CHARACTERLESS WOMEN.

BY MRS. SEBA SMITH.

Coleridge has somewhere beautifully said, “the perfection of a woman’s

character is to be characterless.” A sentiment of such obvious propriety

would hardly seem to need a commentary, and yet no one of Coleridge’s

appears to be oftener misunderstood. A characterless woman is,

assuredly, any thing but an imbecile one. She must be one equal to all

contingencies, whose faculties or powers are developed by circumstances,

rather than by spontaneous action; and this implies the possession of

all that is peculiar to her sex, but all in harmonious adjustment.

A characterless woman is often confounded with one deficient in the

finest attributes of the sex, who is characterless indeed, but is so

from imbecility—if the phrase do not, of itself, involve a

contradiction; as if a creature, whose virtues were all negatives, could

be characterless! A woman, too feeble to grasp at thought, too vapid for

sentiment, too tame for mirth, too commonplace for enthusiasm, and too

weak for passion, may be the ideal of those incapable of appreciating

the higher characteristics of womanhood, but could never have been that

of him whom Wordsworth calls the “heaven-eyed creature;” of him who

conceived Christabel, and the sweet attaching Genevieve.

Such may do for the statue-like creations of Maria Edgeworth, and the

thousand and one other romance writers, who expect woman to move by

rule—who mistake dullness for goodness, and apathy for grace; but they

awaken in ourselves no emotions of sympathy, for the human heart can

respond only to _human_ emotions, and it at once goes forth to greet its

kindred impulses. Fielding’s Sophia is more lovable than Scott’s Rowena,

simply because one is a live, earnest woman, and the other designed to

be a very perfect one, and she turns out to be a very dull one.

Let Rebecca pass—the noble—the ideal—for, alas! human hearts are not

prepared for the love of such as these; they may excite esteem,

admiration, even passion, but love—the crowning boon of existence—may

not be theirs. They gather not the household gods about them—they enter

themselves into the holiest of holies, but they minister alone at the

altar. Their fate is that of the fabled bird, whose own intensity

kindled its funeral pyre. They have a mission to perform. They are

created not to enjoy but to suffer; aye, to suffer that human hearts may

be made wiser and holier; therefore do the pale stars keep vigil with

them, and therefore is the dew all night upon their heads, and their

locks wet with the drops of the morning.

A characterless woman! We feel she must be so, to be perfect as a woman.

But then she must have all the susceptibilities, all the sweet impulses,

all the weaknesses of her sex; she must have a woman’s thoughts, and a

woman’s utterance—her simplicity, her faith—and, beneath all, there

must dwell that womanly endurance—wondrous and holy in its

power—reserved for the day of trial.

Weakness as often imports character as strength. Any one attribute, in

excess, imports a distinctive characteristic. We talk of vain women,

coquettish, masculine, sensible, dull, witty, &c., running through all

the defective grades of character. Now a true woman must, as

circumstances warrant, exhibit something of all this; for she is a

“creature of infinite variety.”

She may have a dash of coquetry, but be no coquette—she hath pride, but

may not be called proud—hath vanity, but is not vain—she suggests,

rather than originates wit—wise she is, but, as Rosalind saith, “the

wiser, the waywarder”—she is devout, but no devotee—she is good, but

hers is not that dry, barren goodness, which ariseth from cold

speculating reason, but is rather that of a beautiful instinct, that

causeth her to feel that God hath done infinitely better for her than

she could have done for herself. Like Desdemona, she will blush at the

mention of herself, feeling she is so nicely balanced—and then, with a

woman’s best and sweetest attribute, she spreadeth forth her hand for

support.

Let the crowning grace of womanhood be, that she is characterless. The

beautiful and beloved of all ages may be thus defined. With all the

queenly attributes of Isabella, of Spain, we feel she was all of woman.

So was the lonely and unfortunate Mary Stuart, and she still holdeth a

place in our hearts.

Joan, of Arc, Catharine de Medici, Mary and Elizabeth, of England, were

all characters. We will not analize them, nor the emotions they excite,

but simply cite them as illustrations.

The meek sister of Lazarus—she who sat at the feet—the gentle Mary,

who was most honored with the friendship of the Savior, whom he could

not reproach, even though incited thereto by her sister, was beautiful

in her womanhood—so was the mother of Jesus. A character is affixed to

Martha, and to Mary the Magdalene. History is full of examples in

support of our theory. Josephine was characterless, except in her

sorrows; and too often do we find the lovely and beloved distinguished

thus, and we weep with them, feeling we are beguiled, not challenged to

sympathy. Mrs. Hemans, who hath given such eloquent utterance to a

woman’s soul, must have embodied all the attributes of womanhood, and

all in harmony.

Shakspeare everywhere discriminates between his characters and his true

women, those that are to be a part of the drama of life as the actors,

the women swayed by discordant passions, and those that appeal to our

love. Never does he confound them. Those that are designed for our love

are not characters. Whatever maybe their dignity, their intellect, their

fortunes, they are still women. The grace of womanhood invests all they

say, and all they do. Such are Portia, Cordelia, Desdemona, Ophelia,

Rosalind, &c. His characters may excite our admiration, our mirth, or

abhorrence, but they find no lodgement in our hearts. Such are Cressida,

Cleopatra, Lady Macbeth, Kate, &c.

Of Milton, Eve is characterless, till she hath fallen, and Spenser’s

Amoret sits in the very “lap of womanhood.”

Need we call Byron’s Medora weak, because she is supremely tender and

feminine? Weakness creates eccentricities, and she had none. Gulnare

hath character, and we recoil from her, as did the Corsair.

But enough—it is the “story without an end,” to be read from the time

that Eve first became a type of womanhood, down to the time when her sex

shall realize all that of which she was prophetic.

* * * * *

TO A BELLE WHO IS NOT A BLUE BELLE.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Fanny, in vain you’ve thrown your net;

Your beau is disenchanted;

You said, how can I e’er forget?

That you no “Rymer” wanted.

And said you not, my saucy belle,

For all my genius rare,

Although you liked me passing well,

My “Hobbes” you could not bear?

You say a “Spenser” you admire,

And “Glover’s” works delight in;

But should your eyes behold a “Prior”

Your wits away ’twould frighten,

For why? you ne’er could bear a “Hood.”

“Cotton”’s your detestation;

You place a “Locke” on what is “Good”

Nor give your “Cook” a ration.

You asked me t’other day to dine,

And if I’m not mistaken,

Told me—’twas when you “dropped the line”—

You knew not “Hogg” from “Bacon.”

I brought you down a noble “Bird,”

My gift you did not praise;

And thought my “Blackwood,” so I heard,

Was only fit to blaze!

Things hard as “Flint” and “Steele” you hate,

You wish no lore to learn;

Your “Pope” you excommunicate,

And laugh to find me “Sterne.”

In rings and seals your “Goldsmith”’s fair,

You must confess, as could be;

And yet that “Livy” is, you swear,

No better than she should be!

“Moore” would I say to you! Ah me!

O’er “Little” you grow cold;

You say that “Lamb” should quartered be,

And “Young” you say is old.

Your “Johnson” you a “Walker” make,

So merciless your ravage;

Though Crusoe took such pains to take

You throw away—a “Savage.”

For “Sparks” you will no pity show:

My love meets no returns;

Then why should still my bosom glow

For one who laughs at “Burns?”

Why to a belle who likes not “Home,”

Nor will my cares divide,

Should I a pensive suitor come,

And bear an “Akenside?”

* * * * *

SONG—“LOVE’S TIME IS NOW.”

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

Oh, why delay the happy time,

The hours glide swiftly by,

And oft we see a sombre cloud

Obscure the fairest sky;

Then while the morn is rosy bright

Accept my earnest vow,

And oh, believe me, dearest maid,

Love’s time, love’s time is now.

Regard not, sweet, what graybeards tell

Of fond, impetuous youth,

But trust my faith and constancy,

And never doubt my truth—

I would not for the world dispel

The sunshine from thy brow;

Then be mine own this very day,

Love’s time, love’s time is now.

Ah, yes—’tis true! Love’s time is now,

To-morrow may destroy

The flowers that bloom so fresh and fair

Along the path of joy:

Then do not, sweet, an hour delay

But at the altar bow,

And with consenting hearts we’ll sing

Love’s time, love’s time is now.

* * * * *

HARRY CAVENDISH.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.

THE DOOM OF THE DART.

The day had been close and sultry, but, as sunset drew on, a light

breeze sprung up, which diffused a delicious coolness throughout the

ship, imparting new vigor to the panting and almost exhausted men.

Invigorated by the welcome wind, a group of us gathered on the weather

quarter to behold the sun go down; and those who have never seen such a

spectacle at sea can have no idea of the vastness with which it fills

the mind. Slowly the broad disc wheeled down toward the west, seeming to

dilate as it approached the horizon, and, as its lower edge touched the

distant seaboard, trailing a long line of golden light across the

undulating surface of the deep. At this instant the scene was

magnificent. Pile on pile of clouds, assuming every fantastic shape, and

varying from red to purple and from purple to gold, lay heaped around

the setting god. For a few moments the billows could be seen rising and

falling against the broad disc of the descending luminary: while, with a

slow and scarcely perceptible motion, he gradually slid beneath the

horizon. Insensibly the brilliant hues of the clouds died away, changing

from gorgeous crimson, through almost every gradation of color, until at

length a faint apple-green invested the whole western sky, slowly fading

into a deep azure, as it approached the zenith.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed the skipper, “one might almost become poetical in

gazing on such a scene.”

The sun had now been hid for some minutes, and the apple-green of the

sky was rapidly becoming colder and more indistinct, though the edge of

a solitary dark cloud, hanging a few degrees above the horizon, was yet

tipped with a faint crimson. Meantime the stars began to appear in the

opposite firmament, one after another twinkling into sight, as if by

magic, until the whole eastern heaven was gemmed with them. I looked

around the horizon. Never before had its immensity so forcibly impressed

me. The vast concave swelling high up above me and gradually rounding

away toward the distant seaboard, seemed almost of illimitable extent;

and when, over all the mighty space of ocean included within its

circuit, my eye rested on not a solitary sail, I experienced a sensation

of loneliness such as no pen can describe. And when the breeze again

died away, leaving the sails idly flapping to and fro as the schooner

rocked on the swell, my imagination suggested that perhaps it might be

our doom, as it had been that of others, to lie for days, nay weeks and

months, powerless in the midst of that desert latitude, shut out from

the world, enclosed within the blue walls of that gigantic prison: and I

shuddered, as well I might, at the very idea of such a fate.

