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diff --git a/old/54024-0.txt b/old/54024-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 38ba91a..0000000 --- a/old/54024-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7605 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 2, -August 1850, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 2, August 1850 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George Rex Graham - -Release Date: January 19, 2017 [EBook #54024] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, AUGUST 1850 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XXXVII. AUGUST, 1850. No. 2. - - - Table of Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - Music and Musical Composers - The Chase - The Bride of the Battle - Pedro de Padilh - A Romance of True Love - Wordsworth - Bridget Kerevan - What Katy Did - The Game of the Season - The Fine Arts - Review of New Books - - Poetry, Music, and Fashion - - Manuela - Wood Violets - Memories - Red Jacket - The Mariner’s Tale - Impulse and Principle - Riverside - Chant of the Néreides - Le Follet - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC. - Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker] - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XXXVII. PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1850. No. 2. - - * * * * * - - - - - MUSIC AND MUSICAL COMPOSERS. - - - BY R. J. DE CORDOVA. - - - ’Tis the silver key to the fountain of tears, - Where the spirit drinks till the brain runs wild; - The softest grave of a thousand fears, - Where their mother, Care, like a sleepy child, - Is laid asleep on flowers. - Shelley. - -It were much too vast a labor to commence an inquiry into the subject of -this essay, with a dissertation on the _origin of music_. Posterity may -be enabled, by the aid of advanced wisdom, to explain the birth of this -and other blessings which to us appear only natural, and may, perhaps, -successfully trace to their sources the numerous enjoyments which God -created as ministers to man’s happiness, and of which we now know only -the mere existence. It will not be uninteresting to our children’s -children to learn how men first discovered that the various sounds with -which the Creator, in his wisdom, invested the human voice, might be -linked together in wonderful combinations—producing from monotonous -particles melodious unisons; and how a knowledge of the various -distinctions which the extension or diminution of time confers on every -distinct atom of sound, first dawned upon the human mind, appealing -through the senses to the soul, and binding, with a force and power -which belong not to any other immaterial agent, the heart of man in -chains of amaranthine flowers. These wonders, like many more, which now, -for aught we know, lie on the first unturned page of wisdom’s book, will -one day be developed. - -It is more than probable that he who first tuned his voice to song, -little thought of the marvels of music, nor dreamed to what perfection -the rules of sound would one day be brought. He used the power which God -had given him, nor stopped to inquire into the nature or construction of -the tones which he almost involuntarily produced, and which lightened -his labor, while they made glad his heart. Science in those days was an -infant:—has she yet passed the era of her first childhood? - -A consideration of the history of music may be prosecuted under four -heads: Ancient and Modern, Sacred and Profane; but as it is not intended -to do more in this essay than to indulge in a few unimportant and -rambling reflections on the progress of music, and on the state of -perfection to which it has at present arrived, we will cursorily review -ancient music, as preceding the days of Handel and Mozart, and of modern -music, from those masters down to the writers of the present day. - -It is not denied that the earlier attempts at song were so limited in -design and so feeble in imagination as to excuse the application in our -time of the term _barbarous_ to the music of the days of Moses and -Miriam, and even to the sounds which accompanied the inspired language -of the poet king. Music was then in its infancy. The rude instruments -which Tubal Cain invented, and which in after ages were improved, but -still left rude, were circumscribed in their compass, and harsh in their -tones, although reason teaches that they must have been, what is -technically termed “true” in their mechanical formation. According to -the compass of these rough productions, the multitude restrained their -compositions. Instruments were considered necessary to give effect to -song; but as these auxiliaries could not express all the sounds of which -the voice was capable, it was thought requisite that the voice should be -made subservient to the instruments. The more extensive compass of the -voice excited admiration and stimulated the desire for imitation. Thus -the voice was the means of improving the mechanical expression of sound; -and as instrumental mechanism progressed, the human voice became -liberated from the restrictions which former ignorance had imposed upon -it, and a freer course was afforded to its capabilities in obedience to -the eccentricities of the imagination. - -Every nation has always had, as it now has, its own peculiar and -distinctive style of expressing emotion through the agency of the voice. -Barbarous as the first developments of musical ability may have been, -they nevertheless expressed the peculiar and characteristic feeling of -the people who employed them. With one nation the style was melancholy, -with another pensive, with another light, and with a fourth lively. Some -delighted to denote their ideas in the junction of lengthened and -monotonous sounds, expressive of grief; others in short changing -accents; of carelessness or indifference; and others in the deep -measured sounds of martial melody. These distinctions still exist in so -marked a degree among different people as to entitle them to the -appellation of national musical characteristics. - -It is generally believed, and not without good grounds, that the earlier -attempts at producing musical effect by the union of a considerable -number of voices and instruments, were not remarkable for any of that -variety which invests with so many attractions the music of a later -period. All the singers enunciated the same notes, and in the same -time—very much in the style which large prayer-meetings adopt in the -open air. The manner in which the beauty and diversity of concords and -discords were first discovered, and the precise era at which such -discovery was made, are also matters which are reserved for some later -and more successful laborer. This branch of the science of music has, -perhaps, undergone greater alteration and improvement than any other. It -is by no means an uninteresting study, first to imagine the absence of -all knowledge of chords among the first inhabitants of our globe; then -to look over the works of the earliest masters whose compositions are -still extant, and then to follow the publications of later writers down -to the present day, observing at each stage the wonderful differences -which exist in the instrumental writings of every age. - -The act of committing sounds to paper, although very old, must still be -regarded, comparatively with the birth of music, as of late discovery. -Transferring mere sound from the mind to the paper, without the -assistance of any intermediate articulation is a wonder equally great, -to say the least of it, as is the act of writing words. Yet no one gives -a thought to the invention of the marvel. The fame of Cadmus is diffused -over the habitable globe, while the mastermind which first conceived the -possibility of recording his thoughts on and in a few parallel lines by -means of dots and scratches, causes no inquiry and excites no -admiration. - -The task of organizing and perfecting so complete and infallible a -scheme must have been immense. In the first place the distance, so to -speak, between each tone of which the human voice is capable was to be -defined by certain laws and rules, and represented by distinctive marks. -Then the length or duration of each tone in any given air was to be -marked separately or in junction with other tones, without deranging the -qualities of any or detracting from the harmony of the whole. Then were -to be encountered the difficulties incidental to changes of the key-note -or tone. On discovering that the human voice, after executing seven -notes, among which are five tones and two semitones, produced, in -ascending to the eighth, a tone exactly similar to the first, it was -necessary to construct a scale of keys which would always place the two -semitones in exactly the same position, and in the same relation to the -full tones. Lastly, and perhaps more wonderful than all, a proper and -minute division of TIME was to be effected. That inherent appreciation -of what musicians term “time,” which almost every human being possesses -naturally, but which few understand, and none can explain, was to be -expressed and defined. Divisions and subdivisions were to be -demonstrated and made clear. This was the task of tasks. Savages, who -never heard of the existence of such a science as music, are known to -clap their hands in unison at certain measurable periods in their wild -songs. They observe the law of musical time, without having the -slightest conception of what time is. Nor are we much better now. We can -write time as well as tune, but we know not now, nor have we yet been -able to analyze or detect the instinct which teaches us, as it does the -Savages, at what periods of any given air we should mark time. Yet -thousands of persons, singing together, will “_beat_” at the same -instant. No one knows why or wherefore it should be so. We only feel -that it is so, and that human ingenuity has enabled us to write and -otherwise to mark time. The order of intellect, which first discovered -the means of doing even this little, must have been very high indeed. - -The difference between the musical instruments of our time and those of -a former age, is another interesting subject of inquiry. The Bible -mentions the timbrel, the ram’s horn, the reed, the harp, silver -trumpets, and other equally rude inventions. From later classical -writers we learn the existence of the pipe and tabor, the lyre, the -lute, and others. In the records of a much more advanced period, we find -mention of the harpsichord, whence we have obtained our present -tolerably perfect piano forte. The gradations from the instrumental -knowledge mentioned in the Bible down to the astonishing state of -improvement to which the art of manufacturing musical instruments has -arrived, have been slow but steady. It is possible that our posterity -will look back upon our piano fortes, our violins, violincellos, double -basses, cornets, trombones, bassoons, oboes, clarionets, flageolets, -flutes, harps, French-horns, serpents, opheclides, guitars, tenors, and -kettle-drums, with great contempt. Perhaps even our organ, which is an -ancient invention, will not escape the critical censure of a coming age. -And there can be little doubt that much remains yet to be known in the -manufacture of musical instruments. It may be said with much reason that -the only perfect instruments now in use are the violin, the violincello, -the double-bass, the tenor, and one or two others. On these any tone of -which their compass is capable can be produced in every possible variety -of execution. The piano forte, delightful as are its powers, cannot -produce a gliding sound from one note to the other; neither can it -prolong a note for any length of time without losing at its termination -the vigor with which it produced the tone at its commencement. In -addition to these disadvantages it labors under another which is common -to all wind instruments. It can produce full tones, diatonic semitones, -and chromatic semitones, but it cannot yield an enharmonic tone. On the -piano forte, on the harp, and on all wind instruments, (with the -exception of the organ in the Temple Church, London,[1]) G flat is F -sharp; A flat is G sharp; E sharp is F natural; B sharp is C natural; E -flat is D sharp, and so on. The difference is so nicely arranged as -scarcely to strike the finest ear; but it is undoubtedly an obstacle in -the way of perfection which will most probably be overcome by and by. -The organ in the Temple Church, in London, which we have made an -exception to the above complaint, is a curious specimen. The black notes -are split, in order to provide for the production of enharmonic tones, -and the effect on a nice ear is very agreeable. - -As the majority of organs are not made on the last named principle they -must be classed among the imperfect instruments. At the same time, it is -believed that general opinion unites in ascribing to the organ the first -place among instruments. It is capable of prolonging sounds, of -producing multiplied chords, of modulating and swelling its tones at the -option of the performer, of suppressing or expanding its volume, and, in -a word, of doing every thing which any other instrument can perform, -except of gliding from one note to another. - -There are now extant several specimens of the style of music in use -among the monks of the earlier Christian ages. These examples are very -curious, and, to the casual observer, extremely interesting. The airs -are written on four lines, and are marked with treble and bass clefs, -but they would appear to have been intended almost entirely for the use -of singers. Instrumental music of that period is much more rare and -uncommon. The compositions alluded to are very feeble, and evince an -ignorance of the extent to which musical sounds might be made available. -They are merely loose themes without any attempt whatever at artistic -effect. As time wore on, the writing on five lines instead of on four -became universally adopted in Europe, and the style of composition -gradually improved. - -The English nation have never been remarkable for musical genius. As -late in their history as the accession of the house of Hanover, the -greater part of their music came from abroad. Nor were there any great -instrumental performers among them. It is only of comparatively late -years that any thing like a talent for composition has sprung up among -them, and even now they are so far behind most other nations in the art, -as to hold a very insignificant position in the musical world. While the -music of all other countries has in it something distinctively and -peculiarly characteristic, English melodies (if we except their glees -and madrigals) have none. The late operas which have been brought out in -London, betray an attempt at servile imitation of the Italian school; -but the English have not a writer at the present day whose compositions -manifest the slightest originality: and with the exception of Dr. Arne, -Cabott, Bishop, Rolf, Rooke, and one or two others, their musical works -are devoid of conception, character, or beauty. At the same time it must -be admitted that there is nothing finer in the world than the English -glees and madrigals. These possess a truly definitive character. They -are really English, and bear about the same relation to the smooth -strains of Italy and Germany, as the bluff, straight-forward yeoman does -to the French exquisite. They are at once original, heart-stirring, and -amusing. Many of the madrigals exhibit a great amount of artistic skill -and musical acquirement, and, when well executed, they are extremely -entertaining. Some of the English anthems are also very excellent, but -the attempt to imitate the German school is too apparent throughout. -They are not the less agreeable on this account, but they lose the charm -which would attach to originality. - -The English are, as a nation, fond of music, but their love for it -seldom reaches the enthusiasm which is felt for the art by a German, an -Italian, a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. It would, perhaps, be more correct -to say that the English admire music rather than that they love it. The -uneducated classes will gladly listen to music, but they are never moved -by it. They may learn or become acquainted with certain airs, but they -never impart to what they sing or whistle that elegance or depth of -feeling which a really musical mind never fails to throw into an air -which pleases him. - -The Scotch music, without possessing much claim to art, has a decidedly -characteristic feature. It is unlike the compositions of any other -country. Even their quickest airs have something peculiarly melancholy -in their style, which is touching and agreeable. The principal feature -in Scotch music is the frequent introduction of short, catching sounds -before long notes. - -The Spanish style of music is pleasing but variable. The national -fondness for dancing appears to exercise some influence over all their -strains; notwithstanding which many of their airs have an extremely -melancholy expression. As opera writers they have never excelled, but -for love-songs and martial choruses, their style is equal to that of any -other people in the world. Their serenades are among the sweetest -efforts of simple composition in the world, containing, notwithstanding -the plainness of their style, considerable feeling, and an obvious -expression of deep passion. - -The Italian school of music divides with the German the admiration of -the world. Differing widely from the German, it possesses charms equally -attractive and quite as moving. If a preference is to be accorded at -all, it must be given to the German school, which contains more art; -this preference could, however, only be yielded by musicians. The masses -are more likely to be attracted by sounds which appeal at once to the -senses and charm the ear, than by strains which contain perhaps somewhat -less of melody, but which stir up the passions to a greater degree and -do not charm until they are understood. The Italian style is smooth, -soft and melodious. Even the most martial or impassioned passages are -harmonious and agreeable. The chief dependence of the composer for -success would seem to be the melody of the scene which he writes. The -arrangement is generally artistic, but only sufficiently so to accord -with the desire of the composer to make use of the richer resources of -his art. He makes the science subservient to the principle of -attraction. For this reason Italian vocal music is highly preferred -before Italian instrumental music. While as opera writers, the masters -of Italy are deservedly famous, we seldom hear of them as composers for -the piano, or of any lengthy romantic pieces in which instruments are to -convey certain impressions unaided by the human voice or by personal -representation. - -Of the Italian composers who have remained favorites until the present -day, none, perhaps, assimilate more closely to the German school than -Pacini and Mercadante. Their works cannot boast of that melodious -characteristic which so highly distinguishes those of their -fellow-countrymen, the theme being generally less connected; but they -are nevertheless decidedly of a higher order in an artistic point of -view than the operas of their more favored successors. In the lighter -style of Italian composition, Cimarosa and Ricci, as old masters, rank -deservedly high; but they do not bear comparison with the Buffo school -of the present day. - -Among the later writers of Italian operas who have attained eminence in -the divine science may be named Mercadante, Rossini, Bellini, -Donnizzetti, and Verdi. To compare the peculiar merits of these great -artistes would be a task of extreme difficulty, as Rossini, Bellini and -Mercadante differ very materially in style, while that of Bellini and -Donnizzetti closely assimilate, and Verdi’s partakes of the character -both of Bellini’s and Donnizzetti’s, with something of the German -school. - -The style of Rossini, without being deficient in feeling or artistic -arrangement, always partakes in some degree of lightness, which is owing -to the very florid manner in which he invariably wrote. His Guiglielmo -Tell, Pietro l’Eremita, Gazza Ladra, Otello and Semiramide, are among -his finest compositions. The last named opera is decidedly his best -effort. Il Barbiere di Seviglia is a favorite with many persons, but it -cannot be said to contain many brilliant examples of success. The “Una -Voce” and “La Colunnia,” are _the_ attractions in the “Barber.” The -_role_ of Figaro is a great source of attraction to the lovers of -Merry-Andrewisms, but scarcely so to the musician. One of Rossini’s most -powerful compositions is the Stabat Mater. - -The style of Bellini, on the other hand, is totally different from that -of Rossini. Bellini is at once unaffected and chaste. There is no -seeking after applause by introducing difficult passages requiring great -flexibility of intonation. Every air, every symphony, every prelude and -introduction appear to have been written with the view to the expression -of some passion, or the demonstration of some feeling which it was -required to convey. It is deeply to be regretted that so bright a -genius, promising so brilliant a future, should so early have been lost -to the world. During Bellini’s short but energetic career he produced -eight operas, every one of which will to this day bear the most -searching examination of the most rigid critic:—Norma, Bianca e -Fernando, I Puritani, Il Pirata, La Straniera, I Montecchi ed i -Capuletti, La Sonnambula, and Beatrice di Tenda. Of these his Puritani -and his Norma stand pre-eminently great. Next in rank are his Capuletti -and Beatrice di Tenda; then La Sonnambula, La Straniera, Il Pirata, and -Bianca e Fernando. The whole of Bellini’s writing is marked by a tone of -melancholy which at this day seems like the foreshadowing of an early -affliction. He had, perhaps, in a greater degree than any other author, -the power of throwing into his airs an unmistakeable interpretation of -the passion or feeling which was embodied in the language. The “Deh! tu, -bell Anima!” in Romeo e Giulietta, is one of the finest specimens of the -remarkable correctness with which the words and music may be so blended -as strictly to accord in the expression for which they are intended. - -Against Donnizzetti it has been argued that he was a plagiarist; but -when the number of operas which he has written are taken into -consideration, the accusation will not bear weight or scrutiny. His -style is neither so flowing nor so scientific as that of others, but his -works are nevertheless highly meritorious, being generally very -melodious and expressive. In the course of a long and famous life -Donnizzetti produced upward of seventy operas. Among the best of these -are his Lucia di Lamermoor, Belisario, Pia de Tolomeo, Lucrezia Borgia, -Torquato Tasso, Fausta, Anna Bolena, Roberto Devereux, Betly, Elisire -d’Amoré, Linda di Chamouni, Il Burgomastro di Saardam Favorita, and -others. - -Giuseppe Verdi is the latest composer of the Italian school, and he -promises to be one of its brightest ornaments, when experience shall -have amended his faults and restrained him from those bursts of too -powerful effort which he delights to exhibit, and which impart a -strained character to his works. There are many of the London Dilletanti -who affect to dislike Verdi; but the only reason which can be given for -the harsh criticism which is dealt out with no sparing hand on the -devoted head of the young aspirant, is the habit which too often exists -in that city to despise modern talent to the exaltation of the wisdom -which is past and gone. The chief beauty of Verdi’s writing is to be -found in his moving choruses and concerted pieces. These exhibit -profound musical knowledge combined with much genius, great feeling, and -frequently exquisite taste. As examples of a happy union of these -qualities, may be instanced the chorus “_Il Maledetto non ha fratello_,” -in Nabuco; the terzetto, in Ernani; the chorus of crusaders, in I -Lombardi, and others. His operas are Nino, Ernani, I Lombardi alla prima -Crocciata, I due Foscari, and Attila. Of these the four first mentioned -are unquestionably the best. There are many other writers of great -talent among the Italians, but as they are little known to the world a -consideration of them may, perhaps, be deemed prolix. - -We now come to the German school of music, which, notwithstanding the -vastness of the subject comprehended in this title, will be treated with -as much brevity as will serve to explain the writer’s views. German -music may be divided into two branches; vocal and instrumental: in -either of which it is generally believed to be vastly superior to that -of any other school extant. The list of those who may be termed modern -German masters, is garnished with the names of Mozart, Haydn, Handel, -Weber, Beethoven, Meyerbeer, Mendelsohn, Spohr, Gluck, Lortzing, Bach, -Listz, De Meyer, Herz, Thalberg, Moschelles, Herold, and others. Of -these Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mendelsohn, stand at the head of a -long rank of sacred writers. The solemn requiems of Mozart, the -beautiful “_Creation_” of Haydn; the stirring “_Messiah_” of Handel; the -solemn symphonies of Beethoven; the magnificent “_Elijah_” of Bartholdy, -will never be forgotten while a soul attuned to melody remains on earth. -They all appear to have been written in moments of deep inspiration; and -the enthusiast may almost believe that a beneficent God may have guided -the hands whose work has more than once struck awe into the sinner’s -soul to call him to repentance, and lifted up the heart of the pious man -to still closer communion with the God who in his wisdom formed the -noblest of his creatures. - -Among the modern opera writers of Germany, Mozart, Weber, Beethoven, and -Meyerbeer, stand pre-eminently high; and it is difficult at this day to -say which of these writers outdoes the other in boldness of design, -grandeur of conception, brilliancy of execution, or depth of feeling. -If, for example, we take the “_Don Giovanni_” of Mozart, the “_Der -Freischutz_” of Weber, the “_Fidelio_” of Beethoven, and the “_Robert -der Teufel_” or the “_Huguenots_” of Meyerbeer, we will find in certain -scenes equal attraction in the concerted pieces, similar beauties in the -airs, like effect in the orchestral accompaniments, and the same -grandeur in the choruses. Each author will therefore have his distinct -admirers, who, notwithstanding any especial partiality, will readily -confess to the attractions of the rival works. For ourselves, we are yet -to hear an opera superior to the Fidelio of Beethoven. - -For the reasons above stated, it is not possible, without venturing into -matters of detail which would be uninteresting, to mark the minor -differences which characterize each writer. It will therefore be only -necessary to name some of the principal works of the principal opera -writers of the German school. The best of Mozart’s efforts are his “_Don -Giovanni_,” his “_Così fan Tutte_,” his “_Zauberflotte_,” and his -“_Nozze di Figaro_.” - -Weber’s greatest conceptions are supposed to be his “_Freischutz_,” his -“_Oberon_,” and his “_Preciosa_”. - -The “_Fidelio_” of Beethoven stands justly at the head of all his -writings. Of Meyerbeer’s great works none are held in greater estimation -than his “_Robert le Diable_,” his “_Huguenots_,” and his “_Crocciatoin -Egitto_.” His “_Prophete_” is highly spoken of, but it still remains -unknown to the longing ear of the writer of this essay. Herold’s -“_Zampa_,” and Lortzing’s “_Czar und Zimmermann_,” are also in high -repute among musicians. - -In instrumental music, German writers rank as high as their compatriots -do in the operatic school, and higher than the masters of any other -country. In the more solid flights of art we have Beethoven, Mozart, -Weber, Meyerbeer, Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck, Bach, Listz, De Meyer, and -others. In the lighter but not less meritorious style of composition, we -have Thalberg, Herz, Moschelles, and others. - -French music, with the exception of the works of one or two writers, has -never been in favor out of France. It resembles closely in some points -French poetry. There is harmony, melody, softness, and sometimes art; -but there are wanting grandeur and loftiness of conception and -smoothness. The writings of David and Auber are, however, exceptions to -these objections. There is a force in David’s “_Desert_,” for example, -which excuses comparison even with German writers; and many of the -operas of Auber have a high place in the estimation of those who incline -to the Italian school, a close resemblance to which is to be found in -some of his writings. Among the best works of this distinguished -musician are his “_Muette de Portici_,” his “_Fra Diavolo_,” and his -“_Diamans de la Couronne_.” His “_Domino Noir_,” his “_Barcarole_,” and -others, are also favorites even beyond the French frontier. Adam’s -“_Postillion de Lonjemeau_” is another effort which must be mentioned -with respect. - -There are in each of the schools to which I have adverted many great -composers whose names do not occur to me at this moment. Indeed, it -would be almost impossible to record all those inspired men who have -reflected on their several nations the glory which music has conferred -on them. - -The study of Music is so interesting as to excuse a very lengthy -dissertation, and the present paper might be considerably prolonged, did -the limits of the Magazine permit a continuation of this already lengthy -essay, in which the several branches of the subject are only cursorily -treated; but I feel that I need say nothing to recommend to the public -of this country the Divine Art, which, as a German author beautifully -expresses it, “is to Poetry what Poetry is to language.” It is -undoubtedly the poetry of sound, the sweet harmonizer of society, the -chief luxury of life and the greatest softener and civilizer of man’s -harsh nature. - ------ - -[1] The only exception with which the writer is acquainted. - - * * * * * - - - - - MANUELA. - - - A BALLAD OF CALIFORNIA. - - - BY BAYARD TAYLOR. - - - From the doorway, Manuela, in the sheeny April morn, - Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming corn; - Where the mountain’s misty rampart like the wall of Eden towers, - And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers. - - All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er, - And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore; - Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope; - Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope. - - Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me wherefore do ye rest - On the oaks enchanted islands and the flowery ocean’s breast? - Tell me wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the highway’s mark - Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountain-shadows dark? - - Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom, and the sprouting verdure shine - With the tears of amber dropping from the tassels of the pine, - And the morning’s breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny cheek— - Little recketh Manuela of the tales of Spring they speak. - - When the Summer’s burning solstice on the mountain-harvests glowed, - She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the valley road; - Many times she saw him turning, looking back with parting thrills, - Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the hills. - - Ere the cloudless moons were over, he had passed the Desert’s sand, - Crossed the rushing Colorado and the dark Apachè Land, - And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains began, - With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan. - - Therefore watches Manuela—therefore lightly doth she start, - When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her heart; - Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches stirs, - But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs. - - Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen, day by day, - But they come not as Bernardo—she can see it, far away; - Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled _alazàn_,[2] - Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilàn. - - She would know him ’mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air; - By the featly-knit sarápè,[3] such as wealthy traders wear; - By his broidered calzoneros[4] and his saddle, gaily spread, - With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion’s head. - - None like he the light riáta[5] on the maddened bull can throw; - None amid the mountain-cañons, track like he the stealthy doe; - And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revelers are - Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay guitar. - - He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still - In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill, - When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in corn, - Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding morn. - - He has pictured the procession, all in holyday attire, - And the laugh and look of gladness, when they see the distant spire; - Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly fair, - In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air. - - Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous beam? - ’Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream. - Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if its watches would be true, - For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose’s drop of dew! - - But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom stills, - As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills: - Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their pearly tides— - ’Tis the alazàn that gallops, ’tis Bernardo’s self that rides! - ------ - -[2] In California horses are named according to their color. An _alazàn_ -is a sorrel—a color generally preferred, as denoting speed and mettle. - -[3] The sarápè is a knit blanket of many gay colors, worn over the -shoulders by an opening in the centre, through which the head is thrust. - -[4] Calzoneros are trowsers, generally made of blue cloth or velvet, -richly embroidered, and worn over an under pair of white linen. They are -slashed up the outside of each leg, for greater convenience in riding, -and studded with rows of silver buttons. - -[5] The lariat, or riáta, as it is indifferently called in California -and Mexico, is precisely the same as the lasso of South America. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CHASE. - - - AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR OF 1812. - - - BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.” - - -“Sail O!” cried the look-out from the mast-head. - -“Whereaway?” asked the officer of the deck. - -“On the lee-beam.” - -We had been dodging about the horse-latitudes for several weeks, most of -the time becalmed; and, of course, without meeting a single vessel. At -this announcement, therefore, a general excitement pervaded the decks; -the watch above placed themselves eagerly on the look-out, while the -watch below crowded up the gangway to catch a glance of the stranger if -possible. - -In due time the character of the chase became evident. She was a heavy, -fore-topsail schooner, and apparently a man-of-war. Instead of flying -us, as was the case with most vessels, she stood boldly on her course, -and in consequence was soon within range. Meantime, through our glasses, -we could see that her decks were filled with men, who appeared to be -eagerly scrutinizing us. - -“Show him our flag,” at last said our captain. - -The roll of bunting ascended to the gaff, and blowing out, disclosed our -country’s ensign, the white stars sprinkling the field of azure, and the -crimson stripes gleaming out against their white background. - -No answer came from the schooner, however. She had apparently mistaken -us for a friend, but now being assured of the contrary, and aware also -by this time of our greatly superior force, she tacked hurriedly, and -went off almost dead before the wind. - -“Give her a shot,” cried the captain, “and see if that will bring her -to.” - -The ball went richochetting over the waters, and passing through her -main-sail, plunged into the water a short distance ahead. A moment after -the red-cross of Britain shot up to the schooner’s gaff, where it -glared, blood-red, in the brazen sky. But, instead of lying to, the -chase steadily kept on her way. - -“Another shot,” cried the captain; “and let us see this time if we can’t -cripple her.” - -The ball whistled sharply across the air, but fell short of its mark; -and another, fired immediately after, shared the same fate. It was -evident that we were scarcely within range. As every shot deadened our -progress, the captain ordered the gunner to desist; and, in place of -firing, directed the sails to be wet down. The enemy, with a truer -perception of the character of the combat, had declined, from the first, -to return our shots, but had turned all his energies to spreading what -light sail he could, and throwing water on his canvas from an engine on -board. - -“A stern-chase is a long chase,” said the captain. “But there is no help -for it. However, as the fellow is a schooner, and we are square-rigged, -I do not despair of eventually overhauling him. I wonder whether he -really is an Englishman; he looks more like a slaver to my eye.” - -The chase was, indeed, one of the most beautiful craft I had ever seen. -She was painted of a deep black, relieved only by a crimson streak in -the line of her ports. The mould of her hull was clean and graceful; her -bows were sharp as a knife; and her tall, whip-stalk masts, that rose to -an immense height, raked backwards with an air at once saucy and -beautiful. A high bulwark, with a monkey rail running aft, concealed her -decks entirely; but the number of faces peering at us, and the row of -ports, proved her to be no mere yacht, as otherwise might have been -supposed. - -“That craft,” I replied, “was never built in England. There’s not a -naval architect in the whole three kingdoms—take my word for it—who -could turn out such a beautiful model. I’d bet a month’s pay that good, -solid Rappahanock timbers hold her together, and that there’s more than -one shipwright in Baltimore has handled the adze upon her.” - -“Then she must be a slaver.” - -“I think not. And you will agree with me when you have reflected a -moment. We are a week’s sail out of the track of such scoundrels. -Besides that craft carries too many men for a slaver.” - -“You are right,” answered the captain, after a moment’s thought. “But -what can she be?” - -“That is more than I can tell. She may be either an Englishman or a -pirate—more likely the latter than the former; for the British, even -when they capture one of our fast-sailing schooners, are not apt to -commission them; the lazy islanders think them too wet forward.” - -“A pirate!” - -“Yes! we have heard of several being about the West Indies, and this may -be one, who, having followed the homeward-bound fleet, in hopes to catch -a stray prize, has been, like ourselves, set into these infernal -latitudes.” - -“You reason well,” said the captain. “However, we shall soon know. We -evidently gain upon her. I think we could now reach her with our guns. -But,” he added, after hesitating a moment, “we’ll keep on till we range -alongside, and then give him a broadside that will settle him at once.” - -The plan of the captain was not destined, however, to succeed. He had -scarcely spoken when the wind began perceptibly to die away, and before -an hour it was almost a dead calm. Puffs of air, indeed, would -occasionally distend our sails for awhile and urge us on a space, but -the effect of this, on the whole, was to increase rather than lessen the -distance between us and the chase, the latter making more headway in a -light breeze. - -By the middle of the afternoon we were rocking on the surface of the -deep, with every sail set, yet without advancing an inch. The day had -been intensely sultry, and now that not a breath of air was stirring, -the heat became almost insupportable. The vertical rays of the tropical -sun, pouring down on our white decks, nearly blinded the eyesight; but -in vain we turned our gaze elsewhere to seek relief, for the broad -expanse of ocean to the very verge of the horizon, glowed like molten -silver; while above the fiery luminary blazed in a sky of brass. Panting -and exhausted we lay about the decks, or leaned over the sides gasping -for air. - -As the hours wore on the captain began to show signs of uneasiness. He -would look first at the sails and then at the chase, then up at our idle -canvas again, and once more at the stranger. At last he addressed me. - -“The night will soon be here,” he said, “and under cover of it this -fellow may escape. Since your suggestion that he may be a pirate, I feel -doubly anxious to capture him. What do you think of carrying him with -the boats?” - -I mused a moment before I replied. - -“It would be a perilous enterprise,” I answered at last, “but I think it -might be made to succeed. If you are willing, sir, to risk the lives of -the men, I shall be willing to lead the attack; only, if the attempt is -to be made, the sooner it is done the better.” - -“Then my mind is made up.” And elevating his voice, he cried, -“Boatswain, pipe away the boat’s crews; we will cut out the chase.” - -The long inaction to which the men had been subjected, made them -especially eager for a prize; and thus, notwithstanding the depressing -influence of the atmosphere, they welcomed the enterprise with joy. In a -comparatively short time we were speeding across the waters, the launch, -with myself in command, leading. - -How shall I describe that long pull across the hot and glittering deep? -The men baring their brawny arms, bent steadily to their oars, yet -reserving their strength at first with the caution long experience had -taught them. And well was it that they acted thus! Soon great drops of -perspiration gathered on their brows, and rolled down their swarthy -chests, and before long it became evident that, with all their care, the -task before them would prove almost beyond their strength. Indeed, in -all my experience, I had never known a day so debilitating. As we -proceeded, too, the atmosphere appeared to become more and more -suffocating, until several of the men, in the different boats, actually -gave out, declaring they could not breathe and work both. The difficulty -of respiration on my part assured me that there was no pretence in this. - -Meantime the schooner, like a ship painted on canvas, lay motionless on -the deep, her whole figure reflected in the water, from the trucks down. -Occasionally a light ripple would ruffle this shadow for a second, -betraying its real character, but at other times it required but little -fancy to imagine the reflection an inverted ship, and no mere cheat of -the imagination. The men on board the chase were not, however, idle, but -busily engaged in tricing up the hammock nettings; and when we had -approached nearer, a carronade was run back to her stern, aimed at us, -and fired. - -“Better luck next time,” ironically said an old sea-dog, who pulled the -stroke-oar of my boat, as the ball plumped into the water just ahead of -us. “The man that trained that gun don’t understand his business, -shipmates. We’ll be on board directly, if we pull sharp.” - -“Yes, my lads,” I cried, “it’s no time to trifle now. The next ball may -be truer sent. Besides,” I added, glancing over my shoulder at a black -cloud rising rapidly in the sky, “this close atmosphere has not been -without its meaning; yonder is a thunder-squall coming up, and if we -don’t carry the schooner before it overtakes us, there may be the devil -to pay.” - -The men gave a cheer to show that they were ready to do their best, and -bent, with renewed vigor, to their oars. Under this momentary excitement -the boats surged along at a vastly accelerated rate, and the schooner -rapidly drew within musket-shot. At this point another jet of fire was -seen to flash from the carronade astern; a cloud of white smoke puffing -out, broke away over the quarter, and then, with a dull report across -the murky air, a ball came skipping toward us, striking the bow oar just -as it rose from the water, and breaking the ashen blade, while it -knocked the seaman over on his seat. - -“Pull, with a will, boys, pull,” I cried, excited by the peril; “dash in -on them.” - -“Hurrah!” answered my men; and we shot like an arrow along. - -Intent as I was on reaching the schooner before the carronade could be -loaded again, I scarcely had noticed the rapid changes of the sky. I -only knew that the air was growing thicker than ever, and that the -clouds had completely shut in the sun. But now, when I saw the men at -the carronade abandon it, and all hands address themselves to taking in -sail, I knew that the danger from the squall was close and imminent; and -I looked hastily up and around. - -When I had called the attention of my men, scarcely ten minutes before, -to the approaching tempest, there had been only a small cloud -perceptible far down on the seaboard. But now, from pole to pole, and -all round the horizon, a vast, black curtain shut out the light of day; -yet not entirely shut it out, for here and there a lurid gleam, like -that seen through the chinks of a furnace, penetrated the thick vapors. -Over and over, in vast whirling masses, tossed and tumbled the inky -clouds. The ghostly radiance that broke, as I have said, through the -gaps of the ominous curtain, threw a spectral gleam across the seas that -conjured up visions of dread and disaster. Oh! never can I forget that -spectacle. The sultry closeness of the air; the sudden and sepulchral -stillness; the awful gloom, and the lurid glare, like that from the -bottomless pit, all seemed to say that sea and sky were at their last -gasp, and that the great day of judgment had arrived. - -The men had made the same observations, and apparently came to similar -conclusions, for they ceased rowing, as if under a spell, while a look -of blank horror occupied their faces. Every eye was turned toward me for -a moment, and then, as by one common impulse, directed at the ship. Far -up in the distance, almost undistinguishable against the sable -back-ground, the —— was faintly