with much complacency; and turning to his wife, “all for your benefit,
Josy.”
“And I am not ungrateful, Edwin. To prove to you how much I am humbled
at your discovery of my incompetency to see to my _ménage_, I have
resolved to give it up entirely, and beg you to continue in my place.
Here are the keys,” and stepping forward, Josephine dropped the basket
at his feet. “Martin—Lucy! hereafter you will go to your master for
orders, and remember that I am on no account to be disturbed by any one
of you.”
It was impossible to laugh, for the quiet dignity of her manner forbade
it. Martin bowed—Lucy curtsied and ran off. Edwin remained as if
spell-bound. He had never once dreamed of Josy’s rebelling, and had
looked upon himself as a model husband from the daily assistance he
afforded her. Moreover, he began to perceive his absurd position, and
reddening to the temples, arose from his chair.
“You are surely not in earnest, Josephine, in offering me these keys. I
am not the proper person to carry them; certainly, I have endeavored to
assist, and enable you, knowing your inexperience, to become more
careful with your property and mine; but I do not wish to usurp your
place at all.”
“You have done so until now, my dear Edwin,” was her mild but firm
reply. “When you become convinced of my ability to be my _own_
housekeeper, I may then offer to take back the place; but my mind is
made up, I do assure you,” and she placed the basket of keys once more
in his hands. He dared not accuse her of spite, she had borne it so
long; but he was too much humiliated and vexed to conceal it. Courtesy
prevented his refusing to take his seat at the table, or I verily
believe he would have left us in high dudgeon. Isabel and I talked as
fast as we could, and Josy took her part as gayly as either of us. And
after a while so did he, supposing in his inmost mind, that his wife
would revoke her decision on the morrow.
But the morrow came, and Martin, as firm as his mistress, went to know
what Master Edwin wanted from market. It was of course very early, and
to say the truth very unusual, as Josy was in the habit of giving her
orders at night.
“D—n it,” said Mr. Bettyman, half asleep, “what do you come to me for?”
“My mistress told me to do so, sir,” was the respectful reply, though
poor Martin had to struggle with a laugh, as he again applied himself to
rouse his master. “Would you prefer a breast of veal to-day, sir? I
think that you were not pleased with the leg of mutton this day week.”
“Confound the leg of mutton!” muttered the master, rubbing his eyes and
sitting up. “Martin, am I dreaming, or you?”
“You are, sir, I think,” replied Martin, smiling now in good earnest.
“My Mistress sent me to you to know what was to be got in market today.
We always have mutton on Wednesdays, sir, but you didn’t like—”
“Pshaw! get what you please! Give me my vest there—take the money, and
let me be quiet;” and Mr. Bettyman fell back on his pillow, and closed
his eyes once more in sleep. A few moments after he was again roused.
“Master Edwin will you have toast this morning—milk toast? And shall
Maria broil the chickens, or stew them, sir?”
“What do I know about chickens? Are you all crazy, that you come one
after another to disturb my rest to-day? I have just gotten rid of
Martin, and now you must come and rouse me from my morning sleep. Why
don’t you go to your mistress? Hang the chickens!”
Lucy ran out as Mr. Bettyman turned over grumbling to resume his nap.
“Maria, I can’t get Maus Edwin to answer me a word, excepting that you
are to hang the chickens.”
“Hang em!” cried the cook, indignantly. “Did ever any one hear of such a
thing! I’m going to my misses and ax _her_.”
“Miss an’t here, she’s out walkin’ with Miss Isabel, and she’s done give
up the housekeepin’ to Maus Edwin. Cos why? Cos he pokes his nose every
where, and hit an’t his bizness.”
“Here’s Martin from market! My stars! Set down the basket, boy, and let
me see. Kidneys! Now how is I to know how to cook these without being
informed? I’m gwine to Maus Edwin myself!”
And off she marched without any kind of ceremony into Edwin’s room. An
old servant, she was not _quite_ so particular about noise as the
younger ones, so she screamed out at the door.
“Maus Edwin! oh, Maus Edwin! How you want the kidneys done? Broiled, or
stewed in wine? It’s late, and I want to know.”
“Go to the d——l with your kidneys!” cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly
awake. “If you come to me with any more questions, I’ll throw the
boot-jack at your head!”
Maria scampered down stairs, and reached the kitchen in a second. The
breakfast that day was cooked and served without direction from master
or mistress; and when we sat down to table every thing looked so
creditable to cook and house-boy, that Mr. Bettyman, now refreshed by
his last nap, quite forgot his late instalment, and did the honors with
his usual hospitality. But no sooner had he risen from his chair, after
finishing his meal, than Maria appeared with a perfect pyramid of pans,
and stood grinning before him.
“Maus Edwin! gwine give out dinner, and all that? Miss Josy always do it
just after breakfast—and I guess you want to be off to town soon.”
“By Jupiter! what is all this jargon for? What have I to do with you and
your pans, unless I throw them at your head? Have my buggy around
instantly!” cried Mr. Bettyman, now fairly out of patience; and as he
remembered his wife’s resignation of keys, etc. the evening previous,
came back into the Hall and stood before her. Josy was busy with her
little mop and cup-pan about to wash her own china and silver.
“Josy,” said he, somewhat humbly, for he _could_ not blame her, “you
surely do not intend to carry out this farce any longer, do you? This is
making me too ridiculous!”
“And what have you been doing, then, my dearest husband?” replied she,
cheerfully. “I cannot content you—you will take my place and find fault
with either ‘too much’ or ‘not enough,’ and I begin to feel housekeeping
_two_ ways a little fatiguing. Not only must I arrange matters to please
myself, but on your return I must begin anew to satisfy your
_exigéance_.”
“Well, well, Josy,” said Edwin, “say that you are not serious, in giving
me so absurd an office, and I will promise not to interfere again. Will
that do?”
“I will try you for one week then; if within that time, beginning from
this hour, you trespass again by interfering once only in my
housekeeping, I give back the management of all into your hands.”
“Done! done!” cried he, delighted, and sealing the bond with a kiss,
“you shall not hear a word of complaint from my lips, Isabel and Ellen
to witness. Given under my hand, etc.;” and he ran off, with one bound
was in his buggy, and drove rapidly away.
“He is certainly very amiable and good-natured,” said Isabel, looking
after him affectionately, for he deserved the eulogium. Feeling the
justice of his wife’s complaint, he did not, as many, oh, how many!
would have done in his place, fly into a rage, and exert that tyranny of
marital power which every day some lord of the creation delights to
show. Refuse, in virtue of that very power, to acknowledge my wrong, and
turn a “heaven into a hell” of domestic discord. “He is certainly very
amiable,” continued Isabel, “and divested of this unpleasant mania, will
make the best husband in the world.”
“He will, indeed,” said his wife, looking much gratified. “I have never
seen any one with a more lovely disposition than Edwin. He is never
cross, even in the midst of his housekeeping,” and she laughed. So did
I, and I could not but wish that Edwin’s week of probation were well
over. Meddling with pantries, cellars and kitchens, was his second
nature, and we took our seats around the well-supplied dinner-table,
awaiting with some curiosity the results of the morning compact. Soup
being served, Martin proceeded to remove the plates and bring in the
second course. Alas! alas!
“How is this Martin? What a waste of vegetables! Josy, my dear—” He
stopped, and we all burst into a laugh, in which he had to join.
“The bond is broken,” said Josephine at length. “I did hope and pray for
your triumph, my dear Edwin. Take back the keys.”
“Will no one intercede for me?” said he, with a woful look. “May I not
have one more trial, ladies—only one more?” He was really mortified and
distressed.
“Give him one more, Josy,” cried I, pitying him, for he had really a
victory to win. “Let this one little mistake be thrown from the
balance.”
“Be it so,” said she, “but let this be the last. I grant no more grace,
Mr. Edwin Bettyman; remember the warning in time.”
Once I saved him, while Isabel and his wife were busy in the parlor
covering picture frames. The pantry door stood open, he glanced in and
could not resist the temptation and entered. I heard him rummaging about
in there, among dishes, plates, and finally the tins began to rattle.
Suddenly he appeared, with a cake pan in one hand and a cheese mould in
the other. Taking me at the moment for Josy, he commenced, “I have
rubbed my finger around the inside of these pans, my dear, and—”
I turned and shook my head at him, pointing to the parlor. He started,
and thrusting his burdens into my hand ran down the steps, saying “don’t
betray me, Ellen, the week is almost out.” I replaced the things
silently, and returned to my companions. They were just congratulating
themselves upon Edwin’s forbearance until then.
“We shall see, what we shall see,” thought I, taking up some muslin, and
busying myself with a beautiful painting on copper, destined to ornament
Josephine’s pretty little sewing-room. Her husband took such pains to
beautify this chosen “sanctum” of hers that I could almost have prayed
for his triumph over this one fault—yet no sin. It seemed hard that for
a failing of this peculiar nature, Mr. Bettyman should be looked upon
generally as an unkind husband, when in all other respects he was so
considerate for the comfort and happiness of his wife. Yet, so it was,
and knowing this “general” opinion, his kind cousin determined to cure
him of its cause.
Saturday came, and we all breathed freely—if this one day were but
over. Edwin jested with his wife upon her being obliged to retain her
basket of keys “nolens volens,” for he contended that it was but a ruse
to get rid of the trouble of looking and unlocking after all. He felt
sure of his triumph now, for “of course I shall not forget myself within
these few hours.”
“_Tant mieux_,” said Josephine, and rattling a bunch of keys at his ears
she bade him begone, “lest,” added she, “the spell be broken at sight of
some old duster lying loose, or a cracked pitcher with no handle.”
“Ay, do begone,” continued Isabel declaimingly, “for as
‘Heat and cold, and wind, and _steam_,
Moisture and _mildew_, mice, worms and swarming flies,
Minute as dust and numberless, oft work
Dire _meddling habits_ that admit no cure
And which no care can obviate’—
we fear to trust you in our presence longer.”
“Abominable parody,” cried Mr. Bettyman, laughing. “I doubt if Cowper
were ever before so applied. But good-bye, signorinas, _que beso las
manos_.”
He returned home in rare good-humor, even for him; as, though cheerful,
he was never in very high spirits. But the foreign and _domestic_ state
of affairs was encouraging—cotton was up, and “the day” nearly over. He
challenged us to a walk, and through fields and flowers we wandered
joyously until the bright lady moon was looking down in all her beauty,
and shedding silver light over land and sea. We reached home as pleased
as wanderers could be, each remembering some distant dream in days gone
by, that came back to us with the scene and hour. All love to see,
The moonbeam sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves,
and we paused a while before entering, to linger over the loveliness of
the fair fragrant buds that were just bursting into perfume. The night
jasmine, with her tiny star-bells hanging fragilely along its bending
stem, and her pale, sweet sister blooming amid its “deep dark green,”
and sending forth its incense upon the summer air. Here, too, was the
constant heliotrope, which, at decline of sun, exhales in deepest sighs
her balmy breath. How much more pure is the odor of flowers at evening,
as though a voiceless prayer were ascending in praise of the Hand that
fashioned them!