It was now a dead calm. No perceptible agitation could be discovered on

the surface of the deep, except the long undulating swell which never

subsides, and which can be compared to nothing but the heavy breathing

of some gigantic monster when lulled to repose. Now and then, however, a

tiny ripple, occasioned by the gambols of some equally tiny inhabitant

of the deep, would twinkle sharp in the starlight; while, close under

the shadow of our hull, a keen eye might detect hundreds of the fairy

fire-flies of the ocean, their phosphoric lanterns glittering gaily as

they shot to and fro. Absorbed in the contemplation of the spectacle, I

suffered more than half an hour to pass unheeded; and it was not until

the sea began to be sensibly agitated, and the wind to freshen, that I

looked up. The change which had come over the firmament astonished me,

and requires a passing description.

When I had last looked at the heavens, the whole eastern sky was thick

sown with stars, though no moon had as yet appeared. Along the western

seaboard still stretched the long line of pale apple-green which the

setting sun had painted in that quarter. The firmament overhead was

without a cloud, its dark azure surface spangled with stars. Between the

zenith and the eastern horizon hung the dark cloud which I have already

mentioned, a black opaque mass of vapor apparently not larger than a

capstan head. But every thing now presented a different aspect. The

first thing that met my eye was the upper portion of the disc of the

moon, peeping above the eastern seaboard, the dark fiery red of its face

betraying the existence of a thin mist in that direction. Fascinated by

the sight, I remained gazing for more than a minute on the rising

luminary, as she emerged gracefully and majestically from her watery

bed. At length, and apparently with an accelerated motion, she slid

suddenly above the line of the horizon, pouring a line of silver light

along the crests of the undulating swell, while instantaneously, as if

putting on all her glory, she emerged from the mist that had surrounded

her, and rolled on in pearly brightness, calm and undimmed, the stars

fading before her approach. One planet alone remained visible—it was

the evening star, walking in almost equal beauty, a little to the right

of her sister luminary. Never before had those fine lines of Milton, in

which he pictures her as leading on the choral hosts of heaven, rose so

vividly before my imagination.

When I turned my gaze westward, how different the spectacle that met my

eye! The little cloud which I have described, had grown to a gigantic

size, and now obscured the whole larboard firmament, extending its dark

and jagged front a third of the way around the horizon, and piling its

gloomy masses high up toward the zenith. Here and there, where a thinner

edge than usual was disclosed to the light, it caught the rays of the

rising luminary which it reflected back, so that the cloud seemed lined

with silver. The sea, immediately under this gloomy bank of vapor, was

of the color of ink, and reminded me of the fabled waters of Acheron.

The whole spectacle was calculated to fill the mind with dark and

ominous forebodings; and, I confess, my own feelings partook of this

uneasy character.

The wind was rapidly freshening; but, instead of setting in steadily

from any quarter, it blew in fitful gusts, chopping all round the

horizon. Yet it brought a delicious coolness with it, which was

peculiarly refreshing after the heat of the day. The sea now began to

rise, and as the dark billows heaved up in the spectral light, they wore

an aspect so ghastly that I almost shuddered to look on them—an aspect,

however, that was partially relieved when the unquiet puffs of air

crisped their edges into silver, or rolled a sheet of crackling light

along their surface. With the freshening of the wind the schooner began

slowly to move ahead, but, ever and anon, as the breeze died away, or

struck her from a new quarter, she would settle like a log on the water,

moaning as if in pain. At such times the dying cadence of the wind,

wailing through the rigging, smote on the ear with strange, weird power.

“A threatening prospect,” said the skipper, approaching me, and breaking

the profound silence which had reigned for several minutes, “we shall

have a tempest before long, and I fear it will be no child’s play.”

“I never saw such ominous signs before. The very air seems oppressed and

sick, as if it trembled at approaching ruin. Mark the faces even of our

oldest veterans—they betray a vague sentiment of fear, such as I never

saw on their countenances before.”

“Aye!” replied the skipper, abstractedly, for he was gazing anxiously

astern, “the cloud comes up like a race-horse. How it whirls over and

over, rolling its dark masses along; it reminds me of the mountains

which the old Titans, we read of in school, heaved against Jove. But

here am I thinking of classic fables when I ought to be taking in sail.

Ho!” he exclaimed, lifting his voice, as a sharp gust, premonitory of

the coming hurricane, whistled across the hamper, “in sail—every rag!”

No time was to be lost. During the short space we had been conversing,

the dark clouds astern had increased their velocity threefold, and, even

as the skipper spoke, the most advanced of them had over-shadowed us

with its sepulchral pall. As the momentary puff of air accompanying it

died away, a few large heavy rain-drops pattered on the deck, and then

all was still again. The men sprung to their stations, at the voice of

their superior, and incited to double activity by these signs of

approaching danger, soon reduced our canvass until the schooner lay,

with bare poles, rocking on the swell. Scarcely had this task been

completed, when the gale burst on us in all its fury, roaring, hissing,

and howling through the rigging, and drenching us with the clouds of

spray that it tore from the bosom of the deep and bore onward in its

fierce embraces. For a few minutes we could scarcely stand before the

blast. The schooner groaned, and starting forward at the first touch of

the hurricane, like a steed when he feels the spur, went careering

along, her tall masts curving over in the gale, and her hull shrouded in

the flying spray which drove onward with even greater velocity than

ourselves. In this desperate encounter with the elements, every rope and

stick strained and cracked almost to breaking. All at once this

hurricane died out, and then an awful stillness fell on the scene. Not a

voice spoke, not a footfall was heard, scarcely a breath broke the

appalling silence. The schooner rose and fell ominously on the agitated

swell. Suddenly a flash of lightning played far off on the dark edges of

the cloud behind us, and then followed a low hoarse growl of distant

thunder. Scarcely a minute elapsed before a large rain-drop fell on my

face, and instantaneously, as if the heavens were opened before us, a

deluge of rain rushed downwards, hissing and seething along the decks,

and almost pinning us to our places; while the wind, bursting out

afresh, swept wildly across the sea, and driving the spray and rain

madly before it, produced a scene of confusion and tumult almost

indescribable. For some minutes I could see nothing in the thick

darkness which now surrounded us—could hear nothing but the roar of the

hurricane and the splash of the waters. But suddenly a blinding flash

shot from a cloud almost directly overhead, lighting up the deck, spars,

and guns, for an instant, with a supernatural glare, and striking the

ocean a few fathoms distant, ploughed up the waters, which it flung in

volumes of spray in every direction. Before a clock could tick, the

report followed, stunning us with its deafening roar, and rattling and

crackling fearfully as it echoed down the sky. Never shall I forget the

ghastly looks of the men, as I beheld them in that unearthly glare. And

minutes after darkness had resumed its sway, and the roar of the thunder

had died in the distance, my eyes still ached with that intense light,

and the crackling of the bolt rung in my ears.

Meantime the rain descended in torrents, not, however, falling

vertically, but flying whistling before the hurricane. The uproar of the

elements now became terrific. The thunder rattled incessantly—the wind

shrieked through the hamper—every timber and spar groaned in the

strife, and the deep boom of the angry surges, pursuing in our wake,

sounded like the howlings of beasts of prey. The darkness was intense,

only relieved by the glare of the lightning which streamed incessantly

over the scene. Whither we were going it was impossible to tell, for all

control of the schooner had been given up, and we were scudding before

the tempest with breathless velocity. A quarter of an hour had thus

passed, when I found myself standing by the skipper, who was watching

the course of the ship.

“East, by east-sou’-east,” he said, “and driving like death. God of

heaven, what a storm!”

The words had scarcely left his mouth before another peal of thunder,

even more awful than the preceding one I have described, burst overhead,

and, stunning us for an instant with its terrific explosion, rattled

down the sky, crackling and re-crackling in its retreat, as if the

firmament were crashing to its centre: it was accompanied rather than

preceded by a flash, such as I had never seen before, blinding me

instantaneously with its glare, and making every object swim dizzily

before the brain. On the moment I felt a stunning shock, and was

prostrated on the deck, while a strong smell of sulphur pervaded the

atmosphere. The deluge of rain revived me, and I looked up in alarm.

Good God! the foremast was in flames. _We had been struck with

lightning!_

Quick as thought the whole horrors of our situation rose before me. We

were on a pathless sea amid a raging storm. That there was little hope

of extinguishing the flames was evident, for, even while these thoughts

flashed through my mind, a volume of smoke puffed up through the

forecastle, and a cry ran through the decks that the whole forward part

of the schooner was on fire. There was no time, however, to be lost, if

we would make any effort to save ourselves; and, faint as was the hope

of success, it was determined to attempt to smother the flames, by

fastening down the hatches and excluding the air. But the fierce heat

that filled the decks told us that the endeavor would be in vain; nor

was it long before the forehatch was blown up with a loud explosion,

while a stream of fire shot high up into the air; and, the next minute,

the forked tongues had caught hold of the rigging, wrapping shrouds,

ropes and yards in a sheet of lurid flame. The rapidity with which all

this occurred was incredible. It seemed as if but a minute had elapsed

since that terrific bolt had burst above us, and now the whole forward

part of the schooner was a mass of fire, that streamed out before the

tempest like a blood-red banner; showers of sparks, and even burning

fragments of the wreck, flying far away ahead on the gale. There are

periods, however, even of long duration, which appear to be but

momentary, and so it was now. So wholly had every energy been devoted to

the preservation of the ship, that the time had passed almost unnoticed,

though a full half hour had elapsed since we had been struck with

lightning. The storm, however, still raged as furiously as ever; for,

though the rain was less violent, the wind blew a hurricane, threatening

to settle down into a long sustained gale. Had the torrents of water,

which first drenched us, continued falling, there might have been some

hope of extinguishing the flames; but the subsidence of the rain, and

the unaltered violence of the wind, rendered the situation of the

schooner hopeless.

“We can do nothing more, I fear,” at length said the skipper, drawing me

aside, “the fire is on the increase, and even the elements have turned

against us. We must leave the little Dart to her fate, unless you can

think of something else to do?” and he looked inquiringly at me.

“Alas!” I replied, with a mournful shake of my head, “we have done every

thing that mortal man can do; but in vain. We must now think of saving

ourselves. Had we not better order out the boats?”

The skipper did not, for a moment, reply to my question, but stood, with

his arms folded on his breast, and a face of the deepest dejection,

gazing on the burning forecastle. At length he spoke.

“Many a long day have we sailed together, in many a bold fray have we

fought for each other, and now to leave you, my gallant craft, ah!

little did I think this would be your doom. But God’s will be done. We

must all perish sooner or later, and better go down here than rot, a

forgotten hulk, on some muddy shore—better consume to ashes than fall a

prey to some huge cormorant of an enemy. And yet,” he continued, his eye

lighting up, “and yet I should have wished to die with you under the

guns of one of those gigantic monsters—aye! die battling for the

possession of your deck inch by inch.” At this instant one of the

forward guns, which had become heated almost to redness in the

conflagration, exploded. The sound seemed to recall him to himself. He

started as if roused from a reverie, and, noticing me beside him,

recollected my question. Immediately resuming his usual energy, he

proceeded to order out the boats, and provide provisions and a few hasty

instruments, with a calmness which was in striking contrast to the

raging sea around, and the lurid fire raging on our bows.

