The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, March 1844. Various

to, but yet hoping this last cup of bitterness would never be presented; or if presented, that some means might be found to avert it. But the dreadful crisis had arrived. Had the whole board of authority been present, I should be glad to believe, for the honor of humanity, that they would have been moved to relent, as they would not have been able to shift the responsibility from one to the other, as is the wont of such bodies when the members act separately.

      When the poor woman had so far recovered from the first shock as to be enabled to articulate, she pleaded her ability to maintain herself without assistance, and her choice rather to starve than be removed. She appealed to him as the father of a daughter, and painted the ruin which would fall upon her own, exposed to the corruption and example of the place to which he was taking her. She appealed to him as a Christian, and reminded him that they had sat together before the sacred desk, and partaken of the symbols of the body and blood of the Son of Him who was in a peculiar manner the father of the widow and orphan. But her auditor was destitute of the imagination which enables the possessor to enter into the feelings of another; and these affecting appeals fell dead upon his worldly and unsympathizing nature. The man even extended his hand to urge her forward to the conveyance provided! At that moment, when all hope was dead within her, and the worst that could happen in her opinion had arrived, a change came over the unhappy woman. She suffered herself unresistingly to be led forward to her doom. The fine chords of the mind and heart, lately so intensely strung, had parted; her countenance relaxed, and her features settled down into a dead, unmeaning apathy; never again, during the short remainder of her life, to be animated by one gleam of the feelings which had so lately illumined but to destroy.

      My kind, my indulgent mother! Her generous heart needed not the eloquence of my youthful feelings to induce her to rescue the poor orphan, and to cherish her as her own child. And never was kindness more richly–

      I had proceeded thus far in writing this narrative, when I discovered that I was overlooked; and a gentle voice over my shoulder said: ‘You should not praise your own wife; it is the same as if you should praise yourself!’

E. B.

      APOSTROPHE TO HEALTH

      Hygeia! most blest of the powers

      That tenant the mansions divine,

      May I pass in thy presence the hours

      That remain, ere in death I recline!

      Dwell with me, benevolent charm!

      Without the attendance of health

      Not the smiles of affection can warm,

      And dull are the splendors of wealth.

      The pageant of empire is stale

      That lifts men like gods o’er their race,

      And the heart’s thrilling impulses fail

      When Love beckons on to the chase.

      Whate’er in itself joy can give,

      Or that springs from sweet respite of pain,

      That mortals or gods can receive,

      Blest Hygeia! is found in thy train!

      Thy smile kindles up the fresh spring,

      The glad, verdant bloom of the soul;

      Thee absent, our pleasures take wing,

      And Sorrow usurps her control.

      ISABEL

      Hush! her face is chill,

      And the summer blossom.

      Motionless and still,

      Lieth on her bosom.

      On her shroud so white,

      Like snow in winter weather,

      Her marble hands unite,

      Quietly together.

      How like sleep the spell

      On her lids that falleth!

      Wake, sweet Isabel!

      Lo! the morning calleth.

      How like Sleep!—’tis Death!

      Sleep’s own gentle brother;

      Heaven holds her breath—

      She is with her mother!

      ONE READING FROM TWO POETS

      ——My imagination

      Carries no favor in it but Bertram’s.

      I am undone; there is no living, none,

      If Bertram be away.

Shakspeare.

      Should God create another Eve and I

      Another rib afford, yet loss of thee

      Would never from my heart.

Milton.

      I have this evening, while seated in my lonely chamber, ventured—not, I hope, with profane hands—to draw one inappreciable gem from out of the carcanet of each of the two unrivalled masters of the poetry of our language. I was curious to see the effect to be produced by a close juxtaposition of these two exquisite specimens of the soul’s light; of the revealment of its original genius; of the intense brilliancy of its Truth, falling as it does in one ray upon two objects so diverse in their character as the virgin love of the retired and comparatively humble but devoted Helena, and the married constancy of the Father of our race.

      The effect reminds me of an échappée de lumière that I once beheld in the gallery of the Vatican, when a sudden emergence of light brightened with the same gleam the calm face of the Virgin of the clouds, (called di Foligno,) and at the same instant illuminated the whole principal figure in the Transfiguration of Raffaelle; floating as it does, and tending almost with a movement upward, in the air of ‘the high mountain’ where the miracle took place–as these two grand paintings then stood, side by side, in the solemn, in the holy quiet of that lofty and sequestered apartment. O moment! never to be forgotten, never to be obscured by any lapse of after time!

      And thus, although in a less palpable world, do these two passages of immortal verse, wearing each its beam of golden light, stand in their effulgence before the sympathies of the observer alive to the charms and influences of moral beauty! Surely no other poet has the world produced comparable to Shakspeare for the revelation of the love of the yet unwedded girl; and who is there to be named with Milton, in the tenderness and truth with which he has touched upon conjugal relationship; and that necessity, that inappeasable requirement of intercommunion that accompanies, as its immediate consequence, the sacrament of the nuptial rite where there is destined to exist the real, the progressive, the indissoluble intermarriage of soul with soul!

      How effectually and with what truth does the dramatic Bard raise the veil and exhibit to us the imagination of this retired girl, bred up in all the deep earnestness of mind that a country life and comparative seclusion could induce, dwelling and brooding over the form of one individual brought into intimate association with her, ‘seeing him every hour’ where she had little else to interest her, nor any thing to contemplate, but, as she says,

      ‘sit and draw

      His archéd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,

      In our heart’s table; heart too capable

      Of every trick and line of his sweet favour.

      ·····

      ——it hurts not him

      That he is loved of me: I follow him not

      With any token of presumptuous suit.

      I know I love in vain, strive against hope,

      Yet, in this captious and intenible sieve,

      I still pour in the waters of my love

      And lack not to love still.’

      Behold