nearly that since I have seen or heerd tell of him,” and she sighed
heavily.
“Where did he go to, Bridget?”
“Why, ma’am, he went in a states government vessel to the Ingees, and he
said he’d write to me; but I’ve niver had a line from him since he
sailed. He writ a letter to me at Norfolk town just before he went off,
and told me to love him true ’til he came back, then we’d be man and
wife. Mother long since wanted me to take another beau, for she sez I’m
gettin’ old, and bein’ plain like, nobody will have me, then I’ll be an
old maid that nobody likes or cares for; but I’d sooner be an old maid,
than brake my vow to Patrick; and even Father Shane has scolded mother
and Gracey about it, for they both taze me—and he sez I’m right.”
“How do you mean break your vow, Bridget?”
“Why you see, Miss Enna, both Patrick and I loved old Ireland so much
that we rigilarly ingaged ourselves, like the people used to in the old
country.”
“How was that, my child?”
“Patrick takes a Prayer-book the night before he went away, and stood in
the middle of mother’s room, and swore on it by the holy cross, that he
niver would marry any woman but me, Bridget Kerevan; och, but his oath
was so solemn and beautiful, it made me tremble all over. Then he puts
the Prayer-book in my lap, and we took hold of each other’s hands over
it, and I made the same vow, and then we both kissed the book. Mother
and Gracey were by and heerd it all. How can I, then, Miss Enna, even if
I wanted to, take another beau? And I’m sure if any thing happens to him
I shall niver want another beau, for he was my first real one, and he
seemed to come right in Elsie’s place like in my heart.”
As she sighed heavily, I comforted her, by telling her she was perfectly
right in keeping good faith to the absent Patrick; that she need not
mind if they did trouble her, it was better to suffer annoyances than
give up to do wrong.
“To-night,” she continued, “they taxed me so bekaze I wouldn’t have any
thing to say to one of the neighbor’s boys from Coleraine, who know’d us
when we were childer; and mother said it was her belafe that Patrick was
safe and happy somewhere else, married to some other woman. This made me
very mad, and I started up and went out of the house without sayin’ a
word; but mother ran after me down the street, and made me kiss her
good-night, and we made up and parted friends.”
“That was right, Bridget, for she is your mother, and though mistaken,
she meant it for the best.”
“I know that, Miss Enna, but they trouble me so much, I sometimes hate
to go home.”
Then she went softly up into her bed-room and brought down a poor,
worn-looking letter, and a dilapidated book, with one cover off, and the
leaves part gone.
“This is his letter from Norfolk town, Miss Enna; read it, plaze, aloud,
for I niver tire hearin’ it.”
I read it, and found it to be a manly, affectionate, lover-like letter.
He touchingly reminded her of her vow, in homely, plain language, it is
true, but real heart words were they, that brought tears to my eyes.
“What is that book, Bridget?”
“Oh, Miss Enna,” replied the girl, looking down, and her round face grew
crimson, “it’s a book of his’n. He used to be always readin’ in it; and
one day he throw’d it into my lap, and said, when I could read it he’d
give me a silk gownd fit for a quane to wear. I laughed and thought
nothin’ at all about it until after he’d been gone above a year, when I
found it down at mother’s one night in my old chist, which mother had
given me when I’d bought her the bureau poor Gracey wanted so bad. I’ve
kept the book iver since; and I take it out of my drawer o’ nights, and
sit down and try to see somethin’ in it, but even if I could rade, which
I can’t, I couldn’t see nothin’ in it, for it always makes me cry.”
I took the book from her with great curiosity; I was anxious to see what
was the nature of it, for I hoped to judge by it of the character of
this sailor-lover. It was Falconer’s Shipwreck. I was satisfied, and was
a firmer friend than before to Patrick.
A few weeks afterward, one night Bridget came home with a face perfectly
radiant, or “_bamin_,” as she would have said. I was reading in my
bed-room all alone. She came in, closed Aunt Mary’s door, and giving me
a letter, said,
“Rade it, dear Miss Enna, rade it; he’s alive, and is comin’ home;” and
she sat down on the rug beside me, and laughed and cried at once as I
read the letter aloud to her.
Sure enough, the lover was safe and true. He had written to her often,
but the letters had been lost, he supposed, as he had never heard from
her; but he felt sure, he said, that she was still his Bridget, even if
he did not hear from her.
“There, you see, Miss Enna, how bad I’d been if I’d done as they wanted
me to,” she exclaimed; “and so Father Shane said to mother to-night,
when he read the beautiful letter—for he brought it to me. Patrick writ
to him, and sint him this letter to me inside of his’n, bekase he said
he’d writ so often to me, and sure a letter would rach me through Father
Shane.”
Patient Reader, this is a true story; but I am the only one to be
sympathized with in it, for I lost my jewel of a chambermaid. A few
months afterward Patrick came home and claimed his faithful Bridget. We
had a busy time when she was married—for the whole family took an
interest in good Bridget’s fortune. Patrick was a nice, healthy,
bright-looking Irishman; and when on the Sunday after he arrived he came
to take her to mass, I saw him as they walked down the street together,
look at her sturdy little figure with as much admiration as if it had
possessed the fine proportions of a Venus. Love is such a beautifier.
Father Shane married them, and Patrick rented a nice little house in the
suburbs of our town, and took Widow Kerevan home to live with them.
Bridget is a happy wife; but she has one trouble, and that is, that her
husband’s calling takes him away from her, and places him in danger; but
when he returns from long voyages she is as bright and merry as a lark.
The other day I went to see her, and as her little girl Elsie came
nestling close to me, Bridget said,
“Ever since that child was born, Miss Enna, I feel that my blessed
darlint has come back to me. Och, but He’s been kind to me,” she said,
blessing herself with devotion, “for He give me back both Patrick and
Elsie.”
Good girl! God had indeed been kind to her, for he had bestowed upon her
those priceless gifts of the spirit—Faith and Truth.
* * * * *
WHAT KATY DID.
BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’.
“O tell me where did Katy live,
And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and young,
And yet so wicked too?”
I was passing through a grove of budding maple trees, thinking of you,
of “Graham”—that is, wondering what in all the world I could find to
say, that you would care to hear; a desperate mood for one to be in,
certes—when my meditations were disturbed by the voice of a creature
which came from the heights above, chirping out, not softly, not
musically, but in a shrieking tone, as though bent on vociferous
disputation with somebody, “Katy _did_.” The spirit of opposition roused
within me as I heard that cry; I was about to deny the assertion point
blank, when the sweet, tiny voice of another insect, answered
distinctly, “she didn’t.” It was like the acceptance of a challenge in
effect; forthwith the first speaker began again, with increased energy,
“Katy did! Katy did—she did! she did! she did!” But still the milder
voice, quite undismayed, replied valiantly, and with a solemn air of
undoubtable truth, “She didn’t.” The neighboring spirits were now all
aroused; never did mortal before hear such a rush of sound as burst upon
me then! A perfect flood of abuse gushed from one throat, while distinct
and dignified denial met it all in reply. Asseverations numberless, and
uncharitable defamation of one, powerless now to vindicate herself,
followed. With wonder and with _patience_ I listened to the end; oh,
loveliest reader, will you do so likewise? Here is the substance of that
most strange _conversasionne_.
* * * * *
Little Kitty Clover was the only child of her widowed father—“a fine
old English gentleman, all of the olden time;” she was a blooming fairy
of a girl, spoiled, of course, and worshiped, too—a very “household
goddess.” Miserably educated had the young thing been; for—only think
of it!—at sixteen years of age, she was as wild and free in spirit as a
chamois, as brave as a chamois-hunter, and through the unpardonable
neglect of those who had the care of her, she had been taught nothing
whatever of sorrow, save the Dictionary definition—and _that_ she could
scarcely comprehend. At this age she was still under the care, or rather
in the companionship, of a governess, Lucy Freer, a lady also young,
indeed but two years older than her pupil; but _she_ was a dignified,
commanding personage, (and thus differed very much from Kitty;) a
silent, sad, but remarkably handsome girl, who sometimes wept, and never
laughed, (which was strange, for one would have thought that the spirit
of mirth dwelling in Kitty was of an absolutely infectious nature;) but
Lucy had the sweetest of smiles when she was pleased or happy, and that
smile, with her unvarying goodness and talent, secured from the first,
the warm love of her pupil.
As we have intimated, Kitty’s father had done all that he possibly could
to spoil his daughter, and the labor in that way, it must be confessed,
had been far from vain; but fortunately, nature had given the girl a
warm, affectionate heart, and the training of her childhood had not
tended to make her half so selfish and exacting as might in all reason
have been expected. She was innately frank and noble; and there was a
clear expression of her blue eyes, which told how honest and sincere she
was in all her thoughts and doings.
Retired and unsuperficial as had been her way of life, poor Kitty! she
found occasion to fall “desperately in love!”
Shortly after the governess made her home at Woodland Cottage, in C——,
a gentleman from London came to call upon her. The pupil happened to be
present at the interview, and she heard the stranger announce his
intention of making his home in the village; and the great evident
satisfaction of Lucy Freer, as _she_ heard this determination, did not
escape the observation of the keen-eyed Kitty; and having little else to
think about for several days, she indulged in wonderment as to what kind
of regard her governess could cherish for the handsome man, that she
should be so very light of heart, so really joyous from the very moment
of his appearing.
Eugene Lind, that was his name, was about thirty years of age, as fine
looking, stately, and elegant a person as need be; he was a lawyer by
profession, but still more of a poet by choice. As the only acquaintance
he had in C—— was housed at Woodland, he became at once a frequent
guest at the cottage, where he found always a genial host in Reginald
Clover; but the truth must be said, that though the old man’s welcome
was desirable, it was not him that the lawyer really went or cared to
see. This became quite evident when, ere long, in view of his old
friendship for Lucy, he made bold to push his way directly to the
school-room, when his visits were made in the day hours, which was
oftenest the case.
