Beauty-the fading rainbow's pride, A grandsire stands, Youth's coffin-hush the tale it tells! Lone in one heart, her home, it dwells And where the grave-mound greenly swells "But what if hers are rank and power, What if from bannered hall and tower A queen? Earth's regal moons have set. And Lusitania's coronet? Empires to-day are upside down, Give me, in preference to a crown, "But her who asks, though first among A Poet's daughter? Could I claim Your blood would glow Proudly to sing that gentlest name A Poet's daughter-dearer word Lip hath not spoken nor listener heard, From morn till even, And wind-harp by the breathing stirred My spirit's wings are weak, the fire Her name needs not my humble lyre She hath already from her sire All bard can give. In 1822 Halleck visited Europe, and traveled in Great Britain, France, Switzerland, etc. Soon after his return he received an offer from John Jacob Astor to fill a highly responsible position in connection with the management of his vast estate, which post he occupied until the decease of Mr. Astor, when, finding himself possessed of a reasonable competence, he retired from his position in this employ, and has since lived for the most part in his native town. He was one of the original Trustees of the Astor Library, but resigned on removing to Connecticut. When Halleck first became a resident of New York in 1803, it had neither assumed the metropolitan importance nor proportions to which it has since attained, but it lacked nothing in selfimportance. Indeed, it is questionable whether Boston, with all its self-complacency, was more than a match for the good city of "Gotham" at this period. Its great men were very great men— at least in the eyes of their immediate worshipers and their movements were recorded with as much care, if not with as much formality, as if duly chronicled in a Court Journal. Among Halleck's earliest poetical compositions were some admirable and witty hits at these very important characters-conceived in no spirit of spleen, but written with such genuine good-humor as to render his castigations popular with, if not palatable to, the good people of the town. The original conception of these satires was due to Joseph Rodman Drake, a young gentleman of rare promise, who had already written four of them before he admitted Halleck into the partnership, which continued until severed by the early death of their originator. Dr. De Kay, a very clever and well-educated young medical man, while spending a summer at Guilford, made the acquaintance of Halleck's sister, who, on his return to town, gave him a note of introduction to her brother, and the two became warm friends. One of the wittiest sketches in "The Croakers" is the tea-party of the Doctor. Dr. De Kay knew Drake, and was the confidant of Halleck, and probably one of the very few who had any knowledge of his poetical ability. He introduced the two to each other, and by this means was instrumental in forming the literary partnership alluded to. Dr. De Kay, who had a decided literary taste, soon abandoned the practice of medicine; wrote a clever book of travels in Turkey, and published, as Zoologist to the State of New York, some valuable contributions to Natural History. He died, near New York, a few years since. "The Croakers" were, for the most part, confined to local incidents, and were intended to satirize the follies of the day, or, at all events, to amuse by their reference to well-known personages. These were continued, conjointly, by Drake and Halleck, under the signature of "Croaker and Co.," and were published in the newspapers during the year 1819, for the most part in the Evening Post, at that time the chief literary paper of the town. These pieces, to the number of fifty, have recently been collected together and published in an authentic form, and in the best style of bookmaking, by the Bradford Club, one of whose rules is that no member shall sell a book. The publication, which was made in 1860, contains copious notes explanatory of the text, and is accompanied by handsome engravings of Drake and Halleck. Several of the pieces from the pens of both of these authors are brought to light in this publication for the first time, and all are so carefully annotated that they can be readily comprehended by a reader unfamiliar with the local incidents of New York of that day, although it must be confessed that those whose hits are of a purely local nature have lost their chief interest with the disappearance of the circumstances to which they owed their origin. Fortunately, however, all are not of this class. The "American Flag," by Drake, which has been repub lished in every variety of form, and recently |ical man of that city was called upon by a stranelegantly illustrated by Darley, originally ap-ger who desired to consult him on account of an peared in the Evening Post. Nor are the lines extreme depression of spirits which he was un by Halleck, commencing "The world is bright before thee, Its summer flowers are thine, Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine," able to chase away. After a careful examination the medical gentleman, who was unable to discover any bodily disease, advised him to seek gay society, to divert his mind from his own reflections, and especially to seek out one Cardini, who convulsed the city by his witty sallies. "Alas!" replied the stranger, with