Such were some of the thoughts busy in our hearts as we turned away to
mount the steps, and seating ourselves in the light arm-chairs upon the
piazza, we recollected that there was such a feeling as the one of
fatigue. Mr. Bettyman had preceded us some time into the house, and now
came through the hall with his blouse and slippers on. How these lords
do love their slippers and their ease! When women express a wish to
change their shoes forsooth, they forever get the credit of wearing
tight ones. (N. B. Is it not time when so many revolutions are taking
place, that we should revolutionize _some_ things in this world?
Sisters! to the rescue!)
“Do turn the lamp down, Martin,” said Isabel, as the bright glare of the
solar globe burst upon us, “I love a mellow light in summer. Do not you,
Ellen?”
“Yes,” replied I, “one can think so pleasantly in the twilight, or the
moonlight. If you sit in silence where your face is visible, your nice
air-castles are all at once tumbled down by some one exclaiming ‘Why
what is the matter? Yon look so grave.’ And then you start and look
foolish, answering stupidly, or begin an account of your thoughts, which
cannot possibly interest any one but your own self.”
“_Tene_; but I love to trace a chain of thought—threading a mental way
through all its intricacies, to find how very, very small the ‘baseless
fabric’ from whence we started. It is like watching the circle upon
circle that sweeps out from around the troubled water of a small stream.
A commotion that a single drop may occasion. No very new comparison, to
be sure, but one may be excused a plagiarism when one has no genius.
Josy, give us an idea or two to start on, you who think so prettily.”
“A silver penny for Edwin’s thoughts!” said Josy, laying her little hand
on his and looking up into his face. “Now tell us where you have been
wandering all this while, grave man? Do you too weave romances at this
witching hour, and for whom? _Your_ day is gone, Sir Benedict, and I am
here to remind you of it.”
“Who can say that I am free?” exclaimed he. “Forced to answer this
syren’s questions, I must plead guilty to wondering if the man in the
moon had a family, and, if so, what can be the nature of the little
moonses.”
“O lame and impotent conclusion,” cried Josy, laughing merrily. “Oh,
Edwin! I did expect something poetical at least, after your silent
meditation.”
“_Que voulez-vous?_” said he, with a shrug. “I was commanded to open my
heart to the present company, and dared not disobey. If my astronomical
observations are not acceptable to the learned triumvirate, I throw
myself upon their mercy. What is it, Martin?”
“There is a boy here, sir, who wishes to know if you will let Colonel
Robinson have your rockaway to-morrow. He has broken down on his way
out, and says he knows you have your buggy for your own use. The
rockaway will be returned in the evening.”
“The deuce it will!” said Mr. Bettyman, impatiently rising from his
chair and following the servant out into the yard. “I do not like to
lend my vehicles, I must confess, for they are never returned in order.”
And neither does any one else, I believe, gentlemen particularly. I have
known _ladies_, however, whose carriage, driver and horses could wait
attendance a whole day on a fashionable acquaintance, when the
convenience would be denied “poor relations.” But this means nothing,
dear reader; of course you are not one of _my_ acquaintances, I have
very few I assure you; I care most for old friends, and hope you will
pardon my wandering from the subject.
Mr. Bettyman remained some time absent, and we still sat on the piazza,
discussing Col. Robinson and the bad habit of borrowing rockaways. But
when he returned, oh, angels and ministers of grace! he had mounted his
hobby. Holding in his hand a spoon and tumbler he approached his wife.
“Now, Josy, my dear, where do you think I discovered these? Such unheard
of carelessness! You see, my love, how I am forced to take care of every
thing.”
Josy arose and laid the keys at his feet. “You have earned the honor at
last, Edwin, and now you are _my_ housekeeper, I am no longer
responsible for any carelessness of the servants, and you are free from
further anxiety, as you will direct and take the government of the whole
concern.”
“And as the spoon is mine, and he has obliged me by throwing out the gum
arabic which had all day been dissolving, that I might make Josy some
mixture for her cough, I must beg him to replace every thing upon my
window seat as he found it. I can have you taken up for purloining
silver, Cousin Edwin; look at the mark now.”
Poor Mr. Bettyman! I could not but pity him, amusing as his mania was.
In the morning early, the servants were again calling upon him for
orders, and getting blessed at each new disturbance. In pity, then, I
took the keys myself. But, called away shortly after, had to resign them
into his unwilling hands. He took them with a woful countenance. “Ah,
Ellen! you were my only friend, and now you desert me.”
When I next visited the house, it was to congratulate Joey upon the
birth of a dear little girl; and Edwin was busy amid stew-pans and
pap-cups, enraging the nurse until she vowed to leave the house unless
allowed her own way with mother and child.
“Make slops for yourself and go to bed and swallow them, Mr. Bettyman,
but indeed I will not poison the baby with your mixtures. Nor can I
allow your lady, sir, to drink that mess you’ve been cooking half the
day.”
Nurses are privileged people, and poor Edwin had to surrender. Josy’s
grateful smiles, however, were some consolation, and the lovely babe
another. I inquired of Isabel how long he kept the keys.
“Until Josephine’s confinement,” was her reply. “I was determined to
give him a hard lesson; and never was man more ruffled than he. However,
my dear, don’t think he is cured! By no means; he comes to me constantly
as he did formerly to Josy; but I pay no attention to him, except by
offering him again the housekeeping. He shall never annoy Josy again,
depend upon it. The baby is enough occupation for her now, and Cousin
Edwin stands enough in awe of me to let me have my way about every
thing. He will meddle, and he may, but to no purpose.”
“And when you leave them, Isabel?”
“I shall not leave them though.”
“And should you marry, dear Bella?”
“_Pas si beta!_ I love Josy too well to leave her, now that I find
myself necessary to her happiness. I love Edwin, too; he has behaved
nobly to me, and generously. The only man I ever could have married is
lost to me. So, Ellen, I can lead a single life, and be a nice old
maid.”
And she kept her word, reader; never was there so kind, so pleasant a
companion as my friend Isabel.
* * * * *
THE SONG OF THE AXE.
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
I WAS born deep down—deep down in the sable depths of the mine,
(Thus commenced the iron,)
Where I lay in dull and sullen sleep,
Till the miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
With his sharp pickaxe,
And by the light of his flaring torch,
Torch of flary and smoky crimson!
That lit up the gloom like a star,
Forced me from my dull and sullen sleep.
And whistling like the keen northwest over a peak of the Ural
mountains, (oh mountains, stern mountains of snow.)
Lifted me, dull and sullen as I was, to the dazzling eye of the
sun-god,
I hated the miner, that miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
With his flaring and crimson torch,
And his sharp pickaxe,
I hated him, and I wished I was a weapon to bite into his heart—
Ho! ho! ho! how I would have laughed, as I bit into his heart,
That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
For lifting me from my dull and sullen sleep
Into the presence of so radiant a being as the golden-tressed,
beautiful sun-god.
For I was black, from my dull and sullen sleep,
And the dross of long years, of long years that I spent in the mine,
clung about me like barnacles to a ship.
So I was glad when I was hurried to the forge;
But, oh, how I writhed and bent in my anguish as the red hot furnace!
Yea, the furnace “heated to a white heat,”
Made my heart melt within me, and my whole body change to a mass of
living flame—
That fierce and merciless forge.
Oh how my heart melted within me, and how my whole body changed to a
mass of living flame,
That softened each agonized pore, and made me turn liquid with sorrow.
I was taken then from the forge,
And beaten into a long, slender wand, like a spear,
And I thought I was changing to a spear,
And laughed, for then I could bite into heart
Of that miner,
That miner, gaunt, naked and strong,
That took me from my dull and sullen sleep,
And hurried me, all black, and covered with dross like the barnacles
on a ship,
Into the golden presence of him the bright, beautiful sun-god.
But I was not destined to bite into the heart of that miner:
And I was hurried then to the smithy,
Where stood the stalwort blacksmith leaning on his sledge:
That blacksmith, with his leathern apron and arm that would fell a
buffalo.
And he smiled, that blacksmith,
When he placed me in _his_ forge, and wakened his monstrous bellows.
And I—I knew that my foe the red fire would leap again into my
entrails,
And melt my heart;
And I tried to yell out my wrath, but could not—
And so I lay dark and sullen, yea, dark and sullen as when
I slept deep down in the sable mine,
Until I felt my foe the red fire again melting my heart,
And again softening my strong, well-knit muscles
Into a mass of living flame—
Ah then that sharp anvil!
“Swank! swank! swank!” rang the blows of that stalwort blacksmith, and
a smutty faced lad that he called “son!”
“Son!” oh how I wished I had his throat in my strong and well-knit
muscles—
I would have torn it as the wild wolf tears the throat of the deer—
But as for the stalwort blacksmith, I was afraid of him—
So I lay and let him smite me.
Then I felt myself beaten into a shape—the welcome shape of the axe—
And I laughed,
For the axe was made for slaughter—
Then I was taken from the burly blacksmith’s,
And keen, clear, flashing teeth of steel
Were given me,
And I laughed again,
For I thought that if I had a chance how I would bite in the heart of
that miner,
That miner, gaunt, naked and strong!
And the smutty-faced boy whom the burly blacksmith
Called “son.”
But the burly blacksmith himself, I would not bite him,
No, not even were his veins beneath the gripe of my clear, keen,
flashing teeth,
For I loved the burly blacksmith,
The burly, stalwort blacksmith,
With his apron of leather and arm that could fell a buffalo.
And then I was hung up in a village store;
A paltry village store, amidst onions, and turnips and tape,
To wait my destined doom.
I was born in the pleasant wood;
(Thus commenced the helve,
Not rough and fierce and hateful
Like the iron, but modest and mild)
I was born in the pleasant wood;
I was an arm of the sturdy oak;
And I bore a wealth of green leaves
In the long bright summer days,
Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum—
And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird.
Oh, I was happy!
I danced in the liquid wind,
And murmured my joy at all times;
In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide;
In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon;
Yea, I was happy!
The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm,
And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield.
Oh, I was happy!
But my time came.
The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe—
The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe—
The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald
shield,
Ay, even before I could call upon my father oak
To bend his green plume and protect his son,
I was crashing on the earth—
Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion,
As the woodman,
As the whistling woodman,
As the free and careless woodman,
Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bare
As a bird just emerged from its shell.
And then he shaped me into a thick stick,
A thick white stick, with his wood-knife,
And carried me to the village store,
And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak,
That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams,
And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve,
And beneath the seraphic moon;
Yes, me, did that careless woodman
Bargain for a keg of apple-sauce,
The mean, sneaking villain!
That pitiful woodman!
And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sap
When it shrieks in its prison for help,
As the red flame enters its chamber.
(But again murmured the helve.)
There in that paltry village store,
Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape,
There did I rest in my dusky nook,
Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled,
With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico!
Calico or tape!
Joe, measure a yard of tape!”
Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oak
Began to boil in me.
But as for the axe,
Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth,
As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman,
That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk,
So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk,
With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you say
Calico
or
Tape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!”
At length an honest settler
Came in from his hill-meadows
And spoke for an axe.
I was dragged from my corner,
And the iron was released from his thraldom,
And the sharp knife of the honest settler,
As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet,
Shaved me down and shaped me,
Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron,
The iron, with his purple head,
And his keen, clear, flashing teeth.
