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 PERENNIAL GIFT 
 
 1844, 
 
 " Let not affection in thy heart abide 
 
 Like spring-time flowers, that wither soon away ; 
 But, like the Wintergreen, if tempest-tried, 
 Green and more fragrant for the fierce winds' play." 
 
 OLD WINTER. 
 
 EDITED BY JOHN KEESE. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED WITH SIXTEEN BEAUTIFUL STKEL ENGRAVINGS. 
 
 NEW YORK. 
 CHARLES WELLS & CO., 
 
 No. 56 Gold- street. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, 
 
 By CHARLES WELLS, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern 
 
 District of New York. 
 
 EXQHAN9I 
 
 GEORGE W. WOOD & Co., 
 Printers, No. 45 Gold-street, New York. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 IN presenting to the public our offering to its 
 native annual literature, we have chosen the name 
 of the Winter green in the belief that its quaint- 
 ness and simplicity indicate appropriately the 
 modesty of our pretensions. The Wintergreen is 
 content to abide in the shadow of the more ambi- 
 tious denizens of the woods, yet it hath a peren- 
 nial verdure and a tenacity of life that make it 
 often sought by the curious, even to the neglect 
 of others whose claims to favour are more ob- 
 vious. These qualities may typify our quiet faith, 
 that hereafter from year to year our Wintergreen 
 will come forth cheerful and confident of success. 
 
 We may trace the analogy still further the 
 plant whose name we have chosen often winneth 
 admiration from the beauty of its leaf dark and 
 glossy and not unprotected by spines, that im- 
 part a certain degree of point and dignity to its 
 aspect, notwithstanding its apparent lowliness. 
 
 918165 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 Then, too, it hath the reputation of possessing 
 salutary and healing qualities that have made it 
 a marvellous favourite with " those afflicted with 
 all manner of sickness and all manner of disease," 
 and, alas, there are many such. 
 
 Let us hope, then, that we may do justice to 
 our prototype by humbly ministering to the moral 
 and intellectual well-being of our readers, by 
 soothing the restlessness of excitability, checking 
 the waywardness of fancy, and whispering comfort 
 to the stricken in heart. Let no one reproach 
 us with arrogance and say that under the garb of 
 humility we conceal presumption and pride, as the 
 old house of royalty assumed the lowly broom 
 when the palm or the oak were a fitter emblem 
 of the illustrious Plantagenet for indeed we 
 wear the Wintergreen in all loyalty, as faithfully 
 indicating the sentiment with which we start in 
 our career. 
 
 Many of our contributors, dear reader, are mu- 
 tual and personal friends. The brows of some 
 are already circled with laurels fadeless as their 
 spirits, which can never grow old, and their 
 hearts are fresh as in the " dew of youth." These 
 we are sure would gladly lay aside a chaplet too 
 foreign, too artificial for souls as genial as theirs, 
 
PREFACE. v 
 
 and bind in its stead our simple garland of Win- 
 tergreen, inasmuch as it hath more the aspect of 
 nome more the familiar sound of wood and 
 fell more the associated melody of kindred 
 voices in the light of the winter hearth. 
 
 It would ill become us to sound the trumpet in 
 behalf of those already known to the literary 
 world, and whom we have already proclaimed to 
 be our friends ; much less would it become us to 
 speak of our own labours. The public have no 
 care for the machinery of preparation ; they look 
 only to the results : therefore must we await in 
 silence their award, however solicitous we may 
 be of success. Yet may we venture to hope that 
 when the time for cementing friendships by the 
 offerings of the season shall have arrived, the 
 lowly Wintergreen will be found not the least 
 attractive suggestive as it is of perennial truth 
 of affection outlasting storm and chill, and of 
 faith coming meekly forth from doubt and peril ; 
 and yet more as fostering the love and the pride 
 which we should ever feel for that whose 
 " Sweetness all is of our native land." 
 
 Such are the hopes by us cherished while bind- 
 ing the garland of Wintergreen. 
 
EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 The Doomed Fairy. 
 Illustrated Title-page. 
 
 Uncle Joshua, ,..--- 47 
 
 The Land of the Cypress, 71 
 
 Euthanasia, 98 
 
 Henpeckery, ----------- JOS 
 
 The Mariners, 131 
 
 A Portrait, 160 
 
 Only one Night at Sea, ---- 175 
 
 My Sisters, 193 
 
 The Managing Mother, 196 
 
 The Mission Bride, 209 
 
 The Eleventh Hour, - 216 
 
 The Green Old Age, - - 221 
 
 The Mariner's Orphan, - - 225 
 
 The Devoted, - 244 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Doomed Fairy by Mrs. Seba Smith, 19 
 
 New Year's Visiting in Hades by C. F. Hoffman, - - 31 
 
 The Chaunt of the Star by Jane L. Swift, 44 
 
 A Brief Sketch of Uncle Joshua by Major Jack Downing, 47 
 
 Endymion by C. P. Cranch, 61 
 
 The Unknown Portrait by H. T. Tuckerman, .... 63 
 True Ballad of the Wanderer by Anna P. Dinnies, - - 65 
 
 The Burial of Winter by Mary E. Lee, 68 
 
 The Land of the Cypress by Samuel Henry Dickson, - 71 
 
 Time's Trophies by W. H. Timrod, - - 73 
 
 Herman Schammer, 75 
 
 Euthanasia by Willis Gaylord Clark, 98 
 
 Lines by the Editor, 100 
 
 Suffer Little Children to Come unto Me by C. Hunting- 
 ton, 101 
 
 Henpeckery by Seba Smith, 103 
 
 The Grave of the Lowly by Harriet N. Jenks, - - - 129 
 " How Cheery are the Mariners " by Park Benjamin, - 131 
 
 Allan Gray, 133 
 
 Lines to a Daughter of New England by the Editor, - 158 
 
 A Portrait^ by Amanda K. Clark, 160 
 
 Tamina, 163 
 
 Only One Night at Sea by Robert M. Charlton, - - - 175 
 Growing Old by Emma C. Embury, 178 
 
x CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 My Sisters by Amelia B. Welby, 193 
 
 The Managing Mother by " Ella," 1% 
 
 The Last Man by C. F. Hoffman, 198 
 
 The Mission Bride by Lucy Hooper, 209 
 
 The Cherub's Mission by Jane L. Swift, 213 
 
 The Eleventh Hour by Mrs. Seba Smith, 216 
 
 Stanzes by Emma C. Embury, 218 
 
 The Green Old Age by Jane L. Swift, 220 
 
 Are we not Exiles Here by H. T. Tuckerman, - - - 223 
 The Mariner's Orphan by Hannah F. Gould, - ... 225 
 
 My Familiar by C. F. Hoffman, 227 
 
 The Dew Drop and Lily by G. Alvan Howard, - - - 238 
 The Pilgrim turneth his Back upon the world .... 
 
 by Ernest Helfenstein 242 
 
 The Devoted by Elizabeth M. Chandler, 244 
 
 To a Sprig of Wintergreen by C. F. Hoffman, - - - - 247 
 
THE 
 
 WINTERGREEN, 
 
 THE DOOMED FAIRY. 
 
 BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 
 
 "It doth not yet appear what we shall be." ST. PAUL. 
 
 'Tis a blessed thing to be a child 
 
 In the freshness of its life, 
 While the sunshine lingers on the brow, 
 
 Undimmed by care and strife 
 Ere from the earth a single ray 
 Of its glorious light hath passed away. 
 
 For things unhidden from the child, 
 
 Fade in- its after years 
 He reads strange language in the flower, 
 
 And round it music hears ; 
 The bird and blossom have a voice 
 To bid the pure in heart rejoice. 
 
' .-.-T.HE JWINTERGREEN. 
 
 ! 
 
 * *. : : . :/./ 
 
 A simple child one summer night 
 
 Was lured to listen long, 
 And hear each petal ere it closed, 
 
 Breathe out an evening song ; 
 And he at threescore years and ten 
 Remained a child, as he was then. 
 
 That night he learned what kept him young 
 
 In every after strife ; 
 What kept him hoping, trusting still 
 
 On to the verge of life. 
 It gave one's heart a thrill of joy 
 To see that gray-haired, cheerful boy. 
 
 He found that truth to every soul 
 
 Hath teachings of its own, 
 Mysterious, binding, earnest things, 
 
 Revealed to it alone ; 
 And thence a cheerful faith he learned, 
 That every heart for goodness yearned. 
 
 That all the creatures God hath made 
 
 Strive upward to the light ; 
 Which clearer, broader, fuller grows, 
 
 Upon the watchful sight ; 
 While those they leave in doubt behind, 
 May fearful dooms upon them bind. 
 
THE DOOM ED FAIRY. 21 
 
 Yet they, the bridegroom's chosen ones, 
 
 The wedded to the truth, 
 In bright'ning pathways onward move, 
 
 Renewed in love and youth ; 
 And holier fervour, faith in heaven, 
 Rewardeth all who thus have striven. 
 
 The stars burned clear in the deep blue sky, 
 The moon was full and bright 
 
 On every beam was sailing down 
 A spirit robed in light. 
 
 In music broke each quivering ray, 
 
 Heard in the stillness far away. 
 
 The child stooped down to a myrtle-tree 
 Whence low, sweet voices sung, 
 
 And anon a thousand glow-worm lamps 
 Were out on the branches hung. 
 
 A fairy troop were gathering by 
 
 To hold their court in the moon-lit sky. 
 
 Transparent they as the crystal sea 
 For spirits may naught conceal, 
 
 Their holy natures, robed in light, 
 All inward thoughts reveal ; 
 
 Then first the child began to see, 
 
 How dread a thing a sin must be. 
 
22 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 Each small, fair face was grave to see, 
 And he marked their solemn air, 
 
 As up from the mount, and out from the deep, 
 Their ranks were gathering there. 
 
 On the thistle down, in the keal of the pea, 
 
 And in pearly shells from the dark, blue sea. 
 
 They lowly bowed to their beautiful queen, 
 With her lucid wing and brow ; 
 
 The young child thought so fair a face 
 He had never seen till now 
 
 As she bade a fairy stand at her feet, 
 
 Her voice was kindly, and low, and sweet. 
 
 Then slowly up-rose a little sprite 
 With a cold, yet saddened air, 
 
 Whose wings were veiled in a snowy robe, 
 And lilies graced her hair. 
 
 And through her pure, ethereal frame, 
 
 The wavering doubts like shadows came. 
 
 Bright rosy tints, and thoughtful eye, 
 Bedimmed with shades of grief, 
 
 That only in that upward glance 
 From doubting found relief, 
 
 That questioned of the Fairy life, 
 
 With its little pomp and useless strife. 
 
THE DOOMED FAIRY. 23 
 
 The young child bowed a listening ear, 
 
 And word spake never one ; 
 He heard the tale of the Fairy told, 
 
 And staid till all was done 
 Of the pure in heart he thought the while, 
 And the sunshine felt in a loving smile. 
 
 'Twas said her birthplace Pearlette traced 
 
 Where old Katahdin stands, 
 Lifting his hoary head to screen 
 
 The work of Fairy hands ; 
 Where caverns, lit by diamond ray?, 
 Are bright as earth in the noon-tide blaze. 
 
 She slept with the pearl and crystal stone, 
 
 Unsunned and pure as they ; 
 To sprinkle drops in the rose-lipped shell 
 
 As it lay in the deep away : 
 To fill the diamond moulds with dew 
 Were all the task that Pearlette knew. 
 
 The queen beheld with a loving smile, 
 And she brought the lowly sprite 
 
 From the cavern forth to the upper air, 
 Where the blossoms bathe in light. 
 
 To the gladsome earth 'twas a gladsome ray, 
 
 That chased from its breast one shadow away. 
 
 A2 
 
24 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 All things that the pretty Pearlette loved 
 More lovely seemed to grow ; 
 
 The flower's bloom of a fairer hue, 
 And the gem more bright to glow. 
 
 The rainbow, touched by her in the sky, 
 
 Was made of a richer, deeper dye. 
 
 The cradled sleep of the smiling child 
 More sweet and tranquil seemed ; 
 
 For Pearlette kissed its bud-like lip, 
 And the little baby dreamed 
 
 Of many a vision sweet and bright, 
 
 Which the Fairy brought to its infant sight. 
 
 Alas ! that the Fay should weary grow 
 
 Of the toil of Fairy land ; 
 That it should spurn the needful links 
 
 That bind the Fairy band. 
 That the elfin feast and the moonlight glee 
 Should seem but a fitful mockery. 
 
 Alas ! that the pomp of little things 
 
 Should fail its life to fill ; 
 That dreams of love and higher truth 
 
 Should keep it yearning still, 
 Unsated, drooping, and apart, 
 To pine in loneliness of heart. 
 
THE DOOM ED FAIRY. 25 
 
 The Fairy queen, with a saddened look, 
 
 The altered Pearlette eyed ; 
 She hoped the evil would pass away, 
 
 And a gentle task she tried. 
 She sent her where the sunshine smiled, 
 To tend the flowers of a little child. 
 
 And now the child the reason learned 
 Why the flowerets drooped and died ; 
 
 Why the small, green bug to the rose-leaf came, 
 And the snow-drop's petals dried ; 
 
 Why the unbloomed buds were withered up, 
 
 And incense crushed from the blighted cup. 
 
 Wherever the doubting Fairy passed 
 
 Dark mildew spots were seen ; 
 Unloving tendence had been there 
 
 To mar the blossom's sheen 
 From the opening bud had dried the dew, 
 And the green leaf curled wherever she flew. 
 
 But most it grieved the child to see 
 
 On the snowy lily's breast 
 The darkened prints, that plainly told 
 
 Where the tiny footsteps pressed. 
 The Passion-flower was crushed in its birth, 
 Alas ! 'tis a holy thing on earth. 
 
26 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 The gentle queen in vain had hoped 
 A penitent thought might spring 
 
 In Pearlette's breast, e'er her doom was told, 
 And she fell from Fairy ring. 
 
 For half in love, and half in fear, 
 
 She read that brow, so calm and clear. 
 
 There had been tales in Fairy land 
 
 Of guileless, gentle Fays, 
 Who once had dwelt in caverns lit 
 
 By the cold diamond bl-aze, 
 And thence had found the upper air, 
 With its freshness, freedom, higher care. 
 
 And it was said those glorious sprites, 
 With beauty strangely wild, 
 
 By beings of a higher state 
 
 Had sometimes been beguiled ; 
 
 And thus had learned dark, hidden lore, 
 
 And Fairy customs loved no more. 
 
 And these were doomed from Fairy ring, 
 By laws they dared to spurn, 
 
 In listening to forbidden lore 
 That made them fondly yearn 
 
 For higher wisdom, higher life, 
 
 Apart from pomp and Fairy strife. 
 
THE DOOM ED FAIRY. 27 
 
 Oh ! sadly drooped each rainbow wing, 
 
 To hide the gushing tear ; 
 And the young child held his very breath 
 
 That fearful doom to hear 
 While dirge-like" voices, sad and low, 
 The Fairy doomed to a state of wo. 
 
 THE DOOM. 
 
 By the rainbow in the skies, 
 
 Glowing with its morning dyes ; 
 
 By the moon-beam's silver light, 
 
 When the stars are burning bright ; 
 
 By the waters of the fountain, 
 
 In the cave of hoary mountain, 
 Whereso'er we meet together, 
 Pearlette comes no more, forever. 
 
 Where the Arctic streamers glow, 
 By the frosty Esquimaux, 
 Where basaltic columns stand 
 On the northern icy strand, 
 And a palace rich and rare 
 By the ocean rises there, 
 
 Never more the doomed one may 
 
 Seek with us the Fairy way. 
 
 Never more in cavern dark, 
 Never more in pearly barque, 
 Never more in coral bower, 
 Never more in starry hour, 
 
28 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 By the bed of infant sleeping, 
 
 By the flower in dew-drop steeping, 
 
 Shall the sinful Pearlette dare 
 
 With her sister band repair- 
 
 But the knowledge of the right, 
 Which the spirit dared to slight, 
 And the truth that cannot lie, 
 And the thoughts that never die, 
 And the bliss that never more 
 Tears and prayers can back restore, 
 Shall a cup of anguish bring 
 Which the Doom'd one's lips must wring. 
 
 The glow-worm lamps are out and gone, 
 
 The Fairies all have wended ; 
 And gleaming brook and shadowy branch, 
 
 In full moonlight are blended ; 
 And there in that lone stilly hour, 
 The child is hid in myrtle bower. 
 
 Those vestal sprites with freakish will, 
 
 Creatures of stern decree, 
 Who have no dreams of onward thought, 
 
 Nor love's deep sympathy, 
 Who round the gem and blossom play, 
 As cold and glittering as they 
 
 How should they know of higher things, 
 
 How judge of one sweet soul, 
 Who trembling, fearful, and abashed, 
 
 Bowed to a new controul ! 
 
THE DOOMED FAIRY. 29 
 
 And only half as yet had learned 
 The blessedness for which it yearned : 
 
 Who, veiled in secrecy and dread, 
 
 As fearful they were sin, 
 The promptings of a spirit waked 
 
 To mysteries within. 
 Who, casting off the laws that bound, 
 A new and higher duty found ! 
 
 All, all are gone but that fair one, 
 
 The doomed and exiled sprite, 
 Who dared not lift her stricken head 
 
 In that cold, cheerless light 
 But stood with wings her vision hiding, 
 Like one some fearful peril biding. 
 
 Awhile she stood, one moment stood, 
 
 But who the pangs may tell, 
 That one brief moment on the soul 
 
 In agony may swell 
 When rayless, friendless, it is left 
 Of all but consciousness bereft. 
 
 One moment, and her head she lifts 
 
 Her dreams are real now 
 The bright, the beautiful of dreams, 
 
 With his calm radiant brow 
 All love and tenderness his eyes, 
 To clasp the exiled Fairy flies. 
 
30 THE WINTER GREEN. 
 
 She lifts to his her meek, fond look, 
 The wise, the true beholding ; 
 
 And he, unfaltering, to his breast 
 The gentle one enfolding. 
 
 Who turns from all of outward show, 
 
 Undying, earnest truth to know. 
 
 He calms the doubt, he whispers peace, 
 While love and truth are blending ; 
 
 He takes away those sprite-like wings 
 From her fair shoulders pending 
 
 Those freakish wings of changeful hue, 
 
 That every varying fancy drew ! 
 
 And then the child with wonder saw 
 
 A higher life revealing ; 
 Sweet, tranquil traces of calm soul, 
 
 Upon her features stealing 
 Those elvish wings all cast aside, 
 How beautiful the Fairy bride ! 
 
"NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES." 
 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 " When we seem particularly dull, the reader may rest 
 assured there is always some deep meaning under it." 
 
 BRITISH ESSAYIST. 
 
 " HAPPY new year to you ! Paris, my dear 
 fellow, where do you call next ?" cried the 
 dashing Castor, reigning up his three-minute 
 trotter in passing the handsome Trojan. 
 
 " Why, I've just begun on my list," replied the 
 dandy rival of Menelaus ; " it's not a long one, 
 however. Society in Hades is becoming so 
 mixed, that one really must be particular ; and I 
 visit only the old stand-bys." 
 
 " Right, right, by all means ; I don't go the 
 new nabobs neither, except that millionaire, 
 Midas, who keeps a capital cook, and has plenty 
 of chateau in his cellar. But who's that old quiz 
 in brimstone -coloured gaiters, that Mercury's got 
 under his wing to introduce to the infernals ?" 
 
32 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 " Some modern bore, I'll be sworn, for they 
 never send us lads of life and spirit from the 
 earth any more." 
 
 " No, they are all used up before they get 
 here. An overworked, spavined, broken-down 
 set. But, adios, Amigo." And waving his 
 furred glove to Paris, in the same moment that 
 he touched his spirited nag with the whip, the 
 light sulky of Castor whirled by the more showy 
 stanhope of his friend, and both were out of sight 
 in a moment. 
 
 " These are gay youths," observed the stran- 
 ger to Mercury, as the two paused upon the 
 curb-stone to admire the skill with which Castor, 
 at full speed, wound among a crowd of omni- 
 buses. 
 
 " Are they of much consideration among the 
 infernals ?" 
 
 " They ! No ! a couple of extravagant, dissipa- 
 ted dogs. Paris affects exclusiveness, because 
 every body cuts him ; and that horse-jockey, 
 Castor, has run up such a devil of a bill at every 
 livery stable in town, that he must open one 
 himself, or learn, to go on foot. His brother, 
 Pollux, is of the same flash set. Minos held him 
 to bail, the other day, for provoking a boxing 
 
NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES. 33 
 
 match with a Yankee pupil of Fuller's, whom a 
 steamboat explosion or railroad accident had sent 
 quite unexpectedly to Hades." 
 
 " You receive a good many American ghosts 
 in that way," observed the stranger. 
 
 " Why, yes, confound them," replied Mercury, 
 " human life is of so little value among that queer 
 people, that they keep one always busy. I have 
 only to look in the morning papers for some 
 ' card,' exonerating a railroad company, or 
 steamboat skipper from * all blame,' and I am 
 sure to find a troop of Yankee ghosts bargaining 
 with Charon, to work their passage across the 
 Styx. But, here we are, at the house of Pan- 
 dora, the first woman that was ever made, and of 
 course at the head of society here, seeing that the 
 fatal box, which she opened upon earth, has done 
 everything to keep up the population of this 
 place." 
 
 " The compliments of the season to you," 
 added Mercury, bowing to the lady, as he intro- 
 duced his friend upon entering the drawing-room 
 of Pandora ; " what a beautiful ottoman !" 
 
 " It's one good Penelope embroidered for me. 
 How do you like the barbaric pattern of these 
 slippers ? My husband's friend, Tecumseh, sent 
 
34 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 me a pair of moccasins, and I thought Ulysses 
 would like something of the same kind to wear 
 about the house. Have you read this?" con- 
 tinued she, glancing toward the stranger as she 
 selected a volume, in boards, from among a pile 
 of annuals upon the centre table. 
 
 " Ernest Maltravers no, I have not, Madam, 
 but I'm told it's very popular in Hades ; yet how 
 a genius so resplendent as that of Bulwer can de- 
 light in catering for the taste of the infernals 
 ?? 
 
 " Pardon me," interrupted Mercury, " but 
 here comes Plato, who is more au fait to novel 
 writing than any of us." 
 
 " It takes broader shoulders than mine to bear 
 the weight of Mercury's compliments," said 
 Plato, bowing to the company as he filled him- 
 self a glass of cherry-bounce, which the shade of 
 a Communipaw negro presented him while speak- 
 ing. " You can hardly call me a novel writer, 
 however, if that's what you would imply, because 
 I have tried to write up to my beau ideal of 
 truth. My dream of Atlantis, as cavillers so 
 long called it, has at least been realized beyond 
 the western main, as this gentleman will bear 
 witness." 
 
NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES. 35 
 
 " I guess you'd think so if you saw our en- 
 lightened republic," cried a tall, raw-boned phan- 
 tom, rushing up with outstretched hands to Pan- 
 dora, who shrunk aghast as she beheld him kick 
 the mud from his shoes upon one of Chester's 
 best rugs. 
 
 " Why, Major Jack Downing, when upon 
 earth did you come down ?" exclaimed all with 
 one voice. 
 
 ' Upon airth ! well, now, do tell why, that's 
 a raal Christian oath, the first I've hearn since I 
 was lynched up yonder in our government of 
 laws. I rayther think, though, that I've got on 
 the side of the majority at last, for there's a 
 mighty heap of folks here, and they all seem to 
 be one way of thinking." 
 
 " Rightly observed," rejoined the moralizing 
 Plato. " Death is, indeed, the true asserter of 
 the democracy of numbers ; the agrarian mea- 
 surer of each one's plot of land ; the loco-foco of 
 eternity. By-the-way, has any one read De 
 Tocqueville ?" 
 
 Before any one could reply, a throng of visitors 
 rushed, with clamorous greetings, through the 
 open doors, and Mercury withdrew, with his 
 grave protegt, to a window near, where, shaded 
 
36 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 partly by the damask curtains, he could, unob- 
 served, comment upon the company, for the 
 benefit of the stranger. 
 
 " That," said he, pointing to a lean, unhappy- 
 looking man, "is Jason, the Argonaut, whose 
 health has been nearly destroyed by worrying 
 anxiety about the delay in the South sea expedi- 
 tion. The gentleman so seriously engaged with 
 the pat de fois gras, is Lucullus, whom they had 
 up in the Court of Sessions the other day for 
 violating the statute, by having quail in his lar- 
 der before the first of October. The grum look- 
 ing fellow who is taking the tankard of beer 
 from that black fellow whom you may recognize 
 as the ghost of Simon, the waiter ir Cacus, or 
 Caucus, who once kept an oyster-cellar under 
 Tammany Hall, but whom the republican habits 
 of the place now admit into good society. Those 
 well-limbed youths, in striped guernseys and blue 
 jackets, are Guyas and Cloanthus, the two crack 
 oarsmen of the Castle Garden boat-clubs. The 
 old fellow in a Roman toga and green corduroys, 
 is Crassus, one of the heaviest men in Wall- 
 street ; and the thin-faced man talking to him, is 
 Evander, who, elated with the success of his 
 operations upon the Palatine, has dipped too 
 
NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES. 37 
 
 largely into Chicago lots, and is now trying to 
 persuade the Parthian jobber to embark with him 
 in a speculation upon pre-emption rights, in the 
 Sac and Fox territory, just ceded to government. 
 The wry-necked man, in uniform of a militia 
 colonel, is Alexander the Great, who is in high 
 spirits from having been, the other day, presented 
 by his regiment with a pair of silver pitchers, for 
 the military skill he has displayed anywhere be- 
 tween Union Square and the Battery, during ten 
 years of patriotic service just expired. ^Eneas, 
 who is just taking his leave, you know, of course, 
 as the pending action for breach of promise in 
 Judge Irving's court, has, unhappily, made him 
 too notorious. The poney-built fellow, in dark 
 fustian and driving-gloves, is Phaeton, who lost 
 twelve hundred dollars lately by his mare slipping 
 her shoulder on the Third Avenue ; since then, he 
 got himself in trouble by taking the reins of one 
 of Brower's omnibuses, and trying to run a man, 
 called Homan, off the line. His sisters, the 
 Heliadcs, were sad romps, until the corporation 
 cut down their poplar representatives upon earth, 
 to sober their vivacity, and get rid of caterpillars. 
 Ah!" said Mercury, interrupting himself, and 
 glancing out of the window, as a plainly dressed, 
 
38 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 but rather aristocratic looking man, of about 
 forty, with smooth locks, slightly touched with 
 gray, crossed the pavement to the street-door ; 
 " there is Archimedes, who just stepped out of 
 his new locomotive, the Pou-sto ; he is " 
 
 But here the Babel of talk became so noisy 
 around him, that he could not go on ; and mo- 
 tioning to the stranger to continue the study of 
 character for himself, Mercury retired to arrange 
 a bundle of congressional speeches, which had 
 perished and been dismissed to the shades as soon 
 as born. 
 
 Adonis, the Pelham of the infernals, was talk- 
 ing with Pandora, and the stranger, in listening 
 to their elegant twaddle, could not fail to be 
 struck with the similarity of subjects in good 
 society all over the world. 
 
 " And so," says Pandora, " Cleopatra has 
 really purchased the whole set of three hundred 
 dollar handkerchiefs, for which we were all 
 dying?" 
 
 " There's no doubt of it," replied Adonis, " I 
 had it from one of the young Gracchi, who told 
 me that his mother was going to introduce the 
 fact among the notes of her next tract upon po- 
 litical economy. But the town talk is now about 
 
NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES. 39 
 
 poor Thisbe, and the splendid dress she wore the 
 other evening at Aspasia's soiree." 
 
 " Ah ! I heard that. She was rehearsing her 
 loves with Pyramus, after the party, through the 
 chinks of a brick wall, when the vibration of 
 their voices shook down the bricks and mortar, 
 to the destruction of her beautiful skirt." 
 