a deepdrawn sigh, "I am that Cardini." I remember too an interview I had with BurDrake died, in 1820, of consumption, and Hal- ton, the comedian, a year or two previous to his leck, who had tenderly watched by his bedside death, which exemplified this point. He had during the long and anxious hours of his linger- but a short time before, while fulfilling an ening illness, embalmed his memory in the poetic-gagement in Philadelphia, become suddenly and al tribute to be found in his works on this subject. A tribute, in which he declares that the intensity of his sorrow has deprived him of the power to weave in verse a eulogy worthy of his subject, or consonant with his own grief. But Halleck's was not a temperament long to suffer from the poignancy of sorrow. Keenly attached to Drake while living, and attentive during his illness to his slightest want, when death had rent asunder the friendship that bound them together, after the first display of his grief, and with the consciousness that "The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust alarmingly ill. On consulting Dr. Pancost, the eminent surgeon, he had decided that he was laboring under a disease of the heart, which must inevitably prove fatal. He however expressed some hope of ultimate recovery, which I endeavored to dissuade him from, under the belief that it is better for a person laboring under an incurable malady to know the worst, in order to be prepared for the final result. I advised him to abandon the stage, give up his theatrical management, and with his abundant means endeavor to lead, for the short time he might be spared, a life of ease, and one consonant with his approaching end. "I can not abandon the stage," he replied; "it furnishes me with an excitement which I can not live without. I should be driven to think of myself, and should go crazy." He invited me to come that evening and witness the effect. He was already on the bills for Sir Toby Belch. I accepted his invitation, and he chased the shadow from his brow, and although he never after found a friend with whom he so deeply sympathized, yet it was not long before his companions found in him the same frank, jovial, and gay fellow they had been accustomed to consider him, before this loss of one of their number had so shocked their sensibili-never knew him to be more humorous, or more ties. Indeed from the perusal of Haleck's writings this tendency to gayety seems ever uppermost, and not unfrequently displays itself most unexpectedly, if not in a most unbecoming manner, as if the writer in his graver moods was constantly on his good behavior, and ever and anon, like a frolicsome school-boy kept under restraint, startles our gravity by some malapropos but witty remark. As an illustration of this I would refer to the closing lines of the pathetic poem of Alnwick Castle, which, after celebrating in fitting measure the event when, "Seated by gallant Hotspur's side His Katherine was a happy bride, A thousand years ago," fully appreciated by the audience, who were convulsed with laughter. How little did they think that the source of all this merriment was, at that very moment, a gloomy, morose man, who had a full consciousness that he carried in his person an incurable malady that must inevitably terminate his life in a short period! In Halleck's case, however, the humor was doubtless genuine, and sparkled up from a spirit overflowing with good-nature, and frank social qualities which made him in all circles a welcome guest, and procured for him many an invitation which, under other circumstances, one so young had hardly a right to expect. Previous to Halleck's association with Drake he terminates with the ludicrous incident of his in the production of the “Croakers,” he had alvisit to the castle. But it is not always by his writings that we detect the true character of the author. We all know under what painful circumstances Cowper composed the laughable ballad of "John Gilpin," and how very near to madness was Byron when writing the most facetious portions of Beppo and Don Juan. Nor is it in the humor displayed in conversation that a gay heart is always to be found: as an illustration of which I may cite the case of Cardini. During the time of this great wit in Rome, a distinguished medVOL. XXIV.-No. 143.-S s ready made his appearance, although anonymously, as an author, in a poem entitled “Twilight," which appeared in the Evening Post a few months previous to his acquaintance with Drake. At this time Mr. William Coleman, a man of much literary taste, as well as a very sensitive one, was its sole editor. He was very tenacious as to the contents of the paper, and scrupulous about the productions of new contributors. When Halleck's poem was handed to him he gave it to the printer without comment, which was considered by those who knew his fastidious tastes as a remarkable instance of appreciation. He did not learn the name of its author for some months after. "Fanny," his longest poem, in fifteen hundred lines, was composed in 1819. "Alnwick Castle" and Burns" were composed after his visit to Europe in 1822-'23, and were first published in a volume, in connection with other poems, in 1827. A collected edition of his works was published in 1852. Other editions of his poems have from time to time been issued. When "Fanny" first appeared it attracted universal attention in