POPE. _Essay on Criticism._
And even his failings leaned to virtue’s side.
GOLDSMITH. _The Deserted Village._
O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel’ as others see us.
BURNS. _Address to a Louse._
Brevity is the soul of wit.
SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._
Westward the course of empire takes its way.
BISHOP BERKLEY.
Hills peep o’er hills and Alps on Alps arise.
POPE. _Essay on Criticism._
The observed of all observers.
SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._
And made a sunshine in a shady place.
SPENSER. _Fairy Queen._
A breath can make them as a breath has made.
GOLDSMITH. _The Deserted Village._
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.
WORDSWORTH. _Ode on Immortality._
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.
GOLDSMITH. _Edwin and Angelina._
Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.
POPE. _Moral Essays._
Throw physic to the dogs.
SHAKSPEARE. _Macbeth._
Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased.
_Ditto._
My way of life is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf.
_Ditto._
I’ll make assurance doubly sure.
_Ditto._
Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.
GOLDSMITH. _Deserted Village._
Domestic happiness, the only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the fall.
COWPER. _The Task._
Let who may make the laws of a people, allow me to
write their ballads, and I’ll guide them at my will.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
For winter lingering chills the lap of May.
GOLDSMITH. _The Traveler._
Rolled darkling down the torrent of his fate.
DR. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._
The man forget not, though in rags he lies,
And know the mortal through a crown’s disguise.
AKENSIDE. _Epistle to Curio._
Whatever is, is right.
POPE. _Essay on Man._
The proper study of mankind is man.
_Ditto._
Man never is but always to be blest.
_Ditto._
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.
_Ditto._
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
GOLDSMITH. _Retaliation._
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage.
JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._
Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm.
ADDISON. _Lines to the Duke of Marlboro._
Also POPE. _The Dunciad._
To teach the young idea how to shoot.
THOMSON. _The Seasons. Spring._
’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.
CAMPBELL. _Pleasures of Hope._
Or like the snow-fall in the river,
A moment white, then melts forever.
BURNS. _Tam O’Shanter._
Nothing extenuate, nor set down ought in malice.
SHAKSPEARE. _Othello._
Exhausted worlds and then imagined new.
DR. JOHNSON. _Prologue at the opening of the_
_Drury-Lane Theatre, 1747._
Assume a virtue though you have it not.
SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
BURNS. _Tam O’Shanter._
Curses not loud but deep.
SHAKSPEARE. _Macbeth._
Who shall decide when doctors disagree.
POPE. _Epistle to Bathurst._
By strangers honored and by strangers mourned.
POPE. _Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady._
Where ignorance is bliss
’Tis folly to be wise.
GRAY. _Ode on Eton College._
And swift expires a driveller and show.
DR. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._
Order is Heaven’s first law.
POPE. _Essay on Man._
Honor and shame from no condition rise.
_Ditto._
An honest man’s the noblest work of God.
_Ditto._
Plays round the head but comes not to the heart.
_Ditto._
But looks through nature up to nature’s God.
_Ditto._
With all my imperfections on my head.
SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveler returns.
_Ditto._
Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.
_Ditto._
The time is out of joint.
_Ditto._
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
POPE. _Moral Essays._
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
POPE. _The Epistles._
From seeming evil still educing good.
THOMSON. _Hymn._
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them how we will.
SHAKSPEARE. _Hamlet._
On her white breast a cross of gold she wore,
Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore.
POPE. _Rape of the Lock._
At every word a reputation dies.
_Ditto._
And wretches hang that jurymen may dine.
_Ditto._
In wit a man; simplicity a child.
POPE. _Epitaph on Gay._
The mob of gentlemen who write with ease.
POPE. _Imitations of Horace._
Even Palinurus nodded at the helm.
POPE. _The Dunciad._
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
POPE. _Prologue to the Satires._
Wit that can creep and pride that licks the dust.
_Ditto._
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
_Ditto._
Damns with faint praise.
_Ditto._
To point a moral or adorn a tale.
DR. JOHNSON. _Vanity of Human Wishes._
Good wine needs no bush.
SHAKSPEARE. _As You Like It._
A little round fat oily man of God.
THOMSON. _The Castle of Indolence._
None but the brave deserve the fair.