 " Such a thing could never have happened, if 
 the infernals built as they do in Philadelphia," 
 mildly interposed a shade, whose fur cap and 
 spectacles set off features strongly resembling 
 those of the sage Franklin. 
 
 For the first time the stranger seemed to be 
 moved with sympathy for a kindred spirit amid 
 all that crowd of phantoms, representing every 
 age of the world. Plato, at the same moment, 
 was actuated by a similar impulse, and the three 
 embraced together. 
 
 " Wisest of Americans," said the stranger, as 
 he seated himself upon the sofa, and stroked the 
 brimstone -coloured gaiters of a leg, that, if not 
 stout, was comely for a man of sixty ; " learned 
 doctor, have you seen the proceedings of the 
 society of Copenhagen upon the Norwegian an- 
 tiquities of your country ? My young friend, 
 Winkle, I learn, lately read before our club a 
 
40 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 paper upon the subject, transmitted by your dis- 
 tinguished compatriot, Mr. Wheaton. It is re- 
 markable, sir, amid the march of mind in the 
 present age it is pleasant, amid the strides of 
 physical science, to see a host of skirmishers 
 thrown off from the ponderous phalanx, to scour 
 the country over which we have passed, and, 
 while collecting the stragglers that have dropped 
 from our ranks by the way, strike, ever and anon, 
 at some neglected off-post of knowledge, and 
 absorb its resources within the mighty stream 
 that impels us forward. And you," said the be- 
 nevolent Pickwick, rising with his subject, as he 
 caught the eye of the admiring Plato, " you, ye 
 leaders in the bright hosts of philanthropy ye 
 lucifers, whose morning have marshalled on our 
 clustering troops of feebler stars what must 
 your feelings be, ye broad-bosomed philanthro- 
 pists, who, with a benevolence that compasses 
 all time, have extended your fostering arms, be- 
 yond the age in which you lived, to embrace the 
 kindred spirits of ours what must your feelings 
 be, to find us, amid all the hurry of the race of 
 knowledge, still pausing to kneel with reverence 
 at those shrines of antiquity which your names 
 have hallowed ? The hoary altars of humbug, 
 
NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES. 41 
 
 at which thou, beloved Plato, so lovedst to minis- 
 ter, are still daily gaining in their votaries ; and 
 though the mightiest dreams of the future, in 
 which it was thy delight to dwell, are, by some, 
 exchanged for shadowy visions of the veiled 
 past, yet the Janus image of time-honoured 
 humbug is still the idol of the world." 
 
 " Well," interrupted Major Jack, " that may 
 all be very slick, though I don't understand half 
 on't; but if you mean to say that everything 
 upon airth is humbug, I wish you could only see 
 our Niagara. That, I take, is, to say the least 
 on't, the one great, etarnal, overflowing truth 
 of creation. It disappints nobody strikes man 
 and boy jist the same as being all it's cracked 
 up to be ; and what's more, strikes the man of 
 sixty afterwards, as being jist as good as when 
 he was a boy. There's the empire state of 
 
 New York now, with all that water power " 
 
 " Ought to adopt it as her emblem, and call 
 herself by its resounding name, instead of the 
 pitiful cockney epithet she bears," exclaimed the 
 patriotic shade of Franklin, while the British 
 antiquary and the Athenian philosopher, bowed 
 gravely in approval of the suggestion. 
 
 Hector, who, though dressed in flaming Texan 
 
42 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 regimentals, skulked about the room as if con- 
 scious of the bad odour in which he was held, 
 from a supposed connexion with the Chichester 
 gang, bustled forward now, upon hearing the 
 shade of M. de Champlain drop something about 
 Canada affairs ; but, just at this moment a great 
 commotion took place in the receiving-chamber, 
 and the infernals might be seen crowding to- 
 gether, and raising themselves on tiptoe, to look 
 over each other's shoulders, while a whisper of 
 " The Indians, the Indians," ran round the circle. 
 
 " By the hoky," shouted Major Jack, " it 
 must be my rebellious countrymen, the Semin- 
 oles, for I saw in this morning's paper that Gin- 
 eral Jessup had sent the hull tarnel biling on 'em 
 to the shades." 
 
 The remarks called the attention of every one 
 to the door the opening in the circle was en- 
 larged to make room for the fierce array of war- 
 riour spirits. There was a deep pause in the 
 courts of the infernals. The portals of the sa- 
 loon were thrown wide, and the ghosts of the con- 
 quered Seminoles entered in the guise of a de- 
 crepid negro, an old squaw, and three half-blood 
 children. 
 
 The peal of laughter which followed awoke 
 
NEW YEAR'S VISITING IN HADES. 43 
 
 me just in time to hear Betty, the chambermaid, 
 exclaim, as she extended a cup of fragrant 
 coffee through my half-drawn curtain " A 
 happy New Year to you, sir, and may all your 
 good dreams of last night come true, as I'm sure 
 they will this year." 
 
THE CHAUNT OF THE STAR. 
 
 BY JANE L. SWIFT. 
 
 "For ever singing as we shine." 
 
 I DECK the night with gems of light, 
 
 In azure realms I roll ; 
 And shine upon the fields of space, 
 
 That stretch from pole to pole. 
 Years may not quench my glowing fire, 
 
 Nor time my lustre pale ; 
 No regal ornament can vie 
 
 With heaven's spangled veil. 
 
 I robe with beauty, every scene 
 
 That makes the earth so fair ; 
 There's not a spot so waste or wild, 
 
 But I can sparkle there. 
 There's not a stream, however lone 
 
 Its winding current be, 
 But bears my ray upon its breast, 
 
 And gives it back to me. 
 
THE CHAU NT OF THE STAR. 45 
 
 I look upon the haunts of men, 
 
 And watch the turmoil there ; 
 Immortals, struggle for the boon 
 
 That only mortals share. 
 I look upon the grave-yards then, 
 
 Where gathered millions lie ; 
 With nothing but the robe of death, 
 
 That earthly dross could buy. 
 
 I mark the up-turned, weary eye, 
 
 That seeks my glittering sphere, 
 Unconscious that the vales of rest, 
 
 For sainted ones, are here. 
 Perchance, some spirit disenthralled 
 
 Is whispering to thee now 
 I see the smile upon thy lip ! 
 
 The light upon thy brow ! 
 
 It tells thee of my crystal streams, 
 
 My blooming, happy bowers ; 
 Where ever verdant foliage screens 
 
 The sweet, unfading flowers. 
 It tells thee of my gates of pearl, 
 
 My walls of jasper stone, 
 With lamps unquenchable that have 
 
 For countless ages shone. 
 
 It tells thee, that the ties of earth 
 
 Will be cemented here 
 Although death's portal must be crossed 
 
 Ere fields of light appear. 
 
46 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 Thou'rt not so distant as 't would seem 
 
 When gazing from afar, 
 Ere break of day, thy home may be 
 
 Within thy favourite star. 
 
 Spirit of earth ! each glowing orb 
 
 Has messengers of peace 
 To hover round thy couch of death 
 
 And bid its terrors cease 
 To catch thy struggling soul, when falls 
 
 Its prison house of clay, 
 And bear it on angelic wings 
 
 To heaven's cloudless day. 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA. 
 
 BY MAJOR JACK DOWNING. 
 
 THIS ere picter is as much like Uncle Joshua, 
 when he was about forty-five year old, as two 
 peas in a pod. And well it may be, for it was 
 drawed from real life ; and there aint no more 
 nateral picters in the world, than them that's 
 drawed from nater. I well remember when it 
 was made, and the way it was done. It was a 
 good many years ago, a little before Gineral 
 Jackson was elected president, Uncle Joshua was 
 in the field, one day, harvesting corn. He was 
 in his shirt sleeves, for he always worked with 
 his coat off, unless the weather was cold enough 
 to freeze a bear. He had on a pair of green 
 fustian trowses, and an under-jacket of the same. 
 They were all made in the family, for it was 
 against Uncle Joshua's principles to wear bought- 
 en things when he could have 'em made at 
 home. So Cousin Nabby spun the yarn, and 
 
 c2 
 
48 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Aunt Keziah wove the cloth, and cut and made 
 the jacket and trowses. And they sot as well 
 as though they had been made at the tailor's ; 
 for Uncle Joshua was such a well-built man that 
 almost anything would set to him. 
 
 The round straw hat that he had on was 
 boughten ; for there was nobody in Downing, 
 ville in them days that understood making straw 
 hats, though, since that time, they've got to ma- 
 king a plenty of 'em. 
 
 As I said afore, he was harvesting corn, 
 gatherin' off the ripe ears, and putting 'em in a 
 basket ; and he stood by the side of a stout, tall 
 hill of corn, almost as tall as he was, and he 
 didn't lack but half an inch of six foot, and he 
 had hold of the top ear, and was just agoing to 
 break it off, when a man came along the road, 
 and stopped and looked over the fence and spoke 
 to him. 
 
 " How do you do, sir ?" said the stranger. 
 
 " I'm pretty well, I thank ye, how do you 
 do ?" said Uncle Joshua. 
 
 " Very well," said the stranger. " But, sir, 
 will you be so kind as to stand just as you are 
 for about five minutes ?" 
 
 " If there's any good reason for it, I will," said 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA. 49 
 
 Uncle Joshua. " But what do you want me to 
 stand so for ?" 
 
 "Because," said the stranger, "you are the 
 best specimen of a man I've seen since I left 
 York state, and I want to carry home your like- 
 ness and show to our folks." 
 
 " Well, go ahead," said Uncle Joshua, holding 
 on to the corn, and looking the stranger right in 
 the eye. 
 
 With that, the man pulled out his paper and 
 pencil, and went to work. I was jest a coming 
 down the road, and I stopt and looked over his 
 shoulder, and, factorum, in less than five min- 
 utes he had such a complete likeness of Uncle 
 Joshua on the paper, that I thought it was going 
 to speak to me. And then he put in the basket, 
 and the corn, and fixed it all up as nateral-as 
 life. And then he made a copy of it, and gave 
 to Uncle Joshua, and bid him good morning and 
 went along ; and we never see nor heard of him 
 afterwards. He was a queer looking sort of a 
 man, with a sharp eye that seemed as though it 
 would look right through everything. 
 
 Uncle Joshua carried the picter home and 
 give it to Aunt Keziah, who sot so much by it, 
 she said she wouldn't take a hundred dollars for 
 
50 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 it. She took it and put a glass over it, and 
 made a sort of a binding round it, and hung it 
 under the looking-glass, and there it has hung 
 ever since. The picter that the man carried 
 away with him, we never expected to hear of 
 again. 
 
 But last winter, when I was in New York, on 
 my way home from Washington for I do go 
 there sometimes yet to look after government 
 matters a little, though not very often, since the 
 GineraPs time I rather felt it my duty to go 
 last winter to see if I couldn't settle the hash 
 that was breaking out between Captain Tyler 
 and some of his old friends ; but I might just as 
 well have staid at home, for I found the fat was 
 all in the fire, and there was no such thing as 
 putting it out well, as I was a saying, when I 
 was in New York, on my way home, I stopt 
 all night at the United States hotel, a thunderin 
 great big tavern, on Fulton-street, where a gen- 
 tleman may find as good quarters as anybody 
 needs to want. And while I was there, I hap- 
 pened to think I promised Cousin Ephraim's 
 oldest boy that I'd bring him home a book. So I 
 just run round the corner of the tavern by three 
 or four doors into Pearl street, and I see a book- 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA. 51 
 
 store that had " Collins, Keese & Co.," up over 
 the door, and in I went. There was a good 
 many in the store, and they seemed to be rather 
 busy. 
 
 I didn't know who to speak to, so I called out 
 without looking at any one in particular, and 
 says I, "Mister, have you got Noah Webster's 
 Third Part ?" 
 
 At that, there was a slim, wiry-looking, brisk 
 man stepped right up to me, and says he, " yes, 
 sir." 
 
 I looked at him with one of my penetrating 
 looks, and I see right through him. He was a 
 sharp-eyed, dark-haired, dark-whiskered, ner- 
 vous-looking sort of a man, and I knew in a 
 minute by his motions and manner of speaking, 
 that he was as smart as a steel-trap. Thinks I 
 to myself, you are just the chap to drive a hard 
 bargain ; but you needn't think to get round me, 
 for I've had my eye-teeth cut before to-day. So, 
 says I, " let me see one, if you please." 
 
 He stepped to the shelf and handed down one, 
 and I took it and turned the leaves over, and 
 looked at the title-page, and examined it all over, 
 and says I, " are you sure this is the last edition ?" 
 
 "Yes," says he, "I'm sure 'tis the very last." 
 
52 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 I examined the book all over, and see it was 
 in good order. 
 
 " Well now," says I, " I want to know what is 
 the lowest price you will take for this book. 
 Fix your price according to the times," says I, 
 " for, you must remember, books now-a-days are 
 dog-cheap, and I know all about it, and shant 
 give you one cent more for the thing than it is 
 worth ; so you may as well come right down to 
 the mark first as last." 
 
 He stared at me as though he had got hold of 
 a customer such as he hadn't been use to. 
 
 " Well," says he, " I'll toe the mark at once, 
 for I see it's no use for anybody to try to shave 
 you. The lowest cash price of that book is two 
 shillings." 
 
 I looked him right in the eye, and I thought 
 he didn't look stiff, but looked as though he 
 meant to fall from that a leetle, rather than let 
 me go away without the book. So I says at 
 once, " Well, then it's no use for us to talk any 
 more about it, for that's rather above the mark ; 
 it isn't according to the present times." 
 
 " It can't be sold for a penny less than that," 
 says he, " not by the hundred ; in fact that's the 
 wholesale price." 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA. 53 
 
 " Well, I must look further, then," says I, 
 turning half round, as if I was going away. 
 " But, I'll tell you what I will do ; I'll give you 
 a quarter of a dollar for it, if you are a mind to 
 close the bargain at once ;" and then I took a 
 quarter of a dollar out of my pocket, and held it 
 up between my thumb and finger. 
 
 He put on a queer knowing kind of a look, 
 and I see at once that the money tempted him. 
 
 " What do you say ?" says I, " for I must be 
 a-going." 
 
 " Well," says he, " you may have the book ;" 
 and he took it and wrapped it in a paper, and 
 handed it to me, and I gave him the quarter of a 
 dollar. When he went to do up the book, he 
 laid a piece of paper, that he had been holding 
 in his hand, down on the counter ; and as I hap- 
 pened to glance at it, I see at once it was the 
 very picter of Uncle Joshua, gathering corn, that 
 I've been telling about. 
 
 " Hullo," says I, " where did you get that 
 picter of Uncle Joshua ?" 
 
 He started, and stared at me harder than he had 
 done yet ; and says he, "do you know that picter?" 
 
 "Know it!" says I, "I guess I do; it's the 
 picter of Uncle Joshua." 
 
54 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 " What Uncle Joshua ?" says he. 
 
 " Why, my Uncle Joshua," says I. " Uncle 
 Joshua Downing, of Downingville, away down 
 east, in the state of Maine." 
 
 " Well, there," says he, " I haint been so glad 
 of anything before for a long time. I've been 
 trying for more than a year to find out who that 
 picter w r as taken for. The painter, didn't know, 
 for he ^,id he took it flyin', as he was travelling 
 through the state of Maine, and he didn't ask the 
 name of the man, and didn't even know what 
 town it was in." 
 
 " What made you so anxious to find out who it 
 was taken for ?" says I. 
 
 " Because," says he, " I am a-going to put it 
 into a book, and I wanted the name of the man, 
 and some account of him to go in with it. I'm 
 getting up a handsome picter-book, that they 
 call an annual, and this is to go in for one of the 
 picters. Now, you say you know this man, and 
 his name is Joshua Downing. He isn't a rela- 
 tion of Major Jack Downing, is he ?" 
 
 " Yes," says I, " he's an uncle to him." 
 
 " Ah, well, so much the better," says he ; 
 " that'll tell well in the book. But do you know 
 Major Downing ?" 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA. 55 
 
 " I know a man that does know him," says I. 
 
 "Who is that," says he. 
 
 " Gineral Jackson," says I. 
 
 He looked at me mighty sharp, and, says he, 
 as he pointed down to the picter, " this man, you 
 say, is an uncle to Major Jack Downing, and is 
 your uncle, and you know Gineral Jackson ; 
 now, may I make bold to ask who you are ?" 
 
 This was coming pretty snug home upon me, 
 and I couldn't very well get round it ; so says I, 
 " when I'm in Downingville, they call me Jack, 
 and Cousin Jack, and anything of that sort ; but 
 when I'm in Washington, they call me Major 
 Downing." 
 
 When I said this, he coloured a good deal, and 
 he put out his hand, shook hands with me, and 
 says he, " Major Downing, I'm very happy in- 
 deed to see you ;" and after talking a few min- 
 utes, and inquiring what the news was from 
 Washington, and so on, says he, " Major Down- 
 ing, if you will write me a little short history of 
 your Uncle Joshua, to go with this picter into my 
 annual, I shall be under everlasting obligations 
 to you." 
 
 This staggered me a little, and says I, "Mis- 
 ter, I've seen them books that they call annuals, 
 
56 THE WJNTERGREEN. 
 
 and I don't think I can write well enough to go 
 into one of them, for I aint a grammar-larnt 
 man." 
 
 " Well," says he, " Major, you are too modest 
 by half; if you can't write well enough, I don't 
 know who can. A man that's lived with Gine- 
 ral Jackson as long as you have, and wrote such 
 letters as you did in the Portland Courier, that 
 went all over the country, and was read by 
 everybody, \vhy, sir, I rather have an article 
 from you for my annual, than from any other 
 man in the country, grammar or no grammar. 
 Now, will you be so kind as to oblige me ?" 
 
 I told him if he really desired it, I would 
 write him some little short account of Uncle 
 Joshua, in my un grammar way of writing, and 
 I'd go right round to my room at the tavern, and 
 write it before I went to bed. So I bid him 
 good night, and went out. 
 
 BRIEF SKETCH. 
 
 Uncle Joshua was born in the old Bay state, 
 somewhere away back of Boston, & little before 
 the close of the revolutionary war ; and that 
 makes him now not much odds of sixty year old. 
 His father, Mr. Zebedee Downing, went a so- 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA 59 
 
 gering in the revolution, and when the war was 
 over, he took it into his head to move with his fam- 
 ily away into the woods down east, in the state of 
 Maine. So he packed up his wife and two boys 
 in a horse wagon he hadn't but two children 
 then, Solomon, who was my father, and Joshua, 
 that I'm now writing about and he drove away 
 down into the state of Maine, though it was called 
 the district of Maine then, 'till he come to the end 
 of the road. And then he worked his way along 
 through the woods, and round the pond about five 
 miles further, and there he found a place that suit- 
 ed him. So he hauled up, and turned his wagon 
 over to make a kind of a house for a few of the 
 first nights, and went to work and cut away the 
 trees, and made an opening, and built a log house, 
 and laid the foundation of Downingville. 
 
 As I aint a writing the history of my grand- 
 father, I can't say much more about him at pre- 
 sent ; them that wants to know more about him, 
 can find more o his history in my life and wri- 
 tings, published in 1834, by Lilly, Wait & Co., 
 Boston. All that I can stop to say here, is, that 
 my grandfather died about four year ago, very 
 old, and very much respected, having lived to see 
 Downingville grow up and flourish, and become 
 
58 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 thickly settled, and his family somewhat known 
 in the world. 
 
 What little more I have to say now must be 
 confined to Uncle Joshua. He was a smart, 
 healthy boy, and grew up there in the woods, as 
 straight as a pine-tree, and tough as a pitch- 
 knot. When he was a youngster he was rather 
 full of fun and frolic, and not very fond of work, 
 throwing the greater part of the work, when he 
 could shirk out of it, on to my father's shoulders. 
 When he grew up, however, he became a very 
 industrious and smart man, and soon begun to be 
 looked up to as one of the foremost men in town. 
 When he was quite a young man, he was chose 
 moderator of the town meeting, and has been 
 moderator, I believe, every year since. He has 
 held a good many town offices, and is now con- 
 sidered rather the head man in Downingville. 
 
 Uncle Joshua begun to take an interest in 
 politics when he was quite young ; and he al- 
 ways reads more newspapers, and knows more 
 about politics, than any other man in Downing- 
 ville. He was ahvays a true blue republican ; 
 let whatever party come up that proclaimed the 
 republican creed, Uncle Joshua always joined 
 'em. But he never was an office-seeker in his 
 
A BRIEF SKETCH OF UNCLE JOSHUA. 59 
 
 life. He only worked for the good of his coun- 
 try. When I come out in the world, and went 
 to Washington and got acquainted with Gineral 
 Jackson, I got him to appoint Uncle Joshua post- 
 master of Downingville, an office which he has 
 filled, and filled honorably, ever since. You will 
 never catch him to be a defaulter. He keeps his 
 accounts as true as a hair, and forks over the 
 money to the government regular every quarter, 
 to the last cent. 
 
 Uncle Joshua's family consists of himself and 
 Aunt Keziah, and Cousin Ephraim, and Cousin 
 Nabby. Ephraim and Nabby have now got to 
 be kind of middle-aged people, and I am very 
 doubtful whether they will ever get married. 
 
 Uncle Joshua is a very temperate man, and 
 very regular in all his habits. He never joined 
 a temperance society, but he never drinks any- 
 thing stronger than cider. His food is generally 
 quite plain and simple, but made of the best mate- 
 rials, for he is an excellent farmer, and his meat 
 and grain and vegetables are always of the best 
 quality. He generally goes to bed at night about 
 nine o'clock, hardly ever later than ten, and he 
 never allows the sun to be up before him in the 
 morning. ***** 
 
 D 2 
 
60 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 When I finished my sketch, I went to bed, 
 thinking a good deal about how pleased Uncle 
 Joshua would be, and especially Aunt Keziah, 
 when they come to see him in a handsome book, 
 and his life all written out, and handsomely print- 
 ed. When I got up in the morning, and come to 
 settle my bill, I happened to think, in making the 
 change, that a quarter of a dollar is two shil- 
 lings, York money, and that I had given the night 
 before, for Noah Webster's Third Part, exactly 
 what the man first asked me for it, when I thought 
 I had beat him down twenty-five per cent. I felt 
 so much mortified to think he got the weather- 
 gage of me in the trade, that I wouldn't go round 
 to the store to let him see me again, but sent the 
 manuscript round by a boy, and went right down 
 and stepped aboard the steamboat, and started for 
 home. 
 
ENDYMION. 
 
 BY C. P. CRANCH. 
 
 YES, it is the queenly moon 
 Gliding through her starred saloon, 
 Silvering all she looks upon ; 
 I am her Endymion : 
 For by night she comes to me 
 Oh I love her wondrously ! 
 
 She into my window looks, 
 As I sit with lamp and books, 
 And the night-breeze stirs the leaves, 
 And the dew drips down the eaves : 
 O'er my shoulder peepeth she 
 Oh she loves me royally ! 
 
 Then she tells me many a tale, 
 With her smile, so sheeny pale, 
 Till my soul is overcast 
 With such dream-light of the past, 
 That I saddened needs must be, 
 And I love her mournfully. 
 
62 T H E W I N T E R C R E E N. 
 
 Oft I gaze up in her eyes, 
 
 Raying light through winter skies : 
 
 Far away she saileth on ; 
 
 I am no Endymion : 
 
 Oh, she is too bright for me, 
 
 And I love her hopelessly. 
 
 Now she comes to me again, 
 And we mingle joy and pain : 
 Now she walks no more afar, 
 Regal with train-bearing star, 
 But she bends and kisses me 
 Oh we love now mutually ! 
 
THE UNKNOWN PORTRAIT. 
 
 BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 IN an old palace by the Arno's side, 
 
 Rich in sweet wonders of the rainbow art, 
 
 One portrait, with a look of gentle pride, 
 Seems to invoke the gazer's eye and heart. 
 
 Dark plumes his broad and manly forehead shade, 
 And in his grasp a jewelled hilt appears; 
 
 Some dream of hope before him seems to fade, 
 And youth to wear the thoughtfulness of years. 
 
 For ardent purpose, in that noble face, 
 Is tempered by a mild, reflective mood ; 
 
 The soldier's pride blends with the poet's grace, 
 And love, o'er courage, dove-like seems to brood. 
 
 His race was high I see it written now, 
 
 In the knight's weapon and the princely dress ; 
 
 And more than all in the uplifted brow, 
 The stately air, and smile of gentleness. 
 
64 THE WIN T ERG RE EX. 
 
 He was a hero though, perchance, his deeds 
 Fame's partial glance swept all unheeded by ; 
 
 The clear resolve of valour warmly pleads 
 For honour's garland, in his dauntless eye. 
 
 He must have loved I know it by the thought 
 That o'er his youthful bloom a shade has cast, 
 
 Like the sweet twilight, with calm sadness fraught, 
 That lingers when the sultry day is past. 
 
 Methinks some being fair, with love's keen gaze, 
 Watched o'er the limner as these lines he traced ; 
 
 Time dimmed their hues, but grief nor length of days 
 The magic semblance from her soul effaced. 
 
 O frail memorial of the young and brave, 
 Vain trophy of a human brother's lot, 
 
 No record from oblivion thou dost save, 
 But that he lived, and loved, and is forgot ! 
 
TRUE BALLAD OF THE WANDERER. 
 
 BY ANNA P. DINN1ES. 
 
 A MAIDEN in a southern bower, 
 
 Of fragrant vines and citron trees, 
 To charm the pensive twilight hour, 
 
 Flung wild her thoughts upon the breeze, 
 To Cupid's ear, unconscious, telling 
 The fitful dream her bosom swelling, 
 Till echo softly on it dwelling, 
 Revealed the urchin, bold and free, 
 Repeating thus her minstrelsy : 
 
 i4 Away ! away! by brook and fountain, 
 
 Where the wild deer wanders free, 
 O'er sloping dale and swelling mountain, 
 My roving thoughts still follow thee ; 
 Where the lake its bosom spreading, 
 Where the breeze its sweets is shedding, 
 Where thy buoyant steps are treading, 
 There, where'er the spot may be, 
 There my thoughts are following thec ! 
 
GG THE W INT ERG RE EX. 
 
 In the forest's dark recesses, 
 
 Where the fawn may fearless stray ; 
 In the cave no sunbeam blesses 
 With its first or parting ray ; 
 
 Where the birds are blithely singing, 
 Where the flowers are gaily springing, 
 Where the bee its course is winging, 
 There, if there thou now may'st be, 
 My anxious thoughts are following thee. 
 
 In the lowly peasant's cot, 
 Quiet refuge of content, 
 In the sheltered grass-grown spot 
 Resting, when with travel spent, 
 Where the vine its tendrils curling, 
 Where the trees their boughs are furling, 
 Where the streamlet clear is purling, 
 There, if there thou now may'st be, 
 There my spirit follows thee. 
 
 In the city's busy mart, 
 
 Mingling with its restless crowd ; 
 'Mid the miracles of art, 
 
 Classic pile, and column proud ; 
 O'er the ancient ruin, sighing, 
 When the sun's last ray is dying, 
 Or to fashion's vortex flying, 
 Even there, if thou may'st be, 
 There my thoughts must follow thee. 
 
TRUE BALLAD OF THE WANDERER. 67 
 
 In the revel in the dance 
 
 With the firm, familiar friend, 
 Or where Thespian arts entrance, 
 Making mirth and sadness blend ; 
 Where the living pageant glowing, 
 O'er thy heart its spell is throwing, 
 Mimic life in " alto" showing, 
 There, beloved ! if thou may'st be, 
 There, still there I follow thee. 
 
 When the weary day is over, 
 
 And thine eyes in slumber close, 
 Still, oh, still, inconstant rover, 
 Do I charm thee to repose. 
 
 With the shades of night descending, 
 With thy guardian spirits blending, 
 To thy sleep sweet visions lending, 
 There, e'en there, true love can be 
 There, and thus, am I wilh thee !" 
 
