“What’s his name, father?” inquired Solomon—“Stobbs?”

“Dobbs—Timothy Dobbs, I think, and that’s all I know about him yet: but

we’ll find what kind of a chap he is soon, I guess. I expect he’s a

squirt, any how.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Brigs.

“And I hope not, too,” rejoined Mr. Brigs; “but we’ll see!”

* * * * *

Time sped on. The village school was in a flourishing condition. Pupil

after pupil had been added to the charge of Mr. Timothy Dobbs, the

“great unknown,” until (to use a cant phrase) he had his hands full. It

is very natural to suppose that our village schoolmaster had become very

popular among all the villagers, and particularly so in the discerning

eyes of Miss Betty Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. Notwithstanding

the violent protestations of Mr. Brigs against the idea of suffering his

children to become scholars of Mr. Dobbs, the old gentleman had

confessed his wrong in that respect, and now protested with the same

vehemence, that Mr. Timothy Dobbs was the finest fellow that ever lived;

and that it would be high treason in any parent or guardian to refuse

children and wards generally, the benefits of Mr. Dobbs’s seminary of

learning; and he (Mr. Brigs) was firmly of the opinion that Solomon and

Nanny would one day become the successors of their tutor in the office

of “eddicating youth;” and on this hypothesis, he built the future

prospect of the erection of the “Brigs’ College,” to be called after his

own name, and of which, as a matter of course, Solomon was to be

principal professor. Mr. Brigs saw all this as clear as a whistle, and

he had no doubt that his prophecy would be fulfilled. Mr. Dobbs

continued to board and lodge at Mr. Brigs’ house. Nanny grew more lovely

and interesting every day, and made rapid advancement in her studies.

Solomon declared that Mr. Dobbs paid more attention to his sister than

to any other young lady in the school—to her instructions he meant; and

that he believed seriously, that Mr. Dobbs had a notion of making her

his assistant—in the school he meant. Miss Lachevers always happened to

hoist the window of Mr. Doe’s parlor at the particular moment when the

schoolmaster, Nanny, and Solomon passed the gate, on their return from

school; and as it was as invariably the case that Mr. Dobbs walked

closer to Nanny’s side than Solomon’s, the former young lady never

failed to give her features an expression of scorn—at least, whenever

her eye met Nanny’s. It might have been necessary for Miss Betty to

hoist the window on all these occasions, for some domestic purpose, such

as dusting, &c., and therefore she could not help seeing the passers by;

she, however, at such times looked unusually prim, but Mr. Dobbs seemed,

in every case, unconscious that the eyes of any third person were upon

him, for he never turned his on either side, but looked straight

forward. One day Nanny actually had her arm in that of the schoolmaster,

when the walking was very bad on account of snow, and then Miss

Lachevers looked daggers, and from thenceforth her deportment toward our

innocent heroine grew cold and formal. Perhaps Miss Betty had different

views of village etiquette from other young ladies, and thought it

extremely rude for a young lady to lock arms with a gentleman, under an

acquaintance of four years and a half; or perhaps she considered the law

of primogeniture applicable to her individual case, and thought that if

_any_ body was to lock arms with the schoolmaster, it should be herself,

as she was _rather_ older than Miss Nanny Brigs. Nevertheless, she did

not make her visits to Mr. Brigs’s less frequent. She would

sometimes—though altogether accidentally—chance to “fall in” when Mr.

Dobbs was there; and whenever that event occurred, she made herself

extremely agreeable—so she thought. But Mr. Dobbs was a sober-minded

man, of keen perception and sound views of propriety, and could read her

writing as well as she could herself. Nor was it long ere his disgust

was manifested at her sociable behavior, which caused her to bestow upon

him the classic epithet of “itinerant pedagogue.” And now matters took

another turn.

A year had passed away since the “itinerant pedagogue” first opened his

school. The population of the village had considerably increased. Uncle

Sam had established a post-office there. Lachevers’ lane was become the

principal thoroughfare of the “town.” Stores—groceries—and tailor’s

shops had been erected; sign-boards hung out and nailed to the window

shutters. A handsome church “with tapering spire,” and surrounded by

young trees, was now the Sabbath rendezvous of the villagers. The

school-house had been enlarged—the play-ground enclosed—and every

thing wore a new aspect. Miss Betty Lachevers, after exhausting all her

efforts to captivate Timothy Dobbs, had abandoned him to the more

attractive charms of Miss Brigs; and the former young lady was now

scarcely ever seen, save at church on Sundays. A Sabbath-school had been

opened in the basement-room of the village church, of which Timothy was

superintendent, and Solomon and Nanny teachers; and the signs of the

times bade fair to verify the predictions of Mr. Brigs with regard to

colleges, &c. in general. But, still _all was not right_! Timothy had

declared his love to Nanny, and had received an answer of satisfaction.

He had solicited the consent of her parents, and had received a

REFUSAL!! Not that Mr. Brigs thought him unworthy of the hand of his

daughter, but because his history was still enveloped in mystery and

obscurity. Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Brigs, and Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Brigs,

and half a dozen more misters and mistresses, had used all means to find

out his origin, but to no effect. He would always, when spoken to on

that point, fall into a state of dejected gloom, and evade all questions

bearing on his nativity; and this was a barrier which intervened between

him and the object of his affections.

A large oil painting ornamented the wall over the fire-place,

representing a young mother, with an infant on her breast, reclining on

the left arm of a man, who was defending her with his right, from the

assaults of a ruffian. A beautiful girl lay weltering in blood near the

surviving group; and the husband seemed to have received several

dangerous wounds, from which large drops of blood were falling. It was a

scene of deep and thrilling interest, and expressive of some awful

tragedy. It was also well executed, and the languishing despair which

beamed from the face of the young mother would almost seem, at times, to

convert the painted canvas into a mass of animation. At this picture Mr.

Dobbs was often seen to gaze with sad countenance and quivering lip;

while the throbbings of his temples told that the mind was at work with

melancholy thoughts. He became sad and cheerless, avoided all company

(but Nanny’s) as much as possible, and was sometimes found weeping. Yet

none knew the cause of his silent grief. Nanny observed the effect which

had been wrought on him by the picture, and communicated the fact to her

mother.

“He seems,” said she, “to take a sad pleasure in looking at the

painting. He showed me a miniature yesterday, which is the express image

of the lady with the infant child in her arms; and when I had examined

it, and returned it to him, he pressed it to his lips, and the tears

fell from his eyes. There must be something strange connected with his

history!”

“And did he say nothing about the miniature or the painting?” inquired

Mr. Brigs.

“Nothing!” replied Nanny, “I saw the subject gave him pain, and I feared

to ask him any thing about it.”

“Where is the miniature?” asked Mrs. Brigs.

“He keeps it in his vest pocket,” answered Nanny. “I will beg him to

show it to you, mother—I know he will.”

“No, child—don’t. I will inquire into the secret myself. But Nanny, did

you never hear the story of the painting over the fire?”

“No,” said Nanny; “what is it?”

“Ah! it’s an awful thing—all true as Gospel—dreadful!”

Here Mrs. Brigs requested her daughter to ask her no questions, and she

would tell her some other time. The young girl’s fears were excited, but

she concealed them within her own bosom.

* * * * *

“Mr. Dobbs,” said Mrs. Brigs one evening, “what on earth ails you? You

look like you have lost the best friend you had in the world. Do pray

tell us what has made you so gloomy for so many days.”

Timothy sighed deeply, and a crimson flush suffused the cheek of Nanny.

Mr. Brigs turned up his collar, and ran his fingers through his gray

locks, and looked very hard at Mr. Dobbs. Solomon looked very hard at

his father; and Mrs. Brigs looked at every one in the room alternately.

“Come,” said Mr. Briggs—“Come, Mr. Dobbs, let’s hear what’s the matter.

Remember, young man, you are among friends; and if I can do any thing

for you—why, I’ll do it. Come, now, let out. Don’t kill yourself for no

trifle, young man.”

“I feel much obliged to you,” replied Timothy, “and will ask but one

favor. I cannot now tell you what ails me; but there is something in

this house which gives me great anxiety. I have long wished to make the

inquiry, but had not the courage. Tell me, then, what is the meaning of

that picture which hangs before me?”

“Zooks!” cried Mr. Brigs, “and is it the picture that has caused all

your bad feelings, Mr. Dobbs?”

“It is,” returned the schoolmaster; “and I wish to know what it means!”

The surprise of Mr. Brigs and Solomon may be better imagined than

described. The old gentleman drew out his red silk handkerchief and

rubbed his eyes, stuffed it into his pocket again, and stared with all

his might right into the schoolmaster’s face. Solomon stared also; and

laying down the book he was reading, prepared himself to hear something

strange. Mrs. Brigs and her daughter were before partially acquainted

with the cause of Timothy’s disease—at least, they knew that it sprung

from the oil painting in question. All was now deep interest, awaiting

the development of some wonderful discovery.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Brigs, “it’s a solemn thing that! It used to make me

sick to look at it; but it’s a long time since it was hung up there, and

I’ve got used to it. Still it sticks deep into my heart—it does! It

tells a sad story—but you shall hear it, Mr. Dobbs!” And Mrs. Brigs

began.

I will not give the reader the story in the very words in which Mrs.

Brigs gave it to Timothy; because that is impossible: for she paused

more than once to wipe away the big tears, and to sob; and was obliged

to commence afresh as many as three times before she satisfied herself

that she was in the right path, and had begun at the beginning. But, as

I said, she began, and the following is the substance of the narrative:

THE STORY OF THE PICTURE.

John Bloomfield, a merchant of London, was the father of two children,

to wit: Arthur Bloomfield and Polly Bloomfield, now Polly Brigs, wife of

Allen Brigs. He came to this country about two years anterior to the

commencement of the Revolution, and settled on a handsome country-seat,

near the place where now stands our village. Mrs. Bloomfield died during

the passage across the Atlantic; so John Bloomfield was a widower.

At the time of his migration Arthur was twenty and Polly sixteen years

of age. The latter was shortly afterward married to Mr. Brigs; and the

widowed father dying, Arthur determined to sail for the West Indies, for

the purpose of trading on the capital inherited from his father, which

amounted to some five hundred pounds sterling.

Within one year after he left America, he heard that the long expected

conflict between the two nations had begun, and being fired with a love

of liberty, he returned home to join the army of Washington, to aid in

repelling the invaders from the American soil. He brought with him a

young and lovely wife, who, shortly subsequent to his return, gave joy

to his heart by the birth of a son.

The sister of young Mrs. Bloomfield, a still more lovely girl,

accompanied her brother-in-law hither; and so beautiful was she, that

many gallant knights paid homage at her shrine. Alice was

modest—pleasing—fascinating—and none saw her but to love.

