this change had been silently wrought in his heart’s first idol. His
migrations in the meantime had been many, and his fortunes varied.
Profits and loss were for some years nearly balanced in his accounts,
but at length the brighter side predominated. Misfortunes and mishaps
were cleared away from his horizon, and his sails swept onward through a
tide of unexpected success. It was then that he began to weary of his
long, self-imposed exile, and turn his thoughts and wishes to home and
“native land.” Energetic in purpose, and prompt in action, he no sooner
formed the resolution of returning than it was put in execution. The
voyage, quickly accomplished, he once more found himself among his old
friends and townsmen, who shook him heartily by the hand, and welcomed
him back with right good will. Some author remarks, that “one of the
greatest pleasures in life, is to be born in a small town, where one is
acquainted with all the inhabitants, and a remembrance clings to every
house.” He no doubt felt this on his first arrival, and his satisfaction
was unalloyed; for, like Rose, he had yet to know himself as he now was.
Most of his youthful companions were married, and settled down into
steady, sober-minded, every-day sort of people—having made but little
improvement either in mind or manners; but they were not slow to
perceive that the Selwyn who had just returned, was quite a different
man from the Selwyn they had formerly known. There was certainly a
change in him, but in what it consisted, they found it impossible to
decide. He lacked nothing in cordiality—he assumed no airs of
superiority—he was neither _elegant_ nor _fashionable_—but he was not
what he used to be. Perhaps it was that he had acquired more manliness
of character; and there was the least bit more of dignity in his
manners; he was the smallest possible degree more guarded in his
expressions; and his frank and easy address was entirely free from the
most distant approach to awkwardness. It is true, he was still the gay
and jovial sailor, noble-spirited and generous to a fault—but he was
more the gentleman, more the man of the world than before he went to
foreign parts; and upon the whole, the conclusion was that he was
greatly improved, and would most likely turn out to be quite a credit to
the town. He had certainly grown handsomer, as he had grown older. His
face wore no traces of any inward discontent or disappointment, and it
is probable that he had worn his love either lightly or hopefully in his
heart. His first inquiry, after his return, however, was for Rose; and
hearing she was in New York, he hastened thither to meet her. It was at
the close of a summer afternoon when he found himself at the door of the
house where he was told she boarded. He inquired for her, walked in, and
sat down in the parlor in the dim light of the fading day, which was
rendered more obscure in the shadow of the curtained windows.
Rose had gone to her room fatigued and somewhat dispirited. The name of
her visiter was unannounced, and as she descended with a languid step to
the parlor, she was little prepared for the surprise that awaited her.
Selwyn rose at her entrance with a confused and doubtful air. “I beg
your pardon, madam,” said he, “I called to see Miss Winters—Rose
Winters—I understood she was here.”
“And so she is, Cousin Robert!” exclaimed Rose. “She is before you, and
yet you do not know her. Am I altered so very much, then?”
The question was accompanied with a painful blush, from the
consciousness that the bloom of youth in which he had left her, had
passed away forever.
Selwyn sprang toward her and caught her hand.
“Rose, my own dear Rose,” said he, with real feeling, “forgive me. No,
you are not altered; but if you were, I should know your voice among a
thousand.”
“Ah, I know I have grown old, cousin,” said Rose, struggling to recover
herself, “how could it be otherwise, when so many years have passed
since we met.”
“Well, Rosy, look at me! Has my age stood still, do you think? Look at
the crow’s feet and the gray hair, and tell me if you love me the less
for them. You would be the same to me, if you were twice as old as you
are; for you see I have come back for no earthly reason but to marry
you, unless your own consent is as hard to obtain now as your father’s
was before.”
“Why, your friends said you were married in London.”
“No, not my _friends_, Rose. It must have been my _enemies_ who said
that; but _you_ knew better. Didn’t I tell you I would never marry any
one but you?”
“Yes, fifteen years ago, Cousin Robert—but the promise might be
outlawed by this time, for all I knew. You do not pretend to say that
you thought my faith in your word would hold out, without even receiving
a line from you the last nine years.”
“Why not pretend to say it, coz, when I know it has. Deny it now if you
can.”
“But why didn’t you write to me, Robert?”
“Because I’m no writer, and meant to come myself. You said you’d wait
for me—and I knew you never broke your word. So now, my sweet little
flower, I’ve come to claim you, like a blunt sailor, as I am, with few
words, but a heart full of love, and what is better, something to live
on beside.”
“You are in a great hurry now,” said Rose, laughing and blushing.
“Suppose you wait a little, seeing you learnt the art so well in your
absence. Why I have not had a chance yet to ask you what kept you away
so long.”
“Never mind that, coz. There ’ill be plenty of time hereafter. Answer my
question first, whether you mean to have me or not, and let me know
which way to shape my course. If you’ve changed your mind, and lost your
affection for me, just say so at once, and I’m off to sea in the first
ship. You’ll never be troubled with me again.”
“What an unreasonable man you are,” said Rose, “just as impatient and
headstrong as before you went away.”
“You knew all my faults, dearest, long, long ago,” said Selwyn. “They
did not hinder you from loving me once. Love me still, Rose, as you once
did. Be mine, as you promised you would before we parted, and you shall
make me what you please.”
Rose was silent. Her lover’s arm was around her, and memory was holding
its mirror to her mind: and when she did speak at length, her voice was
low and indistinct, and her words nearly unintelligible. The spirit of
them may be guessed, however, from the fact that Selwyn did not go to
sea, and she resigned her situation as teacher, and returned with him to
her former home. The wedding was soon after celebrated with the sanction
of her father, and but one source of regret to Rose, that the old
minister, who in her youthful days was the pastor of her native village,
had been removed in the meanwhile to another world, and the ceremony of
her marriage was performed by a stranger.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE MINIATURE.]
* * * * *
THE ZOPILOTES.
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
[A Mexican soldier, being grievously wounded in one of the
battles of Hidalgo, was deserted by his victorious companions.
Unable to defend himself against the numerous Zopilotes, or
vultures, which hovered around him, he put an end to his life
with his own hand.]
I feel the motion of each heavy wing—
I hear the rustling of the air they cleave—
The shadows they, like sombre phantoms, fling
Closely around and o’er me, hovering,
Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weave
Into a dreadful certainty.
I hear the war-cry on the distant field!
I see the dust, by charging squadrons cart;
The cannon’s blaze, the flash of burnished steel;
Bright banner’s wave, the rapid march and wheel,
Where every step may be, perhaps, the last
A soldier e’er may take.
Closely, more closely, still I see them sweep,
Their wings are furled, and eagerly, they tread,
Yet silently, as one who walks in sleep,
Swiftly, as tyrant monsters of the deep
Rush on their helpless prey, which seems to dread
Far, far too much to fly.
Ye whom I loved, my brethren of the sword,
With whom I left my distant mountain-home,
Come, come to me. Alas! no single word
I speak will ever by your ears be heard,
Where battle cries, the trump and stirring drum,
Salute your victory.
Was it for this I left my mother’s side,
And bade to her I loved a last adieu,
The dark-eyed girl I won to be my bride?
Was it to watch this warm, empurpled tide
Of life come gurgling, like a fountain, through
My rent and gaping breast?
Wounded, alone, upon the field of strife,
The shouts of victory upon mine ear,
My comrades joyous, or bereft of life,
Martyrs, with fame and glory ever rife—
I do not dread to die alone e’en here,
As yon brave men have died.
But oh, great God! I would not feel the beak
Of yon dark vulture tear away my heart;
Not that I wish my failing strength to eke—
A soldier’s death it was my joy to seek,
Wounded, alone, I have no other art
To save me. Let me die.
* * * * *
HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,
DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
(_Continued from page 198._)
Nor does the following present a much greater difference, and, but for
the ear-rings and knee-breeches, would pass muster even now amid our
infinite varieties of _palelots_, _sacks_ and _Hongroises_. The
boot-black represented in the cut is a miniature _bonnet-rouge_.
[Illustration]
It is worth while to state that costumes, like opinions, reproduce
themselves. As the ideas which were once in vogue, and have been
abandoned, return and resume their influence and orthodoxy, so do the
costumes of other days continually reappear, it is true, with a
difference often striking enough, for men no longer wear either coats of
mail or inexpressibles of velvet, yet the Norman cloak of the Black
Prince, and the _sack_ of Lauzun, the handsome French colonel, who,
during our own Revolutionary war, turned the heads and carried away the
hearts of half the women of Philadelphia, are still every day to be
seen.
