Graham's Magazine, Vol XXXIII, No. 6, December 1848

"Now leave me, good nurse, I would be alone. I will entreat my dear uncle on the morrow to release me from this dreaded alliance. He never yet refused a request of mine."

Isoleth quieted herself in the belief that her beloved guardian would certainly grant her petition as soon as she made it known to him. In child-like confidence, therefore, she sunk to her happy sleep, with a pair of dark, loving eyes hovering over her and mingling with her dreams. And never eyes gazed on more gentle sleep or lovely sleeper.

CHAPTER V

THE APPEAL

With a buoyant step and a sparkling eye the Lady Isoleth sought her guardian early the next morning. He was deeply immersed in papers and parchments, while huge, formidable-looking books were piled high around him. He nevertheless welcomed his sweet niece with a sudden clearing off of his thought-lined brow, and a fond, affectionate smile.

"Forgive me, dearest uncle, if I have disturbed thy studies; but I would see thee alone, and I feared this might be the only opportunity, as the carriages containing our kinsfolk are even now expected; so nurse Hildreth informed me."

"What would my pet bird have that she seeks her uncle thus early?"

"A boon that you must grant, dearest uncle, for upon it depends my heart's happiness now and forever."

"Name it, my darling Isy – what wouldst thou have, little enthusiast?"

"Release from one I never can love. Oh! my dearest uncle," continued she, fondly twining her soft, white arms around his neck, and lovingly kissing his time-worn brow, "do, for Heaven's sweet love, tell me at once that I need not wed him, for I never can love him – never, never!"

"Bless her little heart, what is the child raving about? Whom dost thou mean, dear baby, by him?"

"Who should I mean, dearest uncle, but my cousin, this Prince Ferdinand. I need not be his wife. I – "

"Thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand!"

"I hate him – I abhor him – I utterly detest him! I never can love him! I never will be his wife! I never – "

"Hold, hold! not so fast; why thou romantic little recluse! thou hast lived alone too much by half. Thy little head is brim full of fancies. Thy tongue is running wild. Thou hatest him! Why what wouldst thou have better? Is he not all a woman could desire? Is he not young and – "

"Young!"

"And handsome, and – "

"Handsome!"

"And is he not a prince? And is he not heir to a powerful, wealthy ducal throne? And will he not take thee to court – the gay, beautiful court; and wilt thou not reign there a queen – a queen of beauty and joy and light – and ere long queen of the throne?"

"All that does not dazzle me, dearest uncle – for what are thrones and splendor where love is not? Oh! dear, dearest uncle, do not press this hated match upon me. Do not doom me to eternal sorrow. Do not – "

"Hoity, toity! Why thou dost talk just as they do in those silly romances. I wager thy head is full of them. Thou hast had bad teachers, child, to permit thee to fill thy poor little brain with such trash instead of useful knowledge. Or is it," said he, fixing his gray eyes searchingly upon her, "or is it that thou hast met some sighing Adonis in the woods? Ha! thou dost blush – have a care, child. There, thou needest not tremble, I will not seek to know thy secret, if secret thou hast. This much, however, know for a certainty, that Prince Ferdinand is destined to be thy – "

"Dearest uncle!" exclaimed the little lady, her beautiful eyes filling with tears, "thou shalt know all – all I have to tell, if thou wilt but deliver me from this – "

"Have done with this folly, Lady Isoleth," and his cold gray eyes sternly regarded her. "It was thy dead father's will that thou shouldst marry thy cousin, Prince Ferdinand of Bernstorf; and thy father's will must and shall be obeyed."

"'Folly!' 'Lady Isoleth!' 'must and shall!' He never before now spoke one unkind word to me." And the weeping Isoleth went with a breaking heart and shut herself in her own room, alone, and locking herself in, she gave unrestrained vent to her passionate grief.