Arthur fitted up the late domain of his deceased father; and leaving his

family, soon after the birth of his son, under the supervision of his

wife’s sister, prepared himself for a season of warfare.

Mr. Brigs was settled where he now resides, but his was then the only

tenement in existence there: so Mr. Brigs may be considered as the

founder of the village. With the property obtained by marriage he

purchased the soil on which he built, together with such implements of

husbandry as present wants required. The distance of two miles

intervened between the two families—consequently, they enjoyed the

intercourse of neighbors, though it was not very frequent that they

interchanged visits. They were, however, neighbors, and Mrs. Brigs

ministered, as much as in her lay, to the wants of Mrs. Bloomfield

during her confinement.

* * * * *

The struggle of death was drawing to a close. Arthur Bloomfield had

returned to his family, and was happy—happy because his life had been

shielded amid the strifes of war—happy because health was again the

property of Mrs. Bloomfield—happy _because he was a father_!

One calm evening in spring, when a thousand blushing flowers

“Distilled sweet fragrance through the air,”

and when all nature reflected the smiles of God’s benevolence, Arthur

Bloomfield was seated with his family in the shady alcove, recounting

the dangers to which he had been exposed, and from which Providence had

rescued him.

“Come,” said he, “let us bow ourselves before God, where we are, and

return him thanks that we are all again together.” And they fell upon

their knees on the green grass, while the father breathed forth his

gratitude to his Maker, in a slow, touching, solemn prayer. Tears stood

in the eyes of Alice, but she wiped them away with her soft hand, and

the mother presented her infant boy before the throne of Heaven, for a

blessing before she arose.

A sudden report of fire-arms threw a shock on the frames of the two

females, and caused a deadly paleness to overspread the countenance of

Arthur.

“Mercy!” shrieked Mrs. Bloomfield, clinging to her husband. “What can it

be?”

“Be composed, dear,” returned the man; “this arm shall defend you!” And

taking the child in his arms, he led the way quickly to the house,

where, securing themselves within doors, they awaited the final issue.

Mr. Bloomfield armed himself with a sword, and planted his stand at the

open window, where he could overlook the foreground, and detect

approaching danger.

The moon shone brightly, lighting up the landscape with her mellow

beams, and shedding rays of grandeur on the world. There he stood, the

only earthly protector of his wife and son and sister-in-law, hardly

daring to hope success, in the event of an attack from a nightly

assassin; while the fear-stricken females breathed heavily and

tremulously near his back.

* * * * *

That night of blood and death passed away, and the first beams of the

morning sun penetrated the dismal room where lay the bleeding bodies of

three mortal beings—a husband—a wife—and youthful maiden!—The infant

son was not there: the murderers had borne him away, and no traces of

them could ever be found!

* * * * *

When the spring flowers again sent forth their fragrance, and the

twittering birds began to build their nests, and when the ice and snow

of winter had melted, and bud and blossom made the forest green; and the

winds blew softly and pleasantly; and when every thing told that the

cold season was gone, and sweet spring had come, busy preparations were

going on throughout all the village for a wedding. Every little house,

and tree, and fence had been newly whitewashed. The church steeple

looked whiter than when first built, and every face beamed with a

brighter smile, and every cheek glowed with purer health than ever. And

whose wedding was it? Rumor abroad said it was one Mr. Dobbs, a

schoolmaster, who was about to espouse the pretty Miss Brigs. But all

the villagers _knew_ that the parties to be joined in wedlock were Mr.

Timothy Bloomfield (formerly Dobbs) and his sweet cousin, Miss Nanny

Brigs, daughter of Allen Brigs, Esq. Miss Betty Lachevers, on hearing

the degree of relationship between the “itinerant pedagogue” and Miss

Nanny, had become perfectly reconciled to everybody, and to Miss Nanny

in particular, and the day previous to the wedding it was generally

understood that Miss Betty Lachevers was to be “chief cook and

bottle-washer.”

The morning of the 15th of May, seventeen hundred and—no matter

what—was clear and beautiful. The church-bell began to ring, and the

villagers began to pour forth by two-and-two, dressed in their best, and

each bearing a bouquet of richest flowers. They all proceeded to the

house of God, where before earth and heaven, the pious minister united

two pious hearts, between which there existed an attachment “sweeter

than life and stronger than death.”

“Zooks!” said old Brigs, on this happy occasion, “I always thought well

of the boy, but I’ll eat my hat if ever I thought he _was_ my nephew,

and _was to be_ my son. Well! well! well!” And Mr. Brigs looked as

pleasing as he knew how. Mrs. Brigs looked pleasing too. Solomon looked

saucy at his sister, and she blushed and looked saucy at Solomon.

Timothy felt as happy as ever man felt: and all was joy and life and

gayety.

A few weeks more, and a petition was presented to the Legislature of one

of the New England States, signed by one hundred and fifty inhabitants

of the village, praying for an act incorporating the “Classical Seminary

of S.” and within a few more weeks the “Classical Seminary of S.” was

filled with pupils; and Mr. Brigs _lived_ to see his prophecy fulfilled;

and _died_ to be mourned by all who had ever known him.

* * * * *

SPEAK OUT.

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

Men who battle for the right,

’Mid the darkness of the night,

Looking ever for the light—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Rulers at the helm of state,

Seek ye for the narrow gate,

Through which pass the truly great?—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Ye who preach, and ye who pray,

Smother not in mist and spray

Thoughts that straggle for the day—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Dreamer, up! strike, for the hour

Brings the man, as does the shower

From the budding bring the flower—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Young men, linger not behind,

With the dead in will and mind,

Let the blind be ever blind—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Teachers, ye who plant the seed,

Nurse it in its hour of need,

With the sunlight of thy deed—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Old men, fathers, would ye see

Footprints of the Deity

Round the homes of infancy?—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Searchers after truth and right,

From the vessel’s topmost height

See ye glimpses pure and bright—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Poet, if thy mission be

To uplift humanity,

Let the world thy spirit see—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Brother, bend ye at a shrine,

Differing far from me and mine,

If ye think that light divine—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Stranger, with thy little band,

From a distant father-land,

Yearn’st thou for a kindly hand?—

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

Men, of every creed and clime,

Hear ye not the tones sublime

Swelling on the march of Time?

Speak out!

Fear ye nothing but the wrong.

* * * * *

AN ADVENTURE OF JASPER C——:

OR HOW TO SELL A CLOCK.

(FOUNDED ON FACT.)

“Madam, can I sell you a clock to-day?” inquired a pedler, as he was met

at the door by the woman of the house at which he had stopped.

“No,” replied the woman, civilly, yet decidedly, “we want no such

article.”

“I have several fine clocks, madam,” said the pedler.

“Very likely,” said the woman, “but we want none”—at the same time

retreating a few paces from the door.

“May I ask,” inquired the pedler, advancing within the door a little,

but cautiously and civilly, as the woman retreated—“may I ask, madam,

whether you have a clock?”

The woman cast I will not say an indignant look at the clock-man—but a

look certainly not kind; at the same time saying with some spirit—“we

want none of your clocks, sir.”

The pedler took a seat.

The scene which we have thus briefly described occurred, some years

since, in the “Old Dominion;” but in what particular section we are not

at liberty to say. The house at which it occurred was a well-looking

habitation; old, indeed, but kept in clever repair. It was owned and

occupied by a farmer of some consideration in those parts, but singular

and very set in his way. Like some others, in other quarters, he had

imbibed strong antipathies against Yankeedom and all its inhabitants. He

fairly hated the sight of a pedler; and, although disposed to treat his

species with civility, he had not at all times been so fortunate as to

do so. In several instances, indeed, he had dismissed with some severity

these itinerant merchants, who had offered their commodities for sale

within his precincts. Even his dog seemed to know when one drove up, and

snarled and growled with more than ordinary spirit, to the evident

satisfaction of the master. As to purchasing an article of any of the

detestable fraternity—that he would never do—no not he, whatever were

his necessities. And he was true to his word. For more than once, it had

happened that articles had been offered just at a time when he needed

them, and which could not be obtained in the retired situation in which

he lived—but he would not even look at them. The corn might remain

unhoed, and the house never be swept, before he would purchase a hoe or

a broom of a pedler.

The sentiments of Mr. M——, moreover, had obtained no small notoriety

among the pedling fraternity. They all understood the matter—those we

mean who conducted this sort of trade in those parts; and although

several, prompted by a more than ordinary share of confidence in their

selling powers, had made a visit to the place, determined not to leave

the game

Till they had run it down,

they had all to a man been foiled. The Virginia farmer was proof against

their strategy. In general, he was civil—but he could be stormy and

tempestuous, especially if urged by a traveling merchant to purchase,

when he had peremptorily refused. And so set had he become, that on more

occasions than one, he had urged his wife never, in his absence, to

purchase any article, especially not a clock. I am not certain that in

terms he had forbidden her. But she knew his wishes; and being a good

woman, she intended to act accordingly.

The day we are speaking of Mr. M—— had gone to a neighboring town, a

few miles distant, to transact some business; expecting, however, to

return the same evening.

Shortly after his departure, which was early, the pedler of whom we have

already made mention drove up, with the hope of disposing of a clock.

Whether he was apprised of the absence of the lord of the manor has not

transpired; but he was not ignorant of the task before him. He had

received ample information from several of the profession of the unlucky

star that presided, when they made the experiment; and, moreover, they

had predicted his similar ill success.

“Never mind,” said he—“I’ll try my hand, and if Jasper C. fails it will

be the very first time.”

And Jasper C. was in truth no ordinary specimen of a Yankee. Whether

from New Hampshire, Massachusetts, or Vermont, he scarcely knew himself,

as in all those States his parents had lived—but in the limits of which

one they happened to be, at the precise time he first opened his eyes on

this mundane sphere, he never could quite ascertain. He had all the tact

and shrewdness of the Codfish State, and all the hardness and

impenetrability of the Granite State—and I may add, all the

determination of a Green Mountain boy. If there was only a nook or angle

where these States could unite, that would be the precise spot—the very

sharpest point I mean—where Jasper C. had his beginning. But however

these matters may be, he was a Yankee—and one of the “straightest

sect”—a keen, sharp-sighted, ready-witted man, of some two or three and

twenty. He was a great tactician at selling—no matter what was the

article or commodity, he could always sell; and he delighted in nothing

more than to follow hard upon a brother pedler, and to compare notes

with him at the end of their common tour. Generally, Jasper could show

more dollars taken in a given time than any brother pedler who traveled

in the “Old Dominion.” He had some confidence, therefore, and he had a

right to it. And, besides, his personal appearance was in his favor; but

what was of more consequence, he was well-mannered. He was seldom put

off his guard, and seldom betrayed into language which he had occasion

to recall.

