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[Illustration: A VENETIAN FESTIVAL.--C. HULK.]

THE ALDINE,

A

TYPOGRAPHIC ART JOURNAL

[Illustration]

"_Il ne faut pas tant regarder ce qu'on doit faire que ce qu'on
peut faire_."

VOLUME V.

NEW YORK:
JAMES SUTTON & COMPANY.
1873.

[Illustration]

"_THE ALDINE PRESS_."--JAMES SUTTON & Co., Printers, 58 Maiden
Lane, New York.


[Illustration]

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
JAMES SUTTON, JR., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress
at Washington, D. C.




CONTENTS

Abyssinia, A Peep at  _Editorial_  186
Adirondacks, The Heart of the  _Editorial_  194
After the Comet  _W.L. Alden_  136
A Great Master and His Greatest Work  _Editorial_  83
Aldine Chromos for 1873  _Editorial_  228
Alpine World, The  _Editorial_  134
America, Home Life in  _Editorial_  76
American Robin, The  _Gilbert Darling_  327
Angling, A Few Words on  _Henry Richards_  155
Architecture  _W. Von Humboldt_  43
Art  28
Artistic Evening, An  _Editorial_  248
Art-Musee in America, An  _Erastus South_  127
Art, Roman  _Ottfreid Müller_  32
At Rest. (Poem)  _Julia C.R. Dorr_  234
August in the Woods  _W.W. Bailey_  161
Ausable, Morning on the  _Editorial_  40
Authorship, Style in  _Stewart_  75
Autumn Rambles  _W.W. Bailey_  212
A Yarn  _Uncle Bluejacket_  216

Babes in the Wood, The  _Editorial_  223
Badger Hunting  _Editorial_  225
Barry Cornwall, To. (Poem)  _A.C. Swinburne_  50
Beauty, Of  _Bacon_.  107
Beside the Sea. (Poem)  _Mary E. Bradley_  161
Biography  _Henry Richards_  65
Bishop's Oak  _Caroline Cheesebro_'  172
Black Gnat, The  _A.R.M._  34
Blood Money  _Editorial_  207
Blue-Birds  _Gilbert Burling_  163
Books, Borrowing  _Leigh Hunt_  36
"Bridge of Sighs," Hood's  _Editorial_  50
Bronte's (Charlotte) Brother and Father  _January Searle_  111
Building of the Ship, The. (Poem)  _Longfellow_  89

Cedar Bird, The  _Gilbert Burling_  85
Celebration of the Passover, The  _Editorial_  64
Chase, After the  _Editorial_  227
Chet's, Miss, Club  _Caroline Cheesbro'_  59
Children, Loss of Little  _Leigh Hunt_  104
Chinese Stories  _Henry Richards_  215
Christmas Trees  _W.W. Bailey_  234
Coleridge as a Plagiarist  23
Coming Out of School  _Editorial_  12
Cosas de Espana  _Editorial_  86
Crown Diamonds and other Gems  _S.F. Corkran_  181

Daisies, Among The  _A.S. Isaacs_  23
December and May  _Editorial_  147
Death Chase, The  _Editorial_  236
Dogs, About  _Henry Richards_  175
Dogs, Education of  _Henry Richards_  234

Englishmen, Religion of  _H. Taine_  183
English Rhymes and Stories  _Henry Richards_  96
En Miniature. (From the German)  _M.A.P. Humphreys_  132
Exquisite Moment, An  _Editorial_  93

Fancie's Dream  _Lolly Dinks's Mother_  34
Fancie's Farewell  _Lolly Dinks's Mother_  114
Fawn Family, A Day with a  _Editorial_  107
Feast of the Tabernacles, The  _Editorial_  64
Fra Bartolomeo  _Editorial_  106
Forester's Happy Family, The  _Editorial_  167
Forester's Last Coming Home, The  _Editorial_  56
Fortune of The Hassans, The  _C.F. Guernsey_  123
Friendship of Poets, The  _Editorial_  50
Frosty Day, A. (Poem)  _J.L. Warren_  11

Garden, In the  _Betsy Drew_  138
Gems, Colored  _W.S. Ward_  39
Going to the Volcano  _T.M. Coan_  245
Green River. (Poem)  _W.C. Bryant_  72
Gypsies, The  _Editorial_  166

Heart of Kosciusko, The  _Editorial_  113
Heartsease. (Poem)  _Mary E. Bradley_  43
Hello!  _Editorial_  193
Home and Exile  _Editorial_  237
House with the Hollyhocks, The  _A.L. Noble_  177
House Wrens  _Gilbert Burling_  105
How to Tame Pet Birds  _January Searle_  146
Hunt (Leigh), A Last Visit to  _January Searle_  192
Hunting Snails  _T.M. Coan_  156

Ideal, The  _Theodore Parker_  133
Il Beato. (From the German)  _M.A.P. Humphrey_  183
Ill Wind, An  _Leslie Malbone_  112
Inside the Door  _Caroline Cheesebro'_  30
Ireland, A Glimpse at  _T.M. Coan_  119
Island, On an  _Caroline Cheesebro'_  114

Jack and Gill  _Editorial_  223

King Baby. (Poem)  _George Cooper_  224
Kingfisher, The  _Editorial_  125
King's Rosebud, The. (Poem)  _Julia C.R. Porr_  107
Knowledge  _Ethics of the Fathers_  135

"Lais Corinthaica," Holbein's  _Editorial_  182
Lalalo--A Legend of Galicia. (From the Spanish)  _H.S. Conant_  164
Lamp-Light  _Julian Hawthorne_  165
Lisbon, Loiterings around  _Editorial_  44
Literature  28, 47, 67, 88, 108, 128, 148, 168, 188,  208
Little Emily  _Editorial_  178
Liverworts. (Poem)  _W.W. Bailey_  70
Longfellow's House and Library  _Geo. W. Greene_  100
Love Aloft  _Editorial_  116
Love's Humility. (Poem)  _B.G. Hosmer_  141

Mandarin, A  _From the French_  19
Manifest Destiny. (Poem)  _R.H. Stoddard_  47
Man in Blue, The  _R.B. Davey_  50
Man in the Moon, The  _Yule-tide Stories_  120
Man's Unselfish Friend  _Editorial_  60
Married in a Snow-Storm. (From the Russian)  _Wm. Percival_  152
Marsh and Pond Flowers  _W.W. Bailey_  126
Martinmas Goose, The  _Editorial_  243
Maximilian Morningdew's Advice, Mr.  _Julian Hawthorne_  74
Millerism  _Editorial_  10
Minster at Ulm, The  _Editorial_  158
Misers, About  _Betsy Drew_  99
Mother is Here!  20
Morning Dew  _Editorial_  76
Morning and Evening  _Editorial_  242
Mountain Land of Western North Carolina  _J.A. Oertel_  52
Mountain Land of Western North Carolina  _J.A. Oertel_  214
Mountains, In the  _Editorial_  16
Mouse Shoes  _Lolly Dinks's Mother_  197
Music in the Alps  _Editorial_  33

Necessity of Believing Something  _Jean Paul_  31
Neighbor Over the Way, My. (Poem)  _G.W. Scars_  110
Newport, At. (Poem)  _Geo. H. Boker_  10
Niagara  _Editorial_  213
Noble Savage, The  110
Nooning, The  16

Oblivion  _Browne_  120
October  _W.W. Bailey_  192
Old Maid's Village, The  _Kate F. Hill_  26
Old Oaken Bucket, The  _Editorial_  152
Othello, How Rossini Wrote  _L.C. Bullard_  91
Out of the Deeps  _Elizabeth Stoddard_  94

Painted Boats on Painted Seas  _Hiram Rich_  201
Patriotism and Powder  _Editorial_  132
Pavilions on the Lake, The. (From the French)  _H.S. Conant_  14
Pepito  _Lucy Ellen Guernsey_  212
Perkins, Granville  48
Peruvians, Among the  _Editorial_  24
Play for a Heart, A. (From the German)  _H.S. Conant_  54
Pleasure-Seeking  _Editorial_  240
Poet's Rivers  _Editorial_  70
Portugal, Wanderings in  _Editorial_  224
Pottery, Ancient  _S.F. Corkran_  72
Prince and Peasant. (From the German,)  _H.S. Conant_  196
Puddle Party, The  _Lolly Dinks's Mother_  83
Punishment after Death. (From the Danish)  _James Watkins_  218
Puss Asleep  _Henry Richards_  143

Queen's Closet, The  _Lolly Dinks's Mother_  27

Rainy Day, The. (Poem)  _H.W. Longfellow_  120
Raymondskill, The  _E.C. Stedman_  154
Real Romance, The  _Julian Hawthorne_  10
Ruse de Guerre. (Poem)  _H.B. Bostwick_  63

School-Children  _Editorial_  198
Scissor Family, The  _Lolly Dinks's Mother_  144
Secret, A. (Poem)  _Julia C.R. Dorr_  212
September Reverie, A  _Editorial_  172
Serious Case, A  _Editorial_  203
Shadows  _Julian Hawthorne_  142
Shakspeare Celebrations  _Editorial_  90
Shakspeare Portraits  _R.H. Stoddard_  103
Shameful Death. (Poem)  _Wm. Morris_  83
Shrews  _A.S. Isaacs_  63
Simple Suggestion, A  _Mary E. Bradley_  216
Smallpox, Worse than  _L.E. Guernsey_  157
Snow-Bird, The  _Gilbert Burling_  207
Song Sparrow, The  _Gilbert Burling_  32
Song or Wood Thrush, The  _Gilbert Burling_  66
Sonnet  _Alfred Tennyson_  67
Sparrows' City, The. (Poem)  _George Cooper_  165
Stael, Baroness de, The Salon of. (From the French)  43
Story of Coeho, The  _R.B. Davey_  71
Street Scene in Cairo, A  _Editorial_  239
Stuffing Birds  _January Searle_  246
Summer Fallacies  _C.D. Shanly_  176
Sunshine  _Julian Hawthorne_  92
Superstition  _Bacon_  56
Swift, Dean  _Lady Mary Wortley Montague_  53

Temple of Canova, The  _Editorial_  203
Thievish Animals  _Editorial_  238
Thistle-Down. (Poem)  _W.W. Bailey_  145
Tired Mothers. (Poem)  _Mrs. A. Smith_  172
Tropic Forest, A. (Poem)  _Montgomery_  20
Trout Fishing  _C.D. Shanly_  141
Truants, The  40
Two  _J.C.R. Dorr_  152
Two Gazels of Hafiz  _Henry Richards_  145
Two Lives, The. (Poem)  _S.W. Duffield_  201
Two Queens in Westminster. (Poem)  _H. Morford_  132

Uncollected Poems  50
Uncollected Poems by Campbell.  _Editorial_  144
Uncollected Poems by "L.E.L."  _Editorial_  94
Uttmann, Barbara. (From the German)  66

Venice, A Glimpse of  _Editorial_  13
Violins, About  _J.D. Elwell_  36
Virginia, On the Eastern Shore of  _Mary E. Bradley_  79

Water Ballad  _S.T. Coleridge_  67
Weber (Von), Karl Maria  _Editorial_  206
Wine and Kisses. (Poem) From the Persian  _Joel Benton_  27
Winter-Green. (Poem)  _Mary E. Bradley_  90
Winter Pictures from the Poets  _Editorial_  14
Winter Scenes  _Editorial_  230
Wolf, Calf and Goat, The  _Æsop, Junior_  124
Woman in Art  _E.B. Leonard_  145
Woman's Eternity, A  _E.B.L._  204
Woman's Place  _Editorial_  162
Wood or Summer Ducks  _Editorial_  187
Woods, In the. (Poem)  _G.W. Sears_  192
Woods Out in the. (Poem)  _Mary E. Bradley_  126
Wordsworth  _Taine_  33
Wyoming Valley  _Editorial_  36

Young Robin Hunter, The  _Editorial_  60

Zekle's Courtin'  _Editorial_  30




ILLUSTRATIONS

Adirondack Scenery  _G.H. Smillie_  97
Advance in Winter, The  236
After the Storm  _Schenck_  231
After the Storm a Calm. (I, II, III, IV,)  244
Agnes  _R.E. Piguet_  112
Albai, View on the River  183
American Robin, The  _Gilbert Burling_  227
Artistic Evening, An  248
At Home  239
Ausable, Morning on the  _G.H. Smillie_  41

Babes in the Wood, The  _John S. Davis_  222
Badger Hunting  _L. Beckmann_  226
Blood Money  _Victor Nehlig_  190
Blowing Hot and Cold  _John S. Davis_  142
Blowing Rock  _R.E. Piguet_  57
Blue-Birds  _Gilbert Burling_  163
Bonnie Brook, near Rahway  _R.E. Piguet_  112
Bridal Veil  _Granville Perkins_  154
Bridge of Sighs, The (View of)  13
Bridge of Sighs (Hood's)  _Georgie A. Davis_  49
Building of the Ship, The  _T. Beech_  89

Capella Imperfeita, Archway in the  44
Casa do Capitulo, The  224
Casa do Capitulo, Window in the  46
Castle of Meran, The. (Frontispiece)  _C. Heyn_. Opp. 189
Caught At Last  238
Cedar Birds  _Gilbert Burling_  85
Chase, After the  _David Neal_  219
Christmas Visitors  _Guido Hammer_  231
Coming Out of School  _Vautier_  12
Crossing the Moor  After _F.F. Hill_  228

December and May  _W.H. Davenport_  146
Death Chase, The  236
Deer Family, The  _Guido Hammer_  106

Enjoyment  241
Evening  _Paul Dixon_  205
Evening  243
Evenings at Home  _A.E. Emslie_  77
Exquisite Moment, An  _John S. Davis_  93

Fashionable Loungers of Lima  24
Feast of the Passover, The  _Oppenheim_  64
Feast of the Tabernacles, The  _Oppenheim_  65
Fisherman's Family, The  239
Forester's Happy Family at Dinner, The  _Guido Hammer_  167
Forester's Last Coming Home, The  56
For the Master  _Offterdinger_ (Opp.)  236

Garden, In the  _Arthur Lumley_  138
Gertrude of Wyoming  _Victor Nehlig_  117
Glen, The  _F.T. Vance_  194
God's Acre  232
Gondar, Emperor's Palace at  186
Good Bye, Sweetheart  233
Grandfather Mountain, N.C.  _R.E. Piguet_  215
Green River  _August Will_  69
Green River  _R.E. Piguet_  72
Green River  _R.E. Piguet_  73
Guide-Board, The  _Knesing_  230
Gypsy Girl at her Toilette  _G. Dore_  166

Happy Valley  _R.E. Piguet_  53
Heart of a Hero, The.  (Kosciusko's Monument)  113
Here. Chick! Chick!  240
Hollo!  _John S. Davis_  191
House Wrens  _Gilbert Burling_  105
How a Spaniard Drinks  _Dore_  86
Hudson at Hyde Park, The  _G.H. Smillie_  81

In-Doors  243
Infant Jesus, The  Copied by _J.S. Davis_  229
"Is the solace of age."  247
"It ofttimes happens that a child"  245

Jack and Gill  _John S. Davis_  223

Kate  _R.E. Piguet_  112
Keeping House  _John S. Davis_ (Opp.)  29
Kingfisher, The  _L. Beckmann_  125
King Witlaf's Drinking Horn  _A. Kappes_  131
Kwasind, the Strong Man  _T. Moran_  109

Lais Corinthaica  _Holbein_  182
Lake Henderson  _F.T. Vance_  195
Limena, Middle-Aged  25
Linville, On the  _R.E. Piguet_  52
Linville River, The  _R.E. Piguet_  53
Little Emily  _John S. Davis_  178
Little Mother, The  _John S. Davis_  80
Loffler Peak, Tyrol, The  135
Longfellow's House  _A.C. Warren_  100
Longfellow's Library  _A.C. Warren_  101
Longing Looks  _J.W. Bolles_  96
Love Aloft  _Otto Gunther_  116

Manifest Destiny  _W.M. Cary_  37
Man's Unselfish Friend  _Chas. E. Townsend_  61
Marston Moor, Before the Battle of  121
Mestizo Woman, Young  25
Mill, in Wyoming Valley, An Old  _F.T. Vance_  36
Minster at Ulm, The  158
Monastery de Leca do Balio, The  225
Monk's Oak, The  (After _Constantine Schmidt_)  33
Moonlight on the Hudson  _Paul Dixon_  170
Moose Hunting  232
Morganton, View in  _R.E. Piguet_  53
Morganton, View near  _R.E. Piguet_  214
Morning  242
Morning Dew. (Frontispiece)  _Victor Nehlig_. Opp.  69
Morning in the Meadow  _R.E. Piguet_  113
Mother is Here!  _Deiker_  20
Mountains, In the  16
Müller, Maud  _Georgie A. Davis_  9
Music in the Alps  _Dore_  33

Naughty Boy, The  _John S. Davis_ (Opp.)  89
Navaja, Duel with the  _Dore_  86
New England, Hills of  _Paul Dixon_  204
Niagara  _Jules Tavernier_  211
Nooning, The  (After _Darley_)  17

Old Oaken Bucket, The  _John S. Davis_  159
Ornamental, The  _Deiker_  234
Out of Doors  242

Patriotic Education  _F. Beard_  130
Penha Verde, Doorway and Oriel in the  45
Perkins, Granville  48
Peruvian Ladies, Costumes of  24
Peruvian Priests  25
Pets, The  241
Picking and Choosing  _Beckmann_  238
Pines of the Racquette, The  _John A. Hows_  121
Playing Sick  _A.H. Thayer_  174
Preston Ponds, From Bishop's Knoll  _.F.T. Vance_  199
Puss Asleep  _C.E. Townsend_  143

Rainy Day, The  _John S. Davis_  120
Raymondskill, Falls of The  _Granville Perkins_  150
Raymondskill, View on the  _Granville Perkins_  155
Raymondskill, The Main Fall  _Granville Perkins_  155

Scene on the Catawba River  _R.E. Piguet_  210
School Discipline  _John S. Davis_  198
Serious Case, A  _Ernst Bosch_  202
Shakspeare, Ward's  _J.S. Davis_  104
Shipwreck on the Coast of Dieppe, A  _T. Weber_  139
Singing the War Song  187
Snow-Birds  _Gilbert Burling_  207
Song Sparrow, The  _Gilbert Burling_  32
Song or Wood Thrush, The  _Gilbert Burling_  66
South Mountain  _R.E. Piguet_  53
Spanish Postilion  _Dore_  87
Spanish Ladies  _Dore_  87
Sport  240
Squaw Pounding Cherries, Old  _W.M. Cary_  162
Standish, Miles, Courtship of  _J.W. Bolles_  151
Street Scene in Cairo, A  Opp.  229
Surenen Pass, Switzerland, View in the  134

Temple of Canova  203
Then fare thee well, my country, lov'd and lost!  237
"There's a Beautiful Spirit Breathing Now"  218
Tight Place, In a  _W.M. Cary_  76
Tropic Forest, A  _Granville Perkins_  21
Truants, The  _M.L. Stone_  40

Useful, The  _Deiker_  235
Uttmann, Barbara  68

Venetian Festival, A. (Frontispiece)  _C. Hulk_
Vischer's, Peter, Studio  84
Visconti, Princess  (After "_Fra Bartolomeo_")  108
Villa de Conde, Church at  215
Village Belle, The  After _J.J. Hill_  228

Waiting at the Stile  147
Watauga Falls  _R.E. Piguet_  53
Watering the Cattle  _Peter Moran_  171
Wayside Inn, The  (After _Hill_)  107
Weber, Von, Last Moments of  206
What Was That Knot Tied For?  (After _I.E. Gaiser_)  92
"Which in infancy lisped"  246
"Who Said Rats?"  _A.H. Thayer_  175
Winter Sketch, A. (Frontispiece)  _George H. Smillie_. Opp.  149
Wolf, Calf and Goat, The  _H.L. Stephens_  124
Wood or Summer Ducks  _Gilbert Burling_  179

"Ye limpid springs and floods,"  237
Young Robin Hunter, The  _John S. Davis_  60

Zekle's Courtin'  _Frank Beard_  29




THE ALDINE

VOL. V.      NEW YORK,       JANUARY, 1872.      No. 1.




