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S T O N,
FRIENDSHIP'S GIFT:
SOUYET^IR
FOR
MDCCCXLVIII.
EDITED BY WALTER PERCIVAL
BOSTON:
PUBLISriED BY JOHN P. HILL.
1848.
fWjll
?7<o
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1847,
BY JOHN P. HILL,
in the Clerk's office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
Abneh Forbes, Printer,
37 Cornhill. '
PREFACE.
In commending the first volume of a new Annual
to the good will of the public, the editor deems it
necessary to say but a very few words. The book is
composed of articles written by those on whom the
world has long ago placed its stamp of approval ; and
not a hne has been allowed on its pages which could
possibly offend the most scrupulous delicacy.
It is difficult for an editor to say a good word in
behalf of what he brings into the literary market, with-
out seemmg to overstep the bounds of true modesty ;
but he craves indulgence, for simply saying here, that
whoever chooses to examine the contents of " Friend-
ship's Gift," will find no lack of entertamment in the
perusal. W. P.
jvi64479
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
Lines to Florence.
Winthrop M. Praed,
- 13
Will the Wizard.
John Neal,
- 16
The Bachelor's Dream.
Anonymous, -
- 37
Last Hours of a Single
Gentleman.
Anonymous, -
- 39
The Evening Star.
Barry Cornwall,
- 44
Jacqueline.
H. W. Longfellow,
- 45
Our Yankee Ships.
James T. Fields, -
- 53
The Melancholy Man.
Theodore S. Fay, -
- 55
The Old World.
George Lunt,
- 62
The Fallen Heroes of Mon-
terey.
Anonymous, -
- 65
The Divinity Student.
Anonymous, -
- 67
Birds of Passage.
Anonymous, -
- 76
The Voyage of Life.
G. P. R. James, -
- 78
A Farewell.
Ismael Fitzadam, -
- 80
The Country Story.
John Carver, -
- 82
The Hebrew Prayer.
T. K. Hervey,
- 96
The Anniversary.
Alaric A. Watts, -
- 99
The Heroine Martyr of
Monterey.
Rev. J. G. Lyons, -
- 101
The Disclaimer.
Henry T. Tuckerman,
- 103
Secret Courtship.
Beranger,
- 115
The Blue Eyed Lassie.
John Imlah, -
- 118
VI.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Song.
Anonymous, -
- 120
The Talking Lady.
Miss Mitford,
- 121
Shakspeare.
Laman Blanchard, -
- 130
Better Days.
Anonymous, -
- 134
Leaving Home.
Etonian,
- 140
Attending Auctions.
M. M. Noah, -
- 141
The Eye.
Anonymous, -
- 147
Paul Anderson's Luck.
Anonymous, -
- 148
Prayers at Sea.
Mrs. Sigourney,
- 153
Town and Country.
Theodore S. Fay, -
- 154
Stanzas to a Lady.
T. K. Hervey, " -
- 160
The China Jug.
Miss Mitford, -
- 163
Pagan ini.
Anonymous, -
- 176
The Old Corporal.
Beranger,
- 179
The Phantom Portrait.
S. T. Coleridge, -
- 182
Broken Tics.
J. Montgomerey, -
- 185
The Warrior's Grave.
Blrs. He mans,
- 187
A Paint Brush Sketch.
Anonymous, -
- 190
Things to Come.
George Croley,
- 196
The Water Fall.
Anonymous, -
- 199
Birth Place of Shakspeai'e. Anonymous, -
- 201
Time's Swiftness.
R. W. Spencer, -
- 209
Freedom.
Alfred Tennyson, -
- 210
Tale of Expiation.
Prof. Wilson,
- 214
Fair Ines.
Thomas Hood,
- 261
Love.
Anonymous, -
- 264
Recollections.
Mrs. Norton, -
- 267
The Last Cab-Driver.
Charles Dickens, -
- 269
Mutual Love.
Coleridge,
- 285
The Holy Child.
Prof Wilson,
- 289
The Cloud.
P. B. Shelley,
- 307
The Fugitives,
P. B. Shelley,
- 310
LIST OF ENGRxiVLNGS.
Florence, Frontispiece.
Vignette, • . . Title.
Soldier's Funeral, 65
Indian's Farewell, 80
The Heroine Martyr, 101
The Peaceful Glen, ------ 120
Prayers at Sea, 153
The Warrior, 187
The Waterfall, 199
Ines, - - - - 261
FRIENDSHIP'S GIFT
LINES TO FLORENCE.
^ WINTHROP M. PRAED.
Long years have passed with silent pace,
Florence ! since you and I have met ;
Yet — when that meeting I retrace,
My cheek is pale, my eye is wet ;
For I was doomed from thence to rove
O'er distant tracts of earth and sea.
Unaided, Florence ! save by love ;
And unremembered — save by thee !
We met! and hope beguiled our fears —
Hope, ever bright, and ever vain ;
We parted thence in silent tears.
Never to meet — in life — again.
The myrtle that I gaze upon.
Sad token by thy love devised.
Is all the record left of one
So long bewailed — so dearly prized.
You gave it in an hour of grief.
When gifts of love are doubly dear ;
You gave it — and one tender leaf
Glistened the while with Beauty's tear.
1
14 friendship's gift.
A tear- cli ' 'ovelier far to me,
J?hed for me i'l my saddest hour,
Than b-ight and fialtering smiles could be,
Ir. couitly l«ali, or' summer bower.
You strove my anguisli to beguile
With distant hopes of future weal ;
You strove ! — alas ! you could not smile,
Nor speak the hope you did not feel.
I bore the gift Affection gave.
O'er desert sand and thorny brake,
O'er rugged rock and stormy wave,
I loved it for the giver's sake ;
And often in my happiest day.
In scenes of bliss and hours of pride,
When all around was glad and gay,
I looked upon the gift — and sighed :
And when on ocean, or on clift.
Forth strode the Spirit of the Storm,
I gazed upon thy fading gift,
I thought upon thy fading form ;
Forgot the lightning's vivid dart.
Forgot the rage of sky and sea,
Forgot the doom that bade us part —
And only lived to love and thee.
Florence ! thy myrtle blooms ! but thou,
Beneath thy cold and lowly stone,
Forgetful of our mutual vow.
And of a heart — still all thine own —
Art laid in that unconscious sleep.
Which he that wails thee soon must know,
Whore none may smile, and none may weep,
None dream of bliss — or wake to wo.
If e'er, as Fancy oft will feign.
To that dear spot which gave thee birth
Thy fleeting shade returns again,
To look on him thou lov'dst on earth.
LINES TO FLORENCE. 15
It may a moment's joy impart,
To know that this, thy favorite tree,
Is to my desolated heart
Ahnost as dear as thou could'st be.
My Florence ! soon — the thought is sweet i
The turf that wraps thee I shall press ;
Again, my Florence ! we shall meet.
In bliss — or in forgetfulness.
With thee, in Death's oblivion laid,
I will not have the cypress gloom
To throw its sickly, sullen shade.
Over the stillness of my tomb :
And there the 'scutcheon shall not shine,
And there the banner shall not wave ;
The treasures of the glittering mine
Would ill become a lover's grave :
But when from this abode of strife
My liberated shade shall roam.
Thy myrtle, that has cheered my life,
Shall decorate my narrow home :
And it shall bloom in beauty there,
Like Florence in her early day ;
Or, nipped by cold December's air,
Wither — like Hope and thee — away.
WILL THE WIZARD
BY JOHN NEAL.
Somewhere about two hundred and fifty years ago,
a boy, with plentiful brown hair, a saucy though girl-
ish mouth, very red lips, and large clear hazel eyes,
appeared lounging over a sort of handbarrow, at the
door of a small shop in a little one-story village of
England. He wore no hat — he was barefooted —
and his bosom was all open. It was market-day, and
the principal street was a crowded thoroughfare. The
shop stood end to the street, with a high pointed roof,
one door, a large window below and a smaU one above.
Though built of brick and mortar, there was a frame-
work outside — a sort of skeleton — as though some-
))ody had put it together in a hurry, as people do
shoes, and forgot to turn it — or left the staging up.
Fashions have altered since. People put the best leg
foremost now — their best furniture outside. Our
very women miderstand this ; and as for our men —
what arc they, but women turned inside out ?
At the shop-window, lialfleanhig out, half lymg, ap-
peared a middle-aged man, with a red worsted night-
WILL THE WIZARD. 17
cap, set awry over one ear, his shirt-sleeves rolled up
above the elbows, and a leather apron, pulled jauntily
and coquettishly aside, so as to reveal a new suit of
underclothes — and a belt of protuberant linen, push-
ing out over the waistband, Uke a wreath of snow.
He Avas evidently a man of consideration thereabouts
— a good-natured, portly personage — a man of sub-
stance, and acquainted Avith everybody. About the
door, lay piles of sheepskins, and great rods of cloth,
" in the gray " — and in the A\indow, Avere heaps of
AA'Ool, the Avhitest and cleanest you ever saw.
The busy multitude SAvept by, hour after hour —
and the boy folloAved them Avith his eyes, but he saAV
them not : gibe after gibe Avas interchanged Avith his
father — salutation after salutation — but he heard
them not. He Avas hke one asleep, under the orange
trees, that grew by the wayside — through which,
the rest of the crowd were pouring, as with the tread
of trampling nations. It Avas a great sohtude about
him — a solitude, like that of the momitain-top or the
sea-shore. He A\^as afar off, Avorshipping underneath
a strange sky, in the heart of a rocky Avilderness —
Where, since there walked the Everlasting God,
No living foot hath been.
His fellow-creatures Avcre like shadoAvs to him ; their
voices, a doubtful echo — a distant and perpetual
murmur, like the unmterrupted song of the sea-shell.
To him, they were creatures of another world —
1*
18 FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
creatures of earth. Nevertheless, he loved them —
and pitied them ; for his yomig heart was already
ovei-flowing with human sympathies — aching with
generous and fiery hope. There was a settled expres-
sion of sweet seriousness about his mouth — but,
occasionally a smile would appear, playing for a mo-
ment there, like sunshme — it Avould pass away, too,
like sunshine — and there would be left nothmg but
the impertm-bable serenity — the more than mortal
gravity of a superior nature. Ahke fitted for com-
panionship with the lowliest and the loftiest, he had
no language for either. The Future was in travail —
and there were types and shadows marshalling them-
selves before him, and sceptres and cro^ms tumblmg,
and rolling, and gUttering about his path. His
youthful spirit was undergomg a transfiguration. A
something strange — a^^ful — miintelligible to him-
self, was beginning to stir mthm the great deep of his
heart. The foundations thereof were agitated —
flashes of fire passed before him — and thunders
uttered their voices.
The sun rolled up higher and higher, and the sun-
shine streamed liotter and hotter upon the boy's uncov-
ered head, and played with his glittermg hair, mitil it
radiated and sparkled about his transparent temples
and haughty forehead, as with the splendors of poetry.
And his wide-open eyes were illuminated to then- very
depths, as with inward fire — and appeared listenmg,
as to unearthly music ; and his voluptuous mouth was
touched with unspeakable fervor.
WILL THE WIZARD. 19
And the multitude swept by him forever and ever ;
and all the wonders of earth went over his young
heart, hke the shadows of the empyrean over the
fathomless tranquilhty of a vast untroubled sea. And
there were strange whisperings about him, and yet
stranger music — audible influences — the sweet chirj>-
mg of birds among apple-blossoms — the steady roar
of the multitudinous ocean — the perpetual chiming
of the stars — the rattling of the spring-brooks over
pebbles and among the roots of old trees, and a ring-
ing, hke the voices of children at play by the sea-
shore.
What, Will ! — mil, I say ! why, what 's the boy
dreamm' about, now ? Wake up. Will ! wake up I
Thou 'It never be a man, boy, an' thou spendest thy
days half asleep i' the sunshuie, so !
Father ! — dear father — an' it please ye, I 've no
desh-e to be a man-boy.
Ah, Willy, Willy ! — an' thee do n't alter afore
thy beard blossoms, thou 'It not hve out half thy days.
An' I live out all my nights, father, I do n't care
for the days.
Hoity toity — this comes o' droppin' asleep, Hke
the flowers in the sunshine — playing with the tassel
of his night-cap, as he spoke — it was hke a full-blown
thistle-top.
An' it please ye, father, flowers do n't drop asleep
in the smishme — at the worst, they but dream a
little, as I do : but I was n't asleep, father.
20 FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
]^o^ no — I warrant me ! no more than thou wast
t' other day, when the Bible dropped out o' thy hands
upon the church floor.
An' waked the parson, father.
Oh, my poor boy ! sleep or no sleep, asleep or
awake, thou 'rt the strangest he in all Warrickshire
— added the father, readjusting his night-cap with a
petulant twitch — and if thou do n't cure thyself o'
these idle pranks, I '11 — I '11 — zounds I if I do n't —
What, father ?
Bind thee 'prentice to an attorney.
Why, dad ! you would n't, though.
Yes, but I would, though -^ or to a chimney-swee]).
Oh, as to that, father, I 'ye not a word to say.
Thou graceless yagabond ! — that would suit thee,
would n't it ? I yerily believe it would.
The boy laughed, and began to whistle.
Here, the attention of the father was called oft';
but he returned to the window, after a fcAV minutes,
and renewed the conyersation — evidently pleased
with the boy's pertncss.
Not asleep, hey ?
No, father, not asleep.
Dreaming, though ?
Ay ! that I was ! And angels were about me like
bu-ds, father ; waters, like suiging creatures.
Fiddle-de-dee !
Yes, father ! And the summer-winds blew, and
the sunshmc flashed through the wet green leaves,
WILL THE WIZARD. 21
till tlicy shivered and sparkled like live butterflies :
and I thought, father — Oh, mj dear father, you
must let me look at the great sea before I die !
Is the boj mad ?
No, father ! But there was a huge wide feeling
somehow, all about me — it came up, with one vast,
long, steady heave, like the Ocean we read of — not
Hke the undulations of a newly-foimd spring in the
"wilderness, or a foimtain bubbling up among straw-
berry-blossoms.
The old gentleman stared with astonishment — the
people stared — and before he knew it, he was walk-
ing fore and aft the shop, and whistling too, with all
his might and main.
Yes, father ! And I saw the Wonders of the great
deep, holding council together : Leviathans at play —
Robui Goodfellow, astride of a swift dolphin, with gold
and blue burnished scales — ^ mighty ships, holding on
their way, with the instmct of birds, to the ends of the
earth — ^ stars, dropping fire — and the great Sea
flashmg to the wmd.
The father stopped — gazed at the strange boy
mth brimming eyes, for a moment, and then walking
forth, he laid his two hands reverentially upon his
upturned forehead, saying — The Lord be with thee I
and prosper thee, thou wonderful creature ! Others
may believe thee underwitted, or beside thyself, my
poor boy ; but, in the eyes of one who knoAvs thee
better, much better, thou art the type of sometliing
22 friendship's gift.
unheard of in the history of niankmd. Awake, there-
fore ! — stand up ! and thy foolish old father will
stand up with tliee !
Here the people began to whisper together — and
the boy, understanding by their eyes what another
might have understood only by their language, drew
his father into the shop ; while the multitude slowly
went their way — the foremost, tapping his forehead
with his finger — the next, thrusting his tong-ue into
his cheek, as he turned the corner — and all the rest
wagging their heads.
And now, Willy, my boy — said his father, doffing
his red night-cap, and ^\iping his bald pate, with a
portentous flourish — I do n't care that for the kna\'es !
(snapping his fingers) and from tliis day forth, mstead
of being tied to the shop, as they would have thee,
thou shalt have books to read, and clothes to wear :
and it shall go hard but thy old father '11 make a gen-
tleman of thee, in spite of their talk, (fetching the
boy a slap on the back ;) what d 'ye think o' that,
YOU dog, you ?
Thank ye, father ; but I 've no desire to be a gen-
tleman.
No desire to be a gentleman !
No, father, an' it please ye.
And why not, Willy ?
Because, father —
Because^ father — because what, my boy ? —
what 's the matter with thee ? — why dost turn away
thy face ? Out with it, my boy — because what ?
WILL THE WIZARD. 23
Because I 've observed that no woman ever falls in
love with a gentleman^ father.
Odds, my life ! — how shouldst thou know anything
about love ?
I say — father —
Well, what now ? — leave playin' "v\qth thy fingers,
and answer me. God 's life ! as her majesty saith —
but I shall be out of all patience with thee I if thou
speak not soon.
Father ! -—
Well —
Did ye ever happen to see old Hathaway's daugh-
ter ?
Wliich daughter ? — Mary ?
Mary indeed ! — why, Mary is a child.
A child, hey ? — older than thou, by almost a year,
my boy.
Yes, father ; but not old enough — an' it please ye
— for me.
What — hey! — let me look into your eyes, you
young rogue, you! Thou'rt not thinkuig of Anne
Hathaway, I hope — hey ?
And why not, father ? Is n't she the bravest g*irl in
Warrickshire ? — did n't you tell mother so yourself,
not a month ago ?
To be sm*e I did ; and as beautiful as brave. But
how, in the name of all the saints, camestthouto know
anything about Anne Hathaway ? — why, she 's old
enough to be thy mother, thou scapegrace.
24 friendship's gift.
No, father, not quite — only seven years and four
months older, come next Michaelmas.
But how camest thou acquainted mth her, I say ?
Answer me that, Willy.
I 'm not acquainted with her, sii'.
Not acquainted with her ?
No sir ; I never saw her but once.
And when was that, pray ? — thou mouthful of ^i
jnnserbread.
"When you took me to Kennilworth, to see the
show.
What ! four years ago, when thou wast but thir-
teen years of age ?
Yes, father.
And there thou saw'st Anne Hathaway ?
Yes, father.
And what then ? —
Nothing, father.
Boy — boy — I ivill be answered ! There 's a
mystery here, and it must be cleared up. It must,
and it shall.
The boy's lip trembled — a tear stood in his eye —
and he breathed hard for a moment ; and then plant-
ing his foot, and upheaving his forehead to the sky,
and speaking with a voice he had never employed
before, he continued.
The mystery shall be cleared up, father. Y^ou shall
be satisfied. I saw Anne Hathaway when the Queen
spoke to her, and all eyes were upon her : I saw her
WILL THE WIZARD. 25
when she brought the flowers to lay at her majesty's
feet : and I saw her, when the great lord of Leicester
would have snatched a kiss from her — and she flung
him off, and bounded away like a startled fawn : — I
saw her steal back to her father's cottage ; and
though she was told that the Queen herself had
inquired for her, she would n't return to Kennilworth
again till the pageant was all over.
And that 's true, my boy — I've had it all from
her father himself, who told her the Queen had
mquired for her, as the rosebud of Warrickshire.
But, what has all this to do with thy not bemg a
gentleman ?
I do n't know, father ; but I do n't like these gen-
tlemen, that wear white gloves, and go fingering their
way through the wilderness, afraid to wet their feet,
afraid to laugh, and afraid to pray. I know she 's a
woman, father — a grown woman ; but what of that ?
I can't help thinking my chance would be better than
that of any o' these gaudy popinjays — these gentle-
men^ forsooth — if I had but the courage to speak to
her.
My poor silly boy !
Call me anything but a hoy^ father ; I can't bear
that. I have been a man ever since I first saw Anne
Hathaway ; she has never been out of my head since
— I dream of her — I go out and lie do^vn under-
neath the old trees of the park, yonder, and look at
the deer and the bright birds, till I drop asleep, and
2
26 friendship's gift.
then she always appears to me — just as I saw her at
Keiniilworth, Llushing and courtes^mig and stammer-
ing, with all eyes wondering at her beauty — and
then rmming off, with lord Leicester looking after her.
Oh, but she 's a rare girl ! and with your leave, my
dear father — now do n't be angry, will ye ?
Can't promise thee, my boy ; thou 'It make a fool
o' thy father, yet — mad as a March hare. Well,
with my leave — why do n't ye speak ?
"With your leave, (flinging both anus about his
father's neck, and whispering in his ear) —
What ! (starting up, and laughmg as if he would
spht himself.) What ! Thou wilt marry Anne Hatha-
way — God's life ! as her majesty saith — thou 'rt a
precious fellow of thy inches ! By my faith ! I should
like to hear thee pop the question. And here he
burst forth into another obstreperous peal of laughter.
The boy looked astonished — mortified — grieved
to the very heart : his color came and went — and
there was a bright small dew upon his upper lip,
which instantly disappeared, as if breathed upon by a
blast from the desert.
Should you, father ? — said he at last, in reply —
should you indeed ?
Of a truth, should I.
Then go with me to her father's ; for, so help me
God I I '11 put the question to her before I sleep !
Boy or no boy, father — I '11 know from her own lips,
whether it is a lying spirit, or the awful instinct of
WILL THE WIZARD. 27
trutli, which has kept me awake for long years,
dreaming of that girl as my future companion — yea,
father, as my future ^vife. Night and day have I
dreamed of her — year after year have I prayed for
her — all that appears wonderful in my character or
my language, or wild in my behavior — all that I
know or wish to know — all my hopes and all my
fears are connected with her. A^Ti}^ Sir! It was
but yesterday that I fell asleep, thinking of her,
under the great oak by the river, there — and I
dreamed a dream, father — a dream that, awake or
asleep, has haunted me for years.
The father stood awe-struck and breathless before
him, waiting the issue. There was a sound of trum-
pets m the air, and he felt afraid of his own child.
Ay, father — a dream ; a dream of power ; a pro-
digious dream ! I tremble now to give it language.
But I must. I saw palaces and thrones — and
mighty men of war — and beautiful women : whole
nations of both — mustering at my voice, and crowd-
ing to hear me, as I stood alone and apart from all the
rest of mankind, playing with a strange unearthly
instrument — in shape, hke a human heart — which a
spirit of gi^ace left A\ith me, one still, starry night,
when I saw the skies rolling away forever, ■v^dth
no hand to stay them : the Universe asleep, and
God watching over it. I stood upon the mountain-
top. The foundations of the Earth were opei«d
to me ; and I saw gold there, and gems, like subter-
ranean sunshine. Yea, father ! and I saw the sepul-
28 FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
chres of the giants — the bones of many a forgotten
Empire — the skeleton of lost worlds — the store-
houses of the great Deep — and the abiding-place of
perpetual fire : and I lifted up my voice, and told the
creatures of Earth what I saw, and they believed
me not. And the winds blew, and the darkness drove
by, like a midnight fog — and that generation was no
more. Anon, another appeared — another, and yet
another — and at last, there were those that under-
stood me. And Avhen I talked of soils, that, once
broken up — whether by earthquake or fire — by
storm or deluge — teem with the seed of empire —
with strange flowers, and stranger fruit, — they be-
lieved me, though they understood me not.
Boy — boy ! — what 's the matter with thee ! —
what 's thee stretching forth thy arms for, so wildly ?
— what 's thee reaching after — hey ! —
Was I, father I — 0, I had forgotten myself! I
was wandering by the sea-shore, and plucking at the
bright-haired, unapproachable creatures that drifted
by me. I was wondering to see shadows upon the
deepest and blackest midnight sky — a firmament of
polished ebony ; I was Hstening to Seas that thunder
in their sleep from century to century.
Of a truth, my boy, it makes my heart ache to
hear thee — no good will come of this, I am sure ;
and if anything should happen, there are those Avho
wiy consider it a judgment upon thy poor old father,
for trying to make a gentleman of tlice.
WILL THE WIZARD. 29
And rightly enough too. Let God have his own
way with the work of his own hands, father. If I am
not to be a gentleman, I shall be something better, I
hope ; and if I am^ why, God's will be done 1 —
that 's all I have to say.
But, poetry is a beggarly trade, my boy ; an' thee
should n't betake thyself to that : and so is the making
of speeches.
I know it, father — and therefore I '11 none of it !
I am not without other and better resources. Boy
though I am, I have learned something of human
nature: I have learned to think for myself — and I
have learned to disentangle the roots of error from the
foundations of our strength — to look upon the mighty
of earth, even the mightiest, as the playthings of the
multitude.
Have a care, boy ! These are perilous thoughts :
they should be smothered, like monsters — stifled in
the birth.
Smothered I — stifled I I would as soon smother a
child of my o^\TL begetting, as a thought worth pre-
serving. Why should we stifle the princely ofispring
of our intellectual spirits ? No, father ; I know what
mankind are — and I know that we must be made of
sterner stuff than others to communicate rather than
to receive impressions. I have thought much of what
we call the great of our day ; and I have quite
another idea of greatness, let me tell you, father.
The men I call great, are men of rock. Dominion
2*
30 FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
have they ; not over the fish of the sea, the fowls of
the air, or the beasts of the field ; but over the Men
of all the earth — of all ages and of all countries.
There he goes, again 1 there he goes ! with all the
heedlessness of a grasshopper — hit or miss !
Trees, father, cast ofi" their encumbering foliage,
when they go to w^ar with the winds ; naked, they are
in^Tllnerable ^ — ■ so with me. After a few years, I
shall betake myself to the war ; and when I do, away
with all this pageantry and pomp ! away with all
strange hopes — and all strange dreaming ! It was
but to-day, that I saw, with my eyes open, the whole
embodied Future sailing before me, century after cen-
tury, with all their wings outspread. I saw the
Invisible at work — the mountains growing populous
with giant sculpture — the Avarp and woof of the sky,
and all the looms thereof, in full play ; and the chips
flew, and the threads ran like fire, hither and thither,
among the agitated clouds, and I saw great blocks of
marble changing their shape, wiien there was nobody
near ; and harps, playing in the sky to invisible
fingers — what ! father — asleep ? then here goes !
And saying this, he darted through the door, and
was off, at full speed, for the cottage of Anne Hatha-
way. How he sped in his prayer, let the chronicles
of that day — the day of the haughty Elizabeth —
declare. At the age of seventeen, the boy married
Anne Hathaway, who was then about twenty-five.
And after that — wild and riotous, and urged on-
WILL THE WIZARD. 31
ward bj the unappeasable spirit of his childhood, he
betook himself to that great world in miniature —
London. There he lived ; and there he laid the
foundations of that glory, which hath smce outblazed
the wildest hope of his youth.
After many years, men built temples to him, and
established a priesthood, who gradually extended the
worship of that boy — for it was worship — over the
whole of the enlightened earth. His name Avas a star
— his language in everybody's mouth. Milhons were
able to repeat his commonest sayings ; and millions
went in pilgrimage to that small shop, in that little one-
story village of England, there to look at what his eyes
had looked upon, two hundred and fifty years before ;
there to breathe the air he breathed, in the outbreak-
ing of his fiery, intrepid, ungovernable nature.
And of the multitude that went m pilgrimage there,
some left their names on the whitewashed wall of the
bed-chamber, over the shop ; and some, a word or two
of wretched poetry. And of the multitude that came
away, all had pretty much the same story to tell —
and did tell it ; and yet the public Avere never weary
— or, if weary, would never own it — such was the
magic of the boy's name. Of these, nobody inquired
more faithfully or diligently than the author, whose
memorandum, faithfully transcribed from the original
page, must now end this article.
" Stratfordrupon-Avon. Eighteen miles from Co-
ventry. Four s. fare ; one s. coach ; two s. to Mary
32 friendship's gift.
Hornly ; one s. cliiircli ; six d. boy ; one s. house ;
six d. hall. House he was born in plastered outside,
between the black beams, running so as to stripe it
equally. jNIary Hornly is a relation of his, by mar-
riage and descent — keeps ready-made tragedies, from
eighteen pence to two-and-six pence a piece ; one is en-
titled Waterloo — warranted genuine — ' made by her-
self! ' — shows sundry chairs, and a long, old table,
* cut to pieces hy the nobility ; ' — called my attention
'to the carved postesses of the bed, — mentioned in
the will, — if I'd take the trouble to look at it.'
One is reminded of the knife, to be seen for a penny,
with which a terrible murder had been perpetrated —
whereupon, a neighbor advertised the fork, belonging
to the hiife, to be seen next door for only a half-
penny. Here was a wooden picture, also, represent-
ing David with the cramp in his right arm, blazing
away at poor Gohath, with an old motto newly fur-
bished up — somewhat after this fashion :
Goliath waxeth wroth —
David with a sling,
(Something I can't make out)
Doth down Goliath bring !
though not half so good. She exhibited, moreover,
a sword, a looking glass, a pin-cushion — a jubilee
ditto — and a clumsy wooden candlestick, once gilt,
and in some way connected with Garrick and the
Festival. A very ignorant, vulgar, pleasant woman,
WILL THE WIZARD. 33
— about fiftj-five — say sixty, now. She was turned
out of the true house — on which the rent was un-
expectedly ' riz ' from twenty to forty pounds.
Brought away with her everything that people cared
for, and left the remainder to be whitewashed. A
book, full of names, lay upon the table : I found in
it George Rex, Byron, Scott, the Archduke of
Austria. And sooth to say. King George's E. was
quite tolerable for a King, though by no means equal
to that I had been led to hope from Blackwood.
Left my name : ' , United States, Janu-
ary 29, 1824,' and would have added in prose — but
could 'nt — Put off thy shoes ! the ground whereon
thou standest is holy ! &c. &c. &c. ; and, as for
poetry, I 'd foresworn poetry ; and what is more, I
had never undertaken a real impromptu in my life —
and never but one which I ventured to pass for one.
I left the house, therefore, 2i\togetlcier flabberr/asted —
wondering to find myself unable to say boh ! to
a goose, where so many others had been able to
say nothing else. — Washington Irving among the
rest. Well, I proceeded to the church — stood over
the bones of the dead giant, with my foot upon his
neck : yea, trampled upon the ashes of his mighty
heart and paid sixpence for the privilege : was
beset again by the cockney-muse — and longed to cry
out Wliat, ho I to my o^vn shadow, as I saw it pro-
jected along the walls, hatted and cloaked, by the
particular desire of the attendant ; and heard, on the
34 friendship's gift.
paved floor, the rattling of my boots, wMcli were pro-
vided with iron heels, and the rude, noisy echoes that
followed every step I took ! One ought to be shod
with iron, or hrass^ thought I, to tread amid the
ashes of such a furnace. On my way back to my
lodgings, I felt another throe — and another — and
before I well knew where I was, I had brought forth
the following, which I offer as a suitable inscription.
Rash man ! — Forbear !
Thou wilt not surely tread
On the anointed head
Of him that slumbereth there !
Would'st meet the God of such as thou,
With that untroubled brow !
With covered head and covered feet !
Where William Shakspeare used to meet
His God,
Uncovered and unshod,
In prayer !
Thou wilt not surely venture where
But sleeps the awful Dead,
With that irreverent air,
And that alarming tread !
What, ho !
Beware I
The very dust, below
The haui,'hty Dead, will wake —
The walls about thee shake,
If that uplifted heel.
Shod as it is with steel,
Should full on Shakspeare's head !
WILL THE WIZARD. 35
Thence, ha\Tiig acliieved mv impromptu, I went to
the house where ' he hved and breathed and had his
bemg ; ' and began forth^^-ith to scatter the golden
cobweb, (the stuff that dreams are made of), wliich
I had spun, Hke a silk-worm, out of my own vitals.
There was the very room — that ! where the bard
was born. I was perfectly sure of it. And why ? —
because, the moment I set my foot there, a miracle
happened. Being requested to write my name, as I
had been requested before, both at the church and at
the house of the woman ivhat made plays, both of
whom desired to be remembered to all my friends
coming that way ! (I could have told her that my
friends were hkely to go quite another way.) I seat-
ed myself and began to write ; all at once — just
when I had got *as far as ' ISorth America,^ which
sounds fifty times grander, m such a place, than
United States, beside being altogether more intelli-
gible to the gi-eat body of British statesmen, to say
nothing of the multitude — the best of them being
not much better informed to this day, respectmg our
geography, than they were when the ' Island of Vir-
ginia ' was first mentioned in the house of Lords —
or the ' State of New-England ' thought proper to set
herself m array agauist the ' great President,' I came
to a full stop ! I had fiiiished forever, as I thought,
and was about to adjourn — by my faith it is true —
when a queer sensation — a sort of trickling from
my heart — a something, that 'zvent a rippling to
36 friendship's gift.
the finger ends,'* prevented me. I tried to get up —
I couldn't — to fling down the pen — it Avould n't
budge — so Avrite I must, and write I did ; and
the following real, honest, do^iiright impromptu was
the result.
The ground is holy here — the very air !
Ye breathe what Shakspeare breathed. Rash men, beware !
Oh, yes ! — Will Shakspeare teas born here. The
question was settled forever — and ever. I could n't
help sliding into ' extrumpery.' 0, ye walls ! cov-
ered with pencilled names, on whitewashed plaster !
Kings ! Princes I and Immortals — if they were
ever there — or, if only such as understood him had
written there, no hghts would be needed to show the
manger of Shakspeare. The walls would be luminous
with their handwritincr — the sim-manuals of them
that write with imperishable fire, light burning not
only under water, but under earth, and throughout
all the earth. But enough — our story is about
' Wizard Will; —not ' WHl Wizard:' and there-
fore know we when to stop.
THE BACHELOR'S DREAM.
ANONYMOUS.
The music ceased, the last quadrille was o'er,
And one by one the waning beauties fled ;
The garlands vanished from the frescoed floor,
The nodding fiddler hung his weary head.
And I — a melancholy single man —
Retired to mourn my solitary fate —
i slept awhile ; but o'er my slumbers ran
The sylph-like image of my blooming Kate.
I dreamt of mutual love, and Hymen's joys.
Of happy moments and connubial blisses r
And then I thought of little girls and boys,
The mother's glances, and the infant's kisses.
I saw them all, in sweet perspective sitting
In winter's eve around a blazing fire.
The children playing, and the mother knitting,
Or fondly gazing on the happy Sire.
The scene was changed. In came the Baker's bill
I stared to see the hideous consummation
Of pies and puddings that it took to fill
The bellies of the rising generation.
3
9 friendship's gift.
There was no end to eating : — legs of mutton
Were vanquislied daily by this little host ;
To see them, you'd have thought each tiny glutton
Had laid a wager who could eat the most.
The massy pudding smoked upon the platter,
The ponderous sirloin reared its head in vain ;
The little urchins kicked up such a clatter,
That scarce a remnant e'er appeared again.
Then came the School bill : Board and Education
So much per annum ; but the extras mounted
To nearly twice the primal stipulation.
And every little bagatelle was counted !
To mending tuck ; — A new Homeri Ilias ; —
A pane of glass ; — Repairing coat and breeches ;
A slate and pencil ; — Binding old Virgilius; —
Drawing a tooth ; — An open draft and leeches.
And now I languished for the single state,
The social glass, the horse and chaise on Sunday,
The jaunt to Windsor with my sweetheart Kate,
And cursed again the weekly bills of Monday.
Here Kate began to scold — I stampt and swore.
The kittens squeak, the children loudly scream ;
And thus awaking with the wild uproar,
I thanked mv stars that it was but a dream.
LAST HOURS OF A SINGLE GENTLEMAN.
ANONYMOUS.
This morning, April 1, at half past eleven, pre-
cisely^, an unfortunate young man, Mr. Edwin Pink-
nej, underv/ent the extreme penalty of infatuation, by
expiating his attachment to Mary Ann Gale, in front
of the Altar railings of St. Mary's Church, Islington.
It will be ha the recollection of all those friends of
the parties wiio were at the Joneses' party at Brixton,
two years ago, that Mr. Pinkney was there, and
there first introduced to Mary Ann, to whom he
instantly began to direct particular attentions — danc-
ing with her no less than six sets that evening, and
handing her things at supper in the most devoted
manner. From that period commenced the mtimacy
between them which terminated in this morning's
catastrophe.
Poor Pinkney had barely attained to his twenty-
eighth year ; but there is reason to believe that,
but for reasons of a pecuniary nature, his shigle life
would have come earher to an untimely end. A
40 friendship's gift.
change for the better, however, having occurred m
his circumstances, the young lady's friends were
induced to sanction his addresses, and thus to become
accessories to the course for wliich he has just suf-
fered.
The unhappy man passed the last night of his
bachelor existence in his solitary chamber. From
half-past eight to ten, he was busily engaged in writ-
ing letters. Shortly after ten o'clock, his younger
brother Henry knocked at the door, when the doomed
youth told him in a firm voice to come in. On being
asked when he meant to go to bed, he rephed, " Not
yet." The question was then put to him how he
thought he could sleep ; to which his answer was, " I
don't know." He then expressed a desire for a
cigar and a glass of grog, which were supplied him.
His brother, w^ho sat do^Nii and partook of the like
refreshments, now demanded if he would want any
thing more that night. He said, " Nothing," in a
firm voice. His affectionate brother then rose to take
leave, when the devoted one considerately^ advised
huTi to take care of himself.
Precisely at a quarter of a minute to seven the
next morning, the victim of Cupid, having been called
according to his desire, rose and promptly dressed
himself. He had the self-control to shave himself
without the slightest injury ; for even not a scratch
upon his chin appeared after the operation. It would
seem that he had devoted a lon<2:er time to his toilet
than usual.
LAST HOURS OF A SINGLE GENTLEMAN. 41
The wretched man was attired in a light blue dress-
coat, with frosted metal buttons, a white waisi>coat,
and nankeen trousers, w^ith patent leather boots.
He w^ore around his neck a variegated satin scarf,
which partially concealed the Corazza of his bosom.
In front of the scarf w^as inserted a breast pin of con-
spicuous dimensions. Having descended the stair-
case with a quick step, he entered the apartment
where his brother and a few friends were awaiting
him. He shook hands cordially with all present, and
on bemg asked how he had slept, answered, " Very
well," and to the farther demand as to the state of
his mind, he said, " He felt happy."
One of the party having hereupon suggested that
it would be as well to take something before the mel-
ancholy ceremony was gone through, he exclaimed
with some emphasis, " Decidedly." Breakfast was
accordingly served, when he ate the whole of a
Frencli roll, a large round of toast, two sausages, and
three new laid eggs, which he washed down with two
great breakfast cups of tea. In reply to an expres-
sion of astonishment on the part of a person present,
at his appetite, he declared that he never felt it
heartier in his life.
Having inquired the time, and ascertained that it
was ten minutes to eleven, he remarked, that " it
would soon be over." His brother then inquired if
he could do anything for him; when he said he
3*
49 friendship's gift.
should like to have a glass of ale. Having drank
this, he appeared satisfied.
The fatal moment now approaching, he devoted
the remaining brief portion of his time to distributing
among his friends those little articles which he would
soon no longer want. To one he gave his cigar case,
to another his tobacco stopper, and he charged his
brother Henry with his latch key, with instructions to
deliver it after all was over, with due solemnity, to
his landlady.
The clock at length struck eleven; and at the
same moment he was informed that a cab was at the
door. He merely said, " I am ready," and allowed
himself to be conducted to the vehicle ; into which
he got with his brother — his friends followed in
others.
Arrived at the tragical spot, a short but anxious
delay of some seconds took place ; after which they
were joined by the lady with her friends. Little was
said on either side ; but Miss Gale, with customary
decorum, shed tears. Pinkney endeavored to pre-
serve a composure ; but a slight twitching in his
mouth and eyebrows proclaimed his inward agitation.
The ill-starred bachelor having submitted quietly
to have a large white bow pinned to his button-hole,
now walked, side by side with Miss Gale, with a finn
step to the altar. He surveyed the imposing prepa-
rations with calmness : and gazed, unmoved, on the
LAST HOURS OF A SINGLE GENTLEMAN. 43
clergyman, who, assisted by the clerk, was waiting
behmd the railings.