Such was Jasper C——, the pedler, who made his appearance at the house

of Mr. M——, at the time and under the circumstances already named.

He had made known his errand, and had received a denial. Most pedlers

would have retired. _He_ took a seat. There was a seeming rudeness in so

doing, especially as the woman had given no such invitation; but the

manner of his doing it divested it of all impropriety. It was taken

hesitatingly and with an appearance of weariness; and still more in his

favor, he did that which is not always done by pedlers, he civilly

removed his hat.

Minutes passed—or they seemed minutes to the pedler—during which he

sat in silence pondering upon the course most likely to ensure

success—the woman, meanwhile, employing herself in brushing the hearth,

adjusting the chairs, with other operations indicated by that very

expressive household term—“putting things to rights.” At length Jasper

C—— ventured to say, “Madam, with your leave, I’ll show you one of my

clocks.”

“You may show as many as you please,” said the woman, “but we want

none—havn’t I already told you?”

She had, indeed, so told him; but, nevertheless, the pedler had done

better than he feared. He had gained one point, and what his experience

had taught him was an important point—he had permission to show his

clocks. In a short time, therefore, he was again entering the door,

bearing in his hands a handsome-looking clock—brass wheels, mahogany

case, gilded at various points, and withal a pretty landscape, painted

on a glass in front, below the face. In short, it was a fair specimen of

Jerome’s best Bristol made. Fortunately—so the pedler thought—the

mantle happened to be unoccupied, and there, in the centre, the clock

was duly installed. It was wound up, and soon began its duty—click,

click, click.

The pedler resumed his seat.

I said he had gained something. So he thought; but despite of all that

he had done, the woman seemed as unmoved as a marble statue—she took

not the slightest notice of him, or his clock. This was strange. The

pedler thought so. He had encountered adverse circumstances before—had

doubled many a point of difficulty and perplexity, and forewarned and

forearmed had expected to meet on this occasion, perhaps refusal; but he

didn’t well know how to manage such sheer indifference. He would have

tasked his wits—and he did task them; but somehow they seemed to

forsake him at the precise moment, when he singularly needed their

assistance. Moreover, in the very midst of his perplexity, the woman,

who had taken a seat with her back turned toward him and his clock—a

position which, under ordinary circumstances she would have avoided as a

breach of civility—rose of a sudden, and taking some needle-work which

she had in her hand, wended her way through an adjoining door into some

other part of the house. It seemed as if she intended to carry her plan

and purpose of marked indifference to the _ne plus ultra_; and the

pedler would have given up all hope of success but for one

circumstance—quite a trivial one—and yet it left a hook to hang a hope

on. As the door closed, the pedler noticed that the woman more than half

turned round, and did—he was quite sure of it—she did cast a momentary

glance at the clock. And that look was voluntary. It cost her effort—it

betrayed curiosity—the pedler didn’t quite despair.

But his hopes were ere long again on the ebb. The woman seemed to have

no disposition to return; at least she didn’t make her appearance; and

with a good deal of reason the pedler thought that she did not intend to

return. Whether this was her resolution I cannot say—quite probably she

supposed that he had departed. Be this, however, as it may, the pedler

was giving up, and had actually risen, and was in progress toward the

clock, with a view to deport it once more to his wagon, when the door

creaked, and the woman again entered.

She seemed inclined to pause—and, perhaps, did pause—but, what was

more to the pedler’s purpose, he fancied that she was about to hazard

some remark—he hoped a commendation of the clock—at least a word as to

its good appearance. But he mistook. She did, indeed, speak—a word or

two only, however; but for the life of him, the pedler couldn’t decide

whether the drift was for or against him. “I wish Mr. M. was at home,”

said the woman, “he—” she paused.

What was she going to add? The pedler would have given almost the price

of a clock to have had his doubts resolved. “_He_”—did she mean that

her husband could decide for himself? So the pedler wished to believe,

while his better opinion, judging from her manner, was, that she meant

to intimate that her husband would be even more summary—more

indifferent he could not appear—more set and determined was impossible.

But putting the construction upon her words most favorable to his

present interests, he ventured to supply what she had failed to say,

“Yes, indeed,” said he, “if Mr. M. were at home, I dare say he wouldn’t

lose such a bargain as I would give him.”

“_Bargain!_” the pedler had unconsciously used a word of talismanic

power the world over. “Bargain!” that word seemed to arrest the woman’s

attention—and for the first time she raised her eyes and fairly looked

at the clock. And so it happened, that, at this critical moment in the

history of that clock, and in the proceedings of the pedler in relation

to a sale of it, it struck one, two, three, up to eleven. Its tones were

soft, musical, attractive. It ceased—and for a moment there was

silence, but it was soon interrupted by the woman’s adding, “It

certainly strikes prettily!”

The ecstasy of the pedler was near being betrayed; but it was for his

interest to conceal his pleasure, and so rising, he moved toward the

clock, saying, “Its striking _is_ good—better, I think myself, than is

common;” at the same time opening the door and pulling the striking

wire, upon which its musical tones filled the room.

“It does sound well,” said the woman.

“Good!” whispered the pedler to himself.

“Havn’t there recently been some improvements in clock-making?” asked

the woman.

“Better and better,” thought the pedler—“Madam,” said he, rousing from

his transient reverie, and responding to her question, “you asked me

about improvements? O yes, divers improvements—clocks are made

now-a-days in great perfection, and very cheap—but—I was about making

a proposition in reference to that clock—” but he was cut short in the

very sentence—

“I can save you all trouble of that sort,” said the woman, “I may take

none of your clocks.”

“There again,” thought the pedler, “all aback!” and now, how to retrieve

lost ground, he was quite at a loss. But a second thought came to his

aid. The language of the woman was peculiar—“I _may_ take none.”

“Madam!” the pedler resumed, and with some little more assurance, “I was

going to put this clock to you on such terms as that _you_ may, or any

other woman in the wide world might take it.”

The woman listened. She raised her hand to her forehead—she

hesitated—she seemed inclined to ask a question, and at length she did

inquire—

“How do you sell your clocks?”

Had the pedler ventured to raise his eyes, they would have resembled

stars of the first magnitude; but he was too politic to betray his sense

of the vantage he was gaining, and therefore rather coolly remarked,

“You seem so reluctant, madam, to purchase a clock, that I’m at a loss

how to reply. But if you will take one, I’ll put it pretty much at your

own price.”

“You will?” said she, her countenance relaxing into a sort of smile,

mingled with a spice of incredulity. “That’s not a common way with you

pedlers.”

“O no,” said he, “we live by our trade, and must make a trifle at least

now and then; but we must sell, if we don’t make much.”

While the pedler was thus remarking, the woman had approached near the

clock, and for the purpose, it would seem, of examining it—the pedler

hoped with reference to a purchase. And by way of helping on this

decision, he opened the clock—displayed its machinery—and cautiously

recommended it, by saying, “it’s a handsome piece of furniture, you

see—useful—and, with your leave, it occupies just the place for it.”

“It looks well,” rejoined the woman, “but—” she paused, “I—” she

began, and again stopped. At length, however, she added, “I may not

purchase it.”

She had laid a more than ordinary emphasis, perhaps unconsciously, on

the word _purchase_. “What!” thought the pedler, “does she expect me to

_give_ her a clock?” No, he could not give the clock. That would deprive

him of an anticipated and now much desired triumph. But matters now

stood in such a position as to demand prompt and decisive action. The

pedler, therefore, met the emergency like a tactician. “Madam,” said he,

“I ask no money for the clock. I am willing to take such articles in

payment as you have to spare, and at your own price.”

The woman fairly stared. The matter wore a new phase.

“I mean just as I say, madam,” said the pedler, observing her apparent

surprise. “Just what you have to spare, and at your own price.”

“But what do you ask for the clock?”

“Fifteen dollars—the small sum of fifteen dollars.”

The woman took a seat. For a few minutes she seemed to be abstracted and

lost. But at length returning to the subject, she said, “On the terms

you propose, I will take the clock.”

That was the decision which the pedler had been looking for with all

imaginable desire, and now no time was to be lost—and none, indeed, was

lost.

“Follow me,” said the woman, rising and leading the way to an outer

room, where was standing a cask with about a bushel of flaxseed, which

she said had been there time out of mind. Her husband had often wished

it away, and now the pedler might take it.

“All right,” said the pedler, “and at what price?”

“Three dollars,” replied the woman—it was double the price of clean

fresh seed.

“Agreed,” said the pedler, his mind running over the loss he must

sustain on this basis; but loss or no loss, he was glad to sell a clock.

“What next, madam?” inquired the pedler.

“Well,” said the woman, beginning fairly to exult at the good bargain

she was making, and even luxuriating in the thought, as how her husband

would himself be pleased at her skill in bargain-making, “we’ve got a

calf you may take.”

“A what?” asked the pedler, a cold shudder following hard on the

annunciation.

“A calf, sir,” repeated the woman, “you said you would take any thing we

had to spare.”

“Right, right,” said the pedler, recovering himself as well as he could,

“a calf—O yes, all the same, that is, nothing amiss by way of trade in

this world; turn it to account, I dare say.”

By this time the woman had conducted our hero to a small pen, with a

southern exposure, adjoining the barn, and there lay a—skeleton!

“This is the calf,” said the woman.

The pedler started back involuntarily; he bit his lips, and for a moment

was on the point of demurring. What on earth was such a sickly-looking

creature worth? What could he do with it? How could he carry it? These,

and half a score of kindred questions flitted across his mind. The

pedler was perplexed; he was out-generaled; but re-installing his waning

confidence with the thought, that as a dernier resort he could deposit

the sorry-looking brute under some hedge by the wayside, like a veteran

soldier in the “battles of life,” he marched up to the emergency, and

with commendable good humor, said,

“Yes, yes—a calf, truly—but is it alive?” at the same time half

spurning it with his foot. “Yes, and alive ’tis, surely. I thought it

was dead; here, you young ox, rouse up.”

The calf yawned.

“Well, it does breathe, upon my soul,” said the pedler; “yonder old cart

can’t yawn.”

“Indeed,” said the woman, her countenance relaxing into a veritable

smile, “indeed, I thought myself, at the instant, that the creature was

dead. It has been ailing for more than a week, and my husband said only

yesterday, that he believed it would die; and he didn’t much care how

soon it did die. It looks a little better, I think.”

Better! the pedler could have cracked a marble. But there was no

escaping from his dilemma. So with as good a grace as was possible, he

inquired, “What price do you put upon the calf?”

“Only ten dollars,” replied the woman.

The pedler started. “Ten dollars!” he fairly exclaimed with surprise.

“Ten dollars! who ever heard of such a price for a calf just gasping.”

“You are committed,” dryly observed the woman.

“I see I am—committed—out-generaled, madam.”

“Isn’t it fair?” asked the woman.