CHAPTER VI

THE LAST APPEAL

"I will seek him– yes, he will not refuse my prayer. I will tell him I hate him. He will be only too glad to release me when he knows the depth of hatred I bear him. I will go this moment, for soon will all my gay cousins be here, and then will be the horrid betrothal ceremony – but I will not think of that – "

"Ha! my shy, beautiful cousin, Lady Isoleth!" Ferdinand was in the library, amusing himself with books and prints. "See here, beautiful cousin, I have found a book of rare merit, and beautifully illuminated. I suppose, though," continued he with a quizzical look, "that all the books here and their manifold contents are familiar to thy bright eyes – is it not so?"

"Not exactly all," replied Isoleth, smiling in spite of her sorrow, as she glanced at the endless rows of huge leather-bound tomes, that had not even had the cobwebs dusted from them for a century at least.

"Wilt thou not deign to look over this precious book with me, most beauteous lady? Thy sharp wit may help my slow faculties to comprehend its quaint poetry, and thy glorious eyes will love its finely executed prints."

"I came not to disturb thy meditations," replied she, shrinking from his approaching steps. I came to crave a boon from thee."

"It is granted thee, fairest lady, even before thou dost utter it. But what is it, the most beautiful, most lovely of her beautiful, lovely sex would ask? Be it even unto the half of my kingdom – "

"It is not the half of thy kingdom, but the whole of it, together with thy kingdom's lord, that I would be freed from."

"Thou art pleased to be facetious, most charming Lady Isoleth. Pray explain thyself, that my dull understanding may comprehend thy meaning."

"Ferdinand, Prince of Bernstorf – "

"Yes – "

"Is one that I never, never can love – one that I had rather should see me in the grave ere he shall call me wife."

"Ha! well, loveliest cousin, that is plain, and easy to be understood even by the slowest comprehension. Thou hatest him, dost thou?"

"Most cordially."

"My son thanks thee, fair cousin – and I also, in his name."

"Thy son!"

"Ay, and here he is to thank thee himself. How now, scapegrace! Thou art tardy in paying thy respects to this beautiful, noble lady. Thou shouldst have been here days ago. Even now thy fair cousin was on the point of refusing thee. I tell thee, lad, thou'lt never find a fairer. Courting was not done in this slipshod way when I was a boy."

All this while Isoleth was gazing in mute astonishment upon – yes, she was not mistaken – he was the very one – the very most beautiful being to whom she had given, only the night before, her precious little heart. And those dark, earnest eyes were passionately regarding her, drinking in rapturously her glowing beauty, until her eyes, abashed, sought the floor, unable to bear the light of those intensely loving ones.

"Then thou'rt the Duke of Bernstorf, my father's cousin?" suddenly asked she, of Ferdinand the elder.

"Who else, fairest cousin? Ha! thou didst then think – " a sudden light seemed to break through the chambers of his brain. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed he, "Thou thoughtest that I was the one. I could not wish a fairer, more beautiful bride than thou; but – ha! ha! ha! I have one goodly wife already, who is to be here this very day; and, between you and I, one is more than I can manage, although she is one of the best of her perfect, bewitching sex. Still – So, that was the reason thou wert so shy of me, sweet flower." And the father, Ferdinand, threw himself back in his chair, and gave way to the most uncontrollable bursts of laughter; while Ferdinand, the son, had taken the soft, lily-white hand of his lovely betrothed, and was talking to her in words from his heart's heart.