[Illustration: MAUD MÜLLER.--DRAWN BY GEORGIE A. DAVIS.]


  "MAUD MÜLLER looked and sighed: 'Ah, me!
  That I the Judge's bride might be!

  "'He would dress me up in silks so fine,
  And praise and toast me at his wine.

  "'My father should wear a broad-cloth coat:
  My brother should sail a painted boat.'

  "'I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
  And the baby should have a new toy each day.

  "'And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor.
  And all should bless me who left our door.

  "The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
  And saw Maud Müller standing still.

  "'A form more fair, a face more sweet,
  Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

  "'And her modest answer and graceful air,
  Show her wise and good as she is fair.

  "'Would she were mine, and I to-day,
  Like her a harvester of hay.'"

  --_Whittier's Maud Müller._




THE ALDINE.

_JAMES SUTTON & CO., PUBLISHERS_

23 LIBERTY STREET, NEW YORK.

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$5.00 per Annum (_with chrono._) Single Copies, 50 Cents.

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_AT NEWPORT._

  I stand beside the sea once more;
    Its measured murmur comes to me;
  The breeze is low upon the shore,
    And low upon the purple sea.

  Across the bay the flat sand sweeps,
    To where the helméd light-house stands
  Upon his post, and vigil keeps,
    Far seaward marshaling all the lands.

  The hollow surges rise and fall,
    The ships steal up the quiet bay;
  I scarcely hear or see at all,
    My thoughts are flown so far away.

  They follow on yon sea-bird's track.
    Beyond the beacon's crystal dome;
  They will not falter, nor come back,
    Until they find my darkened home.

  Ah, woe is me! 'tis scarce a year
    Since, gazing o'er this moaning main,
  My thoughts flew home without a fear.
    And with content returned again.

  To-day, alas! the fancies dark
    That from my laden bosom flew,
  Returning, came into the ark,
    Not with the olive, with the yew.

  The ships draw slowly towards the strand,
    The watchers' hearts with hope beat high;
  But ne'er again wilt thou touch land--
  Lost, lost in yonder sapphire sky!

                        --_Geo. H. Boker._




_MILLERISM._


Toward the close of the last century there was born in New
England one William Miller, whose life, until he was past fifty,
was the life of the average American of his time. He drank, we
suppose, his share of New England rum, when a young man; married
a comely Yankee girl, and reared a family of chubby-cheeked
children; went about his business, whatever it was, on week
days, and when Sunday came, went to meeting with commendable
regularity. He certainly read the Old Testament, especially the
Book of Daniel, and of the New Testament at least the Book of
Revelation. Like many a wiser man before him, he was troubled at
what he read, filled as it was with mystical numbers and strange
beasts, and he sought to understand it, and to apply it to the
days in which he lived. He made the discovery that the world
was to be destroyed in 1843, and went to and fro in the land
preaching that comfortable doctrine. He had many followers--as
many as fifty thousand, it is said, who thought they were
prepared for the end of all things; some going so far as to lay
in a large stock of ascension robes. Though no writer himself, he
was the cause of a great deal of writing on the part of others,
who flooded the land with a special and curious literature--the
literature of Millerism. It is not of that, however, that we
would speak now.

But before this Miller arose--we proceed to say, if only to show
that we are familiar with other members of the family--there was
another, and very different Miller, who was born in old England,
about one hundred years earlier than our sadly, or gladly,
mistaken Second Adventist. His Christian name was Joseph, and he
was an actor of repute, celebrated for his excellence in some of
the comedies of Congreve. The characters which he played may have
been comic ones, but he was a serious man. Indeed, his gravity
was so well known in his lifetime that it was reckoned the height
of wit, when he was dead, to father off upon him a Jest Book!
This joke, bad as it was, was better than any joke in the book.
It made him famous, so famous that for the next hundred years
every little _bon mot_ was laid at his door, metaphorically
speaking, the puniest youngest brat of them being christened "Old
Joe."

After Joseph Miller had become what Mercutio calls "a grave man,"
his descendants went into literature largely, as any one may
see by turning to Allibone's very voluminous dictionary, where
upwards of seventy of the name are immortalized, the most noted
of whom are Thomas Miller, basket-maker and poet, and Hugh
Miller, the learned stone-mason of Cromarty, whose many works, we
confess with much humility, we have not read. To the sixty-eight
Millers in Allibone (if that be the exact number), must now be
added another--Mr. Joaquin Miller, who published, two or three
months since, a collection of poems entitled "Songs of the
Sierras." From which one of the Millers mentioned above his
ancestry is derived, we are not informed; but, it would seem,
from the one first-named. For clearly the end of all things
literary cannot be far off, if Mr. Miller is the "coming poet,"
for whom so many good people have been looking all their lives.
We are inclined to think that such is not the fact. We think,
on the whole, that it is to the other Miller--Joking Miller--his
genealogy is to be traced.

But who is Mr. Miller, and what has he done? A good many besides
ourselves put that question, less than a year ago, and nobody
could answer it. Nobody, that is, in America. In England he was a
great man. He went over to England, unheralded, it is stated,
and was soon discovered to be a poet. Swinburne took him up; the
Rossettis took him up; the critics took him up; he was taken up
by everybody in England, except the police, who, as a rule, fight
shy of poets. He went to fashionable parties in a red shirt, with
trowsers tucked into his boots, and instead of being shown to the
door by the powdered footman, was received with enthusiasm. It is
incredible, but it is true. A different state of society existed,
thirty or forty years ago, when another American poet went to
England; and we advise our readers, who have leisure at their
command, to compare it with the present social lawlessness of the
upper classes among the English. To do this, they have only
to turn to the late N.P. Willis's "Pencilings by the Way," and
contrast his descriptions of the fashionable life of London then,
with almost any journalistic account of the same kind of life
now. The contrast will be all the more striking if they will
only hunt up the portraits of Disraeli, with his long, dark locks
flowing on his shoulders, and the portrait of Bulwer, behind his
"stunning" waistcoat, and his cascade of neck-cloth, and then
imagine Mr. Miller standing beside them, in his red shirt and
high-topped California boots! Like Byron, Mr. Miller "woke up one
morning and found himself famous."

We compare the sudden famousness of Mr. Miller with the sudden
famousness of Byron, because the English critics have done so;
and because they are pleased to consider Mr. Miller as Byron's
successor! Byron, we are told, was the only poet whom he had
read, before he went to England; and is the only poet to whom he
bears a resemblance. How any of these critics could have
arrived at this conclusion, with the many glaring imitations
of Swinburne--at his worst--staring him in the face from Mr.
Miller's volume, is inconceivable. But, perhaps, they do not read
Swinburne. Do they read Byron?

There are, however, some points of resemblance between Byron and
Mr. Miller. Byron traveled, when young, in countries not much
visited by the English; Mr. Miller claims to have traveled, when
young, in countries not visited by the English at all. This was,
and is, an advantage to both Byron and Mr. Miller. But it was,
and is, a serious disadvantage to their readers, who cannot well
ascertain the truth, or falsehood, of the poets they admire. The
accuracy of Byron's descriptions of foreign lands has long
been admitted; the accuracy of Mr. Miller's descriptions is not
admitted, we believe, by those who are familiar with the ground
he professes to have gone over.

Another point of resemblance between Byron and Mr. Miller is,
that the underlying idea of their poetry is autobiographic. We
do not say that it was really so in Byron's case, although he, we
know, would have had us believe as much; nor do we say that it
is really so in Mr. Miller's case, although he, too, we suspect,
would have us believe as much.

Mr. Miller resembles Byron as his "Arizonian" resembles Byron's
"Lara." _Lara_ and _Arizonian_ are birds of the same dark
feather. They have journeyed in strange lands; they have had
strange experiences; they have returned to Civilization. Each, in
his way, is a Blighted Being! "Who is she?" we inquire with the
wise old Spanish Judge, for, certainly, _Woman_ is at the bottom
of it all. If our readers wish to know _what_ woman, we refer
them to "Arizonian:" they, of course, have read "Lara."

Byron was a great poet, but Byronism is dead. Mr. Miller is not a
great poet, and his spurious Byronism will not live. We shall all
see the end of Millerism.




_THE REAL ROMANCE._


The author laid down his pen, and leaned back in his big easy
chair. The last word had been written--Finis--and there was the
complete book, quite a tall pile of manuscript, only waiting for
the printer's hands to become immortal: so the author whispered
to himself. He had worked hard upon it; great pains had been
expended upon the delineations of character, and the tone and
play of incident; the plot, too, had been worked up with much
artistic force and skill; and, above all, everything was so
strikingly original; no one, in regarding the various characters
of the tale, could say: this is intended for so-and-so! No,
nothing precisely like the persons in his romance had ever
actually existed; of that the author was certain, and in that he
was very probably correct. To be sure, there was the character
of the country girl, Mary, which he had taken from his own
little waiting-maid: but that was a very subordinate element,
and although, on the whole, he rather regretted having introduced
anything so incongruous and unimaginative, he decided to let it
go. The romance, as a whole, was too great to be injured by one
little country girl, drawn from real life. "And by the way,"
murmured the author to himself, "I wish Mary would bring in my
tea."

He settled himself still more comfortably in his easy chair, and
thought, and looked at his manuscript; and the manuscript looked
back; but all _its_ thinking had been done for it. Neither
spoke--the author, because the book already knew all he had to
say; and the book, because its time to speak and be immortal had
not yet arrived. The fire had all the talking to itself, and it
cackled, and hummed, and skipped about so cheerfully that one
would have imagined it expected to be the very first to receive
a presentation copy of the work on the table. "How I would devour
its contents!" laughed the fire.

Perhaps the author did not comprehend the full force of the
fire's remark, but the voice was so cosy and soothing, the
fire itself so ruddy and genial, and the easy chair so softly
cushioned and hospitable, that he very soon fell into a condition
which enabled him to see, hear, and understand a great many
things which might seem remarkable, and, indeed, almost
incredible.

The manuscript on the table which had hitherto remained perfectly
quiet, now rustled its leaves nervously, and finally flung
itself wide open. A murmur then arose, as of several voices, and
presently there appeared (though whether stepping from between
the leaves of the book itself, or growing together from the
surrounding atmosphere, the author could not well make out)
a number of peculiar-looking individuals, at the first glance
appearing to be human beings, though a clear investigation
revealed in each some odd lack or exaggeration of gesture,
feature, or manner, which might create a doubt as to whether they
actually were, after all, what they purported to be, or only some
_lusus naturæ_. But the author was not slow to recognize them,
more especially as, happening to cast a glance at the manuscript,
he noticed that it was such no longer, but a collection of
unwritten sheets of paper, blank as when it lay in the drawer at
the stationer's--unwitting of the lofty destiny awaiting it.

Here, then, were the immortal creations which were soon to
astound the world, come, in person, to pay their respects to the
author of their being. He arose and made a profound obeisance to
the august company, which they one and all returned, though in
such a queer variety of ways, that the author, albeit aware that
every individual had the best of reasons for employing, under
certain special circumstances, his or her particular manner of
salute, could scarcely forbear smiling at the effect they all
together produced in his own unpretending study.

"Your welcome visit," said the author, addressing his guests
with all the geniality of which he was master (for they
seemed somewhat stiff and ill-at-ease), "gives me peculiar
gratification. I regret not having asked some of my friends, the
critics, up here to make your acquaintance. I am sure you would
all come to the best possible understanding directly."

"They cannot fathom _me_," exclaimed a strikingly handsome young
man, with pale lofty brow, and dark clustering locks, who was
leaning with proud grace against the mantel-piece. "They may
take my life, but they cannot read my soul." And he laughed,
scornfully, as he always did.

[Illustration: THE NOONING.--AFTER DARLEY.]


This was a passage from that famous ante-mortem soliloquy in
which the hero of the romance indulges in the last chapter but
one. The author, while, of course, he could not deny that the
elegance of the diction was only equaled by the originality of
the sentiment, yet felt a slight uneasiness that his hero should
adopt so defiant a tone with those who were indeed to be the
arbiters of his existence.

"I'm afraid there's not enough perception of the _comme il faut_
in him to suit the every-day world," muttered he. "To be sure,
he was not constructed for ordinary ends. Do you find yourself
at home in this life, madame?" he continued aloud, turning to a
young lady of matchless beauty, whose brief career of passionate
love and romantic misery the author had described in thrilling
chapters. She raised her luminous eyes to his, and murmured
reproachfully: "Why speak to me of Life? if it be not Love, it is
Life no longer!"

It was very beautiful, and the author recollected having thought,
at the time he wrote it down, that it was about the most forcible
sentence in that most powerful passage of his book. But it
was rather an exaggerated tone to adopt in the face of such
common-place surroundings. Had this exquisite creature, after
all, no better sense of the appropriate?

"No one can know better than I, my dear Constance," said the
author, in a fatherly tone, "what a beautiful, tender, and lofty
soul yours is; but would it not be well, once in a while, to
veil its lustre--to subdue it to a tint more in keeping with the
unvariegated hue of common circumstance?"

"Heartless and cruel!" sobbed Constance, falling upon the sofa,
"hast thou not made me what I am?"

This accusation, intended by the author to be leveled at the
traitor lover, quite took him aback when directed, with so much
aptness, too, at his respectable self. But whom but himself
could he blame, if, when common sense demanded only civility
and complaisance, she persisted in adhering to the tragic and
sentimental? He was provoked that he had not noticed this defect
in time to remedy it; yet he had once considered Constance as,
perhaps, the completest triumph of his genius! There seemed to
be something particularly disenchanting in the atmosphere of that
study.

"I'm afraid you're a failure, ma'am, after all," sighed the
author, eyeing her disconsolately. "You're so one-sided!"

At this heartless observation the lady gave a harrowing shriek,
thereby summoning to her side a broad-shouldered young fellow,
clad in soldier's garb, with a countenance betokening much
boldness and determination. He faced the author with an angry
frown, which the latter at once recognized as being that of
Constance's brother Sam.

"Now then, old bloke!" sang out that young gentleman, "what new
deviltry are you up to? Down on your knees and beg her pardon,
or, by George! I'll run you through the body!"

On this character the author had expended much thought and care.
He was the type of the hardy and bold adventurer, rough and
unpolished, perhaps, but of true and sterling metal, who, by dint
of his vigorous common sense and honest, energetic nature, should
at once clear and lighten whatever in the atmosphere of the story
was obscure and sombre; and, by the salutary contrast of his
fresh and rugged character with the delicate or morbid traits
of his fellow beings, lend a graceful symmetry to the whole. The
sentence Sam had just delivered with so much emphasis ought to
have been addressed to the traitor lover, when discovered in the
act of inconstancy, and, so given, would have been effective and
dramatic. But at a juncture like the present, the author felt it
to be simply ludicrous, and had he not been so mortified, would
have laughed outright!

"Don't make a fool of yourself, Sam," remonstrated he. "Reflect
whom you're addressing, and in what company you are, and do try
and talk like a civilized being."

"Come, come! no palaver," returned Sam, in a loud and boisterous
tone (to do him justice, he had never been taught any other);
"down on your marrow-bones at once, or here goes for your
gizzard!" and he drew his sword with a flourish.

So this was the rough diamond--the epitome of common sense! Why,
he was a half-witted, impertinent, overbearing booby, and his
author longed to get him across his knee, and correct him in the
good old way. But meantime the point of the young warrior's
sword was getting unpleasantly near the left breast-pocket of
the author's dressing gown (which he wore at the time), and the
latter happened to recollect, with a nervous thrill, that this
was the sword which mortally wounded the traitor lover (for whom
Sam evidently mistook him) during the stirring combat so vividly
described in the twenty-second chapter. Could he but have
foreseen the future, what a different ending that engagement
should have had! But again it was too late, and the author sprang
behind the big easy chair with astonishing agility, and from that
vantage ground endeavored to bring on a parley.

Yet how could he argue and expostulate against himself? How
arraign Sam of harboring murderous designs which he had himself
implanted in his bosom? How, indeed, expect him to comprehend
conversation so entirely foreign to his experience? It was an
awkward dilemma.

It was Sam who took it by the horns. Somebody, he felt, must be
mortally wounded; and finding himself defrauded of one subject,
he took up with the next he encountered, which chanced to be none
other than the venerable and white-haired gentleman who filled
the position, in the tale, of a wealthy and benevolent uncle. The
author, having always felt a sentiment of exceptional respect and
admiration for this reverend and patriarchal personage, who
by his gentle words and sage counsels, no less than his noble
generosity, had done so much to elevate and sweeten the tone
of his book, fell into an ecstasy of terror at witnessing the
approach of his seemingly inevitable destruction; especially as
he perceived that the poor old fellow (who never in his life had
met with aught but reverence and affection, and knew nothing
of the nature of deadly weapons and impulses) was, so far, from
attempting to defend himself, or even escape, actually opening
his arms to the widest extent of avuncular hospitality, and
preparing to take his assassin, sword and all, into his fond and
forgiving heart!

"You old fool!" shrieked the author, in the excess of his
irritation and despair; "he isn't your repentant nephew! Why
can't you keep your forgiveness until it's wanted?"

But Uncle Dudley having been created solely to forgive and
benefit, was naturally incapable of taking care of himself, and
would certainly have been run through the ample white waistcoat,
had not an unexpected and wholly unprecedented interruption
averted so awful a catastrophe.

A small, graceful figure, wearing a picturesque white cap, with
jaunty ribbons, and a short scarlet petticoat, from beneath which
peeped the prettiest feet and ancles ever seen, stepped suddenly
between the philanthropic victim and his would-be-murderer,
dealt the latter a vigorous blow across the face with a broom
she carried, thereby toppling him over ignominiously into the
coal-scuttle, and then, placing her plump hands saucily
akimbo, she exclaimed with enchanting _naivete_: "There! Mr.
Free-and-easy! take _that_ for your imperance."

This little incident caused the author to fall back into his easy
chair in a condition of profound emotion. It appeared to have
corrected a certain dimness or obliquity in his vision, of the
existence of which its cure rendered him for the first time
conscious. The appearance of the little country girl (whose very
introduction into the romance the author had looked upon with
misgivings) had afforded the first gleam of natural, refreshing,
wholesome interest--in fact, the only relief to all that was
vapid, irrational, and unreal--which the combined action of the
characters in his romance had succeeded in producing. But the
enchantress who had effected this, so far from being the most
unadulterated product of his own brain and genius, was the only
one of all his _dramatis personæ_ who was not in the slightest
degree indebted to him for her existence. She was nothing
more than an accurate copy of Mary the house-maid, while the
others--the mis-formed, ill-balanced, one-sided creations, who,
the moment they were placed beyond the pale of their written
instructions--put out of the regular and pre-arranged order of
their going--displayed in every word and gesture their utter
lack and want of comprehension of the simplest elements of human
nature: _these_ were the unaided offspring of the author's fancy.
And yet it was by help of such as these he had thought to push
his way to immortality! How the world would laugh at him! and,
as he thought this, a few bitter tears of shame and humiliation
trickled down the sides of the poor man's nose.