“Fair!” repealed the pedler, “fair as the day itself; right—all right;

ten dollars—never mind, turn it to account, I dare say.”

This half-way controversy about the calf was thus summarily settled, and

a few other matters added, the clock was paid for. But the pedler did

not feel to boast, as they say. He was vanquished, and yet the victor.

He had made a _bona fide_ sale of a clock where all hitherto had failed;

and though for the present he couldn’t show the shiners for his bargain,

he hoped in some way to bring up arrearages, and return to tell a fair

story to his compeers.

The blood freshened his cheeks a good deal more than usual, it must be

confessed, as he helped the helpless “young ox” to mount. It was quite a

lug, as they say; and, to tell the truth, he was right glad when his

wagon, with its added contents of dying stock, and dead stock, was

fairly outside of the yard in the public highway.

On emerging from the premises of farmer M. he turned south toward V——n

Court House, situated some few miles distant. He had now time to lay his

plans. In the interval there were few dwellings, and even if there had

been, he was in no mood for any new adventure just in that region. As we

have already intimated, however, the pedler was a man of large

experience; and more than this, he had profited by it—he had acquired

tact—he was well fitted to extricate himself from difficulty, and that

of the most perplexing kind.

From an occasional inquiry of a passing traveler, he ascertained that

the court was in session at V——n Court House; and his plan of

operations was predicated upon this welcome intelligence. He thought

that if it proved so, he might make a demonstration to some profit.

On reaching the ample green, on which the Court House stood, he was

satisfied that the court was in session. Accordingly, he drew up at some

little distance from the front door, unhitched his horses, and made

ready. Shortly after, the court adjourned. The throng, in goodly

numbers, issued from the building; and it so happened that they were in

great good humor—a cause having just been decided the right way to

please the populace; and of this sort of people there was an abundance,

with a commendable sprinkling of a somewhat higher grade. At this

critical moment the pedler stepped upon his cart, and in quite a civil

way, begged to announce to the gentlemen, that he had some few articles

on sale, which he would be happy to show them.

The crowd gathered round, and the inquiry rose thicker and faster, “What

you got?” “What you got?”

Responding to the already clamorous demand, the pedler, with a calm and

composed front, said that if the gentlemen pleased, he would take the

liberty to exhibit a specimen of _flaxseed_. He had paid a large price

for it, and not having a great quantity, he would sell only a spoonful

of it to an individual. In this way he could give them all a chance; but

mark it, gentlemen, if you please, said he, “I sell only one spoonful to

an individual; one spoonful—not a thimbleful more.”

“Price?” inquired a farmer, who thought much of choice seeds.

“One dollar, gentlemen, per spoonful,” said the pedler. “I know it’s

high—but _such_ flaxseed, gentlemen, you don’t see every day.”

“A dollar for a spoonful of flaxseed!” exclaimed a man—one of the old

settlers, with a long pendent queue to his back—“I have been a long

time in these parts, but I never heard such a price for a spoonful of

flaxseed.”

“A fair price, I dare say,” said a man standing by, “a fair price, if

it’s the genuine—the genuine—there, now, I can’t think of the

kind—it’s the new sort. I’d give five dollars, if I couldn’t get a

spoonful without. Only for seed, sir—for seed.”

“Pray, Mr. Pedler,” said another, “is this seed imported?”

“Why I rather think it was. I _im_ported it.”

“From what country did it come?” asked another.

“Well, that’s more than I can say, whether from Flanders, or Ireland, or

New Holland.”

But these names were enough; and as the last seemed to linger longest on

some one’s mind, he immediately exclaimed, “New Holland! yes, I dare

say—a grand country for flax,” and presently the multitude had improved

upon these hints—in part facts, and in part surmises—and round it

went, that there was flaxseed of a choice kind, just in from New

Holland; and one man, who seemed to know something of geography, and

whose logic was about equal to what he knew of the face of the earth,

declared that as it had come some thousands of miles, it was,

_therefore_, probably a very long or tall kind.

“Gentlemen!” said the pedler, who had watched the increasing enthusiasm

with the most solid satisfaction, and who thought it quite time to make

a strike, “gentlemen, one dollar per spoonful for this flaxseed—your

only chance, don’t expect ever to offer flaxseed here again; last

chance, gentlemen—who’ll—”

He was cut short by the advance of a clever, and even staid looking man,

who said, “I’ll take a spoonful.”

“And I”—“and I”—“and I,” said half a dozen voices all together.

“One at a time, gentlemen,” said the pedler, “serve you all, and just as

fast as I can—the sooner I get through the better.”

And so he went on, parceling out the flaxseed, and pocketing the

dollars, till at last he had the pleasure—and a profound pleasure it

was—to stow away in his money-wallet the 75th dollar for the 75th

spoonful of flaxseed taken from an old cask in the out-room of Mr. M.,

in the “Old Dominion,” in part pay for a clock, but which some of the

purchasers would have it had come direct from New Holland.

“Seventy-five dollars for the flaxseed,” said the pedler, “seventy-five

dollars—seventy-five—that will do.”

And now the pedler’s voice was again heard, and on a somewhat higher

key. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I’ve a still more remarkable article to

dispose of—only one, and only one can have it; and the question is, who

will be the fortunate purchaser. Gentle—men, this _calf_ is for sale.”

The welkin rung. “A calf for sale!” said half a dozen. “Come, walk

up—who’ll buy? Who wants a calf?”

“You’d better sell yourself,” said a roughish-looking stripling,

addressing the pedler.

“Quite likely, my man,” responded the pedler. “I lately felt a good deal

more like a calf than I do just now. But I’ll sell the calf first, and

then think about selling myself. This calf for sale. Who bids?”

“Price?” said one.

“Twenty-five dollars,” replied the pedler.

“What breed?” asked another.

“Well, you all see, as for that matter, that he’s _short horns_.”

“Very plain matter of fact, that,” said a good-natured, jolly sort of a

fellow. “Is he Durham, or what is he?”

“That’s more than I know—he’s _short horns_, but whether Durham or

Dedham—how can I tell?”

“Durham!” exclaimed a prompt, rosy-cheeked fellow, stepping up; “why,

you simpleton, don’t you know the value of the creature you are

selling—even a bigger simpleton might see with half an eye that he’s

Durham; look at his white spots—he’s handsome as a picture.”

“Handsome!” retorted another, “I wonder where you see beauty.”

“Well,” said another, “never mind for beauty—what’s his name, Mr.

Pedler?”

“Well,” said the pedler, “I don’t know exactly what to call him. I guess

we’ll call him Dromeo.”

“Romeo, you fool,” said a voice in the crowd.

“Oh, yes, what a mistake—funny enough,” said the pedler. “Romeo,

gentlemen, Romeo—who’ll bid?”

And now, as in case of the flaxseed, the praises of Romeo went the

rounds, till there was even a controversy who should have him.

Suffice it to say, a square-built man was the purchaser. The money was

paid, even before Romeo was let down on to terra firma. But that

operation was now gone through with, and the first result was that the

calf fell like a flounder.

“O, aint you ashamed of yourself, Romeo,” said the pedler; “come, stand

up in the presence of these gentlemen.”

Romeo, however, couldn’t find his legs, as they say; and the pedler had

to explain and apologize for his want of manners. “He had been a little

ailing,” he believed, “but the person of whom I purchased him, said he

looked better.”

“No wonder if he does ail a little,” said a man who was helping him to

stand up, “it’s a long voyage he’s come, and cattles are quite likely to

get sick on a voyage.”

“That, indeed,” said another, “he looks like as if he’d been very

sea-sick—I dare say he was.”

“He needs something to eat,” said the pedler, “it’s a good while that

he’s been fasting.”

“Well,” said the purchaser, with some assurance, and well satisfied with

his bargain, “plenty of milk hard by—come, boys, give him a lift into

the wagon, and I’ll import him a little further.”

Accordingly, some half a dozen hands were soon occupied in raising Romeo

into the farmer’s wagon.

Meanwhile, the pedler rolled up the bills, and safely deposited them in

his pocket-book, which, on returning to its usual place, he said, “One

hundred dollars! one hundred dollars for a clock!—a clock sold to Mr.

M., of ——! One hundred dollars—that will do!”

No time was now lost by the pedler in re-hitching his horses, which

done, he left for head-quarters, there to tell and exult over the

success of his experiment in selling a clock. The multitude, which had

been some time thinning, now left the Court House and its precincts to

their solitude.

* * * * *

Our story summons us once more, but briefly, to the farm-house of Mr. M.

At about half past seven that same evening, the farmer having returned,

was quietly seated with his wife at the supper-table. He seemed, though

wearied, in excellent spirits. Several circumstances had occurred during

the day to put him in good humor. And for some reason his wife looked,

he thought, more than ordinarily interesting; she was dressed with more

taste. The room was neat and tidy; the light shone more brilliantly, and

the table had a better bill of fare; in short, Mrs. M. had exerted

herself to give her husband as kind and welcome a reception as she well

could. And she had evidently succeeded. He seemed pleased, while she

herself was unusually cheerful and sociable.

She had just turned out a third or fourth cup of tea for Mr. M., and was

in the very act of handing it to him across the table, when from an

adjoining room was heard the clock striking one, two, three, four.

Mr. M. had taken the cup, but it fell as suddenly as if at that instant

a paralysis had seized his arm—the cup broke, and the tea flooded the

table; at the same time the glance of a kindled eye shot across at his

wife.

“Caroline!” said he, in a sharp and inquisitive tone.

“Husband!” at the same time exclaimed Mrs. M. “My dear husband, will you

hear me?”

“No,” said the exasperated man, “hear what? What is the meaning of all

this? No, I don’t want to hear any explanation. You have violated—”

“My dear husband,” interrupted Mrs. M., “only hear me—one instant—one

brief explanation.”

“None,” said he, rising from his chair. At the same time his wife rose,

and approaching him, gently laid her hand upon his shoulder, and

supplicated his calm and kind attention to her explanation.

“Have you purchased that clock?” he inquired.

“Husband! may be I’ve done wrong,” she replied, “but how can you judge

till you hear?”

Mr. M. was a man of impulse, as the reader will readily perceive—and

yet he was kind in his nature; and when reason was permitted to speak,

he was disposed to listen and judge with candor.

At his wife’s request he resumed his seat. She drew her chair to his

side. She explained. First she spoke of the calf, and of the ten dollars

allowed her for it.

“You recollect, husband,” said she, “that only yesterday you wished it

dead.”

“Ah! that, indeed,” said Mr. M., his choler beginning again to wax hot,

“but I had rather lost twenty calves than patronize one of those

detestable pedlers. You knew my wishes.”

“I did, my husband; and but for the opportunity of getting rid of

articles absolutely valueless to us, I should never have presumed to

have made such a purchase.”