"I should have told thee all this last evening if thou couldst have waited but one instant longer. I was to have accompanied my father and thy guardian here; but I dreaded so much to see my affianced bride – not dreaming until last evening that my beloved and betrothed were one and the same – that my beautiful dream was a more beautiful reality. If I had come and found the young Countess of Fernheath one that I could not have loved, I should certainly have moved earth and heaven but that I would have had the contract, made by our goodly sires, annulled – or I would have drowned or shot myself. Don't shudder, sweetest, I shall do neither now, unless I am shot by the lightning of your bright eyes, and drowned in the bliss – but, dearest, I love you too dearly to speak nonsense to thee – even love nonsense. Strange, was it not, darling, that I should not have recognized you? It has been many a long year since I saw you a little rosy, romping, fairy thing of only a few bright summers. We have had troublous times since then; war and bloodshed that would – "

"Pardon me, most beautiful cousin, my long laughter hath been rude; but, indeed, thy mistake was most droll. There, sweet cousin, I have done! Thy blushes, however, are exceedingly becoming thy fair face. So thou and my goodly son hast met before – is it not so? And he is not the laggard in love I unjustly deemed him. And now I suppose the best thing for me to do is to take myself off to another world, and resign my kingdom and crown in this for one in the – however, we will arrange all that after the wedding. Let us, meantime, enjoy the present. Ah! here comes thy good uncle with a cloudy brow; something has gone wrong with him – we must have no gloom to-day. And here also comes thundering down the avenue all the goodly old carriages containing our expected kinsfolk."

And here also comes,

CHAPTER THE LAST,

Which I know will delight you, dearest reader, as it containeth the wedding; but most especially will it delight you because it is the last. The wedding was of course a splendid one, and better still, a joyous one. Little Dame Hildreth would let no one but herself fasten so much as a bridal ornament on her beautiful young foster-child. It would be hard saying which moved fastest on the important day, her hands or her tongue.

"Just to think!" exclaimed she, as she clasped those same pearls, that had once been cast aside in scorn, upon her darling – and pure and lovely they shone among her soft, brown curls, and on her snow-white arms and neck, and around her lithe and slender waist – "to think that I could have mistaken Ferdinand, the reigning Duke of Bernstorf, for Ferdinand, the Prince. Really, though, my lady, to look at them, one does not see much difference in their appearance – they are both so handsome and grand-looking. Oh, yes! you see a vast odds in their looks – that's natural! These old eyes, I suppose, are growing dim – but they are bright enough to see that thou art the dearest, loveliest, most beautiful bride that ever the sun shone upon."

"Sic transit gloria mundi."

THE CITY OF MEXICO

WRITTEN WHILE THE WAR WAS PENDING

BY M. E. THROPP

Pride of the South, thy glittering spiresPoint to the arching sky,While tower and palace proudly rearTheir stately forms on high;Thy spacious squares spread far and wideAlong the valley green,And bright above thy hundred fanesAn hundred crosses gleam.Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies,Birds of gay song and plume,Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks,Trees, of eternal bloom,Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pureAs infant's rosy mouth,Rare, tempting fruits – all – all are thine,Sweet City of the South.Around thee lime and citron bowersIn peaceful beauty rest,While orange groves stretch far awayTo blue Tezcuco's breast;Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand,Cordillera's mountain line,And lift along thine azure skyTheir silver crests sublime.Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen,And thou hadst wealth and power;But wealth and beauty proved to thee"A darkly glorious dower."Iberia on her rocky heightsBeheld thee from afar,And rolled o'er all thy subject climeThe lurid tide of war.On thee the mighty torrent burst,And with resistless swayBore from thy desperate, struggling sonsTheir gods, their kings away.Then followed weary, weary years,Such as the conquered know,When brave hearts bleed and faint ones breakBeneath their weight of wo.Iberia's brood with iron swayKept down thy fallen ones,And bonds and stripes were freely doledTo thy degraded sons;Then spear and lance were left to rustAlong thy bannered walls,Thine eagle drooped and strangers dweltIn "Montezuma's halls."Oppression's long dark night of painAt length wore slowly on,And, radiant 'mid receding gloom,Hope heralded the dawn.Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sunUprose o'er thine and thee,While thy clear bells with silvery chimeProclaimed a country FREE.And mingling with their heavenly tonesGlad triumphs swelled the breeze,For that bright sun dispelled the gloomOf rolling centuries.A flood of golden light streamed downO'er valley mount and plain,Thy joyous eagle plumed his wingAnd soared aloft again.Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored,The joy of other years,And gentler woman's truthful heartWept silent grateful tears;And thou – bathed in thy new-born light —Thou ancient island-gem,Ah! to thy proud fond children's heartsThou wert an Eden then.But thy stern oracles the whileSpoke ever deep and slow —"Dark hours are yet reserved for thee,Ill-fated Mexico!"And after years proved all too soon,Proved to thy bitter pain,Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood,Had flowed, and flowed in vain.How hast thou mourned the civil broilsThat shook thy peaceful homes?How hast thou mourned the broken faithOf thy degenerate sons?The faith thrice broken that incurredColumbia's vengeful sword,Till red o'er many a battle-plainThy blood like water poured.Again the stranger's echoing treadSounds from thy ancient halls —Again the flag of other landsWaves o'er thy captured walls.Thy peerless beauty, storied lore,Thy buried heroes' fame,Wealth, power – ah, what are they to theeWith thy dishonored name!The foe that first beheld thy towersBeyond the lake's green shore,And they who fondly reared thee up,The lordly ones of yore —They did not dream a change like thisCould on thy pride be hurled,Who erst amid thy mountains reignedQueen of the new-found world.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA. – NO. XI

