When a young man, Mr. Hopkins arrived upon the spot where now stands the
village of ——, with his bundle upon his stick, his sole fortune. He
became what may be termed a squatter. It was then a dreary waste of
girdled trees, and patches covered with black stumps. But his untiring
perseverance and systematic industry were rewarded in time by beholding,
from his cottage door, the fields of waving corn and the golden wheat,
where once lurked the savage and prowled the ravenous beast.
In course of time, the place became settled; the present village sprang
into existence; Mr. Hopkins “grew with its growth, and strengthened with
its strength;” in short, Mr. Hopkins became a rich man, and consequently
a man of consequence.
Mrs. Hopkins (poor good soul) died ere she could enjoy the wealth that
her patient labors had assisted her husband in accumulating. She left
one daughter, christened Dinah, and two sons. Upon the death of the “old
man,” the sons moved to a strange land, (that is, about a hundred miles
from their native vale.) Miss Dinah, or rather Diana, as she chose to be
called, after the immortal Die Vernon, remained upon the “old place,” to
uphold, as she properly said, the dignity of the Hopkinses.
Thus years wore away. Miss Die became the tyrant of fashion in her own
village. She read Shakspeare, doated on Byron, and was subdued by Sir
Walter Scott’s works. She languished and quoted poetry for nearly forty
years. In youth, she scorned the rustic beaux that kneeled at her
shrine; and, as years sped onward, none “bowed nor told their tale of
love,” until, at length, Miss Die began seriously to think of a visit to
her brothers, when the kind _fates_ brought Mr. Micalf to the village,
and there left him to the mercy of Cupid.
The _major_ (as he was familiarly called) was rather short of stature,
with an alderman’s corpulency,—famous for his good-nature, intolerable
indolence, and devotion to whiskey-punch and the noxious weed. Being
asthmatic, he seldom had recourse to any exertion—a long walk would
cause him to puff and blow at least for a minute, ere he could catch
breath to utter a word. Still Mr. Micalf found breath enough to become a
successful wooer—and Miss Die persuaded her swain to elope with her by
moonlight, as she could never survive the stare of the plebeians by the
light of “gaudy day.”
It ever remained a doubt in the village, what was the exact age of the
major. Many were of an opinion that sixty winters had frosted his brow.
Others again asserted that he did not number, by a score, as many years
as his bride. These latter, however, were the ladies.
Thursday arrived—and, after a weary watching from many a beaming eye,
the sun at length disappeared behind the distant mountains, and twilight
gently threw over the glowing sky its mantle of sombre gray. Lights
flitted to and fro through the houses; an unusual bustle hummed through
the quiet streets; the horses, disturbed after a day of labor, to be
brought forth and harnessed to whatever vehicle their masters could
boast of possessing, hung down their weary heads, with slow and measured
steps patiently submitting to the yoke of bondage.
The sudden glare of lights, that streamed through the casements of the
white cottage over the gravel walks, announced that preparations had
ceased, and that visitors were momentarily expected.
There was the bride, her tall gaunt figure arrayed in white, flitting
from room to room, not knowing where to station herself to make the best
impression, and inwardly chafing at the perfume of tobacco that met her
olfactory nerves, and the loss of her reticule, wherein were the keys of
sundry closets and so forth, when the door opened and Mr., Mrs., and the
four Misses Potts, with Miss Clapper, beheld the bride upon knees and
hands, looking under an immense old-fashioned settee for her lost
treasure.
Mrs. Micalf looked up, sprang to her feet, uttered a faint scream, and
for a moment hid her face—then yielded her cheek to the salutations of
the six ladies, and with much coyness permitted Mr. Potts to touch the
tip of her ear.
“Well, I declare, I think you served us a pretty trick, Mrs. Micalf—a
lady of your years to make a moonlight flitting—oh, fie!” cried Miss
Clapper, in a querulous voice.
“Oh, spare me, dear friends; I feel the full force of the imprudence of
the step. But be this my excuse, ‘I’ve scanned the actions of his daily
life,’ and flatter myself I have secured happiness.”
“And Mr. Micalf to steal away so—he who hates walking so. Why, I
thought it would almost have killed him to walk so far.”
“You are right, old lady,” cried the groom, who had entered unperceived,
and slapping Miss Clapper upon the shoulder; “I can’t believe it yet; I
haven’t drawn a long breath since—wheugh!—But Die would not be married
any other way, though I told her we were making a couple of old fools of
ourselves—wheugh—u—u—Never mind, Die, don’t be cast down at being
called old—we all know you were young once! ha, ha! wheugh—u! Come,
Potts, let’s go and drink good luck to midnight walks.”
“Mr. Micalf is so boisterous when he is in good spirits, and he does so
love to plague me!” cried the bride, the quivering of her nostrils and
upper lip expressing the workings of the inward passions.
Knock succeeded knock, and the influx of visitors, with the oft-repeated
“wish you joy, wish you joy,” soon restored harmony to the spirits of
the bride, who was in extacies at the crowd that had gathered around
her. She quoted poetry, right and left; forgot, for the moment, that
tobacco and punch existed; and some assert that even the major was
forgotten! That was but scandal, however. Nevertheless, the major
enjoyed seven pipes and five tumblers of punch, without once hearing the
sound of Die’s voice; a luxury which, in the warmth of his feelings he
solemnly whispered to Potts, had not been permitted him since his
moonlight trip.
The hours sped onward—the merry laugh that rang so loud and clear from
the midst of a group of young folks who were playing “hunt the slipper,”
“my lady’s toilette,” &c. caused the heads of the matrons to turn from
each other in high displeasure at the interruption of some tale of
scandal!
The happiest moments, still the fleetest!—the hour arrived—the guests
departed, and the mistress of the _fairy_ scene began to wonder what had
become of her lord. Looking through the empty rooms, peering in every
corner by the aid of a feeble night-lamp, and almost suffocated with the
vapor of candle-snuff, she was startled by the sonorous notes from her
husband’s nasal organ. “I do believe the ass has gone to bed,” she
mentally ejaculated. Rushing into her room, she beheld the head of the
major, with his blue and white night-cap snugly resting upon her fine
linen _day_ pillow-cases. Jerking the pillows from under the offending
head, she screamed:
“Major! why, Micalf, you are sleeping upon my beautiful cases with real
thread-lace borders!”
“Bless me, what is the matter? Is the house on fire? O Lord, I smell
smoke—fire!—fire!”
“Do be quiet now, and don’t make a fool of yourself; it’s only the
pillow I wanted.”
“Oh, Die! is that you? You have frightened the very life out of me. Give
me something to put under my head; my neck is almost broke.”
“There, my dear, is the night pillow. Now, never presume to go to bed
again, until the cover is turned down and the day cases removed,
and—bless me, how you have tossed the bed! Why, major, major, are you
asleep already?”
“What is it, for heaven’s sake? Am I never to know what rest is again?”
“But, my dear—major, I say, shall I tuck you up snugly?”
“No! the devil! I don’t want to be reminded of my coffin every night by
being tucked up,” and away went the clothes from the foot and side. “Oh,
how I wish——” groaned the major, as Mrs. Micalf again patiently
smoothed them down. The wish died upon his tongue, but it was embodied
in his dreams:—Once more he was the quiet possessor of the snug little
room, and no less snug little bed, at the “Full Moon,” the atmosphere
dense with tobacco-smoke and the vapor of whiskey-punch regaling his
nose—when the shrill, sharp voice of his help-meet, at dawn of day,
dispelled the illusion, and, with the sun, he arose with the comfortable
thought that he was not the only being that had sold peace and happiness
for _gold_. And, ere the honey-moon had expired, Mr. and Mrs. Micalf
began to perceive that they had made a great mistake in their moonlight
flitting.
* * * * *
I NEVER HAVE BEEN FALSE TO THEE.
A NEW SONG.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
I never have been false to thee!
The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
And I no more may call thee mine!
I’ve loved, as woman ever loves,
With constant soul in good or ill:—
Thou’st proved, as man too often proves,
A rover—but I love thee still!
Yet think not that my spirit stoops
To bind thee captive in my train!—
Love’s not a flower, at sunset droops,
But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Love’s golden chain and burning vow
Are broken—but I love thee still!
Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,
When love dispelled the clouds of care,
And time went by with birds and flowers,
While song and incense filled the air!—
The past is mine—the present thine—
Should thoughts of me thy future fill,
Think what a destiny is mine,
To lose—but love thee, false one, still!
* * * * *
A CHAPTER ON AUTOGRAPHY.