“Well, let that pass,” said the husband, his own good sense confessing

that she got a large price for what he had wished off his premises—only

he didn’t wish to be thought patronizing a pedler.

“You got a large price,” he added.

“Well,” replied Mrs. M., “the clock-man,” she avoided the mention of the

word pedler, “allowed me to name my own price, and I aimed in the whole

to please you.”

“To please me!” said Mr. M., petulantly.

“Not to excite your displeasure rather, I should have said.”

“Well, and what next?”

“You place me in trying circumstances.”

“You placed yourself there,” interrupted her husband.

“Yes, according to your view of the case,” said Mrs M., “and you make me

regret that I could suffer myself to be tempted to take a clock; but I

see no way but to proceed and tell you the whole.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. M.

“Well, then, husband, you recollect that cask of old flaxseed out in—”

“Flaxseed!” he exclaimed, his voice absolutely sounding over the whole

house, at the same time the blood rushing to his face, “flaxseed!—did

you sell that flaxseed? Is it, then, possible?”

“Pray,” said Mrs. M., “what is the meaning of your unwonted excitement?

What have I done to raise this awful storm?”

“Done?” said he, “done? That flaxseed!—was it, then, that?” he paused.

“And pray what did you get for it?”

“There was nearly a bushel of it,” replied Mrs. M., “and I was allowed

three dollars for it.”

“Three dollars a bushel!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it must be that—it must

be.”

The whole truth was now before him. He understood the length and breadth

of the matter. His wife was the dupe of a keen and practiced pedler; but

she was less a dupe than himself. Slowly putting his hand into his

pocket, he took thence a paper, which he handed to his wife, and bid her

open it. She did so; and in it was a spoonful of what was once

_flaxseed_.

Judge her surprise!

“Husband!” said she, “what does this mean?”

“Mean?” said he, “why it means that I am more of a fool than yourself.

You sold a bushel of flaxseed for three dollars, and I paid one dollar

for a spoonful of it. That is what it means.”

“How so?” asked Mrs. M.

The story was soon told. He was one of the seventy-five who had that day

purchased the flaxseed. He had left the ground before the selling was

through, and hence was ignorant as to the fate of the calf. But now the

whole was unraveled. And while husband and wife both experienced some

mortification of feeling, the joke was too good to allow any protracted

disturbance of their composure.

Mrs. M. procured another cup, as her husband declared that the matter of

the clock shouldn’t deprive him of his usual allowance of tea,

especially after a day of such fatigue.

The meal was at length finished; but before that, both had recovered

their equanimity, and even smiled at the strange events of the day. The

pedler didn’t escape some little malediction for the part he had acted;

but Mr. M. declared that a man deserved some credit who could carry his

purposes despite of such obstacles; but after all, he thought his wife

the better salesman, who could dispose of a bushel of old flaxseed for

three dollars, and a calf as good as dead for ten dollars.

* * * * *

EFFIE DEANS.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Among the delightful creations of the fancy of the great “Wizard of the

North,” his story entitled “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” stands

conspicuous, and perhaps maintains a higher degree of popularity than

any other of the numerous productions of his pen. Of course, every

reader is familiar with the narrative, and we think all will be

gratified by an examination of the beautiful picture of the unfortunate

EFFIE DEANS, which graces the present number of our Magazine. It is from

the burin of Mr. T. B. WELCH, and is executed in the most finished style

of that very superior engraver. The point of time chosen by the artist

for the delineation of his subject, is that at which the procurator

Sharpitlaw causes himself to be conveyed to the cell of the miserable

girl, for the purpose of eliciting information respecting the haunts of

Robertson. The great novelist tells us that “the poor girl was seated on

her little flock-bed, plunged in a deep reverie. Some food stood on the

table, of a quality better than is usually supplied to prisoners, but it

was untouched. The person under whose care she was more particularly

placed said, ‘that sometimes she tasted naething from the tae end of the

four and twenty hours to the t’other, except a drink of water.’”

[Illustration: _PAINTED BY S. BENDIXEN._

EFFIE DEANS.

_ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE._]

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

[Illustration]

THE WHOOPING CRANE. (_Ardea Americana._)

Flocks of this bird are found during the autumn season in the Middle and

Western States, and along the shores of the great lakes. In summer they

resort in countless numbers to their breeding places, in the high

northern latitudes, from which they are again driven at the return of

the arctic winters. These migrations are regular, and extend from the

vast plains of South America to the snows of the Arctic Circle.

While performing these immense journeys, the Cranes pass at such a

height in the air as to be invisible, stopping occasionally at some

favorite resting place in the line of their route. They are frequently

seen at those periods in the marshes and rice plantations of the South,

and in much smaller numbers near Cape May, where they are known by the

name of Storks. At those times they attract much attention, principally

of course from sportsmen; and a small number remain at the Cape all

winter. Here they wander in the mud, searching for worms; or if on the

wing they keep near the shore, sailing from place to place with a low,

heavy flight, and uttering a loud piercing cry, which may be heard two

miles. From this scream, and its occasional modulations, the bird has

received its name. If wounded, the Whooping Crane boldly faces his

pursuers, attacks dog or man, and has been known by one stroke to drive

his bill through the gunner’s hand. It is, however, a difficult bird to

shoot, on account of its shyness and vigilance. When a flock rises from

the ground it ascends spirally to a great height, each member sending

forth the piercing scream, which, uniting with the others, and ringing

through the air, fills the beholder with a feeling approaching to

terror.

The favorite localities of the Whooping Crane are impenetrable swamps,

salt marshes, and small ponds or lakes near the sea. Here it hunts its

prey, passes its social life, feeds and nourishes its young. Their nests

are made of long grass, raised more than a foot above the ground, and

usually hidden among unfrequented swamps. The eggs are two in number, of

a pale blue color, spotted with brown. Thousands are reared every summer

at these favorite haunts, the young setting out in the following season

with the others, for the more genial climate of the South. This bird is

frequently eaten, and is said to be palatable. Its common food is worms,

insects, mice, moles, etc. It is the tallest bird indigenous to the

United States, measuring four feet six inches in length, and when erect

five feet in height. The bill is truly formidable, being six inches

long, an inch and a half thick, straight and extremely sharp. The

general color, excepting that of the head and the primaries, is pure

white, many of the feathers on each side lengthening into graceful

plumes, like those of the ostrich. The legs and thighs are black, thick

and strong. The tail, in common with that of the species, is covered by

a broad flag of plumage, which sets off the gracefulness of this truly

graceful bird to full advantage.

It is supposed on good authority that the species known by naturalists

as the Brown Crane is but the young of this bird. It appears to extend

also across Behring’s Straits and throughout the great part of northern

Asia. It has likewise been confounded with the Canadian Crane, whose

habits are thus described by Major Long: “They fly at a great height,

and wheeling in circles, appear to rest, without effort, on the surface

of an aerial current, by whose eddies they are borne about in an endless

series of revolutions. Each individual describes a large circle in the

air, independently of his associates, and uttering loud, distinct, and

repeated cries. They continue thus to wing their flight upward,

gradually receding from the earth until they become mere specks upon the

sight, and finally altogether disappear, leaving only the discordant

music of their concert to fall faintly on the ear, exploring

“‘Heavens not its own, and worlds unknown before.’”

The distinction, however, between these two species is now clearly

ascertained.

[Illustration]

THE CEDAR BIRD. (_Ampelis Americana._)

This bird is also known by the names of the Crown Bird, and the Cherry

Bird. It abounds in the United States, and is found as far south as

Mexico, and northward to Canada. During the Summer months flocks of

Cedar birds are found in the mountainous tracts of our country, where

they find abundant food in the whortleberries with which, at that

season, the Blue Mountains, the Alleghanies, and the Cumberland abound.

At the approach of autumn they leave these haunts, and descend to more

cultivated, to feed upon the berries of the sour gum and red cedar. The

latter is their favorite food; a small flock is not unfrequently seen on

one small cedar tree; and here they gorge themselves to such an extent

that they may easily be taken by the hand. This voracity does not leave

the bird even in captivity; for instances have been known of a tame or

wounded one gormandizing upon apples or berries, until it choked to

death. They are also fond of grapes, ripe persimmons, and almost every

kind of berry; but the pursuit of insects, which they sometimes indulge

in, appears to originate rather from a love of sport, or of mischief,

than from any preference to that kind of food. During the season of

fruit they are fat, tender, and much esteemed for the table; but they

become almost worthless when obliged to live upon insects.

The Cedar Bird is noted for its graceful figure, the beauty of its

plumage, and for the tuft or crown which adorns the head, and which it

can elevate or depress at pleasure. The feathers are of the texture of

fine silk or down, glossy and beautiful. It has long been confounded by

foreigners with the European Chatterer, but is much smaller than that

bird, possesses marked differences of plumage, and specific differences

of nature. Its usual note is but a feeble lisp, generally uttered while

rising or alighting. When flying they move in parties of fifty or sixty,

crowded closely together, and on reaching a tree alight in the same

compact manner. Of course the sportsman is enabled to do terrible

execution, sometimes destroying half a flock at a single discharge.

Their great enemy is the farmer; and when we take into consideration how

perseveringly they endeavor to harvest his cherry orchards, even to the

last gleaning, in spite, too, of guns and scare-crows, it must be

acknowledged that he has better cause for war against them than in many

instances of supposed feathered aggressions. The Cedar Bird, however,

increases rapidly; and a singular circumstance connected with its habits

is the unusually late time at which it begins to build. This is supposed

to be owing to a scarcity of food in the spring. The nest is not begun

before the second week in June. It is located on a cedar tree, or in

some orchard, usually in a forked branch ten or twelve feet from the

ground. The bottom is composed of coarse dry stalks of grass, and the

whole is lined with very fine threads or blades of the same material.

The eggs are three or four in number, white, with a bluish cast, very

sharp at the point, and blunt at the other end, the whole surface marked

with small round black spots. After being hatched the young are fed for

a while on insects, and afterward on berries. If the nest be attacked

the parent birds utter no cry, but will sometimes make a show of defence

by snapping the bill, elevating the crest, and attack with mimick fury

the object which disturbs them.

* * * * *

THE WILLOW BY THE SPRING.

BY J. HUNT, JR.

Near to my old grandfather’s cot,

A small stream murmurs by;

And from its bank a spring pours out,

Whose waters never dry;

Beside that spring a willow stands—

A tall and stately tree—

Oh, would you learn what charms it hath?

