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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
              Vol. XXXVII.      AUGUST, 1850.      No. 2.


                           Table of Contents

                    Fiction, Literature and Articles

          Music and Musical Composers
          The Chase
          The Bride of the Battle
          Pedro de Padilh
          A Romance of True Love
          Wordsworth
          Bridget Kerevan
          What Katy Did
          The Game of the Season
          The Fine Arts
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Manuela
          Wood Violets
          Memories
          Red Jacket
          The Mariner’s Tale
          Impulse and Principle
          Riverside
          Chant of the Néreides
          Le Follet

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

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[Illustration: THE ORIGIN OF MUSIC.
 Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by W. E. Tucker]

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

        Vol. XXXVII.     PHILADELPHIA, AUGUST, 1850.     No. 2.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                      MUSIC AND MUSICAL COMPOSERS.


                          BY R. J. DE CORDOVA.


          ’Tis the silver key to the fountain of tears,
            Where the spirit drinks till the brain runs wild;
          The softest grave of a thousand fears,
            Where their mother, Care, like a sleepy child,
          Is laid asleep on flowers.
                                                     Shelley.

It were much too vast a labor to commence an inquiry into the subject of
this essay, with a dissertation on the _origin of music_. Posterity may
be enabled, by the aid of advanced wisdom, to explain the birth of this
and other blessings which to us appear only natural, and may, perhaps,
successfully trace to their sources the numerous enjoyments which God
created as ministers to man’s happiness, and of which we now know only
the mere existence. It will not be uninteresting to our children’s
children to learn how men first discovered that the various sounds with
which the Creator, in his wisdom, invested the human voice, might be
linked together in wonderful combinations—producing from monotonous
particles melodious unisons; and how a knowledge of the various
distinctions which the extension or diminution of time confers on every
distinct atom of sound, first dawned upon the human mind, appealing
through the senses to the soul, and binding, with a force and power
which belong not to any other immaterial agent, the heart of man in
chains of amaranthine flowers. These wonders, like many more, which now,
for aught we know, lie on the first unturned page of wisdom’s book, will
one day be developed.

It is more than probable that he who first tuned his voice to song,
little thought of the marvels of music, nor dreamed to what perfection
the rules of sound would one day be brought. He used the power which God
had given him, nor stopped to inquire into the nature or construction of
the tones which he almost involuntarily produced, and which lightened
his labor, while they made glad his heart. Science in those days was an
infant:—has she yet passed the era of her first childhood?

A consideration of the history of music may be prosecuted under four
heads: Ancient and Modern, Sacred and Profane; but as it is not intended
to do more in this essay than to indulge in a few unimportant and
rambling reflections on the progress of music, and on the state of
perfection to which it has at present arrived, we will cursorily review
ancient music, as preceding the days of Handel and Mozart, and of modern
music, from those masters down to the writers of the present day.

It is not denied that the earlier attempts at song were so limited in
design and so feeble in imagination as to excuse the application in our
time of the term _barbarous_ to the music of the days of Moses and
Miriam, and even to the sounds which accompanied the inspired language
of the poet king. Music was then in its infancy. The rude instruments
which Tubal Cain invented, and which in after ages were improved, but
still left rude, were circumscribed in their compass, and harsh in their
tones, although reason teaches that they must have been, what is
technically termed “true” in their mechanical formation. According to
the compass of these rough productions, the multitude restrained their
compositions. Instruments were considered necessary to give effect to
song; but as these auxiliaries could not express all the sounds of which
the voice was capable, it was thought requisite that the voice should be
made subservient to the instruments. The more extensive compass of the
voice excited admiration and stimulated the desire for imitation. Thus
the voice was the means of improving the mechanical expression of sound;
and as instrumental mechanism progressed, the human voice became
liberated from the restrictions which former ignorance had imposed upon
it, and a freer course was afforded to its capabilities in obedience to
the eccentricities of the imagination.

Every nation has always had, as it now has, its own peculiar and
distinctive style of expressing emotion through the agency of the voice.
Barbarous as the first developments of musical ability may have been,
they nevertheless expressed the peculiar and characteristic feeling of
the people who employed them. With one nation the style was melancholy,
with another pensive, with another light, and with a fourth lively. Some
delighted to denote their ideas in the junction of lengthened and
monotonous sounds, expressive of grief; others in short changing
accents; of carelessness or indifference; and others in the deep
measured sounds of martial melody. These distinctions still exist in so
marked a degree among different people as to entitle them to the
appellation of national musical characteristics.

It is generally believed, and not without good grounds, that the earlier
attempts at producing musical effect by the union of a considerable
number of voices and instruments, were not remarkable for any of that
variety which invests with so many attractions the music of a later
period. All the singers enunciated the same notes, and in the same
time—very much in the style which large prayer-meetings adopt in the
open air. The manner in which the beauty and diversity of concords and
discords were first discovered, and the precise era at which such
discovery was made, are also matters which are reserved for some later
and more successful laborer. This branch of the science of music has,
perhaps, undergone greater alteration and improvement than any other. It
is by no means an uninteresting study, first to imagine the absence of
all knowledge of chords among the first inhabitants of our globe; then
to look over the works of the earliest masters whose compositions are
still extant, and then to follow the publications of later writers down
to the present day, observing at each stage the wonderful differences
which exist in the instrumental writings of every age.

The act of committing sounds to paper, although very old, must still be
regarded, comparatively with the birth of music, as of late discovery.
Transferring mere sound from the mind to the paper, without the
assistance of any intermediate articulation is a wonder equally great,
to say the least of it, as is the act of writing words. Yet no one gives
a thought to the invention of the marvel. The fame of Cadmus is diffused
over the habitable globe, while the mastermind which first conceived the
possibility of recording his thoughts on and in a few parallel lines by
means of dots and scratches, causes no inquiry and excites no
admiration.

The task of organizing and perfecting so complete and infallible a
scheme must have been immense. In the first place the distance, so to
speak, between each tone of which the human voice is capable was to be
defined by certain laws and rules, and represented by distinctive marks.
Then the length or duration of each tone in any given air was to be
marked separately or in junction with other tones, without deranging the
qualities of any or detracting from the harmony of the whole. Then were
to be encountered the difficulties incidental to changes of the key-note
or tone. On discovering that the human voice, after executing seven
notes, among which are five tones and two semitones, produced, in
ascending to the eighth, a tone exactly similar to the first, it was
necessary to construct a scale of keys which would always place the two
semitones in exactly the same position, and in the same relation to the
full tones. Lastly, and perhaps more wonderful than all, a proper and
minute division of TIME was to be effected. That inherent appreciation
of what musicians term “time,” which almost every human being possesses
naturally, but which few understand, and none can explain, was to be
expressed and defined. Divisions and subdivisions were to be
demonstrated and made clear. This was the task of tasks. Savages, who
never heard of the existence of such a science as music, are known to
clap their hands in unison at certain measurable periods in their wild
songs. They observe the law of musical time, without having the
slightest conception of what time is. Nor are we much better now. We can
write time as well as tune, but we know not now, nor have we yet been
able to analyze or detect the instinct which teaches us, as it does the
Savages, at what periods of any given air we should mark time. Yet
thousands of persons, singing together, will “_beat_” at the same
instant. No one knows why or wherefore it should be so. We only feel
that it is so, and that human ingenuity has enabled us to write and
otherwise to mark time. The order of intellect, which first discovered
the means of doing even this little, must have been very high indeed.

The difference between the musical instruments of our time and those of
a former age, is another interesting subject of inquiry. The Bible
mentions the timbrel, the ram’s horn, the reed, the harp, silver
trumpets, and other equally rude inventions. From later classical
writers we learn the existence of the pipe and tabor, the lyre, the
lute, and others. In the records of a much more advanced period, we find
mention of the harpsichord, whence we have obtained our present
tolerably perfect piano forte. The gradations from the instrumental
knowledge mentioned in the Bible down to the astonishing state of
improvement to which the art of manufacturing musical instruments has
arrived, have been slow but steady. It is possible that our posterity
will look back upon our piano fortes, our violins, violincellos, double
basses, cornets, trombones, bassoons, oboes, clarionets, flageolets,
flutes, harps, French-horns, serpents, opheclides, guitars, tenors, and
kettle-drums, with great contempt. Perhaps even our organ, which is an
ancient invention, will not escape the critical censure of a coming age.
And there can be little doubt that much remains yet to be known in the
manufacture of musical instruments. It may be said with much reason that
the only perfect instruments now in use are the violin, the violincello,
the double-bass, the tenor, and one or two others. On these any tone of
which their compass is capable can be produced in every possible variety
of execution. The piano forte, delightful as are its powers, cannot
produce a gliding sound from one note to the other; neither can it
prolong a note for any length of time without losing at its termination
the vigor with which it produced the tone at its commencement. In
addition to these disadvantages it labors under another which is common
to all wind instruments. It can produce full tones, diatonic semitones,
and chromatic semitones, but it cannot yield an enharmonic tone. On the
piano forte, on the harp, and on all wind instruments, (with the
exception of the organ in the Temple Church, London,[1]) G flat is F
sharp; A flat is G sharp; E sharp is F natural; B sharp is C natural; E
flat is D sharp, and so on. The difference is so nicely arranged as
scarcely to strike the finest ear; but it is undoubtedly an obstacle in
the way of perfection which will most probably be overcome by and by.
The organ in the Temple Church, in London, which we have made an
exception to the above complaint, is a curious specimen. The black notes
are split, in order to provide for the production of enharmonic tones,
and the effect on a nice ear is very agreeable.

As the majority of organs are not made on the last named principle they
must be classed among the imperfect instruments. At the same time, it is
believed that general opinion unites in ascribing to the organ the first
place among instruments. It is capable of prolonging sounds, of
producing multiplied chords, of modulating and swelling its tones at the
option of the performer, of suppressing or expanding its volume, and, in
a word, of doing every thing which any other instrument can perform,
except of gliding from one note to another.

There are now extant several specimens of the style of music in use
among the monks of the earlier Christian ages. These examples are very
curious, and, to the casual observer, extremely interesting. The airs
are written on four lines, and are marked with treble and bass clefs,
but they would appear to have been intended almost entirely for the use
of singers. Instrumental music of that period is much more rare and
uncommon. The compositions alluded to are very feeble, and evince an
ignorance of the extent to which musical sounds might be made available.
They are merely loose themes without any attempt whatever at artistic
effect. As time wore on, the writing on five lines instead of on four
became universally adopted in Europe, and the style of composition
gradually improved.

The English nation have never been remarkable for musical genius. As
late in their history as the accession of the house of Hanover, the
greater part of their music came from abroad. Nor were there any great
instrumental performers among them. It is only of comparatively late
years that any thing like a talent for composition has sprung up among
them, and even now they are so far behind most other nations in the art,
as to hold a very insignificant position in the musical world. While the
music of all other countries has in it something distinctively and
peculiarly characteristic, English melodies (if we except their glees
and madrigals) have none. The late operas which have been brought out in
London, betray an attempt at servile imitation of the Italian school;
but the English have not a writer at the present day whose compositions
manifest the slightest originality: and with the exception of Dr. Arne,
Cabott, Bishop, Rolf, Rooke, and one or two others, their musical works
are devoid of conception, character, or beauty. At the same time it must
be admitted that there is nothing finer in the world than the English
glees and madrigals. These possess a truly definitive character. They
are really English, and bear about the same relation to the smooth
strains of Italy and Germany, as the bluff, straight-forward yeoman does
to the French exquisite. They are at once original, heart-stirring, and
amusing. Many of the madrigals exhibit a great amount of artistic skill
and musical acquirement, and, when well executed, they are extremely
entertaining. Some of the English anthems are also very excellent, but
the attempt to imitate the German school is too apparent throughout.
They are not the less agreeable on this account, but they lose the charm
which would attach to originality.

The English are, as a nation, fond of music, but their love for it
seldom reaches the enthusiasm which is felt for the art by a German, an
Italian, a Frenchman, or a Spaniard. It would, perhaps, be more correct
to say that the English admire music rather than that they love it. The
uneducated classes will gladly listen to music, but they are never moved
by it. They may learn or become acquainted with certain airs, but they
never impart to what they sing or whistle that elegance or depth of
feeling which a really musical mind never fails to throw into an air
which pleases him.

The Scotch music, without possessing much claim to art, has a decidedly
characteristic feature. It is unlike the compositions of any other
country. Even their quickest airs have something peculiarly melancholy
in their style, which is touching and agreeable. The principal feature
in Scotch music is the frequent introduction of short, catching sounds
before long notes.

The Spanish style of music is pleasing but variable. The national
fondness for dancing appears to exercise some influence over all their
strains; notwithstanding which many of their airs have an extremely
melancholy expression. As opera writers they have never excelled, but
for love-songs and martial choruses, their style is equal to that of any
other people in the world. Their serenades are among the sweetest
efforts of simple composition in the world, containing, notwithstanding
the plainness of their style, considerable feeling, and an obvious
expression of deep passion.

The Italian school of music divides with the German the admiration of
the world. Differing widely from the German, it possesses charms equally
attractive and quite as moving. If a preference is to be accorded at
all, it must be given to the German school, which contains more art;
this preference could, however, only be yielded by musicians. The masses
are more likely to be attracted by sounds which appeal at once to the
senses and charm the ear, than by strains which contain perhaps somewhat
less of melody, but which stir up the passions to a greater degree and
do not charm until they are understood. The Italian style is smooth,
soft and melodious. Even the most martial or impassioned passages are
harmonious and agreeable. The chief dependence of the composer for
success would seem to be the melody of the scene which he writes. The
arrangement is generally artistic, but only sufficiently so to accord
with the desire of the composer to make use of the richer resources of
his art. He makes the science subservient to the principle of
attraction. For this reason Italian vocal music is highly preferred
before Italian instrumental music. While as opera writers, the masters
of Italy are deservedly famous, we seldom hear of them as composers for
the piano, or of any lengthy romantic pieces in which instruments are to
convey certain impressions unaided by the human voice or by personal
representation.

Of the Italian composers who have remained favorites until the present
day, none, perhaps, assimilate more closely to the German school than
Pacini and Mercadante. Their works cannot boast of that melodious
characteristic which so highly distinguishes those of their
fellow-countrymen, the theme being generally less connected; but they
are nevertheless decidedly of a higher order in an artistic point of
view than the operas of their more favored successors. In the lighter
style of Italian composition, Cimarosa and Ricci, as old masters, rank
deservedly high; but they do not bear comparison with the Buffo school
of the present day.

Among the later writers of Italian operas who have attained eminence in
the divine science may be named Mercadante, Rossini, Bellini,
Donnizzetti, and Verdi. To compare the peculiar merits of these great
artistes would be a task of extreme difficulty, as Rossini, Bellini and
Mercadante differ very materially in style, while that of Bellini and
Donnizzetti closely assimilate, and Verdi’s partakes of the character
both of Bellini’s and Donnizzetti’s, with something of the German
school.

The style of Rossini, without being deficient in feeling or artistic
arrangement, always partakes in some degree of lightness, which is owing
to the very florid manner in which he invariably wrote. His Guiglielmo
Tell, Pietro l’Eremita, Gazza Ladra, Otello and Semiramide, are among
his finest compositions. The last named opera is decidedly his best
effort. Il Barbiere di Seviglia is a favorite with many persons, but it
cannot be said to contain many brilliant examples of success. The “Una
Voce” and “La Colunnia,” are _the_ attractions in the “Barber.” The
_role_ of Figaro is a great source of attraction to the lovers of
Merry-Andrewisms, but scarcely so to the musician. One of Rossini’s most
powerful compositions is the Stabat Mater.

The style of Bellini, on the other hand, is totally different from that
of Rossini. Bellini is at once unaffected and chaste. There is no
seeking after applause by introducing difficult passages requiring great
flexibility of intonation. Every air, every symphony, every prelude and
introduction appear to have been written with the view to the expression
of some passion, or the demonstration of some feeling which it was
required to convey. It is deeply to be regretted that so bright a
genius, promising so brilliant a future, should so early have been lost
to the world. During Bellini’s short but energetic career he produced
eight operas, every one of which will to this day bear the most
searching examination of the most rigid critic:—Norma, Bianca e
Fernando, I Puritani, Il Pirata, La Straniera, I Montecchi ed i
Capuletti, La Sonnambula, and Beatrice di Tenda. Of these his Puritani
and his Norma stand pre-eminently great. Next in rank are his Capuletti
and Beatrice di Tenda; then La Sonnambula, La Straniera, Il Pirata, and
Bianca e Fernando. The whole of Bellini’s writing is marked by a tone of
melancholy which at this day seems like the foreshadowing of an early
affliction. He had, perhaps, in a greater degree than any other author,
the power of throwing into his airs an unmistakeable interpretation of
the passion or feeling which was embodied in the language. The “Deh! tu,
bell Anima!” in Romeo e Giulietta, is one of the finest specimens of the
remarkable correctness with which the words and music may be so blended
as strictly to accord in the expression for which they are intended.

Against Donnizzetti it has been argued that he was a plagiarist; but
when the number of operas which he has written are taken into
consideration, the accusation will not bear weight or scrutiny. His
style is neither so flowing nor so scientific as that of others, but his
works are nevertheless highly meritorious, being generally very
melodious and expressive. In the course of a long and famous life
Donnizzetti produced upward of seventy operas. Among the best of these
are his Lucia di Lamermoor, Belisario, Pia de Tolomeo, Lucrezia Borgia,
Torquato Tasso, Fausta, Anna Bolena, Roberto Devereux, Betly, Elisire
d’Amoré, Linda di Chamouni, Il Burgomastro di Saardam Favorita, and
others.

Giuseppe Verdi is the latest composer of the Italian school, and he
promises to be one of its brightest ornaments, when experience shall
have amended his faults and restrained him from those bursts of too
powerful effort which he delights to exhibit, and which impart a
strained character to his works. There are many of the London Dilletanti
who affect to dislike Verdi; but the only reason which can be given for
the harsh criticism which is dealt out with no sparing hand on the
devoted head of the young aspirant, is the habit which too often exists
in that city to despise modern talent to the exaltation of the wisdom
which is past and gone. The chief beauty of Verdi’s writing is to be
found in his moving choruses and concerted pieces. These exhibit
profound musical knowledge combined with much genius, great feeling, and
frequently exquisite taste. As examples of a happy union of these
qualities, may be instanced the chorus “_Il Maledetto non ha fratello_,”
in Nabuco; the terzetto, in Ernani; the chorus of crusaders, in I
Lombardi, and others. His operas are Nino, Ernani, I Lombardi alla prima
Crocciata, I due Foscari, and Attila. Of these the four first mentioned
are unquestionably the best. There are many other writers of great
talent among the Italians, but as they are little known to the world a
consideration of them may, perhaps, be deemed prolix.

We now come to the German school of music, which, notwithstanding the
vastness of the subject comprehended in this title, will be treated with
as much brevity as will serve to explain the writer’s views. German
music may be divided into two branches; vocal and instrumental: in
either of which it is generally believed to be vastly superior to that
of any other school extant. The list of those who may be termed modern
German masters, is garnished with the names of Mozart, Haydn, Handel,
Weber, Beethoven, Meyerbeer, Mendelsohn, Spohr, Gluck, Lortzing, Bach,
Listz, De Meyer, Herz, Thalberg, Moschelles, Herold, and others. Of
these Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, and Mendelsohn, stand at the head of a
long rank of sacred writers. The solemn requiems of Mozart, the
beautiful “_Creation_” of Haydn; the stirring “_Messiah_” of Handel; the
solemn symphonies of Beethoven; the magnificent “_Elijah_” of Bartholdy,
will never be forgotten while a soul attuned to melody remains on earth.
They all appear to have been written in moments of deep inspiration; and
the enthusiast may almost believe that a beneficent God may have guided
the hands whose work has more than once struck awe into the sinner’s
soul to call him to repentance, and lifted up the heart of the pious man
to still closer communion with the God who in his wisdom formed the
noblest of his creatures.

Among the modern opera writers of Germany, Mozart, Weber, Beethoven, and
Meyerbeer, stand pre-eminently high; and it is difficult at this day to
say which of these writers outdoes the other in boldness of design,
grandeur of conception, brilliancy of execution, or depth of feeling.
If, for example, we take the “_Don Giovanni_” of Mozart, the “_Der
Freischutz_” of Weber, the “_Fidelio_” of Beethoven, and the “_Robert
der Teufel_” or the “_Huguenots_” of Meyerbeer, we will find in certain
scenes equal attraction in the concerted pieces, similar beauties in the
airs, like effect in the orchestral accompaniments, and the same
grandeur in the choruses. Each author will therefore have his distinct
admirers, who, notwithstanding any especial partiality, will readily
confess to the attractions of the rival works. For ourselves, we are yet
to hear an opera superior to the Fidelio of Beethoven.

For the reasons above stated, it is not possible, without venturing into
matters of detail which would be uninteresting, to mark the minor
differences which characterize each writer. It will therefore be only
necessary to name some of the principal works of the principal opera
writers of the German school. The best of Mozart’s efforts are his “_Don
Giovanni_,” his “_Così fan Tutte_,” his “_Zauberflotte_,” and his
“_Nozze di Figaro_.”

Weber’s greatest conceptions are supposed to be his “_Freischutz_,” his
“_Oberon_,” and his “_Preciosa_”.

The “_Fidelio_” of Beethoven stands justly at the head of all his
writings. Of Meyerbeer’s great works none are held in greater estimation
than his “_Robert le Diable_,” his “_Huguenots_,” and his “_Crocciatoin
Egitto_.” His “_Prophete_” is highly spoken of, but it still remains
unknown to the longing ear of the writer of this essay. Herold’s
“_Zampa_,” and Lortzing’s “_Czar und Zimmermann_,” are also in high
repute among musicians.

In instrumental music, German writers rank as high as their compatriots
do in the operatic school, and higher than the masters of any other
country. In the more solid flights of art we have Beethoven, Mozart,
Weber, Meyerbeer, Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck, Bach, Listz, De Meyer, and
others. In the lighter but not less meritorious style of composition, we
have Thalberg, Herz, Moschelles, and others.

French music, with the exception of the works of one or two writers, has
never been in favor out of France. It resembles closely in some points
French poetry. There is harmony, melody, softness, and sometimes art;
but there are wanting grandeur and loftiness of conception and
smoothness. The writings of David and Auber are, however, exceptions to
these objections. There is a force in David’s “_Desert_,” for example,
which excuses comparison even with German writers; and many of the
operas of Auber have a high place in the estimation of those who incline
to the Italian school, a close resemblance to which is to be found in
some of his writings. Among the best works of this distinguished
musician are his “_Muette de Portici_,” his “_Fra Diavolo_,” and his
“_Diamans de la Couronne_.” His “_Domino Noir_,” his “_Barcarole_,” and
others, are also favorites even beyond the French frontier. Adam’s
“_Postillion de Lonjemeau_” is another effort which must be mentioned
with respect.

There are in each of the schools to which I have adverted many great
composers whose names do not occur to me at this moment. Indeed, it
would be almost impossible to record all those inspired men who have
reflected on their several nations the glory which music has conferred
on them.

The study of Music is so interesting as to excuse a very lengthy
dissertation, and the present paper might be considerably prolonged, did
the limits of the Magazine permit a continuation of this already lengthy
essay, in which the several branches of the subject are only cursorily
treated; but I feel that I need say nothing to recommend to the public
of this country the Divine Art, which, as a German author beautifully
expresses it, “is to Poetry what Poetry is to language.” It is
undoubtedly the poetry of sound, the sweet harmonizer of society, the
chief luxury of life and the greatest softener and civilizer of man’s
harsh nature.

-----

[1] The only exception with which the writer is acquainted.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                                MANUELA.


                        A BALLAD OF CALIFORNIA.


                           BY BAYARD TAYLOR.


 From the doorway, Manuela, in the sheeny April morn,
 Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming corn;
 Where the mountain’s misty rampart like the wall of Eden towers,
 And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers.

 All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o’er,
 And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore;
 Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels, over all the grassy slope;
 Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the antelope.

 Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me wherefore do ye rest
 On the oaks enchanted islands and the flowery ocean’s breast?
 Tell me wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the highway’s mark
 Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountain-shadows dark?

 Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom, and the sprouting verdure shine
 With the tears of amber dropping from the tassels of the pine,
 And the morning’s breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny cheek—
 Little recketh Manuela of the tales of Spring they speak.

 When the Summer’s burning solstice on the mountain-harvests glowed,
 She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the valley road;
 Many times she saw him turning, looking back with parting thrills,
 Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the hills.

 Ere the cloudless moons were over, he had passed the Desert’s sand,
 Crossed the rushing Colorado and the dark Apachè Land,
 And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains began,
 With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan.

 Therefore watches Manuela—therefore lightly doth she start,
 When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her heart;
 Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches stirs,
 But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs.

 Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen, day by day,
 But they come not as Bernardo—she can see it, far away;
 Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled _alazàn_,[2]
 Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilàn.

 She would know him ’mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air;
 By the featly-knit sarápè,[3] such as wealthy traders wear;
 By his broidered calzoneros[4] and his saddle, gaily spread,
 With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion’s head.

 None like he the light riáta[5] on the maddened bull can throw;
 None amid the mountain-cañons, track like he the stealthy doe;
 And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revelers are
 Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay guitar.

 He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still
 In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill,
 When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in corn,
 Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding morn.

 He has pictured the procession, all in holyday attire,
 And the laugh and look of gladness, when they see the distant spire;
 Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly fair,
 In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air.

 Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous beam?
 ’Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream.
 Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if its watches would be true,
 For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose’s drop of dew!

 But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom stills,
 As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills:
 Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their pearly tides—
 ’Tis the alazàn that gallops, ’tis Bernardo’s self that rides!

-----

[2] In California horses are named according to their color. An _alazàn_
is a sorrel—a color generally preferred, as denoting speed and mettle.

[3] The sarápè is a knit blanket of many gay colors, worn over the
shoulders by an opening in the centre, through which the head is thrust.

[4] Calzoneros are trowsers, generally made of blue cloth or velvet,
richly embroidered, and worn over an under pair of white linen. They are
slashed up the outside of each leg, for greater convenience in riding,
and studded with rows of silver buttons.

[5] The lariat, or riáta, as it is indifferently called in California
and Mexico, is precisely the same as the lasso of South America.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               THE CHASE.


                    AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR OF 1812.


     BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR.”


“Sail O!” cried the look-out from the mast-head.

“Whereaway?” asked the officer of the deck.

“On the lee-beam.”

We had been dodging about the horse-latitudes for several weeks, most of
the time becalmed; and, of course, without meeting a single vessel. At
this announcement, therefore, a general excitement pervaded the decks;
the watch above placed themselves eagerly on the look-out, while the
watch below crowded up the gangway to catch a glance of the stranger if
possible.

In due time the character of the chase became evident. She was a heavy,
fore-topsail schooner, and apparently a man-of-war. Instead of flying
us, as was the case with most vessels, she stood boldly on her course,
and in consequence was soon within range. Meantime, through our glasses,
we could see that her decks were filled with men, who appeared to be
eagerly scrutinizing us.

“Show him our flag,” at last said our captain.

The roll of bunting ascended to the gaff, and blowing out, disclosed our
country’s ensign, the white stars sprinkling the field of azure, and the
crimson stripes gleaming out against their white background.

No answer came from the schooner, however. She had apparently mistaken
us for a friend, but now being assured of the contrary, and aware also
by this time of our greatly superior force, she tacked hurriedly, and
went off almost dead before the wind.

“Give her a shot,” cried the captain, “and see if that will bring her
to.”

The ball went richochetting over the waters, and passing through her
main-sail, plunged into the water a short distance ahead. A moment after
the red-cross of Britain shot up to the schooner’s gaff, where it
glared, blood-red, in the brazen sky. But, instead of lying to, the
chase steadily kept on her way.

“Another shot,” cried the captain; “and let us see this time if we can’t
cripple her.”

The ball whistled sharply across the air, but fell short of its mark;
and another, fired immediately after, shared the same fate. It was
evident that we were scarcely within range. As every shot deadened our
progress, the captain ordered the gunner to desist; and, in place of
firing, directed the sails to be wet down. The enemy, with a truer
perception of the character of the combat, had declined, from the first,
to return our shots, but had turned all his energies to spreading what
light sail he could, and throwing water on his canvas from an engine on
board.

“A stern-chase is a long chase,” said the captain. “But there is no help
for it. However, as the fellow is a schooner, and we are square-rigged,
I do not despair of eventually overhauling him. I wonder whether he
really is an Englishman; he looks more like a slaver to my eye.”

The chase was, indeed, one of the most beautiful craft I had ever seen.
She was painted of a deep black, relieved only by a crimson streak in
the line of her ports. The mould of her hull was clean and graceful; her
bows were sharp as a knife; and her tall, whip-stalk masts, that rose to
an immense height, raked backwards with an air at once saucy and
beautiful. A high bulwark, with a monkey rail running aft, concealed her
decks entirely; but the number of faces peering at us, and the row of
ports, proved her to be no mere yacht, as otherwise might have been
supposed.

“That craft,” I replied, “was never built in England. There’s not a
naval architect in the whole three kingdoms—take my word for it—who
could turn out such a beautiful model. I’d bet a month’s pay that good,
solid Rappahanock timbers hold her together, and that there’s more than
one shipwright in Baltimore has handled the adze upon her.”

“Then she must be a slaver.”

“I think not. And you will agree with me when you have reflected a
moment. We are a week’s sail out of the track of such scoundrels.
Besides that craft carries too many men for a slaver.”

“You are right,” answered the captain, after a moment’s thought. “But
what can she be?”

“That is more than I can tell. She may be either an Englishman or a
pirate—more likely the latter than the former; for the British, even
when they capture one of our fast-sailing schooners, are not apt to
commission them; the lazy islanders think them too wet forward.”

“A pirate!”

“Yes! we have heard of several being about the West Indies, and this may
be one, who, having followed the homeward-bound fleet, in hopes to catch
a stray prize, has been, like ourselves, set into these infernal
latitudes.”

“You reason well,” said the captain. “However, we shall soon know. We
evidently gain upon her. I think we could now reach her with our guns.
But,” he added, after hesitating a moment, “we’ll keep on till we range
alongside, and then give him a broadside that will settle him at once.”

The plan of the captain was not destined, however, to succeed. He had
scarcely spoken when the wind began perceptibly to die away, and before
an hour it was almost a dead calm. Puffs of air, indeed, would
occasionally distend our sails for awhile and urge us on a space, but
the effect of this, on the whole, was to increase rather than lessen the
distance between us and the chase, the latter making more headway in a
light breeze.

By the middle of the afternoon we were rocking on the surface of the
deep, with every sail set, yet without advancing an inch. The day had
been intensely sultry, and now that not a breath of air was stirring,
the heat became almost insupportable. The vertical rays of the tropical
sun, pouring down on our white decks, nearly blinded the eyesight; but
in vain we turned our gaze elsewhere to seek relief, for the broad
expanse of ocean to the very verge of the horizon, glowed like molten
silver; while above the fiery luminary blazed in a sky of brass. Panting
and exhausted we lay about the decks, or leaned over the sides gasping
for air.

As the hours wore on the captain began to show signs of uneasiness. He
would look first at the sails and then at the chase, then up at our idle
canvas again, and once more at the stranger. At last he addressed me.

“The night will soon be here,” he said, “and under cover of it this
fellow may escape. Since your suggestion that he may be a pirate, I feel
doubly anxious to capture him. What do you think of carrying him with
the boats?”

I mused a moment before I replied.

“It would be a perilous enterprise,” I answered at last, “but I think it
might be made to succeed. If you are willing, sir, to risk the lives of
the men, I shall be willing to lead the attack; only, if the attempt is
to be made, the sooner it is done the better.”

“Then my mind is made up.” And elevating his voice, he cried,
“Boatswain, pipe away the boat’s crews; we will cut out the chase.”

The long inaction to which the men had been subjected, made them
especially eager for a prize; and thus, notwithstanding the depressing
influence of the atmosphere, they welcomed the enterprise with joy. In a
comparatively short time we were speeding across the waters, the launch,
with myself in command, leading.

How shall I describe that long pull across the hot and glittering deep?
The men baring their brawny arms, bent steadily to their oars, yet
reserving their strength at first with the caution long experience had
taught them. And well was it that they acted thus! Soon great drops of
perspiration gathered on their brows, and rolled down their swarthy
chests, and before long it became evident that, with all their care, the
task before them would prove almost beyond their strength. Indeed, in
all my experience, I had never known a day so debilitating. As we
proceeded, too, the atmosphere appeared to become more and more
suffocating, until several of the men, in the different boats, actually
gave out, declaring they could not breathe and work both. The difficulty
of respiration on my part assured me that there was no pretence in this.

Meantime the schooner, like a ship painted on canvas, lay motionless on
the deep, her whole figure reflected in the water, from the trucks down.
Occasionally a light ripple would ruffle this shadow for a second,
betraying its real character, but at other times it required but little
fancy to imagine the reflection an inverted ship, and no mere cheat of
the imagination. The men on board the chase were not, however, idle, but
busily engaged in tricing up the hammock nettings; and when we had
approached nearer, a carronade was run back to her stern, aimed at us,
and fired.

“Better luck next time,” ironically said an old sea-dog, who pulled the
stroke-oar of my boat, as the ball plumped into the water just ahead of
us. “The man that trained that gun don’t understand his business,
shipmates. We’ll be on board directly, if we pull sharp.”

“Yes, my lads,” I cried, “it’s no time to trifle now. The next ball may
be truer sent. Besides,” I added, glancing over my shoulder at a black
cloud rising rapidly in the sky, “this close atmosphere has not been
without its meaning; yonder is a thunder-squall coming up, and if we
don’t carry the schooner before it overtakes us, there may be the devil
to pay.”

The men gave a cheer to show that they were ready to do their best, and
bent, with renewed vigor, to their oars. Under this momentary excitement
the boats surged along at a vastly accelerated rate, and the schooner
rapidly drew within musket-shot. At this point another jet of fire was
seen to flash from the carronade astern; a cloud of white smoke puffing
out, broke away over the quarter, and then, with a dull report across
the murky air, a ball came skipping toward us, striking the bow oar just
as it rose from the water, and breaking the ashen blade, while it
knocked the seaman over on his seat.

“Pull, with a will, boys, pull,” I cried, excited by the peril; “dash in
on them.”

“Hurrah!” answered my men; and we shot like an arrow along.

Intent as I was on reaching the schooner before the carronade could be
loaded again, I scarcely had noticed the rapid changes of the sky. I
only knew that the air was growing thicker than ever, and that the
clouds had completely shut in the sun. But now, when I saw the men at
the carronade abandon it, and all hands address themselves to taking in
sail, I knew that the danger from the squall was close and imminent; and
I looked hastily up and around.

When I had called the attention of my men, scarcely ten minutes before,
to the approaching tempest, there had been only a small cloud
perceptible far down on the seaboard. But now, from pole to pole, and
all round the horizon, a vast, black curtain shut out the light of day;
yet not entirely shut it out, for here and there a lurid gleam, like
that seen through the chinks of a furnace, penetrated the thick vapors.
Over and over, in vast whirling masses, tossed and tumbled the inky
clouds. The ghostly radiance that broke, as I have said, through the
gaps of the ominous curtain, threw a spectral gleam across the seas that
conjured up visions of dread and disaster. Oh! never can I forget that
spectacle. The sultry closeness of the air; the sudden and sepulchral
stillness; the awful gloom, and the lurid glare, like that from the
bottomless pit, all seemed to say that sea and sky were at their last
gasp, and that the great day of judgment had arrived.

The men had made the same observations, and apparently came to similar
conclusions, for they ceased rowing, as if under a spell, while a look
of blank horror occupied their faces. Every eye was turned toward me for
a moment, and then, as by one common impulse, directed at the ship. Far
up in the distance, almost undistinguishable against the sable
back-ground, the —— was faintly visible. She was stripped entirely
bare, with the exception of a bit of head-sail, which glowing red and
ghastly in the sepulchral light, gave her the appearance of a demon
vessel. Nor was this first impression removed on a second view, but
rather heightened, so unearthly was the effect produced by the faint
outlines of her spars, which were seen a moment and then lost to sight,
like those of some spectral ship.

Suddenly, while we were thus looking at our distant craft, a dazzling,
blinding glare shot athwart the firmament, and as instantly vanished,
leaving eye and brain, however, dizzy with that instant of concentrated
light. A sulphurous smell, at the same moment, pervaded the atmosphere.
Then followed a roar so stunning, so close at hand, that, if a thousand
batteries had been discharged right overhead, the noise could not have
been more deafening. For a second I thought one of the boats, or at
least the schooner, had been struck by the lightning; but when my brain
ceased reeling, I saw they had escaped. This dazzling flash, this awful
thunder-clap were succeeded by a darkness and silence as profound, as
oppressive, as foreboding as before. Then came a few rain-drops, which,
big and heavy, pattered, like huge hail-stones, on the waters around us.
These were followed by another silence as deep as before; and then the
hurricane, with a roar like a lion, was upon us.

It would be vain to attempt finding language adequate to describe what
followed. In an instant the air was filled with millions of particles of
spray, which, torn from the surface of the deep, and carried in the arms
of the tempest, hid every thing, except objects within a few feet,
entirely from sight. The stinging of these fine particles, as they
struck the cheek, was like that of mustard-shot. Meantime the force of
the wind was such that it was impossible to sit erect—and all stooped,
as if by a common impulse, before the blast. Shading my eyes with my
hand, to protect the orbs from the spray, I glanced at the place where
the schooner had been last seen. But she was no longer visible there. A
moment after, however, in a casual opening of the prospect, I caught a
glimpse of her form, far away ahead, as, half buried in mist, she drove,
like a sheeted spectre, before the gale. The instant after she vanished
from my vision, and the squall closed around us like the walls of a
dungeon.