 Months and seasons rolled away, 
 
 And the maiden's cheek was pale, 
 When, as bloom'd the buds of May, 
 Cupid ended thus the tale : 
 " Over land and sea returning, 
 Wealth, and power, and beauty spurning, 
 Love within his true heart burning, 
 Comes the wanderer wild and free, 
 Faithful maiden ! back to thee." 
 
THE BURIAL OF WINTER. 
 
 BY MARY E. LEE. 
 
 *Tis winter's burial day ! 
 
 Watching his slow decay, 
 The months have waited on their aged sire ; 
 
 And now, when death-like sleep 
 
 His palsied senses steep, 
 They wrap his chill form in its grave attire. 
 
 Awhile they linger near 
 
 Their parent's funeral bier, 
 And give full utterance to their heartfelt grief; 
 
 For though his mien was rude, 
 
 Arid stormy was his mood, 
 The old man's fits of passion were but brief. 
 
 Tall March, his eldest born, 
 
 Stands by with look forlorn, 
 Clothed in loose garments of a sombre dye ; 
 
 Till, spite of manhood's strength, 
 
 His spirit yields at length, 
 And speaks its wo, in wailings loud and high. 
 
THE BURIAL OF WINTER. 69 
 
 Young April, timid maid, 
 
 Though trembling and afraid, 
 She marks the heavings of her brother's breast ; 
 
 Seeks, 'mid her gushing tears, 
 
 To lull his boding cares, 
 With whisper'd hopes, that will not be represt. 
 
 But, fetter'd by no grief, 
 
 With cheek like fresh rose-leaf, 
 And eyes that sparkle in their depths of blue, 
 
 The zephyr-footed May, 
 
 Singing some childish lay, 
 Dances o'er bud and bloom of every hue. 
 
 Peace to the good old man ! 
 
 Some envious hearts began 
 His sway so just, though rigid to deplore ; 
 
 But now that he has gone, 
 
 His virtues let them own, 
 And count his garner'd treasure o'er and o'er. 
 
 No prodigal was he, 
 
 With hand profuse and free, 
 Wasting the wealth which Nature's coffers hold ; 
 
 But for the future's weal, 
 
 He braced his soul in steel, 
 And shut his ear to suppliants, all too bold. 
 
70 THE WINTERG KEEN. 
 
 Yet, in his sacred trust, 
 
 Earth's treasures did not rust, 
 But earn'd each day a happy competence ; 
 
 Till, in the hour of death, 
 
 E'en with his latest breath, 
 He bade his youthful heirs his hoards dispense. 
 
 * 
 And be those children blest ! 
 
 For nought have they represt, 
 But freely dealt out his exhaustless store ; 
 
 Strong March has scatter'd health, 
 
 Fair April lavish'd wealth, 
 And young May's urn with pleasures runneth o'er. 
 
 Then pay him honours due, 
 
 And shed warm tears, though few, 
 
 Over old Winter, on his funeral bier ; 
 Then lay his shrivell'd form 
 Where nought like wind or storm 
 
 Can e'er disturb it through the coming year. 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 PERCHANCE, gentle reader for gentle assu- 
 redly thou art who perusest the dainty pages of 
 this annual thou hast, in that sweet spring-time 
 of the year, when buds are clustering on every 
 tree, and birds are musical in every bower, and 
 the early violets hang their blue fringes by the 
 dewy wayside ; perchance thou hast (smitten with 
 a yearning for the sweet companionship of nature) 
 left the dusty sidewalks of thy own New Amster- 
 dam, (if thou be a Manhattanese,) and wandered 
 forth for health and recreation upon that fair sister 
 island which stretches its luxuriant length along 
 the sunny shores of the main land. I will imagine 
 that thou hast often strayed as far as the Bath- 
 House, and lingered on the sandy beach, and lis- 
 tened to the not unmusical dirge of the hoary 
 surges, as they shelved over the level shore of 
 Coney island. If I am right in my supposition, 
 
70 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 thou hast not passed with hasty step through the 
 rural village of New Utrecht. Many do so, but 
 they are worldlings, with no touch of philosophy, 
 untinctured with legendary lore, and quite for- 
 saken of the muse. If they, the gay butterflies 
 of the season, linger for a moment within the hal- 
 lowed precincts of that ancient village, it is but to 
 flutter over the threshold of the inviting inn, and 
 sip the exquisite nectar of unadulterated Hollands 
 in the rustic bar-room. This done, they pause 
 not, but in " hot haste" ignite their Havanas at 
 the flame of the little japanned lamp which mine 
 host keeps ever-burning like a vestal fire ; and 
 then, snapping their whips in the eyes of the as- 
 tonished burghers, two or three of whom are 
 always lounging on the stoop during the idle hours 
 of a June sunshine, they spring into their light 
 buggies, and whirl away in a cloud of dust and 
 smoke, more volatile than the essence of the weed 
 they breathe. Perchance New Utrecht is remem- 
 bered, if recalled at all, to curse the flavour of the 
 cigar, and eulogize the nare of the Schiedam ; but 
 its hold upon the memory is feeble, and the nee- 
 tar of the next libation sweeps it away forever. 
 
 But you and I, gentle reader, were cast in a 
 different mould, and made of finer clay. We live 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 77 
 
 in the nineteenth century, but we are not of it. 
 We ride neither in buggies nor in railroad cars, 
 but plod onward in the humble footpath, patient 
 followers of the picturesque, and ardent worship- 
 pers of nature. And now we are acquainted 
 with each other, and I am as much at liberty to 
 prose, and you quite as much obliged to listen, as 
 if we had been friends for half a century. 
 
 The village of New Utrecht is pleasantly sit- 
 uated, and contains several pretty dwellings, and 
 a stone church ; but of late it has lost by fire one 
 of its most picturesque dwellings, the venerable 
 mansion of Oloffe Schammer, one of the patri- 
 archs of the place. It was a hoary, moss-grown 
 building, with a brown, decayed roof, that bright- 
 ened here and there into tints of the liveliest 
 green, faced with gray stone, but having a back 
 and gables of little yellow bricks. An extensive 
 picket-paling enclosed the house and grounds, in- 
 cluding a close -shaven lawn that descended with 
 a regular slope to the road, and was bordered with 
 dwarfish apple-trees, planted more than a century 
 ago. Away to the left and right, and far back in 
 the rear of the mansion-house, stretched those 
 moist and flowery meadows, and those rich acres 
 of arable land, broken here and there by fruit- 
 
78 THE W I NT ERG RE EN. 
 
 trees, over which the good Oloffe Schammer lorded 
 it in all the importance and self-complacency of 
 an hereditary landholder. It was pleasant to see 
 the old gentleman, sitting on his stoop at the close 
 of a Sabbath afternoon in summer, enjoying the 
 fragrance of the Indian weed, inhaled through a 
 long and snowy pipe, and surveying his extensive 
 domain with something of an honest pride and a 
 fervent gratitude depicted in his aged counte- 
 nance. Time had spared the rounded outlines of 
 his face ; and though the hairs that streamed over 
 his ample forehead and broad shoulders were few 
 and silvery, the blood had not yet faded from his 
 cheek, nor the rose-tint from his lips. He was a 
 study for one of those painters who inherit the 
 fidelity and the characteristics of the Flemish 
 school. Even a stranger could sympathize with 
 the joy that inspired Oloffe as he surveyed the 
 treasures of his farm ; the tall grass waving like 
 an inland ocean in the fitful breeze that swept 
 over the wide meadow, whose verdure was sha- 
 dowed here and there by the bulky forms of the 
 grazing herd ; while now and then a shy colt, 
 alarmed at an unusual noise, would leave his so- 
 berer companions, and dash over the undulating 
 surface nearly at high speed. Turning from these, 
 
HERMAN SC HAMMER. 79 
 
 the eye would pause upon the extensive fields of 
 ripening maize, whose golden tassels, under the 
 influence of the capricious wind, waved in the 
 evening sunshine, filling the mind with joyous 
 ideas of plenty and luxuriance. 
 
 The world at large pronounced Oloffe Scham- 
 rner to be a happy man, but he was not entirely 
 exempt from those evils with which humanity is 
 doomed to be afflicted. He had a shrewish wife, 
 over whom he vainly struggled to obtain the mas- 
 tery ; and many a hot skirmish had been the con- 
 sequence of his rebellion against petticoat domin- 
 ion. It is true that death had put an end to the 
 warfare by seizing Dame Schammer during a fu- 
 rious excess of passion ; but then this event de- 
 prived the family of a notable housewife, and left 
 its master too old to think of marrying a second 
 time. To be sure, it was currently reported that 
 he had showed some signs of amativeness after 
 the decease of his dame ; but the story of his 
 having escorted Gertrude Van Brummel to sing- 
 ing-school, a fortnight after the calamity, turned 
 out, upon investigation, to be a- weak invention of 
 the enemy. Indeed, the old gentleman resolutely 
 wore his widower's weeds, and seemed very shy 
 of the fairer portion of creation ; in fact, he once 
 
80 T II E VV 1 N T E R G R E E X. 
 
 stayed away from afternoon service upon Sunday, 
 because a famous Gravesend belle had appeared 
 in the morning in a neighbouring pew, equipped 
 with a new cap and ribands, and darted some very 
 dangerous glances at the venerable OlofFe. 
 
 Dame Schammer had left her husband two 
 thriving pledges, or proofs of the happiness of 
 their union, in the persons of a couple of fine 
 boys OlofFe, the elder, and Herman, the younger. 
 They thrived in health and strength, and grew up 
 happily to manhood, educated under the same 
 roof, brought up under the eye, and guided by the 
 fostering care of their fond father. The differ- 
 ence of their respective ages was not so great as 
 to prevent them from being playmates and com- 
 panions the same bed received them when they 
 slept ; the same sports amused them in their lei- 
 sure hours, and the same birch urged them through 
 the spelling-book ; notwithstanding which, to the 
 surprise of all, they grew up with different tastes 
 and dispositions. OlofFe resembled his father, 
 and was fond of the labours of the farm he was 
 humble and industrious. Herman, on the con- 
 trary, w r as equally averse to study and to agricul- 
 ture, and was presuming and lazy. He went to 
 work with an ill grace, and was industrious only 
 
HERMAN SC HAMMER. 81 
 
 in perpetrating mischief. He over-rode the colts, 
 stole eggs, twisted the necks of the bantam chick- 
 ens, and played all manner of tricks upon the ne- 
 gro labourers. 
 
 When rebuked by his father, ho was either 
 sulky and sileait, or clamourous and insolent ; and 
 it was very soon known in the neighbourhood 
 that Herman was a most incorrigible dog. Be- 
 sides, as he grew up, he used to haunt the tavern, 
 where the general license of manners afforded 
 him full scope for the display of his evil propen- 
 sities. He astonished the old world fellows that 
 lounged in the bar-room, by calling for unheard- 
 of liquors ; and once, in one of his wildest pa- 
 roxysms, insisted upon Champaigne and Cham- 
 bertin. A staid old Dutchman, who heard the 
 requisition, being made with some difficulty to 
 comprehend that these were the names of Euro- 
 pean wines, declared that there was no surer sign 
 of a young man's ruin than when he deserted 
 " honest Hollands for the wishy-washy stuff of 
 them French foreigners." 
 
 Herman's indulgent father at first supplied him 
 with cash ; but when he found that the youngster 
 frequented bar-rooms and cockpits, was a high 
 better at the races, and lost more money at nine- 
 
82 THE WINTERGREEX. 
 
 pins than he ever earned in his life, he tightened 
 his purse-strings, and declared that the young 
 spendthrift should have no more hard-gotten coin 
 to waste in heartless dissipation. This annunci- 
 ation threw Herman into a fit of melancholy 
 musing, and he even suffered his cigar to go out 
 as he balanced his chair upon its two hind legs, 
 and crossed his feet upon the railing of his father's 
 stoop. " My purse is certainly empty," he solilo- 
 quized aloud, " there's no deception in that ; and 
 dad is certainly decided there's no deception in 
 thaf. How to replenish ? Borrow ? Pshaw ! I 
 owe too much already. Work ? Never ! I was 
 born to be a gentleman. If I had my share of 
 this estate but then my dad bids fair to be eter- 
 nal. Yet he is plethoric, and smokes too much 
 for his health. Well, well I shouldn't think of 
 such a thing ; and yet, if anything should happen 
 to the worthy old gentleman, really I believe I 
 shouldn't break my heart about it." 
 
 " Shouldn't you, indeed ?" said a voice behind 
 Herman, which made him start to his feet as 
 instantly as if a gun had been discharged. He 
 turned, and tremblingly recognized his father. 
 "Heartless profligate !" continued the old gentle- 
 man, " is this the reward for all my care, all my 
 
H E R M A X S f II A M M E R. 83 
 
 training, all my indulgence ? Do you say this 
 you, Herman, whom I have fondled on my knee, 
 and watched over in manhood ?" A tear started 
 to his eye, but he went on. " Well, well, 
 'tis the way of the world. When the tree is old, 
 and the fruit has fallen, the axe is laid at its root, 
 and the suckers that sprang from it thrive better 
 for its downfall." 
 
 " Now, father," said the youth, moved by the 
 softness and solemnity of the old man's manner, 
 "I didn't mean " 
 
 " Don't say that," interrupted the old man ; 
 " you wish me away you know you do my 
 room is better than my company. Well, well, it 
 may happen much sooner than you expect. I can 
 hardly survive this last blow, but it will be a com- 
 fort to you to learn that I shall leave you well 
 provided for one-half this house and farm will 
 be yours, and one -half of my bank-stock and 
 ready money ; and I hope, dear Herman, that you 
 will think better of me when I am dead than you 
 ever did when living." The old man brushed 
 away a tear from his eye, grasped the hand of his 
 son, and then left him to his reflections. 
 
 Strange to say, the event which the unnatural 
 son had desired, and which the afflicted parent 
 
84 THE WINTER GRE EX. 
 
 had predicted, actually occurred within a week ; 
 and the good Oloffe, mourned by almost every 
 one, was gathered to his fathers. During his 
 last illness, he was frequently left alone with his 
 particular friend, old Wouter Van Wouvermans, 
 and even died in his arms. In pursuance with 
 his last request, which savoured of the delirium 
 of " parting hour," no one was allowed to look 
 upon his face in death, excepting the beloved and 
 faithful Wouter, who had the sole direction of the 
 funeral ceremonies, which were conducted with 
 great solemnity, and at no trifling expense. Re- 
 freshments were circulated among the mourners, 
 presents made to the pall-holders and clergyman, 
 and a long train gathered to honour the commit- 
 ment of the venerated remains to their last rest- 
 ing-place. 
 
 The grief of the elder son was lasting, but that 
 of Herman short-lived ; and a week had hardly 
 elapsed before the younger brother had laid plans 
 for an expensive campaign in the city of New York. 
 
 " Brother OlofFe," said Herman, one morning, 
 " you may dig and delve if you like, but I am go- 
 ing to enjoy myself. I am off to New York this 
 very day." 
 
 " So am I," replied the staid Oloffe. " I have 
 
HERMAN B CHAM MS t. 85 
 
 peas to take to market. You can go up in the 
 schooner with me." 
 
 " Schooner be d d !" replied Herman. "I 
 
 am going up with the stanhope and the bay colts 
 my bay colts, you know, brother." 
 
 " One of them belongs to me," replied the te- 
 nacious Oloffe. " You have only half of the 
 house, farm, and stock." 
 
 " You wouldn't separate a match pair of geld- 
 ings ?" said Herman. " That would be a pity. 
 Let me have your colt, and name your price." 
 
 " I won't part with him at any rate," said OlofFe, 
 coolly. 
 
 " Then let me tell you, brother of mine," cried 
 Herman, in a great rage, " that you're no gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " I don't pretend to be," replied Oloffe, quietly. 
 
 " No gentleman," repeated Herman ; " and, 
 since you talk of halves, egad, I'll sell my half of 
 the farm, my half of this old rickety pile of stones, 
 my half of everything, down to the snuffers and 
 the kitchen tongs." 
 
 " You wouldn't do so unnatural a thing !" said 
 Oloffe, raising his hands and eyes at the sacrile- 
 gious proposal. " Our father would rise from the 
 grave his spook would haunt your bedside." 
 
HG T II E W I X T K R ( J R F. E X. 
 
 " I shall do it, my boy." 
 
 " Rather than that, Herman, I would sacrifice 
 everything even my honest rights. Say you 
 give up this horrid plan, and you may have the 
 bay colt." 
 
 " Well, well, boy, I take your offer." 
 
 "That's right," said Oloffe. "We can live 
 here so comfortably ; and harkee, Herman," he 
 added, confidentially for his brother's surrender 
 of his obnoxious plan had opened Oloffe's heart 
 " you needn't mention what I am going to say, but 
 I am going to be married." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Herman, without much sur- 
 prise ; " and who is the intended Mrs. Oloffe 
 Schammer ?" 
 
 " Can't you think ?" 
 
 " No, upon my soul." 
 
 " Gertrude Van Brummel!" said Oloffe. But 
 Herman did not betray the expected emotion. He 
 merely said, "Good enough for you." 
 
 " Now, Herman," said the good-natured Oloffe, 
 " follow my example get married to Katrina 
 Van Klens, and we'll all live so happily together." 
 
 "Nonsense!" cried Herman, half contemptu- 
 ously, and half angrily ; " if I marry at all, it shall 
 be one of those elegant opera-dancers that I told 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 87 
 
 you of a woman gifted with the ' poetry of mo- 
 tion,' as the New York paragraphists say all 
 grace and activity." 
 
 " Oh, Herman !" said the unsophisticated Oloffe, 
 " what would our poor father say, if he could only 
 hear you ? Marry one of them are figures ! 
 you know you carried me to see them once ; but, 
 bless me ! I didn't know which way to look 
 and I'm sure I turned as red as a beet-root." 
 
 "Poor fellow!" muttered Herman, in atone of 
 pity. 
 
 The brothers parted. That day Herman went 
 up to New York, and engaged lodgings at the City 
 Hotel. The next, he launched upon his mad ca- 
 reer of dissipation, and soon acquired the unen- 
 viable reputation of a man of pleasure. He fre- 
 quented all the public places, and was a constant 
 attendant at theatres and races, and a munificent 
 patron of pugilists and cock-fighters. At gam- 
 bling-houses he was welcomed as a full-fledged 
 pigeon, and fell a ready prey to the Greeks and 
 the rooks ; so that, in the course of a few weeks, 
 a sum of money, which he believed inexhausti- 
 ble, had taken unto itself wings, and flown away. 
 An odd thousand still remained, and Herman de- 
 termined to see the last of it before he retired to 
 
88 THE W I NT ERG KEEN. 
 
 his paternal acres to shoot high'oles, and devour 
 strawberries. 
 
 It so happened that about this time a fresh im- 
 portation of figurantes had been made ; and the 
 lovely creatures, blushing with rouge, and shining 
 in satin, had been safely landed from a Havre 
 packet ship. Their annunciation at the theatre 
 produced an extraordinary excitement tickets 
 were put up at auction, and the large house at 
 which they appeared was crowded to suffocation. 
 Among the gaping spectators was our friend Her- 
 man, who had paid five dollars for an uncomforta- 
 ble seat in the orchestra, where he was dinned by 
 a fiddle, and stunned by a bassoon ; for he had no 
 ear for melody, though a great admirer of the 
 " poetry of motion." 
 
 Among the lovely figurantes, Mademoiselle An- 
 gelique de la Rose D'Amour was the most vehe- 
 mently applauded, for the elegance of her person, 
 the brevity of her dress, and the airiness of her 
 pas de zephyr. Our young Dutchman was as one 
 insane he applauded when the whole house had 
 ceased ; he shivered his cane ; he blistered his 
 hands ; he tore his throat with his ex'ertions in 
 crying viva and encore ; and he finally became so 
 rabid and outrageous, that he was seized by the 
 
HER MA A" SCHAMiMER. 89 
 
 thorough-bass and French-horn player, and con- 
 ducted from the orchestra to cool his enthusiasm 
 in the park. 
 
 With the morning, no cool reflection came. 
 Our hero woke in love with Mademoiselle An- 
 gelique de la Rose D' Amour, who had been busy 
 in a very unaccountable manner with his dreams. 
 Alas ! those fatal pigeon-wings ! I will not stop 
 to recount the infinite pains which Herman took 
 to procure an introduction to his goddess, nor the 
 variety of forms in which his admiration showed 
 itself, nor the extravagance of his action, nor the 
 causes of his success. If any one dared but to 
 breathe a word against the fair fame of his inam- 
 orata, the inevitable consequence was a meeting 
 at Hoboken. At length Herman was united to 
 Mademoiselle Angeliquc de la Rose D'Amour. 
 He was very happy for a week, uneasy in a fort- 
 night, disgusted ere the honeymoon was over. By 
 this time the artificial roses had faded from the 
 cheeks and lips of Madame ; she looked forty, but 
 not fat ; was slatternly, drank brandy and water, 
 and took snuff. Besides all this, she had " made 
 away" with all the cash of the luckless Scham- 
 mer. It was very necessary that an eclaircisse- 
 ment should take place ; and the young man one 
 
90 THE W1NTERGREEN. 
 
 morning revealed to his bride the state of his pe- 
 cuniary affairs, and respectfully hinted that, as a 
 further supply was desirable, the lady had better 
 resume her professional duties. She refused point 
 blank. Herman stormed and swore, but his vi- 
 olence had the same effect as his arguments ; the 
 lady could be as abusive as himself, and surely no 
 poissarde could more adroitly wield the weapons 
 of French billingsgate. Herman had married in 
 haste, and he now repented at leisure. He final- 
 ly, in the midst of his perplexity, determined to 
 take Madame to his farm, which he described to 
 her as an elegant country seat, and was surprised 
 to find that this dernier resort was most agreeable 
 to her. Their baggage was sent down by water, 
 while they themselves (the happy pair !) were 
 conveyed to New Utrecht by the bay colts, now 
 no longer the glossy, sound, and spirited things 
 that hurried Herman up to town ; but lean, foun- 
 dered, shaggy, and rusty, looking like ten year 
 old horses of an inferior breed, instead of blood- 
 nags descended from Eclipse. 
 
 Oloffe received Herman kindly, and his wife 
 coldly. He had been married himself, and he 
 introduced his buxom little Gertrude to the French 
 dame with visible reluctance. Herman had al- 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 91 
 
 ready begun to look upon his brother with some 
 respect, and he could not help noting how advan- 
 tageously OlofFe compared with himself. OlofFe 
 exulted in a frame rendered vigourous by constant 
 exercise in the open air, by temperance, and hardy 
 labour ; while that of Herman, though of power- 
 ful mould, had become enervated by idleness and 
 dissipation. Herman had brought home to his 
 birth-place nothing but discontent, an empty purse, 
 a baggage of a wife, and the dyspepsia. His wife 
 grew more and more peevish and slatternly every 
 day, and Herman was often driven by her conduct 
 to his old haunt, the bar-room of the village tav. 
 ern. He sometimes, indeed, of an afternoon, 
 wandered into the woods with his gun, or strayed 
 through the grounds, gathering the choicest fruit 
 from the branches. As he was one day engaged 
 in the last-mentioned employment, he detected a 
 ragged fellow, with the air of a foreigner, beating 
 down peaches with a huge club, with which he 
 assailed one of the finest trees on the farm. Her- 
 man seized him by the collar, and dragged him 
 with some difficulty into the house ; for he wished 
 OlofFe, who was then within doors, to be confront- 
 ed with him, and decide upon his punishment. 
 The depredator was a Frenchman " one of them 
 
92 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 cursed French foreigners," OlofFe termed him, and 
 declared that he was determined to punish him to 
 the utmost rigour of the law. At this crisis of 
 affairs, Madame Herman entered the apartment. 
 As soon as the prisoner saw her, he broke from 
 the hands of Oloffe, and rushed towards her with 
 a tragic gesture and a tragic exclamation. The 
 lady started, shrieked, and turned pale. 
 
 " Hullo!" cried Herman, "what do you want 
 with my wife ]" 
 
 " Your vife !" exclaimed the vagabond. " Par- 
 dieuf she is my vife my Angel ique. Sacre 
 dieu," he continued, addressing Angelique, "qu'est 
 ce que vou-sfaites id 1" 
 
 " Soyez tranquille^ mon ange" said the lady. 
 
 " Bah !" said the gentleman. 
 
 " Mounsheer," said OlofFe, who seemed delight- 
 ed with the scene, because, perhaps, he did not 
 completely comprehend it, "just say again that 
 this 'ere French woman is your wife, and I'll give 
 you your liberty, and twenty good hard dollars." 
 
 " And I'll give you five times as much," said 
 Herman. 
 
 " Bete /" cried Madame, regarding Herman 
 with a scowl. 
 
 " I can prove she is ma femme /" said the 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 93 
 
 Frenchman ; and he proved it to the satisfaction 
 of Herman and his brother. He was an opera- 
 dancer his wife had run away from him he 
 had come to America to seek an engagement 
 he had been as yet unsuccessful, and was abso- 
 lutely starving when he stormed the fruit-tree. 
 His offence was readily forgiven by Herman, who, 
 however, did not feel entirely relieved from ap- 
 prehension until he had witnessed the departure 
 of the poor Frenchman with his newly-found prize. 
 
 Herman was happy for a short time, but then 
 he began to complain of indigestion and general 
 ill health the fruits of his unwise and indefen- 
 sible career. His brother advised him to work 
 upon the farm, but Herman was not sufficiently 
 humbled to do so ; he had still a false pride, and 
 an incorrigible aversion to labour. He pondered 
 for whole days together, and his mind was full of 
 the hope of being able to strike out some new and 
 easy path to fortune. He was aware that a for- 
 tune might be made from the farm, but he had not 
 energy enough to attempt its cultivation. 
 
 He was one day wandering, in a contemplative 
 mood, under the shade of a fine grove of oaks 
 which his father had planted in his youthful days, 
 and which had been, in his lifetime, a favourite 
 
94 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 resort of the good old man, when his mind, soft- 
 ened by misfortune, and touched by local associa- 
 tion, reverted to the days of his innocent childhood. 
 He beheld that venerable old man, who had 
 watched over his youth, and guarded the pro- 
 gressive steps to manhood, who had forborne to 
 reproach him with severity even when he gave 
 utterance to the most unnatural and cruel wishes 
 he thought of his father's sudden death, of the 
 evil use to which he had put the wealth with 
 which that sad event invested him, of his wild ca- 
 reer of pleasure, of his broken health, of his com- 
 parative poverty ; and he sighed, and trembled, 
 and relieved his bosom by a gush of repentant 
 tears. As his agitation subsided, and the tears, 
 which he called unmanly, were dried upon his 
 cheek, Herman raised his eyes, but veiled them 
 instantly, for that single glance revealed to him 
 the apparition of his father, stealing through the 
 grove of oaks ! 
 
 " Herman !" said a melancholy and well- 
 known voice. Herman could not choose but 
 raise his eyes again, and his second gaze con- 
 vinced him that he saw in reality the form of his 
 deceased father. 
 
 " Herman !" said the spectre, almost in the 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 95 
 
 words of Hamlet's sire, " I am thy father's spookie. 
 Speak not, but listen. You have wasted my 
 wealth, but you have bought repentance. You 
 have injured your health, but both may be re- 
 stored. I forgive you, and I love you still. Dig,* 
 dig ! a treasure lies buried in your farm. Dig, 
 and you shall obtain it. Tell Oloffe to give a 
 top-dressing of ashes to his corn." And the appa- 
 rition vanished. 
 