I’ll tell its charms to me;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

My mother, on her bridal morn,

Two twigs inserted there;

And twining them together close,

United thus the pair;

She left them to the charge of Fate,

To flourish or to fade;

But taking root, they freely grew,

And gave the spring a shade;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

How oft have I, when but a child,

And e’en in later years,

Sat ’neath that willow’s drooping boughs,

And bathed its roots in tears;

Not for a sadness which I felt,

From pains that pressed my heart;

But Mem’ry, with her troop of thoughts,

Bade Feeling’s fountain start;

The willow by the spring,

The willow by the spring;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

While Time the moments wing.

When on the cultured plains of life,

A wedded pair I see,

Who, true to each, together cling,

I think upon that tree;

There, green in age, it broadly spreads

Its branches to the sun—

Distinct, two trunks appear in view,

And yet, they “twain are one.”

That willow of my home,

That willow of my home;

Oh, may it live and strength receive,

One hundred years to come.

* * * * *

WE ARE CHANGED.

BY EDITH BLYTHE.

We are changed—we are changed—The time was once

That our hearts were light and free,

And the song and the laugh rang out in tones

Of merry, blithesome glee:

We are changed—we are changed—for grief and care

Have wrought the work of years,

And our smiles have fled, and our eyes grown dim

With burning bitter tears.

We are changed—for our hearts no longer now

Can echo the songs of mirth,

And the sunbeams are few, and the shadows dark,

That seem to encircle the earth.

The step has grown slow that was buoyant and light,

When erst the green forest we ranged;

Our fair dreams have fled, and hope’s bright star is gone—

And we feel we are changed—we are changed.

* * * * *

EDITOR’S TABLE.

THE MEANS OF A MAN’S LASTING FAME.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

As a general rule, we must look to the earliest years of a man to

ascertain the facts and circumstances which have influenced the conduct

and produced the result of his latest years; just as we ascend to the

sources of a stream, to find what has caused the color and quality of

its water; on looking a little down we find those assisting or

disturbing accidents that divert or direct its current.

But while the quality of a man’s mind may be dependent upon the gifts of

God or the culture of his infancy—while we may trace up from the last

effort of matured greatness to the earliest movement of the nascent

powers, the influence of the first directing causes, and see how

qualities were improved and greatness achieved; while all the colors of

the mind seem to be derived from infancy, and the fame of the youth is

made obviously referable to the culture of the nursery and the fireside

circle, we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that even in later years,

when the tone or the color of the mind becomes fixed, when the qualities

have insured fame and eminence, some unseen, and by the world

unsuspected, cause operates to disturb the onward course, impede the

progress, lessen the influence, and thus diminish the greatness of the

gifted one that has been “the observed of all observers,” as a

projecting rock divides the current at the mouth of a stream, or an

accumulated bar prevents a depth and destroys the usefulness of a river

which has flowed steadily, beautifully and profitably from its source in

the mountain to its entrance into the sea.

And, not to drop the simile, we see some men moving on in constantly

augmenting consequence, swaying public opinion and enlightening public

sentiment, and seeming to bid fair to swallow up in their fame the

credit of all, by making all tributary to them, when suddenly they sink

from observation; drop from the course they have pursued, and are lost

to sight, just as the rivers of Florida flow along with augmented volume

toward the Gulf, as if to gather themselves into a glorious estuary,

when suddenly they sink into the earth, and are lost amid the

subterranean caverns that abound in a country of such peculiar

geological formation, and like

The Niger escape the keen traveler’s eye,

By plunging or changing the clime.

We see around us numerous instances of this kind of autumnal failure.

History is full of them. Our country presents cases of remarkable

strength. And as it acquires years and augmented numbers, more will

present themselves, and as the means of observation increase, and

publicity becomes greater, of course attention will be more drawn to the

fact; and perhaps the causes, too, will be better understood, I do not

know that they will be avoided; if we are right in our conjectures as to

their causes, then we fear that they will continue—and while they

continue they will produce like effects.

I am about to speak of the disturbing cause of manhood—the hidden

influences to harm to which he is exposed—something that comes in

manhood to defeat the hopes and expectation of childhood and youth,

something that paralyzes the arm lifted in the harvest field, for which

seed-time had been appropriately used, and vernal showers and summer

suns had done their work of good. I must not, however, be supposed to

intimate that all attention is not due to infancy and childhood, to

insure the man of worth, or that all of goodness and most of greatness

in age are not the consequence of early devotion. We know it is—but we

are not hence released from the necessity of inquiry, what it is that

defeats the labors given to age—what is it that strikes down the man in

his upward march—what is it that suddenly, to the appearance of the

world, but perhaps slowly to the sufferer, withdraws the vital stamina

of his mind, and leaves him powerless, hopeless, _ambitionless_! The

tree that sheds its deciduous leaves in autumn, may have in itself no

powers to renew its foliage in the spring, and if sentient would feel

that the sap which was receding from its branches would never again

flow, to promote its growth and restore its beauty—but the world would

know nothing of the blight until spring had brought out other trees, and

exposed its nakedness and death, then it might concern the arborator to

inquire what had affected that “which promised ere long to be the pride

of the wood and prince among the neighboring trees.” Is man less worthy

of consideration than insensible wood? But man does not regard his kind;

he acknowledges a law for all of nature beside, but for himself and his,

he submits all to chance, and fate becomes the providence of submission.

If with the season a single class of birds omit their advent—or come in

less considerable numbers than was their wont—forthwith the philosopher

peers into nature, compares her laws, and with infinite research comes

to guess at the motive which influenced the motion of the feathered

tribe. “But man dieth and wasteth away.” The immortality upon which he

is seizing fades in his grasp, or his hand becomes palsied—few or none

reach the point at which they aim, and there is no one to ask the reason

of the failure, or to explain the causes which have disappointed the

aspirant of his fame and the world of its advantage.

“Of how much more value are ye than many sparrows!”

I have often in moments of reflection upon the fame and conduct of

particular, distinguished men, felt a great anxiety to know something of

their private life, that I might be able to judge of the cause of the

disappointment which their life’s close had worked for their friends and

admirers. I have put the question to some one who might have more

knowledge than I of the individual to whom I referred.

“Oh, he drinks too much.”

“That is true—anybody can see that. But how does it happen that such a

person should drink too much?”

“The constant demand upon his intellect gave him a habit of stimulating,

and that is a good way toward intoxication.”

“But I do not see in his pursuits that kind of demand for stimuli which

poets are supposed to have? I think that drinking is rather an effect

than a cause.”

Such questions and such answers, with such conclusions, were frequent.

Accident at length led me to a closer knowledge of the circumstances of

one person, whose fame seemed to pale before the effectual fires of some

hidden conflagration.

Blackstone had taken his place at the bar of his native county, and

extended his practice to the various courts of the State, so that he

seemed, in a few years, to have got possession of a position for which

many had given a life time of labor. The amount of his business at the

bar did not hinder him from distinguishing himself in the halls of the

legislature, and his commanding eloquence commended him to the people of

both parties as a representative in Congress, where his career fulfilled

all the expectations of his warmest political friends, and justified the

vote in his favor of his political opponents.

Years passed away, and the habits of this popular and eminent citizen

were less exemplary than the fame of his talents would require, and

while his many friends had to confess a bitter disappointment, he seemed

dissatisfied with himself, and constantly in need of something which no

one seemed able to impart. He lost the high position which he had

reached, and the world wondered at the change; all, of course, censured

the recusant, and blamed him justly, because there was that in his

habits which shocked the temperate. “No man in these days,” it was said

with emphasis, “no man can expect to sustain himself in any public

position who neglects the proprieties of life by indulging in

intemperate use of spirituous liquor.”

Here was a cause for the lapse in the upward course. To drink too much

is to be unable to ascend—we do not mean a play upon a vulgar

designation for inebriety, when we say that he who drinks too much has

in him a too heavy load to take with him to the temple of desirable

fame.

But admitting intemperance as the proximate cause of the change in the

man’s conduct—may we not be allowed to suspect that there was a remote

cause—some less potent influence working the evil, but producing

through the agency of liquor? In other words we did inquire into the

circumstances of Blackstone and found that there was a remote cause, and

we found also what that cause was:

Blackstone’s fine person and commanding talents, gave him the welcome

_entrée_ of the first families of West Virginia: whether these are equal

to the real F. F. V. of the eastern portion of the State, we do not

know, but they were glad to find Blackstone among them. He married a

young woman of good education—we mean of considerable school

learning—and she was beside handsome and agreeable. She admired the

position which Blackstone had achieved—was pleased with the fame of her

husband, and not a little elated at the distinction which his character

and popularity conferred on her. The world all saw that Mrs. B. was

proud of her husband—the world as usual made a mistake. She was proud

of being Blackstone’s wife. The reflected honor was most grateful, and

she enjoyed it. She appreciated the distinction which she possessed,

almost as highly as she did the abundant supply of money which her

husband’s position at the bar enabled him to supply.

But Mrs. Blackstone never thought much about the manner in which the

money was acquired, and never for a moment thought of the ingredients of

her husband’s fame. She knew that Mr. B. was a distinguished lawyer, but

it never occurred to her that the maintenance of his position demanded

as much exertion as did the attainment thereof. She knew by common fame,

by the newspapers, and by other tokens, that her husband was one of the

most distinguished speakers of that speaking portion of the country, and

she knew, because all said, that his speeches in the halls of

legislation or at the courts of justice were not merely verbal

outpourings, they contained deep thought and persuasive arguments, and

constant instruction. But it never occurred to Mrs. B. that these

gigantic works of her husband were the result of efforts; that without

due preparation he would have failed in the midst of his argument, and

that each glorious exposition of the law to the court, each elucidation

of the constitution to the Legislature demanded that its successor

should be as well sustained, should add to his fame for learning and

acumen, and that consequently new study, new labor, new intensity of

application, could alone secure to the gifted speaker the fame which his

antecedent argument had acquired. To her, we say, such an idea never

occurred. She seemed to think, or at least her conduct would warrant the

conclusion that she thought, the eloquence and the learning of her

husband were as little the result of exertions as was his physical

proportion, and that one of his great speeches was as easily made as was

a pedestrian movement from his house to the office. The truth is, she

thought nothing about it.

A friend whose business calls him frequently to the West, tells us that

he was at one time an inmate of Mr. Blackstone’s family for some

weeks—that on one occasion the whole town had been wrapt in admiration

at one of his magnificent addresses in the court-house—it was a speech

which if it had been the only one of any man’s life would have insured

enviable fame. Our informant, roused from the deep absorption which the

speech produced, hastened at its close to the dwelling of Mr. B., that

he might sit and enjoy the rich effect which the language and tone had

produced upon his mind. Mrs. B. was in the parlor, and he informed her

of the unexampled efforts and success of her husband. She merely

remarked that she had heard him speak often before their marriage but

never since.

Of course, a lady was not going to laud her husband; she was modest.

Later in the evening, the visiter was sitting in the library, when Mr.