DRYDEN. _Alexander’s Feast._
Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated, as to cheat.
BUTLER. _Hudibras, canto 3, part 2, lines 1 and 2._
And bid the devil take the hindmost.
DO. _Canto 2, part 1, line 633._
And count the chickens ere they’re hatched.
DO. _Canto 3, part 2, line 924._
He that complies against his will
Is of his own opinion still.
DO. _Canto 3, part 3, lines 547-8._
And look before you, ere you leap.
DO. _Canto 2, part 2, line 503._
* * * * *
TWO CRAYON SKETCHES.
FROM LIFE STUDIES.
BY ENNA DUVAL.
1.—“CHILD’S PLAY.”
Napoleon!—years ago, and that great word,
Compact of human breath in hate and dread
And exultation, skied us overhead—
An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword
Scathing the cedars of the world.
—
That name consumed the silence of the snows
In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid!
The mimic eagles dared what Nature’s did
And over-rushed her mountainous repose
In search of eyries; and the Egyptian river
Mingled the same word with its grand—“For Ever.”
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
’Tis but a child’s play, friend, pass on, nor wait—
Take heed, that childish play foretells the future fate.
ANON.
It was a beautiful summer afternoon. The high trees cast long shadows on
the grass, and the glorious golden sunlight beamed richly over the
landscape. In a thickly wooded park, whose long, winding walks were
bordered by the rhododendron, and overshadowed by forest-trees, were
several young girls. They were simply dressed, and quite young, at the
season of early girlhood—thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen might have
been their ages—certainly not older. They were all graceful, delicate
little creatures—American girls and women almost always are, as
foreigners have remarked. Two or three only, however, were decidedly
pretty.
“I am tired of walking,” said one; “let’s stop here a little while, and
play something.”
The girl had well chosen the spot, for it was beautiful enough to have
tempted the faërys—if any there be—to make of it, a play-ground. The
wood skirted a stream, rising from its shores in little undulating
hills, and the owner had availed himself of this, in arranging the walks
in his wood, so that by slightly assisting Nature, these walks seemed
terraced. The place selected, was where one of the walks widened a
little—the hilly terrace rose gently behind it, forming a turfy bank
that served for seats, and forest-trees crested the little summit of
this hill. Beneath the walk, the ground-swell shaded by trees, sloped
down to the stream-side, and between the foliage could be seen the
glittering wavelets, dancing along in the golden atmosphere shed around
them by the glorious setting sun.
Had these little rambling girls been a shadow older, or breathing a more
poetic imaginative atmosphere than their sunny American home, they might
have sat and dreamed romances, out of “old Poesy’s Myths,” and fancied
that,
“That spring head of crystal waters,
Babbled to them stories of her lovely daughters,
The beauteous blue-bells and the lilies fair.”
But no! the influences of their associations in their home-lives,
rendered their imaginations—for imaginations they had—less dreamy,
less poetical.
This work-day atmosphere in which we striving, success-seeking Americans
live and breathe, deprives even our childhood’s day-dreams of romance
and poësy, and who can say whether it be well or not? The mysterious
voice of the Past says, “All that is permitted is needed,” therefore,
let this American Judaic spirit roll on, the Nineteenth Century needs
it, to perform her part of the world’s development.
If we return to our little wood-ramblers and listen to their gossip, we
shall see how tangible and real were the subjects of their day-dreams,
though quite as improbable, apparently, as the old imaginings of
Enchantment and Faëry Land.
“Oh,” lisped a little coquettish thing, the pet evidently of the group,
whose light, floating ringlets threw faint shadows over her round, white
shoulders, “let’s play that I’m a duchess, and you are all come to visit
me at my ducal palace. These are my grounds, and some of you shall be my
ladies.” Thereupon the little witch threw her faëry form on the turfy
bank, in a languishing position, and prepared to take upon her little
self, all the state and dignity of a duchess.
“Not I for one,” said the tallest of the group, although the rest seemed
half disposed to enter into the proposed play. “If there’s to be any
duchess playing, I’ll be the titled lady. Yes, I will be your princess,
and hold here my regal court.”