 Herman was astounded. That he had seen a 
 spectre, he could not for a moment doubt. The 
 dress of the ghost was faithful to life. There 
 were the brown corduroy breeches, with pewter 
 knee-buckles, the gray worsted hose, the broad- 
 strapped shoes, the blue homespun coat, the loop- 
 ed-up hat, and the pipe in the hat-band. Then 
 the promise of recovering, a treasure at the 
 thought, Herman's irresolution vanished ; he has- 
 tened home, and went to work in right good ear- 
 nest, with plough, and spade, and shovel. His 
 industry was the wonder of the neighbourhood, 
 and no one could account for it, for Herman kept 
 the secret to himself. In a week, he had plough- 
 ed and dug up several acres, but without hitting 
 upon any stone pot or iron chest still he went 
 on with unabated ardour, for he was resolved to 
 
 o2 
 
96 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 " take the ghost's word for a thousand pounds." 
 Oloffe advised him to drop seeds in the land he 
 had already dug up ; and, the better to conceal 
 his real object, Herman followed his advice. In 
 ten days Herman, though unsuccessful, complain- 
 ed no longer of indigestion, eat with appetite, and 
 slept unbrokenly. At the end of a fortnight, he 
 was resting himself with Oloffe on the long settle 
 of the stoop, when he took occasion to communi- 
 cate to his brother the story of the apparition, and 
 to express his belief that it was a mental illusion, 
 because he had failed of finding a treasure, and a 
 real ghost would not thus have imposed upon his 
 credulity. Oloffe burst into a hearty laugh. 
 
 " It was no ghost," said he, " but your good old 
 father in reality." Herman stared aghast. 
 
 " Yes," continued Oloffe, " strange as it may 
 seem, he is alive and well, and happy to see you 
 reformed, and healthy, and industrious. The trea- 
 sure he spoke of, you have reaped from the soil 
 health and independence." 
 
 He then explained that the old man, grieved at 
 hearing his son calculating the chances of his 
 death, and wishing to see how he would manage 
 in case of that event, feigned death, and was con- 
 veyed away by Wouter Van Wouvermans, and 
 
HERMAN SCHAMMER. 97 
 
 comfortably lodged in a private attic of that gen- 
 tleman's house, from which he had a fine view of 
 his own funeral. He had watched Herman's ca- 
 reer with pain and anxiety, but resolved to wait 
 the event with patience. The story was con- 
 firmed by the sudden appearance of old Oloffe 
 Schammer himself, upon his stoop. The repent- 
 ance of Herman was sincere, and his future life 
 cheered the declining years of the benevolent old 
 Dutchman, who lived to see Herman honestly and 
 happily married, and to look upon the numerous 
 progeny of his two children, who enjoyed a fair 
 prospect of transmitting their great and honestly- 
 earned wealth to posterity. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 
 
 BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. 
 
 METHINKS, when on the languid eye 
 
 Life's autumn scenes grow dim ; 
 When evening shadows veil the sky, 
 
 And Pleasure's syren hymn 
 Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, 
 Like echoes from another sphere, 
 
 Or dream of Seraphim, 
 It were not sad, to cast away 
 This dull and cumbrous load of clay. 
 
 It were not sad, to feel the heart 
 
 Grow passionless and cold ; 
 To feel those longings to depart, 
 That cheered the good of old ; 
 To clasp the faith which looks on high, 
 Which fires the Christian's dying eye, 
 
 And makes the curtain-fold 
 That falls upon his wasting breast, 
 The door that leads to endless rest. 
 
EUTHANASIA. 99 
 
 It were not lonely thus to lie 
 
 On that triumphant bed, 
 Till the pure spirit mounts on high, 
 
 By white-winged seraphs led : 
 Where glories earth may never know, 
 O'er " many mansions" lingering glow, 
 
 In peerless lustre shed ; 
 It were not lonely thus to soar, 
 Where Sin and Grief can sting no more. 
 
 And though the way to such a goal 
 
 Lies through the clouded tomb, 
 If on the free unfettered soul 
 
 There rests no stains of gloom, 
 How should its aspirations rise, 
 Far through the blue unpillared skies, 
 
 Up to its final home ! 
 Beyond the journeyings of the sun, 
 Where streams of living waters run. 
 
LINES. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 ZEPHYR, I envy thee thy bliss ; 
 Not that the wild flower courts thy kiss 
 Not that thou curl'st the bright sea foam 
 Before the barque, as it boundeth home. 
 Even these things I envy thee not, 
 All pure as thou art, if it be my lot, 
 Concealed from view, like thyself to rove, 
 Hovering around the fair form I love 
 Like thee, in her tresses of gold to play, 
 And the sultriness chase from her brow away ; 
 Ever around her a perfume to fling, 
 Like the fragrant drops from a Peri's wing, 
 Or the violet sheds, when its petals blue 
 Are covered with gems of the early dew. 
 
"SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME 
 UNTO ME." 
 
 BY C. HUNTINGTON. 
 
 IT was the sunset hour and thousands came 
 From the lone villages and distant hills 
 Of far-off Galilee, to meet the Lord 
 Bearing, with gentle step and anxious eye, 
 The sufferers of their race to Jesus' feet, 
 That he might lay his sin-subduing hand 
 In blessing on their wan and wasted frames, 
 And heal them with a sanctifying touch. 
 ****** 
 
 Amid the crowds that, with adoring looks, 
 
 Hung on the footsteps of the Son of God, 
 
 A Galilean mother brought her child, 
 
 In its young loveliness its laughing eyes 
 
 Dancing in dewy light and, kneeling, pray'd 
 
 A benediction from those sinless lips 
 
 Upon the cherub-beauty of the babe 
 
 But the disciples, with officious zeal, 
 
 Silenced the suppliant with this stern rebuke 
 
 " Why troublest thou the Master ?" 
 
102 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Jesus heard, 
 
 And in displeasure turn'd his radiant eye 
 With a reproving glance on him that spake ; 
 Then, in a voice of calm authority, 
 With gentle accents, briefly thus replied 
 " Suffer these little ones to come to me, 
 Nor let them be forbidden for of such 
 My Father's kingdom is." 
 
 Then Jesus took the infant in his arms, 
 And gently, with his blessed hand, put back 
 The silken curls that clustered on its brow ; 
 And, bending o'er it, press'd his holy lips 
 Upon the stainless forehead of the babe 
 Making the brow of childhood, from that hour, 
 A thing of holiness the only shrine 
 Which the Redeemer hallowed with a kiss. 
 
 " Suffer these little ones to come to me," 
 Was the command of Him who, on the cross, 
 Bow'd his anointed head, and with his blood 
 Purchased redemption for our fallen race 
 And blessed they ! who to that holy task 
 Devote the energies of their young years ; 
 Teaching, with pious care, the dawning light 
 Of infant intellect to know the Lord. 
 Thrice blessed they ! who guide, with gentle hand, 
 The timid steps of childhood in that path 
 Which, (rightly trodden,) leads the wanderers home, 
 Where they shall meet, (the teachers and the taught,) 
 On that blest Sabbath which shall have no end. 
 
HENPECKERY: 
 
 SHOWING HOW RICHARD SLOMAN WAS COWED DOWN. 
 BY SEBA SMITH. 
 
 HANNAH SMART was " brought up," as they 
 say in New England, by Mr. Moses Gardner. 
 She was an orphan, her parents having died 
 when she was quite a child ; and Mr. Gardner, 
 having no family but his wile, took the child, by 
 the advice and sanction of the select-men, to oc- 
 cupy that half-way station between a servant and 
 a daughter in his family, which usually falls to 
 the lot of adopted children. 
 
 Mr. Gardner was a good-natured, benevolent 
 man a farmer, in easy circumstances ; who, as 
 he had no children, made something of a pet of a 
 favourite black mare, which he always used to 
 keep in the best trim, fat and sleek as a porpoise, 
 and her tail trimmed into a long and graceful 
 switch ; and she, in return, always carried him 
 
:<>i THE WINTER ORE EN. 
 
 about, wherever he went, with a comfortable, 
 easy, slow trot, that comported well with his 
 staid, quaker-like appearance, as well as being 
 very suitable to his heavy rotundity of body. 
 
 Hannah was a girl for whom nature had done 
 a good deal indeed, on some points, it would 
 seem as though she had done almost too much ; 
 for, according to the laws of phrenology, she had 
 given her rather an undue portion of self-esteem 
 and love of approbation, together with a full share 
 of destructiveness ; so that Hannah not only had 
 the powerful elements of a vain woman about 
 her, but was pretty likely, in the course of her 
 life, to beat down all obstacles that stood in the 
 way of her having her own will. Indeed, she 
 always had her own will, while she lived with 
 Mr. Gardner, almost without knowing it ; for his 
 easy, good-natured disposition, hardly ever oppo- 
 sed any obstacles in her way and as to her 
 vanity, it did not show itself to her disadvantage 
 till even some years after she was married ; for the 
 plain, simple, honest society around her, did no- 
 thing to minister to its growth. 
 
 When Hannah was about fifteen years of age, 
 Mr. Gardner advised his wife to allow her an op- 
 portunity to learn millinery, as there was a chance 
 
HENPECKERY. 105 
 
 in the neighbourhood for her to be initiated into 
 the mysteries of that graceful art ; for he said 
 " it might become of great use to her at some 
 time of her life, as there was no knowing what 
 situation a body may be placed in, and he thought 
 it was always well for a child, boy or girl, to be 
 acquainted with some kind of a trade, or to un- 
 derstand some handiwork, that they could resort 
 to, in case of necessity, wherever they might be 
 placed." 
 
 Accordingly, Hannah was put under the tuition 
 of a milliner for the best part of a year, and was 
 found to be exceedingly expert at the business. 
 Indeed, it was allowed that her taste for air and 
 finish was superior to that of her teacher. After 
 this, for a number of years, she supplied bonnets 
 for the neighbourhood for several miles round ; 
 which, to be sure, as it was a country place, not 
 very thickly settled, did not occupy but a small 
 portion of her time so that, besides this, she 
 had much time to assist Mrs. Gardner, while she 
 remained in the family ; and, after she was mar- 
 ried, time enough to attend to all matters of her 
 own household. 
 
 At eighteen years of age, Hannah went the 
 way of all girls that is to say, she got married ; 
 
106 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 and although Mr. Gardner, as well as his wife, 
 was much opposed to it at the time, yet, when he 
 found the thing was settled, and it was no longer 
 of any use to oppose it, he at length not only 
 gave her his blessing, but quite a comfortable fit- 
 ting-out for housekeeping. His reasons for op- 
 posing the match were two-fold. First, the void 
 he foresaw it would create in his family was very 
 painful to him ; for long habit had taught him to 
 regard even her very wilfulness with a sort of 
 pleasure that is, the daily exhibitions of it 
 served as a sort of stimulus to the old gentleman's 
 quiet, phlegmatic temperament ; and he was un- 
 easy without it, as the dram-drinker without his 
 daily cup. And, in the second place, he had se- 
 rious doubts whether the choice that Hannah had 
 made for a husband, which indeed might rather 
 be called her choice than the choice of the young 
 man, she having been the most active of the two 
 in making the arrangement Mr. Gardner had 
 serious doubts whether the choice was the best 
 one that could be made ; and he said to his wife, 
 one day, that he considered Richard Sloman a 
 very clever fellow, but he was afraid he wouldn't 
 have grit enough to get along well with Hannah. 
 And on the day of the wedding, he took occasion 
 
H E N P E C K E R Y. 107 
 
 to have a little friendly talk with Richard himself, 
 and hinted to him that, although Hannah was a 
 very nice gal, yet she was not only smart by 
 name, but smart by nature, and had an uncommon 
 faculty of having her own way in the world. 
 
 But what did Richard care for that ? It all 
 seemed right enough to him. He loved Hannah, 
 and Hannah loved him ; and what if she did have 
 her own way ? A man and his wife were one, or 
 ought to be ; and if she had her own way, why, 
 that, of course, would be his way ; and he could 
 see no trouble on that score. 
 
 Richard Sloman was a good-looking young 
 man, just " out of his time," or twenty-one years 
 of age, the very day he was married ; for he took 
 it into his head he would be married on his birth- 
 day. He was of the middling stature, with limbs 
 well proportioned, finely chiselled features, and a 
 mild black eye. Hannah Smart had " set her 
 cap for him" two years before; and, although 
 they were not long in coming to a mutual under- 
 standing, Richard would not consent to be married 
 till he was his own man a high privilege which 
 he enjoyed for the best part of a whole day, viz : 
 his wedding-day ; for, according to all accounts, 
 he never was perfectly his own man afterwards. 
 
 H2 
 
108 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Richard had learned the trade of a shoemaker, 
 and was a very neat workman ; but, as there were 
 other shoemakers in the vicinity, and the demand 
 for shoes in a country -place was somewhat limit- 
 ed, he worked a part of the time on a farm. The 
 first years of their married life went off very com- 
 fortably and very happily. Richard was intelli- 
 gent, industrious, and prudent ; and as their wants 
 were small, he managed not only to live well, but 
 to lay up a little something ahead. He never 
 stopped to think whether his wife had her own 
 way or not. He always got her everything she 
 wanted, and half the time even before she knew 
 she wanted it herself. In short, the theory which 
 Richard had formed in his own mind, at the time 
 Mr. Gardner talked with him on his wedding-day, 
 seemed for some years to prove true his wife's 
 way was his way. Whatever she wanted, he 
 wanted ; and he couldn't see but the rule worked 
 the other way just as well for his way seemed 
 to be her way. Somehow or other, they naturally 
 seemed to pull together, and everything went 
 ahead smooth and easy, they hardly knew how, 
 and never troubled themselves to think how. Thus 
 the years rolled round, and peace and sunshine lay 
 continually in their pathway. 
 
H E N P E C K E R Y. 109 
 
 '* Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife, 
 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 
 Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life, 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way." 
 
 But, alas ! an end must come to all conditions 
 of earthly enjoyment ; and we often throw away 
 the good we have, in search of a better, which 
 we never attain. They had now lived in this 
 quiet, comfortable way, ten years, and had five 
 children healthy, handsome, and bright chil- 
 dren. But Hannah, for the last year or two, be- 
 gan to grow restless. The spontaneous action of 
 her self-esteem, and love of approbation, did not 
 find sufficient aliment. Domestic enjoyments 
 seemed to become almost a drug to her. She 
 wanted a change, but she hardly knew what. 
 She told Richard, one day, she wished he would 
 move into the village. He was surprised at the 
 proposition, and wanted to know what made her 
 think of that. 
 
 " Well," she said, " I think we might have a 
 good many more advantages in the village than 
 we have in the country better society, and bet- 
 tor schools. It would be a good deal better for 
 our children ; for there they would be brought up 
 amongst folks, and learn to be something in the 
 world." 
 
110 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Richard entered into a little course of reasoning 
 with her on the subject, to show her that it would 
 be more expensive living in the village that 
 they would have to buy most of their provisions, 
 whereas now he could raise nearly all they want- 
 ed ; and they might find it very difficult to get 
 along as comfortably in the village as they did in 
 their present situation. 
 
 Although the subject was dropped for the time, 
 Hannah did not give it up. The next day she 
 referred to it again, in a more decided manner. 
 " It would be a great deal better to live in the 
 village, and she didn't see why he didn't think 
 about it, and do something about it." 
 
 Richard went over the arguments again, to 
 show the impolicy of the undertaking ; and added, 
 among other things, that they would have to pay 
 three times as much for house -rent as they had to 
 give now. Her reply was, that it would be a 
 much better place both for shoes and for bonnets, 
 and she did not doubt they could get along easier 
 than they could in the country. So that, although 
 Richard had demonstrated pretty clearly that if 
 even their income should be increased, their ex- 
 penses would be increased in much greater pro- 
 portion, he found the old adage was still true, and 
 applicable to either gender 
 
H E N P E C K E R Y. Ill 
 
 " She that's convinced against her will, 
 Is of the same opinion still." 
 
 Hannah pursued the subject again the next day, 
 and began to impute to Richard a want of a pro- 
 per regard for the welfare and happiness of his 
 family. This was more than Richard could bear. 
 His attachments to his family were exceedingly 
 strong. His wife and children were more than life 
 to him. He had been touched on a very sensitive 
 point ; and he told Hannah, if she desired it, he 
 would go to the village immediately, and look 
 round, and see what could be done. He accord- 
 ingly went the very next day ; and returning in 
 the evening, told her he could find but one house 
 to let, that would answer their purpose, and the 
 rent of that, with a very small garden, was a hun- 
 dred and fifty dollars a year. The rent of the one 
 they now occupied, including land enough to 
 keep a cow, and to raise more vegetables than 
 they wanted to use, was but fifty dollars a year. 
 His own judgment was still against the change, 
 but Hannah believed it would be the best thing 
 they could do. They could make a shop of the 
 corner room, next to the street, for the sale of 
 shoes and bonnets ; and her head was full of 
 bright visions of the profitable business they would 
 
112 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 do, and the pleasant times the^ would have in the 
 village. 
 
 Richard therefore went, and hired the house ; 
 and as soon as arrangements could possibly be 
 made, they removed to their new habitation. 
 Here, they carried out Hannah's idea of fitting 
 up a shop for the sale of bonnets and shoes. They 
 got their landlord to put up some shelves on each 
 side of the corner room next to the street, and 
 Richard took what money he had laid up from his 
 earnings, about three hundred dollars, and filled 
 his shelves with an assortment of ready-made 
 shoes, and provided himself with a small amount 
 of stock for the manufacture of more. Hannah 
 went to work at her millinery, and it was not 
 long before the shelves on the opposite side of the 
 store were graced by a goodly array of bonnets, 
 of various sorts and sizes. 
 
 Thus one side of the shop was devoted to cov- 
 ering the heads of customers, and the other side 
 to covering the feet, and the whole business was 
 carried on in a partnership sort of a way, Richard 
 and Hannah each taking turns in waiting upon 
 customers, as circumstances might render it con- 
 venient that is, when Richard w,as at work in 
 his little manufacturing room, back of the store, 
 
HENPECKERY. 113 
 
 if customers came in for shoes, his wife would 
 wait upon them ; and when she was occupied 
 about the dinner, or had gone out on a visit or on 
 business, Richard would mind the shop, and sell 
 shoes or bonnets as opportunities occurred. They 
 soon began to do a snug little business, and Rich- 
 ard himself almost came to the conclusion that, 
 on the whole, it had been a good move, and they 
 had a pretty fair prospect of getting ahead in the 
 world. 
 
 Hannah was a showy, good-looking woman, 
 and soon attracted much attention in the village. 
 Her bonnets were neat and tasteful, and were 
 universally praised for their own beauty ; but as 
 fast as people became acquainted with the beauty 
 and attractive manners of Hannah, they praised 
 her bonnets ten times more than they did before, 
 and declared them to be decidedly the most taste- 
 ful things that had ever appeared in the village. 
 These remarks often came to Hannah's ears, ac- 
 companied by various flattering compliments about 
 her own good looks ; till at length her self-esteem 
 and approbativeness, which were naturally large, 
 began to be unduly stimulated and active, termi- 
 nating in a decided case of vanity. And when 
 she came to attract the marked attention of Doc- 
 
114 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 tor Slop's family, and Lawyer Sly's family, her 
 head was fairly turned. 
 
 Mrs. Doctor Slop and Mrs. Lawyer Sly both 
 called and got new bonnets on the same day, and 
 they both very foolishly told their husbands, when 
 they got home, what a beautiful woman Mrs. Slo- 
 man was a noble-looking woman, with fair 
 complexion, and clear blue eyes, and very fasci- 
 nating in her manners. The result wag, that 
 Doctor Slop and Lawyer Sly both called that very 
 afternoon at Sloman's shop, to fit themselves to a 
 pair of pumps ; and Richard being at work in the 
 back shop, Hannah of course waited upon them. 
 And they had to try on a great many pairs, and 
 sat down, that they might do it at their leisure. 
 And then they could not make up their minds 
 which suited them best, and had to try them all 
 over again. They were sorry to give her so much 
 trouble, but she did not consider it any trouble at 
 all ; and, with a sort of bewitching air, and ac- 
 commodating spirit, asked them to look at some 
 more. 
 
 The husbands went away more pleased, if pos- 
 sible, with Mrs. Sloman, than their wives had 
 been. The consequence of all this was a rapid 
 and intimate acquaintance between Mrs. Sloman 
 
H E N P E C K E R Y. 115 
 
 and the families of Doctor Slop and Lawyer Sly. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Sloman were soon invited to both 
 of those places to tea ; and as they were counted 
 the first families in the village, and as Mrs. Slo- 
 iiKin was the marked object of their attention, she 
 felt herself so raised in the atmosphere of society, 
 that she became quite giddy - and more espe- 
 cially so, when she had been told, by several busy 
 bodies, that, while the ladies praised the beauty 
 of Mrs. Sloman J s bonnets, Doctor Slop and Law- 
 yer Sly had very much praised the beauty of Mrs. 
 Sloman. Her wants now began to be greatly 
 increased. She needed new dresses for herself, 
 and new clothes for the children ; and she needed 
 new furniture for her little sitting-room for it 
 was a shame that she could not have a room that 
 was decent to ask Doctor Slop or Lawyer Sly, or 
 Mrs. Doctor Slop or Mrs. Lawyer Sly, into, when 
 they came to make her a call. 
 
 The worst of the matter was, as her wants in- 
 creased, her means of supplying them diminished ; 
 for her time was now very much taken up in mat- 
 ters of dress, and in arranging and curling her 
 hair, and in receiving calls and making visits. 
 Doctor Slop and Lawyer Sly were very fond of 
 ha\ r ing her come to spend an afternoon at their 
 
116 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 respective houses, and often took her out to walk, 
 or carried her to ride with their wives. And then 
 the bishops and bustles of fashion came in for a 
 large share of her attention. The style of dress 
 changed as often as the moon ; and though her 
 old friends thought she did not look near so well 
 or so interesting as she used to, when she dressed 
 in a more plain and simple manner, yet she was 
 now looked upon more as a woman of fashion, 
 and that suited her excited vanity. 
 
 These things necessarily occupied so much of 
 her time, that they left her small opportunity to 
 carry on her business of millinery, or to superin- 
 tend the ordinary concerns of her family. Her 
 stock of bonnets diminished ; her customers found 
 it more difficult to suit themselves ; and often, 
 having to wait an'unreasonable time before their 
 orders were answered, resorted to other places 
 for supplies. In short, her trade fell off very 
 much, and the income from her side of the shop 
 was very small. It was in vain that Richard re- 
 monstrated with her about her extra expenses ; 
 that they were unnecessary, and added nothing 
 to their comfort ; that they had been very com- 
 fortable in the way they had been accustomed to 
 live, and that their income would not afford these 
 
HENPECKERY. 117 
 
 new expenditures. Nevertheless, Hannah put her 
 hand into the money-drawer whenever she chose, 
 and helped herself to such things as she liked. 
 The dressmaker was often called to the house, 
 and the children were often sent to the tailor's. 
 The floor was newly carpeted, and the windows 
 newly curtained, and a new tea-set was brought 
 upon the table. 
 
 The money-drawer, which had hitherto been 
 used in common for both sides of the shop, was 
 often drained so low, that Richard found it impos- 
 sible to meet the various bills that came in ; 
 and when quarter-day came round, he was 
 obliged to borrow twenty dollars towards paying 
 the quarter's rent. He now remonstrated more 
 strongly, and urged the absolute necessity of cur- 
 tailing their expenses, insisting that the money 
 should be preserved to pay provision-bills and 
 rent-bills, which could not be put ofF, and must 
 be paid ; whereupon Hannah flew in a passion, 
 and said lie might curtail as much as he had a 
 mind to, but she had a right to use her own money 
 as she pleased, and she would do it. And hence- 
 forth she kept the money received for bonnets in 
 her own pocket ; and if any were sold while she 
 was out, she strictly called Richard to an account, 
 
118 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 and made him hand over the change the moment 
 she came in. 
 
 Richard told her he did not want the money ; 
 he used none of it for himself; all he wanted was 
 to have it laid out prudently, and to good advan- 
 tage, for the use of the family ; but the times 
 were hard, and their income small, and it needed 
 a prudent use of all they could earn to meet their 
 necessary expenses. This reasoning had no ef- 
 fect upon Hannah she still persisted in having 
 her own way, getting such things as she wanted, 
 cost what they would, and spending what she 
 called her part of the money, as sh,e pleased. 
 She often took tea at Doctor Slop's and Lawyer 
 Sly's, while Richard remained at home, where 
 his presence was constantly necessary, to look 
 after the shop and the family. 
 
 Sometimes the Slops and the Slys took tea with 
 Mrs. Sloman, and then there was an extra bill at 
 the baker's for cakes and tarts, and an extra bill 
 at the grocer's for sundries, and an extra bill at 
 the drygoods dealer's for laces and ribands, and 
 other necessaries of life. One day, when Han- 
 nah was out, some of these extra bills from the 
 baker and grocer were brought in, and Richard 
 was obliged to take the money he had received 
 
HENPECKERY. 119 
 
 for a bonnet to help pay them. For this, Han- 
 nah gave him a severe scolding, and heaped upon 
 him many taunting reproaches. She told him if 
 a man could not find provision for his family to 
 eat, without taking his wife's money, he was no 
 man, and did not deserve the name of a man. 
 Richard felt that the reproach was so unreasona- 
 ble, so undeserved, and so unjust, he could not 
 make a word of reply. 
 
 The same thing occurred with regard to the 
 rent, when the next quarter-day came round ; for 
 Richard took five dollars which he had received 
 for bonnets, and appropriated towards meeting 
 the call of his landlord. Hannah had gone out 
 with one of the children, when this occurred, to 
 take a ride with Doctor Slop ; and when she re- 
 turned, and found what Richard had done, she 
 opened upon him a whole volley of reproaches, 
 declaring his conduct to be mean and outrageous, 
 and telling him that a man who could not provide 
 a house for his family to live in, without taking 
 his wife's earnings to help pay the rent, ought to 
 be ashamed of himself. 
 
 Richard was greatly distressed ; for, besides 
 receiving such heartless treatment from one whom 
 he had loved and cherished as his own life for so 
 
 i2 
 
120 THE WIN T ERG RE EN. 
 
 many years, and who had, till quite recently, al- 
 ways given him her warm affections in return, he 
 now began to be much perplexed and embarrass- 
 ed in pecuniary affairs. When the landlord call- 
 ed with his rent-bill, which was thirty-seven dol- 
 lars arid a half, all that Richard could muster in 
 the shop was ten dollars, including the five dollars 
 received for bonnets. After considerable diffi- 
 culty, he made out to borrow ten more, and paid 
 over to his landlord an instalment of twenty dol- 
 lars. The profits of his business had fallen off 
 considerably of late, for he was obliged to devote 
 much of his time to looking after the children, and 
 minding both sides of the shop, and running about 
 to borrow money to meet the increasing bills that 
 were brought in, and then, again, to borrow mo- 
 ney to pay borrowed money with ; so that he 
 found it impossible to keep his stock of shoes good, 
 or to meet the demands of his customers. 
 
 Things went on in this way for some time 
 longer. In proportion as Hannah's vanity had 
 become stimulated, she grew more irritable and 
 unreasonable ; and although, in the presence of 
 Doctor Slop or Lawyer Sly, she was all smiles 
 and sunshine, yet she was anything but smiles and 
 sunshine when left alone with Richard. Do what 
 
HENPECKERY. 121 
 
 he could, he was never safe from her reproaches. 
 Whatever he did, it was never enough, or never 
 right. If he set such a table as his means would 
 afford, it was a mean table, and such as a man 
 ought to be ashamed to set his family down to. 
 Such a mean table as that was never seen in 
 Doctor Slop's house. And if Richard went be- 
 yond his means, till he had no money left to buy 
 anything with, then he was a shiftless, small pat- 
 tern of a man, that never ought to have had a 
 family, if he could not provide for them, or take 
 care of them. Why didn't he stir about, and 
 have some enterprise, and do something to get a 
 good living, as Doctor Slop and Lawyer Sly did? 
 He would never catch them to be out of money, 
 or to keep their families half-starved or ragged. 
 