visible. She was stripped entirely -bare, with the exception of a bit of head-sail, which glowing red and -ghastly in the sepulchral light, gave her the appearance of a demon -vessel. Nor was this first impression removed on a second view, but -rather heightened, so unearthly was the effect produced by the faint -outlines of her spars, which were seen a moment and then lost to sight, -like those of some spectral ship. - -Suddenly, while we were thus looking at our distant craft, a dazzling, -blinding glare shot athwart the firmament, and as instantly vanished, -leaving eye and brain, however, dizzy with that instant of concentrated -light. A sulphurous smell, at the same moment, pervaded the atmosphere. -Then followed a roar so stunning, so close at hand, that, if a thousand -batteries had been discharged right overhead, the noise could not have -been more deafening. For a second I thought one of the boats, or at -least the schooner, had been struck by the lightning; but when my brain -ceased reeling, I saw they had escaped. This dazzling flash, this awful -thunder-clap were succeeded by a darkness and silence as profound, as -oppressive, as foreboding as before. Then came a few rain-drops, which, -big and heavy, pattered, like huge hail-stones, on the waters around us. -These were followed by another silence as deep as before; and then the -hurricane, with a roar like a lion, was upon us. - -It would be vain to attempt finding language adequate to describe what -followed. In an instant the air was filled with millions of particles of -spray, which, torn from the surface of the deep, and carried in the arms -of the tempest, hid every thing, except objects within a few feet, -entirely from sight. The stinging of these fine particles, as they -struck the cheek, was like that of mustard-shot. Meantime the force of -the wind was such that it was impossible to sit erect—and all stooped, -as if by a common impulse, before the blast. Shading my eyes with my -hand, to protect the orbs from the spray, I glanced at the place where -the schooner had been last seen. But she was no longer visible there. A -moment after, however, in a casual opening of the prospect, I caught a -glimpse of her form, far away ahead, as, half buried in mist, she drove, -like a sheeted spectre, before the gale. The instant after she vanished -from my vision, and the squall closed around us like the walls of a -dungeon. - -Fortunately the launch was already before the wind, so that we had only -to hold on, and wait the issue. The other boats were soon out of sight, -and speedily out of hearing also. I could, therefore, do nothing for the -rest of my command, and resigning myself to fate, I bent my head between -my knees, ordered the men to lie down, and so let the hurricane have its -way. The rain was now falling, as it falls only in the tropics, in vast -sheets of water: the drops, instead of descending perpendicularly, -driving slantingly before the hurricane, and striking the water with -gigantic force, keeping the deep in commotion all around. The hissing of -the rain, the roar of the tempest, the blinding glare of lightning, and -the terrific thunder-claps combined to make a scene more awful than I -had ever witnessed in all my long experience. - -For half an hour the storm continued in its fury. At the end of that -time the intense darkness began to give way; but it was nearly half an -hour more before the squall had entirely passed over us. At last the -rain ceased, the clouds began to break, and the wind in part subsided. I -now ventured, for the first time since the tempest had burst upon us, to -rise up and look around. I was anxious to see what had become of the -remaining boats, as well as to learn in what direction our ship was; for -the schooner, I had no doubt from the speed with which I saw her going -last, was hull down on the horizon by this time. - -Eagerly I scanned the prospect, therefore. My first object of search was -the ship, for I knew that on her depended our safety. Her greater size -had placed her, I reasoned, even more at the power of the gale than -ourselves, and consequently I looked for her to be in advance of us -considerably. I had fancied, indeed, during the height of the hurricane, -that I saw her tall masts, for a single instant, shooting, meteor-like, -past us: but in the blinding rain that then closed in the prospect, it -was easy, I was sure, to be deceived. My search, however, for her was -unsuccessful. Nowhere, on the whole horizon, was she or the schooner to -be seen. Up to windward, where it was now entirely clear, the view was -unbroken; and she was plainly not there. In front, for a long distance, -the prospect was equally unbroken; but she was not in sight in this -direction either. Far down, however, in the furthest horizon, where the -squall was disappearing, there still hung a black cloud, from which the -sullen thunder occasionally growled, and across whose gloomy front the -lightning, every few minutes, crinkled. That dark curtain, I knew, -enveloped our missing ship, or else she, and her three hundred souls, -were buried in the deep. - -With a heavy sigh I beheld this condition of affairs. Parted from the -ship, without water or provisions on board, destitute even of a compass, -and with night coming on, our situation was indeed piteous in the -extreme. How far the squall might carry the ship before outrunning her, -it was impossible to conjecture. Perhaps, when the hurricane should be -over for our comrades on board, the gallant craft might be hull down on -the horizon. In that event, though she would naturally retrace her path -to seek us, night might shut in before we could be seen from the -mast-head even: and, in the darkness that would follow, nothing could be -easier than for her entirely to miss us. Days, in that event, would -probably elapse before we would be picked up, if ever. The thought was -terrible, and I turned from it, sick at heart, to look for the other -boats. - -I was not, indeed, without misgivings as to the fate of these. The -launch, being large, was better fitted to ride out the gale than her -companions, and I expected that the smaller of the two boats, at least, -had been swamped. However, I soon discovered both her and her companion, -one about a cable’s length astern, and the other nearly abeam. With a -glad hallo, that sounded strangely on the now lonely seas, my crew took -to their oars, and pulled rapidly in the direction of the boat abeam, -the one astern following our example. The first voice I heard was the -junior lieutenant’s. - -“Can you see any thing of the ship?” he said. - -“No,” I replied, “she is entirely out of sight.” - -“What is to be done?” he asked. - -“You have no water or provisions on board, I suppose?” - -“Nothing but a beaker of water, and not a solitary biscuit.” - -“How far is it to the nearest land?” - -“About five hundred miles, I take it.” - -“So I thought,” I answered. - -And now I mused for a moment, the crews of the three boats resting on -their oars, and looking eagerly at me. Every man knew, as well as -myself, that, in all likelihood, we should never see the ship again: in -which event a lingering death by starvation was our almost inevitable -doom. On my decision, whether to pull after the ship, which would carry -us further from land, or, abandoning the hope of meeting the ship, seek -to reach the coast by the nearest route, hung, perhaps, our lives: and -all were aware of this. - -“Follow the squall,” I said, at last, turning my eyes to the dark cloud, -now fast disappearing on the eastern horizon, “it is our only chance. If -we don’t find the ship we are dead men. It is madness to think of -reaching land.” - -“I would to God the sun was a few hours higher!” said the lieutenant, -looking at that luminary, which now hung, a blazing orb, a few degrees -only above the horizon. “We haven’t even a lantern on board, to show a -light!” - -Nothing further was said. The boats were headed east, the men bent to -their tasks, and, in another minute, the little fleet was speeding -silently across the waters. But with what different feelings from those -with which we set out from the ship two hours before! - -As the time wore on, and the sun declined lower to the horizon, yet -still no sign of the ship became visible, our hearts sunk within us. The -squall in the distance had now dwindled to a bank of clouds, low on the -furthest seaboard; but no vestige of the ship, between it and us, was -perceptible. At last the sun’s disc touched the western horizon, and, in -another instant, had entirely disappeared. Darkness, deep and profound, -now fell upon us; for, in that tropical latitude, there is no twilight -to prolong, in part, the day. As the gloom settled around us, a deep -drawn breath rose from the boat’s crew: it was an involuntary expression -of the general feeling, that, with the sun, hope too had set. - -For more than an hour we pulled on in silence. As no sail had been in -sight when darkness shut in, it was useless to hail: and so we continued -without a word being spoken. Not a sound, therefore, broke the hush -except the measured rollicking of the oars, and the surging noise of the -launch as it was propelled heavily through the water. The darkness still -continued, for numerous clouds flecked the sky, and every here and -there, in consequence, would a star find its way out. But in the azure -west, like a lustrous gem, there shone through all one bright, large -orb, whose light, flickering and dancing along the water, cheered us -with its beauty and kept us from entirely desponding. - -Suddenly the old veteran, whom I have before alluded to, looked up. - -“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” he said, addressing me, “there’s a bunch of -rockets in the locker in the stern-sheets. They were put there by the -gunner some days ago, and have never, I believe, been removed. At any -rate it is worth while to look.” - -Never did I hear words sweeter to my ears. I was up in an instant and -searching the locker. Sure enough, as the old tar had said, the rockets -were still there, the result of a carelessness which now appeared to me -to have been little less than providential. - -The intelligence was immediately announced to the other boats; and the -crews, inspired by the news, rested on their oars, as of one accord, and -gave vent to three hearty cheers. - -“I will signal the ship,” I said to my second in command, “and if she is -any where within range of vision, we shall hear from her instantly.” - -Accordingly, I let off two rockets in rapid succession. The fiery -missiles shot up to a great height in the sky, and falling in a shower -of stars, illuminated the horizon far and near for a moment. Many an -eye, during that half instant, scanned the seaboard eagerly, in order to -see if the ship was in sight; but not a sign of her was perceptible, and -a deep sigh told the disappointment. - -I, however, did not yet despair. I knew that the ship, though invisible -in that partial light, might still be near enough to discern our -rockets; and I was well aware that on board of her half a hundred eager -eyes were at this moment on the look-out. Without despair, yet with a -beating heart, I watched for the reply to my signal. One minute passed, -and then another, but still there was no sign of an answering rocket. - -My heart grew faint. My limbs tottered beneath me. Minute after minute -succeeded, and my hopes were gradually dwindling away—when suddenly the -old tar before me shouted, - -“Huzza, there she goes! Huzza—huzza—we are safe, lads, huzza!” - -Quick as thought my eyes followed his, and I saw, far off, apparently on -the very surface of the water, a single spark of light. But that spark -grew and grew, and, as it grew, it rose, until finally it ascended high -into the blue ether, leaving a train of light, comet-like, behind it. -All at once it burst into a dozen fire-balls, some blue and some red, -which, hovering a moment in mid-air, fell at last slowly toward the -deep. Every one who saw those colors was aware of their meaning: they -were the well-known signals of our gallant ship. - -Such a shout as then went up to the sky! It rings in my ears even yet, -and the very memory of it makes the blood leap quicker in my veins. - -Two hours after we were safely on board, having been guided on our way -by signal rockets till the ship came into sight. - -As for the schooner, we never saw her more! - - * * * * * - - - - - WOOD VIOLETS. - - - BY ALICE B. NEAL. - - -The violets are growing thickly in Washington Square, early as it is. -The gates are not yet open, but many linger by the high railing to catch -a glimpse of these “Spring Beauties.” _Letters from Philadelphia._ - - Those purple clustering violets - Hiding beneath the grass! - How many pause to look on them - Who by their covert pass. - - Many a care-worn face is pressed - Close to the iron gate, - Heedless if at their daily toil - They shall be counted late. - - The trembling lips—the starting tears— - Ah me! what yearning thought - The simple wild-wood violets - To these lone hearts have brought. - - Visions of childhood’s careless time - When like the flowers they grew, - Dwellers beside the singing brook— - Beneath a sky as blue. - - How lightly trod their tiny feet - Upon the velvet moss, - How gayly sprang from stone to stone - The little brook across. - - What shouts of eager laughter rose, - As, bending to the stream, - They found the violets, betrayed - By their deep azure gleam. - - The soughing of the dark pine trees, - The fresh sweet breath of Spring— - The even song of low-voiced birds, - All these those blossoms bring. - - And wearily the sons of toil - Turn from this haunted spot, - Haunted by scenes of joy and hope - For many years forgot. - - They go more slowly on their way, - Nor heed the city’s din, - The heavy eyelids as they close - Press back the tears within. - - For once wood violets had grown - In their own garden bowers, - But now, alas! how rarely bloom - For them fresh wayside flowers! - - * * * * * - - - - - MEMORIES. - - - BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE. - - - Once more, once more, my Mary dear, - I sit by that lone stream, - Where first within thy timid ear - I breathed love’s burning dream; - The birds we loved still tell their tales - Of music on each spray, - And still the wild rose decks the vale— - But thou art far away. - - In vain thy vanished form I seek, - By wood and stream and dell, - And tears of anguish bathe my cheek - Where tears of rapture fell; - And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers - Dear thoughts my soul employ, - For in the memories of past hours, - There is a mournful joy. - - Upon the air thy gentle words - Around me seem to thrill, - Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords - When all the winds are still, - Or like the low and soul-like swell - Of that wild spirit-tone - Which haunts the hollow of the bell - When its sad chime is done. - - I seem to hear thee speak my name - In sweet low murmurs now, - I seem to feel thy breath of flame - Upon my cheek and brow; - On my cold lips I feel thy kiss, - Thy heart to mine is laid— - Alas that such a dream of bliss - Like other dreams must fade! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE. - - - A SOUTHERN NOVELET. - - - BY W. GILMORE SIMMS. - - - (_Continued from page 29._) - - - CHAPTER IV. - -The moment she had disappeared from the kitchen, the negro was taken -forth by the captain of loyalists, who by this time had surrounded -himself with nearly all his band. A single soldier had been stationed by -Clymes between the house and kitchen, in order to arrest the approach of -any of the whites from the former to the scene where Brough was about to -pass a certain painful ordeal. The stout old African doggedly, with a -single shake of his head, obeyed his captors, as they ordered him to a -neighboring wood—a small copse of scrubby oaks, that lay between the -settlement and the swamp forest along the river. Here, without delay, -Brough was commanded, on pain of rope and hickory, to deliver up the -secret of Richard Coulter’s hiding-place. But the old fellow had -promised to be faithful. He stubbornly refused to know or to reveal any -thing. The scene which followed is one that we do not care to describe -in detail. The reader must imagine its particulars. Let it suffice that -the poor old creature was haltered by the neck, and drawn up repeatedly -to the swinging limb of a tree, until the moral nature, feeble at best, -and overawed by the terrors of the last mortal agony, surrendered in -despair. Brough consented to conduct the party to the hiding-place of -Richard Coulter. - -The savage nature of Matthew Dunbar was now in full exercise. - -“Boots and saddle!” was the cry; and, with the negro, both arms -pinioned, and running at the head of one of the dragoon’s horses, -leashed to the stirrup-leather, and in constant danger, should he be -found tripping, of a sudden sabre cut, the whole party, with two -exceptions, made their way down the country, and under the guidance of -the African. Two of the soldiers had been placed in watch upon the -premises, with instructions, however, to keep from sight, and not suffer -their proximity to be suspected. But the suspicion of such an -arrangement in existence was now natural enough to a mind, like that of -Frederica Sabb, made wary by her recent misfortune. She was soon -apprised of the departure of the loyalist troop. She was soon taught to -fear from the weakness of poor Brough. What was to be done? Was her -lover to be caught in the toils? Was she to become indirectly the agent -of his destruction? She determined at all events to forego no effort by -which to effect his escape. She was a girl of quick wit, and prompt -expedients. No longer exposing herself in her white cotton garments, she -wrapped herself closely up in the great brown overcoat of her father, -which buried her person from head to foot. She stole forth from the -front entrance with cautious footsteps, employing tree and shrub for her -shelter whenever they offered. In this way she moved forward to a spot -inclining to the river, but taking an upward route, one which she -naturally concluded had been left without a guard. But her objects -required finally that she should change her course, and take the -downward path, as soon as she could persuade herself that her progress -was fairly under cover. Still she knew not but that she was seen, and -perhaps followed, as well as watched. The spy might arrest her at the -very moment when she was most hopeful of her object. How to guard -against this danger? How to attain the necessary security? The question -was no sooner formed than answered. Her way lay through a wilderness of -leaves. The silent droppings from the trees for many years had -accumulated around her, and their constant crinkling beneath her tread, -drawing her notice to this source of fear, suggested to her the means of -safety. There had not been a rain for many weeks. The earth was parched -with thirst. The drought had driven the sap from shrub and plant; and -just below, on the very route taken by the pursuing party, a natural -meadow, a long, thin strip, the seat of a bayou or lake long since dried -up, was covered with a rank forest of broom-grass, parched and dried by -the sun. The wind was fresh, and driving right below. To one familiar -with the effect of firing the woods in a southern country under such -circumstances, the idea which possessed the mind of our heroine was -almost intuitive. She immediately stole back to the house, her eagerness -finding wings, which, however, did not betray her caution. The sentinels -of Dunbar kept easy watch, but she had not been unseen. The cool, -deliberate tory had more than once fitted his finger to the trigger of -his horseman’s pistol, as he beheld the approach toward him of the -shrouded figure. But he was not disposed to show himself, or to give the -alarm before he could detect the objects of his unknown visiter. Her -return to the house was not beheld. He had lost sight of her in the -woods, and fancied her still to be in the neighborhood. Unable to -recover his clue, he still maintained his position waiting events. It -was not long before she reappeared upon the scene. He did not see the -figure, until it crossed an open space, on his right, in the direction -of the river. He saw it stoop to the earth, and he then bounded forward. -His haste was injurious to his objects. He fell over the prostrate trunk -of a pine, which had been thrown down for ranging timber only a few days -before, and lay dark, with all its bark upon it, in the thick cover of -the grass. His pistol went off in his fall, and before he could recover -his feet, he was confounded to find himself threatened by a rapid -rushing forest of flame, setting directly toward him. For a moment, the -sudden blaze blinded him, and when he opened his eyes fully upon -surrounding objects, he saw nothing human—nothing but the great dark -shafts of pine, beneath which the fire was rushing with the roar and -volume of swollen billows of the sea, breaking upon the shore which they -promised to engulf. To save himself, to oppose fire to fire, or pass -boldly through the flame where it burned most feebly, was now a first -necessity; and we leave him to extricate himself as he may, while we -follow the progress of Frederica Sabb. The flame which she had kindled -in the dry grass and leaves, from the little old stable-lantern of the -cottage, concealed beneath the great-coat of her father, had sufficed as -a perfect cover to her movements. The fire swept below, and in the -direction of the tory sentinels. The advance of the one she had -perceived, in the moment when she was communicating the blazing candle -to the furze. She fancied she was shot when she heard the report of the -pistol; but pressing her hand to her heart, the lantern still in her -grasp, she darted headlong forward by one of the paths leading directly -to the river. The fire was now raging over all the tract between her and -the tory sentries. Soon she descended from the pine ridge, and passed -into the low flat land, strewed with gray cypresses, with their thousand -_knees_, or abutments. The swamp was nearly dry. She found her way along -a well known path to the river, and from beneath a clump of shrouding -willows, drew forth a little _dugout_, the well known cypress canoe of -the country. This was a small egg-shell like structure, scarcely capable -of holding two persons, which she was well accustomed to manage. At once -she pushed boldly out into the broad stream, whose sweet rippling flow, -a continuous and gentle murmur, was strangely broken by the intense roar -and crackling of the fire as it swept the broad track of stubble, dry -grass and leaves, which lay in its path. The lurid shadows sometimes -passed over the surface of the stream, but naturally contributed to -increase her shelter. With a prayer that was inaudible to herself, she -invoked Heaven’s mercy on her enterprise, as with a strong arm, familiar -in this exercise, she plied from side to side, the little paddle which, -with the favoring currents of the river, soon carried her down toward -the bit of swamp forest where her lover found his refuge. The spot was -well known to the maiden, though we must do her the justice to say, she -would never have sought for Richard Coulter in its depths, but for an -emergency like the present. It was known as “Bear Castle,” a close -thicket covering a sort of promontory, three-fourths of which was -encircled by the river, while the remaining quarter was a deep swamp, -through which, at high water, a streamlet forced its way, converting the -promontory into an islet. It was unfortunate for Coulter and his party -that, at this season the river was much lower than usual, and the swamp -offered no security on the land side, unless from the denseness of the -forest vegetation. It might now be passed dry shod. - -The distance from “Bear Castle” to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb, -was, by land, but four or five miles. By water it was fully ten. If, -therefore, the stream favored the progress of our heroine, the -difference against Dunbar and his tories was more than equalled by the -shorter route before him, and the start which he had made in advance of -Frederica. But Brough was no willing guide. He opposed frequent -difficulties to the distasteful progress, and as they neared the spot, -Dunbar found it necessary to make a second application of the halter -before the good old negro could be got forward. The love of life, the -fear of death, proved superior to his loyalty. - -Brough would have borne any quantity of flogging—nay, he could, -perhaps, have perished under the scourge without confessing, but his -courage failed, when the danger was of being launched headlong into -eternity. A shorter process than the cord or swinging limb would not -have found him so pliant. With a choking groan he promised to submit, -and with heart swollen almost to bursting, he led the route, off from -the main road now, and through the sinuous little foot-paths which -conducted to the place of refuge of our patriots. - -It was at this point, having ascertained what space lay between him and -his enemy, that Dunbar dismounted his troopers. The horses were left -with a guard, while the rest of his men, under his personal lead, made -their further progress on foot. His object was a surprise. He designed -that the negro should give the “usual” signal with which he had been -taught to approach the camp of the fugitive, and this signal—a shrill -whistle, three times sounded, with a certain measured pause between each -utterance—was to be given when the swamp was entered over which the -river, in high stages of the water, made its breach. These instructions -were all rigidly followed. Poor Brough, with the rope about his neck, -and the provost ready to fling the other end of the cord over the -convenient arm of a huge sycamore under which they stood, was incapable -of resistance. But his strength was not equal to his submission. His -whistle was but feebly sounded. His heart failed him and his voice; and -a repeated contraction of the cord, in the hands of the provost, was -found essential to make him repeat the effort, and give more volume to -his voice. In the meanwhile, Dunbar cautiously pushed his men forward. -They packed through great hollows, where, at full water, the alligator -wallowed; where the whooping crane sought his prey at nightfall; where -the fox slept in safety, and the wild-cat in a favorite domain. “Bear -Castle” was the fortress of many fugitives. Aged cypresses lay like the -foundations of ancient walls along the path, and great thorny vines, and -flaming, flowery creepers flaunted their broad streamers in the faces of -the midnight gropers through their solitudes. The route would have been -almost impassable during the day for men on horseback; it was a tedious -and toilsome progress by night for men on foot. But Dunbar, nothing -doubting of the proximity of his enemy, went forward with an eagerness -which only did not forget its caution. - - - CHAPTER V. - -The little party of Richard Coulter consisted of four persons beside -himself. It was, perhaps, an hour before this that he sat apart from the -rest conversing with one of his companions. This was no other than -Elijah Fields, the Methodist preacher. He had become a volunteer -chaplain among the patriots of his own precinct, and one who, like the -Bishop of Beauvais, did not scruple to wield the weapons of mortal -warfare as well as those of the church. It is true he was not -ostentatious in the manner of the performance; and this, perhaps, -somewhat increases its merit. He was the man for an emergency, -forgetting his prayer when the necessity for blows was pressing, and -duly remembering his prayers when the struggle was no longer doubtful. -Yet Elijah Fields was no hypocrite. He was a true, strong-souled man, -with blood, will, energies, and courage, as well as devotion, and a -strong passion for the soil which gave him birth. In plain terms he was -the patriot as well as the preacher, and his manhood was required for -both vocations. - -To him Richard Coulter, now a captain among the partisans of Sumter, had -unfolded the narrative of his escape from Dunbar. They had taken their -evening meal; their three companions were busy with their arms and -horses, grouped together in the centre of the camp. Our two principal -persons occupied a little headland on the edge of the river, looking up -the stream. They were engaged in certain estimates with regard to the -number of recruits expected daily, by means of which Coulter was in -hopes to turn the tables on his rival; becoming the hunter instead of -the fugitive. We need not go over the grounds of their discussion, and -refer to the general progress of events throughout the state. Enough to -say that the Continental army, defeated under Gates, was in course of -re-organization, and re-approaching under Greene; that Marion had been -recently active and successful below; and that Sumter, defeated by -Tarleton at Fishing Creek, was rapidly recruiting his force at the foot -of the mountains. Richard Coulter had not been utterly unsuccessful in -the same business along the Edisto. A rendezvous of his recruits was -appointed to take place on the ensuing Saturday; and, at this -rendezvous, it was hoped that he would find at least thirty stout -fellows in attendance. But we anticipate. It was while in the discussion -of these subjects that the eyes of Coulter, still looking in the -direction of his heart, were attracted by the sudden blaze which swept -the forests, and dyed in lurid splendor the very face of heaven. It had -been the purpose of Frederica Sabb, in setting fire to the undergrowth, -not only to shelter her own progress, but in this way to warn her lover -of his danger. But the effect was to alarm him for _her_ safety rather -than his own. - -“That fire is at Sabb’s place,” was his first remark. - -“It looks like it,” was the reply of the preacher. - -“Can it be that Dunbar has burnt the old man’s dwelling?” - -“Hardly!” - -“He is not too good for it, or for any thing monstrous. He has burnt -others—old Rumph’s—Ferguson’s, and many more.” - -“Yes! but he prefers to own, and not destroy old Sabb’s. As long as he -has a hope of getting Frederica, he will scarcely commit such an -outrage.” - -“But if she has refused him—if she answers him, as she feels, -scornfully—” - -“Even then he will prefer to punish in a different way. He will rather -choose to take the place by confiscation than burn it. He has never put -that fire, or it is not at Sabb’s, but this side of, or beyond it.” - -“It may be the act of some drunken trooper. At all events, it requires -that we should be on the look-out. I will scout it for a while and see -what the mischief is. Do you, meanwhile, keep every thing ready for a -start.” - -“That fire will never reach us.” - -“Not with this wind, perhaps; but the enemy may. He evidently beat the -woods after my heels this evening, and may be here to-morrow, on my -track. We must be prepared. Keep the horses saddled and bitted, and your -ears open for any summons. Ha! by heavens, that is Brough’s signal now.” - -“Is it Brough’s? If so, it is scarcely from Brough in a healthy state. -The old fellow must have caught cold going to and fro at all hours in -the service of Cupid.” - -Our preacher was disposed to be merry at the expense of our lover. - -“Yes, it is Brough’s signal, but feeble, as if the old fellow was really -sick. He has probably passed through this fire, and has been choked with -the smoke. But he must have an answer.” - -And, eager to hear from his beloved one, our hero gave his whistle in -reply, and moved forward in the direction of the isthmus. The preacher, -meanwhile, went toward the camp, quite prompt in the performance of the -duties assigned him. - -“He answers,” muttered the tory captain; “the rebels are delivered to -our hands!” And his preparations were sternly prosecuted to make a -satisfactory finish to the adventure of the night. He, too, it must be -remarked, though somewhat wondering at the blazing forest behind him, -never for a moment divined the real original of the conflagration. He -ascribed it to accident, and, possibly, to the carelessness of one of -the troopers whom he left as sentinels. With an internal resolution to -make the fellow, if offending, familiar with the halberds, he pushed -forward, as we have seen, till reaching the swamp; while the fire, -obeying the course of the wind, swept away to the right of the path kept -by the pursuing party, leaving them entirely without cause of -apprehension from this quarter. - -The plans of Dunbar for penetrating the place of Coulter’s refuge were -as judicious as they could be made under the circumstances. Having -brought the troopers to the verge of the encampment, the negro was -fastened to a tree by the same rope which had so frequently threatened -his neck. The tories pushed forward, each with pistol cocked and ready -in the grasp. They had scattered themselves abroad, so as to form a -front sufficient to cover, at moderate intervals, the space across the -isthmus. But, with the withdrawal of the immediate danger, Brough’s -courage returned to him, and, to the furious rage and discomfiture of -Dunbar, the old negro set up on a sudden a most boisterous African -howl—such a song as the Ebo cheers himself with when in the doubtful -neighborhood of a jungle which may hide the lion or the tiger. The -sounds re-echoed through the swamp, and startled, with a keen suspicion, -not only our captain of patriots, but the preacher and his associates. -Brough’s voice was well known to them all; but that Brough should use it -after such a fashion was quite as unexpected to them as to Dunbar and -his tories. One of the latter immediately dropped back, intending to -knock the negro regularly on the head; and, doubtless, such would have -been the fate of the fellow, had it not been for the progress of events -which called him elsewhere. Richard Coulter had pressed forward at -double quick time as he heard the wild chant of the African, and, being -familiar with the region, it occupied but little space to enable him to -reach the line across which the party of Dunbar was slowly making its -way. Hearing but a single footfall, and obtaining a glimpse of a single -figure only, Coulter repeated his whistle. He was answered with a pistol -shot—another and another followed; and he had time only to wind his -bugle, giving the signal of flight to his comrades, when he felt a -sudden sickness at the heart, and a faintness which only did not affect -his senses. He could still feel his danger, and his strength sufficed to -enable him to roll himself close beside the massive trunk of the -cypress, upon which he had unhappily been perched when his whistle drew -the fire upon him of several of the approaching party. Scarcely had he -thus covered himself from a random search when he sunk into -insensibility. - -Meanwhile, “Bear Castle” rang with the signals of alarm and assault. At -the first sound of danger, Elijah Fields dashed forward in the direction -which Coulter had taken. But the private signal which he sounded for the -other was unanswered, and the assailants were now breaking through the -swamp, and were to be heard on every hand. To retreat, to rally his -comrades, to mount their steeds, dash into the river and take the stream -was all the work of an instant. From the middle of the sweeping current -the shouts of hate and defiance came to the ears of the tories as they -broke from the copse and appeared on the banks of the river. A momentary -glimpse of the dark bulk of one or more steeds as they whirled round an -interposing headland, drew from them the remaining bullets in their -pistols, but without success; and, ignorant of the effect of a random -bullet upon the very person whom, of all, he most desired to destroy, -Mat Dunbar felt himself once more foiled in a pursuit which he had this -time undertaken with every earnest of success. - -“That d—d African!” was his exclamation. “But he shall hang for it now, -though he never hung before!” - -With this pious resolution, having, with torches, made such an -exploration of Bear Castle as left them in no doubt that all the -fugitives had escaped, our tory captain called his squad together, and -commenced their return. The fatigue of passing through the dry swamp on -their backward route was much greater than when they entered it. They -were then full of excitement, full of that rapture of the strife which -needs not even the feeling of hate and revenge to make it grateful to an -eager and impulsive temper. Now, they were baffled—the excitement was -at an end—and with the feeling of perfect disappointment came the full -feeling of all the toils and exertions they had undergone. They had but -one immediate consolation in reserve, and that was the hanging of -Brough, which Dunbar promised them. The howl of the African had defeated -their enterprise. The African must howl no longer. Bent on murder, they -hastened to the tree where they had left him bound, only to meet with a -new disappointment. The African was there no longer! - - - CHAPTER VI. - -It would be difficult to describe the rage and fury of our captain of -loyalists when he made this discovery. The reader will imagine it all. -But what was to be done? Was the prey to be entirely lost? And by what -agency had Brough made his escape? He had been securely fastened, it was -thought, and in such a way as seemed to render it impossible that he -should have been extricated from his bonds without the assistance of -another. This conjecture led to a renewal of the search. The rope which -fastened the negro lay upon the ground, severed, as by a knife, in -several places. Now, Brough could not use his hands. If he could, there -would have been no sort of necessity for using his knife. Clearly, he -had found succor from another agency than his own. Once more our -loyalists darted into the recesses of Bear Castle, their torches were to -be seen flaring in every part of that dense patch of swamp forest, as -they waved them over every spot which seemed to promise concealment to -the fugitive. - -“Hark!” cried Dunbar, whose ears were quickened by eager and baffled -passions. “Hark! I hear the dip of a paddle.” - -He was right. They darted forth from the woods, and when they reached -the river’s edge, they had a glimpse of a small dark object, which they -readily conceived to be a canoe, just rounding one of the projections of -the shore and going out of sight, a full hundred yards below. Here was -another mystery. The ramifications of Bear Castle seemed numerous; and, -mystified as well as mortified, Dunbar, after a tedious delay, and a -search fruitlessly renewed, took up the line of march back for old -Sabb’s cottage, inly resolved to bring the fair Frederica to terms, or, -in some way, to make her pay the penalty for his disappointments of the -night. He little dreamed how much she had to do with them, nor that her -hand had fired the forest grasses, whose wild and terrific blaze had -first excited the apprehensions and compelled the caution of the -fugitives. It is for us to show what further agency she exercised in -this nocturnal history. - -We left her, alone, in her little dug-out, paddling or drifting down the -river with the stream. She pursued this progress with proper caution. In -approaching the headlands around which the river swept, on that side -which was occupied by Dunbar, she suspended the strokes of her paddle, -leaving her silent boat to the direction of the currents. The night was -clear and beautiful, and the river undefaced by shadow, except when the -current bore her beneath the overhanging willows which grew numerously -along the margin, or when the winds flung great masses of smoke from the -burning woods across its bright, smooth surface. With these exceptions, -the river shone in a light not less clear and beautiful because vague -and capricious. Moonlight and starlight seem to make a special -atmosphere for youth, and the heart which loves, even when most troubled -with anxieties for the beloved one, never, at such a season, proves -wholly insensible to the soft, seductive influences of such an -atmosphere. Our Frederica was not the heroine of convention. She had -never imbibed romance from books; but she had affections out of which -books might be written, filled with all those qualities, at once strong -and tender, which make the heroine in the moment of emergency. Her heart -softened, as, seated in the centre of her little vessel, she watched the -soft light upon the wave, or beheld it dripping, in bright, light -droplets, like fairy glimmers, through the over-hanging foliage. Of -fear—fear for herself—she had no feeling. Her apprehensions were all -for Richard Coulter, and her anxieties increased as she approached the -celebrated promontory and swamp forest, known to this day upon the river -as “Bear Castle.” She might be too late. The captain of the loyalists -had the start of her, and her only hope lay in the difficulties by which -he must be delayed, going through a _blind_ forest and under imperfect -guidance—for she still had large hopes of Brough’s fidelity. She _was_ -too late—too late for her purpose, which had been to forewarn her lover -in season for his escape. She was drifting toward the spot where the -river, at full seasons, made across the low neck by which the promontory -of “Bear Castle” was united with the main land. Her paddle no longer -dipt the water, but was employed solely to protect her from the -overhanging branches beneath which she now prepared to steer. It was at -her approach to this point, that she was suddenly roused to apprehension -by the ominous warning chant set up by the African. - -“Poor Brough! what can they be doing with him?” was her question to -herself. But the next moment she discovered that his howl was meant to -be a hymn; and the peculiar volume which the negro gave to his -utterance, led her to divine its import. There was little time allowed -her for reflection. A moment after, and just when her boat was abreast -of the bayou which Dunbar and his men were required to cross in -penetrating the place of refuge, she heard the sudden pistol shooting -under which Coulter had fallen. With a heart full of terror, trembling -with anxiety and fear, Frederica had the strength of will to remain -quiet for the present. Seizing upon an overhanging bough, she lay -concealed within the shadow of the copse until the loyalists had rushed -across the bayou, and were busy, with lighted torches, exploring the -thickets. She had heard the bugle of Coulter sounded as he was about to -fall, after being wounded, and her quick consciousness readily enabled -her to recognize it as her lover’s. But she had heard no movement -afterward in the quarter from which came the blast, and could not -conceive that he should have made his way to join his comrades in the -space of time allowed between that and the moment when she heard them -taking to the river with their horses. This difficulty led to new fears, -which were agonizing enough, but not of a sort to make her forgetful of -what was due to the person whom she came to save. She waited only until -the torrent had passed the straits—until the bayou was silent—when she -fastened her little boat to the willows which completely enveloped her, -and boldly stepped upon the land. With a rare instinct which proved how -deeply her heart had interested itself in the operations of her senses, -she moved directly to the spot whence she had heard the bugle-note of -her lover. The place was not far distant from the point where she had -been in lurking. Her progress was arrested by the prostrate trunk of a -great cypress, which the hurricane might have cast down some fifty years -before. It was with some difficulty that she scrambled over it; but -while crossing it she heard a faint murmur, like the voice of one in -pain, laboring to speak or cry aloud. Her heart misgave her. She hurried -to the spot. Again the murmur—now certainly a moan. It is at her feet, -but on the opposite side of the cypress, which she again crosses. The -place was very dark, and in the moment when, from loss of blood, he was -losing consciousness, Richard Coulter had carefully crawled close to the -cypress, whose bulk, in this way, effectually covered him from passing -footsteps. She found him, still warm, the flow of blood arrested, and -his consciousness returning. - -“Richard! it is me—Frederica!” - -He only sighed. It required but an instant for reflection on the part of -the damsel; and rising from the place where she had crouched beside him, -she darted away to the upper grounds where Brough still continued to -pour out his dismal ejaculations—now of psalms and song, and now of -mere whoop, halloo, and imprecation. A full heart and a light foot make -quick progress when they go together. It was necessary that Frederica -should lose no time. She had every reason to suppose that, failing to -secure their prey, the tories would suffer no delay in the thicket. -Fortunately, the continued cries of Brough left her at no time doubtful -of his whereabouts. She soon found him, fastened to his tree, in a state -sufficiently uncomfortable for one whose ambition did not at all incline -him to martyrdom of any sort. Yet martyrdom was now his fear. His first -impulses, which had given the alarm to the patriots, were succeeded by -feelings of no pleasant character. He had already had a taste of -Dunbar’s punishments, and he dreaded still worse at his hands. The -feeling which had changed his howl of warning into one of lament—his -whoop into a psalm—was one accordingly of preparation. He was preparing -himself, as well as he could, after his African fashion, for the short -cord and the sudden shrift, from which he had already so narrowly -escaped. - -Nothing could exceed the fellow’s rejoicing as he became aware of the -character of his new visiter. - -“Oh, Misses! Da’s you? Loose ’em! Cut you’ nigger loose! Let ’em run! -Sich a run! you nebber see de like! I take dese woods, dis yer night, -Mat Dunbar nebber see me ’gen long as he lib! Ha! ha! Cut! cut, misses! -cut quick! de rope is work into my berry bones!” - -“But I have no knife, Brough.” - -“No knife! Da’s wha’ woman good for! No hab knife! Take you teet’, -misses—gnaw de rope. Psho! wha’ I tell you? Stop! Put you’ han’ in dis -yer pocket—you fin’ knife, if I no loss ’em in de run.” - -The knife was found, the rope cut, the