diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/60148-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/60148-0.txt | 11765 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 11765 deletions
diff --git a/old/60148-0.txt b/old/60148-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 82f6801..0000000 --- a/old/60148-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11765 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 4, April 1852, 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. XL, No. 4, April 1852 - -Author: Various - -Editor: George R. Graham - -Release Date: August 21, 2019 [EBook #60148] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, APRIL 1952 *** - - - - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net -from page images generously made available by Google Books - - - - - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - Vol. XL. April, 1852. No. 4. - - - Contents - - Fiction, Literature and Articles - - Optical Phenomena - The First Age - Impressions of England in the Autumn of 1851 - Oliver Goldsmith—His Character and Genius - A Life of Vicissitudes (continued) - The Bower of Castle Mount - A Reply to Dwight’s Article on Mozart’s Don - Giovanni - A True Irish Story - The Condor Hunt - What Glory Costs the Nation - Eminent Young Men.—No. I - The Game of the Season - Was the World Made Out of Nothing? - A Literary Gossip with Miss Mitford - The Two Isabels; Or Coquettish Seventeen - Review of New Books - Graham’s Small-Talk - - Poetry and Music - - The Forest Fountain - Love - Memory - The Last Song - April - Away - Song - Mona Lisa - To a Canary Bird - Faded and Gone - Song of the Spirit of the North - Sonnet.—Art - The Autograph of God - If I Were a Smile - To Miss Light Underwood - Beautie - Lines on Some Violets - The Destruction of Sodom - Sorrento - A Thought of the Future - The Black Huntsman - Sweet Sunny Isle - - - Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook. - - * * * * * - - GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE. - - Vol. XL. PHILADELPHIA, APRIL, 1852. No. 4. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FOREST FOUNTAIN. - - - BY IGNATIUS L. DONNELLY. - - -[Illustration: a stream flowing through a forest] - - Here the sinking sun hath broken through a forest close as night; - Plashing all the deepened darkness with its thick and wine-like light. - Shivered lies the broad, red sunbeam slant athwart the withered leaf, - Laughing back the startled shadows from their high and holy grief; - Down yon dusk-pool, slant, obliquely, shoots a line like sparry - splinter, - As the waking flush of spring-time lightens up the eyes in winter: - Dimming as it straineth downward melts the red light of the sun, - Darkling pool and piercing beamlet mingling whitely into one. - Fallen rays, like broken crystals, spangle thick the shadowy ground, - Ragged fragments, glorious gushes scattered richly, redly round. - Where the lazy lilies languish, one intruding sunbeam creeps; - In the arms of slumberous shadow, like a child it sinks and sleeps; - And the quiet leaves around it seem to think it all their own, - ’Mid the grass and lightened lilies sleeping silent and alone. - Here the dew-damp lingers longest ’mid the plushy fountain moss; - Here the bergamot’s red blossom leans the stilly stream across; - Here the shade is darkly silent; here the breeze is liquid cool, - And the very air seems married to the freshness of that pool. - See, where down its depths pellucid, Nature’s purest waters well, - Breaking up in curving current, wimpled line and bubbly swell; - While in swift and noiseless beauty, through the deep and dewy grass, - O’er the rock and down the valley, see the hurrying waters pass. - Oh, how dreamy grow my senses, as I couch me ’mid the flowers, - Oh, how still the blue sky looketh, oh, how noteless creep the hours; - Oh, how wide the silence seemeth, not a sound disturbing comes, - Save a drowsy, sleepy buzzing, that around continuous hums; - And I seem to float out loosely on weak slumber’s languid breast, - With a kind of half reluctance that sinks gradually to rest. - Distant faces group around me, kindly eyes look in my own, - And I hear, though indistinctly, voices of the lost and gone: - His whose bark went down in tempest; his whose life and death were - gloom; - His whose hopes and young ambitions fell and faded on the tomb; - Oh, again his earnest language breaks upon my dreaming ear, - And I catch the tones that waking I shall never, never hear. - - * * * * * - - - - - LOVE. - - - BY A. J. REQUIER. - - - Oh, with more than the pilgrim of Mecca’s devotion, - When he looks on the shrine which his worship endears, - Is the glance which we cast at the young heart’s devotion, - Its first rose of summer—the last which it bears; - Bright as a halo of sunshine reposing - At break of the morn on a billowless stream, - Where the wavering shadows are fitfully moving, - Or blush of a Peri that smiles in a dream. - - Thus, thus must thou dwell on each glance of affection, - Each token of love I have strewed at thy shrine, - When thy bosom first heaved at the fear of detection, - And its secret alone was imparted to mine; - It is linked with each thought that is born in thy waking, - It embosoms each fancy that softens thy sleep, - And, if e’er it be wild as the waves in their breaking, - ’Tis the image of Heaven that breaks on the deep! - - For vainly the bosom whose pulses have throbbed - To the beat of a heart it had warmed with its fire, - Seeks to freeze the remembrance of tears it has sobbed, - And to smother the anguish of pining desire; - The remembrance will live, the remembrance will cling. - As the ever-green ivy encircles the oak, - And the tempest may strike with its withering wing, - But together they bend and together are broke! - - Bright star of my soul! thus united we stand, - Intermingled in being and blended in breath, - Come fate with her darkest, her gloomiest band, - We will bend, we will break undivided in death; - ’Twas Heaven decreed it, ’twas Heaven that wove - The tie which has bound us in home and in heart, - And this only we know, we live on but to love, - And thus loving we never, oh, never can part! - - * * * * * - - - - - MEMORY. - - - BY LYDIA L. A. VERY. - - -“’Tis in the morning that the church-yard of Memory gives up its dead.” - - - Let them rise from the heart’s tomb; - Spirits, not of sadness or gloom— - White-robed thoughts of Childhood’s truth, - Cherished hopes that filled our youth. - Let them rise a shining band - Coming from the Spirit-Land. - - Let them rise! each well-known face, - Where so oft we loved to trace - Smiles that beamed for us alone, - Eyes o’er which Death’s veil is thrown— - Let them gather round our bed - All unheard their noiseless tread! - - Let their eyes of love still speak, - Let their breath be on our cheek, - And their voice in our ear - Murmur words we loved to hear: - Let their spirits fair and bright - Visit us at morning light. - - Death, who cometh thief-like, still - Taking Life’s bright gems at will; - With us early, with us late, - Making hearth-stones desolate— - Death, who visits all Life’s bowers. - Cannot gather Memory’s flowers! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE LAST SONG. - - - FROM THE GERMAN. - - -[Illustration] - - “When will your bards be weary - Of rhyming on? How long - Ere it is sung and ended, - The old, eternal song? - - “Is it not, long since, empty, - The horn of full supply; - And all the posies gathered, - And all the fountains dry?” - - As long as the sun’s chariot - Yet keeps its azure track, - And but one human visage - Gives answering glances back; - - As long as skies shall nourish - The thunderbolt and gale, - And, frightened at their fury, - One throbbing heart shall quail; - - As long as after tempests - Shall spring one showery bow, - One breast with peaceful promise - And reconcilement glow; - - As long as night the concave - Sows with its starry seed, - And but one man those letters - Of golden writ can read; - - Long as a moonbeam glimmers, - Or bosom sighs a vow; - Long as the wood-leaves rustle - To cool a weary brow; - - As long as roses blossom, - And earth is green in May; - As long as eyes shall sparkle, - And smile in pleasure’s ray; - - As long as cypress shadows - The graves more mournful make, - Or one cheek’s wet with weeping, - Or one poor heart can break;— - - So long on earth shall wander - The goddess Poesy, - And with her, one exulting - Her votarist to be. - - And singing on, triumphing, - The old earth-mansion through, - Out marches the last minstrel;— - He is the last man too. - - The Lord holds the creation - Forth in his hand meanwhile, - Like a fresh flower just opened, - And views it with a smile. - - When once this Flower Giant - Begins to show decay, - And earths and suns are flying - Like blossom-dust away. - - Then ask,—if of the question - Not weary yet,—“How long, - Ere it is sung and ended, - The old, eternal song?” - - * * * * * - - - - - OPTICAL PHENOMENA. - - - BY THOMAS MILNER, M. A. - - -[Illustration] - -It is convenient to place an indefinite title at the head of this -article, in order to notice various classes of independent phenomena -which immediately address themselves to the eye; and which are either -plain developments of electrical action, or simply atmospheric meteors, -or appearances resulting from its reflecting and refractive properties, -or of obscure origin, but manifested in the atmosphere. To the former -class the lightning belongs, beautifully playing among the distant -clouds, or flashing with blinding glare and tremendous effect near the -surface of the earth, warning man and beast of the presence of an agency -able to extinguish animal and vegetable life in a moment, and utterly -inappreciable in its swiftness, subtility and power. At the close of a -hot, sultry day, over a level country, the igneous meteor often exhibits -itself, in rapidly succeeding, broad, noiseless, and imposing sheets of -flame, lighting up the whole range of the horizon, revealing for the -moment the contour of the distant landscape upon which the shadows of -the night have gathered, and discovering the outline of the clouds in -the dusky sky. These displays, however startling to “the poor Indian, -whose untutored mind” is alarmed at the slightest deviation from the -ordinary aspect of things, are always harmless, and invite by their -innocuousness and fascination the cultivated races to watch the bounding -coruscations of the elastic element, besides contributing to render the -fields of corn ripe unto the harvest. But it is otherwise when heat has -overcharged the atmosphere with vapors, becoming piled into clouds of -gigantic dimensions and massive architecture, which are often propelled -by antagonist currents, and in different electrical conditions. After an -unusual calm of nature, oppressive to the animal system, during which -not a movement of the air is perceptible, and the leaves hang motionless -upon the trees, while the brute creation indicate some intelligence of -an impending change by their restlessness, an explosion commences. The -flash is seen, the thunder heard, and the clouds open their watery -store-house, a few distant and heavy drops increasing into a cataract of -rain. Flash rapidly follows flash, and the interval between each -appearance and the accompanying thunder peal becomes less. The pale hue -of the lightning is exchanged for a vivid glare, in which a deep yellow, -red, or blue is the predominant color, a variety of aberrations marking -its course, the zigzag form showing that the fearful agent is near -terrestrial objects. In this manner, “the detraction that wasteth at -noonday” is frequently exhibited, now striking man and beast to the -earth, or rending asunder the mighty oak of the forest, or firing the -vessel of the hapless seaman, or shivering “the cloud-capt towers and -gorgeous palaces,” the fanes of religion and the fortresses of war. Man -has then a solemn sense of his helplessness and danger; and almost every -creature sympathizes with him. The eel is restless in his muddy bed—the -horse trembles beneath his rider—the cattle gather lowing to a -covert—the eagle nestles in the cleft of the rock with folded -wings—the hart looks wild and anxious: only the poor seal seems to -experience agreeable sensations, for he will come out of his -hiding-place in the deep, at the call of the thunder, and repose upon -some overhanging ledge, as if calmly enjoying the convulsion of the -elements. - -Since the month of June 1752, when Franklin performed the celebrated -kite experiment, by which he became the modern Prometheus, bringing down -the celestial fire to the earth, the identity of lightning and -electricity has been universally known. The theory of the electric -fluid, as it is called, is to be sought for in philosophical treatises, -our province being to notice its distribution, phenomena, and effects. -That subtle principle which the Greeks denominated electricity, from -_elektron_, amber, because the property was first noticed in that -substance, appears to be a universally diffused agent, its presence -having been detected in connection with the clouds, with hail, rain and -snow, with vegetation, animals, and the interior strata of the earth. -But undue accumulation transpires—the electrical equilibrium is -disturbed; and the resulting phenomena of equalization are lightning and -thunder. Thus two clouds, or a cloud and the earth, unequally -electrified, tend to return to a condition of equality through a -conducting medium, a metallic or moist body having the preference as a -conductor, the discharge of electricity appearing in the form of a spark -or flash, accompanied by a loud detonation according to its violence, -the peal rebounding in echoes from cloud to cloud, and from hill to -hill. Some regions of the globe are peculiarly subject to accumulations -of electricity. Mr. Hamilton, in his work on Asia Minor, observes—“One -of the most remarkable phenomena which I observed in Angora, was the -great degree of electricity which seemed to pervade every thing. I -observed it particularly in silk handkerchiefs, linen and woollen -stuffs. At times, when I went to bed in the dark, the sparks which were -emitted from the blanket gave it the appearance of a sheet of fire; when -I took up a silk handkerchief, the crackling noise would resemble that -of breaking a handful of dried leaves or grass; and on one or two -occasions I clearly felt my hands and fingers tingle from the electric -fluid. I could only attribute it to the extreme dryness of the -atmosphere, and momentary friction. I did not observe that it was at all -influenced by wind; the phenomena were the same, whether by night or by -day, in wind or calm. Not a cloud was visible during the whole of my -stay.” - -Similar striking indications of the prevalence of electric action have -frequently been observed by travelers when near the summits of high -mountains, as by Sir W. J. Hooker on Ben Nevis, Saussure on Mont Blanc, -and Tupper on Mount Etna. The latter, descending a field of snow, a good -conductor, felt a slight shock upon entering a cloud which seemed -electric, with a sensation of pain in the back. The hair of his head -stood erect, and upon moving the hand near the head, a humming sound -proceeded from it, which arose from a succession of sparks. Though a -situation of great danger, yet we have several instances of such clouds -having been traversed with impunity, when in the act of electrical -explosion. The Abbé Richard, in August 1778, passed through a -thunder-cloud on the small mountain called Boyer, between Chalons and -Tournus. Before he entered the cloud, the thunder sounded, as it is wont -to do, with a prolonged reverberation; but when enveloped in it, only -single peals were heard, with intervals of silence, without any roll; -and after he had passed above the cloud, it reverberated as before, and -the lightning flashed. The sister of M. Arago was a party to a similar -occurrence between Estagel and Limoux, and some officers of engineers -likewise, during a trigonometrical survey on the Pyrenees. - -The energy of atmospheric electricity appears to decrease as we recede -from the equator to the poles, thus sympathizing with light and heat; -for it is in tropical countries that the most terrific flashes of -lightning and the loudest bursts of heaven’s artillery occur. Awful as -these manifestations are occasionally in our temperate climate, they are -but as a skirmishing of outposts to the general engagement of armies, -when compared with inter-tropical displays. In Hindustan, in the Indian -Ocean, along the African coast off Cape St. Verde, and in Central -America, there is often a scene exhibited, which seems a rehearsal of -the day “when the heavens being on fire shall pass away with a great -noise.” Humboldt, during his residence at Cumana, witnessed a coincident -development of electrical action, peculiar atmospheric phenomena, and -terrestrial disturbance, during what is called the winter of that -region. From the 10th of October to the 3d of November, a reddish vapor -rose in the evening, and in a few minutes covered the sky. The -hygrometer gave no indication of humidity; the diurnal heat was from -82·4° to 89·6°. The vapor disappeared occasionally in the middle of the -night, when brilliantly white clouds formed in the zenith, extending -toward the horizon. They were sometimes so transparent that they did not -conceal stars even of the fourth magnitude, and the lunar spots were -clearly distinguishable through the veil. The clouds were arranged in -masses at equal distances, and seemed to be at a prodigious elevation. -From the 28th of October to the 3d of November, the fog was thicker than -it had been before; and the heat at night was stifling, though the -thermometer indicated only 78·8°. There was no evening breeze. The sky -appeared as if on fire, and the ground was every where cracked and -dusty. About two o’clock in the afternoon of November 4th, large clouds -of extraordinary blackness enveloped the mountains of the Brigantine and -Tataraqual, extending gradually to the zenith. About four, thunder was -heard overhead, but at an immense height, and with a dull and often -interrupted sound. At the moment of the strongest electric explosion, -two shocks of an earthquake, separated by an interval of fifteen -seconds, were felt. The people in the streets filled the air with their -cries. Boupland, who was examining plants, was nearly thrown upon the -floor, and Humboldt, who was lying in his hammock, felt the concussion -strongly. A few minutes before the first, there was a violent gust of -wind followed by large drops of rain. The sky remained cloudy, and the -blast was succeeded by a dead calm, which continued all night. The -sunset was a scene of great magnificence. The dark atmospheric shroud -was rent asunder close to the horizon, and the sun appeared at 12° of -altitude on an indigo ground, his disc enormously enlarged and -distorted. The clouds were gilded on the edges, and bundles of rays -reflecting the most brilliant prismatic colors extended over the -heavens. About nine in the evening there was a third shock, which, -though much slighter, was evidently attended with a subterranean noise. -In the night between the 3d and 4th of November, the red vapor before -mentioned had been so thick, that the place of the moon could only be -distinguished by a beautiful halo 20° in diameter. The vapor ceased to -appear on the 7th; the atmosphere then assumed its former purity; and -the night of the 11th was cool and extremely lovely. This account, with -similar details from other observers, seems to indicate a more intimate -relation than is generally admitted between the interior of the earth -and its external atmosphere. - -Among the regions peculiarly subject to electric phenomena is the -country around the estuary of the Rio Plata. In the year 1793, one of -the most destructive thunder-storms perhaps on record, happened at -Buenos Ayres, when thirty-seven places in the city were struck by the -lightning, and nineteen of the inhabitants killed. It is an observation -of Mr. Darwin, founded on statements in books of travels, that -thunder-storms are very common near the mouths of great rivers; and he -conjectures that this may arise from the mixture of large bodies of -fresh and salt water disturbing the electrical equilibrium. “Even,” he -remarks, “during our occasional visit to this part of South America, we -heard of a ship, two churches and a house, having been struck. Both the -church and the house I saw shortly afterward. Some of the effects were -curious: the paper, for nearly a foot on each side of the line where the -bell-wires had run, was blackened. The metal had been fused, and -although the room was about fifteen feet high, the globules, dropping on -the chairs and furniture, had drilled in them a chain of minute holes. A -part of the wall was shattered as if by gunpowder, and the fragments had -been blown off with force sufficient to indent the wall on the opposite -side of the room. The frame of a looking-glass was blackened; the -gilding must have been volatilized, for a smelling-bottle, which stood -on the chimney-piece, was coated with bright metallic particles, which -adhered as firmly as if they had been enameled.” Near the shores of the -Rio Plata, in a broad band of sand hillocks, he found those singular -specimens of electric architecture, a group of vitrified siliceous -tubes, formed by the lightning striking into loose sand. These tubes had -a glossy surface, and were about two inches in circumference, the -thickness of the wall of each tube varying from the twentieth to the -thirtieth part of an inch. Four sets were noticed, probably not produced -by successive distinct charges, but by the lightning dividing itself -into separate branches before entering the ground. Similar cylindrical -formations have been noticed in other places. Dr. Priestley has -described, in the Philosophical Transactions, some siliceous tubes, -which were found in digging into the ground, under a tree, where a man -had been killed by lightning; and at Drigg, in Cumberland, three were -observed within an area of fifteen yards, one of which was traced to a -depth of not less than thirty feet. In the temperate climates electrical -phenomena are most common, and usually most energetic in the summer -season, and the displays are grander and more formidable in mountainous -than in level countries. As we approach the poles, they become less -striking; thunder is rarely heard in high northern latitudes, and only -as a feeble detonation; and though lightning is more common, it is -seldom destructive. In Iceland, in the winter, it often plays in the -impressive but harmless manner which the natives call laptelltur. This -is a fluctuating appearance of the whole sky, as if on fire, accompanied -by a strong wind and drifting snow, but inflicting no further damage -than that arising from the terrified cattle falling over the rocks in -their efforts to escape from the phenomenon. - -The rapidity of lightning, as measured by means of the camera lucida, M. -Halvig estimates at probably eight or ten miles in a second, or about -forty times greater velocity than that of sound; and according to M. -Gay-Lussac, a flash sometimes darts more than three miles at once in a -straight direction. M. Arago distinguishes three classes of lightning: -First, luminous discharges characterized by a long streak of light, very -thin, and well defined at the edges, of a white, violet, or purple hue, -moving in a straight line, or deviating into a zigzag track, frequently -dividing into two or more streams in striking terrestrial objects, but -invariably proceeding from a single point. Secondly, he notices expanded -flashes spreading over a vast surface without having any apparent depth, -of a red, blue, or violet color, not so active as the former class, and -generally confined to the edges of the clouds from which they appear to -proceed. Thirdly, he mentions concentrated masses of light, which he -terms globular lightning, which seem to occupy time, to endure for -several seconds, and to have a progressive motion. Mr. Hearder of -Plymouth describes a discharge of lightning of this kind on the -Dartmouth hills, very near to him. Several vivid flashes had occurred -before the mass of clouds approached the hill on which he was standing; -and before he had time to retreat from his dangerous position, a -tremendous crash and explosion burst close to him. The spark had the -appearance of a nucleus of intensely ignited matter, followed by a flood -of light. It struck the path near him, and dashed with fearful -brilliancy down its whole length to a rivulet at the foot of the hill, -where it terminated. Analogous to the discharges described as globular -lightning are the fire-balls so often noticed, about which there has -been no little scepticism; but the evidence cannot reasonably be -doubted, that displays of electrical light have repeatedly occurred, -conveying the impression of balls of fire to the observer. An instance -is given by Mr. Chalmers while on board the Montague, of seventy-four -guns, bearing the flag of Admiral Chambers. In the account read to the -Royal Society, he states, that “on November 4th, 1749, while taking an -observation on the quarter-deck, one of the quarter-masters requested -him to look to windward, upon which he observed a large ball of blue -fire rolling along on the surface of the water, as large as a -mill-stone, at about three miles distance. Before they could raise the -main-tack, the ball had reached within forty yards of the main-chains, -when it rose perpendicularly with a fearful explosion, and shattered the -main-topmast to pieces.” In an account of the fatal effects of lightning -in June 1826, on the Malvern Hills, when two ladies were struck dead, it -is stated, that the electric discharge appeared as a mass of fire -rolling along the hill toward the building in which the party had taken -shelter. - -Mr. Snow Harris remarks upon the difficulty of explaining these -appearances on the principles applicable to the ordinary electric spark. -The amazing rapidity of the latter, and the momentary duration of the -light, render it impossible that they should be identical with it; but -he conjectures that there may be a “glow discharge” preceding the main -shock, some of the atmospheric particles yielding up their electricity -by a gradual process before a discharge of the whole system takes place. -In this view, the distinct balls of fire of sensible duration which have -been perceived, are produced in a given point or points of a charged -system previously to the more general and rapid union of the electrical -forces—a supposition which will apply as well to the Mariner’s Lights, -or St. Elmo’s Fire, observed during storms of thunder and lightning at -sea. Pliny mentions lights noticed by the Roman mariners during -tempests, flickering about their vessels, to which Seneca likewise makes -allusion. By the superstitions of modern times they have been converted -into indications of the guardian presence of St. Elmo, the patron saint -of the sailor, hence called _cuerpo sante_ by the Spanish mariners. -During the second voyage of Columbus among the West India islands, a -sudden gust of heavy wind came on in the night, and his crew considered -themselves in great peril, until they beheld several of these lambent -flames playing about the tops of the masts, and gliding along the -rigging, which they hailed as an assurance of their supernatural -protector being near. Fernando Columbus records the circumstance in a -manner strongly characteristic of the age in which he lived. “On the -same Saturday, in the night, was seen St. Elmo, with seven lighted -tapers, at the topmast. There was much rain and great thunder. I mean to -say that those lights were seen which mariners affirm to be the body of -St. Elmo, on beholding which they chanted many litanies and orisons, -holding it for certain, that in the tempest in which he appears, no one -is in danger.” A similar mention is made of this nautical superstition -in the voyage of Magellan. During several great storms the presence of -the saint was welcomed, appearing at the topmast with a lighted candle, -and sometimes with two, upon which the people shed tears of joy, -received great consolation, and saluted him according to the custom of -the Catholic seamen; but he ungraciously vanished, disappearing with a -great flash of lightning which nearly blinded the crew. - -[Illustration: Tower of St. Mark’s, Venice.] - -It is a striking instance of the triumph of mind, that by the -introduction of lightning conductors into different civilized states, -the power of this most energetic agent of nature is controled, and -comparative security provided for life and property, otherwise in -imminent jeopardy, when a severe thunder-storm occurs. Experience has -taught the prime importance of furnishing exposed or elevated structures -with a conducting apparatus, and has sufficiently shown that the -immunity from danger enjoyed by many an unprotected building has been -merely accidental; for when the teeming thunder-cloud has been wafted -within reach of the edifice hitherto unscathed, the delusion has -vanished that man may carelessly and with impunity thrust up his -handiwork into the region of storms, as if daring the fury of the -tempest, and inviting down its vengeance. The fine tower of St. Mark’s, -at Venice, rising to the height of 360 feet, terminates in a pyramid -which was severely injured in 1388. In 1417 the pyramid was again -struck, and set on fire, having been constructed of wood. The same event -happened in 1489, when it was entirely consumed. After being rebuilt of -stone, the fell lightning renewed its destructive stroke in 1548, 1565, -1653 and 1745; and on the last occasion the whole tower was rent in -thirty-seven places, and almost destroyed. It was again ravaged in 1761 -and 1762, but in 1766 a lightning rod was put up, which has since -protected it from damage. At Glogau, in Silesia, an interesting example -of the value of conductors occurred in the year 1782. On the 8th of May, -about eight o’clock in the evening, a thunder-storm from the west -approached the powder magazine established in the Galgnuburg. An -intensely vivid flash of lightning took place, accompanied instantly -with such a tremendous peal of thunder, that the sentinel on duty was -stupefied, and remained for awhile senseless, but no disaster occurred. -Some laborers at a short distance from the magazine saw the lightning -issue from the cloud and strike the point of the conductor, which -conveyed it in safety by the combustible material. A different result -took place with reference to a large quantity of unprotected ammunition, -belonging to the republic of Venice, deposited in the vaults of the -church of St. Nazaire, at Brescia. The church was struck with lightning -in the month of August, 1767, and the electric fluid, descending to the -vaults, exploded upward of 207,600 lbs. of powder, reducing nearly -one-sixth of the fine city to ruins, and destroying about 3000 of the -inhabitants. The Indians, whenever the sky wears a lowering aspect, so -as to threaten a severe thunder-storm, are said to leave their pursuits -and take refuge under the nearest beech-tree, considering it a complete -protection, as it is affirmed that no instance has occurred of the beech -having been struck by atmospheric electricity, when other trees of the -American forests have been shivered into splinters in its neighborhood. - -For ages the inhabitants of the globe have seen the lightning flash and -heard the thunder rattle; and some writers upon the occult sciences of -the ancients, as Salverte, have supposed that, tutored by experience, -without any understanding of the theory of the subject, they possessed -the secret of warding off from their buildings the thunderbolt by a -conducting apparatus. It is certain that extraordinary intimations to -this effect may be culled from their writings. Pliny states that Tullus -Hostilius, practicing Numa’s art of bringing down fire from heaven, and -performing it incorrectly, was struck with lightning—a fate which -Professor Richman of St. Petersburg experienced, while performing -incautiously the sublime experiment of Franklin, measuring the strength -of the electricity brought down by a metallic rod in a thunder-storm, -being instantly killed. Pliny likewise mentions the laurel as the only -earthly production which lightning does not strike; hence, as a -protection, these trees were planted around the temple of Apollo. -Columella, however, mentions white vines surrounding the house of -Tarchon, the Etruscan, for the same purpose. These expedients may -provoke a smile without deserving one; for there can be no doubt that -trees sufficiently high around a temple, or succulent plants covering a -dwelling, will exercise to some extent a protective power, and act as a -regular system of conductors. Salverte mentions several medals which -appear to have reference to this subject, particularly one which -represents the temple of Juno, the goddess of the air, the roof of which -is armed with pointed rods. He quotes also Michaelis, upon the temple of -Jerusalem, to show that the Jews were not unacquainted with the art of -protecting their public buildings—a position grounded upon the -following facts: “1. That there is nothing to indicate that the -lightning ever struck the temple of Jerusalem during the lapse of a -thousand years.” This, of course, does not make the fact certain; but -when, as M. Arago justly remarks, we consider how carefully the ancient -authors recorded the cases in which their public buildings were injured -by lightning, we may accept the silence observed respecting the temple -of Jerusalem, as proof that it was never struck. For three centuries the -cathedral of Geneva, the most elevated in the city, has enjoyed a -similar immunity, although inferior buildings have been repeatedly -damaged. Saussure discovered the reason of this, in the tower being -entirely covered with tinned iron plates, connected with different -masses of metal on the roof, and again communicating with the ground by -means of metallic pipes. “2. That according to the account of Josephus, -a forest of spikes with golden or gilt points, and very sharp, covered -the roof of this temple; a remarkable feature of resemblance with the -temple of Juno represented on the Roman medals. 3. That this roof -communicated with the caverns in the hill of the temple, by means of -metallic tubes, placed in connection with the thick gilding that covered -the whole exterior of the building; the points of the spikes there -necessarily producing the effect of lightning-rods. How are we to -suppose that it was only by chance they discharged so important a -function; that the advantage received from it had not been calculated; -that the spikes were erected in such great numbers only to prevent the -birds from lodging upon and defiling the roof of the temple? Yet this is -the sole utility which the historian Josephus attributes to them.” Upon -a sober review of these facts, it is difficult to resist the conclusion -that the ancient world had some proficiency in the art of guiding the -electric fluid from the bosom of the clouds, conducting it in a -prescribed course, and thus disarming it of its terrors. - -The subject of electrical agency is intimately connected with that of -magnetism, to which this is the fittest place to glance—one of the most -recondite points of physical science. The relation between the two is -evident, from the notorious fact that lightning often renders steel -magnetic, and disturbs the magnetism of the magnetised needle, so that -in thunder-storms the compass needles of a ship have frequently been -seriously injured. The magnetic agency, like electricity, has a general -distribution over the earth, but the phenomena differ in different parts -of the world, and are subject to periodical differences in the same -place, the cause of which is very little understood. Every one is -acquainted with the polarity of a freely suspended magnetic needle, or -its tendency to lie parallel with the earth’s axis, pointing nearly -north and south in every region of the globe. What is called the _dip_ -or _inclination_ of the needle is its divergence from a perfectly -horizontal position. Thus the north pole of the needle inclines downward -in the latitude of London at an angle of 70°, but conveyed toward the -equator, the dip diminishes, till no inclination at all appears. -Transported farther toward the south, the dip again discovers itself, -but in an opposite direction, the south pole of the needle inclining -downward. “To understand the reason of this dip of the magnetic needle, -and of its general direction, we have only to consider that the earth -itself operates as a great magnet, the poles of which are situated -beneath its surface. The directive property of the needle is owing to -these poles; and when the needle is on the north side of the equator, -the north pole of the earth having the greatest effect, the needle is -attracted downward toward the north pole; hence exactly over the -magnetic pole the needle would be vertical. Similar phenomena occur in -the southern hemisphere; but here the south pole predominates, and of -course depresses the corresponding pole of the needle; while at the -magnetic equator, from the equal action of both poles, the needle will -assume an exactly horizontal position.” - -But neither the magnetic equator nor the magnetic poles coincide -precisely with the geographical equator and poles, and this difference -constitutes what is termed the _variation_ of the needle. From -calculation, the north magnetic pole had been fixed in latitude 70°, and -longitude 98° 30′ west, a spot which Commander Ross approached within -the distance of ten miles, in the year 1830, but was unable to verify -the site, for want of the requisite instruments. Upon going through a -long series of calculations afterward himself, he concluded the above -position to have been erroneously assigned, and that the real point lay -in latitude 70° 5′ 17″ north, and longitude 96° 46′ 45″ west, a spot on -the western coast of Boothia, which he prepared to reach. On the first -of June, 1831, at eight o’clock in the morning, he arrived at the site -to which his calculations pointed, and found the same day the amount of -the dip to be 89° 59′, only one minute less than 90°, the vertical -position, which would have precisely indicated the polar station; and -the horizontal needles, suspended in the most delicate manner possible, -did not betray the slightest movement. The spot was an unattractive -level site along the coast, rising into ridges from fifty to sixty feet -high, about a mile inland. The wish expressed by the discoverer was -natural, that a place so important had possessed more of mark or note, -but Nature had erected no monument to denote the spot which she had -chosen as the centre of one of her “great and dark powers.” A cairn of -some magnitude was constructed by the adventurers, upon which the -British flag was planted, and underneath, a canister was buried, -containing a record of the interesting enterprise. - -[Illustration: Aurora Borealis—Loch Leven.] - -The magnetic needle has frequently exhibited violent disturbance when -the Aurora Borealis has appeared. This has led to the surmise that these -brilliant lights are connected with the electric and magnetic properties -of the earth, though in a manner which we cannot explain. It has been -remarked that during the appearance of the aurora the electric fluid may -often be readily collected from the air. If a current of electricity -also be passed through an exhausted receiver, a very correct imitation -of the auroral light will be produced, displaying the same variety of -color and intensity, and the same undulating motions. It is highly -probable, therefore, that the beautiful and fantastic meteoric display -is connected with electricity; but great obscurity rests upon this -department of meteorology. - -Of all optical phenomena, the Aurora Borealis, or the northern -day-break, is one of the most striking, especially in the regions where -its full glory is revealed. The site of the appearance, in the north -part of the heavens, and its close resemblance to the aspect of the sky -before sunrise, have originated the name. The “Derwentwater Lights” was -long the appellation common in the north of England, owing to their -display on the night after the execution of the unfortunate earl of that -name. The scene in the illustration is a picture of the auroral light, -as observed from the neighborhood of Loch Leven—a scene in itself -admirably calculated to exhibit the phenomenon; and to convey any -adequate idea of its magical aspect, as seen in high latitudes, the -painter’s hand and the poet’s art are needed. A native Russian, -Lomonosov, thus refers to the spectacle:— - - “Where are thy secret laws, O Nature, where? - Thy torch-lights dazzle in the wintry zone; - How dost thou light from ice thy torches there? - There has thy son some sacred, secret throne? - See in your frozen sea what glories have their birth; - Thence night leads forth the day t’ illuminate the earth. - - “Come then, philosopher, whose privileged eye - Reads Nature’s hidden pages and decrees: - Come now, and tell us whence, and where, and why, - Earth’s icy regions glow with lights like these, - That fill our souls with awe; profound inquirer, say, - For thou dost count the stars, and trace the planet’s way. - - “What fills with dazzling beams the illumined air? - What wakes the flames that light the firmament? - The lightning’s flash: there is no thunder there, - And earth and heaven with fiery sheets are blent; - The winter’s night now gleams with brighter, lovelier ray - Than ever yet adorned the golden summer’s day. - - “Is there some vast, some hidden magazine, - Where the gross darkness flames of fire supplies? - Some phosphorous fabric, which the mountains screen, - Whose clouds of light above those mountains rise? - Where the winds rattle loud around the foaming sea, - And lift the waves to heaven in thundering revelry?” - -The appearances exhibited by the aurora are so various as to render it -impossible to comprehend every particular in a description that must be -necessarily brief and general. A cloud, or haze, is commonly seen in the -northern region of the heavens, but often bearing toward the east or -west, assuming the form of an arc, seldom attaining a greater altitude -than 40°, but varying in extent from 5° to 100°. The upper edge of the -cloud is luminous, sometimes brilliant and irregular. The lower part is -frequently dark and thick, with the clear sky appearing between it and -the horizon. Streams of light shoot up in columnar forms from the upper -part of the cloud, now extending but a few degrees, then as far as the -zenith, and even beyond it. Instances occur in which the whole -hemisphere is covered with these coruscations; but the brilliancy is the -greatest, and the light the strongest, in the north, near the main body -of the meteor. The streamers have in general a tremulous motion, and -when close together present the appearance of waves, or sheets of light, -following each other in rapid succession. But no rule obtains with -reference to these streaks, which have acquired the name of “the merry -dancers,” from their volatility, becoming more quick in their motions in -stormy weather, as if sympathizing with the wildness of the blast. Such -is the extraordinary aspect they present, that it is not surprising the -rude Indians should gaze upon them as the spirits of their fathers -roaming through the land of souls. They are variously white, pale red, -or of a deep blood-color, and sometimes the appearance of the whole -rainbow as to hue is presented. When several streamers emerging from -different points unite at the zenith, a small and dense meteor is -formed, which seems to burn with greater violence than the separate -parts, and glows with a green, blue, or purple light. The display is -over sometimes in a few minutes, or continues for hours, or through the -whole night, and appears for several nights in succession. Captain -Beechey remarked a sudden illumination to occur at one extremity of the -auroral arch, the light passing along the belt with a tremulous -hesitating movement toward the opposite end, exhibiting the colors of -the rainbow; and as an illustration of this appearance, he refers to -that presented by the rays of some molluscous animals in motion. Captain -Parry notices the same effect as a common one with the aurora, and -compares it, as far as its motion is concerned, to a person holding a -long ribbon by one end, and giving it an undulatory movement through its -whole length, though its general position remains the same. Captain -Sabine likewise speaks of the arch being bent into convolutions, -resembling those of a snake in motion. Both Parry, Franklin, and Beechey -agree in the observation that no streamers were ever noticed shooting -downward from the arch. - -The preceding statement refers to aurora in high northern latitudes, -where the full magnificence of the phenomenon is displayed. It forms a -fine compensation for the long and dreary night to which these regions -are subject, the gay and varying aspect of the heavens contrasting -refreshingly with the repelling and monotonous appearance of the earth. -We have already stated that the direction in which the aurora generally -makes its first appearance, or the quarter in which the arch formed by -this meteor is usually seen, is to the northward. But this does not hold -good of very high latitudes, for by the expeditions which have wintered -in the ice, it was almost always seen to the southward; while by Captain -Beechey, in the Blossom, in Kotzerne Sound, 250 miles to the southward -of the ice, it was always observed in a northern direction. It would -appear, therefore, from this fact, that the margin of the region of -packed ice is most favorable to the production of the meteor. The -reports of the Greenland ships confirm this idea; for, according to -their concurrent testimony, the meteoric display has a more brilliant -aspect to vessels passing near the situation of the compact ice, than to -others entered far within it. Instances, however, are not wanting, of -the aurora appearing to the south of the zenith in comparatively low -latitudes. Lieutenant Chappell, in his voyage to Hudson’s Bay, speaks of -its forming in the zenith, in a shape resembling that of an umbrella, -pouring down streams of light from all parts of its periphery, which -fell vertically over the hemisphere in every direction. As we retire -from the Pole, the phenomenon becomes a rarer occurrence, and is less -perfectly and distinctly developed. In September, 1828, it was observed -in England as a vast arch of silvery light, extending over nearly the -whole of the heavens, transient gleams of light separating from the main -body of the luminosity; but in September, 1827, its hues were red and -brilliant. Dr. Dalton has furnished the following account of an aurora, -as observed by him on the 15th of October, 1792:—“Attention,” he -remarks, “was first excited by a remarkably red appearance of the clouds -to the south, which afforded sufficient light to read by at 8 o’clock in -the evening, though there was no moon nor light in the north. From -half-past nine to ten there was a large, luminous, horizontal arch to -the southward, and several faint concentric arches northward. It was -particularly noticed that all the arches seemed exactly bisected by the -plain of the magnetic meridian. At half-past ten o’clock streamers -appeared, very low in the south-east, running to and fro from west to -east. They increased in number, and began to approach the zenith -apparently with an accelerated velocity, when all on a sudden the whole -hemisphere was covered with them, and exhibited such an appearance as -surpasses all description. The intensity of the light, the prodigious -number and volatility of the beams, the grand intermixture of all the -prismatic colors in their utmost splendor, variegating the glowing -canopy with the most luxuriant and enchanting scenery, afforded an -awful, but at the same time the most pleasing and sublime spectacle in -nature. Every one gazed with astonishment, but the uncommon grandeur of -the scene only lasted one minute. The variety of colors disappeared, and -the beams lost their lateral motion, and were converted into the -flashing radiations. The aurora continued for several hours.” A copious -deposition of dew—hard gales in the English channel—and a sudden thaw -after great cold in northern regions, are circumstances which have been -frequently noticed in connection with auroral displays. - -[Illustration: Aurora Borealis.] - -The sky of the southern hemisphere occasionally exhibits this strange -and mysterious light, contrary to an old opinion upon the subject; and -here it must be called Aurora Australis, the southern day-break. Its -appearance, however, is far from being so common as in the northern -zone, and is much less imposing. Don Antonio Ulloa, off Cape Horn, in -the year 1745, witnessed the first appearance of the kind upon record in -this region. Upon the clearing off of a thick mist, a light was observed -in the southern horizon, extending to an elevation of about thirty -degrees, sometimes of a reddish color, and sometimes like the light -which precedes the rise of the moon, but occasionally more brilliant. -Captain Cook, in the same latitudes, had more distinct views of the -luminous streamers adorning the night-sky of the south. In the course of -his second voyage he remarks, that on February the 17th, 1773, “a -beautiful phenomenon was observed in the heavens. It consisted of long -colors of a clear, white light, shooting up from the horizon, to the -eastward, almost to the zenith, and spreading gradually over the whole -southern part of the sky. These columns sometimes bent sideways at their -upper extremity; and though in most respects similar to the northern -lights, yet differed from them in being always of a whitish color, -whereas ours assume various tints, especially those of a purple and -fiery hue. The stars were sometimes hid by, and sometimes faintly to be -seen through, the substance of these southern lights, _Aurora -Australis_. The sky was generally clear when they appeared, and the air -sharp and cold, the thermometer standing at the freezing point, the ship -being in latitude 58° south.” - -The history of auroral phenomena goes back to the time of Aristotle, who -undoubtedly refers to the exhibition in his work on meteors, describing -it as occurring on calm nights, having a resemblance to flame mingled -with smoke, or to a distant view of burning stubble, purple, bright red, -and blood-color, being the predominant hues. Notices of it are likewise -found in many of the classical writers; and the accounts which occur in -the chronicles of the middle ages, of surprising lights in the air, -converted by the imagination of the vulgar into swords gleaming and -armies fighting, are allusions to the play of the northern lights. There -is strong reason to believe, though the fact is perfectly inscrutable, -that the aurora has been much more common in the European region of the -northern zone, during the last century and a half, than in former -periods. A very brilliant appearance took place on the 6th of March, -1716, which forms the subject of a paper by Halley, who remarks, that -nothing of the kind had occurred in England for more than eighty years, -nor of the same magnitude since 1574, or about 140 years previous, in -the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when Cambden and Stow were eye-witnesses -of it. The latter states in his Annals, that on November 14th, “were -seen in the air strange impressions of fire and smoke to proceed forth -from a black cloud in the north toward the south—that the next night -the heavens from all parts did seem to burn marvelous ragingly, and over -our heads the flames from the horizon round about rising did meet, and -there double and roll one in another, as if it had been in a clear -furnace.” The year following, 1575, it was twice repeated in Holland, -but not observed in England; and as a specimen of the tone of thought -respecting the aurora, the description of Cornelius Gemma, a professor -in the university of Louvain, may be given. Referring to the second -instance of the year, and speaking in the language of the times, he -remarks: “The form of the Chasma of the 28th of September following, -immediately after sunset, was indeed less dreadful, but still more -confused and various; for in it were seen a great many bright arches, -out of which gradually issued spears, cities with towers and men in -battle array; after that, there were excursions of rays every way, waves -of clouds and battles mutually pursued and fled, and wheeling round in a -surprising manner.” This phenomenon was repeatedly observed in the last -century in Sweden, as at present; but prior to the year 1716, the -inhabitants of Upsal considered it as a great rarity. Nothing is more -common now in Iceland than the northern lights, exhibited during the -winter with imposing grandeur and brilliance; but Torfæus, the historian -of Denmark, an Icelander, who wrote in 1706, records his remembrance of -the time when the meteor was an object of terror in his native island. -It deserves remark, that its more frequent occurrence in the Atlantic -regions has been accompanied by its diminution in the eastern parts of -Asia, as Baron Von Wrangel was assured by the natives there, who added, -that formerly it was brighter than at present, and frequently presented -the vivid coloring of the rainbow. - -[Illustration: Halos.] - -The simplest form of the halo is that of a white concentric ring -surrounding the sun or moon, a very common appearance in our climate in -relation to the moon, occasioned by very thin vapor, or minute particles -of ice and snow, diffused through the atmosphere deflecting the rays of -light. Double rings are occasionally seen, displaying the brightest hues -of the rainbow. The colored ring is produced by globules of visible -vapor, the resulting halo exhibiting a character of density, and -appearing contiguous to the luminous body, according as the atmosphere -is surcharged with humidity. Hence a dense halo close to the moon is -universally and justly regarded as an indication of coming rain. It has -been stated as an approximation, that the globules which occasion the -appearance of colored circles, vary from the 5000th to the 50,000th part -of an inch in diameter. Though seldom apparent around the sun in our -climate, yet it is only necessary to remove that glare of light which -makes delicate colors appear white, to perceive segments of beautifully -tinted halos on most days when light fleecy clouds are present. The -illustration shows a nearly complete and slightly eliptical ring around -the sun, the lower portion hidden by the horizon, which was distinctly -observed during the past summer in the neighborhood of Ipswich, of an -extremely pale pink and blue tint. When Humboldt was at Cumana, a large -double halo around the moon fixed the attention of the inhabitants, who -considered it as the presage of a violent earthquake. The hygrometer -denoted great humidity, yet the vapors appeared so perfectly in -solution, or rather so elastic and uniformly disseminated, that they did -not alter the transparency of the atmosphere. The moon arose after a -storm of rain behind the Castle of St. Antonio. As soon as she appeared -on the horizon, two circles were distinguished, one large and whitish, -44° in diameter, the other smaller, displaying all the colors of the -rainbow. The space between the two circles was of the deepest azure. At -the altitude of 4° they disappeared, while the meteorological -instruments indicated not the slightest change in the lower regions of -the air. The phenomenon was chiefly remarkable for the great brilliancy -of its colors, and for the circumstance that, according to the measures -taken with Ramsden’s sextant, the lunar disc was not exactly in the -centre of the halos. Humboldt mentions likewise having seen at Mexico, -in extremely fine weather, large bands spread along the vault of the -sky, converging toward the lunar disc, displaying beautiful prismatic -colors; and he remarks, that within the torrid zone, similar appearances -are the common phenomena of the night, sometimes vanishing and returning -in the space of a few minutes, which he assigns to the superior currents -of air changing the state of the floating vapors, by which the light is -refracted. Between latitude 15° of the equator, he records having -observed small tinted halos around the planet Venus, the purple, orange, -and violet being distinctly perceptible, which was never the case with -Sirius, Canopus, or Acherner. In the northern regions solar and lunar -halos are very common appearances, owing to the abundance of minute and -highly crystallized spicula of ice floating in the atmosphere. The -Arctic adventurers frequently mention the fall of icy particles during a -clear sky and a bright sun, so small as scarcely to be visible to the -naked eye, and most readily detected by their melting upon the skin. - - * * * * * - - - - - APRIL. - - - BY MRS. E. L. CUSHING. - - - Hark to the silvery sound - Of the soft April shower - Telleth it not a pleasant tale - Of bird, and bee, and flower? - See, as the bright drops fall, - How swell the tiny buds - That gem each bare and leafless bough, - Like polished agate studs. - - The elder by the brook, - Stands in her tusseled pride - And the pale willow decketh her - As might beseem a bride. - And round the old oak’s foot, - Where in their wintry play, - The winds have swept the withered leaves— - See, the Hepatria! - - Its brown and mossy buds - Greet the first breath of spring, - And to her shrine, its clustered flowers, - The earliest offering bring. - In rocky cleft secure, - The gaudy columbine - Shoots forth, ere wintry snows have fled - A floral wreath to twine. - - And many a bud lies hid - Beneath the foliage pent, - Waiting spring’s warm and wooing breath - To deck the vernal year. - When lo! sweet April comes, - The wild bird hears her voice, - And through the grove on glancing wing - Carols, “rejoice! rejoice!” - - Forth from her earthy nest - The timid wood-mouse steals, - And the blithe squirrel on the bough - Her genial influence feels. - The purple hue of life - Flushes the teeming earth, - Above, around, beneath the feet, - Joy, beauty, spring to birth! - - But on the distant verge - Of the cerulean sky, - Old Winter stands with angry frown - And bids the syren fly. - He waves his banner dark - Raises his icy hand, - And a fierce storm of sleet and hail, - Obey his stern command. - - She feareth not his wrath, - But hides her sunny face - Behind a soft cloud’s fleecy fold - For a brief instant’s space, - Then looketh gayly forth - With smile of magic power, - That changeth all his icy darts - To a bright diamond shower. - - Capricious April, hail! - Herald of all things fair, - ’Tis thine to loose the imprisoned streams, - The young buds are thy care. - To unobservant eye - Thy charms are few, I ween; - But he who roves the woodland paths - Where thy blithe step hath been, - - Will trace thee by the tufts - Of fragrant early flowers, - That thy sweet breath hath waked, to deck - The dreary forest bowers; - And by the bursting buds, - That at thy touch unfold - To clothe the tall tree’s naked arms - With beauty all untold, - - Will hear thy tuneful voice - In the glad leaping streams, - And catch thy bland, yet fitful smile - In showers and sunny gleams. - Then welcome April, fair! - Bright harbinger of May! - Month of blue skies and perfumed air— - The young year’s holyday! - - * * * * * - - - - - AWAY. - - - B. B. - - - Floateth in upon my senses now the melody of brooks, - And the drip of fragrant waters, far in solitary nooks— - O avaunt! ye tedious tasks! O get ye gone! ye irksome books. - - Why to linger pent and stifled in this chamber small and low, - Through the casement on my temples thus to feel the breezes blow, - Bidding me to come and follow where at liberty they go? - - Why amid this noisy Babel mingle in the petty strife, - In the wearying din and discord with which every day is rife, - While the full, free life within me yearns to greet its kindred life? - - O, those boundless breadths of forest unrestrained to wander through, - Where the lofty pine mounts upward to the firmament of blue, - Where the swarth and stalwart savage paddles in his birch canoe. - - O, to hear my ringing shout of exultation echo clear - In the woodland, by the moose-tramp and the covert of the deer, - Or where stalk the stately bison who have never known to fear, - - On the broad and blooming pampas, with their fat and teeming soil - Never marred by human culture, never by unwilling toil, - Where the wild herds roam uninjured, and the gleaming serpents coil. - - Or where crawls the full-fed Ganges down into his sandy bed, - And the sluggish hippopotamus uprears his clumsy head, - Where the beauty-bringing cestus of the torrid zone is spread. - - Where many a glowing river rolls along its wealth of tide - Through the tangled vines and palm-trees bending down on either side, - With the orange bloom and citron, and the tall acacia’s pride. - - Where the scaly cayman basking on the yellow bank is laid, - And the brilliant-plumaged song-birds call in every spicy glade, - There to hunt the spotted leopard in the jungle’s depth of shade. - - Or beyond the spreading oceans, in some distant Paynim land, - Swifter than the fiery simoom sweep across the plains of sand, - On a fleet and naked barb, and wield a keenly flashing brand. - - O for days of careless gladness, days that evermore are gone, - When the spirit-thrilling summons of the silver bugle-horn - Roused the green-clad host of merry men at break of dewy morn. - - —Cease thy prating, foolish Fancy, Fancy wayward, unconfined, - List the mighty music rushing on the pinions of the wind, - ’Tis the onward tread of nations, ’tis the endless march of mind. - - _Bowdoin College._ - - * * * * * - - - - - SONG. - - - Each gentle word thy lip imparts, - Each glance of thy dear eye, - Is hidden in my heart of hearts - As in a treasury. - - And, though but once in life we’ve met - And ne’er may meet again, - The memory of this hour, shall yet - Within my heart remain, - - As the bright tinge of crimson dye, - When the red sun descends, - Long lingers in the western sky - And with the twilight blends. - - Still let me cherish thoughts of thee - Till life’s sad hours are o’er; - Think of me, sometimes, tenderly— - I may not ask for more. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE FIRST AGE. - - - BY H. DIDIMUS. - - - BOOK FIRST. - - SECTION I. - -The broad sun, red, and with softened beams, rose lazily upon the young -earth. The wide sea, unruffled, heaved to and fro, mirroring in its -depths the new-made canopy of azure and of gold spread by God’s hand, -from limit to limit, over water and land, and all the stream of ocean. -The herbage stood rank, thick, heavy, tall and motionless; and covered -with vast shade mountain and valley and plain; for not yet had the -revolving seasons, and storms, with falling rain abraded the soil, and -bared rocks, and worn acclivities; nor the breath of heaven hastened in -its course, circling the earth; nor the poles left their place to rise -and fall, vibrating; but one unending spring ruled throughout the year. -Rivers rolled—unvexed and noiseless—toward the bosom of their great -mother; and the mountain stream scarce murmured as it fell, whitening, -from sward to sward, to sleep in some still lake, happy with water-fowl. -Herds of cattle—of horses and of deer, the elephant and the -bison—wandered, uncared for, through fat pastures, beautiful with -flowers; and the lion roamed at will, and crouched in every dingle, and -in every glen, and took his prey. The air was vocal with the voice of -birds, of birds innumerable, which saluted with morning hymn the growing -day; and the hum of insects—which all night had drummed in the drowsy -ear of silence—was hushed, and folding their wings, they slept. It is -the primeval age. - - SECTION II. - -Chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh, oo-ugh; chrr-oo-uh—A -white pigeon stood upon the lowest branch, heavy with foliage, of a -noble oak, planted with creation, and arched his neck, and drooped his -wings, and turned round and round, calling to his mate. Chrr-oo-uh; -chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; chrr-oo-uh—And the white -pigeon looked out upon the sea, which rolled inward with its new voice, -deep and hoarse, as it rolls now, and broke softly upon the glittering -strand, just beneath his feet; and back to the wooded mountains, which -showed blue and misty through the air, capped with silvery clouds; and -beneath the arms of the forest trees, where the land rose gently from -the shore, carpeted with green and gold, and all colors of the sun woven -into flowers. Chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; -chrr-oo-uh—calling to his mate. - - SECTION III. - -From a deep, embowered grot—half-hidden within a grove of oranges, and -trellised with the woodbine and the grape, clustering—came a sweet -voice, singing; not with the musical cadence and alliteration, and -returning rhyme of later days, when intellect refined to weaken, but -with the promptings of the soul, gushing, unmeasured, finding speech as -it might. - -“Call, call to your mate, happy bird, and she shall call to you again; -but where is he who should call to me, in this day of joy? Erix, my -Erix, rising like the sun in his strength, with broad shoulders, and a -brow moulded by God! And the glory of his head, brighter than the beams -of the morning; those curls which I, with merry fingers, have so often -twisted, until they sprang from me with life and laughter, and clung -about his neck, kissingly—why do they not dance before me, gladdening -my sight? And those arms, like twisted vines, which hold and give every -happiness—why are they not here to receive me? And those lips, which -are so used to praise me, until I wonder at my own comeliness, and lose -my breath in their thieving—why are they not here to bless me, with -their music so subduing? And those eyes, so large and deep, those wells -of passion, in which I live a double being, in which I see my own -blushing—why are they not here, to kindle and to burn? Oh! Erix, my -Erix, as flowers love the earth, as the earth loves the sun, as the sun -loves its Maker, so is my love for thee, most beautiful and most -excellent!” - - SECTION IV. - -And with the singing, came a fair maid, tripping into the outer air; -large, lithe of limb, like the moon riding in mid-heaven, when seen in -her full light, paling the stars. Her hair fell, unbound, even to her -feet, covering half her shape; and about her waist was knit a robe of -sables, which flowed downward, and concealed no excellence above the -girdle. Her form was sister to the antelope, and her face, one, which -Phidias would have chiseled for a Juno of giant make. Her glowing eyes, -blue as the ether above them, rolled liquid as she sang, and bent the -knee, and worshiped, extending her arms, which showed like wreaths of -snow borne upon the wind, toward the mounting day—not ignorantly, for -she was too near to God in time, to have forgotten him. Then rising, she -also looked upon the sea, smiling in the sunlight, and loved it; for she -was born upon its shores, and, with life, its roar filled her ears. She -loved it—coming to her, from whence she knew not, from beyond the reach -of space, which to her eye was bounded by the heavens, that bowed down -and girdled the waters—and enticed, the robe of sables fell from her, -and the glad brine received her, and mounting, laved all her beauty. -Thus swimming, thus sporting, thus playing with young ocean, now -floating, now dipping beneath his bosom heaving with great joy. The -white pigeon left its perch, and sought a new rest, even the fair maid’s -fair brow, rising from the wave, and arched its neck, and drooped its -wings, and turned round and round, chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh -uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; chrr-oo-uh; calling to its mate. - -The white pigeon nestled in the grot, and knew its mistress, and her -caress; and when the maid would have taken it tenderly in her hand, -smoothing its ruffled feathers, it flew upward, cleaving the air in -circles, and descending, lighted upon her wrist, and pecked at her taper -fingers, roseate with health, and arched its neck, and drooped its -wings, and turned round and round; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; -chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; chrr-oo-uh; calling to its mate. - -“Call, call to your mate, happy bird, and she shall call to you again; -but, where is he who should call to me, in this my bridal hour? Erix, my -love, my life, my soul’s sole hope!” - - SECTION V. - -The sound of merry horns, of laughter, and of shout, came leaping -through the wood, and the fair maid started like a fawn, like a fawn -tracked by the hunter, when it first scents its pursuer in the breeze; -and hastening to the strand, she knit the robe of sables about her -waist, and it fell down as before, concealing no excellence above the -girdle. Fresh from the wave, she stood gazing, with hope and expectation -her handmaids, who with nimble fingers adorned her, and covered her all -over with tints from the blushing east. Her hair, long and damp, thick -sown with pearly brine, showed gemmed; and parted lip, and flashing eye, -the very tell-tales of passion, betrayed the beatings of her heart, her -fears and her desire. When, in an after age, the poet wove this story -into mythologic fable, he called her Venus, the Aphrodite, born of the -foam of the sea; and the sculptor caught her as she stood, her feet like -flocks of wool, the right advanced, the left raised at the heel, -rushing, moving, white, and fair. - - SECTION VI. - -And now, far within the leafy vista, was seen approaching, descending -toward the strand, a troop of maidens and young men. Crowned with -chaplets of roses and the fruitful vine, they came on dancing, to shout -and laughter, and the sound of merry horns; and he who led them was -taller than the rest, herculean; and from his back hung a boar’s hide, -and about his loins were girded the skins of foxes and of wolves, spoils -of the chase. In his hand he held a bow, which he drew proudly at the -sun; elated with the nearness of his supremest bliss. Child of the -forest, greater than the sun, immortal, thou shall live when all of -matter hath wholly passed away; draw then, thy bow, aspiring, if thou -wilt; it is thy soul, conscious of its superiority, stirring within -thee. - -On, on; love gives fleetness to his feet. “Zella, Zella,” calling to his -mate. And again the shout, the laughter, and the sound of merry horns; -and again, “Zella, Zella,” calling to his mate. - -But Zella called not to him again. Her heart was upon her tongue, and -she could not speak; her strength had left her knees, and she stood -transfixed; while “Zella, Zella,” sprang from every lip, echoed through -the wood, and died afar off, amid the murmurs of the sea. Again, “Zella, -Zella;” again the shout, the laughter, and the sound of merry horns; and -Erix clasped the loved one to his breast. - -“Zella!” - -“Erix!” - -“Now, may the ruler of the heavens and good earth so bless me, as I love -thee, my soul’s choice! Closer, closer, my heart of hearts; thus -twining, thus growing, no storm shall divide us; but, with equal step, -we will move right onward through life, and beyond life, to gather new -strength and a new glory, in a hereafter.” - - SECTION VII. - -The band of youths and fair maids danced around them, hand in hand, -singing, “To the Mighty Giver of all good, praise. He sends the blossom -and the fruit, praise. From Him come all our joys, praise. He made the -day, and the night, with all her train of ever-burning fires, the -fairest labor of His hand, praise. The sun is His servant, the moon His -daughter, praise. He gave us the earth, with all its beauty of hill and -valley, of water and of wood, praised be forever His holy name. Oh, -happy, happy day! oh, happy, happy hour! Open, ye heavens! and let love -from on high descend upon these two, brooding; that they may live, from -generation to generation, renewed and renewing, to the end of time. -Holy, holy, holy, is this compact instituted in the beginning. Now are -ye of one flesh; hearts the same, wills the same, desires the same; of -one body, of one mind. Praise Him, praise Him, praise the Mighty Giver -of all good!” - -Then hastening to the sea, they took up water, briny water, in shells, -and poured it upon the lovers, and baptized them into a new life, and -cast their chaplets upon them and covered them with flowers; still -dancing, still singing: “The divided part has become old, put it off; -the present is bright with every hope, enjoy it; the future shall be -what you may make it, be not wanting; oh, happy, happy, happy pair! As -ye are, so we would be; ever drinking draughts of pleasure through each -revolving year.” - - SECTION VIII. - -And now came forth the aged of the tribe, slow descending from the wood, -and embraced them and blessed them; “Be fruitful and multiply—swear.” -And Erix and Zella stretched out their hands toward heaven and swore, by -the light, and by the orbs of the air, and by the ocean, far-rounding, -illimitable, infinite, and by the solid earth, and by Him who moved upon -the face of the waters and begat this glory, to be forever one. “What -you receive, I will receive; what you reject, I will reject; your breath -is my breath, and even as we are now, so death shall find us; leaving -all else to cleave unto each other.” - -The dance, the shout, the sound of merry horns, pointed to the grot, and -Erix and Zella led the way. He, with head erect and willing feet, proud -of his victory; she, with downcast eyes and halting gait, irresolute, -resolved, like a coy maid, half-refusing, like a wife, wholly trusting, -while youth and maiden, paired, in a long line, came sweeping after. And -now they sway, first to the right then to the left, with measured step, -beating upon the glad earth the bridal-song. - -“Receive, receive thy children, Paradise, garden new found, not lost to -us forever.” - -“Who are these that come, beautiful with joy?” - -“Receive, receive thy children, Paradise, garden new found, not lost to -us forever.” - -“Who are these that knock, pressing to tread upon holy ground?” - -“Thy children, father; thy children, mother; open wide the gates that -they may enter in. Praised be thy name, oh Adam! praised be thy name, oh -Eve! these are thy offspring, joined as ye were joined, by the hand of -God; open wide the gates that they may enter in.” - -The grot received them, echoing; and shout, and laughter, and the sound -of many horns, held riot over a feast of fruit, and the chase, and water -from the brook, till the day went out and night crept slowly in, and -stars spotted the sky, and the white pigeon descended nestling, timidly, -to its couch, and arched its neck, and drooped its wings, and turned -round and round; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; -chrr-oo-uh; calling to its mate—and she, called to him again. - - - BOOK SECOND. - - SECTION I. - -Ten circles have passed; ten circles of the earth about the sun; what -are ten circles to life before the flood! The night is just yielding to -the day, and in the farthest east streaks of gray light lie floating, -dividing the ocean from the sky. How quiet the earth is; and seems to -breathe, long and deep, in its huge slumber, not yet awakened. The -murmur of the sea is infinite, ceaseless, and breaks, and returns, and -breaks, in regular cadence upon the shore; ever speaking the same -words—eternity and power. The sea and silent stars, which look down, -twinkling, from heaven’s pavement, alone are watchful. How quiet the -earth is! The owl sits moping upon her perch in some tall pine, and the -wolf, whose cry, whetted by hunger, pierced the shades of night, gorged -and reeking, has hastened to his lair. The dew, like rain, is upon the -grass and all herbage, and hangs, globular, from every leaf. An incense -rises, the incense of the morning, and fills the air; now known only to -the wise and the poor, beloved of God. Hour most sweet; when day salutes -the night, and night kisses day, to part and meet again. - - SECTION II. - -At such an hour, Erix and Zella shook sleep from their eyelids and came -forth, ready