looked out, and beheld a procession of villagers advancing along the
road, attired in gay dresses, and marching merrily on in the direction
of the church. I soon perceived that it was a marriage festival. The
procession was led by a long orangoutang of a man, in a straw hat and
white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asthmatic clarionet, from which he
contrived to blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeaking off at right
angles from his tune, and winding up with a grand flourish on the
guttural notes. Behind him, led by his little boy, came the blind
fiddler, his honest features glowing with all the hilarity of a rustic
bridal, and, as he stumbled along, sawing away upon his fiddle till he
made all crack again. Then came the happy bridegroom, dressed in his
Sunday suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his button-hole, and close
beside him his blushing bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe
and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white roses in her hair. The
friends and relatives brought up the procession; and a troop of village
urchins came shouting along in the rear, scrambling among themselves for
the largess of sous and sugar-plums that now and then issued in large
handfuls from the pockets of a lean man in black, who seemed to
officiate as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I gazed on the
procession till it was out of sight; and when the last wheeze of the
clarionet died upon my ear, I could not help thinking how happy were
they who were thus to dwell together in the peaceful bosom of their
native village, far from the gilded misery and the pestilential vices of
the town.
On the evening of the same day, I was sitting by the window, enjoying
the freshness of the air and the beauty and stillness of the hour, when
I heard the distant and solemn hymn of the Catholic burial-service, at
first so faint and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. It rose
mournfully on the hush of evening--died gradually away--then ceased.
Then it rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon after a funeral
procession appeared, and passed directly beneath my window. It was led
by a priest, bearing the banner of the church, and followed by two boys,
holding long flambeaux in their hands. Next came a double file of
priests in white surplices, with a missal in one hand and a lighted wax
taper in the other, chanting the funeral dirge at intervals,--now
pausing, and then again taking up the mournful burden of their
lamentation, accompanied by others, who played upon a rude kind of horn,
with a dismal and wailing sound. Then followed various symbols of the
church, and the bier borne on the shoulders of four men. The coffin was
covered with a black velvet pall, and a chaplet of white flowers lay
upon it, indicating that the deceased was unmarried. A few of the
villagers came behind, clad in mourning robes, and bearing lighted
tapers. The procession passed slowly along the same street that in the
morning had been thronged by the gay bridal company. A melancholy train
of thought forced itself home upon my mind. The joys and sorrows of this
world are so strikingly mingled! Our mirth and grief are brought so
mournfully in contact! We laugh while others weep, and others rejoice
when we are sad! The light heart and the heavy walk side by side, and go
about together! Beneath the same roof are spread the wedding feast and
the funeral pall! The bridal song mingles with the burial hymn! One goes
to the marriage bed, another to the grave; and all is mutable,
uncertain, and transitory.
THE PAST AND THE NEW YEAR.
By Prentiss Mellen.
The close of the year, whose last knell has just been heard, amid the
chills and gloom of winter, when all around reminds us of our departed
friends and the loss we have sustained, is peculiarly adapted to arouse
us from our inattention to the lapse of time, and impress on our hearts
the solemn truth that life itself is but a vapor. Many, it is true, when
they look into the grave of the year, may experience a rush of bitter
feeling, as they fondly recollect how many cherished hopes they have
been called upon to bury in the tomb, during the lapse of the year: how
many friends have proved false or ungrateful--how many of their suns
have gone down in the gloom of solitude, or amidst scenes of sickness
and poverty, or of sighing and sorrow. All this is true, and such ever
has been and ever will be the complexion of human life. But though
thousands are thus educated in a school where such is the salutary
discipline, yet millions have been spending the year in peace and
joy--in health and abundance. Their journey has been gladdened with
sunshine, and their course has been through fields of beauty and beside
"the still waters of comfort." It is useful--it is a species of
_gratitude_ thus to look back and trace the course we have been
pursuing. If it has been delightful or smooth and peaceful, our hearts
should melt in tenderness while we look to the _fountain_ of all our
blessings. If our course has been wearisome through fields of
sterility, or melancholy and companionless, we should remember that
Wisdom and Goodness preside over our destinies, whether we are breasting
the storm, or calmly beholding the rainbow of promise. The year that has
bidden us adieu, was pleasant in its course, and its decline gradual and
beautiful. An unusual degree of softness distinguished its autumn,
resembling the last years of the life of man, when the agitation of the
passions has in a great measure subsided; when his feelings have become
tranquilized, and all around him peaceful and serene, if he has been
careful to regulate his conduct, on life's journey, by the principles of
justice and the commands of duty--if in his social intercourse his
passions have been preserved in due subjection to the gentle influences
of a benevolent heart, displaying itself in acts of mercy like the good
Samaritan.
