familiarly known by that appellation, “a’ter this night, Billy, my bo,
you had better change your tramp. The beaks ’ave nabbed Ikey about that
’ere job on Saffron Hill, and they say he’s peached upon it. Confound
the trade, say I, if pals can’t be true to one another.”
I recollected perfectly the matter he alluded to. It was a burglary
committed upon an old miser, who had fixed his dwelling in that delicate
abode, and I very well remembered, now that Mr. Gabriel Sooterkins
mentioned it, that I had been the head and front of the offending, and
that Ikey and himself were accomplices in the business.
An exceedingly reputable exchange of persons I had made.
“Well,” said I, “if it’s done it can’t be helped, you know, and I’m off
this night,” although I had not the most remote idea of where I was
going.
“If I’d a known vere you vos,” said Mr. Sooterkins, “I’d ha’ blowed this
here spot o’ work afore. But step in here. I’ve a vord or two to say to
you, for I s’pose there’s very little dust at the bottom of your fob.”
Mr. Sooterkins plunged downward into a dingy cellar, and I followed him
very obediently.
The place into which I accompanied him was a filthy diving, or slap-bang
shop, in which retreat was collected as motley an assemblage as the
imagination of man can conceive. A long table extended from one end of
the cellar to the other, covered with pewter mugs and dishes, cheap
crockery ware, and knives and forks, which latter implements were
chained to the table. A very satisfactory idea of the morals of the
guests might be gathered from this circumstance; although, indeed, if
that hint had been wanting, the variety of villany stamped upon the
faces of the profligate crew which surrounded the table, gave proof
satisfactory that they were not of that number who rank with the honest
of this world.
Mr. Sooterkins nodded to this amiable assembly upon entering, and I
obeyed his example, inasmuch as I recognized among these gentlemen some
very familiar acquaintances. We were received in a remarkably hilarious
manner, and some of the most jovial of our friends pressed their regards
rather closely, by playing off two or three practical jokes upon Mr.
Sooterkins. The application of a quart pot to the head of the most
forward of these wits sent him howling into a corner, and, to my
unspeakable satisfaction, put a very sudden conclusion to the incipient
merriment.
“Take that,” growled Sooterkins, “and now, as you gen’l’mn seems to be
so ’ighly delighted at this here cheerful occasion, you’ll just ’ave the
goodness to leave me and my pal to our own cards for a brace of minnits.
You see, Bill, ve must speak to Sal, and git posted up on this last
score. Hollo! Sal! you old limb of Satan, move yer shanks this way, I
tell ye!”
A withered crone, who seemed to be the mistress of the cellar, came
hobbling forward, being thus politely conjured to appear.
“Wot!” said she, extending her wrinkled hand to me. “Gentleman Bill
here! Here’s a sight for sore eyes!”
“Dight your gab,” interrupted Sooterkins. “Bill’s here, but he’ll be
obliged to cut and run this darkey, for the beaks are a’ter him ’bout
that job of Ikey’s. Now _he’s_ got no stump, and the devil a mag have I,
so you must fork over, for the purchase wot come in vos fairly vorth
double as much nor you paid for it. Bill, and Ikey, and I, are all in
fur the business, but the blackguard daren’t peach on me, ’cause if he
gits off from this scrape, I knows enough of other matters about him to
bring him to a hemp crawat wery speedily. You’ve got the plunder, you
old hag, and it’s only fair as you should come down with the tin for the
tramp.”
“Ah, Gabe,” said the old woman, “you will drive hard bargains with me.
But I can’t well refuse for the pretty face of him.”
Singular as it may appear. I felt gratified by the compliment of the
hag.
“Yes, mother,” said I, “change of air is good for the constitution, and
I’ll cheat Jack Ketch of his fees in spite of fate for this bout.”
“How much can you do vith?” queried Mr. Sooterkins, who had lighted a
fragment of a clay pipe, and commenced to smoke most industriously.
“Ten pounds will carry me on to Portsmouth,” said I, for the localities
and resources of roguery were fast becoming familiar to me.
“Too much,” grumbled the crone. Gabe was about to make a savage reply,
when two females descended the ladder, and entered the cellar.
“By my forks!” whistled Gabe. “This ’ere is just wot I hoped vouldn’t
’appen; but these cussed gals is everlastin’ly a riggin a man, till he
trots over the Old Bailey valls on a vooden oss.”
“Bill!” cried one of the females, recognizing and running to me. “Is it
you, Bill? I’ve been over the whole of this blessed town after you, for
I heard that Ikey Solomon had let all out, and I feared that you were
caught. But, thank Heaven, you’re safe—you’re safe!”
With an hysterical burst of laughter, the girl threw her arms around me
and embraced me tightly. Her laughter gradually ceased, and gave way to
a violent fit of weeping.
Amazed at first, and not knowing what she could mean, the truth began to
break upon me. Poor girl! The burglar’s mistress! What a world of guilt
and wo are in those words! Her face was handsome, but oh! how deadly
pale, save on the summit of the cheek-bones, where the fire of the
hectic blazed. Her large, dark orbs were sunken, and gleamed like the
reflected glow of a furnace from their deep cavities. Her apparel, which
was a shade or two better than that of her companion, and her language,
which showed her to be superior to the wretched assemblage around us,
told a tale of sorrow—which, although a common tale, struck deeply on
my heart.
“Hang it, Bess,” said Sooterkins, endeavoring to push the girl away,
“vot dost mean, crying and sniveling about a chap ven his wery life
hangs on his speed in gettin’ out o’Lunnun? Stand aside, thou foolish
jade, and let me have my say out vith him.”
“Stand by, Bess dear,” said I, “and I will speak with you directly.”
The girl obeyed.
“Now then,” said Sooterkins, “As I’ve vormed the ten pounds out o’ Sal,
all you’ve got to do is this. Be off now, d’rectly, and take all the by
cuts till you’re out o’ town, snug in the fields. I’ve a friend as goes
down on the mail in the morning, and mind, give him this jark. He’ll be
down on the sly with you, for my sake. Then pull for Common Hard, and
off over the Channel, till this ’ere job blows by. Lose no time, the
night’s dark, and make forward like the wind.”
“And Bess?” said I, for the girl’s affection had interested me, and the
emotions of my burglar friend began to quicken in my breast.
“Pshaw!” said Sooterkins, “why canst not mind thine own affairs, and let
the girl alone?”
“I must speak to her before I go, Gabe,” I replied. “What she is, I have
made her, and it would break my heart to leave her thus.”
“Speak, then, fool, and be spry about it.”
“Bess,” said I, stealing my arm around the waist of the unfortunate
girl, “I must be off for Portsmouth.”
“Are you going, Bill?” she said, in a low and tremulous voice, as she
lifted her eyes anxiously to mine; and that expression cut me to the
soul, keen as a knife, “I never shall see you again.”
“Hush, dearest, you must not speak so. We shall see each other soon, and
live as happy days as ever.”
The eyes of the young girl became suffused with tears.
“Happy! No, Bill, I never shall know happiness again. I have been weak
and ill of late. I’m dying, Bill, and I know it. Before you will dare to
return here, I shall be laid, in the parish shell, cold enough in the
grave of a pauper. Do you remember the little cottage near the Downs?
Ah! those were my happy days. Then I was innocent, but you—but I wont
speak of that, dearest, for I would not distress you.”
“Nay, Bess, compose yourself—”
“In the sleep of death? There is no other composure for me. You are
going, and the strings of my heart snap as I look upon you for the last
time. Oh! through misery and crime, Bill—and we have been miserable and
criminal—I have loved you, dearer than the light of heaven! But,
dearest, if you do escape and return, quit this awful life, for the sake
of her whom you once vowed never to abandon—quit this den of villainy,
and for God’s sake, oh, never enter it again!”
The tears gushed from my eyes at this appeal, and my whole frame was
shaken.
“I promise—I swear it,” whispered I.
“Thank you, dearest. Take this little ring. You know its history. And
now, for the last time, this kiss. Farewell!”
Her head sunk upon her breast. Bestowing an embrace upon her, I darted
from her side, and sprang up the steps of the cellar. At the foot I
paused for a moment. Bess had hidden her face in her lap, and the
heaving of her breast, plainly perceptible through its thin covering,
testified the agony of her spirit.