It was no very marvelous wonder that Kitty Clover, secluded as she was
from the rest of the world, save that minute portion of it that dwelt in
and just about her own home—it was no wonder, I say, that, in the
course of time she should have begun to think quite as much of Mr. Lind
as she did of her grammar and mathematics; that she should even prefer
at last, _greatly_ prefer, listening to his fine readings and
conversation to any other amusement. But she did no more than listen,
that is for a year, till she was sixteen, and then Kitty had become so
accustomed to his presence, so cognizant of her own powers of speech, as
to find it really possible to talk with, and to learn of him; and he was
a wiser teacher than Lucy even, for he imparted a high charm to every
book he laid his hands on—it became “tabooed” immediately to the
child’s apprehension.
Ah! no longer did she sit then, a shy and silent creature, in the great
bow-window, pretending to total abstraction from all things past,
present, or future, save what she found in the dry pages of her book;
but boldly, at least calmly, came she forward to sit beside her
governess, to meet the glances of the poet-lawyer, to listen, and to
speak with him and Lucy, as a sane and intelligent being.
And so it was that, day by day, and more and more thoroughly, she
learned to love him; so it was that his words fell one by one, with
creative power on her heart, till the most radiant and glorious flower
sprung up there; but though its fragrance filled her life with a beauty
which she _felt_, she could not comprehend it, did not at all understand
it, till at last from wondering she passed to knowledge, as she wakened
to see how very pale the governess was growing—how languidly she
carried forward the work of instruction—how abstractedly she went about
all her tasks—how she neglected totally the volumes which had once been
her love companions—how she oftentimes wept—how dull and dispirited
she was when Eugene Lind was not by, and how she invariably, for a
moment at least, brightened up and smiled when he drew near.
And when poor Kitty’s eyes _were_ opened, lovely reader, they seemed
good for nothing in the world but to weep—just a vent for tears; for
then she knew—she could not _help_ knowing—that Lucy Freer loved the
lawyer. And it was a terrible discovery to make, was it not—for now,
the child, what right had _she_ to think of him? She did not wonder for
a moment whether or no the love of the governess was well-founded,
whether or no he returned it; she could only say to herself, “he has
visited her constantly, has exerted himself to be agreeable, and it’s
all his own fault and doing—he has no right, and is too old to trifle
so. Lucy is an orphan, and poor; she is beautiful and good enough—yes,
even for him! I have a father, and am rich; he _ought_ to love her, and
he shall tell her he _does_.”
And so little Kate (recollect my world-fashioned lady, all this happened
a long time ago, and she had learned her knowledge of life’s obligations
only from wild romances) felt that a duty devolved on her which must be
performed; and oh, how strenuously she labored, how dispassionately she
reasoned with herself, that she might become strong to fulfill it!
Eugene had not visited the cottage for many days; a Friday night came
round, and for two whole weeks he had absented himself. On this day, as
by mutual consent, the books were laid aside, the school-room deserted,
Lucy retired to her own room ill—certainly at heart—and Kitty, silent
and troubled, yet stronger to bear her burden of sorrow, because she
felt that another suffered more than she, walked, practiced her music,
arranged flowers with the utmost determination, and then, restless, but
not knowing what to do with herself, she wandered about the house, quite
as if in a dream, yet cautious as a somnambulist, for how carefully she
shunned the presence and inquiring glances of her good old father. She
_was_ dreaming—such a dream, indeed, as adds years to the “inner life”
of the young—dreaming of bereavement, self-sacrifice, and death! even
she, that bright young girl!
But at last, with assured purpose, Kitty seated herself to write a
letter. A difficult work it was to pen it, good and loving soul, thou
wilt not doubt it. No attempt at disguise was made in the writing, yet
she left the letter without signature, thinking to herself he will
understand how it all is; he will, if there is any honor in him,
explain—at least he shall feel that there is one here who watches him.
“Mr. Lind,—Because you seem blind, and deaf, and dumb, to all that you
should, as a man of honor, be proud to see and know, I deem myself
excusable in reminding you of what you owe to one who has received you
into her presence as a brother, as _more_. I have no feeling of false
delicacy in thus appealing to you. A sense of right you must have. You
will _feel_ that I am only true to myself, to my sense of right, in so
doing. Halting thus, when you have gone so far, you do that which no
gentleman _should_ do. I cannot yet believe that you have sought the
presence of one who loves you well, if not wisely, merely because it
afforded you a momentary pleasure. Let me remind you that the life-peace
of a human being depends upon the course you shall pursue.”
This heroic epistle was, of course, written, destroyed, and rewritten
many times before Kitty became fully satisfied that it was to her
purpose. That very night it was despatched to the post with no feelings
of false delicacy, as she said, but with a very little trepidation. Dear
child! she must certainly have been laboring under a species of moral
insanity, when she thought it better to risk so much as she did, rather
than a whole life should be made miserable by her hesitation, as she
believed Lucy Freer’s would be.
The next day, Saturday, happened to be consecrated to the memory of St.
Valentine, February the fourteenth. Much relieved in mind, Kitty sat on
this “All Fool’s Day,” with the governess in her boudoir—a very
charming place it was, by the way, where beauty lived with the heiress.
They were listlessly looking over the love declarations which filled the
silver waiter before them; and it was evident that the passionate
confessions on which they gazed, produced little effect, save a vague,
momentary curiosity in the minds of either. One of them, in her young
heart, had renounced all loves, and as for the other—
But at last Lucy looked upon her pupil with a flushed, smiling face,
exclaiming, “Here is a missive for _you_ from Eugene! You know the
writing—isn’t it his? It will be worth reading.”
“Hum!” was the doubtful, brief reply—and Kitty held out her hand quite
carelessly for the Valentine, though, try as she might, she could not
conceal the sudden flashing of her eyes, and her hand, I believe,
trembled a little. She took the note and read—to _herself_.
I who love you duly, truly,
Dare to tell you so to-day;
Sweetest maiden, though love-laden,
Bolder souls beset your way.
Do you hear?
While the earnest, eager voices
Vow their passion and their truth,
I, too, bend in adoration
Of the splendor of your youth.
Do you care?
And because your lightest whisper
Chains my spirit as a spell,
Oh, because your smile is dearer
To my heart than I can tell,
_Will_ you love me?
In my memory I have throned you,
Thinking of you every hour;
Dear young Kitty, I adore you,
Ah! forget your tyrant power.
_Try_ to love me!
E. L.
A sudden smile, brilliant in its gladness, swept over the maiden’s face
as she read; but then remembering somewhat, she arose, and hastily flung
the perfumed note within the grate, saying,
“The impudence of those village boys is unpardonable; neither of us know
them much more than by sight, and they have no right to presume so far!”
But though she spoke so pettishly, Kitty’s smile, as she read the quoted
love-lay, had not escaped Lucy’s notice, and she said quietly in reply,
“My dear, Eugene Lind is not a _boy_, and I don’t think his writing to
you _this_ day a piece of presumption either.”
At night-fall, when Kitty sat alone, another epistle was laid before
her, which she read from beginning to end in such a state of
bewilderment as may be “imagined but not described.”
“Dear Friend,—I have this morning received a letter, singular rather in
its bearings—at least to the fashion-moulded automaton it might seem
so—to me it is blessed to appear any thing _but_ blessed. A letter
written in such a style of undisguised earnestness and truth, that,
though it is Valentine day, I cannot doubt (perhaps you will say it is
because I _will_ not) either the writer’s name, or the purport of her
words—a declaration of love! And to me it is unspeakably dearer than
any thing else in the wide world could be. It is only because I felt
sensible every day of an increasing, engrossing interest in her, that I
have stayed so long away—it seems an age to me—from Woodland Cottage.
Now, if it be indeed true that I _have_ gained the affection of your
glorious young charge, am I not blest? Of such ‘a consummation, most
devoutly to be wished,’ I have dreamed, but never dared really to hope.
To-morrow I shall come to you, Lucy, and you must counsel me. The letter
inclosed has just reached me, accompanying one for myself from Richmond.
Joy to you! for now can you ‘give care to the winds’ once more—a bright
day is dawning, I clearly foresee it.
“Adieu, yours ever,
“Eugene Lind.”
Was there ever—was there _ever_ such a mishap?
Surely never did astonished, troubled mortal wish more fervently for
instant annihilation than did poor Kitty Clover as she read this letter,
discovering at its conclusion that it had been by mistake addressed to
_her_! With what frantic haste did she commit it to the flames—how
furiously the bell-rope swung in her hand—how passionately she
dispatched the servant who answered her call with the letter which had
come inclosed, to Lucy. And then, the windy tempest having passed, how
wildly did she weep, as she barred herself from human sight, that she
might agonize alone over the effect of her most stupid interference!
Dead within her was all curiosity; she cared not who the stranger
Richmond was; she cared not for the conviction that Eugene Lind was at
that moment rejoicing in the thought of having won her love; the natural
misconstruction he had been so glad to put upon her words, took in her
mind nothing like the shape of a “comedy of errors”—it was something
intolerably worse.
For hours she wept wildly and without ceasing; but the fountain of tears
was at last exhausted, and near midnight, having become wonderfully calm
again—the calmness of desperation it was, doubtless, and thinking of
every thing but sleep—Kitty ventured into the presence of her
governess. Neither had Lucy yet retired; but there she sat, poring over
her letter, and looking more beautiful and happy than she had in many
weeks.
Kitty seated herself at Lucy’s feet, and said, quite regardless of her
friend’s astonishment at the ghost-like appearance she made,
“Is there anybody you love?”
“Why, if there were _not_ I should die!”
“_Whom_ do you love?”
“You, dear Kitty.”
“But, is there anybody you shall _marry_? Do you like any person well
enough for that?”
“I truly hope it. ’Twould be forlorn to think otherwise.”
“Now, in Heaven’s name, don’t trifle! Tell me something about yourself,
about your past life; if you do not, Lucy, I shall go mad at once.”
