MY FIRST GRAY HAIR. BY MOTHER EVE. As the desolate and miserable seek their only enjoyment in past scenes, when home was happy, friends many, and loving, so the old and withered, without hope for the future, or enjoyment in the present, live again in old haunts, become dwellers among the gay, the brilliant, the beautiful; their old companions come up from the grave-yards, arrayed not in the vestments of the grave, but brilliant with warm life and happiness, from almshouses, from garrets and cellars, and a few, may be, from the profuse and luxurious homes of the rich whatever their present station, all are, for the time, equal. Just so, Mother Eve lives in the past; and with her gray hairs, palsied form, and tottering steps, gives you her reminiscences; a few, gay and happy; but many tinged, like her own heart and soul, with the dark threads woven in her web of life. It was years ago, when the first gray hair came to greet companions, black as night, and to sadden for a few moments the heart of a young and happy girl, whose only beauty was her hair. Wrathful was the countenance, impatient and hurried the gesture, that transferred it from the head to the flames. Why did Time lay his snowy fingers upon the head, while the heart was untouched by frost, unchilled by ice, and the warm life-current rushing with resistless force upon its way? Did he come with his melancholy warning, light and gentle at first, to remind the young heart of the time when happiness would dwell only in the past -when the silver chord of affection would be loosened when thoughts, passions, feelings, would make themselves a pyre, on which to consume the heart? As I sit before my dressing-glass, and let the silver shower fall upon my shoulders, I mind me of the time when the first silver thread appeared, joined, by and by, by another, and then by another. I was happy, joyous, gay; Sorrow had passed me by, Care stood aloof-even dove-eyed Melancholy shrank from my merry laugh: but the single thread, frosty and crisp, rested as a coming shadow upon my soul, undefined, but felt; like an omen, a mysterious sympathy that united my fate with the growing ill. The shadow was there, although at first but a speck upon the sunny hori zon-anon it was a fearful cloud, blasting, destroying, annihilating. I stood arrayed as a bride; the gossamer veil rested upon changing tresses, fever burned the brow, but ice touched the heart; while at the altar, lightnings flash, the sullen roar of the distant thunder is heard, and a strange terror freezes my vitals. By one heavy bolt husband and friends are swept away. The serpent lightning twines and wreaths itself about hearts a few moments before instinct with life and happiness. Unharmed, unsupported, I stood; all had gone, no Future was before me-no Present, with its delusions and fancies-but the inevitable, the irresistible, the horrible Past, like a vulture, had its claws upon my heart; dreading the morrow and its misery, yet longing for its approach, as bringing me one day nearer to a port of peace and rest. Soon the dark and troubled waves of the ocean of Death will sweep over a heart broken and crushed by despair. Affections blighted, feelings seared—a sad reality to the early shadowing of a life that might have been brilliant and happy. Surely, life pours forth for some her bitterest cup: in drinking it we are cursed, in the remembrance doubly so― "Thoughts of the past we would, but cannot banish, TO THE AMERICAN EAGLE. Sonnet. BY EUGENE LIÉS. Thrice thou hast stooped from thy ethereal flight, Now thou art gorged with glory and with prey, And thirst of blood, which blood can ne'er allay ? Thou that might'st scale the loftiest azure sky, Why haunt the battle field, and feast on gore? If such thy instinct--such thy destiny- Then shall the earth have hoped in vain once more; And, for thy love of war, shall Freedom die, As on the Seine's and Tiber's banks, of yore. BOOKS OF THE MONTH. MODERN PAINTERS. By a Graduate of Oxford. Part II. New-York: John Wiley. No work on the abstract principles of art ever attained such a general popularity as this. The first part, which appeared about a year ago, had a very large sale in this country, and was eagerly read by many from whom sympathy with the subject would not have been expected. Barring its indiscriminate and wholesale laudation of Turner and some mannerisms, as we might call them, of style and theory, the book contains a great deal that is just, and some things that are original. The author's feeling for nature is true and enthusiastic; hence his descriptions of scenery or Turner's landscapes has nearly the exquisite light, shadow, and coloring of the originals. In this second part, the chapters on Vital Beauty and on the Imaginative Faculty are of especial interest and