The high discipline of the men enabled us to complete our preparations

in a space of time less than one half that which would have been

consumed by an ordinary crew under like circumstances; and, indeed, in

many cases, all subordination would have been lost, and perhaps the ruin

of the whole been the consequence. The alacrity of the men and the

forecast of the officers were indeed needed; for our preparations had

scarcely been completed when the heat on the deck became intolerable.

The fire had now reached the after hatch, and, notwithstanding the

violence of the gale, was extending aft with great rapidity, and had

already enveloped the mainmast in its embraces. For some time before we

left the schooner the heat, even at the tafferel, almost scorched the

skin from our faces; nor did we descend into the boats a minute too

soon. This was a feat also by no means easily accomplished, so great was

the agitation of the sea. As I looked on the frail boats which were to

receive us, and thought of the perils which environed us, of our

distance from land, and the slight quantity of provisions we had been

enabled to save, I felt that, in all human probability, we should never

again set foot on shore, even if we survived until morning. To my own

fate I was comparatively indifferent, for life had now lost all charms

to me; but when I reflected on the brave men who were to be consigned to

the same destiny, and of the ties by which many of them were bound to

earth—of the wives who would become widows, of aged parents who would

be left childless, of children for whom the orphan’s lot was

preparing—the big tears gushed into my eyes, and coursed down my cheek,

though unobserved.

“All ready,” said the skipper, who was the last to leave the deck, and

pausing to cast a mournful look at his little craft, he sprung into the

boat and we pushed off from the quarter. For some minutes, however, it

seemed doubtful whether our frail barges could live in the tumultuous

sea that now raged. One minute we were hurried to the sky on the bosom

of a wave, and then we plunged headlong into the dark trough below, the

walls of water on either hand momently threatening to overwhelm us. But

though small, our boats were buoyant, and rode gallantly onward. Every

exertion was made, meanwhile, to increase our distance from the

schooner, for our departure had been hurried by the fear that the fire

would soon reach the magazine, and our proximity to the burning ship

still continued to threaten us with destruction in case of an explosion.

The men, conscious of the peril, strained every sinew to effect our

object, and thus battling against wind and wave we struggled on our way.

With every fathom we gained, the sight of the burning ship increased in

magnificence. The flames had now seized the whole after part of the

schooner as far back as the companion way, so that hull, spars and

rigging were a sheet of fire, which, caught in the fierce embraces of

the hurricane, now whirled around, now streamed straight out, and now

broke into a thousand forked tongues, licking up the masts and around

the spars like so many fiery serpents. Millions of sparks poured down to

leeward, while ever and anon huge patches of flame would be torn from

the main body of the conflagration and blown far away ahead. Volumes of

dark, pitchy smoke, curling up from the decks of the schooner, often

partially concealed a portion of the flames, but they reappeared a

moment afterwards with even greater vividness. In some places so intense

was the conflagration that the fire was at a white heat. The whole

horizon was illuminated with the light, except just over and ahead of

the schooner, where a black smoky cloud had gathered, looking like the

wing of some gigantic monster of another world; and no description can

adequately picture the spectral aspect of the gloomy waves that rolled

up their ghastly crests beneath this canopy.

“She cannot last much longer,” said the doctor, who was in my boat, “the

flames will soon reach the magazine.”

“Aye! aye! and look there—”

As I spoke, a vivid, blinding jet of fire streamed high up into the air,

while the masts of the schooner could be seen, amid the flame, shooting

arrow-like to the sky. Instantaneously a roar as of ten thousand

batteries smote the ear; and then came the pattering of fragments of the

hull and spars as they fell on the water. Even while these sounds

continued, a darkness that brought to my mind that of the day of doom

enveloped us, though that intense light still swam in our eyes,

producing a thousand fantastic images on the retina. No word was spoken,

but each one held his breath in awe; and then came a long, deep drawn

sigh, that seemed to proceed simultaneously from each one in the boat.

_The Dart was no more._ We were alone in the boundless deep, alone with

a storm still raging around us, alone without any hope of rescue, and a

thousand miles from land. God only knew whether it would be our lot to

perish by starvation, or sink at an earlier hour a prey to the

overwhelming deep! As I contemplated our situation I shuddered, and

breathed an involuntary prayer that the latter might be our doom.

* * * * *

TO ALMEDA IN NEW ENGLAND.

BY JAMES T. FIELDS.

Tell me not of greener mountains,

Far away in other lands,

Nor of “Afric’s sunny fountains”

Rolling over “golden sands”—

These few flowers to me recall

Fairer visions than they all!

Strange that things which soonest perish,

Dying oft with close of day,

Memory will most fondly cherish,

When their bloom has passed away—

Storms cannot efface forever

Bounding barks from youth’s bright river!

Then, lady, take this idle sonnet,

Fragile though the lines may be;

I’m thinking of a Quaker bonnet,

I wonder if you’ll think of me

Next season, when you fold with care

This crumpled leaf _to curl your hair_!

* * * * *

THE PLAYFUL PETS.

Sure never yet were pets so sleek,

So full of sportive play;

With them the gentle Marian

Will while the hours away.

Ah! childhood has a happiness

To other years unknown,

A joy it finds in slightest things,

A word, a look, a tone!

To it of brighter worlds above

Dim glimpses oft are given—

Alas! that age, which wisdom gains,

Should draw us down from Heaven.

C.

* * * * *

[Illustration: PAINTED BY W. DRUMMOND, ENGRAVED BY J. SARTAIN

_The Playful Pets._,

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]

* * * * *

THE POETRY OF RUFUS DAWES.

A RETROSPECTIVE CRITICISM.

BY EDGAR A. POE.

“As a poet,” says Mr. Griswold, in his late “Poets and Poetry of

America,” “the standing of Mr. Dawes is as yet unsettled; there being a

wide difference of opinion respecting his writings.” The _width_ of this

difference is apparent; and, while to many it is matter for wonder, to

those who have the interest of our Literature at heart, it is, more

properly, a source of mortification and regret. That the author in

question has long enjoyed what we term “a high poetical reputation,”

cannot be denied; and in no manner is this point more strikingly evinced

than in the choice of his works, some two years since, by one of our

most enterprising publishers, as the _initial_ volume of a series, the

avowed object of which was the setting forth, in the best array of

paper, type and pictorial embellishment, the _élite_ of the American

poets. As a writer of occasional stanzas he has been long before the

public; always eliciting, from a great variety of sources, _unqualified_

commendation. With the exception of a solitary remark, adventured by

ourselves in “A Chapter on Autography,” there has been no written

dissent from the universal opinion in his favor—the universal

_apparent_ opinion. Mr. Griswold’s observation must be understood, we

presume, as referring to the _conversational_ opinion upon this topic;

or it is not impossible that he holds in view the difference between the

criticism of the newspaper paragraphs and the private comment of the

educated and intelligent. Be this as it may, the rapidly growing

“reputation” of our poet was much enhanced by the publication of his

first compositions “of length,” and attained its climax, we believe,

upon the public recitation, by himself, of a tragic drama, in five acts,

entitled “Athenia of Damascus,” to a large assembly of admiring and

applauding _friends_, gathered together for the occasion in one of the

halls of the University of New York.

This popular decision, so frequent and so public, in regard to the

poetical ability of Mr. Dawes, might be received as evidence of his

actual merit (and by thousands it _is_ so received) were it not too

scandalously at variance with a species of criticism which _will not_ be

resisted—with the perfectly simple precepts of the very commonest

common sense. The peculiarity of Mr. Griswold’s observation has induced

us to make inquiry into the true character of the volume to which we

have before alluded, and which embraces, we believe, the chief portion

of the published verse-compositions of its author.[5] This inquiry has

but resulted in the confirmation of our previous opinion; and we now

hesitate not to say, that no man in America has been more shamefully

over-estimated than the one who forms the subject of this article. We

say shamefully; for, though a better day is now dawning upon our

literary interests, and a laudation so indiscriminate will never be

sanctioned again—the laudation in this instance, as it stands upon

record, must be regarded as a laughable although bitter satire upon the

general zeal, accuracy and independence of that critical spirit which,

but a few years ago, pervaded and degraded the land.

-----

[5] “Geraldine,” “Athenia of Damascus,” and Miscellaneous Poems. By

Rufus Dawes. Published by Samuel Colman, New York.

* * * * *

In what we shall say we have no intention of being profound. Here is a

case in which any thing like analysis would be utterly thrown away. Our

purpose (which is truth) will be more fully answered by an unvarnished

exposition of fact. It appears to us, indeed, that in excessive

_generalization_ lies one of the leading errors of a criticism employed

upon a poetical literature so immature as our own. We rhapsodize rather

than discriminate; delighting more in the dictation or discussion of a

principle, than in its particular and methodical application. The

wildest and most erratic effusion of the Muse, not utterly worthless,

will be found more or less indebted to _method_ for whatever of value it

embodies; and we shall discover, conversely, that, in any analysis of

even this wildest effusion, we labor without method only to labor

without end. There is little reason for that vagueness of comment which,

of late, we so pertinaciously affect, and which has been brought into

fashion, no doubt, through the proverbial facility and security of

merely general remark. In regard to the leading principles of true

poesy, these, we think, stand not at all in need of the elucidation

hourly wasted upon them. Founded in the unerring instincts of our

nature, they are enduring and immutable. In a rigid scrutiny of any

number of directly conflicting opinions upon a poetical topic, we will

not fail to perceive that principles identical in every important point

have been, in each opinion, either asserted, or intimated, or

unwittingly allowed an influence. The differences of decision arose

simply from those of application; and from such variety in the applied,

rather than in the conceived idea, sprang, undoubtedly, the absurd

distinctions of the “schools.”

“_Geraldine_” is the title of the first and longest poem in the volume

before us. It embraces some three hundred and fifty stanzas—the whole

being a most servile imitation of the “Don Juan” of Lord Byron. The

outrageous absurdity of the systematic _digression_ in the British

original, was so managed as to form not a little portion of its infinite

interest and humor; and the fine discrimination of the writer pointed

out to him a limit beyond which he never ventured with this tantalizing

species of drollery. “Geraldine” may be regarded, however, as a simple

embodiment of the whole soul of digression. It is a mere mass of

irrelevancy, amid the mad _farrago_ of which we detect with difficulty

even the faintest vestige of a narrative, and where the continuous lapse

from impertinence to impertinence is seldom justified by any shadow of

appositeness or even of the commonest relation.

