THE PANORAMA OF LIFE. BY LOUISA MEDINA HAMBLIN LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. DEAR SIR.-When first you did me the honor to solicit my name as a contributor to your periodical, I must confess that visions of departed erudition arose like spirits from the vasty deep of memory, to associate themselves with the idea of an essay for the “Gentleman's Magazine!" While certain slumbering reminiscences of Greek and Latin, logic and philosophy unwillingly bestirred themselves in my behalf, much about as rusty as Baillee Nicol Jarvie's sword, and quite as disinclined to quit their sheath. Epictetus, Plato, Zeno, and Bolingbroke began to displace Shakspeare, Byron, Milton and Moore, from their velvet cushions in my brainnay, so thorough was the commotion that my favorites, in especial Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger and Ford, began slowly to surrender place to their more learned predecessors, Euripides, Thuycidides and the venerable Sophocles. In the midst of this mèlèe between ancient lore and modern taste, and while I was grievously misdoubting my power to dishume sufficient learned humanities to concoct some grave discourse for the Gentleman's Magazine, a number of this formidable periodical fell into my hands. No magical or melo-dramatical change was ever more rapidly effected on the stage, than was produced by its perusal on my fancypresto! away went my towers of erudition, my stupendous pillars of learning! My dead languages betook themselves to their graves, and the discontented ghosts of ancient philosophers and playwrights sneaked away to their musty shelves-all my wisdom and my profundity vanished like the baseless fabric of a vision; while in its stead, elegant belles lettres, the embroidery of fancy adorning the web of instruction, pleasing criticism holding its magnifying glass impartially over beauties and defects-moving accidents by flood and field, and last not least, silver tissued poetry clothing moral beauty-this was the combination presented by the Gentleman's Magazine. However unequal to emulate the perfection of your other female contributors, I hasten to add my mite, and only beg to remind you by way of a bonbon to your vanity, that never was there any thing yet appropriated to lordly man that the hand of woman was not needful to lighten and adorn. And now, For me and for my historie, LOUISA MEDINA HAMBLIN. New York. Sept. 14th, 1838. SCENE FIRST. The way the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. COMMON as is the above saying, it has often appear ed to me to be too much forgotten in the bringing up of youth-children express very young the sentiments and opinions which influence them, and very frequently, from such early declarations, may parents and guardians learn the lesson how to encourage the right and suppress the wrong. I am very fond of youth; the better part of my life has been spent amongst children, and they have, therefore, constituted my chiefest study. To me it has always appeared as if future fate cast its shadow before, in the first inclinations of children, because, conduct being fate, their after life will be influenced by their early prepossessions. It is to this end that I ever encouraged the demonstrations of fancy and feeling amongst young people; the stream of thought is in early life unstained by deception or disguise, and you may see through it clearly into its channel-the heart. Nothing can be more ridiculous to common sense than an equal treatment of every disposition, and as this observation, although I believe badly expressed, is a most important one, I wish to illustrate what I mean by various views into life's changing panorama. The first scene which, borrowing the attributes of Le Diable Boiteux, I will show my reader is a withdrawing-room in Broadway, many years previous to the struggle for American independence. The Liverpool coal was blazing brightly, the shutters were shut, and the heavy curtains closed carefully over them; the circle assembled there, consisted of five persons, one of whom was invested with all the dignity of silver hairs, in the patriarchal privilege of which he lay ensconced in his Voltaire chair, enjoying either sleep or profound meditation. Mr. Sherwood was an Englishman by birth, many years settled in America, and, after having brought up and seen depart a family of children, he was now again surrounded in his age with the merry laughter of youth. The other four were in the springtide of life, in the sunshine of morning, ere the shadows of thought have darkened o'er its brightness, or a single cloud of care obscured its lustre. They were girls all;, none of them over twelve years of age, and each possessing, in an uncommon degree, her share of personal attraction. The games which had hitherto passed merrily round, had gradually sunk into whispers as they observed the slumber. ing position of their revered grandsire, and now, as if by an understood and common consent, all were silent. Mr. Sherwood, who was not as his granddaughters supposed, asleep, silently contemplated them as they sat, offering no bad representation of a group Euthanasia, who had been