LINES

TO A PORTRAIT OF A ROMAN GIRL: BY F. ALEXANDER.

THOSE deep, deep, fervent eyes, whose gaze intense

Is fixed on vacancy

that youthful brow, Where thoughts of pain are gathering even now, And long have gather'd, 'till the very sense

Of thought is agony

--

that ripe full mouth,
Scarce open, and the long distracted air

On thy sweet face all tell how sullen care
Hath marr'd thee, daughter of the sunny South!

Say, dost thou miss thy lover's hand among

Those rich brown tresses, that the winds of Heaven
Play with so rudely? Hath the false one given
His cold heart to another? Hath he flung
Away that fiery heart of thine, that swells

And burns within that full and glowing breast,
Where never more sweet peace, nor tranquil rest
Shall cleanse the fount of its embittered wells!

'THERE is perhaps no region of the world where there is such an amiable docility in imitating every thing that is either praised, or imported from abroad, as in the United States. We certainly approach as nearly as animal can come to vegetable life, to the species called squashes, which are said to become pumpkins, by being planted in the same bed, and moreover to impair in no small degree the flavor of melons, by virtue of propinquity. We seem to have exhausted our independence in resisting the Stamp Act, for we receive every other stamp with the most exemplary submission.'

PAULDING.

To a calm and unprejudiced observer, the society of our cities presents rather a singular appearance. From the highest to the lowest grade, it is in a state of effervescence. The struggle for place and precedence the fancied superiority of one class over another their mutual jealousies, their groundless distinctions, and the insane grasping for that wealth which will enable them to eclipse or rival their neighbors these are the passions that agitate the heart of society, and whose effects are felt through all its members. In our political relations, we have one unerring standard by which to judge of our own station as well as that of others, that all men are born free and equal.' To maintain this truth, our fathers 'resisted unto blood;' and to see how

* The expression of the face in this picture is such, that the artist has bestowed upon it the name of 'Misery.'

gloriously they have established it, we need only to look abroad over our bright and prosperous country- the land of liberty and equal rights. In our government, all is order, beauty, and harmony; but in our social system, we are still whirling in the vortex of revolution. It is true, we are no longer the oppressed subjects of a foreign king and parliament; our bodies indeed are free, but we have voluntarily surrendered our minds to the bondage of European usages, and European opinions. Our houses, our equipages, our dress, our conventional rules, our attempted divisions of rank, are all copied after what is seen and practised abroad. We are not satisfied to appear in the true glory of the American character- its republican simplicity and independencebut we hanker after the 'leeks and onions of Egypt.' As a people, we have vanity inordinate vanity. Like Goldsmith's personage, who, not content with his fame as an author, tried to rival the tricks of a mountebank, of whose applauses he was jealous, so we are not contented with our birth-right, as noble and independent freemen, but we must servilely strive to be thought equal to Europeans, in luxury and false refinement. It is this that exposes us to the ridicule of foreign tourists, and renders us so morbidly sensitive under their gross caricaturing. Were we to respect ourselves as we ought, their satire would fall as harmless, and their criticism appear as futile, as that of one who would find fault with a noble structure, because its surface was not polished, like the slab of a pier table. It is true there are follies among us, egregious follies, that are sufficient to excite the lash of the satirist, the smile of the philosopher, and the anxiety of the patriot. Fearful of wounding the self-love of our countrymen, we pass them by unnoticed; and we are only brought to a consciousness of their existence, when we see them exaggerated and caricatured by some hireling scribe, who is remunerated in proportion to his success in hiding our glorious privileges as freemen from the European populace, by blazoning forth the weaknesses and faults that still enslave the fashionable society of our cities.

Our government, in all its fair proportions, its chaste simplicity, its noble architecture, stands on an eminence, in the sight of all the world. And the people of all nations are beginning to turn their eyes hitherward, and to desire it for a habitation. It is founded upon the rock of human rights, it is safe from the attacks of outward assailants, and if it fall, it will be owing to the folly or turpitude of those who dwell within the walls. Let us examine ourselves, let us look into our society, and see if there be not imported customs and manners among us, that tend to undermine the very foundation stone of our liberties. What will be the effect of this jealous exclusiveness between fellow-countrymenthis fearful increase of luxury and display this idolatrous worship of foreign customs - this burning thirst for gain that is consuming the honor and the integrity of our citizens? Alas, alas! we truly have departed from that republican simplicity which should characterize our social as well as our political institutions. In this simplicity consists our glory and our strength and, thanks be to God! we have yet a host who have not 'bowed the knee to Baal' men who are worthy of the name whose characters and whose principles show the elevated stand that man may attain when liberty and equality' is his watch-word and his birth-right.

