CHAPTER XIV.

I, that please some, try all: both joy and terror

Of good and bad;—that make and unfold error—

Now take upon me in the name of Time

To see my wings. Impute it not a crime

To me or my swift passage that I slide

O’er sixteen years, and leave the ground untried

Of that wide gap.

WINTER’S TALE.

The course of our narrative obliges us to pass over sixteen years ere we

again introduce its characters to our readers. To those of them who may

happen to have lived nearly twice that period, the interval will not

appear long.

Lucy Ellet had removed on the day following her marriage to the house of

Henry Elmore, situated about five miles distant from New Haven. It was a

cheerful country residence, fitted up with much neatness. Around it, lay

a perfect wilderness of flower-gardens, amid which a refined taste had

caused to be erected little summer-houses, which afforded points of view

over the distant bay of New Haven. Attached to these grounds was a large

farm, over which Lucy soon learned to preside with much matronly grace

and dignity. The house itself had been originally small; but shortly

after the marriage of the owner, it had been enlarged by the addition of

a wing at the back part. This was not exactly adjoining the main

building, but connected with it by a corridor. With regard to the

purpose for which it had been added nothing was known in the

neighborhood with any certainty. Many stories had been circulated

concerning its object, and a belief had at length become current that it

was haunted by spirits. There were those, indeed, who stated that they

had beheld through the opening of a curtain at the window a strangely

emaciated face, with sunken eyes of an unnatural lustre, and a look that

was not of earth.

The mystery that was attached to this portion of the building, and the

tales that were circulated in relation to it—together with the former

reports that had attached to Lucy Ellet and her young sister—rendered

its inmates avoided and unpopular throughout the neighborhood. No

distress or mollification, however, seemed to be felt at this

circumstance by Henry Elmore and his wife, who showed no disposition for

the society of their neighbors, and who no more exchanged visits with

any other persons than Governor H. and his wife, (who still resided in

L.,) visits which were mutually given and rendered as often as the

distance that intervened between their homes allowed.

Jessy Ellet, now grown to womanhood, resided with her sister. She had

retained the exceeding beauty of her childhood, but exhibited what

appeared a wildness of character to those who were incapable of

understanding the superiority of her nature. She possessed a certain

elevated independence, and ardent feelings, forming a character that few

could love, and still fewer could understand. With the enthusiastic

feelings we have described, the love of natural objects was to her a

passion capable not only of occupying, but at times of agitating her

mind. Scenes upon which her sister looked with a sense of tranquil awe

or emotion, and the recollection of which became speedily dissipated,

continued long to haunt the memory of Jessy, in moments of solitude and

the silence of the night. Although she had no selfish pride or vanity,

yet there was an air of superiority in her every gesture, which, taken

in connection with the other traits we have mentioned, contributed to

gain her the character of the eccentric young lady. There was, however,

a life and animation in her gayety, a fascination in her manners and

expression, whether of language or countenance, a touchingness also in

her purity of thought, which, in conversation with the very few persons

with whom she associated intimately, gave her society a charm.

The parlor of Lucy Elmore’s house was a neat and comfortable apartment.

All its arrangements bespoke the skill of a refined female genius—which

genius was, in fact, her tasteful and fastidious sister. It was Jessy

who had on this dark autumn-day caused the sofa to be wheeled out

opposite the fire; she it was who had a few weeks previous directed the

graceful looping of the dimity and silk curtains in the windows. The

inventive mind of the same guardian divinity had likewise anticipated

the more modern fashion of the centre or sofa-table, and induced her to

keep a piece of furniture of that description constantly replenished

with various new specimens of literature and art. The geraniums and

other house-plants in the windows owed their flourishing condition to

her training hand; and many other little accessories to the tout

ensemble of the room, giving it an air of exceeding home-elegance and

comfort—felt rather than perceived—were the results of her care.

It was the evening. Henry Elmore was in his little study, and his wife

had taken a book in her hand, and retired to the mysterious wing of the

house where her sister knew she always spent an hour every morning and

evening, though for what purpose she had never inquired, perceiving that

Lucy desired the object of these visits to be secret.

Jessy was seated alone in the parlor we have described. She had drawn

near the table, and bending over a volume of poetry which lay open

before her. One fair hand was engaged in playing with the ringlets of

her hair, and the other lay upon the classic page. The fire had given a

slight flush to her cheeks, usually perhaps a shade too pale; and, as

she sat thus, it would have been difficult to imagine a more beautiful

object. Sea and land might have been searched, and they would have

produced nothing half so interesting or half so lovely.

A slight knock at the door interrupted her reading, and a young man of

polished manners and handsome exterior presented himself. The new comer

was about five-and-twenty, in a military undress, and bearing in his

manner and looks a good deal of the martial profession. Notwithstanding

the great change which the lapse from youth to manhood makes in his sex,

it would not have been difficult for any who had known him in the former

period, to trace in the countenance of the visiter the lineaments of his

boyhood. There was the same brow, surmounted by its chestnut curls—the

latter, it may be, a shade darker and a fold thicker; there was the same

hazel eye, with its peculiarly thoughtful expression, and a lip which

had preserved the native frankness of its smile. In short, the person

entering was—but, reader, we will not anticipate Jessy Ellet in calling

him by name.

She seemed slightly startled on recognizing him, but rose with a blush

and extended her hand. No hue of rising or setting day was ever so

lovely in the eyes of the young man as that blush was in his

recollection, nor ever did enthusiastic visionary or poetic dreamer

discover so many fanciful forms in the clouds.

He advanced and took her offered hand with more of tenderness than

courtesy in his manner, for he held it a moment ere he resigned it.

Some little time had elapsed in a few commonplace remarks, when the

gentleman drew his chair close to Jessy’s side. “Miss Ellett,” said he,

“I have come this evening emboldened to pour into your ear the story of

a long and devoted attachment.”

“Mr. Stanley,” interrupted the lady, blushing deeply, while the small

hand which lay upon the edge of the table might have been seen slightly

to tremble, “I cannot allow you to place yourself at the disadvantage of

uttering any thing you might regret when you become acquainted with what

I must have to reply in regard to any declaration of this kind.”

“Do not, I beseech you, Miss Ellet, say aught to dash my dearest earthly

hopes. I had flattered myself—”

“I know what you would say,” rejoined the young lady, again interrupting

him. “You mean that you had hoped—” and she hesitated an instant, “that

you were not altogether indifferent to me. But what avails it whether or

no this be the case, when I have that to reveal to you which may make

you instantly withdraw your proffered affection?”

“No revelation that you could make would have the power to effect a

change in the feelings of one who has known you so well.”

“Nay, wait until you hear what I have to tell. Know, then, that I am not

what I appear.”

“Your language is enigmatical,” said her lover, looking at her

bewildered; “but if it were possible for any human being to surpass in

internal graces the loveliest outside, in that way I can believe that

there is truth in your words.”

“I thank you for the compliment,” said Jessy, smiling in acknowledgment.

“But it is not in regard to my personal graces, either external or

internal—for I have too much vanity, I assure you, to suppose that

there is aught that can be said in disparagement of either—but in

regard to my outward position I speak. I pass for the niece of Governor

H., and the sister of Lucy Elmore. Now I am confident that I am

neither.”

“What is it you say?” said her lover, looking at her in astonishment.

“Mr. Stanley,” continued she, “do you recollect the melancholy-looking

lady who was present at Lucy’s wedding?”

“I do,” said he, “and can tell you more than you have probably ever

known. She was the mysterious Lady of the Rock, and the noble wife of

the exiled regicide. I shall never forget her touching beauty, nor the

heroic fortitude with which she hastened the flight of her husband and

father on the day when their hiding-place in the cave was discovered.

But what were you going to say of her?”

“I felt drawn to her by yearnings of a peculiar kind, and a strange

sympathy such as _I_ have never known before or since for any human

being. At parting with me, she dropped no tear on my face, but pressing

me to her heart with a lengthened and agonized caress, whispered these

words in my ears, ‘_my daughter, remember your mother!_’ Mr. Stanley,”

she continued, looking at him steadily, “do you see no singular

resemblance in me to that strange lady? Methinks I can behold a

marvelous likeness.”

As she spoke, a curious similarity in the beloved being before him to

that unhappy lady, whose image was impressed upon his memory, struck him

in the most forcible manner, thrilling him in addition to Jessy’s words

with the suspicion they suggested.

“She was my mother,” continued Miss Ellet. “I know it by an instinct

that cannot err. Look, too, how little coincidence of looks, no less

than taste, exists between myself and my uncle’s family. Lucy, too,

although affectionate and kind, resembles me in nothing. I am a

mysterious and lonely being.”

“There maybe truth in what you surmise,” replied Stanley, who had been

pondering deeply during her last remarks; “but call not yourself lonely,

unless you positively decline the companionship of one who desires no

higher pleasure in life than to share it with you.”

“You do not shrink from me, then, because I am thus shrouded in

mystery?”

“Nay,” said he, venturing to take her hand, “nothing that could be

either surmised or proven in regard to your parentage, could change the

feelings or wishes of my heart toward you. Jessy, I sail in a few days

for England, to be absent for six months, and would know my fate from

you ere I depart?”

There was a pause of a few moments of that expressive kind which such an

occasion only witnesses, and Stanley gathered from its stillness that he

might deem his suit not rejected.

Some time longer passed, in which the lovers remained alone conversing.

Their language was of that kind which none but those who have been in

the same situation can properly repeat, and which, therefore, the

inexperience of the historian prevents being here repeated.

At length Lucy made her appearance, not like one who had been dealing

with spirits, but full of cheerful interest in those earthly beings whom

she encountered. Time had passed lightly over her, and she looked as

young and blooming as on the night of her marriage. The remainder of the

evening passed pleasantly. Stanley mentioned his intended visit to

England, and the conversation turned for a while upon the mother

country. The hour for family prayers arrived. Henry Elmore read a

chapter of the Old Testament in a deep, solemn voice, and all standing

up, he prayed fervently.

The house being some miles distant from the town of New Haven, the guest

was shown to a room above the parlor.

A cheerful fire burned in the hearth: the bed was curtained and quilted

with white, and every thing invited comfort and repose. The occupant,

however, was too full of his late happy interview to feel inclined to

sleep, and he threw himself into a large easy chair that stood near the

fire. He sat there long, in a deep reverie. After other reflections more

intimately connected with his blissful emotions, his thoughts reverted

to the revelation Jessy had made to him of her suspicions in regard to

the Lady of the Rock. His own mind had readily received these suspicions

until, in reconsidering them, they amounted almost to a certainty. What,

then, had become of the lady, and what was the fate of her companion?

She had announced in his hearing, in the cavern, her intention of going

to England for the purpose of endeavoring to obtain their pardon. But

she had never returned, nor had he heard her mentioned since the

excitement caused by her appearance at Governor H.’s had subsided. There

had been no rumor of the apprehension of the regicides, and it was

therefore possible that they still remained hidden. Young Stanley now

recalled what he had likewise overheard in the cave, about the exiles

having been offered a home with Mr. Elmore. He had been absent

prosecuting his studies, when the mysterious wing was attached to the

dwelling, and in that way had missed hearing the reports to which it

gave rise, or it is possible he might have surmised differently in

regard to it, from the ordinary conclusion. At his return, the gossip

had pretty much subsided into a steady avoidance of the family, so that

none of the rumors had ever reached him. It was hardly possible, then,

he thought, as he had seen or heard nothing of the outcasts, that they

could be residing with Mr. Elmore. Jessy, too, had never named any such

inmates to him: nor, this evening, when he had mentioned them in

connection with the lady for whom she had expressed such interest, had

she evinced a knowledge of their being. They had not, therefore, he

concluded, repaired to Mr. Elmore’s; whither had they gone?