Presently he looked up. The warlike Sam remained sitting
disconsolately in the coal-hod; his instructions suggested no
means of extrication. Forsaken Constance lay fainting on the
sofa, waiting for some one to chafe her hands and bathe her
temples. The strikingly handsome betrayer leant in sullen and
gloomy silence against the mantel-piece, ready to treat all
advances with stern and defiant obduracy. The benevolent uncle
stood with open arms and bland smile, never doubting but
that everybody was preparing for a simultaneous rush to, and
participation in, his embrace; and, finally, the pretty little
country girl, with her arms akimbo and her nose in the air,
remained mistress of the situation. Her unheard of innovation, of
having done something timely, sensible, and decisive, even
though not put down in the book, seemed to have paralyzed all the
others. Ah! she was the only one there who was not less than a
shadow. The author felt his desolate heart yearn towards her, and
the next moment found himself on his knees at her feet.

"Mary," cried he, "you are my only reality. The others are empty
and soulless, but you have a heart. They are the children of a
conceited brain and visionary experience; you, only, have I drawn
simply and unaffectedly, as you actually existed. Except for
you, whom I slighted and despised, my whole romance had been an
unmitigated falsehood. To you I owe my preservation from worse
than folly, and my initiation into true wisdom. Mary--dear
Mary, in return I have but one thing to offer you--my heart! Can
you--_will_ you not love me?"--

To his intense surprise, Mary, instead of evincing a becoming
sense of her romantic situation, burst forth into a merry peal
of laughter, and, catching him by one shoulder, gave him a hearty
shake.

"La sakes! Mr. Author, do wake up! did ever anybody hear such a
man!"

There was his room, his fire, his chair, his table, and his
closely-written manuscript lying quietly upon it. There was
he himself on his knees on the carpet, and--there was Mary the
house-maid, one hand holding the brimming tea-pot, the other held
by the author against his lips, and laughing and blushing in a
tumult of surprise, amusement and, perhaps, something better than
either.

"Did I say I loved you, Mary?" enquired the author, in a state of
bewilderment. "Never mind! I say now that I love you with all my
heart and soul, and ten times as much when awake, as when I was
dreaming! Will you marry me?"

Mary only blushed rosier then ever. But she and the author always
thereafter took their tea cosily together.

As for the romance, the author took it and threw it into the
fire, which roared a genial acknowledgment, and in five minutes
had made itself thoroughly acquainted with every page. There
remained a bunch of black flakes, and in the center one soft
glowing spark, which lingered a long while ere finally taking
its flight up the chimney. It was the description of the little
country girl.

"The next book I write shall be all about you," the author used
to say to his wife, in after years, as they sat together before
the fire-place, and watched the bright blaze roar up the chimney.

                                            --_Julian Hawthorne._




_A FROSTY DAY._


  Grass afield wears silver thatch,
    Palings all are edged with rime,
  Frost-flowers pattern round the latch,
    Cloud nor breeze dissolve the clime;

  When the waves are solid floor,
    And the clods are iron-bound,
  And the boughs are crystall'd hoar,
    And the red leaf nail'd aground.

  When the fieldfare's flight is slow,
    And a rosy vapor rim,
  Now the sun is small and low,
    Belts along the region dim.

  When the ice-crack flies and flaws,
    Shore to shore, with thunder shock,
  Deeper than the evening daws,
    Clearer than the village clock.

  When the rusty blackbird strips,
    Bunch by bunch, the coral thorn,
  And the pale day-crescent dips,
    New to heaven a slender horn.

                        --_John Leicester Warren._

       *       *       *       *       *

Those who come last seem to enter with advantage. They are
born to the wealth of antiquity. The materials for judging are
prepared, and the foundations of knowledge are laid to their
hands. Besides, if the point was tried by antiquity, antiquity
would lose it; for the present age is really the oldest, and has
the largest experience to plead.--_Jeremy Collier_.


[Illustration: COMING OUT OF SCHOOL.--VAUTIER.]




_COMING OUT OF SCHOOL._


If there be any happier event in the life of a child than coming
out of school, few children are wise enough to discover it. We do
not refer to children who go to school unwillingly--thoughtless
wights--whose heads are full of play, and whose hands are
prone to mischief:--that these should delight in escaping the
restraints of the school-room, and the eye of its watchful
master, is a matter of course. We refer to children generally,
the good and the bad, the studious and the idle, in short, to
all who belong to the _genus_ Boy. Perhaps we should include the
_genus_ Girl, also, but of that we are not certain; for, not
to dwell upon the fact that we have never been a girl, and are,
therefore, unable to enter into the feelings of girlhood, we hold
that girls are better than boys, as women are better than men,
and that, consequently, they take more kindly to school life.
What boys are we know, unless the breed has changed very much
since we were young, which is now upwards of--but our age
does not concern the reader. We did not take kindly to school,
although we were sadly in need of what we could only obtain in
school, viz., learning. We went to school with reluctance,
and remained with discomfort; for we were not as robust as the
children of our neighbors. We hated school. We did not dare to
play truant, however, like other boys whom we knew (we were not
courageous enough for that); so we kept on going, fretting, and
pining, and--learning.

Oh the long days (the hot days of summer, and the cold days of
winter), when we had to sit for hours on hard wooden benches,
before uncomfortable desks, bending over grimy slates and
ink-besprinkled "copy books," and poring over studies in which
we took no interest--geography, which we learned by rote;
arithmetic, which always evaded us, and grammar, which we never
could master. We could repeat the "rules," but we could not
"parse;" we could cipher, but our sums would not "prove;" we
could rattle off the productions of Italy--"corn, wine, silk and
oil"--but we could not "bound" the State in which we lived. We
were conscious of these defects, and deplored them. Our teachers
were also conscious of them, and flogged us! We had a morbid
dread of corporeal punishment, and strove to the uttermost to
avoid it; but it made no difference, it came all the same--came
as surely and swiftly to us as to the bad boys who played
"hookey," the worse boys who fought, and the worst boy who once
stoned his master in the street. With such a school record as
this, is it to be wondered at that we rejoiced when school was
out? And rejoiced still more when we were out of school?

The feeling which we had then appears to be shared by the
children in our illustration. Not for the same reasons, however;
for we question whether the most ignorant of their number does
not know more of grammar than we do to-day, and is not better
acquainted with the boundaries of Germany than we could ever
force ourselves to be. We like these little fellows for what they
are, and what they will probably be. And we like their master, a
grave, simple-hearted man, whose proper place would appear to be
the parish-pulpit. What his scholars learn will be worth knowing,
if it be not very profound. They will learn probity and goodness,
and it will not be ferruled into them either. Clearly, they do
not fear the master, or they would not be so unconstrained in his
presence. They would not make snow balls, as one has done, and
another is doing. Soon they will begin to pelt each other, and
the passers by will not mind the snow balls, if they will only
remember how they themselves felt, and behaved, after coming out
of school.

There is not much in a group of children coming out of school. So
one might say at first sight, but a little reflection will show
the fallacy of the remark. One would naturally suppose that in
every well-regulated State of antiquity measures would have been
taken to ensure the education of all classes of the community,
but such was not the case. The Spartans under Lycurgus were
educated, but their education was mainly a physical one, and
it did not reach the lower orders. The education of Greece
generally, even when the Greek mind had attained its highest
culture, was still largely physical--philosophers, statesmen,
and poets priding themselves as much upon their athletic feats
as upon their intellectual endowments. The schools of Rome were
private, and were confined to the patricians. There was a change
for the better when Christianity became the established religion.
Public schools were recommended by a council in the sixth
century, but rather as a means of teaching the young the
rudiments of their faith, under the direction of the clergy, than
as a means of giving them general instruction. It was not until
the close of the twelfth century that a council ordained the
establishment of grammar schools in cathedrals for the gratuitous
instruction of the poor; and not until a century later that the
ordinance was carried into effect at Lyons. Luther found time,
amid his multitudinous labors, to interest himself in popular
education; and, in 1527, he drew up, with the aid of Melanchthon,
what is known as the Saxon School System. The seed was sown, but
the Thirty Years' War prevented its coming to a speedy maturity.
In the middle of the last century several of the German States
passed laws making it compulsory upon parents to send their
children to school at a certain age; but these laws were not
really obeyed until the beginning of the present century. German
schools are now open to the poorest as well as the richest
children. The only people, except the Germans, who thought of
common schools at an early period are the Scotch.

It cost, we see, some centuries of mental blindness to discover
the need of, and some centuries of struggling to establish
schools.


[Illustration: THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.]




_A GLIMPSE OF VENICE._


The spell which Venice has cast over the English poets is as
powerful, in its way, as was the influence of Italian literature
upon the early literature of England. From Chaucer down, the
poets have turned to Italy for inspiration, and, what is still
better, have found it. It is not too much to say that the
"Canterbury Tales" could not have existed, in their present
form, if Boccaccio had not written the "Decameron;" and it is to
Boccaccio we are told that the writers of his time were indebted
for their first knowledge of Homer. Wyatt and Surrey transplanted
what they could of grace from Petrarch into the rough England of
Henry the Eighth. We know what the early dramatists owe to the
Italian storytellers. They went to their novels for the plots
of their plays, as the novelists of to-day go to the criminal
calendar for the plots of their stories. Shakspeare appears so
familiar with Italian life that Mr. Charles Armitage Brown, the
author of a very curious work on Shakspeare's Sonnets, declares
that he must have visited Italy, basing this conclusion on the
minute knowledge of certain Italian localities shown in some of
his later plays. At home in Verona, Milan, Mantua, and Padua,
Shakspeare is nowhere so much so as in Venice.

It is impossible to think of Venice without remembering the
poets; and the poet who is first remembered is Byron. If our
thoughts are touched with gravity as they should be when we dwell
upon the sombre aspects of Venice--when we look, as here, for
example, on the Bridge of Sighs--we find ourselves repeating:

    "I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs."

If we are in a gayer mood, as we are likely to be after looking
at the brilliant carnival-scene which greets us at the threshold
of the present number of _THE ALDINE_, we recall the opening
passages of Byron's merry poem of "Beppo:"

  "Of all the places where the Carnival
    Was most facetious in the days of yore,
  For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball,
    And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more
  Than I have time to tell now, or at all,
    Venice the bell from every city bore."

         *       *       *       *       *

  "And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical,
    Masks of all times, and nations, Turks and Jews,
  And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical,
    Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos
  All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical,
    All people, as their fancies hit, may choose,
  But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy,
  Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye."


The Bridge of Sighs (to return to prose) is a long covered
gallery, leading from the ducal palace to the old State prisons
of Venice. It was frequently traversed, we may be sure, in the
days of some of the Doges, to one of whom, our old friend, and
Byron's--Marino Faliero--the erection of the ducal palace is
sometimes falsely ascribed. Founded in the year 800, A.D., the
ducal palace was afterwards destroyed five times, and each time
arose from its ruins with increasing splendor until it became,
what it is now, a stately marble building of the Saracenic style
of architecture, with a grand staircase and noble halls, adorned
with pictures by Titian, Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, and other
famous masters.

It would be difficult to find gloomier dungeons, even in the
worst strongholds of despotism, than those in which the State
prisoners of Venice were confined. These "pozzi," or wells, were
sunk in the thick walls, under the flooring of the chamber at the
foot of the Bridge of Sighs. There were twelve of them formerly,
and they ran down three or four stories. The Venetian of old time
abhorred them as deeply as his descendants, who, on the first
arrival of the conquering French, attempted to block or break up
the lowest of them, but were not entirely successful; for, when
Byron was in Venice, it was not uncommon for adventurous tourists
to descend by a trap-door, and crawl through holes, half choked
by rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the first range.
So says the writer of the _Notes_ to the fourth canto of "Childe
Harolde" (Byron's friend Hobhouse, if our memory serves), who
adds, "If you are in want of consolation for the extinction of
patrician power, perhaps you may find it there. Scarcely a ray of
light glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the cells,
and the places of confinement themselves are totally dark. A
little hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages,
and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A
wooden pallet, about a foot or so from the ground, was the only
furniture. The conductors tell you a light was not allowed. The
cells are about five paces in length, two and a half in width,
and seven feet in height. They are directly beneath one another,
and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only
one prisoner was found when the Republicans descended into these
hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined sixteen
years." When the prisoner's hour came he was taken out and
strangled in a cell upon the Bridge of Sighs!

And this was in Venice! The grand old Republic which was once the
greatest Power of Eastern Europe; the home of great artists and
architects, renowned the world over for arts and arms; the Venice
of "blind old Dandolo," who led her galleys to victory at the
ripe old age of eighty; the Venice of Doge Foscari, whose son
she tortured, imprisoned and murdered, and whose own paternal,
patriotic, great heart she broke; the Venice of gay gallants, and
noble, beautiful ladies; the Venice of mumming, masking, and the
carnival; the bright, beautiful Venice of Shakspeare, Otway, and
Byron; joyous, loving Venice; cruel, fatal Venice!

       *       *       *       *       *

MODERN SATIRE.--A satire on everything is a satire on nothing;
it is mere absurdity. All contempt, all disrespect, implies
something respected, as a standard to which it is referred; just
as every valley implies a hill. The _persiflage_ of the French
and of fashionable worldlings, which turns into ridicule
the exceptions and yet abjures the rules, is like Trinculo's
government--its latter end forgets its beginning. Can there be a
more mortal, poisonous consumption and asphyxy of the mind than
this decline and extinction of all reverence?--_Jean Paul_.




_WINTER PICTURES FROM THE POETS._


Although English Poetry abounds with pictures of the seasons, its
Winter pictures are neither numerous, nor among its best. For
one good snow-piece we can readily find twenty delicate Spring
pictures--twinkling with morning dew, and odorous with the
perfume of early flowers. It would be easy to make a large
gallery of Summer pictures; and another gallery, equally large,
which should contain only the misty skies, the dark clouds, and
the falling leaves of Autumn. Not so with Winter scenes. Not that
the English poets have not painted the last, and painted them
finely, but that as a rule they have not taken kindly to the
work. They prefer to do what Keats did in one of his poems, viz.,
make Winter a point of departure from which Fancy shall wing her
way to brighter days:

  "Fancy, high-commissioned; send her!
  She has vassals to attend her,
  She will bring, in spite of frost,
  Beauties that the earth hath lost,
  She will bring thee, all together,
  All delights of summer weather."

But we must not let Keats come between us and the few among his
fellows who have sung of Winter for us. Above all, we must not
let him keep his and our master, Shakspeare, waiting:

  "When icicles hang by the wall,
    And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
  And Tom bears logs into the hall,
    And milk comes frozen home in pail,
  When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,
  Then nightly sings the staring owl,
            To-whoo;
  To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,
  While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

  "When all aloud the wind doth blow,
    And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
  And birds sit brooding in the snow,
    And Marian's nose looks red and raw.
  When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
  Then nightly sings the staring owl,
            To-whoo;
  To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,
  While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."

From Shakspeare to Thomson is something of a descent, but we must
make it before we can find any Winter poetry worth quoting.
Here is a picture, ready-made, for Landseer to put into form and
color:

  "There, warm together pressed, the trooping deer
  Sleep on the new-fallen snows; and scarce his head
  Raised o'er the heapy wreath, the branching elk
  Lies slumbering sullen in the white abyss.
  The ruthless hunter wants nor dogs nor toils,
  Nor with the dread of sounding bows he drives
  The fearful flying race: with ponderous clubs,
  As weak against the mountain-heaps they push
  Their beating breast in vain, and piteous bray,
  He lays them quivering on the ensanguined snows,
  And with loud shouts rejoicing bears them home."

Cowper is superior to Thomson as a painter of Winter, although it
is doubtful whether he was by nature the better poet. Here is one
of his pictures:

  "The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence
  Screens them, and seem half petrified with sleep
  In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait
  Their wonted fodder; not like hungering man,
  Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek,
  And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay.
  He, from the stack, carves out the accustomed load,
  Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft,
  The broad keen knife into the solid mass:
  Smooth as a wall, the upright remnant stands,
  With such undeviating and even force
  He severs it away: no needless care,
  Lest storms should overset the leaning pile
  Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.
  Forth goes the woodman, leaving, unconcerned,
  The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe
  And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear,
  From morn to eve his solitary task.
  Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears
  And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur,
  His dog attends him. Close behind his heel
  Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk,
  Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow
  With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout;
  Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy.
  Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl
  Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught,
  But now and then, with pressure of his thumb
  To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube
  That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloud
  Streams far behind him, scenting all the air.
  Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale,
  Where, diligent to cast the first faint gleam
  Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side,
  Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call
  The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing,
  And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,
  Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge.
  The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves,
  To seize the fair occasion; well they eye
  The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved
  To escape the impending famine, often scared
  As oft return, a pert voracious kind.
  Clean riddance quickly made, one only care
  Remains to each, the search of sunny nook,
  Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned
  To sad necessity, the cock foregoes
  His wonted strut; and, wading at their head,
  With well-considered steps, seems to resent
  His altered gait and stateliness retrenched."

The American poets have excelled their English brethren in
painting the outward aspects of Winter. Here is Mr. Emerson's
description of a snow storm:

  "Announced by all the trumpets of the sky
  Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
  Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
  Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
  And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
  The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
  Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
  Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed
  In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
    Come see the north wind's masonry.
  Out of an unseen quarry evermore
  Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
  Curves his white bastions with projected roof
  Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
  Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
  So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
  For number or proportion. Mockingly
  On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
  A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn:
  Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
  Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate
  A tapering turret overtops the work.
  And when his hours are numbered, and the world
  Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
  Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
  To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
  Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
  The frolic architecture of the snow."

In Mr. Bryant's "Winter Piece" we have a brilliant description of
frost-work:

            "Look! the massy trunks
  Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray
  Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,
  Is studded with its trembling water-drops,
  That glimmer with an amethystine light.
  But round the parent stem the long low boughs
  Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide
  The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot
  The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,
  Deep in the womb of earth--where the gems grow,
  And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud
  With amethyst and topaz--and the place
  Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam
  That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall
  Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,
  And fades not in the glory of the sun;--
  Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts
  And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles
  Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost,
  Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye;
  Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;
  There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud
  Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams
  Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,
  And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,
  And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;
  Light without shade. But all shall pass away
  With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,
  Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound
  Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve
  Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont."

Winter, itself, has never been more happily impersonated than by
dear old Spenser. We meant to close with his portrait of Winter,
but, on second thoughts, we give, as more seasonable, his
description of January. The fourth line can hardly fail to
remind the reader of the second line of Shakspeare's song, and
to suggest the query--whether Shakspeare borrowed from Spenser,
Spenser from Shakspeare, or both from Nature?

  "Then came old January, wrapped well
  In many weeds to keep the cold away;
  Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,
  And blow his nayles to warme them if he may;
  For they were numbed with holding all the day
  An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood
  And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray:
  Upon an huge great earth-pot steane he stood,
  From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane floud."

