CHAPTER IV.

I can't think of a more desolate place than they had in Maryland, by

their own account;--a great, dismal house, without chick or child in it

for years and years;--full of rooms and furniture and black people, and

nowhere the shout and cry of a baby. There was nobody to be anxious

about,--nobody gone away or coming home, or to be wept for, or to be

joyful for;--only their two stupid selves. Madam pottering about the

great house, dusting with a feather duster all the knick-knacks that she

had brought home from Europe, and that she might have just as well

bought in New York after she got home; and he putting up books and

taking them down, riding out on his white horse, and having somebody to

dine once in a while,--_could_ any life be drearier and more tiresome?

Why people who have great empty houses and hearts don't rush into the

street and pick up the first dozen little vagabonds they see, I can't

think. With soap-suds, love, and the tenderest care, why don't they

baptize them, body and soul, and keep them to make music in their silent

halls, and, when their time comes, have something worth to render up to

the child-loving Christ? Especially, why didn't two such affectionate,

tender-hearted persons as Colonel Lunt and his wife? But they did not.

They only waxed duller and duller, sitting there by their Christmas

fires, that warmed no hearts but their own, rapidly growing cold.

They sat alone by their Christmas fire one night, at last, to some

purpose. All the servants had gone off pleasuring somewhere, where it is

to be hoped there were children enough. The Colonel went himself to the

door and brought in a market-basket that stood in the porch. He opened

it by the light of a blazing fire, and Mrs. Lunt guessed, at every

wrapper he turned down, something, and then something else; but she

never guessed a baby. Yet there it lay, with eyes wide open,--a perfect

baby, nobly planned;--a year old or more; and no more afraid of the

Colonel than if it had been in society ten years. The little girl sprang

forward towards him, laughing, and by doing so won his heart at once.

Mrs. Lunt found credentials in the basket, in the shape of a note

written in good English and spelled correctly. The wardrobe of the baby

accompanied her also,--fine and delicately embroidered. The note said

that circumstances of the most painful nature made it imperative to the

mother of this child to keep herself unknown for a time; but meanwhile

begged the charitable care of Colonel Lunt.

The child, of course, took straight hold of their heart-strings. She

made the house ring with her shouts and her healthy glee. She toddled

over everything without restraint; tumbled over Chinese tea-poys and

Japan idols; upset the alabaster Graces in the best parlor, and pulled

every knick-knack out of its proper place.

The worthy couple wondered at the happiness this naughty little thing

brought; and a tyranny, but one very sweet and fair, triumphed in the

decorous parlor and over the decorous old hearts. The baby was in a fair

way of becoming a spoiled pest, when her own mother, in the character of

French _bonne_, and afterwards of governess, came to the rescue. She

told her story, which was rather a strange one, to the Colonel, and they

made an arrangement with her to come and take care of the child. It was

planned between them that Percy (her name is Amy Percival) should

personate the only child of a deceased brother of the Colonel, and be

adopted by him as his own daughter. Thenceforward the poor pale Madame

Guyot took up her abode with them, like Amram's wife at the Egyptian

court. I remember how sad and silent she always was, and how much her

French speech separated her from us all in Barton. No wonder to me now

that she faded day by day, till her life went out. No wonder that she

was glad to exchange those memories of hers, and Percy's duty-kisses,

for the green grave.

When the child was fourteen, the Colonel took her abroad, but before

that time the governess died. In some respects the Colonel's theory of

education was peculiar. Squeers thought it best for people to learn how

to spell windows by washing them,--"And then, you know, they don't

forget. Winders, there 't is." And the Colonel approved of learning

geography by going to the places themselves, and especially of learning

the languages on the spot. This, he contended, was the only correct way,

and enough better than by hammering forever at school-books and masters.

It was in pursuance of this somewhat desultory, but healthful mode of

education, that the family found itself, in 1857, at Baden-Baden.

As usual, there were, in the crowds there assembled for health and

pleasure, a great many English; among them several persons of high rank.

Here were German princes and counts, so plenty that Percy got tired of

wondering they were not more refined and agreeable. She was herself a

great attraction there, and, the Colonel said, had many admirers. Among

the guests was an English family that took great notice of her, and made

many advances towards intimacy. The two young ladies and their father

seemed equally pleased and interested in the Lunts, and when they left

Baden-Baden asked them to make them a visit in the autumn at their house

in Derbyshire.

Thinking of this, I am not much surprised. For the Colonel's manners are

unexceptionably good, with a simplicity and a self-reliance that mark a

true gentleman; while Mrs. Lunt is the loveliest and best-bred woman in

Barton, and consequently fit society for any nobleman.

When the Lunts went to England, in October, they visited these people.

And there they found Charles Lunt, a second-cousin of the Colonel's, a

New-Yorker, and a graduate of Oxford. His father had sent him to England

to be finished off, after Yale had done its best for him here. He and

Percy fell in love immediately, and matters came to a climax.

Colonel Lunt did not desire the connection at all. Charles's mother was

related to the family where they were visiting, and, as he himself

would feel it incumbent on him to state the facts relative to Percy's

birth, he foresaw distinctly only a mortifying relinquishment of the

alliance. Charles was, in fact, on his mother's side, second-cousin to

an English Earl. The name of the Earl I don't give, for the good reason

that the Colonel kept it a secret, and, even if I knew, I should not

wish to reveal it.

Before Colonel Lunt could act on his impressions and decisions, Charles

cut the knot by asking his relative, the Earl, to make proposals for

him. He was of age, with an independent fortune, and could please

himself, and it pleased him to marry Percy.

Then the Colonel asked to see Charles, and he was called in. He began by

declining the connection; but finding this mortifying and mysterious to

both the gentlemen, he ended by a plain statement of such of the facts

as he had been made acquainted with by Madame Guyot.

"I don't know the name of Percy's father," said the Colonel, "the poor

woman would give me no clew to him,--but he may be living,--he may some

time trace and claim her!"

"Does this make any difference to you, Charles?" said the Earl, when

Colonel Lunt had finished.

"Not a jot!" said Charles, warmly. "It isn't likely her father will ever

either trace or claim her; and, if he should even, and all should come

out, why, I care nothing for it,--nothing, I mean, in comparison with

Percy."

Of course then the Colonel had no objections.

"Now, is it best, all things considered," said the Earl, who took the

interest of a father in Charles, "is it best to say anything to Percy of

her real history?"

Charles thought not by any means, and it was so agreed among the three.

The young man left the room to go to his confident wooing, for there was

not much reason to doubt of his fate, and left Colonel Lunt with the

Earl.

"Nothing can be more honorable than your whole proceeding, Colonel, in

this matter. You might have kept the thing quiet, if you had so chosen."

"I always meant to tell any man who really desired to marry Percy," said

the Colonel; "we never can tell what may happen, and I wouldn't be such

a swindler as to keep these facts from him, on which his whole decision

might rest."

The Colonel looked at the Earl,--"looked him straight in the eye," he

said,--for he felt it an imputation on his honor that he could have been

supposed for a moment to do otherwise than he had done. To his surprise

the Earl turned very red, and then very pale, and said, holding out his

hand, "You have kept my secret well, Colonel Lunt! and I thank you for

it!"

"You are Percy's father!" said the Colonel, at once.

The Earl wrung his hand hard. It isn't the English nature to express

much, but it was plain that the past was full of mournful and

distressful remembrances.

"I never thought of it till this instant," said Colonel Lunt, "and I

don't know how I knew it; but it was written in your face. She never

told me who it was!"

"But she wrote to me about you, and about the child. I have watched your

comings and goings these many years. I knew I should meet you where I

did. You may guess my feelings at seeing my beautiful child,--at seeing

how lovely in mind and person she is, and at being unable to call her my

own! I was well punished the first hour after I met you. But my next

hope and desire was to interest you all enough in my own family to

induce you to come here. In fact, I did think you were the depositary of

my secret. But I see I was wrong there."

"Yes," the Colonel said, "Madame Guyot simply informed me the child's

father would never claim her, and that the name was an assumed one. I

saw how it probably was, but I respected her too much to ask anything

which she did not herself choose to reveal. I think she was one of the

loveliest and most superior women I ever saw, though, at the time I

first met her, she showed that her health was fatally undermined. It was

much on her account that I left Maryland for the more equable climate of

Barton."

"You were everything to her that the most tender and noble friends could

be!" said the Earl, warmly. "She wrote me of all your kindness. Now let

me tell you a little about her. She was my sister's governess, and I saw

her in my college vacations. I need not tell you how lovely she was in

her youth. She was no French girl, but a country curate's daughter in

Hampshire. Now, Colonel Lunt, it would have been as impossible for me to

marry that girl--no matter how beautiful, refined, and good--as if she

had been a Hottentot. How often I have wished to throw birth,

connections, name, title, everything, to the winds, that I might take

Amy Percival to my heart and hold her there legally! How I have envied

the Americans, who care nothing for antecedents, to whom birth and

social position are literally nothing,--often not even fortunate

accidents! How many times I have read your papers, and imagined myself

thrown on my own resources only, like so many of your successful men,

and making my own way among you, taking my Amy with me and giving her a

respectable and happy home! But these social cobwebs by which we poor

flies are caught and held,--it is very hard to break them! I was always

going to do right, and always did wrong. After my great wrong to Amy,

which was a pretended marriage, she left me,--she had found out my

villany,--and went to America. She did not write to me until she knew

she must die, and then she related every particular,--all your great

kindness to both her and the child, and the motherly tenderness with

which Mrs. Lunt had endeavored to soften her sufferings. In twenty years

I have changed very much every way, but I have never ceased to feel

self-contempt for my conduct to Amy Percival."

Now a new question arose.

Was it best to reveal this last secret to Charles? He had been content

to take Percy, nameless and illegitimate. The Earl was extremely

unwilling to extend his confidence further than Colonel Lunt. It seemed

to him unnecessary. He said he desired to give Percy the same share of

his property that his other two daughters would receive on their

marriage, but that he could not openly do this without exciting remarks

and provoking unpleasant feelings. Colonel Lunt considered that the

secret was not his to keep or reveal. So nothing was said, and the

marriage took place at the house of the Earl; Colonel Lunt receiving

from Percy's father ten thousand pounds, as some atonement by a wounded

conscience.

"Now," said the Colonel, as he finished his long story, and we drove up

to his house, "I say it was a mean cowardice that kept that man from

doing his daughter justice. But then he was a scoundrel all through. And

now for my reason for telling you. I have my doubts, after all, about

the first marriage. There are the certificate and all the papers safe in

my desk. Earls may die, and worms may eat them,--and so with their sons

and daughters. It isn't among the impossibilities that my little Percy

may be a countess yet! Any way, if an advertisement should appear

calling for heirs to the Earl of Blank, somebody besides me and my

little woman would know all about it."

Mrs. Lunt insisted on my stopping to tea with them, and I had a strange

curiosity to look at Percy Lunt again, surrounded with this new halo,

thrice circled, of mystery. If she only knew or guessed what she really

was!

She sat by the fire, for the evening was a little cool, and, as we came

in, roused herself from her sad posture to give me welcome. How white

her face was! It was grievous to see such a young spirit so

blanched,--so utterly unelastic. If she could receive tidings of his

death, she would reconcile herself to the inevitable; but this wearing,

gnawing pain, this grief at his desertion, this dread of meeting him

again after he had been willing to leave her so long,--death itself

would be less bitter! But there were no words to console her with.

"You have had letters from Robert?" she inquired.

"Only a telegram came saying that the Barton boys were safe. It must

have been a dreadful battle! They say twelve thousand were killed on

each side."

"But you will hear very soon?"

"O, yes," I said, "but Robert must have his hands very full. He will

write as soon as he has a minute of leisure."

Robert was colonel now, and we were very proud of him. He had not yet

received a scratch, and he had been in eleven battles. We felt as if he

bore a charmed life.