Casting aside his reflections, after a considerable length of time,

Stanley rose from his seat and began to prepare for bed. Walking to a

window, he beheld a light in what seemed a house or room opposite. It

seemed strange to him that there should be any dwelling situated in this

manner in regard to the house he was in—since it was in the country. He

was about to persuade himself that it was merely the reflection of his

own room, when he saw standing facing him the aged man of the cave.

Convinced now that his own imagination was at work, and had conjured up

the likeness of one of those who had just occupied his thoughts to so

great an extent, he turned away, and hastened to court repose.

[_Conclusion in our next._

* * * * *

THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.

BY MISS MARY MACLEAN.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

ON a sultry noon in summer,

When the very air was still,

Young Jessie from her cottage

Came, sighing, to the rill:—

Her graceless lover, Donald,

With his laird, Sir Vasavour,

And a troop of gallant gentlemen.

Were hunting on the moor;

And many a day and night had passed

Since he had sought her door.

But when the simple maiden

Drew slowly toward the spring—

So heavy with her loneliness,

She had not heart to sing—

She saw a stranger kneeling,

And paused, with modest fears,

But the cadence of her footstep

Had reached his eager ears—

And Jessie lay in Donald’s arms,

While he kissed away her tears.

[Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by G. J. Anderson]

* * * * *

HAPPINESS—A SONNET.

BY RICHARD COX, JR.

THOU gilded phantom of the cheated brain,

Through days and nights of long-successive years

We follow thee—through sunshine and through tears,

With beating hearts and eager eyes, in vain

We wait thy coming! now thou art anear,

And now afar-off straying, and again

Dost give as something of thy bliss to feel,

That we, contrasting thy sweet self and pain,

Might know thee worthy all our woes to heal.

Thou art the essence of a joy supreme,

Too pure to dwell upon this earthly clod—

The real presence of the Christian’s dream;

Thy dwelling is where mortal never trod,

Thy home is Heaven! and thy creator—God!

* * * * *

HOME: OR A VISIT TO THE CITY.

A SOUTHERN STORY OF REAL LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BEADS.”

CHAPTER I.

Far from the mad’ning crowds ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learned to stray,

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the even tenor of their way.

GRAY’S ELEGY.

ABOUT thirty miles from Savannah, on the banks of the river of that

name, is a pretty little village, which, with its small white houses

nestled away in the thick green woods, is something like a hail-stone

which has fallen in a cluster of green leaves. Scarce a quarter of a

mile from the village is the modest residence of Mrs. Delmont, which is

in itself a little paradise of beauty. Shaded by the stately sycamore,

the magnolia, with its deep green leaves, the catalpa, with its silver

blossoms, and the luxuriant orange-tree, it stands unrivaled for the

romance of its situation for miles around; while the cape-jessamine, the

japonica, the oleander, and many other rare and beautiful flowers lend

their radiant hues to ornament the latticed piazza, which is covered

over with the fragrant honeysuckle, together with jessamines of every

hue. In this beautiful and peaceful retreat Mrs. Delmont had resided

since the death of her husband, which had taken place when her children,

of whom she had three, were very young.

William, her only son, was a sunny faced boy of eight years old. Rosa,

two years older, had the blue eyes and golden hair of her mother; while

Clara had her father’s dark eyes and shining hair, which clustered in

dark brown ringlets around her fair face.

Clara had just completed her eighteenth year, and was a tall, graceful

and beautiful girl; she had been carefully trained by her affectionate

mother, and well did she repay that mother’s anxious care, for in her

bereavement she was her comforter and assistant in many things, and in

nothing more than in undertaking the education of her little brother and

sister, a useful, although we cannot agree with the poet in styling it a

“delightful task,” yet one that Clara was well qualified to perform, as

she had herself received a finished education, although she had never

left her native village: and she was thus occupied one morning, when

Mrs. Delmont entered the room with an open letter in her hand, and

addressed our heroine in the following manner:

“My dear Clara, your cousin Mrs. Cleveland writes that she, with Mr.

Cleveland and their three children, will be here next Wednesday evening,

to spend a fortnight with us, after which they wish you to accompany

them to their city residence, and remain there for this winter.”

“Oh, mamma, that would be delightful,” exclaimed Clara. “I know I will

enjoy my time with cousin Florence; and then, you know, the city is so

gay a place. I would be too happy to go.”

“So I think, my dear,” replied her mother, “and therefore if you wish it

I have no possible objection; but how can you leave Mr. Seymour?” added

she, archly.

“Why, ma,” exclaimed Clara, blushing deeply, “what is Mr. Seymour to

me?”

“Ah, Clara,” replied Mrs. Delmont, “I know what he is to you, better

than you are willing to acknowledge to yourself. But seriously, my dear

child, you must decide at once, so that I may write an answer to your

cousin’s letter.”

“Of course, mamma, I should be delighted to go.” And Mrs. Delmont

retired to write the letter, while Clara indulged herself in a long

walk, in order to meditate on the news, and to anticipate the delights

of a visit to the city.

On the appointed day, after assisting the cook to make a rich plum-cake,

and some delicate tarts, she repaired to the parlor, which she had taken

great care and pains to assist her mother in furnishing as handsomely as

their circumstances would allow, and arranged with faultless taste the

brilliant flowers which her little brother and sister, who were now

entirely in the spirit of preparation, had gathered, and placed the nuts

they had cracked in a silver basket on the carefully polished table,

fastened back the snowy curtains, with white chrysanthemums interspersed

with their rich green leaves, adjusting them so as to throw the most

advantageous light on a beautiful painting which she herself had

executed. From the parlor Clara proceeded to the apartment which she

intended for her cousin: it opened on a grove in which were several

rustic seats and boxes of flowers, and through an opening in the trees

the broad river was seen to glide calmly on through banks now dressed in

the brightest colors of an American autumn. The furniture of this room

was Clara’s peculiar taste, and it well accorded with the simplicity and

purity of her own mind. The counterpane, curtains and toilet were white

as a snow-drift; the curtains being on this occasion looped up with

crimson roses, and the toilet beautifully embroidered by Clara’s own

hand, and on it were laid a handsome Bible and Prayer-Book; and she

finished her preparations by taking a rich and antique China vase,

frosted with silver, which she prized not a little, and placing it on

the table, filled it with the choicest flowers the garden afforded.

“Oh, mamma,” cried Clara, “come here;” and throwing open the

parlor-door, she exhibited the apartment; “come here and see how you

like my arrangements for cousin Florence; are not those flowers

beautiful?”

“And will not Cousin Florence admire our new carpet, mamma?” said little

Rosa.

“I dare say,” said Clara, “it is handsomer than Cousin Florence’s, as it

is in all probability so much newer.”

“Yes, my dears,” said Mrs. Delmont, smiling at the simplicity of the

young girls, while she was careful not to destroy their pleasant

anticipations by undeceiving them. “Yes, my dears, every thing looks

very sweet and pretty; those flowers are really beautiful, and I give

you a great deal of credit for your good taste. Come, daughters, and

show me your cousin’s room.”

“Here, mamma,” said Clara, opening the door, “does it not look quiet and

beautiful?”

“Oh, ma!” exclaimed Rosa, “look at those roses on the window-curtains.

Sister Clara, how did you fasten them so prettily?”

“Really, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Delmont, “I congratulate you on your

success. I do not think you will see a prettier room in Savannah.

Recollect, Rosa, to have some plates in the parlor to eat those nuts in,

as I fear the children will soil the carpet with them.”

“Oh, Cousin Florence would not let them soil our pretty carpet, I do not

think, mamma,” said little Rosa, as she tripped off for the plates.

The sound of wheels was now heard in the distance, and Clara and her

mother hastened to meet their cousin, whom they had not seen for several

years.

It was late in October, and the soft breath of summer was chilled, but

not frightened away by the coming winter, and the vines that draped the

windows still perfumed the air with the rich fragrance of their

clustering blossoms. A gentle melancholy, peculiar to autumn, overspread

the scene, which seemed the very habitation of beauty and happiness:

when Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland drove up the long avenue, and alighted at

the gate of Primrose Cottage, as Clara had called Mrs. Delmont’s house,

in memory of one of her favorite books, the dear old Vicar of Wakefield.

Mrs. Cleveland was the wife of a flourishing merchant in the city of

Savannah, where she had resided since her marriage, which had taken

place about five years previous to the commencement of our story; and

was an amiable though an exceedingly indolent woman, and indulged her

children to such an extent that they were, in consequence, extremely

annoying to every one by whom they were surrounded. As soon as Mrs.

Cleveland entered the house complaining of excessive fatigue, she was

ushered by Clara into her neat apartment, which, however, we are sorry

to say, did not long remain so, for the lady immediately threw herself

on the bed, caused her trunk to be unpacked, insisted upon the

children’s dresses being changed, while the mother, the children, and

their nurse, seemed to vie with each other in the attempt to fill every

chair and vacant place with such articles as were not in immediate

requisition, which gave to the room so disorderly and careless an

appearance, that it would never have been recognized as the same sweet

looking apartment which Clara had prepared that morning for their

reception.

“Ma, I want something to eat,” whined George, the eldest boy.

“Well, my darling,” replied his mother, “Cousin Clara will get you some

bread and honey;” and Clara immediately left the room in quest of

refreshments for the children, who, when they were obtained, immediately

placed them upon the new settee, which Clara had re-covered expressly

for this occasion, an arrangement which did not tend greatly to improve

its appearance.

“George,” said Mrs. Cleveland, “little Lucy has been teasing for flowers

the whole evening, give her those on the table;” and the child, in his

haste to hand the flowers, turned the honey over on the settee, and what

was still more annoying, threw down Clara’s beautiful vase and broke it

into twenty pieces. Tears filled the eyes of our unphilosophizing

heroine at this unfortunate accident, but her cousin only remarked:

“There, now, you careless boy, you have broken the pretty vase, but

don’t cry now pet; come kiss your mother; Martha, (to the maid) take up

those pieces of broken china, I am afraid they will hurt the children’s

feet; Cousin Clara, do you recollect who it is that says, ‘Crystal and

hearts are only valuable for their fragility,’ quite true.”

Tea was now announced, after which the whole party adjourned to the

parlor, where the children commenced throwing the nuts over the floor;

regardless of the plates, a proceeding at which little Rosa was greatly

scandalized; particularly as Mrs. Cleveland, instead of admiring the

carpet, merely remarked, “Really, Johnny, it is well your aunt’s carpet

is not a very elegant one, or you would soon spoil it.”

“How much better it is, Cousin Clara, to have a plain carpet, children

are so ruinous, and yet they are so sweet one cannot scold them.” Clara

thought that if the sweetness of such spoiled children, as they were,

was their only protection, it was a coin that would not pass current

with every one.

We will not linger over the remainder of Mrs. Cleveland’s visit to

Primrose Cottage, nor describe the many annoyances to which her children

subjected Clara and her mother, nor will we tire the reader with the

many pleasant anticipations which the former entertained of her visit to

the city, which, in her simplicity, she imagined to be the most

delightful place in the known world.

CHAPTER II.

I remember its waking sigh,

We roamed in a verdant spot

And he culled for me, a cluster bright

Of the purple forget-me-not.

BALLAD.

It was the last evening of Mrs. Cleveland’s stay; and Clara was dressed

with peculiar taste. An observing eye could also have discovered, that

the freshest and rarest flowers decked the flower-pots; and that Clara

from time to time looked anxiously from the window; who could she be

expecting. But the mystery was soon solved, by the appearance of a very

handsome young man, who invited Clara to join him in a walk, a request

which she readily granted; and, accordingly, they soon left the domestic

circle, for a quiet stroll on the banks of the placid Savannah.

