Wellington was a great general-not a great man. His was far inferior to the comprehensive, imperial genius of Napoleon, who, though a thorough-paced homicide, yet possessed the broad vision and faculty which distinguish the mightier rulers of men. In the latter years of his life, the emperor exchanged his soldierly statesmanship for fatalism-goaded to this by the fierce opposition of legitimacy—and thus renounced and falsified the glorious prestige of his early career. But, take him all in all,—looking at the astonishing picture of his life, in all its breadth and all its magnificent effects of light and shadowwe feel that the Corsican was of a higher order of spirit than the renowned and admirable soldier whose obituary we write. Wellington was a man of cold thought and cal- | prided herself in him; which, seeing how for culation. There was very little generous impulse givingly grateful she always was for the slightest or fine feeling in his character. Any thing like show of kindness, speaks very unfavorably for the sentimental talk of glory he would smile at as stuff heart of the Duke of Wellington. and nonsense. He knew that all the British glories of the Peninsula were won by the greatest scamps and blackguards in the three kingdoms, who composed the strength of the regiments. He was simple and matter-of-fact; his thoughts were subdued and hardened by the drilling of a lifetime. His style of writing was as disciplined and calm as his mind. He could never have written any of those bulletins with which Napoleon used to fire the blood of his soldiers, and in which he could show himself as impassioned as Mirabeau, as condensed as Tacitus. It is said Wellington cried out: "Up, guards, and at them!" when Ney had climbed the ridge at Waterloo. But on being asked about it, by a painter to whom he sat for his portrait, the duke smiled, and said he did not remember saying any such thing. He did not understand any melo-dramatic un-British balderdash! He loved the simple vernacular, and even slang of old England. At Salamanca, he turned to General Leith, and pointing to a height, said, "Push on, and drive them to the devil!" O Sallust, Tacitus, Polybius, how should you have got over the battle-speeches of such a man! After the battle of Salamanca, he said: "Marmont has forced me to lick him." At Waterloo, with his watch in his hand, and his keen, cold glance bent through the rolling smoke, in the direction of Warre, he said: "This is hard pounding, gentlemen; we must only see who will pound the longest!" using, in that sublime and trying moment, the language of a London prize ring! Thus, cool and courageous as a steel blade, he never exhibited any of that glowing, impressible temperament, so characteristic of his native isle. He had, in fact, very little sympathy with Ireland in any thing, and seemed to forget he was ever born there. He never came forward in Parliament, or out of it, with any motion respecting its distress, or the relief of it, and, indeed, showed himself undeserving of any attachment on the part of Irishmen. Ireland had no sympathy with him, nor The duke's decease was caused by apoplectic fits; and took place at Walmer Castle, where he was attending his duty as Warden of the Cinque Ports. On Sunday, 12th September, he felt very well, and dined heartily on venison. On Tuesday morning he seemed to feel the effects of indigestion, and had an apothecary sent for. He spoke to the latter on his arrival; but afterward lost the power of speech, and died imperceptibly at three o'clock. Wellingtou was of low stature, like Napoleon; as for his aspect, there is as little need to describe it as that of the emperor. He was simple in his habits, and economic in his household, and usually slept on a little hard camp bed. A friend of his once complained that he had not room to turn in his bed. "Sir," said the duke," when a man begins to think of turning in his bed, it is high time for him to turn out of it." He survived his duchess about twenty years. He has been succeeded by Arthur, Marquis of Douro, born in 1807, and married in 1839 to the Lady Elizabeth Hay, daughter of the Marquis of Tweedale. He has no children. We believe Lord Charles Wel lesley has a son. But the English apprehend a failure of the heirs male, and wish to have the dukedom entailed on the issue of the females of the family. SONNET.-HOMER. BY WM. ALEXANDER. GREAT Melesigenes! erst, poor and blind, And act thy characters of lofty mind- When telling of fair Ilium's famous towers, Led by Pelides, Hector's sternest foe- GRACE BARTLETT. AN AMERICAN TRADITION. BY MARY J. WINDLE. CHAPTER I. Light of the new-born verdure! Glory of the jocund May! Sunshine and storm-the alternate checker-work were donned without the slightest dread lest they should be spoiled. The weather was neither too hot nor too cold; the old failed to anticipate coughs, and the young anticipated pleasures innumerable. A poetic fancy might have deemed that the trees, the flowers, the grass, were endowed with a brighter beauty in honor of the day. This festival, though nominally and by custom given to children, was witnessed and enjoyed, we may say fairly participated in, by