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the belief that you were a Skoldman, and a vixen." | Vengeance hath nerved each valiant hand; vengeance hath The three, with Monsieur Flavel, the valet, fired each eyefollowing at a modest distance, and bearing the rapiers, returned to the house.

Now the soldiers of the standard-starred, rush like a whirl

wind by

Cheer rose on cheer!-the foe is turned-the glorious field is won

I do not delay farther amongst the details of this opening stage of the career of the Norwe-On their ramparts, let the Freeman's flag float 'neath the gian adventurer. A few days later, burthened setting sun. with wise counsel from the Swedish senator-a

good representative of the grave, honourable, and hospitable men of Gothland-and ennobled by such aspirations as belong to love and youth, Merlin Brand was upon the Baltic, and passing with swift sails for the haven of Riga.

LINES,

On the Death of Col. Pierce M. Butler, of the
Palmetto Regiment, who fell in the Battle of
Churubusco, August 20th, 1847.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HIS DAUGHTERS.

"He has been mourned as brave men mourn the brave,
And wept as nations weep their hallowed dead-
With bitter, but proud tears."-Halleck.

Why doth the voice, whose cheering tone but now rolled

clear and high,

When bold hearts quailed and courage failed, join not in victory ?—

Why 'mid the Chieftains gathering fast yon glittering standard 'round,

Is not the noblest chief of all, the dauntless HERO found?

Alas! a dark shade veils his eye, and the death-damp chills his brow

The arm of might is prone in dust and the proud lip silent

now

The fire is quenched-the last spark fled-"life's fitful fever o'er"

And the warrior-spirit passed from earth to seek the shadowy shore.

His gallant sword is firmly grasped: hold! let it linger there

The spotless blade that BUTLER bore, another must not bear

He kept his honor like the steel-the bright steel by his side,

And only clasped the treasure close-still closer when he died.

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A silence that the soul might feel, hung heavy, like a pall,— And the shouts and shrieks of fiercest strife in echoing murmurs sank,

What! weep ye comrades o'er his corse?-stern men of iron mould?

Weep on! the heart that slumbers here, for the first time is

cold!

And we have seen him shed like us-the good chief and the brave

Warm tears of sympathy above the humblest soldier's grave.

Weep on!-how pure from sorrow's fount the tears of manhood swell!

The soul must give one parting sigh-must breathe one last farewell—

Yet there are those who when they bend beside the mouldering bier,

Will own, oh! bitterer grief than ours-the wild grief of despair.

While a cold, electric shudder ran from bristling rank to Cover the pale face of the dead: ere long the flowers will

rank

A moment more !—a moment more!―ard the loud war peal

rose,

As if a hundred clarions rang defiance to the foes

Bear back! bear back! oh, Mexic host! St. Mary do not bide,

The shock! the rage!-the o'erwhelming power of that tumultuous tide.

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MARGINALIA.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

Pure Diabolism is but Absolute Insanity. Lucifer was merely unfortunate in having been cre

ated without brains.

When a man of genius speaks of "the difficult” he means, simply, "the impossible."

We, of the nineteenth century, need some worker of miracles for our regeneration; but so degraded have we become that the only prophet, or preacher, who could render us much service, would be the St. Francis who converted the

beasts.

The nose of a mob is its imagination. this, at any time, it can be quietly led.

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Tell a scoundrel, three or four times a day, that he is the pink of probity, and you make him at least the perfection of "respectability” in good earnest. On the other hand, accuse an honorable man, too pertinaciously, of being a villain, and you fill him with a perverse ambition to show you that you are not altogether in the wrong.

With how unaccountable an obstinacy even our best writers persist in talking about “moral courage "as if there could be any courage that was not moral. The adjective is improperly applied to the subject instead of the object. The energy which overcomes fear—whether fear of evil threatening the person or threatening the impersonal circumstances amid which we exist— is, of course, simply a mental energy—is, of course, simply "moral." But, in speaking of "moral courage" we imply the existence of physiBy be that of "bodily thought" or of "muscular cal. Quite as reasonable an expression would imagination."