earnestly gazing on the fire, first broke the silence. of statues, each face having a strongly marked but totally different expression. They were all his grandchildren, but not all by the same parents. Ada, who How beautiful is the fitful light given by the fire! sat nearest to him was almost unconsciously to him- there is something delightful in the uncertainty which self, the dearest to his heart. She was the only daugh-it casts round the room; now in glimmer now in ter of his eldest son, by his marriage with a Neapoli-gloom,' like the fair Christabelle of whom we were reading yesterday, you know, Ada?" tan lady. A sad story of guilt, broken vows, and desertion was connected with her mother's name Certain it was that when George Sherwood sent the young, motherless child to his father's care, he insisted on her being called by the name of St. Armand, vir tually denying his union with her lost mother. He himself had gone away a wanderer into far off climes, and silence, deep as the grave, hung over his own fate and that of Ada's unhappy mother. From her infancy, this young scion of a foreign stem, displayed a thoughtful, and yet impassioned nature; her large dark, dreamy eyes, seldom lit up with the glee of childhood, and her voice was modulated into a strange softness for one so young. Every one loved Ada; in her equable temper and unbroken mildness, all her companions had the most perfect reliance; from the pure wells of her warm heart, every living thing could draw rich draughts of kindness; her very exist ence seemed framed only to love and be loved. The second in age was widely opposed to Ada. She was the child of Mr. Sherwood's eldest daughter, and had been confided to his care while her mother departed with her husband, the Baron Von Altonberg, for the last time to Leipsig, to arrange matters so that they might settle permanently in America. "I wonder, cousin, how you can like Coleridge; he is all gloom and no warmth, much like this fire, I think, all sparkle and no intensity," answered Ada. Coralie," said Mary, sofily, "do you remember the shadowed light of Westminster Abbey, when we saw it by torch light? Have you forgotten the effect of the stained glass, representing Mary Magdalene in the wilderness?" Mary, who so much loved, and to whom so much was forgiven!" murmured Ada. No, I have not forgotten Westminster Abbey, dear Mary-I shall never forget it in my life-the bodies of kings and queens lie there-they are dead, indeed, but they live for ever in story and in sculptured marble. I would sooner be an effigy of the regal ones of earth than their living slave!" "Coralie," said Euthanasia, "if you could behold futurity in those glowing embers, would you look?” No, I would not, Euthanasia; I detest the idea of fate-I disbelieve it-our own heart is our fate-our own determination, destiny." Surely our lives are in the hand of God alone!" said Mary. "Yes," replied Ada, "that great Creator whose name is Love." What would you wish for most in after life, if you might choose?" again demanded Euthanasia, in whose quick imagination almost every idea originated. "Me?" said Coralie, without a moment's pause, "I would choose gratified ambition, unbounded power, and regal sway. I would demand to live triumphant, and to die glorious, leaving a name to after ages that would command even from my ashes." "And I," said Ada, deeply blushing, "would only ask to live for one, die, beloved by one, and by one alone to be regretted." “And you, dear Mary, what would you choose?”— "Oh, sister, how can I presume to say?" "Nay, but speak; there is no harm in wishing." "Well, then," hesitated Mary, "I think I should like to be a nun, and spend my life in nursing the sick, and praying to God.” Euthanasia Von Altonberg was born on the banks of the Danube, and up to the present time, educated in Germany, short as had been her residence with her grandfather, she had conceived an utter distaste to America, and longed for her own wild native land again, with its metrical romances and dark tales of mystery. She possessed great beauty when her features were in perfect repose, but if suddenly startled into attention, a vacant bewilderment destroyed their charm, and pained you with an expression of wildness. The third might have been taken for the queen of the group, and the fourth for her timid attendant. Coralie and Mary Sherwood were twin sisters, both orphans, both devotedly attached, and both so opposite that they might have represented day and night. Coralie was taller than any of the four, and was distinguished by a most imperial beauty; her dark blue eyes looked on every thing with command, and she received as an expected tribute the mastery which her absolute and imperious temper maintained over her companions. She was not ill-tempered, but haugh- "No," answered Euthanasia, thoughtfully, "bety-she was not vain, but proud. She used her pow-cause I shall scarcely make you understand me. In erful talents to sway others and not control herself; my own land, they tell us tales of young maidens and as she considered herself the guide and guardian of her gentle sister Mary, she resented with generous indignation