How could he help it? Born with an inquiring turn of mind, and gifted

from the first with a disposition toward experimental philosophy, by

what processes would you undertake to change the current of Mathew

Mizzle's mind? He is one of those who take nothing for granted. A

weight of authority is little in his mind when compared to the

personal investigation of the fact--facts for the people, and for

himself as one of the people--that's the pivot on which Mathew Mizzle

turns and returns, one fact being to his mind worth whole volumes of

speculative assumption; and to Mizzle all facts, let them relate to

what they may, are of peculiar interest. It is useless to tell him so.

He must go, see and examine for himself. Often, for instance, as he

had been told that Gruffenhoff's big dog would bite at the aspect of

strange visitations, do you think that this species of information

would content the youthful Mizzle? No--he must see into the matter for

himself, and ascertain it beyond the possibility of a doubt, by

touching up Gruffenhoff's big dog with a stick, as the aforesaid big

dog lay asleep in the sun, whereby the demonstration was immediately

afforded. The big dog would bite--he did bite severely; and thus the

little Mizzle added another fact to his magazine of knowledge, as well

as an enduring scar to his person, which placed the result upon

record, and kept memory fresh on the subject. One dog, at least, will

bite; and thenceforth, Mathew Mizzle admitted the inference that dogs

are apt to bite, under circumstances congenial to such dental

performances. If you doubt it, there's the mark.

"Burnee--burnee, baby," are the notes of warning often heard in the

nursery, when heated stoves become an object of interest to little

human specimens just learning to creep. But "burnee, burnee," conveyed

no precise idea to the infantile Mizzle during his preliminary

locomotive operations; and in consonance with the impulses of his

nature, he soon tried the stove in its most intense displays of

caloric, and in this way determined that "burnee, burnee," was

unpleasant to the person, and injurious to the costume and raiment of

that person, to say nothing of its threatening dispositions toward the

whole establishment. "Burnee, burnee," to the house, as well as

"burnee, burnee," to the baby. And so also as to lamps and

candles--that they would "burnee" too, was placed, painfully, beyond

the impertinent reach of a doubt in minds of the most sceptic order.

Mathew Mizzle can show you the evidences to this day, scored, as it

were, upon the living parchment, and engrossed in characters not to be

misunderstood upon the cuticular binding of his physical identity.

It was useless, also, to place the little Mathew at the head of

stairs, with information that any further advance on his part would

prove matter of injury. How could he know until he had tried? Indeed,

it required several clear tumbles down an entire flight to satisfy his

judgment on this point, and to imprint it on his mind, through the

medium of his bumpology, that the swiftest transition from one place

to another, especially when effected by the downward movement, is not

always the safest and the most agreeable. But afterward, none knew

better than he what is meant by the word "landing," as applied to the

staircase. "The Landing of Columbus" may be celebrated in pictures;

but Mathew Mizzle accomplished landings that made very nearly as much

noise as that effected by "the world-seeking Genoese," and the voyages

of both were accompanied by squalls.

But it was not by the touch alone that Mathew Mizzle sought after

information in his earlier career. His taste was equally curious.

Strange bottles were subjects of the most intense interest, so that

like Mithridates, he almost became proof against injury by the

frequent imbibings of poison. He knew that pleasant draughts came from

bottles, but had to learn that because a bottle has contents, it does

not necessarily follow that these contents are either safe or

agreeable. Ink, for instance--a copious mouthful of ink--however

literary one may be, ink thus administered is not a matter over which

the recipient is inclined greatly to rejoice. It did not appear so, at

least, when Mathew Mizzle, in frock and trowsers, astonished, after

this fashion, his mouth, his clothing and the carpet--so astonished

himself that he forgot to reverse the bottle, but permitted it to pour

in a steady stream right into the aperture of his lovely countenance.

No one probably in the wide world ever acquired a greater variety of

knowledge, as to the effect of substances of all kinds upon the human

palate, than was obtained by Mathew Mizzle in the course of his

earlier investigations into the relative qualities of solids and

liquids. A spoonful of Cayenne pepper probably afforded him as much of

surprise as any thing of the same portable compass. The varied

expressions of his countenance would have been a study to a Lavater.

The opera-house never witnessed a dance more remarkable for force and

for expression; and if ever Mathew Mizzle was wide awake--wider than

on any previous occasion, it was when he had seasoned himself highly

with Cayenne. It made Mathew piquant to a degree; and something of the

same kind might have been said of him when under the influence of

mustard. He was then the warmest boy anywhere about; and fully

appreciated the cheering influence of "the castors"--he did not go

upon castors for a long time afterward, and never again to the same

extent.

There was another source of trouble to Mathew Mizzle. His eyes proper

were sharp enough; but the knowledge they acquired was not sufficient

to satisfy his devouring thirst for information, and therefore much of

his seeing was done with the tips of his fingers, or the grasp of his

hands. He must touch every thing, and of course spoilt many things.

Leave him alone in the room for a moment, and he would open all the

letters, peep into every drawer, smell at every unknown substance,

displace your china, spoil your musical-box, climb up the piano-forte,

and pull over the vases of flowers. If you did not hear a crash this

time, do not flatter yourself. Some secret, but equally important

mischief has been accomplished, though it may not be apparent for

days. The Mathew Mizzles always leave their mark; and when a gun went

off in his hands, the shot that fractured the mirror rendered it

fortunate that the mark was only a mirror, as Mathew Mizzle roared

with terror at "the sound himself had made."

Mathew Mizzle, grown as he is now to man's estate, has perchance

changed the objects of his pursuit, but the activity both of his mind

and of his body remains undiminished. Curious as ever to ascertain

facts. He is one of those who have ever an eye upon their neighbors.

He follows people to ascertain whither they are going. It is a

favorite amusement of his to peep through the blinds of an evening, to

ascertain what you and your family are about. He listens at doors, and

he peers through cracks and patronizes knot-holes. If he can learn

nothing else, it is a satisfaction for him to ascertain what you are

about to have for dinner, and who stopped in to tea. Speak over loud

in the street, and Mathew Mizzle saunters close at your elbow, but

with such an unconscious look, that you would never dream that he had

come merely for information.

No one knows better than he all about the domestic difficulties of

families. His sources of intelligence are innumerable. Sometimes you

may find him on the back fence, taking observations of the domestic

circle; and he has been seen of an evening up the linden-tree in front

of domiciles, for similar purposes. The servants of the vicinage are

all on confidential terms with Mathew Mizzle; and--have you not noted

the fact?--when you would have secret discourse with a friend, Mizzle

comes upon you, as the birds of prey scent a battle-field. All secrets

appear to hold a species of telegraphic communication with our friend

Mathew Mizzle, as to the fact at least, that there is a secret in

existence, as well as a regard to its local habitation.

Ubiquitous Mathew Mizzle, yet invariably out of place. Open the door

suddenly, and Mathew Mizzle is almost knocked down. Throw out a bucket

of water at night, and Mathew Mizzle is there to receive its contents.

Pass a stick through the key-hole, and it's Mizzle's eye that suffers

the detriment. You stumble over him in dark entries--you find him

lying perdu in the closet. Go where you will, there is Mizzle, if it

be in the wrong place for Mizzle's presence.

Behold him prowling round the scenes to investigate the mysteries of a

theatrical performance. There he is, just where he was told not to be,

and William Tell was not in fault that his arrow has stricken Mathew

Mizzle breathless. What business had Mizzle there in Switzerland,

lurking near the walls of Altorf?

Mizzle's last catastrophe, like the last catastrophe of many other

distinguished citizens, was effected by means of a ladder, which he

had ascended cautiously by night, after the painters had left their

work, to see what was going on in the chamber of a second story.

Suddenly, there was a dog at the bottom of the aforesaid ladder, and a

cudgel at the top, presenting the alternatives of a dilemma. Switches

above and bark below, what could the unfortunate Mathew Mizzle do but

surrender himself a prisoner of war? Poor Mizzle! They put him under

the pump, and made him acquainted with the nature of ducks.

Is it not a pity that the system of "espionage" does not obtain in

America, that Mathew Mizzle might have a field for the exercise of the

qualities which are so remarkably developed in his constitution? It

would be a perfect union of duty and of pleasure, if he could be

employed to find out every thing that goes on in town and about, and

it is a great pity that means could not be devised to save so fine a

young man from the waste of his genius.

"People are so fussy about their secrets," says he, "as if there were

any use of having secrets, if it were not for the fun of finding them

out and talking about them. It's mean and selfish to abridge

intelligence in that sort of way, and if I knew of any country where

they manage matters on a different system, I'd emigrate right away, I

would. A pretty piece of business, to put a man under the pump,

because he seeks after knowledge."

SHAWANGUNK MOUNTAIN.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Before the plough had scattered fields of grain

And grassy orchards midst the oaken woods

Of Shawangunk, upon the mountain's top

Stood a wood-cutter's hut. Himself and wife

Shared it alone. The spot was green and sweet.

The earth was covered with a velvet sward,

Grouped with low thickets, here and there a tree

Rearing its dark rich foliage in the heavens.

Pleasant the echoes of his fast plied axe,

Merrily rattling through the mountain-woods,

To those who sought the old surveyor's road

For shade and coolness; and amidst the sounds

Would boom deep heavy shocks of falling trees,

Like growls of thunder in the noontide-hush,

So that the eye would glance impulsively

Up to the tree-tops, to discern the peak

Of the ascending cloud.

His forest-life,

Though rude, was joyous. When the mellow charm

Of sunset on the smiling mountains lay,

The creaking of his high-piled cart would blend

With song or whistle blithe, as, dipping down

The road, he sought the village in the midst

Of the green hollow. This slight mountain-road

Went slanting to the summit, with blazed trunks

On either side, and soft delicious grass

Spreading its carpet; one faint track alone

Telling that wheel had e'er its beauty scarred.

Close to the hut it passed, then downward plunged,

And sought the level of the opposite side.

'T was at the close of one cold winter day

That down this road I trod. My weary steps,

With efforts vain, had tracked, for hours, the deer,

And now, with empty flask and rifle, swift,

I journeyed homeward. Nature's great bright eye

Low beaming in the west, still poured sweet light

Upon the mountain. The pure snow, all round,

In delicate rose-tints glowed. The hemlocks smiled,

Speckled with gold. The oak's sear foliage, still

Tight clinging to the boughs, was kindled up

To warm rich brown. The myriad trunks and sprays

Traced their black lines upon the soft snow-blush

Beneath, until it seemed a tangled maze.

Upon the mountain's top, a thread of smoke

From the low cabin rose, as though a streak

Of violet had been painted on the air.

I heard the ring of the wood-cutter's axe,

And, through an opening, saw his instrument

Flashing into a walnut's giant stem,

Whose upborne mass, in the fast lowering light,

Seemed cut in copper. A broad wind-fall near

Let down my eyes upon the hollow. White

In snow it lay, with long and dusky lines

Of fences crossing--groups of orchard-trees--

Hay-barracks--barns and long low dwelling-roofs.

Straight as an arrow ran the streak of road

Athwart the hollow. As I looked, the eye

In the red west sank lower, till half quenched

Behind the upland, then a shred of light

Glittered and vanished, and the sky was bare.

Whilst gazing on this splendor, suddenly

I heard a shriek. Shrill, ringing midst the woods

In piercing clearness, through my ears it cut,

And left a sense of deafness. Startled, round

I gazed. Again the horrid sound thrilled past.

I knew it then as the terrific cry

Of the fierce, bloody panther. In our woods

Naught fiercer, bloodier dwells, when roused by rage

Or hunger. Oft our hunters had of late

Marked the huge foot-prints of the ravenous beast,

And heard his scream at midnight, but no eye

As yet had seen him. With a nervous grasp

Upon my useless weapon, and a weight

Of helplessness, like lead, upon my soul,

I started on my path. At every step

I thought his tawny form and fierce green eye

Would meet my sight, upon some limb o'erhead.

But naught was seen. The village soon I reached,

And gladly crossed the threshold of my home.

The long, cold, breathless night came swiftly down.

The clear, magnificent moon seemed not inlaid

In the bright blue, but stood out bold, distinct,

As though impending from the cloudless skies

Glittering with frost. Upon the sparkling snow

The rich light slept in such sweet purity

As naught on earth can match. The hours sped on,

The silver day still shone serene and clear,

And twinkled on the crystals shooting round.

Gazing once more upon the splendid scene,

Before I sought the couch, my wandering eye

Glanced at the mountain. There it grandly stood

A giant mass of ivory. On the spot

Where the steep slanting road the hollow joined,

My sight a moment dwelt, for there I last

Had swept around a quick and piercing gaze,

In search of the gaunt monster whose keen cry

Still echoed in my ears. Is that a spot

Of shadow flickering in some transient breeze?

No. O'er the hollow, gliding swift, it comes.

Is it the ravenous panther, fierce for blood,

Seeking the village? Closer as it speeds

A clearer shape it shows--a human form--

'T is the wood-cutter's wife! She loudly shrieks,

"My husband--lost--wake, wake!" the moonlight falls

Upon her features swollen with tears. A band

Of villagers was soon aroused, and forth

We sallied toward the mountain. So intense

The cold, the snow creaked shrilly at our tread,

And the strewed diamonds on its surface flashed

Back the keen moonlight. As we trod along,

The wife in breathless haste, her story told,

How, when the sunset fell, she watched to see

Her husband's form swift speeding up the road,

From the side-clearing, at that wonted hour,

Toward his low roof. The sunset died, and night

Sprang on the earth; the absent one came not.

The moon moved up; the latch-string was not pulled

For entrance in the cabin. Hours sped on.

And still, upon the silvered snow, no form

Her gaze rewarded. Once she heard afar

A panther's shriek. Her fear to frenzy rose.

To the side-clearing sped she; naught was there

But solitude and moonlight. As she told

Her tale I shuddered. In my ear again

Rang the fierce shriek I heard as sunset glowed,

And my flesh crept with horror. Up we trod

Our mountain snow-path speedily. At length,

To where the narrow opening in the woods

Led from the road, we came. 'T was at this spot

I stood, and watched the form and flashing axe

Of him, the lost. We passed within. The moon

Threw on the little clearing a full flood

Of radiance. There the crusted wood-pile stood;

There was the walnut with a ghastly notch

Deep in its heart. A ledge of rock rose up

Beside the wounded tree, and at its base

A space of blackest hue proclaimed a chasm.

No life was stirring on the brilliant waste;

The trees rose like a wall on every side

But where the ledge frowned darkly. As I checked

My footsteps at the half-hewn walnut, drops

Thick sprinkled round--the snow stamped down--an axe

Lying upon the high wreathed roots, my gaze,

As with a charm, arrested. From this spot

Large prints and a broad furrow stretched along

To the black chasm within the rocky ledge.

We clustered round the mouth. A low, deep growl

Came from the depths. Two orbs of flashing fire

Glared in the darkness. Brace, the hunter, aimed

His rifle just between the flaming spots,

And fired. Fierce growls and gnashings loud of teeth

Blent with the echoes, and then all was still.

The spots were seen no more. A few had brought

Splinters of pine for torches, and the flint

Supplied the flame. With one hand grasping tight

A hatchet keen, the other a bright torch,

The dauntless hunter ventured, with slow steps,

Within the cavern. Soon a shout we heard,

And Brace appeared, with all his giant strength

Dragging a lifeless panther. In again

He passed, and then brought out a human form,

Mangled and crushed. A shriek pealed wild and high,

And, swooning, sank the wife upon the snow,

Beside the dead. With silent, deep-felt awe

We bore both to the hut. A sudden cloud

Rose frowning from the north, and deep and fierce

Howled the loosed tempest. From her death-like swoon,

Roused by our care, the hapless wife poured out

Her cries and wailings. Through the livelong night

We heard her moans and screams and ravings wild,

Blending with all those stern and awful tones

That the scourged forest yields. But morning dawned,

And brought the widowed and the broken heart

The peace of death. Beside the lonely hut,

Two graves were opened in the frozen snow,

And silence then fell deeply on the spot.

No more the smoke curled up. No more the axe

Rang in the mountain; and a few short years

Leveled the cabin with the forest-earth,

Midst spreading bushes, fern and waving grass.

INNOCENCE.

Let me, lamb-like, share caresses,

From thy hand that knows not stain;

Flowers that woo, the smile that blesses,

Hours that pass and leave no pain!

Be with me in sleeping, waking;

Be with me in toil and rest;

Living, thine; and, life forsaking,

Let me slumber on thy breast!

[Illustration: INNOCENCE]

A DRAMA OF REAL LIFE.

(IN A LETTER FROM N. P. WILLIS TO THE EDITOR OF GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.)

TO GEO. R. GRAHAM, ESQ.

_New York, December_ 1, 1847.

DEAR SIR,--By to-night's mail should go to you a

piece of mental statuary, which is yet in a marble

block of the reluctant quarry of my brain--due to

you by agreement on the first of December, one

unconceived tale! But though we do so strangely

bargain the invisible wares of the imagination,

deliverable, like merchandize, on a certain day,

the contractor is still liable to the caprices of

the world he trades from, and your order on me for

fancy yet undug, must, I fear, be protested. You

would not believe me if I were to tell you

literally why. But the truth is that I, and a

certain cave (mentioned by Humboldt, on the banks

of the Oronookoo, which he calls a "subterranean

organ,") can only give out music in certain states

of the weather. With the dry, sharp, icy north wind

of the last few days, I could no more write than I

could supply electricity to Morse's wire.

But--no failure is _quite_ twenty shillings in the

pound. What say you to the assets? The statue will

not be forth coming--but will you have the model,

after which the undug block was to have been

chiseled? Shall I send you the literal truth which

I had intended to drape with imagination--tell the

facts of real life which I had designed to weave

into a story. I shall thus, at least, clear

_yourself_ of the non-fulfillment of the promise of

your pre-advertised contents, and (engaging to send

you a story properly completed for the next number)

shall effect, perhaps, a compromise for my

delinquent punctuality.

This, then, is the thread of literal truth which

was to have run through the fancy-woof of my story.

Some years ago, after a year or two of residence in

different cities of Italy, I found myself very much

at home in Naples. It was an unusually gay

season--the concentration of the rank and fashion

of the floating society of travelers varying

between Rome, Florence, and Naples, very much as it

does, in our country, between the different

watering-places--by caprices that no one can

foresee. The English people of rank, more

particularly, were in very great force; and the

blonde moustaches, so much admired in the

dark-haired South, and the skins of alabaster and

rose, so envied by the brunettes of Italy, abounded

at the balls and in the public places. The king

kept very gay court, the royal entertainments

accessible to all strangers properly introduced,

and the ambassadors and bankers, nobles and wealthy

strangers, seemed to want twice as many nights and

mornings in the week, so conflicting were the balls

and breakfasts, driving-parties and dinners.

As, of course, an unobserved looker-on in scenes of

such brilliant rivalry and display, I had more

attention to spare than most whom I met; and I

soon found myself--eyes, mind, fancy, and

interest, absorbed in one study--a new revelation

of a type of woman. We are accustomed to see the

sex in classes--hundreds of a kind--and find them

sufficiently absorbing as nouns of multitude. It is

probably one of Heaven's principles of human

safety, that women are made in "lots" so like, that

a transfer of a slighted heart, from an unwilling

beauty to some willing likeness of her, safely

vents the volcano. Proportionately dangerous,

however, are those rare women--of whom a man sees,

perhaps, one or two in his life--who are the only

ones of their type and kind; for, out of love for

them, their is no exit but through their hearts.

You are going too fast if you fancy I am about to

record a fruitless passion of my own. Though of

"easy wax," I am not stamped, except by will of the

imprintress; and my only cobweb thread of personal

remembrance is a horseback excursion to Camaldoli,

in which I played the propriety-third to the best

of my discretion. It is necessary to define thus

much, to redeem my estimate of the lady from the

imputation of mere fancy. Had I known her

intimately, or not known her at all, my judgment of

her would be less reliable. In just the position

for untroubled and most favorable observation, I

studied her in silence through that brilliant

season, and laid away her image (as one does

without more than one or two choked-down

aspirations) to people castles in the air, and fill

niches in the temple of dreams.

The foregoing prepares you for a portrait of the

proposed heroine of my story--but that you would

have had, had the story been written. I never could

draw a picture of a woman but from the life, and to

that fictitious tale I should have transferred,

with studied and careful truthfulness, the enamel

portrait burnt in upon my memory, and which you

would have admired my fancy for conceiving. Oh! the

mistake of supposing that we can imagine things

brighter than we have seen with our eyes--that

there is any kingdom of air, visitable by poets,

which is comparable to the glorious world we live

in, with its _some_ women, _some_ sunsets, _some_

strains of music, and _some_ fore-tasted

heaven-thrills of emotion.

The heir to one of the oldest titles of England was

the husband of this lady. The fortunes of his

family had been wasted; and they had lived for a

generation or two in comparative obscurity, when

the present Lord ---- came of age. He had been

educated carefully, but was of great personal

beauty, and I thought when I first saw him, was as

fine a model as I had ever seen of the quiet,

reserved, self-intrenched school of modern English

manners. With his beauty and his title, though with

little or no estate, he had easily married a lady

of fortune--the only daughter of a retired banker.

And this heiress, Lady ----, is the one whose story

I would have told through a veil of fiction.

The Countess of ---- was an unsurpassed horsewoman,

and rode constantly. Her blood-horses had been sent

round by ship from England; and she was always

mounted on an animal whose every fibre seemed

obedient to her thought, and with whose motion

every line of her own tall and slenderly-rounded

person, and every ringlet of her flowing, golden

curls seemed in a correspondence governed by the

very spirit of beauty. She rode with her rein

loose, and her mind apparently absorbed with any

thing but her horse. A turn of her head, or the

pressure of her foot upon his shoulder, was

probably the animal's guidance. But, of an

excessively impassioned nature, she conversed in

the saddle with the expression and gesture of the

most earnest untrammeling of mind, and, in full

speed, as in the repose upon a lounge in a saloon,

she carried away the listener with her

uncalculating and passionate absorption--no

self-possession, however on its guard it might be,

able, apparently, to withstand the enveloping and

resistless influence which she herself was a slave

to. Unconsciousness of every thing in the world,

except the feeling she was pouring from her soul,

seemed the only and every-day condition and law of

her nature; and supreme as she was in fashion of

dress, and style of manner, these seemed matters

learned and lost thought of--she having returned to

nature, leaving her triumphs as a belle to be cared

for by infallible habit. A separate spirit of

light, speaking from the lips of the most

accomplished and best perfected of women--the

spirit, and the form possessed, being each in full

exercise of their best faculties--could scarcely

have conveyed more complete impressions of wondrous

mind, in perfect body, or have blended more

ravishingly, the entireness of heavenly with the

most winning earthly development. She was an

earnest angel, in the person of a self-possessed

and unerringly graceful woman.

I chanced to be looking on, when Prince ----, one

of the brothers of a royal family of central

Europe, was presented to the Countess ----. It was

at a crowded ball; and I observed that, after a few

minutes of conversation with her, he suddenly

assumed a ceremonious indifference of manner, and

went into another room. I saw at once that the

slightness of the attention was an "anchor to

windward," and that, in even those few minutes the

prince had recognized a rare gem, and foreseen

that, in the pursuit of it, he might need to be

without any remembered particularity of attention.

Lady ----- conversed with him with her usual

earnest openness, but started a little, once or

twice, at words which were certainly unaccompanied

by their corresponding expression of countenance;

and this, too, I put down for an assumption of

disguise on the part of the prince. It was natural

enough; with his conspicuous rank, he could only

venture to be unguarded in his attentions to those

for whom he had no presentiment of future intimacy.

That the progress of this acquaintance should

assume for me the interest of a drama--a scene of

it played every night, with interludes every day,

in public drives and excursions--would not be

wonderful to you, could I have drawn the portrait

of the principal performer in it, so that you would

understand its novelty. I had never seen such a

woman, and I was intensely interested to know how

she would bear temptation. The peculiar character

of the prince I easily understood; and I felt at

once, that of all stages of an accomplished man's

progress, he was at the one most dangerous to her,

while, perhaps, no other kind of woman in the world

would have called upon any but very practiced

feelings of his own. He was of middle age, and had

intellect enough to have long anticipated the ebb

of pleasure. With his faculties and perceptions in

full force, he was most fastidious in permitting

himself to enjoy an enthusiasm, to admire, to yield

to, or to embark upon with risk. The admiration of

mere beauty, mere style, mere wit, mere superiority

of intellect in woman, or of any of these combined,

was but a recurrent phase of artificial life. He

had been to the terminus, the farthest human

capability of enjoyment of this, and was now back

again to nature, with his keenest relish in

reserve, looking for such outdoings of art as

nature sometimes shows in her caprices. In the

Countess ---- he recognized at once a rare miracle

of this--a woman whose beauty, whose style, whose

intellect, whose pride, were all abundant, but,

abundant as they were, still all subservient to

electric and tumultuous _sensation_. Her life, her

impulse--the consciousness with which she

breathed--was the one gift given her by Heaven in

tenfold measure, and her impression on those she

expanded to, was like the magnetizing presence of

ten full existences poured into one. The heart

acknowledged it before her--though the reason knew

not always why.

Lord ---- would scarce have been human had he not

loved such a woman, and she his wife. He did love

her--and doubtless loves her at this hour with all

the tenderness of which he could ever be capable.

If they had lived only on their estates in England,

where seclusion would have put up no wall of

concealment to his feelings, she might have drawn

from the open well of his heart, the water for

which her ardent being was athirst. But with the

usage of fashionable life, he followed his own

amusements during the day, leaving the countess to

hers; and in scenes of gayety they were, of course,

still separated by custom; and all she enjoyed of

nature in her rides, or of excitement in society,

was, of course, with others than her husband.

Naples is in the midst of palace-gardens, and of

wonders of scenery--in seeing which love is

engendered in the bosom and brain with tropical

fruitfulness--and Lady ---- could no more have

lived that year in Italy without passionate loving,

than she could have stayed from breathing the

fragrance of the orange blossoms, when galloping

between the terraced gardens of Sorrento.

* * * * *

When abroad, a little more than a year ago, I made

a visit to a friend, whose estate is in the same

county with that of the father of Lady ----, and

between whose park-gates and his extends the

distance of a morning's drive through one of the

loveliest hedged winding-roads of lovely England. A

very natural inquiry was of the whereabout and

happiness of the Countess of ----, whom I had left

at Naples ten years before, and had not been in the

way of hearing of since; and I named her in the gay

tone with which one speaks of the brilliant and

happy. We were sitting at the dinner-table, and I

observed that I had mis-struck a chord of feeling

in the company present, and with well-bred tact,

the master of the house informed me that

misfortunes had befallen the family since the

period I spoke of, and turned the conversation to

another topic. After dinner, I heard from him the

following outline of the story, and its affecting

sequel.

Near the close of the season when Lord ---- was at

Naples, he suddenly left that city and returned

with his wife and their one child to England. To

the surprise of the wondering world, Lady ---- went

to her father's, and Lord ---- to the small estate

of his widowed mother, where they remained for a

while in unexplained seclusion. It was not long

before rumors arrived from Italy, of a nature

breathing upon the reputation of the lady; and soon

after a formal separation took place, Mr. ----, her

father, engaging to leave his whole fortune to the

son of Lord ----, if that nobleman would consent to

give him to the exclusive keeping of his mother.

With these facts ended the world's knowledge of the

parties, the separated pair remaining, year after

year, in absolute seclusion; and Lady ---- never

having been known to put foot beyond the extending

forest in which her home was hidden from view, and

the gates to which were guarded from all entrance,

even of family friends.

It was but a few days before this sequel was

narrated to me, that the first communication had

been made from the Countess of ---- to her

husband. It was a summons to attend, if he wished,

the burial of his only child--the heir of his name,

and the bringer-back, had he lived, of wealth to

the broken fortunes of his title. A severer blow

could hardly have followed the first--for it struck

down heart, pride, and all that could brighten this

world's future. Lord ----came. The grave was made

in a deep grove of firs on the estate of the boy's

mother. There were but three mourners

present--herself, her father, and her husband. The

boy was ten or eleven years old when he died, and

one of the most gifted and noble lads, in mind and

person, that had ever been seen by those who knew

him. On his horse, with his servant behind him, the

young boy-lord was a constant sight of pride and

beauty to the inhabitants of the county, and was

admired and beloved every where he rode in his

daily excursions.

The service was read; the two parents stood side by

side at the grave, while the body was laid in

it--the first time they had met since their

separation, and both in the prime of life, and with

hearts yearning--both hearts, beyond a doubt--with

love, and longing for forgiveness; and when the

earth rang on the coffin, they _parted without

exchanging a word_. The carriage of Lord ----

waited for him in the avenue; and with the expiring

echo of his wheels through that grove of fir-trees,

died all hope and prospect, if any had been

conceived, of a re-union, in grief, of these proud

broken-hearted.

I have told you thus, with literal truth, all that

I could know of this drama of real life; but, of

course, its sketchy outline could be easily filled

out by fancy. Your readers, perhaps, will like to

do this for themselves.

Yours truly,

N. P. WILLIS.

LINES TO ----.

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

Like a cloud of the summer sunset

Gleaming across the blue,

Like a star of the golden twilight

Through the misty evening dew,

Like a strain of heavenly music

Breathed mournfully and low,

Charming the heart to sadness

By its bewildering flow--

Thou camest to my presence

In the far off long-ago.

Thou camest for a moment,

Then fleeted swift away,

As the rosy cloud of sunset

Fades at the close of day,

As the beaming star of twilight

Withdraws its golden ray.

Thou hast past from out my presence

As the songs low cadence dies,

Which the heart seeketh ever,

And evermore it flies.

Oh, in my weary journeying

Come to me yet once more,

While still my footsteps wander

On Time's uncertain shore.

Come to me, oh, sweet vision

Of what my soul has sought,

And with mine once more mingle

Thy far, sky-piercing thought.

Call I in vain thy spirit?

Do I seek thee all in vain?

Shall I never hear thy accent

In music fall again?

Why didst thou cross my pathway,

Oh soul so pure and true?

To fade like the clouds of sunset.

Like the star from the misty blue?

AUTUMNAL SCENERY.

WHAT IS NECESSARY TO THE ENJOYMENT OF NATURE'S BEAUTIES.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

I am not of those who think that a true enjoyment of the beauties of

nature, of natural scenery, and natural objects, generally, is a test

of the purity of principle or the delicacy of sentiment, any more than

I hold that a love of music is essential to domestic, social or

political virtue. The cultivation of the eye and the ear--or the

capabilities in those organs for cultivation--have more to do with all

this than many seem to allow; and men and women of the purest

principles, and the highest benevolence, may stand within the

loveliest scenes that nature has ever spread out, or may listen to the

most delicious music that art has ever prepared and performed, without

comprehending the beauties or the excellence of either, or imagining

that there is a moral test applied to them in these attractions.

Nevertheless, there is an enjoyment in such scenes and such sounds,

and those who are permitted to share therein have another life--or

such an additional enjoyment added to _that_ of ordinary minds, that

they seem to live more, if not longer, in such pleasures than the

common allotment; and none, I suspect, will doubt that the indulgence

of a taste for natural beauties tends to soften the mind, soothe the

passions, and thus elevate the feelings and aspirations.

If I have less of the power of appreciating and enjoying rural sights

and rural sounds, if there is vouchsafed to me a _limited_ capability

of understanding and delighting in the beauties of the field and wood,

of gathering pleasure from the outstretched loveliness of land and

stream, still I thank God; and I speak with reverence, I thank God

that I have _some_ pleasure in these things; and more than that, I

have a certain fixed delight in noticing the enjoyment which the

better formed and higher cultivated mind derives from what a good

Providence has poured out for the decoration of the earth. Humble as

this faculty may be, which is partly exercised through intermediate

objects, I find it useful to me, and, still better, I find that it

ministers to other pleasures--to enjoy what is lovely is a high and a

cultivated talent--the enjoyment of that loveliness with another

kindred or more elevated mind is a yet higher attainment, as the

performance of _concerted_ music is more difficult and more gratifying

than a simple solo.

Rarely within my recollection, and that is as inclusive as the

remembrance of almost any around me, rarely has an autumn been more

delightful than that which has just closed, in its clear, shining

sunlight, or more attractive for its bland and healthful temperature.

Not leisure--for that I have little to boast of, or to _fear_. Let my

young readers mark that word, _fear_. I am not about to write a

homily upon the uses of time and talents, but let me parenthetically

note that the gift of enjoying leisure is so rare in the young, that a

lack of constant occupation should be rather feared than courted. I do

not speak of the danger of flagrant vice, but of a growing propensity

to disregard portions of time, because only _portions_ may be

necessary to the discharge of admitted duties--the danger is

imminent--but not to the young alone. In youth, love of action _may_

employ the leisure to the promotion of vice in age, a tendency to

inertness may induce the abuse of the leisure to total inaction. I can

hardly imagine any object more unsightly than an idle old man--the

dead trunk of a decayed tree, marring the landscape and injuring

culture. But I must return. Not leisure, for I have little of that to

boast of or fear; not leisure, but a love, a growing love for the

partial solitude of the field, and something of an enjoyment of the

elevating communion which it leaves, sent me more than once in

November last strolling beyond the dusty roads and noisy turnpike in

the vicinity of our city. It was, as I have reason to recollect, on

the eighteenth of November, that I was wandering observantly, but in

deep contemplation, across some of the fields that lie near the road

leading from the city to Frankford. It was a lovely day, and every

feeling of my heart was consonant to the scene. Ascending a little

eminence, I obtained an extensive view. The forest trees had lost

their rich garb of mottled beauties, and their denuded limbs stretched

out with attenuated delicacy, seemed to streak the distant horizon

with darkened lines. On my right the winding Delaware lay stretched

out in glassy beauty, and near me, glittering in the sunlight beyond,

were a thousand gossamer webs that had survived a recent storm. The

fields were unusually green, for the season, as if the year were

clothing itself, like an expiring prelate, with its richest

habiliments, that its departure might leave the impress of that beauty

which comes from its usefulness. I had yielded to the influences of

the scene, had allowed my feeling to predominate, and was in the midst

of an unwonted abstraction from all ordinary cares and relations,

catching something of that state with which the more gifted are

indulged, when I was startled by the sound of footsteps upon the

carpet-like grass around me.

"Hardly looking for game here?" said the person inquiringly.

"And without dog and gun?" said I.

"There's not much game in these parts," said he.

"And yet I was hunting!" said I. "Hunting pleasure from the prospect."

"I do not derive much pleasure," said my companion, "from such

things. Almost all fields are alike to me. Generally they are places

for labor, or they lie between my residence and labor, and thus make a

toilsome distance."

"But do you not enjoy the pleasure of this scene? Do you not, while

looking abroad from some eminence, feel a sensation different from

what you experience while walking on the turnpike?"

"Most generally. I think there was once or twice a feeling came over

me here which I did not exactly understand."

"And when was that?"

"Always on Sunday morning, as I have been crossing the field to attend

service at the church yonder. I could not tell whether it was a sense

of relief from ordinary labor, or something connected with the service

in which I was about to join; but, certainly, the fields, and woods,

and water beyond, had a different appearance, and seemed to affect me

differently from their ordinary influence. Perhaps as these feelings

are recent, they may have sprung from another cause."