those of older growth. At almost every cot A LOVER of the picturesque, whether poet, painter, or simply an enjoyer of Nature's works, may be justified, perhaps, in extending his quest after the sub-tage door might be seen some grandmother singing lime and beautiful beyond the rich and varied landscapes of New England. Yet it is in this unpretending region that we are about to lay the opening incidents of our tale, rather than amid the cloud-capt rocks of Niagara, or upon the indented shores of our romantic lakes. In the early days of our pilgrim forefathers, ere luxury and fashion had tarnished with their deceptive but defacing touch the primitive customs of the land -and, at the crisis referred to, neat but unpretending villages were beginning to dot at intervals the surface of the adopted country. to the crowing infant in her lap, and old men leaning on their sticks peering out to catch a share of the general joy. Opposite the pastor's dwelling was reared the May-pole, gay with flowers and streaming with ribbons, while around it was collecting the limited juvenile population of the little place. The lively ceremonies of the occasion formed no pompous pageant nor idle mockery-the smiles of the children alone shed a glow over the spot, and their merry peals of laughter rendered their sports hilarious and exhilarating to the more sober and advanced inhabitants, who acted only as spectators of this portion of the festivities. Several hours passed thus in sportive amusements and in the crowning of the May Queen, Grace Bartlett, the pastor's only child, who was elected by the unanimous voice of her companions to the honors of the occasion. It is to the heart of one of these models of rural beauty that we now invite the attention of the reader. The immediate location of the village was in a sort of valley, close within the verge of an immense forest, and surrounded by an intervening underwood, which Nature had fashioned as a sort of defensive barrier. The cottages were without the underwood, and thickly distributed on that side of the forest which skirted the open country, forming, as it were, a slight chain of protection against the inroads of the Indians. So much in the light of a defensive fortress had these indeed come to be regarded by the dusky tribes, that latterly their invasions in the place had been few and far between. Even these occasional attacks had at length seemed completely repressed through the energetic measures of one of the colonists, who had acted on each occasion of surprise with a firmness and self-possession that at once over-day should be withered; when that last tribute, a powered and dispelled the savages. This man, Deacon Winthrop, had, however, by the strenuous efforts referred to, incurred the revengeful feelings of the adjacent tribes, and an impending evil at this moment hung over him, unsuspected by himself or any of the villagers. The beautiful English custom of celebrating the first of May, by a festival of roses, had been preserved in the colonies. To the morning of as lovely a day as ever ushered in that month of flowers, we now revert. It was a day of days-not a cloud to alarm even the most fearful, and holyday dresses A banquet followed, spread upon the grass, and composed of contributions from every cottage matron. When this was ended, the long train of youthful forms, each garlanded with a trimming of flowers, swept up a vast avenue of beech to the village church. There the oration of the day was pronounced by one of their number robed in white. It was a simple and heart-touching sentence that last came from those childish lips-a word of faith to be preserved when all the bright twisted garlands of the chaplet bound by cypress leaves, should be laid upon each bier. Hark! now from the young circle before the low pulpit arise the simple tones of a psalm, swelling on the air in rich gradations, interrupted only by the throbbing of those tender hearts, in the fullness of their innocent joy. Their rosy cheeks and glistening eyes at that moment, what need have these of record? Are they not written still in the memories of the surving throng? The gushing melody from those infantile voices at length ceased, and the assemblage dispersed from the building. Again out in the open air, again on the broad common, again scattered hitherward and thitherward, the children sought their homes, many of them possibly regretting that the festival of roses had not to begin again, but all solaced by the thought that it had become for once more an event in their personal history. And so to all intents the events of the day seemed ended. Several of the children had lingered in the meeting-house, after the general crowd had left it. By degrees, however, these few loiterers all departed, either singly or by pairs, excepting young Frank Winthrop and Grace Bartlett, who lingered to collect and garner up a few of those perishable wreaths that garlanded and adorned the modest sanctuary. The platform in front of the pulpit, erected for the accommodation of the children, was completely hidden in leaves and flowers. Laurel branches as graceful as stooping seraphims swept over the surface of the clerk's