All requisite preliminaries having now been settled,
and the prescribed melancholy formalities gone
through, the usual question was put, " Wilt thou
have this w^oman for thy wdfe ? " To which the rash
youth replied, in a distinct voice, " I will." He
then put the fatal ring upon Miss Gale's finger ; the
hymeneal noose was adjusted, and the poor fellow
was launched into matrimony.
THE EVENING STAR.
BY BARRY CORNWALL.
The Evening Star, the lover's star,
The beautiful star comes hither !
He steereth his barque
Through the azure dark,
And brings us the bright blue weather, — Love!
The beautiful bright blue weather.
The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come,
And silence broods o'er the covers;
But a voice now wakes
In the thorny brakes.
And singeth a song for lovers, — Love !
A sad sweet song for lovers !
It singeth a song of grief and wrong,
A passionate song for others;
Yet its own sweet pain
Can never be vain.
If it 'wakeneth love in others, — Love !
It 'wakeneth love in others.
JACQUELINE.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Death lies on her, like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Shakspearb.
" Dear mother, is it not the bell I hear ? "
" Yes, mj child ; the bell for morning prayers.
It is Sunday to-day."
" I had forgotten it. But now all days are ahke
to me. Hark! it sounds again — louder — louder.
Open the window, for I love the sound. There ; the
sunshine and the fresh morning air revive me. And
the church-bell — oh, mother — it rennnds me of the
holy Sabbath mornings by the Loire — so calm, so
hushed, so beautiful ! Now give me my prayer-book,
and draw the curtain back, that I may see the green
trees and the church spire. I feel better to-day,
dear mother."
It was a bright cloudless morning in August.
The dew still glistened on the trees ; and a slight
breeze wafted to the sick chamber of Jacqueline the
46 friendship's gift.
song of the birds, the rustle of the leaves, and the
solenm chime of the church-bells. She had been
raised up in bed, and reclming upon the pillow, was
gazing wistfully upon the quiet scene without. Her
mother gave her the prayer-book, and then turned
away to hide a tear that stole down her cheek.
At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline crossed
herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that hung around her
neck, and opened the silver clasps of her missal.
For a time she seemed wholly absorbed in her
devotions. Her Hps moved, but no soimd was
audible. At intervals the solemn voice of the priest
was heard at a distance, and then the confused
responses of the congregation, dying away in inartic-
ulate murmurs. Ere long the thrilling chant of the
Catholic service broke upon the ear. At first it was
low, solemn, and indistinct ; then it became more
earnest and entreating, as if interceding, and im-
ploring pardon for sin ; and then arose louder and
louder, full, harmonious, majestic, as it wafted the
song of praise to heaven, and suddenly ceased.
Then the sweet tones of the organ were heard, —
trem])ling, thrilling, and rising higher and higher,
and filling the whole air with their rich melodious
music. What exquisite accords! — what noble har-
monies ! — what touching pathos ! The soul of the
sick girl seemed to kindle into more ardent devotion,
and to be rapt away to heaven in the full harmonious
chorus, as it swelled onward, doubling and redoubhng.
JACQUELINE. 41f
and rolling upward in a full burst of rapturous devo-
tion ! Then all was hushed again. Once more the
low soimd of the bell smote the air, and announced
the elevation of the host. The invalid seemed
entranced in prayer. Her book had fallen beside
her, — her hands were clasped, — her eyes closed,
— her soul retired within its secret chambers. Then
a more triumphant peal of bells arose. The tears
gushed from her closed and swollen lids ; her cheek
was flushed : she opened her dark eyes, and fixed
them with an expression of deep adoration and pen-
itence upon an image of the Saviour on the cross,
which hung at the foot of her bed, and her lips again
moved in prayer. Her countenance expressed the
deepest resignation. She seemed to ask only that
she might die in peace, and go to the bosom of her
Redeemer.
The mother was kneeling by the wmdow, Avith her
face concealed in the folds of the curtain. She arose,
and going to the bedside of her child, threw her
arms around her and burst into tears.
" My dear mother, I shall not live long ; I feel it
here. This piercing pain — at times it seizes me,
and I cannot — cannot breathe."
'' My child, you will be better soon."
" Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All tears,
and pain, and sorrow will be over. The hymn of
adoration and entreaty I have just heard, I shall
never hear again on earth. Next Sabbath, mother.
^ friendship's gift.
kneel again by that window as to-day. I shall not be
here, upon this bed of pam and sickness ; but when
you hear the solemn hymn of worship, and the
beseeching tones that wing the spirit up to God,
think, mother, that I am there, — with my sweet
sister who has gone before us, — kneehng at our
Saviour's feet, and happy — oh, how happy ! "
The afflicted mother made no reply, — her heart
was too full to speak.
" You remember, mother, how calmly Amie died.
Poor child, she was so young and beautiful ! I
always pray that I may die as she did. I do not fear
death as I did before she was taken from us. But
oh — this pain — this cruel pain — it seems to draw
my muid back from heaven. When it leaves me I
shall die in peace."
" My poor child ! God's holy will be done ! "
The invahd soon sank into a quiet slumber. The
excitement was over, and exhausted nature sought
rehef in sleep.
The persons between whom this scene passed, were
a widow and her sick daughter, from the neighbor-
hood of Tom-s. They had left the banks of the
Loire to consult the more experienced physicians of
the metropolis, and had been directed to the Maison
tie Sante at Auteuil for the benefit of the pm-e air.
But all in vain. The health of the suffering but
uncomplaining patient grew worse and worse, and it
soon became evident that the closing scene was
drawing near.
JACQUELINE. 49
Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious ; and
towards evening she expressed a wish to receive the
last sacraments of the church. A priest was sent
for ; and ere long the tinkling of a little bell in the
street announced his approach. He bore in his hand
a silver vase containing the consecrated wafer, and a
small vessel filled -with the holj oil of the extreme
unction hung from his neck. Before him walked a
boy carrying a little bell, whose sound announced the
passing of these symbols of the Cathohc faith. In
the rear, a few of the villagers, bearing lighted wax
tapers, formed a short and melancholy procession.
They soon entered the sick chamber, and the glim-
mer of the tapers mmgled with the red light of the
setting sun, that shot his farewell rays through the
open window. The vessel of oil, and the vase con-
taining the consecrated wafer, were placed upon the
table in front of a crucifix that hung upon the wall,
and all present, excepting the priest, threw themselves
upon their knees. The priest then approached the
bed of the dying girl, and said, in a slow and solemn
tone, —
'' The King of kings and Lord of lords has passed
thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to receive him?"
" It is, father."
" Hast thou confessed thy sins ? "
" Holy father, no."
" Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be for-
given and thy name recorded in the book of life."
4
50 friendship's gift.
And turning to the kneeling crowd around, he
waved his hand for them to retire, and was left alone
^vith the sick girl. He seated himself beside her
pillow, and the subdued w^hisper of the confession
mingled with the murmur of the evening air, which
lifted the heavy folds of the curtains, and stole in
upon the holy scene. Poor Jacquehne had few sins
to confess, — a secret thought or two towards the
pleasures and dehghts of the world, — a wish to live,
unuttered, but which to the eye of her self-accusmg
spirit seemed to resist the wise providence of God ; —
no more. The confession of a meek and lowdy heart
is soon made. The door was again opened ; the
attendants entered, and knelt around the bed, and
the priest proceeded, —
" And now prepare thyself to receive with contrite
heart the body of our blessed Lord and Redeemer.
Dost thou believe that our Lord Jesus Christ was
conceived by the Holy Spirit, and born of the Virgin
Mary ? "
" I believe."
And all present joined in the solemn response —
" I believe."
" Dost thou beheve that the Father is God, that
the son is God, and that the Holy Spirit is God, —
three persons and one God ? "
" I believe."
" Dost thou believe that the Son is seated on the
JACQUELINE. 51
right-hand of the Majesty on high, whence he shall
come to judge the quick and the dead ? "
" I beUeve."
" Dost thou believe that by the holy sacraments of
the church thy sins are forgiven thee, and that thus
thou art made worthy of eternal life ? "
" I believe."
" Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all who
have offended thee in thought, word, or deed ? "
" I pardon them."
" And dost thou ask pardon of God and thy neigh-
bor for all offences thou hast committed against them,
■either in thought, word, or deed ? "
'^Ido/'
" Then repeat after me : Lord Jesus, I am not
worthy, nor do I merit, that thy divine Majesty
should enter this poor tenement of clay ; but accord-
ing to thy holy promises be my sins forgiven, and my
soul washed white from all transgression."
Then taking a consecrated wafer from the vase, he
placed it between the lips of the dying girl, and
while the assistant sounded the httle silver bell,
said, —
" Corjnis Domini nost7i Jesu Christi custodiat
animam tuam in vitam eternamy
And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts and
responded in one solemn voice, —
"Amen!"
The priest then took from the silver box on the
'98 FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
table a little golden rod, and dipping it in holy oil,
annointed the invalid upon the hands, feet, and breast,
in the form of tlie cross. "When these ceremonies
were comi)leted, the priest and his attendants retired,
leaving the mother alone with her dying child, who,
from the exhaustion caused by the preceding scene,
sank mto a death-like sleep.
"Between two worlds life hovered like a star,
'Twixt niglit and moni ii})on ihe horizon's verge."
The long twilight of the summer evening stole on ;
the shadows deepened without, and the night-lamp
glimmered feebly in the sick chamber ; but still she
slept. She was lying with her hands clasped upon
her breast, — her pallid cheek resting upon the
pillow, and her bloodless lips apart, but motionless
and silent as the sleep of death. Not a breath m-
terrupted the silence of her slumber. Not a move-
ment of the heavy and sunken eyelid — not a tremble
of the lip, not a shadow on the marble brow, told
when the spirit took its flight. It passed to a better
world than this.
"There's a perpetual spring, — perpetual youth;
No joint-])enunihing cold, nor scorching heat,
Famine nor age, have any being there."
OUR YANKEE SHIPS.
JAMES T. FIELDS.
Our Yankee ships ! in fleet career,
They linger not behind,
Where galhint sails fiom other lands-
Court favoring tide and wind.
With banners on the breeze, they leap
As gaily o'er the foam
As stately barks from prouder seas,
That long have learned to roam.
The Indian wave with luring smiles
Swept round them bright to-day.
And havens to Atlantic i>?les
Are opening on their way;
Ere yet these evening shailows close,
Or this frail song is o'er.
Full inany a straining mast will rise
To greet a foreign shore.
High up the lashing Northern deep,
Where glimmering watch-lights beam
Away in beauty where the stars
In tropic brightness gleam ;
4*
54 OUR YANKEE SHIPS.
Where 'cr the sea-bird wets her beak,
Or blows the stormy gale ;
On to the Water's farthest verge,
Our ships majestic sail.
They dip their keels in every stream
That mirrors back the sky ;
And where the restless billows heave,
Their lofty pennants fly ;
They furl their sails in threatening clouda
That float across the main,
To link with love earth's distant bays
In many a golden chain.
They deck our halls with sparkling gems,
That shone on Orient strands,
And garlands round the hills they bind.
From far-off sunny lands ;
But we will ask no gaudy wreath
From foreign clime or realm,
Willie safely glides our ship of State
With Genius at the helm.
THE MELANCHOLY MAN.
BY THEODORE S. FAY.
Mav. — I feel 'tis so.
Thus have I been since first the plague broke out,
A term, methinks, of many hundred years !
As if the world were heJl, and I condemned
To walk through wo to all eternity.
I will do suicide.
Astrologer — Thou canst not, fool !
Thou lovest life with all its agonies ;
Buy ])oison, and 'twill lie for years untouched
Beneath thy pillow, when thy midnight horrors
Are at iheir worst. Coward ! thou canst not die.
WUsoii's City of the Plague.
I HAVE been all my life haunted with a desire to
commit suicide. It has crossed me — it stiU crosses
me continually. It is partly the result of constitu-
tion, and partly of early and frequent misfortunes,
and a habit of brooding over them. This dreadful
disease has for ever caused me to look with sickly
eves on the charms of life and the beauties of nature.
I shall not here write any Idstory of myself. It
56 friendship's gift.
would not interest others. Those incidents which
have made me wretched, happier dispositions would
soon forget. / can never forget them. I feel that
mv game of life has been played and lost. Those
secret springs of joy and hope, which give elasticity
to other minds, in me are broken. I have been
always struggling against the current ; and sometimes,
nay often, it has appeared to me as if some awful and
inexorable power were present at my undertakings,
and took a mysterious delight in bringing them to
ruin. True, my reason often teaches me that this is
merely an absurd fancy, and that it cannot be. Yet
/ tliink it is, and that is sufficient to make me wretch-
ed. Sometimes, in the endeavor to coml»at this opin-
ion as a superstition, I have compelled myself to
embark in a design, or to entertain an affection ; but
invariably I have met with such severe disappoint-
ments, that I have long since ceased to hope. When
I first reached the years of manhood, I found this in
all my pecuniary business. Stock fell if I touched
it ; banks broke as soon as I became interested.
The fable relates, that whatever the celebrated king
of Phrygia touched, turned to gold. "Wherever / laid
my hand, I was sure to produce destruction. At
length I have grown so timid, that I am afraid to love,
afraid to form a friendship, afraid to offer advice.
He who peruses this, will doul)tless smile incredulous-
ly on me ; he will say it is an impossibility. Well,
let liim. Indeed it seems equally so to me. I have
THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 57
racked mj brain to believe it merely an accidental
train of unfavorable events, which to-morrow may
change ; yet it has not changed, and I am half fain
to abandon myself to the startling and terrible
thought, that I am branded with some mysterious
curse. Whatever may be the cause, I am miserable,
and always have been so beyond description. I look
for nothing this side the grave.
I became acquainted, sometime ago, with a Httle
girl, eight or nine years old, with unusual powers of
mind and charms of person. The sight of her face
positively dispelled the shadows which brooded over
my mind. She discovered a singular attachment to
me. I was delighted with her thousand winning
ways. I was almost happy while under the influence
of her irrepressible happiness. It was a joy for me
to meet her in the street. I have caught a gleam of
her beautiful bright countenance, amid a group of her
companions going to school early in the morning,
which haunted me all day.
"Shall I love this creature?" said I to myself;
" will it not be bringing down upon her sweet young
head the dark influence which has ever pursued me
and mine ? Yes," said I, " I ivill love her. I will
once more try this fearful experiment. I will watch
to see in what form the efiects of my interest in her
welfare will fall on her ; to what doom it will consign
her ? Will the turf soon press her tender breast ?
Will some moui-nful doom darken her hvinor heart ? "
88 friendship's gift.
I made these reflections one morning as she passed
me, with a smile, in the street.
One week after, a single line in the newspaper
answered my interrogatories. She had died of a
sudden and painful attack of the scarlet fever. As I
perused the information, I positively thought I heard
the laugh of a demon in my ear, whispered on the
passing breeze.
It is not one, two, nor indeed twenty circumstances
of this kind which could have alone prostrated my
love of hfe so utterly. I never had a real friend,
except my mother, and she died just w^hen I was old
enough to moui-n for her acutely. Among my other
tortures, disease has not been wanting. A violent
pain in my chest has, at certain intervals, incapaci-
tated me for all employment. Sometimes my head
grows dizzy, or burns with shooting pains. I feel
like Caliban, forever contending against a supernatu-
ral enemy, whose spirits appear busy about me.
That speech of the deformed monster ever haunts my
memory :
" For every trifle they are set upon me :
Sometimes like apes, that mow and chatter at me,
And after, hite me ; then, hke hedgehogs, which
Lie timihhng in my barefoot way, and mount
Their {)ricks at my footfall. Sometimes I am
All vvound with adders, who, with cloven tongues, -
Do hiss me ijito madness."
THE MELANCHOLY MAN. &^
The idea of being perpetually encumbered with a
disease, which, while it takes from your heart the
secret hope that leads to action, does not exclude
you from the necessities of toil, is one of the most be-
numbing and wretched evils that man can suffer. He
wanders through the crowd, without participating in
their gladness. He gazes on nature with an admira-
tion which only heightens his inward anguish. In
the most soft and alluring periods of pleasure, the
loathsome image of a grave continually obtrudes itself
upon his imagination ; the icy hand of death is ever
on his shoulder, and he hears the phantom whispering,
" Victim of my unrelenting power, haste ye through
these sunny scenes ; in a short time you must quit
them forever." I have felt all this ; who can wonder
that I am tired of life ? I have loved in this world
but few, and none successfully. No man, nor wo-
man, nor child has ever been to me other than as
gleamings of what my fellow creatures have enjoyed.
I recoil from one who excites in me any feehngs of
affection. No one shall suffer the fatahty of my
friendship. Who is shocked to learn that I covet my
last sleep ? Death, mysterious power ! language can-
not express the intense curiosity with which I have
watched every thing appertaining to it. Yes, I have
pursued the ghastly phantom in all its forms. I have
gone to the prison house, and pryed into the mind of
the felon who was at the break of day to expiate his
crimes on the scaffold. I have planted myself there
QO friendship's gift.
to behold him take his last gaze for ever and for ever
on the sky, the green earth, the river, the light. How
strange it has seemed that he, that being, that breath-
ing, living creature, formed as I am, who speaks, and
thinks, and utters requests, and walks, and takes me
by the hand to say farewell ; how difficult to conceive,
how awful, how deeply thrilling to reflect that, in one
minute more, he will not exist I That which addresses
you now, ivill not he. Its semblance only will remain,
to mock you, with a vivid recollection of the original
nature you had held communion with. I once formed
a vague resolution of suicide, and I thus strengthened
it. I wished to become familiar with death. I would
gaze quietly on him, and apply what I saw concern-
ing him to myself, I strained my fancy to conceive
how / should feel, and act, and appear in such a
crisis. I have held a loaded pistol to my brain some-
times, or a vial of poison to my lips ; or I have stood
leaning over the edge of a dizzy height ; or I have
looked down into the clear ocean billows, and goaded
myself on to pass the dreadful gulf. Alas I coward
that I was, I feared to die as Avell as to live, and
have turned to my lonely walk with a relief, and put
off till some other period the execution of the design.
One day I met a fine fellow, from whom I had
been separated many years. He was a scholar and
an observer, and, some how or other, he had the art
to draw from me an account of the true state of my
fcehngs.
THE MELANCHOLY MAN. 61
" Pray," said he, when I had finished pretty much
what I have related above ; " pray, what time do you
rise ? "
" At ten," said I, rather surprised at the oddity of
the question.
" And what time do you retire to bed ? "
"At one, two, or three o'clock," said I, "just as
it happens."
" And how is your appetite ? "
" Enormous."
" And you gratify it to — ? "
" The full extent."
" What do you drink ? "
" Brandy and water, gin and water, &c."
He laughed heartily, although it made me angry ;
also, I confess, it made me excessively ashamed to
have talked about suicide.
" Do you know what ails you ? " said he.
" Yes," I replied, " I have a broken heart."
" Broken fiddlestick," said he, " you have the dys-
pepsy. Diet yourself ; go to bed early ; rise early ;
exercise much."
I have done so ; I am now a healthy and a happy
man. I smile to thmk I was going to blow my brains
out, because I had the dyspepsy.
5
THE OLD WORLD.
BY GEORGE LUNT.
There was once a world, and a brave old world,
Away ill the ancient time,
When tlie men were brave and the women fair,
And the world was in its prime ;
And the priest he had his book,
And the scholar had his gown,
And the old knight stout, he walked about,
With his broad sword hanging down.
Ye may see this world was a brave old world,
In the days long past and gone,
And the sun it shone, and the rain it rained.
And the world went merrily on.
The shepherd kept his sheep,
And the milkmaid milked the kine.
And the serving man was a sturdy loon,
In a cap and a doublet fine.
And I 've been told in this brave old world.
There were jolly times and free.
And they danced and sung, till the welkin rung,
All under the greenwood tree.
THE OLD WORLD. 63
The sexton chimed his sweet, sweet bells,
And the huntsman blew his horn,
And the hunt went out with a merry shout,
Beneath the jovial morn.
Oh ! the golden days of the brave old world
Made hall and cottage shine ;
The squire he sat in his oaken chair,
And quaffed the good red wine ;
The lovely village maiden,
She was the village queen.
And, by the mass, tript through the grass
To the May-pole on the green.
When trumpets roused this brave old world,
And the banners flaunted wide,
The knight bestrode the stalwart steed,
The page rode by his side ;
And plumes and pennons tossing bright.
Dashed through the wild melee.
And he who prest amid them best
Was lord of all, that day.
And ladies fair, in the brave old world,
They ruled with wondrous sway; '
But the stoutest knight was lord of right,
As the strongest is to-day.
The baron bold he kept his hold.
Her bower his bright ladye,
But the forester kept the good greenwood.
All under the greenwood tree.
Oh, how they laughed in the brave old world,
And flung grim care away!
And when they were tired of working,
They held it time to play.
64 friendship's gift.
The bookman was a reverend wight,
With a studious face so pale,
And the curfew bell, with its sullen swell,
Broke duly on the gale.
And so passed on, in the brave old world.
Those merry days and free ;
The king drank wine, and the clown drank ale,
Each man in his degree.
And some ruled well, and some ruled ill.
And thus passed on the time,
With jolly ways in those brave old days,
When the world was in its prime.
o
</c^4^y L^iTyCC^zctiT/y.
Uicir patiye skies.
Soft sw;
•It oi coDimaJi'
66 friendship's gift.
There was no heart that quailed —
No steel remahied unclasped:
But every eye flashed forth in zeal,
And every hilt was grasped !
Amidst that dreadful strife,
They fell as warriors fall !
Their life was to their country pledged —
Its banner is their pall !
With love like that which glows
Within a brother's breast,
Their comrades seek their loved remains,
And bring tliem here to rest.
Oh ! 't was a mournful task
To seek the gallant dead —
To lift again the clay-cold form.
And fresh, warm tears to shed.
Hang up their honored sword,
Enwreathed with laurel bough —
And on their breast the olive lay.
For they sleep peaceful now.
THE DIVINITY STUDENT.
ANONYMOUS.
" I DARE say you have all seen the poor forlorn
crazy man, John Philips, who used to go about the
country dressed sometimes in petticoats, sometimes in
trousers, but always with such a strange motley mass
of duds hanging about him, that it was difficult to
guess whether he was a man or woman, till the evi-
dence of his long matted beard settled the doubt."
" I remember him well," cried both man and wife,
" poor harmless object. He was always asserting
that he was like St. Paul, for too much learning had
made him mad." '' Too true, too true indeed," said
Simon, with a tear ghttering in his eye. " Too
much learning did make admirable John Philips mad !
There was not a cleverer nor a better lad in Scotland
than he, and he might have raised himself to any
office in the kingdom by taking the right course, so
splendid were his talents, so delightful his disposition,
— but nothing would satisfy his mother unless John
would be a minister. He obeyed her, — and you
68 friendship's gift.
have seen the result. After ha\ing learned reading,
and writing, and arithmetic, and read more books
than half the bojs of his rank read in a Ufe-time, —
his character for ability, integrity, and sound sense,
was such, that when only thirteen years old, he would
have been taken by a respectable and thriving mer-
chant as under-clerk. With this gentleman he was
sure to rise, and he would, in all human probability,
have raised every member of his family along with
him, so kind, so dutiful, so good was he ; but all that
would not do for his mother, so to Latm he went.
For a while the increased industry of father and
mother sufficed to meet the ever-mcreasing expense :
but by the time he got to college, the younger chil-
dren beofan to be abrid^red of their teachinoc. First,
the girls got no arithmetic, — then the boys, — next,
the youngest girl was not taught to write, and the
youngest boy could hardly read, and could neither
write nor spell when he was taken from school.
' John would make up all that to them, and more,
when he came home,' was their mother's consolation
for their and her privations. The cliildren's and the
father's Sunday clothes became their every-day wear,
and no new, hardy, home-made jackets and trousers
supplied their place. Mirth and glee no longer
resounded in their cottage, but long toil, long fasts,
and scanty fare came in their stead.
" Meanwhile, John at College labored day and
night, pinched himself of food and fire, and saved his
THE DIVINITY STUDENT. 69
poor mother's hard-earned pittance to the very utter-
most. During the vacations he saw the ruin at home,
and a voice seemed constantly sounding in his heart,
' Tliis is all for me ! ' Instead of spending his time
in his studies, he labored with his hands, and did his
uttermost at every vacant hour to bring up the educar
tion of the brothers and sisters who had been sacri-
ficed for liim. His eldest sister went out to service
and also to harvest-work, and when he was ready to
depart for college in November, she gave him a little
packet, which he was not to open till he got to his
lodgmgs, and, when he got there, he found with a
bursting heart that it contained all her wages !
^' His sad, pale countenance, perpetual diligence,
and great talents and merits as a scholar, had not
passed unnoticed by the professors ; and when he
went for his Greek ticket, the worthy man, with many
complimentary and kind expressions, presented it to
him gratis. Another — the professor of Logic, did
the same. Still this generosity, and his utmost efforts
and most rigid economy, could not save him from
wants ; the second winter was worse and severer than
either ; each succeeding season becommg more and
more grievous, as his means and his strength and his
spirit faded away.
" So passed some dismal years of his novitiate, ere
the time came when he could obtain a license to
preach. And during that sad and dreary period,
whether at home or at college, his labors and anxie-
70 friendship's gift.
ties increased. In his lodgings, by the hght of a
wretched lamp, he sat, hour after hour, toiling his
overwrought brains, grudging himself sleep and food,
and even the foul and putrid oil by the smoky flame
of which he was striving to write ; for, his thoughts
constantly flew home, where, in imagination, he saw
the ceaseless labors of his dear and indulgent parents,
and the wan faces and scanty meals and extinguished
light of their once joyful fireside. When at home, he
wrote sermons, he wrote for magazines — for reviews
— he attempted to teach here and there. His ser-
mons were dead stock, his papers were ill-received
and worse paid, at the best, -^ and were oftener re-
jected than admitted. As for his plans of teaching,
to whatever hand he turned, he still found his pov-
erty the cause of his continuing poor ; for in spite of
all he could do, his small winnings never sufficed to
furnish his wardrobe so as to enable him to dress per-
manently in a manner becoming his situation and
views, because it always appeared to him that nothing
he could win was his own, mitil he had replaced his
parents and sisters and brothers in that state of com-
fort from which their lil)erality to him had thrust
them. His teaching, therefore, was confined to those
of the humblest rank, and even in this lowly task,
his best feelings interposed to obstruct him. In his
ovm parish, every scholar he could obtain must have
been taken from the worthy, generous teacher, who
had been his own early and liberal patron ; and, by
THE DIVINITY STUDENT. 71
going to any neighboring parish, with the least pros-
pect of success, he must have encountered a walk of
six or seven miles, morning and evening ; or else go
into lodgings, the expense of which all his emolu-
ments would not defray. Meek and retiring, he was
easily rebuffed ; and what in happier circumstances
he would have received as a jest, — he now shrunk
from as a rebuke or repulse, on which he would ru-
minate until his mind was filled with images of
despair.
" At length, the eighth important session came ;
and as the period of his examination approached,
these paroxysms of anxiety and desperation became
more frequent and intense ; and during his strenuous
and almost incessant labors in preparation, which all
but himself deemed nearly superfluous, his sleep for-
sook him and he lost all inclination for food. He sat
continually poring over his books and papers, and be-
gan to feel with considerable alarm, that his mind
wandered from the subjects of his study, and that he
made no advance in Ms preparations. He doubled
his efforts and increased the evil ! He started to find
he was often speaking to himself of he knew not
what ; and vainly tried to retrace his thoughts. Even
while making the effort his mind wandered again, and
he was haunted by an undefinable dread, a horrible
suspicion that he was becoming insane.
" The period for examination came — and though
his mind was in the most deplorable uproar, such was
72 friendship's gift.
the high place he held in the good opinion and good
will of every member of the presbytery to whom his
life and character were known, that he was passed
without the shghtest difficulty ; his confused answers
and bewildered air being imputed to the overwhelming
diffidence so often the attendant on real merit and
genius.
^' He was in arrears to his landlady, but she trusted
one who was so sober and who had paid her hitherto ;
and in a somewhat more comfortable state of feeling
he returned home .
" He had now obtained the object of his own and
his parent's ardent mshes. He quitted the university
with the esteem and admiration of his teachers —
his hcense in his pocket, and complimented by the
presbytery on his worth and talents. AYhat did it all
avail ? — Who would, who could employ a star^dng
half-clothed lad, more like a mendicant than a min-
ister of the gospel ? His coat was threadbare, his
linen in rags, everything worn out. On his way
home, as soon as he was clear of the city, he turned
off the high road, and to save his shoes and stockings,
took them off and pursued his way over the trackless
hills upon his naked feet !
" But in spite of all his care, at last his wardrobe
was worn out, and he blushed to ask any one to rec-
ommend him even as a tutor. Even if he did pre-
sume to do so, what family would receive him in that
or any other capacity ! Here then he must stay, an
THE DIVINITY STUDENT. 73
unceasing burthen on his beloved parents, or his dear
and generous sister ; instead of being, as thej had all
so fondly anticipated, the comfort and support of
those who had suffered and sacrificed so much for his
sake ! sufferings and sacrifices, the thought of wliich
continuallj lay like an icy hand upon his heart !
" Such were the gloomy reveries to which he was
a prey, when the widowed mother of an amiable
young man of fortune, who had countenanced him at
college, but who had lately died, sent him her de-
parted son's complete wardrobe, accompanied by a
letter so dehcate and so gratifymg to all his feehngs,
that the gift, so unexpected and so ample, melted,
soothed, and refreshed his poor young withering heart
hke balm. Soon after this, a member of the presbyte-
ry asked him to preach in his church on an approach-
ing week-day, — a request received with a mixture of
pleasure and dread, which agitated his enfeebled
frame to the most violent degree. The day came ;
still this diseased agitation continued. His whole
family accompanied him to church. He expected, he
wished this ; yet it gave him pain, and added to his
terror — he could not, even to himself, tell why. In
a turmoil of emotion, he ascended the pulpit, and his
reading of the first psalm was nearly inaudible. He
inwardly lifted his heart to God, imploring, strug-
gling, and hoping to obtain composure whilst it was
sung : and when it ended, he rose to pray with some-
what less agitation. Still his ears rang, and green
6
74 FEIENDSHIP'S GIFT.
and blue clouds swam before his eyes — his luminous
dark eves, which, with intensity of feeling, he turned
upwards, and clasped his hands in the attitude of
adoration. During that moment of silent prayer,
many present thought they had never seen a more
beautiful or interesting youth. At that instant the
congregation Avas startled by the loud crash of a
broken window ; and exactly as poor John Phihps
had opened his hps in a first effort to speak, a ball,
flung by some unlucky boy, struck him on the face.
It was all over. He fell back in the pulpit, and his
miserable mother shrieked and fainted at the sight.
The worthies and most influential of those present
crowded round him with tenderness and sympathy,
but their kindest encouragements were all miavailing.
They vauily urged him to proceed with the service ;
it was even doubtful if he heard them. The silver
cord was broken — the s^toidid intellect shattered —
and he fled homewards, followed by his enthusiastic
and almost delirious sister — both, under the influ-
ence of feelings which those who have never been so
circumstanced are unfit to imagine. Oh, how unfit,
then, are they to judge !
" Ilis poor parents saw with dismay the wanderings
of his noble mind, and did their best to soothe and
reconcile him to his situation and to make him think
lightly of the accident which had occurred. "Whether
they followed the best method cannot be known.
Sometimes the most wholesome management onlj
THE DIVINITY STUDENT. 75
feeds the disease ; arid, in his case, every accident,
every chance occurrence increased the evil ; and, in
a few months, he was a hopeless, wanderuig madman !
^' Such, my good friends," said Simon, after a Uttle
pause, and with a tremor in his voice, — " such was
John Philips, the most dear, and valued, and admired
friend that ever Simon Frazer possessed."
BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
ANONYMOUS.
Of song so sweet and flight so free,
Gayest of birds, I wot are we ;
Nor cold, nor frost, nor snow we know,
Nor wintry blasts e'er on us blow\
For joyous birds of passage are we,
And summer is with us where'er we be.
We ever sport in purest skies.
And bright things ever greet our eyes;
We take no scorn of ricii or poor.
In every land of welcome sure.
For joyous birds of passage are we.
And summer is with us where'er we be.
On earth, on ocean, and on shore.
Fresh beauties rise as we pass o'er;
The lowly lake, and mountain high,
Still l)righten as we onward fly.
For joyous birds of passage are we,
And summer is with us where'er we be.
BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
We mourn not brood behind us left,
Nor fear to be of freedom reft ;
No dread of ill gives us annoy,
Oh ! none would harm such things of joy.
For joyous birds of passage are we,
And summer is with us where'er we be.
When death's soft hand doth on us fall,
(For death will touch the hearts of all,)
On perfumed banks we fall asleep,
While over us sweet flowerets weep.
For joyous birds of passage are we.
And summer is with us where'er we be.
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.
BY G. P. R. JAMES.
I WISH I could as merry be.
As when I set out this world to see,
Like a boat filled with good couipaiiie,
On some gay voyage sent.
There youth spread Ibrth the broad white sail,
Sure of fair weather and full gale,
Confiding life would never fail.
Nor time be ever spent.
And Fancy whistled for the wind,
And if e'er Memory looked behind,
'T was but some friendly si^ht to fiud,
And gladsome wave her hand.
And Hope kept whispering in Youth's ear,
To spread more sail and never fear.
For the same sky would still be clear,
Until they reached the land.
Health, too, and Strength tugged at the oar,
Mirth mocked the passing billow's roar,
And Joy with goblet running o"er,
Drank draughts of deep delight ;
And Judgment was a child as yet.
And, lack-a-day ! was all unfit
To guiile the boat aright : —
THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 79
Bubbles did lialfl)er thoughts employ,
Ho()e, she believed — she played with Joy,
And Fancy bribed her with a toy,
To steer which way he chose —
But still they were a merry crew,
And laughed at dangers as untrue,
Till the dim sky tempestuous grew,
And sobbing south winds rose.
Then Prudence told them all she feared ;
And Youth awhile his messmates cheered,
Until at length he disappeared,
Though none knew how he went.
Joy hung her head, and Mirth grew dull.
Health faltered, Strength refused to pull ;
And Memory, with her soft eyes full,
Backward her glance still^bent —
To where, upon the distant sea.
Bursting the storm's dark cano])y,
Light from a sun none more could see
Still touched the whirling wave.
And though Hope, gazing from the bow,
Turns oft — she sees the sJiore — to vow,
Judgment grown older, now I trow.
Is silent, stern, and grave.
And though she steers with better skill,
And makes her fellows do her will,
Fear says the storm is rising still,
And day is almost spent.
O ! that I could as merry be.
As when I set out this world to see,
Like a boat filled with good companie.
On some gay voyage sent.
A FAREWELL.
BY ISMAEL riTZADAM.
Fare thee well, land of my birth,
That spot the most sacred on earth! —
At last I have broken the spell
That bound my heart to thee, — farewell!
Away idle sorrows, that wet
My cheek with unbidden regret! —
I leave no fond sympathy here
That asks, at my parting, one tear.
With a love that scarce death could remove,
Have I clung to thee, land of my love!
Yet found but such fostering and rest
As tlie babe at its dead mother's breast.
Lift the sail— The lone spirit that braves
The loud going forth of the waves
Wherever they cast him, will find
A country, and bosoms, more kind.
Lift the sail — all remembrances sleep
In the rush and the loar of the deep.
As its ti<lc blots the lines which the hand
Of childhood had etched on the sand.
-A*
^^y^^T^^au-tr/ '//
A FAREWELL. 81
Denied to my chance-kindled fire
The wreath that belongs to the lyre,
Yet my good sword the battle shall join,
And cjjivalry's garland be mine.
Or victory, torn from the brow,
Of the Paynim, shall hallow my vow, —
Or fallen in the strife of the brave.
Young Glory shall beam on my grave !
Fare thee well, land of my birth.
The one spot most sacred of earth! —
At last I have burst through the spell
That bound my heart to thee! — Farewell!
A COUNTRY STORY.
BY JOHN CAKVER.
Good sir, reject it not, althoiigli it bring
Appearances of some fantastic thing.
At first unf(jldinsr I' — VVlTHER.
It was on a bitter cold evening in the month of De-
cember, that a nmnber of neighbors had called in to
say good-by to my cousin John, who was to start the
next morning on a trip down the country, to dispose
of some of the products of the farm. An hour or two
had passed off very pleasantly over a mug of flip ; the
more distant visiters had dropped away as the evening
wore on ; the lumber-box had been loaded with firkuis
of butter, and boxes of cheese, and flitches of bacon,
and all those innumerable knick-knacks which the
farmer's wife sends to the market-town ; the commis-
sions for gowns and ribands, patterns and fashions,
had been repeatedly given ; and the remaining visiters
were moving their chairs, as if half reluctant to quit
the bright fireside, despite of the sleepy nods and
A COUNTRY STORY. 83
yawns of my good grandmother ; when my uncle
roared out with his stentorian voice, " Stop neighbors,
don't go yet ! we'll have another mug of flip, and
Bowgun shall tell us a story."
It required but little urging to induce a general
acquiescence in the proposal, for my uncle's flip and
Captain Bowgun' s stories were the toast of the whole
neighborhood. Even my pretty cousin Jane, whose
eyes had been closed for a long time, brightened up in
the expectation of a tale, and every one's attention was
directed to the Captain for the promised enjoyment.
" Well, boys, and what is it I'm to give you ?" said
Bowgun, in a tone something hke that with which
Matthews used to debut in his ' What's the news at
Natchitoches V and whom our old story-teller resem-
bled in more points than one, — " Well, hojs, and
what is it I'm to give you ? Shall it be a love story,
or a witch story, or a ghost story, or"
" Oh, a love story, by all means," exclaimed my fair
cousin, whose eyes were brightening like diamonds at
the thought, and turned full upon the old captain ; "let
it be a love story, and a good ending, won't you, Cap-
tain?"
" Whist, Jenny," said my uncle, " what has such a
child as you to do with love stories ? Leave Bowgun
to his own fancy, and I'll be bound he'll tell us some-
thing pleasant."
"Doubtful about that!" answered the Captain;
" such cold nights as this, with three feet of snow in
®4 friendship's gift.
the old sap lot, and the prospect of a tramp through
it, with the wind dancing rigadoons all the way, is n't
just the thing to wake a man's ideas up to a good
story. An}^ how, since your father asks it, I'll tell
you one befitting the night, which I heard long ago,
when I was a child; it's about the oldhaimted ground,
over in Campton, where you know neither sheep, nor
cattle, nor horses, ever live or thrive ; and it was once,
— but that's long ago, — the best piece of land in the
country ; and every traveller noticed how rich the
farms were over the river."
" Stop, Captain !" said my uncle, interrupting him ;
" it's dry work, talking, — • taste a drop of this, just to
wet your whistle ;" and filling a pmt mug with the
rich, foaming beverage, he handed it to the story teller,
with '' Much good may it do you, neighbor ; bless
your kmd soul !"
The old man took the mug from my uncle's hand,
and sipping once or twice from the cream-like surface
of the hot liquid, w^hich, unfortunately, he loved but
too well, he smacked his lips and replied, " Thank you.
Square ; that goes to the right place ; now for the
story."
