of the Immortals has taken wing, and departed, to that unknown place "where only," in the words of the most beautiful epitaph in the language, “his own harmony can be excelled." Nathaniel Hawthorne has been taken away; but it may be some consolation to those who weep for him, to know that his death was as easy as ever was vouchsafed to mortal, and that the gentle current of his life passed away into the unseachable ocean of eternity, in the painless insensibility of a swoon. CHARLES KENDAL. A MOTHER'S MOAN. BY MATTHIAS BARR. She wrestled in the darkness with her grief- To brighter homes. The bitter winds moaned by; That come like glints of sunshine, and light up The way they went-the way for us to follow. Her blood froze up within her violet veins, She wrestled in the darkness with her grief, "O, my jewel, gone down in Death's fathomless sea! O, my blossom, so young and tender, I can picture the arms that encircle thee now, "And I wake and I weep to the wondering stars, And I cry in my bitter sorrow, My Beautiful, lean out of Heaven, and smile When the love-kiss of Christ doth greet thee! "Ah, Darling, I know thou art waiting for me, And watching in silent wonder, And looking with joy in each happy face That comes from the bleak world under, And yearning and longing with outstretched hands, And pausing to hark and listen For the sound of my voice, while up in thine eyes The old thoughts rise and glisten. "When the earth is green, and the lark's high HUGH HAMILTON'S WIFE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WATCHING AND WAITING." "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife,' Paul, old friend." "I beg your pardon, Hugh: I was not aware that my eyes suggested the necessity for a warning like that. I do not recognize property in beauty. It is a free gift from God to all who behold it, and I cannot be supposed to covet what I already enjoy. It is a feast of the soul to look in the face of your wife, for all the heavenly affections find utterance there." "And yet you have seen far more beautiful women, Paul Dana. If, when you are near her, you look at her closely, you will perceive that she has scarcely a feature which is not marred by some imperfection." "Very likely. The same holds true of these beautiful pleasure-grounds in which you justly take much pride. If their parts be separately viewed, many defects will be observed; but, taking the whole together, nothing seems lacking to complete their enchantment. And do you consider how much, nay, how all that we admire in the landscape is but the effect of light-the life which animates the whole? Who that stumbles about your little Eden here in the night-time can gain any idea whatsoever of its ravishing loveliness? It is the soul, man-it is the soul which makes beautiful. I care not how perfect in form a human face may be if the light of a pure, loving, reverent spirit shine not through it, it is to me as the face of one dead. Do you," Paul continued, after a pause, in which she of whom they were speaking vanished from the terrace, and all seemed dark and cold up there, like the western sky when the evening star has fallen from it-" do you know, Hugh, since I came here I have wondered much, in a vague, altogether innocent way, whether it was by chance or from choice that you married a woman so infinitely superior to yourself. Men of your stamp, though they may reverence and well nigh worship the loftier types of womanhood, do not as a general thing choose a life-companion from among them." thereby strengthening his affection for heavenly things, and at the same time cutting himself free in a measure from the rule of sordid spirits? Or, granting only that he has a fair understanding of the worth of truth and the beauty of goodness, without any real, abiding love for the same, would he not, from purely selfish motives because he has the wisdom to perceive the value of those qualities which he possesses notseek to unite them superficially to himself?" "Not properly of his own free will,' Hugh, for his desires are towards evil, and his secret choice is evil; yet because his reason acknowledges the power of goodness, and because he loves power and covets to wield it, if not in himself then through another, therefore he might seek such a union. But I trust, my dear fellow, that you do not present this view of the matter with the idea that I will accept it as a solution of the mystery concerning your choice." "I judged that in your own mind you had already arrived at some such solution," Hugh replied, with some slight show of wounded feeling; "for what you said regarding men of my class, that they reverence the loftier types of womanhood, but do not choose a companion from among them, is the same in effect as say. ing that they have the sense to appreciate what is lovely and of good report,' but bearing in themselves no likeness thereto, feel towards such no drawings of love or sympathy whatsoever. But this I will affirm, Paul-think of me as you will-it was no cool, mental calculation of the worth of virtue that first led me to think of winning her who is now my wife; but I felt irresistibly drawn to her, and sought her simply and solely because of the exaltation of thought and feeling which I experienced in her presence. When I came near her, evil dropped from me as a filthy garment, and those latent possibilities of good which dwell even in the worst types of humanity leaped for a moment into living realities, and, Hugh, the 'scape-grace,' the 'mad fellow,' the young reprobate,' could trace in himself the faint lineaments of a man made in the image and likeness of God. By this I know that even in those wild days I was not wholly evil, having not only an understanding of virtue, but also a sincere love for, and desire to possess "Still the same frank, out-spoken friend," Hugh exclained. "I tell you, Paul, I have not seen one