Fortunately the launch was already before the wind, so that we had only
to hold on, and wait the issue. The other boats were soon out of sight,
and speedily out of hearing also. I could, therefore, do nothing for the
rest of my command, and resigning myself to fate, I bent my head between
my knees, ordered the men to lie down, and so let the hurricane have its
way. The rain was now falling, as it falls only in the tropics, in vast
sheets of water: the drops, instead of descending perpendicularly,
driving slantingly before the hurricane, and striking the water with
gigantic force, keeping the deep in commotion all around. The hissing of
the rain, the roar of the tempest, the blinding glare of lightning, and
the terrific thunder-claps combined to make a scene more awful than I
had ever witnessed in all my long experience.

For half an hour the storm continued in its fury. At the end of that
time the intense darkness began to give way; but it was nearly half an
hour more before the squall had entirely passed over us. At last the
rain ceased, the clouds began to break, and the wind in part subsided. I
now ventured, for the first time since the tempest had burst upon us, to
rise up and look around. I was anxious to see what had become of the
remaining boats, as well as to learn in what direction our ship was; for
the schooner, I had no doubt from the speed with which I saw her going
last, was hull down on the horizon by this time.

Eagerly I scanned the prospect, therefore. My first object of search was
the ship, for I knew that on her depended our safety. Her greater size
had placed her, I reasoned, even more at the power of the gale than
ourselves, and consequently I looked for her to be in advance of us
considerably. I had fancied, indeed, during the height of the hurricane,
that I saw her tall masts, for a single instant, shooting, meteor-like,
past us: but in the blinding rain that then closed in the prospect, it
was easy, I was sure, to be deceived. My search, however, for her was
unsuccessful. Nowhere, on the whole horizon, was she or the schooner to
be seen. Up to windward, where it was now entirely clear, the view was
unbroken; and she was plainly not there. In front, for a long distance,
the prospect was equally unbroken; but she was not in sight in this
direction either. Far down, however, in the furthest horizon, where the
squall was disappearing, there still hung a black cloud, from which the
sullen thunder occasionally growled, and across whose gloomy front the
lightning, every few minutes, crinkled. That dark curtain, I knew,
enveloped our missing ship, or else she, and her three hundred souls,
were buried in the deep.

With a heavy sigh I beheld this condition of affairs. Parted from the
ship, without water or provisions on board, destitute even of a compass,
and with night coming on, our situation was indeed piteous in the
extreme. How far the squall might carry the ship before outrunning her,
it was impossible to conjecture. Perhaps, when the hurricane should be
over for our comrades on board, the gallant craft might be hull down on
the horizon. In that event, though she would naturally retrace her path
to seek us, night might shut in before we could be seen from the
mast-head even: and, in the darkness that would follow, nothing could be
easier than for her entirely to miss us. Days, in that event, would
probably elapse before we would be picked up, if ever. The thought was
terrible, and I turned from it, sick at heart, to look for the other
boats.

I was not, indeed, without misgivings as to the fate of these. The
launch, being large, was better fitted to ride out the gale than her
companions, and I expected that the smaller of the two boats, at least,
had been swamped. However, I soon discovered both her and her companion,
one about a cable’s length astern, and the other nearly abeam. With a
glad hallo, that sounded strangely on the now lonely seas, my crew took
to their oars, and pulled rapidly in the direction of the boat abeam,
the one astern following our example. The first voice I heard was the
junior lieutenant’s.

“Can you see any thing of the ship?” he said.

“No,” I replied, “she is entirely out of sight.”

“What is to be done?” he asked.

“You have no water or provisions on board, I suppose?”

“Nothing but a beaker of water, and not a solitary biscuit.”

“How far is it to the nearest land?”

“About five hundred miles, I take it.”

“So I thought,” I answered.

And now I mused for a moment, the crews of the three boats resting on
their oars, and looking eagerly at me. Every man knew, as well as
myself, that, in all likelihood, we should never see the ship again: in
which event a lingering death by starvation was our almost inevitable
doom. On my decision, whether to pull after the ship, which would carry
us further from land, or, abandoning the hope of meeting the ship, seek
to reach the coast by the nearest route, hung, perhaps, our lives: and
all were aware of this.

“Follow the squall,” I said, at last, turning my eyes to the dark cloud,
now fast disappearing on the eastern horizon, “it is our only chance. If
we don’t find the ship we are dead men. It is madness to think of
reaching land.”

“I would to God the sun was a few hours higher!” said the lieutenant,
looking at that luminary, which now hung, a blazing orb, a few degrees
only above the horizon. “We haven’t even a lantern on board, to show a
light!”

Nothing further was said. The boats were headed east, the men bent to
their tasks, and, in another minute, the little fleet was speeding
silently across the waters. But with what different feelings from those
with which we set out from the ship two hours before!

As the time wore on, and the sun declined lower to the horizon, yet
still no sign of the ship became visible, our hearts sunk within us. The
squall in the distance had now dwindled to a bank of clouds, low on the
furthest seaboard; but no vestige of the ship, between it and us, was
perceptible. At last the sun’s disc touched the western horizon, and, in
another instant, had entirely disappeared. Darkness, deep and profound,
now fell upon us; for, in that tropical latitude, there is no twilight
to prolong, in part, the day. As the gloom settled around us, a deep
drawn breath rose from the boat’s crew: it was an involuntary expression
of the general feeling, that, with the sun, hope too had set.

For more than an hour we pulled on in silence. As no sail had been in
sight when darkness shut in, it was useless to hail: and so we continued
without a word being spoken. Not a sound, therefore, broke the hush
except the measured rollicking of the oars, and the surging noise of the
launch as it was propelled heavily through the water. The darkness still
continued, for numerous clouds flecked the sky, and every here and
there, in consequence, would a star find its way out. But in the azure
west, like a lustrous gem, there shone through all one bright, large
orb, whose light, flickering and dancing along the water, cheered us
with its beauty and kept us from entirely desponding.

Suddenly the old veteran, whom I have before alluded to, looked up.

“If I’m not mistaken, sir,” he said, addressing me, “there’s a bunch of
rockets in the locker in the stern-sheets. They were put there by the
gunner some days ago, and have never, I believe, been removed. At any
rate it is worth while to look.”

Never did I hear words sweeter to my ears. I was up in an instant and
searching the locker. Sure enough, as the old tar had said, the rockets
were still there, the result of a carelessness which now appeared to me
to have been little less than providential.

The intelligence was immediately announced to the other boats; and the
crews, inspired by the news, rested on their oars, as of one accord, and
gave vent to three hearty cheers.

“I will signal the ship,” I said to my second in command, “and if she is
any where within range of vision, we shall hear from her instantly.”

Accordingly, I let off two rockets in rapid succession. The fiery
missiles shot up to a great height in the sky, and falling in a shower
of stars, illuminated the horizon far and near for a moment. Many an
eye, during that half instant, scanned the seaboard eagerly, in order to
see if the ship was in sight; but not a sign of her was perceptible, and
a deep sigh told the disappointment.

I, however, did not yet despair. I knew that the ship, though invisible
in that partial light, might still be near enough to discern our
rockets; and I was well aware that on board of her half a hundred eager
eyes were at this moment on the look-out. Without despair, yet with a
beating heart, I watched for the reply to my signal. One minute passed,
and then another, but still there was no sign of an answering rocket.

My heart grew faint. My limbs tottered beneath me. Minute after minute
succeeded, and my hopes were gradually dwindling away—when suddenly the
old tar before me shouted,

“Huzza, there she goes! Huzza—huzza—we are safe, lads, huzza!”

Quick as thought my eyes followed his, and I saw, far off, apparently on
the very surface of the water, a single spark of light. But that spark
grew and grew, and, as it grew, it rose, until finally it ascended high
into the blue ether, leaving a train of light, comet-like, behind it.
All at once it burst into a dozen fire-balls, some blue and some red,
which, hovering a moment in mid-air, fell at last slowly toward the
deep. Every one who saw those colors was aware of their meaning: they
were the well-known signals of our gallant ship.

Such a shout as then went up to the sky! It rings in my ears even yet,
and the very memory of it makes the blood leap quicker in my veins.

Two hours after we were safely on board, having been guided on our way
by signal rockets till the ship came into sight.

As for the schooner, we never saw her more!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             WOOD VIOLETS.


                           BY ALICE B. NEAL.


The violets are growing thickly in Washington Square, early as it is.
The gates are not yet open, but many linger by the high railing to catch
a glimpse of these “Spring Beauties.” _Letters from Philadelphia._

                 Those purple clustering violets
                   Hiding beneath the grass!
                 How many pause to look on them
                   Who by their covert pass.

                 Many a care-worn face is pressed
                   Close to the iron gate,
                 Heedless if at their daily toil
                   They shall be counted late.

                 The trembling lips—the starting tears—
                   Ah me! what yearning thought
                 The simple wild-wood violets
                   To these lone hearts have brought.

                 Visions of childhood’s careless time
                   When like the flowers they grew,
                 Dwellers beside the singing brook—
                   Beneath a sky as blue.

                 How lightly trod their tiny feet
                   Upon the velvet moss,
                 How gayly sprang from stone to stone
                   The little brook across.

                 What shouts of eager laughter rose,
                   As, bending to the stream,
                 They found the violets, betrayed
                   By their deep azure gleam.

                 The soughing of the dark pine trees,
                   The fresh sweet breath of Spring—
                 The even song of low-voiced birds,
                   All these those blossoms bring.

                 And wearily the sons of toil
                   Turn from this haunted spot,
                 Haunted by scenes of joy and hope
                   For many years forgot.

                 They go more slowly on their way,
                   Nor heed the city’s din,
                 The heavy eyelids as they close
                   Press back the tears within.

                 For once wood violets had grown
                   In their own garden bowers,
                 But now, alas! how rarely bloom
                   For them fresh wayside flowers!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               MEMORIES.


                         BY GEORGE D. PRENTICE.


               Once more, once more, my Mary dear,
                 I sit by that lone stream,
               Where first within thy timid ear
                 I breathed love’s burning dream;
               The birds we loved still tell their tales
                 Of music on each spray,
               And still the wild rose decks the vale—
                 But thou art far away.

               In vain thy vanished form I seek,
                 By wood and stream and dell,
               And tears of anguish bathe my cheek
                 Where tears of rapture fell;
               And yet beneath these wild-wood bowers
                 Dear thoughts my soul employ,
               For in the memories of past hours,
                 There is a mournful joy.

               Upon the air thy gentle words
                 Around me seem to thrill,
               Like sounds upon the wind-harp’s chords
                 When all the winds are still,
               Or like the low and soul-like swell
                 Of that wild spirit-tone
               Which haunts the hollow of the bell
                 When its sad chime is done.

               I seem to hear thee speak my name
                 In sweet low murmurs now,
               I seem to feel thy breath of flame
                 Upon my cheek and brow;
               On my cold lips I feel thy kiss,
                 Thy heart to mine is laid—
               Alas that such a dream of bliss
                 Like other dreams must fade!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.


                          A SOUTHERN NOVELET.


                          BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.


                      (_Continued from page 29._)


                              CHAPTER IV.

The moment she had disappeared from the kitchen, the negro was taken
forth by the captain of loyalists, who by this time had surrounded
himself with nearly all his band. A single soldier had been stationed by
Clymes between the house and kitchen, in order to arrest the approach of
any of the whites from the former to the scene where Brough was about to
pass a certain painful ordeal. The stout old African doggedly, with a
single shake of his head, obeyed his captors, as they ordered him to a
neighboring wood—a small copse of scrubby oaks, that lay between the
settlement and the swamp forest along the river. Here, without delay,
Brough was commanded, on pain of rope and hickory, to deliver up the
secret of Richard Coulter’s hiding-place. But the old fellow had
promised to be faithful. He stubbornly refused to know or to reveal any
thing. The scene which followed is one that we do not care to describe
in detail. The reader must imagine its particulars. Let it suffice that
the poor old creature was haltered by the neck, and drawn up repeatedly
to the swinging limb of a tree, until the moral nature, feeble at best,
and overawed by the terrors of the last mortal agony, surrendered in
despair. Brough consented to conduct the party to the hiding-place of
Richard Coulter.

The savage nature of Matthew Dunbar was now in full exercise.

“Boots and saddle!” was the cry; and, with the negro, both arms
pinioned, and running at the head of one of the dragoon’s horses,
leashed to the stirrup-leather, and in constant danger, should he be
found tripping, of a sudden sabre cut, the whole party, with two
exceptions, made their way down the country, and under the guidance of
the African. Two of the soldiers had been placed in watch upon the
premises, with instructions, however, to keep from sight, and not suffer
their proximity to be suspected. But the suspicion of such an
arrangement in existence was now natural enough to a mind, like that of
Frederica Sabb, made wary by her recent misfortune. She was soon
apprised of the departure of the loyalist troop. She was soon taught to
fear from the weakness of poor Brough. What was to be done? Was her
lover to be caught in the toils? Was she to become indirectly the agent
of his destruction? She determined at all events to forego no effort by
which to effect his escape. She was a girl of quick wit, and prompt
expedients. No longer exposing herself in her white cotton garments, she
wrapped herself closely up in the great brown overcoat of her father,
which buried her person from head to foot. She stole forth from the
front entrance with cautious footsteps, employing tree and shrub for her
shelter whenever they offered. In this way she moved forward to a spot
inclining to the river, but taking an upward route, one which she
naturally concluded had been left without a guard. But her objects
required finally that she should change her course, and take the
downward path, as soon as she could persuade herself that her progress
was fairly under cover. Still she knew not but that she was seen, and
perhaps followed, as well as watched. The spy might arrest her at the
very moment when she was most hopeful of her object. How to guard
against this danger? How to attain the necessary security? The question
was no sooner formed than answered. Her way lay through a wilderness of
leaves. The silent droppings from the trees for many years had
accumulated around her, and their constant crinkling beneath her tread,
drawing her notice to this source of fear, suggested to her the means of
safety. There had not been a rain for many weeks. The earth was parched
with thirst. The drought had driven the sap from shrub and plant; and
just below, on the very route taken by the pursuing party, a natural
meadow, a long, thin strip, the seat of a bayou or lake long since dried
up, was covered with a rank forest of broom-grass, parched and dried by
the sun. The wind was fresh, and driving right below. To one familiar
with the effect of firing the woods in a southern country under such
circumstances, the idea which possessed the mind of our heroine was
almost intuitive. She immediately stole back to the house, her eagerness
finding wings, which, however, did not betray her caution. The sentinels
of Dunbar kept easy watch, but she had not been unseen. The cool,
deliberate tory had more than once fitted his finger to the trigger of
his horseman’s pistol, as he beheld the approach toward him of the
shrouded figure. But he was not disposed to show himself, or to give the
alarm before he could detect the objects of his unknown visiter. Her
return to the house was not beheld. He had lost sight of her in the
woods, and fancied her still to be in the neighborhood. Unable to
recover his clue, he still maintained his position waiting events. It
was not long before she reappeared upon the scene. He did not see the
figure, until it crossed an open space, on his right, in the direction
of the river. He saw it stoop to the earth, and he then bounded forward.
His haste was injurious to his objects. He fell over the prostrate trunk
of a pine, which had been thrown down for ranging timber only a few days
before, and lay dark, with all its bark upon it, in the thick cover of
the grass. His pistol went off in his fall, and before he could recover
his feet, he was confounded to find himself threatened by a rapid
rushing forest of flame, setting directly toward him. For a moment, the
sudden blaze blinded him, and when he opened his eyes fully upon
surrounding objects, he saw nothing human—nothing but the great dark
shafts of pine, beneath which the fire was rushing with the roar and
volume of swollen billows of the sea, breaking upon the shore which they
promised to engulf. To save himself, to oppose fire to fire, or pass
boldly through the flame where it burned most feebly, was now a first
necessity; and we leave him to extricate himself as he may, while we
follow the progress of Frederica Sabb. The flame which she had kindled
in the dry grass and leaves, from the little old stable-lantern of the
cottage, concealed beneath the great-coat of her father, had sufficed as
a perfect cover to her movements. The fire swept below, and in the
direction of the tory sentinels. The advance of the one she had
perceived, in the moment when she was communicating the blazing candle
to the furze. She fancied she was shot when she heard the report of the
pistol; but pressing her hand to her heart, the lantern still in her
grasp, she darted headlong forward by one of the paths leading directly
to the river. The fire was now raging over all the tract between her and
the tory sentries. Soon she descended from the pine ridge, and passed
into the low flat land, strewed with gray cypresses, with their thousand
_knees_, or abutments. The swamp was nearly dry. She found her way along
a well known path to the river, and from beneath a clump of shrouding
willows, drew forth a little _dugout_, the well known cypress canoe of
the country. This was a small egg-shell like structure, scarcely capable
of holding two persons, which she was well accustomed to manage. At once
she pushed boldly out into the broad stream, whose sweet rippling flow,
a continuous and gentle murmur, was strangely broken by the intense roar
and crackling of the fire as it swept the broad track of stubble, dry
grass and leaves, which lay in its path. The lurid shadows sometimes
passed over the surface of the stream, but naturally contributed to
increase her shelter. With a prayer that was inaudible to herself, she
invoked Heaven’s mercy on her enterprise, as with a strong arm, familiar
in this exercise, she plied from side to side, the little paddle which,
with the favoring currents of the river, soon carried her down toward
the bit of swamp forest where her lover found his refuge. The spot was
well known to the maiden, though we must do her the justice to say, she
would never have sought for Richard Coulter in its depths, but for an
emergency like the present. It was known as “Bear Castle,” a close
thicket covering a sort of promontory, three-fourths of which was
encircled by the river, while the remaining quarter was a deep swamp,
through which, at high water, a streamlet forced its way, converting the
promontory into an islet. It was unfortunate for Coulter and his party
that, at this season the river was much lower than usual, and the swamp
offered no security on the land side, unless from the denseness of the
forest vegetation. It might now be passed dry shod.

The distance from “Bear Castle” to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb,
was, by land, but four or five miles. By water it was fully ten. If,
therefore, the stream favored the progress of our heroine, the
difference against Dunbar and his tories was more than equalled by the
shorter route before him, and the start which he had made in advance of
Frederica. But Brough was no willing guide. He opposed frequent
difficulties to the distasteful progress, and as they neared the spot,
Dunbar found it necessary to make a second application of the halter
before the good old negro could be got forward. The love of life, the
fear of death, proved superior to his loyalty.

Brough would have borne any quantity of flogging—nay, he could,
perhaps, have perished under the scourge without confessing, but his
courage failed, when the danger was of being launched headlong into
eternity. A shorter process than the cord or swinging limb would not
have found him so pliant. With a choking groan he promised to submit,
and with heart swollen almost to bursting, he led the route, off from
the main road now, and through the sinuous little foot-paths which
conducted to the place of refuge of our patriots.

It was at this point, having ascertained what space lay between him and
his enemy, that Dunbar dismounted his troopers. The horses were left
with a guard, while the rest of his men, under his personal lead, made
their further progress on foot. His object was a surprise. He designed
that the negro should give the “usual” signal with which he had been
taught to approach the camp of the fugitive, and this signal—a shrill
whistle, three times sounded, with a certain measured pause between each
utterance—was to be given when the swamp was entered over which the
river, in high stages of the water, made its breach. These instructions
were all rigidly followed. Poor Brough, with the rope about his neck,
and the provost ready to fling the other end of the cord over the
convenient arm of a huge sycamore under which they stood, was incapable
of resistance. But his strength was not equal to his submission. His
whistle was but feebly sounded. His heart failed him and his voice; and
a repeated contraction of the cord, in the hands of the provost, was
found essential to make him repeat the effort, and give more volume to
his voice. In the meanwhile, Dunbar cautiously pushed his men forward.
They packed through great hollows, where, at full water, the alligator
wallowed; where the whooping crane sought his prey at nightfall; where
the fox slept in safety, and the wild-cat in a favorite domain. “Bear
Castle” was the fortress of many fugitives. Aged cypresses lay like the
foundations of ancient walls along the path, and great thorny vines, and
flaming, flowery creepers flaunted their broad streamers in the faces of
the midnight gropers through their solitudes. The route would have been
almost impassable during the day for men on horseback; it was a tedious
and toilsome progress by night for men on foot. But Dunbar, nothing
doubting of the proximity of his enemy, went forward with an eagerness
which only did not forget its caution.


                               CHAPTER V.

The little party of Richard Coulter consisted of four persons beside
himself. It was, perhaps, an hour before this that he sat apart from the
rest conversing with one of his companions. This was no other than
Elijah Fields, the Methodist preacher. He had become a volunteer
chaplain among the patriots of his own precinct, and one who, like the
Bishop of Beauvais, did not scruple to wield the weapons of mortal
warfare as well as those of the church. It is true he was not
ostentatious in the manner of the performance; and this, perhaps,
somewhat increases its merit. He was the man for an emergency,
forgetting his prayer when the necessity for blows was pressing, and
duly remembering his prayers when the struggle was no longer doubtful.
Yet Elijah Fields was no hypocrite. He was a true, strong-souled man,
with blood, will, energies, and courage, as well as devotion, and a
strong passion for the soil which gave him birth. In plain terms he was
the patriot as well as the preacher, and his manhood was required for
both vocations.

To him Richard Coulter, now a captain among the partisans of Sumter, had
unfolded the narrative of his escape from Dunbar. They had taken their
evening meal; their three companions were busy with their arms and
horses, grouped together in the centre of the camp. Our two principal
persons occupied a little headland on the edge of the river, looking up
the stream. They were engaged in certain estimates with regard to the
number of recruits expected daily, by means of which Coulter was in
hopes to turn the tables on his rival; becoming the hunter instead of
the fugitive. We need not go over the grounds of their discussion, and
refer to the general progress of events throughout the state. Enough to
say that the Continental army, defeated under Gates, was in course of
re-organization, and re-approaching under Greene; that Marion had been
recently active and successful below; and that Sumter, defeated by
Tarleton at Fishing Creek, was rapidly recruiting his force at the foot
of the mountains. Richard Coulter had not been utterly unsuccessful in
the same business along the Edisto. A rendezvous of his recruits was
appointed to take place on the ensuing Saturday; and, at this
rendezvous, it was hoped that he would find at least thirty stout
fellows in attendance. But we anticipate. It was while in the discussion
of these subjects that the eyes of Coulter, still looking in the
direction of his heart, were attracted by the sudden blaze which swept
the forests, and dyed in lurid splendor the very face of heaven. It had
been the purpose of Frederica Sabb, in setting fire to the undergrowth,
not only to shelter her own progress, but in this way to warn her lover
of his danger. But the effect was to alarm him for _her_ safety rather
than his own.

“That fire is at Sabb’s place,” was his first remark.

“It looks like it,” was the reply of the preacher.

“Can it be that Dunbar has burnt the old man’s dwelling?”

“Hardly!”

“He is not too good for it, or for any thing monstrous. He has burnt
others—old Rumph’s—Ferguson’s, and many more.”

“Yes! but he prefers to own, and not destroy old Sabb’s. As long as he
has a hope of getting Frederica, he will scarcely commit such an
outrage.”

“But if she has refused him—if she answers him, as she feels,
scornfully—”

“Even then he will prefer to punish in a different way. He will rather
choose to take the place by confiscation than burn it. He has never put
that fire, or it is not at Sabb’s, but this side of, or beyond it.”

“It may be the act of some drunken trooper. At all events, it requires
that we should be on the look-out. I will scout it for a while and see
what the mischief is. Do you, meanwhile, keep every thing ready for a
start.”

“That fire will never reach us.”

“Not with this wind, perhaps; but the enemy may. He evidently beat the
woods after my heels this evening, and may be here to-morrow, on my
track. We must be prepared. Keep the horses saddled and bitted, and your
ears open for any summons. Ha! by heavens, that is Brough’s signal now.”

“Is it Brough’s? If so, it is scarcely from Brough in a healthy state.
The old fellow must have caught cold going to and fro at all hours in
the service of Cupid.”

Our preacher was disposed to be merry at the expense of our lover.

“Yes, it is Brough’s signal, but feeble, as if the old fellow was really
sick. He has probably passed through this fire, and has been choked with
the smoke. But he must have an answer.”

And, eager to hear from his beloved one, our hero gave his whistle in
reply, and moved forward in the direction of the isthmus. The preacher,
meanwhile, went toward the camp, quite prompt in the performance of the
duties assigned him.

“He answers,” muttered the tory captain; “the rebels are delivered to
our hands!” And his preparations were sternly prosecuted to make a
satisfactory finish to the adventure of the night. He, too, it must be
remarked, though somewhat wondering at the blazing forest behind him,
never for a moment divined the real original of the conflagration. He
ascribed it to accident, and, possibly, to the carelessness of one of
the troopers whom he left as sentinels. With an internal resolution to
make the fellow, if offending, familiar with the halberds, he pushed
forward, as we have seen, till reaching the swamp; while the fire,
obeying the course of the wind, swept away to the right of the path kept
by the pursuing party, leaving them entirely without cause of
apprehension from this quarter.

The plans of Dunbar for penetrating the place of Coulter’s refuge were
as judicious as they could be made under the circumstances. Having
brought the troopers to the verge of the encampment, the negro was
fastened to a tree by the same rope which had so frequently threatened
his neck. The tories pushed forward, each with pistol cocked and ready
in the grasp. They had scattered themselves abroad, so as to form a
front sufficient to cover, at moderate intervals, the space across the
isthmus. But, with the withdrawal of the immediate danger, Brough’s
courage returned to him, and, to the furious rage and discomfiture of
Dunbar, the old negro set up on a sudden a most boisterous African
howl—such a song as the Ebo cheers himself with when in the doubtful
neighborhood of a jungle which may hide the lion or the tiger. The
sounds re-echoed through the swamp, and startled, with a keen suspicion,
not only our captain of patriots, but the preacher and his associates.
Brough’s voice was well known to them all; but that Brough should use it
after such a fashion was quite as unexpected to them as to Dunbar and
his tories. One of the latter immediately dropped back, intending to
knock the negro regularly on the head; and, doubtless, such would have
been the fate of the fellow, had it not been for the progress of events
which called him elsewhere. Richard Coulter had pressed forward at
double quick time as he heard the wild chant of the African, and, being
familiar with the region, it occupied but little space to enable him to
reach the line across which the party of Dunbar was slowly making its
way. Hearing but a single footfall, and obtaining a glimpse of a single
figure only, Coulter repeated his whistle. He was answered with a pistol
shot—another and another followed; and he had time only to wind his
bugle, giving the signal of flight to his comrades, when he felt a
sudden sickness at the heart, and a faintness which only did not affect
his senses. He could still feel his danger, and his strength sufficed to
enable him to roll himself close beside the massive trunk of the
cypress, upon which he had unhappily been perched when his whistle drew
the fire upon him of several of the approaching party. Scarcely had he
thus covered himself from a random search when he sunk into
insensibility.

Meanwhile, “Bear Castle” rang with the signals of alarm and assault. At
the first sound of danger, Elijah Fields dashed forward in the direction
which Coulter had taken. But the private signal which he sounded for the
other was unanswered, and the assailants were now breaking through the
swamp, and were to be heard on every hand. To retreat, to rally his
comrades, to mount their steeds, dash into the river and take the stream
was all the work of an instant. From the middle of the sweeping current
the shouts of hate and defiance came to the ears of the tories as they
broke from the copse and appeared on the banks of the river. A momentary
glimpse of the dark bulk of one or more steeds as they whirled round an
interposing headland, drew from them the remaining bullets in their
pistols, but without success; and, ignorant of the effect of a random
bullet upon the very person whom, of all, he most desired to destroy,
Mat Dunbar felt himself once more foiled in a pursuit which he had this
time undertaken with every earnest of success.

“That d—d African!” was his exclamation. “But he shall hang for it now,
though he never hung before!”

With this pious resolution, having, with torches, made such an
exploration of Bear Castle as left them in no doubt that all the
fugitives had escaped, our tory captain called his squad together, and
commenced their return. The fatigue of passing through the dry swamp on
their backward route was much greater than when they entered it. They
were then full of excitement, full of that rapture of the strife which
needs not even the feeling of hate and revenge to make it grateful to an
eager and impulsive temper. Now, they were baffled—the excitement was
at an end—and with the feeling of perfect disappointment came the full
feeling of all the toils and exertions they had undergone. They had but
one immediate consolation in reserve, and that was the hanging of
Brough, which Dunbar promised them. The howl of the African had defeated
their enterprise. The African must howl no longer. Bent on murder, they
hastened to the tree where they had left him bound, only to meet with a
new disappointment. The African was there no longer!


                              CHAPTER VI.

It would be difficult to describe the rage and fury of our captain of
loyalists when he made this discovery. The reader will imagine it all.
But what was to be done? Was the prey to be entirely lost? And by what
agency had Brough made his escape? He had been securely fastened, it was
thought, and in such a way as seemed to render it impossible that he
should have been extricated from his bonds without the assistance of
another. This conjecture led to a renewal of the search. The rope which
fastened the negro lay upon the ground, severed, as by a knife, in
several places. Now, Brough could not use his hands. If he could, there
would have been no sort of necessity for using his knife. Clearly, he
had found succor from another agency than his own. Once more our
loyalists darted into the recesses of Bear Castle, their torches were to
be seen flaring in every part of that dense patch of swamp forest, as
they waved them over every spot which seemed to promise concealment to
the fugitive.

“Hark!” cried Dunbar, whose ears were quickened by eager and baffled
passions. “Hark! I hear the dip of a paddle.”

He was right. They darted forth from the woods, and when they reached
the river’s edge, they had a glimpse of a small dark object, which they
readily conceived to be a canoe, just rounding one of the projections of
the shore and going out of sight, a full hundred yards below. Here was
another mystery. The ramifications of Bear Castle seemed numerous; and,
mystified as well as mortified, Dunbar, after a tedious delay, and a
search fruitlessly renewed, took up the line of march back for old
Sabb’s cottage, inly resolved to bring the fair Frederica to terms, or,
in some way, to make her pay the penalty for his disappointments of the
night. He little dreamed how much she had to do with them, nor that her
hand had fired the forest grasses, whose wild and terrific blaze had
first excited the apprehensions and compelled the caution of the
fugitives. It is for us to show what further agency she exercised in
this nocturnal history.

We left her, alone, in her little dug-out, paddling or drifting down the
river with the stream. She pursued this progress with proper caution. In
approaching the headlands around which the river swept, on that side
which was occupied by Dunbar, she suspended the strokes of her paddle,
leaving her silent boat to the direction of the currents. The night was
clear and beautiful, and the river undefaced by shadow, except when the
current bore her beneath the overhanging willows which grew numerously
along the margin, or when the winds flung great masses of smoke from the
burning woods across its bright, smooth surface. With these exceptions,
the river shone in a light not less clear and beautiful because vague
and capricious. Moonlight and starlight seem to make a special
atmosphere for youth, and the heart which loves, even when most troubled
with anxieties for the beloved one, never, at such a season, proves
wholly insensible to the soft, seductive influences of such an
atmosphere. Our Frederica was not the heroine of convention. She had
never imbibed romance from books; but she had affections out of which
books might be written, filled with all those qualities, at once strong
and tender, which make the heroine in the moment of emergency. Her heart
softened, as, seated in the centre of her little vessel, she watched the
soft light upon the wave, or beheld it dripping, in bright, light
droplets, like fairy glimmers, through the over-hanging foliage. Of
fear—fear for herself—she had no feeling. Her apprehensions were all
for Richard Coulter, and her anxieties increased as she approached the
celebrated promontory and swamp forest, known to this day upon the river
as “Bear Castle.” She might be too late. The captain of the loyalists
had the start of her, and her only hope lay in the difficulties by which
he must be delayed, going through a _blind_ forest and under imperfect
guidance—for she still had large hopes of Brough’s fidelity. She _was_
too late—too late for her purpose, which had been to forewarn her lover
in season for his escape. She was drifting toward the spot where the
river, at full seasons, made across the low neck by which the promontory
of “Bear Castle” was united with the main land. Her paddle no longer
dipt the water, but was employed solely to protect her from the
overhanging branches beneath which she now prepared to steer. It was at
her approach to this point, that she was suddenly roused to apprehension
by the ominous warning chant set up by the African.

“Poor Brough! what can they be doing with him?” was her question to
herself. But the next moment she discovered that his howl was meant to
be a hymn; and the peculiar volume which the negro gave to his
utterance, led her to divine its import. There was little time allowed
her for reflection. A moment after, and just when her boat was abreast
of the bayou which Dunbar and his men were required to cross in
penetrating the place of refuge, she heard the sudden pistol shooting
under which Coulter had fallen. With a heart full of terror, trembling
with anxiety and fear, Frederica had the strength of will to remain
quiet for the present. Seizing upon an overhanging bough, she lay
concealed within the shadow of the copse until the loyalists had rushed
across the bayou, and were busy, with lighted torches, exploring the
thickets. She had heard the bugle of Coulter sounded as he was about to
fall, after being wounded, and her quick consciousness readily enabled
her to recognize it as her lover’s. But she had heard no movement
afterward in the quarter from which came the blast, and could not
conceive that he should have made his way to join his comrades in the
space of time allowed between that and the moment when she heard them
taking to the river with their horses. This difficulty led to new fears,
which were agonizing enough, but not of a sort to make her forgetful of
what was due to the person whom she came to save. She waited only until
the torrent had passed the straits—until the bayou was silent—when she
fastened her little boat to the willows which completely enveloped her,
and boldly stepped upon the land. With a rare instinct which proved how
deeply her heart had interested itself in the operations of her senses,
she moved directly to the spot whence she had heard the bugle-note of
her lover. The place was not far distant from the point where she had
been in lurking. Her progress was arrested by the prostrate trunk of a
great cypress, which the hurricane might have cast down some fifty years
before. It was with some difficulty that she scrambled over it; but
while crossing it she heard a faint murmur, like the voice of one in
pain, laboring to speak or cry aloud. Her heart misgave her. She hurried
to the spot. Again the murmur—now certainly a moan. It is at her feet,
but on the opposite side of the cypress, which she again crosses. The
place was very dark, and in the moment when, from loss of blood, he was
losing consciousness, Richard Coulter had carefully crawled close to the
cypress, whose bulk, in this way, effectually covered him from passing
footsteps. She found him, still warm, the flow of blood arrested, and
his consciousness returning.

“Richard! it is me—Frederica!”

He only sighed. It required but an instant for reflection on the part of
the damsel; and rising from the place where she had crouched beside him,
she darted away to the upper grounds where Brough still continued to
pour out his dismal ejaculations—now of psalms and song, and now of
mere whoop, halloo, and imprecation. A full heart and a light foot make
quick progress when they go together. It was necessary that Frederica
should lose no time. She had every reason to suppose that, failing to
secure their prey, the tories would suffer no delay in the thicket.
Fortunately, the continued cries of Brough left her at no time doubtful
of his whereabouts. She soon found him, fastened to his tree, in a state
sufficiently uncomfortable for one whose ambition did not at all incline
him to martyrdom of any sort. Yet martyrdom was now his fear. His first
impulses, which had given the alarm to the patriots, were succeeded by
feelings of no pleasant character. He had already had a taste of
Dunbar’s punishments, and he dreaded still worse at his hands. The
feeling which had changed his howl of warning into one of lament—his
whoop into a psalm—was one accordingly of preparation. He was preparing
himself, as well as he could, after his African fashion, for the short
cord and the sudden shrift, from which he had already so narrowly
escaped.

Nothing could exceed the fellow’s rejoicing as he became aware of the
character of his new visiter.

“Oh, Misses! Da’s you? Loose ’em! Cut you’ nigger loose! Let ’em run!
Sich a run! you nebber see de like! I take dese woods, dis yer night,
Mat Dunbar nebber see me ’gen long as he lib! Ha! ha! Cut! cut, misses!
cut quick! de rope is work into my berry bones!”

“But I have no knife, Brough.”

“No knife! Da’s wha’ woman good for! No hab knife! Take you teet’,
misses—gnaw de rope. Psho! wha’ I tell you? Stop! Put you’ han’ in dis
yer pocket—you fin’ knife, if I no loss ’em in de run.”

The knife was found, the rope cut, the negro free, all in much less time
than we have taken for the narration; and hurrying the African with her,
Frederica was soon again beside the person of her lover. To assist
Brough in taking him upon his back, to help sustain the still partially
insensible man in this position until he could be carried to the boat,
was a work of quick resolve, which required, however, considerable time
for performance. But patience and courage, when sustained by love,
become wonderful powers; and Richard Coulter, whose moans increased with
his increasing sensibility, was finally laid down in the bottom of the
dug-out, his head resting in the lap of Frederica. The boat could hold
no more. The faithful Brough, pushing her out into the stream, with his
hand still resting on stern or gunwale, swam along with her, as she
quietly floated with the currents. We have seen the narrow escape which
the little vessel had as she rounded the headland below, just as Dunbar
came down upon the beach. Had he been there when the canoe first began
to round the point, it would have been easy to have captured the whole
party, since the stream, somewhat narrow at this place, set in for the
shore which the tories occupied, and a stout swimmer might have easily
drawn the little argosy upon the banks.


                              CHAPTER VII.