Lucy seemed lost in wonder, or in retrospection, as Kitty spoke thus;
she did not answer, and the impatient child, unable to bear the silence
and suspense, threw herself on her knees, and looked up imploringly,
with clasped hands, on the governess; finally, she said, “Lucy Freer,
tell me—_do_ you love Eugene? What has made you so sad and pale
lately?”
“Do I love _him_! Yes, heartily—he has been so kind to me!” was the now
immediate and energetic reply. “Would you hear of my past, dear Kitty?
It is a dreary story.”
But it was now the young girl who was silent; with her head bent to her
knees she sat at the feet of the governess; perhaps Lucy comprehended
her thoughts by intuition, (I know not,) but at all events she did not
wait long for a reply.
“I am a married woman already,” she said.
And now was Kitty all life and fire—up she sprung, exclaiming,
“Is _he_, then, your husband?”
“No, far from it,” was the answer which rolled back a cloud that
threatened to make more than Hadé’s gloom in the soul of the pupil.
“I will tell you all, dear child; indeed, I will, for I can _now_—sit
down.” She was obeyed. “To-night Eugene Lind, God bless him! has sent me
a letter, the first received in months from my husband, Richmond Freer.
Come nearer, Kitty, look up, I am sad no longer, even though I tell you
he is exiled, he can never come back to old England again. But I am
going to him. I am going very soon.” No, even at this sudden and most
unexpected announcement, the listener would not lift her head. “When I
was at school, in London, I wrote occasionally for a paper which
Richmond edited; and by so doing I was able to help my poor, dear mother
very much—and she was in need of help. After a while I became
personally acquainted with the editor, and when at last he was arrested
for publishing what was called an incendiary—a too patriotic a paper
for these slavish times—you may be sure I did not forget to feel for
him. After his trial was over, and the sentence of banishment was passed
on him, we met again, for we loved each other, Kitty, and misfortune
made him only dearer to me. The very night of his departure from
England, his cousin, Eugene Lind, married us—and my poor mother was
present at the ceremony; she would not oppose the union, wild as it
doubtless seemed to her, because she knew that we were not fickle in our
love, and felt that a bright time might at last come even to us. Shortly
after the exile’s departure she died. I was left _alone_! When I had
finished the course of studies, and was a graduate, owing to Eugene’s
efforts, this situation of governess in your home was secured to me. May
Heaven bless and make all your life happy, Kate; you have been kind and
dear to me. For a long time Richmond lived on the Continent; but he did
not prosper there—he has been very unfortunate, poor fellow! Now that
he has gone to the New World, a pilgrim shorn of all things but my love,
do you not see—I must go to him? He calls me—I must go; and what a
glorious word is that _must_! Kitty, you will not ask me again if I love
Eugene Lind, or I shall launch out into such praises of him as will
astonish you.”
And thinking now but of one thing, that Lucy _had_ certainly, in some
unaccountable way, discovered her secret, Kitty sprung from her humble
posture, she could not speak one word, but with a kiss she left the
governess alone.
And oh, what a miserable little puss was she that live-long night. It
was now all clear; she, the proud, lofty-hearted, impulsive Kate, stood
in the eyes of another as having demanded his love—a beggar, imploring
his hand in payment of the heart given him unasked. Hugh! what blackness
of darkness was that which enveloped her now, body and spirit, as she
sat through the night-hours pondering with burning brain on her wretched
mistake. How hateful, how intrusive seemed the sunlight which at last
streamed in upon her! How would he ever believe, how could he ever be
told the ridiculous truth of the matter? For the very tenor of that
philanthropic letter she had written, made it impossible for her to find
or even seek a confidante in Lucy.
There was but one thought that could at all console the mourner; perhaps
Eugene Lind would seek her hand some day, relying on the truth of what
he imagined her declaration, and then how disdainfully she would spurn
him—yes! if she died in the struggle, she would renounce him! Dear
spirit of human pride, what a mighty thing thou art!
True to his expressed intention, Eugene visited Woodland Cottage the
next day, and everyday until the departure of the governess; but Lucy
and Mr. Clover alone received him. It was said in the house that Kitty,
in her grief at parting with Lucy, had wept herself sick; and for some
cause or other it was very evident that the gay girl was transformed
into a “weeping maiden.”
But to Lucy’s mind it was all very clear; she had read Kitty’s heroic
appeal to Eugene, and could not doubt that it had been made on her own
account; she had no occasion to seek her pupil’s confidence, and when
her _cousin_, in his trouble, revealed to her all his doubt and grief,
though she made no explanation, she felt warranted in reassuring him, in
promising him an ultimate victory, if not an easy one.
It was a relief to Kitty Clover when she was left alone in the cottage;
_alone_, I say, for her father accompanied Lucy and Mr. Lind to the
sea-side; the sorrow at parting with her friend was soon overcome, the
tears wiped away, and she breathed freely once more.
When Eugene returned from Liverpool, as Lucy had counseled him, he wrote
to Kate a frank and manly letter, which ended with these words, “You
have my life in your hands—to make it glad or miserable. I love you,
and can be happy only if you return my love. May I come to you, and will
you welcome me? Oh remember, I pray you, how much depends on your reply,
and be merciful!”
And the speedy answer was, only, “I do not love—I cannot receive you.”
With a smile of triumph this was written, reader; and though a more
thoroughly false declaration never issued from the _will_ of a proud
woman, still, when it was penned and sent, the more Kitty felt her
respect and power of self-endurance rising rapidly; life seemed to her
then, as, after all, a pleasant burden, easy to be borne. Yes, she could
live—live happily, too, alone with her dear old sire, free in heart and
in fancy, fetterless as the winds—for the shadow of a shade of control
Mr. Clover never thought of exercising over her.
But was she _really_ happy? Why, then, was she so tearful, so shy of
cherishing old memories? And if she was _not_ fearful, how happened it
that she so carefully piled away her old music, every song, every tune
she had used in the by-gone? Why did she hide from sight, in the high,
remote shelves of the library, all those books from which Eugene once
read to her and Lucy Freer? Why was the school-room, that pleasant
chamber, so studiously shunned? _Why was it_, dear, wise reader?
During all the summer days the daughter spent much time in company with
her sire; and to please her, the old man began to be quite literary in
his tastes; and with chess, and books, and gardening, the time went
swiftly on to both. But a change had come over Kitty—and Mr. Clover had
eyes to perceive it; but he rather rejoiced in it, and became more proud
of her than ever. She was a child no longer—nor a lively, joyous girl,
but a quiet, thoughtful woman, becoming every day more beautiful, more
studious, and womanly. The idea of going into the gay world had once
made her almost wild with joy, but now the proposal which the father
made, that they should pass the ensuing season in the metropolis with
his relatives, was received with simple quiescence, and the preparations
for a long sojourn from home made calmly and soberly. The brain of the
lovely heiress teemed with no brilliant anticipations of conquest; and
love and show—what could it mean?
The sickness which, for the first time in her life, prostrated Kitty,
the very week previous to the intended departure, was not therefore
attributable to great excitement, or to any like cause. It was a slow,
nervous fever, which, by degrees, wasted her strength away, and left her
an infant in helplessness on her bed. The course of the disease could
not be checked; it brought her to the very door of death, and there the
angel stood, ready to break the slender thread of life, yet the
destroying work, as if in mercy to the father, was delayed.
Much of the time of this sickness her mind had wandered sadly; and he
who watched incessantly beside the girl, the adoring old man, had become
cognizant of a secret which he was not too proud to use. And so, one
evening, just at twilight, he stood with another—not the nurse, nor the
physician—in the sick chamber. Kitty had seemed sinking all the day,
and at nightfall the doctor had left her for a moment, almost at his
(professional) wit’s end. Then it was that Mr. Clover also had gone
forth, and when he came again, Eugene Lind was with him.
She was sleeping when they entered, and both of those strong men
trembled when they stood together, looking silently upon her wasted,
pallid face. Eugene sat down beside her, and when she awakened, reader,
the father went softly from the room.
* * * * *
Hush! I cannot tell you of that awaking from death to life—from the
assumed indifference which had nearly chilled a young heart out of
existence, to the life of love. No! and I _will_ not tell it; but don’t
you say it is because I am tired of talking that I pause, or that I feel
inefficient to tell it all. It is not true.
* * * * *
But, still later in the season, when the brown leaves were falling in
every direction from the trees, when the clouds gathered often in the
sky, and the frequent rains presaged cold winter storms, there stood,
one of those intensely bright days yet vouchsafed October, a little
lady, frail and young, leaning on the arm of a gentleman, in the beech
grove, near Woodland Cottage. Cheerily fell the sunlight through the
almost leafless branches, and numberless insects flitted to and fro—one
of these, a tiny thing, alighted on the maiden’s hand, _not_ the one
clasped in _his_! They had paused in their walk to rest, and neither had
for many moments spoken; but as they began, as by mutual consent, to
retrace their steps, the gentleman looked up into the blue sky,
exclaiming fervently, “How _beautiful_ it is to-day!” and with a heart
full of thankfulness, he murmured fondly a name—a name with which the
reader is familiar. Then he looked upon _her_, and he seemed to find all
of heaven reflected in her eyes—and more beautiful than the sky or the
sunshine seemed she to him; he bent his stately form, he kissed her;
and, reader, her arms wound round him in a moment, she returned his
embracing. It was a marriage-covenant—nothing more or less!
Ha! then the insect flitted away, far, far up above the happy mortals,
with a cry heard never before, and the grove became vocal with it; how
crimson grew the girl’s pale face, as she heard that strange, bold
voice, proclaiming to the winds, “_Katy did!_”
* * * * *
Over the ocean flew a message—thus it run:
“She is mine, Lucy! this brave, proud, generous little Kitty, is mine!