To afford the reader any proper conception of the _story_ is of course a

matter of difficulty; we must content ourselves with a mere outline of

the general conduct. This we shall endeavor to give without indulgence

in those feelings of risibility stirred up in us by the primitive

perusal. We shall rigorously avoid every species of exaggeration, and

confine ourselves, with perfect honesty, to the conveyance of a distinct

image.

“Geraldine,” then, opens with some four or five stanzas descriptive of a

sylvan scene in America. We could, perhaps, render Mr. Dawes’ poetical

reputation no greater service than by the quotation of these simple

verses in full.

I know a spot where poets fain would dwell,

To gather flowers and food for after thought,

As bees draw honey from the rose’s cell,

To hive among the treasures they have wrought;

And there a cottage from a sylvan screen

Sent up a curling smoke amidst the green.

Around that hermit home of quietude

The elm trees whispered with the summer air,

And nothing ever ventured to intrude

But happy birds that caroled wildly there,

Or honey-laden harvesters that flew

Humming away to drink the morning dew.

Around the door the honey-suckle climbed

And Multa-flora spread her countless roses,

And never poet sang nor minstrel rhymed

Romantic scene where happiness reposes,

Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell

Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell.

Beneath a mountain’s brow the cottage stood,

Hard by a shelving lake whose pebbled bed

Was skirted by the drapery of a wood

That hung its festoon foliage over head,

Where wild deer came at eve unharmed, to drink,

While moonlight threw their shadows from the brink.

The green earth heaved her giant waves around,

Where, through the mountain vista, one vast height

Towered heavenward without peer, his forehead bound

With gorgeous clouds, at times of changeful light,

While, far below, the lake in bridal rest

Slept with his glorious picture on her breast.

Here is an air of quietude in good keeping with the theme; the “giant

waves” in the last stanza redeem it from much exception otherwise; and

perhaps we need say nothing at all of the suspicious-looking compound

“mult_a_-flora.” Had Mr. Dawes always written even nearly so well, we

should have been spared to-day the painful task imposed upon us by a

stern sense of our critical duty. These passages are followed

immediately by an address or invocation to “Peerless America,” including

apostrophes to Allston and Claude Lorraine.

We now learn the name of the tenant of the cottage, which is _Wilton_,

and ascertain that he has an only daughter. A single stanza quoted at

this juncture will aid the reader’s conception of the queer tone of

philosophical rhapsody with which the poem teems, and some specimen of

which is invariably made to follow each little modicum of incident.

How like the heart is to an instrument

A touch can wake to gladness or to wo!

How like the circumambient element

The spirit with its undulating flow!

The heart—the soul—Oh, Mother Nature, why

This universal bond of sympathy.

After two pages much in this manner, we are told that _Geraldine_ is the

name of the maiden, and are informed, with comparatively little

circumlocution, of her character. She is beautiful, and kind-hearted,

and somewhat romantic, and “some thought her reason touched”—for which

we have little disposition to blame them. There is now much about Kant

and Fichte; about Schelling, Hegel and Cousin; (which latter is made to

rhyme with _gang_;) about Milton, Byron, Homer, Spinoza, David Hume and

Mirabeau; and a good deal, too, about the _scribendi cacoïthes_, in

which an evident misunderstanding of the quantity of _cacoïthes_ brings,

again, into very disagreeable suspicion the writer’s cognizance of the

Latin tongue. At this point we may refer, also, to such absurdities as

Truth with her thousand-folded robe of error

Close shut in her _sarcophagi_ of terror—

And

Where _candelabri_ silver the white halls.

Now, no one is presupposed to be cognizant of any language beyond his

own; to be ignorant of Latin is no crime; to pretend a knowledge is

beneath contempt; and the pretender will attempt in vain to utter or to

write two consecutive phrases of a foreign idiom, without betraying his

deficiency to those who are conversant.

At page 39, there is some prospect of a progress in the story. Here we

are introduced to a Mr. Acus and his fair daughter, Miss Alice.

Acus had been a dashing Bond street tailor

Some few short years before, who took his measures

So carefully he always cut the jailor

And filled his coffers with exhaustless treasures;

Then with his wife, a son, and three fair daughters,

He sunk the goose and straightway crossed the waters.

His residence is in the immediate vicinity of Wilton. The daughter, Miss

Alice, who is said to be quite a belle, is enamored of one Waldron, a

foreigner, a lion, and a gentleman of questionable reputation. His

character (which for our life and soul we cannot comprehend) is given

within the space of some forty or fifty stanzas, made to include, at the

same time, an essay on motives, deduced from the text “whatever is must

be,” and illuminated by a long note at the end of the poem, wherein the

_systime_ (quere _systéme_?) _de la Nature_ is sturdily attacked. Let us

speak the truth; this note (and the whole of them, for there are many,)

may be regarded as a glorious specimen of the concentrated essence of

rigmarole, and, to say nothing of their utter absurdity _per se_, are so

ludicrously uncalled-for, and grotesquely out of place, that we found it

impossible to refrain, during their perusal, from a most unbecoming and

uproarious guffaw. We will be pardoned for giving a specimen—selecting

it for its brevity.

Reason, he deemed, could measure every thing,

And reason told him that there was a law

Of mental action which must ever fling

A death-bolt at all faith, and this he saw

Was Transference. (14)

Turning to Note 14, we read thus—

“If any one has a curiosity to look into this subject, (does Mr.

Dawes _really_ think any one so great a fool?) and wishes to see

how far the force of reasoning and analysis may carry him,

independently of revelation, I would suggest (thank you, sir,)

such inquiries as the following:

“Whether the first Philosophy, considered in relation to

Physics, was first in time?

“How far our moral perceptions have been influenced by natural

phenomena?

“How far our metaphysical notions of cause and effect are

attributable to the transference of notions connected with

logical language?”

And all this in a poem about Acus, a tailor!

Waldron prefers, unhappily, Geraldine to Alice, and Geraldine returns

his love, exciting thus the deep indignation of the neglected fair one,

whom love and jealousy bear up

To mingle poison in her rival’s cup.

Miss A. has among her adorers one of the genus loafer, whose

appellation, not improperly, is Bore. B. is acquainted with a

milliner—the milliner of the disconsolate lady.

She made this milliner her friend, who swore,

To work her full revenge through Mr. Bore.

And now says the poet—

I leave your sympathetic fancies,

To fill the outline of this pencil sketch.

This filling has been, with us at least, a matter of no little

difficulty. We believe, however, that the affair is intended to run

thus:—Waldron is enticed to some vile sins by Bore, and the knowledge

of these, on the part of Alice, places the former gentleman in her

power.

We are now introduced to a _fête champêtre_ at the residence of Acus,

who, by the way, has a son, Clifford, a suitor to Geraldine with the

approbation of her father—that good old gentleman, for whom our

sympathies were excited in the beginning of things, being influenced by

the consideration that this scion of the house of the tailor will

inherit a plum. The worst of the whole is, however, that the romantic

Geraldine, who should have known better, and who loves Waldron, loves

also the young knight of the shears. The consequence is a rencontre of

the rival suitors at the _fête champêtre_; Waldron knocking his

antagonist on the head, and throwing him into the lake. The murderer, as

well as we can make out the narrative, now joins a piratical band, among

whom he alternately cuts throats and sings songs of his own composition.

In the mean time the deserted Geraldine mourns alone, till, upon a

certain day,

A shape stood by her like a thing of air—

She started—Waldron’s haggard face was there.

. . . . . . . . .

He laid her gently down, of sense bereft,

And sunk his picture on her bosom’s snow,

And close beside these lines in blood he left:

“Farewell forever, Geraldine, I go

Another woman’s victim—dare I tell?

’Tis Alice!—curse us, Geraldine!—farewell!”

There is no possibility of denying the fact: this _is_ a droll piece of

business. The lover brings forth a miniature, (Mr. Dawes has a passion

for miniatures,) _sinks_ it in the bosom of the lady, cuts his finger,

and writes with the blood an epistle, (_where_ is not specified, but we

presume he indites it upon the bosom as it is “close beside” the

picture,) in which epistle he announces that he is “another woman’s

victim,” giving us to understand that he himself is a woman after all,

and concluding with the delicious bit of Billingsgate

dare I tell?

’Tis Alice!—curse us, Geraldine!—farewell!

We suppose, however, that “curse us” is a misprint; for why should

Geraldine curse both herself and her lover?—it should have been “curse

it!” no doubt. The whole passage, perhaps, would have read better thus—

oh, my eye!

’Tis Alice!—d—n it, Geraldine!—good bye!

The remainder of the narrative may be briefly summed up. Waldron returns

to his professional engagements with the pirates, while Geraldine,

attended by her father, goes to sea for the benefit of her health. The

consequence is inevitable. The vessels of the separated lovers meet and

engage in the most diabolical of conflicts. Both are blown all to

pieces. In a boat from one vessel, Waldron escapes—in a boat from the

other, the lady Geraldine. Now, as a second natural consequence, the

parties meet again—Destiny is every thing in such cases. Well, the

parties meet again. The lady Geraldine has “that miniature” about her

neck, and the circumstance proves too much for the excited state of mind

of Mr. Waldron. He just seizes her ladyship, therefore, by the small of

the waist and incontinently leaps with her into the sea.

However intolerably absurd this skeleton of the story may appear, a

thorough perusal will convince the reader that the entire fabric is even

more so. It is impossible to convey, in any such digest as we have

given, a full idea of the _niaiseries_ with which the narrative abounds.

An utter want of _keeping_ is especially manifest throughout. In the

most solemnly serious passages we have, for example, incidents of the

world of 1839, jumbled up with the distorted mythology of the Greeks.

Our conclusion of the drama, as we just gave it, was perhaps ludicrous

enough; but how much more preposterous does it appear in the grave

language of the poet himself!

And round her neck the miniature was hung

Of him who gazed with Hell’s unmingled wo;

He saw her, kissed her cheek, and wildly flung

His arms around her with a mad’ning throw—

Then plunged within the cold unfathomed deep

While sirens sang their victim to his sleep!

Only think of a group of _sirens_ singing to sleep a modern “miniatured”

flirt, kicking about in the water with a New York dandy in tight

pantaloons!

But not even these stupidities would suffice to justify a total

condemnation of the poetry of Mr. Dawes. We have known follies very

similar committed by men of real ability, and have been induced to

disregard them in earnest admiration of the brilliancy of the minor

beauty of _style_. Simplicity, perspicuity and vigor, or a

well-disciplined ornateness, of language, have done wonders for the

reputation of many a writer really deficient in the higher and more

essential qualities of the Muse. But upon these minor points of manner

our poet has not even the shadow of a shadow to sustain him. His works,

in this respect, may be regarded as a theatrical world of mere verbiage,

somewhat speciously bedizzened with a tinselly meaning well adapted to

the eyes of the rabble. There is not a page of any thing that he has

written which will bear, for an instant, the scrutiny of a critical eye.