for the chase. Her hair no longer floated unbound, but, as -became the matron, was twisted into a knot and confined with strings of -coral, fashioned by the hand whose soft caress she returned with joys -unspeakable. Upon her drooping shoulders, white and bare, rests a quiver -well filled; and a belt of tiny sea-shells interwoven with fibres of the -lichen, crosses transversely her breast, now full and rounded to -completion. Sandals are upon her feet, and a tunic of shaggy hide covers -her from the waist to the knee; all else, the morning air, invigorating, -embraces. Thus seen, the poet of an after age, changed his story, and -called her Dian, ruler of the night; and sang her praises in verse set -to the babbling of brooks, the music of the wood, and sylvan sports. -Erix, large, erect, perfect in manly beauty, with limbs well knit, -proportional, combining activity and strength, was less incumbered than -his mate, and carried, as his sole weapon, an ashen spear, charred and -hardened at the point by fire. His was the front of Jove, the pagan, not -yet won from mortality by intellect, or raised above mere matter, to -express the soul’s labors and ambitions. And first, low bending, rose -the morning prayer. - - SECTION III. - -“Hail Father, Creator; Thou who gavest into our hands the earth, with -its fullness; all hail! Thy children, fashioned after thine own -excellence, we stand, rejoicing. Greater than the earth are we; greater -than the sea, that vast stream which compasses all land, forever -proclaiming thy praises; greater than the orbs of day and night; greater -than the elements, thy ministers; for thou didst speak unto our fathers, -and didst promise to raise the seed of Adam higher than the angels. The -thunder serves us, obedient to thy will; and the quick lightning; and -the clouds, pregnant with rain. In the air we find thy mercies, and -every tree, and every flower speaks of thee. Accept, accept our great -gratitude; and keep us, even as thou keepest all else.” - -Again low bending, and Erix and Zella, light of foot, passed onward to -the chase. - - SECTION IV. - -They skirt the wood, and narrowly inspect the dewy grass, to find new -foot-prints of beast or heavy bird, seeking, with returning light, their -accustomed food. No fairy ring, no shape of naiad or of dryad, no gnome, -no sprite, met their pure vision, to turn them from their way; for not -yet had the mind of man built up a superstition unto itself, and peopled -the clefts of the earth, the water, and the air, giving to nothingness -forms innumerable. Truth was too near and palpable, to be lost in -imagination; to be moulded and cast anew, so changed as not to know -itself; and poetry, the juggler and soul’s cheat, lay hid in matter, -where God placed it, to be drawn thence for other purposes than those of -error. It was not until man forgot his origin, that he sought out a new -creator, even Beauty, the prime element in all God’s works, and so -wrought with it, as to give strange life to all that is, and is not. - -The wily hunters, skilled in their life’s trade, turn on every side, -observe the lower boughs, fresh cropped, imitate the call of birds, the -cry of deer, peer through the thick underwood which stood here and there -in clumps, and plunged into the forest upon a trail which promised -success. - - SECTION V. - -The sylva before the flood! Huge, aspiring, with arms reaching outward -many a rood, each monarch stood; the traveler and man of science, he -whose name now fills the world, never found, in his many rounds in -search of knowledge, even in southern climes, such offspring of earth, -air, water, and the sun; and Australia, with its wondrous herbage, -sometimes cloud-capped, stand dwarfed and small to the life with which -God, in his first joy, clothed his work. The poet, too, and writer of -the Comedies, whose soul was bitter hell, saw not in heaven, nor -beneath, nor in the orb between, a wood so vast, so majestic, and so -beautiful. Trees, the growth of many a revolving year, lay mouldering; -not prostrated by the tornado, nor driven from their seat by floods of -water and of rock, which leave their track seamed, as one might plough a -furrow in the field, but fallen through age, and draped with moss of the -liveliest green, softer to the touch than a woman’s lip. The vine crept -from limb to limb, and threw out its tendrils joyously; now hanging in -mid air, and now, a parasite, twisting about the trunk of some gnarled -oak, adding to strength its sister loveliness; while flowers, broad and -tall, with petals like masts, and of a hue more delicate than that which -opens to the garish sun, spotted the ground as stars spot the sky. The -air pressed heavy, damp, laden with aromatic odors, as to one standing -beneath the swelling arches of some old temple, raised in the middle-age -by hands whose labors Michelett has transferred to historic prose, more -lasting than the stone which was to them a religion and a worship. No -voice broke the general stillness, save the sound of distant water, -floating upon the breathings of the wood, just reaching the ear, now -heard and now lost, as a maid calling to her lover. Amid such -excellence, the excellence of a primeval age, before man and the seasons -had marred earth’s face, Erix and Zella hunted. - - SECTION VI. - -The two moved on, like gods, hastening to outrun the growing light, and -to make their sport before high noon should steal its freshness from -their path. So, long after, but less large, less strong, less fleet, and -less beautiful, did the twin creations of pure intellect, Apollo and his -mate, pursue the boar in Tempe; while the herdsman who sat afar off, -upon some high rock, watching his wealth, veiled his face in wonder and -in fear. - -Thus were three full leagues passed over, through the windings of the -wood; he, crushing the flowers beneath his feet, she, just bending their -drooping heads, when Erix descried a noble stag standing upon the bank -of a sweet pool, of narrow round, which, embosomed in the forest, slept -peaceful, and mirrored in its face the moving foliage and the blue sky -above. With head depressed, the deer had caught his own image in the -water, and stood threatening with mimic war his shadowy antagonist, -returning thrust for thrust. Poor beast! Now strain the nerve and put -forth thy utmost speed, for no shadows threaten at thy back, but death, -with feet swifter than the wind. With one loud shout the forest rang, -and then, clear as the notes of bugle or of flute, played to the -listening morn, burst forth the hunter’s song; for not yet had the gin -and pit, and stealth cowardly creeping upon its prey, debased the chase, -and dishonored with cheat and trick man’s highest sport; but room was -given and a chance for life, to the course before the flood. - - SECTION VII. - -See, the east is glowing with golden-tinted light, and the morn calls to -us with the breath of youth. - -See, the incense rises from every dewy leaf; and the morn calls to us -with the breath of youth. - -The air floats, balmy, o’er hill, and wood, and lake; and the morn calls -to us with the breath of youth. - -The spear stands, impatient, by the wall; the bow, unstrung, lies -mourning at the door; while the morn calls to us with the breath of -youth. - -Hark! The horn winds joy, and the echoes laugh, and leap, and -dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, trrwhroo—in circles of mad -delight. - -Awake, then, awake; for the horn winds joy, and the echoes laugh, and -leap, and dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, trrwhroo—in circles of -mad delight; and the morn calls to us with the breath of youth. - -Now press the foot, and watchful be the eye, for the spear is in the -hand, and the arrow on the string, and the horn winds joy, and the -echoes laugh, and leap, and dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, -trrwhroo—in circles of mad delight. - -Away, and away, in a race against the sun; while the horn winds joy, and -the echoes laugh, and leap, and dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, -trrwhroo—in circles of mad delight. - -Of the strong, we are the strongest, and of the fleet, we are the -fleetest; while the horn winds joy, and the echoes laugh, and leap, and -dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, trrwhroo—in circles of mad -delight. - -The game flies, scudding athwart the forest path, while the horn winds -joy, and the echoes laugh, and leap, and dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, -trrwhroo, trrwhroo—in circles of mad delight. - -The wolf howls defiance, and hastens to his lair; the deer, suspicious, -scents the coming storm; the lion’s deep growl comes rolling up the -glen, while the horn winds joy, and the echoes laugh, and leap, and -dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, trrwhroo—in circles of mad -delight. - -Then press the foot, and watchful be the eye; for the spear is in the -hand, and the arrow on the string; and the horn winds joy, and the -echoes laugh, and leap, and dance—trr, trr, trr, trr, trrwhroo, -trrwhroo—in circles of mad delight; and the morn calls to us with the -breath of youth. - - SECTION VIII. - -With one bound the stag cleared the narrow pool, and with head erect, -his branching antlers resting upon his back, fled onward; swifter than -the wind that, in winter’s dreary reign, under the stars of cold -December, drives fierce and cutting through the gorge which, in the -farthest north, divides the granite hills sheer to their base, while the -song poured thickening upon his rear—sounds of victory and pursuit. -Thus, with nostrils wide distended and smoking flanks, he led his foes -through many a double and straight reach, now holding to the cover of -the wood, and with sure eye, passing beneath gnarled oaks, and through -hanging vines, and boughs interlocked blacker than night, and now, -seeking the open plain, where the sea rolled inward to find its limit. -There the voice of his pursuers no longer urged him on, or was lost in -that greater voice to which he had fled as to a refuge; and he rested, -trembling, upon the rim of the ocean, his fetlocks laved by its flaky -foam, and looking out upon it, sobbing, in search of a safety which the -water as the land denied. So, in the race of life, the unfortunate, -hunted by its ills, with hope crushed out, stand upon its utmost verge, -gazing, and find no joy beyond, till death strikes them through, to -perish and be forgotten. - -Short time was given, for Erix and Zella, side by side, keeping ever, -like fate, to their fixed end, soon issued from the wood, and with voice -and gesture urged their prey to a new flight. The game, now driven to -his last shift, stilled his coward heart, turned and stood at bay; but -Zella, unwilling thus to close the morning’s sport, drew an arrow to its -head, and sent the weapon whirring, to glance and fall far out at sea. -Enraged with such acts, the stag sprang forward, striking on either -side; and as Erix, yielding, strove to take him by the horns, leaped as -far as Apollo’s horses leaped, in that great story told by the Greek -whose song civilized the world. Like a bolt, winged, he sped through the -whistling air, when Zella, quick turning, with a shaft more fleet, smote -him, mid-way, quite through his bursting heart. Upon a scented bank, -deep within the wood, mossy, curling over the stream which there, -trickling, smooth, and quiet, hastened to kiss the sea, the poor beast -fell, and groaned his life away; and the warm sun danced and flickered, -as if in very joy of the beauty it had made, through the tall trees, and -around the climbing vines, and across the green leaves, and upon the -silent water, mocking at death, and laughing at the spoil which changes -but to create again. - - SECTION IX. - -Erix took Zella’s hand in his and drew her toward him, nothing loth, -till their lips met; then praised her skill: then pressed again her -lips—then praised—then pressed—while Zella returned the pressure with -many a toy beside. Thus rejoicing in a mutual love, they sought, with -slow step and halting, the mossy bank, where lay in the sunlight, as if -asleep, the game of late so fleet, and sat them down to rest, and drink -new draughts of pleasure, and count over the endless good with which -Heaven had blessed the earth. - -“List, dearest, list! how softly upon the ear, in sweetest cadence, -falls the song of the deep salt sea!” said Erix. - -“And the air which hears it, glad to be thus freighted, floats inward, -murmuring, to tell it to the hills,” said Zella. - -“And the hills repeat it, whispering.” - -“And the trees catch it; and through the live-long day, and through the -night, over the whole broad land, play with it, and toss it from bough -to bough, till it has become a language of its own,” said Zella. - -“It is the voice of this earth.” - -“It is the voice of its great joy.” - -“And has praised from the beginning, and will praise unto the end, the -hand which made it,” said Erix. - -“The sunlight hears it, and moves merrily to the measure upon every -quivering leaf, now leaping upward to gild the topmost twig, and now -chasing shadows upon the ground beneath.” - -“See, where it streams through the openings of the wood, and rests upon -this water, smiling! Yes, the sunlight hears it, and grows brighter with -each draught of a music so divine.” - -“The flowers open to it; and there, upon that slope, bending gently -toward our feet, proud of their colors penciled by the light, stand -thick—” - -“And wonder, and drink deep of the strains which extol their beauty and -their glory, as they extol the beauty and the glory of all else,” said -Erix. “Oh the song of the sea, of the deep, salt sea, with the air -floating inward, and the hills beyond, and the trees, and the sunlight, -and the flowers thick set upon the slope, gently bending downward toward -our feet, and this mossy bank, and the pearly brook between—upon such a -morn as this, in such a place as this, Adam found his Eve.” - -“And upon such a morn as this, in such a place as this, Eve gave to Adam -a love new-created, unknown to the courts trod by angels’ feet, and -which has raised her daughters above cherub and seraph, to do and to -suffer for their soul’s choice,” said Zella. - -“Zella!” - -“Erix!” - -Now let the voice of the earth’s joy, the sun, and herbage speaking, the -mossy bank, the flowery slope, and pearly brook between, bold revel, for -a passion, blushing like the morn, pure as the marble which grew beneath -the hands of Praxitiles, without stain or blemish, strong as the -strongest, weak as the weakest, even love, is here present, and rules -supreme. - - SECTION X. - -Erix and Zella, he bearing upon his broad shoulders a burden light—the -noble game they had hunted to its death—returned homeward along the -sounding beach, nor made deep foot-prints in the yielding sand. -Unwearied, lithe, in sheer exuberance of life, they chased the retiring -waves, then turning, fled to be themselves pursued; till young Ocean, -pleased, shook his giant limbs, and like a lion by a child subdued, -rolled at their feet, and roared, and beat, in his great heart, the -measure to this hymn, which they, alternating, sang. - -“Almighty Lord, Maker of the Earth, in loveliness beyond compare hast -thou fashioned it.” - -“Almighty Lord, the maker of our joys, in goodness beyond compare hast -thou fashioned them.” - -“Thou didst build the hills, and crown them with thy glory; and they -praise forever thy holy name.” - -“Thou didst fix the foundations, and form the running streams; and they -praise forever thy holy name.” - -“Thou didst plant the forests, and clothe them with thy beauty; and they -praise forever thy holy name.” - -“The plain is thine, with all its life, and, with voices infinite, -praises forever thy holy name.” - -“The air is thine, and within its bosom bears bounties innumerable, to -praise forever thy holy name.” - -“Praise in the pattering rain.” - -“Praise in the gentle dew.” - -“Perfume and color.” - -“Form and motion.” - -“All praise forever thy holy name.” - -“Thine is the sea, and thou lov’st it.” - -“And the sea loves thee, its Maker, in return.” - -“The breezy morn.” - -“The ruddy eve.” - -“The strength of high noon.” - -“The quietude of night.” - -“All speak of thee, Almighty Lord, the furnisher of our joys.” - -“And praise forever thy holy name.” - - SECTION XI. - -As Erix and Zella, thus singing, drew nigh unto the grot where first -their joys commingled, to flow on through life in no divided stream, two -boys, the offspring of their love, came forth to meet them. The elder, -from beneath whose locks, curled and dancing, reddened with the sun, -full many a wild-flower peeped, bore grapes, ripe, fresh-plucked, and -clutching, pressed the vintage with his hands. The younger, marching -with an uncertain step, just babbling his first words, caught the -generous juice in his tiny palms, cup-shaped, and offered to his mother, -whose lips sought his, and rested, well content to drink only of that -bliss which God has planted in a mother’s kiss. Then Erix, casting off -his load, took the elder-born to his arms, and recounted all the -chase—the scent of the perfumed morn, the song, the flight, the pursuit -through wood and open plain, the halt by the sounding sea, the leap, the -fatal shaft, the crowning death, till the boy shouted, and every muscle -worked in mimic struggle with the mimic game a-foot; and the white -pigeon descended, hovering o’er the group, and lighted at Zella’s feet, -and arched its neck, and drooped its wings, and turned round and round; -chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-uh; chrr-oo-eh-uh; oo-ugh; oo-ugh; chrr-oo-uh; -calling to its mate. - - SECTION XII. - -And now, sweet friend, who put me to this task, who won my love, not -knowing how or why, come tread with me the inner-chambers of my house. -This, the portal, is well passed, and other scenes, and other pictures -far, wait eyes which kindle, though the fire be false, eyes which flow -even with the current of a fictitious wo. - - [_To be continued._ - - * * * * * - - - - - SONG. - - - BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. - - - (Air—“Homes of England.”) - - - The hallowed wells of Learning, - No wasting may they know, - But sparkle, fed by lucid streams, - Unceasing in their flow; - And may their waters catch no stain - Of deep and Stygian dye, - Though Error for an hour hold reign - Beneath a darkened sky. - - The Sacred Bowers of Learning, - Be blight afar from them; - No tree grow up with serpent folds - Entwining round the stem; - No bud of precious promise feel - The frost of cold neglect, - And heard no solemn funeral peal - For Genius early wrecked. - - The Stately Halls of Learning, - Forever may they stand, - And Truth walk down the sounding aisles - With Honor, hand in hand; - The columns that uphold the roof - Be men of noble mould, - And beauteous daughters, armed in proof, - Stern war with wrong to hold. - - The Holy Shrines of Learning, - May no polluting flame - Be lighted on one altar-stone - By fiends who mock at shame, - But cloudless light be shed abroad - A guilty world to cheer, - And men forget to worship God - In superstitious fear. - - * * * * * - - - - - IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND IN THE AUTUMN OF 1851. - - - BY FREDERIKA BREMER. - - -It is two years since I first found myself in England. When I was in -England in the autumn of 1849, the cholera was there. A dense, -oppressive atmosphere rested over its cities, as of a cloud pregnant -with lightning. Hearses rolled through the streets. The towns were empty -of people; for all who had the means of going had fled into the country; -they who had not were compelled to remain. I saw shadowy figures, clad -in black, stealing along the streets, more like ghosts than creatures of -flesh and blood. Never before had I seen human wretchedness in such a -form as I beheld it in Hull and in London. Wretchedness enough may be -found, God knows, even in Stockholm, and it shows itself openly enough -there in street and market. But it is there most frequently an -undisguised, an unabashed wretchedness. It is not ashamed to beg, to -show its rags, or its drunken countenance. It is a child of crime; and -that is perhaps the most extreme wretchedness. But it is less painful to -behold, because it seems to be suffering only its own deserts. One is -more easily satisfied to turn one’s head aside and pass on. One thinks, -“I cannot help that!” - -In England, however, misery had another appearance; it was not so much -that of degradation as of want, pallid want. It was meagre and retiring; -it ventured not to look up, or it looked up with a glance of hopeless -beseeching—so spirit-broken! It tried to look respectable. Those men -with coats and hats brushed till the nap was gone; those pale women in -scanty, washed-out, but yet decent clothes—it was a sight which one -could hardly bear. In a solitary walk of ten minutes in the streets of -Hull, I saw ten times more want than I had seen in a ten months’ -residence in Denmark. - -The sun shone joyously as I traveled through the manufacturing -districts; saw their groups of towns and suburbs; saw their smoking -pillars and pyramids towering up everywhere in the wide landscape—saw -glowing gorges of fire open themselves in the earth, as if it were -burning—a splendid and wonderfully picturesque spectacle, reminding one -of fire-worshipers of ancient and modern time, and of their altars. But -I heard the mournful cry of the children from the factories; the cry -which the public voice has made audible to the world; the cry of the -children, of the little ones who had been compelled by the lust of gain -of their parents and the manufacturers, to sacrifice life, and joy, and -health, in the workshops of machinery; the children who lie down in -those beds which never are cold, the children who are driven and beaten -till they sink insensibly into death or fatuity—that living death; I -heard the wailing cry of the children, which Elizabeth Barrett -interpreted in her affecting poem; and the wealthy manufacturing -districts, with their towns, their fire-columns, their pyramids, seemed -to me like an enormous temple of Moloch, in which the mammon-worshipers -of England offered up even children to the burning arms of their -god—children, the hope of the earth, and its most delicious and most -beautiful joy! - -I arrived in London. They told me there was nobody in London. It was not -the season in which the higher classes were in London. Besides which, -the cholera was there; and all well-to-do people, who were able, had -fled from the infected city. And that indeed might be the reason why -there seemed to me to be so many out of health—why that pale -countenance of want was so visible. Certain it is, that it became to me -as a Medusa’s head, which stood between me and every thing beautiful and -great in that great capital, the rich life and physiognomy of which -would otherwise have enchanted me. But as it was, the palaces, and the -statues, and the noble parks, Hampstead and Piccadilly, and Belgravia -and Westminster, and the Tower, and even the Thames itself, with all its -ever-changing life, were no more than the decorations of a great -tragedy. And when in St. Paul’s, I heard the great roar of the voice of -London—that roar, which, as it is said, never is silent, but merely -slumbers for an hour between three and four o’clock in the morning—when -I heard that voice in that empty church, where there was no divine -worship, and looked up into its beautiful cupola, which was filled by no -song of praise, but only by that resounding, roaring voice, a dark -chaotic roar, then seemed I to perceive the sound of the rivers of fate -rolling onward through time over falling kingdoms and people, and -bearing them onward down into an immeasurable grave! It was but for a -moment, but it was a horrible dream! - -One sight I beheld in London which made me look up with rejoicing, which -made me think “that old Yggdrasil is still budding.” This was the -so-called metropolitan buildings; a structure of many homes in one great -mass of building, erected by a society of enlightened men for the use of -the poorer working class, to provide respectable families of that class -with excellent dwellings at a reasonable rate, where they might possess -that which is of the most indispensable importance to the rich, as well -as to the poor, if they are to enjoy health both of body and -soul—light, air, and water, pure as God created them for the use of -mankind. The sight of these homes, and of the families that inhabited -them, as well as of the newly-erected extensive public baths and -wash-houses for the same class, together with the assurance that these -institutions already, in the second year of their establishment, -returned more than full interest to their projectors, produced the -happiest impression which I at this time received of England. These were -to me as seed of the future, which gave the promise of verdant shoots in -the old tree.— - -Nevertheless, when I left the shores of England, and saw thick autumnal -fog enveloping them, it was with a sorrowful feeling for the Old world; -and with an inquiring glance of longing and hope, I turned myself to the -New. - -Two years passed on—a sun-bright, glowing dream, full of the vigor of -life—it was again autumn, and I was again in England. Autumn met me -there with cold, and rain, and tempest, with the most horrible weather -that can be imagined, and such as I had never seen on the other side of -the globe. But in social life, everywhere throughout the mental -atmosphere, a different spirit prevailed. There I perceived with -astonishment and joy, there it was that of spring. - -The Crystal Palace was its full-blown, magnificent blossom—and like -swarms of rejoicing bees flew the human throng upon the wings of steam, -backward and forward, to the great world’s blossom; there all the -nations met together, there all manufactures, there all industry, and -every kind of product, unfolded their flowers for the observation and -the joy of all; a Cactus grandiflora, such as the world had never till -then seen. - -I perceived more clearly every day of my stay in England, that this -period is one of a general awakening to a new, fresh life. In the -manufacturing districts, in Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, every -where, I heard the same conversation among all classes; prosperity was -universal and still advancing. That pale countenance of want, which had -on my first visit appeared to me so appalling, I now no longer saw as -formerly; and even where it was seen stealing along, like a gloomy -shadow near to the tables of abundance, it appeared to me no longer as a -cloud filled with the breath of cholera, darkening the face of heaven, -but rather as one of those clouds over which the wind and sun have -power, and which are swallowed up, which vanish in space, in the bright -ether. . . . - -The low price of grain, the consequence of free-trade, has produced this -change: and it was universally acknowledged. The only objection I heard -brought against the low price of corn was this, “The people are become -proud and careless; I have seen great pieces of bread thrown out into -the streets!” - -Yet bread alone had not really done all this; a nobler bread is required -for man in order that he may fully derive the benefit even of the -outward material bread. Nor had free-trade alone done all this either; -there is also another power besides this which has been operative in -that general awakening, in that wholesome spirit which I perceived in -England. - -If this power were to be symbolized by art, it would present us with a -female figure—a beautiful woman with the child at her breast, is the -symbol which art makes use of, to express human love. And, perhaps, art -is right in so doing. And perhaps it is the female principle in human -nature, which, in the present new life in England, enables the man’s -hand to accomplish the work; because from the most remote antiquity, has -a male deity been chosen to represent trade, and navigation and mining, -and all occupation of the earth. But, so says one of the oldest sagas of -the world—when the divine life revealed itself on the earth, a divine -pair came forth. In a lotus-flower which ascended from the waters of the -Nile, were born at the same time Osiris and Isis, and together they went -forth to bless the earth. - -I saw the truth of this saga confirmed by what I beheld in England. But -in speaking of this, I shall especially linger on the new proofs -thereof, in the new Institutions which promise a more beautiful future -to the human race; not upon the old and insufficient, however good they -may be, but upon the new, because it is upon the new that my eye has -been especially directed. - -Let me linger, in the first place, on works of human love—the female -figure with the child at her breast; because these are they which lay -the foundation of all others. - -In Liverpool, I visited the so-called Ragged-Schools—the schools where -are collected from the streets, vagabond, neglected and begging -children, who are here taught to read and so on—who here receive the -first rudiments of instruction, even in singing. These schools are, some -of them evening, others day schools, and in some of them, “the -Industrial Ragged-Schools,” children are kept there altogether; receive -food and clothing, and are taught trades. When the schools of this class -were first established in Liverpool, the number of children who -otherwise had no chance of receiving instruction, amounted to about -twenty thousand. Right-minded, thinking men, saw that in these children -were growing up in the streets, those “dangerous classes” of which so -much has been said of late times; these men met together, obtained means -to cover the most necessary outlay of expense, and then, according to -the eloquent words of Lord Ashley, that “it is in childhood that evil -habits are formed and take root; it is childhood which must be guarded -from temptation to crime;” they opened these ragged-schools with the -design of receiving the most friendless, the most wretched of society’s -young generation—properly, “the children of rags, born in beggary, and -for beggary.” - -I visited the Industrial Ragged School for boys, intended for the lowest -grade of these little children, without parents, or abandoned by them to -the influences of crime. There, I saw the first class sitting in their -rags, upon benches in a cold room, arranging with their little -frost-bitten fingers bristles for the brush-maker. The faces of the boys -were clean: many of them I remarked were handsome, and almost -universally they had beautiful and bright eyes. Those little fingers -moved with extraordinary rapidity, the boys were evidently wishful to do -their best; they knew that they by that means should obtain better -clothing, and would be removed to the upper room, and more amusing -employment. I observed these “dangerous classes”—just gathered up from -the lanes and the kennels, on their way to destruction; and was -astonished when I thought that their countenances might have borne the -stamp of crime. Bright glances of childhood, for that were you never -designed by the Creator! “Suffer little children to come unto me.” These -words, from the lips of heaven, are forever sounding on earth. - -In the upper room a great number of boys were busy pasting paper-bags -for various trades, confectioners, etc. who make use of such in the -rapid sale of their wares; here, also, other boys were employed in -printing upon the bags the names and residences of the various tradesmen -who had ordered them. The work progressed rapidly, and seemed very -amusing to the children. The establishment, for their residence and -their beds, were poor; but all was neat and clean, the air was fresh, -and the children were cheerful. The institution was, however, but yet in -its infancy, and its means were small. - -Half-a-dozen women in wretched clothes sat in the entrance-room with -their boys, for whom they hoped to gain admittance into the school, and -were now, therefore, waiting till the directors of the establishment -made their appearance. - -These gentlemen kindly invited me to be present at the examination of -these mothers. The women were brought in one at a time, and one and all -were made to tell her history and explain her circumstances. The -examination was carried on with earnestness and precision. The result of -all, however, was, that there was not one of the women now present who -had a right to the assistance which they desired. On one or two -occasions I could not help admiring the patience of the directors. Above -all, it seemed to me, that these mothers needed to go to school even -more than their children. When will people come to regard in all its -full extent the influence of the mother upon the child? When will people -come to reflect on the education of mothers in its higher sense? My -conductor in Liverpool, Mr. B——, the noble and kind Home -Missionary,[1] recognized one of these women, and related to me the -history of herself and her husband—a horrible history of drunkenness, -which had almost ended in suicide. - -Later in the day I visited the evening school for girls, also of the -ragged class, and heard there a remarkably sweet and beautiful song. -Later still I accompanied my friendly conductor to a temperance meeting, -held in the same building, and which meets every Thursday, and where the -Missionary was accustomed to meet and converse with the poorest brethren -of his congregation. The wind blew and the rain poured down. I was -astonished, however, to see when we entered, that the room was filled -with people who evidently had not much to defend themselves with from -the wind and rain. The benches were filled both with men and women. It -became crowded and very hot. Mr. B—— opened the meeting with a speech -about the dangers and consequences of drunkenness, and as he warmed in -his subject he related, yet without mentioning any name, the history of -the mother whom he had this day seen, beseeching that public charity -would take charge of her son. The assembly, which during the moral -treatise they had just heard had evidently become somewhat drowsy, woke -up at once during the relation of that story, and when the narrator -arrived at the catastrophe, in which the intoxicated woman, urged on by -the madness of thirst, drank up half a bottle of oil of vitriol, a -general expression of horror might have been heard, especially from the -lips of the women. - -When this relation, which was full of strong vitality, was ended, Mr. -B—— read a poem written by a working man in praise of temperance, -which had the effect of again lulling the auditors—and myself -even—into an agreeable doze. We all woke up again, however, when Mr. -B——, in a jocular manner, begged of Mr. J—— to stand up and tell us -something about “that Great Exhibition in London,” which he had lately -been to see. Mr. J—— did not however, stand up, because Mr. K—— -wished to speak first. Accordingly, being encouraged to do so by Mr. -B——, a stout-built man of about sixty came forward; he was dressed in -coarse, but good clothes, and had an open countenance, over which played -a smile of humor. He mounted the platform, and was greeted by the -assembly with evident delight. He related his own history, simple, but -full of the warmth of life, in that strong-grained, wit-interspersed -style of popular eloquence, full of heart and humor at the same time, -which our cultivated orators would do well to study, if they wish to -make a living impression on the people. He related how he, in his -younger years, never tasted brandy, but he became a seaman, and began to -drink, that he might look manly among his fellows; how, by degrees, he -acquired the power of swallowing more strong liquor than any of them -all, fell into crime, misery and shame; how he became converted and -again temperate, and how he had not now for fifteen years tasted -spirits, and had ever since remained in good health and good -circumstances. - -This was the substance of his story; but how the narrative was -interspersed with merry conceits, which excited universal amusement, and -with energetic proverbs—to which Mr. B——, beyond any one else, gave -the highest applause—how cleverly “Mr. Halcohol” was brought in, and -how contemptuously “the long-necked gentleman, Mr. Halcohol in the -bottle,” was treated, and with how much animation all this was done and -received—must have been heard to have been fully imagined. The speech -was concluded by recommending “total abstinence” as the only means for -insuring a perfect change of life. - -After this there entered a little throng of children with joyful faces, -the same whom I had already heard sing in the upper room of the house; -these children were the so-called “Band of Hope”—children who had taken -the pledge to abstain from all strong drinks themselves, and to promote -the advancement of temperance by all the means in their power, for which -they received printed cards containing their pledge, together with -symbolical devices, proverbs, etc. That little “Band of Hope” struck up -with their clear voices, fresh as the morning, various songs, among -which one in particular, “The Spindle and Shuttle,” was received with -great delight, all present joining in the chorus. Hymns and patriotic -songs were also sung by “The Band of Hope,” and now and then the company -joined in with the children. Before the assembly separated this evening, -several went forward and took the pledge. Among these was a man and his -wife. They took each other by the hand. The woman with her other hand -held her handkerchief over her left eye; it might be seen, nevertheless, -that this eye was black, probably from the husband’s fist. - -What had influenced them to this? What had operated upon these rude -natures?—induced them to break loose from habits of drunkenness—to -turn from the pleasures of hell to those of heaven? What was it that had -operated on all here so awakeningly, so livingly? Could it be the -discourse they had heard? could it be the poem in praise of temperance? -Nothing of the kind. I saw them go to sleep during these. I became -sleepy myself. No, that which operated here so livingly—was the life -itself. It was that living narrative of the unhappy woman; it was the -sailor’s history of his own life, his battles with “Mr. Halcohol;” it -was the songs of the children, the pure, dewy-fresh voices of the little -“Band of Hope.” All these it was which had operated upon, which had -awakened their minds, had animated their brains, warmed their hearts; -this it was which had impelled the husband and wife, hand in hand, to -come forward and consecrate themselves to a new marriage, to a better -life. Individual experience of suffering, of joy, of sin, of conversion, -of love and happiness, must be told, if the relation is to have any -power over the human heart; life itself must be called into action if we -would awake the dead. - -I could not but remark at this meeting, how cordial and familiar an -understanding seemed to exist between the leader, Mr. B——, and the -assembly, and which arose in part from his own peculiar character, and -in part from his intimate acquaintance with his hearers. In the same -way, his continual intercourse with those people, and his knowledge of -their every-day life, is an excellent help to him in giving force to the -sermons which he preaches among them. I shall not forget the effect -produced by his story of the woman and the bottle of vitriol. - -A few days later I visited, with the same friendly man, some different -classes of poor people—namely, the wicked and the idle; they who had -fallen into want through their own improvidence, but who had now raised -themselves again; and the estimable, who had honorably combated with -unavoidable poverty. In one certain quarter of Liverpool, it is that the -first class is especially met with. Of this class of poor in their -wretched rooms, with their low, brutalized expression, I will not speak; -companion-pieces to this misery may be met with every where. Most of -those whom I saw were Irish. It was a Sunday noon, after divine service. -The ale-houses were already open in this part of the town, and young -girls and men might be seen talking together before them, or sitting -upon the steps. - -Of the second class I call to mind, with especial pleasure, one little -household. It was a mother and her son. Her means of support, a mangle, -stood in the little room in which she had lived since she had raised -herself up again. It was dinner-time. A table, neatly covered for two -persons, stood in the room, and upon the iron stand before the fire was -placed a dish of mashed potatoes, nicely browned, ready to be set on the -table. The mother was waiting for her son, and the dinner was waiting -for him. He was the organ-blower in a church during divine service, and -he returned whilst I was still there. He was well dressed, but was a -little, weakly man, and squinted; the mother’s eyes, however, regarded -him with love. This son was her only one, and her all. And he, to whom -mother Nature had acted as a stepmother, had a noble mother’s heart to -warm himself with, which prepared for him an excellent home, a -well-covered table, and a comfortable bed. That poor little home was not -without its wealth. - -As belonging to the third and highest class, I must mention two -families, both of them shoemakers, and both of them inhabiting cellars. -The one family consisted of old, the other of young people. The old -shoemaker had to maintain his wife, who was lame and sick, from a fall -in the street, and a daughter. The young one had a young wife, and five -little children to provide for; but work was scanty and the mouths many. -At this house, also, it was dinner-time, and I saw upon the table -nothing but potatoes. The children were clean, and had remarkably -agreeable faces; but—they were pale; so was also the father of the -family. The young and pretty, but very pale mother, said, “Since I have -come into this room I have never been well, and this I know—I shall not -live long!” Her eyes filled with tears; and it was plain enough to see -that this really delicate constitution could not long sustain the -effects of the cold, damp room, into which no sunbeam entered. These two -families, of the same trade, and alike poor, had become friends in need. -When one of the fathers of the family wanted work, and was informed by -the Home-Missionary who visited them that the other had it, the -intelligence seemed a consolation to him. Gladdening sight of human -sympathy, which keeps the head erect and the heart sound under the -depressing struggle against competition! But little gladdening to me -would have been the sight of these families in their cellar-homes, had I -not at the same time been aware of the increase of those “Model -Lodging-Houses,” which may be met with in many parts of England, and -which will remove these inhabitants of cellars, they who sit in -darkness, into the blessing of the light of life—which will provide -worthy dwellings for worthy people. But of this I shall speak somewhat -later, in connection with other new institutions for the advancement of -the health, both of body and soul, of—all classes. - - “For no one for himself doth live or suffer.” - -For myself, I was well provided for by English hospitality, and enjoyed -an excellent home in the house of the noble and popular preacher, J. -M——. With him, and his wife (one of these beautiful, motherly natures, -who through a peculiar geniality of heart is able to accomplish so much, -and to render herself and every thing that is good twofold, in quite -another manner to that of the multiplication-table, which merely makes -two and two into four)—with them and their family I spent some -beautiful days amid conversation and music. There, in the neighborhood -of their house, I saw also one of those English parks, whose verdant, -carefully-kept sward, and groups of shrubs and flowers, give so peculiar -and so attractive a charm to the English landscape. Add to this a -river-like sheet of water; swans, groups of beautiful children and -ladies feeding them on the banks, the song of birds every where amongst -the shrubs; scattered palaces, and handsome country-houses—and every -thing looking so finished, so splendid, so beautiful and perfect, as if -nothing out of condition, nothing in tatters or shabby was to be found -in the world. Such was the impression produced by the Prince’s Park, -which was laid out by a wealthy private gentleman, Mr. J——, on the -birth of the Prince of Wales, the eldest son of Queen Victoria, and -thrown open to the public with only this single admonition exhibited, in -large letters, in various parts of the park, “it is hoped the public -will protect that which is intended for the public enjoyment.” - -But I must leave this enchanting Idyll, and hasten into the -manufacturing districts; and, first of all, to Manchester: - -In my imagination Manchester was like a colossal woman sitting at her -spinning-wheel, with her enormous manufactories; her subject towns, -suburbs, villages, factories, lying for many miles round, spinning, -spinning, spinning clothes for all the people on the face of the earth. -And there, as she sat, the queen of the spindle, with her masses of ugly -houses and factories, enveloped in dense rain-clouds, as if in cobwebs, -the effect she made upon me was gloomy and depressing. Yet even here, -also, I was to breathe a more refreshing atmosphere of life; even here -was I also to see light. Free-trade had brought hither her emancipating -spirit. It was a time of remarkable activity and prosperity. The -work-people were fully employed; wages were good, and food was cheap. -Even here also had ragged-schools been established, together with many -institutions for improving the condition of the poor working-classes. In -one of these ragged-schools the boys had a perfectly organized band of -music, in which they played and blew so that it was a pleasure—and -sometimes a disadvantage, to hear them. The lamenting “cry of the -children” was no longer heard from the factories. Government had put an -end to the cruelties and oppressions formerly practiced on these little -ones by the unscrupulous lust of gain. No child under ten years old can -now be employed in the factories, and even such, when employed, must of -necessity be allowed part of the day for school. Every large factory has -now generally its own school, with a paid master for the children. The -boys whom I saw in the great rooms of the factories and with whom I -conversed, looked both healthy and cheerful. - -Two ideas were impressed upon my mind at this place: how dangerous it -is, even amid a high degree of social culture, to give one class of men -unrestrained power over another; and how easily a free people, with a -powerful public spirit, and accustomed to self-government, can raise -themselves out of humiliating circumstances. This spirit has done much -already in England, but it has yet more to do. - -Upon one of those large, gloomy factories in Manchester, I read, -inscribed in iron letters, “The Great Beehive;” and in truth, a good -name for these enormous hives of human industrial toil, in which people -have sometimes forgotten, and still forget, that man is any thing more -than a working-bee, which lives to fill its cell in the hive, and die. I -visited several of these huge beehives. In one of them, which employed -twelve hundred work-people, I saw, in a large room, above three hundred -women sitting in rows winding cotton on reels. The room was clean, and -so also were all the women. It did not appear to be hard work; but the -steadfastly-fixed attention with which these women pursued their labor -seemed to me distressingly wearisome. They did not allow themselves to -look up, still less to turn their heads or to talk. Their life seemed to -depend upon the cotton thread. - -In another of these great beehives, a long, low room, in which were six -hundred power-looms, represented an extraordinary appearance. What a -snatching to and fro, what a jingling, what an incessant stir, and what -a moist atmosphere there was between floor and ceiling, as if the limbs -of some absurd, unheard-of beast, with a thousand arms, had been -galvanized! Around us, from three to four hundred operatives, women and -men, stood among the rapid machinery watching and tending. The twelve -o’clock bell rung, and now the whole throng of work-people would go -forth to their various mid-day quarters; the greatest number to their -respective dwellings in the neighborhood of the factory. I placed -myself, together with my conductor, in the court outside the door of the -room, which was on lower ground, in order that I might have a better -view of the work-people as they came out. - -Just as one sees bees coming out of a hive into the air, two, three, or -four at a time—pause, as it were, a moment from the effects of open air -and light, and then with a low hum, dart forth into space, each one his -own way, so was it in this case. Thus came they forth, men and women, -youths and girls. The greater number were well dressed, looked healthy, -and full of spirit. In many, however, might be seen the expression of a -rude life; they bore the traces of depravity about them. - -As labor is now organized in the factories at Manchester, it cannot -easily be otherwise. The master-manufacturer is not acquainted with his -work-people. He hires spinners; and every spinner is master of a room, -and he it is who hires the hands. He is the autocrat of the room, and -not unfrequently is a severe and immoral one. The operatives live in -their own houses, apart from every thing belonging to the -master-manufacturer, with the exception of the raw material. - -In the country it is otherwise; there the master-manufacturer may be, -and often is, a fatherly friend and guardian of his people. And where he -is so, it is in general fully acknowledged. The character which each -manufacturer bears as an employer, even in Manchester, is perfectly well -known. People mention with precision the good, the worthless, or the -wicked master. I visited factories belonging to some of these various -characters, but perceived a more marked difference in the manners and -appearance of the masters themselves, than in the appearance and -condition of the work-people. At the present moment the difference could -not be very perceptible, because the general demand for hands causes the -circumstances of the lower classes to be generally good. But, as before -remarked, the patriarchal connection between master and servant, with -its good, as well as its evil consequences, no longer exists in the -manufacturing towns of England. Employer and employed stand beside each -other, or rather opposed to each other, excepting through the -requirements of labor. The whole end and aim of the Manchester -manufacturer—when he is not subjected to machinery, and lives merely as -a screw, or portion of it—is, to get out of Manchester. He spins and -makes use of all means, good or bad, to lay by sufficient money to live -independently, or to build himself a house at a distance from the smoky, -restless town, away from the bustle—away from the throng of restless, -striving work-people. His object is to arrive at quiet in the country, -in a comfortable home; and having attained this object, he looks upon -the noisy, laboring hive, out of which he has lately come, as a -something with which he has no concern, and out of which he is glad to -have escaped with a whole skin. Such is the case with many—God forbid -that we should say, with all! - -Two subjects of conversation occupied the people of Manchester very much -at this time. The one was the question—a vital question for the whole -of England—of popular education. The people of Manchester had begun to -take the subject into serious consideration, and had come to the -conclusion that there might at once be adopted a simple system of -education by which, as in the United States, every one should receive in -the people’s school practical and moral instruction, and that religious -instruction should be left for the home or for the Sunday teaching. The -willingness to thus act in concert which has been shown by the clergy of -the Established Church in Manchester, is a good omen to the various -religious sects united in this work. All things considered, it seems to -me that there is at this moment in England the most decided movement -toward a new development, a new life as well in theoretic as in -practically popular respects; and it is more apparent in the Established -Church than in any other religious body. - -The second great subject of conversation, as well in Manchester as in -Liverpool, was Queen Victoria’s expected visit. The Queen had announced -her intention of visiting the great towns of the manufacturing -districts, in company with Prince Albert, in the middle of the month, -and they were accordingly expected in a few days. Several of these towns -had never before seen a crowned head within their walls, and this, in -connection with the great popularity of the Queen, and the liking and -the love which the people have for her, had perfectly enchanted the -inhabitants of Manchester. They were preparing to give a royal reception -to their lofty guests. Nothing could be too magnificent or too costly in -the eyes of the Manchester people which could testify their homage. The -whole of the district, now that the Queen was expected, was said to be -“brimful of loyalty,” and the whole of England was at this time, both in -heart and soul, monarchical. Opposition against the royal family exists -no longer in England; the former members of this opposition had become -converted. On all hands there was but one voice of devotion and praise. -Wonderful! yes, incomprehensible, thought I, when I was informed that -the Queen had requested not long since to have a grant from Parliament -of 72,000_l._ for the erection of new stables at her palace of Windsor, -and the same year 30,000_l._, for Prince Albert to repair his -dog-kennels, and now, again, just lately, 17,000_l._ for the erection of -stables at a palace which the Queen has obtained for her eldest son, and -of which he will take possession on attaining his majority. Thus -119,000_l._ for stables and dog-kennels. - -What? 119,000_l._ for stables and dog-kennels; for the maintenance of -fine horses and dogs, and that at a time when Ireland is perishing of -hunger or emigrating in the deepest distress; when even in England so -infinitely much remains to be done for humanity, so much untold good -might be effected for the public with this sum. Queen Elizabeth was -accustomed to say, that she considered her money best put out when it -was in the pockets of her subjects, and she scorned to desire any great -project for her own pleasure. Queen Victoria desires, year after year, -immense grants for her stables and kennels; desires this of her people, -and yet, for all this, is homage paid to her—is she loved and supported -by the people in this extraordinary manner! Parliament grumbles, but -consents to all that the Queen desires, fully consents without a murmur, -because it loves her. Such projects would otherwise be dangerous to the -power of the monarch. Such projects overturned the throne of Louis -Philippe—have undermined many thrones. But the light foot of this -Queen—a well-beloved little foot it ought to be—dances again and again -on the brink of the dangerous abyss, and it gives not way. But how is -this possible? What is it that makes this Queen so popular, so -universally beloved by the people, spite of the desire for stables and -dog-kennels, unnecessary articles of luxury, when hundred thousands of -her subjects are in want even of the necessaries of life; want even the -means to secure a home and daily bread? - -Thus I asked, and thus they replied to me: - -The English people wish that their royal family should live with a -certain degree of state. They are fond of beautiful horses and dogs -themselves, and it flatters the national pride that the royal personages -should have such, and should have magnificent dwellings for them. The -character of the Queen, her domestic and public virtues, and the -influence of her example, which is of such high value to the nation, -causes it to regard no sacrifice of money as too great for the -possession of such a Queen. England is aware that under the protection -of the throne, under the shadow of the sceptre of this Queen, and the -stability which it gives to the affairs of the kingdom, she can in -freedom and peace manage her own internal concerns, and advance forward -on the path of democratic development and self-government, with a -security which other nations do not possess. - -Hence it is that the reigning family now upon the English throne -presents a spectacle extraordinary upon this throne, or upon any throne -in the world. The Queen and her husband stand before the people as the -personation of every domestic and public virtue! The Queen is an -excellent wife and mother; she attends to the education of her children, -and fulfills her duties as sovereign, alike conscientiously. She is an -early riser; is punctual and regular in great as well as in small -things. She pays ready money for all that she purchases, and never is in -debt to any one. Her court is remarkable for its good and beautiful -morals. On their estates, she and Prince Albert carry every thing out in -the best manner, establish schools and institutions for the good of the -poor; these institutions and arrangements of theirs, serve as examples -to every one. Their uprightness, kindness, generosity, and the tact -which they under all circumstances display, win the heart of the nation. -They show a warm sympathy for the great interests of the people, and by -this very sympathy are they promoted. Of this, the successful carrying -out of free-trade, and the Exhibition in the Crystal Palace, projected -in the first instance by Prince Albert, and powerfully seconded by the -Queen, furnish brilliant examples. The sympathies of the Queen are those -of the heart as well as of the head. When that noble statesman, the -great promoter of free-trade, Sir Robert Peel, died, the Queen shut -herself in for several days, and wept for him as if she had lost a -father. And whenever a warm sympathy is called forth, either in public -or in private affairs, it is warmly and fully participated by Queen -Victoria and Prince Albert. - -In confirmation of this opinion regarding Queen Victoria and Prince -Albert, which I heard every where, and from all parties in England, a -number of anecdotes of their life and actions were related to me, which -fully bore it out. - -This universal impression, universally produced by the sovereign, who, -properly speaking, can govern nothing—because it is well known that the -monarch of England is merely a nominal executor of the wishes of the -people, a hand which subscribes that which the minister lays before it -in the name of the people; this great power, in a Queen, is without any -political power. - -Monarchs and their people no longer bear the same relation to each other -as in the time when, for example, Charles the Ninth put forth his -demands, with the addition,— - -“Do it, and be off with you!” - -This injunction to do a thing, and then take themselves off, can no -longer be given to the people by the King, but by reason. The people -have arrived at years of discretion, and the monarch is the executor of -their laws and their wishes. He is so in England, it is said. - -From Manchester I traveled to Birmingham. I saw again the land of the -fire-worshipers, their smoking altars, in tall columns and pyramids, -towering above the green fields; saw again the burning gulfs yawning in -the earth, and, saw them now with unmixed pleasure. I heard no longer, -amid their boiling roar, the lamenting cry of the children; I heard and -saw them now only as the organs of the public prosperity, and rejoiced -over them as proofs of man’s power over fire and water, over all the -powers of nature; the victory of the gods over the giants! - -In Birmingham I visited a steel-pen manufactory, and followed from room -to room the whole process of those small metal tongues which go abroad -over all the world, and do so much—evil, and so much good; so much that -is great, so much that is small; so much that is important, so much that -is trivial. I saw four hundred young girls, sitting in large, light -rooms, each with her little pen-stamp, employed in a dexterous and easy -work, especially fitted for women. All were well dressed, seemed healthy -and cheerful, many were pretty: upon the whole, it was a spectacle of -prosperity which surpassed even that of the mill-girls in the celebrated -factories of Lowell, in America. - -Birmingham was at this time in a most flourishing condition, and had -more orders for goods than it could supply, nor were there any male -paupers to be found in the town; there was full employment for all. - -In Birmingham I saw a large school of design. Not less than two hundred -young female artists studied here in a magnificent hall or rotunda, -abundantly supplied with models of all kinds, and during certain hours -in the week, exclusively opened to these female votaries of art. A -clever, respectable, old woman, the porter of the school-house, spoke of -many of these with especial pleasure, as if she prided herself on them -in some degree. - -I saw in Birmingham a beautiful park, with hot-houses, in which were -tropical plants, open to the public; saw also a large concert-room, -where twice in the week “glees” were sung, and to which the public were -admitted at a low price: all republican institutions, and which seem to -prosper more in a monarchical realm than in republics themselves. - -I met with a surprise in Birmingham; that is to say, I was all at once -carried back fifteen centuries into the Syrian desert of Chalsis, and -there lived a life so unlike Birmingham and Birmingham-life, that just -for the sake of contrast, it was very refreshing. The thing was quite -simple in itself, inasmuch as one evening I accompanied an amiable -family, who resided in Birmingham, to a lecture, which was given by a -young, gifted preacher, on the old Church-father, Saint Jerome -(Hieronymus.) - -The subject of the lecture, which was extempore, and delivered with much -ease and perspicuity, was evidently not intended to recommend to his -auditors, but rather to repel them from an ascetic and contemplative -life. Saint Jerome was delineated as a noble fool, a curiosity in human -nature, and was to be deplored as a sacrifice to perverted reason, by no -means to be imitated. The true end of humanity was not to be attained by -flying from city life, and burying one’s self in a desert for study and -self-mortification; that end was rather to be attained in the busy city, -than in the isolated existence of the wilderness; and so on. Such was -the lecturer’s moral. But upon me his arguments made an impression -considerably antithetical to that which he intended. I saw this warrior -of the third century devoured by a burning thirst of light and -knowledge, of purity for his whole being; saw him wander out, seeking -the wells of life; saw him, separating from the agreeable circles of -city existence, roam on amid catacombs and the tombs of martyrs; saw him -seeing in Gaul, and on the Rhine, and there finding—Christianity. Saw -him there, after being baptized, with his Bible under his arm, retire -into the deserts of Syria, and there, in the burning sands of Chalsis, -bury himself for a number of years, amid exegetic studies and severe -deeds of penance. I heard him, even at the time that he, according to -his own words, “watered his couch with his tears,” and while he was -given over, and regarded as a fool by his friends, still reproach those -friends for having chosen the worse part, that of the life of enjoyment -in the city, and break forth in transport, “O! silent wildernesses, -flower-strewn by Jesus Christ! O! wild solitudes, full of his spirit!” - -I saw him, after his conflict was accomplished, go forth out of the -desert with his Bible, enter Rome publicly, and unsparingly chastise the -crimes of the proud city. I saw the haughty ladies of Rome first start, -then bow themselves to the severe judgment of the teacher; saw Marulla -and Paula renounce the dissipated life of Rome, and follow the preacher; -found convents and Christian institutions in accordance with his views; -saw him grow in the combat with the spirit of the age, till he stood as -a founder of the greatest power on earth—that of the Christian Church. -The _fool_, who had buried himself in the sands of Syria, and done -battle with himself during solitary days and nights. - -Ah! this fool, this glowing sun of the desert, as he now stood forth to -view, through the veil of fifteen centuries, grew greater and greater in -my eyes, till, finally, he expanded himself over the whole of -Birmingham, with all its factories, workshops, steel-pens, and the like, -as a colossus above an ant-hill. - -Birmingham is almost entirely of the class of what are called Chartists; -that is, advocates of universal suffrage. They are this, through good -and through evil; and the resistance which their just desire to be more -fully represented in the legislative body has met with from that body, -has brought them more and more into collision with the power of the -state, more and more to base their demands in opposition, even to the -higher principles of justice; for they overlook the duty of rendering -themselves worthy of the franchise by sound education. But the fault -here, in the first place, was not theirs. Growing up amid machinery and -the hum of labor, without schools, without religious or moral worth; -hardened by hard labor, in continual fight with the difficulties of -life, they have moulded themselves into a spirit little in harmony with -life’s higher educational influences, the blessings of which they had -never experienced. Atheism, radicalism, republicanism, socialism of all -kinds will and must flourish here in concealment amongst the strong and -daily augmenting masses of a population, restrained only by the fear of -the still more mighty powers which may be turned against them, and by -labor for their daily needs, so long as those powers are sufficing. And -perhaps the Americans are right where they say, in reference to this -condition of things;—“England lies at our feet—England cannot do -without our cotton. If the manufactures of England must come to a stand, -then has she a popular convulsion at her door.” Perhaps it may be so; -for these hosts of manufacturing workmen, neglected in the beginning by -society, neglected by church and state, look upon them merely as -exacting and despotic powers; and in strict opposition to them, they -have banded together, and established schools for their own children, -where only the elements of practical science are admitted, and from -which religious and moral instruction are strictly excluded. In truth, a -volcanic foundation for society, and which now, for some time past, has -powerfully arrested the attention of the most thinking men of England. - -But into the midst of this menacing chaos light has already begun to -penetrate with an organizing power; and over the dark profound hovers a -spirit which can and will divide the darkness from the light, and -prepare a new creation. - -From Birmingham I traveled, on the morning of the 4th of October, by a -railway to Leamington, and thence alone in a little carriage to -Stratford-on-Avon. - ------ - -[1] A minister paid by the community for devoting himself exclusively to -its poor, and one worthy of the confidence reposed in him. - - * * * * * - - - - - OLIVER GOLDSMITH—HIS CHARACTER AND GENIUS. - - - BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. - - - In wit a man, simplicity a child. - Pope. - -For over half a century after Goldsmith’s death, the world continued in -a state of uncertainty concerning his writings and himself. The greater -part of the task-work he had performed for the booksellers was unknown, -and Oliver spoken of, in a traditionary sort of way, as the author of -the Vicar of Wakefield and the Deserted Village, and a man of laughable -eccentricities. The majority of his readers—and no poet had more of -them or enjoyed a wider English popularity—never thought he was other -than an Englishman; and those who knew the country of his birth differed -about the place of it—some asserting he was born at Lissoy, in -Westmeath, and others contending for other localities. Even Dr. Johnson, -who has set down his native place—Pallas, in Longford—correctly in his -epitaph, makes a mistake of three years in his age. All this is -remarkable of the cotemporary of Johnson—one who ranked with that -literary colossus in his time and was so closely connected with Burke, -Reynolds, Percy and the other celebrities of that period. Resembling, in -some measure, Butler, in the obscurity of his personal history and the -popularity of his works, Goldsmith seemed to be vaguely merging into the -Vicar of Wakefield, or the Good Natured Man—just as the poet of the -Restoration had come to be confounded with his Roundhead hero—when -Prior’s life of him, twenty years ago, first threw a fair light upon the -past; indicated the great mass of his writings (poorly compensated, -anonymous and plagiarized, in his life-time,) and cleared away a large -amount of the misconceptions and fallacies that had been gathered about -his fame. - -There has hardly been any author in modern times, or perhaps in the -ancient, whose personal character contrasts—is made to contrast—so -much with the genuine celebrity he has achieved. He would seem to have -been laughed at a good deal, and treated with a want of consideration -and respect, even by those who loved him and wept at his death; and the -impression generally conveyed is, that his manners were uncouth and his -conversation ridiculous. Those who have helped to create such a -character for Oliver, think they have compounded with their consciences -when they have admitted he was a charming writer, and a simple, honest -soul, who had no harm in him, and always meant well. Nevertheless, but -one half of their portrait can be received. There were no such violent -contrarieties in the elements that went to compose Oliver Goldsmith. His -biographers—to make the most lenient estimate of them—knew him -imperfectly and found it much easier to produce their effects by glaring -contrasts than by the patient and loving discrimination due to the truth -of every man’s character—especially that of a man like Goldsmith—so -marked by peculiarities of education, and so severely tried by -circumstances. - -The literary character is sure to suffer, more or less, in contact with -society. Men of letters who spend half their time with the dead are not -exactly the people to be _au fait_ of all the ways of the living; and -have not always the good sense of Thomas Baker, who, for that very -reason, refused, long ago, to be introduced to the Earl of Oxford and -the polished people of his acquaintance. They generally offend against -the conventions and are not pardoned in their biographies, which are -sometimes writ by men of the world, and which, when even written by -authors, who may be supposed capable of sympathizing more with the -literary character, still show how the jealousies and prejudices of the -craft will stand in the way of honest criticism. A man’s character -depends very much on his historians—and Goldsmith, a literary -adventurer, a bookseller’s hack, and an Irishman, was -particularly—perhaps, necessarily—unfortunate in his. - -There have been crowds of distinguished literary men whose peculiarities -were almost as much ridiculed as those of Goldsmith, but who have found -a more dignified appreciation, by virtue of fairer biographers. Socrates -was laughed at more than any man in Athens. But his immortal pupil has -rescued his fame from those wits and satirists who used to loiter about -the porches, and go, of a morning, to applaud the Clouds of -Aristophanes. Socrates was an ugly little man—in the midst of the -fine-faced men of Attica—generally threadbare and slovenly; and even -Plato has been obliged to allow that his honored master was like an -apothecary’s gallipot, painted outside with grotesque figures, but -containing balm within. He was as much laughed at as Goldsmith; but -nobody can think Socrates a laughable old fellow. There was the Emperor -Julian. When he sojourned at Antioch, he was ridiculed and lampooned by -the citizens for his careless dress and beard, and his simple manners. -Whereupon, instead of treating them as Sulla did those facetious Greeks -who said “his face was a mulberry sprinkled with meal,” the philosophic -apostate wrote a book against them, called “Misopogon,” in which he -pleasantly satirized himself for his literary peculiarities, justified -his critics, and happily admitted that he did not, indeed, resemble in -any thing those witty and fashionable people who made merry at his -expense. If these Antiochans were Julian’s biographers, he should cut -but a silly figure in the eyes of posterity. As it is, he has hardly -fared much better in another point of view. La Fontaine was voted -intolerably stupid in society. The gay Parisians said he merely -vegetated—and he was called the Fable Tree—bringing forth fables! Poor -Burns complained that though, when he wished, he could make himself -“beloved,” he could not make himself “respected.” He confessed that he -wanted discretion—was prone to a _lapsus linguæ_, and very apt to -offend the sense of the society he was in—in this, somewhat like -Goldsmith. We could cite a score of instances showing that famous men -have been barely tolerated in society and very much exposed to the -ridicule of it. But their biographers have done their better qualities -justice, and they are not remembered in any remarkable degree in -connection with the peculiarities which excited the satire of their -cotemporaries. - -A great many things worked unfavorably for Goldsmith. His face was very -plain-favored in expression, he spoke with a brogue and hesitated a -little in his utterance. In his nature he was shy, and his manners in -society had all the simplicity and unguarded impulse of his earlier -years. Such a man, living in comparative retirement, might have passed -through the world without any disparagements. But Goldsmith was thrown -upon the great stage of London, and into the society of the most -fastidious critics and gentlemen of the age. Here his ordeal was a -severe one—as the result showed. Boswell, Hawkins, Cumberland, -Northcote, Thrale and the rest of those who either wrote memoirs or -furnished reminiscences of our author, have proved how little they could -sympathize with the plain, blunt Irishman—who was only a simple child -of nature and of genius. - -Among those who have most contributed to lessen the prestige of -Goldsmith’s name was James Boswell, Dr. Johnson’s literary henchman and -biographer. In all that Boswell writes of Oliver he exhibits his desire -to disparage him. It is true he sometimes expresses partiality for -Goldsmith’s conversation. But he, doubtless, intends this as a show of -frankness to obtain the more easy credence for his general opinions of -the poet. One great cause of this feeling on Boswell’s part was his -reverent attachment to the fame of Dr. Johnson, and his jealousy of any -one who came or seemed to come into rivalry with that Ursa Major of the -British literary firmament. Boswell had the little soul of a parasite, -and always felt offense at any exhibition of independence toward -Johnson—such having the effect of rebuking his own absurd -obsequiousness. Goldsmith, though the easiest and kindliest of men, -still kept up that frank, irrespective manliness of disposition which -belongs to genius, and could not sympathize with Boswell’s extreme -notions of worship. The poet must have felt the folly and impoliteness -of trumpeting Johnson in season and out of season—often in presence of -better men than the lexicographer—and must have been offended with it, -too. On one occasion, indeed, he said to Boswell, with his usual point -and good sense—“Sir, you are for making a monarchy of that which should -be a republic.” He respected Dr. Johnson, but never bowed down to him, -nor to any one else. And the son of a Scottish lord, who venerated on -all-fours, could not forgive the poor Irish scholar for standing erect -in presence of the grim idol—as Johnson too often was, in his austere -moods. Along with all this, Boswell probably knew very well the opinion -which Goldsmith had of himself. In conversation with some one who called -Boswell a Scotch cur, Goldsmith remarked—“Not so—he is only a Scotch -bur: Tom Davies (the publisher) threw him at Johnson and he sticks to -him.” A saying which, of course, found its way to the _bur’s_ ears. All -these things are sufficient to account for the animus palpably exhibited -against Goldsmith in Boswell’s Life of Johnson. - -When his book appeared, he was sharply and universally condemned for his -treatment of the dead writer. Lord Charlemont expressed his indignant -astonishment how James Boswell could affect to undervalue a man of such -genius and popularity. Burke said to Lady Crewe, on the subject—“What -sympathy could you expect to find, my dear madam, between an Irish poet -and a Scotch lawyer?” Wilkes swore two such characters were moral -antipodes. Sir Joshua Reynolds, who knew Goldsmith like a brother, and -who had heard from report how Boswell meant to depict the poet, -remonstrated earnestly with him on the subject before the biography of -Johnson came out. Bishop Percy, Mr. Stephens, Mr. Malone and others -denied that Goldsmith was guilty of the fooleries and grimaces and -unworthy feelings attributed to him by Boswell, and protested against -the low estimate he had made of Oliver’s genius and character. And yet -with all Boswell’s earnestness in the attempt to lessen Goldsmith, it is -remarkable how little he is really able to injure him in the long run. -He has created an unfavorable impression of the poet’s manners it is -true; but this is wearing away; and the fact is, that, not only the -silly Boswell himself, but the austere doctor whom he delighted to -honor, and wrote every thing to glorify, seems to be more reflected on -than Goldsmith, in most things that have been recorded to the -disparagement of the latter in connection with Johnson. - -One of Boswell’s first anecdotes of Johnson and Goldsmith will show the -paltry, parasitical spirit in which he was in the habit of making his -notes and comments. They three had been supping at the Mitre tavern, -when Johnson got up to go home and take tea with his blind dependent, -Miss Williams. “Dr. Goldsmith,” says Bozzy, “being a privileged man, got -up to go with him, strutting away and calling to me, with an air of -superiority, like that of an esoteric over an exoteric disciple of a -sage of antiquity, ‘I go to Miss Williams.’” He says he envied this -“mark of distinction,” but soon had the same honor himself! Boswell -always betrays himself. For, without a grain of Oliver’s genius, he -shows himself to be as thoughtless and absurd as he would have us think -the poet to have been. If the latter did really exhibit any thing like -exultation on the occasion alluded to—the canny Scot mistook it; he -could not enter into the humorous vein of the author of the Citizen of -the World, who never let any opportunity of pleasantry of any kind -escape him, and who, doubtless, with a playful impulse, would, slily and -aside, for Boswell’s behoof, put on a comic air of loftiness, at the -idea of his own privilege. Such little _traits_ were very characteristic -of Oliver Goldsmith, at all periods of his life; and neither his own -dignity nor that of any one else was much thought of, whenever his funny -“Cynthias of the minute” came across him. With all his respect for Dr. -Johnson, he had still—though Boswell does not seem to admit it—a very -strong sense of what was odd, petulant and _grandiose_ in the doctor’s -manners, and could sport with it, too, to the bear’s face, with a rare -and child-like temerity. For instance, once at Jack’s Coffee-house, -where the pair were dining on rumps and kidneys, Johnson said—“These -rumps are pretty things; but a man must eat a great number of them.” -Goldsmith assented with pleasantry, and then, under the easy, unawed -impulse of his nature, and carried away by the thought that he was not -at his dreary desk, but at dinner with his friend, pushed on with—“But -how many of them would go to the moon?” Johnson had, doubtless, said -such small matters did not _go far_—a common expression, which would -have provoked Oliver’s pun—though the story says nothing of this. - -“To the moon?” replies Johnson; “I think that exceeds your calculation.” - -“Not at all, sir,” cries Goldie—looking ludicrously prepense, at the -terrible, grave face opposite—“I think I could tell.” - -“Well, sir,” rejoined Ursa Major; whereupon the other comes out with: - -“One, if it was long enough!” - -Johnson growled angrily, and said he was a fool to provoke such an -answer. Not a fool, however, but a solemn bear, whose very grimness, -contrasted with the absurdity of the solution, was Goldsmith’s -irresistible temptation. We must, in fact, justify Oliver’s fun—though -we did not see Johnson’s face. The thing was laughter-compelling. -Goldsmith had no undue feeling of deference in his nature at all, though -he used certainly to go on all-fours to amuse the children. His -irrespective and somewhat careless humor often irritated Johnson, who -generally supped full of flattery. - -“Doctor,” said Johnson one day, “I have not been quite idle; I lately -made a line of poetry.” - -Instead of holding up his hands reverently, Goldsmith cried out with his -customary levity—“Come, sir, let us hear it; we will try and put a bad -one to it.” - -“No, sir,” replied the petted monster, drawing in; “I have forgotten -it.” - -Boswell’s attempts to depreciate Goldsmith are blunderingly made. He -always admits enough to betray his own unfair spirit. Johnson having had -in 1767, an interview with the king in the library of St. James’s -Palace, the thing was greatly talked of. Boswell says, that once at the -house of Sir Joshua Reynolds, the doctor was, by request (the henchman’s -of course), induced to repeat the circumstances of the meeting, and that -during the recital, Goldsmith was observed to be silent and -_inattentive_. He says, the latter was envious of Johnson’s luck, but he -goes on to state that at last the frankness and simplicity of his nature -prevailed, he advanced to Johnson and told him, he acquitted himself -admirably—that he (Goldsmith), “should have bowed and stammered through -the whole of it.” No sign of any very deadly envy in all this, surely. -Johnson himself, though he mostly made a point of defending Goldsmith -against attacks, could not help feeling a little pique and jealousy -toward the wit, who never refrained from arguing the matter with him, -comically or keenly as he saw fit. Johnson was truculent at times, and -would speak rudely to Goldsmith in company. One of the surly moralist’s -formulas, whenever Goldsmith would say, “I don’t see that,” was—“Nay, -my dear sir, why can you not see what everybody else sees?” On such -occasions, Goldsmith’s independence, or want of tact was against him. -Johnson at times, used to put him down in this way. During an argument, -Goldsmith having been several times contradicted, “sat in restless -agitation,” says the veracious Boswell, “from a wish to get in and -shine.” No easy matter when Johnson was cloudy. “Finding himself -excluded,” he goes on—“he had taken his hat to go away, but remained -for some time with it in his hand. Once, when beginning again to speak, -he was overpowered by the loud voice of Johnson, who was at the opposite -end of the table, and did not notice the attempt. Thus disappointed, -Goldsmith threw down his hat in a passion, and said—‘take it’—looking -angrily at Johnson. Then Toplady was about to speak, Oliver hearing -Johnson growl something, and thinking he was about to go on again, -begged he would let Toplady proceed, as the latter had heard Johnson -patiently for an hour. ‘Sir,’ roared Johnson, ‘I was not going to -interrupt the gentleman. Sir, you are impertinent!’ Goldy said nothing, -but continued in the company for some time. When they all met in the -evening at the club, Johnson said aside to Boswell, ‘I’ll make Goldsmith -forgive me:’ and then aloud—‘Doctor Goldsmith, something passed between -us, where you and I dined: I ask your pardon.’ Goldsmith answered -placidly, ‘It must be much from you, sir, that I take ill.’ After -which,” says Boswell, “Goldsmith was himself again, and rattled away as -usual.” All this exhibits the usual animus of Boswell, the coarse -tyranny of Johnson, and the fine disposition of Oliver, in a fair light. -Goldsmith knew Johnson intimately—_intus et in cute_—and used to say -of him, with that happiness of thought and fancy which his bashfulness -could, not entirely mar—“there is no arguing with Johnson; when his -pistol misses fire, he knocks you down with the but-end of it.” - -Johnson talked for victory—Goldsmith for enjoyment. The former came -armed at all points into the argument—the latter was but too glad to -fling off all lettered restraint, remove his harness as it were, and -enjoy himself in the midst of what he loved so cordially, the sight of -happy human faces. Johnson generally entered into conversation like an -athlete or a bull into an arena. He once said to Boswell, after some -literary reunion—“we had good talk to-night.” “Yes, sir,” returned the -admiring disciple, “you tossed and gored several persons.” A pleasant -affair, truly, one of those conversations on philosophy and polite -literature must have been in the Johnsonian times. Poor Goldsmith was -disposed to be light, discursive, and unaffected in genial society—or -if affected at all, it was in the desire to contrast his own open -pleasantry with the dread gravity of Johnson, and those who stood in awe -of him. Oliver was out of his element, in fact, among the generality of -those with whom he came into contact at the club and elsewhere. He -should have lived in the days of the loud-laughing Jerrold, and Hunt, -the old boy at all times, and the pun-elaborating Lamb; he should have -known Moore, the gayest of wits, and Maginn, who also _stammered_ forth -“his logic and his wisdom and his wit.” The simplicity of his -disposition, and the Irish impulses of his nature, led him to desire a -hearty enjoyment of his social hours in the midst of his friends. He -would have quips and cranks, and a spice of that happy frivolity which -comes as easy to the finest geniuses as their more dignified -inspirations. But such he was not to have at the Literary Club, where -Jupiter-Johnson took the chair—or rather the field, and “glowering frae -him,” kept himself perfectly ready to “toss and gore,” as usual. - - “While all the clubbists trembled at his nod.” - -A great deal of pedantry and paradox was mixed up with the literature of -Goldsmith’s time; men’s minds were apt to be as stiff as their costumes, -and authors were considered to have a certain professional dignity to -support. - -Oliver, as we have said, was out of his element in the midst of such -circumstances; he did not admire the gravity which is too often a -mysterious carriage of the body to cover the defects of the mind, but -was disposed in company - - “To rattle on exactly as he’d talk - To any body in a ride or walk.” - -In mixed society he seemed very unequal. He very often sat silent, and -the shyness of his disposition was thought to be an affectation of -dignity. But when the occasion grew more festive, as at after-dinner -times, and the poet’s temperament had received the stimulus of aliment -and wine, he would overflow with pleasant paradoxes, jests and all sorts -of unguarded hilarity, believing that those about him who were aware of -the intrinsic wit and worth of his intellect, would justify him against -any thought of ridicule or disparagement. In such moods, and before the -most fastidious wits of the day, he would come out intrepidly -with—“When I used to lodge among the beggars in Axe Lane.” The effect -of this on his hearers (we believe it was spoken at one of Sir Joshua -Reynold’s dinners) was something like that produced on the discomposed -sovereigns sitting round the table at Tilsit, or Erfurth—we forget -which—by Napoleon’s reminiscence, beginning—“When I was a lieutenant -in the regiment of La Fere!” These sayings seem to show a kindred -consciousness of something beyond the conventions of rank and name. -Goldsmith was not to be laughed at for that sally—which Socrates or -Zeno would have enjoyed very much. But the cankered and fastidious -Walpole, who was present on some such occasion, and found the Irishman -very blunt in his mode of argument, and very unconcerned at the rank or -pretensions of Walpole himself, could not tolerate such franknesses, and -with his usual affectation of point, called Oliver “an inspired idiot;” -just as Chesterfield had called Johnson “a respectable Hottentot”—but -indeed with greater justice; for the moralist’s manners at table, -particularly his modes of eating, were rather savage. - -Goldsmith was certainly apt to blunder. But it was when in the simple -frankness of his nature he thought he was among friends and good fellows -in such moods and moments. He put his trust in those whose -conventionalities he would offend, and who must have felt the -inferiority of their own powers when in contact with his. Disraeli, the -elder, has made some just remarks on the wrong to which such men expose -themselves very often in society. He says: “One peculiar trait in the -conversation of men of genius which has often injured them when -listeners are not acquainted with the men—are certain sports of a -vacant mind; a sudden impulse to throw out opinions and take views of -things in some humor of the moment. Extravagant paradoxes and false -opinions are caught up by the humblest prosers: and the Philistines are -thus enabled to triumph over the strong and gifted man, because in an -hour of confidence and the abandonment of his mind, he laid his head in -their lap and taught them how he might be shorn of his strength.” All -this is extremely applicable to the case of Oliver Goldsmith. - -Almost all the stories told of him to show his absurdity or jealousy are -palpably false and must be looked on as failures. Northcote very gravely -set down how the doctor was offended, when on his route to Paris, -accompanied by Mrs. Horneck and her daughters, to find the young ladies -receive more notice and admiration than he himself at a French hotel. -This was a stupid misconception, to say the least of it—as Miss Horneck -afterward stated, wondering at the same time how such could ever have -arisen from the fact. Goldsmith, who was always ready to laugh at -himself, for the pleasantry of the thing, in any of his playful moods, -seeing his companions pleased by the admiration they excited, and -wishing to amuse them, said, with an affectation of wounded self-love, -that doubtless produced the effect he intended—“Very well, ladies; you -may find somebody else in vogue, very shortly, as well as yourselves.” -Such sallies furnish a key to most of those things cited to the ridicule -of Goldsmith. Another story is told by Col. O’Moore. Burke and O’Moore -going to the club to dine, saw Oliver among others looking at some -foreign women in a balcony in Leicester Square. Arrived at the club, -Burke affected to be offended with Goldsmith and being questioned, said -he could hardly think of being friendly with a man who could say what -the doctor had just uttered in the public street. Goldsmith eagerly -asking to know what it was, was told he expressed surprise that the -crowd should look at these women, while he, a man of genius, was passing -by! - -“Surely, I did not say so,” says Oliver. - -“How should I know it then?” replies Burke. - -“True,” admits Goldsmith, “I thought, indeed, something of the kind; but -I did not think I uttered it.” - -All this is merely clumsy and incredible—just the sort of anecdote for -the colonel to tell. Just as preposterous was the story of Goldsmith -asking Gibbon, who came into his room while he was writing the History -of Greece, “What king was that who gave Alexander so much trouble in -India?” and on being informed it was Montezuma, writing it down at once! -Then, there is Beauclerc’s funny thing—how Goldsmith, being once -conversing with Lord Shelburne (termed “Malagrida” by some political -opponent,) told his lordship he wondered they called him Malagrida, -_for_ Malagrida was an honest man! Such were the false and stupid -reminiscences that went to compose the memory of poor Goldsmith—a man -of the finest perceptions and most excellent judgment. - -Exaggerated stories are also told of his love of dress and his personal -vanity in other matters. His peach-colored coat is thought to be a good -jest. It is indeed true, that he was somewhat expensive in dress; but a -man who frequented the politest society of the time was obliged to pay -attention to his wardrobe. And if his taste in the matter of coats and -cocked-hats was not so true as it ever was in literary matters, it may -be stated that Aristotle also underwent the rebuke of Plato for his -foppishness. A great deal is made of the fact that Goldsmith once -attempted to leap from the bank to a little island in a pond, at -Versailles, and fell into the water. This is all natural enough, if we -refer it to his usual playfulness and the remembrance of the active -habits of his youth. It amounts to no more than the gravest man may have -to answer for, if all his doings were chronicled. Johnson, when quite an -old man, used to make such heavy attempts to be lively. Mrs. Thrale (we -believe) says that one day, approaching her house, the philosopher flung -himself in sport over a gate that lay in his way, and was very much -elated by his own agility. - -With all his dignity and philosophy Johnson felt a little jealous of -Goldsmith, at times, and used to express disparaging opinions of him. He -said—“His genius is great, but his knowledge is small. As they say of a -generous man—it is a pity he is not rich; so we may say of -Goldsmith—it is a pity he is not knowing.” He also said no one was more -foolish than Goldsmith when he had not a pen in his hand, or wiser when -he had, thus parodying the saying applied to Charles the Second— - - “Who never said a foolish thing, - And never did a wise one.” - -In expressing these opinions, Dr. Johnson seems to forget what he -himself has elsewhere said, very justly—to the effect that a great deal -of the truth and correctness of a sentiment is sacrificed to the point -of it. He also says, amusingly enough—“Goldsmith should not be always -attempting to shine in conversation,” (certainly not—this would be a -sort of contumacy in Johnson’s presence!) “he has not temper for it.” -(Johnson’s own was of such a meek, philosophic stamp!) Even when the -dignity of Goldsmith’s doings was more questionable than that of his -sayings or writings, the doctor could not help entertaining some little -pique. When Oliver had chastised Evans, the publisher, for printing some -offensive observations, Johnson remarked to his _fidus Achates_: “Why, -sir, this is the first time he _has_ beaten; he may have _been_ beaten -before. This is a new pleasure to him.” He alluded to a white-bait -dinner at Blackwall, where Goldsmith, denouncing obscene novels and the -indelicacies of Tristram Shandy, created a warm argument among the -feasters, whence they fell into personalities; then into an uproar, and -thence to fisticuffs, in the midst of which, it is said, Oliver got a -smart share of what was going—before they broke up this feast of -reason—pretty fairly expressed by the _Irish_ participles, _bait_, -beating, beaten! The affair was very laughable, to be sure. But Johnson -should have remembered that he himself had knocked his own publisher -down—Osborne. He should have commented more leniently on poor Goldie. -The old feuds between authors and publishers were as lively in those -times as they were before or have been since. Goldsmith wrote a very -dignified public letter, to justify the beating, and showed that there -were certain rascalities which called for the imposition of violent -hands upon them, and that the punishment of them was sanctioned by the -sense of society, though against the letter of the law. But, as we were -saying, Johnson permitted himself on many occasions to disparage -Goldsmith. Still, in the main, he has stood up strongly for the fame of -his friend—thereby showing that such opinions as the foregoing were not -very just or generous. When his conscience got the better of his -occasional feelings, as was usually the case—for his nature was -intrinsically good (he “had nothing of the bear but the skin,” as -Goldsmith used to say,) he would do Oliver justice. In this, to be sure, -he had a consoling sense of the superiority and patronage which belong -to such a championship; and, in maintaining the cause of his friend, he -could argue vigorously for himself—for, their fortunes were very much -alike. He could express his own feelings of scorn for the conventions or -misconceptions of society, in defending the character of a man of -genius. Be this as it may, he has left on record sentiments highly -honorable to himself as well as to Goldsmith; and has had some of them -graven in his epitaph on the poet, dramatist and historian - - “Who ran - Through each mode of the pen and was master of all.” - -Goldsmith, in society, was not the oddity he is represented to be by -Boswell, Walpole and the others. There is no such contradictory monster -as they would have us think him. The man who was “inspired” with such -true genius—who drew the Vicar of Wakefield—could not have been the -“idiot” that the artificial Walpole would depict him. Nor could any man -who “wrote like an angel” ever come to “talk like poor Poll,” as Garrick -says with such antithetical fallacy. The fact was, Oliver’s broad -Westmeath accent, his stammering mode of speaking, and the careless -impulses of his thoroughly Irish temperament gave his manners a strange, -it may be said an intolerable originality, in an age of forms and -observances in literature and life. It was only in a stiff, artificial -age, like that in which his lot was cast, that Goldsmith would have been -so rudely treated and ridiculed. It is felt that it was not Julian but -the polished Antiochans which were ridiculous. We also know that though -they laughed at Socrates he was not _laughed at_, as he himself -expresses it. Absurdity was the cant word of Goldsmith’s day for the -good-nature, generosity, originality and independence which he brought -with him, along with that _Shibboleth_ of his from the simple and -honorable home of his childhood, and which he never lost in all the -mazes and trials of the great metropolis. - -His absurdities, as they termed them, did not, after all, prevent -Goldsmith from being well received in the best society of London—a very -strong proof, in itself, that the doctor was as much a gentleman in -demeanor as he was by his birth and education, and could mingle with the -polite and the fashionable on very easy terms and without any violence -to his habits. His sayings in company—such as have been remembered—are -full of point and pleasantry, and show that he could command, even with -his shy utterance, much of the happy spirit of his written style. He was -once explaining to a friend, in Johnson’s presence, that in fables where -inferior creatures are interlocutors, these should be made to speak in -character—that animals on land, for instance, should converse -differently from little fishes. This idea, which is, after all, only -that which Shakspeare has so beautifully realized, with a difference, in -his elves of a Midsummer Night’s Dream, his Caliban and his Ariel, set -Johnson a-chuckling at its childishness, which Goldsmith perceiving, he -retorted very happily—laughing, too—“You may laugh, doctor, but if -_you_ had to make little fishes speak, they would talk like whales!” A -palpable hit at the sesquipedalian moralist. - -If we come to consider Goldsmith’s influence upon the literary character -of his age, we will probably agree that it was second to that of no -other author. Indeed, it must be considered superior to that of him who -was supposed to sway most authoritatively the world of letters. Doctor -Johnson’s style, to be sure, was very impressive, and created a host of -imitators—the most remarkable of whom was Gibbon, who surpassed his -model in a certain measured splendor of rhetoric—which is, -nevertheless, very wearisome at times. But Goldsmith’s many modes of a -very simple and lucid style produced then, and since, a more permanent -effect. He wrote the best poem, the best comedy, the best novel, and the -best history—at least, the best written history of the day. Johnson -preferred his historic manner to that of Hume or Robertson. Though -Goldsmith’s literature had not the marked effect of Doctor Johnson’s -grand Latin idiom; yet being more varied, it reached the wider -popularity, such as time has confirmed and increased. Goldsmith kept to -the ancient ways of the vernacular, trod by Addison, Swift, Hume, etc.; -and contributed not a little to neutralize the Johnsonian mode—which, -after all, was recognized to be a corrupt rhetoric, and a weakening of -the genius of the Anglo-Saxon tongue. Goldsmith’s, “racy of the soil,” -was secured against fluctuations of taste, and the charm of it is as -fresh to-day as it was eighty years ago. His comedies abolished the -mawkish sentimentality which—derived partly from the Richardson -school—dulled the spirit of the stage, and asserted, very happily, the -old comic claim of setting audiences in a roar. The change was heartily -welcomed; the Londoners crowded to the comedy to be merry, and a -respected household tradition, now especially recalled for the sake of -the dear old narrator of it, has more than once informed us how George -the Third, his fresh-colored English face, full of merriment, and the -plain, little cock-nosed Charlotte by his side, in the royal box, both -joined in the hilarity of the audience during one of the first -performances of “She Stoops to Conquer,” at Covent Garden Theatre; but, -at the story of “Old Grouse in the Gun-room,” where everybody laughed on -the stage, his majesty fairly chimed in with Mr. Hardcastle, and laughed -as loud as any one in the house. Thus, in the words of Mr. Colman— - - “Thus, cheered, at length, by Pleasantry’s bright ray, - Nature and mirth resumed their legal sway, - And Goldsmith’s genius basked in open day.” - -Goldsmith’s prose is the sweetest and most harmonious in the language. -His narrative and historical manner is easy and expressive—more so than -Hume’s. And here, we may remark how odd it was to see a pair of -provincials—an Irishman and a Scotchman, each with the brogue or the -burr upon his tongue, and in his manner—vindicating the native purity -of the Anglo-Saxon against the subversive genius of two of the foremost -English writers—Johnson and Gibbon—and finally overcoming them on -their own ground. Goldsmith, in short, as Johnson said very well, -ornamented whatever he touched, and some of the dryest disquisitions -become in his hands as interesting as a Persian tale. An honor of -another kind belongs to Goldsmith. - -Among the authors of England none did more than himself to support the -dignity and independence of British authorship, the honor of which was -so sadly smirched by the dedications of Dryden and Locke, as well as by -others before and after them. Oliver instead of thinking of the high -nobility, set a fine example to all writers—he dedicated “She Stoops to -Conquer,” to Doctor Johnson; “The Deserted Village” to his other friend, -Reynolds; and “The Traveler”—his first poem—to his brother, all -exhibiting the affectionate manliness of his disposition. And with -reference to his brother, we have a trait of Goldsmith’s character which -is worth the Vicar of Wakefield. He was once invited to call on the Duke -of Northumberland, when that nobleman was going to Ireland, as Lord -Lieutenant. Sir John Hawkins, who was leaving the duke’s presence as -Oliver was going in, tells the story with indignant reprobation of the -poet’s fatal absurdity. His grace having complimented Goldsmith on his -writings (he had just written Edwin and Angelina to amuse the duchess), -said he was going to Ireland, and would be happy to promote the doctor’s -interests in any way, etc. Whereupon the doctor told the duke that the -publishers were treating him pretty well just then; but that he had a -poor brother in Ireland, a curate on forty pounds a year, with a large -family, and begged his grace to remember _him_, etc. “In this way,” -groans Sir John Hawkins, “did Goldsmith dispose of his chance of -patronage and fortune.” - -As a poet, Goldsmith at once took the rank which posterity has almost -unanimously confirmed. The finest critics in the language have honored -the claims of the poet of Auburn. Lord Byron says, “where is the poetry -of which one half is good? Is it Milton’s? Is it Dryden’s; or any one’s -except Pope’s and Goldsmith’s, of which _all_ is good?” There is no need -at this time of day, to speak of the nature, pathos and elegance of -Goldsmith’s muse. In stateliness he sometimes approaches Dryden; as in -those noble verses which Johnson could not read without a tremor and -tears of pride:— - - “Stern o’er each bosom reason holds her state, - With daring aims, irregularly great: - Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, - I see the lords of human kind pass by.” - -But there is one respect in which we think his poetry has not been -appreciated as it ought. - -The great change which has taken place in poetry from the classic -rhythmus and Cæsural canons of Pope’s school, to the nature and fresher -phraseology of our modern period has been commonly dated from the rise -of Wordsworth and Coleridge—sometimes traced to the effect of Bishop -Percy’s ballads. There is generally an incorrectness in any attempt to -fix mutations of taste and fashions of style down to chronology. Instead -of thinking the old poetic spirit of England was revived at the close of -the eighteenth century, we believe it had not died at all; but had lived -on, in exile, while a foreign influence bore sway—as the line of Edgar -Atheling lived long ago; destined, however, in the fullness of time to -be restored to its ancient supremacy. Bishop Percy’s ballads were a -manifestation of that spirit, not a cause of it—though he might not -have known it—a necessary reaction of the national mind. At the time of -their appearance Goldsmith’s poetry was exhibiting the first tokens of -the coming change. The theme of it was human nature, with its common -feelings, hopes, and sufferings; and pouring the warmth, pathos and -earnestness of his own heart into it, he rendered it attractive and -popular. His verse had all the vernacular ease and grace of his prose, -with a polish only inferior to Pope’s. In his original hands the heroic -couplet was not “the clock-work tintinnabulum of rhyme” beaten by the -Cawthornes, Darwins, and Hayleys of the day. In his prose criticisms he -wrote against the cumbrous use of epithets, and discarded it in his own -verse. He amused himself occasionally among his friends, by reciting the -lines of several popular authors, with a dissyllable omitted. He would -read the opening of Gray’s Elegy in this way: - - The curfew tolls the knell of day, - The lowing herd winds o’er the lea: - The ploughman homeward plods his way - And leaves the world to gloom and me. - -In this respect he must have been rather hard on Johnson, whose poetry -in many respects is “the hubbub of words,” which Wordsworth so -scornfully terms some of it. The first couplet of the doctor’s great -satire has one superfluous line— - - Let observation, with extended view, - Survey mankind from China to Peru— - -The poem would have started better from “Survey.” - -Johnson, indeed, used to ridicule the taste that came up with the Percy -Ballads. They had “a false gallop of verses,” in his opinion, and he -said he could go on making such stanzas for an hour together, thus: - - As with my hat upon my head, - I walked along the Strand, - There I met another man - With his hat in his hand. - -But in this, as in a great many other matters of literature, morals, and -taste, Johnson did not prove himself an infallible doctor. Goldsmith’s -taste, of a genuine _vates_, led him at once to appreciate the simple -lyrics of Percy’s collection; and his charming ballad of the Hermit -shows how he felt the fresh spirit of them. This excellent poem was -written for the Countess of Northumberland. And here we may remark that -three of the most attractive modern English poems were composed -especially for ladies of high rank—or at their suggestion:—The Lay of -the Last Minstrel, at the wish of Lady Anna Scott, daughter of the Duke -of Buccleuch; The Sofa, for Lady Hesketh; and Goldsmith’s Ballad for the -Countess. - -Goldsmith certainly took the initiative in the change which was followed -and aided by “the manly and idiomatic simplicity of Cowper”—before -Wordsworth and Coleridge were heard of. He effected his share of the -reform quietly; he wrote no doctrinal prefaces, but went and did what he -meant. In teaching and practicing a new mode, he did not make the noise -of a reformer. He was rather more favorable to the style of Dryden and -Pope than to some of the ballad enthusiasts that talked and wrote in -extremes. He reformed without any affectation of apostleship in the -matter of words and syllables—was no literary red-republican. Thirty or -forty years later Wordsworth cried, _Heureka_! as if something were then -first done or found. He announced his theories in long didactic -prefaces, laid down doctrines which the genius of Goldsmith and Cowper -had already suggested or acted on, and fell into extravagancies which -they never dreamed of—exhibiting his muse in a very _sans culotte_ -condition; the term (having a masculine reference) is somewhat -inapplicable—or should be in a well-regulated state of society—though -Mrs. Bloomer is of a contrary opinion. But, Wordsworth, in his love of -unadorned Nature, used, in fact, to pull off her _garments_, along with -her _ornaments_, as if he thought, with those other honest fanatics, the -early Quakers, that a state of nudity was a state of grace! Coleridge -and Southey were his disciples, but not such mighty prosers; and -Coleridge was a far superior spirit to the two others, in all subtle -thought and lofty expression, though some of Wordsworth’s lines are -truly fine. As for Southey, we are disposed to justify Lord Byron in his -contempt of the man and his poetry. He was of an overweening and -splenetic nature; there was nothing in his character to neutralize the -impression made by the “Vision of Judgment” and “Don Juan” respecting -him. With regard to Oliver Goldsmith, Southey is convicted of a willful -injustice to the memory of a more genuine poet and better man than -himself. In his Life of Cowper, speaking of the poets that came after -Pope, he never once alludes to the author of The Deserted Village! He -says “the school of Pope was gradually losing its influence,” in proof -of which, “almost every poem of any considerable length which obtained -any celebrity, during the half century between Pope and Cowper, was writ -in blank verse. With the single exception of Falconer’s Shipwreck, it -would be in vain to look for any rhymed poem of that age, and of equal -extent, which is held in equal estimation with the works of Young, -Thompson, Glover, Somerville, Dyer, Akenside and Armstrong.” We all know -that one cause, at least, of this studied omission of Goldsmith’s name, -was Byron’s favorable opinion of his poetry. This deliberate wrong to -the memory of a great departed poet, because of a vehement hatred of a -living one, shows Southey’s disposition to be as ungenerous, we may say -as contemptible, as his hexameters are coldly manufactured, and surely -fated to be dry upon the popular palate to the end of time. He affects -to rank Oliver among the followers of Pope and the imitators of his -style. But there is as little resemblance between Pope’s terse and -splendid rhetoric, and the graphic simplicity and nature of Goldsmith’s -poetry, as between the blank verse of Wordsworth or Southey and the -noble rhythmus of Paradise Lost. Goldsmith scorned as much to fashion -his verse after the mode of Pope as he did to detract from the great -merit of that author. He cultivated the elegance and rhyming periods of -the classic school, and so identified these with his own original -spirit, that he recommended anew what, in themselves, are genuine graces -of English poetry. They truly belong to the genius of it—as his fine -taste must have taught him—and must continue to do so, in spite of all -the sprawling Thalaba hexameters of Southey. The heroic rhyming couplet -is capable of as much force, flexibility, and beauty, as any other form -of English verse, and is never monotonous in original hands—whether of -Chaucer, Dryden, Crabbe, or Keats. Southey, in thus pretending to shut -his eyes to the claims of the author of The Traveler, must have still -felt (for he was not without a critical sense of the genuine in the -Anglo-Saxon) that the great mass of his own poetry, so like a _hortus -siccus_, with its elaborated fancies and exotic imagery, must mainly lie -upon the shelves of libraries, while Goldsmith’s is fated to be found -upon all book-stalls, and to go about to the households and hearts of -the people—to be printed in innumerable editions, ornamented with -costly engravings, and be found in all parts of the world where the -English language is spoken—read by yet unborn generations on the banks -of the Burrampooter, the Mississippi, or the Swan River, as freshly and -as feelingly as it was, at first, and still continues to be, on those of -the Thames and the Tweed and the Shannon. And so it is; and thus, as the -clown in Twelfth Night says, “does the whirligig of time bring in his -revenges.” Somebody, we forget who, says the praise of the people is a -finer thing than the homage of the critics: and, in this way, the ghost -of Oliver must be satisfied to see how posterity vindicates him against -the early and the latter detractors. He was a true English poet with an -Irish heart; and Sir Joshua Reynolds evinced the genuine prescience of -genius (though the world said it was only friendship or flattery) when -he gave the ugly face of Oliver that classic _tournure_ which should -best suit his destined rank in the peerage of Parnassus. - -Goldsmith had left his mark upon the literature of his age, and plainly -indicated the character of that which was to come, when he quitted his -painful desk forever, in 1774, being then about forty-five years old. At -that age Cowper was still unmentioned in the world of letters, but was -preparing to carry out the salutary innovations which the other had -begun. Goldsmith died £2000 in debt. The booksellers had advanced him -money for works to be written. Everybody trusted him. “Was ever poet so -trusted before?” says Dr. Johnson. Burke wept when he heard Oliver was -dead. Such tears were as eloquent as Johnson’s epitaph. The eyes of the -latter were moistened, too; and in a sonorous Greek tetrastich, he -called on those who cared for Nature, for the charms of song, or the -deeds of ancient days, to weep for the historian, the naturalist, and -the poet. Poor Goldie died when he had a chance of liberating himself, -in another way, from the task-work of publishers. “Every year he lived,” -says Dr. Johnson, “he would have deserved Westminster Abbey more and -more.” But Goldsmith’s true Westminster Abbey is the _volitare per ora_ -and the keeping of his honest memory by the _oi polloi_, at their -firesides, along with the _lares_—when, as Macaulay would say, a -traveler from the empire of Van Diemans Land may probably be sketching -the ruins of that British Santa Croce from a broken arch of London -Bridge:— - - Nothing to them the sculptor’s art, - The funeral columns, wreaths or urns; - -as Halleck so well says respecting Robert Burns, in one of the finest of -his lyrics. - - * * * * * - - - - - MONA LISA. - - - BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD. - - -Leonardo de Vinci is said to have been four years employed upon the -portrait of Mona Lisa, a fair Florentine, without being able, after all, -to come up to the idea of her beauty. - - Artist! lay the brush aside, - Twilight gathers chill and gray; - Turn the picture to the wall— - Thou hast wrought in vain to-day. - - Thrice twelve months have hastened by - Since thy canvas first grew bright - With that brow’s bewitching beauty, - And that dark eye’s melting light. - - Yet the early sunbeam shineth - On thy tireless labors yet, - And the portrait stands before thee, - Till the evening sun has set. - - Faultless is the robe that falleth - Round that form of matchless grace; - Faultless is the softened outline - Of the fair and oval face. - - Thou hast caught the wondrous beauty - Of the round cheek’s roseate hue; - And the full red lips are smiling, - As this morn they smiled on you. - - To that lady thou hast given - Immortality below, - Wherefore, then, with moody glances - Dost thou from thy labor go? - - From the living face of beauty - Beams the soul’s expressive ray, - And, with all thy god-like genius, - _This_ thou _never_ canst portray! - - Of the countless throng around me, - Each hath labors like to thine; - Each, methinks, some Mona Lisa - In his spirit’s inmost shrine. - - Visions haunt us from our childhood - Of a love so pure, so true, - Seraphs unawares might envy - As their white wings fan the Blue; - - Visions that elude forever, - As the silent years depart, - Some unhappy ones and weary— - Mona Lisas of the heart! - - Dreams of a divine completeness - That we struggle to attain, - ’Mid the doubts and toils harassing - Of our earthly life in vain; - - Poet fancies we endeavor - To imprint upon the scroll, - Yet for worded utterance failing— - Mona Lisas of the soul! - - * * * * * - - - - - TO A CANARY BIRD. - - - BY WILLIAM GIBSON, U. S. NAVY. - - - Sweet little faery bird, - Gentle Canary bird, - Beats not thy tiny breast with one regret? - Is it enough for thee - Ever, as now, to be - Caged as a prisoner, kissed as a pet? - - Gay is thy golden wing, - Careless thy caroling, - Thou art as happy as happy can be; - Singing so merrily, - Hast thou no memory - Of thy lost native isle o’er the sea? - - Not the Hesperides, - Floating on fabled seas, - Nothing in Nature, and nothing in song, - Match with the magic smile, - Which, from thine own sweet isle, - Hushes the heaving wave all the year long. - - Summer and youthful Spring, - Blooming and blossoming, - Hand-in-hand, sister-like, stray thro’ the clime; - There thou wert born, amid - Fruits colored like thee, hid - In the green groves of the orange and lime. - - Then was the silver lute - Of the young maiden mute, - When, from the shade of her own cottage-eaves, - Rang first thy joyous trill, - While, with a gentle thrill, - Tho’ the breeze stirred them not, shivered the leaves. - - Thou, like a spirit, come - From thy far island-home, - Seemest of spring-time and sunshine the voice. - Light-hearted is thy lay, - As, on the lemon spray, - Love, little singing bird, made thee rejoice. - - For, from thy lady’s lip, - Oft is it thine to sip - Sweetness which dwells not in fruit or in flower; - And when her shaded eye - Rests on thee pensively, - Moonlight was ne’er so soft silv’ring thy bower. - - Likest to thee is Love, - Never it cares to rove, - When its wild winglets feel Beauty’s control. - Would, little bird, that I - Might to thine island fly, - All, all alone with the girl of my soul! - - There should’st thou sing to us, - Tender and tremulous, - Our hearts happy with love unexpressed. - Sweet little faery bird, - Gentle Canary bird, - How would’st thou be by that dear girl caressed. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES. - - - BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. - - - [Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by - George Payne Rainsford James, in the Clerk’s Office of the - District Court of the United States for the District of - Massachusetts.] - - (_Continued from page 279._) - - - A STRUGGLE WITH THE WORLD. - -A period of wandering and of danger, of flitting from place to place, -and land to land, of difficulties and distresses, of almost daily peril, -of constant uncertainty as to the future, would seem to furnish matter -enough for memory; but yet the period immediately succeeding my -separation from Father Bonneville, is very dim and obscure to -remembrance. I staid so short a time in any place, one event trod so -fast upon the heels of another, that neither scene nor event had time to -fix itself firmly in memory, before, like the grass upon a public -pathway, it was trodden down by passing feet. - -At this time, I could speak three languages with almost equal facility: -English, French, and German; but English perhaps, I understood most -thoroughly—at all events, I know, I generally thought in that language. -This facility was of very great advantage to me, and I notice it on that -account, as I could pass wherever those tongues were spoken for a native -of the country. It is true, I had not soon occasion to see France again; -but I wandered through many parts of Switzerland, where French was in -common use. - -The terrible dissensions and frightful bloodshed that were going on in -that once fair and peaceful land, soon drove me forth, however, though I -anxiously continued my inquiries for Father Bonneville, as long as there -seemed a chance of success. My steps were then turned toward the North -of Germany, without object; and more directed by accidental -circumstances, than by any predetermination of my own, I walked on foot -the whole way; for the hundred louis afforded but small means, and I had -learned the necessity, and the mode of economy. Fifty of those hundred -louis I put by with the resolution never to touch them except in the -last extremity; and no one can tell the amount of distress and privation -I submitted to, rather than violate that resolution. Every thing I could -part with, I disposed of before I set out: my beloved rifle amongst the -rest. I had a good many little trinkets, which I had purchased in the -foolish vanity of youth, but I got rid of them all, and only retained my -watch, with a seal bearing a coat of arms attached to it, (which seal I -had possessed as long as I could remember any thing) and the ring and -little gold chain which had been given to me by Madame de Salins. My -clothes were all compressed into a knapsack, and in my hunter’s garb, -with thick, coarse shoes upon my feet, I plodded on my weary way, over -mountain and moor, through field and forest, in the town and in the -country, seeking wherever opportunity seemed to present itself, for some -employment, but finding none. All I could offer to do was to teach, and -the whole of Europe was so overloaded with persons in the same -situation, who had been driven forth from France by the Revolution, that -it was hardly possible to find any profitable occupation of that kind. - -Often, often at peasant’s hut, or farmer’s house, I have begged a morsel -of black bread, and a draught of water. Perhaps this was not very right, -when I had actually money in my pocket, but yet it is a common custom in -that country, and almost every artisan, before he becomes a master in -his trade, spends some years in what is called _fechting_ or in other -words, begging his way from place to place. The assistance was almost -always readily given, and sometimes the charity of woman would add a -drink of milk, or a few kreutzers. - -I was within sight of the town of Hamburgh before any chance of -occupation presented itself, and then it came about in rather a singular -manner. I was walking on at a quick pace, at about three miles from the -city, on the same side of the Elbe, when I saw from a little garden -gate, close by a small summer-house, an elderly gentleman come forth, of -somewhat peculiar appearance. He was exceedingly thin, brisk and -active-looking, with powdered hair and a thick queue, an enormous white -cravat, a vast frill, and a bluish-gray cloak, somewhat threadbare. -There was a keen, sharp look about his eyes and mouth, which was not -very promising, and I walked on without taking much notion of him. His -pace, however, was as fast as my own, and we kept nearly side by side -for about half-a-mile, without speaking, till we came upon a long wooden -bridge, which every one who has been in Hamburgh must recollect. He had -eyed me, I perceived, with great attention, and at length he burst -forth. - -“Well, young man,” he said, “I think you might have given me good time -of day, at least.” - -“I do not know you,” I answered, “and do not like to take liberties with -strangers.” - -“Mighty modest,” rejoined he. “What’s your trade?” - -I explained to him, that I was seeking employment as a teacher, having -been driven out of my own country by Revolution. That seemed to touch -him; for he had a great abhorrence of Revolutions, and he asked me what -I could teach. - -I told him that I was competent to give instruction in Latin, Greek, -Mathematics, French, English and German. - -“Hundert tausand!” he exclaimed, “the lad is an Encyclopædia. Let us see -what you can do;” and immediately he poured forth a passage of -Euripides, with which I was quite familiar. I rendered it at once into -German, and he then made me give it him in French, which I did as well -as I could, in that meagre tongue. He rubbed his hands all the time, -saying—“Ha—ha.” He spoke to me in English, too, such as it was, and -though his pronunciation would have made a dry salmon laugh, yet I found -that he had a very thorough acquaintance with all the works of the best -authors of England. The conversation soon became interesting to us both, -and we went on chatting and discussing till we reached the gates of the -town. There he suddenly paused, and looking at me from head to foot, -exclaimed— - -“So you want employment—you are poor, I dare say—very poor?” - -I replied, that it was hardly possible to be poorer. - -“Well, then, you must not lodge in dear inns,” he said. - -I told him I did not know where to lodge, as I was a stranger in the -town. - -“I’ll tell you,” he answered, “I’ll tell you. You must lodge in the -lower town—in the Hardt-Gasse—number five—with Widow Steinberger.” He -repeated the direction over three times, and then added—“She should -board you for two dollars a week—don’t give her more. Everybody asks -too much, in expectation of being beaten down—a bad system, but -universal.” - -All this time he had been continually turning himself round upon his -right leg, between each two or three words, as if intending to go away, -and I perceived no inclination upon his part to help me to employment; -but when he came to the end of his directions, he drew out a little -note-book, wrote something in it with his usual rapidity, tore out the -leaf, and gave it to me saying— - -“Come to see me—come to see me. I’ll think of what can be done. We’ll -find you employment, Polyglot,” and away he turned and left me. I then, -with better hope than I had hitherto had, inquired my way to the street -which he had indicated, without having curiosity enough to look at any -thing but his name, which I found to be “Herman Haas.” I was a long time -in finding the Hardt-Gasse, and before I did so, I plunged into many a -dark and gloomy street of tall, old houses, and warehouses. At length, -the end of a little lane was pointed out to me, the appearance of which -was more in harmony with the state of my finances, than my desires. But -I found, on walking up it, that the houses must, at one time, have been -of some importance, judging by the size of the doors, and the ornaments -which clustered round them. At number five, I stopped; and finding -neither knocker or bell, opened the door and went in. - -“Who’s there?” screamed a voice from the right, and entering a large, -dim, old-fashioned room, I found myself in the presence of a stately -dame, engaged in the dignified occupation of cooking, who instantly -demanded what I wanted. I found that this was no other than Madame -Steinberger, herself, but before she would enter into any negociations -in regard to boarding and lodging me, she insisted upon knowing who had -sent me there. When I showed her the paper, however, she -exclaimed—“Professor Haas! Oh! that is another matter;” and our -arrangements were soon effected. As the professor had anticipated, she -asked more at first than she was inclined to take, but his dictum was -all powerful with her, and I was soon installed in a comfortable little -room, with the advantage of a large sitting-room besides, when I chose -to use it, for which accommodation, with three meals in the day, I was -to pay two dollars a week. - -On the following morning, at the hour which my landlady told me would be -most convenient, I went to call upon the professor, whom I found in his -study; though how he contrived to study at all, I cannot make out; for -he was in a state of continual movement—the most excitable German I -ever saw. During the greater part of the time he was talking to me, he -was taking down one book and putting up another, turning over papers -upon the table, dipping a pen in the ink and wiping it again, with other -operations to carry off his superfluous activity. He must have been -quiet at some time; for he certainly was a very learned man; but I never -could discover when it was. At length, after having asked a great number -of questions, he said—“I have got one pupil for you, to make a -beginning—Come, I’ll show her to you;” and leading me into another -room, on the same floor, he presented me to a young lady, who sat there -embroidering, as his daughter. “There,” he said, “teach her English, and -any thing else you can. I have no time—she is a good girl, but slow.” - -The young lady looked up in his face with a calm, placid smile, saying, -“If there were two such quick people as you in the house, my father, -they would always be running against each other.” - -“True,” replied the old man, “true, and philosophical. Nature loves -contrasts as well as harmonies. Opposing forces counteract each other. -You, my Louise, are my _vis inertiæ_. Without you I should get on too -fast. But come, young gentleman—what is your name?” - -“Louis de Lacy,” I replied. - -“I like that, I like that,” answered the old man “The _De_, speaks blood -and good political principles—but come—we will settle the terms in my -own room, and will try to get you something more to do by and bye.” - -I found the good professor had as accurate a knowledge of making a -bargain, as he had of Greek or Latin. He calculated the worth of my -services to a pfennig, and, as I found afterward, if I had made the -slightest opposition, would have beaten me down still lower; for he had -a pleasure in such sort of triumphs. I let him arrange it all his own -way, however, and left to his own generosity, he probably added a little -to the sum which he had intended to give. It was agreed that I was to -teach his daughter two hours during the day, and as soon as all this was -settled, he pushed me by the shoulders toward the door, saying, “There, -go, begin at once. You have three hours before dinner. I must go to my -recitations.” - -I found the way back to the room where Louise Haas was seated, and where -I passed two hours of every day, for nearly nine months, and generally -the greater part of every Sunday. She was a pretty creature, with small, -well-shaped features, a very graceful form, though plump and rounded, -and a bright, clear complexion, which varied a good deal under different -emotions. Her mother had died, I found, some four or five years before, -of that pest of northern countries, consumption. There was nobody in the -house but herself, her father, and two women servants: hardly any -society was admitted within the doors, but grave old professors, with -long hair, not very well combed; and thus tutor and pupil, like Abelard -and Heloise, were left alone together for many an hour—I having her -father’s commands to teach her English, and any thing else I could. -Father Bonneville’s good lessons, however, some knowledge of the world, -and many hard experiences, together with other feelings, which I cannot -well describe, prevented me from even thinking of taking any unfair -advantage of my situation. It was natural, however, that in such -circumstances, young acquaintance should speedily ripen into intimacy, -and intimacy into friendship. Nay, it was not unnatural that little -marks of kindness and tenderness should pass between us; for though very -calm and gentle, she was of a loving and caressing disposition. I found -her far from dull—a very apt scholar; but sometimes there were things -she could not comprehend, and then she would look smiling in my face, -and ask if she was not very stupid, and let her hand drop into mine and -rest there, as a messenger sent to beseech forbearance. - -We were both very young; she not more than eighteen, and I about twenty, -and strange new feelings began to come over my heart toward her. I will -not even now say that it was love; and then, I would not inquire what it -was, at all. It was a tenderness—a feeling of gentle, quiet -affection—a fondness for her society—a pleasure in seeing those soft -eyes, look into mine, and a gratitude for the kindness she ever showed, -and took every opportunity of showing. What she felt, I learned -afterward; but let me turn once more to the course of my life in -Hamburgh. - -By the kind offices of the good old professor, I obtained several other -pupils, and I had the great happiness of finding my income exceed my -expenditure. I threw off my traveling garb; I brought out from my -knapsack the clothing which I had so carefully saved: I gained -admittance into some of the society of the town, and though I do not -think I was ever very vain, whatever vanity I had, received some -encouragement. But my favorite resort was still the professor’s house. -He and his daughter were my first friends in the city, and I became more -and more intimate with him every day. He was pleased with the progress -his daughter made, and he was also pleased with the little assistance -which I gave him, from time to time, in different works he was -compiling. While I wrote for him, or looked out passages for him, he -could fidget about the room at his case, and get into every corner of it -in five minutes. At the end of a month, I had a general invitation to -spend my evenings there whenever I pleased—and I did please very often. -Then, after a while, I was sent with Louise to church; for she went -regularly, although I can’t say that the professor ever wore out the -steps of any religious edifice, and I took care not to allow my Roman -Catholic education to prevent my joining a Protestant congregation, with -my pretty little pupil. Indeed I was hanging at this time very slightly -by the skirts of the garments of Rome. I had been reading the Bible a -great deal lately. I read some Romanist books also, but I found that the -two did not agree, and I liked the Bible best. Besides all this, as -spring succeeded to winter, and days lengthened, and suns grew warm, -there was every now and then a moment of very sweet, spring-like -happiness, when after attending the church, Louise and I took a farther -walk, till the hour of the good professor’s dinner. Sometimes we had -another walk, too, in the evening, and sometimes he accompanied us to -his little garden with the summer-house, near the gate of which I had -first met him. It was all very delightful; and my ambition, which had -once been strong and wide, had by this time shrunk to very small -proportions. I could have been contented to linger on there, with every -thing just as it was, for an indefinite period of time. But it must be -remembered, that not one word, regarding love, ever passed between -Louise and myself, except when it occurred in passages of books. I am -afraid, however, that those passages, about this time, occurred very -often. Louise was fond of them, and I turned them up easily for her. - -Thus it went on—for I must not dwell upon details—for about eight -months, when it so miserably happened that an aunt of the professor’s, -somewhat younger than himself in years, but screwed up by ancient -maidenhood to the sharpest and very highest tone of the human -instrument, arrived. She was all eyes, ears and understanding. God -knows, she might have heard every word that passed between Louise and -myself, and seen all that we did too—if looks were excepted. But it so -happened that at this time the influence which France exerted over -Prussia was so great, that the Protectorate of the latter power over the -northern circles became a mere tyranny exercised for the purposes of the -French Republic, principally for the persecution of emigrants. The -position of such persons as myself became very dangerous; and the -necessity of my removal from Hamburgh was more than once talked of at -the professor’s table, where I now dined frequently. It was even -suggested that I should engage a passage in a vessel which was about to -sail in a couple of months for the United States of America. - -I could not help remarking that Louise turned very pale when these -things formed the subject of conversation, and during six weeks of -fluctuating anxiety, I saw with sincere apprehension that she lost -health and spirits. I dared not, I could not venture to take the idea to -my heart that that dear, amiable little creature suffered on my account; -but still I did my best to cheer and comfort her, and perhaps became a -little more tender in manner and fond in words, than I had ever dared to -be before. It was now always, “dear Louis” and “dear Louise;” but I do -not think we went any further than that. Often, often would she ask me -questions regarding my past history, and as much was told her as I knew -myself. She seemed to take a deep interest in it; but as it was a -subject of deep interest to me, that I looked upon as natural. However, -things had gone on in this way for some time, my pretty Louise still -failing in health, not losing, but rather increasing her beauty by the -daily walks which she now forced herself to take. - -One day, at length, the explosion came. I met the old professor at the -top of the stairs, and instead of turning me over at once to Louise, he -beckoned me into his own study, and then in a very excited state flew -from corner to corner of the room, glancing at me angrily, but saying -nothing. This conduct, became so painful, that I at length broke -silence, saying, “You wish to speak with me, Herr Haas.” - -“Ay, sir, ay!” he replied with vivacious sharpness, “Have I not cause to -speak?—have I not cause to feel anger? Here, I took you in as a beggar, -and trusted you as a friend, and you have betrayed my trust by winning -my daughter’s affections under the pretence of giving her instructions. -Answer it how you may, sir, it is a bad case.” - -“As to winning your daughter’s affections, my dear sir,” I replied, “I -think you must be mistaken; for I can boldly appeal to her to say, -whether I have once spoken on the subject of love toward her, or on any -other to justify the imputation you cast upon me. I have always -respected your hospitality, and owing you so much as I do, I should have -conceived myself base indeed to seek her affection without your consent. -We have been thrown much together and—” - -But nothing would satisfy the old man. He interrupted me hastily, -catching at my words, and saying, “that the only way of proving my -sincerity was to quit Hamburgh at once; that his aunt, who inhabited a -country-mansion, not many miles distant, had pointed out to him—in the -course of a morning lecture which she gave him, before her departure -that day—all that was going on between Louise and myself; that a ship -would soon sail for America, and that if I really entertained the -honorable sentiments I expressed, I would take my passage in her, and -leave his household to recover its peace.” He asked me, in a taunting -tone, if I knew that his daughter was his heiress, and ended by -forbidding me the house. - -I retired gloomy and desponding, and although he had said nothing to -lead me to such a conclusion, I felt almost certain that he had spoken -to Louise, before his conversation with myself. There was a sort of -gloomy consolation in this conviction, and I hesitated as to whether I -should quit Hamburgh, or remain in the hope of some change of feeling -upon his part. There is such a thing as half-love, and I knew—I -felt—that I could make the dear girl happy, and could be very happy -with her myself. The remembrance, however, that I had nothing on -earth—that I was an outcast—a beggar, in reality, and that she was -probably rich, decided me. I went down to the wharf. I took my passage. -I paid a part of my passage-money, but I learned—with a strange mixture -of feelings—that the sailing of the packet was put off for a whole -month, which made nearly seven weeks from that day. The master took -pains to inform me, that this delay was occasioned by apprehension on -the part of his owners, of the English cruisers, which, at that time, -were behaving as ill to neutral vessels, as they were behaving well in -combats with the enemy. I cared little for the reasons, however, but -went away, not knowing whether to be pleased or sorry for this respite. - -I could not quit Hamburgh without feelings of regret—I could not leave -Louise without a bitter pang—I had done what was right—my conscience -approved; and if accident kept me in the town, and fortune favored me -with any change of circumstances, Hope might plume her wings without any -self-reproach. - -I little knew with how much anguish that period of delay was to be -filled. - -Good Madame Steinberger had evidently heard something of what had -occurred at the professor’s house. She had been very kind to me, and was -kind still; but her reverence for Professor Haas somewhat jostled with -her regard for her young lodger. I would sit for hours in the evening, -dreaming of the past, thinking of Louise, dwelling upon happy hours that -were never to return. And then Madame Steinberger would come and attempt -to comfort me, saying, that it was mere boy and girl’s love, and would -soon pass away: that I and the young lady would both soon forget, and -that she doubted not to see us both happy parents. - -If she had taken up a red-hot skewer, and thrust it into my heart, she -would not have produced more wretchedness than she did by her mode of -consolation. - -No consolation—no thought—no philosophy was of any avail. It was a -period of intense bitterness, filled with many varied emotions, but all -of them most painful. Had my love been more ardent, more vehement than -it was, my condition would probably have been less sad. I should have -striven—I should have resisted—but a dark and gloomy feeling took -possession of my mind, that all who loved me, all who felt an interest -in me were destined to be lost to me, almost as soon as I felt the -blessing of their sympathy and kindness. I was more miserable than I can -describe: there was nothing to stimulate: to spur on endeavor: to rouse -up dormant energy. It was all dull, blank, monotonous, melancholy -inactivity. - -Three weeks had passed in this manner, when one evening, as I was -sitting in the larger room, where good Frau Steinberger had kindled a -fire, with my feet upon the andirons, my head leaning on my hand, and a -book which I had vainly endeavored to read, fallen on the floor by my -side, there was a step in the passage and the door opened. I took no -notice: I cared for nothing: I was without hope or expectation: I was -once more cast upon the world—the fragment of a wreck upon the wide -ocean. - -Suddenly a voice sounded near me, which I knew right well. “Louis,” it -said. “Louis, can you forgive me? Louis, will you save me—will you save -my child?” - -I started up, and gazed upon the figure before me. I could hardly -believe it was my old friend the professor, so pale, so worn, so -sorrow-stricken was his look. - -I instantly clasped his extended hand in mine. “My dear, good friend,” I -said, “what have I to forgive? I never sought to bring sorrow or -discomfort to your door—I would rather have died. That is all I have to -say. Tell me what I have to do—tell me what you would wish, and I am -ready to do it.” - -“Come to Louise,” he said, wringing my hand hard. “Come to Louise—I -have been a fool—a madman—a mercenary wretch. You only can save -her—Come to her—come to her at once!” - -I trembled violently, but I snatched up my hat, exclaiming, “let us go,” -and rushed out of the house before him. - -We flew along the streets, running against every body—seeing -nobody—heeding nobody. I asked no questions. I knew there was something -terrible; but I was going to Louise, and felt that I should soon know -all. All houses stood upon the latch in Hamburgh in those days. I opened -the door—I went in—I rushed up the stairs—I heard him cry “stop, -stop”—but the trumpet of an angel would not have called me back. I -entered her sitting-room. She was not there. I heeded not. I knew her -bed-room lay beyond. I passed on and opened the door. - -She was seated in a chair, with all the bright color gone from her -cheek, except at one point. A physician stood beside her, with a glass -in his hand. One old maid-servant was kneeling at her feet, wrapping -them in flannel. A handkerchief, dyed with blood, was at her lips. Could -I pause? No, had it killed both her and myself. In an instant I was -across the room, at her feet, and my arms around her. - -“Louise, my own Louise,” I cried. - -She looked at me with surprise—then gazed beyond me to her father, who -followed close—then cast her arms round my neck, and leaned her head -upon my shoulder, saying in a faint voice, “Louis, dear Louis, you have -saved me—I feel—I am sure, I shall live to be your wife.” - -“Hush, hush,” said the physician. “You must not speak at all.” - -“You shall be his wife; you shall be his wife!” cried her father -eagerly. - -“I am very happy,” said Louise. - -“I must have perfect silence,” said the physician, “all will go well -now; but every one must quit the room.” - -“No one shall tend her but myself,” I said; “but I will be as still as -night. She is mine—mine by the deepest and the holiest ties, and I will -not leave her till this is staid.” - -Nor did I; but through the live-long night, with the physician and the -fond old servant, I remained silently watching, aiding, comforting, -supporting her. From time to time the spitting of blood returned; but, -at length, ice was thought of and procured. That checked it effectually. -Two hours passed without the slightest return of that direful symptom, -and lifting her in my arms, as a father might a child, I placed her in -her bed. Then seating myself on a little footstool at the side, I laid -my head upon the same pillow. I thought she would sleep more happily so. -Her heavy eyes closed quietly; her breathing became calm and gentle; she -slept; and ere many minutes had passed, I slept beside her. - - - THE FADING OF THE FLOWER. - -The hemorrhage returned no more. Louise and I awoke at nearly the same -moment, just as the morning light was streaming in through the windows, -and she smiled sweetly to see me there, with my head upon her pillow, -and the good old servant sitting fast asleep at the foot of her bed. - -Poor girl, she fancied that all danger was passed; that she would soon -be well, and that we should be very, very happy. But, alas! grief and -disappointment too frequently shoot with poisoned arrows, and the venom -remains in the wound, after the shaft has been extracted. She was not -suffered to rise that day, and was forbidden to speak more than a -monosyllable at a time. The good physician quoted the Bible to her, -saying—“Let your communication be yea, yea, nay, nay, for of more -cometh evil.” On the following day, however, she rose, and gradually was -permitted to talk more and more, without any evil effect being produced. -Then for a short time we were very happy. The good, old professor did -all that he could to make up for his previous harshness, consented to -any thing that we wished. Spontaneously promised two thousand dollars to -set Louise and myself off in life, although we were to make our abode -with him, and talked of obtaining a professorship for me in the -university. Luckily his avocations kept him from home a good deal each -day, otherwise his daughter’s health would have suffered more, from his -continually running in and out of the room. She made some progress -during the first week after I returned, regained strength in a certain -degree, and I was full of hope for her, although she had an unpleasant -cough, very frequent, though not violent. We talked of the coming days, -and of our marriage, as soon as she was quite well, and I measured her -finger for the ring, and kissed the little hand on which it was to be -placed. Oh, they were very, very pleasant dreams, those; and I felt that -I could be exceedingly happy with that dear, gentle girl—nay, I fancied -that our happiness was quite assured; for when I looked into her eyes, -they were so full of light and life, that one could hardly fancy they -would ever be extinguished in death and darkness. Her bright color did -not come back into the cheek indeed, except at night, and then it was -not so generally diffused. Nevertheless, she felt herself so well—we -all thought she was so well—that our wedding-day was fixed for about -three weeks afterward. As the time approached, however, she was not -quite so well again. The weather changed, and two or three days of cold, -damp wind succeeded, which seemed to affect her very much. It was judged -expedient that our marriage should be delayed for a fortnight; for she -felt the least breath of air. Nevertheless, we kept up our spirits well -for a little while, and she talked confidently of regaining health, and -being just as well as ever. But as the days went on, I perceived with -anxiety and alarm, that she grew weaker. I used to take her out whenever -the air was soft, and the sun shone warmly, for a little walk, in the -hope that it would restore her strength, and I soon found that she could -not go so far, without fatigue, as at first; that to climb even the -little slopes which exist in Hamburgh, rendered her breathing short, and -increased her cough. Our walks became less and less, till, at length, -she went out no more. A change, hardly perceptible in its progress, was -gradually wrought in her. I saw little difference between one day and -that which preceded; but when I looked back to a week or a fortnight -before, and compared the present with the past, I could not close my -eyes to the conviction that she was worse—much worse. - -After a while, she took her breakfast in bed; but made an effort to rise -as early as she could, in order to come and join me in the sitting-room. -She ever spoke cheerfully, too, and seemed to have no thought of danger. -But her father was in a terrible state; for he couldn’t close his eyes -to her situation, and I do believe, that if the sacrifice of his life by -the most painful kind of death would have purchased his child’s -recovery, he would have made it without a hesitation. I deceived myself -more than he did. I had heard of the effect of change of air, and I had -talked to Louise so often about her recovering strength, and going with -me for a short time, to some milder climate, that I had almost persuaded -myself, against conviction, that it would be so. I fancied, too, that I -could make her so happy, she must needs recover; for I knew what a -blessed balm happiness is, and thought it must be all-effectual. - -As she could no longer go to church, the good minister of the parish -came several times to see her, and as he had a friendship for me, he -would often talk with me afterward—not that I liked his conversation -now as much as formerly; for it was very gloomy, and he strove evidently -to fill my mind with the dark anticipations which occupied his own. The -rays of religious hope, he endeavored to pour in too; but it was earthly -hopes I then clung to, and I did not like to have them taken away. - -One morning, after he had been with Louise, I found some tears upon her -cheek, when I went in to see her; for by this time she did not rise till -very late in the day, and all painful restraint being removed, I used to -go and sit by her bedside, and read to her for some hours each morning. -I was half angry with the old man for depressing her spirits; but she -soon recovered her cheerfulness, and it was not till two days afterward, -that I learned he had told her she must die. - -I was sitting beside her, with my arm fondly cast round her, as she sat -propped up by pillows, and I was indulging in those dreamy hopes of the -future, which I still entertained, and thought she entertained likewise. -I talked of our proposed journey to the South, and of escaping the cold, -winter weather of Hamburgh, and of myself and her father—for he was to -go with us in this dream—nursing her like a tender plant, till the -bright summer came back again to restore her to perfect health. - -She turned her sweet eyes upon me, with a gentle but melancholy smile. - -“Do you know, dear Louis,” she said, “I begin to think that time will -never be?” - -I looked aghast, and laying her hand tenderly in mine, she added— - -“Nay, more, love, I fear I shall never be your wife, unless—unless you -can make up your mind to take me as I am now, and part with me very -soon.” - -“O, Louise, Louise!” I cried, pressing her to my heart, with the -dreadful conviction first fully forced upon me, by words such as she had -never used before. “Do not, do not entertain such sad fears. Be mine at -once, dear girl, and let me take you away from this bleak place—by -slow, easy journeys—by sea—any how.” - -A single large tear rose in her eyes, and leaning her head upon my -shoulder, she said in a low, hesitating voice— - -“I will own, it would be very sweet to be your wife, were it but for a -day—yet what right have I,” she added, “to ask you to make me so, in -such a state as this—to leave you so soon, so young a widower?” - -“Let not such thoughts stop you for a moment, Louise,” I answered. “It -will be a blessing and a comfort to me. I can then be with you -always—never leave you—nurse you by night and day, and if the fondest -cure can save you, still keep my little jewel for my life’s happiness.” - -She pressed her lips fondly upon my cheek, and asked—“Do you really -feel so, Louis?” - -“From my heart,” I answered. “There is no blessing—no comfort I desire -so much. Let it be this very day—may I speak to your father?” - -“If you will,” she answered with a bright smile, and I know not that I -ever in life felt such satisfaction as in seeing the happiness and -relief I had bestowed upon that dear girl. - -The old professor was ready to grant every thing we could desire. He was -now the complete slave of her will; but the marriage could not take -place that day, for some few formalities had to be gone through and -arrangements to be made. It was appointed for the next evening, however, -and when Louise awoke upon her wedding-day, she sent the maid to tell me -that she felt much better. - -She knew what happiness that news would give me, and I was soon by her -side to confirm the assurance with my own eyes. - -She was better. She looked better. She had rested well, and she was able -to rise an hour earlier than she had done before. The incorrigible liar, -Hope, whispered her false promises in the ears of both, I believe, and -the hours passed more brightly during that afternoon, than they had done -for many a day before. - -At eight o’clock the Protestant minister came, and with him a notary. -The physician was the only other person present, except Louise, her -father, and myself. The irrevocable words were soon spoken, the contract -signed, and the ring upon her finger; but as I put it on, a cold, sad -feeling came upon my heart. It had been somewhat tight when I first -bought it, and now it was very loose. We were even obliged to wind some -silk round it the next day, to prevent it from falling off. - -For three days, happiness seemed to have all the effect that I had ever -attributed to it in my brightest fancies. Louise was certainly better, -and she looked so happy, so cheerful, walked up and down the passage -hanging on my arm, with a step so much lightened, that even the old -professor caught the infection of our hopes, and began to talk of future -days. - -The medicine soon lost its power over the invincible enemy. We had been -married just six days, and during the three last, Louise had been -feebler again, and very restless at night. The sixth day was a warm, -sunny one. The light shone cheerfully into our room, and she talked to -me of the sweet aspect of the summer, and made me open the window to let -in the gentle air. - -One room of the old professor’s house looked out upon the ramparts, -planted with trees. It was a large room, seldom used; but Louise asked -me to go in there, and open the windows before she rose, saying, that -she should like to sit and look at the green leaves. - -Her father came in before she was dressed, and when she was ready, we -took her out of her room, with a hand resting on the arm of each, and -led her into that saloon. I had placed an arm-chair for her near the -window, and she approached feebly and seated herself in it. The air was -very balmy: a clear, sparkling sunshine brightened the foliage: the sky -beyond, was as deep and blue as her own eyes, and she gazed for an -instant, with a look of intense thought upon the scene before her. Then -looking up in my face as I stood beside her, she placed her hand in -mine, and said—“Very beautiful!” - -They were her last words. The next instant, a strange, vacant expression -came into those deep thoughtful eyes, a slight shudder passed over her: -she leaned more and more toward me; and I had just time to kneel by her -side, and catch her head upon my shoulder. I felt one faint breath fan -my cheek—and Louise was gone. - - (_End of part first._) - - * * * * * - - - - - FADED AND GONE. - - - BY MISS S. J. C. WHITTLESEY. - - - Faded and gone are the Summer’s sweet flowers, - Strewn by the wintry winds o’er the dark mould! - Smilers, when sunlight stole through the soft hours, - Down from yon azure their leaves to unfold. - Bright were their beauties when breezes swept on - O’er the blue waters to gather perfume; - Whisperers lovely, now faded and gone! - Slumberers lonely ’mid dullness and gloom! - Oh! but the Spring-time will come o’er the plain - Wooing the whispering blossoms again, - With its soft tread o’er the emerald lawn— - Then we’ll not mourn for the faded and gone! - - Faded and gone are the ones that we cherished, - Fondly and true, in our bosoms of yore! - Slumbering buds may awake o’er the perished, - _Their_ faded hearts shall unfold here no more! - Sweet is the music that Memory flings - O’er the oasis of Life’s early love, - Where flew the Angel on fluttering wings, - Bearing our lost through the starlight above; - Oh! there’s a land where the perished ones bloom, - Where cometh never a shadow of gloom! - Fadeless and fair is that glorious dawn— - Then we’ll not mourn for the faded and gone! - - Faded and gone are the sweet dreams of childhood, - When the young wings of the Spirit were free, - Folded or furled ’mid the shadowy wildwood— - Sweeping the surface of life’s sunny sea. - Time’s fading finger hath sullied the leaf, - Stainless and lovely in childhood’s pure years; - Pages of beauty once brilliant, yet brief, - Wear its deep impress of changes and tears! - Oh! but the blossoms of childhood will bloom - Brightly again, o’er the shadowy Tomb! - Infinite gladness flow endlessly on— - Then we’ll not murmur for the faded and gone! - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BOWER OF CASTLE MOUNT. - - - A REMINISCENCE OF HEIDELBERG. - - - BY AELDRIC. - - -It was early in the June of 184-. I had been sitting in a German -railroad-car since early morning, vainly trying to amuse myself in -discovering a degree of singularity in some one of the many passengers -that were picked up at the different stations between Kehl and -Heidelberg. I had taken a seat in the third class car, expecting there -to find a miscellaneous mingling of the busy classes of Germans; but, -alas, for my entertainment! it was one class too high—I should have -taken the fourth. After I had chosen a seat as near comfortable as the -wooden benches would admit of, I perceived, to my disappointment, that I -was surrounded by that class of people, neither high enough nor low -enough to be interesting; every one seemed completely wrapped up in -himself. There was scarcely any conversation, and each face soon settled -in the repose of quiet German thoughtfulness. Meerschaums ere long made -their appearance out of the depths of profound side-pockets; and, as far -as dependence on my fellow-passengers was concerned, there was none, to -beguile the tedium of a long journey. A long, heart-felt pull, a quiet -wink of satisfaction thereat, a somewhat varied fingering of the -pipe-bowl to press the ashes—that was all. Diagonally across the car -and nearly facing me, sat a very pretty girl whom, from the timid -wandering of her deep-blue eyes, I judged to be unmarried. I watched her -some time to observe where she recognized a protector, but her eye -rested nowhere particularly; it seemed uneasy, searching, and I -concluded she was going but a short distance, and alone. Just as the -train was moving, a handsome young man stepped in the door, looked -around the car, was recognized by a calming of the uneasy eyes, and took -his seat before them, in the middle row, turning his back toward me. As -he bent toward her and whispered, she did not smile, her face seemed too -thoughtful; she only gazed in his eyes and spoke not a word. Ha! thought -I, I see how it is, and settled myself to enjoy a morsel of -sentimentality. My gentleman soon finished his first course, and then -leaned back in his seat to chew the cud at his leisure. I thought he -relished it very much, for it was full twenty minutes before he made -another motion; during all which time the young lady did little but gaze -at him, it appeared to me, with perfect satisfaction. After a time the -gaze of satisfaction changed to a look of concern, and finally of marked -uneasiness. She leaned forward, spoke to him, yet he heeded her not. She -arose suddenly, and I was so absorbed in anxiety that I almost arose -with her. He started as from a lethargy, and darted to the vacated -corner, whilst she quietly took his seat and I saw her face no more. I -still saw the same blue eyes in the corner, “yet I saw them but a -moment,” for the lids soon closed over them, and I knew that the kind -sister had given up her corner for the lazy brother to sleep in. -“Corn-cobs twist his hair,” said I, for I was doubly provoked, first, at -his deception, and then, I saw the pretty face no more. I did not -indulge in romance again, but turned my eyes and my thoughts to the -outer world. The monotony of the company made me stupid; the prolonged, -premeditated winks over the smoking bowls made me drowsy, and the -flitting lights and shadows of the varied scenery seemed to beckon me to -dreamy lands of wine and song and ghosts and chivalry. Beyond the green -slopes to the eastward, the Black Forest stretched afar to an -immeasurable distance; mysterious outlines swelled and dwindled in the -darkness; a huge head peered over the tree-tops; another and another; -the ghouls stared at us, it seemed to me, “more in sorrow than in -anger.” I could not tell why, but their malignity seemed forgotten in -fear and wonder. There was a scream, a terrific scream—of the -locomotive—and pell-mell, helter-skelter, heels up, head down, away -they darted like a squad of frogs before a bouncing poodle. I was fully -awakened to the surprising loveliness of the landscape around me, but I -had little time to enjoy it—another scream, a rumble, a series of -jerks, and we were at the—terminus, in Heidelberg. - -I was soon in the good care of mine host of the Hoff, who certainly -possesses one of the most desirable locations and establishments for -entertainment in the world. Close by the railroad depot, it is about a -mile from the town, and a beautiful avenue leading all the way, is lined -with elms and lindens on either side. On the ascent of a steep hill -which rises abruptly from the town, and about mid-way to the summit, is -the celebrated ruined castle of Heidelberg, whose lords once swayed the -feudal sceptre over all the surrounding country. The gay conversation at -the _table d’hôte_ was in strong contrast with the, not moodiness but -apathy, of the railroad car. A large _musical-box_, upon the plan of our -pocket toy of that name, but as large as a good-sized -wardrobe—discoursed sweet music the while. The company which I found -introduction to, was sufficiently entertaining to withhold me from my -contemplated walk toward the ruins that evening, and the beautiful -promenades in front of the hotel were quite gay. Early next morning with -an agreeable English party I set out for the castle. As we neared it -along the straight avenue, we advanced farther and farther from a flank -view. The front came slowly out with its red towers and crumbling -battlements, and the vast structure grew in the majesty of its ruins. As -we approached the foot of the mount, a road crossed the avenue, leading -toward the river to the left, to the right leading up the mountain. We -ascended a considerable time after having lost sight of the castle, and -as yet, so early was the hour, we had seen no one astir. No habitation -of any kind was along this road, which, before us, appeared to descend -from the solitude of the hills. We clambered up, up, up, until at last, -said one: - -“We surely are as high as the castle, and I do believe we ought to have -taken this left-hand road just below us.” - -“No, no!” said another, “let us go on and trust to fortune; for in so -beautiful and romantic a place we cannot go amiss—maybe that we shall -make some grand discovery, too, and then we will jointly write a book to -put it before the world.” - -The conversation was cut short by a noise up the road; we looked, and -there stood a man leaning against a tree by the road-side, waiting for -his oxen and cart which were moving slowly down the road above him. He -called to his cattle in a loud voice, and hummed an air as he leaned -back against the tree again. Just at that moment the piping cry of a -lark rang through the wood, and ere it died away he peeled forth in -boisterous answer— - - “Ho! for the deep where the sea-bird sings! - Ho! for the bowers where his merry voice rings!” - -Here, as he perceived us, he halted in his strain and walked demurely by -his cart. In a few words it was determined among us that we should -inquire of him the road to the castle; but as each one declined the -honor of gaining the information, upon the plea that perhaps his style -of German might be unintelligible to the unpolite ears of the rustic, I -volunteered the undertaking. - -“Good morning, my friend?” I hailed him. “Be so good as to tell us the -way to the castle.” - -“Do you wish to see the castle?” - -“That is what we have come especially for.” - -“O, ’tis a magnificent sight!” (and he gazed fixedly on one of the -ladies, a gay young beauty, as he spoke.) “O ’tis a magnificent sight! -No one can tell better than I how beautiful it is. I have seen it in the -morning when the sun was rising on it, making its red walls look like -gold. I have seen it in the day, in the evening, and (I’ll tell you) I -have seen it by the bright moonlight when—O, I have loved every old -stone of it dearer than I do my life! But if you wish to see it, keep -the right-hand road at the first fork, and follow it as far as you can, -and when you come to the bower—Ah, I’ve seen it in the dark nights, -too, curse it! curses on it! - - “Ho! for the bowers where his merry voice rings! - Ho! for the billows where——” - -Here I lost the words of the boisterous music as he swung off and -hurried to overtake his cart, leaving us all not a little astonished. - -“What an eccentric person!” whispered Miss Thornton to me, the lady who -had attracted his gaze in so marked a manner, and the only lady in the -company who understood German. - -“Ah! I see,” said I, “that admiration is never lost upon a lady, no -matter from how humble a source it come. He was put beside himself, poor -fellow! no wonder he appeared eccentric.” - -“It was not that,” she said. “Did you not see how he changed when he -spoke of the arbor, as if some remembrance associated with it excited -him? No—I think there is or was some one that I look like. I _would_ -like to see any one that looks like me, no matter who she be. It’s so -unusual, is it not?” - -“Vain puss!” - -“Then how merry he got again,” she continued, unheeding me. “No, I don’t -understand such sudden changes—without any cause, too. He’s remarkably -fine-looking for one in his condition—I beg pardon, sir, I wonder what -bower he can mean; I never heard of any on the way to the castle.” - -“Nor I, but we shall surely find one; and when we do, I fear this little -incident will engage my imagination more than the historic associations -of the castle.” - -We journeyed on higher and higher, until we came to the fork of the -road. Here nearly all were inclined to bear away to the left, around the -mountain, fully satisfied that we were high enough. I explained that the -young German had been very precise in his directions to keep to the -right, and all yielded to him, rather to banter fortune than from -persuasion that we were going the right road. On we toiled, and the road -at last came to an abrupt termination upon the very summit. A high-road -bore off to the right, that we could trace a mile or two over the hills, -and only a tangled path led toward the west. Leaving the company to -await the result, I proceeded to explore the path, and soon came in view -of the town lying in the plain below. I stood enchanted with the scene. -A gently sloping country receded several miles to the Rhine; meandering -all the way through fields and forests, the legend-consecrated Neckar -glistened in the morning sun, and beyond, the vine-clad hills of France, -the country of the Moselle, crowned the horizon. Far away to the south -could be traced the winding Rhine almost to its native mountains, and to -the north it was lost among the hills of the Odenwald, as it widened and -straightened onward toward the plains of Holland. I hailed the party as -it came up, all were amazed at the magnificent landscape, and each -avowed he was well repaid for the toilsome journey. A few steps farther -brought us to a rugged stair of broken stones, and some ten or twelve -feet below, on a small natural terrace, was an over-grown _bower_. - -“O, the bower! the bower!” exclaimed every one. There it was; and as we -reached it, a full view of the dismantled towers and crumbled walls of -the castle opened below us, almost beneath our feet. The German was -right. He thought we wished to _see_ the castle, not to go to it, and we -had gained the finest view of the finest ruin in the North of Europe. It -is not my intention that my pen shall wander among those most -interesting testimonies of grandeur passed away. Suffice it to say, we -returned home well sated with pleasure, to recruit our humanity by a -very late breakfast at twelve o’clock. We had walked fasting from six. - -From that day the bower became one of my favorite haunts during the few -weeks of my stay in Heidelberg. One day, with a view to further -exploration of the heights to the eastward of the bower, a region I had -often tried to get a view of from the Castle Mount, I set out on -horseback, and after reaching the summit, took the road that we had seen -over the hills on our first visit to the castle. For two or three miles -it was nothing but steep hills and narrow valleys. Not a sound was heard -save the twittering of birds and the tumbling of waters; not a particle -of verdure was to be seen but the dark, distant forests, and near, the -quivering foliage of the vine as it climbed up, up to the very pinnacles -of the terraced heights. Beyond, the country spread out into fields and -meadows and grass and waving grain. Farm-houses and villages were -clustered about. Vineyards lingered upon the knolls, and scarce ventured -a distance down the sunny slopes. After a long day’s ride I was -approaching the bower by another road: the sun was about setting; I was -tired and thirsty; when I was tempted to dismount by a little streamlet -that fell into and ran down the road-side. An orchard extended from a -small cottage to the road, and the gate was only upon the other side of -the way. I led my horse over, and after hitching him to the gate-post, -was about reaching a harvest-apple that hung near me, when my attention -was drawn by a small group in front of the cottage door. An old -gray-haired man was sitting upon a bench watching a young child that was -rolling on the grass, when my appearance put an end to his occupation. -He looked at me with no expression of pleasure, evidently not relishing -so unceremonious an attempt upon his orchard. I resigned my thieving -intention, and covered the manœuvre by an advance straight up to the -door. A young woman arose and picked up the child, and then resumed her -seat upon the grass-plat. - -“Good evening, my friend,” said I, for his silence was awkward—“I am -very tired and warm with a long ride, and was tempted by that cool -spring and your shady trees to dismount and take a moment’s rest. I am -glad to take my rest in such good company.” - -“You are welcome,” said he. “I perceive you are a stranger; an -Englishman I suppose?” - -“No, I am not an Englishman; I am come from a land much farther off than -England, and have seen a great many Germans in my country. I am an -American.” - -“What’s that he says, Mary?” cried a voice from within the house. “Tell -him Roderick is not at home; tell him he wont be at home till -to-morrow.” - -“Hush! do, mother! The gentleman has not come for Roderick.” - -“O, yes he has. He knows Roderick has got money and wants to spend it. -You know—” - -“Do hush, mother! It’s a stranger, and what’s more, it’s an American.” - -“What does he say about Karl? Ask him when Karl is coming back.” - -The tears started to the young woman’s eyes; and as I saw her press her -babe to her bosom, I knew who Karl was. She seemed to struggle with the -question that rose to her lips: - -“You said, sir, that you have seen many Germans in America: did you ever -see anybody there from Heidelberg? Did you ever see Karl Wagner there?” - -I told her, I never saw Karl Wagner there, and asked her if Karl might -be her husband; which fact I knew, however, before I asked. She -answered, that he was; that he was living at a place called Buffalo, and -had lately sent her money to take her to another place called New York, -where she would meet him. Her father was anxious that she should go, but -her mother, who was now doating, would resent the very mention of it, -and was always expecting Karl to _come home_. Her brother Roderick, she -said, had been unfortunate, and was bent on going with her; but of this, -her mother knew nothing. They were afraid to tell her, her reason was so -weak that they feared she would sink into utter imbecility. - -The sun was set, and night was drawing on. I arose to resume my journey, -for I was anxious to reach the foot of the mount before dark; but the -old man offered me a plate of the harvest-apples that had tempted me, -and pressed me to take some supper with them. If I would only be so -kind—they wished to ask me so many questions about America. I am not -sure that I should have accepted their invitation had not my eye, as I -arose, fallen upon a picture hanging against the opposite wall of the -little room. A second glance showed the marked and benevolent features -of the old man, looking out from the canvas. - -“Ha—ha!” said he, “that is a fine picture. Step in the door, and you -will see more of them.” - -I did so, and to my surprise, beheld four others hanging wherever space -enough could be found to contain them. One was the portrait of the old -woman whom I now saw for the first time; another of Mary, and the -remaining two were, a young man apparently thirty years of age, and a -boy of sixteen. The old man followed me with his eyes. - -“Ha—ha!” said he. “I see you admire them. Poor Roderick! There are few -who can beat him in his art—but you would not think so to see him now. -These are the last he ever made. He paid his last tribute to those he -loved best.” - -The old man spoke in a very sorrowful tone. I began to feel a deep -interest in Roderick, whatever his misfortunes might be. - -“Is not Roderick your son?” I asked, supposing that I must have made a -mistake. - -“Yes—that one I suppose you don’t know; that’s Karl Wagner, that’s -Mary’s husband—a good son he is. And that’s Tommy, that’s our -Tommy—sturdy Tommy, as they call him. That’s the last one Roderick ever -made.” And the old man brushed his eyes with his shriveled hands as he -spoke. - -“Where does Roderick live?” I asked. “Is he married?” - -“Hush—here!” - -“Why is it, that a young man of such talent gives up a glorious art, -when it opens a field to him to enable him to rise above his condition, -to gain wealth, honor, fame?” - -“Hush!” - -“Go, ask Count Reisach!” cried the old woman, starting up. She was in a -frenzy. Her eyes glared, her bent form trembled from head to foot, her -hands were clenched, but hung dangling at her side, and she seemed to -make superhuman efforts to raise them. They were paralyzed. Tears -coursed each other down her cheeks as she cried—“Go ask Count Reisach! -Go find him! Go ask poor Father Klaus! Go down and ask Almighty God why -he let—oh!” she cried, sinking on her knees—her voice choked; sobs, -spasms convulsed her frame; still her face was raised, it seemed to me -in prayer, but her hands clasped not, they seemed to weigh her to the -earth, as they hung lifeless beside her. - -“Mein Got! O, mein Got!” cried the old man, as he took her in his arms. -“O, my poor frau—would to God thy poor spark of reason would go out, -that I might see this heavy burden off thy soul!” - -He raised her tenderly as a child, repelling my assistance, and when he -had placed her in her arm-chair, left her to Mary’s care, and came to -resume his seat upon the bench, outside the door. - -“She never grieved so for herself, and she has had her own troubles too. -But she knows not all yet—O, mein Got! mein Got! who will tell her—for -he must, he must, he must!” - -He closed his eyes—as it were—to shut out so near a view of misery. A -loud voice was heard approaching in the road, and as it became more -distinct, I started as I recognized the words— - - “Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings! - Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings, - Ho for the billows, the billows, the billows!” - -Here the gate flew open, and my acquaintance of castle memory stalked up -the path, followed by a sturdy lad. - -“Father, it’s all arranged,” he bawled. “It’s all arranged. I’ve made up -my mind. There are three in Heidelberg—” - - “Ho for the billows where the storm-king dwells!” - -“Stop, Roderick. You know your mother. See, too, here is a stranger.” He -paused, saluted me as though he had never seen me before, and turned to -the youth who followed him. - -“Where are the cattle, Tommy? That’s right—you must be smart, you know; -remember what’s on your shoulders!” - -Tommy said he knew, and was going to be smart. Mary appeared at the door -and invited us to supper. The mother was gone, and the old man seemed -relieved when he missed her, for he looked around the room, and the -cloud left his brow, ere he asked a blessing on his humble table. After -supper he lighted his pipe; Tommy took his hat and disappeared, and -Roderick touched my arm as he moved toward the door. His boisterous -humor was gone, and he calmly and mannerly asked me to be seated. - -“She is worse to-night,” he said. “They have sent Tommy for _him_.” -After a moment, he continued; “I recognized you at first, and for my -rudeness I must plead the state of mind I was in. The truth is, I have -this day arranged my departure for America, to take my sister to her -husband; and the relief from the burden of suspense I had long been in -made me quite forgetful of myself.” - -“I do not know,” said I, “that you are doing best in taking this course. -You are an artist, and I must bear witness to the promise of success you -make in your art; but, as I begin to feel a deep interest in yourself, -your family, and—I think I may say with truth—in your sorrows, for -some strange misfortune seems to brood over this house, I feel at -liberty to remonstrate with you for abandoning what seems to me your -duty to yourself, and your father’s family. I could not give you hope of -better success where you purpose going than you would probably meet with -here. The best of our own artists reside in Europe, for we have no -models at home. Have you always lived here with your parents?” - -“Until within the last few weeks I spent most of my time in the town; my -occupation kept me very much from home. Of late, I have done nothing but -assist my father here.” - -“It seems to me that you might assist him more with your brush than with -your ox-goad.” - -“If I could use it perhaps I might; but I can paint no more here. I am -going, and Tommy and I have trimmed his vines and sown his crops, and -when Tommy shall be able to take care of the vines himself, I shall be -gone.” - -“That is where I cannot excuse you. You are not suffering from poverty; -you are not driven to emigrate; and it is in leaving your infirm parents -when they are bowed down by affliction that I think you do not do your -duty by them. They both seem proud of you, and still—you appear to love -them as you ought.” - -“The affliction is mine! You were at the bower?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well, I could go there with you, and tell you a tale of sorrow that you -would never forget. You cannot judge. I know that my father and my poor, -fond mother grieve—it is for me; but what is their grief to mine? It is -but the reflection of mine; it is like the cold, borrowed light of the -moon—mine, the scorching sun. I am plunged from heaven into hell! This -spot is to me, now, of all the world, like the deepest abyss of infernal -misery; and, but for Father Klaus, our good old priest, this shadow of -hell had, ere this, been bartered for the reality. He has kept alive a -spark of reason in me, that I hope may yet guide me through the world. -Here he is—I see they have sent Tommy for him. She always forgets her -own sorrow, when she sees him.” - -“Well Roderick, my son,” said the old priest, as he paused at the door, -“I fear you have been imprudent again. These outbursts of yours will -bring the poor old mother to the grave. You have heard something since, -and it has set you beside yourself, poor boy.” - -“No, Father, I have heard nothing since I told you Count Reisach was in -Cologne; that is three weeks ago, and from that time I have sought no -news but for your sake. The only news I have to tell you is, that my -departure for America is determined upon; I have made up my mind to go.” - -“That’s right; that’s right!” - -“You will tell her?” - -“Leave it to me. God will surely temper the wind; but not to-night, not -to-night!” And he sighed as he entered the house and left us alone -again. - -The moon was just rising, and as I pressed the poor fellow’s hand (_poor -fellow_, I knew he was a _poor fellow_. I pitied him sincerely, but I -knew not why), he returned the pressure warmly, and asked permission to -visit me the following day. I appointed an hour, and galloped over the -hilly road toward home. As I approached the end of the path that led off -to the bower, I could not help turning my eyes thither, my mind was full -of Roderick, and I could not disconnect the idea of him from the idea of -the bower. Had I known his story then as I do now, I could have sighed -with the sighing trees, that shook and sighed all night on the gloomy -Castle Mount. - -I knew that I had a treat in store for Miss Thornton. I knew what fresh -interest I would awaken, when I should tell her that the rough peasant -was an accomplished artist. That evening and the next morning, it was a -subject she always recurred to when we were alone, she would talk of -nothing else, and frequently sought opportunities of conversing apart. - -The next day, Roderick appeared at the appointed hour, but his garb was -changed. He wore no longer the coarse clothes of a peasant, and I could -not but observe that his altered exterior harmonized much better with -his bearing, and his intellectual features. Several of the party who had -made with me the morning excursion to the Castle Mount were still at -Heidelberg, and as we frequently met on our rounds upon the promenade, -_she_ was the only one, of all, who recognized my companion. His object -seemed to be to learn, as far as my judgment extended, the probable -prospects that awaited him in the United States, in the prosecution of -his art. He dwelt upon the subject calmly, and was perfectly -self-possessed until we approached Miss T., when he stopped, and -regarded her with the same fixed gaze that I had remarked upon our first -interview. From that moment he was a changed person. A strange -uneasiness seemed to take possession of him. His face was pale, and at -last he turned abruptly down the avenue. I followed him, and cast one -look back at her, ere I started. She and her companion had paused; he -was speaking to unheeding ears, for her gaze was fixed on us, her face -was pale, and wore the expression of sudden alarm. He led me hastily -along the avenue; I followed, I scarce knew why: but he could have led -me anywhere. After a while— - -“I cannot tell you,” said he, “until we reach the bower.” - -And we began to ascend the mountain. At last, we pushed aside the briars -that blockaded the little, descending path that led to the bower. The -magnificent ruins appeared spread out below us, and I half forgot the -sorrows of my eccentric friend in lively feelings of pleasure. After a -pause, which I was unwilling to interrupt (for I saw in his countenance, -in his whole bearing, evidence of a severe interior struggle), he said— - -“When I am able to reflect, I know that I am imposing on your generosity -in some way, but I scarce know how. It is only your goodness which has -prompted you to undergo all this fatigue and trouble; and now I feel -bound, I wish to open my heart to you, but it seems as though all I can -tell you cannot compensate you. At any rate, it will be a relief to me, -and hereafter it may help the vividness of your recollections of -Heidelberg. I thought I should never tell this story, or speak this name -again; but that lady recalled, in so many ways, so lively an image of my -lost Ella, that I _must_ unburden my heart of its excess. She was the -niece of Father Klaus. Her parents died when she was very young, and the -good old man took her into his own charge. No parent could have loved -her more, or watched over her with more tender solicitude than he did. -As she grew up, he taught her many things which, but for him, would have -been entirely beyond her reach; but she repaid him, for an apter scholar -never learned, and never had man a child who loved him more. She grew to -be very beautiful, and was talked of for her beauty all the country -round; but I had won her heart when it was a child’s, and as we grew up -my only fear in life was for that, and all my efforts were only for -_that_. Father Klaus knew how matters stood nearly as soon as we, and -was contented. When we grew up, he ratified and blessed our betrothal, -and turned his attention to my own prospects. Through his influence with -the old Count Reisach, I was enabled to enter the academy of Heidelberg, -and, thanks to the count’s generosity and patronage, I had laid up -nearly enough to gain Father Klaus’s consent to our marriage. The day -was fixed; but nearly a year distant, and the good old man was to -perform the ceremony himself. Often, and often, as I returned home from -town have I turned down this path, and here was Ella waiting for me, to -sit a while, and then stroll home together. Here we built this very -bower, when we were children, with our own hands. She chose the place. -Here we would sit and watch the setting sun; and I, as a proud young -artist, would descant to her upon the harmony of the glowing colors, -scarce brighter than her own bright eyes and glowing cheeks. Here would -we come and spend hours together—she would bring her needle, and I -would sketch the castle, the mountain, the town, the plain, the forest, -and every object that could afford a pretext for remaining. Sometimes, -when she was very busy, I would gaze, and gaze into her sweet face and -forget every thing but that. Then she would look up and smile, and come -and bend her head over my shoulder to see the progress of my sketching, -and find the whole sheet covered over with images of herself, and Ella, -Ella, Ella, scribbled in every form, and ornamented with every possible -device. Then she would steal her little hand over my eyes, and say I was -a ‘lazy, lazy boy.’ Perhaps, sir, you cannot know why I speak of these -little things, and you may deem them trifling; but, sir, it is a true -saying that life is made up of trifles. It was so that she wound about -me a web that could not be unwound; all these endearing trifles cannot -be reversed, one by one, and the web uncoiled. There is but one method -of release, and that is, by a mighty effort to burst the whole -fabric—even then, the shreds will hang about, and float in every breath -of memory. Here, time after time, we repeated our vows of love and -fidelity, and eagerly looked forward to the day that would crown our -happiness. - -“In the meantime Count Reisach died, and his son, a youth of some twenty -years, succeeded to the estates. He was known ere that time, through all -the land, for his boldness, courtliness and generosity, courted and -sought by all the nobility and gentry—for he was handsome and rich. -Moreover, he was a connoisseur in almost all the fine arts. I was often -employed by him in copying his paintings for presents to his friends. -Once he induced me to part with a portrait of Ella, which I was very -proud of, and which he had seen at Father Klaus’s. I often saw him -there. One evening last April, as I was returning from town, I turned -down the path, for I knew I should meet Ella here. I was startled by a -shriek. I cried, Ella! Ella! In a moment I was here upon the spot, and -she rushed into my arms, weeping and frightened. To all my questions as -to what had alarmed her, she only sobbed. I seated her, and examined all -about the bower; I thought of serpents, and searched under rocks, peered -over the bushy precipice, but could discover nothing. We could not sit -and enjoy that evening—she was agitated, and I led her home. She did -not go often to the bower after that. One evening, it might be a -fortnight after, upon appointment, I came here again to meet her, and I -found her weeping. As before, I took her home. Another time, she was not -weeping, but seemed silent, thoughtful, depressed. We went home again. I -was puzzled, pained; I knew not what to think or do, and she revealed -nothing to all my entreaties. She would not go to the bower any more. At -times she wore a deadly paleness for days, and again she would glow with -a flush, as though a fresh impulse were given to her life. She was -evidently declining. All the neighbors watched and pitied “poor Ella;” -they pitied Father Klaus, but none knew the extent of the agony I nursed -in secret. When I would beg her to walk with me to the bower that her -and my childish hands had built, and where we always were so happy, she -would turn pale and tremble—I dared not speak to her of the bower any -more. Frequently I would detect her eye resting upon me as if in pain, -as though _she_ pitied _me_; a starting tear would glisten in her eye -for a moment, and she would turn away; immediately she would be as -composed as before. I was pained, shocked; and a presentiment of some -awful calamity seized me. One evening I was detained in town later than -usual. I had been for several days employed in restoring a painting for -Count Reisach, and the next day would see it finished. ‘It is not -finished yet,’ he whispered. The count had hurried me to work early and -late. It was a relief to be so busily employed. As I wended my way up -the mountain, I thought of Ella all the way—I must go to her that -evening, tired as I was. When I came to the end of the path, I could not -resist a moment’s visit to the bower; for since pleasure there seemed to -be henceforth forbidden fruit to me, I longed for a moment even of its -pain. It was growing dark, and as I brushed past yonder bush, I thought -I saw something move, just where you sit. I stopped, and distinctly saw -the cloaked figure of a man disappear down that precipice. I rushed -forward, for thoughts of some dark crime crowded upon me, and I nearly -fell upon the prostrate form of a woman at my feet. I knelt, and raised -the head upon my knees; it was bare, and the dark locks uncoiled upon -the ground.” - -Here he paused. I never before or since beheld such a mute picture of -agony. He lowered his head upon his hands, and the big drops fell fast -upon the ground. He tried not to restrain them. At length he raised his -eyes inquiringly, and I feared not to say, - -“_It was Ella._” - -He nodded. After a few minutes, which I indulged him in without a -question or remark, he continued— - -“I bounded, as if stung by a serpent, and I hurried to Father Klaus. I -told him, I know not what. Then I hurried home; and for days, they told -me, I raved. When I recovered I learned that they were gone.” - -“Who?” - -“Count Reisach. No traces of them could be found until within three -weeks, when we learned that they had been in Cologne.” - -“Were they—” I could not finish; he gave me an inquiring look, and I -thought his severe part was going to be acted again. I had not the heart -to _think_ of it more. - -“From that time my poor mother has been a paralytic, and now we fear her -reason is almost gone. Father Klaus is an older man, but his feelings -are all for others; he is constantly with _her_. Now, do you wonder that -I hate this spot, and all that I can see from here? Here have I known my -happiest and bitterest moments. From this day I see you no more!” -exclaimed he, starting to his feet, and gazing on the work of his hands: -“Here I bid _an eternal_, an eternal farewell to you and—” He took his -pencil and wrote (he would not speak it)—I looked—“Ella Corbyn.” - -“Her father was an Englishman,” he said. - -I pressed his hand—“Adieu!” - -“Adieu!” - -“To meet again?” - -“To meet again,” said I; and we parted. As he disappeared over the brow -of the hill, I could hear the poor fellow trying to lighten his crushed -heart with his boisterous sea-song. The next morning Mr. Thornton and -his daughter left for England. - -A few weeks after that I was in Paris. Months rolled by; September was -come, and Roderick’s story had nearly slipped from my mind. One fine -evening I was sauntering along the Champs Elysées, where one is sure to -see at that time, all the notables that may be luxuriating in the French -capital; when I recognized in a gay equipage the beautiful features of -Miss Thornton. She was paler than when I had seen her last, but still -very beautiful. I watched her some moments, to catch her eye; and when -she did look toward me, I took the liberty of saluting her. She flushed, -and turned her head aside, but did not acknowledge the salutation. - -“So much for my impudence,” said I; and I saluted no one else that -evening. - -A day or two after, I was dining with some friends at Vantini’s. -Opposite us at the table d’hôte, were two vacant chairs. - -“We are unfortunate to-day,” said my friend, “for I was anxious you -should see a very pretty English girl who sits opposite. Clara,” said -he, turning to his wife, “what is the name of our little beauty across -the table? I never can think of it, for I can’t help calling her Miss -Mary.” - -“Oh,” said Mrs. F., “I wish you to know them—so agreeable; and going on -a tour through the United States. They are a Mr. and Miss -Thornton—father and daughter; and as you are going soon, I do wish you -could go together.” - -“So, so!” thought I; “here is a little bit of adventure if they only -come in.” And I consoled myself with the thought that I could not come -out of it worst. Soon a couple of servants ushered a lady and gentleman -along the hall, and Mr. and Miss Thornton appeared before me, she -glowing with health and beauty. They both greeted me warmly, which -somewhat astonished my friends as well as myself. I was taken aback, but -I had been not a little nettled, and was determined not to be outdone, -so said as little as I could. - -“Why!” said Mrs. F., “you are old friends, then! All my anxiety was -thrown away!” - -“I supposed we were,” said I, “until last Tuesday evening.” - -“Last Tuesday evening!” exclaimed Miss T. “Why, what happened? You -puzzle me.” - -“Merely that I took the liberty of recognizing _an old friend_, and was -_cut_—that’s all.” - -“You puzzle me still more. Where were you at the time?” - -“Below the place d’étoile.” - -“Are you sure it was on Tuesday?” - -“Perfectly sure.” - -She burst into a laugh, and her father smiled. - -“It must have been the longest cut I ever gave in my life. I only wish I -_could_ cut that far off—I know some who should suffer”—and she -laughed again. “It’s the first time I ever heard of a sane gentleman, -standing in the Champs Elysées, to take off his hat to a lady in -Brussels.” - -The laugh was decidedly against me, and we were soon on the best of -terms. - -That night a new train of thoughts engaged me. Poor Roderick’s story -returned, and the memory of his grief with all its thrilling intensity. -_Had I seen Ella?_ It must be. That pale, thoughtful, _hiding_ -countenance could be only hers. Poor Roderick! I feel for you deeply! I -wonder if your sorrow feels any alleviation in your new country! I fear -not. - -The next day I made sufficient inquiry to certify me that I had seen -Count Reisach, and with him, Ella. I saw them once again, it was for a -moment, and she seemed paler still; as I gazed, again she turned her -face away. Poor Ella! how she shrank from the eyes of men! There was a -deep remorse preying upon that wasting beauty; a secret sorrow and shame -blighting every bud of pleasure and of hope. How bitter will thy end -soon be, poor trusting, fragile daughter of Eve! - -I saw them no more. I walked every day with Miss Thornton to show her -the lady that she so closely resembled; but we did not see them. They -were probably seeking new scenes to beguile her short life of its -fleeting days. - -A few weeks after, we were in Havre, awaiting the sailing of the first -packet ship for New York. We had determined to “go together,” as Mrs. F. -had desired, and our rooms were taken in the Zurich, one of the fleetest -of the line. At that time, a line of French government steamships was -plying between Havre and New York; and one, which was advertised to sail -on the day we arrived, was to be detained some ten days, to undergo a -repairing of machinery. Havre is the great port of emigration for the -French, German, and Swiss emigrants; and the French steamships, offering -low fares and speedy passage, generally sailed with their between-decks -well filled with emigrant passengers. On this occasion, some two hundred -poor creatures had engaged passage upon the detained vessel, and few had -the means to await in Havre her postponed day of departure; consequently -there was a rush upon the office of the sailing packets. We went aboard -about 3 o’clock, P. M. The lower deck was crowded with -steerage-passengers; and a single glance sufficed to show that they were -three-fourths Germans. I could not help wondering how many of the two -hundred poor emigrants below me, I might have seen before, as I -journeyed through their country a few months ago. Many a one, I thought, -I might have seen before his cottage door, or through the window of his -work-shop, ere poverty had _at last_ decreed, that he _must_ go to the -land beyond the seas, far from his fatherland. - -The ship was moving from the dock. The crowds upon the piers cheered us -on. The stars and stripes sprung into the breeze. O, how my heart -bounded to feel again the protection of my country’s flag! The first -time, for years, did the feeling of _home_ thrill through my bosom: and -tears of patriotic love and pride rushed to my eyes. _I_ was going -_home_;—there _they_ stood in melancholy groups, gazing their last on -land contiguous to their own, upon the receding shores of the old world. -The tri-colors in the distance soon faded into one indefinable hue. The -green hills of Normandy came forth once again; but “twilight gray soon -in her sable livery all things clad;” and we were away, away upon the -sea. After tea, we all came upon deck. The last loom of the land was -fading away; and my thoughts and feelings, memory and fancy, were busy -with home before, and the friends and associations I was leaving -behind—perhaps forever. I was overflowing with expectation and regret. -Miss T. stood beside me, kindly hearkening to my outpouring feelings. -The emigrants were all below, save a few scattered ones, and a larger -group gathered about the fore-mast. They were leaving country, home, -kindred, all, to seek a refuge in a foreign land: I was leaving friends -that I had made in many lands; countries and scenes made dear to me by -long and intimate association; returning to a home wherein death had -made sad changes during my long sojourn: she was going on a trip of -pleasure, and present enjoyment was her occupation. Suddenly I heard an -exclamation—“Oh!” and I thought she was taken ill. I looked, and she -was pointing to the group around the mast; I saw and recognized a face I -could never forget. We continued to gaze in astonishment. The few women -who were there were all in tears; one, whose head was bowed upon her -knees, sobbed violently. The men were drinking farewell to Fatherland, -and many an absent friend and fair, was pledged by name. Then there was -a cry for “a song!” “a song!”—“Let’s have a song from Roderick!” -Immediately there pealed out those boisterous but musical tones that I -had heard before, far away from there. My heart thrilled as I listened. -Every voice hushed. Even the sailor, as he trod the deck, paused to -listen to that fine, deep voice, as it rang through the ship. - - THE EMIGRANT’S SONG. - - Ho for the deep where the sea-bird sings! - Ho for the bowers where his merry voice rings! - Ho for the billows where the storm-king dwells! - Ho for the winding of the merry-maids’ shells! - Ho for the storm where the lightning’s flash! - Ho for the fury of the merry waves’ dash! - The spray and the roar and the thunder’s crash! - Ho for the breeze that shall cling to the mast! - Ho for the day when the storms shall be past! - Then hail to the home that the outcast sighs for! - Hail to the liberty the patriot dies for! - Hail to the great who will ne’er cast scorn to us! - Hail to the land where the free shall be born to us! - But alas for the friends that we leave far away! - And alas for the tears when there breaks another day! - Alas for the wo that shall bow the hoary heads! - And alas for the home where another step treads! - Alas for the murmuring hill-side rills! - And alas for the shadow on the ever-green hills! - Alas for the weeping of the purple-crowned vine! - And alas for the glory of the golden-rimmed wine! - Farewell to the land where our forefather’s sleep! - And we’ll hie to our rest on the wide-spread deep. - Farewell to the vine, to the home, and the tears! - And we’ll dream of the land where the good ship steers! - -As the last sound died away upon the water, the singer caught sight of -me, and the fair girl beside me, and disappeared from the deck. The -listeners, as they dispersed to their several meditations, took up the -words of the song; each one whatever best suited his feelings at the -time. It was strange to read the various echoes as they rebounded -spontaneously from the hearts of the emigrants. When the air of the song -was forgotten the words were not, and each sang or mumbled them to music -of his own—sometimes wild and pretty, sometimes discordant enough. One -would long for - - “The deep where the sea-bird sings,” - -and I knew he had not many regrets for what he left behind. Another, a -drunken wretch, yelled - - “For the fury of the merry waves’ dash, - The spray and the roar and the thunder’s crash.” - -An old man, as he stole away, uttered a plaintive moan - - “For the home that the outcast sighs for;” - -and I thought I could read in his furrowed face traces of a life of -penury and suffering. He was going with a lightened heart, transplanted -in his decaying age. But by far the greater part dwelt upon the memory -of their forsaken homes and kindred; their thoughts were gazing afar -upon “the shadow on the ever-green hills.” Ere long they had nearly all -disappeared, gone to their crowded chamber to be rocked asleep. Only a -few women remained beneath the suspended lantern, seated by the mast. -The one I had noticed weeping, had not raised her head during all this -time. When she did raise it, she looked up to heaven and her face shone -with religious fervor. The tears still flowed as she breathed her -heart-felt prayer. I could see every movement of her lips, and I alone -perhaps, of all who saw, could tell the source of every tear that -flowed. I felt awed, unconscious of myself. My whole being seemed merged -in the intensity of hers. A supplication sprang unbidden to my lips for -the paralytic mother, for the gray-haired father, in their utter, utter -loneliness; for it was Mary with her baby on her bosom. She spoke -calmly, slowly, solemnly. - - “THE WOMAN’S PRAYER. - - Let us bow, lowly now, ere we seek forgetfulness - In the blest balm of rest, of trial-worn spirit’s fretfulness, - Let us call, first of all, pity on our parents’ age, - For they’re chastened, for they’re hastened on their ending - pilgrimage. - O be mild to them, child to them, gentle son of Bethlehem! - Never suffer that their rougher path bring sooner death to them! - O remember that December passes cheerlessly away— - Let their sorrow, on the morrow, mind thee of its Christmas day! - And leave us not, grieve us not, Father of the wandering! - Care for us, spare for us, now while time is squandering! - We are going, far, unknowing, strangers into stranger land— - But with thee only we’re not lonely, resting in thy hollow hand!” - -This was the woman’s prayer—and I devoutly responded “Amen,” as I wiped -my eyes and went below. I thought of the poor old man, the helpless -mother, Tommy, the bower, all, and I became unconsciously an actor in -the scene before me, as I prayed— - - “O remember that December passes cheerlessly away! - Let their sorrow, on the morrow, mind thee of its Christmas day!” - -The next day Roderick did not appear upon the deck; in truth there were -very few who did. After indulging him a few days, which I charged to -account of sea-sickness, and still not seeing him, I found my way into -the steerage, and found the poor fellow more sick in mind than in body. -He had spent the greater part of his money in trying to drown his grief; -and now that he thought he had nearly succeeded, he looked none the -better for the success. That face, he said, so like _hers_, he could not -escape from now; he must remain near it for days, weeks. He could almost -curse the ill-favored steamship, whose delay had not only doomed him to -the crowded steerage of the packet, but to weeks of torture he could not -escape from. He would not appear at all upon deck, and the air of the -between-decks was almost poisonous. In a few days he was confined to his -berth with a burning fever. I had confided to Miss Thornton every thing, -except the history of Ella, which I disguised in such a way as not to -diminish her sympathies for the invalid. One day, to my great -astonishment, she had, with her father, gone to minister to him, and -spoke with gladness of the better condition she had left him in. He -talked to her very tenderly of Ella. They went, she and her kind father, -to visit him every day. I saw how the fire was consuming him, and -endeavored to interpose. I told Mr. Thornton every thing, all; but they -did not see his condition as I did. Whenever I would go, strange! he -would always beg me not to let them delay coming; but he was so -exhausted with fever, that I attributed this wonderful change, rather to -imbecility or delirium, than to a change of resolution. Poor Mary was -always by her brother’s side: even her poor babe lay neglected for him. -More than a fortnight he lay in this miserable condition; yet I was more -than sorry when I felt in his pulse the returning slow beat of health, -and saw his eye calm into quiet enjoyment of the congratulations which -poured in upon him. I was shocked. It is true a mountain of misery was -moved away, but his _reason was gone_. Miss Thornton went once again to -visit him, only once: and I shall never forget her look of agony and -self-reproach as she returned rather hastily to her room. I never knew -what passed at that interview. Perhaps she saw for the first time, that -while she deemed she was soothing his misery by her presence, she had -fed it to madness. He rapidly recovered and seemed happy, for he always -smiled when he asked me why the captain kept Ella locked up in the cabin -and sent her tender messages—_which I dared not give_. The last I ever -saw of him was in New York, when I was about to leave the ship. A young -man came aboard as we hauled up to the wharf, and I knew from the -portrait I had seen _in the cottage in Germany_, that it was Karl -Wagner. He soon found them; and the last I saw of poor Roderick, as I -went ashore, he was unfolding to the astonished Karl a scheme he had to -get Ella away from the captain, whilst poor Mary hung upon her husband’s -arm, her heart bursting with joy and grief. - - - ELLA CORBYN. - -Be it remembered that Roderick, in speaking to me on the Mount of -Heidelberg Castle, said—“Her father was an Englishman.” It was true. He -was the younger son of a noble English house, though Ella lived until -her twentieth year unconscious of the fact. She knew he was an -Englishman, she knew he had been a soldier, but of his family she knew -nothing. Better far had it been for her had she remained forever in -ignorance of every circumstance of her ancestral distinction, or had she -had some other instructor than he who craftily sowed the seeds of pride -and discontent, that he might reap a glowing harvest of the charms of a -lovely woman, to her soul’s utter desolation. By night and by stealth, -like the Evil One, did he sow tares among the richest grain, among a -perfect luxuriance of womanly virtues; by day, too, like the husbandman -when the time of the harvest comes, did he pluck up weed and fruit, did -he trample on pride and virtue, and cast them forth together to wither -under the scorching solstice of remorse and shame. He tore away the -flower and left the stem to die. Poor, poor Ella! the only jewel of both -soul’s and body’s inheritance was charmed away—what wonder then that -both should droop in poverty, or that, making common friendship from -common desolation, these mutual foes, the only ones religion ever made, -should compromise to each other the loss of both health and principle, -in fatal reconciliation and despair! - -The father of Ella Corbyn, an officer in the British army, was disabled -in action during the Peninsular war, and after the peace of 1815, -retired to the continent, where he married the beautiful Katrina Klaus, -supported himself and Katrina many years on his half-pay, until about -the period of Ella’s birth, when he and the half-pay departed together. -His daughter, of course, had no recollection of him, and never possessed -more than the one single article of his property, a miniature on ivory, -of a lady, young, but by no means beautiful. She never knew who it was; -her mother could not tell her when she first gave it into little Ella’s -tiny hands, but supposed it was some one of Mr. Corbyn’s family, -probably a sister—and so the matter rested for the while. The neighbors -could tell her scarcely any thing of her father; they had seen him when -he first came into the neighborhood, but his marriage with his beautiful -wife, and subsequent removal to a neighboring village, followed so -quickly, that they could give no account of him, nor further description -than that of his personal appearance. Of the circumstances attending his -death all they knew was, that two strangers stopped one afternoon at the -public-house, that Mr. Corbyn spent part of the evening with them and -went home early; the next morning he was shot in a duel, but the old -captain who stood his friend in the affair, thought it no business of -his to inquire what the difficulty was about. He left no property of any -value, and his widow supported herself and Ella on her little patrimony -four years longer, when she, too, died and left the child a helpless -orphan. This was the time for her uncle, the priest, to come to her -assistance. He took her into his care and provided for her early -education by consigning her to the Sisters of Charity in Cologne. Here -she remained five years; and when her good uncle, deeming that he could, -with better justice to his finances, superintend her further progress at -home, took her back, she displayed so much ability and judgment that she -soon reigned, a little queen, over his modest household. - -Ella was in truth a lovely child. In her earlier days, when she played -alone by the road-side, before the priest’s lawn, not a stranger passed -but stopped to take a second look at that bright, spiritual little face, -gazing half-smilingly, half-pensively, half-hidden beneath dark ribbons -of straying locks. Her complexion was exceedingly fair, not blonde; her -features, not classical, were _petits_ and regular; her face -sufficiently full, but playful every where—a pretty child: but from -almost infancy the striking characteristic of her face was _soul_; never -did it appear inanimate, never did it lack character—even in her sleep -the marked corners of the softly-closed lips and little, dimpled brow, -betokened self-possession; but when she smiled, a perfect sunshine of -thought and feeling overspread her countenance, and she was irresistibly -beautiful. As might be expected, the five years’ tuition she had enjoyed -had developed the intellectuality of her beauty apace with the -cultivation of her mind, and wherever and whenever a childish passion -lay suppressed by growing religious principle, its disappearance gave -place upon her countenance to the sublime, triumphant sentiment that -crushed it. Mr. Klaus, or as he was termed by his parishioners, Father -Klaus, was passably skilled in music; and under his systematic -instruction Ella soon became the most accomplished vocalist in his -country-choir. The old Count Reisach had, in church, frequently heard -and appreciated the superior qualities of her voice, and after a few -Sundays, called at the parsonage to pay his compliments in person to the -young singer whom fame had already made so conspicuous. Little Ella, -when summoned into the presence of the count, made her courtesy modestly -but not diffidently, and he, charmed with the graces of her person and -behavior, took pains immediately to win upon her confidence, so that she -soon sang to him all her prettiest songs; whilst Father Klaus sat -smiling by, perfectly happy in the joy of his triumph. When the old -nobleman arose to depart, he stood with his hand upon the child’s glossy -head, and declared he never _saw_ such a singer; then, as he turned up -to his gaze that little face so beaming with beauty and intelligence, he -promised by the faith of his knighthood that next Sunday should see her -talent well rewarded. Next Sunday afternoon arrived a large case for -Ella. How she danced to see it opened! and when it was opened, how she -danced and clapped her hands around one of the prettiest harps that ever -was seen! This was an era in her life. Every day would see her and her -uncle before the parlor window blundering over the harp-strings, often -in vain attempts to puzzle out an accompaniment. It was a new instrument -to him as well as to her. Time, however, and perseverance can conquer -all things, and ere two months were past, Ella might be seen every -evening seated beneath a linden that shaded the cottage door, gracefully -sweeping her harp in accompaniment of the wildest songs of her -Fatherland; anon would she lift her melting eyes to heaven as she -touched the trembling chords to the softer melody of a Virgin’s evening -hymn. The old priest would be absorbed in his breviary, as he paced the -graveled walk; he had long since given up the race, and the little -scholar had left him immeasurably behind. It was not wonderful that Ella -became the admired of all the country around even at that early age: but -she bore her honors so becomingly, with so much modesty and simplicity, -that—wonderful to say—there was not one among her companions who did -not love her. She was so gentle and so good. - -In the _Bower of Castle Mount_, I said that Roderick told me that Father -Klaus was aware of the growing attachment between him and Ella, almost -as soon as themselves. In this, two circumstances may seem -strange—first, that she, educated, accomplished, admired, courted, -should fancy a poor, plain, hardy country-lad like Roderick; and -secondly, that her uncle should approve and encourage her in such a -fancy. Roderick’s family was very humble, scarcely above a peasant’s -condition; but in this regard she placed herself upon a perfect equality -with him, and never gave the matter much consideration. The truth is, -she had loved him with a childish love before she knew that there -existed any other. The first summer after she returned from Cologne, -regularly every Saturday afternoon or festival eve, would he come to -help her gather flowers for the altar. This office of decking the altar -is only performed by the hands of virgins, and when one enters into the -state of matrimony she no longer takes her place among the servants of -the sanctuary. Our young pair (he was but four years older than she) -would wander off to the woods together, and Roderick would climb the -highest rocks for moss, or some stray flower blooming alone; and carry -the heavy basket. At times he would strip off his shoes, and, Paul and -Virginia-like, stagger with his beloved burden across the streams. When -evening approached, he would mock the squirrels, the partridges, the -wood-robins and the katy-dids, and put the whole forest in tune before -its time, to Ella’s ineffable delight. Often, when he had doffed his -jacket and thrown it down for her to sit upon, would he recline upon his -arm, his hat drawn over his brow, pensive and melancholy; and sometimes -a tear would trickle down, as the truth forced itself upon him, that, -despite their intimacy, fortune, and fortune only, had placed an -insurmountable barrier between him and the idol of his thoughts and -dreams. He would beg her to love him, and she would readily answer that -she did love him. - -“Better than all the other boys?” - -“Yes, better than all the other boys.” - -Still he was not satisfied. He felt that she did not mean the same kind -of love that he did; he was doubtful even if she knew any thing about -it. How should he ascertain? He could not ask her if she would marry -him: no, that would be breaking the ice of a new and unfathomable -current, and he might lose the tenure of the ground he then possessed; -besides, he felt a secret, indefinable shame, and could not proffer the -words. He looked very wo-begone. Ah! he had it at last. - -He did not mean _like_, he meant, did she _love_ him better than all the -other boys? - -Yes, she loved him better; she said so before. - -The secret of his new discovery was burning; he blushed. At last it -came. - -Did she love him better than all the _girls_? - -The poor boy was breathless. - -Yes, she thought she loved him better than all the _girls_? - -The mighty weight had turned out a feather; he knew no more than he did -before. Many a time did the poor fellow try to hit the mark from afar -off, but always with the same success. He persevered with the same -affectionate devotion, her very slave; and it was not until several -years after, when he became assured of more than one suitor’s rejection, -that he summoned courage to address her plainly, and received an answer -to his heart’s content. - -That Father Klaus approved the betrothal of Roderick and his niece, may -not seem wonderful. He knew him to be the son of pious parents, a boy of -good principle and good capacity. He had often seen at his father’s -house, pasteboard horses, cows, cottages, and even pencil sketches, that -he amused himself with, when once recovering from a severe illness. When -the boy recovered he frequently brought into request his -newly-discovered capacity, and improved very much in his rough -sketching. He had no idea of prosecuting his ability any further. All -this was not lost on the priest, who felt assured that he could command -the necessary influence to enter Roderick in the academy of Heidelberg, -and enable him to become the master of an honorable and lucrative art. -He knew that capacity is more unfailing, and possesses more resources -than wealth; he knew Roderick’s substantial worth and undoubted probity, -and felt that he had neither right nor inclination to thwart his niece’s -predilection. - -It was during one of these flower-hunting excursions that Roderick and -Ella first conceived the idea of weaving the bower on the Castle Mount. -They were accustomed frequently to extend their rambling to the ruined -castle, in the old garden of which a variety of flowers were still -cultivated by the guardian of the place; and by the time they had -clambered up to the terrace on their return, were fain to sit down and -repose awhile. They soon began to feel a partiality for the place; and -no wonder, for there was not so fine a view, even to childhood’s eyes, -to be found in the whole country. Their childish hands there twined the -bower whose strange demolition I, in after years, witnessed. There they -spent many of their happiest hours; there they first plighted their -troth; there they renewed it over and over again; and there poor -Roderick first saw the—beginning of the end. - -It were useless to attempt to say how proud the poor boy was of his -betrothed, and of her accomplishments. The fact that he never felt a -pang of jealousy during four long years, frequently under most trying -circumstances, that his trust in his beloved never for a moment wavered -till his heart was wrung, and his brain was crazed that eventful evening -at the bower, loudly testifies to his ingenuousness, and the priest’s -correct estimate of the man. A neighboring Curé, who had in former years -been a fellow-student of Father Klaus in Italy, frequently rode over to -spend half a day. On such occasions Ella was entertained with -metaphysical disquisitions, which, unknown to her entertainers, her -deep, psychological nature eagerly drank in, in draughts as great as her -capacity would admit. To their theological discussions she was a silent, -attentive listener; subjects which her uncle never upon any other -occasion spoke of in her presence, were argued with an earnestness that -made him forgetful of the indirect injury they might work upon her mind. -She began to propound questions to herself, and to attempt the solution -of them, of herself. She remembered many delicate cases of morality -determined by learned heads; pondered over the principles upon which -those decisions were based; constructed new cases for the application of -similar principles; in short, became a blundering casuist before she -knew it. A new light was dawning upon her mind; she saw, for the first -time, that laws can be stretched to very tension, and not broken. She -did not reflect that principle is firm as a rock, and lasting and -unchanging as eternity itself—that there is no going and returning -there. She knew not that he who ranges about to strain the utmost limits -of law, has wandered far from the moral centre of gravity—principle. -She knew not that we do not always stand guiltless in the forum of our -own conscience, though no other living being dare censure us, even in -his inmost mind. The world may judge a man for what he does and dares; -he alone, for what he does _not fear_. Ella was precisely in that -unfortunate state of mind, in which one knows just too much or too -little; in which a certain degree of knowledge necessarily requires more -to prevent its running astray. There is a degree of pride which renders -one ridiculous, contemptible; a greater degree checks its -manifestation—governs it. One is vanity; the other despises vanity. -Such a relation did Ella’s science bear to true philosophy as vanity -does to pride;—_and she played with it_. One must, one will destroy the -other. Had her uncle known her infatuation, one word would have -dispelled every shadow of it. - -Oftentimes the college friends would turn their conversation to days -long past, to reminiscences of their sojourn in Italy. The lore of -classic and romantic associations of that wonderful country; the graphic -illustrations of life, and scenes, and elegance, and delights, in that -delicious clime, enchanted their young listener. Dissertations on the -political changes there enacting; surmises of changes impending, -necessarily drew forth a detail of social, historic and scenic minutiæ, -that expanded her young mind to poetic conceptions; distance lent its -enchantment to the view, and her rich fancy glowed with the beauty of -its imaginings. A longing, secret and subtle at first, then craving and -irrepressible, to taste the sweets of forbidden fruit, took possession -of her. She was betrothed at that time; she knew that with Roderick she -could not enjoy those pleasures; she ought and did know that this -longing would breed discontent;—hence the subtle manner of its entering -on possession of her heart. Long she repelled it; principle forbade it; -her reasonings were very nice; and lax as she may have become -speculatively, she nourished a high-minded honor that would have done -credit to any child of Adam. Soon she thought it no harm to enjoy the -victory she had, with so great an effort, gained over herself; -frequently she did so. Then her sophistry came to the attack; she might -have regrets in secret, she thought, and they might not be at all -detrimental to her husband’s happiness; hers would be the only loss, the -only pain, if pain there were;—and she let her longing take its way. -Still, she loved her betrothed as much as ever, none the less on that -account; it is true she became a shade more thoughtful, not quite so -light-hearted as she was, but she did not notice any change. If her -heart lost any of its feeling, her harp did not. She took it more -rarely; her touch was bolder, and still more delicate; a beautiful -originality undulated more in her modulations, and she played more -without the words than she ever did before. Her spirit was more -self-dependent. There was something of the wild energy of insidious -despair. - -About this time the younger Reisach was summoned from England to attend -his father, who was very ill. Soon the good old count died, and his heir -entered upon the title and estates, in a manner so becoming and -consistent with filial affliction, that every one said the young count -was quite equal to the old one. The rougher field sports he had been -accustomed to in England were now abandoned, and he lent his mind to the -more quiet and refined German tastes. Study, poetry, music, painting, -sculpture, divided his attention; he aimed at conciliating and winning -all, the little as well as the great, and no undue ostentation had place -in the details of his establishment. Regular and attentive at church, he -gained the confidence and esteem of pastor as well as flock. Refined and -delicate in his speech, no virtuous peasant-girl shrunk from his -attention whenever he thought proper to bestow it. To the _reunions_ at -the mansion the Curé had a standing invitation; and in return, the young -nobleman strolled out upon many a welcome call at the parsonage. It -would be harsh, it would be unjust, to say that Count Frederick -commenced his attentions there with any deliberate design of wrong. -Ella’s harp and voice were frequently brought into request for his -passing entertainment, and he was not sparing of his eulogiums upon -them. He soon began to experience deeper and more lasting sensations -than the momentary pleasure she intended; no one could do otherwise. In -his presence Ella conversed little, but that little was full of -refinement, of thought and taste. He felt it difficult to smother his -feelings or restrain them; and although he strictly maintained the -distinction in their conditions, in his intercourse with her, and knew -that a violent death must await all his more tender sentiments toward -her, still he was unwilling to deprive himself of the pleasure he -enjoyed in her presence. He was deeply in love with her, and he knew it; -yet supposed that, like many other impressions he had experienced, it -would soon pass away, that he might as well enjoy it whilst it -lasted;—no one would ever