value. THE DYING ROBIN, AND OTHER TALES. By Joseph Alden, D.D. New York: Harper & Brothers. This is another of those beautiful story books for children, which are becoming so plenty. The stories are short, simple, and convey some good lessons, drawn evidently from nature, and which will therefore come home to many of the little readers who spell their way through its pages. LIFE OF CROMWELL. By J. T. Headley. New-York: Baker & Scribner. This is the first life of Cromwell written by an American, and perhaps the most complete of any which has yet been written. Carlyle's work came nearest, in our opinion, to giving a fair and impartial picture of the stern old Protector and his stern times, but as a biography it is unsatisfactory. Mr Headley comes to the task well qualified by experience in this style of personal history. The errors of style into which he was often led by haste or the impatient glow of description, in his former works, are almost entirely avoided in this The language is clear, compact, and very graphic. The descriptions of the battles of Naseby and Dunbar, are admirable spec inens of dioramic writing. The character of Cromwell is exhibited in its most favorable light, though always with a proper regard to the times in which he lived. We are not sure but that some of his faults have been passed over too lightly, but be that as it may, we have to thank Mr. Headley for a most readable and entertaining book. MARY GROVER, OR THE TRUSTING WIFE. By Charles Burdett. New-York: Harper & Brothers. A well-told temperance story, written with considerable spirit and vigor. It is very neatly got up, and appropriately dedicated to Ex-Mayor Harper. ELIZA ATWOOD. By E. Oaxley. New-York: S. Raynor. A short, moral story. A FIRST BOOK IN SPANISH. By Joseph Salkeld, A.M. New-York: Harper & Brothers. It is somewhat singular that the Spanish language, spoken to such an extent on the American continent, and so easy of acquisition to those whose mother-tongue is English, should not have received a greater degree of attention. Its sound is lofty, sonorous, and capable of more majesty of expression than the Italian, while the treasures of its literature possess a distinct and peculiar character. With the exception of the works of Gavarini and Sannazzaro, the purest pastoral epics of modern times have been written by Spanish authors; and who is not acquainted with the Chronicles of the Cid, and the Legends of the Alhambra ? Mr. Salkeld's work is excellently arranged. The construction of the Spanish, simple in itself, is explained quite as simply; the directions for pronunciation are very clear and explicit; while the vocabulary attached with the exercises in writing and translating, make this book all that is required as an introduction to the study of the language. New LETTERS FROM ITALY-THE ALPS AND THE RHINE. These letters of Mr. Headley are so well-known, and have been stamped with such a widely-extended popularity, that a particular criticism of their style and character is unnecessary at our hands. We cannot, however, refrain from testifying to the fidelity and spirit of their descriptions The writer of this notice is familiar with nearly all of the ground over which Mr. Headley conducts his readers, and he had never had its peculiar features more pleasantly called to mind. Persons visiting Europe would find this volume an admirable companion and guide. HAROLD, THE LAST OF THE SAXON KINGS. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. New-York: Harper & Brothers. Bulwer's penchant for the horrible, has apparently exhausted itself in his novel of "Lucretia:" and we accordingly find in this work a return to his former dignity of style. "Harold" ranks higher. in our opinion, than the "Last of the Barons." The historical delusion is kept up with greater care, and the interest is carried on, without flagging to the end. It gives us glorious glimpses of the life of the sturdy old Saxons and fiery Normans; and as a bold, vigorous and glowing picture of England in the 11th century, is most welcome-which is more than we could say of some of Bulwer's works. THE PEASANT AND HIS LANDLORD. By the Baroness Knorring. Translated by Mary Howitt. New-York: Harper & Brothers. The name of Mary Howitt as a translator is a sufficient token of the character of these volumes, but let no one be contented to take it for granted, without looking into them himself. Their descriptions of life in the North, are very well drawn; and the strong moral interest which is connected with the story, gives it a deeper and more serious importance than would be given to an amusing fiction, alone. THE PLAYMATE: A PLEASANT COMPANION FOR SPARK HOURS. Nos. 11 and 12. New-York: Berford & Co. This is the very thing for the juveniles, full of pleasant stories and spirited pictures. Many of the German and French peasant legends are remarkably well told and illus trated. THE ODD FELLOWS' AMULET.