G.

SCENES

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED NOVEL, BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SOUTH-WEST.'

AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN A FATHER AND HIS SON-A CATASTROPHE-REMORSE. "THE love or hatred of brothers and sisters is more intense than the love or hatred existing between any other persons of the same sexes. Probably nothing so frequently causes divisions between those whom nature has blessed with the holy relationship of brother and sister, perhaps that it may be the depository of pure affection, as an unequal distribution of the affection of parents.' H. MORE.

'ACHILLE!'

The young aspirant started from the contemplation of scenes of triumph and empire, carnage and blood the last too soon to be realized — and beheld his father standing by his side, who had entered the library, and approached him unperceived. Seating himself in the recess of the window, he motioned his son to a chair, placed opposite to his own. The bearing of the veteran exile was at all times in the highest degree dignified and imposing. His was the brow, eye, and presence to command respect and receive homage.

The affection of Achille toward his father was not unmingled with sentiments of fear. But he was the only being before whom the proud eye of the boy quailed.

6

That his father loved him, he had never doubted. He knew that he was proud of him, his noble, fearless boy,' as he would term him, while parting his dark clustering locks from his handsome forehead, after he had performed some daring feat of boyhood. But when he spoke to Henri, the gratified and proud expression of his eyes softened under the influence of a milder feeling, and his smile would fade into a sweet but melancholy expression; nor would Achille have exchanged his inspiring language to him, his darling boy!' for the kind tone, and manner he involuntarily assumed when he would say, 'Henri, my beloved child, come and amuse me with your prattle!'. -nor would the tearful eye, as he gazed down into the upturned face of the amiable boy, have pleased his wild spirit like the enkindling glance of that admiring eye, when turned upon him in paternal pride. Achille translated his glance of pride into an expression of love, and sympathized with one so evidently regarded with an air of sorrow, if not pity, as his brother. If he gave the subject a moment's reflection, it resulted in the flattering conviction that he himself was the favorite son.

But on the morning which introduces him to our notice, he had to learn too painfully, that Henri was the favourite child of the old soldier's affection, and that so far from loving him but a little less, he loved him not. That look of affection which he had translated as an expression of compassion for the gentler nature of his brother, he had to learn was an expression of the intensest parental affection. In his brother, his father worshipped the image of his departed wife, and all his affection for her, which the cold hand of death had withered in its beauty and bloom, was renewed in his beloved Henri. He was doubly loved — for his mother and for himself—and there remained for Achille, so the sensitive and high spirited boy learned that day, no place in the affections of his sole surviving parent.

His father being seated, addressed him:

Achille, you are now of an age to enter the university, for admission to which the nature and extent of your studies eminently qualify you. In a few days the annual examination of candidates will take place, and in the interval you can select and arrange a library for your room, and collect what other conveniences you may require. You will leave in the first packet that passes down the river.'

This was a delightful announcement to the subject of it, and not wholly unexpected. To the university, that world in miniature, he had long looked forward with pleasurable anticipations. It was a field of action, at least, and he panted to enter upon it.

The two brothers had both prepared for admission into the same class, and he inquired if Henri was to accompany him.

He is not,' replied the father, coldly and firmly.

He is certainly prepared, Sir!'

'Undoubtedly! But I have decided that he is to be my companion to Europe this season, as I fear his delicate constitution will not admit of his confining himself at present to sedentary pursuits.'

I was anticipating that happiness for myself,' replied Achille, chagrined at his father's preference for his brother, so unexpectedly manifested, not only by the words he uttered, but by his tone and manner. He had long known his intention to visit his native land, and expected to accompany him, although his expectations were founded rather on his own wishes, than any encouragement he had received from his parent.