B. entered that portion of the house. He was exhausted, mentally and

physically. He knew that he had done great things, and he desired, as

all men do, to have his wife share in the pleasure—nay, to double the

pleasure to him by her kind, affectionate, partial commendation of his

labors, and hearty rejoicings at his success.

“It was, Cornelia,” said he, “one of my most fortunate hits, and when I

summed up the testimony and presented the cause of the injured widow,

there was not a dry eye in the court-room; and the gallery was crowded

with ladies. Mrs. Campbell sat in front, listening with the most marked

attention—”

“Did she—what dress did Mrs. Campbell wear?”

“Dress—but——”

It was ever thus. Whatever effort Blackstone made—whatever applause

abroad followed his exertions, there was an entire want of sympathy at

home. Not that Mrs. B. was without high mental powers, not that those

powers lacked cultivation; but she had no knowledge of what a public man

expects of his home, no comprehension of the great fact, that no

out-of-door applause, no huzza of the multitude, no approval of even a

judicious public is complete in its effect upon the recipient, unless

sanctioned and sealed by the council at home—a council the head and

chief of which is the wife, but which includes every member of the

domestic circle. Distinguished men are not candidates alone for

_applause_. They receive the censure, the vituperation, and persecution

sometimes of those whose views they may oppose. Whose good they can no

longer promote—for whom they have done the ninety-nine good acts but

failed in their attempt at the hundredth—and that failure cancels all

obligations for former success; how prospective is public gratitude!

Blackstone of course had his opponents, and when he entered his house,

stung with insults from impeached motives, and felt how faithless had

been those upon whom he had leaned, a word or two of kindness, one

intimation that he could and would survive all such attacks. One gentle,

soothing strain from a wife who knows or ought to know the most

sensitive spot on which the public thong had fallen, and who can apply

the soothing ointment of affection—one cheering word would have lifted

him over the difficulty and made him feel that in himself he had the

material of resistance, and the weapons of final victory. A glass or two

of brandy stiffens the nerves and rallies the mind to its wonted

tone—that application must, of course, be increased in amount whenever

renewed, or the effect will cease—and we need not tell what must be the

consequence of such a resort.

The remedy of wife-like sympathy, domestic soothing, may indeed, like

the latter, need augmentation by frequency of application—but it comes

from a source that is never dried up by use, that increases by drafts

upon it—and produces no injurious effects upon the mind or body made

recipient of its soothing power.

I know now, because I know more than I have above related, that the

errors of Blackstone, his short-coming, the comparative dimness of his

once glowing fame which seemed marked to “shine more and more unto the

perfect day;” his want of perseverance—his new habits of

remissness—his loss of fame—all, all are due to a want of _home_—of

that which makes his house his home—makes home—home.

I speak not here of the thousand instances in which incompatability of

temper forever precludes family enjoyment—where vice, or what is next

to vice, want of domestic proprieties, disturb the peace of home; I cite

no instance of the defeat of a man’s high purpose, and the baffling of

the noble aims which elevated talents and finished education may form—I

quote not shipwrecks like those which may be due to the vulgar mind or

the vicious course of the wife—such causes are usually as obvious as

their effects. The men of more spirit than judgment breaks away from the

destructive cause, and tries to acquire an independence of home. Man is

not independent of home, if he has a place which he calls home, and all

his life, and all his conduct, and all his experience must and will

derive their coloring in no mean degree from that home, however man may

treat its condition or seek to place himself beyond its influence.

The distinguished Mr. Coke of South Carolina, seemed to me in some

considerable intercourse, to have rather a brilliant fancy, but to lack

that severe discipline which goes to make a man truly and permanently

great and popular—yet he seldom failed in producing a considerable

effect on an audience which he addressed, whatever might be the subject,

and nervous as was his system—he rarely evinced on the morning after a

defeat any tokens of irritation or discouragement. His wife made it her

business, and it became her pleasure to be an auditor of his

narrations—to hear his complaints against individuals at the moment of

anger and seem to forget his charges when returning equanimity led him

to speak in a different tone and temper of his vigorous and sometimes

successful antagonist.

He never came from a public exercise of his talents without being

willingly compelled to give an account of the whole matter to his

family, unless it was unpleasant; in that case his wife was the

attentive soothing listener.

The triumph of the forum or the ‘stump’ (pardon the Americanism,) was

doubled in the joy which the narration gave to the family, and the

unpleasant occurrences of such arenas were never referred to in the

family, so that Coke was sure of pleasure at home, whatever may have

been the pleasure abroad—he was sure of delicate sympathy at home

whatever may have been the vexation abroad. His fireside was the seat of

pleasure—his house was his home—his home was a home.

What is the result of all this? The course of Mr. Coke as all know has

been onward and upward—not with the swiftness or the sunlike aim of

Blackstone—but steadily, constantly, and successfully. Charge Mrs.

Blackstone with having impeded the course of her gifted husband, and she

would start with anger at, and abhorrence of the charge. She had never

disgraced him by misconduct, nor hindered him by interference.

Credit Mrs. Coke with having been the cause of her husband’s success,

and she would be not less astonished; she knew nothing of the subjects

of which her husband had acquired fame by speaking; she had consequently

never assisted in his preparation for public display, nor added an idea

to his brief.

The cold negative of Mrs. Blackstone had chilled her husband into

indifference or disgust.

The cheering warmth of Mrs. Coke’s affectionate attention and timely

attendance had inspired her husband with that proper degree of

self-respect which is necessary to self-dependence, and her soothing

sympathies had lulled unfriendly feelings toward others, so that he lost

nothing of acquired popularity by injudicious utterance of irritated

feelings.

It would not be difficult to adduce numerous instances, in divers walks

of life, of the good effect of matrimonial sympathy upon the success of

the husband and the position of the family. Very little can be expected

of a man abroad who lives in a state of constant indifference at

home—who has there no encouragement to efforts, and no gentle soothing

in failure, no inspiriting by the utterance of confidence in his powers,

who gathers no gentle pride by those hearty, warm, open plaudits at the

fireside, which would have shocked his feelings if offered abroad.

The merchant needs it, when his adventure is in imminent danger, or his

losses exceed his expectations. The mechanic requires it when planning

some work from which a kind of fame and a hoped for credit are to flow.

The laborer has as much advantage from the encouraging tone of his

wife’s voice as has any other man, and disappointment has its sting

poisoned or extracted, just as the woman sees proper to meet the evil.

“If a man would be rich he must ask his wife.” This is an old and a true

proverb, and applies as much to the riches of fame and station as to

those of pecuniary estimate. And if a man hopes to rise in life, let him

as a means of ascent carefully weigh the character of her who is to be

his companion—let him investigate closely her habits of sympathizing

with others, and her ability to conform to his situation. Wealth,

beauty, talents, education, are all desirable in woman, all appropriate

to her position, all contribute to her means of true usefulness. But

coldness, selfishness, indifference to the tastes and feelings of

others, and consequent uselessness as a wife, are all quite inconsistent

with those other attractions, and render them worthless—a means of

annoyance rather than a source of pleasure.

Constant affection, household knowledge, unfailing sympathy with the

wishes, views and efforts of the husband, good common sense, are those

jewels of a wife’s inheritance which are infinitely above all others,

though eminently consistent with those usually so highly valued.

Let no female reader think the dignity or the rights of her sex invaded,

nor the wrongs neglected, and start up to declare what a miserable state

a bad husband imposes upon a wife; we are speaking of an independent

evil. We know how much misery is brought into families, and how all good

is banished by the follies and wickedness of the husband. But our

business now is to speak of the errors of the wife—faults of character

which it seems almost impossible to correct in the individual, but which

must be looked to and avoided by those who look to marriage as a means

of happiness and advancement. The person must be avoided: faults of

conduct are more or less easily corrected, as they more or less depend

upon the character, condition, or temper of the individual. But, alas!

when, after repeated monitions, and as repeated failures, people come to

say “it is her way,” then it seems almost impossible to hope for

success.

It appears to us, however, worth while for men, and women too, to look

at the circumstances to which we profess only to have referred. Let them

weigh the value of domestic peace—let them estimate the worth of home

attractions and home pleasures, and let some one sit down and look

calmly and philosophically at the influence of family peace, family

pleasure, family support, upon the character and condition of a man—of

the husband—and then see whether what _we_ have noticed is not worth

the notice of others.

We do not say that the man of learning wants a learned wife, nor that

the statesman needs a political partner. But both need a wife who will

sympathize in their feelings, will try to improve advantages and

mitigate evils, and thus to bring to the house and the fireside the

great sources of man’s happiness and man’s triumphs.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_A Second Visit to the United States of North America. By Sir

Charles Lyell, F. R. S. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols.

12mo._

Sir Charles Lyell is the exact opposite of those English tourists who

emphasize the little peculiarities of American character, and pass off

their caricatures as national traits. He is a rigid man of science,

without sufficient humor or imagination to seize upon individual

peculiarities, and confines himself altogether to facts and sensible

remarks. He is essentially a moderate man in mind as well as in

disposition, and thoroughly conscientious, good-natured and

unimpassioned. His eye for scenery is that of a man of science, not of a

poet; he observes geology and botany, not mountains and sunny slopes of

green hills; and through the whole book there is not one example of his

mind rising above the dead level of calm observation and classification,

even in the presence of the most beautiful and sublime scenes of nature.

In regard equally to men, institutions, and scenery, he seems incapable

either of admiration or dislike, and from his utter lack of

sensitiveness to any impressions, the reader is made to wonder how he

can be any thing but a bore to himself. His moderation is perfect. He

discusses the copyright question and the question of slavery in a manner

so cool and just as to distinguish him from all other English tourists,

and also from all American chatterers on those word-flooded themes. If

he is thus destitute of glow and enthusiasm, it must be admitted that

these defects have their compensations. His statements are always

reliable. The geological information the volumes contain is of course

beyond cavil, but his observations are almost equally just on the

subjects of religion, education, and the practical working of our

political institutions. He may not convey much information to an

American, but it is but proper to admit that his tolerant and

conscientious representations will be sure to dispel many errors and

prejudices in the minds of his own countrymen. An Englishman is apt to

consider it a duty to believe every thing bad against the United States,

and it is pleasant to think that a man with the social and scientific

position of Sir Charles Lyell has the disposition as well as the power

to present the good side of our society for foreign contemplation.

In the eighth chapter of his first volume, Lyell discusses the Sea

Serpent, and comes to the conclusion that it is a Basking Shark. Since

his book was published the creature has been seen again off Nahaut

Beach, and the shark hypothesis completely overturned. We perceive that

Agassiz believes in the Serpent, and his opinion is almost as

authoritative as Lyell’s reasonings.