-Wm H. Graham has sent us a copy of this work. It has been already noticed in our July number. MORE BOOKS-Our table is covered with a number of volumes, from Harper & Brothers, Leavitt, Trow & Co., Burgess & Stringer, and others. The space we have given to our multitudinous contributors this month obliges us to pospone many notices until September, when we shall try to do justice to all. THE UNIÓN MAGAZINE SEPTEMBER, 1848. THE BEGGAR SHIP. BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, Late U. S. Consul at Tunis; author of “ Clari, the Maid of Milan,” "Charles II.," "Brutus," etc., etc. TRULY, the world upon the sea affords us stranger topics for meditation than even its wild storms, unfathomable depths, and spouting whales! I have one more to mention, of the existence of which nothing I had ever before heard or read about the sea had given me the remotest intima tion. The day was a very bright one, just after we had got out of the fogs of the banks of Newfoundland. The melancholy dub of the drum, and the dreary toll of the bell, were no longer necessary to warn vessels that there was another vessel riding invisible through the cloud. After dinner on that day, I was pacing the quarter deck with a passenger who had attracted much of my attention throughout our voyage. He had just opened himself fully to me; had told me the history of a strangely baffled life; and, instead of being angry at his own sufferings from the jaundiced or purblind judgments of the world, seemed to have been too much diverted by its queer blunders generally, ever to have left himself leisure for melancholy or repining about those particularly affecting himself. There had been a sort of alarm on board concerning pirates; and the passengers at dinner had been comparing notes as to our means of defence, which were found to be extremely narrow. Now," exclaimed my friend, the practical philosopher, 66 you saw how pale some of those fellows turned when pirates were talked about? With such defences as these, a man may snap his fingers at all the buccaneers that ever roved the deep."-And he showed me a half sovereign and a New-York shilling. "There is my fortune," cried he. "That is what I take back to my own country after long years of labors which have filled the pockets of VOL. III.NO. III. 66 7 | others; and labors harder, a hundred thousand fold, than those by which many have gained wealth so enormous as to puff up their empty heads far above all consciousness of any poor man's existence! But nobody knows that my pockets are not overflowing, and I don't mean that anybody shall. Many even think me an incorrigible spendthrift; many will even swear that I have always been an idler; many, that I have neither soul, nor sense, nor sensibility. When calamity upon calamity has poured upon me, and forced me to bind up my heart with every argument of fortitude to keep it from breaking, I have been told, by those who professed to be my friends, Had it been any one but you, I should have wept at what I witness; but you are not like anybody else; you can't feel as other people doas we ourselves do; for if you could, you would have cut your throat long ago!' So here you see, how ingeniously friendship contrives self-complimentary excuses for inaction and indifference." The turn we had just taken in walking up and down the deck chanced at this moment to bring my face fronting "the house," as they call it, on the top of which stood our captain. I caught his glance as it was earnestly seeking mine, and he gave me a sort of beckon to mount up to where he was. I went. "Do you see that ship?" exclaimed he. That is the sort of ship of which we packets have the greatest horror." "A pirate, then?" answered I hurriedly. "I would rather she were a pirate than what she is. Stop a bit; you'll see." I now eyed the ship intently. The fresh-water sailor, at the first blush, feels toward every sail as, 97 when on our travels, we feel towards a letter from home; but the salt-water sailor knows well enough that the prince of darkness sometimes takes a cruise upon the wide waters. With a glance, the salt-water sailor will detect in ships differences imperceptible to his inexperienced companion; and, as William Penn's servant said to the bailiff, will sometimes think to himself, "Thou hast been seen, friend, but thou hast not been liked." As we drew nearer to the vessel, I observed that she was hanging back, waiting for us to come up; and that there was something very uncommon in her appearance. We drew still nearer. I now perceived a forlornness in her aspect, which I had not noticed before. Her spars were broken; her sails were some in patches, some