Samuel Butler, of Hudibrastic memory, must In looking at the world as it is, we shall find have had a prophetic eye to the American Conit folly to deny that, to worldly success, a suret gress when he defined a rabble as-"A congregation or assembly of the States-General-path is Villiany than Virtue. What the Scriptures mean by the “leaven of unrighteousness” is every one being of a several judgment concerning that leaven by which men rise. whatever business be under consideration”. . . . "They meet only to quarrel," he adds, "and then return home full of satisfaction and narrative."

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I have now before me a book in which the most noticeable thing is the pertinacity with which "Monarch" and "King" are printed with a capital M and a capital K. The author, it seems, has been lately presented at Court. He will employ a small g in future, I presume, whenever he is so unlucky as to have to speak of his God.

"A little learning," in the sense intended by the poet, is, beyond all question, "a dangerous thing:”—but, in regard to that learning which we call "knowledge of the world," it is only a little that is not dangerous. To be thoroughly conversant with Man's heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of Despair.

Not only do I think it paradoxical to speak of a man of genius as personally ignoble, but I confidently maintain that the highest genius is but the loftiest moral nobility.

The phrase of which our poets, and more especially our orators, are so fond-the phrase "music of the spheres"-has arisen simply from a misconception of the Platonic word which, with the Athenians, included not merely the harmonies of tune and time, but proportiongenerally. In recommending the study of "music" as "the best education for the soul," Plato re

ferred to the cultivation of the Taste, in contra- " Mortuus est Dei filius; credibile est quia inepdistinction from that of the Pure Reason. By tum-et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia imthe "music of the spheres" is meant the agree- possibile." ments-the adaptations-in a word, the propor

tions-developed in the astronomical laws. He I have great faith in fools:-self-confidence had no allusion to music in our understanding of my friends will call it :

the term. The word "mosaic," which we derive from oven, refers, in like manner, to the proportion, or harmony of color, observed-or which should be observed-in the department of Art so so entitled.

Si demain, oubliant d' éclore,

Le jour manquait, eh bien! demain
Quelque fou trouverait encore

Un flambeau pour le genre humain.

By the way, what with the new electric light and other matters, De Béranger's idea is not so very

A pumpkin has more angles than C—, and is altogether a cleverer thing. He is remarkable at extravagant. one point only-at that of being remarkable for nothing.

Of

I have sometimes amused myself by endeavoring to fancy what would be the fate of any indiNot long ago, to call a man "a great wiz-vidual gifted, or rather accursed, with an intelzard,” was to invoke for him fire and faggot; lect very far superior to that of his race. but now, when we wish to run our protégé for President, we just dub him "a little magician." The fact is, that, on account of the curious modern bouleversement of old opinion, one cannot be too cautious of the grounds on which he lauds a friend or vituperates a foe.

It is laughable to observe how easily any system of Philosophy can be proved false-but then is it not mournful to perceive the impossibility of even fancying any particular system to be true?

course, he would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise constituted as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he would make himself enemies at all points. And since his opinions and speculations would widely

differ from those of all mankind-that he would be considered a madman, is evident. How horribly painful such a condition! Hell could invent no greater torture than that of being charged with abnormal weakness on account of being abnormally strong.

other virtues.