THE RUFFED GROUSE OR PHEASANT

In the Eastern States the true partridge is known by the name of quail, the appellation of partridge being there given to what in Pennsylvania is called the pheasant, and which in the Ornithologies bears the name of the Ruffed Grouse, (Tetrao Umbellus. Wilson.) It inhabits a very extensive range of country, being found at Hudson's Bay, in Kentucky and Indiana, Oregon and the Floridas. Its favorite places of resort are high mountains covered with the balsam, pine, hemlock and other evergreens, and as we descend from such heights to the lower country they become more rare; and in the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida they are very scarce. The manners of the pheasant are solitary, they are seldom found in coveys of more than four or five together, and more usually in pairs, or singly. They are often shot in the mornings in the roads over the mountains bounding the Susquehanna; where they come for gravel. On foggy mornings very considerable numbers may be seen in these situations, moving along with great stateliness, their broad fan-like tail expanded to its fullest extent. The drumming of the pheasant, a sound compared by Wilson to that produced by striking two full blown ox bladders together, but much louder; the strokes at first slow and distinct, but gradually increasing in rapidity till they run into each other, resembling the rumbling sound of very distant thunder dying away gradually on the ear. This drumming is the call of the male bird to his mate, and may be heard in a calm day nearly half a mile. Wilson thus describes the manner in which this singular noise is produced. The bird, standing on an old prostrate log, generally in a retired and sheltered situation, lowers his wings, erects his expanded tail, contracts his throat, elevates two tufts of feathers on the neck, and inflates his whole body something in the manner of the turkey-cock, strutting and wheeling about with great stateliness. After a few manœuvres of this kind he begins to strike with his stiffened wings in short and quick strokes, which become more and more rapid until they run into each other, as has been already described. This is most common in the morning and evening, though Wilson states that he has heard them drumming at all hours of the day. By means of this the pheasant leads the gunner to the place of his retreat, though to those unacquainted with the sound there is great deception in the supposed distance, it generally appearing to be much nearer than it really is. Audubon mentions having often called them within shot by imitating the sound. This he accomplished by beating a large inflated bullock's bladder with a stick, keeping up as much as possible the same time as that in which the bird beats. At the sound produced by the bladder and the stick, the male grouse, inflamed with jealousy, has flown directly toward him, when, being prepared beforehand, he has easily shot it. When flushed, the pheasant flies with great vigor through the woods, beyond the reach of view, springing up at first within a few yards, with a loud whirring noise. Noticing this peculiarity of flight, Mr. Audubon states that when this bird rises from the ground at a time when pursued by an enemy, or tracked by a dog, it produces a loud whirring sound resembling that of the whole tribe, excepting the black-cock of Europe, which has less of it than any other species. The whirring sound is never heard when the grouse rises of its own accord, for the purpose of removing from one place to another; nor, in similar circumstances, is it commonly produced by our little partridge. "In fact," he continues, "I do not believe that it is emitted by any species of grouse, unless when surprised and forced to rise. I have often been lying on the ground in the woods or the fields, for hours at a time, for the express purpose of observing the movements and habits of different birds, and have frequently seen a partridge or a grouse rise on wing within a few yards of the spot where I lay, unobserved by them, as gently and softly as any other bird, and without producing any whirring sound. Nor even when this grouse ascends to the top of a tree does it make any greater noise than other birds of the same size would do."