       *       *       *       *       *

As long as you are engaged in the world, you must comply with its
maxims; because nothing is more unprofitable than the wisdom of
those persons who set up for reformers of the age. 'Tis a part
a man can not act long, without offending his friends, and
rendering himself ridiculous.--_St. Gosemond_.




_THE PAVILIONS ON THE LAKE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THEOPHILE GAUTIER.


In the province of Canton, several miles from the city, there
once lived two rich Chinese merchants, retired from business. One
of them was named Tou, the other Kouan. Both were possessed
of great riches, and were persons of much consequence in the
community.

Tou and Kouan were distant relatives, and from early youth had
lived and worked side by side. Bound by ties of great affection,
they had built their homes near together, and every evening they
met with a few select friends to pass the hours in delightful
intercourse. Both possessed of much talent, they vied with each
other in the production of exquisite Chinese handiwork, and spent
the evenings in tracing poetry and fancy designs on rice-paper
as they drank each other's success in tiny glasses of delicate
cordial. But their characters, apparently so harmonious, as time
went on grew more and more apart; they were like an almond tree,
growing as one stem, until little by little the branches divide
so that the topmost twigs are far from each other--half sending
their bitter perfume through the whole garden, while the other
half scatter their snow-white flowers outside the garden wall.

From year to year Tou grew more serious; his figure increased in
dignity, even his double chin wore a solemn expression, and he
spent his whole time composing moral inscriptions to hang over
the doors of his pavilion.

Kouan, on the contrary, grew jolly as his years increased. He
sang more gaily than ever in praise of wine, flowers, and birds.
His spirit, unburdened by vulgar cares, was light like a young
man's, and he dreamed of nothing but pure enjoyment.

Little by little an intense hatred sprang up between the friends.
They could not meet without indulging in bitter sarcasm. They
were like two hedges of brambles, bristling with sharp thorns. At
last, things came to such a pass that they could no longer endure
each other's society, and each hung a tablet by the door of his
dwelling, stating that no person from the neighboring house would
be allowed to cross the threshold on any pretext whatever.

They would have been glad to move their houses to different parts
of the country, but, unhappily, this was not possible. Tou even
tried to sell his property but he set such an unreasonable price
that no buyer appeared, and he was, moreover, unwilling to
leave all the treasures he had accumulated there--the sculptured
wainscotting, the polished panels, like mirrors, the transparent
windows, the gilded lattice-work, the bamboo lounges, the vases
of rare porcelain, the red and black lacquered cabinets, and the
cases full of books of ancient poetry. It was hard to give up to
strangers the garden where he had planted shade and fruit trees
with his own hands, and where, each spring he had watched the
opening of the flowers; where in short, each object was bound to
his heart by ties delicate as the finest silk, but strong as iron
chains.

In the days of their friendship, Tou and Kouan had each built a
pavilion in his garden, on the shore of a lake, common to both
estates. It had been a great delight to sit in their separate
balconies and exchange friendly salutations while they smoked
opium in pipes of delicate porcelain. But after becoming enemies
they built a wall which divided the lake into two equal portions.
The water was so deep that the wall was supported on a series of
arches, through which the water flowed freely, reflecting upon
its placid surface the rival pavilions.

These pavilions were exquisite specimens of Chinese architecture.
The roofs, covered with tiling, round and brilliant as the scales
which glisten on the sides of a gold-fish, were supported upon
red and black pillars which rested on a solid foundation, richly
ornamented with porcelain slabs bearing all manner of artistic
designs. A railing ran all around, formed by a graceful
intermingling of branches and flowers wrought in ivory. The
interior was not less sumptuous. On the walls were inscribed
verses of celebrated Chinese poems, elegantly written in
perpendicular lines, with golden characters on a lacquered
background. Shades of delicately carved ivory, softened the
light to a faint opal tint, and all around stood pots of orchis,
peonies, and daisies, which filled the air with delicious
perfume. Curtains of rich silk were draped over the entrance,
and on the marble tables within were scattered fans, tooth-picks,
ebony pipes, and pencils with all conveniences for writing.

All around the pavilions were picturesque grounds of rock, among
whose clefts grew clumps of willows, their long green twigs
swaying on the surface of the water. Under the crystal waves
sported myriads of gold-fish, and ducks with gay plumage floated
among the broad, shining leaves of water-lilies. Except in the
very centre of the pool, where the depth of the water prevented
the growth of aquatic plants, the whole surface was covered with
these leaves, like a carpet of soft green velvet.

Before the unsightly wall had been placed there by the hostile
owners, it was impossible to find a more picturesque spot in the
whole empire, and even now no philosopher would have wished for a
more retired and delicious retreat in which to pass his days.

Both Tou and Kouan felt deeply the loss of the enchanting
prospect, and gazed sadly upon the barren wall which rose before
their eyes, but each consoled himself with the idea that his
neighbor was as badly off as himself.

Things went on in this way for several years. Grass and weeds
choked up the pathway between the two houses, and brambles and
branches of low shrubs intertwined across it, as though they
would bar all communication forever. It appeared as if the plants
understood the quarrel between the two old friends, and took
delight in perpetuating it.

Meanwhile the wives of both Tou and Kouan were both blessed each
with a child. Madame Tou became the mother of a charming girl,
and Madame Kouan of the handsomest boy in the world. Each family
was ignorant of the happy event which had brought joy into
the home of the other, for although their houses were so near
together the families were as far apart as if they had been
separated by the great wall of the empire, or the ocean itself.
What mutual friends they still possessed, never alluded to the
affairs of one in the house of the other; even the servants had
been forbidden to exchange words with each other, under pain of
death.

The boy was named Tchin-Sing, and the girl Ju-Kiouan, that is to
say, Jasper and Pearl. Their perfect beauty fully justified the
choice of their names. As they grew old enough to take notice of
their surroundings, the unsightly wall attracted their attention,
and each inquired of their parents why that strange barrier was
placed across the centre of such a charming sheet of water, and
to whom belonged the great trees of which they could see the
topmost boughs.

Each was told that on the farther side of the wall was the
habitation of a strange and wicked family, and that it had been
placed there as a protection against such disagreeable neighbors.

This explanation was sufficient for the children. They grew
accustomed to the sight and thought no more about it.

Ju-Kiouan grew in grace and beauty. She was skilled in all
lady-like accomplishments. The butterflies which she embroidered
upon satin appeared to live and beat their wings, and one could
almost hear the song of the birds which grew under her fingers,
and smell the perfume of the flowers she wrought upon canvas. She
knew the "Book of Odes" by heart, and could repeat the five rules
of life without missing a word. Her handwriting was perfection,
and she composed in all the different styles of Chinese poetry.
Her poems were upon all those delicate themes which would attract
the mind of a pure young girl; upon the return of the swallows,
the daisies, the weeping willows and similar topics, and were
of such merit as to win much praise from the wise men of the
country.

Tchin-Sing was not less forward in his accomplishments, and his
name stood at the head of his class. Although he was very young
he had already gained the right to wear the black cap of the wise
men, and all the mothers in the country about wished him for a
son-in-law. But Tchin-Sing had but one answer to all proposals;
it was too soon, and he desired his liberty for some time to
come. He refused the hand of Hon-Giu, of Oma, and other beautiful
young girls. Never was a young man more courted and more
overwhelmed with sweets and flowers than he, but his heart
remained insensible to all attractions. Not on account of its
coldness, for he appeared full of longing for an object to adore.
His heart seemed fixed upon some memory, some dream, perhaps, for
whose realization he was waiting and hoping. It was all in vain
to tell him of beautiful tresses, languishing eyes, and soft
hands waiting for his acceptance. He listened with a distracted
air, as if thinking of other things.

Ju-Kiouan was not less difficult to please. She refused all
suitors for her hand. This did not salute her gracefully, that
was not dainty in his habits; one had a bad handwriting, another
composed poor verses; in short all had some defect. She drew
amusing caricatures of everyone, which made her parents laugh,
and show the door to the unlucky lover in the most polite manner
possible.

At last the parents of both young people became alarmed at the
continued refusal of their children to marry, and the mothers
commenced to follow the subject in their dreams. One night Madame
Kouan dreamed that she saw a pearl of wonderful purity reposing
on the breast of her son. On the other hand, Madame Tou dreamed
that on her daughter's forehead sparkled a jasper of inestimable
value. Much consultation was held as to the significance of these
dreams. Madame Kouan's was thought to imply that her son would
win the highest honors of the Imperial Academy, while Madame
Tou's might signify that her daughter would find some untold
treasure in the garden. These interpretations, however, did not
satisfy the two mothers, whose whole minds were bent upon the
happy marriage of their children. Unfortunately both Tchin-Sing
and Ju-Kiouan persisted more obstinately than ever in their
refusal to listen to the subject.

As young people are not usually so averse to marriage, the
parents suspected some secret attachment, but a few days' careful
watching sufficed to prove that Tchin-Sing was paying court to no
young girl, and that no lover was to be seen under the balcony of
Ju-Kiouan.

At length both mothers decided to consult the bronze oracle in
the temple of Fo. After burning gilt paper and perfume before the
oracle, Madame Tou received the unsatisfactory answer that,
until the jasper appeared, the pearl would unite with no one, and
Madame Kouan was told the jasper would take nothing to his
bosom but the pearl. Both women went sadly homeward in deeper
perplexity than ever.

One day Ju-Kiouan was leaning pensively on the balcony of her
pavilion, precisely at the same time when Tchin-Sing was standing
by his. The day was clear as crystal, and not a cloud floated in
the blue space above. There was not sufficient wind to move the
lightest twigs of the willows, and the surface of the water
was glistening and placid as a mirror, only disturbed, here and
there, when some tiny gold-fish leaped for an instant into the
sunshine. The trees and grassy banks were reflected so distinctly
that it was impossible to tell where the real world left off, and
the land of dreams began. Ju-Kiouan was amusing herself watching
the beauteous water-picture when her eyes fell upon that portion
of the lake, near the wall, where, with all the clearness of
reality, was the reflection of the pavilion on the opposite
shore.

She had never noticed it before, and what was her surprise to
behold an exact reproduction of the one where she was standing,
the gilded roof, the red and black pillars, and all the beauteous
drapery about the doors. She would have been able to read the
inscription upon the tablets, had they not been reversed. But
what surprised her more than all was to see, leaning on the
balcony, a figure which, if it had not come from the other side
of the lake, she would have taken for her own reflection. It was
the mirrored image of Tchin-Sing. At first she took it for the
reflection of a girl, as he was dressed in robes according to the
fashion of the time. As the heat was intense, he had thrown off
his student's cap, and his hair fell about his fresh, beardless
face. But soon Ju-Kiouan recognized, from the violent beating
of her heart, that the reflection in the water was not that of a
young girl.

Until then she had believed that the earth contained no being
created for her, and had often indulged in pensive revery over
her loneliness. Never, said she, shall I take my place as a link
between the past and future of my family, but I shall enter among
the shadows as a lonely shade.

But when she beheld the reflection in the water, she found that
her beauty had a sister, or, more properly speaking, a brother.
Far from being displeased to discover that her beauty was not
unrivaled, she was filled with intense joy. Her heart was
beating and throbbing with love for another, and in that instant
Ju-Kiouan's whole life was changed. It was foolish in her to fall
violently in love with a reflection, of whose reality she knew
nothing, but after all she was only acting like nearly all young
girls who take a husband for his white teeth or his curly hair,
knowing nothing whatever of his real character.

Tchin-Sing had also perceived the charming reflection of the
young girl. "I am dreaming," he cried. "That beautiful image upon
the water is the combination of sunshine and the perfume of many
flowers. I recognize it well. It is the reflection of the image
within my own heart, the divine unknown whom I have worshiped all
my life."

Tchin-Sing was aroused from his monologue by the voice of his
father, who called him to come at once to the grand saloon.

"My son," said he, "here is a very rich and very learned man
who seeks you as a husband for his daughter. The young girl has
imperial blood in her veins, is of a rare beauty, and possesses
all the qualities necessary to make her husband happy."

Tchin-Sing, whose heart was bursting with love for the reflection
seen from the pavilion, refused decidedly. His father, carried
away with passion, heaped upon him the most violent imprecations.

"Undutiful child," said he, "if you persist in your obstinacy, I
will have you confined in one of the strongest fortresses of the
empire, where you will see nothing but the sea beating against
the rocks, and the mountains covered with mist. There you will
have leisure to reflect, and repent of your wicked conduct."

These threats did not frighten Tchin-Sing in the least. He
quickly replied that he would accept for his wife the first
maiden who touched his heart, and until then he should listen to
no one.

The next day, at the same hour, he went to the pavilion on
the lake, and, leaning on the balcony, eagerly watched for the
beloved reflection. In a few moments he saw it glisten in the
water, beauteous as a boquet of submerged flowers.

A radiant smile broke over the face of the reflection, which
proved to Tchin-Sing that his presence was not unpleasant to the
lovely unknown. But as it was impossible to hold communication
with a reflection whose substance is invisible, he made a sign
that he would write, and vanished into the interior of the
pavilion. He soon reappeared, bearing in his hand a silvered
paper, upon which he had written a declaration of love in
seven-syllabled stanzas. He carefully folded his verses and
placed them in the cup of a white flower, which he rolled in a
leaf of the water-lily, and placed the whole tenderly upon the
surface of the lake.

A light breeze wafted the lover's message through the arches of
the wall, and it floated so near Ju-Kiouan that she had only to
stretch out her hand to receive it. Fearful of being seen she
returned to her private boudoir, where she read with great
delight the expressions of love written by Tchin-Sing. Her
joy was all the greater, as she recognized from the exquisite
hand-writing and choice versification that the writer was a
man of culture and talent. And when she read his signature, the
significance of which she perceived at once, remembering her
mother's dream, she felt that heaven had sent her the long
desired companion.

The next day the breeze blew in a different direction, so that
Ju-Kiouan was able to send an answer in verse by the same subtle
messenger, by which, notwithstanding her girlish modesty, it was
easy to see that she returned the love of Tchin-Sing.

On reading the signature, Tchin-Sing could not repress an
exclamation of surprise and delight. "The pearl," said he, "that
is the precious jewel my mother saw glittering on my bosom. I
must at once entreat this young girl's hand of her parents, for
she is the wife appointed for me by the oracle."

As he was preparing to go, he suddenly remembered the dislike
between the two families, and the prohibitions inscribed upon
the tablet over the entrance. Determined to win his prize at any
cost, he resolved to confide the whole history to his mother.
Ju-Kiouan had also told her love to Madame Tou. The names of
Pearl and Jasper troubled the good matrons so much that, not
daring to set themselves against what appeared to be the will of
the gods, they both went again to the temple of Fo.

The bronze oracle replied that this marriage was in reality the
true interpretation of the dreams, and that to prevent it
would be to incur the eternal anger of the gods. Touched by the
entreaties of the mothers, and also by slight mutual advances,
the two fathers gave way and consented to a reconciliation of the
families. The two old friends, on meeting each other again, were
astonished to find what frivolous causes had separated them for
so many years, and mourned sincerely over all the pleasure they
had lost in being deprived of each other's society. The marriage
of the children was celebrated with much rejoicing, and the
Jasper and the Pearl were no longer obliged to hold intercourse
by means of a reflection on the water. The wall was removed, and
the wavelets rippled placidly between the two pavilions on the
lake.

                                               --_H.S. Conant._


[Illustration: IN THE MOUNTAINS.]




_IN THE MOUNTAINS._


A line of Walter Savage Landor's, a poet for poets, was an
especial favorite with Southey, and, we believe, with Lamb.
It occurs in "Gebir," and drops from the lips of one of its
characters, who, being suddenly shown the sea, exclaims,

    "Is this the mighty ocean?--is this all?"

The feeling which underlies this line is generally the first
emotion we have when brought face to face with the stupendous
forms of Nature. It is the feeling inspired by mountains, the
first sight of which is disappointing. They are grand, but not
quite what we were led to expect from pictures and books, and,
still more, from our own imaginations. The more we see mountains,
the more they grow upon us, until, finally, they are clothed
with a grandeur not, in all cases, belonging to them--our Mount
Washingtons over-topping the Alps, and the Alps the Himmalayas.
The poets assist us in thus magnifying them.

The American poets have translated the mountains of their native
land into excellent verse. Everybody remembers Mr. Bryant's
"Monument Mountain," for its touching story, and its
clearly-defined descriptions of scenery.

Mr. Stedman has a mountain of his own, though perhaps only in
Dream-land; and Mr. Bayard Taylor has a whole range of them, the
sight of which once filled him with rapture:

  "O deep, exulting freedom of the hills!
    O summits vast, that to the climbing view
    In naked glory stand against the blue!
  O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills
  Heaven's amethystine gaol! O speeding streams
    That foam and thunder from the cliffs below!
    O slippery brinks and solitudes of snow
  And granite bleakness, where the vulture screams!
  O stormy pines, that wrestle with the breath
    Of every tempest, sharp and icy horns
    And hoary glaciers, sparkling in the morns,
  And broad dim wonders of the world beneath!
  I summon ye, and mid the glare that fills
  The noisy mart, my spirit walks the hills."

       *       *       *       *       *

GLADNESS OF NATURE.--Midnight--when asleep so still and
silent--seems inspired with the joyous spirit of the owls in
their revelry--and answers to their mirth and merriment through
all her clouds. The moping owl, indeed!--the boding owl,
forsooth! the melancholy owl, you blockhead! why, they are the
most cheerful, joy-portending, and exulting of God's creatures.
Their flow of animal spirits is incessant--crowing cocks are
a joke to them--blue devils are to them unknown--not one
hypochondriac in a thousand barns--and the Man-in-the-Moon
acknowledges that he never heard one utter a complaint.




_THE NOONING._


Mr. Darley's very characteristic picture on the opposite page
needs no description, it so thoroughly explains itself, and
realizes his intention. The following lines from Mary Howitt seem
very appropriate to the sketch:

  "O golden fields of bending corn,
      How beautiful they seem!
  The reaper-folk, the piled up sheaves,
      To me are like a dream;
  The sunshine and the very air
  Seem of old time, and take me there."




_A MANDARIN._

FROM THE FRENCH OF AUGUSTE VITU.


It was Saturday night, and the pavement sparkled with frost
diamonds under flashing lights and echoing steps in the opera
quarter. Tinkling carnival bells and wild singing resounded from
all the carriages dashing towards Rue Lepelletier; the shops were
only half shut, and Paris, wide awake, reveled in a fairy-night
frolic.

And yet, Felix d'Aubremel, one of the bright applauded heroes of
those orgies, seemed in no mood to answer their mad challenge.
Plunged in a deep armchair, hands drooping and feet on the
fender, he was sunk in sombre revery. An open book lay near him,
and a letter was flung, furiously crumpled, on the floor.

An orphan at the age of twelve, Felix had watched his mother's
slow death through ten years of suffering. The Marquis Gratien
d'Aubremel, ruined by reckless dissipation, and driven by
necessity, rather than love, into a marriage with an English
heiress, Margaret Malden, deserted her, like the wretch he was,
as soon as the last of her dowry melted away. A common story
enough, and ending in as common a close. D'Aubremel sailed for
the Indies to retrieve his fortune, and met death there by yellow
fever. So that the sad lessons of Felix's family life stimulated
to excess his innate leaning towards misanthropy--if that name
may define a resistless urgency of belief in the appearances of
evil, linked with a doubt of the reality of good. Probably, at
heart, he believed himself incapable of a bad action, but he
would take no oath to such a conviction, since by his theory
every man must yield under certain circumstances, attacking
powerfully his personal interest, while threatening slight danger
of failure or detection. This style of thought, set off by a fair
share of witty expression and ever-ready impertinence, gave Felix
a kind of ascendancy in his circle of intimates--but naturally
it gained him no friends. Common reputation grows out of words
rather than actions, and Felix suffered the just penalty of his
sceptical fancies. They cost him more than they were worth, as he
had just learned by sad experience.