"Sure the last end
Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit!
Night dews fall not more gently on the ground
Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft."
The new year to which we have just been introduced is, in one sense, a
perfect stranger, though we have long been intimate with the _family_ to
which it belongs, and of course have some general acquaintance with
certain features of its character, leading us to anticipate its promises
and its failure to perform them in many instances,--its smiles and its
tears--its flatteries and its frowns--its gaieties and hopes--its
gradual decline--decay and dissolution:--but we have abundant reason too
for indulging the belief that we may enjoy thousands of blessings, if we
are disposed to cherish proper feelings--to be kind and courteous and
obliging, and ever on our guard to avoid unnecessarily wounding the
feelings of others; ever ready to acknowledge the favors we receive, and
render a suitable return. How easily all this may be done! How often is
it grossly neglected! He who consults _his own_ ease and comfort cannot
in any manner attain the desired result so readily and certainly, as by
habitually consulting the ease and comfort of others, with whom he is in
the habit of associating: and this is true politeness also. A man who is
dissatisfied with himself and those around him, and laboring under the
darkening influence of disturbed or morose feelings "may travel from Dan
to Beersheba and say it is all barren;"--to him it will appear so; and
the effect would be the same if his journey lay amidst the most
delightful scenes of rural beauty. The seasons of the year all give
their annual _lessons_ for instruction: It is our wisdom to regard them
carefully. _Spring_ summons us all to cheerful activity, with assurances
that our labor will not be in vain. _Summer_ performs what _Spring_ had
promised, and shews us the advantage of listening to early instruction
and wisely improving it. Ten thousand songsters are filling the branches
with their animating strains of music and gratitude, and teaching us to
enjoy, as they do, the countless blessings and bounties of nature;
_their_ music is never failing--nor do we see it ending in _discords_.
Let us all, as we journey onward together through the year, learn to
tune our _hearts_ as they do their _voices_, and pass the fleeting
period in harmony, and in that _cheerfulness_ which the excellent
Addison has honored with the name of a _continual expression of
gratitude to Heaven_. In Germany the _study_ and _practice_ of music are
general among the people. Besides other advantages resulting from
making music a part of common education, it is not romantic or utopian
to observe that it teaches how easily music--pure and surpassing
music--may be made on the _same_ instrument, which under an ignorant or
purposed touch will send forth discords in prodigious varieties. He who
has become _acquainted_ with the instrument, though not a _master_ of
it, well knows how to _avoid_ those combinations of sound which are
painful to the ear, and often tend to disturb feelings and passions.
What tones are sweeter than those produced by the gentle breeze of
heaven in passing over the strings of the Æolian Harp? The reason is,
those strings are so attuned as that their vibrations will not respond
except in notes of harmony: but only disorder the strings, by increasing
the tension of some and decreasing that of others, and the sweetest
zephyr will produce nothing but the vilest discords, resembling angry
passions. Let us then, in our journey through the year on which we have
entered, acquire as much as possible a knowledge of the _science_ and
the _art_ of social and domestic _moral music_. Let us learn to measure
our _time_ with care, to cultivate our _voices_, that they may lose all
harshness: let each attend to _his own part_, and strive to excel in
that. Let us consider our _feelings_, _passions_ and _dispositions_, as
the _strings of the Harp_; and the _ordinary events of life_ as the
_breezes_ which give vibration to the strings: if these strings--our
feelings, passions and dispositions--are in proper tune--under due
regulation, and preserving a just relation, each to all the others, we
have then all the elements of moral music, domestic and social, and in a
few weeks, by due regard to all the principles and arrangement above
mentioned, we shall soon be good scholars, _giving_ and _receiving_ all
that pleasure which harmony can afford; and as the sober _autumn_
advances, our _tastes_ for this kind of music will be more and more
ripened towards perfection; and when the cold _decemberly_ evenings
shall arrive, we can listen to the _angry music_ of the elements abroad,
full of discordant strains, sweeping by our peaceful homes, while
_within_ them all may be the music of the heart, in its gentlest
movements.