To one familiar with the dense swamps that skirt the rivers through the
alluvial bottom lands of the South, there will be no difficulty in
comprehending the fact that a fugitive may find temporary security
within half a mile of his enemy, even where his pursuers hunt for him in
numbers. Thus it happened that, in taking to the river, our little
corporal’s guard of patriots, under the direction of Elijah Fields, the
worthy preacher, swimming their horses round a point of land on the
opposite shore, sought shelter but a little distance below “Bear
Island,” in a similar tract of swamp and forest, and almost within
rifle-shot of their late retreat. They had no fear that their enemy
would attempt, at that late hour, and after the long fatigue of their
recent march and search, to cross the river in pursuit of them; and had
they been wild enough to do so, it was equally easy to hide from search,
or to fly from pursuit. Dunbar felt all this as sensibly as the
fugitives; and with the conviction of his entire failure at “Bear
Castle,” he gave up the game for the present. Meanwhile, the little
barque of Frederica Sabb made its way down the river. She made her
calculations on a just estimate of the probabilities in the situation of
Coulter’s party, and was not deceived. As the boat swept over to the
opposite shore, after rounding the point of land that lay between it and
“Bear Castle,” it was hailed by Fields, for whom Brough had a ready
answer. Some delay, the fruit of a proper caution, took place before our
fugitives were properly sensible of the character of the stranger; but
the result was, that with returning consciousness, Richard Coulter found
himself once more in safety with his friends, and, a still more precious
satisfaction, attended by the woman of his heart. It was not long before
all the adventures of Frederica were in his possession, and his spirit
became newly strengthened for conflict and endurance by such proofs of a
more than feminine attachment which the brave young girl had shown. Let
us leave the little party for a season, while we return with the captain
of loyalists to the farmstead of old Frederick Sabb.

Here Mat Dunbar had again taken up his quarters as before, but with a
difference. Thoroughly enraged at his disappointment, and at the
discovery that Frederica had disappeared—a fact which produced as much
disquiet in the minds of her parents, as vexation to her tory lover; and
easily guessing at all of the steps which she had taken, and of her
object, he no longer imposed any restraints upon his native brutality of
temper, which, while he had any hope of winning her affections, he had
been at some pains to do. His present policy seemed to be to influence
her fears. To reach her heart, or force her inclinations, through the
dangers of her parents, was now his object. Unfortunately, the lax
discipline of the British authority, in Carolina particularly, in behalf
of their own followers, enabled him to do much toward this object, and
without peril to himself. He had anticipated the position in which he
now found himself, and had provided against it. He had obtained from
Col. Nesbett Balfour, the military commandant of Charleston, a grant of
the entire farmstead of old Sabb—the non-committalism of the old
Dutchman never having enabled him to satisfy the British authorities
that he was a person deserving their protection. Of the services and
loyalty of Dunbar, on the contrary, they were in possession of daily
evidence. It was with indescribable consternation that old Sabb looked
upon the massive parchment, sealed, signed, and made authoritative by
stately phrases and mysterious words, of the purport of which he could
only conjecture, with which the fierce Dunbar denounced him as a traitor
to the king, and expelled him from his own threshold.

“Oh! mein Gott!” was his exclamation. “And did the goot King Tshorge
make dat baber? And has de goot King Tshorge take away my grants?”

The only answer to this pitiful appeal vouchsafed him by the captain of
loyalists was a brutal oath, as he smote the document fiercely with his
hand, and forbade all further inquiry. It may have been with some regard
to the probability of his future marriage—in spite of all—with the old
Dutchman’s daughter, that he permitted him, with his wife, to occupy an
old log-house which stood upon the estate. He established himself within
the dwelling-house, which he occupied as a garrisoned post with all his
soldiers. Here he ruled as a sovereign. The proceeds of the farm were
yielded to him, the miserable pittance excepted which he suffered to go
to the support of the old couple. Sabb had a few slaves, who were now
taught to recognise Dunbar as their master. They did not serve him long.
Three of them escaped to the woods the night succeeding the tory’s
usurpation, and but two remained in his keeping, rather, perhaps,
through the vigilance of his sentinels, and their own fears, than
because of any love which they entertained for their new custodian. Both
of these were women, and one of them no less a person than the consort
of Brough, the African. Mrs. Brough—or, as we had better call her, she
will understand us better—_Mimy_, (the diminutive of Jemima,) was
particularly watched, as through her it was hoped to get some clue to
her husband, whose treachery it was the bitter resolution of our tory
captain to punish, as soon as he had the power, with exemplary tortures.
Brough had some suspicions of this design, which it was no part of his
policy to assist; but this did not discourage him from an adventure
which brought him again very nearly into contact with his enemy. He
determined to visit his wife by stealth, relying upon his knowledge of
the woods, his own caution, and the thousand little arts with which his
race usually takes advantage of the carelessness, the indifference, or
the ignorance of its superior. His wife, he well knew, conscious of his
straits, would afford him assistance in various ways. He succeeded in
seeing her just before the dawn of day one morning, and from her
discovered the whole situation of affairs at the farmstead. This came to
him with many exaggerations, particularly when Mimy described the
treatment to which old Sabb and his wife had been subjected. It did not
lose any of its facts or dimensions, when carried by Brough to the
fugitives in the swamp forests of Edisto. The news was of a character to
overwhelm the affectionate and dutiful heart of Frederica Sabb. She
instantly felt the necessity before her, and prepared herself to
encounter it. Nine days and nights had she spent in the forest retreats
of her lover. Every tenderness and forbearance had been shown her.
Nothing had taken place to outrage the delicacy of the female heart, and
pure thoughts in her mind had kept her free from any annoying doubts
about the propriety of her situation. A leafy screen from the sun, a
sylvan bower of broad branches and thickly thatched leaves, had been
prepared for her couch at night; and, in one contiguous, lay her wounded
lover. His situation had amply reconciled her to her own. His wound was
neither deep nor dangerous. He had bled copiously, and swooned rather in
consequence of loss of blood than from the severity of his pains. But
the hands of Elijah Field—a rough but not wholly inexperienced surgeon,
had bound up his hurts, which were thus permitted to heal from the first
intention. The patient was not slow to improve, though so precious sweet
had been his attendance—Frederica herself, like the damsels of the
feudal ages, assisting to dress his wound, and tender him with sweetest
nursing, that he felt almost sorry at the improvement which, while
lessening his cares, lessened her anxieties. Our space will not suffer
us to dwell upon the delicious scenes of peace and love which the two
enjoyed together in these few brief days of mutual dependence. They
comprised an age of immeasurable felicity, and brought the two together
in bonds of sympathy, which, however large had been their love before,
now rendered the passion more than ever at home and triumphant in their
mutual hearts. But with the tidings of the situation in which her
parents suffered, and the evident improvement of her lover, the maiden
found it necessary to depart from their place of hiding—that sweet
security of shade, such as the fancy of youth always dreams of, but
which it is the lot of very few to realise. She took her resolution
promptly.

“I must leave you, Richard. I must go home to my poor mother, now that
she is homeless.”

He would, if he could, have dissuaded her from venturing herself within
the reach of one so reckless and brutal as Mat Dunbar. But his sense of
right seconded her resolution, and though he expressed doubts and
misgivings, and betrayed his uneasiness and anxiety, he had no arguments
to offer against her purpose. She heard him with a sweet smile, and when
he had finished, she said,

“But I will give you one security, dear Richard, before we part, if you
will suffer me. You would have married me more than a year ago; but as I
knew my father’s situation, his preferences, and his dangers, I refused
to do so until the war was over. It has not helped him that I refused
you then. I don’t see that it will hurt him if I marry you now; and
there is something in the life we have spent together the last few days,
that tells me we ought to be married, Richard.”

This was spoken with the sweetest possible blush upon her cheeks.

“Do you consent, then, dear Frederica?” demanded the enraptured lover.

She put her hand into his own; he carried it to his lips, then drew her
down to him where he lay upon his leafy couch, and repeated the same
liberty with hers. His shout, in another moment, summoned Elijah Field
to his side. The business in prospect was soon explained. Our good
parson readily concurred in the propriety of the proceeding. The
inhabitants of the little camp of refuge were soon brought together,
Brough placing himself directly behind his young mistress. The white
teeth of the old African grinned his approbation; the favoring skies
looked down upon it, soft in the dreamy twilight of the evening sunset;
and there, in the natural temple of the forest—none surely ever prouder
or more appropriate—with columns of gigantic pine and cypress, and a
gothic luxuriance of vine, and leaf, and flower, wrapping shaft, and
cornice, capital and shrine, our two lovers were united before God—our
excellent preacher never having a more solemn or grateful sense of the
ceremony, and never having been more sweetly impressive in his manner of
performing it. It did not impair the validity of the marriage that
Brough honored it, as he would probably have done his own, by dancing
_Juba_, for a full hour after it was over, to his own satisfaction at
least, and in the absence of all other witnesses. Perhaps, of all his
little world, there were none whom the old negro loved quite so much,
white or black, as his young mistress and her youthful husband. With the
midnight, Frederica left the camp of refuge under the conduct of Elijah
Fields. They departed in the boat, the preacher pulling up stream—no
easy work against a current of four knots—with a vigorous arm, which,
after a tedious space, brought him to the landing opposite old Sabb’s
farm. Here Frederica landed, and the dawn of day found her standing in
front of the old log-house which had been assigned her parents, and a
captive in the strict custody of the tory sentries.

                                           [_Conclusion in our next._

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              RED JACKET.


Written on being presented by a lady with a wild flower that grew on his
                          grave, near Buffalo.


                          BY W. H. C. HOSMER.


               Thanks to the Genii of the flowers
                 Who planted on his humble tomb,
               And nursed, with sun and pleasant showers,
                 This herb of faded bloom!
               And, lady fair, my thanks to thee
               For bringing this frail gift to me,
                 Although it cannot match in dye
               The velvet drapery of the rose,
               Or the bright tulip-cup that glows
                 Like Summer’s evening sky.

               It hath a power to wake the dead—
                 A spell is in its dying leaf
               To summon, from his funeral bed,
                 The mighty forest chief.
               Realms that his fathers ruled of yore—
               Earth that their children own no more,
                 His melancholy glance beholds;
               And tearless though his falcon eye,
               His bosom heaves with agony
                 Beneath its blanket folds.

               Within the council-lodge again
                 I hear his voice the silence breaking,
               Soft as the music of the main,
                 When not a wind is waking;
               With touching pathos in his tone
               He mourns for days of glory flown,
                 When lay in shade both hill and glen,
               Ere, panoplied and armed for slaughter,
                 The big canoes brought pale-browed men
               Over the blue salt water;
               When deer and buffalo in droves
               Ranged through interminable groves,
               And the Great Spirit on his race
               Smiled ever with unclouded face.
               _Now_, with a burning tale of wrong,
               He wakes to rage the painted throng,
                 And points to violated graves,
               While eloquence dilates his form,
               And his lip mutters like the storm
                 When winds unchain the waves;
               An hundred scalping-knives are bare—
               An hundred hatchets swing in air,
                 And while the forest Cicero,
               Lost power portrays, and present shame,
               Old age forgets his palsied frame,
                 And grasps again the bow.

               Thus, sweet, wild-flower of faint perfume!
               Thy magic can unlock the tomb,
                 And forth the gifted sagamore
               Call from the shroud with vocal art
               To sway the pulses of the heart,
                 And awe the soul once more;
               For on his couch of lowly earth
               Thy modest loveliness had birth,
                 And lightly shook thy blooming head,
               When midnight summoned round the place
               The kingly spectres of his race
                 To sorrow for the dead;
               And sadly waved thy stem and leaf
               When Erie tuned to strains of grief
                 The hollow voices of the surge,
               And for that monarch of the shade,
               By whom his shore is classic made,
                 Raised a low, mournful dirge.

               The pilgrim from Ausonian clime,
               Rich in remains of olden time,
                 Brings marble relics o’er the deep—
               Memorials of deathless mind,
               Of hallowed ground where, grandly shrined,
                 Sage, bard and warrior sleep;
               And precious though such wrecks of yore,
               I prize thy gift, fair lady, more,
                 Plucked with a reverential hand;
               For the old chief, above whose tomb
               Its bud gave out a faint perfume,
                 Was son of my own forest land,
               And with bright records of her fame
               Is linked, immortally, his name.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            PEDRO DE PADILH.


                            BY J. M. LEGARE.


                         Spain, and Tercera.  }
                                AD. 1583.     }

It is part of the popular belief, I know, that our ancestors, of three
centuries back, lived and talked in quite a different fashion from
mankind at the present day; but as I entertain no political designs on
that Great Caioled, the people, I may venture to assert an opinion of my
own. I cannot persuade myself what is called human nature has undergone
much alteration in the exchange of an iron for a broadcloth suit, and it
is very certain people ate, drank, and slept in those remote times much
as we now do, although your stilted romancers seldom recognise the fact,
and make their heroines as unlike tangible women, “not too good for
daily food,” as their heroes are exemplars of the mendacious gifts of
their biographers. In the matter of speech, through which we mainly
receive impressions of fictitious personages, it is extraordinary what
fustian is palmed on a credulous posterity, as the veritable domestic
talk of nobles, knights and folks of lesser condition. There is no
comedy, high or low, in the conceptions of many of these authors; Man
having apparently assumed the distinguishing trait of a laughing animal,
or at best of an humorous one, at some more recent epoch of modern
history. Every body struts about in buskins and speaks tragedy, nothing
less; and as to the fooleries enacted by pages, grooms, and servitors of
all kinds, there is no end to them, nor any like nowadays, except we
find it on the boards of a country theatre.

What I say admits of easy illustration. Thus, when the page woke Don
Pedro out of his morning nap—which, by the bye, he was taking not as
the usual impression is, in greaves and a casque—he, the page, did not
“lout low as it behooves trusty varlets” to do, but in a manner as
straight-forward as a modern Thomas would employ, gave the drowsy knight
to understand that some one had been sounding his horn at the gate for
the last half hour.

“Very well,” returned the master, turning over to resume his doze where
he was interrupted—the gate being the concern of the warder, of course.

“But, Sir Peter,” put in the page, by way of remonstrance, “it is mi
señora who has sent.”

“Ah ha!” cried the knight, suddenly becoming wide awake, and leaning on
both elbows in bed to regard the speaker. “Well, what message does she
send?”

“That she wishes you to come up to the castle as soon as your comfort
allows, as she has something special to say.”

“That I will, presently,” exclaimed Don Pedro, getting up so promptly
his gaunt figure showed to no advantage in its scant costume. “And so
tell Gil, or whoever came, to carry back word. How the dear lady talks
of comfort to a man accustomed to the ease of camps! Fetch me those
things, Iorge, and look behind the arras for my slashed doublet. Stop,
before you go, reach down my sword and spurs from the hook behind the
door.”

Now all this is very rational, much like what one would say at the
present date, and unless the Spanish version of my story was never
written, (which the Muse of veracity—whatever her name—it was not
Clio, I know—forbid!) was the identical language employed on the
occasion by my hero, as true a knight as Spain has produced since her
Cid Rodrigo. This reminds me a hero of romance cannot be passed over as
commoner folks, with a surmise as to his inches and the color of his
hair, and moreover is expected to be an Apollo in shape, and sort of
supernatural in virtues, provided his character is not cast in quite a
different mould, and dependent for admiration on the enormity of its
crimes. But Don Pedro, unfortunately for the interest his fortunes are
destined to excite, fell into neither extreme, was neither a saint nor a
monster of iniquity, and as far from being handsome as from being
deformed. To have designated him in a crowd, you would have called
attention to his overtopping the rest by a full head, or to a certain
sinewy spareness of limb, or else the simplicity of his toilet, at a
time when country gentlemen wore ribbons and gewgaws alternately with
steel harness. But closer, the irregularity of his features, browned by
the sun where the rim of the casque had not interposed, was compensated
for by the singularly calm beauty of his eyes, which, in their serene
intelligence, would have become the brows of any woman, and even in
battle shone with a high sort of exultation, such as one would attribute
to a victorious angel in the celestial wars. There was nothing about Don
Pedro which harmonized with these eyes, except, perhaps, an undertone of
gentleness pervading his voice; it was an undertone only, for nothing
womanish characterized his speech, no mincing of words or petit-maître
modulations in addressing the other sex: there was not a particle of
affectation in the man, because there was not a particle of untruth.

I think it was these same fine eyes and gentleness which first won the
heart of the lady Hermosa, and his sincerity that safely kept it. Of
where and how they first met, in what words our Don laid his little keep
of a castle and patrimony at her feet, (his whole estate would not have
paid her upholsterer’s bill,) history discloses nothing. It is only
known she married him, and thereby raised a tempest of wrath and despair
in the breasts of numberless admirers, who, however, all consented to
eat of her cake on the happy occasion. Sir Peter was in nothing changed
by the event, but lived as before in his tower, spent not a _maravedi_
of his wife’s income on himself, and contented her by the frequency and
tenderness of his interviews. It was his whim to lead this style of
life, and she loved him enough to soon make it a whim of her own, the
separations not being very remote it must be conceded, as the keep and
castle stood perched on opposing hills, in full sight of one another.
Such concession in a young wife was certainly praiseworthy, although
some were found to be scandalized at its want of precedent. Of the
husband’s crotchet I say only, it was a quaint piece of instinctive
honor, which a few of his neighbors extolled, and the greater part
laughed at as an act of arrant simplicity: although, to my mind, the
less said about simplicity the better, by people who lived when dragons
and giants were not yet supposed to have retired upon ultimate Thule,
and Ponce de Leon’s search after the fountain of youth, (he was looking
for it then in Florida!) counted no great waste of time.

The Don and his countess concerned themselves very little about such
gossip, finding abundant occupation in a course of life which, without
the bias one unavoidably entertains for his heroes, is a source of
satisfaction to the writer hereof. It was in the lady’s nature to be
charitable, being one of those unaffected well wishers of humanity with
“abundant means,” whose part in this life seems to be to render
everybody in reach as satisfied as themselves, and before Sir Pedro’s
discretion and mature knowledge of the world came to her assistance,
committed as many philanthropic blunders as would have made her eligible
to an abolition chair, or seat in Exeter Hall. Of course I must not be
understood to undervalue the good she continued to do in the dark. I
have too great a reverence for money to suppose it capable of injury to
any recipient under any circumstances, differing in this respect from
all medicines whatever, which become poisons in quantity, and are
defective in the important item of universal application. The truth is,
I am led to this admission by an instance I have now in mind. There was
one Don Carlo, (so he called himself: the fellow had a dog’s name, but
any dog, short of a sheep-worrier, would have been compromised by his
acquaintance.) A free-captain, who earned his crust by such little
excesses as made the payment of black-mail an acceptable compromise on
the part of his favorites, and even in Philip the Second’s time, brought
an amount of civil odium upon his head which would have relieved him of
that incumbrance, had he not disbanded his company and retired to the
provinces to enjoy his honest gains. Here Captain Carlo—who was of a
playful temper and delighted in masking—made the acquaintance of our
heroine in the likeness of a veteran of the Moorish wars, and found
waylaying her steps and asking an alms as many times a day as she walked
out unattended (in as many different characters, of course,) so much
more profitable, to say nothing of the safety of the proceeding, than
poniarding a foot-passenger, or roasting a villager to discover hidden
treasure, that he became a pattern of morality to the country round, and
is currently said to have refrained more than once, when sorely tempted
by the purse she carried, from cutting his benefactress’ slender throat;
in this respect showing himself wiser than the avaricious owner of the
goose Æsop tells us of.

Captain Carlo, however, lost his golden eggs, as did many others of
scarcely less merit, when Sir Pedro de Padilh brought, as has been
hinted, his longer head and more comprehensive benevolence to the aid of
his young wife’s virtuous designs.

The latter quickly saw her mistake when once its results were laid bare,
and fell to correcting it with a feminine energy which constituted a
strong element of her character; Sir Peter meanwhile contenting himself
with a vigilant guardianship of her interests and benevolent projects,
and a hearty participation in her active measures—suggestions of his
own, not unfrequently too—which it was his fancy to conceal under an
assumption of caution; although I can’t say his wife was ever deceived
by the cloak worn on such occasions, for her tender affection would have
lent intelligence to faculties much duller than my heroine’s.

Sir Pedro very well knew it was some such work ahead which brought a
summons to his gate so early, and was in his saddle, breathing in the
fresh, moist air, and galloping through the fields and olive plantations
between, before Gil reached his lady’s castle.

I see the good knight now in my mind’s eye: Andalusian steed and
housings both spotless white, the first as much over the average height
of his race as was his master above that of common men: sitting
straight, with doublet buttoned easily across the breast, and a cap with
a trailing plume, which a branch caught off and forced him to wheel his
horse, with a _gracias señor_, to recover: so, picking a way up the
hill, and stooping under the portcullis, ready open, diminishing the
stature of the men around by contrast with his figure dismounted. Up the
wide steps, and into a room where his countess met him with her usual
happy face whenever this giant of a husband was nigh her. Perhaps I call
attention too often to Sir Peter’s seven feet of altitude, but in this
case the mention was involuntary; for I was thinking how, when she put
her arms about him, there being no one near, she was constrained to kiss
him where she laid her cheek, on his breast, being able to reach no
higher; and he, as a pine might an ash in windy weather, stooped and
kissed her on the forehead.

“Lady mine,” he said with a grave smile, holding her off to look down in
her face, “what is the matter? You were scarcely more troubled when I
rode against the Moors.”

“Señor—husband”—she replied, “what I have to tell may induce you to
leave me again. It is that troubles me.”

“Humph!” returned the knight, “a crusade against something or somebody?”

“Yes,” answered the countess, “one full of danger.”

Don Pedro smiled as a soldier of his inches, of course, should at the
idea of the thing.

“A week ago, my cousin Vida Inique came to me in much distress. You
remember her?”

“Certainly! She is the betrothed, Heaven help her, of that vagabond
nephew of mine.”

“She stopped here, for she came from Madrid with that purpose; partly
because she needs sympathy now, and I am her nearest relative, and
partly for the sake of society during the absence of her father with the
Marquis of Santa Cruz.”

“Santa Cruz!” repeated the Don, with the animation of his Andalusian
snuffing a whiff of cannon smoke.

“Yes. The king has ordered an armament under the marquis against
Tercera.”

“Not a word of this reached me in the mountains. A handful of good
knights would drive every Portuguese into the sea; I wonder the marquis
sails against such enemies, when he complained only the other day of
their ill breeding in Portugal; there was scarce a skirmish in which
their backs were not turned upon their Spanish guests.”

“You will think differently, my señor, when I tell you all; but let me
tell it as I heard it. Doña Viola wept so incessantly at first, whenever
she attempted to allude to Hilo—for, of course, he is the cause of her
grief—that I could understand nothing. The silly girl loves him with
her soul and heart, and pretty and wealthy as she is, this half nephew
of yours feels the yoke of his connection intolerable, and has adopted
the most outrageous means of extorting her consent to canceling the
agreement.”

“Ha! what mischief has he been doing lately?”

“First, when his representations and contemptuous reception of her fond
prayers failed to gain his purpose, he insulted her eyes by parading
before them on all occasions his companions, the most notorious thieves
and desperadoes of the capital, and women of the vilest character,
flaunting, not unfrequently, in chains and baubles he had stooped to
accept but never to wear, for the boy is as proud and wicked as Lucifer;
all this done with a scornful, overbearing air, which plainly said,
‘these, madam, are my intimate friends; they will sit at your table and
fill your house when I am master. Beware how you make me so!’ She is so
subdued and heart-broken already, she only wept and endeavored to hide
his insults from her father.”

“Santiago! what infatuation!”

“Then his vile nature broke forth still more insolently. His birth, as
you know, gives him access to the company of numerous dissolute
cavaliers, although the society he usually affects is of a much baser
sort. Through their means, without other harm to himself than what is in
store for his lying tongue, señor, he poisoned her life by spreading
through all ranks tales in which her maiden name was coupled with that
of infamy, and when this gossip was in the mouth of everybody, flung her
off publicly with a show of horror and mental anguish, which probably
had its weight on those who knew nothing of the man’s character.”

Sir Pedro’s brows contracted above his fine eyes, but he remained
silent.

“The scandal reached at last the ears of Don Augustino Inique himself,
in Portugal, and hastening from the frontier to the court, he laid the
matter before the king, demanding redress. Unluckily, this was not until
he had exhausted every source of information in tracing the flight of
the young man, who had stabbed the Count of Villenos in a quarrel in the
meanwhile, and disappeared from the city. Don Philip loves to be called
the Prudent, and has no fancy for being second in any intrigue, and
accordingly the enraged and baffled father was dismissed with polite
promises that meant nothing. Since then he has received secret
intelligence that Hilo has gone over to France, and either through
unnatural hatred of his countrymen, or characteristic recklessness of
every honorable purpose—for he is capable of any degradation—enlisted
under the commander, De Chaste, who sails soon at the bidding of the
queen mother to reinforce the Tercerans.”

“Why he is more depraved than his father, and he scrupled at little when
his passions were roused!” exclaimed Sir Pedro, baiting suddenly in a
walk which crossed the chamber at six strides. “This man is only my half
relative, as his father was, and does not even bear my name; but I must
save him from final ruin if that be possible. What steps have been taken
by Inique?”

“He readily obtained the appointment of camp-master under the marquis,
as no one at court knew his motive, and supposed he went abroad to find
forgetfulness in active service. A singular feature in the affair, is
his ignorance of Hilo’s relation to yourself; and although Viola is
acquainted with its existence, the chief defect in her character, a
timid reluctance to confiding any personal matter to her father, has
prevented his learning the truth during his brief visits to his home.
Yet a more gentle nature I have never found than hers.”

“I scarcely wonder at her shrinking from opening her heart to Don
Augustino,” answered our knight, “and were you to see him frequently,
you would entertain a like opinion. He is a soldier, and nothing better
if nothing worse—stern, scrupulous of his word, and jealous of his
honor; although what he calls by that name is of no wide compass; a man
whose outbreak of rage against his daughter I would have awaited with
strong apprehension, had I known any thing of this affair before.
Perhaps, however, the purpose of swift vengeance so occupies his brain
that feebler emotions is pushed aside.”

“I think you are right, Sir Pedro,” returned his lady, thoughtfully.
“For during the short space he remained with us, he seemed pre-occupied,
as if tracing a single idea through a maze of thought, and spoke little
of his own accord. His bearing was frigid enough, but if any unjust
anger toward his child remained, it was well concealed under the
elaborate courtesy he shared between us.”

“Yes,” said the knight, with a half laugh. “His old way, I recollect it
well; never more labored than when a volcano is smouldering under his
doublet. Only once have I seen him forgetful of this courtesy, when his
son, a mere stripling, and a coward by instinct, as others are brave
without will of their own, in a skirmish with the French sheltered
himself behind his father in sight of the opposing lines. He was his
only son, but he had better have been thrust through by a Gallic lance,
than taken refuge where he did.”

“Poor fellow! Did Sir Augustino strike him?”

“Worse. His boy was on foot, himself on horseback; when his threats and
imprecations failed to drive him back into the melee, in a paroxysm of
fury he struck him repeatedly on the head with the pommel of his sword,
unsoftened by the fair, bleeding face the child turned up while
clutching his leg, and begging for life. Not a gentleman in the two
armies sympathised with the father except Capt. De Chaste, who,
incapable of a like barbarity, is noted for pushing to an extreme all
questions of honor.”

“He was scarcely less cruel than Beaumanoir, who cried, ‘Bois ton sang,’
to his fainting son,” exclaimed Doña Hermosa, with a cheek paled by the
recital. “Did the poor lad die?”

“No. He lived by an accident, or Providence, which you will, a miserable
idiot, his brain having been injured by the concussion, perhaps, also by
the anguish endured. Sir Augustino takes him with him, no matter where
he goes, studiously bent on concealing his existence, much more his
presence from his companions in arms. In spite of every precaution,
however, the fact is well known; and twice this wreck of a man has
eluded his keeper, and appeared suddenly in the midst of the knight’s
guests.”

“Was his father much moved?”

“No, very little in appearance, his usual proud composure concealing
whatever pang he felt; and it is impossible to ascertain from his manner
whether he adheres to this strange companionship from remorse, and a
resolute purpose of atonement, or a less worthy desire to smother the
reproach by a jealous guardianship of its living witness.”

“Or else, dear señor, from a return of natural tenderness which a false
shame prevents him acknowledging for so mean an object.”

“Why some share of good belongs to every man; even it may be, to my next
of kin, although warped by the supremacy of his passions.”

“That is the only sane argument Viola advances for her love.”

“Humph!” After an interval; “I would like to see the Doña, if only to
remove the impression that she is no higher than this chair, as she was
when I saw her some years since.”

“You will find her,” rejoined the countess, smiling, “less a child in
height and style than her youth would lead you to suppose; for a
comparatively self-dependent life in close vicinity to the court, has
already converted girlish bashfulness into a becoming modesty enough.
But stay here till I find her,” added Doña Hermosa, going out.

“A wretched state of things,” mused our knight, resuming his suspended
strides, with hands clasped behind. “It is evident I have but one course
left; to track that young knave down, and by dint of soft or hard words,
turn him from a career which has already entitled him to a bench in the
galleys, if nothing worse. It is a good way, at all events, to pay back
the bitter hatred of his father, God forgive him!” and the soldier’s
moody brows relaxed at the thought, while his eye ran down the steep
road at the foot of which the father of the man he designed saving, had
one evening shattered his carbine on the rocks, because its hanging-fire
saved Sir Pedro’s life in passing. A quiet smile, called up, perhaps, by
a recollection of the solicitude shown by the countess the day
succeeding, still lingered about the knight’s mouth when he turned from
the window and saw the lady herself approaching, accompanied by her
guest, a fair girl, with the light, soft hair and eyes of an
Englishwoman, which her mother was. Her beauty appeared less imposing
than that of the thoroughly Spanish Hermosa, but much more delicate, and
so Sir Pedro seemed to think, for advancing and taking her by both
hands, he said, in a tone much more modulated than was common with him,

“Doña Viola—I called you Viola when we last met, and you were no taller
than my sword.”

“Call me so now, señor,” put in Viola, gently. “I cannot afford to lose
even the wording of friendship.”

The knight looked attentively at the speaker, whose eyes meeting his,
swam in tears. He paused thoughtfully, and then with his usual
straight-forward kindness, said,

“My child, I have learned your grievances through your cousin here. You
are nearly alone in the world, let us both assist you in all we can. You
see I am old enough to be your father, think of me as such for the
present. Besides, the cavalier whose fiancée you are, is, you know, my
half nephew; and the attempt I am about making to draw him from his
wicked courses, will be materially assisted by any good traits I may
become acquainted with; for while I confess my ignorance of the better
side of his character, Doña Viola, I am sure one exists, or you would
not have proved so faithful as you are.”

A faint red spot in the girl’s cheek had deepened and spread as Sir
Pedro spoke, until at his last words, her whole face was flushed, and
stooping quickly, she pressed her lips on his hand before he could
withdraw it.

“You are right,” she said, eagerly to Padilh, who stood with something
like a blush on his soldierly features at the impulsive action. “Save
him from himself, from his temptations, for he has a virtue mated with
every vice he practices, and ready to assume its place when the bad is
uprooted. I know,” she added, with an impetuous accent which betrayed
her Spanish blood, and was singularly impressive in her timid manner of
speaking, “he is a professed gambler, yet I have seen him clothe and
feed a company of beggars with the lavish generosity of a prince; I know
he has repeatedly endeavored to rescind our contract of marriage, but
how should this bind his love, since we were infants when it was drawn
in our joint name; and I have no reason, surely, to complain that he has
employed harsh means to accomplish his end, when I shut my eyes to the
growth of his aversion. No, Sir Pedro, the fault has been mine in
tempting him on; no one can say how different his life might have been,
but for the incumbrance I would not consent to his putting away—and so
let me suffer, not him. Save him, I earnestly beseech you, from himself,
and if need be,” she added, dropping her voice, and becoming as suddenly
pallid as before flushed, “save him from an encounter with my father.”

“That I will,” returned the Don, soothingly, “if interposition of my
words or body can. And one of these days, Doña Viola, we will talk these
matters over calmly, and discuss what is best to be done.”

“The poor thing is crazed,” he said an hour after to his countess, “to
love this Hilo! It was not easy to bring my mouth to call the scamp
‘cavalier;’ but her innocent distress overcame the reluctance. When this
feverish excitement, which forbids all close questioning, subsides, it
will be well to learn more, if she knows more of her betrothed. And if I
set out before that can be done—”

“What, do you really go to this war!” exclaimed our heroine, with the
admirable versatility of the sex, “when you have resigned yourself to
the gratification of a particular request not at all to your liking at
first.

“_Dear_, Sir Pedro, don’t you think some better way may be found of
accomplishing our purpose? For instance, let some trusty person find out
this young man and carry him a letter from you, as from an uncle
solicitous of doing him a benefit. Or, perhaps, Señor Inique might be
moved from his design by your calm representations. Only don’t go!” she
urged, with a tremulous lip.

To this outbreak Don Pedro de Padilh, with the tranquillity of one who
remembers a story he is anxious to tell and overlooks the last question,
rejoined,

“Did you ever hear, Hermosa, the history of the wonderful cat that lived
in Biscay when I was of no great size myself? There is one of the tribe
on the battlement yonder, marked as that intelligent animal must have
been, and put the story in my head.”

“Pshaw!” said the countess, half inclined to laugh, with tears in her
eyes.

“This cat was remarkable for ugliness and cunning, qualities which
increased the umbrage the priest naturally took to a cat who was said to
use better Latin than himself, to that degree he could not rest at ease
until the object of his jealousy was condemned to be burned, on the
rational plea of possessing more learning than was orthodox. But so
sagacious a creature was not to be caught asleep, and at the first rumor
of the affair took occasion to pay his respects to the most notorious
gossip of the province.

“‘Ah!’ said the cat, in the course of conversation, “‘talking of merit,
I am so delighted to find it rewarded occasionally, that I have been in
a state of ecstasy since the news came from the capital.’

“‘Santomio!’ cried the old woman _arrectis auribus_; ‘what are they
doing there, my dear cat?’

“‘Have you not heard about it! Our curà is to be rewarded with a
bishopric instanter; and for my part I don’t think a better selection
possible, when his scholarship is taken into consideration, and I have
some cause to count myself a judge of such matters.’

“‘Yes, yes, Señor Miz,’ put in the other. ‘But this is important news to
be sure; I hope you have it from good authority.’

“‘None better. My sister’s grandkitten is attached to the household of
the cardinal resident, and has just come down to pay me a visit. Trust
to my honor, señora most respected, you may talk of it without fear for
your veracity.’

“Of course, this was all sheer invention on the part of the cat, but
served his purpose for a time.”

“But why did not the foolish cat slip quietly away beforehand?” asked
the countess, who began to feel an interest in his fortunes.

“Oh, because the _familiars_ on watch were too alert, I suppose. But
hear what followed. When the curà, who had been on a little expedition
to bargain for the faggots, returned to his house, he was charmed to
learn his approaching exaltation from a score of friends; and at this
juncture, being seized with remorse at his precipitation, resolved to
hear from the cat’s own mouth the state of his faith. ‘For,’ said he to
himself, as he tucked up his cassock and waded through the mud to the
latter’s door, ‘one should not burn a Christian beast by mistake; and
who knows what influence the grandkitten of his very discreet sister may
have in his eminence’s house.’

“‘Why,’ said the shrewd grimalkin, who saw in a twinkling how much this
last reason had to do with the curà’s visit, ‘your reverend worship’s
excellency must perceive at a glance how this seam in my upper lip forms
a cross with the nostril above—a sign which I need not inform your
worship, is found only on catholic quadrupeds.’

“‘Ha!’ cried the priest, struck with the idea, ‘so it is. I beg your
pardon, Señor Miz, for overlooking it hitherto.’

“‘Not at all, the wisest sometimes err, as my relative, the cardinal’s
favorite, remarked to me yesterday. I am glad your reverence was not
within hearing, for she was good enough to repeat much of the praise his
eminence bestows on your worship, knowing she could not better please
me.’

“In such amicable conversation time passed, until the priest, bethinking
himself that the preparations for Autodafeïng his host, had gone too far
to be hushed up without some plausible excuse, and seeing no way out of
his dilemma, reluctantly confided his difficulty to the party
interested, for whom he began to feel a very disinterested friendship.

“‘Make yourself easy,’ rejoined the other, scarcely able to hide his
satisfaction, ‘if that is the whole difficulty, all your worship has to
do is to fling my _san-berito_ (faugh! the name makes me hot and cold
all over!) into the fire, and give me a chance to clutch your reverend
legs, under your worship’s gown.’

“‘_To_ be sure!’ said the curà, in a tone of benignant admiration, which
one should get Judge Belton, or the Mayor of Aiken, (who got it from the
Spanish original,) to mimic.

“Even the joint sagacity of a cat and a priest may fall short of
perfection. It was natural, certainly, for the curà to dream all night
of his expected mitre, and allow the same agreeable subject to occupy
his brain all day to the exclusion of every other. But I hold to it,
that he should have remembered at the right moment, (as he might easily
have done, of course, by tying a knot in his handkerchief or thread
round his finger,) to slip off the _san-berito_, and _not_ throw his
unhappy friend into the fire. Why, but for his confounded (I beg pardon,
but one has their feelings!) absence of mind, he might have seen his
victim’s tail—his head being smothered in the conical _caroza_—as big
as his arm, with rage and indignation.

“‘Wo is me!’ cried the wretched man, when he saw what was done, tearing
his beard in anguish of mind, ‘I have burned a Christian cat, and lost
my mitre!’”

While saying the last words, Don Pedro, who had been standing during the
recital, took his cap and moved to the door. But his countess
intercepted him with a wistful, half-perplexed face.

“Well?” said the knight, stopping, and looking at her with a scarce
visible smile.

“I think,” returned Hermosa, doubtingly, “you mean I am no wiser than
the curà, who, forgetting what he was about, threw his friend into the
fire, and then fell to lamenting his loss. But who is the cat?”

“Ah!” rejoined Sir Pedro, laughing, “the pith of the story lies in six
words,

        ‘La casa quemada,
        Acudir con el agua.’”

A couplet I design putting into the mouth of that scape-gallows, Hilo de
Ladron, in the next number of Graham, to serve as a thread, by closely
following which, the somewhat tangled woof of the young gentleman’s
character may in good time be unraveled.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          THE MARINER’S TALE.


                           BY R. PENN SMITH.