He had chanced to make the acquaintance of a rich manufacturer,
Montmorot by name, whose daughter Ernestine was pleased with
the devotion of a charming young fellow, who mingled the rather
reckless grace of French cleverness with a reserved style and
refined pride gained from the English blood of the Maldens.
For his part, Felix really loved the girl, and had let his
impatience, that very day, carry him into a step that failed to
move the elder Montmorot's inflexibility. He refused absolutely
to give his daughter to a man without fortune or prospects. Felix
was crushed, his hopes all shattered at a blow, by this answer,
though he had a thousand reasons to expect it. And at what a
moment! A half-unfolded red ticket, stuffed with disgusting
threats, peeped out from between the wall and his sofa. The
officers of justice had paid him a little visit. He got into a
passion with himself.

"Pshaw," he cried, "confound all scruples! If I had been less in
love I should be Ernestine's husband now. With a pretty wife, one
I am so fond of, too, I should have fortune, position, and the
luxury indispensable to my life--now, I don't know where to lay
my head to-morrow. To-morrow, at ten o'clock, the sheriff will
seize everything--everything, from that Troyou sketch to that
china monster, nodding his frightful sneering head at me. They
will carry off this casket that was my father's--this locket,
with the hair of--of--what the deuce was her name? Poor girl! how
she loved me! And now all that is left of her vanishes--even her
name!

"What, nothing? no hope? Not even one of those silly impulses
that used to drive me out into the streets when everybody else
was abed, with the firm conviction that at some crossing, in some
gutter, some unknown deity must have dropped a fat pocket-book,
on purpose for me! I believed in something, then--even in lost
pocket-books. And now, now! I would commit no such follies as
that, but I believe I could be guilty of even worse things,
if crime, common, low, contemptible, shameful crime, were not
forbidden to the son of the Marquis d'Aubremel and Margaret
Malden.

"Oh, great genius!" he went on, taking up the open book near him,
"great philosopher, called a sophist by the ignorant--how deep a
truth you uttered in writing these lines, that I never read
over without a shudder: 'Imagine a Chinese mandarin, living in a
fabulous country three thousand leagues away, whom you have never
seen and shall never see--imagine, moreover, that the death
of this mandarin, this man, almost a myth, would make you a
millionaire, and that you have but to lift your finger, at home,
in France, to bring about his death, without the possibility of
ever being called to account for it by any one; say, what would
you do?'

"That fearful passage must have made many men dream--and does
not Bianchon, that great materialist, so well painted by Balzac,
confess that he has got as far as his thirty-third mandarin? What
a St. Bartholomew of mandarins, if my philosopher's supposition
could grow into a truth!"

Felix ceased his soliloquy, and bent his head to let the storm
raised in his soul by the atheist philosopher pass over. His bad
instincts, aroused, spoke louder at that instant than reason,
louder than reality. His glance fell on the chimney-piece, where
a porcelain figure, the grotesque _chef d'oeuvre_ of some great
Chinese artist, leered at him with its everlasting grin.
The young man smiled. "Perhaps that is the likeness of a
mandarin--bulbous nose, hanging cheeks, moustaches drooping
like plumes, a peaked head, knotty hands--a regular deformity.
Reflecting on the ugliness of that idiotic race, there is much to
be urged by way of excuse for people who kill mandarins."

Some persistent thought evidently haunted Felix's mind. Again he
drove it off, and again it beset him.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, after a last brief struggle, "I am alone,
and out of sorts. I will amuse myself with a carnival freak, a
mere theoretic and philosophic piece of nonsense. I have tried
many worse ones. It wants a quarter to twelve. I give myself
fifteen minutes to study my spells. Let me see, what mandarin
shall I murder? I don't know any, and I have no peerage list of
the Flowery Empire. Let me try the newspapers."

It was in the height of the English war with China. On the
seventh column of the paper our hero found a proclamation signed
by the imperial commissioners, Lin, Lou, Lun, and Li.

"Here goes for Li," he said to himself. "He is likely to be the
youngest."

The clock began to strike, announcing the hour. Felix placed
himself solemnly before the mirror, and said aloud, in a
grave tone: "If the death of Mandarin Li will make me rich
and powerful, whatever may come of it, I vote for the death of
Mandarin Li." He lifted his finger--at that instant the porcelain
figure rocked on its base, and fell in fragments at Felix's feet.
The glass reflected his startled face. He thrilled for an instant
with superstitious terror, but recollecting that his finger had
touched the fragile figure, he accounted for it as an accident,
and went to bed and to such repose as a debtor can enjoy with an
execution hanging over his head.

Masks and dominos made the street merry under his window. The
opera ball was unusually brilliant, experts said, and nothing
made the Parisians aware that on the night of January 12th, 1840,
Felix d'Aubremel had passed sentence of death on Chinaman Li, son
of Mung, son of Tseu, a literate mandarin of the 114th class.

Nine months later Felix d'Aubremel was living in furnished
lodgings in an alley off the Rue St. Pierre, and living by
borrowing. The gentlemanly sceptic owed his landlady a good deal
of money; his clothes were aged past wearing, and his tailor
had long ago broken off all relations with him. The Marquis
d'Aubremel was within a hairsbreadth of that utterly crushed
state that ends in madness, or in suicide--which is only a
variety of madness.

One morning while sitting in the glass cage that leads to the
staircase of every lodging-house, waiting to beg another respite
from his landlady, he took up a newspaper, and the following
notice was lucky enough to catch his attention.

"Chiusang, 12th January, 1840. Hostilities have broken out
between England and the Celestial Empire. The sudden and
inexplicable death of Mandarin Li, the only member of the council
who opposed the violent and warlike projects of Lin, led to
unfortunate events. At the first attack the Chinese fled, with
the basest want of pluck, but in their retreat they murdered
several English merchants, and among them an old resident,
Richard Maiden, who leaves an estate of half a million sterling.
The heirs of the deceased are requested to communicate with
William Harrison, Solicitor, Lincoln's Inn."

"My uncle!" cried Felix. "Alas, I have killed my uncle and
Mandarin Li."

He had not a penny to pay for his traveling expenses to London;
but, on producing his certificate of birth and the newspaper
article, his landlady easily negotiated for him with an honest
broker, who advanced him a thousand francs to arrange his
affairs, without interest, upon his note for a trifle of eighteen
hundred, payable in six weeks.

Eight days after reaching London, Felix, established in a
fashionable hotel, was awaiting with nervous eagerness the first
instalment of a million, the proceeds of a cargo of teas, sold
under the direction of Mr. Harrison. He was too restless for
thought, burning with impatience to take possession of his
property, to handle his wealth, and, as it were, to verify his
dream. Yet the fact was indisputable. Richard Malden's death, and
his own relationship to the intestate had been legally proved and
established. Felix d'Aubremel regularly and assuredly inherited a
fortune, and he had no doubts nor scruples on that point.

A servant interrupted his reflections, announcing his solicitor's
clerk. "Why does not Mr. Harrison come himself?" he was on the
point of asking, but amazement at the clerk's appearance took
away his breath. He was a shriveled little object, slight, bony,
crooked and hideous, with a monstrous head and round eyes, a bald
skull, a flat nose, a mouth from ear to ear, and a little jutting
paunch that looked like a sack.

"I bring the Marquis d'Aubremel the monies he is expecting," said
the man, and his voice, shrill and silvery, like a musical box or
the bell of a clock, impressed Felix painfully. The voice grated
on the nerves. "I have drawn a receipt in regular form," said
Felix, extending his hand. But the solicitor's clerk leaned his
back against the door, without stirring a step. "Well, sir,"
Felix exclaimed with a convulsive effort. The man approached
slowly, scarcely moving his feet, as if sliding across the floor.
His right hand was buried in his coat pocket; he held his head
bent down, and his lips moved inaudibly. At last he pulled from
his pocket a large bundle of banknotes, bills and papers, drew
near the window, and began to count them carefully.

Felix was then struck by a strange phenomenon that might well
inspire undefined terror. Standing directly in front of the
window, the clerk's figure cast no shadow, though the sun's rays
fell full upon it, and through his human body, translucent as
rock crystal, Felix plainly saw the houses across the street.
Then his eyes seemed to be suddenly unsealed. The clerk's black
coat took colors, blue, green, and scarlet; it lengthened out
into the folds of a robe, and blazed with the dazzling image of
the fire-dragon, the son of Buddha; a lock of stiff grayish hair
sprouted like a short tuft out of his yellowish skull; his round
tawny eyes rolled with frightful rapidity in their sockets.

Felix recognized Li, son of Mung, son of Tseu, the literate
mandarin of the 114th class. The murderer had never seen his
victim, but could not doubt his identity a moment, thanks to the
marvelous resemblance between the solicitor's clerk and the china
monster that dropped into bits at his feet the night of January
12th, 1840.

Meantime the man had done counting his package, and held it out
to Felix, saying, in his grating, vibrating tones, "Monsieur le
Marquis, here are forty thousand pounds sterling; please to give
me your receipt." And Felix heard the voice say in a shriller
under-key, "Felix, here is an instalment of the million, the
price of your crime. Felix, my assassin, take this money from my
hand."

"From my hand," echoed a thousand fine voices, quivering all
through the air of the room.

"No, no," cried Felix, pushing the clerk away, "the money would
burn me! Begone with you!"

He dropped exhausted into a chair, half suffocated, with drops
of sweat rolling down his convulsed face. The man bowed to the
floor, and slowly moved away backwards. With every gradual step
Felix saw his natural shape return. The rays of the autumn sun
ceased to light up that mysterious apparition, and only
his attorney's humble clerk stood before Felix. With a rush
overpowering his will, Felix dashed after the old man, already
across the threshold, and overtook him on the staircase.

"My papers!" he shouted imperiously. "Here they are, sir," said
the old fellow quietly.

Felix regained his room, bolted the door, and counted the immense
sum contained in the pocket-book with excitement bordering on
frenzy. Then he bathed his burning head with cold water, and
threw an anxious look around the room.

"I must have had an attack of fever," he muttered.

[Illustration: A TROPIC FOREST.--GRANVILLE PERKINS]

"Mandarins don't rise from the dead, and a man can't kill another
by simply lifting his finger. So my philosopher talked like one
who knows nothing of moral experience. If the fancy of an unreal
crime almost drove me mad, what must be the remorse of an actual
criminal?"

The same evening Felix ordered post horses and set out for
France.

Some months later, Monsieur Montmorot, chevalier of the legion of
honor, gave a grand dinner to celebrate his daughter's betrothal
with the Marquis Felix d'Aubremel, one of the noblest names in
France, as he styled it. The contract settling a part of his
fortune on his daughter Ernestine was signed at nine in the
evening. The Monday following the pair presented themselves
before the civil officials to solemnize their marriage by due
legal ceremonies.

Felix, a prey to the strange hallucination that incessantly
pursued him, saw a likeness between the official and the Chinese
figure he had awkwardly thrown down and broken one night long
ago. Presently his face darkened, and his eyes began to burn.
Behind the magistrate's blue spectacles he caught the gleam and
roll of the tawny eyes belonging to Mr. Harrison's clerk, to Li,
son of Mung, son of Tseu.

When at length the magistrate put the formal question, "Felix
Etienne d'Aubremel, do you take for your wife Ernestine Juliette
Montmorot," Felix heard a shrill ringing voice say, "Felix, I
give you your wife with my hand--my hand."

The official repeated the question more loudly. "With my hand--my
hand," whispered a thousand mocking little voices.

"No!" Felix shouted rather than answered, and rushed away from
the spot like a lunatic.

Once more at home, he shut out everyone and flung himself on his
bed, in a state of stupor that weighed him down till night--a
sort of dull torpor of brain, with utter exhaustion of physical
strength--a misery of formless thought. Towards evening one
persistent idea aroused him from this strange lethargy.

"I am a cowardly murderer," he groaned. "I wished for my
fellow-being's death. God punishes me--I will execute his
sentence." He stretched out his hand in the dark, groping for a
dagger that hung from the wall. Then a mild brightness filtered
through the curtains and irradiated the bed. Felix distinctly saw
the grotesque figure of Mandarin Li standing a few steps away.
The shadow of death darkened his face, and without seeming
movement of his lips, Felix heard these words, uttered by that
shrill ringing voice so hated, now mellowed into divine music.

"Felix d'Aubremel, God does not will that you should die, and I,
his servant, am sent to tell you his decree. You have been cruel
and covetous--you have wished an innocent man's death, and his
death caused that of a multitude of victims to the barbarous
passions of a great western nation. Man's life must be sacred
for every man. God only can take what he gave. Live, then, if you
would not add a great crime to a great error. And if forgiveness
from one dead can restore in part your strength and courage to
endure, Felix, I forgive you."

The vision vanished.

Felix religiously obeyed the instructions of Li, and consecrated
his life by a vow to the relief of human misery wherever he
found it. He devoted Richard Malden's vast fortune to founding
charitable establishments. Ernestine Montmorot would never
consent to see him again.

Two years ago, yielding to an impulse easy to understand, he
requested the English consul at Chiusang to make inquiries as
to the family of Li, who might perhaps be suffering in poverty.
Nothing more could be discovered than that the gracious sovereign
of the Middle Kingdom had confiscated the property of Li's
family, that his wife had died of sorrow, in misery, and that
his son, Li, having taken the liberty to complain of the glorious
emperor's severity, suffered death by the bowstring, as is proper
and reasonable in all well-governed states.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: MOTHER IS HERE!--DEIKER.]

MOTHER IS HERE!--A little fawn in the clutches of a fox bleats
loudly for help. The mother appears quickly on the scene, and
Renard retires, foiled and chagrined at the loss of his dinner.
He stays not upon the order of his going, but goes at once. The
artist Deiker is a well-known German painter, whose success with
these pictures of animal life ranks him with such men as Beckmann
and Hammer, whose names are familiar to the friends of _THE
ALDINE_.




_A TROPIC FOREST._


  Trees lifted to the skies their stately heads,
  Tufted with verdure, like depending plumage,
  O'er stems unknotted, waving to the wind:
  Of these in graceful form, and simple beauty,
  The fruitful cocoa and the fragrant palm
  Excelled the wilding daughters of the wood,
  That stretched unwieldly their enormous arms,
  Clad with luxuriant foliage, from the trunk,
  Like the old eagle feathered to the heel;
  While every fibre, from the lowest root
  To the last leaf upon the topmost twig,
  Was held by common sympathy, diffusing
  Through all the complex frame unconscious life.

                        --_Montgomery's Pelican Island_.

       *       *       *       *       *

What makes us like new acquaintances is not so much any weariness
of our old ones, or the pleasure of change, as disgust at not
being sufficiently admired by those who know us too well, and
the hope of being more so by those who do not know so much of
us.--_La Rochefoucauld_.




_AMONG THE DAISIES._

  "Laud the first spring daisies--
  Chant aloud their praises."--_Ed. Youl._

  "When daisies pied and violets blue,
    And lady-smocks all silver white--
  And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
    Do paint the meadows with delight."

                        --_Shakspeare._



"Belle et douce Marguerite, aimable soeur du roi Kingcup,"
enthusiastically exclaims genial Leigh Hunt, "we would tilt for
thee with a hundred pens against the stoutest poet that did not
find perfection in thy cheek." And yet, who would have the heart
to slander the daisy, or cause a blush of shame to tint
its whiteness? Tastes vary, and poets may value the flower
differently; but a rash, deliberate condemnation of the daisy is
as likely to become realized as is a harsh condemnation of the
innocence and simplicity of childhood. So the chivalric Hunt need
not fear being invoked from the silence of the grave to take part
in a lively tournament for "belle et douce Marguerite."

Subjectively, the daisy is a theme upon which we love to linger.
In our natural state, when flesh and spirit are both models
of meekness, two objects are wont to throw us into a kind of
ecstasy: a row of nicely painted white railings, and a bunch of
fresh daisies. These waft us back along a vista of years, peopled
with scenes the most entrancing, and fancies the most pleasing.
They call up at once the old country home: the honeysuckle
clasping the thatched cottage, contrasting so prettily with the
white fence in front: the sloping fields of green painted with
daisies, through which, unshackled, the buoyant breeze swept so
peacefully. It was an invariable rule, in those days, to
troop through the meadows at early morn and, like a young
knight-errant, bear home in triumph "Marguerite," the peerless
daisy, rescued from the clutches of unmentionable dragons,
and now to beam brightly on us for the rest of the day from a
neighboring mantel-piece. And it was with great reluctance that
we refrained from decapitating the whole field of daisies at one
fell sweep, when we were once allowed to touch their upturned
faces. A contract was then made on the spot: we were permitted to
pluck the daisies on condition that we plucked but one every day.
The field was not large, and long before the blasts of autumn had
hushed the voices of the flowers, not a single daisy remained.
Advancing spring threw lavish handfuls once more on the grass,
and on these we sported anew with all the ardor of boyhood.

Our enthusiasm for the daisy then is only equaled by the
gratitude it now awakens. Too soon does the busy world, with
unwarrantable liberty, allure us from boyish scenes. Too soon are
the buoyant fancies of youth succeeded by the feverish anxieties
of age, happy innocence by the consciousness of evil, confidence
by doubt, faith by despair. We must chill our demonstrativeness,
restrain our affections, blunt our sensibilities. We must
cultivate conscience until we have too much of it, and become
monkish, savage and misanthropic. The asceticism of manhood is
apparent from the studied air with which everybody is on his
guard against his neighbor. In a crowded car, men instinctively
clutch their pockets, and fancy a pickpocket in a benevolent-looking
old gentleman opposite. When we see men so distrustful, we shun
them. They then call us selfish when we feel only solitary. We
protest against such manhood as would lower golden ideals of
youth to its own contemptible _Avernus_. And now as our daisy,
which is blooming before us, sagely nods its white crest as it is
swayed by the passing breeze, it seems to bring back of itself
decades gone forever. We never intend to become a man. We keep
our boy's heart ever fresh and ever warm. We don't care if the
whole human race, from the Ascidians to Darwin himself, assail us
and fiercely thrust us once more into short jackets and
knickerbockers, provided they allow an indefinite vacation in a
daisy field. The joy of childhood is said to be vague. It was all
satisfying to us once, and we do not intend to allow it to waste
in unconscious effervescence among the gaudier though less
gratifying delights of manhood.

It is, however, of daisies among the poets we would speak at more
length. In fact, to the imaginative mind, the daisy in poetry is
as suggestive as the daisy in nature. Philosophically, they are
identical; in the absence of the one you can commune with the
other. Thus unconsciously the daisy undergoes a metempsychosis;
its soul is transferred at will from meadow to book and from book
to meadow, without losing a particle of its vitality.