 Richard's mind and body both began to droop 
 under this state of things. He could not fight or 
 quarrel with his wife it wa^s like striking a dag- 
 ger into his own heart ; and though, for awhile, 
 he sometimes answered reproach with reproach, 
 he soon gave it up, and rounded his shoulders to 
 the storm, and let it pour on. His chief study, 
 after this, was to try to manage things so as to 
 get along, from day to day, with the least scold- 
 ing. He even came to regard the visits of Doc- 
 
122 THE WINTER GREEN. 
 
 tor Slop and Lawyer Sly with a sort of pleasure, 
 as affording him a temporary relief; for whilq 
 they were in the house, feeding Hannah's vanity 
 and self-love by their hints at her beauty and 
 good taste, she was always sure to be in good 
 humour ; and sometimes her good humour would 
 last, if nothing crossed her path, for several hours 
 after they left. Richard's pecuniary affairs, by 
 the force of all these circumstances, were getting 
 into a bad way. His spirits were broken he 
 stooped in his walk, and looked care-worn and 
 feeble. His debts and embarrassments increased 
 many bills came in, which he could not meet ; 
 and when quarter-day came round, he had not a 
 dollar for his landlord. There being a quarter 
 and a half of rent due, and no prospect of any 
 pay, the landlord immediately put an attachment 
 upon the furniture in the house, and upon what 
 goods and stock there was in the shop ; and sev- 
 eral other creditors immediately followed with 
 attachments, amounting, in the whole, to much 
 more than the things could possibly sell for. 
 
 By agreement, it was arranged that an imme- 
 diate sale of the articles should take place, with- 
 out any further expenses in the suit ; and the next 
 day, at twelve o'clock, was fixed for the hour. 
 
HENPECKERY. 123 
 
 Richard felt as though the world was over with 
 him, and it mattered not much whether he had a 
 house and a home, or was a wanderer in the 
 streets. The older children looked and felt bad, 
 but could hardly realize the dreariness of their 
 lot. Hannah was almost in hysterics nervous 
 and irritable ; crying one minute, scolding at 
 Richard the next, and then crying again. She 
 declared she would not stay and see the sale ; 
 and she would not live in the village any longer ; 
 and she would not see anybody in the village 
 again ; and nobody in the village should see them 
 going out of it like a pack of beggars, for she 
 would go out in the night. 
 
 An officer was left in charge of the goods and 
 the house, which the family were permitted to 
 occupy as usual, till the next day. That night 
 brought them but little sleep. 
 
 " What are you going to do now ? I should 
 like to know," said Hannah, " now you have 
 brought us to this ?" 
 
 " I don't think I have brought us to this," said 
 Richard. 
 
 " Yes, you have brought us to this," said Han- 
 nah ; " if you have not, I should like to know 
 who has. But it's no use to be talking about 
 
124 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 that now ; all is, I should like to know what you 
 are agoing to do, and where you are going to." 
 
 " Well, it makes not much odds to me," said 
 Richard ; " I had about as lives go one way as 
 t'other." 
 
 Finally, in the course of the night there seem- 
 ed to be an understanding between them to take 
 up their line of march for the next town, about 
 six miles distant, where they had heard, a month 
 or two before, that a shoemaker was wanted. Ac- 
 cordingly, just about daylight, before anybody was 
 stirring in the village, Richard and Hannah, and 
 the five children, with their several little bundles 
 of clothing, left the house and the village, and 
 wandered along the road towards the next town. 
 The morning was warm and cloudy, and some of 
 the children being quite small, they moved but 
 slowly onward. 
 
 About nine o'clock, when they had gone be- 
 tween four and five miles, and had just come to 
 the old broken guide-board, where the road turn- 
 ed two ways, one to the town where they had 
 thought of going, and the other towards the 
 neighbourhood where Mr. Moses Gardner lived, 
 who should they see but Mr. Gardner himself, 
 riding down the road, close to them, on his old 
 
IIENPECKERY. 125 
 
 black mare. One of his neighbours had been to 
 the village the night before, where he had heard 
 that Sloman and his family were in difficulty, and 
 he called and told the whole story to Mr. Gard- 
 ner, who started immediately after breakfast to go 
 to the village, on purpose to look into their affairs. 
 He had not seen or heard anything from them 
 before for more than six months, as he seldom 
 went to the village, and the report his neighbour 
 brought gave him a good deal of uneasiness. He 
 had got his information from a person who lived 
 at the very next door to Sloman's, and knew all 
 about their affairs. He understood from this per- 
 son that Mrs. Sloman had carried matters with a 
 pretty high hand, almost ever since they lived in 
 the village visiting, and receiving visits, and 
 dressing and riding about, and running into every 
 little extravagant expense that she took a fancy 
 to, neglecting her business and family, till they 
 were all run down, and everything they had was 
 attached. 
 
 " And did you see anything of Richard ?" asked 
 Mr. Gardner. 
 
 " Yes," said the neighbour, " I saw him go in 
 and out of his shop two or three times, but not to 
 speak to him." 
 
136 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 " Well, how did he appear?" said Mr. Gardner. 
 
 " He's amazingly altered," said the neighbour ; 
 "looks care-worn, and stoops a good deal more 
 than he used to ; and I never see a man that look- 
 ed so much cowed down in all my life." 
 
 Such was the information with which Mr. Gard- 
 ner had started that morning for the village. As 
 he rode up to the group, Richard turned a few 
 steps away, without saying a word, and stood 
 looking up the road. Hannah covered her face 
 with her hand, and wept bitterly. The old gen- 
 tleman inquired kindly into all their affairs, and 
 soon got their story. 
 
 " Well, now," said he, " instead of going and 
 trying to seek your fortune in the next town, as 
 you are talking of, you had better go right up into 
 our neighbourhood again, where you spent ten 
 years so happily, and try to live them over again. 
 And my word for it, Hannah, if you will only 
 mind a few simple rules that I'll give you, though 
 you may not find the years altogether so happy 
 as those that have gone by, you may at least find 
 them quite pleasant and comfortable." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Gardner, I'll mind anything you tell 
 me," said Hannah, still weeping. 
 
 " Well, in the first place," said the old gentle- 
 
HENPECKERY. 127 
 
 man, " you must set it down as a rule, always to 
 live within your income. He that always spends 
 a little less than he earns, will always have some- 
 thing ahead for a rainy day, and will find himself 
 every year growing better off. When you havn't 
 earnt enough to buy a silk dress, wear a calico 
 one, or fix up the old one you will find it just 
 as comfortable. And when you havn't earnt 
 enough to buy a good meal of victuals, eat a 
 poorer one you will feel full as well the next 
 day. And, in the next place, you must let Rich- 
 ard carry the purse, and hold the purse-strings. 
 Put whatever you can into the purse, but let Rich- 
 ard lay out the money. He doesn't drink, and 
 never spends his money foolishly, but lays it out 
 to the best advantage, for the good of his family ; 
 and he understands it much better than you do 
 he's good at figures, and you aint and he'll 
 make a dollar go as far as you'll make two go. 
 Now, just go up here to the old place again, and 
 mind these things, and if you don't find the world 
 roll along quite comfortably with you, I'll agree 
 to support you and your family. But these chil- 
 dren look tired," continued the old gentleman, 
 looking round upon them ; " have they had any 
 breakfast ?" 
 
128 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 Hannah said they had not. 
 
 " Well, it is high time they had," said Mr. 
 Gardner, taking out his purse, and putting his 
 hand into it ; " here, take some money, and stop 
 at the little tavern, which is a few rods ahead, 
 and get you all a good breakfast. Get some ba- 
 con and eggs and coffee for you and Richard, and 
 a good bowl of bread and milk for the children ; 
 and then go on, and stop at my house, and tell 
 Richard he better go and see if he can't engage 
 the old place again, for it hasn't been occupied 
 lately ; and I'll go on down to the village, and 
 see if I can't contrive some plan to save a part of 
 your furniture." 
 
 So saying, he pursued his way toward the vil- 
 lage, and the family group went forward to the 
 tavern, where they followed Mr. Gardner's direc- 
 tions to the letter with regard to their breakfast. 
 
THE GRAVE OF THE LOWLY. 
 
 I WOULD take my last sleep in the shadowy vale, 
 
 'Mid the flowers I love so well, 
 And echo should mournfully whisper the tale 
 
 Where the wood-bird its sweet grief would tell. 
 
 And above the green, moss-covered turf, where T lay, 
 
 Should the quivering Columbine bend ; 
 And the sweet-brier roses, their melting perfume 
 
 To the zephyrs around me should lend. 
 
 This summer-time covert a cheerful green home 
 
 For the timid young squirrel might be ; 
 Where, storing away his rich winter supply, 
 
 No eye could his gambollings see. 
 
 And here should the plaintive-voiced, sad whip-poor-will, 
 
 When slowly away fades the light, 
 Alone on the rock, in solemn tones breathe 
 
 His touching appeal to the night. 
 
130 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Oft, beside the still stream, to this spot shall repair, 
 The friend whom my soul holds most dear ; 
 
 The heart's pure resolve, and the holiest prayer, 
 Shall be borne up by blest spirits near. 
 
 Here matins shall rise on the odorous breath 
 Of the morning-gale, swift to the sky ; 
 
 And at eventide hour here vespers shall bring 
 Full stores of deep love from on high. 
 
 The song-sparrow, won to this quiet retreat, 
 
 Shall awaken the free air with joy, 
 As she tenderly rears here her chirruping brood, 
 
 With no stranger's rude step to annoy. 
 
 Oh ! make my last home, then, away in the glade, 
 'Mid the wildlings I've cherish'd so well ; 
 
 Where naught save the wood-bird, and floweret fair, 
 Of the Grave of the Lowly may tell. 
 
"HOW CHEERY ARE THE MARINERS!" 
 
 BY PARK BENJAMIN- 
 
 How cheery are the mariners 
 
 Those lovers of the sea ! 
 Their hearts are like its yesty waves, 
 
 As bounding and as free. 
 They whistle when the storm-bird wheels 
 
 In circles round the mast ; 
 And sing when deep in foam the ship 
 
 Ploughs onward to the blast. 
 
 What care the mariners for gales ? 
 
 There's music in their roar, 
 When wide the berth along the lee, 
 
 And leagues of room before. 
 Let billows toss to mountain heights, 
 
 Or sink to chasms low, 
 The vessel stout will ride it out, 
 
 Nor reel beneath the blow. 
 
 With streamers down, and canvass furl'd, 
 
 The gallant hull will float 
 Securely, as on inland lake 
 
 A silken-tassell'd boat. 
 
 K2 
 
THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 And sound asleep some mariners, 
 And some with watchful eyes, 
 
 Will fearless be of dangers dark 
 That roll along the skies. 
 
 God keep those cheery mariners ! 
 
 And temper all the gales 
 That sweep against the rocky coast 
 
 To their storm-shatter'd sails ; 
 And men on shore will bless the ship 
 
 That could so guided be, 
 Safe in the hollow of His hand, 
 
 To brave the mighty sea ! 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 
 
 Miss EDGEWORTH affirms that none ever loved 
 without a reasonable degree of hope ; but as none 
 of the passions wait upon the understanding, and 
 love is the least controllable of them all, her as- 
 sertion may be disproved by innumerable in- 
 stances, from the fabled days of Pygmalion down 
 to those of Allan Gray, the gardener. 
 
 Allan was the son of an English gardener, who 
 had come over to America in the hope of realizing 
 those golden dreams which so often tempt foreign- 
 ers to our shores. He brought with him a wife 
 and several children, and after the usual struggles 
 which strangers must undergo without money, 
 without friends, without knowledge of the coun- 
 try after removing from place to place, and 
 losing all their children except one, William Gray 
 and his wife settled themselves, with their survi- 
 ving son, in the south, where he was fortunate 
 
134 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 enough to procure a place as gardener at the seat 
 of Mr. Camelford, a gentleman of large fortune, 
 who, though he spent little time at Camelford 
 Hall, took infinite pride in preserving it in all the 
 beauty and order with which he received it from 
 his fathers. 
 
 Mrs. Gray had been born to better fortunes ; 
 but the truly noble spirit prefers independence, 
 even as a gardener's wife, to the luxuries which 
 may be purchased by the surrender of one's time, 
 taste, and opinions. Mary, however, had tasted 
 dependence in its mildest shape. She had filled 
 the place of humble companion to two elderly 
 ladies, who lived in profound retirement, and pass- 
 ed their time chiefly in reading. Their choice of 
 books, too, was excellent. Sisters and daughters 
 of men of learning, they had early imbibed a 
 taste for the best kind of reading, while they by 
 no means despised the lighter part of the belies 
 lettres. When their eyes began to fail, they took 
 Mary Owen into their house as a reader and com- 
 panion. Her task was an easy one, and suited to 
 her inclinations, and bitterly did she lament them 
 when they died. She had lived peacefully with 
 them till she was twenty-four, and at their death 
 found herself as friendless as when they had first 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 135 
 
 given her an asylum. Their little fortune was 
 entailed, and they had nothing to leave Mary but 
 some old-fashioned bijouterie, and a part of their 
 library. 
 
 It was a descent from her high expectations 
 (for a pretty girl who reads a good many novels 
 will form high expectations) to marry William 
 Gray ; but she had come to years of discretion, 
 and after some few struggles she gave him her 
 hand, and made him a faithful and obedient wife, 
 excepting only in one thing. William did not 
 wish his son to receive an education that would 
 unfit him for his station. He had looked over 
 Mary's books, and found a great deal that would 
 prove dangerous to Allan, who was a boy of a 
 quiet, shy disposition, hating all manual labour, 
 and adoring nature with a poet's passion. He was 
 obliged, however, to work as his father's assist- 
 ant, but at night he came home to enjoy, as his 
 hour of luxury, his mother's conversation, and the 
 books she selected for him. It would have been 
 hardly possible for Mary to have crushed the 
 " glowing rage," which promised her in her son 
 what she had never found in her husband com- 
 panionship ; without which, wedded life wants its 
 chief enjoyment. In William Gray, Mary had 
 
136 THE WINT ERG KEEN. 
 
 found a protector and friend, but not a companion ; 
 and her chilled spirit only glowed, when she look- 
 ed forward to the cultivation of Allan's mind as a 
 solace for the many lonely, weary hours she had 
 spent, even with William by her side. Allan 
 'would read till his father woke from his first sleep, 
 and repeat his commands to him to go to bed, that 
 he might rise with the dawn. He was a fair and 
 delicate-looking boy, with an air of gentility, and 
 a thoughtful, pensive countenance, that is rarely 
 met among the labouring class. Habit had 
 reconciled him at length to his monotonous em- 
 ployment, though there were times when he 
 longed to escape from the formality of the garden 
 and smooth-shaven green, to the depths of the 
 forest to the blue river that sparkled in the 
 sunbeams. There were none of the forms of 
 nature round him that are said to inspire a love 
 for her. The mountain and the cataract are 
 wanting to those parts of the southern states 
 which border on the Atlantic, but the forests are 
 adorned with a rich and lavish vegetation. A 
 profusion of wild flowers shed a delicious perfume 
 on the air, which intoxicates the senses. There 
 is a vividness, too,- in the tints of the sky, a gor- 
 geous colouring, that is rarely seen in more cloudy 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 137 
 
 climes. All these to Allan were a " passion and 
 a iif e " he poured out the deep tenderness of his 
 heart on inanimate nature. Its 
 
 44 Colours and its forms were then to him 
 An appetite, a feeling, and a love." 
 
 But the hour was coming, when the intensity 
 of his feelings were to turn inward, and prey upon 
 themselves. He was one day carrying a young 
 tree, which he intended to transplant, to the house, 
 when he observed an unusual bustle ; the win- 
 dows were all open, the portico and steps were 
 covered with trunks, and a number of servants 
 appeared to have just arrived. A few words ex- 
 plained it all Mr. Camelford was coming to 
 the Hall with all the family. He had frequently 
 spent several weeks there, but Mrs. Camelford 
 preferred living at an estate in a remote part of 
 the country. Of late, however, the whole fam- 
 ily had been travelling in Europe, and were now 
 coming to Camelford Hall, to repose awhile after 
 the voyage. Allan heard the news with regret 
 he really could not bear the thought of being 
 seen, by persons of education, hoeing and weed- 
 ing. He felt himself superior to his situation, 
 and shrunk from the idea of being confounded 
 with the rude labourers who surrounded him. 
 
138 THE WiNTERGREEN 
 
 Foolish as were his feelings, they preyed so much 
 upon his mind that he became too ill to go out, 
 and for several days after the family arrived, he 
 was confined to his room. 
 
 At last the old man, who suspected there was a 
 degree of morbidness in his feelings, insisted upon 
 his accompanying him to the garden. Allan could 
 not refuse, but he took care to hide himself in a 
 corner furthest from the house. Seeing that no 
 one took any notice of him, he ventured one morn- 
 ing out of his nook, but would gladly have crept 
 back, when his father desired him to carry a bas- 
 ket of roses to the garden-gate, and give them to 
 Mrs. Camelford's maid. There was no evading 
 the command. He took them, and was slowly 
 and reluctantly proceeding up the walk, w r hen 
 suddenly he was startled by a form approaching, 
 which appeared, indeed, to him, " another morn 
 risen on mid-day." As the vision drew near, he 
 doubted his senses. Was it indeed a living crea- 
 ture he beheld, or some angelic visitant ? Con- 
 fused and breathless, he drew to the side of the 
 walk, and leaned against a tree. Laura Camel- 
 ford, attracted by the beauty of the flowers he 
 held, came close up to him, and, not observing his 
 excessive emotion, said, in a voice of flute-like 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 139 
 
 melody, "I may take one of these, I suppose ;" 
 then, without waiting for an answer, and without 
 even turning her eyes on him, she took a rose 
 from the basket, and walked on. Exhausted with 
 the excitement, Allan sunk upon the ground. 
 Never yet had such a vision dawned upon him. 
 High as was the idea he had formed of beauty, 
 his fancy had never pictured such a shape and 
 countenance. He lay for some time wrapt in 
 such an exquisite reverie, that it was not till he 
 heard a sharp, angry voice close to his ear, that 
 he sprang on his feet, and listened to the scolding 
 of Mrs. Camelford's little Creole maid, who had 
 first waited for him a long time, and then sought 
 him all over the garden. 
 
 Allan's feelings, during the rest of the day, 
 were wild and tumultuous. He scarcely knew 
 what it was he had seen ; but he felt that it would 
 have some influence on his destiny. He had 
 woke to a new state of existence ; some fairy 
 charm had been applied to his eyes, and he now 
 felt as if his past life had been a blank. He 
 could define none of his sensations, yet they were 
 all a new-found treasure to him he dared not 
 ask himself what they meant. Like the statue 
 in Rousseau's little drama, just wakened into con- 
 
140 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 sciousness, he could only repeat, in wonder at 
 himself, " It is I it is I." 
 
 When he went home at night, he found his 
 mother anxiously expecting him. " Dear Allan," 
 she cried, " see what I have for you ;" and she 
 held out the " Tales of the Crusaders," which 
 she had asked a neighbour to bring her from 
 town. Poor Mary was disappointed at the ab- 
 stracted air with which Allan received her pres- 
 ent ; but though, shortly after that time, he pe- 
 rused, with intense interest, the tale of the Knight 
 of the Leopard, his mind was too much engrossed 
 with his own feelings, on that evening, to be won 
 even by the spells of the mighty magician, Scott. 
 
 For several successive days, Allan watched in 
 vain for the figure that still haunted his fancy, and 
 at last began to think that he had been under the 
 influence of a dream. He was musing over his 
 disappointment one day, when he heard again the 
 voice that had before bewildered his senses he 
 listened, breathless with delight, but it died away, 
 and presently his father's rough voice was heard 
 calling for Allan. In his impatience to behold 
 again her w r hose voice recalled his dazzling 
 dream, he rushed forward, and found himself sud- 
 denly in the presence of Miss Camelford and her 
 
ALL AX GRAY. 141 
 
 father. " Come here, and take* Madam's direc- 
 tions about a flower-bed," said the old man, pull- 
 ing him from behind the rose-bush, where he had 
 shrunk as he met the full gaze of Laura's eyes. 
 
 " Come out," muttered the old man ; " fool! must 
 
 
 
 I always be ashamed of you ?" and he pushed 
 him towards Laura, who said, mildly, " I only 
 want you to prepare some ground for these seeds. 
 Papa says I may have all this square for my own 
 flowers. Leave all the trees, but take away all 
 these balsams and marigolds ; you may give them 
 away, if you please. Papa," she cried, drawing 
 her father to her, " you know all this square is to 
 be mine ?" 
 
 " Yes, love what are you going to do with 
 it?" 
 
 " Why, make a paradise of it. Can you find," 
 said she, in an encouraging voice, to Allan, "any 
 young olives and laurel-trees that would bear 
 transplanting? Perhaps," she continued, after 
 waiting some time for an answer, "you know 
 those trees by some other name ?" 
 
 "No, ma'am, no," interrupted his father, eager- 
 ly ; " he knows them well enough, only he's a fool." 
 
 " Nay, don't frighten him ; I will explain to 
 him." 
 
142 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 " I do understand you," said the trembling boy ; 
 " you wish your garden planted with the trees and 
 flowers we read of in poetry." 
 
 " Read of in poetry !" thought Laura ; the 
 
 gardeners in C are very refined. " You 
 
 have understood me," said she, smiling ; "prepare 
 the ground, and I will come to-morrow evening, 
 and give you further directions." 
 
 Dear reader, you surely remember the hour 
 when you felt the first breath of passion upon your 
 heart when the chords of that mysterious, won- 
 drous instrument, were first struck by a viewless 
 touch, which, like the winds of summer playing 
 over the ^Eolian harp, woke a strange delicious 
 melody within you. Have you ever, in after life, 
 felt anything to equal those first hours of love ? 
 Would they not be cheaply purchased back by all 
 ye have since held dear ? Honour, power, w r ealth, 
 and fame have any of them a charm so pre- 
 cious 1 Alas ! we taste but once of that bliss 
 which Theckla, in her passionate song, has called 
 the bliss of earth. 
 
 Allan worked hard all the next day, and by the 
 appointed hour everything was in readiness. He 
 had brought young olive-trees from the grounds, 
 and magnolias from the woods, and only waited 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 143 
 
 Miss Camelford's direction. It was a beautiful 
 evening in April. The moon, with a single star 
 beside her, was seen in the clear blue sky, while 
 the monarch of day still flamed in the gorgeous 
 west. The air was laden with the perfume of 
 the orange-flower. Allan's senses were refined, 
 by the new and unknown power which had waked 
 him to a new existence ; his heart was glowing 
 with undefmable sensations ; he clasped to his 
 heart the mute and lifeless forms around him. 
 There was an energy in his feelings that longed 
 to speak, but he trembled as he first heard his 
 own lips utter the name of one so far, far above 
 him. He felt as if he should have died under the 
 weight of his emotion, and almost fainted when 
 Laura appeared, walking slowly with her mother, 
 leaning on her arm. The sight of her overpow- 
 ered the young enthusiast ; he turned aside, and 
 tears came into his eyes the tears which are 
 shed but once in life. Soon, very soon, is their 
 source dried up ; and though we may weep the tears 
 of sorrow or remorse, the drops that flow from a 
 heart o'erfraught with passion, are shed but at one 
 season of the heart. Mrs. Camelford walked so 
 feebly, that Allan had time to assume something 
 like composure before Laura reached the spot. 
 
 L2 
 
144 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Miss Camelford was just sixteen, and so very 
 beautiful, that even old age could not look on her 
 unmoved. The old did not accompany their 
 praise of her exquisite face with any comparison 
 with the beauties of their day. The rich auburn 
 of her luxuriant tresses mocked the eye, now with 
 wavy lines of gold, and now with masses of brown, 
 that contrasted beautifully with her snow-white 
 forehead. Her eyes were of that soft, dark ha- 
 zel, which admits of so much expression ; but it 
 was not the perfect form of her features, or the 
 rich colouring of her lips and cheeks, that struck 
 the beholder with delight. It was the uncreated 
 beauty shed over them all the expression of 
 goodness that explained, to every mind of sensi- 
 bility, what the most gifted of modern bards has 
 called the music beaming from a face. 
 
 " Ah ! you have brought some of the trees I 
 wanted," said she, with a gracious smile, as Allan 
 pointed to his collection. " Observe, then, where- 
 ever I mark, you must plant one. Now," she 
 continued, after having flitted from spot to spot, 
 " here you must make a fountain, and round it 
 plant tube-roses, Indian jasmines, flowering pom- 
 egranates, and all the flowers of the East that will 
 grow in this climate. You know them, I believe, 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 145 
 
 and here are the seeds and roots I want planted 
 is this the season ?" 
 
 " Leave them," said Allan ; " I will obey you." 
 " Mamma," said Laura, going back, and whisper- 
 ing to her mother, " I don't know what to make 
 of this boy he understands everything I say, 
 yet it is with the utmost difficulty I can get him 
 to answer me, and he seems terrified if I only 
 look at him." 
 
 " He is abashed," said Mrs. Camelford ; " do 
 not give him too many directions at a time you 
 speak so fast, that he will never remember all 
 you have told him. Let me speak to him." Mrs. 
 Camelford called Allan to her, and asked him 
 several questions about his parents and himself. 
 The propriety of his language surprised her, and 
 she inquired into the cause of it. 
 
 "My mother," said Allan, "is a woman of 
 more education than is common in her humble 
 station. She has been my instructress, though, 
 from want of time and books, I am too ignorant 
 to ))o a fit companion for her." 
 
 " Poor boy," said Laura, as they proceeded on 
 their walk, " he is fond of reading, and yet has no 
 books, or at least very few pray let me give 
 him some ; he seems different from all the other 
 labourers about the grounds." 
 
146 THE W I NT ERG KEEN. 
 
 " Not yet, my daughter," said Mrs. Camelford ; 
 " if you give him books, you must give him time, 
 and I must first make some inquiry into his story. 
 At present, everything tells to his advantage." 
 
 Two or three months passed on, and Laura's 
 garden began to have a flourishing appearance. 
 Vegetation is so rapid in the south, that trees and 
 flowers spring up as if by enchantment, when 
 they are well watered and shaded. The young 
 gardener worked incessantly in this spot, which 
 was all the world to him. He talked of it in his 
 sleep ; he read nothing but what related to flow- 
 ers ; and, during the first three months of the 
 family's stay at the Hall, he was the happiest of 
 created beings. 
 
 Allan would have started had any one asked him 
 what he looked forward to what he hoped for. 
 He knew he was the victim of delusion, but he 
 cherished his madness, for it was sweeter than any 
 reality he had ever known. He dared not inquire 
 into the cause of his felicity it is only rational 
 happiness that can sit down and reason upon it. 
 The moments in which Allan woke from his rev- 
 eries, (in which were pictured youths of low de- 
 gree winning the smiles and favour of high-born 
 beauty by deeds of prowess, and all the imagery 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 147 
 
 of other ages and other countries,) were the bit- 
 terest of his life. He would wake from one of 
 these day-dreams, and look down upon his soiled 
 hands, his coarse clothing, and utter the wailings 
 of despair as he thought of what he was, and 
 what he must remain. Still, he was happy. 
 Laura came every evening into the garden, with 
 her two little brothers ; and while they played 
 about, she would sit on a rustic seat beneath the 
 trees, reading^ or plunged in thought, till the dews 
 of night warned her home. Allan never dared 
 remain in the square she called her own, but re- 
 tired to a distance, from whence he could gaze on 
 her unobserved. The indulgence of this wild 
 passion began at last to prey on his health. The 
 excited, fevered state of his feelings, robbed him 
 of rest. His cheek became flushed with a hectic 
 glow, and .his eyes grew brighter and wilder 
 every day ; nor was it long before the feelings 
 which had raised him to rapture became stings of 
 torture to him. The malignant spirits that so 
 often wait on love, took possession of his soul. 
 Laura ceased to visit her garden ; Mrs. Camel- 
 ford's returning health allowed her husband to fill 
 the house with company; there were frequent 
 balls and entertainments at the Hall, which threw 
 
148 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Allan into despair. He saw no longer the bright 
 particular star of his idolatry, and his tortured 
 fancy pictured her already the prize of one of the 
 happy youths, whom he saw sometimes saunter- 
 ing through the shrubbery. There was a family 
 in the neighborhood with whom she often spent 
 a week at a time, but still she did not forget her 
 love of flowers. Every day Menie, the little 
 Creole, came to Allan for the brightest and sweet- 
 est he could find it was with a sinking heart he 
 gave them to her, and then returned to his work. 
 One night he lingered long after dark in the 
 garden. The lights in the house attracted him, 
 and scarcely knowing what he did, he drew 
 nearer and nearer, till he found himself in front 
 of a large window opening on the portico. There 
 was a crowd of young ladies round Laura, who 
 was going to sing. Trembling lest he might be 
 seen, he retired to a dark corner under the por- 
 tico, where every note of Laura's voice reached 
 his ear. Presently the rich deep tones of a man's 
 voice mingled with the strain. Allan went home 
 that night, with a heavier load than ever at his 
 heart. Next evening he was employed in mak- 
 ing her an arbor of basket work, in hopes of 
 attracting her attention once more to her garden, 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 149 
 
 when suddenly she stood before him. In gene- 
 ral, she made known her approach by her spor- 
 tive voice, or her rapid footsteps ; but this even- 
 ing she was silent and thoughtful. She took no 
 notice of Allan, who at last ventured to address 
 her. " The Druid's seat, you ordered so long 
 ago, is finished, and this arbor is almost ready for 
 the vines to be drawn over it." 
 