The same thing is observable in female costume. The long waists, tight
sleeves and full skirts of old times have returned, and even the
ungainly ruffs of Queen Elizabeth’s age have shown a disposition to
return. The mode of dressing the hair is also retracing itself, so that
there is little real difference between the traditional court-dress of
former times and that of every-day life worn at present, except the
train.
The following is a caricature of that day, but scarcely more outré than
the bearded creatures from time to time seen in our own streets. It may
be remarked that the passion for hair on the face always is consequent
on a war. In the time of Henri IV, all the world was bearded; so during
the days of Cromwell were his ironsides, and now men who never saw a
shot fired, force the sublime into the ridiculous, by parading a
moustache in every thoroughfare throughout the country.
[Illustration]
Who knows but that our own Mexican war may exert an influence on dress,
and that some day the Ranchero’s striped blanket and broad-brimmed hat
may become the fashion. Men will stalk about the streets in boots of
cow-hide, and instead of hunting with dogs and rifles, the _lazo_ or
_lariette_ will be adopted universally. All the world knows that
immediately after the return of the army of the Duke of Wellington to
England, from Waterloo, the military black stock was adopted, and it may
be that the green pantaloons with the brown stripe, now worn, are an
imitation of the dress of the Mexican veterans who were defeated at
Cherebusco. The same may be said of the cloth caps, with the covers of
oil-skin, now so much in vogue. It may be remarked that this article of
dress has always followed the _tenue_ of the army, the flat cap
replacing the hussar’s, as the latter did the old gig-top leather
apparatus.
Other nations of Europe did not participate in the French Revolution,
but became imitators of the costumes it created. We have now come to the
period of the Directory, which exerted its influence on costume, or
rather the influence of which was reflected by the costume of the day.
The Directory and Consulate saw all France seized with fury for the
antique. These were the days of the _Romaines_ and _Atheniennes_, when
David was toiling with the pencil to effect a reform of costume, and
when Talma sought to introduce correct ideas of dress on the stage. The
men of Paris still adhered to the English costume, which, fortified by
their _fiat_, became that of the world. They compromised their English
predilections, however, so far as to wear their hair _à la Titus_ or _à
la Caracalla_, what that was may be seen from the following engraving.
[Illustration]
They seemed, however, to struggle to make this costume as unbecoming as
possible, wearing the coats loose, the collars immense, the breasts
small, and such pantaloons and _shocking bad_ hats as were never seen
before or since. The costume of a dandy of 1798 consisted of a blue
coat, a white waistcoat, open in the breast, a finely worked
shirt-bosom, fastened with a diamond pin, a huge muslin cravat, Nankin
pantaloons, with black stripes down the seams, and thrust into the
boots. (In society the boot was replaced by a small and pointed shoe.)
The everlasting bludgeon was as indispensable in the street as the boots
and the hat. To young Thelusson, when thus dressed and armed, Madame de
Stael, who wore an oriental _toilette_, said, “Citizen, you bear the
sceptre of ridicule.” “Madame,” replied he, “you are certainly competent
to award it to whom you please.” Never were there so many strange
costumes seen in any one city as in Paris at that time, when _peruques_,
powder, hair _à la Titus_, cocked and round hats all were mingled
together. Costume was indeed republican if the government was despotic.
[_Conclusion in our next._
* * * * *
THE BEAUTIFUL OF EARTH.
All Nature’s beauteous forms, of light, of earth, or air, or sky,
Compare not with the flexile frame, the lustrous, speaking eye;
The opening flower, the rainbow tint, the blue and star-lit dome,
Are things of naught, in contrast with the angels of our home:
All gentle acts, all noble thoughts, of Heaven-directed birth,
Are centered in the fair and good, the beautiful of earth.
* * * * *
WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
[Illustration: CAROLINA OR MOCKING WREN.]
This interesting bird is strictly southern in its habits, being rarely
found north of Maryland and Delaware, while it abounds during the whole
year in the warmer states. Occasionally it strays to the vicinity of
Philadelphia and even of New York; but this is so seldom that the
indefatigable Wilson never found its nest north of the Maryland line.
Like the House-Wren it is a sprightly, industrious and familiar bird,
and a general favorite in the neighborhood where it abounds. Other
qualities render its nature so ambiguous that some have hesitated to
place it among the Wrens. One of the most remarkable of these is its
power of imitating the songs of other birds. With much sweetness and
accuracy it blends its own notes with the simple twittering of the
Ground-Robin, the harsh noise of the Woodpecker, the trilling of the
Blackbird and Warbler, and the whistling of the Cardinal. These are its
favorite imitations; but its powers of mimicry embrace the songs of
almost all our forest-birds. But notwithstanding this capriciousness in
sounds, the Carolina Wren is said to have a favorite theme, repeated
more regularly than any other. Nuttall thus pleasantly describes it.
“This was the first sound that I heard from him, delivered with great
spirit, though in the dreary month of January. This sweet and melodious
ditty, _tsee-toot_, _tsee-toot_, _tsee-toot_, and sometimes _tsee-toot_,
_tsee toot-seet_, was usually uttered in a somewhat plaintive or tender
strain, varied at each repetition with the most delightful and delicate
tones, of which no conception can be formed without experience. That
this song has a sentimental air may be conceived from its interpretation
by the youths of the country, who pretend to hear it say, _sweet-heart_,
_sweet-heart_, _sweet_! nor is the illusion more than the natural truth,
for, usually, this affectionate ditty is answered by its mate, sometimes
in the same note, at others in a different call. In most cases, it will
be remarked, that the phrases of our songster are uttered in 3s; by this
means it will be generally practicable to distinguish its performance
from that of other birds, and particularly from the Cardinal Grosbeak,
whose expression it often closely imitates, both in power and delivery.
I shall never, I believe, forget the soothing satisfaction and amusement
I derived from this little constant and unwearied minstrel, my sole
vocal companion through many weary miles of a vast, desolate, and
otherwise cheerless wilderness.”
The food of the Carolina Wren consists of the insects found in old
timber, and along the banks of streams, places which it delights to
frequent. It is found among the thick cypress swamps of the south even
in the middle of winter. It can see well in the dark, sometimes
searching food in caves, where to most other day birds objects would be
undistinguishable. Its building places are a barn, or stable, some old
decayed tree, or even a post-fence. The female lays from five to eight
eggs, of a dusky white, mottled with brown. Two broods are raised in a
season, and sometimes even three. The adult bird is five and a quarter
inches long, of a chestnut brown, beautifully mottled with black and
other colors. The female differs little in color from the male.
[Illustration: THE CARDINAL BIRD.]
This bird is known under the names of Virginia Red Bird, Virginia
Nightingale and Crested Red Bird. It is one of the most beautiful of
American songsters, and in power and sweetness of tone it has been
compared with the Nightingale. The species belongs mostly to the United
States and Mexico, but has been found in considerable numbers in the
West Indies, Central America and Colombia. Although delighting in a
southern clime, it is sometimes observed in Pennsylvania, and even New
England.
Being migratory, it often flies in large flocks, presenting a splendid
appearance, especially when moving in relief over a clear sky, and in
the rays of the sun. At other times several of these birds are found
associated with Sparrows, Snow-Birds and other half domestic species.
When alone his favorite haunts are the corn-field, small clumps of
trees, and the borders of shaded rivulets. Corn is their favorite food,
in addition to which they eat seeds of fruit, grain and insects. They
are easily domesticated, even when taken quite old, and require very
little trouble in order to thrive well. Loss of color, however, has
often been the result of long confinement, although with care this might
perhaps be obviated. They are lively in the cage, and maintain their
powers of song to the last. Numbers of them are carried to France and
England, where they are highly esteemed. Their time of song lasts from
March to September.
The Cardinal Bird’s song consists of a favorite stanza often repeated,
with boldness, variety of tone and richness. Its whistling somewhat
resembles that of the human voice, though its energy is much greater. In
his native grove, his voice rises above almost every other songster
except the Mocking-Bird. The powers of the female are almost equal to
those of the male, of whom she is a most constant and affectionate
partner.
