solitary, and apparently endless plains. Altogether she described her journey as being grausam (horrible) in the highest degree, and, indeed, even the recollection of it made her shudder; but, at the time, there was the anticipation of unspeakable happiness, which made all fatigues light, and all dangers indifferent. At length, in the beginning of August, she arrived at the end of her journey, and was courteously received by the commandant of the fortress. She presented the pardon with a hand which trembled with impatience and joy too great to be restrained, almost to be borne. The officer looked very grave, and took, as she thought, a long time to read the paper, which consisted only of six or eight lines. At last he stammered out: "I am sorry; but the Henri Ambos mentioned in this paper is dead!" Poor girl! she fell to the earth. When she reached this part of her story, she burst into a fresh flood of tears, wrung her hands, and for some time could utter nothing but passionate exclamations of grief: "What a horrible fate was mine! I had come thus far to find, not my brother, only a grave!" she repeated several times, with an accent of despair. The unfortunate man had died a year before. The fetters in which he worked had caused an ulcer in his leg, which he neglected, and, after some weeks of horrid suffering, death released him. The task-work, for nearly five years, of this accomplished and even learned man, in the prime of his life and mental powers, had been to break stones upon the road, chained hand and foot, and confounded with the lowest malefac tors. I have not much more to tell. She found, on inquiry, that some papers and letters which her unhappy brother had drawn up by stealth, in the hope of being able at some time to convey them to his friends, were in the possession of one of the officers, who readily gave them up to her; and with these she returned, half broken-hearted, to St. Petersburgh. If her former journey, when hope cheered her on the way, had been so fearful, what must have been her return! I was not surprised to hear that, on her arrival, she was seized with a dangerous illness, and was for many weeks confined to her bed. On receiving her brother's pardon from the emperor, she had written home to her | family; but she confessed that since that time she had not written she had not courage to inflict a blow which might possibly affect her mother's life; and yet the idea of being obliged to tell what she dared not write, seemed to strike her with terror. But the strangest event of this strange story remains to be told; and I will try to give it in her own simple words. She left Petersburgh in October, and proceeded to Riga, where those who had known her brother received her with interest and kindness, and sympathized in her affliction. "But," said she, "there was one thing I had resolved to do, which yet remained undone. I was resolved to see the woman who had been the original cause of all my poor brother's misfortunes. I thought if once I could say to her, 'Your falsehood has done this!' I should be satisfied; but my brother's friends dissuaded me from this idea. They said it was better not; that it could do my poor Henri no good; that it was wrong; that it was unchristian; and I submitted. I left Riga with a voiturier. I had reached Pojer, on the Russian frontiers, and there I stopped at the Douane, to have my packages searched. The chief officer looked at the address on my trunk, and exclaimed, with surprise,— "Mademoiselle Ambos! Are you any relation of the Professor Henri Ambos?' "I am his sister.' 6 "Is it possible? I was the intimate friend of your brother. What has become of him?" "I then told him all that I have now told you, liebe madame; and when I came to an end, this good man burst into tears, and for some time we wept together. The kutscher, (driver,) who was standing by, heard all this conversation; and, when I turned round, he was crying too. My brother's friend pressed on me offers of service and hospitality, but I could not delay; for, besides that my impatience to reach home increased every hour, I had not much money in my purse. Of three thousand dollars, which I had taken with me to St. Petersburgh, very little remained so I bade him farewell, and I proceeded. At the next town, where my kutscher stopped to feed his horses, he came to the door of my calèche, and said, You have just missed seeing the Jew lady whom your brother was in love with. That calèche which passed us by just now, and changed horses here, contained Mademoi selle S-, her sister, and her sister's husband.' Imagine my surprise. I could not believe my fortune: it seemed that Providence had delivered her into my hands, and I was resolved she should not escape me. I knew they would be delayed at the custom-house. I ordered the man to turn, and drive back as fast as possible, promising a reward of a dollar if he overtook them. On reaching the customhouse, I saw a calèche standing at a little distance. I felt myself tremble, and my heart beat so; but not with fear. I went up to the calèche: two ladies were sitting in it. I addressed the one who was the most beautiful, and said,— “Are you Mademoiselle Emilie S―?' I suppose I must have looked very strange, and wild, and resolute; for she replied, with a frightened manner, 'I am. Who are you? and what do you want with me?' [For the National Magazine.] LICENTIOUSNESS IN THE FINE ARTS. HE sensibility to the beautiful in all THE its manifestations, is as much a part of our created likeness to the Deity as our rational or moral nature. That divine skill which has molded, and tinted, and grouped the material creation into a beauty, independent of its utility, is but the great original of that human sensibility which perceives its exquisite harmonies, detects its secret analogies of loveliness, delights in its strange intermingling of material and spiritual beauty, and yearns with its own powers to reproduce its glories. He who impressed the mind with the principles of curiosity and reason, that it might itself search out new truth; who implanted great moral principles that, guided by them, man's social instincts might themselves fill life with happiness; he, in giving our æsthetic nature, bade us go and enjoy the sublime "I said, 'I am the sister of Henri Am- and beautiful from his hand, and from the bos, whom you murdered.' "She shrieked out. The men came running from the house; but I held fast the carriage-door, and said, 'I am not come to hurt you: but you are the murderess of my brother, Henri Ambos. He loved you, and your falsehood has killed him.' "I remember no more. I was like one mad. I have just a recollection of her ghastly, terrified look, and her eyes wide open, staring at me. I fell into fits, and they carried me into the house of my brother's friend, and laid me on a bed. When I recovered my senses, the calèche and all were gone. When I reached Berlin, all this appeared to me so miraculous, so like a dream, I could not trust to my own recollection; and I wrote to the of ficer of customs, to beg he would attest that it was really true, and what I had said when I was out of my senses, and what she had said. And at Leipsic I received his letter, which I will show you." At Mayence she showed me this letter, and a number of other documents brother's pardon, with the emperor's signature; a letter of the Countess Elise. her -; materials he has supplied, to call forth new embodiments of thought and sentiment. But the limits within which such a culture and indulgence of our love of the beautiful is pleasing to God and safe for us, is not to be determined by asking how far the original design of the Creator gave license. When each department of our being was in full vigor, and was proportioned in its activity to all the rest, all might receive benefit alone, whenever and wherever each would seek it. But as a traveler, sensitive, and unacclimated to a tropical region, might revel in the rich and glowing beauty of scenes from which his frame drank in a fatal mjasma, so our diseased moral nature may be unable to bear the excitement of many a scene and work of beauty, which its pristine purity had found harmless. It is not to be denied, that the human form is the noblest structure of the whole material creation. There is no tone of majesty or beauty in all nature besides which is not reflected in the varying expressions of the masterpiece; and there is no conceivable sentiment or spiritual emotion which may not be expressed in its attitudes and its countenance. And thus, as in itself the most beautiful of the Creator's works-embodying in the one sex the highest conceptions of strength and majesty; and in the other, of grace LICENTIOUSNESS IN THE FINE ARTS. and tenderness; and, moreover, as in its groups and combinations portraying all the memorable actions and moments of our life and history, the human form, in vailed or unconcealed beauty, has ever been the subject of the artist's pencil or the sculptor's chisel. And yet, beautiful as the human form may be, none can doubt that the long experience of the race, if not a general instinct, demands its concealment, and not its exposure. It is only in barbarous nations and in communities, civilized but also demoralized, that this obvious dictate of prudent morality is disregarded. It is everywhere admitted, that undue exposure is calculated to inflame the lower appetencies of our constitution, and bring into prominence and a mastery those instincts which were designed to be only subordinate and concealed. Thus, in re gard to dress, it is felt that while no prudishness in apparel can exclude immorality in social life, yet a Christian chastity of sentiment at once revolts from such a mode as the court fashions of the reign of Charles I. The love of the beautiful is not the only nor the main sentiment fostered and excited. We do not insist that the same degree of danger and need of restriction exist in art as in real life and yet the dangers are analogous. We shall not apologize for the admission of such a weakness, nor quail before the sneer of the sensualist. Those who deny the fall, may consider each failure beneath temptation as the result of an individual weakness, which ought not and need not have resulted from the occasions presented: they may choose to continue the temptations, and But a only protest against the abuse. Christian community is compelled to admit the derangement of our entire nature, the unbalancing of our sensibilities and instincts, and the double need of a higher strength to save us, and an avoidance of temptations, if we would secure that aid. It may humble us to admit the fact, but we must avow that the only safety, both for Christian chastity and for general social morality, lies