any attempt to oppress her shrinking charge. In truth, Mary Sherwood needed support from the bold master-spirit of her sister; she was one of nature's violets, loving the shade, and withering in the sunlight. Her face was fair and childish, and in her soft blue eyes was an expression of beseeching timidity, very endearing. And you Euthanasia, you have not told us yet what your choice would be?" whose love of the mysterious and hidden things of earth, has revealed to them the invisible presences, and opened to their eyes the superhuman worldSuch a gifted—such a fearful destiny would I choose for mine!" A ring at the bell, announcing visiters, broke off the conversation; lights were ordered, and the girls sepa rated to their different pursuits; but, the keystone to each heart had been given to Mr. Sherwood, and if he profited not by it to moderate the passion of Ada-the imagination of Euthanasia-the ambition of Coralie, and the timidity of Mary, it was because he was recalled from a life of usefulness by the inscrutable decree of his Maker, ere time had been granted for the work. The future lives of these girls lie before us; did not the feelings and fancies of their early years shadow forth the maturer passions of those to come? And first we turn the changing panorama to look upon the future fate of Ada-the fervent, impassioned, loving child of Italy. "A quaint idea, Ada," said an elderly gentleman who had entered with the first speaker, "not without poetry, and, as usual with all things emanating from you, brimful of romance." "I plead guilty to the charge, my good friend," re-plied Ada, quietly, "I love romance, it is the poetry of life, the incentive to all generous, noble, and honorable deeds, the link which binds us to the gone by past, the hope which brightens earth's gloomy future. All mean, low, or sordid actions are incompatible with romance, while it has been the parent of chivalry and remains the nurse of-of love!" Mr. and Mrs. Bingham smiled at Ada's vehemence. "And the companion of youth and traitor of old age, you should have added, my dear," said he, "for your favorite is but the sunshine of morning which awaits not the gray chill of life's decline; but hark! we can just hear the drums of the night patrole, it is time we should order lights and shut out that unwelcome sound of civil war." About sixty-two or three years ago, and during the you no longer a maiden city, you are a captive to the possession of New York by the British commander-in-conqueror, and your glory is departed." "Ay," responded Ada, almost unconsciously, " but, the time is coming fast when the thrall will be broken, the prisoner free, and the young giant arouse from his slumber, exulting in his new found strength." "That is to say, Ada," said Ellen Bingham, "that New York will, like many another lady, very gladly get rid of her lord and master, and be twice as merry in her widow's weeds as in her virgin--ah! good heaven! what's that?" "What?-Which? What startles you?" exclaimed all voices but Ada's, while Ellen pointed, in mute terror, to the window, unable to articulate more than "Ada saw it!" "Speak Ada! what is it? Who did you see?" chief, Sir Henry Clinton, Broadway did not extend three miles from the Battery, nor had its inhabitants ever dreamed of a hundred and tenth street, half way to Harlem. A fine old family mansion, built in the Elizabethan style, which stood somewhere about where Fourth street meets Broadway now, was then considered in the country, and out of the parole line of sentinels which marked the captivity of the city, and its prospect, uninterrupted by any thing but trees, embraced the majestic Hudson, as it went on its shin ing course, beautiful, fresh, and free, then, as it is now, and will be, until the voice of its GREAT ORIGIN arrest its course. The house had been erected by an Eng. lish gentleman, of equal taste and wealth, consequent ly it possessed that sine qua non of luxuries-a library. The windows of this room were gothic, and at the time we speak of, the moonlight came shimmering through its narrow panes, fantastically tracing on the "Oh! the skinners! the skinners!" exclaimed Ellen, floor a reflection of the woodbine knots which half" we are all burned out, robbed and murdered! I impeded its progress, and encircled a fair form that knew the face, even in that moment I recognized it, leaned close by, with a silvery halo of light. She Ada knows it too!" had been busily engaged stringing a guitar, until the failing light had forced her to discontinue her task, and now, though the risen moon made all bright as day, she still gazed upwards in motionless abstraction. "Well, dear Ada," said a friendly voice close by her," do not you think that yonder bright heavens will vie with even your imaginative visions of your native Italy? Is not this a fair moonlight?" "I saw a man's face look steadily in at the window," replied Ada, very composedly; "I do not see any great cause for dread in that." "Ada seems to be your book of reference to-night, Ellen," said her father, smiling, "but this alarm is needless, we are too strong in ourselves, and too weil secured in our fastenings, to fear those rascally plunderers. But, pray Ada, who might this frightful looking hero be that has so discomposed poor Ellen?" The Italian girl colored until the deep blush reddened in her spotless throat and neck; she hesitated,. also, and then answered, in a voice very different from her usual equable tone. Ellen is mistaken; I do not know the individual's name, that is-I am not positive about it." "Bless me, girls," said Mrs. Bingham, "what's all this mystery? Is it a Jack of the Lantern you saw, or a Will o' the Wisp, coming and going like a flash?”