one time he edited, with much ability, the “American Monthly Magazine” in conjunction with Mr. Benjamin, and, subsequently, with Dr. Bird. He is a gentleman of talent.

His chirography is not unlike that of Mr. Matthews. It has the same boldness, strength, and picturesqueness, but is more diffuse, more ornamented and less legible. Our _fac-simile_ is from a somewhat hurried signature, which fails in giving a correct idea of the general hand.

Mr. Horace Greely, present editor of “The Tribune,” and formerly of the “New-Yorker,” has for many years been remarked as one of the most able and honest of American editors. He has written much and invariably well. His political knowledge is equal to that of any of his contemporaries—his general information extensive. As a _belles-lettres_ critic he is entitled to high respect.

His MS. is a remarkable one—having about it a peculiarity which we know not how better to designate than as a _converse_ of the picturesque. His characters are scratchy and irregular, ending with an _abrupt taper_—if we may be allowed this contradiction in terms, where we have the _fac-simile_ to prove that there is no contradiction in fact. All abrupt MSS., save this, have square or _concise_ terminations of the letters. The whole chirography puts us in mind of a _jig_. We can fancy the writer jerking up his hand from the paper at the end of each word, and, indeed, of each letter. What mental idiosyncrasy lies _perdu_ beneath all this, is more than we can say, but we will venture to assert that Mr. Greely (whom we do not know personally) is, _personally_, a very remarkable man.

The name of Mr. Prosper M. Wetmore is familiar to all readers of American light literature. He has written a great deal, at various periods, both in prose and poetry, (but principally in the latter) for our Papers, Magazines and Annuals. Of late days we have seen but little, comparatively speaking, from his pen.

His MS. is not unlike that of Fitz-Greene Halleck, but is by no means so good. Its clerky flourishes indicate a love of the beautiful with an undue straining for effect—qualities which are distinctly traceable in his poetic efforts. As many as five or six words are occasionally run together; and no man who writes thus will be noted for _finish_ of style. Mr. Wetmore is sometimes very slovenly in his best compositions.

Professor Ware, of Harvard, has written some very excellent poetry, but is chiefly known by his “Life of the Saviour,” “Hints on Extemporaneous Preaching,” and other religious works.

His MS. is fully shown in the signature. It evinces the direct, unpretending strength and simplicity which characterize the man, not less than his general compositions.

The name of William B. O. Peabody, like that of Mr. Wetmore, is known chiefly to the readers of our light literature, and much more familiarly to Northern than to Southern readers. He is a resident of Springfield, Mass. His occasional poems have been much admired.

His chirography is what would be called beautiful by the ladies universally, and, perhaps, by a large majority of the bolder sex. Individually, we think it a miserable one—too careful, undecided, tapering, and effeminate. It is not unlike Mr. Paulding’s, but is more regular and more legible, with less force. We hold it as undeniable that no man of _genius_ ever wrote such a hand.

Epes Sargent, Esq., has acquired high reputation as the author of “Velasco,” a tragedy full of beauty as a poem, but not adapted—perhaps not intended—for representation. He has written, besides, many very excellent poems—“The Missing Ship,” for example, published in the “Knickerbocker”—the “Night Storm at Sea”—and, especially, a fine production entitled “Shells and Sea-Weeds.” One or two Theatrical Addresses from his pen are very creditable _in their way_—but the way itself is, as we have before said, execrable. As an editor, Mr. Sargent has also distinguished himself. He is a gentleman of taste and high talent.

His MS. is too much in the usual clerk style to be either vigorous, graceful, or easily read. It resembles Mr. Wetmore’s but has somewhat more force. The signature is better than the general hand, but conveys its idea very well.

The name of Washington Allston, the poet and painter, is one that has been long before the public. Of his paintings we have here nothing to say—except briefly, that the most noted of them are not to our taste. His poems are not all of a high order of merit; and, in truth, the faults of his pencil and of his pen are identical. Yet every reader will remember his “Spanish Maid” with pleasure, and the “Address to Great Britain,” first published in Coleridge’s “Sybilline Leaves,” and attributed to an English author, is a production of which Mr. Allston may be proud.

His MS. notwithstanding an exceedingly simple and even boyish air, is one which we particularly admire. It is forcible, picturesque and legible, without ornament of any description. Each letter is formed with a thorough distinctness and individuality. Such a MS. indicates caution and precision, most unquestionably—but we say of it as we say of Mr. Peabody’s, (a very different MS.) that no man of original genius ever did or could habitually indite it under any circumstances whatever. The signature conveys the general hand with accuracy.