The labyrinths of the dark and dingy by-streets seemed familiar to me as
the interior of my own house. In fact, I was becoming rapidly identified
with the character, as well as with the person of the burglar. But as I
sped on, the recollection of my former condition was forcibly recalled,
as I came upon a tailor’s shop, ostentatiously placed at the corner of a
well lighted street. The view of that shop acted as a talisman. It
recalled me to a due sense, and to a most painful recollection of the
transactions of the preceding night, and of my rencontre in Hyde Park
with the usurper of my rights. I recollected perfectly well that I had
received an invitation to a grand gala at Lord Flannery’s for this
evening, of which I doubted not for an instant that my representative
would avail himself. Julia, I also knew, had promised to be there.
Curiosity, no less than jealousy, spurred me on. I felt a strong desire
to see in what manner and to what advantage I should appear. I
determined to make my way to his lordship’s, forgetting that if the
police laid eyes upon me, I should dangle most loftily from the front of
Newgate or the Old Bailey.
Onward I strode until I reached Grosvenor Square, from near which point
I had started on my morning peregrinations. It was past eleven o’clock.
I stationed myself in front of Lord Flannery’s mansion, where the glow
of lights, crowds of liveried menials, and the sound of music indicated
the commencement of the rout. Equipage after equipage rolled up, and
depositing their inmates at the door, drove off in rapid succession.
Crowds of fashionables swarmed the apartments. I waited for Julia’s
arrival until my patience was nearly exhausted, and I was upon the point
of giving the matter up in despair, when a magnificent turn-out drove up
to the door, and Flashington Highflyer, Esquire, descended from the
vehicle, attired in a most _recherché_ evening dress, and handed
out—_proh pudor!_—the Honorable Miss Julia Adeliza Dashleigh!
I was petrified with astonishment. There was the figure which had
excited her laughter but the previous night, and which was evidently the
present object of her favorable regard. As the pair passed me, the light
from the hall shone strongly upon my features. My representative gave
me, _en passant_, a most facetious dig in the small ribs with his elbow,
and suddenly clapping his hands upon his pockets, exclaimed,
“There are thieves here! I have lost my snuff-box and my handkerchief!”
“Dear Mr. Highflyer!” said Julia, with a winning glance.
“Secure this fellow,” said the hateful scoundrel, for whose crimes I was
penitently atoning, pointing to me. “He has a suspicious look. Bring him
into the hall. Come, _dearest_ Julia, I will attend you to the
dressing-room, and will then return to examine this man.”
Instantly I was pounced upon by a police officer, assisted by a dozen
servants, and in spite of my cries and protestations of innocence, was
dragged into the hall. Mr. Highflyer was not long in making his
appearance.
“Search him, officer,” said he, as he drew out his tooth-pick, and
planted himself in a very Lara-like style, with his back to the
banisters.
“You infernal, thieving, rope-cracking black-guard!” I roared, goaded to
the very verge of insanity by these accumulated misadventures.
“Gag him,” said my tormentor. “Have you found any thing, officer?”
“All right, sir,” replied that functionary, “Is this here vipe yours?”
Shocking to relate, the missing articles were found upon me!
“That handkerchief is mine, as well as the snuff-box. I shall appear to
prosecute. Off with him to Bow Street. A p-r-e-e-tt-y good-looking chap
for a pickpocket,” continued he, as he turned his head with a
supercilious smile, and examined me through his eye-glass. The smile
gave way to a sneer of the most diabolical description as he ascended
the staircase. I had never thought myself so confoundedly ugly as I did
at that moment.
Of course I was dragged off to the police-office, upon the charge of
robbing myself. All that I could say would be of no avail, therefore I
kept a most stoical silence. Having arrived at our destination, I was
walked in before the head of the police, who, after a long and
scrutinizing survey of my person, whispered an officer, who went out. I
was then desired, or rather commanded, to extend my wrists to another
officer, who placed upon them a very ornamental, but not very agreeable
appendage, in the shape of a pair of manacles. I had subsided into a
dogged, sullen, almost unconscious state of mind, and was becoming, in
fact, very careless as regarded consequences. Half an hour had elapsed,
when the officer who had spoken with the chief of police, returned. He
whispered the presiding functionary, who grinned approvingly.
“Well, my kiddy,” said he, “the Saffron-Hill job warn’t enough for you,
eh? But I’ve caged you now, bird, and you’ll be made to sing plenty loud
for that matter, outcepting this altogether.”
“I never heerd the like of this lark,” said the under-strapper. “It’s a
rigler demeanin’ of the trade. Here’s one of your Jimmy burglary swells
come down to a-sneak of a pickpocket!”
It would be a work of supererogation to detail the variety of insults
and the tortures of mind that I was forced to undergo from my appearance
before the magistrate the next morning, until my final trial at the Old
Bailey upon the charge of burglary. I had heard nothing of my ingenious
tyrant, who was evidently, at the time I saw him last, in a very fair
way to lead my lady-love to the altar. Nor, indeed, had I any
opportunity of hearing from him. I saw no persons save my keeper, and a
little, seedy, Jew attorney, whom I discovered to be in pay of the gang
of which I was a worthy member. After various consultations with this
gentleman, who informed me that he would be able, in spite of the
veracious testimony of the respectable Mr. Ikey Solomons, to produce a
satisfactory alibi, it was decided that I was to put in the plea of Not
Guilty.
The day of trial arrived, after a weary and solitary residence within
the walls of my prison of a month. None of the gang came near me, and I
could never learn any tidings of Bess. At the appointed time, I was
escorted into the court, and being duly arraigned, the charge was read
to me, in that agreeable nasality of tone peculiar to the clerks of all
legal tribunals. During this process, to which I paid not the least
attention, I espied a newspaper lying by the side of the dock. I picked
it up, and was vacantly pouring over the columns, unseen by my jailers,
when my attention was riveted by the following paragraph, which filled
my breast with horror and despair.
“Married, by the Right Rev. Doctor Dumfungle, at St. Martin’s in the
Fields, Flashington Highflyer, Esq., to the Hon. Julia Adeliza, daughter
of Sir Poins Dashleigh, Bart.”
The climax to my sorrows had then arrived. The whole man was quelled
within me. Spectators, judge and jury were all forgotten, and the tide
of my woes rushed irresistibly onward, overwhelming me in the vortex.
The question was put in the usual form, “guilty or not guilty?” Life had
cloyed with me. I longed to occupy a resting place where I should be
secure from the scorn and the persecutions of the world. The grave
offered this refuge, and I gladly embraced it.
I therefore rose from my seat, and replied to the query of the clerk,
“guilty.”
My attorney fairly fell under the table with astonishment. The whole
assemblage seemed utterly confounded at my audacity, and a voice was
heard above the general buz of tongues, which I recognized as
appertaining to my acquaintance, Mr. Sooterkins.
“Vell, by blazes, h’aint you gone and done it!”
Of course I was sentenced to be hanged. Day after day dragged on its
weary course, and as I gazed at the gray walls of my dungeon, my heart
seemed to harden like the stone itself. In vain did the ministers of the
gospel strive to arouse me from my apathy. All was cold and dead within
me. The day before that which was fixed for my execution, to my extreme
surprise, Mr. Flashington Highflyer entered my cell.
For some time indignation chained up my tongue. I experienced a choking
sensation as I stared furiously upon my visiter, whose countenance was
drawn out into the most hypocritical length. This did not very long
continue, for the solemn visage which he had chosen to exhibit at his
entrance soon gave place to a most malicious and devilish sneer.
“Well,” said he, with an odious chuckle, “my fine fellow, how d’ye like
your bargain?”
“Avaunt, fiend!” I exclaimed. He certainly manifested no symptoms of
departure, but lolling upon my bunk, produced a Havana from his
mother-of-pearl cigar-case, and igniting it by means of a Lucifer,
commenced to smoke with great _sang froid_.
“Pretty pleasant lodgings, those of yours, my old chap, but your
wardrobe was horridly low and vulgar. In fact, I was compelled to make a
bonfire of all your old clothes, before I could manage to put it into
tolerable order.”
“You infernal scoundrel!” I roared, goaded to madness by this last
insult. “I told you that you should pay for your rascality, and, by
heaven, you shall pay for it now!”
As I spoke, I rushed upon him and grappled tightly with him. He resisted
strenuously, but rage had nerved me with the strength of a dozen men,
and seizing him by the throat, we rolled upon the ground together.
“Ya—ya—yough! Gollamity, massa, what you do? Want fur choke Sip?—oh,
murder! murder!”
I looked with bewildered eyes around me. I had upset the table, tumbled
from my chair upon the floor, and had grappled poor Scipio by the
throat, until his eye-balls protruded an inch from his head.
“Hollo!” I cried, “where the devil am I?”
“Why, you home, be sure, massa,” replied Scipio, whimpering from the
effects of the rough salutation I had bestowed upon him, “and be broad
daylight, and you no bin to bed yit.”
I looked at the decanter. It was empty.
“Oh!” ejaculated I.
The odious apparel of the preceding night still decked my person and
strewed the room. There was a sickening odor of stale tobacco-smoke
hovering through the chamber, and, with a very clear perception that I
should require a tumbler of Hock and soda to reinvigorate the inner man,
I arrived at the comfortable conclusion that I was still in _propria
persona_, the “man who could never dress well.”
P. S. I’m off to Paris. Fitzcrocky has Julia’s promise. A pea-green coat
with gilt buttons, and a scarlet satin lining has done my business.
* * * * *
SUMMER’S BACCHANAL.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
Fill the cup from some secretest fountain,
Under granite ledges, deep and low,
Where the crystal vintage of the mountain
Runs in foam from dazzling fields of snow!
Some lost stream, that in a woodland hollow
Coils, to sleep its weariness away,
Hid from prying stars, that fain would follow,
In the emerald glooms of hemlock spray.
Fill, dear friend, a goblet cool and sparkling
As the sunlight of October morns—
Not for us the crimson wave, that darkling
Stains the lips of olden drinking-horns!
We will quaff, beneath the noontide glowing,
Draughts of nectar, sweet as faery dew;
Couched on ferny banks, where light airs blowing,
Shake the leaves between us and the blue.
We will pledge, in breathless, long libation,
All we have been, or have sworn to be—
Fame, and Joy, and Love’s dear adoration—
Summer’s lusty bacchanals are we!
Fill again, and let our goblets, clashing,
Stir the feathery ripples on the brim:
Let the light, within their bosoms flashing,
Leap like youth to every idle limb!
Round the white roots of the fragrant lily
And the mossy hazels, purple-stained,
Once the music of these waters chilly
Gave return for all the sweetness drained.
How that rare, delicious, woodland flavor
Mocked my palate in the fever hours,
When I pined for springs of coolest savor,
As the burning Earth for thunder-showers!
In the wave, that through my maddened dreaming
Flowed to cheat me, fill the cups again!
Drink, dear friend, to life which is not seeming—
Fresh as this to manhood’s heart and brain!
Fill, fill high! and while our goblets, ringing,
Shine with vintage of the mountain-snow,
Youth’s bright Fountain, clear and blithely springing.
Brims our souls to endless overflow!
* * * * *
THE PLANTATION OF GENERAL TAYLOR.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
We present our readers this month with the first of a series of views
which, by permission, we have caused to be engraved expressly for this
Magazine, from Mr. John R. Smith’s celebrated Panorama of the
Mississippi River. It represents the cotton plantation belonging to the
recently elected President of the U. S., General Zachary Taylor. It is
situated on the eastern branch of the Mississippi River, in Jefferson
county, Mississippi, seven miles below the town of Rodney, between the
estates of James Suggett, on the north, and Colonel Barker, on the
south. The view embraces the overseer’s house, the cottages of the
laborers, with a small portion of the broad acres which are comprised in
the plantation. The spot is interesting, not only as being the property
and the occasional residence of a distinguished public man, but as
affording a specimen of those cotton estates, the culture of which
exerts so important an influence on the commercial and financial
destinies of the republic.
[Illustration: Plantation of General Taylor]
* * * * *
FANCIES ABOUT A LOCK OF HAIR.
BY S. D. ANDERSON.
What is this dream that o’er me now
Comes with its bright and sunny spell,
As starlight falls on childhood’s brow?
Haply this lock of hair can tell.
Ah me! how thoughts of early years
Are linked with this dear gift of thine—
The doubts, the memories, and the tears
That cluster round this bygone shrine.
The air seems filled with boyhood’s flowers,
The perfume of the summer fields;
The dreams and gladness of the hours
That freshness to our pathway yields.
Times when the heart was glad and young,
A thousand scenes of love and truth,
That, rose-like, from our track have sprung,
Amid the dreamy times of youth.
Hours when each gushing fount of life
Leaped high amid this desert wild,
Come angel-like to calm the strife,
As once they did when Eden smiled.
Not often on life’s beaten track
Come such rich summer times,
To bring the heart’s pure sunshine back,
Like old remembered rhymes.
But now I see, deep in a wood,
Two lovers ’neath the trees so hoary;
She, blushing to the solitude
Beneath his simple touching story;
Her sweet face coyly turned away,
To hide the thoughts that on her cheek
Are mantling like the wakened day
Upon the mountain’s highest peak.
And he, perhaps some poet who
Had filled the world with golden dreams,
Hopes, that around his path upgrew,
As wild flowers deck the singing streams.
And thus, as hand in hand they go,
He tells her much we may not hear—
How his heart swelled to overflow
Under a sky so dark and drear—
How on the soul came _Care_ and _Pain_,
Twin-sisters of the soulless _Real_,
The race and haggle for the gain
That those who win the world must feel.
The striving to become a part
Of that great sea whose tideings ever
Bears on its waves each manly heart,
That, struggling, droops its pinions never.
And now there is a bridal throng
Slow winding through the moss-grown aisle;
The ring, the vow, the nuptial song—
From age a tear, from youth a smile.
A cot with jessamine-covered door,
A streamlet singing all the day,
And on the dew-bespangled floor
A thousand golden sunbeams play.
Gay groups of happy children there,
The old oak and the breathless swing,
The shouts of laughter on the air,
The chaplets that the young girls bring.
All’s gone! except these gushing tears,
Sad relics of the joyous past,
The shrines that memory uprears
To shield the incense from the blast.
Some sleep beneath the ocean’s wave,
Some ’neath the flowers that loved ones tend,
Others have found an early grave
Where stranger skies above them bend,
And she, the cherished one, she sleeps
Beneath the violet-covered earth,
Where spring-time’s earliest cloudlet weeps
And roses have a dewy birth.
Enough, she sleeps—would that my dreams
Could rest forever by her side,
As peaceful as the morning beams
Are pillowed on the sleeping tide.
* * * * *
THE PRECIOUS REST.
BY RICHARD COE, JR.
Once on a lovely summer day,
I saw a little child at play,
While in a garden straying—
Till suddenly I heard him say,
“I am tired with playing!”
Then running to his father he
Laid down his head upon his knee,
And slept, oh! how contentedly?
So life is but a summer day,
And man—a little child at play—
While through the world a-straying:
And often, too, we hear him say,
“I am tired with playing!”
Till hast’ning to his Father, he
Lays down his head upon his knee,
And rests, oh! how contentedly!
* * * * *
WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
[Illustration: THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.]
This singular bird is found throughout the greater portion of the United
States, and by the notes from which it derives its name is known to
almost every farmer. The species was long considered identical with the
Night Hawk; but this fallacy was fully exposed by Wilson. The
Whip-poor-will appears in the Middle States toward the end of April,
when its low, sad wail, may be heard at evening along the creeks and by
the woods of the country. So peculiarly mournful is this sound that the
ignorant almost invariably consider it an omen of approaching evil. By
the Indians it is regarded as a spirit-voice, boding death or perhaps
national calamity. The bird articulates pretty distinctly the syllables
_whip-poor-will_, the first and last being uttered with great emphasis.
A kind of chuckling sound sometimes precedes the principal tone. At
these times the bird is generally on the wing, flying close to the
ground in the manner of swallows, and sometimes skimming around houses.
The notes of the Whip-poor-will are continued until about midnight, and
on fine moonlight nights until morning. The shady banks of creeks and
rivulets are favorite haunts. During the day they remain in the darkest
parts of the forest, hushed to silence like owls, and apparently annoyed
at the presence of sunlight. The cry of the Whip-poor-will is not heard
after the middle of June; and early in September it departs for the
south.
The Whip-poor-will is nine inches and a-half long, of a beautiful
mottled-brown, relieved by other colors. It is noted for an
extravagantly large mouth, beset on each side with thick bristles, and
for a very strong bill. The female is less in size than the male, and
rather lighter colored. She begins to lay toward the middle of May,
choosing for this purpose a dry situation, covered with brush, decayed
leaves, etc., but building no nest. The eggs are two in number, dark and
marbled. The young appear early in June.
The Goatsucker, Night Hawk, and seventeen other species belong to the
same genus as the Whip-poor-will. Of these fifteen belong to America.
Nuttall has the following remarks on some of these.
“But if superstition takes alarm at our familiar and simple species,
what would be thought by the ignorant of a South American kind, large as
the Wood Owl, which, in the lonely forests of Demerara, about midnight,
breaks out, lamenting like one in deep distress, and in a tone more
dismal even than the painful hexachord of the slothful Ai. The sounds
like the expiring sighs of some agonizing victim, begin with a high,
loud note, ‘_ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! ha! ha!_’ each tone falling lower and
lower, till the last syllable is scarcely heard, pausing a moment or two
between this reiterated tale of seeming madness.
“Four other species of the Goat-sucker, according to Waterton, also
inhabit the tropical wilderness, among which is included our present
subject. Figure to yourself the surprise and wonder of the stranger who
takes up his solitary abode for the first night amidst these awful and
interminable forests, when, at twilight, he begins to be assailed
familiarly with a spectral equivocal bird, approaching within a few
yards, and then accosting him with ‘_who-are-you, who—who—who are
you?_’ Another approaches, and bids him, as if a slave under the lash,
‘_work-away, work—work—work-away!_’ A third, mournfully cries, ‘_willy
come go, willy—willy—willy come go!_’ and as you get among the
highlands, our old acquaintance vociferates, ‘_whip-poor-will,
whip—whip—whip-poor-will!_’ It is, therefore, not surprising that such
unearthly sounds should be considered in the light of supernatural
forebodings issuing from spectres in the guise of birds.”
[Illustration: THE BALTIMORE ORIOLE.]
This lively and beautiful bird is widely diffused through the United
States under the names of Oriole, Hanging-Bird, Golden Robin, Fire Bird,
and Baltimore Bird. According to Catesby, the latter name originates
from the colors of its plumage being the same as that of Lord
Baltimore’s livery. It is seven inches in length. The head, throat, and
upper part of the back, are black, and the remaining portions bright
orange, inclining to vermilion on the breast, with some white among the
feathers of the wings. The colors of the female are less bright than
those of the male, and she is somewhat smaller. The male does not
acquire his full plumage until the third spring, undergoing in the
intermediate time many singular changes.
The Oriole family are distinguished for the singular manner of building.
“For this purpose,” says Wilson, “he generally fixes on the high-bending
extremities of the branches, fastening strong strings of hemp or flax
round two forked twigs, corresponding to the intended width of the nest.
With the same materials, mixed with quantities of loose tow, he
interweaves or fabricates a strong, firm kind of cloth, not unlike the
substance of a hat in its raw state, forming it into a pouch of six or
seven inches in depth, lining it substantially with various soft
substances well interwoven with the outward netting, and lastly,
finishes with a layer of horse-hair; the whole being shaded from the sun
and rain by a natural pent-house or canopy of leaves.” The solicitude of
the Baltimore to obtain proper materials for his nest, often leads him
to commit depredations on the farmer’s hemp, or the thread and silk of
the housewife. Skeins of these materials have been found in the nest
after its being deserted by the young.
According to Nuttall, the Oriole possesses a propensity to imitate other
birds. He is particular in describing their natural notes. “The
mellow-whistled notes which they are heard to trumpet from the high
branches of our tallest trees and gigantic elms, resemble at times,
_tshippe-tshayia too too_, and _’tshippee-’tshippee, too too_, (with the
two last syllables loud and full.) These notes are also varied so as to
resemble _’tsh, ’tsh ’tsheet shoo tshoo tshoo_,[2] also _tsh, ’tsheefa
’tsheefa tshoo_ and _’k’túfatúf a túf a téa kerry_.[3] Another bird I
have occasionally heard to call for hours, with some little variation,
_tu teo teo teo too_, in a loud, querulous, and yet almost ridiculously
merry strain. At other intervals, the sensations of solitude seem to
stimulate sometimes a loud interrogatory note, echoed forth at
intervals, as _k’rry kerry?_ and terminating plaintively _k’rry k’rry
tu_, the voice falling off very slenderly in the last long syllable,
which is apparently an imitation from the Cardinal Grosbeak, and the
rest is derived from the Crested Titmouse, whom they have heard already
in concert as they passed through the warmer states. Another
interrogatory strain which I heard in the spring of 1830, was precisely
_’yip ’k’rry, ’yip ’yip k’rry_, very loud and oft repeated. Another male
went in his ordinary key, _tsherry tsherry, tshipee_ _tsh’rry_, notes
copied from the exhaustless stock of the Carolina Wren, (also heard on
his passage,) but modulated to suit the fancy of our vocalist. The
female likewise sings, but less agreeably than the male.”
This particularity in describing sounds which are almost indescribable
may seem frivolous to some of our readers, but those who have ever
listened to the melting notes of the Baltimore Oriole will pardon this
accurate observer of nature the attempt.
The common food of the Oriole is insects, especially a species of small
beetle. They are said to love the honey in the blossoms of trees. If
domesticated, they must still be fed on animal food, principally minced
meat, soaked in milk. When adult, they will also eat fruit-cakes and
meal. They are not difficult to tame, and form a pleasant pet. Their
eggs are four or five in number, white, with dark lines and spots. In
the Southern States they sometimes raise two broods; but further
northward only one. The Oriole extends over the continent as far south
as Brazil, where hundreds of nests are found in every forest.
-----
[2] The first three of these notes are derived from the summer Yellow
Bird, though not its usual notes.
[3] The last phrase loud and ascending, the _tea_ plaintive, and the
last syllable tender and echoing.
* * * * *
THE PINE-TREE.
BY CAROLINE MAY.
How dear to my heart and my memory
Is that old majestic evergreen tree!
It stands like the guardian of our cot
Time-honored friend! it shall ne’er be forgot,
For I’ve spent bright hours of glee,
And of quiet rest
More deeply blest,
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
A rose-tree lived ’neath this agéd one,
Concealed from the noontide rays of the sun,
And ’twas sweet to mark in his resting hour,
(The only time he could look on the flower,)
How he smiled on her lovingly,
Till her rosy hue
Still rosier grew,
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
Up by its trunk I would stand and lean,
Gazing with rapture upon the soft scene,
(On the feathery-outlined isle that lay
Where the river and stream together play,)
For beauty and love seemed to be
Everywhere felt,
The spirits that dwelt
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
And, laid at its feet, I oft tried to read,
But the breeze would play with my book, and plead
For my heart and ear, in a witching song
Which I could not resist, for ’twas never long,
And plaintive as plaintive could be;
So I listened, and sighed
When the sweet breeze died
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
And there in the quiet I fain would rhyme,
And weave loving lays with a measured chime,
But my thoughts, as wild as the birds, would fly
From the beautiful earth to the beautiful sky
Unfixed, unfettered, and free,
In a dreamy joy
Which naught could destroy,
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
I loved to be up on a merry May morn,
When musical sounds and bright clouds were born,
And join in the earliest chant of praise,
Which all that had life seemed glad to raise,
The clear carols of gushing glee
The birds would make,
Just at day-break,
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
And I loved in the summer twilight dim,
To sing with my sister some holy hymn,
And watch the green shades as they deeper grew,
And a strange mysterious darkness threw;
And most dearly I loved to see
O’er the wavy grass
The night-wind pass,
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
Then since I have loved both in shape and shine
Under its sheltering boughs to recline—
Since what I once love I love to the end,
Be it tree, bird or flower—book, music or friend—
When death cometh I fain would be
There laid to sleep,
Lowly and deep,
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
* * * * *
GEMS FROM LATE READINGS.
BY MRS. GORE.
But few of those who examine the reminiscences of their own hearts, and
the incidents of their own lives, will deny that scarcely a given moment
of their youth admitted of swearing to a solitary object of attachment.
Till the heart throbs with the master-passion which impels a man to seek
a partner for life by an impulse as overmastering as that which prompts
an heroic action, or generates a _chef-d’œuvre_, it is pretty sure to
experience a succession of feverish spasms; the commencement of one of
which is as hazily interblended with the conclusion of another, as with
nocturnal darkness the glimmerings of a summer-day dawn, when “night is
at odds with morning, which is which.”
* * * * *
BY J. WESTLAND MARSTON, ESQ.
LOVE’S VICTORY.
I was a bard—she listened to my lay
As there her questioning soul had answer found.
She stooped to pluck my wild-flowers on the way,
Fancies that teem from the prolific ground
In the heart’s solstice—in whose inner light
Through all the pleasant paths of earth we wound.
And sometimes through her music of delight
An undersound of sadness softly stole,
And floated ’twixt the fountain pure and bright
Of her deep joy and heaven—a cloud of dole
That almost seemed relief—for scarce below
The noon of rapture is allowed the soul.
Hence even in life’s summer sunbeams throw
Shades on the very path they glorify—
And ecstasy would perish but for wo.
I asked not if she loved me; for reply
To every doubt, I read her glance and tone,
And made them oracles of destiny.
They whispered love—I deemed that love my own:
Nor guessed that in the mirror of my song
She saw an idol face to me unknown.
Nor that the chords of my devotion, strung
To feeling’s highest tension for her sake,
And on whose notes with breathless hush she hung,
Were prized for memories which they did awake—
To her an echo what to me was life.
O God, the strings that quivered would not break!—
He came! Can I forget that inward strife
Which made me calm?—The mightiest grief is dumb.
They met:—he clasped her—called her plighted wife!—
A frost was in that moment to benumb
My very sense of anguish—and I smiled.
Freed by despair—what after-pang could come?
She was his own—both Love’s. They roamed the wild,
And knew not it was bleak:—the wooded dell
They called not fair, for love had reconciled
And blent all difference. From their spirits fell
A glow that bathed creation. Where they stood
Light was their shadow:—bliss unspeakable
Became at once their being and its food:—
The world they did inhabit was themselves;
And they were Love’s—and all their world was good!
As o’er a barren reef that sea-ward shelves
Waves dash, their gladness sported o’er my fate;
But in the abyss no line of pity delves
Lay the wrecked hope which naught could re-create—
At least I deemed so then: and yet we parted
With blessings, and her eyes were dim with tears.
She told me I had been her friend true-hearted—
The friend she would recall in other years.
These came; and when the storm was spent there darted
Over my sombre deep as from the spheres,
The memory of those words, at first revealing
More present gloom from all the past endears.
In time, their light and beauty o’er me stealing,
Softened despair to grief; and in its dew
My withered heart put forth one bud of feeling.
I dared not hope its life:—fierce tempests blew
From the cold east of Youth in day’s decline,
And shook its tender petals:—still it grew!
It grew and blossomed to a hope divine:—
I might be like her in her nature’s worth;
I might live for her though she was not mine!
From her each better impulse should take birth—
For her my song should raise and cheer mankind,
And I would sow her influence through the earth.
And, as by great attraction are combined
All kindred essences—as waters blend
With waters, flame with flame—and though confined
By bounds material, each to other tend—
Released from the division of our clay
Again might be united friend with friend.
For then, immortal and beyond decay,
The store of love partaken richer grows:
The torch that burned for one—for all, a day!
Oh, ye whose hearts in _happy_ love repose,
Your thankful blessings at its footstool lay,
Since faith and peace can issue from its woes!
* * * * *
BY MISS MARIA J. McINTOSH.
With most of us it is only when we are nigh unto death that we learn
what it is to live. We talk of acquainting ourselves with the lives of
eminent persons, when we read a record of the events through which they
have passed; we call our own lives desolate, because events of a painful
nature have befallen us; but these are not our life. Life—the principle
which makes us sentient, intelligent, active beings; the principle by
which we hold converse with the living spirit of beauty and goodness, by
which—if we pervert not its heavenly aims—assimilating with that
spirit incarnated in the adorable Saviour, we rise from the finite to
the infinite, and, resting on the bosom of love, find blessedness when
that which made our happiness has vanished from our grasp; this life no
events can make desolate. Sorrow may darken our sky, but the loving,
trusting child of God rises above its gloomy cloud, and there shines his
life supremely bright.
Who shall penetrate into the spirit’s mysterious intercourse with Him,
who inhabiting eternity, yet dwelleth with the humble and contrite
heart? Reverently and humbly to illustrate this precious truth, to show
that in His presence earth’s discords are harmonized, and peace and
strength arise where all was disorder and weakness may be permitted—but
there let us pause, lest we be as the fools who “rush in where angels
dare not tread.”
* * * * *
BY G. A BERTIE.
STANZAS.
I am not what I was—the time’s gone by
When, bright and cloudless as the summer’s sky,
My day of life began;
When all was music to my raptured ear,
And, bounding onward, without grief or fear,
Eager my course I ran.
I am not what I was—the sense of youth,
And hope, and joyous feeling, and the truth
Of earth, hath passed away;
The heart that once throbbed high with health and life
Beats faint and wearied with the ceaseless strife
Which there has held its sway.
* * * * *
BY G. P. R. JAMES.
Long experience of any thing existing, has shown mankind all its
benefits and all its evils; but beside this, there is an indirect
advantage in retaining that which is, namely, that it has adjusted
itself to the things by which it is surrounded; and there is an indirect
disadvantage in change, namely, that one can never calculate what
derangements of all relations may take place, by any great alteration of
even one small part in the complicated machine of any state or society.
* * * * *
It is difficult to find words to express the infinite; and although it
may seem a pleonasmatic expression, I must say that all the varieties of
human character have infinite varieties within themselves. However, the
easily impressible character, that which suffers opinions, feelings,
thoughts, purposes, actions to be continually altered by the changing
circumstances around—the chameleon character, if I may so call it—is,
perhaps, the most dangerous to itself, and to those it affects, of any
that I know. It goes beyond the chameleon, indeed. The reptile only
reflects the colors of objects near, retaining its own form and nature.
The impressible character, on the contrary, is changed in every line, as
well as in every hue, by that with which it comes in contact. Certain
attributes it certainly does retain. The substance is the same, but the
color and the form are always varying. In the substance lies the
permanence and the identity. All else is moulded and painted by
circumstance.
* * * * *
The pure, ingenuous, open-hearted candor of early years, would be a
better friend to man, if he did but cling to it with affection, through
life, than all the worldly friends we gain in passing through
existence—shrewdness, caution, prudence, selfishness, wit, or even
wisdom.
* * * * *
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE.”
A high, pure earthly love is powerful above all other earthly principles
for overcoming evils; but even in its highest purity, it has not
sufficient power to lead to fall perfection. It is from Heaven, but it
is not Heaven itself; it is but as an angel messenger, and fails in its
office if it does not lead on to love, perfect, unchangeable, divine.
* * * * *
BY MRS. GREY.
Is there a woman to be found who is not insensibly flattered, even
against her better reason, by devoted incense to her charms?—Very few,
we fear!—poor human nature is full of vanity. A woman will indignantly
spurn such love—her sense of right will make her shrink with shuddering
from such feelings; still there is too often a latent, lingering spark
of gratified self-love hovering about the heart; although the spark is
prevented from spreading into a flame, by the preponderating influence
of strong principle and purity of mind. It is, as we before said, _human
nature_—and this same nature is miserably full of weakness and vanity.
* * * * *
TO MY LITTLE BOY.
BY MRS. HENRIETTA L. COLEMAN.
I watched a rose, one lovely morn,
Parade herself a summer queen,
While by her side a bud, new-born,
Lay locked in leaves of softest green:
As that fresh bud to beauty blew,
That rose lost all its scent and hue:
Alas! I cried, that this should be!—
For I thought, dear boy, of thee and me.
I watched a parent bird that fed
Her fledgling many a vernal day,
Training his dainty wings to spread
And lightly flit from spray to spray:
Away—afar—I marked him soar,
Never to own fond guidance more.
Can care and love thus wasted be?—
Sadly I thought of thee and me.
I watched the moon rise sweetly bright,
With one fair star that lay below,
Each lovelier shone from mutual light,
As hearts united gentler flow:
Though moon and star in heaven divide
Time brings them ever side by side.
Glorying I spoke, thus may it be!—
For I thought, dear boy, of thee and me.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Merry-Mount; A Romance of Massachusetts Colony. Boston: James
Monroe & Co. 2 vols. 12mo._
This novel is the production of a New England writer of fine talents and
large acquirements, but of talents and acquirements which have not been
as bountifully expressed in literature as the Public, that exacting
leech of intellects raised above the mass, had a right to demand. The
work, with some obvious defects, evinces a range of characterization,
and a general opulence of mind, which place it above many novels which
can claim more felicity in the evolution of a story and more variety of
incident. The scene is laid in the early history of Massachusetts,
commencing about eight years after the landing of the Pilgrims at
Plymouth, and its peculiarity consists in vividly reproducing to the
imagination a period which even the driest annalists have hardly
touched. The novel might with propriety be called, “The Cavaliers in
Massachusetts,” for its originality, as an American story, consists in
bringing together Cavalier and Roundhead on New England ground. The
hero, Morton, is a loose, licentious, scheming, good-natured, and
good-for-nothing English “gentleman,” engaged in a project to outwit the
Puritans, and to obtain the ascendancy in Massachusetts of a different
code of principles and a different kind of government from those which
the Puritans aimed to establish. Connected with this reckless Cavalier
is a deeper plotter, Sir Christopher Gardiner, a villain half after
James’s and half after Bulwer’s heart, pursuing schemes of empire and
schemes of seduction with equal ingenuity and equal ill-success. These
two, with the followers and liege men of Morton—a gang of ferocities,
rascalities and un-moralities from the lowest London taverns—constitute
the chief carnal ingredients of the novel. Opposed to these we have
grand and life-like portraits of Miles Standish, Endicott, Winthrop, and
other Puritan celebrities, with only an occasional view of the Indians.
The business of the affections is principally transacted by two
persons—a pure, elevated, large-hearted and high-spirited woman, and a
noble-minded but somewhat irascible man; and this portion of the novel
has the ecstasies and agonies which are appropriate to the subject.
We think the novel a real addition to American literature, whether
considered in respect to the amount of new information it conveys, or
the splendor, vivacity and distinctness of its representations both of
character and scenery. A dozen passages might be extracted, which,
viewed simply as descriptions, are grand enough to establish a
reputation. But the author’s great merit consists in having as clear and
distinct a notion of the Cavalier, in his daily life and conversation,
as of the Puritan, and this merit, rare in an American, he could only
have obtained from a profound study of the elder dramatists of England,
and a vivid insight into the very heart of their characters. Out of
Scott, we do not know where to look for finer representations of these
two great classes of English society, as they must have appeared when
brought into opposition to each other. No one familiar with Marston,
Deckar, Beaumont and Fletcher, or any other dramatist in whose plays the
bullies and minor reprobates of the Elizabethan age appear, will call
even Bootefish, Cakebread and Company, improbable or unnatural.
The leading defect of the novel is the lack of a steady, orderly and
artistical development of the plot. The narrative wants rapidity of
movement; the rich materials of the work are imperfectly fused together;
and occasionally things good in themselves seem to be in each other’s
way. All those faults which beset the creations of the most fertile
intellects, when they aim to give great variety of incident and
character without having a grand, leading, ever-present conception of
their work as a whole, are visible in this novel, and mar its harmony as
a work of art. But these defects inhere in many romances which are read
with delight by thousands, and though the splendid talents of the author
of Merry-Mount may not always hide the heterogeneousness of his plan,
they are amply sufficient to prevent it from interfering seriously with
the interest of his novel, and sufficient also to delineate persons and
scenes which leave on the reader’s mind a strong impression of power and
beauty.
* * * * *
_The Female Poets of America. By Rufus W. Griswold.
Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8mo._
In the space of four hundred closely printed pages, Mr. Griswold has
here brought together some ninety of our female poets, and introduced
them with critical and biographical notices. Of all Mr. Griswold’s
various works, the present evinces the greatest triumph over
difficulties, and best demonstrates the minuteness and the extent of his
knowledge of American literature. Very few of the women included in this
collection have ever published editions of their writings, and a
considerable portion of the verse was published anonymously. The labor,
therefore, of collecting the materials both of the biographies and the
illustrative extracts, must have been of that arduous and vexatious kind
which only enthusiasm for the subject could have sustained. The volume
is an important original contribution to the literary history of the
country, and nobody, whose mind is not incurably vitiated by prejudice,
can make dissimilarity of opinion with regard to some of the judgments
expressed in the book, a ground for denying its general ability, honesty
and value. Most of the materials are strictly new, and this fact of
itself is sufficient to stamp the work with that character which
distinguishes books of original research from mere compilations.
Mr. Griswold has given us a fine preface, in which he ably vindicates
and acutely limits the genius of women. The biographies and extracts
which follow, commence with Mrs. Anne Bradstreet and close with Miss
Phillips. Between these two he has included an amount of beautiful and
touching poetry which will surprise even those who are inclined to take
the most elevated view of the intellectual excellence of their
countrywomen. We have here the lofty and energetic thought of Miss
Townsend, the bright fancy and primitive feeling of Miss Gould, the
impassioned imagination and deep discernment of Maria Brooks, the holy
and meditative spirit of Mrs. Sigourney, the tender and graceful
sentiment of Mrs. Embury; Mrs. Whitman, with her grasp of all
literatures, her keen thought which pierces through nature’s most
mystical symbols, and her ethereal spirit casting on every object that
light “which never was on sea or land;” Mrs. Oakes Smith, with her
constant sense of the pure and the good, her daring and shaping
imagination, before whose creations and revelations her soul shrinks
awed and subdued, and her deep feeling of the spiritual significance of
things—a woman worthy to be the companion of Plato; Fanny Osgood, the
most brilliant and graceful of poetesses, with her quick decisive
sensibility, and her teeming and exhaustless fancy, eloquent of love and
romance, and high-heartedness in every relation of life; Miss Lynch,
simple, austere, bold, despising ornament as ornament, and keeping her
raised eye fixed on the vanishing features of the elusive thought she
aims to shape into almost sculptural form; Grace Greenwood, with her
fine combination of the tender and the impassioned in feeling, and the
subtile and grand in thought, “with a heart in her brain and a brain in
her heart;”—all these, and many more whom we lack epithets to
characterize rather than desire to celebrate, appear in Mr. Griswold’s
volume in all the royalty of womanhood. To proceed further in
description would be merely to enumerate names, without being able to
suggest things. In addition to the notables, whose names are known to
all readers of the magazines, Mr. Griswold has included in his
collection, many a timid violet and daisy of womanhood, too modest and
sensitive not to feel the fear of notoriety, and has transplanted it to
his book with a delicacy as commendable as the taste which dictated it.
In conclusion, we have only to observe that a volume, so complimentary
to the genius of our countrywomen, can hardly be read without a feeling
of exultation and pride. We trust it will meet that wide circulation it
so richly deserves.
* * * * *
_Acton: or the Circle of Life. A Collection of Thoughts and
Observations, designed to delineate Life, Man, and the World.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
This beautiful volume is the result of a life of observation and
thought. The author has traveled in every part of the globe, and viewed
mankind in a greater variety of aspects than most of those who meditate
as well as observe. He has thrown his reflections into a somewhat quaint
form, and has but a few words for even the greatest topics, but whatever
he touches he either adorns or illuminates, and his book furnishes
numberless texts for essays. Like most writers of maxims, he has a
sardonic element in his mind, and occasionally disposes of an important
matter, deserving serious discussion, with a gibe or a fleer, and
sometimes descends even to flippancy and impertinence; but these are the
almost inevitable vices of the form of composition he has chosen, and he
has fewer of them than might be expected. A good part of the raciness of
such books as Acton comes from the occasional substitution of the
writer’s impressions or prejudices for general truths. The didactic tone
of such compositions is in this way relieved, and a paradox or a piece
of acute nonsense thrown in, here and there, reminds us that it is a
person who is thinking, not a moral and reasoning machine. The author of
the present work has been especially successful in giving an
individuality to his general remarks, and preserving them from the
abstract and “do-me-good” character of impersonal morality.
The volume is so laden with striking thoughts and observations, that it
is difficult to fix upon any deserving especial quotation. As a specimen
of the writer’s manner, the following on Genius and Talent may serve:
“Talent is strength and subtlety of mind, genius is mental inspiration
and delicacy of feeling. Talent possesses vigor and acuteness of
penetration, but is surpassed by the vivid intellectual conceptions of
genius. The former is skillful and bold, the latter aspiring and gentle;
but talent excels in practical sagacity, and hence those striking
contrasts so often witnessed in the world, the triumph of talent through
its adroit and active energies, and the adversities of genius in the
midst of its boundless but unattainable aspirations.
“Talent is the Lion and the Serpent; Genius is the Eagle and the Dove.
“Or the first is like some conspicuous flower which flaunts its glory in
the sunshine, while the last resembles the odoriferous spikenard’s root,
whose sweetness is concealed in the ground.
“The flower displays itself openly, the root must be extracted from the
earth.”