After tea, we four sat round the sparkling wood-fire, knitting and

talking, (people in war-time have enough to talk about,) when a loud,

sudden knock at the door startled us. The old knocker thumped again and

again. The servant hurried to the door, and a moment after a man rushed

by him, with swift and heavy steps into the parlor, caught up Percy as

if she had been a feather, and held her tight to his heart and mouth.

He had not taken off his army cap, nor his blue great coat. We all

sprang up at his entrance, of course, but I hadn't a thought who it

could be, until Colonel Lunt called out "_Charles!_"

There he was, to be sure, as alive as he could be, with his great red

beard, and his face tanned and burnt like a brick! He took no notice of

us whatever, only kept kissing Percy over and over, till her face, which

was white as death, was covered with living crimson, and her

heavy-lidded eyes turned to stars for brightness!

After her fashion, Percy still continued undemonstrative, so far as

words went; but she clung most eloquently to his neck with both her

hands, the joyful light from her eyes streaming silently into his. O, it

was fair to see,--this might of human love,--this mystery that needed no

solving! His face shedding fidelity and joyfulness, and her heart

accepting it with a trust that had not one question!

In a few but most eloquent words he told us his adventures. But that

would make a story by itself. A shipwreck,--and capture by Japanese

pirates,--prison,--escape,--landing at Mobile,--pressed into the Rebel

service,--battle,--prisoner to the Union forces,--glad taking of the

oath of allegiance,--interview with General Banks, and service at last

for the North. It was a wild, strange story of suffering, hardships, and

wonderful escapes. Colonel Lunt said he never should have known the man,

nor guessed at him, but for his eyes, he was so altered in every

way,--so rough and strong-looking, with his complexion tanned and

weather-beaten; and he had always been such a delicate, curled darling

of indulgent parents! However, he looked twice the man he was before,

Mrs. Lunt whispered me; and Percy could not take her eyes off him, he

looked so strong and noble, and his face so full of high thoughts.

He had been in several battles, and had been wounded twice. After his

first wound he had been some time in a Southern hospital. "And now I

think of it, Percy," he said, turning suddenly to her, and taking her on

his knee as if she had been a baby, "it was in a hospital that I found

out where you were. You must know that I hadn't the least clew to your

whereabout, and thought of you as most likely still in London. You know

our plan was to travel together for some months, and I could not guess

where you might be, if indeed you were alive. After the battle the other

day, I went into one of the improvised hospitals to look after some

brave fellows of mine, when one of the nurses asked me for directions

as to the burial of some men who had just been brought in. They had

officers' uniforms on, and it was ascertained that they were really

dead. As I turned to give the necessary directions, a man at my side,

who was smoothing down the limbs of one who had just ceased to breathe,

handed me a photograph from the man's breast, all rumpled and bloody. I

recognized it in a moment as yours, Percy,--though how it should have

been in that man's breast, I couldn't see."

Percy and I looked at each other. But we dared not think. He went on.

"I could not recognize him. But he was one of so many who were brought

in on that terrible day after the battle, and except my own company I

scarcely knew any of the officers. But I saw by the photograph where you

were, at least the name on the back was a guide. It was Barton, Mass.,

and the date of April, 1861. So, as I had worked pretty well at

Antietam, Little Mac gave me a week's furlough, and I thought I would

try it!"

"Do you remember at all how he looked?" Mrs. Lunt asked, for I could not

speak.

"The young officer? Yes, Madam, I looked keenly at him, you may be sure.

He was tall and fine-looking, with dark, curling hair, and his regular

features were smiling and peaceful. They mostly look so who are shot

dead at once. And this one had not suffered. He had died at the moment

of triumph."

I went home to fear and to weep. It seemed too certain. And time brought

us the truth. Robert had fallen as he would have chosen to fall, leading

on his men. He was so tall, and he was such a shining mark for death!

But I knew that no din of cannon or roar of battle was loud enough to

overcome the still, small voices of home, and that his last thought was,

as he wrote me it would be, "of you all."

O beautiful, valiant youth! O fearful ploughshare, tearing thy way

through so many bleeding hearts! O terrible throes, out of which a new

nation must be born!

IN THE HEMLOCKS.

Most people receive with incredulity a statement of the number of birds

that annually visit our climate. Very few even are aware of half the

number that spend the summer in their own immediate vicinity. We little

suspect, when we walk in the woods, whose privacy we are intruding

upon,--what rare and elegant visitants from Mexico, from Central and

South America, and from the islands of the sea, are holding their

reunions in the branches over our heads, or pursuing their pleasure on

the ground before us.

I recall the altogether admirable and shining family which Thoreau

dreamed he saw in the upper chambers of Spaulding's woods, which

Spaulding did not know lived there, and which were not put out when

Spaulding, whistling, drove his team through their lower halls. They did

not go into society in the village; they were quite well; they had sons

and daughters; they neither wove nor spun; there was a sound as of

suppressed hilarity.

I take it for granted that the forester was only saying a pretty thing

of the birds, though I have observed that it does sometimes annoy them

when Spaulding's cart rumbles through their house. Generally, however,

they are as unconscious of Spaulding as Spaulding is of them.

Walking the other day in an old hemlock wood, I counted over forty

varieties of these summer visitants, many of them common to other woods

in the vicinity, but quite a number peculiar to these ancient solitudes,

and not a few that are rare in any locality. It is quite unusual to find

so large a number abiding in one forest,--and that not a large

one,--most of them nesting and spending the summer there. Many of those

I observed commonly pass this season much farther north. But the

geographical distribution of birds is rather a climatical one. The same

temperature, though under different parallels, usually attracts the same

birds; difference in altitude being equivalent to the difference in

latitude. A given height above the sea level under the parallel of 30 deg.

may have the same climate as places under that of 35 deg., and similar Flora

and Fauna. At the head-waters of the Delaware, where I write, the

latitude is that of Boston, but the region has a much greater elevation,

and hence a climate that compares better with the northern part of the

State and of New England. Half a day's drive to the southeast brings me

down into quite a different temperature, with an older geological

formation, different forest timber, and different birds,--even with

different mammals. Neither the little Gray Rabbit nor the little Gray

Fox is found in my locality, but the great Northern Hare and the Red Fox

are seen here. In the last century a colony of beavers dwelt here,

though the oldest inhabitant cannot now point to even the traditional

site of their dams. The ancient hemlocks, whither I propose to take the

reader, are rich in many things beside birds. Indeed, their wealth in

this respect is owing mainly, no doubt, to their rank vegetable growths,

their fruitful swamps, and their dark, sheltered retreats.

Their history is of an heroic cast. Ravished and torn by the tanner in

his thirst for bark, preyed upon by the lumberman, assaulted and beaten

back by the settler, still their spirit has never been broken, their

energies never paralyzed. Not many years ago a public highway passed

through them, but it was at no time a tolerable road; trees fell across

it, mud and limbs choked it up, till finally travellers took the hint

and went around; and now, walking along its deserted course, I see only

the footprints of coons, foxes, and squirrels.

Nature loves such woods, and places her own seal upon them. Here she

shows me what can be done with ferns and mosses and lichens. The soil is

marrowy and full of innumerable forests. Standing in these fragrant

aisles, I feel the strength of the vegetable kingdom and am awed by the

deep and inscrutable processes of life going on so silently about me.

No hostile forms with axe or spud now visit these solitudes. The cows

have half-hidden ways through them, and know where the best browsing is

to be had. In spring the farmer repairs to their bordering of maples to

make sugar; in July and August women and boys from all the country about

penetrate the old Barkpeeling for raspberries and blackberries; and I

know a youth who wonderingly follows their languid stream casting for

trout.

In like spirit, alert and buoyant, on this bright June morning go I also

to reap my harvest,--pursuing a sweet more delectable than sugar, fruit

more savory than berries, and game for another palate than that tickled

by trout.

June, of all the months, the student of ornithology can least afford to

lose. Most birds are nesting then, and in full song and plumage. And

what is a bird without its song? Do we not wait for the stranger to

speak? It seems to me that I do not know a bird till I have heard its

voice; then I come nearer it at once, and it possesses a human interest

to me. I have met the Gray-cheeked Thrush (_Turdus aliciae_) in the

woods, and held him in my hand; still I do not know him. The silence of

the Cedar-Bird throws a mystery about him which neither his good looks

nor his petty larcenies in cherry time can dispel. A bird's song

contains a clew to its life, and establishes a sympathy, an

understanding, between itself and the admiring listener.

I descend a steep hill, and approach the hemlocks through a large

sugar-bush. When twenty rods distant, I hear all along the line of the

forest the incessant warble of the Red-eyed Flycatcher (_Vireosylvia

olivacea_), cheerful and happy as the merry whistle of a schoolboy. He

is one of our most common and widely distributed birds. Approach any

forest at any hour of the day, in any kind of weather, from May to

August, in any of the Middle or Eastern districts, and the chances are

that the first note you hear will be his. Rain or shine, before noon or

after, in the deep forest or in the village grove,--when it is too hot

for the thrushes or too cold and windy for the warblers,--it is never

out of time or place for this little minstrel to indulge his cheerful

strain. In the deep wilds of the Adirondac, where few birds are seen and

fewer heard, his note was almost constantly in my ear. Always busy,

making it a point never to suspend for one moment his occupation to

indulge his musical taste, his lay is that of industry and contentment.

There is nothing plaintive or especially musical in his performance, but

the sentiment expressed is eminently that of cheerfulness. Indeed the

songs of most birds have some human significance, which, I think, is the

source of the delight we take in them. The song of the Bobolink, to me,

expresses hilarity; the Song-Sparrow's, faith; the Bluebird's, love; the

Cat-Bird's, pride; the White-eyed Fly-catcher's, self-consciousness;

that of the Hermit-Thrush, spiritual serenity; while there is something

military in the call of the Robin, and unalloyed contentment in the

warble of the Red-eyed Vireo.

This bird is classed among the flycatchers, but is much more of a

worm-eater, and has few of the traits or habits of the _Muscicapa_ or

the true _Sylvia_. He resembles somewhat the Warbling Vireo (_Vireo

gilvus_), and the two birds are often confounded by careless observers.

Both warble in the same cheerful strain, but the latter more

continuously and rapidly. The Red-Eye is a larger, slimmer bird, with a

faint bluish crown, and a light line over the eye. His movements are

peculiar. You may see him hopping among the limbs, exploring the under

side of the leaves, peering to the right and left,--now flitting a few

feet, now hopping as many,--and warbling incessantly, occasionally in a

subdued tone, which sounds from a very indefinite distance. When he has

found a worm to his liking, he turns lengthwise of the limb, and bruises

its head with his beak before devouring it.

As I enter the woods the Slate-colored Snowbird (_Fringilla Hudsonia_)

starts up before me and chirps sharply. His protest when thus disturbed

is almost metallic in its sharpness. He breeds here, and is not esteemed

a snowbird at all, as he disappears at the near approach of winter, and

returns again in spring, like the Song-Sparrow, and is not in any way

associated with the cold and the snow. So different are the habits of

birds in different localities. Even the Crow does not winter here, and

is seldom seen after December or before March.

The Snow-Bird, or "Black Chipping-Bird," as it is known among the

farmers, is the finest architect of any of the ground-builders known to

me. The site of its nest is usually some low bank by the roadside near a

wood. In a slight excavation, with a partially concealed entrance, the

exquisite structure is placed. Horse-hair and cow-hair are plentifully

used, imparting to the interior of the nest great symmetry and firmness

as well as softness.

Passing down through the maple arches, barely pausing to observe the

antics of a trio of squirrels,--two gray ones and a black one,--I cross

an ancient brush fence and am fairly within the old hemlocks, and in one

of the most primitive, undisturbed nooks. In the deep moss I tread as

with muffled feet, and the pupils of my eyes dilate in the dim, almost

religious light. The irreverent red squirrels, however, run and snicker

at my approach, or mock the solitude with their ridiculous chattering

and frisking.

This nook is the chosen haunt of the Winter Wren. This is the only place

and these the only woods in which I find him in this vicinity. His voice

fills these dim aisles, as if aided by some marvellous sounding-board.