It was a lovely evening, the sun was setting in autumnal splendor; the

broad river, gilded by its last rays, rolled majestically on; the tinkle

of a bell was heard in the distance; the ground was carpeted with leaves

of the brightest colors; and through the now nearly bare trees a

beautiful view was obtained of the various windings of the river, and of

the little village, with its small white houses and their latticed

porches, shaded by magnificent sycamore, cypress, and magnolia trees.

When we are happy, autumn brings no melancholy to our hearts, but the

mournful sound of the wind, the fading leaves, and the hazy beauty of

the landscape, is fraught with sadness to one already anxious and

dejected; and on this evening Edward Seymour’s handsome countenance was

clouded with apprehension; for in addition to his grief at parting with

Clara, he could not banish from his mind the gloomy possibility, that

every bright hope he had cherished through the balmy gales of spring,

and the sunny hours of summer, would vanish with the flowers and leaves

of autumn. But, the reader will inquire, did not Clara sympathize with

his feelings, and soothe his fears? To a degree, she did; but although

Clara loved him, and would not have given him, or any other friend, up

for the whole city of Savannah, yet, like a giddy girl, she was so much

dazzled by its perspective gayeties that she could not be so deeply

affected at leaving him as she would have been under other

circumstances.

They returned to the house just as the stars began to appear; and sat

alone in the moonlit piazza; for Mrs. Delmont, with a mother’s judicious

care, had so arranged things that the children could pursue their

boisterous sports in the back yard, while she sat with Mrs. Cleveland in

her own room. An hour passed delightfully away, and when Edward

regretfully arose to take his departure, he gave to Clara a fresh

bouquet of orange flowers, which he had brought for her, and as he did

so, kissed the little hand that trembled in his own. A tear sparkled in

Clara’s eye at this token of his affection, but her feelings of sadness

were quickly dissipated by the bustle of packing for her journey, in

which she was engaged, as soon as Mr. Seymour had taken his departure.

The next day was cold and rainy, and it was late when the travelers

arrived at the place of their destination, and Clara retired to her

apartment much fatigued with her ride, as she had carried Johnny, a

troublesome child of three years old, in her lap the whole way, not

because there was no room for him elsewhere, but merely because the

“little darling” wouldn’t ride any where but with “Cousin Clara,” whose

new riding-dress he also chose to daub with molasses candy.

The next morning, when Clara arose, she was informed by a servant that

breakfast was ready, who at the same time requested her to excuse

“master and missus, as they were too much fatigued with their journey to

come down.” Accordingly, Clara descended to an elegantly furnished

breakfast-room, which, however, was extremely cold, on account of the

very small fire; and the handsome furniture seemed much tarnished by the

children, and the breakfast-table was much disordered, as is always the

case when, as they did on this occasion, any members of the family take

their breakfast in their own room.

No one was at the breakfast-table but the two eldest children, whose

company was not very agreeable, as they did nothing but quarrel with

each other, and call fretfully to the servants for articles which were

not on the table; and during her solitary meal Clara could but compare

the pleasant breakfast-room at Primrose Cottage, with its neat carpet of

domestic manufacture, its snowy curtains, and its blazing fire, with the

cold and comfortless apartment in which she now sat; nor could she avoid

drawing a like comparison between her own dear mother’s quiet and

cheerful neatness, and the sweet-tempered voices of her little brother

and sister, with her cousin’s careless self-indulgence, and the fretful

ill temper of her children; yet, while Clara made these comparisons, not

very flattering to her cousin, she also reflected that Mrs. Cleveland

had just returned from a journey; and it was natural to suppose that the

house would be in some confusion, and the children tired, and in

consequence fretful, immediately upon their return.

CHAPTER III.

But I was a gay and a thoughtless girl,

And I cast them all away,

And gathered the dandelion buds,

And the wild grapes gadding spray.

BALLAD.

“Clara, my love,” said Mrs. Cleveland one morning to our heroine, “you

have now been here for some weeks, and have received several calls, not

half so many though as you would have, had I the industry to return

visits that I owe to some of the most agreeable of my acquaintances;

however, we will to-morrow return those which have been paid; and do, my

dear, wear the new silk which you thought me so extravagant in making

you purchase, merely because, like a little country girl that you are,

you thought that it did not accord with your means.”

To this proposal Clara readily acceded, but could not avoid thinking

that her cousin might have exerted herself sufficiently to return the

calls she mentioned, if it were only on her account. Accordingly, on the

following morning Clara, dressed with much care, descended to the

parlor, looking beautifully.

“Dear me, Clara,” exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, “how charmingly you are

dressed, are you going out?”

“Why, my dear Florence, have you forgotten our arrangement to make calls

this morning.”

“Calls! how provoking that I should have forgotten all about it; and

what is still more so, have sent the carriage driver into the country,

to purchase some necessary articles for family use; which, however, I

could easily have done without, had I recollected our intended

excursion. Never mind, Clara, my dear, you shall not be disappointed,

for after dinner we will go shopping, for I have some purchases to make

which you shall assist me to select.”

But the walk did not afford much pleasure to Clara, for it was nothing

more than a continued search for articles in which Mrs. Cleveland was

too fastidious to be pleased, and they returned home in the evening,

Mrs. Cleveland much fatigued, where they found that Mr. Cleveland had

just arrived before them.

“Well, Clara,” observed he, as they took their places at the tea-table,

“you have me to thank that after your long walk, you have not to be kept

up to-night till ten o’clock with company: Mr. Hambden and Mr. Lester

asked leave to call, but I saw you and Florence out, and concluded that

you would be too much fatigued to see them this evening; so I made some

excuse. They are very fine young men, by the way, and you must attempt a

conquest the first time you happen in company with them.”

Now, although Clara had no idea of attempting a conquest, yet naturally

fond of company, she would have been glad to have seen the gentlemen

mentioned, and wished that Mr. Cleveland had not been so solicitous for

her comfort; she therefore made no answer, but Mrs. Cleveland exclaimed,

“Why, Cousin Clara! don’t you recollect the very handsome and

_distingué_ looking young man you met this evening, and admired so much;

well, that was Mr. Lester; I have no doubt the impression was returned.

Henry, why didn’t you let them call?”

“Why, my dear, I thought that you and Cousin Clara were so happy in each

other’s company, that I disliked to introduce any one else into our

quiet circle; I think, now that Cousin Clara is with us, we ought to be

quite sufficient for our own happiness: for when I am engaged in

business I feel assured that my Florence is not alone, and I hope that

her cousin will become so much attached to the city, that she will

hereafter spend every winter with us.”

“Indeed I perfectly agree with you, my dearest Henry, and I now see that

you were quite right in acting as you did, for I am quite sure that

Cousin Clara enjoys herself with us. As for me, her company is such an

acquisition that I shall scarcely leave the house this winter, but shall

reserve all my dissipation for the time when I shall be compelled to

lose her, and seek for amusement abroad. Clara, my dear, whenever you

wish to retire Mildred will give you a candle; I am going now to sit in

my own room, you know the dear children will never go to sleep without

mamma;” and so saying, she retired to her own room, accompanied by her

husband, after which Clara went to her apartment, which was rendered

chilly, by the small fire having nearly gone out; as it had been hastily

kindled by a careless servant.

“After all,” soliloquized Clara, throwing herself on a chair in her

cheerless apartment, “after all, it is not so very delightful in the

city as I anticipated. Dear Cousin Florence is very kind and

affectionate, and yet it seems to me, that she is a little thoughtless,

and although I would not mention it to any one, yet I think she

considers my comfort and amusement very little, and is so domestic

herself, that she thinks I ought to be so too, never considering for a

moment that she has a husband and children to interest and occupy her

mind, while I am left to my own resources. Dull as my cousin seems to

consider my own home, I am beginning to wish I had never left it; there

every one studied my tastes, and sought to promote my happiness; here I

am completely thrown into the shade. But one thing I have learned, and

that is, that whoever has a happy home should never sigh for the

gayeties of a city life, for they may feel assured, that they will enjoy

more true happiness at their own home, in partaking of the pleasures

which it affords, and performing the duties which it enjoins.” As our

heroine pronounced these words her eyes fell on an open drawer, where,

crushed and faded, were carelessly thrown the bouquet of orange flowers

which Edward had given her, and while her now fast falling tears dropped

over the neglected token, how bitterly did she chide herself for the

light value which she had attached to her last precious interview with

_him_ to whom, however she might strive to conceal them even from

herself, she now felt that she must ever cherish sentiments of the

sincerest affection.

CHAPTER IV.

In early youth when Hope is new,

The heart expands with love and joy,

Each prospect wears a brighter hue,

And pleasure seems without alloy.

E. M. B.

“My dear Florence,” said Mr. Cleveland, as he entered the room, some

days after the circumstances related in the preceding chapter; “Mr.

Preston is in the parlor, and if you and Cousin Clara wish to see him I

will take you out.”

“Certainly, Henry,” replied Mrs. Cleveland, “I will go as soon as I can

change my dress. Wait for me, dearest Clara, I am always so terribly

afraid of Mr. Preston.”

Clara’s heart beat tumultuously at the thought of meeting Mr. Preston,

who was an eminent literary character, and nearly related to Edward

Seymour, and Clara knew that the latter would not only be pleased to

hear from his cousin and early instructor, whom he had not seen for a

considerable length of time, but had expressed an anxious wish that she

should see and become acquainted with him. Meanwhile Mrs. Cleveland,

accompanied by Clara, went to her own room and proceeded to arrange her

dress, a task in which she, indeed, seemed desirous to be expeditious,

but which she in reality, loitered over for such a length of time, as

almost to exhaust our heroine’s patience. At length, when the last

ribbon had been fastened, and the last ornament arranged, Mrs. Cleveland

said, “Well, Cousin Clara, I am ready; yet, stop one moment, and let me

pacify my little Lucy, she is so fretful.” But the one “moment” was

extended to several, and as Mrs. Cleveland turned to the door, her

husband entered it and informed her that Mr. Preston had just gone, as

he was compelled to leave the city that day, and the boat was just

starting.

“Really, my dear,” added he, “it is a pity you did not make more haste,

I never saw Mr. Preston so agreeable.” Without waiting to hear Mr.

Cleveland’s comments, or Mrs. Cleveland’s regrets, poor Clara turned,

disappointed, to the window to catch a glimpse of one so nearly

connected with her lover.

Thus the winter passed fleetly away, and although Clara certainly spent

some portions of her time agreeably, and made some very pleasant

acquaintances, yet, on the whole, she was much disappointed with her

visit to the city; during which she was not only deprived of many novel

and amusing scenes, highly interesting to young persons, by her cousin’s

indolence and want of thought, but was, by the same culpable negligence,

prevented from seeing many of the curiosities of the place, from a view

of which she had promised herself much amusement, as her residence in

the country had hitherto precluded her from any thing of the kind; while

Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland erroneously imagined that whatever was stale to

them must necessarily be so to our heroine. Besides these sources of

vexation, Clara had one, which Mrs. Cleveland, habitually careless in

money matters, could not sympathize with more than she did with her

other annoyances, and this was the state of her purse, as Mrs.

Cleveland, with characteristic thoughtlessness insisted upon Clara’s

purchasing whatever was handsome or fashionable, without regard to

expense.

In accordance with this habit, Mrs. Cleveland one morning addressed

Clara in the following manner:

“At last, my dear cousin, we are to have an excellent performance by the

Thalian Association; and I have been anxious for you to see one, ever

since you have been with us; you know there has been only one this

winter, and then I could not go because the children were so cross, but

the little rogues shall not prevent our going this time. By the way, my

dear Clara, Mrs. Dawson has some elegant head-dresses, and we must go

down this evening and get one for you.”

“But, Cousin Florence, you don’t recollect that I have several already,

and one that I have never worn.”

“La, Clara, you wore that to Mrs. Armand’s party.”

“But the wreath of white roses, cousin.”

“Oh, Clara, that is too simple altogether.”

“To tell you the truth, Cousin Florence, the sum of money mamma gave me

when I left home was, I thought, much more than I should need, but I now

find that it is nearly expended, and if I purchase these superfluities I

must exceed that sum, and you know that our circumstances are limited.”

“Pshaw, child, what of that? you can get all you want from your mother’s

business man.”

Now, our heroine ought to have had moral courage enough to have firmly

declined making the unnecessary purchase, but it must be recollected

that she was very young, and being always accustomed to depend on her

mother in such matters, it will not be wondered at if she quietly gave

up the point.

As soon as the head-dress, which was a very handsome one for six

dollars, was purchased Mrs. Cleveland turned to a ribbon-box, and

selecting a very pretty piece insisted upon Clara’s purchasing it: “Yes,

Clara,” said she, “it is only four dollars.”

“Really, I do not think I need it, Cousin Florence,” replied our

heroine.

But Mrs. Cleveland would hear no objections, so the sash was purchased,

and Clara with her cousin left the shop. When they returned home the

sash was much admired by every one; but Mrs. Cleveland discovered that

it was too long, and cutting off the superfluity, saying that, “it would

make beautiful pin-cushions for the fair which Clara expected would take

place shortly after her return home.”

But Mrs. Cleveland might have spared herself the trouble of assigning

any use to the ribbon, for Johnny having risen in haste from the

dinner-table, his hands were in such a state as, after having possessed

himself of the ribbon, soon to render it unfit for pin-cushions or any

other purpose. “Johnny! you mischief,” exclaimed his mother, “Cousin

Clara’ll whip you.” She would have been mortified had she known that

Clara felt very much inclined to do so.

The evening at length arrived, which Clara hoped so much to enjoy; but

here again our heroine was destined to disappointment, for immediately

after tea, Mrs. Cleveland observed,

“Really, my dear Clara, I am very sorry, but Mr. Cleveland has gone to

the Odd Fellows Lodge, he expressed his intention before I said any

thing about the performance; and though he would willingly have staid

and gone with us, yet I did so much dislike to disconcert, even the

least of his arrangements, that I said nothing about it. Never mind, my

love, there will be many more performances before you leave Savannah.”

Clara knew that she must shortly return home, and that it was probable

there would not be another performance before she left town, and when

she thought that she could not gratify her little brother and sister, as

she had promised, with an account of the many beautiful things which she

expected to see there, and thought—shall we confess it—of her new sash

and head-dress, she retired to her own room, and indulged in a girlish

burst of tears.

In a few moments a knock was heard at the door, and hastily drying her

tears, she opened the door, when a servant entered and gave her a letter

from her mother, which informed her that, Mr. B—, an old friend of the

family, would visit Savannah in the course of a few days, and that if

Clara felt disposed, it would be an opportunity for her to return home;

at the same time, she desired her to consult her own inclinations on the

subject. Clara’s eyes sparkled at the thoughts of again being with the

dear ones at Primrose Cottage, and she retired to rest, determined to

accept Mr. B—’s protection home.

On the following morning, when Clara entered the breakfast-room, Mrs.

Cleveland exclaimed, “My dear Clara, what do you think, Mrs. Wellwood’s

ball, that has been so much talked of, comes off next Wednesday evening,

and cards have just been left for us; now I will tell you what we will

do this very morning, we will go to Dawson’s, and you shall get one of

those beautiful robes, they are just twelve dollars, and how sweet you

will look, for I will tell you, Clara, what I never did before, that

there are few girls in Savannah with half your attractions. Now, will it

not be delightful?” Clara hesitated a moment, but considered that the

enjoyment of the ball would not be adequate to the expense, besides

preventing her return home with Mr. B—, she therefore replied:

“In consequence of a letter I last night received from mamma, I shall

find it necessary, my dear cousin, to return home before that time.”

“Oh, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, “how can you leave the city for

that dull place?” And Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland added many arguments and

entreaties to prevail on her to remain; but Clara had made her decision,

she therefore affectionately but firmly insisted upon adhering to it;

and the few remaining days of her stay were spent in taking leave of her

friends, and making preparations for her journey.

CHAPTER V.

The wild rose, eglantine and broom

Scattered around their rich perfume. SCOTT.

Sweet is the hour that brings us home.

_Quoted from recollection._

It was a bright and beautiful morning in March, when Clara, after taking

an affectionate leave of her cousin, whom, despite her little foibles,

she tenderly loved, was seated by her old friend and commenced her

homeward journey.

March, in our southern clime, is not always rude and boisterous, but has

many a gentle day, when Nature is dressed in as lovely a garb as she

wears at any season of the year, and such a day was the one of which we

speak; the woods were covered with fresh green leaves, the marshes and

banks of the streams were gay with the yellow jessamine, the dew-drops

sparkled like diamonds in the morning sun, and the cooing of the

turtle-dove, the cheerful notes of the mockingbird, and the fresh

country air that fanned her cheek, were to Clara like friends of her

early days. The sun was just setting when from a winding in the road

Clara obtained a glance of Primrose Cottage, as it stood imbosomed in

trees arrayed in the freshest green—of the river, whose banks, where

she had pursued her childish sports, were now decked with wild flowers

of every hue, and finally, of the group of expecting friends, who at the

sound of wheels had hastened into the piazza, and Clara’s heart beat

high as she recognized Edward, the foremost of the party.

Clara was soon out of the carriage, and in the arms of her mother, nor

did Edward neglect to press her hand very tenderly, as he handed her

from the carriage, after which she was conducted into the house.

“And, now, which do you like best, _Home_ or the _City_, sister?” asked

little Rosa, when Clara had reached her own room, and was removing her

traveling dress, and arranging her hair.

“Home, my dear Rosa,” replied our heroine, “there I enjoy myself much

more than I ever have during my visit to the city, and yet, mamma,”

added she, “if I had a house in Savannah, I would have young ladies to

visit me, and I know I would make these visits delightful.”

They now returned to the parlor, where they had left Mr. Seymour, and

after tea, Clara sat once more with Edward in the fragrant vine-covered

piazza, before mentioned, where the moonbeams sparkled on the seat they

occupied, through a richly blossoming mass of yellow jessamine—that

dear seat, which seemed intended for the very use of which it was made,

namely, that of Edward’s offering his hand, and of Clara’s accepting the

offer, which was sealed by—no matter what it was sealed by, gentle

reader, only accept that patient lover, whom you have been so long

trifling with, and you will soon find out for yourself.

* * * * *

SPRING SNIPE SHOOTING OF 1850.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “WARWICK WOODLANDS,” “MY SHOOTING

BOX,” ETC.

IT is a singular thing, and one which elucidates the great research

necessary, and the extreme difficulties encountered, in the attempt to

establish facts of natural history with regard to birds of passage, that

this beautiful little bird, the general favorite of the sportsman and

the epicure, well known to all classes of men, and a visitant, in some

one of its closely allied varieties, of every known nation, is still a

mystery, as regards some of its habits, and continues to baffle the

inquiries of the most learned and inquisitive ornithologists.

Its habits, the nature of its food, and therefore the necessities of its

existence, render it an inhabitant of temperate climates, and of regions

in which the moist and loamy soil, from which it derives its sustenance

of small worms, insects, and the like, is not frozen during the period

of its visitations so hard as to preclude its boring with its delicate

and sensitive bill for its semi-aquatic prey of worms and larvæ.

Still, as extreme cold prevents it from obtaining subsistence, extreme

heat would appear to be still less congenial to its tastes or

temperament; for, whereas it lingers in the north until autumnal frosts

seal up the marshes and the soft stream margins against its probing

bill, it flies from its winter quarters in the rice-fields of Carolina

and Georgia, and the farther morasses of Texas and New Mexico, the

instant that opening spring admits of its return to the fresh meadows

and pure rivulets of the north-east.

The winter quarters of this bird, then, are fairly ascertained, ranging

from Carolina southward until almost the northern limits of the Tropics;

thence, so soon as the blue-bird begins to pipe in the apple-trees, the

shad to appear in the rivers, the willow-buds to turn yellow, and the

frogs to croak and chirrup, with us to the northward, the snipe is seen

everywhere, hurrying, according to the progress of the season, singly,

in whisps of ten or twelve, or in huge flights, ever, ever, northwardly.

In Maryland, in Delaware, in southern Pennsylvania and New Jersey, he is

wont to appear from the 1st to the 20th of March; in New York and New

Jersey northward, from the 15th of March to the 20th of April, remaining

for a longer or shorter period according to the steadiness of the

weather, the state of the ground as regards wet or drought, and the

geniality of the season. In mild, soft, temperate, moist seasons, with a

prevalence of westerly weather, he will linger with us into the lap of

June; and in such seasons, more or less, he woos his mate, nidificates

and rears his young among us, from the Raritan and the Passaic northward

and eastward to the Great Lakes, and throughout Michigan, Wisconsin

probably, and Canada west, up far into the Arctic Circles.

Still, those which breed with us in the United States, and even in the

Canadas, are but as drops of water to an ocean, to those which rush on

the untiring pinions moved by amatory instinct to the far breeding

grounds of Labrador, Symsonia, and Boothia Felix, where it is _supposed_

they resort to rear their young in hyperborean solitude, thence to

reissue, in the summer and the earlier autumn, and re-populate our

midland meadows.

In the neighborhood of Amherstburg, Canada west, they appear very early;

often in February of mild seasons, always in March; and there may breed,

and remain until banished by severe cold. I shot one there myself last

autumn, the last bird of the season, very late in November, I believe on

the 28th or 29th; and with the plover, the Hudsonian godwit, and the

Esquimaux curlew, they were seen there this spring in the first days of

March.

Around Quebec, I have shot English snipe on the uplands, in fallow

fields and rushy pastures—for the grass in the morasses does not begin

to shoot in those far northern latitudes, so as to afford them shelter,

until much later in the year—in the end of April and the beginning of

May; but they arrive there only by small scattered whisps, or single

birds, tarry a few short days, and flit onward to their unknown

destination.

This, then, is their mystery—that in no known land are they perennial;

in no ascertained region—so far as I can learn—are they positively

known to breed in the vast concourses which must breed somewhere, in

order to supply the prodigious flights which issue yearly from the

northern regions of three continents, Europe, America, and Asia, to fill

the warmer countries, and to be slaughtered literally by myriads, season

after season, without undergoing much if any visible diminution of

numbers.

Ever, in all places, in all countries, in all continents, which they

visit in spring, they are seen pressing northward still, from March

until May; no one being able to say here ends their tide of emigration,

this is their chosen resting place.

Their breeding season is from the middle of May to the beginning of

July; on the 4th of which month I have shot young birds, with the

pin-feathers undeveloped, as large as the parents—these birds having

been hatched on the ground whereon I killed them. Indeed, it is my

opinion, that all birds which tarry in our latitudes beyond the 10th of

May, either _do_ breed with us, or would do so but for the persecution

of the pot-hunter—all which intend to steer farther north having

departed ere that time.

