or reviving an old one, he generally borrowed Willis, for a few of the
first evenings, to play in the orchestra. On one of these occasions he
took down with him to New York his two little boys, neither of whom had
ever been in a theatre. Mr. Simpson, the manager, allotted them seats in
his private box over one of the stage doors. Both the children had been
instructed by their father, and sung very well. The after piece was
O’Keefe’s little opera of Sprigs of Laurel. In the duett between the two
rival soldiers, in which each in his turn celebrates the charms of Mary,
the major’s daughter, one of the boys on hearing the symphony, exclaimed
to his brother—“Why Jem! that’s our duett—the very last we’ve been
practising.” “So it is,” replied Jem, “let’s join in and sing it with
them.” Unconscious of such a proceeding being the least out of rule,
they united their voices to those of the two actors, and went through
the song with them in perfect time and tune. The soldiers were amazed at
this unexpected addition to their duett, but looking up, soon found from
whence the sound proceeded. Willis (who was in the orchestra) became
greatly disconcerted, and in vain made signs to his children to cease.
Their attention was too much engaged to perceive his displeasure. The
audience were not long in discovering the young singers, and loudly
applauded them, equally pleased with the _naïveté_ of the boys and their
proficiency in vocalism.
It was formerly customary for the West Point band to play sacred music
every Sunday morning, in the camp, after the guard was marched off.
“Sweet as the shepherd’s tuneful reed,”
was performed by them delightfully.
Before the erection of the present edifice as a church, public worship
was held in the large room designated as the chapel. The chaplains of
the United States Military Academy, like the chaplain of congress, may
be chosen from the clergy of any denomination. But as their congregation
consists of persons from every part of the union, and of every religious
denomination, according to the faith in which they have been educated by
their parents, it is understood that the pastor will have sufficient
good taste, or rather good sense, to refrain from all attempts to
advance the peculiar doctrines of his own immediate sect. After the
officers and professors have all come in and taken their appropriate
seats, the cadets make their entrance in a body, and occupy the benches
allotted to them. I was one Sunday at the chapel, when five graduates,
or ex-cadets, all of whom had recently been honored with commissions in
the engineers, came in together, habited in their new uniforms, (that of
the engineers is the handsomest in the army,) and for the first time
took their seats with the officers. I could have said with Sterne—“Oh!
how I envied them their feelings!” One of these young gentlemen was a
Jew; and as I looked at him that day, I hoped he was grateful to the God
of Abraham for having cast his lot in a country where the Hebrew faith
can be no impediment to advancement in any profession either civil or
military. Are “the wanderers of Israel,” who still have so much to
contend with in the old world, sufficiently aware of the advantages they
would derive from changing their residence to the new?
It is a custom among the cadets, after they have completed their course
of study, obtained their commissions as lieutenants, and received orders
for repairing to their respective posts, to have a farewell-meeting
previous to their departure from West Point. At this meeting it is
understood that all offences, bickerings and animosities, which may have
arisen among them during their four years intercourse as
fellow-students, are to be consigned to oblivion. The hand of friendship
is given all round, and before their separation they exchange rings
which have been made for this express purpose, all of the same pattern.
These rings they are to retain through life, as mementoes of “Auld lang
syne,” and as pledges of kind feelings under whatever circumstances, and
in whatever part of the world they may meet hereafter.
Among the numerous benefits which this noble institution has conferred
on the community, is that of creating attachment and diffusing
friendship among so many young men from different sections of our
widely-extended country, and belonging to different classes in society.
The military academy has made gentlemen of many intelligent youths,
sprung from the humbler grades of our people. It has made _men_ of many
scions of high estate, whose talents would otherwise have been smothered
under the follies of fashion and the enervations of luxury.
In that kindness and consideration for females, which is one of the
brightest gems in the American character, none can exceed the cadets and
officers of the American army. Were I to relate all that I know on this
subject I could fill a volume. For instance, I could tell of a young
gentleman from Albany who out of his pay as a cadet, (twenty-eight
dollars a month,) saved enough to defray the expenses of his sister’s
education, during four years of economy and self-denial to himself.
On the southern bank of the river, beyond the picturesque spot
designated as Kosciusko’s garden, the shore for some miles continues
woody and precipitous, down to the Kinsley farm-house, a mile or two
below. The path along these rocks was narrow, rugged, dark and
dangerous. In some places it was impeded by trees growing so close
together, and so near the verge of the precipice that it was expedient
in passing along to cling to their trunks, or to catch hold of their
lower branches, as a support against the danger of falling down the
rocks that impended over the river. Yet with all its perils and
difficulties this was an interesting walk to any lover of nature in her
rudest aspects. There were wild vines and wild roses, and the trees were
so old and lofty, and their shade so solemn and impervious. And at their
roots grew clusters of ephemeral plants, of the fungus tribe it is true,
but glowing with the most brilliant colors, yellow, orange, scarlet and
crimson, often diversified with a group that was white as snow.
Sometimes we saw a lizard of the finest verditer-green, gliding among
the blocks of granite; and sometimes on hearing a slight chattering
above our heads, we looked up and saw the squirrel as he
——“leap’d from tree to tree
And shell’d his nuts at liberty.”
In the decline of a beautiful afternoon when “the sun was hasting to the
west,” and the sweet notes of the wood-thrush had already began “to hymn
the fading fires of day,” I set out on a walk accompanied by two young
ladies from Philadelphia, whom in our daily rambles I had already guided
to some of the most popular places on West Point. Having found that my
youthful friends were fearless scramblers “over bush and over brier,” I
proposed that our walk to-day should be in this narrow pathway through
these rocky woods, or rather along these woody rocks.
We proceeded accordingly—and our dangers and difficulties seemed to
increase the enjoyment of my young companions. At length we suddenly
emerged into a spot where the open sunshine denoted that, since my last
walk in this direction, many of the trees had been cut away. About this
little clearing we found eight or ten men busily at work with spades and
pick-axes. I was struck at once with the excellent aspect of their
habiliments, though their coats were off and hanging on the bushes and
low rocks around them. We stopped, and I turned to one of my companions,
and was about remarking to her, “what a happiness it was to live in a
country where the common laboring men were enabled to make so
respectable an appearance, and even while engaged at their work to wear
clothes that were perfectly whole, and as clean as if put on fresh that
day.” While I was making this observation in a low voice, the men
perceived us; and they all ceased work, and several stood leaning on
their spades, looking much disconcerted. They consulted a little
together and then one of the foresters advanced, as if to speak to us.
The two young ladies, seized with a sudden panic, hastily ran back into
the woods. He came up and addressed me by name, and I immediately
recognised an officer who visited intimately at my brother’s house. On
looking at his comrades, I found that I knew them every one; and that
they were all gentlemen belonging to West Point. They seemed much,
though needlessly, confused at being detected by ladies in their present
occupation.
The gentleman who had come forward made some remarks on the
inconveniences we must have encountered during our rugged walk, and he
directed us to a way of going home that, though longer and more
circuitous, would be less difficult. My young friends now ventured out
from their retreat; I introduced them to the officer who had been
talking to me, and leaving him with his comrades to pursue their work,
we found our way home by the road that he indicated.
In the evening the same gentleman made one of his accustomed visits at
my brother’s, and explained to us the scene of the afternoon.
Captain H——, was the only surviving child of an aged and widowed
mother, the sister of a distinguished general-officer in the
revolutionary army. Her son, a graduate of the Military Academy, was
afterwards stationed at West Point; and he then went to Vermont and
brought his mother that they might live near each other. His own
apartments being in one of the barracks, he took lodgings for Mrs.
H——, at a quiet farm-house in the vicinity: and devoted nearly all his
leisure-time to her society. The old lady sometimes came up to visit her
son in his rooms at the barracks, to see that he was comfortable there,
and keep his ward-robe in order. The nearest way from her residence to
the plain, was along the dark and rugged forest path on the edge of the
rocks; and this was the road she always came. The captain wishing to
make it more easy and less dangerous for his mother, set about doing so
with his own hands. He had already made some progress in this work of
filial affection, when he was discovered by several of his brother
officers; they mentioned it to others, and they all immediately
volunteered to assist him in his praise-worthy undertaking. They
assembled of afternoons for this purpose, (which they endeavored to keep
as secret as possible) and it was now about half accomplished; having
been commenced at the end nearest to Mrs. H——’s residence. In
consequence of this explanation, by the captain’s friend, we took care
not to interrupt them by walking in that direction, till after the work
was completed.