Scene. _A Flower Garden of a Mariner’s Asylum._
   _Characters. An aged Sailor and a Visiter._

  _Sailor._ All things must move in circles as earth doth.
The orbs that make space gorgeous move in circles;
E’en space itself is one eternal circle;
For were it not, its end would sure be reached.
All drag a chain still moving round and round
Until we join the two ends of the chain:
Thus man completes his circle. No escape then.

  _Stranger._ You spoke, sir, of a voyage.

  _Sailor._ Oh! pardon me:
I had forgot—those circles set me wild.
Where left I off? ’Tis strange, the thread is broken.

  _Stranger._ In the South Sea.

  _Sailor._ O, true!—’mong fruitful isles
The jocund waters leaped when morn arose,
And fringed each billow’s snow-white pinnacle
With golden tissue. Waves that wildly roared
Through night, like fiends contending for their prey,
Now smiled serenely as a lawn in spring
Spangled with herbage ’mid the wasting snow;
And as our gallant vessel glided on
The joyful waters, like some amorous dame,
Kissed the bright prow in very wantonness,
Regardless of the wound so rudely made
In the too pliant bosom.

  _Stranger._          You liken well
The waters to a woman; beautiful
In the bright sunshine of prosperity!
But when the tempest rages, sea-tossed man
Oft finds a shoal there, where his barque may strand,
Expecting a safe haven.

  _Sailor._          You are bitter:
But truth is not always sweet. All on board
Assembled on the deck to hail the sun
Weaving with gold God’s heaving world of green;
While lowly murmuring the gladsome waves
Sang matins to their master. Voices full
As deep-toned organ’s swell, and others shrill
As notes of linnets, mingled with the songs
The glad sea made in praising Him who made it.

  _Stranger._ Let the great sea and all that therein is;
The earth—its fruit—and all that live thereby—
And all that live hereafter, praise his name.

  _Sailor._ Amid our happy concourse there was seen
A father and his little family,
And the fair partner of his joys and griefs,
The mother of his children. While they gazed
Upon the wide expanse, their bosoms heaved
With admiration for His mighty works
Who rules the fearful sea. They thanked and trusted.

  _Stranger._ All thank and trust, who know the God they trust in.

  _Sailor._ Among them was a fair-haired rosy boy
Who hugged his father’s knee; his little hands
Clasped in devotion to the unseen God,
In ignorance adoring; for his spirit,
Unstained of earth, was redolent of heaven,
And instinct with the praises he had learnt
From angel-lips in his celestial birth-place.

  _Stranger._ Childhood’s inheritance, which manhood squanders,
God gives us all, while we return but little.

  _Sailor._ As the sun rose he sung a little hymn.
The words were these. I think his father made it.

  In the morning of existence,
    Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam;
  With God and angels for companions,
    Man—little lower than the angels—
    Receives the truth as it was given
    _Once_—face to face, and fresh from heaven.

  In the noontide of existence,
    With bathed brow and stalwort limb,
  Man, singing, struggles for subsistence
    For those in sin begot by him,
    Rejoices in those human frailties
    Which make him imitate his God.

  In the sunset of existence,
    Alone, in thy Gethsemane,
  Quaff the cup bravely and repine not—
    For man, thy God is there with thee.
    Meekly obey the mandate given,
    It purifies thy soul for heaven.

  _Stranger._ A strange thought that—childhood is Adam’s Eden,
Where man beholds his Maker face to face;
The close of life is his Gethsemane,
Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs,
Without a prayer to take it from his lips.
I’ve heard that hymn before.

  _Sailor._          Why call it strange?
The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter,
And the most bitter drops become the sweetest.
Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him
Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil,
Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been
With angel visitants. Perchance they are
The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn,
Seed-time and harvest! If that thought be true,
With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul
Gather the harvest of Gethsemane,
More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden.
The task is thine—first husbandman, then reaper.

  _Stranger._ Talk further of the boy who sung the hymn.

  _Sailor._ That spotless child, the rudest of the crew
Loved, for his presence made us better men.

  _Stranger._ True, all men who love children still grow better;
And the best men are children to the last,
At least in thought and feeling.

  _Sailor._ There’s the circle—
Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within them.
But to pursue our voyage—and the boy.
Day passed away, and as the night came on
The full-orbed moon roiled in a cloudless sky,
And the wide waters now lay hushed in sleep.
As gentle as the slumber of a child
Wearied with gambols through the live-long day.
The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by,
Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite;
The sea a living mirror, in whose depths
The richly studded concave was reflected,
Making a perfect globe; and as the ship
Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be
Some spirit on errand supernatural,
So dark and silently she glided on
The babbling waves were scarcely audible.

  _Stranger._ A pleasant sail which landsmen only dream of—
But never enjoy.

  _Sailor._ All joy hath bitterness.
Stretched on the deck the sailor-boy reposed,
And lived in dreams his infant years again.
The seamen, ’mid the shrouds aloft reclining,
Told o’er their tales of wreck and lingering death,
And in the drowsy interval was heard
The rugged cadence of the helmsman’s song.
“A pleasant sail!” But pleasure has strange wings,
She comes a zephyr and departs a whirlwind.

  _Stranger._ Kisses the flower to blooming, then destroys.

  _Sailor._ Sudden the helmsman’s drowsy song was hushed.
A fearful cry arose—“The ship’s on fire!”
The seamen from aloft sent back the cry;
The sailor boy shook off his happy dream,
And woke to horror. All was wild dismay!
Half sleeping—half awake, the crew came forth;
Grim death, enveloped in his robes of flame,
Marched on and laughed. There was no human power
To put aside his footstep. On he moved
In awful majesty; whate’er he touched,
True to its origin, returned to dust,
And Nature’s master-work, man’s godlike frame,
Became as worthless as the spars and sails,
Each made its pile of ashes—nothing more.

  _Stranger._ Ashes to ashes all, and dust to dust,
The self-same mandate both on earth and sea.

  _Sailor._ The flames attained dominion. Tyrant-like,
They ruled and raged. Upon the shrouds they seized,
Kissing destruction—laughing as they kissed;
While the broad glare they spread upon the deep
Changed the sea’s nature. Water soon became
A lake of living fire. “A pleasant sail!”

  _Stranger._ You weep. Go on.

  _Sailor._ O that I then had perished!
I seized the boy and leaped into the waves.
Upon a fallen spar we safely rode
Until the ship went down. “A pleasant sail!”
Her knell one shriek of mortal agony.
We had no heart to weep for their sad fate—
No heart to pray for one less terrible.
I gathered fragments from the floating wreck,
And made a raft, where two immortal souls
Struggled with time to check eternity
With frail appliance. For three days we suffered;
And then a passing ship preserved our lives
For greater suffering.

  _Stranger._ The boy—his fate?

  _Sailor._ His parents dead—the lad became my charge.
I then was married to a worthy woman—
God’s kindest gift. We had an only child—
My wife brought up the children as if twins,
And at a proper age he sailed with me.
He grew to manhood—noble—cheerful—kind
As those who love the artless lips of children;
A very babe was he in his affections—
A very demon in his bitter passions.
The eagle and the dove oft make their nest—
The tiger and the ermin find a lair
In the same bosom.

  _Stranger._ What became of him?

  _Sailor._ My wife grew sick. He loved her as his mother;
He loved my daughter too. I sailed, and left him
To till my little ground and smooth their pathway.
After three years I came to port again.
Crossing my fields, which now poured forth their increase,
I saw a man resting upon his plough,
Singing right lustily.

  _Stranger._ What did he sing?

  _Sailor._ In the noontide of existence,
        With swarthy brow and rugged limb,
      Man bravely struggles for subsistence
        For those in sin begot by him;
      Rejoices in all frailties—sorrows,
      They draw him nearer to his God.

  _Stranger._ The hymn of early childhood still remembered.

  _Sailor._ A bending in the chain to form the circle.
He led me to my home—and such a home!
It seemed as if the fairies had been there
Making their May-day—wife and daughter happy.
Then, from an arbor overgrown with flowers,
He placed a prattling child upon my knee,
And called him by my name. He laughed outright—
My daughter blushed. They now were man and wife.
I danced—then blubbered like a very child.
Tears are at times a truer sign of joy
Than smiles and laughter.

  _Stranger._ ’Twas a boy, you said?

  _Sailor._ A boy—his bud of Paradise, he called him.
Such flowers, too, often yield most bitter fruit
In man’s Gethsemane.

  _Stranger._ Thank God! not always.

  _Sailor._ We dwelt together for a few brief months.
He then proposed to try the sea again,
To place the beings whom we fondly loved
Beyond the cold calamities of earth.
Three years we sailed—we prospered, and returned
With means to make those happy whom we loved.
On wearied pinions, like the dove of peace
When land was found, he flew to seek the ark
Where our best feelings day and night reposed,
While struggling with the ocean. God! O God!
No ark was there—no resting-place for him!
Even Ararat was covered with the deluge.

  _Stranger._ I understand you not.

  _Sailor._ His wife was false.

  _Stranger._ Impossible!

  _Sailor._ But true. You tremble sir.
Her father curst the memory of his child;
Her mother withered, and soon died heart-broken.
You seem disturbed.

  _Stranger._ ’Tis past. What did your son?

  _Sailor._ He slew the slimy reptile that crawled over him;
Put his hard heel upon her glossy front,
Trampled her out in cold blood.

  _Stranger._ God of heaven!

  _Sailor._ And he did right.

  _Stranger._ Your daughter!

  _Sailor._ He did right.
She who betrays the honor of her husband,
Regardless of her parents, self, and children,
Should cease to live, though all unfit to die.
Better to rot in earth, than crawl through life,
Offending all things with her foul pollution.
I love my God; knowledge increases love.
I ask forgiveness of him, as Christ prayed.
I am his child, and yet I curse my child.
Her sin hath made the best of prayers from my lips
An invocation of a lasting curse
On her old father’s head a mockery!
Forgive as I forgive—a lie to God!
Her sin hath robbed me of my prayer of childhood—
The prayer I gathered from my mother’s lips—
The prayer that opens the celestial portals—
The prayer _He_ taught when _He_ appeared as mortal.

  _Stranger._ His destiny.

  _Sailor._ He fled and took his child;
But not as Cain fled with the brand upon him.
’Twas sacrifice to virtue, and no murder.
When I arrived my Eden was Golgotha;
I found a corpse—my wife bereft of reason.
I buried one, attended to the other
For years until she died. The fruits of lust!
I went to sea again in search of strife—
The quiet of the land near drove me mad.
The ship I sailed in scoured the southern sea,
To quell the pirates. We o’ertook a rover.
A deadly strife ensued—’twas life or death;
Their chief and I by chance met sword to sword;
I knew him not, and, strange, he knew not me.
O! grief outstrips the rapid wing of time
In marring youthful beauty! See this scar!
His cutlas gave it—but I mastered him.
Their chief subdued, the rover soon surrendered.

  _Stranger._ His destiny?

  _Sailor._ The yard-arm, and a halter.
I saw him pass away.

  _Stranger._ And said he nothing?

  _Sailor._ Naught to the crowd—but I remember this:
    In the sunset of existence,
      Alone in my Gethsemane,
    I quaff the cup without repining,
      For God, I feel thou’rt still with me.
      Meekly obey the mandate given
      That purifies the soul for heaven.

  _Stranger._ His cradle-hymn still chanted to the grave.

  _Sailor._ The circle, sir—the end and the beginning—
The two ends of the chain are linked together.

  _Stranger._ You said he had a boy.

  _Sailor._ I said not so.
There was a boy, whom I have searched for since;
But, like the shadows of all earthly hope,
He hath eluded me.

  _Stranger._ I am that boy.

  _Sailor._ Thou!—thou that boy! The wheel is still in motion!

  _Stranger._ I stood beside the gallows when he died.

  _Sailor._ His bird of Paradise! A cherub then!
I’ve seen you often sleeping among roses,
And he, a guardian angel, smiling o’er you.
You have not slept on roses often since,
But wept beneath your father’s gallows-tree.
And my blind deeds have shaped your destiny.
I brought your father to a shameful death,
Which your young eyes beheld. And I’ve made known
A thing, perhaps unknown to you before—
Your mother’s infamy. Alas! poor boy!
What an inheritance have we bequeathed you!

  _Stranger._ You did your duty, sir.

  _Sailor._ Ay, there’s the question.
Can duty lead man’s footsteps to God’s throne,
Making life death, the glad earth Tartarus?
I snatched a fellow-being, winged for heaven,
With God’s own impress on him still unblurred,
Who, but for me, would have flown chanting there
Anthems to angels. But with ruffian hands
I checked his flight, and stayed him for perdition.
Would that the ocean had received the child!
Would I had let him perish in the flames!
Would that this wound had marked me for the grave,
Ere I had saved him for an after life
Of sin and sorrow, though impelled by—duty.

  _Stranger._ Why do you pluck those gorgeous poppy-flowers,
And cast them in the walk?

  _Sailor._ They now are harmless;
Suffered to ripen, they are poisonous.
Let them die blooming, while they are innoxious.
Would he had perished as these simple flowers,
Ere his bloom faded, yielding deadly seed.

  _Stranger._ I’ve sought you, sir, to solace your old age.

  _Sailor._ God bless my child! We’re in the circle still.
Good begets evil often—evil good.
The grandsire and the grandson close the chain—
Alone—forlorn! Yet both have done their duty.
The world goes round and round, ’till hidden things
Stalk forth as spectres from the rotten grave.
All, all is plain! These circles drive me mad!

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        A ROMANCE OF TRUE LOVE:


                       WITH FIDDLE ACCOMPANIMENT.


                      BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.


Perched, like a large gray owl with folded wings, upon the summit of the
very highest hill within a day’s journey from “our village,” but within
half a mile of the old meeting-house, stands a narrow stone dwelling,
with a narrow, pointed roof, narrow windows, or loop-holes, as they
might be more properly termed, and one narrow door; the whole inclosed
within a narrow yard, from which two slender poplars point their “tall
columns to the skies.”

One would scarcely imagine from so unpromising an aspect that a
heart-history could be gleaned from “lifting” that narrow roof. I must
confess, too, that there is certainly very little romance in the
appearance of the inmate whom it shelters—so gaunt and
cadaverous—nearly as tall as the poplars, and with arms like the
evolving sails of a windmill. Yet, as by searching there is gold to be
found even amid the most rocky and unpromising defiles of California, so
is there sterling mettle hid beneath the rough exterior of Apollos
Dalrymple, and this having found I will disclose.

When I say that Apollos is the sole tenant of this owl-like habitation,
I need not add that he belongs to the bachelor fraternity—but in
justice to him I will say that he was not made a bachelor from any
contempt or irreverence of the fair sex, but from “sweet love’s teen”
having “loved not wisely, but too well.”

It is now many years since Apollos thus retired from the world. His hair
is nearly silver white, and old age sits upon his shoulders, yet still
he washes and mends his clothes, with his long, bony fingers knits his
stockings, and cooks his own food from the little plat of vegetables
behind the house—for Apollos is a Grahamite, as well as a Gray-eremite.
I must retrace some twenty years in the life of Apollos, for the first
record of the heart-history I have promised—I will even go still
further back, and introduce him a “puling infant in the nurse’s arms.”

It was the misfortune of Apollos to be born with an ear—I mean an ear
for music! Whether the euphonious name by which he was christened had
any thing to do with the quaverings of his innocent cradle-_dom_ I
cannot say, but certain it is, his infantine warblings were loud and
incessant—“_prestissimo_” and “_fortissimo_,” seldom allowing a “rest”
either to himself or his poor worn-out mother. The period of infancy
passed, Apollos was sent to school, where he was distinguished for the
long drawn nasal tones in which he might be said to chant his lessons,
and being moreover somewhat given to whistling and tuning up of
jews-harps, the terrible ire of Schoolmaster Ferule vented itself in
drawing long scales upon his tender flesh, to which Apollos composed the
notes upon a high key.

As soon as he could read the tenth chapter of Nehemiah without drawing a
long breath, his father made him ruler over countless heads of cattle,
and set him to ploughing and planting, sowing and reaping the fertile
acres which were one day to become his own. Even into the drudgery of
the farm Apollos bore with him his musical mania, and while he sowed the
seed and planted the corn it was all done to music, so that when the
green grain burst through the ground there was no stiff regularity about
it, but falling off into minims, crotchets, quavers and
demi-semi-quavers, it swept through the broad fields like a living sheet
of music, from which no doubt the little ground-sparrow and the
glassy-winged grasshopper, learned many new variations.

Not “blest as the gods,” Apollos could strike no harp but the jews-harp,
for his father had no music in his soul, though a very clever man,
Shakspeare to the contrary, and would never allow his son to spend his
earnings in cultivating so useless an art. The singing-school he
tolerated, and there, in the long winter evenings, by the flickering
light of tallow candles did Apollos luxuriate—also at all trainings,
when “the spirit-stirring drum and ear-piercing fife” echoed through the
streets, there was the tall, ungainly figure of Apollos to be seen,
almost envying even the little fat drummer the powers of his
_rub-a-dub_.

One day our musical hero purchased a cracked flute! How trilled his
heart in joyful cadence as he held in his hand the precious
bargain—with what ecstasy did he turn it over and over, and then, as
soon as the cattle were foddered, and the shades of evening resting over
the farm, he would nightly retire into the recesses of the forest, and
there blow and puff, like Sam Weller’s “aggrawated glass-blower,” until
his eyes almost started from their sockets—the rocks and trees to be
sure kept their places in the firm earth, but the whip-po-wils and the
owls peeped forth to listen, and more than once did he hear his notes
re-echoed by some young, aspiring screech-owl.

The next musical adventure of Apollos was effected by exchanging a young
and tender calf for a fiddle! Every muscle of his long arm, became as a
separate fiddle-bow, giving forth such endless _see-sawing_ and
_tweedle-dee-ing_ that every good wife in the neighborhood was tempted
to complain of him as a nuisance, for waking up all the babies and
disturbing them in their first sleep, for the strains of Apollos, like
those of “sweet Philomela,” were only heard at night. But
notwithstanding all this Apollos was a general favorite, for the spirit
of harmony pervaded his bosom for all animate and inanimate
objects—there was to him music in all created things. His heart was
gentle—his hand ever ready to do a kindness, and therefore he was
suffered to fiddle to his bent, little dreaming the anathemas which the
deed, not the doer, nightly originated.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Side by side stood the cottages of Leonard Davis and Luther Howell, and
side by side grew up the two lovely children Paul and Linda.

Neither Davis nor Howell were in good circumstances, although both owned
the farms on which they lived; yet there was a great difference in the
character of the two men, which in the end led to very different
results. Leonard Davis was a thriftless, indolent man, who loved better
to smoke his pipe under the tavern porch, and give forth his opinions
upon the politics of the day, than to cultivate his land or keep his
fences in order. Luther Howell, on the contrary, was a hard-working,
industrious man. He loved money although he had but little of it—yet he
resolved to have more; and upon the strength of that determination dug
and delved away his days, almost begrudging even the Sabbath rest.

Linda was the youngest of his five children, all of which, to Mr.
Howell’s great chagrin were daughters. Mr. Davis had but one child,
little Paul, whose mother had died while he was but an infant, and Mrs.
Howell feeling compassion for the motherless boy encouraged him to play
with her children, so that by degrees the little fellow became nearly
domesticated under the same roof with the five rosy-cheeked, happy
little Howells. Paul was three years older than Linda, and was very
proud of the confidence which Mrs. Howell reposed in his superior age
and strength, by trusting to him the care of the little toddling girl,
and repaid her confidence by deserving it. Linda soon became more fond
of Paul than any one else, and Paul would at any time leave his play
with the older girls, or throw down his bat and ball if he but heard the
sweet voice of the little Linda calling his name. He would lead her into
the woods, and with a natural love of the beautiful select a spot where
the moss was the greenest and freshest, and where the golden sunlight
quivering through the dense foliage danced in playful gambols around
them—here he would carefully seat the little girl, and gather for her
the pretty wild flowers which he found hid in the thick woods, or the
bright scarlet berries peeping out from the dark, glossy leaves of the
winter-green; and when the little Linda was old enough to go to school,
Paul still enacted himself her champion and assistant.

Linda was ten years old when Mr. Howell received a letter from his
brother, living in New York, offering to relieve him of a share of his
burdens by adopting one of the five girls into his family. Imbued with
the same money-getting spirit as his brother, Ansel Howell had left the
village many years previous, to seek the fortune he was resolved upon
amassing. He had been successful, and at the date of the letter which
caused so much excitement in the humble residence of Luther, Ansel might
be considered a rich man.

The offer was gladly accepted, and the question next arose which of the
girls should go forth from the family hive. Prudence governed their
decision. Bessie could spin her day’s work with any farmer’s daughter
for miles around—Sophie was already capable of taking charge of the
dairy, while Polly and Margaret not only could sew nearly as well as
their mother, but could also make themselves useful in various ways
about the house. Linda was of the least service in the domestic keep,
and therefore the choice fell upon Linda, who was thus taken from her
simple country pleasures, and from her dear friend Paul to a new home
and new friends amid the ceaseless din of a city.

Luther Howell reaped the benefits of his industry. His farm throve—his
stock increased—the old house was torn down, and a handsome, convenient
two story dwelling erected on its site; and in the course of a few years
Mr. Howell went as representative to the state legislature, and was
reckoned one of the most substantial men in the village. But just in
proportion as things had prospered with Howell had they gone adverse
with his neighbor Davis, and about the time when the new tenement of the
former was being raised amid the loud cheers of the workmen, the sheriff
seized upon both house and land of the latter, and that being
insufficient to meet his debts, for “the want thereof they took the
body”—at that time imprisonment for debt was no uncommon thing. If
Davis had not been so perfectly thriftless, in all humanity his townsmen
would have bailed him out, but the fact is, it was pretty generally
conceded that he might just as well smoke in jail as elsewhere—pipes
and tobacco therefore were freely contributed, and in the course of a
few months poor Leonard Davis evaporated—his soul taking flight in a
whiff of tobacco smoke!

Before the affairs of his father became so desperate, Paul had worked
his way to New York, and apprenticed himself in a large printing-office,
trusting with all the confidence of youth that he should return ere many
years to his native village, free his father from the shackles of debt,
and perhaps set up an establishment of his own. Another and a brighter
vision might have mingled with these day dreams, of which we may learn
more hereafter.

Paul knew that his little friend Linda lived in the same city with him,
and after a long search he was at length enabled to discover the
dwelling which sheltered the pet flower of his boyhood. But there was
such an atmosphere of grandeur around her now, that poor Paul had not
courage to penetrate further, so for several weeks he contented himself
with hovering around the house in the evening and on Sundays, hoping at
least to obtain a glimpse of the little girl.

At length one day he met Linda with her governess. It was his own
Linda—yet how changed! What a lovely young face! what grace—what
innocence! and then how tall! Paul forgot that years mark their
flight—he looked for the child, and he found a beautifully formed
maiden of fifteen!

Ah, he dared not address her! he cast his eyes upon the ground and stood
still for Linda to pass! and then as her little foot twinkled upon the
pavement close to him, and her robe brushed his coarse garments, he
involuntarily looked up. Linda turned her large hazel eye upon him. She
started—a rosy blush mantled her sweet face! It seemed to the maiden
that she was strangely transported back to the green grassy meadow and
the play-grounds of her infancy! Again she looked at Paul:

“Linda!” he softly whispered.

“Paul!” responded the heart and the lips of Linda; and with all the
innocence and gladness of a child she threw her arms around his neck,
and pressed a kiss upon his sun-burned cheek!

Ah that kiss—happy, happy Paul!

But here Miss Lofty interposed. It was scandalous—kissing a young man
in the street—good gracious, who ever heard of such a thing—a fellow,
too, in a green jacket—monstrous!

“Why, dear Miss Lofty, it is Paul—only Paul!” cried Linda, earnestly;
“how many times I have told you about my dear, dear Paul!” and then
turning her back upon the horrified spinster, with her little hand
clasped tightly in his, she begged of him again and again, to come and
see her.

“Yes, you can call on Miss Howell, young man, if you please, but you
must not stand here any longer, Miss Linda; I am really shocked at your
want of delicacy. I can hardly answer to your aunt for such strange
doings!” and so saying, Miss Lofty led off her young charge.

As Linda disappeared sunshine and daylight faded from the heart of poor
Paul.

He felt there was now an immeasurable gulf between him and her; and,
after all, why was it that he came to so sorrowful a conclusion? Was it
because, as Miss Lofty had said, he wore a green jacket, and worked with
his hands, while Linda sat in her delicate robes of muslin or silk, and
with slender fingers wrought at her embroidery-frame, or airily swept
the piano. Ah, Paul, be brave! Let not your heart fail you at mere
external or worldly distinctions.

He called to see Linda. It was shortly after this first interview; she
had become restrained, and her aunt sat stately in the room, and without
being rude, yet was her manner so little removed from it, that Paul
never went again. For two or three years Linda heard no more of the
playmate and friend of her early childhood. But Paul saw her when she
little dreamed what fond eyes were watching her! He saw her graceful,
beautiful, and accomplished; and although he dared not whisper a hope
that she might one day be his, he resolved to improve his mind by study
and application, that he might at least raise himself above her
contempt; and so, by the midnight lamp, the poor fellow went to work,
and for two years every leisure moment was spent in study, and every
penny he could save, employed in procuring books for his thirsting mind.
His perseverance did not go unrewarded; his employer soon took note of
his talents, and Paul became assistant editor of a popular weekly
journal.

                 *        *        *        *        *

By some unforeseen calamity, Ansel Howell became a poor man, and Linda
returned to her father’s roof.

Eight years previous her parents had gladly parted with her, and they
now as gladly welcomed her back; her sisters were all married, and the
old people quite alone, so that her presence was as the light of morning
to their lonely fireside. Her city life had by no means spoiled Linda
for the pleasures of the country; she felt like a bird who, after being
caged a weary time, is suddenly permitted to flit at freedom amid its
native bowers.

Linda retained a vivid impression of the early scenes of her childhood,
and as she again revisited each nook and dell, the remembrance of her
kind friend, Paul, also came back to her, and the present seemed
incomplete without him whose tender care and ever ready invention to
amuse her waywardness, had cast such brightness over the days of
infancy. Where was he now? Had he forgotten her? She thought of him as
she had seen him when he so suddenly appeared before her—those deep,
tender eyes, regarding her with so much respect and affection; and then,
when admitted into the stately dwelling of her uncle, he had come
forward so modestly, yet with so much self-respect to greet her, and her
heart reproached her, that, through fear of her aunt’s displeasure, she
had, perhaps, treated him coldly.

“But, dear Paul, I am sure I did not mean to be unkind!” she mentally
exclaimed.

Ah, if Paul, as he sat in his office in that narrow, confined street,
bending so diligently over his desk, in the sultry breath of the city,
could have known the thoughts of the fair girl, as she strolled through
the summer woods, what rapture would have thrilled his bosom, and how
would the dull atmosphere in which he toiled have become irradiate in
the light of love and happiness.

Has the reader forgotten Apollos—the Apollo—the Paganini, whose
witched fiddle-bow made both echoes and babies shriek in concert?

It chanced one evening that Apollos, out of resin, set forth for the
village to supply that dire necessity. Whistling he went, when suddenly
there were borne to his ear strains of most ravishing sweetness, now
softly swelling on the evening breeze—now fainter and fainter dying
away until even silence seemed musical, and then again bursting forth so
free and joyous, that the very air around him vibrated with melody.

Spell bound stood Apollos. The doors of his great ears swung back to
welcome in the harmony, and his mouth, too, opened as if to swallow it.
Then, led on as it were by invisible spirits, his feet followed the
bewitching sounds, and planted themselves under the large button-ball
tree which stood near the window where Linda was thus unconsciously
drawing both soul and body of Apollos magnetically unto her.

Conceive his perfect rapture as thus, so near the centre of attraction,
the sweet strains encompassed him about. They ceased, and then to the
window, still warbling, the young girl came, and leaning from the
casement, stretched forth her little white hand, and began plucking the
leaves from the very tree whose shadowing branches waved around the head
of Apollos.

A sweet face becomes almost as the face of an angel, when seen in the
calm moonlight; and as Linda stood there, her large, brown eyes, looking
out into the holy night, her high, pure forehead clasped in the glossy
braids of her dark hair, and her light, graceful figure folded in a
snowy robe, no wonder she seemed to Apollos too pure, too beautiful, for
a being of earth’s mould. But while he gazed and gazed, she turned away,
and with her took the heart of Apollos. Again seating herself at the
piano, Linda ran her fingers over the keys with the lightness of a bird
upon the wing, and one of Beethoven’s exquisite sonatas awoke to life
under her touch.

Poor Apollos! No volition had he of his own—he went whither the fates
impelled him. Step by step did he approach the open casement, and as
some poor bird is drawn, little by little, into the very mouth of its
fascinating destroyer, even so was Apollos drawn head and shoulders into
the window. The moon beams danced around him, as if enjoying the
mischief they were about to disclose, and gleamed coldly but steadily
upon him, his elbows resting on the sill, and his long legs, curved
outward, like those of a grasshopper. At last, rising from the
instrument, Linda closed it, and was about to approach the window, when
the strange apparition of Apollos glared upon her. With a loud shriek
she rushed from the room; as for Apollos, he bounded away like a
madman—

        “Swift on the right—swift on the left,
           Sweeps every scene asunder—
         Heaths, meadows, fields—how swift their flight,
           And now the bridges thunder!”

That night Apollos Dalrymple was convicted of having seen a ghost.

And now, from that eventful evening, Cupid ensconced himself within the
virgin heart of Apollos, and there the little rascal sat perched upon a
hill of ancient ballads, delighted with the mischief he was doing, and
every now and then beating up such a rub-a-dub as well-nigh drove poor
Apollos distracted. For here were garnered up stores of the dainty food
which the poets have appropriated exclusively to the little god—not, to
be sure, the fastidious fare of a modern amateur, supping only on the
tongues of Italian or Swedish nightingales, but the good, substantial
fare our forefathers loved.

By the death of his father all those goodly acres had descended to
Apollos; but this year the farm proved a losing concern, for the sheep
died from starvation—the cattle from over-feeding—the hoe cut down
both corn and weed—the grass luxuriated in freedom from the scythe, and
the grain from the sickle, until both were over-ripe. The people all
thought Apollos bewitched, and bewitched he certainly was. Even the
fiddle was suffered to be mute, unless when seizing it with sudden furor
he would strive to repeat some note which the voice of Linda had
fastened upon his memory, but as sure as he did so, her image appeared
at his working elbow, and Cupid, with a jog, jumped astride the
fiddle-bow.

There was a beautiful simplicity in the heart of Apollos—an almost
maidenly delicacy. He shrunk from intruding upon the fair object of his
thoughts, never once did he speak with her, or seek to claim her
acquaintance. She was to him something too divine to approach, and he
worshiped her at a distance—a star whose beams blended with the music
of his soul. There was no vanity hid away in his brain; he saw himself
as others saw him—a rough, ungainly figure, without comeliness or
proportion, and the more did he strive to cultivate those inward graces
by which even his ugliness was made to be forgotten.

How little did Linda dream, as she sometimes passed him in her walks,
what a great heart throbbed for her, and would have poured out its
life-blood in her service.

The summer following Paul Davis revisited his birth-place, and for the
first time for many years he and Linda met again. In form and feature
both were changed—but in both the heart remained the same, and the same
affinity which had in childhood bound them, now by a closer and dearer
tie united them.

But Mr. Howell’s other four daughters had all married rich men; and as
Linda was the fairest and most accomplished, he had planned for her a
match which might be considered brilliant. When, therefore, Paul asked
for her hand, it was refused with the contempt of one who feels that
riches, not affection and kindness make up the _summum bonum_ of life’s
happiness, and with whom the weight of the purse out-balances the weight
of both head and heart. And then Pride, too, put in her voice—_what_,
his daughter marry the son of Leonard Davis, who died in a jail! To be
sure, he understood that Paul was doing a very good business in the
editorial line; but then a mere editor—a drudge for the public—_bah_!

And so Paul was scornfully dismissed, and returned to the city, yet
bearing with him the sworn faith of her he loved.

Smiles faded from the cheek of Linda, and her voice now seldom sent its
glad notes to cheer the heart of Apollos. He saw she was pale, and that
her step was listless. He felt she was unhappy, and now, in addition to
his own grief, he bore about with him the pain of knowing that she, too,
had sorrows which he could not heal. He would have had her so happy.
Around her path only thornless roses should have clustered, and how
gladly would he have shielded her from all the storms of life.

Ah, poor Apollos! if it could have been; if, like the great branches of
the oak which shelter the timid daisy from sun and rain, those great
arms of thine would have enfolded this little flower—then, indeed,
would thy big soul have leaped with gladness.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Months passed on.

Paul worked at his desk patiently, and hoping that by some favor of
fortune he might yet claim the hand of Linda.

About this time the proprietor of the establishment in which he was
employed, desirous of making a change in his business, offered to sell
out at a price very advantageous for the purchaser. Paul would gladly
have availed himself of this opportunity, but his means were
insufficient, and he knew of no person of whom he could solicit the
required sum. While the sale was pending Paul again visited the village,
not with any idea of a second time subjecting himself to the rudeness of
Mr. Howell by a further request for the hand of his daughter. He went,
therefore, as on ardent lover may be supposed to go, impelled by a
desire of seeing again the object of his affection, and of hearing from
her dear lips a renewed assurance of her truth.

Now it chanced that the very afternoon of his arrival, Apollos strolled
forth in somewhat melancholy mood, and took a path leading through a
thick grove bordering upon his farm. It was one of those cold, gloomy
days in March, when not a bud or a leaf has as yet betokened the
grateful advent of spring. Little patches of ice and snow still clung
around the decaying leaves, frozen into black heaps where the autumn
winds had gathered in their many dead; the wind rattled the naked
branches of the trees in the dull, chill atmosphere; flights of crows
flew low with their dismal croak, and the squirrel now and then looked
out timidly from the old brown trunks, as if to note the aspect of the
weather, and feeling the biting wind upon his nose, turned nimbly back
to his hole again. It was through these gloomy woods, therefore, that
Apollos bent his way, and had nearly cleared the grove, when his
reveries were suddenly interrupted by hearing the sound of voices from a
thick cluster of young pines, whose green, spiral branches gave relief
to the brown aspect of the surrounding trees. He recognized at once the
accents of Linda; there was sadness in them, and he involuntarily
paused, not with any intention of becoming a listener from curiosity,
but only to drink in her beloved tones. His next impulse was to retreat
softly; but the words which her companion spoke arrested his attention
anew, and so he stood irresolute, anxious to learn more, and yet
unwilling to steal thus into the secrets of the young pair.

“Well, dearest Linda, we must be patient and hopeful,” said Paul. “The
assurance of your love will inspire me with fresh ardor in this struggle
with fortune, and in the end, Linda, I am sure to come off conqueror. I
wish not to reproach your father, but I flattered myself that wealth
would not have been so great a consideration with him, and that as he
has known me from my childhood, he would have preferred an honest,
truthful heart, and the happiness of his child to the glitter of gold.”

“I hoped so, too, dear Paul; perhaps he will yet alter his
determination; let us hope for the best,” answered Linda.

“A few thousand dollars would at this moment place me in a situation to
demand your hand a second time, dear Linda,” continued Paul. “Mr.
Neeland wishes to dispose of his establishment, and offers it at so
reasonable an estimate that I would gladly become a purchaser if I had
but the means—this, Linda, would remove the scruples of your father,
and crown our happiness!”

“True, dear Paul. Ah! would that some kind friend might assist you. You
have friends, I am sure—are there none of whom you can ask this favor?”
said Linda.

“No—it is a kindness I do not feel authorised to ask from any one—it
would involve me at once in obligations which I might not be able to
fulfill—no, dearest Linda, I must toil on a few more years, and if my
labors are followed with the same success which has heretofore crowned
them, I shall have earned, even in your father’s estimation, the rich
reward I would fain this moment call my own,” replied Paul.

Loving Linda as he did so faithfully, it was impossible that Apollos
could listen to this conversation without a struggle between envy and
the natural kindness of his heart. It is true, he knew before that his
love was hopeless—that the young and fair object of his adoration could
be no more to him than the distant planet shining so gloriously in the
glittering dome of the heavens—but here stood one possessing that
priceless gift, her heart, one on whom her first pure affections were
bestowed—ah, poor Apollos—it was not in human nature to resist the
workings of jealousy and envy—great drops of anguish stood on his pale
brow, and he almost groaned aloud! Then better and nobler feelings
stirred his bosom—he gave way to their healthful promptings, and a load
seemed lifted from his breast.

Paul parted with Linda at her father’s gate and went home to his
lodgings, where he had not been long seated, when an ill-written, almost
illegible note was handed him. It was from Apollos Dalrymple, requesting
earnestly to see him before he should leave the village.

“Some old debt, doubtless, of my poor father’s, which I am required to
pay,” thought Paul. “Well, I will go and see him, and if in my power it
shall be canceled.”

As he drew near the dwelling of Apollos, the strains of the fiddle
seemed to welcome him on, and knocking at the door it was opened by the
owner himself—his great chin holding firm to his breast the neck of the
instrument, and his hand wielding the bow. Walking before him into a
small back room, he made signs for him to be seated, and then taking up
the air where the summons of Paul had interrupted it, he played it
deliberately through!

Paul thought this proceeding very rude, to say the least of it—but if
he could have read the heart of Apollos, he would have seen that he was
only striving to lull into peace by the soothing powers of melody those
rebellious and evil passions which the sight of his happier rival called
forth.

At length, carefully hanging up the fiddle on a peg at his right hand,
Apollos opened a small drawer, and taking out a pocket-book, put it into
the hand of his astonished visiter.

“I reckon there is just two thousand dollars there—it is yours,” he
said, bluntly. “I guess you’ll make a pretty straight bargain with that
man that wants to sell out.”