Since then have we dwelt together,
Me and my husband the iron,
In the hut of the honest settler.
The helve ceased.
And then a blended song
In which rang the clear treble of the helve
And the gruff notes of the iron
Swelled on my ear.
But at length the settler harnessed his oxen,
And bent a canvas tent over his wagon,
His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide,
And filling it with his household wealth,
And casting us, married as we were,
On his brawny shoulder,
Started on his journey.
Oh! long was our way through the forest;
The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path,
The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyes
From the knotted feet of the pine-tree—
Oh, how the pine-tree shook!
Oh, how the pine-tree roared!
As the violets, that looked with their blue eyes
From his knotted feet,
Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon,
And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips,
Oh! how they splashed with their sweet blood
The broad wheels
Of the ruthless wagon.
In vain did the laurel hang
Its magnificent bouquet of pink and pearl
Over that broad-wheeled wagon!
In vain did the loftier dog-wood
Arch his blossoms of creamy silver,
Both forming a triumphal arch,
Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days,
Over that broad-wheeled wagon.
On did the wagon plough,
Staying for nothing, and crushing still,
Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon!
The huddling violets with their blue eyes,
And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips,
Letting their sweet blood flow
Till the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud.
And so we journeyed on,
Resting upon the brawny shoulder
Of the honest settler.
At sunset he made us work,
And we bit into the trees,
And formed his night-bower in the forest.
And so we journeyed on
Till we came in sight of the home
That the settler had chose in the forest,
The forest that blackened the tide
Of the Delaware, mountain-born;
Here he made his home—here he looked at his sylvan empire,
And led his band to hew and slaughter the forest,
The forest that blackened the tide
Of the Delaware, mountain-born.
Bright was the August morn
That laughed on the vales and the tree-tops,
When he led his stalwort band
To slaughter the virgin forest
That blackened the Delaware’s brow,
And gayly and freely they slaughtered
The trees of the creek-fed river,
The river that leaped from its mountain-goblet
Glittering, clear as dew, and pure as a thought of the Deity,
Far up in its deep scoop of rock.
How they laughed as they swung their blows
On the hemlock and spruce and green maple
That arbored the glen of the eagle,
And bent o’er the cave of the wolf.
How they laughed as they heard the deep groans
Of the hemlock and spruce and green maple
And their proud plumes were bowed to the ground.
The forests thus vanished away
Like the fog that is breathed from the water,
And the eagle screamed keen from the top
Of his dwelling, laid bare from her brood,
Whilst they shivered and shook with the cold,
Icy cold of the gauntlet that Jack Frost
Laid upon the soft down of their breasts.
Thus vanished the forests away,
And the green smiling farm-fields succeeded,
Some like the tawny lion-skin,
Some spotted like the robe of the ounce,
And some striped like the splendid glory of the tiger.
The cabin arose in its clearing,
The kine-bells sent tinklings like sounds of silver amidst the
thickets and bushes,
That grouped in rounded clusters the grassy and quiet glades.
Then the log hut was swept away
With its chimney of sticks,
And its little window, like the eye of the deer
Peering out from its leafy ambush.
The village spread out with its roofs
And its delicate finger-like steeple
That pointed forever toward heaven,
Like the prayer of the pastor ascending.
On an emerald knoll, with the shape
Of the delicate finger-like steeple
Cutting black in the sunshine beside it,
The pioneer’s white modest dwelling
Sparkled out of its bosom of verdure.
There lived the brave old patriarch,
The father of many children—
There lived the gray old patriarch,
Awaiting his summons to go
To the land, the bright land of his hopes—
To the land, the sweet land of the happy.
On the spot where he saw the brindled form of the stealthy panther
Prowling like guilt through the tangles of the wood,
He sees the quiet steed, born in the spacious Merrimac meadows,
The old, faithful, honest steed,
Whose feet seemed shod with wind,
And whose snort was like the deep bass note of the ophicleide
In the fiery days of his youth;
Stamping the flies and whisking his stump of a tail
As he sluggishly moves toward the sparkling spring
Welling up to the rim of the mossy hogshead.
Ah, the old father in Zion was blest!
Blest in his household, his home and his goods!
Ah, he was perfectly happy!
As the full golden moon of his purified soul
Wheeled down to the rim of the west,
Where the angel of God stood with waiting pinions
To waft him high upward to glory.
My song is done.
(And the blended tones of the axe sunk away
Like the last water-like notes of the lute of the winds,
Sunk away—away—swooned deliciously away,
And I treasured it in the inner chamber of my ear,
And sung it to myself in the deepest nook of my heart,
And then gave it to the world.)
* * * * *
THE DARKENED CASEMENT.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
CHAPTER I.
What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower
Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
TENNYSON.
FREDERIC PRESTON was the eldest son of a respectable merchant, in one of
the most important seaport towns of New England. He was a young man of
fine personal appearance, a warm and honorable heart, and a spirit
singularly brave and adventurous. From his boyhood his inclinations had
led him to a seafaring life, and at the age of twenty-six, when he is
presented to the reader, he had already made several voyages to the East
Indies, as supercargo in the employ of the house in which his father was
a partner. He was now at home for a year, awaiting the completion of a
vessel, which was to trade with Canton, and which he was to command.
Preston had, for all his love of change and adventure, a taste for
literature—always taking a well-selected library with him on his long
voyages—was even, for one of his pursuits, remarkable for scholarly
attainments; yet he sometimes wearied of books and study, and, as he had
little taste for general society, often found the time drag heavily in
his shore-life. Thus it was that he one day cheerfully accepted the
invitation of his mother to accompany her to a school examination, in
which his sister was to take a part.
Our young gentleman was shown a seat in front, near the platform on
which were ranged the “patient pupils”—“beauties, every shade of brown
and fair.”
He gazed about rather listlessly for a while, but at length his
attention became fixed on a young lady who stood at the black-board,
proving with great elegance and precision a difficult proposition in
Euclid. He was observing the admirable taste of her dress, the delicacy
and willowy grace of her figure, when suddenly, while raising her arm in
drawing her diagram, a small comb of shell dropped from her head, and a
rich mass of hair fell over her shoulders.
And such hair!—it was wondrously luxuriant, not precisely curly, but
rippling all through with small glossy waves, just ready to roll
themselves into ringlets, and of that peculiar, indescribable color
between a brown and a bright auburn.
Preston, who felt that the possessor of such magnificent hair must be
beautiful, waited impatiently for a sight at the face of the fair
geometrician; but, without turning her head, she stepped quietly back,
took up the comb, quickly re-arranged her hair, and went on with her
problem. It was not until this was finished, and she took her seat among
the other pupils, that Preston had a full view of her face. He was more
keenly disappointed than he would have acknowledged, when he saw only
plainness, in place of the beauty he so confidently expected. Yet Dora
Allen was by no means disagreeably plain; her features were regular, and
her complexion extremely fair. She was only thin, wan and somewhat
spiritless in appearance. Her face was “sicklied o’er with the pale cast
of thought”—with thought her young eye seemed shadowed, her young brow
burdened. But there was a sweet and lovable spirit looking out from the
depths of those dreamy eyes, and hovering about those quiet and almost
colorless lips, which told the observer that her rare intellectual
attainments had not stood in the way of her simple affections, to hinder
their generous development.
Frederic Preston liked Dora Allen’s face somewhat better as he regarded
it more closely, and when, at the close of the exercises, this young
lady was called forward to receive the highest honors of the
institution—when she advanced timidly, and bowed modestly, to be
crowned with a wreath of rose-buds and lilies of the valley, while a
sudden flush kindled in her cheek, flowed into her quivering lips, and
illuminated her whole countenance, she grew absolutely beautiful in his
eyes.
Our hero was not sorry to learn that Miss Allen was the most intimate
friend of his sister Anna, from whom he soon ascertained that she was an
orphan, within a few years past, adopted by an uncle, a clergyman of the
place—that she was about eighteen—of an amiable, frank and noble
disposition, yet chiefly distinguished for her fine intellectual
endowments and studious habits.
I will not dwell on what my shrewd reader already anticipates—the love
and marriage of Frederic Preston and Dora Allen. I will not dwell on the
sad parting scene, when, within six months from “the happiest day of his
life,” Captain Preston set sail for Canton, his brave spirit strangely
cast down, the once gay light of his eyes quenched in tears, and with a
long tress of rich auburn hair lying close against his heart.
On account of some business arrangements which he was to make at Canton,
he must be absent somewhat more than two years. He desired greatly to
take his young wife with him, but feared, from knowing her delicate
organization, that she could not endure the voyage. He left her in a
pretty cottage-home, which he himself had fitted up for her, in sight of
the harbor.
Dora had living with her a widowed elder sister, whose society and
assistance were much comfort to her, in her otherwise most lonely lot.
Among the many letters which Captain Preston received from his loving
and constant wife during his absence, there was one which he read with
peculiar joy—with tears of grateful emotion. For this was not alone
from the bride of his bosom, but from the mother of his child. Thus
wrote Dora:
“Our boy is four weeks old to-day, and my heart is already gladdened by
his striking resemblance to you, dearest. He has your fine olive
complexion, your large black eyes and dark, curling hair. I call him
_Frederic_, and have great joy in often repeating the beloved name.”
It was early on an April morning that the merchantman “Bay State” came
into —— harbor. Scarcely waiting for daylight, Captain Preston took
his way homeward. He found only Mrs. Mason, his sister-in-law, up; but
received from her happy greeting, the assurance that all was well. With
his heart on his lips, he softly stole up to Dora’s favorite room, a
pleasant chamber which looked out on the sea. He entered and reached her
bed-side unheard. She was yet sleeping, and Frederic observed that her
hair had escaped from her pretty muslin cap, and was floating over her
neck and bosom—then looking closer, he saw peering through it, two
mischievous black eyes—a pair of bright, parted lips—a rosy, chubby,
dimpled little face—yes, caught his first view of his infant boy
through a veil of the mother’s beautiful hair. Then, with a light laugh,
he bent down, and clasped them both, calling their names, and in a
moment, seemed to hold all heaven in his arms.
CHAPTER II.
“I seek her now—I kneel—I shriek—
I clasp her vesture—but she fades, still fades;
And she is gone; sweet human love is gone!
’Tis only when they spring to heaven that angels
Reveal themselves to you.”
BROWNING.
From that time the voyages of Captain Preston were not so long as
formerly, and he often spent many months, sometimes a year or two with
his family. He frequently spoke of resigning his sea-faring life
altogether, but was ever concluding that he was not yet in a situation
to render the step a prudent one for his business interests. Finally,
when he had been about fifteen years married, he set out on what he
intended and promised his family should be his last voyage. He was at
this time the father of three children; the son, of whom we have spoken,
a healthful, high-spirited boy, and two daughters, Pauline and
Louise—the first greatly resembling her father, the second very like
the mother.
Captain Preston was pained to leave his gentle wife looking paler and
more thin than usual, and to observe, for she said nothing of it, that
she was troubled with a slight cough. Yet he was of a most hopeful
spirit, and even as he heard her low voice, and saw her faint smile, so
much sadder than tears, he trusted that the coming summer would bring
her health, and more cheerful spirits.