BY
[Illustration: signature of Edgar A. Poe]
Under this head, some years ago, there appeared, in the Southern
Literary Messenger, an article which attracted very general attention,
not less from the nature of its subject than from the peculiar manner in
which it was handled. The editor introduces his readers to a certain Mr.
Joseph Miller, who, it is hinted, is not merely a descendant of the
illustrious Joe, of Jest-Book notoriety, but that identical individual
in proper person. Upon this point, however, an air of uncertainty is
thrown by means of an equivoque, maintained throughout the paper, in
respect to Mr. Miller’s middle name. This equivoque is put into the
mouth of Mr. M. himself. He gives his name, in the first instance, as
Joseph A. Miller; but, in the course of conversation, shifts it to
Joseph B., then to Joseph C., and so on through the whole alphabet,
until he concludes by desiring a copy of the Magazine to be sent to his
address as Joseph Z. Miller, Esquire.
The object of his visit to the editor is to place in his hands the
autographs of certain distinguished American _literati_. To these
persons he had written rigmarole letters on various topics, and in all
cases had been successful in eliciting a reply. The replies only (which
it is scarcely necessary to say are all fictitious) are given in the
Magazine, with a genuine autograph fac-simile appended, and are either
burlesques of the supposed writer’s usual style, or rendered otherwise
absurd by reference to the nonsensical questions imagined to have been
propounded by Mr. Miller. The autographs thus given are twenty-six in
all—corresponding to the twenty-six variations in the initial letter of
the hoaxer’s middle name.
With the public this article took amazingly well, and many of our
principal papers were at the expense of re-printing it with the wood-cut
autographs. Even those whose names had been introduced, and whose style
had been burlesqued, took the joke, generally speaking, in good part.
Some of them were at a loss what to make of the matter. Dr. W. E.
Channing, of Boston, was at some trouble, it is said, in calling to mind
whether he had or had not actually written to some Mr. Joseph Miller the
letter attributed to him in the article. This letter was nothing more
than what follows:—
Boston, ——.
Dear Sir,
No such person as Philip Philpot has ever been in my employ as a
coachman, or otherwise. The name is an odd one, and not likely
to be forgotten. The man must have reference to some other
Doctor Channing. It would be as well to question him closely.
Respectfully yours,
W. E. CHANNING.
To Joseph X. Miller, Esq.
The precise and brief sententiousness of the divine is here, it will be
seen, very truly adopted, or “hit off.”
In one instance only was the _jeu-d’esprit_ taken in serious dudgeon.
Colonel Stone and the Messenger had not been upon the best of terms.
Some one of the Colonel’s little brochures had been severely treated by
that journal, which declared that the work would have been far more
properly published among the quack advertisements in a spare corner of
the Commercial. The colonel had retaliated by wholesale vituperation of
the Messenger. This being the state of affairs, it was not to be
wondered at that the following epistle was not quietly received on the
part of him to whom it was attributed:—
New York, ——.
Dear Sir,
I am exceedingly and excessively sorry that it is out of my
power to comply with your rational and reasonable request. The
subject you mention is one with which I am utterly unacquainted.
Moreover it is one about which I know very little.
Respectfully,
W. L. STONE.
Joseph V. Miller, Esq.
These tautologies and anti-climaces were too much for the colonel, and
we are ashamed to say that he committed himself by publishing in the
Commercial an indignant denial of ever having indited such an epistle.
The principal feature of this autograph article, although perhaps the
least interesting, was that of the editorial comment upon the supposed
MSS., regarding them as indicative of character. In these comments the
design was never more than semi-serious. At times, too, the writer was
evidently led into error or injustice through the desire of being
pungent—not unfrequently sacrificing truth for the sake of a _bon-mot_.
In this manner qualities were often attributed to individuals, which
were not so much indicated by their hand-writing, as suggested by the
spleen of the commentator. But that a strong analogy _does_ generally
and naturally exist between every man’s chirography and character, will
be denied by none but the unreflecting. It is not our purpose, however,
to enter into the _philosophy_ of this subject, either in this portion
of the present paper, or in the abstract. What we may have to say will
be introduced elsewhere, and in connection with particular MSS. The
practical application of the theory will thus go hand in hand with the
theory itself.
Our design is three-fold:—In the first place, seriously to illustrate
our position that the mental features are indicated (with certain
exceptions) by the hand-writing; secondly, to indulge in a little
literary gossip; and, thirdly, to furnish our readers with a more
accurate and at the same time a more general collection of the
autographs of our _literati_ than is to be found elsewhere. Of the first
portion of this design we have already spoken. The second speaks for
itself. Of the third it is only necessary to say that we are confident
of its interest for all lovers of literature. Next to the person of a
distinguished man-of-letters, we desire to see his portrait—next to his
portrait, his autograph. In the latter, especially, there is something
which seems to bring him before us in his true idiosyncrasy—in his
character of _scribe_. The feeling which prompts to the collection of
autographs is a natural and rational one. But complete, or even
extensive collections, are beyond the reach of those who themselves do
not dabble in the waters of literature. The writer of this article has
had opportunities, in this way, enjoyed by few. The MSS. now lying
before him are a motley mass indeed. Here are letters, or other
compositions, from every individual in America who has the slightest
pretension to literary celebrity. From these we propose to select the
most eminent names—as to give _all_ would be a work of supererogation.
Unquestionably, among those whose claims we are forced to postpone, are
several whose high _merit_ might justly demand a different treatment;
but the rule applicable in a case like this seems to be that of
celebrity, rather than that of true worth. It will be understood that,
in the necessity of selection which circumstances impose upon us, we
confine ourselves _to the most noted among the living literati of the
country_. The article above alluded to, embraced, as we have already
stated, only twenty-six names, and was not occupied _exclusively_ either
with living persons, or, properly speaking, with literary ones. In fact
the whole paper seemed to acknowledge no law beyond that of whim. Our
present essay will be found to include _one hundred autographs_. We have
thought it unnecessary to preserve any particular order in their
arrangement.
[Illustration: signature of Chas (Charles) Anthon]
Professor Charles Anthon, of Columbia College, New York, is well known
as the most erudite of our classical scholars; and, although still a
young man, there are few, if any, even in Europe, who surpass him in his
peculiar path of knowledge. In England his supremacy has been tacitly
acknowledged by the immediate re-publication of his editions of Cæsar,
Sallust, and Cicero, with other works, and their adoption as text-books
at Oxford and Cambridge. His amplification of Lemprière did him high
honor, but, of late, has been entirely superseded by a Classical
Dictionary of his own—a work most remarkable for the extent and
comprehensiveness of its details, as well as for its historical,
chronological, mythological, and philological _accuracy_. It has at once
completely overshadowed every thing of its kind. It follows, as a matter
of course, that Mr. Anthon has many little enemies, among the inditers
of merely big books. He has not been unassailed, yet has assuredly
remained uninjured in the estimation of all those whose opinion he would
be likely to value. We do not mean to say that he is altogether without
faults, but a certain antique Johnsonism of style is perhaps one of his
worst. He was mainly instrumental (with Professor Henry and Dr. Hawks)
in setting on foot the New York Review, a journal of which he is the
most efficient literary support, and whose most erudite papers have
always been furnished by his pen.
The chirography of Professor Anthon is the most regularly beautiful of
any in our collection. We see the most scrupulous precision, finish, and
neatness about every portion of it—in the formation of individual
letters, as well as in the _tout-ensemble_. The perfect symmetry of the
MS. gives it, to a casual glance, the appearance of Italic print. The
lines are quite straight, and at exactly equal distances, yet are
written without black rules, or other artificial aid. There is not the
slightest superfluity, in the way of flourish or otherwise, with the
exception of the twirl in the C of the signature. Yet the whole is
rather neat and graceful than forcible. Of four letters now lying before
us, one is written on pink, one on a faint blue, one on green, and one
on yellow paper—all of the finest quality. The seal is of green wax,
with an impression of the head of Cæsar.