And because she is given to me in this eleventh hour, I feel that she is
a ‘gift of God,’—a gift unspeakably precious. My heart is _full_ of
‘thanksgiving and the voice of melody,’ for we are one now—one
forever—in life and in death, one. I shudder when I think how she has
twice been nearly lost to me—once by her own lofty pride, and again by
the Angel of Death, who seemed a terror-king when he hovered beside her.
She is so pale and weak, so unlike her former self in physical beauty,
that I tremble when I look upon her; yet I know, Lucy, that she will not
die. We shall both live, to prove, on earth, how strong a tie of love
unites us.”
Yes, they did live to prove it; and certainly a happier poet never
breathed, than he whose bright and cheering songs, springing from a
deep, clear fountain in the heart, went afterward, floating over the
wide earth—they were the most glorious “songs of the affections.”
And so you have the long and the short of the matter. You know as well
as I, all that poor Katy did! How many times on this great earth have
“trifles, light as air,” set all the world a-gadding! Alas! yes,
creatures as brainless and chattering, and far less innocent, than the
insect disputants, have we humans too often proved ourselves. Many a
great matter has a spark of fire kindled; and the “Comedy” has become a
rare thing in comparison with the Tragedy of Errors.
* * * * *
THE GAME OF THE SEASON.
BY FRANK FORESTER.
BAY SNIPE SHOOTING.
[Illustration]
The Hudsonian Godwit. _Limosa Hudsonica. Vulgo._ Ring-tailed Marlin.
The Red-Breasted Snipe. _Scolopax Noveboracensis. Vulgo._ Robin-breast,
Quail Snipe, Dowitcher.
Under the general, and very incorrect appellation of Bay Snipe, and
sometimes of Plover, the sea-shore gunners, and city fowlers who
accompany them for pleasure, are wont to include many totally distinct
and different families of waders, each containing several varieties, and
all, though in some sort connected, entirely dissimilar in
characteristics, plumage, cry and flight, as well as in some
peculiarities of habit.
Of these families, the most remarkable are the Curlew, _numenius_; the
Godwit, _limosa_; the Sandpiper, _tringa_; the Tattler, _totanus_; the
Plover, _charadrius_; the Snipe, _scolopax_; the Turnstone,
_strepsilas_; the Sanderling, _calidris_; the Avoset, _recurvirostra_;
and the Stilt, _himantopus_; all of which at some period of the year are
visiters or temporary inhabitants of some portion of the Atlantic shores
of North America, from the Bay of Boston to the Belize.
In the tepid waters of Florida, the great bay of Mobile, the sea lakes
of Borgne and Pontchartrain, and all along the muddy shoals and alluvial
flats of the lower Mississippi, these aquatic races dwell in myriads
during the winter months, when the ice is thick even in the sea bays of
the Delaware and Chesapeake, and when all the gushing streams and vocal
rivulets of the Northern and Middle States, are bound in frozen silence.
In the spring, according to the temperature of the season, from the
middle of April until the end of May, these migratory tribes begin to
visit us of the northern shores, from the Capes of the Chesapeake, along
all the river estuaries, sea bars, lagoons, and land-locked bays, as
they are incorrectly termed, of Maryland and Delaware, the Jersey shores
and the Long Island waters, so far as to Boston Bay, beyond which the
iron-bound and rugged nature of the coast deters them from adventuring,
in the great flights with which they infest our more succulent alluvial
shores and sea marshes.
With the end of May, with the exception only of a few loitering
stragglers, wounded, perhaps, or wing-worn, which linger after the
departure of their brethren, they have all departed, steering their way,
unseen, at immense altitudes, through the trackless air, across the
mighty continent, across the vast lakes of the north, across the
unreclaimed and almost unknown hunting-grounds of the red man, to those
remote and nearly inaccessible morasses of the Arctic Regions whither
the foot of man has rarely penetrated, and where the silence of ages is
interrupted only by the roll of the ocean surf, the thunderous crash of
some falling iceberg, and the continuous clangor of the myriads and
millions of aquatic fowl, which pass the period of reproduction in those
lone and gloomy, but to them secure and delightful asylums. Early in the
autumn, or, to speak more correctly, in the latter days of summer, the
Bay birds begin to return in hordes innumerable, recruited by the young
of the season, which, not having as yet indued the full plumage of their
respective tribes, are often mistaken by sportsmen and gunners,
unacquainted with the distinctions of natural history, for new species.
During the autumn, they are much more settled and less restless in their
habits than during the spring visit, when they are impelled northward by
the irresistible _æstrum_, which at that period stimulates all the
migratory birds, even those reared in confinement and caged from the
nest, to get under way and travel, whither their wondrous instinct
orders them, in order to the reproduction of their kind in the
localities most genial and secure.
Throughout the months of August and September, they literally swarm on
all our sand-bars, salt meadows, and wild sea marshes, feeding on the
beaches and about the shallow pools left by the retiring tide, on the
marine animalculæ, worms, aquatic insects, small crabs, minute
shell-fish, and fry; after this time, commencing from the beginning of
October, they move southward for winter quarters, although some species
tarry later than others, and some loitering individuals of all the
species linger behind, until they have assumed their winter garniture,
when they are again liable to be mistaken for unknown varieties.
Of these misnamed Bay Snipe, the following are the species of each
family most prized by the sportsman and the epicure, all of which are
eagerly pursued by the gunner, finding a ready sale at all times,
although, _me judice_, their flesh is for the most part so oily, rank
and sedgy, that they are rather nauseous than delicate or palatable.
Much, however, depends on the state of their condition, the nature of
the food on which they have fattened, and localities in which they feed;
and to some persons the very flavor, of which I complain as rank, sedgy
and fishy, appears to take the guise of an agreeable _haut gout_.
The Red-breasted Sandpiper, _Tringa Icelandica_, known on the Long
Island waters, among the small islets of which it is very abundant, as
the “Robin Snipe,” by which name it is generally called, owing to the
resemblance of its lower plumage to that of the Red-breasted Thrush, or
Robin, _Turdus migratorius_, of this continent. In autumn this bird
assumes a dusky gray upper, and white under, plumage, and is then termed
the “White Robin Snipe.” In point of flesh it is one of the best of the
Shore-birds. It is easily called down to the decoys by a well simulated
whistle, and is consequently killed in great numbers.
The Red-backed Sandpiper, _Tringa Alpina_, generally known as the
“Black-breasted Plover.” It is a restless, active and nimble bird, flies
in dense bodies, whirling at a given signal; and at such times a single
shot will frequently bring down many birds. In October it is usually
very fat, and is considered excellent eating. In its autumnal plumage it
is generally known to fowlers as the “Winter Snipe.”
The Pectoral Sandpiper, _Tringa pectoralis_. This is a much smaller, but
really delicious species, particularly when killed on the upland
meadows, which it frequents late in the spring and early in the summer,
and on which I have killed it lying well to the dog, which will point
it, while spring snipe shooting. On Long Island it is known as the
“Meadow Snipe,” or “Short Neck;” on the Jersey shores, about Egg Harbor,
where it sometimes lingers until the early part of November, it is
called the “Fat Bird,” a title which it well merits; and in
Pennsylvania, where it occurs frequently, is often termed the “Jack
Snipe.” It is these blunders in nomenclature, and multiplication of
local misnomers, which render all distinctions of sportsmanship so
almost incomprehensible to the inhabitants of distant districts, and so
perplexing to the youthful naturalist. During the autumn of 1849 I
killed the Pectoral Sandpiper in great numbers, together with the
American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, and the Black-bellied
Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, on the marshes of the _Aux Canards_
river, near Amherstberg, in Canada West, in the month of September, and
a month later at Montgomery’s Pool, between lakes Simcoe and Huron.
Of the Tattlers, three only are in repute as shore-birds, the best of
the species, the Bartramian Tattler, _Totanus Bartramius_, better known
as the “Upland Plover,” which is, in fact, with scarcely an exception,
the most delicious of all our game-birds, being a purely upland and
inland variety, and as such never, or but extremely seldom, shot on the
coast.
These three are,
The Yellow-shanks Tattler, _Totanus Flavipes_, vulgo, “the lesser yellow
legs”—a bird, in my opinion, of very indifferent qualifications for the
table, but easily decoyed, and readily answering the fowler’s whistle,
and therefore affording considerable sport.
The Telltale Tattler, _Totanus Vociferus_, vulgo, “greater yellow legs,”
a less numerous species than the former, and more suspicious. Its flesh,
when it feeds on the spawn of the king-crab, or “Horse-shoe,” is all but
uneatable, but later in the season it is in better condition, and is
esteemed good eating. A few are said to breed in New Jersey. In the
neighborhood of Philadelphia, where these birds are shot in great
numbers on the mud-flats of the Delaware from skiffs, with carefully
concealed gunners, stealthily paddled down upon them till within close
shooting distances, these birds are termed “Plovers,” and the pursuit of
them plover shooting; of course wrongfully.
The last of this family is the Semipalmated Tattler, _Totanus
Semipalmatus_, universally known as the “Willet,” from its harsh and
shrill cry, constantly repeated during the breeding season, the last
note of which is thought to bear some resemblance to that sound. It is a
swift, rapid and easy flyer, and though rather shy when in exposed
situations, can be allured to the decoys. When in good order the flesh
of the Willet is very palatable, although not so greatly esteemed as its
eggs, which really are delicious.
Next to these come the Godwits, two in number, known by the unmeaning
title of Marlin.
The great Marbled Godwit, _Limosa Fedoa_, the “Marlin.” This bird,
though not very abundant, is a regular visitant of the seashores and
bays in the spring and autumn. It is very watchful, and will permit of
no near approach, unless some of its fellows are killed or wounded, when
it will hover over the cripples, with loud, shrill cries, affording an
easy opportunity of getting several barrels in succession into the
flock.