Indeed, his song is very strong for so small a bird, and unites in a

remarkable degree brilliancy and plaintiveness. I think of a tremulous

vibrating tongue of silver. You may know it is the song of a wren, from

its gushing lyrical character; but you must needs look sharp to see the

little minstrel, especially while in the act of singing. He is nearly

the color of the ground and the leaves; he never ascends the tall trees,

but keeps low, flitting from stump to stump and from root to root,

dodging in and out of his hiding-places, and watching all intruders with

a suspicious eye. He has a very perk, almost comical look. His tail

stands more than perpendicular: it points straight toward his head. He

is the least ostentatious singer I know of. He does not strike an

attitude, and lift up his head in preparation, and, as it were, clear

his throat; but sits there on the log and pours out his music, looking

straight before him, or even down at the ground. As a songster, he has

but few superiors. I do not hear him after the first week in July.

While sitting on this soft-cushioned log, tasting the pungent acidulous

wood-sorrel (_Oxalis acetorella_), the blossoms of which, large and

pink-veined, rise everywhere above the moss, a rufous-colored bird flies

quickly past, and, alighting on a low limb a few rods off, salutes me

with "Whew! Whew!" or "Whoit! Whoit!" almost as you would whistle for

your dog. I see by his impulsive, graceful movements, and his dimly

speckled breast, that it is a Thrush. Presently he utters a few soft,

mellow, flute-like notes, one of the most simple expressions of melody

to be heard, and scuds away, and I see it is the Veery or Wilson's

Thrush. He is the least of the Thrushes in size, being about that of the

common Bluebird, and he may be distinguished from his relatives by the

dimness of the spots upon his breast. The Wood-Thrush has very clear,

distinct oval spots on a white ground; in the Hermit, the spots run more

into lines, on a ground of a faint bluish-white; in the Veery, the marks

are almost obsolete, and a few rods off his breast presents only a dull

yellowish appearance. To get a good view of him you have only to sit

down in his haunts, as in such cases he seems equally anxious to get a

good view of you.

From those tall hemlocks proceeds a very fine insect-like warble, and

occasionally I see a spray _teeter_, or catch the flit of a wing. I

watch and watch till my head grows dizzy and my neck is in danger of

permanent displacement, and still do not get a good view. Presently the

bird darts, or, as it seems, falls down a few feet in pursuit of a fly

or moth, and I see the whole of it, but in the dim light am undecided.

It is for such emergencies that I have brought this gun. A bird in the

hand is worth half a dozen in the bush, even for ornithological

purposes; and no sure and rapid progress can be made in the study

without taking life, without procuring specimens. This bird is a

Warbler, plainly enough, from his habits and manner; but what kind of

Warbler? Look on him and name him: a deep orange or flame-colored throat

and breast; the same color showing also in a line over the eye and in

his crown; back variegated black and white. The female is less marked

and brilliant. The Orange-throated Warbler would seem to be his right

name, his characteristic cognomen; but no, he is doomed to wear the name

of some discoverer, perhaps the first who robbed his nest or rifled him

of his mate,--Blackburn; hence, Blackburnian Warbler. The _burn_ seems

appropriate enough, for in these dark evergreens his throat and breast

show like flame. He has a very fine warble, suggesting that of the

Redstart, but not especially musical. I find him in no other woods in

this vicinity.

I am attracted by another warble in the same locality, and experience a

like difficulty in getting a good view of the author of it. It is quite

a noticeable strain, sharp and sibilant, and sounds well amid the old

trees. In the upland woods of beech and maple it is a more familiar

sound than in these solitudes. On taking the bird in your hand, even if

you are not a young lady, you will probably exclaim, "How beautiful!" So

tiny and elegant, the smallest of the Warblers; a delicate blue back,

with a slight bronze-colored triangular spot between the shoulders;

upper mandible black; lower mandible yellow as gold; throat yellow,

becoming a dark bronze on the breast. Blue Yellow-Back he is called,

though the yellow is much nearer a bronze. He is remarkably delicate and

beautiful,--the handsomest, as he is the smallest, of the Warblers known

to me. It is never without surprise that I find amid these rugged,

savage aspects of Nature creatures so fairy and delicate. But such is

the law. Go to the sea or climb the mountain, and with the ruggedest and

the savagest you will find likewise the fairest and the most delicate.

The greatness and the minuteness of Nature pass all understanding.

Ever since I entered the woods, even while listening to the lesser

songsters, or contemplating the silent forms about me, a strain has

reached my ear from out the depths of the forest that to me is the

finest sound in nature,--the song of the Hermit-Thrush. I often hear him

thus a long way off, sometimes over a quarter of a mile away, when only

the stronger and more perfect parts of his music reach me; and through

the general chorus of Wrens and Warblers I detect this sound rising pure

and serene, as if a spirit from some remote height were slowly chanting

a divine accompaniment. This song appeals to the sentiment of the

beautiful in me, and suggests a serene religious beatitude as no other

sound in nature does. It is perhaps more of an evening than a morning

hymn, though I hear it at all hours of the day. It is very simple, and I

can hardly tell the secret of its charm. "O spheral, spheral!" he seems

to say; "O holy, holy! O clear away, clear away! O clear up, clear up!"

interspersed with the finest trills and the most delicate preludes. It

is not a proud, gorgeous strain, like the Tanager's or the Grosbeak's;

suggests no passion or emotion,--nothing personal,--but seems to be the

voice of that calm, sweet solemnity one attains to in his best moments.

It realizes a peace and a deep, solemn joy that only the finest souls

may know. A few nights ago I ascended a mountain to see the world by

moonlight; and when near the summit the Hermit commenced his evening

hymn a few rods from me. Listening to this strain on the lone mountain,

with the full moon just rounded from the horizon, the pomp of your

cities and the pride of your civilization seemed trivial and cheap.

Whether it is because of their rareness, or an accident of my

observation, or a characteristic trait, I cannot tell, yet I have never

known two of these birds to be singing at the same time in the same

locality, rivalling each other, like the Wood-Thrush or the Veery.

Shooting one from a tree, I have observed another take up the strain

from almost the identical perch in less than ten minutes afterward.

Later in the day, when I had penetrated the heart of the old

Barkpeeling, I came suddenly upon one singing from a low stump, and for

a wonder he did not seem alarmed, but lifted up his divine voice as if

his privacy was undisturbed. I open his beak and find the inside yellow

as gold. I was prepared to find it inlaid with pearls and diamonds, or

to see an angel issue from it.

He is not much in the books. Indeed, I am acquainted with scarcely any

writer on ornithology whose head is not muddled on the subject of our

three prevailing song-thrushes, confounding either their figures or

their songs. A writer in the Atlantic[A] gravely tells us the

Wood-Thrush is sometimes called the Hermit, and then, after describing

the song of the Hermit with great beauty and correctness, coolly

ascribes it to the Veery! The new Cyclopaedia, fresh from the study of

Audubon, says the Hermit's song consists of a single plaintive note, and

that the Veery's resembles that of the Wood-Thrush! These observations

deserve to be preserved with that of the author of "Out-door Papers,"

who tells us the trill of the Hair-Bird (_Fringilla socialis_) is

produced by the bird fluttering its wings upon its sides! The

Hermit-Thrush may be easily identified by his color; his back being a

clear olive-brown, becoming rufous on his rump and tail. A quill from

his wing placed beside one from his tail, on a dark ground, presents

quite a marked contrast.

I walk along the old road, and note the tracks in the thin layer of mud.

When do these creatures travel here? I have never yet chanced to meet

one. Here a partridge has set its foot; there, a woodcock; here, a

squirrel or mink; there, a skunk; there, a fox. What a clear, nervous

track Reynard makes! how easy to distinguish it from that of a little

dog,--it is so sharply cut and defined! A dog's track is coarse and

clumsy beside it. There is as much wildness in the track of an animal as

in its voice. Is a deer's track like a sheep's or a goat's? What

winged-footed fleetness and agility may be inferred from the sharp,

braided track of the gray squirrel upon the new snow! Ah! in nature is

the best discipline. I think the sculptor might carve finer and more

expressive lines if he grew up in the woods, and the painter

discriminate finer hues. How wood-life sharpens the senses, giving a new

power to the eye, the ear, the nose! And are not the rarest and most

exquisite songsters wood-birds?

Everywhere in these solitudes I am greeted with the pensive, almost

pathetic note of the Wood-Pewee. Do you know the Pewees? They are the

true Flycatchers, and are easily identified. They are very

characteristic birds, have very strong family traits, and very

pugnacious dispositions. Without any exception or qualification they are

the homeliest or the least elegant birds of our fields or forest.

Sharp-shouldered, big-headed, short-legged, of no particular color, of

little elegance in flight or movement, with a disagreeable flirt of the

tail, always quarrelling with their neighbors and with one another, no

birds are so little calculated to excite pleasurable emotions in the

beholder, or to become objects of human interest and affection. The

King-Bird is the best-dressed member of the family, but he is a

braggart; and, though always snubbing his neighbors, is an arrant

coward, and shows the white feather at the slightest display of pluck in

his antagonist. I have seen him turn tail to a Swallow, and have known

the little Pewee in question to whip him beautifully. From the Great

Crested to the Little Green Flycatcher, their ways and general habits

are the same. Slow in flying from point to point, they yet have a

wonderful quickness, and snap up the fleetest insects with little

apparent effort. There is a constant play of quick, nervous movements

underneath their outer show of calmness and stolidity. They do not scour

the limbs and trees like the Warblers, but, perched upon the middle

branches, wait like true hunters for the game to come along. There is

often a very audible snap of the beak as they arrest their prey.

The Wood-Pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests your

attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also in the

deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated strains. His

mate builds an exquisite nest of moss on the side of some shelving cliff

or overhanging rock. The other day, passing by a ledge near the top of a

mountain in a singularly desolate locality, my eye rested upon one of

these structures, looking precisely as if it grew there, so in keeping

was it with the mossy character of the rock; and I have had a growing

affection for the bird ever since. The rock seemed to love the nest and

to claim it as its own. I said, What a lesson in architecture is here!

Here is a house that was built, but built with such loving care and such

beautiful adaptation of the means to the end, that it looks like a

product of nature. The same wise economy is noticeable in the nests of

all birds. No bird would paint its house white or red, or add aught for

show.

Coming to a drier and less mossy place in the woods, I am amused with

the Golden-crowned Thrush,--which, however, is no thrush at all, but a

Warbler, the _Sciurus aurocapillus_. He walks on the ground ahead of me

with such an easy gliding motion, and with such an unconscious,

preoccupied air, jerking his head like a hen or a partridge, now

hurrying, now slackening his pace, that I pause to observe him. If I sit

down, he pauses to observe me, and extends his pretty ramblings on all

sides, apparently very much engrossed with his own affairs, but never

losing sight of me. But few of the birds are walkers, most being

hoppers, like the Robin. I recall only five species of the former among

our ordinary birds,--the one in question, the Meadow-Lark, the Tit-Lark,

the Cow-Bunting, and the Water-Wagtail (a relative of the Golden-Crown).

Satisfied that I have no hostile intentions, the pretty pedestrian

mounts a limb a few feet from the ground, and gives me the benefit of

one of his musical performances, a sort of accelerating chant.