" I've told you," continued he, " that it's about the
Campton marshes, where, you know, the cattle, and
sheep, and horses, of the best farmer in old Strafford,
would be scarce as my own in half a dozen years.
It's been tried out and out repeatedly by many a hard
worker ; as any one may know from the large barns
A COUNTRY STORY. 85
and snug houses, for many a mile, all unroofed by the
winds and crumbling to ruins, with nobody to take care
of them, and not a soul to live there, except it may
be some old wrinkled crone, who has more to do with
Old Nick than with anything in this w^orld. And yet
the grass grows on the meadows as I never saw it
anywhere else, except in old Oxbow, up in Coos ; and
the land runs away so smooth and so green, as far as
the eye can see, that it would do one's heart good
to ride through it, if you didn't know that it was as
deceitful as it is fair. Some people say, it's the fog
that rises every morning, and makes it unhealthy ;
and others, that the water is bad, and breeds diseases
in the stock who drink it ; but, to my mind, it's more
the curse of Satan on what the Lord made good, than
anything else, as the story I am going to tell you will
show.
" There hved once upon the Bearcamp one William
Montgomery, or, as he was called, Bill Mink, in con-
sideration of his being the blackest white man any-
where about. It's a long time ago, before old Captain
Lovewell had his battle at Fryeburgh with Powell and
the Indians, Avhen there was not a road from the
Winnepissaukee to old Hampton, nor more than fifty
settlers from Red Hill up to Canada. This Mink was
the wonder of the country all about for strength, for
he'd think nothing of felling an acre of first growth
between sun and sun, and trimming it to boot ; and
he beat Samson in throwin<2; a rock, or swiuirinf]; an
86 friendship's gift.
anvil -with his teeth, or taking a barrel of cider as
you would a two-gallon wallet up at anus' length, and
drinking from the bung-hole. But though he was the
leader in all the country frolickings, he was as mild-
tempered and peaceable a fellow as lived in the world,
and would not have hurt a fly. For this reason many
folks, who did not know Bill, fancied he was a coward ;
and some men found, to their cost, that, though he
was good-natured to a fault, yet he was not to be
abused out of reason. Young Sam Hurchley , a bully-
ing, bragging tailor's apprentice, in the heat of a row
which they all got into at a country fair, threw a glass
full of spirits into Mink's face and eyes, and so mad-
dened him, that he caught him by the collar like the
grip of a vice, and tossing him into the air as if he
had been a real puppy, as he was, and catching liim
at arms' length as he came down, so frightened the poor
breeches-mender, that he never looked full in a man's
face afterwards.
" Well, it happened that Bill Mink was one evening
at a house-warming, two or three miles from home,
where there was no lack of good things to eat and to
drink. Bill was the life of the company ; and what
with singing of songs, and telling of stories, eating of
turkeys and chickens, and roast beef, and bacon, and
drinking of good old cider, and New England and the
best of Metheglin, he got somewhat irregular ; not
worse than the others, perhaps, for all were hearty-
like ; and as they came home the woods rang with the
A COUNTRY STORY.
87
shouts and laughter of the merry blades. It was a
clear cold evening m December, and the frost sparkled
in the moonlight, like diamonds and jewels. Bill's
path lay farther on than the others were to go ; and
as they turned off, one after another, they bade him
" good night and a pleasant walk home." Bill did
not like the idea of a two-mile walk through the woods
and nobody with him, but still he held up his spirits —
and whisthng to keep off the thoughts of spirits and
bogles — for Bill was a firm believer in ghosts and all
that — he went on his way. The path lay along by
the side of a hill for nearly half a mile, and then ran
down into an intervale of the Bearcamp, a tract of
rich soil which Bill had bought of the proprietor,
making a journey all the way to Boston on purpose,
and wliere he meant to build him a house in the earli-
est spring. As he came do^\^l the hill, he thought he
heard a sound over among some white pine that he had
selected for framed timber ; and listening a moment,
he made sure that some one was chopping his trees.
Bill's temper was up in a minute ; so, springing into
the forest, he pretty soon came upon a black stout
man, with a shock of curly black hair, who was most
lustily cutting away at the finest tree in the woods.
'' ' Halloo, there !' cried Bill, ' what in the devil are
you doing?'
" ' Chopping trees ! ' answered the black man,
without so much as looking up, or stopping for a
minute.
88 friendship's gift.
" Bill -was confounded at the black man's cool im-
pudence, and hesitating a minute, he replied, ' So I
see ; but do you know this is my timber V
" ' You lie !' surlily answered the black man.
^' Bill's temper was up in a minute : for though you
might tease him all day, and he never get angry, yet
he was a fellow of spirit, and would take the lie from
no man. • What's that you say ?' asked he with a
stern voice, advancing his foot, and showing a pair of
huge fists, just ready to strike. ' What's that you say,
sir V
" ' I say you lie !' said the other, never once look-
ing up, nor taking any notice of Bill's threatening
attitude.
*' Take that, then !' said Bill Mink, dealing him a
blow which would send the stoutest to the earth, h \t
which had no more effect on the black man than if he
had been made of iron.
" ' Ila, ha, ha !' shouted the negro, with a short
fiendish laugh ; ' so you dare to strike me, do you ?
I'll pay you for this. You shall ride round this land
you call yours, my good fellow, and point it out to me,
and Til drive ; ' and cutting down a stout beech sap-
ling, he commenced peeling the bark into a broom,
such as old Dinah makes to sell at the corner.
^' Bill Mink was now terribly frightened, and knew
not what to do. lie could not run away, for it was a
long mile to the cabin, and he was sure the black man
would overtake him before he got half way there. He
A COUNTRY STORY.
89
could not conceal himself among the tall trees ; and
as for opposing a man who cared no more for his blows
than if they had been pops of parched corn, it was
hopeless enough. The only way he could think of,
was to appease the black fellow with an apology for
striking him, quit his claim to the land, and so try to
come off on good terms. Mustering all his courage,
then — for he trembled like an aspen leaf — Bill
stammered out, ' I say, friend, you may have the
timber, only forget the blow I gave you, and so quit
even.'
" ' Ha ! backing out, are you ? ' returned the other,
who had now completed the broom and held it out to
Bill : ' that wont go ! Here, mount this horse, I tell
you, and ride round your farm.'
" Bill tried to object, but the black fellow's eyes
sparkled like fire, and he was forced to stride the
strange horse. No sooner had he mounted, than the
broom elevated itself above the surface of the ground.
and started off over the intervale. On they went,
the black fellow mounted behind him, up the hills,
over the river, through the valleys, harum-scarum-like.
Bill ^link was in a terrible fright, as you may well
behove, for the courage of the liquor had all gone,
and he didn't think his life worth a rush peeling ; so
clino-ino; with one hand to the broom — which was none
of the easiest to ride, and taking off his hat with the
other, and making a submission to the black fellow, he
begged him to stop. I'm at your honor's mercy en-
7*
90 friendship's gift.
tirelj, and I beg Heaven's pardon, and jours likewise,
sir ; and sure, if I thought that it was on account of
my touching you '
*' ' Touching me !' roared the black fellow : ' D' ye
call that blow touching me — or is it game you're
making ? '
^' ' Well would it become the like of me,' said the
blarneying Bill, ' to make game of a gentleman like
yourself, and one that would not think it worth his
w^hile to hurt or harm a poor devil like me, who got a
little overtaken with drink ; — curse it ! for it's like to
be the ruin of me at last. Oh, Jenny, it is little you're
dreaming in your snug bed, what an end I have come
to ! and my poor children — ! ' and at that Bill blub-
bered out, Uke a great schoolboy.
'' ' Well, Bill, and Avhat bargain will you make with
me, if I let you off free ?' says the black man.
" ' Bargain, sir ? ' answered Bill ; ' any bargain in
the wide world this blessed night that you may ask
of me, will I make with you. Only name it, and
see if I do not make it and keep it to your heart's
content ! '
^' ' Bill Mink, you're the very man for me ! ' answered
the black fellow ; ^ and I'll make you the richest man
in the country, if you '11 only promise me two or three
things, and no harm to come to you either ! ' "
" But he lied, didn't he ? " interrupted my Uncle,
who was swallowing down the story word for word a»s
fast as the old man could tell it.
A COUNTRY STORY.
&1
^' Lied ! to be sure he did ! " answered Bowgum ;
" It 's the Scripture that calls him a liar from the first,
and the father of liars. 'Twas Bill Mink's soid that
he wanted — the cheat that he is — as you shall hear
in a minute ; " and taking the last drink from the
mug, he resumed his story.
"Let me see — whereabouts was I? Oh, I re-
member : The devil says he "
" Then the black man was the devil after all, was
he ? " said my grandmother.
" To be sure he Avas," replied Bowgum ; " but don't
interrupt me. 'So you '11 promise,' said the devil,
to do what I tell you ? '
" ' I will,' said Bill.
" ' Well, then, you shall have more shining dollars
than there is in every farmer's chest between here and
Dover.'
" ' When ? ' says Bill ; for the mention of the dol-
lars, and he so poor a man, had quickened his appetite
for the bargain. ' When ? ' says he.
" ' This very night ; ' answered the black man,
' only sign this paper to do what I say ! '
" ' And what is to be done ? ' asked Bill Mink.
" ' Advertise this land on the Bearcamp for sale ! '
said the black man.
" ' Well ?' answered Bill Mink.
" ' Go to Boston ; publish it in the papers ; cut it up
into building lots ; draw it out on a map ; lay roads ;
plan streets ; cry up the water privileges ; erect man-
92 friendship's gift.
uafactories ; build churches ; open stores ; put up
houses'
" ' What, all on paper ?' inquired Bill Mink, who
was quite out of breath, at the rapidity of the di-
rections.
" ' To be sure !' answered the black man.
" ' Open a land office in Boston ; employ a clerk ;
send circulars over the city ; cover your table with
plans and drafts ; fill your desks with deeds ; work
hard ; think much ; talk largely ; — in short, become
a flourishing land speculator.'
" ' Ay, ay,' said Bill Mink.
" ' Encourage buyers, Avith fair promises and long
credits ; work up an excitement ; identify it with re-
ligion ; seduce the parson ; coax the deacons ; '
" ' Egad, I will,' said Bill Mink.
" ' In short, build up a great city where a tree
is not cut, nor a swamp drained ; stir up emigration ;
enhst capitalists ; promise dividends ; cheat the
widows ; rob the heirs ; lure the merchants to over-
trade ;'
U i
' I'll lure them to the devil,' said Wilham.
You are the very man for me,' exclaimed the
black fellow ; ' now sign the paper.'
'' By tliis time Bill was dismounted from his
awkward steed ; so sitting down on a half-decayed log,
he signed the pai)er, and started for home.
" Before spring there was great excitement in the
good city of Boston, about the wild lands in New
A COUNTRY STORY.
93
Hampsliire. Governor Wentworth had recently been
appointed to preside over the province, and was mak-
ing preparations to build him a splendid mansion, far
m from the sea-board. Sellers were about in every
quarter. The land was said to be the most fertile of
any in New England, and nothing was talked about
save city lots and splendid sites, pine timber and
intervales, mill pri\dleges and new roads. Great for-
tunes were made in a day ; and he who yesterday
wrought laboriously for the mere sustenance of life,
to-day stood foremost as the wealthiest man on 'change.
To be sure, some of the grave old puritans, who had
got rich by selling pins and needles, shook their heads,
and doubted to what all this would grow ; but tliis
was to be expected — they were behind the age, and
every body pronounced them to be obstinate unbe-
lievers.
" Among the great men whom this ebullition of the
times threw prominently upon the surface, was one
Mr. Montgomery, who had a land office in Cornhill.
Nobody knew who he was, or whence he came, and
nobody cared. It was enough that he lived in princely
style, owned houses on Beacon Hill, gave costly
dinners, set up a superb livery, and was the most
civil, complaisant, and urbane man in the whole city
of Boston. His office was crowded from morning
to night with eager buyers of new lands in New
Hampshire, and his opinions were quoted as absolut.e
in all matters relating to the value of real estate on
94 friendship's gift.
the frontiers. Such bargams as he had sold were
never before known, and the city he had laid out on
the Bearcamp river, it was believed, would rival Bos-
ton in less than fifty years. Was any one desirous of
gro\N-ing suddenly rich, let him go to No. 17, Corn-
hill; was a merchant in want of investments, Mr.
Montgomery would sell him such stocks as even Lon-
don could not boast ; were a family of rich heirs de-
sirous of secure dividends, the land office was the never-
failing resort ; — in short, to every one Mr. ^lontgom-
ery seemed the moving spirit of the time. The golden
age had again come to visit the world, and "William
Montgomery, Esquire, was the Midas who had
brought it.
" The summer passed away — autumn came and
went — chill winter set in — and still there was no
abatement of the great bargains in New Hampsliire
lands. The coming of spring was looked forward to
with great interest, for then the first colony was to
move northward, to the far-famed Bearcamp. Houses
were framed — bricks were imported — mechanics were
hired — stores were provided — farming tools were
bought up — furniture was packed, and every thing
made in readiness to start by the earliest spring. The
El Dorado of the western continent had in very deed
at last a})peared in sight.
"In tlie midst of all these expectations, when the
whole city rang with the noise of busy preparation,
one morning No. 17 was closed. A crowd was
gathered about the door at the usual tmie of opening,
A COUNTRY STORY. 95
but no clerk appeared. An hour passed by — the
crowd had mcreased far up and down the street, and
great hnpatience began to be manifest, Avhen it was
whispered by somebody, that jMr. Montgomery had
been absent from home all night. A messenger was
despatched to ascertain the truth of the report ; but
before he could return, a person came running up the
street, announcing that Mr. Montgomery was probably
drowned, his hat and cane having been found floating
on the water, near Long AYharf. The consternation
was great : — a general meeting of the citizens was
called together — boats with grappling irons were
ordered to drag the bay : — but nothing was ever found
of the body, and to this day it remains in doubt what
was the fate of the land speculator."
" Andwhat became of his property,' asked my uncle.
" Oh, the town appointed trustees to settle that,
but they did not find enough to pay a penny on a
pound. His houses were mortgaged, his chests were
empty, his horses and carriages had disappeared, and
his bonds and mortgages were all blank paper, hand-
somely labeled and sealled ; his "
" But the old intervale in Campton ? who owned
that?"
" That was cleared and settled, after a time, by
some of the buyers, but the owners never flourished ;
and to this day there is not a thriving farm on the
Bearcamp."
'^No wonder!'* said my grandmother, "/or the
devil sold itJ^
THE HEBREW'S PRAYER.
BY T, K. HERVEY.
A Hebrew knelt, in the dying light, —
His eye was dim and cold,
The hairs on his brow were silver-white.
And his blood was thin and old!
He lifted his look to his latest sun, —
For, he knew that his pilgrimage was done!-
And as he saw God's shadow there,*
His spirit poured itself in prayer!
'I come unto death's second-birth,
Beneath a stranger-air,
A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,
As all my fathers were !
And men have stamped me with a curse, —
I feel it is not Thine,
Thy mercy — like yon sun — was made
On me — as them — to shine ;
And, therefore, dare I lit\ mine eye.
Through that, to Thee, — before I die I
• Platx) calls Truth the body of God, and Light his shadow ! — perhaps lh«
•ubliitjest of all conceptiot^s, having a merelj mortal breast for their birth
place.
THE Hebrew's prayer. 97
" In this great temple, built by Thee,
Whose altars are divine,
Beneath yon lamp, that, carelessly,
Lights up Thine own true shrine,
Oh ! take my latest sacrifice, —
Look down, and make this sod
Holy as that where long ago,
The Hebrew met his God !
" I have not caused the widow's tears,
Nor dimmed the orphan's eye,
I have not stained the virgin's years,
Nor mocked the mourner's cry ;
The songs of Zion, in mine ear.
Have, ever, been most sweet.
And, always, when I felt Thee near,
My ' shoes ' were ' oflT my feet ' !
"I have known Thee, in the whirl- wind,
I have known Thee, on the hill,
I have loved Thee, in the voice of birds,
Or the music of the rill ! —
I dreamt Thee, in the shadow,
I saw Thee, in the light,
I heard Thee, in the thunder-peal.
And worshipped, in the night !
All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,
Still made my soul rejoice.
And my spirit bowed within itself,
To hear Thy ' still-small voice ' ! —
1 have not felt myself a thing
Far from Thy presence driven ;
By flaming sword or waving wing.
Shut out from Thee and heaven !
98 friendship's gift.
"Must I the whirlwind reap, because
My fathers sowed the storm,
Or shrink — because anotlier sinned, —
Beneath Thy red right arm ?
Oh! much of this we dimly scan,
And much is all unknown, —
But I will not take my curse from mun,
I turn to Thee, alone !
Oh ! bid my fainting spirit live.
And what is dark reveal,
And what is evil, oh ! forgive.
And what is broken heal.
And cleanse my nature, from above,
In the deep Jordan of Thy love !
" I know not if the Christian's heaven
Shall be the same as mine,
I only ask to be forgiven,
And taken home to Thine !
I weary on a far, dim strand,
Whose mansions are as tombs,
And long to find the father-land.
Where there are many homes ! —
Oh! grant, of all yon starry thrones,
Some dim and distant star,
Where Judah's lost and scattered sons
May love Thee, from afar !
When all earth's myriad harps shall meet,
In choral praise and prayer,
Shall Zion's harp — of old, so sweet, —
Alone be wanting, there ?
Yet place me in Thy lowest seat.
Though I — as now — be, there,
The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest :
But let me see and hear,
From some dim mansion ia the sky,
The bright ones, and their melody ! "
THE ANNIVERSARY.
BY ALARIC A. WATTS.
' The world was all before us, where to choose
Our place of rest, and Providence our guide.''
Milton.
Twenty chequered years have passed, —
Summer suns and wintry weather, —
Since, our lot m concert cast,
Fh'st we " climbed the hill " together.
And the world before us lay
In its brightest colors drest,
As we took our joyous way
To select our jjlace of rest.
Fortune's smiles we could not boast ;
Fame — we had not dream't of Fame!
Friendship, e'n when needed most,
We had only known — by name.
So, despising trappings rich,
We decked our bower with humbler things,
And in friendship's empty niche
Love installed — without his wings!
100 friendship's gift.
There, tliough twenty years have fled,
Chequered o'er by good and ill,
He lifts aloft his beaming head,
The same, young, household still !
t(:^y?2.e^ r^W^tZ?//^
THE HEROINE MARTYR OF MONTEREY.
BY REV. J. G. LYONS.
While the American forces under General Taylor stormed Monterey, a Mex-
ican woman was seen going about among the wounded of both armies, binding
up their wounds, and supplying them with food and water. While thus em-
ployed, she fell. She was next day buried by the Americans, amid an inces.sant
discharge of shot from the Mexican batteries.
The strife was stern at Monterey,
Wlien those high towers were lost and won.
And pealing through that mortal fray,
Flashed the strong battery's vengeful gun;
Yet heedless of its deadly rain,
She stood in toil and danger, first
To bind the bleeding soldier's vein,
And slake the dying soldier's thh'st.
She found a pale and stricken foe,
Sinking in nature's last ecli|)se,
And, on the red earth kneeling low,
She wet his parched and fevered lips;
When, thick as winter's driving sleet,
The booming shot, and flaming shell,
Swept with wild rage that gory street,
And she, the good and gentle, fell.
8*
102 friendship's gift.
They laid her in a narrow bed,
The foeman of her land and race;
And righs were breathed, and tears were shed,
Above her lowly resting place ; —
Ay ! glory's crimson worshippers
Wept over her untimely fall.
For deeds of mercy, such as hers,
Subdue the hearts and eyes of all.
To sound her worth were guilt and shame,
In us who love but gold and ease ; —
They heed alike our praise or blame,
Who live and die in works like these.
Far greater than the wise or brave.
Far happier than tlie fair and gay.
Was she, who found a martyr's grave
On that red field of Monterey.
THE DISCLAIMER.
A TALE OF ROME.
"Know that the human being's thoughts and deeds
Are not like ocean billows lightly moved ;
The inner world his microcosmus is —
The deep shaft out of which they spring eternally."
I KNOW of few situations more favorable to the
indulgence of a habit — doubtless of questionable
utility in these utilitarian days, although sanctioned
by the example of no less a personage than Geoffrey
Crayon — the habit of day-dreaming, than that of a
traveller when cosily ensconced within the narrow
limits of an ItaUan vettura. If the coach is old, the
steeds superannuated, and the vetturino utterly devoid
of Jehu ambition, as is ordinarily the case — if the
road abound in long, winding declivities — if the
passengers be taciturn, and the quiet, sunny atmos-
phere of early autumn prevail, such a combination of
circumstances will produce upon his mental mood
somewhat the effect of lateral smibeams shining
through richly-colored wuidows, upon the marble floor
104 rRIENDSHIP's GIFT.
of a cathedral. The images of Memory and Hope
will appear magnified, and lit up into soothing beauty,
as revealed by the mellow light of musing. At least,
such was my experience during the afternoon of a
long day, the evening of which we designed to pass
under the shelter of the Seven Hills, whence the
thunders of ancient eloquence and war were so lav-
ishly fulminated. Aroused by the exclamation of a
Tuscan friar, my next neighbor, who had mistaken a
semicircular cloud floating in the far horizon, for the
dome of St. Peter's, I began to note the state of
things around. Our humble locomotive was creeping
up a hill, formidable only from its length, and the
customary muiTiiur of paupers at the windows was
blending Avith the rumbling of the carriage and the
monotonous cheerings of the vetturino. Suddenly a
face peered in at the window, so singular and start-
ling in its features and expression, as to convey an
impression never to be forgotten. The beggar throng
seemed to have been awed into a retreat by the stran-
ger's appearance ; so that the idea, that he was of
their fraternity, was banished as soon as suggested.
Grasping the knob of the coach door, and leaning over
till his long dark beard rested on the window sill, he
gazed with stern mournfulness upon us, and muttered,
in a subdued, quiet tone, alternately in German and
Italian, — " I did n't do it," till our vehicle reached
the summit of the mountain, when, at the renewed
speed of the horses, he stopped, waved his hand,
looked after us a moment, and was lost to view.
THE DISCLAIMER. 105
\Miile we were tarrying at the gate, to obtain the
requisite signatm-es to our passports, a fine-looking
old gentleman, one of the occupants of the cabriolet,
perceiving my thoughts were still upon the remarkar
ble intrusion we had recently experienced, seemed
disposed to converse on the subject.
" Was not that a head for Salvator's pencil ? " he
asked.
'' Ay — think ye he could not unfold a tale meet
for Dante's Inferno ? " inquu^ed the friar.
The old man seemed somewhat offended, and turned
away without replying.
" Can you tell me aught of this man? " I asked.
" Signer," he rephed, '' perhaps I can. We shall
doubtless meet ere many days, at the caffe or on the
Pmcian "
He was interrupted by the officer who returned us
our passports, and in a moment after we were rattling
by the fountam in the Piazza del Popolo, most of us
absorbed in the thousand varying emotions with which
the stranger for the first time enters the Eternal city.
Whoever would effectually banish the disagreeable
impression which the first view of the Forum, when
seen by the garish light of day, almost invariably
induces, should early avail himself of a moonhght
evening, to renew his visit. The wood merchants,
lounging among their cattle and diminutive carts —
the score of ant-like excavators, and the groups of
improvidents, are then no longer visible, and the
106 friendship's gift.
scene exhibits something of the dignity which we
spontaneously associate with Roman ruins. At such
a season I had perambulated, more than once, the
space between the Arch of Titus and the Temple of
Peace, and began to wonder that no other sojourner
had been tempted by the auspicious light to roam
thither — for the moon was nearly full, and the at-
mosphere remarkably clear — when, happening to
glance toward the Cohseum, I saw a stately figure
emerge from the pile, as if to answer my conjecture.
There are circumstances under which the sight of a
human being — simply as such — is an event of pro-
found interest. Thus it was on this occasion ; and I
stepped from the shadow of the ruin near which I was
standing, that the stranger might be aware of my pres-
ence. Immediately his steps were directed toward me,
and, while yet at some distance, the voice in which his
salutation was uttered, convinced me that my aged
comioagnon de voyage was approaching. In a few
moments we were seated upon a bench which some
laborers had left among the weeds, muffled in our
cloaks ; and thus the old man spoke in answer to my
entreaties for his promised tale.
" It is a curious study, signer, to trace the inklings
of superstition, where the general vein of character is
vivacious or its elements intense. And it is, perhaps,
impossible for an unimaginative mind to understand
the deep interest which urges some men daringly to
touch the sensitive and latent chords of the human
THE DISCLAIMER. 107
heart, in order to call fortli their mystic music. Yet
with Carl Werner, the love of thus experimenting was
a passion. Not that he lacked susceptibility ; on the
contrary, the very refinement of his feelings led him
to speculate upon the deeper and more intricate
characteristics of his race. Deeply imbued with the
transcendental spirit which distinguishes the intellect-
ual men of his country, his curiosity was essentially
ideal. Several years ago he arrived in Rome, and
was soon domesticated in the family of Christofero
Verdi, whose suit of apartments were directly above
a range of studios in one of the most extensive build-
ings in the Via Condotta. His rooms, as you must
be aware, if you have many acquaintances among the
German residents here, were, at this time, a great
resort for northern artists. Berenice Verdi, his only
child, was one of those beings who seem destined to
pass through life without being justly apprehended
even by their intimates. There was a peculiar Avant
of correspondence between her ordinary manner and
real disposition. She was playful rather than serious,
and yet beneath a winning sportiveness of demeanor,
deep and strange elements of feeling and fancy were
glowing. Between Carl and Berenice there grew up
a strong sympathy ; and yet the sentiment could not
be called love Indeed, her habitual treatment of
her father's young friend was what the world would
have called coquettish. She was ever rallying him
on liis peculiarities, and he was ever acting the phi-
108 friendship's gift.
losopher rather than the beau. But the truth was,
she deeply reverenced Carl, and T\'as dra^n toward
him by his very isolation and kindness ; and he saw
farther into her character than any one else, and was
sensible of an interest such as the consciousness of
this insight alone, would naturally inspire. Berenice
was nervous and excitable in her temperament, and
susceptible to the awful in romance beyond any being
I ever knew. Carl wielded this influence with the
freedom and power of an imaginative German. She
felt his sway, and, like other unacknowledged victims
in the social universe, strove, perhaps unwittingly, by
an assumed appearance, to keep out of sight reality.
" Carl came to Rome professedly as an artist ;
but the views, the motives, the very spirit of the man
were as totally unlike those which influence and
characterize the multitude of students of painting and
sculpture who frequent this region, as his physiogomy ;
and that, you are aware, is sufficiently remarkable.
One trait, which I observed at once, was sufficient to
distinguish him from the herd. So wide and seem-
ingly impassable, in his mind, was the chasm between
conception and execution, that his genius, inventive
and active as it was, appeared completely thwarted
and bewildered. The few results of its exercise with
which I am acquainted, were called forth by the
appeal of friendship ; and these were altogether in-
sufficient to rescue the young German from the charge
of idleness and apathy brought against him, some-
THE DISCLAIMER. 109
times with no little asperity, by some members of his
fraternity. But Carl duly received his remittances,
discharged his obligations, contributed his moiety
toward the convivial enjoyments of his compatriots,
and molested no one ; and, therefore, he was per-
mitted to enjoy his eccentricities in comparative peace.
One or two letters were, indeed, forwarded by a pre-
tentious acquaintance to his nearest relative, sug-
gesting the expediency of incarcerating him in
an insane asylum ; but as no notice was taken
of the epistles, it is presumed they shared the
common fate of voluntary advice, and were treated
with perfect indifference, silent indignation, or con-
tempt. The conduct which mduced such a pro-
cedure was, in truth, such as an ordinary observer
would naturally ascribe to mental aberration ; and,
strictly speaking, it might have been thus accounted
for philosophically. Carl passed the greater part of
every night amid these ruins ; his speculations on the
obehsks, treasures of the Vatican, and even on the
opera performances, were as unintelligible to most
persons as they were intrinsically peculiar. But his
chief peculiarity was that to which I first alluded — a
disposition to play upon the minds of his fellow beings,
by addressing their hopes and fears through the me-
dium of imagination. I could not now relate the
thousand anecdotes I have heard in illustration of the
force of this propensity in him. The single, fatal in-
9
110 friendship's gift.
stance, of the effects of which I was personally a wit-
ness, will suffice.
" One evening, while Carl and several brother ar-
tists were enjoying their cofifee at Christofero's, the
conversation turned upon portrait painting, and finally
upon the attempts of artists to portray themselves.
Berenice — who just before had related a dream, in
which several of the old portraits in the Barbarini
Palace seemed to her suddenly endowed withhfe, and
to converse together on some of the political interests
of their times — rallied Carl as beuig the only one of
the coterie who had not attempted his otvti likeness.
' Confess, Werner,' said she, ' that the fear of not do-
ing justice to thy notable phiz, has deterred thee
from any endeavor to prepare even a sketch for thy
friends in Leipsic. I doubt if thou wouldst allow Tit-
ian and Raphael, should they re-appear, to share the
honor of depicting thee.' Carl made no reply save
by composedly sipping his favorite beverage ; and
when the laugh had subsided, the subject was forgot-
ten in the discussion of some other topic.
" On a fine afternoon, a few days after this inter-
view, Carl and Berenice incidentally met on the dark
stair-way. It was not usual for the former to go forth
at that hour, and the latter was in a conversable hu-
mor. By way of beginning a colloquy, she begged
the loan of a particular drawing. Werner, as usual,
expressed his readiness to oblige her, and hurried on ;
but after descending a few steps, he turned round, as
THE DISCLAIMER. Ill
if a sudden and important thought had struck him.
* Berenice,' said he, ' go not to mj room for the sketch ;
I will bring it thee in an hour.' Having thus spoken,
he hastened awav, the iron-shod heels of his boots
ringing on the stone stau'S, till he reached the street
door — then, returning, with a noiseless tread, to his
studio, he so arranged the window curtains as to ex-
clude all light except the chastened rays that gleamed
through the upper panes, and shot obliquely across
the room, leaving the side which was hung with paint-
ings in shadow. Here he had previously stationed an
easel upon which rested a fresh and richly-draped por-
trait, wiiile from its edge, masses of green cloth fell
in folds to the floor, so that nothing but the projecting
top and slanting position of the machine rendered it
cognizable. To cut out, with a sharp penknife, the
head from the picture, and insert his own living head
in its place, to comb the hair and whiskers outward
upon the canvass so as to render it impossible to dis-
tinguish the actual from the portrayed, to fix his dark,
deep eye upon a distant point, and compose into
death-like quietude the lines of his expressive coun-
tenance, — all this with Carl was but the work of a
moment.
" Meantime Berenice might be heard restlessly pa-
cing the narrow bounds of her little boudoir overliesid,
her mind occupied precisely as Werner had anticipat-
ed. ' What can Carl be about ? ' she musingly in-
quired ; ' now what if w^e have laughed him into tak-
112 friendship's gift.
ing Ids own portrait? A capital joke, truly, to
broach at supper to-night ! What ! the mclependent,
self-sufficient Werner, who lives in the clouds, spurred
into unwonted action by the ridicule of us — common
mortals ? Ha ! ha ! There can be no harm in tak-
ing a single peep into his sanctum. ^ By this time he
is on the other side of the river, or in the Villa Bor-
ghese.' And with these reflections, Berenice ran
down, and stole gently into the apartment of the
mysterious artist.
" Her eye fell directly upon the countenance of
Werner. ' Conceited as ever !' she exclaimed, re-
garding the elegant drapery depicted upon the can-
vass ; ' and the likeness, — poh ! that's no better than
it should be ; the brow is too ample, the eye too ex-
pressive ; that scornful play of the lip, though, is
right. Well, I suppose this flattered, wooden-looking
portrait must be lauded as the best product of the
pencil since Vandyke's time — and all because of the
industrious, affable and gifted Carl Werner, of Leip-
sic ! ' As Berenice uttered the last sentence, in a tone
of irony, she fixed her gaze upon the eyes of the por-
trait. The echo of her words seemed marvellously
prolonged, and just as it died away, the solemn chant
of a priestly train, about to administer the last sacra-
ment to the dying inhabitant of the next dwelling stole
mournfully up from the street. The latent supersti-
tion of Berenice was awakened. Her gaze became
more steadfast. She thought, she dreamed, — nay,
THE DISCLAIMER, 113
she felt that those eyes were reading her soul as they
full oft had done ; the electric fluid which only living
eyes can communicate was perceptibly radiated : the
very hps seemed wreathing into a meaning smile, and
the hnes of the forehead working as she had seen
them in his thoughtful moods. She would have given
worlds to have withdrawn her gaze ; but the illusion
was too complete. She kneeled down from very fee-
bleness and awe, and folding her arms fervently upon
her bosom, as if to still its audible throbbings, she
gazed on like a fascinated bird. Cold dew distilled
upon her brow ; the fever of her blood dried it away,
and now its surface was calm, and unmoistened, like
newly-chiseled marble.
" Her emotions, individually intense as they were,
in their now concentrated energy, were momentarily
growing more miendurable. She leaned forward in
an agony of expectation. The aspect of the por-
trait remained unchanged, but from the lips stole out,
in the tones which had won her heart, the single word
— ' Berenice ! ' It struck her ear like the knell of a
catastrophe. She uttered one despairing cry, and
sunk upon the floor. That ejaculation was borne on
her last breath.
" When my efibrts had been unavaihngly exhausted
in efibrts to resuscitate the unfortunate lady — for be-
ing the nearest physician, I was first called — my at-
tention was turned toward the wretched originator of
the tragedy. Werner lay crouched upon the carpet,
9*
114 friendship's gift.
gazing with an expression in wliich insanity and des-
pair "svere strangely blended, upon the form of Bere-
nice. Reason was now, indeed, overthrown. Per-
ceiving himself noticed, he craAvled to my feet, and
looking piteously up, murmured in a convulsive tone
— ' I didn't do it.'' His constant repetition of this
phrase, year after year, has obtained for him the title
of The Disclaimer. Remorse peoples his imagina-
tion with her awful images. And he will doubtless be
a wanderer, feared by the rabble and pitied by few,
till accident or disease lays low his powerful frame,
and enfranchises from the thrall of insanity his extra-
ordinary and aspiring spirit."
SECRET COURTSHIP.
BERANGER.
A blind mother sits in a cottage, beside her pretty daughter, and cautions
her against love, while, all the time, an amatory scene is going on between the
girl and the very lover whom the old dame dreads.
Daughter, while you turn your wheel,
Listen to the words I say.
Colin has contrived to steal
Your unthinking heart away.
Of his fawning voice beware,
You are all the blind one's care.
And I mark your ?ighs, when'er
Our young neighbors' name is heard.
Colin's tongue is false, though winning —
Hist! the window is unbarred!
Ah ! Lisette, you are not spinning !
The room is close and warm, you say ;
But, my daughter do not peep
Through the casement — night and day
Colin there his watch doth keep.
Think not mine a grumbling tongue:
Ah I here at my breast you hung,
I, like you, was fair and young,
116 friendship's gift.
And I know how apt is love
To lead the youthful heart to sinning -
Hist ! the door, I hear it move,
Ah ! Lisette, you are not spinning !
It is a gust of wind you say,
That hath made the hinges grate ;
And my poor, old growling Tray,
Must you break for that his pate ?
Ah, my child, put faith in me ;
Age permits me to foresee
Colin soon will faithless be,
And your love to an abyss
Of grief, will be the sad beginning —
Bless me ! sure I heard a kiss !
Ah ! Lisette, you are not spinning !
'T was your little bird you say.
Gave that tender kiss, just now;
Make him cease his trifling, pray,
He will rue it else, I vow.
Love, my girl, oft bringeth pain,
Shame and sorrow, in its train.
While the false, successful swain.
Scorns the heart he hath beguiled
From true virtue's path to sinning —
Hist ! I hear you move, child !
Ah ! Lisette, you are not spinning I
You wish to take the air you say ;
Think you, daughter, I believe you r
Bid young Colin go his way.
Or at once, as bride receive you !
SECRET COURTSHIP.
Let him go to church, and there
Show his purpose to he fair ;
But, till then, beside my chair
You must work, my girl, nor heed
All his vows, so fond and winning,
Tangled in love's web, indeed —
Lisette, my daughter, mind your spinning!
117
THE BLUE E'ED LASSIE.
BY JOHN IMLAH.
1 lo'e thee, lassie ! ah ! how weel,
Nae thocht can reach — nae word reveal —
As nane hae felt — as nane can feel,
My bonnie blue e'ed lassie, O.
I lo'e thee mair, sweet Isabel,
Than sign can show, or tongue can tell
My love, my life, my second sel'.
My bonnie blue e'ed lassie, O.
O ! then by lip or look convey,
How I may wile thy heart away,
And I will bless thee night and day,
My bonnie blue e'ed lassie, O.
Say, shall I roose thy rougish mou',
Or praise thy pawkie e'en sae blue,
What shall I say ? what can I do ?
My bonnie blue e'ed lassie, O.
Should cares combine, and ills increase.
To wreck my pleasure, rest, and peace —
Were life but torment — death release,
My bonnie blue e'ed lassie, O.
THE BLUE e'eD LASSIE. 119
For thy sweet sake — for thine alane,
Through toil and trouble, grief and pain,
I'd live to lo'e, and ca' my ain.
My bonnie blue e'ed lassie, O.
SONG.
ANONYMOUS.
The birds have sung themselves to rest.
That flitted 'round our bower;
The weight of the night-dew has bowed
The head of every flower;
The ringing of the hunter's horn
Has ceased upon the hill ;
The cottage windows gleam with light.
The harvest song is still !
And safe and silent in the bay,
Is moored each fisher's prow ;
Each wearied one has sought his home.
But where, my love, art thou ?
I picked a rose, a red blush rose,
Just as the dews begun,
I kissed its leaves, but thought one kiss
Would be a sweeter one.
I kept the rose and kiss, I thought
How dear they both would be !
But now I fear the rose and kiss
Are kept in vain for thee !
IvC^^
THE TALKING LADY.
BY MISS MITFoRD.
Ben Joxson has a play called The Silent Woman,
who turns out, as might be expected, to be no woman
at all — nothing, as Master Slender said, '' but a
great lubberly boy; " thereby, as I apprehend, dis-
courteously presuming that a silent woman is a non-
entity. If the learned dramatist, thus happily pre-
pared and pre-disposed, had happened to fall in with
such a specimen of female loquacity as I have just
parted with, he might, perhaps, have given us a pen-
dant to his picture in the Talking Lady. Pity but he
had ! He would have done her justice, which I could
not at any time, least of all now : I am too much
stunned ; too much hke one escaped from a belfry on
a coronation day. I am just resting from the fatigue
of four days' hard listening ; four snowy, sleety, rainy
days — days of every variety of falling weather, all of
them too bad to admit the possibility that any petti-
coated thing, were she as hardy as a Scotch fir, should
stir out, — four days chained by "sad civility" to
10
122 friendship's gift.
that fire-side, once so quiet, and again — cheeiing
thought ! again I trust to be so, when the echo of that
visiter's incessant tongue shall have died away.
The visiter in question, is a very excellent and re-
spectable elderly lady, upright in mind and body, with
a figure that does honor to her dancing-master, a face
exceedingly well preserved, wrinkled and freckled,
but still fair, and an air of gentihty over her whole
person, which is not the least affected by her out-of-
fashion garb. She could never be taken for any thing
but a woman of family, and perhaps she could as little
pass for any other than an old maid. She took us in
her way from London to the West of England : and
being, as she wrote, " not quite well, not equal to
much company, prayed that no other guest might be
admitted, so that she might have the pleasure of our
conversation all to herself," — (^ Ours I as if it were
possible for any of us to slide in a word edgewise !) —
" and especially enjoy the gratification of talking over
old times with the master of the house, her country-
man." Such was the promise of her letter, and to
the letter it has been kept. All the news and scandal
of a large county, forty years ago, and a hundred
years before, and ever since, all the marriages, deaths,
births, elopements, lawsuits and casualties of her own
times, her father's, grandfather's, great-grandfather's,
nephew's, and grand-nephew's, has she detailed with a
minuteness, an accuracy, a prodigality of learning, a
profuseness of proper names, a pedantry of locality,
THE TALKING LADY. 123
vrliich would excite the envy of a county historian, a
king-at-arms, or even a Scotch novelist. Her knowl-
edge is astonishing ; but the most astonishing part of
all is, how she came by that knowledge. It should
seem, to listen to her, as if, at some time of her life,
ehe had listened herself ; and yet her countryman de-
clares, that in the forty years he has known her, no
such event has occured ; and she knows new news, too !
It must be intuition.
The manner of her speech has little remarkable.
It is rather old-fashioned and provincial, but perfectly
lady-like, low and gentle, and not seeming so fast as
it is ; like the great pedestrians she dears her ground
easily, and never seems to use any exertion ; yet, " I
would mj horse had the speed of her tongue, and so
good a contuiuer." She will talk you sixteen hours a
day for twenty days together, and not deduct one
poor five minutes for halts and baiting time. Talk-
ing, sheer talking, is meat and drink and sleep to her.
She likes nothing else. Eating is a sad interruption
For the tea-table she has some toleration ; but dinner,
with its clatter of plates and jingle of knives and forks,
•dinner is her abhorrence. Nor are the other common
pursuits of life more in her favor. Walking exliausts
the breath that might be better employed. Dancing
is a noisy diversion, and singing is worse ; she cannot
endure any music, except the long, grand, dull con-
certo, which nobody thinks of listening to. Reading
and chess she classes together as silent barbarisms.
124 friendship's gift.
unworthy of a social and civilized people. Cards, too,
have their faults ; there is a rivalry, a mute eloquence
in those four aces, that leads away the attention ; be-
sides, partners will sometimes scold ; so she never
plays at cards ; and upon the strength of this absti-
nence had very nearly passed for serious, till it was
discovered that she could not abide a long sermon.
She always looks out for the shortest preacher, and
never went to above one Bible meeting in her hfe.
" Such speeches ! " quoth she, '' I thought the men
never meant to have done. People have great need
of patience." Plaj^s, of course, she abhors; and ope-
ras, and mobs, and all things that will be heard, es-
pecially children ; though for babies, particularly when
asleep, for dogs and pictures, and such silent intelli-
gences as serve to talk of and talk to, she has a con-
siderable partiality ; and an agreeable and gracious
flattery to the mammas and other owners of these
pretty dumb things is a very usual introduction to her
miscellaneous harangues. The matter of these ora-
tions is inconceivably various. Perhaps the local and
genealogical anecdotes, the sort of supplement to the
history of * * * * * shire, may be her strongest point ;
but she shines almost as much in medicine and house-
wifery. Her medical dissertations savor a little of
that particular branch of the science called quackery.
She has a specific against almost every disease to
which the human frame is liable ; and is terribly
prosy and unmerciful in her symptoms. Her cures
THE TALKING LADY. 125
kill. Ill house-keeping, her notions resemble those of
other verbal managers ; full of economy and retrench-
ment, with a leaning towards reform, though she loves
so well to declaim on the abuses in the cook's depart-
ment, that I am not sure that she would very heartily
thank any radical who should sweep them quite away.
For the rest, her system sounds very finely in theory,
but rather fails in practice. Her recipes would be
capital, only that someway or oth^r they do not eat
well ; her preserves seldom keep ; and her sweet
wines are sure to turn sour. These are certainly her
favorite topics ; but any one will do. Allude to some
anecdote of the neighborhood, and she forthwith treats
you with as many parallel passages as are to be found
in an air with variations. Take up a new publication,
^d she is equally at home there ; for though she
knows little of books, she has, in the course of an up-
and-down life, met with a good many authors, and
teazes and provokes you by telling of them precisely
what you do not care to hear, the maiden names of
their waives, and the Christian names of their daugh-
ters, and into what families their sisters and cousins
married, and in what towns they have lived, what
streets, and what numbers. Boswell himself never
drew up the table of Dr. Johnson's Fleet-street courts
with greater care, than she made out to me the suc-
cessive residences of P. P., Esq., author of a tract on
the French Revolution, and a pamphlet on the Poor
Laws. The very weather is not a safe subject. Her
10*
lUSl FEIEI<DSHIP'S GIFT.
memory is a perpetual register of hard frosts, and long
droughts, and high winds, and terrible storms, with
all the evils that followed in their train, and all the
personal events connected with them, so that if you
happen to remark that clouds are come up, and you
fear it may rain, she replies, " Ay, it is just such a
morning as three and thirty years ago, when my poor
cousin was married — you remember my cousui Bar-
bara — she married so and so, the son of so and so ; ''
and then comes the Avhole pedigree of the bridegroom ;
the amount of the settlements, and the reading and
signmg them over night ; a description of the wedding-
dresses, in the style of Su* Charles Grandison, and
how much the bride's gown cost per yard ; the names,
residences, and a short subsequent history of the
bridemaids and men, the gentleman who gave the
bride away, and the clergyman w^ho performed the
ceremony, with a learned antiquarian digression rela-
tive to the church ; then the setting out in procession ;
the marriage ; the kissing ; the crying ; the break-
fasting ; the drawing the cake through the ring ; and
finally, the bridal excursion, which brings us back
again at an hour's end to the starting-post, the w^eath-
er, and the whole story of the sopping, the drying, the
clothes-spoiling, the cold-catching, and all the small
evils of a summer shower. By this time it rains, and
she sits down to a pathetic see-saw of conjectures on
the chance of Mrs. Smith's having set out for her
daily walk, or the possibility that Dr. Brown may
THE TALKING LADY. " 12^
have ventured to visit his patients in his gig, and the
certainty that Lady Green's new house-maid would
come from London on the outside of the coach.
With all this intolerable prosing, she is actually
reckoned a pleasant woman ! Her acquaintance in
the great manufacturing town where she usually re-
sides is very large, which may partly account for the
misnomer. Her conversation is of a sort to bear di-
viding. Besides, there is, in all large societies, an
instinctive sympathy which directs each individual to
the companion most congenial to his humour. Doubt-
less, her associates deserve the old French compli-
ment, " Us ont tons tin grand talent pour le silence.''
Parcelled out amongst some seventy or eighty, there
tnay even be some savour in her talk. It is the tete-a-
tete that kills, or the small fire-side circle of three or
four, where only one can speak, and all the rest must
seem to listen — seem did I say ? — must listen in
good earnest. Hotspur's expedient in a similar situa-
tion of crying " Hem ! Go to," and marking not a
word, will not do here ; compared to her, Owen Glen-
dower was no conjurer. She has the eye of a hawk,
and detects a wandering glance, an incipient yawn,
the slightest movement of impatience. The very
needle must be quiet. If a pair of scissors do but
wag, she is affronted, draws herself up, breaks off in
the middle of a story, of a sentence, of a word, and
the unlucky culprit must, for civility's sake, summon a
more than Spartan fortitude, and beg the torturer to
128
resume her torments — "That, that is the unkindest
cut of all !" I wonder, if she had happened to have
married, how many husbands she w^ould have talked to
death. It is certain that none of her relations are
longlived after she comes to reside with them. Fath-
er, mother, uncle, sister, brother, two nephews, and
one niece, all these have successively passed away,
though a healthy race, and with no visible disorder —
except — but we must not be uncharitable. The}'
might have died, though she had been born dumb : —
" It is an accident that happens every day." Since
the disease of her last nephew, she attempted to form
an establishment with a widow lady, for the sake, as
they both said, of the comfort of society. But —
strange miscalculation ! she was a talker too ! They
parted in a w^eek.
And we have also parted. I am just returning
from escorting her to the coach, which is to convey
her two hundred miles westward ; and I have still the
murmur of her adieux resounding in my ears, like the
indistinct hum of the air on a frosty night. It was
curious to see how, almost simultaneously, these
mournful adieux shaded into cheerful salutations of
her new comrades, the passengers in the mail. Poor
souls ! Little does the civil young lad who made way
for her, or the fat lady, his mamma, who with pains
and inconvenience made room for her, or the grumpy
gentleman in the opposite corner, who, after some dis.
pute, was at length won to admit her dressing box, —
THE TALKING LADY. 129
little do tliey suspect what is to befal them. Two
hundred miles ! and she never sleeps in a carriage !
Well, patience be with them, and comfort and peace I
A pleasant journey to them I And to her all happi-
ness ! She is a most kind and excellent person, one
for whom I would do anything in my poor power — ah,
even were it to listen to her another four davs.
SHAKSPEARE.
BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.
Deeply reverent as are now the countless worshippers of Shakspeare, there
breathed not one, perhaps who worshipped the bard with a more ardent and purer
feeling, than Laman Blanchard ; in proof of which let these lines testify, which
were written — On the first page of a volume intended for the reception of essays
and drawings illustrative of Shakspeare . —
Like one who stands
On the bright verge of some enchanted shore,
Where notes from airy harps, and hidden hands,
Are, from the green grass and golden sands,
Far echoed, o'er and o'er.
As if the tranced listener to invite
Into that world of light
Thus stood I here.
Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves,
Till the blank pages brighten'd, and mine ear
Found music in their rustling, sweet and clear,
And wreathes that fancy weaves,
Entwined the volume — fiU'd with grateful lays,
And songs of rapturous praise.
SHAKSPEARE. 131
No sound I heard,
But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakspeare's name,
One lingering note of love, link'd word to word,
Till every leaf was as a fairy bird,
Whose song is still the same ;
Or each was as a flower, with folded cells
For Plucks and Ariels !
And visions grew —
Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age
Hath failed to rob of one diviner hue,
Making them more familiar, yet more new —
These flashed into the page ;
A group of crowned thmgs — the radiant themes
Of Shakspeare's Avon dreams.
Of crowned things —
(Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers),
Some in the human likeness, some with wings —
Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs —
Some shedding piteous showers
Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell
Like sunshine on a dell.
Here Art had caught
The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form —
The frantic Thane, fiend-cheated, lived, methought;
Here Timon howl'd; anon, sublimely wrought.
Stood Lear amid the storm ;
There Romeo droop'd, or soared, while Jacques, here.
Still watched the weeping deer.
132 friendship's gift.
And then a throng
Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest,
Like angel-apparitions, pass'd along ;
The rich lipp'd Rosaline, all light and song,
And Imogen's white breast ;
Low-voiced Cordelia, with her stifled sighs,
And Juliet's shrouded eyes.
The page, turned o'er,
Show'd Kate — or Viola — ' my Lady Tongue,'
The lost Venetian, with her living Moor ;
The Maiden-Wonder, on the haunted shore,
Happy, and fair, and young ;
Till on a poor, love-martyr- d mind I look —
Ophelia at the brook.
With sweet Anne Page
The bright throng ended ; for, untouched by time.
Came FalstafF, laughter-laurell'd, young in age.
With many a ripe and sack-devoted sage !
And deathless clowns sublime.
Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop.
Like Oberon and his troop.
Here sate, entranced,
Malvolio, leg trapp'd ; — he who served the Jew
Still with the fiend seem'd running; — then advanced
Messina's pretty piece of flesh, and danced
With Bottom and his crew ;
Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit,
And Osrick made his hit.
SHAKSPEARE. 133
At these, ere long,
Awoke my laughter, aud the spell was past ;
Of the gay multitude, a marvellous throng.
No trace is here — no tints, no word, no song,
On these bare leaves are cast —
The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit —
The flame is still unlit.
O ! who now bent
In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind
Worthy of him, whose genius, strangely blent.
Could kindle " wonder and astonishment"
In Milton's starry mind !
Who stood alone, but not as one apart.
And saw man's inmost heart.
11
BETTER DAYS.
ANONYMOUS.
Better days are like Hebrew verbs, they have no
present tense ; they are of the past or future only.
" All that's bright must fade," says Tom Moore.
Very likely ; and so must all that's not bright. To
hear some people talk, you would imagine that there
was no month in the year except November, and that
the leaves had nothing else to do than to fall off the
trees. And to refer again to Tom Moore's song,
about the " Stars that shine and fall," one might sup-
pose that by this time all the stars in heaven had been
blown out like so many farthing candles in a show-
booth at Bartle-my fair ; and as for flowers and leaves,
if they go away, it is only to make way for new ones.
There are as many stars in heaven as ever there were
in the memory of man, and as many flowers on earth,
too ; and perhaps more in England, for we are always
making fresh importations. It is all very well now
and then to have a bit of a grunt, or a growl, or a
grumble, or a lamentation; but one mend-fault is
BETTER DAYS. 135
worth ten find-faults, all the world over. It is all
right enough when the Ijarometer of the purse is low
— when the stomach is out of order — to say that
things are not as they used to be ; and I would not
for all the world deprive an honest man of the pleas-
ure of grumbling ; it is an Englishman's birthwright.
But I don't like to see a matter of feeling made a
matter of history and philosophic verity ; let us have
our growl and have done with it. But some croakers
remmd one of the boy who said his grandmother went
up stairs nineteen times a day and never came down
again. Or, to seek for another resemblance, they may
be likened to the Irish grave digger, who was seen
one night looking about the churchyard with a lantern
in his hand. " What have you lost, Pat ? " " Oh, I
have lost my lantern ! " " You have your lantern in
your hand." " Oh, but this is a lantern I've foimd,
it is not a lantern I have lost." Thus it is with men
in general : they think more of the lantern they have
lost, than of the lantern they have found. It is true
indeed, that things are not what they were with any
of us.
Great changes have taken place, and more are daily
taking place ; but there are greater changes in our
feelings and apprehensions than there are in the ex-
ternal world or in the general frame of society. What
a great change must have taken place between the
time of the seige of Troy and the days of Homer :
for the poet speaks of Ajax pelting Greeks with stones
136 friendship's gift.
of such a bigness, that ten or a dozen men of the
degenerate days m which Homer Hved could not hft
such a one. Ever since his time, things have been
growing worse and worse, so that now I dare say, the
human race, compared to w^hat it was during the seige
of Troy, is not much more than a noble army of
gnats. Nothing is as it was ; the people grow worse
and worse, generation after generation, and the inhab-
itants of the earth become more and more attenuated,
till at length there will be nothing left of them — they
will become gradually imdsible. The sun does not
shine so brightly as it used to, and the seasons —
every body says they are changed. There is a great
deal of truth in this — there is no denying it. But
the worst of this matter is, that there is too much
truth in it. The evidence of the mutation of the
seasons from youth to manhood is so superabundant,
that by proving too much, it proves nothing.
Between the years 1740 and 1750, Horace Walpole
wrote some letters, which have since been printed
and published. I have not a copy now at hand to
refer to ; but I distinctly remember reading in them a
lamentation on the change of the seasons. The Avinter
complains that on IMidsummer day he is writing by
the fire-side ; and he pettishly says, " We have now
no summer in this country but what we get from New-
castle ; " and presently after he adds, that it was not
so when he was young. Now I think when Horace
Walpole was young, Dean Swift was old ; and yet
BETTER DAYS. 137
Dean makes the same complaint. Still more curious-
ly, the poet Cowper, writing about forty years after
Horace Walpole, makes the same complaint, lamenting
that neither winters nor summers were such as they
used to be. Those who are now living, who were
children when Cowper complained that the summers
were not so hot, nor the winters so cold as they
used to be, do now make the same complaint as he
did then.
In the year 1818, the summer was remarkably fine
and dry, and all the people began to cry out on the
beauty of what they called an old fashioned summer.
To be sure it was old fashioned summer ; so are all
summers old fashioned summers. There is a passage
in Tacitus, which describes the climate of this country
just as it might be described now. I could quote
latin ; but as I have no particular end to answer in
looking learned, I make the extracts from Dr. Allken's
translation of the life of Agricola. " The sky in this
country is deformed by clouds and frequent rains, but
the cold is never extremely rigorous. The soil,
though improper for the olive and vine, and other pro-
ductions of warmer climates, is fertile and suitable
for corn. Growth is quick, but maturation slow, both
from the same cause, the great humidity of the ground
and atmosphere." There, now, can any thing be
plainer than that ? And yet we talk about the
changes of the seasons as if the sun was worn out,
and all things were going wrong. There always have
11*
138 friendship's gift.
been occasionally very hot summers, and occasionally
very cold winters. Nineteen years ago, there was a
fair on the Thames. That winter was not the rule, it
was the exception. Whatever changes there is, is in
ourselves. Reader, you are acquainted with persons
of thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, and perhaps
eighty years of age. Ask them all if the seasons
have not changed since they were young, though the
respective periods of their youth were at several
intervals, you will find them all in the same story.
It is precisely the same with regard to manners.
The deterioration of manners we do not perceive so
soon as we do the changes of the seasons. We take
our impressions of the seasons at about the age of
ten, and from that to fifteen ; but our impressions of
manners we take at our first entrance into the world.
All changes that liave taken place since that time we
reo-ard as innovations — as a kind of deflexion from
the standard of propriety. AVhatever was the fashion
when we first came to years of discretion, was ra-
tional ; whatever had then ceased to be the fashion,
was anticipated, formal and ridiculous ; and what has
come into the fashion since then, is all a change for
the worse — a departure from propriety and reason,
altogether new fangled. The w^ord " new fangled " is
a charming word ; it expresses such a pleasant pun-
gency of satire, and implies a delighted assumption
of wisdom on the part of him who uses it. The mind
by time acquires a kind of rigidity ; it does not like
BETTER DAYS. 139
to be put out of shape or out of place ; — change
disturbs it and makes it angry. Then it looks back
to better days, Avhen none of the villainous innovations
were known, which are now so prevalent in every
thing. I am glad that I am neither gas nor steam,
for it would break my heart to be abused as they
have been.
But of all the regrets of the better days that are
gone by, none are more pathetic than the lamentations
for the loss of all our great men. What marvellously
great men did live in the days that are past ! This,
of course, says the triumphant croaker, must be ad-
mitted. There is no denying that Shakspeare, Milton,
Pope, Scott, Byron, Pitt, Fox, Canning, Sheridan, are
all gone, and have not left their likenesses behind. It
is no easy matter to conceive any human being more
proud and happy than a triumphant croaker. If you
stop a man in the midst of his lamentation and prove
to him, as clear as light, that he has no good ground
for complaint, you seem to inflict an injury upon him ;
but if he can repel your arguments, and establish his
own growling position beyond all question, he is far
happier than if he had never had any cause of com-
plaint. Is there, says he, a man now living who can
write as Shakspeare wrote ? Very likely there is
not ; but if there were, he would be quite a superflui-
ty ; we have as much Shakspeare as we want — and
so of all the rest.
The cause of his style of reproaching the present
140 friendship's gift.
by referring to the past, is to be found in the loud
lamentations, which mark the departure of great men
from the sublunary scene. When a distinguished
man dies, the pubhc feels a loss. Funeral, elegy,
monument, epitaph, biography, all make the loss more
talked about. But when a great genius is born into
the world, there is no talk about it. We notice the
great trees that are cut down, but we regard not the
saplings that are springing up in their place. Thus
we think that we live in sad, degenerate days, and
thus we get into the habit of looking upon great men
as good for nothing till they are dead. In the book
of the Proverbs of Solomon, it is said, that a living
dog is better than a dead lion. Pephaps it may be ;
but we do not in general seem to hold this doctrine ;
indeed, we regard the hving as dogs, and the dead as
lions.
I think another cause of our looking back on the
past as on better days, may be found in the fact that
we are all growing older. The world is not half so
pretty and wonderful to us now as it was when we
were young. To a boy, a schoolmaster is often an
awful and a great personage ; he is regarded with
admiration, as a miracle of majesty, and a paragon
of knowledge. Old Busby knew that, when he kept
his hat on in the presence of royalty in his own school
room. But what a different idea of schoolmasters we
acquire when we are grown up to man's estate ! We
measure all things by the standard of our own feelings ;
BETTER DAYS. 141
we have no other rule to go by ; and if we feel our-
selves growing old and wearing out, we think that the
world is growing old and wearing out ; and if our
eyes grow dim, we think that the sun shines more
feebly than he was wont to do ; and if our feelings
grow obtuse, we fancy there is nothing in the world
worth caring for ; and if we go to the scenes of our
boyish hoHdays, and if our boyish feelings do not
return to us — we fancy that the place is sadly alter-
ed. I remember hearing one of the greatest puppies
that ever lived complain of the conceit and affectation
of young men of the present generation, and say,
" It was not so when I was young."
LEAVING HOME.
ETONIAN.
Sweet spot ! 1 leave thee with an aching heart,
As down the stream my boat glides smoothly on ;
With thee, as if I were a swain, I part,
And thou the maiden that I doated on.
I ne'er shall view yon woody glen again ;
That lowly church, calm promiser of rest;
Yon white cots, free from riches and from pain,
Fantastic gems upon the mountain's breast.
Fast, fast, thou'rt fading from my longing sight;
The next bold turn, and thou art gone for aye, —
A dream's bright remnant on a summer night —
The faint remembrance of a love gone by.
Farewell! and if Fate's distant unknown page
Doom me to wreck on Passion's angry sea,
I'll leave Philosophy to reasoning age.
And charm the tempest with a thought on thee.
ATTENDING AUCTIONS.
BY M. M. NOAH.
This is the season of the year, preparatory to the first
of May, when families sell their household furniture,
either to purchase a new stock, or remove to the coun-
try, and these furniture auctions are attended by
crowds of ladies. It is astonishing to witness the
avidity with which the papers are examined for the
purpose of discovering auction notices, and the bustle
of early dress and preparation to visit the house from
which the red flag is displayed. A continual current
sets towards the mansion, particularly if the furniture
is elegant and the owner fashionable ; and in this
squeze we shall find persons of all characters and pur-
suits — some to replenish their stock — others to sell
again — and most for their curiosity. A celebrated
bachelor, who lately sold out, was honored with an
immense party of young ladies, who came to pry into
the comforts and mysteries of " single blessedness,"
in such crowds, that the staircases, antechambers, and
all the rooms were jammed as close as a bag of cotton.
144 friendship's gift.
There were shrieking and fainting, and every thing
sold for twenty per cent, above its value, from a spirit
of competition, and a want of practical knowledge;
and this curiosity, we are bound to say, is carried to
such an extreme, that even interdicted places, where
rich furniture is to be sold, is incontinently visited by
the ladies. Now, we like enterprise and competition,
when judiciously directed ; but it is quite amusing to
witness some of the scenes, together with the ingenu-
ity of the auctioneer, who, if clever, makes the most
of these jarring conflicts. " That beautiful chimney
glass, eighty inches by forty — a splendid size — very
few to be had — thank ye for a bid, ladies and gentle-
men." " Fifty dollars." " Oh, Mrs. Sightly, fifty
dollars ? one hundred and fifty you mean ? why look
at it ; a little of the silver has run, but that's nothing
— well, fifty to begin with — sixty — seventy — eigh-
ty — ninety — don't bid against yourself, Mrs. Jewel
— no one bids more ? " " Thank ye ma'am — going
for one hundred." " She shan't have it," said Miss
Plumtree, in a loud whisper to her mother — " let's
go to ten more." " One hundred and ten — only half
its value." " Mr. iVuctioneer, can that hole in the
silver be mended ?" "Oh yes, ma'am, for a trifle —
going at one hundred and ten — going, gone ; 'tis
yours, ma'm." The glass might have been worth
eighty dollai^s. " Now that suit of magnificent cur-
tains, crimson velvet with gold lace — cost one thou-
sand dollars at Paris — were made for the duchess of
ATTENDING AUCTIONS. 146
Poomstock, by the celebrated upholsterer, Monsieur
Fringpau — I '11 thank you for a bid, ladies and gentle-
men — how much shall I say ?" " Are you sure, Mr.
Auctioneer, that they once belonged to her grace, the
duchess?" " Oh, quite sure ma'am — have the cer-
tificate of Mr. Swartwout, the collector." " Well,
then, say seven hundred dollars " " Oh, my dear
ma'am, such a bid for such a magnificent affair, got
up by one of the royal upholsterers — well, seven hun-
dred dollars — only seven hundred dollars bid — pray
look at them, Mrs. Courtly, you won't let them go for
that price ?" " No, certainly not, one hundred dol-
lars more." " Thank ye ma'am, I know your taste.
Eight hundred dollars — eight hundred and fifty — not
yet half the price — eight hundred and fifty-five ; I '11
take a five bid now — eight hundred and sixty, eight
hundred and sixty-five ; nobody bids more ; going, going
— last call. Such a splendid article from the palace
of Montmorency, going for eighthundred and sixty-five
dollars, can't help it — great sacrifice — going —
gone." Larry Ackerman, or the Fyfes, or any of the
New York upholsterers, would have knocked up a con-
cern equally splendid for sLx hundred dollars. '' Now
for the paintings. A beautiful original of Raphael —
The child eating citron — magnificent." " Are you
certain it is a Raphael? " says a gentleman m specs.
" Oh, positively, sir ; we have the certificate from
Brusells, from Mynheer Vonder Donk Sehilmpennick."
" That's all right sir, I '11 bid you one hundred dollars
12
146 friendship's gift.
for it." " Only one hundred dollars bid for Raphael,
inimitable coloring, divinely conceived, and only one
hundred dollars — one hundred and twenty, thirty,
forty, fifty — that's brisk ; go on, sir, we have
only one third yet — sixty, seventy, two hundred ;
going at two hundred dollars — going, gone ; Mr.
Capias. Thank you, Mr. Capias ; men of taste know
what a good thing is." It was sold at the Arcade
baths last week for forty two dollars ; but no matter.
Thus they go on, pushing, squeezing, jostling each
other — rumpling the ladies' ruffs, over-bidding, get-
ting excited by competition, buying things not wanted,
and paying far above their value ; and at three, they
all go home to dinner, puffing, jaded and fatigued, and
the next morning they are up bright and early for the
new campaign*
THE EYE.
ANONYMOUS.
What is the little lurking spell
That hovers round the eye ?
Without a voice, a word can tell
The feelings as they fly.
When tearless — it can speak of woe ;
When weeping — still the same ;
Or in a moment catch the glow
Of thoughts without a name.
Can beam with pity on the poor —
With anger on the proud
Can tell that it will much endure —
Or flash upon the crowd!
Now brightly raised, or now depressed
With every shade of feeling —
It is the mirror of the breast —
The thought, the soul revealing !
O ! tones are false — and words are weak
The tutored slaves at call —
The eye — the eye alone can speak —
Unfettered — tell us all !
PAUL ANDERSON'S LUCK.
ANONYMOUS.
I WAS shocked, a few days since, on opening a south-
ern newspaper to notice, among the sudden casualties,
the death of my old friend, Paul Anderson. Poor
Paul ! His life was anything but a happy one ; and
it is well, perhaps, that he is removed from the trials
and perplexities which always clustered about his path-
way. He terminated his existence by leaping from a
steamboat bound up the Mississippi, and obstinately
refused to avail himself of the assistance which might
have saved his life.
There are people let into the world, now and then,
who, struggle as they may, can never, as it is called,
get ahead. Everything unlucky attends their down-
sittings and their up-risings. They invest, but the
dividends are not forthcoming. They buy and sell,
but to no purpose. They dig and sow, but the har-
vest is never realized. Paul Anderson belonged to
this class of unfortunates. His father was quite a
different personage. He knew what it was to lie
PAUL Anderson's luck. " 149
down at night with the keys under his pillow, which
every morning unlocked wealth sufficient to satisfy
the most sordid avarice. But he died in a fit of anger
with his only son, and left the bulk of his great for-
tune to a far distant seminary, whose benevolent
object for educating indigent students was defeated, a
few years after, by the defalcation of a pious profes-
sor, who speculated in western lands. Poor Paul !
But I am not writing history, but merely relating an
anecdote illustrative of my remark, that some men
are born to ill luck.
One day last summer, as we were walking together
in the upper mall of our beautiful Common, Paul
suddenly burst into a fit of laughter ; for, in spite of
his troubles, he had a smile and a joke always ready.
On my inquiring the cause of his sudden ebullition of
jollity, he asked if I had ever heard of his experience
in shop-keeping.
" No," said I, " my friend, but should like, above
all things, to hear you relate them."
" They are brief as woman's love," he replied sor-
rowfully ; " and, if you have a mind to hear them,
you shall ; but do n't laugh."
I promised to keep a serious face, and he began as
follows :
" Two years ago I was casting about for some kind
of business, whereby I might make both ends meet
and five respectably, when all at once, it occurred to
me that my friends. Welt and Company, wholesale
12*
150
dealers in the boot and shoe business, would, perhaps,
lend a helping hand to a poor fellow, and put me in
the way of good luck. They consented, after many
preliminaries, to give me on commission a small as-
sortment of goods in their line, and recommended me
to take a store in some fashionable part of the city.
After a deal of perplexity, I succeeded in renting a
showy establishment with immense windows, the
panes of which, the owner assured me, cost forty
dollars each to import. I worked like a slave till
my shop was ready. A splendid sign, for which I
ran in debt, glittered above the door. ' Paul Ander-
son, Boot and Shoe Store,' looked down beseechingly
into everybody's face. It spoke a language which
none could mistake. Well, on the morning of the
fourth of July, at five o'clock precisely, the large
windows, filled with men's thick and children's thin
trotter-covers, were displayed for the first time to the
public. A newsboy, going to get his papers, was the
first to spy out the new establishment, and bawled out,
as he went along, ' Aul Panderson, Shoot and Boo
Store. Here's a go ! ' Oh, how I wanted to strangle
him !
" I had engaged the services of a small, red-haired
urchin, from the country, keen as a razor, and, alto-
gether, a very desirable youth behind the counter. I
drilled him a whole hour, myself playing the purchas-
er, over a pair of coAvhide boots. I tried to beat him
down, and haggled like a Jew for the abatement of a
PAUL Anderson's luck. 151
ninepence ; but lie was firm and unalterably fixed to
the first price. I thought he would do, and told him
to serve me faithfully, and I would make a man of
him. His eye glistened with gratitude, and I gave
him a shilling to expend in articles most congenial to
his taste. I had ever a fondness for military display,
and, as it was quite early, I determined to leave the
shop for a few minutes and take a look at the Common.
After again charging Thomas to be careful and
look out for my interest, I left in haste, saw all
in ten minutes, and got back again quite out of
breath. I forgot to mention that before going away
I placed in the counter-drawer small bills to the
amount of ten dollars, all I had in my pocket or any
where else. This money I presumed would be wanted
for change. Mark the sequel. On my arrival at
the store, Thomas rushed to meet me on the side-
walk, with a cry of delight that he had made a sale
during my absence. ' Yes,' said he, ' I've sold a pair
of shoes for two dollars, and here is a 'leven dollar
bill he gave me. I handed him back nine dollars —
nine and two are 'leven — and that makes it jist right.'
An eleven dollar bill ! Death and destruction ! I
seized the note. It was a counterfeit two, with two
figure ones in the corner, which my sharp salesman
had mistaken for an eleven. The wretch ! He had
not only sacrificed a pair of shoes, but nine good
dollars were likewise thrown away. I was about to
demolish the urchin as I had done the hateful bill,
152 friendship's gift.
"wlien a decent looking individual entered, and asked
for boots well made and warranted to wear well. I
forgot my misfortune while fitting him to a first rate
pair. They sat beautifully. I had never seen a bet-
ter fit. Just as he was about to pay me over a V,
he put his hand to his head and roared out, ' Where
is my little dog ? ' I told him I had not noticed the
ingress of such a quadruped, but made search imme-
diately for the animal under the counter, behind the
boxes, everywhere, but he was not to be found. The
man looked discomfitted, and said he would look outside
a moment. Fool-hke, I let him go with my five-dollar
boots on. Alas ! nor man, nor boots, nor little dog
returned again ! The fellow decamped, and left me
nothing but a pair of old slippers, decayed and very
unpleasant looking withal. I flew rovmd like a mad-
man, and rushed out to shut up the shop. Foaming
with rage, I seized a shutter, my foot slipped, and
away it went, right through a forty-dollar pain of im-
ported glass. I closed up business the next day, and
gave the lad a note to his mother to this efiect, that
her son was a smart boy, very ; but would not answer
for my business."
.^^ea^.
PRAYERS AT SEA.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.
Prayer may be sweet, in cottage homes
Where sire and child devoutly kneel,
While through the open casement nigh
The vernal blossoms fragrant steal.
Prayer may be sweet, in stately halls.
Where heart with kindred heart is blent,
And upward to the Eternal Throne
The hymn of praise melodious sent.
But he, who fain would know how ^t'arm
The soul's appeal to God may be,
From friends and native lands should turn,
A wanderer on the faithless sea : —
Should hear its deep, imploring tone
Rise heavenward o'er the foaming surge,
When billows toss the fragile bark.
And fearful blasts the conflict urge.
Naught, naught around, but waves and skies,
No refuge where the foot may flea.
How will he cast, O, Rock Divine !
The anchor of his hope in Thee.
TOWN AND COUNTRY.
THEODORE S. FAY.
Can there be two things more unlike than the city
and country ? In the first, you have only air, light, and
a piece of blue sky stretching above the compact rows
of brick walls, to remind you of the original appear-
ance of our planet. The very people seem animals
of a different species as they push by, or peradventure
almost run over you ui the hurry of business. I have
sometimes thought that real civility (I mean among
strangers) decreased exactly in proportion to your
approach to the metropolis. Away off in some obscure
and quiet country village, you receive a polite saluta-
tion from every passenger ; and troops of little girls
and boys returning from school, address you with
bows and courtesies of profound respect ; but as you
travel nearer the mighty Babel, you perceive a dimin-
ution of that pleasing tribute, till at length you reach
the thronged streets, and, like a drop in the sea, are
melted into the general mass, where much care is
requisite to preserve your neck and your pocket book,
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 155
two articles, which to a man of business, as society is
constructed, are of about eriual importance. Nature
is sadly metamorphosed in town. Only think that the
tender grass and flower bushes have been torn away
to make room for these broad, well worn flag stones.
Perhaps on this very spot once stood a grove of
venerable trees, and a torrent poured its silvery and
flashing waters on toward the river ; and, in olden
times, perchance the spotted panther hath paused to
drink ; or the eagle, or the wild and beauteous deer
hath here in a depth of loneliness, suited to its timid
spirit, regarded his branching antlers in the muTor
stream ; and the dangerous snake hath glided along
unmolested, or basked him in the noontide sun. And
what have we now ? A row of the three story brick
houses, a grocery store, a lottery office, a tavern ;
signs too, St. Croix rum and sugar ; fashionable hat
store ; commissioner to take the acknowledgment of
deeds ; John Thompson, shoemaker ; Obadiah Todd,
counsellor at law ; and crowds of Presbyterians and
Episcopahans, Adamsmen and Jacksonmen, pouring
along like the tide of the pure and playful brook,
above whose once music-breatliing channel their shuf-
fling foot steps fall. If we could know their history !
Yonder is a noble looking gentleman. With what
stateliness he moves along ! I should esteem him a
poet — an immortal poet. His eye is full of the fii-e
of genius, and he treads as if he would disdain to save
his life by means of a dishonorable action. Alas, for
156 friendship's gift.
Lavater ! and alas, for human nature. He is a poor
devil of a fellow who hves by gambling. He has no
more idea of poetry than his dog, and would betray
his friend for five dollars. But take care, or you will
run over that little, insignificant, shabby man at your
right. Your eye has passed him carelessly. Look
again. He is one of the most gifted of men. The
philosopher — the orator — the writer. He has in
him the wonderful power to wake m you the highest
feelings. He sheds a flood of light upon every sub-
ject which he touches — he could thrill you with his
fervid and glowing eloquence, and force every chord
of your soul to vibrate ; and when he would speak,
multitudes of the learned and gi-eat and beautiful
flock to Hsten. Yonder is a crowd pressing together
to enjoy the horror and anguish of that wretched wo-
man. They say that she has committed a crime.
She has been ground down by poverty — perhaps by
hunger, and her sacreligious hand has snatched some-
thing which the law forbade. The people swear, and
curse, and fight, to get near enough to witness her
desperate struggles ; but two well fed, lusty constables
have dragged her feeble form towards a cart in tri-
umph. As the loud laughter announces her defeat,
an ashy paleness overspreads her face — her head
falls back — miserable creature — she is dead !*
I thought of these tilings as I wandered with a
'*A real incident.
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 157
party of agreeable friends along a retired country
road, which wound its way among gentle undulations,
occasionally shaded by rich cool forests. Here was a
contrast to the hub-bub of the town. AYe stopped
upon the old boards of a rough bridge (just such a
romantic affair as one sees in the theatre) to admire
the scenery — look into the brook — watch the fishes
— and the turn of the shining water as it fell over a
little bed of stones. At this crisis, a great green
bull frog, whether from vanity — for to say the truth,
he was a fine, plump, gentlemanly looking fellow — or
whether the unfriendly fates, sporting with frogs as well
as men, had led him unconscious to the identical spot
of all the winding stream towards which our several
prying eyes were directed, it is not for me to assert ;
but it is very certain that such an individual did issue
forth from some nameless haunt or other, better known
to himself than me, and, with a gentle and brief ex-
clamation, expressive of content, as if the world went
well with him, but rather difficult to translate into
English, did place himself in a station, which, as the
result will show, was a little too conspicuous. There
he sat, with his great round eyes started both sides
out of his head, and his countenance — which to his
fellow frogs might have been a very fine one — ex-
pressive of an idea that he had got into a right
comfortable situation. Whether he was young and
enthusiastic, and, like ourselves, had come out to en-
joy the beauties of nature, or whether he was an old
13
158 friendship's gift.
and experienced member of tlie community, or, as
the newspapers express it, " an aged and respectable
citizen," silently meditating upon the affairs of his
watery world, we had no method of ascertaining.
Many little stones, however, were thrown down at
him, with various degrees of skill and success, one of
which, I regret to state, hit him on the head, whereat
he discovered evident signs of dissatisfaction, and
abandoning our society with some abruptness, plung-
ed down to the bottom among the sand and sedges,
ruminating, probably, in no very pleasant mood, upon
this additional instance of the instability of human
affairs.
Blackberries grew in abundance by the road side,
which we were not particularly averse to appropriate
to the purpose for which I presume they were placed
there ; and, merry as the birds which sometimes flit-
ted across our path, we wandered as fancy led over
these summer scenes — by the bay, through the woods,
over fences, and down valleys ; breakmg the silence
of the green forest, and startling its timid and various
inhabitants with the unaccustomed sounds of frequent
laughter.
Time has a fine fashion of slipping along on these
occasions : we are surrounded by so many innumera-
ble objects which attract the eye and captivate the
imagination. The bargahi-driving, calculating, slavish
varlet, whose life is frittered away in the narrow haunts
of a great city in petty schemes to extort money from
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 159
all persons and on all occasions, finds among these
wnding roads, these lofty hills, built up by the an-
cient hand of nature, and sweetly decorated with her
playful fancies, pleasing feelings are stirring which
have been long idle in the depths of his character.
