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SEA AND SHORE.

SEQUEL TO "MIRIAM'S MEMOIRS."

BY MRS. CATHARINE A. WARFIELD.

"THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE," "MONFORT HALL," "MIRIAM'S HOUSE" "HESTER HOWARD'S TEMPTATION," "A DOUBLE WEDDING; OR, HOW SHE WAS WON," ETC.

PHILADELPHIA: T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 306 CHESTNUT STREET.

MRS. C.A. WARFIELD'S NEW WORKS.

Each Book is in One Volume, Morocco Cloth, price .75.

"'The Household of Bouverie' is one of those books that pluck out all your teeth, and then dare you to bite them. Your interest is awakened at once in the first chapter, and you are whirled through in a lightning-express train that leaves you no opportunity to look at the little details of wood, and lawn, and river. You notice two or three little peculiarities of style--one or two 'bits' of painting--and then you pull on your seven-leagued boots and away you go."

"'The Household of Bouverie,' by Mrs. Warfield, is a wonderful book. I have read it twice--the second time more carefully than the first--and I use the term 'wonderful,' because it best expresses the feeling uppermost in my mind, both while reading and thinking it over. As a piece of imaginative writing, I have seen nothing to equal it since the days of Edgar A. Poe, and I doubt whether he could have sustained himself and the readers through a book half the size of the 'Household of Bouverie.' I have literally hurried through it by my intense sympathy, my devouring curiosity--It was more than interest. I read everywhere--between the courses of the hotel-table, on the boat, in the cars--until I had swallowed the last line. This is no common occurrence with a veteran romance reader like myself."

Above Books are for sale by all Booksellers at .75 each, or .50 for a complete set of the six volumes, or copies of either one or more of the above Books, or a complete set of the six volumes, will be sent at once, to any one, to any place, post-paid, or free of freight, on remitting their price in a letter to the publishers,

T.B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.

"No fears hath she! Her giant form Majestically calm would go O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, 'Mid the deep darkness, white as snow! So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse forever and aye! Many ports shall exult in the gleam of her mast-- Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer, this hour is her last!"

"Then hold her Strictly confined in sombre banishment, And Doubt not but she will ere long, full gladly, Her freedom purchase at the price you name."

"Despair shall give me strength--where is the door? Mine eyes are dark! I cannot find it now. O God! protect me in this awful pass!"

SEA AND SHORE.

BY MRS. C.A. WARFIELD.

It was a calm and hazy morning of Southern summer that on which I turned my face seaward from the "keep" of Beauseincourt, never, I knew, to see its time-stained walls again, save through the mirage of memory. There is an awe almost as solemn to me in a consciousness like this as that which attends the death-bed parting, and my straining eye takes in its last look of a familiar scene as it might do the ever-to-be-averted face of friendship.

The refrain of Poe's even then celebrated poem was ringing through my brain on that sultry August day, I remember, like a tolling bell, as I looked my last on the gloomy abode of the La Vignes; but I only said aloud, in answer to the sympathizing glances of one who sat before me--the gentle and quiet Marion--who had suddenly determined to accompany me to Savannah, nerved with unwonted impulse:

"Madame de Sta?l was right when she said that 'nevermore' was the saddest and most expressive word in the English tongue" . "I think she called it the sweetest, too, in sound; but to me it is simply the most sorrowful, a knell of doom, and it fills my soul to-day to overflowing, for 'never, never more' shall I look on Beauseincourt!"

"'Time the tomb-builder'" fell from my lips ere they were aware. "That is a grand thought--one that I saw lately in a Western poem, the New-Year's address of a young editor of Kentucky called Prentice. Is it not splendid, Marion?"

"Very awful, rather," she responded, with a faint shudder. "Time the 'comforter,' let us say, instead, Miss Miriam--Time the 'veil-spreader.'"

"Not if he is a Jackson Democrat?" broke in the usually gentle Alice Durand, fired with a ready defiance of all heterodox policy, common, if not peculiar, to that region.

"Oh, but he is not; he is a good Whig instead--a Clay man, as we call such."

"Not a Calhoun man, though, I suppose, so I would not give a snap of my fingers for him or his poetry! It is very natural, for you, Miss Harz," in a somewhat deprecating tone, "to praise your partisans. I would not have you neutral if I could, it is so contemptible."

A little of the good doctor's spirit there, under all that exterior of meekness and modesty, I saw at a glance, and liked her none the less for it, if truth were told. And now we were nearing the gate, with its gray-stone pillars, on one of which, that from which the marble ball had rolled, to hide in the grass beneath, perchance, until the end of all, I had seen the joyous figure of Walter La Vigne so lightly poised on the occasion of my last exodus from Beauseincourt. A moment's pause, and the difficult, disused bolts that had once exasperated the patience of Colonel La Vigne were drawn asunder, and the clanking gates clashed behind us as we emerged from the shadowed domain into the glare and dust of the high-road.

Here Major Favraud, accompanied by Duganne, awaited us, seated in state in his lofty, stylish swung gig , drawn tandem-wise by his high-stepping and peerless blooded bays, Castor and Pollux. Brothers, like the twins of Leda, they had been bred in the blue-grass region of Kentucky and the vicinity of Ashland, and were worthy of their ancient pedigree, their perfect training and classic names, the last bestowed when he first became their owner, by Major Favraud, who, with a touch of the whip or a turn of the hand, controlled them to subjection, fiery coursers although they were!

Major Favraud sat holding his ribbons gracefully in one gauntleted hand, while he uncovered his head with the other, bowing suavely in his knightly fashion, as he said:

"Come drive with me, Miss Harz, for a while, and let the young folks take it together."

"Oh, no, Major Favraud; you must excuse me, indeed! I feel a little languid this morning, and I should be poor company. Besides, I cannot surrender my position as one of the young folks yet."