 " Oh ! thank you you are very industrious, 
 very ingenious. Have you seen any one pass 
 this way ]" 
 
 " No, madam," said he ; and he turned pale as 
 he marked the troubled expression of her eye. 
 She did not speak for a long time, and then 
 turned abruptly to Allan " Do you think that 
 japonica will bloom by to-morrow ?" 
 
 " It is impossible," said Allan. 
 
 " And is that the most forward of all ?" asked 
 Laura, with a disappointed look. 
 
 " It is but if you wish a japonica, only say so, 
 and I will bring you one." 
 
 " Can you ? Oh, yes ! pray let me have one 
 by ten o'clock to-morrow, and I will give you 
 anything you ask for it." 
 
 Alas ! thought the unhappy boy, to touch those 
 tresses but once, and die ! His emotion grew so 
 
150 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 violent that Laura would have perceived it, had 
 not her whole soul been absorbed in watching 
 for a footstep. Presently one was heard and 
 springing up like a startled fawn, she flew from 
 the arbor. A young gentleman now approached 
 and coming up to Allan, said "My good lad 
 have you seen any one pass this way ?" There 
 was nothing haughty in his bearing, but Allan 
 thought he should have sunk to the earth, as he 
 looked on the magnificent person of Mr. Manner- 
 ing his open forehead, and eye that flashed with 
 youth and genius. He could scarcely falter out 
 a negative ; and Mr. M. coming up to a japoni- 
 ca, muttered, " It will never bloom by to-morrow, 
 how provoking !" and he turned and left the gar- 
 den. In a few minutes he passed by again, with 
 Laura leaning on his arm. Her cheek was no 
 longer pale ; she was listening, with downcast 
 eyes, and a varying colour, to the whispered tale 
 of her companion. The miserable Allan threw 
 himself upon the ground, and tore his hair, with 
 the wildest exclamations of despair. His agony 
 at that moment showed him what his future life 
 must be. " I can die," he uttered at length ; and 
 the idea that death would end his sufferings, in- 
 spired him with courage. He rose and left the 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 151 
 
 spot, with all the stings of jealousy gnawing at 
 his heart. 
 
 The next morning there was a brilliant scene 
 at the Hall. At the front door were drawn up 
 carriages of all descriptions ; ladies, in elegant 
 morning dresses, stood in the portico, ready to set 
 out for a breakfast party in the neighbourhood. 
 Laura stood on the steps ; a lace veil covered 
 part of her hair, and a light wreath of myrtle 
 adorned the front. Her lover stood beside her. 
 Poor Allan was drawing near, with weary steps ; 
 in his hand he held the brilliant flowers he had 
 walked ten miles to find. Laura sprang down 
 the steps, and ran to meet him. 
 
 "Thank you thank you," cried she gaily, 
 taking them from his hand, and putting them into 
 Mr. Mannering's. The whole party were now 
 driving off, but Laura waited till Mannering had 
 placed the japonicas in her hair, then turned 
 away and stepped lightly into her lover's curricle. 
 They drove off without Laura's observing that 
 Allan had fainted. 
 
 On her return at night, she ran gaily into her 
 mother's dressing-room, where she met with a 
 grave reprimand for her vanity and selfishness, in 
 sending a slender lad of seventeen, ten miles for 
 
152 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 a flower for her hair, when the shrubbery was 
 filled with various kinds. Laura wept to hear 
 that Allan had been carried home ill, but de- 
 clared with truth, that she had not been aware 
 that he intended going so far on her account. 
 Mrs. Camelford was seriously grieved at what 
 she thought Laura's selfishness, and sent every 
 day attendants and luxuries to the poor invalid. 
 Laura, who had not been to blame, went every 
 day to ask Mrs. Gray how her son was. The 
 sound of her voice gently enquiring after him, 
 healed for awhile the wounds of Allan's heart, 
 but they bled afresh when he dragged himself to 
 the cottage door one day, in order to catch a 
 glimpse of her, and saw that Mr. Mannering was 
 her companion. She stopped before she reached 
 the door and sent Mannering away, then ap- 
 proaching Allan, she graciously and sweetly ex- 
 pressed her sorrow for having occasioned his ill- 
 ness. " I am going to town in a few days, with 
 mamma," said she, blushing deeply, " will you 
 take these books to amuse you, when you are 
 well enough to read," and she took a basket from 
 her brother, who followed her. " There is not 
 much poetry here, and your mother tells me you 
 love poetry dearly ; however, papa chose most of 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 153 
 
 the books." Allan could only bend his head 
 " Pray do not go to work too early in my garden ; 
 I will not recommend it to your care. You have 
 already been too industrious, and I shall not be 
 glad to see it in fine order until you are perfectly 
 strong again." 
 
 "Oh, Miss Camelford!" exclaimed Allan, 
 speaking of himself for the first time ; " I love 
 that garden far better than you do I live in it 
 live for it you hardly look at it ;" and over- 
 whelmed with emotion, Allan burst into tears. 
 Laura looked distressed, and tried to calm him ; 
 but, as he grew more and more agitated, she 
 withdrew till he should have got over what she 
 termed a nervous attack. 
 
 The day before the family left the Hall, Laura 
 carried to Allan's cottage a handsome edition of 
 the Bible, which she put into his own hands ; and 
 again desiring him to take care of his health, she 
 left him with a light step, and a gay heart. She 
 was going the next day, and should return to 
 Camelford Hall a bride. The world was bright 
 before her an horizon without a cloud ; and 
 little she thought that the heart of the poor gar- 
 dener boy was breaking for her. 
 
 Two months passed away, before preparations 
 
154 * THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 were again made to receive the family at Camel- 
 ford Hall ; and in that time poor Mrs. Gray had 
 sorrow upon sorrow to contend with. Her hus- 
 band took cold one damp evening while working 
 at the Hall, and died after a short illness. Allan's 
 dejection grew worse and worse ; and at last he 
 was altogether confined to his room ; yet he 
 looked forward with intense anxiety to Laura's 
 return. He was aware that she would only re- 
 turn as Mrs. Mannering, but he should see her 
 once before he died. His mother began, at last, 
 to suspect the truth. She frequently heard him 
 murmur, in his troubled sleep, words of a strange 
 import. One night she heard him say " If I 
 could only see the light of those eyes again, I 
 would die in peace." Mary groaned deeply, for 
 now she felt there was no hope ; " And it is 
 my fault !" thought the self-reproaching mother ; 
 " it was I who taught him to admire the beautiful 
 and refined, while our lowly station confined us 
 to the ignorant and vulgar. My boy ! my boy ! 
 it is I who have destroyed you." 
 
 It was thus the poor mother was musing in bit- 
 terness of spirit, while standing one morning at 
 the door which looked towards the road when 
 suddenly a train of carriages announced the am- 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 155 
 
 val of the bridal party. Mary felt as if they were 
 trampling on her heart. Hastily closing the door, 
 she returned to her seat by Allan's bedside. He 
 lifted his head, and looking anxiously at her, said 
 " Mother, promise to tell me as soon as she 
 arrives." 
 
 "Who, my son?" 
 
 " Alas ! I do not know yet why should I con- 
 ceal it ? I am dying I cannot offend her even 
 she would forgive me. Tell me when she comes 
 I cannot utter her name aloud." 
 
 " My child, have you so far forgotten your hum- 
 ble station, as to lift your eyes to one so far above 
 you as Miss Camelford ?" 
 
 " Oh ! mother do not blame me. I dared hope 
 for nothing I knew my love was madness 
 'twas delirium ; but who could look on her and 
 not worship her with a forbidden idolatry. If I 
 have sinned, I have suffered, mother," continued 
 he, drawing from under his pillow the Bible that 
 Laura had given him, "take away this I have 
 never read this book, for her image always stood 
 before me. When I read yours, I could banish 
 it but bury that with me no, do not ; in the 
 grave this ' tyranny will be overpast.' " 
 
 Late in the evening, a neighbour came in to 
 
 M2 
 
156 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 offer to assist Mrs. Gray in nursing her son. 
 Long after her offer had been declined, she lin- 
 gered to gossip in a loud whisper : " I say, Mrs. 
 Gray, you had better go to church on Sunday, to 
 take a look at the bride." Allan raised his head. 
 " I saw her this morning, and though Miss Laura 
 was always a beauty, she looks like an angel 
 now 'twould do your eyes good to gaze on 
 her." 
 
 Mrs. Gray got rid of her visiter as soon as she 
 could, and turned, with a trembling heart, to- 
 wards Allan. " Nay, do not be uneasy ; the 
 news has not pained me much. As I draw nearer 
 the invisible world, I feel that the things of this 
 are losing their hold on me. Now, dear mother, 
 do not let me speak of her again." Allan tried 
 to keep his resolution, but every now and then 
 the name of Laura half escaped him. He died 
 the next day, and the widowed parent felt all the 
 anguish of that grief, which will not be comforted 
 till the day when all tears shall be wiped away. 
 
 On the following Sunday, Laura walked 
 through the Church-yard a lovely bride, by her 
 mother's side. Suddenly she stopped, exclaim- 
 ing, " Oh ! mamma, there is a new made grave, 
 and persons just leaving it whose can it be ?" 
 
ALLAN GRAY. 157 
 
 " It is poor Allan Gray's," said her mother ; he 
 has left a mother indeed disconsolate." 
 
 In the plenitude of happiness, we expect every 
 object around us to respond to the felicity of our 
 own hearts, and the sight of Allan's untimely 
 grave struck a chill to Laura's heart. She little 
 dreamed that it was she who, in her beauty and 
 brightness, had crossed his path, and robbed him 
 of peace and life ; but the lustre of her dark eyes 
 was quenched in tears, when she recollected his 
 youth, his modest, gentle conduct, and the strong 
 emotion he had betrayed the last evening she saw 
 him. 
 
 It was from the lonely mother that I learned 
 the particulars of Allan's fate, and from some 
 fragments of his journal, which she read to me, 
 that I have traced the progress of that disastrous 
 passion, which, in a mind of sensibility, nursed in 
 silence and solitude, has power to deprive its vic- 
 tims of energy and happiness, and even of life 
 itself. 
 
LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A DAUGHTER OF NEW ENGLAND ON THE RECEIPT 
 OF A PUMPKIN PIE ON THANKSGIVING DAY. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 Thanks, lady, thanks, thy hand well skilled 
 
 To touch with fairy fingers 
 The harpsichord with music filled, 
 
 As o'er it beauty lingers ; 
 
 Could it descend where plate and platter 
 
 In goodly order stand, 
 And form for me this pretty batter, 
 
 This gift from Yankee land ? 
 
 Oh, were I blest with wit and taste 
 
 Well seasoned as thy pie, 
 I would in numbers praise thy paste, 
 
 Nor make a tart reply. 
 
 Thou modest pumpkin : gentle hands 
 
 Did pluck thee from the vine, 
 And made thee pride of Eastern lands 
 
 Whene'er their children dine. 
 
LINES. 159 
 
 And though thou wert of modest birth, 
 
 Nay, grovelled in the dirt, 
 Yet all New England feels thy worth, 
 
 And knows thy rich desert. 
 
 And Pilgrim daughters on this isle ' 
 Where squashes most abound, 
 
 Will greet thy presence with a smile 
 When Thanksgiving rolls round. 
 
 Then, lady, will my prayers ascend 
 
 For richest gifts for thee, 
 And Heaven will bless the gentle friend 
 
 Who shares her crust with me. 
 
 And though I fear my own desert 
 
 Will ne'er rewarded be, 
 My flattered fancy must revert 
 
 To one sweet puff from thee. 
 
 And should I run the race of fame, 
 
 I'll feel with joy elate 
 That no dishonour clouds his name 
 
 Who's won a lady's plate. 
 Brooklyn, November, 1840. 
 
A PORTRAIT. 
 
 BY AMANDA K. CLARK. 
 
 I KNOW a youthful maiden, so fair she well might prove 
 A sylph to haunt a poet's dreams the idol of his love ; 
 A creature all too beautiful to dwell with care-worn things, 
 A wandering spirit from the skies, with pinioned earth-bound 
 wings. 
 
 She hath a broad and open brow, most exquisitely fair, 
 And o'er it strays in golden curls her shining auburn hair; 
 And then her eye, her radiant eye, so soft toward heaven is 
 
 cast, 
 That the brightness of its azure hue into those orbs hath 
 
 passed. 
 
 Hers are not brightly-flashing eyes, but seem a quiet well, 
 Where holy Truth and Grace serene, those loving sisters, 
 
 dwell ; 
 And from their depths a constant light, a gentle radiance 
 
 gleams 
 In her pure spirit may be found the fountain of its beams. 
 
 
 
A PORTRAIT. 161 
 
 There plays a smile about her lip, a sweet seraphic smile. 
 The signet of a youthful heart, untouched by grief or guile ; 
 And when she speaks, you bend your ear to listen to a voice 
 Whose slightest tones have ever said unto the heart "rejoice." 
 
 There's music in its cadences, but chiefly when she sings, 
 When forth her heart's wild melody in bird-like carols rings. 
 You wonder where she caught the strain, so strangely sweet 
 
 it seem?, 
 And think some angel voices must have whispered it in 
 
 dreams. 
 
 And oh, within this casket fair, there is a pearl of worth, 
 Like the dew-drop in the lily bell, as free from taint of earth ; 
 There is a SOUL, whose rays shine through, and gild her 
 
 features fair, 
 With a portion of that blessed light celestial beings wear. 
 
 A mind she hath of wondrous mould, most delicately 
 
 wrought, 
 Whose strings were never swept by aught but high and holy 
 
 thought ; 
 A mind whose pleasant fancies pass like " shadows over 
 
 streams," 
 A soul forever tenanted by rainbow-coloured dreams. 
 
 No darkening shadows pass athwart her spirit's peaceful 
 
 sky, 
 That spirit whose serenity is mirrored in her eye ; 
 
162 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Where'er her gentle presence is, is cast a magic spell, 
 And you wish beneath its thraldom you evermore might 
 dwell. 
 
 No sorrow hath she of her own, to shade her quiet mirth, 
 But she glideth like a sunbeam beside the lowliest hearth ; 
 And her blessed counsel strengthens them to suffer and 
 
 endure ; 
 Oh the dearest of all praise is hers, the blessing of the poor. 
 
 They say she is an angel sent in incomplete disguise, 
 For a more than earthly lustre is shining from her eyes ; 
 But it matters not to her what state of being may be given, 
 For a soul like hers could well afford to barter earth for 
 heaven. 
 
TAMINA. 
 
 [FROM THE GERMAN.] 
 
 " THE last time I looked on the full moon," be- 
 gan Colestin, raising his eyes to the luminary 
 now rolling in full-orbed beauty above us "it 
 was through the grated window of an Italian mo- 
 nastery, where I was seated with an old monk, 
 who was instructing me in some of the mysteries 
 of nature. Our conversation turned on the star 
 of night ; and he told me many wonderful things 
 of it, of which thousands do not even dream ; he 
 recalled to my memory a story which I had heard 
 some time before ; I always fancied it very much, 
 and will relate it to you. 
 
 " On the summit of one of the highest moun- 
 tains of the moon, stood one of its inhabitants, just 
 as the earth with its dimmer light was ascending 
 the heavens. The spirit, whose form I will not 
 attempt to describe to you, felt an ardent longing 
 to visit the sister star. He threw himself at the 
 feet of a being more powerful than himself, who 
 
164 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 stood at his side, and implored permission to wan- 
 der awhile in the unknown world. It was grant- 
 ed to him, yet not without a solemn warning. 
 Whether, as with us, words are made use of in 
 the moon to express sentiments, or whether some 
 other means of conveying ideas is there employed, 
 I may not tell you ; it is enough for you that what 
 fell upon the ear of the spirit, might, in our lan- 
 guage, be thus expressed : 
 
 " ' You desire to pass the bounds which sepa- 
 rate us from that far distant world be it so ! 
 Go, assume the form of an inhabitant of the 
 earth ; breathe the dense atmosphere which sur- 
 rounds it ; measure its hills with our giant cliffs ; 
 mirror thyself in its waters, an element of which 
 thou knowest nothing ; mingle in its busy scenes, 
 and share in its pleasures. Before thy home has 
 three times described its circle around thee, pain- 
 fully wilt thou feel that thou art not in thy native 
 element : an ardent longing for the land of thy 
 birth will seize upon thee, and eagerly wilt thou 
 strive to return to it. However alluring another 
 star may seem to us, yet can we only be happy 
 there where Providence has placed us.' 
 
 " The spirit immediately descended to the earth, 
 and found himself clothed in a human form, on a 
 
TAMINA. 165 
 
 mountain peak, from which he looked far down 
 on the country below ; here all was new to his 
 eyes. The atmosphere which surrounded him 
 was to him what water would be to us, the bodily 
 frame \vhich he wore alone enabled him to 
 breathe in it. Wondering, he beheld trees and 
 plants, birds and reptiles, the terrific wild beasts 
 and the useful domestic animals ; still more was 
 he astonished at the lordly human form which 
 seemed to tell him of a kindred spirit. He saw 
 his own image reflected in the water, and did not 
 know it, and gazed with admiration on the 
 flowing silver, to which there is nothing similar in 
 his world above. 
 
 " He commenced his wanderings, he entered 
 into the abodes of men ; took part in their occu- 
 pations, and endeavoured to participate in their 
 pleasures, but could not; an invisible barrier 
 appeared ever to separate him from those whom 
 he approached ; a stranger he remained to them 
 strangers were they to him. Their tears and 
 their smiles, their grief and their joy, touched no 
 responsive chord in his heart ; and when they 
 would embrace him, their arms encircled only the 
 child of the earth, not the wanderer from another 
 sphere, whose form was but a borrowed robe ! 
 
166 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 " Alone, amid rocky precipices, he was pursu- 
 ing his toilsome way, thinking upon the warning 
 of his wiser friend who had granted his desire ; 
 when, behold, his home floated above him with 
 its soft gentle light ; he would have known it from 
 the quickened pulses of his heart, even had not its 
 silver beams, so different from the ruddy glare of 
 the earth, fallen upon his sight. Low voices 
 seemed to murmur around the solitary being and 
 lull him to repose ; his brilliant eyes closed in slum- 
 ber beneath the protection of the friendly light. 
 
 "Look, where the sea there spreads itself glit- 
 tering before us ; at the dark cliffs rising majesti- 
 cally into the clear air, their lofty summits glitter- 
 ing in the moonlight; what a solemn stillness 
 seems to pervade all nature ; it was on such a 
 night that the youth fell asleep at the foot of you 
 towering mountain. No human being then in- 
 habited the wilderness ; the chamois and the eagle 
 were lords of these solitary dominions ; and the 
 streams that sang the wanderer's lullaby, gazed 
 with astonishment on the unusual apparition. 
 Their song became louder ; swiftly they pressed 
 around him, and eagerly summoned their sisters 
 to behold him with them : ' Come robed in your 
 waves of silver bright, from the deep sea, sisters, 
 
TAMTNA. 167 
 
 to the clear moonlight ; the reed-crown wind in 
 your locks of green, and behold what no water- 
 sprite has e'er seen.' 
 
 " The sea heaved, the waves rose and fell, and 
 bore the slight forms of the water-spirits to the 
 land. Tall slender beings, with pale lovely coun- 
 tenances and long flowing hair. Their smaller 
 companions danced gaily up to them, and bab- 
 bling, led them to the spot where the inhabitant 
 of the moon slumbered. The maidens gazed at 
 him with wonder ; he was fair as painters repre- 
 sent angels to us ; fancy him so, and spare me the 
 description. 
 
 " There was one among the nymphs of the sea, 
 who bore your name, charming Tamina. She 
 who was regarded by the others as their queen, 
 stood silent near the stranger, whilst the rest, es- 
 pecially the noisy brooks, prattled incessantly. 
 Slowly she let fall on his head a wreath of white 
 water lilies, whose delicate perfume brings plea- 
 sant dreams, and rejoiced when she saw a smile 
 spread itself over his countenance. Quite lost in 
 the contemplation of him ; as her cold heart gra- 
 dually warmed, she felt as does the frozen stream 
 when the sunbeams kiss it and impart to it a por- 
 tion of their heat. 
 
 N2 
 
168 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 " The rivulets now prepared to depart, bidding 
 each other farewell. * Sisters, will you not remain 
 longer ?' 
 
 " t No, we haste away to the eagle's seat, our 
 place is there in the sultry heat, from the highest 
 peak ourselves we throw, to cool the grass in the 
 land below.' 
 
 " ' The meadows are calling, I hear their warn- 
 ing, for I,' said a nymph, 'am the dew of the 
 morning.' 
 
 " * And I,' said a brook, ' on the mountain's 
 height, each morn to the sun hold a mirror bright ; 
 if his glittering mirror here idling stays, how can 
 Phoebus arrange his crown of rays?' 
 
 " ' I,' murmured another, ' with my fall awake, 
 and bid Echo her obstinate silence break ; she 
 would slumber all day in her rocky caves, if she 
 heard not the rushing sound of my waves.' 
 
 " So saying, they all separated ; their forms 
 appeared to vanish into the mist, and the sound of 
 their voices became fainter. The sleeper moved. 
 One of the nymphs proclaimed that it was time to 
 return to the sea. 
 
 " ' Away, ye daughters of ocean foam, the dawn 
 comes on, swift wears the night ; now quickly 
 speed to your watery home, and hide yourselves 
 
TAMINA. 169 
 
 ere the morning's light. For we have no power 
 but 'neath the waves ; far off in the deep our race 
 had birth ; we rule at will in our coral caves, but 
 here, might be scorned by a child of earth. To 
 us in the realm of air there's death, our forms dis- 
 solve in the morning's breath. In the sea now 
 the moon her broad disk laves then away, 
 away to your ocean caves !' 
 
 " The sprites obeyed the command ; they has- 
 tened to the sea and disappeared beneath the 
 waves. Tamina alone raised her crowned head 
 above the water, and began a low song, soft and 
 mournful as the whispering of the wind among 
 the tall firs. The youth awoke with a confused 
 remembrance of delightful dreams. The crown 
 which he had received from the water-nymph had 
 filled his heart with an ardent love, but the ob- 
 ject of it had vanished with his dream, and could 
 not be recalled to his waking senses. A melting 
 sound was yet ringing in his ear like a call from 
 his distant home ; he followed it, and it led him to 
 the shore of the sea. 
 
 " ' What is that ?' cried he with rapture, as he 
 beheld at his feet the moon floating in the wavy 
 mirror 4 art thou so near to me beloved home? 
 and are my wanderings in this strange world at 
 
170 T H E W I ]\ 7 T E R G R E E N. 
 
 an end ? My longing has brought back to me 
 my beloved star, which I never should have left ; 
 take me again ; I return wiser. Providence as- 
 signs to every being his proper sphere ; all the 
 allurements of strange worlds are too weak to 
 compensate the exile for banishment from his 
 father land.' 
 
 " The listening nymphs rose from the water 
 when they heard the step of the wanderer ; they 
 saw him spread out his arms and plunge into the 
 sea ; they saw their servants, the waves, seize 
 upon him, and hastened to free him from their 
 power. Gently they carried him down through 
 crystal palaces, where, resting on beautiful creep- 
 ing plants, thousands of little water spirits waited 
 to receive their commands. They were ordered 
 instantly to form a grotto, where the stranger 
 might exist as in the upper air. 'Hasten !' they 
 said ; ' let the walls be of shells, and pearl, and 
 coral ; and the floor of gold sand ; gather the rays 
 of light from the waters above, and prison them 
 within it ; spread yourselves then before the door 
 like a veil, and guard the entrance against all 
 prying sprites.' 
 
 " When the grotto was completed, the youth 
 awoke from his lethargy, and beheld at his side 
 
TAMINA. 17J 
 
 a being whose ethereal beauty quite drove from 
 his memory all others. 
 
 " Tamina now exerted her utmost power to fix 
 the wanderer securely in the snare she had woven 
 around him ; deserting, altogether her sisters, 
 she never left him ; her sweet song charmed his 
 ear ; her gentle fingers wove for him garlands of 
 fragrant flowers ; she taught him the secrets of 
 the world beneath the waters. Passion had 
 warmed her icy heart ; -she loved him as might a 
 mortal maiden, fondly and truly ; and only prized 
 her power and beauty for his sake. The youth, 
 intoxicated by love and her enchantments, thought 
 no longer of his home, the grotto was his world, 
 her blue eyes the only star he cared to look upon. 
 
 " So passed weeks away ; the moon had once 
 described its circle, and again silvered the smooth 
 waves over the abode of love. Tamina was at 
 the feet of her beloved, her long green locks float- 
 ed on the golden floor, when there was a knock- 
 ing heard without, and two of her attendants, 
 small bubbling springs, entered, and thus spoke 
 'My sovereign queen, the water-fall, thine an- 
 cient liegeman and vassal, last night with more 
 than wonted roar, a fragment from the mountain 
 tore, and in the gap his power had made, to carry 
 
172 THE WINTERCREEX. 
 
 off a brook essayed ; united now they come be- 
 fore thee, humbly for pardon to implore thee. A 
 modest spring, too, makes request, that thou 
 wouldst issue thy behest, that he with sulphur and 
 iron imbued, with power to heal human ill be in- 
 dued. You may float above for the sea is light, 
 like diamonds it gleams in the moonshine bright ; 
 and in frolic mood, 'neath the silver ray, gaily the 
 tiny waves dance and play.' 
 
