wrapped in puff-paste, and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown
while the ice remains unmelted.
Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, as old as Mrs. Glasse,
at least--the roasting of a pound of butter, an operation not unlike the
very work we are engaged in at this moment--indeed so like it, that the
remembrance has occurred several times. Your pound of butter is to be
thoroughly crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then put upon the
spit and turned before a very hot fire; the unhappy cook standing by to
dredge on crumbs continually, to prevent the slippery article from running
away. When the crumbs (and cook) are quite roasted, the thing is done.
And so should we be, but that here comes a thunder storm, fit conclusion
for an intense day, and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up
which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships. Thick clouds,
shaped like piles of cannon balls, have slowly peered up from behind the
horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, spreading and gathering
as they went. Now and then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if
we were conversing, we should not notice it; and an occasional flash of
lightning seems, in the sun's glare, like the waving of a curtain by the
fitful breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there. The cloud
masses gather fresh and fresh accession as they move on, like
revolutionary armies marching up to battle. Looking overhead, there seems
a field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in motion, forming
themselves into solid phalanx, and giving more and more dreadful notes of
preparation. Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light that
announces them is as if the adamantine arch were riven, disclosing dread
splendors unspeakable Most grand, most beautiful storm! New music--that
of the delicious rain, and in such abundance that it washes away the very
memory of the parched and burning day. No wild commotion, no terror!
Sublime order and an awe which is like peace. One more proof of the
unfailing, tender love of our heavenly Father.
NO SONGS IN WINTER.
BY T. B. ALDRICH.
I
The robin and the oriole,
The linnet and the wren--
When shall I see their fairyships,
And hear their songs again?
II.
The wind among the poplar trees,
At midnight, makes its moan;
The slim red cardinal flowers are dead,
And all sweet things are flown!
III.
A great white face looks down from heaven,
The great white face of Snow;
I cannot sing or morn or even,
The demon haunts me so!
IV.
It strikes me dumb, it freezes me,
I sing a broken strain--
Wait till the robins and the wrens
And the linnets come again!
THE BENI-ISRAEL.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Crammed--lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor;
Heads piled on heads at every door.
The actors were a painted group,
Of statue shapes, a "model" troupe,
With figures not severely Greek,
And drapery more or less antique;
The play, if one might call it so,
A Hebrew tale, in silent show.
And with the throng the pageant drew
There mingled Hebrews, not a few,
Coarse, swarthy, bearded--at their side
Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed.
If scarce a Christian hope for grace,
That crowds one in his narrow place,
What will the savage victim do,
Whose ribs are kneaded by a JEW?
Close on my left, a breathing form
Sat wedged against me, soft and warm;
The vulture-beaked and dark-browned face
Betrays the mould of Abraham's race;
That coal-black hair--and bistred hue--
Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew!
I started, shuddering to the right,
And squeezed--a second Israelite!
Then rose the nameless words that slip
From darkening soul to whitening lip.
The snaky usurer,--him that crawls,
And cheats beneath the golden balls,
The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes--
I stabbed them deep with muttered oaths:
Spawn of the rebel wandering horde
That stoned the saints, and slew their Lord!
Up came their murderous deeds of old--
The grisly story Chaucer told,
And many an ugly tale beside,
Of children caught and crucified.
I heard the ducat-sweating thieves
Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves,
And thrust beyond the tented green,
The leper's cry, "Unclean, unclean!"
The show went on, but, ill at ease,
My sullen eye it could not please;
In vain the haggard outcast knelt,
The white-haired patriarch's heart to melt;
I thought of Judas and his bribe,
And steeled my soul against his tribe.
My neighbors stirred; I looked again,
Full on the younger of the twain.
A soft young cheek of olive brown,
A lip just flushed with youthful down,
Locks dark as midnight, that divide
And shade the neck on either side;
An eye that wears a moistened gleam,
Like starlight in a hidden stream;
So looked that other child of Shem,
The maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!
And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood
That flows untainted from the Flood!
Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains
Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!
Scum of the nations! In thy pride
Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,
And, lo! the very semblance there
The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!
I see that radiant image rise,--
The midnight hair, the starlit eyes;
The faintly-crimsoned cheek that shows
The stain of Judah's dusky rose.
Thy hands would clasp His hallowed feet
Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat;
Thy lips would press His garment's hem,
That curl in scornful wrath for them!
A sudden mist, a watery screen,
Dropped like a veil before the scene;
I strove the glistening film to stay,
The wilful tear would have its way.
The shadow floated from my soul,
And to my lips a whisper stole,
Soft murmuring, as the curtain fell,
"Peace to the Beni-Israel!"
BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET.
_From the Portuguese of Manoel de Barbosa do Bocage._
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
I've seen my life, without a noble aim,
In the mad strife of passions waste away.
Fool that I was! to live as if decay
Would spare the vital essence in my frame!
And Hope, whose flattering dreams are now my shame,
Showed years to come, a long and bright array,
Yet all too soon my nature sinks a prey
To the great evil that with being came.
Pleasures, my tyrants! now your reign is past:
My soul, recoiling, casts you off to lie
In that abyss where all deceits are cast.
Oh God! may life's last moments, as they fly,
Win back what years have lost, that he, at last,
Who knew not how to live, may learn to die.
* * * * *