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Snowbound

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.
noble minds which makes them confer happiness on their fellow-
creatures according to their gifts and wishes, there also would I fain
be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed tears of delight that paradise still
is to be found on this poor earth.”
 THE VALLEY OF SHADOW.
———
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
———

When daylight ends, where night begins,

(May Jesus save us from our sins!)
There lies a narrow, shadowy vale —
(Mark me, I but repeat a tale
Which once, I know not how, or when,
Came mystically within my ken:)
A dark, sepulchral, silent vale,
Lying beyond the ultimate pale
Of distant Time—beyond the din
Of human tongues—by which the Djin,
And Ghoul, and Afreet, hating light,
Come in the noiselessness of night
To chant unearthly notes and bars
To the unquiet, pensive stars —
To carol many a carping tune
In mockery of the mourning moon —
By which the jackal and the lynx
Make curious queries to the Sphynx,
Who never drops her stony eyes
From contemplation of the skies
To heed the rout, whose awful howls
Alarm the fiery-visioned owls,
That, at the decadence of day,
Flit round and round in search of prey.
Without a stream, without a tree,
The vale has been and still will be —
Though obelisks with many a trace
Of many an immemorial race,
With many a mighty pyramid
In which lost histories lie hid,
Rudely engraved on silent stone,
For countless centuries unknown,
Point, here, and there, and yon, to where
God and his angels dwell in air; —
And thistles rise and grow and bloom,
And cypresses, those trees of gloom,
Frown everywhere along the pale
Which is the entrance to the vale; —
But nothing—nothing moves within:
There is no tumult and no din: —
Shut out by hills that scarcely show
A rift of sky to those below,
The dwellers in this lonely spot
Rest even by memory forgot: —
Recumbent, in a sunless rest
They lie, with hands across their breast,
So motionless of hand or head
That he who gazed would deem them dead,
Or sleeping, when their toil was done,
Until the rising of the sun.
They have no mind, thus left alone;
Strike them; you will not hear a groan;
An icy torpor fills their veins;
They have no mortal cares, or pains,
Or sense, as we have; theirs is life,
If sleep be life, with nothing rife
Which we who love the setting sun
And crimson sky and crystal run,
And all things else that God has made —
We, who would moulder in the shade,
Can contemplate or understand
Like these inhabitants of the land,
These rigid and insensible blocks
Of clay, as cold of heart as rocks:
Still, so the legend sings, whose tune
Dropped, dew-like, from the tearful moon,
When sky and earth shall pass away,
When space becomes eternal day
The Dwellers of the Vale will rise
Beyond what once have been the skies,
Radiant, before immortal eyes,
To live and love in Paradise!
 THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.
Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.
 THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.
[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

———
BY C. F. ASHMEAD.
———

There is a game,
A frivolous and foolish play,
Wherewith we while away the day.
Byron’s Mazeppa.

The Lady Arabella H—— was the reigning belle and beauty of a
court not excelled, in the long annals of its previous history, for
accomplished and fascinating women. Many stars, of no little
magnitude, sparkled in the regal diadem of female loveliness, but
she outshone them all. In the graces of her person, in wit, in
accomplishments, she appeared without a competitor—not to say
without a rival. Her own sex reluctantly yielded the palm to her
indisputable pretensions, and the other proudly crowned her with its
leaves. She was the Venus of the day.
Countless suitors knelt at her feet—from the gay nobleman to the
grave statesman—for in the versatility of her attractions lay some
charm for all. But the lady was strangely cold to the accents of love.
One gallant after another retired with his suit rejected, and despair
in his heart: and it might have been believed that the exquisite
temple of her form enshrined a soul callous to the passion it was so
peculiarly fitted to inspire.