And the Hudsonian Godwit, _Limosa Hudsonica_, or the “Ring-tailed
Marlin,” is a still rarer and smaller variety than the last, of very
similar habits and of equal excellence in flesh. It is far more common
in the Middle States than in the Eastern districts, and is abundant in
the wild and barren lands far to the northward. I have seen it shot,
likewise, on the swamps of the _Aux Canards_, to which I have already
referred. This is the larger of the three birds, lying uppermost, in the
group, at the head of this article; it was sketched from a fine specimen
shot on the Delaware in the month of May. It is thus described by Giraud
in his excellent work on the Birds of Long Island:
“Bill, blackish-brown, at base of lower mandible yellow; upper parts
light-brown, marked with dull-brown, and a few small, white spots; neck
all round brownish-gray; lower parts white, largely marked with
ferruginous; basal part of tail-feathers and a band crossing the rump,
white. Adult with the bill slender, blackish-brown toward the tip,
lighter at the base, particularly at the base of the lower mandible; a
line of brownish-white from the bill to the eye; lower eyelid white.
Throat white, spotted with rust color; head and neck brownish-gray;
lower parts white, marked with large spots of ferruginous; under tail
coverts barred with brownish-black and ferruginous; tail brownish-black
cast, a white band at the base; a band over the rump; tips of primary
coverts and basis of quills white; upper tail-coverts brownish-black,
their basis white; upper parts grayish-brown, scapulars marked with
darker spots; feet bluish. Length fifteen inches and a half, wing eight
and a half.”
Among the various families of birds, which are all known, as I have
stated, by the general title of Bay Snipe, there is but one Snipe
proper, and that is one of the most numerous, and perhaps the most
excellent of the tribes.
The Redbreasted Snipe, _Scolapax Noveboracensis_—the “Dowitcher,” the
“Quail Snipe,” the “Brown Back.”
A brace of these excellent and beautiful birds are depicted as thrown
carelessly on the ground, under the neck of the Ring-tailed Marlin, in
the preceding sketch.
This bird has the bill of the true snipe, _Scolopax Americanus_,
excepting only that the knob at the tip of the upper mandible of the
bill is less distinctly marked. The spring plumage of this bird, in
which it is depicted above, is on the upper parts brownish-black,
variegated with clove-brown, and light reddish-brown, the secondaries
and wing-coverts tipped and edged with white. Lower parts bright orange
colored ferruginous, spotted with dusky, arrow-headed spots. The abdomen
paler. The tail-feathers and upper tail-coverts alternately barred with
black and white; the legs and feet dull yellowish-green.
“At the close of April,” says Mr. Giraud, “the Redbreasted Snipe arrive
on the coasts of Long Island. Invited by a bountiful supply of food, at
the reflux of the tide, it resorts to the mud-flats and shoals to
partake of the rich supply of shell-fish and insects which nature in her
plenitude has provided for it. As the tide advances, it retires to the
bog meadows, where it is seen probing the soft ground for worms. In the
spring it remains with us but a short time. Soon after recruiting it
obeys the unerring call of nature, and steers for the north, where it
passes the season of reproduction. About the middle of July it returns
with its young, and continues its visit during September, and if the
season be open, lingers about its favorite feeding grounds until the
last of the month.”
The specimens from which the above sketch is taken, were procured on the
Delaware so late as the latter part of May; but it must be remembered
that this spring, 1850, was unusually late and backward.
This snipe associates in large flocks, is very easily whistled, flies in
dense and compact bodies over the decoys, and is so gentle that, after
half the flock has been cut down by the volleys of the lurking gunner,
the remainder will frequently alight, and walk about demurely among
their dead companions and the illusive decoys, until the pieces are
reloaded, and the survivors decimated by a fresh discharge.
Even when feeding on the open mud-flats, the Redbreasted Snipe is so
tame as to allow itself to be approached by the sportsman, with little
or no address, running about and feeding perfectly unsuspicious, until
its enemy has come within short range, when it springs with its
tremulous cry only to be riddled with the shot of the close discharge.
The other of these birds worthy of the most attention are,
The Sanderling, _Calidris Arenaria_, which, though very small, is fat
and excellent.
The Black-bellied Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, “Bull-headed,” or
“Beetle-headed Plover,” a shy bird, but frequently whistled within
gunshot. On the coast it is apt to be fishy, but when shot inland, and
on upland pastures, of superior quality.
The American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, “the Frost bird;” a
very beautiful species, and of rare excellence when killed on the
upland, where it is found more frequently and more abundantly than on
the shore.
The Long-billed Curlew, _numenius Longirostris_, “Sickle-bill,” a large,
coarse-flavored bird, easily decoyed.
The Hudsonian Curlew, _numenius Hudsonicus_, “Short-billed Curlew,” or
“Jack Curlew.” Similar to the latter in all respects, although smaller
in size.
And last, The Esquimaux Curlew, _numenius Borealis_, “the Futes,” “the
Doe Bird.” This bird feeds principally on the uplands, in company with
the golden plovers, and on the same food, _videlicet_, grasshoppers,
insects, seeds, worms, and berries. Its flesh is delicate and high
flavored. It breeds far to the north, and winters far to the south of
the United States, residing with us from early in August until late in
November.
With this bird, although there are numerous other smaller species, the
list of these tribes may be held complete.
From the commencement of the present month until late in the autumn,
anywhere along the coasts and bays of the Northern and Middle States a
bag may readily be filled to overflowing with these varieties by the aid
of good decoys and skillful whistling, or of a skiff paddled by a
cunning fowler; a gun of 8 to 10 pounds weight, of 12 gauge, with two
oz. of No. 5 shot, and an equal measure of powder, will do the work. But
when the work is done, comparatively the game is worthless, and the
sport, as compared with upland shooting, scarcely worth the having.
* * * * *
RIVERSIDE.
BY GEO. CANNING HILL.
In a wood, all deep and solemn,
Where fall many a leafy column
Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky—
Where the sunbeams bright and golden,
Gloss the mosses dank and olden,
And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;—
A piazza, broad and shaded,
By the vines about it braided,
Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams;
And it looks toward the river,
Where long shadows lie and quiver—
Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.
I can hear the distant tumble
Of the waters, and the rumble
Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,
And the cascade’s steady drumming
Comes like sweet and lowly humming,
As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.
If the sun have just arisen,
With its brightness to bedizen
Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—
What a glory is before me—
All around, beside, and o’er me—
What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!
Or if it be at even,
When soft breezes blow from heaven,
And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—
Oh! how thick my brain is crowded
With sweet images enshrouded—
With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!
Little pools lie closely hidden
In the woods, as if forbidden
To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—
Where the turtle’s lonely whirring
Is at evening ever stirring,
Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.
I have often sat, when saddened,
And as often, too, when gladdened,
At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;
And the world beyond forgotten,
Quiet thoughts would be begotten—
Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept.
And beside the river’s dashing,
In the tumult of its plashing,
I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred;
Then below, where it runs slowly,
And the boughs bend over lowly,
My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word.
Upon every tree are builded—
By the garish sun ne’er gilded—
Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades;
And within their snug dominions
I can see the fledging pinions
Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.
The fresh morning air is ringing
With a concord of sweet singing,
From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;
High within the sylvan arches
Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches,
Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.
I love to sit at morning,
In the glory of the dawning
Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,
On this broad piazza olden,
Where the gray streaks and the golden
Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.
The hawthorn and the holly,
Bearing berries red and jolly,
Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;
And like caps of grenadiers
The dark moss in clumps appears—
The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall.
O, ’tis glorious in October,
When the sky is clear and sober,
To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside!
For the forest is all blazing
With the Autumn colors, raising
Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,
And the influences setting
In upon me are begetting
Purer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd;
For the earth hath such a seeming,
With its thousand glories teeming,
That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud.
Yes, for me the deep wood solemn,
Where full many a leafy column
Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky,
And the sunbeams, bright and golden,
Gloss the mosses gray and olden,
And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie.
* * * * *
CHANT OF THE NÉREIDES.
FROM THE
SECOND PART OF GÖETHE’S FAUST.
MUSIC BY
ENNA DUVAL.
[Illustration]
Oh, follow our counsel,
And rest thee in gladness;
The flow’rs ’neath the willows shall
[Illustration]
ease thee of sadness.
Here slumber thou lov’d one,
Thy labours shall cease;
We breathe and we warble of gladness and peace.
* * * * *
THE FINE ARTS.
The Opera.—Strange, that Philadelphia, with so much musical taste and
cultivation, cannot have an Opera. Once in a while an Operatic troupe
wanders along, and rests, for a short time, in our sober town, gives a
few representations, then away it goes. Our neighbors of New York manage
this thing better—an Opera they will have, even if they run in debt for
it. And yet it seems that one, properly managed, might succeed in this
concert-loving town of Penn. It must be a moderate one, however; that
is, moderate in price. A serious old merchant, well to do in the world,
will hesitate at taking even two tickets, at a dollar a-piece, but he
would not mind taking a half dozen tickets if they cost only half that
sum. The principle is the thing.
Brother Jonathan likes a show of economy, at least. Every politician in
Congress, who wishes to be popular in Bunkum, invariably makes speeches
against appropriations, mileage, &c., in order to prove that he is
anxious to save Uncle Sam’s purse; but, at the same time, this same
politician will have his pet appropriations, and not refuse his mileage
either.
The small circle of fashionable people may subscribe and talk, but they
can do little in this opera matter, without the support of the plain,
unpretending portion of the inhabitants, who, after all, make up the
audience, and bring in the money; and they have made up their minds to
give only a moderate sum, and they will not give any more.
Then the Troupe must be a good one; or, if only a slender one, it must
not attempt too much. The Seguins always drew well, because they only
attempted _Operettes_ and _Vaudevilles_. Not that the Philadelphians do
not like a higher order of music, but they are fastidious, and know when
a good Opera is badly given. They will not go to hear the rich, full
music of Norma murdered by a poor Troupe, with worn-out voices, and
meagre choruses. Whatever they listen to must be well sung.