Mrs. Preston had usually a remarkable control over her painful emotions,
and was peculiarly calm in all seasons of trial; but at this parting,
she clung long and closely about her husband’s neck—it seemed that she
could not let him go. She buried her face in his bosom and wept and
sobbed in irrepressible anguish.
At last, unwinding her fond arms, he resigned her, half-fainting, to the
care of her sister, hastily embraced his children, and rushed from the
house. He heard his name called in a wild, pleading voice, yet he dared
not look back, but ran down the long garden-walk, and paused not till he
reached the road. Here he turned for one look at his home, ere a thick
clump of pines should hide it from his sight. He lifted his eyes to that
pleasant window looking out on the sea, and there stood Dora, weeping
and waving her slender white hand. He drew his cap over his eyes, turned
again, and hastened down to the harbor.
During this last absence, Captain Preston received but one letter from
his wife—but this was very long—a sort of journal, kept through the
spring and summer succeeding his departure. In all this, though Dora
wrote most pleasantly of home affairs, and very particularly of the
children, she made no mention of the state of her own health, and this
he knew not whether to regard as matter for assurance or apprehension.
At length he was on his homeward voyage—was fast approaching his native
shores. Never had he looked forward to reaching port with such eager,
boyish impatience—never had his weary heart so longed for the rest and
joy of home.
But a severe storm came up, drove them off their course, and kept them
beating about, so that for some days they made no headway. One night—it
was a Sabbath night—Capt. Preston, completely exhausted, flung his
cloak around him, and threw himself down on the cabin-floor for a little
rest, for he could not lie in his berth. It was full midnight—his eyes
closed heavily at once—he was fast falling into sleep, when he thought
he heard his name called very softly, but in a tone which pierced to the
deeps of his heart. He looked up, half raising himself, and _Dora was
before him_! Yes, his own Dora, it seemed, with her own familiar face,
still sweet and loving in its looks, though it seemed strangely
glorified by the shining forth of a soft, inward light. Again she spoke
his name, drew nearer, and bent down, as though to kiss his forehead. He
did not feel the pressure of her lips, but he looked into the eyes above
him—her own dear eyes, and read there a mournful, unspeakable
tenderness—a divine intensity, an eternity of love. He reached out his
arms and called her name aloud; but she glided, faint smiling, from his
fond embrace—the blessed vision faded, and he was alone—alone in the
dim cabin of a storm-rocked vessel, with the tempest shrieking through
the cordage, with the black heights of a midnight heaven above, and the
blacker depths of a boiling sea below.
Frederic Preston did not sleep that night. In spite of all the efforts
of his reason, his heart was racked with anxiety, or oppressed with a
mortal heaviness.
In the course of the following day the storm abated, and they afterward
crowded all sail for land; yet it was a week ere they cast anchor in
—— harbor. It was ten o’clock at night, and Captain Preston was
immediately rowed to shore. Without waiting to speak to any one, he
hurried up the road toward his cottage. As he drew near the bend in the
road, by the clump of pines, he said to himself that if all were well at
home, there would surely be a light shining from that window of Dora’s
chamber looking out on the sea. But as he came in full view, he paused,
and dared not look up, while the thick, high beating of his heart seemed
almost to suffocate him. At last, chiding himself for this womanish
weakness, he raised his eyes—_and all was dark_!
He hardly knew how after this he made his way up the garden walk, to the
cottage, nor how, when finding it all closed, he still had strength to
go on to his father’s house, where he was received with many tears, by
his parents, his sisters, and his children. The deep mourning dress of
the whole sad group told of itself the story of his desolation. For some
time, he neither spoke nor wept, but supported by his father, and
leaning his head on his mother’s breast, he swayed back and forth, while
his deep, constant groans shook his strong frame, and burdened all the
air about him. Finally, in a scarce audible voice, he asked:
“When did she go, mother?”
“Last Sunday, near midnight, my son.”
“Thank God, it was she, then! I saw her last! She came to me—her
blessed angel came to bid me farewell. Oh, that divine love which could
not die with thee, Dora, Dora!”
Then with a light over his face which was almost a smile, he turned to
his poor children, gathered them to his embrace, and wept with them.
Mrs. Preston, who, as we have said, had ever been fragile and delicate,
had at last died of a rapid decline. She had been confined to her room
but a few weeks, and to her bed scarcely a day. She passed away with
great tranquillity of spirit, though suffering much physical pain. Her
children were with her at the last, and her patience, serenity, and holy
resignation seemed to repress the passionate outbursts of their childish
grief till all was over.
It was not until some time had passed that Captain Preston felt himself
able to open a large package placed in his hands by his mother, and
which Dora had left for him—sealed up and directed with her own hand,
the very day before she died.
At length, seeking his own now desolate home, and shutting himself up in
that dear familiar chamber, with the pleasant window looking out on the
sea—there where he had seen her last—where she had breathed out her
pure spirit—where her form had lain in death—there he lifted his heart
to God for strength, kissed the seal and broke it. Before him lay a rich
mass of dark auburn hair—Dora’s beautiful hair! With a low cry, half
joy, half pain, he caught it, pressed it to his lips and heart, and
bedewed it with his abundant tears. Suddenly he observed that those
long, bright tresses were wound about a letter—a letter addressed to
him in Dora’s own familiar hand. He sank into a seat, unfolded the
precious missive, and read—what we will give in the chapter following.
CHAPTER III.
“Earth on my soul is strong—too strong—
Too precious is its chain,
All woven of thy love, dear friend,
Yet vain—though mighty—vain!
“A little while between our hearts
The shadowy gulf must lie,
Yet have we for their communing
Still, still eternity!”
HEMANS.
THE LETTER.
“Frederic, my dearest—pride of my heart—love of my youth—my husband!
A sweet, yet most mournful task is mine, to write to you words which you
may not read until my voice is hushed in the grave—till the heart that
prompts is cold and pulseless—till the hand that traces is mouldering
into dust. Yes, I am called from you—from our children—and you are not
near to comfort me with your love in this dark season. But I must not
add to your sorrow by thus weakly indulging my own. Though it may not be
mine to feel your tender hand wiping the death-dew from my brow—though
I may not pant out my soul on your dear breast, nor feel your strong,
unfailing love sustaining me as I go—yet I shall not be all forsaken,
nor grope my way in utter darkness; but leaning on the arm of our
Redeemer, descend into ‘the valley of the shadow of death.’
“And now, dearest, I would speak to you of our children—our children,
of whose real characters it has happened that you know comparatively
little. I would tell you of my hopes and wishes concerning them—would
speak with all the mournful earnestness of a dying mother, knowing that
_you_ can well understand the mighty care at my heart.
“There is Frederic, my ‘summer child,’ our bright-eyed, open-browed boy,
almost all we could desire in a son. I resign him into your hands with
much joy, pride and hope. Even were my life to be spared, my work in his
education were now nearly done. I have had much happiness in remarking
his talent, his enthusiasm, his fine physical organization, his vigorous
health, his gay, elastic spirits,—and far more in being able to believe
him perfectly honest and truthful in character. Oh, my husband, can we
not see in him the germ of a noble life, the possible of a glorious
destiny?
“Yet, Frederic has some faults, clear even to my sight. I think him too
ambitious of mere greatness, of distinction as an _end_, rather than as
the means of attaining some higher good. Teach him, dear husband, that
such ambition is but a cold intellectual selfishness, or a fever thirst
of the soul; a blind and headlong passion that miserably defeats itself
in the end. Teach him that the immortal spirit should here seek honor
and wealth only as means and aids in fulfilling the purest and holiest,
and, therefore, the highest purposes of our being;—to do good—simple
_good_—to leave beneficent ‘foot-prints on the sands of time’—to plant
the heaven-flower, happiness, in some of life’s desolate places—to
speak true words, which shall be hallowed in human hearts—strong words,
which shall be translated into action, in human lives. And oh! teach him
what I have ever earnestly sought to inspire—a hearty devotion to the
right—a fervent love of liberty—a humble reverence for humanity. Teach
him to yield his ready worship to God’s truth, wherever he may meet
it—followed by the multitude strewing palm-branches, or forsaken,
denied and crucified. Teach him to honor his own nature, by a brave and
upright life, and to stand for justice and freedom against the world.
“I have seen with joy that Frederic has an utter aversion to the society
of fops, spendthrifts and skeptics. I believe that his moral principles
are assured, his religious faith clear. Yet I fear that he is sometimes
too impressible, too passive and yielding. His will needs strengthening,
not subduing. Teach him to be watchful of his independence, to guard
jealously his manliness. I know that I need not charge you to infuse
into his mind a true patriotic spirit, free from cant and bravado—to
counsel him against poor party feuds and narrow political prejudices.
God grant that you may live to see our son if not one of the world’s
great men, one whose pure life shall radiate good and happiness—whose
strong and symmetrical character shall be a lesson of moral greatness, a
type of true manhood.
“Our daughter Pauline is a happy and healthful girl, with a good, though
by no means a great intellect. She has a dangerous dower in her rare
beauty, and I pray you, dear Frederic, teach her not to glory in that
perishing gift. She is not, I fear, utterly free from vanity, and she is
sometimes arrogant and willful. I have even seen her show a
consciousness of her personal advantages toward her less favored sister.
You will seek to check this imperiousness, to subdue this will—but not
with severity, for with all, Pauline is warm-hearted and generous. You
know that she is tall for her age, and is fast putting away childish
things. It will not be long now before as a young lady she will enter
society. I surely need not charge you to be ever near her—to watch well
lest a poor passion for dress and a love of admiration invade and take
possession of her mind, lowering her to the heartless level of
fashionable life; to teach her to despise flatterers and fops—to shrink
from the ostentatious, the sensual, the profane, the scoffing and
unbelieving. I feel assured that you will imbue her spirit with your own
reverence for honest worth, and your own noble enthusiasm for truth and
the right—an enthusiasm never lovelier than when it lights the eye and
glows on the lips of a lovely woman.
“For my daughter Louise, our youngest, I have most anxiety, for she
seems to have inherited my own physical delicacy, and has moreover an
intense affectionateness and a morbid sensibility, which together are a
misfortune. Dear husband, deal gently with this poor little girl of
mine, for to you I will confess that at this hour she lies nearest my
heart. Her whole nature seems to overflow with love for all about her,
but the sweet waters are ever being embittered by the feeling that she
is not herself an object of pride, scarcely of affection to us. She is
very plain, you know—yet, look at her, she is not ugly—her plainness
is that of languor and ill health. Poor Louise is seldom well, though
she never complains, except mutely, through her pallor and weakness. She
also inherits from me an absorbing passion for reading and study, and
perhaps you will think it strange in me when I call upon you—earnestly
entreat you to thwart and overcome this, if possible—not forcibly, nor
suddenly, but by substituting other pleasures and pursuits, thus turning
the current of her thoughts.