Latham admits that the notes of the Cardinal “are almost equal to those
of the Nightingale,” the sweetest of the feathered minstrels of Europe.
But, says Nuttall, “the style of their performance is wholly different.
The bold martial strains of the Red Bird, though relieved by tender and
exquisite touches, possess not the enchanting pathos, the elevated and
varied expression of the far-famed Philomel, nor yet those contrasted
tones, which, in the solemn stillness of the growing night, fall at
times into a soothing whisper, or slowly rise and quicken into a loud
and cheering warble.”
The Cardinal Bird measures eight inches in length, and eleven from the
tip of one wing to that of the other. The whole upper parts are of a
dull dusky-red, except the sides of the neck, head and lower parts,
which are of a clear vermilion. The chin, front and lores black. The
head is ornamented with a high pointed crest. The bill is coral red, and
the legs and feet are pale ash color. The female is somewhat less than
the male, and a little different in color. Both sexes are noted for
affection to their young, and to each other; but so jealous are the
males that they have often been known to destroy those of their own sex.
* * * * *
JENNY LIND.
BY MISS M. SAWIN.
A world’s sweet enchantress, unbounded in fame,
O how shall I sing of so peerless a name—
Thy tones, from the wilds of a picturesque land,
The billows of ocean have borne to our strand;
Though I ne’er have beheld thee, yet bound in thy spell,
My bosom thine echoes still onward would swell—
Would enshrine in my song the sweet soul of thy strains,
Till fresh incense should rise from our mountains and plains.
Though long on the altar thou’st kindled the fire,
Oh how shall it burn on the strings of the lyre!
’Tis the music of Nature sublimed in thy lays
Which has won thee thy guerdon of lore and of praise;
’Tis hence that the depths of the spirit it thrills,
That responses start forth from mountains and hills,
That no barriers the flight of thine echoes can bind,
Which are borne o’er the earth on the wings of the wind.
There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre,
Which would swell like an angel’s its anthems of fire,
But the shroud of mortality fetters its strings—
Yet thou while on earth hast unfolded thy wings,
Canst dwell with the fairies in chalice of flowers,
And glide with the wood nymphs in deep sylvan bowers;
Canst float with the moonbeams in dew-silvered trees,
And rise on the wings of the morn’s fragrant breeze,
While sunbeams are waking the rapturous lays
Of dew-drops and birds, and yet all ’neath their blaze;
Canst hover o’er ocean when storm it enthrones,
And bear from the foam-crested surges their tones;
When dark are the skies and the thunder-clouds lower,
With the eagle’s bold flight to the mountain’s crest soar;
The streams of the forest to their fountains canst wind,
And caverns resounding in solitude find;
Enshrined in thy spirit their voices canst keep,
Sublimed by thine alchemy subtile and deep,
At thy will from thy spirit their harmonies sweep,
And I ween thou hast soared to the portals of Heaven,
Or some angel a tone to thy praises has given.
O, Jenny, the brightest cynosure below!
The fount in thy bosom must here cease to flow;
Like the sear leaves of autumn which shroud the old years,
Thy harp-strings must perish ’mid wailings and tears;
Thy lovers who bend at thy purity’s shrine,
Enchained by the spells of thy carols divine,
When no temple’s proud arches resound with thy strain,
In the wilds of thy forests shall seek thee in vain;
But when from thy tomb they despairing return,
In lyres immortal thine echoes shall burn.
Alas! that thy music should ever here die,
Should leave the sad earth and ascend to the sky;
Yet when thou art fled to the seraphim throng
Will fancy yet list to thy glorified song,
Will dream that no harp on the heavenly plains
Has music so sweet as are there thy high strains.
Though we never may list while on earth to thy lays,
For the boon of thy being high Heaven we’ll praise;
Where thy strains are ascending must Paradise be—
Humanity’s scale is exalted in thee.
There is a tone in my bosom as yet unexpressed,
And fain would I bid it to ever there rest,
But the woes of the earth for its utterance plead,
Then may it go forth as a merciful deed:—
O, Jenny, while shining so brilliant on high,
Like the Lyrian star on the vault of the sky,
While the peers of the realms bow in homage to thee,
Dost never thy race in their miseries see?
To the charm of thy music we ever would yield,
By thee would be borne to Elysium’s field,
And forgetful that wrong or that wo were on earth,
Forever would list to thine angel-like mirth.
But the heart fraught with sympathies true, must embrace
The lowest as well as the stars of our race—
Round the poor and the wretched in bitterness twine—
On devotion’s wings rise to where pure seraphs shine;—
In our pathway to Heaven we encounter the thorn,
Each brother’s woes feel and the proud tyrant’s scorn—
The way that our holy Redeemer has trod
But leads us through tears to the throne of our God.
I know that thine own gushing spirit is free
As the winds that o’ersweep the high mountains and sea;
Thy genius has burst from all species of chains,
And freedom unbounded swells forth in thy strains;
But while ever exulting on fetterless wing,
Wouldst not the blest boon to each lorn spirit bring?
Thy music, which thrills to the depths of the heart,
Might bid us to deeds of true chivalry start;
Might bid the kind fountain in proud bosoms flow,
To heal the crushed hearts that are writhing in wo.
Both Knowledge and Virtue like angels descend,
The sad thralls of Sin and of Darkness to rend,
Perchance that the tyrant may yield to thy charms,
And avert the dread doom of the Future’s alarms,
Till unwilling vassals no more bend the knee,
But rise at his bidding and ever be free.
And the gold thou hast won by the charm of thy name,
To its splendor might add the philanthropist’s fame,
Till many an oasis from deserts shall spring,
When the arches of Heaven with thy praises shall ring.
* * * * *
STORM-LINES.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
When the rains of November are dark on the hills, and the pine-trees
incessantly roar
To the sound of the wind-beaten crags, and the floods that in foam through
their black channels pour:
When the breaker-lined coast stretches dimly afar, through the desolate
waste of the gale,
And the clang of the sea-gull at nightfall is heard from the deep, like a
mariner's wail:
When the gray sky drops low, and the forest is bare, and the laborer is
housed from the storm,
And the world is a blank, save the light of his home through the gust
shining redly and warm:—
Go thou forth, if the brim of thy heart with its tropical fullness of life
overflow—
If the sun of thy bliss in the zenith is hung, and no shadow reminds thee
of wo!
Leave the home of thy love; leave thy labors of fame; in the rain and the
darkness go forth,
When the cold winds unpausingly wail as they drive from the cheerless
expanse of the North.
Thou shalt turn from the cup that was mantling before; thou shalt hear the
eternal despair
Of the hearts that endured and were broken at last, from the hills and the
sea and the air!
Thou shalt hear how the Earth, the maternal, laments for the children she
nurtured with tears—
How the forest but deepens its wail and the breakers their roar, with the
march of the years!
Then the gleam of thy hearth-fire shall dwindle away, sad the lips of thy
loved ones be still:
And thy soul shall lament in the moan of the storm, sounding wide on the
shelterless hill.
All the woes of existence shall stand at thy heart, and the sad eyes of
myriads implore,
In the darkness and storm of their being, the ray, streaming out through
thy radiant door.
Look again: how that star of thy Paradise dims, through the warm tears,
unwittingly shed—
Thou art man, and a sorrow so bitterly wrung, never fell on the dust of
the Dead!
Let the rain of the midnight beat cold on thy cheek, and the proud pulses
chill in thy frame,
Till the love of thy bosom is grateful and sad, and thou turn'st from the
mockery of Fame!
Take with humble acceptance the gifts of thy life; bid thy joy brim the
fountain of tears;
For the soul of the Earth, in endurance and pain, gathers promise of
happier years!
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_The Child of the Sea and Other Poems. By Mrs. S. Anna Lewis,
Author of “Records of the Heart,” etc. etc. New York: George P.
Putnam._
A large edition of “Records of the Heart” was sold in a few months, and
the fair author stepped at once into a very enviable position. “The
Child of the Sea,” etc. will add much to her poetical fame. The poem
which gives name to the volume, and occupies most of it, is a romantic
and passionate narrative, and embodies all the main features of Mrs.