It is in the chirography of such men as Professor Anthon that we look
with certainty for indication of character. The life of a scholar is
mostly undisturbed by those adventitious events which distort the
natural disposition of the man of the world, preventing his real nature
from manifesting itself in his MS. The lawyer, who, pressed for time, is
often forced to embody a world of heterogeneous memoranda, on scraps of
paper, with the stumps of all varieties of pen, will soon find the fair
characters of his boyhood degenerate into hieroglyphics which would
puzzle Doctor Wallis or Champollion; and from chirography so disturbed
it is nearly impossible to decide any thing. In a similar manner, men
who pass through many striking vicissitudes of life, acquire in each
change of circumstance a temporary inflection of the hand-writing; the
whole resulting, after many years, in an unformed or variable MS.,
scarcely to be recognised by themselves from one day to the other. In
the case of literary men generally, we may expect some decisive token of
the mental influence upon the MS., and in the instance of the classical
devotee we may look with _especial_ certainty for such token. We see,
accordingly, in Professor Anthon’s autography, each and all of the known
idiosyncrasies of his taste and intellect. We recognise at once the
scrupulous precision and finish of his scholarship and of his style—the
love of elegance which prompts him to surround himself, in his private
study, with gems of sculptural art, and beautifully bound volumes, all
arranged with elaborate attention to form, and in the very pedantry of
neatness. We perceive, too, the disdain of superfluous embellishment
which distinguishes his compilations, and which gives to their exterior
appearance so marked an air of Quakerism. We must not forget to observe
that the “want of force” is a want as perceptible in the whole character
of the man, as in that of the MS.
[Illustration: signature of Washington Irving]
The MS. of Mr. Irving has little about it indicative of his genius.
Certainly, no one could suspect from it any nice _finish_ in the
writer’s compositions; nor is this nice finish to be found. The letters
now before us vary remarkably in appearance; and those of late date are
not nearly so well written as the more antique. Mr. Irving has travelled
much, has seen many vicissitudes, and has been so thoroughly satiated
with fame as to grow slovenly in the performance of his literary tasks.
This slovenliness has affected his hand-writing. But even from his
earlier MSS. there is little to be gleaned, except the ideas of
simplicity and precision. It must be admitted, however, that this fact,
in itself, is characteristic of the literary manner, which, however
excellent, has no prominent or very remarkable features.
[Illustration: signature of Park Benjamin]
For the last six or seven years, few men have occupied a more desirable
position among us than Mr. Benjamin. As the editor of the American
Monthly Magazine, of the New Yorker, and more lately of the Signal, and
New World, he has exerted an influence scarcely second to that of any
editor in the country. This influence Mr. B. owes to no single cause,
but to his combined ability, activity, causticity, fearlessness, and
independence. We use the latter term, however, with some mental
reservation. The editor of the World is independent so far as the word
implies unshaken resolution to follow the bent of one’s own will, let
the consequences be what they may. He is no respecter of persons, and
his vituperation as often assails the powerful as the powerless—indeed
the latter fall rarely under his censure. But we cannot call his
independence, at all times, that of principle. We can never be sure that
he will defend a cause merely because it is the cause of truth—or even
because he regards it as such. He is too frequently biassed by personal
feelings—feelings now of friendship, and again of vindictiveness. He is
a warm friend, and a bitter, but not implacable enemy. His judgment in
literary matters should not be questioned, but there is some difficulty
in getting at his real opinion. As a prose writer, his style is lucid,
terse, and pungent. He is often witty, often cuttingly sarcastic, but
seldom humorous. He frequently injures the force of his fiercest attacks
by an indulgence in merely vituperative epithets. As a poet, he is
entitled to far higher consideration than that in which he is ordinarily
held. He is skilful and passionate, as well as imaginative. His sonnets
have not been surpassed. In short, it is as a poet that his better
genius is evinced—it is in poetry that his noble spirit breaks forth,
showing what the man is, and what, but for unhappy circumstances, he
would invariably appear.
Mr. Benjamin’s MS. is not very dissimilar to Mr. Irving’s, and, like
his, it has no doubt been greatly modified by the excitements of life,
and by the necessity of writing much and hastily; so that we can
predicate but little respecting it. It speaks of his exquisite
sensibility and passion. These betray themselves in the nervous
variation of the MS. as the subject is diversified. When the theme is an
ordinary one, the writing is legible and has force; but when it verges
upon any thing which may be supposed to excite, we see the characters
falter as they proceed. In the MSS. of some of his best poems this
peculiarity is very remarkable. The signature conveys the idea of his
_usual_ chirography.
[Illustration: signature of John P. Kennedy]
Mr. Kennedy is well known as the author of “Swallow Barn,” “Horse-Shoe
Robinson,” and “Rob of the Bowl,” three works whose features are
strongly and decidedly marked. These features are boldness and force of
thought, (disdaining ordinary embellishment, and depending for its
effect upon masses rather than upon details) with a predominant _sense
of the picturesque_ pervading and giving color to the whole. His
“Swallow Barn,” in especial (and it is by the first effort of an author
that we form the truest idea of his mental bias), is but a rich
succession of picturesque still-life pieces. Mr. Kennedy is well to do
in the world, and has always taken the world easily. We may therefore
expect to find in his chirography, if ever in any, a full indication of
the chief feature of his literary style—especially as this chief
feature is so remarkably prominent. A glance at his signature will
convince any one that the indication is to be found. A painter called
upon to designate the main peculiarity of this MS. would speak at once
of the _picturesque_. This character is given it by the absence of
hair-strokes, and by the abrupt termination of every letter without
tapering; also in great measure by varying the size and slope of the
letters. Great uniformity is preserved in the whole air of the MS., with
great variety in the constituent parts. Every character has the
clearness, boldness and precision of a wood-cut. The long letters do not
rise or fall in an undue degree above the others. Upon the whole, this
is a hand which pleases us much, although its _bizarrerie_ is rather too
piquant for the general taste. Should its writer devote himself more
exclusively to light letters, we predict his future eminence. The paper
on which our epistles are written is very fine, clear, and _white_, with
gilt edges. The seal is neat, and just sufficient wax has been used for
the impression. All this betokens a love of the elegant without
effeminacy.
[Illustration: signature of G: Mellen]
The hand-writing of Grenville Mellen is somewhat peculiar, and partakes
largely of the character of his signature as seen above. The whole is
highly indicative of the poet’s flighty, hyper-fanciful character, with
his unsettled and often erroneous ideas of the beautiful. His straining
after effect is well paralleled in the formation of the preposterous G
in the signature, with the two dots by its side. Mr. Mellen has genius
unquestionably, but there is something in his temperament which obscures
it.[3]
-----
[3] Since this article was prepared for the press, we have been grieved
to hear of the death of Mr. Mellen.
[Illustration: signature of J K Paulding]
No correct notion of Mr. Paulding’s literary peculiarities can be
obtained from an inspection of his MS., which, no doubt, has been
strongly modified by adventitious circumstances. His small _a_s, _t_s,
and _c_s are all alike, and the style of the characters generally is
French, although the entire MS. has much the appearance of Greek text.
The paper which he ordinarily uses is of a very fine glossy texture, and
of a blue tint, with gilt edges. His signature is a good specimen of his
general hand.
[Illustration: signature of L. H. Sigourney]
Mrs. Sigourney seems to take much pains with her MSS. Apparently she
employs _black lines_. Every _t_ is crossed, and every _i_ dotted, with
precision, while the punctuation is faultless. Yet the whole has nothing
of effeminacy or formality. The individual characters are large, well
and freely formed, and preserve a perfect uniformity throughout.
Something in her hand-writing puts us in mind of Mr. Paulding’s. In both
MSS. perfect regularity exists, and in both the style is _formed_ or
_decided_. Both are beautiful; yet Mrs. Sigourney’s is the most legible,
and Mr. Paulding’s nearly the most illegible in the world. From that of
Mrs. S. we might easily form a true estimate of her compositions.
Freedom, dignity, precision, and grace, without originality, may be
properly attributed to her. She has fine taste, without genius. Her
paper is usually good—the seal small, of green and gold wax, and
without impression.
[Illustration: signature of Robert Walsh]
Mr. Walsh’s MS. is peculiar, from its large, sprawling and irregular
appearance—rather rotund than angular. It always seems to have been
hurriedly written. The _t_s are crossed with a sweeping scratch of the
pen, which gives to his epistles a somewhat droll appearance. A
_dictatorial_ air pervades the whole. His paper is of ordinary quality.
His seal is commonly of brown wax mingled with gold, and bears a Latin
motto, of which only the words _trans_ and _mortuus_ are legible.
Mr. Walsh cannot be denied talent; but his reputation, which has been
bolstered into being by a _clique_, is not a thing to live. A blustering
self-conceit betrays itself in his chirography, which upon the whole, is
not very dissimilar to that of Mr. E. Everett, of whom we shall speak
hereafter.