Commencing in a very low key, which makes him seem at a very uncertain

distance, he grows louder and louder, till his body quakes and his chant

runs into a shriek, ringing in my ears with a peculiar sharpness. This

lay may be represented thus: "Teacher teacher, teacher, teacher

teacher!"--the accent on the first syllable and each word uttered with

increased force and shrillness. No writer with whom I am acquainted

gives him credit for more musical ability than is displayed in this

strain. Yet in this the half is not told. He has a far rarer song, which

he reserves for some nymph whom he meets in the air. Mounting by easy

flights to the top of the tallest tree, he launches into the air with a

sort of suspended, hovering flight, like certain of the Finches, and

bursts into a perfect ecstasy of song,--clear, ringing, copious,

rivalling the Goldfinch's in vivacity, and the Linnet's in melody. This

strain is one of the rarest bits of bird-melody to be heard. Over the

woods, hid from view, the ecstatic singer warbles his finest strain. In

this song you instantly detect his relationship to the Water-Wagtail

(_Sciurus Noveboracensis_),--erroneously called Water-Thrush,--whose

song is likewise a sudden burst, full and ringing, and with a tone of

youthful joyousness in it, as if the bird had just had some unexpected

good-fortune. For nearly two years this strain of the pretty walker was

little more than a disembodied voice to me, and I was puzzled by it as

Thoreau by his mysterious Night-Warbler, which, by the way, I suspect

was no new bird at all, but one he was otherwise familiar with. The

little bird himself seems disposed to keep the matter a secret, and

improves every opportunity to repeat before you his shrill, accelerating

lay, as if this were quite enough and all he laid claim to. Still, I

trust I am betraying no confidence in making the matter public here. I

think this is pre-eminently his love-song, as I hear it oftenest about

the mating season. I have caught half-suppressed bursts of it from two

birds chasing each other with fearful speed through the forest.

Turning to the left from the old road, I wander, over soft logs and gray

yielding _debris_, across the little trout brook, until I emerge in the

Barkpeeling,--pausing now and then on the way to admire a small,

solitary white flower which rises above the moss, with radical,

heart-shaped leaves, and a blossom precisely like the liverwort except

in color, but which is not put down in my botany,--or to observe the

ferns, of which I count six varieties, some gigantic ones nearly

shoulder-high.

At the foot of a rough, scraggy yellow birch, on a bank of club-moss, so

richly inlaid with partridge-berry and curious shining leaves,--with

here and there in the bordering a spire of the false wintergreen

(_Pyrola rotundifolia_) strung with faint pink flowers and exhaling the

breath of a May orchard,--that it looks too costly a couch for such an

idler, I recline to note what transpires. The sun is just past the

meridian, and the afternoon chorus is not yet in full tune. Most birds

sing with the greatest spirit and vivacity in the forenoon, though there

are occasional bursts later in the day, in which nearly all voices join;

while it is not till the twilight that the full power and solemnity of

the thrush's hymn is felt.

My attention is soon arrested by a pair of Humming-Birds, the

Ruby-Throated, disporting themselves in a low bush a few yards from me.

The female takes shelter amid the branches, and squeaks exultingly as

the male, circling above, dives down as if to dislodge her. Seeing me,

he drops like a feather on a slender twig, and in a moment both are

gone. Then, as if by a preconcerted signal, the throats are all atune. I

lie on my back with eyes half closed, and analyze the chorus of

Warblers, Thrushes, Finches, and Flycatchers; while, soaring above all,

a little withdrawn and alone, rises the divine soprano of the Hermit.

That richly modulated warble proceeding from the top of yonder birch,

and which unpractised ears would mistake for the voice of the Scarlet

Tanager, comes from that rare visitant, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak. It

is a strong, vivacious strain, a bright noonday song, full of health and

assurance, indicating fine talents in the performer, but not genius. As

I come up under the tree he casts his eye down at me, but continues his

song. This bird is said to be quite common in the Northwest, but he is

rare in the Eastern districts. His beak is disproportionately large and

heavy, like a huge nose, which slightly mars his good looks; but Nature

has made it up to him in a blush rose upon his breast, and the most

delicate of pink linings to the under side of his wings. His back is

variegated black and white, and when flying low the white shows

conspicuously. If he passed over your head, you would note the delicate

flush under his wings.

That bit of bright scarlet on yonder dead hemlock, glowing like a live

coal against the dark background, seeming almost too brilliant for the

severe Northern climate, is his relative, the Scarlet Tanager. I

occasionally meet him in the deep hemlocks, and know no stronger

contrast in nature. I almost fear he will kindle the dry limb on which

he alights. He is quite a solitary bird, and in this section seems to

prefer the high, remote woods, even going quite to the mountain's top.

Indeed, the event of my last visit to the mountain was meeting one of

these brilliant creatures near the summit, in full song. The breeze

carried the notes far and wide. He seemed to enjoy the elevation, and I

imagined his song had more scope and freedom than usual. When he had

flown far down the mountain-side, the breeze still brought me his finest

notes. In plumage he is the most brilliant bird we have. The Bluebird is

not entirely blue; nor will the Indigo-bird bear a close inspection, nor

the Goldfinch, nor the Summer Redbird. But the Tanager loses nothing by

a near view; the deep scarlet of his body and the black of his wings and

tail are quite perfect. This is his holiday suit; in the fall he becomes

a dull green,--the color of the female the whole season.

One of the leading songsters in this choir of the old Barkpeeling is the

Purple Finch or Linnet. He sits somewhat apart, usually on a dead

hemlock, and warbles most exquisitely. He is one of our finest

songsters, and stands at the head of the Finches, as the Hermit at the

head of the Thrushes. His song approaches an ecstasy, and, with the

exception of the Winter Wren's, is the most rapid and copious strain to

be heard in these woods. It is quite destitute of the trills and the

liquid, silvery, bubbling notes that characterize the Wren's; but there

runs through it a round, richly modulated whistle, very sweet and very

pleasing. The call of the Robin is brought in at a certain point with

marked effect, and, throughout, the variety is so great and the strain

so rapid that the impression is as of two or three birds singing at the

same time. He is not common here, and I only find him in these or

similar woods. His color is peculiar, and looks as if it might have been

imparted by dipping a brown bird in diluted pokeberry juice. Two or

three more dippings would have made the purple complete. The female is

the color of the Song-Sparrow, a little larger, with heavier beak, and

tail much more forked.

In a little opening quite free from brush and trees I step down to bathe

my hands in the brook, when a small, light slate-colored bird flutters

out of the bank, not three feet from my head, as I stoop down, and, as

if severely lamed or injured, flutters through the grass and into the

nearest bush. As I do not follow, but remain near the nest, she _chips_

sharply, which brings the male, and I see it is the Speckled Canada

Warbler. I find no authority in the books for this bird to build upon

the ground, yet here is the nest, made chiefly of dry grass, set in a

slight excavation in the bank, not two feet from the water, and looking

a little perilous to anything but ducklings or sandpipers. There are two

young birds and one little specked egg, just pipped. But how is this?

what mystery is here? One nestling is much larger than the other,

monopolizes most of the nest, and lifts its open mouth far above that of

its companion, though obviously both are of the same age, not more than

a day old. Ah! I see;--the old trick of the Cow-Bunting, with a stinging

human significance. Taking the interloper by the nape of the neck, I

deliberately drop it into the water, but not without a pang, as I see

its naked form, convulsed with chills, float down stream. Cruel! So is

Nature cruel. I take one life to save two. In less than two days this

pot-bellied intruder would have caused the death of the two rightful

occupants of the nest; so I step in and divert things into their proper

channel again.

It is a singular freak of Nature, this instinct which prompts one bird

to lay its eggs in the nests of others, and thus shirk the

responsibility of rearing its own young. The Cow-Buntings always resort

to this cunning trick; and when one reflects upon their numbers it is

evident that these little tragedies are quite frequent. In Europe the

parallel case is that of the Cuckoo, and occasionally our own Cuckoo

imposes upon a Robin or a Thrush in the same manner. The Cow-Bunting

seems to have no conscience about the matter, and, so far as I have

observed, invariably selects the nest of a bird smaller than itself. Its

egg is usually the first to hatch; its young overreaches all the rest

when food is brought; it grows with great rapidity, spreads and fills

the nest, and the starved and crowded occupants soon perish, when the

parent bird removes their dead bodies, giving its whole energy and care

to the foster-child.

The Warblers and smaller Flycatchers are generally the sufferers, though

I sometimes see the Slate-colored Snowbird unconsciously duped in like

manner; and the other day, in a tall tree in the woods, I discovered the

Black-throated Green-backed Warbler devoting itself to this dusky,

overgrown foundling. An old farmer to whom I pointed out the fact was

much surprised that such things should happen in his woods without his

knowledge.

From long observation it is my opinion that the male Bunting selects the

nest into which the egg is to be deposited, and exercises a sort of

guardianship over it afterward, lingering in the vicinity and uttering

his peculiar, liquid, glassy note from the tops of the tall trees.

The Speckled Canada is a very superior Warbler, having a lively,

animated strain, reminding you of certain parts of the Canary's, though

quite broken and incomplete; the bird the while hopping amid the

branches with increased liveliness, and indulging in fine sibilant

chirps, too happy to keep silent.

His manners are very marked. He has a habit of curtsying when he

discovers you, which is very pretty. In form he is a very elegant bird,

somewhat slender, his back of a bluish lead-color becoming nearly black

on his crown; the under part of his body, from his throat down, is of a

light, delicate yellow, with a belt of black dots across his breast. He

has a very fine eye, surrounded by a light yellow ring.

The parent birds are much disturbed by my presence, and keep up a loud,

emphatic chirping, which attracts the attention of their sympathetic

neighbors, and one after another they come to see what has happened. The

Chestnut-Sided and the Blackburnian come in company. The

Black-and-Yellow Warbler pauses a moment and hastens away; the Maryland

Yellow-Throat peeps shyly from the lower bushes and utters his "Fip!

fip!" in sympathy; the Wood-Pewee comes straight to the tree overhead,

and the Red-eyed Vireo lingers and lingers, eying me with a curious,

innocent look, evidently much puzzled. But all disappear again, one

after another, apparently without a word of condolence or encouragement

to the distressed pair. I have often noticed among birds this show of

sympathy,--if indeed it be sympathy, and not merely curiosity, or a

feeling of doubt concerning their own safety.

An hour afterward I approach the place, find all still, and the mother

bird upon the nest. As I draw near she seems to sit closer, her eyes

growing large with an inexpressibly wild, beautiful look. She keeps her

place till I am within two paces of her, when she flutters away as at

first. In the brief interval the remaining egg has hatched, and the two

little nestlings lift their heads without being jostled or overreached

by any strange bedfellow. A week afterward and they are flown away,--so

brief is the infancy of birds. And the wonder is that they escape, even

for this short time, the skunks and minks and muskrats that abound here,

and that have a decided partiality for such tidbits.

I pass on through the old Barkpeeling, now threading an old cow-path or

an overgrown wood-road; now clambering over soft and decayed logs, or

forcing my way through a network of briers and hazel; now entering a

perfect bower of wild-cherry, beech, and soft-maple; now emerging into a

little grassy lane, golden with buttercups or white with daisies, or

wading waist-deep in the red raspberry-bushes.

Whir! whir! whir! and a brood of half-grown Partridges start up like an

explosion, a few paces from me, and, scattering, disappear in the bushes

on all sides. Let me sit down here behind this screen of ferns and

briers, and hear this wild-hen of the woods call together her brood.

Have you observed at what an early age the Partridge flies? Nature seems

to concentrate her energies on the wing, making the safety of the bird a

point to be looked after first; and while the body is covered with down,

and no signs of feathers are visible, the wing-quills sprout and unfold,

and in an incredibly short time the young make fair headway in flying.

The same rapid development of wing may be observed in chickens and

turkeys, but not in water-fowls, nor in birds that are safely housed in

the nest till full-fledged. The other day, by a brook, I came suddenly

upon a young Sandpiper, a most beautiful creature, enveloped in a soft

gray down, swift and nimble, and apparently a week or two old, but with

no signs of plumage either of body or wing. And it needed none, for it

escaped me by taking to the water as readily as if it had flown with

wings.

Hark! There arises over there in the brush a soft, persuasive cooing, a

sound so subtile and wild and unobtrusive that it requires the most

alert and watchful ear to hear it. How gentle and solicitous and full of

yearning love! It is the voice of the mother hen. Presently a faint,

timid "Yeap!" which almost eludes the ear, is heard in various

directions,--the young responding. As no danger seems near, the cooing

of the parent bird is soon a very audible clucking call, and the young

move cautiously in the direction. Let me step never so carefully from my

hiding-place, and all sounds instantly cease, and I search in vain for

either parent or young.