The world, in his imagination, shows like some stu-
pendous animal pursuing at a distance its uncouth
gambols, and amid these overshadowing brancehs and
ravines, he seems to find a shelter from its vague and
unhappy dangers.
STANZAS TO A LADY.
BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ.
Across the waves — away and far^
My spirit turns to thee ;
I love thee as men love a star,
The brightest where a thousand are,
Sadly and silently ;
With love unstained by hopes or fears,
Too deep for words, too pure for tears I
My heart is tutored not to weep ;
Calm, like the calm of even,
Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep,
Hallows the hours I love to keep
For only thee and heaven ;
Too far and fair to aid the birth
Of thoughts that have a taint of earth I
And yet the days for ever gone.
When thou wert as a bird,
Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone,
And i^inging in so soft a tone
As I never since have heard.
Will make me grieve that birds, and things
So beautiful, have ever wings !
TO A LADY. 161
And there are hours in the lonely night,
When I seem to hear thy calls,
Faint as the echoes of far delight,
And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight
Of distant waterfalls ; —
And then my vow was hard to keep,
For it were a joy, indeed, to weep !
For I feel, as men feel when moonlight falls
Amid old cathedral aisles ;
Or the wind plays, sadly, along the walls
Of lonely and forsaken halls,
That we knew in their day of smiles ;
Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers,
A tune he had learned in his mother's bowers.
But I may not, and I dare not weep.
Lest the vision pass away,
And the vigils that I love to keep
Be broken up, by the fevered sleep
That leaves me — with the day —
Like one who has travelled far to the spot
Where his home should be — and finds it not !
Yet then, like the incense of many flowers.
Rise pleasant thoughts to me ;
For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers,
That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours,
To meet me over the sea ;
And I feel in my soul, the fadeless truth
Of her whom 1 loved in early youth.
Like hidden streams,— whose quiet tone
Is unheard in the garish day.
That utter a music all their own,
13*
I
i
162 friendship's gift. I
When the niglit-dew falls, and the lady moon
Looks out to hear them play, —
I knew not half thy gentle worth,
Till grief drew all its music forth. I
I
We shall not meet on earth again ! —
And I would have it so;
For, they tell me that the cloud of pain !
Has flung its shadows o'er thy })rain, j
And touched thy looks with woe ; I
And I have heard that stortn and shower
Have dimmed thy lovliness, my flower !
I would not look upon thy tears, —
For I have thee in my heart,
Just as thou wert, in those lilessed years
When we were, hoth, too young for fears
That we should ever part;
And I would not aught should mar the spell,
The picture nursed so long and well !
I love to think on thee, as one
With whom the strife is o'er;
And feel that I am journeying on,
Wasted, and weary, and alone.
To join thee on that shore
Where tliou — I know — wilt look for me,
And I, for ever, be with thee !
THE CHINA JUG.
MISS MITFORD.
OxE of the prettiest rustic dwellings in our pretty
neighborhood, is the picturesque farm-house which
stands on the edge of Wokefield Common, so complete-
ly in a bottom, that the passengers who traverse the
high road see indeed the smoke from the chimneys
floating like a vapor over the woody hill which forms
the back ground, but cannot even catch a glimpse of
the roof, so high does the turfy common rise above it ;
whilst so steeply does the ground decline to the door,
that it seems as if no animal less accustomed to tread
the hill-side than a goat or a chamois could venture to
descend the narrow foot-path which winds round the
declivity, and forms the nearest way to the village.
The cart-track, thridding the mazes of the hills, leads
to the house by a far longer but very beautiful road ;
the smooth fine turf of the Common varied by large
tufts of furze and broom rising in an abrupt bank on
one side, on the other a narrow, well timbered valley,
bordered by hanging woods, and terminated by a large
164 friendship's gift.
sheet of water, close beside wliich stands the farm, a
low, irregular cottage snugly thatched, and its different
out-buildings, all on the smallest scale, but giving the
air of comfort and habitation to the spot that nothing
can so thoroughly convey as an Enghsh barn-yard
with its complement of cows, pigs, horses, chickens,
and children.
One part of the way thither is singularly beautiful.
It is where a bright and sparkling spring has formed
itself into a clear pond in a deep broken hollow by
the road-side : the bank all around covered with rich
grass, and descending in unequal terraces, to the pool :
whilst on every side around it, and at different heights
stand ten or twelve noble elms, casting their green
shadows mixed with the light clouds and the blue
summer sky on the calm and glassy water, and giving,
(especially, when the evening sun lights up the little
grove, causing the rugged trunks to shine hke gold,
and the pendent leaves to glitter like the burnished
wings of the rose beetle,) a sort of pillard and colum-
nar dignity to the scene.
Seldom, too, would that fountain, famous for the
purity and sweetness of its waters, be without some
figure suited to the landscape ; child, woman, or country
girl, leaning from the plank extended over the spring,
to fill her pitcher, or returning with it, supported by one
arm on her head, recalling all classical and pastoral
images, the beautiful sculptures of Greece, the poetry
of Homer and of Sophocles, and even more than these,
THE CHINA JUG. 165
the habits of oriental life, and the Rachels and Re-
beccas of Scripture.
Seldom would that spring be without some such
fio-ure ascending the turfj steps into the lane, of whom
one might inquire respecting the sequstered farm-
house, whose rose-covered porch was seen so prettily
from a turn in the road ; and often it would be one of
the farmer's children who would answer you ; for in
spite of the vicinity of the great pond, all the water
for domestic use was regularly brought from the Elmui
Spring.
Wokefield-Pond farm was a territory of some thirty
acres ; one of the " little bargains," as they are called,
which once abounded, but are now seldom fomid, in
Berkshire ; and at the time to which our story refers,
that is to say, about twenty years ago, its inhabitants
were amongst the poorest and most industrious people
in the country.
George Hearing was the only son of a rich yeoman
in the parish, who held this " little bargain " in addi-
tion to the manor farm. George was an honest,
thoughtless, kind-hearted, good-humored lad, quite un-
like his father, who, shrewd, hard, and money-getting,
often regretted his son's deficiency in the qualities by
which he had risen in the world, and reserved all his
favor and affection for one who possessed them in full
perfection, — his only daughter, Martha. Martha was
a dozen years older than her brother, with a large
bony figure, a visage far from prepossessing, a harsh
166 friendship's gift.
voice, and a constitutional scold, which, scrupulous
in her cleanliness, and vigilant in her economy,
was in full activity all day long. She seemed to go
about the house for no other purpose than that of
finding fault, maundering now at one, and now at
another, — her brother, the carters, the odd boy, the
maid, — every one, in short, except her father, who,
connecting the ideas of scolding and good housewifery,
thought that he gained, or at least saved money by
the constant exercise of this accomphshment, and
listened to her accordingly with great delight and ad-
miration ; " her mother," thought he to himself, " was
a clever managing woman, and sorry enough was I to
lose her ; but gracious me, she was nothing to Martha !
where she spoke one word, Martha speaks ten."
The rest of the family heard this eternal din with
far less complacency. They agreed, indeed, that she
could not help scolding, that it was her way, and that
they were all fools to take notice of it ; but yet they
would flee, one and all, before the outpouring of her
wrath, like birds before a thunder shower.
The person on whom the storm fell oftenest and
loudest was of course her own immediate subject,
the maid ; and of the many damsels who had
undergone the discipline of jNIartha's tongue, none was
ever more the object of her objugation, or deserved
it less, than Dinah Moore. But Dinah had many sins
in her stern mistress's eye, which would hardly have
been accounted such elsewhere. In the first place she
THE CHINA JUG. 167
was young and pretty, and to youth and beauty Martha
had strong objections ; then she was somewhat addicted
to rustic finery, especially in the article of pink top-
knots, — and to rosy ribbons INIartha had almost as
great an aversion as to rosy cheeks ; then again the
young lass had a spirit, and when unjustly accused
would vindicate herself with more wit than prudence,
and better tempered persons than INIartha cannot
abide that qualification ; moreover the httle damsel
had an irresistible lightness of heart, and a gaiety of
temper, which no rebuke could tame, no severity
repress ; laughter was as natural to her, as chiduig to
her mistress ; all her labors vfent merrily on : she
would sing over the mashing tub, and smile through
the washing week, out-singing Martha's scolding, and
out-smiling Martha's frowns.
This in itself would have been sufficient cause of
bffence ; but when Martha fancied, and fancied truly,
that the pink top-knots, the smiles, and the songs were
all aimed at the heart of her brother George, of whom
in her own rough way, she was both fond and proud,
the pretty songstress became insupportable ; and when
George, in despite of her repeated warnings, did
actually, one fine morning espouse Dinah Moore,
causing her in her agitation to let fall an old-fashioned
china wash-hand bason, the gift of a long-deceased
god-mother, which, with the jug belonging to it, she
valued more than any other of her earthly possessions ;
no wonder that she made a vow never to speak to her
168 FKIE.NDSIIIP'S GIFT.
brother whilst she hved, or that more m resentment
than in covetousness (for Martha Mearing was rather
a harsh and violent, than an avaricious woman) she
encouraged her father in his angry resolution of ban-
ishing the culprit from his house, and disinheritmg
him from his property.
Old Farmer Mearing w^as not, however, a wicked
man, although in many respects a hard one. He did
not turn his son out to starve : on the contrary, he
settled him in the Pond Farm, with a decent though
scanty plenishing, put twenty pounds in his pocket, and
told him that he had nothing more to expect from him,
and that he must make his own way in the world as
he had done forty years before.
George's heart would have sunk under this renun-
ciation, for he was of a kind but wxak and indolent
nature, and wholly accustomed to depend on his father,
obey his orders, and rely on him for support ; but he
was sustained by the bolder and firmer spirit of his
wife, who, strong, active, lively and sanguine, findmg
herself for the first time in her life, her own mistress,
in possession of a comfortable home, and married to the
man of her heart, saw nothing, but sunshine before
them. Dinah had risen in the world, and George had
fallen ; and this circumstance, in addition to an origi-
nal diflerence of temperament, may sufficiently ac-
count for their dirfercnce of feeling.
During the first year or t^vo, Dinah's prognostics
seemed likely to be verified. George ploughed and
THE CHINA JUG. 169
sowed and reaped, and she made butter, reared poul-
try, and fatted pigs : and their industry prospered,
and the world went well with the young couple. But
a bad harvest, the death of their best cow, the lame-
ness of their most serviceable horse, and more than
all, perhaps, the birth of four little girls in four succes-
sive years, crippled them sadly, and brought poverty,
and the fear of poverty to their happy fire-side.
Still, however, Dinah's spirits continued imdimin-
ished. Her children, although, to use her own phrase,
" of the WTong sort, grew and flourished," as the chil-
dren of poor people do grow and flourish, one hardly
knows how ; and by the time that the long-wished-for
boy made his appearance in the world, the elder girls
had become almost as useful to their father as if they
had been " of the right sort " themselves. Never
were seen such hardy little elves ! They drove the
plough, tended the kine, folded the sheep, fed the pigs,
worked in the garden, made the hay, hoed the turnips,
reaped the corn, hacked the beans, and drove the
market-cart to B on occasion, and sold the butter,
eggs, and poultry as well as their mother could have
done.
Strong, active, and serviceable as boys, were the
little lasses ; and pretty withall, though as brown as
so many gipsies, and as untrained as wild colts.
They had their mother's bright and sparkhng coun-
tenance, and her gay and sunny temper, a heritage,
more valuable than house or land, — a gift more
14
170 friendship's gift.
precious than ever was bestowed on a favored princess
by beneficent fairy. But the mother's darling was
one who bore no resemblance to her either in mind or
person, her only son and youngest child Moses, so
called after his grandfather, in a lurking hope, which
was however disappointed, that the name might
propitiate the offended and wealthy yeoman.
Little Moses was a fair, mild, quiet boy, who
seemed at first sight far fitter to wear petticoats
than any one of his madcap sisters ; but there was an
occasional expression in his deep grey eye that gave
token of sense and spirit, and an unfailing steadiness
and diligence about the child that promised to vindicate
his mother's partiahty. She was determined that
Moses should be, to use the country phrase, " a good
scholar ; " the meaning of which is, by the way, not
a little dissimilar from that which the same words
bear at Oxford or at Cambridge. Poor Dmah was no
'• scholar " herself, as the parish register can testify,
where her mark stands below George's signature in
the record of her marriage ; and the girls bade fair
to emulate their mother's ignorance, Dinah having
given to each of the four the half of a year's school-
ing, upon the principle of ride and tie, little Lucy
going one day, and little Patty the next, and so on
with the succeeding pair ; in this way adroitly edu-
cating two children for the price of one, their mother
in her secret soul holding it for girls, a waste of time.
But when Moses came in question, the case was altered.
THE CHINA JUG. 171
He was destined to enjoy the benefit of an entire
education, and to imbibe unshared all the learning that
the parish pedagogue could bestow. An admission to
the Wokefield free-school ensured him this advantage,
together with the right of wearing the long primitive
blue cloth coat and leathern girdle, as well as the blue
cap and yellow tassel by which the boys were distin-
guished ; and by the time he was eight years old, he
had made such progress in the arts of writing and
ciphering, that he was pronounced by the master to be
the most promising pupil in the school.
At this period, misfortunes, greater than they had
hitherto known, began to crowd around his family.
Old Farmer Mearing died, leaving all his property to
Martha ; and George, a broken hearted, toil-worn
man, who had been only supported in his vain effort
to make head against ill-fortune by the hope of his
father's at last relenting, followed him to the grave in
less than two months. Debt and difficulty beset the
widow, and even her health and spirits began to fail.
Her only resource seemed to be to leave her pleasant
home, give up everything to the creditors, get her
girls out to service, and try to maintain herself and
Moses by washing or charing, or whatever work her
failing strength would allow her to perform.
Martha, or as she was now called, Mrs. Martha,
lived on in lonely, and apparently comfortless affluence
at the Manor Farm. She had taken no notice of
Dinah's humble supphcations, sent injudiciously by
172 friendship's gift.
Patty, a girl whose dark and sparkling beauty exactly
resembhd what her niother had been before her unfor-
tunate marriage ; but on Moses, so like his father, she
had been seen to gaze wistfully and tenderly, when the
little procession of charity boys passed her on their way
to church ; though on finding herself observed, or per-
haps, on detecting herself in such an indulgence, the
softened eye was immediately withdrawn, and the
stern spirit seemed to gather itself into a resolution
only the stronger for its momentary weakness.
Mrs. Martha, now long past the middle of life, and
a confirmed old maid, had imbibed a fcAv of the habits
and pecuharities which are supposed, and perhaps
justly, to characterise that condition. Amongst other
things she had a particular fancy for the water from
the Elmin spring, and could not relish her temperate
supper if washed do^Mi by any other beverage ; and
she was accustomed to fetch it herself in the identical
china jug, the present of her godmother, the bason
belonging to which she had broken from the shock
she underwent when hearing of George's wedding.
It is even possible, so much are we the creatures of
association, that the constant sight of this favorite
piece of porcelain, which was really of very curious
and beautiful Nankin china, might, by perpetually
reminding her of her loss, and the occasion, serve to
confirm her inveterate aversion to poor George and
his family.
However this might be, it chanced that one summer
THE CHINA JUG. 173
evening Mrs. jNIartha sallied forth to fetch the spark-
ling draught from the Elmin spring. She filled her
jug as usual, but much rain had fallen, and the dame,
no longer so active as she had been, slipped when
about to re-ascend the bank with her burden, and
found herself compelled either to throw herself for-
ward and grasp the trunk of the nearest tree, to the
imminent peril of her china jug, of which she was
compelled to let go, or to slide back to the already
tottering and slippery plank, at the risk, almost the
certainty of plmiging head foremost into the water.
K Mrs. Martha had been asked, on level ground and
out of danger, whether she prefered to be soused in
her own person, or to break her china jug, she would,
most undoubtedly, theoretically have chosen the duck-
ing ; but theory and practice are different matters,
and following the instmct of self-preservation, she let
the dear mug go, and clung to the tree.
As soon as she was perfectly safe she began to
lament, in her usual \dtuperative strain, over her
irreparable loss, scolding the tottering plank and the
slippery bank, and finally, there being no one else to
bear the blame, her own heedless haste, which had
cost her the commodity she valued most in the world.
Swinging herself round, however, still supported by
the tree, she had the satisfaction to perceive that the
dear jug was not yet either sunken or broken. It
rested most precariously on a tuft of bulrushes towards
the centre of the pool, in instant danger of both
14*
174 friendship's gift.
these calamltieSj and, indeed, appeared to her to be
visibly sinking under its own weight. What could
she do ? She could never reach it ; and whilst she
went to summon assistance, the precious porcelain
would vanish. What could she do ?
Just as she was asking herself this question, she
had the satisfaction to hear footsteps in the lane. She
called ; and a small voice was heard singing, and the
little man Moses, with his satchel at his back, made
his appearance, returning from school. He had not
heard her, and she w^ould not call him — not even to
preserve her chma treasure. Moses, however, saw
the dilemma, and pausing only to pull off his coat,
plunged mto the water, to rescue the smking cup.
The summer had been wet, and the pool was unus-
ually high, and Mrs. Martha, startled to perceive that
he was almost immediately bej^ond his depth, called him
earnestly and vehemently to return. The resolute boy,
however, accustomed from infancy to dabble like the
young Avater-fowl amidst the sedges and islets of the
great pond, was not to be frightened by the puny waters
of the Elmin spring. He reached, though at some peril,
the tuft of bulrushes — brought the jug triumphantly to
land — washed it — filled it at the fountain-head,
and finally offered it, with his own sweet and gracious
smile, to Mrs. Martha. And she — oh ! what had
she not suffered during the last few moments, whilst
the poor orphan — her brother George's only boy,
was risking his fife to preserve for her a paltry bit of
THE CHINA JUG. 175
earthen-ware ? AVhat had she not felt during those
few but long moments ? Her woman's heart melted
within her ; and instead of seizing the precious porce-
lain, she caught the dripping boy in her arms — half
smothered him with kisses, and vowed that her home
should be his home, and her fortune his fortune. And
she kept her word, — she provided amply and kindly
for Dinah and her daughters ; but Moses is her heir, and
he lives at the jNIanor Farm, and is married to the
prettiest woman in the country ; and Mrs. Martha has
betaken herself to the Pond-side, with a temper so
much ameliorated, that the good farmer declares the
greatest risk his children run is, of being spoilt by
aunt Martha : — one in particular, her godson who
has inherited the name and the favor of his father,
and is her own especial little Moses.
PAGANINI. I
ANONYMOUS.
It was announced one morning, that Paganini
would, that evening, give a concert at the Grand
Opera, previous to his departure for London. This
was an occasion not to be missed ; and I stationed
myself at the door of the theatre about two hours be-
fore the time for opening. The crowd was immense ;
and though I stood in a favorable place for getting in,
the house seemed absolutely crowded before I enter-
ed — though a few minutes only had elapsed from
the first opening of the doors. After a long overture
played by the orchestra, the curtain was raised, and
in a few moments this singular man came forward
alone upon the stage. His appearance is very re-
markable ; his tall, thin and bending figure ; his long
hair combed back and descending upon his shoulders ;
the strange expression of his countenance, which
has something in it almost supernatural, a mixture
of good-nature and diabolical sneering ; all become
strongly impressed upon the mind, and serve to in-
PAGANINI. 177
crease the effect produced by liis music. He advanced
sloAvly to the front of the stage, -^ith a very awkward,
one-sided motion, and bowed to the audience, who
received him with the warmest applause.
There he stood, for a minute or two, looking at the
splendid scene before him, of an immense theatre
filled to overflowing, and brilhantly lighted ; then
bowed again to the reiterated plaudits, in his exces-
sively awkward manner ; and after that, pulled out his
cambric handkerchief, wiped his fingers, and raised
his violin, as if about to commence. The profoundest
silence immediately ensued ; but something seemed to
be wrong, and he took away his viohn again, giving
a most Satanic grin at the disappointment of the au-
dience. This only called forth more applause. He
i*aised the violin again : the noise was instantly hushed
to the deepest stillness, and the first note of liis magic
instrument was heard. It was unlike that of any
other one, and could be clearly distinguished, even
when the whole orchestra was playing. There was a
richness in the tones, something like the reedy sound
of a fine open diapason.
As the player proceeded, the attention of the au-
dience became more and more fixed, as their wonder
was excited and increased, by the successive powers
which he displayed. The most rapid and inconceivable
execution seemed to cost this wonderful man no
trouble ; but the notes appeared to glide from his bow
without his vohtion. Occasionally he rose on the
178 friendship's gift.
scale far above the reach of ordinary instruments —
and the tones came out clear, liquid, and sweet, like
the warbling of a bird ; then he descended to the
lowest notes, as if amusing himself with the compass
of his instrument. Indeed, through the whole per-
formance, he had the air of playing for his own
amusement, rather than that of his audience. At
the end of some of his most difficult passages, he
gave his bow a flourish in the air, as if he was tri-
umphing in his superior skill. The strange and almost
infernal sounds he produced, which gently faded into
the sweetest and most delicious, before the ear became
shocked by them ; the wildness and abruptness of his
transitions ; the prodigious power displayed in his ex-
ecution, combined with the odd looks and disagreeable
expression of the man ; and the conciousness that
there was not, at the time, nor ever had been, any
performer in the world to compare with him, gave an
unusual effect to the exhibition, and inspired, univer-
sally, a sensation of almost superstitious awe ; as if
the being, who thus riveted the attention and stole
away the faculties of his hearers, were possessed of
more than mortal powers — and, for my own part, I
felt as if I were in the actual presence of the great
enemy himself.
THE OLD CORPORAL.
BERANGER.
With shoulder'd arms and charg'd fusil,
On, gallant comrades, on go you ;
I 've still my pipe and your good will,
Come, give me now my last adieu!
To grow so old I have done ill ;
But you, who fame have yet to reap, —
I was your father in the drill, —
Soldiers, pace keep !
Nay, do not weep, —
No, do not weep !
March on — pace keep, —
Pace keep — palje keep — pace keep — pace keep !
II.
For a proud officer's affi'ont,
I wound him ^— he is cured — they try,
Condemn me, as it is their wont,
And the Old Corporal must die.
By taunt and temper hurried on.
My sword would from its scabbard leap : —
But, then, I've served Napoleon !
180 friendship's gift.
Comrades, pace keep !
Nay, do not weep —
No, do not weep !
March on, — pace keep, —
Pace keep — pace keep — pace keep — pace keep !
Soldier ! an arm or leg you'll sell
To win a cross, not often wore:
Mine, in those wars, I fought for well,
When ive drove all the kings before.
We drank — I told of battle phiins —
You paid, and deem'd the story cheap;
The glory now alone remains !
Comrades, pace keep !
Nay, do not weep —
No, do not weep —
March on, pace keep, —
Pace keep — pace keep — pace keep — pace keep !
Robert, — from my own village fair, —
Return thee, child, and tend thy fold,
Stay, view those shady gardens there.
More April flowers our Cantons hold !
Oft in our woods — with dew still wet —
Unnesting birds. Id run and leap.
Good God ! my mother liveth yet !
Comrades, pace keep !
Nay, do not weep —
Oh, do not weep !
March on — pace keep, —
Pace keep — pace keep — pace keep — pace keep !
THE OLD CORPORAL. 181
V.
Who yonder sobs and looks so hard ?
Ah ! 'tis the drummer's widow poor;
In Russia — in the rearward guard —
All day and night her boy I bore,
Else father, wife, and child, away
Had stay'd beneath the snow to sleep ;
She's going for my soul to pray.
Comrades, pace keep ! ^
Nay, do not weep — A
No, do not weep !
March on — pace keep, —
Pace keep — pace keep — pace keep — pace keep.
VI.
Zounds! but my pip's gone out apace ;
Hah, no ! — not yet — come on, all's right.
We're now within the allotted space ;
There ! with no bandage hide my sight !
My friends I would not tire with pain ;
Above all, do not draw too low ;
And may God lead you home again !
There, comrades, go !
Nay, do not weep —
No, do not weep !
March on — pace keep !
Pace keep — pace keep — pace keep — pace keep.
15
THE PHANTOM PORTRAIT.
BY S. T. COLERIDGE.
A STRANGER came recommended to a mercliant's
house at Lubeck. He was hospitably received, but,
the house being full, he was lodged at night in an
apartment handsomely furnished, but not often used.
There was nothing that struck him particularly in the
room when left alone, till he happened to cast his eyes
on a picture, which immediately arrested his attention.
It was a single head ; but there was something so
uncommon, so frightful and unearthly, in its expres-
sion, though by no means ugly, that he found himself
irresistibly attracted to look at it. In fact, he could
not tear himself from the fascination of this portrait,
till his imagination was filled by it, and his rest broken.
He retired to bed, dreamed, and awoke from time to
time with the head glaring on him. In the morning,
his host saw by his looks that he slept ill, and inquired
the cause, wliich was told. The master of the house
was much vexed, and said that the picture ought to
have been removed, that it was an oversight, and that
THE PHANTON TORTRAIT. 183
it alwaj^s was removed when the chamber was used.
The picture, he said, was indeed terrible to every
one ; but it was so fine, and had come into the family
in so curious a way, that he could not make up his
mind to part with it, or destroy it. The story of it
was this : — " My father," said he, " was at Hamburgh
on business, and, w^hilst dining at a coffee-house, he
observed a young man of a remarkable appearance
enter, seat himself alone in a corner, and commence
a solitary meal. His countenance bespoke the ex-
treme of mental distress, and every now and then
he turned his head quickly round, as if he had
heard something, then shudder, grow pale, and go on
with his meal after an effort as before. My father
saw this same man at the same place for two or three
successive days, and at length became so much inter-
ested about him, that he spoke to him. The address
was not repulsed, and the stranger seemed to find
some comfort in the tone of sympathy and kindness
which my father used. He was an Itahan, well in-
formed, poor but not destitute, and living economically
upon the profits of his art as a painter. Their inti-
macy increased ; and at length the Italian, seeing my
father's ui voluntary emotion at his convulsive turnings
and shudderings, which continued as formerly, inter-
rupting their conversation from time to time, told him
his story. He w^as a native of Rome, and had hved
in some familiarity with, and been much patronized
by a young nobleman ; but upon some slight occasion
184 friendship's gift.
they had fallen out, and his patron, besides using
many reproachful expressions, had struck him. The
painter brooded over the disgrace of the blow. He
could not challenge the nobleman on account of his
rank ; he therefore watched for an opportunity and
assassinated him. Of course he fled from his country,
and finally had reached Hamburgh. He had not,
however, passed many weeks from the night of the
murder, before, one day, in the crowded street, he
heard his name called by a voice familiar to him : he
turned short round, and saw the face of his victim
lookmg at him \dth a fixed eye. From that moment
he had no peace ; at all hours, in all places, and
amidst all companies, however engaged he might be,
he heard the voice, and could never help looking
round ; and, whenever he so looked round, he always
encountered the same face starmg close upon him.
At last, in a mood of desperation, he had fixed himself
face to face, and eye to eye, and deliberately drawn
the phantom visage as it glared upon him ; and this
was the picture so drawn. The Italian said he had
struggled long, but life was a burden which he could
no longer bear ; and he was resolved, when he had
made money enough to return to Rome, to surrender
himself to justice, and expiate his crime on the scaf-
fold. He gave the finished pictm'e to my father, in
return for the kindness which he had shown to him."
BROKEN TIES,
BY J. MONTGOMERY.
The broken ties of happier days,
How often do they seem
To come before our mental gaze,
Like a remembered dream ;
Around us each dissevered chain
In sparkling ruin lies,
And earthly hand can ne'er again
Unite those broken ties.
The parents of our infant home,
The kindred that we loved,
Far from our arms, perchance, may roam.
To distant scenes removed ;
Or we have watched their parting breath,
And closed their weary eyes.
And sigh'd to think how sadly death
Can sever human ties.
The friend:^, the loved ones of our youth,
They, too, are gone or changed,
Or, worse than all, their love and truth
Are darkened and estranged.
15*
186 friendship's gift.
They meet us in a glittering throng,
With cold, averted eyes,
And wonder that we weep our wrong,
And mourn our broken ties.
Oh ! who, in such a world as this,
Could bear their lot of pain, \
Did not one radiant hope of bliss, !
Unclouded, yet remain ? — i
That hope the sovereign Lord has giver?, |
Who reigns beyond the skies :
That hope unites our souls to Heaven^
By truth's enduring ties. |
Each care, each ill of mortal birth,
Is sent in pitying love, j
To lift the lingering heart from earth,
And speed its flight above ; |
And every pang which rends the breast, j
And every joy that dies, j
Tells us to seek a heavenly rest^ I
And trust to holier ties.
\\ N'Jilljil
lif^ /"rr/
THE WARRIOR'S GRAVE.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Green wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest!
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest!
Brightly thy sjjirit o'er her hills were poured,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword !
Rest bard ! rest, soldier ! — By the father's hand,
Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering, f-ilently to stand
In the hushed presence of the glorious dead!
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God !
The oak waved proudly o"er thy burial-rite.
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee,
And with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they veiled the drooping banners o'er thee,
And the deep guns, with rolling peals, gave token
That Lyre and Sword were broken !
188 friendship's gift.
Thou hast a hero's tomb ! — A lowher bed
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying ;
The gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head,
Wben thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother ! true friend ! the tender and the brave !
She pined to share thy grave.
Fame was thy gift from others — but for her,
To whom the wide earth held that only spot,
She loved thee ! — lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not I
Thou hast tliine oak — thy trophy, — what hath she ?
Her own blessed place by thee !
It was thy spirit, brother ! which had made
The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played.
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky !
Ye were but two ! — and when that spirit passed,
Woe for the one, — the last!
Woe, yet not long! — She lingered but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast;
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest!
Too sad a smile ! — its living light was o'er,
It answered hers no more !
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled ;
What then was left for her, the faithful hearted ?
Death, death, to still ihe yearning for the dead !
Softly she perished — be the flower deplored
Here, with the Lyre and Sword !
THE WARHIOR's GRAVE. 189
Have ye not met ere now ? — So let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years ;
That weep, watcli, pray, to liold back dust from dust,
That love where love is but a fount of tears !
Brother ! sweet sister ! — peace around ye dwell I
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell !
A PAINT BRUSH SKETCH.
ANONYMOUS.
Maxy people in this country have an idea that the
private personal characters of celebrated authors are
not easily to be got at ; but I assure all such that this is
a very mistaken notion. The hospitably entertained
visitor has only to take notes of what transpires in his
presence, and any newspaper editor will be happy to
print his remarks and retail his experiences. Much
that is related will perhaps appear fabulous or over-
stated, but I am confident my readers will take for
truth what they read from my pen.
My family had but recently moved from London into
the pleasant town of Bedford, and as yet had become
known to very few of its inhabitants. One day my
elderly maiden aunt, a somewhat noted character in
our family circle, sent me into the interior of the town,
some distance from our house, in pursuit of a tinker's
shop, where I was to leave a small brass kettle for re-
pairs. Not knowing the way, I made bold to ask one
of a group of boys whom I found playing at what was
A PAINT BRUSH SKETCH. 191
called in those days, " the game of cat." The lad,
on hearing mj question, said he would show me his
father's shop, " the old man," as he observed, " being
in that line of business himself." The youth was a
tall, ungainly lad, but had, nevertheless, a curious
twinkle about the left eye which attracted my atten-''
tion. As we passed along a straggling row of shops,
he stopped before a low wooden building, and pointed
to the sign, now faded and swinging in the breeze. I
looked up and read this inscription thereon :
Bunyan y^ Town Tinker.
An old weather-beaten individual stood in the door-
way, who immediately accosted my guide in a loud,
angry tone, upbraiding him for his long absence.
" Where hast thou been swaggering, varlet ? " cried
the old man.
" Call him not ' varlet ' who drinketh his dad's
health in a stoup of good liquor every week at the
cock-fight," replied the boy, tartly.
The exasperated father made as if he would strike
the stripling, who, eluding his grasp, nimbly raised his
right thumb to the extreme end of his nose, twii-ledhis
fingers mysteriously in the air, and ran down the street
lauo-hins. I mention this scene to show how ungodly
the boyhood of John Bunyan commenced, and how
great the change which occurred in his after fife. One
of his school-fellows told me, a few days after this
circumstance, that it was not an uncommon thing to
192 friendship's gift.
see him playing at hockey on Sundays behind the
vestry. Thrown among vile companions, he was early
initiated into profaneness and all sorts of boyish vices.
Wherever there was a bell-ringing or dancing, this
reckless boisterer was sure to be found, and my parents
soon forbade my keeping company with so Avicked a
ring-leader. I do not mention this from any feeling
of disrespect towards the Bunyan family, nor for the
purpose of ridiculing the son ; but being a townsman,
and knowing all their private transactions, I feel more
willing to make them known this side of the Atlantic.
If I remember rightly, I saw no more of John,
(my father soon moving back to London) till many
years after, when one day, happening to dine with my
friend Richard Baxter, at the house of our mutual
friend, George Herbert, we were joined, ratlier late in
the evening, by a gentleman of very striking appear-
ance. He was tall of stature, strong-boned, though
not corpulent, somewhat of a ruddy face, wearing his
reddish hair on his upper lip after the old British
fashion, his nose was well set, but not declining or
bending, and his mouth moderately large. I felt at
once that a remarka1)le man had entered the room, and
when my friend Baxter introduced the author of "Pil-
grim's Progress," I knew him in a moment. He sat
down immediately, bolt upright, at the table and ate
very freely from a dish of well-cured bacon, and the
usual accompaniment of eggs. Wiile he was appeas-
ing his hunger I had a good opportunity to notice his
A FAINT BRUSH SKETCH. 193
dress and manners. He wore a brown stuff coat, laced
up in the neck, and trimmed with two rows of coarse
leather buttons. Small particles of snuff were just visi-
ble on his soiled neck-cloth, and from his frequent use
of small bits of something hlack^ I should say he par-
took rather freely of tobacco. However, on this point, I
will not be too positive, as I sat on the opposite side of
the table, and, as I said before, it was growing late in
the evening. After dming as I thought comfortably,
not to say bountifully, he conversed with me exclu-
sively (Mr. Baxter and Mr. Herbert having laid down
after their meal as usual) for more than an hour. He
invited me to visit him at his own house, and shortly
after, happening to be in his neighborhood, I complied
"\Nith his request. I found him in his back room,
having just returned from a ramble with his Avife.
Mrs, Elizabeth Bunyan was one of the most remarka-
ble looking women I ever saw. Energy, mingled with
suavity, was most strikingly depicted in her counten-
ance. On inquiry I learned she was the eldest
daughter of a respectable retired butcher, himself a
very remarkable man. I think I never saw a more
attached couple than ^Ir. and Mrs. B. They receiv-
ed me very cordially, and after a glass of gooseberry
wine we entered freely into conversation. There was
nothing of restraint in the manner of the Bunyans
toward me, and I soon made myself quite at home
with this worthy couple.
In the course of some remarks with Mr. B. touching
16
194 friendship's gift.
his P. P., I remember I observed I should like above
all things to see the original manuscript of his great
work. He mstantlj rose, and taking from an old
pair of bellows a roll of paper, begged my acceptance
of the autograph sheets of the Pilgrim's Progress !
Of course I was very much surprised at this unex-
pected mark of his favor, and stammered out my
thanks. It is needless for me to add, here, that I still
possess this valued rehc, and that no money would
induce me to part with it. Mr. John Gilford, the
^parish minister, coming in soon after, the conversation
became general. Mr. G. appeared to be a very well
informed person, and spoke of having taken tea with
Mr. John Milton a few days before. I managed to
get an invitation to meet this last named personage,
particulars of which interview I may be induced to
give hereafter. Mr. Guilford spoke in no very gentle
terms of Chief Justice Hale, whom I thought he went
quite out of his way to castigate. I shall always look
back on this day, however, as one of the most interest-
ing of my life.
I had the pleasure, shortly after this memorable
occasion, to meet Mr. Oliver Cromwell at a large
gathering in London, when he asked my acceptance
of a presentation copy of " Fox's Book of the Mar-
tyrs," a work then just issued. Mr. Bunyan being
present, took the volume a few minutes in his lap, and
wrote on the fly-leaf a copy of verses addressed to my-
self, which I may at some future period allow to be
A PAINT BRUSH SKETCH. 195
printed. I have also a great many letters of absorb-
ing interest, from this celebrated man, he continuing
to correspond with me till the day of his death. His
gi*and-daughter, Hannah, was married very soon after
to a cousin of my father's, and from her descendants I
have amassed a collection of original papers, in John's
hand-writing, of great value. The}^ also may one day
see the light.
I forgot to mention a great curiosity which I saw
hanging up in Mr. Bunyan's best room. This was
no less than a small dark frame enclosing the original
contract with Caxton for printing Chaucer's Canter-
bury Tales, and receipts for Teyi 3IarJcs, the sum paid
for its copy-right. Near by these rare documents
hung another frame entirely empty. I asked Mr. B.
the intention of this, and he replied, if my memory
serves me, as follows : " In my early life, sir, I once
saw a Hundred Pound Note, and became possessed
with a strong desire to obtain one. I have not yet
been so lucky, but the moment such a treasure comes
within my reach I intend to place it in that frame."
Having a spurious one in my pocket, I immediately
thrust it into his hand, embraced ]Mrs. Bunyan before
Mr. B. had time to express his thanks, and rushed
out of the house.
THINGS TO COME
BY GEORGE CROLY.
There are murmurs on the deep,
There are thunders on the heaven ;
Though the ocean billows sleep,
Though no cloud the sign has given ;
Earth that sudden storm shall feel,
'T is a storm of man and steel.
Tribes are in their forests now.
Idly hunting ounce and deer ;
Tribes are crouching in their snow
O'er their wild and wintry cheer,
Doomed to swell that tempest's roar,
Where the torrent-rain is gore.
War of old has swept the world.
Guilt has shaken strength and pride ;
But the thunders, feebly hurled,
Quivered o'er the spot, and died;
When the vengeance next shall falU
Wo to each, and wo to all.
Man hath shed Man's blood for toys.
Love and hatred, fame and gold ;
THINGS TO COME. 197
Now, a mightier wrath destroys ;
Earth in cureless crime grows old ;
Past destruction shall be tame
To the rushing of that flame.
When the clouds of Vengeance break,
Folly shall be on the wise,
Frenzy shall be on the weak,
Nation against nation rise.
And the worse than Pagan sword
In Religion's breast be gored.
Then the Martyr's solemn cr)^.
That a thousand years has rung,
Where their robes of crimson lie
Round the " Golden Altar " flung,
Shall be heard,— and from the "throne,"
The trumpet of the "Judgment" blown.
' Wo to Earth, the mighty wo ! "
Yet shall Earth her conscience lull,
Till above the hr'un shall flow
The draught of gall— The cup is full.
Yet a moment ! — Comes the ire, —
Famine, bloodshed, flood, and fire.
First shall fall a Mighty one !
Ancient crime had crowned his brow.
Dark Ambition raised his throne —
Truth his victim and his foe.
Earth shall joy in all her fear
Oer the great Idolater.
198 friendship's gift.