Lewis’s thought as well as manner. The story is well conducted and
somewhat elaborately handled; the style, or general tone, is nervous,
free, dashing—much in the way of Maria del Occidente—but the principal
ground for praise is to be found in the great aggregate of quotable
passages. The opening lines, for example, are singularly vivid:
Where blooms the myrtle and the olive flings
Its aromatic breath upon the air—
Where the sad Bird of Night forever sings
Meet anthems for the Children of Despair.
The _themes_ of the poem—a few lines farther on—are summed up in words
of Byronic pith and vigor:—
——youthful Love,
Ill-starred, yet trustful, truthful and sublime
As ever angels chronicled above—
The sorrowings of Beauty in her prime—
Virtue’s reward—the punishment of Crime—
The dark, inscrutable decrees of Fate—
Despair, untold before in prose or rhyme.
* * * * *
We give a few more instances of what we term “quotable”
passages—thoughtful, vivid, pungent or vigorous:
Fresh blows the breeze on Tarick’s burnished bay—
The silent sea-mews bend them through the spray—
The beauty-freighted barges bound afar
To the soft music of the gay guitar. . . . . .
* * * * *
The olive children of the Indian Sea.
* * * * *
That rayless realm where Fancy never beams—
That Nothingness beyond the Land of Dreams.
* * * * *
Folded his arms across his sable vest
As if to keep the heart within his breast.
* * * * *
——Violets lifting up their azure eyes
Like timid virgins whom Love’s steps surprise.
* * * * *
And all is hushed—so still—so silent there
That one might hear an angel wing the air.
* * * * *
——There are times when the sick soul
Lies calm amid the storms that ’round it roll,
Indifferent to Fate or to what haven
By the terrific tempest it is driven.
* * * * *
The dahlias, leaning from the golden vase,
Peer pensively into her pallid face,
While the sweet songster o’er the oaken door
Looks through his grate and warbles “weep no more!”
* * * * *
——beauteous in her misery—
A jewel sparkling up through the dark sea
Of Sorrow.
* * * * *
Delirium’s world of fantasy and pain,
Where hung the fiery moon and stars of blood
And phantom ships rolled on the rolling flood.
“_Isabelle or The Broken Heart_” occupies some 40 pages, and is fully as
good as “The Child of the Sea”—although in a very different way. There
is less elaboration, perhaps, but not less true polish, and even more
imagination.
The “Miscellaneous Poems” are, of course, varied in merit. Some of them
have been public favorites for a long time. “My Study,” especially, has
been often quoted and requoted. It is terse and vigorous. From “The
Beleagured Heart” we extract a quatrain of very forcible originality:
I hear the mournful moans of joy—
_Hope, sobbing while she cheers_—
Like dew descending from the leaf
The dropping of Love’s tears.
The volume is most exquisitely printed and bound—one of the most
beautiful books of the season.
* * * * *
_The History of England, from the Accession of James II. By
Thomas Babington Macaulay. New York: Harper & Brothers. Vols. 1
and 2. 8vo._
No person, of whig or tory politics, could in the present age, propose
to himself the task of writing the history of England, without feeling
the delicacy and responsibility of his undertaking, and the necessity of
exercising a different class of powers from those which may have given
sparkle and point to his partisan efforts. The importance of the
principles involved in the events and characters coming under his view,
and their wide applications to contemporary controversies, would be sure
to bring down upon the unlucky advocate a storm of moral and immoral
indignation. It would seem on the first blush that Macaulay, with all
his vast and vivified erudition, was not a writer calculated to
experience the full force of a historian’s duties, or to display in the
analysis and judgment of events that intellectual conscientiousness
which is a rare quality even in powerful minds. His historical essays
bear as unmistakable marks of partisanship as ability, and are
especially characterized by a merciless severity, which, in the name of
justice, too often loses the insight us well as the toleration which
come from charity. Sir James Macintosh, toward the commencement of his
career, referred to him as “a writer of consummate ability, who has
failed in little but in the respect due to the abilities and character
of his opponents.” Though as a partisan, Macaulay was a partisan on the
right side, on the side of liberty and truth, the unmeasured scorn he
poured, hot from his heart, on tyrants and bigots, and the fierce, swift
sweep of his generalizations, often made his cooler readers suspicious
of his accuracy when most dazzled and delighted by his brilliancy. In
the present history a great change is manifest. The petulance, the
flippancy, the dogmatism of the essayist, are hardly observable, and in
their place we have the solid judgment of the historian. There is a
general lowering of the tone in which persons and principles are
considered, consequent upon the change in the writer’s position from an
antagonist to a judge. The style, while it has no lack of the force,
richness, variety, directness and brilliancy, which characterized the
diction of the essayist, has likewise a sweetness, gravity and composure
which the essayist never displayed. Though the writer’s opinions are
radically the same as ever, they are somewhat modified by being seen
through a less extravagant expression, and by being restored to their
proper relations. In fact, the history presents Macaulay as a wiser and
more comprehensive man than his essays, and if we sometimes miss the
generous warmth and intensity, and the daring sweep of his earlier
compositions, we also miss their declamatory contemptuousness and mental
bombast.
The volumes which the Harpers have given to us in so elegant a form,
(vulgarized a little by Dr. Webster’s ortho-graphical crotchets,) close
with the proceedings of the Convention which gave the crown to William
and Mary. A long historical introduction, containing a view of English
history previous to the reign of James II., and a view of England, in
its manners, customs, literature and people at the time of his
accession, occupy the larger portion of the first volume, and are almost
unmatched, certainly unexcelled, in historical literature, for the
combination of condensed richness of matter with popularity of style.
Then follows the narrative of the three years of folly and madness which
produced the revolution of 1688, and hurled James II. from his throne.
This narrative is detailed with a minuteness which leaves nothing untold
necessary to the complete apprehension of the subject in all its
bearings, and it evinces on almost every page not only singular felicity
in narration, but great power of original and striking observation.
Masterly generalization, and sagacity in seizing and luminousness in
unfolding the principles of events. The whole history has the interest
of a grand dramatic poem, in which the movement of the story and
delineation of the characters are managed with consummate skill. The
portraits of Charles II., James II., Danby, Rochester, Sunderland,
Godolphin, Halifax, Churchill, and especially William of Orange, are
altogether superior to any which have previously appeared. Halifax and
King William seem to be Macaulay’s favorites, and he has surprised many
of his readers by his comparative coolness to Russell, Sydney, and the
whig patriots generally.
The history closes with an eloquent passage on the “glorious” Revolution
of 1688. It appears to us that the meanness and lowness which Macaulay
has developed in the actors in the event, impress the reader with a
different notion of it. The whole thing has a jobby air, in which no
commanding genius is observable, and no sacrifices seem to have been
made. Indeed Macaulay himself, in one of his essays, remarks truly that
the only sacrifices made in the Revolution, “was the sacrifice which
Churchill made of honor and Anne of natural affection.” That the
Revolution, in its results, was one of the most glorious recorded in
human annals, there can be little doubt, but it had its birth in such
odious treachery, and was conducted by men so deficient in elevation of
mind or even common honesty, that its story is little calculated to
kindle sympathy, or awaken admiration.
* * * * *
_The History of England from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace
of Paris. By Lord Mahon. Edited by Henry Reed, Professor of
English Literature in the University of Pennsylvania. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 2 vols. 8vo._
The author of this history is all English nobleman of large historical
acquirements, who has managed to produce two or three valuable works
demanding great study and research, without interfering with his duties
as a member of Parliament, though, doubtless with some interference with
his pleasures as a member of the English aristocracy. The present work
is valuable for its accuracy, and interesting from its giving a
connected view of the history of England during a period but little
known except by the empty abstracts of stupid compilers, or the
brilliant but prejudiced letters and memoirs of contemporary writers and
statesmen. It comprehends the administrations of Harley and Bolingbroke,
of Stanhope, Walpole, Carteret, Newcastle and Chatham, thus including
the latter years of the reign of Queen Anne and the reigns of George I.
and II. The period covers a wide field of characters and events, and
Lord Mahon has been especially successful in unraveling the threads of
the foreign policy of England, and indicating the difficulties
experienced by her statesmen in sustaining the House of Hanover on the
throne. In a narrative point of view the best portions of the history
are those relating to the rebellions of 1715 and 1745. It is almost
needless to say that Professor Reed has added much to the value and
interest of the work by his elucidative notes.