It is a melancholy truth that we ourselves manufacture seven eighths of
what we are disposed to term our _misfortunes_ in this world. Want of
precaution mars our arrangements: want of prudence exposes us to dangers
which we might easily have avoided--want of patience often hurries us
into difficulties, and disqualifies us to bear them with calmness or
decency. Indulgence in follies and fashions often plants the seeds of
wasting disease. Intemperance in our passions always is followed by
unwelcome sensations, and sometimes with a sense of shame. Stimulants
are succeeded by debility, and when they are used to excess, we know and
daily witness the dreadful results--if death is not one of them--either
the death of the offender, or of some other destroyed by his hand in the
tempest of infuriated passions--we are too often compelled to mourn over
the desolation they occasion--presenting in one view,
"Hate--grief--despair--the family of pain."
THE RUIN OF A NIGHT.
STANZAS SUGGESTED ON VIEWING THE GROUND OF THE GREAT FIRE IN NEW-YORK.
By Grenville Mellen.
It was still noon--and Sabbath. The pale air
Hung over the great city like a shroud--
And echo answer'd to a footstep there,
Where late went up the thunder of a crowd!
I wander'd like a pilgrim round the piles
That Ruin heap'd about the wildering way--
And as I pass'd, I saw the withering smiles
That did on faces of dull gazers play,
As they stood round the ashes of that grave
Of all that yesterday rose there, so broad and brave!
I mus'd as I went thro' the shadowy path
Of broken, blacken'd walls, and pillars high,
Which had surviv'd that visiting of wrath,
And now lean'd dim against the lurid sky--
I heard the rude laugh break from ruder hearts,
Those ruffian exclamations of lost souls,
At which a better spirit wakes and starts--
The revelry of demons o'er their bowls--
Until I felt how faint rebuke may fall
Over a people, tho' it come in sword and pall!
There was no lesson in that mighty pyre--
Or, if it rose, it faded with the flame;
And crime, relentless, from that smouldering fire
Would lift, at night, its stealthy arm the same
On the lone wanderer, as, amid the crowd,
It glided oft before, to filch its gold,
When the great voice of rivalry was loud,
And onward the deep tide of commerce roll'd!
I thought how idle was the darkest ban,
Fate, in her fiercest eloquence, can pour on man!
I thought how quick the seal of nothingness
Is set on man's best glory--and how deep!
How soon the Greatest grovels with the Less,
And they who shouted bravest, bow to weep!
How quick the veriest triumph of our years,
Fulfill'd by a dim life of toil and pain,
Is chang'd to one sad festival of tears--
When Time is but a storm--and visions wane!
How quick Destruction can make classical
The crowded, golden ground, where her fell footsteps fall!
The ground that yesterday was consecrate
To the wild spirit-power of Gold and Gain--
Where riches, like some thing of worship sate,
And Worth of Wealth ask'd precedence in vain!
Where the hard hand was busy with the dust
With which it soon must mingle--though it gleam
Often with jewels--splendid, but accurst,
That make the trappings of this Life's poor dream!
And where, too, Bounty, like a fountain, sprung,
In streams, though not unfelt, in shadow, and unsung!
Alas! that pillar'd pile! how, as I gaz'd
Upon the blacken'd shafts, did I recall
The sculptur'd marble there, whose brow was rais'd
So like a god's, within that shadowy hall!