Mr. Alfred B. Street has been long before the public as a poet. At as early an age as fifteen, some of his pieces were published by Mr. Bryant in the “Evening Post”—among these was one of much merit, entitled a “Winter Scene.” In the “New-York Book” and in the collections of American poetry by Messieurs Keese and Bryant, will be found many excellent specimens of his maturer powers. “The Willewemoc,” “The Forest Tree,” “The Indian’s Vigil,” “The Lost Hunter” and “White Lake” we prefer to any of his other productions which have met our eye. Mr. Street has fine taste, and a keen sense of the beautiful. He writes carefully, elaborately, and correctly. He has made Mr. Bryant his model, and in all Mr. Bryant’s good points would be nearly his equal, were it not for the sad and too perceptible stain of the imitation. That he has imitated at all—or rather that, in mature age, he has persevered in his imitations—is sufficient warrantry for placing him among the men of talent rather than among the men of genius.

His MS. is full corroboration of this warrantry. It is a very pretty chirography, graceful, legible and neat. By most persons it would be called beautiful. The fact is, it is without fault—but its merits, like those of his poems, are chiefly negative.

Mr. Richard Penn Smith, although, perhaps, better known in Philadelphia than elsewhere, has acquired much literary reputation. His chief works are “The Forsaken,” a novel; a pseudo-auto-biography called “Colonel Crocket’s Tour in Texas;” the tragedy of “Caius Marius,” and two domestic dramas entitled “The Disowned,” and “The Deformed.” He has also published two volumes of miscellanies under the title of “The Actress of Padua and other Tales,” besides occasional poetry. We are not sufficiently cognizant of any of these works to speak with decision respecting their merits. In a biography of Mr. Smith, however, very well written by his friend Mr. McMichael of this city, we are informed of “The Forsaken,” that “a large edition of it was speedily exhausted”—of “The Actress of Padua,” that it “had an extensive sale and was much commended”—of the “Tour in Texas,” that “few books attained an equal popularity”—of “Caius Marius,” that “it has great capabilities for an acting play,”—of “The Disowned” and “The Deformed,” that they “were performed at the London theatres, where they both made a favorable impression”—and of his poetry in general, “that it will be found superior to the average quality of that commodity.” “It is by his dramatic efforts,” says the biographer, “that his merits as a poet must be determined, and judged by these he will be assigned a place in the foremost rank of American writers.” We have only to add that we have the highest respect for the judgment of Mr. McMichael.

Mr. Smith’s MS. is clear, graceful and legible, and would generally be called a fine hand, but is somewhat too clerky for our taste.

Dr. Oliver Wendel Holmes, of Boston, late Professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth College, has written many productions of merit, and has been pronounced, by a very high authority, the best of the humorous poets of the day.

His chirography is remarkably fine, and a quick fancy might easily detect, in its graceful yet picturesque quaintness, an analogy with the vivid drollery of his style. The signature is a fair specimen of the general MS.

Bishop Doane, of New Jersey, is somewhat more extensively known in his clerical than in a literary capacity, but has accomplished much more than sufficient in the world of books to entitle him to a place among the most noted of our living men of letters. The compositions by which he is best known were published, we believe, during his professorship of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in Washington College, Hartford.

His MS. has some resemblance to that of Mr. Greely of “The Tribune.” The signature is far bolder and altogether better than the general hand.

We believe that Mr. Albert Pike has never published his poems in book form; nor has he written anything since 1834. His “Hymns to the Gods,” and “Ode to the Mocking Bird,” being printed in Blackwood, are the chief basis of his reputation. His lines “To Spring” are, however, much better in every respect, and a little poem from his pen, entitled “Ariel,” and originally published in the “Boston Pearl,” is one of the finest of American compositions. Mr. Pike has unquestionably merit, and that of a high order. His ideality is rich and well-disciplined. He is the most _classic_ of our poets in the best sense of the term, and of course his classicism is very different from that of Mr. Sprague—to whom, nevertheless, he bears much resemblance in other respects. Upon the whole, there are few of our native writers to whom we consider him inferior.

His MS. shows clearly the spirit of his intellect. We observe in it a keen sense not only of the beautiful and graceful but of the picturesque—neatness, precision and general finish, verging upon effeminacy. In force it is deficient. The signature fails to convey the entire MS. which depends upon masses for its peculiar character.

Dr. James McHenry, of Philadelphia, is well known to the literary world as the writer of numerous articles in our Reviews and lighter journals, but, more especially, as the author of “The Antediluvians,” an epic poem which has been the victim of a most shameful cabal in this country, and the subject of a very disgraceful pasquinade on the part of Professor Wilson. Whatever may be the demerits, in some regard, of this poem, there can be no question of the utter want of fairness and even of common decency which distinguished the Phillipic in question. The writer of a _just_ review of the “Antediluvians”—the only tolerable American epic—would render an important service to the literature o his country.

Dr. McHenry’s MS. is distinct, bold and simple, without ornament or superfluity. The signature well conveys the idea of the general hand.

Mrs. R. S. Nichols has acquired much reputation of late years, by frequent and excellent contributions to the Magazines and Annuals. Many of her compositions will be found in our pages.

Her MS. is fair, neat and legible, but formed somewhat too much upon the ordinary boarding-school model to afford any indication of character. The signature is a good specimen of the hand.

Mr. Richard Adams Locke is one among the few men of _unquestionable genius_ whom the country possesses. Of the “Moon Hoax” it is supererogatory to say one word—not to know _that_ argues one’s self unknown. Its rich imagination will long dwell in the memory of every one who read it, and surely if

the worth of any thing
Is just so much as it will bring—

if, in short, we are to judge of the value of a literary composition in any degree by its _effect_—then was the “Hoax” most precious.

But Mr. Locke is also a poet of high order. We have seen—nay more—we have heard him read—verses of his own which would make the fortune of two-thirds of our poetasters; and he is yet so modest as never to have published a volume of poems. As an editor—as a political writer—as a writer in general—we think that he has scarcely a superior in America. There is no man among us to whose sleeve we would rather pin—not our _faith_ (of that we say nothing)—but our _judgment_.

His MS. is clear, bold and forcible—somewhat modified, no doubt, by the circumstances of his editorial position—but still sufficiently indicative of his fine intellect.

Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson belongs to a class of gentlemen with whom we have no patience whatever—the mystics for mysticism’s sake. Quintilian mentions a pedant who taught obscurity, and who once said to a pupil “this is excellent, for I do not understand it myself.” How the good man would have chuckled over Mr. E! His present _rôle_ seems to be the out-Carlyling Carlyle. _Lycophron Tenebrosus_ is a fool to him. The best answer to his twaddle is _cui bono?_—a very little Latin phrase very generally mistranslated and misunderstood—_cui bono?_—to whom is it a benefit? If not to Mr. Emerson individually, then surely to no man living.

His love of the obscure does not prevent him, nevertheless, from the composition of occasional poems in which beauty is apparent _by flashes_. Several of his effusions appeared in the “Western Messenger”—more in the “Dial,” of which he is the soul—or the sun—or the shadow. We remember the “Sphynx,” the “Problem,” the “Snow Storm,” and some fine old-fashioned verses entitled “Oh fair and stately maid whose eye.”

His MS. is bad, sprawling, illegible and irregular—although sufficiently bold. This latter trait may be, and no doubt is, only a portion of his general affectation.

The name of Gulian C. Verplanck has long been familiar to all American readers, and it is scarcely necessary to say more than that we coincide in the general view of his merits. His orations, reviews, and other compositions all evince the cultivated belles-lettres scholar, and man of intellect and taste. To high genius he has about the same claim as Mr. Sprague, whom in many respects he closely resembles.

His chirography is unusually rambling and school-boyish—but has vigor and precision. It has no doubt been greatly modified by adventitious circumstances, so that it would be impossible to predicate anything respecting it.

* * * * *

“DORCHESTER.”

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “ATALANTIS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” ETC.

[“Dorchester” was a beautiful little country town on the banks
of the river Keawah, now Ashley, about twenty miles from the
city of Charleston, in South Carolina. It was chiefly settled by
New Englanders. For a time it flourished and became a market
town of some importance. The planters of the neighborhood were
generally persons of substance, who lived in considerable state,
and exercised the virtues of hospitality in an eminent degree;
but with the war of the Revolution, in which it suffered
greatly, it began to decline, and its only remains now are the
ruins of its church and the open walls of the old British fort.
From a memorandum which I made during a visit to the spot in
1833, I take the following:—“The fort made of tapis—works
still in considerable preservation—the wood-work alone
decayed—the magazine in ruins—and the area overgrown with plum
trees. The church still standing—the steeple shattered by
lightning, and the wooden interior torn out—the roof beginning
to decay at the ends of the rafters. It will probably fall in
before very long.” This prediction was not permitted to be
verified. The fabric, I learn, has since been utterly destroyed
by an incendiary. Dorchester was distinguished by several
actions of partisan warfare during the Revolution It was, by
turns, a military depot of the Carolinians and the British.
These particulars will explain the little poem which follows.]