An interesting chapter in these volumes is devoted to the reprints of

English books, in the course of which the author gives an account of the

mammoth establishment of the Harpers. In the course of the year 1845 the

publishers sold two millions of volumes. Their success with particular

books seems to have filled Lyell with as much wonder as he is capable of

feeling. They sold 80,000 copies of the Wandering Jew, and 40,000 copies

of Bulwer’s Last of the Barons. Up to April, 1849, they had disposed of

40,000 copies of Macaulay’s History, at prices varying from four dollars

to fifty cents, and they calculated that the publishers of other

editions had sold 20,000, making in all 60,000 copies of one book in

about three months. The circulation of the same work in Great Britain

had been almost unprecedented, considering that the price was thirty-two

shillings, and yet during the same period only 13,000 copies were

disposed of. Since that period the English circulation has risen to

20,000, and we doubt not the American has nearly reached 80,000. Lyell

seems to think, in alluding to these facts, that what the English author

loses in money by an absence of copyright in America, he makes up in

popularity and fame.

* * * * *

_The Liberty of Rome: A History with an Historical Account of

the Liberty of Ancient Nations. By Samuel Eliot. New York: Geo.

P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo._

This work, though composed of two solid octavos, each numbering five

hundred pages, is still but the beginning of a series. The adventurous

author intends to follow them up with a line of successors, devoting a

brace of volumes to the Liberty of the Early Christian Ages, another to

the Liberty of the Middle Ages, and still another to the Liberty of

Europe since the Reformation. In addition to these, separate works are

to be produced on the Liberty of England and that of America. Few, even

among the giants of one idea, could contemplate such a vision of labor

without despair, but Mr. Eliot has fully made up his mind to undertake

the task; and there seems to be in him a power, possessed by few

scholars, of unflinchingly looking in the face a prospect of dogged

work, which will probably carry him through the business. The present

volumes are able, full of learning, inspired by a genuine love of

liberty and a genuine sense of religion, and are not deficient in

historical sagacity. They reflect great credit on the author’s industry

and ability, and, in many respects, are an addition to historical and to

American literature. It would be foreign to our purpose to attempt an

abstract of his labors, stretching as they do over a vast field of facts

and principles, but it can be confidently asserted of his book, that it

can hardly be read without increasing our knowledge, and inspiring an

admiration of the author’s spirit, and a respect for his learning. If

Mr. Eliot fails in securing the attention of a large class of readers,

it will not be because he has nothing of importance to communicate, but

because he does not exactly understand the best mode of communicating

it. His style is generally languid, oppressed with words brought in to

limit propositions, and the sentences are unconnected by that fusing

spirit which gives directness and movement to narration and

disquisition. These defects are perhaps the more observable, as the

style is ambitious to the extent of suggesting an effort after

correctness, and, with little freshness and energy, is replete with

images seen through an unimaginative haze of words, and implying the

absence rather than the possession of poetical power. The fault of the

work, in short, is the fault of a person unpracticed in composition, and

substituting a heavy rhetoric for a natural style; the merits are of a

kind which the purest and raciest writers might be proud to claim.

* * * * *

_The Penance of Roland, a Romance of the Peine Forte et Dure,

and Other Poems. By Henry B. Hirst, Author of Endymion, etc.

Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16 mo._

This volume, though it contains nothing equal in classic beauty and

grace to the exquisite poem of Endymion, has striking merits of another

kind, indicating that the author’s genius is versatile, and can roam at

will into many regions of song. The Penance of Roland is a long and

spirited ballad story, giving free play to a variety of strong passions,

and hurrying the reader swiftly along on a rushing stream of musical

verse to the conclusion. The author has united narration and description

in such an artistical manner, as to make his representations of scenery

and moods of mind aid instead of obstructing the story; and he produces

a strict unity of effect, by making every thing serve the dominant idea

of the poem. In this power of grasping a leading idea, of conceiving a

poem, Mr. Hirst is ever pre-eminently successful. This was the great

charm of Endymion, and it is just as observable in the smaller pieces

contained in the present volume as in that longer work. Of the whole

nineteen there is not one which is merely a collection of melodious

lines, embodying certain fancies and imaginations, but each is a short

poem, imaginatively conceived and artistically executed. We have no

space to refer to them individually, but it can be said of them

generally, that they display a profound insight into the mysteries of

melody both in metre and rhythm, and evince great strength and subtilty

of imagination in the embodiment of varying moods of mind. The volume is

a rich addition to the poetical literature of the country.

* * * * *

_History of the National Constituent Assembly. By J. F. Corkran,

Esq. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 12mo._

The author of this interesting volume was in daily attendance at the

National Assembly for some months, and his book is a record of his

personal observation of men and debates, including a view of the

measures introduced into the Assembly, and the mode in which they were

discussed. The author is an Englishman, and his eye is not always

perfectly accurate in his perception of French character; but he is far

beyond most of his countrymen even in this particular. He gives

tolerably correct views of the different factions which divided the

nation after the Revolution of February—the Red and the Moderate

Republicans, Socialists, Communists, Bonapartists and Monarchists; and

some capital portraits are drawn of Lamartine, Louis Blanc, Cremieux,

Garnier Pages, Arago, Marie, Murrast, Thieré, Barrot, Berryer, Dupin,

Rollin, Cavaignac, Mole, and Marshal Bugeaud. One of the most

interesting portions of the volume we have found to be the account of

Pierre Leroux. Mr. Corkran is evidently ignorant of the fact that Leroux

is one of the profoundest metaphysicians of France, that he not only

demolished the Eclectic system of Cousin, but is himself a man with

positive philosophical ideas, and accordingly he considers him simply as

a political socialist, who fails as a public speaker. Leroux is thus

described: “Beneath a prodigious mass, or mop, of black hair, as wild

and entangled as the brushwood of a virgin forest, slumber a pair of

misty, dreamy eyes, while the spectator’s ears are regaled with the

sounds of a sing-song voice, going through an interminable history of

human society, from the earliest days to the present time, for the

purpose of showing that the world has hitherto been on a wrong social

track, and struggling in the toils of a great mistake.” It seems that

Leroux was in the habit of reading his speeches, and though he at first

obtained the ear of the Assembly, he was ruined by having it proved upon

him that he was in the custom of reading one of his own unsaleable

printed pamphlets instead of a speech written for the occasion. Mr.

Corkran says, “when he attempted to read afterward, a resolution was

gravely proposed that no books should be read at the tribune. Well do I

recollect the scowl with which the philosopher slowly ascended the

tribune.”

* * * * *

_The Magic of Kindness; or the Wondrous Story of the God Huan.

By the Brothers Mayhew. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol.

16mo._

The authors of this little volume are the same who wrote the popular and

charming book entitled, “The Good Genius that Turned Everything into

Gold;” and their present contribution to a cause equally good, has the

peculiar interest of a fairy tale in the treatment of facts historically

accurate. The subject of benevolence, and the miracles it works, have

rarely been presented in a manner more likely to win converts among

readers of all dispositions and capacities. The illustrations by Kenny

Meadows and George Cruikshank, are excellent; and the same may be said

of the typography of the volume.

* * * * *

_The Elements of Reading and Oratory. By Henry Mandeville, D.

D., Professor of Moral Science and Belles Lettres in Hamilton

College. A New Revised Edition. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1

vol. 12mo._

Here is a work on Elocution deserving the title of scientific,

excelling, as it does, in the generalization and statement of laws any

book of the kind published on either side of the Atlantic. It would be

impossible in our limited space to give an account of the author’s

method, but it certainly is most thorough in pronunciation, punctuation,

modulation, the classification of sentences, and emphasis. It is not

only an admirable book for schools, but it contains much to interest

every person who would write and speak the English language accurately,

and there are few English scholars so accomplished as not to be able to

obtain new and valuable information from its perusal.

* * * * *

_History of Julius Cæsar. By Jacob Abbott. With Engravings. New

York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 18mo._

The series of Mr. Abbott’s histories appear in such rapid succession

that we presume they have attained great popularity. Certainly few books

are better calculated to improve and instruct young minds. The present

volume is devoted to Cæsar, one of the world’s three military wonders,

and his eventful life is portrayed with much vigor and clearness of

narration.

* * * * *

[Illustration:

Anaïs Toudouze

LE FOLLET

PARIS, Boulevart S^{t.} Martin, 61.

_Costumes de_ Camille

_Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul 2^{bis.}—Fleurs de_ Chagot ainé, _r.

Richelieu, 81._

_Eventail de_ Vagneur Dupré, _r. de la Paix, 19_

Graham’s Magazine]

* * * * *

I LOVE, WHEN THE MORNING BEAMS.

PREPARED FOR “GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE”

By D. W. Belisle.

[Illustration]

I love when the morning first dawns.

To hie to the mountains away,

And list while the lark in the lawns

Sings sweetly its earliest lay;

I love when the morning first dawns.

To hie to the mountains a-way,

And list while the lark in the lawns

Sings sweetly its earliest lay,

When the last star grows dim, and the hills

Bask in the bright beams of the morn,

Oh

[Illustration]

then let me stand by the rills,

Oh then let me stand by the rills,

And give a loud blast on my horn......

A loud blast on my horn,

a loud blast on my horn,

a loud blast, a loud blast on my horn.

Oh then let me stand by the rills,

And give a loud blast on my horn,

And give a loud blast on my horn.

And give a loud blast on my horn.

I hear on the hill-tops the sound,

It ringeth o’er mountain and lea,

And waketh sweet accents around

In music far out on the sea;

Its cadences gently subside,

Like vespers that chant out the day,

Then softly on echoes they ride,

Till lost in the distance away.

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic

spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation has 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 used for preparation of the eBook.

page 193, Able May answered to ==> Abel May answered to

page 195, Able May, who by this ==> Abel May, who by this

page 195, linen and broadcloath, why ==> linen and broadcloth, why

page 197, my eye eye caught the ==> my eye caught the

page 199, she know of none ==> she knew of none

page 201, his mind an indellible ==> his mind an indelible

page 205, glory, or the the gallows, ==> glory, or the gallows,

page 205, of look and jesture. ==> of look and gesture.

page 207, that had occured during ==> that had occurred during

page 222, his two faithful mirror ==> his too faithful mirror

page 223, accidently heard Minnie’s ==> accidentally heard Minnie’s

page 226, passed and Minne was ==> passed and Minnie was

page 227, strange Dalilah, he ==> strange Delilah, he

page 228, BY THOMAS FIZGERALD, ==> BY THOMAS FITZGERALD,

page 228, he felt a superstious ==> he felt a superstitious

page 241, “I—” she begun, and again ==> “I—” she began, and again

page 243, of whom he purchased ==> of whom I purchased

page 243, House and its precints ==> House and its precincts

page 244, me!” said Mr. M., petulently. ==> me!” said Mr. M., petulantly.

page 249, abundant sppply of money ==> abundant supply of money