Exceedingly fond of the glitter of metaphor, he has not the capacity to

manage it, and, in the awkward attempt, jumbles together the most

incongruous of ornament. Let us take any passage of “Geraldine” by way

of exemplification.

——Thy rivers swell the sea—

In one eternal diapason pour

Thy cataracts the hymn of liberty,

Teaching the clouds to thunder.

Here we have cataracts teaching clouds to thunder—and how? By means of

a hymn.

Why should chromatic discord charm the ear

And smiles and tears stream o’er with troubled joy?

Tears may stream over, but not smiles.

Then comes the breathing time of young Romance,

The June of life, when summer’s earliest ray

Warms the red arteries, that bound and dance

With soft voluptuous impulses at play,

While the full heart sends forth as from a hive

A thousand winged messengers alive.

Let us reduce this to a simple statement, and we have—what? The

earliest ray of summer warming red arteries, which are bounding and

dancing, and playing with a parcel of urchins, called voluptuous

impulses, while the bee-hive of a heart attached to these dancing

arteries is at the same time sending forth a swarm of its innocent

little inhabitants.

The eyes were like the sapphire of deep air,

The garb that distance robes elysium in,

But oh, so much of heaven lingered there

The wayward heart forgot its blissful sin

And worshiped all Religion well forbids

Beneath the silken fringes of their lids.

That _distance_ is _not_ the cause of the sapphire of the sky, is not to

our present purpose. We wish merely to call attention to the verbiage of

the stanza. It is impossible to put the latter portion of it into any

thing like intelligible prose. So much of heaven lingered in the lady’s

eyes that the wayward heart forgot its blissful sin, and worshiped every

thing which religion forbids, beneath the silken fringes of the lady’s

eyelids. This we cannot be compelled to understand, and shall therefore

say nothing further about it.

She loved to lend Imagination wing

And link her heart with Juliet’s in a dream,

And feel the music of a sister string

That thrilled the current of her vital stream.

How delightful a picture we have here! A lady is lending one of her

wings to the spirit, or genius, called Imagination, who, of course, has

lost one of his own. While thus employed with one hand, with the other

she is chaining her heart to the heart of the fair Juliet. At the same

time she is feeling the music of a sister string, and this string is

thrilling the current of the lady’s vital stream. If this is downright

nonsense we cannot be held responsible for its perpetration; it is but

the downright nonsense of Mr. Dawes.

Again—

Without the Palinurus of self-science

Byron embarked upon the stormy sea,

To adverse breezes hurling his defiance

And dashing up the rainbows on his lee,

And chasing those he made in wildest mirth,

Or sending back their images to earth.

This stanza we have more than once seen quoted as a fine specimen of the

poetical powers of our author. His lordship, no doubt, is herein made to

cut a very remarkable figure. Let us imagine him, for one moment,

embarked upon a stormy sea, hurling his defiance (literally throwing his

gauntlet or glove) to the adverse breezes, dashing up rainbows on his

lee, laughing at them, and chasing them at the same time, and, in

conclusion, “sending back their images to earth.” But we have already

wearied the reader with this abominable rigmarole. We shall be pardoned

(after the many specimens thus given at random) for not carrying out the

design we originally intended: that of commenting upon two or three

successive pages of “_Geraldine_,” with a view of showing (in a spirit

apparently more fair than that of particular selection) the _entireness_

with which the whole poem is pervaded by unintelligibility. To every

thinking mind, however, this would seem a work of supererogation. In

such matters, by such understandings, the brick of the _skolastikos_

will be received implicitly as a sample of the house. The writer

_capable_, to any extent, of such absurdity as we have pointed out,

_cannot_, by any possibility, produce a long article worth reading. We

say this in the very teeth of the magnificent assembly which listened to

the recital of Mr. Dawes, in the great hall of the University of New

York. We shall leave “Athenia of Damascus,” without comment, to the

decision of those who may find time and temper for its perusal, and

conclude our extracts by a quotation, from among the minor poems, of the

following very respectable

ANACREONTIC.

Fill again the mantling bowl

Nor fear to meet the morning breaking!

None but slaves should bend the soul

Beneath the chains of mortal making:

Fill your beakers to the brim,

Bacchus soon shall lull your sorrow;

Let delight

But crown the night,

And care may bring her clouds to-morrow.

Mark this cup of rosy wine

With virgin pureness deeply blushing;

Beauty pressed it from the vine

While Love stood by to charm its gushing;

He who dares to drain it now

Shall drink such bliss as seldom gladdens;

The Moslem’s dream

Would joyless seem

To him whose brain its rapture maddens.

Pleasure sparkles on the brim—

Lethe lies far deeper in it—

Both, enticing, wait for him

Whose heart is warm enough to win it;

Hearts like ours, if e’er they chill

Soon with love again must lighten.

Skies may wear

A darksome air

Where sunshine most is known to brighten.

Then fill, fill high the mantling bowl!

Nor fear to meet the morning breaking;

Care shall never cloud the soul

While Beauty’s beaming eyes are waking.

Fill your beakers to the brim,

Bacchus soon shall lull your sorrow;

Let delight

But crown the night,

And care may bring her clouds to-morrow.

Whatever shall be, hereafter, the position of Mr. Dawes in the poetical

world, he will be indebted for it altogether to his shorter

compositions, some of which have the merit of tenderness; others of

melody and force. What seems to be the popular opinion in respect to his

more voluminous effusions, has been brought about, in some measure, by a

certain general _tact_, nearly amounting to taste, and more nearly the

converse of talent. This tact has been especially displayed in the

choice of not inelegant titles and other externals; in a peculiar

imitative speciousness of manner, pervading the surface of his writings;

and (here we have the anomaly of a positive benefit deduced from a

radical defect) in an absolute deficiency in basis, in _stamen_, in

matter, or pungency, which, if even slightly evinced, might have invited

the reader to an intimate and understanding perusal, whose result would

have been disgust. His poems have not been condemned, only because they

have never been read. The glitter upon the surface has sufficed, with

the newspaper critic, to justify his hyperboles of praise. Very few

persons, we feel assured, have had sufficient nerve to wade _through_

the entire volume now in question, except, as in our own case, with the

single object of criticism in view. Mr. Dawes has, also, been aided to a

poetical reputation by the amiability of his character as a man. How

efficient such causes have before been in producing such effects, is a

point but too thoroughly understood.

We have already spoken of the numerous _friends_ of the poet; and we

shall not here insist upon the fact, that _we_ bear him no personal ill

will. With those who know us, such a declaration would appear

supererogatory; and by those who know us not, it would, doubtless, be

received with incredulity. What we have said, however, is _not_ in

opposition to Mr. Dawes, nor even so much in opposition to the poems of

Mr. Dawes, as in defence of the many true souls which, in Mr. Dawes’

apotheosis, are aggrieved. The laudation of the unworthy is to the

worthy the most bitter of all wrong. But it is unbecoming in him who

merely demonstrates a truth, to offer reason or apology for the

demonstration.

* * * * *

AN AUTUMN REVERIE.

BY WILLIAM FALCONER.

Hail! ye lone woods, in Nature’s mourning clad;

Hail! ye sere leaves, low melting in the breeze;

Meet is thy reign, pale Autumn, for the sad,

And soft thy solace for the mind’s disease;

Again I hail thee, sabbath of the year!

Upon us kindly smile, for Winter winds are near!

In this cathedral vast, by tall elms reared,

While through yon leafy oriel streams the sun

On those old boughs, by many an Autumn seared

I’d dream of friends who life’s rude race have run—

Whose memory, like rare odor, fills my heart,

Nor fades, but richer grows, and is of it a part.

Where are the gay plumed warblers of the Spring?

Those winged souls, at whose melodious songs

The green leaves danced with joy? On tireless wing

To brighter bowers have flown the golden throngs;

But they, when winds are weary of their wrath,

Shall fill our groves once more, and glad the woodland path.

But what new Spring shall breathe upon thy tomb

Or summon back friends wintry Death has banished?

They grow enamored of those bowers of bloom

To which they soared when from our side they vanished,

And ne’er return, or, haply so, unseen—

Dwelling in Memory’s dreams, pure, changeless, and serene.

Perchance we err, for, though no mortal eye

May look on Immortality, yet they

May clothe them in the azure of the sky,

Or shroud their light wings in the moon’s pale ray;

Or, in the likeness of some mutual star,

Smile on repentant tears and soothe our mental war.

And art thou present in this solitude,

Thou early, only loved, sweet beam of youth?

Thou fairest of all Memory’s sisterhood,

Bright as a poet’s dream, and pure as Truth!

Fair guardian spirit, thou art with me now—

It is, it is thy sigh, which stirs the rustling bough!

Thee may I meet beneath some kindlier sky,

In seraph beauty decked, yet sad—more bright

To me, than when upon my mortal eye

Thy fair form glanced, and filled me with delight,

When thee I placed within my spirit’s shrine

And turned on thee each thought, and loved thee as divine.

* * * * *

MALINA GRAY.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.

“How is the warm and loving heart requited

In this harsh world, where it awhile must dwell;

Its best affections wronged, betrayed and slighted—

Such is the doom of those who love too well.

Better the weary dove should close its pinion,

Fold up its golden wings, and be at peace,

And early enter that serene dominion

Where earthly cares and earthly sorrows cease”

—L. E. L.

Now if I did but possess the magic pencil of my friend Doughty—his

glorious power of dashing off a landscape, with all the truthfulness of

nature in the outline—fresh and verdant, with shadows rendered almost

transparent from the light with which they are so beautifully

blended—mellow with that soft hazy atmosphere which hangs forever about

his waterfalls, and slumbers along the green slopes where they lie in

the sunshine till the gazer becomes almost drowsy as he admires.—If I

had but his pencil and his power, instead of this golden pen and the one

drop of ink which stains its point, never was there a more lovely

picture than I would paint for your especial gratification. I would

throw upon the canvass my own birth-place, a quiet old-fashioned village

of Connecticut, one of the greenest and most picturesque spots that

human eye ever dwelt upon, or that human ingenuity ever contrived to

destroy. But alas! Doughty’s genius can alone inspire his pencil, and a

rude _pen sketch_ from memory is all the idea that I can give you of

“our village.”

Imagine for a moment that we are standing on a picturesque old bridge

down in a valley, through which a river of some considerable magnitude

is wending its way to a juncture with the Housatonic.