 " ' Take me with thee, Tamina,' entreated the 
 youth, as she slowly arose. Mournfully she raised 
 her eyes to his, for a sad foreboding seized upon 
 her ; yet she could not refuse any of his wishes, 
 and the attendant spirits were commanded to bear 
 him where he desired. Hardly had he lost sight 
 of the nymph and gained the upper surface of the 
 water, when the spell that had so long bound him 
 was broken. In a moment he appeared to know 
 himself again ; the love for the being whose na- 
 ture was foreign to his own, seemed to him like a 
 wild dream. Over him floated the crystal mirror 
 of the seas ; with beams of love the moon again 
 shone on him, and his longing returned anew for 
 his native star. ' Raise me still higher,' he com- 
 manded the spirits, and murmuring they obeyed 
 him. He breathed the air ; he reached the shore, 
 
TAMINA. J73 
 
 and in a moment stood on the firm ground. The 
 moon went down the sun rose he strayed 
 about among rocks and precipices ; he wandered 
 the whole day long, and endeavoured in vain to 
 escape from a persecution which everywhere 
 checked his steps. Wherever he went, which 
 ever way he moved, there burst forth a bubbling 
 spring, and its gurgling sound seemed ever to say 
 to him, in Tamina's imploring voice ' return !' 
 He hastened his steps and plunged into the forest, 
 but still that trembling tone sounded in his ear 
 * return! 7 % 
 
 " As the sun's last ray disappeared behind the 
 mountains, the water-spirits gained their misty 
 forms, and the rising moon showed him Tamina's 
 pale countenance. 'Return !' she whispered, and 
 the youth turned once more to gaze on her before 
 he departed for ever. ' Cease to persecute me, 
 strange maiden,' said he ; ' only a sweet delusion 
 kept me in thy power ; I cannot live for thee, I 
 belong not to this earth, there, in that brilliant 
 globe, whose light now shines upon us, is my 
 home to it I return. I do not deceive myself 
 by false hopes ; from yon mountain's height I 
 shall be taken up to my father land, and hence- 
 forth my wanderings will be but a dream !' He 
 
174 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 turned and ascended rather floating than walk- 
 ing that glacier from which you now see the 
 Tamina flow. The nymph followed him closely, 
 but in vain ; and, unable to return to her king, 
 dom that she had 'left, despairingly she flung her- 
 self from the mountain; hating the light of the 
 sun she sought the wildest paths, and rushed into 
 the deepest chasms. Between high precipitous 
 rocks, far below mortal sight, she flowed on ; and 
 the shuddering, which at the sound of her voice in 
 those deep shades and in that benumbing air, 
 seizes upon the traveller, is a spell which the sor- 
 row of the nymph has left there. Yet soon her 
 longing to behold the abode of her beloved drew 
 her into the light,' and she flowed as tributary to 
 a more powerful stream, to the sea. Here, in 
 serene nights, she looks up to the moon, and en- 
 deavours again to draw him towards her, but can 
 never allure him from his home above. 
 
 "It is her love which raises the water beneath 
 the moon's beams ; when she strives with eager 
 desire to reach her beloved, and then despairingly 
 draws back again, men call it ebb and flood ; and 
 Tamina's never-ceasing tears are the pearls 
 which mortals gather from the depths of the 
 ocean." 
 

ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON. 
 
 " ONLY one night at sea," 
 
 'Twas thus the promise ran, 
 By frail presumptuous mortal given, 
 
 To vain, confiding man, 
 " Only one night at sea, 
 
 And land shall bless thy sight, 
 When morning's rays dispel 
 
 The shadows of that night." 
 
 The pledge has been received, 
 
 The vessel leaves the shore, 
 Bearing the beautiful and brave, 
 
 Who ne'er shall greet us more ; 
 And every heart beats high, 
 
 As bounding o'er the wave, 
 The gallant bark moves on 
 
 To bear them to their grave. 
 
 The merry beams of day 
 
 Before the darkness flee, 
 And gloomy night comes slowly on, 
 
 That "only night at sea:" 
 
176 THE W1NTERGREEN. 
 
 The watch upon the deck, 
 
 Their weary vigils keep, 
 And countless stars look down 
 
 In beauty o'er the deep. 
 
 Within that stately boat 
 
 The prattler's voice is still, 
 And beauty's lovely form is there, 
 
 Unheeding of the ill ; 
 And manhood's vigorous mind 
 
 Is wrapped in deep repose, 
 And sorrow's victim lies 
 
 Forgetful of his woes. 
 
 But hark ! that fearful sound, 
 
 That wild, appalling cry, 
 That wakes the sleepers from their dreams, 
 
 And rouses them to die : 
 And who shall tell the hopes 
 
 That rose, so soon to flee ; 
 The good resolves destroyed 
 
 By that "one night at sea?" 
 
 That hour hath passed away, 
 
 The morning's beams are bright, 
 As if they met no record there, 
 
 Of that all-fearful night ; 
 But many souls have fled 
 
 To far eternity, 
 And many hearts been wrecked 
 
 In that " one night at sea." 
 
ONLY ONE NIGHT AT SEA. 177 
 
 Great God ! whose hand hath launched 
 
 Our boat upon life's sea, 
 And given us a pilot there, 
 
 A spirit bold and free, 
 So guide us with thy love, 
 
 That our frail bark may be, 
 Mid waves of doubt and fear, f 
 
 " Only one night at sea." 
 
GROWING OLD. 
 
 (ADDRESSED TO A DISTANT FRIEND.) 
 
 BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 " Out upon Time ! who forever will leave 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 O'er that which hath been and o'er that which must be." 
 
 YOUR melancholy letter of self-condolence, my 
 dear and most wayward of friends your elo- 
 quent but unreasonable regrets at having passed 
 through " Life's mid- way turnstile," (to use your 
 own quaint version of the poet's " mezzo del cam- 
 min di nostra vita,") have awakened in me a 
 train of reflections which, for your punishment, 
 rather than with any hope of your edification, I 
 shall offer to your serious consideration. 
 
 There are few things so little understood, and 
 yet so indispensable to the comfort of every child 
 of earth, as the art of growing old. If I were a 
 
GROWING OLD. 179 
 
 man (as, thank God, I am not, for among my many 
 blessings, I rank first that of being a woman,) I 
 would make it the subject of a course of lectures ; 
 and should probably then share the fate of other 
 preachers, who, while elucidating truth, afford 
 melancholy evidence, in their own persons, of the 
 difficulty which ever attends its practical applica- 
 tion. The reason why the matter, now in ques- 
 tion, is so little comprehended, is very obvious. 
 The subject is distasteful, and each one feels that 
 there is yet full time for contemplating it afar off. 
 We fancy ourselves still wandering on the con- 
 fines of youth, or at least, but just entering the 
 dusty paths of middle life ; when suddenly we find 
 ourselves at the opening of a yawning ravine, 
 down which we are irresistibly hurried by' the 
 pressure of the crowd behind us ; and when we 
 reach the cold, bleak, barren region of old age 
 which lies below, we feel that we have yielded 
 with an ill-grace to the necessity which drove us 
 from the busy scenes of active life. 
 
 Age is certainly an evil, necessary to our 
 mortal being, doubtless, but only less terrible 
 than death ; and had not God implanted in our 
 bosoms that strong love of life which makes us 
 cling to mere existence, the king of terrors would 
 
 o2 
 
180 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 often be a less painful visitant than the greybeard 
 time. Who ever detected the first furrow on his 
 brow the first grey hair amid his flowing locks, 
 without a pang ? And yet, methinks it were pas- 
 time to grow old, if age were only an external 
 evil. If the deepened lines of the face, the de- 
 spoiled honours of the brow, the faded light of the 
 eye, were the only changes which Time brings, 
 we might learn to look on him with indifference. 
 But, alas ! he bears away other treasures ; he 
 defaces the bright beauty of the casket while he 
 steals some of the richest gems which it contains. 
 We lose the unselfish enthusiasm of youth, its 
 generous ardour, its sweet confiding trust ; 
 we learn to question our own impulses, and the 
 lesson which teaches us to mistrust our own na- 
 ture, like all the other lessons of scepticism, offers 
 nothing in exchange for the faith it would dis- 
 turb. 
 
 "It seems to me," says the warm-hearted and 
 joyous-tempered Mde. de Sevigne, "it seems to 
 " me that I have been dragged against my will, 
 " to the fatal period when old age must be en- 
 " dured. I see it, I have come to it, and I would 
 " fain if I could help it go no farther, nor advance 
 " another step in the road of infirmities, of pains, 
 
GROWING OLD. 181 
 
 "of losses of memory, of disfigurements ready to 
 " do me outrage ; and I hear a voice which says 
 " ' you must go on in spite of yourself, or if you 
 " will not go on you must die,' and this is another 
 " extremity from which nature revolts. Such is 
 " the lot of all who advance beyond middle life. 
 " What is the resource ? To reflect on the will 
 " of God, and the universal law of being, and 
 "so restore reason to her dominion, and be 
 "patient." 
 
 They who would grow old gracefully must 
 equally avoid too much haste, and too much delay 
 in their progress. They must neither wait to be 
 jostled aside by younger competitors in the race, 
 nor must they fling off too soon the rose-chains 
 which held them in sweet bondage amid the bow- 
 ers of youthful happiness. Nothing is more dis- 
 gusting than an imbecile aping of gaiety and 
 folly in old age, and nothing more painful than 
 the premature selfishness and calculation of age 
 in the glad season of youth. 
 
 If I were called to give one short and compre- 
 hensive rule for growing old properly, I would 
 say : Cherish that health which is the next best 
 gift to that of youth, let the mind ripen fully 
 and perfectly in the light of knowledge, and, 
 
182 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 above all things, keep the heart young by the con- 
 stant exercise of kindly and genial sympathy. 
 
 Even while I write, memory presents some 
 lovely pictures of this ' youth in age' which is ever 
 so desirable. I behold a mother, faded in beauty, 
 but wearing upon her face that sweetness which 
 emanates from the inner light of the soul. Her 
 children are around her, and with the recollec- 
 tions of her own glad and wayward youth still 
 fresh in her heart, she fully and entirely sympa- 
 thises with all. The workings of incipient vanity 
 in one child, the gushing forth of passionate 
 feeling in another, the proud and fiery temper 
 of a third, perhaps the timid, facile temper of a 
 fourth, or the generous, impulsive nature of a 
 fifth all are understood all are appreciated 
 all receive the indulgence due to weakness, 
 and the gentle restraint necessary to future cor- 
 rection of error. She is the friend, the counsel- 
 lor, the confidant of her children, the tender 
 elder sister rather than the rigid parent, guid- 
 ing rather than controlling them sharing their 
 every pleasure bearing their every sorrow, and 
 cherishing a youthfulness of heart amid the young, 
 which adds new grace to the matronly dignity 
 and beauty of her perfectly consistent character. 
 
GROWING OLD. 183 
 
 I can remember, too, an honoured and venera- 
 ble man, who in the decline of years, amid the 
 seclusion of domestic life, still preserves the fresh- 
 ness of those fervent feelings which won for him 
 'the happiness which he now enjoys. In the youth 
 of his children he reviews his own early life, in 
 the exercise of hospitality he keeps alive his so- 
 cial virtues in the duties of benevolence he finds 
 an outlet for the impulsive generosity of his na- 
 ture in the daily exertion of his intellect he 
 finds a safeguard against the corrosions of time, 
 does such a man grow old because his eye is 
 dim, his brow furrowed by the ploughshare of 
 age, and his frame bowed beneath the weight of 
 years ? 
 
 But there are those who must grow old without 
 any such means of renewing their life. There 
 are hearts which find no companionship in wed- 
 ded life hearts which have felt a blight worse 
 than the frost of years hearts whose glad youth 
 departed ere a shadow from Time's wing had 
 darkened in their path. Yet even for them there 
 is a fountain of freshness a ' diamond of the de- 
 sert.' To them is offered the pure delights of 
 Friendship, that sweetest of all forms of earthly 
 affection, which is all of Love but its selfishness, 
 
184 THE WINTERGREEN 
 
 all of Passion but its exacting spirit all of ten- 
 derness but its weakness. 
 
 I know not what may be the nature of friend- 
 ship in the heart of man, but in the breast of 
 woman I know it to be what I have depicted it. 
 Love lives not without jealousy, which ever stalks 
 beside it like its shadow, flinging gloom upon its 
 brightest way. But Friendship asks nothing, save 
 to be allowed to serve hopes nothing, save to 
 be considered of some import to the happiness of 
 its object expects nothing, save to be remem- 
 bered with tender regret when death shall have 
 stilled the beatings of the warm heart, and the 
 pulses of the ready hand. 
 
 If I were a man and knew of woman what my 
 present experience has taught me, (an impossi- 
 bility, by the way,) I should prefer the deep, fer- 
 vent friendship of a woman's heart to all the de- 
 ceitful promises of love. After all, love is like 
 grief 'it consumes or is consumed;' the wild, 
 fierce, fiery passion which makes every hour 
 either a pang or an ecstasy, cannot last ; it is 
 weakened by its own excess, and must either sub- 
 side into a tame sentiment, or die away in utter 
 indifference, if it be not merged in such a friend- 
 ship. But the friendship which is born of esteem 
 
GROWING OLD. 185 
 
 for high and noble qualities which sees in its 
 object something to be admired, respected, looked 
 U p to (I speak now of friendship between per- 
 sons of opposite sex ; and to be perfectly happy in 
 any attachment there must be a blending of reve- 
 rence in woman's tenderness) which knows no 
 jealous fears, no envious heartburnings which 
 is full of self-forgetting affection, and yet asks no 
 other return than the kindly word and the gentle 
 tone the friendship which in woman is ever 
 mingled with that innate principle of loving, so 
 perfectly a part and parcel of her very nature 
 such is the true sweetener of life, such the only 
 worthy object of attainment, such the only lasting 
 passion. 
 
 A woman need never suffer her heart to grow 
 old. I care not how lonely be her lot, wherever 
 she can find a home, there can she find some ob- 
 ject of affection. There is always some brother 
 or sister a niece, or, it may be, a wayward ne- 
 phew, or, at least, some of those ' little people,' 
 whose claims upon us depend not on ties of blood, 
 to occupy her interest. If ever a woman finds 
 herself utterly lonely and unloved, depend on it, 
 the cause lies, not in her unfortunate destiny, but 
 in herself. Live without loving ! why the thing 
 
186 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 is impossible ; methinks if I were the sole habi- 
 tant of a desolate island in mid ocean I should 
 find something over which to pour out the fulness 
 of a yearning heart. " Je meurs ouje in 'attache" 
 is a true woman's motto, and happy is she whose 
 heart, while it clings like the ivy, finds something 
 better than ruin and decay to support its entwin- 
 ing tendrils. 
 
 A womn, I repeat, need never be a solitary 
 being. In the cheerful stillness of her own 
 thoughts she can be ever devising some good for 
 others ; and if she never forgets that woman is 
 sent upon earth to minister comfort to the toil- 
 worn children of Adam if she remembers that 
 God has given her a nature which enables her to 
 convert the curse pronounced upon our first mo- 
 ther into a boundless blessing if she never for- 
 gets that they who " stand and wait" are number- 
 ed among the servants of the Most High, no less 
 than those who do his bidding in the whirlwind 
 and the storm - she will not repine at the destiny 
 which gives her happiness just in proportion as 
 she lives for others and not for herself. 
 
 But with men the case is somewhat different. 
 Few conditions can be more melancholy than that 
 of a lonely man who has outlived all early asso- 
 
GROWING OLD. 187 
 
 ciations who has grown estranged by time and 
 circumstance from the companions of his youth 
 who enters not closely into the interests of a sin- 
 gle one of God's creatures, and who is keenly 
 conscious that to no one is he an object of real re- 
 gard. Yet why should these things be so ? Why 
 should man be so isolated an individual merely 
 because he has no conjugal nor filial ties ? Are 
 there not other bonds of union, which if less close- 
 ly woven, are still worth cherishing ? 
 
 It was but yesternight that one, whose lan- 
 guage is ever like the poetry of knightly days, 
 stirring my heart at one time like the sound of a 
 trumpet, calling to the tourney, and anon, melt- 
 ing me into sweet regretful tears of tenderness 
 it was but yesternight he told me of a solitary 
 man who in his loneliness bethought him of put- 
 ting in practice the chivalry, which is still extant 
 in the world, albeit it is now hidden beneath a 
 velvet vest instead of a mailed cuirass. This 
 strange being became the friend, the guardian 
 over certain gentle, and I doubt not, lovely maid- 
 ens, at their first entrance into life. His delight 
 was to show them all that earth held of good, and 
 to protect them from all that it contained of evil, 
 to watch over the developing affections of those 
 
188 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 young hearts, and to guard them from the noxious 
 influence of passion. A beautiful blending of the 
 brother's watchfulness, the father's tenderness, 
 and the lover's jealous affection, filled the heart 
 of that solitary man. One after another the ob- 
 jects of his love were taken from him by happier 
 and more fervent admirers ; and in every in- 
 stance he felt for a time the keen sharp pang of 
 disappointed or rather unsatisfied love. Yet the 
 pain was but a transient sorrow, for a conscious- 
 ness of self-sacrifice a pleasant sense of heroic 
 devotion, which could silently relinquish its own 
 happiness for the object of its tenderness, became 
 his solace. Another soon was found to take the 
 place of the wedded one, and the same round of 
 attentions, and watchfulness, and growing regard 
 was again travelled. Thus passed the life of this 
 eccentric but noble -hearted bachelor ; and who 
 will say that he found not happiness ? It is true 
 that he stored up for himself a new sorrow with 
 every affection, but who would not prefer to suffer 
 the pain of an overcharged heart, rather than the 
 aching void of a vacant bosom ? The old man 
 found bliss beyond the capacity of common minds 
 in these sweet ties, and when death summoned 
 him to his reward in a better world, he was wept 
 
GROWING OLD. 189 
 
 by gentle eyes and remembered by loving 
 hearts. 
 
 Tell me not, dear friend, of that solitary man 
 who, years hence, will take his accustomed walk 
 on the sunny side of the street, and who will 
 pause, leaning on his cane to watch the gambols 
 of the merry boys, perhaps to give feeble impetus 
 to their bounding ball as it passes him on its 
 winged way, or it may be to aid the timid steps of 
 a shrinking girl as she crosses the icy pathway. 
 Tell me not of that man dwelling lonely and un- 
 sought in hte secluded chamber, seeking his en- 
 joyment only in remembrance of the past, and 
 wasting the remnant of his days, like his own no- 
 ble hound, in sluggishness and sunshine. Tell 
 me not that the time will come when his foot will 
 cease to descend the stair when his face will be 
 missed from the accustomed walk when the 
 boys will wonder why they hear not his kindly 
 greeting ; and finally, when the hearse and its 
 few respectful followers will be seen bearing to 
 its last resting-place the remains of him who 
 amid the crowded city still dwelt in hermit like 
 solitude. Tears, such as I have seldom shed, 
 would blind me could I believe such picture 
 aught than the image of a mocking fancy. 
 
190 THE WINTERGREEJ\ r . 
 
 Rather let me take the pencil and try a wo- 
 man's power. Let me imagine myself transport- 
 ed, some thirty years hence, to your distant city 
 of refuge the far off home of your adoption. 
 The scene is one of quiet enjoyment a pleasant 
 fireside a cheerful apartment books, pictures, 
 deep, kindly-looking chairs ; all the comforts, but 
 none of the mere luxuries of life are there ; and 
 two, who have grown old together, albeit the 
 years of one, even as his virtues and his graces, 
 outnumber those of his companion, are seated in 
 gentle converse. The door opens, and the che- 
 rished friend of earlier days enters. He is a soli- 
 tary man but what warm and gushing affection 
 are poured out at his feet. The impassioned 
 poet the daring hunter the friend of the red 
 kings of the soil the embodiment of all that we 
 can dream of chivalrous and noble how can he 
 be called solitary, when the very shadows of his 
 brain have peopled the forest and the prairie with 
 beauty ? His place is ever reserved in the hearts 
 as at the fireside of those who love him. He is 
 as one of that quiet household free to go and 
 come as he lists, but not from the indifference of 
 habitual intercourse ; no, his step is still listened 
 for his opinions still treasured up his deep 
 
GROWING OLD. 191 
 
 
 
 and earnest tones still caught as eagerly as in the 
 days of his youth. 
 
 Anon enters another, in the- full deep light of 
 whose lustrous and spiritual eyes, may be read 
 the refined and lofty soul of him whose early life 
 was like an acted poem, full of passionate sweet- 
 ness ; and whose gentle heart never knew a feel- 
 ing which was not as abounding in human sym- 
 pathies as in elevated purity. 
 
 Two more are added to the little circle. The 
 merry voice, the agile step of one is yet un- 
 changed, and the wit, wont ' to set the table in a 
 roar/ the quips and cranks of overflowing hu- 
 mour, the brilliant scintillations of ready repartee, 
 and the genuine kindness and warm-heartedness 
 which pervaded and shone through all his cha- 
 racter, are no less remarkable than when, years 
 before, he first charmed the mirth-loving fancy of 
 the now sobered hostess. But of his companion 
 how shall I speak ? how depict the softened, chas- 
 tened beauty of that sweet matronly face ? The 
 tresses, once hanging in rich luxuriance upon the 
 peach-like bloom of the rounded cheek, are now 
 put back under a simple cap, but the soft dewy 
 lip is still as bright as in her gentle youth ; only 
 
 p2 
 
192 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 the expanded proportions of that womanly form 
 betray the lapse of time. 
 
 Friend of my soul, what sayest thou to my gos- 
 siping ? Why may we not have such a tableau 
 vivant, if the stern mower whet not his scythe 
 among us ? Why may not age find us with busy 
 minds and young hearts ? Why may we not meet 
 in after years, even as now, and bid defiance to 
 Time when he attempts to penetrate the strong 
 hold of our affections ] Hast thou not said that 
 poetry is the true fountain of rejuvenescence ? 
 Let us then quaff deeply of its sweet waters, and 
 while their subtle influence sends new life through 
 our sluggish veins, we will forget " time's takings," 
 and only remember that the sweetest of all the 
 treasures which he leaves is the Love which was 
 born for immortality. 
 
 Brooklyn, L. I. 
 
KJGTf 
 
MY SISTERS. 
 
 BY AMELIA B. WELBY. 
 
 LIKE flowers that softly bloom together, 
 
 Upon one fair and fragile stem, 
 Mingling their sweets in sunny weather, 
 
 Ere strange rude hands have parted them : 
 So were we link'd unto each other, 
 
 Sweet sisters ! in our childish hours, 
 For then one fond and gentle mother 
 
 To us was like the stem to flowers, 
 She was the golden thread that bound us 
 
 In one bright chain together here, 
 Till Death unloosed the cord around us, 
 
 And we were sever'd far and near. 
 
 The flowret's stem, when broke or shatter'd, 
 
 Must cast its blossoms to the wind, 
 Yet round the buds, though widely scatter'd, 
 
 The same soft perfume still we find ; 
 And thus, although the tie is broken 
 
 That link'd us round our mother's knee, 
 The memory of words we've spoken 
 
 When we were children light and free, 
 
194 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Will, like the perfume of each blossom, 
 Live in our hearts where'er we roam, 
 
 As when we slept on one fond bosom, 
 And dwelt within one happy home. 
 
 I know that changes have come o'er us : 
 
 Sweet sisters ! we are not the same, 
 For different paths now lie before us, 
 
 And all three have a different name ; 
 And yet, if Sorrow's dimming fingers 
 
 Have shadow'd o'er each youthful brow, 
 So much of light around them lingers, 
 
 I cannot trace those shadows now. 
 Ye both have those who love ye only, 
 
 Whose dearest hopes are round ye thrown- 
 While, like a stream that wanders lonely, 
 
 Am I, the youngest, wildest one. 
 
 My heart is like the wind that beareth 
 
 Sweet scents upon its unseen wing 
 The wind ! that for no creature careth, 
 
 Yet stealeth sweets from every thing ; 
 It hath rich thoughts forever leaping 
 
 Up, like the waves of flashing seas, 
 That with their music still are keeping 
 
 Soft time with every fitful breeze ; 
 Each leaf that in the bright air quivers, 
 
 The sounds from hidden solitudes, 
 And the deep flow of far-off rivers, 
 
 And the loud rush of many floods : 
 
MY SISTERS. 195 
 
 All these, and more, stir in my bosom 
 
 Feelings that make my spirit glad, 
 Like dew-drops shaken in a blossom, 
 
 And yet there is a something sad 
 Mix'd with those thoughts, like clouds, that hover 
 
 Above us in the quiet air, 
 Veiling the moon's pale beauty over 
 
 Like a dark spirit brooding there. 
 
 But, sisters ! those wild thoughts were never 
 
 Yours, for ye would not love like me 
 To gaze upon the stars forever, 
 
 To hear the wind's wild melody. 
 Ye'd rather look on smiling faces, 
 
 And linger round a cheerful hearth, 
 Than mark the stars' bright hiding-places 
 
 As they peep out upon the earth. 
 But, sisters ! as the stars of even 
 
 Shrink from day's golden flashing eye, 
 And, melting in the depths of heaven, 
 
 Veil their soft beams within the sky : 
 So will we pass, the joyous-hearted, 
 
 The fond, the young, like stars that wane, 
 Till every link of earth be parted, 
 
 To form in heaven one mystic chain. 
 
THE MANAGING MOTHER. 
 
 I take my daughters to each Ball, 
 
 I'm known to every one ; 
 And hundreds on the New Year call, 
 
 And so each year they've done. 
 
 But tho' my eldest is a belle, 
 
 Can dance and waltz with grace, 
 
 I really, tho' I'm loth to own, 
 Think it a hopeless case. 
 
 Sir Harry, when she first came out, 
 
 Was always at her side, 
 I then was sure 'twould come about 
 
 And she would be a bride. 
 
 A bride, what happiness to hail 
 
 An elder daughter so 
 For then you scarcely ever fail 
 
 To marry all you know. 
 
WBodg*. ' 
 
 RBAHAffiDQffi 
 
THE MANAGING MOTHER. 197 
 
 He dined with us quite " en famille," 
 
 He seem'd just like a son : 
 I told him, laughingly, he'd steal 
 
 The heart of every one. 
 
 And Julien then, I nodded to 
 
 Turned with a sigh away, 
 'Twas all in vain, it would not do, 
 
 The fool I could not sway. 
 
 And then Lord W I knew, 
 
 He was a monied man, 
 But Julien was not, a son gout, 
 
 And so he smiled on Fan, 
 
 But she, (poor child) had not the art 
 
 To feed the flame she lit : 
 (Julia had played a better part) 
 
 So nothing came of it. 
 
 My girls are all well born and bred, 
 
 Dress well, I choose their clothes ; 
 But oh ! a weary life I lead, 
 
 The men will not propose. 
 
THE LAST MAN. 
 
 A CHAPTER IN THE STYLE OF THE DAY. 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 " CROWD is not company, and faces are but a 
 gallery of pictures where there is no love," 
 quaintly but truly saith an old writer. From such 
 a gallery I have stalked out this instant, reader, 
 to hold a moment's sympathizing talk with thee. 
 You have heard of me, doubtless, at Saratoga, 
 Rockaway or Niagara, or perhaps even my fame 
 as the last man of the season has reached you at 
 the distant White Sulphur, or some gay spot still 
 more remote, where you bestow your favoured 
 leisure upon some lively circle, and mete out a 
 shred of compassion to the unhappy subjects you 
 have left behind you, prisoned by business cares 
 in the city. I am the last, the very last of these 
 unfortunates. The town, indeed, is not com- 
 pletely deserted ; for I behold in the streets 
 
THE LAST MAN. 199 
 
 crowds of those eccentric people, who, at all sea- 
 sons, prefer the bustle and excitement of city life 
 to the repose of rural leisure. I am, therefore, 
 not exactly in the situation of Hood's " last con- 
 vict," who, when he wished to hang himself, 
 
 " Found not a single man alive 
 To pull his legs !" 
 
 But though my physical condition be different 
 from his, yet the moral solitude of " Campbell's 
 Last Man" was not more complete than mine, 
 for I find no company in the crowd, and the faces 
 about me are but a gallery of pictures. The 
 gems in love's shining circle 
 
 " Have all dropped away." 
 