If princesses have a divine right to beauty, the girl might have been
one of the most royal. She had, for so young a girl, a presence and
bearing remarkable for dignity, and her form gave promise of fine
development. Her head was well placed on a beautiful neck and drooping
shoulders. Her rich, dark hair was cut short and brushed back from a low
Medicean brow, and it clustered in thick, close curls around the back of
her well-shaped head and white neck. Although her brow was low, and her
chin almost voluptuously full, her keen, black eyes, arched eye-brows,
that in some moods almost met over a nose that was delicate and handsome
in shape, and whose nostrils trembled and dilated with every shadow of
feeling, and a mouth well shaped, but firm in expression, all told that
the girl had a haughty, imperious spirit, one such as a princess might
have; and she carried herself as though she would have said, as Marie
Antoinette did, when some one remarked her erect bearing,
“Were I not a queen, I suppose, people would call me insolent.”
“Duchess and princess indeed!” exclaimed one of the girls,
contemptuously. “How absurd to talk such nonsense. Who ever heard of
such duchesses and princesses as you’d make?”
“And why not, mademoiselle?” asked the would-be princess.
“Now Caro is grand,” laughed one of the girls; “don’t you take notice,
girls, she always calls us mademoiselles, when she wants to take state?”
But the girl repeated her question, haughtily, without heeding the saucy
interruption. Her manner seemed to intimidate the other, and pleased
with her apparent victory, she continued, drawing herself up to her full
height, and looking even more stately.
“Yes, I will be a princess. Why should I not be? My grandmother was a
queen, and my great uncle an emperor. I will give you all grand titles,
too. You, Lina, I will make a countess, for you are too little and
delicate, pet-bird, to be a duchess—that sounds too matronly for you;
but as for you, Mademoiselle Helen, you shall only be a simple maid of
honor, and may be, lady of the bed-chamber after awhile, if you stop
sneering at my rank.”
“Oh Caro and Lina,” said Helen, impatiently, “don’t be so silly; it is
ridiculous. You are always spoiling our walks with these foolish
make-believes.”
“What do you mean, Mademoiselle Helen?” asked Caro, with flashing eyes,
and nostrils dilating with unrepressed indignation.
“I mean just what I say, Caro; that you always make yourself absurd and
disagreeable by wanting us to play such vain, silly plays; and you do
Lina no good either, for her little head is filled now with nothing else
but nonsensical notions that will give her a great deal of trouble. I am
a year or two older than you, Miss, and can see the folly of all this;
but even if I were not, I hope I should not be such a silly little fool
as to try to imagine I was something grander than I was not, and what is
more, never will be.”
Caro’s face grew crimson, and she bit her full, red lip until the rich
blood nearly started from it while she listened to this irritating
speech. When it was concluded, she threw up her head and exclaimed in a
voice choked with passion,
“This comes of associating with plebians.”
“Plebians, indeed!” said Helen, indignantly.
“Yes, plebians, mademoiselle,” answered Caro, looking steadily and
haughtily at her. “You are a plebian when compared with me, for my
grandmother was a crowned queen, and my uncle the great Emperor
Napoleon; am I not, then, a princess of most regal descent? And you,
Lina, darling,” she continued, putting her arm patronizingly around the
little creature, “I only hope I may be as my grandmother was, a throned
queen, then I would do more than put grand notions in your head. I would
put great titles to your name, and brave retinues to back them.”
“Madame, your mother, most royal princess,” said the annoying Helen,
with provoking coolness, “has the misfortune, however, at present, to be
the instructress of the daughter of a plebian country lawyer.”
“It is a misfortune, mademoiselle,” answered Caro.
The girls drew together a little frightened; they knew a crisis was
coming, for many times before had they witnessed similar “passages at
arms,” between the two girls, but never such a threatening one.
“Never mind Caro,” said little Lina, “let’s leave Helen; she’s always so
cross, and says such ill-bred things. We’ll go and play by ourselves.
You _shall_ be our queen, and I will be your little countess, or any
thing you want me to be. The girls will go with us, too; wont you,
girls?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the now irritated Helen, for she saw that most of the
girls were disposed to take Caro’s part. “This is amusing, truly, to see
the daughter of a plain American country store-keeper playing countess,
and the granddaughter of a French inn-keeper taking state and royal airs
over simple republicans.”