? Ada had by now recovered her composure. "He may be either, my dear madam," she said for, in truth, all we know of such a person is, that in several of our walks, a gentleman has uncivilly followed us, and this evening tracked us home. So you see, our mystery ends, like most others, in noabing. "Nothing!" repeated Mr. Bingham, now seriously displeased, "nothing, do you call such impertinent intrusion? I shall let this insolent night stroller know what reception such a visit deserves," and he stretched his hand wrathfully to the bell. Mr. Bingham loved her the better for the courage which he lacked himself-certain it is, he was a kind friend to her, and his own child was scarcely dearer to his heart than the young, orphaned Italian. And, in truth, Ada was a creature to love and to be loved, almost to idolatry, her opening womanhood fulfilled amply the promise of beauty given by her girlhood, and that loveliness was not the less fascinating because it partook of the dreaming visionary character of her mind. Her manners and general expressions were soft and placid, yet, beneath this quietude, lay the sleeping storm, and occasionally, all the vehement passion of "Do not so!" exclaimed Ada, eagerly grasping his her Italian blood would burst wildly forth, transformarm, then pausing, embarrassed at her own vehemence, ing the gentle dove into the majestic eagle. To a and the surprised looks of her friends, she added very close observer of human nature, it would be obvious softly, "I believe this gentleman to be one of General that if in Ada's strangely compounded character there Washington's officers-probably concealed in the was the desire to glide softly along in the smiling neighborhood on some secret mission-to add molesta-sunshine, there was also the power, if called into action to his present irksome condition would be unge- tion, to ride the whirlwind and direct the storm. Like nerous." Mr. Bingham dropped the bell-rope, and fidgetted D his chair, his wife looked deeply interested, and Ellen, leaning over Ada's shoulder, whispered, with an arch smile the glassy expanse of serene ocean, which mirrors the unbroken sky on its placid bosom, and murmurs music in its rippling waves, she was now in her innocence and youth-like that same ocean, when lashed to madness with warring winds, destroying and raging in its might, an object of fear and awe, she might become, if an evil hand unchained the slumbering passions of her soul. How much-how awful is the responsibility of those who train a human being up, How came you so well informed, Ada?" "Hem! hem!" coughed Mr. Bingham," why, no! no! I would not annoy a republican officer, certainly. I am an American, although a strictly neutral one; but, to assist him is equally impossible, hem! I won-trusting to chance for the avoidance of evil, when, in der how the noble general is doing? God bless him! that is to say, if his conduct merits blessing, for I do not approve of insurrection and rebellion. What can this young man be after?—and, by the by, pray, Ada, how do you know him to be a continental officer?" "He intimated as much to my maid, and Isobel repeated it to me." Humph! then he has had a parley with some of any inmates. Are you aware that circumstance may endanger my neutrality? Mercy on me! how women do interfere in every prudent arrangement." the firm principles of religion and self control is given a power to overcome the danger, and subdue the templer. Poor Ada had never been thus fortifiedshe launched on life a gallant bark, and pursued her way, an object of admiration and delight-but, should the storm o'ertake the vessel, she has no anchor to hold her fast upon the Rock of Ages. PART SECOND. But, my love," said Mrs. Bingham, anxiously, "this gentleman is, perhaps, cold, hungry, and with-Oh! what is love made for, if 'tis not the same, out a shelter for the night." Well, madam, and if he be? Am I, whose grand. father was a subject of King George, and who am ayself perfectly neutral, am I to succor a rebel ?