Then shall rush abroad the blaze
Sweeping Heathen zone by zone :
Afric's tribe the spear shall raise,
Shivering India's paged throne:
China hear her Idol's knell
In the Russian cannon-peaL
On the Turk shall fall the blow
From the Grecian's daggered hand !
Blood like winter-showers shall flow.
Till he treads the Syrian land !
Then shall final vengeance shine^
And all be sealed in Palestine I
c c c
t t< c c
' .' V'
C C C I
^^
^^m^
■7/'/f^
THE WATER FALL.
ANONYMOUS.
Rush on, bold stream ! thou sendest up
Brave notes to all the woods around,
When morning beams are gathering fast,
And hushed is every human sound;
I stand beneath the sombre hill.
The stars are dim o'er fount and rill,
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away ;
Dash on, bold stream! I love the roar
Thou sendest up from rock and shore.
'T is night in heaven — the rustling leaves
Are whispering of the coming storm.
And thundering down the river's bed,
I see thy lengthened darkling form ;
No voices from the vales are heard,
The winds are low — each little bird
Hath sough its quiet, rocking nest.
Folded its wing, and gone to rest, —
And still I hear thy waters play
In welcome music, far away.
200 friendship's gift.
Oh ! earth hath many a gallant show
Of towering peak and glacier height,
But ne'er beneath the glorious moon,
Hath nature framed a lovelier sight,
Than thy fair tide with diamonds fraught,
When every drop with light is caught,
And o'er the bridge, the village girls
Reflect below their waving curls.
While merrily thy waters play
In welcome music, far away !
BIRTHPLACE OF SHAKSPEARE.
ANONYMOUS.
From Warwick Castle, an hour's ride brought me
to Stratford-on-Avon. From the ''white Lion" Inn
I walked down the street to where a rude sign-board
over the door of a very old tAvo-story building, bore
this inscription : '''In this house the immortal Shahs-
'peare ivas horn.^^ I entered, and was at once con-
ducted to the chamber in which, it is said, the poet
first drew breath. Its walls are completely covered
with the names of pilgrims from all parts of the world,
attesting thus the universality of his fame. Amid
hundreds of unknown names, the autographs of Wal-
ter Scott and Washington Irving were pointed out to
me. Around the room were disposed numerous rehcs,
more or less authentic, such as likenesses of the
poet, articles made of wood of the famous mulberry
tree, &c. I locked at these, walked back and forth
in the apartment, and strove to make it real to myself,
that in that room Shakspeare was born ; but (shall I
confess it ?) I was sensible of no inspiring impulse
202 friendship's gift.
whatever. In truth, I was altogether m a most mat-
ter of fact state of mind. So capricious is feeling !
Here, where one might think to be deeply moved, as
if admitted to commune with the spirit of the immor-
tal bard, I looked about me with the coolest self-
possession, intensely conscious all the while of the
presence of an elderly and very unpoetical matron,
waiting quietly for the customary fee. Not to be
wholly wanting to the occasion, however, with her
consent, I severed with my -penknife a splinter from
the massive oaken mantel tree, apparently coeval with
the house, which I preserve as a relic. After all,
what real connection has that sombre locality with
Shakspeare, such as he was in the full maturity of his
wonder working genius ? Its walls may have echoed
his childish cries — may have borne testimony to what
he was when an infant in his nurse's amis ; but these
are not the recollections that throng upon the mind in
connection with the sweet bard of Avon, unless, in-
deed, we can contemplate even his childhood's hours,
through that poetical medicine which Gray has so
beautifully conjured up in liis Progress of Poetry.
"Far from tlie sun and summer gale,
In thy green lap was nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stayed,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face; the dauntless child
Stretched forth his little arms and smiled.
This pencil take (she said) whose colors clear
BIRTHPLACE OF SHAKSPEARE. 203
Richly paint the vernal year ;
Thine, too, these golden keyes, immortal boy !
This can unlock the gates of joy ;
Of honor that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."
Yet, even here, it is not pent up within gloomy
walls, but gracefully reclined on the green banks of
Avon, in the midst of the sweet scenery of nature,
that we view the infant minstrel ; the illusion would
fade were the scene transferred to a close chamber
in a buisy street. This must be my apology to the
sentimental for the phlegm and apathy with which I
surveyed the room in which, if tradition may be cred-
ited, the great poet was born.
Certainly a very different feeling took possession of
my bosom when, a few minutes after, I found myself
within the chancel of the parish church, bending over
the flat stone that marks liis grave. As I read the
well-known lines inscribed on it —
Good frend for Jesus sake forbeare
To digg the dust encloased heare
Blest be the man that spares thes stones
And curst be he that moves my bones —
it seemed almost as if his voice was speaking to me
from the grave. Solemn and strange were my feel-
ings, when I thought that it was indeed the dust of
Shakspeare that reposed beneath my feet. The lines
above cited are considered his own ; and no sacrilc-
204 friendship's gift.
gious hand has dared to violate a grave douhlj guarded
by so touchmg an appeal and so awful a malediction.
Here, then, beyond all doubt, I was standing on the
very spot where more than two hundred years ago,
the kindred townsmen of Shakspeare had gathered
to consign to their last resting-place his mortal re-
mains. There to sleep in death, whose genius, as if
instinctively familiar with whatever lies within the
natural range of the intellectual vision, or can touch
the hidden sprinks of emotion in the heart, has em-
balmed the experience of universal humanity in diction,
that wherever the English language shall open its
treasures to men of cultivated minds, can never cease
to be " famihar in their mouths as household words."
What nobler ambition — what loftier prerogative of
genius could there be, than thus to touch a responsive
chord in millions of human bosoms — thus to leave an
enduring memorial, an ineffaceable impress of itself
in the hearts of men, by enshrining in language that
can never die, the sentiments and emotions that agitate
our common nature ? That one wdiose human exist-
ence was but a shadow, whose mortal remains a httle
space of consecrated ground encloses, should so per-
petuate on earth his intellectual being, so hve again,
as it were, in distant ages and in remotest climes, by
the vital energy of his genius, inspiring myriad minds
with its own breathing thoughts, and thrilling them
with its own burning emotions — is, indeed, (if we
except transcendant moral excellence) the proudest
BIRTHPLACE OF SIIAKSPEARE, 205
triumph that Heaven permits over the ordinary con-
ditions of humanity. One thing was wanting to
Shakspeare — we feel it most when we stand at his
gi-ave — it was that his surpassing genius should have
been subservient to the loftiest aims of virtue — that
his harp's soul-subduing strains should have always
been in unison with the deep-toned and awful morahty
which sometimes breathes in them, so that on that
imperishable record, which he has left to successive
ages, there might have remained
"No line which, dying, he could wish to blot."
But let it not be forgotten, that while Shakspeare's
sublime morality is characteristic of himself, his offen-
sive grossness is but the reflection, in the mirror
which he held up to nature, of the licentiousness of
his times.
A niche in the wall near the grave of the poet,
contains his bust, probably the most correct likeness
of him that now exists. The expression of the coun-
tenance is rather good-humored and cheerful, than
deeply intellectual. The graves of his wife and fa-
vorite daughter — the former, that Ann Hathaway,
whom his verses have rendered famous — are near his
own.
Within the chancel, and quite near the grave of
Shakspeare, are several monuments of the Combe
family, with whom he lived on terms of intimacy.
IT
208 friendship's gift.
a part of the structure being betweed four and five
hundred years old. It stands on the green bank of
the Avon, at a httle distance from the town, in the
midst of a spacious cemetery, and embosomed in mar
jestic elms. An avenue of lime trees, whose branches
intertwine so as to form a complete bower of over-
arching foliage, extends from the gate of the cemetery
to the principal entrance to the church. In a still
summer's day no sounds disturb the sacred solitude,
save the low murmur of the river, which flows within
a few yards of the poets grave. That it was not a
matter of indifference, where his ashes should repose,
is sufficiently evinced by the inscription with which he
sought, not ineffectually, to protect the slumbers of
the tomb from profane intrusion. \Yhen it was once
in contemplation to remove his remains to West-
minster Abbey, the awful lines upon the stone availed
to retain them, where alone they can appropriately
rest, in the midst of those scenes which, dear to him
while living, are now imperishably associated with his
memory — where the gentle murmur of the river as
it flows, and the sighing of the w^ind among the ma-
jestic elms that droop their branches to the stream,
seem to soothe his last slumbers.
TIME'S SWIFTNESS.
BY R. W. SPENCER.
Too late I staid ; — forgive the crime,—
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers !
What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbings of ihe glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,
Which dazzle as they pass?
Oh! who to sober measurement
Time's happy fleeiness brings,
When Birds of Paradise have lent
Their plumage for his wings !
17*
FREEDOM.
BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the stoned Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Thro' future time by power of thought.
True love turn'd round on fixed poles.
Love, that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy i.M-others and immortal souls.
But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed wiih crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings,
That every sophister can lime.
Deliver not the task of might
To weakness, neither hide the ray
From those, not blind, who wait for day.
Though sitting girt with douhtlul light.
FREEDOM. 211
Make Knowledge circle with the winds j
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men or growth of minds.
Watch what main-currents draw the years :
Cut Prejudice against the grain :
But gentle words are always gain :
Regard the weakness of thy peers:
Nor toil for title, place, or touch
Of pension, neither count on praise :
It grows to guerdon after-days :
Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ;
Not clinging to some ancient saw ;
Not master'd by some modern term ;
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm :
And in its season bring the law ;
That from Discussion's lips may fall
AVith Life, that, working strougly, binds —
Set in all lights by many minds.
To close the interests of all.
For Nature also, cold and warm,
And moist and dry, devising long,
Thro' many agents making strong.
Matures the individual form.
3Ieet is it changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees,
All but the basis of the soul.
212 friendship's gift.
So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy-
A saying, hard to shape in act ;
For all the past of Time reveals
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever Thouglit liath wedded Fact.
Ev'n now we hear with inward strife
A motion toiling in the gloom —
The Spirit of the years to come
Yearning to mix himself with Life.
A slow-developed strength awaits
Completion in a painful school ;
Phantoms of other forms of rule,
New Majesties of mighty States —
The warders of the growing hour.
But vague in vapor, hard to mark ;
And round them sea and air are dark
With great contrivances of Power.
Of many changes aptly join'd,
Is bodied forth the second whole.
Regard gradation, lest tiie soul
Of Discord race the rising wind ;
A wind to puff your idol-fires,
And heap their ashes on the head ;
To shame tlic boasting words, we said,
That we are wiser than our sires.
FREEDOM. 213
Oil yet, if Nature's evil star
Drive men in manhood, as in youtli,
To follow flying steps of Truth
Across the brazen bridge of war —
If New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true till Time shall close,
That Principles are rain'd in blood ;
Not yet the wise of heart would cease
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt,
But with his hand against the hilt.
Would pace the troubled land like Peace ;
Not less, though dogs of Faction bay.
Would serve his kind in deed and word,
Certain if knowledge biing the sword.
That knowledge takes the sword away —
Would love the gleam of good that broke
From either side, nor veil his eyes:
And if some dreadful need should rise.
Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke :
.To-morrow yet would reap to-day.
As we bear blossom of the dead.
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.
TALE OF EXPIATION.
BY PROF. WILSON.
Margaret Burxside was an orphan. Her pa-
rents, who had been the poorest people in the parish,
had died when she was a mere child ; and as thej had
left no near relatives, there were few or none to care
much about the desolate creature, who might be well
said to have been left friendless in the world. True
that the feeling of charity is seldom wholly wanting
in any heart ; but it is generally but a cold feeling
among hard-working folk, towards objects out of the
narrow circle of their OAvn family affections, and sel«
fishness has a ready and strong excuse in necessity.
There seems, indeed, to be a sort of chance in the lot
of the orphan offspring of paupers. On some the
eye of Christian benevolence falls at the very first mo-
ment of their uttermost destitution — and their worst
sorrows, instead of beginning, terminate with the tears
shed over their parents' graves. They are taken by
the hands, as soon as their hands have been stretched
out for protection, and admitted as inmates mto house-
TALE OF EXPIATION. 215
holds, whose doors, had their fathers and mothers
been alive, they would never have darkened. The
light of comfort falls upon them during the gloom of
grief, and attends them all their days. Others, again,
are overlooked at the first fall of affliction, as if by
some unaccountable' fatality ; the wretchedness with
which all have become familiar, no one very tenderly
pities ; and thus the orphan, reconciling herself to the
extreme hardships of her condition, lives on uncheered
by those sympathies out of which grow both happiness
and virtue, and yielding by degrees to the constant
pressure of her lot, becomes poor in spirit as in estate,
and either vegetates like an almost worthless weed
that is carelessly trodden on by every foot, or if by
nature born a flower, in time loses her lustre, and all
her days leads the life not so much of a servant as of
a slave.
Such, till she was twelve years old, had been the
fate of jMargaret Bumside. Of a slender form and
weak constitution, she had never been able for much
work ; and thus from one discontented and harsh
master and mistress to another, she had been trans-
ferred from house to house — always the poorest —
till she came to be looked on as an encumbrance
rather than a help in any family, and thought hardly
worth her bread. Sad and sickly she sat on the braes,
herding the kine. It was supposed that she was in
a consumption — and as the shadow of death seemed
to He on the neglected creature's face, a feelmg some-
216 friendship's gift.
thing like love was awakened towards her in the heart
of pity, for which she showed her gratitude by still
attending to all household tasks with an alacrity be-
yond her strength. Few doubted that she was dy-
ing — and it was plain that she thought so herself ;
for the Bible, which, in her friendlessness, she had
always read more than other children who were too
happy to reflect often on the Word of that Being from
whom their happiness flowed, was now, when leisure
permitted, seldom or never out of her hands ; and in
lonely places, where there was no human ear to
hearken, did the dying girl often support her heart,
when quaking in natural fears of the grave, by sing-
ing to herself hymns and psalms. But her hour was
not yet come — though by the inscrutable decrees of
Providence doomed to be hideous with almost inexpi-
able guilt. As for herself — she was innocent as the
linnet that sang beside her in the broom, and inno-
cent was she to be up to the last throbbings of her re-
ligious heart. When the suhsnine fell upon the leaves
of her Bible, the orphan seemed to see in the holy
words, brightening through the radiance, assurances
of forgiveness of all her sins — small sms indeed —
yet to her humble and contrite heart exceeding
great — and to be pardoned only by the intercession
of Him who died for us on the tree. Often, when
clouds were in the sky, and blackness covered the
Book, hope died away from the discolored page —
and the lonely creature wept and sobbed over the
TALE OF EXPIATION.
21*?
doom denounced on all who sin and repent not —
whether m deed or in thought. And thus religion
became within her an awful thing — till, in her resig-
nation, she feared to die. But look on that flow^er by
the hill-side path, withered, as it seems, bej^ond the
power of sun and air and dew and rain to restore it
to hfe. Next day, you happen to return to the place,
its leaves are of a dazzling green, its blossoms of a
dazzling crimson. So it was with this orphan. Na-
ture, as if kindling towards her in sudden love, not
only restored her in a few weeks to life — but to per-
fect health ; and ere long she, whom few had looked
at, and for w^hom still fewer cared, was acknowledged
to be the fairest girl in all the parish — while she
continued to sit, as she had alwaj^s done from her very
childhood, on the 'poor' % form in the lobby of the kirk.
Such a face, such a figure, and such a manner, in one
so poorly attired and so meanly placed, attracted the
eyes of the yonng ladies in the Patron's Gallery.
Margaret Burnside was taken under their especial
protection — sent for two years to a superior school,
where she was taught all things useful for persons in
humble life — and wliile yet scarcely fifteen, return-
mg to her native parish, was appointed teacher of a
small school of her own, to w^hich were sent all the
girls who could be spared from home, from those of
parents poor as her own had been, up to those of the
farmers and small proprietors, who knew the blessings
of a good education — and that without it the min-
18
218 friendship's gift.
ister may preach in vain. And thus Margaret Bum-
side grew and blossomed like the lily of the field —
and every eye blessed her — and she drew her breath
in gi*atitude, piety, and peace.
Thus a few happy and useful years passed by —
and it was forgotten by all — but herself — that Mar-
garet Burnside was an orphan. But to be without
one near and dear blood-relative in all the world, must
often, even to the happy heart of youthful innocence,
be more than a pensive — a painful thought; and
therefore, though Margaret Burnside was always
cheerful among her little scholars, yet in the retire-
ment of her own room, (a pretty parlor, with a window
looking into a flower-garden,) and on her walks among
the braes, her mien was somewhat melancholy, and
her eyes wore that touching expression, which seems
doubtfully to denote — neither joy nor sadness — but
a habit of soul which, in its tranquility, still partakes
of the moui-nful, as if memory dwelt often on past
sorrows, and hope scai'cely ventured to indulge in
dreams of future repose. That profound orphan-feel-
ing embued her whole character ; and sometimes,
when the yoimg ladies from the castle smiled praises
upon her, she retired in gratitude to her chamber —
and wept.
Among the friends at whose houses she visited, were
the family at INIoorsidc, the highest hill-farm in the
parish, and on which her father had been a hind. It
consisted of the master, a man whose head was gray.
TALE OF EXPIATION. 219
his son and daughter, and a grandchild, her scholar,
whose parents were dead. Gilbert Adamson had long
been a widower — indeed his wife had never been
in the parish, but had died abroad. lie had been
a soldier in his youth and prime of manhood ; and
when he came to settle at Moorside, he had been
looked at with no very friendlj^ eyes ; for evil rumors
of his character had preceded his arrival there — and
in that peaceful pastoral parish, far removed from
the world's strife, suspicions, without any good reason
perhaps, had attached themselves to the morahty and
religion of a man, who had seen much foreign service,
and had passed the best years of his life in the wars.
It was long before these suspicions faded away, and
with some they still existed in an invincible feeling of
dishke or even aversion. But the natural fiercenesd'
and ferocity which, as these peaceful dwellers among
the hills imagined, had at first, in spite of his eiforts
to control them, often dangerously exibited themselves
in fiery outbreaks, advancing age had gradually sub-
dued ; Gilbert Adamson had grown a hard-working
and industrious man; aifected, if he followed it not in
sincerity, even an austerely religious Hfe ; and as he
possessed more than common sagacity and inteUigence,
he had acquired at last, if not won, a certain ascen-
dency in the parish, even over many whose hearts
never opened nor warmed towards him — so that he
was now an elder of the kirk — and, as the most un-
wilUng were obliged to acknowledge, a just steward to
230 FEIENDSHIP'S GIFT.
the poor. His gray hairs were not honored, but it
would not be too much to say that they were re-
spected. Many who had doubted him before, came
to think they had done him injustice, and sought to
wipe away their fault by regarding him with esteem,
and showing themselves wilhng to interchange neigh-
borly kindnesses and services with all the family at
Moorside. His son, though somewhat wild and un-
steady, and too much addicted to the fascinating pas-
times of flood and field, often so ruinous to the sons of
labor, and rarely long pursued against the law without
vitiatins: the whole character, was a favorite with all
the parish. Singularly handsome, and with manners
above his birth, Ludovic was welcome wherever he
went, both with young and old. No merry-making
could deserve the name without him ; and at all meet-
ings for the display of feats of strength and agihty,
far and wide, through more counties than one, he was
the champion. Nor had he received a mean educa-
tion. All that the parish schoolmaster could teach
he knew ; and having been the darling com] anion of
all the gentlemen's sons in the Manse, the faculties of
his mind had kept pace with theirs, and from them he
had caught unconsciously that demeanor so far supe-
rior to what could have been expected from one in liis
humble condition, but which, at the same time, seemed
so congenial with his happy nature as to be readily
acknowledged to be one of its original gifts. Of his
sister, Alice, it is sufficient to say, that she was the
TALE OF EXPIATION. 221
bosom friend of Margaret Burnside, and that all who
saw their friendship felt that it was just. The small,
parentless grand-daughter was also dear to Mar-
garet — more than perhaps her heart knew, because
that, like herself, she was an orphan. But the crear
ture was also a merry and a madcap child, and her
freakish pranks, and playful perversenesses, as she
tossed her head in un tameable glee, and went dancing
and singing, like a bird on the boughs of a tree, all
day long, by some strange sympathies entirely won
the heart of her who, throughout all her own child-
hood, had been familiar with grief, and a lonely
shedder of tears. And thus did Margaret love her,
it might be said, even with a very mother's love.
She generally passed her free Saturday afternoons
at Moorside, and often slept there all night with
httle Ann in her bosom. At such times Ludovic
was never from homo, and many a Sabbath he walked
with her to the kirk — all the family together — and
once by themselves for miles along the moor — a fore-
noon of perfect sunshine, which returned upon him
in his agony on his dying day.
No one said, no one thought that Ludovic and
Margaret were lovers — nor were they, though well
worthy indeed of each other's love ; for the orphan's
whole heart was filled and satisfied with a sense of
duty, and all its affections were centered in her
school, where all eyes blessed her, and where she had
been placed for the good of all those gladsome crea-
18*
223 FRIEiNDSHIP's GIFT.
tures, by them who had rescued her from the penury
that kills the soul, and ^hose gracious bounty she
remembered even in her sleep. In her pra^ ers she
beseeched God to bless them rather than the wretch
on her knees — their images, their names, were ever
before her eyes and on her ear ; and next to that
peace of mind which passeth all understanding, and
comes from the footstool of God into the humble,
lowly, and contrite heart, was to that orphan, day and
night, waking or sleeping, the bliss of her gratitude.
And thus Ludovic to her was a brother, and no more ;
a name sacred as that of sister, by which she always
called her AHce, and was so called in return. But to
Ludovic, who had a soul of fire, Margaret was dearer
far than ever sister was to the brother whom, at the
sacrifice of her own life, she might have rescued
from death. Go where he might, a phantom was at
his side — a pale fair face forever fixed its melan-
cholly eyes on his, as if foreboding something dismal
even when they faintly smiled ; and once he awoke at
midnight, when all the house were asleep, crying with
shrieks, " Oh, God of mercy ! Margaret is mur-
dered ! " Mysterious passion of love ! that darkens
its own dreams of delight with unimaginable horrors !
Shall we call such dire bewilderment the superstition
of troubled fantasy, or the inspiration of the [rophetic
soul !
From what seemingly insignificant sources — and
by means of what humble instruments — may this
TALE OF EXPIATION. 223
life's best happiness be diffused over the households
of industrious men ! Here ^vas the orphan daughter
of forgotten paupers, both dead ere she could speak ;
herself, during all her melancholy childhood, a pauper
even more enslaved than ever they had been — one
of the most neglected and unvalued of all God's crea-
tures — who, had she then died, would have been
buried in some nettled nook of the kirkyard, nor her
grave been watered almost by one single tear — sud-
denly brought out from the cold and cruel shade in
which she had been withering away, by the interposi-
tion of human but angelic hauls, into the heaven's
most gracious sunshine, where all at once her beauty
blossomed like the rose. She, who for so many years
had been even begrudgingly fed on the poorest and
scantiest fare, by Penury ungrateful for all her weak
but zealous efforts to please by domg her best, in sick-
ness and sorrow, at all her tasks, in or out of doors,
and in all weathers, however rough and severe —
was now raised to the rank of a moral, intellectual
and religious being, and presided over, tended and
instructed many little ones, far, far happpier m their
childhood than it had been her lot to be, and all
growing up beneath her now untroubled eyes, in in-
nocence, love and joy inspired into their hearts by
her, their young and happy benefactress. Not a
human dwelling in all the parish, that had not reason
to bo thankful to Margaret Burnside. She taught
them to be pleasant in their manners, neat in their
224 friendship's gift.
persons, rational in their minds, pure in their hearts,
and industrious in all their habits. Rudeness, coarse-
ness, sullenness, all angry fits, and all idle disposi-
tions — the besetting vices and sins of the children
of the poor, whose home-education is often so miser-
ably, and almost necessarily neglected — did this
sweet teacher, by the divine influence of meekness
never ruffled, and tenderness never troubled, m a few
months subdue and overcome — till her school-room,
every day in the week, was in its cheerfulness, sacred
as a Sabbath, and murmured from morn till eve with
the hum of perpetual haj^piness. The effects were
soon felt in every house. All floors were tidier, and
order and regularity enlivened every hearth. It was
the pride of her scholars to get their own little gar-
dens behind their parents' huts, to bloom like that of
the brae — and, in imitation of that flowry porch, to
train up the pretty creepers on the wall. In the kirk-
yard, a smiling group every Sabbath forenoon waited
for her at the gate — and walked, Avith her at their
head, into the house of God — a beautiful procession
to all their parents' eyes — one by one dropping away
into their own seats, as the band moved along the
httle lobby, and the minister sitting in the pulpit all
the while, looked solemnly down upon the fair flock —
the shepherd of their souls !
It w^as Sabbath, but Margaret Burnside was not in
the kirk. The congregation had risen to join in
prayer, when the great door was thrown open, and a
TALE OF EXPIATION. 225
■woman apparelled as for the house of worship, but
wild and ghastly in her face and eyes, as a maniac
hunted by evil spirits, burst in upon the service, and,
with uplifted hands, beseeched the man of God to for-
give her irreverent entrance, for that the foulest and
most unnatural murder had been done, and that her
own eyes had seen the corpse of ]Margaret Burnside
lying on the moor in a pool of blood ! The congrega-
tion gave one groan, and then an outcry as if the
roof of the kirk' had been toppling over their heads.
All cheeks waxed white, women fainted, and the
firmest heart quaked with terror and pity, as once
and again the affrighted witness, in the same words,
described the horrid spectacle, and then rushed out
into the open air, followed by himdreds, who for some
minutes had been palsy-striken ; and now the kirkyard
was all in a tumult round the body of her who lay
in a swoon. In the midst of that dreadful ferment,
there were voices crying aloud that the poor woman
was mad, and that such horror could not be beneath
the sun ; for such a perpetration on the Sabbath-day,
and first heard of just as the prayers of his people
were about to ascend to the Father of all mercies,
shocked belief, and doubt struggled with despair as in
the helpless shudderings of some dream of blood.
The crowd were at last prevailed on by their pastor
to disperse, and sit down on the tombstones, and
water being sprinkled over the face of her who still
lay in that mortal swoon, and the air suffered to cir-
226 friendship's gift.
culate freely round her, she again opened her glassy
eyes, and raising herself on her elbow, stared on the
multitude, all gathered there so wan and silent, and
shrieked out, "■ The Day of Judgment ! The Day
of Judgment! "
The aged minister raised her on her feet, and led
her to a grave, on which she sat down, and hid her
face on his knees. " that I should have lived to
see the day — but dreadful are the decrees of the
Most High — and she whom we all loved has been
cruelly murdered ! Carry me with you, people, and
I will show you where lies her corpse."
" Where — where is Ludovic Adamson ? " cried a
hoarse voice which none there had ever heard before ;
and all eyes were turned in one direction ; but none
knew who had spoken, and all again was hush.
Then all at once a hundred voices repeated the same
words, ^' Where — where is Ludovic Adamson?"
and there was no reply. Then, indeed, was the kirk-
yard in an angiy and a wrathful ferment, and men
looked far into each other's eyes for confirmation of
their suspicions. And there was whispering about
things, that, though in themselves light as air, seemed
now charged with hideous import ; and then arose
sacred appeals to heaven's eternal justice, horridly
mingled with oaths and curses ; and all the crowd,
springing to their feet, pronounced, " that no other
but he could be the murderer."
It was remembered now, that for months past
TALE OF EXPIATION. 227
Margaret Burnside had often looked melancholy —
that her visits had been less frequent to Moorside ;
and one person in the crowd said, that a few weeks
ago she had come upon them suddenly in a retired
place, when Margaret was weeping bitterly, and Lu-
dovic tossing his arms, seemingly in wrath and dis-
traction. All agreed that of late he had led a dis-
turbed and reckless life — and that something dark
and suspicious had hung about him, wherever he
went, as if he were haunted by an evil conscience.
But did not strange men sometimes pass through the
Moor — squaHd mendicants, robber-hke, from the far-
off city — one by one, yet seemingly belonging to the
same gang — with bludgeons hi their hands — half-
naked, and often drunken in their hunger, as at the
doors of lonesome houses they demanded alms ; or
more Hke foot-pads than beggars, with stern gestures,
rising up from the ditches on the way-side, stopped
the frightened women and children going upon
errands, and thanklessly received pence from the
poor ? One of them must have been the murderer !
But, then, again the whole tide of suspicion would set
in upon Ludovic — her lover ; for the darker and
more dreadful the guilt, the more welcome is it to the
fears of the imagination when its waking dreams are
floating m blood.
A tall figure came forward from the porch, and all
was silence when the congregation beheld the father
of the suspected criminal. He stood still as a tree in
FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
a calm day — trunk, limbs, moved not — and his gray
head was uncovered. He then stretched out his arm,
not in an imploring, but in a commanding attitude,
and essaj^ed to speak ; but his white lips quivered,
and his tongue refused its office. At last, almost
fiercely, he uttered, " Who dares denounce my son ? "
and like the growling thunder, the crowd cried,
" All — all — he is the murderer! " Some said that
tiie old man smiled ; but it could have been but a
convulsion of the features — outraged nature's wrung-
out and writhing expression of disdain, to show how a
father's love brooks the cruelty of foolish falsehood
and injustice.
IMen, women, and children — all whom gi-ief and
horror had not made helpless — moved away towards
the Moor — the woman who had seen the sight lead-
ing the way ; for now her whole strength had re-
turned to her, and she was drawn and driven by an
irresistible passion to look again at what had almost
destroyed her judgment. Now they were miles from
the kirk, and over some brushwood, at the edge of
the morass, some distance from the common footpath,
crows were seen diving and careering in the air, and
a raven flapping suddenly out of the covert, sailed
away with a savage croak along a range of cliffs.
The whole multitude stood stock-still at that carrion
sound. The guide said shudderingly, in a low hur-
ried voice, "See, see — that is her mantle " — and
there indeed Margaret lay, all in a heap, maimed,
TALE OF EXPIATION. 229
mangled, murdered, with a hundred gashes. The
corpse seemed as if it had been baked in frost, and
was embedded in coagulated blood. Shreds and
patches of her dress, torn away from her bosom, be-
strewed the bushes — for many yards round about,
there had been the trampling of feet, and a long lock
of hair that had. been torn from her temples, with the
dews yet unmelted on it, was lying upon a plant of
broom, a httle way from the corpse. The first one to
lift the body from the horrid bed was Gilbert Adam-
son. He had been long familiar with death in all its
ghastliness, and all had now looked to him — forget-
ting for the moment that he was the father of the
murderer — to perform the task from which they re-
coiled in horror. Resting on one knee, he placed the
corpse on the other — and who could have believed,
that even the most violent and cruel death could have
wrought such a change on a face once so beautiful !
All was distortion — and terrible it was to see the
dim glazed eyes, fixedly open, and the orbs insensible
to the strong sun that smote her face white as snow
among the streaks as if left by bloody fingers ! Her
throat was all discolored — and a silk handkerchief
twisted into a cord, that had manifestly been used in the
murder, was of a redder hue than when it had veiled
her breast. No one knows what horror his eyes are
able to look on, till they are tried. A circle of stupe-
fied gazers was drawn by a horrid fascination closer
and closer round the corpse — and women stood there
19
230 friendship's gift.
holding children by the hands, and fainted not, but
observed the sight, and shuddered -without shrieking,
and stood there all dumb as ghosts. But the body
was now borne along by many hands — at first none
knew in what direction, till many voices muttered,
'' To Moorside — to Moorside " — and in an hour it
was laid on a bed in which Margaret Burnside had
60 often slept with her beloved little Ann m her
bosom.
The hand of some one had thrown a cloth over the
corpse. The room was filled with people — but all
their power and capacity of horror had been exhaust-
ed — and the silence was now almost like that which
attends a natural death, when all the neighbors are
assembled for the funeral. AHce, with httle Ann
beside her, kneeled at the bed, nor feared to lean
her head close to the covered corpse — sobbing out
syllables that showed how passionately she prayed —
and that she and her little neice — and, oh ! for that
unhappy father — were delivering themselves up into
the hands of God. The father knelt not — neither
did he sit down — nor move — nor groan — but stood
at the foot of the bed^ with arms folded almost
sternly — and with eyes fixed on the sheet, in which
there seemed to be neither ruth nor dread — but only
an austere composure, which were it indeed but resig-
nation to that dismal decree of Providence, had been
most sublime — but who can see into the heart of a
man, either righteous or wicked, and know what may
TALE OF EXPIATION. 231
be passing there, breathed from the gates of heaven
or of hell !
Soon as the bodj had been found, shepherds and
herdsmen, fleet of foot as the deer, had set off to
scour the country far and wide, hill and glen, moun-
tain and morass, moor and wood, for the murderer.
If he be on the face of the earth, and not self-plunged
in despairing suicide into some quagmire, he will be
found — for all the population of many districts are
now afoot, and precipices are climbed till now brushed
but by the falcons. A figure like that of a man, is
seen by some of the hunters from a hill-top, lying
among the stones by the side of a solitary loch. They
separate, and descend upon him, and then gathering
in, they behold the man whom they seek — Ludovic
Adamson, the murderer.
His face is pale and haggard — yet flushed as if
by a fever centered in his heart. That is no dress
for the Sabbath-day — soiled and savage-looking —
and giving to the eyes that search an assurance of
guilt. He starts to his feet, as they think, like some
wild beast surprised in his lair, and gathering itself
up to fight or fly. But — strange enormity — a Bible
is in his hand ! And the shepherd who first seized him,
taking the book out of his grasp, looks into the page
and reads, " Whoever sheddeth man's blood, by man
shall his blood be surely shed." On a leaf is written,
in her own well-known hand, " The gift of Margaret
Bumside I " Not a word is said by his captors —
232 friendship's gift.
they offer no needless violence — no indignities — but
answer all inquiries of surprise and astonishment (Oh !
can one so young be so hardened in wickedness !)
by a stern silence, and upbraiding eyes, that like
daggers must stab his heart. At last he walks dog-
gedly and sullenly along, and refuses to speak — yet
his tread is firm — there is no want of composure in
his face — now that the first passion of fear or anger
has left it ; and now that they have the murderer in
their clutch, some begin almost to pity him, and
others to believe, or at least to hope, that he may be
innocent. As y^t they have said not a word of the
crime of which they accuse him ; but let him try to
master the expression of his voice and eyes as he
may, guilt is in those stealthy glances — guilt is in
those reckless tones. And why does he seek to hide
his right hand in his bosom ? And whatever he may
affect to say — they ask him not — most certainly
that stain on his shirt-collar is blood. But now they
are at Moorside.
There is still a great crowd all round about the
house — in the garden — and at the door — and a
troubled cry announces that the criminal has been
taken, and is close at hand. His father meets him at
the gate ; and, kneehng down, holds up his clasped
hands, and says, " My son if thou art guilty, confess,
and die." The criminal angrily waves his father
aside, and walks towards the door. " Fools ! fools !
what mean ye by this ? \Yhat crime has been com-
TALE OF EXPIATION. 233
mitted ? And how dare ye to think me the crimmal ?
Am I like a murderer?" — "We never spoke to
him of the murder — we never spoke to him of the
murder ! " cried one of the men who now held him
by the arm; and all assembled then exclaimed,
" Guilty, guilty — that one word will hang him !
Oh, pity, pity, for his father and poor sister — this
will break their hearts ! " Appalled, yet firm of foot,
the prisoner forced his way into the house, and turn-
ing, in his confusion, into the chamber on the left,
there he beheld the corpse of the murdered, on the
bed — for the sheet had been removed — as yet not
laid out, and disfigured and deformed just as she had
been found on the moor, in the same misshapen heap
of death ! One long insane glare — one shriek, as if
all his heart-strings at once had burst — and then
down fell the strong man on the floor like lead. One
trial was past which no human hardihood could en-
dure — another, and yet another awaits him; but
them he will bear as the guilty brave have often borne
them, and the most searching eye shall not see him
quail at the bar or on the scaffold.
They lifted the stricken wretch from the floor,
placed him in a chair, and held him upright, till he
should revive from the fit. And he soon did revive ;
for health flowed in all his veins, and he had the
strength of a giant. But when his senses returned,
there was none to pity him ; for the shock had given
an expression of guilty horror to all his looks, and,
19*
234 friendship's gift.
like a man walking in his sleep, under the temptation
of some dreadful dream, he moved with fixed eyes
towards the bed, gobbled in hideous laughter, and
then wept and tore his hair like a distracted woman or
child. Then he stooped down as if he w^ould kiss the
face, but staggered back, and, covering his eyes with
his hands, uttered such a groan as is sometimes heard
rendmg the sinner's breast when the avenging furies
are upon him in his dreams. All who heard it felt
that he was guilty ; and there was a fierce cry
through the room of " Make him touch the body, and
if he be the murderer, it will bleed ! " — " Fear not,
Ludovic, to touch it, my boy," said his father ;
" bleed afresh it will not, for thou art innocent : and
savage though now they be who once were proud to
be thy friends, even they will beheve thee guiltless
when the corpse refuses to bear witness against thee,
and not a drop leaves its quiet heart ! " But his son
spake not a word, nor did he seem to know that his
father had spoken ; but he suffered himself to be led
passively towards the bed. One of the bystanders
took his hand and placed it on the naked breast,
when out of the corners of the teeth-clenched mouth,
and out of the swollen nostrils, two or three blood-
drops visibly oozed ; and a sort of shrieking shout de-
clared the sacred faith of all in the crowd in the
dreadful ordeal. " What body is this ? 'tis all over
blood ! " said the prisoner, looking with an idiot va-
cancy on the faces that surrounded him. But now
TALE OF EXPIATION. 235
the sheriff of the county entered the room, along -with
some officers of justice, and he was spared any further
shocks from that okl saving superstition. His wrists
soon after were manacled. These were all the words
he had uttered since he recovered from the fit ; and
he seemed now in state of stupor.
Ludovic Adamson, after examination of witnesses,
who crowded against him from many unexpected
quarters, was committed that very Sabbath night to
prison on a charge of murder. On the Tuesday fol-
lowing, the remains of Margaret Bumside were in-
terred. All the parish were at the funeral. In Scot-
land it is not customary for females to join in the last
simple ceremonies of death. But in this case they
did ; and all her scholars, in the same white dresses
in which they used to walk with her at their head into
the kirk on Sabbaths, followed the bier. Ahce and
little Ann were there, nearest the coffin, and the
father of him who had wrought all this wo was one of
its supporters. The head of the murdered girl rested,
it might be said, on his shoulder — but none can know
the strength which God gives to his servants — and
all present felt for him as he walked steadily under
that dismal burden, a pity, and even an affection,
which they had been unable to yield to him ere he
had been so sorely tried. The ladies from the Castle
were among the other mourners, and stood by the
open grave. A sunnier day had never shone from
heaven, and that very grave itself partook of the
236 friendship's gift*
brightness, as the coffin — with the gilt letters,
"Margaret Burnside, Aged 18" — was let do^Yn,
and in the darkness below disappeared. No flowers
were sprinkled there — nor afterwards planted on the
turf — vain offerings of unavailing sorrow ! But in
that nook — beside the bodies of her poor parents -—
she was left for the grass to grow over her, as over
the other humble dead ; and nothing but the very
simplest headstone was placed there, with a sentence
from Scripture below the name. There was less
weeping, less sobbing than at many other funerals ;
for as sure as Mercy ruled the skies, all beheved that
she was there — all knew it, just as if the gates of
heaven had opened and showed her a white-robed spirit
at the right hand of the throne. And why should
any rueful lamentation have been wailed over the
senseless dust ? But on the way home, over the hills,
and in the hush of evening beside their hearth, and in
the stillness of night on their beds — all — young and
old — all did nothing but weep !