They cut down trees, cleared away bushes, removed masses of stone,
levelled banks, filled up hollows, and paved quagmires: leading the path
to a safe distance from the ledge of rocks. A fine convenient road was
soon completed, and the old lady was enabled to visit the captain
without difficulty or danger.
The grave has long since closed over that mother, and the military
station of her son has been changed to a place far distant from West
Point. But the pathway commenced by filial affection, and finished with
the assistance of friendship is still there, forming a convenient and
beautiful walk through the woods to the farm-house and its vicinity.
It is known by all the inhabitants of West Point as the Officer’s Road;
and long may it continue to bear that title.
* * * * *
L’ENVOY TO E——.
BY G. HILL, AUTHOR OF “TITANIA’S BANQUET,” ETC., ETC.
The nights are o’er when, by the shore,
We strayed—thy arm in mine,
And our hearts were like the full cup ere
The sparkle leaves the wine.
But the sparkle flies, the cup is drained,
And the nights return no more
When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm,
We strayed by the moonlit shore.
The nights are o’er when, by the shore,
We strayed—thy arm in mine,
And thy eye was like the star whose beam
We saw on the still wave shine.
But the bright star-beam has left the stream,
And the nights return no more
When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm,
We strayed by the moonlit shore.
The nights are o’er when, by the shore,
We strayed—thy arm in mine,
And thy tones were heard where the wind-harp’s chord
Is the bough that the June-flowers twine.
But my boat rocks lone where the palm-trees moan[2]
And the nights return no more
When our hearts were warm and, arm in arm,
We strayed by the moonlit shore.
-----
[2] Of the Nile.
* * * * *
THE ORPHAN BALLAD SINGERS.
BALLAD.
COMPOSED BY
HENRY RUSSELL.
_Philadelphia_: John F. Nunns, _184 Chesnut Street_.
[Illustration: musical score]
[Illustration: musical score]
Oh weary, weary are our feet,
And weary weary is our way,
Thro’ many a long and crowded street
We’ve wandered mournfully to-day;
My little sister she is pale,
She is too tender and too young
To bear the autumn’s sullen gale,
And all day long the child has sung.
She was our mother’s favorite child,
Who loved her for her eyes of blue,
And she is delicate and mild,
She cannot do what I can do.
She never met her father’s eyes,
Although they were so like her own;
In some far distant sea he lies,
A father to his child unknown.
The first time that she lisped his name,
A little playful thing was she;
How proud we were,—yet that night came
The tale how he had sunk at sea.
My mother never raised her head;
How strange how white how cold she grew!
It was a broken heart they said—
I wish our hearts were broken too.
We have no home—we have no friends
They said our home no more was ours—
Our cottage where the ash-tree bends,
The garden we had filled with flowers.
The sounding shells our father brought,
That we might hear the sea at home;
Our bees, that in the summer wrought
The winter’s golden honeycomb.
We wandered forth mid wind and rain,
No shelter from the open sky;
I only wish to see again
My mother’s grave and rest and die,
Alas, it is a weary thing
To sing our ballads o’er and o’er:
The songs we used at home to sing—
Alas we have a home no more!
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Volumes. Boston:
James Munroe and Co._
We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with
the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however,
pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly
and more at random than their high merits deserve.
The book professes to be a collection of _tales_, yet is, in two
respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third republication,
and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are by no means _all_
tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the
term. Many of them are pure essays, for example, “Sights from a
Steeple,” “Sunday at Home,” “Little Annie’s Ramble,” “A Rill from the
Town-Pump,” “The Toll-Gatherer’s Day,” “The Haunted Mind,” “The Sister
Years,” “Snow-Flakes,” “Night Sketches,” and “Foot-Prints on the
Sea-Shore.” We mention these matters chiefly on account of their
discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of
the work is distinguished.
Of the Essays just named, we must be content to speak in brief. They are
each and all beautiful, without being characterised by the polish and
adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A painter would at once note
their leading or predominant feature, and style it _repose_. There is no
attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet this repose
may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr.
Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel
combinations, yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the
quiet. We are soothed as we read; and withal is a calm astonishment that
ideas so apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us
before. Herein our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or
Hazlitt—who, with vivid originality of manner and expression, have less
of the true novelty of thought than is generally supposed, and whose
originality, at best, has an uneasy and meretricious quaintness, replete
with startling effects unfounded in nature, and inducing trains of
reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The Essays of Hawthorne
have much of the character of Irving, with more of originality, and less
of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have a vast
superiority at all points. The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne
have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to
denominate _repose_; but, in the case of the two former, this repose is
attained rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality,
than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unostentatious
expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadulterated
Saxon. In them, by strong effort, we are made to conceive the absence of
all. In the essays before us the absence of effort is too obvious to be
mistaken, and a strong under-current of _suggestion_ runs continuously
beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis. In short, these
effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly imaginative
intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by fastidiousness
of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence.
But it is of his tales that we desire principally to speak. The tale
proper, in our opinion, affords unquestionably the fairest field for the
exercise of the loftiest talent, which can be afforded by the wide
domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how the highest genius
could be most advantageously employed for the best display of its own
powers, we should answer, without hesitation—in the composition of a
rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour.
Within this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We
need only here say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of
composition, the unity of effect or impression is a point of the
greatest importance. It is clear, moreover, that this unity cannot be
thoroughly preserved in productions whose perusal cannot be completed at
one sitting. We may continue the reading of a prose composition, from
the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we can persevere, to
any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. This latter, if truly
fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of
the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are
necessarily transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox. And, without unity
of impression, the deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were
the offspring of an imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more.
A poem _too_ brief may produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring
impression. Without a certain continuity of effort—without a certain
duration or repetition of purpose—the soul is never deeply moved. There
must be the dropping of the water upon the rock. De Béranger has wrought
brilliant things—pungent and spirit-stirring—but, like all immassive
bodies, they lack _momentum_, and thus fail to satisfy the Poetic
Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity, fail
deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism;
but the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. _In medio
tutissimus ibis._
Were we called upon however to designate that class of composition
which, next to such a poem as we have suggested, should best fulfil the
demands of high genius—should offer it the most advantageous field of
exertion—we should unhesitatingly speak of the prose tale, as Mr.
Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short prose
narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its
perusal. The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for
reasons already stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one
sitting, it deprives itself, of course, of the immense force derivable
from _totality_. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses of
perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a greater or less degree, the
impressions of the book. But simple cessation in reading would, of
itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the brief tale,
however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his
intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the
reader is at the writer’s control. There are no external or extrinsic
influences—resulting from weariness or interruption.
A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not
fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having
conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single _effect_ to
be wrought out, he then invents such incidents—he then combines such
events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If
his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect,
then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there
should be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is
not to the one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care
and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of
him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest
satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished,
because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel. Undue
brevity is just as exceptionable here as in the poem, but undue length
is yet more to be avoided.
We have said that the tale has a point of superiority even over the
poem. In fact, while the _rhythm_ of this latter is an essential aid in
the development of the poem’s highest idea—the idea of the
Beautiful—the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable bar to
the development of all points of thought or expression which have their
basis in _Truth_. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim
of the tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus
the field of this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region
on the mountain of Mind, is a table-land of far vaster extent than the
domain of the mere poem. Its products are never so rich, but infinitely
more numerous, and more appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer
of the prose tale, in short, may bring to his theme a vast variety of
modes or inflections of thought and expression—(the ratiocinative, for
example, the sarcastic or the humorous) which are not only
antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely forbidden by
one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude of
course, to rhythm. It may be added, here, _par parenthèse_, that the
author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at
great disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so
with terror, or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points.
And here it will be seen how full of prejudice are the usual
animadversions against those _tales of effect_ many fine examples of
which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The impressions
produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and constituted
a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were
relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of
genius who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but
demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent,
by the means most advantageously applicable.
We have very few American tales of real merit—we may say, indeed, none,
with the exception of “The Tales of a Traveller” of Washington Irving,
and these “Twice-Told Tales” of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr.
John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but in general, his
compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and
indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles at random are, now
and then, met with in our periodicals which might be advantageously
compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon the
whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of
literature.
Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to
the highest region of Art—an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty
order. We had supposed, with good reason for so supposing, that he had
been thrust into his present position by one of the impudent _cliques_
which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is our full purpose
to expose at the earliest opportunity; but we have been most agreeably
mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly
commend than these “Twice-Told Tales.” As Americans, we feel proud of
the book.
Mr. Hawthorne’s distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination,
originality—a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively
worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so far as regards its
manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive
or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of _tone_ as
in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at _all_ points.