About the 15th of July the returning hordes, young birds and old

together, full grown and in fine condition, begin to reappear in the

marshes of Quebec and its vicinity, which may be said to be the

extremest northern point from which we have continuous and authentic

annual information of their appearance. At that time the slaughter of

the snipe on the marshes of Chateau Richer, and of the islands farther

down the St. Lawrence, is prodigious. There they linger until the frosts

become so severe as to drive them from their feeding-grounds, which

generally takes place early in September, from which time, throughout

that month, all October, and a portion—more or less according to the

season—of November, and even December, every likely swamp, morass, and

feeding-ground of Canada west, of the western, midland, and eastern

states, from which they are not persecuted and banished by the incessant

banging of pot-hunters and idle village boys, swarms with them, in

quantities sufficient to afford sport to hundreds, and a delicacy to

thousands of our inhabitants, if they were protected from useless and

unmeaning persecution, by which alone they are prevented from being as

numerous among us as at any former period.

For I am well assured, that, unlike the woodcock, which, breeding in our

midst, and dwelling with us for months at a time, is annually

slaughtered while breeding, hatching, or immature, and is thus in rapid

progress toward extirpation—the snipe, unmolested in its

breeding-grounds, is not diminished in its numerical production, but is

rendered scarcer in thickly settled districts, nigh to large towns, by

incessant harassing, which drives it to remoter and securer

feeding-grounds.

I do not mean by this, however, to assert that the abolition of spring

snipe-shooting would not be an advantage—on the contrary, I am

convinced that it would; although well assured that no such measure can

be hoped at the hands of our legislators; for, as the snipe ordinarily

lays four eggs, the destruction of each one of the breeders on their way

northward, of course diminishes the stock of the coming season by five

birds.

So much for the times and places of the snipe’s migrations. Of his

appearance or characteristics—so well is he known—it is almost useless

to speak! It may, however, be well to observe that although commonly

termed the ENGLISH SNIPE, our bird is a thorough _native American_,

differing from the bird of Europe in being about one inch smaller in

every way, and in having two more feathers, sixteen instead of fourteen,

in the tail. In other minute, but still _permanent_, and therefore

characteristic distinctions, it differs from the Asiatic and Antarctic

snipes; although in their rapid, zigzag flight and shrill squeak when

flushed; in their irregular soaring through the air in gloomy weather;

in their perpendicular towering and plumb descent, their drumming with

the wing-feathers, and bleating with the voice, during the

breeding-season, all the species or varieties so closely resemble each

other that they are far more easily confounded than distinguished by the

unscientific sportsman.

The American bird has, however, two or three habits, during early

spring-shooting, which I have never observed in the European species,

nor seen noticed in any work of natural history; the first of these is

frequenting underwood and bushy covert abounding in springs and

intersected by cattle-tracks, and occasionally even high woods, during

wild, stormy, and dark weather, especially when snow-squalls are

driving; and this is a habit of the bird meriting the attention of the

sportsman, as in such weather, when he finds no birds on the open and

unsheltered marshes, he will do well to beat the neighboring underwoods,

if any, and if not, the nearest swampy woodlands; by doing which he will

oftentimes fill his bag when he despairs of any sport. The second habit

is that of alighting, not unfrequently, on rail-fences, or stumps, and

even on high trees, which I think I can safely assert that the European

bird _never does_; and the third is the utterance, when in the act of

skimming over the meadows, after soaring, bleating, and drumming for an

hour at a stretch in mid air, of “a sharp reiterated chatter, consisting

of a quick, jarring repetition of the syllables, _kek-kek-kek-kek-kek_,

many times in succession, with a rising and falling inflection, like

that of a hen which has just laid an egg.”[5]

There is no JACK SNIPE in America, though many persons ignorantly and

obstinately assert the reverse; the true Jack Snipe being a northern

bird of Europe and Asia, visiting the milder climates during the hard

weather. It is an exact counterpart of the English Snipe, only about

one-half smaller; it never utters any cry on rising, and rarely flies

above one hundred yards, often dropping within fifty feet of the muzzle

of a gun just discharged at it, although unwounded. The bird which is

here confounded with it, is the PECTORAL SANDPIPER, a bird about

one-third smaller than the snipe, of a lighter brown, with a short,

arched bill, and a feeble, quavering whistle. It is found

indiscriminately on the sea-shore, and in upland marshes; I have shot it

from Lake Huron to the Penobscot, and the Capes of the Delaware; it lies

well before dogs, which will point it, and is a good bird on the table.

It is known in Long Island as the “Meadow Snipe” and the “Short Neck,”

in New Jersey, and thence westward, as the “Fat Bird,” or “Jack Snipe”

indiscriminately. It is not a snipe at all, but a Sandpiper, _Tringa

Pectoralis_.

The only other true snipe ascertained to exist in America, is the RED

BREASTED SNIPE, _Scolopax Noveboracensis_, better known as the

“DOWITCHER,” an unmeaning name, adopted and persevered in by the Baymen,

or as the “Quail Snipe.” At Egg Harbor the gunners call it the

“Brown-back.” It is found only on the salt marshes, and is never hunted

with dogs but shot from ambush over decoys.

It appears, then, that the coming and stay of the common snipe in our

districts, in spring, is very uncertain, and dependent on the state and

steadiness of the weather. Some seasons, they will stay for weeks on the

moist, muddy flats among the young and succulent herbage, growing fat

and lazy, lying well to the dog, and affording great sport. Sometimes

they will merely alight, feed, rest, and resume their flight, never

giving the sportsman a chance even of knowing that they have been, and

are gone, except by their chalkings and borings where they have fed.

Again, at other seasons, they will lie singly, or in scattered whisps on

the uplands, in fallow fields, even among stunted brushwood, lurking

_perdu_ all day, and resorting to the marshes by night, leaving the

traces of their presence in multitudes, to perplex the sportsman, who,

perhaps, beats the ground for them, day after day, only to find that

they were, but are not.

This variance in the habit of the snipe it is, which makes him so hard a

bird to kill; for, although he is perplexing from his rapid and twisting

flight to a novice, I consider him, to a cool old hand, as easy a bird

to kill as any that flies. The snipe invariably rises against or across

wind, and in doing so hangs for an instant on the air before he can

gather his way; that instant is the time in which to shoot him, and that

trick of rising against wind is his bane with the accomplished shot and

sportsman, for by beating _down the wind_, keeping his brace of dogs

quartering the ground before him, _across the wind_, so that they will

still have the air in their noses, he compels the bird to rise before

him, and cross to the right on the left hand, affording him a clear and

close shot, instead of whistling straight away up wind, dead ahead of

him, exposing the smallest surface to his aim, and frequently getting

off without a shot, as it will constantly do, if the shooter beats _up

wind_, even with the best and steadiest dogs in the world. The _knack_

of shooting snipe, as some people who can’t do it choose to call it, is

no other than the knack of shooting quick, shooting straight, and

shooting well ahead of cross shots—this done with a gun that will throw

its charge close at 40 to 50 yards, with 1½ oz. of No. 8 shot, equal

measures of shot and of Brough’s diamond-grain powder will fetch three

snipe out of every five, which is great work, in spite of what the

cockneys say, who pick their shots, never firing at a hard bird, or one

over twenty paces away, and then boast of killing twenty shots in

succession. _Verbum sap._

The great difference of the grounds to be beaten in different weathers;

the difficulty in determining which ground to assign to which day; the

immense extent of country to be traversed, if birds are scarce or wild,

or if there are many varieties of soil, covert, and feeding in one

range, and the sportsman fail in his two or three first beats in finding

game, and therefore have to persevere till he do find them, these, and

the hardness of the walking in rotten quagmires and deep morasses,

affording no sure foot-hold, and often knee-deep in water, these it is

which make successful snipe-shooting one of the greatest feats in the

art, and the crack snipe-finder and snipe-killer—for the two are one,

or rather the second depends mainly on the first—one of the first, if

not the first artist in the line.

It is from this necessity of beating, oftentimes, very extensive tracts

of land before finding birds, and therefore of beating very rapidly if

you would find birds betimes, that I so greatly prefer and recommend the

use of very fast, very highly-bred, and very far-ranging setters, to

that of any pointer in the world, for snipe-shooting in the open—apart

from their great superiority over the pointer in hardihood, endurance of

cold, powers of retrieving, beauty and good-nature.

Of course, speaking of dogs, whether setter, pointer, dropper, or

cocking-spaniel, it is understood that we speak of dogs of equal

qualities of nose, staunchness to the point, and steadiness at coming to

the charge the instant a shot is fired. No dog which does not do all

these things habitually, and of course, is worth the rope that should

hang him; and no man is worthy the name of a shot or a sportsman, who

cannot, and does not, keep his dogs, whether setters, pointers, or

cockers, under such command that he can turn them to the right or left,

bring them to heel, stop them, or down charge them, at two hundred yards

distance if it be needful.

If these things, then, be equal, as they can be made equal, though I

admit a setter to be more difficultly kept in discipline than a

pointer—the fastest setter you can get, is the best dog for

snipe-shooting; his superiority, in other points, infinitely

counterbalancing the greater trouble it requires to break and control

him. I am well aware that it has been said, and that by authorities,

that the best dog over which to shoot snipe, is an old, slow,

broken-down, staunch pointer, who crawls along at a foot’s pace, and

never misses, overruns, or flushes a bird.

And so, in two cases, he is; but in one case, no dog is just as good as

he is, and in the other, the argument is one of incapacity to use what

is best, and therefore is no argument.

If birds are so thick on the grounds, and so tame that you can fill your

bag in walking over one or two acres at a foot’s pace, a very slow

pointer _is_ better than fast setters—but no dog at all, your walking

up your birds yourself, which you can do just as quickly as the dog can,

is better than the slow pointer. Indeed, on very small grounds, very

thickly stocked, it is by far the most killing way to use no dog, but to

walk up the birds.

If a man is so weak and infirm of purpose, or so ignorant of the first

principles of his art, as to be unable to control his setters, he must,

I suppose, use a slow pointer; but it cannot matter what dog such a man

uses, he never can be a sportsman.

If there be a hundred birds lying, and lying well on one acre of

feeding-ground, the birds can be killed without a dog, or with a slow

dog, as you will; any man who can pull a trigger must fill his bag.

If there be a hundred birds scattered, wild, over five hundred acres of

ground, where are you with your slow dog, or your no dog? Just no where.

While you are painfully picking up your three or four birds with your

slow pointer, your true sportsman, and slashing walker, with his racing

up-head and down-stern setters, will have found fifty, and bagged

twenty-five or thirty.

There are ten days in a season when birds are wild and sparse, for one

when they are congregated and lie hard; and the argument comes to this,

that when birds can be killed with ease, even without a dog at all, a

slow pointer is the best; when they are difficult to find, and hard to

kill, even by a crack shot, the slow pointer is no where, and of no use,

while the racing setters will fill the bag to a certainty.

For my own part, I can say to a certainty, that I have had more sport,

and killed more birds, by many, many times, when birds have been widely

scattered, and difficult to find, and when I have walked half or a

quarter of a mile between every shot fired, than I ever have when birds

have lain close, and jumped up at every pace under my feet; and for a

simple reason, that the places in which birds so rise and lie, are rare

and of small extent, and the days on which they do so few and far apart.

Therefore I say, _friend_—for all true sportsmen I hold friends—choose

well thy day, when the air is soft and genial, the wind south-westerly,

the meadows green with succulent and tender grasses, and moist with the

deposit of subsiding waters—select thy grounds carefully; in such a

time as I have named, the wide and open marsh meadows; but if the wind

be from the eastward, cold, squally and snow laden, then try the bushy,

briary brakes, where cattle poach the soil, and the marsh waters creep,

or the verge of the meadows, under the lea of the maple swamp, or at the

worst the very grounds where you would beat for woodcock in July—begin

from the farthest windward point of thy beat, casting thy brace of

_setters_ off from thy heel, to the right and left, and so often as they

have diverged one hundred yards, taming them with a whistle and a wave

of the hand, so that they shall cross continually before thy face, down

wind of thee, at some thirty paces distant; and so persevere—if birds

be plenty and lie well, walking not to exceed two miles the hour; if

they be rare and wild, four miles, or by ’r lady! five, if thou mayest

compass it. If one dog stand, while the other’s back is turned, whistle,

that he shall turn his head, then hold thy hand aloft, with one quiet

“_toho!_” but no shooting; if he be broke, he shall stand like a carved

stone. Then walk up to the point leisurely, be sure that thou go _down

wind_, making a circuit if needs be, with thy gun at half-cock, the ball

of thy thumb on the hammer, and the nail of thy fore-finger inside the

guard, but not upon the trigger. When the bird rises, cock your gun, and

down him! If thy dogs do their devoir, they shall drop to the charge

unbidden; if they do not, raise thy hand with an imperious gesture, and

cry coolly and calmly “down charge;” but however ill they behave, nay!

even if they run in and eat thy bird, move not till thy gun is loaded;

then calmly walk up to them, drag them, pitilessly scourging them all

the way, to the place where they should have charged, and rate them in

the best of thy dog-language. I say “scourging them _pitilessly_,”

because that is, in truth, the merciful course; for so one or two

whippings will suffice, instead of constant small chastisement and

irritation, which spoil a dog’s temper and break his spirit, without

conquering his obstinacy, or gaining the ascendancy over him.

If, on the contrary, they charge as decent dogs should and do charge, so

soon as thy gun be loaded, lift them, with a “Hold up, good lads!” and

cast them gently onward, checking them with a “Steady, dogs!” if they

show disposition to be rash, until they point the dead bird, if killed,

or draw on him, if running. Then, with a “Toho! Steady!” walk to their

point; pick up the bird under their noses, praising them the while, or

bid them “Fetch!” according to the circumstances of the case; but if

they retrieve the bird without pointing him, or even after pointing him,

until told to “fetch,” let chastisement not hide her head.

This, rest assured, friend is the way to do it.

For the rest, whether thou wear fen-boots, or shoes and trowsers, or, as

I use, by deliberate preference, arch-boots, corduroy shorts, and

leggins, suit thine own fancy; but let thy shooting-jacket be roomy on

the chest and shoulders, and well supplied with ample pockets. Let thy

gun be—for my choice—of 31 inches, 12 or 14 gauge, 7¾ to 8 pounds. Let

thy powder be Brough’s diamond grain, or John Hall’s glass—on no

account any other—thou mayest get it of Henry T. Cooper, in Broadway,

New York—thy shot No. 8—thy caps Starkey’s central fire, or Moore &

Gray’s, or Westley Richards’—by no means _French_, or Walker’s, the

first of which _fly_, while the latter are, I think, corrosive. Forget

not to have in thy pocket a dog-whip, a stout knife, a yard or two of

strong cord, a pocket-flask, replenished, as thou wilt, with old Otard,

or as I recommend thee, Ferintosh or Glenlivat whisky—stick in the seam

of thy waistcoat a strong darning-needle, headed with sealing-wax, it is

the only true and responsible gun-picker; and so, good sport to thee,

and health and temper to enjoy it!—as good sport, gentle reader, as I

trust myself to enjoy this coming week of April, the rain-gods and the

river-gods permitting, and the nymphs remembering us, as their long-time

adorer, in their kind orisons.

_The Cedars, March 25, 1850._

-----

[5] Frank Forester’s Field Sports of North America. Vol. i. p 161.

* * * * *

SONNET.—FROM THE ITALIAN.

BY GIDDINGS H. BALLOU.

WHAT is it to the fields of heaven

Light hath given,

Radiance glowing, unexpected,

And from soft imbosomed bowers,

And od’rous flowers,

Hath sweet Spring to us directed?

See! by gentle May upholden,

Beech-tree olden

Joyful welcomes springing leaflet;

Spring the flowers of glorious tinting,

Fair imprinting

Meadows kissed by smiling wavelet.

Ah, ’tis Lilla, ever charming,

Soul-disarming,

Gathers flowers, her hair adorning!

Dearest Lilla, dost discover

With thy lover

Spring and Summer now returning?

Flows for thee the tiny river,

Cheerful giver,

Early green and freshness bringing;

Springs for thee the joyous morning,

Heaven adorning,

All the air with praises ringing.

Shepherds, shepherds, to the chorus!

See, before us,

Binds with flowers her hair dark flowing—

While our hearts all homage will her—

Dearest Lilla,

Sing her name with praises glowing!

* * * * *

THE FINE ARTS.

NATIONAL ACADEMY OF DESIGN.—The twenty-fifth anniversary of this

institution was held on the first of last month, at the new galleries,

No. 663 Broadway, in the rear of the Stuyvesant Institute. It is

extremely gratifying to the friends of Art to know that this excellent

nursery of artistic talent has now suitable buildings for its

accommodation, and the display of the productions of the painters of New

York. It was only last fall that definite arrangements were made for the

construction of this building, and already, as if at the bidding of the

genii who ministered to the wants of our youthful friend Aladdin, it has

sprung into existence. This result has been effected by the constant

exertions and devoted attentions of the building trustees, Messrs.

Durand, Cummings, Ingraham, Edmonds, Sterges and Leupp. The new edifice

is situated in the heart of the fashion of the metropolis; the galleries

are five in number, all intercommunicating, well lighted, airy, spacious

and elegantly neat. The _coup d’œil_ of the whole, when filled with

works of art for exhibition, will present one of the most animating and

beautiful scenes which the city can afford. The artists of New York have

a right to be proud of this edifice, and we do not doubt that the public

will be equally proud of those splendid productions with which they will

adorn its walls. At the advanced period, when we write this article, it

is impossible to give any definite account of the present exhibition;

but the notes of preparation, the foreshadowings and the glorious

promise of an array of talented names, are the tokens that it will be of

unusual brilliancy. Every exertion will be made to give _éclat_ to the

opening, and more pains will be bestowed on this display, that its

_debut_ before the public may be dazzling and defiant of criticism.

We learn from the New York papers, and from other sources, that all the

artists of that city will offer “tastes of their quality” to the public.

Huntington, who has been exhibiting nearly all his prominent works for

his own benefit, states in the catalogue that his latest efforts have

been retained privately for the opening of the new gallery. Durand has a

new work, of which report speaks in the most rapturous terms; this, with

others of his elaborate and highly finished compositions, will be

displayed. Cummings, Ingraham, Gray, Edmonds, Elliott, Cropsey, Stearns,

Kensett, Gignoux, Cafferty, Edouart, Audubon, and others, will

contribute portraits, compositions, landscapes, etc. In fact, the

artists have determined by every means in their power to make the first

exhibition in the new building both brilliant and attractive. We hope by

our next number to be able to speak more fully of this exhibition.

* * * * *

THE PHILADELPHIA ART UNION.—It is but a few years only since the first

plan of an Art Union was suggested in Germany, and already they are in

existence wherever the beautiful is venerated and art admired. In this

country we have Art Unions in New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Newark and

Cincinnati. The Philadelphia institution differs from all the rest in

its mode of distribution, and follows, we believe, in every respect the

London one, which has been by far the most successful ever started. In

New York the managers purchase pictures and distribute them. Under this

arrangement it frequently happens that the person who draws a prize is

disappointed, because he has not obtained some particular picture in the

collection which pleased his fancy. The Philadelphia plan is to divide

the proceeds of the subscription money into various sums, which are

allotted to the subscribers, who with the certificates, when successful,

can choose any picture which may suit their taste, provided it is by an

American artist, and on exhibition in some accredited gallery of art in

the country. The annual distribution of the Philadelphia Art Union takes

place on the 6th of this month, and we are pleased to learn that its

prospects are most flattering. The engraving for this year is from

HUNTINGTON’S celebrated picture of “Mercy’s Dream,” which will be

executed in a mixed style of line, stipple and mezzotint by A. H.

RITCHIE, of New York. This composition is derived from Bunyan’s

Pilgrim’s Progress, where Mercy relates to Christiana the sweet dream

she had in a solitary place, where she saw a winged messenger

approaching, who placed a crown upon her head, and invited her to a

golden gate, etc. The landscape of this picture is clothed in the first

shades of evening, and the figures of Mercy and the Angel form the

attraction of the work. In calm, spiritual expression, anatomical

precision, delicacy of coloring, and perfect keeping, there is no modern

work which can surpass this.

The Free Gallery of this Institution, located at No. 210 Chestnut

Street, has doubtless had a most beneficial influence in disseminating a

taste for Art, and preparing the public for its just appreciation. The

walls of this gallery have been constantly supplied with much-admired

pictures, and a crowd of visiters are always in attendance. We hope

hereafter to find much pleasure in referring to the new pictures

exhibited in this gallery. The effects which are dependent upon the

success of the Art Union, are shown by the great impetus which has been

given of late years to many extremely varied branches of manufactures

and commerce by a judicious encouragement of the Arts of Design. It has

been found, more particularly in Europe, that numerous classes, hitherto

considered as inoperative and useless, have been supplied with

employment, and entire districts revivified, as it were, by the

establishment of certain manufactures, whose excellence depended mainly

upon the skill of the artist. The surest means of effecting this result,

is to create a public taste, and not merely comply with it as it exists

at large; and it may be brought about by offering rewards for the best

designs, by the publication of the best specimens of Art at cheap

prices, by the erection of free galleries of painting, and chiefly by

the encouragement of Art Unions. With such objects in view, and such

results to achieve, the multiplication of these institutions in our

country must be regarded as a cheering indication of the true progress

of the age, and the precursor of a widely diffused love of the Beautiful

in Art, which cannot but tend to the general improvement of the useful

arts. All such results must be effected by our citizens at large, for we

cannot expect legislative aid, and hence it is that we feel the

necessity of impressing upon the public attention the operation of the

Art Unions, as the great popular plan for fostering talent, infusing a

love for the beautiful in Nature and Art, and cultivating those studies

which invariably mark national progress in civilization, refinement and

general happiness.

* * * * *

NEW JERSEY ART UNION.—We announce with great pleasure that an

association of the friends of art in Newark have drawn up the programme

of an Art Union, and made a stirring appeal to the citizens of the State

for encouragement and co-operation. A free gallery will be opened

immediately at Newark, and pictures purchased for distribution among

subscribers. For the present, no engraving will be contracted for, and

this heavy item being dispensed with, will increase the sum to be

appropriated for the purchase of paintings. We most cordially wish the

enterprise success, and trust that our New Jersey friends will be prompt

in sending their names to Thomas H. Stephens, the

Corresponding Secretary, at Newark.

* * * * *

GLIDDON’S PANORAMA OF THE NILE.—This magnificent work has been

exhibited in New York and Boston with great _éclat_. Mr. GLIDDON is

favorably and extensively known as a lecturer on hieroglyphical

literature, and has rendered popular throughout our country, the

wonderful discoveries and theories of the Champollionists of ancient

mythological history. As a work of art, the superiority of this panorama

cannot be doubted, when we mention the facts, derived from the Boston

Transcript, that while such artists as WARREN, BONOMI, and FAHEY, in

England, aided by numerous assistants, conceived and executed the

painting; Martin, the famed depictor of “Belshazzar’s Feast,”

volunteered the exquisite moonlight, sunset, and other transparent

scenes, where the effects of fire, light, and heat are produced with

magical skill, CARBOULD volunteered the magnificent Arabian horses, and

Weigall the boats, and similar objects that actually seem to spring

forth from the canvas. The spectator of the panorama begins his supposed

voyage at Cairo, ascends the eastern bank of the Nile to the second

cataract, and descends on the western bank, as far as the location of

the Sphinx. The interest is not in the ancient associations alone, but

Turks, Arabs, Bedouins, Nubians in their variegated costumes, Mohammed

Ali and his court, the manners, customs, and usages of oriental life,

with the various geological, botanical, zoological, and even

atmospherical singularities of the land are faithfully depicted. Even

the music which accompanies the exhibition is characteristically of

Eastern origin, and novel airs of Egypt, Arabia, Turkey, Greece, etc.,

are introduced. The whole may be considered as a work of infinite

attraction, and of a high order of art.

* * * * *

LE ROI D’YVETOT.—This comic opera, by Adolphe Adam, is but

little known in this country, except the overture, and it is very

recently that it has been presented, for the first time, to a London

audience. It was first produced October 1849, in Paris, at the Théâtre

Royal de l’Opéra Comique, and made a very decided impression. It is

founded on the political _chanson_ of Béranger, and of course the

caricatures of royalty, and the hits at the nobility, are the very life

of the drama. The music is full of vivacity and elegant melody. It is

somewhat singular that ADAM is an expert organist, and composes a fugue

or a comic strain with equal facility; his sacred compositions are very

grand, and he has a remarkable skill in adapting music to the most

fantastic ideas and expressions in a libretto. Many of his works in the

_opera buffa_ are well known in our country—the “Postilion de

Lonjumeau” and “Le Brasseur de Preston,” in particular, while the

mournful sweetness and touching simplicity of his ballet music, in

“Giselle,” have been often felt and enjoyed. We live in hopes that some

day we may hear “Le Roi d’Yvetot”—

——the king

In history little known,

Who thought that glory, useless thing,

Would not become his throne.

A cotton night-cap graced his brows,

Which Jeannette, mistress of his house,

Gave him as crown. O dear!

Oh! what a funny king was here.

* * * * *

MEYERBEER’S “PROPHETE” was given fifty times at the Grand Opera in

Paris, when it was withdrawn for a time, as Madame VIARDOT had to visit

Berlin, to fulfill an engagement. Madame CASTELLAN, so well remembered

in this country, sung the part of _Berthe_ in this opera.

* * * * *

VERDI has selected the subject of Shakspeare’s “Tempest,” for the

libretto of his next opera. The genius of VERDI will luxuriate in the

storm of the elements and the fierce contentions of passion, but he will

never be able to illustrate the spirit of the “_dainty Ariel_,” or the

innocent devotedness of _Miranda_. We should think, however, that he

will construct a magnificent composition upon the many sublime themes

and graphic word-paintings of the great bard.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_The Scarlet Letter, a Romance. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Boston:

Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo._

In this beautiful and touching romance Hawthorne has produced something

really worthy of the fine and deep genius which lies within him. The

“Twice Told Tales,” and “Mosses from an Old Manse,” are composed simply

of sketches and stories, and although such sketches and stories as few

living men could write, they are rather indications of the possibilities

of his mind than realizations of its native power, penetration, and

creativeness. In “The Scarlet Letter” we have a complete work, evincing

a true artist’s certainty of touch and expression in the exhibition of

characters and events, and a keen-sighted and far-sighted vision into

the essence and purpose of spiritual laws. There is a profound

philosophy underlying the story which will escape many of the readers

whose attention is engrossed by the narrative.

The book is prefaced by some fifty pages of autobiographical matter,

relating to the author, his native city of Salem, and the Custom House,

from which he was ousted by the Whigs. These pages, instinct with the

vital spirit of humor, show how rich and exhaustless a fountain of mirth

Hawthorne has at his command. The whole representation has the dreamy

yet distinct remoteness of the purely comic ideal. The view of Salem

streets; the picture of the old Custom House at the head of Derby’s

wharf, with its torpid officers on a summer’s afternoon, their chairs

all tipped against the wall, chatting about old stories, “while the

frozen witticisms of past generations were thawed out, and came bubbling

with laughter from their lips”—the delineation of the old Inspector,

whose “reminiscences of good cheer, however ancient the date of the

actual banquet, seemed to bring the savor of pig or turkey under one’s

very nostrils,” and on whose palate there were flavors “which had

lingered there not less than sixty or seventy years, and were still

apparently as fresh as that of the mutton-chop which he had just

devoured for his breakfast,” and the grand view of the stout Collector,

in his aged heroism, with the honors of Chippewa and Fort Erie on his

brow, are all encircled with that visionary atmosphere which proves the

humorist to be a poet, and indicates that his pictures are drawn from

the images which observation has left on his imagination. The whole

introduction, indeed, is worthy of a place among the essays of Addison

and Charles Lamb.

With regard to “The Scarlet Letter,” the readers of Hawthorne might have

expected an exquisitely written story, expansive in sentiment, and

suggestive in characterization, but they will hardly be prepared for a

novel of so much tragic interest and tragic power, so deep in thought

and so condensed in style, as is here presented to them. It evinces

equal genius in the region of great passions and elusive emotions, and

bears on every page the evidence of a mind thoroughly alive, watching

patiently the movements of morbid hearts when stirred by strange

experiences, and piercing, by its imaginative power, directly through

all the externals to the core of things. The fault of the book, if fault

it have, is the almost morbid intensity with which the characters are

realized, and the consequent lack of sufficient geniality in the

delineation. A portion of the pain of the author’s own heart is

communicated to the reader, and although there is great pleasure

received while reading the volume, the general impression left by it is

not satisfying to the artistic sense. Beauty bends to power throughout

the work, and therefore the power displayed is not always beautiful.

There is a strange fascination to a man of contemplative genius in the

psychological details of a strange crime like that which forms the plot

of the Scarlet Letter, and he is therefore apt to become, like

Hawthorne, too painfully anatomical in his exhibition of them.

If there be, however, a comparative lack of relief to the painful

emotions which the novel excites, owing to the intensity with which the

author concentrates attention on the working of dark passions, it must

be confessed that the moral purpose of the book is made more definite by

this very deficiency. The most abandoned libertine could not read the

volume without being thrilled into something like virtuous resolution,

and the roué would find that the deep-seeing eye of the novelist had

mustered the whole philosophy of that guilt of which practical roués are

but childish disciples. To another class of readers, those who have

theories of seduction and adultery modeled after the French school of

novelists, and for whom libertinism is of the brain, the volume may

afford matter for very instructive and edifying contemplation; for, in

truth, Hawthorne, in The Scarlet Letter, has utterly undermined the

whole philosophy on which the French novels rest, by seeing farther and

deeper into the essence both of conventional and moral laws; and he has

given the results of his insight, not in disquisitions and criticisms,

but in representations more powerful even than those of Sue, Dumas, or

George Sand. He has made his guilty parties end, not as his own fancy or

his own benevolent sympathies might dictate, but as the spiritual laws,

lying back of all persons, dictated to him. In this respect there is

hardly a novel in English literature more purely objective.

As everybody will read “The Scarlet Letter,” it would be impertinent to

give a synopsis of the plot. The principal characters, Dimmesdale,

Chillingworth, Hester, and little Pearl, all indicate a firm grasp of

individualities, although from the peculiar method of the story, they

are developed more in the way of logical analysis than by events. The

descriptive portions of the novel are in a high degree picturesque and

vivid, bringing the scenes directly home to the heart and imagination,

and indicating a clear vision of the life as well as forms of nature.

Little Pearl is perhaps Hawthorne’s finest poetical creation, and is the

very perfection of ideal impishness.

In common, we trust, with the rest of mankind, we regretted Hawthorne’s

dismissal from the Custom House, but if that event compels him to exert

his genius in the production of such books as the present, we shall be

inclined to class the Honorable Secretary of the Treasury among the

great philanthropists. In his next work we hope to have a romance equal

to The Scarlet Letter in pathos and power, but more relieved by touches

of that beautiful and peculiar humor, so serene and so searching, in

which he excels almost all living writers.

* * * * *

_Latter Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 1. The

Present Time. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co._

The reader of Carlyle will find nothing new in principle, and little new

in phraseology, in this pamphlet, but it is still fresh and racy, and

exhibits the author hammering as lustily as ever on his old anvil, with

his old tools. The picture given of the poor simple Pope, with the New

Testament in his hand—the pitying contempt with which Lamartine is

alluded to—and the view of American democracy—will be found the most

readable portions of the pamphlet. Lamartine, with his fine French

phrases and sentimentalities, looks small enough as subjected to the

surly tests of such an Icelandic critic as Carlyle—“a most eloquent,

fair-spoken literary gentleman, whom thoughtless persons took for a

prophet, priest, and heaven-sent evangelist, and whom a wise Yankee

friend of mine discerned to be properly ‘the first stump-orator in the

world, standing, too, on the highest stump for the time.’ _A sorrowful

spectacle to all men of reflection during the time he lasted, that poor

M. de Lamartine_; with nothing in him but melodious wind and _soft

sowder_, which he and others took for something divine, and not

diabolic! Sad enough: the eloquent latest impersonation of

Chaos-come-again; able to talk for itself, and declare persuasively that

_it_ is Cosmos! However, you have but to wait a little, in such cases;

all balloons do and must give up their gas in the pressure of things,

and are collapsed in a sufficiently wretched manner before long.” The

wise Yankee friend alluded to here is, we suppose, Mr. Emerson.

Carlyle, though he seems with De Tocqueville, to consider Democracy

inevitable in Europe, still despises and hates it, and thinks that even

in America it is nothing more than “Anarchy _plus_ the constable.” His

view of the United States, sufficiently contemptuous as a whole, closes

with a bitter, sardonic jest, which we think will make the tour of the

world, and injure us more than a thousand Trollopes and Basil Halls. He

asks, “What great human soul, what great thought, what great, noble

thing that one could worship, or loyally admire, has yet been produced

there?” We might answer this question easily, but Carlyle answers it in

a sufficiently provoking manner—“What have they done? They have doubled

their population every twenty years. They have begotten, with a rapidity

beyond recorded example, _eighteen millions of the greatest bores_ ever

seen in this world before—that, hitherto, is their feat in History.”

As regards Great Britain, Carlyle considers that the only practical way

to remedy its evils, is to reject all cant about liberty and

constitutional government, and enslave the lower classes. He accordingly

recommends to the English government a plan of enforced labor, and puts

an imaginary speech in the mouth of the Prime Minister, addressed to the

“floods of Irish and other Beggars, the able-bodied Lackalls, nomadic or

stationary, and the General Assembly, outdoor and indoor, of the Pauper

Populations of these Realms.” This speech sounds well enough as a joke,

provided a man can view a horde of men as he would so many horses, but

it is ridiculous as a practical exposition of principles. It is certain

that in one hour after a British minister had made such a declaration,

army, navy, and party would melt away from him, and he would be on the

gallows or in Bedlam. As a politician, Carlyle is little more than a

philosopher of sneers and negations, without one positive practical

principle. His idea of government implies a falsehood in fact, reposing

on the monstrous assumption that civilized society is composed of a vast

collection of men, little better than brutes, who would endure the

tyranny of a smaller number of despots, little better than Carlyle.

* * * * *

_Modern Literature and Literary Men: Being a Second Gallery of

Literary Portraits. By George Gilfillan: New York: D. Appleton &

Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

Mr. Emerson has remarked that “it makes a great difference in the force

of a sentence whether a man be behind it or no.” We hardly think that

there is a true man behind the best of Mr. Gilfillan’s sentences. He has

a mind of much sensitiveness to his own merits, and some to the merits

of others, and welters readily into the expression of both; but his

inspiration seems to spring from presumption and whisky-punch. The

reader is teased into attention by Mr. Gilfillan’s confident manner,

without having his attention rewarded by intimacy with Mr. Gilfillan’s

nature. There is merit in his occasional thoughts, and truth in his

detached remarks, but the impression of the whole is of a slush of

shining words. The subject is only an occasion for the author to pour

out his own memories and fancies, and thus to exhibit himself. The

movement of his mind is half-way between a strut and a reel, and his

faculties are ever in a state of pert intoxication. He paws rather than

handles a great poet, and we never witness his approach to a Milton or

Wordsworth without a shudder. Having in his intellect no presiding will

or even principle, his compositions are an anarchy of opinions and

terms, without any intellectual conscientiousness or austere regard for

the truth of things; and their popularity is the result of that sack of

the dictionary which has made so much of our popular literature a mere

debauch in words.

* * * * *

_Cosmos: a Sketch of a Physical Description of the Universe. By

Alexander Von Humboldt. Translated from the German, by E. C.

Otté. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._

The noble head of Humboldt which adorns the title-page of this edition

gives at once a favorable impression of his capacity to treat even the

vast subject which here has tasked his powers. The head is high, broad,

massive, and _roomy_—spacious enough for knowledge as universal as his,

and strong enough to use that knowledge, and not be used by it. The work

promises to be one which will leave its mark on the century. Even in

England it is acknowledged by some men of science to be the greatest

mental product of the time. The advantage which Humboldt holds over most

savans is his appreciation of the two aspects under which nature may be

viewed, and the two uses she serves. He combines the philosopher and the

poet, looking for beauty as well as truth, and seeing also that there is

a point where they unite. “Cosmos” contains a vast amount of generalized

knowledge to satisfy the understanding; but it is also replete with

gorgeous descriptions of natural scenery to fill and stimulate the

imagination. We know of few works which can be more profitably read by

enthusiasts either for the exclusively scientific or the exclusively

poetic method of observing nature.

* * * * *

_The East: Sketches of Travel in Egypt and the Holy Land. By the

Rev. J. A. Spencer, M. A. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol.

8vo._

This work is elegantly printed and appropriately illustrated. The field

of the author’s travels is of exceeding interest, and the mere title,

“The East,” is sufficient to stir the imagination and kindle the

curiosity of all “the West.” Mr. Spencer is a scholar, a Christian, and,

we may add, well versed in English Composition, but he has chosen to

preserve the epistolary form in which he recorded his first impressions,

and this he has done without having in his letters much of that familiar

charm which is the justification of the practice. If the traveler be

Lady Montagu, or Horace Walpole, or Gray, or Cowper, or Byron, or even

Lord Chesterfield, we should be inclined to wish to read his letters

rather than his formal “tour;” but few writers are gifted with a genius

for epistolary composition; and Mr. Spencer is not one of the few. There

is much in his volume which might have been omitted with positive

advantage. His style is the very reverse of epistolary, and yet he says

a great many things having all the unimportance of chat without its

raciness. With this exception we think the book an excellent one,

containing valuable information clearly conveyed.

* * * * *

_The Optimist. By Henry T. Tuckerman. New York: George P.

Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is the most delightful of Mr. Tuckerman’s many volumes of essays.

It contains twenty-two papers, on as many subjects, is written in a

style which evinces a graceful mastery of the resources of language, and

is no less fluent in thought than in expression. Perhaps the most

pleasing quality of the volume is its wealth of illustration. The

writer’s mind is not only affluent in comparison and imagery, but his

literary culture is so extensive as to give him a command of those

sources of fascination which come from felicitous allusions to the world

of authors and books. The object of the volume is finely stated, in an

elegantly written preface, to be the search for the good in life, as

that good is exhibited to one who can comment kindly on society, and

interpret the true and beautiful in common experience. The best papers

in the volume are those on New England Philosophy, Art and Artists,

Lyric Poetry, Eye-Language, Flowers, Costume, Music, and Conversation.

The volume should be on the shelves of every man who has the heart and

imagination to enjoy the English essayists, for to that goodly company

it is a positive addition.

* * * * *

_The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By

Edward Gibbon, Esq. With Notes by the Rev. H. H. Milman. A New

Edition, to which is added a Complete Index of the Whole Work.

In six volumes. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. Vols. 1 & 2._

This is a cheap reprint of the latest and best edition of Gibbon, and

when completed will place one of the greatest historical productions in

the world within the reach of the most limited means—the price of the

whole not amounting to four dollars. Milman’s edition is in some degree

founded upon Guizot’s French edition, and includes the principal notes

of the latter. Both Milman and Guizot have gone carefully over Gibbon’s

authorities, and while they have thus been enabled to correct his

misrepresentations, they have also added much which he overlooked, or

which has been brought to light since the period in which the history

was written. Of the book itself, it may be said, that in the combination

of vast erudition with philosophic thought, it is the object of emulous

despair to all succeeding historians. The subject is the greatest within

the range of historical composition, and Gibbon has so nearly exhausted

it that even a philosophical historian like Guizot is contented to be

but an annotator when he approaches it. The general reader, after many

repeated perusals of the work, continually returns to it for the depth

and acuteness of its reflections, the richness and weight of its style,

and that masterly irony, sapping a solemn creed with “solemn sneer,”

which, though sometimes an expression of the author’s moral

deficiencies, and in a few instances disgracefully disingenuous, is

still a weapon which makes falsehood and prejudice wither when it merely

gleams, and perish when it strikes.

* * * * *

_A Few Thoughts for a Young Man. A Lecture, delivered before the

Boston Mercantile Library Association. By Horace Mann. Boston:

Ticknor, Reed & Fields._

The author of this eloquent lecture is known principally for his great

services to the cause of popular education—a cause which he has adopted

with his whole soul, and into which he has thrown whatever of fire there

is in his blood and of intelligence there is in his brain. The present

address flames with the peculiar characteristics of his

genius—vehement, rapid, and epigrammatic in style, large, generous,

independent and original in thought. We disagree with some of the

positions he has assumed, but we know of few books which contain, in so

small a space, so much to breathe energy and aspiration into the souls

of young men as this warm gush of blended thought and knowledge, from a

soul eminently energetic and aspiring itself.

* * * * *

_The Modern Housewife. By Alexis Soyer. Edited by an American

Housekeeper. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._

This book we can commend to all ladies who are, or hope to be,

housewifes. It simplifies the whole art of cooking, and has a receipt

for every dish which the Heliogabalus imagination of man has conceived.

It has been edited, seemingly with great care, by some gentleman amateur

of the table, and contains directions for the food equally of rich and

poor, the dyspeptic and the ostrich stomach.

* * * * *

_Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Thomas Chalmers, D. D. LLD.

By his Son-in-Law, the Rev. William Hanna, LLD. New York: Harper

& Brothers. 3 vols. 12mo._

The first volume of this important work has just been issued, containing

long extracts from the doctor’s early diary and correspondence, and full

accounts of his life and writings to the year 1814. As the biography of

a good and eminent man, furnishing, as it does, the means of

understanding the process according to which his character grew into

such large proportions. The work promises to be one of the most valuable

of the season.

* * * * *

_The Red Rover. By the author of “The Spy,” “The Pilot,” etc.

Revised, Corrected, and Illustrated with a New Introduction,

Notes, etc. by the Author. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol.

12mo._

We well recollect the excitement in the novel-reading world produced by

this book on its first publication. The rush on the circulating

libraries was continued for a couple of months, and even boys were

considered behind the age, unless they had read it. In its present cheap

and elegant form, and enriched by the revision of the author’s maturer

judgment, we hope it will have another term of popularity.

* * * * *

_Elements of Natural Philosophy. By Alonzo Gray, A. M.

Illustrated by 300 Wood Cuts. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1

vol. 12mo._

This work is designed as a text book for academies, high schools, and

colleges, but it is well adapted also for the general reader. Principles

are stated with equal clearness and accuracy, and the examples and

illustrations are happily selected. The author evidently understands the

avenues through which scientific knowledge must pass in order to reach

the learner’s mind.

* * * * *

_Hume’s History of England. Vol. 6. Boston: Phillips, Sampson &

Co._

This volume is the last of the Boston edition of Hume—an edition which

places one of the most valuable and fascinating works in the language

within the reach of readers of the humblest means. We are glad to see

that the same enterprising house, intend to issue an edition of Gibbon

in the same style, and at the same low price.

* * * * *

FOREIGN ENDORSEMENT.—It must be amusing to the subscribers of Graham’s

Magazine, to see the American Press praising the story of “The Village

Doctor,” published in “Blackwood’s Magazine” last year as the _first_

translation of that excellent French story. The article appeared in

“Graham’s Magazine” more than two years before, i. e. in the October and

November numbers, 1847, and had therefore been read in this country by

at least one hundred thousand readers, before it was copied by the

weekly press in this country from Blackwood.

The truth is, the American Magazines contain every month articles which

would make the fortune of a London or Edinburgh periodical, which are

passed over in silence, but the most inferior article of English stamp

is endorsed as something extraordinary, merely because it _is_ English.

This should be corrected.

Mr. Leonard Myers, who translated the story of “The Village Doctor” for

us, has just had published by Messrs. Lippincott & Co., a capital story

from the French, called “Money-bags and Titles.” It is a very creditable

volume in every respect; the story is well told and contains some

admirable hits at the follies of the age. It can be sent by mail, and is

published at the price of fifty cents the volume.

* * * * *

A CAPITAL STORY.—The Saturday Courier has been publishing, for the past

few numbers, a story of more than usual excellence, called “Linda,” by

Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, whose stories heretofore in this admirable

family paper have made so much stir among readers of light literature.

Her story of the “Mob-Cap” ran through several editions, and is still

praised as one of the most effective articles that ever appeared in a

periodical. Mr. M‘Makin will find that “Linda” is destined to make a

fresh demand for articles from the able pen of this lady, and we are

sure he will receive the thanks of his hundred thousand readers for his

liberality in thus catering to their refined taste.

* * * * *

Our correspondent, Richard Coe, Jr., is about to publish a volume of his

beautiful poems—a neat edition for the centre-table at the price of one

dollar per volume. His address is 33 Church Alley, Philadelphia, where

any of his friends will be supplied.

* * * * *

NO JOY I’LL SEE BUT IN THOSE SMILES.

WRITTEN BY

JOSEPH A. NUNES.

COMPOSED BY

JAMES BELLAK.

Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.

[Illustration: musical score]

I’ll think of thee, that thought alone

Can never from my mem’ry flee,

In ev’ry breeze I’ll find a tone

That whispers nought but love and

[Illustration: musical score]

thee

And ev’ry sound that greets my ear,

And ev’ry object that I see,

Will be to me more sweet, more dear,

When mingled with the thought of thee.

Should fortune smile, and hope be bright,

And from the world be nought to fear,

Oh! what can add to that delight

But the one thought that thou art near.

Then pleasure, with its thousand smiles,

Will vainly strive this heart to free:

No joy I’ll see but in those smiles,

No rapture feel away from thee.

And when existence’s span is run

And death impatient waits for me,

My soul, as to its earthly sun,

Will turn a lingering look on thee:

E’en when the last sad scene of life

Shall mingle with the shades of death,

My spirit, in its latest strife,

Will bless thee with its parting breath.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious type-setting and

punctuation errors have 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 304, soulfull look, and ==> soulful look, and

page 306, reader, with what exhuberance ==> reader, with what exuberance

page 308, some of her satelites ==> some of her satellites

page 310, eyes were rivited upon ==> eyes were riveted upon

page 318, To batten and gorge on ==> To fatten and gorge on

page 341, of Amherstbergh, Canada west, ==> of Amherstburg, Canada west,

page 341, by incessant harrassing, which ==> by incessant harassing,

which

page 346, and whom libertinism ==> and for whom libertinism

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 5, May 1850]