“Though I do not remember to have ever been very strong, yet I do not
think that I had at the first any disease in my constitution. Yet what
was the course pursued in my training? It was unfortunately discovered
that I was _a genius_, and so I was early put to study—my young brain
stimulated into unhealthy action, the warm blood driven from my cheek
and lip, the childish light quenched in my eye, by a thoughtful and
sedentary life. I wasted long bright mornings over books, when I should
have been riding over the hills, or frolicking with the waves—rambling
through the healthful pine-woods, or fishing from the rocks, inhaling
the invigorating ocean breezes. And sweet evenings, instead of strolling
abroad in the summer moonlight, I sat within doors, alone, wrapt in
deep, vague reveries; and on winter nights, I read and wrote, or pored
over Euclid, or Virgil, in my close, dull chamber, instead of joining
the laughing, chatting circle below, mingling in the dance and merry
game.
“Yet, it was not alone my passion for study which prevented me from
taking that vigorous exercise, and indulging in those out-door
amusements so absolutely necessary for both physical and mental health,
but ideas of propriety and feminine delicacy carefully inculcated and
wrought into my character. I have since seen their folly, but too late.
Habit and old associations were too strong for the new principles.
“Ah, had my early training been different—had I been suffered to remain
a child, a simple, natural child, through the appointed season of
childhood—had my girlhood been more free and careless—less proper, and
studious, and poetic, I might now have been in my happiest season, the
prime of a rich and useful life. But as it is, now, when my husband is
at last returning home for his life-rest—when my son is soon to take
his first step into the world—when my daughters need me most, at
_thirty-five_, my course is already run! Oh, Frederic, see that our
little pale-faced Louise does not pursue her mother’s mistaken
course—does not re-live her mother’s imperfect existence. Take her out
into the fields, on to the beach—teach her to ride, to row, to
clamber—to fear neither sunshine nor rain—let fresh air in upon her
life, get her young heart in love with nature, and all will be well with
the child, I doubt not.
“Your own dear mother has promised to take home our children when I am
gone, and have charge of them, with your consent, for some years to
come. The education of our daughters you should direct, for you alone
know my plans and wishes. As to their marriage, that seems so far in the
future that you will scarcely expect me to speak on the subject. I can
only say, dearest, teach our children in the coming years, never to be
content with a union which promises less of love, harmony and trust,
than have made the blessedness of ours.”
* * * * *
“I wrote the foregoing, dear Frederic, more than two weeks ago, and now,
I must say farewell to you, for my hours are indeed few. I think I may
not see another morning on earth. I have of late suffered much about
midnight, from extreme difficulty of breathing, and something tells me
that I shall not survive another such season. But I am not dismayed—God
is yet with me in his sustaining Spirit, and I fear no evil.
“And now, my husband, before I go, let me thank and bless you for all
your tenderness and patience toward me, in the years gone by. And oh,
let me implore you not to sorrow too bitterly when I am dead. We have
been very happy in one another’s love, and in our children—our children
still left to you. Can you not say ‘blessed be the name of the Lord?’
“I enclose with this my hair, just severed from my head. I remember to
have often heard you say that you might never have loved me but for this
happy attraction—my one beauty. I desired my sister to cut it for you,
and she tried to do so, but the scissors fell from her hand, and she
went out, sobbing bitterly. Then I looked around with a troubled
expression, I suppose, on our Frederic—he understood it, came at once
to my side, and calmly, though with some tears, cut from the head of his
dying mother this sad legacy for his poor absent father. Is he not a
noble boy?
“I will not say to you farewell _for ever_, for I know your living faith
in God, who will bring us home, where there shall be ‘no more pain, nor
sorrow, nor crying.’ And, Frederic, if it be permitted, I will see you
once more, even here. To me it seems that my love would find you,
wherever you might be in the wide universe of God, and that my freed
spirit would seek you first—over the deep, through night and tempest,
cleaving its way to your side. But as heaven willeth, it shall be.
“And now, farewell! best and dearest, farewell! My beloved, my beloved!
Oh, that I could compress into human words the divine measure of the
love which glows and yearns in my heart, at this hour. That love the
frost of death cannot chill, the night of the grave cannot quench. It is
bound up with the immortal life of my soul—it shall live for thee in
the heavens, and be thy eternal possession there.
“May God comfort thee in thy loneliness, my love, my husband. Again,
again farewell!
“Again, again farewell!
Now indeed the bitterness of death is past.
And yet, once more, _farewell_!
THY DORA.”
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS
_Anne Boleyn: A Tragedy. By George H. Boker, Author of
“Calaynos.” Philadelphia: A. Hart. 1 vol. 12mo._
Mr. Boker was favorably known as a dramatic poet previous to the
publication of his present work, but “Anne Boleyn” indicates a firm
movement forward when compared with “Calaynos.” It is more impassioned
in style, action and thought, more intense in conception, more artistic
in execution, with sentiments more richly poetic, with characters more
vigorously discriminated.
The subject of the drama is taken from one of the actual tragedies of
history, with which every schoolboy is familiar, and it is therefore
admirably adapted for dramatic treatment. The names of the characters
are familiar to all, but here we have substantial persons attached to
the names, living out a portion of their lives before our eyes, with
almost every act and word symbolical of character. Such a representation
increases our knowledge of history, by conducting us near to its heart
and life, giving us the concrete meaning of such terms as irresponsible
power, court intrigues, political unscrupulousness, and unbitted
passion.
The plan of the drama is the exhibition of the various intrigues of the
courtier statesmen of Henry VIII. to murder, under a legal form, his
imperious but large-hearted wife, and the final triumph of their villany
over justice, and of his lust over common humanity. In the most exacting
law of dramatic composition, that which demands the mutual connection of
the parts, and a relation of each with the main idea of the piece, the
author has, we think, been very successful. There are no characters and
scenes, hardly any thoughts and sentiments, which could be omitted
without injury to the design, which do not contribute to the general
effect of tragedy. The style, also, though it occasionally evinces some
immaturity, is commonly close to the matter, and takes its tone and
coloring from the characters. The diameters themselves are strongly
conceived and sustained. King Henry, Norfolk, Richmond, Wyatt, Smeaton,
Queen Anne, Jane Seymour and Lady Boleyn, are especially felicitous. We
could give many specimens of the author’s dramatic powers had we space
for extracts, but we prefer to commend the drama to the reader’s
attention in its wholeness. There are, however, scattered over the
piece, morsels of beauty and wisdom which spring naturally out of the
events, and yet have a universal application. Queen Anne, in repenting
of the harsh imperiousness of her judgments of others, drops a remark
which every modern reformer should adopt as a preventive check on the
fertility of his tongue:
I have been arrogant to judge my kind
By God’s own law, not seeing in myself
A guilty judge condemning the less vile.
The scene in which the queen attempts to regain the king’s affections,
by sending his mind back to the period of their early love, is very
touching and beautiful; and until that sly witch, Jane Seymour, appears,
the reader almost believes that the crowned disciple of lust is capable
of fidelity to a sentiment. We give a few passages:
O, Henry, you have changed
From that true Henry who, in bygone days,
Rode, with the hurry of a northern gale,
Towards Hever’s heights, and ere the park was gained,
Made the glad air a messenger of love,
By many a blast upon your hunting-horn.
Have you forgotten that old oaken room,
Fearful with portraits of my buried race,
Where I received you panting from your horse;
As breathless, from my dumb excess of joy,
As you with hasty travel? Do you think
Of our sweet meetings ’neath the gloomy yews
Of Sopewell nunnery, when the happy day
That made me yours seemed lingering as it came,
More slowly moving as it nearer drew?
How you chid time, and vowed the hoary knave
Might mark each second of his horologe
With dying groans, from those you cherished most,
So he would hasten?—
KING HENRY.
Anne, that was you.
Have you forgotten my ear-stunning laugh
At your quaint figure of time’s human clock,
Whose every beat a soul’s flight registered?
QUEEN ANNE.
God bless you, Henry! (_Embraces him._)
KING HENRY.
Pshaw! why touch so deep?
These softening memories of our early love
Come o’er me like my childhood.
QUEEN ANNE.
Love be praised,
That with such reflections couples me!
Be steadfast, Henry.
KING HENRY.
Fear not: love is poor
That seals not compacts with the stamp of faith.
QUEEN ANNE.
My stay is trespass. We will meet anon.
Love needs no counsel in his little realm.
“Anne Boleyn” is not only a fine dramatic poem, considered in respect to
character and situations, but it is as interesting as a novel, and
continually excites those emotions which exact attention, even in the
least cultivated reader. Taken in connection with the author’s previous
work, it evinces not only genius, but a genius which grows. The perusal
of it has strongly impressed us with the feeling that the country, in
him, has a new poet, and one whose present productions are even richer
in promise than performance. We cordially wish him an appreciating
public, and trust that he will not lack stimulants to renewed exertion.
* * * * *
_Saint Leger, or the Threads of Life. Second Edition. New York:
Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
“Saint Leger” has been considered by some critics to be of German
origin; it has been thought to bear a striking family likeness to a
class of books of which “Wilhelm Meister” is the type and paragon. This
erroneous opinion must have arisen either from an imperfect acquaintance
with German literature, or from not giving to “Saint Leger” that careful
analysis which it certainly deserves. The class of German novels, to
which “Saint Leger” has been compared, cannot, strictly speaking, be
said to possess any plot. There is no regular sequence of events—no
relation of parts to a whole—no dramatic bearing of character upon
character, to produce an ultimate result—no apparent effort to close
the story at the very start, which an influx of conflicting
circumstances alone prevents, and toward which it ever struggles,
overcoming obstacles and softening down discordances, until the end is
gained by an unforced blending into one harmonious mass of all the
opposing elements of the plot. But these very qualities, for which we
look in vain through “Wilhelm Meister” and its fellows, “Saint Leger”
possesses to a degree beyond any work of a semblable character with
which we are acquainted; and from the crowning result of its plot arises
what has been called, from the days of Æsop to those of Walter Scott,
the moral of the story. Without such a moral, expressed or implied, any
fable, however well told in detail, is a crude, lifeless mass, wanting
altogether that vital principle which alone can give fiction endurance.
It is to this fact that posterity will owe its safety from the
pernicious influences of the thousand well written immoralities that
crowd their betters from our modern book-shelves, while the downfall of
these literary falsehoods must as surely make way for the continued
popularity of such books as “Saint Leger.”
That “Wilhelm Meister” and kindred works are entirely without moral, we
will not attempt to say; but that they want the directness of purpose
which everywhere characterizes “Saint Leger,” and the consequent
dependence of action upon action, in order to work out a clear and
significant result, we may say, without fear of controvertion. A lie,
written or spoken, is always a bungling thing. The straggling,
touch-and-go manner of hinting out a story—admitting the author not to
be thoroughly depraved, and willing, like the George Sand School, to
blazon his vices, and glory in his iniquities—seldom fails to betray
the false and shallow principles upon which it is founded. Truth seeks
the light; the author of “Saint Leger” does not shun it. There is a
zealousness of purpose, and a lucidness of style and exposition upon
every page of his book, which at least proves our author’s conscience to
be in his work, and must forever free him from the imputation of
endeavoring to hide falsehood, either under the covering of silence or
of sophistry.