Helen’s tantalizing expressions might have caused one thing royal—a
“battle royal”—for, although they were little young ladies, they were
sometimes apt to forget the rules of good breeding daily enjoined upon
them—but fortunately they were interrupted. Some ladies joined
them—mothers and elder sisters of the girls; for this park-like wood
was a favorite afternoon resort for the inhabitants of the little
village of B——. The angry retort trembled on Caro’s tongue, and
frowning glances were exchanged between them; for awhile their quarrel
was suspended—but only for awhile; the next day would be sure to renew
the scene. After a little talk with the ladies, Caro and Lina withdrew
to another part of the grounds, followed by their adherents, which we
must confess, comprised the greater number of the school; and the sturdy
little republican, Helen, was in the minority, for only two or three of
the older girls espoused her cause. As they left, one of the remaining
girls whispered to Helen, with a merry laugh,
“See, Caro and Lina are going off to hold their Court. Had we not better
set up a rival one? We will elect you lady president, or cabinet
officer’s lady, or senator’s wife. You would not, I suppose, take any
less republican title from us, and, of course, it would be hardly safe
or proper to send you ministress plenipotentiary to adjust difficulties
between the two governments.”
Helen laughed contemptuously, as if she thought the whole affair too
childish to be noticed. But her little heart was not much, if any,
better than Caro’s and Lina’s. Like theirs it swelled with anger and
pride, and although she was a good, sensible girl, she many times
permitted her temper and a spirit of envious rivalry that had
unconsciously sprung up between her and Caro, to master her, and make
her forget the gentle courtesy and good-breeding which should
characterize every woman, whether republican or aristocrat—because she
is a woman.
2.—“FORTUNE’S PRANKS.”
Napoleon! he hath come again—borne home
Upon the popular ebbing heart—a sea
Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,
Majestically moaning. Give him room!
Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn!
And grave deep, ’neath the cannon moulded column!
——Napoleon! the recovered name
Shakes the old casements of the world! and we
Look out upon the passing pageantry,
Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim
To a Gaul grave—another kingdom won—
The last—of few spans—by Napoleon!
I think this nation’s tears poured thus together,
Nobler than shouts!
This funeral grander than crownings—
This grave stronger than thrones.
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
There’s a lady—a prince’s daughter; she is proud and she is noble;
And she treads the crimsoned carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air;
And a kingly blood sends glances up her princely eye to trouble,
And the shadow of a monarch’s crown is sweeping in her hair.
ELIZABETH BARRETT.
Carriages rolled through the crowded streets of Paris, and a gay crowd
thronged to the residence of the republican prince—the new French
president. A stately levee was to be held, and Josephine’s grandson
inherited Napoleon’s popularity! Time had avenged _her_ wrongs, and
Fortune, which had played such curious, elfish pranks with this great
family, had set them once more aloft, but at their head she placed with
strange justice the representative of the dethroned, divorced empress.
It was a brilliant sight. Ladies were there in gorgeous costume,
glittering with diamonds, and gentlemen in full court-dress decked with
orders. Near the President stood a group of beautiful women—the women
of his family—his cousins, once, twice, and thrice removed. Among them
was a lady who attracted the admiring gaze of more than one passer-by.
She had a majestic presence, though still quite young—in the first
flush of early womanhood. Her face was as beautiful as her form, which
was faultless in its proportions. She had a clear, rich skin—eyes by
turns flashing and serene, under “_level fronting eye-lids_”—a
beautiful mouth, with the full lips gently and sweetly parted, and a
Napoleonesque chin, that told her Buonaparte descent, with a lovely
dimple denting its centre. Her thick, glossy hair was dressed with
classical severity, for they told her, her head was like the Princess
Pauline’s, and made her bind it with a broad coronet, woven of her own
rich hair. She was beautiful enough to have inspired another Canova to
sculpture her also as a Venus.
A buzz was heard, while the Russian Ambassador presented a gentleman and
lady with much consideration to the president. The young cousin of the
president started, and a brilliant flush crimsoned her cheek—whose only
fault, if fault it could be, was its delicate pallor—as she looked at
the lady newly presented, and heard her title—the Countess O——.