Paul sat speechless with surprise at finding his affairs thus known to
the strange man before him. Apollos arose, went to the window, and began
to whistle, then added in a husky voice,

“I reckon old Howell wont object any longer; so you can—can
marry—Linda!” and with another vociferous whistle, he again sat down.

By this time Paul, somewhat recovered from his first amazement, said, as
he handed back the pocket-book,

“But, my dear sir, I cannot accept of your bounty I may never be able to
repay you—”

“Put up the money, I say, put it up—it is yours,” interrupted Apollos;
“I—I—overheard your talk with Linda, this afternoon—so you see I know
all about you.”

“But why this interest for a stranger, Mr. Dalrymple—how can I ever
repay—”

“Be kind to her—to Linda—that’s all the pay I want!” hastily
interposed Apollos. “And you see, Paul, if you want any further help to
get along, I conclude you are bound to come to me.”

Again Paul attempted to be heard.

“At least suffer me to explain my affairs to you, that you may know
better the man upon whom your kindness has so liberally fallen.”

“I reckon I know you; you’re an honest, good lad—and—and Linda loves
you—you need not say a word.”

And, indeed, had Paul been gifted with the eloquence of an Adams or a
Webster, Apollos would not have listened to him, for no sooner did he
see the money safe in the pocket of the young man, than he coolly arose,
put on his hat, and taking his violin, walked out of the house; so Paul
had no alternative than to do the same, yet leaving upon the table an
acknowledgment of his gratitude, written with a pencil on the back of an
old letter.

The next week three topics of interest were going the rounds of the
village, and arousing the curiosity and wonder of its inhabitants.

The first was, that the son of Leonard Davis had become the sole
proprietor of one of the largest printing offices in the city of New
York—who would have thought it!

The second item was, that Apollos Dalrymple had offered his fine farm
for sale—what could it mean?

The third and most wonderful was, that the said Apollos commenced
building the identical narrow stone-house on the top of the hill—was
the man bewitched, or going to be married!

In the course of the summer Paul again solicited the hand of Linda,
which was no longer refused him—

        “For money has a power above
         The stars, and fate, to manage love.”

But Apollos refused to be present at the happy event which his noble
kindness had so materially assisted to bring about; and little did
either of them surmise the generous devotion which had called it forth.

As soon as his solitary dwelling was completed, Apollos, taking with him
a few goods and chattels, removed thereto. And there he still abides
with peace in his heart, and “good-will to all men.”

He admits no visiters—yet is his bounty never the less; for, like some
forest rill, which has its source hidden among the rocks, yet whose
presence revivifies and fertilizes all around it, so do the streams of
his bounty, flowing silently and unobtrusively, gladden and refresh the
hearts of the weary and destitute. He never goes out, except on the
Sabbath, upon whose sacred services he is a constant attendant, and may
always be seen in his suit of homespun gray, standing erect near the
choir, and beating time with his long, bony hand, to the music of the
psalms.

Upon the calm summer evenings, the notes of his violin are borne on the
gentle breeze to the ears of the villagers, and as the plough-boy hies
him to his task, with the early up-rising of the lark, he hears the
morning hymn of the forest choristers, accompanied in their notes of
praise by the music of _Apollos’ violin_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: Painted by Compte Calix

THE SISTERS.

 Engraved by T. B. Welch expressly for Graham’s Magazine]

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         IMPULSE AND PRINCIPLE.


                          BY ALFRED B. STREET.


       Two youths approached a torrent in their path;
         One soft and fair, one eagle-eyed and strong;
         Thoughtful the last, the first all mirth and song.
       They saw two bridges o’er the torrent’s wrath;
       One a rough tree-trunk from a rugged ledge,
         Rugged to reach, uneven to the tread;
         The other at their feet, all broadly spread
         With flowers and mosses plumped from edge to edge.
           On the green platform sprang the first like light,
           Still loud in song, but in his midway flight
         The green bridge broke, and down to death he fell.
           The other, meanwhile, clambered painfully
           The steep, and, nerving strong, crossed safe the tree.
       Thus in Temptation’s hour, Impulse and Principle.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                              WORDSWORTH.


The death of this eminent poet, after an honorable and useful life,
prolonged to eighty years, will doubtless provoke a new conflict of
opinions regarding the nature and influence of his great and peculiar
mind. The universal feeling among all lovers of what is deep, and
delicate, and genuine in poetry, must be—

        “That there has passed away a glory from the earth;”

and not until literature receives an original impulse from a nature
equally profound and powerful, will it be called upon to mourn such a
departure “from the sunshine into the Silent Land.” His death was worthy
of an earthly career consecrated by devout and beautiful meditations to
a life beyond life—his soul, so long the serene guest of his mortal
frame, meekly withdrawing itself at the end to a world not unfamiliar to
his raised vision here.

We confess, at the outset, to an admiration for Wordsworth’s genius
bordering on veneration, but we trust that we can speak of it without
substituting hyperbole for analysis, without burying the essential facts
of his mental constitution under a load of panegyric. It appears to us
that these facts alone convict his depreciating critics of malice or
ignorance; that the kind of criticism to which he was originally
subjected, and which even now occasionally reappears with something of
the sting of its old flippancy, is essentially superficial and
untenable, failing to cover the ground it pretends to occupy, and
disguising nonsense under a garb of shrewdness and discrimination. The
opinion of a man of ability on subjects which he understands, and on
objects he really discerns, is entitled to respect, and we do not deny
that Jeffrey’s opinions on many important matters are sound and
valuable; but, in relation to Wordsworth, whom he perversely
misunderstood, he appears presumptuously incompetent and undiscerning
throughout his much vaunted criticisms; in every case missing the
peculiarities which constituted Wordsworth’s originality, and satirizing
himself in almost every sarcasm he launched at the poet. The usual
defense set up for such a critic is, that he judges by the rules of
common sense; but every poet who deserves the name is to be judged by
the common sense of the creative imagination, not by the common sense of
the practical understanding; and thus judged, thus removed from the
jurisdiction of the mere police of letters, we imagine that Wordsworth
will readily assume his place as the greatest of English poets since
Milton.

In claiming for him a position in that line of English poets which
contains no other names than those of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, and
Milton, we imply that he is not only great as an individual writer, but
that he is the head and founder of a new school of poets; that he is the
point from which the future historian of English letters will consider
the poetry of the age; that he introduced into English literature new
elements, whose inspiration has not yet spent itself, but continues to
influence almost every poet of the day; that

        “Thither, as to their fountain, other stars
        Repairing, in their golden urns draw light.”

This fact can be chronologically proved. In the “Lines on Revisiting
Tintern Abbey,” written as far back as 1798, and in which we have the
key-note of Wordsworth’s whole system of viewing nature and man, we
perceive not only a new element of thought added to English poetry, but
an element which appears afterward in Shelley and Byron—modified, of
course, by their individuality—and still appears, with decreasing
force, in Tennyson and Browning. Plato and Lord Bacon are not more
decidedly originators of new scientific methods than Wordsworth is the
originator of a new poetical method. Even if we dislike him, and neglect
his poetry, we cannot emancipate ourselves from his influence, as long
as we are thrilled by the most magnificent and etherial passages in
Shelley and Byron. We may be offended at the man, but we cannot escape
from his method, unless our reading of the poets stops with Goldsmith
and Cowper.

The vital poems of Wordsworth—those which are really inspired with his
spirit and life, and not mere accretions attached to his works—form a
complete whole, pervaded by one living soul, and, amid all their variety
of subject, related to one leading idea—the marriage of the soul of man
to the external universe, whose “spousal hymn” the poet chants. They
constitute together the spiritual body of his mind, exhibiting it as it
grew into beautiful and melodious form through thirty years of intense
contemplation. To a person who has studied his works with sufficient
care to obtain a conception of the author’s personality, every little
lyric is alive with his spirit, and is organically connected with the
long narrative and didactive poems. This body of verse is, we think, a
new creation in literature, differing from others not only in degree but
in kind—an organism, having its own interior laws, growing from one
central principle, and differing from Spenser and Milton as a swan does
from an eagle, or a rose from a lily.

We need hardly say that the central power and principle of this organic
body of verse is Wordsworth himself. He is at its heart and
circumference, and through all its veins and arteries, as the vivifying
and organizing force—coloring every thing with his peculiar
individuality, representing man and nature through the medium of his own
original and originating genius, and creating, as it were, a new world
of forms and beings, idealized from hints given by the actual
appearances of things. This world is not so various as that of
Shakspeare or Scott, nor so supernatural as that of Milton, but it is
still Wordsworth’s world, a world conceived by himself, and in which he
lived and moved and had his being. A true criticism of his works,
therefore, would be a biography of his mind, exhibiting the vital
processes of its growth, and indicating the necessary connection between
its gradual interior development and the imaginative forms in which it
was expressed. This we cannot pretend to do, having neither the insight
nor the materials for such a task, and we shall be content with
attempting a faint outline of his mental character, with especial
reference to those qualities which dwelt near the heart of his being,
and which seem to have been woven into the texture of his mind at birth.

Wordsworth was born in April, 1770, of parents sufficiently rich to give
him the advantages of the usual school and collegiate education of
English youth. He early manifested a love for study, but it may be
inferred that his studies were such as mostly ministered to the
imagination, from the fact that he displayed, from his earliest years, a
passion for poetry, and never seems to have had a thought of choosing a
profession. At the university of Cambridge he appears to have studied
the classics with the divining eye and assimilating mind of a poet, and
if he did not attain the first position as a classical scholar, he
certainly drank in beyond all his fellows the spirit of the great
writers of Greece and Rome. In a mind so observing, studious,
thoughtful, imaginative and steadfast as his, whose power consisted more
in concentration of view than rapidity of movement, the images of
classical poetry must have been firmly held and lovingly contemplated;
and to his collegiate culture we doubtless owe the exquisite poems of
Dion and Laodamia, the grand interpretative, uplifting mythological
passage in The Excursion, and the general felicity of his classical
allusions and images throughout his works. He probably wrote much as
well as meditated deeply at college, but very few of his juvenile pieces
have been preserved, and those which are seem little more than exercises
in expression. On leaving college he appears to have formed the
determination of educating his poetical faculty by a communion with the
forms of nature, as others study law and theology. He resided for some
time in the west of England, and at about the age of twenty, made the
tour of France, Italy, Switzerland and Germany, traveling, like our
friend Bayard Taylor, mostly on foot, diving into forests, lingering by
lakes, penetrating into the cottages of Italian peasants and rude German
boors, and alternating the whole by a residence in the great European
cities. This seems to have occupied nearly two years of his life; its
immediate, but not its only result, was the publication of his
“Descriptive Sketches in Verse,” indicating accurate observation rather
than shaping imagination, and undistinguished by any marked
peculiarities of thought or diction. We next hear of him at Bristol, the
companion of Coleridge and Southey, and discussing with those eager and
daring spirits the essential falsehood of current poetry as a
representation of nature. The sensible conclusion of all three was
this—that the worn-out epithets and images then in vogue among the
rhymers, were meaningless; that poetry was to be sought in nature and
man; and that the language of poetry was not a tinsel rhetoric, but an
impassioned utterance of thoughts and emotions awakened by a direct
contact of the mind with the objects it described. Of these
propositions, the last was one of primary importance, and in a mind so
grave, deep and contemplative as Wordsworth’s, with an instinctive
ambition to be one of “Nature’s Privy Council,” and dive into the
secrets of those visible forms which had ever thrilled his soul with a
vague and aching rapture, the mere critical opinion passed into a motive
and an inspiration.

“The Lyrical Ballads,” published in 1798, and to which Southey and
Coleridge contributed, were the first poems which indicated Wordsworth’s
peculiar powers and passions, and gave the first hints of his poetical
philosophy, and the first startling shock to the tastes of the day. They
were mostly written at Allfoxden, near the Bristol Channel, in one of
the deepest solitudes in England, amid woods, glens, streams, and hills.
Here Wordsworth had retired with his sister; and Coleridge was only five
miles distant at Stowey. Cottle relates some amusing anecdotes of the
ignorance of the country people, in regard to them, and to poets and
lovers of the picturesque generally. Southey, Coleridge and his wife,
Lamb, and the two Wedgewoods, visited Wordsworth in his retirement, and
the whole company used to wander about the woods, and by the sea, to the
great wonder of all the honest people they met. As they were often out
at night, it was supposed they led a dissolute life; and it is said that
there are respectable people in Bristol who believe now that Mrs.
Coleridge and Miss Wordsworth were disreputable women, from a
remembrance of the scandalous tattle circulating then. Cottle asserts
that Wordsworth was driven from the place by the suspicions which his
habits provoked, being refused a continuance of his lease of the
Allfoxden house by the ignoramus who had the letting of it, on the
ground that he was a criminal in the disguise of an idler. One of the
villagers said, “that he had seen him wander about at night _and look
rather strangely at the moon_! And then he roamed over the hills like a
partridge.” Another testified “he had heard him mutter, as he walked, in
some outlandish brogue, that nobody could understand.” This last, we
suppose, is the rustic version of the poet’s own statement—

        “He murmurs near the running brooks
         A music sweeter than their own.”

Others, however, took a different view of his habits, as little
flattering to his morals as the other view to his sense. One wiseacre
remarked confidently, “I know what he is. We have all met him tramping
away toward the sea. Would any man in his senses take all that trouble
to look at a parcel of water? I think he carries on a snug business in
the smuggling line, and, in these journeys, is on the lookout for some
_wet_ cargo.” Another, carrying out this bright idea, added, “I know he
has got a private still in his cellar; for I once passed his house at a
little better than a hundred yards distance, and I could smell the
spirits as plain as an ashen faggot at Christmas.” But the charge which
probably had the most weight in those times was the last. “I know,” said
one, “that he is surely a desperd French Jacobin; for he is so silent
and dark that no one ever heard him say one word about politics.” The
result of all these various rumors and scandals was the removal of
Wordsworth from the village. It is curious that, with such an experience
of English country-people, Wordsworth should never have looked at them
dramatically, and represented them as vulgar and prejudiced human beings
as well as immortal souls. It proves that humor did not enter at all
into the constitution of his nature; that man interested him more than
men; and that his spiritual affections, connecting humanity constantly
with its divine origin, shed over the simplest villager a light and
atmosphere not of earth.

While the ludicrous tattle to which we have referred was sounding all
around him, he was meditating Peter Bell and the Lyrical Ballads, in the
depths of the Allfoxden woods, and consecrating the rustics who were
scandalizing him. The great Poet of the Poor, who has made the peasant a
grander object of contemplation than the peer, and who saw through
vulgar externals and humble occupations to the inmost soul of the man,
had sufficient provocations to be the satirist of those he idealized.

In these Lyrical Ballads, and in the poems written at the same period of
their publication, we perceive both the greatness and the limitations of
Wordsworth, the vital and the mechanical elements in his poetry. As far
as his theory of poetic diction was unimaginative, as far as its
application was willful, it became a mere matter of the understanding,
productive of little else than shocks to taste and the poetic sense, and
indicating the perversity of a powerful intellect, pushing preconceived
theories to the violation of ideal laws, rather than the rapt
inspiration of the bard, flooding common words and objects with new life
and divine meanings. It is useless to say that the passages to which we
object would not provoke a smile if read in the spirit of the author.
They are ludicrous in themselves, and would have made the author himself
laugh had he possessed a moderate sense of the humorous. But the gravest
objection against them is, that they do not harmonize with the poems in
which they appear—are not vitally connected with them, but stand as
excrescences plastered _on_ them—and instantly suggest the theorizer
expressing his scorn of an opposite vice of expression, by deliberately
substituting for affected elegance a simplicity just as full of
affectation. Wordsworth’s true simplicity, the simplicity which was the
natural vehicle of his grand and solemn thoughts, the simplicity which
came from writing close to the truth of things, and making the word rise
out of the idea conceived like Venus from the sea, cannot be too much
commended; but in respect to his false simplicity, his simplicity for
the sake of being simple, we can only say that it has given some point
to the sarcasm, “that Chaucer writes like a child, but Wordsworth
childishly.” These objectionable passages, however, are very few; they
stand apart from his works and apart from what was essential in him; and
they are to be pardoned, as we pardon the occasional caprices of other
great poets.

Another objection to the Lyrical Ballads, and to Wordsworth’s poems
generally, is an objection which relates to his noblest creations. He
never appears to have thoroughly realized that other men were not
Wordsworths, and accordingly he not infrequently violates the law of
expression—which we take to be the expression of a man to others, not
the expression of a man to himself. He speaks, as it were, too much to
his own ear, and having associated certain words with subtle thoughts
and moods peculiar to himself, he does not seem aware that the words may
not of themselves convey his meaning to minds differently constituted,
and accustomed to take the expressions at their lexicon value. In this
he differs from Coleridge, whose words and music have more instantaneous
power in evoking the mood addressed, and thread with more force and
certainty all the mental labyrinths of other minds, and act with a
tingling and inevitable touch on the finest nerves of spiritual
perception. The Ancient Mariner and Christobel almost create the moods
in which they are to be read, and surprise the reader with a revelation
of the strange and preternatural elements lying far back in his own
consciousness. Wordsworth has much of this wondrous wizard power, but it
operates with less direct energy, and is not felt in all its witchery
until we have thought into his mind, become enveloped in its atmosphere,
and been initiated into the “suggestive sorcery” of his language. Then,
it appears to us, he is even more satisfying than Coleridge, moving, as
he does, in the transcendental region of thought with a calmer and more
assured step, and giving evidence of having steadily gazed on those
spiritual realities which Coleridge seems to have casually seen by
flashes of lightning. His language consequently is more temperate, as
befits a man observing objects familiar to his mind by frequent
contemplation; but, to common readers, it would be more effective if it
had the suddenness and startling energy coming from the first bright
vision of supernatural objects. As it is, however, his style proves that
his mind had grown up to those heights of contemplation to which the
mind of Coleridge only occasionally darted, under the winged impulses of
imagination; and therefore Wordsworth gives more serene and permanent
delight, more “sober certainty of waking bliss,” than Coleridge, however
much the latter may excel in instantaneousness of effect.

The originality of the Lyrical Ballads consisted not so much in an
accurate observation of nature as in an absolute communion with her, and
interpretation of the spirit of her forms. They combine in a remarkable
degree ecstasy with reflection, and are marvelously refined both in
their perception of the life of nature and the subtle workings of human
affections. Those elusive emotions which flit dimly before ordinary
imaginations and then instantly disappear, Wordsworth arrests and
embodies; and the remotest shades of feeling and thought, which play on
the vanishing edges of conception, he connects with familiar objects,
and brings home to our common contemplations. In the sphere of the
affections he is confessedly great. The still, simple, searching pathos
of “We are Seven,” the mysterious, tragic interest gathered around “The
Thorn,” and the evanescent touch of an elusive mood in “The Anecdote for
Fathers,” indicate a vision into the finest elements of emotion. The
poems entitled, “Expostulation and Reply,” “The Tables Turned,” “Lines
Written in Early Spring,” “To My Sister,” and several others, referring
to this period of 1798, evince many of the peculiar qualities of his
philosophy, and combine depth of insight with a most exquisite
simplicity of phrase. The following extracts contain hints of his whole
system of thought, expressing that belief in the life of nature, and the
mode by which that life is communicated to the mind, which reappear,
variously modified, throughout his writings:

        Nor less I deem that there are Powers
          Which of themselves our minds impress;
        That we can feel this mind of ours
          _Is a wise passiveness_.

                       ——

        And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
          He, too, is no mean preacher:
        Come forth into the light of things,
          Let nature be your teacher.

          She has a world of ready wealth,
            Our minds and hearts to bless—
          Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
            Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

          _One impulse from a vernal wood_
            _May teach you more of man,_
          _Of moral evil and of good_
            _Than all the sages can._

          Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
            Our meddling intellect
          Misshapes the beauteous forms of things—
            We murder to dissect.

          Enough of Science and of Art;
            Close up those barren leaves;
          Come forth and bring with you a heart
            _That watches and receives_.

                       ——

          I heard a thousand blended notes,
            While in a grove I sat reclined,
          In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
            Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

                       ——

          Through primrose tufts in that sweet bower,
            The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
          _And ’tis my faith that every flower_
            _Enjoys the air it breathes_.

                       ——

          There is a blessing in the air
            Which seems a sense of joy to yield
          To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
            And grass in the green field.

                       ——

          One moment now may give us more
            Than years of toiling reason:
          Our minds shall drink at every pore
            The spirit of the season.

          _Some silent laws our hearts will wake,_
            _Which they shall long obey:_
          We for the year to come may take
            Our temper from to-day.

But the most remarkable poem written at this period of Wordsworth’s
life, is that on Tintern Abbey, “Lines Composed on Revisiting the Banks
of the Wye.” We have here that spiritualization of nature, that
mysterious sense of the Being pervading the whole universe of matter and
mind, that feeling of the vital connection between all the various forms
and kinds of creation, and that marriage of the soul of man with the
visible universe, which constitute the depth and the charm of
Wordsworth’s “divine philosophy.” After describing the landscape which
he now revisits, he proceeds to develop the influence it has exerted on
his spirit:

                        These beauteous forms,
        Through a long absence, have not been to me,
        As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
        But oft in lonely rooms, and ’mid the din
        Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
        In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
        _Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart_,
        And passing even into my purer mind
        With tranquil restoration; feelings, too,
        Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
        As have no slight and trivial influence
        On that best portion of a good man’s life,
        His little nameless, unremembered acts
        Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
        To them I may have owed another gift
        Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
        In which the burthen of the mystery,
        In which the heavy and the weary weight
        Of all this unintelligible world,
        Is lightened; _that serene and blessed mood,_
        _In which the affections gently lead us on,_
        _Until the breath of this corporeal frame,_
        _And even the motion of our human blood_
        _Almost suspended, we are laid asleep_
        _In body, and become a living soul;_
        _While with an eye made quiet by the power_
        _Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,_
        _We see into the life of things._

He then proceeds to describe the passionate fascination which nature
exerted over his youth, and the change which had come over him by a
deeper and more thoughtful communion with her spirit. When we consider
that Wordsworth, at this time, was only twenty-eight, and that even the
motions described in the first part of our extract had no existence in
contemporary poetry, we can form some idea of his giant leap in advance
of his age, as indicated by the unspeakable beauty and novelty of the
concluding portion. Our readers will notice that although the style
becomes almost transfigured by the intense and brooding imagination
which permeates it, the diction is still as simple as prose:

                      I cannot paint
        What then I was. The sounding cataract
        Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock,
        The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
        Their colors and their forms, were then to me
        An appetite, a feeling, and a love,
        That had no need of a remoter charm,
        By thought supplied, nor any interest
        Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past,
        And all its aching joys are now no more,
        And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
        Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other gifts
        Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
        Abundant recompense. For I have learned
        To look on nature, not as in the hour
        Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
        The still, sad music of humanity,
        Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
        To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
        A presence that disturbs me with the joy
        Of elevated thoughts; _a sense sublime_
        _Of something still more deeply interfused_,
        Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
        And the round ocean and the living air,
        And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
        A motion and a spirit, that impels
        All living things, all objects of all thought,
        And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
        A lover of the meadows and the woods,
        And mountains; and of all that we behold
        From this green earth; of all the mighty world
        Of eye and ear—both what they half create
        And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
        In nature and the language of the sense,
        The anchor of my purest thoughts, the muse,
        The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
        Of all my moral being.

It is this “sense sublime of something still more deeply interfused,”
that gives to a well-known passage in the concluding portion of the poem
its particular significance:

                              Nature never did betray
        The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege,
        Through all the years of this our life, to lead
        From joy to joy; _for she can so inform_
        _The mind that is within us, so impress_
        _With quietness and beauty, and so feed_
        _With lofty thoughts_, that neither evil tongues,
        Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
        Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
        The dreary intercourse of daily life,
        Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb
        Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
        Is full of blessings.

In Wordsworth’s use of the word nature, it must always be borne in mind
that he means, to use his own phrase,

                    The Original of human art,
        _Heaven-prompted_ Nature.

This poem enables us to understand the process by which so peculiar a
nature as Wordsworth’s grew up into its spiritual stature. It was by
placing his mind in direct contact with natural objects, passively
receiving their impressions in the still hours of contemplation, and
bringing his own soul into such sweet relations to the soul of nature as
to “see into the life of things;” or, as he expresses it, in another
connection, “his soul had _sight_” of those spiritual realities, of
which visible forms and hues are but the embodiment and symbolical
language. Nature to him was therefore always _alive_, spiritually as
well as visibly _existing_; and he felt the correspondence between his
own life and her life, from perceiving that one spirit penetrated both.
Not only did he perceive this, but he mastered the secret alphabet by
which man converses with nature, and to his soul she spoke an audible
language. Indeed, his mind’s ear was even more acute than his mind’s
eye; and no poet has excelled him in the subtle perception of the most
remote relations of tone. Often, when he is on the peaks of spiritual
contemplation, he hears voices when he cannot see shapes, and mutters
mystically of his whereabouts in words which suggest rather than embody
meaning. He grew in spiritual strength and height by assimilating the
life of nature, as bodies grow by assimilating her grosser elements; and
this process was little disturbed by communion with other minds, either
through books or society. He took nothing at second-hand; and his nature
is therefore not the nature of Homer, or Dante, or Shakspeare, or
Milton, or Scott, but essentially the nature of Wordsworth, the nature
which he saw with his own eyes, and shaped with his own imagination. His
humanity sprung from this insight, for not until he became impressed
with the spirit of nature, and divined its perfect adaptation to nourish
and elevate the human mind, did he perceive the worth and dignity of
man. Then simple humanity assumed in his mind a mysterious grandeur, and
humble life was spiritualized by his consecrating and affectionate
imagination. He might then say, with something of a proud content,

        The moving accident is not my trade;
          To freeze the blood I have no ready arts;
        ’Tis my delight alone in summer shade,
          To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

The passages in which this thoughtful humanity and far-sighted spiritual
vision appear in beautiful union, are too numerous for quotation, or
even for reference. We will give but two, and extract them as hints of
his spiritual biography and the growth of his mind:

        Love he had found in huts where poor men lie;
          His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
        _The silence that is in the starry sky,_
          _The sleep that is among the lonely hills._

                       —-

        But who is He with modest looks,
          And clad in homely russet brown?
        He murmurs near the running brooks
          A music sweeter than their own.

        He is retired as noontide dew,
          Or fountain in a noonday grove;
        And you must love him, ’ere to you
          He will seem worthy of your love.

        The outward shows of sky and earth,
          Of hill and valley, he had viewed;
        And impulses of deeper birth
          _Had come_ to him in solitude.

        In common things that round us lie
          Some random truths he can impart—
        The harvest of a quiet eye
          That sleeps and broods on his own heart.

We shall give but one more extract; illustrative of the moral wisdom
which the poetic recluse had drank in from Nature, and incorporated with
his own character. It was written at the age of twenty-five:

        If thou be one whose heart the holy forms
        Of young imagination have kept pure,
        Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,
        Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,
        Is littleness; that he who feels contempt
        For any living thing, hath faculties
        Which he has never used; that thought with him
        Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
        Is ever on himself doth look on one,
        The least of Nature’s works, one who might move
        The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
        Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
        Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;
        True dignity abides with him alone
        Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
        Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
        In lowliness of heart.

We have dwelt thus long on Wordsworth’s first characteristic
publication, because it expresses so well the nature of his own mind,
and because it gave an original impulse to poetical literature. These
Lyrical Ballads were published in the summer of 1798, and though they
attracted no general attention corresponding to their original merit,
they exercised great influence upon all the young minds who were
afterward to influence the age. In September, 1798, in company with
Coleridge, he visited Germany, and on his return he settled at Grasmere,
in Westmoreland; a spot so well known to all readers of his poetry, and
where he continued to reside for fifteen years. In 1803 he married a
Miss Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith. Neither was wealthy, their joint
income being but £100 a year. Of his wife we know little, except that
she was of small stature and gentle manners, and was loved by her
husband with that still, deep devotion characteristic of his affections.
He refers to her, in a poem written in his old age, as

        She who dwells with me, whom I have loved
        With such communion, that no place on earth
        Can ever be a solitude to me.

Between 1803 and 1807, when a second volume of Lyrical Ballads was
published, he wrote many of the most beautiful and sublime poems in his
whole works. To this period belong “The Memorials of a Tour in
Scotland,” (1803,) containing “The Solitary Reaper,” “The Highland
Girl,” “Ellen Irwin,” “Rob Roy’s Grave,” and other exquisite and glowing
impersonations—his grand sonnets dedicated to “National Independence
and Liberty”—“The Horn of Egremont Castle,” “Heart-Leap Well,”
“Character of a Happy Warrior,” “A Poet’s Epitaph,” “Vandracour and
Julia,” the “Ode to Duty,” and, above all, the sublime “Ode on the
Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood,” which
appears not to have been struck off at one beat, but to have been
composed at various periods between the years 1803 and 1806.

There are no events, in the common acceptation of the term, in
Wordsworth’s life after the period of his marriage, except the
publication of his various works, and the pertinacious war waged against
them by the influential critics. Though his means were at first limited,
he soon, through the friendship of the Earl of Lonsdale, received the
appointment of Distributor of Stamps for the counties of Westmoreland
and Cumberland, a sinecure office, the duties of which were done by
clerks, but which seems to have given him an income sufficient for his
wants. In 1809 he published a prose work on the “Convention of Cintra,”
which, though designed as a popular appeal in favor of the oppressed
Spaniards, was little read at the time, and is now forgotten. Southey,
whose mind was on fire with sympathy for the Spanish cause, says of this
pamphlet, in a letter to Scott—“Wordsworth’s pamphlet will fail of
producing any general effect, because the sentences are long and
involved; and his friend, De Quincey, who corrected the press, has
rendered them more obscure by an unsound system of punctuation. This
fault will outweigh all its merits. The public never can like any thing
which they feel it difficult to understand. . . . I impute Wordsworth’s
want of perspicuity to two causes—his admiration of Milton’s prose, and
his habit of dictating instead of writing: if he were his own scribe his
eye would tell him where to stop.”

But the great work to which Wordsworth was devoting the best years of
his life, was his long philosophical poem of “The Recluse,” designed to
give an account of the growth of his own mind, and to develop all the
peculiarities, poetical, ethical and religious, of his system of
thought. A large portion of this remains unpublished, but the second
part was issued in quarto, in 1814, under the title of “The Excursion,”
and was immediately lighted upon by all the wit-snappers and critics of
the old school, and mercilessly “probed, vexed and criticised.” Jeffrey,
who began his celebrated review of it in the Edinburgh with the
sentence, “This will never do,” was successful in ridiculing some of its
weak points, but made the mistake of stigmatizing its sublimest passages
as “unintelligible ravings.” The choice of a pedler as the hero of a
philosophical poem, though it was based on facts coming within the
author’s knowledge, was a violation of ideal laws, because it had not
sufficient general truth to justify the selection. A pedler may be a
poet, moralist and metaphysician, but such examples are for biography
rather than poetry, and indicate singularity more than originality in
the poet who chooses them. Allowing for this error, substracting some
puerile lines, and protesting against the tendency to diffusion in the
style, “The Excursion” still remains as a noble work, rich in
description, in narrative, in sentiment, fancy and imagination, and
replete with some of the highest and rarest attributes of poetry. To one
who has been an attentive reader of it, grand and inspiring passages
crowd into the memory at the mere mention of its title. It is, more
perhaps than any other of Wordsworth’s works, enveloped in the
atmosphere of his soul, and vital with his individual life; and in all
sympathetic minds, in all minds formed to feel its solemn thoughts and
holy raptures, it feeds

        “A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire.”

“The Excursion” was followed, in 1815, by the “White Doe of Rylstone,” a
narrative poem, which Jeffrey said deserved the distinction of being the
worst poem ever printed in a quarto volume, and which appears to us one
of the very best. We do not believe the “White Doe” is much read, and
its exceeding beauty, subtle grace, and profound significance, are not
perceived in a hasty perusal. It is instinct with the most refined and
ethereal imagination, and could have risen from the depths of no mind in
which moral beauty had not been organized into moral character. Its
tenderness, tempered by “thoughts whose sternness makes them sweet,”
pierces into the very core of the heart. The purpose of the poem is to
exhibit suffering as a purifier of character, and the ministry of
sympathies,

        “Aloft ascending, and descending quite
        Even unto inferior kinds,”

in allaying suffering; and this is done by a story sufficiently
interesting of itself to engage the attention, apart from its indwelling
soul of holiness. In the representation of the Nortons we have the best
specimens of Wordsworth’s power of characterization, a power in which he
is generally deficient, but which he here exhibits with almost dramatic
force and objectiveness.

“Peter Bell” and “The Wagoner,” which appeared in 1819, were executed in
a spirit very different from that which animates the “White Doe.” They
were originally written to illustrate a system, and seem to have been
published, at this period, to furnish the enemies of Wordsworth some
plausible excuse for attacking his growing reputation. “Peter Bell” was
conceived and composed as far back as 1798, and though it exhibits much
power and refinement of imagination, the treatment of the story is
essentially ludicrous. But still it contains passages of description
which are eminently Wordsworthian, and which the most accomplished of
Wordsworth’s defamers never equaled. With what depth, delicacy,
sweetness and simplicity are the following verses, for instance,
conceived and expressed:

        He roved among the vales and streams,
          In the green wood and hollow dell;
        They were his dwellings night and day,—
        But nature ne’er could find the way
          Into the heart of Peter Bell.

        In vain, through every changeful year,
          Did Nature lead him as before;
        _A primrose by the river’s brim_
        _A yellow primrose was to him,_
          _And it was nothing more._

                       ——

        At noon, when by the forest’s edge
          He lay beneath the branches high,
        The soft blue sky did never melt
        Into his heart; _he never felt_
          _The witchery of the soft blue sky._

        On a fair prospect some have looked
          And felt, as I have heard them say,
        _As if the moving time had been_
        _A thing as steadfast as the scene_
          _On which they gazed themselves away._

                       ——

        There was a hardness in his cheek,
          There was a hardness in his eye,
        As if the man had fixed his face,
        In many a solitary place,
          Against the wind and open sky.

“The Wagoner,” is altogether unworthy of Wordsworth’s genius. It is an
attempt of a poet without humor to be gay and jocular, and very dismal
gayety it is. But even this poem is not to be dismissed without a
reference to its one exquisite passage—that in which he describes the
obligation upon him to write it:

        Nor is it I who play the part,
        But a _shy spirit_ in my heart,
        That comes and goes—will sometimes leap
        From hiding-places ten year’s deep;
        Or haunts me with familiar face,
        Returning, like a ghost unlaid,
        Until the debt I owe be paid.

The next volume of Wordsworth was a series of sonnets, under the general
title of “The River Duddon,” published in 1820, and singularly pure in
style and fresh in conception. This was followed, in 1821, by “Itinerary
Sonnets,” chronicling a journey to the Continent; “Ecclesiastical
Sonnets,” in 1822, celebrating events and characters in the history of
the English church; and “Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems,” in 1834. In
old age he still preserved his young love for nature, and lost none of
his power of interpreting her teachings. In a poem entitled “Devotional
Incitements,” written at the age of sixty-two, and distinguished for the
delicate keenness of its insight, no less than its lyric rapture, it
will be perceived that natural objects were still visible and audible to
his heart and imagination. “Where,” he exclaims,

        Where will they stop, those breathing powers,
        The _spirits_ of the new-born flowers?
        They wander with the breeze, they wind
        Where’er the streams a passage find;
        Up from their native ground they rise
        _In mute aërial harmonies;_
        From humble violet—modest thyme—
        Exhaled, the _essential odors_ climb,
        As if no space below the sky
        Their subtle flight could satisfy:
        Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride—
        If like ambition be _their_ guide.

        Roused by the kindliest of May-showers,
        The spirit quickener of the flowers,
        That with moist virtue softly cleaves
        The buds, and freshens the young leaves,
        The birds pour forth their souls in notes
        Of rapture from a thousand throats—
        Here checked by too impetuous haste,
        While there the music runs to waste,
        With bounty more and more enlarged
        Till the whole air is overcharged.
        Give ear, O man, to their appeal,
        And thirst for no inferior zeal,
        Thou, who canst _think_ as well as _feel_.

                      ——

        Alas! the sanctities combined
        By art to unsensualize the mind,
        Decay and languish; or, as creeds
        And humors change, are spurned like weeds:
        And priests are from their altars thrust;
        Temples are leveled with the dust;
        _And solemn rites and awful forms_
        _Founder amid fanatic storms,_
        Yet evermore, through years renewed
        In undisturbed vicissitude,
        Of seasons balancing their flight
        On the swift wings of day and night,
        _Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door_
        _Wide open for the scattered Poor,_
        _Where flower-breathed incense to the skies_
        _Is wafted in mute harmonies;_
        _And ground fresh cloven by the plough_
        _Is fragrant with a humbler vow;_
        _Where birds and brooks from leafy dells_
        _Chime forth unwearied canticles,_
        _And vapors magnify and spread_
        _The glory of the sun’s bright head_—
        Still constant in her worship, still
        Conforming to the eternal Will,
        Whether men sow or reap the fields
        Divine monition Nature yields,
        That not by bread alone we live,
        Or what a hand of flesh can give;
        That every day should leave some part
        Free for a sabbath of the heart.