Immortal HAMILTON!--though crumbled deep
In the red chaos of that billowy night,
It needs no chisel's memory to keep
Thy spirit's nobler outline vast and bright!
No Time--no element can mar the fame,
Gather'd, like fadeless sunlight, round thy spotless name!
COURTSHIP.
By Wm. L. McClintock.
After my sleighride, last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by
Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the women again
in a hurry. To hear me curse and swear and rail out against the whole
feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never
so much as look at one again, to all eternity--O, but I was wicked.
"Darn and blast their eyes"--says I.--"Blame their skins--torment their
hearts and darn them to darnation." Finally I took an oath and swore
that if I ever meddled or had any dealings with them again (in the
sparking line I mean) I wish I might be hung and choked.
But swearing off from women, and then going into a meeting house chock
full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and
clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and going into a grog
shop. It's all smoke.
I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays. Forenoons,
a'ternoons and intermissions complete. On the fourth, there were strong
symptoms of a change of weather. A chap, about my size was seen on the
way to the meeting house, with a new patent hat on; his head hung by the
ears upon a shirt collar; his cravat had a pudding in it and branched
out in front, into a double bow knot. He carried a straight back and a
stiff neck, as a man ought to, when he has his best clothes on; and
every time he spit, he sprung his body forward, like a jack-knife, in
order to shoot clear of the ruffles.
Squire Jones' pew is next but two to mine; and when I stand up to
prayers and take my coat tail under my arm, and turn my back to the
minister, I naturally look right straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has
got a face not to be grinned at, in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty,
some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part,
I think there is not much boot between them. Any how, they are so nigh
matched that they have hated and despised each other, like rank poison,
ever since they were school-girls.
Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to
reading the great bible, when he heard a rap at his door. "Walk
in.--Well, John, how der do? Git out, Pompey."--"Pretty well, I thank ye,
Squire, and how do _you_ do?"--"Why, so as to be crawling--ye ugly beast,
will ye hold yer yop--haul up a chair and set down, John."
"How do _you_ do, Mrs. Jones?" "O, middlin', how's yer marm? Don't forget
the mat, there, Mr. Beedle." This put me in mind that I had been off
soundings several times, in the long muddy lane; and my boots were in a
sweet pickle.
It was now old Captain Jones' turn, the grandfather. Being roused from a
doze, by the bustle and racket, he opened both his eyes, at first with
wonder and astonishment. At last he began to halloo so loud that you
might hear him a mile; for he takes it for granted that every body is
just exactly as deaf as he is.
"Who is it? I say, who in the world is it?" Mrs. Jones going close to
his ear, screamed out, "it's Johnny Beedle."--"Ho--Johnny Beedle. I
remember, he was one summer at the siege of Boston."--"No, no, father,
bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that's been dead and gone
this twenty year."--"Ho,--But where does he come from?"--"Daown
taown."--"Ho.--And what does he follow for a livin'?"--And he did not
stop asking questions, after this sort, till all the particulars of the
Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs. Jones' last screech.
He then sunk back into his doze again.
The dog stretched himself before one andiron; the cat squat down before
the other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snow storm, till
nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping tune with a
sappy yellow birch forestick. Sally sat up prim, as if she were pinned
to the chair-back; her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her
eyes looking straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten
herself too, and laid her hands across in her lap. But they would not
lay still. It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work,
and they were out of all patience with keeping Sunday.--Do what she
would to keep them quiet, they would bounce up, now and then, and go
through the motions, in spite of the fourth commandment. For my part _I_
sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to say something the
more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over the left and said
"hem." Then I changed, and put the left leg over the right. It was no
use; the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker. The drops of sweat
began to crawl all over me. I got my eye upon my hat, hanging on a peg,
on the road to the door; and then I eyed the door. At this moment, the
old Captain, all at once sung out "Johnny Beedle!" It sounded like a
clap of thunder, and I started right up an eend.