We wish that inimitable knight of the Baton—the white cravated Max
Maretzek—would think a little of this. But if he does, there is one
hint that it would be well to whisper in his ear, or in the ear of any
other venturesome Opera proprietor, who is bold enough to undertake the
establishing of an Opera here. There must be no cliques—no _donnas_ of
different schools in the Troupe. We can all remember how weary we all
were of the Biscaccianti and Truffi feud; and then, again, of the Truffi
and Laborde cliques. The real lovers of music, who went for the love of
the Opera, and not in a spirit of pedantic fashionable affectation, were
ready to exclaim, with Mercutio,
A plague o’ both your houses.
Let the Opera be of either the French or Italian School, so that it be
of one, alone. There is sufficient love for music with us, to make us
liberal to either school, so that it be well represented. So far as our
own taste is concerned, the Italian school is the more pleasing. The
French _vocalization_ is too exaggerated, we think. It is a mere matter
of taste, however, and we will be content to listen to either, so that
we have an Opera.
In the early part of the summer of ’47, an Italian Opera Troupe, from
Havana, tarried a few weeks in Philadelphia. Most of the townsfolk,
especially the wealthier class, had left the town, and were at different
watering places; and, yet, we remember this company drew good houses.
It was one of the best Troupes we have ever had in Philadelphia. Its
Donnas were Tedesco and Caranti Vita, and Marini. Tedesco, with her
rich, mellow, mezzo-soprano voice, and the timid _petite_ Vita, with a
delicate _sympathetic_ soprano, that warbled like a bird—it was a treat
indeed. Then Marini—the only true Contr’alto we ever heard—how she
startled the audience with her fulness and depth of tone. She was
awkward as an actress, and her voice, though rich, was rough; but there
was so much melody in it that it touched us, and we could not, if we
would, criticise.
Of the Operas sung by this Troupe we speak of, Saffo and Sonnambula were
our favorites. True, the Choruses in Norma were beautifully done—for
the Choruses of this well-balanced Troupe were full, and well
trained—but the chaste, simple music of Saffo, suited Tedesco’s fresh,
young voice; and the delicate, melodious caroling of Amina, was the very
character of Caranti Vita.
Perelli—the popular Perelli, without whose instructions no lady in
Philadelphia, with any pretensions to a voice, can possibly get
along—was the Tenore in this Troupe, and its Maestro. In Verdi’s
Hernani, his voice produced a fine effect and, every thing he sung, gave
evidence of high culture and good taste.
The Opera of Saffo pleased us, particularly—the music was so pure and
chaste. Such compositions are the sculpture of Music; a simple, classic
plot—clear, decided harmony—pure melody. This is enough—scenic
illusions and orchestral effects are of secondary importance.
This style of music belongs to a good, old school—the story also is
effective. Schlegel it is, we think, who says, that there is a fanciful
freedom in the handling of mythological materials, or subjects taken
from chivalrous or pastoral romances, which always produces a fine
effect in Opera. That so soon as the Heroic Opera chains itself down to
History, after the manner of Tragedy, Dullness, with a leaden sceptre,
presides over it.
There is another Opera of this school, the music of which we have heard,
but we have never seen the opera represented—Niobe. Every instrumental
performer will recal, with something like a loving memory, the beautiful
melody from this Opera, “_I tuoi frequenti palpiti_,” which has been
arranged, in “_all sorts of ways_,” for different instruments.
Good Reader, we will have a chat once in a while, on this subject of
Music. We will talk together of Concerts, sometimes, both professional
and amateur—and we will give some good-natured hints to our amateur
_prima donnas_, about the difference between stage-singing and chamber
singing. But you must join with us in all we say, and though we play
spokesman and you listener, you must agree with us, and while we talk,
you stand behind us, and make the gestures—then we shall succeed in
interesting others as well as ourselves.
* * * * *
Spohr has completed his ninth orchestral symphony, which he has entitled
“The Seasons.”
* * * * *
Madame Frezzolini, after an absence of eight years from London, has
returned to her Majesty’s Theatre, which she opened with great success
as Lucrezia.
* * * * *
“The Philosopher’s Stone” is the title of a new burletta, produced in
London, having for its subject of ridicule the gold and California
mania.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Latter-Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 6.
Parliaments. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co._
We think that this pamphlet, though its notions are pushed to a crazy
extreme, is calculated to do good. In attacking the existence of
legislative assemblies, it lays bare and mercilessly ridicules their
abuses, especially their tendency to endless and worthless talk and
palaver. The style is not that which Carlyle is accustomed to use in his
library, but the style of Carlyle over his brandy and water; and it
accordingly has the recklessness as well as the fire of that peculiar
method of accelerating the faculties. The Parliament which Carlyle
likes, and which he contrasts with Lord John’s, is an old Norman one,
before the business of Parliament had been undertaken by the newspapers;
a Parliament which advised, not a Parliament which governed. “Reading,”
he says, “in Eadmerus and the dim old Books, one finds gradually that
the Parliament was at first a most simple Assemblage, quite cognate to
the situation; that Red William, or whoever had taken upon him the
terrible task of being King of England, was wont to invite, oftenest
about Christmas time, his subordinate Kinglets, Barons, as he called
them, to give him the pleasure of their company for a week or two;
there, in earnest conference all morning, in freer talk over Christmas
cheer all evening, in some big royal Hall of Westminster, Winchester, or
wherever it might be, with log-fires, huge rounds of roast and boiled,
not lacking Malmsey and other generous liquor, they took counsel
concerning the arduous matters of the kingdom. ‘You, Taillebois what
have you to propose in this arduous matter. . . Tête-d’étoupes, speak
out. And first the pleasure of a glass of wine, my infant!’ Thus, for a
fortnight’s space, they carried on, after a human manner, their grand
National Consult, or _Parliamentum_; intermingling Dinner with it (as is
still the modern method;) debuting every thing as Tacitus describes the
Ancient Germans to have done, two times; once sober, and once what he
calls ‘drunk’—not exactly dead-drunk, but jolly round their big table;
that so both sides of the matter might be seen, and, midway between rash
hope and unreasonable apprehension, the true decision of it might be
hit.”
Throughout the pamphlet the author wantons in dogmatism and
impertinence, and has an especial love for a phrase representing the
British people as “twenty-seven millions mostly fools.” The United
States comes in as usual for a rap. The rumor is, that we are indebted
for all Carlyle’s sarcasms against our people to the American tourists
who have bored him; persons whom he always treated with roughness, but
whom he now receives with almost savage insolence. We have heard a story
of an American lady, who visited him—under the impression that he was a
great philanthropist, and immediately opened the conversation with some
remarks in favor of the abolition of slavery. He growled out a bitter
rejoinder, in which he took strong grounds in favor of that institution,
and denounced all abolitionists as sentimental fools and flunkies. The
lady, irritated and surprised, hit instantly on the true woman’s method,
the _argumentum ad hominum_, and put the startling question, “How, Mr.
Carlyle, should you like to be a slave?” He dilated his person to its
full dimensions, and in his broad Scotch brogue exclaimed, “Well, I
should be glad to be a great bull-necked nigger, and have somebody to
take care of me!” We must confess to a sympathy with his wish, as far as
it relates to somebody’s taking care of him, we think good might be done
to his head in an asylum.
There is, however, an allusion in the pamphlet to our Congress, which is
not without its wisdom just at this time, and which may be safely
commended to the attention of those honorable members who consume time
and money, precious to the public, in speeches which rarely rise in
thought to the level of party newspaper leaders, and which, in style,
are often below the rhetoric of romances in yellow covers. He says,
“Only perhaps in the United States, which alone of all countries can do
without governing—every man being at least able to live, and move off
into the wilderness, let Congress jargon as it will—can such a form of
so-called ‘Government’ continue for any length of time to torment men
with the semblance, when the indispensable substance is not there. For
America, _as the citizens well know_, is an ‘unparalelled country’—with
mud soil enough, and fierce sun enough in the Mississippi valley alone
to grow Indian corn for the extant Posterity of Adam at this time; what
other country ever stood in such a case? ‘Speeches to Bunkum,’ and a
constitutional battle of the Kilkenny cats, which in other countries are
becoming tragical and unendurable, may there still fall under the
comical category.”
* * * * *
Webster’s Dictionary.—A new quarto edition of Webster’s Dictionary,
with additions by Professor Goodrich, has recently been issued by G. &
C. Merriam, of Springfield, and is for sale in this city by booksellers
generally. Study of the Dictionary is the great want of a majority of
American writers. They neither drink at the sources nor draw from the
depths of the language, to supply the thirst for purity, variety, and
force of expression, with which truly masculine minds are panting. With
a vocabulary equal to the largest demands of truth in its labors, or of
imagination in its play, we find constantly recurring the same
set-phrases, the same commonplaces, the same worn-out figures. Our
college-bred men are not deficient in a Johnsonian stock of Latin
derivatives, but into the Saxon mine of our tongue, few of them have
ever delved. They are too indolent to open the record and search for the
treasures bequeathed to them. Until Webster’s researches and toils
brought these treasures together, they were so far hidden and scattered,
that few even of the learned appreciated their amount. Thirty-five years
he spent in the compilation of his Dictionary; and since the publication
of the first edition, it has been enriched by himself and the present
editor with thousands of words; and it is now, by the consent of the
learned in England as well as this country, valuable above every other,
for comprehensiveness, etymological accuracy, and clearness of verbal
definitions. The new quarto contains the whole matter of the former
editions in two volumes, printed with clear type, on good paper, and
substantially bound. It is one of the few books, of which a threadbare
recommendation may be truly repeated—“no library is complete without
it.” One of the most distinguished of American writers, whose choice of
fresh and forceful words has at times brought upon him a charge of
pedantry, but who in fact has only used fearlessly the wealth of the
language, told us, some years ago, that it was his habit to read the
Dictionary through about once every year. To the student, this practice
may be commended as of inestimable service. A single word is often the
cue to a sentiment or a train of ideas worthy of expression. As the mind
is full of words to give variety to its pictures, so will it be full of
suggestions for new subjects. The relation between words and ideas is to
a degree an absolute identity. An illiterate person sits down to write a
letter. His fund of language being small, the paucity of his thoughts is
in the same proportion. He may have traveled half over the world, yet he
has nothing to say to his friends at home, except that he is well, and
hopes they are the same. Our young writers may find in this illustration
a reason for studying the Dictionary faithfully and continually. Not
from the conversation of the educated, or from miscellaneous books
alone, will they catch by accident the riches of the language. They must
search and reflect—a task which the labors of Webster and his great
predecessors in lexicography, have reduced to child’s play. Among the
two or three thousand newspapers in the United States, are at least some
hundreds edited by men who have not had the opportunities of a classical
education. Minds only of extraordinary energy, or those rising to the
standard of genius, can do perfect justice to the important duties of
journalism without the advantages of this discipline. But they may in
mature life, find its best substitute in the systematic study of a
comprehensive Dictionary, in connection with the classics of the
language. Were this method adopted, we would not so often have reason to
blush for the feebleness and illiteracy exhibited not only in many
newspaper columns, but in the pages of periodicals of far higher
pretensions, as exemplars of rhetorical propriety.