"Nay, I have something to say to you--something very earnest. You shall be at no trouble to entertain me; but you must not refuse a poor, sad fellow a word of counsel and cheer. I shall think hard of you if you decline to let me drive you a little way. Besides, the freshness of the morning is all lost on you there. Now, set Marion a good example, and she will, in turn, enliven me later."

"I am so glad I have you all to myself once more, Miss Harz! I feel now that we are fast friends again. And I wanted to tell you, while I could speak of her, how much my poor wife liked you. But for circumstances, she would have urged you to become our guest, or even in-dweller; but you know how it all was! I need not feign any longer, nor apologize either."

"Yes, there is more of that sort of thing on earth, perhaps, 'than is dreamed of in our philosophy'--antagonism and attraction are always going on among us unconsciously."

"I am inclined to believe so from my own experience," I replied, vaguely, thinking, Heaven knows, of any thing at the moment rather than of him who sat beside me.

"Your mind is on Wentworth, I perceive," he said, softly; after a short pause, "now give up your dream for a little while and listen to this sober reality--sober to-day, at least," he added, with a light laugh. "By-the-way, talking of magnetism, do you know, Miss Harz, I think you are the most universally magnetic woman I ever saw? All the men fall in love with you, and the women don't hate you for it, either."

"How perfectly the last assertion disproves the first!" I replied; "but I retract, I will not, even for the sake of a syllogism, abuse my own sex; women are never envious except when men make them so, by casting down among them the golden apple of admiration."

"I know one man, at least, who never foments discord in this way! Wentworth, from the beginning, had eyes and ears for no one but yourself, yet I never dreamed the drama would be enacted so speedily; I own I was as much in the dark as anybody."

And I scribbled in my memorandum-book, for a moment, while Major Favraud mused.

"Have we not proof to the contrary, Major Favraud?"

"What proof? Metre and rhyme, I grant you--long and short--but show me the afflatus! They make verse with a penknife, like their wooden nutmegs. They are perfect Chinese for ingenuity and imitation, and the resemblance to the real Simon-pure is very perfect--externally. But when it comes to grating the nut for negus, we miss the aroma!"

"Do you pretend that Bryant is not a poet in the grain, and that the wondrous boy, Willis, was not also 'to the manner born?' Read 'Thanatopsis,' or are you acquainted with it already? I hardly think you can be. Read those scriptural poems."

"A very smooth school-exercise the first, no more. There is not a heart-beat in the whole grind. As to Willie--he failed egregiously, when he attempted to 'gild refined gold and paint the lily,' as he did in his so-called 'Sacred Poems.' He can spin a yarn pretty well, and coin a new word for a make-shift, amusingly, but save me from the foil-glitter of his poetry."

"This is surprising! You upset all precedent. I really wish you had not said these things. I now begin to see the truth of what my copy-book told me long ago, that 'evil association corrupts good manners,' or I will vary it and substitute 'opinions.' I must eschew your society, in a literary way, I must indeed, Major Favraud."

"You shall not say that," I interrupted; "you shall not dare to say that in my presence. It is sheer slander, that you have caught up from some malignant British review, and, like all other serpents, you are venomous in proportion to your blindness! I am vexed with you, that you will not see with the clear, discerning eyes God gave you originally."

"But I do see with them, and very discerningly, notwithstanding your comparison. Now there is that 'Skeleton in Armor,' his last effusion, I believe, that you are all making such a work over--fine-sounding thing enough, I grant you, ingenious rhyme, and all that. But I know where the framework came from! Old Drayton furnished that in his 'Battle of Agincourt.'" Then in a clear, sonorous voice, he gave some specimens of each, so as to point the resemblance, real or imaginary.

"You are content with mere externs in finding your similitudes, Major Favraud! In power of thought, beauty of expression, what comparison is there? Drayton's verse is poor and vapid, even mean, beside Longfellow's."

"But genius is of no rank--no blood--no clime! What court poet of his day, Major Favraud, compared with Robert Burns for feeling, fire, and pathos? Who ever sung such siren strains as Moore, a simple Irishman of low degree? No Cavalier blood there, I fancy! What power, what beauty in the poems of Walter Scott! Byron was a poet in spite of his condition, not because of it. Hear Barry Cornwall--how he stirs the blood I What trumpet like to Campbell I What mortal voice like to Shelley's? the hybrid angel! What full orchestra surpassed Coleridge for harmony and brilliancy of effect? Who paints panoramas like Southey? Who charms like Wordsworth? Yet these were men of medium condition, all--I hate the conceits of Cowley, Waller, Sir John Suckling, Carew, and the like. All of your Cavalier type, I believe, a set of hollow pretenders mostly."

"All this is overwhelming, I grant," bowing deferentially. "But I return to my first idea, that Puritan blood was not exactly fit to engender genius; and that in the rich, careless Southern nature there lurks a vein of undeveloped song that shall yet exonerate America from the charge of poverty of genius, brought by the haughty Briton! Yes, we will sing yet a mightier strain than has ever been poured since the time of Shakespeare! and in that good time coming weave a grander heroic poem than any since the days of Homer! Then men's souls shall have been tried in the furnace of affliction, and Greek meets not Greek, but Yankee. For we Southerners only bide our time!"

"The Southern lyre has been but lightly swept so far, Miss Harz," he continued, a moment later, "and only by the fingers of love; we need Bellona to give tone to our orchestra."

I could not forbear reciting somewhat derisively the old couplet--

"'Sound the trumpet, teat the drum, Tremble France, we come, we come!'

"Is that the style Major Favraud?" I asked. "I remember the time when I thought these two lines the most soul-stirring in the language--they seem very bombastic now, in my maturity."

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