"Johnny Beedle, you'll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did,
if yer live to the age of Methusaler. He would toss up his drumstick,
and while it was whirlin' in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then
ketch it as it come down, without losin' a stroke in the tune. What d'ye
think of that, ha? But scull your chair round, close along side er me,
so yer can hear.--Now, what have you come a'ter?"--"I--a'ter? O, jest
takin' a walk. Pleasant walkin' I guess. I mean jest to see how ye all
do." "Ho.--That's another lie. You've come a courtin', Johnny Beedle;
you're a'ter our Sal. Say now, d'ye want to marry, or only to court?"
This is what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump and landed in
the middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till
the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping cough, was put to
bed.
Then came apples and cider; and, the ice being broke, plenty chat with
mammy Jones about the minister and the 'sarmon.' I agreed with her to a
nicety, upon all the points of doctrine; but I had forgot the text and
all the heads of the discourse, but six. Then she teazed and tormented
me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery, that day.
But, mum--there was no getting that out of me. "Praise to the face is
often disgrace"--says I, throwing a sly squint at Sally.
At last, Mrs. Jones lighted t'other candle; and after charging Sally to
look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered
up his shoes and stockings and followed.
Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For
fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in, with a steady stream
of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past,
and also made some pretty cute guesses at what it was like to be in
future. At first, I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop.
Then growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma, and semicolon; and at
last, it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by the side
of her.
"I swow, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to day, that I wanted to
eat you up."--"Pshaw, get along you," says she. My hand had crept along,
somehow, upon its fingers, and begun to scrape acquaintance with hers.
She sent it home again, with a desperate jerk. "Try it agin"--no better
luck. "Why, Miss Jones you're gettin' upstropulous, a little old madish,
I guess." "Hands off is fair play, Mr. Beedle."
It is a good sign to find a girl sulkey. I knew where the shoe pinched.
It was that are Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her
that I had never had any notion after Patty, and to prove it I fell to
running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with
me, and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I, now, not only got
hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip an arm round
her waist. But there was no satisfying me; so I must go to poking out my
lips after a buss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap in the face
that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a
quarter of an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, tho' out of the
wrong side of my mouth, which gave my face something the look of a
gridiron. The battle now began in the regular way. "Ah, Sally, give me a
kiss, and ha' done with it, now."--"I won't, so there, nor tech to."--"I'll
take it, whether or no."--"Do it, if you dare."--And at it we went, rough
and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now commenced. The bow of my
cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the next bout, smash went shirt
collar, and, at the same time, some of the head fastenings gave way, and
down came Sally's hair in a flood, like a mill dam broke
loose,--carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of Sally's elbow, and
my blooming ruffles wilted down to a dish-cloth. But she had no time to
boast. Soon her neck tackling began to shiver. It parted at the throat,
and, whorah, came a whole school of blue and white beads, scampering and
running races every which way, about the floor.
By the Hokey; if Sally Jones is'nt real grit, there's no snakes. She
fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite nor scratch;
and when she could fight no longer, for want of breath, she yielded
handsomely. Her arms fell down by her sides, her head back over her
chair, her eyes closed and there lay her little plump mouth, all in the
air. Lord! did ye ever see a hawk pounce upon a young robin? Or a
bumblebee upon a clover-top?--I say nothing.
Consarn it, how a buss will crack, of a still frosty night. Mrs. Jones
was about half way between asleep and awake. "There goes my yeast
bottle," says she to herself--"burst into twenty hundred pieces, and my
bread is all dough agin."
The upshot of the matter is, I fell in love with Sally Jones, head over
ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds me rapping at 'Squire
Jones' door, and twenty times have I been within a hair's breadth of
popping the question. But now I have made a final resolve; and if I live
till next Sunday night, and I don't get choked in the trial, Sally Jones
will hear thunder.
VENETIAN MOONLIGHT.
By Frederick Mellen.
The midnight chime had tolled from Marco's towers;
O'er Adria's wave the trembling echo swept;
The gondolieri paused upon their oars,
Mutt'ring their prayers as through the still night crept.
Far on the wave the knell of time sped on,
Till the sound died upon its tranquil breast;
The sea-boy startled as the peal rolled on;
Gazed at his star, and turned himself to rest.