desk; the supporters of the pulpit lifted to its floor long, slender lines of jessamine; while from the rafters of the roof hung rich festoons of daffodil—making altogether a completely new interior; the high-backed chair of the clerk beneath was so richly adorned with roses that one kneeling before it might, without any great effort of imagination, have been mistaken for a votary of Flora. For some time our young pair amused themselves tripping from spot to spot, their sweet, childish voices waking the echoes of the humble building. At length, tired of the day's exertion, little Grace Bartlett threw herself into the huge arm-chair behind the desk. She was a lovely child, with large, soft eyes, and fair hair, which fell in light waves, rather than curls, nearly to her waist. Although the especial pet of the whole settlement, she was not spoiled, owing to the remarkable sweetness of her disposition, which caused her to receive indulgence as the flower drinks dew, only to become more light and fragrant from the rich overflow of nutriment. Oh! if you could have seen her sitting in that old chair, raised some three feet above the floor, her petite figure vainly endeavoring to accommodate itself to the stiff, high back, one bare arm dimpling its dark covering, as if like some pleasant old gentleman, it could not help laughing at so dainty a thing, and the tips of her tiny fingers finding themselves an agreeable resting-place upon the soft coloring of her cheek. Her male companion, Frank Winthrop, was a laughing boy, who was two years her senior. He was a plump urchin, welcome to the hearts and arms of all. His life was one long holyday of fun and frolick. He was ever fain to chat with the old, laugh with the young, nor was there even a dog in the village that did not wag its ears knowingly as the pretty fellow drew near. From under a rude, arched porch outside, the clear laugh and ringing shout of a troop of happy children, who still loitered near, might be heard. One was romping in baby-frock and pinafore among the trees, now thrusting his arm in the leaves to grasp the bared shoulder of a little sister, then creep ing away under the green shadows, as a hare will hide itself, and raising his ringing voice to challenge pursuit, clapping his hands and laughing-scampering off finally on his chubby little feet, to plunge headlong in the fragrant grass, with a happy joyousness truly refreshing. At the farthest extremity of this rustic shed, three or four were playing, with noise enough for Christmas holydays; two boys at football, while the rest were testifying their feelings by sporting around them with the extremest merriment. One of the girls, at a little distance, was going through the A, B, C-dom of a mimic school, now kissing one, patting another, coaxing a third, crying "Oh, for shame!" to a fourth, and then dismissing with gravity the geography and history classes. Although some of the young rebels were larger than she was, and though they did mischiev ously contrive to loosen the comb with which she had tucked up her tresses, until the whole glittering mass came sweeping round her dimpled shoulders; and though some of the lesser girls would pelt her with clover tops, yet for all that she was as demure as a kitten-not a muscle moved. Ah, childhood! beautiful spring-time of the heart, when deception and suspicion are alike unknown, while yet the flowers of trustfulness bloom side by side with budding hope and fancy-ere the germs of envy and selfishness have come to shadow this bright little Eden of life's imaginings-how lovely thou art in thy freshness and purity! Little dreamed the guileless young gambolers at this moment that a savage eye was peering upon them from behind the eves of the meeting-house. An enemy was lurking near, unknown to those innocent hearts, who, ere the village clocks should have pointed to the hour of nightly repose succeeding that day of glee, was destined to shed a gloom over the late happy region. The pretty May Queen, Grace Bartlett, tired at length of her seat in the tall chair under the pulpit, and jumping down with a bound and a run, was soon out upon the green amidst the merry group we have described. Frank Winthrop, the other little loiterer, had fallen asleep in one of the high pews, with a large Psalm-book for his pillow, and consequently he took no heed of her departure. There he lay in the calm, beautiful sleep of his young time of life, a model fit for the painter's or the sculptor's hand. How beautiful that boyish dreamer looked!