But the richness of Lord Mahon’s materials and the interest of his
subject cannot conceal the fact that he lacks both the heart and the
brain of an able historian, and that he is essentially a common-place
man. The reflections he appends to some of his narratives are commonly
such obvious truisms, or such poor apologies for reason, that the reader
is made painfully aware of his being in the company of a mediocre
gentleman, who, while he always means well, never means much. Lord Mahon
is deficient equally in historical science and historical imagination,
and his work equally barren of profound principles and vivid pictures. A
moderate tory, he holds the hearsays of his creed with a lazy
acquiescence, without sufficient passion to be a bigot, and without
sufficient logic to be a sophist. When he is tempted into historical
parallels, or disquisitions on the changes of parties, as in that
passage where he essays to prove that a modern whig is synonymous with a
tory of Queen Anne’s day, he adopts the argumentation of Fluellen rather
than Chillingworth—shows that “there is a mountain in Wales and a
mountain in Macedon,” and leaves the reader to mourn over the
misdirection of the human faculties. In his estimate of literature he is
still worse. The disquisition on the literature of Queen Anne’s time, in
the present history, is a medley of mingled commonplace, which has been
worn to rags, and critical nonsense, which has been long exploded. His
history, therefore, must be considered simply as a useful narrative of
important events, and carefully distinguished from those of Guizot and
Thierrey, of Hallam and Macaulay, of Prescott and Bancroft.
* * * * *
_Leaves from Margaret Smith’s Journal in the Province of
Massachusetts Bay, 1678-9. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1
vol. 16mo._
This beautifully printed volume sustains both the reputation of its
publishers for printing handsome books, and its reputed author for
writing good ones. It is generally attributed to Whittier, and it
certainly displays throughout the shrewdness with which that poet
observes, and the facility with which he idealizes events. Here is a
volume bringing up to the eye with the vividness of reality the scenes
and characters of a past age, and making us as familiar with them as if
we had ridden by the side of Margaret in her journey from Boston to
Newbury, and yet through the whole book runs a vein of pure poetry,
lending a consecrating light to scenes which might possess but little
interest if actually observed. The quaint spelling undoubtedly adds to
the illusion of its antiquity, but what makes it really seem old is its
primitive sentiment and bold delineations. Margaret herself is a most
bewitching piece of saintliness, with the sweetness and purity of one of
Jeremy Taylor’s sermons, and as full of genial humanity as of beautiful
devotion. Placed as she is amid the collision of opposite fanaticisms,
the austere fanaticism of the Puritan and the vehement fanaticism of the
Quaker, she shines both by her own virtues and by contrast with the
harsh qualities by which she is surrounded. The book provokes a
comparison with the Diary of Lady Willoughby, and that comparison it
will more than stand, being superior to that charming volume in the
range of its persons and events, and equal to it in the conception of
the leading character. The author has shown especial art in modifying
every thing, by the supposed medium of mind through which it passes—the
heroine telling the whole story in her own words—and at the same time
preserving every thing in its essential life. This is a difficult and
delicate process of representation, but Whittier has performed it.
* * * * *
_Democracy in France. By Monsieur Guizot, Late Prime Minister.
New York: D. Appleton & Co._
This little volume is well worthy the reputation of one of the greatest
historians, philosophers and statesmen at the age—in other words, of
the reputation of Guizot. It is marked by preeminent ability in
statement, analysis, argumentation and composition, and we doubt not
will exert some considerable influence on the politics of France. In his
preface the author avers that nothing in the volume bears the impress of
his personal situation, and he adds, “While events of such magnitude are
passing before his eyes, a man who did not forget himself would deserve
to be forever forgotten.” The book justifies the author’s assertion. It
is simply an examination of things without regard to persons, and is as
philosophic in its tone as in its method. The chapters on The Social
Republic and The Elements of Society are masterpieces of analysis and
statement, and well deserve the attentive study of all who think or
prattle on social science. It seems to us that the present volume is
sufficient to convince all candid minds, that whatever may be the faults
and errors of Guizot as a statesman, he has no equal among the men at
present dominant in France. Since his fall that country has been
governed, or misgoverned, by soldiers and sentimentalists, with a pistol
in one hand and the Rights of Man in the other, and is a standing
monument of the madness of trusting the state to men of “second rate
ability and first rate incapacity.” The Red Republicans have principles;
M. Guizot has principles; the legitimists have principles; but the
present dynasty has the peculiar character of being, in an intellectual
sense, the most thoroughly unprincipled government that French ingenuity
could have formed.
* * * * *
_Oregon and California. By J. Quinn Thornton. New York: Harper &
Brothers, 1849._
A pleasant book, well written, and containing much information just now,
peculiarly valuable in relation to Oregon and California. Many strange
phases of life in the wilderness and prairie, are described by one who
knows its peculiar hardships and pleasures. The terrible sufferings, the
awful stories told of the early emigrants, are faithfully given, and, if
official accounts be true, are scarcely exaggerated. A valuable appendix
on the gold country is added, undoubtedly to be relied on. The book is
well illustrated in wood.
* * * * *
_The Parterre, a Collection of Flowers Culled by the Wayside. By
D. W. Belisle. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippencott & Co., 1849._
A pretty looking volume, very creditable to the publishers in a
typographical point of view, and containing a number of poems of various
lengths, on a variety of subjects. The longest, Wallenpaupack, is an
attempt, and a very creditable one also, to commemorate an incident of
the history of the North American Indian, a source of poetical subjects
too much neglected. The book is well worth attention. It may not be
uninteresting to state that the type has all been set up by the author.
* * * * *
_Roland Cashel. By Charles Lever. Illustrated by Phiz. New York:
Harper & Brothers._
This is probably the best novel of one of the most popular novelists of
the day. Lever has not much solidity of mind, and accordingly never
produces any masterpieces of characterization or passion, but he has a
quicksilver spirit of frolic and drollery, and an intensity of mirthful
feeling which have made some critics place him on a level with Dickens.
The present volume will more than sustain the reputation which his
former frolicksome audacities have attained.
* * * * *
EDITOR’S TABLE.
“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”
MY DEAR JEREMY,—In my last I promised you a reminding hint, a sketch
reflective and suggestive of mining operations, as an offset to the
brilliant visions of “Gold Placers,” which haunt the mind, sleeping and
waking, of Uncle Sam’s children. While multitudes are making haste to
grow rich, by going around the Horn, and at the terminus of their long
voyage will find themselves coming out of the little end of it, you and
I may amuse ourselves over a subject somewhat kindred—a retrospective
folly—feeling the while a good deal like the boy on getting rid of the
jumping tooth-ache—“a _heap_ better” are we, “now it is over.”
_Copper!_ You have heard of it before, I believe? and may have about you
a memorandum of a few thousands, entered on the credit side, not
available now at your bankers. It was a very happy delusion, was it not?
I’ll warrant me that you had already planned your cottage orné and had
the walks laid out, and the shrubbery planted quite tastefully and
imaginatively picturesque. Several castles, with steeples rather airy,
of my own, were toppled down, and elegantly bronzed as they were, are
quite useless now for purposes of reproduction, so that we may say, that
we have had some of the advantages of wealth without a present care in
disposing of it. The servant girl who wished for riches “that she might
ride in her carriage and feel like missus,” had the delights of
anticipation only, poor soul! while ours are embodied in the delicious
reflection of having passed that “missus” on the road, with a pair of
fast trotters—taking the air with quite an air, at the rate of “two
forty.”
“Come easy, go fast,” was the remark of an old German Uncle, who, having
made a fortune by hard knocks at the anvil, looked with a quiet smile at
these thousands in perspective. In regard to the _horses_, the old
gentleman was right—but as the _money_ never came, I think his premises
were altogether wrong. One thing is certain, real estate rose very
rapidly in our vicinity at that time, and as several lots went off at
spanking prices, to be kept out of our clutches, we may be said to have
been benefactors to the sellers and conveyancers. So that _copper_—the
vilest of metal—may, in some crucibles, be transformed into gold. But
not to anticipate.
* * * * *
_Grubemout_ had been upon the mountain-side, which overlooks the
delightful village of Fleeceington, for a month or more, making careful
chiselings from rocks, and excavations at their sides. UPTOSNUFF carried
his pick-axe and his basket. The “collection” gradually swelled upon
their hands, until it became quite formidable; and the “choice
specimens,” were without number, rich, and without reason, _rare_.