The Partridge (_Bonasa umbellus_) is one of our most native and

characteristic birds. The woods seem good to be in where I find him. He

gives a habitable air to the forest, and one feels as if the rightful

occupant was really at home. The woods where I do not find him seem to

want something, as if suffering from some neglect of Nature. And then he

is such a splendid success, so hardy and vigorous. I think he enjoys the

cold and the snow. His wings seem to rustle with more fervency in

midwinter. If the snow falls very fast, and promises a heavy storm, he

will complacently sit down and allow himself to be snowed under.

Approaching him at such times, he suddenly bursts out of the snow at

your feet, scattering the flakes in all directions, and goes humming

away through the woods like a bomb-shell,--a picture of native spirit

and success.

His drum is one of the most welcome and beautiful sounds of spring.

Scarcely have the trees showed their buds, when, in the still April

mornings, or toward nightfall, you hear the hum of his devoted wings. He

selects not, as you would predict, a dry and resinous log, but a decayed

and crumbling one, seeming to give the preference to old oak-logs that

are partially blended with the soil. If a log to his taste cannot be

found, he sets up his altar on a rock, which becomes resonant beneath

his fervent blows. Have you seen the Partridge drum? It is the next

thing to catching a weasel asleep, though by much caution and tact it

may be done. He does not hug the log, but stands very erect, expands his

ruff, gives two introductory blows, pauses half a second, and then

resumes, striking faster and faster till the sound becomes a continuous,

unbroken whir, the whole lasting less than half a minute. The tips of

his wings barely brush the log, so that the sound is produced rather by

the force of the blows upon the air and upon his own body as in flying.

One log will be used for many years, though not by the same drummer. It

seems to be a sort of temple, and held in great respect. The bird always

approaches it on foot, and leaves it in the same quiet manner, unless

rudely disturbed. He is very cunning, though his wit is not profound. It

is very difficult to approach him by stealth; you will try many times

before succeeding; but seem to pass by him in a great hurry, making all

the noise possible, and with plumage furled he stands as immovable as a

knot, allowing you a good view and a good shot, if you are a sportsman.

Passing along one of the old barkpeelers' roads which wander aimlessly

about, I am attracted by a singularly brilliant and emphatic warble,

proceeding from the low bushes, and quickly suggesting the voice of the

Maryland Yellow-Throat. Presently the singer hops up on a dry twig, and

gives me a good view. Lead-colored head and neck, becoming nearly black

on the breast; clear olive-green back, and yellow belly. From his habit

of keeping near the ground, even hopping upon it occasionally, I know

him to be a Ground-Warbler; from his dark breast the ornithologist has

added the expletive Mourning, hence the Mourning Ground-Warbler.

Of this bird both Wilson and Audubon confessed their comparative

ignorance, neither ever having seen its nest or become acquainted with

its haunts and general habits. Its song is quite striking and novel,

though its voice at once suggests the class of Warblers, to which it

belongs. It is very shy and wary, flying but a few feet at a time, and

studiously concealing itself from your view. I discover but one pair

here. The female has food in her beak, but carefully avoids betraying

the locality of her nest. The Ground-Warblers all have one notable

feature,--very beautiful legs, as white and delicate as if they had

always worn silk stockings and satin slippers. High tree Warblers have

dark brown or black legs and more brilliant plumage, but less musical

ability.

The Chestnut-Sided belongs to the latter class. He is quite common in

these woods, as in all the woods about. He is one of the rarest and

handsomest of the Warblers; his white breast and throat, chestnut sides,

and yellow crown show conspicuously. Audubon did not know his haunts,

and had never seen his nest or known any naturalist who had. Last year I

found the nest of one in an uplying beech-wood, in a low bush near the

roadside, where cows passed and browsed daily. Things went on smoothly

till the Cow-Bunting stole her egg into it, when other mishaps followed,

and the nest was soon empty. A characteristic attitude of the male

during this season is a slight drooping of the wings, and tail a little

elevated, which gives him a very smart, bantam-like appearance. His song

is fine and hurried, and not much of itself, but has its place in the

general chorus.

A far sweeter strain, falling on the ear with the true sylvan cadence,

is that of the Black-throated Green-backed Warbler, whom I meet at

various points. He has no superiors among the true _Sylvia_. His song is

very plain and simple, but remarkably pure and tender, and might be

indicated by straight lines, thus, ---- ----\/----; the first two marks

representing two sweet, silvery notes, in the same pitch of voice, and

quite unaccented; the latter marks, the concluding notes, wherein the

tone and inflection are changed. The throat and breast of the male are a

rich black, like velvet, his face yellow, and his back a yellowish

green.

Beyond the Barkpeeling, where the woods are mingled hemlock, beech, and

birch, the languid midsummer note of the Black-throated Blue-Back falls

on my ear. "Twea, twea, twea-e-e!" in the upward slide, and with the

peculiar _z-ing_ of certain insects, but not destitute of a certain

plaintive cadence. It is one of the most languid, unhurried sounds in

all the woods. I feel like reclining upon the dry leaves at once.

Audubon says he has never heard his love-song; but this is all the

love-song he has, and he is evidently a very plain hero with his little

brown mistress. He is not the bird you would send to the princess to

"cheep and twitter twenty million loves"; she would go to sleep while he

was piping. He assumes few attitudes, and is not a bold and striking

gymnast, like many of his kindred. He has a preference for dense woods

of beech and maple, moves slowly amid the lower branches and smaller

growths, keeping from eight to ten feet from the ground, and repeating

now and then his listless, indolent strain. His back and crown are dark

blue; his throat and breast, black; his belly, pure white; and he has a

white spot on each wing.

Here and there I meet the Black and White Creeping-Warbler, whose fine

strain reminds me of hair-wire. It is unquestionably the finest

bird-song to be heard. Few insect strains will compare with it in this

respect; while it has none of the harsh, brassy character of the latter,

being very delicate and tender.

That sharp, interrupted, but still continued warble, which, before one

has learned to discriminate closely, he is apt to confound with the

Red-eyed Vireo's, is that of the Solitary Warbling Vireo,--a bird

slightly larger, much rarer, and with a louder, less cheerful and happy

strain. I see him hopping along lengthwise of the limbs, and note the

orange tinge of his breast and sides and the white circle around his

eye.

But the declining sun and the deepening shadows admonish me that this

ramble must be brought to a close, even though only the leading

characters in this chorus of forty songsters have been described, and

only a small portion of the venerable old woods explored. In a secluded

swampy corner of the old Barkpeeling, where I find the great purple

orchis in bloom, and where the foot of man or beast seems never to have

trod, I linger long, contemplating the wonderful display of lichens and

mosses that overrun both the smaller and the larger growths. Every bush

and branch and sprig is dressed up in the most rich and fantastic of

liveries; and, crowning all, the long bearded moss festoons the branches

or sways gracefully from the limbs. Every twig looks a century old,

though green leaves tip the end of it. A young yellow birch has a

venerable, patriarchal look, and seems ill at ease under such premature

honors. A decayed hemlock is draped as if by hands for some solemn

festival.

Mounting toward the upland again, I pause reverently as the hush and

stillness of twilight come upon the woods. It is the sweetest, ripest

hour of the day. And as the Hermit's evening hymn goes up from the deep

solitude below me, I experience that serene exaltation of sentiment of

which music, literature, and religion are but the faint types and

symbols.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] For December, 1858.

LAST DAYS OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

PART III.

CONCLUSION.

Landor has frequently been ridiculed for insisting upon an orthography

peculiar at present to himself, and this ridicule has been bestowed most

mercilessly, because of the supposition that he was bent upon

revolutionizing the English language merely for the sake of singularity.

But Landor has logic on his side, and it would be wise to heed

authoritative protests against senseless innovations that bid fair to

destroy the symmetry of words, and which, fifty years hence, will render

the tracing of their derivation an Herculean task, unless Trenches

multiply in proportion to the necessities of the times. If I ever wished

the old lion to put forth all the majesty of his indignation, I had only

to whisper the cabalistic words, "Phonetic spelling!" Yet Landor was not

very exacting. In the "Last Fruit off an Old Tree," he says, through his

medium, Pericles, who is giving advice to Alcibiades: "Every time we

pronounce a word different from another, we show our disapprobation of

his manner, and accuse him of rusticity. In all common things we must do

as others do. It is more barbarous to undermine the stability of a

language than of an edifice that hath stood as long. This is done by the

introduction of changes. Write as others do, but only as the best of

others; and, if one eloquent man forty or fifty years ago spoke and

wrote differently from the generality of the present, follow him, though

alone, rather than the many. But in pronunciation we are not indulged in

this latitude of choice; we must pronounce as those do who favor us with

their audience." Landor only claimed to write as the best of others do,

and in his own name protests to Southey against misconstruction. "One

would represent me as attempting to undermine our native tongue;

another, as modernizing; a third, as antiquating it. _Wheras_" (Landor's

spelling) "I am trying to underprop, not to undermine; I am trying to

stop the man-milliner at his ungainly work of trimming and flouncing; I

am trying to show how graceful is our English, not in its stiff

decrepitude, not in its riotous luxuriance, but in its hale mid-life. I

would make bad writers follow good ones, and good ones accord with

themselves. If all cannot be reduced into order, is that any reason why

nothing should be done toward it? If languages and men too are

imperfect, must we never make an effort to bring them a few steps

nearer to what is preferable?"

It is my great good fortune to possess a copy of Landor's works made

curious and peculiarly valuable by the author's own revisions and

corrections, and it is most interesting to wander through these volumes,

wherein almost every page is a battle-field between the writer and his

arch-enemy, the printer. The final _l_ in _still_ and _till_ is

ignominiously blotted out; _exclaim_ is written _exclame_; a _d_ is put

over the obliterated _a_ in _steady_; _t_ is substituted _t_ is

substituted for the second _s_ in _confessed_ and kindred words;

_straightway_ is shorn of _gh_; _pontiff_ is allowed but one _f_. Landor

spells _honor_ in what we call the modern way, without the _u_; and the

_r_ and _e_ in _sceptre_ change places. A dash of the pen cancels the

_s_ in _isle_ and the final _e_ in _wherefore_, _therefore_, &c.

_Simile_ is terminated with a _y_; the imperfect of the verbs _to milk_,

_to ask_, etc., is spelled with a _t_; _whereat_ loses its second _e_,

and _although_ is deprived of its last three letters. To his poem of

"Guidone and Lucia" has been added this final verse:--

"The sire had earned with gold his son's release

And led him home; at home he died in peace.

His soul was with Lucia, and he praid

To meet again soon, soon, that happier maid.

This wish was granted, for the Powers above

Abound in mercy and delight in love."

And to this verse is appended the following note: "If the pret. and

partic. of _lay_ is _laid_, of _say_, _said_, that of _pray_ must be

_praid_. We want a lexiconomist."

In his lines entitled "New Style," which are a burlesque on Wordsworth,

Landor introduces a new verse:--

"Some one (I might have asked her who)

Has given her a locket;

I, more considerate, brought her two

Potatoes in each pocket."

Landor has been accused of an unwarrantable dislike to the manufacture

of words; but so far from true is this, that I have known him to indulge

with great felicity in words of his own coining, when conversation

chanced to take a humorous turn. He makes Sam. Johnson say that "all

words are good which come when they are wanted; all which come when they

are not wanted should be dismissed." Tooke, in the same conversation,

cites Cicero as one who, not contented with new spellings, created new

words; but Tooke further declares, that "only one valuable word has been

received into our language since my birth, or perhaps since yours. I

have lately heard _appreciate_ for _estimate_." To which Johnson

replies: "Words taken from the French should be amenable, in their

spelling, to English laws and regulations. _Appreciate_ is a good and

useful one; it signifies more than _estimate_ or _value_; it implies 'to

value justly.'"