In like manner, nothing can be clearer than Were I called on to define, very briefly, the that a very generous spirit-truly feeling what term "Art," I should call it "the reproduction of all merely profess-must inevitably find itself what the Senses perceive in Nature through the misconceived in every direction-its motives veil of the soul." The mere imitation, however misinterpreted. Just as extremeness of intelliaccurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man gence would be thought fatuity, so excess of to the sacred name of "Artist." Denner was chivalry could not fail of being looked upon as no artist. The grapes of Zeuxis were inartis-meanness in its last degree:-and so on with tic-unless in a bird's-eye view; and not even This subject is a painful one inthe curtain of Parrhasius could conceal his defi- deed. That individuals have so soared above ciency in point of genius. I have mentioned the plane of their race, is scarcely to be ques"the veil of the soul." Something of the kind tioned; but, in looking back through history for appears indispensable in Art. We can, at any traces of their existence, we should pass over all time, double the true beauty of an actual land- biographies of "the good and the great," while scape by half closing our eyes as we look at it. we search carefully the slight records of wretches The naked Senses sometimes see too little-but who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon the galthen always they see too much.

lows.

A clever French writer of "Memoirs" is quite My friend, can never commence what he right in saying that "if the Universities had been fancies a poem, (he is a fanciful man, after all) willing to permit it, the disgusting old debauché without first elaborately "invoking the Muses." of Teos, with his eternal Batyllis, would long Like so many she-dogs of John of Nivelles, howago have been buried in the darkness of oblivion." ever, the more he invokes them, the more they decline obeying the invocation.

66

"Philosophy," says Hegel, is utterly useless and fruitless, and, for this very reason, is the sub- The German “Schwarmerei”—not exactly limest of all pursuits, the most deserving atten- "humbug," but "sky-rocketing"-seems to be the tion, and the most worthy of our zeal." This only term by which we can conveniently desigjargon was suggested, no doubt, by Tertullian's nate that peculiar style of criticism which has

VOL. XV-43

lately come into fashion, through the influence of" Bim! Bom," in such case, would be a marvelcertain members of the Fabian family-people lous "echo of sound to sense.” who live (upon beans) about Boston.

"This is right," says Epicurus, "precisely because the people are displeased with it."

Paulus Jovius. living in those benighted times when diamond-pointed styluses were as yet unknown, thought proper, nevertheless, to speak of "Il y a à parier," says Chamfort-one of the his goosequill as "aliquando ferreus, aureus aliKamkars of Mirabeau—“que toute idée publique— quando"-intending, of course, a mere figure of toute convention reçue-est une sottise; car elle speech; and from the class of modern authors a convenue au plus grand nombre."

"Si proficere cupis," says the great African bishop, "primo id verum puta quod sana mens omnium hominum attestatur."

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who use really nothing to write with but steel and gold, some, no doubt, will let their pens, vice versa, descend to posterity under the designation of "anserine"-of course, intending always a mere figure of speech.

ELD.

In a mist-enshrouded valley
Rolls a river deep and wide,
Bearing many a freighted vessel
Swiftly on its rushing tide;
From a darksome cave it cometh,
Rolling on in haughty might,
Down unto a shoreless ocean

Silent as the reign of night.

Where the waters, slow receding,
Long have left the lifeless strand,
Fearful in its solemn stillness

Doth a hoary castle stand:
Darkly rise the ruined towers,

Whence all sign of life hath fled-
Ghostly seem the vacant windows,
Like the cold eyes of the dead.

Heavily the brooding shadows

O'er the trembling wave are cast-
O'er the threshold stone, for ages
Living foot hath never passed;
For a grim and wanded warder
Ever at the gate appears-
Drooping is his spectral figure

With the weight of countless years.

Not a word the warder speaketh-
Points one shadowy hand within;
Forward eagerly declining,

Listeth to the river's din;
Mingling with that wild commotion
Steadily his pulses chime;
Who upon that rushing river

Heeds the throbbing pulse of Time?

Ever through the open portal

Pale and shadowy forms appear,-
Some with proud and haughty bearing,
Some with mein of guilt and fear:
Warriors clad in rusted armor,

Queenly ladies, bright and fair;
Some with bosoms bare and gory,
Some with pale hands clasped in prayer.