We are looking to the north—your hand rests on the mouldering beams

which form a side railing to the bridge, and as your eye is lifted from

the deep waters at our feet, where they circle and whirl around the dark

and sodden supporters, it is caught by one of the most beautiful

waterfalls that ever cooled the summer air with its spray. A little up

the stream, it foams and flashes over a solid ledge of rocks like an

army of laughing children romping together and running races in the

sunshine. Now and then you catch a flash of prismatic color just

beginning to weave itself amid the water-drops that are forever flashing

up as if to provoke the sunshine into forming a rainbow, and then your

attention is drawn away by the wreaths of snowy foam and the thousand

dimpling whirlpools that form beneath the fall and melt idly upon the

more quiet waters long before they reach the dark shadow flung downward

from the bridge.

Is not that a magnificent bank stretching along the river’s brink far

above the fall?—here, looming up in a broken mass of rocks—there,

falling with a gentle slope to the water’s brink, sometimes cut into

defiles and hollows by the rivulets that feed the brook, and everywhere

covered with the quivering green of spring, the feathery red

maple—wild-cherry trees, white with spring blossoms, and whole thickets

of starry dog-wood flowers all tangled and luxuriating between sun and

water. With what majesty the bank sweeps back at the fall, giving

breadth to the valley below and hedging in, with its green rampart, this

beautiful little plain with its fine grove which lies on our left,

nestled almost entirely within its shadow! Now look down the stream.

Follow the bank as it curves inward again, encompassing the rich surface

of level ground in a semicircular sweep, till it terminates down the

stream yonder, in a pile of rocks and foliage, half hill half mountain.

There the river joins it again—winds around the precipice which forms

its base, and is lost to sight, as if it terminated amid the dense

shadows which lie sleeping there. Did you ever see anything more superb

than that lofty pile of rocks and verdure, standing out over the very

river, like a glorious old garrison guarding the passage? Its topmost

trees are lost in a pile of fleecy clouds—the steep surface is burdened

with foliage, and beautifully broken up with lights and shadows. See the

sunshine flickering over those massive rocks and kindling with its

silvery light the grape-vines that creep among the young trees, rooted

in the clefts. A picturesque feature, in our sketch, is that old

Castle-rock, and many a holiday have I spent, with a troop of

school-mates, amid its clefts, piling up the rich mosses we found there,

gathering honey-suckle apples, and sometimes doing terrible execution on

the poor garter-snakes that crept harmlessly from their nests to sleep

in the sunshine.

Turn once more, and mark how, like a serpent creeping through the

thrifty herbage, the road leads, from the bridge where we stand, across

the level ground and up the bank! See where it begins to curve back from

the fall, till it is lost amid the trees and shrubbery which but half

conceal that cluster of white houses standing against the sky so far

above us, and looking so quiet and rural among the fresh trees. Can any

thing appear more religious than that white church in their midst,

rising from its bed of vegetation and throwing the shadow of its taper

steeple aslant the graves that are gathered to the very brink of the

hill? How distinct are the white gravestones and the long grass

shivering among them! My mother’s grave is there beneath the old oak

standing alone in that solitary graveyard. My playmates never went with

me there, but often have I lingered beneath that old tree, listening to

the music of its restless leaves, and the rushing waters below me, till

aspirations awoke in my young heart, holy and deep as ever the pride of

my womanhood has known. At nightfall I have wandered amid those

graves—a little child, and yet fearless—till the stars have stationed

themselves in the blue heavens above me, and the fireflies have flashed

their tiny brilliants among the grass, like gentle spirits sent to light

up the places of the dead; and thoughts, for which I had no name, would

fill my heart with pleasant sadness till I went away, reluctantly, amid

feelings that haunted me at night as I listened to the acorns rattling

from the oak trees over the roof of our house, and colored my dreams

long after the dash of the waterfall had lulled me to sleep.

I have wearied you, with my reminiscences, so you have turned away from

the houses on Fall’s-hill, to those on the opposite bank, which we have

scarcely noticed yet. The hill which forms this side of the valley, is

neither so lofty nor picturesque as the other. You will observe that the

road branches off at that end of the bridge—that the turnpike which

lends to the old Presbyterian meeting-house, and the dwellings which

surround it, is cut through the bank some thirty feet down, but forms a

steep ascent to the most thickly settled portion of our village. The

roof of our old meeting-house—the belfry of our new academy, with the

third story window blinds, all fresh and verdant with green paint—half

the front of a dry goods store, with the gable end of a red farm-house,

are all the signs of life which we can obtain from our station on the

bridge—yet the most thrifty and industrious portion of our village is

located on School-hill. The Episcopal church, and the white cottages

opposite, can boast more of rural beauty, perhaps; but that old

meeting-house has stood on School-hill almost a century, and many of the

farmers who surround it have grown rich upon lands which they inherited

from men who worshiped beneath its roof almost before the rafters were

shingled.

Now permit me to draw your attention to the little plain at our left, in

the river vale, between the two portions of our village, lying green,

and fresh, like a garden run wild, and, but for one cottage house, left

to its own leafy solitude. A magnificent grove of white pines stoops and

murmurs to the wind as it draws down the valley, the tufted boughs give

out a healthy odor, and in their shadows are a thousand grassy nooks and

hollows filled with wild blossoms that give a richer fragrance to the

air. I have said there was but one house in the river vale. A little

back from the river’s brink, and just beyond the clump of chesnuts at

the end of the bridge, are two large oak trees, sheltering, and almost

hiding a low cottage house. A flower garden is in front, and a sweep of

rich sward rolls from the back parlor windows down to the water’s edge.

It is a quiet rural dwelling, and the home of my childhood. Does it not

look sequestered and deliciously cool? That waterfall, which sounds a

perpetual anthem night and day, can be seen from the windows. The fine

grove forever spreads its sea of green in front, and here are the old

bridge, the village cut into fragments, and the rough hills giving a

dash of the sublime to what is in itself so beautiful!

There is yet another object which cannot be seen from the bridge, but

from our cottage door we may trace the road which branches off from the

turnpike at the opposite end where it winds along the river’s margin

till it reaches a spot just opposite Castle-rock. There the high bank

crowds close down to the water, thus forcing the projectors of the road

to lead it up the brow of the hill, where a growth of underwood and some

few trees that have been left standing partially conceal its course, and

the exact spot where a cross road from School-hill intersects it. But

just at that point and directly opposite the highest peak of

Castle-rock, stood a handsome white dwelling-house, with green blinds

and a portico of lattice work, covered half the year with crimson

trumpet flowers and cinnamon roses. In the winter, when the trees were

leafless, we had a full view of this house from our cottage, and could

almost distinguish its inmates as they passed in and out through the

portico. Even in the summer, its white walls might here and there be

seen gleaming through the green foliage, and very frequently the figures

of two young girls appeared at night-fall wandering through the garden

which sloped down the hill, where the flower beds and thickets were at

the twilight hour rendered golden by the sun as he plunged over

Castle-rock, deluging it with a glory which kindled up the whole

landscape.

This house was occupied by a widow, and the two girls were her

daughters. The homestead was their joint property, with a small farm

which lay further up the hill. They might have had other means of

support, but I was too young at the time to be informed on the subject;

certain it is that possession, or some other claim to standing which I

could not appreciate, gave a distinction to the family which made the

widow a sort of village aristocrat, a female leader in the church, and

one of those sanctimonious domestic tyrants who profess to do every

thing from principle, and to consider those impulses and generous

feelings of the heart which are its brightest waters, things to struggle

with and pray against. Her husband had been dead many years, and must

have been a man of some consequence in the village. Her daughters were

pleasant girls, one of them decidedly handsome, but totally unlike both

in person and character. Phebe, the eldest, had always been a gentle and

quiet child, one of those retiring and sensitive creatures whose whole

being seems imbrued with religion, naturally as flowers are with color

and perfume. When a mere child she became a member of the old

Presbyterian church on School-hill, and this circumstance served to make

her a favorite with the mother, and to strengthen that most deceitful of

all passions, spiritual pride, in her heart. In the church Mrs. Gray was

feared and looked up to, for she was a strong minded, intelligent woman,

bland in tone and smooth in manner, but in reality selfish in heart and

stubborn of purpose. With these qualities she retained an influence

among the brethren which strength of intellect, without goodness of

heart, will often acquire over weaker minds, however pure they be, even

to a dangerous extent. If the mother was feared and reverenced, little

Phebe was loved and petted like a flower among the members—old and

young, high and low—all looked with affection on the lamb of their

flock, and so she grew up among them, perhaps the purest and sweetest

creature that ever bloomed in the bosom of a Christian church. But

Malina, the bright, romping, mischievous Malina, with her sunny brown

eyes, her rosy cheeks and dimples that played about them like sunshine

trembling in the heart of a rose, there was little hope of Malina—poor

thing! The good old deacon shook his head gravely when she was

mentioned, and more than once, when she had been observed in the widow’s

cushioned pew, peeping with a roguish smile from under her gipsy hat, at

some schoolmate in the gallery, or smoothing the folds of her muslin

dress, and tying her pink sash into all sorts of love knots during

service, the clergyman had reproved her with a look from the pulpit, a

proceeding which only frightened the dimples from her face and deluged

it with crimson for a moment, which impulse of shame was soon followed

by a saucy pout of the red lips, a toss of the gipsy bonnet which made

the roses on its crown tremble, and perhaps a desperate jerk at the sash

which destroyed all the love knots and left the ends crumpled in her

lap, while her mother sat frowning majestically all the time, and poor

Phebe was doing her best to hide the tears and blushes which her

sister’s disgrace had occasioned. Still, though Malina was a romp and a

sad reprobate in the estimation of a sect which had made old Connecticut

celebrated among the states by the strictness and sobriety of their

lives, there was something about the girl which stole even upon their

austere habits—a warmth of heart and generosity of feeling that no

faults could check or conceal. She had a winning, soft and exceedingly

arch manner peculiarly her own, which few could resist; a ready wit, and

a laugh that rang through the heart like the tones of a silver bell, and

which made the old deacon smile, even while he was lecturing her. Before

Malina was eighteen she had good cause to congratulate herself that she

was not a “church member,” for most assuredly would she have been

ignominiously expelled had this been the case. At that season a

sectarian feud had arisen between the Episcopal church and our old

meeting-house, a difference of opinion which went well nigh to destroy

all social intercourse in our village. The Episcopalians had offered a

practical reproof to the upright manner in which the Presbyterians were

in the habit of addressing the throne of grace, by erecting kneeling

boards in the pews of their church, a course which led our minister into

open denunciation of such heresy from the pulpit, where he eloquently

defended his own manner of worship by a sermon containing manifold

heads, and a prayer which was responded to by a congregation more

resolutely upright both in body and mind than ever. This sermon of

course was answered from the white church, with some spirit, and, in the

midst of the controversy which arose, Malina Gray took it into her

pretty head to exhibit a fashionable bonnet which she had purchased in

New Haven, and a smart silk dress, in the Episcopal church, not only

without asking her mother’s consent, but directly against her known

wishes. It was even rumored that she did not rise, but absolutely bent

forward and covered her pretty face with her pocket handkerchief, during

the whole time of prayer, and that, on leaving the church, three persons

had heard her say that she was delighted with the sermon, and

particularly with the chant, it was _so_ droll. It was in vain that

Malina defended her conduct, in vain she insisted that she had bent

forward, and used her handkerchief only to conceal the motion of her

lips as she ate half a dozen peppermint drops, and a head of green

fennel which a companion had given her. She could not disprove her

presence at the church, and that alone was considered as rank rebellion

against her mother, and an insult to the congregation with which she had

been taught to worship. Dark were the looks, and manifold the lectures

which poor Malina was compelled to endure after this. When she entered

the old meeting-house on the following sabbath every one looked coldly

upon her. The minister even hinted at her delinquency in his prayers,

and, during the sermon, two or three passages were applied directly to

herself, by the steady and reproving glance which he fixed upon her from

the pulpit. Now Malina was not of a temperament to bear all this

patiently. She believed it intended to annoy and humble her. So, instead

of receiving the chastisement with becoming humility, she arose from her

seat, opened the pew door, in spite of her mother’s detaining hand, and

hurried down the aisle, her eyes sparkling with tears, and her cheeks

crimsoned with a degree of excitement which ill became the house of God.