— Come-come to supper, if you please, and talk no more of what may endanger my safety." Through joy and through sorrow, through glory and shame? I but know that I love thee-whatever thou art. Moore. With the earliest sunrise on the following morning, Ada was pacing the garden walks and training her favorite flowers. She had slept little, and her soul And, unheeding the obvious anxiety of his wife, or was disquieted within her, for the first time in her the deep flush of contempt on Ada's cheek, Mr. Bing-life. She had made a concealment, and, if not actuham assumed the head of the table. He was a weak and timid man, wishing in his heart success to the Americans, but firmly believing it would attend the British. He endeavored to protect his property during the struggle by professing a neutrality, which, arising as it did, from fear, not principle, exposed him to the contempt of all parties. His wife, whose whole heart was with her countrymen, frequently perilled her husband's position, by secret acts of kindness to the forlorn patriots, and Ada, to whose fervent and high souled disposition, any thing resembling fear was matter of sovereign scorn, failed not openly to express her warm wishes for the success of Liberty. Perhaps, ally deceiving her guardian, still she had allowed him to remain unacquainted with the entire truth. She had told what she really believed of the stranger, but she had not avowed that for weeks she had suffered that stranger to waylay her path with passionate professions of love, nay, that she had letters even at the same moment resting on her bosom, breathing" thoughts that melt and words that burn." Why had she not confessed this? Why was the presumption of an unknown allowed to make the first fault and mystery of her placid life? Fain did she answer that she would not betray the unfortunate-fain persuade herself that it was the cause and not the individual whom she regarded-her eonscience, more faithful than her character; her husband, who was an artisan, every way A small stone, enwrapt in paper, suddenly rolled over the wall, and fell at Ada's feet; her first emotion at its sight was pleasure, but the memory of her previous self-reproach checked her, and hastily seizing the paper-as if dreading her own resolve-she tore it, unread, and exclaimed aloud "I have received too many such already; the writer but wastes his time and perils his safety, by lingering where his presence gives offence!" Then, walking hastily away, Ada threw herself on a distant bank, and sobbed bitterly. They were the first tears love had cost her, but not the last. An infantine voice calling her name recalled her thoughts, she saw a little girl peeping through the gate and earnestly supplicating her attention. Never deaf to the voice of sorrow, Ada arose. Who do you want, my little maid?" she said. "I wanted Mrs. Bingham or Miss St. Armand, if you please, lady. I come from Clarisse, at the cottage on the river, she is very sick, and sends to beg some lady's help." "Clarisse!" repeated Ada-"Ah! I know; she is a poor foreigner, in a strange country. I will go to her as soon as a servant is up to accompany me." Pray, come now, lady," entreated the sobbing urchin," poor mammy is very sick." "What matters it?" argued Ada to herself, "I run no danger, and if I feel unhappy, I am best employed in giving some comfort to others. Lead on, my little friend-I follow you." Clarisse Chapèze, the person to whom Ada was has. tening, was a foreigner, but whether Italian or French none distinctly knew, she was barely of middle age, and retained much personal beauty, although of a bold "To what fortunate chance do I owe the sight of Miss St. Armand, so early this morning?" "By what strange chance rather, do I see Mr. Falconer here where I was solicited to come on charity, but I shall not again be so easily deceived.” "You are deceived now, Mademoiselle," said the woman, rising with quiet grace, "if you suspect me of knowing that this gentleman would visit his child this morning; I entreated your assistance for myself." Ada, who had on first entering, before she perceived Gerald, involuntarily extended her arms for the lovely infant, now hastily laid it down on the bed, scarcely knowing why she did so; he approached her again, and said softly "Imperious duty demands my absence from New York, may I not be allowed a few minutes' converse with you previous to quitting, perhaps for ever! Look on me, Miss St. Armand with pity, forgive my presumption, and grant my last request!" "It is out of my power, sir," said Ada, coldly. "What! even if my safety, my life pay the forfeit of your refusal ?” asked he, vehemently, “ for I swear I leave not here until I explain myself." At your pleasure be it," and she turned to go. "Thank you, madam," and the stranger now spoke with haughtiness equal to her own, "you reward my infatuation as it merits! To see your fatal beauty once more, I have perilled my life-far more-my honor. It but remains for me to be captured in this attire, and your triumph will be equal to your cruelty! Clarisse! you, at least, bear a woman's heart, be careful of that poor infant, should it lose its last earthly friend!" He was gone even as he spoke, and Ada's heart smote her as she observed that he wore the undress uniform of an American officer, assumed, most proba-. bly, to favor an interview with her, but rendering him obnoxious to the suspicion of being a spy, if taken by the enemy. Poor gentleman!" said Clarisse, "I trust, for his dead sister's sake, her child will not lose his kind protector." "His sister's child?" "Yes, lady, this dear baby's mother was his sister, she died in giving it birth; her husband fell in the skirmish at Lexington, and Gerald Falconer has watch |