town, and was eagerly read. Apart from the admirable manner in which the story was told, it derived additional piquancy from the circumstance that every one supposed it to be a satire, and each could picture in his imagination the personages it was intended to caricature. This, however, is doubtless a mistake, as the author declares, and apparently with much sincerity, that the creation is purely an ideal one. The edition was soon exhausted, and its author for some time hesitated to allow a second to be published. Its scarcity enhanced the desire to peruse it, and it went rapidly from hand to hand among friends, and not unfrequently sold at fabulous prices-ten dollars having been often given for a copy of it. Its anthorship was attributed to a number of prominent literary men, but suspicion never rested on Halleck, who quietly enjoyed the bewilderment of the town without divulging his own secret. In like manner the authorship of the "Croakers" was for some time concealed, and as they were exceedingly popular, many attempts were made to imitate them, but without success. Coleman says, "We have received several imitations of 'Croakers,' but none of them partake in any degree of the inspiration of his pen." Much discussion arose as to the individual merits of "Croaker" and "Croaker, Jun.," but it was finally shown that they were both from the same pen, the separate productions of Drake and Halleck appearing indifferently under the same sig natures. At last Coleman, upon being closely questioned, revealed the authorship, and Halleck suddenly, and much to his own surprise, became famous. He had always been remarkable for great modesty, and never, while in company, where allusions were made to his own productions, betrayed by word or look his own connection with them. That a part of this arose from the gratification which an individual who is able to set the whole community at bay quietly enjoys there can be no doubt; but yet, at the same time, something is chargeable to that inherent modesty which Halleck, in the full tide of his popularity as a poet, and when he was a welcome guest at the houses of the most witty and fashionable, was remarkable for. "He possessed," said Mr. Winthrop, in speaking to me one day of Halleck, "this trait in contradistinction to myself or any other person in the employment of Barker and Co. Whenever Mr. Barker would dictate a business letter to Halleck, which he was accustomed to do with great rapidity, and while occupied with several other things at the same moment, Halleck would quietly place on paper precisely what had been dictated. After it was presented to Mr. Barker he would often discover that it was irregular, and would frequently remark, Why, this is nonsense.' 'I know it,' Halleck would quietly reply. Why, then, did you not correct me at the time?' demanded the principal. Because,' modestly replied Halleck, 'I might confuse your thoughts, and you have now an opportunity of rejecting what displeases you.'" And Halleck was right, for whenever any other clerk attempted to point out an error of this kind in the process of dictation to this eccentric but masterly business man, he would become confused, and by his manner express his dissatisfaction at the interference. While Halleck was a resident of New York he occupied, for many years, bachelor apartments in what is now far down Broadway. On one occasion, while standing opposite his lodgings observing the progress of a conflagration which was consuming the neighboring buildings, a gentleman with whom he was casually conversing suddenly said, "I see that the fire is making progress to the opposite house. I must go and secure my luggage before it is too late." "And so must I," rejoined Halleck. Each looked at the other for a moment in some surprise. "Do you occupy apartments in this house?" at last demanded the stranger. "I do," replied Halleck; "and you-?" An explanation showed that they had been fellow-lodgers for years, and although not altogether unknown to each other, had now for the first time become aware of the fact. This might readily happen in New York at the present time, but it is difficult to see how it could have occurred in the more primitive days of the city. Since my acquaintance with Halleck he has always, when in town, occupied apartments at Bixby's. Now Bixby's is just the place for a bachelor, and certainly it is for a poet. Every body calls in at Bixby's. Poor Charles Leupp used to go to Bixby's, Verplanck goes to Bixby's, the author of the "Sparrow-Grass Papers" goes to Bixby's. "Ik Marvel," when in town, is to be found at Bixby's. Bayard Taylor, whenever he can find rest for his weary feet, settles down at Bixby's; and last, but not least, Halleck, whether up town or down town, whenever in town is sure to be found at Bixby's. He is now quite averse to social visits, and is very rarely induced to accept an invitation out, even from his oldest friends. Should I do so, he has often said, in declining my own of fers, I should never come to town without being obliged to occupy my whole time in visiting my old friends, who now excuse me on the ground that I pay no visits; and he is doubtless right, for I know of no one whose companionship would be more eagerly sought, could it be obtained, than Halleck's. Age seems to have come upon him with such a genial touch that few can be found so versatile in conversation, so