DRAWITWELL, the host of “The Hawk and Buzzard,” had his eye upon their
movements, and always made it a point to take a peep at their basket
when they descended in the evening. He was an open-eyed sort of an old
lark, who had had his own way in the village at election times and at
trainings, by virtue of a colonelcy and aidship to the governor—a cheap
sort of payment for service rendered—and he felt as if nothing of
importance ought to transpire in the place, unless he had a hand in it.
Drawitwell did not like the air of mystery with which his lodgers
slipped the covered basket up stairs, after they had performed their
ablutions; nor the roaring noise made overhead, as the “specimens” were
poured into the two great chests, previously prepared; and he was just
the man to get at the bottom of a mare’s nest. So, by virtue of
appliances best known to himself, he contrived to get a look at the
collected specimens, and made up his mind at once that the thing was too
slily managed by half, and that if there was wealth in the rocks he
would have a finger in the transaction. “_He would at any rate._”
Crispin, the village cobbler, had thrown _his_ eyes from his lapstone,
across the creek, and up the hill-side, to take note of the motions of
“the wandering stone-crackers,” as he called them, and his brain was in
a pother.
The blacksmith had sharpened their pick more than once, which had put on
edge his curiosity, and had “contrived to pick their brains, while they
pecked the rocks,” as he jocosely remarked, and _he_ had smelt metal in
their movements.
Over their evening ale, at the tavern, the probabilities and
possibilities of gold or silver being found in the mountain, were
discussed with various degrees of profundity, and the certainty that
something of the kind was there, was most sagely resolved on. Time, in
whose crucible all doubts are solved, soon confirmed their sagacity by a
“copper button” presented to the landlord with the compliments of
Uptosnuff, with hints, but not positive injunctions as to secrecy. He
knew his man.
“What do you think of that?” asked Drawitwell, of his cronies the same
evening, with an air of authority, holding up the copper button. “What
_do_ you think of that, my lads?”
“_Hellow!_” exclaimed the bewildered cobbler, “landlord, why—why is
_that goold_?”
“Gold, you fool! No, it’s _not_ gold—but it’s a precious sight more
valuable—because there is a great deal more of it used.”
“Why what on earth is it, then?” asked the blacksmith, in amazement.
“It’s _Copper_! my lads! COPPER!!”
“COPPER!!”
“Yes, I reckon it is!—and the genuine metal, too! And the mountain is
as full of it as an egg is of meat! Only melt down one of the rocks up
there, and you’ll see how it will fly out!”
To have stopped the spread of such information as this, would have
surpassed the ingenuity of our clerical friend, who was opposed to the
Magnetic Telegraph, as “a device of the devil.” There was a California
excitement in a village, with California itself in their own mountain.
_He_ would have been a lucky traveler, who could have had his horse shod
for a guinea, or a bridle-rein mended for double the amount.
“You see, my lads!” says Drawitwell, haranguing the crowd, “they are
going to do the fair thing by us, they have bought the land, and are
getting their act of incorporation ready, and we are all to have shares
in it at a reasonable rate—and I reckon I’ll have a _few_, or money
must be scarce in Fleeceington. There’ll be high times at the “Hawk and
Buzzard”, _now_, I should say, when every man in this prosperous village
can be an owner, for a small sum, in one of the richest mines on the
face of the earth. You see it’s going to be most unconscionable high,
too—it’s now twenty-two cents a pound—for the government is
advertising for it in the newspapers—no doubt to make bullets with to
match the infernal poisonous Mexicans. Gad, we’ll give the rascals a
taste of their own physic, _now_, I reckon! And then don’t they make
water-pipes with it now, and sheetings. And don’t they cover houses with
it, and ships; and I guess the time is not far off when government will
have her mint on this spot—and what’s to hinder us, _then_ from
spending our own coppers, bran new, ha! ha! If any body here has got a
farm for sale, I’m his man!”
As for buying farms, the thing was perfectly absurd now, and Drawitwell
should have known it; for who could tell that there was not a
copper-mine under every one of them. It was not to be supposed either
that the good people of Fleeceington could keep the knowledge of such
extraordinary wealth all to themselves, and our usually quiet city was
all agog, with the wondrous stories of the extent and richness of the
mines; and to confirm its truth, Grubemout and Uptosnuff were here with
the charter, and the script elegantly engraved, and any number of
specimens, and copper-buttons confirmatory.
In a day or two a few shares were in the market at “a slight advance on
the original cost.” Capitalists had been up who thought they “knew a
thing or two”—and gudgeons began to nibble, the knowing ones among the
number. The market advanced. One, two, three, four hundred per cent. was
quickly achieved as competitors increased; and considering that the
first cost was perhaps a dollar an acre, for an unwooded, untillable,
rocky hillside, curved up and set down at a dollar per square foot as
“original cost,” the profit was tempting—the market active—ditto the
original holders. There was a fierce avidity for a stock which advanced
at such rapid strides, and the reckless became crazy, the cautious
reckless and visionary. “The Board”—knowing dogs—looked on for a while
doubtfully, but in amazement. The “Outsiders” indulged in ecstasies and
fanciful millions. Thousands were added up upon stock-books, as if they
were “trifles light as air”—_and they were_. Merchants cut the
shop—lawyers the red tape and sheep-skin—editors told the messenger
for copy to “go to the devil”—and all became “gentlemen on ’change.”
Healths were drunk “to the United Copper-Heads”—and champagne and
Havanas “suffered some.” Fun and puns flashed fast and furious—and all
this the while the great bubble rose up, expanding and beautifying as it
ascended.
It was not to be expected that a single mountain should contain all this
good luck exclusively, and in various quarters envious copper-rocks
poked their noses out, quite seductively to anxious companies, who
formed upon the spot. One gigantic intellect proposed the formation of a
company to shovel the sand off of the whole State of New Jersey, so as
to get at the substratum, at once and emphatically. Copper became
substantially the _great_ business of life—the _only_ business of the
board—the _board_ being in fact rather a small affair while _copper_
abounded.
Sharp occupied _his_ time in buying up superfluous real estate, which
seemed to have been infected by copper, and showed a disposition to
_rise_—and he was afraid it might go up and never come down again. The
conveyancers assured him that he ought to take it—like a sportsman—on
the wing, right and left. He did, and clapped a heavy mortgage on it to
keep it steady.
That disturbed the figures on Flat’s memorandum—for he hoped to have
bought and paid for it with his expected profit on copper, and to have
staggered somebody else’s property with a mortgage from the surplus. It
was provoking.
Jones and Wilkins resolved to “take a shy at the copper anyway, while it
was going;” but the stock of all the companies seemed shy of them. They
“bid ten dollars through a broker”—it was twelve. “Bid twelve”—it was
fourteen. Wilkins had had enough of it. He believed it was “only a
bubble blown up to catch the eyes of fools. He was done with it.” But
Jones was down in the morning, as merry as a lark, and as early. He
“knew some of the outsiders, and thought he would catch some of them
before the morning was over.” He did—and went home to dinner, having
made “a fortunate hit.”
“Five hundred shares,” said he, “at fifteen, and the last sale ‘after
board,’ nineteen and a half! Four dollars and fifty cents per share.
Five aught is _naught_; five fives are twenty-five, five fours are
twenty, and two are twenty-two. Twenty-two hundred and fifty
dollars—that will do for one day, _I_ should say. Wilkins would like me
to give _him_ half, as we were to have gone in together yesterday, but I
wonder what Wilkins ever did for me, that I should give _him_ eleven
hundred and twenty-five dollars! Not _quite_ so green!”
The next morning Grubemout brought down some specimens, which “he
thought” would yield forty per cent. _if they were assayed_, and thought
that they ought to make an assessment of a dollar a share, so as to put
on more hands and drive out the ore. Jones said that “that was right
enough.”
The assessment was called in, at which the stock hesitated for a day or
two—made a start and went on—but a second installment being urged, it
faltered a little, and then stopped. At the third it “_declined_ a
shade,” at which the “bears” gave a shake and a growl.
But Grubemout had—in the nick of time—“just received a letter from the
mines of the most important nature, which it would not do to show in
‘the street,’ or the stock would be balooning it—Uptosnuff had _just
made a cross-cut_.”