since the old days who dared speak to me so plainly. But think now, my Pythias, is it not possible that you may hold an erroneous opinion concerning the sort of wife which ait, not for its effects alone, but for its real, man of my stamp would choose if left to exercise his own free will in the matter? Consider him not thoroughly bad, but cherishing in his inmost heart a secret love for what is good, and true, and beautiful, though a love as yet not in sufficient active force to overrule the influences of evil at work against him, would he not naturally seek companionship with one in a degree above him, intrinsic worth. Has that love and strong desire wrought no fruits in me? Look in my face, Paul Dana. Do you see any traces of dissipation there, or do you discover much resemblance any way to the dissolute young fellow whom you used to lecture gravely and counsel wisely ten years ago?" "You have changed greatly, Hugh. I marked OUR LIBRARY TABLE. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND. A Novel in three volumes. By Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel. T. Cautley Newby, 30, Welbeck-street, Cavendish Square.)-Wanting the force and passion which the title leads us to expect, and for the true working out of which the authoress held all the elements in her hand, "Reaping the Whirlwind" is nevertheless a well-told story of considerable power, and exhibits the writer's knowledge of the better nature of her sex in a inarked and intelligent manner. Nothing can be more real, more loveable and womanly, than the character of Ethel Beamish, nothing more true to nature than the imaginary sorrows of her early married life-her aching jealousy, her morbid fears for the continuance of her hushand's love, her exigence, which arises not from selfishness so much as from her own excess of affection and, as time passes on, the gradual recognition of her husband's true regard, and of the rationale of wedded life. With Gertrude, her sister, we cannot profess much sympathy; she walks apart, even by the side of an only and younger sister, and makes us feel the coldness of her self-contained and haughty nature, repelling from the very first. But the inhabitant of Primrose Cottage, and the two maiden sisters, the Miss Downings, and their niece and protegée Jane Norton, are charmingly real, and with all the "miching mallecho" of the lively little widow, Mrs. Vivian, and the peculiarities of the spinster's, pleasant persons in village society But Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel shall describe them herself: Miss Downing was a lady of about forty years of age, with a tall, stately figure, and the remains of considerable personal attractions. She was stronginded, healthy, energetic, and of very decided literary tastes, which had more than once induced her, it was said, to open a correspondence with the editor of a local paper, and to offer to supply both the poetry and the leading articles on very moderate terms, as well as to regale the editor (who lived at Boltby) with tea and toast whenever he felt inclined to walk as far as Graybourne. No one seemed very clear as to the result of these overtures; but Miss Downing was always suspected of being the author of several heroic and didactic compositions, which from time to time had appeared in the poet's corner -shire Instructor, and which were signed "Semiramis." In temper and disposition Miss Downing was really a pattern to elderly spinsters in general, being cheerful, contented, and, as far as appeared on the surface, entirely reconciled to her lot. The little widow at Primrose Cottage said, indeed, that she had by no means relinquished all hope of escaping from the despised sisterhood yet; but then that little widow wasn't a bit charitable towards other women, and could not quite forgive Harriet Downing for looking so well and handsome at forty years of age, of The The second sister, Miss Dora, was an invalid and very romantic. She had long fair hair, which she wore in ringlets that were always out of curl, and somewhat wiry in texture; but her blue eyes were soft and pensive, and there were some sweet tones united with her general appearance and invalid in her low and rather melancholy voice, which, state, gave her a claim to be reckoned by most per sons of the other sex as an interesting woman. Jane Norton, the niece, whom these kind-hearted ladies had adopted on the death of her parents, was a bright-eyed girl of about eighteen; not pretty, not graceful, certainly not clever, and yet with a quaint odd charm about her that it would be very difficult to define. Her aunts were very fond of her, and allowed her to do exactly what she pleased; and the consequence was she did nothing (when she was not playing with the cat) but a little needlework on her own account, and spent altogether as idle and profitless a life as could well be imagined. Her fat good humour, keen observance, and love of soft-furred animal pets, culminating in her affection for "Blabberty Cutsoms" (a pet dormouse), makes her, in Mrs. Mackenzie Daniel's hands, quite a character. It is only where the wicked people, with their wicked ways, come on the stage of the story, that the author dwarfs her own conceptions and disappoints the expectations of her readers by her evident fear of entering the list of the sensationalists. But the character of Meta belongs of right to that class of novels, and loses half its vigour by being transposed to the calm foreground of respectable domesticity. Her unscrupulous deeds lack action, and become tame enough when recorded at second hand. Also her lover Guy, who is meant to represent the unreasoning recklessness of a blind, infatuated, ill-regulated passion, exhibits no passion whatever in the presence of the reader; but is, in point of fact, boyish, and weak and insipid enough to conciliate us to his wife's indifference. Her