in rags; her ropes appeared to have been mended over and over and over again; and naked and worm-eaten wood peered in blotches through the worn-out paint of her hull and bulwarks. There was in her complexion that peculiar look of hopelessness and desperation which we sometimes encounter in the streets of a great city, from strangers who dare not speak for shame, and yet who must speak or perish. "What does all this mean?" cried I. "That, sir," said the captain, "is a Beggar Ship." never where his presence was not felt, and, in despite of disheartening disadvantages, to a certain degree, honored; yet whose every effort, in every way, through life, has been steadily circumvented by the subtle treacheries of always smiling and never slumbering envy. Goaded by its petty and perpetual covert persecutions to an entire change of character, he who once trusted in all, now trusts in no one; and disgusted with the old world, he seeks the new, there to become famous either for his virtues or his villanies, as opportunities may tempt a desperate mind. Who is that more buoyant looking person?-he without a coat, his neck open, and a fragment of a black handkerchief flung around it loosely-he who sits on the spar, from which his legs dangle, with such an independent swing? He resembles one I knew formerly at his uncle's shop counter, in a country town near certain romantic lakes in Ireland, and who, when next I heard of him, was a conquering general in South America, where he is still great and powerful. May not this youth be destined to become also a triumpher, like his (perhaps) compatriot, my quondam friend of the shopcounter? May not the uprise of the wheel send him almost as high in fortune as it sent a recent chieftain of our own ;-provide chances for the elevation of any son of his hereafter to supreme power, quite equal to those of that same chief "A Beggar Ship?-a Beggar Ship at sea?-tain's parents, who, when a ship perhaps not unI never heard of such a thing! "I wish there were no such things to be heard of," answered the captain. "If money would do for them, I would not care; but money 's of no use in these cases." Here was a new wonder of the deep. The world again, upon the waters, and in its most harrowing form. We were at last in full view of the stranger ship. The sides of our packet were crowded. Fresh and well-fed faces bent forward eagerly over her railing, from stem to stern. The ship oppositeoh, what a contrast! like this bore them between sixty and seventy years ago from, it may be, the self-same port,as little thought of giving a ruler to our land, as dreams the heedless lad now following in their track, that any child of his can ever be a president? Mark that gentleman-like, independent, boyish-looking little man, in rusty black, who, with an air of nonchalance, sits by himself, one hand in his pantaloon-pocket, the other tapping a tune upon his knee with his fingers! How his face resembles that of an orphan I once saw, who never had a plan, nor a patron, nor very often even a penny, and yet who prospered in everything he undertook, or, rather, that was ever undertaken for him. Is not this youth the very one I speak of? It must be. He has got tired of some of the good luck which has been thrust upon him in his native country-has thrown it into other hands, spent the profits, and, when entirely out at elbows, flung himself on board the first cheap ship that offered, and will, probaby, ere ten years pass over his head, be found a rich man, in spite of himself, somewhere in our far West. Not far from this emigrant, that pale cheek, those haggard eyes, doubtless betoken a story of brokenThat tall and stern, and proud and thoughtful hearted love, vainly seeking a refuge from despair figure, standing apart, wrapped in the remnant of in the lone wilderness! Who is that whose deepa large cloak, and leaning scornfully, with foldedly-interesting countenance, though it looks healtharms, against the maiumast, he is one, thoughful, expresses rather the health of the mind than The shrouds were covered with what once might have been men and women; shadows of women and children lined the bowsprit; aged of both sexes hung over the sides;-all alike squalid and lean their garb was as ragged as their sails. With a small glass I dwelt upon these extraordinary groups, during a pause of breathless silence. As I scanned the different countenances, I thought I could almost read in them the fortunes and peculiar sorrows of some of the most promineut of the party. THE BEGGAR SHIP. that of the full-fed and empty-headed body. On that countenance is written elevated and religious resignation to deep discomfort within. I have seen just such a countenance before. It belonged to one whose sister and aged parents I knew. Their family farm had