A brilliant ball was in progress. It was graced by the presence of

royalty, and the arrangements and decorations were worthy of the
distinguished visiters. Beauty and fashion, and taste, conspired to
lend a magic to the festive scene. Conspicuous among the admired
of her sex shone the graceful figure of Lady Arabella H. Her
loveliness on this evening surpassed itself: and there was a
languishing tenderness in her eyes that bespoke a softer mood than
her wont, and lent hope once more to her despairing suitors. With
renewed energy, these crowded around her to seek her smiles, while
new aspirants for her gracious favor added the meed of their
respective homage. One gallant alone remained aloof from the idol
of universal worship. This was the young Lord R—, remarkable for
his handsome person, his general accomplishments, and more than
all, his noble soul. It was but recently that he had appeared at court
after an absence abroad. On his first return, he had seemed to share
in the fascination caused by the charms of the Lady Arabella. But by
degrees, he had shunned her society: and on this evening, he
evidently avoided passing within the charmed circle of her
blandishments. His very glances appeared schooled to prevent their
resting on her, as he stood dejectedly within the door, with his eyes
cast upon the ground.
“What aileth thee, my lord, that thou holdest thyself to-night
beyond the attraction of yonder dazzling orb?” inquired Sir Charles G
—, advancing close beside him.
“I may not approach without being singed by its fire, from which
I have already suffered more than enough for my happiness.”
“By my troth, then, the star is resolved to approach thee: for lo!
the lady nears us now, and takes her station not far from thy side,
attended by some of her satellites.”
Lord R. did not trust himself with a single glance to ascertain the
correctness of the assertion: but turned his face toward the ante-
room.
“Thou art too diffident of thyself,” continued Sir Charles. “Attack
the peace of the haughty belle even as she hath thine, and she will
surrender her hand at thy discretion.”
“You flatter, my friend. How dare I to entertain hope, when so
many have been rejected by her with less than indifference? Nay,
there remains no alternative for my happiness save to shun her
altogether.”
A stifled sigh here arrested the attention of the speakers, and the
fair being who was the subject of their remarks passed within the
door-way in which they stood. She leaned on the arm of a young
nobleman who regarded her with looks of anxiety. A sudden
indisposition had that instant seized her, and she was retiring to seek
her recovery apart from the crowd.
“Leave me here alone,” said she to her companion, when they
had reached the recess of a window in the ante-room. “It is but a
slight faintness, and I shall be myself again presently.”
The gallant obeyed, and the lady occupied the ante-room in
solitude.
Giving way to a burst of tears, she murmured, “Alas! he whom
alone I love of all that seek my hand hath declared that he will in
future shun me altogether; and yet the very declaration implies that
he is not indifferent to me. Untoward fate! how hast thou permitted
a misapprehension so cruel?——”
A succession of sobs interrupted her voice, and her soliloquy
sunk into inaudible words. But her unhappy train of thought
continued, and she remained for a considerable time with her
emotion deepening rather than diminishing.
At length, by an effort, she recovered in some measure her self-
possession. The surprise her absence from the dancers would
occasion now suggested itself to her mind, and she had arisen for
the purpose of rejoining them, when two persons entered the ante-
room.
The projection of the window hid her from their observation: and
it was fortunate for her that this was the case; for, on recognizing in
one of the intruders the graceful figure and handsome countenance
of Lord R., her former emotion returned with increased violence.
Smothering her sensations to prevent her attracting their attention,
until the effort almost choked her, she sank back again upon her
seat, where the damask window-curtains afforded her an effectual
screen from discovery.
Entirely unconscious of her presence, the two gallants drew a
small side-table near the window, and sat down to a game of
draughts.
The gentleman who accompanied Lord R. was the same with
whom he had recently been conversing, and he had, with the
charitable design of diverting his friend’s melancholy mood,
suggested a trial against himself of the noted skill of Lord R. at the
game in question—he being himself also a scientific and
accomplished player.
They went through five or six successive games, and Lord R. was
every time the winner.
As they played, the Lady Arabella, whose situation gave her an
opportunity of viewing the board, though, as has been said, it was
such as to prevent her being herself observed, gradually became
interested in the moves, enlisting all her sympathies on the side of
the successful combatant.
“Conquered completely,” said Sir Charles at length, pushing back
the board and rising from the table. “You are more than a match for
me, and yet I have ever been counted no mean player.”
“I have never met any one able to beat me since the first dozen
games I played as a tyro,” replied Lord R., as he followed the
example of the other in leaving the table, and linking his arm within
that of his friend, they made their exit from the apartment.
It was not until some little time after their departure that our
heroine arose from the seat she occupied. But when she did so, it
would have seemed, from her countenance, that some bright and
sanguine idea had struck her, possessing the power to dispel her
previous desponding state of mind.
When she again appeared in the ball-room, Lord R. had quitted
the scene. But her hope, whatever it was, evidently extended
beyond the present into the future: and the reader, who is
acquainted with her sentiments, may augur, from the beaming
smiles which throughout the remainder of the evening she shed
around her—too bright to be the result of aught else than heartfelt
confidence and joy—that she had discovered some delicate mode of
communicating her preference for him whose love for her, the words
she had so lately heard from his own lips, left her no room to doubt.

The Lady Arabella suddenly grew extraordinarily partial to a

pleasing, though not heretofore engrossing amusement. Hoyle had
not at that day been published; but practice was her teacher, and
she became an astonishing adept at Draughts. A passion emanating
from so admired a source soon spread throughout the court circle,
until checker-boards took the place of dancing and music, and
conversation, in every festive concourse. For the remainder of the
season, nothing else was in vogue. The ball-room continued empty,
the drama remained unnoticed, and the worshipers at the shrine of
Pleasure sought her only at the table of the fashionable game. The
lady who was skillful at draughts, was deemed something more
worthy to aspire to distant rivalry with the Lady Arabella, and the
man who excelled at the same, was thought more fitting to become,
however unsuccessfully, her suitor.