The object of the author of “Saint Leger,” if we understand him aright,
is to trace the career of an individual soul in search of a faith. The
innumerable external trials, temptations and dangers through which the
hero passes, forms one of the most interesting stories we have read for
many a day. To this moving narrative another, and entirely original
interest is superadded, by exhibiting to us, not only the immediate
effects of surrounding events on the hero’s feelings and actions, but in
tracing up their consequences, first, to the changes in his character
and moral nature, and last, to the ultimate results produced on his
religious faith. Our author appears to be a sturdy opponent of all forms
of intellectual faith. The hero is accordingly taken through the whole
round of modern metaphysics; and issues from them weary and dispirited,
having learned only to doubt, not to believe. In the latter pages of the
book, the instructive lesson of the whole is taught, viz., that faith is
founded, not on the intellectual, but on the moral nature; that all
strivings after faith, through the intellect, can but end in doubt and
pain; that the elements for the formation of a perfect faith lie around
us on every hand, as much within the reach of the illiterate as of the
learned, which
“——justifies the ways of God to man;”
that faith is not to be encompassed in creeds, or laid down in
philosophies, but is the simple language of the heart appealing to the
will for support.
These are bold thoughts, boldly spoken. The sectarian may base his faith
upon other and far different grounds, or may think the opinions of other
men sufficient foundation for his own belief; he cannot, however, arrive
at a higher or a purer state of hopefulness than that reached by “Saint
Leger” through his fiery martyrdom of thought and feeling.
We will not forestall the reader’s interest, by attempting a sketch of
our author’s plot. Let it be sufficient to state that the story appears
to be evolved of necessity from the agency of the actors in it, the
natural result of their characters and the actions to which such
characters must lead; not a tissue of ingeniously contrived plots and
counterplots, into which a certain amount of sham humanity has been
thrust, to give the whole a life-like air. This is a dramatic
excellence, rare since the Elizabethan era, which even the glorious
creations of Scott do not possess. Whoever has read “Guy Mannering,” and
afterward seen its miserable dramatized counterfeit, will be able to
appreciate our meaning, and to understand how sadly the works of the
greatest modern novelist stand the dramatic test. After witnessing such
an experiment, there will be no difficulty in recognizing the
immeasurable distance between Shakspeare and Scott.
Saint Leger’s adventures are not completed at the close of the volume,
and from the concluding words, we should judge the author intended a
continuation of his story. We shall anxiously await the appearance of
another volume; meanwhile we heartily commend this to the studious
attention of our readers.
* * * * *
_Lectures and Essays. By Henry Giles. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
Fields. 2 vols. 12mo._
Mr. Giles, as a lecturer, is celebrated all over the country, and few
public speakers equal him in the power of thrilling a popular audience.
The present volumes prove that his influence as an orator has not been
purchased at the expense of purity of style or accuracy of thought, and
that as a writer he presents equally strong claims to consideration and
regard. The subjects of the work run into various departments of thought
and information, and they all evince meditation and study. The lecture
on Falstaff, one of the best papers in the volume, exhibits the author’s
philosophical discrimination, as well as his forgetive fancy and
overflowing humor. The essays on Crabbe and Ebenezer Elliott are two
grand expositions of individual genius, and at the same time indicate a
knowledge of the condition of England’s poorer classes, and an intense
sympathy with their character and sufferings, which prompt many a
passage of searching and pathetic eloquence. The two lectures on Byron
are hardly equaled by any other criticisms of his genius, in respect to
the balance preserved between sympathy with his misfortunes and
indignation at his satanic levities and caprices. Goldsmith, in another
paper, is represented with a sunny warmth, and sweetness of style, which
carries his image directly to the reader’s heart. Carlyle, Savage,
Chatterton, and Dermody, are the subjects of the remaining articles on
persons, and each is analyzed with much sympathetic acuteness.
The subjects of the other essays are The Spirit of Irish History,
Ireland and the Irish, True Manhood, Patriotism, The Worth of Liberty,
The Pulpit, Music, and Economies. In these Mr. Giles’s genius is
admirably displayed in its peculiar sphere of action, that of great
ideas and universal sentiments. He is, in many important respects, an
excellent critic and expositor of men, but he is most eloquent when he
commits himself daringly to a sentiment, ignores its practical
limitations, and glows and gladdens in the vision of its ideal
possibilities and real essence. Here he stirs the deeper fountains of
the heart, makes our minds kindle and our aspirations leap to his words,
and bears us willingly along on his own rushing stream of feeling. Here
all his powers of fancy, humor, imagination, pathos and language, are
thoroughly impassioned, and act with a vital energy directly upon the
will. The communion with a mind so thoroughly alive cannot be otherwise
than inspiring; and to the younger portion of readers, especially, who
are finely sensitive to the heroic in conduct, and the grand in
sentiment, we would commend these beautiful and quickening orations,
glowing, as they are, with the loftiest moral principles, and leading,
as they do, to Christian manliness of thought and conduct.
In reading the present volumes, the image of the orator instinctively
starts up before the imagination, as he appears in the desk, flooding
the lecture-room with his tones, and evoking tears or laughter from an
audience whose sympathies he has mastered. Every note in his glorious
voice, from its sweet, low, distinct undertone, to the high, shrill,
piercing scream of its impassioned utterance, rings through the brain
the moment the listener becomes a reader. The volumes have a sure,
appreciating and extensive public, even if their circulation be confined
to lecture audiences; but they are certain of a wider influence.
* * * * *
_Montaigne’s Essays._
It is natural to inquire how often a book which has pleased us much has
been the object of admiration to those who preceded us in our journey
through life—a road on which a book is a “friend which never changes.”
We could not help having this feeling, as we looked at a very recent
edition of Montaigne’s Essays, (Philad’a. J. W. Moore, 1849,) and began
to rummage up our recollections and invoke the aid of our Lowndes and
Quérard—supposing that we might do a small service to the inquirer into
such matters, by showing him how often the public taste of other
countries had called for editions of our favorite classic—for such he
is, in French as well as English.
We give the editions in the order of dates, beginning with the French—
Montaigne (_Mich._ de) Ses Essais, Livres, 1 & 2. _Bordeaux, Millanges._
1580, in 8vo. The _original_ edition, which is, however, incomplete.
The same work, with the addition of a _third_ book, and many additions
(600) to the two first. _Paris, Langelier_, 1588, in 4to.
An edition at _Brussels, Foppens_, 1659, 3 vols. 12mo. and one at
_Paris_, the same year, in 3 vols. 12mo.
The French admit, that of the earlier editions, that of Touson, which
appeared in London in 1724, with the remarks of P. Coste, in three
volumes 4to., is the finest. A supplement to it was published in 1740.
Editions appeared at Paris in 1725, (3 vols. 4to.) at the Hague in 1727,
(12mo.) in London in 1739, and 1745, reprints of Coste’s edition. There
were editions in Paris in 1754, and in Lyons in 1781, and subsequent
editions in Paris in 1783, 1793, and 1801 and 1802—since which,
editions have followed, in that city, in rapid succession, and more than
twenty, with the “Notes of all the Commentators,” are to be had for the
asking.
The English translations are, first:
“The Essays of Michael, Lord of Montaigne, translated by John Florio,
London, 1603, folio.” Florio was the Holofernes of Shakspeare. This
edition, with a portrait of Florio, by Hole, again appeared in 1613, and
1632.
“Essays of Michael, Seigneur of Montaigne, made English by Charles
Cotton. London, 1680.” There are editions in 1711, 1738, and 1743.
A new edition of this translation appeared in 1776, with many
corrections, which was reprinted in 1811, but by whom the corrections
were made does not appear. The last edition, to which is added his
“Letters and Journey through Germany,” and which is an edition of his
works prepared by Mr. Hazlitt, from which the Philadelphia edition has
been printed.
* * * * *
_Poems. By Frances Sargent Osgood. With Illustrations by
Huntington, Darley, Cushman, Osgood, etc. Philadelphia: A. Hart.
1 vol. 8vo._
This beautiful volume, the finest in point of pictorial illustrations of
a beautiful series, deserves a much more extended notice than we are
capable of giving it at present. Mrs. Osgood occupies, among American
poets, a place peculiarly her own, where she is without a peer, and
almost without a rival. She is the most lyrical of our poets, her nature
being of that fluid character which readily pours itself out in song,
and quick and sensitive to impressions almost to a fault. A hint from an
object is taken, and instantly her soul surrenders itself to the
impression, and sings it as if her whole life was concentrated in the
emotion of the moment. Her mind, being thus so readily impassioned,
glides easily into various forms of character and peculiarities of
situation, which she has never actually experienced. Most of the songs
in the volume, though they burn and beat as if the writer’s life-blood
was circling through them, are essentially dramatic lyrics—the position
of the author being an imaginative not a personal one.
A long article might be written on the purity, delicacy, tenderness and
strength of feeling which this book evinces, and the exquisite melody
and richness of the verse. The signs of a sweet and passionate poetic
nature, seeking the ideal by a fine instinct, and finding in song the
appropriate expression of its inward harmony, are over the whole volume;
and we trust its bird-like music will win for it a place in American
homes by the side of the more meditative works of Bryant and Longfellow.
* * * * *
_Greenwood Leaves. A Collection of Stories and Letters. By Grace
Greenwood. Second Edition. Boston: Ticknor, Reid & Fields. 1
vol. 12mo._
This volume, eloquent in style and entertaining in matter, beyond almost
any similar work which has been issued for years, was published but a
month or two ago, and has already reached a second edition. The
materials of which it is composed are essays and stories originally
contributed to different periodicals, and apparently dashed off, without
a thought of their being eventually collected and made into a book. The
impression which the whole leaves upon the mind, notwithstanding the
separate parts were thus composed, is eminently an individual one, and
indicates that the authoress has sufficient force of being and character
to write in all varieties of mood without parting with her personality,
without assuming to be what she is not. In short, she is a contradiction
in fact to the Mahometan doctrine, assented to by many Christians, that
women have no souls. The present volume indicates a soul, and a broad
and powerful one—a soul to feel and to represent with equal intensity
the heroic in conduct and the tender in sentiment; a soul which
penetrates every faculty of her mind, whether it be understanding or
humor, with a vitality, and flashes out, in some passages, in the very
eloquence of disinterestedness and heroism. The defect of her mind, at
present, seems to be its tendency to exaggeration—to transfer to
objects the emotions they excite in herself, and to make them stand for
qualities which they only rouse in enthusiastic natures like her own.
The volume is splendid in promise, and with all its merit rather
suggests than limits her capacity. A mind so fresh, active, powerful and
impassioned as hers, cannot fail to reach the high excellence on which
her eye is evidently fixed.
* * * * *
_The Annals of the Queens of Spain, By Anita George. New York:
Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._
This work is introduced with the high endorsement of Prescott, the
historian, and is worthy even of his commendation. The authoress is an
accomplished Spanish lady, who has long resided in the United States,
and who writes English with ease and dignity. The subject is entirely
new, and the materials gathered from sources of which the general reader
is profoundly ignorant. As a work of industry and research, therefore,
it is of considerable importance to the student of history; but the
authoress has contrived to make it equally interesting to the common
reader, by the variety of novel circumstances she has introduced, and
her anecdotes of court life. The present volume contains the Gothic
queens, those of Oviedo and Leon, of Arragon and of Castile,
comprehending a thousand years, from 415 to 1475. The early period to
which the volume is confined, though it makes each biography short,
makes each full of surprising matter. In the hundred queens presented to
us, there are all varieties of feminine nature exhibited in connection
with enough remarkable and romantic events to form the plots of numerous
novels and dramas.