To be perfectly aware of the enormity of Malina’s conduct, our reader

must bring to mind the discipline of the times, and the rigid decorum

exacted by the people in their places of worship, where nothing short of

a fainting fit or a dispensation of apoplexy could excuse the

interruption of a sermon. Never was a body of people so overwhelmed with

astonishment and dismay. The widow arose from her seat pale with

resentment, for it was by her private request that the minister had

pointed out the spirited girl as a transgressor before the

congregation—she half opened the pew door, paused a moment and sat down

again, with her lips firmly compressed, and a spirit burning in her dark

eyes, which in another might have been thought as much to be condemned

as that of her child. Phebe, the mild and gentle Phebe, blushed crimson

with a feeling of sympathy for her sister, which could not, with all her

meekness of disposition, be entirely suppressed. When the glow died away

from her cheeks she was in tears and wept silently till the service

closed.

When Mrs. Gray reached home that afternoon, sternly ruminating on the

best means of conquering the refractory spirit of her child, she found

the house locked, and the rooms empty as she had left them. Malina was

no where to be found. It was in vain that Phebe searched for the

culprit. She went to their mutual sleeping-chamber, hoping to find her

there, but all was silent. She lifted the muslin drapery that fell over

the bed like a summer cloud, put her hand through the open sash and

parting the thick green leaves of a cinnamon rose tree that half

darkened it, looked anxiously up and down the road, and along the

footpath which threaded the river’s brink. But the waters gliding

quietly by, and a fish-hawk soaring up from the shore just below the

bridge, with an unfortunate perch in his claws, alone rewarded her gaze.

Still she leaned from the window, apprehensive on her sister’s account,

but afraid to extend her search beyond the house, for never in the whole

course of her life had Mrs. Gray permitted her children to walk even in

the garden on a sabbath day; a walk to and from the old meeting-house

morning and evening was all the exercise that she had allowed them.

Phebe felt as if almost transgressing a domestic rule even while she

lingered with her head out of the window, and when the chamber door

opened she started back like a guilty thing, and with a violence that

sent a shower of pink leaves half over the room, from the full blown

roses which fell rustling together from her hands.

Mrs. Gray entered the chamber quietly, but a little paler than usual,

and with her lips still slightly compressed. She evidently expected to

find the culprit there, but when she saw only her elder daughter

standing by the window, in tears and with a look of trouble on her sweet

face, her own composure seemed a little shaken, still she did not speak,

but going up to the toilet took a pocket bible from its snowy cover, and

dusting away the rose leaves that had fallen there with her

handkerchief, was about to leave the room again. As she passed through

the door, Phebe found courage to follow her.

“Oh, mother,” she said, “what can have become of her? Where can she be?

Let me go and look.”

“It is the sabbath,” said Mrs. Gray, in her usual slow, mild voice.

“I know it is, mother,” replied the weeping girl, “but when a lamb

strays from the flock can there be wrong in bringing it home again, even

on the sabbath?”

“You may search for your sister in the garden,” was the reply, “and when

she is found bring her to the parlor. Our minister will be there, and if

she does not beg his pardon for her flagrant conduct, even on her knees

if he desires it, she is henceforth no child of mine!”

“Oh, mother, do not urge her to-night. You know how high spirited and

resolute she is—and, indeed, indeed, I must think they have been too

hard with her—it was cruel to expose her fault before the whole

village, her schoolmates and all, and she so proud and sensitive. I

wonder it didn’t kill her.”

“Have you also become rebellious?” said Mrs. Gray, turning her eyes with

steady disapproval on the agitated girl, and marveling within herself at

the burst of feeling which she evinced.

“You will never, I trust, find me rebellious,” replied Phebe meekly, but

weeping all the time. “I know that Malina has faults; who has not? but

they are such as harsh treatment will perpetuate, not conquer. She is so

kind, so warm-hearted, that you can persuade her to any thing.”

“I do not choose to _persuade_ my children,” said the mother, moving

forward. “Go seek Malina in the garden, and bring her to me as I

desired.”

“But I fear that she is not in the garden,” said Phebe, doubtingly.

“Then seek her elsewhere, but return soon,” was Mrs. Gray’s reply, and

she went down stairs just as Phebe heard the minister knocking at the

front door.

Phebe tied on her cottage bonnet, and flinging a scarf over her white

dress went into the garden. She traversed the flower-beds, searched

among the rose thickets, and the lilac trees, calling Malina by name,

but all without effect. More than once, when a rustling among the

bushes, created by a tame rabbit, reached her ear, she started and

listened with an expectation that her call would be answered. After

searching through the garden and around the rock spring—a fountain of

water that leaped through a hollow at the foot of the hill into a

natural basin of solid granite—we saw her come out into the road and

look anxiously toward the pine grove on our side of the river, with her

hand shading her eyes and her scarf fluttering in the breeze.

As our cottage stood on neutral ground, between the two sections of the

village, so our family was perhaps the only one within three miles which

did not take part in the religious controversy going on. It was our

usual custom to worship in the old meeting-house in the morning, and in

the afternoon attend service in the Episcopal church. This habit left us

ignorant of what had been passing on School-hill, and when we saw Phebe

Gray out in the open street that sabbath evening, we felt that something

unusual must have occurred. She remained, as I have described, with a

hand shading her eyes for more than a minute, and then hurried down the

road toward the bridge at a quicker pace than we had ever seen her walk

before. After crossing the bridge, she paused a moment on seeing our

family sitting at the door—some of us on the steps and others reading

on the greensward in which they were bedded—as if prompted to come

toward us, but changing her mind she followed the road a few steps and

then turned into the pine grove, through a footpath which led along that

portion which skirted the river. After a little time she came in sight

again, retracing her steps with another person whom we recognized as

Malina. Their progress was very slow, Phebe’s arm was around her

sister’s waist, and she seemed to be talking with great earnestness.

When they came opposite our house we could see Malina’s face, though

after the first glance toward us she turned it away, as if ashamed of

the tears which stained her cheeks. Her dress was disordered and a

little soiled by the moss on which she had evidently flung herself; her

gipsy hat was blown on one side, exposing a profusion of brown ringlets

slightly disheveled, and out of curl enough to make them fall more

profusely than usual over her neck and shoulders. She walked with an

impatient step, and seemed a little restless under the restraint of her

sister’s arm, but when they got within the shadow of the chesnuts, and

as they supposed beyond our observation, we saw her pause all of a

sudden, fling her arms round Phebe’s neck and kiss her more than once

with a degree of affection which spoke volumes in her favor. After this

she arranged the hat on her head with considerable care and allowed the

folds of her disordered dress to be smoothed. Then with another kiss the

two girls crossed the bridge, each with her arm circling the other, and

in this position they walked up the hill and disappeared in the portico

of their own dwelling.

The two girls entered the family parlor; Malina with her cheek flushed

once more and a step tremulous but haughty. Poor Phebe clung to her

side, looking frightened and much more like a culprit than her sister.

Mrs. Gray was seated at a table looking cold, precise and courteous as

if nothing had happened; her black silk dress was arranged with that

scrupulous care which she always bestowed on her raiment. Her false

curls were carefully fastened beneath the slate-colored ribands and the

fine lace border of her cap, while a muslin neckerchief was folded on

her bosom, beneath the dress, sufficiently low to reveal a neck that had

not yet lost all its whiteness, and a string of large gold beads which

encircled it. The family bible lay open before her, but she was not

reading, for in an easy chair close by sat the minister. He had been

pastor at School-hill for more than twenty years, was naturally a kind

man, but believed the well-being of his congregation to be identified

with certain doctrinal points, which to dispute was rank heresy. He

looked very grave when the girls entered, and rather restless, as if the

duty which brought him there was one which his naturally kind heart

would have avoided.

“Phebe, you may go to your chamber,” said Mrs. Gray to her eldest

daughter, who had followed Malina to a chintz sofa and was about to sit

down by her side.

Phebe hesitated and looked toward her mother, as if anxious to remain;

but as she parted her lips to speak, a more decided command sent her

weeping from the room.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

TO THE EARTH.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

How are thy charms, O maskéd Earth! displayed,

In hill and valley, rock and waterfall,

Flower-studded field, deep glen, and open glade,

With the blue sky in beauty bent o’er all.

Seekest with outward shows to win the heart?

Only their glare our grosser vision dulls;

The inward eye beholds thee, as thou art,

Great hearse of man, vast catacomb of skulls!

Thy moving forces, which we call the living,

Bustling and battling through their little day,

Are nought to thy great prostrate army, giving

Their flesh to worms, their bones to slow decay.

And what is that which life thy children call?

A little round of idle hopes and fears,

A dream prefig’ring being, this is all,

Made up of hope and smiles, despair and tears.

The countless millions all around us lying

With ghastly upturned faces, free from strife,

The unreturning dead, yet the undying,

How laugh they at the nothing we call life!

Enough! enough! if after our brief fretting,

Freed from thy fetters, we may rise in bliss

To some bright world where Life’s sun knows no setting

Where we may meet the lost and loved of this.

* * * * *

REJOICE.