active wickedness degenerates, in the last volume, into a weakness for brandy-andwater, and involves Guy, who for love of her had given up the profession of the church, and the aspiration of his genius, in the gathering of the weird harvest which she had sown, and which gives the title to these volumes. Walter Kenyon, the spoiled darling of fashion-the man of good impulses and weak will-amiable and irresolute-is well depicted; and the cha racter of the vicar of Graybourn, though perhaps a little overshaded, is one well calculated to account for the tenderness and reverence with which Ethel Beamish regards him. But the charm of the story is in its telling. All the events but those which refer to Meta, and the mystery which surrounds her, evolve themselves quite naturally, and have that pleasant air of vraisemblance that the autobiographic style in which it It was hewn from a single block, and was eight feet long by four in breadth. It was covered with the same hieroglyphics which sides ranging with the cardinal points of the compass. Floor, walls, and roof were each a gigantic monolith. Here was found no rubbish -no dust. It was as clean as if swept but yes-loaded the walls. The sharp relievos had not terday. I crept within. A superstitious dread (the religion of Egypt is superstition, and its priests are its sincerest votaries) chained my follower's feet before the threshold. He faltered in a whisper that the spot was under an invisible guardianship, and that, should we enter, the stony door would close behind us for ever. I half persuaded, half compelled him to follow me. He at length followed my example, and tremblingly crossed the broad threshold. It was my belief that we were near the base of the Pyramid; yet who can tell how deeply the foundations of this mighty pile penetrate the earth? Explorations, afterwards conducted, throw some light upon that subject now. Upon every side there were five hundred feet of chiseled stone between us and the open air. The walls of the apartment were wrought smooth with the chisel. Upon these stony pages were blazoned the deeds of the regal tenant of this narrow room-the story of his conquests and his triumphs. A monarch of gigantic stature (so was he represented in comparison with the surrounding figures of high and haughty aspect) sat upon a throne, holding upright in his hand a sceptre crowned with a winged globe. To him approached, with obsequious mien, stewards of estates, keepers of herds, superintendents of the public granaries, and overseers of captives and slaves, to render up their accounts. In another line, approached the throne, generals leading trains of captives, bringing the spoils of conquered kingdoms. One incident carved in this triumph smote me dumb with amazement. There approached the monarch a god-crowned and winged, the tutelar deity of old Egypt, leading a train of bound and bowed captives. The artist had caught with fidelity the distinctive features of the various nations. Those of this line were the children of Judah. Over the head of the foremost, who was of double the stature of the rest, was a cartouche, the oval rim of which was the wall of a fortified city. In it I read with breathless wonder, in pictured symbols, the words "Melek Aiudah, King of the Jews." It was a record of the conquest of Jerusalem and the son of Solomon, read upon the wall of the tomb of the conqueror, written there while the temple of the son of David was yet in its glory. How narrow is this tomb! how silent! Here is rest indeed! the everlasting Sabbath of the grave! But let us proceed to the discovery of most thrilling interest, the object which chained my eye upon my entrance. I approached it with a feeling of awe. With its head eastward, like that found by Belzoni, upon the centre of the stony floor, reposed a sarcophagus of alabaster; but, unlike that discovered by that traveller, it had never been violated. suffered; they were sharp and perfect. What, indeed, could reach them here? The stupendous and rocky bulk of the Pyramid barred the work from the gnawing tooth of time itself! Within a cartouche upon the lid was the name of the great Sesostris, described in those cryptographic inscriptions, as, "the vindicator of the gods," "the protected of the gods of all classes," son of the gods." 66 It was the great Sesostris whose body slept beneath! recess. Achmet stood aloof trembling, while I explored. He was a victim of a slavish dread which the Anglo-Saxon mind can hardly comprehend. He dreaded, lest the watchful spirits of the tomb should imprison us within the dark recess forever. He piteously urged that we should now retrace our way, and close the stony could have deterred me now. My imagination But not the prospect of death itself was on fire. We had no time to waste; the torches were waning. I would have fallen dead befailed of the sight of its inmate. I assumed the side that grand sarcophagus rather than to have mien of the lord and master to the slave. The no danger, fears no odds, quickly bore down haughty Anglo-Saxon soul, which shrinks from the will of the son of the emasculate East. The fever in my blood exalted my will to a tenfold power. He obeyed. I knew he must obey. and we lifted it off. But the face of the mighty I inserted the bar beneath the ponderous lid, monarch was not yet revealed. There issued forth and filled the tomb a pungent but an exceedingly sweet and aromatic odour, which the odour of some substance used by the was wholly strange to me. It was doubtless Egyptians in embalming, an art lost to us, at least in its perfection. Within, there appeared a chest or coffin, of a thin, light, odoriferous wood, of a kind unknown at the present day, Africa may yet furnish to the arts. It must yet which the unexplored equatorial regions of have contained in itself, or have been charged with, essences, which preserved it from