witty, and yet withal so considerate of the feelings of others. opposite; but his chief forte lay in narrating the facts with which his mind was stored. He is an acute observer of men and things, and the more impartial because he lives in a world apart from the great actors of the drama of life, neither partaking of their ambitions nor their jealousies. He is, moreover, imbued with a high sense of religious feeling. His constant declaration to me has been, that all nature teaches the sublimest truths of religion; he loves to contemplate it in nature, and in man's worship he loves it best in its most idealized form, and in its most gorgeous displays. In the grand and imposing ceremonies of the Mass, amidst the peal of the organ, the rich decorations of the altar, and the burning incense, he finds a more truthful delineation of his own conceptions of a befitting worship of man to his Maker than in any other. His sentiments, in this respect, are strikingly in correspondence with those expressed by Byron : On one occasion Sir Walter Scott called Byron's attention to the stories then afloat concerning his altered religious feeling. The only house in which I knew him to visit on any thing like social terms was that of Mr. Leupp. Alas! that hospitable mansion, with ♦ its genial host, its witty and intellectual guests, and its perfect bonhomie, is now forever closed. Charles M. Leupp, who had married a daughter of Gideon Lee, late Mayor of the city of New York (she died long ago), and succeeded to his business, acquired a very handsome estate, which he took pleasure in dispensing in the most liberal manner. His residence on Madison Square was an extensive and palatial one, but its chief charm consisted in an admirable gallery of modern paintings, which contained many of the best specimens of the works of our native contemporary artists, to whom he was a frequent and generous patron. Leupp was a man of very refined taste and kind feeling, and was particularly attached to his friends. He derived great pleasure in the society of men of letters, and by his own social qualities succeeded in attaching many of the more eminent literary men of the day warmly to him. With Bryant he was on terms of great intimacy, and twice vis-ist?" ited Europe in his company. At his informal "No, my lord," replied Scott, "I should receptions Verplanck, the last of the surviving rather suppose that one of your temperament literary men of his time; his bon ami, John would be attracted by the gorgeous ceremonies Gourley; Clemson, the son-in-law of Calhoun, of the Church of Rome." and a very clever chemist; Hackett, the original Rip Van Winkle, and the very best Falstaff of his age, mingled conspicuously with the guests. About a month after my interview with Irving The last time I met Halleck at Leupp's he left at the Astor Library I met Halleck in the readearly, and was accompanied by Leupp to a street ing-room of the Mercantile Library. This was car, in which he returned to his lodgings. Upon in the beginning of July, and the weather was the breaking up of the company it was found any thing but cool. We expressed our mutual that Halleck's umbrella-he always carries one-surprise at meeting each other in town, when all was in the umbrella-stand, but upon reflection the world was rusticating in the country. He Leupp remembered that in his hurry he had had run up for a day or two from Guilford, and taken one with him. It proved to be Leupp's, professional engagements kept me at my post. who wrote to him, begging to retain possession I told him that, with some discomforts, I had been of the one left by him, a new silk one, as a sou- repaid by a few advantages, among the best of venir, and to accept his own, an old cotton one, which I reckoned my interview with Irving, and in return. Mr. Leupp died in 1860, deeply la- the delightful mood in which I found him. mented. Although never disputatious, Halleck was pretty certain in conversation to assume the weaker side, often, it appeared to me, to see what arguments could be urged by those who took the "I suppose," said Byron, "you are one of those who fancy that I will become a Method "Perhaps so," said Byron, musing. "It is not improbable." "Ah," said Halleck, "Irving is always a pleasant companion with those he likes; but he is taciturn if he thinks a crowd is listening to what he says, and apt to be dumb in the presence of a dull or stupid person." I VENTURE to think, I may almost say to only too well founded, that Mr. Dockwrath with hope, that Lady Mason's confession at the end of the last chapter will not have taken any body by surprise. If such surprise be felt, I must have told my tale badly. I do not like such revulsions of feeling with regard to my his wicked ingenuity had discovered no more than the truth, will, in its open revelation, have caused no surprise to the reader; but it did cause terrible surprise to Sir Peregrine Orme. And now we must go back a little and en deavor to explain how it was that Lady Mason thought of all this, and of his own love and friendship for her-of Edith's love for her! He thought of it all, and he could not believe that she was guilty. There was some other fault, some much lesser fault than that, with which she charged herself. But there she lay at his feet, and it was necessary that he should do something toward lifting her to a seat. had made this avowal of her guilt. That she had not intended to do so when she entered Sir Peregrine's library is very certain. Had such been her purpose she would not have asked Mrs. Orme to visit her at Orley Farm. Had such a course of events been in her mind she would not have spoken of her departure from The Cleeve as doubtful. No. She had intended still to keep her terrible secret to herself; still to have leaned upon Sir Peregrine's arm as on the arm of a trusting friend. But he had overcome her, by his generosity; and in her fixed resolve that he should not be dragged down into this abyss of misery the sudden determination to tell the truth, at least to him, had come upon her. She did tell him all; and then, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the strength which had enabled her to do so deserted her, and she fell at his feet overcome by weakness of body as well as spirit. He stooped and took her by the hand, but his feeble strength was not sufficient to raise her. "Lady Mason," he said, "speak to me. I do not understand you. Will you not let me seat you on the sofa?" But she, at least, had realized the full force of the revelation she had made, and lay there covered with shame, broken-hearted, and unable to raise her eyes from the ground. With what inward struggles she had played her part during the last few months no one might ever know! But those struggles had been kept to herself. The world, her world, that world for which she had cared, in which she had lived, had treated her with honor and respect, and had looked upon her as an ill-used, innocent woman. But now all that would be over. Every one now must know what she was. And then, as she lay there, that thought came to her. Must every one know it? Was there no longer any hope for her? Must Lucius be told? She norant of his mother's disgrace-he for whom all had been done! But no. He and every one must know it. Oh! if the beneficent Spirit that sees all and pities all would but take her that moment from the world! But the words which she spoke did not at first convey to his mind their full meaning. Though she had twice repeated the assertion that she was guilty, the fact of her guilt did not come home to his understanding as a thing that he could credit. There was something, he doubted not, to surprise and harass him-something which, when revealed and made clear, might or might not affect his purpose of marrying-some-could bear all the rest, if only he might be igthing which it behooved this woman to tell before she could honestly become his wife, something which was destined to give his heart a blow. But he was very far as yet from understanding the whole truth. Let us think of those we love best, and ask ourselves how much it would take to convince us of their guilt in such a matter. That thrusting of the lie down the throat of Joseph Mason had become to him so earnest a duty, that the task of believing the lie to be on the other side was no easy one. The blow which he had to suffer was a cruel blow. Lady Mason, however, was merciful, for she might have enhanced the cruelty ten-fold. When Sir Peregrine asked her whether he should seat her on the sofa, she slowly picked herself up, and, with her head still crouching toward the ground, placed herself where she before had been sitting. He had been afraid that she would have fainted, but she was not one of those women whose nature easily admits of such relief as that. Though she was always pale in color and frail-looking, there was within her a great power of self-sustenance. She was a woman who with a good cause might have dared any thing. With the worst cause that a woman He stood there wondering and bewildered for some minutes of time, while she, with her face hidden, still clung round his knees. “What is it?" at last he said. "I do not understand." | could well have, she had dared and endured very But she had no answer to make to him. Her great resolve had been quickly made and quickly carried out, but now the reaction left her powerless. He stooped down to raise her, but when he moved she fell prone upon the ground; he could hear her sobs as though her bosom would burst with them. And then by degrees the meaning of her words began to break upon him. "I am guilty of all this with which they charge me." Could that be possible? Could it be that she had forged that will; that with base, premeditated contrivance she had stolen that property; stolen it, and kept it from that day to this-through all these long years? And then he thought of her pure life, of her womanly, dignified repose, of her devotion to her son-such devotion indeed! -of her sweet pale face and soft voice! He much. She did not faint, nor gasp as though she were choking, nor become hysteric in ber agony; but she lay there, huddled up in the corner of the sofa, with her face hidden, and all those feminine graces forgotten which had long stood her in truth so royally. The inner, true, living woman was there at last-that and nothing else. But he what was he to do? It went against his heart to harass her at that moment; but then it was essential that he should know the truth. The truth, or a suspicion of the truth, was now breaking upon him; and if that suspicion should be confirmed, what was he to do? It was at any rate necessary that every thing should be put beyond a doubt. "Lady Mason," he said, "if yon are able to speak to me—” |