The work is elegantly printed, and will, we hope, find a large class of
readers. It should be continued in the manner with which it has been
commenced, and we can hardly believe that annals, relating to a country
so essentially romantic as Spain, and written by one whose whole soul is
penetrated by her nation’s spirit, should not be received with marked
popular approbation.
* * * * *
_The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a
variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. In Four
Volumes. New York: Geo. P. Putnam, Vols. 1 and 2, 12mo._
Among the many good things which the accomplished and enterprising
publisher of this work has done for the cause of classical English
literature in the United States, the present cheap and elegant edition
of Goldsmith ranks with the first. It is the only American edition which
contains the new matter which Prior has collected. The first volume
alone has a sufficiently large number of new essays to make every lover
of Goldsmith procure the edition.
Goldsmith is so universal a favorite, and the leading characteristics of
his genius are so impressed on the public mind, that it would be useless
here to speak of his sly, searching and genial humor, his shrewd and
accurate observation, the generosity of his sympathies, the wealth of
his fancy, and the lucid simplicity and sweet fascination of his style.
Let the reader peruse the present edition in connection with Irving’s
charming biography of Goldsmith, and we will guarantee that the works
and life of the subject will be a possession to his imagination forever.
* * * * *
_The Poets and Poetry of America to the Middle of the Nineteenth
Century. By Rufus Wilmot Griswold. Tenth Edition, Revised and
Enlarged. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 8vo._
The popular estimate of this work is indicated by its passing through
nine large editions in seven years. The present, which is the tenth
edition, is almost a new book. The editor has corrected faults of
judgment and selection, which necessarily occurred in the first edition,
and had availed himself of the benefit of the criticisms, friendly and
unfriendly, which it called forth.
The poetical literature of the country has also grown considerably
during the last seven years, and Mr. Griswold has therefore added many
exquisite pieces of Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell and
Poe—excluded some poems, and put better ones by the same authors in
their place—and introduced into the body of the book liberal selections
from the new poets, Palmer, Lunt, Hoyt, Clarke, Parsons, Cooke, Fields,
Wallace, Hirst, Mathews, Taylor, Boker, Read, Legare and Butler, are
among the additions. The book, in its present form, gives a fair idea of
American verse in all its varieties of individuality and style. It is
still open to objections, and is doubtless capable of further
improvement; but we think that the editor has more to fear from the
anger of poets who suffer from the austerity of his taste, than from
that of readers who sometimes suffer from its exceeding tolerance. As a
whole, the book is very attractive, and we wish it another seven years
of success, and a passage into edition twentieth.
* * * * *
_Poems. By John G. Saxe. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol.
12mo._
This collection of metrical pieces, inspired by the muse of frolic and
fun, is sure of popularity. The writer’s favorites among the poets, seem
to be Pope and Hood, the bard of satire and the bard of puns; and his
own poems are full of good specimens both of keen hits and felicitous
word-twisting. The two satires, “Progress,” and “The Times,” show a
vivid perception of the ludicrous in conduct and life, and “The Proud
Miss Bride” puts words on the rack to good purpose. The author’s love of
wit and humor amounts to poetical inspiration, and the volume contains
much of the poetry as well as the versification of mirth. Mr. Saxe has
not a bit of gall in his disposition, and his severity is as genial as
it is gingerly. Buoyant spirits dance through his satire, and there is
nothing waspish even in its sting. Nobody can read the book without
envying the writer’s happy disposition, or without having some of it
communicated to himself.
* * * * *
_Philo: an Evangeliad. By the Author of “Margaret.” Boston:
Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
The author of this curious dramatic poem is Mr. Judd, a clergyman of
Augusta, in Maine. Like Lord Timothy Dexter’s book, it is “a pickle for
the knowing ones.” In the strangeness of its individuality rather than
the originality of its thoughts is its hold upon the attention. The
writer has poetry in him, but it is most capriciously brought out in
connection with all sorts of moral and semi-moral commonplaces and
freaks of religious whim. All the proprieties of poetry are violated,
not from an inward law of dissent, but from an opinionated dislike of
established methods. The author has genius, but not sufficient genius to
produce a harmonious poem out of his materials. Still there are few
poems, lately published, which can be read with less fatigue, for the
audacities and oddities on every page are perpetual stimulants to the
mind. In passages, too, the volume is finely and powerfully poetical;
and in a certain juxtaposition of refined spirituality with the solidest
practical vision, the book is a prophecy of the author’s future
excellence.
* * * * *
_The Neighbors. A Story of Every-Day Life. By Frederika Bremer.
Translated from the Swedish. By Mary Howitt. New York: Geo. P.
Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
This elegant volume is the first of a new issue of the author’s works,
edited by herself, with prefaces and notes. The portrait and autograph
of the author are given in this volume, and the remarks with which she
prefaces it have the kindliness and good sense which are so
characteristic of her nature. “The Neighbors” is one of the most
charming idealizations of actual life we have ever read, and nowhere is
domesticity so winningly represented. An author, like Miss Bremer, who
is now personally abstracting so many hearts in this country cannot fail
to have purchasers for this edition of her writings.
* * * * *
_Miscellanies. By J. T. Headley. Authorized edition. New York:
Baker and Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo._
This volume contains seven interesting papers, originally contributed by
the author to periodicals. They are all striking specimens of Mr.
Headley’s peculiar powers of narration and description—a little less
flushed in style, perhaps, than his Napoleon, but indicating the same
vigorous abandonment to the subject. The best article is that on
Alison’s History of Europe. The Biographies of Alfieri, Cromwell and
Luther, are executed in a style which will stamp their leading traits
indelibly on the popular imagination. The article on Griswold’s Prose
Writers, which closes the volume, is unworthy of Mr. Headley, and should
have been omitted from the collection.
From the preface we learn that the present volume has been issued to
operate against an unauthorized edition of the author’s magazine
articles, published by some bookseller in New York, on his own account.
Every respectable bookseller and every respectable book-buyer should
avoid the pirated edition, on the principle of common decency and
justice.
* * * * *
_Historical Studies, By George Washington Greene, late United
States Consul at Rome. New York: George P. Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._
Professor Greene is one of our ablest historical scholars, especially in
the department of Italian literature and history, and the present work,
embodying the thoughts and observations of many years, is a valuable
contribution to thoughtful and elegant literature. The author combines
the narrator and the thinker in just proportions, and connects with
admirable tact, thoughts that quicken with biographical details which
interest the mind. The subjects of the papers relating to Italy are
Petrarch, Machiavelli, Manzoni, Verrazzano, The Hopes of Italy,
Historical Romance in Italy, Reformation in Italy, Italian Literature in
the First Half of the Nineteenth Century, and Contributions for the
Pope. The article on Libraries is one of the best ever written on that
subject. Perhaps the most generally agreeable paper in the volume is
that on Charles Edward. In this we have a flowing and animated
biography, replete with novel facts, and as interesting as a romance.
The author’s style, in all the papers, is sweet, flexible, graceful and
condensed, indicating high culture, but a culture which has developed
instead of deadening all that is peculiar in his mind and heart.
* * * * *
_The Early Conflicts of Christianity. By the Rev. Wm. Ingraham
Kip, D. D. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
This elegantly printed volume is published for the benefit of those
Christians who have no clear idea of the difficulties to which the faith
“was subjected in the earliest stages of its existence, or the severity
of the conflict through which it was obliged to pass.” If it reaches all
of those to whom it is addressed, it will have more readers than
Macaulay’s history or Dickens’s novels, for the subject is one on which
the strangest ignorance prevails even among pious and intelligent
Christians. Dr. Kip divides the obstacles to the eventual victory of
Christianity into five classes—Judaism, Grecian Philosophy, the
Licentious Spirit of the Age, Barbarism and the Pagan Mythology, each of
which is represented with much vigor and beauty of style, distinctness
of thought, and wealth of information. It is a book which deserves to be
in every family which professes a regard for the Christian faith, as it
meets a universal want; and it will save the general reader a great deal
of labor and time, embodying as it does, in a lucid and animated style,
the results of a student’s researches in the whole field of early
ecclesiastical history.
* * * * *
_James Montjoy; or I’ve been Thinking. By A. S. Roe. New York:
D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
This is an interesting and well written story of American life, the
production of a shrewd intellect, and admirable in its practicable
application.
* * * * *
TO SUBSCRIBERS.—The proprietorship of Graham’s Magazine having passed,
by purchase, into other hands, all letters and communications of
whatever kind relating to the business of this periodical, will
hereafter be addressed to GEO. R. GRAHAM, Editor.
SAMUEL D. PATTERSON & CO.
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Anaïs Toudouze
LE FOLLET
PARIS Boulevart S^{t}. Martin 61
_Robes de_ Camille, _Coiffures de_ Normandin, _pass. Choiseul, 19_.
_Mouchoir de_ L. Chapron & Dubois, _r. de la Paix, 7_.
_Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81._
Graham’s Magazine.]
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[Illustration: picture of building]
MOUNT PROSPECT INSTITUTE, WEST BLOOMFIELD, N. J.
THIS SCHOOL is located fifteen miles distant from New York City, and six
from Newark, upon a commanding eminence of 800 feet above the level of
the ocean, from which a clear view is obtained of Yew York, Brooklyn,
the Bay, and the surrounding country. This location, for retirement,
health, salubrity of atmosphere, and beauty of mountain scenery, is not
surpassed by any in the country. It is easy of access, having direct
communication with New York four times each day. The object of this
Institution is to prepare Young Gentlemen for entering college, or a
business life, by a thorough and systematic course of instruction. The
Principal does not desire a large school, but a select number of Pupils,
well disciplined, and willing to be guided in the path of virtue and
usefulness. In order to secure and retain desirable members of this
school, no vicious or unprincipled boy is received, and no one retained
in the school whose influence is immoral, or in any way injurious to his
associates. The Pupils enjoy the comforts of a home in the family of the
Principal, being invited to the parlor, where they associate with other
members of the family and those who frequently visit the Institution.
The Government of the School is conducted on strictly religious
principles, and the pupils are controlled by appeals to their moral
feelings, rather than by fear of punishment. The Bible is the standard
of morals, and each Pupil is required to study it daily; also, to attend
Church with the Principal on the Sabbath. Being desirous to secure a
proper degree of correspondence in dress, and to prevent some of the
evils arising from different styles of clothing in the same family, a
uniform dress has been adopted for the School. The year is divided into
sessions of five months each, commencing on the first of May and
November. It is desired that the Pupils should not be absent during the
session, and that parents should visit them at the Institution.
* * * * *
TERMS.
No Scholar will be received for less time than one quarter, and no
deduction will be made for voluntary absence.
Each article of Clothing must be marked with the owner’s name, and an
inventory placed in each trunk of the articles he brings to the School.