negro free, all in much less time -than we have taken for the narration; and hurrying the African with her, -Frederica was soon again beside the person of her lover. To assist -Brough in taking him upon his back, to help sustain the still partially -insensible man in this position until he could be carried to the boat, -was a work of quick resolve, which required, however, considerable time -for performance. But patience and courage, when sustained by love, -become wonderful powers; and Richard Coulter, whose moans increased with -his increasing sensibility, was finally laid down in the bottom of the -dug-out, his head resting in the lap of Frederica. The boat could hold -no more. The faithful Brough, pushing her out into the stream, with his -hand still resting on stern or gunwale, swam along with her, as she -quietly floated with the currents. We have seen the narrow escape which -the little vessel had as she rounded the headland below, just as Dunbar -came down upon the beach. Had he been there when the canoe first began -to round the point, it would have been easy to have captured the whole -party, since the stream, somewhat narrow at this place, set in for the -shore which the tories occupied, and a stout swimmer might have easily -drawn the little argosy upon the banks. - - - CHAPTER VII. - -To one familiar with the dense swamps that skirt the rivers through the -alluvial bottom lands of the South, there will be no difficulty in -comprehending the fact that a fugitive may find temporary security -within half a mile of his enemy, even where his pursuers hunt for him in -numbers. Thus it happened that, in taking to the river, our little -corporal’s guard of patriots, under the direction of Elijah Fields, the -worthy preacher, swimming their horses round a point of land on the -opposite shore, sought shelter but a little distance below “Bear -Island,” in a similar tract of swamp and forest, and almost within -rifle-shot of their late retreat. They had no fear that their enemy -would attempt, at that late hour, and after the long fatigue of their -recent march and search, to cross the river in pursuit of them; and had -they been wild enough to do so, it was equally easy to hide from search, -or to fly from pursuit. Dunbar felt all this as sensibly as the -fugitives; and with the conviction of his entire failure at “Bear -Castle,” he gave up the game for the present. Meanwhile, the little -barque of Frederica Sabb made its way down the river. She made her -calculations on a just estimate of the probabilities in the situation of -Coulter’s party, and was not deceived. As the boat swept over to the -opposite shore, after rounding the point of land that lay between it and -“Bear Castle,” it was hailed by Fields, for whom Brough had a ready -answer. Some delay, the fruit of a proper caution, took place before our -fugitives were properly sensible of the character of the stranger; but -the result was, that with returning consciousness, Richard Coulter found -himself once more in safety with his friends, and, a still more precious -satisfaction, attended by the woman of his heart. It was not long before -all the adventures of Frederica were in his possession, and his spirit -became newly strengthened for conflict and endurance by such proofs of a -more than feminine attachment which the brave young girl had shown. Let -us leave the little party for a season, while we return with the captain -of loyalists to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb. - -Here Mat Dunbar had again taken up his quarters as before, but with a -difference. Thoroughly enraged at his disappointment, and at the -discovery that Frederica had disappeared—a fact which produced as much -disquiet in the minds of her parents, as vexation to her tory lover; and -easily guessing at all of the steps which she had taken, and of her -object, he no longer imposed any restraints upon his native brutality of -temper, which, while he had any hope of winning her affections, he had -been at some pains to do. His present policy seemed to be to influence -her fears. To reach her heart, or force her inclinations, through the -dangers of her parents, was now his object. Unfortunately, the lax -discipline of the British authority, in Carolina particularly, in behalf -of their own followers, enabled him to do much toward this object, and -without peril to himself. He had anticipated the position in which he -now found himself, and had provided against it. He had obtained from -Col. Nesbett Balfour, the military commandant of Charleston, a grant of -the entire farmstead of old Sabb—the non-committalism of the old -Dutchman never having enabled him to satisfy the British authorities -that he was a person deserving their protection. Of the services and -loyalty of Dunbar, on the contrary, they were in possession of daily -evidence. It was with indescribable consternation that old Sabb looked -upon the massive parchment, sealed, signed, and made authoritative by -stately phrases and mysterious words, of the purport of which he could -only conjecture, with which the fierce Dunbar denounced him as a traitor -to the king, and expelled him from his own threshold. - -“Oh! mein Gott!” was his exclamation. “And did the goot King Tshorge -make dat baber? And has de goot King Tshorge take away my grants?” - -The only answer to this pitiful appeal vouchsafed him by the captain of -loyalists was a brutal oath, as he smote the document fiercely with his -hand, and forbade all further inquiry. It may have been with some regard -to the probability of his future marriage—in spite of all—with the old -Dutchman’s daughter, that he permitted him, with his wife, to occupy an -old log-house which stood upon the estate. He established himself within -the dwelling-house, which he occupied as a garrisoned post with all his -soldiers. Here he ruled as a sovereign. The proceeds of the farm were -yielded to him, the miserable pittance excepted which he suffered to go -to the support of the old couple. Sabb had a few slaves, who were now -taught to recognise Dunbar as their master. They did not serve him long. -Three of them escaped to the woods the night succeeding the tory’s -usurpation, and but two remained in his keeping, rather, perhaps, -through the vigilance of his sentinels, and their own fears, than -because of any love which they entertained for their new custodian. Both -of these were women, and one of them no less a person than the consort -of Brough, the African. Mrs. Brough—or, as we had better call her, she -will understand us better—_Mimy_, (the diminutive of Jemima,) was -particularly watched, as through her it was hoped to get some clue to -her husband, whose treachery it was the bitter resolution of our tory -captain to punish, as soon as he had the power, with exemplary tortures. -Brough had some suspicions of this design, which it was no part of his -policy to assist; but this did not discourage him from an adventure -which brought him again very nearly into contact with his enemy. He -determined to visit his wife by stealth, relying upon his knowledge of -the woods, his own caution, and the thousand little arts with which his -race usually takes advantage of the carelessness, the indifference, or -the ignorance of its superior. His wife, he well knew, conscious of his -straits, would afford him assistance in various ways. He succeeded in -seeing her just before the dawn of day one morning, and from her -discovered the whole situation of affairs at the farmstead. This came to -him with many exaggerations, particularly when Mimy described the -treatment to which old Sabb and his wife had been subjected. It did not -lose any of its facts or dimensions, when carried by Brough to the -fugitives in the swamp forests of Edisto. The news was of a character to -overwhelm the affectionate and dutiful heart of Frederica Sabb. She -instantly felt the necessity before her, and prepared herself to -encounter it. Nine days and nights had she spent in the forest retreats -of her lover. Every tenderness and forbearance had been shown her. -Nothing had taken place to outrage the delicacy of the female heart, and -pure thoughts in her mind had kept her free from any annoying doubts -about the propriety of her situation. A leafy screen from the sun, a -sylvan bower of broad branches and thickly thatched leaves, had been -prepared for her couch at night; and, in one contiguous, lay her wounded -lover. His situation had amply reconciled her to her own. His wound was -neither deep nor dangerous. He had bled copiously, and swooned rather in -consequence of loss of blood than from the severity of his pains. But -the hands of Elijah Field—a rough but not wholly inexperienced surgeon, -had bound up his hurts, which were thus permitted to heal from the first -intention. The patient was not slow to improve, though so precious sweet -had been his attendance—Frederica herself, like the damsels of the -feudal ages, assisting to dress his wound, and tender him with sweetest -nursing, that he felt almost sorry at the improvement which, while -lessening his cares, lessened her anxieties. Our space will not suffer -us to dwell upon the delicious scenes of peace and love which the two -enjoyed together in these few brief days of mutual dependence. They -comprised an age of immeasurable felicity, and brought the two together -in bonds of sympathy, which, however large had been their love before, -now rendered the passion more than ever at home and triumphant in their -mutual hearts. But with the tidings of the situation in which her -parents suffered, and the evident improvement of her lover, the maiden -found it necessary to depart from their place of hiding—that sweet -security of shade, such as the fancy of youth always dreams of, but -which it is the lot of very few to realise. She took her resolution -promptly. - -“I must leave you, Richard. I must go home to my poor mother, now that -she is homeless.” - -He would, if he could, have dissuaded her from venturing herself within -the reach of one so reckless and brutal as Mat Dunbar. But his sense of -right seconded her resolution, and though he expressed doubts and -misgivings, and betrayed his uneasiness and anxiety, he had no arguments -to offer against her purpose. She heard him with a sweet smile, and when -he had finished, she said, - -“But I will give you one security, dear Richard, before we part, if you -will suffer me. You would have married me more than a year ago; but as I -knew my father’s situation, his preferences, and his dangers, I refused -to do so until the war was over. It has not helped him that I refused -you then. I don’t see that it will hurt him if I marry you now; and -there is something in the life we have spent together the last few days, -that tells me we ought to be married, Richard.” - -This was spoken with the sweetest possible blush upon her cheeks. - -“Do you consent, then, dear Frederica?” demanded the enraptured lover. - -She put her hand into his own; he carried it to his lips, then drew her -down to him where he lay upon his leafy couch, and repeated the same -liberty with hers. His shout, in another moment, summoned Elijah Field -to his side. The business in prospect was soon explained. Our good -parson readily concurred in the propriety of the proceeding. The -inhabitants of the little camp of refuge were soon brought together, -Brough placing himself directly behind his young mistress. The white -teeth of the old African grinned his approbation; the favoring skies -looked down upon it, soft in the dreamy twilight of the evening sunset; -and there, in the natural temple of the forest—none surely ever prouder -or more appropriate—with columns of gigantic pine and cypress, and a -gothic luxuriance of vine, and leaf, and flower, wrapping shaft, and -cornice, capital and shrine, our two lovers were united before God—our -excellent preacher never having a more solemn or grateful sense of the -ceremony, and never having been more sweetly impressive in his manner of -performing it. It did not impair the validity of the marriage that -Brough honored it, as he would probably have done his own, by dancing -_Juba_, for a full hour after it was over, to his own satisfaction at -least, and in the absence of all other witnesses. Perhaps, of all his -little world, there were none whom the old negro loved quite so much, -white or black, as his young mistress and her youthful husband. With the -midnight, Frederica left the camp of refuge under the conduct of Elijah -Fields. They departed in the boat, the preacher pulling up stream—no -easy work against a current of four knots—with a vigorous arm, which, -after a tedious space, brought him to the landing opposite old Sabb’s -farm. Here Frederica landed, and the dawn of day found her standing in -front of the old log-house which had been assigned her parents, and a -captive in the strict custody of the tory sentries. - - [_Conclusion in our next._ - - * * * * * - - - - - RED JACKET. - - -Written on being presented by a lady with a wild flower that grew on his - grave, near Buffalo. - - - BY W. H. C. HOSMER. - - - Thanks to the Genii of the flowers - Who planted on his humble tomb, - And nursed, with sun and pleasant showers, - This herb of faded bloom! - And, lady fair, my thanks to thee - For bringing this frail gift to me, - Although it cannot match in dye - The velvet drapery of the rose, - Or the bright tulip-cup that glows - Like Summer’s evening sky. - - It hath a power to wake the dead— - A spell is in its dying leaf - To summon, from his funeral bed, - The mighty forest chief. - Realms that his fathers ruled of yore— - Earth that their children own no more, - His melancholy glance beholds; - And tearless though his falcon eye, - His bosom heaves with agony - Beneath its blanket folds. - - Within the council-lodge again - I hear his voice the silence breaking, - Soft as the music of the main, - When not a wind is waking; - With touching pathos in his tone - He mourns for days of glory flown, - When lay in shade both hill and glen, - Ere, panoplied and armed for slaughter, - The big canoes brought pale-browed men - Over the blue salt water; - When deer and buffalo in droves - Ranged through interminable groves, - And the Great Spirit on his race - Smiled ever with unclouded face. - _Now_, with a burning tale of wrong, - He wakes to rage the painted throng, - And points to violated graves, - While eloquence dilates his form, - And his lip mutters like the storm - When winds unchain the waves; - An hundred scalping-knives are bare— - An hundred hatchets swing in air, - And while the forest Cicero, - Lost power portrays, and present shame, - Old age forgets his palsied frame, - And grasps again the bow. - - Thus, sweet, wild-flower of faint perfume! - Thy magic can unlock the tomb, - And forth the gifted sagamore - Call from the shroud with vocal art - To sway the pulses of the heart, - And awe the soul once more; - For on his couch of lowly earth - Thy modest loveliness had birth, - And lightly shook thy blooming head, - When midnight summoned round the place - The kingly spectres of his race - To sorrow for the dead; - And sadly waved thy stem and leaf - When Erie tuned to strains of grief - The hollow voices of the surge, - And for that monarch of the shade, - By whom his shore is classic made, - Raised a low, mournful dirge. - - The pilgrim from Ausonian clime, - Rich in remains of olden time, - Brings marble relics o’er the deep— - Memorials of deathless mind, - Of hallowed ground where, grandly shrined, - Sage, bard and warrior sleep; - And precious though such wrecks of yore, - I prize thy gift, fair lady, more, - Plucked with a reverential hand; - For the old chief, above whose tomb - Its bud gave out a faint perfume, - Was son of my own forest land, - And with bright records of her fame - Is linked, immortally, his name. - - * * * * * - - - - - PEDRO DE PADILH. - - - BY J. M. LEGARE. - - - Spain, and Tercera. } - AD. 1583. } - -It is part of the popular belief, I know, that our ancestors, of three -centuries back, lived and talked in quite a different fashion from -mankind at the present day; but as I entertain no political designs on -that Great Caioled, the people, I may venture to assert an opinion of my -own. I cannot persuade myself what is called human nature has undergone -much alteration in the exchange of an iron for a broadcloth suit, and it -is very certain people ate, drank, and slept in those remote times much -as we now do, although your stilted romancers seldom recognise the fact, -and make their heroines as unlike tangible women, “not too good for -daily food,” as their heroes are exemplars of the mendacious gifts of -their biographers. In the matter of speech, through which we mainly -receive impressions of fictitious personages, it is extraordinary what -fustian is palmed on a credulous posterity, as the veritable domestic -talk of nobles, knights and folks of lesser condition. There is no -comedy, high or low, in the conceptions of many of these authors; Man -having apparently assumed the distinguishing trait of a laughing animal, -or at best of an humorous one, at some more recent epoch of modern -history. Every body struts about in buskins and speaks tragedy, nothing -less; and as to the fooleries enacted by pages, grooms, and servitors of -all kinds, there is no end to them, nor any like nowadays, except we -find it on the boards of a country theatre. - -What I say admits of easy illustration. Thus, when the page woke Don -Pedro out of his morning nap—which, by the bye, he was taking not as -the usual impression is, in greaves and a casque—he, the page, did not -“lout low as it behooves trusty varlets” to do, but in a manner as -straight-forward as a modern Thomas would employ, gave the drowsy knight -to understand that some one had been sounding his horn at the gate for -the last half hour. - -“Very well,” returned the master, turning over to resume his doze where -he was interrupted—the gate being the concern of the warder, of course. - -“But, Sir Peter,” put in the page, by way of remonstrance, “it is mi -señora who has sent.” - -“Ah ha!” cried the knight, suddenly becoming wide awake, and leaning on -both elbows in bed to regard the speaker. “Well, what message does she -send?” - -“That she wishes you to come up to the castle as soon as your comfort -allows, as she has something special to say.” - -“That I will, presently,” exclaimed Don Pedro, getting up so promptly -his gaunt figure showed to no advantage in its scant costume. “And so -tell Gil, or whoever came, to carry back word. How the dear lady talks -of comfort to a man accustomed to the ease of camps! Fetch me those -things, Iorge, and look behind the arras for my slashed doublet. Stop, -before you go, reach down my sword and spurs from the hook behind the -door.” - -Now all this is very rational, much like what one would say at the -present date, and unless the Spanish version of my story was never -written, (which the Muse of veracity—whatever her name—it was not -Clio, I know—forbid!) was the identical language employed on the -occasion by my hero, as true a knight as Spain has produced since her -Cid Rodrigo. This reminds me a hero of romance cannot be passed over as -commoner folks, with a surmise as to his inches and the color of his -hair, and moreover is expected to be an Apollo in shape, and sort of -supernatural in virtues, provided his character is not cast in quite a -different mould, and dependent for admiration on the enormity of its -crimes. But Don Pedro, unfortunately for the interest his fortunes are -destined to excite, fell into neither extreme, was neither a saint nor a -monster of iniquity, and as far from being handsome as from being -deformed. To have designated him in a crowd, you would have called -attention to his overtopping the rest by a full head, or to a certain -sinewy spareness of limb, or else the simplicity of his toilet, at a -time when country gentlemen wore ribbons and gewgaws alternately with -steel harness. But closer, the irregularity of his features, browned by -the sun where the rim of the casque had not interposed, was compensated -for by the singularly calm beauty of his eyes, which, in their serene -intelligence, would have become the brows of any woman, and even in -battle shone with a high sort of exultation, such as one would attribute -to a victorious angel in the celestial wars. There was nothing about Don -Pedro which harmonized with these eyes, except, perhaps, an undertone of -gentleness pervading his voice; it was an undertone only, for nothing -womanish characterized his speech, no mincing of words or petit-maître -modulations in addressing the other sex: there was not a particle of -affectation in the man, because there was not a particle of untruth. - -I think it was these same fine eyes and gentleness which first won the -heart of the lady Hermosa, and his sincerity that safely kept it. Of -where and how they first met, in what words our Don laid his little keep -of a castle and patrimony at her feet, (his whole estate would not have -paid her upholsterer’s bill,) history discloses nothing. It is only -known she married him, and thereby raised a tempest of wrath and despair -in the breasts of numberless admirers, who, however, all consented to -eat of her cake on the happy occasion. Sir Peter was in nothing changed -by the event, but lived as before in his tower, spent not a _maravedi_ -of his wife’s income on himself, and contented her by the frequency and -tenderness of his interviews. It was his whim to lead this style of -life, and she loved him enough to soon make it a whim of her own, the -separations not being very remote it must be conceded, as the keep and -castle stood perched on opposing hills, in full sight of one another. -Such concession in a young wife was certainly praiseworthy, although -some were found to be scandalized at its want of precedent. Of the -husband’s crotchet I say only, it was a quaint piece of instinctive -honor, which a few of his neighbors extolled, and the greater part -laughed at as an act of arrant simplicity: although, to my mind, the -less said about simplicity the better, by people who lived when dragons -and giants were not yet supposed to have retired upon ultimate Thule, -and Ponce de Leon’s search after the fountain of youth, (he was looking -for it then in Florida!) counted no great waste of time. - -The Don and his countess concerned themselves very little about such -gossip, finding abundant occupation in a course of life which, without -the bias one unavoidably entertains for his heroes, is a source of -satisfaction to the writer hereof. It was in the lady’s nature to be -charitable, being one of those unaffected well wishers of humanity with -“abundant means,” whose part in this life seems to be to render -everybody in reach as satisfied as themselves, and before Sir Pedro’s -discretion and mature knowledge of the world came to her assistance, -committed as many philanthropic blunders as would have made her eligible -to an abolition chair, or seat in Exeter Hall. Of course I must not be -understood to undervalue the good she continued to do in the dark. I -have too great a reverence for money to suppose it capable of injury to -any recipient under any circumstances, differing in this respect from -all medicines whatever, which become poisons in quantity, and are -defective in the important item of universal application. The truth is, -I am led to this admission by an instance I have now in mind. There was -one Don Carlo, (so he called himself: the fellow had a dog’s name, but -any dog, short of a sheep-worrier, would have been compromised by his -acquaintance.) A free-captain, who earned his crust by such little -excesses as made the payment of black-mail an acceptable compromise on -the part of his favorites, and even in Philip the Second’s time, brought -an amount of civil odium upon his head which would have relieved him of -that incumbrance, had he not disbanded his company and retired to the -provinces to enjoy his honest gains. Here Captain Carlo—who was of a -playful temper and delighted in masking—made the acquaintance of our -heroine in the likeness of a veteran of the Moorish wars, and found -waylaying her steps and asking an alms as many times a day as she walked -out unattended (in as many different characters, of course,) so much -more profitable, to say nothing of the safety of the proceeding, than -poniarding a foot-passenger, or roasting a villager to discover hidden -treasure, that he became a pattern of morality to the country round, and -is currently said to have refrained more than once, when sorely tempted -by the purse she carried, from cutting his benefactress’ slender throat; -in this respect showing himself wiser than the avaricious owner of the -goose Æsop tells us of. - -Captain Carlo, however, lost his golden eggs, as did many others of -scarcely less merit, when Sir Pedro de Padilh brought, as has been -hinted, his longer head and more comprehensive benevolence to the aid of -his young wife’s virtuous designs. - -The latter quickly saw her mistake when once its results were laid bare, -and fell to correcting it with a feminine energy which constituted a -strong element of her character; Sir Peter meanwhile contenting himself -with a vigilant guardianship of her interests and benevolent projects, -and a hearty participation in her active measures—suggestions of his -own, not unfrequently too—which it was his fancy to conceal under an -assumption of caution; although I can’t say his wife was ever deceived -by the cloak worn on such occasions, for her tender affection would have -lent intelligence to faculties much duller than my heroine’s. - -Sir Pedro very well knew it was some such work ahead which brought a -summons to his gate so early, and was in his saddle, breathing in the -fresh, moist air, and galloping through the fields and olive plantations -between, before Gil reached his lady’s castle. - -I see the good knight now in my mind’s eye: Andalusian steed and -housings both spotless white, the first as much over the average height -of his race as was his master above that of common men: sitting -straight, with doublet buttoned easily across the breast, and a cap with -a trailing plume, which a branch caught off and forced him to wheel his -horse, with a _gracias señor_, to recover: so, picking a way up the -hill, and stooping under the portcullis, ready open, diminishing the -stature of the men around by contrast with his figure dismounted. Up the -wide steps, and into a room where his countess met him with her usual -happy face whenever this giant of a husband was nigh her. Perhaps I call -attention too often to Sir Peter’s seven feet of altitude, but in this -case the mention was involuntary; for I was thinking how, when she put -her arms about him, there being no one near, she was constrained to kiss -him where she laid her cheek, on his breast, being able to reach no -higher; and he, as a pine might an ash in windy weather, stooped and -kissed her on the forehead. - -“Lady mine,” he said with a grave smile, holding her off to look down in -her face, “what is the matter? You were scarcely more troubled when I -rode against the Moors.” - -“Señor—husband”—she replied, “what I have to tell may induce you to -leave me again. It is that troubles me.” - -“Humph!” returned the knight, “a crusade against something or somebody?” - -“Yes,” answered the countess, “one full of danger.” - -Don Pedro smiled as a soldier of his inches, of course, should at the -idea of the thing. - -“A week ago, my cousin Vida Inique came to me in much distress. You -remember her?” - -“Certainly! She is the betrothed, Heaven help her, of that vagabond -nephew of mine.” - -“She stopped here, for she came from Madrid with that purpose; partly -because she needs sympathy now, and I am her nearest relative, and -partly for the sake of society during the absence of her father with the -Marquis of Santa Cruz.” - -“Santa Cruz!” repeated the Don, with the animation of his Andalusian -snuffing a whiff of cannon smoke. - -“Yes. The king has ordered an armament under the marquis against -Tercera.” - -“Not a word of this reached me in the mountains. A handful of good -knights would drive every Portuguese into the sea; I wonder the marquis -sails against such enemies, when he complained only the other day of -their ill breeding in Portugal; there was scarce a skirmish in which -their backs were not turned upon their Spanish guests.” - -“You will think differently, my señor, when I tell you all; but let me -tell it as I heard it. Doña Viola wept so incessantly at first, whenever -she attempted to allude to Hilo—for, of course, he is the cause of her -grief—that I could understand nothing. The silly girl loves him with -her soul and heart, and pretty and wealthy as she is, this half nephew -of yours feels the yoke of his connection intolerable, and has adopted -the most outrageous means of extorting her consent to canceling the -agreement.” - -“Ha! what mischief has he been doing lately?” - -“First, when his representations and contemptuous reception of her fond -prayers failed to gain his purpose, he insulted her eyes by parading -before them on all occasions his companions, the most notorious thieves -and desperadoes of the capital, and women of the vilest character, -flaunting, not unfrequently, in chains and baubles he had stooped to -accept but never to wear, for the boy is as proud and wicked as Lucifer; -all this done with a scornful, overbearing air, which plainly said, -‘these, madam, are my intimate friends; they will sit at your table and -fill your house when I am master. Beware how you make me so!’ She is so -subdued and heart-broken already, she only wept and endeavored to hide -his insults from her father.” - -“Santiago! what infatuation!” - -“Then his vile nature broke forth still more insolently. His birth, as -you know, gives him access to the company of numerous dissolute -cavaliers, although the society he usually affects is of a much baser -sort. Through their means, without other harm to himself than what is in -store for his lying tongue, señor, he poisoned her life by spreading -through all ranks tales in which her maiden name was coupled with that -of infamy, and when this gossip was in the mouth of everybody, flung her -off publicly with a show of horror and mental anguish, which probably -had its weight on those who knew nothing of the man’s character.” - -Sir Pedro’s brows contracted above his fine eyes, but he remained -silent. - -“The scandal reached at last the ears of Don Augustino Inique himself, -in Portugal, and hastening from the frontier to the court, he laid the -matter before the king, demanding redress. Unluckily, this was not until -he had exhausted every source of information in tracing the flight of -the young man, who had stabbed the Count of Villenos in a quarrel in the -meanwhile, and disappeared from the city. Don Philip loves to be called -the Prudent, and has no fancy for being second in any intrigue, and -accordingly the enraged and baffled father was dismissed with polite -promises that meant nothing. Since then he has received secret -intelligence that Hilo has gone over to France, and either through -unnatural hatred of his countrymen, or characteristic recklessness of -every honorable purpose—for he is capable of any degradation—enlisted -under the commander, De Chaste, who sails soon at the bidding of the -queen mother to reinforce the Tercerans.” - -“Why he is more depraved than his father, and he scrupled at little when -his passions were roused!” exclaimed Sir Pedro, baiting suddenly in a -walk which crossed the chamber at six strides. “This man is only my half -relative, as his father was, and does not even bear my name; but I must -save him from final ruin if that be possible. What steps have been taken -by Inique?” - -“He readily obtained the appointment of camp-master under the marquis, -as no one at court knew his motive, and supposed he went abroad to find -forgetfulness in active service. A singular feature in the affair, is -his ignorance of Hilo’s relation to yourself; and although Viola is -acquainted with its existence, the chief defect in her character, a -timid reluctance to confiding any personal matter to her father, has -prevented his learning the truth during his brief visits to his home. -Yet a more gentle nature I have never found than hers.” - -“I scarcely wonder at her shrinking from opening her heart to Don -Augustino,” answered our knight, “and were you to see him frequently, -you would entertain a like opinion. He is a soldier, and nothing better -if nothing worse—stern, scrupulous of his word, and jealous of his -honor; although what he calls by that name is of no wide compass; a man -whose outbreak of rage against his daughter I would have awaited with -strong apprehension, had I known any thing of this affair before. -Perhaps, however, the purpose of swift vengeance so occupies his brain -that feebler emotions is pushed aside.” - -“I think you are right, Sir Pedro,” returned his lady, thoughtfully. -“For during the short space he remained with us, he seemed pre-occupied, -as if tracing a single idea through a maze of thought, and spoke little -of his own accord. His bearing was frigid enough, but if any unjust -anger toward his child remained, it was well concealed under the -elaborate courtesy he shared between us.” - -“Yes,” said the knight, with a half laugh. “His old way, I recollect it -well; never more labored than when a volcano is smouldering under his -doublet. Only once have I seen him forgetful of this courtesy, when his -son, a mere stripling, and a coward by instinct, as others are brave -without will of their own, in a skirmish with the French sheltered -himself behind his father in sight of the opposing lines. He was his -only son, but he had better have been thrust through by a Gallic lance, -than taken refuge where he did.” - -“Poor fellow! Did Sir Augustino strike him?” - -“Worse. His boy was on foot, himself on horseback; when his threats and -imprecations failed to drive him back into the melee, in a paroxysm of -fury he struck him repeatedly on the head with the pommel of his sword, -unsoftened by the fair, bleeding face the child turned up while -clutching his leg, and begging for life. Not a gentleman in the two -armies sympathised with the father except Capt. De Chaste, who, -incapable of a like barbarity, is noted for pushing to an extreme all -questions of honor.” - -“He was scarcely less cruel than Beaumanoir, who cried, ‘Bois ton sang,’ -to his fainting son,” exclaimed Doña Hermosa, with a cheek paled by the -recital. “Did the poor lad die?” - -“No. He lived by an accident, or Providence, which you will, a miserable -idiot, his brain having been injured by the concussion, perhaps, also by -the anguish endured. Sir Augustino takes him with him, no matter where -he goes, studiously bent on concealing his existence, much more his -presence from his companions in arms. In spite of every precaution, -however, the fact is well known; and twice this wreck of a man has -eluded his keeper, and appeared suddenly in the midst of the knight’s -guests.” - -“Was his father much moved?” - -“No, very little in appearance, his usual proud composure concealing -whatever pang he felt; and it is impossible to ascertain from his manner -whether he adheres to this strange companionship from remorse, and a -resolute purpose of atonement, or a less worthy desire to smother the -reproach by a jealous guardianship of its living witness.” - -“Or else, dear señor, from a return of natural tenderness which a false -shame prevents him acknowledging for so mean an object.” - -“Why some share of good belongs to every man; even it may be, to my next -of kin, although warped by the supremacy of his passions.” - -“That is the only sane argument Viola advances for her love.” - -“Humph!” After an interval; “I would like to see the Doña, if only to -remove the impression that she is no higher than this chair, as she was -when I saw her some years since.” - -“You will find her,” rejoined the countess, smiling, “less a child in -height and style than her youth would lead you to suppose; for a -comparatively self-dependent life in close vicinity to the court, has -already converted girlish bashfulness into a becoming modesty enough. -But stay here till I find her,” added Doña Hermosa, going out. - -“A wretched state of things,” mused our knight, resuming his suspended -strides, with hands clasped behind. “It is evident I have but one course -left; to track that young knave down, and by dint of soft or hard words, -turn him from a career which has already entitled him to a bench in the -galleys, if nothing worse. It is a good way, at all events, to pay back -the bitter hatred of his father, God forgive him!” and the soldier’s -moody brows relaxed at the thought, while his eye ran down the steep -road at the foot of which the father of the man he designed saving, had -one evening shattered his carbine on the rocks, because its hanging-fire -saved Sir Pedro’s life in passing. A quiet smile, called up, perhaps, by -a recollection of the solicitude shown by the countess the day -succeeding, still lingered about the knight’s mouth when he turned from -the window and saw the lady herself approaching, accompanied by her -guest, a fair girl, with the light, soft hair and eyes of an -Englishwoman, which her mother was. Her beauty appeared less imposing -than that of the thoroughly Spanish Hermosa, but much more delicate, and -so Sir Pedro seemed to think, for advancing and taking her by both -hands, he said, in a tone much more modulated than was common with him, - -“Doña Viola—I called you Viola when we last met, and you were no taller -than my sword.” - -“Call me so now, señor,” put in Viola, gently. “I cannot afford to lose -even the wording of friendship.” - -The knight looked attentively at the speaker, whose eyes meeting his, -swam in tears. He paused thoughtfully, and then with his usual -straight-forward kindness, said, - -“My child, I have learned your grievances through your cousin here. You -are nearly alone in the world, let us both assist you in all we can. You -see I am old enough to be your father, think of me as such for the -present. Besides, the cavalier whose fiancée you are, is, you know, my -half nephew; and the attempt I am about making to draw him from his -wicked courses, will be materially assisted by any good traits I may -become acquainted with; for while I confess my ignorance of the better -side of his character, Doña Viola, I am sure one exists, or you would -not have proved so faithful as you are.” - -A faint red spot in the girl’s cheek had deepened and spread as Sir -Pedro spoke, until at his last words, her whole face was flushed, and -stooping quickly, she pressed her lips on his hand before he could -withdraw it. - -“You are right,” she said, eagerly to Padilh, who stood with something -like a blush on his soldierly features at the impulsive action. “Save -him from himself, from his temptations, for he has a virtue mated with -every vice he practices, and ready to assume its place when the bad is -uprooted. I know,” she added, with an impetuous accent which betrayed -her Spanish blood, and was singularly impressive in her timid manner of -speaking, “he is a professed gambler, yet I have seen him clothe and -feed a company of beggars with the lavish generosity of a prince; I know -he has repeatedly endeavored to rescind our contract of marriage, but -how should this bind his love, since we were infants when it was drawn -in our joint name; and I have no reason, surely, to complain that he has -employed harsh means to accomplish his end, when I shut my eyes to the -growth of his aversion. No, Sir Pedro, the fault has been mine in -tempting him on; no one can say how different his life might have been, -but for the incumbrance I would not consent to his putting away—and so -let me suffer, not him. Save him, I earnestly beseech you, from himself, -and if need be,” she added, dropping her voice, and becoming as suddenly -pallid as before flushed, “save him from an encounter with my father.” - -“That I will,” returned the Don, soothingly, “if interposition of my -words or body can. And one of these days, Doña Viola, we will talk these -matters over calmly, and discuss what is best to be done.” - -“The poor thing is crazed,” he said an hour after to his countess, “to -love this Hilo! It was not easy to bring my mouth to call the scamp -‘cavalier;’ but her innocent distress overcame the reluctance. When this -feverish excitement, which forbids all close questioning, subsides, it -will be well to learn more, if she knows more of her betrothed. And if I -set out before that can be done—” - -“What, do you really go to this war!” exclaimed our heroine, with the -admirable versatility of the sex, “when you have resigned yourself to -the gratification of a particular request not at all to your liking at -first. - -“_Dear_, Sir Pedro, don’t you think some better way may be found of -accomplishing our purpose? For instance, let some trusty person find out -this young man and carry him a letter from you, as from an uncle -solicitous of doing him a benefit. Or, perhaps, Señor Inique might be -moved from his design by your calm representations. Only don’t go!” she -urged, with a tremulous lip. - -To this outbreak Don Pedro de Padilh, with the tranquillity of one who -remembers a story he is anxious to tell and overlooks the last question, -rejoined, - -“Did you ever hear, Hermosa, the history of the wonderful cat that lived -in Biscay when I was of no great size myself? There is one of the tribe -on the battlement yonder, marked as that intelligent animal must have -been, and put the story in my head.” - -“Pshaw!” said the countess, half inclined to laugh, with tears in her -eyes. - -“This cat was remarkable for ugliness and cunning, qualities which -increased the umbrage the priest naturally took to a cat who was said to -use better Latin than himself, to that degree he could not rest at ease -until the object of his jealousy was condemned to be burned, on the -rational plea of possessing more learning than was orthodox. But so -sagacious a creature was not to be caught asleep, and at the first rumor -of the affair took occasion to pay his respects to the most notorious -gossip of the province. - -“‘Ah!’ said the cat, in the course of conversation, “‘talking of merit, -I am so delighted to find it rewarded occasionally, that I have been in -a state of ecstasy since the news came from the capital.’ - -“‘Santomio!’ cried the old woman _arrectis auribus_; ‘what are they -doing there, my dear cat?’ - -“‘Have you not heard about it! Our curà is to be rewarded with a -bishopric instanter; and for my part I don’t think a better selection -possible, when his scholarship is taken into consideration, and I have -some cause to count myself a judge of such matters.’ - -“‘Yes, yes, Señor Miz,’ put in the other. ‘But this is important news to -be sure; I hope you have it from good authority.’ - -“‘None better. My sister’s grandkitten is attached to the household of -the cardinal resident, and has just come down to pay me a visit. Trust -to my honor, señora most respected, you may talk of it without fear for -your veracity.’ - -“Of course, this was all sheer invention on the part of the cat, but -served his purpose for a time.” - -“But why did not the foolish cat slip quietly away beforehand?” asked -the countess, who began to feel an interest in his fortunes. - -“Oh, because the _familiars_ on watch were too alert, I suppose. But -hear what followed. When the curà, who had been on a little expedition -to bargain for the faggots, returned to his house, he was charmed to -learn his approaching exaltation from a score of friends; and at this -juncture, being seized with remorse at his precipitation, resolved to -hear from the cat’s own mouth the state of his faith. ‘For,’ said he to -himself, as he tucked up his cassock and waded through the mud to the -latter’s door, ‘one should not burn a Christian beast by mistake; and -who knows what influence the grandkitten of his very discreet sister may -have in his eminence’s house.’ - -“‘Why,’ said the shrewd grimalkin, who saw in a twinkling how much this -last reason had to do with the curà’s visit, ‘your reverend worship’s -excellency must perceive at a glance how this seam in my upper lip forms -a cross with the nostril above—a sign which I need not inform your -worship, is found only on catholic quadrupeds.’ - -“‘Ha!’ cried the priest, struck with the idea, ‘so it is. I beg your -pardon, Señor Miz, for overlooking it hitherto.’ - -“‘Not at all, the wisest sometimes err, as my relative, the cardinal’s -favorite, remarked to me yesterday. I am glad your reverence was not -within hearing, for she was good enough to repeat much of the praise his -eminence bestows on your worship, knowing she could not better please -me.’ - -“In such amicable conversation time passed, until the priest, bethinking -himself that the preparations for Autodafeïng his host, had gone too far -to be hushed up without some plausible excuse, and seeing no way out of -his dilemma, reluctantly confided his difficulty to the party -interested, for whom he began to feel a very disinterested friendship. - -“‘Make yourself easy,’ rejoined the other, scarcely able to hide his -satisfaction, ‘if that is the whole difficulty, all your worship has to -do is to fling my _san-berito_ (faugh! the name makes me hot and cold -all over!) into the fire, and give me a chance to clutch your reverend -legs, under your worship’s gown.’ - -“‘_To_ be sure!’ said the curà, in a tone of benignant admiration, which -one should get Judge Belton, or the Mayor of Aiken, (who got it from the -Spanish original,) to mimic. - -“Even the joint sagacity of a cat and a priest may fall short of -perfection. It was natural, certainly, for the curà to dream all night -of his expected mitre, and allow the same agreeable subject to occupy -his brain all day to the exclusion of every other. But I hold to it, -that he should have remembered at the right moment, (as he might easily -have done, of course, by tying a knot in his handkerchief or thread -round his finger,) to slip off the _san-berito_, and _not_ throw his -unhappy friend into the fire. Why, but for his confounded (I beg pardon, -but one has their feelings!) absence of mind, he might have seen his -victim’s tail—his head being smothered in the conical _caroza_—as big -as his arm, with rage and indignation. - -“‘Wo is me!’ cried the wretched man, when he saw what was done, tearing -his beard in anguish of mind, ‘I have burned a Christian cat, and lost -my mitre!’” - -While saying the last words, Don Pedro, who had been standing during the -recital, took his cap and moved to the door. But his countess -intercepted him with a wistful, half-perplexed face. - -“Well?” said the knight, stopping, and looking at her with a scarce -visible smile. - -“I think,” returned Hermosa, doubtingly, “you mean I am no wiser than -the curà, who, forgetting what he was about, threw his friend into the -fire, and then fell to lamenting his loss. But who is the cat?” - -“Ah!” rejoined Sir Pedro, laughing, “the pith of the story lies in six -words, - - ‘La casa quemada, - Acudir con el agua.’” - -A couplet I design putting into the mouth of that scape-gallows, Hilo de -Ladron, in the next number of Graham, to serve as a thread, by closely -following which, the somewhat tangled woof of the young gentleman’s -character may in good time be unraveled. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE MARINER’S TALE. - - - BY R. PENN SMITH. - - -Scene. _A Flower Garden of a Mariner’s Asylum._ - _Characters. An aged Sailor and a Visiter._ - - _Sailor._ All things must move in circles as earth doth. -The orbs that make space gorgeous move in circles; -E’en space itself is one eternal circle; -For were it not, its end would sure be reached. -All drag a chain still moving round and round -Until we join the two ends of the chain: -Thus man completes his circle. No escape then. - - _Stranger._ You spoke, sir, of a voyage. - - _Sailor._ Oh! pardon me: -I had forgot—those circles set me wild. -Where left I off? ’Tis strange, the thread is broken. - - _Stranger._ In the South Sea. - - _Sailor._ O, true!—’mong fruitful isles -The jocund waters leaped when morn arose, -And fringed each billow’s snow-white pinnacle -With golden tissue. Waves that wildly roared -Through night, like fiends contending for their prey, -Now smiled serenely as a lawn in spring -Spangled with herbage ’mid the wasting snow; -And as our gallant vessel glided on -The joyful waters, like some amorous dame, -Kissed the bright prow in very wantonness, -Regardless of the wound so rudely made -In the too pliant bosom. - - _Stranger._ You liken well -The waters to a woman; beautiful -In the bright sunshine of prosperity! -But when the tempest rages, sea-tossed man -Oft finds a shoal there, where his barque may strand, -Expecting a safe haven. - - _Sailor._ You are bitter: -But truth is not always sweet. All on board -Assembled on the deck to hail the sun -Weaving with gold God’s heaving world of green; -While lowly murmuring the gladsome waves -Sang matins to their master. Voices full -As deep-toned organ’s swell, and others shrill -As notes of linnets, mingled with the songs -The glad sea made in praising Him who made it. - - _Stranger._ Let the great sea and all that therein is; -The earth—its fruit—and all that live thereby— -And all that live hereafter, praise his name. - - _Sailor._ Amid our happy concourse there was seen -A father and his little family, -And the fair partner of his joys and griefs, -The mother of his children. While they gazed -Upon the wide expanse, their bosoms heaved -With admiration for His mighty works -Who rules the fearful sea. They thanked and trusted. - - _Stranger._ All thank and trust, who know the God they trust in. - - _Sailor._ Among them was a fair-haired rosy boy -Who hugged his father’s knee; his little hands -Clasped in devotion to the unseen God, -In ignorance adoring; for his spirit, -Unstained of earth, was redolent of heaven, -And instinct with the praises he had learnt -From angel-lips in his celestial birth-place. - - _Stranger._ Childhood’s inheritance, which manhood squanders, -God gives us all, while we return but little. - - _Sailor._ As the sun rose he sung a little hymn. -The words were these. I think his father made it. - - In the morning of existence, - Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam; - With God and angels for companions, - Man—little lower than the angels— - Receives the truth as it was given - _Once_—face to face, and fresh from heaven. - - In the noontide of existence, - With bathed brow and stalwort limb, - Man, singing, struggles for subsistence - For those in sin begot by him, - Rejoices in those human frailties - Which make him imitate his God. - - In the sunset of existence, - Alone, in thy Gethsemane, - Quaff the cup bravely and repine not— - For man, thy God is there with thee. - Meekly obey the mandate given, - It purifies thy soul for heaven. - - _Stranger._ A strange thought that—childhood is Adam’s Eden, -Where man beholds his Maker face to face; -The close of life is his Gethsemane, -Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs, -Without a prayer to take it from his lips. -I’ve heard that hymn before. - - _Sailor._ Why call it strange? -The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter, -And the most bitter drops become the sweetest. -Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him -Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil, -Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been -With angel visitants. Perchance they are -The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn, -Seed-time and harvest! If that thought be true, -With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul -Gather the harvest of Gethsemane, -More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden. -The task is thine—first husbandman, then reaper. - - _Stranger._ Talk further of the boy who sung the hymn. - - _Sailor._ That spotless child, the rudest of the crew -Loved, for his presence made us better men. - - _Stranger._ True, all men who love children still grow better; -And the best men are children to the last, -At least in thought and feeling. - - _Sailor._ There’s the circle— -Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within them. -But to pursue our voyage—and the boy. -Day passed away, and as the night came on -The full-orbed moon roiled in a cloudless sky, -And the wide waters now lay hushed in sleep. -As gentle as the slumber of a child -Wearied with gambols through the live-long day. -The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by, -Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite; -The sea a living mirror, in whose depths -The richly studded concave was reflected, -Making a perfect globe; and as the ship -Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be -Some spirit on errand supernatural, -So dark and silently she glided on -The babbling waves were scarcely audible. - - _Stranger._ A pleasant sail which landsmen only dream of— -But never enjoy. - - _Sailor._ All joy hath bitterness. -Stretched on the deck the sailor-boy reposed, -And lived in dreams his infant years again. -The seamen, ’mid the shrouds aloft reclining, -Told o’er their tales of wreck and lingering death, -And in the drowsy interval was heard -The rugged cadence of the helmsman’s song. -“A pleasant sail!” But pleasure has strange wings, -She comes a zephyr and departs a whirlwind. - - _Stranger._ Kisses the flower to blooming, then destroys. - - _Sailor._ Sudden the helmsman’s drowsy song was hushed. -A fearful cry arose—“The ship’s on fire!” -The seamen from aloft sent back the cry; -The sailor boy shook off his happy dream, -And woke to horror. All was wild dismay! -Half sleeping—half awake, the crew came forth; -Grim death, enveloped in his robes of flame, -Marched on and laughed. There was no human power -To put aside his footstep. On he moved -In awful majesty; whate’er he touched, -True to its origin, returned to dust, -And Nature’s master-work, man’s godlike frame, -Became as worthless as the spars and sails, -Each made its pile of ashes—nothing more. - - _Stranger._ Ashes to ashes all, and dust to dust, -The self-same mandate both on earth and sea. - - _Sailor._ The flames attained dominion. Tyrant-like, -They ruled and raged. Upon the shrouds they seized, -Kissing destruction—laughing as they kissed; -While the broad glare they spread upon the deep -Changed the sea’s nature. Water soon became -A lake of living fire. “A pleasant sail!” - - _Stranger._ You weep. Go on. - - _Sailor._ O that I then had perished! -I seized the boy and leaped into the waves. -Upon a fallen spar we safely rode -Until the ship went down. “A pleasant sail!” -Her knell one shriek of mortal agony. -We had no heart to weep for their sad fate— -No heart to pray for one less terrible. -I gathered fragments from the floating wreck, -And made a raft, where two immortal souls -Struggled with time to check eternity -With frail appliance. For three days we suffered; -And then a passing ship preserved our lives -For greater suffering. - - _Stranger._ The boy—his fate? - - _Sailor._ His parents dead—the lad became my charge. -I then was married to a worthy woman— -God’s kindest gift. We had an only child— -My wife brought up the children as if twins, -And at a proper age he sailed with me. -He grew to manhood—noble—cheerful—kind -As those who love the artless lips of children; -A very babe was he in his affections— -A very demon in his bitter passions. -The eagle and the dove oft make their nest— -The tiger and the ermin find a lair -In the same bosom. - - _Stranger._ What became of him? - - _Sailor._ My wife grew sick. He loved her as his mother; -He loved my daughter too. I sailed, and left him -To till my little ground and smooth their pathway. -After three years I came to port again. -Crossing my fields, which now poured forth their increase, -I saw a man resting upon his plough, -Singing right lustily. - - _Stranger._ What did he sing? - - _Sailor._ In the noontide of existence, - With swarthy brow and rugged limb, - Man bravely struggles for subsistence - For those in sin begot by him; - Rejoices in all frailties—sorrows, - They draw him nearer to his God. - - _Stranger._ The hymn of early childhood still remembered. - - _Sailor._ A bending in the chain to form the circle. -He led me to my home—and such a home! -It seemed as if the fairies had been there -Making their May-day—wife and daughter happy. -Then, from an arbor overgrown with flowers, -He placed a prattling child upon my knee, -And called him by my name. He laughed outright— -My daughter blushed. They now were man and wife. -I danced—then blubbered like a very child. -Tears are at times a truer sign of joy -Than smiles and laughter. - - _Stranger._ ’Twas a boy, you said? - - _Sailor._ A boy—his bud of Paradise, he called him. -Such flowers, too, often yield most bitter fruit -In man’s Gethsemane. - - _Stranger._ Thank God! not always. - - _Sailor._ We dwelt together for a few brief months. -He then proposed to try the sea again, -To place the beings whom we fondly loved -Beyond the cold calamities of earth. -Three years we sailed—we prospered, and returned -With means to make those happy whom we loved. -On wearied pinions, like the dove of peace -When land was found, he flew to seek the ark -Where our best feelings day and night reposed, -While struggling with the ocean. God! O God! -No ark was there—no resting-place for him! -Even Ararat was covered with the deluge. - - _Stranger._ I understand you not. - - _Sailor._ His wife was false. - - _Stranger._ Impossible! - - _Sailor._ But true. You tremble sir. -Her father curst the memory of his child; -Her mother withered, and soon died heart-broken. -You seem disturbed. - - _Stranger._ ’Tis past. What did your son? - - _Sailor._ He slew the slimy reptile that crawled over him; -Put his hard heel upon her glossy front, -Trampled her out in cold blood. - - _Stranger._ God of heaven! - - _Sailor._ And he did right. - - _Stranger._ Your daughter! - - _Sailor._ He did right. -She who betrays the honor of her husband, -Regardless of her parents, self, and children, -Should cease to live, though all unfit to die. -Better to rot in earth, than crawl through life, -Offending all things with her foul pollution. -I love my God; knowledge increases love. -I ask forgiveness of him, as Christ prayed. -I am his child, and yet I curse my child. -Her sin hath made the best of prayers from my lips -An invocation of a lasting curse -On her old father’s head a mockery! -Forgive as I forgive—a lie to God! -Her sin hath robbed me of my prayer of childhood— -The prayer I gathered from my mother’s lips— -The prayer that opens the celestial portals— -The prayer _He_ taught when _He_ appeared as mortal. - - _Stranger._ His destiny. - - _Sailor._ He fled and took his child; -But not as Cain fled with the brand upon him. -’Twas sacrifice to virtue, and no murder. -When I arrived my Eden was Golgotha; -I found a corpse—my wife bereft of reason. -I buried one, attended to the other -For years until she died. The fruits of lust! -I went to sea again in search of strife— -The quiet of the land near drove me mad. -The ship I sailed in scoured the southern sea, -To quell the pirates. We o’ertook a rover. -A deadly strife ensued—’twas life or death; -Their chief and I by chance met sword to sword; -I knew him not, and, strange, he knew not me. -O! grief outstrips the rapid wing of time -In marring youthful beauty! See this scar! -His cutlas gave it—but I mastered him. -Their chief subdued, the rover soon surrendered. - - _Stranger._ His destiny? - - _Sailor._ The yard-arm, and a halter. -I saw him pass away. - - _Stranger._ And said he nothing? - - _Sailor._ Naught to the crowd—but I remember this: - In the sunset of existence, - Alone in my Gethsemane, - I quaff the cup without repining, - For God, I feel thou’rt still with me. - Meekly obey the mandate given - That purifies the soul for heaven. - - _Stranger._ His cradle-hymn still chanted to the grave. - - _Sailor._ The circle, sir—the end and the beginning— -The two ends of the chain are linked together. - - _Stranger._ You said he had a boy. - - _Sailor._ I said not so. -There was a boy, whom I have searched for since; -But, like the shadows of all earthly hope, -He hath eluded me. - - _Stranger._ I am that boy. - - _Sailor._ Thou!—thou that boy! The wheel is still in motion! - - _Stranger._ I stood beside the gallows when he died. - - _Sailor._ His bird of Paradise! A cherub then! -I’ve seen you often sleeping among roses, -And he, a guardian angel, smiling o’er you. -You have not slept on roses often since, -But wept beneath your father’s gallows-tree. -And my blind deeds have shaped your destiny. -I brought your father to a shameful death, -Which your young eyes beheld. And I’ve made known -A thing, perhaps unknown to you before— -Your mother’s infamy. Alas! poor boy! -What an inheritance have we bequeathed you! - - _Stranger._ You did your duty, sir. - - _Sailor._ Ay, there’s the question. -Can duty lead man’s footsteps to God’s throne, -Making life death, the glad earth Tartarus? -I snatched a fellow-being, winged for heaven, -With God’s own impress on him still unblurred, -Who, but for me, would have flown chanting there -Anthems to angels. But with ruffian hands -I checked his flight, and stayed him for perdition. -Would that the ocean had received the child! -Would I had let him perish in the flames! -Would that this wound had marked me for the grave, -Ere I had saved him for an after life -Of sin and sorrow, though impelled by—duty. - - _Stranger._ Why do you pluck those gorgeous poppy-flowers, -And cast them in the walk? - - _Sailor._ They now are harmless; -Suffered to ripen, they are poisonous. -Let them die blooming, while they are innoxious. -Would he had perished as these simple flowers, -Ere his bloom faded, yielding deadly seed. - - _Stranger._ I’ve sought you, sir, to solace your old age. - - _Sailor._ God bless my child! We’re in the circle still. -Good begets evil often—evil good. -The grandsire and the grandson close the chain— -Alone—forlorn! Yet both have done their duty. -The world goes round and round, ’till hidden things -Stalk forth as spectres from the rotten grave. -All, all is plain! These circles drive me mad! - - * * * * * - - - - - A ROMANCE OF TRUE LOVE: - - - WITH FIDDLE ACCOMPANIMENT. - - - BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER. - - -Perched, like a large gray owl with folded wings, upon the summit of the -very highest hill within a day’s journey from “our village,” but within -half a mile of the old meeting-house, stands a narrow stone dwelling, -with a narrow, pointed roof, narrow windows, or loop-holes, as they -might be more properly termed, and one narrow door; the whole inclosed -within a narrow yard, from which two slender poplars point their “tall -columns to the skies.” - -One would scarcely imagine from so unpromising an aspect that a -heart-history could be gleaned from “lifting” that narrow roof. I must -confess, too, that there is certainly very little romance in the -appearance of the inmate whom it shelters—so gaunt and -cadaverous—nearly as tall as the poplars, and with arms like the -evolving sails of a windmill. Yet, as by searching there is gold to be -found even amid the most rocky and unpromising defiles of California, so -is there sterling mettle hid beneath the rough exterior of Apollos -Dalrymple, and this having found I will disclose. - -When I say that Apollos is the sole tenant of this owl-like habitation, -I need not add that he belongs to the bachelor fraternity—but in -justice to him I will say that he was not made a bachelor from any -contempt or irreverence of the fair sex, but from “sweet love’s teen” -having “loved not wisely, but too well.” - -It is now many years since Apollos thus retired from the world. His hair -is nearly silver white, and old age sits upon his shoulders, yet still -he washes and mends his clothes, with his long, bony fingers knits his -stockings, and cooks his own food from the little plat of vegetables -behind the house—for Apollos is a Grahamite, as well as a Gray-eremite. -I must retrace some twenty years in the life of Apollos, for the first -record of the heart-history I have promised—I will even go still -further back, and introduce him a “puling infant in the nurse’s arms.” - -It was the misfortune of Apollos to be born with an ear—I mean an ear -for music! Whether the euphonious name by which he was christened had -any thing to do with the quaverings of his innocent cradle-_dom_ I -cannot say, but certain it is, his infantine warblings were loud and -incessant—“_prestissimo_” and “_fortissimo_,” seldom allowing a “rest” -either to himself or his poor worn-out mother. The period of infancy -passed, Apollos was sent to school, where he was distinguished for the -long drawn nasal tones in which he might be said to chant his lessons, -and being moreover somewhat given to whistling and tuning up of -jews-harps, the terrible ire of Schoolmaster Ferule vented itself in -drawing long scales upon his tender flesh, to which Apollos composed the -notes upon a high key. - -As soon as he could read the tenth chapter of Nehemiah without drawing a -long breath, his father made him ruler over countless heads of cattle, -and set him to ploughing and planting, sowing and reaping the fertile -acres which were one day to become his own. Even into the drudgery of -the farm Apollos bore with him his musical mania, and while he sowed the -seed and planted the corn it was all done to music, so that when the -green grain burst through the ground there was no stiff regularity about -it, but falling off into minims, crotchets, quavers and -demi-semi-quavers, it swept through the broad fields like a living sheet -of music, from which no doubt the little ground-sparrow and the -glassy-winged grasshopper, learned many new variations. - -Not “blest as the gods,” Apollos could strike no harp but the jews-harp, -for his father had no music in his soul, though a very clever man, -Shakspeare to the contrary, and would never allow his son to spend his -earnings in cultivating so useless an art. The singing-school he -tolerated, and there, in the long winter evenings, by the flickering -light of tallow candles did Apollos luxuriate—also at all trainings, -when “the spirit-stirring drum and ear-piercing fife” echoed through the -streets, there was the tall, ungainly figure of Apollos to be seen, -almost envying even the little fat drummer the powers of his -_rub-a-dub_. - -One day our musical hero purchased a cracked flute! How trilled his -heart in joyful cadence as he held in his hand the precious -bargain—with what ecstasy did he turn it over and over, and then, as -soon as the cattle were foddered, and the shades of evening resting over -the farm, he would nightly retire into the recesses of the forest, and -there blow and puff, like Sam Weller’s “aggrawated glass-blower,” until -his eyes almost started from their sockets—the rocks and trees to be -sure kept their places in the firm earth, but the whip-po-wils and the -owls peeped forth to listen, and more than once did he hear his notes -re-echoed by some young, aspiring screech-owl. - -The next musical adventure of Apollos was effected by exchanging a young -and tender calf for a fiddle! Every muscle of his long arm, became as a -separate fiddle-bow, giving forth such endless _see-sawing_ and -_tweedle-dee-ing_ that every good wife in the neighborhood was tempted -to complain of him as a nuisance, for waking up all the babies and -disturbing them in their first sleep, for the strains of Apollos, like -those of “sweet Philomela,” were only heard at night. But -notwithstanding all this Apollos was a general favorite, for the spirit -of harmony pervaded his bosom for all animate and inanimate -objects—there was to him music in all created things. His heart was -gentle—his hand ever ready to do a kindness, and therefore he was -suffered to fiddle to his bent, little dreaming the anathemas which the -deed, not the doer, nightly originated. - - * * * * * - -Side by side stood the cottages of Leonard Davis and Luther Howell, and -side by side grew up the two lovely children Paul and Linda. - -Neither Davis nor Howell were in good circumstances, although both owned -the farms on which they lived; yet there was a great difference in the -character of the two men, which in the end led to very different -results. Leonard Davis was a thriftless, indolent man, who loved better -to smoke his pipe under the tavern porch, and give forth his opinions -upon the politics of the day, than to cultivate his land or keep his -fences in order. Luther Howell, on the contrary, was a hard-working, -industrious man. He loved money although he had but little of it—yet he -resolved to have more; and upon the strength of that determination dug -and delved away his days, almost begrudging even the Sabbath rest. - -Linda was the youngest of his five children, all of which, to Mr. -Howell’s great chagrin were daughters. Mr. Davis had but one child, -little Paul, whose mother had died while he was but an infant, and Mrs. -Howell feeling compassion for the motherless boy encouraged him to play -with her children, so that by degrees the little fellow became nearly -domesticated under the same roof with the five rosy-cheeked, happy -little Howells. Paul was three years older than Linda, and was very -proud of the confidence which Mrs. Howell reposed in his superior age -and strength, by trusting to him the care of the little toddling girl, -and repaid her confidence by deserving it. Linda soon became more fond -of Paul than any one else, and Paul would at any time leave his play -with the older girls, or throw down his bat and ball if he but heard the -sweet voice of the little Linda calling his name. He would lead her into -the woods, and with a natural love of the beautiful select a spot where -the moss was the greenest and freshest, and where the golden sunlight -quivering through the dense foliage danced in playful gambols around -them—here he would carefully seat the little girl, and gather for her -the pretty wild flowers which he found hid in the thick woods, or the -bright scarlet berries peeping out from the dark, glossy leaves of the -winter-green; and when the little Linda was old enough to go to school, -Paul still enacted himself her champion and assistant. - -Linda was ten years old when Mr. Howell received a letter from his -brother, living in New York, offering to relieve him of a share of his -burdens by adopting one of the five girls into his family. Imbued with -the same money-getting spirit as his brother, Ansel Howell had left the -village many years previous, to seek the fortune he was resolved upon -amassing. He had been successful, and at the date of the letter which -caused so much excitement in the humble residence of Luther, Ansel might -be considered a rich man. - -The offer was gladly accepted, and the question next arose which of the -girls should go forth from the family hive. Prudence governed their -decision. Bessie could spin her day’s work with any farmer’s daughter -for miles around—Sophie was already capable of taking charge of the -dairy, while Polly and Margaret not only could sew nearly as well as -their mother, but could also make themselves useful in various ways -about the house. Linda was of the least service in the domestic keep, -and therefore the choice fell upon Linda, who was thus taken from her -simple country pleasures, and from her dear friend Paul to a new home -and new friends amid the ceaseless din of a city. - -Luther Howell reaped the benefits of his industry. His farm throve—his -stock increased—the old house was torn down, and a handsome, convenient -two story dwelling erected on its site; and in the course of a few years -Mr. Howell went as representative to the state legislature, and was -reckoned one of the most substantial men in the village. But just in -proportion as things had prospered with Howell had they gone adverse -with his neighbor Davis, and about the time when the new tenement of the -former was being raised amid the loud cheers of the workmen, the sheriff -seized upon both house and land of the latter, and that being -insufficient to meet his debts, for “the want thereof they took the -body”—at that time imprisonment for debt was no uncommon thing. If -Davis had not been so perfectly thriftless, in all humanity his townsmen -would have bailed him out, but the fact is, it was pretty generally -conceded that he might just as well smoke in jail as elsewhere—pipes -and tobacco therefore were freely contributed, and in the course of a -few months poor Leonard Davis evaporated—his soul taking flight in a -whiff of tobacco smoke! - -Before the affairs of his father became so desperate, Paul had worked -his way to New York, and apprenticed himself in a large printing-office, -trusting with all the confidence of youth that he should return ere many -years to his native village, free his father from the shackles of debt, -and perhaps set up an establishment of his own. Another and a brighter -vision might have mingled with these day dreams, of which we may learn -more hereafter. - -Paul knew that his little friend Linda lived in the same city with him, -and after a long search he was at length enabled to discover the -dwelling which sheltered the pet flower of his boyhood. But there was -such an atmosphere of grandeur around her now, that poor Paul had not -courage to penetrate further, so for several weeks he contented himself -with hovering around the house in the evening and on Sundays, hoping at -least to obtain a glimpse of the little girl. - -At length one day he met Linda with her governess. It was his own -Linda—yet how changed! What a lovely young face! what grace—what -innocence! and then how tall! Paul forgot that years mark their -flight—he looked for the child, and he found a beautifully formed -maiden of fifteen! - -Ah, he dared not address her! he cast his eyes upon the ground and stood -still for Linda to pass! and then as her little foot twinkled upon the -pavement close to him, and her robe brushed his coarse garments, he -involuntarily looked up. Linda turned her large hazel eye upon him. She -started—a rosy blush mantled her sweet face! It seemed to the maiden -that she was strangely transported back to the green grassy meadow and -the play-grounds of her infancy! Again she looked at Paul: - -“Linda!” he softly whispered. - -“Paul!” responded the heart and the lips of Linda; and with all the -innocence and gladness of a child she threw her arms around his neck, -and pressed a kiss upon his sun-burned cheek! - -Ah that kiss—happy, happy Paul! - -But here Miss Lofty interposed. It was scandalous—kissing a young man -in the street—good gracious, who ever heard of such a thing—a fellow, -too, in a green jacket—monstrous! - -“Why, dear Miss Lofty, it is Paul—only Paul!” cried Linda, earnestly; -“how many times I have told you about my dear, dear Paul!” and then -turning her back upon the horrified spinster, with her little hand -clasped tightly in his, she begged of him again and again, to come and -see her. - -“Yes, you can call on Miss Howell, young man, if you please, but you -must not stand here any longer, Miss Linda; I am really shocked at your -want of delicacy. I can hardly answer to your aunt for such strange -doings!” and so saying, Miss Lofty led off her young charge. - -As Linda disappeared sunshine and daylight faded from the heart of poor -Paul. - -He felt there was now an immeasurable gulf between him and her; and, -after all, why was it that he came to so sorrowful a conclusion? Was it -because, as Miss Lofty had said, he wore a green jacket, and worked with -his hands, while Linda sat in her delicate robes of muslin or silk, and -with slender fingers wrought at her embroidery-frame, or airily swept -the piano. Ah, Paul, be brave! Let not your heart fail you at mere -external or worldly distinctions. - -He called to see Linda. It was shortly after this first interview; she -had become restrained, and her aunt sat stately in the room, and without -being rude, yet was her manner so little removed from it, that Paul -never went again. For two or three years Linda heard no more of the -playmate and friend of her early childhood. But Paul saw her when she -little dreamed what fond eyes were watching her! He saw her graceful, -beautiful, and accomplished; and although he dared not whisper a hope -that she might one day be his, he resolved to improve his mind by study -and application, that he might at least raise himself above her -contempt; and so, by the midnight lamp, the poor fellow went to work, -and for two years every leisure moment was spent in study, and every -penny he could save, employed in procuring books for his thirsting mind. -His perseverance did not go unrewarded; his employer soon took note of -his talents, and Paul became assistant editor of a popular weekly -journal. - - * * * * * - -By some unforeseen calamity, Ansel Howell became a poor man, and Linda -returned to her father’s roof. - -Eight years previous her parents had gladly parted with her, and they -now as gladly welcomed her back; her sisters were all married, and the -old people quite alone, so that her presence was as the light of morning -to their lonely fireside. Her city life had by no means spoiled Linda -for the pleasures of the country; she felt like a bird who, after being -caged a weary time, is suddenly permitted to flit at freedom amid its -native bowers. - -Linda retained a vivid impression of the early scenes of her childhood, -and as she again revisited each nook and dell, the remembrance of her -kind friend, Paul, also came back to her, and the present seemed -incomplete without him whose tender care and ever ready invention to -amuse her waywardness, had cast such brightness over the days of -infancy. Where was he now? Had he forgotten her? She thought of him as -she had seen him when he so suddenly appeared before her—those deep, -tender eyes, regarding her with so much respect and affection; and then, -when admitted into the stately dwelling of her uncle, he had come -forward so modestly, yet with so much self-respect to greet her, and her -heart reproached her, that, through fear of her aunt’s displeasure, she -had, perhaps, treated him coldly. - -“But, dear Paul, I am sure I did not mean to be unkind!” she mentally -exclaimed. - -Ah, if Paul, as he sat in his office in that narrow, confined street, -bending so diligently over his desk, in the sultry breath of the city, -could have known the thoughts of the fair girl, as she strolled through -the summer woods, what rapture would have thrilled his bosom, and how -would the dull atmosphere in which he toiled have become irradiate in -the light of love and happiness. - -Has the reader forgotten Apollos—the Apollo—the Paganini, whose -witched fiddle-bow made both echoes and babies shriek in concert? - -It chanced one evening that Apollos, out of resin, set forth for the -village to supply that dire necessity. Whistling he went, when suddenly -there were borne to his ear strains of most ravishing sweetness, now -softly swelling on the evening breeze—now fainter and fainter dying -away until even silence seemed musical, and then again bursting forth so -free and joyous, that the very air around him vibrated with melody. - -Spell bound stood Apollos. The doors of his great ears swung back to -welcome in the harmony, and his mouth, too, opened as if to swallow it. -Then, led on as it were by invisible spirits, his feet followed the -bewitching sounds, and planted themselves under the large button-ball -tree which stood near the window where Linda was thus unconsciously -drawing both soul and body of Apollos magnetically unto her. - -Conceive his perfect rapture as thus, so near the centre of attraction, -the sweet strains encompassed him about. They ceased, and then to the -window, still warbling, the young girl came, and leaning from the -casement, stretched forth her little white hand, and began plucking the -leaves from the very tree whose shadowing branches waved around the head -of Apollos. - -A sweet face becomes almost as the face of an angel, when seen in the -calm moonlight; and as Linda stood there, her large, brown eyes, looking -out into the holy night, her high, pure forehead clasped in the glossy -braids of her dark hair, and her light, graceful figure folded in a -snowy robe, no wonder she seemed to Apollos too pure, too beautiful, for -a being of earth’s mould. But while he gazed and gazed, she turned away, -and with her took the heart of Apollos. Again seating herself at the -piano, Linda ran her fingers over the keys with the lightness of a bird -upon the wing, and one of Beethoven’s exquisite sonatas awoke to life -under her touch. - -Poor Apollos! No volition had he of his own—he went whither the fates -impelled him. Step by step did he approach the open casement, and as -some poor bird is drawn, little by little, into the very mouth of its -fascinating destroyer, even so was Apollos drawn head and shoulders into -the window. The moon beams danced around him, as if enjoying the -mischief they were about to disclose, and gleamed coldly but steadily -upon him, his elbows resting on the sill, and his long legs, curved -outward, like those of a grasshopper. At last, rising from the -instrument, Linda closed it, and was about to approach the window, when -the strange apparition of Apollos glared upon her. With a loud shriek -she rushed from the room; as for Apollos, he bounded away like a -madman— - - “Swift on the right—swift on the left, - Sweeps every scene asunder— - Heaths, meadows, fields—how swift their flight, - And now the bridges thunder!” - -That night Apollos Dalrymple was convicted of having seen a ghost. - -And now, from that eventful evening, Cupid ensconced himself within the -virgin heart of Apollos, and there the little rascal sat perched upon a -hill of ancient ballads, delighted with the mischief he was doing, and -every now and then beating up such a rub-a-dub as well-nigh drove poor -Apollos distracted. For here were garnered up stores of the dainty food -which the poets have appropriated exclusively to the little god—not, to -be sure, the fastidious fare of a modern amateur, supping only on the -tongues of Italian or Swedish nightingales, but the good, substantial -fare our forefathers loved. - -By the death of his father all those goodly acres had descended to -Apollos; but this year the farm proved a losing concern, for the sheep -died from starvation—the cattle from over-feeding—the hoe cut down -both corn and weed—the grass luxuriated in freedom from the scythe, and -the grain from the sickle, until both were over-ripe. The people all -thought Apollos bewitched, and bewitched he certainly was. Even the -fiddle was suffered to be mute, unless when seizing it with sudden furor -he would strive to repeat some note which the voice of Linda had -fastened upon his memory, but as sure as he did so, her image appeared -at his working elbow, and Cupid, with a jog, jumped astride the -fiddle-bow. - -There was a beautiful simplicity in the heart of Apollos—an almost -maidenly delicacy. He shrunk from intruding upon the fair object of his -thoughts, never once did he speak with her, or seek to claim her -acquaintance. She was to him something too divine to approach, and he -worshiped her at a distance—a star whose beams blended with the music -of his soul. There was no vanity hid away in his brain; he saw himself -as others saw him—a rough, ungainly figure, without comeliness or -proportion, and the more did he strive to cultivate those inward graces -by which even his ugliness was made to be forgotten. - -How little did Linda dream, as she sometimes passed him in her walks, -what a great heart throbbed for her, and would have poured out its -life-blood in her service. - -The summer following Paul Davis revisited his birth-place, and for the -first time for many years he and Linda met again. In form and feature -both were changed—but in both the heart remained the same, and the same -affinity which had in childhood bound them, now by a closer and dearer -tie united them. - -But Mr. Howell’s other four daughters had all married rich men; and as -Linda was the fairest and most accomplished, he had planned for her a -match which might be considered brilliant. When, therefore, Paul asked -for her hand, it was refused with the contempt of one who feels that -riches, not affection and kindness make up the _summum bonum_ of life’s -happiness, and with whom the weight of the purse out-balances the weight -of both head and heart. And then Pride, too, put in her voice—_what_, -his daughter marry the son of Leonard Davis, who died in a jail! To be -sure, he understood that Paul was doing a very good business in the -editorial line; but then a mere editor—a drudge for the public—_bah_! - -And so Paul was scornfully dismissed, and returned to the city, yet -bearing with him the sworn faith of her he loved. - -Smiles faded from the cheek of Linda, and her voice now seldom sent its -glad notes to cheer the heart of Apollos. He saw she was pale, and that -her step was listless. He felt she was unhappy, and now, in addition to -his own grief, he bore about with him the pain of knowing that she, too, -had sorrows which he could not heal. He would have had her so happy. -Around her path only thornless roses should have clustered, and how -gladly would he have shielded her from all the storms of life. - -Ah, poor Apollos! if it could have been; if, like the great branches of -the oak which shelter the timid daisy from sun and rain, those great -arms of thine would have enfolded this little flower—then, indeed, -would thy big soul have leaped with gladness. - - * * * * * - -Months passed on. - -Paul worked at his desk patiently, and hoping that by some favor of -fortune he might yet claim the hand of Linda. - -About this time the proprietor of the establishment in which he was -employed, desirous of making a change in his business, offered to sell -out at a price very advantageous for the purchaser. Paul would gladly -have availed himself of this opportunity, but his means were -insufficient, and he knew of no person of whom he could solicit the -required sum. While the sale was pending Paul again visited the village, -not with any idea of a second time subjecting himself to the rudeness of -Mr. Howell by a further request for the hand of his daughter. He went, -therefore, as on ardent lover may be supposed to go, impelled by a -desire of seeing again the object of his affection, and of hearing from -her dear lips a renewed assurance of her truth. - -Now it chanced that the very afternoon of his arrival, Apollos strolled -forth in somewhat melancholy mood, and took a path leading through a -thick grove bordering upon his farm. It was one of those cold, gloomy -days in March, when not a bud or a leaf has as yet betokened the -grateful advent of spring. Little patches of ice and snow still clung -around the decaying leaves, frozen into black heaps where the autumn -winds had gathered in their many dead; the wind rattled the naked -branches of the trees in the dull, chill atmosphere; flights of crows -flew low with their dismal croak, and the squirrel now and then looked -out timidly from the old brown trunks, as if to note the aspect of the -weather, and feeling the biting wind upon his nose, turned nimbly back -to his hole again. It was through these gloomy woods, therefore, that -Apollos bent his way, and had nearly cleared the grove, when his -reveries were suddenly interrupted by hearing the sound of voices from a -thick cluster of young pines, whose green, spiral branches gave relief -to the brown aspect of the surrounding trees. He recognized at once the -accents of Linda; there was sadness in them, and he involuntarily -paused, not with any intention of becoming a listener from curiosity, -but only to drink in her beloved tones. His next impulse was to retreat -softly; but the words which her companion spoke arrested his attention -anew, and so he stood irresolute, anxious to learn more, and yet -unwilling to steal thus into the secrets of the young pair. - -“Well, dearest Linda, we must be patient and hopeful,” said Paul. “The -assurance of your love will inspire me with fresh ardor in this struggle -with fortune, and in the end, Linda, I am sure to come off conqueror. I -wish not to reproach your father, but I flattered myself that wealth -would not have been so great a consideration with him, and that as he -has known me from my childhood, he would have preferred an honest, -truthful heart, and the happiness of his child to the glitter of gold.” - -“I hoped so, too, dear Paul; perhaps he will yet alter his -determination; let us hope for the best,” answered Linda. - -“A few thousand dollars would at this moment place me in a situation to -demand your hand a second time, dear Linda,” continued Paul. “Mr. -Neeland wishes to dispose of his establishment, and offers it at so -reasonable an estimate that I would gladly become a purchaser if I had -but the means—this, Linda, would remove the scruples of your father, -and crown our happiness!” - -“True, dear Paul. Ah! would that some kind friend might assist you. You -have friends, I am sure—are there none of whom you can ask this favor?” -said Linda. - -“No—it is a kindness I do not feel authorised to ask from any one—it -would involve me at once in obligations which I might not be able to -fulfill—no, dearest Linda, I must toil on a few more years, and if my -labors are followed with the same success which has heretofore crowned -them, I shall have earned, even in your father’s estimation, the rich -reward I would fain this moment call my own,” replied Paul. - -Loving Linda as he did so faithfully, it was impossible that Apollos -could listen to this conversation without a struggle between envy and -the natural kindness of his heart. It is true, he knew before that his -love was hopeless—that the young and fair object of his adoration could -be no more to him than the distant planet shining so gloriously in the -glittering dome of the heavens—but here stood one possessing that -priceless gift, her heart, one on whom her first pure affections were -bestowed—ah, poor Apollos—it was not in human nature to resist the -workings of jealousy and envy—great drops of anguish stood on his pale -brow, and he almost groaned aloud! Then better and nobler feelings -stirred his bosom—he gave way to their healthful promptings, and a load -seemed lifted from his breast. - -Paul parted with Linda at her father’s gate and went home to his -lodgings, where he had not been long seated, when an ill-written, almost -illegible note was handed him. It was from Apollos Dalrymple, requesting -earnestly to see him before he should leave the village. - -“Some old debt, doubtless, of my poor father’s, which I am required to -pay,” thought Paul. “Well, I will go and see him, and if in my power it -shall be canceled.” - -As he drew near the dwelling of Apollos, the strains of the fiddle -seemed to welcome him on, and knocking at the door it was opened by the -owner himself—his great chin holding firm to his breast the neck of the -instrument, and his hand wielding the bow. Walking before him into a -small back room, he made signs for him to be seated, and then taking up -the air where the summons of Paul had interrupted it, he played it -deliberately through! - -Paul thought this proceeding very rude, to say the least of it—but if -he could have read the heart of Apollos, he would have seen that he was -only striving to lull into peace by the soothing powers of melody those -rebellious and evil passions which the sight of his happier rival called -forth. - -At length, carefully hanging up the fiddle on a peg at his right hand, -Apollos opened a small drawer, and taking out a pocket-book, put it into -the hand of his astonished visiter. - -“I reckon there is just two thousand dollars there—it is yours,” he -said, bluntly. “I guess you’ll make a pretty straight bargain with that -man that wants to sell out.” - -Paul sat speechless with surprise at finding his affairs thus known to -the strange man before him. Apollos arose, went to the window, and began -to whistle, then added in a husky voice, - -“I reckon old Howell wont object any longer; so you can—can -marry—Linda!” and with another vociferous whistle, he again sat down. - -By this time Paul, somewhat recovered from his first amazement, said, as -he handed back the pocket-book, - -“But, my dear sir, I cannot accept of your bounty I may never be able to -repay you—” - -“Put up the money, I say, put it up—it is yours,” interrupted Apollos; -“I—I—overheard your talk with Linda, this afternoon—so you see I know -all about you.” - -“But why this interest for a stranger, Mr. Dalrymple—how can I ever -repay—” - -“Be kind to her—to Linda—that’s all the pay I want!” hastily -interposed Apollos. “And you see, Paul, if you want any further help to -get along, I conclude you are bound to come to me.” - -Again Paul attempted to be heard. - -“At least suffer me to explain my affairs to you, that you may know -better the man upon whom your kindness has so liberally fallen.” - -“I reckon I know you; you’re an honest, good lad—and—and Linda loves -you—you need not say a word.” - -And, indeed, had Paul been gifted with the eloquence of an Adams or a -Webster, Apollos would not have listened to him, for no sooner did he -see the money safe in the pocket of the young man, than he coolly arose, -put on his hat, and taking his violin, walked out of the house; so Paul -had no alternative than to do the same, yet leaving upon the table an -acknowledgment of his gratitude, written with a pencil on the back of an -old letter. - -The next week three topics of interest were going the rounds of the -village, and arousing the curiosity and wonder of its inhabitants. - -The first was, that the son of Leonard Davis had become the sole -proprietor of one of the largest printing offices in the city of New -York—who would have thought it! - -The second item was, that Apollos Dalrymple had offered his fine farm -for sale—what could it mean? - -The third and most wonderful was, that the said Apollos commenced -building the identical narrow stone-house on the top of the hill—was -the man bewitched, or going to be married! - -In the course of the summer Paul again solicited the hand of Linda, -which was no longer refused him— - - “For money has a power above - The stars, and fate, to manage love.” - -But Apollos refused to be present at the happy event which his noble -kindness had so materially assisted to bring about; and little did -either of them surmise the generous devotion which had called it forth. - -As soon as his solitary dwelling was completed, Apollos, taking with him -a few goods and chattels, removed thereto. And there he still abides -with peace in his heart, and “good-will to all men.” - -He admits no visiters—yet is his bounty never the less; for, like some -forest rill, which has its source hidden among the rocks, yet whose -presence revivifies and fertilizes all around it, so do the streams of -his bounty, flowing silently and unobtrusively, gladden and refresh the -hearts of the weary and destitute. He never goes out, except on the -Sabbath, upon whose sacred services he is a constant attendant, and may -always be seen in his suit of homespun gray, standing erect near the -choir, and beating time with his long, bony hand, to the music of the -psalms. - -Upon the calm summer evenings, the notes of his violin are borne on the -gentle breeze to the ears of the villagers, and as the plough-boy hies -him to his task, with the early up-rising of the lark, he hears the -morning hymn of the forest choristers, accompanied in their notes of -praise by the music of _Apollos’ violin_. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Painted by Compte Calix - -THE SISTERS. - - Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine] - - * * * * * - - - - - IMPULSE AND PRINCIPLE. - - - BY ALFRED B. STREET. - - - Two youths approached a torrent in their path; - One soft and fair, one eagle-eyed and strong; - Thoughtful the last, the first all mirth and song. - They saw two bridges o’er the torrent’s wrath; - One a rough tree-trunk from a rugged ledge, - Rugged to reach, uneven to the tread; - The other at their feet, all broadly spread - With flowers and mosses plumped from edge to edge. - On the green platform sprang the first like light, - Still loud in song, but in his midway flight - The green bridge broke, and down to death he fell. - The other, meanwhile, clambered painfully - The steep, and, nerving strong, crossed safe the tree. - Thus in Temptation’s hour, Impulse and Principle. - - * * * * * - - - - - WORDSWORTH. - - -The death of this eminent poet, after an honorable and useful life, -prolonged to eighty years, will doubtless provoke a new conflict of -opinions regarding the nature and influence of his great and peculiar -mind. The universal feeling among all lovers of what is deep, and -delicate, and genuine in poetry, must be— - - “That there has passed away a glory from the earth;” - -and not until literature receives an original impulse from a nature -equally profound and powerful, will it be called upon to mourn such a -departure “from the sunshine into the Silent Land.” His death was worthy -of an earthly career consecrated by devout and beautiful meditations to -a life beyond life—his soul, so long the serene guest of his mortal -frame, meekly withdrawing itself at the end to a world not unfamiliar to -his raised vision here. - -We confess, at the outset, to an admiration for Wordsworth’s genius -bordering on veneration, but we trust that we can speak of it without -substituting hyperbole for analysis, without burying the essential facts -of his mental constitution under a load of panegyric. It appears to us -that these facts alone convict his depreciating critics of malice or -ignorance; that the kind of criticism to which he was originally -subjected, and which even now occasionally reappears with something of -the sting of its old flippancy, is essentially superficial and -untenable, failing to cover the ground it pretends to occupy, and -disguising nonsense under a garb of shrewdness and discrimination. The -opinion of a man of ability on subjects which he understands, and on -objects he really discerns, is entitled to respect, and we do not deny -that Jeffrey’s opinions on many important matters are sound and -valuable; but, in relation to Wordsworth, whom he perversely -misunderstood, he appears presumptuously incompetent and undiscerning -throughout his much vaunted criticisms; in every case missing the -peculiarities which constituted Wordsworth’s originality, and satirizing -himself in almost every sarcasm he launched at the poet. The usual -defense set up for such a critic is, that he judges by the rules of -common sense; but every poet who deserves the name is to be judged by -the common sense of the creative imagination, not by the common sense of -the practical understanding; and thus judged, thus removed from the -jurisdiction of the mere police of letters, we imagine that Wordsworth -will readily assume his place as the greatest of English poets since -Milton. - -In claiming for him a position in that line of English poets which -contains no other names than those of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, and -Milton, we imply that he is not only great as an individual writer, but -that he is the head and founder of a new school of poets; that he is the -point from which the future historian of English letters will consider -the poetry of the age; that he introduced into English literature new -elements, whose inspiration has not yet spent itself, but continues to -influence almost every poet of the day; that - - “Thither, as to their fountain, other stars - Repairing, in their golden urns draw light.” - -This fact can be chronologically proved. In the “Lines on Revisiting -Tintern Abbey,” written as far back as 1798, and in which we have the -key-note of Wordsworth’s whole system of viewing nature and man, we -perceive not only a new element of thought added to English poetry, but -an element which appears afterward in Shelley and Byron—modified, of -course, by their individuality—and still appears, with decreasing -force, in Tennyson and Browning. Plato and Lord Bacon are not more -decidedly originators of new scientific methods than Wordsworth is the -originator of a new poetical method. Even if we dislike him, and neglect -his poetry, we cannot emancipate ourselves from his influence, as long -as we are thrilled by the most magnificent and etherial passages in -Shelley and Byron. We may be offended at the man, but we cannot escape -from his method, unless our reading of the poets stops with Goldsmith -and Cowper. - -The vital poems of Wordsworth—those which are really inspired with his -spirit and life, and not mere accretions attached to his works—form a -complete whole, pervaded by one living soul, and, amid all their variety -of subject, related to one leading idea—the marriage of the soul of man -to the external universe, whose “spousal hymn” the poet chants. They -constitute together the spiritual body of his mind, exhibiting it as it -grew into beautiful and melodious form through thirty years of intense -contemplation. To a person who has studied his works with sufficient -care to obtain a conception of the author’s personality, every little -lyric is alive with his spirit, and is organically connected with the -long narrative and didactive poems. This body of verse is, we think, a -new creation in literature, differing from others not only in degree but -in kind—an organism, having its own interior laws, growing from one -central principle, and differing from Spenser and Milton as a swan does -from an eagle, or a rose from a lily. - -We need hardly say that the central power and principle of this organic -body of verse is Wordsworth himself. He is at its heart and -circumference, and through all its veins and arteries, as the vivifying -and organizing force—coloring every thing with his peculiar -individuality, representing man and nature through the medium of his own -original and originating genius, and creating, as it were, a new world -of forms and beings, idealized from hints given by the actual -appearances of things. This world is not so various as that of -Shakspeare or Scott, nor so supernatural as that of Milton, but it is -still Wordsworth’s world, a world conceived by himself, and in which he -lived and moved and had his being. A true criticism of his works, -therefore, would be a biography of his mind, exhibiting the vital -processes of its growth, and indicating the necessary connection between -its gradual interior development and the imaginative forms in which it -was expressed. This we cannot pretend to do, having neither the insight -nor the materials for such a task, and we shall be content with -attempting a faint outline of his mental character, with especial -reference to those qualities which dwelt near the heart of his being, -and which seem to have been woven into the texture of his mind at birth. - -Wordsworth was born in April, 1770, of parents sufficiently rich to give -him the advantages of the usual school and collegiate education of -English youth. He early manifested a love for study, but it may be -inferred that his studies were such as mostly ministered to the -imagination, from the fact that he displayed, from his earliest years, a -passion for poetry, and never seems to have had a thought of choosing a -profession. At the university of Cambridge he appears to have studied -the classics with the divining eye and assimilating mind of a poet, and -if he did not attain the first position as a classical scholar, he -certainly drank in beyond all his fellows the spirit of the great -writers of Greece and Rome. In a mind so observing, studious, -thoughtful, imaginative and steadfast as his, whose power consisted more -in concentration of view than rapidity of movement, the images of -classical poetry must have been firmly held and lovingly contemplated; -and to his collegiate culture we doubtless owe the exquisite poems of -Dion and Laodamia, the grand interpretative, uplifting mythological -passage in The Excursion, and the general felicity of his classical -allusions and images throughout his works. He probably wrote much as -well as meditated deeply at college, but very few of his juvenile pieces -have been preserved, and those which are seem little more than exercises -in expression. On leaving college he appears to have formed the -determination of educating his poetical faculty by a communion with the -forms of nature, as others study law and theology. He resided for some -time in the west of England, and at about the age of twenty, made the -tour of France, Italy, Switzerland and Germany, traveling, like our -friend Bayard Taylor, mostly on foot, diving into forests, lingering by -lakes, penetrating into the cottages of Italian peasants and rude German -boors, and alternating the whole by a residence in the great European -cities. This seems to have occupied nearly two years of his life; its -immediate, but not its only result, was the publication of his -“Descriptive Sketches in Verse,” indicating accurate observation rather -than shaping imagination, and undistinguished by any marked -peculiarities of thought or diction. We next hear of him at Bristol, the -companion of Coleridge and Southey, and discussing with those eager and -daring spirits the essential falsehood of current poetry as a -representation of nature. The sensible conclusion of all three was -this—that the worn-out epithets and images then in vogue among the -rhymers, were meaningless; that poetry was to be sought in nature and -man; and that the language of poetry was not a tinsel rhetoric, but an -impassioned utterance of thoughts and emotions awakened by a direct -contact of the mind with the objects it described. Of these -propositions, the last was one of primary importance, and in a mind so -grave, deep and contemplative as Wordsworth’s, with an instinctive -ambition to be one of “Nature’s Privy Council,” and dive into the -secrets of those visible forms which had ever thrilled his soul with a -vague and aching rapture, the mere critical opinion passed into a motive -and an inspiration. - -“The Lyrical Ballads,” published in 1798, and to which Southey and -Coleridge contributed, were the first poems which indicated Wordsworth’s -peculiar powers and passions, and gave the first hints of his poetical -philosophy, and the first startling shock to the tastes of the day. They -were mostly written at Allfoxden, near the Bristol Channel, in one of -the deepest solitudes in England, amid woods, glens, streams, and hills. -Here Wordsworth had retired with his sister; and Coleridge was only five -miles distant at Stowey. Cottle relates some amusing anecdotes of the -ignorance of the country people, in regard to them, and to poets and -lovers of the picturesque generally. Southey, Coleridge and his wife, -Lamb, and the two Wedgewoods, visited Wordsworth in his retirement, and -the whole company used to wander about the woods, and by the sea, to the -great wonder of all the honest people they met. As they were often out -at night, it was supposed they led a dissolute life; and it is said that -there are respectable people in Bristol who believe now that Mrs. -Coleridge and Miss Wordsworth were disreputable women, from a -remembrance of the scandalous tattle circulating then. Cottle asserts -that Wordsworth was driven from the place by the suspicions which his -habits provoked, being refused a continuance of his lease of the -Allfoxden house by the ignoramus who had the letting of it, on the -ground that he was a criminal in the disguise of an idler. One of the -villagers said, “that he had seen him wander about at night _and look -rather strangely at the moon_! And then he roamed over the hills like a -partridge.” Another testified “he had heard him mutter, as he walked, in -some outlandish brogue, that nobody could understand.” This last, we -suppose, is the rustic version of the poet’s own statement— - - “He murmurs near the running brooks - A music sweeter than their own.” - -Others, however, took a different view of his habits, as little -flattering to his morals as the other view to his sense. One wiseacre -remarked confidently, “I know what he is. We have all met him tramping -away toward the sea. Would any man in his senses take all that trouble -to look at a parcel of water? I think he carries on a snug business in -the smuggling line, and, in these journeys, is on the lookout for some -_wet_ cargo.” Another, carrying out this bright idea, added, “I know he -has got a private still in his cellar; for I once passed his house at a -little better than a hundred yards distance, and I could smell the -spirits as plain as an ashen faggot at Christmas.” But the charge which -probably had the most weight in those times was the last. “I know,” said -one, “that he is surely a desperd French Jacobin; for he is so silent -and dark that no one ever heard him say one word about politics.” The -result of all these various rumors and scandals was the removal of -Wordsworth from the village. It is curious that, with such an experience -of English country-people, Wordsworth should never have looked at them -dramatically, and represented them as vulgar and prejudiced human beings -as well as immortal souls. It proves that humor did not enter at all -into the constitution of his nature; that man interested him more than -men; and that his spiritual affections, connecting humanity constantly -with its divine origin, shed over the simplest villager a light and -atmosphere not of earth. - -While the ludicrous tattle to which we have referred was sounding all -around him, he was meditating Peter Bell and the Lyrical Ballads, in the -depths of the Allfoxden woods, and consecrating the rustics who were -scandalizing him. The great Poet of the Poor, who has made the peasant a -grander object of contemplation than the peer, and who saw through -vulgar externals and humble occupations to the inmost soul of the man, -had sufficient provocations to be the satirist of those he idealized. - -In these Lyrical Ballads, and in the poems written at the same period of -their publication, we perceive both the greatness and the limitations of -Wordsworth, the vital and the mechanical elements in his poetry. As far -as his theory of poetic diction was unimaginative, as far as its -application was willful, it became a mere matter of the understanding, -productive of little else than shocks to taste and the poetic sense, and -indicating the perversity of a powerful intellect, pushing preconceived -theories to the violation of ideal laws, rather than the rapt -inspiration of the bard, flooding common words and objects with new life -and divine meanings. It is useless to say that the passages to which we -object would not provoke a smile if read in the spirit of the author. -They are ludicrous in themselves, and would have made the author himself -laugh had he possessed a moderate sense of the humorous. But the gravest -objection against them is, that they do not harmonize with the poems in -which they appear—are not vitally connected with them, but stand as -excrescences plastered _on_ them—and instantly suggest the theorizer -expressing his scorn of an opposite vice of expression, by deliberately -substituting for affected elegance a simplicity just as full of -affectation. Wordsworth’s true simplicity, the simplicity which was the -natural vehicle of his grand and solemn thoughts, the simplicity which -came from writing close to the truth of things, and making the word rise -out of the idea conceived like Venus from the sea, cannot be too much -commended; but in respect to his false simplicity, his simplicity for -the sake of being simple, we can only say that it has given some point -to the sarcasm, “that Chaucer writes like a child, but Wordsworth -childishly.” These objectionable passages, however, are very few; they -stand apart from his works and apart from what was essential in him; and -they are to be pardoned, as we pardon the occasional caprices of other -great poets. - -Another objection to the Lyrical Ballads, and to Wordsworth’s poems -generally, is an objection which relates to his noblest creations. He -never appears to have thoroughly realized that other men were not -Wordsworths, and accordingly he not infrequently violates the law of -expression—which we take to be the expression of a man to others, not -the expression of a man to himself. He speaks, as it were, too much to -his own ear, and having associated certain words with subtle thoughts -and moods peculiar to himself, he does not seem aware that the words may -not of themselves convey his meaning to minds differently constituted, -and accustomed to take the expressions at their lexicon value. In this -he differs from Coleridge, whose words and music have more instantaneous -power in evoking the mood addressed, and thread with more force and -certainty all the mental labyrinths of other minds, and act with a -tingling and inevitable touch on the finest nerves of spiritual -perception. The Ancient Mariner and Christobel almost create the moods -in which they are to be read, and surprise the reader with a revelation -of the strange and preternatural elements lying far back in his own -consciousness. Wordsworth has much of this wondrous wizard power, but it -operates with less direct energy, and is not felt in all its witchery -until we have thought into his mind, become enveloped in its atmosphere, -and been initiated into the “suggestive sorcery” of his language. Then, -it appears to us, he is even more satisfying than Coleridge, moving, as -he does, in the transcendental region of thought with a calmer and more -assured step, and giving evidence of having steadily gazed on those -spiritual realities which Coleridge seems to have casually seen by -flashes of lightning. His language consequently is more temperate, as -befits a man observing objects familiar to his mind by frequent -contemplation; but, to common readers, it would be more effective if it -had the suddenness and startling energy coming from the first bright -vision of supernatural objects. As it is, however, his style proves that -his mind had grown up to those heights of contemplation to which the -mind of Coleridge only occasionally darted, under the winged impulses of -imagination; and therefore Wordsworth gives more serene and permanent -delight, more “sober certainty of waking bliss,” than Coleridge, however -much the latter may excel in instantaneousness of effect. - -The originality of the Lyrical Ballads consisted not so much in an -accurate observation of nature as in an absolute communion with her, and -interpretation of the spirit of her forms. They combine in a remarkable -degree ecstasy with reflection, and are marvelously refined both in -their perception of the life of nature and the subtle workings of human -affections. Those elusive emotions which flit dimly before ordinary -imaginations and then instantly disappear, Wordsworth arrests and -embodies; and the remotest shades of feeling and thought, which play on -the vanishing edges of conception, he connects with familiar objects, -and brings home to our common contemplations. In the sphere of the -affections he is confessedly great. The still, simple, searching pathos -of “We are Seven,” the mysterious, tragic interest gathered around “The -Thorn,” and the evanescent touch of an elusive mood in “The Anecdote for -Fathers,” indicate a vision into the finest elements of emotion. The -poems entitled, “Expostulation and Reply,” “The Tables Turned,” “Lines -Written in Early Spring,” “To My Sister,” and several others, referring -to this period of 1798, evince many of the peculiar qualities of his -philosophy, and combine depth of insight with a most exquisite -simplicity of phrase. The following extracts contain hints of his whole -system of thought, expressing that belief in the life of nature, and the -mode by which that life is communicated to the mind, which reappear, -variously modified, throughout his writings: - - Nor less I deem that there are Powers - Which of themselves our minds impress; - That we can feel this mind of ours - _Is a wise passiveness_. - - —— - - And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! - He, too, is no mean preacher: - Come forth into the light of things, - Let nature be your teacher. - - She has a world of ready wealth, - Our minds and hearts to bless— - Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, - Truth breathed by cheerfulness. - - _One impulse from a vernal wood_ - _May teach you more of man,_ - _Of moral evil and of good_ - _Than all the sages can._ - - Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; - Our meddling intellect - Misshapes the beauteous forms of things— - We murder to dissect. - - Enough of Science and of Art; - Close up those barren leaves; - Come forth and bring with you a heart - _That watches and receives_. - - —— - - I heard a thousand blended notes, - While in a grove I sat reclined, - In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts - Bring sad thoughts to the mind. - - —— - - Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower, - The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; - _And ’tis my faith that every flower_ - _Enjoys the air it breathes_. - - —— - - There is a blessing in the air - Which seems a sense of joy to yield - To the bare trees, and mountains bare, - And grass in the green field. - - —— - - One moment now may give us more - Than years of toiling reason: - Our minds shall drink at every pore - The spirit of the season. - - _Some silent laws our hearts will wake,_ - _Which they shall long obey:_ - We for the year to come may take - Our temper from to-day. - -But the most remarkable poem written at this period of Wordsworth’s -life, is that on Tintern Abbey, “Lines Composed on Revisiting the Banks -of the Wye.” We have here that spiritualization of nature, that -mysterious sense of the Being pervading the whole universe of matter and -mind, that feeling of the vital connection between all the various forms -and kinds of creation, and that marriage of the soul of man with the -visible universe, which constitute the depth and the charm of -Wordsworth’s “divine philosophy.” After describing the landscape which -he now revisits, he proceeds to develop the influence it has exerted on -his spirit: - - These beauteous forms, - Through a long absence, have not been to me, - As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye: - But oft in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din - Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, - In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, - _Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart_, - And passing even into my purer mind - With tranquil restoration; feelings, too, - Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, - As have no slight and trivial influence - On that best portion of a good man’s life, - His little nameless, unremembered acts - Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, - To them I may have owed another gift - Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, - In which the burthen of the mystery, - In which the heavy and the weary weight - Of all this unintelligible world, - Is lightened; _that serene and blessed mood,_ - _In which the affections gently lead us on,_ - _Until the breath of this corporeal frame,_ - _And even the motion of our human blood_ - _Almost suspended, we are laid asleep_ - _In body, and become a living soul;_ - _While with an eye made quiet by the power_ - _Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,_ - _We see into the life of things._ - -He then proceeds to describe the passionate fascination which nature -exerted over his youth, and the change which had come over him by a -deeper and more thoughtful communion with her spirit. When we consider -that Wordsworth, at this time, was only twenty-eight, and that even the -motions described in the first part of our extract had no existence in -contemporary poetry, we can form some idea of his giant leap in advance -of his age, as indicated by the unspeakable beauty and novelty of the -concluding portion. Our readers will notice that although the style -becomes almost transfigured by the intense and brooding imagination -which permeates it, the diction is still as simple as prose: - - I cannot paint - What then I was. The sounding cataract - Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, - The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, - Their colors and their forms, were then to me - An appetite, a feeling, and a love, - That had no need of a remoter charm, - By thought supplied, nor any interest - Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, - And all its aching joys are now no more, - And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this - Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other gifts - Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, - Abundant recompense. For I have learned - To look on nature, not as in the hour - Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes - The still, sad music of humanity, - Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power - To chasten and subdue. And I have felt - A presence that disturbs me with the joy - Of elevated thoughts; _a sense sublime_ - _Of something still more deeply interfused_, - Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, - And the round ocean and the living air, - And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; - A motion and a spirit, that impels - All living things, all objects of all thought, - And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still - A lover of the meadows and the woods, - And mountains; and of all that we behold - From this green earth; of all the mighty world - Of eye and ear—both what they half create - And what perceive; well pleased to recognize - In nature and the language of the sense, - The anchor of my purest thoughts, the muse, - The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul - Of all my moral being. - -It is this “sense sublime of something still more deeply interfused,” -that gives to a well-known passage in the concluding portion of the poem -its particular significance: - - Nature never did betray - The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege, - Through all the years of this our life, to lead - From joy to joy; _for she can so inform_ - _The mind that is within us, so impress_ - _With quietness and beauty, and so feed_ - _With lofty thoughts_, that neither evil tongues, - Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, - Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all - The dreary intercourse of daily life, - Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb - Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold - Is full of blessings. - -In Wordsworth’s use of the word nature, it must always be borne in mind -that he means, to use his own phrase, - - The Original of human art, - _Heaven-prompted_ Nature. - -This poem enables us to understand the process by which so peculiar a -nature as Wordsworth’s grew up into its spiritual stature. It was by -placing his mind in direct contact with natural objects, passively -receiving their impressions in the still hours of contemplation, and -bringing his own soul into such sweet relations to the soul of nature as -to “see into the life of things;” or, as he expresses it, in another -connection, “his soul had _sight_” of those spiritual realities, of -which visible forms and hues are but the embodiment and symbolical -language. Nature to him was therefore always _alive_, spiritually as -well as visibly _existing_; and he felt the correspondence between his -own life and her life, from perceiving that one spirit penetrated both. -Not only did he perceive this, but he mastered the secret alphabet by -which man converses with nature, and to his soul she spoke an audible -language. Indeed, his mind’s ear was even more acute than his mind’s -eye; and no poet has excelled him in the subtle perception of the most -remote relations of tone. Often, when he is on the peaks of spiritual -contemplation, he hears voices when he cannot see shapes, and mutters -mystically of his whereabouts in words which suggest rather than embody -meaning. He grew in spiritual strength and height by assimilating the -life of nature, as bodies grow by assimilating her grosser elements; and -this process was little disturbed by communion with other minds, either -through books or society. He took nothing at second-hand; and his nature -is therefore not the nature of Homer, or Dante, or Shakspeare, or -Milton, or Scott, but essentially the nature of Wordsworth, the nature -which he saw with his own eyes, and shaped with his own imagination. His -humanity sprung from this insight, for not until he became impressed -with the spirit of nature, and divined its perfect adaptation to nourish -and elevate the human mind, did he perceive the worth and dignity of -man. Then simple humanity assumed in his mind a mysterious grandeur, and -humble life was spiritualized by his consecrating and affectionate -imagination. He might then say, with something of a proud content, - - The moving accident is not my trade; - To freeze the blood I have no ready arts; - ’Tis my delight alone in summer shade, - To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. - -The passages in which this thoughtful humanity and far-sighted spiritual -vision appear in beautiful union, are too numerous for quotation, or -even for reference. We will give but two, and extract them as hints of -his spiritual biography and the growth of his mind: - - Love he had found in huts where poor men lie; - His daily teachers had been woods and rills, - _The silence that is in the starry sky,_ - _The sleep that is among the lonely hills._ - - —- - - But who is He with modest looks, - And clad in homely russet brown? - He murmurs near the running brooks - A music sweeter than their own. - - He is retired as noontide dew, - Or fountain in a noonday grove; - And you must love him, ’ere to you - He will seem worthy of your love. - - The outward shows of sky and earth, - Of hill and valley, he had viewed; - And impulses of deeper birth - _Had come_ to him in solitude. - - In common things that round us lie - Some random truths he can impart— - The harvest of a quiet eye - That sleeps and broods on his own heart. - -We shall give but one more extract; illustrative of the moral wisdom -which the poetic recluse had drank in from Nature, and incorporated with -his own character. It was written at the age of twenty-five: - - If thou be one whose heart the holy forms - Of young imagination have kept pure, - Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride, - Howe’er disguised in its own majesty, - Is littleness; that he who feels contempt - For any living thing, hath faculties - Which he has never used; that thought with him - Is in its infancy. The man whose eye - Is ever on himself doth look on one, - The least of Nature’s works, one who might move - The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds - Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! - Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; - True dignity abides with him alone - Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, - Can still suspect, and still revere himself, - In lowliness of heart. - -We have dwelt thus long on Wordsworth’s first characteristic -publication, because it expresses so well the nature of his own mind, -and because it gave an original impulse to poetical literature. These -Lyrical Ballads were published in the summer of 1798, and though they -attracted no general attention corresponding to their original merit, -they exercised great influence upon all the young minds who were -afterward to influence the age. In September, 1798, in company with -Coleridge, he visited Germany, and on his return he settled at Grasmere, -in Westmoreland; a spot so well known to all readers of his poetry, and -where he continued to reside for fifteen years. In 1803 he married a -Miss Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith. Neither was wealthy, their joint -income being but £100 a year. Of his wife we know little, except that -she was of small stature and gentle manners, and was loved by her -husband with that still, deep devotion characteristic of his affections. -He refers to her, in a poem written in his old age, as - - She who dwells with me, whom I have loved - With such communion, that no place on earth - Can ever be a solitude to me. - -Between 1803 and 1807, when a second volume of Lyrical Ballads was -published, he wrote many of the most beautiful and sublime poems in his -whole works. To this period belong “The Memorials of a Tour in -Scotland,” (1803,) containing “The Solitary Reaper,” “The Highland -Girl,” “Ellen Irwin,” “Rob Roy’s Grave,” and other exquisite and glowing -impersonations—his grand sonnets dedicated to “National Independence -and Liberty”—“The Horn of Egremont Castle,” “Heart-Leap Well,” -“Character of a Happy Warrior,” “A Poet’s Epitaph,” “Vandracour and -Julia,” the “Ode to Duty,” and, above all, the sublime “Ode on the -Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood,” which -appears not to have been struck off at one beat, but to have been -composed at various periods between the years 1803 and 1806. - -There are no events, in the common acceptation of the term, in -Wordsworth’s life after the period of his marriage, except the -publication of his various works, and the pertinacious war waged against -them by the influential critics. Though his means were at first limited, -he soon, through the friendship of the Earl of Lonsdale, received the -appointment of Distributor of Stamps for the counties of Westmoreland -and Cumberland, a sinecure office, the duties of which were done by -clerks, but which seems to have given him an income sufficient for his -wants. In 1809 he published a prose work on the “Convention of Cintra,” -which, though designed as a popular appeal in favor of the oppressed -Spaniards, was little read at the time, and is now forgotten. Southey, -whose mind was on fire with sympathy for the Spanish cause, says of this -pamphlet, in a letter to Scott—“Wordsworth’s pamphlet will fail of -producing any general effect, because the sentences are long and -involved; and his friend, De Quincey, who corrected the press, has -rendered them more obscure by an unsound system of punctuation. This -fault will outweigh all its merits. The public never can like any thing -which they feel it difficult to understand. . . . I impute Wordsworth’s -want of perspicuity to two causes—his admiration of Milton’s prose, and -his habit of dictating instead of writing: if he were his own scribe his -eye would tell him where to stop.” - -But the great work to which Wordsworth was devoting the best years of -his life, was his long philosophical poem of “The Recluse,” designed to -give an account of the growth of his own mind, and to develop all the -peculiarities, poetical, ethical and religious, of his system of -thought. A large portion of this remains unpublished, but the second -part was issued in quarto, in 1814, under the title of “The Excursion,” -and was immediately lighted upon by all the wit-snappers and critics of -the old school, and mercilessly “probed, vexed and criticised.” Jeffrey, -who began his celebrated review of it in the Edinburgh with the -sentence, “This will never do,” was successful in ridiculing some of its -weak points, but made the mistake of stigmatizing its sublimest passages -as “unintelligible ravings.” The choice of a pedler as the hero of a -philosophical poem, though it was based on facts coming within the -author’s knowledge, was a violation of ideal laws, because it had not -sufficient general truth to justify the selection. A pedler may be a -poet, moralist and metaphysician, but such examples are for biography -rather than poetry, and indicate singularity more than originality in -the poet who chooses them. Allowing for this error, substracting some -puerile lines, and protesting against the tendency to diffusion in the -style, “The Excursion” still remains as a noble work, rich in -description, in narrative, in sentiment, fancy and imagination, and -replete with some of the highest and rarest attributes of poetry. To one -who has been an attentive reader of it, grand and inspiring passages -crowd into the memory at the mere mention of its title. It is, more -perhaps than any other of Wordsworth’s works, enveloped in the -atmosphere of his soul, and vital with his individual life; and in all -sympathetic minds, in all minds formed to feel its solemn thoughts and -holy raptures, it feeds - - “A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire.” - -“The Excursion” was followed, in 1815, by the “White Doe of Rylstone,” a -narrative poem, which Jeffrey said deserved the distinction of being the -worst poem ever printed in a quarto volume, and which appears to us one -of the very best. We do not believe the “White Doe” is much read, and -its exceeding beauty, subtle grace, and profound significance, are not -perceived in a hasty perusal. It is instinct with the most refined and -ethereal imagination, and could have risen from the depths of no mind in -which moral beauty had not been organized into moral character. Its -tenderness, tempered by “thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet,” -pierces into the very core of the heart. The purpose of the poem is to -exhibit suffering as a purifier of character, and the ministry of -sympathies, - - “Aloft ascending, and descending quite - Even unto inferior kinds,” - -in allaying suffering; and this is done by a story sufficiently -interesting of itself to engage the attention, apart from its indwelling -soul of holiness. In the representation of the Nortons we have the best -specimens of Wordsworth’s power of characterization, a power in which he -is generally deficient, but which he here exhibits with almost dramatic -force and objectiveness. - -“Peter Bell” and “The Wagoner,” which appeared in 1819, were executed in -a spirit very different from that which animates the “White Doe.” They -were originally written to illustrate a system, and seem to have been -published, at this period, to furnish the enemies of Wordsworth some -plausible excuse for attacking his growing reputation. “Peter Bell” was -conceived and composed as far back as 1798, and though it exhibits much -power and refinement of imagination, the treatment of the story is -essentially ludicrous. But still it contains passages of description -which are eminently Wordsworthian, and which the most accomplished of -Wordsworth’s defamers never equaled. With what depth, delicacy, -sweetness and simplicity are the following verses, for instance, -conceived and expressed: - - He roved among the vales and streams, - In the green wood and hollow dell; - They were his dwellings night and day,— - But nature ne’er could find the way - Into the heart of Peter Bell. - - In vain, through every changeful year, - Did Nature lead him as before; - _A primrose by the river’s brim_ - _A yellow primrose was to him,_ - _And it was nothing more._ - - —— - - At noon, when by the forest’s edge - He lay beneath the branches high, - The soft blue sky did never melt - Into his heart; _he never felt_ - _The witchery of the soft blue sky._ - - On a fair prospect some have looked - And felt, as I have heard them say, - _As if the moving time had been_ - _A thing as steadfast as the scene_ - _On which they gazed themselves away._ - - —— - - There was a hardness in his cheek, - There was a hardness in his eye, - As if the man had fixed his face, - In many a solitary place, - Against the wind and open sky. - -“The Wagoner,” is altogether unworthy of Wordsworth’s genius. It is an -attempt of a poet without humor to be gay and jocular, and very dismal -gayety it is. But even this poem is not to be dismissed without a -reference to its one exquisite passage—that in which he describes the -obligation upon him to write it: - - Nor is it I who play the part, - But a _shy spirit_ in my heart, - That comes and goes—will sometimes leap - From hiding-places ten year’s deep; - Or haunts me with familiar face, - Returning, like a ghost unlaid, - Until the debt I owe be paid. - -The next volume of Wordsworth was a series of sonnets, under the general -title of “The River Duddon,” published in 1820, and singularly pure in -style and fresh in conception. This was followed, in 1821, by “Itinerary -Sonnets,” chronicling a journey to the Continent; “Ecclesiastical -Sonnets,” in 1822, celebrating events and characters in the history of -the English church; and “Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems,” in 1834. In -old age he still preserved his young love for nature, and lost none of -his power of interpreting her teachings. In a poem entitled “Devotional -Incitements,” written at the age of sixty-two, and distinguished for the -delicate keenness of its insight, no less than its lyric rapture, it -will be perceived that natural objects were still visible and audible to -his heart and imagination. “Where,” he exclaims, - - Where will they stop, those breathing powers, - The _spirits_ of the new-born flowers? - They wander with the breeze, they wind - Where’er the streams a passage find; - Up from their native ground they rise - _In mute aërial harmonies;_ - From humble violet—modest thyme— - Exhaled, the _essential odors_ climb, - As if no space below the sky - Their subtle flight could satisfy: - Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride— - If like ambition be _their_ guide. - - Roused by the kindliest of May-showers, - The spirit quickener of the flowers, - That with moist virtue softly cleaves - The buds, and freshens the young leaves, - The birds pour forth their souls in notes - Of rapture from a thousand throats— - Here checked by too impetuous haste, - While there the music runs to waste, - With bounty more and more enlarged - Till the whole air is overcharged. - Give ear, O man, to their appeal, - And thirst for no inferior zeal, - Thou, who canst _think_ as well as _feel_. - - —— - - Alas! the sanctities combined - By art to unsensualize the mind, - Decay and languish; or, as creeds - And humors change, are spurned like weeds: - And priests are from their altars thrust; - Temples are leveled with the dust; - _And solemn rites and awful forms_ - _Founder amid fanatic storms,_ - Yet evermore, through years renewed - In undisturbed vicissitude, - Of seasons balancing their flight - On the swift wings of day and night, - _Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door_ - _Wide open for the scattered Poor,_ - _Where flower-breathed incense to the skies_ - _Is wafted in mute harmonies;_ - _And ground fresh cloven by the plough_ - _Is fragrant with a humbler vow;_ - _Where birds and brooks from leafy dells_ - _Chime forth unwearied canticles,_ - _And vapors magnify and spread_ - _The glory of the sun’s bright head_— - Still constant in her worship, still - Conforming to the eternal Will, - Whether men sow or reap the fields - Divine monition Nature yields, - That not by bread alone we live, - Or what a hand of flesh can give; - That every day should leave some part - Free for a sabbath of the heart. - -On the death of Southey, Wordsworth was appointed Poet Laureate. The -latter years of his life were passed in undisturbed serenity, and he -appears to have retained his faculties to the last. His old age, like -his youth and mature manhood, illustrated the truth of his poetic -teachings, and proves that poetry had taught him the true theory of -life. One cannot contemplate him during the last ten years of his -existence, without being forcibly impressed with his own doctrine -regarding the lover of nature: - - Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, - Nor leave thee when old age is nigh - A melancholy slave; - _But an old age serene and bright,_ - _And lovely as a Lapland night,_ - _Shall lead thee to thy grave._ - -The predominating characteristic of Wordsworth’s poetry is -thoughtfulness, a thoughtfulness in which every faculty of his mind and -every disposition of his heart meet and mingle; and the result is an -atmosphere of thought, giving a softening charm to all the objects it -surrounds and permeates. This atmosphere is sometimes sparklingly clear, -as if the airs and dews and sunshine of a May morning had found a home -in his imagination; but, in his philosophical poems, where he penetrates -into a region of thought above the ken of ordinary mortals, this -atmosphere is touched by an ideal radiance which slightly obscures as -well as consecrates the objects seen through it, and occasionally it -thickens into mystical obscurity. No person can thoroughly enjoy -Wordsworth who does not feel the subtle spirit of this atmosphere of -thought, as it communicates an air of freshness and originality even to -the commonplaces of his thinking, and apparels his loftier conceptions -in celestial light— - - “The gleam, - The light that never was on sea or land, - The consecration and the poet’s dream.” - -The first and grandest exercise, therefore, of his imagination is the -creation of this harmonizing atmosphere, enveloping as it does the world -of his creation with that peculiar light and air, indescribable but -unmistakable, which enable us at once to recognize and to class a poem -by Wordsworth. We do not hesitate to say that, in its peculiarity, there -is nothing identical with it in literature—that it constitutes an -absolutely new kind of poetry, in the Platonic sense of the word kind. -An imagination which thus fuse all the faculties and emotions into one -individuality, so that all the vital products of that individuality are -characterized by unity of effect, is an imagination of the highest -_kind_. The next question to be considered is the variety which this -unity includes; for Shakspeare himself, the most comprehensively -creative of human beings, never goes beyond the unity of his -individuality, his multifarious variety always answering to the breadth -of his personality. He is like the banyan tree in the marvelous -fertility of his creativeness, and the province of humanity he covers; -but the fertility all comes from one root and trunk, and indicates -simply the greatness of the _kind_, as compared with other _kinds_ of -trees. The variety in the operation of Wordsworth’s imagination we will -consider first in its emotional, and second in its intellectual, -manifestation—of course, using these words as terms of distinction, not -of division, because when we employ the word imagination we desire to -imply a fusion of the whole nature of the man into one living power. In -the emotional operation of Wordsworth’s imagination we discern his -Sentiment. No term has been more misused than this, its common -acceptation being a weak affectionateness; and, at best, it is -considered as an instinct of the sensibility, as a simple, indivisible -element of humanity. The truth is that sentiment is a complex thing, the -issue of sensibility and imagination; and without imagination sentiment -is impossible. We often meet excellent and intelligent people, whose -affections are warm, whose judgments are accurate, and whose lives are -irreproachable, but who lack in their religion, morality and affections -an elusive something which is felt to be the grace of character. The -solution of the problem is found in their want of sentiment—in their -want of that attribute by which past scenes and events, and absent -faces, and remote spiritual realities, affect the mind like objects -which are visibly present. Now, without this Sentiment no man can be a -poet, either in feeling or faculty; and Wordsworth has it in a -transcendent degree. In him it is revealed, not only in his idealizing -whatever in nature or life had passed into his memory, but in his -religious feeling and in his creative art. Scenes which he had viewed -years before, he tells us, still - - _Flash_ upon that _inward eye_, - Which is the bliss of solitude. - -Thus Sentiment is that operation of imagination which recalls, in a more -vivid light, things absent from the bodily eye, and makes them act upon -the will with more force and inspiration than they originally exerted in -their first passionate or thoughtful perception; and from its power of -extracting the essence and heightening the beauty of what has passed -away from the senses and passed into memory, it gives the impulse which -sends the creative imagination far beyond the boundaries of actual life -into the regions of the ideal, to see what is most beautiful here - - —Imaged there - In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, - An ampler ether, a diviner air, - And fields invested with purpureal gleams, - Climes, which the sun, who sheds the brightest day - Earth knows, _is all unworthy_ to survey. - -It is needless to adduce passages to prove the depth and delicacy of -Wordsworth’s sentiment, sanctifying as it does natural objects and the -humblest life, and lending to his religious faith a mysterious, -ineffable beauty and holiness. In our view of the quality it must -necessarily be the limitation of a poet’s creativeness, for the -imagination cannot represent or create objects to which it does not tend -by a sentiment; and Wordsworth, while he has a sentiment for visible -nature, a religious sentiment, a sentiment of humanity, is still -confined to the serious side of things, and has no sentiment of humor. -If he had humor as a sentiment, he, dowered as he is with imagination, -would have it as a creative faculty, for humor is the intellectual -imagination inspired by the sentiment of mirth. - -Let us now survey the power and scope of Wordsworth’s imagination, -considered in its intellectual manifestation. Here nothing bounds its -activity but its sentiments. It is descriptive, pictorial, reflective, -shaping, creative, and ecstatic; it can body forth abstract ideas in -sensible imagery; it can organize, as in “The White Doe,” a whole poem -round one central idea; it can make audible in the melody of words, -shades of feeling and thought which elude the grasp of imagery; it can -fuse and diffuse itself at pleasure, animating, coloring, vitalizing -every thing it touches. In description it approaches near absolute -perfection, giving not only the scene as it lies upon the clear mirror -of the perceptive imagination, but representing it in its life and -motion as well as form. The following, from “The Night Piece,” is one -out of a multitude of instances: - - He looks up—the clouds are split - Asunder—and above his head he sees - The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. - There, in a black blue vault she sails along, - Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small - And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss - Drive as she drives. - -In the description of the appearance of the White Doe, we have not only -form, hue and motion, but the feeling of wonder that the fair creature -excites, and the rhythm which musically expresses the supernatural -character of the visitant—all embodied in one vivid picture: - - The only voice that you can hear - Is the river murmuring near. - —When soft!—the dusky trees between, - And down the path through the open green, - Where is no living thing to be seen; - And through yon gateway, where is found, - Beneath the arch with ivy bound, - Free entrance to the church-yard ground— - _Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,_ - _Comes gliding in serene and slow,_ - _Soft and silent as a dream,_ - _A solitary Doe!_ - White she is as lily of June, - And beauteous as the silver moon - When out of sight the clouds are driven - And she is left alone in heaven; - Or like a ship, some gentle day, - In sunshine sailing far away, - A glittering ship that hath the plain - Or ocean for her own domain. - -In the following we have a mental description, so subtle and so sweet as -to make “the sense of satisfaction ache” with its felicity: - - And she has smiles to earth unknown, - Smiles that, with motion of their own, - Do spread and sink and rise; - That come and go, with endless play, - And ever as they pass away, - _Are hidden in her eyes._ - -This is from the little poem to “Louisa.” It is curious that Wordsworth, -in the octavo edition of his works, published when he was seventy-seven -years old, omits this stanza. It was so refined that he had probably -lost the power to perceive its delicate beauty, and dismissed it as -meaningless. - -In describing nature as connected with, and embodied in, human thoughts -and sentiments, Wordsworth’s descriptive power rises with the complexity -of the theme. Thus, in the poem of Ruth, we have an example of the -perversion of her energizing power: - - The wind, the tempest roaring high, - The tumult of a tropic sky, - Might well be dangerous food - For him, a youth to whom was given - So much of earth—so much of heaven, - And such impetuous blood. - - Whatever in those climes he found - Irregular in sight or sound, - Did to his mind impart - A kindred impulse, seemed allied - To his own powers, and justified - The workings of his heart. - - Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, - The beauteous forms of nature wrought, - Fair trees and gorgeous flowers; - The breezes their own languor lent; - _The stars had feelings_, which they sent - Into those favored bowers. - -In another poem, we have an opposite and purer representation of -nature’s vital work, in an ideal impersonation which has nothing like it -in the language: - - Three years she grew in sun and shower, - Then Nature said, a lovelier flower - On earth was never sown; - This child I to myself will take; - She shall be mine, and I will make - A lady of my own. - - Myself will to my darling be - Both law and impulse; and with me - The girl in rock and plain, - In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, - Shall feel an overseeing power - _To kindle or restrain._ - - She shall be sportive as the fawn, - That wild with glee across the lawn, - Or up the mountain springs; - _And hers shall be the breathing balm,_ - _And hers the silence and the calm_ - _Of mute insensate things._ - - The floating clouds their state shall lend - To her; for her the willow bend; - Nor shall she fail to see - Even in the motions of the Storm, - Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form - By silent sympathy. - - The stars of midnight shall be dear - To her; and she shall lean her ear - In many a secret place - Where rivulets dance their wayward round, - _And beauty born of murmuring sound_ - _Shall pass into her face._ - -But the most common exercise of Wordsworth’s imagination is what we may -call its meditative action—its still, calm, searching insight into -spiritual truth, and into the spirit of nature. In these, analysis and -reflection become imaginative, and the “more than reasoning mind” of the -poet overleaps the boundaries of positive knowledge, and, steadying -itself on the vanishing points of human intelligence, scans the “life of -things.” In the poems in which meditation predominates, there is a -beautiful union of tender feeling with austere principles, and this -austerity prevents his tenderness from ever becoming morbid. As his -meditative poems more especially relate to practice, and contain his -theory of life, they grow upon a studious reader’s mind with each new -perusal. In them the Christian virtues and graces are represented in -something of their celestial beauty and power, and the poet’s “vision -and faculty divine” are tasked to the utmost in giving them vivid and -melodious expression. He is not, in this meditative mood, a mere -moralizing dreamer, a vague and puerile rhapsodist, as some have -maliciously asserted, but a true poetic philosopher, whose wisdom is -alive with the throbs of holy passion, and - - Beauty—a living Presence of the earth— - Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms - Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed - From earth’s materials—waits upon his steps; - Pitches her tents before him as he moves, - An hourly neighbor. - -But though these poems are essentially meditative in spirit, they are -continually verging on two forms of the highest poetic expression, -abstract imagination and ecstasy; and the clear, serene, intense vision -which is their ordinary characteristic, is the appropriate mood out of -which such forms of imagination naturally proceed. Let us first give a -specimen of the creativeness of his imagination in its calmly -contemplative mood, and we will select one of his many hundred sonnets. - - Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou - In heathen schools of philosophic lore; - Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore - The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; - And what of hope Elysium could allow - Was fondly seized by Sculpture to restore - Peace to the Mourner. _But when He who wore_ - _The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow_ - _Warmed our sad being with celestial light,_ - Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace - From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, - Communed with that Idea face to face: - And move around it now as planets run, - Each in its orbit round the central sun. - -We will not stop to comment on the wealth of thought contained in this -sonnet, or the lingering suggestiveness of that wonderful line— - - “Warmed our _sad_ being with celestial light,” - -but proceed to give another example, fragrant with the deepest spirit of -meditation: - - More sweet than odors caught by him who sails - Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, - A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, - The freight of holy feeling which we meet - In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales - From fields where good men walk, and bowers wherein they rest. - -The following sonnet may be commended to warriors and statesmen, as -containing a wisdom as practical in its application as it is lofty in -its conception: - - I grieved for Bonaparté with a vain - And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood - Of that man’s mind—what can it be? What food - Fed his first hopes? What knowledge could _he_ gain? - ’Tis not in battles that from youth we train - The Governor who must be wise and good, - And temper with the sternness of the brain - Thoughts motherly and meek as womanhood. - Wisdom doth live with children round her knees; - Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk - Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk - Of the mind’s business; these are the degrees - By which true sway doth mount; this is the stalk - True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these. - -We will now extract a magnificent example of abstract imagination, -growing out of the meditative imagination, and penetrated by it. It is -the “Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland;” the “two -voices” are England and Switzerland. - - Two Voices are there; one is of the sea, - One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice: - In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, - They were thy chosen music; Liberty! - There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee - Thou fought’st against him; but hast vainly striven: - Thou, from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, - Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee. - Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft: - Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left; - For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be - That mountain Floods should thunder as before, - And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, - And neither awful Voice be heard by thee! - -Of the ecstatic movement of Wordsworth’s imagination, we might extract -numberless instances, rushing up, as it does, from the level of his -meditations, throughout his poetry. Take the following, from the “Ode to -Duty”: - - Stern Law-giver! yet thou dost wear - The Godhead’s most benignant grace; - Nor know we any thing so fair - As is the smile upon thy face; - _Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,_ - _And fragrance in thy footing treads;_ - _Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;_ - _And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong._ - -In a descriptive poem called “The Gipsies,” there is a very striking -instance of rapture immediately succeeding calmness: - - The weary sun betook himself to rest; - Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west, - _Outshining like a visible God_ - _The glorious path in which he trod._ - -Again, observe how the imagination kindles and melts into rapturous -idealization, and impetuously deifies the object of its sentiment, in -the following short reference to the death of Coleridge: - - Nor has the rolling year twice measured, - From sign to sign, its steadfast course, - Since every mortal power of Coleridge - Was frozen at its marvelous source; - _The ’rapt One of the godlike forehead,_ - _The heaven-eyed creature._ - -In the sonnet which we now extract we have a specimen of that still -ecstasy, so calm and so intense, in which Wordsworth stands almost alone -among modern poets: - - A fairer face of evening cannot be; - The holy time is quiet as a nun - Breathless with adoration; the broad sun - Is sinking down in its tranquillity; - The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea: - Listen! the mighty being is awake, - And doth with his eternal motion make - A sound like thunder—everlastingly. - Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, - If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought, - Thy nature is not therefore less divine: - Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year; - And worship’st at the temple’s inner shrine, - God being with thee when we know it not. - -It is, however, in the sublime “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality -from the Recollections of Childhood,” that we best perceive the power of -Wordsworth’s imagination in all the various modes of its -expression—descriptive, analytic, meditative, interpretative, abstract -and ecstatic; and in this ode each of these modes helps the other; the -grand choral harmonies of the rapturous upward movement seeming to be -born out of the intense contemplation, that hovers dizzily over the -outmost bounds of human conception, to scrutinize, in the dim dawn of -consciousness, - - —those first affections, - Those shadowy recollections, - Which be they what they may, - Are yet the fountain light of all our day, - Are yet a master light of all our seeing. - -It is from these that we have ecstasy almost as a logical conclusion; -for - - _Hence_ in a season of calm weather, - Though inland far we be, - _Our souls have sight of that immortal sea_ - _Which brought us hither,_ - _Can in a moment travel thither,_ - _And see the children sport upon the shore,_ - _And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore._ - -We have no space to particularize the felicity of Wordsworth’s muse in -dealing with the affections, or the depth and power of his pathos. -Before leaving the subject of his genius, however, we cannot withhold a -reference to his “Ode on the Power of Sound,” which appears to be little -known even to readers of the poet, though in the thronging abundance of -its ideas and images, in the exquisite variety of its music, and in the -soul of imagination which animates it throughout, it yields the palm to -no ode in the language. - -Wordsworth is most assuredly not a popular poet in the sense in which -Moore and Byron are popular; and he probably never will be so among -those readers who do not distinguish between being passionate and being -impassioned, and who prefer the strength of convulsion to the strength -of repose; readers who will attend only to what stirs and startles the -sensibility, who read poetry not for its nourishing but its inflaming -qualities, and who look upon poetic fire as properly consuming the mind -it animates. Wordsworth is not for them, except they go to him as a -spiritual physician, in search of “balm for hurt minds.” Placed in a -period of time when great passions in the heart generated monstrous -paradoxes in the brain, he clung to those simple but essential elements -of human nature on which true power and true elevation must rest; and, -while all around him sounded the whine of sentimentality and the hiss of -Satanic pride, his mission, like that of his own beautiful blue -streamlet, the Duddon, was “to heal and cleanse, not madden and -pollute.” His rich and radiant imagination cast its consecrating and -protecting light on all those dear immunities of humanity, which others -were seeking to discard for the delusions of haughty error, or the -fancies of ripe sensations. Accordingly, though many other poets of the -time have a fiercer or fonder charm for young and unrestrained minds, he -alone grows upon and grows into the intellect, and “hangs upon the -beatings of the heart,” as the soul advances in age and reflection; for -there is a rich substance of spiritual thought in his poetry to meet the -wants of actual life—consolations for sorrow, help for infirmity, -sympathy for bereavement, a holy gleam of awful splendor to irradiate -the dark fear of death; a poetry, indeed, which purifies as well as -pleases, and penetrates into the vitalities of our being as wisdom no -less than loveliness: - - “Filling the soul with sentiments august— - The beautiful, the brave, the holy and the just.” - - P. - - * * * * * - - - - - BRIDGET KEREVAN. - - - BY ENNA DUVAL. - - - I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a grave divine say that - God has two dwellings, one in heaven, and the other in a meek - and thankful heart; which Almighty God grant to me and to my - honest scholar. Isaak Walton. - -“How did you find them all at home, Bridget?” - -“Hearty, ma’am, thank ye;” and the girl moved busily about the room. - -She was my chambermaid, and although she had only lived with me a little -while, I felt very much attached to her, for she was so kind, -industrious and honest. Soon after she came to us I was seized with a -painful illness, and during it, she nursed me with the tenderness of a -sister; often, when the spasms of acute pain would shake my feeble body, -I had seen large tears standing in her full, round eye. - -As she assisted me in undressing, I observed that she was not in her -usual spirits, and when she handed me my dressing-gown, I saw that her -hands trembled. But she patiently went through every little duty, -although I could well see that she was suffering from some hidden -trouble. When I sat down to my reading, she left me to prepare for me -some tea—for, dear reader, I am a true old maid, and love my cup of -tea, as well as I love my existence almost. - -Presently she re-entered, and rolling a little teapoy beside my chair, -she placed on it the waiter, and poured out my tea. Just then I heard -the heavy breathing of my dear Aunt Mary, who was asleep in the -adjoining room. - -“Close the door of Aunt Mary’s room, my good Bridget,” I said; “and -while I drink my tea and eat this nice piece of toast you have made me, -come and tell me something about Ireland.” - -I knew this would please her; for often had she talked to me at night, -when I would be undressing, about the glens and vales of beautiful, -song-famed Coleraine; and the fairies, with their round rings in the -grass. She had never seen a fairy her own self, but “Elsie the child” -her sister had, and the “_little body_,” as she called the fairy, had -pinched the poor “_wean_ Elsie.” - -Then again on Sunday, or holyday nights, she would tell me how, when a -child, she had wished to be a nun, and that she would go out in the -dark, pitch night, and kneel on the ground in the middle of their -garden, and ask the good Virgin and the Saints to pray for her—for -Bridget has always been a religious girl. - -Then she had actually heard the Benshee cry. It came wailing around the -house when her father died; and she had heard it a week before his -death, when he was hale and hearty. She had heard it at night-fall one -evening when she was crossing the glen below their cottage, as she was -coming from Coleraine, where she had been spending the day with her -grandmother. It commenced “low and mournful like” in the bushes beside -her, and then ranged around the hills, swelling out louder and louder, -until it ceased behind the cottage. As she would dwell on this, my fancy -would picture to me the enthusiastic, imaginative Irish girl, standing -with lips apart, listening to this mournful wailing night-wind, which -her after troubles shaped into the sad poetical Benshee; and if I had -had the skill of an artist, I would have made a lovely sketch, I am -sure; for so plainly did her descriptions bring before me her figure and -the surrounding landscape, lightened with the warm hue of the lingering -twilight so peculiar to Ireland. - -Bridget sat down on the rug beside me, and when we went to bed that -night, good reader, it was later than unsuspecting Aunt Mary imagined; -but I had heard all Bridget’s troubles, had soothed and comforted her, -had read her lover’s last letter to her—for she had a lover—what girl -has not?—and sent her to bed with a heart considerably lighter than -when, with aching head but patient fingers, she had prepared my nice -night meal. - -Bridget’s father, Dermot Kerevan, was a Scotchman by birth, but of Irish -parentage. His father had settled in Glasgow, and there did Dermot spend -his early years, and obtain thriftiness and steadiness, qualities not -often found in an Irishman. Dermot was early apprenticed to a gardener, -and when he was out of his term of service, his master recommended him -to an Irish gentleman, who wanted a gardener for his place, “The -Forest,” at Coleraine. There Dermot came, and it was not long before he -brought home to his pretty gardener’s-cottage, the beauty of Coleraine, -Grace Mullen, who he had persuaded to be his “_bonnie wife_,” as he -called her. They must have been very happy—for sweeter domestic -pictures I have never heard described, either in tale or poem, than my -good Bridget would sketch in her little stories of their home, during -her father’s life. But this blessed happiness could not last for ever. -One fine spring day poor Dermot was brought home from the garden, up at -“the great house,” on a litter, nearly dead. He had fallen from a high -tree while lopping off a branch. He lingered only a few hours, leaving -the lonely widow with her “four childer,” to battle with life alone. - -Bridget was the eldest, and she was only twelve. Then there was Grace, -and Elsie, and little Jinny, the baby, all to be cared for. Bridget was -sent to her uncle’s at Glasgow town, and the grandmother of Grace -Kerevan gave the shelter of her poor roof to the rest of them. Widow -Kerevan opened a little shop in her grandmother’s front room, and did -“bits of work for the people all around Coleraine,” as Bridget expressed -it. - -A year after the kind, loving father’s death, home came Bridget from -Glasgow town. Her uncle, the rich distiller, was enraged at her, for she -had told his wife she had rather starve in Ireland than go to the -meeting-house all day Sunday, and sit straight up at her sewing and -knitting the rest of the week. Poor girl! the strict, rigid habits of -her uncle’s thrifty Scotch wife had driven her almost frantic. She, who -had roamed at will, over hill and glen, and had never been bound down to -any duty. The domestic affairs of her own home had always been soon -dispensed with, and she had spent most of her time in rambling through -the forest, or by the stream-side, or playing with Gracey, Elsie, and -the baby, chasing their shadows on the grassy hill-side; then how could -she bear the strait-laced notions and rules of her notable Scotch aunt? -Not at all, and she told her so; and they sent her home to the -starvation her aunt had often taunted her with, holding it in -perspective, when she would be rebellious. - -The mother, grandmother, and children crowded around her. Grace Kerevan -held her child, from whom she had been so long parted, close to her -bosom, and sobbed with joy. - -“And so,” said the old grandmother, “the ‘Scotch _quean_,’ as poor -Dermot used to say, told ye we starved here? Never mind, darlint, ye -shall always have a p’raty, even if we all do without.” - -Poor Bridget worked early and late, for the farmers’ wives, but she only -made a “small thrifle,” as she said, and sometimes they were so poor -that they had scarcely a potato apiece in the house. - -“And did you ever wish yourself back in Glasgow town, Bridget?” I -inquired. - -“Niver, ma’am,” was the girl’s energetic answer; and I do not believe -she ever did, for the genial light of home-love shone in her poor, Irish -home, for which her little affectionate heart had pined, under the -wealthier but cold roof of her uncle. - -“Thin I came to Ameriky.” - -“But, Bridget, how came you to think of America?” - -“Och, the girls all around talked about Ameriky, and my aunt’s cousin’s -husband’s sister writ home a letter about her making such a power of -money. Well, I talked to mother about it, but she cried, and so did -grandmother, and they asked me where I’d get the four pound to pay my -passage with. That kept me quiet a bit, for I’d niver seen so big a heap -of money. But one day, when I was shaking up grandmother’s bed, I felt a -great big lump in it, that was sewed up in the straw, and I dragged it -out, and it was an old stocking with money tied in it. I ran screamin’ -with joy to mother. But och, how she cried and grandmother scolded. Then -I cried, too, and grandmother came and hugged me, and told me to give -over cryin’, that there was the money if I wanted it. She said she’d hid -it away in the bed, years agone, to keep off the dark day. Then I cried, -‘Grandmother, let me go ’till Ameriky, and I will send ye so much gold -that’ll keep the dark day away forever.’ - -“Then mother said, ‘Let the girl go, for sure she’s had light given her, -and she knows better than us.’” - -“Did you not feel a little sorry, Bridget, when they gave up at last?” I -asked. - -“No, ma’am, not a bit,” she continued; “and I hurried around and got -ready. The girl that had writ the letters home about Ameriky, sent out a -ticket to her sister to come on the vessel that was just going; but -she—Rosy McLanahan it was—was very sick, and couldn’t go; and so -mother bought her ticket for me. But, och, when mother bid me good bye, -and kissed me, and left me on the vessel, then I cried. I didn’t cry a -bit when I bid grandmother and the childer good bye at the house, but it -was when I saw mother going down the side of the vessel, and get into -the tumbling little boat, that I cried. I felt so lonely like, just as I -did when father was buried; and I watched the little boat, and her red -cloak, until she got ashore. Then there she stood, and shook her -handkerchief until it growed too dark to see her. Och, Miss Enna, but -then I cried—all to myself though—for I was ashamed the people should -see me, and I went off to my little bed and cried all night; for I -thought I was furder away from them than father was, for he was in -heaven, and I was out on wide wather. Then I thought of what father used -to tell me about God bein’ with us always, and I tried to stop my cryin’ -by prayin’.” - -“How old were you then, Bridget?” - -“Not quite fifteen, ma’am.” - -“Were you not glad when you saw America, my poor child?” - -“Indade and indade I was, for I’d been so sick all the way, and when the -vessel came up the river to Philadelphia, I cried with joy. But when the -vessel anchored, and people came from shore, and I heerd them a greetin’ -one another, my heart fell like a great lump of lead, for I’d nobody in -this wild, new country to greet me. Then I cried again, but it was with -the heart-ache. I sat there all alone, when one of the women, who had -been very kind to me on the passage, came up to me, and she brought with -her a man, who, she said, used to know my mother when she was a slip of -a girl in Coleraine, and if I would go home with him, he would try to -find me a place. I bundled up my clothes, which were only a few pieces, -and went with him. This was on a Saturday night like, Miss Enna, and on -Monday they took me to a place.” - -“Was it a nice place, Bridget?” - -“Yes, ma’am; but ’twas a plain, hard-working family; they kept only me, -and they had a lot of childer and a whole parcel of apprentice boys; but -Mrs. Hill—that was her name—was kind to me, and worked with me when -she could, and took good care of my money, which she put all away, and I -didn’t spend a bit. She giv’ me some of her old dresses and an old hood, -so I saved up all my money for four months. Then I writ my first letter -to mother, and sent her the sixteen dollars.” - -“Oh, Bridget!” I exclaimed, “why did you not write before?” - -The girl laughed quietly, and replied, - -“I wanted to send a big bit of money when I writ home; and I know’d the -neighbors would stare, and grandmother would open her eyes, and mother -would be so proud of her Bridget sendin’ home three pound and over. Then -came a letter from them at home, and it made me cry so. They were all -well, and had got my money; but mother tried to scold a bit bekase I -hadn’t writ before, but she was so plased to hear I was doin’ well, that -she didn’t scold much. Then I worked on, but I felt lonely like, and -kept thinkin’ how nice ’twould be to have Gracey with me. So I saved up -twenty dollars, and sent it to Ireland; and soon Gracey came to me. -Mother couldn’t come, I know’d, for grandmother was so old as to stay in -bed all the time. I’d been a year in Ameriky when Gracey came over; then -after awhile I sent for Elsie, for the times were still harder in -Ireland, and mother had bad work to get on with her poor old sick granny -to nurse. Elsie seemed so little when she came, that I didn’t know what -to do with her; but Mrs. Hill, the kind soul, said she might come and -live with me; that she could play with the childer, and rock the cradle, -and go errands, and she would give her her clothes the first year; then, -if she was smart, she would give her a half dollar a week—for Mr. Hill -was richer now. I took great pleasure in Elsie, she was good and minded -me; but Gracey was headstrong like, and would have her own way. She gave -me a dale of trouble, and many’s the night I’ve laid awake and thought -about her. She liked to taze me, and make me believe she was worse than -she was. - -“At last Mr. Hill and his wife made up their minds to buy a large farm -clear up in the country, a great many miles off from Philadelphia, and -Elsie and me went with them. This did Gracey good, and she was a better -girl ever afterward, for when she was left alone in Philadelphia, she -saw how cross she’d been to me, and this made her sorry; and she went to -church rigilar, and attended to her duties, and used to go and talk to -my good old priest, Father Shane, for he writ about it to me, -unbeknownst to her—och, but I was glad thin. - -“After I’d been in the country—on the farm, I mane—a letter came from -mother, telling us of poor grandmother’s death, and the letter had all -tears over it, which made Elsie and me cry, for we know’d they were poor -mother’s tears. In this same letter she said she wished we could send -her a ticket to come to Ameriky with; that if she could only see her -Bridget once more before she died, she would be happy. This was -spring-time, so I takes up Elsie’s money and mine, and goes off to -Philadelphia to buy a ticket for mother and show Gracey mother’s letter. -Gracey had no money to give me, for she was always extravagant; and no -wonder, for she was pretty, like mother, and liked a bit of finery -better than plain folks like myself. She cried about it, but I comforted -her, and told her niver mind, I’d enough; but I couldn’t buy myself a -dress—that I didn’t let her know though for fear she’d fret. - -“So I bought the ticket, and got Father Shane to write a letter for me. -I was going to stay in Philadelphia a week—so Mrs. Hill said I might; -but the day after I bought the ticket, a wagon came all the way from the -farm to tell me Elsie was dying—that she had sickened the day I left, -and had the measles. Then again, Miss Enna, I was in trouble, for Elsie -was so good, and she looked like father. Och, I cried all the way out to -Mrs. Hill’s. Sure enough, when I got there my poor baby was near gone. I -nursed her night and day, poor child, but ’twas no use, God took my -_wean_ away from me. - -“The night she died she opened her eyes and know’d me for the first -time. I thought she was getting well, though the doctor said she -couldn’t. - -“‘Bridget,’ siz she, ‘we’d a nice play down in the glen, hadn’t we!’ - -“I couldn’t answer, my heart was so full, for I saw she thought she was -home in Coleraine. - -“‘Bridget!’ she called, and held out her little hands to me. I took her -in my arms, cryin’ all the time. - -“‘Let’s go into the cottage,’ siz she, ‘for father and grandmother have -been callin’ us a good many times. It’s dark out here, Bridget, and -cold—hold me, Bridget, dear, for I can’t see.’ - -“Then she called ‘mother!’ and tryin’ to put her little arms around my -neek, said she wanted to go to sleep, and told me to sing to her. I -hugged her close up to me, and after a few words about the long grass -under the hill by the cottage, where she and Jinny used to roll over -playin’, she drew a long breath, and as I kissed her, she died. Och, but -that was the darkest night I iver spent, Miss Enna. I was all alone, for -Mrs. Hill had gone to sleep, tellin’ me I must call her if Elsie was -worse. There I sat all night holdin’ my dead darlint close to my bosom, -too heart-struck to cry. But when in the morning Mrs. Hill tried to take -her from me, they say I screamed and held on to her like a mad person. - -“I niver saw Elsie afterward, Miss Enna,” said the poor girl, with tears -streaming down her cheeks, “for when they buried her in the cold earth, -I was raving sick, and they said I would die too. Part of the time I -know’d them, and part of the time I was crazy, but when I’d my sinses, I -prayed God would just keep me alive to see my mother. He heard my -prayer,” she continued, crossing herself devoutly, “and before mother -came I was well again, though my heart was full of sorrow for Elsie. - -“When I sent for mother, I told her not to come till fall, for I thought -by that time I’d lay by a trifle of money to take a room in Philadelphia -and buy some furniture. All summer I worked hard, and Mrs. Hill, the -good soul, give me as much money in the fall as if Elsie had been -workin’ too. She know’d what I wanted with it, and she give me some old -chairs, and a bed, too. I was sorry to leave her, for her and her -husband was kind to us always; but I know’d mother would feel lonely -like in town without me. So I packed up all my things, and came in Mr. -Hill’s market-wagon to town. - -“Father Shane had writ to me that the vessel was expected in a week or -so—and I came to town just in time to rent a nice room for mother. I’d -enough of money to pay a month’s rint ahead, and to buy some wood. Then -I bought a carpet and a nice bedstead, and a table, and a good, warm -stove—oh, yes, and a _cushioned form_, or sofy, as the people call it -here, that looked like the one we had at home in Coleraine. Gracey give -me a little trifle, which was a grate dale for her, seein’ it had been -summer-time, and she had to have a new bonnet, bein’ in town. - -“The night before mother came, Gracey ran round from her place to see -mother’s room, and how proud I felt, as we stood in the middle of it, -and looked around at all the things—we felt so rich. - -“‘Now, if we only had a bureau,’ said Gracey, ‘to put under that little -glass of mine.’ - -“Gracey had always finer notions than me. I’d niver thought a bit of a -bureau, for I know’d mother had a chist which would hold Jinny’s clothes -and hers—all they had, poor things. Father Shane came to see me that -night, too, and brought a big, black, wood cross to hang over the -mantlepiece, and a string of beads for Jinny. Och, but we felt very -happy, only every little bit, poor Elsie would come to my mind, and I’d -think of how merry she’d been if she’d been livin’; and grate tears -would roll down in spite of me. Father Shane spoke very pretty about -her, and made me feel better, and after he and Gracey went away, I sat -down by the stove, and there I sat all night, for I didn’t want to -rumple the bed I’d made up for mother, for the sheets looked so white -and smooth. - -“The next afternoon the vessel came up the river, but it was ten o’clock -at night before mother got off. There I stood on the wharf, talkin’ to -her, that was on the ould vessel, all the evenin’. When she first see’d -me, she cried, - -“‘Och, and it’s my Bridget, God bless her!’ - -“She was so glad, she’d have tumbled overboard, but for one of the -sailors who caught her. We both cried and laughed, and some laughed at -us; but the good sailor who had caught ahold of her when she was -fallin’, told her to cheer up, that she’d soon be on shore with her -Bridget. He helped her down the side of the vessel, and when she hugged -me and we both cried, I saw him wipe his eyes. He shook hands with us -both, and asked where we lived, and said he’d come to see us. - -“But, och, didn’t mother stare when she see’d her nice room. Then she -throw’d her apron over her head and cried like a baby. Jinny had grow’d -so tall I didn’t know her. I was glad she was tall, for I’d hated to see -her, for fear she’d make me cry about Elsie, bein’ little like her; but -she was near as tall as Gracey, and right pretty. - -“Mother examined all the room, and kissed me, and hugged me, and then, -when Gracey came, she looked very proud—for Gracey was so fine lookin’. -Gracey staid all night, and we made her and Jinny a bed on the floor -with the cushions of the _form_, for mother said she’d sleep with her -Bridget. We talked nearly all night, and we all cried about Elsie, and I -told ’em a great many pretty stories about her. - -“‘Yes, mother,’ said Gracey, ‘Elsie, the darlin’, was always a blessin’ -to Bridget, but I was a trouble.’ - -“I made her hush, and told her she wasn’t as bad as she pretended to be, -and then after a bit we all went to sleep. But after I’d been asleep -awhile I wakened, and there was mother lanin’ over me cryin’ and kissin’ -me; I didn’t ope my eyes, but laid so still; for oh, Miss Enna, it was -so nice to have my own mother beside me, and then I was afraid I was -dramin’.” - -“Well, Bridget,” I said, as the girl wiped her eyes, “how did you -support your little family?” - -“Very azy, ma’am,” she replied, “for we all took care of ourselves. Mrs. -Hill came in and asked Jinny to go and live with her. Then I got a nice -place at poor Mrs. Kenyon’s mother’s. You know’d Mrs. Kenyon, Miss Enna, -’twas she who died?” - -Indeed I did know her, for Mary Kenyon had been one of my dearest -friends, and only a few short months before the grave had closed over -her—the beautiful and the good. - -“Well,” continued Bridget, “after a bit I got mother two nice -first-floor rooms, at the corner of the street where she lived; and in -the front one she opened a little store, which kept her nicely.” - -But now came the romance—the love-story of good, innocent Bridget’s -life. Her lover was the good, kind-hearted sailor who had been so -interested in them when widow Kerevan landed. He came to see them as he -had promised, and though Bridget and the widow thought that Gracey’s -pretty curls and bright eyes brought him so often “_o’ evenin’s_,” they -soon found out it was the good Bridget he was after. - -“It’s three years now gone, since we were ingaged,” said Bridget, “and -nearly that since I have seen or heerd tell of him,” and she sighed -heavily. - -“Where did he go to, Bridget?” - -“Why, ma’am, he went in a states government vessel to the Ingees, and he -said he’d write to me; but I’ve niver had a line from him since he -sailed. He writ a letter to me at Norfolk town just before he went off, -and told me to love him true ’til he came back, then we’d be man and -wife. Mother long since wanted me to take another beau, for she sez I’m -gettin’ old, and bein’ plain like, nobody will have me, then I’ll be an -old maid that nobody likes or cares for; but I’d sooner be an old maid, -than brake my vow to Patrick; and even Father Shane has scolded mother -and Gracey about it, for they both taze me—and he sez I’m right.” - -“How do you mean break your vow, Bridget?” - -“Why you see, Miss Enna, both Patrick and I loved old Ireland so much -that we rigilarly ingaged ourselves, like the people used to in the old -country.” - -“How was that, my child?” - -“Patrick takes a Prayer-book the night before he went away, and stood in -the middle of mother’s room, and swore on it by the holy cross, that he -niver would marry any woman but me, Bridget Kerevan; och, but his oath -was so solemn and beautiful, it made me tremble all over. Then he puts -the Prayer-book in my lap, and we took hold of each other’s hands over -it, and I made the same vow, and then we both kissed the book. Mother -and Gracey were by and heerd it all. How can I, then, Miss Enna, even if -I wanted to, take another beau? And I’m sure if any thing happens to him -I shall niver want another beau, for he was my first real one, and he -seemed to come right in Elsie’s place like in my heart.” - -As she sighed heavily, I comforted her, by telling her she was perfectly -right in keeping good faith to the absent Patrick; that she need not -mind if they did trouble her, it was better to suffer annoyances than -give up to do wrong. - -“To-night,” she continued, “they taxed me so bekaze I wouldn’t have any -thing to say to one of the neighbor’s boys from Coleraine, who know’d us -when we were childer; and mother said it was her belafe that Patrick was -safe and happy somewhere else, married to some other woman. This made me -very mad, and I started up and went out of the house without sayin’ a -word; but mother ran after me down the street, and made me kiss her -good-night, and we made up and parted friends.” - -“That was right, Bridget, for she is your mother, and though mistaken, -she meant it for the best.” - -“I know that, Miss Enna, but they trouble me so much, I sometimes hate -to go home.” - -Then she went softly up into her bed-room and brought down a poor, -worn-looking letter, and a dilapidated book, with one cover off, and the -leaves part gone. - -“This is his letter from Norfolk town, Miss Enna; read it, plaze, aloud, -for I niver tire hearin’ it.” - -I read it, and found it to be a manly, affectionate, lover-like letter. -He touchingly reminded her of her vow, in homely, plain language, it is -true, but real heart words were they, that brought tears to my eyes. - -“What is that book, Bridget?” - -“Oh, Miss Enna,” replied the girl, looking down, and her round face grew -crimson, “it’s a book of his’n. He used to be always readin’ in it; and -one day he throw’d it into my lap, and said, when I could read it he’d -give me a silk gownd fit for a quane to wear. I laughed and thought -nothin’ at all about it until after he’d been gone above a year, when I -found it down at mother’s one night in my old chist, which mother had -given me when I’d bought her the bureau poor Gracey wanted so bad. I’ve -kept the book iver since; and I take it out of my drawer o’ nights, and -sit down and try to see somethin’ in it, but even if I could rade, which -I can’t, I couldn’t see nothin’ in it, for it always makes me cry.” - -I took the book from her with great curiosity; I was anxious to see what -was the nature of it, for I hoped to judge by it of the character of -this sailor-lover. It was Falconer’s Shipwreck. I was satisfied, and was -a firmer friend than before to Patrick. - -A few weeks afterward, one night Bridget came home with a face perfectly -radiant, or “_bamin_,” as she would have said. I was reading in my -bed-room all alone. She came in, closed Aunt Mary’s door, and giving me -a letter, said, - -“Rade it, dear Miss Enna, rade it; he’s alive, and is comin’ home;” and -she sat down on the rug beside me, and laughed and cried at once as I -read the letter aloud to her. - -Sure enough, the lover was safe and true. He had written to her often, -but the letters had been lost, he supposed, as he had never heard from -her; but he felt sure, he said, that she was still his Bridget, even if -he did not hear from her. - -“There, you see, Miss Enna, how bad I’d been if I’d done as they wanted -me to,” she exclaimed; “and so Father Shane said to mother to-night, -when he read the beautiful letter—for he brought it to me. Patrick writ -to him, and sint him this letter to me inside of his’n, bekase he said -he’d writ so often to me, and sure a letter would rach me through Father -Shane.” - -Patient Reader, this is a true story; but I am the only one to be -sympathized with in it, for I lost my jewel of a chambermaid. A few -months afterward Patrick came home and claimed his faithful Bridget. We -had a busy time when she was married—for the whole family took an -interest in good Bridget’s fortune. Patrick was a nice, healthy, -bright-looking Irishman; and when on the Sunday after he arrived he came -to take her to mass, I saw him as they walked down the street together, -look at her sturdy little figure with as much admiration as if it had -possessed the fine proportions of a Venus. Love is such a beautifier. - -Father Shane married them, and Patrick rented a nice little house in the -suburbs of our town, and took Widow Kerevan home to live with them. -Bridget is a happy wife; but she has one trouble, and that is, that her -husband’s calling takes him away from her, and places him in danger; but -when he returns from long voyages she is as bright and merry as a lark. - -The other day I went to see her, and as her little girl Elsie came -nestling close to me, Bridget said, - -“Ever since that child was born, Miss Enna, I feel that my blessed -darlint has come back to me. Och, but He’s been kind to me,” she said, -blessing herself with devotion, “for He give me back both Patrick and -Elsie.” - -Good girl! God had indeed been kind to her, for he had bestowed upon her -those priceless gifts of the spirit—Faith and Truth. - - * * * * * - - - - - WHAT KATY DID. - - - BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’. - - - “O tell me where did Katy live, - And what did Katy do? - And was she very fair and young, - And yet so wicked too?” - -I was passing through a grove of budding maple trees, thinking of you, -of “Graham”—that is, wondering what in all the world I could find to -say, that you would care to hear; a desperate mood for one to be in, -certes—when my meditations were disturbed by the voice of a creature -which came from the heights above, chirping out, not softly, not -musically, but in a shrieking tone, as though bent on vociferous -disputation with somebody, “Katy _did_.” The spirit of opposition roused -within me as I heard that cry; I was about to deny the assertion point -blank, when the sweet, tiny voice of another insect, answered -distinctly, “she didn’t.” It was like the acceptance of a challenge in -effect; forthwith the first speaker began again, with increased energy, -“Katy did! Katy did—she did! she did! she did!” But still the milder -voice, quite undismayed, replied valiantly, and with a solemn air of -undoubtable truth, “She didn’t.” The neighboring spirits were now all -aroused; never did mortal before hear such a rush of sound as burst upon -me then! A perfect flood of abuse gushed from one throat, while distinct -and dignified denial met it all in reply. Asseverations numberless, and -uncharitable defamation of one, powerless now to vindicate herself, -followed. With wonder and with _patience_ I listened to the end; oh, -loveliest reader, will you do so likewise? Here is the substance of that -most strange _conversasionne_. - - * * * * * - -Little Kitty Clover was the only child of her widowed father—“a fine -old English gentleman, all of the olden time;” she was a blooming fairy -of a girl, spoiled, of course, and worshiped, too—a very “household -goddess.” Miserably educated had the young thing been; for—only think -of it!—at sixteen years of age, she was as wild and free in spirit as a -chamois, as brave as a chamois-hunter, and through the unpardonable -neglect of those who had the care of her, she had been taught nothing -whatever of sorrow, save the Dictionary definition—and _that_ she could -scarcely comprehend. At this age she was still under the care, or rather -in the companionship, of a governess, Lucy Freer, a lady also young, -indeed but two years older than her pupil; but _she_ was a dignified, -commanding personage, (and thus differed very much from Kitty;) a -silent, sad, but remarkably handsome girl, who sometimes wept, and never -laughed, (which was strange, for one would have thought that the spirit -of mirth dwelling in Kitty was of an absolutely infectious nature;) but -Lucy had the sweetest of smiles when she was pleased or happy, and that -smile, with her unvarying goodness and talent, secured from the first, -the warm love of her pupil. - -As we have intimated, Kitty’s father had done all that he possibly could -to spoil his daughter, and the labor in that way, it must be confessed, -had been far from vain; but fortunately, nature had given the girl a -warm, affectionate heart, and the training of her childhood had not -tended to make her half so selfish and exacting as might in all reason -have been expected. She was innately frank and noble; and there was a -clear expression of her blue eyes, which told how honest and sincere she -was in all her thoughts and doings. - -Retired and unsuperficial as had been her way of life, poor Kitty! she -found occasion to fall “desperately in love!” - -Shortly after the governess made her home at Woodland Cottage, in C——, -a gentleman from London came to call upon her. The pupil happened to be -present at the interview, and she heard the stranger announce his -intention of making his home in the village; and the great evident -satisfaction of Lucy Freer, as _she_ heard this determination, did not -escape the observation of the keen-eyed Kitty; and having little else to -think about for several days, she indulged in wonderment as to what kind -of regard her governess could cherish for the handsome man, that she -should be so very light of heart, so really joyous from the very moment -of his appearing. - -Eugene Lind, that was his name, was about thirty years of age, as fine -looking, stately, and elegant a person as need be; he was a lawyer by -profession, but still more of a poet by choice. As the only acquaintance -he had in C—— was housed at Woodland, he became at once a frequent -guest at the cottage, where he found always a genial host in Reginald -Clover; but the truth must be said, that though the old man’s welcome -was desirable, it was not him that the lawyer really went or cared to -see. This became quite evident when, ere long, in view of his old -friendship for Lucy, he made bold to push his way directly to the -school-room, when his visits were made in the day hours, which was -oftenest the case. - -It was no very marvelous wonder that Kitty Clover, secluded as she was -from the rest of the world, save that minute portion of it that dwelt in -and just about her own home—it was no wonder, I say, that, in the -course of time she should have begun to think quite as much of Mr. Lind -as she did of her grammar and mathematics; that she should even prefer -at last, _greatly_ prefer, listening to his fine readings and -conversation to any other amusement. But she did no more than listen, -that is for a year, till she was sixteen, and then Kitty had become so -accustomed to his presence, so cognizant of her own powers of speech, as -to find it really possible to talk with, and to learn of him; and he was -a wiser teacher than Lucy even, for he imparted a high charm to every -book he laid his hands on—it became “tabooed” immediately to the -child’s apprehension. - -Ah! no longer did she sit then, a shy and silent creature, in the great -bow-window, pretending to total abstraction from all things past, -present, or future, save what she found in the dry pages of her book; -but boldly, at least calmly, came she forward to sit beside her -governess, to meet the glances of the poet-lawyer, to listen, and to -speak with him and Lucy, as a sane and intelligent being. - -And so it was that, day by day, and more and more thoroughly, she -learned to love him; so it was that his words fell one by one, with -creative power on her heart, till the most radiant and glorious flower -sprung up there; but though its fragrance filled her life with a beauty -which she _felt_, she could not comprehend it, did not at all understand -it, till at last from wondering she passed to knowledge, as she wakened -to see how very pale the governess was growing—how languidly she -carried forward the work of instruction—how abstractedly she went about -all her tasks—how she neglected totally the volumes which had once been -her love companions—how she oftentimes wept—how dull and dispirited -she was when Eugene Lind was not by, and how she invariably, for a -moment at least, brightened up and smiled when he drew near. - -And when poor Kitty’s eyes _were_ opened, lovely reader, they seemed -good for nothing in the world but to weep—just a vent for tears; for -then she knew—she could not _help_ knowing—that Lucy Freer loved the -lawyer. And it was a terrible discovery to make, was it not—for now, -the child, what right had _she_ to think of him? She did not wonder for -a moment whether or no the love of the governess was well-founded, -whether or no he returned it; she could only say to herself, “he has -visited her constantly, has exerted himself to be agreeable, and it’s -all his own fault and doing—he has no right, and is too old to trifle -so. Lucy is an orphan, and poor; she is beautiful and good enough—yes, -even for him! I have a father, and am rich; he _ought_ to love her, and -he shall tell her he _does_.” - -And so little Kate (recollect my world-fashioned lady, all this happened -a long time ago, and she had learned her knowledge of life’s obligations -only from wild romances) felt that a duty devolved on her which must be -performed; and oh, how strenuously she labored, how dispassionately she -reasoned with herself, that she might become strong to fulfill it! - -Eugene had not visited the cottage for many days; a Friday night came -round, and for two whole weeks he had absented himself. On this day, as -by mutual consent, the books were laid aside, the school-room deserted, -Lucy retired to her own room ill—certainly at heart—and Kitty, silent -and troubled, yet stronger to bear her burden of sorrow, because she -felt that another suffered more than she, walked, practiced her music, -arranged flowers with the utmost determination, and then, restless, but -not knowing what to do with herself, she wandered about the house, quite -as if in a dream, yet cautious as a somnambulist, for how carefully she -shunned the presence and inquiring glances of her good old father. She -_was_ dreaming—such a dream, indeed, as adds years to the “inner life” -of the young—dreaming of bereavement, self-sacrifice, and death! even -she, that bright young girl! - -But at last, with assured purpose, Kitty seated herself to write a -letter. A difficult work it was to pen it, good and loving soul, thou -wilt not doubt it. No attempt at disguise was made in the writing, yet -she left the letter without signature, thinking to herself he will -understand how it all is; he will, if there is any honor in him, -explain—at least he shall feel that there is one here who watches him. - -“Mr. Lind,—Because you seem blind, and deaf, and dumb, to all that you -should, as a man of honor, be proud to see and know, I deem myself -excusable in reminding you of what you owe to one who has received you -into her presence as a brother, as _more_. I have no feeling of false -delicacy in thus appealing to you. A sense of right you must have. You -will _feel_ that I am only true to myself, to my sense of right, in so -doing. Halting thus, when you have gone so far, you do that which no -gentleman _should_ do. I cannot yet believe that you have sought the -presence of one who loves you well, if not wisely, merely because it -afforded you a momentary pleasure. Let me remind you that the life-peace -of a human being depends upon the course you shall pursue.” - -This heroic epistle was, of course, written, destroyed, and rewritten -many times before Kitty became fully satisfied that it was to her -purpose. That very night it was despatched to the post with no feelings -of false delicacy, as she said, but with a very little trepidation. Dear -child! she must certainly have been laboring under a species of moral -insanity, when she thought it better to risk so much as she did, rather -than a whole life should be made miserable by her hesitation, as she -believed Lucy Freer’s would be. - -The next day, Saturday, happened to be consecrated to the memory of St. -Valentine, February the fourteenth. Much relieved in mind, Kitty sat on -this “All Fool’s Day,” with the governess in her boudoir—a very -charming place it was, by the way, where beauty lived with the heiress. -They were listlessly looking over the love declarations which filled the -silver waiter before them; and it was evident that the passionate -confessions on which they gazed, produced little effect, save a vague, -momentary curiosity in the minds of either. One of them, in her young -heart, had renounced all loves, and as for the other— - -But at last Lucy looked upon her pupil with a flushed, smiling face, -exclaiming, “Here is a missive for _you_ from Eugene! You know the -writing—isn’t it his? It will be worth reading.” - -“Hum!” was the doubtful, brief reply—and Kitty held out her hand quite -carelessly for the Valentine, though, try as she might, she could not -conceal the sudden flashing of her eyes, and her hand, I believe, -trembled a little. She took the note and read—to _herself_. - - I who love you duly, truly, - Dare to tell you so to-day; - Sweetest maiden, though love-laden, - Bolder souls beset your way. - Do you hear? - - While the earnest, eager voices - Vow their passion and their truth, - I, too, bend in adoration - Of the splendor of your youth. - Do you care? - - And because your lightest whisper - Chains my spirit as a spell, - Oh, because your smile is dearer - To my heart than I can tell, - _Will_ you love me? - - In my memory I have throned you, - Thinking of you every hour; - Dear young Kitty, I adore you, - Ah! forget your tyrant power. - _Try_ to love me! - E. L. - -A sudden smile, brilliant in its gladness, swept over the maiden’s face -as she read; but then remembering somewhat, she arose, and hastily flung -the perfumed note within the grate, saying, - -“The impudence of those village boys is unpardonable; neither of us know -them much more than by sight, and they have no right to presume so far!” -But though she spoke so pettishly, Kitty’s smile, as she read the quoted -love-lay, had not escaped Lucy’s notice, and she said quietly in reply, - -“My dear, Eugene Lind is not a _boy_, and I don’t think his writing to -you _this_ day a piece of presumption either.” - -At night-fall, when Kitty sat alone, another epistle was laid before -her, which she read from beginning to end in such a state of -bewilderment as may be “imagined but not described.” - -“Dear Friend,—I have this morning received a letter, singular rather in -its bearings—at least to the fashion-moulded automaton it might seem -so—to me it is blessed to appear any thing _but_ blessed. A letter -written in such a style of undisguised earnestness and truth, that, -though it is Valentine day, I cannot doubt (perhaps you will say it is -because I _will_ not) either the writer’s name, or the purport of her -words—a declaration of love! And to me it is unspeakably dearer than -any thing else in the wide world could be. It is only because I felt -sensible every day of an increasing, engrossing interest in her, that I -have stayed so long away—it seems an age to me—from Woodland Cottage. -Now, if it be indeed true that I _have_ gained the affection of your -glorious young charge, am I not blest? Of such ‘a consummation, most -devoutly to be wished,’ I have dreamed, but never dared really to hope. -To-morrow I shall come to you, Lucy, and you must counsel me. The letter -inclosed has just reached me, accompanying one for myself from Richmond. -Joy to you! for now can you ‘give care to the winds’ once more—a bright -day is dawning, I clearly foresee it. - - “Adieu, yours ever, - “Eugene Lind.” - -Was there ever—was there _ever_ such a mishap? - -Surely never did astonished, troubled mortal wish more fervently for -instant annihilation than did poor Kitty Clover as she read this letter, -discovering at its conclusion that it had been by mistake addressed to -_her_! With what frantic haste did she commit it to the flames—how -furiously the bell-rope swung in her hand—how passionately she -dispatched the servant who answered her call with the letter which had -come inclosed, to Lucy. And then, the windy tempest having passed, how -wildly did she weep, as she barred herself from human sight, that she -might agonize alone over the effect of her most stupid interference! -Dead within her was all curiosity; she cared not who the stranger -Richmond was; she cared not for the conviction that Eugene Lind was at -that moment rejoicing in the thought of having won her love; the natural -misconstruction he had been so glad to put upon her words, took in her -mind nothing like the shape of a “comedy of errors”—it was something -intolerably worse. - -For hours she wept wildly and without ceasing; but the fountain of tears -was at last exhausted, and near midnight, having become wonderfully calm -again—the calmness of desperation it was, doubtless, and thinking of -every thing but sleep—Kitty ventured into the presence of her -governess. Neither had Lucy yet retired; but there she sat, poring over -her letter, and looking more beautiful and happy than she had in many -weeks. - -Kitty seated herself at Lucy’s feet, and said, quite regardless of her -friend’s astonishment at the ghost-like appearance she made, - -“Is there anybody you love?” - -“Why, if there were _not_ I should die!” - -“_Whom_ do you love?” - -“You, dear Kitty.” - -“But, is there anybody you shall _marry_? Do you like any person well -enough for that?” - -“I truly hope it. ’Twould be forlorn to think otherwise.” - -“Now, in Heaven’s name, don’t trifle! Tell me something about yourself, -about your past life; if you do not, Lucy, I shall go mad at once.” - -Lucy seemed lost in wonder, or in retrospection, as Kitty spoke thus; -she did not answer, and the impatient child, unable to bear the silence -and suspense, threw herself on her knees, and looked up imploringly, -with clasped hands, on the governess; finally, she said, “Lucy Freer, -tell me—_do_ you love Eugene? What has made you so sad and pale -lately?” - -“Do I love _him_! Yes, heartily—he has been so kind to me!” was the now -immediate and energetic reply. “Would you hear of my past, dear Kitty? -It is a dreary story.” - -But it was now the young girl who was silent; with her head bent to her -knees she sat at the feet of the governess; perhaps Lucy comprehended -her thoughts by intuition, (I know not,) but at all events she did not -wait long for a reply. - -“I am a married woman already,” she said. - -And now was Kitty all life and fire—up she sprung, exclaiming, - -“Is _he_, then, your husband?” - -“No, far from it,” was the answer which rolled back a cloud that -threatened to make more than Hadé’s gloom in the soul of the pupil. - -“I will tell you all, dear child; indeed, I will, for I can _now_—sit -down.” She was obeyed. “To-night Eugene Lind, God bless him! has sent me -a letter, the first received in months from my husband, Richmond Freer. -Come nearer, Kitty, look up, I am sad no longer, even though I tell you -he is exiled, he can never come back to old England again. But I am -going to him. I am going very soon.” No, even at this sudden and most -unexpected announcement, the listener would not lift her head. “When I -was at school, in London, I wrote occasionally for a paper which -Richmond edited; and by so doing I was able to help my poor, dear mother -very much—and she was in need of help. After a while I became -personally acquainted with the editor, and when at last he was arrested -for publishing what was called an incendiary—a too patriotic a paper -for these slavish times—you may be sure I did not forget to feel for -him. After his trial was over, and the sentence of banishment was passed -on him, we met again, for we loved each other, Kitty, and misfortune -made him only dearer to me. The very night of his departure from -England, his cousin, Eugene Lind, married us—and my poor mother was -present at the ceremony; she would not oppose the union, wild as it -doubtless seemed to her, because she knew that we were not fickle in our -love, and felt that a bright time might at last come even to us. Shortly -after the exile’s departure she died. I was left _alone_! When I had -finished the course of studies, and was a graduate, owing to Eugene’s -efforts, this situation of governess in your home was secured to me. May -Heaven bless and make all your life happy, Kate; you have been kind and -dear to me. For a long time Richmond lived on the Continent; but he did -not prosper there—he has been very unfortunate, poor fellow! Now that -he has gone to the New World, a pilgrim shorn of all things but my love, -do you not see—I must go to him? He calls me—I must go; and what a -glorious word is that _must_! Kitty, you will not ask me again if I love -Eugene Lind, or I shall launch out into such praises of him as will -astonish you.” - -And thinking now but of one thing, that Lucy _had_ certainly, in some -unaccountable way, discovered her secret, Kitty sprung from her humble -posture, she could not speak one word, but with a kiss she left the -governess alone. - -And oh, what a miserable little puss was she that live-long night. It -was now all clear; she, the proud, lofty-hearted, impulsive Kate, stood -in the eyes of another as having demanded his love—a beggar, imploring -his hand in payment of the heart given him unasked. Hugh! what blackness -of darkness was that which enveloped her now, body and spirit, as she -sat through the night-hours pondering with burning brain on her wretched -mistake. How hateful, how intrusive seemed the sunlight which at last -streamed in upon her! How would he ever believe, how could he ever be -told the ridiculous truth of the matter? For the very tenor of that -philanthropic letter she had written, made it impossible for her to find -or even seek a confidante in Lucy. - -There was but one thought that could at all console the mourner; perhaps -Eugene Lind would seek her hand some day, relying on the truth of what -he imagined her declaration, and then how disdainfully she would spurn -him—yes! if she died in the struggle, she would renounce him! Dear -spirit of human pride, what a mighty thing thou art! - -True to his expressed intention, Eugene visited Woodland Cottage the -next day, and everyday until the departure of the governess; but Lucy -and Mr. Clover alone received him. It was said in the house that Kitty, -in her grief at parting with Lucy, had wept herself sick; and for some -cause or other it was very evident that the gay girl was transformed -into a “weeping maiden.” - -But to Lucy’s mind it was all very clear; she had read Kitty’s heroic -appeal to Eugene, and could not doubt that it had been made on her own -account; she had no occasion to seek her pupil’s confidence, and when -her _cousin_, in his trouble, revealed to her all his doubt and grief, -though she made no explanation, she felt warranted in reassuring him, in -promising him an ultimate victory, if not an easy one. - -It was a relief to Kitty Clover when she was left alone in the cottage; -_alone_, I say, for her father accompanied Lucy and Mr. Lind to the -sea-side; the sorrow at parting with her friend was soon overcome, the -tears wiped away, and she breathed freely once more. - -When Eugene returned from Liverpool, as Lucy had counseled him, he wrote -to Kate a frank and manly letter, which ended with these words, “You -have my life in your hands—to make it glad or miserable. I love you, -and can be happy only if you return my love. May I come to you, and will -you welcome me? Oh remember, I pray you, how much depends on your reply, -and be merciful!” - -And the speedy answer was, only, “I do not love—I cannot receive you.” - -With a smile of triumph this was written, reader; and though a more -thoroughly false declaration never issued from the _will_ of a proud -woman, still, when it was penned and sent, the more Kitty felt her -respect and power of self-endurance rising rapidly; life seemed to her -then, as, after all, a pleasant burden, easy to be borne. Yes, she could -live—live happily, too, alone with her dear old sire, free in heart and -in fancy, fetterless as the winds—for the shadow of a shade of control -Mr. Clover never thought of exercising over her. - -But was she _really_ happy? Why, then, was she so tearful, so shy of -cherishing old memories? And if she was _not_ fearful, how happened it -that she so carefully piled away her old music, every song, every tune -she had used in the by-gone? Why did she hide from sight, in the high, -remote shelves of the library, all those books from which Eugene once -read to her and Lucy Freer? Why was the school-room, that pleasant -chamber, so studiously shunned? _Why was it_, dear, wise reader? - -During all the summer days the daughter spent much time in company with -her sire; and to please her, the old man began to be quite literary in -his tastes; and with chess, and books, and gardening, the time went -swiftly on to both. But a change had come over Kitty—and Mr. Clover had -eyes to perceive it; but he rather rejoiced in it, and became more proud -of her than ever. She was a child no longer—nor a lively, joyous girl, -but a quiet, thoughtful woman, becoming every day more beautiful, more -studious, and womanly. The idea of going into the gay world had once -made her almost wild with joy, but now the proposal which the father -made, that they should pass the ensuing season in the metropolis with -his relatives, was received with simple quiescence, and the preparations -for a long sojourn from home made calmly and soberly. The brain of the -lovely heiress teemed with no brilliant anticipations of conquest; and -love and show—what could it mean? - -The sickness which, for the first time in her life, prostrated Kitty, -the very week previous to the intended departure, was not therefore -attributable to great excitement, or to any like cause. It was a slow, -nervous fever, which, by degrees, wasted her strength away, and left her -an infant in helplessness on her bed. The course of the disease could -not be checked; it brought her to the very door of death, and there the -angel stood, ready to break the slender thread of life, yet the -destroying work, as if in mercy to the father, was delayed. - -Much of the time of this sickness her mind had wandered sadly; and he -who watched incessantly beside the girl, the adoring old man, had become -cognizant of a secret which he was not too proud to use. And so, one -evening, just at twilight, he stood with another—not the nurse, nor the -physician—in the sick chamber. Kitty had seemed sinking all the day, -and at nightfall the doctor had left her for a moment, almost at his -(professional) wit’s end. Then it was that Mr. Clover also had gone -forth, and when he came again, Eugene Lind was with him. - -She was sleeping when they entered, and both of those strong men -trembled when they stood together, looking silently upon her wasted, -pallid face. Eugene sat down beside her, and when she awakened, reader, -the father went softly from the room. - - * * * * * - -Hush! I cannot tell you of that awaking from death to life—from the -assumed indifference which had nearly chilled a young heart out of -existence, to the life of love. No! and I _will_ not tell it; but don’t -you say it is because I am tired of talking that I pause, or that I feel -inefficient to tell it all. It is not true. - - * * * * * - -But, still later in the season, when the brown leaves were falling in -every direction from the trees, when the clouds gathered often in the -sky, and the frequent rains presaged cold winter storms, there stood, -one of those intensely bright days yet vouchsafed October, a little -lady, frail and young, leaning on the arm of a gentleman, in the beech -grove, near Woodland Cottage. Cheerily fell the sunlight through the -almost leafless branches, and numberless insects flitted to and fro—one -of these, a tiny thing, alighted on the maiden’s hand, _not_ the one -clasped in _his_! They had paused in their walk to rest, and neither had -for many moments spoken; but as they began, as by mutual consent, to -retrace their steps, the gentleman looked up into the blue sky, -exclaiming fervently, “How _beautiful_ it is to-day!” and with a heart -full of thankfulness, he murmured fondly a name—a name with which the -reader is familiar. Then he looked upon _her_, and he seemed to find all -of heaven reflected in her eyes—and more beautiful than the sky or the -sunshine seemed she to him; he bent his stately form, he kissed her; -and, reader, her arms wound round him in a moment, she returned his -embracing. It was a marriage-covenant—nothing more or less! - -Ha! then the insect flitted away, far, far up above the happy mortals, -with a cry heard never before, and the grove became vocal with it; how -crimson grew the girl’s pale face, as she heard that strange, bold -voice, proclaiming to the winds, “_Katy did!_” - - * * * * * - -Over the ocean flew a message—thus it run: - -“She is mine, Lucy! this brave, proud, generous little Kitty, is mine! -And because she is given to me in this eleventh hour, I feel that she is -a ‘gift of God,’—a gift unspeakably precious. My heart is _full_ of -‘thanksgiving and the voice of melody,’ for we are one now—one -forever—in life and in death, one. I shudder when I think how she has -twice been nearly lost to me—once by her own lofty pride, and again by -the Angel of Death, who seemed a terror-king when he hovered beside her. -She is so pale and weak, so unlike her former self in physical beauty, -that I tremble when I look upon her; yet I know, Lucy, that she will not -die. We shall both live, to prove, on earth, how strong a tie of love -unites us.” - -Yes, they did live to prove it; and certainly a happier poet never -breathed, than he whose bright and cheering songs, springing from a -deep, clear fountain in the heart, went afterward, floating over the -wide earth—they were the most glorious “songs of the affections.” - -And so you have the long and the short of the matter. You know as well -as I, all that poor Katy did! How many times on this great earth have -“trifles, light as air,” set all the world a-gadding! Alas! yes, -creatures as brainless and chattering, and far less innocent, than the -insect disputants, have we humans too often proved ourselves. Many a -great matter has a spark of fire kindled; and the “Comedy” has become a -rare thing in comparison with the Tragedy of Errors. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GAME OF THE SEASON. - - - BY FRANK FORESTER. - - - BAY SNIPE SHOOTING. - -[Illustration] - The Hudsonian Godwit. _Limosa Hudsonica. Vulgo._ Ring-tailed Marlin. - -The Red-Breasted Snipe. _Scolopax Noveboracensis. Vulgo._ Robin-breast, - Quail Snipe, Dowitcher. - -Under the general, and very incorrect appellation of Bay Snipe, and -sometimes of Plover, the sea-shore gunners, and city fowlers who -accompany them for pleasure, are wont to include many totally distinct -and different families of waders, each containing several varieties, and -all, though in some sort connected, entirely dissimilar in -characteristics, plumage, cry and flight, as well as in some -peculiarities of habit. - -Of these families, the most remarkable are the Curlew, _numenius_; the -Godwit, _limosa_; the Sandpiper, _tringa_; the Tattler, _totanus_; the -Plover, _charadrius_; the Snipe, _scolopax_; the Turnstone, -_strepsilas_; the Sanderling, _calidris_; the Avoset, _recurvirostra_; -and the Stilt, _himantopus_; all of which at some period of the year are -visiters or temporary inhabitants of some portion of the Atlantic shores -of North America, from the Bay of Boston to the Belize. - -In the tepid waters of Florida, the great bay of Mobile, the sea lakes -of Borgne and Pontchartrain, and all along the muddy shoals and alluvial -flats of the lower Mississippi, these aquatic races dwell in myriads -during the winter months, when the ice is thick even in the sea bays of -the Delaware and Chesapeake, and when all the gushing streams and vocal -rivulets of the Northern and Middle States, are bound in frozen silence. -In the spring, according to the temperature of the season, from the -middle of April until the end of May, these migratory tribes begin to -visit us of the northern shores, from the Capes of the Chesapeake, along -all the river estuaries, sea bars, lagoons, and land-locked bays, as -they are incorrectly termed, of Maryland and Delaware, the Jersey shores -and the Long Island waters, so far as to Boston Bay, beyond which the -iron-bound and rugged nature of the coast deters them from adventuring, -in the great flights with which they infest our more succulent alluvial -shores and sea marshes. - -With the end of May, with the exception only of a few loitering -stragglers, wounded, perhaps, or wing-worn, which linger after the -departure of their brethren, they have all departed, steering their way, -unseen, at immense altitudes, through the trackless air, across the -mighty continent, across the vast lakes of the north, across the -unreclaimed and almost unknown hunting-grounds of the red man, to those -remote and nearly inaccessible morasses of the Arctic Regions whither -the foot of man has rarely penetrated, and where the silence of ages is -interrupted only by the roll of the ocean surf, the thunderous crash of -some falling iceberg, and the continuous clangor of the myriads and -millions of aquatic fowl, which pass the period of reproduction in those -lone and gloomy, but to them secure and delightful asylums. Early in the -autumn, or, to speak more correctly, in the latter days of summer, the -Bay birds begin to return in hordes innumerable, recruited by the young -of the season, which, not having as yet indued the full plumage of their -respective tribes, are often mistaken by sportsmen and gunners, -unacquainted with the distinctions of natural history, for new species. -During the autumn, they are much more settled and less restless in their -habits than during the spring visit, when they are impelled northward by -the irresistible _æstrum_, which at that period stimulates all the -migratory birds, even those reared in confinement and caged from the -nest, to get under way and travel, whither their wondrous instinct -orders them, in order to the reproduction of their kind in the -localities most genial and secure. - -Throughout the months of August and September, they literally swarm on -all our sand-bars, salt meadows, and wild sea marshes, feeding on the -beaches and about the shallow pools left by the retiring tide, on the -marine animalculæ, worms, aquatic insects, small crabs, minute -shell-fish, and fry; after this time, commencing from the beginning of -October, they move southward for winter quarters, although some species -tarry later than others, and some loitering individuals of all the -species linger behind, until they have assumed their winter garniture, -when they are again liable to be mistaken for unknown varieties. - -Of these misnamed Bay Snipe, the following are the species of each -family most prized by the sportsman and the epicure, all of which are -eagerly pursued by the gunner, finding a ready sale at all times, -although, _me judice_, their flesh is for the most part so oily, rank -and sedgy, that they are rather nauseous than delicate or palatable. -Much, however, depends on the state of their condition, the nature of -the food on which they have fattened, and localities in which they feed; -and to some persons the very flavor, of which I complain as rank, sedgy -and fishy, appears to take the guise of an agreeable _haut gout_. - -The Red-breasted Sandpiper, _Tringa Icelandica_, known on the Long -Island waters, among the small islets of which it is very abundant, as -the “Robin Snipe,” by which name it is generally called, owing to the -resemblance of its lower plumage to that of the Red-breasted Thrush, or -Robin, _Turdus migratorius_, of this continent. In autumn this bird -assumes a dusky gray upper, and white under, plumage, and is then termed -the “White Robin Snipe.” In point of flesh it is one of the best of the -Shore-birds. It is easily called down to the decoys by a well simulated -whistle, and is consequently killed in great numbers. - -The Red-backed Sandpiper, _Tringa Alpina_, generally known as the -“Black-breasted Plover.” It is a restless, active and nimble bird, flies -in dense bodies, whirling at a given signal; and at such times a single -shot will frequently bring down many birds. In October it is usually -very fat, and is considered excellent eating. In its autumnal plumage it -is generally known to fowlers as the “Winter Snipe.” - -The Pectoral Sandpiper, _Tringa pectoralis_. This is a much smaller, but -really delicious species, particularly when killed on the upland -meadows, which it frequents late in the spring and early in the summer, -and on which I have killed it lying well to the dog, which will point -it, while spring snipe shooting. On Long Island it is known as the -“Meadow Snipe,” or “Short Neck;” on the Jersey shores, about Egg Harbor, -where it sometimes lingers until the early part of November, it is -called the “Fat Bird,” a title which it well merits; and in -Pennsylvania, where it occurs frequently, is often termed the “Jack -Snipe.” It is these blunders in nomenclature, and multiplication of -local misnomers, which render all distinctions of sportsmanship so -almost incomprehensible to the inhabitants of distant districts, and so -perplexing to the youthful naturalist. During the autumn of 1849 I -killed the Pectoral Sandpiper in great numbers, together with the -American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, and the Black-bellied -Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, on the marshes of the _Aux Canards_ -river, near Amherstberg, in Canada West, in the month of September, and -a month later at Montgomery’s Pool, between lakes Simcoe and Huron. - -Of the Tattlers, three only are in repute as shore-birds, the best of -the species, the Bartramian Tattler, _Totanus Bartramius_, better known -as the “Upland Plover,” which is, in fact, with scarcely an exception, -the most delicious of all our game-birds, being a purely upland and -inland variety, and as such never, or but extremely seldom, shot on the -coast. - -These three are, - -The Yellow-shanks Tattler, _Totanus Flavipes_, vulgo, “the lesser yellow -legs”—a bird, in my opinion, of very indifferent qualifications for the -table, but easily decoyed, and readily answering the fowler’s whistle, -and therefore affording considerable sport. - -The Telltale Tattler, _Totanus Vociferus_, vulgo, “greater yellow legs,” -a less numerous species than the former, and more suspicious. Its flesh, -when it feeds on the spawn of the king-crab, or “Horse-shoe,” is all but -uneatable, but later in the season it is in better condition, and is -esteemed good eating. A few are said to breed in New Jersey. In the -neighborhood of Philadelphia, where these birds are shot in great -numbers on the mud-flats of the Delaware from skiffs, with carefully -concealed gunners, stealthily paddled down upon them till within close -shooting distances, these birds are termed “Plovers,” and the pursuit of -them plover shooting; of course wrongfully. - -The last of this family is the Semipalmated Tattler, _Totanus -Semipalmatus_, universally known as the “Willet,” from its harsh and -shrill cry, constantly repeated during the breeding season, the last -note of which is thought to bear some resemblance to that sound. It is a -swift, rapid and easy flyer, and though rather shy when in exposed -situations, can be allured to the decoys. When in good order the flesh -of the Willet is very palatable, although not so greatly esteemed as its -eggs, which really are delicious. - -Next to these come the Godwits, two in number, known by the unmeaning -title of Marlin. - -The great Marbled Godwit, _Limosa Fedoa_, the “Marlin.” This bird, -though not very abundant, is a regular visitant of the seashores and -bays in the spring and autumn. It is very watchful, and will permit of -no near approach, unless some of its fellows are killed or wounded, when -it will hover over the cripples, with loud, shrill cries, affording an -easy opportunity of getting several barrels in succession into the -flock. - -And the Hudsonian Godwit, _Limosa Hudsonica_, or the “Ring-tailed -Marlin,” is a still rarer and smaller variety than the last, of very -similar habits and of equal excellence in flesh. It is far more common -in the Middle States than in the Eastern districts, and is abundant in -the wild and barren lands far to the northward. I have seen it shot, -likewise, on the swamps of the _Aux Canards_, to which I have already -referred. This is the larger of the three birds, lying uppermost, in the -group, at the head of this article; it was sketched from a fine specimen -shot on the Delaware in the month of May. It is thus described by Giraud -in his excellent work on the Birds of Long Island: - -“Bill, blackish-brown, at base of lower mandible yellow; upper parts -light-brown, marked with dull-brown, and a few small, white spots; neck -all round brownish-gray; lower parts white, largely marked with -ferruginous; basal part of tail-feathers and a band crossing the rump, -white. Adult with the bill slender, blackish-brown toward the tip, -lighter at the base, particularly at the base of the lower mandible; a -line of brownish-white from the bill to the eye; lower eyelid white. -Throat white, spotted with rust color; head and neck brownish-gray; -lower parts white, marked with large spots of ferruginous; under tail -coverts barred with brownish-black and ferruginous; tail brownish-black -cast, a white band at the base; a band over the rump; tips of primary -coverts and basis of quills white; upper tail-coverts brownish-black, -their basis white; upper parts grayish-brown, scapulars marked with -darker spots; feet bluish. Length fifteen inches and a half, wing eight -and a half.” - -Among the various families of birds, which are all known, as I have -stated, by the general title of Bay Snipe, there is but one Snipe -proper, and that is one of the most numerous, and perhaps the most -excellent of the tribes. - -The Redbreasted Snipe, _Scolapax Noveboracensis_—the “Dowitcher,” the -“Quail Snipe,” the “Brown Back.” - -A brace of these excellent and beautiful birds are depicted as thrown -carelessly on the ground, under the neck of the Ring-tailed Marlin, in -the preceding sketch. - -This bird has the bill of the true snipe, _Scolopax Americanus_, -excepting only that the knob at the tip of the upper mandible of the -bill is less distinctly marked. The spring plumage of this bird, in -which it is depicted above, is on the upper parts brownish-black, -variegated with clove-brown, and light reddish-brown, the secondaries -and wing-coverts tipped and edged with white. Lower parts bright orange -colored ferruginous, spotted with dusky, arrow-headed spots. The abdomen -paler. The tail-feathers and upper tail-coverts alternately barred with -black and white; the legs and feet dull yellowish-green. - -“At the close of April,” says Mr. Giraud, “the