To premise with the daisy historically: Among the Romans it
was called _Bellis_, or "pretty one;" in modern Greece, it
is star-flower. In France, Spain, and Italy, it was named
"Marguerita," or pearl, a term which, being of Greek origin,
doubtless was brought from Constantinople by the Franks. From
the word "Marguerita," poems in praise of the daisy were termed
"Bargerets." Warton calls them "Bergerets," or "songs du Berger,"
that is, shepherd songs. These were pastorals, lauding fair
mistresses and maidens of the day under the familiar title of
the daisy. Froissart has written a characteristic Bargeret; and
Chaucer, in his "Flower and the Leaf," sings:

  "And, at the last, there began, anone,
  A lady for to sing right womanly,
  A bargaret in praising the daisie;
  For as methought among her notes sweet,
  She said, 'Si douce est la Margarite."

Speght supposes that Chaucer here intends to pay a compliment to
Lady Margaret, King Edward's daughter, Countess of Pembroke, one
of his patronesses. But Warton hesitates to express a decided
opinion as to the reference. Chaucer shows his love for the daisy
in other places. In his "Prologue to the Legend of Good Women,"
alluding to the power with which the flowers drive him from his
books, he says that

            "all the floures in the mede,
  Than love I most these floures white and rede,
  Soch that men callen daisies in our toun
  To hem I have so great affectioun,
  As I sayd erst, whan comen is the May,
  That in my bedde there daweth me no day,
  That I nam up and walking in the mede,
  To seen this floure agenst the Sunne sprede."

To see it early in the morn, the poet continues:

  "That blissfull sight softeneth all my sorow,
  So glad am I, whan that I have presence
  Of it, to done it all reverence
  As she that is of all floures the floure."

Chaucer says that to him it is ever fresh, that he will cherish
it till his heart dies; and then he describes himself resting on
the grass, gazing on the daisy:

  "Adowne full softly I gan to sink,
  And leaning on my elbow and my side,
  The long day I shope me for to abide,
  For nothing els, and I shall nat lie,
  But for to looke upon the daisie,
  That well by reason men it call may
  The daisie, or els the eye of day."

Chaucer gives us the true etymology of the word in the last line.
Ben Jonson, to confirm it, writes with more force than elegance,

  "Days-eyes, and the lippes of cows;"

that is, cowslips; a "disentanglement of compounds,"--Leigh Hunt
says, in the style of the parodists:

  "Puddings of the plum
  And fingers of the lady."

The poets abound in allusions to the daisy. It serves both for
a moral and for an epithet. The morality is adduced more by
our later poets, who have written whole poems in its honor. The
earlier poets content themselves generally with the daisy
in description, and leave the daisy in ethics to such a
philosophico-poetical Titan as Wordsworth. Douglas (1471), in his
description of the month of May, writes:

  "The dasy did on crede (unbraid) hir crownet smale."

And Lyndesay (1496), in the prologue to his "Dreme," describes
June

  "Weill bordowrit with dasyis of delyte."

The eccentric Skelton, who wrote about the close of the 15th
century, in a sonnet, says:

  "Your colowre
  Is lyke the daisy flowre
  After the April showre."

Thomas Westwood, in an agreeable little madrigal, pictures the
daisies:

  "All their white and pinky faces
  Starring over the green places."

Thomas Nash (1592), in another of similar quality, exclaims:

  "The fields breathe sweet,
  The daisies kiss our feet."

Suckling, in his famous "Wedding," in his description of the
bride, confesses:

  "Her cheeks so rare a white was on
  No daisy makes comparison."

Spenser, in his "Prothalamion," alludes to

  "The little dazie that at evening closes."

George Wither speaks of the power of his imagination:

  "By a daisy, whose leaves spread
  Shut when Titan goes to bed;
  Or a shady bush or tree,
  She could more infuse in me
  Than all Nature's beauties can
  In some other wiser man."

Poor Chatterton, in his "Tragedy of Ella," refers to the daisy in
the line:

  "In daiseyed mantells is the mountayne dyghte."

Hervey, in his "May," describes

  "The daisy singing in the grass
  As thro' the cloud the star."

And Hood, in his fanciful "Midsummer Fairies," sings of

  "Daisy stars whose firmament is green."

Burns, whose "Ode to a Mountain Daisy" is so universally admired,
gives, besides, a few brief notices of the daisy:

  "The lowly daisy sweetly blows--"
  "The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air."

Tennyson has made the daisy a subject of one of his most
unsatisfactory poems. In "Maud," he writes:

  "Her feet have touched the meadows
  And left the daisies rosy."

To Wordsworth, the poet of nature, the daisy seems perfectly
intelligible. Scattered throughout the lowly places, with
meekness it seems to shed beauty over its surroundings, and
compensate for gaudy vesture by cheerful contentment. Wordsworth
calls the daisy "the poet's darling," "a nun demure," "a little
Cyclops," "an unassuming commonplace of nature," and sums up its
excellences in a verse which may fitly conclude our attempt to
pluck a bouquet of fresh daisies from the poets:

  "Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
  When all my reveries are past,
  I call thee, and to that cleave fast;
    Sweet silent creature!
  That breath'st with me in sun and air,
  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
  My heart with gladness, and a share
    Of thy meek nature!"

                        --_A.S. Isaacs_.


       *       *       *       *       *

_COLERIDGE AS A PLAGIARIST._

SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY 1798-99.


  If I had but two little wings,
    And were a little feathery bird,
      To you I'd fly, my dear!
  But thoughts like these are idle things,
        And I stay here.

  But in my sleep to you I fly:
    I'm always with you in my sleep!
      The world is all one's own.
  But then one wakes, and where am I?
        All, all alone.

  Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids,
    So I love to wake ere break of day:
      For though my sleep be gone,
  Yet, while tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
        And still dreams on.

Thus much for Coleridge. Now for his original:

  "Were I a little bird,
  Had I two wings of mine,
  I'd fly to my dear;
  But that can never be,
  So I stay here.

  "Though I am far from thee,
  Sleeping I'm near to thee,
  Talk with my dear;
  When I awake again,
  I am alone.

  "Scarce there's an hour in the night
  When sleep does not take its flight,
  And I think of thee,
  How many thousand times
  Thou gav'st thy heart to me."

"This," says Mr. Bayard Taylor, in the _Notes_ to his translation
of _Faust_, "this is an old song of the people of Germany. Herder
published it in his _Volkslieder_, in 1779, but it was no doubt
familiar to Goethe in his childhood. The original melody, to
which it is still sung, is as simple and sweet as the words."




_AMONG THE PERUVIANS._


The extremes of civilization and barbarism are nearer together
in those countries which the Spaniards have wrested from their
native inhabitants, than in any other portion of the globe.
Before other European races, aboriginal tribes, even the
fiercest, gradually disappear. They hold their own before the
descendants of the _conquistadores_, who conquered the New
World only to be conquered by it. Out of Spain the Spaniard
deteriorates, and nowhere so much as in South America. Of course
he is superior there to the best of the Indian tribes with which
he is thrown in contact; but we doubt whether he is superior to
the intelligent, but forgotten, races which peopled the regions
around him centuries before Pizzaro set foot therein, and which
built enormous cities whose ruins have long been overgrown by
forests. To compare the Spaniard of to-day, in Peru, with its
ancient Incas is to do him no honor. To be sure, he is a
good Catholic, which the Incas were not, but he is indolent,
enervated, and enslaved by his own passions. His religion has not
done much for him--at least in this world, whatever it may do in
the next. It has done still less, if that be possible, for the
aboriginal Peruvians.

"In all parts of Peru," says a recent traveler, "except amongst
the savage Indian tribes, Christianity, at least nominally
prevails. The aborigines, however, converted by the sword in the
old days of Spanish persecution, do not, as a rule, seem to have
more notion of that faith in the country parts, than such as
may be obtained from stray visits of some errant, image-bearing
friar, whose principal object is to obtain sundry _reals_ in
consideration of prayers offered to his little idols. These
wandering ministers also distribute execrably colored prints of
various saints, besides having indulgences for sale. As to the
nature of the pious offerings from their disciples, they are not
at all particular. They go upon the easy principle that all is
fish that comes into their net. If the ignorant and superstitious
givers have not 'filthy lucre' wherewithal to propitiate the ugly
represented saints, wax candles, silver ore, cacao, sugar, and
any other description of property is as readily received. Thus,
it often happens that these peripatetic friars have a long convoy
of heavily-laden mules with which to gladden the members of their
monastery when they return home.

[Illustration: FASHIONABLE LOUNGERS OF LIMA.]

"The priests in all parts of Peru dress in a very extraordinary,
not to say outlandish manner. One of the lower grade wears a very
capacious shovel hat, projecting as much in front as behind, and
looking very like a double-ended coal-heaver's _hat_. A loose
black serge robe covers him all over, as with a funereal pall,
and being fastened together only at the neck, gives to his often
obese figure an appearance the very reverse of grave or serious:
The superior of a monastery, or the priest in charge of a parish,
wears a more stately clerical costume. His hat is of formidable
dimensions--a huge, flat, Chinese-umbrella-shaped sort of a
concern, which cannot be compared to anything else in creation.
He also affects ruffles and lace, a long cassock, and a
voluminous cloak like many of those of Geneva combined together;
black silk stockings and low shoes complete the clerical array of
the higher ecclesiastics."

[Illustration: RIDING AND FULL-DRESS COSTUME OF THE PERUVIAN
LADIES.]

Quite as odd, in their way, as these good padres, are the
Peruvian loungers, the "lions" of Lima--a long-haired, becloaked,
truculent-looking set of fellows, whose proper place would seem
to be among operatic banditti. A greater contrast and disparity
than exists between them and the beautiful brunettes to whom they
are fain to devote themselves, cannot well be imagined. That the
latter generally prefer European gentlemen to these ill-favored
beaux, follows as a matter of course. That the discarded "lion"
resents this preference of his fair countrywomen, we have the
testimony of the traveler already quoted from.

"Instinctively, as it were, a feeling of dislike and rivalry
seemed to prevail between ourselves and such of these truculent
gentry as it was our fortune to come into contact with. They were
jealous, no doubt, of the wandering foreigners, whom they chose
contemptuously to term _gringos_, but who, they know well
enough, are infinitely preferred to themselves by their handsome
coquettish countrywomen. It is, indeed, notoriously the fact,
that any respectable man of European birth can marry well, and
even far above his own social position, amongst the dark-eyed
donnas of Peru. The men don't seem exactly to like it. Judging by
their appearance, we found but little difficulty in believing the
character which report had given them--namely, their proneness to
assassination, especially in love affairs, either personally,
or, more frequently, by deputy. If the brilliant creole and
half-caste women of this warm, tropical country, are some of
the most beautiful and lovable of the sex, their sallow,
sinister-looking, natural protectors are just the very opposite.
The singular difference in the moral and physical characteristics
of the two sexes is something really remarkable, and I, for one,
cannot satisfactorily explain it to my own mind. That such is the
case I venture to affirm; the why and the wherefore I must fain
leave to wiser ethnological heads."

Not less curious, as regards costume, are the Peruvian ladies.
And, as they are _equestriennes_, we will describe their
riding-habits in the words of the same traveler:

"To commence at the top. This riding dress consisted of a huge
felt hat, both tall and broad, and generally ornamented with a
plume of three great feathers sticking up in front. Next came an
all-round sort of a cape, of no shape in particular, with a
wide collar, several rows of fringe, much needle-work (and
corresponding waste of time upon so hideous a garment), and of
a length sufficient to reach below the waist, and so completely
hide and spoil the wearer's generally fine figure. Then came a
short overskirt, extending a little below the knees, and beneath
which appeared the fair senora or senorita's most unfeminine
pantaloons, which, being carefully tied above the ankle in a
frill, were allowed to fully display that treasure of treasures,
that most valued of charms, the beautiful little foot and ankle.
In addition to this absurd dress, which conceals the graceful
form of perhaps the handsomest race of women in the world,
the fair creatures have a style of riding which, to Europeans
accustomed to the side-saddle, certainly seems more peculiar
than elegant; that is to say, they ride á la Duchesse de
Berri--_Anglicè_, like a man.

"The full dress, or evening costume, in the provinces, seemed
simply an exaggeration upon that of the towns--the crinoline
being more extensive, the petticoats shorter, and the dressing of
the hair still more wonderful and elaborate."

[Illustration: YOUNG MESTIZO WOMAN. MIDDLE-AGED LIMENA.]

Among the _mestizos_, half-castes, of white and Indian origin the
women are often very beautiful, especially when the blood of the
latter prevails. They are, we are told, the best-looking of all
the Peruvian women, possessing brilliantly fair complexions,
magnificent long black tresses, lithe and graceful figures of
exquisite proportions, regular and classic features, and the most
superb great black eyes.

"Though often glorious in youth, these dark-skinned, passionate
daughters of the sunny Pacific shore soon begin to fade. Although
their scant costume and the _manto y saya_--the dress favored at
night--serve only to expose and display the charming contour of
their youthful form, as the years roll on and rob them of
these alluring attractions, the simple array becomes ugly and
ridiculous. Often did we laugh at the absurd figure presented by
some stout, middle-aged half-caste, or a good many more caste,
lady, clad in her _manto y saya_. Especially ludicrous did these
staid females appear when viewed from behind."

The Peruvian negress, of elderly years, compares not unfavorably
with her whiter Spanish sister of the same age. Both display
inordinate vanity, which consorts ill with the brawny calves and
large feet they cannot help showing on account of their short
though voluminous skirts, and both have a womanly love of
jewelry.

"They manifest a very apparent weakness for all sorts of
glittering ornaments, especially in the way of numerous rings,
huge ear-rings, and mighty necklaces. Indeed, it is not at all
uncommon to see pearls (their favorite gem) of great value,
rising and falling, and gleaming with incongruous lustre, upon
their bare, black, and massive bosoms; whilst ear-rings of solid
gold hang glittering from their large ears, in singular contrast
to their common and dirty clothing.

"Except for the occasional excitement of theatre, cock-fight, or
bull-fight, and the regular attendance at mass and vespers, the
life of the higher class Limena is a dreamy existence of languor,
amidst siestas, cigarettes, agua-rica, and jasmine perfumes, the
tinkling of guitars, and the melody of song. Alas! that I must
record it; she is, too, a terrible _intriguante_. The _manto y
saya_, the _bête noir_ of many a poor jealous husband, seems a
garment for disguise, invented on purpose to oblige her. It
is the very thing for an intriguing dame; and, by a stringent
custom, bears a sacred inviolate right, for no man dare profane
it by a touch, although he may even suspect the bright black eye,
it may alone allow to be seen, to be that of his own wife! He
can follow, if he likes, the graceful, muffled up figure that he
dreads to be so familiar, but woe to the wretch who dares to
pull aside a fair Limena's _manto_! If seen, he would surely
experience the resentment of the crowd, and become a regular
laughing-stock to all who knew him."

But let us be just to the women of Peru, who, in the matter of
flirting and fondness for finery, are probably not worse than the
sex elsewhere. They love where they love with a fervor unknown
to the women of Europe, their Spanish sisters, perhaps, excepted,
and they are capable of profound patriotism.

[Illustration: PERUVIAN PRIESTS.]

There is an element of real strength in the wild, stormy nature
of these beautiful and impassioned creatures: it is their
misfortune not to know how to hide their weaknesses as well
as their more sophisticated sisters. The tide of time flows so
smoothly with them, through such level summer landscapes steeped
in tropical repose, that the desire for excitement naturally
arises, and excitement itself becomes a necessity. Lacking many
of the indoor employments of the women of colder climates, time
hangs heavy on their hands, idleness wearies, and they cast about
for a way in which to amuse, enjoy, and distract themselves. They
find it in love. If no European is near upon whom they can bestow
their smiles and the lustre of their magnificent eyes, they have
to be content with their own countrymen, who woo them after the
fashion of their Spanish ancestors, by serenades at night, in
which the strumming of guitars generally plays a more important
part than the words it accompanies.

While we are among the Peruvians, we must not entirely overlook
their country, and the features of its varied landscapes. It is
divided by the Andes into three different lands, so to speak, _La
Costa_, the region between the coast and the Andes; _La Sierra_,
the mountain region, and _La Montaña_, or the wooded region
east of the Andes. _La Costa_, in which Lima is situated, at
the distance of about six miles from the sea, may be briefly
described as a sandy desert, interspersed with fertile valleys,
and watered by several rivers of no great magnitude. It seldom
or never rains there, but there are heavy dews at night which
freshen and preserve the vegetation. The magnificence of the
mountain region baffles all attempts at word-painting, as it
baffles the art of the painter. Church, the artist, gives us what
is, perhaps, the best representation we are ever likely to
have of it, but it is only a glimpse after all. Still more
indescribable, if that be possible, are the enormous wildernesses
which stretch from the Andes to the vast pampas to the eastward.
"Here everything is on Nature's great scale. The whole country
is one continuous forest, which, beginning at very different
heights, presents an undulating aspect. One moves on his way with
trees before, above, and beneath him, in a deep abyss like the
ocean. And in these woods, as on the immensity of the waters,
the mind is bewildered; whatever way it directs the eye there it
meets the majesty of the Infinite. The marvels of Nature are in
these regions so common that one becomes accustomed to behold,
without emotion, trees whose tops exceed the height of 100 varas
(290 English feet), with a proportionate thickness, beyond the
belief of such as never saw them; and, supporting on their trunks
a hundred different plants, they, individually, present rather
the appearance of a small plantation than one great tree. It
is only after you leave the woods, and ordinary objects of
comparison present themselves to the mind, that you can realize
in thought the colossal stature of these samples of Montana
vegetation."

Peru is a fitting theatre for the great dramas which have been
played upon its wild, mountainous stage. The dark background of
its past is haunted by the shadows of the unknown race who built
its ruined cities and temples. Then come the beneficent, heavenly
Incas, and the mild, pastoral people over whom they rule. Last,
the cruel, treacherous Spaniard, slaughtering his friendly hosts
with one hand, while the other holds the Bible to their lips!




_THE OLD MAID'S VILLAGE._


I had been passing the summer on the banks of the Hudson--in
that charmed region which lies about what was once the home
of Diedrich Knickerbocker, with the enchanted ground of Sleepy
Hollow on the one hand, and the shrine of Sunnyside on the other.
In many happy morning walks and peaceful twilight rambles, I had
made the acquaintance of every winding lane, every shaded avenue,
every bosky dell and sunny glade for miles around. I had wandered
hither and thither, through all the golden season, and fairly
steeped my soul in the beauty, the languor, the poetry of the
"Irving country;" and now, filled, as it were, with rare wine,
content and happy, I was ready to return to the town, and take up
the matter-of-fact habit of life again.

But even on the last day of my sojourn, when my trunks stood
packed and corded, and the loins of my spirit were girt for
departure on the morrow; as I stood at my window somewhat
pensively contemplating, for the last time, the peculiarly
delicious river-bit which it framed, the door opened suddenly,
and Nannette, my _fidus Achates_, and the companion of my summer,
ran in.

"Do you know," she cried, "I have just learned that we were
about to leave the place without visiting one of its greatest
curiosities? We have narrowly escaped going without having seen
the 'Old Maid's Village!'"

"The 'Old Maid's Village!'" I echoed, stupidly. "But what village
is _not_ the peculiar property of the race?"

"Yes, I know; but this village is really built on an old
maid's property, and by her own hands. And there is the 'Cat's
Monument,' too. Come! don't stop to talk about it, but let us
go and see it. It will be just the thing for a last evening; in
memoriam, you know, and all that. Get on your hat, and come, and
we shall see the sunset meeting the moonrise on the river once
more, as we return."

That, at least, was always worth seeing, I reflected; and so,
without more ado, I put on my wraps as I was bid, and reported
myself under marching orders.