In a dim and wan procession
Slowly pass the phantoms by,

Each as into distance gazing
With a fixed and glassy eye;
There is heard no clang of armor
As the stony pave they tread-
Not a word and not a whisper,
From the pale lips of the dead.

There within a spacious chamber
In the spectral light, alone,
Sitteth one of aspect hoary

High upon a crumbling throne.

In his hand so cold and stony
Still the iron pen is held-
On the dusky pavement scattered
Lie the Chronicles of Eld.

Once, within that dreary castle-
So those olden records say-
Gallant knights and beauteous ladies

Walked in splendor's proud array ;
There within those gorgeous chambers,
Princely pageants brightly shone ;-
There amid those silent dungeons,
Many a guilty deed was done.

There was seen the gleam of jewels,
There was heard the trumpet's clang;
Mingled with the sounds of wailing

Richest strains of triumph rang.
Now those haughty tones are silent,
Now those radiant forms are fled-
Now those halls are haunted only

By the pale and silent dead.

SUSAN.

We had begun to fear that this opera, so long promised, so long deferred, so much desired, would never make its appearance. Meyerbeer has been ten years elaborating it. Such persisting application of Horace's rule is rare in these days of hot haste, when the grand contention seems to be who can produce, à la Alexandre Dumas, the greatest number of volumes per month.

Saepe piget

Corrigere, et longi ferre laboris onus.

The great composer was determined to sustain the reputation of the author of "Robert le Diable" and the " Huguenots." By admission of all he has done so. His last work is worthy of its predecessors, and will increase the fame of Meyerbeer. The poet composer carries us back three hundred years. John of Leyden, the fanatic prophet of the early Anabaptists, is the hero of the poem. His rise and fall, the capture of Munster, and the chief events which signalized the ephemeral kingdom of New Zion which he established there, are graphically pourtrayed in the music of Meyerbeer, and the words of Scribe. The music of this composer is characterized by a grandeur and an elevation which peculiarly fit it for the expression of deep and stormy passion. Rossini, with the pure and luminous melody of the Italian school, of which he is so great a master, could not have produced, with even greater labor, so effective an opera upon this subject. But Rossini would not have chosen that subject. The Prophet is German, entirely German-author, subject, style. It has been great event of the month with us has been, brought out upon the boards of the French Opera without dispute, the production of Meyerbeer's in Paris with unequalled magnificence. The adnew opera. Coming elections and instant Chol-ministration has surpassed all preceding efforts. era, the struggles of internal factions, the rise Sun-rise never, save by Nature herself in the and fall of the Italian republics, and even the glorious eastern sky, has been presented to the agony of the Austrian Empire have been for a few days forgotten.

Richmond.

FROM OUR PARIS CORRESPONDENT.

The

PARIS, April, 1849.

"Have you heard The Prophet?" is the first question upon the meeting of friends upon the boulevards or the Champs Elysées.

From every group in all the saloons and cafés, the exclamations C'est magnifique! quelle belle decoration! quel luxe d'harmonie! C'est etonnant! are sure to apprise you that The Prophet is the theme.

And learned and wearisome have been all the feuilletons in all the journals in their criticisms upon The Prophet.

In the midst of all this it is not surprising that they who have not heard it, should vote The Prophet to be a great bore. They go to the opera and forthwith join the cry-C'est charmant! C'est magnifique!

eye in so magical, so startling a reality! The effect is produced by the aid of electrical light employed in this way here for the first time. This, with the interior of the Cathedral of Munster, and the awful conflagration which closes the representation, show that Meyerbeer is not the only master whose powers have been tasked to insure this greatest operatic success, which has been known for many years. The stage decorations, the landscapes, the costumes being all of rigorous truthfulness, belonging to the age, the country, and the people represented, leave upon the mind of the spectator, after leaving the theatre, the impression of having spent the evening listening to delightful music, in the country of Holbein and Albert Durer.

Meyerbeer, if report be true, has applied for naturalization as a French citizen, with the in

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