"If the beauties of nature, and the influence of religious aspirations

could not account for those feelings which you experienced, I can

scarcely tell whence you derived the sensation."

"I suppose that all beauties are not discernable at once, and our

sympathies are not all awakened by a single exhibition of what may be

productive of delight or sorrow. Whatever of pleasure I have derived

from the beauties observable from such places as this, are not

primarily referable to my own powers of application, but rather from

the lessons of another--lessons derived from a few words, and from

constant example."

"And, pray, what _example_ could open to you new beauties in a

landscape, or develop attractions in a scene which you had been in the

habit of seeing for many years?"

"I do not know that any one has taught me by word and example to see

from any point of observation, aught that I had not discerned before,

but it is certain that what was unnoticeable became an object of

contemplation, and points of the scenery have been made to harmonize

by association, when viewed separately, they had little that was

attractive.

"A few years since, a young lady, I think of European birth, was

brought to live in the house which stands near yonder clump of trees;

her situation seemed that of an humble companion to the lady--but her

services and her influence made her more than loved. I never saw more

affection exhibited than all of the household manifested toward her. I

cannot tell you what means she used to acquire such a mastery over the

love of all around her, but, though less within the influence of her

attractive manners than some others, I yet shared in the general

feeling of regard. She was a frequent visiter to a small eminence in

this immediate neighborhood, and I often followed her thither, though

I was careful not to reach the place until her departure; and then I

have gone around as she did, looking at the various points of the

scenery, to try to have the enjoyment which was imparted to her from

the visits. Once I came when she was here, and met a condescension

entirely hidden in kindness; she called my attention to what she

designated the numerous beauties of the place, and subsequently I went

frequently to the spot to look at what she had pointed out, and I

think I occasionally derived some new pleasure from the scene. I am

not able now to say whether that pleasure was the result of new

capacities to behold beauties, or whether it was consequent upon my

respect for her who had imparted the lesson. Perhaps both.

"There was a young man, a relative of Mrs. ----, with whom this lady

resided, that came frequently to the house. I never saw a person

apparently more winning in his manner, or more delicate in his

attentions; and, as all expected, he proposed for marriage to the

young woman. It was thought that there would be objections on the part

of _his_ relations--and there were; but they came from the gentleman

of the house, who plainly declared that the young man was not worthy

of the woman he sought. Her heart, it was evident, was concerned; it

was whispered, I know not how truly, that the youth had associations

in the city unworthy his relations at home. But when do the young and

confiding ever regard monitions of this kind. She, whose good sense

had restored order to a family that needed direction, and had

sustained her against all adverse circumstances among strangers, could

not influence her against the pleadings of her own heart. The young

man, more than a year since, received a commission, and joined the

army at Mexico. He left with her a sealed paper, and his favorite dog.

The animal was already most affectionately attached to her, and now

became her constant companion. Never did I see an animal so completely

devoted to a human being; never was kindness more reciprocated than

was that of the companion of her walks; he patiently awaited at the

door of the church for the conclusion of the services, and at night

held vigils beneath her window. I think the dog, too, must have

understood something of the beauty of this scenery; for I have seen

him for an hour together standing wistfully beside his mistress, and

gazing up into her face, and then not meeting with an encouraging

look, stretching his sight far away in the direction of her eyes, as

if determined to share with her whatever contributed to her pleasure

or her pain.

"Less than four months ago news reached the family of the death of the

young man--I do not remember the exact time, or the place of the

engagement in which he fell--but his death produced deep sensation in

the family generally, but it went to the heart of the young lady. I

saw her once or twice on her favorite place in the field, but I dared

not approach her--she had no companion but the faithful dog. In two

weeks she was confined to her bed--and shortly afterward the family

was plunged in new afflictions by her death. I was inquiring of one of

the family relative to the particular disease of which she died, and

heard it suggested that it might have been a rapid consumption."

"I think not," said a very little girl, who had shared in the

affectionate instruction of the deceased.

"And why?"

"Can the heart of a person break to pieces?" asked the child.

"The heart may be broken," I said.

"Then that is it--for I heard mamma tell sister that Miss Mary's heart

was broken."

"I have noticed that the death of an affianced one is more severely

felt by a woman, as a severe disturbance of affection, than is the

death of a husband. And I suppose this comes from the delicacy of a

maiden that shrinks from the utterance of a grief which finds vent and

sympathy with a widow. I never hear of such a bereavement without

deeper sorrow for the survivor's sufferings, than I have for the

mourning wife. God help her who's crushed by a grief that she may not

openly indulge; who must hide in her bosom the fire that is consuming

her life."

The sealed paper was reopened; it contained a rich bequest to the

young woman, and with it was a small piece of paper, containing _her_

request to be buried beyond us, whence she had so often contemplated

the scene around us. The field was her own property, by the will of

the young man. She relinquished all else of his gift. "We buried her

_there_. I say _we_--for though my position was far below hers, yet

none felt more deeply her loss than those who looked up to admire her.

The little paling that surrounds the eminence was erected to keep away

the foot of the thoughtless. Shall we go to see the grave?"

I followed the man into the enclosure. The sods which covered the

grave of Mary had not yet united; and one or two seemed to be worn, as

if they had been treated with some rudeness. I drew the attention of

my guide to the abrasion.

"Ah, yes! that is poor Lara's doings," said he. "Poor dog! I looked

around for him at the funeral, expecting to see him at the grave, but

was disappointed. Every evening since the funeral, just before the sun

goes down, and often in the morning--the hours in which Miss Mary was

wont to come hither to enjoy the scenery--poor Lara has been seen

stretched out upon the grave, uttering his grief in a low wail. I

scarcely believe that he will recover from the loss he has sustained;

and others might be equally unconsolable, if they did not feel that it

is better with Mary now than when she lived."

When I had looked downward to the grave for a time, and almost into

it, that I might the better contemplate the character and end of her

who rested there, my companion drew my attention to the beauty of what

was around us.

"Miss Mary loved to stand here," said he, "and enjoy the rich sunset.

Mark, now, how richly its beams are thrown from the windows of yonder

Gothic house beyond the turnpike, and on the new dwelling a little

this side. A mellowness is in that light, to soothe where it falls;

and the whispering of the southern wind that we now hear, is like the

cries of spirits communing with their good sister below us."

"You seem now to enjoy the scenery, my friend," said I, "as much as

almost any other person."

"Sir, I have felt, of late, a growing fondness for this place and this

scene; and last Sunday, when returning from the afternoon service, I

stood here almost wrapt in the pleasure which the place afforded to

the departed one, and I have since come to believe that there is

something more than book-knowledge necessary to the relish of natural

scenery."

"May I ask what that _something_ is, which you think assists us to

appreciate the beauty of a landscape?"

"Why, sir--perhaps I am wrong, you certainly know better than I--but,

it appears to me, my growing sense of enjoyment in this scene is due

to the memory of the virtues of her whom I constantly connect with

this place, and that enjoyment is fixed and augmented by the frame of

mind in which I go to, or come from the place of worship."

"If I understand you correctly, you have come to the conclusion that

to enjoy nature, our hearts must be touched, and our affections

mellowed by earthly sympathies, and our views expanded and elevated by

a sense of religious duties."

"Something like that, sir."

"And is not that what is understood by 'LOVE TO GOD, AND LOVE TO MAN?'"

POETRY.--A SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

To me the world's an open book

Of sweet and pleasant poetry;

I read it in the running brook

That sings its way toward the sea:

It whispers in the leaves of trees,

The swelling grain, the waving grass.

And in the cool fresh evening breeze

That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below--the stars above--

In all their bloom and brightness given,

Are, like the attributes of love,

The poetry of earth and heaven.

Thus Nature's volume, read aright,

Attunes the soul to minstrelsy,

Tinging life's clouds with rosy light,

And all the world with poetry.

THE MOURNER.

BY THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.

Why is thy visage o'ershadowed by gloom,

Are Nature's enchantments not scattered around,

Has the rose lost her fragrance, the tulip her bloom,

Has the streamlet no longer its mild, soothing sound?

Say what are thy pleasures--or whence is thy bliss,

In thy breast can no movements of sympathy rise?

Canst thou glance o'er a region so lovely as this,

And no bright ray of pleasure enliven thine eyes?

Where are there fields more delightfully drest,

In a verdure still fresh'ning with every shower?

Here are oak-covered mountains, with valleys of rest,

Richly clothed in the blossoming sweet scented flower.

Why lingerest thou ever to gaze on that star,

Sinking low in the west e'er the twilight is o'er?

While the shadows of evening extending afar

Bid the warbler's blithe carol be poured forth no more,

Oh why when the Sabbath bell's pleasantest tone

Wakes the soul of devotion in song to rejoice,

Are thy features with sorrow o'erclouded alone,

While no sounds but of sadness are heard from thy voice?

