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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XL, No. 4, April 1852
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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                           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]





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