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tastes. It seems to us a little like starved at the same time. Washington's carrying into history the precedence participation in the revolution, beyond which the rules of the British army that of many other private citizens, allowed at that time to British officers. hardly commenced till his appointment If Wolfe's merits had been overlooked as Commander-in-Chief of the revoluor neglected, the case might be differ- tionary armies. It is true that, as a ent; but considering how very gener- member of the Virginia House of Burally and abundantly they have been gesses, and as a delegate from Virginia acknowledged, we are not prepared to to the Continental Congress, he had admit his title to occupy an entire chap- given all the weight of his

high character ter in the Life of Washington,

to the policy of opposition to the pretenThe part of his book in which Mr. sions of the mother country. But he Irving gives least satisfaction, is that in was not one of those men who take the which he traces the rise and progress of lead in popular assemblies. It was not the revolutionary struggle. This, in- till he was selected as Commander-indeed, is a rather thread-bare topic, not Chief, that he began to occupy a place particularly suitable to his peculiar in the foreground of the revolutionary genius, and one, too, which fully brings out the difficulty or rather the impossi- It is with his arrival at Cambridge, bility of completely reconciling the to place himself at the head of the demands of biography with those of forces there, that this first volume ends. general history. What is a great deal The appearance of the two remaining too much for the one, may still be a volumes will give us, we hope, a speedy great deal too little for the other; and opportunity of resuming the subject, the reader is thus exposed to the double and of giving something more of cominconvenience of being stuffed and pleteness to our criticism.

canvas.

BIRDS.

I.

IRDS are singing round my window,

Tunes the sweetest ever heard ;
And I hang my cage there daily,

But I never catch a bird !

II.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled,

And they sing there all day long;
But they will not fold their pinions

In the little cage of Song!

WHAT CHEER?

“At last I heard a voice upon the slope,

Cry to the summit, “Is there any hope?'
To which an answer pealed from that high land,
But in a tongue no man could understand;
And, on the glimmering limit far withdrawn,
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn !"

TENNYSON.

IN

the twilight of a day not long ago, ed away in thought, and sought for

I sat in a spacious library, where the some reason more potent to sustain ruddy firelight glanced and glowed, and faith in the future, than the subtle threw wizard gleams on antique furni- conviction of a private soul. And this ture, and heavy shelves of old books, it found, at length, in the memory and lit, with faint radiance, the tranquil of some lonely places, where sleep features of the friend with whom I sat those whose lives were too beautiful and talked. The noble portrait of a and loyal to let us think the visioned great divine, whose life was lovely and future a cheat, or that God, who rules gracious as the May, and whose living the world, sows hopes in pure hearts words, now that he is gone from earth, not to be fulfilled. Of all such spots still keep the secret of the morning, as these, I hardly know one more sawatched us from the shadow of the wall, cred than that which keeps the revered and seemed to wear a pensive sympathy, bones of Roger Williams. It is in the as we discoursed, with twilight voices, little State of Rhode Island. There, too, on themes which his spirit in its earthly is the city which he founded with pious life loved so well. We spoke of the prayers, and named Providence ; thus possibility of a holier future for this giving to the Republic one town, which, troubled world, and my friend, who has in name, at least, remembers God. a gentle spirit and a great heart, avow- There, too, in the very core of the town, ed his steadfast faith in a good time is a public legend, which silently, coming--not yet come, he said, but on amidst all commercial and civic tumults, its rapid way. Far enough off, it was, recalls to thoughtful eyes the world's to warn us not to be guilty of spiritual unsolved problem, and the happy future absenteeism in idle reveries of its be- which God will one day give the race. nignant days, but to bate no jot of earn- For, in the very heart of the city stands a est effort against the wrongs and woes large building, of brown sand-stone, on of society which impede its march. the architrave of which, between two Coming, and to come, when men get sculptured sachems' heads, at either their republican principle of individual end of the edifice, the builder, “buildrights, which makes them so watchful of ing better than he knew," has carved their own well-being, so interpreted as in block letters, the unselfish and reto make them more watchful of the well- buking legend,-- What Cheer? being of each other, and expanded and You stand before it, and the inscripelevated into the Christian principle of tion resumes its ancient form of social relations. A good time, surely question, but with a newer meaning to