Listen, while I tell thee, stranger!

In a brief and hurried measure:

Though my soul drink not of pleasure,

Though mine eyes be sunk in gloom;

Tis not from fear of coming danger,

Nor yet from dread of doom.

The youngest leaves must fall,

When summer beams have ceased to play;

And may not sorrow spread her pall,

When joy, and hope, and love decay?

Earth's loveliest scenes;

The boons of heaven most cherished;

Fields dressed in gladdening greens,

Are drear, when hope has perished:

Spring's beauteousness,

Followed by summer's glory,

May fade without the power to bless,

As doth a dreaméd story.

It gives me peace to gaze at even,

Watching the latest, faintest gleam

Of yon bright traveler of heaven,

Reflected in the silver stream;

For she I love has gently leaned--

While my fond heart with bliss was swelling--

Upon my arm, to see descend

That brilliant star in light excelling.

The chiming bells give joy no more,

Long since the tones have lost their sweetness;

They now but wake me to deplore

The bliss that fled with air-like fleetness.

Blame not my sorrow: chilling pride

Nor clouds my brow nor kills the smile;

For loss of wealth I never sighed,

But all for her I mourn the while.

She was my all, my fairest, dearest, best;

I loved--I lost her--tears may speak the rest.

ELSIE.

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

A young white rose-bud--with its leaves

Just blown apart, and wet with dew--

A fair child in a garland weaves

'Mid glowing flowers of every hue.

She sitteth by the rushing river,

While the soft and balmy air

Scarce stirs the starry flowers that quiver

Amid her sunny hair--

Thou of the laughing eyes! 'mid all

The roses of thy coronal--

Thou'rt fairest of the fair.

Ah, bright young dreamer! may thy heart

In its early freshness ever be

Pure as the leaves--just blown apart--

Of the rose thou'rt wreathing in childish glee.

Ah, well I know those flowers thou'rt twining

For thy fair pale mother dear--

For the love-light in those blue eyes shining

Is shadowed by a tear;

And thy thoughts are now in that dim, hushed room--

With the sad, sweet smile, and the fading bloom--

_Thou'rt all too young to fear._

SONNET TO ----.

The crimson clouds had gathered round the sun,

Sinking full slowly to his nightly rest,

And gilding with a glory all his own

The bannered splendor of the glowing west,

Entranced I gazed upon the gorgeous scene

That thus so fair before my vision lay;

The calm, serene, blue heavens looked out between,

And softly smiled upon retiring day.

All was so beautiful, I could but feel

A shade of sadness that thou wert not nigh,

The radiant glory to behold with me;

And still the thought would o'er my spirit steal,

That all the clouds and mists in my dark sky

Would gather rays of glory, my life's sun, from thee!

C. O.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.--NO. VIII.

AMERICAN STARLING OR MEADOW-LARK.

This well-known inhabitant of our meadows like the Partridge, is

sociable, somewhat gregarious, and partially migratory. The change of

country, however, appears to be occasioned only by scarcity of food,

and many of them pass the whole winter with us. They may be bought in

our markets when snow is on the ground; and in the month of February,

Wilson found them picking up a scanty subsistence in the company of

the snow-birds, on a road over the heights of the Alleghanies. Its

flight, like that of the Partridge, is laborious and steady. Though

they collect their food from the ground, they are frequently shot on

trees, their perch being either the main branches, or the topmost

twigs. At the time of pairing, they exhibit a little of the jealous

disposition of the tribe, but his character vindicated by his bravery,

and the victory achieved, he retires from his fraternity to assist his

mate in the formation of her nest. The flesh of the Meadow-Lark is

white, and for size and delicacy, it is considered little inferior to

the Partridge. In length, he measures ten and a half inches, in alar

extent, nearly seventeen. Above, his plumage, as described by Nuttall,

is variegated with black, bright bay, and ochreous. Tail, wedged, the

feathers pointed, the four outer nearly all white; sides, thighs, and

vent, pale ochreous, spotted with black; upper mandible brown, the

lower bluish-white; iris, hazel; legs and feet, large, pale

flesh-colour. In the young bird the color is much fainter than in the

adult.

[Illustration: RICE BUNTING. (_Emberiza Oryzivora._ WILSON.)]

This is the Rice and Reed-Bird of Pennsylvania and the Southern

States, and the Boblink of New York and New England. He is of little

size, but of great consequence, hailed with pleasure by the sportsman

and the epicure, and dreaded as worse than a locust by the careful

planter. Wilson has treated of him fully, and from his eloquent

account we shall endeavor to select a few points in his history worthy

of notice. According to his best biographer, then, three good

qualities recommend him, particularly as these three are rarely found

in the same individual--his plumage is beautiful, his song highly

musical, and his flesh excellent. To these he added the immense range

of his migrations, and the havoc he commits. The winter residence of

this species is from Mexico to the Amazon, from whence they issue in

great hosts every spring. In the whole United States, north of

Pennsylvania, they remain during the summer, raising their progeny;

and as soon as the young are able to fly they collect together in

great multitudes, and pour down on the oat-fields of New England.

During the breeding season, they are dispersed over the country; but

as soon as the young are able to fly, they collect together in great

multitudes, like a torrent, depriving the proprietors of a good tithe

of their harvest, but in return often supply his table with a very

delicious dish. From all parts of the north and western regions they

direct their course toward the south, and about the middle of August,

revisit Pennsylvania, on their route to winter quarters. For several

days they seem to confine themselves to the fields and uplands; but as

soon as the seeds of the reed are ripe, they resort to the shores of

the Delaware and Schuylkill in multitudes; and these places, during

the remainder of their stay, appear to be their grand rendezvous. The

reeds, or wild oats, furnish them with such abundance of nutritious

food, that in a short time they become extremely fat, and are supposed

by some of our epicures to be equal to the famous Ortolans of Europe.

Their note at this season is a single chuck, and is heard overhead,

with little intermission from morning till night. These are halcyon

days for our gunners of all descriptions, and many a lame and rusty

gun-barrel is put in requisition for the sport. The report of musketry

along the reedy shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill is almost

incessant, resembling a running fire. The markets of Philadelphia, at

this season, exhibit proofs of the prodigious havoc made among these

birds, for almost every stall is ornamented with some hundreds of

Reed Birds.

The Rice Bunting is seven inches and a half long, and eleven and a

half in extent. His spring dress is as follows: upper part of the

head, wings, tail, and sides of the neck, and whole lower parts,

black; the feathers frequently skirted with brownish-yellow, as he

passes into the color of the female; back of the head, a cream color;

back, black, seamed with brownish-yellow; scapulars, pure white; rump

and tail coverts the same; lower part of the back, bluish-white; tail,

formed like those of the Woodpecker genus, and often used in the same

manner, being thrown in to support it while ascending the stalks of

the reed; this habit of throwing in the tail it retains even in the

cage; legs, a brownish flesh color; hind heel, very long; bill, a

bluish-horn color; eye, hazel. In the month of June this plumage

gradually changes to a brownish-yellow, like that of the female, which

has the back streaked with brownish-black; whole lower parts,

dull-yellow; bill, reddish-flesh color; legs and eyes as in the male.

The young birds retain the dress of the female until early in the

succeeding spring. The plumage of the female undergoes no material

change of color.

[Illustration: CEDAR BIRD. (_Ampelis Americana._)]

The Cedar-Bird, (_Ampelis Americana_,) is very frequently shot at the

same time with the Robin. The plumage of this bird is of an

exquisitely fine and silky texture, lying extremely smooth and glossy.

The name Chatterers has been given to them, but they make only a

feeble, lisping sound, chiefly as they rise or alight. On the Blue

Mountains, and other ridges of the Alleghanies, they spend the months

of August and September, feeding on the abundant whortleberries; then

they descend to the lower cultivated parts of the country to feed on

the berries of the sour gum and red cedar. In the fall and beginning

of summer, when fat, they are in high esteem for the table, and great

numbers find purchasers in the market of Philadelphia. They have

derived their name from one kind of their favorite food; from other

sorts they have also been called Cherry Birds, and to some they are

known by the name of Crown Birds.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Poetical Works of Fitz-Greene Halleck. Now

first collected. Illustrated with Steel Engravings,

from drawings by American Artists. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This volume is a perfect luxury to the eye, in its typography and

embellishments. The fact of an author's appearance in so rich a dress,

is itself an evidence of his popularity. We have here, for the first

time, a complete edition of the author's poems, tender and humorous,

serious and satirical, in a beautiful form. It contains Alnwick

Castle, Burns, Marco Bozzarris, Red Jacket, A Poet's Daughter,

Connecticut, Wyoming, and other pieces which have passed into the

memory of the nation, together with the delicious poem of Fanny, and

the celebrated Croaker Epistles. The illustrations are all by American

artists, and really embellish the volume. The portrait of Halleck is

exceedingly characteristic of the man, expressing that union of

intellect and fancy, sound sense, and poetic power, which his

productions are so calculated to suggest. His great popularity--a

popularity which has always made the supply of his poems inferior to

the demand--will doubtless send the present magnificent volume through

many editions.