[Illustration: signature of J H Ingraham]
Mr. Ingraham, or Ingrahame, (for he writes his name sometimes with, and
sometimes without the _e_,) is one of our most _popular_ novelists, if
not one of our best. He appeals always to the taste of the
ultra-romanticists, (as a matter, we believe, rather of pecuniary policy
than of choice) and thus is obnoxious to the charge of a certain
cut-and-thrust, blue-fire, melodramaticism. Still, he is capable of
better things. His chirography is very unequal; at times, sufficiently
clear and flowing, at others, shockingly scratchy and uncouth. From it
nothing whatever can be predicated, except an uneasy vacillation of
temper and of purpose.
[Illustration: signature of W C Bryant]
Mr. Bryant’s MS. puts us entirely at fault. It is one of the most
common-place clerk’s hands which we ever encountered, and has no
character about it beyond that of the day-book and ledger. He writes, in
short, what mercantile men and professional pen-men call a fair hand,
but what artists would term an abominable one. Among its regular up and
down strokes, waving lines and hair-lines, systematic taperings and
flourishes, we look in vain for the force, polish, and decision of the
poet. The _picturesque_, to be sure, is equally deficient in his
chirography and in his poetical productions.
[Illustration: signature of Fitz-Greene Halleck]
Mr. Halleck’s hand is strikingly indicative of his genius. We see in it
some force, more grace, and little of the picturesque. There is a great
deal of freedom about it, and his MSS. seem to be written _currente
calamo_, but without hurry. His flourishes, which are not many, look as
if thoughtfully planned, and deliberately, yet firmly executed. His
paper is very good, and of a blueish tint—his seal of red wax.
[Illustration: signature of N. P. Willis.]
Mr. Willis, when writing carefully, would write a hand nearly resembling
that of Mr. Halleck; although no similarity is perceptible in the
signatures. His usual chirography is dashing, free, and not ungraceful,
but is sadly deficient in force and picturesqueness.
It has been the fate of this gentleman to be alternately condemned _ad
infinitum_, and lauded _ad nauseam_—a fact which speaks much in his
praise. We know of no American writer who has evinced greater
versatility of talent; that is to say, of high talent, often amounting
to genius; and we know of none who has more narrowly missed placing
himself at the head of our letters.
The paper of Mr. Willis’ epistles is always fine, and glossy. At
present, he employs a somewhat large seal, with a dove, or
carrier-pigeon, at the top, the word “Glenmary” at bottom, and the
initials “N. P. W.” in the middle.
[Illustration: signature of Rufus Dawes]
Mr. Dawes has been long known as a poet; but his claims are scarcely yet
settled—his friends giving him rank with Bryant and Halleck, while his
opponents treat his pretensions with contempt. The truth is, that the
author of “Geraldine” and “Athenia of Damascus” has written occasional
verses very well—so well, that some of his minor pieces may be
considered equal to any of the minor pieces of either of the two
gentlemen above-mentioned. His longer poems, however, will not bear
examination. “Athenia of Damascus” is pompous nonsense, and “Geraldine”
a most ridiculous imitation of Don Juan, in which the beauties of the
original have been as sedulously avoided, as the blemishes have been
blunderingly culled. In style, he is, perhaps, the most inflated,
involved, and falsely-figurative, of any of our more noted poets. This
defect, of course, is only fully appreciable in what are termed his
“sustained efforts,” and thus his shorter pieces are often exceedingly
good. His apparent erudition is mere verbiage, and, were it real, would
be lamentably out of place where we see it. He seems to have been
infected with a blind admiration of Coleridge—especially of his
mysticism and cant.
[Illustration: signature of Henry W. Longfellow]
H. W. Longfellow, (Professor of Moral Philosophy at Harvard,) is
entitled to the first place among the poets of America—certainly to the
first place among those who have put themselves prominently forth as
poets. His good qualities are all of the highest order, while his sins
are chiefly those of affectation and imitation—an imitation sometimes
verging upon downright theft.
His MS. is remarkably good, and is fairly exemplified in the signature.
We see here plain indications of the force, vigor, and glowing richness
of his literary style; the deliberate and steady _finish_ of his
compositions. The man who writes thus may not accomplish much, but what
he does, will always be thoroughly done. The main beauty, or at least
one great beauty of his poetry, is that of _proportion_; another, is a
freedom from extraneous embellishment. He oftener runs into affectation
through his endeavors at simplicity, than through any other cause. Now
this rigid simplicity and proportion are easily perceptible in the MS.,
which, altogether, is a very excellent one.
[Illustration: signature of J. Pierpont]
The Rev. J. Pierpont, who, of late, has attracted so much of the public
attention, is one of the most accomplished poets in America. His “Airs
of Palestine” is distinguished by the sweetness and vigor of its
versification, and by the grace of its sentiments. Some of his shorter
pieces are exceedingly terse and forcible, and none of our readers can
have forgotten his Lines on Napoleon. His rhythm is at least equal in
strength and modulation to that of any poet in America. Here he
resembles Milman and Croly.
His chirography, nevertheless, indicates nothing beyond the
common-place. It is an ordinary clerk’s hand—one which is met with more
frequently than any other. It is decidedly _formed_; and we have no
doubt that he _never_ writes otherwise than thus. The MS. of his
school-days has probably been persisted in to the last. If so, the fact
is in full consonance with the steady precision of his style. The
flourish at the end of the signature is but a part of the writer’s
general enthusiasm.
[Illustration: signature of W. Gilmore Simms]
Mr. Simms is the author of “Martin Faber,” “Atalantis,” “Guy Rivers,”
“The Partisan,” “Mellichampe,” “The Yemassee,” “The Damsel of Darien,”
“The Black Riders of the Congaree,” and one or two other productions,
among which we must not forget to mention several fine poems. As a poet,
indeed, we like him far better than as a novelist. His qualities in this
latter respect _resemble_ those of Mr. Kennedy, although he equals him
in no particular, except in his appreciation of the graceful. In his
sense of beauty he is Mr. K.’s superior, but falls behind him in force,
and the other attributes of the author of Swallow Barn. These
differences and resemblances are well shown in the MSS. That of Mr. S.
has more slope, and more uniformity in detail, with less in the
mass—while it has also less of the picturesque, although still much.
The middle name is Gilm_o_re; in the cut it looks like Gilm_e_re.
[Illustration: signature of O. A. Brownson]
The Rev. Orestes A. Brownson is chiefly known to the literary world as
the editor of the “Boston Quarterly Review,” a work to which he
contributes, each quarter, at least two-thirds of the matter. He has
published little in book form—his principal works being “Charles
Elwood,” and “New Views.” Of these, the former production is, in many
respects, one of the highest merit. In logical accuracy, in
comprehensiveness of thought, and in the evident frankness and desire
for truth in which it is composed, we know of few theological treatises
which can be compared with it. Its conclusion, however, bears about it a
species of hesitation and inconsequence, which betray the fact that the
writer has not altogether succeeded in convincing himself of those
important truths which he is so anxious to impress upon his readers. We
must bear in mind, however, that this is the fault of Mr. Brownson’s
subject, and not of Mr. Brownson. However well a man may reason on the
great topics of God and immortality, he will be forced to admit tacitly
in the end, that God and immortality are things to be felt, rather than
demonstrated.
On subjects less indefinite, Mr. B. reasons with the calm and convincing
force of a Combe. He is, in every respect, an extraordinary man, and
with the more extensive resources which would have been afforded him by
early education, could not have failed to bring about important results.
His MS. indicates, in the most striking manner, the unpretending
simplicity, directness, and especially, the _indefatigability_ of his
mental character. His signature is more _petite_ than his general
chirography.
[Illustration: signature of B. Tucker]
Judge Beverly Tucker, of the College of William and Mary, Virginia, is
the author of one of the best novels ever published in America—“George
Balcombe”—although, for some reason, the book was never a popular
favorite. It was, perhaps, somewhat too didactic for the general taste.