With a good dog, pheasants are easily found, and what is singular, they will look down upon him from the branches of a tree, where they sit, apparently stupefied, not attempting to fly, but allowing themselves to be shot one by one until all are killed. Should one of those on the higher branches, however, be shot first, the sight of his fall will cause an immediate flight. A figure 4 trap is used with success in taking them, especially when deep snow lies on the ground. They were formerly numerous in the immediate vicinity of Philadelphia, but the advances of the agriculturist have led them to retreat to the interior, and but a very few can be now found within several miles. The pheasant is in the best order in September and October, but in mid-winter those who shoot them should be careful to draw them as soon as possible, as the buds of laurel on which at that season they sometimes feed, if left in the stomach of the dead bird, diffuse their poisonous qualities over its whole body, and render it dangerous food.

This well known bird, though not very migratory in its habits, has extended its colonies from New England to Mexico. The spot where they have been raised, if they can at all support life, is their home; and there they will remain until the whole flock is destroyed by sportsmen. This fact sufficiently disproves the asserted identity of our partridge with the quail of the European continent, which is a bird of passage, leaving Europe for Asia at the approach of winter, and returning in very great numbers in the spring. Partridges assemble in small families, varying according to circumstances from three to thirty; and, except in the breeding season, they all live together in a happy and mutual alliance. The quails on the other hand are pugnacious to a proverb – "as quarrelsome as quails in a cage."

The partridges are nearly full grown by the beginning of September, and associated in the usual coveys of from twenty to thirty afford considerable sport to the gunner. The notes of the males at this time are frequent, clear and loud, and they may by skillful imitation of the call be deceived and induced approach. Their food consists of grain seed, insects and berries of various kinds. The buckwheat fields suffer severely from their depredations in September and October, affording them at that time abundant food and secure shelter. At night they roost in the middle of a field, on high ground, sitting round in a circle with their heads outward. In this position they place themselves at the commencement of a fall of snow, when their mutual warmth is the better able to resist the effects of frost, and each forms a guard for the whole against the approach of danger. They are not afraid of snow, for they sometimes fly to a drift for safety; it being only when a coating of frozen sleet resists their efforts to leave it that they experience bad effects from it. The loud whirring sound of their flight when flushed is well known. Its steady, horizontal flight renders it an easy prey to the sportsman, especially when he is assisted by a sagacious dog. The flesh of the partridge is peculiarly white, tender and delicate, in this respect unequaled by any other American game.

This well known bird, and universal favorite, can require but a very few words at our hands. His unassuming familiarity of manners has caused him to be immortalized in the Songs for the Nursery, and others of Mother Goose's collections for the little ones. His nest is preserved from the rude hands of boyhood by a sort of instinctive veneration for his well known and long established character, and his cheerful, zealous singing not unfrequently causes the older sportsman to take down the armed gun from his shoulder, and suffer the assiduous songster to enjoy his liberty and life.

The robin is particularly fond of gum-berries, and it is only necessary for the sportsman to take his stand near one of these trees when it is covered with fruit, and load and fire his gun. One flock after another will come to it without intermission during the whole day.