The charges for Board and Tuition in the English branches and
Mathematics are from $40 to $45 per quarter; in the Latin and Greek
languages, $50. Extra for the French, German, or Spanish language, $5;
Drawing and Painting, each, $5; Music, with use of the Piano, $10.
Payments will be required quarterly in advance.
WARREN HOLT,
PRINCIPAL AND PROPRIETOR.
* * * * *
REFERENCES.
Rev. WILLIAM ADAMS, D. D., New York,
" HENRY WHITE, D. D., "
" MILTON BADGER, "
" JOHN J OWEN, "
" HORACE EATON, "
JONATHAN LEAVITT, Esq., "
W. M. WILSON, Esq., 23 Water Street,
W. M. BROWNSON, Esq., 56 Gold Street,
NEWTON HAYES, Esq., Franklin House, New York,
Rev. I. S. SPENCER, D. D., Brooklyn,
Dr. L. A. SMITH, Newark,
S. R. PARKHURST, Esq., 116 First Avenue, New York,
E. R. YALE, Esq., Brooklyn,
TUNIS VAN BRUNT, Esq., Jamaica,
A. CAMPBELL, Esq., Brooklyn,
GEORGE LODER, Esq., New York.
A box will be found at 73 Courtlandt Street, New York, marked with the
name of the Institution; any packages deposited in this box before one
o’clock, P. M., will be safely carried to the School on the same day.
* * * * *
THE UNIFORM OF THE SCHOOL.
The coat and pantaloons of very dark blue cloth; the coat
single-breasted, to button to the throat, with ten gilt buttons, two
upon the collar, placed three inches back—the collar to turn over, with
the corners round.
For Summer, the dress suit is the dark blue coat and white pantaloons.
That for common use should be gray, made of the material known as
“youth’s mixt.” For very warm weather, brown linen or drilling.
Suits are made by Messrs. THORNE & JARVIS, 414 Broadway, New York, where
the buttons, made expressly for the School, may be obtained.
Caps, of a particular pattern, designed for the School, are made by MR.
MEALIO, 416 Broadway, New York.
N. B.—Those entering the School are not expected to discard their
every-day clothing, but when worn out, to renew it with the uniform of
the School.
* * * * *
THE SHAWL DESIGNER SALAVILLE.
(FROM THE FRENCH.)
[Illustration]
EVERY woman who visits the French exposition of domestic manufactures,
whether she be young or old, brunette or blonde, stops involuntarily
before the beautiful shawls exhibited, the exquisite designs of which
draw from her a half suppressed sigh of loving desire; but in passing
away from them she only laments that her limited means do not equal her
longings for possession, without giving a thought to the artist who has
labored by day and meditated by night to produce an article of dress
worthy of her charms. The designer of a beautiful fabric, however,
merits not only a thought, but deep sympathy, particular interest.
Banished between Apollo and Mercury to a domain where the laurel does
not flourish, he at once cultivates the fine arts and commerce, the
ideal and the real. Up to a certain point he possesses the inspiration
of the improvisatore, the conception of the painter, and the sentiment
of the colorist. But if this industrial centaur does not join to these
qualities a little of the management of the merchant, then comes a sad
result, for probably he will at last be brought to the door of a
hospital, broken down with useless labor, without one ray of glory
having touched his brow or warmed his heart. I could cite a remarkable
but sad instance of one possessing fine talents, united to an excellent
and lovely character, to illustrate this mournful fancy, but I should
only cause melancholy thoughts, from which I should preserve my reader.
I will, on the contrary, recall a more fresh and joyous reminiscence
apropos to this pleasant season.
Among the designers who have distinguished themselves this year, there
is one whose name has been omitted; which is to be regretted, for Louis
Salaville has contributed greatly to the creation of that new style of
designs of which the shawl manufacturers are now so proud. In 1829 we
were apprenticed to a shawl-weaving establishment, where, like machines,
or a species of spider, we were expected to weave from five in the
morning until nine at night. Showing but little aptitude for this part
of the business, we were placed with a designer to learn that branch. At
the school of design was a youth of fifteen or sixteen; he was pale as a
daisy, simple as a child, and light as a butterfly; but with the grace
of this flying insect he possessed unfortunately also its wandering
propensities. He absented himself so frequently that the principals of
the establishments grew impatient. Sometimes, after an absence of eight
or ten days, he would enter just as the clock was sounding the hour of
dismissal. He was vague and dreamy in his talk, would ask if it was
April when it was December, and commenced a thousand things without ever
finishing one. Notwithstanding he designed figures and flowers with
wonderful rapidity and cleverness, we never dreamed of his being one day
a rival.
“He’s a fool!” we would exclaim, “he will never be any thing.” Laugh
not, dear reader, at our blindness; even great men have been known to
undervalue youthful genius.
The crisis which followed the accession of Louis Philippe, did not
overthrow the establishment, but it affected the school, and Salaville
was dismissed with those who were not actually needed. Once in a while
he would come in to inquire after the prospect of work; and when we
would ironically congratulate him on his love for study, without reply
he would throw off, with two or three strokes of the crayon, ludicrous
sketchy caricatures. We accused him to ourselves of idleness, and
thought him good for nothing, because he did not spend his days as we
did daubing crooked palms, which we modestly called compositions,
simpletons that we were. Without any apparent labor, as it were from the
instinct that draws the bee to the rose, or the plant to the sun, he
would sketch with boyish glee bits of exquisite designs—in one place a
smoky hut, over whose broken, ruined roof the ivy gracefully twined; in
another a noisy mill, surrounded with the sweeping foliage of the
willow’s weaving branches; here and there clusters of drooping,
bell-shaped flowers and wild jonquils twining together in luxuriant
confusion; then in another corner of the paper a group of laughing,
half-naked children, playing with one of those huge, long-eared dogs
that the amiable Winterhalter calls the “First Friend!”
To facilitate universal harmony, to inspire us with a desire to aid and
love each other, the Creator divides his gifts: upon one is bestowed
strength, upon another intelligence; to Salaville has been given the
imagination of a poet and the susceptibility of a woman. Several years
passed in an idle, wandering way, feeling acutely, and sketching
instinctively the beauties of nature, would, as one can readily imagine,
produce a remarkable effect on such an organization as Salaville
possesses. He did not seek to acquire knowledge, as Montaigne would have
said, it came and incorporated itself with his soul. He led this errant
life until, when about twenty, wishing to marry, he felt the necessity
of applying himself more seriously to his business, and under this
influence his compositions shot out fresh and brilliant from his brain,
like the drooping grass and blossoms bent with the spray of the falling
cascade raise themselves under the genial beams of the warm sun.
The talents of an artist like Salaville are stifled in a town whose
manufacturers are distinguished rather for the economy of their
combinations than for the fineness of their webs. In 1839, Salaville
came to Paris. He did not make this move for the purpose of bettering
his condition, for at Nîmes he had an honorable and advantageous
position. But he hoped by removing to the capital to be enabled to
execute the rich compositions his imagination conceived.
Science does not make happiness, says the _Opera-Comique_, nor talent
secure always success; to obtain the latter skill is often better than
learning. Once at Paris, Salaville obtained an undisputed reputation, it
is true; but he had not the requisite qualities, nor means to direct and
maintain an _atélier_; nor did he find sufficient zeal and intelligence
in his associates. Then the luxurious imagination he possessed, and
which made him so remarkable, caused him to be restless and impatient
under the lingering details which hang around the commencement of every
undertaking. At last, in 1846, Salaville, stretched on a sick bed,
tortured with pain, found himself poorer and more destitute than he was
on the day of his arrival. Happily at this moment a situation was
offered, which once more revived hope and trust in the breast of the
almost discouraged artist.
It may be that our readers think but little of square shawls and long
shawls; however, they may not be ignorant of the fact that at the time
of which I speak the manufacturers coped with each other in copying the
Indian Cachemires for the designs of their shawls, which made a ruinous
competition, for to obtain any success required great waste. Messrs.
Boas, Brothers & Co., so distinguished for their rapid success in
business, saw the inutility and folly of this, which is now admitted by
every one; but they had the tact to see that in order to create a new
style, it was necessary above all to procure an artist of the first
order; their lucky stars placed in their hands Salaville, the one most
capable of carrying out their plans.
For four years these intelligent men have progressed, improving each
other. The manufacturer, with tastes corrected and refined by the
artist, has in turn softened the eccentricities and exaggerations of
genius. That which makes the shawls of this house so remarkable now, is
that their designs have an originality of conception, a freshness and
gracefulness never seen before. The cause is easily explained. Salaville
has abandoned the old styles, which are exhausted. He does not imitate
the Arabic, nor the Indian, nor the style of the Restoration, nor the
ornamental, but he throws upon paper a profusion of poetic
reminiscences, fruits of his joyous wandering youth.
One could scarcely believe the beauty of outline and design at which the
house of Messrs. Boas have arrived. In order to give some idea of it, we
have annexed to this article a sketch of one of their shawls. We wish we
could at the same time give a description of the new and ingenious
process employed in this establishment, to enable the designer to use
the richest tints of the palette, that he may have harmony of tone and
beauty of color, as well as gracefulness of design. But we have no right
to divulge the mysterious secrets of the manufactory; and, moreover, we
have said enough. However, in closing, we will ask of our readers, if in
these days, when Democracy counts for something, does not Louis
Salaville merit a place in the Journal?
* * * * *
BLANCHE AND LISETTE.
WRITTEN BY
CHARLES JEFFERYS,
COMPOSED BY
CHARLES W. GLOVER.
Published by permission of Mr. E. L. Walker, No. 160 Chestnut Street.
[Illustration: musical score]
First verse:
I would I were a gipsy girl to wander at my will,
Or but a village serving maid, I might be happy still;
Or any thing but what I am, if I could have my way,
I’d rather toil as Shepherdess, or Dairy maid all day;
Ah!
Second verse:
You ask me why I look so pale, and wonder why I pine;
You think I should be happy for you know that wealth is mine,
But ah Lisette! a coronet may glisten o’er the brow
Yet doubt and care be lurking there despite of pomp and show.
I
[Illustration: musical score]
First verse continued:
Lady Blanche forgive me, but you’d tell another tale
If only for a little while your wishes might prevail;
O learn to be contented, if the world be full of care,
The Duchess and the Dairy maid, be sure has each her share
The Duchess and the Dairy maid, be sure has each her share.
Second verse continued:
see you merry as a lark, it is not so with me;
But I might be as joyous too, if I were half as free:
You wear your bridal garb to-day, you give both hand and heart,
While I for riches wanted not, with liberty must part:
While I for riches wanted not, with liberty must part.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. For the music,
the First verse and Second verse labels have been added for clarity.
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious
type-setting and punctuation errors have been corrected without note.
Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some
caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the
originals available for preparation of the eBook.
page 231, uses the same similie: ==> uses the same simile:
page 250, Over the mantle-piece ==> Over the mantel-piece
page 270, an accomplished _ménagere_, ==> an accomplished _ménagère_,
page 271, and eat lunch enough ==> and ate lunch enough
page 281, to God’s truth, where-ever ==> to God’s truth, wherever
page 284, grows. The perusual of it ==> grows. The perusal of it
[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 4, April 1850]