The excitement in the metropolis, caused by the retirement of

lords and ladies to their country residences, was at its height. The
atmosphere exhaled the balmy softness and fragrancy of an English
June; and a succession of delicious days witnessed the arrival of a
party of the first noblemen of the realm at the Castle of ——.
This castle was beautifully situated on the margin of a winding
lake, surrounded by the most bewitching and graceful mountain
scenery. Art, moreover, lent its aid to increase the attractions of the
spot, and gardens, groves, grottos, arbors, and fountains, appeared
at every turn in rich and tasteful variety. It was a residence worthy
of a divinity. And such, indeed, Fortune had placed in it, for the
magnificent domain was the inheritance of the father of the Lady
Arabella, while his daughter was the goddess of the place.
 It was a singular mandate which here congregated around her
the chivalry of the day. She had caused it to be known that she
desired her suitors, one and all, to meet her at this particular crisis,
in trial of their skill against her own, at the late fashionable game of
draughts. He who should prove her successful antagonist, the
proclamation declared, was to take his revenge in claiming her hand.
Three months had been given them for practice, and the time had at
length expired. The aspirants day by day were arriving in numbers,
and the castle became filled with guests.
England might well have been proud of the flower of her
manhood, as they showed on this occasion. Stately and stalwort
forms, and haughty brows, and eyes of intellectual fire, were to be
seen among the motley but graceful crowd.
At length, the day which limited any further arrivals dawned. It
was the same that was to decide the fate of those visiters already
assembled.
At an early hour, clad in a dress of simple white, with a bodice of
blue satin, the Lady Arabella descended among her palpitating
guests.
“I am ready, gentlemen,” said she, with one of her radiant smiles.
“I will retire to the adjoining colonnade, and let him who wishes to
make the first trial join me there. When a single game with him is
over, another can take his place. There is but one suggestion I would
make,” she added, “which is, that those who are deemed the most
skillful players remain until the last.” So saying, she turned and
departed.
The colonnade which the Lady Arabella had thus dedicated to the
singular contest, was situated so as to receive the breeze from the
neighboring lake. A fountain of pure water, placed near, likewise
contributed to refresh the atmosphere, while the picturesque
mountain scenery in the distance delighted the eye, and the songs
of birds in an adjoining grove made melody to the ear.
After a few moments’ consultation among her suitors, our
heroine was speedily followed into this pleasing retreat, first by one
and then by another in rapid succession. The only interruption the
routine experienced was that caused by the necessity of her taking
some refreshment. In this manner, the day wore away, and each of
her antagonists retired in turn, crest-fallen and vanquished.
It was almost twilight, and there now remained but one gallant
to be tested. He had unanimously been voted the best player
present; and had therefore, according to the Lady Arabella’s
suggestion, been preceded by all his companions. As he entered the
colonnade with an embarrassed, though graceful step, the lady
blushed, and her eyes grew soft and tender. Intent upon the great
stake before him, these indications were lost upon the nobleman,
who took his seat at the board. In fact, he dare scarcely trust
himself with more than a glance at the fair being opposite him, lest
the dazzling vision should disarm his skill.
But for the first time throughout the day, the gentle combatant
played carelessly. Her eyes were riveted upon the countenance of
her opponent, rather than as previously, fixed upon the board. Her
moves seemed made without foresight, resembling those of a
beginner more than an adept, and she failed to crown a single king.
In a word, the meanest antagonist might have won the game at
issue, and in a quarter of an hour her opponent gained an easy
victory.
“Dare I,” asked he—gathering some suspicion of a preference on
her part, which alone could have led to this result, after the skill she
had previously manifested towards his rivals—“dare I presume to
claim the rich reward?”
His voice grew lower—he drew his chair to her side, and
ventured to raise his eyes to her countenance.
It beamed sweet affection; and as she extended her hand to
meet his, the nobleman grasped the treasure as one which that
gesture made willingly and confidingly his own.
The victorious gallant was Lord R., and ere another winter, the
Lady Arabella H—— became his bride. Draughts went out of fashion
in the beau monde, but, during their hours of privacy, the game
continued, throughout their life-time, a favorite recreation of the
happy pair whom it was instrumental in bringing to a blissful union.
 THE “STILL SMALL VOICE.”
———
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
———

The stars were weary—all the summer night

They held high revelry through heaven’s blue halls,
And danced along their wanton wanderings
To the weird chiming of the “Sister Seven,”
Now, slowly paling like young beauty’s cheek
Returning from the midnight festival,
Their glances faded, lest they should behold
The gentle dalliance of the earth and sky.
 The silver lute of the young morning star
Thrilled faintly into silence, as the dawn
With red lip kissed the mountain’s snowy brow,
Which, bathed in softest slumber, blushed to own
The gentle pressure. As the waves of light
Broke o’er the margin of a darkened world,
In golden ripples, faintly they revealed
Bright uplands, where the spirit of the mist
Hung low upon the bosom of the hills,
And wept soft dewy tears, while o’er their crests
Swept her long tresses of the wreathing cloud,
With white peaks flashing through their tangled curls,
Like jewels crushed in the disheveled hair
Of maniac beauty, in some gentle hour
Of quiet sadness; and more faintly still,
Gleamed through the shadows at the mountain’s base,
Where smiling valleys dimpled Nature’s cheek,
And laughing meadows cradled singing streams.
 On Horeb’s mount a holy man of God
Stood forth to view the fragrant strife of morn,
Sunshine with shadow—rosy day with night —
And sleeping Death with glory-wakened Life.
A close dark mantle wrapped his agéd form,
His brow uncovered, though a snowy lock,
Stirred by the breeze of morning, waved above
Its frozen marble; while the gathered shades
Of many years hung, like a coronal
Of withered leaves, around it—and his eyes,
Strange, deep, and fathomless, gleamed forth beneath
Its deadly whiteness, like two liquid flames.
From the recesses of a marble tomb.
Mystic and subtle as some charmed perfume,
A sense of pleasure thrilled upon his heart,
As quick, faint pulses of the scented breeze
Brought balmy odors from the dewy flowers,
Waved the plumed monarchs of the forest proud,
And wafted on the islets of the cloud
Through liquid sapphire, where they seemed to float
Softly and dreamily, and full of love.
He bowed and worshiped—and “the Lord passed by.”
 The sky was changed—and hoarsely, from afar,
A sound of waters, and of mingled winds,
Through forests raging, crept upon the ear;
And, driving o’er the azure fields of heaven,
Cloud after cloud came rolling swiftly on,
Black Pelion upon gloomy Ossa piled.
Like giant towers they gather, and from point
To point along their frowning battlements
Red signal-fires are flashing far and free.
Hark! the deep watchword of the rushing storm!
The thunder-spirit calls his squadrons dark,
Far through the trackless void of scowling space,
And lightning rends the cloudy canopy,
As prophet’s vision tears aside the veil
That shadows o’er the future, and beholds
Beyond unfolded naught but dim, and wild,
And fearful mystery. Then the sullen roar
Of elemental conflict crashing fell —
A mingled din of crushing thunderbolts,
And sadly moaning winds, and heavy drops
Of rain, as though the demons of the storm
Wept o’er the ruin which their fury wrought.
’Twas past—and o’er the eastern mountains rolled
The cloudy banners, and the chariot wheels
Of burning levin—by the tempest led,
(As some great conqueror from battle won,)
The serried hosts of falling waters passed
Beneath the rainbow’s bright triumphal arch;
And Nature shouted as the wing of peace
Fell softly o’er the wild and wasted track
Of elemental war. “The Lord was not”
Amid the rushing armies of the storm,
Its fierceness was the shadow of his frown,
Deep-veiled, yet dark, and terribly sublime;
And, as upon its far retiring verge,
The glorious rainbow brightened, ’twas a dim
And faint reflection of His mercy’s smile!
 Again the spirit of a fearful change
Came stealing o’er the blue and tranquil heaven —
A hollow, rushing murmur filled the air,
And the low sobbing of the rising wind
Grew deeper, till in howling gusts it whirled
Dark wreaths of earthy fragments to the sky,
As though the maddened gnomes were hurling death
Against the vapory armaments of air;
And lurid flames with blue and ghastly glare
Gleamed o’er the face of Nature till it blanched,
As though the warning of the last dread trump
Had smote her guilt upon a coward heart.
The earthquake rising from his burning lair,
Deep in the bosom of a rock-ribbed world,
Shook everlasting hills from out his path,
Like a roused lion flinging from his mane
The dewy drops of morning. At his tread
The pale earth trembled, and anon there came
A crushing down of rocky battlements,
Which, for a moment, high and quivering hung,
On cloud-crowned pinnacles, then thundering fell
Far down the dark, immeasurable void
Which yawned beneath them like the livid lips
Of fierce, insatiate hell. He tore away
The iron nerves from that strong mountain’s heart,
As though the destiny of a conqueror lay
Deep hid within it, and the hour was come
When he must march to seek it, in a last
And wild death-revel. As this passed away,
In racking throes, which might have seemed the strong
Convulsive shudder of dissolving worlds,
The earth moaned feebly, as a dying child
Will murmur faintly in its fever-dream —
Then darkness gathered round it, like the deep,
Black jaws of cold annihilation.
It came—it vanished—and “the Lord was not”