TO A ROSE-BUD

Thy leaves are not unfolded yet to the sweet light of love,Thy bosom now is blushing like the sunset clouds above;Thy beauteous form is perfect, thy hopes are fair and bright,Thy dreams are sweet while sleeping in the gentle breeze of night;And though I know a dew-drop tear hath in thy bosom been,'Twas only sent to nourish thee, and make thee pure within:No canker-worm corrodes thy rest, and life is life to thee,And as the past has ever been so may the future be.May all thy dreams be realized, thy hopes be not in vain,Thy life pass calm and sweetly on without a sigh of pain:And when thy leaves shall droop and fall, as droop and fall they must,Thy lovely form will then lie low, to mingle with the dust;And to thy long last resting-place soft winds shall be thy bier,While the fragrance of thy loving heart will ever linger near;To me thy memory will come back when I am lone and sad,And thoughts of thy pure, gentle life shall make my spirit glad.Ah! lovely rose-bud, well I know that both of us must die,And when death comes, may I, like you, leave earth without a sigh;May I, like you, when youth shall fade, still yield the sweet perfume,The incense of a worthy heart, which age can not consume:Farewell, farewell, sweet rose-bud, were I but as pure as thee,My soul would be contented, my spirit would be free,Each wish would then be gratified, each longing have a home,And joy and peace would fill my heart wherever I might roam.Y. S.

ERIN WAKING

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER

Light streams through a rift in the cloudThat hangs over green Innisfail —While voices of millions are shouting aloudThe satraps of Tyranny quail:The collar of Shame hath been wornThrough ages of folly and wo —Too long hath thy neck, O Hibernia! borneThe yoke of a merciless foe,Whose creatures, while Perfidy sharpened the dart,Like vultures have crimsoned their beaks in thy heart.Hot winds from the waste of DespairOn thy blood-bedewed shamrock have breathed,But the leaves, growing verdant in Liberty's air,Again round her brow shall be wreathed:And chisel of Art on the stoneShall name of that martyr engraveWho prayed for a sepulchre, noteless and lone,While foot of one heart-broken slavePolluted the green of that beautiful shore,By steel-harnessed champions trodden of yore.Gone forth hath the gathering word,And under Hesperian skiesFond exiles the call of their mother have heard,And homeward are turning their eyes:They send o'er the murmuring brineIn answer a shout of applause,And drops, that give warmth to their bosoms, like wine,Are ready to shed in a causeThat cannot march on with a faltering strideWhile Truth wears a buckler, and God is a guide.Land of the valiant! at lastThe brow of thy future is bright;In return for a shadowed and comfortless pastIs dawning an era of light:The Lion of Britain in vainIs baring his teeth for the fray —Thy children have sworn that dishonoring stainShall be wiped from thy forehead away:The bones of thy martyrs have stirred in the tomb,And glimmers the starlight of Hope through the gloom.Invaders thy valor have rued —To deeds that will aye be admiredBear witness, Clontarf! where the Dane was subdued,And Bryan, the dauntless, expired:Thy sons on the scaffold have died,The block hath been soaked with their gore,And long ago banished thy splendor and pride;But idle it seems to deplore —Unbending resolve to blot out thy disgrace,In hearts of the brave, to regret should give place.The Genius of Erin from earth,Uprising, hath broken the bowl,Whose tide to a black-crested viper gave birth,That long dimmed the light of her soul;And millions of high-hearted menWho thus can wild passion restrain,Though driven for refuge to cavern and den,Will arm for the conflict again —And, venturing all on the hazardous cast,Prove victors, though worn and outnumbered, at last.Thou isle, on the breast of the seaLike an emerald gracefully set,Though feet shod with iron have trampled on thee,A brightness belongs to thee yet:In bondage thy magical lyreHath thrilled a wide world with its strains,And thine eloquent sons have awakened a fireThat fast is dissolving thy chains: —The Saxon is watching the issue in fear —He knows that thy day of redemption draws near.