The world is full of Joy. The sweet rose flings

Her fragrance out to invite the zephyr’s kiss:

The morning lark in wantonness of bliss

To meet the sun, with song of welcome, springs:

The little brook to her own motion sings:

The storm laughs wild—down comes the dancing rain,

The mountain stream leaps shouting to the plain

And with high glee the echoing valley rings.

The strong wind whistles in his desert caves;

The thick clouds ride triumphant down the sky;

The old green wood his trusty branches waves;

Huge ocean shakes his foamy crest on high;

Earth springs exulting in her fadeless prime;

And the glad sun rolls on his course sublime!

S. S.

* * * * *

THE CLAM-BAKE.

JEREMY SHORT AMONG THE RHODE ISLANDERS.

Well, sirs, Robin is a gallant poney, but riding over these confounded

hills has almost shaken me to pieces, and, at every stride, for the last

ten minutes, I’ve heard my bones rattling like pennies in a beggar’s

alms-box. My mouth’s as parched as if dried up by lightning—but be

sociable, lads, and give us a drinking cup, if it’s no better than a

clam shell. Ah! that’s divine, better than ambrosia, real Cogniac I

declare. How are you, captain? doctor? general?—bless my soul! if

yonder isn’t Providence. Egad! this is a delightful place—beats

Rowseville all hollow—it only wants a few trees here, and a clump of

woodland there, to make it as cool and shady as a Mussulman’s paradise.

The bay is alive with craft, and yonder—just look at them—are two

jaunty rascals racing. How the little fellow eats to windward—they are

throwing ballast overboard from the larger craft—whizz, whizz, one can

almost hear the water bubbling along the wash-board as she bends to the

blast—and now, side by side, they go, the foam crackling over the bow,

and drenching the crew all the way aft. Huzza! the little fellow has

won, and dances into the wind as Taglioni when she springs on the stage,

more like a spirit than a human being.

They’re opening the bake—are they? Then I’ll take a seat by the heap

here, with your leave, sir, and go to work. Heaven bless the Indians for

having taught us how to cook clams! Yes, there’s all the difference in

the world between eating your clam at a table, and eating it hot and

smoking from the heap. I’d as lief think of turning Grahamite, and going

through a purgatory of bran bread and water, as give up a seat at the

bake. It’s there you get a clam in all its glory; in its spirituality, I

may say—egad! it’s as sweet as a kiss from a blushing angel of sixteen.

The heap, sir! why it’s an earthly paradise—the το χχλον of

existence—the all in all of the epicure. Ah! the perfume of that steam

is delicious—just see how poetically the vapor curls away into the air,

for all the world like the morning mists rolling upward in the Catskill

valley—you’ve been at the mountain house, no doubt. And then the clams

themselves! Clams! egad, they are food for immortals! Isn’t this a

superb fellow?—how snowy his shell—how perfect his form—how savory

his juice—how rich his color—how luscious his taste:—by the gods! if

Apicius were here, he’d dance a saraband, or snap his fingers through a

cachuca, in sheer ecstasy at having found a dish that would have made

jubilee on Olympus. Hip, hip, hurrah! haven’t I caught a jewel of a

fellow? None of your rascally quohogs, but the real Narragansett clam

for me. The poor, deluded wretches on the Jersey shore, who think their

round-shells are clams, and chew for half an hour at what isn’t better

than sole leather, have no more idea of what a real clam is, than a

Hottentot of Heaven, or—what is the same thing—a crusty old bachelor

of matrimony. The man who never ate a Narragansett clam can’t expect to

live long, or die happy; he may dwindle out a miserable existence,

but—take my word for it—he is a poor devil after all, no better than

the horse in the mill, going the same eternal round, and living on salt

hay and stagnant water. Heaven have mercy on the souls of such wretches!

Ah! that’s a good fellow, stir up the heap; and here’s as juicy a

villain as ever roasted, tall and slender, “in linked sweetness long

drawn out.” Another and another—I shall faint with ecstasy, and must

really take a little to calm my transports. Chowder may be fine, turtle

soup glorious, tautog a dish for kings, but clams! clams!! sirs, would

almost raise the dead.

“Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil,

Wi’ usquebae we’ll face the devil.”

Thank you for drinking my health, gentlemen—you ask me whether we have

any such thing as a clam-bake in Philadelphia—bless my soul! if we had,

it wouldn’t be such a place for riots, broken banks, and all sorts of

other eccentricities. Starvation was the cause of the French

Revolution—to the fogs of England can be traced the suicides there—and

it’s my candid belief that the absence of clam-bakes whereat to recreate

is the prime origin of the present difficulties. Don’t ask me to

demonstrate my position, for I hate logic as I hate olives and old

maids. Assertion, sirs, is everything—a neat, portable affair that

unrolls in a moment, and can’t be turned into a dozen aspects like shot

silk. No, no, if a man ain’t convinced by a round assertion call him a

fool, and if he resents it knock him down. There’s more evil come upon

the world from the habit of reasoning than a thousand penitents, walking

around the globe with pebbles in their shoes, could redeem. If two

friends disagree, what is the cause? Argument. If a man quarrels with

his wife, it’s because he stopped to reason with her. Bow deprecatingly,

though with suavity, in the first case: kiss your wife and call her

angel in the second case—and you keep your friend and helpmate; but get

into an argument, and you are booked for a maelstrom from which St.

Peter couldn’t save you. The Transcendentalists understand this matter:

_they_ never argue. They lay down something which they themselves can’t

understand, and then call on the gaping disciple to give credence to it:

if they are believed, it is well; if not, they jabber a jargon of

shibboleth, call him a world-deluded gull, and turn away talking of the

light within, and the glories of Pantheism. And so with the ladies, dear

creatures, whom Nature intends for peace-makers, and, therefore, never

allows them to give any better reason for what they do than

“because”—thereby saving them a world of trouble about major and minor

premises, and other things “in concatenation accordingly.” Glory be to

the man who first invented assertion!—may the author of logic go to

thunder, whence he came.

The young folks, further south, have, it is true, a sort of penance they

call a pic-nic; but a pic-nic is no more like a clam-bake than vinegar

is like champaigne. Imagine a dozen couple packed into an omnibus, after

having got up before day—a thing no sane man was ever known to

do—jolting over dusty roads for an hour or two, and then sitting down

on the damp grass, on a greenish rock, or on a decaying trunk, to

breakfast on cold ham and insipid water. Call you that fun? And, by and

bye, the sentimental ones will wander off into the woods to read Tom

Moore in company or alone—while those who affect field sports, Heaven

save the mark! will go bobbing for eels with a skewer, or fish for trout

in still waters and with a float. Others may rig out a rickety, leaky

scow, shaded by an awning not bigger than a sun-screen, and take a

sail—the gentlemen shoving the ark along with poles, and the ladies,

all dressed in white, sitting with their feet in the water and singing

“The Gondolier’s Song,” or “Shall we go a sailing!” Then, at noon, when

the sun is hot enough to broil a steak, and the sweet dears’ faces look

as flushed as a cook’s, they will huddle around a table cloth spread on

the dusty grass, and try to keep each other in countenance by eating the

remnants of their breakfast, washing the whole down with the

interminable water, or lemonade so sour that a cupful would carry off a

regiment with the cholera. Toward night they will start for home,

regarding it as “a crowning mercy,” as old Noll would say, if a thunder

storm doesn’t come up, and drench them through. Egad! it would make the

tears run down your cheeks with laughter, if you could only see a

pic-nic party after a shower—all draggled and dirty, dripping like

drowned rats, or, to be more complimentary, like mermaids, hungry,

tired, out of humor, and looking as unlike the dear angels we love as a

radish looks unlike a claret bottle.

I never see a young man going on a pic-nic, but I ask if insanity

doesn’t run in his family. But a clam-bake, sirs, is a different affair.

On the hard, smooth, white sand of the bay shore you pitch your tent,

for music having the low voice of the ripples as they break on the

beach, the fresh breeze the while crisping the waves into silver, and

fanning you with a delicious coolness that reminds you of the airs of

that Eden you used to dream of when a child. It is not long before you

have mustered a gay fishing party, and pushing from the shore, you row

out by the well known stake, throw overboard the keelog, and idly

rocking on the low, long swell, spend an hour, or it may be two, in the

most delicious of pastimes. And when you tire of the sport, you lean

lazily over the gunwale, and gaze far down into the transparent wave,

where the fish float to and fro, the long grass waves with the tide, or

the snowy bottom sparkles fitfully in the sun. Long ere noon has come

your craft is laden with the spoil, and then it is “up keelog and away!”

A few rapid, rollicking strokes bring you to the shore—your boat grates

musically on the hard sand—and a joyous shout welcomes you back, while

all hurry to inspect your cargo and wonder at your skill. By this time

the table, spread by fair hands, is ready—and now the bake begins! A

half hour, and lo! dinner is ready to be served—just at the very nick

of time, too, for the sun is now at meridian, and the bay glitters like

molten silver, while far and near the atmosphere boils in the sultry

beams. Retreating to the shade of the tent—made more cool by a copious

sprinkling of water—you are soon deep in the mysteries of clams, and

sweet corn and, what would make a god’s mouth water, tautog baked in the

heap. Pop—pop go the corks of the champaigne flasks, and here, cool as

the peaks of Mont Blanc, comes the foaming liquid, sparkling and bright

as the wit of a Sheridan, egad! And thus ends the dinner; but think not

it stops here. All day long you see bright faces and hear gay laughter;

and when evening steals on, and the moon rises in the azure sky,

trailing a fairy line of light across the waters, and flooding the snowy

beach with her effulgence—when the night wind murmurs among the trees,

or sighs over the sleeping bay—when the jocund music strikes up and you

dance merrily on the hard white sand, while bright eyes sparkle and fair

cheeks flush with love—then you have a foretaste of heaven, and wish to

lie down and sleep, and, sleeping, dream of such delicious pastime. And,

by and bye, when returning home, the air is vocal with songs, warbled by

the seraphic voices of those you love—and, as you dash through the

trees, the moon, all the while shimmering between the leaves, you almost

shout aloud in the exhilaration of the moment. Gradually, however, you

sink into a more pensive mood, and silence falls on you and the

white-armed one beside you, so that, at length, you may hear nothing but

a gentle (yet oh! how eloquent) sigh, and the low beating of her heart,

audible in the stillness. Aye! and if you look into her eyes you will

see there a music more soul-subduing than the softest strains. At length

your hands will meet, and with a strange, delicious thrill through your

whole frame, she will sink yielding on your bosom, and then—and then,

God bless me! I’ve been thinking of the way I used to make love, and

forgot all about the clam-bake.

As the heap’s empty and the bottle drained I’ll stop, but since you all

beg for it, I’ll give you, some of these days, my notions on making

love, egad! And now here’s Robin—hip, ho, we’re off.

* * * * *