He has written a great deal, also, for the “Southern Literary Messenger”
at different times; and, at one period, acted in part, if not
altogether, as editor of that Magazine, which is indebted to him for
some very racy articles, in the way of criticism especially. He is apt,
however, to be led away by personal feelings, and is more given to
vituperation for the mere sake of _point_ or pungency, than is
altogether consonant with his character as judge. Some five years ago
there appeared in the “Messenger,” under the editorial head, an article
on the subject of the “Pickwick Papers” and some other productions of
Mr. Dickens. This article, which abounded in well-written but
extravagant denunciation of everything composed by the author of “The
Curiosity Shop,” and which prophesied his immediate downfall, we have
reason to believe was from the pen of Judge Beverly Tucker. We take this
opportunity of mentioning the subject, because the odium of the paper in
question fell altogether upon our shoulders, and it is a burthen we are
not disposed and never intended to bear. The review appeared in March,
we think, and we had retired from the Messenger in the January
preceding. About eighteen months previously, and when Mr. Dickens was
scarcely known to the public at all, except as the author of some brief
tales and essays, the writer of this article took occasion to predict,
in the Messenger, and in the most emphatic manner, that high and just
distinction which the author in question has attained. Judge Tucker’s
MS. is diminutive, but neat and legible, and has much force and
precision, with little of the picturesque. The care which he bestows
upon his literary compositions makes itself manifest also in his
chirography. The signature is more florid than general hand.
[Illustration: signature of John Sanderson]
Mr. Sanderson, Professor of the Greek and Latin languages in the High
School of Philadelphia, is well known as the author of a series of
letters, entitled “The American in Paris.” These are distinguished by
ease and vivacity of style, with occasional profundity of observation,
and, above all, by the frequency of their illustrative anecdotes, and
figures. In all these particulars, Professor Sanderson is the precise
counterpart of Judge Beverly Tucker, author of “George Balcombe.” The
MSS. of the two gentlemen are nearly identical. Both are neat, clear and
legible. Mr. Sanderson’s is somewhat the more crowded.
[Illustration: signature of H. F. Gould.]
About Miss Gould’s MS. there is great neatness, picturesqueness, and
finish, without over-effeminacy. The literary style of one who writes
thus will always be remarkable for sententiousness and epigrammatism;
and these are the leading features of Miss Gould’s poetry.
[Illustration: signature of C. S. Henry]
Prof. Henry, of Bristol College, is chiefly known by his contributions
to our Quarterlies, and as one of the originators of the New-York
Review, in conjunction with Dr. Hawks and Professor Anthon. His
chirography is now neat and picturesque, (much resembling that of Judge
Tucker,) and now excessively scratchy, _clerky_, and slovenly—so that
it is nearly impossible to say anything respecting it, except that it
indicates a vacillating disposition, with unsettled ideas of the
beautiful. None of his epistles, in regard to their chirography, end as
well as they begin. This trait denotes _fatigability_. His signature,
which is bold and decided, conveys not the faintest idea of the general
MS.
[Illustration: signature of Emma C. Embury]
Mrs. Embury is chiefly known by her contributions to the Periodicals of
the country. She is one of the most nervous of our female writers, and
is not destitute of originality—that rarest of all qualities in a
woman, and especially in an American woman.
Her MS. evinces a strong disposition to fly off at a tangent from the
old formulæ of the Boarding Academies. Both in it, and in her literary
style, it would be well that she should no longer hesitate to discard
the absurdities of mere fashion.
[Illustration: signature of Wm. Landor.]
Mr. Landor acquired much reputation as the author of “Stanley,” a work
which was warmly commended by the press throughout the country. He has
also written many excellent papers for the Magazines. His chirography is
usually _petite_, without hair-lines, close, and somewhat stiff. Many
words are carefully erased. His epistles have always a rigorous
formality about them. The whole is strongly indicative of his literary
qualities. He is an elaborately careful, stiff, and pedantic writer,
with much affectation and great talent. Should he devote himself
ultimately to letters, he cannot fail of high success.
[Illustration: signature of Eliza Leslie]
Miss Leslie is celebrated for the homely naturalness of her stories and
for the broad satire of her comic style. She has written much for the
Magazines. Her chirography is distinguished for neatness and finish,
without over-effeminacy. It is rotund, and somewhat diminutive; the
letters being separate, and the words always finished with an inward
twirl. She is never particular about the quality of her paper or the
other externals of epistolary correspondence. From her MSS. in general,
we might suppose her solicitous rather about the effect of her
compositions as a whole, than about the polishing of the constituent
parts. There is much of the picturesque both in her chirography and in
her literary style.
[Illustration: signature of Joseph C. Neal]
Mr. Neal has acquired a very extensive reputation through his “Charcoal
Sketches,” a series of papers originally written for the “Saturday
News,” of this city, and afterwards published in book form, with
illustrations by Johnston. The whole design of the “Charcoal Sketches”
may be stated as the depicting of the wharf and street _loafer_; but
this design has been executed altogether in caricature. The extreme of
burlesque runs throughout the work, which is, also, chargeable with a
tedious repetition of slang and incident. The loafer always declaims the
same nonsense, in the same style, gets drunk in the same way, and is
taken to the watch-house after the same fashion. Reading one chapter of
the book, we read all. Any single description would have been an
original idea well executed, but the dose is repeated _ad nauseam_, and
betrays a woful poverty of invention. The manner in which Mr. Neal’s
book was belauded by his personal friends of the Philadelphia press,
speaks little for their independence, or less for their taste. To dub
the author of these “Charcoal Sketches” (which are really very excellent
police-reports) with the title of “the American Boz,” is either
outrageous nonsense, or malevolent irony.
In other respects, Mr. N. has evinced talents which cannot be
questioned. He has conducted the “Pennsylvanian” with credit, and, as a
political writer, he stands deservedly high. His MS. is simple and
legible, with much space between the words. It has force, but little
grace. Altogether, his chirography is good; but as he belongs to the
editorial corps, it would not be just to suppose that any deductions, in
respect to character, could be gleaned from it. His signature conveys
the general MS. with accuracy.
[Illustration: signature of Seba Smith]
Mr. Seba Smith has become somewhat widely celebrated as the author, in
part, of the “Letters of Major Jack Downing.” These were very clever
productions; coarse, but full of fun, wit, sarcasm and sense. Their
manner rendered them exceedingly popular, until their success tempted
into the field a host of brainless imitators. Mr. S. is also the author
of several poems; among others, of “Powhatan, a Metrical Romance,” which
we do not very particularly admire. His MS. is legible, and has much
simplicity about it. At times it vacillates, and appears unformed. Upon
the whole, it is much such a MS. as David Crockett wrote, and precisely
such a one as we might imagine would be written by a _veritable_ Jack
Downing; by Jack Downing himself, had this creature of Mr. Smith’s fancy
been endowed with a real entity. The fact is, that “The Major” is not
_all_ a creation; at least one half of his character actually exists in
the bosom of his originator. It was the Jack Downing half that composed
“Powhatan.”
[Illustration: signature of Jos. Hopkinson]
Judge Hopkinson’s hand is forcible, neat, legible, and devoid of
superfluity. The characters have much slope, and whole words are
frequently run together. The lines are at equal distances, and a broad
margin is at the left of the page, as is the case with the MSS. of Judge
Marshall, and other jurists. The whole is too uniform to be picturesque.
The writing is always as good at the conclusion, as at the commencement
of the epistles—a rare quality in MSS., evincing _indefatigability_ in
the writer.
[Illustration: signature of Alexander Slidell]
Lieutenant Slidell, some years ago, took the additional name of
Mackenzie. His reputation, at one period, was extravagantly high—a
circumstance owing, in some measure, to the _esprit de corps_ of the
navy, of which he is a member, and to his private influence, through his
family, with the Review-cliques. Yet his fame was not altogether
undeserved; although it cannot be denied that his first book, “A Year in
Spain,” was in some danger of being overlooked by his countrymen, until
a benignant star directed the attention of the London bookseller,
Murray, to its merits. Cockney octavos prevailed; and the clever young
writer who was cut dead in his Yankee habiliments, met with bows
innumerable in the gala dress of an English _imprimatur_. The work now
ran through several editions, and prepared the public for the kind
reception of “The American in England,” which exalted his reputation to
its highest pinnacle. Both these books abound in racy description; but
are chiefly remarkable for their gross deficiencies in grammatical
construction.
Lieut. Slidell’s MS. is peculiarly neat and even—quite legible, but
altogether too petite and effeminate. Few tokens of his literary
character are to be found, beyond the _petiteness_, which is exactly
analogous with the minute detail of his descriptions.
[Illustration: signature of Francis Lieber]
Francis Lieber is Professor of History and Political Economy in the
College of South Carolina, and has published many works distinguished by
acumen and erudition. Among these we may notice a “Journal of a
Residence in Greece,” written at the instigation of the historian
Niebuhr; “The Stranger in America,” a piquant book abounding in various
information relative to the United States; a treatise on “Education;”
“Reminiscences of an intercourse with Niebuhr;” and an “Essay on
International Copy-Right”—this last a valuable work.