The countess was a fair young creature with a delicate sylph-like
figure, and her hair fell in soft, brown ringlets, as if wishing to
burst from the confinement of the jeweled comb and costly bandeau, in
order to shade her timid beauty. Many remarked the purity and simplicity
of her style, and low murmurs told the inquiring stranger, that though
bearing a foreign name and title, she was said to be an American.
The crowd increased, and the circle around the president gradually
separated, making room for the throng of _nobodys_ who wished to be
presented. The hum of conversation grew louder, and though the new
president exacted much ceremony, it was plain to be seen that etiquette
did not forbid the merry laugh, nor the sparkling _repartée_.
A little group of ladies and gentlemen stood near a window, laughing and
chatting with all that sprightliness with which the French people of
society know so well how to enliven conversation. Some of the company
passed by, promenading. A lady of the group at the window, lifted her
arm—it must have been unconsciously, certainly it was done gracefully,
and in so doing, entangled her magnificent diamond bracelet in the
costly lace _berthé_ of a lady passing by.
The owner of the offending bracelet was the cousin of the President, the
lady of the _berthé_ the fair Russian countess. The first bent over as
if to disentangle the sparkling clasp from the delicate meshes of the
lace, and her manner, repulsed all offers of assistance from those
standing by. It seemed a difficult task, however, and she had quite time
enough to say more than the mere apologies required, and surely she did
say more than those standing near them heard, for the mere “Pardonnez
moi Madame je vous prie,” could not have caused the slight start which
the pretty little countess gave, nor the delicate flush that tinged her
fair temples, when the French lady’s glowing cheek rested near hers, in
bending down to disentangle her ornament.
“Lina,” said the president’s cousin, in a low, laughing tone, that
gurgled up like the melody of foam-bells in a stream, “who would have
thought when Helen Morris used to laugh at us in America, that our
childish imaginings would come true? Why, darling, you are not only a
countess, but you are wedded to the first and oldest blood of Europe;
and I, dear one—yes, I—if not an acknowledged princess, will yet be a
queen.”
The bracelet was disengaged—the _berthé_ released. The French lady made
a low courtesy to the countess, with her eyes bent upon the ground—and
they parted.
Fortune is a capricious goddess, and surely the wildest, most improbable
romances ever imagined, could not surpass, scarcely equal, the strange
reverses the blind goddess of the wheel has brought to the family of the
great “World-Actor of the Nineteenth Century,” NAPOLEON.
* * * * *
QUAIL AND QUAIL SHOOTING.
BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF FRANK FORESTER’S “FIELD SPORTS,” “FISH
AND FISHING,” ETC.
[Illustration: THE AMERICAN QUAIL, OR VIRGINIA PARTRIDGE.
(_Ortyx Virginianus._ _Perdix Virginianus._)]
November is upon us—hearty, brown, healthful November, harbinger of his
best joys to the ardent sportsman, and best beloved to him of all the
months of the great annual cycle; November, with its clear, bracing,
western breezes; its sun, less burning, but how far more beautiful than
that of fierce July, as tempered now and softened by the rich, golden
haze of Indian summer, quenching his torrent rays in its mellow, liquid
lustre, and robing the distant hills with wreaths of purple light, half
mist, half shrouded sunshine; November, with its wheat and buckwheat
stubbles, golden or bloody red; with its sere maize leaves rustling in
the breeze, whence the quail pipes incessant; with its gay woodlands
flaunting in their many-colored garb of glory; with its waters more
clearly calm, more brilliantly transparent than those of any other
season; November, when the farmer’s toils have rendered their reward,
and his reaped harvests glut his teeming garners, so that he too, like
the pent denizen of swarming cities, may take his leisure with his gun
“in the wide vale, or by the deep wood-side,” and enjoy the rapture of
those sylvan sports which he may not participate in sweltering July, in
which they are, alas! permitted by ill-considered legislation, in every
other state, save thine, honest and honorable Massachusetts.[2]
In truth there is no period of the whole year so well adapted, both by
the seasonable climate, and the state of the country, shorn of its
crops, and not now to be injured by the sportsman’s steady stride, or
the gallop of his high-bred setters, both by the abundance of game in
the cleared stubbles and the sere woodlands, and by the aptitude of the
brisk, bracing weather for the endurance of fatigue, and the enjoyment
of manful exercise, as this our favorite November.