Not with irreverential thought and feeling I resign
The tree that was a chronicle in other days than mine;
Its mossy branches crown’d the grove, when, hastily array’d,
Came down the gallant partisan to battle in the shade;
It saw his fearless eye grow dark, it heard his trumpet cry,
When, at its roots, the combat o’er, he laid him down to die;
The warm blood gushing from his heart hath stain’d the sod below—
That tree shall be my chronicle, for it hath seen it flow!

Sweet glide thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks
The mossy oak and mossy pine stand forth in solemn ranks;
They crown thee in a fitting guise, since, with a gentle play,
Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak’st thy lonely way:
Thine is the Summer’s loveliness—thy Winter too hath charms,
Thus sheltered in thy mazy course beneath their Druid arms;
And thine the recollection old, which honors thy decline,
When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine.

But Dorchester is thine no more, its gallant pulse is still,
The wild cat prowls among its graves and screams the whippoorwill,
A mournful spell is on its homes, where solitude, supreme,
Still, coaching in her tangled woods, dreams one unbroken dream:
The cotter seeks a foreign home,—the cottage roof is down,
The ivy clambers all uncheck’d above the steeple’s crown;
And doubly gray, with grief and years, the old church tott’ring
stands,
Ah! how unlike that holy home not built with human hands!

These ruins have their story, and, with a reverent fear,
I glide beneath the broken arch and through the passage drear;
The hillock at my feet grows warm—beneath it beats a heart
Whose pulses wake to utterance, whose accents make me start;
That heart hath beat in battle, when the thunder-cloud was high,
And death, in every form of fate, careering through the sky;
Beside it now, another heart, in peace but lately known,
Beats with a kindred pulse, but hath a story of its own.

Ah! sad the fate of maiden whose lover falls in fight,
Condemned to bear, in widowhood, the lonely length of light;—
The days that come without a sun, the nights that bring no sleep;
The long, long watch, the weariness, the same, sad toil—to weep!
Methinks, the call is happiness, when sudden sounds the strain
That summons back the exiled heart of love to heaven again;—
No trumpet-tone of battle, but a soft note sweetly clear,
Like that which even now is heard when doves are wooing near.

* * * * *

THE TWO DUKES.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

One church and three dwelling houses, occupied by bishops, had already been torn down to supply material for the magnificent palace which the Duke of Somerset was erecting for himself in the Strand,—a sacrilege which the populace were beginning to feel and resent, in a manner which threatened some disturbance to the public peace. A rumor went abroad that the Duke’s workmen had received his commands to repair to Westminster on a certain day, in order to pull down the Church of St. Margaret’s, and add its materials to those already so boldly wrested from their sacred purposes.

The gray of a summer’s morning was yet hanging over the city, when a large number of workmen, each wearing the Lord Protector’s badge, gathered in detached parties about the Abbey. These men had been employed in the destruction of St. Mary’s Church but a few days before, and their coarse vestments were torn and covered with the lime and dust which they had brought from the ruin, a mark of their late sacrilegious employment, which brought upon them many a bitter taunt and frowning look from the wayfarers, even before they entered the parish of Westminster. So great was the manifestation of public resentment, that each band of workmen, as it went along, drew close together, and exhibited the pickaxes, crowbars, and other heavy tools of iron with which they were armed, like soldiers compelled on an irksome duty, but resolute to perform it. These men gathered slowly around the Abbey, and waited for a larger body of working-men, who were expected to leave their employment in the Strand and come to their assistance in a force and number that might awe the people into quiet submission to the injustice of their lord.

The morning wore on, but they still lingered about the church, trifling with their heavy tools and talking together with some degree of anxiety, for the expected aid had not yet arrived, and each instant the streets and angles about the Abbey became more and more thronged with sullen and discontented men, all with lowering brows and flashing eyes, bent menacingly upon them.

Still the crowd increased. Men hurried to and fro eagerly and with cloudy looks. The workmen gradually gathered in a close phalanx about the little church, whispered anxiously together, and brandished their tools with a faint show of defiance, yet seemed afraid or reluctant to level them against the sacred pile which stood among that mass of eager human beings in the cool morning light, quiet and tranquil as the spirit of holiness that brooded over its altar.

Though the persons gathered about St. Margaret’s were considerable in numbers, they were not yet condensed into a form that could justly be termed a mob. The streets were alive, but not yet blocked up with people. Men, and even women, might pass to and fro on ordinary business without much fear of injury or interruption, but with a certainty of being jostled and pushed about by the scattered stream of human life that flowed toward the cathedral.