Professor Lieber’s personal character is that of the frankest and most
unpretending _bonhommie_, while his erudition is rather massive than
minute. We may therefore expect his MS. to differ widely from that of
his brother scholar, Professor Anthon; and so in truth it does. His
chirography is careless, heavy, black, and forcible, without the
slightest attempt at ornament—very similar, upon the whole to the
well-known chirography of Chief Justice Marshall. His letters have the
peculiarity of a wide margin left at the top of each page.
[Illustration: signature of Sarah J. Hale]
Mrs. Hale is well known for her masculine style of thought. This is
clearly expressed in her chirography, which is far larger, heavier, and
altogether bolder than that of her sex generally. It resembles in a
great degree that of Professor Lieber, and is not easily deciphered.
[Illustration: signature of Edward Everett]
Mr. Everett’s MS. is a noble one. It has about it an air of deliberate
precision emblematic of the statesman, and a mingled grace and solidity
betokening the scholar. Nothing can be more legible, and nothing need be
more uniform. The man who writes thus will never grossly err in
judgment, or otherwise; but we may also venture to say that he will
never attain the loftiest pinnacle of renown. The letters before us have
a seal of red wax, with an oval device bearing the initials E. E. and
surrounded with a scroll, inscribed with some Latin words which are
illegible.
[Illustration: signature of Robert M. Bird]
Dr. Bird is well known as the author of “The Gladiator,” “Calavar,” “The
Infidel,” “Nick of the Woods,” and some other works—Calavar being, we
think, by far the best of them, and beyond doubt one of the best of
American novels.
His chirography resembles that of Mr. Benjamin very closely; the chief
difference being in a curl of the final letters in Dr. B.’s. The
characters, too, have the air of not being able to keep pace with the
thought, and an uneasy want of finish seems to have been the
consequence. A vivid imagination might easily be deduced from such a MS.
[Illustration: signature of John Neal]
Mr. John Neal’s MS. is exceedingly illegible and careless. Many of his
epistles are perfect enigmas, and we doubt whether he could read them
himself in half an hour after they are penned. Sometimes four or five
words are run together. Any one, from Mr. Neal’s penmanship, might
suppose his mind to be what it really is—excessively flighty and
irregular, but active and energetic.
[Illustration: signature of C M Sedgwick]
The penmanship of Miss Sedgwick is excellent. The characters are well
sized, distinct, elegantly but not ostentatiously formed, and with
perfect freedom of manner, are still sufficiently feminine. The
hair-strokes differ little from the downward ones, and the MSS. have
thus a uniformity they might not otherwise have. The paper she generally
uses is good, blue, and machine-ruled. Miss Sedgwick’s hand-writing
points unequivocally to the traits of her literary style—which are
strong common sense, and a masculine disdain of mere ornament. The
signature conveys the general chirography.
[Illustration: signature of J. Fenimore Cooper]
Mr. Cooper’s MS. is very bad—_unformed_, with little of distinctive
character about it, and varying greatly in different epistles. In most
of those before us a steel pen has been employed, the lines are crooked,
and the whole chirography has a constrained and school-boyish air. The
paper is fine, and of a bluish tint. A wafer is always used. Without
appearing ill-natured, we could scarcely draw any inferences from such a
MS. Mr. Cooper has seen many vicissitudes, and it is probable that he
has not always written thus. Whatever are his faults, his genius cannot
be doubted.
[Illustration: signature of J. L. Hawks]
Dr. Hawks is one of the originators of the “New York Review,” to which
journal he has furnished many articles. He is also known as the author
of the “History of the Episcopal Church of Virginia,” and one or two
minor works. He now edits the “Church Record.” His style, both as a
writer and as a preacher, is characterized rather by a perfect _fluency_
than by any more lofty quality, and this trait is strikingly indicated
in his chirography, of which the signature is a fair specimen.
[Illustration: signature of Henry W^{m} Herbert]
This gentleman is the author of “Cromwell,” “The Brothers,” “Ringwood
the Rover,” and some other minor productions. He at one time edited the
“American Monthly Magazine,” in connection with Mr. Hoffman. In his
compositions for the Magazines, Mr. Herbert is in the habit of doing
both them and himself gross injustice, by neglect and hurry. His longer
works evince much ability, although he is rarely entitled to be called
original. His MS. is exceedingly neat, clear, and forcible; the
signature affording a just idea of it. It resembles that of Mr. Kennedy
very nearly; but has more slope and uniformity, with, of course, less
spirit, and less of the picturesque. He who writes as Mr. Herbert, will
be found always to depend chiefly upon his merits of _style_ for a
literary reputation, and will not be unapt to fall into a pompous
grandiloquence. The author of “Cromwell” is sometimes wofully turgid.
[Illustration: signature of C. H. Waterman]
Mrs. Esling, formerly Miss Waterman, has attracted much attention, of
late years, by the tenderness and melody of her short poems. She
deserves _nearly_ all the commendation which she has received. Her MS.
would generally be considered beautiful; but formed, like that of most
of her sex, upon a regular school-model, it is, of course, not in the
slightest degree indicative of character.
[Illustration: signature of E. F. Ellet]
Mrs. E. F. Ellet has published one or two books, exclusively of a volume
of poems, but is chiefly known to the literary world by her numerous
contributions to the Magazines. As a translator from the Italian, she
has acquired an enviable reputation. Her hand, of which the signature
above scarcely conveys a full idea, is clear, neat, forcible and
legible; just such a hand as one would desire for copying MSS. of
importance. We have observed that the writers of such epistles as those
before us, are often known as translators, but seldom evince high
originality or very eminent talent of any kind.
[Illustration: signature of M M Noah]
Judge Noah has written several plays which took very well in their time,
and also several essays and other works, giving evidence of no ordinary
learning and penetration on certain topics—chiefly connected with
Israelitish history. He is better known, however, from the wit and
universal _bonhommie_ of his editorial paragraphs. His peculiar traits
of character may be traced in his writing, which has about it a free,
rolling, and open air. His lines are never straight, and the letters
taper too much to please the eye of an artist, and have now and then a
twirl, like the tail of a pig, which gives to the whole MS. an
indescribably quizzical appearance, and one altogether in consonance
with the general notion respecting the quondam Major, and present Judge,
than whom no man has more friends or fewer enemies.
[Illustration: signature of J. G. Palfrey]
Professor Palfrey is known to the public principally through his
editorship of the “North American Review.” He has a reputation for
scholarship; and many of the articles which are attributed to his pen
evince that this reputation is well based, so far as the common notion
of scholarship extends. For the rest, he seems to dwell altogether
within the narrow world of his _own_ conceptions; imprisoning them by
the very barrier which he has erected against the conceptions of others.
His MS. shows a total deficiency in the sense of the beautiful. It has
great pretension—great straining after effect; but is altogether one of
the most miserable MSS. in the world—forceless, graceless, tawdry,
vacillating and unpicturesque. The signature conveys but a faint idea of
its extravagance. However much we may admire the mere _knowledge_ of the
man who writes thus, it will not do to place any dependence upon his
wisdom or upon his taste.
This article will be concluded in our next number, and will embrace the
autograph of every writer of note in America.
* * * * *
THE KING’S BRIDE.
BY J. H. DANA.
There is no scenery in England more beautiful than that to be found in
portions of the New Forest. Huge gray old oaks, gnarled, and twisted,
and aspiring to heaven; deep glens, overshadowed by canopies of leaves,
through which the light but faintly struggles; vast arcades, stretching
far away in the distance, and buried in religious gloom; wild wood
roads, that wind hither and thither among the giant trees in fanciful
contortions; and open, sunny glades, intersected by sparkling
streamlets, waving with verdant grass, and now and then disclosing a
fairy cottage nestled in the edge of the forest, are to this day, the
characteristics of this favorite hunting ground of the conqueror and his
immediate successors. There is a solitude about this old labyrinthine
chace, which is perfectly bewitching. You may travel for miles, in the
more secluded parts of the forest, without meeting a human being, or
seeing the smoke of a single cottage curling among the foliage; but on
every hand you will behold trees growing in the wildest luxuriance, and
tread on a sward as soft and thick as the richest velvet. You will, for
a space, hear nothing but the sound of a nut rattling to the ground, or
the song of some wood bird down in a brake; and then you will rouse the
deer from their retreat, a rustle will be heard down in the
under-growth, and you will catch a sight of the noble herd, perchance,
as they go trotting away into the darker recesses of the forest.