“The deuce he has!” exclaimed Jones, rather nervously. “What is _that_?”
“A cross-cut, you see,” says Grubemout, “is nothing more than ‘a shaft’
run at right angles past the old one we have been working. He struck
some glorious ‘deposites,’ and—”
“Why I thought you always said there was _a vein_, Grubemout? These
deposites are confoundedly leaky and treacherous affairs.”
“And so there _is_ a vein, my boy, and we are just getting into it;
deposites are always the first thing we look for in copper mining. As
long as we have them we get on swimmingly; but you are so confoundedly
skittish! I was just going to tell you, that in making the ‘cross-cut,’
Uptosnuff has struck ‘_the master vein_!’ and found an old ‘_drift_’ in
the mountain, which you will see after a while, is important. In it he
found old hatchets, and hammers, and images in copper, supposed to have
been the rude efforts at mining and smelting by the Indians long
ago—say before the Dutch had taken Holland, or achieved the renowned
name of Knickerbockers, and had gone home copper-fastened.”
Information so desirable as this would work its way out somehow, and
gentlemen would now bet you a trifle—say champagne and cigars—that a
dividend of twenty-five per cent. would be declared on the stock the
first year; or would _give_ you a hundred dollars for agreeing to pay
the annual dividend on a hundred shares.
Jones is “satisfied _now_,” and forthwith buys five hundred shares more,
as do other Joneses, and Browns, and Greens. Outsiders became as plenty
as gooseberries, and as verdant; and it would seem, from the number of
shares reported _at_ the Board, and “_after_,” that certificates had
quadrupled, and never _could_ multiply fast enough to supply the demand.
Indeed, as one old gentleman was heard to end a prolonged whistle, by
exclaiming—“GAS!” the market became so inflated that the Joneses,
Browns, and Greens, declined the attempt of _cornering_ the stock, in
despair.
“The company,” called for an additional installment at once. “Why, what
the deuce,” asks Jones, “does the company want with _more_ installments?
Haven’t they got copper enough!”
“Copper _ore_, my dear fellow,” responded Grubemout. “Yes, _lots_ of it.
But Uptosnuff wasn’t brought up in a Cornish mine for nothing. The
furnaces at Baltimore and Boston want it for half-price, but as they are
nearly _out_, we intend to make them _smoke_, ha! ha! But we must go to
the expense of an “_adate_” in the meanwhile.”
“Why, what’s the use of _that_—what good will that do?” asks Jones.
“What _is_ an _adate_, anyway?”
Poor Jones had a good deal yet to learn about copper-mining, and felt
naturally alarmed at these ominous terms. The “cross-cut” was the
beginning of puzzlers. He had yet to see—I may as well say he
ultimately did see, “the drift,” to help along “the pumps,” as well as
the adate with installments, and to become familiar with a variety of
mining lore, which assists knowledge in its acquisition, by obligingly
allowing us to pay for it. But I believe he never _did_ understand “what
they wanted with so many work-shops—_he_ thought they were _miners_!”
“An _adate_, Jones, is only a drain to relieve the mine when it is
overcharged with water.”
“Oh! is that all!”
But this calling in of installments seems to be a sort of patent
condenser in the stock market, and shows with how much force a given
quantity of air can be squeezed into a given compass.
Grubemout was as active as a bee at sunrise, and offered his advice
gratuitously—but “confidentially”—to any number of anxious
_inquirers_—but some of _them_ having a copper-mine of their own, by
the attractive and _taking_ name of “_Penny_-wise Company,” and others
having taken a snap with the “Alligator Mountain Company,” and not
liking the bite they received, shook their heads at Fleeceington and
looked knowing—the “New Jersey” chaps were quite sprightly, for as
their _title_ covered the whole State, they had a fair chance of
_realizing_ something when the “Mammoth Shoveling Company” got to work,
and lifted the crust off.
Grubemout assured them—“on his honor”—that “the Company did not intend
to sell an ounce of its ore to the furnaces. They intended to have ‘_a
crushing machine_’ of their own erected at once, and proceed in a style
that would soon settle the whole business.”
Jones was “ready for any number of crushers or mashers, grinders or
pounders. Head up the creek—dam it! Put up the water-works and the
mill-wheel, and give it to the _blasted_ furnaces! Carry the war into
Africa!” said he.
The installment to carry on the adate was paid, though it depressed the
stock, but Jones could not see how having paid the company five thousand
dollars in installments should depress _his_ stock in the market. “Hang
it!” said he, “the company is that much richer in property and
excavations, and don’t I belong to the company—haven’t I a thousand
shares? It’s only paying money out of one pocket, and putting into the
other. Wilkins may laugh, but he’s a fool! That’s a capital idea about
the furnace. You’re a boy, Uptosnuff—_you_ are?”
The installment for _crushing_ purposes was soon called in also, and
paid, though the stock looked sickly, and trembled as if it had the
ague, or had passed through a crushing process on its own hook. It was
just composing itself when Uptosnuff discovered that it was of the
highest importance to the company to have a small engine and an iron
pump erected at the mines at once, _as the richest ore is always found
below water level_!
Jones—the active, energetic Jones—“had no doubt of it at all. The
Cornish miners assured him, when he was up, that as soon as they got
below water level, they would come to something that couldn’t be trifled
with. If Wilkins wasn’t a fool he would go in soon, before it gets out.”
Uptosnuff, too, had had a quantity of the late ore assayed, and
Professor Stuffemwell, Geologist to Her Majesty, thought it would _do_
bravely. If ore that yielded fifty per cent. would not, he would like to
know how her majesty’s subjects got rich, after paying the miners, on
mines that yield but fifteen per cent.
Copper buttons now replenished the pockets of dealers, and the stock
made several violent gasps and starts for a desirable existence. But it
was consumptive—evidently going into a rapid decline. The crushing
process and the iron pump having depressed its spirits, and exhausted
still further its vital energy.
Grubemout thought that if the buttons were pressed into _bars_, and
shown upon Change it might be encouraging, and mitigate the violence of
the disease; but some wag of a broker suggested that it was “_a_ BAR
_sinister_;” which remark sinister ruffled the backs of the _bars_,
caused the bulls to toss their horns unpleasantly, and shook still
further the liveliness of the stock, which drooped visibly under the
imputation.
Even _Jones_—the ardent, trustful Jones—got earnestly anxious about
the state of the patient, and “suggested a consultation.”
_Brown_ was full of good intentions, but “pleaded debility of the
pocket, which, under heavy depletion, was rather low.”
_Green_ was a little vivacious, and “suggested a new _cross-cut_.”
_Grubemout_ was pleased with the idea, and hinted at “a new
installment.”
_Uptosnuff_ had “missed the stage, and was unable to get down to the
meeting.”
_Wilkins_, in answer to a pressing invitation to “_come in_,” was “busy
selling goods.”
_Sharp_ would not attend—“he had never had any thing to do with the
rascally copper, and found his real estate bad enough just now.”
_Flat_ “had enough of copper stock—it was not very heavy, to be sure,
having rather a tendency to dissolve into air, its original element, but
he was satisfied.”
_The Stock_ grew feebler after consultation, as patients are apt to, in
critical cases, from want of remedy.
_The Bulls_ looked surly, as if they had been disappointed in pasture.
_The Bears_ were as frisky as it is possible to be on a frosty morning,
and were so much in their own element, that you looked involuntarily
around for floating icebergs—and copper in this temperature of the
atmosphere sunk into a torpor.
_On Change_, in this changing world of ours, copper looked blue.
_The Outsiders_ had rubbed out their pencil-marks on stock memorandums,
and dissipating the written evidence of thousands that had vanished into
air, they themselves vanished. It was needless to say any thing to
_them_ about copper, they “never had any thing to do with it, beyond a
hundred shares or so, which they sold out before the bubble looked like
bursting.” Stockdom was desolate, save that a few of the bears showed
their teeth, and grinned as furiously as if they had just arrived fresh
from the Polar regions, and had brought any quantity of wet blankets
with them. Yet they looked as if they would rather than not that any
dealer in copper should take hold of them. The bulls were more
plentiful—looked savage but knowing, but showed no disposition to dash
at imaginary enemies in scarlet, having rather a taste left for their
friends, the Browns and the Greens, who were urgently entreated to “come
_in again_, and help sustain the market.”