Redbreasted Snipe arrive -on the coasts of Long Island. Invited by a bountiful supply of food, at -the reflux of the tide, it resorts to the mud-flats and shoals to -partake of the rich supply of shell-fish and insects which nature in her -plenitude has provided for it. As the tide advances, it retires to the -bog meadows, where it is seen probing the soft ground for worms. In the -spring it remains with us but a short time. Soon after recruiting it -obeys the unerring call of nature, and steers for the north, where it -passes the season of reproduction. About the middle of July it returns -with its young, and continues its visit during September, and if the -season be open, lingers about its favorite feeding grounds until the -last of the month.” - -The specimens from which the above sketch is taken, were procured on the -Delaware so late as the latter part of May; but it must be remembered -that this spring, 1850, was unusually late and backward. - -This snipe associates in large flocks, is very easily whistled, flies in -dense and compact bodies over the decoys, and is so gentle that, after -half the flock has been cut down by the volleys of the lurking gunner, -the remainder will frequently alight, and walk about demurely among -their dead companions and the illusive decoys, until the pieces are -reloaded, and the survivors decimated by a fresh discharge. - -Even when feeding on the open mud-flats, the Redbreasted Snipe is so -tame as to allow itself to be approached by the sportsman, with little -or no address, running about and feeding perfectly unsuspicious, until -its enemy has come within short range, when it springs with its -tremulous cry only to be riddled with the shot of the close discharge. - -The other of these birds worthy of the most attention are, - -The Sanderling, _Calidris Arenaria_, which, though very small, is fat -and excellent. - -The Black-bellied Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, “Bull-headed,” or -“Beetle-headed Plover,” a shy bird, but frequently whistled within -gunshot. On the coast it is apt to be fishy, but when shot inland, and -on upland pastures, of superior quality. - -The American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, “the Frost bird;” a -very beautiful species, and of rare excellence when killed on the -upland, where it is found more frequently and more abundantly than on -the shore. - -The Long-billed Curlew, _numenius Longirostris_, “Sickle-bill,” a large, -coarse-flavored bird, easily decoyed. - -The Hudsonian Curlew, _numenius Hudsonicus_, “Short-billed Curlew,” or -“Jack Curlew.” Similar to the latter in all respects, although smaller -in size. - -And last, The Esquimaux Curlew, _numenius Borealis_, “the Futes,” “the -Doe Bird.” This bird feeds principally on the uplands, in company with -the golden plovers, and on the same food, _videlicet_, grasshoppers, -insects, seeds, worms, and berries. Its flesh is delicate and high -flavored. It breeds far to the north, and winters far to the south of -the United States, residing with us from early in August until late in -November. - -With this bird, although there are numerous other smaller species, the -list of these tribes may be held complete. - -From the commencement of the present month until late in the autumn, -anywhere along the coasts and bays of the Northern and Middle States a -bag may readily be filled to overflowing with these varieties by the aid -of good decoys and skillful whistling, or of a skiff paddled by a -cunning fowler; a gun of 8 to 10 pounds weight, of 12 gauge, with two -oz. of No. 5 shot, and an equal measure of powder, will do the work. But -when the work is done, comparatively the game is worthless, and the -sport, as compared with upland shooting, scarcely worth the having. - - * * * * * - - - - - RIVERSIDE. - - - BY GEO. CANNING HILL. - - - In a wood, all deep and solemn, - Where fall many a leafy column -Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky— - Where the sunbeams bright and golden, - Gloss the mosses dank and olden, -And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;— - - A piazza, broad and shaded, - By the vines about it braided, -Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams; - And it looks toward the river, - Where long shadows lie and quiver— -Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams. - - I can hear the distant tumble - Of the waters, and the rumble -Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round, - And the cascade’s steady drumming - Comes like sweet and lowly humming, -As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound. - - If the sun have just arisen, - With its brightness to bedizen -Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn— - What a glory is before me— - All around, beside, and o’er me— -What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn! - - Or if it be at even, - When soft breezes blow from heaven, -And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves— - Oh! how thick my brain is crowded - With sweet images enshrouded— -With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves! - - Little pools lie closely hidden - In the woods, as if forbidden -To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky— - Where the turtle’s lonely whirring - Is at evening ever stirring, -Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody. - - I have often sat, when saddened, - And as often, too, when gladdened, -At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept; - And the world beyond forgotten, - Quiet thoughts would be begotten— -Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept. - - And beside the river’s dashing, - In the tumult of its plashing, -I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred; - Then below, where it runs slowly, - And the boughs bend over lowly, -My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word. - - Upon every tree are builded— - By the garish sun ne’er gilded— -Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades; - And within their snug dominions - I can see the fledging pinions -Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades. - - The fresh morning air is ringing - With a concord of sweet singing, -From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise; - High within the sylvan arches - Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches, -Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze. - - I love to sit at morning, - In the glory of the dawning -Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar, - On this broad piazza olden, - Where the gray streaks and the golden -Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are. - - The hawthorn and the holly, - Bearing berries red and jolly, -Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all; - And like caps of grenadiers - The dark moss in clumps appears— -The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall. - - O, ’tis glorious in October, - When the sky is clear and sober, -To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside! - For the forest is all blazing - With the Autumn colors, raising -Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside, - - And the influences setting - In upon me are begetting -Purer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd; - For the earth hath such a seeming, - With its thousand glories teeming, -That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud. - - Yes, for me the deep wood solemn, - Where full many a leafy column -Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky, - And the sunbeams, bright and golden, - Gloss the mosses gray and olden, -And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie. - - * * * * * - - - - - CHANT OF THE NÉREIDES. - - - FROM THE - - SECOND PART OF GÖETHE’S FAUST. - - MUSIC BY - - ENNA DUVAL. - - -[Illustration] - - Oh, follow our counsel, - And rest thee in gladness; - The flow’rs ’neath the willows shall - -[Illustration] - - ease thee of sadness. - Here slumber thou lov’d one, - Thy labours shall cease; - We breathe and we warble of gladness and peace. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FINE ARTS. - - -The Opera.—Strange, that Philadelphia, with so much musical taste and -cultivation, cannot have an Opera. Once in a while an Operatic troupe -wanders along, and rests, for a short time, in our sober town, gives a -few representations, then away it goes. Our neighbors of New York manage -this thing better—an Opera they will have, even if they run in debt for -it. And yet it seems that one, properly managed, might succeed in this -concert-loving town of Penn. It must be a moderate one, however; that -is, moderate in price. A serious old merchant, well to do in the world, -will hesitate at taking even two tickets, at a dollar a-piece, but he -would not mind taking a half dozen tickets if they cost only half that -sum. The principle is the thing. - -Brother Jonathan likes a show of economy, at least. Every politician in -Congress, who wishes to be popular in Bunkum, invariably makes speeches -against appropriations, mileage, &c., in order to prove that he is -anxious to save Uncle Sam’s purse; but, at the same time, this same -politician will have his pet appropriations, and not refuse his mileage -either. - -The small circle of fashionable people may subscribe and talk, but they -can do little in this opera matter, without the support of the plain, -unpretending portion of the inhabitants, who, after all, make up the -audience, and bring in the money; and they have made up their minds to -give only a moderate sum, and they will not give any more. - -Then the Troupe must be a good one; or, if only a slender one, it must -not attempt too much. The Seguins always drew well, because they only -attempted _Operettes_ and _Vaudevilles_. Not that the Philadelphians do -not like a higher order of music, but they are fastidious, and know when -a good Opera is badly given. They will not go to hear the rich, full -music of Norma murdered by a poor Troupe, with worn-out voices, and -meagre choruses. Whatever they listen to must be well sung. - -We wish that inimitable knight of the Baton—the white cravated Max -Maretzek—would think a little of this. But if he does, there is one -hint that it would be well to whisper in his ear, or in the ear of any -other venturesome Opera proprietor, who is bold enough to undertake the -establishing of an Opera here. There must be no cliques—no _donnas_ of -different schools in the Troupe. We can all remember how weary we all -were of the Biscaccianti and Truffi feud; and then, again, of the Truffi -and Laborde cliques. The real lovers of music, who went for the love of -the Opera, and not in a spirit of pedantic fashionable affectation, were -ready to exclaim, with Mercutio, - - A plague o’ both your houses. - -Let the Opera be of either the French or Italian School, so that it be -of one, alone. There is sufficient love for music with us, to make us -liberal to either school, so that it be well represented. So far as our -own taste is concerned, the Italian school is the more pleasing. The -French _vocalization_ is too exaggerated, we think. It is a mere matter -of taste, however, and we will be content to listen to either, so that -we have an Opera. - -In the early part of the summer of ’47, an Italian Opera Troupe, from -Havana, tarried a few weeks in Philadelphia. Most of the townsfolk, -especially the wealthier class, had left the town, and were at different -watering places; and, yet, we remember this company drew good houses. - -It was one of the best Troupes we have ever had in Philadelphia. Its -Donnas were Tedesco and Caranti Vita, and Marini. Tedesco, with her -rich, mellow, mezzo-soprano voice, and the timid _petite_ Vita, with a -delicate _sympathetic_ soprano, that warbled like a bird—it was a treat -indeed. Then Marini—the only true Contr’alto we ever heard—how she -startled the audience with her fulness and depth of tone. She was -awkward as an actress, and her voice, though rich, was rough; but there -was so much melody in it that it touched us, and we could not, if we -would, criticise. - -Of the Operas sung by this Troupe we speak of, Saffo and Sonnambula were -our favorites. True, the Choruses in Norma were beautifully done—for -the Choruses of this well-balanced Troupe were full, and well -trained—but the chaste, simple music of Saffo, suited Tedesco’s fresh, -young voice; and the delicate, melodious caroling of Amina, was the very -character of Caranti Vita. - -Perelli—the popular Perelli, without whose instructions no lady in -Philadelphia, with any pretensions to a voice, can possibly get -along—was the Tenore in this Troupe, and its Maestro. In Verdi’s -Hernani, his voice produced a fine effect and, every thing he sung, gave -evidence of high culture and good taste. - -The Opera of Saffo pleased us, particularly—the music was so pure and -chaste. Such compositions are the sculpture of Music; a simple, classic -plot—clear, decided harmony—pure melody. This is enough—scenic -illusions and orchestral effects are of secondary importance. - -This style of music belongs to a good, old school—the story also is -effective. Schlegel it is, we think, who says, that there is a fanciful -freedom in the handling of mythological materials, or subjects taken -from chivalrous or pastoral romances, which always produces a fine -effect in Opera. That so soon as the Heroic Opera chains itself down to -History, after the manner of Tragedy, Dullness, with a leaden sceptre, -presides over it. - -There is another Opera of this school, the music of which we have heard, -but we have never seen the opera represented—Niobe. Every instrumental -performer will recal, with something like a loving memory, the beautiful -melody from this Opera, “_I tuoi frequenti palpiti_,” which has been -arranged, in “_all sorts of ways_,” for different instruments. - -Good Reader, we will have a chat once in a while, on this subject of -Music. We will talk together of Concerts, sometimes, both professional -and amateur—and we will give some good-natured hints to our amateur -_prima donnas_, about the difference between stage-singing and chamber -singing. But you must join with us in all we say, and though we play -spokesman and you listener, you must agree with us, and while we talk, -you stand behind us, and make the gestures—then we shall succeed in -interesting others as well as ourselves. - - * * * * * - -Spohr has completed his ninth orchestral symphony, which he has entitled -“The Seasons.” - - * * * * * - -Madame Frezzolini, after an absence of eight years from London, has -returned to her Majesty’s Theatre, which she opened with great success -as Lucrezia. - - * * * * * - -“The Philosopher’s Stone” is the title of a new burletta, produced in -London, having for its subject of ridicule the gold and California -mania. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _Latter-Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 6. - Parliaments. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co._ - -We think that this pamphlet, though its notions are pushed to a crazy -extreme, is calculated to do good. In attacking the existence of -legislative assemblies, it lays bare and mercilessly ridicules their -abuses, especially their tendency to endless and worthless talk and -palaver. The style is not that which Carlyle is accustomed to use in his -library, but the style of Carlyle over his brandy and water; and it -accordingly has the recklessness as well as the fire of that peculiar -method of accelerating the faculties. The Parliament which Carlyle -likes, and which he contrasts with Lord John’s, is an old Norman one, -before the business of Parliament had been undertaken by the newspapers; -a Parliament which advised, not a Parliament which governed. “Reading,” -he says, “in Eadmerus and the dim old Books, one finds gradually that -the Parliament was at first a most simple Assemblage, quite cognate to -the situation; that Red William, or whoever had taken upon him the -terrible task of being King of England, was wont to invite, oftenest -about Christmas time, his subordinate Kinglets, Barons, as he called -them, to give him the pleasure of their company for a week or two; -there, in earnest conference all morning, in freer talk over Christmas -cheer all evening, in some big royal Hall of Westminster, Winchester, or -wherever it might be, with log-fires, huge rounds of roast and boiled, -not lacking Malmsey and other generous liquor, they took counsel -concerning the arduous matters of the kingdom. ‘You, Taillebois what -have you to propose in this arduous matter. . . Tête-d’étoupes, speak -out. And first the pleasure of a glass of wine, my infant!’ Thus, for a -fortnight’s space, they carried on, after a human manner, their grand -National Consult, or _Parliamentum_; intermingling Dinner with it (as is -still the modern method;) debuting every thing as Tacitus describes the -Ancient Germans to have done, two times; once sober, and once what he -calls ‘drunk’—not exactly dead-drunk, but jolly round their big table; -that so both sides of the matter might be seen, and, midway between rash -hope and unreasonable apprehension, the true decision of it might be -hit.” - -Throughout the pamphlet the author wantons in dogmatism and -impertinence, and has an especial love for a phrase representing the -British people as “twenty-seven millions mostly fools.” The United -States comes in as usual for a rap. The rumor is, that we are indebted -for all Carlyle’s sarcasms against our people to the American tourists -who have bored him; persons whom he always treated with roughness, but -whom he now receives with almost savage insolence. We have heard a story -of an American lady, who visited him—under the impression that he was a -great philanthropist, and immediately opened the conversation with some -remarks in favor of the abolition of slavery. He growled out a bitter -rejoinder, in which he took strong grounds in favor of that institution, -and denounced all abolitionists as sentimental fools and flunkies. The -lady, irritated and surprised, hit instantly on the true woman’s method, -the _argumentum ad hominum_, and put the startling question, “How, Mr. -Carlyle, should you like to be a slave?” He dilated his person to its -full dimensions, and in his broad Scotch brogue exclaimed, “Well, I -should be glad to be a great bull-necked nigger, and have somebody to -take care of me!” We must confess to a sympathy with his wish, as far as -it relates to somebody’s taking care of him, we think good might be done -to his head in an asylum. - -There is, however, an allusion in the pamphlet to our Congress, which is -not without its wisdom just at this time, and which may be safely -commended to the attention of those honorable members who consume time -and money, precious to the public, in speeches which rarely rise in -thought to the level of party newspaper leaders, and which, in style, -are often below the rhetoric of romances in yellow covers. He says, -“Only perhaps in the United States, which alone of all countries can do -without governing—every man being at least able to live, and move off -into the wilderness, let Congress jargon as it will—can such a form of -so-called ‘Government’ continue for any length of time to torment men -with the semblance, when the indispensable substance is not there. For -America, _as the citizens well know_, is an ‘unparalelled country’—with -mud soil enough, and fierce sun enough in the Mississippi valley alone -to grow Indian corn for the extant Posterity of Adam at this time; what -other country ever stood in such a case? ‘Speeches to Bunkum,’ and a -constitutional battle of the Kilkenny cats, which in other countries are -becoming tragical and unendurable, may there still fall under the -comical category.” - - * * * * * - -Webster’s Dictionary.—A new quarto edition of Webster’s Dictionary, -with additions by Professor Goodrich, has recently been issued by G. & -C. Merriam, of Springfield, and is for sale in this city by booksellers -generally. Study of the Dictionary is the great want of a majority of -American writers. They neither drink at the sources nor draw from the -depths of the language, to supply the thirst for purity, variety, and -force of expression, with which truly masculine minds are panting. With -a vocabulary equal to the largest demands of truth in its labors, or of -imagination in its play, we find constantly recurring the same -set-phrases, the same commonplaces, the same worn-out figures. Our -college-bred men are not deficient in a Johnsonian stock of Latin -derivatives, but into the Saxon mine of our tongue, few of them have -ever delved. They are too indolent to open the record and search for the -treasures bequeathed to them. Until Webster’s researches and toils -brought these treasures together, they were so far hidden and scattered, -that few even of the learned appreciated their amount. Thirty-five years -he spent in the compilation of his Dictionary; and since the publication -of the first edition, it has been enriched by himself and the present -editor with thousands of words; and it is now, by the consent of the -learned in England as well as this country, valuable above every other, -for comprehensiveness, etymological accuracy, and clearness of verbal -definitions. The new quarto contains the whole matter of the former -editions in two volumes, printed with clear type, on good paper, and -substantially bound. It is one of the few books, of which a threadbare -recommendation may be truly repeated—“no library is complete without -it.” One of the most distinguished of American writers, whose choice of -fresh and forceful words has at times brought upon him a charge of -pedantry, but who in fact has only used fearlessly the wealth of the -language, told us, some years ago, that it was his habit to read the -Dictionary through about once every year. To the student, this practice -may be commended as of inestimable service. A single word is often the -cue to a sentiment or a train of ideas worthy of expression. As the mind -is full of words to give variety to its pictures, so will it be full of -suggestions for new subjects. The relation between words and ideas is to -a degree an absolute identity. An illiterate person sits down to write a -letter. His fund of language being small, the paucity of his thoughts is -in the same proportion. He may have traveled half over the world, yet he -has nothing to say to his friends at home, except that he is well, and -hopes they are the same. Our young writers may find in this illustration -a reason for studying the Dictionary faithfully and continually. Not -from the conversation of the educated, or from miscellaneous books -alone, will they catch by accident the riches of the language. They must -search and reflect—a task which the labors of Webster and his great -predecessors in lexicography, have reduced to child’s play. Among the -two or three thousand newspapers in the United States, are at least some -hundreds edited by men who have not had the opportunities of a classical -education. Minds only of extraordinary energy, or those rising to the -standard of genius, can do perfect justice to the important duties of -journalism without the advantages of this discipline. But they may in -mature life, find its best substitute in the systematic study of a -comprehensive Dictionary, in connection with the classics of the -language. Were this method adopted, we would not so often have reason to -blush for the feebleness and illiteracy exhibited not only in many -newspaper columns, but in the pages of periodicals of far higher -pretensions, as exemplars of rhetorical propriety. - - * * * * * - - _The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a - Variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. New York: - George P. Putnam. 4 vols. 12mo._ - -Few English classics have been edited with the care and the thoroughness -of this edition of Goldsmith. Prior, an antiquarian who never touches a -subject which he does not exhaust, has paid especial attention to -Goldsmith; has written a biography of him, which forms the basis both of -Foster’s and Irving’s; and in the present edition, has printed many -valuable essays and poems never before collected. The articles -contributed by Goldsmith to the Monthly and Critical Reviews, when he -was a hack-writer in the most dismal sense of that term, are here -collected; and though not to be compared with his best works for humor -or for style, they still evince the hand of genius in many a scrap of -serene wisdom, and in many a sentence of penetrating sagacity. In the -fourth volume, just published, we find an oratorio, “The Captivity,” and -a ludicrous scene from a farce called “The Grumbler,” never before -printed. Mr. Putnam has issued the edition in a style of great neatness, -and has placed it at a very low price. We hope it will meet with a sale -corresponding to its merits. It supersedes all the other editions of -Goldsmith now in the market, being the best printed, and the best edited -of all, and containing several hundred pages of matter to be found in no -other collection. - - * * * * * - - _Moneypenny, or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present - Day. By Cornelius Mathews. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1 vol. - 8vo._ - -Mr. Mathews is well known as an able but somewhat eccentric writer, with -the grotesqueness, as well as the insight of the humorist, and often -miscalculating the avenues to popular favor, while he gave no evidence -of lacking the powers which deserve it. His present novel is his best -production in respect to story and characterization, and is especially -remarkable for its minute knowledge of every locality, and every phase -of humanity and life, in the city of New York. This is not displayed in -the way of a mere copyist, but in the higher mode of the observing -humorist, to whom external forms are symbolical of serious or smiling -spiritual facts. The style sparkles with a kind of laughing earnestness, -which indicates an intense sympathy in the author with the varying -throng of local objects which press upon his imagination for -representation. We commend it to all readers who have fancies to be -touched by its quaint analogies, and risibilities to be tingled by its -humor. - - * * * * * - - _Heroines of the Missionary Enterprise; or Sketches of Prominent - Female Missionaries. By Daniel C. Eddy. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & - Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -This elegant volume contains thirteen carefully prepared biographies of -eminent women who have toiled and suffered, bodily and mentally, in the -missionary cause. They are well worthy the honors of heroism, and some -of them in Catholic countries, would have been sainted. Among the -biographies are the names of Harriet Newell, Esther Butler, Sarah L. -Smith, Henrietta Shuck, Sarah D. Comstock, and the three Mrs. Judsons. - - * * * * * - - _The Use and Abuse of Alcoholic Liquors, in Health and Disease. - By William B. Carpenter. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._ - -This work is the Essay, to the author of which was awarded one hundred -guineas, in London, by the Committee, selected to read the articles on -behalf of the munificent donor. It is a work of great ability, -thoroughly exposing all the fallacies which men indulge in, as an excuse -for using intoxicating drinks, and driving the last vestige of excuse -from the drunkard. It is a work that should be read by every young man -in America. - - * * * * * - - _Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire: compromising a - Voyage to California, via Panama; Life in San Francisco and - Monterey; Pictures of the Gold Region, and Experiences of - Mexican Travel. By Bayard Taylor, author of “Views a-Foot,” etc. - With illustrations by the author. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 - vols. 12mo._ - -The popularity of the author of these delightful volumes is indicated by -the rapid sale of the first edition, which was disposed of on the day of -publication. The work will add to Taylor’s reputation in respect to -every quality of mind and disposition for which he is deservedly -distinguished. It so combines the observer with the poet, that the -reader soon becomes the author’s companion, seeing what he sees and -feeling what he feels. His descriptions of scenery are beautiful -representations; a few quiet and magical sentences bring pictures right -before the eye; and when his subject happens to be the vegetation of the -tropics, he gives us not only foliage but fragrance. The whole book is -pervaded by that genial and happy spirit, which lends fascination to all -of Taylor’s writings, and converts his readers into friendly partisans. -We have not space at present to indicate the stores of information and -delight which the volumes contain, but will extract one paragraph on a -Pacific sunset, as a specimen of the ease with which the author’s facile -style rises to eloquence. “Why,” he exclaims, “has never a word been -said or sung about sunset on the Pacific? No where on this earth can one -be overvaulted with such a glory of colors. The sky, with a ground-hue -of rose toward the west, and purple toward the east, is mottled and -flecked over all its surface with light clouds, running through every -shade of crimson, amber, violet, and russet-gold. There is no dead -duskiness opposite the sunken sun; the whole vast shell of firmament -glows with an equal radiance, reduplicating its hues on the glassy sea, -so that we seem floating in a hollow sphere of prismatic crystal. The -cloud-strata, at different heights in the air, take different coloring; -through bars of burning carmine one may look on the soft, rose-purple -folds of an inner curtain, and, far within and beyond that, on the clear -amber-green of the immaculate sky. As the light diminishes, these -radiant vapors sink and gather into flaming pyramids, between whose -pinnacles the serene depth of air is of that fathomless violet-green -which we see in the skies of Titian.” - - * * * * * - - _The Life and Religion of Mohammed, as Contained in the Sheeãh - Traditions of the Hyât-ul-Kuloob. Translated from the Persian. - By Rev. James L. Merrick, Eleven Years Missionary to the - Persians. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._ - -This is altogether the most important and trust-worthy work relating to -Mohammed ever translated into English, giving, as it does, “a full view -of his life and religion, with sketches of his ancestors, companions, -and times, blended with maxims and legends illustrative of Oriental -manners.” To the theologian it is invaluable, while to the general -reader it is as interesting as an Oriental romance, being in the form of -narrative, with frequent flashes of magnificent poetry. The account of -the birth of Mohammed, especially, is exquisitely beautiful. As a -specimen of the style, we give a paragraph embodying Sawadbin-Karib’s -testimony. “Four days after the birth, Sawadbin-Karib, a man celebrated -among the Arabs for his knowledge, came to congratulate Abdulmutalib, -and see the child of whom he had heard many marvelous accounts. On going -to the house of Aminah they were informed that he was asleep. When the -cover of the cradle was removed to gratify them with a sight of the -wonderful babe, _such lightning gleamed from his blessed countenance -that the roof of the house was cloven by it, and the visiters drew their -sleeves over their dazzled eyes_.” - - * * * * * - - _Gleanings from the Poets, for Home and School. A New Edition, - Enlarged. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The title of this volume is an honest title, accurately describing the -contents. The poems are selected from a wide variety of English authors, -and consist of pieces which have not been worn threadbare by previous -publication in school-reading books. Some of the selections will be new -to most readers of poetry, such as the narrative poems of French and -those of Mary Lamb. We notice two poems by Tennyson not included in the -edition of his works. “The Skylark” is here, not only in Shelly’s -rapturous lyric, but as he was viewed by the imaginations of Wordsworth -and Hogg. Wordsworth’s wonderful “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality -from the Recollections of Childhood,” the grandest and subtlest of -modern odes, is given in full. We notice also a number of pieces by -Vaughan, Quarles, and holy George Herbert, not generally known. The -Prioress’s Tale is reprinted in Chaucer’s old spelling, its quaint -phraseology truly embodying its intense sweetness of sentiment. -Altogether, we think that “home” to be deficient in which this volume -has not its place. - - * * * * * - - _Redwood: A Tale. By the Author of “Hope Leslie,” etc. New York: - George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This novel, the third volume of Mr. Putnam’s elegant re-issue of the -works of Miss Sedgwick, is especially interesting, as giving the best -account we have ever read of life among the Shakers. The effect of the -doctrines of that singular sect upon individual character is traced with -masterly discrimination. The story is also one of the most interesting -which even Miss Sedgwick’s genial fancy has invented, and fastens the -attention which it once engages. - - * * * * * - - _The Origin of the Material Universe. Boston: Phillips, Sampson - & Co._ - -This pamphlet is exceedingly ingenious and interesting, and is worthy of -extensive circulation. It is a highly wrought description, on scientific -principles, of the manner in which the earth was formed, and the events -connected therewith from its existence, in a fluid state to the time of -the Mosaical narrative. The theory of the writer is ably sustained, and, -whether true or not, has the effect to stimulate and fill the -imagination, and spur it to the contemplation of grand and majestic -images. - - * * * * * - - _Zanoni. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. New York: Harper & Brothers._ - -The Harpers have included this work in their cheap “Library of Select -Novels,” which has now reached its one hundred and forty-second number, -and is probably the cheapest work ever issued. There are few novel -readers to whom Zanoni is not familiar, and of all the author’s -productions it best bears the test of reperusal. Its feverish power -exacts a feverish interest, which is as unhealthy as it is stimulating; -but this intellectual dram-drinking is now so common that the charge of -morbid sentiment brought against a book operates as a puff. - - * * * * * - - _Household Words. A Weekly Journal. Conducted by Charles - Dickens. New York: George P. Putnam. Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4._ - -Mr. Putnam, with his usual enterprise, has contrived to make an -arrangement with Bradbury and Evans, of London, to publish Dickens’s -Journal contemporaneously with its appearance in London, and to afford -the English edition itself at what Mr. Chevy Slyme would call the -“ridiculously low price of six cents.” The Journal is full of stories -and sketches of a genial character, admirably adapted for the fireside -of home. To the uncounted number of people who constitute Dickens’s -public, the “Household Words” will be a welcome visitant. - - * * * * * - - _Letters of a Traveler; or Notes of Things seen in Europe and - America. By William Cullen Bryant. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -This handsome volume is composed of letters, running over a period of -sixteen years, and recording impressions of travel in Europe and -America. The heart and imagination of Bryant consecrate and color the -whole series: and though the scenes he describes have often been -described by others, they appear new and fresh as mirrored in his pages. -The serene but searching, the tolerant but earnest, mind of the author, -gives the same life and charm to his prose as to his verse. The style is -characterised by the grace, delicacy and thoughtfulness, the sober -beauty, and “superb propriety,” native to his mind; and the cadence of -his sentences leaves a lingering music in the reader’s brain, long after -the book has been closed. The scenes and incidents of the volume are of -exceeding variety. Paris, Florence, Pisa, Venice, London, -Edinburgh,—Richmond, Charleston, St. Augustine, Mackinaw, Savannah, -Havana, Boston, Portland,—the Peaks of Derbyshire and the White -Mountains,—these widely distant places are but points to indicate the -number and dissimilarity of the topics which come under the author’s -view. Every lover of Bryant should possess this volume. - - * * * * * - - _Essays Upon Authors and Books. By W. Alfred Jones. New York: - Stanford & Swords. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The writer of this valuable little volume is favorably known among all -who favor independent thought, exercised in the domain of literary -criticism and characterization, as the author of “The Analyst” and -“Literary Studies.” The “Essays” are thirty in number, covering a wide -variety of topics, and indicating that kind of literary knowledge which -looks through books into the spiritual constitution of their authors. -Mr. Jones is a professor of the condensed in composition, and seems ever -ambitious to cram his matter into a small space, and short, sharp, curt -sentences. Perhaps he sacrifices mellowness in thus aiming after the -laconic, but his fault is of so rare a nature in these days of verbose -expansiveness, that to blame him for it were to fall into a worse one. -Among the many essays which induce us heartily to recommend this volume -to the reader, are those entitled “Traits of American Authorship,” “Home -Criticism,” “The Two Everetts,” “Hoyt’s Poems,” “Hugh Latimer,” “Sir -Philip Sidney’s Defense of Poesy,” “R. H. Dana,” “Burton’s Anatomy of -Melancholy,” “The Literature of Quakerism,” “Æsthetical Fragments,” -“Thomas Moore,” and “Lord Bolingbroke.” Mr. Jones’s culture sweeps over -the field of English literature, and some of his most interesting essays -relate to quaint authors, whose names are in few mouths, but who are -capable, in capable hands, of being made interesting even in this age. -We need not say that the moral character of Mr. Jones’s criticism is as -high as it’s mental, and that his book may be safely taken as a guide to -young as well as to experienced readers. - - * * * * * - - _The Hungarian Revolution. Outlines of the Prominent - Circumstances attending the Hungarian Struggle for Freedom. - Together with brief Biographical Sketches of the Leading - Statesmen and Generals who took part in it. By Johan Pragay. New - York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This volume carries with it more authority than any as yet published on -the Hungarian Revolution. The author had an official station in the -Ministry of War under Kossuth’s administration, and was Adjutant-General -of the Army. As the work of a soldier and statesman actively engaged in -the conduct of the war, it is as reliable as it is interesting. - - * * * * * - - _Hints Toward Reforms, in Lectures, Addresses and Other - Writings. By Horace Greely. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -The author of this volume is well known as the editor of an influential -political journal, and as a sturdy, independent, benevolent, -strong-minded and warm-hearted reformer. The topics he discusses are -those which deeply interest the popular mind at this time—labor, -temperance, land reform, capital punishment, free trade, protection, -etc.; and Mr. Greely grapples with the knottiest questions which those -themes suggest with a firm will, and an eager intellect. Bating some -doubtful opinions and some bad rhetoric, the volume conveys a good -impression of the author’s many excellent qualities of mind and -character. We cannot better describe the object of his work than by -employing his own words. “It aspires,” he says, “to be a mediator, an -interpreter, a reconciler, between Conservatism and Radicalism—to bring -the two into such connection and relation that the good in each may obey -the law of chemical affinity, and abandon whatever portion of either is -false, mistaken, or outworn to sink down and perish. It endeavors so to -elucidate and commend what is just and practical in the pervading -demands of our time for a Social Renovation that the humane and -philanthropic can no longer misrepresent and malign them as destructive, -demoralizing or infidel in their tendencies, but must joyfully recognize -in them the fruits of past and the seeds of future Progress in the -history of our Race.” The idea in this passage is one which a -conservative of the school of Burke would have no reason to disown. The -difficulty is in the different things meant by the two parties, when -they use the words “false, mistaken, and outworn.” Time, and the course -of things, not any particular intellect, must settle the dispute; -although we hope that Time, if he can take “Hints,” will accelerate his -pace a little, at our author’s particular request. - - * * * * * - - _Talbot and Vernon. A Novel. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. - 12mo._ - -The author of this volume is guilty, as Pitt said of himself, “of the -atrocious crime of being a young man,” and appears now for the first -time before the public. But, though young, he has evidently seen and -experienced more than most old men. His knowledge of life has been -obtained from a residence in the Great West, and by a Campaign in -Mexico. The present novel is one of much interest and power, indicating -great freshness, quickness, and force of mind, and is particularly rich -in promise. The scenes in Mexico, including the description of the -battle of Buena Vista, and the whole trial scene toward the end of the -volume, are especially felicitous. - - * * * * * - - _Caprices. New York: R. Carter & Brother. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This volume of poems, we should say, was the production of a sensitive -imagination and reflecting mind, gifted at present with more receptivity -than original power, and having a greater experience of Tennyson, -Emerson and Longfellow, than of actual or ideal life. The author has a -wide command of language, no mean powers of description, and a -tremblingly delicate sensibility for the beautiful and the grand, but -his present volume is more the promise than the performance of a -forcible and original poet. The very title indicates the fitful -character of the pieces. - - * * * * * - - _The Daltons; or Three Roads in Life. By Charles Lever. New - York: Harper & Brothers. Part I._ - -The author of “The Daltons” is so widely known for the heartiness and -vehemence of his comic narratives that it is only necessary to announce -his commencement of a novel to recommend it to attention. - - * * * * * - - FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS IN PREMIUMS. - -The proprietors of the “Dollar Newspaper,” in this city, offer five -hundred dollars in premiums for the eight best stories written for that -paper, and sent in before the 1st day of October next—the merits of the -stories to be determined by a committee of literary gentlemen, whose -names will be given when the award is made. Two hundred dollars is the -premium for the best story; one hundred for the next best; fifty dollars -each for the two next best; and twenty-five dollars each for the four -next best. We have a long acquaintance with the proprietors of the -“Dollar Newspaper,” and have not the slightest doubt that their -proposition is made in good faith, and that all that they can do will be -done to arrive at a just and impartial decision. No writer who is -awarded a prize, could have any doubt of the prompt payment of the full -amount awarded. The only condition imposed by the publishers is, that -the scene of the story shall be American. Here’s a chance for the -literati. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: - -LE FOLLET, boul. S^{t}. Martin, 69 -Chapeaux de M^{lle}. Grafeton, pl. de la Madeleine, 5 — Mouchoirs L. - Chapron & Dubois, rue de la Paix, 7. -Fleurs de Chagot ainé, r. Richelieu, 73, Robes et pardessus Isabelle de - Camille. -The styles of Goods here represented can be had of Mess^{rs}. L. J. Levy & - C^{o}. Philadelphia -and at Stewart’s, New-York. - -Graham's Magazine 134 Chestnut Street] - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some -spellings peculiar to Graham's. Punctuation has been corrected without -note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For -illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to -condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook. - -page 73, first untuned page ==> first unturned page -page 76, and he promisess ==> and he promises -page 77, a benificent God ==> a beneficent God -page 77, deepth of feeling ==> depth of feeling -page 77, Bartholdy, Sphor, Gluck, ==> Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck, -page 78, the rushing Colorada ==> the rushing Colorado -page 78, traders of Chihuaha ==> traders of Chihuahua -page 88, exploring the the thickets ==> exploring the thickets -page 89, little bark of ==> little barque of -page 92, or petit-maitre modulations ==> or petit-maître modulations -page 95, whose fiancèe you ==> whose fiancée you -page 96, a litle expedition ==> a little expedition -page 98, Day past away ==> Day passed away -page 98, his bark may strand ==> his barque may strand -page 102, By some unforseen ==> By some unforeseen -page 104, were bestowod ==> were bestowed -page 106, Tinturn Abbey ==> Tintern Abbey -page 123, sat, pouring over ==> sat, poring over -page 126, Avoset, _recurvirosta_ ==> Avoset, _recurvirostra_ -page 128, of 12 guage ==> of 12 gauge -page 135, Sheeâh Traditions ==> Sheeãh Traditions -page 135, the Hyat-ul-Kuloob ==> the Hyât-ul-Kuloob -page 135, his usual interprise ==> his usual enterprise -page 135, London, Edinburg ==> London, Edinburgh -page 135, Peak of Derbyshire ==> Peaks of Derbyshire -page 136, accellerate his pace ==> accelerate his pace -page 136, awarded a a prize ==> awarded a prize - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 2, -August 1850, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, AUGUST 1850 *** - -***** This file should be named 54024-0.txt or 54024-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/0/2/54024/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from -page images generously made available by Google Books - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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