Taking up one day Dean Trench's excellent little book on "The Study of

Words," which lay on my table, Landor expressed a desire to read it. He

brought it back not long afterward, enriched with notes, and declared

himself to have been much pleased with the manner in which the Dean had

treated a subject so deeply interesting to himself. I have singled out a

few of these notes, that student of etymology may read the criticisms of

so able a man. Dean Trench is taken to task for a misuse of _every

where_ in making two words of it. Landor puts the question, "Is the Dean

ignorant that _everywhere_ is one word, and _where_ is no substantive?"

Trench asserts that _caprice_ is from _capra_, "a goat," whereupon his

critic says, "No,--then it would be capr_a_cious. It is from

_caper_--_capere_." _To retract_, writes Trench, means properly, as its

derivation declares, no more than to handle over again, to reconsider;

Landor declares that "it means more. _Retrahere_ is _to draw back_." But

he very vehemently approves of the Dean's remarks on the use of the word

_talents_. We should say "a man of talents," not "of talent," for that

is nonsense, though "of a talent" would be allowable.

"[Greek: Kosmos] is both 'world' and 'ornament,' hence 'cosmetic,'"

writes Landor in answer to a doubt expressed by Trench whether the

well-known quotation from St. James, "The tongue is a world of

iniquity," could not also be translated, as some maintain, "the

ornament of iniquity." Making use of the expression "redolent of scorn"

in connection with words that formerly expressed sacred functions and

offices, Landor adds: "Gray is highly poetical in his 'redolent of joy

and youth.' The word is now vilely misused daily." "By and bye," writes

the Dean. "Why write _bye_?" asks his commentator. Once or twice Landor

credits Horne Tooke with what the Dean gives as his own, and

occasionally scores an observation as old. "Why won't people say

_messager_?" he demands. "By what right is _messenger_ made out of

_message_?"

* * * * *

"Have you nothing else for the old man to read? have you nothing

American?" Landor inquired upon returning Trench. Desiring to obtain the

verdict of one so high in authority, I gave him Drake's "Culprit Fay,"

and some fugitive verses by M. C. Field, whose poems have never been

collected in book form. Of the latter's "Indian Hunting the Buffaloes,"

"Night on the Prairie," "Les Tres Marias," and others, known to but few

readers now, Landor spoke in high commendation, and this praise will be

welcome to those friends of "Phazma" still living, and still loving the

memory of him who died early, and found, as he wished, an ocean grave.

With "The Culprit Fay" came a scrap of paper on which was written: "The

Culprit Fay is rich in imagination,--few poems more so. Drake is among

the noblest of names, and this poem throws a fresh lustre on it."

Observing in this poem a misuse of the exclamation "Oh!" Landor

remarked, "'Oh!' properly is an expression of grief or pain. 'O!'

without the aspirate may express pleasure or hope." Current literature

rarely makes any distinction between the two, and even good writers

stumble through carelessness.

* * * * *

Style in writing was one of Landor's favorite topics, and his ire was

rarely more quickly excited than by placing before him a specimen of

high-flown sentimentality. He would put on his spectacles, exclaim,

"What is this?" and, having read a few lines, would throw the book down,

saying, "I have not the patience to read such stuff. It may be very

fine, but I cannot understand it. It is beyond me." He had little mercy

to bestow upon transcendentalists, though he praised Emerson one day,--a

marvellous proof of high regard when it is considered how he detested

the school to which Emerson belongs. "Emerson called on me when he was

in Florence many years ago, and a very agreeable visit I had from him.

He is a very clever man, and might be cleverer if he were less

sublimated. But then you Americans, practical as you are, are fond of

soaring in high latitudes." Carlyle in his last manner had the same

effect upon Landor's nerves as a discord in music produces upon a

sensitive ear. "Ah," said he with a quizzical smile, "'Frederick the

Great' convinces me that I write two dead languages,--Latin and

English!"

* * * * *

English hexameter was still another pet detestation which Landor nursed

with great volubility. In 1860 all Anglo-Saxon Florence was reading with

no little interest a poem in this metre, which had recently appeared,

and which of course passed under the critical eye of the old Grecian.

"Well, Mr. Landor, what do you think of the new poem?" I asked during

its nine days' reign. "Think of it? I don't think of it. I don't want to

be bothered with it. The book has driven all the breath out of my body.

I am lame with galloping. I've been on a gallop from the beginning to

the end. Never did I have so hard and long a ride. But what else to

expect when mounted on a _nightmare_! It may be very fine. I dare say it

is, but Giallo and I prefer our ease to being battered. I am too old to

hop, skip, and jump, and he is too sensible. It may be very bad taste,

but we prefer verse that stands on two feet to verse that limps about on

none. Now-a-days it is better to stumble than to walk erect. Giallo and

I, however, have registered an oath not to encourage so base a fashion.

We have consulted old Homer, and he quite approves our indignation."

* * * * *

Speaking of certain Americanisms and of our ridiculous squeamishness in

the use of certain honest words, Landor remarked: "You Americans are

very proper people; you have difficulties, but not diseases. Legs are

unknown,--you have limbs; and under no consideration do you go to

bed,--you retire." Much of this I could not gainsay, for only a few days

previously I had been severely frowned upon for making inquiries about a

broken leg. "My dear," said Landor to a young American girl who had been

speaking of the city of New Or_leens_,--such being the ordinary Southern

pronunciation,--"that pretty mouth of yours should not be distorted by

vulgar dialect. You should say Or'leans." But he was never pedantic in

his language. He used the simplest and most emphatic words.

* * * * *

There are those who accuse Landor of having sacrificed all things to

style: it were as wise to assert that Beethoven sacrificed harmony to

time. If his accusers would but read Landor before criticising, a proper

regard for their own reputations would prevent them from hazarding such

an opinion. "Style," writes Landor, "I consider as nothing, if what it

covers be unsound: wisdom in union with harmony is oracular. On this

idea, the wiser of ancient days venerated in the same person the deity

of oracles and of music; and it must have been the most malicious and

the most ingenious of satirists who transferred the gift of eloquence to

the god of thieves." Those who by the actual sweat of their brows have

got at the deep, hidden meaning of the most recent geniuses, will honor

and thank Landor for having practically enforced his own refreshing

theory. There are certain modern books of positive value which the

reader closes with a sense of utter exhaustion. The meaning is

discovered, but at too great an outlay of vitality. To render simple

things complex, is to fly in the face of Nature; and after such mental

"gymnastics," we turn with relief to Landor. "The greater part of those

who are most ambitious of style are unaware of all its value. Thought

does not separate man from the brutes; for the brutes think: but man

alone thinks beyond the moment and beyond himself. Speech does not

separate them; for speech is common to all, perhaps more or less

articulate, and conveyed and received through different organs in the

lower and more inert. Man's thought, which seems imperishable, loses its

form, and runs along from proprietor to impropriator, like any other

transitory thing, unless it is invested so becomingly and nobly that no

successor can improve upon it by any new fashion or combination. For

want of dignity or beauty, many good things are passed and forgotten;

and much ancient wisdom is overrun and hidden by a rampant verdure,

succulent, but unsubstantial.... Let those who look upon style as

unworthy of much attention ask themselves how many, in proportion to men

of genius, have excelled in it. In all languages, ancient and modern,

are there ten prose-writers at once harmonious, correct, and energetic?"

* * * * *

Popular as is the belief that Landor's gifts were the offspring of

profound study, he himself says: "Only four years of my life were given

up much to study; and I regret that I spent so many so ill. Even these

debarred me from no pleasure; for I seldom read or wrote within doors,

excepting a few hours at night. The learning of those who are called the

learned is learning at second hand; the primary and most important must

be acquired by reading in our own bosoms; the rest by a deep insight

into other men's. What is written is mostly an imperfect and unfaithful

copy." This confession emanates from one who is claimed as a university

rather than a universal man. Landor remained but two years at Oxford,

and, though deeply interested in the classics, never contended for a

Latin prize. Speaking of this one day, he said: "I once wrote some

Latin verses for a fellow of my college who, being in great trouble,

came to me for aid. What was hard work to him was pastime to me, and it

ended in my composing the entire poem. At the time the fellow was very

grateful, but it happened that these verses excited attention and were

much eulogized. The supposed author accepted the praise as due to

himself. This of course I expected, as he knew full well I would never

betray him; but the amusing part of the matter was that the fellow never

afterwards spoke to me, never came near me,--in fact, treated me as

though I had done him a grievous wrong. It was of no consequence to me

that he strutted about in my feathers. If they became him, he was

welcome to them,--but of such is the kingdom of cowards."

* * * * *

"Poetry," writes Landor, "was always my amusement, prose my study and

business." In his thirtieth year he lived in the woods, "did not

exchange twelve sentences with men," and wrote "Gebir," his most

elaborate and ambitious poem, which Southey took as a model in blank

verse, and which a Boston critic wonders whether anyone ever read

through. "Pericles and Aspasia," and the finest of his "Imaginary

Conversations," were the flowering of half a century of thought. There

are few readers who do not prefer Landor's prose to his verse, for in

the former he does not aim at the dramatic: the passion peculiar to

verse is not congenial to his genius. He sympathizes most fully with men

and women in repose, when intellect, not the heart, rules. His prose has

all the purity of outline and harmony of Greek plastic art. He could not

wield the painter's brush, but the great sculptor had yet power to

depict the grief of a "Niobe," the agony of the "Laocooen," or the

majesty of a "Moses." Like a sculptor, he rarely groups more than two

figures.

It is satisfactory then to know that in the zenith of physical strength

Landor was at his noblest and best, for his example is a forcible

protest against the feverish enthusiasm of young American authors, who

wear out their lives in the struggle to be famous at the age of Keats,

never remembering that "there must be a good deal of movement and

shuffling before there is any rising from the ground; and those who have

the longest wings have the most difficulty in the first mounting. In

literature, as at football, strength and agility are insufficient of

themselves; you must have your _side_, or you may run till you are out

of breath, and kick till you are out of shoes, and never win the game.

There must be some to keep others off you, and some to prolong for you

the ball's rebound.... Do not, however, be ambitious of an early fame:

such is apt to shrivel and to drop under the tree." The poetical dictum,

"Whom the gods love, die young," has worked untold mischief, having

created a morbid dislike to a fine physique, on the theory that great

minds are antagonistic to noble bodies. There never was error so fatal:

the larger the brain, the larger should be the reservoir from which to

draw vitality. Were Seneca alive now, he would write no such letter as

he once wrote to Lucilius, protesting against the ridiculous devotion of

his countrymen to physical gymnastics. "To be wise is to be well," was

the gospel he went about preaching. "To be well is to be wise," would

answer much better as the modern article of faith. The utmost that a

persistent brain-worker of this century can do is to keep himself bodily

up to mental requirements. Landor, however, was an extraordinary

exception. He could boast of never having worn an overcoat since

boyhood, and of not having been ill more than three times in his life.

Even at eighty-six his hand had none of the wavering of age; and it was

with no little satisfaction that, grasping an imaginary pistol, he

showed me how steady an aim he could still take, and told of how famous

a shot he used to be. "But my sister was more skilful than I," he

added.

One day conversation chanced upon Aubrey De Vere, the beautiful Catholic

poet of Ireland, whose name is scarcely known on this side of the

Atlantic. This is our loss, though De Vere can never be a popular poet,

for his muse lives in the past and breathes ether rather than air. "De

Vere is charming both as man and as poet," said Landor enthusiastically,

rising as he spoke and leaving the room to return immediately with a

small volume of De Vere's poems published at Oxford in 1843. "Here are

his poems given to me by himself. Such a modest, unassuming man as he

is! Now listen to this from the 'Ode on the Ascent of the Alps.' Is it

not magnificent?

'I spake.--Behold her o'er the broad lake flying,

Like a great Angel missioned to bestow

Some boon on men beneath in sadness lying:

The waves are murmuring silver murmurs low:

Over the waves are borne

Those feeble lights which, ere the eyes of Morn

Are lifted, through her lids and lashes flow.

Beneath the curdling wind

Green through the shades the waters rush and roll,

(Or whitened only by the unfrequent shoal,)

Till two dark hills, with darker yet behind,

Confront them,--purple mountains almost black,

Each behind each self-folded and withdrawn,

Beneath the umbrage of yon cloudy rack.--

That orange-gleam! 't is dawn!

Onward! the swan's flight with the eagle's blending,

On, winged Muse! still forward and ascending!'

"This sonnet on 'Sunrise,'" continued Landor, "is the noblest that ever

was written:--

'I saw the Master of the Sun. He stood

High in his fiery car, himself more bright,

An archer of immeasurable might.

On his left shoulder hung his quivered load;

Spurred by his steeds, the eastern mountain glowed;

Forward his eager eye and brow of light

He bent; and while both hands that arch embowed,

Shaft after shaft pursued the flying Night,

No wings profaned that godlike form: around

His polished neck an ever-moving crowd

Of locks hung glistening; while each perfect sound

Fell from his bow-string, _that th' ethereal dome

Thrilled as a dew-drop_; while each passing cloud

Expanded, whitening like the ocean foam.'

"Is not this line grand?--

'Peals the strong, voluminous thunder!'

And how incomparable is the termination of this song!--

'Bright was her soul as Dian's crest

Showering on Vesta's fane its sheen:

Cold looked she as the waveless breast

Of some stone Dian at thirteen.

Men loved: but hope they deemed to be

A sweet Impossibility!'

Here are two beautiful lines from the Grecian Ode:--

'Those sinuous streams that blushing wander

Through labyrinthine oleander.'

This is like Shakespeare:--

'Yea, and the Queen of Love, as fame reports,

Was caught,--no doubt in Bacchic wreaths,--for Bacchus

Such puissance hath, that he old oaks will twine

Into true-lovers' knots, and laughing stand

Until the sun goes down.'

And an admirable passage is this, too, from the same poem,--'The Search

after Proserpine':--

'Yea, and the motions of her trees and harvests

Resemble those of slaves, reluctant, cumbered,

By outward force compelled; _not like our billows,

Springing elastic in impetuous joy,

Or indolently swayed_.'

"There!" exclaimed Landor, closing the book, "I want you to have this.

It will be none the less valuable because I have scribbled in it," he

added with a smile.

"But, Mr. Landor--"

"Now don't say a word. I am an old man, and if both my legs are not in

the grave, they ought to be. I cannot lay up such treasures in heaven,

you know,--saving of course in my memory,--and De Vere had rather you

should have it than the rats. There's a compliment for you! so put the

book in your pocket."

This little volume is marked throughout by Landor with notes of

admiration, and if I here transcribe a few of his favorite poems, it

will be with the hope of benefiting many readers to whom De Vere is a

sealed book.

"Greece never produced anything so exquisite," wrote Landor beneath the

following song:--

"Give me back my heart, fair child;

To you as yet 't is worth but little.

Half beguiler, half beguiled,

Be you warned: your own is brittle.

I know it by your redd'ning cheeks,--

I know it by those two black streaks

Arching up your pearly brows

In a momentary laughter,

Stretched in long and dark repose

With a sigh the moment after.

"'Hid it! dropt it on the moors!

Lost it, and you cannot find it,'--

My own heart I want, not yours:

You have bound and must unbind it.

Set it free then from your net,

We will love, sweet,--but not yet!

Fling it from you:--we are strong;

Love is trouble, love is folly:

Love, that makes an old heart young,

Makes a young heart melancholy."

And for this Landor claimed that it was "finer than the best in

Horace":--

"Slanting both hands against her forehead,

On me she levelled her bright eyes.

My whole heart brightened as the sea

When midnight clouds part suddenly:--

Through all my spirit went the lustre,

Like starlight poured through purple skies.

"And then she sang a loud, sweet music;

Yet louder as aloft it clomb:

Soft when her curving lips it left;

Then rising till the heavens were cleft,

As though each strain, on high expanding,

Were echoed in a silver dome.

"But hark! she sings 'she does not love me':

She loves to say she ne'er can love.

To me her beauty she denies,--

Bending the while on me those eyes,

Whose beams might charm the mountain leopard,

Or lure Jove's herald from above!"

Below the following exquisite bit of melody is written, "Never was any

sonnet so beautiful."

"She whom this heart must ever hold most dear

(This heart in happy bondage held so long)

Began to sing. At first a gentle fear

Rosied her countenance, for she is young,

And he who loves her most of all was near:

But when at last her voice grew full and strong,

O, from their ambush sweet, how rich and clear

Bubbled the notes abroad,--a rapturous throng!

Her little hands were sometimes flung apart,

And sometimes palm to palm together prest;

While wave-like blushes rising from her breast

Kept time with that aerial melody,

As music to the sight!--I standing nigh

Received the falling fountain in my heart."

"What sonnet of Petrarca equals this?" he says of the following:--

"Happy are they who kiss thee, morn and even,

Parting the hair upon thy forehead white;

For them the sky is bluer and more bright,

And purer their thanksgivings rise to Heaven.

Happy are they to whom thy songs are given;

Happy are they on whom thy hands alight;

And happiest they for whom thy prayers at night

In tender piety so oft have striven.

Away with vain regrets and selfish sighs!

Even I, dear friend, am lonely, not unblest:

Permitted sometimes on that form to gaze,

Or feel the light of those consoling eyes,--

If but a moment on my cheek it stays,

I know that gentle beam from all the rest!"

"Like Shakespeare's, but better, is this allegory:--

"You say that you have given your love to me.

Ah, give it not, but lend it me; and say

That you will ofttimes ask me to repay,

But never to restore it: so shall we,

Retaining, still bestow perpetually:

So shall I ask thee for it every day,

Securely as for daily bread we pray;

So all of favor, naught of right shall be.

The joy which now is mine shall leave me never.

Indeed, I have deserved it not; and yet

No painful blush is mine,--so soon my face

Blushing is hid in that beloved embrace.

Myself I would condemn not, but forget;

Remembering thee alone, and thee forever!"

"Worthy of Raleigh and like him," is Landor's preface to the following

sonnet:--

"Flowers I would bring, if flowers could make thee fairer,

And music, if the Muse were dear to thee;

(For loving these would make thee love the bearer.)

But sweetest songs forget their melody,

And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:--

A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she

Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,

Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.

Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,

What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee,

When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,

And all old poets and old songs adore thee.

And love to thee is naught, from passionate mood

Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!"

Occasionally Landor indulges in a little humorous indignation,

particularly in his remarks on the poem of which Coleridge is the hero.

De Vere's lines end thus:--

"Soft be the sound ordained thy sleep to break!

When thou art waking, wake me, for thy Master's sake!"

"And let me nap on," wrote the august critic, who had no desire to meet

Coleridge, even as a celestial being.

Now and then there is a dash of the pencil across some final verse, with

the remark, "Better without these." Twice or thrice Landor finds fault

with a word. He objects to the expression, "eyes so fair," saying _fair_

is a bad word for eyes.

* * * * *

The subject of Latin being one day mentioned, Landor very eagerly

proposed that I should study this language with him.

The thought was awful, and I expostulated. "But, Mr. Landor, you who are

so noble a Latinist can never have the patience to instruct such a

stumbling scholar."

"I insist upon it. You shall be my first pupil," he said, laughing at

the idea of beginning to teach in his extreme old age. "It will give the

old man something to do."

"But you will get very tired of me, Mr. Landor."

"Well, well, I'll tell you when I am tired. You say you have a grammar;

then I'll bring along with me to-morrow something to read."

True to his promise, the "old pedagogue," for so he was wont to call

himself, made his appearance with a time-worn Virgil under his arm,--a

Virgil that in 1809 was the property, according to much pen and ink

scribbling, of one "John Prince, aetat. 12. College School, Hereford."

"Now, then, for our lesson," Landor exclaimed, in a cheery voice.

"Giallo knows all about it, and quite approves of the arrangement. Don't

you, Giallo?" And the wise dog wagged his sympathetic tail, jumped up on

his master's knees, and put his fore paws around Landor's neck. "There,

you see, he gives consent; for this is the way Giallo expresses

approbation."

The kindness and amiability of my teacher made me forget his greatness,

and I soon found myself reciting with as much ease as if there had been

nothing strange in the affair. He was very patient, and never found

fault with me, but his criticisms on my Latin grammar were frequent and

severe. "It is strange," he would mutter, "that men cannot do things

properly. There is no necessity for this rule; it only confuses the

pupil. That note is absurd; this, unintelligible. Grammars should be

made more comprehensible."

Expressing a preference for the Italian method of pronunciation, I dared

to say that it seemed to be the most correct, inasmuch as the Italian

language was but bastard Latin. The master, however, would not listen to

such heresy, and declared that, with the exception of the French, the

Italian was the worst possible pronunciation to adopt; that the German

method was the most correct, and after that came the English.

It was only a few hours after the termination of our first lesson that

Landor's little maid entered the room laden with old folios, which she

deposited with the following pleasant note:--"As my young friend is

willing to become a grammarian, an old fellow sends her for her gracious

acceptance these books tending to that purpose." I was made rich,

indeed, by this generous donation, for there were a ponderous Latin

Dictionary in Landor's handwriting, a curious old Italian and French

Dictionary of 1692,--published at Paris, "per uso del Serenissimo

Delfino,"--a Greek Grammar, and a delightfully rare and musty old Latin

Grammar by Emmanuel Alvarus, the Jesuit, carefully annotated by Landor.

Then, too, there was a valuable edition, in two volumes, of Annibal

Caro's Italian translation of the AEneid, published at Paris in 1760, by

permission of "Louis, par le grace de Dieu Roi de France et de Navarre,"

and very copiously illustrated by Zocchi. Two noble coats-of-arms adorn

its fly-leaves, those of the Right Honorable Lady Mary Louther and of

George, Earl of Macartney, Knight of the Order of the White Eagle and of

the Bath.

The lessons, as pleasant as they were profitable, were given several

times a week for many weeks, and would have been continued still longer

had not a change of residence on our part rendered frequent meetings

impossible. On each appointed day Landor entered the room with a bouquet

of camellias or roses,--the products of his little garden, in which he

took great pride,--and, after presenting it with a graceful speech,

turned to the Latin books with infinite gusto, as though they reflected

upon him the light of other days. No voice could be better adapted to

the reading of Latin than that of Landor, who uttered the words with a

certain majestic flow, and sounding, cataract-like falls and plunges of

music. Occasionally he would touch upon the subject of Greek. "I wonder

whether I've forgotten all my Greek," he said one day. "It is so long

since I have written a word of it that I doubt if I can remember the

alphabet. Let me see." He took up pen and paper, and from Alpha to Omega

traced every letter with far more distinctness than he would have

written the English alphabet. "Why, Landor," he exclaimed, looking with

no little satisfaction on the work before him, "you have not grown as

foolish as I thought. You know your letters,--which proves that you are

in your second childhood, does it not?" he asked, smiling, and turning

to me.

After my recitation he would lean back in the arm-chair and relate

anecdotes of great men and women to a small, but deeply interested

audience of three, including Giallo. A few well-timed questions were

quite sufficient to open his inexhaustible reservoir of reminiscences.

Nor had Landor reason to complain of his memory in so far as the dim

past was concerned; for, one morning, reference having been made to Monk

Lewis's poem of "Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene," he recited it

in cadences from beginning to end, without the slightest hesitation or

the tripping of a word. "Well, this is indeed astonishing," he said at

its conclusion; "I have not _thought_ of that poem for thirty years!"

* * * * *

Landor was often very brilliant. At Sienna, during the summer of 1860,

an American lady having expressed a desire to meet him the following

season, he replied, "Ah, by that time I shall have gone farther and

fared worse!" Sometimes, when we were all in a particularly merry mood,

Landor would indulge in impromptu _doggerel_ "to please _Giallo_"!

Absurd couplets would come thick and fast,--so fast that it was

impossible to remember them.

Advising me with regard to certain rules in my Latin Grammar he

exclaimed,

"What you'd fain know, you will find:

What you want not, leave behind."

Whereupon Giallo walked up to his master and caressed his hand. "Why,

Giallo," added Landor, "your nose is hot, but

He is foolish who supposes

Dogs are ill that have hot noses!"

Attention being directed to several letters received by Landor from

well-meaning but intensely orthodox friends, who were extremely anxious

that he should join the Church in order to be saved from perdition, he

said: "They are very kind, but I cannot be redeemed in that way.

When I throw off this mortal coil,

I will not call on you, friend Hoil;

And I think that I shall do,

My good Tompkins, without you.

But I pray you, charming Kate,

You will come, but not too late."

"How wicked you are, Mr. Landor!" I replied, laughingly. "It is well

that _I_ am not orthodox."

"For if you were orthodox

I should be in the wrong box!"

was the ready response.

Landor held orthodoxy in great horror, having no faith in creeds which

set up the highly comfortable doctrine, "I am holier than thou, for I am

in the Church." "Ah! I have given dear, good friends great pain because

of my obstinacy. They would have me believe as they do, which is utterly

impossible." By Church, Landor did not mean religion, nor did he pass

judgment on those who in sincerity embraced any particular faith, but

claimed for himself perfect freedom of opinion, and gave as much to

others. In his paper on "Popery, British and Foreign," Landor freely

expresses himself. "The people, by their own efforts, will sweep away

the gross inequalities now obstructing the church-path,--will sweep away

from amidst the habitations of the industrious the moral cemeteries, the

noisome markets around the house of God, whatever be the selfish

interests that stubbornly resist the operation.... It would grieve me to

foresee a day when our cathedrals and our churches shall be demolished

or desecrated; when the tones of the organ, when the symphonies of

Handel, no longer swell and reverberate along the groined roof and dim

windows. But let old superstitions crumble into dust; let Faith, Hope,

and Charity be simple in their attire; let few and solemn words be

spoken before Him 'to whom all hearts are open, all desires known.'

Principalities and powers belong not to the service of the Crucified;

and religion can never be pure, never 'of good report,' among those who

usurp or covet them."

Landor was no exception to the generality of Protestants in Italy, who

become imbued with a profound aversion to Romanism, while retaining

great respect and regard for individual members of its clergy. He never

passed one of the _preti_ that he did not open his batteries, pouring

grape and canister of sarcasm and indignation on the retreating

enemy,--"rascally beetles," "human vampires," "Satan's imps." "Italy

never can be free as long as these locusts, worse than those of Egypt,

infest the land. They are as plentiful as fleas, and as great a curse,"

he exclaimed one day. "They are fleas demoralized!" he added, with a

laugh.

"It is reported that Pio Nono is not long for this world," I said, on

another occasion. "Erysipelas is supposed to have settled in his legs."

"Ah, yes," Landor replied, "he has been on his _last legs_ for some

time, but depend upon it they are legs that will _last_. The Devil is

always good to his own, you know!"

In Italy the advanced party will not allow virtue in the Pope even as a

man. A story is told, that when, as the Cardinal Mastai Ferretti, he was

made Pontiff, his sister threw up her hands and exclaimed, "Guai a

Roma!" (Woe to Rome!) "Se non e vero e ben trovato." And this is told in

spite of Mrs. Kemble's story of the conversation which took place

between the Cardinals Micara and Lambruschini prior to this election, in

which the former remarked: "If the powers of darkness preside over the

election, you'll be Pope; if the people had a voice, I'm the man; but if

Heaven has a finger in the business, 't will be Ferretti!" Apropos of

Popes, Landor writes: "If the Popes are the servants of God, it must be

confessed that God has been very unlucky in the choice of his household.

So many and so atrocious thieves, liars, and murderers are not to be

found in any other trade; much less would you look for them at the head

of it." And because of faithless servants Landor has wisely made

Boccaccio say of Rome: "She, I think will be the last city to rise from

the dead."

"How surprised St. Peter would be," continued Landor,--resuming our

conversation, which I have thus parenthetically interrupted,--"how

surprised he would be to return to earth and find his apostolic

successors living in such a grand house as the Vatican. Ah, they are

jolly fishermen!--Landor, Landor! how can you be so wicked?" he said,

checking himself with mock seriousness; "Giallo does not approve of such

levity. He tells me he is a good Catholic, for he always refuses meat on

Friday, even when I offer him a tempting bit. He is a pious dog, and

will intercede for his naughty old _Padrone_ when he goes to heaven."

* * * * *

A young friend of mine, Charles C. Coleman, an art-student in Italy,

having visited Landor, was struck by the nobility of his head, and

expressed a wish to make a study of it. To fulfil such a desire,

however, was difficult, inasmuch as Landor had an inherent objection to

having his likeness taken either by man or the sun. Not long before the

artist's visit, Mr. Browning had persuaded him to sit for his

photograph, but no less a person could have induced the old man to mount

the numberless steps which seem to be a necessary condition of

photography. This sitting was most satisfactory; and to Mr. Browning's

zealous friendship is due the likeness by which the octogenarian Landor

will probably be known to the world. Finding him in unusually good

spirits one day, I dubiously and gradually approached the subject.

"Mr. Landor, do you remember the young artist who called on you one

day?"

"Yes, and a nice fellow he seemed to be."

"He was greatly taken with your head."

(Humorously.) "You are quite sure he was not smitten with my face?"

"No, I am not sure, for he expressed himself enthusiastically about your

beard. He says you are a fine subject for a study."

No answer.

"Would you allow him to make a sketch of you, Mr. Landor? He is

exceedingly anxious to do so."

"No; I do not wish my face to be public property. I detest this

publicity that men now-a-days seem to be so fond of. There is a painting

of me in England. D'Orsay, too, made a drawing of me" (I think he said

drawing) "once when I was visiting Gore House,--a very good thing it was

too,--and there is a bust executed by Gibson when I was in Rome. These

are quite sufficient. I have often been urged to allow my portrait to be

inserted in my books, but never would I give my consent."

(Notwithstanding this assertion, it may be found in the "Last Fruit.")

"It is a custom that I detest."

"But, Mr. Landor, you had your photograph taken lately."

"That was to oblige my good friend Browning, who has been so exceedingly

kind and attentive to me. I could not refuse him."

"But, Mr. Landor, this is entirely between ourselves. It does not

concern the public in the least. My friend wants to make a study of your

head, and I want the study."

"O, the painting is for you, is it?"

"Yes. I want to have something of you in oil colors."

"Ah, to be sure! the old creature's complexion is so fresh and fair.

Well, I'll tell you what I will do. Your friend may come, provided you

come with him,--and act as chaperon!" This was said laughingly.

"That I will do with pleasure."

"But stop!" added Landor after a pause. "I must be taken without my

beard!"

"O no! Mr. Landor. That cannot be. Why, you will spoil the picture. You

won't look like a patriarch without a beard."

"I ordered my barber to come and shear me to-morrow. The weather is

getting to be very warm, and a heavy beard is exceedingly uncomfortable.

I _must_ be shaved to-morrow."

"Pray countermand the order, dear Mr. Landor. Do retain your beard until

the picture is completed. You will not be obliged to wait long. We shall

all be so disappointed if you don't."

"Well, well, I suppose I must submit."

And thus the matter was amicably arranged, to our infinite satisfaction.

Those sittings were very pleasant to the artist and his chaperon, and

were not disagreeable, I think, to the model. Seated in his arm-chair,

with his back to the window that the light might fall on the top of his

head and form a sort of glory, Landor looked every inch a seer, and

would entertain us with interesting though unseerlike recollections,

while the artist was busy with his brush.

Putting out his foot one day, he said, "Who could suppose that that ugly

old foot had ever been good-looking? Yet they say it was once. When I

was in Rome, an artist came to me, and asked to take a cast of my foot

and leg."

"Ah, Mr. Landor, you don't know how good-looking you might be now, if

you would get a new suit of clothes and a nice pair of boots."

"No, no. I never intend to buy anything more for myself. My old clothes

are quite good enough. They are all-sufficient for this world, and in

the next I sha'n't need any; that is, if we are to believe what we are

told."

"But, indeed, Mr. Landor, you really ought to get a new cap."

"No, the one I wear is quite grand enough. I may have it made over.

Napier gave it to me," (I think he said Napier,) "and for that reason I

value it."

"Mr. Landor, you do look like a lion," I said at another time.

He smiled and replied, "You are not the only person who has said so. One

day, when Napier was dining with me, he threw himself back in his chair,

exclaiming, with a hearty laugh, 'Zounds! Landor, I've just discovered a

resemblance. You look like an old lion.'"

"That was a compliment, Mr. Landor. The lion is the king of beasts."

"Yes, but he's only a beast after all," was the quick retort.

Landor always spoke with enthusiasm of General Sir William Napier, and

in fact lavished praise upon all the family. It was to General Napier

that he dedicated his "Hellenics," published in 1859, wherein he pays

the following chivalric tribute: "An illustrious man ordered it to be

inscribed on his monument, that he was _the friend of Sir Philip

Sidney_; an obscurer one can but leave this brief memorial, that he was

the friend of Sir William Napier." Not long after the conversation last

referred to, Landor said, very sadly, as he welcomed us, "I have just

heard of the death of my dear old friend Napier. Why could not I have

been taken, and he left? I have lived too long."

The portrait was soon painted, for Landor, with great patience and

good-nature, would pose for an hour and a half at a time. Then, rising,

he would say by way of conclusion to the day's work, "Now it is time for

a little refreshment." After talking awhile longer, and partaking of

cake and wine, we would leave to meet a few days later. This was the

last time Landor sat for his picture.

* * * * *

Landor could never have greatly admired Italian music, although he spoke

in high praise of the singing of Catalani, a _prima donna_ whom he knew

and liked personally. He was always ready to point out the absurdity of

many operatic situations and conventionalities, and often confessed that

he had been rarely to the theatre. But that he was exceedingly fond of

old English, Scotch, and German ballads, I had the best possible

evidence. Frequently he entered our rooms, saying playfully, "I wish to

make a bargain with you. I will give you these flowers if you will give

me a song!" I was only too happy to comply, thinking the flowers very

cheaply purchased. While I sang Italian cavatinas, Landor remained away

from the piano, pleased, but not satisfied. At their conclusion he used

to exclaim, "Now for an English ballad!" and would seat himself beside

the piano, saying, "I must get nearer to hear the words. These old deaf

ears treat me shabbily!" "Kathleen Mavourneen," Schubert's "Ave Maria,"

and "Within a Mile of Edinboro' Town," were great favorites with him;

but "Auld Robin Gray" came first in his affections and was the ballad he

always asked for. Upon first hearing it, the tears streamed down his

face, and with a sigh he said: "I have not heard that for many, many

years. It takes me back to very happy days, when ---- used to sing to

me. Ah, you did not know what thoughts you were recalling to the

troublesome old man." As I turned over the leaves he added, "Ah, Landor!

when you were younger, you knew how to turn over the leaves: you've

forgotten all your accomplishments!"

Apropos of old songs, Landor has laid his offering upon their neglected

altar. I shall not forget that evening at Casa Guidi--I can forget no

evening passed there--when, just as the tea was being placed upon the

table. Robert Browning turned to Landor, who was that night's honored

guest, gracefully thanked him for his defence of old songs, and, opening

the "Last Fruit," read in his clear, manly voice the following passages

from the Idyls of Theocritus: "We often hear that such or such a thing

'is not worth an old song.' Alas! how very few things are! What precious

recollections do some of them awaken! what pleasurable tears do they

excite! They purify the stream of life; they can delay it on its

shelves and rapids; they can turn it back again to the soft moss amidst

which its sources issue."

"Ah, you are kind," replied the gratified author. "You always find out

the best bits in my books."

I have never seen anything of its kind so chivalric as the deference

paid by Robert Browning to Walter Savage Landor. It was loyal homage

rendered by a poet in all the glow of power and impulsive magnetism to

an "old master."

* * * * *