be the wiser in the end. - -It was before, and about this time, that Roderick and Ella were -accustomed to spend their hours, and almost days together, at the bower. -She had grown into womanhood, had entered into her twentieth year; and -it was on her last birth-day, that she and Roderick had knelt before her -uncle, to receive his blessing on their betrothal. Roderick had finished -his course in the academy, and had already acquired his quota, both of -fame and money, in painting. Ella sincerely loved him; and despite the -admiration she felt for the young count, would have been supremely happy -could she have been promised the realization of her imaginary enjoyments -by his side. She loved him more when in his presence than when away. -Absence threw no enchantment around him; it was in the sunshine of his -tenderness and devotion that she felt the full glow of her affection for -him; at other times she would feel the chilly mingling of her regrets. -Had they been married then, they would have been very happy. - -I said, Count Frederick deemed his love for Ella to be harmless, and -that he felt no scruples in giving full play to it. It was only when, in -his frequent rides, he caught a glimpse of the lovers enjoying their -honest happiness under their own vine and fig-tree, as one might say, -that the demon of envy, then of jealousy, took possession of him. There -are few who can look unmoved on the unalloyed happiness of others, nor -feel one pang of envy; that can see the appropriation by another of a -secretly-coveted object, even an object one has no right or title to, or -expectation of, and feel no sting of jealousy. Thus was it with Count -Frederick: from the window of a mansion he frequently visited in -Heidelberg, he could look right up to the bower. In the recess of that -window he frequently sat; and with glass in hand, following with his eye -every movement of the doomed pair, he conjured up a host of demons to -torment him. He knew that her faith was given to another; he was aware -and resolved that he could not marry her; yet, the long and constant -dwelling of his thoughts upon her, the enlistment of his feelings and -affections for her, seemed, in his disordered mind, to invest him with -an indefinable title; he felt the outrage done to it, and casting full -rein to both anger and passion, vowed to wreak his vengeance on what he -thenceforward dreamed to be his mistress, and her lover. - -Alone, and in secret, did he plot his plans to circumvent them. Lost now -to every feeling of shame and honor, he repelled no scheme, however -base, that presented itself; and though the better and more manly -exercise of his faculties drooped and withered under his scorching -passion, a deeper, deadlier cunning than he ever knew before, sweltered -and forged unceasingly the most crafty implements for his hellish -purpose. He would trust not an iota to the assistance of other hands, -but assumed the whole burden of contriving and executing upon himself. -Not a breath did he breathe of his infamous design to human ears. His -demeanor in public possessed all the semblance of urbanity and good -feeling that he once felt; but his interior Vulcan reposed not from his -craft. Every piece of information that he could unsuspectingly acquire -concerning either poor Roderick or Ella, he stored up and revolved in -his aristocratic mind, digesting it with his moral venom, as a viper -would revolve and masticate with poison its loath-some morsel. He -learned from many sources, partially from herself, the particulars of -Ella’s history, as far as was known; and contrasting several portions -with certain circumstances that had fallen under his observation when in -England, was astonished at the result of his machinations, which now -doubled upon himself, to involve him too in their fatal entanglement. -Thus far he had stood apart, aloof, as it were, upon a height above his -contemplated victims. His baser passions had thrown aside the drapery of -virtue and honor which once veiled the lovely woman from the gaze of -rude thought, and he could look down upon her very graces as an object -of his intended prey; but when the artful interlocking of his web and -woof turned up to his astonished eyes, in gathered forms, the whole and -real picture of his contemplated deed; when his study brought to light -the astounding fact that Ella could claim close kindred with the -proudest titles of the British peerage, his craven spirit of profligacy -slunk away, for the time awed, but not quelled, by the air of reverence, -and veneration that breathed upon it. At its return, elevated, softened, -warmed, but not purified, by its admixture of romance, he felt his -sternest anger giving way, his haughtiest pride tottering, his very soul -melting into admiration and love; he reeled from his position aloof, and -writhed a whole burnt offering among the other victims to his passion. -His subtle ingenuity soon brought to the crucible the extraordinary -change in his sentiments toward the unconscious girl, and the analysis -did not dispel the new charm that enveloped her. He saw it was perfectly -natural, and the only fruit of his discovery was a resolution to bring -the charm to operate upon her own mind—it would open the avenue to a -secret discontent with her present position, unfold a vast and -snare-beset field to the vagaries of a romantic imagination, and bring -her feelings to a sympathetic appreciation of the fellowship of caste -that existed between her and himself. - -Full of this dark resolve, Count Frederick went forth alone one -afternoon. He had designedly employed the unsuspecting Roderick to -restore some old paintings that had accumulated the dust of ages. They -were in a studio in town. There Roderick had labored busily all the day, -and when evening drew near he was still detained by some management of -the count, in order to give his lordship the opportunity for his coveted -interview with Ella. He had learned at what hour she would probably be -at the appointed rendezvous, and timed his evening excursion -accordingly. It was a beautiful afternoon in April. From the castle -heights, the sun was seen slowly creeping down the skies of France, and -the changing tints of the glittering clouds, were gorgeously reflected -by the distant waters of the Rhine, and the intermediate mirrors of the -Neckar. Villages, hamlets, cottages, spread over the plain, rolled their -black smoke in heavy volumes against the green mountains, about whose -feet the lights and shadows already had begun to sketch fantastic -tableaux. How naturally did the words of the Mantuan poet’s pastoral -seem to spring to Count Frederick’s lips, as he stood within a few paces -of the bower, gazing abroad upon the scene, observed by the startled -inmate, and feigning not to observe again. Ella understood perfectly -well the words of the text, and as they were feelingly and eloquently -poured forth, as though spontaneously, by the handsome youth, as he -threw himself upon the turf, lost her surprise in the appropriate beauty -of the poet’s effusion— - - Hic tamen hac mecum poteris requiescere nocte, - Frondes super virides; sunt nobis mitia poma, - Castaneæque molles, et pressi copia lactis. - Et jam summa procul villarum culmina fumant, - Majoresque codunt altis de montibus umbrae. - -The last two lines he rapturously repeated several times, then turning -his eyes, as though perchance toward the bower, he hastily arose, and in -a moment stood blandly before Ella, apologizing for his intrusion, and -in the same breath requesting the favor of one of her pastoral songs. -She challenged him for a repetition of the verses, and he uttered them -in so off-hand, theatrical a way, that they both burst into a laugh. The -ice was broken. Never before had he so far descended from his dignity in -her presence. There and alone with him, she felt the charm of this -novelty, and bandied words with him willingly, for she supposed that -Roderick would soon come, and she thought it would be fine to pique his -jealousy a little, only to reward it the better afterward with the -sweetness of perfect tranquillity. He gradually drew forth from her own -lips what little she knew of her father’s history and family, and -artfully beguiled away the key to her enjoyments and her regrets. He had -been intimate, very intimate, he told her, with a nobleman in England, -whom he now knew must be her uncle. The identity of her father’s -history, even to his fall in a duel, with that of a brother of Lord B.; -the same name, even a perceptible resemblance of Ella to him, rendered -his assurance doubly sure. Then followed many particulars which -completely set Ella’s willing mind at rest in regard to the nobility of -her parentage. - -So far, all was well. As he anticipated, the disclosure was to her -astounding and pleasing at the same time. The shadows of incredulity -that for a moment hovered before the citadel of her happiness, flitted -away before the march of pleasurable emotions. Her first feelings were -those of gratitude, and in the liveliness of her satisfaction, as he -poured into her ears the minuter details of her family history, she -could have smiled almost any thing, looked almost any reward for him who -bore her the welcome tidings. She divined the emotion that quivered on -his lip, fathomed the eloquence that sparkled in his eye, suffusing his -whole face with its light, and trembled, trembled like an aspen, with -momentary terror: but, as his glowing speech expatiated on the -time-honored and world-worshiped glory and privileges of the _noblesse_, -the spirit of high-toned chivalry that begot, that chose, that ever -ornamented the knightly order of Christendom, her terrors flew to the -winds, and left her trembling frame a play-thing in the frenzied hands -of wilder discord than her bosom had ever known. She no longer shunned -his gaze; their eyes met again and again; a shadow, as of a dream, -passed over her faculties; phantoms of law and duty and religion sprang -up, to clamor for their rights; hastily she breathed an acquiescence, -and then spurned them away as phantoms, as disturbers of the serenity of -her soul. For the first time in all her life she felt the thrill of -passion; the sorcerer beheld it, and closer and closer did he wind his -web around them both, until, convulsed by the mighty battery within, he -leaped from his seat, folded her resistless form in her arms, imprinted -one passionate kiss upon her lips, and disappeared down the precipice. - -When she recovered a little self-possession, her mind soon comprehended -all; she felt and knew that passion had taken possession of her, and -that love was gone; but never for a moment did she advert to any fault -of her own. If conscience arose, she hastily repressed it, and despite -what she inmostly _felt_, declared in her own mind that she could not -see, measuring by laws of right and possession, wherein she had -transgressed. Then stepped in pride. She transgressed! Oh! that one idea -condemns the cause. She, who never had sinned, even in thought, against -womanly decorum! yet, though her face burned with indignation at the -thought, it was her own unerring conscience that accused, and against -which she turned in so virtuous a scorn. Poor Ella! the great sin was -already done. The loose rein she had given to her ideas, had permitted -the birth, the growth, the _manifestation_ of what she felt, -consequently the encouragement of Count Frederick’s excited passion. -What would strict principle have done? Trembled, and crushed the serpent -in the egg. It had glided in and twined itself around her bosom so -gently and unconsciously that she scarcely felt its presence; so -brilliant and changing were its deadly eyes in their repose, so yielding -its soft and graceful neck, that, trusting to its tameness, she nursed -its strength and venom there. At once she felt a tightening of the -coils. Who, but one willfully deceived, would not have felt death! She -did not; she saw no death, but felt she could not cast her visitant -aside, felt that she might have to struggle on and bear her burden -triumphantly along. What harm if no positive evil came of it? It was her -own burden; might she not bear it if she could? Thus she beguiled her -better reason; she did not reflect that whosoever loveth danger shall -perish in it. - -The reaction from the state of excitement she had been in, was powerful, -and she was just recovering from it, when Roderick came and found her at -the bower, “pensive and melancholy,” as he termed it; and, since they -could not enjoy the evening together, tenderly and affectionately led -her home. This was the first night of Roderick’s grief and Ella’s -unhappiness. One great effort would then have shaken off her enemy -forever, and restored the serenity of her mind; but she did not see the -necessity, the obligation; it could be done at any time. Her pillow was -bedewed with her tears, but she attributed them to the agitation of her -feelings. All night, that one moment of delirium was prolonged to hours -in rapturous dreams. She awoke weary and pale. She was not responsible -for her dreams, she reasoned; probably she was not; but I would not -answer for the pleasure of them, for whenever her broken slumbers were -dispelled by consciousness, through the night, she acknowledged the -unlawfulness of dwelling upon that pleasure then, and she courted sleep -as a means to enjoyment in irresponsibility. Her harp lay untouched all -day. Her daylight reveries were but shadows of her midnight dreams; more -she did not dare. To her uncle’s somewhat anxious inquiries she replied, -that she had perspired so, all night;—it was true. The next evening was -quite as charming as the preceding one. There was no reason why she -should not take her accustomed stroll to the bower; it was her castle, -as it were; she had built it, and it was her almost daily haunt; she saw -no obligation to discontinue her visits there; if any one came, it would -be his intrusion, not hers. Besides, if she did not meet Roderick there, -he would be hurt, and probably suspect her of growing indifference. Step -by step had she advanced so far in blinding herself, as to be deceived -by such a transparency; in the days of her innocence it would have -shocked her. Her very duty to her betrothed she converted into a pretext -to betray him. Still, call her not traitress. Like one who begins to -believe his oft-told lie to be the truth, a penalty for his deceit, she -more than half trusted her shallow sophistry. No human power now, no -stand of honor or pride, can save her now; she has let the enemy within -the citadel to parley, and whilst she prates in whispered, cowering -tones, of future peace or victory, he quietly possesses himself of every -avenue and stronghold, and nothing less than power divine can lend the -least effective aid. Will she ask it? Well would she wish to do so, but -the mighty effort of instantaneous renunciation (the only condition for -God’s help) is too great; and with an ungrounded, forlorn, despairing -hope, she still thinks some impossibility _may_ come to pass, to save -her soul. She went earlier than usual, and long sat trembling in her -accustomed seat. When at last Count Frederick appeared, she was not -surprised; but an unaccountable dread seized her, and she would have -fled, had he not gently detained her. She stopped; he saw all at a -glance, he knew every thought that was agitating her mind; he understood -her sudden impulse, that it was a last effort of expiring virtue, and he -understood, too, that he possessed the power to overrule it. He knew it -was an issue of life or death, and that either way, he held the hat in -his hand. Neither spoke. He stood, holding the unresisting arm, gazed on -her shrinking form, her imploring eyes, her lips parted in sudden -terror, upon her every feature yielding in despair to the agony of a -struggle for her very soul; the loud beating of her heart struck upon -his ear with unearthly sound; he thought of the affrighted lamb before -the altar, felt that in his hand gleamed the keen knife his beautiful -victim shrank from; his eyes drank in her exceeding loveliness, his -heart melted, and he burst into tears. He sat upon the bench, half -turned from her, his elbow resting on the trellis, and his face buried -in his handkerchief, overcome by the storm of his feelings. At this -moment, the better nature in both, had a strong game. There is something -fearful to behold when a strong man bends his head to tears. When a -woman weeps, it is the drops from a fleeting cloud, an April shower, or, -at times, the ceaseless pouring of a settled rain—a deluge; but there -is the flash, and the storm, and the fitful blast that groans and yaws, -and bursts through all control. No woman can pass on and not feel the -cloak of her human sympathy draw close around her, as if to impel her to -go forth and pour the unction of her tenderness upon the troubled heart. -And there Ella stood beside him; one hand lay gently on his quivering -shoulder, whilst the other pushed back the scattered curls from his -noble brow. Oh, what a powerful language there is in the human heart, -without words! In all this interview, since first they met, neither had -spoken a word. It was a pantomime in real life; yet, what terrible -converse they had held! Neither had ever, in all their lives, spoken to -the other one word of love; and such a scene! - -“I intended,” said he, at length, as he pressed her hand to his lips; “I -intended to beg your forgiveness for my extreme rudeness on yesterday. I -was overcome, beside myself; and now, when I would utter the words of my -supplication, they stick in my throat. I am tossed like a leaf, before -you; and here I sit trembling like a child, beneath your touch. I feel -in my inmost heart the sweetness of your sympathy. I go, and but for the -treasure of that sweetness my heart would wither in its desolation. I -dare not speak to you of love, for your troth is another’s. At least, in -mercy, vouchsafe to me one glimpse of the Elysium denied me!” He folded -her once more to his heart; indistinctly she heard in spasmodic -whispers: _life—soul—dearest_—and he was gone. The nobler nature was -triumphant; and Ella, overcome by his generosity and her now -unquenchable love, wept long and bitterly. She turned from side to side -in her loneliness, gazed into the heavens, upon the wide landscape, -until the tears blinded her. Then she bent her head upon the trellis -where he had leaned; her dark hair hung in loose locks upon the -branching vines, and she moaned in very bitterness. - -That night she thought of Roderick, and for a moment compared him with -Count Frederick. What a contrast! His very name, his only inheritance -from his forefathers, was essentially plebeian, rustic. Ackerman! -Roderick Ackerman, the husbandman! She had never thought of that before! -She, the daughter of a noble house, could never bear that name! Her -dreams were not those of pleasure only, for Roderick stood all night, a -horrid phantom, between her impatient love and its unlawful object. Next -morning she did not quiet her mind with the reflection, that she was not -responsible for her dreams; and her midnight dreams, pleasure and -displeasure, were her daylight reveries. - -Roderick’s society still possessed a singular charm for her. In his -presence she became more like her former self. She still loved him with -a calm, settled love, which nothing on earth could ever destroy. When he -turned his mournful gaze toward her, there was so much of tenderness and -truth, so much of ill-concealed anxiety and trust, that tears of anguish -and of pity would gather upon her eyelids, and she would turn her head, -to brush them away unseen. There was no selfishness in her love for him; -it was virtuous and sincere, unshaken; yet, in his absence her thoughts -continually recurred to the all-absorbing passion that possessed her. -Day after day would she go to the bower, but she found no pretext now, -in duty to Roderick, for she always returned before it was time for him -to be there, and he never knew she went. He said to me on the mount, -when relating this portion of his history—“She never went to the bower -any more.” Count Frederick did not come again. He secluded himself at -home more closely than ever—and let us not trespass upon the sanctuary -of a penitent heart. Poor Ella might have been seen day after day, as -evening drew near, wandering alone over the hill, watching, with intense -anxiety, the path which Count Frederick would take in case he _should_ -go out upon his evening walk. A mournful, restless spirit of solitude -she seemed, ever wending her silent way among the evening shadows, never -venturing upon the sun-lit green. At last her daring steps would turn -toward the manor, and she would take its circuit, on her way to the -bower. Once she passed, muffled and trembling, through the very lawn. O! -could she have seen herself as others would have seen her, she would -have sunk into the earth for very shame. How strange—that he who had -been the ruthless tempter, in heart and mind the fell destroyer, should -now, whilst retiring in virtuous seclusion, become the tempted! How -strange, how passing strange—that she, poor victim, should become -tempter, persecutor! Yet so it was: and such is man.—And such is -woman—when she falls. - -One day, from his chamber window he beheld her retreating form slowly -disappearing in a little copse near the manor. The whole truth flashed -like lightning on his mind: that he was not the only tempter; that not -with him lay the damning guilt he had supposed; that he was sought; that -she could be gained. The whirlwind of passion came again. The reflection -that he had too unjustly accused himself, stifled every breath of -remorse; and he went forth, in heart a demon, worse than ever. He soon -gained her, and heaven-attesting vows were exchanged of never-dying -love. All that was honorable and fair for man to do he promised. Their -interviews thenceforward were frequent and clandestine; her health was -failing in a perpetual struggle, and matters were drawing to a crisis. -She never told her uncle what was done; she feared, she felt in her own -heart, that it was not honest love. Count Frederick, I said, had -promised all that was honorable for man to do; that promise he did not -intend to keep. The more he thought over it, the more fully was he -persuaded that she was not sanguine of its observance. After a lengthy -consideration his plot was laid, and he appointed a time with Ella for -an interview at the bower. It was Roderick’s eventful evening, the one -he alluded to when he said: “I could not resist a moment’s visit to the -bower, for, since pleasure there seemed henceforth to be forbidden fruit -to me, I longed for a moment, even of its pain.” They were both punctual -to the appointment. Count Frederick was paler than usual; she noticed -his agitation, and he, to cover it, took out his Virgil and read her -several beautiful passages. He turned to the Æneiad, and wrought upon -her mind and her sympathies with the loves and sorrows, the struggles -and the fall, of the queenly Dido. She caught the incendium, and as he -repeated over and over, with increasing gusto, the more inflammatory -passages, in the words of the poet, like Dido herself she sat -“_pendesque iterum narrantis ab ore_.” At last, as he closed the book, -he gazed intently on her, trembling with the very burden of his task. He -took her hand; she smiled. - -“Ella,” said he, “dost thou love me?” - -She took the book, and marked a passage with her pencil. He read: - - “Est mollis flamma medullas, - Interea et tacitum vivit sub pectore vulnus.” - -The glow of her features attested the truth. He continued: - -“Wouldst thou be happy to wander the wide world over by my side, to -revel in the gayeties of Paris, to stand amid the awful ruins of Athens -and Palmyra, to tread the hallowed spots of Palestine, and bask in the -sunny skies of Italy?” - -“With thee and honor, anywhere.” - -“Ella, thou hast a picture; let me see it? Who gave it thee?” - -“My mother.” - -“When?—dost thou remember?” - -“Yes, when I was a tiny child. She gave it in my hands and said it was -all I had from my dear father but his name.” - -“Thou hast his name. Dost thou know, Ella, who this is?” - -“I never knew.” - -“I know. I have seen her: she is living yet, and bears but a slight -resemblance now to this young face.” - -“Tell me of her; is she my father’s sister?” - -“No; but wouldst thou know indeed?” - -“Tell me.” - -“Listen then—thy father’s wife.” - -She sat stupefied; her bosom heaved convulsively. - -“Couldst thou marry Roderick, now?” - -She started to her feet. “Fiend! I understand you,” she shouted. Her -eyes flashed, her form dilated, her outstretched arm quivered with the -strength of her indignation; whilst her melodious voice raised in tones -of inspiration, rang through the evening stillness with the poet’s -terrible imprecation: - - “Sed mihi vel tellus optem prius ima dehiscat, - Vel Pater Omnipotens adigat me fulmine ad umbras, - Pallentes umbras Erebi, noctemque profundam”— - -she turned away, and sinking upon one knee, raised her clasped hands and -streaming eyes— - - “Ante pudor quam te violem, aut-tua-jura re-solvam.” - -And she fell lifeless upon the ground. A step was heard. The count -launched himself down the precipice. Roderick came, saw, and flew off on -the wings of the wind, with a crushed heart and raving brain. - -Ella’s first act of returning consciousness was to recognize herself -reclining in the arms of Count Frederick. The swaying to and fro, the -heavy lurch, the crackling stones, the dashing tramp, soon brought home -to her mind the terrible certainty that she had departed from Heidelberg -forever. How far she was away, whither she was going she knew not: she -only knew that she was lost beyond redemption. Her body and her mind -were powerless, paralyzed in utter imbecility: she could not, would not -will: but as the reality of the world and her existence in it stole on -her awakening senses, every power of her soul rushed to the view of her -prostration; her heart struggled in very anguish, her reason staggered -from side to side in the mazes of a darksome labyrinth; night had -gathered around, and heavy dews swept through the carriage windows; -terrors, strange and indefinable, fell like a death chill on her -sickened soul, and she clung with frenzied grasp to the form beside her. -Words of love, of courage, of hope, breathed into her ears another life, -and she abandoned her whole being to the power of its inspiration. Ere -morning dawned they were far away, and the second nightfall beheld them -in Cologne. - -Before I proceed any further, let me make a little necessary explanation -concerning Ella’s picture. What Count Frederick said concerning her -“father’s wife,” he knew to be utterly false. The miniature was that of -a lady Mr. Corbyn had been affianced to in England, and whom he forsook -for another, more to his liking. As the engagement had become notorious, -and he felt the extent of the injury he was indicting upon her and her -family, he retired into as great obscurity as possible, on the -continent, and married Katrina. Ere many years he was discovered in his -retreat, and the arrival of the strangers in his village, his fall in a -duel with a brother of his former betrothed, were consequent upon that -discovery. Ella’s birth was honorable as birth could be. The mystery -which hung about the picture had prepared her mind to become the easy -dupe of a well-told lie. - -Many days Ella lay consuming beneath the fire of a raging fever, whilst -a sad and anxious watcher, night and day, moved ever silently about the -darkened chamber. This was the most trying period of Count Frederick’s -life. Ever and anon the low murmuring of troubled dreams would fall like -heavy curses on his cowering heart; and as he would gently move aside -the curtains and bend his ear to feel the parching breath, words fraught -with the odor of youthful innocence would ascend. Now the light of -childhood’s golden hours would beam softly on her mind, and smiles of -love and tenderness and purity would gently play about her mouth, -dimpling her beautiful features with holy pleasure as she would whisper: -“Yes, dear mother, Ella knows, listen—‘God keep little Ella from all -sin.’” Then there would be some uneasy motion, some momentary -contortion, as from a sudden pang, and then a low, trembling sigh, -scarce rising with its burden of despair. O, how he shook in very agony! -Then all was still. Her degradation, though she was unconscious of its -existence, seemed, like an unknown and unfelt medicinal application, to -extend, by some inappreciable virtue of its own, its subtle influence -unceasingly through the system. Soon, names most familiar in her joyous -girlhood, brief snatches of song or hymn that none but ecstatic moods of -happiness or devotion ever called forth from her stores of melody; even -the name of Roderick, accompanied with a tender relaxation and softened -whisper, rose up like threatening spectres in Count Frederick’s night of -mental darkness. He gazed and gazed on her pallid loveliness, watched -every quiver of her parted lips, and could have rejoiced in the life of -their occasional smile or tranquillity; but, that the hidden, lightless -eyes, and the ever “chill, changeless brow”—for it never changed in all -her emotions—appalled with the coldness of some fearful death: and he -turned away. He would have prayed, if he could, for that poor being, but -his heart was void; it was his brain that ached, for he knew that all -that melancholy ruins had fallen from a sublime structure by his fell -utterance of a lie. - -It behooves me now to hasten this lengthy history to a close. As soon as -possible our wanderers hastened off to Paris, to restore their sunken -spirits amid the pleasures and gayeties of the _beau monde_. There it -was I saw them, as they took their evening airing along the Champs -Elysées. They had been there several months, and poor Ella’s looks and -manner both told the inefficiency of worldly pleasure, to lighten the -heavy burden of a guilty soul. The gayety of France was like the smart -of sparkling wine on an ulcerated sore, and away they wandered into -distant lands. The still, death-like aspect of the Grecian shores seemed -like the languor of cold sympathy with her own silent sorrow; and as the -startling semblance rose up before her, and she viewed in every phase -and feature that all that was elevating and life-giving was passed away, -she shuddered at her own kindred desolation. She would venture upon the -rocky cliffs and gaze into the troubled sea, where—as now in her own -mind—the lights of Heaven were pictured in flitting and uncertain -forms; she would look abroad upon the unspotted blue, where not a coming -or departing sail broke the distinct horizon, and she would reflect how -the powers of her soul were mouldered away, and brought no more back to -her enjoyment the riches and the fruits of other climes, the luxuries -from nature’s and religion’s overflowing bounty. Then she would wander -upon the lonely strand, and the splashing of the journeyed waters, whose -tempest roar was spent in low, last murmurs at her feet, reëchoed the -wild moanings of a dying spirit. Oh! how she sat and cried. Had her -tears been those of repentance and return, they would have hallowed for -ever a spot that was only classic, and her groans would have lifted the -vault of Heaven; but the bitter drops, wrung by degradation and despair, -were swept away by the encroaching wavelets—and the sighs were borne -afar by the winds, to swell that everlasting _ROMOR_ of anguish that -never reaches God. - -In the Roman Colosseum, the blood-stained arena of the martyrs seemed to -burn her very feet, and she looked not upon a stone, nor an herb, in -that sanctuary of Christendom but returned a look of withering reproach, -as if by express command of Heaven. There was no peace. Like Jonah, had -she tried to flee from the wrath of God, and find ease and security in -sin; and now that she found it not, she longed for death—but dared not -court it—as the oblivion of all her being. - -Again our fugitives sought the resources of Paris. Ella was fast failing -in health, and both knew that she must soon die. She possessed no longer -any gayety, and Count Frederick secretly rejoiced in her decline, as the -only means of ridding himself of a burden now become almost -insupportable. Still, her death would not have occurred without -inflicting upon him one severe pang; for her intellect, increasing in -beauty and brilliancy as the body faded, held him in a spell that seemed -to involve his very life. A short time after their arrival in Paris, the -revolution of February put all Europe in a commotion. It was a God-send -to Count Frederick, for a field now opened to him for the employment of -his faculties; something at last, if not repose, at least a breathing -spell to ease him in his tired struggle with a sleepless, unflagging -remorse. He plunged into the under-revolutionary current, heedless of -whence it flowed or where it came to light. All manner of impure -ultraïsm gathering in its way, formed the nuclei of innumerable vortices -that eddied and whirled at every turn of his onward progress, hurling -him along with strange fits of semi-delirium, until the following June, -when the whole concentrated power bubbled in red volumes to the surface, -and the streets of Paris ran with human blood. Count Frederick became a -willing tool in crafty hands, and shrank not from offices of most -imminent danger. All night and all day did he lend his wealth, his -influence and his labor to the construction of barricades for the -defense of the populace: he became a leading spirit, and on several -occasions his sword was foremost in the fray. His attire, his repose, -his ordinary food, all was forgotten. Once he stood tired and worn, -within a new barricade not far from the barrière St. Martin; his hat and -coat were thrown aside, his dress all torn and begrimed with sweat and -dirt; in one hand he held a naked sword, whilst the other grasped the -stock of a pistol that was still unmoved from his leathern belt. Upon -this arm hung poor Ella, still clinging through toil and danger to him -she could not but love. Her bonnet was thrown aside; a soiled cambric -handkerchief tied beneath the chin, had kept in check her unbound hair, -but it was now in places loose and disheveled; one dark lock swung -around her neck, and as it reposed upon her bosom, the curled, purple -extremity appeared in fearful contrast with the snowy field it lay upon. -Woman to the last, she bore upon her person many a mark of blood, and -many dying lips within the last few hours, had breathed a blessing upon -the unknown and beautiful angel of mercy that bent above them. Upon a -stove, that had been carried into the middle of the street, stood a -popular demagogue, gesticulating wildly, and thundering anathemas -against the provisional government, that were horrible for ears to -listen to; whilst around him stood some hundreds of the armed and -excited populace, venting, at almost every gesture of the frantic -orator, vows of eternal vengeance on what they deemed the recreant -soldiery. Some one had just arrived to announce that the military, in -force, were marching upon them. The shadow of the hand of death seemed -already to rest upon the multitude, and not an eye was there that did -not dwell upon eternity. Soon the military, in serried ranks and with -bristling bayonets, wheeled into view far down the street, and then -commenced the steady advance upon the barricade. The orator grew wilder -and wilder, and every heart in that vast multitude quivered in awful -expectation. The street was cleared, not a soul moved upon the -side-walks; and the measured tread of the soldiers, with now and then a -groan or shriek from out some chamber, was all that broke the silence as -they marched along. Soon the note of death sounded in the rear, then the -noise of changing muskets, at the word of command—and immediately was -heard from out the barricade, trembling in solemn melody, low sounds as -of some unearthly dirge; and the words, “_Mourir pour la patrie_”—arose -with many a mingled yell. With the gallop of the words—“_c’est la mort -la plus belle_,” all rushed to action, and when the first great burst of -the murderous fire was past, the last words of the death-song still rang -o’er piles of bleeding men. - -The attack on this barricade was long and bloody. At the second -discharge, Count Frederick rolled from the mound of curb-stones upon -which he had leaped to replace a fallen red-republican ensign, and was -borne into a neighboring house; there all assistance ceased. As he lay -bleeding upon the floor, in a state of almost insensibility, Ella knelt -beside him, striving to staunch with her handkerchief, her dress, her -hair, the exhaustless spring of blood that welled up from a bullet wound -in his chest. Not a word escaped her lips, not a tear fell from her eye, -but she bent all the faculties of her mind to the faithful -accomplishment of her stupendous task. His breathing became weak and -weaker; she heeded it not. The veil of eternity was settling upon him, -and the dim vision of mortality was being illumined under its shadow; -the heinousness of his damning crime shone out in perfect distinctness; -but one reparation, he thought, and that a slight one, remained; but how -could he ever summon courage to speak it there? She seemed to him, in -truth, an angel, as he turned his glazing eyes toward her; she would not -yield to despair. He made the sacrifice; collected all his strength of -body and of mind, and told to the wretched girl the story of his -deception. It fell upon her like a thunderbolt. For the first time she -became aware of the stupendous depth of her fall. Her only stay, her -only consolation, her only anchor of future hope, upon her troubled sea, -had rested on the excuse of natal degradation: now that was taken away. -She sunk upon the floor; but in a moment, with frantic energy she -bounded to her feet, and seizing the flag-staff from the dying hand, -rushed into the street. The combat still raged; leaping over the dead -and dying, with a bound she reached the breast-work. - -The French journals, in describing the assault upon, and the carrying of -this barricade, illustrated the enthusiastic patriotism of the -insurgents, with the story of a young and beautiful girl, who, in the -hottest of the fight, leaped upon the ramparts, flag in hand, and waving -it gallantly above her head, shouting—_liberté_—fell, pierced by a -hundred bullets, outside the barricade. It was Ella Corbyn. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF THE NORTH. - - - BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE. - - - Midnight was brooding o’er the Arctic highlands - Midnight, the dim, and faint, and strangely cold; - When on an iceberg, ’mid the icy islands, - Sat the chill Northern Spirit, weird, and cold. - Her floating tresses hung, - Wailing unto the blast; - Her vapory vestment swung - As the wind hurried past: - And ever and anon she moaned, and sung, - With tremulous voice, such as the tempest leaf - In piny woods, and then again she flung - Her slender fingers o’er a harp, and wept, - And wailed unearthly music, as when grieves - And sings a fallen angel, then it slept - A moment in the rude arms of the blast— - The snowy-footed madly rushing past— - And then sprung up again, as when o’erleap - Rich showers of harmony Heaven’s rampart steep, - And, star-like, from on high - Far-trailing down the sky, - Strike mortals mad, or wild: - So the pale Boreal Child - Sang to the soul of Naught, that brooded o’er - Lone semi-annual nights, and days as long, - An icy ocean, with an icy shore, - And icy islands, sparsely thrown among - A yest of icy waves; and all was ice, - By sempiternal Winter wrought - To many a quaint device. - - And then again, when the cold North-wind kissed - Her pallid lips, up to the amethyst - Of the far heaven she raised her spirit eyes, - Then beat, and wept, while ever grim Surprise - Wondered that she should weep, and then she played - A prelude to her harp, then sung, then paused, - While symphonies filled up the gaps she made, - And Echo woke applause. - Wondrous the sadness of her floating strain! - The icebergs thrilled unto their heart of hearts, - And Ocean’s breast rose with convulsive starts; - While from her eyes the tearful-beaded rain - Froze into gems upon her vapory dress, - Embroidered loveliness. - -O Loneliness, O Nothingness, O Death! - O Dreariness around me, I must weep! - Would that my very soul were tears to steep - The wind with, that, at every breath, - With weeping, I might spend my soul so fast - My agony’s last throb would soon be past. - -O Desolation, wild, and gaunt, and grim! - O hopeless absence of all glad and bright! - O horrid shapes fantastical, what hymn - Of mine, alas! can tell such shapes aright - Would ye but strike me mad, - I should indeed be glad, - I now can pass the dark hours but in weeping; - And could my soul but freeze, - Like the breast of the seas, - How rapturous would be my silent sleeping. - - Thou cold and icy moon, - Thou dost not pity me! - Six long months hast thou seen - My weary soul, each year, - Since Earth began, nor wept. - Away, thou’rt hateful now! - Away, for I am mad! - - And Earth, detested orb, - How long must thou exist? - Each throb of thy vast pulse - Strikes keenest agony - Into this soul of mine. - If thou hast loveliness, - It ne’er was shown to me. - Come, let us die together! - Hurry thy steeds, O Time! - Bear us into the dark - Of that Eternity, - Whose shadows are so deep - We cannot pierce them yet. - - Ye icebergs, that have seen - My wildest misery, - Do ye know sympathy? - Then melt ye down in tears, - And in a sea of grief - Flow round me with sweet sound! - - They feel not, know not, aught! - My misery is full! - I must unto my bower— - My bower of chillest ice— - Would that it were my tomb - Ye smile on me in scorn, - Ye that do see my grief! - - Then spreading out her wings, - Toward the extremest North - She took her liquid way. - The moon withdrew, and wept; - The stars died out with grief; - The icebergs thrilled again - Unto their icy hearts. - All things were sad for her, - Saddened by her wild song. - - * * * * * - - - - - SONNET.—ART. - - - BY WM. ALEXANDER. - - - Art! what were mankind destitute of thee? - Religion’s handmaid oft do we thee find, - As to thy polished car seek’st thou to bind - True elegance with sweet utility— - Long, wide, extensive is thy magic sway, - O’er matter all inanimate and mind, - E’en savage man thou teachest to be kind, - And charmest his rude soul with thy harmony; - Cross seas the ship by thy good guidance goes; - Fields arable, rich gardens, sacred grove, - Town, temple, feel the influence of thy love; - Thy sacred power the mind immortal knows, - Nor can thy empire, universal, end - Till Nature’s forces all in sweet subjection bend. - - * * * * * - - - - - A REPLY TO DWIGHT’S ARTICLE ON MOZART’S DON GIOVANNI. - - -This is the title of a long and prominent article in Graham’s February -number: the writer is but a wordy plagiarist. He has received many -rebukes already for his cool appropriation of the ideas of others, but -Aristabulus Bragg fashion, he still goes on, in the calmest, most -approved style, perfectly unblushing. A year or eighteen months ago an -article of his in Sartain’s Magazine was pointed out to us as containing -some clever thoughts on a very original idea, “the Musical Trinity.” Oh, -we exclaimed, this is not original, the whole idea is stolen from the -German; then we turned to Goethe’s correspondence with a child, Bettina -von Arnheim, and found several passages on the same subject in -conversations with Beethoven and Schlosser. Some time after we read in -Saroni’s Musical Times that the editor had also detected the plagiarism -in this article, and pointed out another author, book and page; saying -with great good-nature that he would not have noticed it, had Mr. Dwight -only written his article as clearly and concisely as the original; “but -to rob an author first and then murder him,” says the editor, “is more -than we can bear.” The author alluded to by Mr. Saroni, is the German -Marx, and he tells us that the fourth paragraph in Sartain’s article is -an almost literal translation of a paragraph in Marx’s -“_Komposition-shlere_,” second edition, p. 24. - -We have waded through this last article of Mr. Dwight’s on Don Giovanni, -partly from curiosity, partly for amusement. We wanted to see the extent -to which he would go: and then it amused us to detect the little -pilfered thoughts, trigged out in the Boston transcendental clothing -until their parents would have scarcely recognized them. - -It opens with quite a flourish, trying to decorate the story and hero as -the German Hoffman did long ago, but though the whole of the first part -is a spun-out translation of the German critic’s description, it is so -mingled with his own crude, half-educated thoughts, as to require some -little skill in separating Hoffman from Dwight. He has made an attempt -to improve upon the German, and we can not say we admire the Boston -imitation. Judge for yourself by the following comparison: - - - DWIGHT. - - The true conception of Mozart’s Don Giovanni is that of a - gentleman, to say the least, and more than that, a man of - genius: a being naturally full of glorious passion, large - sympathies and irrepressible energies, noble in mind, in person - and in fortune; a large, imposing, generous, fascinating - creature. He is such as we all are—“_only more so_,” to borrow - an expressive vulgarism. He is a sort of ideal impersonation of - two qualities or springs of character, raised as it were to the - highest power projected into supernatural dimensions—which is - only the poet’s and musician’s way of truly recognizing the - element of infinity in every passion of the human soul, since - not one ever finds its perfect satisfaction. - - - HOFFMAN. - - Nature had provided for Don Giovanni, one of her dearest - children, all that could elevate a man above the crowd which is - condemned to be, to do, and to suffer: she had lavished on him - the gifts which bid the human nature approximate to the divine. - She had destined him to shine, to conquer and to rule. She had - animated with a splendid organization that vigorous and - accomplished frame: had inspired that breast with a celestial - spark: had given to him a soul of deep feeling, quick and - penetrating intelligence. - -We think Hoffman’s description of Don Giovanni a little exaggerated, but -the Boston imitation is what may be called a “free translation,” _very_ -free. All that duality business—“_that ideal impersonation of two -qualities or springs of character_,” is decidedly an attempt to amplify, -if not to improve the German criticism, and is in the usual -moral-defying style of the no-principle school of Harbinger and Phalanx -writers. In olden times our grand-parents, when they saw any thing -particularly broad or free in expression or action, were apt to say, -with a proper shrug of the shoulders, that it was “_very French_.” At -the present day, when we see any thing questionable in morals or -opinions we exclaim, “_transcendental, mock German_, and, _very -Boston;_” and thus we say of this attempt of Mr. Dwight’s to idealize -the very sensual, commonplace libertine of the opera. - -We will now give another comparison. - - - DWIGHT. - - Excessive love of pleasure, helped by a rare magnetism of - character, and provoked by the suppressive moralism of the - times, have engendered in him a reckless, roving, unsatiable - appetite, which intrigue excites and disappoints until _the very - passion in which so many souls are first taught the feeling of - the infinite_ becomes a fiend in his breast, and drives him to a - devilish love of power that exults over woman’s ruin, or rather, - that does not mind how many hearts and homes fall victims to his - unqualified assertion of the every where rejected and snubbed - faith in Passion. - - - HOFFMAN. - - In truth, there is nothing on earth which more elevates a man in - his own opinion than love, that love whose vast and conquering - influence gives light to the heart, and gives it at once - happiness and confusion. Can we be surprised if, when Don Juan - hoped to appease by love the passions which rent his breast, - that the devil spread a net for him? It was he who inspired Don - Juan with the thought that by love and the society of woman we - may accomplish on earth _those celestial promises which we bear - written in the deepest recesses of our hearts, that intense - desire which from our earliest days brings us most closely to - heaven_. - -The principal difference Mr. Dwight makes in his rendering of this -passage of Hoffman’s is, that where the German, in a very old-fashioned -manner, attributes Don Juan’s wickedness to the influence of the Spirit -of Evil, Mr. Dwight, by some slight of hand, metamorphoses the Passion -of Love into an evil demon, and then gives a _fling_, as he would -express it, at the religious discipline of the times to which he applies -the very lucid epithet, “_suppressive moralism_.” We wish we had some of -that “_suppressive moralism_” at the present day to exercise a little -wholesome discipline over the authors of this - - - _Phalanx Socialist Literature_. - -After this piece of borrowing and altering from Hoffman, the writer -talks a great deal about “_the old theme and under-current of Opera—the -Body and the Soul—the liberty of Passion in conflict with the Law -intensely narrowed down by social custom from God’s great law of -universal harmony_,” and such like rubbish, and then informs us in a -note, with his usual precision, by way of illustrating this -“_under-current_” of “_Body and Soul_” in “_Old Opera theme_,” that, -strange to say, the first Opera _he_ reads of, and which was produced at -Rome in 1600, bore the name of “_Rappresentatione di Anima e di Corpo!_” - -Now if this were so, it is puzzling to know what it would have to do -with all his talk about “_the under-current of Body and Soul_” in Don -Giovanni: but it is not true. The first Opera on record is _Euridice_, -the libretto composed by the poet Rinuccini, the music by the composer -Peri. It was presented, as he says, in 1600, but not at Rome—at -Florence, on the occasion of the marriage of Mary di Medici with Henri -Quatre of France. - -In 1600, Emilio del Cavalieri, of Rome, brought out an _Oratorio_, which -was sung in a church in that city, which bore the title “_Dell Anima e -di Corpo_;” and the invention of _Recitative_ dates from these two -compositions—the opera _Euridice_ of Peri, and the _Sacred Oratorio_ of -Cavalieri. But it answered his purpose to imagine this the other way, -and with his usual want of accuracy he applied it—or he was ignorant, -and with true transcendental presumption, took it for granted no one -knew any more than he did. - -Such reviews as this we now write of would be scarcely worth noticing, -if it were not for the fact, that they are accepted by the uninstructed, -for real _bona fide_ musical criticisms, founded on actual knowledge. -One might have expected that Mr. Saroni’s rebuking exposure of his -Musical Trinity Article, would have startled the author into something -like modesty; and when one sees how reckless he is, it makes one wish -that Mr. Saroni would carry his threat into execution, and publish those -“certain articles” on Mozart’s Don Giovanni, which bear such a -remarkable similarity to Mr. Dwight’s lectures. - -M. Bombert says, in his “Life of Mozart,” when speaking of this Opera of -Don Giovanni— - -“He (Mozart) shines in the awful accompaniment to the reply of the -statue—a composition perfectly free from all inflation or bombast—it -is _the style of Shakspeare in music_.” - -Now for Mr. Dwight’s patch-work—straightway he snatches up this idea of -M. Bombert, and makes use of it thus: - -“The splendid sinner’s end is rather melo-dramatic in the Opera, and yet -there is a poetic and moral truth in it—and _the spectre of the -commendatore is a creation fully up to Shakspeare_.” - -This is literary murder as well as literary theft. Now any one who knows -any thing of this Opera will see that the “_creation of the -commendatore_” has nothing remarkable in it, but the _Orchestral -Accompaniment_ is one of the grandest things ever composed. Mozart cared -very little for the stage part of the affair; and this is proved by the -finest music in this Opera being given to the Orchestra. We have -heard—we cannot give the authority—but we have read somewhere, that a -contemporary critic said that Mozart had put his statue in the -Orchestra, and left only the pedestal on the stage—and this is true. - -Mr. Dwight gives such an exaggerated, spun-out account of this famous -Opera, endeavoring at the same time to gloss over the gross, vulgar, -immorality of the plot, with all that confused mysticism peculiar to -this Harbinger and Phalanx style of composition, that we will sketch a -short matter-of-fact outline of it. Mr. Dwight, with the usual insane -transcendental desire to apply an epithet, and make a speech, says, in a -short sentence, which he thinks very comprehensive, that it “_is an old -middle age Catholic story_;” making a sort of defense for the shocking -immoralities in it, by accusing, impliedly, the strict discipline of the -church for the libertine hero’s licentiousness, to whom he applies -another string of expletives. In the opening, Mr. Dwight calls him “_a -large, imposing, generous, fascinating creature_.” Now he has him “_an -elegant, full-blooded, rich, accomplished, and seductive gallant_.” A -sort of “_a love of a man_” according to Mr. Dwight’s ideas. - -The subject of the story of Don Giovanni was a favorite one in the 17th -century—“_the middle age Catholic times!_” Mr. Dwight talks of, in his -off-hand sentence characterizing the story, was a little earlier than -that, we think, a trifle of two or three hundred years or so—but let -that pass. French, Italian, and Spanish writers all used it. Moliere -wrote a famous play on it, “_Festin de Pierre_,” and from Moliere’s play -Da Ponte prepared his libretto. - -The story is a decided failure; and a great deal of time, and paper, and -manufactured sentiment have been wasted in endeavoring to excuse and -even to discover hidden philosophy and a good moral in it. Mr. Dwight is -not the first one at this piece of business. If the wish is to make -operatic music elevate and refine the public taste, by contributing to -the moral purity of our people, composers should not select immoral and -wicked plots; and no matter how beautiful the music may be, no audience -should tolerate such a degrading story as Don Giovanni. It is full of -all sorts of unnatural and disgusting scenes. The opening is very fine, -and leads one to expect something tragic and grand. - -Don Giovanni, a wicked, reckless libertine, has entered at midnight the -house of an old military officer, and is seen at the rising of the -curtain rushing out of the door, followed by the beautiful daughter of -the commander, who he had intended to add to the list of his victims. A -beautiful, rapid duet ensues between this daughter, Donna Anna, and Don -Giovanni, she endeavoring to discover the bold ravisher. During this, -her old father comes out, sword in hand—a combat ensues—Don Giovanni -kills the old officer, and escapes. Then follows a beautiful _scena_, -one of the gems of the Opera, between Donna Anna and her lover, Ottavio. -She expresses her grief in heart-rending notes, and with frantic -earnestness calls on her lover to avenge the murder. All this promises -well, and one would imagine from so grand a commencement, something -magnificently tragic was surely to follow. But the whole of the middle -part of the Opera is flat and insipid—we are speaking now only of the -story—filled with disgusting scenes of Don Giovanni’s gallantries. With -a hard and sensual heart, he betrays alike the high and the low—the -lady and the maid; he stains the palace and pollutes the peasant’s cot -with his wanton treachery and crimes. He goes to a village festival, and -selects for another victim, a poor village girl, a bride—Zerlina. This -character was one of Madam Malibran’s famous parts, as Donna Anna was of -Sontag’s. Zerlina, though properly the second Donna’s character, -occupies more room in the Opera than the first soprano, Donna Anna. The -famous duet, “_La ci darem la mano_,” is sung by Don Giovanni and her; -and her little _coquetries_ with the libertine lord, and seductive -coaxing scenes with her peasant bridegroom, occupy a large portion of -the middle part of the Opera. - -A Donna Elvira, a discarded wife or mistress it seems to matter little -which—of Don Giovanni comes in also. A trying scene ensues between her -and Leperello—the impudent, buffoon valet of Don Giovanni—the _buffo_ -character of the opera, during which, he tells her of his master’s -conquests, while the poor Elvira has to stand mute, and listen to his -long, comic piece; which—if she is not a better actress than is -generally cast in a third-rate character—makes it very absurd in -representation. - -After the grand opening scene of the first Act, Donna Anna and her lover -Ottavio dwindle down into insignificance. All their frantic declarations -of revenge end in nothing, and they content themselves with following -the licentious nobleman about in masquerade; once in a while picking him -up in the streets, unmasking, and entertaining themselves in berating -him. They sing a beautiful trio with Elvira, just before the banquet -scene; which is about the only good and useful thing they do in the -Opera. For it serves a double purpose—as an English critic -suggests—besides pleasing the audience, it gives time to have the stage -prepared for the banquet-scene. - -Don Giovanni, after flirting with and seducing fine ladies and humble -peasant maidens, at last meets with his punishment; but not at the hands -of the injured fair ones, or at the more probable ones of the outraged -lovers; that would be too reasonable for this most unnatural story, but -the grave must yield up its dead, and the infernal regions disclose -their horrible secrets. At midnight, again he enters upon the stage—the -scene represents a square, containing a marble monument, erected by -Donna Anna to the memory of her murdered father. Leporello is with him, -frightened to death at the sight of the grave by moonlight, and he -declares to his reckless master that the statue moves its head. The bold -libertine scoffs at the valet’s cowardice, and by way of bravado, -invites the marble statue to sup with him. To his amazement the Statue -answers “Yes,” “_Si_,” and here is that beautiful passage in the _music_ -which M. Bombert considers the Shakspearian style in music—it is the -_Orchestral Accompaniment_ to the simple _reply_ of the Statue. A little -startled, Don Giovanni leaves the stage. But in the next scene he -appears as abandoned as ever. What a capital transcendental critic he -would have made. He is supping alone, and seems to eat with great -_goût_. During his solitary banquet the Statue enters, according to the -engagement. Don Giovanni can scarcely credit his senses; but, bold to -the last, receives his remarkable guest with great ceremony. The Statue -tells him he has come on a mission of warning, and that he has yet a -chance for repentance. Don Giovanni scoffs at the offer, and overcoming -his awe, takes the extended hand of the Statue. In an instant, he is -struck with the death-pangs—the Statue disappears—and he dies in a -vision of endless torments, which is generally represented on the stage -by a display of fireworks, giving the vulgar idea of the infernal -regions; a place made for the devil and his angels. - -Now it is this shameless, coarse libertine that Mr. Dwight in his -article, following in the wake of others, strives not only to excuse, -but to idealize and elevate. - -We have done with the story: let us return for a few moments to Mozart’s -part of this Opera—the music. Off of the stage, in a _salon_ or -concert-room, the effect of this Opera is most beautiful; for on the -stage the immoral, vulgar story, low buffoonery and farce-like -appearance of many of the scenes, are sadly at variance with the -elevated and almost religious tone of the music, and disgust even a -hearty admirer, if he is candid enough to admit it. - -Let us here take leave of this subject and of Mr. Dwight: begging of him -in future, if he is not able to be original, to at least copy good -models of style and morals, and not inflict upon the community his own -exaggerated, loose-principled, Boston notions. Luckily, however, his -style is so confused and mystified, that much of the injurious effect is -lost. We have heard these Boston non-religionists talk, and we know with -what _goût_ they “_defy the moral_” of any matter, to use Mr. Dwight’s -own words; then, how can one expect better principles, where such laxity -of morals are avowed. The closing sentence in this Don Giovanni article -is a pretty fair specimen of this anti-religious, moral-defying kind of -literature; indeed, the whole article is—for “_passion life_,” “_innate -gospel of joy_,” and such English run-mad expressions dance through the -whole article, enlivened and varied, once in a while, with some of the -fire-engine vernacular. - -Shame! shame upon such literature! Mr. Dwight talks of the “_divine good -of the senses and the passions_,” and longs for that “_pure and perfect -state_,” when these grosser parts of our nature “_shall be—not dreaded, -not suppressed; but regulated, harmonized, made rythmical and safe, and -more than ever lifesome and spontaneous, by Law as broad and as deep -themselves_.” A pretty state of affairs we should have in such a -hereafter as these people long for. All this is entirely foreign to our -old-fashioned notions of Heaven and a hereafter. It may be the Heaven of -an Agapedome, or a Woman’s Rights Convention, but it is not the Heaven -of a Christian. And they will find out, sooner or later, that there is a -real hereafter—a solemn, and stern judging hereafter; and though they -may imagine that their transcendental “_Souls, with their capacity for -joy and harmony, is of that godlike and asbestos quality_,” as to defy -punishment, punishment will come, and pretty effectual it will be, and -they will see all this “spiritual asbestos quality”—why not _gutta -percha_, just as well—of little account, when they are found with lamps -untrimmed, and talents buried in the earth. - - Mount Edgecumb. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE AUTOGRAPH OF GOD. - - - BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY. - - - The thirsty earth, with lips apart, - Looked up where rolled an orb of flame - As though a prayer came from its heart - For rain to come; and lo! it came. - The Indian corn, with silken plume, - And flowers with tiny pitchers filled, - Send up their praise of sweet perfume, - For silver drops the clouds distilled. - - The modest grass is fresh and green— - The fountain swells its song again; - An angel’s radiant wing is seen - In every cloud that brings us rain. - There is a rainbow in the sky, - It spans the arch where tempests trod; - God wrote it ere the world was dry— - It is the Autograph of God. - - Up where the heavy thunders rolled, - Where clouds on fire were swept along, - The sun rides in a car of gold, - And soaring larks dissolve in song. - The rills that gush from mountains rude, - Flow trickling to the verdant base— - Just like the tears of gratitude - That often steal adown the face. - - Great King of peace, deign now to bless— - The windows of the sky unbar; - Shower down the rain of righteousness, - And wash away the stain of war; - Though we deserve the reeking rod, - Smile from thy throne of light on high— - That we may read the name of God, - In lines of beauty on the sky. - - * * * * * - - - - - IF I WERE A SMILE. - - - BY RICHARD COE. - - - If I were a smile, a beautiful smile, - I would play o’er the infant’s face, - And stamp such an heavenly impress there - That never a tinge of sorrow or care - Should ever its beauty efface, - To appear the while, - If I were a smile, a beautiful smile. - - If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh, - In the breast of a maiden fair; - I would speed me on angel wings above, - And lie like a beautiful wounded dove - At the feet of my Saviour there, - Till he heard my cry, - If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh. - - If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear, - In the eye of a Christian mild; - I would flow at the sight of keen distress, - As the dew-drop falls on the earth to bless, - To calm the heart from tumult wild - Were my task so dear, - If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear. - - But as I am neither a smile nor sigh, - Nor even a tear pearly bright; - But an humble poet singing the while, - The world of its sorrows and to beguile, - I’ll scatter my songs with delight - To the passer-by, - Till smiles take the place of the tear and sigh. - - * * * * * - - - - - A TRUE IRISH STORY. - - - BY REDWOOD FISHER. - - - “Erin-Go-Bragh,” the celebrated Irish song of an exiled - patriot—Why it was written by a Scotchman, with an interesting - account of Campbell the poet, and some account of Gen. A. - McC——n, the Irish Patriot. - - O, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger: - The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, - But I have no refuge from famine and danger, - A home and a country remain not for me. - - Ah! never again in the green shady bowers, - Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, - Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, - And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh. - _See Campbell’s Poems._ - -In the year 1810, a native of Philadelphia resided in the city of -Altona, and became intimately acquainted with Gen. McC——, who -commanded the Irish patriots at the battle of Ballanahench. - -The general was a real Irish gentleman, with a heart alive to every -refined sympathy of human nature, and warmly attached to Americans and -the American character. Never can it be forgotten by those who were so -happy as to share his confidence, how his fine manly countenance would -light up, as he listened to the answers his questions would draw forth, -when inquiring into the private characters of any of our revolutionary -sages or soldiers. - -Often would the tears start into his eyes, when, at the social bowl, -some unpublished anecdote would be elicited of the daring of Putnam, the -Hannibal-like qualities of Greene and Marion, the persevering bravery of -Rifle Morgan, or the daring of General Wayne in his battles with the -savage foe. - -His whole soul would appear to flash from his expressive eye, and he -would burst forth with the exclamation: “Oh, Erin, oh my beloved -country, from which, alas! I am banished, when will heroes such as these -arise and burst the bands by which thou art enslaved?—Will a just God -never hear thy prayers? Will the groans of enslaved millions, will the -agonies of a brave and generous people never reach thy throne, and call -down thy vengeance upon her persecutors? Excuse me,” he would say, -“excuse the companion of the Emmets, the McNevens, and others, who were -confined with me in Fort George, in Scotland, from whence I was -transported hither—banished! What a word! banished from the home of my -childhood—torn from the land where my forefathers dwelt!” On one -occasion of this kind, when the most of the company had retired, in his -own hospitable mansion, he invited his Philadelphia friend to remain and -hear the sad story of his life. - -He rose from the table, and going to a book-case, he produced a copy of -Campbell’s poems, and turning to the beautiful song of -Erin-go-bragh—“there,” said he, “is my history, I am the original -Erin-go-bragh. My countrymen, I am told, often inquire how it happened -that a Scotchman should write this national, this glowing account of the -wrongs of my devoted countrymen. Listen to me, and I will truly tell you -the whole story—that is, if I can tell it! If I can sufficiently -compose myself, you shall hear it; and should you survive me _you_ may -publish it, that the mystery may be solved and the world may know how -the heart of a Scotch poet was touched with the holy sympathy of our -common nature, and has placed on record, in the most exalted and -touching numbers, the feelings of an Irish exile. While confined in the -fortress of Fort George I was, without any knowledge of what was to be -my fate, conveyed to a seaport and put on board of an English frigate, -to be banished I knew not whither!” (The name of the port of embarkation -and of the vessel were given, but are not now remembered.) “On board of -this vessel was Campbell, the Scotch poet, then about to make his -pedestrian tour on the continent of Europe. It was not long before we -became intimately acquainted, and as you may suppose my whole heart was -filled with wo. - -“During our passage to this place, we had many and very close -conversations, pending which I poured into his attentive ear, in -impassioned language, the sad—the overwhelming woes of my countrymen, -and particularly my own hard fate. - -“We were not very long in reaching our destination—we landed together -at Altona, and what was my surprise to find my companion as destitute of -money as myself. I had been hurried away without the knowledge of my -friends, who had no intimation of my banishment, and coming from close -confinement, was not overburdened with a wardrobe, much less with the -necessary funds for decency, to say nothing of comfort. - -“Campbell was as poor as myself, and in this condition we entered a very -common inn, and were ushered into a room, not very well furnished, -having nothing but an oaken table and a very few common chairs. We -seated ourselves at opposite sides of the table, and gazed at each other -with no enviable feelings, when, on examining our exchequer, we found -the whole sum in the treasury amounted to no more than a crown. We -called for a candle, for it was growing dark, and ordered, in consonance -with our finances, a small bottle of rum. The light came, and you must -believe me when I tell you it was a dip candle stuck in a black bottle. -There was something so ludicrous in this, and in our general -circumstances, that we both indulged in a hearty laugh, applying -ourselves to the ‘Cruise Keen Lawn’ to keep up for a time the tone of -our feelings. - -“As our spirits were operated upon by the wretched liquor, which we -drank more to drown the rising sigh than for any partiality for it, -Campbell called for pen, ink, and paper. ‘Mr. McC.’ said he, ‘your story -has deeply interested me, and a kind of notion has arisen that I should -like to put it upon paper.’ - -“In a little time a miserable ink-horn was produced, and something which -was called paper, but it was so stained, and otherwise disfigured, it -seemed almost impossible, with the wretched pen that accompanied it, -that legible characters could be traced upon it; and I could but indulge -in my risible propensities, at the idea of any attempt to write with -such materials. - -“But the soul of the poet had been aroused, and he bade me again to -refresh his memory with my tale, which I did by replying to such -questions as he from time to time propounded to me. Every now and then -he would pause, and pledge me in the tin cup with which we were -furnished, for glasses there were none; when he would again commence to -write, and before he had finished, so potent were the draughts in which -we had indulged, that some of the last lines ran in any other direction -than parallel to each other. - -“At last he finished his labors, and the result of them was the song of -Erin-go-bragh, the very song printed in his works, and which I now hand -to you. - -“This is a true history of that inimitable production, more full of -feeling, in my opinion, than any thing he has ever written before or -since. - -“Read it to me,” said the general, “for if the king would withdraw the -act which banished me, the object nearest my Irish heart, I could not -read that song aloud!” - -Such was the story told to the writer, as nearly as it can be -remembered, after a lapse of thirty-eight years. There are yet living in -this city several persons who will recognize it, and an appeal to them -for the accuracy with which it is here told, would confirm it in every -particular; its only defect being the absence of power in the writer to -impart to his readers any thing of the enthusiasm with which General -McC. related it—nor the heart-stirring emotion ever exhibited by him -when it became, as it often did, the subject of conversation. - -As the reader may feel desirous to know what was subsequently the fate -of the real and original Erin-go-bragh, he may be told that his friends -found out where he was, remitted him funds, that he embarked in a -profitable pursuit, and ever after lived in comparative affluence. - -The story of his marriage is of so romantic a nature, that as he is now -no more, and there is therefore no impropriety in giving it publicity, -the writer is tempted to narrate it, as he has often listened to it from -the lips of the general, at his own hospitable board, in the presence of -his wife. - -“‘There she is,’ he would say, ‘she is my preserver!’ Campbell and -myself continued in our lodgings, and with Saturday night came the bill -of expenses, but alas! our means were exhausted. - -“When the bill for the first week was presented to us, ‘Well,’ said the -poet to me, ‘what do you propose to do, general?’ To which I replied, -‘Do!—what do I propose to do, did you ask me? I might put the same -question to you—but no! let an Irishman alone for getting out of a -scrape. I will call up the landlord, and tell him our story; adding, -that I expect ere long my relatives will find out whither I have been -sent, and it cannot be, but that in a short time funds will be sent to -me.’ Suiting the action to the word, I rang the bell, the landlord -appeared, and I gave him our story in a few words, for though a German, -he was well acquainted with our language. ‘An Irish general,’ said the -apparently incredulous Boniface, ‘and a Scotch poet!’ He left us with -the exclamation, and after he had gone, I proposed a walk, to which my -companion assenting, we strolled around the city of Altona, and returned -to our lodgings, without having met with any occurrence worthy of -remark. Being somewhat fatigued, and having no book, or other means of -occupation, we retired to our humble chamber, which had in it two single -beds, by no means luxurious. - -“Another week of anxiety passed away, and no advices reached me. The -poet and myself were in a considerable stew. Another bill was presented, -and to our great surprise we found our host very lenient indeed. He made -no remark when presenting it—simply asked me had I received my funds, -and on expressing my mortification that my reply must be in the -negative, he left me with a polite bow. - -“‘The accommodations,’ said the poet, ‘are here none of the best, but -our host is an honest fellow, we have inspired him with confidence, and -he appears content to wait!’ - -“I know not how it was, but I felt a strange sensation come over me, a -feeling that relief was at hand. So strongly was I impressed with this -belief that I communicated it to my friend, who laughed out at what he -called my Irish modest assurance. - -“‘Relief,’ he said, ‘may come when your relations hear of you, but my -word for it, that will not be soon. No, no, there is no relief, and I -must leave you for my continental tour.’ - -“He however yielded to my solicitation to walk, which was always my -resource, and as we left the house, I said to him, ‘Campbell, when we -come back I shall hear something.’ - -“‘If you do,’ said he, ‘it may be in the shape of a dun for our unpaid -bills.’ - -“‘You will see,’ I replied; when we sallied forth, and were gone perhaps -an hour. On returning to our room, judge of the sensation I experienced -when I discovered on the oaken table, a neat envelope directed, in a -female hand, ‘To Gen. A. McC.’ With an eagerness much more easily -conceived than described, I broke the seal—not a line of manuscript did -it contain—but for a moment my heart leaped with joy, for I found -within the envelope a Schleswig Holstein bank bill of twenty dollars! -Although my surprise was without bounds—‘Did I not tell you,’ said I to -my friend, ‘that relief was at hand?’ - -“Our treasury was now replenished, and we had a fruitful subject of -conversation. Addressing himself to his attentive listener, ‘I wish,’ -said the general, ‘you could have seen the stride with which I paced up -and down that room.’ Never in my whole eventful life had I such -commingled sensations. My pride was gratified, that I could now -discharge our indebtedness to our host, while I suffered the deepest -humiliation in the reflection, that I was considered an object of -charity by some unknown person! My curiosity was at fault to determine -who it could be, and I shall never forget Campbell’s looks as he -exclaimed, ‘You have conquered here, if you could not in Ireland. But it -is Cupid who has been your aid. The hand-writing, the neatness of the -billet, and its diminutive proportions, all declare it to be a -_billet-doux_. My word for it, your Irish complexion and figure have -taken captive the heart of some fair lady!’ This idea greatly added to -my embarrassment, but the pride of being enabled to discharge our -indebtedness, overcame for the moment all my other sensations, and -strutting up to the bell, I rang it with so much violence, that our -landlord ran up in an instant, and demanded to know what was the matter? -‘_Bring your bill_,’ said I, ‘that I may at once discharge it.’ I -thought this would be the most agreeable intelligence I could give him. -What, then, was our joint surprise, when he replied, ‘That, gentlemen, -is of no kind of importance; I pray of you give yourselves no uneasiness -on that score—you can pay me at your convenience.’ Saying this, he -departed, leaving my friend and myself more deeply involved in the -mystery which had not only supplied us with money, but which had also -placed us in such ample credit. - -“‘You see,’ said the poet, ‘you are known, and Cupid has taken you under -his special protection. Let us call for wine, and pledge him, and the -sweet _heart_ he has enlisted in your service, in a bottle of the very -best the house affords. Would for her sake and our own it were nectar!’ - -“The wine was ordered, and it was long before it made its appearance, -for it was a fluid unknown within the precincts of our habitation; but -it came at last, and though none of the best, never was the choicest -Burgundy drunk with greater _gusto_, or a toast given with a more hearty -glee than inspired us till we finished the second bottle. - -“Time now passed more pleasantly. The second Saturday brought another -note, addressed in the same hand-writing, containing a second bank-note -of the same amount. Finding our finances so much improved we took better -lodgings, and indulged ourselves with more of the creature comforts, for -the unknown benefactor found us out in our new abode, and continued the -supply, which enabled us to do so. - -“I think,” continued the general, “it was in the fourth week that I was -returning to my lodgings alone, in the dusk of the evening, when one of -the flag-stones of the pavement being somewhat raised above its fellows, -caused me to strike it with my foot, and being thus thrown from my -equilibrium, I fell against the porch of a dwelling, in which was seated -a lady, who did not attract my attention until I heard a voice, a sweet -voice, which inquired if I was hurt. A voice in my native tongue -uttering sounds of sympathy would have been accompanied with a charm, -come from whom it might; but imagine the ecstasy with which I was -thrilled when I heard the sweet voice which addressed me, and knew it to -be from the lips of a fair daughter of the Emerald Isle—in plain -English, an Irish woman. - -“‘I hope you are not hurt, general?’ - -“‘General!’ she knows me then, thought I. - -“‘Come,’ said she, ‘and rest yourself in the porch.’ - -“I could no longer contain myself. I had been dining out with an -acquaintance—for I had by this time made one or two acquaintances—and -the generous wine I had imbibed had opened my heart, alive as it was, to -any and every accent of kindness to an exile. I could contain myself no -longer. - -“Tell me,” said I, “by what blessed influence I have been thus brought -to listen to the sweet sympathizing accents of a country-woman, and one -who appears to know me: for if I mistake not, you addressed me by my -title—the sad, sad title which calls up all my afflictions, and revives -the sad fate of my companions in a strife which failed to benefit our -beloved country, proved fatal to one of the best men, and sent me hither -a wandering exile.” - -“There,” said he, pointing to his wife, then present, “there sits the -angel of mercy, who poured into my attentive ears—till they reached my -inmost soul—accents attuned to the most holy of all earthly -consolations: accents of sympathy for me, and the most noble and heroic -sentiments, applauding the course of our dear native land.” - -“Now,” said the lady, “I pray of you do not get into your heroics:” and -addressing their guest, she continued—“Receive what he says with many -allowances, for on this subject he is insane. I forgive him, for he has -suffered much in the cause of that dear land from which we both derive -our birth; and you who know him know that he never thinks or speaks of -dear Erin and his exile—of a spot for which he is ready to shed the -last drop of his blood—that his whole soul is not on fire. Of this he -may talk to you; and if you will listen to him he will do so till -to-morrow’s sun shall warm you with his meridian rays—but I forbid him -to talk of me and of our union.” - -“Forbid!” said the husband, “there is no such word in the vocabulary. I -will tell this to our friend, for you know I love him. I will tell him -how you courted me, and how you saved me, and made me what I am, your -happy husband.” - -To this the fond wife would reply, deprecating the continuance of his -narrative, which, however, did not prevent him from doing ample justice -to every incident which occurred; from the time of their first -accidental meeting as here related, until Hymen had sealed a union which -had made both husband and wife as happy as they could be under the -circumstances of his banishment. This was an eternal source of chagrin -and mortification to his heroic soul; and never could Ireland be named -within his hearing, that the tear did not start in his eye. - -The substance of his love affair was, that the lady of whom we have -spoken was an Irish lady, who had come when a young woman with her -parents to Altona, had married a young German, who did not long survive -their union. She was left in very comfortable circumstances, and hearing -from the keeper of the inn that a person was an inmate with him, calling -himself an Irish general, who had been banished, and who had not heard -from his friends, and was without funds, she had sent him the weekly -supply which so much astonished the poet and the general. The -innkeeper—knowing the lady to be an Irish woman—had gone to consult -her as to the probability of the general’s story, and had been told to -withhold nothing, and that she would be responsible. Often did she tell -the writer that she sent the money without any expectation of ever -seeing the recipient, who was represented to her as so fine-looking in -person, that he could not be an impostor. She believed him to be a -veritable Irishman in distress, and—that was enough—had she never seen -him, he was a countryman of hers, and had a right to any thing she could -do for him—happy to have been furnished with an object to call forth -her patriotic feelings, to exercise them in his behalf was her greatest -delight. Pure accident had given her a knowledge of who was the cause of -calling them forth, and his heart was touched and hers responded to his -love—they had been several years married when the writer became an -inmate with them—their home was the abode of peace and contentment, and -a hospitality that knew no limits. - -It was enough that their guest was an American to call forth all their -patriotic feelings: and many were there—besides the writer of this -imperfect sketch of so noble a character—that can join with the writer -in esteeming it a high honor, and a source of extreme gratification to -have been permitted to know and to enjoy the society of the “Original -Erin-go-bragh.” - -His sentence of banishment was remitted many years after the period here -spoken of; and he was permitted again to return to the home of his -childhood, and the land of his forefathers, for which he had bled, and -for the redemption of which he was ever ready to lay down his life—but -it was not so ordered. He died in peace, and was buried in the tomb of -his ancestors. General Anthony McCann was the veritable and original -“Erin-go-bragh.” - - * * * * * - - - - - TO MISS LIGHT UNDERWOOD. - - - BY J. R. BARRICK. - - - I have been out this lovely eve, - With Nature’s self to muse, - While pleasant thoughts fell gently on - My heart like falling dews; - And every star and every flower - That gave their presence to the hour, - And every voice of melody, - Seemed laden with sweet thoughts of thee. - - I mused upon thy deep, high soul - Of intellect and grace: - I mused on all the loveliness - Of thy fair form and face: - And thy bright smile unto my dreams - Came stealing like the glow that beams - From sky and star, in waves of light - Upon the far, dim shades of night. - - With every tone of moonlight sound, - With every breeze of balm, - With every fountain, lake and stream, - So beautiful and calm, - With every cloud, with every star, - And every sound borne from afar, - Thy voice seemed mingling with the whole, - Of Music’s self the life and soul. - - And as I gazed up to the sky, - And on the earth below, - My thoughts went back a few brief months, - ’Mid saddening scenes of wo: - When thou wert lost in rayless night, - A wanderer from the sense of sight, - When Nature’s self had ceased to cheer - Thy high heart with her beauty dear, - - I mused on the long night of wo - That thou wert doomed to share, - When not a hope was left to beam - Upon thy dark despair: - I thought how sad it was to be - From earth and sky shut out like thee, - To pine beneath a cloud of gloom, - Hung o’er thee, like a raven’s plume. - - But now thou art restored again, - To former sense of sight, - And lookest back with fearful gaze - On that remembered night: - And happy in thy mind’s high powers - Thou rangest Thought’s Elysian bowers, - And canst behold with joyous eyes, - The wide, green earth, and free blue skies. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE CONDOR HUNT.[2] - - - BY LIEUT. WM. F. LYNCH. - - -In each division of the American Continent, nature seems to have carried -on her operations with boundless magnificence, and upon a gigantic -scale. Chateaubriand, reclining by his watch-fire on the banks of the -Niagara, where the thunders of its cataract were only interrupted by the -startling yell of the Iroquois, could yet _feel_, in the midst of -tumult, the amazing silence and solitude of the North American forest. -And the hardy mariner, whose bark has escaped the perils of the Southern -sea, and is wafted along the western coast of Chili, looks with no less -admiration upon the fertile plains gradually receding into the swell of -the Andes, which literally lifts its smoking craters and towering -eminences above the clouds, and upon its snow-capped and sunny summits, -scarcely feels the undulations of the storms which gather and burst -around its waist. - -With the stars and stripes of the Union floating from the mast-head of -our frigate, we were sailing along that part of the coast of Chili, -where the waving line of the Andes rounds within a short distance of the -Pacific, and were unusually solicitous, after the perils and privations -of a tempestuous sea-voyage, to tread upon a soil on which nature, from -her horn of abundance, has poured forth the choicest of her gifts. - -Older sailors than ourselves had spoken of the generous hospitality of -the Spanish colonists, and there were historical associations connected -with this favored land, well calculated to render a visit agreeable. Who -that has been nurtured in the lap of freedom, would not long to look -upon the only race of native people on the western continent who had -never been subdued, and who, to this day, tread the soil of their -forefathers unvanquished and invincible? - -The Araucanians, who inhabit the southern portion of this delightful -country, like the Saxons of the European continent, are the only native -race who have successfully repelled every invader, and who, happier than -the Saxon, still rejoice in their unbridled freedom. - -Neither Diego Almagro, with his brutal treachery, nor Valverde, with his -unsparing cruelty, could ever subdue or intimidate a race of freemen -whose liberties still survive the frequent convulsions by which they -have been agitated. The flame of freedom among this gallant people, like -the volcanoes of their native mountains, seems destined to burn on for -ever unextinguished. But I proposed to speak of the Condor Hunt on the -plains of Chili. - -Every one has heard of the Condor or Great Vulture of the Andes, -rivaling in natural history, the fabled feats of the Roc of Sinbad. Even -the genius of Humboldt has failed to strip this giant bird of its -time-honored renown, and his effort to reduce the Chilian Condor to the -level of the Lammergyer of the Alps, is a signal failure. - -Although he has divested this mountain-bird of all its fictitious -attributes, and stripped a goodly portion of romantic narrative of its -wildest imagery, yet the Condor still floats in the solitude of the -higher heavens, the monarch of the feathered race. The favorite -abiding-place of this formidable bird is along a chain of mountains in -our southern continent, whose summits, lifted far above the clouds, are -robed in snow, which a torrid sun may kiss but never melt. Above all -animal life, and beyond the limit of even mountain vegetation, these -birds delight to dwell, inhaling an air too highly attenuated to be -endured by other than creatures peculiarly adapted to it. From the crown -of these immense elevations they slowly and lazily unfold their sweeping -pinions, and wheeling in wide and ascending circles, they soar upward -into the dark blue vault of heaven, until their great bulk diminishes to -the merest speck, or is entirely lost to the aching sight of the -observer. - - “All day thy wings have fanned, - At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, - Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, - Though the dark night is near. - There is a Power whose care - Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— - The desert and illimitable air— - Lone wandering—but not lost. - Thou art gone—the abyss of heaven - Hath swallowed up thy form.” - -In those pure fields of ether, unvisited even by the thunder-cloud, -regions which may be regarded as his own exclusive domain, the Condor -delights to sail, and with piercing glance survey the surface of the -earth, toward which he never stoops but at the call of hunger. Surely -this power to waft and to sustain himself in the loftiest regions of the -air—the ability to endure, uninjured, the exceeding cold attendant upon -such remoteness from the earth, and to breathe with ease in an -atmosphere of such extreme rarity—together with the keenness of sight -that, from such vast heights can minutely scan the objects beneath, as -well as the formidable powers of this bird, when the herds are scattered -before him; were sufficiently admirable to entitle the Condor to our -attention, and to give us promise of goodly sport in the approaching -Condor or Lasso Hunt. - -A large landed proprietor, a descendant of one of the early Spanish -patentees, to whom we had been indebted for abundant supplies of fruit -and provisions, as well as for numberless civilities, conveyed to us at -length the welcome tidings that the Condor, numerous as the sands of the -shore had stooped from his sublime domain, to the base of the mountain, -and that the hunt would commence in the morning. - -The sun had scarcely risen in the heavens, when our party of from -twenty-five to thirty, sprang from the boats to the beach. The plain -before us ran in a gently ascending slope to the base of the hill about -one mile distant. The hunt was up—and the field in the distance was -dotted with scampering herds of cattle and groups of horsemen, mingled -in one dusty mêlée, the sight of which lent wings to our speed, as -vaulting into the deep Spanish saddles, prepared by our worthy host, we -sprang onward to the field of blood. Impelled by the cravings of -resistless appetite, the Condor, regardless of danger, pressed forward -to assail the herds of the plain; while the watchmen, having sounded the -alarm, the numerous population turned out, as well to protect their -cattle, as to hunt the mountain-bird—the Chilian’s manly pastime. - -From the midst of a canopy of dust, spread wide over the plain, there -came forth sounds of noisy conflict, resembling the heady current of a -“foughten field;” and mountain and hill-side were shaken by the shouts -of the hunters, the tramp of scampering horsemen, and the bellowing of -enraged and affrighted cattle. The Condor, alone, rapid as the cassowary -of the desert, pursued in silence his destined prey. As we rapidly -approached, we perceived one of the herd bursting from the western -extremity of the cloud of dust, lashing his bleeding side with his tail, -and his blood-shotten eyes starting wildly from their sockets, while -foaming at the mouth, he bellowed loudly with pain. With a wonderful -unity of purpose, he alone was closely pursued by the whole flock of -birds, who, disregarding the other animals, seemed to follow, as with a -single will, this stricken one, who was at the same time cautiously -avoided by his terrified companions. Like all gregarious birds, the -Condor appeared to have a leader, who, rushing at their head, into the -midst of the herd, pounced with his greedy beak upon this devoted -animal, the fattest and the sleekest of the multitude, and tore a piece -of flesh from his side. Attracted by the sight or the scent of blood, -the whole flock, like a brood of harpies, joined in the mad pursuit. -Swift of foot as the fleetest racer, they kept close to his side, ever -and anon striking with unerring sagacity at his eyes. - -Tell me not of the gladiators of martial Rome, or of the Tauridors of -modern Seville—they were pastimes for children, compared with the -thrilling excitement of the Condor Hunt. Away they fled, and away we -hurried in the chase. A thousand horsemen were wheeling rapidly in -pursuit—a thousand cattle, terrified and frantic, swept over the -plain—and a thousand Condors mingled in the crowd—until, by the rapid -movement, herd and Condor were again hidden from the view in clouds of -dust. A loud shout soon after attracted us to the scene of conflict. -Bursting forth once again from the cloud of dust into which he had -vainly rushed, the devoted animal plunged madly forward, yet more -closely followed by the whole field of vultures. Black with dust, and -streaming with blood from a hundred wounds inflicted by the remorseless -beaks of his pursuers, he still fled onward, but with diminished speed. -As if looking to man for assistance in his extremity, he rushed through -the midst of our cavalcade, and the Condor, regardless of our presence, -hung upon his side, or followed in his foot-prints. - -From the altered movement of the animal after he had passed us, with his -head on high, plunging and blundering over the uneven ground, it was -evident that his course was no longer directed by sight. His eyes were -gone—they had been torn from their bleeding sockets! - -Wearied and panting, his tongue hangs from his mouth, and every thirsty -beak is upon it. Still onward he flies, hopeful of escape—and onward -presses the Condor, secure of his prey. The animal now appeared to be -dashing for the water, but his declining speed and unequal step rendered -it doubtful whether he could reach it. He seemed suddenly to despair of -doing so, for wheeling round with one last and desperate effort, he -gathered himself up in the fullness of his remaining strength, and -rushed into the midst of the herd, as if he sought by mingling in the -living mass, to divert the attention of his pursuers. But the mark and -the scent of blood was upon him, and on the track of blood the Condor is -untiring and relentless. Beast and bird once again were lost to view -beneath the curtain of dust which overspread the trembling plain. But, -in a few moments, pursued by every bird, he broke from the midst of the -herd, and made a few desperate plunges toward the water, and reeling -onward, fell at length bleeding and exhausted, on the very margin of the -sea! - - “Sternitur exanimisque tremens procumbit humis bos.” - -In an instant he was buried up among his pursuers, his flesh torn off, -yet quivering, by hungry beaks, and his smoking entrails trailed upon -the ground. In the distance, on the verge of the horizon, the last of -the herd might still be discerned, flying upon the wings of the wind -from the fate of their companion. - -Our host gave the signal, and we hurried to the spot to rescue the -carcass, with a view to visit upon the Condor vengeance for the mischief -he had done, and the blood he had spilled. At our near approach they -took reluctantly and lazily to wing, and wheeling in oblique circles, -they were soon seen floating over the crest of the mountain, dark specks -in the firmament. The hunters, prepared with stakes about seven feet in -length, commenced driving them in the ground, a few inches apart, and in -a circular form around the carcass, leaving a small space open. As soon -as we retired from the spot, the birds descended upon the plain, and -entering the inclosure, renewed their feast, and again took wing. In the -course of a few hours, the huntsmen returned, and throwing into the pen -an additional supply of food, drove down other stakes in the open space, -leaving just sufficient room for the admission of the Condor. - -The birds, more numerous than ever, returned to their filthy banquet. - -Meanwhile, having refreshed our horses, and partaken of the hospitality -of our worthy host, we once more took the field for vengeance on the -gorged and lazy foe. As the wings of these birds have a sweep of -seventeen feet, they are not readily unfurled, so that when the Condor -has alighted on the plain, he is only enabled to rise by running over a -space of fifteen or twenty rods, and gradually gathering wind to lift -himself on high. While in the midst of their ravenous feast, a few of -the hunters warily approached and closed the opening; and thus, unable -to soar aloft from a spot so confined and crowded, the Condors were -captive. But a Chilian scorns thus to slay a foe. Armed with a lasso, -each of the natives sits upon his horse, eagerly awaiting the turning -loose of half a dozen birds from the inclosure. - -They are out—and away scamper the Condor, fleet as the winds of -heaven—and away, in rapid pursuit, wheels the mounted Chilian, swinging -around his head the noose of the unerring lasso, which, falling upon the -neck of the bird, makes him captive. The line is played out, and away -sweeps the powerful bird, and away the practiced horseman after him. -Springing upward, the Condor now unfolds his wings and flutters in such -width of circle as the rope will permit—and now shoots perpendicularly -upward—and now falls headlong, and is trailed exhausted on the ground. - -The lengthened shadows of evening had fallen along the plain before the -sport was up, and the last Condor was captured. We returned to our ship, -well pleased with the entertainment, and swinging into our hammocks sunk -into deep slumber, for which the exercise of the day had prepared -us—but our sleep was not too sound for refreshing visitations from -friends far away, - - “O’er the glad waters of the dark blue sea.” - ------ - -[2] From Naval Life, published by Chas. Scribner, N. Y. - - * * * * * - - - - - BEAUTIE. - - - BY MRS. E. J. EAMES. - - - Thou wert a worship in the ages olden, - Thou bright-veiled image of divinity; - Crowned with such gleams, imperial and golden, - As Phidias gave to Immortality! - A type exquisite of the pure Ideal, - Forth shadowed in perfect loveliness— - Embodied and existent in the Real, - A peerless shape to kneel before, and bless! - - With the world’s childhood didst thou spring to being! - A thing of light!—a _felt_ divinity! - A stainless spirit, born of Love undying, - Nurst in that Eden of an earlier day. - Thence wandering on the morn of thy _awakening_, - Like a Dream-vision through the world didst go, - Filling its darkness with bright things, and making - The wild waste blossom, and the desert glow. - - Still o’er the Earth, thy shining foot-prints tarry, - Upon the mountain-tops thy step yet strays; - Through the rich woods thy rainbow plume floats airy, - And on the sea thy form of glory plays! - Thy purple pinions fan the brow of morning; - Thy sun-bright splendors on the noonday rest, - Eve wears the silvery veil of thy adorning, - And night by thee in queenly robes is drest. - - Oh, Beautie! still doth thy bright spirit linger - In the green vale where Jove was nurst of old: - Where the Babe Thunderer listened to the singer - Of “many-fountained Ida,” as ’tis told! - Still hauntest thou the violet-crowned city— - The Trojan Mountain, and the Cretan Hill? - Wanders thy soul yet, in the Syren’s ditty— - Speaks forth thy heart from the Lost Glory still? - - We have rare legends of thy marvelous presence— - In Egypt’s Queen and bright Zenobia’s form; - In lovelorn Sappho thrilled thine airiest essence— - In proud Aspasia’s intellectual charm! - Nor was thy soul (through Raphael’s pencil) wanting - In Fornarina’s soft seraphic face! - And, thanks to Petrarch, Laura’s form is haunting - Our hearts with dreams of rare and breathing grace. - - Once more! thou art the well-beloved of _Nature_! - Thine empire sweet, is o’er the grand old earth; - And well thy soft hand printeth on each feature - The brightness of thine own Immortal birth! - Thou touchest with rich hues and scents the blossom; - With emerald lines thou pencilest each leaf; - Pearlest with dew the lonely flower-bells bosom, - And flingest thy glory o’er the golden sheaf. - - Joy to thy presence, all-pervading spirit! - Well may we worship at thy magic shrine; - There is _no gift_ that mortals may inherit - So favored and god-blest, and dear as thine. - And still to _me_, thy worshiper, oh, Beautie! - Come as a guest divine—an angel-friend; - Give me to see thee, in each darker duty, - And radiate my life-path to the end! - - * * * * * - - - - - WHAT GLORY COSTS THE NATION. - - -In the February number, we gave a short extract from Upham’s Manual of -Peace, in relation to the cost of the Army and Navy of the United -States. That article has brought out an officer of the Navy, with the -following—in which we get abuse for facts, and sharp sentences for -figures. We can stand a moderate amount of flaying without blubbering, -and have no faith in the theory that a drop of ink will raise a blister, -except upon persons exceedingly thin-skinned. But our correspondent, who -takes a narrow view of both _time and figures_, appears to think the -question a new one, and settled by his article, and both Upham and -Graham demolished. - -“Sir,—Freedom of speech, and freedom of the press, are among the best -privileges guarantied by a republican form of government; but freedom of -speech is not to be taken as a license to state for fact what is not -true without possibility of contradiction. Nor is freedom of speech to -be construed into a privilege of saying sharp or impertinent and -impudent things with impunity. It has been said as a rule, ‘joke as much -as you please, but never trespass on fact,’ which means, when you fall -into an error, you are bound to correct it. - -“With these notions fresh upon me, I venture to point out an erroneous -statement in the first page of the February number of Graham, which is -calculated to prejudice a large number of people against the Navy and -Army of the country. Graham (Upham) states that the cost of maintaining -the Army and Navy of the United States is equal to eighty per cent., -that is, four-fifths of the entire revenue. This must strike every -reflecting mind to be an expense so enormous as to render it desirable -to be rid of both Army and Navy. But the statement is entirely -erroneous, as a moment’s thought will show. If four-fifths of the -revenue are absorbed in maintaining the Army and Navy, only one fifth is -left to meet the expense of the ‘civil list,’ president and officers of -the cabinet, foreign ministers and consuls, custom-house officers, -light-houses, etc. etc. - - “The total expenditure for the Navy and - Marine Corps, for the fiscal year ending - June 30, 1850, was $5,523,722 83 - The expenditure for the Army about 6,476,278 17 - —————— - Total, $12,000,000 00 - - The revenue for the same period was $47,421,748 90 - -“So that in round numbers, the expense of the Army and Navy together, is -about one-fourth, or twenty-five per cent. of the revenue instead of 80 -per cent., as stated, which is an excess of at least 55 per cent. - -“It should not be forgotten, however, that twenty-five per cent. of the -whole revenue for military establishments is a large proportion; but -without these establishments, it is possible we might soon be entirely -without revenue, because our commerce, without a navy, would be open to -the depredation of pirates of all nations, and might be crippled if not -totally destroyed. - -“The expense of keeping a dog may be considerable; but if that dog -protects us from thieves and burglars, the money spent for his -maintenance may be regarded as money well laid out. - -“The expense of the military establishments is not their fault or sin; -but the evil is to be attributed to the ignorance of mankind. When the -whole world becomes educated and instructed, all wars will be conducted -with pen and ink, and aid of arithmetic. Sensible men, while in their -senses, never cut each other’s throats for differences of opinion; they -argue the difference; and he who has most logic and good sense, is -always willing to ‘do to others as he would others should do unto him.’ - -“Therefore, friend Graham (Upham) continue to teach your readers TRUTH, -and they will acquire so strong a sense of justice, as to do away with -any necessity for fighting among themselves or against others.” - -Well, we will “_continue_ to teach our readers _truth_,” and the advice -points a moral. Navy _officers are bad logicians_!—but are a pretty -good set of fellows so long as they are paid well for the fighting that -_may be done_, in the next generation; and are allowed to say -themselves, that “the expense of the military establishments is to be -attributed to the ignorance of mankind,” without using any means to -enlighten mankind upon the subject. - -Since our correspondent finds fault with us, or Upham, about his facts -and figures, we give him the following from a gentleman[3] who has paid -some attention to the matter, and ask him to look the question in the -face fairly, and answer the arguments and figures, and if he makes out -but a partial case, we will publish his reply, however sharp and acrid. - -I do not propose to dwell upon the immense cost of War itself. That will -be present to the minds of all, in the mountainous accumulations of -debt, piled like Ossa upon Pelion, with which Europe is pressed to the -earth. According to the most recent tables to which I have had access, -the public debt of the different European States, so far as it is known, -amounts to the terrific sum of $6,387,000,000, all of this the growth of -War! It is said that there are throughout these states, 17,900,000 -paupers, or persons subsisting at the expense of the country, without -contributing to its resources. If these millions of the public debt, -forming only a part of what has been wasted in War, could be apportioned -among these poor, it would give to each of them $375, a sum which would -place all above want, and which is about equal to the average value of -the property of each inhabitant of Massachusetts. - -The public debt of Great Britain reached in 1839 to $4,265,000,000, the -growth of War since 1688! This amount is nearly equal to the sum-total, -according to the calculations of Humboldt, of all the treasures which -have been reaped from the harvest of gold and silver in the mines of -Spanish America, including Mexico and Peru, since the first discovery of -our hemisphere by Christopher Columbus! It is much larger than the mass -of all precious metals, which at this moment form the circulating medium -of the world! It is sometimes rashly said by those who have given little -attention to this subject, that all this expenditure was widely -distributed, and therefore beneficial to the people; but this apology -does not bear in mind that it was not bestowed in any productive -industry, or on any _useful_ object. The magnitude of this waste will -appear by a contrast with other expenditures; the aggregate capital of -all the joint stock companies in England, of which there was any known -record in 1842, embracing canals, docks, bridges, insurance companies, -banks, gas-lights, water, mines, railways, and other miscellaneous -objects, was about $835,000,000; a sum which has been devoted to the -welfare of the people, but how much less in amount than the War Debt! -For the six years ending in 1836, the average payment for the interest -on this debt was about $140,000,000 annually. If we add to this sum, -$60,000,000 during this same period paid annually to the army, navy and -ordnance, we shall have $200,000,000 as the annual tax of the English -people, to pay for former wars and to prepare for new. During this same -period there was an annual appropriation of only $20,000,000 for all the -civil purposes of the Government. It thus appears that _War_ absorbed -ninety cents of every dollar that was pressed by heavy taxation from the -English people, who almost seem to sweat blood! What fabulous monster, -or chimera dire, ever raged with a maw so ravenous? The remaining ten -cents sufficed to maintain the splendor of the throne, the -administration of justice, and the diplomatic relations with foreign -powers, in short, all the proper objects of a Christian State.[4] - -Thus much for the general cost of War. Let us now look exclusively at -the _Preparations for War in time of peace_. It is one of the miseries -of War, that, even in peace, its evils continue to be felt by the world, -beyond any other evils by which poor suffering Humanity is oppressed. If -Bellona withdraws from the field, we only lose the sight of her flaming -torches; the bay of her dogs is heard on the mountains, and civilized -man thinks to find protection from their sudden fury, only by inclosing -himself in the barbarous armor of battle. At this moment the Christian -nations, worshiping a symbol of common brotherhood, live as in -entrenched camps in which they keep armed watch, to prevent surprise -from each other. Recognizing the _custom_ of War as a proper Arbiter of -Justice, they hold themselves perpetually ready for the bloody umpirage. - -It is difficult, if not impossible, to arrive at any exact estimate of -the cost of these preparations, ranging under four different heads; the -Standing Army; the Navy; the Fortifications and Arsenals; and the -Militia or irregular troops. - -The number of soldiers now affecting to keep the peace of European -Christendom, as a _Standing Army_, without counting the Navy, is upward -of two millions. Some estimates place it as high as three millions. The -army of Great Britain exceeds 300,000 men; that of France 350,000; that -of Russia 730,000, and is reckoned by some as high as 1,000,000; that of -Austria 275,000; that of Prussia 150,000. Taking the smaller number, -suppose these two millions to require for their annual support an -average sum of only $150 each, the result would be $300,000,000, for -their sustenance alone; and reckoning one officer to ten soldiers, and -allowing to each of the latter an English shilling a day, or $87 a year, -for wages, and to the former an average salary of $500 a year, we should -have for the pay of the whole no less than $256,000,000, or an appalling -sum-total for both sustenance and pay of $556,000,000. If the same -calculation be made, supposing the forces to amount to three millions, -the sum-total will be $835,000,000! But to this enormous sum another -still more enormous must be added on account of the loss sustained by -the withdrawal of two millions of hardy, healthy men, in the bloom of -life, from useful, productive labor. It is supposed that it costs an -average sum of $500 to rear a soldier; and that the value of his labor, -if devoted to useful objects, would be $150 a year. The Christian -Powers, therefore, in setting apart two millions of men, as soldiers, -sustain a loss of $1,000,000,000 on account of their training; and -$300,000,000 annually, on account of their labor, in addition to the -millions already mentioned as annually expended for sustenance and pay. -So much for the cost of the standing army of European Christendom in -time of Peace. - -Glance now at the _Navy_ of European Christendom. The Royal Navy of -Great Britain consists at present of 557 ships of all classes; but -deducting such as are used for convict ships, floating chapels, coal -depots, the efficient navy consists of 88 sail of the line; 109 -frigates; 190 small frigates, corvettes, brigs and cutters, including -packets; 65 steamers of various sizes; 3 troop-ships and yachts; in all -455 ships. Of these there were in commission in 1839, 190 ships, -carrying in all 4,202 guns. The number of hands employed was 34,465. The -Navy of France, though not comparable in size with that of England, is -of vast force. By royal ordinance of 1st January, 1837, it was fixed in -time of peace at 40 ships of the line, 50 frigates, 40 steamers, and 190 -smaller vessels; and the amount of crews in 1839, was 20,317. The -Russian Navy consists of two large fleets in the Gulf of Finland and the -Black Sea; but the exact amount of their force and their available -resources has been a subject of dispute among naval men and politicians. -Some idea of the size of the navy may be derived from the number of -hands employed. The crews of the Baltic fleet amounted in 1837, to not -less than 30,800 men; and those of the fleet in the Black Sea to 19,800, -or altogether 50,600. The Austrian Navy consisted in 1837, of 8 ships of -the line, 8 frigates, 4 sloops, 6 brigs, 7 schooners or galleys, and a -number of smaller vessels; the number of men in its service in 1839, was -4,547. The Navy of Denmark consisted at the close of 1837, of 7 ships of -the line, 7 frigates, 5 sloops, 6 brigs, 3 schooners, 5 cutters, 58 -gun-boats, 6 gun-rafts, and 3 bomb-vessels, requiring about 6,500 men to -man them. The Navy of Sweden and Norway consisted recently of 238 -gun-boats, 11 ships of the line, 8 frigates, 4 corvettes, 6 brigs, with -several smaller vessels. The Navy of Greece consists of 32 ships of war, -carrying 190 guns, and 2,400 men. The Navy of Holland in 1839 consisted -of 8 ships of the line, 21 frigates, 15 corvettes, 21 brigs, and 95 -gun-boats. Of the immense cost of all these mighty Preparations for War, -it is impossible to give any accurate idea. But we may lament that -means, so gigantic, should be applied by European Christendom to the -erection in time of Peace, of such superfluous wooden walls! - -In the _Fortifications and Arsenals_ of Europe, crowning every height, -commanding every valley, and frowning over every plain and every sea, -wealth beyond calculation has been sunk. Who can tell the immense sums -that have been expended in hollowing out, for the purposes of War, the -living rock of Gibraltar? Who can calculate the cost of all the -Preparations at Woolwich, its 27,000 cannons, and its hundreds of -thousands of small arms? France alone contains upward of one hundred and -twenty fortified places. And it is supposed that the yet unfinished -fortifications of Paris have cost upward of _fifty millions of dollars_! - -The cost of the _Militia_ or irregular troops, the Yeomanry of England, -the National Guards of Paris, and the _Landwehr_ and _Landsturm_ of -Prussia, must add other incalculable sums to these enormous amounts. - -Turn now to the _United States_, separated by a broad ocean from -immediate contact with the great powers of Christendom, bound by -treaties of amity and commerce with all the nations of the earth; -connected with all by the strong ties of mutual interest; and professing -a devotion to the principles of Peace. Are the Treaties of Amity mere -words? Are the relations of commerce and mutual interest mere things of -a day? Are the professions of Peace vain? Else why not repose in quiet, -unvexed by Preparations for War? - -Enormous as are the expenses of this character in Europe, those in our -own country are still greater in proportion to the other expenditures of -the Federal Government. - -It appears that the average _annual_ expenditure of the Federal -Government for the six years ending with 1840, exclusive of payments on -account of debt, were $26,474,892. Of this sum the average appropriation -each year for military and naval purposes amounted to $21,328,903, being -eighty per cent. of the whole amount! Yes; of all the annual -appropriations by the Federal Government, eighty cents in every dollar -were applied in this irrational and unproductive manner. The remaining -twenty cents sufficed to maintain the Government in all its branches, -Executive, Legislative, and Judicial, the administration of justice, our -relations with foreign nations, the post-office and all the -light-houses, which—in happy useful contrast with any forts—shed their -cheerful signals over the rough waves beating upon our long and indented -coast, from the bay of Fundy to the mouth of the Mississippi. A table of -the relative expenditure of nations, for military Preparations in time -of Peace, exclusive of payments on account of the debts, presents -results which will surprise the advocates of economy in our country. -These are in proportion to the whole expenditure of Government: - -In Austria, as 33 per cent., - -In France, as 38 per cent., - -In Prussia, as 44 per cent., - -In Great Britain, as 74 per cent., - -In the United States, as 80 per cent.![5] - -To this magnificent waste by the Federal Government, may be added the -still larger and equally superfluous expenses of the Militia throughout -the country, placed recently by a candid and able writer, at $50,000,000 -a year![6] - -By a table[7] of the expenditures of the United States, exclusive of -payments on account of the Public Debt, it appears, that, _in the -fifty-three years from the formation of our present Government_, from -1789 down to 1843, $246,620,055 have been expended for civil purposes, -comprehending the executive, the legislature, the judiciary, the post -office, light-houses, and intercourse with foreign governments. During -this same period $368,626,594 have been devoted to the military -establishment, and $170,437,684 to the naval establishment; the two -forming an aggregate of $538,964,278. Deducting from this sum the -appropriations during three years of war, and we shall find that more -than _four hundred millions_ were absorbed by vain Preparations in time -of peace for War. Add to this amount a moderate sum for the expenses of -the Militia during the same period, which, as we have already seen, have -been placed recently at $50,000,000 a year; for the past years we may -take an average of $25,000,000; and we shall have the enormous sum of -$1,335,000,000 to be added to the $400,000,000; the whole amounting to -_seventeen hundred and thirty-five millions_ of dollars, a sum beyond -the conception of human faculties, sunk under the sanction of the -Government of the United States in mere _peaceful Preparations for War_; -more than _seven times_ as much as was dedicated by the Government, -during the same period, to all other purposes whatsoever! - -From this serried array of figures the mind instinctively retreats. If -we examine them from a nearer point of view, and, selecting some -particular part, compare it with the figures representing other -interests in the community, they will present a front still more dread. -Let us attempt the comparison. - -Within a short distance of this city (Boston) stands an institution of -learning, which was one of the earliest cares of the early forefathers -of the country, the conscientious Puritans. Favored child of an age of -trial and struggle, carefully nursed through a period of hardship and -anxiety, endowed at that time by the oblations of men like Harvard, -sustained from its first foundation by the paternal arm of the -Commonwealth, by a constant succession of munificent bequests and by the -prayers of all good men, the University of Cambridge now invites our -homage as the most ancient, the most interesting, and the most important -seat of learning in the land; possessing the oldest and most valuable -library, one of the largest museums of mineralogy and natural history—a -School of Law, which annually receives into its bosom more than one -hundred and fifty sons from all parts of the Union, where they listen to -instruction from professors whose names have become among the most -valuable possessions of the land—a School of Divinity, the nurse of -true learning and piety—one of the largest and most flourishing Schools -of Medicine in the country—besides these, a general body of teachers, -twenty-seven in number, many of whose names help to keep the name of the -country respectable in every part of the globe, where science, learning, -and taste are cherished—the whole presided over at this moment by a -gentleman, early distinguished in public life by his unconquerable -energies and his masculine eloquence, at a later period, by the -unsurpassed ability with which he administered the affairs of our city, -and now in a green old age, full of years and honor, preparing to lay -down his present high trust.[8] Such is Harvard University; and as one -of the humblest of her children, happy in the recollection of a youth -nurtured in her classic retreats, I cannot allude to her without an -expression of filial affection and respect. - -It appears from the last Report of the Treasurer, that the whole -available property of the University, the various accumulations of more -than two centuries of generosity, amounts to $703,175. - -Change the scene, and cast your eyes upon another object. There now -swings idly at her moorings, in this harbor, a ship of the line, the -Ohio, carrying ninety guns, finished as late as 1836 for $547,888; -repaired only two years after, in 1838, for $223,012; with an armament -which has cost $53,945; making an amount of $834,845,[9] as the actual -cost at this moment of that single ship; more than $100,000 beyond all -the available accumulations of the richest and most ancient seat of -learning in the land! Choose ye, my fellow-citizens of a Christian -state, between the two caskets—that wherein is the loveliness of -knowledge and truth, or that which contains the carrion death. - -I refer thus particularly to the Ohio, because she happens to be in our -waters. But in so doing I do not take the strongest case afforded by our -Navy. Other ships have absorbed still larger sums. The expense of the -Delaware in 1842, had been _one million and fifty-one thousand dollars_. - -Pursue the comparison still further. The expenditures of the University -during the last year, for the general purposes of the College, the -instruction of the Under-graduates, and for the Schools of Law and -Divinity, amount to $46,949. The cost of the Ohio for one year in -service, in salaries, wages, and provisions, is $220,000; being $175,000 -more than the annual expenditures of the University; more than _four -times_ as much. In other words, for the annual sum which is lavished on -one ship of the line, _four_ institutions, like Harvard University, -might be sustained throughout the country! - -Still further let us pursue the comparison. The pay of the Captain of a -ship like the Ohio, is $4,500 when in service; $3,500, when on leave of -absence, or off duty. The salary of the President of the Harvard -University is $2,205; without leave of absence, and never being off -duty! - -If the large endowments of Harvard University are dwarfed by a -comparison with the expense of a single ship of the line, how much more -must it be so with those of other institutions of learning and -beneficence, less favored by the bounty of many generations. The average -cost of a sloop of war is $315,000; more, probably, than all the -endowments of those twin stars of learning in the Western part of -Massachusetts, the Colleges at Williamstown and Amherst, and of that -single star in the East, the guide to many ingenuous youth, the Seminary -at Andover. The yearly cost of a sloop of war in service is above -$50,000; more than the annual expenditures of these three institutions -combined. - -I might press the comparison with other institutions of Beneficence, -with the annual expenditures for the Blind—that noble and successful -charity, which has shed true lustre upon our Commonwealth—amounting to -$12,000; and the annual expenditures for the Insane of the Commonwealth, -another charity dear to humanity, amounting to $27,844. - -Take all the Institutions of Learning and Beneficence, the precious -jewels of the Commonwealth, the schools, colleges, hospitals and -asylums, and the sums, by which they have been purchased and preserved, -are trivial and beggarly, compared with the treasures squandered within -the borders of Massachusetts, in vain preparations for War. There is the -Navy Yard at Charleston, with its stores on hand, all costing -$4,741,000; the Fortifications in the harbors of Massachusetts, in which -incalculable sums have been already sunk, and in which it is now -proposed to sink $3,853,000 more;[10] and besides the Arsenal at -Springfield, containing in 1842, 175,118 muskets, valued at -$2,999,998,[11] and which is fed by an annual appropriation of about -$200,000; but whose highest value will ever be, in the judgment of all -lovers of truth, that it inspired a poem, which in its influence shall -be mightier than a battle, and shall endure when arsenals and -fortifications have crumbled to the earth. Some of the verses of this -Psalm of Peace may happily relieve the detail of statistics, while they -blend with my argument. - - Were half the power that fills the world with terror, - Were half the wealth, bestowed on camp and courts, - Given to redeem the human mind from error, - There were no need of arsenals and forts. - - The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred! - And every nation that should lift again - Its hand against its brother, on its forehead - Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain! - -Look now for one moment at a high and peculiar interest of the nation, -the administration of justice. Perhaps no part of our system is -regarded, by the enlightened sense of the country, with more pride and -confidence. To this, indeed, all the other concerns of Government, all -its complications of machinery are in a manner subordinate, since it is -for the sake of justice that men come together in states and establish -laws. What part of the Government can compare in importance, with the -Federal Judiciary, that great balance-wheel of the Constitution, -controlling the relations of the States to each other, the legislation -of Congress and of the States, besides private interests to an -incalculable amount? Nor can the citizen, who discerns the True Glory of -his country, fail to recognize in the judicial labors of Marshall, now -departed, and in the immortal judgments of Story, who is still spared to -us—_cerus in cœlum redeat_—a higher claim to admiration and gratitude -than can be found in any triumph of battle. The expenses of the -administration of justice throughout the United States, under the -Federal Government, in 1842—embracing the salaries of the judges, the -cost of juries, court-houses, and all officers thereof, in short, all -the outlay by which justice, according to the requirements of Magna -Charta, is carried to every man’s door—amounted to $560,990, a larger -sum than is usually appropriated for this purpose, but how insignificant -compared with the cormorant demands of the Army and Navy! - -Let me allude to one more _curiosity_ of waste. It appears, by a -calculation founded on the expenses of the Navy, that the average cost -of each gun, carried over the ocean, for one year, amounts to about -fifteen thousand dollars; a sum sufficient to sustain ten or even twenty -professors of Colleges, and equal to the salaries of all the Judges of -the Supreme Court of Massachusetts and the Governor combined! - -Such are a few brief illustrations of the tax which the nations -constituting the great Federation of civilization, and particularly our -own country, impose on the people in time of profound peace, for no -permanent, productive work, for no institution of learning, for no -gentle charity, for no purpose of good. As we wearily climb, in this -survey, from expenditure to expenditure, from waste to waste, we seem to -pass beyond the region of ordinary calculation; Alps on Alps arise, on -whose crowning heights of everlasting ice, far above the habitations of -man, where no green thing lives, where no creature draws its breath, we -behold the cold, sharp, flashing glacier of War. - -In the contemplation of this spectacle the soul swells with alternate -despair and hope; with despair, at the thought of such wealth, capable -of rendering such service to Humanity, not merely wasted but given to -perpetuate Hate; with hope, as the blessed vision arises of the devotion -of all these incalculable means to the purposes of Peace. The whole -world labors at this moment with poverty and distress; and the painful -question occurs to every observer, in Europe more than here at -home—what shall become of the poor—the increasing Standing Army of the -Poor. Could the humble voice that now addresses you, penetrate those -distant counsels, or counsels nearer home, it would say, disband your -Standing Armies of soldiers, apply your Navies to purposes of peaceful -and enriching commerce, abandon your Fortifications and Arsenals, or -dedicate them to works of Beneficence, as the statue of Jupiter -Capitolinus was changed to the image of a Christian saint; in fine, -utterly forsake the present incongruous system of _armed_ Peace. - -That I may not seem to press to this conclusion with too much haste, at -least as regards our own country, I shall consider briefly, as becomes -the occasion, the asserted usefulness of the national armaments which it -is proposed to abandon, and shall next expose the outrageous fallacy—at -least in the present age, and among the Christian Nations, of the maxim -by which alone they are vindicated, that in time of Peace we must -prepare for War. - -_What is the use of the Standing Army of the United States?_ It has been -a principle of freedom, during many generations, to avoid a standing -army; and one of the complaints in the Declaration of Independence was, -that George III. had quartered large bodies of troops in the colonies. -For the first years after the adoption of the Federal -Constitution—during our weakness, before our power was assured, before -our name had become respected in the family of nations, under the -administration of Washington—a small sum was deemed ample for the -military establishment of the United States. It was only when the -country, at a later day, had been touched by martial insanity, that, in -unworthy imitation of monarchical states, it abandoned the true economy -of a Republic, and lavished the means which it begrudged to the purposes -of Peace, in vain preparation for War. It may now be said of our army, -as Dunning said of the influence of the crown, it has increased, is -increasing, and ought to be diminished. At this moment there are, in the -country, more than fifty-five military posts. It would be difficult to -assign a reasonable apology for any of these—unless, perhaps, on some -distant Indian frontier. Of what use is the detachment of the second -regiment of Artillery in the quiet town of New London in Connecticut? Of -what use is the detachment of the first regiment of Artillery in that -pleasant resort of fashion, Newport? By their exhilarating music and -showy parade they may serve to amuse an idle hour, but it is doubtful if -emotions of a different character will not be aroused in generous -bosoms. Surely, he must have lost something of his sensibility to the -true dignity of human nature, who, without regret and mortification, can -observe the discipline, the drill, the unprofitable marching and -counter-marching—the putting guns to the shoulder and then dropping -them to the earth—which fill the lives of the poor soldiers, and -prepare them to become the rude, inanimate parts of that _machine_, to -which an army has been likened by the great living master of the Art of -War. And this sensibility must be more offended by the spectacle of a -chosen body of ingenuous youth, under the auspices of the Government, -amidst the bewitching scenery of West Point, painfully trained to these -same fantastic and humiliating exercises—at a cost to the country since -the establishment of this Academy, of upwards of four millions of -dollars. - -In Europe, Standing Armies are supposed to be needed to sustain the -power of Governments; but this excuse cannot prevail here. The monarchs -of the Old World, like the chiefs of the ancient German tribes, are -upborne by the shields of the soldiery. Happily with us the Government -springs from the hearts of the people, and needs no janizaries for its -support. - -But I hear the voice of some defender of this abuse, some upholder of -this “rotten borough” of our Constitution, crying, the Army is needed -for the defense of the country! As well might you say that the shadow is -needed for the defense of the body; for what is the army of the United -States but the feeble shadow of the power of the American people? _In -placing the army on its present footing, so small in numbers compared -with the forces of the great European States, our Government has tacitly -admitted its superfluousness for defense._ It only remains to declare -distinctly, that the country will repose in the consciousness of right, -without the wanton excess of supporting soldiers, lazy consumers of the -fruits of the earth, who might do the State good service in the various -departments of useful industry. - -_What is the use of the Navy of the United States?_ The annual expense -of our Navy, during recent years, has been upward of six millions of -dollars. For what purpose is this paid? Not for the apprehension of -pirates; for frigates and ships of the line are of too great bulk to be -of service for this purpose. Not for the suppression of the Slave Trade; -for under the stipulations with Great Britain, we employ only eighty -guns in this holy alliance. Not to protect our coasts; for all agree -that our few ships would form an unavailing defense against any serious -attack. Not for these purposes, you will admit, _but for the protection -of our Navigation_. This is not the occasion for minute calculations. -Suffice it to say, that an intelligent merchant, who has been -extensively engaged in commerce for the last twenty years, and who -speaks, therefore, with the authority of knowledge, has demonstrated in -a tract of perfect clearness, that the annual profits of the whole -mercantile marine of the country do not equal the annual expenditure of -our Navy. Admitting the profit of a merchant ship to be four thousand -dollars a year, which is a large allowance, it will take the earnings of -one hundred ships to build and employ for one year a single sloop of -War—one hundred and fifty ships to build and employ a frigate, and -nearly three hundred ships to build and employ a ship of the line. Thus -more than five hundred ships must do a profitable business, in order to -earn a sufficient sum to sustain this little fleet. Still further, -taking a received estimate of the value of the mercantile marine of the -United States at forty millions of dollars, we find that it is only a -little more than six times the annual cost of the navy; so that this -interest is protected at a charge of more than _fifteen per cent._ of -its whole value! Protection at such price is more ruinous than one of -Pyrrhus’s victories! - ------ - -[3] Orations and Speeches by Charles Sumner, vol. I, page 71. - -[4] I have relied here and in subsequent pages upon McCulloch’s -Commercial Dictionary; The Edinburgh Geography, founded on the works of -Malte Brun and Balbi; and the calculations of Mr. Jay in _Peace and -War_, p. 16, and in his Address before the Peace Society, pp. 28, 29. - -[5] I have verified these results by the expenditures of these different -nations, but I do little more than follow Mr. Jay, who has illustrated -this important point with his accustomed accuracy.—_Address_, p. 30. - -[6] Jay’s Peace and War, p. 13. - -[7] American Almanac for 1845, p. 143. - -[8] Hon. Josiah Quincy. - -[9] Document No. 132, House of Representatives, 3rd session, 27th -Congress. - -[10] Document; Report of Secretary of War; No. 2. Senate, 27th Congress, -2nd session; where it is proposed to invest in a general system of land -defenses $51,677,929. - -[11] Exec. Documents of 1842-43, Vol. I. No. 3. - - * * * * * - - - - - LINES ON SOME VIOLETS, - - - LEFT UPON MY DESK WHILE I WAS AT A FUNERAL. - - - He brought these violets yester eve, - While I was with the dead, - And when I hither came to grieve, - To me they meekly said— - - “Let not thy gentle heart-founts flow - For her who is at rest, - But joy and sing for all who go - To sit among the Blest. - - “Weep for thyself, and not for her, - Child of melodious Grief! - And pray thy angels, hovering near, - To make Life’s journey brief. - - “For now we hear thy spirit beat - With bleeding plumes its grate, - And treading with impatient feet, - Like one that could not wait. - - “Like one who, pale ’mid dungeon gloom, - Paces his scanty floor, - Awaiting till the jailer come - To ope his prison-door!” - - E. ANNA LEWIS. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: Painted by J. Martin - -THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH.] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM. - - - [WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.] - - - BY MARGARET JUNKIN. - - - The fair, broad plains of Jordan, rich with all - Their wealth of summer fruitage, stretched themselves - Beneath the orient day. The haunting mists - Still folded to their bosoms the hushed streams, - O’er which they had kept night-watch. Flocks and herds - Dotting the green, fresh pastures stirless lay, - While shepherds slept beside them. - - Peacefully - The morning twilight slowly raised its lids - On the devoted city, quiet now, - With its wild midnight orgies overworn— - As from its gate a little band stole forth - With fearful footsteps, and affrighted gaze - Turned ever upward to the clear, deep heavens, - Where all the stars were fading into day. - - A light, irradiate as the astral glow - Of planetary lustre, marked the brows - Of those who guided them—betokening - Angelic nature, as in the quick haste - Of their divine commission fast they urged - The trembling lingerers. They pressed the speed - Of the old man, bewildered and amazed - By weakening terror, and they caught the hands - Which the distracted mother madly wrung, - To think upon her children left behind, - ’Mid the doomed multitude, and drew her on - With gentle violence: they cheered the flight - Of the twain daughters, who, aghast with fear, - Were fain to lay their foreheads in the dust, - In palsied helplessness. With the sweet power - Of angel eloquence—with sympathies - That yearned above their poor humanity - In Christ-like tenderness, they hasted still - Their lagging steps. - - “Escape ye, for your lives - Look not behind you! neither tarry ye - In all the verdant plain:—Escape, escape - Safe to the mountain, lest ye be consumed:” - - The level sunbeams slant athwart the plain - Through the long shadows of the flying group— - Yet the destruction lingered; yet the sky - Gave forth no presage of the coming wrath. - The sward, dew-beaded, yielded to their tread - Never more softly, and the bannered palms - Playfully dallied with the morning breeze. - Doubt grew to strength within the mother’s soul, - Beneath the firmamental quietude; - And though the angel’s clasp was on her hand, - She backward looked, with longing, loving gaze, - Incredulous of evil, to the roofs - And lines of fair, white walls, that glittering lay - Serene in the pure dawn. The rigid hand - Dropped icy from the angel’s—the stark form - Stood fixed, and motionless, and marble pale— - A ghostly monument of unbelief. - - Dumb with the tracking fear that suffered not - A moment’s waste in sorrow—on they pressed - And gained the place of refuge. Then they turned, - Breathless and tottering, with their straining eyes - Clouded with horror, and their lips apart - In speechless eagerness, and awful dread, - Toward the distant city. - - The calm morn - Seemed sliding downward to abysmal night: - All Nature’s face grew sickly: through the plain, - The fell simoom came sweeping like a fiend, - Twisting the tallest palm-trees, as their stems - Were lithest summer reeds, and wrenching up - Centurial cedars. Silver-threaded streams - Grew to a leaden blackness: tempest-clouds, - Lurid with fiery fringes, marshaled all - Their most terrific grandeur, and rolled on - In thunderous darkness, till the funeral heavens - Thrilled to the shock, and the fast-anchored earth - Seemed throbbing in the agitated swell - Of fathomless ether. Sulphurous, forked flames, - Like myriads of avenging swords, flashed out - Above the guilty cities, and the shriek - Of frantic multitudes came roaring on - In dismal howls, as if the eternal pit - Had emptied forth its demons. The hot wrath - Of God’s fierce anger rained with scathing breath - The deluge-fire of a descending hell— - And in the flaming sheets, the stately towers— - The lofty mausoleums—the proud walls— - The rich abodes of princes—and the homes - Of Heaven-defying wickedness, were wrapped - As in a fitting cerement. - - When the strength - Of the spent storm of fury died away, - And the ghast ministers of wrath drew off - Their fearful hosts from that grim battle-field— - The holy Patriarch, who had sought by prayer - To turn aside the vengeance, stretched his view - Across the plains of Jordan; but no walls - Gleamed in the early sunshine; no fair flocks - Studded the bleak, swart slopes; no waving trees - Bent to the morning wind. Destruction swooped, - Like a fierce raven screaming o’er its prey, - Above the desert-waste: the seething smoke - Hung, pall-like, round the ruins: and he bowed - His head in sad yet meek submissiveness - Before the righteous judgments of his God. - - * * * * * - - - - - EMINENT YOUNG MEN.—NO. I. - - - BENJAMIN H. BREWSTER - - -In our last number we proposed to give a short biographical sketch of -Benjamin Harris Brewster, as the first of a series of rapid portraits of -such eminent young men as chance and association have made us intimate -with, that we might thereby incite in the minds of some of the young men -amongst our readers a laudable ambition to excel, and arouse that latent -energy of character which is the foundation of all true personal -greatness in America. - -Benjamin Harris Brewster is a lineal descendant on his father’s side of -Elder William Brewster, whose name is embalmed in all true hearts as the -intrepid ruling elder in that Band of Heroes and unbending worshipers of -freedom of conscience, who landed from the Mayflower at Plymouth, in -December 1620. The heroism of Brewster, Robinson and others of that -immortal band of brave men and women, prior to their embarkation at -Holland, are facts of history, and as familiar to every student as their -subsequent trials and dauntless energy in braving them. - -Mr. Brewster’s family were originally from New Jersey. A descendant of -Elder Brewster’s removed from Plymouth to New Jersey, and there Mr. B. -H. Brewster, his great-grandson, was born. In his mother’s family a -great-grandfather—a Duval, was a refugee Huguenot—“one of that handful -of whom the world was not worthy, who without stain, without reproach, -were crushed to the dust, were delivered up to the rack, the scourge, -the dungeon, the stake, as if accursed of Heaven, until at last a -weeping and bleeding remnant of them found their way to our land and -poured into our veins the rich stream of Huguenot blood.” Thus from both -sides of his house he inherits rich, old democratic blood. Puritan and -Huguenot blood. Blood that an American may be proud of. His ancestors -assisted in planting that holy seed of Liberty which has sprung into so -mighty a tree, and under whose thick spreading branches the oppressed of -all nations find shelter. - -Mr. Brewster was born in Salem county, New Jersey, during a transient -residence of his parents in that place. When only a few months old his -parents returned to their former residence in Philadelphia, where he has -ever since lived. He early gave promise of great quickness of intellect, -but from his earliest childhood he was particularly remarkable for -strict truthfulness and integrity—he scorned a lie, even an evasion, -though it might save him the dreaded humiliation of punishment. “Manly, -straightforward, upright,” were words always applied to him by those who -knew him in youth, and these qualities made him a stay and a comfort to -his family at an age when most young men are dependents. - -He left the preparatory school of Dr. Wiltbank at fourteen and entered -the University of Pennsylvania, but was removed from it six months after -to Princeton College, where he graduated at the age of eighteen years, -and commenced the study of law in this city, in the office of Eli K. -Price, Esq. In 1837, at the age of 21 years, he became a member of the -Philadelphia bar. Starting on the road of life in that most arduous of -all professions, the law, with few friends, he early exhibited those -peculiar traits of fitness for his profession that so speedily placed -him among its leaders. His success has been remarkable—not in the sense -of the world generally—but in the substantial character of his -business, and in his position among his brethren of the bar. He early -saw the door of distinction open to him, and resolved to pass its -threshold and make for himself an honorable name. With that industry and -energy that are part of his character, he speedily, while yet a young -man, rose in his profession, and took a prominent place among the best -of that bar, long since acknowledged to be the strongest in the country. -His mind is Analytical in an eminent degree, it perceives and grasps -with a quickness, oftentimes wonderful, the strong points of a case, -which are lucidly put before the jury. He uses little ornament, as we -usually understand it, though he has at times shown his ability to wield -that most effective of all the orator’s weapons; he presents in a brief, -sententious style, with all the force that such a style is so naturally -fitted for the gist of his case. His forte as a lawyer is before the -court in banc upon a question of law—the forum that tests the real -ability of so many—where mere speech-making—the tinsel and clap-trap -of the profession pass at their real value, and where mind alone is the -genuine currency—where educated minds are to be taught, altered, or -convinced. In this department of his profession Mr. Brewster is at home, -and brings to bear on the argument of his cases, all the powers of his -peculiarly well-stored mind. He is by no means, however, deficient -before a jury, as many of our citizens will recollect, in recalling to -mind his many triumphs in this city. While he is kind to his colleagues, -he is respectful but independent in his bearing toward the Court, but -permitting no undue interference in his or his client’s business, yet -giving to all the respect that position or talents should demand. - -Mr. Brewster’s appearance before the Court is impressive. Thoughtful, -earnest, and of fine manners, he at once impresses you with the -importance of his cause, and that that which he is about to say is the -result of no passing thought, but of care and deliberation—graceful and -dignified in his manner he yet becomes, when warm with his subject, -vehement without losing his self-possession, oftentimes treading a -little out of his path to indulge in a pleasantry to relieve the dry -detail of legal discussion, still maintaining the thread and course of -his argument. Always courteous in an eminent degree to his adversary, -high-toned and honorable in all his intercourse with the world, he -exhibits it in argument, by refusing at all times to pervert facts, to -overstrain or misstate the well-settled law of the land. He is ready and -apt; exhibiting his readiness, and the ability with which he has -prepared his case by the prompt answers of points against him suggested -during argument by the Court or his adversary. - -Mr. Kingman, the highly talented and veteran correspondent of the New -York Journal of Commerce, said of him, “His (Mr. Brewster’s) manner is -happy and winning—his voice mellow and flowing, and, as Mr. Wirt used -to say of one of his favorites, he can render interesting to any -auditory the dryest legal citation by the magical effect of his tasteful -reading.” His talents as a lawyer have drawn him from our local courts, -and the scenes of his greatest success have been in that “strongest of -Courts” the Supreme Court of the United States at Washington. In a case -that now presents itself to our mind, he more than distinguished -himself—we mention, we are sure, from its public character, and the -importance of the questions involved to all, a familiar case, when we -name “The United States vs. The County of Philadelphia.” It involved the -great constitutional question of the right of a State Government to tax -the unceded realty of the United States necessary for the purposes of -the Federal Government. This was a question particularly suited to the -turn of mind of Mr. Brewster, and it was to be argued before a Court, -the ablest and the brightest in the land. His argument elicited from all -parts the highest and the warmest praise. The New York Tribune, a paper -of high character for ability and impartiality, says, that “a long, -elaborate, and powerful argument was delivered before the Supreme Court -yesterday by Benjamin H. Brewster, of Philadelphia, which has produced a -great impression in our legal circles, and secured at once for Mr. -Brewster the reputation of being one of the ablest constitutional -lawyers in the country. The principle to be defined and settled in the -case in which Mr. B. is engaged, is of the highest importance, and the -whole country is certainly greatly indebted to the learning and -eloquence of that gentleman for the convincing manner in which he -pointed out and defined the rights of the States, and the ability with -which he defended those rights against Federal encroachment.” The New -York Journal of Commerce said of it, “Mr. Brewster’s argument -necessarily embraced some detail, and some citations, and various -illustrations, and still he managed to bring it all within the compass -of less than two hours. Mr. Brewster is a rising star, and destined at -no distant day to become a shining light of the federal tribunal.” And -these are but two, selected at random from a host of such compliments. -The result showed the truth of these views of Mr. Brewster’s argument. - -His argument in this now famous case, was not published, notwithstanding -the urgent request of many friends that it should be—with a modesty -that we think false, but which is usually the attendant upon real -ability, he was contented with having done work well without seeking by -parade to make it the medium of pecuniary benefit. His character does -not, of course, stand upon this case alone, as the records of the court -at Washington will show, though, in truth, it might stand on a less -secure foundation. Almost as a necessary consequence of Mr. Brewster’s -professional life, he has been more or less identified with the various -political questions of the day. Early in life he attached himself from -conviction to the Democratic party, and steadily since, “through good -and evil report,” he has adhered to and defended with voice and pen, the -interest and doctrines of that party. He was a senatorial delegate from -Pennsylvania to the Baltimore Convention of 1844, and was the mover of -the “two-third rule” in that Convention, to which fact Mr. Polk -unquestionably owed his nomination. Shortly after the inauguration, Mr. -Polk tendered him, unsolicited, the judicial appointment of Cherokee -Commissioner. This Mr. Brewster accepted. It was an arduous and -responsible position, requiring great industry and ability to discharge -faithfully. By his course as Commissioner, he won the esteem and respect -of the suitors, and saved to the government, from the jaws of rapacious -speculators, millions of dollars. He received at the expiration of the -term for which the office was enacted, the thanks and approval of the -President. - -Mr. Brewster is a warm supporter of the political views of Gen. Cass, -and is, perhaps, the most efficient, both with voice and pen, of the -many friends of that distinguished statesman in Pennsylvania. Differing -widely, as we do, from Mr. Brewster in political sentiment, we can yet -bear testimony to the intrepid conduct of the man, his high-hearted -courage in the cause of his friend, and his energetic endeavors to -secure the ultimate triumph of General Cass in the next Baltimore -Convention. And although we cannot vote for General Cass, we can almost -wish him success for the sake of seeing Mr. Brewster’s earnest and manly -efforts crowned with success. If General Cass has many such friends—and -Mr. Brewster’s friendship is of personal intimacy—he must have -qualities that most politicians deny opponents and rivals, for we are -satisfied that no man can attach to himself _heartily_, any number of -men of intellectual force such as Brewster has, without possessing -qualities of head and heart far above the grade of many aspiring -candidates for the presidency. - -Since his retirement from connection with the administration of Mr. -Polk, Mr. Brewster has been engaged so much in the active pursuits of -his profession as to prevent his giving much of his time to active -politics, though often since by his pen, he has shown his interest in -the great questions that have been lately agitating the country; and -whenever the interests of General Cass are in jeopardy, his voice is -heard in council, and his pen, lightning-winged, flies to the rescue. - -Having thus hastily glanced at Mr. Brewster’s position as a lawyer and a -public man, and used, as we confess we have done, the opinions and -sentiments of more than one member of the Philadelphia bar in high -standing, and the unsolicited endorsement of men high in his party, let -us take a closer view of the man—of his personal character, the proud -arch and basis of the structure, and tell, with all the freedom of an -intimate friend, what we feel we _ought_ to say, both in justice to our -readers, to give them a fair view of the man, and to Mr. Brewster, to -show how great have been his achievements against formidable odds. - -Mr. Brewster has inherited in an eminent degree the endurance and high -courage of his ancestors. His path has been a rough one, with an -accumulation of difficulties besetting him on all sides, at the very -threshold of boyhood, which would have prostrated almost any other man. -But he at that early age made a resolute front, and met and pressed -struggling through all opposition. - -He in early life met with an accident, the scars from which still linger -upon his countenance. This, in the opinion of the timid and ill-advised, -was sufficient for them to urge him into a more quiet and secluded -profession than that of an advocate. But they little knew, these weak -ones, the dauntless bravery of his soul—the fearless, determined -purpose, the iron will of the man. His motto has been, from early -boyhood, and his life has illustrated it nobly—“There is nothing -unconquerable to him that dares.” His whole life has been one of -struggles, of resolves and of victories. His manly self-possession under -all disasters, his vehement purpose to overcome, in spite of fate and -circumstances, have given an impetuosity and daring to his character -which enable him to overleap the impossibilities of other men. Had he -submitted to the dictation of the doubtful, regarded the counsel of the -timid-wise, his lofty soul would have been dwarfed, his heroic will -chafing for action in seclusion, would have made him a misanthrope—a -pining and peevish companion, a cynic toward man and a snarler at -Providence—the plague of a household, a weariness unto himself. - -But with the true courage which faces disasters, the inborn greatness -which judges of its own capacity to endure, with an eye fixed upon the -successful future, which lifts its blazing front to the gaze of true -genius, he spurned all control, and consulting the inward teachings of -his own spirit, he resolved, he dared and he has triumphed. With a manly -heart, lifted in its gigantic resolves above all mere considerations of -self—obeying all of its generous and noble impulses, he has from early -manhood devoted his energies to build a paradise around those he -loves—to render his home the abode of all that refines, of Art, Music -and Society—to gather around him those who appreciated his manhood, and -to impart by all the delicate and tender relations and attentions of a -son and a brother, the largest amount of happiness which domestic life -can afford. With what a royalty of soul he has done all this, let those -answer who have spent their most delightful hours in his -drawing-rooms—where the stern lawyer, the energetic champion of -political principles and rights has unbended, and let loose the bounding -joyousness of the man—where his heart has let off its bubbles in very -glee, and where the exhaustless stores of his memory are poured out in -wantonness, and his imagination and wit flash and play in perfect -abandonment. No man who has not enjoyed his intimacy, his confidence and -his friendship, can make any just estimate of his ability or worth. - -As a conversationalist, it has not been our fortune to meet with many -who are his equals, either in the readiness or the variety of his -topics, the fine play of his fancy, or the mellow flow of his words. -There is not at this bar, a man of his years, who is his equal in -scholarship—who has accumulated so vast a mass of curious learning. -Upon all questions of History, Philosophy or Biography—he is the -referee among his friends. His accuracy is singularly nice—no event of -which he has read, seems ever to escape the tenacious grasp of his -memory. No quotation from the Classics, apt at the moment, is ever -wanting to illustrate or point an anecdote or a sentence. His knowledge -of old English literature is thorough, and his acquaintance with the -modern familiar and full. He is, in all respects a thorough -student—stealing the hours which others devote to idle pleasure or -indolent sleep, to enlarge his stores of knowledge and make broader and -surer the foundations of intellectual power. - -The defect of Mr. Brewster’s character has been the terrible impetuosity -of his impulses, which would carry him to the gates of Hades in pursuit -of a foe, and through a burning river in support of a -friend—frequently, too, without stopping to ask whether either was -worth the sacrifice. Hence, he has sometimes become the assailant and -the champion, without the clearest notions as to which side victory -justly belonged. These impulses, too, were as quick as they were strong. -The lightning was not more sudden than his wrath—nor more certain in -its destructiveness. No man made an enemy of him and escaped the -well-timed blow. But his vengeance was rarely garnered, but blazed out -in a fury which lent additional terror to the funeral pile of his -victim. His generous sentiments are easily touched. His time, his -talents, his whole soul are given to the cause of a friend. There is no -halfway-house on the road to his heart—the door is fast shut, or the -whole of the spacious apartments are thrown open, and the visitor is -received amid a blaze of light from every genial corner. - -Mr. Brewster has recently been abroad, and travel, which is so often a -test of character, has improved him. He returns from Europe with his -energy of soul held in check—his feelings are composed and -chastened—his manner is subdued to a more Christian serenity—his voice -has not its old, impetuous volume—the rushing heat of passion comes -from his lips with less of its scorching severity. Life has broader aims -in his eyes than formerly—the hour and to-day, are less important—the -immediate success less looked to—the distant future is lived for more -earnestly, with wiser hopes of a happy present hereafter. All this comes -upon us—his old associate—with a force the greater, because we have -been less with him, of late; and the gradual, familiar growing of these -better purposes of soul have been less visible to us—they burst upon us -like a strain of pure music when discord has suddenly been stilled. Mr. -Brewster, himself, is a happier man—his old exuberant gayety is a -well-tempered serenity and joyousness—the picture has been toned down, -and the artist dwells upon it as a diviner effort of the Creator. - -Mr. Brewster has nothing to do now but to _wait_!