Here is a piece of verse, in a different vein, on a very common
dispensation of Providence, the Mean Fellow. We fear that few are so
fortunate as not to be able to apply it to some acquaintance or enemy:
“Born but to be some snarl or plague,
Vile product of a rotten egg,
In every feature of thy face,
A want of heart, of soul, we trace;
By every honest man contemn’d,
By your own looks betray’d, condemn’d—
Of shame in front there is no lack,
And curses ride upon your back.”
* * * * *
_The Sacred Poets of England and America, for Three Centuries.
Edited by Rufus W. Griswold. Illustrated by Steel engravings.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._
There is a strange impression current even among people who ought to
know better, that religious poetry is a form of composition confined to
poets of the third or fourth class, and chiefly valuable for Hymn Books.
The existence of any verse, instinct with the finest essence of poetry,
and glowing with the rapt and holy passions of the religious bard, is
practically denied. Now nothing is more certain than that poetry,
impassioned imagination, is essentially religious both in its nature and
its expression. It springs from that raised mood of mind in which the
object present to thought is worshiped. This is true even in poetry
relating to the senses and to human passion, for if we scrutinize it
sharply, we shall find that the object which fills the poet’s mind,
however low in itself, is still deified for the moment, and made the
exclusive object of his adoration. In this way bards often make gods of
persons and things very questionable in themselves, but this is owing
rather to the direction than the nature of the poet’s powers. If these
powers instead of being devoted to the idealization of appetite or
destructive passions, be directed upward to the true object of worship,
the poetry will be really more beautiful and sublime than if it were
merely confined to spiritualized sensations.
No one can glance over Mr. Griswold’s beautiful book without feeling how
rich is English literature in song, celebrating the beauty of holiness
and the infinite perfections of God. The compilation comprehends the
early as well as the later English poets, and contains some exquisite
but not generally known extracts from Spenser, Gascoigne, Drayton, Sir
Henry Wottan, Davies, Carew, Ben Jonson, Drummond, Fletcher, Donne, Sir
John Beaumont, Wither, Herrick, Quarles, Vaughan and Herbert. The holy
poets of a later date, both of England and America, are likewise
profusely quoted, and the whole collection is well deserving a place in
every family library in the country.
* * * * *
_Benjamin Franklin: His Autobiography. With a Narrative of his
Public Life and Services. By Rev. H. Hastings Weld. New York:
Harper & Brothers._
The Harpers are publishing this work in numbers, to be completed in
eight. It is illustrated with numerous engravings after designs by
Chapman, and is printed in large type on fine paper. The edition
promises to be altogether the best which has been issued in the country,
and will tend to make more familiar to his countrymen the great American
philosopher’s genuine character and real services to the world.
* * * * *
_The Haunted Man. By Charles Dickens. New York: Harper &
Brothers._
This new Christmas story by Dickens is hardly worthy of him, though it
might be considered a triumph to almost any body else. It has a _jobby_
air, as though it had been written in accordance with a contract, and
without any especial inspiration. The materials are, in great part, the
old capital of the author, and repetition is stamped on almost every
page. The Tetterbys and the baby, however, and Mrs. William, are full of
beautiful humor and pathos, and succeed in saving the book from positive
condemnation and failure.
* * * * *
EDITOR’S TABLE.
“GRAHAM” TO “JEREMY SHORT.”
MY DEAR JEREMY,—Your name would be euphonious in the stock-market, at
times; but I believe stocks are muddied waters in which you seldom
dabble. You are wise. But do you find yourself at all in the _vein_
speculative, particularly now, when the streams of that new El Dorado,
California, sparkle invitingly with yellow pebbles? and its many broad
acres spread themselves out temptingly, with their bowels of undug gold,
begging for pickaxe, shovel and basin? How many ears heretofore closed
to the artifices of the speculator, are pricked up, or belie their
masters, at the all-enchanting sound of the word GOLD!! With all the
close calculation and keen spirit of inquiry which mark us as a nation,
I fear me that Jonathan has his weakness, and that his soft side is
metallic. There is something in the clinking of gold and silver that
sets aside his ordinary caution and shrewdness, and leads him to do very
silly things to get at it. It belongs to his nature to be impetuous, and
continued success leads him into very rash ventures. A more interrupted
fortune would, in this case, have allowed him breathing time to make a
“calculation;” and when Jonathan does that coolly, he is seldom
overreached. But he has flogged the Mexicans, taken the territory that
he wanted—as he knew he would—and he is ready now to believe that the
golden pavements of the Incas were no fable, and that the streams in
California are walled in with gold, if you will. At least he will
believe it until he sees for himself. He is a little taken by surprise
with this glittering bait, and no trout dashes at a tempting fly with a
more ravenous bite than he does at these shining “placers.” What cares
he for the thousands of miles that intervene; for the storms of winter
that howl around the Horn, and threaten danger and death! At the first
glimpse of the prospect, a thousand sails are set, and whitening the
ocean, bear him to fortune. No ordinary comforts, no moderate success
here, restrains his keen thirst of adventure. Were home a paradise, and
California a desert, with its shores bristling with opposing bayonets,
and parked with roaring artillery, he would go. Yes! he would, perhaps,
rather go then than now. The glory of the achievement would enhance the
value of the wealth. The founder of Nations—he must work out a
prophecy. Already the cry of a great people goes up with a shout from
the once desolate hills, and ardent, panting thousands, answer the cry
with, “WE COME!” and the shout swells with a louder triumph, a more
emphatic joy, for “_a nation is born in a day!_”
The impetuous rush to that far-off land is not in itself striking or
marvelous. Other and feebler nations have shown the same avidity for
gold. The Spaniards have dared more, to quench the same insatiate
thirst. But the Anglo-Saxon heel, upon that soil, seals its greatness
and proclaims its destiny. From every wooded hill-side and babbling
stream—from the snow-capped mountain to the fertile valley—yes! even
over the great desert plains, where the footstep cracks the crisp soil,
a voice has gone forth, which the Nations hear and obey,
proclaiming—BE YE FREE!
Do you not think that the abandoning of all domestic and personal
comfort, sundering of all social and friendly ties, and rushing into the
doubtful companionship of California, for the mere sake of gold, is a
pretty accurate data from which to estimate a man’s heart, or brain, or
both? Is it not something so absolutely sordid, that one cannot help
losing a little of the respect heretofore entertained for a friend who
is seized with this yellow fever? As if life had nothing to mitigate the
evils of existence but wealth—indeed, as if we were born only to
worship that as a god—upon whose shrine we are to sacrifice time,
friends, health, and even life itself, to be the masters of so much
tinsel as you can clutch at the altar. Bah! Is there not in home
enjoyments and the society and friendship of men who know us well, and
love us truly, more _real_ wealth than all that will ever be attained by
the slaves who sweep the dirt from the streams in California—live upon
frogs and beetles, and fill the air with curses. Think of men, of even
the most ordinary sense of decency, herding—_for any sum_—for months
and years with the scum of every clime; with souls sickened and minds
defiled with their abominations; to be of them, “or not to _be_” at
all—is there any consideration that could tempt your avarice or mine?
None that I can think of, unless to gratify some darling revenge,
vigilant and sleepless for years, which men sometimes cherish for
wrongs, and which nothing but gold could furnish the means of
satisfying—even in that case it would be the _last_ resort.
If any friend of yours is solicitous to enrich a patch of soil, two feet
by six, I think I can recommend an Undertaker who will arrange the thing
nicely for him here; it is not worth while for him to go to California
with his benevolence. For _you_, he would be reasonable, as you are
_Short_.
But, my dear Jeremy, I had no intention of wandering from my purpose, of
giving you a reminding hint of “Copper Mining.” as a sort of sedative to
the gold “placers.” Some of Jonathan’s younger sons were then severely
bitten, and were so thoroughly inoculated with the virus, as to have
rather a sharpened recollection of metals. The most of _them_, I should
think, would be safe from this _later_ disease, even in its most violent
and contagious forms. Yet there is something very attractive, and most
dangerously seductive, in delving for minerals, counting each shovelfull
as so many guineas coined, and already in your pocket. There is no
enthusiast more dangerous than your professional miner. The gentle
madness is so infectious that his example may turn the heads of a whole
district. Yet _his_ bite is not half so venomous as that of another
species—a kind of ground-shark—who affects the same sort of insanity,
and while digging below ground, puts his “placer” on the “Stock List.”