* * * * *
_The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a
Variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. New York:
George P. Putnam. 4 vols. 12mo._
Few English classics have been edited with the care and the thoroughness
of this edition of Goldsmith. Prior, an antiquarian who never touches a
subject which he does not exhaust, has paid especial attention to
Goldsmith; has written a biography of him, which forms the basis both of
Foster’s and Irving’s; and in the present edition, has printed many
valuable essays and poems never before collected. The articles
contributed by Goldsmith to the Monthly and Critical Reviews, when he
was a hack-writer in the most dismal sense of that term, are here
collected; and though not to be compared with his best works for humor
or for style, they still evince the hand of genius in many a scrap of
serene wisdom, and in many a sentence of penetrating sagacity. In the
fourth volume, just published, we find an oratorio, “The Captivity,” and
a ludicrous scene from a farce called “The Grumbler,” never before
printed. Mr. Putnam has issued the edition in a style of great neatness,
and has placed it at a very low price. We hope it will meet with a sale
corresponding to its merits. It supersedes all the other editions of
Goldsmith now in the market, being the best printed, and the best edited
of all, and containing several hundred pages of matter to be found in no
other collection.
* * * * *
_Moneypenny, or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present
Day. By Cornelius Mathews. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1 vol.
8vo._
Mr. Mathews is well known as an able but somewhat eccentric writer, with
the grotesqueness, as well as the insight of the humorist, and often
miscalculating the avenues to popular favor, while he gave no evidence
of lacking the powers which deserve it. His present novel is his best
production in respect to story and characterization, and is especially
remarkable for its minute knowledge of every locality, and every phase
of humanity and life, in the city of New York. This is not displayed in
the way of a mere copyist, but in the higher mode of the observing
humorist, to whom external forms are symbolical of serious or smiling
spiritual facts. The style sparkles with a kind of laughing earnestness,
which indicates an intense sympathy in the author with the varying
throng of local objects which press upon his imagination for
representation. We commend it to all readers who have fancies to be
touched by its quaint analogies, and risibilities to be tingled by its
humor.
* * * * *
_Heroines of the Missionary Enterprise; or Sketches of Prominent
Female Missionaries. By Daniel C. Eddy. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._
This elegant volume contains thirteen carefully prepared biographies of
eminent women who have toiled and suffered, bodily and mentally, in the
missionary cause. They are well worthy the honors of heroism, and some
of them in Catholic countries, would have been sainted. Among the
biographies are the names of Harriet Newell, Esther Butler, Sarah L.
Smith, Henrietta Shuck, Sarah D. Comstock, and the three Mrs. Judsons.
* * * * *
_The Use and Abuse of Alcoholic Liquors, in Health and Disease.
By William B. Carpenter. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._
This work is the Essay, to the author of which was awarded one hundred
guineas, in London, by the Committee, selected to read the articles on
behalf of the munificent donor. It is a work of great ability,
thoroughly exposing all the fallacies which men indulge in, as an excuse
for using intoxicating drinks, and driving the last vestige of excuse
from the drunkard. It is a work that should be read by every young man
in America.
* * * * *
_Eldorado, or Adventures in the Path of Empire: compromising a
Voyage to California, via Panama; Life in San Francisco and
Monterey; Pictures of the Gold Region, and Experiences of
Mexican Travel. By Bayard Taylor, author of “Views a-Foot,” etc.
With illustrations by the author. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2
vols. 12mo._
The popularity of the author of these delightful volumes is indicated by
the rapid sale of the first edition, which was disposed of on the day of
publication. The work will add to Taylor’s reputation in respect to
every quality of mind and disposition for which he is deservedly
distinguished. It so combines the observer with the poet, that the
reader soon becomes the author’s companion, seeing what he sees and
feeling what he feels. His descriptions of scenery are beautiful
representations; a few quiet and magical sentences bring pictures right
before the eye; and when his subject happens to be the vegetation of the
tropics, he gives us not only foliage but fragrance. The whole book is
pervaded by that genial and happy spirit, which lends fascination to all
of Taylor’s writings, and converts his readers into friendly partisans.
We have not space at present to indicate the stores of information and
delight which the volumes contain, but will extract one paragraph on a
Pacific sunset, as a specimen of the ease with which the author’s facile
style rises to eloquence. “Why,” he exclaims, “has never a word been
said or sung about sunset on the Pacific? No where on this earth can one
be overvaulted with such a glory of colors. The sky, with a ground-hue
of rose toward the west, and purple toward the east, is mottled and
flecked over all its surface with light clouds, running through every
shade of crimson, amber, violet, and russet-gold. There is no dead
duskiness opposite the sunken sun; the whole vast shell of firmament
glows with an equal radiance, reduplicating its hues on the glassy sea,
so that we seem floating in a hollow sphere of prismatic crystal. The
cloud-strata, at different heights in the air, take different coloring;
through bars of burning carmine one may look on the soft, rose-purple
folds of an inner curtain, and, far within and beyond that, on the clear
amber-green of the immaculate sky. As the light diminishes, these
radiant vapors sink and gather into flaming pyramids, between whose
pinnacles the serene depth of air is of that fathomless violet-green
which we see in the skies of Titian.”
* * * * *
_The Life and Religion of Mohammed, as Contained in the Sheeãh
Traditions of the Hyât-ul-Kuloob. Translated from the Persian.
By Rev. James L. Merrick, Eleven Years Missionary to the
Persians. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._
This is altogether the most important and trust-worthy work relating to
Mohammed ever translated into English, giving, as it does, “a full view
of his life and religion, with sketches of his ancestors, companions,
and times, blended with maxims and legends illustrative of Oriental
manners.” To the theologian it is invaluable, while to the general
reader it is as interesting as an Oriental romance, being in the form of
narrative, with frequent flashes of magnificent poetry. The account of
the birth of Mohammed, especially, is exquisitely beautiful. As a
specimen of the style, we give a paragraph embodying Sawadbin-Karib’s
testimony. “Four days after the birth, Sawadbin-Karib, a man celebrated
among the Arabs for his knowledge, came to congratulate Abdulmutalib,
and see the child of whom he had heard many marvelous accounts. On going
to the house of Aminah they were informed that he was asleep. When the
cover of the cradle was removed to gratify them with a sight of the
wonderful babe, _such lightning gleamed from his blessed countenance
that the roof of the house was cloven by it, and the visiters drew their
sleeves over their dazzled eyes_.”
* * * * *
_Gleanings from the Poets, for Home and School. A New Edition,
Enlarged. Boston: Crosby & Nichols. 1 vol. 12mo._
The title of this volume is an honest title, accurately describing the
contents. The poems are selected from a wide variety of English authors,
and consist of pieces which have not been worn threadbare by previous
publication in school-reading books. Some of the selections will be new
to most readers of poetry, such as the narrative poems of French and
those of Mary Lamb. We notice two poems by Tennyson not included in the
edition of his works. “The Skylark” is here, not only in Shelly’s
rapturous lyric, but as he was viewed by the imaginations of Wordsworth
and Hogg. Wordsworth’s wonderful “Ode on the Intimations of Immortality
from the Recollections of Childhood,” the grandest and subtlest of
modern odes, is given in full. We notice also a number of pieces by
Vaughan, Quarles, and holy George Herbert, not generally known. The
Prioress’s Tale is reprinted in Chaucer’s old spelling, its quaint
phraseology truly embodying its intense sweetness of sentiment.
Altogether, we think that “home” to be deficient in which this volume
has not its place.
* * * * *
_Redwood: A Tale. By the Author of “Hope Leslie,” etc. New York:
George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
This novel, the third volume of Mr. Putnam’s elegant re-issue of the
works of Miss Sedgwick, is especially interesting, as giving the best
account we have ever read of life among the Shakers. The effect of the
doctrines of that singular sect upon individual character is traced with
masterly discrimination. The story is also one of the most interesting
which even Miss Sedgwick’s genial fancy has invented, and fastens the
attention which it once engages.
* * * * *
_The Origin of the Material Universe. Boston: Phillips, Sampson
& Co._
This pamphlet is exceedingly ingenious and interesting, and is worthy of
extensive circulation. It is a highly wrought description, on scientific
principles, of the manner in which the earth was formed, and the events
connected therewith from its existence, in a fluid state to the time of
the Mosaical narrative. The theory of the writer is ably sustained, and,
whether true or not, has the effect to stimulate and fill the
imagination, and spur it to the contemplation of grand and majestic
images.
* * * * *
_Zanoni. By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. New York: Harper & Brothers._
The Harpers have included this work in their cheap “Library of Select
Novels,” which has now reached its one hundred and forty-second number,
and is probably the cheapest work ever issued. There are few novel
readers to whom Zanoni is not familiar, and of all the author’s
productions it best bears the test of reperusal. Its feverish power
exacts a feverish interest, which is as unhealthy as it is stimulating;
but this intellectual dram-drinking is now so common that the charge of
morbid sentiment brought against a book operates as a puff.