While the neighborhood of St. Margaret’s was in this unusual state, two females, followed by more than an equal number of serving-men, each with the Lord Protector’s badge upon his sleeve, came suddenly round a corner, and, before they seemed aware of it, were encompassed by the crowd, through which it seemed each instant more difficult to make a free passage. The two females were muffled in their mantles, with the hoods drawn so closely that it was difficult to distinguish their features, or gather an idea of their station, save by a certain air of dignity and refinement which hung about the shorter of the two, and which no vestments could entirely conceal. Both this lady and her companion seemed bewildered and terrified by the rush of human beings with which they had become so strangely mingled. At first they attempted to retrace their steps, but the street through which they had come was now blocked up by a company of more than two hundred working-men, who were coming up from their employment on the Strand, to assist in the destruction of St. Margaret’s. When thus convinced that all hopes of retreat were cut off, the female who had seemed most anxious to escape the crowd, put forth a white and trembling hand from beneath her mantle and drew the hood still more closely over her face, while the other in her fright allowed the drapery to fall back from her head and exposed the features of an elderly woman slightly wrinkled, and at the moment pale as a corpse with apprehension. Her sharp black eyes were keen with terror, and her wrinkled hands shook in a way that rendered the effort to draw her hood forward one of considerable difficulty. The servitors who followed these bewildered persons were but little annoyed by the position which seemed so painful to them, but one, a tall insolent man, held up his arm that all might see the Lord Protector’s badge, and ordered those immediately around him to make way for a noble lady of the Duke’s household to pass. He spoke loud and arrogantly, but the muffled female grasped his arm, and while her words came gaspingly from excess of fear, muttered—

“Dost thou not see how these men lower and frown upon us already? Hearest thou not my noble father’s name bandied from lip to lip, and each time with a curse coupled with it? Take down thy arm, good Richard—muffle the sleeve within thy cloak and let us struggle forward as we are best able.”

The serving-man hastened to obey this direction, and wrapped his arm in the short cloak which had been allowed to float back from his shoulder. This act was performed the more promptly as a score of burning eyes had flashed back a stern admonition of danger when challenged by the Somerset badge thus ostentatiously uplifted in their midst. Even as it was, the man’s temerity might have been followed by violent consequences, but that a deeper and more general object of resentment presented itself in the body of workmen that had made its way up from the Strand through the cross street which our little party had left but a moment before, and now flung itself impetuously into the excited crowd. The moment these men were seen pushing their way towards their brethren gathered about St. Margaret’s, shouting defiance and pushing the citizens about with their heavy iron-tools, the spirit of discord broke loose like a wild beast from his cage. A hoarse shout thundered through the air. The hitherto stern and silent multitude swayed round and plunged forward, a mass of enraged, reckless, human life, eager to trample down the body of men who came among them armed to do sacrilege on the holy temple of their worship. When the first fierce cry of their onset swept over the females whose movements we have recorded, the one whose features were yet concealed grasped her companion’s arm, and, shrieking with affright, sprang wildly on one side, forcing a passage to the steps of a dwelling-house, where she sunk at the foot of a granite pillar, panting like a wounded fawn beneath the drapery which still concealed her person. Her attendants strove to follow her but were swept away by the rushing multitude, and, spite of their struggles, forced into the _mêlée_ raging between the citizens and the Somerset workmen. These men fought their way valiantly. Keeping in a compact body they resolutely cleared a path through the unarmed mob with their heavy crowbars and pickaxes, which proved most effective weapons of defence. The people goaded to fury by opposition rushed madly upon them, strove to wrest away their weapons by brute force, and when that failed tore up the pavement and hurled the massive stones furiously into their midst. Many were wounded, more than one dropped down dead, crushed beneath the deadly missiles which filled the air. The sweet breath of morning was made terrible by the groans and cries and harsh sounds of hot-blooded men, goaded to fury and fierce with a thirst for strife, which threatened to deluge the torn pavements with blood and carnage.

The band of workmen which had already reached St. Margaret’s at first essayed to aid their companions but it was impossible even to penetrate the mob of citizens which separated the two parties, and they returned to their station before the church, which the mob, in its blind eagerness to attack the larger and more obnoxious party, had left almost entirely at their mercy. Still their numbers were small, and the enraged people so near at hand that but the lifting of an implement of destruction would have placed them in imminent peril. So they remained inactive, contenting themselves with a hope that Somerset, the Lord Protector, would hear of the riot and come to his people’s rescue. Still the fight raged on, the workmen were driven back, step by step, to a cross street whence they had emerged, and which their numbers choked up, forming a solid front, narrow and compact, which the assailants found impossible to break and difficult to contend against, as few had the hardihood to come within the sweep of those heavy iron bars which were never wielded but they crushed some human being to the earth. While the workmen maintained this position the assailants were compelled to abate the fury of their attack. The scene of strife too had been considerably removed from the first place of encounter.