For weeks — such was the pity, grief and awe in-
spired by this portentous crime and lamentable ca-
lamity, that all the domestic on-goings in all the
houses far and wide, were melancholy and mournful,
as if the country had been fearing a visitation of the
plague. Sin, it was felt, had brought not only sorrow
on the parish, but shame that ages would not wipe
away ; and strangers, as they travelled through the
moor, would point the place where the foulest murder
TALE OF EXPIATION. 237
had been committed in all the annals of crime. As
for the family at Moorside, the daughter had their
boundless compassion, though no eye had seen her
since the funeral ; but people, in speaking of the far
ther, would still shake their heads, and put their
fingers to their lips, and say to one another, in whis-
pers, that Gilbert Adamson had once been a bold, bad
man — that his religion, in spite of all his repulsive
austerity, wore not the aspect of truth — and that had
he held a stricter and a stronger hand on the errors of
his misguided son, tliis foul deed had not been perpe-
trated, nor that wretched sinner's soul given to perdi-
tion. Yet others had gentler and humaner thoughts.
They remembered him walking along God-supported
beneath the bier — and at the mouth of the grave —
and feared to look on that head — formerly grizzled,
but now quite gray — when on the very first Sabbath af-
ter the murder he took his place in the elder's seat, and
was able to stand up, along with the rest of the con-
gregation, when tlie minister prayed for peace to his
soul, and hoped for the deliverance out of jeopardy of
him now lying in bonds. A low Amen went all round
the kirk at these words ; for the most hopeless called
to mind that maxim of law, equity and justice — that
every man under accusation of crime should be held
innocent till he is proved to be guilty. Nay, a human
tribunal might condemn him, and yet might he stand
acquitted before the tribunal of God.
There were various accounts of the behavior of the
238 friendship's gift.
prisoner. Some said that he was desperately hard-
ened — others, sunk in sullen apathy and indifference
— and one or two persons belonging to the parish, who
had seen him, declared that he seemed to care not
for himself, but to be plunged in profomid melan-
choly for the fate of Margaret Burnside, whose name
he involuntarily mentioned, and then bowed his head
on his kness and wept. His guilt he neither admitted
at that interview, nor denied ; but he confessed that
some circumstances bore hard against him, and that
he was prepared for the event of his trial — condem-
nation and death. " But if you are not guilty, Ludo-
vic, who can he the murderer? Not the slightest
shade of suspicion has fallen on any other person —
and did not, alas ! the body bleed when " The
unhappy wretch sprang up from the bed, it was said,
at these words, and hurried like a madman back and
forward along the stone floor of his cell. " Yea —
yea!" at last he cried, "the mouth and nostrils of
my Margaret did indeed bleed when they pressed
down my hand on her cold bosom. It is God's
truth ! " " God's truth ? " — " Yes — God's truth.
I saw first one drop, and then another, trickle towards
me — and I prayed to our Saviour to wipe them off
before other eyes might behold the dreadful witnesses
against me ; but at that hour Heaven was most un-
merciful — for those two small drops — as all of you
saw — soon became a very stream — and all her face,
neck and breast — you saw it as well as I miserable
TALE OF EXPIATION.
— were at last drenched in blood. Then I may have
confessed that I was guilty — did I, or did I not,
confess it ? Tell me — for I remember nothing dis-
tinctly : — but if I did — the judgment of offended
Heaven, then punishing me for my sins, had made
me worse than mad — and so had all your abhorrent
eyes ; and, men, if I did confess, it was the cruelty
of God that drove me to it — and your cruelty —
which was great ; for no pity had any one for me that
day, though Margaret Burnside lay before me a mur-
dered corpse — and a hoarse whisper came to my ear
ui'ging me to confess — I well believe from no human
Hps, but from the Father of Lies, who, at that hour,
was suffered to leave the pit to ensnare my soul."
Such was said to have been the main sense of what
he uttered in the presence of two or three, who had
formerly been among his most intimate friends, and
who knew not, on leaving his cell and coming into
the open air, whether to think him innocent or guilty.
As long as they thought they saw his eyes regarding
them, and that they heard his voice speaking, they
behoved him innocent ; but when the expression of
the tone of his voice, and of the look of his eyes —
which they had felt belonged to innocence — died
away from their memory — then arose against him
the strong, strange, circumstantial evidence, which,
wisely or unwisely — lawyers and judges have said
cannot lie — and then, in their hearts, one and all
of them pronounced him guilty.
240 friendship's gift.
But had not his father often visited the prisoner's
cell ? Once — and once only ; for in obedience to
his son's passionate prayer, beseeching him — if there
were any mercy left either on earth or in heaven —
never more to enter that dungeon, the miserable pa-
rent had not again entered the prison ; but he had
been seen one morning at dawn, by one who knew his
person, walking round and round the walls, stareing up
at the black building in distraction, especially at one
small grated window in the north tower — and it is
most probable that he had been pacing his rounds
there during all the night. Nobody could conjecture,
however dimly, what was the meaning of his banish-
ment from his son's cell. Gilbert Adamson, so stem
to others, even to his own onl}^ daughter, had been
always but too indulgent to his Ludovic — and had
that lost wretch's guilt, so exceeding great, changed
his heart into stone, and made the sight of his old far
ther's gray hairs hateful to his eyes ? But then the
jailer, who had heard him imploring — beseeching —
commanding his father to remain till after the trial
at Moorside, said, that all the while the prisoner
sobbed and wept like a child ; and that when he un-
locked the door of the cell, to let the old man out, it
was a hard thing to tear away the arms and hands of
Ludovic from his knees, while the father sat like a
stone image on the bed, and kept his tearless eyes
fixed sternly upon the wall, as if not a soul had been
present, and he himself had been a criminal con-
demned next day to die.
TALE OF EXPIATION. 241
The father had obeyed, religiously, that miserable
injunction, and from religion it seemed he had found
comfort. For Sabbath after Sabbath he was at the
kirk — he stood as he had been wont to do for years,
at the poor's plate, and return grave salutations to
those who dropped their mite into the small sacred
treasury — his eyes calmly, and even critically, re-
garded the pastor during the prayer and sermon —
and his deep bass voice was heard, as usual, through
all the house of God in the Psalms. On week-days,
he was seen by passers-by to drive his flocks afield,
and to overlook his sheep on the hill-pastures, or in
the pen-fold ; and as it was still spring, and seed-time
had been late this season, he was observed holding the
plough, as of yore ; nor had his skill deserted him —
for the furrows were as straight as if drawn by a rule
on paper — and soon bright and beautiful was the
braird on all the low lands of his farm. The Com-
forter was with him, and, sorely as he had been tried,
his heart was not yet wholly broken ; and it was be-
lieved that for years, he might outhve the blow that
at first had seemed more than a mortal man might
bear and be ! Yet that his wo, though hidden, was
dismal, all ere long knew, from certain tokens that in-
trenched his face — cheeks shrunk and fallen — brow
not so much furrowed as scarred, eyes quenched, hair
thinner and thinner far, as if he himself had torn it
away in handfuls during the solitude of midnight —
and now absolutely as white as snow ; and over the
20
242 friendship's gift.
whole man an indescribable ancientness far beyond his
years — though they were many, and most of them
had been passed in torrid climes — all showed how
grief has its agonies as destructive as those of guilt,
and those the most wasting when they work in the
heart and in the brain, unrelieved by the shedding of
one single tear — when the very soul turns dry as
dust, and life is imprisoned, rather than mingled, in
the decaying — the mouldering body !
The Day of Trial came, and all labor was suspended
in the parish, as if it had been a mourning fast. Hun-
dreds of people from this remote district poured into
the circuit-town, and besieged the cour1>house. Horse-
men were in readiness, soon as the verdict should be
returned, to carry the intelligence — of life or death
— to all those glens. A few words will suffice to tell
the trial, the nature of the evidence, and its issue.
The prisoner, who stood at the bar in black, appeared
— thouglf miserably changed from a man of great
muscular power and activity, a magnificent man,
into a tall thin shadow — perfectly unappalled ; but
in a face so white, and wasted, and wo-begone, the
most profound physiognomist could read not one
faintest symptom either of hope or fear, trembling or
trust, guilt or innocence. He hardly seemed to be-
long to this world, and stood fearfully and ghastly
conspicuous between the officers of justice, above all the
crowd that devoured him with their eyes, all leaning
towards the bar to catch the first sound of his voice,
TALE OF EXPIATION. 243
when to the indictment he should plead " Not Guilty."
These words he did utter, in a liollow voice altogether
passionless, and then was suffered to sit down, which
he did in a manner destitute of all emotion. During
all the many long hours of his trial, he never moved
head, limbs, or body except once, when he drank
some water, which he had not asked for, but which
was given to him by a friend. The evidence was en-
tirely circumstantial, and consisted of a few damning
facts, and of many of the very slightest sort, which,
taken singly, seemed to mean nothing, but which,
when considered all together, seemed to mean some-
thing against him — how much, or how little, there
were among the agitated audience many differing
opinions. But slight as they were, either singly or
togctlier, they told fearfully against the prisoner,
when connected with the fatal few which no ingenuity
could ever explain away — and though ingenuity did
all it could do, when wielded by eloquence of the
highest order — and as the prisoner's counsel sat
down, there went a rustle and a buzz through the
court, and a communication of looks and whispers,
that seemed to denote that there were hopes of his
acquittal — yet, if such hopes there were, they were
deadened by the recollection of the calm, clear, logi-
cal address to the jury by the counsel for the crown,
and destroyed by the judge's charge, which amounted
almost to demonstration of guilt, and concluded with a
confession due to his oath and conscience, that he saw
244 friendship's gift.
not how the jury could do their duty to their Creator
and their fellow-creatures, but by returning one ver-
dict. They retired to consider it ; and, during a
death-like silence, all eyes were bent on ^ death-like
image.
It had appeared in evidence, that the murder had
been committed, at least all the gashes inflicted — for
there were also finger-marks of strangulation — with
a bill-hook, such as foresters use in lopping trees ; and
several witnesses swore that the bill-hook which was
shown them, stained with blood, and with hair stick-
ing on the haft — belonged to Ludovic Adamson. It
was also given in evidence — though some doubts rest-
ed on the nature of the precise words — that on that
day, in the room with the corpse, he had given a wild
and incoherent denial to the question then put to Ir.m
in the din, " What he had done with the bill-hook."
Nobody had seen it in his possession since the spring
before ; but it had been found, after several weeks'
search, in a hag in the moss, in the direction that he
would have most probably taken — had he been the
murderer — when flying from the spot to the loch
where he was seized. The shoes which he had on
when taken, fitted the foot-marks on the ground, not
far from the place of the murder, but not so perfectly
as another pair which were found in the house. But
that other pair, it was proved, belonged to the old
man ; and therefore the correspondence between the
foot-marks and the prisoner's shoes, though not per-
TALE OF EXPIATION. 245
feet, was a circumstance of much suspicion. But a
far stronger fact, in this part of the evidence, was
sworn to against the prisoner. Though there was no
blood on his shoes — when apprehended his legs were
bare — though that circumstance, strange as it may
seem, had never been noticed till he was on the way
to prison ! His stockings had been next day found
lying on the sward, near the . shore of the loch, mani-
festly after having been washed and laid out to dry in
the sun. At mention of this circumstance a cold
shudder ran through the court ; but neither that, nor
indeed any other circumstance in the evidence — not
even the account of the appearance w^hich the mur-
dered body exhibited when found on the moor, or
when afterwards laid on the bed — extorted from the
prisoner one groan — one sigh — or touched the im-
perturbable deathliness of his countenance. It was
proved, that when searched — in prison, and not be-
fore ; for the agitation that reigned over all assembled
in the room at Moorside that dreadful day, had con-
founded even those accustomed to deal -with suspected
criminals — there were found in his pocket a small
French gold watch, and also a gold brooch, which the
ladies of the Castle had given to Margaret Burnside.
On these being taken from him, he had said nothing,
but looked aghast. A piece of torn and bloody paper,
which had been picked up near the body, was sworn
to be in his handwriting ; and though the meaning of
the words — yet legible — was obscure, they seemed
20*
946 friendship's gift.
to express a request that Margaret would meet him
on the moor on that Saturday afternoon she was mur-
dered. The words " Saturday " — " meet me " —
"last time," — were not indistinct, and the paper was
of the same quality and color with some found in a
drawer in his bed-room at Moorside. It was proved
that he had been drinking with some dissolute per-
sons — poachers and the like — in a neighboring
parish all Saturday, till well on in the afternoon, when
he left them in a state of intoxication — and was then
seen runnin<]i; alonor the hill side in the direction of the
moor. Where he passed the night between the Sat-
urday and the Sabbath, he could give no account,
except once when unasked, and as if speaking to
himself he was overheard by the jailer to mutter,
"Oh! that fatal night— that fatal night ! " xind
then, when suddenly mterrogated, " Where were
you ? " he answered, " Asleep on the hill ; " and
immediately relapsed into a state of mental abstrac-
tion. These were the chief circumstances against
him, which his counsel had striven to explain away.
That most eloquent person dwelt with affecting
earnestness on the wickedness of putting any evil
construction on the distracted behavior of the wretch-
ed man when brought without warning upon the sud-
den sight of the mangled corpse of the beautiful girl,
whom all allowed he had most passionately and ten-
derly loved ; and he strove to prove — as he did
prove to the conviction of many — that such behavior
TALE OF EXPIATION. 247
was incompatible with such guilt, and almost of itself
established his innocence. All that was sworn to
against him, as having passed in that dreadful room,
was in truth for him — unless all our knowledge of
the best and of the worst of human nature were not,
as folly, to be given to the winds. He beseeched the
jury, therefore, to look at all the other circumstances
that did indeed seem to bear hard upon the prisoner,
in the light of his innocence, and not of his guilt, and
that they would all fade into nothing. What mat-
tered his possession of the watch and other trinkets ?
Lovers as they were, might not the unhappy girl have
given them to him for temporary keepsakes ? Or
might he not have taken them from her in some play-
ful mood, or received them — (and the brooch was
cracked, and the mainspring of the watch broken,
though the glass was whole) — to get them repaired
in the town which he often visited, and she never ?
Could human credulity for one moment believe that
such a man as the prisoner at the bar had been sworn
to be by a host of witnesses — and especially by that
witness, who, with such overwhelming solemnity, had
declared he loved him as his own son, and would have
been proud if Heaven had given him such a son — he
who had baptized him, and known him well ever
since a child — that such a man could roh the body of
her whom he had violated and murdered ? If, under
the instigation of the devil, he had violated and mur-
dered her, and for a moment were made the hideous
248 friendship's gift.
supposition, did vast hell hold that demon whose voice
would have tempted the violator and murderer —
suppose him both — yea, that man at the bar — sworn
to by all the parish, if need w^ere, as a man of tender est
charities, and generosity unbounded — in the lust of
lucre, consequent on the satiating of another lust — to
rob his victim of a few trinkets ! Let loose the wildest
imagination into the realms of wildest wickedness,
and yet they dared not, as they feared God, to credit
for a moment the union of such appalling and such
paltry guilt, in that man who now trembled not before
them, but who seemed cut off from all the sensibilities
of this life, by the scythe of Misery that had shorn
him down ! But why try to recount, however feebly,
the line of defence taken by the speaker, w^ho on that
day seemed all but inspired. The sea may overturn
rocks, or fire consume them till they split in pieces ;
but a crisis there sometimes is in man's destiny, which
all the powers ever lodged in the lips of man, were
they touched with a coal from heaven, cannot avert,
and when even he who strives to save, feels and knows
that he is striving all in vain — ay, vain, as a worm —
to arrest the tread of Fate about to trample down its
victim into the dust. All hoped — many almost be-
lieved — that the prisoner would be acquitted — that
a verdict of " Not Proven," at least, if not of " Not
Guilty," would be returned ; but they had not been
sworn to do justice before man and before God — and,
if need were, to seal up even the fountains of mercy
TALE OF EXPIATION. 249
in their hearts — flowing, and easily set a-flowing, by
such a spectacle as that bar presented — a man al-
ready seeming to belong unto the dead !
In about a quarter of an hour the jury returned to
the box — and the verdict having been sealed with
black wax, was handed up to the Judge, who read,
" AYe unanimously find the prisoner Guilty." He
then stood up to receive the sentence of death. Not
a dry eye was in the court during the Judge's solemn
and affecting address to the criminal — except those
of the shadow on whom had been pronounced the
doom. " Your, body will be hung in chains on the
moor — on a gibbet erected on the spot where you
murdered the victim of your unhallowed lust, and
there will 3'our bones bleach in the sun, and rattle in
the wind, after the insects and the birds of the air
have devoured your flesh ; and in all future times, the
spot on which, God-forsaking and God-forsaken, you
perpetrated that double crime, at which all humanity
shudders, will be looked on from afar by the traveller
passing through that lonesome wild with a sacred hor-
ror ! " Here the voice of the Judge faltered, and he
covered his face with his hands ; but the prisoner
stood unmoved in figure, and in face untroubled —
and when all was closed, was removed from the bar,
the same ghostlike and unearthly phantom, seemingly
unconscious of what had passed, or even of his own
existence.
Surely now he will suffer his old father to visit him
250 friendship's gift.
in his cell ! ^' Once more only — only once more let
me see him before I die!" were his words to the
clergyman of the parish, whose Manse he had so often
visited when a young and happy boy. That servant
of Christ had not forsaken him whom now all the
world had forsaken. As free from sin himself as
might be mortal and fallen man — mortal because
fallen — he knew from Scripture and from nature,
that in " the lowest deep there is still a lower deep "
in wickedness, into which all of woman born may fall,
unless held back by the arm of the Almighty Being,
whom they must serve steadfastly in hohness and
truth. He knew, too, from the same source, that
man cannot sin beyond the reach of God's mercy —
if the worst of all imaginable sinners seek, in a Bible-
breathed spirit at last, that mercy through the Atone-
ment of the Redeemer. Daily — and nightly — he
visited that cell ; nor did he fear to touch the hand —
now wasted to the bone — which at the temptation of
the Prince of the Air, who is mysteriously suffered to
enter in at the gates of every human heart that is
guarded not by the flaming sword of God's own sera-
phim — was lately drenched in the blood of the most
innocent creature that ever looked on the day. Yet
a sore trial it was to his Christianity to find the
criminal so obdurate. He would make no confession.
Yet said that it was fit — that it was far best that
he should die — that he deserved death! But ever
when the deed without a name was alluded to.
TALE OF EXPIATION. 251
liis tongue was tied ; and once in the midst of an
impassioned prajer, beseeching him to listen to con-
science and confess — he that prayed shuddered to
behold him frown, and to hear bursting out in terrible
energy, " Cease — cease to torment me, or you will
drive me to deny my God ! "
No father came to visit him in his cell. On the
day of trial he had been missing from Moorside, and
was seen next morning — (where he had been all
night never was known — though it was afterwards
rumored that one like him had been seen sitting, as
the gloaming darkened, on the very spot of the mur-
der) — wandering about the hills, hither and thither,
and round and round about, like a man stricken with
blindness, and vainly seekmg to find his home.
"\Yhen brought into the house, his senses were gone,
and he had lost the power of speech. All he could
do was to mutter some disjointed syllables, which he
did continually, without one moment's cessation, one
unintelligible and most rueful moan ! The figure of
his daughter seemed to cast no image on his eyes —
blind and dumb he sat where he had been placed,
perpetually wringing his hands, with his shaggy eye-
brows drawn high up his forehead, and the fixed orbs
— though stone blind at least to all real things —
beneath them flashing fire. He had borne up bravely
— almost to the last — but had some tongue syllabled
his son's doom in the solitude, and at that instant had
insanity smitten him !
252 friendship's gift.
Such utter prostration of intellect had been ex-
pected by none ; for the old man, up to the very
night before the trial, had expressed the most confi-
dent trust of his son's acquittal. Nothing had ever
served to shake his conviction of his innocence —
though he had always forborne speaking about the
circumstances of the murder — and had communi-
cated to nobody any of the grounds on which he more
than hoped in a case so hopeless ; and though a
trouble in his eyes often gave the lie to his lips, when he
used to say to the silent neighbors, " AYe shall soon see
him back at Moorside." Had his belief in Ludovic's
innocence, and his trust in God that that innocence
would be established and -set free, been so sacred,
that the blow when it did come, struck him like a
hammer, and felled him to the ground, from which he
had risen with a riven brain ? In whatever way the
shock had been given, it had been terrible ; for old
Gilbert Adamson was now a confirmed lunatic, and
keepers were in Moorside — not keepers from a mad-
house — for his daughter could not afibrd such tend-
ence — but two of her brother's friends, who sat up
with him alternately, night and day, wliile the arms of
the old man, in his distraction, had to be bound with
cords. That dreadful moaning was at an end now ;
but the echoes of the hills responded to his yells and
shrieks ; and people were afraid to go near the house.
It was proposed among the neighbors to take Alice
and httle Ann out of it ; and an asylum for them was
TALE OF EXPIATION. 253
in the Manse ; but Alice would not stir at all their
entreaties ; and as, in such a case, it would have been
too shocking to tear her away by violence, she was
suffered to remain with him who knew her not, but
who often — it was said — stared distractedly upon her,
as if she had been some fiend sent in upon his insanity
from the place of punishment. Weeks passed on,
and still she was there — hiding herself at times from
those terrifying eyes ; and from her watching corner,
waitmg from morn till night, and from night till morn
— for she seldom lay down to sleep, and had never
undressed herself since that fatal sentence — for some
moment of exhausted horror, when she might steal
out, and carry some sHght gleam of comfort, however
evanescent, to the glimmer or the gloom in wliich the
brain of her Father swam through a dream of blood.
But there were no lucid intervals ; and ever as she
moved towards him, like a pitying angel, did he furi-
ously rage against her, as if she had been a fiend. At
last, she who, though yet so young, had lived to see
the murdered corpse of her dearest friend — murdered
by her own only brother, whom, in secret, that mur-
dered maiden had most tenderly loved — that murder-
ous brother loaded with prison-chains, and condemned
to the gibbet for inexpiable and unpardonable crimes —
her father raving like a demon, self-murderous, were
his hands but free, nor visited by one glimpse of mercy
from Him who rules the skies — after having borne
more than, as she meekly said, had ever poor girl
21
214 friendship's gift.
borne, she took to her bed quite heart-broken, and,
the night before the day of execution, died. As for
poor httle Ann, she had been wiled away some weeks
before ; and in the blessed thoughtlessness of child-
hood, was not without hours of happiness among her
playmates on the braes.
The Morning of that Day arose, and the Moor was
all blackened with people round the tall gibbet, that
seemed to have grown, with its horrid arms, out of the
ground during the night. No sound of axes or ham-
mers had been heard clinking during the dark hours
— nothing had been seen passing along the road ; for
the windows of all the houses from which any thing
could have been seen, had been shut fast against all
horrid sights — and the horses' hoofs and the wheels
must have been muffled that had brought that hideous
Framework to the Moor. But there it now stood — a
dreadful Tree ! The sun moved higher and higher
up the sky, and all the eyes of that congregation were
at once turned towards the east, for a dull sound, as
frumbhng wheels and trampling feet, seemed shaking
the Moor in that direction ; and lo ! surrounded with
armed men on horseback, and environed with halberds,
came on a cart, in which three persons seemed to be
sitting, he in the middle all dressed in white — the
death-clothes of the murderer — the unpitying shedder
of most innocent blood.
There was no bell to toll there — but at the very
moment he was ascending the scaffold, a black cloud
TALE OF EXPIATION. 255
knelled thunder, and many hundreds of people all at
once fell down upon theu- knees. The man m white
lifted up his eyes, and said, " Lord God of Heaven !
and Thou his blessed Son, who died to save sinners !
accept this sacrifice ! "
Not one in all that immense crowd could have known
that that white apparition was Ludovic Adamson.
His hair, that had been almost jet-black, was now white
as his face — as his figure, dressed, as it seemed, for
the grave. Are they going to execute the murderer
in his shroud ? Stone-blind, and stone-deaf, there he
stood — yet had he, without help, walked up the steps
of the scaffold. A hymn of several voices arose —
the man of God close beside the criminal, with the
Bible in his uplifted hands ; but those bloodless lips
had iio motion — with him tliis world was not, though
yet he was in life — in hfe, and no more ! And was
this the man who, a few months ago, flmging the fear
of death from him, as a flash of sunshine flings aside
the shades, had descended into that pit which an hour
before had been bellowing, as the foul vapors exploded
like cannons, and brought up the bodies of them who
had perished in the womb of the earth ? Was this he
who once leaped into the devouring fire, and re-ap
peared, after all had given over for lost the glorious
boy, with an infant in his arms, while the flames seemed
to eddy back, that they might scathe not the head of
the deliverer, and a shower of blessings fell upon him
as he laid it in its mother's bosom, and made the heart
256 friendship's gift.
of tlie -widow to sing for joy ? It is he. And now the
executioner pulls down the cord from the beam, and
fastens it round the criminal's neck. His face is
already covered, and that fatal hankerchief is in his
hand. The whole crowd are now kneeling, and one
multitudinous sob convulses the air ; — when wild out-
cries, and shrieks, and yells, are at that moment heard
from the distant gloom of the glen that opens up to
Moorside, and three figures, one far in advance of the
others, come flying, as on the wings of the wind, to the
gibbet. Hundreds started to then- feet, and " 'Tis
the maniac — 'tis the lunatic ! " was the cry. Pre-
cipitating himself down a rocky hill-side, that seemed
hardly accessible but to the goats, the maniac, the
lunatic, at a few desperate leaps and bounds, just as
it was expected he would have been dashed in picc-r,
ahghted unstunned upon the level greensward ; and
now, far ahead of his keepers, with incredible swift-
ness neared the scaffold — and the dense crowd
making a lane for him in their fear and astonishment,
he flew up the ladder to the horrid platform, and
grasping his son in his arms, howled dreadfully over
him; and then with a loud voice cried, " Saved — saved
— saved!"
So sudden had been that wild rush, that all the
officers of justice — the very executioner — stood
aghast ; and now the prisoner's neck is free from that
accursed cord — his face is once more visible without
that hideous shroud — and he sinks down senseless on
I
TALE OF EXPIATION. 257
the scaffold. " Seize him — seize him ! " and he was
seized — but no maniac — no lunatic — was the father
noAY — for during the night, and during the dawn, and
during the morn, and on to midday — on to the Hour
OF One — when all rueful preparations were to be
completed — had Pro\ddence been clearing and calm-
ing the tumult in that troubled brain ; and as the cot-
tage clock struck one, memory brightened at the chime
into a perfect knowledge of the past, and prophetic
imagination saw the future lowering upon the dismal
present. All night long, with the cunning of a mad-
man — for all night long he had still been mad — the
miserable old man had been disengaging his hands from
the manacles, and that done, springing like a wild
beast from his cage, he flew out of the open door, nor
could a horse's speed on that fearful road have over-
taken him before he reached the scaffold.
No need was there to hold the miserable man. He
who had been so furious in his manacles at Moorside,
seemed now, to the people at a distance, calm as
when he used to sit in the elder's seat beneath the
pulpit in that small kirk. But they who were near or
on the scaffold, saw something horrid in the fixedness
of his countenance. " Let go your hold of me, ye
fools I " he muttered to some of the mean wretches
of the law, who still had him in their clutch — and
tossing his hands on high, cried with a loud voice, —
" Give ear, ye Heavens ! and hear, Earth ! I am
the Violator — I am the Murderer ! "
21*
258 friendship's gift.
The moor groaned as in earthquake — and then all
that congregation bowed their heads with a rustling
noise, like a wood smitten by the wind. Had they
heard aright the unimaginable confession ? His head
had long been gray — he had reached the term allotted
to man's mortal life here below — threescore and ten.
Morning and evening, never had the Bible been out
of his hands at the hour set apart for family worship.
And who so eloquent as he in expounding its most
dreadful mysteries ? The unregenerate heart of man,
he had ever said — in scriptural phrase — was " des-
perately wicked." Desperately wicked indeed ! And
now again he tcssed his arms wrathfully — so the wild
motion looked — in the wrathful skies. " I ravished
— I murdered her — ye know it, ye evil spirits in the
depths of hell ! " Consternation now fell on the minds
of all — and the truth was clear as light — and all
eyes knew at once that now indeed they looked on the
murderer. The dreadful delusion under which all
their understandings had been brought by the power
of circumstances, was by that voice destroyed — the
obduracy of him who had been about to die was now
seen to have been the most heroic virtue — the self-
sacrifice of a son to save a father from ignominy and
death.
" monster, beyond the reach of redemption ! and
the very day after the murder, while the corpse was
lying in blood on the INIoor, he was with us in the
House of God ! Tear him in pieces — rend him hmb
TALE OF EXPIATION. 259
from limb — tear him into a thousand pieces ! "
" The Evil One had power given him to prevail
against me, and I fell under the temptation. It was
so written in the Book of Predestination, and the deed
lies at the door of God ! " " Tear the blasphemer
into pieces ! Let the scaffold drink his blood ! " —
" So let it be if it be so written, good people ! Satan
never left me since the murder till this day — he sat
by my sida in the kirk — when I was ploughing in the
field — there — ever as I came back from the other
end of the furrow — he stood on the headrig — in the
shape of a black shadow. But now I see him not —
he has returned to his den in the pit. I cannot im-
agine what I have been doing, or what has been done to
me, all the time between the day of trial and this of
execution. Was I mad ? No matter. But you shall
not hang Ludovic — he, poor boy, is innocent; —
here, look at him — here — I tell you again — is the
Violator and the Murderer ! "
But shall the men in authority dare to stay the ex-
ecution at a maniac's words ? If they dare not — that
multitude will, now all rising together like the waves
of the sea. " Cut the cords asunder that bind our
Ludovic's arms," — a thousand voices cried ; and the
murderer, unclasping a knife, that, all unknown to his
keepers, he had worn in his breast when a maniac,
sheared them asunder as the sickle shears the corn.
But his son stirred not — and on being hfted up by his
father, gave not so much as a groan. His heart had
260 friendship's gift.
burst, and he was dead. No one touched the gray-
headed murderer, who knelt down — not to pray —
but to look into his son's eves — and to examine his
lips — and to feel his left breast — and to search out
all the symptoms of a fainting-fit, or to assure himself,
and many a corpse had the plunderer handled on the
field after hush of the noise of battle — that this was
death. He rose ; and standing forward on the edge
of the scaffold, said, with a voice that shook not, deep,
strong, hollow and hoarse — " Good people ! I am
likewise now the murderer of my daughter and of my
son! and of myself! " Next moment the knife was
in his heart — and he fell down a corpse on the corpse
of his Ludovic. All round the sultry horizon the black
clouds had for hours been gathering — and now came
the thunder and the lightning — and the storm.
Again the whole multitude prostrated themselves on
the moor — and the Pastor, bending over the dead
bodies, said,
" This is Expiation ! "
I
•^
f.
a
'7
FAIR INES.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
O SAW ye not fair Ines ?
She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest:
She took our daylight with her.
The smiles that w^e love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
turn again, fair Ines,
Before the fall of night.
For fear the moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright ;
And blessed will the lover be.
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against my cheek
1 dare not even write !
friendship's gift.
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gayly by thy side.
And whisper'd thee so near !
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear ?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore.
With bands of noble gentlemen.
And banners waved before ;
And gentle youth and maidens gay.
And snowy plumes they wore ;
It would have been a beautious dream,
— If it had been no more !
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck.
Nor danced so ligiit before, —
FAIR INES. 263
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore !
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more !
LOVE.
ANONYMOUS.
Of all passions in the world, love not only is the
most tyrannical, and takes the deepest hold, but it is
also the speediest in its transformation, and in its
change of the scenery around us ; nay, the scenery
environing the heart. That love is the great sweet-
ener of life — the active and stirring principle — the
spring which sets everything in motion — the vivid
awakener, exponent, and representative of all the
finest, most delicate, and most subtle movements in
our spiritual nature, who can deny ? But as all minds
differ, so all must love differently : the tasteful can
love but with taste ; the dehcate with delicacy ; the
fervent and eager with high impellent strength, and
burning completeness and abandonment.
There is love which, once aroused — called to the
surface from its tender fountain, and boiling up out of
its placid depths, becomes like the torrent, sweeping on
in impetuosity, rising up against and surmounting
with fury all petty obstacles and small interruptions
LOVE. 265
^vhich tlie envy or cautious policy, the coldness or
worldiiness of man seek to interpose to it.
Love is such a giant power that it seems to gather
Strength from obstructions, and at every difficulty-
rises to higher might. It is all dominant — all con-
i^uering ; a grand leveler which can bring down to its
own universal hue of equalization the proudest heights,
and remove the most stubborn impediments : " Like
death, it levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
beside the sceptre." There is no hope of resistmg
it, for it outwatches the most vigilent — submerges
everything, acquiring strength as it proceeds ; ever
growing, nay, growing out of itself. Love is the light,
the majesty of life : that principle to which, after all
oui' struggling, and writhing, and twisting, all things
must be resolved. Take it away, and what becomes
of the world ! It is a barren ^^ilderness ! A world
of monuments, each standing upright and erumbhng ;
an army of gray stones, without a chaplet, without a
leaf to take off, with its glimpse of green, their flat
insipidity and offensive uniformity upon a shrubless
plain. Things base and foul, creeping and obscure,
withered, bloodless, and brainless, could alone spring
from such a marble hearted soil.
Its vegetation must be fdnt ; its grass but fields of
spiculce, like white coral, shivering to the feet. Sandy
deserts, springless, herbless ; slatey rocks and Hmc-
stone splinters, cold and impenetrable as Egyptian
obelisks, scattered, to stand for ever in the profundity
22
266 friendship's gift.
of their own desolation, and to rear their giant shapes
to a heaven of lead, whose clouds sluggishly and
ponderously move, like marble islands, in an atmos"
phere of hopeless depression, stagnant and unmoving.
Love is the sun of the moral world ; which revives,
invigorates, calls into life, and illumines all objects ;
gives strength to the weak, fire to our plans and pur-
poses, brings about great things, and is at once the
mainspring and grand mover of all that is not only
sweet, graceful, and beautiful in our constitution, but
noble, bold, and aspiring. Love's darts are silver ;
when they turn to fire in the noble heart they im-
part a portion of that heavenly flame which is their
element. Love is of such a refining, elevating char-
acter, that it expels all that is mean and base ; bids
us think great thoughts, do great deeds, and changes
our common clay into fine gold. It illuminates our
path, dark and mysterious as it may be, with torch-
lights lit from the one great light. Oh, poor, weak,
and inexpressive are words when sought to strew, as
with stars, the path and track of the expression of
love's greatness and power ! Dull, pitiful, and cold ;
a cheating, horny gleam, as strung stones by the side of
precious gems, and the far-flashing of the sparkhng
ruby with his heart of fire ! The blue eyes of tur-
quoises, or the liquid light of the sapphire, should
alone be tasked to spell along, and character our
thoughts of love.
RECOLLECTIONS.
BY MRS. NORTON.
Do you remember all the sunny places,
Where in bright days, long {)ast, we played together ?
Do you remember all the old home faces
That gatliered round the hearth in wintry weather ?
Do you remember all the happy meetings,
In Summer evenings round the open door —
Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings
A ad clasping hands whose pulses beat no more ?
Do you remember them ?
Do you remember all the merry laughter ;
The voices round the swing in our old garden :
The dog that, when we ran, still followed after;
The teasing frolic, sure of speedy pardon :
We were but children then, young, happy creatures.
And hardly knew how much we had to lose —
But now the dreamlike memory of those features
Comes back, and bids my darkened spirit muse.
Do you remember them ?
Do you remember when we first departed
From all the old companions who were round us,
How very soon again we grew light-hearted.
268 friendship's gift.
And talked with smiles of all the links which bound us ?
And after, when our footsteps were returning.
With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain ;
How our young hearts kept boiling up and burning,
To think how soon we'd be at home again, —
Do you remember this ?
Do you remember how the dreams of glory
Kept fading from us like a f dry treasure ;
How we thought less of being famed in story,
And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure.
Do you remember in far countries, weeping,
When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind,
Old happy thoughts^ which till that hour were sleeping,
And made us yearn for ihose we left behind ?
Do you remember this r
Do you remember when no sound 'woke gladly,
But desolate echoes through our home were ringing,
How for a while we talked — then paused full sadly,
Because our voices bitter thoughts were bringing ?
Ah me ! those days — those days ! my friend, my brother
Sit down and let us talk of all our woe,
For we have nothing left but one another ; —
Yet where they went, old playmate, ive shall go —
Let us remember this.
THE LAST CAB-DRIVER.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.
Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we ever had the
honor and gratification of knowing by sight — and our
acquaintance in this way has been most extensive —
there is one who made an impression on our mind
which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our
bosom a feehng of admiration and respect, which we
entertain a presentiment will never be called forth
again by any human being. He was a man of most
simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a
brown-whiskered, white-hatted, no-coated, cab-man ;
his nose was generally red, and his bright blue eye
not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a
black border of artificial workmanship ; his boots were
of the Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy
knee smalls, or at least to approach as near them as
their dimensions would admit of; and his neck was
usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief.
In summer he carried in his mouth a flower ; in winter,
22*
b
270 friendship's gift.
a straw — slight, but to a contemplative mind, certain
indications of a love of nature, and a taste for botany.
His cabriolet was gorgeously painted — a bright
red ; and wherever we went. City or West End, Pad-
dinglon or Halloway, IS^orth, East, "West, or South^
there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts
at the street corners, and turning in and out, among
hackney-coaches, and drays, and carts, and wagons,
and omnibuses, and contriving hj some strange means
or other, to get out of places which no other veliicle
but the red cab could ever by any possibility have con-
trived to aet into at all. Our fondness for that red
cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to see
it in the circle at i^-stley's ! Our hfe upon it, that it
should have performed such evolutions as would have
put the whole company to shame — Indian chiefs,
knights, Swiss peasants, and all.
Some people, object to the exertion of getting into
cabs, and others object to the diinculty of getting out
of them ; we think both these are objections which
take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned minds.
The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful
process, which, when well performed, is essentially
mclo-dramatic. First, there is the expressive panto-
mime of everv one of the eii2;hteen cabmen on the
stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground.
Then there is your own pantomime in reply — quite a
little ballet. Four cabs immediately leave the stand,
for your especial accommodation ; and the evolutions
THE LAST CAB-DRIVEK. 271
of the animals who draw them, are bcautifiil in the
extreme, as thej grate the wheels of the cabs against
the curb-stones, and sport plajfiiUy in the kennel.
You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly
towards it. One bound and you are on the first step ;
turn your body lightly round to the right, and you
are on the second ; bend gracefully beneath the reins,
working round to the left at the same time, and you
are in the cab. There is no diffiGulty in finding a
seat ; the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once,
and ofTyou go.