Such is the New Forest now, and such it was eight centuries ago, on a
bright sunny morning, towards the end of summer. The hour was still
early, for the dew yet sparkled in the grass, or pattered down from the
foliage as the wind stirred among the forest branches. The scene was one
of the loveliest the chace afforded—a bright glade embosomed in the
most silent depths of the forest. The whole of this open space was
carpeted with the thickest and greenest grass, varying in hue, at every
breath of the balmy wind over the undulated surface. On one side, the
glade was bounded by a gentle elevation, covered with stately oaks,
whose giant branches, spreading out far and wide, buried their trunks in
the obscurity of a constant twilight—and on the other three sides the
ground either extended itself in a plain, or sloped so gently off, that
the descent was nearly imperceptible. Thousands of wild flowers spangled
the surface of the glade, some flaunting proudly on the air, and some
modestly hiding under the long grass, yet all sending forth the most
delicious perfume—while innumerable birds, of every variety of plumage,
hopped from twig to twig, or skimmed across the glade, filling the air
with untold harmonies,—and high in the heaven, a solitary lark,
lingering there long after his fellows had departed, poured forth his
lay with such sweet, such liquid harmony, that a stranger, unaccustomed
to his song, and unable to distinguish his tiny form far up in the sunny
ether, might well have fancied those unrivalled notes the breathings of
an unseen cherubim.
Such was the scene on which there now gazed two beings, both beautiful,
but one surpassingly so. The elder of the two might have been one and
thirty, and both his face and figure were moulded in the noblest style
of manly beauty. His broad brow, chiselled features, and commanding
port, bespoke him one born to rule, although the simple and somewhat
mean garb he wore argued that he was not rich in this world’s goods. The
attire of his companion was richer, but less gay, and she wore the veil
of a novice. Her face, however, made up in loveliness for whatever
absence of ornament there was in her dress, and indeed she might well
have challenged the world to produce her rival. The fair delicate skin
through which the blue veins could be seen meandering, the snowy brow
that seemed made for the temple of the loveliest and purest thoughts,
the golden hair that lay in wreathes upon the forehead, and the blue eye
whose azure depths seemed to conceal mysteries as pure and rapturing as
those of heaven, made up a countenance of overpowering beauty, even
without that expression, so high and seraphic, which beamed with her
every word, and threw over each lineament of her face a loveliness
almost divine. Her figure was like that of a sylph, yet full and rounded
in every limb; and beneath her dress peeped forth one of the most
delicate feet that ever trod green sward. She was perhaps eighteen,
though she might have been younger. She sat now on a low bank, at the
very edge of the forest, while her companion reclined at her feet,
holding one of her tiny hands in his broad palm, and gazing up into her
eyes with a look of the deepest, yet most respectful passion. Nor were
the maiden’s orbs averted from his gaze, for ever and anon she would
twine her fingers playfully yet half sadly in his locks, and return his
look with all a woman’s tenderness.
“Yes, sweet one,” said the hunter, as if continuing a conversation, “I
have sometimes, during our separation for the last six long months,
almost desponded, especially when I heard how urgent my brother was that
you should wed his favorite Warren, and when I reflected that your aunt,
the good abbess Christiana, was so hostile to my suit. But I did you
injustice, dear one, and thus,” and he kissed the hands of his companion
again and again, “I sue for pardon. God only knows,” he added in a
sadder tone, “whether I shall ever have my rights. They sneer at me now
as a landless prince, and that purse-proud Surrey hath no better name
for me than Deer’s-foot, because I am not always able to follow the hunt
with a steed. But so long as thou art true to me, sweet Maud, all these
will be as nothing; and the time may come when we shall yet be happy.”
“Fear not, Beauclerk,” said the princess—for it was Matilda of Scotland
who spoke, and he whom she addressed was the younger son of the
conqueror, the penniless dependent of him whom men called the Red King,
“fear not—all, as you say, will be well. I feel it, I know it. Do you
believe in presentiments, dear Henry?” and pushing aside her lover’s
thick locks, she held her hand on his forehead, and looked with her
sunny orbs full into his eyes, as if she would playfully read his very
soul.
“Presentiments trouble me not much, despite what the books say thereof,”
answered the frank hunter, “I trust rather to my sword and my good right
arm, though forsooth, they availed me little when I was cooped up in St.
Michael’s Mount by my two kingly and loving brothers. Aye! presentiments
and prophesies, and such things, trouble me but little, or I would e’en
have consolation now, in all my troubles, in calling to mind the words
of my father—the saints assoilzie his memory!—since dying, he said,
‘that I should be inheritor of all his honors, and should excel both
Robert and William in riches and power.’ By St. George, the riches had
best come soon, for I gave my last mark away this morning. No, kind
Maud, I place little faith in presentiments. But you sigh. If it pains
you that I credit them not, why, then I am the most devout believer in
all England,” and again he pressed that fair hand to his lips, “why do
you ask the question?”
“Because,” said the princess, blushing at his eagerness, “I have had a
presentiment that we should yet be happy, and that full soon. I know not
how it is to happen; but of this I am assured, we shall live for
brighter days. The abbess threatens me with the veil if I do not wed
Surrey, and even now forces me, in her presence, to wear a tissue of
horse-hair; but though I can as yet see no escape from the alternative,
I am not the less certain that it will never be mine to choose. So now,
despond no more, dear Beauclerk.”
“Thanks, thanks, for your cheering homily,” said the young prince
laughing, for her sanguine words had affected him with an unusual
gaiety. “I can hunt now with some spirit. Little does Surrey think,
while he is getting ready for the chase and perhaps sneering at me as a
laggard for not being up to set out with the rest, that I have stolen
out into the forest to meet her for whom he would give the whole of his
broad lands.”
What answer the princess might have made to this somewhat vain-glorious
speech, we know not, but at this instant a party appeared on the scene
in the guise of a knight, somewhat advanced in years, and as he
approached hastily, he said:
“You must forgive me, my dear lady, if I urge you to take horse. The
abbess knows your journey will have consumed but a day, and that you
should have reached Wilton last night, and I shall have a hard task to
excuse your protracted stay without betraying you. The men-at-arms are
drawn up but a little space off, and, though they are all my servitors,
it is best that they should know nothing to reveal. The prince here will
understand me.”
“Assuredly, Sir John; and if he they call Beauclerk ever attains power,
he will not forget those who befriended the landless prince. I will
bring up Maud in an instant.”
The knight bowed, and retreated into the wood. A few parting words were
exchanged betwixt the lovers, a few tears were shed by Maud, which were
kissed off by the prince, and then, with one long, last embrace, they
tore themselves asunder, and in a few minutes the princess had rejoined
her train. Prince Henry stood looking vacantly in the direction where
she had disappeared, until the sound of her beast’s tramp had died in
the distance, when, slowly mounting his steed, who had awaited its
master in a neighboring copse, he entered one of the forest roads, and
proceeded leisurely onwards. He had journeyed thus about half an hour
when he heard a hunting horn sound close by him, and directly he beheld
approaching the gallant array of his brother.
“Ha! my good cousin Deer’s-foot, well met,” said the Earl of Surrey; “we
have been looking for you. I told your friend here, who swore you were
yet abed, that we should meet you afoot in the forest before the day was
over—and thereon we have laid a wager. I trow we have neither won. It
would be but fair to give you the bet, would it not?” said the gay Earl
with a half concealed sneer, as he glanced from his own rich suit to the
prince’s garb.
“You may both want yet, fair sirs, all you can spare,” answered the
prince; “but let us see who will be first in at the death. You were
always apt at that, my lord,” and he turned to the royal treasurer.
“Ay, and shall maintain my reputation, your highness,” said Breteuil,
recollecting he addressed almost a beggar; “and, if I may judge by your
steed, even against yourself.”
“We shall see—we shall see,” said the prince. “I lay you a new steed,
my lord, I distance you to-day.”
“Done,” said the treasurer, laughing; “you have thrown away your horse.
But here is the king, and lo!” and as he spoke the horn announced that a
stag had been roused, “the game is afoot.”
At the word the eager sportsmen gave spur to their steeds, and the
cavalcade swept gaily off in the chase.
Never had a more gallant array than that which now followed the royal
stag, woke up the echoes of the forest. Knights and squires, priests and
pages, warriors and ecclesiastics, princes of the blood royal and high
officers of state, pressed forward in the chase, now scouring along the
level plain, now dashing away through the arcades of the forest, and now
plunging recklessly through brake and dell, as the hounds dogged the
flight of the noble animal into his once secure retreat. Yet it was well
worthy of note how compactly the hunters kept around the king, none
venturing to outstrip him, and only a few of the oldest maintaining an
even rein with him.