the common decay. It was perfect. I removed the cover of the wooden shell, and there appeared loose layers of papyrus and silk. These were covered with scarabaei, the sacred beetle, in gold. Beneath, appeared the contour of a human form. The body was not wrapped in a multitude of folds of cloth, as are common mummies. The process had been too elaborate and skilful to require such aids. I sat down upon the foot of the sarcophagus, overpowered trembling hands could remove with decency the by my sensations. It was some time before my folds that hid the face of the dead king of that hoary time, the ruler of an infant world. The face, for more than forty centuries bound in darkness and motionless slumber, was exposed to the light of the torches. I kneeled and gazed. Achmet muttered heathen spells for his safety. It was a kingly, a majestic face and head. The lashes of the closed eyes lay upon the cheek as in sleep. Truly it was an iron sleep! The straight, coal-black hair was swept back from the broad brow, and rolled around the neck in a mass. There was an eternal smile frozen upon the full, well-cut lip. The skin was dark, smooth, beardless. The body was not emaciated. The nose was prominent, and hooked, like the beak of an eagle. It was the body of a man of not more than forty years, I thought. He looked as if he might awake from sleep and address the disturbers. But there it lay, how still and majestic! one born to majesty, to exact homage, even in his tomb. He lay, as he had lain five thousand years, from the childhood, through manhood of the world itself, solemn and unchangeable. A broad fillet, with sacred symbols wrought upon it in gold, bound his head, confining back the straight raven hair. The ears contained ornaments of value, while upon the forefinger of the right hand yet hung the monarch's signetring,which had stamped with a reverend authority the laws and edicts of a hundred nations. I severed from the temple of the sleeper a lock of the long black hair. I never look upon it without feeling a magnetic thrill. It has a mesmeric power, as one might term it, to bind the imagination, to lead the soul backward out of the present, across that measureless abyss of time, to that far shore whence it has come. The breeze that stirred the palm-branches in Paradise may have waved it upon that kingly front. The lore of that world is dead; its arts lost. Conquerors and conquered are gone. There are left only a few broken wrecks of a civilization the grandest that time ever saw. All, all have returned to that dust which this night-wind scatters over these vast and voiceless solitudes, which once echoed to the tramp of innumerable hosts, whose soil once groaned under the burthen of a hundred great cities. But the fascination of that royal face, that smile that seemed to hold the riddle which there is no Edipus to solve, had delayed us too long. Our torches had nearly expired. I started with alarm. They would hardly light us back through the labyrinth! We replaced all as we found it, and closed the tomb. The close, smoke-laden air almost stifled respiration. Í resolved to return on the morrow, and to continue the exploration of the Pyramid. There had come upon me a conviction that there were many other avenues, other tombs, which careful search might reveal. Some other time I may relate the result of these explorations, but not now. As the sun was rising over the Lybian desert, changing the drifting sands into yellow gold, we stood upon the ground without the Great Pyramid. As we wended our way across the sands, I strove to recall my soul from the spell that had possessed it. It seemed as if I had slept the sleep of that great king whose form we had just left, and that I had just now awaked. There came upon me a belief, a certainty, that I was to reveal many secrets of that Pyramid, that nothing had yet been accomplished in their exploration. Not one of them was the resting-place of a single king, but of a dynasty, a long line. What monarch would begin the erection of his own tomb upon the day of his coronation, and behold it progressing throughout all the years of his reign? The largest of these piles were each the work of twenty years or more! Of the laborious and exciting exploration which I conducted after the day of which I have written, and of their astounding results- disclosures that proved fatal to health-I may write at another time, not now. A great physician counselled me that the prolongation of such excitement must prove fatal. I fled to the quiet and seclusion of a new country. I left old Egypt for the season, to regain in a new atmosphere a new mind and a new body-sana mens in sano corpore. Said that great physician, with a parent's sympathy-every great healer must possess it"The atmosphere wherein your mind now lives is exhausting; it is an atmosphere of pure oxygen to the natural body; it is a fiery stimulant; it excites an intense activity, but it consumes the victim quickly." I took counsel, and fled for a season. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. The present year has been to us a prolific one in occasions of sorrow. Some of the noblest and most highly-gifted in art and literature have, within the eleven months that are past, written their last line and plied the pencil for the last time. In our land, Thackeray, Leech, and Landor have departed. On the continent the deathroll includes the names of Uhland and Meyerbeer: whilst across the Atlantic came, in the spring of the year, the tidings of the death of Nathaniel Hawthorne. Scarcely noticed among the telegrams that supplied us with news of the progress of the fiercest and most unjust civil war that was ever waged, the simple announcement had, nevertheless, a deeper, though inexpressibly mournful, interest to not a few in England, than all the turmoil of battle that was compressed into the electric summary. |