in strict repression of the rising passions, and a careful regard to more than one element of our constitution. The same causes which fire the literature of antiquity with unchaste description and allusion, gave her painters and sculp The tors the same dangerous selection of subjects and method of treatment. sensual and the material characterize all their thoughts of love, and excellence, and beauty. Christian virtue, and love, and chastity, is an achievement of the gospel alone. Therefore is it that so many of the masterpieces of heathen art are representations of scenes on which Christianity may not look, or which incidentally, if not directly, appeal to passions which heathenism fostered, but which Christianity subdues. We admit the improvement in the subjects of Christian art, and in the domestic and natural pieces of later times; yet still, the same natural attractions in the human form as a subject, and the same proclivity also in both artist and spectator, have led to constant copying of such ancient works, and to the creation of others of the same general tone of character. And wherever wealth and luxury have created a demand for works of art, there the entrance and the fatal influence of an unchaste and unchristian art has ever been apparent. It is more shameful that it is so, because such mere material symmetry and molding is not the highest beauty and there is scarcely an event worth commemoration and portrayal in the history of the race, sacred or profane, which necessitates the exposure. Every scene of domestic or public excellence, every passion and emotion, may be pictured or embodied in art, as it certainly occurs in reality, without omitting the customary decencies of life. If there be anything of beauty which this rule would exclude, Christian culture can afford to do without it during our brief probation: when the world is all regenerated and imparadised once more, the temporary restraint may be laid aside. We are led to these reflections by observing, as many of our readers must have done, the rapid multiplication of works of art, both from the pencil and the chisel, and on a both large and small scale, in our own community. Wealth, culture, and a nearer connection with the old world have induced it; and as an invariable attendant on general civilization and culture, it is to be considerately encouraged. But is there any one who sees not that a very large proportion of our society at this day is not Christian at all—and, therefore, in their tastes and standards correspond to the unrenewed heart in every age? Is it not clear, too, that even where a natural delicacy, and a better training, have given our American circles a quicker sensitiveness to immodesty in art, there is still a want of confidence and boldness in asserting the true principle, even against the smile of unconscious heathenism among us? Call to mind the exhibitions of statuary and painting which frequently visit us; consider the marked change in the character of the pictures which fill our Broadway windows, and allure to the recesses of the store; notice the gradual entry of unchaste statuettes or statues, and paintings or engravings, into our private dwellings; look at our very omnibuses, and our frescoes in public places; and who can fail to see that it is time for Christian men and women to speak out and draw the line of separation boldly, and admit without a blush, that Christian virtue does demand a stricter and a purer art than the great world can understand? We are fully sensible of the spell by which creative genius overawes and entrances the beholder, and often in her most dangerous exhibitions, impresses for a moment a chastened reverence and forgetfulness of all but power and beauty. Around such works of art there is a presence that stills and hushes the soul, and steals through the inmost being like the presence of the sublimest or most exquisite scenes of nature. Art seems the delegate of heaven, clothed with the majestic presence of an imparted creative power. There seems to be a murmur in the air, an echo of that glorious Word which called the things that were not as though they were-which spake, and it was done. But equally clear it is, that familiarity with even these noblest works of art lessens their nobler power, and leaves all their inferior suggestions to gain increasing force. Certain it is, too, that this ennobling influence is not confined to those dangerous productions to which we refer, and will not be lost or lessened if they are laid aside. As a Christian nation would banish the poetry which enshrines a licentious thought, how beautiful soever the amber verse and simile; as we relentlessly reject the melodies, be they never so exquisite, which cannot be dissevered from voluptuous song; as we disdainfully feel that we need endure no want, but only demand of genius that it bring unto us, from those resources which giving doth not impoverish, a perfect gift; so we demand of art that she shall bring to the soul that would be pure, companionship of forms and visions only of chaste and immaculate beauty. We admit, further, that it may be necessary, in the schools of art, for artists to study every model-as medical students may have a professional familiarity with much that is immodest elsewhere, in order that they may modestly, as well as skillfully, apply their knowledge. But what we say, in