The getting out of a cab, is, perhaps rather more
complicated in its theory, and a shade more difficult
in its execution. We have studied the subject a great
deal, and we think the be^t way is, to throw yourself
out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If
you make the driver alight first, and then throw your.
self upon him, you will find that he breaks your fall
materially. In the event of your contemplating an
OiLor of eight-pence, on no account make the tender,
or show the money, until you are safely on the pave-
ment. It is very bad policy attenaptlng to save the
fourpence. You are very much in the power of a
cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not to do
you any wilful damage. Any iuotruction, how-
ever, in the art of getting out of a cab, is wholly un-
necessary if you are going any distance, because the
probability is, that you will be shot lightly out before
you have completed the third mile.
We are not aware of any instance on record in
272 friendship's gift.
which a cab-horse has performed three consecutive
miles without going down once. What of that ? It
is all excitement. And in these days of derangement
of the nervous system and universal lassitude, people
are content to pay handsomely for excitement ; where
can it be procured at a cheaper rate ?
But to return to the cab ; it was omnipresent. You
had but to walk down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any
of the principal thoroughfares in which there is a great
deal of traffic, and judge for j^ourself. You had hardly
turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or two,
lying on the ground ; an uprooted post, a hat-box, a
portmanteau, and a carpet-bag, strewed about in a very
picturesque manner ; a horse in a cab standing by,
looking about him with great unconcern ; and a crowd,
shoutino; and screaming; ^-ith delio;ht, coolin^; their
flushed faces against the glass windows of a chemist's
shop. — " What 's the matter here, can you tell me ? "
" O'ny a cab, sir." — " Any body hurt, do you know ?"
" O'ny the fare, sir. I see him a turnin' the corner,
and I ses to another gen'lm'n, ' that 's a reg'lar little
oss, that, and he 's a comin along rayther sweet, an't
he ! ' — ' He just is,' ses the other gen'lm'n, ven bump
they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like
bricks." Need we say it was the red cab ; or that
the gentleman with the straw in his mouth, who
emerged so coolly from the chemist's shop and philo-
sophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at
full gallop, was the red cab's licensed driver ?
i
THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 273
The ubiqiiitv of this red cab, and the influence it
exercised OA'cr the risible muscles of justice itself, was
perfectly astonishing. You walked into the justice-
room of the Mansion-house ; the whole court resounded
with merriment. The Lord Major threw himself
back in his chair, in a state of frantic delight at his
own joke, every vein in Mr. liobler's countenance
was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord Mayor's
iacetionsness, but more at his own ; the constables
and police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstacies
at Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor combined ; and the
very paupers, glancing respectfully at the beadle's
countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. A
tall, weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his
speech, would be endeavoring to state a case of impo-
sition against the red cab's driver ; and the red cab's
driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Ilobler, would
be having a little fun among themselves, to the inordi-
nate delight of every body but the complainant. In
the end, justice would be so tickled with the red-cab-
driver's native humor, that the fine would be miti-
gated, and he would go away full gallop, in the red
cab, to impose on somebody else without loss of time.
The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength
of his own moral principles, like many other philoso-
phers, was wont to set. the feelings and opinions of
society at complete defiance. Generally speaking,
perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his
destination, as he v.ould upset him — sooner, perhaps,
274 friendship's gift.
because in that case he not only got the money, but
had the additional amusement of running a longer
heat against some smart rival. But society made war
upon him in the shape of penalties, and he must make
war upon society in his own way. This was the rea-
soning of the red-cab-driver. So, he bostowed a
searching look upon the fare, as he put his hand in his
waistcoat pocket, when he had gone half the mile, to
get the money ready ; and if he brought forth eight-
pence, out he went.
The last time we saw our friend was one wet even-
ing in Tottenham-court-road, when he was engaged in
a very warm and somewhat personal altercation with
a loquacious httle gentleman in a green coat. Poor
fellow ! there were great excuses to be made for him ;
he had not received above eighten-pence more than
his fare, and consequently labored under a great deal
of very natural indignation. The dispute had attained
a pretty considerable height, when at last the loqua-
cious little gentleman, making a mental calculation of
the distance, and finding that he had already paid
mare than he ought, avowed his unalterable determina-
tion to " pull up " the cabman in the morning.
" Now, just mark this, young man," said the little
gentleman, " I'll pull you up to-morrow morning."
" No ! will you though ? " said our friend, with a
sneer.
" I will," replied the little gentleman, " mark my
words, that 's all. If I live till to-morrow morning,
you shall repent this."
THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 275
There was a steadiness of pm-pose, and indignation
of speech about the little gentleman, as he took an
angry pinch of snuff, after this last declaration, which
made a visible impression on the mind of the red-cab-
driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It
was only for an instant; his resolve was soon taken.
" You '11 pull me up, will you ?" said our friend.
" I will," rejoined the little gentleman, with even
greater vehemence than before.
" Very well," said our friend, tucking up his shirt
sleeves very calmly. '' There '11 be three veeks for
that. Wery good ; that '11 bring me up to the middle
o' next month. Three veeks more would carry me
on to my birth day, and then I 've got ten pound to
draw. I may as well get board, lodgin', and washin', till
then, out of the county, as pay for it myself; conse-
quently here goes ! "
So, without more ado, the red-cab-driver knocked
the Httle gentleman down, and then called the police
to take himself into custody, with all the civihty in the
world.
A story is nothing without the sequel ; and there-
fore, we may state, that to our certain knowledge, the
board, lodghig, and washiug, were all provided in due
course. We happen, to know the fact, for it came to
our knowledge thus : "We went over the House of
Correction for the county of jSIiddlesex shortly after,
to witness the operation of the silent system ; and
looked on all " the wheels " with the greatest anxiety
276 FRIEISDSHIP'S GIFT.
in search of our long-lost friend. He was nowhere to
be seen, however, and we began to think that the little
gentleman in the green coat must have relented, when,
as we were traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies
in a sequestered part of the prison, we were startled
by hearing a voice, which apparently proceeded from
the wall, pouring forth its soul in the plaintive air of
" all round my hat," which was then just beginning
to form a recognized portion of our national music.
We started. — '^ Vv^hat voice is that ?" said we.
The Governor shook his head.
" Sad fellow," he repUed, " very sad. He posi-
tively refused to work on the wheel : so, after many
trials, I was compelled to order him into solitary con-
finement. He says he likes it very much though,
and I am afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the
floor, and sings comic songs all day ! "
Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us ;
and that the comic singer was no other than our eager-
ly-sought friend, the red-cab-driver ?
We have never seen him since, but we have strong
reason to suspect that this noble individual was a dis-
tant relative of a waterman of our acquaintance, who,
on one occasion, when we were passing the coach-stand
over which he presides, after standing very quietly to
see a tall man struggle into a cab, ran rip very briskly
when it was all over (as his brethren invariably do,)
and touching his hat, asked as a matter of course, for
" a copper for the waterman." Now, the fare was
THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 277
by no means a handsome man ; and, waxing very
indignant at the demand, he replied — " Money
What for ? Comeing up and looking at me, I sup-
pose ? " — " Veil, sir," rejoined the waterman, with a
smile of immovable complacency, " Tliat 's worth
twopence, at least."
Tliis identical waterman afterwards attained a very
prominent station in society ; and as we know some-
thmg of his life, and have often thought of teUmg what
we do know, perhaps we shall never have a better
opportunity than the present.
Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentle-
man's name. Mr. Wilham Barker was born but
why need we relate where Mr. William Barker was
born, or when ? Why scrutmize the entries in paro-
chial ledgers, or seek to penetrate the Lucinian mys-
teries of lying-in hospitals ? Mr. William Barker was
born, or he had never been. There is a son — there
was a father. There is an effect — there was a cause.
Surely this is sufficient information for the most Fati-
ma-like curiosity ; and, if it be not, we regret our ina-
bility to supply any further evidence on the pouit.
Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly
parliamentary course ? Impossible.
We at once avow a similar inability to record at
what precise period, or by what particular process,
this gentleman's patronymic, of William Barker,
became corrupted into " Bill Boorker." Mr. Barker
acquired a high standing, and no uiconsiderable repu-
23
278 friendship's gift.
tation, among the members of that profession to which
he more peculiarly devoted his energies ; and to them
he -was generally known, either by the famihar appel-
lation of " Bill Boorker," or the flattering designation
of " Aggerawatin Bill," the latter being a playful and
expressive sobriquet^ illustrative of Mr. Barker's great
talent in " aggerawatin " and rendering wild such
subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to
place, through the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of
the early life of INIr. Barker little is known, and even
that little involved in considerable doubt and obscurity.
A want of apphcation, a restlessness of purpose, a
thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and
cadger-hke in nature, shared in common with many
other great geniuses, appear to have been his leading
characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial free
school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were
ahke inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration
in Mr. Barker's disposition. His feverish attachment
to change and variety, nothing could repress ; his na-
tive daring no punishment could subdue.
If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any
weakness in his earlier years, it was an amiable one —
love ; love in its most comprehensive form — a love of
ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs. It was no
selfish feehng ; it was not confined to his own posses-
sions, which but two many men regard with exclusive
complacency. No ; it was a nobler love — a general
THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 279
principle. It extended itself with equal force to the
property of other people.
There is something very affecting in this. It is still
more affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but
imperfectly rewarded. Bow-street, Newgate, and
Millbank, are a poor return for general benevolence,
evincing itself in an irrepressible love for all created
objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened
interview with the highest legal authorities, he quitted
his ungrateful country, with the consent, and at the
expense, of its Government ; proceeded to a distant
shore, and there employed himself, hke another Cincin-
natus, in clearing and cultivating the soil — a peaceful
pursuit, in which a term of seven years glided almost
imperceptibly away.
AVliether, at the expiration of the period we have
just mentioned, the British Government required Mr.
Barker's presence here, or did not require his resi-
dence abroad, we have no distinct means of ascertain-
ing. We should be inclined, however, to favor the
latter position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was
advanced to any other public post on his return, than
the post at the comer of the Haymarket, where he
oflSciated as assistant waterman to the hackney-coach-
stand. Seated in this capacity, on a couple of tubs
near the curb-stone, with a brass-plate and number
suspended round his neck by a massive chain, and his
ankles curiously enveloped in haybands, he is supposed
280
to have made those observations on human nature which
exercised so material an influence over all his proceed-
ings in later hfe.
Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in
this capacity, when the appearance of the first omni-
bus caused the public mind to go in a new direction,
and prevented a great many hackney coaches from
going in any direction at all. The genius of Mr.
Barker at once perceived the whole extent of the in-
jury that would be eventually inflicted on cab and
coach stands, and, by consequence, on water-men also,
by the progi^ess of the system of which the first omni-
bus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity of adopt-
ing some more profitable profession ; and his active
mind at once perceived how much might be done in
the way of enticing the youthful and unwary, and
shoving the old and helpless into the wrong buss, and
carrying them oif, until, reduced to despair, they ran-
somed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head,
or, to adopt his own figurative expression in all its
native beauty, " till they was rig'larly done over, and
forked out the stumpy."
An opportunity for realizing his fondest anticipations
soon presented itself. Bumors were rife on the hack-
ney-coach-stands, that a buss was building, to run
from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and
Holborn ; and the rapid increase of busses on the
Paddington-road, encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker
secretly and cautiously inquired in the proper quar-
THE LAST CAB-DRTVER. 281
ters. The report was correct ; the " Royal Wil-
liam" was to make its first journey on the following
Monday. It was a crack affair altogether. An en-
terprising young cabman, of established reputation as
a dashing whip — for he had compromised with the
parents of three scrunched children, and just " worked
out " his fine, for knocking down an old lady — was
the driver ; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr.
Barker's qualifications, appointed him to the vacant
office of cad on the very first application. The buss
began to run, and Mr. Barker entered into a new suit
of clothes, and on a new sphere of action.
To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by
this extraordinary man, into the omnibus system —
gradually, indeed, but surely, would occupy a far
greater space than we are enabled to devote to this
imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned the
original suggestion of the practice which afterwards
became so general — of the driver of a second buss
keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving
the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other,
every time it was opened, or through the body of any
lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get
into it ; a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting
all that originality of idea, and fine bold flow of
spirits, so conspicuous in every action of this great
man.
Mr. Barker had opponents of course ; what man in
public fife has not ? But even his worst enemies can-
23*
282 friendship's gift.
not deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentle-
men to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and
more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted
to go to Paddington, than any six men on the road ; and
however much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt
the accuracy of the statement, they well know it to be an
established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a variety
of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had
not the slightest or more distant intention of going
any where at all.
Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distin-
guished himself, sometime since, by keeping a trades-
man on the step — the omnibus going at full speed all
the time — till he had thrashed him to his entire satis-
faction, and finally throwing him away, when he had
quite done with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have
been, who, honestly indignant at being ignominously
ejected from a house of public entertainment, kicked
the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his
death. We say it ought to have been Mr. Barker,
because the action was not a common one, and could
have emanated from no ordinary mind.
It has now become matter of history ; it is recorded
in the Newgate Calendar ; and we wish we could at-
tribute this piece of daring heroism to Mr. Barker.
We regret being compelled to state that it was not
performed by him. Would, for the family credit,
we could add, that it was achieved by his brother !
It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his
THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 283
profession, that Mr. Barker's knowledge of human
nature was beautifully displayed. He could tell at a
glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and would
shout the name of the place accordingly, without the
slightest reference to the real destination of the
veliicle. He knew exactly the kind of old lady that
would be too much flurried by the process of pushing
in, and pulling out of the caravan, to discover where
she had been put down, until too late ; had an intuitive
perception of what was passing in a passenger's mind
when he inwardly resolved to " pull that cad up to-
morrow morning ; " and never failed to make himself
agreeable to female servants, whom he would place
next the door and talk to all the way.
Human judgment is never infallible, and it would
occasionally happen that Mr. Barker experimentalized
with the timidity or forbearance of the wrong per-
son, in which case a summons to a Police-office, was,
on more than one occasion, followed by a committal
to prison. It was not in the power of trifles such as
these, however, to subdue the freedom of his spirit.
As soon as they passed away, he resumed the duties
of his profession with unabated ardor.
We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red-
cab-driver, in the past tense. Alas ! Mr. Barker
has again become an absentee ; and the class of
men to which they both belonged are fast disappear-
ing. Improvement has peered beneath the aprons
of our cabs, and penetrated to the very mnermost
284 friendship's gift.
recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt and fustion will
vanish before cleanliness and livery. Slang will be
forgotten when civihty becomes general ; and that
enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound body, the
magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their
amusement, and half their occupation.
t
MUTUAL LOVE.
COLERIDGE.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve ;
And she was tliere, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve !
She leant against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight ;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
286 friendship's gift.
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story —
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace ;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined : and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love.
Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush.
With downcast eyes, and modest grace,
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night ;
MUTUAL LOVE. 287
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,
There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright ;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight !
And that, unknowing what he did.
He leap'd amid a murderous band.
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ;
And how she tended him in vain —
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that she nursed him in a cave ;
And how his madness went away.
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay.
His dying words — but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty.
My faultering voice and pausing harp,
Disturbed her soul with pity !
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve ;
The music and the doleful tale.
The rich and balmy eve ;
288 friendship's gift.
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long !
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame
And like the murmur of a di-eam,
I heard her breath my name.
Her bosom heaved — she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stepp'd —
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace ;
And bending back her head, look'd up,
And gazed upon my face.
'T was partly Love, and partly Fear,
And partly 't was a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm.
And told her love with virgin pride ;
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beautious Bride.
THE HOLY CHILD.
BY TROF. WILSON.
This House of ours is a prison — this Study of
ours a cell. Time has laid his fetters on our feet —
fetters fine as the gossamer, but strong as Sampson's
ribs, silken-soft to wise submission, but to vain impar
tience galling as cankered wound that keeps ceaselessly
eating into the bone. But while our bodily feet are
thus bound by an inevitable and inexorable law, our
mental wings are free as those of the lark, the dove,
or the eagle — and they shall be expanded as of yore,
in calm or tempest, now touching with their tips the
bosom of this dearly beloved earth, and now aspiring
heavenwards, beyond the realms of mist and cloud,
even unto the very core of the still heart of that other-
TN-ise unapproachable sky which graciously opens to
receive us on our flight, when, disencumbered of the
burden of all grovelHng thoughts, and strong in spirit-
uality, we exult to soar
" Beyond this vissible diurnal sphere,"
24
290 friendship's gift.
nearing and nearing the native region of its own
incomprehensible being.
Now touching, we said, with their tips the bosom of
this dearly beloved earth ! How sweet that attraction
to imagination's wings ! How delightful in that lower
flight to skim along the green ground, or as now along
the soft-bosomed beauty of the virgin snow ! We
were asleep all night long — sound asleep as children
— while the flakes were falling, " and soft as snow on
snow " were all the descendings of our untroubled
dreams. The moon and all her stars were wilhng
that their lustre should be veiled by that peaceful
shower ; and now the sun, j)leased with the purity of
the morning earth, all white as innocence, looks dowTi
from heaven with a meek unmeltuig light, and still
leaves undissolved the stainless splendor. There is
frost in the air — but he " does his spiriting gently,"
studding the ground-snow thickly with diamonds, and
shaping the tree-snow according to the pecuhar and
characteristic beauty of the leaves and sprays, on
which it has alighted almost as gently as the dews of
spring. You know every kind of tree still by its own
spirit showing itself through that fairy veil — momen-
tarily disguised from recognition — but admired the
more in the sweet surprise with which again your
heart salutes its familiar branches, all fancifully orna-
mented with their snow foliage, that murmurs not
like the green leaves of summer, that like the
yellow leaves of autumn strews not the earth Avith de-
cay, but often melts away into changes so invisible
THE HOLY CHILD. 291
and inaudible that you wonder to find that it is all
vanished, and to see the old tree again standing in its
own faint-green glossy bark, with its many million
buds, which perhaps fancy suddenly expands into a
power of umbrage impenetrable to the sun in Scorpio.
A sudden burst of sunshine ! bringing back the
pensive spirit from the past to the present, and kind-
ling it, till it dances like hght reflected from a burning
mirror. A cheerful Sun-scene, though almost desti-
tute of life. An undulating Landscape, hillocky and
hilly, but not mountainous, and buried under the
weight of a day and night's incessant and continuous
snow-fall. The weather has not been windy — and
now that the flakes have ceased falling, there is not a
cloud to be seen, except some delicate braidings here
and til ere along the calm of the Great Blue Sea of
Heaven. Most luminous is the sun, yet you can look
straight on his face, almost with unwinking eyes, so
mild, and mellow is his large hght as it overflows the
day. All enclosures have disappeared, and you indis-
tinctly ken the greater landmarks, such as a grove, a
wood, a hall, a castle, a spire, a village, a town — the
faint haze of a far ofi" and smokeless city. Most in-
tense is the silence ; for all the streams are dumb, and
the great river Hes hke a dead serpent in the strath.
Not dead — for, lo ! yonder one of his folds glitters —
and in the glitter you see him moving — while all the
rest of his sullen length is palsied by frost, and looks
livid and more hvid at every distant and more distant
winding. What blackens on that tower of snow ?
292 friendship's gift.
Crows roosting innumerous on a huge tree — but they
caw not m their hunger. Neither sheep nor cattle
are to be seen or heard — but they are cared for ; —
the folds and the farm-j^ards are all full of life — and
the ungathered stragglers are safe in their instincts.
There has been a deep fall — but no storm — and the
silence, though partly that of suffering, is not that of
death. Therefore, to the imagination, unsaddened by
the heart, the repose is beautiful. The almost un-
broken uniformity of the scene — its simple and grand
monotony — lulls all the thoughts and feelings into a
calm, over which is breathed the gentle excitation of
a novel charm, inspiring many fancies, all of a quiet
character. Their range, perhaps, is not very exten-
sive, but they all regard the homefelt and domestic
charities of life. And the heart burns as here aud
there some human dwelling discovers itself by a wreath
of smoke up the air, or as the robin redbreast, a
creature that is ever at hand, comes flitting before
your path with an almost pert flutter of his feathers,
bold from the acquaintanceship he has formed with
you in severer weather at the threshold or window of
the tenement, which for years may have been the
winter sanctuary of the " bird whom man loves best,"
and who bears a Christian name in every clime he in-
habits. Meanwhile the sun waxes brighter and warmer
in heaven — some insects are in the air, as if that
moment called to life — and the mosses that may yet
be visible here and there along the ridge of a wall or
on the stem of a tree, in variegated lustre, frost-bright-
THE HOLY CHILD. 293
ened, seem to delight in the snow, and in no other
season of the year to be so happy as in winter. Such
gentle touches of pleasure animate one's whole being,
and connect, by many a fine association, the emotions
inspired by the objects of animate and of inanimate
nature.
Ponder on the idea — the emotion of purity — and
how finely soul-blent is the delight imagination feels in
a bright hush of new-fallen snow ! Some speck or
stain — however slight — there always seems to be on
the most perfect whiteness of any other substance —
or "■ dim suffusion veils " it with some faint discolor
— witness even the leaf of the lily or the rose.
Heaven forbid that we should ever breathe aught but
love and delight in the beauty of these consummate
flowers I But feels not the heart, even Avhen the mid-
summer mornino; sunshine is meltins; the dews on their
fragrant bosoms, that their loveliness is "of the earth
earthy " — faintly tinged or streaked, when at the
very fairest, with a hue foreboding languishment and
decay ? Not the less for its sake are those soulless
flowers dear to us — thus owning kindred with them
whose beauty is all soul enshrined for a short while on
that perishable face. Do we not still regard the
insensate flowers — so emblematical of what, in human
life, we do most passionately love and profoundly pity
— with a pensive emotion, often deapening into mel-
ancholy that sometimes, ere the strong fit subsides,
blackens into despair ! What pain doubtless was in
24*
294 friendship's gift.
the heart of the Elegiac Poet of old, when he sighed
over the transitory beauty of flowers —
" Conquerimur natura brevis quam gratia Florum ! "
But over a perfectly pure expanse of night-fallen snow,
when unaffected by the gentle sun, the first fine frost
has incrusted it with small sparkling diamonds, the
prevalent emotion is joy. There is a charm in the
sudden and total disappearance even of the grassy
green. All the '' old familiar faces " of nature are
for a while out of sight, and out of mind. That white
silence shed by heaven over earth carries with it, far
and wide, the pure peace of another region — almost
another life. No image is there to tell of this restless
and noisy world. The cheerfulness of reality kindles
up our reverie ere it becomes a dream ; and we are
glad to feel our whole being complexioned by the
passionless repose. If we think at all of human life,
it is only of the young, the fair, and the innocent.
" Pure as snow," are words then felt to be most holy,
as the image of some beautiful and beloved being
comes and goes before our eyes — brought from a far
distance in this our living world, or from a distance
further still in a world beyond the grave — the image
of a margin growing up sinlessly to womanhood among
her parents' prayers, or of some spiritual creature who
expired long ago, and carried with her, her native in-
nocence unstained to heaven.
THE HOLY CHILD. 295
Such Spiritual Creature — too spiritual long to
sojourn below the skies — wert thou — whose rising
and whose setting — both most star-like — brightened
at once all thy native vale, and at once left it in dai*k-
ness. Thy name has long slept in our heart — and
there let it sleep unbreathed — even as, when we are
dreaming our way through some solitary place, without
naming it, we bless the beauty of some sweet wild-
flower, pensively smiling to us through the snow.
The Sabbath returns on which, in the little kirk
among the hills, we saw thee baptized. Then comes a
wavering glimmer of five sweet years, that to Thee, in
all their varieties, were but as one dehghtful season,
one blessed life — and, finally, that other Sabbath, on
which, at thy own dying request — between ser\ices
thou wert buried .
How mysterious are all thy ways and workings,
gracious Nature ! Thou who art but a name given by
us to the Being in whom all things are and have life.
Ere three years old, she, whose image is now with us,
all over the small silvan world that beheld the evanes-
cent revelation of her pure existence, was called the
"Holy Child!" The taint of sin — inherited from
those who disobeyed in Paradise — seemed from her
fair clay to have been washed out at the baptismal
font, and by her first infantine tears. So pious people
almost belived, looking on her so unlike all other cliil-
dren, in the serenity of that habitual smile that clothed
the creature's countenance with a wondrous beauty at
296 friendship's gift.
an age when on other infants is but faintly seen the
dawn of reason, and their eyes look happy just
like the thoughtless flowers. So unlike all other chil-
dren — but unlike only because sooner than they she
seemed to have had given to her, even in the commun-
ion of the cradle, an intimation of the being and the
providence of God. Sooner, surely, than through any
other clay that ever enshrouded immortal spirit,
dawned the light of religion on the face of the " Holy
Child."
Her lisping language was sprinkled with words alien
from common childhood's uncertain speech, that mur-
murs only when indigent nature prompts ; and her own
parents wondered whence they came, when first they
looked upon her kneeling in an unbidden prayer. As
one mild week of vernal sunshine covers the braes
with primroses, so shone with fair and fragi^ant
feeling — unfolded, ere they kne^j, before her parents'
eyes — the divine nature of her who for a season was
lent to them from the skies. She learned to read out
of the Bible — almost without any teaching — they
knew not how — just by looking gladly on the words,
even as she looked on the pretty daisies on the green
— till their meanings §tole insensibly into her soul, and
the sweet syllables, succeeding each other on the
blessed page, were all united by the memories her
heart had been treasuring every hour that her father
or her mother had read aloud in her hearing from the
Book of Life. " Suffer little cliildren to come unto
I
THE HOLY CHILD. 2^
me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of
heaven " — how wept her parents, as these the most
affecting of our Savior's words dropt silver-sweet from
her hps, and continued in her upward ejes among the
swimming tears !
Be not incredulous of this dawn of reason, wonder"
ful as it ma J seem to you, so soon becoming morn —
almost perfect daylight — with the " Holy Child."
Many such miracles are set before us — but we re cog.
nize them not, or pass them by with a word or a smile
of short surprise. How leaps the baby in its mother's
arms, when the mysterious charm of music thrills
through its little brain ! And how learns it to modu-
late its feeble voice, unable yet to articulate, to the
melodies that bring forth all round its eyes a delighted
smilp ! Who knows what then may be the thoughts
and feeliDgs of the infant a^wakened to the sense of a
new world, alive through all its being to sounds that
haply glide past our ears unmeaning as the breath of
the common air ! Thus have mere infants sometimes
been seen inspired by music till, like small genii, they
warbled spell-strains of their own, powerful to sadden
and subdue our hearts. So, too, have infant eyes
been so charmed by the rainbow irradiating the earth,
that almost infant hands ^ have been taught, as if by
inspiration, the power to paint in finest colors, and to
imitate, with a wondrous art, the skies so beautiful to
the quick-awakened spirit of delight. What knowledge
have not some children acquired, and gone down
298
scholars to their small untimely graves ! Knowing
that such things have been — are — and vrill be —
why art thou incredulous of the divine expansion of
soul, so soon understanding the things that are divine
in the "Holy Child?"
Thus grew she in the eye of God, day by day wax-
ing wiser and w^iser in the knowledge that tends to-
wards the skies ; and, as if some angel visitant were
nightly with her in her dreams, awakening every mom
with a new dream of thought, that brought with it a
gift of more comprehensive speech. Yet merry she
was at times with her companions among the woods
and braes, though while they all were laughing, she
only smiled; and the passing traveller, who might
pause for a moment to bless the sweet creatures in
their play, could not but single out one face among
the many fair, so pensive in its paleness, a face to be
remembered, coming from afar, like a mournful
thought upon the hour of joy.
Sister or brother of her own had she none — and
often both her parents — wiio lived in a hut by itself
up among the mossy stumps of the old decayed forest
— had to leave her alone — sometimes even all the
day long from morning till night. But she no more
wearied in her solitariness than does the wren in the
wood. All the flowers were her friends — all the
birds. The linnet ceased not his song for her, though
her footsteps wandered into the green glade among
the yellow^ broom, almost within reach of the spray
THE HOLY CHILD. 299
from which he poured his melody — the quiet eyes of
his mate feared her not when her garments almost
touched the bush where she brooded on her young.
Shyest of the winged silvans, the cushat clapped not
her wings away on the soft approach of such harmless
footsteps to the pine that concealed her slender nest.
As if blown from heaven, descended round her path
the showers of the painted butterflies, to feed, sleep,
or die — undisturbed by her — upon the wild-flowers
— with wings, when motionless, undistinguish able from
the blossoms. And well she loved the brown, busy,
blameless bees, come thither for the honey-dews from
a hundred cots sprinkled all over the parish, and all
high overhead sailing away at evening, laden and
wearied, to their straw-roofed skeps in many a hamlet
garden. The leaf of every tree, shrub, and plant,
she knew familiarly and lovingly in its own character-
istic beauty ; and she was loath to shake one dew-
drop from the sweetbrier-rose. And well she knew
that all nature loved her in return — that they were
dear to each other in their innocence — and that the
very sunshine, in motion or in rest, was ready to come
at the bidding of her smiles. Skilful those small
white hands of hers among the reeds and rushes and
osiers — and many a pretty flower-basket grew be-
neath their touch, her parents wondering on their
return home to see the handiwork of one who was
never idle in her happiness. Thus early — ere yet
but five years old — did she earn her mite for the
300 FEIENPSHIP'S GIFT.
sustenance of her c^vn beautiful life. The russet garb
she wore she herself had Avon — and thus Poverty, at
the door of that hut, became even like a Guardian
Angel, "with the lineaments of heaven on her brow, and
the quietude of heaven beneath her feet.
But these were but her lonely pastimes, or gentle
taskwork self-imposed among her pastimes, and itself
the sweetest of them all, inspired by a sense of duty
that still brings with it its own delight, aud hallowed
by religion, that even in the most adverse lot changes
slavery into freedom — till the heart, insensible to the
bonds of necessity, sings aloud for joy. The life
within the life of the " Holy Child," apart from even
such innocent employments as these, and from such
recreations as innocent, among the shadows and the
sunshine of those silvan haunts, was passed — let us
fear not to say the truth, wondrous as such worship
was in one so very young — was passed in the worship
of God ; and her parents — though sometimes even
saddened to see such piety in a small creature Hke
her, and afraid, in their exceeding love, that it betok-
ened an early removal from this world of one too per-
fectly pure ever to be touched by its sins and sorrows^
— forbore, in an awful pity, ever to remove the Bible
from her knees, as she would sit with it there, not at
morning and at evening only, or all the Sabbath long
as soon as they returned from the kirk, but often
through all the hours of the longest and sunniest
week-days, when, had she chosen to do so, there was
THE HOLY CHILD. 301
nothing to hinder her from going up the hill-side, or
down to the little village, to play with the other chil-
dren, always too happy when she appeared — nothint::
to hinder her but the voice she heard speaking in that
Book, and the hallelujahs that, at the turning over of
each blessed page, came upon the ear of the " Holy
Child " from white-robed saints all kneehng before His
throne in heaven.
Her life seemed to be the same in sleep. Often at
midnight, by the light of the moon shining in upon
her little bed beside theirs, her parents leant over her
face, diviner in dreams, and wept as she wept, her
lips all the while murmuring, in broken sentences of
prayer, the name of Him who died for us all. Bat
plenteous as w^ere her penitential tears — penitential
in the holy humbleness of her stainless spirit, over
thoughts that had never left a dimming breath on its
purity, yet that seemed in those strange visitings to be
hauntins: her as the shadow^s of sins — soon were they
all dried up in the lustre of her returning smiles.
Waking, her voice in the kirk was the sweetest among
many sweet, as all the young smgers, and she the
youngest far, sat together by themselves, and within
the congregational music of the psalm uplifted a sil-
very strain that sounded like the very spirit of the
whole, even like angelic harmony blent with a mortal
song. But sleeping, still more sweetly sang the " Holy
Child ; " and then, too, in some diviner inspiration
than ever was granted to it while awake, her soul com-
25
3052 friendship's gift.
posed its own hymns, and set the simple scriptural
words to its own mysterious music — the tunes she
loved best gliding into one another, without once ever
marring the melody, with pathetic touches interposed
never heard before, and never more to be renewed I
For each dream had its own breathing, and many-
visioned did then seem to be the sinless creature's
sleep.
The love that was borne for her all over the hill-
region, and beyond its circling clouds, was almost such
as mortal creatures might be thought to feel for some
existence that had visibly come from heaven. Yet all
who looked on her, saw that she, like themselves, was
mortal, and many an eye w^as wet, the heart wist not
why, to hear such wisdom falling from such lips ; for
dimly did it prognosticate, that as short as bright would
be her walk from the cradle to the grave. And thus
for the '' Holy Child " was their love elevated by
awe, and saddened by pity — and as by herself she
passed pensively by their dwellings, the same eyes
that smiled on her presence, on her disappearance
wept.
Not in vain for others — and for herself, oh ! what
great gain ! — for those few years on earth did that
pure spirit ponder on the word of God ! Other chil-
dren became pious from their delight in her piety —
for she was simple as the simplest among them all, and
walked with them hand in hand, nor declined compan-
ionship with any one that was good. But all grew
THE HOLY CHILD. 303
good by being with her — and parents had but to
whisper her name, and in a moment the passionate sob
was hushed — the lowering brow Ughted — and the
household in peace. Older hearts owned the power
of the piety so far surpassing their thoughts ; and time-
hardened sinners, it is said, when looking and listening
to the " Holy Child," knew the error of their ways,
and returned to the right path as at a voice from
heaven.
Bright was her seventh summer — the brightest, so
the aged said, that had ever, in man's memory, shone
over Scotland. One long, still, sunny, blue day fol-
lowed another, and in the rainless weather, though the
dews kept green the hills, the song of the streams was
low. But paler and paler, in sunhght and moonlight,
became the sweet face that had been always pale ; and
the voice that had been always something mournful,
breathed lower and sadder still from the too perfect
whiteness of her breast. No need — no fear — to tell
her that she was about to die. Sweet whispers had
sung it to her in her sleep — and waking she knew it
in the look of the piteous skies. But she spoke not
to her parents of death more than she had often done
— and never of her own. Only she seemed to love
them with a more exceeding love — and was readier,
even sometimes when no one was speaking, with a few
drops of tears. Sometimes she disappeared — nor,
when sought for, was found in the woods about the
hut. And one day that mystery was cleared ; for a
304 friendship's gift.
shepherd saw her sitting by herself on a grassy mound
in a nook of the small sohtary kirkyard, a long mile
off among the hills, so lost m reading the Bible, that
shadow or sound of his feet awoke her not ; and, igno-^
rant of his presence, she knelt down and prayed —
for a while weeping bitterly — but soon comforted by
a heavenly calm — that her sms might be forgiven
her !
One Sabbath evening, soon after, as she was sitting
beside her parents at the door of their hut, looking
first for a long while on their faces, and then for along
while on the sky, though it was not yet the stated hour
of worship, she suddenly knelt down, and leaning on
their knees, with hands clasped more fervently than
her wont, she broke forth into tremulous singing of
that hymn which from her lips they never heard mth-
out unendurable tears :
" The hour of my departure's come,
I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord, let trouble cease.
And let thy servant die in peace ! "
They carried her fainting to her little bed, and uttered
not a word to one another till she revived. The shock
was sudden, but not unexpected, and they knew now
that the hand of death was upon her, although her
eyes soon became brighter and brighter, they thought,
than they had ever been before. But forehead, cheeks,
lips, neck, and breast, were all as white, and, to the
THE HOLY CHILD. 905
quivering hands that touched them, almost as cold as
snow. Ineffable was the bliss in those radiant eyes ;
but the breath of words was frozen, and that hymn
was almost her last farewell. Some few words she
spake — and named the hour and day she wished to
be buried. Her lips could then just faintly return the
kiss, and no more — a film came over the now dim
blue of her eyes — the father listened for her breath
— and then the mother took his place, and leaned her
ear to the unbreathing mouth, long deluding herself
with its lifelike smile ; but a sudden darkness in the
room, and a sudden stillness, most dreadful both, con-
vinced their unbelieving hearts at last, that it was
death.
All the parish, it might be said, attended her funeral
— for none stayed away from the kirk that Sabbath
— though many a voice was unable to join in the Psalm.
The little grave was soon filled up — and you hardly
knew that the turf had been disturbed beneath which
she lay. The afternoon service consisted but of a
prayer — for he who ministered, had loved her with
love unspeakable — and, though an old gray-haired
man, all the time he prayed he wept. In the sobbing
kirk her parents were sitting, but no one looked at
them — and when the congregation rose to go, there
they remained sitting — and an hour afterwards came
out again into the open air, and parting with their pas-
tor at the gate, walked away to their hut, ovei-shadowed
with the blessings of a thousand prayers.
25*
306 friendship's gift.
And did her parents, soon after she was buried, die
of broken hearts, or pine awaj disconsolately to their
graves ? Think not that they, who were Christians
indeed, could be guilty of such ingratitude. " The
Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away — blessed be
the name of the Lord ! " were the first words they
had spoken by that bedside ; during many, many long
years of weal or woe, duly every morning and night,
these same blessed words did they utter when on then'
knees together in prayer — and many a thousand times
besides, when they were apart, she in her silent hut,
and he on the hill — neither of them unhappy in their
solitude, though never again, perhaps, was his counte-
nance so cheerful as of yore — and though often sud-
denly amidst mirth or sunshine their eyes were seen to
overflow. Happy had they been — as we mortal be-
ings ever can be happy — during many pleasant years
of wedded life before she had been bom. And happy
were they — on the verge of old age — long after she
had here ceased to be. Their Bible had indeed been
an idle book — the Bible that belonged to " the Holy
Child," — and idle all their kirk-goings with " the Holy
Child," through the Sabbath-calm — had those inter-
mediate years not left a power of bliss behind them
triumphant over death and the grave.
THE CLOUD.
By SHELLEY.
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flovveriS,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shades for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain.
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white.
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my [)ilot sits.
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits ;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion
This pilot js guiding me
308
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains.
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains ;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack.
When the morning-star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthcjuake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above.
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon.
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnigiit breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear.
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roofj
The stars peep behind her and peer ;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees.
When I widen the rent in my wind-built lent,
THE CLOUD.
309
Till the calm rivers lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim.
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl,
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow.
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair.
Is the million-color'd bow ;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
1 am the daughter of earth and water.
And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare.
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams.
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph.
And out of the caverns of rain.
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.
THE FUGITIVES.
BY SHELLEY.
I.
The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing —
Away !
The whirlwind is rolling.
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging.
The minster-bells ringing —
Come away !
The Earth is like Ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion
Bird, beast, man and worm
Have crept out of the storm —
Come away !
II.
" Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale ; —
THE FUGITIVES.
A bold pilot I trow,
Who should follow us now," —
Shouted He —
And she cried : " Ply the oar !
Put off gaily from shore !"
As she spoke, bolts of death
Mix'd with hail speck'd their patli
O'er the sea.
And from isle, tower and rock,
The blue beacon cloud broke.
And though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flash'd fast
From the lee.
III.
" And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou ?
And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ?
And drive we not free
O'er the terrible sea,
land thou?"
One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover —
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low ; —
While around the lash'd Ocean,
Like mountains in motion.
Is withdrawn and uplifted.
Sunk, shatter'd and shifted,
To and fro.
311
tilil FRIENDSHIP S GIFT.
IV.
In the court of the fortress,
Beside the pale portress,
Like a blood-hound well beaten,
The bridegroom stands, eaten
« By shame ;
On the topmost watch-turref,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the gray tyrant father.
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame ;
And with curses as wild
As ere clung to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last
Of his name!
(:
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