On the death of Southey, Wordsworth was appointed Poet Laureate. The
latter years of his life were passed in undisturbed serenity, and he
appears to have retained his faculties to the last. His old age, like
his youth and mature manhood, illustrated the truth of his poetic
teachings, and proves that poetry had taught him the true theory of
life. One cannot contemplate him during the last ten years of his
existence, without being forcibly impressed with his own doctrine
regarding the lover of nature:

        Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
        Nor leave thee when old age is nigh
          A melancholy slave;
        _But an old age serene and bright,_
        _And lovely as a Lapland night,_
          _Shall lead thee to thy grave._

The predominating characteristic of Wordsworth’s poetry is
thoughtfulness, a thoughtfulness in which every faculty of his mind and
every disposition of his heart meet and mingle; and the result is an
atmosphere of thought, giving a softening charm to all the objects it
surrounds and permeates. This atmosphere is sometimes sparklingly clear,
as if the airs and dews and sunshine of a May morning had found a home
in his imagination; but, in his philosophical poems, where he penetrates
into a region of thought above the ken of ordinary mortals, this
atmosphere is touched by an ideal radiance which slightly obscures as
well as consecrates the objects seen through it, and occasionally it
thickens into mystical obscurity. No person can thoroughly enjoy
Wordsworth who does not feel the subtle spirit of this atmosphere of
thought, as it communicates an air of freshness and originality even to
the commonplaces of his thinking, and apparels his loftier conceptions
in celestial light—

                                “The gleam,
        The light that never was on sea or land,
          The consecration and the poet’s dream.”

The first and grandest exercise, therefore, of his imagination is the
creation of this harmonizing atmosphere, enveloping as it does the world
of his creation with that peculiar light and air, indescribable but
unmistakable, which enable us at once to recognize and to class a poem
by Wordsworth. We do not hesitate to say that, in its peculiarity, there
is nothing identical with it in literature—that it constitutes an
absolutely new kind of poetry, in the Platonic sense of the word kind.
An imagination which thus fuse all the faculties and emotions into one
individuality, so that all the vital products of that individuality are
characterized by unity of effect, is an imagination of the highest
_kind_. The next question to be considered is the variety which this
unity includes; for Shakspeare himself, the most comprehensively
creative of human beings, never goes beyond the unity of his
individuality, his multifarious variety always answering to the breadth
of his personality. He is like the banyan tree in the marvelous
fertility of his creativeness, and the province of humanity he covers;
but the fertility all comes from one root and trunk, and indicates
simply the greatness of the _kind_, as compared with other _kinds_ of
trees. The variety in the operation of Wordsworth’s imagination we will
consider first in its emotional, and second in its intellectual,
manifestation—of course, using these words as terms of distinction, not
of division, because when we employ the word imagination we desire to
imply a fusion of the whole nature of the man into one living power. In
the emotional operation of Wordsworth’s imagination we discern his
Sentiment. No term has been more misused than this, its common
acceptation being a weak affectionateness; and, at best, it is
considered as an instinct of the sensibility, as a simple, indivisible
element of humanity. The truth is that sentiment is a complex thing, the
issue of sensibility and imagination; and without imagination sentiment
is impossible. We often meet excellent and intelligent people, whose
affections are warm, whose judgments are accurate, and whose lives are
irreproachable, but who lack in their religion, morality and affections
an elusive something which is felt to be the grace of character. The
solution of the problem is found in their want of sentiment—in their
want of that attribute by which past scenes and events, and absent
faces, and remote spiritual realities, affect the mind like objects
which are visibly present. Now, without this Sentiment no man can be a
poet, either in feeling or faculty; and Wordsworth has it in a
transcendent degree. In him it is revealed, not only in his idealizing
whatever in nature or life had passed into his memory, but in his
religious feeling and in his creative art. Scenes which he had viewed
years before, he tells us, still

        _Flash_ upon that _inward eye_,
          Which is the bliss of solitude.

Thus Sentiment is that operation of imagination which recalls, in a more
vivid light, things absent from the bodily eye, and makes them act upon
the will with more force and inspiration than they originally exerted in
their first passionate or thoughtful perception; and from its power of
extracting the essence and heightening the beauty of what has passed
away from the senses and passed into memory, it gives the impulse which
sends the creative imagination far beyond the boundaries of actual life
into the regions of the ideal, to see what is most beautiful here

                                —Imaged there
          In happier beauty; more pellucid streams,
            An ampler ether, a diviner air,
          And fields invested with purpureal gleams,
        Climes, which the sun, who sheds the brightest day
        Earth knows, _is all unworthy_ to survey.

It is needless to adduce passages to prove the depth and delicacy of
Wordsworth’s sentiment, sanctifying as it does natural objects and the
humblest life, and lending to his religious faith a mysterious,
ineffable beauty and holiness. In our view of the quality it must
necessarily be the limitation of a poet’s creativeness, for the
imagination cannot represent or create objects to which it does not tend
by a sentiment; and Wordsworth, while he has a sentiment for visible
nature, a religious sentiment, a sentiment of humanity, is still
confined to the serious side of things, and has no sentiment of humor.
If he had humor as a sentiment, he, dowered as he is with imagination,
would have it as a creative faculty, for humor is the intellectual
imagination inspired by the sentiment of mirth.

Let us now survey the power and scope of Wordsworth’s imagination,
considered in its intellectual manifestation. Here nothing bounds its
activity but its sentiments. It is descriptive, pictorial, reflective,
shaping, creative, and ecstatic; it can body forth abstract ideas in
sensible imagery; it can organize, as in “The White Doe,” a whole poem
round one central idea; it can make audible in the melody of words,
shades of feeling and thought which elude the grasp of imagery; it can
fuse and diffuse itself at pleasure, animating, coloring, vitalizing
every thing it touches. In description it approaches near absolute
perfection, giving not only the scene as it lies upon the clear mirror
of the perceptive imagination, but representing it in its life and
motion as well as form. The following, from “The Night Piece,” is one
out of a multitude of instances:

          He looks up—the clouds are split
        Asunder—and above his head he sees
        The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
        There, in a black blue vault she sails along,
        Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
        And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
        Drive as she drives.

In the description of the appearance of the White Doe, we have not only
form, hue and motion, but the feeling of wonder that the fair creature
excites, and the rhythm which musically expresses the supernatural
character of the visitant—all embodied in one vivid picture:

        The only voice that you can hear
        Is the river murmuring near.
        —When soft!—the dusky trees between,
        And down the path through the open green,
        Where is no living thing to be seen;
        And through yon gateway, where is found,
        Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
        Free entrance to the church-yard ground—
        _Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,_
        _Comes gliding in serene and slow,_
        _Soft and silent as a dream,_
        _A solitary Doe!_
        White she is as lily of June,
        And beauteous as the silver moon
        When out of sight the clouds are driven
        And she is left alone in heaven;
        Or like a ship, some gentle day,
        In sunshine sailing far away,
        A glittering ship that hath the plain
        Or ocean for her own domain.

In the following we have a mental description, so subtle and so sweet as
to make “the sense of satisfaction ache” with its felicity:

        And she has smiles to earth unknown,
        Smiles that, with motion of their own,
          Do spread and sink and rise;
        That come and go, with endless play,
        And ever as they pass away,
          _Are hidden in her eyes._

This is from the little poem to “Louisa.” It is curious that Wordsworth,
in the octavo edition of his works, published when he was seventy-seven
years old, omits this stanza. It was so refined that he had probably
lost the power to perceive its delicate beauty, and dismissed it as
meaningless.

In describing nature as connected with, and embodied in, human thoughts
and sentiments, Wordsworth’s descriptive power rises with the complexity
of the theme. Thus, in the poem of Ruth, we have an example of the
perversion of her energizing power:

        The wind, the tempest roaring high,
        The tumult of a tropic sky,
          Might well be dangerous food
        For him, a youth to whom was given
        So much of earth—so much of heaven,
          And such impetuous blood.

        Whatever in those climes he found
        Irregular in sight or sound,
          Did to his mind impart
        A kindred impulse, seemed allied
        To his own powers, and justified
          The workings of his heart.

        Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
        The beauteous forms of nature wrought,
          Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
        The breezes their own languor lent;
        _The stars had feelings_, which they sent
          Into those favored bowers.

In another poem, we have an opposite and purer representation of
nature’s vital work, in an ideal impersonation which has nothing like it
in the language:

        Three years she grew in sun and shower,
        Then Nature said, a lovelier flower
          On earth was never sown;
        This child I to myself will take;
        She shall be mine, and I will make
          A lady of my own.

        Myself will to my darling be
        Both law and impulse; and with me
          The girl in rock and plain,
        In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
        Shall feel an overseeing power
          _To kindle or restrain._

        She shall be sportive as the fawn,
        That wild with glee across the lawn,
          Or up the mountain springs;
        _And hers shall be the breathing balm,_
        _And hers the silence and the calm_
          _Of mute insensate things._

        The floating clouds their state shall lend
        To her; for her the willow bend;
          Nor shall she fail to see
        Even in the motions of the Storm,
        Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form
          By silent sympathy.

        The stars of midnight shall be dear
        To her; and she shall lean her ear
          In many a secret place
        Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
        _And beauty born of murmuring sound_
          _Shall pass into her face._

But the most common exercise of Wordsworth’s imagination is what we may
call its meditative action—its still, calm, searching insight into
spiritual truth, and into the spirit of nature. In these, analysis and
reflection become imaginative, and the “more than reasoning mind” of the
poet overleaps the boundaries of positive knowledge, and, steadying
itself on the vanishing points of human intelligence, scans the “life of
things.” In the poems in which meditation predominates, there is a
beautiful union of tender feeling with austere principles, and this
austerity prevents his tenderness from ever becoming morbid. As his
meditative poems more especially relate to practice, and contain his
theory of life, they grow upon a studious reader’s mind with each new
perusal. In them the Christian virtues and graces are represented in
something of their celestial beauty and power, and the poet’s “vision
and faculty divine” are tasked to the utmost in giving them vivid and
melodious expression. He is not, in this meditative mood, a mere
moralizing dreamer, a vague and puerile rhapsodist, as some have
maliciously asserted, but a true poetic philosopher, whose wisdom is
alive with the throbs of holy passion, and

        Beauty—a living Presence of the earth—
        Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms
        Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed
        From earth’s materials—waits upon his steps;
        Pitches her tents before him as he moves,
        An hourly neighbor.

But though these poems are essentially meditative in spirit, they are
continually verging on two forms of the highest poetic expression,
abstract imagination and ecstasy; and the clear, serene, intense vision
which is their ordinary characteristic, is the appropriate mood out of
which such forms of imagination naturally proceed. Let us first give a
specimen of the creativeness of his imagination in its calmly
contemplative mood, and we will select one of his many hundred sonnets.

        Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou
          In heathen schools of philosophic lore;
          Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore
        The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow;
        And what of hope Elysium could allow
          Was fondly seized by Sculpture to restore
          Peace to the Mourner. _But when He who wore_
        _The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow_
          _Warmed our sad being with celestial light,_
        Then Arts, which still had drawn a softening grace
          From shadowy fountains of the Infinite,
        Communed with that Idea face to face:
        And move around it now as planets run,
        Each in its orbit round the central sun.

We will not stop to comment on the wealth of thought contained in this
sonnet, or the lingering suggestiveness of that wonderful line—

        “Warmed our _sad_ being with celestial light,”

but proceed to give another example, fragrant with the deepest spirit of
meditation:

        More sweet than odors caught by him who sails
        Near spicy shores of Araby the blest,
        A thousand times more exquisitely sweet,
        The freight of holy feeling which we meet
        In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales
        From fields where good men walk, and bowers wherein they rest.

The following sonnet may be commended to warriors and statesmen, as
containing a wisdom as practical in its application as it is lofty in
its conception:

        I grieved for Bonaparté with a vain
          And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
          Of that man’s mind—what can it be? What food
        Fed his first hopes? What knowledge could _he_ gain?
        ’Tis not in battles that from youth we train
          The Governor who must be wise and good,
        And temper with the sternness of the brain
          Thoughts motherly and meek as womanhood.
          Wisdom doth live with children round her knees;
        Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
        Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
          Of the mind’s business; these are the degrees
        By which true sway doth mount; this is the stalk
          True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

We will now extract a magnificent example of abstract imagination,
growing out of the meditative imagination, and penetrated by it. It is
the “Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland;” the “two
voices” are England and Switzerland.

          Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
        One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
        In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
          They were thy chosen music; Liberty!
          There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
        Thou fought’st against him; but hast vainly striven:
        Thou, from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
          Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee.
        Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
        Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
          For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
        That mountain Floods should thunder as before,
        And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
          And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

Of the ecstatic movement of Wordsworth’s imagination, we might extract
numberless instances, rushing up, as it does, from the level of his
meditations, throughout his poetry. Take the following, from the “Ode to
Duty”:

        Stern Law-giver! yet thou dost wear
          The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
        Nor know we any thing so fair
          As is the smile upon thy face;
        _Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,_
        _And fragrance in thy footing treads;_
        _Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;_
        _And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong._

In a descriptive poem called “The Gipsies,” there is a very striking
instance of rapture immediately succeeding calmness:

        The weary sun betook himself to rest;
        Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
        _Outshining like a visible God_
        _The glorious path in which he trod._

Again, observe how the imagination kindles and melts into rapturous
idealization, and impetuously deifies the object of its sentiment, in
the following short reference to the death of Coleridge:

        Nor has the rolling year twice measured,
          From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
        Since every mortal power of Coleridge
          Was frozen at its marvelous source;
        _The ’rapt One of the godlike forehead,_
          _The heaven-eyed creature._

In the sonnet which we now extract we have a specimen of that still
ecstasy, so calm and so intense, in which Wordsworth stands almost alone
among modern poets:

        A fairer face of evening cannot be;
          The holy time is quiet as a nun
          Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
        Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
        The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the sea:
          Listen! the mighty being is awake,
          And doth with his eternal motion make
        A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
          Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
        If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought,
        Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
          Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
        And worship’st at the temple’s inner shrine,
        God being with thee when we know it not.

It is, however, in the sublime “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality
from the Recollections of Childhood,” that we best perceive the power of
Wordsworth’s imagination in all the various modes of its
expression—descriptive, analytic, meditative, interpretative, abstract
and ecstatic; and in this ode each of these modes helps the other; the
grand choral harmonies of the rapturous upward movement seeming to be
born out of the intense contemplation, that hovers dizzily over the
outmost bounds of human conception, to scrutinize, in the dim dawn of
consciousness,

                    —those first affections,
              Those shadowy recollections,
            Which be they what they may,
          Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
        Are yet a master light of all our seeing.

It is from these that we have ecstasy almost as a logical conclusion;
for

        _Hence_ in a season of calm weather,
            Though inland far we be,
        _Our souls have sight of that immortal sea_
            _Which brought us hither,_
            _Can in a moment travel thither,_
        _And see the children sport upon the shore,_
        _And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore._

We have no space to particularize the felicity of Wordsworth’s muse in
dealing with the affections, or the depth and power of his pathos.
Before leaving the subject of his genius, however, we cannot withhold a
reference to his “Ode on the Power of Sound,” which appears to be little
known even to readers of the poet, though in the thronging abundance of
its ideas and images, in the exquisite variety of its music, and in the
soul of imagination which animates it throughout, it yields the palm to
no ode in the language.

Wordsworth is most assuredly not a popular poet in the sense in which
Moore and Byron are popular; and he probably never will be so among
those readers who do not distinguish between being passionate and being
impassioned, and who prefer the strength of convulsion to the strength
of repose; readers who will attend only to what stirs and startles the
sensibility, who read poetry not for its nourishing but its inflaming
qualities, and who look upon poetic fire as properly consuming the mind
it animates. Wordsworth is not for them, except they go to him as a
spiritual physician, in search of “balm for hurt minds.” Placed in a
period of time when great passions in the heart generated monstrous
paradoxes in the brain, he clung to those simple but essential elements
of human nature on which true power and true elevation must rest; and,
while all around him sounded the whine of sentimentality and the hiss of
Satanic pride, his mission, like that of his own beautiful blue
streamlet, the Duddon, was “to heal and cleanse, not madden and
pollute.” His rich and radiant imagination cast its consecrating and
protecting light on all those dear immunities of humanity, which others
were seeking to discard for the delusions of haughty error, or the
fancies of ripe sensations. Accordingly, though many other poets of the
time have a fiercer or fonder charm for young and unrestrained minds, he
alone grows upon and grows into the intellect, and “hangs upon the
beatings of the heart,” as the soul advances in age and reflection; for
there is a rich substance of spiritual thought in his poetry to meet the
wants of actual life—consolations for sorrow, help for infirmity,
sympathy for bereavement, a holy gleam of awful splendor to irradiate
the dark fear of death; a poetry, indeed, which purifies as well as
pleases, and penetrates into the vitalities of our being as wisdom no
less than loveliness:

        “Filling the soul with sentiments august—
        The beautiful, the brave, the holy and the just.”

                                                                   P.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                            BRIDGET KEREVAN.


                             BY ENNA DUVAL.


    I will tell you, scholar, I have heard a grave divine say that
    God has two dwellings, one in heaven, and the other in a meek
    and thankful heart; which Almighty God grant to me and to my
    honest scholar.    Isaak Walton.

“How did you find them all at home, Bridget?”

“Hearty, ma’am, thank ye;” and the girl moved busily about the room.

She was my chambermaid, and although she had only lived with me a little
while, I felt very much attached to her, for she was so kind,
industrious and honest. Soon after she came to us I was seized with a
painful illness, and during it, she nursed me with the tenderness of a
sister; often, when the spasms of acute pain would shake my feeble body,
I had seen large tears standing in her full, round eye.

As she assisted me in undressing, I observed that she was not in her
usual spirits, and when she handed me my dressing-gown, I saw that her
hands trembled. But she patiently went through every little duty,
although I could well see that she was suffering from some hidden
trouble. When I sat down to my reading, she left me to prepare for me
some tea—for, dear reader, I am a true old maid, and love my cup of
tea, as well as I love my existence almost.

Presently she re-entered, and rolling a little teapoy beside my chair,
she placed on it the waiter, and poured out my tea. Just then I heard
the heavy breathing of my dear Aunt Mary, who was asleep in the
adjoining room.

“Close the door of Aunt Mary’s room, my good Bridget,” I said; “and
while I drink my tea and eat this nice piece of toast you have made me,
come and tell me something about Ireland.”

I knew this would please her; for often had she talked to me at night,
when I would be undressing, about the glens and vales of beautiful,
song-famed Coleraine; and the fairies, with their round rings in the
grass. She had never seen a fairy her own self, but “Elsie the child”
her sister had, and the “_little body_,” as she called the fairy, had
pinched the poor “_wean_ Elsie.”

Then again on Sunday, or holyday nights, she would tell me how, when a
child, she had wished to be a nun, and that she would go out in the
dark, pitch night, and kneel on the ground in the middle of their
garden, and ask the good Virgin and the Saints to pray for her—for
Bridget has always been a religious girl.

Then she had actually heard the Benshee cry. It came wailing around the
house when her father died; and she had heard it a week before his
death, when he was hale and hearty. She had heard it at night-fall one
evening when she was crossing the glen below their cottage, as she was
coming from Coleraine, where she had been spending the day with her
grandmother. It commenced “low and mournful like” in the bushes beside
her, and then ranged around the hills, swelling out louder and louder,
until it ceased behind the cottage. As she would dwell on this, my fancy
would picture to me the enthusiastic, imaginative Irish girl, standing
with lips apart, listening to this mournful wailing night-wind, which
her after troubles shaped into the sad poetical Benshee; and if I had
had the skill of an artist, I would have made a lovely sketch, I am
sure; for so plainly did her descriptions bring before me her figure and
the surrounding landscape, lightened with the warm hue of the lingering
twilight so peculiar to Ireland.

Bridget sat down on the rug beside me, and when we went to bed that
night, good reader, it was later than unsuspecting Aunt Mary imagined;
but I had heard all Bridget’s troubles, had soothed and comforted her,
had read her lover’s last letter to her—for she had a lover—what girl
has not?—and sent her to bed with a heart considerably lighter than
when, with aching head but patient fingers, she had prepared my nice
night meal.

Bridget’s father, Dermot Kerevan, was a Scotchman by birth, but of Irish
parentage. His father had settled in Glasgow, and there did Dermot spend
his early years, and obtain thriftiness and steadiness, qualities not
often found in an Irishman. Dermot was early apprenticed to a gardener,
and when he was out of his term of service, his master recommended him
to an Irish gentleman, who wanted a gardener for his place, “The
Forest,” at Coleraine. There Dermot came, and it was not long before he
brought home to his pretty gardener’s-cottage, the beauty of Coleraine,
Grace Mullen, who he had persuaded to be his “_bonnie wife_,” as he
called her. They must have been very happy—for sweeter domestic
pictures I have never heard described, either in tale or poem, than my
good Bridget would sketch in her little stories of their home, during
her father’s life. But this blessed happiness could not last for ever.
One fine spring day poor Dermot was brought home from the garden, up at
“the great house,” on a litter, nearly dead. He had fallen from a high
tree while lopping off a branch. He lingered only a few hours, leaving
the lonely widow with her “four childer,” to battle with life alone.

Bridget was the eldest, and she was only twelve. Then there was Grace,
and Elsie, and little Jinny, the baby, all to be cared for. Bridget was
sent to her uncle’s at Glasgow town, and the grandmother of Grace
Kerevan gave the shelter of her poor roof to the rest of them. Widow
Kerevan opened a little shop in her grandmother’s front room, and did
“bits of work for the people all around Coleraine,” as Bridget expressed
it.

A year after the kind, loving father’s death, home came Bridget from
Glasgow town. Her uncle, the rich distiller, was enraged at her, for she
had told his wife she had rather starve in Ireland than go to the
meeting-house all day Sunday, and sit straight up at her sewing and
knitting the rest of the week. Poor girl! the strict, rigid habits of
her uncle’s thrifty Scotch wife had driven her almost frantic. She, who
had roamed at will, over hill and glen, and had never been bound down to
any duty. The domestic affairs of her own home had always been soon
dispensed with, and she had spent most of her time in rambling through
the forest, or by the stream-side, or playing with Gracey, Elsie, and
the baby, chasing their shadows on the grassy hill-side; then how could
she bear the strait-laced notions and rules of her notable Scotch aunt?
Not at all, and she told her so; and they sent her home to the
starvation her aunt had often taunted her with, holding it in
perspective, when she would be rebellious.

The mother, grandmother, and children crowded around her. Grace Kerevan
held her child, from whom she had been so long parted, close to her
bosom, and sobbed with joy.

“And so,” said the old grandmother, “the ‘Scotch _quean_,’ as poor
Dermot used to say, told ye we starved here? Never mind, darlint, ye
shall always have a p’raty, even if we all do without.”

Poor Bridget worked early and late, for the farmers’ wives, but she only
made a “small thrifle,” as she said, and sometimes they were so poor
that they had scarcely a potato apiece in the house.

“And did you ever wish yourself back in Glasgow town, Bridget?” I
inquired.

“Niver, ma’am,” was the girl’s energetic answer; and I do not believe
she ever did, for the genial light of home-love shone in her poor, Irish
home, for which her little affectionate heart had pined, under the
wealthier but cold roof of her uncle.

“Thin I came to Ameriky.”

“But, Bridget, how came you to think of America?”

“Och, the girls all around talked about Ameriky, and my aunt’s cousin’s
husband’s sister writ home a letter about her making such a power of
money. Well, I talked to mother about it, but she cried, and so did
grandmother, and they asked me where I’d get the four pound to pay my
passage with. That kept me quiet a bit, for I’d niver seen so big a heap
of money. But one day, when I was shaking up grandmother’s bed, I felt a
great big lump in it, that was sewed up in the straw, and I dragged it
out, and it was an old stocking with money tied in it. I ran screamin’
with joy to mother. But och, how she cried and grandmother scolded. Then
I cried, too, and grandmother came and hugged me, and told me to give
over cryin’, that there was the money if I wanted it. She said she’d hid
it away in the bed, years agone, to keep off the dark day. Then I cried,
‘Grandmother, let me go ’till Ameriky, and I will send ye so much gold
that’ll keep the dark day away forever.’

“Then mother said, ‘Let the girl go, for sure she’s had light given her,
and she knows better than us.’”

“Did you not feel a little sorry, Bridget, when they gave up at last?” I
asked.

“No, ma’am, not a bit,” she continued; “and I hurried around and got
ready. The girl that had writ the letters home about Ameriky, sent out a
ticket to her sister to come on the vessel that was just going; but
she—Rosy McLanahan it was—was very sick, and couldn’t go; and so
mother bought her ticket for me. But, och, when mother bid me good bye,
and kissed me, and left me on the vessel, then I cried. I didn’t cry a
bit when I bid grandmother and the childer good bye at the house, but it
was when I saw mother going down the side of the vessel, and get into
the tumbling little boat, that I cried. I felt so lonely like, just as I
did when father was buried; and I watched the little boat, and her red
cloak, until she got ashore. Then there she stood, and shook her
handkerchief until it growed too dark to see her. Och, Miss Enna, but
then I cried—all to myself though—for I was ashamed the people should
see me, and I went off to my little bed and cried all night; for I
thought I was furder away from them than father was, for he was in
heaven, and I was out on wide wather. Then I thought of what father used
to tell me about God bein’ with us always, and I tried to stop my cryin’
by prayin’.”

“How old were you then, Bridget?”

“Not quite fifteen, ma’am.”

“Were you not glad when you saw America, my poor child?”

“Indade and indade I was, for I’d been so sick all the way, and when the
vessel came up the river to Philadelphia, I cried with joy. But when the
vessel anchored, and people came from shore, and I heerd them a greetin’
one another, my heart fell like a great lump of lead, for I’d nobody in
this wild, new country to greet me. Then I cried again, but it was with
the heart-ache. I sat there all alone, when one of the women, who had
been very kind to me on the passage, came up to me, and she brought with
her a man, who, she said, used to know my mother when she was a slip of
a girl in Coleraine, and if I would go home with him, he would try to
find me a place. I bundled up my clothes, which were only a few pieces,
and went with him. This was on a Saturday night like, Miss Enna, and on
Monday they took me to a place.”

“Was it a nice place, Bridget?”

“Yes, ma’am; but ’twas a plain, hard-working family; they kept only me,
and they had a lot of childer and a whole parcel of apprentice boys; but
Mrs. Hill—that was her name—was kind to me, and worked with me when
she could, and took good care of my money, which she put all away, and I
didn’t spend a bit. She giv’ me some of her old dresses and an old hood,
so I saved up all my money for four months. Then I writ my first letter
to mother, and sent her the sixteen dollars.”

“Oh, Bridget!” I exclaimed, “why did you not write before?”

The girl laughed quietly, and replied,

“I wanted to send a big bit of money when I writ home; and I know’d the
neighbors would stare, and grandmother would open her eyes, and mother
would be so proud of her Bridget sendin’ home three pound and over. Then
came a letter from them at home, and it made me cry so. They were all
well, and had got my money; but mother tried to scold a bit bekase I
hadn’t writ before, but she was so plased to hear I was doin’ well, that
she didn’t scold much. Then I worked on, but I felt lonely like, and
kept thinkin’ how nice ’twould be to have Gracey with me. So I saved up
twenty dollars, and sent it to Ireland; and soon Gracey came to me.
Mother couldn’t come, I know’d, for grandmother was so old as to stay in
bed all the time. I’d been a year in Ameriky when Gracey came over; then
after awhile I sent for Elsie, for the times were still harder in
Ireland, and mother had bad work to get on with her poor old sick granny
to nurse. Elsie seemed so little when she came, that I didn’t know what
to do with her; but Mrs. Hill, the kind soul, said she might come and
live with me; that she could play with the childer, and rock the cradle,
and go errands, and she would give her her clothes the first year; then,
if she was smart, she would give her a half dollar a week—for Mr. Hill
was richer now. I took great pleasure in Elsie, she was good and minded
me; but Gracey was headstrong like, and would have her own way. She gave
me a dale of trouble, and many’s the night I’ve laid awake and thought
about her. She liked to taze me, and make me believe she was worse than
she was.

“At last Mr. Hill and his wife made up their minds to buy a large farm
clear up in the country, a great many miles off from Philadelphia, and
Elsie and me went with them. This did Gracey good, and she was a better
girl ever afterward, for when she was left alone in Philadelphia, she
saw how cross she’d been to me, and this made her sorry; and she went to
church rigilar, and attended to her duties, and used to go and talk to
my good old priest, Father Shane, for he writ about it to me,
unbeknownst to her—och, but I was glad thin.

“After I’d been in the country—on the farm, I mane—a letter came from
mother, telling us of poor grandmother’s death, and the letter had all
tears over it, which made Elsie and me cry, for we know’d they were poor
mother’s tears. In this same letter she said she wished we could send
her a ticket to come to Ameriky with; that if she could only see her
Bridget once more before she died, she would be happy. This was
spring-time, so I takes up Elsie’s money and mine, and goes off to
Philadelphia to buy a ticket for mother and show Gracey mother’s letter.
Gracey had no money to give me, for she was always extravagant; and no
wonder, for she was pretty, like mother, and liked a bit of finery
better than plain folks like myself. She cried about it, but I comforted
her, and told her niver mind, I’d enough; but I couldn’t buy myself a
dress—that I didn’t let her know though for fear she’d fret.

“So I bought the ticket, and got Father Shane to write a letter for me.
I was going to stay in Philadelphia a week—so Mrs. Hill said I might;
but the day after I bought the ticket, a wagon came all the way from the
farm to tell me Elsie was dying—that she had sickened the day I left,
and had the measles. Then again, Miss Enna, I was in trouble, for Elsie
was so good, and she looked like father. Och, I cried all the way out to
Mrs. Hill’s. Sure enough, when I got there my poor baby was near gone. I
nursed her night and day, poor child, but ’twas no use, God took my
_wean_ away from me.

“The night she died she opened her eyes and know’d me for the first
time. I thought she was getting well, though the doctor said she
couldn’t.

“‘Bridget,’ siz she, ‘we’d a nice play down in the glen, hadn’t we!’

“I couldn’t answer, my heart was so full, for I saw she thought she was
home in Coleraine.

“‘Bridget!’ she called, and held out her little hands to me. I took her
in my arms, cryin’ all the time.

“‘Let’s go into the cottage,’ siz she, ‘for father and grandmother have
been callin’ us a good many times. It’s dark out here, Bridget, and
cold—hold me, Bridget, dear, for I can’t see.’

“Then she called ‘mother!’ and tryin’ to put her little arms around my
neek, said she wanted to go to sleep, and told me to sing to her. I
hugged her close up to me, and after a few words about the long grass
under the hill by the cottage, where she and Jinny used to roll over
playin’, she drew a long breath, and as I kissed her, she died. Och, but
that was the darkest night I iver spent, Miss Enna. I was all alone, for
Mrs. Hill had gone to sleep, tellin’ me I must call her if Elsie was
worse. There I sat all night holdin’ my dead darlint close to my bosom,
too heart-struck to cry. But when in the morning Mrs. Hill tried to take
her from me, they say I screamed and held on to her like a mad person.

“I niver saw Elsie afterward, Miss Enna,” said the poor girl, with tears
streaming down her cheeks, “for when they buried her in the cold earth,
I was raving sick, and they said I would die too. Part of the time I
know’d them, and part of the time I was crazy, but when I’d my sinses, I
prayed God would just keep me alive to see my mother. He heard my
prayer,” she continued, crossing herself devoutly, “and before mother
came I was well again, though my heart was full of sorrow for Elsie.

“When I sent for mother, I told her not to come till fall, for I thought
by that time I’d lay by a trifle of money to take a room in Philadelphia
and buy some furniture. All summer I worked hard, and Mrs. Hill, the
good soul, give me as much money in the fall as if Elsie had been
workin’ too. She know’d what I wanted with it, and she give me some old
chairs, and a bed, too. I was sorry to leave her, for her and her
husband was kind to us always; but I know’d mother would feel lonely
like in town without me. So I packed up all my things, and came in Mr.
Hill’s market-wagon to town.

“Father Shane had writ to me that the vessel was expected in a week or
so—and I came to town just in time to rent a nice room for mother. I’d
enough of money to pay a month’s rint ahead, and to buy some wood. Then
I bought a carpet and a nice bedstead, and a table, and a good, warm
stove—oh, yes, and a _cushioned form_, or sofy, as the people call it
here, that looked like the one we had at home in Coleraine. Gracey give
me a little trifle, which was a grate dale for her, seein’ it had been
summer-time, and she had to have a new bonnet, bein’ in town.

“The night before mother came, Gracey ran round from her place to see
mother’s room, and how proud I felt, as we stood in the middle of it,
and looked around at all the things—we felt so rich.

“‘Now, if we only had a bureau,’ said Gracey, ‘to put under that little
glass of mine.’

“Gracey had always finer notions than me. I’d niver thought a bit of a
bureau, for I know’d mother had a chist which would hold Jinny’s clothes
and hers—all they had, poor things. Father Shane came to see me that
night, too, and brought a big, black, wood cross to hang over the
mantlepiece, and a string of beads for Jinny. Och, but we felt very
happy, only every little bit, poor Elsie would come to my mind, and I’d
think of how merry she’d been if she’d been livin’; and grate tears
would roll down in spite of me. Father Shane spoke very pretty about
her, and made me feel better, and after he and Gracey went away, I sat
down by the stove, and there I sat all night, for I didn’t want to
rumple the bed I’d made up for mother, for the sheets looked so white
and smooth.

“The next afternoon the vessel came up the river, but it was ten o’clock
at night before mother got off. There I stood on the wharf, talkin’ to
her, that was on the ould vessel, all the evenin’. When she first see’d
me, she cried,

“‘Och, and it’s my Bridget, God bless her!’

“She was so glad, she’d have tumbled overboard, but for one of the
sailors who caught her. We both cried and laughed, and some laughed at
us; but the good sailor who had caught ahold of her when she was
fallin’, told her to cheer up, that she’d soon be on shore with her
Bridget. He helped her down the side of the vessel, and when she hugged
me and we both cried, I saw him wipe his eyes. He shook hands with us
both, and asked where we lived, and said he’d come to see us.

“But, och, didn’t mother stare when she see’d her nice room. Then she
throw’d her apron over her head and cried like a baby. Jinny had grow’d
so tall I didn’t know her. I was glad she was tall, for I’d hated to see
her, for fear she’d make me cry about Elsie, bein’ little like her; but
she was near as tall as Gracey, and right pretty.

“Mother examined all the room, and kissed me, and hugged me, and then,
when Gracey came, she looked very proud—for Gracey was so fine lookin’.
Gracey staid all night, and we made her and Jinny a bed on the floor
with the cushions of the _form_, for mother said she’d sleep with her
Bridget. We talked nearly all night, and we all cried about Elsie, and I
told ’em a great many pretty stories about her.

“‘Yes, mother,’ said Gracey, ‘Elsie, the darlin’, was always a blessin’
to Bridget, but I was a trouble.’

“I made her hush, and told her she wasn’t as bad as she pretended to be,
and then after a bit we all went to sleep. But after I’d been asleep
awhile I wakened, and there was mother lanin’ over me cryin’ and kissin’
me; I didn’t ope my eyes, but laid so still; for oh, Miss Enna, it was
so nice to have my own mother beside me, and then I was afraid I was
dramin’.”

“Well, Bridget,” I said, as the girl wiped her eyes, “how did you
support your little family?”

“Very azy, ma’am,” she replied, “for we all took care of ourselves. Mrs.
Hill came in and asked Jinny to go and live with her. Then I got a nice
place at poor Mrs. Kenyon’s mother’s. You know’d Mrs. Kenyon, Miss Enna,
’twas she who died?”

Indeed I did know her, for Mary Kenyon had been one of my dearest
friends, and only a few short months before the grave had closed over
her—the beautiful and the good.

“Well,” continued Bridget, “after a bit I got mother two nice
first-floor rooms, at the corner of the street where she lived; and in
the front one she opened a little store, which kept her nicely.”

But now came the romance—the love-story of good, innocent Bridget’s
life. Her lover was the good, kind-hearted sailor who had been so
interested in them when widow Kerevan landed. He came to see them as he
had promised, and though Bridget and the widow thought that Gracey’s
pretty curls and bright eyes brought him so often “_o’ evenin’s_,” they
soon found out it was the good Bridget he was after.

“It’s three years now gone, since we were ingaged,” said Bridget, “and
nearly that since I have seen or heerd tell of him,” and she sighed
heavily.

“Where did he go to, Bridget?”

“Why, ma’am, he went in a states government vessel to the Ingees, and he
said he’d write to me; but I’ve niver had a line from him since he
sailed. He writ a letter to me at Norfolk town just before he went off,
and told me to love him true ’til he came back, then we’d be man and
wife. Mother long since wanted me to take another beau, for she sez I’m
gettin’ old, and bein’ plain like, nobody will have me, then I’ll be an
old maid that nobody likes or cares for; but I’d sooner be an old maid,
than brake my vow to Patrick; and even Father Shane has scolded mother
and Gracey about it, for they both taze me—and he sez I’m right.”

“How do you mean break your vow, Bridget?”

“Why you see, Miss Enna, both Patrick and I loved old Ireland so much
that we rigilarly ingaged ourselves, like the people used to in the old
country.”

“How was that, my child?”

“Patrick takes a Prayer-book the night before he went away, and stood in
the middle of mother’s room, and swore on it by the holy cross, that he
niver would marry any woman but me, Bridget Kerevan; och, but his oath
was so solemn and beautiful, it made me tremble all over. Then he puts
the Prayer-book in my lap, and we took hold of each other’s hands over
it, and I made the same vow, and then we both kissed the book. Mother
and Gracey were by and heerd it all. How can I, then, Miss Enna, even if
I wanted to, take another beau? And I’m sure if any thing happens to him
I shall niver want another beau, for he was my first real one, and he
seemed to come right in Elsie’s place like in my heart.”

As she sighed heavily, I comforted her, by telling her she was perfectly
right in keeping good faith to the absent Patrick; that she need not
mind if they did trouble her, it was better to suffer annoyances than
give up to do wrong.

“To-night,” she continued, “they taxed me so bekaze I wouldn’t have any
thing to say to one of the neighbor’s boys from Coleraine, who know’d us
when we were childer; and mother said it was her belafe that Patrick was
safe and happy somewhere else, married to some other woman. This made me
very mad, and I started up and went out of the house without sayin’ a
word; but mother ran after me down the street, and made me kiss her
good-night, and we made up and parted friends.”