—the round, fair outline, the fresh bloom of the featureshis dark hair falling aside from his forehead, leaving its surface visible, and bland and fair. Meantime, the shades of evening drew on, and the pennon of the hour began to bestar the heavens. A signal from the parents now brought the truant children to their homes-all but this reposing boy. It was the moment looked for by the lurking foe. Stealthily emerging from his retreat, he gazed around a moment to convince himself that his way was clear, and then advanced softly to the door of the meeting-house. From his late place of secretion he had caught a glimpse, through the window, of the sleeper, thus opportunely for his purpose, left alone in the building, and he deemed that his moment of | sensible of the downy softness of the rich carpets revenge had come. under his feet, or the glitter of the splendid lustres An instant he stood at the threshold-then ad- over his head. At length, as he turned at the extreme vanced with measured tread along the aisles. So end of the room, his eyes fell on the frame of a large light were his footsteps, that the very scattered gar-painting, and for some minutes they were riveted to lands and stray flowers of the late pageant rebounded unharmed beneath his moccason tread. the picture it contained as by a master-spell. It was a portrait-a full-length portrait representing a The space which divided him from the slumberer female at the climax of youthful loveliness, with a was soon past, and he stood before the child's smil- charming infant boy resting upon her knees. Well ing and outstretched form. For a moment a com- did the gazer remember how fondly he had assisted punctious feeling stole over the warrior. He held in keeping the child quiet during the tedious task of his breath as he gazed, and his heart swelled with sitting, by holding before his little laughing eyes the love and pity. It was an evanescent feeling, how-very toy now figuring in the hands of the mother in ever, for in another instant he had raised the boy in his arms, and bearing him gently away, he retraced his steps to the green sward. Another moment, and his retreating feet pressed an opening in the underwood bordering the forest, and in a moment more he was lost in the densely-wooded scenery. the picture before him. The power of association brought back with lifelike force to the father's mind the soft, warm grasp of those dimpled, baby hands. Alas! they were now cold in death. The past arose before him-his early ambition—his happy marriage-his rapid and flattering success-his hope for higher honors-his wish for a son to transmit the pride of his name-his gratified desire. Before its fulfillment, the strongest principle of his mind was the longing for a son. Afterward, he had coveted worldly honors-he had garnered wealth that he might transmit to him the one and the other. Often, after the duties of the day, had he repaired to that child's chamber and watched his slumber. How often for hours had he nursed it in his arms with all a woman's tenderness and gushing joy. All his softer feelings-all his holier and better ones-such as even in the proudest bosom find root, turned toward this child. From the soft and sinuous outline of the half-naked babe in the picture, his eye wandered to the face of the angel-like mother. Those clustering curls, those sparkling eyes, those blooming cheeks-for a moment they appeared before him, joyous, brilliant, beautiful and beloved. He pressed his hand hard with the clinch of suppressed emotion over his eyes, as the heavy tears fell upon the rich carpet, evidencing that under the crust of worldly intrigues was a heart that beat strongly. The grave had claimed both the dear ones whose likeness he looked uponand now only a daughter was left to him. This daughter he loved, it is true, but she could not inherit his name, and every new acquisition of fortune or fame rendered him only the more anxious to perpetuate those empty distinctions to his race. The solitary occupant of this apartment had the air of one accustomed to action, and yet not a stranger to habits of thought. He was of no more than middle height, but in his air and gesture there was a tone of decision and command which no advantage of stature could bestow. The features were graceful, the color, that which exposure to the air increases in a skin originally soft and fresh. There was altogether a military appearance in the full and fiery eye which plainly showed the character of his adventurous life. General Lincoln had been sent by the government of England to occupy a fortress on the borders of Canada. Whatever might be the stern peculiarities "My son, my son!" murmured the worldly man, of his disposition, he was a man well calculated for "would to God that I could have died for thee." the important trust reposed in him-for, combining At that instant the great hall bell sounded, and an experience with judgment in all matters relating to attendant shortly afterward entered the apartment, diplomacy, and being fully conversant with the cha-saying, "The Indian chief Tuscalameetah is below, racter and habits of both Indians and settlers, he possessed singular aptitude to seize whatever advantages might present themselves. His policy was to conciliate the adjacent tribes of savages, and through them to destroy the few colonial settlements yet formed. His first object was now in the full tide of successful accomplishment, and when it should be fully ripe, the last would naturally follow. It was midnight, and General Lincoln was pacing the floor of his luxurious apartment, seemingly in and would speak with Gen. Lincoln on business of private import." "Let him come up," was the reply. In a few moments, a man entered in the wild accoutrements of a native of the woods. His closelyshaven head was without ornament of any kind, with the exception of a solitary plume that crossed his crown and hung over his shoulders. A tomahawk and scalping-knife were in his belt. He wore a hunting suit of forest green, with moccasons gayly orna mented, and his buckskin leggings laced at the side were gartered above the knee. His eye was quick and restless, roaming on every side of him, as from the habit of mistrusting the sudden approach of an enemy. Notwithstanding these symptoms of suspicion at the moment of his entrance, his countenance was not only without guile, but wore an expression of honesty. He passed from the door, and approached Gen. Lincoln with the dignified tread of his race. "What bringeth thee here?" asked the proud man of the savage. "Hast thou accomplished the errand I entrusted thee with." "Tuscalameetah hath done thy bidding, and with the same arrow he has made sure his own revenge," answered the other. "I trust thou hast not committed butchery in this work," said his employer. "The moment of extermination has not yet come, and I pray God it never may be our last resource. I but desired you to find me an orphan boy among the settlements whom I could make the heir of my name and wealth." "The red man acteth as he will, and cometh back as he sees fit," replied the chief, haughtily. "But the son of the clearings shall bless thy hearth; yet the tomahawk and scalping-knife have not left their resting-place." "It is well," responded Lincoln, "that thou hast shed no blood. And the child, is he fair? and wherefore doth he linger?" "He shall be in thy wigwam ere the sun setteth again," said Tuscalameetah. "The lily of the valley cannot compare with him in whiteness." "See that thou bringest him hither by the time thou hast specified," rejoined the general, as opening an escritoir which stood on one side of the room, he handed the Indian a purse of gold. In a few moments he was again alone. The morning following the mysterious disappearance of little Frank Winthrop, unusual symptoms of gloom might have been discerned in the village. The may-pole still stood trimmed with ribbons, but no children gamboled around it. There was a party of lads and a group of girls standing talking to each other-not merrily, but earnestly, on what appeared to be a subject of grave import. There were neither shouts nor laughs to be heard. And at almost every cottage door mothers might be seen with their infants in their arms, or old men and women shaking their heads sadly, and whispering to one another. One called to mind how he had seen the child at the festival on the day previous, and what a pensive, half-ominous air his childish features wore. Another told that he had wondered much that one so young as he, should be bold enough to remain alone in the meeting-house with his baby companion. And the children went thither in little knots, and with half-fearful steps entered the pew where Ruth bad left the lost boy sleeping. As to the bereft mother, for many hours they had little expectation of her surviving, but grief is strong, and she recovered. Some faint hope of his ultimate discovery seemed to animate her heart in this season of agony. The father took an active an energetic part in the search that was made by the villagers. It was a trait in his character to conceal deep griel, which with him, in this case, seemed to lead to action, not despair or despondency. For weeks an investigation and search, led by himself, was followed up; but it proved without success. Those who have known the blank that follows the death of an idolized child-the uneasy void, the sense of desolation that will come when something beloved is missed at every turn-they can faintly guess how those unhappy parents pined as their faint and shadowy hope deferred from day to day till their hearts grew sick. With the mother, a removal from the scene of her late bereavement was tried, in order to discover whether change of place would rouse or cheer her. But alas! she was henceforth the same-a broken-hearted woman. The sympathy felt for her in the village was profound. As she appeared among them those who met her drew back to make way for her, and give her a softened greeting. Some shook her kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered as she glided by, and many cried, "God help you!" as she passed along. Months passed on, and still no tidings of Frank Winthrop cheered the ears of the villagers. Years, too, in their course, gradually rolled on, and many changes were witnessed in the settlement-the old died and were buried-new children were added to the colonists-the young began to approach the season of maturity-yet still the vanished one was seen not, and tidings of him were heard in that place no more. CHAPTER IV. I struck in a pathway half-worn o'er the sod By the feet that went up to the worship of God Such language as his I may never recall, Seem'st thou dimly to remember Or in dreams or times of yore? Where and when we seek in vain. MRS. ACTON TINDAL. We must allow an interval of sixteen years to pass away ere we again appear before our readers. To the quiet meeting-house mentioned in our opering chapter, we now revert. The chaplets and |