The poems of Halleck are not only good in themselves, but they give an

impression of greater powers than they embody. They seem to indicate a

large, broad, vigorous mind, of which poetry has been the recreation

rather than the vocation. A brilliant mischievousness, in which the

serious and the ludicrous, the tender and the comic, the practical and

the ideal, are brought rapidly together, is the leading characteristic

of his muse. In almost every poem in his volume, serious, or

semi-serious, the object appears to be the production of striking

effects by violent contrasts. The poet himself rarely seems thoroughly

in earnest, though at the same time he never lacks heartiness. There

are two splendid exceptions to this remark--Burns, and Marco

Bozzarris--poems in which the delicacy and energy of the author's mind

find free expression. They show that if the poet commonly plays with

his subject, it is not from an incapacity to feel and conceive it

vividly, but from a beautiful willfulness of nature, which is

impatient of the control of one idea or emotion. Halleck's perceptions

of the ideal and practical appears equally clear and vivid. His fancy

cannot suggest a poetical view of life, without his wit at the same

time suggesting its prosaic counterpart in society. A mind thus

exquisitely sensitive both to the beautiful and laughable sides of a

subject--looking at life at once with the eye of the poet and the man

of the world--naturally finds delight in a fine mockery of its own

idealisms, and loves to sport with its own high-raised feelings. His

poetry is not, therefore, so much an exhibition of the real nature and

capacity of the man, as of the play and inter-penetration of his

various mental powers, in periods of pleasant relaxation from the

business of life. In a few instances, we think, his humorous insight

has been deceived from the unconscious influence upon his mind of the

sentiment of Byron and Moore. Thus he occasionally falls into the

exaggerations of misanthropy and sentimentality. In his poem entitled

Woman, we are informed that man has no constancy of affection,--

His vows are broke,

Even while his parting kiss is warm;

But woman's love all change will mock,

And, like the ivy round the oak,

Cling closest in the storm.

Here, for the purpose of a vivid contrast, there is a sacrifice of

poetic truth. The same piece closes with asserting that the smiles and

tears of woman,

Alone keep bright, through Time's long hour,

That frailer thing than leaf or flower,

A poet's immortality.

Here the thought, redeemed as it is by beautiful expression, is worthy

only of a sentimental poetaster of the Della Cruscan school; and we

can easily imagine what a mocking twinkle would light the eye of its

author, if some one should tell him that Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and

Milton were "kept bright" by the smiles and tears of woman. These, and

one or two other passages in Halleck, are unworthy of his manly and

cant-hating mind; and it is wonderful how they could have escaped his

brilliant good sense.

Fanny, and the Croaker Epistles are the most brilliant things of their

kind in American literature, full of wit, fancy, and feeling, and in

all their rapid transitions, characterized by an ethereal lightness of

movement, a glancing felicity of expression, which betray a poet's

plastic touch equally in the sentiment and the merriment. No American

poems have been more eagerly sought after, and more provokingly

concealed, than these. Three editions of Fanny have been published,

but the difficulty of obtaining a copy has always been great. Many who

were smitten with a love for it have been compelled to transcribe it

from the copy of a more fortunate collector. The Croaker Epistles have

been even more cunningly suppressed. Now we have both in a form which

will endure with the stereotype plates. They evince the most brilliant

characteristics of Halleck's genius, and continually suggest the

thought, that if the mind of the author be so powerful and various in

its almost extempore sport and play, it must have still greater

capacity in itself.

Fanny, and the Croaker Epistles swarm with local and personal

allusions which a New-Yorker alone can fully appreciate. Van Buren,

Webster, Clinton, the politicians and authors generally of the period

when the poems were written, are all touched with a light and graceful

pencil. Fanny is conceived and executed after the manner of Byron's

Beppo and Don Juan. It is full of brilliant rogueries, produced by

bringing sentiment and satire together with a shock. For instance,

Dear to the exile is his native land,

In memory's twilight beauty seen afar:

Dear to the broker is a note of hand

Collaterally secured--the polar star

Is dear at midnight to the sailor's eyes,

_And dear are Bristed's volumes at half price._

The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest;

The leaves of Autumn smile when fading fast;

The swan's last song is sweetest--and the best

Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last.

In a mocking attempt to prove that New York exceeded Greece in the

Fine Arts, we have the following convincing arguments:

In sculpture we've a grace the Grecian master,

Blushing, had owned his purest model lacks;

We've Mr. Bogart in the best of plaster,

The Witch of Endor in the best of wax,

Beside the head of Franklin on the roof

Of Mr. Lang, both jest and weather-proof.

* * * * *

In painting we have Trumbull's proud _chef d'oeuvre_, Blending in one

the funny and the fine;

His independence will endure forever--

And so will Mr. Allen's lottery sign;

And all that grace the Academy of Arts,

From Dr. Hosack's face to Bonaparte's.

In physic, we have Francis and McNeven,

Famed for long heads, short lectures, and long bills;

And Quackenboss, and others, who from heaven

_Were rained upon us in a shower of pills._

It would be impossible to give a notion of the genial satire of the

Croakers by extracts. The following, from the epistle to the Recorder,

is unmatched for felicity and exquisite contrast:

The Cæsar passed the Rubicon

With helm, and shield, and breast-plate on,

Dashing his war-horse through the waters;

The R*d*r would have built a barge,

Or steamboat, at the city's charge,

And passed it with his wife and daughters.

In the same piece occurs the following fine tribute to Bryant:

Bryant, whose songs are thoughts that bless

The heart, its teachers, and its joy,

As mothers blend with their caress

Lessons of truth and gentleness,

And virtue for the listening boy.

Spring's lovelier flowers for many a day

Have blossomed on his wandering way,

Beings of beauty and decay,

They slumber in their autumn tomb;

But those that graced his own Green River,

And wreathed the lattice of his home,

Charmed by his song from mortal doom,

Bloom on, and will bloom on forever.

Pope has become famous for his divine compliments, but certainly no

poet ever celebrated the genius of another with more felicity and

sweetness than in the above beautiful passage.

It would be impossible to notice all the striking poems in this

volume--and they are too favorably known to need it. There is one

piece, however, which deserves especial commendation, and its merits

do not appear to have called forth the eulogy which has been

bountifully lavished on many others. We allude to his exquisite

translation from Goethe, on the eighty-third page--the invocation to

the ideal world, which precedes Faust. It is one of the gems of the

volume.

_The Poetical Works of Lord Byron. Complete in one

Volume. Collected and Arranged, with Illustrative

Notes. Illustrated by Elegant Steel Engravings. New

York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This edition of Byron might bear the palm from all other American

editions, in respect to its combination of cheapness with elegance, if

it were not the most valuable in point of completeness and

illustrative notes. It is a reprint of Murray's Library edition, and

while executed in a similar style of typography, excells it, if we are

not mistaken, in the number of its embellishments. It contains an

admirable portrait of Byron, a view of Newstead Abbey, and also six

fine steel engravings, executed with great beauty and finish. It is

uniform with the same publisher's library edition of Southey and

Moore, contains eight hundred pages of closely printed matter, and

includes every thing that Byron wrote in verse. It does honor to the

enterprise and taste of the publishers, and will doubtless have a

circulation commensurate with its merits. As long as our American

booksellers evince a disposition to publish classical works in so

beautiful a form, it is a pleasant duty of the press to commend their

editions. We cordially wish success to all speculations which imply a

confidence in the public taste.

It would be needless here to express any opinion of the intellectual

or moral character of Byron's poems. Everybody's mind is made up on

those points. The present edition is admirably adapted to convey to

the reader Byron's idea of himself, the opinions formed of him by his

contemporaries, and the effect of his several works on the public mind

as they appeared. It contains an immense number of notes by Moore,

Scott, Jeffrey, Campbell, Wilson, Rogers, Heber, Milman, Gifford,

Ellis, Bridges, and others, which will be found extremely useful and

entertaining. Extracts are taken from Byron's own diary, and from the

recorders of his conversations, giving an accurate impression of each

poem, as regards its time and manner of composition, the feelings from

which it sprung, and the opinion he entertained of its reception by

the public. Profuse quotations are made from the first draught of each

poem, showing how some of the most striking ideas were originally

written, and the improvements introduced in their expression by the

author's "sober second thoughts." The opinions expressed of the

various poems by the leading reviews of the time, including the

criticisms of Scott, Jeffrey, Gifford, Heber, and others, are largely

quoted. Added to these are numerous notes, explaining allusions, or

illustrating images which the common reader might be supposed not to

understand. Taken altogether, the edition will enable almost any

person to obtain a clear understanding of Byron and his works, without

any trouble or inconvenience. There is no other edition which can

compare with it in this respect.