How lovely, how indescribably lovely, the world was that
September afternoon, as we strolled along the shaded sidewalk
where the maples were already laying a mosaic of gold and garnet,
and looked off toward the river and the hills beyond--the far
blue hills--all veiled in tenderest amber mist! The very air
was full of soft, warm color; the sunbeams, mild and level now,
played with the shadows across our path, and every now and then a
leaf, flecked with orange or crimson, fluttered to our feet.
The blue-birds sang in the goldening boughs, unaffrighted by the
constant roll of elegant equipages in which, at this hour, the
residents of the stately mansions on either side the road were
taking the air; and the crickets hopped about undisturbed in the
crevices of the gray stone walls.

We walked leisurely on, past one and another lofty gateway, until
presently reaching an entrance rather less assuming than its
neighbors, but, like them, hospitably open, Nannette said, with
promptness:

"This is the place, I am sure. Square white house; black railing;
next to the printing-press man's great gate. Come right in; all
are welcome, and not even thank you to pay, for one never sees
anyone to speak to here."

It seemed to my modesty rather an audacious proceeding, but
trusting to my companion's superior information, I followed her
in, and we walked up a circular carriage-drive through smooth
shaven lawns dotted with brilliant clumps of salvia and
gladiolus, towards the house--a square, solid structure, white,
and with broad verandas running across its front.

At its northern side, sloping towards the wall, was visible what
looked like an ordinary terrace, rather low, and ornamented with
small shrubs and grotto-work; but which, on nearer approach,
proved to be a veritable village in miniature, constructed with a
verisimilitude of design, and a fidelity to detail, which was at
once in the highest degree amazing and amusing. As Nannette had
been assured, no one appeared to interfere with us in any way,
and full of a curious wonder at such a manifestation of eccentric
ingenuity, we seated ourselves upon a wooden box, evidently kept
more for the purpose of protecting the odd out-of-door plaything
in bad weather, and proceeded to give it the minute inspection
which it merited; the result of which I chronicle here for the
benefit of the like curious minded.

The terrace, which forms the site of this doll-baby city, is low
and semi-circular in shape, and separated from the graveled drive
by a close border of box. Within this protecting hedge the
ground is laid out in the most picturesque and fantastic manner
compatible with a scale of extreme minuteness. Winding roads,
shady bye-paths ending in rustic stiles, willow-bordered ponds,
streams with fairy bridges, rocky ravines and sunny meadows,
ferny dells, and steep hills clambered over with a wilderness
of tangled vines, and strewn with lichen-covered stones--all are
there, and all reproduced with the most conscientious fidelity
to nature, and with Lilliputian diminutiveness. Regular streets,
"macadamized" with a gray cement which gives very much the effect
of asphaltum, separate one demesne from another; and each meadow,
lawn, field, and barn-yard has its own proper fence or wall,
constructed in the most workmanlike manner. The streets are
bordered by trees, principally evergreens, which, though rigidly
kept down to the height of mere shrubs, appear stately by the
side of the miniature mansions they overlook; and, in every
dooryard, or more pretentious greensward, tiny larches, pines yet
in their babyhood, and dwarfed cedars, cast a mimic shade, and
bestow an air of dignity and venerableness to the place.

The first object upon which the eye is apt to rest on approaching
this modern Lilliput is the squire's house, the residence of the
landed proprietor. This is a handsome edifice of some eight by
ten inches in breadth and height. It stands upon an eminence in
the midst of ornamented grounds, and with its white walls, its
lofty cupola, and high, square portico, presents a properly
imposing appearance. There are signs of social life about the
mansion befitting its own style of conscious superiority. In the
wide arched entrance hall stands a high-born dame attired in gay
Watteau costume--red-heeled slippers, brocaded petticoat, and
bodice and train of puce-colored satin. She is receiving the
adieux of an elegant gentleman, hatted, booted, and spurred, who,
with whip in hand and dog by his side, is about to descend the
steps and mount his horse for a ride over his estate. A bird-cage
swings by an open window, and, on the lawn, a group of children,
in charge of their nurse, are engaged in the time-honored game
of "Ring-around-a-rosy." Winding walks, bordered with shrubbery,
disappear among fantastic mounds of rock-work, moss-grown
grottoes, and tiny dells of fern; and under a ruined arch, gray
with lichen and green with vines, flows a placid streamlet,
spanned by a rustic bridge. In the meadow beyond, flocks of sheep
are cropping the grass, and an old negro is busily engaged in
repairing a breach in the stone wall.

Hard by this stately demesne is a humbler tenement, built of
wattled logs, but showing signs of comfort and thrift all about
it. The old grandsire sits in a high-backed chair, sunning
himself in front of the door; on a bench, at the side of the
house, stand rows of washtubs filled with soiled linen, and a
woman is busy wringing out clothes; while another, with a
bucket on her head, goes to the well to supply her with a
fresh thimbleful of water; and still a third milks a handsome
dapple-gray cow in the yard where the dairy stands. There is a
well-filled barn behind, with another cow and a horse, too,
for that matter, in the stable attached, and the farmer, who is
putting the last sheaf on his wheat-stack, looks contented enough
with his lot.

Just beyond the stream, on whose bank the fisherman sits
leisurely dropping his line, stands the village church; a
fac-simile of the old Dutch Church which has stood near the
entrance of Sleepy Hollow since long before the Revolution, and
is hallowed now not only by the pious associations of centuries,
but by the near vicinage of Irving's grave. In its little
twelve-inch counterpart, every point of the ancient structure is
preserved in exact detail. The dull red walls, the beetling roof,
the narrow pointed windows and low, arched door; the quaint Dutch
weathercock, and odd-shaped tower--aye, even the bell within, no
bigger than a doll's thimble--and upon all a sentimental traveler
in the person of a china figure perhaps three inches in height,
is gazing half pensively, half curiously, as we suppose, at this
relic of by-gone years!

On the other side of the stream the village school, likewise an
ancient and steeple-crowned edifice, stands out in the midst of a
bare and clean swept playground. It bears its signature upon its
front:

"DISTRICT SCHOOL, NO. 2,"

and its worshipful character is otherwise indicated by the
presence of the master, a venerable looking puppet in cocked
hat and knee-breeches, in the doorway, and sundry china children
playing rather stiffly about the stone steps.

Ascending by a steep, rocky path, one arrives at a rather
pretentious looking wind-mill, which spreads its wide white arms
protectingly over the cottages below. Barrels of flour and sacks
of meal, well filled and plentiful in number, attest its thriving
business, and the miller himself, in a properly dusty coat, looks
about him with contented air. At the foot of the hill upon which
the mill is perched, are several dwellings--all showing signs of
more or less prosperous life, with the exception of one,
which affords the orthodox "haunted house" belonging to every
well-regulated village. The ruined walls of this old mansion,
with lichen cropping out from every crevice; the unhinged doors
and broken windows; the ladder rotting as it leans against the
moss-grown roof, the broken well-sweep and deserted barn, offer
an aspect of desolation and decay which should prove sufficient
bait to tempt any ghost of moderate demands.

In direct contrast to the gloom which surrounds this now empty
and forsaken home, one observes, in a shady grove surmounting a
ridge of hills which rise somewhat steeply here from the roadway,
a party of "pic-nickers" gaily attired and disporting themselves
after the time-honored manner of such merry-makers; swinging,
dancing, or, better still, strolling off arm in arm, in search of
cooler shades, and of that company which is never a crowd.

At the base of this rocky ridge, the same stream which one meets
above flowing darkly under arch and bridge, winds placidly along
in sunshine and shadow until it loses itself in a clump of alders
and willows quite at the edge of the box-bordered terrace; and
here the village ends.

Not so my sketch: for I have purposely left it to the last to
make mention of the great central idea round which all the rest
is gathered, and which, doubtless, formed the germ of the whole
oddly-conceived, but most admirably-executed plan. This is the
"Cat's Monument" of which Nannette had made mention, and which is
a structure so original and imposing that it deserves special and
minute description.

About midway the terrace, and conspicuous from its size and
height, rises a mound of earth shaped into the semblance of
an urn or vase, crusted thickly with bits of rock, moss, and
pebbles, and overgrown with a tangle of tiny vines. Surmounting
this picturesque pedestal is an obelisk of black-veined marble on
a granite base, the whole rising some seven feet from the ground.
On the polished surface of this memorial pillar is inscribed, in
large black capitals, the following classic and touching tribute
to the venerable departed who sleeps in peace below:

    IN MEMORIAM
      TOMMY
  FELINI GENERIS
      OPTIMUS.
  DECESSIT A VITA
  MENSE NOVEMBRIS
  ANNO ÆTATIS 19.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Quid me ploras? Nonne decessi gravis senectute? Nonne vivo
amicorum ardentium memoria?_

       *       *       *       *       *

On the reverse side of the column appears an inscription even
more pathetic and poetic, to yet another departed favorite, who
seems, not like Tommy to have been gathered to his fathers ripe
in years and honors but to have been cut down in the bloom
of youth by some untimely and tragic fate. He is all the more
felin'ly lamented:

      HIC JACET
        PUSSY
    SUI GENERIS
    PULCHERRIMUS.
    OCCISUS EST
    MENSE APRILIS
      ÆTAT. 9.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_Vixi, et quum dederat cursum fortuna, peregi. Felix! heu nimium
felix! si litora ista nunquam tetigissem!_"

       *       *       *       *       *

Thanks to certain by no means homoeopathic doses of the Latin
grammar in my early years, I was able to gather the meaning of
these elegiac effusions, and when the last stanza embodying poor
Pussy's posthumous wail was discovered to be none other than the
despairing death-cry of the "infelix Dido" as immortalized by
Virgil--the one step from the sublime to the ridiculous seemed to
have been passed.

I looked at Nannette, and Nannette looked at me, and we burst
into silent but irrepressible laughter. Nannette was the first to
recover herself.

"We ought to be ashamed of ourselves," said she severely: "Honest
grief is always respectable; and a fitting tribute to departed
worth, no more than what is due from the survivors. I have no
doubt but that Tommy and Pussy were most esteemed members of
society, and that their loss has left an aching void in the
family of which they were the youngest and most petted darlings.
I have heard the history of this monument, and the village that
has grown up around it, and if you will comport yourself more as
a Christian being should in the presence of a solemn memorial, I
will relate to you the interesting facts in my possession."

I immediately signified a due contrition and full purpose of
amendment; when Nannette continued, still speaking with the
gravity befitting the subject.

"This estate then, this large and respectable mansion, and these
pleasant grounds in which we now sit, are the property in common
of three most estimable ladies, all past their first youth, and
all possessed of sufficient good sense and strength of mind to
remain their own mistresses, which has procured for the very
remarkable specimen of ingenuity now before us, from some
ignorant townspeople, the sobriquet of the 'Old Maid's Village.'

"There is only one of the ladies, however, I am informed, who
interests herself in the construction of these most ingenious
toys. Possessed of ample means, and more than ample leisure,
she amuses herself in hours which might otherwise be devoted
to gossip and tea, in putting together these various models
of buildings, all differing in style, and of most singular
materials. The church, for instance, is built of fragments of
clinker, gathered from stove and grate, and held firmly together
by cement. Nothing could have reproduced so exactly the rough
reddish stone of which the old Sleepy Hollow Church is built.
The window-glass is represented by carefully framed pieces of tin
foil; the gray stone of the gate-posts is imitated by sand rubbed
on wooden pillars with a coating of cement. The streets are paved
in much the same clever fashion. The well, the pond, the stream,
are filled with water each day by the chatelaine's own careful
hands. Many of the mimic creatures, human and otherwise, are
automata, manufactured to order; the others are wooden or china
figures selected with extreme care as to their fitness for their
purpose. So rare and so exceedingly pretty are some of these
little figures, that they have become objects of unlawful desire
to certain soulless curiosity-mongers, who have rewarded an open
and confiding hospitality with base attempts at spoliation; and
now a person is employed to live in the cottage just beyond us,
and do little else than take care of these unique possessions.

"No, you need not start. The woman is probably there at her
post, and surveying our operations from time to time. But we
have behaved like decent people. We are taking away nothing but
a remembrance of a singularly interesting hour, and an admiring
impression of the originality, the ingenuity, the industry, and
the independence of one of our own sex.

"Is it not so, my friend? And now, by the length of those cedar
shadows, it is time for us to rise up and be gone. Else the
moonlight will have met and parted with the sunset ere we reach
home."

There was nothing to be said; the tale had been told, and with
one last, lingering glance, one parting smile, half amused, half
touched, I rose, and together we walked home in somewhat pensive
mood. Was it not our last day in Fairyland?--_Kate J. Hill_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_WINE AND KISSES._

TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN OF MIRTSA SCHAFFY.

  The lover may be shy--
  His bashfulness goes by
        When first he kisses.

  The bibber, though so staid,
  Gets bravely unafraid
        When wine his bliss is.

  Yet he who, in his youth,
    No wine nor kiss hath tasted.
  Will some day think, in truth,
    That half his joys were wasted.

                        --_Joel Benton_.

       *       *       *       *       *

I have heard it asked why we speak of the dead with unqualified
praise: of the living, always with certain reservations. It may
be answered, because we have nothing to fear from the former,
while the latter may stand in our way: so impure is our boasted
solicitude for the memory of the dead. If it were the sacred and
earnest feeling we pretend, it would strengthen and animate our
intercourse with the living.--_Goethe_.




_THE QUEEN'S CLOSET._


Did anybody ever see a fairy in the city? Was a glimpse ever
caught of Fairyland there? I say _No_. But I was in the country
this summer where a great number of mushrooms grew, and one day
when I was walking in a grassy lane I met a little, old
queen, who was fanning herself with the leaf of the
poor-man's-weather-glass; she had taken off her crown, and it was
lying on the top of a lovely red mushroom. I poked the mushroom
with my parasol, and instantly felt on my face a faint puff of
air, and heard a hum no louder than the buzz of an angry fly.

I sat down on the grass, and then my eyes fell on the queen.

"You have let my crown fall in the dirt," she said, tossing a
wisp of hair from her forehead; "but you great, insensible beings
are always in mischief when you are in the country. Why don't
you stay at home, in your brick cages that stand on heaps of
flat stones? You are watched there all the time by creatures with
clubs in their leather belts, so you cannot tear and crush things
to pieces as you do here."

"Oh, I am so sorry, madam," I answered; "if you knew how unhappy
I felt this morning when I started on my last walk, you would
pity me. I must go home at once, and my home is in the city--shut
in by houses before and behind it. If I look out of the window,
I only see a strip of sky above me, where neither sun nor moon
passes on its journey round the world; and below me, only the
stone pavement over which goes an endless procession of men and
women, upon a hundred errands I never guess at."

The queen tapped her head with a white stick like a peeled twig,
and made such a noise that I examined it, and saw an ivory knob,
which reminded me of the budding horns of a young deer. As if in
answer to my thought, she said:

"It drops off every year. In the fairy-nature all elements are
united. We partake of the animal and vegetable kingdoms, and
add our own; this makes us what we are. We do not suffer, but we
experience, without suffering, of course; our long lives glide
along like dreams. As you are in sleep, so are we awake. If
you love the country, which contains our kingdom, as the
filbert-shell contains the kernel, I will endow you with power. I
will give you something to take back with you."

What do you think she gave me? A little closet with shelves; on
each shelf were laid away all my remembrances of the summer, for
me to unfold at leisure. When she gave me the key, which looked
exactly like a steel pen, she said: "When you turn the key you
will understand my power. All things will be alive, will know as
much, and talk as fast as you do. The closet, in short, is but
a wee corner of my kingdom, where to-day and to-morrow are the
same--past and present one. A maid-of-honor wishes to go to town.
I'll send her in the closet. My slave, the geometrical spider,
must spin her a warm cobweb--and when you open the closet, be
sure and not disturb my little Fancie."

Some way Queen Imagin disappeared then. To any person less
knowing than myself, it would have seemed as if a dandelion ball
was floating in the air; but I knew better, and I watched her
sailing, sailing away till lost behind the trees. The crown was
gone, too; I discovered nothing in the neighborhood of the red
mushroom, except a tiny yellow blossom already wilted by the heat
of the sun.

Well, I am at home. I sit down this misty autumn morning in my
lonely room, and wish for some work or if not that, for something
to play with. I am too old for dolls, but very young in the way
of amusement. Ah--the closet! I'll unlock that; the key is at
hand--in my writing-desk.

Open Sesame! On the top shelf sits little Fancie, her eyes
shining like diamonds in her soft, dusky cobweb. She nods, so do
I, and we are in Greenside again--on a summer evening. How the
crickets sing; and the tree-toads harp in the trees as if they
were a picket guard entirely surrounding us. Hueston's big dog
barks in the lane at just the right distance. What security I
used to feel when I was a little child, tucked away in my bed,
and heard a dog bark a mile away; too far off ever to come up and
bite, and yet near enough to frighten prowling robbers!

"When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed," I was about to
say; but Polly, who is at Greenside with me, calls, "Just hear
the mosquitoes."

The blinds must be closed. What a delicious smell comes in! The
dew wetting all the shrubs and flowers distils sweet odors. What
a family of moths have rushed in; this big, brown one, with white
and red markings, is very enterprising. He has voyaged twice down
the lamp chimney, as if it were the funnel of a steamship.

Get out, moth!

"Sho," she answers in a husky voice, as if very dry, "It is my
nature to; that's all you know, turning us to moral purposes,
and making us a tiresome metaphor. We are much like you human
creatures--only we don't compare ourselves continually with
others. We just scorch ourselves as we please. My cousin,
Noctilia Glow-worm, who is out late o' nights on the grass-bank
in poor company--the Katydids, who board for the season with the
widow Poplar--a two-sided, deceitful woman--she does not care
where I go, and never shrieks out, 'A burnt moth dreads the lamp
chimney.' If she sees me wingless, she coughs, and throws out
a green light, but says nothing. Don't mind me; there's more
coming."

It can't be moths making such a noise on the second shelf. It is
Tom, who calls out to us, from his room, to come, and help him
catch a bat.

  "Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
  With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wings."

"Always mouthing something," somebody mutters. But we rush into
Tom's room, and behold him in the middle of the floor, flopping
north and south, east and west, with a towel. No bat is to be
seen. I hear a pretty singing, however, and declare it to be
from a young swallow fallen down the chimney; but as there is
no fire-place in the room, my opinion goes for nothing. Tom
maintains that it is a bat; that it flew in by the window; and
that it is behind the bureau. He is right, for the bat whirrs
up to the ceiling and from that height accosts us in a squeaking
voice:

"I am weak-eyed, am I? and my wings are leathery? Catch me,
and you will find my wings are like down, my eyes as bright as
diamonds. How much you know, writing yourselves down in books as
Naturalists! My name is Vespertila; my family are from Servia,
at your service. Could you offer me a fly, or a beetle? I was
chasing Judge Blue Bottle, or I should not have been trapped. Go
to sleep, dears, and leave me to fan you. When you are asleep,
I'll bite a hole in your ear, and sup bountifully on your red
blood."

Flop went our towels, and down went Miss Vespertila behind the
bed crying. Polly crept up to her; and caught her in a towel.
What black beads of eyes had Miss Vespertila from Servia, where
her grandfather, General Vampire, still commands a brigade of
rascals! Her teeth were sharp, and white as pearls. Polly held
her up, and she cunningly combed her furry wings with her hind
feet, and said:

"Polly, dear, I itch dreadfully; do you mind plain speaking? I am
full of bat lice. Ariel caught them, and the folks say that Queen
Mab often buys fine combs--"

"Slanderer!" cried Polly, "fly to your witch home!"