ceased to provide for them, and was eaten up by taxes. They loved their son; they implored him to stay with them; but he stole away, determined, under happier auspices, to labor for independence, and ere long invite those by whom he was so tenderly beloved to a better home, in the paradise to which the vast and fertile regions far beyond the Alleghanies smilingly beckon the poor. With this same resolution to lighten the pressure of an overburthening family, those two girls, who have no higher ambition than to support themselves by the honest labor of their hands, surely also have quitted their widowed mother's roof;-lovely girls, with a style about them which would have graced a drawingThe ferocious, giant-framed man, from whom all the rest stand far aloof, and do not even glance that way, is evidently some fugitive and dare-devil criminal, of whose heavy secret, though never yet divulged, all have an instinct, though an unspoken one. room. Of the other shapes of desolate-heartedness, and of the aged and infirm, who seemed changing the place, not where they were to live, but only where they were to die,-I forbear to speak, for it would have been hard even to have counted them, so thronged was this sad vessel. But there they stood, eager, expectant, motionless as death, and their hollow eyes all glaring. The usual sea-courtesies were exchanged; but from our packet in a subdued tone, and in a sepulchral one from the Beggar Ship. It appeared that the ship in question had been already upwards of three months on her way from Ireland. She had lost her reckoning, and was entirely out of provisions. She was one of those ships of sordid and heartless speculators, who buy condemned vessels for a trifle, crowd them with as many emigrants as can be stowed on board, from whom they get a few dollars a head, and then send them out, meagrely officered, and worse stocked with food. Our captain told the captain of the stranger ship exactly what part of the ocean he had reached, and was turning away. "Sir," said the stranger captain, his voice choked, and perhaps weak from want, "we are entirely destitute of provisions! 99 ship, and probably has few mouths to feed. Money may buy provisions from her, and when you get them, you had better make for Nova Scotia, for you'll probably reach there soonest." "Sir," answered the Beggar Captain, in a tone of anguish which I hear to this hour,-"we are very hungry." Our steerage passengers had unconsciously broken their limits. All were crowded directly under where the captain stood on the house top. They were confounded with those of the cabin, whose feelings were so much absorbed, that they never even noticed how entirely their territory, of which they were usually so jealous, was overrun by the invaders. Every eye on board our ship, as well as every eye on board the Beggar Ship, was riveted on our captain. The stillness was frightful. "Passengers of the steerage," observed the captain," you see that ship. The cabin passengers have no provisions but such as I supply them with; and though we may arrive in three days, we may not arrive in three weeks. If any of you can contribute, after reserving enough to last you three weeks, to relieve the distress you now witness, I will join you to the extent of my power; but let every one remember what he owes to himself,-to his family,-and not calculate upon reaching port too soon; for we have chances of head winds and calms." Not a syllable was uttered in reply; but it seemed scarce a second, when every soul had disappeared from the deck. With the rapidity of thought, the deck was piled up with provisions. The Beggar Ship lowered its boat. The boat was loaded from the packet. The captain wished to come on board and offer thanks, but our captain preferred answering him from a distance. As the boat reached the Beggar Ship, all its passengers hung over the side, climbing on each other's shoulders, to assure themselves that this shower of manna in the wilderness was real food. A sudden breeze sprang up; and as our ship bore gallantly away, "God bless you! God bless you!" burst from myriads of voices full of tears. We of the senatorial cabin felt somewhat humbled by the generosity of the lower house, the steerage; especially as we had had some few bickerings in that quarter about rights and dignity. It was proposed that, at any rate, we should send a sum of money as our share of the contribution, to indemnify the steerage passengers in part for their liberal donations of eatables. The first man who stepped forward was my friend the practical philosopher, who was returning to his native land after so many years' absence, with a fortune of a half sovereign and a shilling. He said nothing; but put down his half sovereign. I knew he would, when I remembered how queer |