The case was desperate, and desperate remedies were resolved on. It was
deemed advisable to “ask _the opinion_ of the directors!”
The directors “_have_ no opinion of the stock! They never _had_,” of
their own. They trusted to Grubemout, to Uptosnuff, to the Cornish
miners. Their geological and mineralogical education, had been
shockingly neglected in their youth, and they have verified the fact, by
having on their hands, a thousand shares apiece at high prices, by
having assisted to sustain the market in the various stages of the
experiment. But “they _would_ like to know who were the ‘original’
stockholders of the company who did them the honor to elect them.”
Grubemout “thought it of the highest importance that they _should_ know,
and as the original book of minutes was up at the mines and as he was
going up by the next stage, would write and send them.”
It would be, perhaps, as well to give his letter:
_Fleeceington, Dec. 10, 18—._
GENTLEMEN,—I arrived safely at the mines last evening, after
rather a fatiguing journey by stage, and found, to my
unspeakable amazement, that Uptosnuff had exhausted the vein,
and that as no more deposites are to be found he had thought it
advisable to abandon the mine. The tools, viz., four pickaxes,
three shovels, and two wheelbarrows—rather dilapidated—the
property of the company, I have put under shelter, to preserve
them from the weather—subject to your order or disposal. The
iron pump I should have removed also, but being rather heavy in
the absence of the hands—who have gone back to their farms—I
found it impossible to take in. It cannot, however, suffer from
rust more than ten per cent., and as the original cost was but
seventy dollars, the loss to the company will be inconsiderable.
There is a trifle of two hundred dollars due, for boarding the
hands, to the host of the “Roaring Lion,” who will forward you
his account by this mail. As Uptosnuff and myself have suffered
a great deal from anxiety, and exposure in the mines of the
company, we deem it proper to seek a more genial clime. Any
little complimentary remuneration which you may see proper to
bestow on us, you will please enclose to Mr. Drawitwell, of the
Hawk and Buzzard, to whom we are indebted for various little
civilities, in the shape of breakfast, dinner and supper, for
the past six months, and which no doubt the generosity of your
complimentary donation will amply cover.
Enclosed are “the original minutes.” Uptosnuff wishes to be
remembered _by_ you. I join in the same prayer.
Yours, as ever,
CHRISTIAN GRUBEMOUT, _Pres’t._
* * * * *
To the Directors, Stockholders, etc.
P. S. Please ask Jones to think of us. Not that it is any of our
business, but would like to know whether he ever divided with
Wilkins—it would be civil, you know. Regards to the Bulls. Uptosnuff
says ditto to the Bears, for there is no knowing when one may want a
friend, and civility costs nothing.
C. G.
* * * * *
MINUTES, FIRST MEETING.—At a large and enthusiastic meeting of the
joyous and delighted inhabitants of the charming and romantic village of
Fleeceington, held at “The Hawk and Buzzard Hotel,” to elect officers
for the newly discovered, freshly chartered, and highly valuable and
productive Copper Mine, just incorporated by an act of the Legislature,
under the name, style and title, to wit:
* * * * *
“_The Grand Open Sesame and United Catchem Copper Mining,
Crushing, Stamping, Pumping and Smelting Company_,”
Christian Grubemout, Eliakim Uptosnuff, J. Drawitwell, T.
Crispin and John Smith, the original incorporators of the
Company, after regaling themselves, proceeded to the election of
officers, and knowing that in the goodly city of Philadelphia
there were a number of persons by the names of Jones, Brown and
Green, and not a few Sharps and Flats, they, in order to avoid
giving offence, placed in a hat the whole of the names, as
above, found in the _Directory_, (significant of the office they
were to hold,) and drew the following first three names, A.
Jones, B. Flat, C. Green, _directing_ them to supply vacancies,
and to fill additions to the number of five; adding in the
meanwhile the names of the first two corporators, as
_ex-officio_ directors, to conduct silently the operations of
the mines, and to enlighten the others as to the true plan of
working copper-mines profitably and efficiently.
(Signed) C. GRUBEMOUT, _Pres’t._
E. UPTOSNUFF, _Sec’ry._
* * * * *
The cleverness and explicitness of the whole transaction showed that it
had _been done_ neatly; and the Directors with singular unanimity felt
themselves included in the operation.
There can be no doubt that Grubemout and Uptosnuff are among the
“placers” in California. The one being undeniably the man who sold the
two barrels of brandy, by installments of a thimblefull at a time, for
$14,000—the other, with positive certainty, we aver to have been the
man who “confidentially” communicated the following _item_ to the
newspaper press, and he must have been there to have seen it:
* * * * *
“_The Biggest Lump Yet?_—The following is about the latest news
from the gold diggins that we have seen recorded in the
‘papers:’ A runaway soldier is said to have discovered a lump or
a rock of gold that weighed 889 pounds and 11½ ounces; he was
afraid to leave it, and mounted guard upon it, and at the latest
dates he had sat there 17 days; had offered $27,000 for a plate
of pork and beans, but had been indignantly refused, and laughed
at for the niggardliness of his offer, by parties going further
on, where this article was said to be _more abundant_!”
* * * * *
Jones is among the lame ducks, and pretty roughly plucked at that. But
he still avers that if the furnaces had only paid a good price for the
ore at the outset, or Wilkins had only helped him to sustain the market
when he asked him, he should have been the master of a pretty snug
little fortune. If he only had it _now_, he would charter a steamer, and
take his own freight and passengers for the gold mines.
The Hawk and Buzzard appears to have been “_pidgeoned_,” for the last
time I passed that way the house was shut up. The business having amused
itself by stepping over to the Roaring Lion, while the Hawk and Buzzard
had flown to the city, “to watch the market.”
Crispin “would only like to have one of those fellows tied for a while,
until he had expressed his opinion on him with a stirrup.”
Smith appears to be solicitous to “make them intimately acquainted with
the red-hot end of a poker—he’d _smelt_ ’em, _dam_ ’em, and _crush_ ’em
too!”
The “Dam,” the “Drift,” the “Cross-Cut,” the “Iron Pump” and the
“Adate,” you can see as you go wood-cock shooting next August—but the
“Steam-Engine” and the “Mill-Wheel” never arrived, owing to some
informality in the order given to the mechanics.
“THE CRUSHER,” it is supposed, is in California with its friends.
G.R.G.
* * * * *
ADIEU, MY NATIVE LAND.
WORDS BY D. W. BELISLE.
ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO, BY JAMES PIPER.
[Illustration]
My native land adieu;
Ye blooming, sunlit hills,
Ye mountains tipped with blue,
And lovely, dancing rills,
My
[Illustration]
heart is sad to part with scenes like you,
Ye much loved haunts of youth, adieu, adieu.
SECOND VERSE.
Sweet Memory, how my soul
Beats at thy magic touch!
’Tis strange that thy control
Can make us bear so much;
For, while my thoughts in sadness turn to you,
My heart in silence breathes a fond adieu!
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Grammar has been
maintained as in the original. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals available for preparation of the ebook.
Page 217, in the “Scientfic Halls,” ==> in the “Scientific Halls,”
Page 219, and platted his long ==> and plaited his long
Page 219, nicely platted queues ==> nicely plaited queues
Page 222, courtiers whom Lí ==> courtiers with whom Lí
Page 222, assidiously _rubbing his_ ==> assiduously _rubbing his_
Page 224, I hav n’t it ==> I haven’t it
Page 225, has no othe ==> has no other
Page 227, to entercept the ==> to intercept the
Page 227, below. Unforfortunately, the ==> below. Unfortunately, the
Page 236, many rejuvinated forests, ==> many rejuvenated forests,
Page 238, and wild-geraneum flowers ==> and wild-geranium flowers
Page 239, fair daugher of the ==> fair daughter of the
Page 241, be poweful to cheer ==> be powerful to cheer
Page 244, fly-leaves was writen ==> fly-leaves was written
Page 251, was therefor, and ==> was therefore, and
Page 254, free and unbiassed ==> free and unbiased
Page 256, beloved and rewared ==> beloved and rewarded
Page 269, T’is hence that ==> ’Tis hence that
Page 275, Havn’t they got ==> Haven’t they got
Page 276, number off five; ==> number of five;
Page 276, The Bigest Lump ==> The Biggest Lump