* * * * *
_Household Words. A Weekly Journal. Conducted by Charles
Dickens. New York: George P. Putnam. Nos. 1, 2, 3 and 4._
Mr. Putnam, with his usual enterprise, has contrived to make an
arrangement with Bradbury and Evans, of London, to publish Dickens’s
Journal contemporaneously with its appearance in London, and to afford
the English edition itself at what Mr. Chevy Slyme would call the
“ridiculously low price of six cents.” The Journal is full of stories
and sketches of a genial character, admirably adapted for the fireside
of home. To the uncounted number of people who constitute Dickens’s
public, the “Household Words” will be a welcome visitant.
* * * * *
_Letters of a Traveler; or Notes of Things seen in Europe and
America. By William Cullen Bryant. New York: George P. Putnam. 1
vol. 12mo._
This handsome volume is composed of letters, running over a period of
sixteen years, and recording impressions of travel in Europe and
America. The heart and imagination of Bryant consecrate and color the
whole series: and though the scenes he describes have often been
described by others, they appear new and fresh as mirrored in his pages.
The serene but searching, the tolerant but earnest, mind of the author,
gives the same life and charm to his prose as to his verse. The style is
characterised by the grace, delicacy and thoughtfulness, the sober
beauty, and “superb propriety,” native to his mind; and the cadence of
his sentences leaves a lingering music in the reader’s brain, long after
the book has been closed. The scenes and incidents of the volume are of
exceeding variety. Paris, Florence, Pisa, Venice, London,
Edinburgh,—Richmond, Charleston, St. Augustine, Mackinaw, Savannah,
Havana, Boston, Portland,—the Peaks of Derbyshire and the White
Mountains,—these widely distant places are but points to indicate the
number and dissimilarity of the topics which come under the author’s
view. Every lover of Bryant should possess this volume.
* * * * *
_Essays Upon Authors and Books. By W. Alfred Jones. New York:
Stanford & Swords. 1 vol. 12mo._
The writer of this valuable little volume is favorably known among all
who favor independent thought, exercised in the domain of literary
criticism and characterization, as the author of “The Analyst” and
“Literary Studies.” The “Essays” are thirty in number, covering a wide
variety of topics, and indicating that kind of literary knowledge which
looks through books into the spiritual constitution of their authors.
Mr. Jones is a professor of the condensed in composition, and seems ever
ambitious to cram his matter into a small space, and short, sharp, curt
sentences. Perhaps he sacrifices mellowness in thus aiming after the
laconic, but his fault is of so rare a nature in these days of verbose
expansiveness, that to blame him for it were to fall into a worse one.
Among the many essays which induce us heartily to recommend this volume
to the reader, are those entitled “Traits of American Authorship,” “Home
Criticism,” “The Two Everetts,” “Hoyt’s Poems,” “Hugh Latimer,” “Sir
Philip Sidney’s Defense of Poesy,” “R. H. Dana,” “Burton’s Anatomy of
Melancholy,” “The Literature of Quakerism,” “Æsthetical Fragments,”
“Thomas Moore,” and “Lord Bolingbroke.” Mr. Jones’s culture sweeps over
the field of English literature, and some of his most interesting essays
relate to quaint authors, whose names are in few mouths, but who are
capable, in capable hands, of being made interesting even in this age.
We need not say that the moral character of Mr. Jones’s criticism is as
high as it’s mental, and that his book may be safely taken as a guide to
young as well as to experienced readers.
* * * * *
_The Hungarian Revolution. Outlines of the Prominent
Circumstances attending the Hungarian Struggle for Freedom.
Together with brief Biographical Sketches of the Leading
Statesmen and Generals who took part in it. By Johan Pragay. New
York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
This volume carries with it more authority than any as yet published on
the Hungarian Revolution. The author had an official station in the
Ministry of War under Kossuth’s administration, and was Adjutant-General
of the Army. As the work of a soldier and statesman actively engaged in
the conduct of the war, it is as reliable as it is interesting.
* * * * *
_Hints Toward Reforms, in Lectures, Addresses and Other
Writings. By Horace Greely. 1 vol. 12mo._
The author of this volume is well known as the editor of an influential
political journal, and as a sturdy, independent, benevolent,
strong-minded and warm-hearted reformer. The topics he discusses are
those which deeply interest the popular mind at this time—labor,
temperance, land reform, capital punishment, free trade, protection,
etc.; and Mr. Greely grapples with the knottiest questions which those
themes suggest with a firm will, and an eager intellect. Bating some
doubtful opinions and some bad rhetoric, the volume conveys a good
impression of the author’s many excellent qualities of mind and
character. We cannot better describe the object of his work than by
employing his own words. “It aspires,” he says, “to be a mediator, an
interpreter, a reconciler, between Conservatism and Radicalism—to bring
the two into such connection and relation that the good in each may obey
the law of chemical affinity, and abandon whatever portion of either is
false, mistaken, or outworn to sink down and perish. It endeavors so to
elucidate and commend what is just and practical in the pervading
demands of our time for a Social Renovation that the humane and
philanthropic can no longer misrepresent and malign them as destructive,
demoralizing or infidel in their tendencies, but must joyfully recognize
in them the fruits of past and the seeds of future Progress in the
history of our Race.” The idea in this passage is one which a
conservative of the school of Burke would have no reason to disown. The
difficulty is in the different things meant by the two parties, when
they use the words “false, mistaken, and outworn.” Time, and the course
of things, not any particular intellect, must settle the dispute;
although we hope that Time, if he can take “Hints,” will accelerate his
pace a little, at our author’s particular request.
* * * * *
_Talbot and Vernon. A Novel. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.
12mo._
The author of this volume is guilty, as Pitt said of himself, “of the
atrocious crime of being a young man,” and appears now for the first
time before the public. But, though young, he has evidently seen and
experienced more than most old men. His knowledge of life has been
obtained from a residence in the Great West, and by a Campaign in
Mexico. The present novel is one of much interest and power, indicating
great freshness, quickness, and force of mind, and is particularly rich
in promise. The scenes in Mexico, including the description of the
battle of Buena Vista, and the whole trial scene toward the end of the
volume, are especially felicitous.
* * * * *
_Caprices. New York: R. Carter & Brother. 1 vol. 12mo._
This volume of poems, we should say, was the production of a sensitive
imagination and reflecting mind, gifted at present with more receptivity
than original power, and having a greater experience of Tennyson,
Emerson and Longfellow, than of actual or ideal life. The author has a
wide command of language, no mean powers of description, and a
tremblingly delicate sensibility for the beautiful and the grand, but
his present volume is more the promise than the performance of a
forcible and original poet. The very title indicates the fitful
character of the pieces.
* * * * *
_The Daltons; or Three Roads in Life. By Charles Lever. New
York: Harper & Brothers. Part I._
The author of “The Daltons” is so widely known for the heartiness and
vehemence of his comic narratives that it is only necessary to announce
his commencement of a novel to recommend it to attention.
* * * * *
FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS IN PREMIUMS.
The proprietors of the “Dollar Newspaper,” in this city, offer five
hundred dollars in premiums for the eight best stories written for that
paper, and sent in before the 1st day of October next—the merits of the
stories to be determined by a committee of literary gentlemen, whose
names will be given when the award is made. Two hundred dollars is the
premium for the best story; one hundred for the next best; fifty dollars
each for the two next best; and twenty-five dollars each for the four
next best. We have a long acquaintance with the proprietors of the
“Dollar Newspaper,” and have not the slightest doubt that their
proposition is made in good faith, and that all that they can do will be
done to arrive at a just and impartial decision. No writer who is
awarded a prize, could have any doubt of the prompt payment of the full
amount awarded. The only condition imposed by the publishers is, that
the scene of the story shall be American. Here’s a chance for the
literati.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
LE FOLLET, boul. S^{t}. Martin, 69
Chapeaux de M^{lle}. Grafeton, pl. de la Madeleine, 5 — Mouchoirs L.
Chapron & Dubois, rue de la Paix, 7.
Fleurs de Chagot ainé, r. Richelieu, 73, Robes et pardessus Isabelle de
Camille.
The styles of Goods here represented can be had of Mess^{rs}. L. J. Levy &
C^{o}. Philadelphia
and at Stewart’s, New-York.
Graham's Magazine 134 Chestnut Street]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some
spellings peculiar to Graham's. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.
page 73, first untuned page ==> first unturned page
page 76, and he promisess ==> and he promises
page 77, a benificent God ==> a beneficent God
page 77, deepth of feeling ==> depth of feeling
page 77, Bartholdy, Sphor, Gluck, ==> Bartholdy, Spohr, Gluck,
page 78, the rushing Colorada ==> the rushing Colorado
page 78, traders of Chihuaha ==> traders of Chihuahua
page 88, exploring the the thickets ==> exploring the thickets
page 89, little bark of ==> little barque of
page 92, or petit-maitre modulations ==> or petit-maître modulations
page 95, whose fiancèe you ==> whose fiancée you
page 96, a litle expedition ==> a little expedition
page 98, Day past away ==> Day passed away
page 98, his bark may strand ==> his barque may strand
page 102, By some unforseen ==> By some unforeseen
page 104, were bestowod ==> were bestowed
page 106, Tinturn Abbey ==> Tintern Abbey
page 123, sat, pouring over ==> sat, poring over
page 126, Avoset, _recurvirosta_ ==> Avoset, _recurvirostra_
page 128, of 12 guage ==> of 12 gauge
page 135, Sheeâh Traditions ==> Sheeãh Traditions
page 135, the Hyat-ul-Kuloob ==> the Hyât-ul-Kuloob
page 135, his usual interprise ==> his usual enterprise
page 135, London, Edinburg ==> London, Edinburgh
page 135, Peak of Derbyshire ==> Peaks of Derbyshire
page 136, accellerate his pace ==> accelerate his pace
page 136, awarded a a prize ==> awarded a prize