Often during the chase the prince and Breteuil passed and repassed each
other, and at every recognition Henry would gaily remind the treasurer
of his wager. At length, however, the pursuit became more hot, the king
gave rein to his steed and pressed on, and in passing some broken ground
the royal party became separated, and those who were younger or better
mounted than the rest swept on ahead. Among these was Prince Henry, who,
though his steed was none of the best, kept up a not ignoble pace, until
at length his arbalast caught against a tree, and he was nearly thrown
from his horse. He checked his steed at once, and recovered his
cross-bow, but the string was broken, rendering the weapon useless.
“Ha! My gallant prince,” said the treasurer, as he swept by; “you can
scarcely hit your game now, even if you keep on. I trow your steed is
mine.”
“A malison on the string,” said the prince bitterly; “there is nothing
left for me except to sneak back to Winchester. But, no! I bethink me
now there is a forester’s hut somewhere nigh here. Ah! yonder is its
smoke curling over the tree-tops. I will hie me there, and get a new
string. If the stag turns at the dell below, he will head up this way,
and I may yet win my wager, for, the saints know, I can ill afford to
lose my only steed.”
With these words the prince again gave spurs to his horse, and was soon
before the forester’s hut.
“Ho! there, within,” he exclaimed; “a string for the prince. Marry, old
mistress, have they never a keeper here better than you?”
These words were addressed to an old woman who met him at the threshold
of the hut as he dismounted, and who appeared to be the only human being
inhabiting the cabin. And she was one who might well occasion the
prince’s exclamation of surprise. Her skin was like that of a corpse;
her eyes were sunk deep into her head; her hair was grizzled and gray;
her long bony fingers might have been those of a skeleton, and when she
spoke, her hollow sepulchral tones made even the courageous prince
shudder. She seemed to pay no regard to her visitor’s inquiry for a
string, but fastening her basilisk-like eyes upon him, she said or
rather chaunted, in Norman French, a rude lay, of which the following
verses are a translation:
“Hasty news to thee I bring,
Henry, thou art now a king;
Mark the words, and heed them well,
Which to thee in sooth I tell,
And recall them in the hour
Of thy royal state and power.”
For the space of almost a minute after she had ceased, the prince gazed
speechlessly on this novel being, awed alike by her strange demeanor,
and her sepulchral eye. Nor were the words she chaunted without effect
on her hearer. It was a superstitious age, and though few men of his day
were less influenced by the supernatural than Henry, there was something
in the sybil’s look which chilled his heart with a strange feeling, half
fear, half awe. He had not recovered from his surprise, when a horseman
rushed wildly up to the hut, and the prince had scarcely recognized one
of his warmest friends, Beaumont, when that gentleman breathlessly
exclaimed:
“The king is slain!—Tyrell’s arrow glanced from a bow and struck your
royal brother to his heart!”
The words of Beaumont acted on the prince like the charm which
dissipates a spell. He started, as if aroused from some strange dream,
looked a moment in wild surprise at his companion, and gradually
comprehending the strange and sudden transition in his fortunes, he
sprung with a bound into his saddle, and plunging his rowels up to the
heel in his horse’s side, exclaimed:
“Then this is no place for me—follow to Winchester, Beaumont,—and now
for a crown and Maud!”
The next instant his horse’s hoofs were thundering across the stones, as
he galloped furiously to the capital.
History relates how he reached Winchester, with his steed bathed in
foam, and, without slackening his pace, dashed up to the door of the
royal treasury, a few minutes in advance of Breteuil. History also tells
how the energy of the young prince broke through the meshes of the wily
traitor, and secured for Beauclerk the crown; but it does not add that,
after the unwilling treasurer had surrendered the keys of the regalia,
his new master said, half laughingly and half ironically, to the haughty
peer who had so often neglected him when only a prince—
“Ah, my lord! did I not say I would win the race? I trow your steed is
mine!”
The discomfited Breteuil bit his lip and was silent, but that night his
best charger was sent to the royal stables; while the rest of the
hunters, who were now fast pouring in from the chase, with the populace
which at the first news of the Red King’s death had begun to shout “King
Henry,” gathered around their young monarch and filled the air with
their acclamations.
“Maud is right,” said the king to himself, as he beheld the enthusiasm
displayed by his people, “to say nothing of the old sybil. Ah! what will
my sweet one think when she hears this?”
Three months later and all the chivalry of the realm was gathered in the
church at Westminster, while the populace without thronged every avenue
to that princely cathedral. Never indeed had a prouder assemblage met at
any royal ceremonial. The church blazed with jewels. Nobles in their
robes of state; bishops and archbishops with mitre and crozier;
countesses whose beauty out-dazzled their diamonds; knights and squires
and pages of every rank; burghers with their chains of gold; men-at-arms
encased in steel; halberdiers and archers; yeomen with quarter staffs,
and foresters with arbalasts; men of every situation of life, and bright
ladies, whose loveliness was beyond compare, were gathered in the
gorgeously ornamented church, amid the waving of banners, the sound of
music, the rustling of costly robes, and the smoke of ascending incense,
to gaze on the marriage of their monarch to his fair and blushing bride.
And there she stood before the altar in all her virgin beauty, her fair
blue eyes suffused with tears of joy; while her manly lover stood at her
side, the proudest cavalier in all that bright array. And when the
archbishop ascended the pulpit, and demanded if any one there objected
to the union, the whole audience shouted aloud “that the matter was
rightly settled;” then again pealed forth the anthem, and again the
incense rose in clouds to the fretted roof. The music ceased, the words
were said, the crown was placed on the brow of the princess, and the
hunter of the forest, amid the acclamations of his people, pressed to
his heart the King’s Bride.
“Do you believe in presentiments now?” said the young queen, half
laughing, to her royal husband when they reached the palace.
“I am a convert to your faith whatever it may be, sweet one. Nay! you
shall preach no sermon over my retraction, for thus I forbid the
homily,” and the king drew the blushing Maud towards him and fondly
kissed her.
Many an iron monarch has, since then, sat on the English throne, and
many a fair princess has been led by her lover to the altar, but never
has a happier or more beautiful pair wore the regal crown in the realm
of our ancestors.
* * * * *
MERRY ENGLAND.
BY J. R. LOWELL.
Hurrah for merry England,
Queen of the land and sea,
The champion of truth and right,
The bulwark of the free!
Hurrah for merry England!
Upon thy seagirt isle
Thou sittest, clothed in righteousness,
Secure of Heaven’s smile!
When ruled the fairhaired Saxon,
Yes, thou wert merry then;
And, as they girt their bucklers on,
Thy meanest serfs were men;
And merry was the castle-hall
With jest and song and tale,
When bearded lips with mead were white
And rang the loud Washael!
And, when grim Denmark’s black-browed prows
Tore through thine Emerald sea,
And many a wild blue eye was turned
In savage lust on thee,—
When, in the greenest of thy vales,
The gusts of summer air
Blew out in long and shaggy locks
The sea-king’s yellow hair,—
Yet Alfred was in England,
And merry yet again
Thy white-armèd Saxon maidens were
When, on the drunken Dane,
The sudden thunders of thy war
With arrowy hail did pour,
And grim jaws dropt that quivered yet
With savage hymns to Thor.
Thy merry brow was fair and free,
Thine eye gleamed like a lance,
When thy good ash and yew did crush
The gilded knights of France;
When Paris shook within her walls
And trembled as she saw
Her snow-white lilies trampled down
Beneath thy lion’s paw.
Queen Bess’s days were merry days,
Renowned in song and tale,
Stout days that saw the last brown bead
Of many a tun of ale;
Queen Bess’s days were golden days
And thou full proudly then
Did’st suckle at thy healthy breasts
The best of Englishmen.
Thou hast been merry, England,
But art thou merry now,
With sweat of agonizing years
Upon thy harlot brow,
Grimed with the smoke of furnaces
That forge with damned art
The bars of darkness that shut in
The poor man’s starving heart?
Oh free and Christian England!
The Hindu wife no more
Shall burn herself in that broad realm
Saint George’s cross waves o’er;
Thou art the champion of the right,
The friend of the opprest,
And none but freemen now shall tread
Thine Indies of the West.
But thou canst ship thy poison,
Wrung from lean Hindu slaves,
To fill all China with dead souls
That rot in living graves;
And, that thy faith may not be seen
Barren of goodly works,
At Saint Jean D’Acre thou sent’st up
To Heaven three thousand Turks.