She shook the towel out of the window, and the bat soared away.

"What's coming next?" we all asked. "There are the rabbits to
hear from, the pigeons, the sparrows, the mole, and the striped
snake who lives by the garden gate?"

Slap, Bang! Fancie has pulled the door to. The cunning Queen
Imagin placed her in the closet, perhaps for this purpose. But
I have the key. I shall unlock it to-morrow, for I must have the
picnic over again, under the beech tree, where the brown thrush
built her nest, and reared her young ones, who ate our crumbs,
and chirped merrily when we laughed.--_Lolly Dinks's Mother_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Doth a man reproach thee for being proud or ill-natured, envious
or conceited, ignorant or detractive, consider with thyself
whether his reproaches be true. If they are not, consider that
thou art not the person whom he reproaches, but that he reviles
an imaginary being, and perhaps loves what thou really art,
although he hates what thou appearest to be. If his reproaches
are true, if thou art the envious, ill-natured man he takes
thee for, give thyself another turn, become mild, affable
and obliging, and his reproaches of thee naturally cease. His
reproaches may indeed continue, but thou art no longer the person
he reproaches.--_Epictetus_.




_LITERATURE._


"Of the making of many books there is no end," said the Wise Man
of old. Of the making of good books there is frequently an end,
say we. The good books of one year may be counted on the fingers
of one hand. Among those of the present year none ranks higher
than Taine's "Art in Greece," a translation of which, by Mr. John
Durand, is published by Messrs. Holt & Williams. The French are
a nation of critics, and Taine is the critic of the French.
This could not have been said with truth during the lifetime of
Sainte-Beuve, but since his death it is true. There is nothing,
apparently, which Taine is not competent to criticise, so subtle
is his intellect, and so wide the range of his studies, but what
he is most competent to criticise is Art. We have heard great
things of a History of English Literature by him, but as it has
not yet appeared in an English dress (although Messrs. Holt &
Williams have a translation of it in press) we shall reserve our
decision until it appears. Art, it seems to us, is the specialty
to which Taine has devoted himself, with the enthusiasm peculiar
to his countrymen, and a thoroughness peculiar to himself.
Others may have accumulated greater stores of art-knowledge--the
knowledge indispensable to the historian of Art, and the
biographer of artists--but none has so saturated himself with the
spirit of Art as Taine. We may not always agree with him, but he
is always worth listening to, and what he says is worthy of
our serious consideration. We think he is _too_ philosophical
sometimes, but then the fault may be in us. It may be that we are
so accustomed to the materialism of the English critics that
we fail, at first, to apprehend the spirituality of this most
refined and refining of Frenchmen. No English critic could have
written his "Art in Greece," because no English critic could put
himself in his place. We know what the English think of Greek
Art, or may, with a little reading: what Taine thinks of it
is--that it is what it is, simply because the Greeks were what
they were. Before he tells us what Greek Art is, he tells us what
the Greeks were. Nor does he stop here, but goes on to tell us,
or rather begins by telling us, what kind of a country it was
in which they dwelt, what skies shone over them, what mountains
looked down upon them, in the shadow of what trees they walked
within sight of the wine-dark sea. He begins at the beginning,
as the children say. Whether he succeeds in convincing us that
it was Greece alone which made the Greeks what they were, depends
somewhat upon the cast of our minds, and somewhat upon our power
to resist his eloquence. We think, ourselves, that he lays too
much stress upon the mere outward environment of the Grecian
people. The influence exercised over their lives, by the
Institutions which grew up out of these lives--the influence, in
short, of their purely physical culture--is admirably described,
as is also the difference between this culture and ours:

    "Modern people are Christian, and Christianity is a
    religion of second growth which opposes natural instinct.
    We may liken it to a violent contraction which has
    inflected the primitive attitude of the human mind. It
    proclaims, in effect, that the world is sinful, and that
    man is depraved--which certainly is indisputable in the
    century in which it was born. According to it, man must
    change his ways. Life here below is simply an exile;
    let us turn our eyes upward to our celestial home. Our
    natural character is vicious; let us stifle natural
    desires and mortify the flesh. The experience of our
    senses and the knowledge of the wise are inadequate and
    delusive; let us accept the light of revelation, faith
    and divine illumination. Through penitence, renunciation
    and meditation let us develop within ourselves the
    spiritual man; let our life be an ardent awaiting of
    deliverance, a constant sacrifice of will, an undying
    yearning for God, a revery of sublime love, occasionally
    rewarded with ecstasy and a vision of the infinite.
    For fourteen centuries the ideal of this life was the
    anchorite or monk. If you would estimate the power of
    such a conception and the grandeur of the transformation
    it imposes on human faculties and habits, read, in turn,
    the great Christian poem and the great pagan poem, one
    the 'Divine Comedy' and the other the 'Odyssey' and the
    'Iliad.' Dante has a vision and is transported out of our
    little ephemeral sphere into eternal regions; he beholds
    its tortures, its expiations and its felicities; he is
    affected by superhuman anguish and horror; all that the
    infuriate and subtle imagination of the lover of justice
    and the executioner can conceive of he sees, suffers and
    sinks under. He then ascends into light; his body loses
    its gravity; he floats involuntarily, led by the smile
    of a radiant woman; he listens to souls in the shape of
    voices and to passing melodies; he sees choirs of angels,
    a vast rose of living brightness representing the virtues
    and the celestial powers; sacred utterances and the
    dogmas of truth reverberate in ethereal space. At this
    fervid height, where reason melts like wax, both symbol
    and apparition, one effacing the other, merge into mystic
    bewilderment, the entire poem, infernal or divine, being
    a dream which begins with horrors and ends in ravishment.
    How much more natural and healthy is the spectacle which
    Homer presents! We have the Troad, the isle of Ithica and
    the coasts of Greece; still at the present day we follow
    in his track; we recognize the forms of mountains, the
    color of the sea; the jutting fountains, the cypress and
    the alders in which the sea-birds perched; he copied a
    steadfast and persistent nature: with him throughout we
    plant our feet on the firm ground of truth. His book is
    a historical document; the manners and customs of his
    contemporaries were such as he describes; his Olympus
    itself is a Greek family."

The manifest inferiority of our mixed languages to their one
simple language is stated in the following paragraph, with which
we must leave Taine for the present:

    "Almost the whole of our philosophic and scientific
    vocabulary is foreign; we are obliged to know Greek and
    Latin to make use of it properly, and, most frequently,
    employ it badly. Innumerable terms find their way out of
    this technical vocabulary into common conversation and
    literary style, and hence it is that we now speak and
    think with words cumbersome and difficult to manage.
    We adopt them ready made and conjoined, we repeat
    them according to routine; we make use of them without
    considering their scope and without a nice appreciation
    of their sense; we only approximate to that which we
    would like to express. Fifteen years are necessary for
    an author to learn to write, not with genius, for that
    is not to be acquired, but with clearness, sequence,
    propriety and precision. He finds himself obliged to
    weigh and investigate ten or twelve thousand words and
    diverse expressions, to note their origin, filiation and
    relationships, to rebuild on an original plan, his ideas
    and his whole intellect. If he has not done it, and he
    wishes to reason on rights, duties, the beautiful, the
    State or any other of man's important interests, he
    gropes about and stumbles; he gets entangled in long,
    vague phrases, in sonorous common-places, in crabbed
    and abstract formulas. Look at the newspapers and the
    speeches of our popular orators. It is especially the
    case with workmen who are intelligent but who have had no
    classical education; they are not masters of words, and,
    consequently, of ideas; they use a refined language which
    is not natural to them; it is a perplexity to them and
    consequently confuses their minds; they have had no
    time to filter it drop by drop. This is an enormous
    disadvantage, from which the Greeks were exempt. There
    was no break with them between the language of concrete
    facts and that of abstract reasoning, between the
    language spoken by the people and that of the learned;
    the one was a counterpart of the other; there was no term
    in any of Plato's dialogues which a youth, leaving his
    gymnasia, could not comprehend; there is not a phrase in
    any of Demosthenes' harangues which did not readily find
    a lodging-place in the brain of an Athenian peasant or
    blacksmith. Attempt to translate into Greek one of Pitt's
    or Mirabeau's discourses, or an extract from Addison or
    Nicole, and you will be obliged to recast and transpose
    the thought; you will be led to find for the same
    thoughts, expressions more akin to facts and to concrete
    experience; a flood of light will heighten the prominence
    of all the truths and of all the errors; that which you
    were wont to call natural and clear will seem to you
    affected and semi-obscure, and you will perceive by force
    of contrast why, among the Greeks, the instrument of
    thought being more simple, it did its office better and
    with less effort."

Among the good books of the year, two belong to a special walk
of letters in which we have not hitherto excelled the English
Translation. There are periods in the history of English Poetry
when translation has played an important part. Such a period
occurred just before the Shakspearean era, and it was noted for
translations from the Latin poets. Chapman was the first English
writer to perceive the greatness of the Greek poets, and, like
the poet that he was, he attempted to translate the father of
poets, Homer. Chapman's Homer is a noble work, with all its
faults; but it is not what Homer should be in English. It was
followed by other translations mostly of the Latin poets, the
best, perhaps, being Dryden's Virgil, until, finally, the English
mind returned to Homer, or supposed it did, in the pretty,
musical numbers of Pope. Who will may read Pope's Homer. We
cannot. Nor Cowper's either, although it contains some good,
manly writing. We can read Lord Derby's Homer, or could, until
Mr. Bryant published his translation of the "Iliad," when the
necessity no longer existed. No English translation of Homer will
compare with Mr. Bryant's; and we are glad that we are soon to
have the whole of the "Odyssey," as we already have the whole of
the "Iliad." The first volume of Mr. Bryant's translation of the
"Odyssey" (J.R. Osgood & Co.) fully sustains the reputation of
the writer. It is so admirably done, that, if we did not know to
the contrary, we should think we were reading an original poem.
The stiffness which generally inheres in translations is wanting;
nowhere is there any sense of restraint, but everywhere a
delightful sense of ease--the freedom of one great poet shining
through the freedom of another great poet, as the sun shines
through the sky. It is the ideal English translation of Homer;
and we congratulate Mr. Bryant upon having finished it (for we
believe he has); and congratulate ourselves that it is the work
of an American poet.

We offer the like congratulation to Mr. Bayard Taylor for his
translation of "Faust," which occupies the same place, as regards
German Poetry, that Mr. Bryant's translation of Homer does to
Greek Poetry. The difficulty of the task which Mr. Taylor set
himself, the task of rendering the original in the measures of
the original, was never met before by any English translator of
"Faust"--never even attempted, we believe--and, to say that he
has accomplished it, is to say that Mr. Taylor is a very skilful
poet--how skilful we never knew before, highly as we have always
valued his poetical powers. He enables us to understand the
_Intention_ of Goethe in "Faust," as no one besides himself
has done; and, among the obligations that we owe him for the
enjoyment he has given us, we must not forget the obligation we
are under to him for his _Notes_. They are scholarly, and to the
point. There is not one too many, not one which we could afford
to lose, now that we have it. What _might_ have been written,
under the pretense of _Notes_--what another translator might not
have been able to resist writing--is fearful to think of--Life is
so short, and Goethe's Art so long!

The year has been fertile in American verse. How much Poetry it
has produced is a question into which we do not care to enter. It
has witnessed the publication of two volumes by Mr. Bret Harte;
of one volume by Mr. John Hay; and of one volume by Mr. William
Winter. The title of Mr. Winter's volume, "My Witness," (J.R.
Osgood & Co.) is a happy one. It is not every American writer who
can afford to place his verse on the stand as his witness; and it
is not every American writer whose verse will substantiate what
he is so desirous of proving, viz., that he is an American poet.

Mr. Winter is not without faults--what American writer is?--but
he endeavors to write simply. The virtue of simplicity--always a
rare one, and never so rare as at present--he possesses. We have
Tennyson, who is not simple; we have Browning, who is not simple;
we have Swinburne, who is not simple; and we have Mr. Joaquin
Miller, who is not simple.

Mr. Winter's book has its defects--among which we observe an
occasional lapse into Latinity--but with all its defects it is a
very _poetical_ book. Mr. Winter reminds us, more than any recent
American poet, of the English poets of the reigns of Charles the
First and Second. He has, at his best, all their graces of style,
and he has, at all times, the grace of Purity, to which they laid
no claim. With the exception of Carew (whom, we dare say, he has
never read), Mr. Winter is the daintiest and sweetest of amatory
poets. He has the fancy of Carew, without his artificiality; he
has Carew's sweetness, without his grossness of suggestion.

There is a tinge of sadness in some of Mr. Winter's poems, and
the critics, we suppose, will censure him for it. If so, they
will be in the wrong. The poet has the right to express his
moods, sad or merry, and he is no more to be judged by his sad
moods than his merry ones. He is to be judged by both, and the
sum of both--if the critic is able to add it up--is the poet. As
far as he is revealed in his book, that is, but no further. There
is such a thing as Dramatic Poetry, as some critics are aware,
and there is such a thing as Representative Poetry, as few
critics are aware. The former deals with the passions, the
latter with those shadowy and evanescent sensations which we call
feelings. Mr. Winter is not a dramatic poet, but he is, in his
own way, a representative poet. His poem "Lethe" represents one
set of feelings; "The White Flag" another; and "Love's Queen"
another. We like the last best. For, while we believe the others
to be equally genuine, they do not impress us as being the best
expression of his genius. What we feel most after finishing his
volume, what seems to us most characteristic of his poetry, is
loveliness--the tender loveliness that lingers in the mind after
we have seen the sun-set of a quiet summer evening, or after
we have heard music on a dreamy summer night. If this poetic
melancholy be treason, the critics may make the most of it. Mr.
Winter has nothing to fear. He has the authority of the greatest
poets with which to defend himself, and confute the critics.




_ART._

THE PRODIGAL SON, BY EDOUARD DUBUFE.


The sublime lesson of forgiveness, inculcated by the story of
the Prodigal Son, is among the earliest and most familiar in the
memories of a nation of Bible readers like our own. Every one
of us, perhaps unconsciously, carries in mind a simple,
straight-forward conception of this subject, formed in early
childhood--a time when the imagination rarely goes beyond an
attempt to realize the unlooked for forgiveness of the once
deserted parent, or the captivating visions of adventure
suggested by the changing fortunes of the wanderer during his
absence in a "far country."

With the painter the picture is his vision, and the panels are
the realities. As a man of a different order of thought would
have chosen another incident of the story for illustration, so
also would a painter of a less independent school have permitted
himself to be bound down by the historical facts of the
architectural and costume fashions of the time of narration.
Dubufe has so far discarded the unities of time and place, if
any can _really_ be said to exist--as no date was fixed in
the relation of the parable by Christ--that he has adopted the
mingled costumes of Europe and the East, which obtained in the
fifteenth century, and has placed his figures in a Corinthian
porch under the light of Italian skies. Apart from the conception
and the "telling of the story," about which there will be various
opinions, this picture may be justly regarded as a magnificent
work of art.

The great David, a pupil of whose pupil Edouard Dubufe was, and
Horace Vernet, appear to have been the guides selected by him,
rather than the greatest of his masters--Paul Delaroche. The
influence of both is to be traced in this work, although it may
be said to take rank above any production of either of them. In
drawing, color, and composition, rendering of textures, and the
exhibition of the resources of the palette, now better known to
French painters than ever before, the picture leaves nothing to
be desired. The faces of the principal figures are full of
that "expression to the life" in which the English are justly
considered to excel, while the admirable focus of the groups,
the color, and interest, are as un-English as excellent.
Fault-finding in more than one or two unimportant details would
be hypercriticism where so much is perfect, and it becomes our
happy privilege, in this notice, to commend and to point out, to
"lay" readers about Art, the manifold beauties of its technical
execution. A critical examination will show that the composition
is on the pyramidal principle, and the arrangement of groups
principally in threes. In the central portion of the canvas,
where the marble pillars of the porch fall off in perspective,
the Profligate stands holding up a golden cup in his right
hand, as in the act of proposing a toast. His red costume and
commanding figure attract the eye, and the attention falls at
once and equally on him and on the magnificent woman whose arms
embrace his neck, and whose eyes, as her chin rests close on his
breast, gaze with dangerous fascination into his face. Her dress
is of rich white satin, and, with the delicate green and gold
sheen of her rival's robe--she with whom the Prodigal's right
hand toys in caress--makes up a wonderfully brilliant prismatic
chord, having the effect of focusing the richer, but not less
gorgeous, pigments spread everywhere on the canvas. The faces of
the women are very beautiful, and are made voluptuous by a
subtle art which, through all their beauty, tells a story of
unrestrained lives of passion and pleasure.

The face of the magnificent creature at the Prodigal's left hand
is a wondrous piece of drawing. It is thrown back against him
and from the spectator, in order that she may look up into his
face--at the moment a dissipated, spiritless face, without even
the flush of the wine which dyes her's so rosily--a face at once
weak and weary, and yet revealing a possible intensity, indeed,
the face of a French woman who "has lived," rather than that of a
man.

Up to this centre leads the other groups. Below, and seated on
the rich rugs which cover the marble pavement, musicians
and singers pause to listen to impassioned words from a
laurel-crowned poet, while further on a sort of orchestra
plays time for the sensuous dance of lithe-bodied Oriental
dancers--each woman of them more ravishing than the other. Minor
incidents, like dice-play and love-making, give interest to the
remaining space, and keep up the revel.

Throughout, the drawing is true, and good, and graceful. The
hands of the figures demand especial mention. The hand of one of
the women, near the central group, grasped by her lover at the
wrist as he kisses her shoulder, is particularly exquisite
in form and color; the more remarkable, perhaps, because the
position of it is so trying in nature and so difficult to draw.

The type of feature chosen for the women, the dancing girls
excepted, is essentially Gallic. As remarked before, the face
of the Prodigal, also, is French; but the musicians and the poet
have faces of their own which seem to belong to the university of
genius. The mere revelers, curiously enough, have a likeness to
the figures in some old Italian pictures; one of them looks like
a copy of Judas Iscariot, made younger.

A distant city and mountains fill up the background, and, on
the extreme right of the near middle distance, flights of
marble steps ascend to a grand doorway, where servants are seen
loitering within easy call of their masters.

It was by a sublime inspiration that Dubufe painted the accessory
panels in monotone. In that on the right, a dismal sky, filled
with rolling clouds and sad presaging ravens flying, over-shadows
the outcast, seated on a rock in an attitude of listless
dejection, with the swine feeding at his feet. In the panel on
the left he is seen in the close embrace of his merciful parent.
His head is bowed in humility, and, in an agony of remorse and
shame, while the old house-dog sniffs at him for an obtrusive
mendicant who has no business with such affectionate welcome.

Let us congratulate ourselves that this picture has come to our
country, as yet so barren of great works, and pray that the noble
school of art of which this is so admirable an exponent, may
find favor, not only with our painters, but with those who call
themselves connoisseurs, in preference to unmeaning works of
microscopic finish, or slick examples of boudoir and millinery
painting.

       *       *       *       *       *

"_THE ALDINE PRESS._"--JAMES SUTTON & CO., _Printers and
Publishers, 23 Liberty St., N.Y._