It is astonishing, too, that we will be caught once in a while in this
way, while there are people all around us, _anxious friends_, who
exclaim, “I knew it!” but who never hinted a word about the matter. Did
it ever strike you that we live in a very sagacious and knowing
world—the mind of each man being simply the reflection of that of
another? Our brightest fancies are but the suggestions of other people’s
brains—our good fortune in life is always known beforehand—our
reverses have always been most indubitably predicted by parties, who
confirm their sagacity with a consolatory—“I told you so.” We are,
after all, then, but the mere creatures of the impulses of other
people—our destiny it is to work out their predictions. The iron
energy, the indomitable perseverance, sleepless vigilance, untiring
industry—have all been weighed beforehand—duly appreciated and
predicted. There is no such thing as surprising any body. It is all
perfectly understood.
W—, by a keen sagacity in detecting, and ready tact in managing a new
business, has struck the tide that bears to fortune. But _he_ has made
no discovery. Forty other men, with scarcely brains to comprehend, much
less originate an idea, knew all about it. _They told you so!_ W— goes
on, originates new combinations of trade, enlarges business ideas, and
still succeeds. But _Toldyeso_ knew it, and was indifferent.
SHARP has his eye upon W—. “AH!” says he “there is a man who has a soul
above buttons—a _genius_ for business. Every thing _he_ touches turns
to gold.”
But W—, with his multitude of irons in the fire, incautiously takes
hold of the hot end of one of them, and is maimed. “BAH!” says Sharp, “I
knew how it would be! He was always _rushing_ business up against the
stream. Bound to fail—_I told you so_!” And yet nobody ever knew Sharp
to originate, or succeed in, any thing—but _he knows_—and that must be
some consolation to a ninny.
But, Jeremy, not to imitate the folly of this world in regard to the
past, nor to affect the wisdom of the next, to tell of the future, I
have a story about mining to give you in my next, in which you will find
both Sharps and Flats, which I think will induce you to believe with
me—that people who have cultivated a dangerous intimacy with
Copper-Heads ought to be cautious, and particularly shy how they _now_
run after Gold-Bugs with a _hum_.
C. has been in town, and I passed an evening with him since last I wrote
you. He has still the same joyous laugh, that used to set the table in a
roar, and it is quite as contagious. At every jest he would burst out
with a sort of a shout in his hearty guffaw, which, if practiced at
home, must wake the echoes of his native mountain. I was thoughtful over
the past, and became partially a convert to your theory, in regard to
the chilling effects of extra city refinement; and your beautiful
picture of country life, with its honest, hearty friendships, came to my
mind forcibly. It must be true, for I confess I _felt_ that I had grown
older, and colder, too. Can you, Jeremy, laugh as of yore—as loud and
as long?—with the same hearty good will and utter _abandon_. Or is your
mirth choked and clogged with bitter remembrances, which will steal upon
the heart even in its gayest moments? Thought! is _it_ a companion with
which you can entertain hilarity? Or is your joy overshadowed with the
darkness of evil that has been, or that you anticipate, you scarce know
why? I cannot experience the light-heartedness we had formerly. Perhaps
it is that I attempt its cultivation. It must come of natural buoyancy
of spirits, I think, to be genuine. It is else but a hot-house plant in
a snow-storm—its leaves torn off by the blast or shriveled in a frosty
embrace. I doubt much whether our intellectual pleasures, as we proudly
call them, are half as exhilarating, and deeply steeped in genuine
happiness, as were those more animal sensations which we experienced
when boys, as we went hallooing and shouting along in the very
exuberance of our spirits, with a gay, glad, spirited defiance of care
and all its imps. This was the riches of the heart and not of the
pocket. Was it not? We had no gold in those days, so it could not have
been _that_!
G. R. G.
* * * * *
THE FEBRUARY NUMBER.—Our number for the last month has been pronounced,
everywhere, the very best of the Magazines for the month, and has thus
far so largely increased our sales, that we shall be obliged to issue a
very greatly increased edition of future numbers. The year 1849 seems to
have opened with most unparalleled promises for magazine literature; and
while our own sales have augmented on all sides, we have the
gratification, in our good fortune, to feel that we are not impairing
the prosperity of our neighbors. Indeed, the Philadelphia magazines,
high as they have heretofore stood before the country, and widely as
they have been circulated, seem just now to have made a bound in popular
favor that savors of romance. Fifteen or twenty thousand copies of a
monthly magazine was formerly regarded as the highest point of success
to enterprising publishers, and ambitious editors, but the dawning of
this brighter day promises such results as a simple matter of _increase_
on the year’s business. We hope that our readers see, in the growing
improvement of “Graham,” a disposition to impart a higher value to the
book, as patronage increases, and a careful catering to taste, which
shows no falling off in efforts to please, as well as to instruct our
literary household. Our _aim_ has been to furnish our readers with a
work, in point of literary excellence, that is unsurpassable, and in
pictorial beauty at once chaste and elegant. We could multiply, _ad
infinitum_, second rate articles and engravings, but we feel that we are
consulting both the reader’s taste and interest in adhering rigidly to
the course we have adopted, and we certainly have sufficient evidence of
its good policy, in the ample support we have received.
The March number may fairly challenge a rigid scrutiny, and we invite a
comparison between the literary matter and that of the other magazines.
The embellishments are all most beautifully executed; but the plate of
“_Christ Weeping Over Jerusalem_” is a gem in the way of engraving, and
we refer to it with a conscious pride that it can neither be
successfully imitated nor excelled. Our eyes linger over it with
something like exultation, as we present to our readers a plate of such
exquisite beauty. In this effort _even Tucker_ seems to have surpassed
himself.
* * * * *
THE FAMILY MESSENGER.—This is one of the cheapest and best of the
weekly newspapers. Its circulation is equal to its deserts, numbering
_now_ some sixty thousand readers. It has so long held its position
before the newspaper world, and is so widely and well known, that we but
endorse the general opinion, when we say that it is one of the best
Family journals in the nation. How the enterprising publisher can
furnish it at a dollar per annum is a wonder to us, and we have no doubt
to its thousands of subscribers. A specimen copy is furnished to any
person who may wish to see it, by application, post-paid, to the
publisher.
* * * * *
OH HAVE I NOT BEEN TRUE TO THEE:
A SONG,
WRITTEN AND ADAPTED TO A BEAUTIFUL MELODY,
BY JOHN H. HEWITT.
Presented by G. Willig, No. 171 Chestnut St. Published by G. Willig Jr.
Baltimore.
[Copyright secured.]
[Illustration]
Oh! have I not been true to thee,
In joy and sorrow still the same?
Has e’en your coldness altered me,
Or sternness check’d my bosom’s
[Illustration]
flame?
Thou’st bid me hush my plaintive song,
And still my lute’s wild melody;
Yet, yet its strain will float along,
Oh! have I not been true to thee?
SECOND VERSE.
Thy falcon now has thy caress,
Thy hound leaps gladly to thy beck;
But she who loves to wild excess
Cannot one pulse of feeling wake.
This should not be, I cannot brook
The icy smile thou givest me;
There’s death in each reproachful look—
Oh! have I not been true to thee?
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has
been corrected without note. Obvious typographical errors have been
corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may be
missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals used for
preparation of the ebook.
page 160, Chesapeak in superior ==> Chesapeake in superior
page 167, Shown flickeringly ==> Shone flickeringly
page 171, the guilded baubles ==> the gilded baubles
page 180, the honey accacia ==> the honey acacia
page 181, accacia and Canadian ==> acacia and Canadian
page 185, see, we wil see ==> see, we will see
page 186, knights and stalwort ==> knights and stalwart
page 186, picture was purched ==> picture was purchased
page 188, have past by ==> have passed by
page 197, à la Brigadiere ==> à la Brigadière
page 197, a trois morteaux ==> à trois marteaux
page 199, at the widow ==> at the window
page 201, derriere, pretty well ==> derrière, pretty well
page 201, havn’t been looking ==> haven’t been looking
page 204, Highflier, Esquire, descended ==> Highflyer, Esquire, descended
page 205, table with atonishment ==> table with astonishment
page 210, sheltering bows to ==> sheltering boughs to
page 211, _chef-de’œuvre_ ==> _chef-d’œuvre_
page 211, My whithered heart ==> My withered heart
page 215, of the Inca’s ==> of the Incas
page 215, thoroughly innoculated ==> thoroughly inoculated