your musing eyes. What Cheer for the It were unnecessary to record what wild, disordered world? What Cheer answer his speech charmed from my for the nineteenth century of Christian lips, but while the rosy twilight softly advancement, and Christian knowledge ? flashed and failed, and the noble features What Cheer for the twentieth, poet to of the portrait on the wall seemed to come, and for its generations yet unlisten and understand, I thought it a

born ? What Cheer for the suffering good and happy thing that there are

and the poor? still hearts in the unbelieving world, who Even now, the sunset radiance is do not question the prophetic dreams slowly mellowing away, and the low, of youth, and who keep unsullied the silvery word that reaches us from the legend and the promise of the good crowd of figures, standing, or passing time coming. Then my spirit wander- and repassing, before the building,

a

to come.

answer.

might, so timid is it, be the parting sad book, and a dark one, and it will word of some sylph of the sunset to make you a dark student!" the receding splendor. Yet not from “Let it make me so," he replies imany sylph, but from the sweet lips of petuously; "it holds all that is worth a young girl, has breathed that word

knowing—the secret of all wisdom; L" Farewell.” Famed of old to make and I will read it, and be a dark stuthe sad heart linger, it fulfills its office dent!" on the young man standing by her

Ah! it is little use to talk with you; side, who still holds her hand.

but you will yet change your mind. " Farewell, Mabel,” he says, 66 will My dark student'--she says playfully, see you to-morrow."

yet with a sorrowful badinage— go to " To-morrow," she assents.

6. But

your dark book! I will trip home. to-morrow is the Sabbath. Shall I not Farewell, my dark student!" see you with a happier spirit than you · Farewell, Mabel,” he answers. have shown lately?"

The last gleam of the sunset follows I do not know," he replies, moodily. her slender figure, as she flits away, “Happiness is not a mushroom that until she turns the corner of College springs up in a night."

street, and is gone; and then it fades Her face--and it is a beautiful and vanishes, and the twilight only and cheerful one, though a slight veil lights the form of the Dark Student. of sympathy and sorrow for him, and The wholesome influence of her preshis mysterious condition of mind, covers ence has departed from his nature, like it nowm-becomes a little sadder at this the sunshine, and his own night returns

She looks in his face with the upon him, and all the hypochondriac lingering light from the rich west lying ghosts nursed in its noxious mystery softly in her eyes. He does not look begin to rise. The unheeding crowds at her, but keeps his gaze on the small come and go, and momently change hand he still retains within his own. around him, like the figures of a phan

“I am afraid you are unhappy with- tasmagoria. All this busy, active life out cause—that you are whimsical,”: passing through his consciousness only she remarks, with innocent gravity.

like the echoes and shadows of a harle"I do not know any one with less ap- quinade, yet intensifies the sense of parent reason for sorrow than you. utter isolation. His wandering eye, You must not waste your years thus. tracking the upward flight of a streetYou

are young--with health, and dove, rests upon the architrave of the wealth, and friends. Life is before building, and sneers at the legend. you ;-what are you going to do with 6. What Cheer ?” he murmurs; "No it? The world has a right to expect

Cheer! None!" The feeling promptsome usefulness from you, with your ed by the words suggests his unhappischolarship and abilities."

ness.

Then, because the conviction is He does not answer, but clenches his forced upon him, his lips utter a sublips firmly.

dued but savage

Outraged “ Perhaps you have been reading

sentiment and shocked conscience arise some morbid book lately,” she con- and upbraid him, and a demoniac pertinues.

verseness urges him to frame defenses “I do not think all the morbid books against their charge. As he walks between Werther and Malthus would slowly towards his dwelling, a horde of much affect me," he replies. 6. There undisciplined feelings, wayward, reckis only one book that I study much, less, desperate, and insane, start up and and that is a very morbid one."

join madly in the spiritual conflict * What is it?" she asks.

which has begun within him. - The human heart-my own!" is Philosophic egoism never came, in all the mournful answer.

its monstrous results, to a crazier conIs that so sad ?" she says quietly. clusion than this. He goes slowly 6. Better leave it, then, and study some home, not the man he was three years other human heart. I can readily ima- before, but an unnatural growth from gine how one might become foolishly him. Once his life was generous and miserable who pored forever with intro- gracious with Hope and Youth. In verted eyes over his own nature, which the green spring-time of hoyhood he with the best of us is unworthy of what had seen the vision of the future stand we might have made it. Yes it is a resplendent in the forward sky, and all

curse.

1

him.

his being yearned to its shining portals. which society sets up in Babylon, orThen he had noble sympathies, strong daining also a fiery furnace for all who enthusiasms, lofty aspirations. Then refuse the universal homage; to prate he owned, like a blossomed wand of eloquently about the royalty of self, till power, the desire to serve his race and self forgets that other souls are royal, time. But his boyhood passed, and too; to nourish self with all rare culglowing with the noble selfishness which ture of art, literature, music, and social bade him follow his ideal of a heroic intercourse, for the development and life, he journeyed out from home into gain of self alone; to study and anathe Babylon of the world. He went lyze the inner mysteries of his own into society with all his brave, unshaped spiritual and intellectual nature, for the ambitions. What lessons had society delight of self; to account self the to teach him? Had it to teach him how centre of the Universe, and to forget to change his noble selfishness into self- the circumference ;--all this he learned renunciation more noble ? Had it to to do. And the crust gathered and bring him before the snow-white statues hardened around his heart, and the torof great examples, and mould his plastic ments and the phantasms which, with nature to the perfect symmetry of metaphysic certainty, such lives genertheirs? Had it to temper and shape his ate and wreak upon themselves, were aspirations into earnest, definite aims ? born, and avenged their birth upon

to warn him against sins that sully . and sadden, and sorrows that enslave The vision of the future was obscured the soul ?-to confirm his possibilities, by the siren whirl of illusions. The and unfold his capacities for noble sympathies, enthusiasms, and aspiradeeds ?

tions, fell down and died, and their Not so. It had pitfalls of temptation corpses were aversions, despairs, and for his feet, and he fell! It had snares memories. The blossomed wand of of grief to entrap him, and he was a power-that beautiful desire to serve bondsman! The imagination which had his race and time—withered slowly, stirred his nature to heroism, by glass- became a serpent, and stung him with ing, in colossal proportions, the wants

And he is here now, still and woes of his time, was

possessed by the demon of self. The magic mirror which magnified his petty eternal battle of life, he has made an sins and sorrows into enormous guilt eternal bivouac. Youth is quick and and shadowy woe, and showed him to strong in his veins; rare talents, temhimself as a most vile and wretched pered and made keen by exquisite cul

Had society, then, to teach him, ture, are his; the magic purse of with all its myriad voices, the wisdom Fortunatus is in his hand; and, while of repentance and endurance ? Not the moans and cries of the suffering

It had to leave him untaught and world swell up to heaven on every side, uncomforted; it had, then, to fill the he is careless and cold. mirror with gloomy dilations of the Now, while the twilight deepens into mean lives and low aims of the men it night, and the stars come glimmering had unmade-shocking him with the one by one, he sits alone in his pleasant revelation and filling him with misan- chamber, and awful thoughts and revethropy and despair. It had, then, to ries possess him. While the hours conceal the splendid dream of a heroic come and go, and the drowsy tides of possibility, by a confusion of glittering sleep begin their nightly flow upon the gauds and greeds, and a siren whirl of town, he sits alone, a miserable and illusions. It had, then not to infuse haunted man. To-night, the thoughts into his veins the guarding virus of that and reveries of years are gathering to philosophy which gives to manly lives a focus. To-night is, for him, one of only the containing present and hold- those seasons of ghastly emotion, which ing the trustful future, yet resigns it come and are remembered as epochs in to God-but to infect him with the such lives. As he sits and reads by prevalent disease of self! He received the lamplight, horrid fancies and fearit into the currents of his life. To ful sensations continually thicken in his cherish his own individuality above

mind; and, while thus doubly occupied, all things; never to abandon the his consciousness can yet wander out, presence of his own personality; to fancy-free, into the night. bow down in worship to the gigantic I Without, all is quiet. The red

remorse.

now the

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Autumn stars burn in the dark blue sky. A low, warm wind wanders through the streets of the city, so softly that not a flame of the streetlamp wavers. The faint perfume which floated from the trailing robes of the Summer, as it swept southward to the tropics, still lingers in the solitary and shadowy air. There is no noise, save some lonely footfalls sounding on the pavement, and then dying away in the distance. Quiet in all the thoroughfares of the great city. Quiet in the darkened dwellings, with only a dim lamp burning here and there, from the window of some restful chamber. Quiet in the newspaper offices, where Saturday night has sunk down with Sabbath healing on weary hands and brains, quenched the hot glare of gas-lights, hushed the scratch of the pen, the click of the types, the clashing din of machinery, and sifted a dust of silence over all. Quiet in the shops and stores, where the ghost of traffic is laid till Monday dawn; above whose bolted doors the golden-lettered signs, illegible in dusk, gleam like funeral inscriptions in a forgotten tongue. Quiet in the churches, till the Sabbath morning wakes sectarian bells, and calls to polemics and theologic prayer, from those white spires and belfries which stand so silently against the divine gloom. Quiet on all the mournful tintamars of daily life; quiet in the beating heart and burning brain; on field, and hill, and wood, and on the dark and drifting river that slips smoothly through the city, beneath the wooden bridges, past black wharves, and past the hulls of ships, and widens out into the broad waters of the bay, which also sleeps. Quiet in the grave-yard and the cemetery, where the cold dew gathers on the tombstones, and sparkles on the late flowers and withering grasses of the decaying year. Quiet everywhere. If any stir at all, it is in the bones of Roger Williams, moving in their mouldering coffin, as if dimly conscious that all has not gone right in the old State and City whose foundations he laid with prayer and pride. If any stir beyond this, it is in the heart of the Dark Student.

And, by this time, there is stir enough there; for the heart that, waking or sleeping, has learned to keep Manfred's solemn vigil, is now filled with fever, and the ghosts of madness

are moving in its unhealthy and haunted calm. The sense of stir--the abstract idea of motion—but of a frantic motion, which is noiseless-occupies him. But there is, also, an unearthly consciousness of the deep night-quiet that shrouds all things in its mysterious veil, and a more unearthly sense of quietude within, which seem to be superior to all other emotion. He can hear the throb. bing of his own heart, but he cannot know that its furious pulses are beating down with rapid strokes a crowd of minutes which stand between him and the crisis of his life.

Strange that he, whose eyes have been so long introverted to his own being, and whose intellect is so subtile in analysis and divination of whatever elemental shapes enter and take possession there, does not divine what the emotions that now agitate him portend. But he does not. Foresight and memory are both gone from him. The airy troops that do their wild work on his nature, vanish into imperishable darkness. Others succeed them-he knows not how, nor from whence, they are born.

He feels a terrible and deadly fear-of what, he knows not; and yet he is, outwardly, very calm, and, sitting in the quiet lamp-light, (how quiet it is!) he reads a favorite volume with interest and pleasure. It is a volume of the vague and mystic writings of Jacob Böhmen. He reads it with a strange, hot mist in his eyes, and a slow whirl in his brain, and finds a newer interest, and a sweeter beauty in its colored metaphors. Yet, while thus absorbed, he is conscious of every object in the shadowy room, and aware of all the outward scenery which slumbers under the night silence and the stars.

The room is very still. The wind lifts the long trailing curtains of the windows, and waves the dusky shadows on ceiling, and floor, and wall. It hardly moves the steady flame of the brass lamp on the table by which he sits and reads. Near him, on a pedestal, stands the lovely bust of the Greek Clytie. The hushed and mournful face is turned towards him, and seems to · muse on his mystery. He is conscious of all this. He thinks of it as a picture_himself reading, and the beauteous head watching him—the two central objects in the room. The room is large, high, and square, and full of

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