“That was right, Bridget, for she is your mother, and though mistaken,
she meant it for the best.”

“I know that, Miss Enna, but they trouble me so much, I sometimes hate
to go home.”

Then she went softly up into her bed-room and brought down a poor,
worn-looking letter, and a dilapidated book, with one cover off, and the
leaves part gone.

“This is his letter from Norfolk town, Miss Enna; read it, plaze, aloud,
for I niver tire hearin’ it.”

I read it, and found it to be a manly, affectionate, lover-like letter.
He touchingly reminded her of her vow, in homely, plain language, it is
true, but real heart words were they, that brought tears to my eyes.

“What is that book, Bridget?”

“Oh, Miss Enna,” replied the girl, looking down, and her round face grew
crimson, “it’s a book of his’n. He used to be always readin’ in it; and
one day he throw’d it into my lap, and said, when I could read it he’d
give me a silk gownd fit for a quane to wear. I laughed and thought
nothin’ at all about it until after he’d been gone above a year, when I
found it down at mother’s one night in my old chist, which mother had
given me when I’d bought her the bureau poor Gracey wanted so bad. I’ve
kept the book iver since; and I take it out of my drawer o’ nights, and
sit down and try to see somethin’ in it, but even if I could rade, which
I can’t, I couldn’t see nothin’ in it, for it always makes me cry.”

I took the book from her with great curiosity; I was anxious to see what
was the nature of it, for I hoped to judge by it of the character of
this sailor-lover. It was Falconer’s Shipwreck. I was satisfied, and was
a firmer friend than before to Patrick.

A few weeks afterward, one night Bridget came home with a face perfectly
radiant, or “_bamin_,” as she would have said. I was reading in my
bed-room all alone. She came in, closed Aunt Mary’s door, and giving me
a letter, said,

“Rade it, dear Miss Enna, rade it; he’s alive, and is comin’ home;” and
she sat down on the rug beside me, and laughed and cried at once as I
read the letter aloud to her.

Sure enough, the lover was safe and true. He had written to her often,
but the letters had been lost, he supposed, as he had never heard from
her; but he felt sure, he said, that she was still his Bridget, even if
he did not hear from her.

“There, you see, Miss Enna, how bad I’d been if I’d done as they wanted
me to,” she exclaimed; “and so Father Shane said to mother to-night,
when he read the beautiful letter—for he brought it to me. Patrick writ
to him, and sint him this letter to me inside of his’n, bekase he said
he’d writ so often to me, and sure a letter would rach me through Father
Shane.”

Patient Reader, this is a true story; but I am the only one to be
sympathized with in it, for I lost my jewel of a chambermaid. A few
months afterward Patrick came home and claimed his faithful Bridget. We
had a busy time when she was married—for the whole family took an
interest in good Bridget’s fortune. Patrick was a nice, healthy,
bright-looking Irishman; and when on the Sunday after he arrived he came
to take her to mass, I saw him as they walked down the street together,
look at her sturdy little figure with as much admiration as if it had
possessed the fine proportions of a Venus. Love is such a beautifier.

Father Shane married them, and Patrick rented a nice little house in the
suburbs of our town, and took Widow Kerevan home to live with them.
Bridget is a happy wife; but she has one trouble, and that is, that her
husband’s calling takes him away from her, and places him in danger; but
when he returns from long voyages she is as bright and merry as a lark.

The other day I went to see her, and as her little girl Elsie came
nestling close to me, Bridget said,

“Ever since that child was born, Miss Enna, I feel that my blessed
darlint has come back to me. Och, but He’s been kind to me,” she said,
blessing herself with devotion, “for He give me back both Patrick and
Elsie.”

Good girl! God had indeed been kind to her, for he had bestowed upon her
those priceless gifts of the spirit—Faith and Truth.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             WHAT KATY DID.


                         BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’.


                    “O tell me where did Katy live,
                      And what did Katy do?
                    And was she very fair and young,
                      And yet so wicked too?”

I was passing through a grove of budding maple trees, thinking of you,
of “Graham”—that is, wondering what in all the world I could find to
say, that you would care to hear; a desperate mood for one to be in,
certes—when my meditations were disturbed by the voice of a creature
which came from the heights above, chirping out, not softly, not
musically, but in a shrieking tone, as though bent on vociferous
disputation with somebody, “Katy _did_.” The spirit of opposition roused
within me as I heard that cry; I was about to deny the assertion point
blank, when the sweet, tiny voice of another insect, answered
distinctly, “she didn’t.” It was like the acceptance of a challenge in
effect; forthwith the first speaker began again, with increased energy,
“Katy did! Katy did—she did! she did! she did!” But still the milder
voice, quite undismayed, replied valiantly, and with a solemn air of
undoubtable truth, “She didn’t.” The neighboring spirits were now all
aroused; never did mortal before hear such a rush of sound as burst upon
me then! A perfect flood of abuse gushed from one throat, while distinct
and dignified denial met it all in reply. Asseverations numberless, and
uncharitable defamation of one, powerless now to vindicate herself,
followed. With wonder and with _patience_ I listened to the end; oh,
loveliest reader, will you do so likewise? Here is the substance of that
most strange _conversasionne_.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Little Kitty Clover was the only child of her widowed father—“a fine
old English gentleman, all of the olden time;” she was a blooming fairy
of a girl, spoiled, of course, and worshiped, too—a very “household
goddess.” Miserably educated had the young thing been; for—only think
of it!—at sixteen years of age, she was as wild and free in spirit as a
chamois, as brave as a chamois-hunter, and through the unpardonable
neglect of those who had the care of her, she had been taught nothing
whatever of sorrow, save the Dictionary definition—and _that_ she could
scarcely comprehend. At this age she was still under the care, or rather
in the companionship, of a governess, Lucy Freer, a lady also young,
indeed but two years older than her pupil; but _she_ was a dignified,
commanding personage, (and thus differed very much from Kitty;) a
silent, sad, but remarkably handsome girl, who sometimes wept, and never
laughed, (which was strange, for one would have thought that the spirit
of mirth dwelling in Kitty was of an absolutely infectious nature;) but
Lucy had the sweetest of smiles when she was pleased or happy, and that
smile, with her unvarying goodness and talent, secured from the first,
the warm love of her pupil.

As we have intimated, Kitty’s father had done all that he possibly could
to spoil his daughter, and the labor in that way, it must be confessed,
had been far from vain; but fortunately, nature had given the girl a
warm, affectionate heart, and the training of her childhood had not
tended to make her half so selfish and exacting as might in all reason
have been expected. She was innately frank and noble; and there was a
clear expression of her blue eyes, which told how honest and sincere she
was in all her thoughts and doings.

Retired and unsuperficial as had been her way of life, poor Kitty! she
found occasion to fall “desperately in love!”

Shortly after the governess made her home at Woodland Cottage, in C——,
a gentleman from London came to call upon her. The pupil happened to be
present at the interview, and she heard the stranger announce his
intention of making his home in the village; and the great evident
satisfaction of Lucy Freer, as _she_ heard this determination, did not
escape the observation of the keen-eyed Kitty; and having little else to
think about for several days, she indulged in wonderment as to what kind
of regard her governess could cherish for the handsome man, that she
should be so very light of heart, so really joyous from the very moment
of his appearing.

Eugene Lind, that was his name, was about thirty years of age, as fine
looking, stately, and elegant a person as need be; he was a lawyer by
profession, but still more of a poet by choice. As the only acquaintance
he had in C—— was housed at Woodland, he became at once a frequent
guest at the cottage, where he found always a genial host in Reginald
Clover; but the truth must be said, that though the old man’s welcome
was desirable, it was not him that the lawyer really went or cared to
see. This became quite evident when, ere long, in view of his old
friendship for Lucy, he made bold to push his way directly to the
school-room, when his visits were made in the day hours, which was
oftenest the case.

It was no very marvelous wonder that Kitty Clover, secluded as she was
from the rest of the world, save that minute portion of it that dwelt in
and just about her own home—it was no wonder, I say, that, in the
course of time she should have begun to think quite as much of Mr. Lind
as she did of her grammar and mathematics; that she should even prefer
at last, _greatly_ prefer, listening to his fine readings and
conversation to any other amusement. But she did no more than listen,
that is for a year, till she was sixteen, and then Kitty had become so
accustomed to his presence, so cognizant of her own powers of speech, as
to find it really possible to talk with, and to learn of him; and he was
a wiser teacher than Lucy even, for he imparted a high charm to every
book he laid his hands on—it became “tabooed” immediately to the
child’s apprehension.

Ah! no longer did she sit then, a shy and silent creature, in the great
bow-window, pretending to total abstraction from all things past,
present, or future, save what she found in the dry pages of her book;
but boldly, at least calmly, came she forward to sit beside her
governess, to meet the glances of the poet-lawyer, to listen, and to
speak with him and Lucy, as a sane and intelligent being.

And so it was that, day by day, and more and more thoroughly, she
learned to love him; so it was that his words fell one by one, with
creative power on her heart, till the most radiant and glorious flower
sprung up there; but though its fragrance filled her life with a beauty
which she _felt_, she could not comprehend it, did not at all understand
it, till at last from wondering she passed to knowledge, as she wakened
to see how very pale the governess was growing—how languidly she
carried forward the work of instruction—how abstractedly she went about
all her tasks—how she neglected totally the volumes which had once been
her love companions—how she oftentimes wept—how dull and dispirited
she was when Eugene Lind was not by, and how she invariably, for a
moment at least, brightened up and smiled when he drew near.

And when poor Kitty’s eyes _were_ opened, lovely reader, they seemed
good for nothing in the world but to weep—just a vent for tears; for
then she knew—she could not _help_ knowing—that Lucy Freer loved the
lawyer. And it was a terrible discovery to make, was it not—for now,
the child, what right had _she_ to think of him? She did not wonder for
a moment whether or no the love of the governess was well-founded,
whether or no he returned it; she could only say to herself, “he has
visited her constantly, has exerted himself to be agreeable, and it’s
all his own fault and doing—he has no right, and is too old to trifle
so. Lucy is an orphan, and poor; she is beautiful and good enough—yes,
even for him! I have a father, and am rich; he _ought_ to love her, and
he shall tell her he _does_.”

And so little Kate (recollect my world-fashioned lady, all this happened
a long time ago, and she had learned her knowledge of life’s obligations
only from wild romances) felt that a duty devolved on her which must be
performed; and oh, how strenuously she labored, how dispassionately she
reasoned with herself, that she might become strong to fulfill it!

Eugene had not visited the cottage for many days; a Friday night came
round, and for two whole weeks he had absented himself. On this day, as
by mutual consent, the books were laid aside, the school-room deserted,
Lucy retired to her own room ill—certainly at heart—and Kitty, silent
and troubled, yet stronger to bear her burden of sorrow, because she
felt that another suffered more than she, walked, practiced her music,
arranged flowers with the utmost determination, and then, restless, but
not knowing what to do with herself, she wandered about the house, quite
as if in a dream, yet cautious as a somnambulist, for how carefully she
shunned the presence and inquiring glances of her good old father. She
_was_ dreaming—such a dream, indeed, as adds years to the “inner life”
of the young—dreaming of bereavement, self-sacrifice, and death! even
she, that bright young girl!

But at last, with assured purpose, Kitty seated herself to write a
letter. A difficult work it was to pen it, good and loving soul, thou
wilt not doubt it. No attempt at disguise was made in the writing, yet
she left the letter without signature, thinking to herself he will
understand how it all is; he will, if there is any honor in him,
explain—at least he shall feel that there is one here who watches him.

“Mr. Lind,—Because you seem blind, and deaf, and dumb, to all that you
should, as a man of honor, be proud to see and know, I deem myself
excusable in reminding you of what you owe to one who has received you
into her presence as a brother, as _more_. I have no feeling of false
delicacy in thus appealing to you. A sense of right you must have. You
will _feel_ that I am only true to myself, to my sense of right, in so
doing. Halting thus, when you have gone so far, you do that which no
gentleman _should_ do. I cannot yet believe that you have sought the
presence of one who loves you well, if not wisely, merely because it
afforded you a momentary pleasure. Let me remind you that the life-peace
of a human being depends upon the course you shall pursue.”

This heroic epistle was, of course, written, destroyed, and rewritten
many times before Kitty became fully satisfied that it was to her
purpose. That very night it was despatched to the post with no feelings
of false delicacy, as she said, but with a very little trepidation. Dear
child! she must certainly have been laboring under a species of moral
insanity, when she thought it better to risk so much as she did, rather
than a whole life should be made miserable by her hesitation, as she
believed Lucy Freer’s would be.

The next day, Saturday, happened to be consecrated to the memory of St.
Valentine, February the fourteenth. Much relieved in mind, Kitty sat on
this “All Fool’s Day,” with the governess in her boudoir—a very
charming place it was, by the way, where beauty lived with the heiress.
They were listlessly looking over the love declarations which filled the
silver waiter before them; and it was evident that the passionate
confessions on which they gazed, produced little effect, save a vague,
momentary curiosity in the minds of either. One of them, in her young
heart, had renounced all loves, and as for the other—

But at last Lucy looked upon her pupil with a flushed, smiling face,
exclaiming, “Here is a missive for _you_ from Eugene! You know the
writing—isn’t it his? It will be worth reading.”

“Hum!” was the doubtful, brief reply—and Kitty held out her hand quite
carelessly for the Valentine, though, try as she might, she could not
conceal the sudden flashing of her eyes, and her hand, I believe,
trembled a little. She took the note and read—to _herself_.

        I who love you duly, truly,
          Dare to tell you so to-day;
        Sweetest maiden, though love-laden,
          Bolder souls beset your way.
                      Do you hear?

        While the earnest, eager voices
          Vow their passion and their truth,
        I, too, bend in adoration
          Of the splendor of your youth.
                      Do you care?

        And because your lightest whisper
          Chains my spirit as a spell,
        Oh, because your smile is dearer
          To my heart than I can tell,
                      _Will_ you love me?

        In my memory I have throned you,
          Thinking of you every hour;
        Dear young Kitty, I adore you,
          Ah! forget your tyrant power.
                      _Try_ to love me!
                               E. L.

A sudden smile, brilliant in its gladness, swept over the maiden’s face
as she read; but then remembering somewhat, she arose, and hastily flung
the perfumed note within the grate, saying,

“The impudence of those village boys is unpardonable; neither of us know
them much more than by sight, and they have no right to presume so far!”
But though she spoke so pettishly, Kitty’s smile, as she read the quoted
love-lay, had not escaped Lucy’s notice, and she said quietly in reply,

“My dear, Eugene Lind is not a _boy_, and I don’t think his writing to
you _this_ day a piece of presumption either.”

At night-fall, when Kitty sat alone, another epistle was laid before
her, which she read from beginning to end in such a state of
bewilderment as may be “imagined but not described.”

“Dear Friend,—I have this morning received a letter, singular rather in
its bearings—at least to the fashion-moulded automaton it might seem
so—to me it is blessed to appear any thing _but_ blessed. A letter
written in such a style of undisguised earnestness and truth, that,
though it is Valentine day, I cannot doubt (perhaps you will say it is
because I _will_ not) either the writer’s name, or the purport of her
words—a declaration of love! And to me it is unspeakably dearer than
any thing else in the wide world could be. It is only because I felt
sensible every day of an increasing, engrossing interest in her, that I
have stayed so long away—it seems an age to me—from Woodland Cottage.
Now, if it be indeed true that I _have_ gained the affection of your
glorious young charge, am I not blest? Of such ‘a consummation, most
devoutly to be wished,’ I have dreamed, but never dared really to hope.
To-morrow I shall come to you, Lucy, and you must counsel me. The letter
inclosed has just reached me, accompanying one for myself from Richmond.
Joy to you! for now can you ‘give care to the winds’ once more—a bright
day is dawning, I clearly foresee it.

                                              “Adieu, yours ever,
                                                       “Eugene Lind.”

Was there ever—was there _ever_ such a mishap?

Surely never did astonished, troubled mortal wish more fervently for
instant annihilation than did poor Kitty Clover as she read this letter,
discovering at its conclusion that it had been by mistake addressed to
_her_! With what frantic haste did she commit it to the flames—how
furiously the bell-rope swung in her hand—how passionately she
dispatched the servant who answered her call with the letter which had
come inclosed, to Lucy. And then, the windy tempest having passed, how
wildly did she weep, as she barred herself from human sight, that she
might agonize alone over the effect of her most stupid interference!
Dead within her was all curiosity; she cared not who the stranger
Richmond was; she cared not for the conviction that Eugene Lind was at
that moment rejoicing in the thought of having won her love; the natural
misconstruction he had been so glad to put upon her words, took in her
mind nothing like the shape of a “comedy of errors”—it was something
intolerably worse.

For hours she wept wildly and without ceasing; but the fountain of tears
was at last exhausted, and near midnight, having become wonderfully calm
again—the calmness of desperation it was, doubtless, and thinking of
every thing but sleep—Kitty ventured into the presence of her
governess. Neither had Lucy yet retired; but there she sat, poring over
her letter, and looking more beautiful and happy than she had in many
weeks.

Kitty seated herself at Lucy’s feet, and said, quite regardless of her
friend’s astonishment at the ghost-like appearance she made,

“Is there anybody you love?”

“Why, if there were _not_ I should die!”

“_Whom_ do you love?”

“You, dear Kitty.”

“But, is there anybody you shall _marry_? Do you like any person well
enough for that?”

“I truly hope it. ’Twould be forlorn to think otherwise.”

“Now, in Heaven’s name, don’t trifle! Tell me something about yourself,
about your past life; if you do not, Lucy, I shall go mad at once.”

Lucy seemed lost in wonder, or in retrospection, as Kitty spoke thus;
she did not answer, and the impatient child, unable to bear the silence
and suspense, threw herself on her knees, and looked up imploringly,
with clasped hands, on the governess; finally, she said, “Lucy Freer,
tell me—_do_ you love Eugene? What has made you so sad and pale
lately?”

“Do I love _him_! Yes, heartily—he has been so kind to me!” was the now
immediate and energetic reply. “Would you hear of my past, dear Kitty?
It is a dreary story.”

But it was now the young girl who was silent; with her head bent to her
knees she sat at the feet of the governess; perhaps Lucy comprehended
her thoughts by intuition, (I know not,) but at all events she did not
wait long for a reply.

“I am a married woman already,” she said.

And now was Kitty all life and fire—up she sprung, exclaiming,

“Is _he_, then, your husband?”

“No, far from it,” was the answer which rolled back a cloud that
threatened to make more than Hadé’s gloom in the soul of the pupil.

“I will tell you all, dear child; indeed, I will, for I can _now_—sit
down.” She was obeyed. “To-night Eugene Lind, God bless him! has sent me
a letter, the first received in months from my husband, Richmond Freer.
Come nearer, Kitty, look up, I am sad no longer, even though I tell you
he is exiled, he can never come back to old England again. But I am
going to him. I am going very soon.” No, even at this sudden and most
unexpected announcement, the listener would not lift her head. “When I
was at school, in London, I wrote occasionally for a paper which
Richmond edited; and by so doing I was able to help my poor, dear mother
very much—and she was in need of help. After a while I became
personally acquainted with the editor, and when at last he was arrested
for publishing what was called an incendiary—a too patriotic a paper
for these slavish times—you may be sure I did not forget to feel for
him. After his trial was over, and the sentence of banishment was passed
on him, we met again, for we loved each other, Kitty, and misfortune
made him only dearer to me. The very night of his departure from
England, his cousin, Eugene Lind, married us—and my poor mother was
present at the ceremony; she would not oppose the union, wild as it
doubtless seemed to her, because she knew that we were not fickle in our
love, and felt that a bright time might at last come even to us. Shortly
after the exile’s departure she died. I was left _alone_! When I had
finished the course of studies, and was a graduate, owing to Eugene’s
efforts, this situation of governess in your home was secured to me. May
Heaven bless and make all your life happy, Kate; you have been kind and
dear to me. For a long time Richmond lived on the Continent; but he did
not prosper there—he has been very unfortunate, poor fellow! Now that
he has gone to the New World, a pilgrim shorn of all things but my love,
do you not see—I must go to him? He calls me—I must go; and what a
glorious word is that _must_! Kitty, you will not ask me again if I love
Eugene Lind, or I shall launch out into such praises of him as will
astonish you.”

And thinking now but of one thing, that Lucy _had_ certainly, in some
unaccountable way, discovered her secret, Kitty sprung from her humble
posture, she could not speak one word, but with a kiss she left the
governess alone.

And oh, what a miserable little puss was she that live-long night. It
was now all clear; she, the proud, lofty-hearted, impulsive Kate, stood
in the eyes of another as having demanded his love—a beggar, imploring
his hand in payment of the heart given him unasked. Hugh! what blackness
of darkness was that which enveloped her now, body and spirit, as she
sat through the night-hours pondering with burning brain on her wretched
mistake. How hateful, how intrusive seemed the sunlight which at last
streamed in upon her! How would he ever believe, how could he ever be
told the ridiculous truth of the matter? For the very tenor of that
philanthropic letter she had written, made it impossible for her to find
or even seek a confidante in Lucy.

There was but one thought that could at all console the mourner; perhaps
Eugene Lind would seek her hand some day, relying on the truth of what
he imagined her declaration, and then how disdainfully she would spurn
him—yes! if she died in the struggle, she would renounce him! Dear
spirit of human pride, what a mighty thing thou art!

True to his expressed intention, Eugene visited Woodland Cottage the
next day, and everyday until the departure of the governess; but Lucy
and Mr. Clover alone received him. It was said in the house that Kitty,
in her grief at parting with Lucy, had wept herself sick; and for some
cause or other it was very evident that the gay girl was transformed
into a “weeping maiden.”

But to Lucy’s mind it was all very clear; she had read Kitty’s heroic
appeal to Eugene, and could not doubt that it had been made on her own
account; she had no occasion to seek her pupil’s confidence, and when
her _cousin_, in his trouble, revealed to her all his doubt and grief,
though she made no explanation, she felt warranted in reassuring him, in
promising him an ultimate victory, if not an easy one.

It was a relief to Kitty Clover when she was left alone in the cottage;
_alone_, I say, for her father accompanied Lucy and Mr. Lind to the
sea-side; the sorrow at parting with her friend was soon overcome, the
tears wiped away, and she breathed freely once more.

When Eugene returned from Liverpool, as Lucy had counseled him, he wrote
to Kate a frank and manly letter, which ended with these words, “You
have my life in your hands—to make it glad or miserable. I love you,
and can be happy only if you return my love. May I come to you, and will
you welcome me? Oh remember, I pray you, how much depends on your reply,
and be merciful!”

And the speedy answer was, only, “I do not love—I cannot receive you.”

With a smile of triumph this was written, reader; and though a more
thoroughly false declaration never issued from the _will_ of a proud
woman, still, when it was penned and sent, the more Kitty felt her
respect and power of self-endurance rising rapidly; life seemed to her
then, as, after all, a pleasant burden, easy to be borne. Yes, she could
live—live happily, too, alone with her dear old sire, free in heart and
in fancy, fetterless as the winds—for the shadow of a shade of control
Mr. Clover never thought of exercising over her.

But was she _really_ happy? Why, then, was she so tearful, so shy of
cherishing old memories? And if she was _not_ fearful, how happened it
that she so carefully piled away her old music, every song, every tune
she had used in the by-gone? Why did she hide from sight, in the high,
remote shelves of the library, all those books from which Eugene once
read to her and Lucy Freer? Why was the school-room, that pleasant
chamber, so studiously shunned? _Why was it_, dear, wise reader?

During all the summer days the daughter spent much time in company with
her sire; and to please her, the old man began to be quite literary in
his tastes; and with chess, and books, and gardening, the time went
swiftly on to both. But a change had come over Kitty—and Mr. Clover had
eyes to perceive it; but he rather rejoiced in it, and became more proud
of her than ever. She was a child no longer—nor a lively, joyous girl,
but a quiet, thoughtful woman, becoming every day more beautiful, more
studious, and womanly. The idea of going into the gay world had once
made her almost wild with joy, but now the proposal which the father
made, that they should pass the ensuing season in the metropolis with
his relatives, was received with simple quiescence, and the preparations
for a long sojourn from home made calmly and soberly. The brain of the
lovely heiress teemed with no brilliant anticipations of conquest; and
love and show—what could it mean?

The sickness which, for the first time in her life, prostrated Kitty,
the very week previous to the intended departure, was not therefore
attributable to great excitement, or to any like cause. It was a slow,
nervous fever, which, by degrees, wasted her strength away, and left her
an infant in helplessness on her bed. The course of the disease could
not be checked; it brought her to the very door of death, and there the
angel stood, ready to break the slender thread of life, yet the
destroying work, as if in mercy to the father, was delayed.

Much of the time of this sickness her mind had wandered sadly; and he
who watched incessantly beside the girl, the adoring old man, had become
cognizant of a secret which he was not too proud to use. And so, one
evening, just at twilight, he stood with another—not the nurse, nor the
physician—in the sick chamber. Kitty had seemed sinking all the day,
and at nightfall the doctor had left her for a moment, almost at his
(professional) wit’s end. Then it was that Mr. Clover also had gone
forth, and when he came again, Eugene Lind was with him.

She was sleeping when they entered, and both of those strong men
trembled when they stood together, looking silently upon her wasted,
pallid face. Eugene sat down beside her, and when she awakened, reader,
the father went softly from the room.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Hush! I cannot tell you of that awaking from death to life—from the
assumed indifference which had nearly chilled a young heart out of
existence, to the life of love. No! and I _will_ not tell it; but don’t
you say it is because I am tired of talking that I pause, or that I feel
inefficient to tell it all. It is not true.

                 *        *        *        *        *

But, still later in the season, when the brown leaves were falling in
every direction from the trees, when the clouds gathered often in the
sky, and the frequent rains presaged cold winter storms, there stood,
one of those intensely bright days yet vouchsafed October, a little
lady, frail and young, leaning on the arm of a gentleman, in the beech
grove, near Woodland Cottage. Cheerily fell the sunlight through the
almost leafless branches, and numberless insects flitted to and fro—one
of these, a tiny thing, alighted on the maiden’s hand, _not_ the one
clasped in _his_! They had paused in their walk to rest, and neither had
for many moments spoken; but as they began, as by mutual consent, to
retrace their steps, the gentleman looked up into the blue sky,
exclaiming fervently, “How _beautiful_ it is to-day!” and with a heart
full of thankfulness, he murmured fondly a name—a name with which the
reader is familiar. Then he looked upon _her_, and he seemed to find all
of heaven reflected in her eyes—and more beautiful than the sky or the
sunshine seemed she to him; he bent his stately form, he kissed her;
and, reader, her arms wound round him in a moment, she returned his
embracing. It was a marriage-covenant—nothing more or less!

Ha! then the insect flitted away, far, far up above the happy mortals,
with a cry heard never before, and the grove became vocal with it; how
crimson grew the girl’s pale face, as she heard that strange, bold
voice, proclaiming to the winds, “_Katy did!_”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Over the ocean flew a message—thus it run:

“She is mine, Lucy! this brave, proud, generous little Kitty, is mine!
And because she is given to me in this eleventh hour, I feel that she is
a ‘gift of God,’—a gift unspeakably precious. My heart is _full_ of
‘thanksgiving and the voice of melody,’ for we are one now—one
forever—in life and in death, one. I shudder when I think how she has
twice been nearly lost to me—once by her own lofty pride, and again by
the Angel of Death, who seemed a terror-king when he hovered beside her.
She is so pale and weak, so unlike her former self in physical beauty,
that I tremble when I look upon her; yet I know, Lucy, that she will not
die. We shall both live, to prove, on earth, how strong a tie of love
unites us.”

Yes, they did live to prove it; and certainly a happier poet never
breathed, than he whose bright and cheering songs, springing from a
deep, clear fountain in the heart, went afterward, floating over the
wide earth—they were the most glorious “songs of the affections.”

And so you have the long and the short of the matter. You know as well
as I, all that poor Katy did! How many times on this great earth have
“trifles, light as air,” set all the world a-gadding! Alas! yes,
creatures as brainless and chattering, and far less innocent, than the
insect disputants, have we humans too often proved ourselves. Many a
great matter has a spark of fire kindled; and the “Comedy” has become a
rare thing in comparison with the Tragedy of Errors.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                        THE GAME OF THE SEASON.


                          BY FRANK FORESTER.


                          BAY SNIPE SHOOTING.

[Illustration]
 The Hudsonian Godwit. _Limosa Hudsonica.   Vulgo._ Ring-tailed Marlin.

The Red-Breasted Snipe. _Scolopax Noveboracensis.   Vulgo._ Robin-breast,
                        Quail Snipe, Dowitcher.

Under the general, and very incorrect appellation of Bay Snipe, and
sometimes of Plover, the sea-shore gunners, and city fowlers who
accompany them for pleasure, are wont to include many totally distinct
and different families of waders, each containing several varieties, and
all, though in some sort connected, entirely dissimilar in
characteristics, plumage, cry and flight, as well as in some
peculiarities of habit.

Of these families, the most remarkable are the Curlew, _numenius_; the
Godwit, _limosa_; the Sandpiper, _tringa_; the Tattler, _totanus_; the
Plover, _charadrius_; the Snipe, _scolopax_; the Turnstone,
_strepsilas_; the Sanderling, _calidris_; the Avoset, _recurvirostra_;
and the Stilt, _himantopus_; all of which at some period of the year are
visiters or temporary inhabitants of some portion of the Atlantic shores
of North America, from the Bay of Boston to the Belize.

In the tepid waters of Florida, the great bay of Mobile, the sea lakes
of Borgne and Pontchartrain, and all along the muddy shoals and alluvial
flats of the lower Mississippi, these aquatic races dwell in myriads
during the winter months, when the ice is thick even in the sea bays of
the Delaware and Chesapeake, and when all the gushing streams and vocal
rivulets of the Northern and Middle States, are bound in frozen silence.
In the spring, according to the temperature of the season, from the
middle of April until the end of May, these migratory tribes begin to
visit us of the northern shores, from the Capes of the Chesapeake, along
all the river estuaries, sea bars, lagoons, and land-locked bays, as
they are incorrectly termed, of Maryland and Delaware, the Jersey shores
and the Long Island waters, so far as to Boston Bay, beyond which the
iron-bound and rugged nature of the coast deters them from adventuring,
in the great flights with which they infest our more succulent alluvial
shores and sea marshes.

With the end of May, with the exception only of a few loitering
stragglers, wounded, perhaps, or wing-worn, which linger after the
departure of their brethren, they have all departed, steering their way,
unseen, at immense altitudes, through the trackless air, across the
mighty continent, across the vast lakes of the north, across the
unreclaimed and almost unknown hunting-grounds of the red man, to those
remote and nearly inaccessible morasses of the Arctic Regions whither
the foot of man has rarely penetrated, and where the silence of ages is
interrupted only by the roll of the ocean surf, the thunderous crash of
some falling iceberg, and the continuous clangor of the myriads and
millions of aquatic fowl, which pass the period of reproduction in those
lone and gloomy, but to them secure and delightful asylums. Early in the
autumn, or, to speak more correctly, in the latter days of summer, the
Bay birds begin to return in hordes innumerable, recruited by the young
of the season, which, not having as yet indued the full plumage of their
respective tribes, are often mistaken by sportsmen and gunners,
unacquainted with the distinctions of natural history, for new species.
During the autumn, they are much more settled and less restless in their
habits than during the spring visit, when they are impelled northward by
the irresistible _æstrum_, which at that period stimulates all the
migratory birds, even those reared in confinement and caged from the
nest, to get under way and travel, whither their wondrous instinct
orders them, in order to the reproduction of their kind in the
localities most genial and secure.

Throughout the months of August and September, they literally swarm on
all our sand-bars, salt meadows, and wild sea marshes, feeding on the
beaches and about the shallow pools left by the retiring tide, on the
marine animalculæ, worms, aquatic insects, small crabs, minute
shell-fish, and fry; after this time, commencing from the beginning of
October, they move southward for winter quarters, although some species
tarry later than others, and some loitering individuals of all the
species linger behind, until they have assumed their winter garniture,
when they are again liable to be mistaken for unknown varieties.

Of these misnamed Bay Snipe, the following are the species of each
family most prized by the sportsman and the epicure, all of which are
eagerly pursued by the gunner, finding a ready sale at all times,
although, _me judice_, their flesh is for the most part so oily, rank
and sedgy, that they are rather nauseous than delicate or palatable.
Much, however, depends on the state of their condition, the nature of
the food on which they have fattened, and localities in which they feed;
and to some persons the very flavor, of which I complain as rank, sedgy
and fishy, appears to take the guise of an agreeable _haut gout_.

The Red-breasted Sandpiper, _Tringa Icelandica_, known on the Long
Island waters, among the small islets of which it is very abundant, as
the “Robin Snipe,” by which name it is generally called, owing to the
resemblance of its lower plumage to that of the Red-breasted Thrush, or
Robin, _Turdus migratorius_, of this continent. In autumn this bird
assumes a dusky gray upper, and white under, plumage, and is then termed
the “White Robin Snipe.” In point of flesh it is one of the best of the
Shore-birds. It is easily called down to the decoys by a well simulated
whistle, and is consequently killed in great numbers.

The Red-backed Sandpiper, _Tringa Alpina_, generally known as the
“Black-breasted Plover.” It is a restless, active and nimble bird, flies
in dense bodies, whirling at a given signal; and at such times a single
shot will frequently bring down many birds. In October it is usually
very fat, and is considered excellent eating. In its autumnal plumage it
is generally known to fowlers as the “Winter Snipe.”

The Pectoral Sandpiper, _Tringa pectoralis_. This is a much smaller, but
really delicious species, particularly when killed on the upland
meadows, which it frequents late in the spring and early in the summer,
and on which I have killed it lying well to the dog, which will point
it, while spring snipe shooting. On Long Island it is known as the
“Meadow Snipe,” or “Short Neck;” on the Jersey shores, about Egg Harbor,
where it sometimes lingers until the early part of November, it is
called the “Fat Bird,” a title which it well merits; and in
Pennsylvania, where it occurs frequently, is often termed the “Jack
Snipe.” It is these blunders in nomenclature, and multiplication of
local misnomers, which render all distinctions of sportsmanship so
almost incomprehensible to the inhabitants of distant districts, and so
perplexing to the youthful naturalist. During the autumn of 1849 I
killed the Pectoral Sandpiper in great numbers, together with the
American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, and the Black-bellied
Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, on the marshes of the _Aux Canards_
river, near Amherstberg, in Canada West, in the month of September, and
a month later at Montgomery’s Pool, between lakes Simcoe and Huron.

Of the Tattlers, three only are in repute as shore-birds, the best of
the species, the Bartramian Tattler, _Totanus Bartramius_, better known
as the “Upland Plover,” which is, in fact, with scarcely an exception,
the most delicious of all our game-birds, being a purely upland and
inland variety, and as such never, or but extremely seldom, shot on the
coast.

These three are,

The Yellow-shanks Tattler, _Totanus Flavipes_, vulgo, “the lesser yellow
legs”—a bird, in my opinion, of very indifferent qualifications for the
table, but easily decoyed, and readily answering the fowler’s whistle,
and therefore affording considerable sport.

The Telltale Tattler, _Totanus Vociferus_, vulgo, “greater yellow legs,”
a less numerous species than the former, and more suspicious. Its flesh,
when it feeds on the spawn of the king-crab, or “Horse-shoe,” is all but
uneatable, but later in the season it is in better condition, and is
esteemed good eating. A few are said to breed in New Jersey. In the
neighborhood of Philadelphia, where these birds are shot in great
numbers on the mud-flats of the Delaware from skiffs, with carefully
concealed gunners, stealthily paddled down upon them till within close
shooting distances, these birds are termed “Plovers,” and the pursuit of
them plover shooting; of course wrongfully.

The last of this family is the Semipalmated Tattler, _Totanus
Semipalmatus_, universally known as the “Willet,” from its harsh and
shrill cry, constantly repeated during the breeding season, the last
note of which is thought to bear some resemblance to that sound. It is a
swift, rapid and easy flyer, and though rather shy when in exposed
situations, can be allured to the decoys. When in good order the flesh
of the Willet is very palatable, although not so greatly esteemed as its
eggs, which really are delicious.

Next to these come the Godwits, two in number, known by the unmeaning
title of Marlin.

The great Marbled Godwit, _Limosa Fedoa_, the “Marlin.” This bird,
though not very abundant, is a regular visitant of the seashores and
bays in the spring and autumn. It is very watchful, and will permit of
no near approach, unless some of its fellows are killed or wounded, when
it will hover over the cripples, with loud, shrill cries, affording an
easy opportunity of getting several barrels in succession into the
flock.

And the Hudsonian Godwit, _Limosa Hudsonica_, or the “Ring-tailed
Marlin,” is a still rarer and smaller variety than the last, of very
similar habits and of equal excellence in flesh. It is far more common
in the Middle States than in the Eastern districts, and is abundant in
the wild and barren lands far to the northward. I have seen it shot,
likewise, on the swamps of the _Aux Canards_, to which I have already
referred. This is the larger of the three birds, lying uppermost, in the
group, at the head of this article; it was sketched from a fine specimen
shot on the Delaware in the month of May. It is thus described by Giraud
in his excellent work on the Birds of Long Island:

“Bill, blackish-brown, at base of lower mandible yellow; upper parts
light-brown, marked with dull-brown, and a few small, white spots; neck
all round brownish-gray; lower parts white, largely marked with
ferruginous; basal part of tail-feathers and a band crossing the rump,
white. Adult with the bill slender, blackish-brown toward the tip,
lighter at the base, particularly at the base of the lower mandible; a
line of brownish-white from the bill to the eye; lower eyelid white.
Throat white, spotted with rust color; head and neck brownish-gray;
lower parts white, marked with large spots of ferruginous; under tail
coverts barred with brownish-black and ferruginous; tail brownish-black
cast, a white band at the base; a band over the rump; tips of primary
coverts and basis of quills white; upper tail-coverts brownish-black,
their basis white; upper parts grayish-brown, scapulars marked with
darker spots; feet bluish. Length fifteen inches and a half, wing eight
and a half.”