summing up-for this essay cannot be further elaborated-is this: that, for common use and common adornment, paintings, engravings, statues and statuettes, frescoes and ornamental moldings, this rule is safe and honorable-that when there is anything in the subject, or in the treatment of it, on which pure hearts of both sexes cannot at the same time gaze without a conscious disturbance of the sense of propriety, that work is excluded from a public sphere. And furthermore, that the strictiveness of ingenuous womanhood is not to be schooled down into an incapacity of blushing on the model of a foreign society which inherits morals, as well as the other specimens of virtu, from profligate monarchs and licentious courts; but as in matters of conscience the first conviction is safest, so in chaste sentiment, the first blush is the purest, the loveliest, the index of a delicacy which we desire the womanhood and the girlhood of our land never to lose, and which, by our consent, shall never be offended. Let us have a Christian art— if need be, an American Christian art— and if the great artistic world contemn us, we can pity it until it learns better. A [For the National Magazine.] CHANGES-A STORY. CHANGES-A STORY. BY ALICE CARY. PART THIRD. ND twenty years are gone, and the poor little house where we left Betty is a poor little house still-it has been patched and pieced, but has given way in new places, so that altogether it is little better than on the night when the old man and woman counted the gain which the coming of the young wife promised. A blind old woman sits in the corner knitting and mumbling to herself about the waste and the improvidence which she can no longer see, but which she has no doubt are going forward at a ruinously rapid rate-the night is falling, but that matters not to her; it has been night with her these ten years, and she is not looking for any morning, even for the morning of the resurrection; her thoughts travel not beyond the blackness wherein the grave is made-seldom, indeed, so far as that-perhaps it is selfishness that, like a mildew, has gathered over her eyes, till they cannot discern even the light and the darkness any more. The last thing she saw was the dead white face of an old man; and yet there are pictures in her mind of the fine shroud and the costly coffin more distinct than the pale fixed face. The thought that he was dead, and that expense could not profit him any, had been like iron going into her soul, and fixing there what was to her a terrible memory. Every new dress that has been purchased since the burial, she has rubbed between her bony fingers to satisfy herself as to the texture, and so arrive at the probable cost; for she remembers well the cost of that shroud, and that, withal, it could not warm the old man, and many other memories, to her very dark, have been added to this, till at length all is dark; and mumbling her miserable complaints, she sits rocking herself to and fro on the loose stones of the hearth, mindless of the sharp-teethed rats that go in and out of the holes beneath her feet. Two or three children are crying about the fire-they have been gathering the corn that day, though it is December, and their faces and hands are smarting and bleeding because of the cuts of the sharp winds; yet they cry to each other, or VOL. VI.-32 alone, and come not to the knees of the them no caresses in their babyhood, when And now there is a light step at the door, and now it is within the door, and the mother speaks softly and sweetly as she places her pailful of milk on the table, and stoops to a live coal to light the candle. Let us see as it blazes if it is not she whom we saw spinning and afterward walking in the lane, and yet after that sitting by this very fire, her hand in that of the husband, who could not even then make her perfectly happy. Sacrifice is written on her forehead-you may see it in the hair growing white, though she is not yet old-you see it in all the pale, patient face-in all the gentle motherly ways of the woman-she only says, My dear children," and they rise up and come about her, and are still-it is as if they took from her strength and power to sustain their weakness; and she, needing it so much, yet gives it willingly. And so, indeed, she has done all the years of her life-wifehood and motherhood have but added to her struggle and her sacrifice, and she is now worn out with toil and hardship. 66 All her life it has been her dream to go and visit "Aunt Polly," as she calls her dear sister; but she has never seen her since the day of her marriage, and of all the promises of letters that should tell everything she thought, and felt, and hoped, only one or two have been kept-she has had little but sorrow to feel, and little to hope, so that in truth there has been little to write. But the love has never died, never even grown cold, and the children "Aunt Polly," have been taught to say, almost as soon as mother; to regard her, indeed, as little less than an angel of light. If they could see her, it would be well with them, so they think: but that blessed privilege has not been accorded to them; and now the two eldest, Polly Merriford and Katy, have grown into womanhood, with the thought in their hearts that the best thing that could happen would be a visit from Aunt Polly. Year after year they have heard their mother say, that be |