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ing gladly like the April breeze, and your blood flowing like an April brook, up with “the merry lark,” as Shakspeare calls it, which is “ the ploughman's clock,” to warn him of the dawn—up and breakfast on the morning air, fresh with the odor of budding flowers, and all the fragrance of the maiden spring; up from your nerve destroying down beds, and from the foul air pent within your close drawn curtains, and with the sun, “walk o'er the dew of far eastern hills.” Whoever is found in bed after five o'clock, from Mayday to Michaelmas, cannot in any conscience expect to be free from some ailment or other, dependant upon relaxed nerves, stuffed lungs, disordered bile, or impaired digestion.

GER MAN TO W N. A STORY OF THE REVOLUTION.

Nature has lavished her quiet, unobtrusive beauty upon the scenery of Pennsylvania. This remark applies only to the lower and middle counties;–to the west and northwest the parallels of the tremendous Alleghany begin to heave up side by side like the swells of the great sea when provoked by the only element that is able to disturb the home of the leviathan. It was a summer's sunset, near Germantown; and the soft splendor of the departing day lingered on a lovely elevation which commands the view of the greater part of that ancient town. No dweller there can mistake the features of nature which will ever mark the romantic eminence. It is not a bald, sugar-loaf hill, dropped like a hailstone from the clouds, but it is rather an inclined vale propped up by many hills, where beauty might for ever wish to linger as in a second vale of Tempe, sheltered by the young green trees, and cooled by the gurgling brooks. It was the close of one of the days of the American revolution—bright as the evening of Italy, and balmy as the green spice gardens of the happy Arabia. But the hearts of the sons and daughters of America were aching with the bitterness of a sanguinary contest, on the long deferred result of which the happiness of millions depended. Prayer and battle and agony were the elements of the convulsion which reached to the heart of a young nation, and every class in society without distinction of sex felt that the cause in which all were engaged to be one of a holier import than those national dramas so often enacted on the world's wide stage, apparently unconnected with the great leading principles of human happiness. No wonder, then, that the fair daughters of Columbia were nymphs of the pensive shades and of the evening sighs, rather than the merry maids their grand-daughters now are. No wonder that

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care passed oftimes like a cloud over their brows when their lovers and brothers were in the tented field, subjected to the dangers of sickness as well as the death-shot of the enemy. Maria Everard had more than the uncertainty of war to cast a melancholy around her evening path as she slowly walked down the vale we have attempted to describe. She mourned the certain death of her two only brothers—who died in confinement as prisoners of war in New York. Of high chivalrous spirits, and educations far above the common standard of that day, these young heroes leaving their parents and only sister, became volunteers in the sacred cause of freedom—and, as they went, received blessings mingled with the overflowing tears of affectionate fondness. Their first letters from the army in the vicinity of Hudson river were the spirit-stirring productions of warm-hearted and generous young men, enamoured of glory as it was personified before them in the sublimity of character which composed the soul of the American army. A dreary suspension of communication followed. Then came a letter from Fort Putnam detailing the capture of the two daring brothers. Next came a haggard soldier who had by some happy expedient'secured his release from the hard captivity of war, and brought to the distressed family of the Everards the dying words of Maria's brothers. The fever which raged in the prison of the miserable had soon prostrated two of the finest forms that ever stood erect in the line of battle; and, as their worldly prospects fled away from them like a vision of the night, they could only faulter a farewell and a blessing which might perchance at some future day reach their beloved home—accents of bitterness indeed, but better even thus than silence, rendering death more terrible in the hush of its unspoken mystery. O Religion how soothing and how composing are thy teachings to poor humanity. Maria, for the first time, now poured out her full and bursting heart to the God of her father and mother—and, all-bereaved as she was, felt immortal blessedness gushing up from hitherto unseen fountains. Never was a surrender to Heaven more complete. With tears that flowed alike from sorrow and penitence—from bereavement and heavenly exstacy, she placed the image of her Saviour where death had thrown down the altar of her earthly devotion. She did not forget her brothers—but she left them, all precious as their memories were, in the arms of a Benevolence that seemed to her to span the farthest star and the falling sparrow in one indescribable bond of goodness and truth. There—

there, she left her dead—while, with emoVol. II.

52 German town.

tions more like those of heaven than of earth, she felt how Providence wounds to heal and,

kills to make alive. This new era in the history of Maria's mental enjoyments produced no change in her beautiful features, unless that should bel so called which no earthly artist has been able to define on the canvass—a beauty of the immortal spirit, not so much connected with the features as shining through them. She was pale indeed—but it might be partly from the strong contrast of her mourning robe with the lily of her complexion. A better idea of her form and character combined will be conveyed to the mind by the simple assertion that she was the personification of the graces of the heart, surmounted with the wreath of intellect.

Slowly wandering down the vale as the evening shadows were stretching upward, and the low echoes of declining day murmuring along like the remembered sounds of other years, her heart involuntarily fastened its affections on heaven with unusual ardor. Raising her eyes towards the mellow skies above her, she breathed the following words to a strain of music, soft and low like a lute, but with an almost supernatural distinctness of utterance:—

o e Pure element of sacred love! Where roll the silver suns of night, Through your untrodden space above When shall I take my spirit flight?— When, like a star on heaven's crown, Beyond the cloud, the storm, the wind, Shall" on time and death look down As one who leaves the earth behind 7–

The melody of her soul would have vibrated longer to the touch of celestial emotions had not a mounted stranger, by a sudden spring of his horse, thrown himself on a sidepath directly before her. Almost deprived of the power of speech the youthful rider gazed on the fair apparition before him as one might look on an inhabitant of the upper world; while his undress costume of the American camp, and a countenance too innocent and fresh for deeds of war awakened a strong, although confusing, recollection of her departed brothers in Maria's mind, and agitated her tumultuously. The stranger, sensible of his duty to apologize for the alarm he had accidentally occasioned, found words to make a feeble apology for his obtrusion. Observing her long, pallid gaze on the proofs of soldiership which his dress disclosed, his spirits rallied as he gaily inquired if such an angel could possibly belong to a tory family.

The kindling eye of Maria did not long leave

prison at New York. Their dear remembrance and the cause in which they died have the same resting place in my heart. God will deliver the oppressed.” “Yes, God will save Washington and my country.”—was the energetic response. Young hearts are soon acquainted. Suspicion holds no place in the bosoms of innocence—besides, seasons of danger create a surprising unity of feeling—a concentration of confidence that may soon ripen into the tenderness of a passion against which breastplates of brass or the mail of a Macedonian phalanx can afford no security. Mutually excited and pleased with each other, the young officer dismounted with a gallantry that united delicacy to noble bearing, and attended the new-found charge to her father's mansion, tenderly inquiring the particulars of that vast sacrifice made by a single family on the altar of freedom. The emotions experienced by the father and mother as they saw their daughter enter with a military escort were similar to those which had but just thrilled through her mind. The beloved forms of their boys came fresh upon their recollections, and they received their soldier guest with tears. With a manly and courteous simplicity he announced his name as Frederick , late a student in Yale College, but roused by the wrongs of his bleeding country he had thrown off the toga and buckled on the sword. He was attached to the staff of Washington—was on an errand of important secresy—had listened a moment to a nightingale in their beautiful woods, and brought the warbler home. This tale of candor gained the hearts of this patriotic family; and when, as he said, the call of duty summoned him away, he received many pressing invitations to continue an acquaintance which, although the result of an accidental occurrence, might yet be productive of pleasure and friendship. “Ah, leave that,” says he, “to the wise determinations of Heaven. I go often on errands of danger. The noblespirited Hale, on business like mine, went once never again to return—and although I may like him lament that I have but one life to give for my country, this feeling can only sweeten, not avert, the catastrophes of danger. Farewell! If I pass this bower of innocence again it may be to-morrow; only let me have the prayers of one whose soul dwells so near heaven as to breathe its melting music.” The tread of the young stranger's horse was heard far down the vale now obscured by darkness. A pause in the conversation

of the family circle showed the deep traces No. 2.

the young soldier in doubt of her patriotism; of feeling which an interview so transient “I wear,” said she, “the weeds of mourning had left behind in the generous bosoms of a for my two only brothers who died in the war"bereaved family. No wonder that there

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might have been a disposition to transfer the affections which had been broken up by death upon so bright an incarnation of youthful beauty, honor, sincerity, and patriotism. The apparent fervor of the soldier's piety in his allusions to his country and to the danger of his expeditions gave him a stronger claim on Maria's remembrance than even his personal accomplishments. The night wore away— rather a sleepless one to the dwellers in the mansion house; but the next evening brought the graceful Frederick to the door. There was the proud imprint of the consciousness of duty done on his countenance. His conversation was spirited and disclosed the bright clear depths of his intellectual resources.— His was no common mind. He would have been one of nature's noblemen in whatever country he might have first breathed the vital air. The new acquaintance he had so unexpectedly formed in the mansion seemed to open a new era in his existence. Maria's countenance was the unsullied mirror in which he saw the aspirations of his own ardent spirit reflected with a loveliness he had scarcely looked for on earth. He departed and came again, returned and came, until his existence seemed united to the mansion house by an invisible bond that strengthened with every passing moment. Philadelphia seemed a centre from which his excursions diverged —yet his return track was always through the vale of the hills.

The summer of 1777 wore away and sober autumn came with its rich brown shadows thrown with a careful profusion over the meadows and the umbrageous groves. Frederick's visits became more frequent until he became a daily guest—yet it could not escape the observation of those who felt so deep an interest in his welfare that a shade of anxiety deeper than that of autumn was gathering on his brow. One evening he startled the family circle with the remark that within twentyfour hours they would see the divisions of the British army from the windows. He conjured them to remain in quietness unless directed to remove by one who felt a deeper concern for their welfare than for his own life. “I am not powerless,” said he, “and with the permission of heaven your retreat of innocence and virtue shall not be polluted by a hostile foot.” The prophecy was fulfilled. On the morning of the 26th of September the long array of the British forces was seen from the mansion house stretching, at right angles, across the town, the left resting on the Schuylkill, and the chain of posts on the right communicating with the Delaware; while, conspicuously seen from the parlor windows, the broad tent of Sir William Howe spread its whitened sides to the sunbeams.

Germantown.

53 Frederick had arrived in the grey twilight of the morning and was the first to show the family where the red lines of the enemy were forming to the call of the morning drum. He was dressed like a laborer and remained all that day and the seven following ones in the mansion with a strong spy glass reading every movement and penetrating the secret designs of his powerful foe. His frequent messages to Washington were carried to the grove by the fair Maria and handed to rangers whose autumn-colored garments and noiseless movements were but the subordinate parts behind the curtain in the drama of war. During the morning of October 3rd, Frederick, imprinting a long, burning kiss on Maria's forehead, and respectfully saluting her parents, told them that his duty called him away. Pointing towards the enemy, he expressed his ardent prayer that the time had

arrived when all traces of their array should

be blotted from the beautiful map of Germantown. Engaging to see them again before any thing decisive should occur, he plunged into the grove where he first saw Maria; and the overflowing eyes of his enamored friends could no longer trace the path of him whom all regarded as a heaven-sent protector, and one felt to be the only being in the wide world with whom she could divide the happiness of earth and the blessedness of eternity. A heavy day and a sleepless night tardily passed. The night was one of intense prayer to Maria. By some process of mental hallucination, not uncommon even at the present day, Maria had centered her love of country, her fraternal recollections, and, shall I say the ardor of her devotion?—on the single form of Frederick Deeply freighted with all her love and her happiness, this slender barque was afloat on the sea of life at the portentous moment when the dead hush of the winds and the glassy surface of the sleeping waters proclaimed a hurricane of death at hand. Before sunrise the wakeful family heard the sudden tread of a horseman, and in a mo

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grandeur, to his countenance. “I have but a moment,” said he, hastily; “come with me! to the door.” The town was covered with a low dense fog which completely hid the camp of the enemy as well as the edifices of the inhabitants from view.—“Beneath the curtain of the fog,” said Frederick, “the whole army of Washington are in motion to attack the enemy. Here, by the way of Chesnut Hill, the divisions of Sullivan and Wayne are approaching; yonder, down the Ridge Road, General Armstrong leads the Pennsylvania levies; there, the columns of Greene and Stephen are deploying on the Limekiln road; —while, along the old York Road, Generals Smallwood and Forman are urging the columns of the New Jersey and Maryland militia; and yonder, Stirling, Nash, and Maxwell are stationed with a strong corps de reserve. Half an hour will bring you the noise of battle. Dear friends, be calm; pray for Washington and your country.” “And why should you be forgotten,” said the venerable Everard, “why should we not pray for you that heaven may graciously shield you from harm in the shock of battle " The wan and foreboding looks of Maria and her mother, and the corresponding sympathies of Frederick, convinced him that he might tarry too long. He already felt the weakness of womanhood fluttering in his bosom and choking his utterance. “Farewell,” said he to his venerable friend; “I will not conduct myself unworthy of your friendship and your generous family.” He gave a parting embrace to Maria's mother, then turned to her with a heart too full for speech. Their embrace was one of trembling and deep emotion, like those who part never more to meet. A few broken whispers from each revealed the yet unspoken tale of their mutual love. It might be the only moment allotted them on earth to tell what each thought a secret and what neither could think of a final separation without a wish to disclose. He tore himself away from the pale statuary of love and foreboding emotion. As he was mounting, he released a spy glass from his saddle, and reached it faulteringly to Maria. Perhaps the vain thought flashed into his mind that the glass might enable her to see her hero in the deadly charge; or, judging more kindly, might enable her to see danger at a distance and provide for flight if the day should be disastrous to the American arms. He lingered a moment as if in mental prayer, and was lost in the dense fog that was then creeping up the hills. The conviction resistlessly settled down on the minds of the Everard family that they should see the youthful soldier no more. War had been a tyrant to them as terrible as death.

Revenge for the loss of sons had no place in

the Christian spirit of Everard, but he felt as if a third son—or both of his own sons—was summoned again to the sacrifice. Maria and her mother were gazing into the gloomy abyss of vapor below them, as if it would afford them some consolation to see the danger which was soon to be encountered by one so dear to their desponding hearts. Dull, heavy echoes like the tumbling of distant waters prevailed for a few moments —then startlingly interrupted by the sharp reports of musketry, as if a picket was driven in—then the loud thunder of the alarm guns and the roll of the drums succeeded. The firing soon became heavy on the right and left; but the experienced ear of Everard detected the proofs of a conflict too stationary to warrant the belief of a total surprise or rout on the part of the enemy. Towards the Schuylkill the report of small arms, like the rattling of hail, had been incessant for half an hour, and then the brazen-mouthed cannon began to speak to the contested question. The vapor obstinately clung to the scene of action, as if to veil the work of death from the eyes of heaven. No being on earth could have felt an interest so fearfully profound in this single contest as the Everard family. The father rapidly walked with irregular steps before his embowered mansion; the mother was pale as marble and absorbed in prayer; the daughter was intensely gazing into the bosom of the vapor, her face who ter than the driven snow, her eyes enlarged far beyond their ordinary size, dark as bottomless fountains, and yet bringing up no image from the troubled field of battle. The sun was some hours above the eastern horizon and began to throw strong bursts of sunlight into the sea of fog which soon moved up towards the hills. Washington had called his reserve to the field; the enemy had not been driven from a single post; he reached a pencilled order to the impetuous Frederick to charge along with the brave Colonel Matthews, who flew to the duty which he had ardently sought. Frederick thought a moment of the mansion house, strained his eyes towards it as for the last time and saw a vista opened up through the disturbed vapor quite to the spot where he had left all that was precious to him on earth. He fancied he could discern the faintly defined form of his three friends. He thought of the glass—and rushed to the charge. The breaking up of the fog had been the signal to Maria to raise the spy glass. There she stood, as if her whole soul went out with her strained vision. She noticed the movements of the charge–distinguished the bold outline of Frederick on his war horse, apparentlv casting his farewell look towards the hill,