Among the various families of birds, which are all known, as I have
stated, by the general title of Bay Snipe, there is but one Snipe
proper, and that is one of the most numerous, and perhaps the most
excellent of the tribes.

The Redbreasted Snipe, _Scolapax Noveboracensis_—the “Dowitcher,” the
“Quail Snipe,” the “Brown Back.”

A brace of these excellent and beautiful birds are depicted as thrown
carelessly on the ground, under the neck of the Ring-tailed Marlin, in
the preceding sketch.

This bird has the bill of the true snipe, _Scolopax Americanus_,
excepting only that the knob at the tip of the upper mandible of the
bill is less distinctly marked. The spring plumage of this bird, in
which it is depicted above, is on the upper parts brownish-black,
variegated with clove-brown, and light reddish-brown, the secondaries
and wing-coverts tipped and edged with white. Lower parts bright orange
colored ferruginous, spotted with dusky, arrow-headed spots. The abdomen
paler. The tail-feathers and upper tail-coverts alternately barred with
black and white; the legs and feet dull yellowish-green.

“At the close of April,” says Mr. Giraud, “the Redbreasted Snipe arrive
on the coasts of Long Island. Invited by a bountiful supply of food, at
the reflux of the tide, it resorts to the mud-flats and shoals to
partake of the rich supply of shell-fish and insects which nature in her
plenitude has provided for it. As the tide advances, it retires to the
bog meadows, where it is seen probing the soft ground for worms. In the
spring it remains with us but a short time. Soon after recruiting it
obeys the unerring call of nature, and steers for the north, where it
passes the season of reproduction. About the middle of July it returns
with its young, and continues its visit during September, and if the
season be open, lingers about its favorite feeding grounds until the
last of the month.”

The specimens from which the above sketch is taken, were procured on the
Delaware so late as the latter part of May; but it must be remembered
that this spring, 1850, was unusually late and backward.

This snipe associates in large flocks, is very easily whistled, flies in
dense and compact bodies over the decoys, and is so gentle that, after
half the flock has been cut down by the volleys of the lurking gunner,
the remainder will frequently alight, and walk about demurely among
their dead companions and the illusive decoys, until the pieces are
reloaded, and the survivors decimated by a fresh discharge.

Even when feeding on the open mud-flats, the Redbreasted Snipe is so
tame as to allow itself to be approached by the sportsman, with little
or no address, running about and feeding perfectly unsuspicious, until
its enemy has come within short range, when it springs with its
tremulous cry only to be riddled with the shot of the close discharge.

The other of these birds worthy of the most attention are,

The Sanderling, _Calidris Arenaria_, which, though very small, is fat
and excellent.

The Black-bellied Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, “Bull-headed,” or
“Beetle-headed Plover,” a shy bird, but frequently whistled within
gunshot. On the coast it is apt to be fishy, but when shot inland, and
on upland pastures, of superior quality.

The American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, “the Frost bird;” a
very beautiful species, and of rare excellence when killed on the
upland, where it is found more frequently and more abundantly than on
the shore.

The Long-billed Curlew, _numenius Longirostris_, “Sickle-bill,” a large,
coarse-flavored bird, easily decoyed.

The Hudsonian Curlew, _numenius Hudsonicus_, “Short-billed Curlew,” or
“Jack Curlew.” Similar to the latter in all respects, although smaller
in size.

And last, The Esquimaux Curlew, _numenius Borealis_, “the Futes,” “the
Doe Bird.” This bird feeds principally on the uplands, in company with
the golden plovers, and on the same food, _videlicet_, grasshoppers,
insects, seeds, worms, and berries. Its flesh is delicate and high
flavored. It breeds far to the north, and winters far to the south of
the United States, residing with us from early in August until late in
November.

With this bird, although there are numerous other smaller species, the
list of these tribes may be held complete.

From the commencement of the present month until late in the autumn,
anywhere along the coasts and bays of the Northern and Middle States a
bag may readily be filled to overflowing with these varieties by the aid
of good decoys and skillful whistling, or of a skiff paddled by a
cunning fowler; a gun of 8 to 10 pounds weight, of 12 gauge, with two
oz. of No. 5 shot, and an equal measure of powder, will do the work. But
when the work is done, comparatively the game is worthless, and the
sport, as compared with upland shooting, scarcely worth the having.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                               RIVERSIDE.


                         BY GEO. CANNING HILL.


          In a wood, all deep and solemn,
          Where fall many a leafy column
Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky—
          Where the sunbeams bright and golden,
          Gloss the mosses dank and olden,
And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;—

          A piazza, broad and shaded,
          By the vines about it braided,
Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams;
          And it looks toward the river,
          Where long shadows lie and quiver—
Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.

          I can hear the distant tumble
          Of the waters, and the rumble
Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,
          And the cascade’s steady drumming
          Comes like sweet and lowly humming,
As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.

          If the sun have just arisen,
          With its brightness to bedizen
Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—
          What a glory is before me—
          All around, beside, and o’er me—
What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!

          Or if it be at even,
          When soft breezes blow from heaven,
And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—
          Oh! how thick my brain is crowded
          With sweet images enshrouded—
With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!

          Little pools lie closely hidden
          In the woods, as if forbidden
To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—
          Where the turtle’s lonely whirring
          Is at evening ever stirring,
Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.

          I have often sat, when saddened,
          And as often, too, when gladdened,
At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;
          And the world beyond forgotten,
          Quiet thoughts would be begotten—
Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept.

          And beside the river’s dashing,
          In the tumult of its plashing,
I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred;
          Then below, where it runs slowly,
          And the boughs bend over lowly,
My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word.

          Upon every tree are builded—
          By the garish sun ne’er gilded—
Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades;
          And within their snug dominions
          I can see the fledging pinions
Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.

          The fresh morning air is ringing
          With a concord of sweet singing,
From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;
          High within the sylvan arches
          Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches,
Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.

          I love to sit at morning,
          In the glory of the dawning
Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,
          On this broad piazza olden,
          Where the gray streaks and the golden
Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.

          The hawthorn and the holly,
          Bearing berries red and jolly,
Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;
          And like caps of grenadiers
          The dark moss in clumps appears—
The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall.

          O, ’tis glorious in October,
          When the sky is clear and sober,
To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside!
          For the forest is all blazing
          With the Autumn colors, raising
Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,

          And the influences setting
          In upon me are begetting
Purer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd;
          For the earth hath such a seeming,
          With its thousand glories teeming,
That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud.

          Yes, for me the deep wood solemn,
          Where full many a leafy column
Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky,
          And the sunbeams, bright and golden,
          Gloss the mosses gray and olden,
And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                         CHANT OF THE NÉREIDES.


                                FROM THE

                     SECOND PART OF GÖETHE’S FAUST.

                                MUSIC BY

                              ENNA DUVAL.


[Illustration]

                  Oh, follow our counsel,
                  And rest thee in gladness;
                  The flow’rs ’neath the willows shall

[Illustration]

            ease thee of sadness.
            Here slumber thou lov’d one,
            Thy labours shall cease;
            We breathe and we warble of gladness and peace.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                             THE FINE ARTS.


The Opera.—Strange, that Philadelphia, with so much musical taste and
cultivation, cannot have an Opera. Once in a while an Operatic troupe
wanders along, and rests, for a short time, in our sober town, gives a
few representations, then away it goes. Our neighbors of New York manage
this thing better—an Opera they will have, even if they run in debt for
it. And yet it seems that one, properly managed, might succeed in this
concert-loving town of Penn. It must be a moderate one, however; that
is, moderate in price. A serious old merchant, well to do in the world,
will hesitate at taking even two tickets, at a dollar a-piece, but he
would not mind taking a half dozen tickets if they cost only half that
sum. The principle is the thing.

Brother Jonathan likes a show of economy, at least. Every politician in
Congress, who wishes to be popular in Bunkum, invariably makes speeches
against appropriations, mileage, &c., in order to prove that he is
anxious to save Uncle Sam’s purse; but, at the same time, this same
politician will have his pet appropriations, and not refuse his mileage
either.

The small circle of fashionable people may subscribe and talk, but they
can do little in this opera matter, without the support of the plain,
unpretending portion of the inhabitants, who, after all, make up the
audience, and bring in the money; and they have made up their minds to
give only a moderate sum, and they will not give any more.

Then the Troupe must be a good one; or, if only a slender one, it must
not attempt too much. The Seguins always drew well, because they only
attempted _Operettes_ and _Vaudevilles_. Not that the Philadelphians do
not like a higher order of music, but they are fastidious, and know when
a good Opera is badly given. They will not go to hear the rich, full
music of Norma murdered by a poor Troupe, with worn-out voices, and
meagre choruses. Whatever they listen to must be well sung.

We wish that inimitable knight of the Baton—the white cravated Max
Maretzek—would think a little of this. But if he does, there is one
hint that it would be well to whisper in his ear, or in the ear of any
other venturesome Opera proprietor, who is bold enough to undertake the
establishing of an Opera here. There must be no cliques—no _donnas_ of
different schools in the Troupe. We can all remember how weary we all
were of the Biscaccianti and Truffi feud; and then, again, of the Truffi
and Laborde cliques. The real lovers of music, who went for the love of
the Opera, and not in a spirit of pedantic fashionable affectation, were
ready to exclaim, with Mercutio,

        A plague o’ both your houses.

Let the Opera be of either the French or Italian School, so that it be
of one, alone. There is sufficient love for music with us, to make us
liberal to either school, so that it be well represented. So far as our
own taste is concerned, the Italian school is the more pleasing. The
French _vocalization_ is too exaggerated, we think. It is a mere matter
of taste, however, and we will be content to listen to either, so that
we have an Opera.

In the early part of the summer of ’47, an Italian Opera Troupe, from
Havana, tarried a few weeks in Philadelphia. Most of the townsfolk,
especially the wealthier class, had left the town, and were at different
watering places; and, yet, we remember this company drew good houses.

It was one of the best Troupes we have ever had in Philadelphia. Its
Donnas were Tedesco and Caranti Vita, and Marini. Tedesco, with her
rich, mellow, mezzo-soprano voice, and the timid _petite_ Vita, with a
delicate _sympathetic_ soprano, that warbled like a bird—it was a treat
indeed. Then Marini—the only true Contr’alto we ever heard—how she
startled the audience with her fulness and depth of tone. She was
awkward as an actress, and her voice, though rich, was rough; but there
was so much melody in it that it touched us, and we could not, if we
would, criticise.

Of the Operas sung by this Troupe we speak of, Saffo and Sonnambula were
our favorites. True, the Choruses in Norma were beautifully done—for
the Choruses of this well-balanced Troupe were full, and well
trained—but the chaste, simple music of Saffo, suited Tedesco’s fresh,
young voice; and the delicate, melodious caroling of Amina, was the very
character of Caranti Vita.

Perelli—the popular Perelli, without whose instructions no lady in
Philadelphia, with any pretensions to a voice, can possibly get
along—was the Tenore in this Troupe, and its Maestro. In Verdi’s
Hernani, his voice produced a fine effect and, every thing he sung, gave
evidence of high culture and good taste.

The Opera of Saffo pleased us, particularly—the music was so pure and
chaste. Such compositions are the sculpture of Music; a simple, classic
plot—clear, decided harmony—pure melody. This is enough—scenic
illusions and orchestral effects are of secondary importance.

This style of music belongs to a good, old school—the story also is
effective. Schlegel it is, we think, who says, that there is a fanciful
freedom in the handling of mythological materials, or subjects taken
from chivalrous or pastoral romances, which always produces a fine
effect in Opera. That so soon as the Heroic Opera chains itself down to
History, after the manner of Tragedy, Dullness, with a leaden sceptre,
presides over it.

There is another Opera of this school, the music of which we have heard,
but we have never seen the opera represented—Niobe. Every instrumental
performer will recal, with something like a loving memory, the beautiful
melody from this Opera, “_I tuoi frequenti palpiti_,” which has been
arranged, in “_all sorts of ways_,” for different instruments.

Good Reader, we will have a chat once in a while, on this subject of
Music. We will talk together of Concerts, sometimes, both professional
and amateur—and we will give some good-natured hints to our amateur
_prima donnas_, about the difference between stage-singing and chamber
singing. But you must join with us in all we say, and though we play
spokesman and you listener, you must agree with us, and while we talk,
you stand behind us, and make the gestures—then we shall succeed in
interesting others as well as ourselves.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Spohr has completed his ninth orchestral symphony, which he has entitled
“The Seasons.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Madame Frezzolini, after an absence of eight years from London, has
returned to her Majesty’s Theatre, which she opened with great success
as Lucrezia.

                 *        *        *        *        *

“The Philosopher’s Stone” is the title of a new burletta, produced in
London, having for its subject of ridicule the gold and California
mania.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                          REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.


    _Latter-Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 6.
    Parliaments. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co._

We think that this pamphlet, though its notions are pushed to a crazy
extreme, is calculated to do good. In attacking the existence of
legislative assemblies, it lays bare and mercilessly ridicules their
abuses, especially their tendency to endless and worthless talk and
palaver. The style is not that which Carlyle is accustomed to use in his
library, but the style of Carlyle over his brandy and water; and it
accordingly has the recklessness as well as the fire of that peculiar
method of accelerating the faculties. The Parliament which Carlyle
likes, and which he contrasts with Lord John’s, is an old Norman one,
before the business of Parliament had been undertaken by the newspapers;
a Parliament which advised, not a Parliament which governed. “Reading,”
he says, “in Eadmerus and the dim old Books, one finds gradually that
the Parliament was at first a most simple Assemblage, quite cognate to
the situation; that Red William, or whoever had taken upon him the
terrible task of being King of England, was wont to invite, oftenest
about Christmas time, his subordinate Kinglets, Barons, as he called
them, to give him the pleasure of their company for a week or two;
there, in earnest conference all morning, in freer talk over Christmas
cheer all evening, in some big royal Hall of Westminster, Winchester, or
wherever it might be, with log-fires, huge rounds of roast and boiled,
not lacking Malmsey and other generous liquor, they took counsel
concerning the arduous matters of the kingdom. ‘You, Taillebois what
have you to propose in this arduous matter. . . Tête-d’étoupes, speak
out. And first the pleasure of a glass of wine, my infant!’ Thus, for a
fortnight’s space, they carried on, after a human manner, their grand
National Consult, or _Parliamentum_; intermingling Dinner with it (as is
still the modern method;) debuting every thing as Tacitus describes the
Ancient Germans to have done, two times; once sober, and once what he
calls ‘drunk’—not exactly dead-drunk, but jolly round their big table;
that so both sides of the matter might be seen, and, midway between rash
hope and unreasonable apprehension, the true decision of it might be
hit.”

Throughout the pamphlet the author wantons in dogmatism and
impertinence, and has an especial love for a phrase representing the
British people as “twenty-seven millions mostly fools.” The United
States comes in as usual for a rap. The rumor is, that we are indebted
for all Carlyle’s sarcasms against our people to the American tourists
who have bored him; persons whom he always treated with roughness, but
whom he now receives with almost savage insolence. We have heard a story
of an American lady, who visited him—under the impression that he was a
great philanthropist, and immediately opened the conversation with some
remarks in favor of the abolition of slavery. He growled out a bitter
rejoinder, in which he took strong grounds in favor of that institution,
and denounced all abolitionists as sentimental fools and flunkies. The
lady, irritated and surprised, hit instantly on the true woman’s method,
the _argumentum ad hominum_, and put the startling question, “How, Mr.
Carlyle, should you like to be a slave?” He dilated his person to its
full dimensions, and in his broad Scotch brogue exclaimed, “Well, I
should be glad to be a great bull-necked nigger, and have somebody to
take care of me!” We must confess to a sympathy with his wish, as far as
it relates to somebody’s taking care of him, we think good might be done
to his head in an asylum.

There is, however, an allusion in the pamphlet to our Congress, which is
not without its wisdom just at this time, and which may be safely
commended to the attention of those honorable members who consume time
and money, precious to the public, in speeches which rarely rise in
thought to the level of party newspaper leaders, and which, in style,
are often below the rhetoric of romances in yellow covers. He says,
“Only perhaps in the United States, which alone of all countries can do
without governing—every man being at least able to live, and move off
into the wilderness, let Congress jargon as it will—can such a form of
so-called ‘Government’ continue for any length of time to torment men
with the semblance, when the indispensable substance is not there. For
America, _as the citizens well know_, is an ‘unparalelled country’—with
mud soil enough, and fierce sun enough in the Mississippi valley alone
to grow Indian corn for the extant Posterity of Adam at this time; what
other country ever stood in such a case? ‘Speeches to Bunkum,’ and a
constitutional battle of the Kilkenny cats, which in other countries are
becoming tragical and unendurable, may there still fall under the
comical category.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

Webster’s Dictionary.—A new quarto edition of Webster’s Dictionary,
with additions by Professor Goodrich, has recently been issued by G. &
C. Merriam, of Springfield, and is for sale in this city by booksellers
generally. Study of the Dictionary is the great want of a majority of
American writers. They neither drink at the sources nor draw from the
depths of the language, to supply the thirst for purity, variety, and
force of expression, with which truly masculine minds are panting. With
a vocabulary equal to the largest demands of truth in its labors, or of
imagination in its play, we find constantly recurring the same
set-phrases, the same commonplaces, the same worn-out figures. Our
college-bred men are not deficient in a Johnsonian stock of Latin
derivatives, but into the Saxon mine of our tongue, few of them have
ever delved. They are too indolent to open the record and search for the
treasures bequeathed to them. Until Webster’s researches and toils
brought these treasures together, they were so far hidden and scattered,
that few even of the learned appreciated their amount. Thirty-five years
he spent in the compilation of his Dictionary; and since the publication
of the first edition, it has been enriched by himself and the present
editor with thousands of words; and it is now, by the consent of the
learned in England as well as this country, valuable above every other,
for comprehensiveness, etymological accuracy, and clearness of verbal
definitions. The new quarto contains the whole matter of the former
editions in two volumes, printed with clear type, on good paper, and
substantially bound. It is one of the few books, of which a threadbare
recommendation may be truly repeated—“no library is complete without
it.” One of the most distinguished of American writers, whose choice of
fresh and forceful words has at times brought upon him a charge of
pedantry, but who in fact has only used fearlessly the wealth of the
language, told us, some years ago, that it was his habit to read the
Dictionary through about once every year. To the student, this practice
may be commended as of inestimable service. A single word is often the
cue to a sentiment or a train of ideas worthy of expression. As the mind
is full of words to give variety to its pictures, so will it be full of
suggestions for new subjects. The relation between words and ideas is to
a degree an absolute identity. An illiterate person sits down to write a
letter. His fund of language being small, the paucity of his thoughts is
in the same proportion. He may have traveled half over the world, yet he
has nothing to say to his friends at home, except that he is well, and
hopes they are the same. Our young writers may find in this illustration
a reason for studying the Dictionary faithfully and continually. Not
from the conversation of the educated, or from miscellaneous books
alone, will they catch by accident the riches of the language. They must
search and reflect—a task which the labors of Webster and his great
predecessors in lexicography, have reduced to child’s play. Among the
two or three thousand newspapers in the United States, are at least some
hundreds edited by men who have not had the opportunities of a classical
education. Minds only of extraordinary energy, or those rising to the
standard of genius, can do perfect justice to the important duties of
journalism without the advantages of this discipline. But they may in
mature life, find its best substitute in the systematic study of a
comprehensive Dictionary, in connection with the classics of the
language. Were this method adopted, we would not so often have reason to
blush for the feebleness and illiteracy exhibited not only in many
newspaper columns, but in the pages of periodicals of far higher
pretensions, as exemplars of rhetorical propriety.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a
    Variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. New York:
    George P. Putnam. 4 vols. 12mo._

Few English classics have been edited with the care and the thoroughness
of this edition of Goldsmith. Prior, an antiquarian who never touches a
subject which he does not exhaust, has paid especial attention to
Goldsmith; has written a biography of him, which forms the basis both of
Foster’s and Irving’s; and in the present edition, has printed many
valuable essays and poems never before collected. The articles
contributed by Goldsmith to the Monthly and Critical Reviews, when he
was a hack-writer in the most dismal sense of that term, are here
collected; and though not to be compared with his best works for humor
or for style, they still evince the hand of genius in many a scrap of
serene wisdom, and in many a sentence of penetrating sagacity. In the
fourth volume, just published, we find an oratorio, “The Captivity,” and
a ludicrous scene from a farce called “The Grumbler,” never before
printed. Mr. Putnam has issued the edition in a style of great neatness,
and has placed it at a very low price. We hope it will meet with a sale
corresponding to its merits. It supersedes all the other editions of
Goldsmith now in the market, being the best printed, and the best edited
of all, and containing several hundred pages of matter to be found in no
other collection.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Moneypenny, or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present
    Day. By Cornelius Mathews. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1 vol.
    8vo._

Mr. Mathews is well known as an able but somewhat eccentric writer, with
the grotesqueness, as well as the insight of the humorist, and often
miscalculating the avenues to popular favor, while he gave no evidence
of lacking the powers which deserve it. His present novel is his best
production in respect to story and characterization, and is especially
remarkable for its minute knowledge of every locality, and every phase
of humanity and life, in the city of New York. This is not displayed in
the way of a mere copyist, but in the higher mode of the observing
humorist, to whom external forms are symbolical of serious or smiling
spiritual facts. The style sparkles with a kind of laughing earnestness,
which indicates an intense sympathy in the author with the varying
throng of local objects which press upon his imagination for
representation. We commend it to all readers who have fancies to be
touched by its quaint analogies, and risibilities to be tingled by its
humor.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Heroines of the Missionary Enterprise; or Sketches of Prominent
    Female Missionaries. By Daniel C. Eddy. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
    Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

This elegant volume contains thirteen carefully prepared biographies of
eminent women who have toiled and suffered, bodily and mentally, in the
missionary cause. They are well worthy the honors of heroism, and some
of them in Catholic countries, would have been sainted. Among the
biographies are the names of Harriet Newell, Esther Butler, Sarah L.
Smith, Henrietta Shuck, Sarah D. Comstock, and the three Mrs. Judsons.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Use and Abuse of Alcoholic Liquors, in Health and Disease.
    By William B. Carpenter. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._

This work is the Essay, to the author of which was awarded one hundred
guineas, in London, by the Committee, selected to read the articles on
behalf of the munificent donor. It is a work of great ability,
thoroughly exposing all the fallacies which men indulge in, as an excuse
for using intoxicating drinks, and driving the last vestige of excuse
from the drunkard. It is a work that should be read by every young man
in America.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire: compromising a
    Voyage to California, via Panama; Life in San Francisco and
    Monterey; Pictures of the Gold Region, and Experiences of
    Mexican Travel. By Bayard Taylor, author of “Views a-Foot,” etc.
    With illustrations by the author. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2
    vols. 12mo._

The popularity of the author of these delightful volumes is indicated by
the rapid sale of the first edition, which was disposed of on the day of
publication. The work will add to Taylor’s reputation in respect to
every quality of mind and disposition for which he is deservedly
distinguished. It so combines the observer with the poet, that the
reader soon becomes the author’s companion, seeing what he sees and
feeling what he feels. His descriptions of scenery are beautiful
representations; a few quiet and magical sentences bring pictures right
before the eye; and when his subject happens to be the vegetation of the
tropics, he gives us not only foliage but fragrance. The whole book is
pervaded by that genial and happy spirit, which lends fascination to all
of Taylor’s writings, and converts his readers into friendly partisans.
We have not space at present to indicate the stores of information and
delight which the volumes contain, but will extract one paragraph on a
Pacific sunset, as a specimen of the ease with which the author’s facile
style rises to eloquence. “Why,” he exclaims, “has never a word been
said or sung about sunset on the Pacific? No where on this earth can one
be overvaulted with such a glory of colors. The sky, with a ground-hue
of rose toward the west, and purple toward the east, is mottled and
flecked over all its surface with light clouds, running through every
shade of crimson, amber, violet, and russet-gold. There is no dead
duskiness opposite the sunken sun; the whole vast shell of firmament
glows with an equal radiance, reduplicating its hues on the glassy sea,
so that we seem floating in a hollow sphere of prismatic crystal. The
cloud-strata, at different heights in the air, take different coloring;
through bars of burning carmine one may look on the soft, rose-purple
folds of an inner curtain, and, far within and beyond that, on the clear
amber-green of the immaculate sky. As the light diminishes, these
radiant vapors sink and gather into flaming pyramids, between whose
pinnacles the serene depth of air is of that fathomless violet-green
which we see in the skies of Titian.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Life and Religion of Mohammed, as Contained in the Sheeãh
    Traditions of the Hyât-ul-Kuloob. Translated from the Persian.
    By Rev. James L. Merrick, Eleven Years Missionary to the
    Persians. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is altogether the most important and trust-worthy work relating to
Mohammed ever translated into English, giving, as it does, “a full view
of his life and religion, with sketches of his ancestors, companions,
and times, blended with maxims and legends illustrative of Oriental
manners.” To the theologian it is invaluable, while to the general
reader it is as interesting as an Oriental romance, being in the form of
narrative, with frequent flashes of magnificent poetry. The account of
the birth of Mohammed, especially, is exquisitely beautiful. As a
specimen of the style, we give a paragraph embodying Sawadbin-Karib’s
testimony. “Four days after the birth, Sawadbin-Karib, a man celebrated
among the Arabs for his knowledge, came to congratulate Abdulmutalib,
and see the child of whom he had heard many marvelous accounts. On going
to the house of Aminah they were informed that he was asleep. When the
cover of the cradle was removed to gratify them with a sight of the
wonderful babe, _such lightning gleamed from his blessed countenance
that the roof of the house was cloven by it, and the visiters drew their
sleeves over their dazzled eyes_.”

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Gleanings from the Poets, for Home and School. A New Edition,
    Enlarged. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._

The title of this volume is an honest title, accurately describing the
contents. The poems are selected from a wide variety of English authors,
and consist of pieces which have not been worn threadbare by previous
publication in school-reading books. Some of the selections will be new
to most readers of poetry, such as the narrative poems of French and
those of Mary Lamb. We notice two poems by Tennyson not included in the
edition of his works. “The Skylark” is here, not only in Shelly’s
rapturous lyric, but as he was viewed by the imaginations of Wordsworth
and Hogg. Wordsworth’s wonderful “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality
from the Recollections of Childhood,” the grandest and subtlest of
modern odes, is given in full. We notice also a number of pieces by
Vaughan, Quarles, and holy George Herbert, not generally known. The
Prioress’s Tale is reprinted in Chaucer’s old spelling, its quaint
phraseology truly embodying its intense sweetness of sentiment.
Altogether, we think that “home” to be deficient in which this volume
has not its place.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Redwood: A Tale. By the Author of “Hope Leslie,” etc. New York:
    George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This novel, the third volume of Mr. Putnam’s elegant re-issue of the
works of Miss Sedgwick, is especially interesting, as giving the best
account we have ever read of life among the Shakers. The effect of the
doctrines of that singular sect upon individual character is traced with
masterly discrimination. The story is also one of the most interesting
which even Miss Sedgwick’s genial fancy has invented, and fastens the
attention which it once engages.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Origin of the Material Universe. Boston: Phillips, Sampson
    & Co._

This pamphlet is exceedingly ingenious and interesting, and is worthy of
extensive circulation. It is a highly wrought description, on scientific
principles, of the manner in which the earth was formed, and the events
connected therewith from its existence, in a fluid state to the time of
the Mosaical narrative. The theory of the writer is ably sustained, and,
whether true or not, has the effect to stimulate and fill the
imagination, and spur it to the contemplation of grand and majestic
images.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Zanoni. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. New York: Harper & Brothers._

The Harpers have included this work in their cheap “Library of Select
Novels,” which has now reached its one hundred and forty-second number,
and is probably the cheapest work ever issued. There are few novel
readers to whom Zanoni is not familiar, and of all the author’s
productions it best bears the test of reperusal. Its feverish power
exacts a feverish interest, which is as unhealthy as it is stimulating;
but this intellectual dram-drinking is now so common that the charge of
morbid sentiment brought against a book operates as a puff.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Household Words. A Weekly Journal. Conducted by Charles
    Dickens. New York: George P. Putnam. Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4._

Mr. Putnam, with his usual enterprise, has contrived to make an
arrangement with Bradbury and Evans, of London, to publish Dickens’s
Journal contemporaneously with its appearance in London, and to afford
the English edition itself at what Mr. Chevy Slyme would call the
“ridiculously low price of six cents.” The Journal is full of stories
and sketches of a genial character, admirably adapted for the fireside
of home. To the uncounted number of people who constitute Dickens’s
public, the “Household Words” will be a welcome visitant.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Letters of a Traveler; or Notes of Things seen in Europe and
    America. By William Cullen Bryant. New York: George P. Putnam. 1
    vol. 12mo._

This handsome volume is composed of letters, running over a period of
sixteen years, and recording impressions of travel in Europe and
America. The heart and imagination of Bryant consecrate and color the
whole series: and though the scenes he describes have often been
described by others, they appear new and fresh as mirrored in his pages.
The serene but searching, the tolerant but earnest, mind of the author,
gives the same life and charm to his prose as to his verse. The style is
characterised by the grace, delicacy and thoughtfulness, the sober
beauty, and “superb propriety,” native to his mind; and the cadence of
his sentences leaves a lingering music in the reader’s brain, long after
the book has been closed. The scenes and incidents of the volume are of
exceeding variety. Paris, Florence, Pisa, Venice, London,
Edinburgh,—Richmond, Charleston, St. Augustine, Mackinaw, Savannah,
Havana, Boston, Portland,—the Peaks of Derbyshire and the White
Mountains,—these widely distant places are but points to indicate the
number and dissimilarity of the topics which come under the author’s
view. Every lover of Bryant should possess this volume.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Essays Upon Authors and Books. By W. Alfred Jones. New York:
    Stanford & Swords. 1 vol. 12mo._

The writer of this valuable little volume is favorably known among all
who favor independent thought, exercised in the domain of literary
criticism and characterization, as the author of “The Analyst” and
“Literary Studies.” The “Essays” are thirty in number, covering a wide
variety of topics, and indicating that kind of literary knowledge which
looks through books into the spiritual constitution of their authors.
Mr. Jones is a professor of the condensed in composition, and seems ever
ambitious to cram his matter into a small space, and short, sharp, curt
sentences. Perhaps he sacrifices mellowness in thus aiming after the
laconic, but his fault is of so rare a nature in these days of verbose
expansiveness, that to blame him for it were to fall into a worse one.
Among the many essays which induce us heartily to recommend this volume
to the reader, are those entitled “Traits of American Authorship,” “Home
Criticism,” “The Two Everetts,” “Hoyt’s Poems,” “Hugh Latimer,” “Sir
Philip Sidney’s Defense of Poesy,” “R. H. Dana,” “Burton’s Anatomy of
Melancholy,” “The Literature of Quakerism,” “Æsthetical Fragments,”
“Thomas Moore,” and “Lord Bolingbroke.” Mr. Jones’s culture sweeps over
the field of English literature, and some of his most interesting essays
relate to quaint authors, whose names are in few mouths, but who are
capable, in capable hands, of being made interesting even in this age.
We need not say that the moral character of Mr. Jones’s criticism is as
high as it’s mental, and that his book may be safely taken as a guide to
young as well as to experienced readers.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Hungarian Revolution. Outlines of the Prominent
    Circumstances attending the Hungarian Struggle for Freedom.
    Together with brief Biographical Sketches of the Leading
    Statesmen and Generals who took part in it. By Johan Pragay. New
    York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume carries with it more authority than any as yet published on
the Hungarian Revolution. The author had an official station in the
Ministry of War under Kossuth’s administration, and was Adjutant-General
of the Army. As the work of a soldier and statesman actively engaged in
the conduct of the war, it is as reliable as it is interesting.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Hints Toward Reforms, in Lectures, Addresses and Other
    Writings. By Horace Greely. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this volume is well known as the editor of an influential
political journal, and as a sturdy, independent, benevolent,
strong-minded and warm-hearted reformer. The topics he discusses are
those which deeply interest the popular mind at this time—labor,
temperance, land reform, capital punishment, free trade, protection,
etc.; and Mr. Greely grapples with the knottiest questions which those
themes suggest with a firm will, and an eager intellect. Bating some
doubtful opinions and some bad rhetoric, the volume conveys a good
impression of the author’s many excellent qualities of mind and
character. We cannot better describe the object of his work than by
employing his own words. “It aspires,” he says, “to be a mediator, an
interpreter, a reconciler, between Conservatism and Radicalism—to bring
the two into such connection and relation that the good in each may obey
the law of chemical affinity, and abandon whatever portion of either is
false, mistaken, or outworn to sink down and perish. It endeavors so to
elucidate and commend what is just and practical in the pervading
demands of our time for a Social Renovation that the humane and
philanthropic can no longer misrepresent and malign them as destructive,
demoralizing or infidel in their tendencies, but must joyfully recognize
in them the fruits of past and the seeds of future Progress in the
history of our Race.” The idea in this passage is one which a
conservative of the school of Burke would have no reason to disown. The
difficulty is in the different things meant by the two parties, when
they use the words “false, mistaken, and outworn.” Time, and the course
of things, not any particular intellect, must settle the dispute;
although we hope that Time, if he can take “Hints,” will accelerate his
pace a little, at our author’s particular request.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Talbot and Vernon. A Novel. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.
    12mo._

The author of this volume is guilty, as Pitt said of himself, “of the
atrocious crime of being a young man,” and appears now for the first
time before the public. But, though young, he has evidently seen and
experienced more than most old men. His knowledge of life has been
obtained from a residence in the Great West, and by a Campaign in
Mexico. The present novel is one of much interest and power, indicating
great freshness, quickness, and force of mind, and is particularly rich
in promise. The scenes in Mexico, including the description of the
battle of Buena Vista, and the whole trial scene toward the end of the
volume, are especially felicitous.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _Caprices. New York: R. Carter & Brother. 1 vol. 12mo._

This volume of poems, we should say, was the production of a sensitive
imagination and reflecting mind, gifted at present with more receptivity
than original power, and having a greater experience of Tennyson,
Emerson and Longfellow, than of actual or ideal life. The author has a
wide command of language, no mean powers of description, and a
tremblingly delicate sensibility for the beautiful and the grand, but
his present volume is more the promise than the performance of a
forcible and original poet. The very title indicates the fitful
character of the pieces.

                 *        *        *        *        *

    _The Daltons; or Three Roads in Life. By Charles Lever. New
    York: Harper & Brothers. Part I._

The author of “The Daltons” is so widely known for the heartiness and
vehemence of his comic narratives that it is only necessary to announce
his commencement of a novel to recommend it to attention.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                   FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS IN PREMIUMS.

The proprietors of the “Dollar Newspaper,” in this city, offer five
hundred dollars in premiums for the eight best stories written for that
paper, and sent in before the 1st day of October next—the merits of the
stories to be determined by a committee of literary gentlemen, whose
names will be given when the award is made. Two hundred dollars is the
premium for the best story; one hundred for the next best; fifty dollars
each for the two next best; and twenty-five dollars each for the four
next best. We have a long acquaintance with the proprietors of the
“Dollar Newspaper,” and have not the slightest doubt that their
proposition is made in good faith, and that all that they can do will be
done to arrive at a just and impartial decision. No writer who is
awarded a prize, could have any doubt of the prompt payment of the full
amount awarded. The only condition imposed by the publishers is, that
the scene of the story shall be American. Here’s a chance for the
literati.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration:

LE FOLLET,  boul. S^{t}. Martin, 69
Chapeaux de M^{lle}. Grafeton, pl. de la Madeleine, 5 — Mouchoirs L.
  Chapron & Dubois, rue de la Paix, 7.
Fleurs de Chagot ainé, r. Richelieu, 73, Robes et pardessus Isabelle de
  Camille.
The styles of Goods here represented can be had of Mess^{rs}. L. J. Levy &
  C^{o}. Philadelphia
and at Stewart’s, New-York.

Graham's Magazine 134 Chestnut Street]

                 *        *        *        *        *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some
spellings peculiar to Graham's. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.

page 73, first untuned page ==> first unturned page
page 76, and he promisess ==> and he promises
page 77, a benificent God ==> a beneficent God
page 77, deepth of feeling ==> depth of feeling
page 77, Bartholdy, Sphor, Gluck, ==> Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck,
page 78, the rushing Colorada ==> the rushing Colorado
page 78, traders of Chihuaha ==> traders of Chihuahua
page 88, exploring the the thickets ==> exploring the thickets
page 89, little bark of ==> little barque of
page 92, or petit-maitre modulations ==> or petit-maître modulations
page 95, whose fiancèe you ==> whose fiancée you
page 96, a litle expedition ==> a little expedition
page 98, Day past away ==> Day passed away
page 98, his bark may strand ==> his barque may strand
page 102, By some unforseen ==> By some unforeseen
page 104, were bestowod ==> were bestowed
page 106, Tinturn Abbey ==> Tintern Abbey
page 123, sat, pouring over ==> sat, poring over
page 126, Avoset, _recurvirosta_ ==>  Avoset, _recurvirostra_
page 128, of 12 guage ==> of 12 gauge
page 135, Sheeâh Traditions ==> Sheeãh Traditions
page 135, the Hyat-ul-Kuloob ==> the Hyât-ul-Kuloob
page 135, his usual interprise ==> his usual enterprise
page 135, London, Edinburg ==> London, Edinburgh
page 135, Peak of Derbyshire ==> Peaks of Derbyshire
page 136, accellerate his pace ==> accelerate his pace
page 136, awarded a a prize ==> awarded a prize