Now that he learned his intention of taking Henri, instead of himself, he felt keenly the preference; and the coldness, if not severity, of manner he assumed in communicating his determination, offended his pride, whilst his decided partiality for his brother wounded his self-love. The old soldier was a man of few words, and his son was well aware, that, his resolution once formed, he was unbending. He knew that his

brother was to go, and that he was to remain; and with a bitter and wounded spirit he turned his darkening brow from the penetrating gaze of his father, and looked forth upon the beautiful scene which lay outspread beneath the windows of the library.

A closing door roused him from his gloomy and sinful reverie, and turning, he found himself once more alone! No- not quite alone! An evil spirit Jealousy! pregnant with dark thoughts and evil imaginings, was his companion. A long hour passed away, during which his first fierce conflict with his hitherto slumbering passions took place. The first suspicion that his brother was best loved, then entered his thoughts. Once admitted, it undermined, by its subtle logic, the better feelings of his heart. Doubts were strengthened to confirmations, suspicions magnified to certainties, in the rapid and prejudiced retrospect he took of his father's bearing towards his brother and himself, from the earliest period of his recollection.

But an hour one short, but momentous hour for then was fixed the lever which moved the world of passions within him, with all their evil consequences- had expired, and the canker-worm of hatred, with its venomous fangs, was gnawing at the last slender fibre that bound him to his brother, when the hall door was thrown open, and the unsuspecting and innocent subject of his dark meditations bounded into the room, holding in his extended hand a gemmed locket.

See, brother, see!' he exclaimed, in a loud and delighted tone, 'see what my dear father has presented me as a birth-day's gift!'

Achille raised his eyes and fixed them upon the sparkling locket which enclosed the miniature of an exceedingly beautiful female, with a form, cheek, and eye, radiant with feminine loveliness.

He recognised the portrait of their mother, which till that moment had ever been worn, as the holy pilgrim wears the sacred cross, next to the heart of his father. So dearly treasured had that sacred memento of his departed wife ever been, that he never was permitted to remove it from the mourning ribbon by which it was dependent from his neck. Now, he saw the cherished relic in the possession of his brother, a gift from him. His lip curled, and his dark eye became darker still at this stronger confirmation of his father's partiality, yet he neither spoke nor betrayed his feelings by any visible emotion; but the fires within his breast raged deeper still. Like pent-up flames, his passions gained vigour by the very efforts made to smother them.

For the first time in his life he looked upon Henri coldly, and without a smile of tenderness. He felt indeed, although his lips moved not with the biting words that rose to them, that the poison of his heart must have been communicated to his eyes; for, as his brother caught their unwonted expression, he suddenly checked himself, and the gay tones of his voice sunk subdued to a strange whisper, as he faintly inquired, at the same time placing his delicate hand upon his shoulder, 'if he were ill?'

No! he replied, with an involuntary sternness that startled even himself.

The next moment he would have given worlds to recall that fatal monosyllable, and pronounce it over again, more gently; but it was too late. The sensitive boy recoiled as though he had encountered the eye of a basilisk; his forehead changed to a deadly hue, the blood fled from his cheeks, and he seemed about to sink upon the floor; but, suddenly recovering himself, he laughed, and the rich blood came back again, and his eye glanced brightly as he exclaimed, but half-assured: 'Brother, you did but try to frighten me you were not, in earnest, angry with me?'

His heart melted for a moment at this affectionate appeal, but with a strange perverseness he steeled it to insensibility.

Leave me to myself,' he roughly replied, 'I am not in the humour to be trifled with.'

Mysterious inconsistency of will and action! He would have given his right hand, or plucked out his right eye, to have recalled the first angry word he uttered. In his own mind he did not will to speak thus harshly; yet, by a singular but frequent anomaly, his words and manner were directly in opposition to his will. The first word spoken in an angry mood, hewed out a broad pathway for legions.

As he uttered his last words, the tears gushed into Henri's eyes, and yielding to the influence of affection, he sprang forward and threw himself into his elder and beloved brother's arms, wept aloud, and sobbed out amidst his tears,

'Brother! Achille! wherein has Henri offended you?'

An evil spirit now seemed indeed to have taken possession of him. With angry violence he thrust Henri from his embrace, while a curse