—high honors will come -to him unsolicited. His position is assured. His ability, his integrity, -his earnest energy of soul for the right and the true, open the pathway -for all that the ambition of a Christian has a right to look for. This -is Prophecy—the Inspiration which Truth impresses upon the soul. - - G. R. G. - - * * * * * - - - - - SORRENTO. - - - BY C. P. CRANCH. - - - On such a blue and breezy summer’s day, - The winds seem charmed that wander round this bay. - The waves that murmur on the sunward beach, - Whisper of things beyond the Present’s reach. - Each winged bark that skims along the sea - Seems gliding like a dream of mystery. - Light of far Grecian days comes glimmering through - This pure crystaline sky of cloudless blue. - Here are the rocks where gold-haired syrens sang; - Here Tasso’s harp in later ages rang. - Over the sacred waves the purple isles - Answer the heavens with their serenest smiles: - Round yonder point, steep Capri with her caves; - Beyond, where the sky kisses the far waves, - Those amethystine sisters of the sea, - Prochyta and the blue Inarime. - Along the shore from Baia’s rained towers - To marble Pompeii, half embalmed in flowers, - Stretches the chain of towns along the sea; - And gleaming in the midst, proud Napoli - Sits like a young and pearl-crowned ocean queen - Gazing into her mirror of clear green. - And over all the bodeful genius - Of this fair clime—fire-eyed Vesuvius - Frowns, the sole troubled spirit of the scene— - And even him the distance makes serene. - All this I see from my still summer home, - A bower where nought but peace and beauty come. - Geraniums and roses round me bloom— - From orange-groves, amid whose verdant gloom - Gold fruit and silver flowers together shine, - Come orient odors. A thick blossoming vine - Shadows the terrace where, even as I write, - The wind snows down the olive-blossoms white. - Above, the birds’ sweet and unwearied song; - Beneath, the ocean whispers all day long. - Sometimes, when morning lights the rippling waves - Below the steep rocks and the ocean caves, - The sunshine weaves a net of flickering gleams. - Fit to entrap a Syren in her dreams. - There tangled braids of ever-changing light - In golden mazes glitter up the sand, - And underneath, the rocks and pebbles bright - Glow like rich jewels of the Eastern land. - Well might such sweet, transparent waters hold - Tritons and nymphs with locks of liquid gold; - For nothing were too beautiful to be - Born from the pure depths of this summer sea. - - ——— - - Four moons have passed—and nights and days have flown - Cloudless—a summer of an orient tone, - Since my unequal pen essayed to tell - Brief passages of what I loved so well. - Above me now, where blossoms fell in spring, - Large purple grapes hang thickly clustering; - The fig-tree near, with ample leaves displayed, - Shelters its sweet, cool fruit beneath their shade. - Still hang the oranges upon their stems, - Whose dark green foliage makes them glow like gems. - The cypresses by yonder convent wall - Shoot up as freshly green, as stately tall, - And there the drowsy vesper-bell ne’er tires - Calling to prayers the brown-robed, bearded friars. - Down on the beach, content with slender gain, - Still drag their nets the red-capped fishermen. - Still glide the days as fair—the nights more cool, - The sea is still as ever beautiful; - And yonder purple mount, towering as proud - Still blends its light smoke with the flying cloud. - And now, ere I these pleasant scenes resign, - I would yet linger o’er and make them mine. - I would remember every odorous breeze - That wafted incense from these orange-trees— - The roses clustering on their leafy stalks, - Dropping their faint leaves in the garden walks— - The sweet geraniums and the passion flowers - Entwined with multifloras—the noon hours - When underneath the oaks I watched the sea - Rippling below me calm and dreamily. - The hueless olives where the full moon came - Kindling behind them with a holy flame, - Touching their pale leaves with mysterious sheen - And shimmering o’er old boughs of silvery green— - Above, the inextinguishable lights - That made all nights in heaven like festal nights, - That seemed too holy for frail men to keep, - And yet too costly to be spent in sleep. - O lovely nights and days! too quickly flown; - Leave me the memory of your sweetest tone. - O ocean! long I’ve lingered on thy shore, - Lulled by thy whisper, wakened by thy roar. - Ere I depart and see no more thy face, - Let me retain some sign of thy embrace— - Not pearls nor painted shells, nor coral rare, - But dreams of Beauty. So the goddess fair, - Who rules all hearts, and fills the Olympian home, - Rose in a sea-shell from thy glittering foam— - Sprang an immortal to the blaze of day, - And wide o’er gods and men extends her sway. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: THE CARIBOO; OR AMERICAN REIN-DEER.] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE GAME OF THE SEASON. - - - BY FRANK FORESTER, AUTHOR OF “FIELD SPORTS OF AMERICA,” “FISH AND - FISHING,” ETC. - - - THE CARIBOO; AND CARIBOO HUNTING - - _Cervus Tarandus._ American Rein-Deer. - - [SEE ENGRAVING.] - -It is not a little extraordinary, that this magnificent and noble -species, which exists in considerable numbers within two hundred miles -of the spot where I sit writing, in the Adirondack Highlands—I mean, of -New York—which abounds in the north-eastern part of Maine, swarms in -New Brunswick and Newfoundland, and indeed everywhere North of the St. -Lawrence and Ottawa, to the extremest Arctic Regions yet penetrated by -the foot of man, should be yet less known to American writers—even on -the topic of Natural History—than most animals of Central Asia, or the -inhospitable wilds of Southern Africa. It is not even determined—so -little care has been taken in examining or identifying -specimens—whether it is one and the same, or a different species from -the Reindeer of the Europe-Asiatic continent; nor have any of its -peculiarities been noted down, such as the common indications of its -stature, antlers, pelage, and color, much less its anatomical and -osseous structure, so as to permit of any accurate comparison being -drawn, or decision arrived at. - -In proof of the loose way in which these self-styled descriptions of -rare animals are drawn, in books of solemn pretension and supposed -authority, I shall proceed to quote the following from the Encyclopædia -Americana—a work of which I can only say, that it is equally profuse of -needless information on subjects trite to every Sophomore, and sparing -of facts, such as require research and are required by men of ordinary -reading, who will search its pages vainly for what on occasion they may -need to ask it. - -“_Reindeer_”—says the authority. “These animals inhabit the Arctic -Islands of Spitzbergen, and the northern extremity of the Old Continent, -never having extended, according to Cuvier, to the southward of the -Baltic. They have been long domesticated, and their appearance and -habits are well described by naturalists. The American Reindeer, or -Cariboo, are much less generally known; they have, however, so strong a -resemblance to the Lapland deer, that they have always been considered -to be the same species, though the fact has never been completely -established. The American Indians have never profited by the docility of -this animal, to aid them in transporting their families and property, -though they annually destroy great numbers for their flesh and hides. -There appear to be several varieties of this useful quadruped peculiar -to the high northern regions of the American Continent, which are ably -described by Doctor Richardson, one of the companions of Captain -Franklin, in his arduous attempt to reach the North Pole by land. The -closeness of the hair of the Cariboo, and the lightness of its skin, -when dressed, render it the most appropriate article for winter clothing -in the high latitudes. The hoofs of the Reindeer are very large, and -spread greatly, and thus enable it to cross the yielding snows without -sinking.” - -And this—without one word of the height, weight, color, or habitat of -the animal—is the only information which the Editor of the American -Encyclopædia thinks proper to give his readers—except a brief -description of Doctor Richardson, about whom he seems to know a little, -if he knew nothing about Cariboo—concerning an animal, which is killed -almost annually within fifty miles of Albany, sold annually in Montreal, -and in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia almost as common an article as -venison, or Moose-meat during winter in the markets. - -Would not any one suppose, on reading the above, that he was dealing -with the description of an animal, which roamed only wastes untrodden by -the foot of the white man, save the adventurous explorers of the Arctic -Circles, and concerning which no information can be gained by the -ordinary naturalists of this country? - -Cuvier and Richardson, and Audubon’s stupendous work are not attainable -by general readers, or even ordinary writers of cities; to those of the -country they are utterly inaccessible—but to Encyclopædists, and to men -who sit down to reproduce great works on Natural History, who choose to -consult them, they are perfectly and easily open; and there is no shadow -of excuse for those who profess to teach others, yet refuse to learn -themselves. - -Had the writer of the above worthless trash thought fit to compare -Doctor Richardson’s description of the Cariboo, which it seems he had -read—and which, like all that singularly able naturalist’s -descriptions, is doubtless as minute as correct—with Cuvier’s -description of the Reindeer, he might have pronounced as easily, as he -could whether two and two make four or five, whether the American and -Europe-Asiatic deer are identical or different. Godman, in his -“Quadrupeds of North America,” though a little more definite than Dr. -Leiber, is scarce less bald and brief. Dr. Dekay, whose lamented life -has recently been brought to an untimely close, though he suspected it -to be a denizen of New York, was not fully assured of the fact, and -therefore has not, I think, described it in his Fauna of that State. - -I have myself, unfortunately, no immediate access to either Richardson -or Cuvier; nor even to any well established work on the Animals of -Northern Europe. But I have seen a large herd, in my youth, of the -Lapland Reindeer, which, with their Esquimaux attendants were exhibited -many years ago in London; previous to a futile attempt at naturalizing -them in the Highlands and Western Isles of Scotland; and have a fair, -general remembrance of the animal. I possess antlers of the Cariboo, -which hang in my hall, and which are accurately portrayed in the -wood-cut; I have handled twenty times the hides of this great deer; and -I have daily opportunities—in the office of my friend, W. T. Porter, of -the Spirit of the Times—to examine the preserved heads and legs of even -finer specimens than my own. I have also letters, private, and writings -published, of a New Brunswicker, who has killed the Cariboo fifty times, -and had opportunities of seeing the European Reindeer, at the Zoological -Gardens in London, long since myself. I can, therefore, form a very fair -conjecture at the identity or non-identity of the species. At least I -can give some particulars of structure, stature, and pelage of the -American Cariboo, which will enable others to judge, who are better -posted up than I, in the peculiarities of the Lapland Reindeer. And -first—I will premise that although I have never seen the Cariboo in -life, or in his native woods—which I trust to do before the snows of -the next March shall have melted—the wood-cut illustration of this -number is so closely made up from measurements of the various parts, -heads, antlers, legs and hides of the animal, that I believe it to be as -nearly correct as any likeness can be, which is not taken from an -especial individual of the race. - -In the first place—as to the stature of the Cariboo, I was long ago -struck by the statements of the New Brunswick writer, “Meadows,” alias -Mr. Barton Wallop, alluded to above, which may be found in Porter’s -edition of Hawker’s Field Sports, p. 326-333—“The Cariboo of this -country are very like the Reindeer, only a little larger”—and -again—“as this is the first time you have seen a Cariboo trail, you -will observe it is much like that of an _ox_, save that the cleft is -much more open, and the pastern of the animal being very long and -flexible, comes down the whole length on the snow, and gives the animal -additional support.” - -Arguing on this statement, in my “Field Sports,” knowing Meadows to have -seen both animals, that they must be distinct, I pointed out—no one -could dream of comparing a Lapland Reindeer’s track to that of an _ox_, -any more than to that of an elephant; and observed further, that the -Lapland Reindeer is not a larger, but—to my recollection—a smaller -animal than the common American Red-deer, _Cervus_ _Virginianus_ of -Naturalists. This coming casually under Mr. Wallop’s eye, he wrote to -me, in full confirmation of my opinion, that he had recently seen -Lapland Reindeer in the Regent’s Park Zoological Gardens, and wished to -amend his former _dictum_, by saying, that the Cariboo is at least -one-third taller than the Lapland deer, and otherwise larger, and in -other respects very different. Also, that the Lapland animal is not -taller than the British Stag, or the American Common Deer, or, if at -all, very slightly so. - -Now, to come to my own observation, verified by measurement. The Cariboo -antlers in my own possession, not an unusually large pair, measure as -follows: - -Extreme width from tip to tip, one foot 4½ inches. Length of curvature -of antlers, from root to tip, two feet 3½ inches. Direct height, 23 -inches. Breadth of the palmated brow antlers, 8 inches. Length of do., -11 inches. Breadth of upper palm, 8 inches. Length of do., 12 inches. -Girth at the root of antler, 5½ inches. At insertion of upper prong, 4 -inches. Number of prongs at the tips, unequal—three and two. At the -upper palms, three. On the lower palms, seven processes, including the -principal point. - -Compare with this, the measurements of the antlers of a very fine -specimen of the common American deer, _Cervus Virginianus_. - -Extreme width from tip to tip, 11 inches. Length of curvature along the -back of antlers from root to tip, two feet and half an inch. Direct -height, 15 inches. - -Observe, however, that the greater curvature in the horns of the -American deer, while it causes a larger comparative measurement, leaves -a vast excess in height and show to the Cariboo. - -In the Cariboo, moreover—see cut—the structure of the horns is -directly the reverse of that of any other palmated-horned animal I ever -remember to have seen; as the Moose, the English Fallow-deer, and to the -best of my recollection the Europe-Asiatic Reindeer. In both the former -of these animals, the broad palms form the extreme upper tips; while the -lower spurs and brow antlers are round prongs; and, to the best of my -memory, the reindeer has no very conspicuous palms at all. - -In our common deer, again, contrary to any other deer I have ever -seen—except a very noble non-descript specimen recently sent from -Calcutta to the Spirit of the Times—the main branch of the antlers -curves _forward_ over the brow, offering the main defenses, the true -brow antlers being mere erect prongs; while all the tines are posterior -to the main branch. - -In the American Elk, and in the British Stag, or Red-deer, and in all -other round-horned deer I ever saw, the main antlers rise erectly, with -a slight _backward_ curve, the brow antler and all the other tines -springing from it anteriorly, and forming the true weapons for the -animal’s defense. - -The Cariboo, therefore, presents a curious combination of the -round-horned and palmated-horned deer, in the first instance; and of the -usual, and American, round-horn structure, in the second. First, it has -the round, pointed tips and sharp, round prongs of the round-horned deer -above, with the flat, leaf-like blades of the palmated-horned deer -below. And, secondly, it has the forward curve at the tips and backward -prongs, above, of the American round-horn, with the terrible brow -antlers and forward tines of the usual structure below. - -Lastly, it differs from all in this—that its brow antlers, instead of -dividing with an outward curve over and without each eye, closes with a -straight inward inclination, until the tips almost meet, nearly in the -centre of a brow. - -Once more, as to size, there are the leg, with hoof, pastern and -cannon-bone of an ordinary sized Cariboo; and the leg, with hoof, -pastern and cannon-bone of an extraordinarily large-sized American deer, -and as such selected, hanging side by side in Mr. Porter’s office. The -limb of the Cariboo is considerably more than one-third superior in size -to that of the common deer, and is fully equal to that of a yearling -heifer of the very largest stature, and from its peculiar structure, -being cleft nearly the full length of the pastern to the fetlock-joint, -would evidently leave a much larger track. - -I have seen and ridden aged thorough-bred horses of fourteen and a half -hands—four foot ten inches high—whose limbs were in all respects -inferior to that of this superb specimen of the deer tribe; and right -confident am I, from observation of several of their heads, their hides -and hoofs, that from fourteen and a half to fifteen hands will be found -to be the average height of the Cariboo. If the Lapland Reindeer ever -exceeds thirteen it will be surprising to me. While on this topic, -however, I will beg the first Canadian or Nova Scotian hunter whose eye -this may meet, to furnish me with the full statements of height, weight -and measurement of any Cariboo he may be so fortunate as to kill, or to -have killed, during the present winter. Readers of Graham will find in -the February number of the present year a correct and spirited -representation of the antlers of the English red-deer; and, if they will -look back to the June and August numbers of 1851, they will find those -of the moose and American deer, designed by myself from the life, which -will far more easily convey the comparison which I desire to draw than -written words. - -As regards the nature of the pelage, or fur, for it is almost such, of -the Cariboo, so far from its being, as the wiseacre of the Encyclopædia -states, remarkable for closeness and compactness, it is by all odds the -loosest and longest haired of any deer I ever saw; being, particularly -about the head and neck, so shaggy as to appear almost maned. - -In color, it is the most grizzly of deer, and though comparatively dark -brown on the back, the hide is generally speaking light, almost dun -colored, and on the head and neck fulvous, or tawny gray, largely mixed -with white hairs. - -The flesh is said to be delicious; and the leather made by the Indians -from its skin, by their peculiar process, is of unsurpassed excellence -for leggings, moccasons or the like; especially for the moccason to be -used under snow-shoes. - -As to its habits, while the Lapland or Siberian Reindeer is the tamest -and most docile of its genus, the American Cariboo is the fiercest, -fleetest, wildest, shyest and most untameable. So much so, that they are -rarely pursued by white hunters, or shot by them, except through casual -good-fortune; Indians alone having the patience and instinctive craft, -which enables them to crawl on them unseen, unsmelt—for the nose of the -Cariboo can detect the smallest taint upon the air of any thing human at -least two miles up wind of him—and unsuspected. If he take alarm and -start off on the run, no one dreams of pursuing. As well pursue the -wind, of which no man knoweth whence it cometh or whither it goeth. -Snow-shoes against him alone avail nothing, for propped up on the broad, -natural snow-shoes of his long, elastic pasterns and wide-cleft clacking -hoofs, he shoots over the thinnest crust, over the deepest drifts, -unbroken; in which the lordly moose would soon flounder, shoulder-deep, -if hard pressed, and the graceful deer would fall despairing, and bleat -in vain for mercy—but he, the ship of the winter wilderness, outspeeds -the wind among his native pines and tamaracks—even as the desert ship, -the dromedary, outtrots the red simoom on the terrible Zahara—and once -started, may be seen no more by human eyes, nor run down by fleetest -feet of man, no, not if they pursue him from their nightly-casual camps, -unwearied, following his trail by the day, by the week, by the month, -till a fresh snow efface his tracks, and leave the hunter at the last, -as he was at the first of the chase; less only the fatigue, the -disappointment and the folly. - -Therefore by woodsmen, whether white or red-skinned, he is never -followed. Indians by hundreds in the provinces, and many loggers and -hunters in the Eastern states, can take and keep his trail in suitable -weather—the best _time_ is the latter end of February or the beginning -of March; the best _weather_ is when a light, fresh snow of some three -or four inches has fallen on the top of deep drifts and a solid crust; -the fresh snow giving the means of following the trail; the firm crust -yielding a support to the broad snow-shoes and enabling the stalkers to -trail with silence and celerity combined. Then they crawl onward, -breathless and voiceless, up wind always, following the foot-prints of -the wandering, pasturing, wantoning deer; judging by signs, unmistakable -to the veteran hunter, undistinguishable to the novice, of the distance -or proximity of their game; until they steal upon the herd unsuspected, -and either finish the day with a sure shot and a triumphant whoop; or -discover that the game has taken alarm and started on the jump, and so -give it up in despair. - -One man perhaps in a thousand can still-hunt, or stalk, Cariboo in the -summer season. He, when he has discovered a herd feeding _up wind_, at a -leisurely pace and clearly unalarmed, stations a comrade in close -ambush, well down wind and to leeward of their upward track, and then -himself, after closely observing their mood, motions and line of course, -strikes off in a wide circle well to leeward, until he has got a mile or -two ahead of the herd, when very slowly and guardedly, observing the -profoundest silence, he cuts across their direction, and gives them his -wind, as it is technically termed, dead ahead. This is the crisis of the -affair; if he give the wind too strongly, or too rashly, if he make the -slightest noise or motion, they scatter in an instant, and away. If he -give it slightly, gradually, and casually as it were, not fancying -themselves pursued, they merely turn away from the remote danger, and -instead of flying, merely _feed_ away from it, working their way _down -wind_ to the deadly ambush, of which their keenest scent cannot so -inform them. If he succeed in this, inch by inch, he crawls after them, -never pressing them, or drawing in upon them, but preserving the same -distance still, still giving them the same wind as at the first, so that -he creates no panic or confusion, until at length, when close upon the -hidden peril, his sudden whoop sends them headlong down the deceitful -breeze upon the treacherous rifle. - -Of all wood-craft none is so difficult, none requires so rare a -combination as this, of quickness of sight, wariness of tread, very -instinct of the craft, and perfection of judgment. When resorted to, and -performed to the very admiration of woodmen, it does not succeed once in -a hundred times—therefore not by one man in a thousand is it ever -resorted to at all, and by him, rather in the wantonness of wood-craft, -and by way of boastful experiment, than with any hope, much less -expectation of success. - -For once, in my illustration, the trick has been played, and the game -wins—the whoop is pealing on the wind beyond the dark, sheltering pines -and hemlocks—the herd is scattered to the four winds of heaven—but the -monarch of the wilderness, the prime bull of the herd, bears down in his -headlong terror full on the ambushed rifle. - -Lo! with how brave a bound he clears that prostrate log. But the keen -eye of the woodman is upon him; another moment, and it shall glare along -the deadly rifle; the sharp, short crack shall awake the echoes of the -forest, and ere they shall have subsided into silence, the pride of the -woods shall have gasped out his last sigh on the gory green-sward. - -But this you will say is fancy—scarcely fact. Be it so. What follows -shall be fact, not fancy. For I shall beg leave to quote a few pages -from Porter’s Hawker by that “Meadows,” whom I have already -mentioned—since his is the best description of this noble sport extant; -since to reproduce it, giving his thoughts in my own altered words were -rankest plagiary; and since, if it meet his eye, he will be rather -pleased than hurt that I have winged his words into a wider field and to -a larger audience than he at first addressed them. - -I will premise only, that “Howard,” who figures as the hero, is a New -Brunswicker, in New Brunswick; “Meadows,” the narrator, an English tyro -visiting his friend in the province; Sabatisie, a Micmac Indian, -henchman and guide of Meadows; and Billy, last not least, Howard’s pet -bull terrier. Scene, daybreak! they have issued from the camp close to -the hunting-ground where the Cariboo are supposed to “won”—as Chaucer -would have written it—when lo! quoth Meadows— - -“After a hearty meal, every thing being ready, we _mounted_ our -snow-shoes and marched. The first golden rays were just struggling -through the gray East, and dispersing the thick mist which hung over our -camp, as I strode forth on my first Cariboo hunt, my heart leaping in -anxious anticipation, and my nerves strung by the healthy atmosphere. We -proceeded in silence, and had ample time to observe the lonely grandeur -of the surrounding forest; the death-like stillness enlivened only by -the cheerful chirp of the active ground-squirrel, or the loud boring of -that most beautiful of woodpeckers, the Hid. We crossed Cariboo tracks -at every step, but still the Indian proceeded, his quick eye glancing at -every trail. After about an hour’s walk, we found ourselves ascending a -steep mountain. Here the Indian came to a halt: in a low tone he told us -that we were now near the Cariboo ground, this being the warm side of -the hill, and good feeding ground; cautioning us to be quiet, we again -advanced, but had not gone far before we came to a trail that the Indian -said was only made last night. Sabatisie chose the outside track of the -herd, to take the wind—which, having followed about three miles, -brought us to where the Cariboo had rested during the night. Tom placed -his hand on the damp snow, and remarked that the Cariboo had not been up -much before us, and could not be far off. - -“Rifles were now examined, and fresh caps put on—Billy secured by a -cord to Howard’s belt. The tracks from the resting-place of the Cariboo -branched off in every direction; and the Indian leaving us, took a -_cast_ round, some distance, and having ascertained the direction the -herd had taken, he returned, and we cautiously followed him. I now -perceived that at the bottom of the tracks the snow was a deep blue, and -quite soft; we were therefore quite near the game. Sabatisie halted and -took off his snow-shoes that he might proceed with less noise. Howard -beckoned me to him, and in a low whisper said—‘Do exactly as you see me -do—follow close upon my track, and do not for your life make the -slightest noise—we are close on them!’ - -“Sabatisie and Howard now slung their snow-shoes on their backs: to -prevent the crackling of the crust, the Indian with his fingers broke -the snow before him, and placing his foot in the hole he made, quietly -advanced—Howard putting his in the track the Indian had left, I mine in -Howard’s. By this means we proceeded without the slightest noise; and as -our movements were simultaneous, we should to a person in front appear -as one body. Our situations were certainly any thing but agreeable, up -to the waist in snow. The trail became every moment more fresh, and the -eagle eye of our sagacious guide pried far into the depths of the forest -in front. Suddenly he cast himself at full length on the snow, and -remained so long in that position that I innocently thrust my head out -of the line to see what was the matter; but the Indian glared at me with -anger and contempt, and Howard’s sign recalled my senses. In front, the -wood being quite open, Sabatisie had seen the Cariboo, and now made for -a large pine to shelter his approach. His movements, as he dragged -himself along on his belly in the snow, were snake-like; and we -followed, endeavoring as far as possible to imitate his very -_interesting contortions_. At last I caught sight of the game. They were -a large herd of 18 or 20—some rubbing the bark from the -branches—others performing their morning toilet, licking their -dark-brown, glossy jackets, and combing them with their noble antlers. -All appeared unconscious of the approach of their most deadly foes, save -one noble bull, the leader of the herd. He seemed suspicious—with head -erect, eyes darting in every direction, ears wagging to and fro, and -nostril expanded, he snuffed the breeze. Upon this splendid creature the -Indian kept his eye, never venturing to move save when the head of the -Cariboo was turned away. Inch by inch we approached the tree. Oh! the -agony of suspense I suffered in those few minutes! - -“At length we reached our shelter. No time was lost. Howard signed to me -to single out a Cariboo, while he took the noble leader, which was about -100 yards distant—the Indian reserving his fire. We stationed ourselves -each side of the tree, and our rifles exploded almost at the same -moment. Springing up to see the effect of my shot, I was pulled down by -the Indian; what was my astonishment to see the bull Howard had fired -at, stamping the snow, and gazing around, with fire and rage in his eye, -in search of his hidden enemy. As I looked at his formidable antlers, -his majestic height, and great strength—a thought of our helpless -situation crossed my mind. The Indian now rested his gun quietly on the -tree, and took a long, steady aim—the cap alone exploded with a sharp -crack! Quick as lightning the bull discovered our ambush, and with a -loud snort made directly for us. Defense or retreat against such a foe, -in our situation, up to the waist in snow, was almost impossible. In -another bound the antlers of the enraged beast would have been in my -side, when our gallant little dog dashed forward and seized the bull by -the muzzle. Sabatisie and Howard were busily employed putting on their -snow-shoes; and I endeavored to do the same, but with little success. -The dog had luckily checked the beast, but he was no match for the -enormous strength and wonderful activity of his adversary. Tossing his -head, the Cariboo beat the poor little fellow on the snow and against -the tree, till I thought every bone was broken. Finding this of no -avail, the bull reared, and with his fore-legs dealt such a shower of -quick and powerful blows, that I expected to see the dog drop every -minute. While the Cariboo was in this position, the Indian approached -him behind and endeavored to hamstring him. But the eye of the bull was -too quick; wheeling like lightning, he made a rush at Sabatisie, which -must have been serious, but was avoided by his falling flat on his face, -the Cariboo passing over him and wounding his back. Meanwhile Howard had -loaded, but his rifle having become wet, he could not discharge it. The -violent exertions of the Cariboo had by this time broke the hold of the -dog, and the furious beast now turned to the prostrate Indian—but -before he could reach his prey, the dog was again at his head, checking, -but not stopping his mad career. Sabatisie on his knee received the -shock, and at the moment grasping the bull by the antlers, brought him -down; when Howard sprang forward and plunged his knife to the hilt in -the breast of the Cariboo. With a last mighty effort, the noble creature -dashed the Indian in the air, and the next moment his own strong limbs -were quivering in death. - -“From the commencement of this burst, I confess, I was a little -agitated—so much so, that I had not coolness sufficient to tie on my -snow-shoes, or load my rifle; but let not any blame me until they -themselves have had the pleasure of being placed in the same delicate -situation, up to the waist in snow, and one of those emperors of the -deer tribe dancing round in mad fury, threatening instant annihilation. -On examination, we found Howard’s ball had taken effect just behind the -shoulder, and would have caused death in a short time. - -“‘Hillo! old boy, are you hurt?’ said Tom Howard, seeing the Indian -still on his back. - -“‘Cariboo _sartain bery strong_,’ grunted the poor fellow. His back was -much lacerated. ‘Brother cut some gum, and soon be well,’ said -Sabatisie. - -“Howard gathered some balsam formed by the sap running from the bark of -the fir-tree, and spreading it on a piece of his handkerchief, formed a -strong adhesive plaster—staunching the blood, he placed it on the -wound. - -“‘And now, Meadows, what has become of your game—think he is hit?’ - -“‘Yes, by Jove, I’ll bet my rifle to a pop-gun he is—for see, Billy has -settled down on his track, and is in chase.’ - -“‘On with your snow-shoes, and away!—the track with the blood will be -plain as a van wagon—if you come up with the Cariboo, do not fire -unless you are sure to kill. I must stop and see if the Indian is much -hurt, and swab out my rifle—but I will soon overtake you—away now!’ - -“So urged, I started off, and found large drops of blood on the track -the prime little dog had taken. As I proceeded, I saw the strides of the -Cariboo were shorter, and he had been down several times. As I pressed -on, in great hopes of overtaking the game before Howard came up, I -observed the Cariboo had made for the valley, and after a sharp walk of -an hour, I came to the stream, which was open. Here I lost the track, -but saw the marks of the dog down the stream—these I followed, and soon -heard the baying of the dog. As I proceeded, the river was every moment -more rapid. After a sharp turn the stream was compressed between two -huge cliffs, and rushed down a water-gap, forming a cascade of nearly -one hundred feet. To the very verge of the fall the river was open; but -over the fall itself there was a thin coating of transparent ice, which -clung to the perpendicular cliffs on each side of the narrow gap, -forming a gauze-like veil. The towering cliffs around were covered with -a frosting of ice; and from the stunted pines which clung to the barren -rock, hung myriads of fantastic icicles. At the foot of the fall, the -blue water rushed out, dashing the white foam many feet in the air; and -through the thick woods which overhung the cascade, the sun cast his -rays upon the gorgeous prospect, making every object throw forth a -thousand brilliant shades, and the glittering ice which encircled the -fall was so transparent, that the blue water could be seen beneath -dashing furiously down, as if enraged at restraint. Not ten feet from -the verge of the fall, on a rock in the centre of the river, stood the -wounded Cariboo. The water around him was fearfully rapid—one false -step would carry him under the ice, and down the fall. On the bank stood -the dog: my first care was to secure him, as he appeared ready every -instant to make a spring that must have been fatal. The Cariboo had -chosen a most admirable place of retreat; nothing living could approach -him with safety. On each side the perpendicular cliffs towered many feet -over his head—before him the roaring torrent, and behind the ice-bound -cataract. After feasting my eyes on this wild and romantic scene, I -approached as near the fall as the rugged cliff would permit. The -Cariboo saw me, and with glaring eye-balls he shook his branching -antlers in impotent rage, presenting to my rifle his broad front, as in -defiance. I am not ashamed to say I was happy when I glanced at the -rapid water and rugged cliff between me and my devoted prey; for I have -no doubt, had it been in his power he would have soon shortened the -distance between us—and after what I had so lately witnessed, I had no -very great desire (seeing I was not as yet a perfect harlequin on -snow-shoes,) to play the same game over again with my friend on the -rock. To put an end to his wishes and my fears, I presented. My ball -took effect directly in his brain, and he quietly dropped into the -stream, leaving me master of the _field_. The next moment I could see, -through the transparent ice, his glossy hide gliding down the cascade.” - -Amiable reader, thus it was that “Meadows” slew his first Cariboo; and -thus, pray for me, that I may kill mine, this very month. If I do, -believe me, I will try to tell you how I did it, as well—better I may -not tell you—as Meadows. And so, until next month, fare you well! - - * * * * * - - - - - A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. - - -Do we not _all_, sometimes, desire to look into the future, but is it -not _well_ for us, that it is _hidden from our view_? S. D. S. - - Couldst thou have looked beyond the mist that veiled - The unseen Future from thy longing sight, - Would not thy courage in that hour have failed, - To see the shadows of Death’s coming night? - - Wouldst thou have grieved that nevermore for thee - Would the clear waters gush, the sweet flowers bloom? - That more than one fond heart would homeless be, - When thou wert gone in silence to the tomb? - - What didst _dream_ of? when the rose-lip smiled, - And bade thee welcome to the social hearth, - Where voices low and sweet the hours beguiled— - Were they not dear, those fireside hours of mirth? - - What didst thou hope for? with thy kindling eye, - And thoughtful brow, that wore the laurels well; - As thou wert climbing to the temple high, - Not hearing on the winds the passing knell! - - Till ah! one morn, thy throbbing heart grew chill, - And from thy pale lip faintly came the breath; - We saw thee slumbering beautiful and still, - And knew it was the dreamless sleep of death! - - Through the “dark valley,” and the “shadows” dim, - Thy Father’s “rod and staff” did comfort thee! - Meekly didst thou repose thy trust in Him, - And launch thy frail bark on Eternity! - - Could some bright spirit, from a distant sphere, - Bend down to listen to our feeble wail, - To our vain longings with a pitying ear, - And for one moment raise the mystic veil! - - That we might see, though rocking on the tide, - If our frail barks would gain the port at last; - If sailing on Life’s ocean far and wide - We’d gain the haven when the storm was past. - - Oh! looking backward on our dreary way— - Recalling all our dreams of love and truth, - And the “green spots” wherein we might not stay, - Far back upon the “fairy isle” of Youth— - - And thinking of the hours of grief and pain, - Of all the bitter tears that we have shed, - That only ceased awhile, to flow again, - Above the loved, the beautiful, the dead! - - Would we not close our eyes, nor dare the sight? - The many blighted hopes, the cares, the fears— - The fond eyes closed, that round us shed their light, - The clouds that hang above our coming years? - - Would not a fearful shriek then pierce the sky, - Sent up by thousands from this erring world - Would they not then for pardon wildly cry, - Ere in the whirlpool of Destruction hurled? - - ’Tis “hidden from our view,” and it is well! - But traveling through this vale of sin and strife, - Should not thy memory be to us a spell, - Thy pure and holy thoughts, thy blameless life? - - They who above thy grave so sadly wept - Shall change as other years roll swiftly by— - And look upon the tokens they have kept, - Scarce yielding thee the tribute of a sigh. - - Oh what is Life? We live a few short hours. - Eternal joy or pain hang on a breath; - We pass from earth, as fade the summer flowers, - Wither and die away—and _this is Death_! - - Cora - - * * * * * - - - - - WAS THE WORLD MADE OUT OF NOTHING? - - -The idea of creation may be symbolically represented under a variety of -images: under that of the evolution of numbers from an original unity; -that of the eradiation of light from an original light; or that of an -expression of syllables and tones, answered for aught we know to the -contrary, _by an echo_. The Hebrews seem to have preferred this last -symbol. “In the beginning God _created_ (Heb. BARA, _brought forth_) the -heavens and the earth.” In the verb _bara_, the meaning _create_ and -_cry_ are identified: for this reason, it is eminently adapted to denote -a creation capable of being symbolically represented by a vocal -utterance. - -“The primary sense of _create_ and _cry_”—says Noah Webster, and we are -careful to adduce in this place the testimony of a man whom no one will -suppose to have been led astray by ontological speculations—“is the -same, to throw, to drive out, to bring forth, precisely as in the -Shemitic BARA.” The Hebrew text may indeed be correctly but inadequately -rendered: “In the beginning God _bore_ (or _bare_, preserving in the -English word the radical letters of the original BARA) the heavens and -the earth.” For the same lexicographer says in another place, “The verb -_to bear_, I suppose to be radically the same as the Shemitic BARA, to -produce: the primary sense is, to throw out, to bring forth, to thrust, -to drive along.” - -The author of the epistle to the Hebrews says: “By faith we understand -that the worlds were framed by the word of God, so that things which are -seen were not made of things which do appear.” These things which _do -not appear_ are real existences; for the apostle says, “the things which -are seen are temporal, but the things that are unseen (that is, which do -not appear,) are eternal.” The text therefore does not affirm that the -worlds were made out of nothing, but implies, on the contrary, that they -were framed out of invisible (that is, virtual or potential) things. -Plato says: “Let us lay down two classes of being, the seen and the -unseen; the unseen, eternal in their relations; the seen, never the same -but ever changing.” - -A cause which creates from nothing as material on which to operate, must -of necessity itself stand as substance to its own creature: in such a -case, the creator and the creature must be consubstantial. The dogma -therefore that the worlds are created absolutely out of nothing, is -_Pantheism_. The statement that the worlds are created out of nothing is -not found in Scripture, neither is it possible that it should be found -there; for the idea is absurd in itself, since out of nothing, nothing -can come, and a universe absolutely created out of nothing would be a -mere prolongation of Supreme Power; and moreover, there is no Hebrew -word, nor known collocation of Hebrew words, capable of expressing such -an absolute creation. The verb BARA, as we have seen, signifies -something quite different. - -Fabre d’Olivet, who has endeavored to reconstruct the Hebrew language -from its biliteral roots, translates the passage, “The earth was without -_form and void_ (Heb. _tho-hu va bo-hu_)” as follows: “The earth was a -contingent potentiality of being, and in a potentiality of being.” He -affirms that the term _hu_ is derived from _hua_ (_being_, that which -_is_,) and that it is formed of _h_, the letter of life, taken in -connection with one of the signs of manifestation. The signs of -manifestation are these, _i_, _o_, _u_, and are used in this way: _u_ -represents latent or virtual manifestation, _i_ represents the passage -from potentiality into actuality, _o_ represents manifestation in its -intensity and actual realization. Thus _hu_, in tho-hu va bo-hu, is -latent or virtual being, while _ho_, in Jehovah, is Being in the -fullness of actual existence. The blinding of the vowel in _ho_, which -gives _hu_, represents the retrocession of being from the fullness of -actuality into mere invisibility or potentiality; while on the contrary, -the opening of the vowel in _hu_, that is, the changing of _hu_ into -_ho_, represents the opposite process, or the procession of being from -potentiality into actuality. This same root appears again in the same -verse in the word _thehom_, translated in our version by the term -“deep.” - -The Hebrew cosmogony is more scientific than that of India. The Hindoos -tell us that the universe exists in two states, that it is sometimes -visible and sometimes invisible; but they do not tell us by what process -things come forth from the _thehom_ or “deep,” and return again into the -same. But in the Hebrew cosmogony all that is explained. According to -the Hebrews, things are in this “deep” when they are not related to each -other; and they come forth from this “deep” by coming into relations -with each other. According to the Hebrews, things have no power in -themselves to come into relations with each other, that is, to emerge -from this “deep,” but must be brought into such relations by the Divine -Energy: so it is the putting forth of the Divine Energy which causes -this universe to appear, and the withdrawing of that Energy which causes -it to disappear again. This may be illustrated. In order to the -possibility of an act of vision, it is necessary not only that there -should be some person capable of seeing and some object capable of being -seen, but also that the light requisite in order that these two may be -brought into relations should exist. Who can see in the dark? So long as -there is no light, the seer and the seen exist to each other potentially -only: but as soon as the light shines these two become related. - -In the Hebrew Scriptures, the Divine Powers, which bring finite -existences into relations with each other, thus causing them to emerge -from the _thehom_, or “deep,” are called—_the Spirit of God_. “Darkness -was on the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God moved on the face of -the waters.” This Divine Spirit, operating upon man in its ordinary -measure, makes man to be what he is; operating beyond its ordinary -measure, it becomes especial _inspiration_. The Hebrews supposed this -universe would continue in visible existence so long as the Spirit of -God should breath upon it, but that it would fall back into the -_the-hom_ the moment that spirit should withdraw its vivifying power. - -We read in the speech of Elihu, reported in the book of Job:— - - “There is a spirit in man: - And the inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding. . . - . - The Spirit of God hath made me, - And the breath of the Almighty hath given me life. . . . - Who hath given unto God a charge over the earth? - Or who hath disposed the whole world? - If He set his heart upon man— - _If He gather unto Himself his Spirit and his breath;_ - _All flesh shall perish together._ - _And man shall turn again unto dust._” - -Also in the 104th Psalm: - - “Thy creatures wait all upon thee; - That thou mayest give them their meat in due season. - That thou givest them, they gather: - Thou openest thine hand—they are filled with good. - _Thou hidest thy face—they are troubled:_ - _Thou takest away their breath—they die and return to their dust._ - _Thou sendest forth thy Spirit—they are (re-) created:_ - _And thou renewest the face of the earth._” - -Inspiration, therefore, does not consist in an intensification of the -soul’s being, in the implanting of a new principle, or springing source -in the centre of its substance, but it consists in a leading forth of -the soul to a greater intensity of _manifestation_—to a greater -distance from the original chaos, _the-hom_, or “deep.” - - BETH. - - * * * * * - - - - - A LITERARY GOSSIP WITH MISS MITFORD.[12] - - -Draw the curtains, stir the fire, make a semicircle round the rug, and -now for a _causerie_. Mary Russell Mitford shall talk to us out of the -three volumes of reminiscences she has just given to the world; and -whatever we have to say about the sundry things she discourseth upon -therein shall be said in a cordial, and, at the same time, perfectly -frank spirit, as becometh an honest fireside. - -There she sits in the large chair, not quite so young as she was when -she charmed all homesteads and hearth-stones with pictures of her own -quiet Berkshire village, before railroads came to destroy the pretty -wayside inns, where travelers used to be so snug and comfortable in tiny -carpeted rooms with dimity curtains and glass cupboards full of -antediluvian china: when little Red-riding-hoods were as plenty as -blackberries, and the gipsies were never at a loss for secluded nooks -and dells, where they could camp and cook, and tell stories under the -hedge-rows, with a feeling of solitude and security they can never enjoy -again in merry England. That was a long, long time ago; yet Mary Russell -Mitford looks as ready as she was in her brightest days to enter with a -relishing zest into the garden delights and book pleasures that have -formed the occupation and happiness of her life, and made her name known -and welcome wherever natural description and unaffected feeling are -truly appreciated. - -There she sits, with as homely and good-humored an air as if, instead of -writing books and holding correspondence with half the celebrities of -her time, she had no other vocation in this world than to attend to -domestic affairs, prune shrubs on the lawn, dispense flannels at -Christmas to the poor, and look after a neighboring school. Beside her -chair stands her constant companion, a remarkable stick, with an odd -sort of a head to it; and to make her actual presence the more palpable -she should be surrounded by her inseparable friends—Fanchon, her little -dog, that might be crouched at her feet, with its sensitive ears lifting -and falling at every sound; her neat maid, Nancy, watching her on a low -stool, and her boy, Henry—(we hope he is still a boy,) and that he will -contrive, for her sake, to continue so—standing behind her chair. - -That stick has a biography all to itself, and a very curious one it is. -Sixty years ago it was a stick of quality, and belonged to some Dowager -Duchess of Athol, who has no more reality for us than one of the -embroidered ladies in an old piece of tapestry. So far as its original -owner is concerned, the stick, for aught we know to the contrary, may be -a phantom-stick, or a witch-stick; but, be that as it may, Miss -Mitford’s father bought it at the sale of Berkshire House, where it was -huddled by the auctioneer into a lot of old umbrellas, watering-pots, -and flower-stands. It was then light, straight, and slender, nearly four -feet high, polished, veined, and of a yellowish color, and of the order -called a crook, such, says Miss Mitford, who is evidently very -particular about it, as may be seen upon a chimney-piece figuring in the -hand of some trim shepherdess of Dresden china. First, the housekeeper -carried this stick—then, when the housekeeper died, Miss Mitford’s -mother took possession of it; and from her it descended to Miss Mitford, -herself, who, first out of whim, and afterward from habit and necessity, -made it her trusty supporter on all occasions. The adventures of that -stick are as full of perils and hair-breadth escapes as ever befell a -South Sea whaler, or a Hudson’s bay trapper. Once it was lost in a fair, -once forgotten in a marquee at a cricket match, and at another time -stolen by a little boy, which cost its mistress a ten miles walk for its -recovery. But the worst calamity that befell it was, when in the act of -drawing down a rich branch of woodbine from the top of a hedge, its -ivory crook came off, falling into a muddy ditch, and sinking so -irretrievably that it was never recovered. The crook, it seems, was very -handsome, and was bound with a silver rim, imparting a lady-like -appearance to the stick, which at the first sight, gave you a hint of -its aristocratic origin. In this extremity it was sent to a parasol shop -to have a new crook put on, but the stupid people first docked many -inches of its height, and then put on a bone umbrella-top, that fell off -of its own accord in a few days. A good-natured friend remedied the -second loss by fastening on an ebony top, which looks, after four or -five years’ wear, a little graver, “and more fit for the poor old -mistress, who having at first taken to a staff in sport, is now so lame -as to be unable to walk without one.” The memoirs of a walking-stick may -strike our readers as a mere waste of words and paper; but it is -surprising what slight incidents rise into importance and interest in a -country life, and how much the reality of its portraiture is indebted to -trivial, but by no means unessential features. At all events, Miss -Mitford’s stick is a stick of note, and should no more be passed over in -silence than the ruff of Queen Elizabeth, or the flowing ringlets of -Congreve. - -Miss Mitford’s life seems to have opened upon her in that page of the -old quarto edition of “Percy’s Reliques,” where the ballad of the -“Children in the Wood” is to be found. It is the first book, almost the -first event she remembers. They used to put her upon a table before she -was three years old, when she was, as she says, only a sort of -twin-sister to her own doll, to make her read leading articles out of -the morning papers; and the reward for this terrible penance was to hear -her mother recite the “Children in the Wood,” just as children are -rewarded for taking nauseous things by a promise of a lump of sugar. At -last, she got possession of the volumes themselves, and made -acquaintance with the rest of the ballads, which possess as great a -charm for her now as they did then; and she never looks upon the old -books—the very same edition Dr. Johnson used to treat with a very -learned and unwise superciliousness—that the days of her childhood, or -doll-hood, do not come vividly back upon her. - -She still keeps to the Percy collection. She does not seem to care about -the lore that has been dug up since, or the antiquarian research that -has come to the illustration of our old English poetry. Even the first -edition contents her—she will have no other—she has an affection for -it—it is enough for her purpose—it recalls the happy time when its -pages disclosed a new world of enchantments to her—and she holds it in -reverence amongst her literary penates. There is nothing in her -reminiscences to show that she troubles herself about Percy societies, -or Shakspeare societies, that she has ever dipped into Notes and -Queries, or would think herself obliged to the officious critic who -should detect a flaw in her two precious quarto volumes. The faith and -the enthusiasm of childhood still cling to the well-known book, and -would be very much put out by being disturbed at their devotions. And -this is the character of Miss Mitford’s mind. She would rather believe -in an old tradition than have it dispelled by the detective police that -go about exploring chronicles and ferreting out damaging facts. She -thinks a pleasant delusion better than a disagreeable truth; and it is -to this fondness for old books, and old places, and the old stories that -have grown up into a popular creed about them, that we may trace the -paramount charm of simplicity and trustfulness, the cheerful spirit and -the teeming good-nature which abound in her writings. - -To us, we must acknowledge, this freshness of the heart and entire -freedom of the imagination, is very delightful. Miss Mitford is not a -critic; but she is something a great deal better and more agreeable. She -is of too enjoyable a temperament for a critic; she has not a tinge of -the malice or perversity of criticism in her genial nature. For this -reason, her opinions are sometimes slightly heterodox, but it is always -on the side of a good-will, and a hearty admiration of some gracious or -gentle quality which she has been at the pains to discover, and which -few people would take the trouble to look for. She speaks rapturously of -Davis’ “Life of Curran;” has such innocent rural views of literature, -that she thinks nobody reads Pope and Dryden now, and that George Darley -is unknown as a poet to the English public; detects a close resemblance -between the Irish novels of Banim and the romanticist creations of -Victor Hugo, Sue, Dumas, and the rest of that school; thinks that few -works are better worth reading than Moncton Milnes’ “Life of Keats,” not -only for the sake of Keats, but of his “generous benefactors, Sir James -Clarke and Mr. Severn;” regrets that certain works have fallen into -oblivion, from which no effort of fashionable or literary patronage can -redeem them; considers Willis, Lowell and Poe the great American poets; -and hopes that Richardson’s novels and Walpole’s letters will never come -to an end. Nobody’s judgment can suffer any damage from such amiable -notions; and the world is always sure to derive benefit from the kindly -spirit that overlooks a hundred defects and follies for the sake of a -single virtue it finds hidden beneath them. We wish there were more Miss -Mitfords, with her intellect, to set us so influential an example of -toleration and a willingness to be pleased. - -She confesses that she was a spoilt child, and that papa spoilt her. It -is evident, from what we have just said, that sudden and high as was the -growth of her reputation, the public have not spoilt her. What the -applause of critics and the admiration of her readers failed to do, papa -did. “Not content with spoiling me in-doors, he spoilt me out. How well -I remember his carrying me round the orchard on his shoulder, holding -fast my little three-year-old feet, whilst the little hands hung on to -his pig-tail, which I called my bridle—those were days of -pig-tails—hung so fast, and lugged so heartily, that sometimes the -ribbon would come off between my fingers, and send his hair floating, -and the powder flying down his back.” The papa who thus made her first -acquainted with the orchard, occupies a still more prominent space in -her subsequent reminiscences. From him to whom she was indebted for her -early love of nature, and the happy hours of childhood, she also derived -the heaviest sorrow of her life. The story is strange and melancholy. - -A young physician, clever, handsome, gay, in a small town in Hampshire, -Miss Mitford’s father won the hand of an heiress with a property of -eight-and-twenty thousand pounds. With the exception of two hundred a -year, settled on her as pin-money, the whole of this fortune was -injudiciously placed at the free use of Dr. Mitford, who seems to have -possessed every quality to make his wife happy—except prudence. Being -an eager Whig, he plunged into election politics and made enemies; being -very hospitable, he spent more money than he could afford; and, -endeavoring to retrieve the waste by cards and speculation, he sank -nearly the whole of his resources. In this extremity, he thought he -would do better in a fresh place, and so the family removed to Lyme -Regis, where they had a fine house, which twenty years before had been -rented by the great Lord Chatham for the use of his sons. Here they led -a very gay life for two or three seasons—balls, excursions, dinners; -yet in the midst of it, Miss Mitford says, she felt a secret conviction -that something was wrong—“such a foreshowing as makes the quicksilver -in the barometer sink while the weather is still bright and clear.” Her -father went ominously to London, and lost more money—she does not say -how—all was now gone except the pin-money: friends departed one by one, -and there was great hurry and confusion, and then everything was to be -parted with, and everybody to be paid, and the family made a forced -journey to London, part of which was performed in a tilted cart without -springs, for lack of better conveyance. - -Settled in a dingy, comfortless lodging in one of the suburbs beyond -Westminster Bridge, Dr. Mitford’s constitutional vivacity returned. He -used to take his little girl, then ten years old, in his hand about town -to show her the sights; and one day they stopped at an Irish -lottery-office, and showing her certain mysterious bits of paper with -numbers on them, he desired her to choose one. She selected No. 2,224; -but as this was only a quarter, and papa wanted to purchase a whole -ticket, he desired her to choose again. But her heart was set on No. -2,224, because the numbers added together made up ten, and that day -happened to be her tenth birth-day. Fortunately, the lottery-office man -had the whole number in shares, and so the ticket was bought. She must -relate the sequel in her own words. - - “The whole affair was a secret between us, and my father, - whenever he got me to himself, talked over our future twenty - thousand pounds, just like Almaschar over his basket of eggs. - - “Meanwhile time passed on, and one Sunday morning we were all - preparing to go to church, when a face that I had forgotten, but - my father had not, made its appearance. It was the clerk of the - lottery-office. An express had just arrived from Dublin, - announcing that No. 2,224 had drawn a prize of twenty thousand - pounds, and he had hastened to communicate the good news. - - “Ah, me! in less than twenty years what was left of the produce - of the ticket so strangely chosen? What? except the Wedgwood - dinner service that my father had had made to commemorate the - event, with the Irish harp within the border on one side, and - his family crest on the other. That fragile and perishable ware - long outlasted the more perishable money!” - -Miss Mitford relates these painful recollections with a serenity and -patience that yield a lesson from which her readers may profit as -largely as from the example of extravagance and recklessness which made -so severe a demand on her feelings and her philosophy; and it is -pleasant, after all her vicissitudes and jolting over the rough ways of -the world, to find her in a tranquil cottage, in the midst of the -scenery she loves, with her dog and her maid, her stick and her pony, -enjoying as much felicity as can be reasonably looked for in the sunset -of a chequered life. - -Scattered over the volumes without much heed of chronology or sequence, -are many little personal scraps that will hereafter enter into her -biography, from the light which they throw upon the cast and color of -her training. The papa, who was so indifferent to money, who was -addicted to such ruinous habits, and who in his general relations with -society, seems to have sacrificed the comfort and repose of his home, -was, nevertheless, the most devoted of fathers. From her earliest -childhood to the last hour of his life, he treated her with an -affectionate and caressing tenderness that, in spite of his manifest -errors, leaves an amiable impression of his character behind. One of the -incidents on which she dwells with the greatest satisfaction was her -first visit to London; and the mode of it is not only illustrative of -the comparatively primitive habits of the time, but of the simplicity of -the man in his domestic life. Having occasion to come to London in the -middle of July, he suddenly announced his intention of taking her up -with him in his gig; and at this open fashion they started, stopping to -dine at Crauford Bridge in a little inn—then a very famous -posting-house—whose pretty garden and Portugal laurels she still -remembers; and then on to Hatchett’s Hotel in Piccadilly, where she -stood looking out of the window and wondering when the crowd would go -by; and in the evening she was so unconscious of fatigue from this -exciting journey that papa took her to the Haymarket to see a -comedy—one of the comedies, she says, that George III. used to enjoy so -heartily, although what sort of comedy it was we know not, unless, which -we shrewdly suspect, it was a specimen of Colman the Younger, or of the -Morton and Reynolds school. She had seen plays before in a barn—but -never such a play as this. The whole description of this trip to London -is as good in its way as anything Fielding himself could have done. - -“Dear papa,” in the pride of his heart, insisted upon making an -accomplished musician of her, and would “stick her up” to the piano, -although she had neither ear, taste, nor application. Her master was -Hook, the father of the facetious Theodore, and she was taught in the -schoolroom where Miss Landon passed the greater part of her life. -Luckily they shut her up in a room to make her practise the harp, and as -it was full of books she fell to reading, and under these auspicious -circumstances made her first acquaintance with the plays of Voltaire and -Molière. She was caught in the fact of laughing till the tears ran down -her cheeks over that passage in the “Bourgeois Gentilhomme,” where the -angry father apostrophises the galley, “Que diable alloit-il faire dans -cette galère!” As her good stars had it, she was detected in her -delinquency by the husband of the schoolmistress, who happened to be a -Frenchman, an adorer of Molière, and a hater of music, and who, instead -of chiding her for her neglect of the instrument, dismissed the -harp-mistress, and made the young student a present of a cheap edition -of Molière, for her own reading, which she has to this hour, in twelve -unbound, foreign-looking, little volumes. - -After these scenes, we find her in a cottage, at Taplow—at this time a -grown-up lady—looking over a garden of honeysuckles, lilies, and roses, -making excursions to Windsor, to Gray’s Lawn at Stoke Poges, to Burke’s -at Beaconsfield, and to the College at Chalfont, where Milton found a -refuge during the plague. We always associate Miss Mitford with -cottages. We cannot imagine her living in a slated house, three stories -high, with a carriage sweep, and steps up to the door—we cannot suffer -her in our imagination to have any of the comforts and solidity of a -well-built mansion about her; it must be a cottage, with its ivy -creepers, its portico and latticed windows, and everything round it -looking as green and rural as a wilderness of trees and shrubs, growing -up luxuriantly in a warm, languid climate can make it. In short, we must -smother her in flowers, or she is not the Miss Mitford that we know so -well in the pastoral books she has written. - -Turning from the autobiographical passages which form so interesting a -part of these volumes, there are a variety of literary sketches of an -equally attractive kind. Miss Mitford runs over a wide field of books -and recollections; and from her extensive acquaintance with literary -people, and the desultory character of her reading, she supplies an -abundant store of anecdote and remark. - -The following is new, and certainly very curious. The scene is an old, -wooden, picturesque house, at Cambridge, in America, once the head -quarters of Washington, but now the residence of Longfellow, the poet. - - “One night the poet chanced to look out of his window, and saw - by the vague starlight a figure riding slowly past the mansion. - The face could not be distinguished; but the tall, erect person, - the cocked hat, the traditional costume, the often-described - white horse, all were present. Slowly he paced before the house, - and then returned, and then again passed by, after which, - neither horse nor rider were seen or heard of.” - -Miss Mitford does not give us any authority for this anecdote; but the -collectors of ghost stories are not very particular about authorities, -and will be content to take it upon her own, as we do. - -There is a sketch of Elizabeth Barrett, and a little biography attached -to it, which will be read with interest. Miss Mitford’s acquaintance -with her commenced fifteen years ago. - - “Of a slight, delicate figure, with a shower of dark curls - falling on either side of a most expressive face large, tender - eyes richly fringed by dark eye-lashes, a smile like a sunbeam, - and such a look of youthfulness, that I had some difficulty in - persuading a friend, in whose carriage we went together to - Chiswick, that the translator of the ‘Prometheus of Æschylus,’ - the authoress of the ‘Essay on Mind,’ was old enough to be - introduced into company, or, in technical language, was _out_.” - -It was in the following year that Miss Barrett broke a blood-vessel in -the lungs, which consigned her to a long illness, during which she lost -a favorite brother by one of those melancholy accidents which leave -ineffaceable memories in the hearts of the survivors. He was drowned, -with two companions, in sight of her windows at Torquay, whither she was -ordered for change of air. This tragedy nearly killed her; and more than -a year afterward, when she was removed to London by easy journeys, she -told Miss Mitford that, “during that whole winter, the sound of the -waves rang in her ears like the moans of one dying.” - -William Cobbett was one of the notabilities to whom Miss Mitford was -introduced by her father, whose intimacy with him was brought about -through their mutual attachment to field sports. She describes him in -his own house as a man of unfailing good humor and great heartiness; -tall, stout and athletic, with a bright smile, and an air compounded of -the soldier and the farmer, to which his habitual red waistcoat -contributed not a little. His activity was something to be remembered, -for he would begin the day by mowing his own lawn, a laborious pastime -in which he beat his gardener, who was esteemed, except himself, the -best mower in the parish. - -Upon one occasion, Dr. Mitford and his daughter were invited to -Cobbett’s to meet the wife and daughters of a certain Dr. Blamire; and -as it appeared that Dr. Mitford had formerly flirted with Mrs. Blamire, -some amusement was expected from seeing how they would meet after a -lapse of twenty years, both of them having shaken off the old _liaison_, -and married in the meanwhile. - - “The most diverting part of this scene, very amusing to a - bystander, was, that my father, the only real culprit, was the - only person who throughout maintained the appearance and - demeanor of the most unconscious innocence. He complimented Mrs. - Blamire on her daughters—two very fine girls—inquired after - his old friend, the doctor, and laughed and talked over by-gone - stories with the one lady, just as if he had not jilted her, and - played the kind and attentive husband to the other, just as if - he had never in all his days made love to anybody except his own - dear wife.” - -Formerly, we frequently met with physicians who belonged to this class, -and who were indebted for their professional success mainly to their -social tactics and invincible pleasantry; but although you still -occasionally fall in with a medical man who considers it as necessary to -cultivate popularity amongst ladies as to attend to the practice of his -art, the age of the flirt-physicians, we are happy to believe, has -passed away. - -Miss Mitford’s literary “recollections” bear rather more upon books than -upon the authors of them. The book-gossip to which she invites us, -traverses a considerable round of poets, novelists, and miscellaneous -writers, and the specimens of their works over which she lingers with -delight, make a body of extracts which enhance the value and variety of -the publication. Her notes upon these selected passages discover a -geniality and earnestness which will be grateful even to the reader who -may sometimes have occasion to think that her praise is a little in -excess, or who may doubt the judgment that has been shown in particular -selections. - -This tendency to a good-natured estimate of her favorite authors, shows -itself most conspicuously in her admiration of certain poets, whose -merits the world has not hitherto rated so highly. We are not sorry, -nevertheless, to meet snatches of such people as Mr. Spencer and Miss -Catharine Fanshawe—whose chief claim to notice is, that she was the -author of the Enigma on the letter H, which used to be ascribed to -Byron—for, except through the flattering medium of books like these, we -are not very likely to see the _vers de société_ that were in such -request some fifty years ago, disinterred for our special delectation. -They are abundantly curious, and discover a certain verbal facility and -gayety of the thinnest and airiest kind, which will at least amuse, if -not instruct the reader, by setting him thinking of the extinct modes -and tastes to which they were addressed, and out of which they extracted -their fugitive popularity. But poetasters of this order, however -cheerfully and successfully they help to shed a grace on private life, -and to give a sort of intellectual vivacity to social intercourse, can -never be made to survive their hour in print. They must perish with the -occasion that gave them birth; and you might as well hope to procure for -the acted charade, if it were taken down in short-hand and published, -the same success in the closet that it received on its impromptu -delivery, as to procure for the graceful trifles thrown off for the -amusement of a _coterie_, the honors of a permanent place in the -library. They never aimed at such a destiny, and can never achieve it; -and it may be doubted whether their fragile existence should be risked -in print at all. - -Of all the neglected, forgotten, or unknown books Miss Mitford has -brought to life again, the Autobiography of Holcroft is the most -deserving of resuscitation. We know no memoir of its kind—excepting the -only one forbidden book in French literature—that possesses its charm -of frankness, truthfulness of detail, and quiet development of -character. Unfortunately it is nothing more than a fragment, consisting -of seventeen chapters, dictated by Holcroft—a prolific author and -translator—in his last illness; stopping short at an interesting point -in his career, and furnishing such evidences of clear-sighted judgment, -and happy skill in relation and portraiture, as to leave an indelible -regret upon the mind of the reader at finding himself cast upon the -grander diction of Hazlitt for the continuation of the narrative. The -contrast is painful. The brilliancy and paradoxical genius of Hazlitt, -rendered him of all men the most unfit to follow up the unpretending -strength and simplicity of Holcroft; and the transition is something -like being transported from the fresh air and pastoral beauty of a -natural landscape into a severe Italian garden. There was but one point -in common between them—and that was the most contracted and least -characteristic of all—their agreement in politics. Holcroft was a man -of larger powers, and a wider range of tastes than might be predicated -from that party martyrdom which gave him so distressing a notoriety in -the latter days of his life, to the partial eclipse of his literary -reputation. But the subject is not likely to be revived now, nor would -it repay the labors of a more competent editor. Miss Mitford, however, -has done well in drawing attention to Holcroft’s book, and the extracts -she has given from it will be read with interest; but it is only from -the memoir itself, as a whole, tracing the course of the self-educated -boy from his origin upward, that an adequate notion can be formed of the -enthralling charm of that singular narrative. - -We have exceeded our limits. A gossip, intended to occupy only five -minutes or so, has already run over the brim of the measure which we -proposed to fill up to the health of Miss Mitford. It is not the first -time she has tempted us into an excess of this kind; but, if the reader -will open her volumes over the fireside as we have done, we are mistaken -if he do not find quite as much difficulty as we do now in shutting them -up and putting them down again. - ------ - -[12] Recollections of a Literary Life; or Books, Places, and People. By -Mary Russell Mitford, Author of “Our Village,” etc. 3 vols. - - * * * * * - - - - - THE BLACK HUNTSMAN. - - - HORACE W. SMITH. - - - Loud blew the wind at the midnight hour, - With many a wintry blast, - Which fairly shook old Rodenstine’s tower, - As the Wild Black Huntsman passed. - - The deer he sprang from his leafy bed, - As he heard the piercing sounds, - And the oak boughs crashed to his antlered head, - As he flew from the phantom hounds. - - The rite of the holy monk was stayed, - And he trembling dropped his beads, - As he heard the tramp through the forest glades - And the neigh of the goblin steeds. - - From the revellers hand the wine-cup fell, - At the forester’s festive board; - And a sudden charm came o’er the spell - Of the minstrels tuneful chord. - - The old oak shook in its ancient hold, - The abbey bell tolled to the blast; - And the cloud and the tempest onward rolled, - As the Wild Black Huntsman passed. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: J. Hayter, W.H. Mote - -COQUETISH SEVENTEEN. -Graham’s Magazine 1852] - - * * * * * - - - - - THE TWO ISABELS; - - - OR COQUETISH SEVENTEEN. - - - [with a steel plate.] - - BY MRS. S. C. HALL. - - - Oh love, love, love, love!—love is like a dizziness, - It will not let a poor man go about his business. - Old Song. - - And are those follies going, - And is my proud heart growing - Too cold, or wise, for woman’s eyes - Again to set it glowing? - Moore. - -The General put on his spectacles, and looked steadfastly at Isabel for -at least two minutes. “Turn your head,” he said, at last—“there, to the -left.” - -Isabel Montford, although an acknowledged beauty, was as amiable as she -was admired; she had also a keen appreciation of character; and, though -somewhat piqued, was amused by the oddity of her aunt’s old lover. The -General was a fine example of the well-preserved person and manners of -the past century; beauty always recognizes beauty as a distinguished -relative; and Isabel turned her head, to render it as attractive as it -could be. - -The General smiled, and after gazing for another minute with evident -pleasure, he said—“Do me the favor to keep that attitude, and walk -across the room.” - -Isabella did so with much dignity; she certainly was exceedingly -handsome;—her step light, but firm; her figure, admirably poised; her -head, well and gracefully placed; her features, finely formed; her eyes -and smile, bright and confiding. She would have been more captivating -had her dress been less studied; her taste was evidently Parisien rather -than classic. The gentleman muttered something, in which the words, -“charming,” and “to be regretted,” only met her ear; then he spoke -distinctly: - -“You solicited my candor, young lady—you challenged comparison between -you and your compeers, and the passing belles whom I have seen. Now, be -so kind as to walk out of the room, re-enter, and curtsey.” - -Had Isabel Montford been an uneducated young lady, she might have -flounced out of the _salon_, in obedience to her displeasure, which was -very decided; but as it was, she drew herself to her full height, and -swept through the folding-doors. The General took a very large pinch of -snuff. “That is so perfectly a copy of her poor aunt!” he -murmured;—“just so would she pass onward, like a ruffled swan; she went -after that exact fashion into the ante-room, when she refused me, for -the fourth time, thirty-five years ago.” - -The young Isabel re-entered, and curtseyed. The gentleman seated -himself, leaned his clasped hands upon the head of his beautiful inlaid -cane—which he carried rather for show than use—and said, “Young lady, -you look a divinity! Your _tourneure_ is perfection; but your curtsey is -frightful! A dip, a bob, a bend, a shuffle, a slide, a canter—neither -dignified, graceful, nor self-possessed! A curtsey is in grace what an -_adagio_ is in music;—only masters of the art can execute either the -one or the other. Why, the beauty of the Duchess of Devonshire could not -have saved her reputation as a graceful woman, if she had dared such a -curtsey as that.” - -“I assure you, sir,” remonstrated the offended Isabel, “that Madame -Micheau——” - -“What do I care for the woman!” exclaimed the General, indignantly. -“Have I not memory?” - -“Can you not teach me?” said Isabel, amused and interested by his -earnestness. - -“I teach you!—I! No; the curtseys which captivated thousands in my -youth were more an inspiration than an art. The very queen of _ballet_, -in the present day, cannot curtsey.” - -“Could my aunt?” inquired Isabel, a little saucily. - -“Your aunt, Miss Montford, was grace itself. Ah! there are no such women -now a-days!” - -And, after the not very flattering observation, the General moved to the -piano. Isabel’s brows contracted and her cheeks flushed; however, she -glanced at the looking-glass, was comforted, and smiled. He raised the -cover, placed the seat with the grave gallantry of an old courtier, and -invited the young lady to play. She obeyed, to do her justice, with -prompt politeness; she was not without hope that _there_, at least, the -old gentleman would confess she was triumphant. Her white hands, gemmed -with jewels, flew over the keys like winged seraphs; they bewildered the -eye by the rapidity of their movements. The instrument thundered, but -the thunder was so continuous that _there was no echo_! “The contrast -will come by-and-by,” thought the disciple of the old school—“there -must be some shadow to throw up the lights.” - -Thunder—crash—thunder—crash—drum—rattle—a confused, though -eloquent, running backward and forward of sounds, the rings flashing -like lightning! Another crash—louder—a great deal of crossing -hands—violent strides from one end of the instrument to the -other—prodigious displays of strength on the part of the fair -performer—a terrific shake! “What desperate exertion!” thought the -General; “and all to produce a soulless noise.” Then followed a fearful -banditti of octaves—another crash, louder and more prolonged than the -rest; and she looked up with a triumphant smile—a smile conveying the -same idea as the pause of an opera-dancer after a most wonderful -_pirouette_. - -“Do you keep a tuner in the house, my dear young lady?” inquired the -General. - -If a look could have annihilated, he would have crumbled into ashes; but -he only returned it with admiration, thinking, “How astonishingly like -her aunt, when she refused me the second time!” - -“And that is fashionable music, Miss Montford? I have lived so long out -of England, only hearing the music of Beethoven, and Mozart, and -Mendelssohn, I was not aware that noise was substituted for power, and -that execution had banished expression. Dear me!—why, the piano is -vibrating at this moment! Poor thing! How long does a piano last you, -Miss Montford?” - -Isabel was losing her temper, when fortunately her aunt—still Miss -Vere—came to the rescue. The lovers of thirty years past, would have -met any where else as strangers. The once rounded and queen-like form of -the elder Isabel was shorn of its grace and beauty; of all her -attributes, of all her attractions, dignity only remained; and it was -that high-bred, innate dignity which can never be acquired, and is never -forgotten. She had not lost the eighth of an inch of her height, and her -gray hair was braided in full folds over her fair but wrinkled brow. -Isabel Montford looked so exactly what Isabel Vere had been, that -General Gordon was sorely perplexed; Isabel Vere, if truth must be told, -had taken extra pains with her dress; her niece had met the General the -night before, and her likeness to her aunt had so recalled the past, -that his promised visit to his old sweetheart (as he still called her) -had fluttered and agitated her more than she thought it possible an -interview with _any man_ could do; she quarreled with her beautiful gray -hair, she cast off her black velvet dress disdainfully, and put on a -blue _Moire antique_. (She remembered how much the Captain—no, the -General, once admired blue.) She was not a coquette; even gray hair at -fifty-five does not cure coquetry where it has existed in all its -strength; but, for the sake of her dear niece, she wished to look as -well as possible. She wondered why she had so often refused “poor -Gordon.” She had been all her life of too delicate a mind to be a -husband-hunter, too well satisfied with her position to calculate how it -could be improved, and yet, she did not hesitate to confess to herself -that now, in the commencement of old age, however verdant it might be, -she would have been happier, of more consequence, of more value, as a -married woman. She had too much good sense, and good taste, to belong to -the class of discontented females, consisting of husbandless and -childless women, who seek to establish laws at war with the laws of the -Almighty; so, if her heart did beat a little stiffly, and sundry -passages passed through her brain in connection with her old adorer, and -what the future might be—she may be forgiven, and will be, by those not -strong-minded women who understand enough of the waywardness of human -nature to know that, if _young_ heads and _old_ hearts are sometimes -found together, so are young hearts and old heads. The young laugh to -scorn the idea of Cupid and a crutch, but Cupid has strange vagaries, -and at any moment can barb his crutch with the point of an arrow. - -“The old people,” as Isabel Montford irreverently called them that -evening, did not get on well together; they were in a great degree -disappointed one with the other. They stood up to dance the _minuet de -la cour_, and Isabel Vere languished and swam as she had never done -before; but the General only wondered how stiff she had grown, and hoped -that he was not as ill used by time as Mistress Isabel Vere had been. At -first, Isabel Montford thought it “good fun” to see the antiquities -bowing and curtseying, but she became interested in the lingering -courtliness of the little scene, trembled lest her aunt should appear -ridiculous, and then wondered how she could have refused such a man as -General Gordon must have been. - -Days and weeks flew fast; the General became a constant visitor in the -square, and the heart of Isabel Vere had never beaten so loudly at -twenty as it did at fifty-and-five; nothing, she thought, could be more -natural than that the General should recall the days of his youth, and -seek the friendship and companionship of her who had never married, -while he—faithless man!—had been guilty of two wives during his -“services in India.” It was impossible to tell which of the ladies he -treated with the most attention. Isabel Montford took an especial -delight in tormenting him, and he was cynical enough towards her at -times. Although he frankly abused her piano-forte-playing, yet he -evidently preferred it to the music Miss Vere practised so indefatigably -to please him, or to the songs she sang, in a voice which from a high -“soprano,” had been crushed by time into what might be considered a very -singular “mezzo.” He somehow forgot how to find fault with Miss -Montford’s dancing, and more than once became her partner in a -quadrille. It was evident, that while the General was growing young, -Miss Vere remained—“as she was!” Isabel Montford amused herself at his -expense, but he did not—quick-sighted and man-of-the-world though he -was—perceive it. At first he was remarkably fond of recalling and -dating events, and dwelling upon the grace, and beauty, and interest, -and advantage, of whatever was past and gone—much to the occasional -pain of Isabel Vere, who, gentle-hearted as she was, would have -consigned _dates_ to the bottomless pit; latterly, however, he talked a -good deal more of the present than of the past, and, greatly to the -annoyance of younger men, fell into the duties of escort to both -ladies,—accompanying them to places of public promenade and amusement. - -On such occasions, Miss Isabel Vere looked either earnest or -bashful—yes, positively bashful; and Miss Isabel Montford, brimful of -as much mischief as a lady could delight in. At times, the General laid -aside his cynical observations, together with his cane, which was not -even replaced by an umbrella; to confess the truth, he had experienced -several symptoms of _heart disease_, which, though they made him -restless and uncomfortable, brought hopes and aspirations of life, -rather than fears of death. - -One morning, Isabel Montford and the General were alone in the _salon_ -where this little scene first opened: - -“Our difference has never been settled yet,” she exclaimed, gaily; “you -have never proved to me the superiority of the Old school over the New.” - -“Simply because of your superiority to both,” he replied. - -“I do not perceive the point of the answer,” said the young lady. “What -has my superiority over _both_ to do with the question?” - -The General arose and shut the door. “Do you think you could listen to -me seriously for five minutes?” he said. - -“Listening is always serious work,” she answered. He took her hand -within his; she felt it was the hand of age; the bones and sinews -pressed on her soft palm with an earnest pressure. - -“Isabel Montford—could you love an old man?” - -She raised her eyes to his, and wondered at the light which filled -them:— - -“Yes,” she answered, “I could love an old man dearly; I could confide to -him the dearest secret of my heart.” - -“And your heart, your heart itself? Such things have been, sweet -Isabel.” His hand was _very_ hard, but she did not withdraw hers. - -“No, not _that_, because—because I have not my heart to give.” She -spoke rapidly, and with emotion. “I have it not to give, and I have so -longed to tell you my secret! You have such influence with my aunt, you -have been so affectionate, so like a father to me, that if you would -only intercede with _her_, for HIM and me, I know she could not refuse. -I have often——often thought of entreating this, and now it was so kind -of you to ask, if I could love an old man, giving me the opportunity of -showing that I do, by confiding in you, and asking your intercession.” - -The room became misty to the General’s eyes, and the rattle of a -battle-field sounded in his ears, and beat upon his heart. - -“And pray, Miss Montford,” he said, after a pause, “who may _him_ be?” - -“Ah, _you_ do not know him!—my aunt forbade the continuance of our -acquaintance the day before I had the happiness to meet you. It was most -fortunate I wooed you to call upon her, thinking—” (she looked up at -his fine face, whose very wrinkles were aristocratic, and smiled her -most bewitching smile) “thinking the presence of the only man she ever -loved would soften her, and hoping that I should one day be privileged -to address you as my friend, my uncle!” And she kissed his hand.—It -really was hard to bear. “I have heard her say,” persisted the young -lady, “that when prompted by evil counsel, she refused you, she loved -you, and since your return she only lives in your presence.” The General -wondered if this was true, and thought he would not give the young -beauty a triumph. He was recovering his self-possession. “I remembered -your admiration of _passing belles_, and felt how kindly you tolerated -me, _for my aunt’s sake_; and surely you will aid me in a matter upon -which my happiness, and the happiness of that poor dear fellow depends?” -She bent her beautiful eyes on the ground. - -“And who is the poor dear fellow?” inquired the General, in a singularly -husky voice. - -“Henry Mandeville,” half-whispered Isabel. “Oh, is it not a beautiful -name? the initials on those lovely handkerchiefs you gave me will still -do; I shall still be I. M.” - -“A son of old Admiral Mandeville’s?” - -“The _youngest_ son,” she sighed, “that is my aunt’s objection; were he -the _eldest_, she would have been too happy. Oh, sir, he is such a fine -fellow—such a hero!—lost a leg at Cabool, and received I don’t know -how many stabs from those horrid Affgauns.” - -“Lost a leg!” repeated the General, with an approving glance at his own; -“why he can never dance with you.” - -“No, but he can admire my dancing, and does not think my curtsey a dip, -a shuffle, a bend, a bob, a slide, a canter! Ah! dear General, I was -always perfection in his eyes.” - -“By the immortal duke,” thought the General, “the young divinity is -laughing at me.” - -“My aunt only objects to his want of money; now I have abundance for -both; and your recommendation, dear sir, at the Horse Guards, would at -once place him in some position of honor and of profit; and even if it -were abroad, I could leave my dear aunt with the consciousness that her -happiness is secured by you, dear, guardian angel that you are. Ah! sir, -at your time of life you can have no idea of our feelings.” - -“Oh yes, I have!” sighed the General. - -“Bless you!” she exclaimed enthusiastically; “I thought you would recall -the days of your youth and feel for us; and when you see my dear -Harry”— - -“With a cork leg”— - -“Ay, or with two cork legs—you will I know be convinced that my -happiness is as secure as your own.” - -“Women are riddles, one and all!” said the General, “and I should have -known that before.” - -“Oh! do not say such cruel things and disappoint me, depending as I have -been on your kindness and affection. Hark!” she continued, “I hear my -aunt’s footstep: now dear, _dear_ General, reason coolly with her—my -very existence depends on it. If you only knew him! Promise, do promise, -that you will use your influence, all-powerful as it is, to save my -life.” - -She raised her beautiful eyes, swimming in unshed tears, to his; she -called him her uncle, her dear noble-hearted friend; she rested her -snowy hand lovingly, imploringly on his shoulder, and even murmured a -hope that, her aunt’s consent once gained, it might not be impossible to -have the two weddings _on the same day_. - -The General may have dreaded the banter of sundry members of the “Senior -United Service Club,” who had already jested much at his devotion to the -two Isabels; he _may_ have felt a generous desire to make two young -people happy, and his good sense doubtless suggested that sixty-five and -seventeen bear a strong affinity to January and May; he certainly did -himself honor, by adopting the interests of a brave young officer as his -own, and avoided the banter of “the club,” by pledging his thrice-told -vows to his “old love,” the same bright morning that his “new love” gave -her heart and hand to Henry Mandeville. - - * * * * * - - - - - REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS. - - - _The Works of Shakspeare: the Text Carefully Restored According - to the First Editions; With Introductions, Notes, Original and - Selected, and a Life of the Poet. By the Rev. H. N. Hudson, A. - M. In Eleven Volumes. Boston: James Monroe & Co. Vol. 3._ - -This beautiful edition of Shakspeare, a fac-simile of the celebrated -Chiswick edition in type and paper, has now reached its third volume. It -is edited by Mr. Hudson, well known all over the country as one of the -most accomplished of Shakspeare’s critics and commentators, and who in -his present labors has far surpassed the reputation he obtained by his -lectures on the same subject. The present volume contains The Merchant -of Venice, As You Like It, All’s Well that Ends Well, and The Taming of -the Shrew. The text is very carefully revised, and the notes are clear, -short, and full of matter, and flash the meaning of obscure phrases, -remote allusions, and other difficulties of the text, at once upon the -reader’s mind, without any parade of learning or paradox of -interpretation. It is, however, in the introductory notices to the plays -that the analytical and interpretative genius of the editor shines forth -most resplendently. Every lover of Shakspeare should possess this -edition, had it nothing to recommend it but these alone. They give the -results of meditations, alike penetrating and profound, on the interior -processes of Shakspeare’s mind in creating character and in forming -plots; and the marvel of his genius, in its depth, delicacy, -comprehension, fertility, and sweetness, is developed with the austerity -of science and the geniality of a sympathizing spirit. These -introductions are not only thus critical, but they include in a short -space a large amount of antiquarian knowledge respecting the -bibliography and sources of the plays; and the old tales which suggested -or formed the basis of the plots, are re-told with much skill and -simplicity of narration. - -The masterpiece of the present volume is the introduction to The -Merchant of Venice. It is exceedingly brilliant in style, but the -brilliancy seems to come from an inward heat and fervor generated by an -intense contemplation of the subject, so that the diction sparkles, as -Ben Jonson would say, “like salt in fire.” The brilliancies are flashes, -not of fancy, but of thought; and frequently are the result of vigorous -condensation in statement, or of logic which gets on fire by the very -rapidity of its movement. The finest elements of the style, however, are -its subtleties of statement and representation, subtleties which follow -the most intricate windings and enfoldings of complex thought, speeding -on the fire track of an ideal allusion to the very limits of its course, -and thoroughly mastering all the obstacles of expression in giving form -to the most evanescent workings of the creative power. - -Thus in speaking of the apparent heterogeneousness but real unity of the -play, he remarks: “The persons naturally fall into three several groups, -with each its several plot and action; yet the three are most skillfully -complotted, each standing out clear and distinct in its place, yet -concurring with the others in dramatic unity, so that every thing helps -on every other thing, without either the slightest confusion or the -slightest appearance of care to avoid it. Of these three groups it is -hardly necessary to add that Antonio, Shylock and Portia are the -respective centres; while the part of Lorenzo and Jessica, though -strictly an episode, seems, nevertheless, to grow forth as an element of -the original germ, _a sort of inherent superfluity_, and as such -essential, not indeed to the being, but to the well-being of the work; -in short, a fine romantic undertone accompaniment to the other parts, -yet contemplated and provided for in the whole plan and structure of the -piece; _itself_ in harmony with all the rest, and therefore perfecting -their harmony with one another.” We will put it to the consciousness of -every reader of Shakspeare if this does not chime with his feeling of -the matter; but to show the grounds of this instinctive taste, and -exhibit it in its intellectual form, and justify it by the austerest -principles of philosophical criticism, requires Mr. Hudson’s sharpness -of eye and ready refinements of expression. The specimen we have given, -as it is not the best which might be selected, so is it a very common -and unobtrusive characteristic of his criticism. - -In commenting on the characters of the play, Mr. Hudson displays more -than ordinary keenness and discrimination. We are acquainted with no -student of Shakspeare who could read the analysis of Shylock, Antonio, -Portia and Jessica, without receiving an addition to his knowledge. Even -Launcelot Gobbo has his share of the critic’s acumen; his necessity, in -the organism of the piece, is demonstrated; and the exquisite -_non-sequiturism_ of his whole personality is finely described. “A -mixture, indeed, of conceit and drollery, and hugely wrapped up in self, -yet he is by no means a commonplace buffoon, but stands firm and secure -in the sufficiency of his original stock. His elaborate nonsense, his -grasping at a pun without catching it, yet feeling just as grand as if -he did, is both ludicrous and natural; his jokes, to be sure, are mostly -failures; nevertheless they are laughable, because he dreams not but -that they succeed.” - -It is needless to say that the prominent feature in Mr. Hudson’s -criticism is Shylock. The combination in him of the individual and the -national, Shylock the Jew and the Jew Shylock, is indicated with a bold, -firm hand. One paragraph is especially powerful. “Shylock,” he says, “is -a true representative of his nation; wherein we have a pride which for -ages never ceased to provoke hostility, but which no hostility could -ever subdue; a thrift which still invited rapacity, but which no -rapacity could ever exhaust; and a weakness, which, while it exposed the -subjects to wrong, only deepened their hate, because it left them -without the means or the hope of redress. Thus Shylock is a type of -national sufferings, sympathies, and antipathies. Himself an object of -bitter insult and scorn to those about him; surrounded by enemies whom -he is too proud to conciliate and too weak to oppose; he can have no -life among them but money; no hold upon them but interest; no indemnity -out of them but revenge. Such being the case, what wonder that the -elements of national greatness became congealed or petrified into -malignity? As avarice was the passion in which he mainly lived, of -course, the Christian virtues which thwarted this were the greatest -wrong that could be done him. With these strong national traits are -interwoven personal traits equally strong. Thoroughly and intensely -Jewish, he is not more a Jew than he is Shylock. In his hard, icy -intellectuality, and his ‘dry, mummy-like tenacity’ of purpose, with a -dash now and then of biting sarcastic humor, we see the remains of a -great and noble nature, out of which all the genial sap of humanity has -been pressed by accumulated injuries. With as much elasticity of mind as -stiffness of neck, every step he takes but the last is as firm as the -earth he treads upon. Nothing can daunt, nothing disconcert him; -remonstrance cannot move, ridicule cannot touch, obloquy cannot -exasperate him; when he has not provoked, he has been forced to bear -them; and now that he does provoke them, he is proof against them. In a -word, he may be broken; he cannot be bent.” - -We cannot refrain from picking out a sentence, here and there, in the -critic’s admirable delineation of Portia. “Eminently practical in her -tastes and turn of mind, full of native, home-bred sense and virtue, she -unites therewith something of the ripeness and dignity of a sage, a -rich, mellow eloquence, and a large, noble discourse, the whole being -tempered with the best grace and sensibility of womanhood. . . Nothing -can be more fitting and well-placed than her demeanor, now bracing her -speech with grave maxims of moral and practical wisdom, now unbending -her mind in playful sallies of wit, or innocent, roguish banter. . . . -It is no drawback upon Portia’s strength and substantial dignity of -character, that her nature is all overflowing with romance; rather, this -it is that glorifies her and breathes enchantment about her; it adds -that precious seeing to the eye which conducts her to such winning -beauty and sweetness of deportment, and makes her the ‘rich-souled’ -creature that Schlegel describes her to be.” - -The introductions to All’s Well that Ends Well, and The Taming of the -Shrew, are replete with shrewd remark and acute analysis, but both are -inferior to the criticism of As You Like It. The woodland sweetness of -this play tasks all the subtlety and all the enthusiasm of Mr. Hudson to -do it justice. An exquisite ideal beauty casts its sweet and satisfying -charm over the whole of this matchless comedy, and we envy Shakspeare’s -delight in its composition more than Campbell envied his happiness in -bodying forth A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Even Le Beau, the courtier of -Frederic, is an ideal courtier; on inborn gentlemanliness, of the finest -kind, stealing out from him in performing his most ungracious duties. -This character is commonly performed on the stage by the worst actor the -manager has in his company, but we have always noticed that the feeblest -performer became lifted into dignity by simply pronouncing one golden -sentence in the first act. It is where Le Beau expresses at once his -loyal duty to Frederic and his admiration for Orlando’s brave and gentle -qualities. As his master has chosen to be Orlando’s enemy, he cannot -obey his impulse to be Orlando’s friend, and his parting words to the -latter are touchingly noble: - - “Sir, fare you well: - Hereafter in a better world than this, - I shall desire more love and knowledge of you.” - -Mr. Hudson says very acutely of the characters of As You Like It, that, -“diverted by fortune from all their cherished plans and purposes, they -pass before us in just that _moral and intellectual dishabille_, which -best reveals their indwelling graces of heart and mind.” This, it seems -to us, touches the inmost secret of the delight all mankind have in this -play. There is a complete absence of restraint upon expression, and the -tongues of all run of their own sweet will, in a region of perfect -freedom. It is whim exalted into poetry. Of Touchstone, our critic -remarks, that though he never touches so deep a chord as the poor fool -in Lear, that “he is the most entertaining of Shakspeare’s privileged -characters. . . . It is curious to observe how the poet takes care to -let us know from the first, that beneath the affectations of his calling -some precious sentiments have been kept alive; that far within the fool -_there is a secret reserve of the man_, ready to leap forth and combine -with better influences as soon as the incrustations of art are thawed -and broken up.” Passing over some keen observations on Jaques and the -class of character to which he belongs, we come to Mr. Hudson’s -exquisite description of Rosalind, the style of which would alone tempt -one to extract it. The ideal merriment of Rosalind—and after listening -to her for an hour, it seems a misuse of the word merriment to apply it -to glee less graceful, light and lark-like than her own—has rarely been -touched with so delicate an analysis. “For wit,” he says, “this strange, -queer, lovely being is fully equal, perhaps superior to Beatrice, yet -nowise resembling her. A soft, subtle, nimble essence, consisting in one -knows not what, ‘and springing up one can hardly tell how,’ her wit -neither stings nor burns, but plays briskly and airily over all things -within its reach, enriching and adorning them, insomuch that one could -ask no greater pleasure than to be the continual theme of it. In its -irrepressible vivacity it waits not for occasion, but runs on forever, -and we wish it to run on forever: we have a sort of faith that her -dreams are made of cunning, quirkish, graceful fancies. And her heart -seems a perennial fountain of affectionate cheerfulness; no trial can -break, no sorrow chill her flow of spirits; even her deepest sighs are -breathed forth in a wrappage of innocent mirth; an arch, roguish smile -irradiates her saddest tears. Yet beneath all her playfulness we feel -that there is a firm basis of thought and womanly dignity, so that she -never laughs away our respect.” - -An edition of Shakspeare, edited so admirably as this—so convenient in -its form, so elegant in its execution, and so cheap in its price—will, -we hope, have a circulation over the country corresponding to its great -merits. - - * * * * * - - _Utterance; or, Private Voices to the Public Heart. A Collection - of Home Poems. By Caroline A. Briggs. Boston: Phillips, Sampson - & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -Our first impression of this volume we received from its title, and that -impression was, of course, unfavorable, as the title certainly smacks of -affectation. But it requires but a slight examination of the book to -dissipate such a prejudice. It is a thoroughly genuine expression of a -sensitive, thoughtful, artless, affectionate, and fanciful nature, and -readily wins its way into the reader’s esteem. Even those passages which -evince a sort of innocent ignorance of the conventions of society and -letters, have a _naïveté_ which charms while it amuses. The volume is a -collection of short poems, ranged under the general titles of Voices of -Affection, Voices of Grief, Voices of Cheer, Sacred Voices, and Voices -of the Way, and one powerful Voice for the Poor, written in a measure -whose movement has something of the fitful swiftness of the cold, wild -wind, whose cruelty it deprecates. The following lines convey a vivid -picture of desolation; the verse itself seeming to shudder in sympathy -with the objects it holds up to pity: - - Oh, the Poor! - The poor and old, - On the moor - And on the wold— - How desolate they are to-night and cold! - —I peeped into the broken panes, - Where the snow, and sleet, and rains - Of many a weary year have stolen, - Till the sashes are smeared, and soaked and swollen. - Little children with tangled hair, - And lips awry and feet half bare, - Huddled around the smouldering fire, - Like beasts half crouching in their lair; - While each, the while, by stealth drew nigher, - _Covetous of the other’s share._ - Oh! ’twas a pitiful sight to see! - And mothers too were there, - With infants shivering on their knee, - Or closer held with a mother’s care, - Or laid to rest with a hurried prayer, - A moan, half hope and half despair, - A muttered, “Pitiless Storm, forbear!” - -When we say that there is in this volume some poems that an austere -taste would have omitted, we merely say what we suspect is the truth, -that the poetess is young, and that this is her first introduction to -the public. We might object to a piece, here and there, that the feeling -outruns the thought and fancy, and that commonplace lines occasionally -glide stealthily in to meet the demands of the rhyme; but the faults -which criticism might exhibit are few in comparison with the merits -which shine forth of their own light on almost every page. The general -impression which the whole book leaves on the memory is very pleasing. -The defect of all young poets, that of expansiveness, is continually -apparent; but it is a natural result of the movement of a nature so full -of sensibility that it refuses to submit to the restraints of -condensation, but pours itself out of its own sweet will. As a natural -result of this extreme sensitiveness, the volume is comparatively -destitute of those electric flashes of impassioned imagination, which -come, swift, sure, and smiling from moods of the mind in which thought -is condensed as well as animated by passion; but it still exhibits so -genial a love of nature, a flow of feeling so kindly and sympathetic, so -much beauty, and purity and sweetness of fancy, and withal so much -richness of promise, and such a ready yielding of the mind to the -poetical aspects of things, that we trust it will meet with the success -due to its native excellencies of heart and brain. - - * * * * * - - _The Snow-Image, and other Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel - Hawthorne. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -This is a collection of Mr. Hawthorne’s Sketches and Stories which have -not been included in any previous collection, and comprise his earliest -and latest contributions to periodical literature. It can hardly add to -his great reputation, though it fully sustains it. “The Snow-Image,” -with which the volume commences, is one of those delicate creations -which no imagination less etherial and less shaping than Hawthorne’s -could body forth. “Main Street,” a sketch but little known, is an -exquisite series of historical pictures, which bring the persons and -events in the history of Salem, vividly home to the eye and the fancy. -“Ethan Brand,” one of the most powerful of Hawthorne’s works, is a -representation of a man, tormented with a desire to discover the -unpardonable sin, and ending with finding it in his own breast. “The -Great Stone Face,” a system of philosophy given in a series of -characterizations, contains, among other forcible delineations, a full -length of Daniel Webster. The volume contains a dozen other tales, some -of them sunny in sentiment and subtle in humor, with touches as fine and -keen as Addison’s or Steele’s: and others dark and fearful, as though -the shadow of a thunder-cloud fell on the author’s page as he wrote. All -are enveloped in the atmosphere, cheerful or sombre, of the mood of mind -whence they proceeded, and all convey that unity of impression which -indicates a firm hold on one strong conception. As stories, they arrest, -fasten, fascinate attention; but, to the thoughtful reader they are not -merely tales, but contributions to the philosophy of the human mind. - - * * * * * - - _Memories of the Great Metropolis: or London from the Tower to - the Crystal Palace. By F. Sanders. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 - vol. 12mo._ - -This elegant volume, sumptuous in its binding and finely printed and -illustrated, meets a want both in the traveled and the untraveled -public. The work of a gentleman who knows every nook and corner of the -empire city by personal observation, and who, by his large acquaintance -with English authors and English literary history, is enabled to point -out all the localities consecrated by genius and heroism; it is full of -interesting and attractive matter to all readers. As a guide to London, -it will be found a genial as well as a knowing companion to the tourist. -We have been especially pleased with those portions which describe the -shops of the booksellers and the residences of the authors. The volume -is exceedingly well written, and though crammed with facts, betrays -neither the dryness nor confusion too often characteristic of similar -books. The author’s “memories” are never dull, but sparkle with -animation and point. - - * * * * * - - _Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & - Co. 2 vols. 12mo._ - -This biography is the work of three “eminent hands”—William H. -Channing, James Freeman Clarke, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, each writing -that portion of Margaret’s life most familiar to himself. The result is -one of the most curious, attractive and stimulating books of the season. -The impression it conveys of the subject of the memoirs, is of a woman -“large in heart and brain,” of great vigor and depth of nature, -accomplished in many literatures, with an understanding capacious and -masculine, and with a sensibility somewhat irregular and chaotic, in -which powerful passions, delicate emotions and vague aspirations, seem -never to have been harmonized into unity. The character, however, in -spite of many limitations and some petty traits, was generally large and -noble, and its essential excellence is not only demonstrated by the -private journals and correspondence contained in these volumes, but by -the fact that she merited the esteem and admiration of three such men as -her biographers. Her defects are promptly admitted by all three, but in -the opinion of all three they were superficial in comparison with the -real graces and powers of her mind. In all those letters and journals in -which her soul finds adequate expression, in which her most secret -thoughts and most genuine aspirations are revealed, she is invariably -true and noble; egotism, satire and pique have in them no place. - -Mr. Emerson’s portion of these memoirs is done with his usual felicity -of phrase and sharpness of statement, and is as attractive as any of his -essays. He writes in a kindly spirit, and is evidently a genuine admirer -of his subject, but his friendship is unaccompanied with exaggeration, -and is combined with his usual austere but graceful honesty in stating -his whole opinion. Thus, he gives the first impression which Miss Fuller -made on him in these unflattering words: “Her extreme plainness—a trick -of incessantly opening and shutting her eyelids—the nasal tone of her -voice—all repelled; and I said to myself we shall never get far. It is -to be said that Margaret made a disagreeable first impression on most -persons, including those who became afterward her best friends, to such -an extreme that they did not wish to be in the same room with her. This -was partly the effect of her manners, which expressed an overweening -sense of power and slight esteem of others, and partly the prejudice of -her fame. She had a dangerous reputation for satire, in addition to her -great scholarship. The men thought she carried too many guns, and the -women did not like one who despised them.” He also gives some amusing -instances of her self-esteem. “Margaret at first astonished and repelled -us by a complacency that seemed the most assured since the days of -Scaliger. . . . She occasionally let slip, with all the innocence -imaginable, some phrase betraying the presence of a rather mountainous -ME, in a way to surprise those who knew her good sense. She could say, -as if she were stating a scientific fact, in enumerating the merits of -somebody, ‘He appreciates ME.’” - -Mr. Emerson accounts for this egotism partly on the ground of hereditary -organization, and partly on “an ebullient sense of power, which she felt -to be in her, and which as yet had found no channels.” In further -illustration of this he adds, that in conversation she seldom, “except -as a special grace, admitted others upon an equal ground with herself.” -She was exceedingly tender, when she pleased to be, and most cherishing -in her influence; but to elicit this tenderness, it was necessary to -submit first to her personally. When a person was overwhelmed by her and -answered not a word, except ‘Margaret, be merciful to me a sinner,’ then -her love and tenderness would come like a seraph’s, and often an -acknowledgment that she had been too harsh, and even a craving for -pardon, with a humility—which, perhaps, she had caught from the other. -But her instinct was not humility—that was an after thought. - -This peculiarity, so honestly stated by Mr. Emerson, probably made -Margaret Fuller all her enemies; and it is a fault which every person is -bound to resent, though it appeared in an angel or archangel. It cannot -be justified though it may be accounted for; and by those who knew her -best, it was explained on principle! which relieved it of positive -offensiveness. Some of her intellectual dependents, persons who gloried -in wearing her mental livery, and were delighted with the servitude she -enforced, might say very naively, in explanation, that Margaret was the -greatest woman that ever was, and that Margaret was very sincere, and -that being sincere it was very proper that she should not conceal her -knowledge even of her own greatness. - -In our opinion this egotism was the result of the vigor of her nature, -which, in conversation, broke all conventional bounds, and came out in -its whole wealth of thought and acquisition, eager for controversy or -ravenous for sympathy, and communicating to her mind a bright and strong -sense of individual power which at the time almost palliated its -excesses. The excitement of her mind produced that effect which we often -see in persons who are enraged—a condition in which expressions, -regretted afterward for their extravagance, seem at the time too weak to -convey the hot feeling of wrong which burns beneath them. In her -journals, where she sharply scrutinises what she is and what she has -produced, and where there is no excitement to stimulate her powers, she -is sufficiently humble, acutely feels her imperfections, and the -“mountainous me” dwindles into a mole-hill. She seems to have had the -aspirations and the ambitions of great genius, had sufficient breadth of -mind to take in the wide varieties of human power in history and -literature, and had a corresponding scorn for the little and the common -in mental effort; but she lacked a creative imagination, and was -incapable of producing anything which at all realized the intimations of -her nature. In conversation she rose instantly into sympathetic -companionship with creative minds, and in the heat of the moment mistook -it for a companionship and community in power. In this mood she might -despise many who were her superiors in the shaping power of genius, -though her inferiors in its loftiest aspirations. - -These volumes are full of instances of her sincerity, her geniality, her -love of the beautiful in nature and art, her fine critical powers, her -enthusiasm for great measures of reform in America and Europe, and the -noble scale on which she conducted her mental and moral culture. Though -many may take exception to the generosity of the praise which her -biographers lavish on her various graces and gifts of mind, every one -must acknowledge the extreme richness of the materials which are frankly -exhibited, to enable the reader to judge for himself. We doubt if there -is any other American biography in which the whole interior truth -relating to the character of the subject is so completely set forth, or -which presents to the curious in mental organization so interesting a -study in psychology. - - * * * * * - - _Ravenscliffe. By the author of “The Old Men’s Tales,” etc. etc. - New York: Harper & Brother._ - -In this novel the authoress puts forth her whole resources of passion -and power in delineating hatred and revenge. The story sweeps on like a -deep stream harrying to the sea, and the firm grasp of the writer on the -reader’s arrested attention is not loosed for a moment. The influence of -the same passion on the two characters of Randal Langford and Marcus -Fitzroy, is exhibited with masterly skill. The motto of the book should -have been taken from Shelley’s tremendous quatrain: - - “Revenge and wrong bring forth their kind; - The foul cubs like their parents are; - Their den is in the human mind, - And conscience feeds them with despair.” - -The vice of the novel is its continuous intensity, a peculiarity which -characterizes all of Mrs. Marsh’s novels. The characters are only seen -in their passionate moods, and the leading quality of their natures is -developed with the consistency of a logical deduction. Though this gives -emphasis to the ethical intent of the authoress, she sacrifices to it -some of the most important principles of the true method of -characterization. Her persons are apt to slide into personified -passions. - - * * * * * - - _A Popular Account of Discoveries at Nineveh. By Austin Henry - Layard, D. C. L. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -This is an abridgment, by the author himself, of his larger work on -Nineveh, which has obtained such extraordinary success. It is -illustrated by a number of well executed wood-cuts, and is beautifully -printed. The matter, it is needless to say, is full of interest and -attractiveness, and will well repay all readers who may be repelled by -the size of the original work. - - * * * * * - - _Women of Christianity, Exemplary for Acts of Piety and Charity. - By Julia Kavanagh, author of “Nathalie,” etc. New York: D. - Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._ - -Christian women of this and all past ages would seem to be under -especial obligations to the Messrs. Appletons for bringing their virtues -and heroism before the public. The Women of the Old and New Testament, -the Women of Early Christianity, and now the Christian Women of all -Ages, witness their chivalrous devotion to the very best examples of the -sex. Miss Kavanagh’s book gives short but admirable sketches of a great -number of eminent devotees, from the virgins of the primitive church to -Hannah More and Elizabeth Fry. Though her space hardly allows her to do -full justice to the subject, she uses her materials so skillfully, and -writes her condensed biographies with such fervor and power, that she -escapes the imputation of meagreness. - - * * * * * - - _The Broken Bud; or, Reminiscences of a Bereaved Mother. New - York: Robert Carter & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._ - - _Blossoms of Childhood. Edited by the author of “The Broken - Bud”. New York: Robert Carter & Brothers. 1 vol. 16mo._ - -The first of these little volumes is the record of a child, who died -just as her mind was expanding into affection and intelligence; and it -is the most notable book of the kind we have ever seen. As giving the -psychology of a mother’s feelings, it is well worthy of attention. It is -written close to the heart of the matter, and is full of examples of -that searching pathos which calls up instinctive tears. Rarely have we -read a work of more affectionate intensity, or one in which a mournful -experience, tempered by religious faith, is expressed with such genuine -simplicity and truth to inward emotion. There are passages whose -eloquence is so identical with the things it celebrates, that the reader -sees and feels with hardly the consciousness of the agency of words. The -other volume is a collection of poetry relating to children, in which -the mother’s heart, so constantly present in the previous volume, ranges -over the whole field of poetry, hoarding the precious lyrics which bring -consolation by inspiring religious trust. Both works are of a peculiar -character, indicating the presiding influence of one overmastering -feeling, and striking at the very sources of emotion. - - * * * * * - - _The Standard Speaker; containing exercises in Prose and Poetry - for Declamation in Schools, Academies, Lyceums, Colleges. Newly - Translated or Compiled from Celebrated Orators, Authors, and - Popular Debaters, Ancient and Modern. A Treatise on Oratory and - Elocution. Notes Explanatory and Biographical. By Epes Sargent. - 1 vol., large 12mo. 558 pages. Philadelphia: Thomas, - Cowperthwait & Co._ - -Mr. Sargent has here given us a “Speaker” far more comprehensive in -design and elaborate in execution than any that has yet appeared. The -great feature of the work is the completeness of the Senatorial -Department, in which he has introduced not only passages of rare beauty -and effect from Chatham, Burke, Grattan, Shell, Macaulay, and many -others—all the passages of the right length for speaking—but has given -some translations from Mirabeau, Victor Hugo, and other great speakers -of France, which will become great favorites in Schools and Elocutionary -Classes. The dramatic and poetical departments are also well filled, -many new and striking pieces for Declamation and Recitation being -introduced. No sectional favoritism seems to have been exercised in the -compilation. All parts of the country, and indeed all countries are -fairly represented in their contributions to all the forms of eloquence -suitable for the purpose of the book. A great amount of original -research and labor seems to have been expended on this volume, which— - - “Is not the hasty product of a day, - But the well-ripened fruit of sage delay.” - -In his position as Editor of a daily journal, the editor has had a more -favorable opportunity than many enjoy to make collections for a work of -this kind, and with what success he has availed himself of it, a cursory -glance will show. While he has preserved all the old, indispensable -masterpieces, he has placed side by side with them a majority of new -ones, that promise to become equally celebrated. The work cannot fail to -claim the prompt and favorable attention of Students and Teachers. It is -issued in excellent style, by Messrs. Thomas, Cowperthwait & Co. - - * * * * * - -Bangs, Brother & Co., New York, have sent us fine editions of “Gibbon’s -Greece,” “Ancient History of Herodotus,” Randall’s “Sheep Husbandry,” -and an excellent edition of the “Tatler and Guardian,” with biographical -memoranda by Thomas Babington Macaulay, all of which we will notice in -future numbers. - - * * * * * - -Pretty Strong.—We do not charge Peterson any thing for the following as -an advertisement. It is a better joke than has appeared in the -Small-Talk: - -It has been for years the cherished wish of the writer of this work, to -make “THE TOWER OF LONDON,” the proudest monument of antiquity, -(considered with reference to its historical associations,) _in the -known world_—the groundwork of a Romance; and it is no slight -satisfaction to him, that circumstances at length have enabled him to -carry into effect his favorite project, in conjunction with the -inimitable artist, whose _Ninety-eight Original Designs and Engravings -of all the Principal Objects of Attraction and Interest_ to the reader, -accompany the work. - -The author has exhibited in this work, the “Tower of London” in the -light of a Palace, a Prison, and a Fortress, and he has also contrived -such a series of incidents as to introduce every relic of the old -pile—its Towers, Chapels, Halls, Chambers, Gateways, Arches and -Drawbridges—so that no part of this, the most venerable and interesting -building _in the known world_, should remain unillustrated to the -reader. - -It is beyond all doubt one of the most interesting works ever published -_in the known world_, and can be read and re-read with pleasure and -satisfaction by every body. We advise all persons to get it and read it, -for there is much to learn and valuable information to be gained from -its pages, which cannot be obtained in any other work published _in the -known world_. Published and for sale by - - T. B. PETERSON. - -We shall look with great interest for Top’s first book from the -_unknown_ world, and have a right to expect something good. We only hope -that the author will not “_contrive_ such a series of incidents about -Drawbridges,” as to let us down without fair warning. - - * * * * * - -Fitzgerald’s City Item.—This is the name of a weekly paper, now in its -fifth year, published in this city by Fitzgerald & Co., at Two Dollars -per annum. This journal enjoys the reputation of being undoubted -authority upon all Literary, Musical, Fine Art, and Dramatic Matters. It -has been conducted from the beginning by Mr. Fitzgerald, and we have -often admired his good-nature, his frankness, and his ability. Untiring -industry has established The City Item upon a firm basis. Fitzgerald & -Co. offer as a premium to new subscribers, an admirable life-size -portrait of the Hungarian patriot, Kossuth. Graham’s Magazine and The -City Item may be secured for Four Dollars. - - * * * * * - - - - - GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK. - - -Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges. - - -Our Small-Talk has afforded food for infinite jest to a few unfledged -wits and cubs of critics, clever word-snappers, who keep reiterating the -joke that the Small-Talk _is_ small—_very_. Of course it is, goslings! -it was so called and set down originally in the bills. So do not imagine -that you are discoverers, and set yourselves off to the Polar regions in -search of Sir John Franklin. The Small-Talk is more than _small_—it is -pert, impudent, audacious, outrageous, insolent, and, cool. More than -that, it is—“to be continued.” - - * * * * * - -Ah! now, isn’t this delightful? We were wondering whether we should -_ever_ get another love-letter, when lo! in comes the mail, from which -we extract the following delicious epistle from a young lady, who, we -know, would love us, if we _were_ only a bachelor: - - “To Graham. - - “A ‘bachelor,’ thou sayest?—ha-ha—have a care— - A target too tempting—I bid thee beware! - Now stand and deliver, thou ‘knave of the heart!’ - Thy ‘clubs’ shall not parry the aim of my dart. - - “Thy armor—thy pleading, and dodging is vain, - Wry faces uncalled for! ’tis hymenial chain - We wish to throw round thee—surrender! I bid— - All woven of roses, the thorns are quite hid. - - “A net-work of love shall enshroud thee forever— - (‘Enshroud’ is too icy, it makes Cupid shiver— - _Imprison_ is better—I like the word best—) - When the heart’s taken captive the spirit’s at rest. - - “Two short little weeks, out of fifty or more, - Is all we can claim—and one year out of four— - We must make up in speed, what we lack for in time, - And make a bold push or have no Valentine. - - “An abrupt, ringing laugh, from a friend standing near, - And—‘I read you it wrong!’ he says, ‘_Benedict_!’ do ye hear? - How _horrid provoking_ to play me this game! - I don’t care, I will send it subscribed with my name.” - - H. H. - -We wont give the name in full, or we should never receive another love -token. But—what have we here? as we live—another Valentine! and with a -sprig of geranium, too, pressed loving between the paper—and love -verses! No—we will not print these, they are too confidingly tender and -hardly “allowable” rhyme. - -But here comes one, with a full, round superscription, for all the world -like the hand of a lady we used to love when we were a boy—adoringly, -wildly, _most_ insanely. She was _older_ than we were, and didn’t take -the matter so much to heart. Some other fellow took her off—a cadet, or -something of that sort from West Point—and she never returned our love -letter. But what _is_ this? Ha! $3— there is something in this, that is -a cure for the twinges of an old love wound: - - “_Fort Meade, Florida, Feb. 10th, 1852._ - - “Dear Graham—The February number of your Magazine has this day - come to hand, and acting on the hint you give in your - Small-Talk, _i. e._ ‘Money is worth 2 per cent. a month,’ I - herewith inclose the $3 for this year’s subscription to your - book. I showed that portion of your Small-Talk(?) headed ‘That - bill again,’ to my wife; and what do you think? Why, instead of - calling you a good-for-nothing-impertinent man, she said, ‘Why - _don’t_ you give the man his money? Graham is a dear, good - fellow and he deserves it,’ etc. Of course, I had to back down, - and here is the tin. - - “Truly yours, - G. D.” - -Now we like that woman, and will bet she was just the girl that _would_ -go off with a soldier—full of all brave and good thoughts, and loving -as a southern wind in an orange grove. If we ever do go to Florida, we -shall stop at the Fort and see this lady, and shake hands all round with -the G. D.’s. - - * * * * * - -Thanks.—Our space is limited, in this number, although we have much to -say to our friends and readers; but we shall take room enough to thank -most sincerely and heartily, the many editors who have sent us clubs and -single subscribers for the year 1852. We had intended to notice, by -letter, the many kind expressions of regard for our business welfare, -but so many and rapidly sent were these missives of good-will, that we -abandoned the undertaking, and must here content ourself with -saying—_to one and all_—_Thanks_! - -We can get up no theatrical speech for the occasion, and can only -promise to devote such abilities as we have been blessed with, be they -poor or rich, to making “Graham”—what we hope it can be made, under our -administration—“_the best Magazine in the country_.” We can only say, -that our whole time and thought are freely bestowed upon the work—that -we have no other avocation, similar, or adverse, to distract our -attention, and if we fail to realize our aim, in the opinion of our -readers and friends, that our ability comes short of our ambition. So -said—_so done_. This number is a fair sample of what we can do; and we -think we can do better, and shall _try_. - - * * * * * - -The Saturday Gazette.—This well-known Family Paper is now under the -charge of Alexander Cummings and Mrs. Joseph C. Neal, and has been, both -in typographical execution and in literary excellence, much improved. -Mrs. Neal’s delightful Letters from the South, are a very decided -addition to the intellectual attractions of the Gazette—the Foreign -Correspondence is more complete than ever, and the Stories and Essays to -be found in its ample pages are of the very highest order. - -A prospectus of the paper, setting forth in detail the advantages of the -Gazette, will be found upon the third page of our cover, and a specimen -copy of the paper will be sent to such of our readers as desire to see -it, upon application to A. Cummings & Co. - - * * * * * - -The News-Letter, at Galesburg, gives us a notice of a column, full of -all sorts of hits and good things. The Cynthiana News and the Rifle must -buck up or they will lose the stakes. Although the metal of Rifle is -good, and the bore perfect, we can beat the editor with pistols, at ten -paces, _for a Turkey_! We send Atkinson of the News a sheet—Wilcox will -supply and suit you—cash or approved paper—samples forwarded. We -accept the Sandy Hill Herald’s invitation! said shall look at those -“acres” until our heart aches. - - * * * * * - - - TEMPERANCE. - -“Shall the Maine question now be put?” is the great inquiry that -agitates the country, and stirs, in all true hearts, a lively -affirmative. The _people_ are “ready for the question.” Graham himself -is ready, and having in times past been a good judge of the various -brands, he believes that one and all corrupt and destroy the brain and -conscience. So he is down upon King Alcohol and his cohorts. We do not -propose to give a temperance _lecture_ upon the present “interesting -occasion”—but if any body can read the following ode by Brown—the -accomplished translator of Spanish literature, and feel no misgiving -about Rum, his sensibilities are fire-proof. “The English language -contains nothing more forcibly and terribly eloquent than this unique -lexicon of horrors.” - - * * * * * - - - ODE TO RUM. - - BY WILLIAM C. BROWN. - - - “Oh, thou invisible spirit of Rum! if thou hadst no name by - which to know thee, we would call thee—devil.”—Shakspeare. - - Let thy devotee extol thee, - And thy wondrous virtues sum; - But the worst of names I’ll call thee, - O, thou hydra monster, Rum! - - Pimple-maker, visage-bloater, - Health-corrupter, idler’s mate; - Mischief breeder, vice promoter, - Credit spoiler, devil’s bait. - - Almshouse builder, pauper maker, - Trust betrayer, sorrow’s source; - Pocket emptier, Sabbath breaker, - Conscience stiller, guilt’s resource. - - Nerve enfeebler, system shatterer, - Thirst increaser, vagrant thief; - Cough producer, treacherous flatterer, - Mud bedauber, mock relief. - - Business hinderer, spleen instiller, - Wo begetter, friendship’s bane; - Anger heater, Bridewell filler, - Debt involver, toper’s chain. - - Memory drowner, honor wrecker, - Judgment warper, blue-faced quack; - Feud beginner, rags bedecker, - Strife enkindler, fortune’s wreck. - - Summer’s cooler, winter’s warmer, - Blood polluter, specious snare; - Mob collector, man transformer, - Bond undoer, gambler’s fare. - - Speech bewrangler, headlong bringer, - Vitals burner, deadly fire; - Riot mover, firebrand flinger, - Discord kindler, misery’s sire. - - Sinews robber, worth depriver, - Strength subduer, hideous foe; - Reason thwarter, fraud contriver, - Money waster, nations’ wo. - - Vile seducer, joy dispeller, - Peace disturber, blackguard guest; - Sloth implanter, liver sweller, - Brain distracter, hateful pest. - - Wit destroyer, joy impairer, - Scandal dealer, foul-mouthed scourge; - Senses blunter, youth ensnarer, - Crime inventor, ruin’s verge. - - Virtue blaster, base deceiver, - Spite displayer, sot’s delight; - Noise exciter, stomach heaver, - Falsehood spreader, scorpion’s bite. - - Quarrel plotter, rage discharger, - Giant conqueror, wasteful sway; - Chin carbuncler, tongue enlarger, - Malice venter, death’s broadway. - - Household scatterer, high-hope dasher, - Death’s forerunner, hell’s dire brink; - Ravenous murderer, windpipe slasher, - _Drunkard’s lodging, meat and drink_! - -Well—what are the arguments of the opponents of the “Maine Law!” We -have heard them—having been present at the grand gathering of -Distillers, Rum-sellers, and Drinkers at Tripler Hall, on Friday -evening, the 27th of February. About as precious a set of “jolly -fellows” as we ever saw in all our life, were there assembled to listen -to the advantages of dying by slow poison. We give a picture, which sets -forth the point and moral of the matter. - -[Illustration: Arguments of the opponents of the Maine -law—_illustrated_.] - -This was the pith and marrow of the whole affair. “Rum was”—Well, what? -Why—“Rum!” Every body was enlightened and saw clearly. There was not a -shadow of doubt about the matter. Its character was not in the least -altered—it was the same devil, only painted a little red—not at all -improved either, by the artists—in fact, Mr. Camp made him rather more -hideous by attempting to make him a facetious, jolly sort of a devil, -without any evil quality, but much given to poetry, philosophy, and -particularly, mechanics. His _inventive_ powers, however, were not -brought out quite as clearly as Mr. Camp’s own, who, with a fine -delivery and sonorous ring of voice, did all that it was possible for -man to do in a bad cause—still he did not _do_—at least, not the -majority there assembled. The whole affair was a horrible jest—it -was—Yes! it was a Rum-joke—and nothing else. - -No one was hardy enough to attempt to _prove_, that Rum ever made a -great man greater—or improved the mental calibre of a small one. Ever -warmed the heart of a miser to do an unrepented act of generosity—or -enlarged the soul to permanent and consistent acts of lofty heroism for -the welfare of mankind. Ever filled the cottage with smiling faces and -happy hearts, permanently—shed plenty upon the tables of the poor, or -made a wife happier or children more respected—ever, in short, carried -any thing but a concealed curse in its bright bubbles and brilliant -hues. - -We came away with no change of opinion as to the deleterious effects of -Rum as a beverage. Taken either at the social board, with jolly good -fellows, or among wits, poets and philosophers—it carries the same -horror on its front, the same death in its smile. Even the -sounding-boards, from which the notes of Jenny Lind floated out, almost -divinely, gave no music to the voice of Rum’s advocate—the best joke -had a croak—and the laughter a horribly consumptive sound. - - * * * * * - - - “THE SOCIAL GLASS.” - -[Illustration: “A little tipple will do us no harm.”] - - * * * * * - - - “JOLLY GOOD FELLOWS.” - -[Illustration] - - “We wont go home till morning, - We wont go home till morning, - Till daylight doth appear.” - - * * * * * - - - “A SPIRIT-KNOCKER.” - -[Illustration: A very sudden call by a very ugly customer.] - - * * * * * - - - - - SWEET SUNNY ISLE. - - - OR “MY BOYHOOD’S HOME.” - - -[Illustration] -COMPOSED BY JOHN H. TAYLOR.—DEDICATED TO MISS ELIZABETH TAYLOR, BARBADOES, - W. I. - - Published by permission of LEE & WALKER, 188 Chestnut Street, - Philadelphia, - - _Publishers and Importers of Music and Musical Instruments_. - -[Illustration: musical score] - - Sweet sunny Isle! my native land! - How dear thou art to me, - Were all the world at - -[Illustration: musical score] - - my command, - I still would cling to thee. - My boyhood’s home could I forget? - Though I might be forgot; - For those I love are living yet, - In that dear cherish’d spot. - For those I love are living yet - In that dear cherish’d spot. - - Sweet sunny Isle! though now a man, - Wherever I may roam, - My heart I know it never can - Forget my boyhood’s home. - One only hope one only care - Next that of Heaven above, - That I might once again be there— - Once more with those I love. - - Those kindred hearts, those loving friends, - And all my boyish pets, - Would welcome me and make amends - For all long past regrets. - But ah! I fear ’twill never prove - Again my happy lot; - Then all I ask of those I love, - One thought—“Forget me not.” - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic -spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and -punctuation errors have 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 available for -preparation of the eBook. - -page 364, children where the ==> children were the -page 372, and author’s were ==> and authors were -page 404, read in Saronis’ Musical ==> read in Saroni’s Musical -page 405, Rappresentatione del Animo e del ==> Rappresentatione di Anima e - di -page 405, Cavaliere, of Rome, ==> Cavalieri, of Rome, -page 405, title “_Dell Animo e del_ ==> title “_Dell_ _Anima e di_ -page 405, of Cavaliere. But it ==> of Cavalieri. But it -page 414, feet, are not ==> feet, they are not -page 440, those horrid Affgaun’s ==> those horrid Affgauns - - -[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 4, April 1852] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 4, -April 1852, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE, APRIL 1952 *** - -***** This file should be named 60148-0.txt or 60148-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/1/4/60148/ - -Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed -Proofreaders Canada team at https://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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - - - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - |