Chatterers. I do not know what they are called by the ornithologists;
but thus are they designated by the inhabitants, from the peculiar
sounds which they utter, (being not unlike those of a congress of
spinsters, sitting in committee of the whole on some grand question of
scandal.) They are distinguished by the epithets—red-breasted,
purple-throated, firebirds, pumpadore, red-headed, gold-headed,
white-throated, white-capped, purple-shouldered, and Mahometan. The
first five migrate; the last five stay at home. Of the former, the
firebird is so named from the fact that, in stuffed specimens, the color
is sometimes changed by the application of fire. Its natural hue is a
dark crimson, but it is susceptible of being changed, by the application
of heat, into a rich vermilion. Of the latter, the purple-shouldered is
the most rare and the most beautiful. The upper parts of its wings or
shoulders are the deepest purple; the remainder of the wings is
interspersed with blue, and they end in black. Its back is blue mingled
with black; its breast is a delicate blue, and the lower part of its
neck is a dark crimson. I describe the male bird only; for (unlike
bipeds _without_ feathers) it monopolises the beauty of the species. The
female is very plain, though there seems to be a certain winning modesty
about her, for all her homely looks. The sumptuously attired male,
(“Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these,”) if his
choice of a partner were left to himself—which I doubt—must have been
guided by a taste as unsophisticated as that of the praiseworthy
Cock-Robin, when he courted Jenny Wren, who
“Always wore her old brown gown,
And never dressed so fine!”
While on the subject of homeliness, I may as well conclude it by
alluding to a bird, which, on account of its hideousness, the negroes
call “Old Witch.” What a very mortifying circumstance it must be to be
so ugly, when every body else is so bewitchingly fair! Don’t you think
so, Miss Smith? (I do not mean the Miss Smith, who is reading this
article, but another.)
Before passing to an account of the third and last family, which I shall
try to describe—being by far the most numerous, the strangest, and the
most charming of all the tropical birds—I will detain the reader for a
moment with an account of two rare species of water birds. They are in
general so classed, because, like rails, they frequent reedy ponds and
marshes and the borders of streams. I select these two species, because
the one is very curious and the other is of a kind with which classical
associations are connected, and because they admirably serve to show how
wide and fertile a field of interesting investigation lies before the
student in this particular realm of Natural History.
The curious species is the Jacana. It is doubtful whether it should be
classed with land or water birds; it resembles the latter in its nature,
its habits, the form of its body, the shape of its bill, and the
diminutiveness of its head; it differs essentially, however, from all
others of the class, in the curious spurs which protrude from its wings;
its claws are very long and slender, and its nails very pointed and
sharp—hence has been derived its name, “The Surgeon.” It is exceedingly
wild and can be caught only by stratagem. These birds are of various
colors: some dark, tinged with violet; some green; some black; some
dusky red. Their flight is very rapid, and their cry sharp and shrill.
They travel in pairs, frequenting the borders of rivers and deep
marshes. That which is particularly singular about the Jacana is the
manner in which it is armed; when it strikes with its wings, it must do
considerable execution; it does not seem to be happily called the
Surgeon, for its instruments are rather intended to kill than cure.
The classical species is called by moderns, “the Sultana Hen.” It is the
smallest of that genus, which was named by the ancients Porphyry—in
Greek, Πορφυριωι—in Latin, _Porphyrio_. Aristotle describes it as a
fissiped bird, with long feet, a blue plumage, with a very strongly set,
purple-colored bill, and of about the size of a domestic cock. Some old
writers, in describing this bird, have said that one of its feet was
furnished with membranes, and made to swim like a water-bird’s, and that
the other was fissiped, so that it might run like a land-bird. This is
not only untrue, but contrary to nature, and signifies no more than that
the porphyry or pelican is a bird of the shore, living on the confines
of land and water. It was easily tamed, and was very pleasing on account
of its noble carriage, its fine form, its plumage brilliant and rich in
colors of mingled blue and purple and aquamarine, its docile nature, and
its happy facility of agreeing with any companions among whom its lot
might be cast. It was held in the highest esteem by both Greeks and
Romans; they never suffered it to be eaten; they sent to Lybia for it;
always treated it with kindness, and placed it in their palaces and
temples, as worthy to dwell there on account of the nobleness of its
port, the sweetness of its temper, and the beauty of its plumage. The
largest of the species, now known as “the sultana hen,” is precisely the
same as the ancient porphyrio. The smallest is called “the little
sultana hen.” Her _petite_ majesty is very queenly, but is, no doubt, as
well satisfied with the modern name by which she is dignified, as she
would be with that which the Greeks gave to the tall highnesses of her
very old and royal family. Her robe of state is a brilliant changeable
blue and green; and it has never gone out of fashion.
Having thus given an unsystemized and rather imperfect account of a few
species of tropical birds, I pass on to treat of the most marvellous and
most beautiful tribe of plumed creatures that float in the invisible
atmosphere. There have been more than a hundred species already
discovered, and every naturalist, who visits the equatorial regions of
this Western World, adds a new name to the splendid schedule of
HUMMING-BIRDS.[2] From their delicate structure, these tiny birds cannot
endure the rigors of our climate, where there are very few of those
gorgeous plants, upon which they banquet in tropical latitudes. There,
when the warm sun calls into life myriads of flowers, vast numbers of
humming-birds visit the fields and gardens every morning, and mingle
their golden-green tints in gleaming contrast with the white and
rose-colored blossoms, that cluster on the vines above the traveller’s
head, or spring luxuriantly at his feet. They seem, as they dart rapidly
around, humming their faintly heard tunes, to be the very Pucks and
Ariels of the light, and each night take up the burden of the fairy
song, sung at the feast of Titania,
Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through brier,
Over park, over pale,
Through flood, through fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere.
For, at one moment, you behold “the fine apparition” before the cup of a
flower, and at the next he is gone
“To drink the air before him and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat.”
The bright little beings must own the very best secret of the fairies;
for none, so well as they,
“Know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxslips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.”
But alas! however elfin-like and ethereal their forms appear, they share
the fate of mortals. They are easily caught by nets thrown over them, or
killed by very fine shot or sand. I have seen some very splendid
collections. I remember one, comprising seventy-two species—from the
king of the humming-birds, as he is called, with his topaz and emerald
crown, to one so small that, when on the wing, it could scarcely be
visible. When the glass case, in which they were arranged in too studied
an order, was held in the sunshine, their myriad colors would gleam and
flash with a brilliancy as perfect as that of the many gems, after which
they are prettily named. An enumeration of some of their names will
convey an idea of their appearance—sapphire-throated, ruby-throated,
sapphire and emerald, amethystine, topaz-throated; then there are the
purple, tri-colored, violet-tufted, violet-crowned, blue-fronted, the
superb, the magnificent, the sabre-winged. And there is one which must
have been bestowed by some ornithological phrenologist, who had great
skill in interpreting “the natural language” of birds—the supercilious
humming-bird. The largest species yet discovered is that which is called
the gigantic, and the smallest, as I believe, is one that Sir William
Jardine describes as Gould’s humming-bird.
The gigantic is in remarkable contrast to the rest of his tribe, both in
size and in the color of his plumage. He is not only the largest but the
homeliest, while the smallest is the most beautiful. The gigantic (the
monster!) is nearly eight inches in length; the crown, the back, the
under and lesser wing-coverts, brownish green, with reflections of green
tint; the under parts, light reddish mingled with a deeper tint and
shaded off with green; the feathers are generally darker at the base,
and the paler tips give a slightly waved appearance to the breast. On
the throat, the feathers, though without lustre, retain the scaly form
and texture of the more brilliant species. The wings slightly exceed the
tail in length, bend up at the tips, and exhibit the form of the most
correctly framed organ of flight; they are of a uniform brownish violet.
The tail is composed of ten feathers, of a brownish color, and with
golden-green reflections; they gradually decrease in length. This is a
very rare species.
Gould’s is the smallest species and of the most dazzling beauty. It is
scarcely over two inches in length; its forehead, throat and upper part
of its breast are of a most brilliant green—the feathers of a scaly
form. From the crown springs a crest of bright, chestnut feathers, of a
lengthened form and capable of being raised at pleasure. The back is a
golden-green, crossed with a whitish band; the wings and tail are
brownish purple, the latter having the centre feathers tinged with
green; the lower parts are dark brownish green. The neck tufts are of
the most splendid kind, and have a chaste but brilliant effect; they are
composed of narrow feathers of a snowy whiteness—the tips of each
having a round, serrated spot of bright emerald green, surrounded with a
dark border; the largest are at the upper part of the tuft, and they
decrease in length, assuming the shape of a butterfly’s wing; shorter
feathers again spring from the base, and their green tips are relieved
on the white of the longer ones behind them.
The most common species, and that which abounds in all parts of the West
Indies, is the ruby-crested. Though seen every day about the gardens,
near the honeysuckle and other flowering vines, it presents some of the
most splendid coloring of the family. (Those which I have mentioned are
of that sub-genus, which Linnæus calls trochilus.) The upper parts of
the head and throat are clothed entirely with those scaly formed
feathers, which always produce the parts producing the changeable hues.
On the hind head, the feathers are elongated and form a short, rounded
crest. In one position this part appears of a deep, sombre, reddish
brown; when viewed transversely it assumes a bright, coppery lustre, and
when looked upon directly with a side stream of light, it becomes of the
richest and most brilliant ruby. The scaly part of the throat and breast
again, when wanting the lustre, is of an equally sombre, greenish brown;
and, when turned to diverse lights, changes from a clear golden-green to
the most brilliant topaz. It is impossible to convey by
words—especially as it is necessary to repeat the same again and
again—an idea of these tints. The most that can be done is to name
those substances, which they most nearly resemble, then rely upon the
imagination of the reader.
The birds, thus attempted to be described, are a few of that
multitudinous tribe which excites the liveliest wonder, and fills the
mind with admiration of that creative power, which clothes the eagle
with strength to resist the fury of the mountain storm, and so fashions
the delicate plumage of the humming-bird that the softest air from
heaven seems to visit it too roughly. The vine-clad forests and
rose-covered gardens of Guiana literally _swarm_ with these fairy-birds.
The Indian word, by which they are distinguished, signifies _beams_ or
_locks of the sun_; that such a designation is not less appropriate than
poetical, may be concluded by all who have seen them darting with the
rapidity as well as the splendor of light from flower to flower.
Compared to the humming-bird, the bee is a mere loiterer. He poises
himself on wing, while he thrusts his long, slender tube into the
flower-cups in search of food. But he subsists not simply on honey-dew
and the nectar that dwells in the lips of roses. He may often be
observed darting at the minute insects that float in the air.
Mr. Audubon thus beautifully describes the humming-bird in quest of
food: “carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious
florist, removing from each those injurious insects, that otherwise
would ere long cause their beauteous petals to droop and decay. Poised
in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously and with sparkling eye
into their innermost recesses, whilst the ethereal motions of its
pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and cool the flower,
without injuring its fragile texture, and produce a delightful,
murmuring sound, well adapted for lulling the insects to repose. Then is
the moment for the humming-bird to secure them. Its long delicate bill
enters the cup of a flower, and the protruded, double-tubed tongue,
delicately sensible, and imbued with a glutinous saliva, touches each
insect in succession, and draws it from its lurking place to be
instantly swallowed. All this is done in a moment, and the bird, as it
leaves the flower, sips so small a portion of its liquid honey, that the
theft, we may suppose, is looked upon with a grateful feeling by the
flower which is thus kindly relieved from the attacks of her
destroyers.”
Their favorite places of resort were those woods, in which the superb
bignonia abounds, and when the huge trees are garlanded with parasites;
but since the cultivation of the country they frequent gardens and seem
to delight in society, becoming familiar and destitute of fear, hovering
over one side of a shrub while the fruit or flower is plucked from that
opposite. They do not alight on the ground, but easily settle on twigs
and branches, when they move sidewise in prettily measured steps,
frequently opening and closing their wings, shaking and arranging the
whole of their apparel with neatness and activity. They are particularly
fond of spreading one wing at a time, and passing each of their
quill-feathers through their bills in its whole length, when, if the sun
is shining, the wing thus plumed is very transparent and light. The
humming noise proceeds entirely from the surprising velocity with which
they perform that motion by which they will keep their bodies in the
air, apparently motionless, for hours together. When flying to any long
distance, the manner of their flight is very different from that shown
in speeding among flowers, for they sweep gracefully through the air in
long undulations, raise themselves for some distance and then fall in a
curve.
Strange as it may seem, one of the chief characteristics of this tiny
creature, is its bravery. It will unhesitatingly attack the
mocking-bird, or the king-bird, or any other by whom it imagines its
territories invaded; it directs its sharp, needle-like bill, immediately
at the eyes of its enemy, and when so employed this must be a truly
formidable weapon. These birds are also extremely pugnacious among
themselves—two males seldom meeting, without a battle. The combatants
ascend in the air, chirping, darting and circling round each other till
the eye is no longer able to follow them. They are particularly
susceptible of jealousy, and, under the influence of this failing, they
run tilts at each other till the less doughty champion falls exhausted
to the ground.
The nests of these little creatures are very curious; they are built
with great delicacy, but at the same time with much compactness and
warmth. Wilson says that the nest of the ruby-throated humming-bird is
generally fixed on the upper side of a horizontal branch, _not_ among
the twigs. It is sometimes, however, attached to an old moss-grown
trunk, and sometimes fastened on a strong stalk or weed in the garden.
It seldom builds more than ten feet from the ground. The nest is about
an inch in diameter and as much in depth. The outward coat is formed of
small pieces of a species of bluish-gray lichen, that vegetates on old
trees and fences, thickly glued with the saliva of the bird, giving
firmness and consistency to the whole as well as keeping out moisture.
Within this are thick, matted layers of the fine wings of certain flying
seeds, closely laid together; and, lastly, the downy substance from the
great mullein, and from the stalks of the common fern, lines the whole.
The base of the nest is continued round the stem of the branch to which
it closely adheres, and, when viewed from below, appears a mere mossy
knot or accidental protuberance. The nest of one species in Guiana is
principally composed of a spongy cellular substance, apparently similar
to that of a fungus, of which some kinds of wasps build large
habitations, suspended from the branches of trees, and an account is
given of a nest of another species composed entirely of the down of some
thistle; the seed is attached and is placed outwards, giving a jagged
and prickly appearance to the outside. Latham describes the nest of the
black humming-bird as made of cotton, entwined around the thorns and
twigs of the citron-tree, and of so firm a texture as not to be easily
broken by winds. The nest of the topaz-crested is about seven eighths of
an inch in diameter, also made of cotton, stuck over with lichens on the
outside and firmly fixed in the hanging cleft of some strong creeper by
threads of a cottony substance, and very slender roots or tendrils, the
whole lower part as if cemented by a thin coat of glue. It is probable
that the greater number build their nests nearly in the same manner.
Descriptions, however, are given of those built in different forms—one
is suspended with the entrance downwards; another is of a lengthened
form, composed of dry grass and slender roots and moss, and is not made
so compactly. A person, who saw a bird building her nest, describes her
manner of construction as very ingenious. “Bringing a pile of small
grass, she commenced upon a little twig about a quarter of an inch in
diameter, immediately below a large leaf, which entirely covered and
concealed the nest from above, the height from the ground being about
three feet. After the nest had received two or three of these grasses,
she set herself in the centre, and putting her long slender beak over
the outer edge, seemed to use it and her throat much in the same way as
a mason does his trowel, for the purpose of smoothing, rubbing it to and
fro and sweeping quite around. Each visit to the nest seemed to occupy
only a couple of seconds, and her absence from it not more than as many
minutes.”
The extraordinary beauty of these strange beings has induced many
attempts to tame and keep them in cages, but they have not been
successful. When placed in cages and fed daintily on honey and water,
and supplied every morning with fresh cups of flowers, they have been
known to live for a long time in their native country, and in warm
weather; but no artificial warmth has as yet kept them alive for many
weeks, when transported to a less genial climate. It is conjectured,
however, that with very great care and a strict regard to diet, as the
doctors say, they will, by and by, be kept alive and happy in our
conservatories. There was once a nest of them successfully carried to
England from Jamaica. It was presented to a lady, from whose lips the
little loves would deign to accept honey. One died, probably from excess
of happiness; but the other, being more hardy, survived for two months.
Could a lady succeed in so taming one of these winged jewels so
perfectly that it would accompany her to a ball, curiously perched upon
her bouquet, or hovering around the flowers which composed it, at her
gentle bidding, so original an ornament would doubtless be more highly
prized than
“Whole necklaces and stomachers of gems.”
The ancient Mexicans are said to have woven their plumage into gorgeous
robes.
If the extraordinary beauty of these birds, their mode of existence,
their nature, then habits, excite our admiration, how must we also
wonder at their structure!—the perfect adaptation of their forms to
that life which it is theirs to enjoy, and to the variations of that
glowing climate where they abound. “On presenting a humming-bird to a
common observer,” says an eminent naturalist, “the first exclamation
generally is, ‘what a beautiful little creature!’—the second, ‘but what
large wings he has!’ Such, indeed, is the case, and, in most instances,
the size of the wings and strength of the quills are entirely out of
proportion to our ideas of symmetry in a creature clothed with feathers;
but, upon comparing them with its necessities and the other parts of its
frame, their utility and design become obvious.” The principal reason
for their possessing organs of such power is, doubtless, to enable them
to pass in safety through the migrations and the long flights which are
necessary for their preservation, and, during which, they have to
withstand passing gales and showers. The delicious climes which they
inhabit are at seasons subject to tremendous rains, which drench and
almost inundate their abodes, or to hurricanes that, in a few minutes,
leave but a wreck of all that was before so splendid and luxuriant. By
means of these organs, before the dangerous season comes, which the
unerring instinct of nature warns them to avoid, they fly to districts
of country where the reparation of some previous wreck is proceeding
with all the rapidity of tropical vegetation.
I cannot more pleasingly conclude these notices of the most wonderful
tribe of birds, than by quoting the melodious verses of a poet, who is a
native of that glowing clime which they so exquisitely adorn.
“Still sparkles here the glory of the West,
Shows his crowned head and bares his jewell’d breast,
In whose bright plumes the richest colors live,
whose dazzling lines no mimic art can give.
The purple amethyst, the emerald’s green
Contrasted, mingle with the ruby’s sheen,
While over all a tissue is put on,
Of golden gauze by fairy fingers spun.
Small as a beetle, as an eagle brave,
In purest ether he delights to lave;
The sweetest flowers alone descends to woo,
Rifles their sweets and lives on honey-dew,
So light his kisses not a leaf is stirred
By the bold, happy, amorous humming-bird.
No disarray, no petal rudely moved,
Betrays the flower the callibree has loved.”[3]
I have thus given partial descriptions of four of the principal tribes
of Tropical Birds. I hope the reader has not been so wearied that he
will not kindly suffer me to draw this article to a close by a brief
notice of those two birds most remarkable for their peculiar notes. The
one pours forth a stream of rich melody, which surpasses the far-famed
song of the nightingale, and is, likewise, celebrated for its peculiar
power of imitating the tones of almost every fellow-songster. The other
utters only one sound, but so strange and solemn as to inspire the mind
of the hearer with a religious awe. The natural music of the one is as
gay, cheerful and enlivening as that of the other is mournful and
soul-subduing.
The first to which I allude is the Matthews of the woods, THE
MOCKING-BIRD. This species abound in all parts of the Western Indies;
they are found in great numbers near the sea-shore. From the trees which
grow on the beaches float their rich songs, more melodious than strains
of flute, or bugle, or any “cunningly devised instrument;” and, in
mellowness, in modulation and gradation, in extent of compass and
rapidity and brilliancy of execution, outrivalling the most magnificent
bravuras of a Sontag or a Malibran. When confined in cages and brought
to our cold climate, for the amusement of man, the bird loses, in the
loneliness of its captivity, half the richness of its voice. Though it
delights to mimic other plumed minstrels, this astonishing faculty is
feeble, in its most miraculous exhibition, when compared with its own
delicious song; but he who would listen to it in its perfection, must go
to those regions where the great magnolia shoots up its majestic trunk,
covered with evergreen leaves, and decorated with a thousand flowers,
where the forests and fields are buried in blossoms of every hue, and
where the golden orange decorates the gardens and the groves.
The bird whose note is so melancholy is called by the Indians campanero;
by the Spaniards arapongo or guirapongo, and by the English the
bell-bird. It is extremely rare. I was so fortunate as to see a single
specimen. It is of about the size of a Barbary dove, but more gracefully
shaped, with a larger head. It is of a snowy whiteness. From the
forehead there rises a spiral tube of about a bodkin’s length. This
tube, it is said, is raised and depressed at pleasure; it is black,
dotted with white feathers, and, as it is hollow, and communicates with
the palate, it is probably elevated when filled with air, and becomes
pendulous when empty. That strange sound, for which it is remarkable, is
probably produced by the raising and depressing of this tube. It
resembles the tolling of a bell, and is very loud and distinct. It is
heard morning and evening in the woods, and one might fancy its toll to
proceed from some hidden convent, calling to matins and vespers.
The bell-bird is seldom found in forests inhabited by other birds; it
selects lonely and desolate haunts. A recent traveller, in describing
his journey through a South American forest, writes—“Nothing can be
more still and solitary than everything around; the silence is appalling
and the desolation is awful; neither are disturbed by the sight or voice
of living thing, save one—which only adds to the impression. It is like
the clinking of metals, as if two lumps of brass were struck together;
and it sometimes resembles the distant and solemn tolling of a
church-bell, struck at long intervals. This extraordinary sound proceeds
from a bird called arapongo or guirapongo. It is about the size of a
small pigeon, white, with a circle of red round the eyes. It sits on the
tops of the highest trees, and in the deepest forests, and, though
constantly heard in the most desert places, is very rarely seen. It is
impossible to conceive any thing of a more solitary character than the
profound silence of the woods, broken only by the metallic and almost
preternatural sounds of this invisible bird, coming from the air, and
seeming to follow you wherever you go. I have watched with greet
perseverance, when the sound seemed quite close to me, and never but
once caught a glance of the cause. It passed suddenly over the top of a
very high tree, like a large flake of snow, and immediately
disappeared.”
-----
[2] In the United States two species only have been made known, the
Ruby-throated, charmingly described both by Wilson and Audubon, and the
Northern. I am told, however, that Audubon has recently discovered still
another.
[3] From a poem entitled “Barbadoes,” by Dr. Chapman, a man of a fine
genius, who may be known to my readers as the author of some very fine
translations of the Greek Anthology, which have appeared in Blackwood’s
Magazine. _Callibree_ is the Indian name of the bird.
* * * * *
THE GIRDLE OF FIRE.
BY PERCIE H. SELTON.
The lower counties of New Jersey are proverbially barren, being covered
with immense forests of pine, interspersed with cedar swamps. During the
dry summer months these latter become parched to an extent that is
incredible, and the accidental contagion of a fire-brand often wraps
immense tracts of country in flames. The rapidity with which the
conflagration, when once kindled, spreads through these swamps can
scarcely be credited except by those who know how thoroughly the moss
and twigs are dried up by the heat of an August sun. Indeed scarcely a
spot can be pointed out in West Jersey, which has not, at one time or
another, been ravaged by conflagration. It was but a few years since
that an immense tract of these pine barrens was on fire, and the
citizens of Philadelphia can recollect the lurid appearance of the sky
at night, seen at the distance of thirty or even forty miles from the
scene of the conflagration. The legendary history of these wild counties
is full of daring deeds and hair-breadth escapes which have been
witnessed during such times of peril. One of these traditionary stories
it is our purpose to relate. The period of our tale dates far back into
the early history of the sister state, when the country was even more
thinly settled than at present.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
It was a sunny morning in midsummer, when a gay party was assembled at
the door of a neat house in one of the lower counties of New Jersey.
Foremost in the group stood a tall manly youth, whose frank countenance
at once attracted the eye. By his side was a bright young creature,
apparently about eighteen years of age, whose golden tresses were a fit
type of the sunny beauty of her countenance. But now her soft blue eyes
were dim with tears, and she leaned on the shoulder of her mother, who
was apparently equally affected. The dress of the daughter, and her
attitude of leave-taking, told that she was a bride, going forth from
the home of her childhood, to enter on a new and untried sphere of life.
The other members of the group were composed of her father, her brothers
and sisters, and the bridemen and bridemaids.
“God bless you, my daughter, and have you in his holy keeping,” said the
father as he gave her his last embrace, “and now farewell!”
The last kiss was given, the last parting word was said, the last long
look had been taken, and now the bridal party was being whirled through
the forest on one of the sweetest mornings of the sweet month of July.
It was indeed a lovely day. Their way lay through an old road which was
so rarely travelled that it had became overgrown with grass, among which
the thick dew-drops, glittering in the morning sun, were scattered like
jewels on a monarch’s mantle. The birds sang merrily in the trees, or
skipped gaily from branch to branch, while the gentle sighing of the
wind, and the occasional murmur of a brook crossing the road, added to
the exhilirating influences of the hour. The travellers were all young
and happy, and so they gradually forgot the sadness of the parting hour,
and ere they had traversed many miles the green arcades of that lovely
old forest were ringing with merry laughter. Suddenly, however, the
bride paused in her innocent mirth, and while a shade of paleness
overspread her cheek, called the attention of her husband to a dark
black cloud, far off on the horizon, and yet gloomier and denser than
the darkest thunder cloud.
“The forest is on fire!” was his instant ejaculation, “think you not so,
Charnley?” and he turned to his groomsman.
“Yes! but the wind is not towards us, and the fire must be miles from
our course. There is no need for alarm, Ellen,” said he, turning to the
bride, his sister.
“But our road lies altogether through the forest,” she timidly rejoined,
“and you know there isn’t a house or cleared space for miles.”
“Yes! but my dear sis, so long as the fire keeps its distance, it
matters not whether our road is through the forest or the fields. We
will drive on briskly and before noon you will laugh at your fears. Your
parting from home has weakened your nerves.”
No more was said, and for some time the carriage proceeded in silence.
Meantime the conflagration was evidently spreading with great rapidity.
The dark, dense clouds of smoke, which had at first been seen hanging
only in one spot, had now extended in a line along the horizon,
gradually edging around so as to head off the travellers. But this was
done so imperceptibly that, for a long time, the travellers were not
aware of it, and they had journeyed at least half an hour before they
saw their danger. At length the bride spoke again.
“Surely, dear Edward,” she said, addressing her husband, “the fire is
sweeping around ahead of us: I have been watching it by yonder blasted
pine, and can see it slowly creeping across the trunk.”
Every eye was instantly turned in the direction in which she pointed,
and her brother, who was driving, involuntarily checked the horses. A
look of dismay was on each countenance as they saw the words of the
bride verified. There could be no doubt that the fire had materially
changed its bearing since they last spoke, and now threatened to cut off
their escape altogether.
“I wish, Ellen, we had listened to your fears and turned back half an
hour ago:” said the brother, “we had better do it at once.”
“God help us—that is impossible,” said the husband, looking backwards,
“the fire has cut off our retreat.”
It was as he said. The flames, which at first had started at a point
several miles distant and at right angles to the road the party was
travelling, had spread out in every direction, and finding the swamp in
the rear of the travellers parched almost to tinder by the draught, had
extended with inconceivable velocity in that quarter, so that a dense
cloud of smoke, beneath which a dark lurid veil of fire surged and
rolled, completely cut off any retrograde movement on the part of the
travellers. This volume of flame, moreover, was evidently moving rapidly
in pursuit. The cheeks, even of the male members of the bridal party,
turned ashy pale at the sight.
“There is nothing to do but to push on,” said the brother, “we will yet
clear the road before the fire reaches it.”
“And if I remember,” said the husband, “there is a road branching off to
the right, scarce half a mile ahead: we can gain that easily, when we
shall be safe. Cheer up, Ellen, there is no danger. This is our wedding
morn, let me not see you sad.”
The horses were now urged forward at a brisk pace, and in a few minutes
the bridal party reached the cross road. Their progress was now directly
from the fire; all peril seemed at an end; and the spirits of the group
rose in proportion to their late depression. Once more the merry laugh
was heard, and the song rose up gaily on the morning air. The
conflagration still raged behind, but at a distance that placed all fear
at defiance, while in front the fire, although edging down towards them,
approached at a pace so slow that they knew it would not reach the road
until perhaps hours after they had attained their journey’s end. At
length the party subsided again into silence, occupying themselves in
gazing on the magnificent spectacle presented by the lurid flames, as,
rolling their huge volumes of smoke above them, they roared down towards
the travellers.
“The forest is as dry as powder,” said the husband, “I never saw a
conflagration travel so rapidly. The fire cannot have been kindled many
hours, and it has already spread for miles. Little did you think,
Ellen,” he said, turning fondly to his bride, “when we started this
morning, that you should so narrowly escape such a peril.”
“And, as I live, the peril is not yet over,” suddenly exclaimed the
brother, “see—see—a fire has broke out on our right, and is coming
down on to us like a whirlwind. God have mercy on us!”
He spoke with an energy that would have startled his hearers without the
fearful words he uttered. But when they followed the direction of his
quivering finger, a shriek burst from the two females, while the usually
collected husband turned ashy pale, not for himself, but for her who was
dearer to him than his own life. A fire, during the last few minutes,
had started to life in the forest to their right, and, as the wind was
from that quarter, the flames were seen ahead shooting down towards the
road which the bridal party was traversing, roaring, hissing, and
thundering as they drew near.
“Drive faster—for heaven’s sake—on the gallop!” exclaimed the husband,
as he comprehended the imminency of their danger.
The brother made no answer, for he well knew their fearful situation,
but whipped the horses into a run. The chaise flew along the narrow
forest road with a rapidity that neither of the party had ever before
witnessed; for even the animals themselves seemed aware of their peril,
and strained every sinew to escape from the fiery death which threatened
them.
Their situation was indeed terrible, and momentarily becoming more
precarious. The fire, when first seen, was, at least, a mile off, but
nearly equidistant from a point in the road the bridal party was
traversing; and, as the conflagration swept down towards the road with a
velocity equal to that of the travellers, it soon became evident that
they would have barely time to pass the fire ere it swept across the
road, thus cutting off all escape. Each saw this; but the females were
now paralized with fear. Only the husband spoke.
“Faster, for God’s sake, faster,” he hoarsely cried, “see you not that
the fire is making for yonder tall pine—we shall not be able to reach
the tree first unless we go faster.”
“I will do my best,” said the brother, lashing still more furiously the
foaming horses. “Oh! God, that I had turned back when Ellen wished me.”
On came the roaring fire—on in one mass of flame—on with a velocity
that seemed only equalled by that of the flying hurricane. Now the
flames caught the lower limbs of a tall tree and in an instant had
hissed to its top—now they shot out their forky tongues from one huge
pine to another far across the intermediate space—and now the whirling
fire, whistled along the dry grass and moss of the swamp with a rapidity
which the eye could scarcely follow. Already the fierce heat of the
conflagration began to be felt by the travellers, while the horses,
feeling the increase of warmth, grew restive and terrified. The peril
momentarily increased. Hope grew fainter. Behind and on either side the
conflagration roared in pursuit, while the advancing flame in front was
cutting off their only avenue of escape. _They were girdled by fire._
Faster and quicker roared the flames towards the devoted party, until at
length despair seized on the hearts of the travellers. Pale, paralized,
silent, inanimate as statues, sat the females; while the husband and
brother, leaning forward in the carriage and urging the horses to their
utmost speed, gazed speechlessly on the approaching flames. Already the
fire was within a hundred yards of the road ahead, and it seemed beyond
human probability that the travellers could pass it in time. The husband
gave one last agonizing glance at his inanimate wife. When again he
looked at the approaching flames, he saw that during that momentary
glimpse they had lessened their distance one half. He could already feel
the hot breath of the fire on his cheek. The wind, too, suddenly whirled
down with fiercer fury, and in an instant the forky tongues of the
advancing conflagration had shot across the road, and entwined
themselves around the tall pine which had been the goal of the
travellers’ hopes. He sank back with a groan. But the brother’s eye
gleamed wildly at the sight, and gathering the reins tighter around his
hand, he made one last desperate effort to force the horses onward; and
with one mad leap, they lifted the carriage from the ground as if it had
been a plaything, plunged into the fiery furnace, and the next instant
had shot through the pass.
Charnley gave one look backwards, as if to assure himself that they had
indeed escaped—he saw the lurid mass of fire roaring and whirling
across the spot through which they had darted but a moment before; and
overcome with mingled gratitude and awe, he lowered his head on his
breast and poured out an overflowing soul in thanksgivings to the Power
which had saved them from the most dreadful of deaths. And long
afterwards, men, who travelled through that charred and blackened
forest, pointed to the memorable scene where these events occurred, and
rehearsed the thrilling feelings of those who had been encompassed by
the Girdle of Fire.
* * * * *
TO ——.
BY GEORGE LUNT.
I call upon the waves and they reply,
But not the voice I fain would hear replied,
Vainly I seek it in the wind’s deep sigh,
Earth, air, the sky’s blue depths and ocean’s tide.
These have their various voices, soft or stern,
Moulding our feelings to the varied hour,
And the wrung heart will hear them and return
To claim on Nature’s breast a mother’s power.
The dewy freshness of earth’s vernal prime,
Her budding promise lapp’d in fragrant showers,
The sacred sweetness of her summer time,
And her bright bosom cover’d o’er with flowers;
The viewless music of the breathing air,
The rushing wind that sweeps across the plain,
The breeze that dallies with the brow of care
And stirs the languid pulse to life again;
Heaven’s glorious arch, when morning through the skies
Skirts all its blue with gold, or sweeter far
At the dim twilight, or when softly rise
The new-born moon and glittering star on star;
And the dark-rolling voiceful sea, whose moan,
On the wide waste or by the storm-beat shore,
Asks the soul’s answer like a spirit tone,
And the deep soul speaks inly to its roar;
These have their language, mirthful, sad, or wild,
Like changing passion in the human breast;
We call them to us, as a wilder’d child
His home’s companions, and they give us rest;
Yet though they speak, I cannot hear—no more
Comes the sweet music of the one loved tone,
And standing lonely by the lone sea-shore
Sad as my heart falls its perpetual moan.
* * * * *
THE STAGE.
BY WILLIAM WALLACE.
Oh! I could weep when I perceive the cloud
Of dark impurities around our Stage,
Where those creations, gay, or sad, or proud—
Hamlet’s strange wo, or wronged Othello’s rage
Hallowed fair Albion’s selectest age:
Yet would I not, like certain ones, behold
Theatric pomp proscribed in liberal land,
While pale Contempt (as once in ages old)
Kills with a single look the buskin band.
A beauty sparkles yet around the Place—
A mystic charm—a fairy-beaming grace—
Appealing loudly to the coldest heart:
These boards once held the glory of our race,
And still they reverence a Shakspeare’s Art.
* * * * *
“TO WIN THE LOVE OF THEE.”
BALLAD.
DEDICATED TO MISS LEO M. CASSIN, OF GEORGETOWN, D. C.
BY J. G. E.
John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street: Philadelphia_.
[Illustration: musical score]
[Illustration: musical score]
To win the love of thee,
I would the wealth of worlds resign,
For life has nought for me,
But one sole wish to call thee mine.
All other joys of life no more,
For me a thought shall claim,
Thou art the Idol I adore,
My happiness and fame.
To win the love of thee,
I would the wealth of worlds resign,
For life has nought for me,
But one sole wish to call thee mine.
Strive not with ornament to hide
Thy beauty’s op’ning flower;
Simplicity should be thy bride.
For therein lies thy power.
Of Constancy the model I
To wand’ring eyes should prove,
For I should only wish to die
If e’er I lose thy love.
To win the love of thee, &c.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Notes of a Tour through Turkey, Greece, Egypt, Arabia Petræa,
to the Holy Land; including a Visit to Athens, Sparta, Delhi,
Cairo, Thebes, Mount Sinai, Petræa, &c. By E. Joy Morris. Two
vols. 12 mo. pp. 550. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart: 1842._
Were we disposed to be hypercritical, we should begin by finding some
fault with the title of these volumes. It is quite too long, besides
being tautological. Why speak of a tour through Egypt, and a visit to
Thebes! Or of a tour through Greece and a visit to Athens? It would be
as proper to announce a journey through England, including a visit to
London. He who travels over a country of course visits its capital. If
he supposes the readers of his journal do not know what city enjoys that
distinction, it is even then better to let them acquire this
geographical information by degrees. Too great and sudden developments
may defeat his object; a man’s vision is sometimes obscured by excess of
light.
Of the improbabilities which are scattered throughout the work we have
space only to notice one or two. Mr. Morris informs us that the _harem_
of the Governor of Smyrna, which he encountered on board a steamer,
“consisted of some half-dozen ladies, (wives,) and, with attendants,
amounted to near thirty persons.” Rather too many wives for the simple
Aga of Smyrna, and more than the Koran allows. The holy book of the
Mahommedan permits no one, save the Grand Sultan—the representative of
the prophet—to have more than two; and that highest of dignitaries, and
hereditary favorite of the immortals, has but four. The Governor of
Smyrna, we are assured by a competent authority, has but _one_ wife, and
she is of Turkish descent, and not, as our author avers, a Circassian.
Had she been of Circassia she would have been a concubine, not a wife,
or, as the author blunderingly calls her, a _Sultana_. That title
belongs only to the favorite wife of the _Sultan_. Our traveller tells
us that he offered to this lady some sweet-meats, although her husband
and the keeper of his harem were both present! An averment which we
would be as chary of believing as if it were that the “light” of the
Grand Seigneur’s palace had accepted an invitation to swim with him in
the Bosphorus!
Mr. Morris tells us that he found in the slave market of Constantinople
two beautiful Georgian girls, “destined for the harems of the rich,” in
_cages_, but that he was “only indulged with a glance at them through
the _bars_!” Now a cage, or such a place as he intended to describe by
that word, even for the ugliest Numidian, would not be tolerated in
Constantinople for an hour; nor has there been for many years a Georgian
girl publicly exhibited in the markets of that city. When a writer,
sensible of the dulness of his performance, seeks to impart to it some
interest by weaving into its chapters romantic fictions, he should be
careful to give them an air of probability. We have not time nor
inclination to point out other “attractions” in these volumes of a
similar description.
While writing of Athens and Constantinople, Mr. Morris doubtless had by
his side Mr. Colton’s “Visit” to those places; and in his notices of
Arabia Petræa and Egypt he has availed himself of the information
acquired by Mr. Stevens and Professor Robinson. He has made what, in the
language of the _trade_, is called a readable book; but it possesses
neither originality, vigor, nor freshness; and his delineations, besides
lacking these qualities, are often tediously long and needlessly
particular. He does not pretend to give any new topographical
information, and his work contains none. It was probably written out
from slight notes taken during his tour, and the more elaborate
descriptions of other travellers. It evinces some taste and judgment in
the selection of themes, and is now and then graced by a classical
allusion or quotation, gleaned, perhaps, from the guide-books, which
make authorship so easy to the tourist.
* * * * *
_Punishment by Death: Its Authority and Expediency. By Rev.
George B. Chester. One vol. 12mo. pp. 156. New York: M. W.
Dodd._
Several able sermons on this important subject have issued from the
press. This is a more extended and elaborate effort. It displays
learning, research, and philosophical acumen, and is worthy of general
and serious attention. We know of no treatise in our language, on this
subject, so well calculated for circulation among the people at large.
It is brief, clear, comprehensive, written in an interesting style, and
often rising to a strain of vivid and stirring eloquence.
About half the volume is devoted to the argument from Scripture; in
which the original Noahic ordinance is taken as the ground-work,
commented upon in the Mosaic statutes, and confirmed in the New
Testament. The writings and experience of Paul are examined, and the
course of the Divine Providence is shown to be consentaneous with this
argument. The state of legislation and society in the antediluvian
world, as well as afterwards, are investigated, with the origin of
government, and the nature of its sanction in the Scriptures.
The remainder of the book is taken up with the argument from Expediency.
The question is examined, What constitutes the perfection of criminal
jurisprudence! The efficacy of punishment by death in restraining crime
is argued, and also that the abrogation of this punishment would prove a
premium on the crime of murder, through the desire of concealing other
crimes. The law of nature is examined, with the powerful convictions of
conscience on this subject, as sustaining the Divine legislation, and
demanding support also in human law. Various objections are considered
and answered, with the occasion of the prejudice against Capital
Punishment. The book concludes with a chapter on the power and solemnity
of the argument from analogy, in reference to the sanctions of the
Divine Government.
* * * * *
_A Popular Treatise on Agricultural Chemistry: intended for the
use of the Practical Farmer. By Chas. Squarey, Chemist. One vol.
Lea & Blanchard: Philadelphia._
An excellent work, in which most of what is really valuable in the
treatises of Liebig, Davy, Johnson and Daubeny, has been condensed for
the practical reader.
* * * * *
_Tecumseh, or the West Thirty Years Since: A Poem: By George H.
Colton. 12mo. pp. 412. New York: Wiley & Putnam, 1842._
We alluded to this work very briefly in a former number, and now recur
to it mainly for the purpose of presenting some specimens of the
author’s versification, by which the reader may be enabled to judge of
its general execution. “Tecumseh” is a narrative, founded on the history
of that great chief whose name is chosen for its title, and whose
efforts to unite the various divisions of the red race into one grand
confederacy, to regain their lost inheritance, though unsuccessful,
should secure to him a fame as lasting as is awarded to the most
celebrated heroes and patriots of the world.
The measure of the main part of the poem—extending to nine long
cantos—is octo-syllabic. It is free, and generally correct, though in
some cases marred by inexcusable carelessness, and phraseology more tame
and meaningless than, had he kept his manuscript for a few years, the
author would have permitted to go before the critics. The hero, with the
wily prophet, Els-kwa-ta-wa, who was his evil genius through life, is
introduced in the second canto. Distinguished
“By his broad brow of care and thought,
By his most regal mien and tread,
By robes with richest wampum wrought,
And eagle’s plume upon his head,”
he emerges with his companion from a forest;
“Nor e’er did eye a form behold
At once more finished, firm and bold.
Of larger mould and loftier mien
Than oft in hall or bower is seen,
And with a browner hue than seems
To pale maid fair, or lights her dreams,
He yet revealed a symmetry
Had charmed the Grecian sculptor’s eye,
A massive brow, a kindled face,
Limbs chiselled to a faultless grace,
Beauty and strength in every feature,
While in his eyes there lived the light
Of a great soul’s transcendant might—
Hereditary lord by nature!
As stood he there, the stern, unmoved,
Except his eagle glance that roved,
And darkly limned against the sky
Upon that mound so lone and high,
He looked the sculptured God of Wars,
Great Odin, or Egyptian Mars,
By crafty hand, from dusky stone,
Immortal wrought in ages gone,
And on some silent desert cast,
Memorial of the mighty Past!
And yet, though firm, though proud his glance,
There was upon his countenance
That settled shade, which oft in life
Mounts upward from the spirit’s strife
As if upon his soul there lay
Some grief which would not pass away.
“The other’s lineaments and air
Revealed him plainly brother born
Of him, who on that summit bare
So sad, yet proudly met the morn:
But, lighter built, his slender frame
Far less of grace, as strength, could claim;
And, with an eye that, sharp and fierce,
Would seem the gazer’s breast to pierce,
And low’ring visage, aye the while
Inwrought of subtlety and guile,
Whose every glance, that darkly stole,
Bespoke the crafty, cruel soul.
There was from all his presence shed
A power, a chill mysterious dread,
Which made him of those beings seem,
That shake us in the midnight dream.
Yet were his features, too, o’ercast
With mournfulness, as if the past
Had been one vigil, painful, deep and long
Of hushed Revenge still brooding over wrong.
No word was said: but long they stood,
And side by side, in thoughtful mood,
Watched the great curtains of the mist
Up from the mighty landscape move;
’Twas surely spirit-hands, they wist,
Did lift them from above.
And when, unveiled, to them alone
The solitary world was shown,
And dew from all the mound’s green sod
Rose, like an incense, up to God,
Reclined, yet silent still, they bent
Their eyes on Heaven’s deep firmament—
As if were open to their view
The stars’ sun-flooded homes of blue—
Or gazed, with mournful sternness, o’er
The rolling prairie stretched before;
While round them, fluttering on the breeze,
The sere leaves fell from faded trees.”
At the close of a conference which ensues, Tecumseh expresses his
determination to
“go forth
Through the great waters of the North,
Round the far South, and o’er the West
By the lone streams, nor ever rest,
Till all the tribes united stand
In battle for their native land.”
There are scattered through the poem many passages of minute and skilful
description of external nature, and interwoven with the main history is
a story of love, resulting, in the end, like most tales of the kind, in
the perfect felicity of the parties. Some episodes, by which the
narrative is broken, are well-wrought, and the entire poem possesses a
deep and sustained interest. The rapid action of the narrative is
illustrated by the following passive, descriptive of the last conflict,
in which Tecumseh fell:
“Forth at the peal each charger sped,
The hard earth shook beneath their tread,
The dim woods, all around them spread,
Shone with their armor’s light:
Yet in those stern, still lines assailed
No eye-ball shrunk, no bosom quailed,
No foot was turned for flight;
But, thundering as their foemen came,
Each rifle flashed its deadly flame.
A moment, then recoil and rout,
With reeling horse and struggling shout,
Confused that onset fair;
But, rallying each dark steed once more,
Like billows borne the low reefs o’er
With foamy crest in air,
Right on and over them they bore,
With gun and bayonet thrust before,
And swift swords brandish’d bare.
Then madly was the conflict waged,
Then terribly red Slaughter raged!
“How still is yet yon dense morass
The bloody sun below!
Where’er yon chosen horsemen pass,
There stirs no bough nor blade of grass,
There moves no secret foe!
Yet on, quick eye and cautious tread,
His bold ranks Johnson darkling led.
Sudden from tree and thicket green,
From trunk, and mound, and bushy screen,
Sharp lightning flashed with instant sheen,
A thousand death-bolts sung!
Like ripened fruit before the blast,
Rider and horse to earth were cast,
Its miry roots among;
Then wild, as if that earth were riven,
And, pour’d beneath the cope of heaven,
All hell to upper air were given,
One fearful whoop was rung,
And, bounding each from covert forth,
Burst on their front the demon birth.
‘Off! off! each horseman to the ground!
On foot we’ll quell the foe!’
And instant, with impetuous bound,
They hurl’d them down below.
“Then loud the crash of arms arose,
As when two forest whirlwinds close;
Then filled all heaven their shout and yell,
As if the forests on them fell!
I see, where swells the thickest fight,
With sword and hatchet brandish’d bright
And rifles flashing sulphurous light
Through green leaves gleaming red—
I see a plume, now near, now far,
Now high, now low, like falling star,
Wide waving o’er the tide of war,
Where’er the onslaught’s led;
I see, beneath, a bare arm swing,
As tempest whirls the oak,
Bosom and high crest shivering
The war-club’s deadly stroke;
The eager infantry rush in,
Before their ranks, with wilder din,
The wav’ring strife is driven—
Above the struggling storm I hear
A lofty voice the war bands cheer,
Still, as they quail with doubt or fear,
Yet loud and louder given;
And, rallying to the clarion cry,
With club and red axe raging high,
And sharp knives sheathing low,
Fast back again confusedly
They drive the staggering foe.”
We conclude our extracts with a graphic description of a forest scene,
from the last canto.
“Within a wood extending wide
By Thames’s steeply winding side,
There sat upon a fallen tree,
Grown green through ages silently,
An Indian girl. The gradual change
Making all things most sweetly strange,
Had come again. The autumn sun,
Half up his morning journey, shone
With conscious lustre, calm and still;
By dell, and plain, and sloping hill
Stood mute the faded trees, in grief,
As various as their clouded leaf.
With all the hues of sunset skies
Were stamp’d the maple’s mourning dies;
In meeker sorrow in the vale
The gentle ash was drooping pale;
Brown-seared the walnut raised its head,
The oak displayed a lifeless red;
And grouping bass and white-wood hoar
Sadly their yellow honors bore;
And silvered birch and poplar rose
With foliage gray and weeping boughs;
But elm and stubborn beech retained
Some verdant lines, though crossed and stained,
And by the river’s side were seen
Hazel and willow palely green,
While in the woods, by bank and stream
And hollows shut from daylight gleam,
Where tall trees wept their freshening dews,
Each shrub preserved its summer hues.
Nor this alone. From branch and trunk
The withered wild-vines coldly shrunk,
The woodland fruits hung ripe or dry,
The leaf-strown brook flowed voiceless by;
And all throughout, nor dim nor bright.
There lived a rare and wondrous light
Wherein the colored leaves around
Fell noiselessly; nor any sound,
Save chattering squirrels on the trees,
Or dropping nuts, when stirred the breeze,
Might there be heard; and, floating high,
Were light clouds borne along the sky.
And, scarcely seen, in heaven’s deep blue
One solitary eagle flew.”
From these passages the general character of the work may be inferred.
It is too long: it would be unwise to extend a poem on any theme to nine
cantos, of near fourteen thousand lines; and besides its diffuseness, in
parts, it has other faults, to which we have already alluded. It is the
first production, however, of an author just freed from the University;
not yet, apparently, twenty-two years old; and, so regarded, the
severest critic must deem it remarkably free from errors in design and
execution.
Some half dozen elaborate metrical tales, founded on Indian histories or
traditions, have before appeared in this country, of which but one—the
“Yamoyden” of Sands and Eastburn—is comparable to this; and that is
inferior to it in unity, and, indeed, in almost all its essential
features. The admirable proem to “Yamoyden,” in which Sands laments in
such touching strains the early death of his associate and friend, is
not rightly considered a part of the poem to which it is prefixed. To
this Mr. Colton has produced nothing equal; nor is he worthy _yet_ to be
ranked with Sands as a poet. But “Tecumseh,” until some nobler work is
written, must be considered the best poem of its class written by an
American.
* * * * *
_Memoir of India and Avghanistoun, with Observations on The
Present State and Future Prospects of those Countries. By J.
Harlan, late Counsellor of State, Aid-de-Camp, and General of
the Staff, to Dost Mahomed, Ameer of Cabul. One vol. 12mo.
Philadelphia: J. Dobson, 1842._
General Harlan resided in India and Avghanistoun eighteen years, and his
official stations during that period were such as he would have chosen
had his principal object been to form a correct judgment in regard to
the social and political conditions of those countries. The facts and
opinions contained in this work must therefore command regard,
especially since the recent military operations in that quarter have
drawn so much attention to the British East Indian Empire. The volume
comprises remarks on the late massacre of the British Army in Cabul, and
the British policy in India; a reply to the Count Björstjerna’s work on
that country; the Russian influence in central Asia; the foreign
relations of the Indo-British government; the moral, religious and
political character and condition of the Indians and Avghans; and the
results of missionary exertions and prospects of Christianity among
them; together with an interesting sketch of the history and personal
character of Dost Mahomed, one of the most remarkable individuals that
have appeared in the oriental nations during this century. In an
appendix, the author indulges in some speculations on a passage in the
Book of Daniel, which he supposes has reference to the present condition
of the Mahommedan countries, and indicates the speedy extinction of the
Ottoman empire. The book is illustrated with maps and a portrait of the
Ex-Ameer of Cabul.
We shall look with some anxiety for General Harlan’s “Personal Narrative
of Eighteen Years’ Residence in Asia,” which we believe is now in press.
* * * * *
_History of the Expedition under the command of Captains Lewis
and Clarke, to the sources of the Missouri, thence across the
Rocky Mountains, and down the river Columbia to the Pacific
Ocean: Performed during the years 1804, 1805, 1806, by order of
the Government of the United States. Two vols. Harper &
Brothers: New York._
The expedition of Lewis and Clarke was the first ever made through the
Oregon Territory to the Columbia River. An account of their tour was
published soon after their return; but as that work has since gone out
of print, and as the Oregon Territory is now a subject of much interest,
the Messrs. Harpers have issued the present volumes, in which
unimportant details in the former edition have been omitted, and
explanatory notes have been added, by Archibald M’Vickar, Esq. The
volumes form Nos. 154 and 155 of the Family Library. _Perkins & Purvis:
Philadelphia._
* * * * *
_The Life of Wilbur Fisk, S. T. D. first President of the
Wesleyan University. By Joseph Holdich. One vol. 8vo. Pp. 455.
New York: Harper & Brothers._
Wilbur Fisk was one of the purest and most useful men of our time. With
a temperament remarkably sanguine and ardent, all his qualities were so
subdued and harmonized by religion, as to form one of the finest models
of elevated Christian character that has been presented to the world. He
was a native of Brattleborough, Vermont, where he was born in 1792. In
his early years he enjoyed no advantages that are not within the reach
of almost every young man of New England. When about twenty-two years of
age he began to study the law, but soon after turned his attention to
the ministry, and in the spring of 1818 was licensed to preach by a
Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church. In 1823 he was made a
ruling elder, and in 1825, principal of the Methodist Seminary of
Wilbraham. In 1829, he received the degree of Doctor in Divinity, from
Augusta College, and from Brown University, and the following year was
elected to the presidency of the Wesleyan University at Middletown. In
the autumn of 1835, he visited Europe, and passed about a year on the
continent and in Great Britain. The record of his travels, published
soon after his return, has been one of the most popular works of its
kind written by an American. He died at Middletown, after a long and
painful illness, borne with singular fortitude and resignation, on the
twenty-second of February, 1840. The Memoirs before us, by his friend
Professor Holdich, are written with ability and candor; but the most
interesting portions of the work are Dr. Fisk’s admirable private
letters, distinguished alike for a beauty of style, simplicity,
earnestness, and affection, that indicates, better than any labored
delineation by another hand, his high character and endowments.
_Philadelphia: H. Perkins._
* * * * *
_A Narrative of Voyages and Commercial Enterprises. By Richard
J. Cleveland. Two vols. 12mo. Cambridge: John Owen, 1842._
This is one of the many narratives of adventures at sea given to the
public in consequence of the success of Mr. Dana’s “Two Years before the
Mast.” The author, who retired from the merchant service more than
twenty years ago, presents some interesting reminiscences of voyages to
India, South America, and other parts of the world, written in a style
of simple elegance rather unusual for a veteran sailor. The industry and
enterprise of the New Englanders is in nothing more conspicuous than in
their mercantile marine, and we infer from his pleasant work, that Mr.
Cleveland has done his part to gain for them their enviable reputation.
* * * * *
_Athanasion, and other Poems. By the Author of “Christian
Ballads.” New York: Wiley & Putnam._
The author of “Christian Ballads” is the Rev. Arthur Cleveland Coxe,
Rector of St. Anna’s Chapel, Morrisania, near New York: a young poet who
has won an enviable reputation by numerous contributions to the
periodical literature of the day, and by some more elaborate writings.
“Athanasion” is, perhaps, his best metrical composition. It has, with
many excellencies, some defects, which we lack space and inclination to
point out in this number of our Magazine. The volume before us is
printed in a style equal to that of the best English impressions.
* * * * *
_Fathers and Sons: a Novel. By Theodore E. Hook, Esq. Two vols.
12mo. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard, 1842._
Theodore Edward Hook was one of the most popular of the authors who died
in the last year. His table wit, it is said, in freshness and
exuberance, was never equalled in England; and the humor that pervades
his writings will keep them in favor probably for centuries. The novel
before us was his last. It appeared originally by separate chapters in
the New Monthly Magazine, of which he was editor; and he was engaged in
its revision when seized by the disease which terminated his career. His
first work—excepting some plays written in his boyhood—was “Sayings
and Doings,” published in 1824. It was followed by a second and third
series of the same work; by “Maxwell,” “The Parson’s Daughter,” “Jack
Brag,” “Births, Deaths, and Marriages,” “Gilbert Gurney,” “Gurney
Married,” “Precepts and Practice,” several volumes of biography, and
“Fathers and Sons.” He died on the twenty-second day of September, 1841,
in the fifty-third year of his age.
His last work has all his peculiarities; the most felicitous humor;
graphic delineations of character; and incidents interesting and
ingeniously diversified. We have not space for an analysis of its plot;
and one is the less necessary, as, notwithstanding the “hardness of the
times,” very few will permit the last legacy of Theodore Hook to go
unread.
* * * * *
_Sermons and Sketches of Sermons, by the Rev John Summerfield,
M. A. With an Introduction, by the Rev. Thomas E. Bond, M. D.
One vol. 8vo. Pp. 437. Harper & Brothers: New York._
John Summerfield was one of those remarkable men who have appeared from
time to time to electrify the religious world, by eloquence the most
persuasive, and lives which served as samples by which those who would
might guide their course to heaven. He began to preach in Ireland, when
but twenty years of age, and soon after came to the United States, where
he continued to labor as an evangelist until his death, which occurred
sixteen years ago. Most of the sermons and sketches of sermons included
in the volume before us were written down after their public delivery.
They possess a deep interest, especially to those who remember the
sainted author, more worthy of canonization than were ninety-nine
hundredths of those whose names are included in the calendar. _Henry
Perkins: Philadelphia._
* * * * *
_Practical Geology and Mineralogy; with Instructions for the
qualitative analysis of Minerals. By Joshua Trimmer, F. G.
S.—Itum est in viscera terræ. One vol. Lea & Blanchard:
Philadelphia._
A valuable elementary treatise on Geology. For the convenience of those
who have not access to cabinets of minerals, the author has collected
various chemical and mineralogical details, to enable any person easily
to recognise the different minerals when discovered in the fields. In
the purely geological part of the work, Mr. Trimmer has confined himself
to facts and classifications and a few universally admitted inferences,
avoiding all questions affecting the higher generalizations, since they
are still and must long continue to be matters of controversy. The work
is illustrated with wood-cuts. We commend it to students in geology.
* * * * *
_Italy and the Italian Islands, from the earliest ages to the
present time. By William Spalding, Esq. With engravings and
illustrative maps and plans. Three vols. Harper & Brothers: New
York._
This is an able and comprehensive work, and may be consulted with
confidence by persons who wish to inquire concerning the history,
scenery, antiquities, topography, and present condition of Italy. The
author is, perhaps, less profound than he would have been if he had
contemplated a more voluminous treatise. For all purposes, however, of
general reference, or as a guide to more detailed inquiries, his volumes
may be consulted with advantage. The account of the social, religious
and political revolutions of the ancient and modern Italians, and the
history of the rise and progress of the arts and literature in Italy,
constitute two of its most valuable divisions.
These volumes form Nos. 151, 152 and 153 of the Family Library, and are
published in the usual style of that excellent series. _Carey & Hart:
Philadelphia._
* * * * *
_A Discourse on Matters pertaining to Religion; by Theodore
Parker, Minister of the Second Church in Roxburgh,
Massachusetts. Pp. 505, 8vo. Boston: Charles C. Little and James
Brown. 1842._
This is a bold and eloquent attack on the doctrines of the Bible, by one
who avows himself to be a Christian minister, and is ordained and
settled over a religious congregation. Some of the readers of Mr.
Parker’s “Discourse” who are unacquainted with the writings of the
German rationalists, may fancy that he is a man of deep research and
profound scholarship; but there is little danger that an intelligent
student in theology will be so deceived. The work embraces the substance
of five lectures, delivered in Boston during the last autumn. The author
denies the inspiration of the Holy Scriptures, the divinity of Jesus
Christ, and most of the other ideas of what he terms the “popular
theology.” We leave him and his labors to the critics of the Christian
churches.
* * * * *
_Masterman Ready, or, the Wreck of the Pacific. Written for
Young People. By Captain Marryat, R. N. Second Series. One vol.,
18mo. New York: D. Appleton & Co._
This is a sequel to the entertaining volume published under the same
title last year. Though “Masterman Ready” is an entertaining story, it
is far from being equal in any respect, save its freedom from the
coarser kind of jests, to “Peter Simple,” “Jacob Faithful,” or the other
early works of the author.
* * * * *
_Means and Ends, or Self-training. By the author of Redwood,
Hope Leslie, Home, Poor Rich Man, &c., &c. Second edition. One
vol. Harper & Brothers: New York._
One of the best of Miss Sedgwick’s smaller works. It is written in a
light, rambling style, enforcing truths by anecdotes or short stories.
It has been deservedly popular, and we predict that it will pass to a
third and even fourth and fifth edition.
* * * * *
_What’s to be Done? or, the Will and the Way. By the author of
“Wealth and Worth,” &c. One vol. 12mo. Pp. 232. New York: Harper
& Brothers._
The pleasant little volume entitled “Wealth and Worth,” which we
commended to our readers a month or two since, has been succeeded by
another work from the same pen, which we think even superior to its
predecessor. It is a story of American life, conveying, as its piquant
title indicates, a useful and impressive moral. The style is animated
and pure, and the sketches of character are graphic, forcible, and
various; while the plot preserves a deep and natural interest. “Wealth
and Worth” has gone through five large editions in the course of as many
months—a remarkable instance of rapidly attained popularity. A success
equally decided must attend the spirited little tale of “What’s to be
Done?”
* * * * *
_The Divine Rule of Faith and Practice, or a Defence of the
Catholic Doctrine, that Holy Scripture has been since the Times
of the Apostles the Sole Divine Rule of Faith and Practice to
the Church, against the dangerous Errors of the Authors of the
Tracts for the Times and the Romanists, as, particularly, that
the Rule of Faith is “made up of Scripture and Tradition
together,” &c: In which also the Doctrines of the Apostolical
Succession, the Eucharistic Sacrifice, &c., are fully discussed.
By William Goode, M. A., of Trinity College, Cambridge. Two
vols. 8vo. Philadelphia: Herman Hooker._
This is probably the most learned and able theological work that has
been published in England or America during the year. Those who have
read the “Tracts for the Times,” and all who feel any interest in the
religious controversies of the age, will thank us for directing to it
their attention.
* * * * *
_Diary and Letters of Madame D’Arblay: Edited by her Niece.
Parts I. and II. Philadelphia, Carey & Hart._
Miss Burney, afterward Madame D’Arblay, is best known to the literary
world as the authoress of “Evelina,” one of the most admirable and
popular novels in the English language. She died early in the year 1841,
at the advanced age of ninety, and two volumes of her autobiographical
remains have since been published in London, both of which are included
in these “parts” of the American edition. She was intimately acquainted
with Johnson, Sheridan, Burke, Boswell, and other eminent persons of
their time; and her diary, including a great number of interesting
anecdotes and reminiscences of her early career, is one of the most
entertaining works of the day.
* * * * *
Rufus Winter Griswold, a gentleman of fine taste and well known literary
abilities, has become associated with us as one of the editors of this
Magazine. The extensive literary knowledge of Mr. G. renders him a most
valuable coadjutor.
* * * * *
The connection of E. A. Poe, Esq., with this work ceased with the _May
Number_. Mr. P. bears with him our warmest wishes for success in
whatever he may undertake.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Fashion’s Latest Style for Graham’s Magazine_]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note.
[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 1, July 1842_, George R.
Graham, Editor]