Many of the notes are exceedingly curious, and if not absolutely new,

have been gathered from such a wide variety of sources, as to be novel

to a majority of readers. We have been struck with the impression

which Byron's energy made upon Dr. Parr, the veteran linguist. After

reading the Island, he exclaims--"Byron! the sorcerer! He can do with

me according to his will. If it is to throw me headlong upon a desert

island; if it is to place me on the summit of a dizzy cliff--his power

is the same. I wish he had a friend, or a servant, appointed to the

office of the slave, who was to knock every morning at the

chamber-door of Philip of Macedon, and remind him he was mortal." From

Parr's life we learn that Sardanapalus affected him even more

strongly. "In the course of the evening the doctor cried out, 'Have

you read Sardanapalus?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Right; and you couldn't sleep a

wink after it?' 'No.' 'Right, right--now don't say a word more about

it to-night.' The memory of that fine poem seemed to act like a spell

of horrible fascination upon him." Perhaps from a few anecdotes like

this, we gain a much more vivid impression of the sensation which

Byron's poems excited on their first appearance, and their strong hold

upon the imagination and passions of the public, than we could obtain

from the most elaborate description of their effects. If such was

their power upon an old scholar like Parr, what must have been their

influence upon younger and more inflammable minds?

The editor's preface to Don Juan is no less valuable than

entertaining. It contains not merely the opinions expressed of the

poem by the reviews and magazines, but those of the newspapers, and

enables us to gather the judgment of the English people upon that

strange combination of sublimity and ribaldry, sentiment and wit,

tenderness and mockery, at the time it first blazed forth from the

press. The suppressed dedication of the poem to Southey is also given

in full, with all its brutal blackguardism and drunken brilliancy. In

truth, the volume conveys an accurate impression of all the sides of

Byron's versatile nature, and from its very completeness is the less

likely to be injurious. There is no edition of his poems which we

could more safely commend to the reader, as it exhibits Byron the

poet, Byron the scoffer, Byron the roué, in his true colors and real

dimensions; and if, after reading it, a person should adopt the old

cant about his brilliant rascalities, and the old drivel about his

sentimental misanthropy, the fault is in the reader rather than the

volume. For our own part we are acquainted with no edition of any

celebrated author, equaling this in the remorselessness with which the

man is stripped of all the factitious coverings of the poet, and

stands out more clearly in his true nature and character.

_The Life of Henry the Fourth, King of France and

Navarre. By G. P. R. James. New York: Harper &

Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

Few kings have been so fortunate as Henry the Fourth in the reputation

and good will they have obtained from the people. By democrats as well

as monarchists his name is held in a kind of loving veneration. Much

of this popularity is doubtless owing to his superiority, in

disposition as well as mind, to the ferocious bigotry of his age, and

to his great edict of toleration which healed for a time the horrible

religious dissensions of France. Apart from his ability, however, his

virtues as a king sprung rather from good-nature and benevolence, than

from moral or religious principle. His toleration was the result of

his indifference as much as his good sense; and he was not a

persecutor, because to him neither Catholicism nor Protestantism was

of sufficient importance to justify persecution. He was a fanatic only

in sensuality; and if he committed crime, it would be rather for a

mistress than a doctrine. The last act of his reign, growing out of

his impatience in having his designs on the Princess of Condé baffled,

showed that lust could urge him into an unjust and unprincipled war,

where religious superstition would have been totally ineffective.

Mr. James's Life of Henry is a careful compilation from the most

reliable sources of information, and embodies a large amount of

important knowledge. Though far from realizing the higher conditions

of historical art, it is more accurate and spirited than the general

run of historical works. Mr. James's conscience in the matter of the

present book, seems to have been much greater than we might have

expected from the king of book-makers. When his history was ready for

the press, the French Government commenced publishing the "Lettres

Missives" of Henry IV., and Mr. James delayed his book four years, in

order that its facts might be verified or increased by comparison with

that important publication. His work, therefore, is probably the

fullest and most accurate one we possess on the age of which it

treats. It is well worthy of an attentive perusal. It abounds in

incidents and characters which would make the fortune of a novel, and

is an illustration of that kind of truth which is stranger than

fiction. The Harpers have issued the work in a tasteful form.

_Artist Life. By H. T. Tuckerman. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Tuckerman is an author whose productions we have repeatedly had

occasion to notice and to praise. They have always a finished air,

which favorably distinguishes them from many American publications,

the products of mingled talent and haste. Mr Tuckerman does not appear

to rush into print, with unformed ideas hastily clad in a loose

undress of language--as if the palm of excellence were due to the

swiftest runner in the race of expression. His style is clear,

polished, graceful, and harmonious, combining a flowing movement with

condensation, and free from the tricks and charlatanries of diction.

He is not so popular as he would be if he made more noise about his

words and thoughts, and called the attention of the public to every

felicity of his style or reflection by a pugnacious manner, and a

strained expression. Though possessing a singularly rich and

suggestive fancy, and a wide variety of information, his use of

ornament and allusion is characterized by a taste, an appropriateness,

a reserve, which men of smaller stores rarely practice. As a critic,

he is calm, clear, judicious, sympathetic, and making the application

of a principle all the more stringent, from his vivid perception of

the object of his criticism. The present volume is worthy of its

subject, and is more calculated to convey accurate information of the

lives, character, and works of American artists, than any other we

have seen. It is also exceedingly interesting, being full of anecdotes

and biographical memoranda of artists who are commonly known only as

painters, not as men. In this respect the volume contains much

original information, which will be valuable to the future historian

of American art. In his criticism, Mr. Tuckerman evinces knowledge as

well as taste; and by avoiding technical terms, he contrives to render

agreeable and clear what is generally unintelligible to the

uninitiated reader of _critiques_ on paintings. The volume contains,

among other sketches and biographies, very interesting notices of the

lives and works of West, Copley, Stuart, Allston, Morse, Durand, W. E.

West, Sully, Inman, Cole, Weir, Leutze, and Brown.

_Appleton's Library Manuel: Containing a Catalogue

Raisonne of upwards of Twelve Thousand of the most

Important Works in Every Department of Knowledge,

in all Modern Languages, New York; D. Appleton &

Co. 1 vol. 8vo._

This is one of the most available and valuable bibliographical works

extant. Its object is indicated by its title. Such a book should be in

the possession of every student, scholar, book-collector, and

librarian. There is hardly a subject which can attract the attention

of an inquisitive mind, which is not included in this collection, and

the titles of the best books, in different languages, which relate to

it given in full, with the various editions, and their price. It would

be needless to dilate upon the value of such a work. The compilers

deserve the highest credit for the labor, intelligence, and expense

they have devoted to it. The cost is but one dollar.

_Sybil Lennard, a Record of Woman's Life._

Mrs. Grey is one of the most popular novel writers of the present day,

and Sybil Lennard is unquestionably the best of her works. It is

published by Mr. T. B. Peterson, by whom the advance sheets were

procured from England.

_Chambers' Miscellany._

Part No. 5, of Chamber's interesting Miscellany has been published,

and the articles it contains are of the highest order of excellence.

Messrs. Zieber & Co. are the Philadelphia publishers.

* * * * *

POSTHUMOUS WRITINGS OF JOSEPH C. NEAL, ESQ.--We have several admirable

Charcoal Sketches by Mr. Neal--a rich legacy bequeathed expressly to

us by our gifted and lamented friend. Now that the fountain, whose

outpourings have so often enriched our pages, is forever closed, these

gems of genius will have a new and peculiar value. We commence their

publication in our present number.

* * * * *

THE NEW YORK MIRROR.--This journal is edited with surpassing ability;

and its continued and advancing popularity is creditable to the taste

of the community in which it is published. Spirited, independent, and

liberal, it not merely, as its name indicates, reflects the light of

the age, but shines with a lustre of its own. It is well worthy its

good fortune.

Transcriber's Note:

Some likely incorrect spellings and probable dialect have been left as

printed, but the following corrections have been made:

1. page 2--removed extra word 'the' after '...before the windows

lounged...'

2. page 6--typo 'Jenning' corrected to 'Jennings'

3. page 9--added missing double quotation mark at start of sentence

'What do I see! My dearest...'

4. page 10--added double quotation mark after 'Nonsense--what payment,'

5. page 10--added double quotation mark at end of paragraph '...and

proceedings commence directly.'

6. page 18--added double quotation mark missing at start of paragraph

'Oh I'll soon show you,'

7. page 23--added missing period in sentence 'our prosodies call

anapoests'

8. page 28--removed extra 'a' in second line of stanza beginning 'Did he

answer guiltless, lo!'

9. page 28--typo 'stife' corrected to 'strife'

10. page 32--added period to sentence '...whither he was going'

11. page 43--likely missing word 'for' inserted in sentence '...off

the dangers ahead for a single instant.'

12. page 45--typo 'exhaused' corrected to 'exhausted'

13. page 46--typo 'minuute' corrected to 'minute'

14. page 58--typo 'observatious' corrected to 'observations'

15. page 66--inserted opening quotation mark at assumed start of speech

"We buried her _there_. I say..."