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and then rushing onward to the silent, deadly tug of the sword and bayonet. The opposing forces mingled; the fog settled down again like a curtain dropped by invisible hands. Maria tottered forward, fell upon her face and shrieked.— he's lost—he's lost!” She and her mother both became insensible. *Everard's bosom swelled with self-reproach as he heard the glorious strains of ‘God save the King’ rolling from a batallion band up the hills. He hastily seized his musket and munitions of war, and began to march for the battle plain before he noticed his prostrate and insensible wife and daughter. He stopped—raised and restored them to vitality again—and, as the sunlight burst out triumphantly, saw the divisions of the American army in retreat, and the British camp breaking up and filing towards Philadelphia. + :k :k -k

Twelve hundred killed and wounded lay on the fields of Germantown. The brave General Nash and his aid were cold on the plain. None could tell the fate of Matthews or Frederick. Washington, like a chafed lion, removed to another thicket whence he could leap upon the foe—and the mansion house became again a house of mourning. Maria's nervous system was prostrated. Apa-thy of soul and a torpor of animal life pervaded her entire being. Was she to become the fourth victim on the altar of revolutionary sacrifice Day by day she wasted away, looking more like an exquisite piece of statuary, white almost to transparency, and cold as the marble itself. Nature is insensible to scenes of human woe, and clothes herself in her brightest robes when the sons and daughters of humanity are clothed in the weeds of the grave. October was a resplendent month. One of its last evenings was flooded with the gushing moonbeams poured like molten silver all over the brown background of the fallen leaves and the seared shrubbery. Maria seemed weaker than usual. Her mother had just said in the language of soothing tenderness, “has my dear daughter leaned on the world—and has it, like a broken reed, pierced her bosom ?” * * * * Frederick stood before them. He had been a prisoner of war for three weeks. Released by an exchange, he had flown to the mansion on wings of love and gratitude. The venerable Everard lost two sons and gained one by the revolution; and Pennsylvania gained a name which she preserves in the proudest archives of her history, as a model of intellectual purity, chivalry, and unsullied honor. o == A contented mind and a good conscience

... will make a man happy in all conditions.

The following lines were written by Mr. John Holland, of Sheffield, Eng. No one who possesses a relish for natural beauty can read them coldly. It is but an act of justice to the excellent author to republish the “Rainbow” extensively in this country, as he has, by some unaccountable mistake, been deprived of the honor of their authorship. Rev. Mr. Pierpont, of Boston, himself a gifted poet and a scholar of the purest taste, has published “The Rainbow” in his American First Class Book, and has ascribed it to Thomas Campbell, author of the Pleasures of Hope. Now although it is rather complimentary to Mr. Holland, who by the way was very young when he wrote the following, to ascribe his effusions to perhaps the most perfect poet that England can boast of, it is wrong to persist in the error. Mr. Holland has lately alluded

to the subject in the “Sheffield Iris;”—he

only asks for his own “Rainbow,” and he should have

“that beautiful one Whose arch was refraction—its keystone the sun.”

T H E R A IN B O W.

The evening was glorious, and light through the trees
Play’d the sunshine, the raindrops, the birds, and the
breeze;
The landscape, outstretching, in loveliness lay
On the lap of the year in the beauty of May.

For the queen of the Spring, as she passed down the vale,

Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale;

And the smile of her promise gave joy to the hours,

While rank in her footsteps sprang herbage and flow. ers.

The skies, like a banner in sunset unrolled,
O'er the west threw their splendors of azure and gold;
But one cloud, at a distance, rose dense, and increased
Till its margin of black touched the zenith and east.

We gazed on the scenes, while around us they glowed,

When a vision of beauty appeared on the cloud;

'Twas not like the sun, as at mid-day we view,

Nor the moon, that rolls nightly through starlight and blue.

Like a spirit it came in the van of the storm,
And the eye and the heart hailed its beautiful form:
For it looked not severe like an angel of wrath,
And its garment of brightness illum'd its dark path.

In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood
O'er the river, the village, the fields and the wood
o

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