XIV

Then I sat submissive, child-like,
Waiting for his lips to speak,
For I felt a spell was on me

I might vainly strive to break.

XV

Long he pondered-while I shuddering Felt his spirit read my soul,

And my startled heart seemed open

To this vague yet deep control.

XVI

Secming, ere he ope'd his purpose,
Like to quaint ordeals old,
As he'd try with burning glances,
If the steel be true and bold.

XVII

Then he bent until his breathings
Beat upon my pulseless cheek,
And I felt by inward shrinking
That those lips began to speak.

XVIII

Then he whispered, and his whispers Like some lone and mournful gale, Breathing from damp charnel chambers, Told this wild and weirdsome tale.

XIX

"Years agone in times now olden,

When proud Barons ruled the land,

With a mighty sway of iron,

And a hard and heavy hand:

XX

"Stood this castle in its grandeur,
With its turrets proud and strong,
Echoing with the midnight wassail,
And the goodly burst of song.

XXI

"Stern and calm and all unheeding,
Stood it 'mid the summer's glow,
'Mid the autumn's garnered fullness;
And the winter's blast and snow.

XXII

"Stern and calm and all unheeding,
As within it there did chime
Some great conscious heart foreboding
Of the coming stain of Time.

XXIII

"It was autumn in the Rhine land,
Autumn with its glowing sky-
With its wild voluptuous madness
And strange heart-felt ecstacy.

XXIV

"Cornfields gleamed upon the uplands, And along the river's side,

Where the air seemed moist and drunken Hung the grapes in purple pride.

XXV

"Autumn like a beauteous woman,
Stooping o'er a stream to lave,
With ripe cheeks and glowing bosom,
Mirror'd in the passing wave.

XXVI

Softly does the blessed moonlight
Fall upon that favored land,

Thro' those Saint-like eves-ere Autumn
Taketh Winter by the hand.

XXVII

At his loaded board the Barou
Feasted with his vassals 'round,
And the castle-hall was ringing
With the revel's jocund sound.

XXVIII

"Far within the moonlight holy Peal'd the wassail's noisy cheer, Till the castle clock slow striking, Told the midnight hour was near.

XXIX

"Hark! It is the peal of trumpet, And the draw bridge slowly falls! Who at such a fearful hour

Secks the Baron's ruthless Halls?

XXX

"Suddenly the gates flew open

With a harsh and grating sound, Hushed the revelers grew with wonder, Mute as if in terror bound.

XXXI

"As in winter thro' some storm-cloud

In a dark and dismal day,

Suddenly with magic splendor

Bursts some bright and sunny ray.

XXXII

"Thus thro' that dark yawning portal,
Stole a vision bright and warm,
Thro' the cloud-land of that revel,
As a sunbeam thro' the storm.

XXXIII

'Twas a rare and beauteous womanFor a moment paused she thenAnd with quick and rapid glances Scanned the group of armed men.

XXXIV

"Onward with a quickened foootstep, And a heart whose angry beat Seemed to crush her heaving bosom, Pressed she to the Baron's feet.

It is with much interest that we have perused this latest production of Mr. Cooper's fertile pen. Indeed our feelings of gratitude towards the veteran novelist, are so strong that we could almost tolerate a decidedly tame book from his pen. We remember the time "long long ago," while we were still under the paternal roof, when the kind old gentleman that was so indulgent to all our boyish follies, and in his fond partiality for his only son, came well nigh spoiling the youth, brought home one day a couple of well thumbed volumes for us to read. In our quiet little village, a novel was a perfect godsend, and when one chanced to find its way there, it was not suffered to rest upon the shelf till it had been the rounds. We well recollect the absorbing interest with which we have hung over the thrilling pages of the "The Spy," and how the long winter evenings were beguiled by the fascinating story.

Then "The Pilot" and "The Last of the Mohicans" came under our perusal, and we were almost ready to worship the author of such delectable books. The announcement of a new work by "The author of 'The Spy,'' Pilot' &c. &c.." always brings up to our minds recollections of the most pleasing character, and it really costs us some effort to forget them and to judge fairly of the book. We regard "The Oak Openings" as the most successful of the author's later performIn the plot and characters we are forcibly reminded of the

ances.

"Leather Stocking" novels. The time of the incidents narrated, is the year 1812, just at the breaking out of the last war with England. The scene is laid in the then unpeopled forests of Michigan, and the characters are just those in which Mr. Cooper's forte lies, the native Indian and the rough and hardy backwoodsman.

It is worthy of remark, however, in this connection, that it is not in the pourtrayal of individual character, that Mr. Cooper chiefly excels. This highest of excellences in a novelist, he is wanting in. Search through his works, and we venture to say that you will not find a single personage drawn with a tithe of the distinctness which marks such creations as Bulwer's "Arbaces" or Scott's "Rebecca." But if Cooper lacks this excellence, he is at least free from that common fault among writers of fiction, of drawing characters at once monstrous and impossible.

His men and women, if they do want some of the stronger and more distinctive traits of humanity, are yet men and women and not monsters. Human nature is bad enough of itself without caricature. We are willing to believe that mankind have in general a smart sprinkling of mischief in their composition, but we are by no means prepared to admit that they are all angels of light.

The chief merit of Mr. Cooper's novels, we conceive to be this.— They present to us correct pictures of peculiar habits and customs, while at the same time they serve to illustrate important passages in history.

We have already expressed the opinion that the "Oak Openings" is the most successful of the author's later productions. We think so because we recognize in it some of those features which have rendered several of his other works so deservedly popular. We have here the fascinating details of forest life and the thrilling incidents of border warfare. We have the reserved and crafty savage, and the bold, sagacious woodsman. We have perilous adventures and hair-breadth escapes, and we have as the ground-work of the whole, the substantial events of History. The story opens boldly and we are introduced without delay to matters of exciting interest. This to our taste is a great desideratum in such a work. Instead of dealing in long introductions and tedious explanations, let the author plunge at once into the midst of things, and when he has awakened an interest in the tale, he can then introduce his explanations incidentally, without danger of wearying his reader's patience.

Ben Boden, the "Bee hunter," is presented to us in the exercise of