 The eyes upon which I loved to look have gone 
 to gladden some other sphere, the hands that I 
 fain would clasp are handling the fishing-rod at 
 Islip, or bagging woodcock in Purgatory ; and I 
 move amid the machinery of society like some 
 solitary pendulum that swings in gloomy silence, 
 with no apparent connection with the various 
 wheels which are ringing and flashing in the 
 bright sunshine around it. Twice a day do I vi- 
 brate between Union Place and the Battery with 
 
200 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 the same monotonous motion ; and throughout 
 the whole line of Broadway, not an eye is there 
 to mark my swing, not a hand that I could meet 
 with answering touch, is outstretched to lend new 
 life to the soulless motion. I am now almost re- 
 conciled to my mysterious doom ; but there were 
 long days and many that I struggled against my 
 hermit destiny. I saw the fate which impended 
 over me in anticipation, and as friend after friend 
 dropped away from my side, and the bright faces 
 in which I sunned myself were one by one with- 
 drawn, I clung with anxious restlessness to the 
 hope that one one at least might yet be left. 
 I remember in that day of fevered hope, that the 
 mere sight of a trunk or a carpet bag behind a 
 carriage would strike me with dismay. What 
 knew I but that the unconscious thing might be 
 the symbol of some new departure in which I was 
 interested? what knew I but that the vehicle 
 which then rattled by me was bearing off her that 
 I would most miss from the rapidly depopulating 
 city. There were strange semblances in those 
 days about the decrepid and phantom-looking 
 hacks which glided by me. Faces would peer 
 from the windows which I knew could not be so 
 soon upon the wing, and a mocking laugh would 
 
THE LAST MAN. 201 
 
 ring in my ears from voices which I felt could 
 never mock me thus. Often at witnessing such 
 sights and sounds, would I rush down to the 
 steamboat wharf and there find a brief respite from 
 gloom in discovering that the real persons of 
 those whose images had been thus shadowed 
 forth, were not actually on board. They still 
 lingered in the city, from which all were fleeing, 
 and a few hours of social intercourse were yet 
 left me. 
 
 At last, however, even these were gone ay! 
 only one besides myself remained! But such a 
 one ! 
 
 It was a fair girl a blithe, happy creature, 
 with eyes of heaven's own blue, and hair all ra- 
 diant of the light which claims the same birth- 
 place. Gentle she was, too, as the airs which 
 travel thence upon summer's blandest eve. 
 
 \\V \\crr alone this fair girl and I alone 
 amid the unmeaning crowd that had no part nor 
 lot in thought and feeling with a being such as 
 her, and fondly did I whisper myself that she lin- 
 gered amid the desolation for me alone. She 
 seemed like that almost magical flower which the 
 polar discoverer found blooming upon the icy de- 
 sert as fresh and fair amid its casing of ice as 
 
202 THE WINTEEGREEN. 
 
 if a tropic sun had warmed it into being. It 
 would redeem the darkest lot to find such a flower 
 blooming in one's path, and I cared not that the 
 city was 
 
 -" My dwelling-place, 
 
 With one fair spirit for my minister," 
 
 so that I might see, love, live for only her. " We 
 met," we met often, and though " 'twas in a 
 crowd," yet did she not "shun me !" for, said I 
 not, that we were all alone in that crowd ? But 
 weeks wore on, and she too, that blessed com- 
 forter, was to be stolen from me. 
 
 I hardly remember now what brought the first 
 warning to my heart of the impending blow. I 
 could not and I would not see that it hung over 
 me. Something there was though of wearying 
 of the town a little talk of other days a tran- 
 sient memory of childish sports upon the river, 
 and a mention of an aunt in the country. 
 
 Vainly I tried her drooping soul to raise ; I 
 spoke cheerfully of the resources near, I painted 
 the verdurous aisles of Washington Square in 
 prospect I tried to lure her to the Battery. I 
 spoke of Niblo's ! She listened kindly, but not 
 with earnestness. She did not complain, but her 
 
THE LAST MAN. 203 
 
 heart was evidently away to the green fields and 
 murmuring brooks and hanging orchards of her 
 kinswoman's villa ; there, where her favourite 
 cousin (a boy a romping boy a boy of fif- 
 teen !) claimed her to share his sports, what time 
 the August sun withdrawn from shady stream 
 should tempt the lazy angler to the woods. 
 
 And now I was indeed alone. I saw the low- 
 hung and endless Long Island wagon drag its 
 last length aboard of the South-Ferry steamboat. 
 I heard the relentless engine give its first pon- 
 derous jar, and I watched the pea-green bandbox 
 on the top of the stage until it became blended 
 with objects upon the opposite shore ; and then, 
 as I mentally exclaimed, " how often will that 
 odious cousin bait his hook for her !" I laughed a 
 laugh that first half-savage laugh of the over- 
 tasked young spirit which is never laughed but 
 once I laughed it then ! and rushed up White- 
 hall-street. 
 
 It boots not to tell how since have passed my 
 hours. Mine is no common lot and the details 
 of my feelings can, therefore, awaken no general 
 sympathy. Time was when breakfasting alone 
 was to me a luxury time was when dining with 
 a friend was to me the height of enjoyment : but 
 
 Q2 
 
204 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 now the charm of the first has become so com- 
 mon, the pleasure of the last so rare, that I would 
 share my meals even with a billiard-marker, or a 
 dandyling, to have aught approaching to humani- 
 ty so near me. The waiters, sitting by the de- 
 serted windows of my hotel, scarcely rise from 
 their places when I enter ; yet I have not the 
 heart to reprove them for their want of respect to 
 the last member. The fawn has been known to 
 make friends with the lion when thus isolated 
 from all the rest of creation and besides ven- 
 turing once or twice into Wall-street, and sliding 
 unobtrusively past a loitering broker, I have found 
 myself more than once wistfully approaching a 
 sheriff's officer. But it did not speak to me 
 and I slunk away in faintheartedness and dejec- 
 tion. I do not think, however, that there has 
 been any weak surrender to the gloom which 
 such loneliness may well awaken ; for I catch at 
 every sight and sound which may let cheerfulness 
 into the windows of my soul. Sometimes I wan- 
 der in the suburbs, where the deep bass notes of 
 the swine which our city laws have not yet de- 
 sparked, awaken a rural association. Sometimes 
 I listen to the shrill tenor of the swallows, wheel, 
 ing like lawyers on a circuit, around the chimneys 
 
THE LAST MAN, 205 
 
 * 
 
 of the Bridewell. Sometimes I loiter round the 
 public gardens, and catch a glimpse of green 
 from their diminutive parterres. But here there 
 is always something to disturb the stoicism which 
 I find it so difficult to preserve. I hear songs 
 which remind me of 
 
 The lawless breeze and the glowing sky, 
 And bright world shut from my languid eye. 
 
 " Away, away, to the mountain's brow" but serves 
 to knit my brow with care ; " Some love to roam," 
 reminds me that I must stay at home ; " It's my 
 delight of a shiny night," only makes me curse 
 my stars and when I hear, 
 
 " Oh, Nannie, wilt thou gang wi' me, 
 Nor sigh to leave this flaunting town ?" 
 
 I gnash my teeth at the thought that Nannie 
 could gang without me, and leave her lover to 
 sigh in vain. As for the theatre, with its Trees 
 and Groves, and its expected Woods, Forests and 
 Meadows, it but mocks my misery ; while Barnes 
 in the city raises only a deluding image of a cot- 
 tage in the country. Now and then I take a sort 
 of savage pleasure in reading the advertisements 
 of country seats for sale, or disport my fancy over 
 
206 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 the maps and prospectuses now so common, of 
 new collections of villas, projected by some in- 
 genious persons, who talk about " eligible sites 
 for the ornamental cottage, and grounds of the re- 
 tired gentleman," upon " nicely levelled lots, in 
 parallelograms of twenty-five feet by a hundred." 
 He who invented the art of packing a quart of 
 wine into a pint decanter, must have given the 
 first hint to these worthies. Thank heaven, I 
 have no such maimed ruralities to offend my eyes 
 as their Procrustean labours would fain create. 
 It is true that my better senses are now all pri- 
 soned up in the brick walls around me ; but I 
 would rather they should be fettered than per- 
 verted. My rural taste may languish for want 
 of nutriment to feed upon, but better thus than that 
 it should become vitiated and cocknified from un- 
 natural aliment. The realms of fancy are still 
 mine ; for 
 
 " When breeze and beam, like thieves come in, 
 To steal me away, I deem it sin 
 To slight their voice, and away I'm straying, 
 Over the hills and vales a Maying." 
 
 I own many a lot in the fields of imagination, 
 which, though of no marketable value, is nearly 
 
THE LAST MAX. 207 
 
 as substantial as those in which people about. me 
 are speculating. The last that I have laid out 
 are among the Adirondach mountains, where, 
 wholly unnoticed by the learned gentlemen who 
 have been tracing the sources of the Hudson in 
 that quarter, I have accompanied the surveying 
 party over many a romantic tract, where the ma- 
 gic pencil of Cole was busied a year since. It is 
 grievous, however, to retrace my steps from this 
 sweet and roaming track of my fancy ; for 
 
 " Then what a dismal, dreary gloom, 
 Settles upon my loathed room 
 Darker to every thought and sense, 
 Than if they had ne'er wandered thence." 
 
 At such a time as this, I use my washerwoman's 
 album as a sort of safety-valve to let off my pent 
 and pining musings ; and the other day, while 
 loitering near the river, and flinging in vain upon 
 the tide tho weary thoughts that would ever and 
 anon recur to me, like the valueless chips which, 
 when set afloat by wanton boys, the waves so 
 carefully still return to their feet, the last words 
 of the last man were thus poured out : 
 
208 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 River, oh river ! thou rovest free, 
 
 From the mountain height to the fresh blue sea ! 
 
 Free thyself, but with silver chain, 
 
 Linking each charm of land and main. 
 
 From splintered crag, thou leap'st below, 
 
 Through leafy glades at will to flow 
 
 Lingering now by the steep's mossed edge 
 
 Loitering now mid the dallying sedge : 
 
 And pausing ever, to call thy waves 
 
 From grassy meadows and fern-hid caves 
 
 And then, with a prouder tide to break 
 
 From wooded valley to breezy lake : 
 
 Yet all of these scenes, though fair they be, 
 
 River, oh river ! are banned to me. 
 
 River, oh river ! upon thy tide 
 Full many a freighted bark doth glide ; 
 Would that thou thus couldst bear away 
 The thoughts that burthen my weary day ! 
 Or that I, from all save them, made free, 
 Though laden still, might rove with thee ! 
 True that thy waves brief life-time find, 
 And live at the will of the wanton wind, 
 True that thou seekest the ocean's flow, 
 To be lost therein for evermo' 
 Yet the slave who worships at Glory's shrine, 
 But toils for a bubble as frail as thine ; 
 But loses his freedom here, to be 
 Forgot as soon as in death set free. 
 
T 
 
THE MISSION BRIDE. 
 
 BY LUCY HOOPKR. 
 
 When Mr. Judson first proposed for his wife, afterward so well 
 known in the annals of missionary zeal, he stated very distinctly 
 both to herself and friends the difficulties attending the enterprise, 
 and placed in strong contrast the motives which should outweigh 
 them all. 
 
 THE rich deep tones fell clearly 
 
 Upon the summer air, 
 And the listeners' hearts were thrilling, 
 
 To the noble speaker there ; 
 " I ask of thee thy daughter," 
 
 The father's eye grew dim, 
 But woman's cheek such bright blush wore, 
 
 As Love alone might win. 
 
 " I ask of thee thy daughter 
 
 Alas ! that it were mine 
 To shield alike from care and pain 
 Such cherished gift of thine ; 
 
210 THE WINTER ORE EN, 
 
 But, I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 To leave this home of love, 
 
 And bear afar the exile's heart, 
 At the call of God above ! 
 
 14 1 ask of thee thy daughter 
 
 And I know not for what doom, 
 Upon her future path and mine, 
 
 Alike may come the storm ; 
 But if her earthly bliss to guard, 
 
 Asked only Love unsleeping, 
 Then would I bear upon my heart, 
 
 Her name in holy keeping. 
 
 " But earthly joy and earthly scenr 
 
 No more my course may stay, 
 A voice upon my ear hath been, 
 
 Its summons*! obey; 
 And I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 
 That distant path to share, 
 Perchance to sooth the martyr's cell, 
 
 To join the martyr's prayer. 
 
 " Yea ! I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 In the golden bloom of youth, 
 To bear with me to distant lands, 
 The holy words of truth ; 
 
THE MISSION BRIDE. 
 
 I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 
 And oh ! for lot like this 
 To one, so beautiful and young, 
 
 I bring no earthly bliss. 
 
 ' But the seraph spirit mounteth ; 
 
 And woman's e'er hath been, 
 Like the ministry of angels, 
 
 In each dark and fearful scene ; 
 To the captive's lonely cell 
 
 She hath come with words of light, 
 And the dying voice hath blessed her 
 
 In the watches of the night. 
 
 " So I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 
 To tread my path of pain ; 
 Yea, I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 
 A heavenly crown to gain ; 
 For shall the race of Faith, alone 
 
 With feeble step be trod ? 
 No ! I ask of thee thy daughter, 
 
 For the altar of thy God!" 
 
 And brightly on the speaker's brow, 
 
 Were bent the eyes he loved, 
 And from those eyes the fervent faith, 
 
 By years so nobly proved, 
 Was beaming, as her father cast 
 
 One sigh of earthly feeling, 
 Then solemnly and slowly spoke, 
 
 Unto his God appealing. 
 
212 THE WINTERG KEEN. 
 
 ** As Mary poured her precious gifts 
 
 Upon the Saviour's head, 
 So would I on that holy shrine, 
 
 My costliest offerings spread, 
 Strengthen this feeble human heart, 
 
 Oh! Lord of Paradise! 
 I strive not with thy perfect will, 
 
 Take thou, my Pearl of price!" 
 
 Oh ! Joy and Grief were strangely blent 
 
 With holy hope that night, 
 And still with Joy and Grief we trace 
 
 Their path of onward light, 
 Joy for the pledge so nobly kept 
 
 Grief for the ties so riven 
 And holy hope that every link 
 
 Is bound again in Heaven ! 
 
THE CHERUB'S MISSION.* 
 
 BY JANE L. SWIFT. 
 
 I LEAVE the land of spirits pure, 
 
 And come to earth again ; 
 With healing on my viewless wings, 
 
 With balm for ev'ry pain. 
 I seek the home, where late they smiled 
 
 So tenderly on me ; 
 And find them weeping o'er the clay, 
 
 Where I have ceased to be. 
 
 They call me by the tender names 
 
 Familiar to my ear ; 
 Then, turn with sick'ning hearts away, 
 
 Unthinking I am near. 
 From heaven's cloudless realms I've come, 
 
 A mission to fulfil 
 To shed the peace, that God can give, 
 
 O'er those who mourn me still. 
 
 * Suggested by the death of Willets, the interesting son of John 
 tin jH-ri^M-d by drowning on the 21st of April, 1843. 
 
214 THE WINTER GREEN. 
 
 Oh ! could ye see the infant throng 
 
 That round his altar stands, 
 With golden harps to tune his praise, 
 
 And palms within their hands 
 Could ye but see our white array, 
 
 So free from spot or stain ; 
 Ye would not call your loved one back, 
 
 To weep on earth again. 
 
 Could ye but know whose arms enfold 
 
 Your little darling now 
 Could ye but see the crown of light 
 
 That sparkles on his brow 
 Could ye but feel the rapture pure 
 
 That wakes his angel-strain ; 
 Ye would not surely call him back, 
 
 To sigh on earth again. 
 
 Could ye recline within the shade, 
 
 Of our sweet, Eden bowers ; 
 And see my infant playmates wreath 
 
 Their little brows with flowers 
 Could you but know how free we are 
 
 From sickness, sin, or pain ; 
 Ye would not, could not call me back, 
 
 To sin and death again. 
 
 Joy ! joy ! the precious tear-drops flow ! 
 
 I've touched their welling springs ; 
 And God has sent the holy balm 
 
 Of healing on my wings. 
 
THE CHERUB'S MISSION. 215 
 
 Peace ! for the spirits reconciled 
 
 To his unerring will ; 
 Peace ! to the hearts that bend, not break 
 
 That weep, yet trust Him still. 
 
 Ah ! 'mid the flight of weary years, 
 
 I oft to earth will come ; 
 To shed the rays of heavenly hope 
 
 Around my former home. 
 I'll watch my parents' couch beside 
 
 I'll be with them in prayer 
 Then, bear their wishes up to heaven, 
 
 And plead those wishes there. 
 
 And when the cord of life is rent, 
 
 That separates us now ; 
 When Death his signet-seal hath set 
 
 Upon each parent brow ; 
 My harp shall be the first to hymn 
 
 Their welcome to the skies ; 
 My form shall be the first to meet, 
 
 Their rapture-beaming eyes. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, my mission's done 
 
 I have not come in vain ; 
 Ye would not, if ye could, recall 
 
 My soul to earth again. 
 Live on, for those who yet remain 
 
 To need your loving care ; 
 Live on your hearts will not be dark, 
 
 For God's own light is there. 
 
 R2 
 
THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 
 
 BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 
 
 THERE are no times nor seasons unto Him, 
 
 Who fashioned forth this fearful wondrous frame ; 
 
 The stars revolving, weary grow and dim, 
 
 The Pleiad leaves in heaven no lingering flame, 
 
 Creations spring to birth, in age decay, 
 
 And as a scroll the heavens shall pass away. 
 
 Yet He, who formed all, enthroned in light, 
 Primal in being, as when first awoke, 
 
 The dewy planets in the morning bright, 
 
 And starting on their joyous course forth broke 
 
 The choral hymn that marshalled worlds in space, 
 
 He changeth not, nor knoweth time nor place. 
 
 And as a point to Him, man's fleeting life 
 Not by declining sun, nor changeful moon 
 
 Mark not by these his agony and strife ; 
 
 Oh ! not by these his youth, his fervid noon, 
 
 Thronged by emotions crowded to a span, 
 
 Ages concentred in the life of man. 
 
THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 217 
 
 And Thou to whom all seasons are the same, 
 Though blindly erring, devious in our way, 
 
 Remember Thou the weakness of our frame ; 
 
 Forgive, though late, we bow to thee and pray 
 
 Though at the Eleventh Hour the offering be, 
 
 Spurn not the spirit, seeking thus to thee ; 
 
 For unto thee, oh God, a thousand years 
 
 Is as man's yesterday of sighs and tears ! 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 BY EMMA C. EMBURY. 
 
 ' Forgotten, as a dead man out of mind." Psalms. 
 
 AND is tliis then the common lot, 
 
 The end of earthly love and trust, 
 To be by cherished ones forgot, 
 
 When the frail body sleeps in dust ? 
 Shall hearts which now with love run o'er, 
 
 Retain for us no deeper trace 
 Than leaves the footprint on the shore, 
 
 Which the next wavelet may efface ? 
 
 Shall those who only seemed to live 
 
 Within the sunshine of our smile, 
 To whom existence could not give 
 
 A joy unshared by us the while ; 
 Shall they mid other joys live on, 
 
 And form again affection's tie, 
 When we from earth's delights are gone, 
 
 Forever hid from human eye ? 
 
STANZAS. 219 
 
 Aye, thus it is th' eternal laws 
 
 That rule our nature are obeyed 
 Not in mid conflict may we pause 
 
 To linger long where Love is laid ; 
 We pile the sod above the breast 
 
 Which pillowed oft our aching head, 
 Then turn, and leave unto its rest 
 
 Our loved, but half-forgotten dead. 
 
 Tears the heart's desolating rain 
 
 Awhile upon our path may fall, 
 But Hope's sweet sunbeam smiles again, 
 
 And we no more the past recall ; 
 Anon, the dirge's mournful measure 
 
 Is changed to some less saddening strain, 
 And soon the echoing voice of pleasure 
 
 Tells grief and love alike were vain. 
 
 We form new schemes of future bliss, 
 
 New flowers spring up to cheer our way, 
 And scarcely from our side we miss 
 
 The partners of life's earlier day. 
 Alas ! how vain our noblest feelings, 
 
 How idle would affection seem, 
 Did not God give us bright revealings 
 
 Of Life where Love is not a dream. 
 
THE GREEN OLD AGE. 
 
 BY* JA.NE L. SWIFT. 
 
 As the fading sun at even 
 
 Sinking to th' horizon's verge, 
 Sheds a glow o'er earth and heaven, 
 
 Gilding e'en the ocean surge ; 
 So do hopes and chasten'd pleasures 
 
 Still illume life's closing page ; 
 If the heart retain its treasures 
 
 In the days of green old age. 
 
 Memories, that now are fading 
 In the hurried flight of years 
 
 Joys, that worldly strife is shading 
 With the ban of earth-born fears 
 
 Will return and cheer the ending 
 . Of life's chequer'd pilgrimage; 
 
 Purest peace and lustre lending 
 To the days of green old age. 
 
 Tears of childhood, quickly falling, 
 Pearl-drops from a living spring, 
 
THE GREEN OLD AGE. 
 
 Sorrows of our youth recalling 
 
 Slight the pang these mem'ries bring ! 
 
 For the joys of childhood, breathing 
 O'er life's worn, yet hallow'd page ; 
 
 Hang the blossoms they' ve been wreathing, 
 On the shrine of green old age. 
 
 Ties of kindred they may perish- 
 Forms we lov'd, be seen no more 
 
 Still the heart must ever cherish 
 Those it priz'd in days of yore ; 
 
 Lineaments in dust reposing, 
 Come again upon life's stage ; 
 
 Fair they seem, as night is closing 
 Round the hopes of green old age, 
 
 Dreams of love, now past forever, 
 
 Leave their record writ in tears; 
 Yet the future may not sever 
 
 One strong link of by-gone years, 
 Chains of earth that early bind us, 
 
 Will defy time's with'ring gage ; 
 Happy, if the last link find us 
 
 On the verge of green old age. 
 
 Wedded love >the tie that strengthens 
 
 As all other ties decay ; 
 How its sum of comfort lengthens, 
 
 As we journey day by day. 
 
THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Kindly deeds each wish preventing, 
 Halve the cares of pilgrimage ; 
 
 No repining no repenting 
 Mars the peace of green old age. 
 
 Children's children round us springing, 
 
 Like a wreath of early flowers ; 
 To the heart sweet incense bringing 
 
 How they cheer this world of ours ! 
 Soon they'll strive as we have striven 
 
 Cares like ours will them engage ; 
 Well if good example given 
 
 Make them bless our green old age. 
 
 If the lamp of faith be burning, 
 
 What bright hopes life's close illume ! 
 Dust to kindred dust returning, 
 
 Finds no terror in the tomb. 
 Calmly to our rest descending, 
 
 We complete our pilgrimage ; 
 Joy beginning sorrow ending 
 
 At the grave of green old age. 
 
ARE WE NOT EXILES HERE? 
 
 BV H- T. TUCKERMAN. 
 
 Are we not exiles here ? 
 Come there not o'er us memories of a clime 
 More genial and more dear 
 Than this of time ? 
 
 When deep, vague wishes prese 
 Upon the soul and prompt it to aspire, 
 A mystic loneliness, 
 And wild desire ; 
 
 When our long baffled zeal 
 Turns back, in mockery, on the weary heart, 
 Till at the sad appeal, 
 Dismayed we start ; 
 
 And like the deluge dove, 
 Outflown upon the world's cold sea we lie, 
 And all our dreams of love 
 In anguish dio. 
 
 I 
 
224 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Nature no more endears 
 Her blissful strains seem only breathed afar, 
 Nor mount nor flower cheers, 
 Nor smiling star. 
 
 Familiar things grow strange, 
 Fond hopes, like tendrils shooting to the air, 
 Through friendless being range 
 To meet despair. 
 
 And nursed by secret tears, 
 Rich but frail visions in the heart have birth, 
 Till this fair world appears 
 A homeless earth ! 
 
 Then must we summon back 
 Blest guides who long ago have met the strife, 
 And left a radiant track 
 To mark their life. 
 
 Then must we look around 
 On heroes' deeds the landmarks of the brave, 
 And hear their cheers resound 
 From off the wave. 
 
 Then must we turn from show, 
 Pleasure and fame, the phantom race of care, 
 And let our spirits flow 
 In earnest prayer. 
 
THE MARINER'S ORPHAN. 
 
 BY HANNAH F. GOULD. 
 
 THAT cold, faithless moon looking down on the wave ! 
 
 How dark grows my heart with her beaming ! 
 And yonder she smiles on the new-covered grave, 
 
 While tears drown my sight in their streaming. 
 
 For there lies my father, down, down in the deep, 
 Overwhelmed by the black, heavy billow ! 
 
 And now have they borne off my mother, to sleep 
 Where damp clods of earth are her pillow. 
 
 How oft did she kneel, when that moon from above,' 
 Hung mild o'er a calm, sparkling ocean ; 
 
 And lift her sweet voice in thanksgiving and love, 
 To Him of her evening devotion ! 
 
 And, when into clouds all their brightness was cast, 
 
 With looks full of woe and imploring, 
 She bowed like a reed, at the rush of the blast ; 
 
 And prayed while the tempest was roaring. 
 
26 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 Then, pale at the noise of the storm and the sea, 
 While tears rolled, as crystal-drops shining, 
 
 She threw her fond arms round my brother and me, 
 Her trembling to stay by their twining. 
 
 But, oh ! when they told her the whole fatal tale, 
 
 By silence her anguish was spoken. 
 She heard the torn bark had gone down in the gale ; 
 
 Then sunk ! for her heart-strings had broken. 
 
 And since, when I see the bright moon beaming clear, 
 With stars gathered thickly around her, 
 
 I think of that night, when no ray would appear, 
 To light the frail bark that must founder. 
 
 The sound of the waves, as they die on the shore, 
 
 It fills me with sadness and sighing: 
 To me they bring back a dear father no more 
 
 They show me a mother, when dying. 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 
 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 YES ! My Familiar Sir Reader Socrates 
 had his good daemon Brutus his evil one, 
 Abhur-Ben-Mohammed a pair of them ; while 
 Niblo has his three Diavolos ; and why not /, 
 John Smith, my attendant spirit ? If Nature and 
 Fortune have combined to distinguish me from 
 other Smiths of the name of John how could 
 they dp better than to give me my tutelary genius 
 than to have me ever attended and watched 
 over by the Schmidt-Gheist ? Alas ! this air of 
 jesting is, I fear, but ill-feigned a sense of horror 
 still breaks through my hollow mirth, and goads 
 my fevered spirit with strange doubts and incre- 
 dulities, almost to madness. The mysterious 
 being that haunts me, may after all, be only a 
 brain-wrought spectre the bewildering exhala- 
 tion of a seething fancy. Or, if indeed he be a 
 9 
 
228 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 living essence incorporal accident a blind 
 mischance alone, has, perhaps, connected me 
 with his motions ; and a score of my fellow 
 mortals may, perhaps, share his mysterious visits, 
 and suffer, like myself, under the spell of his 
 presence. 
 
 The story of my troubles, if the reader is disposed 
 to hearken to it, is this : I am a " man of cham- 
 bers ;" it boots not whether bachelor or widower, 
 but I do actually belong to this independent and 
 enviable class of the community. My rooms, by 
 those who have drank my claret and smoked my 
 Havannas, are generally allowed to be the pleas- 
 antest belonging to any man of chambers in town. 
 I always have a bottle ot Lynch's best, with an 
 extra Regalia or two for an acquaintance ; and my 
 particular friends know where they can most 
 readily get a glass of hock and soda, when the 
 accessories of a late supper have carried them 
 unsteadily into the deeper watches of night. Let 
 not the reader think from this, however, that I 
 am dissipated. No ! though thus socially dispos- 
 ed towards my fellows, and fixed, I trust, as a 
 man of chambers for life, I may say without vanity 
 that I am more domestic in my habits than many 
 a housekeeper who is most admired by sober 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 229 
 
 wives and prudent mothers. A week's trouting, 
 in the season, at Carman's, a day or two with 
 the snipe at Fire Island, or a quiet excursion after 
 quail and woodcock in Westchester, are the only 
 occasions when I ever leave my house. My 
 folder is just where I left it in the last new novel ; 
 and the latest Review lies bent open upon my 
 table at the very page where I have paused at 
 finding some especial matter for doubt or re flection. 
 
 For years now, life has glided on in this un- 
 troubled current, the gay and thoughtless, like 
 young trout who rise always to flies of the gaudiest 
 colour, springing often by me to catch at its very 
 bubbles, while I, like some maturer tenant of the 
 brook, have loitered contentedly in its calm and 
 silent eddies. Fate, however, envious of such 
 repose, has come at last like an old fisherman to 
 break up rny unmolested haunts. 
 
 The continual changes which are going on in 
 this ancient city of my love drove me a few months' 
 since from the quarters which I had so long 
 occupied to my satisfaction. I resisted to the 
 last point, when I found that my landlord was 
 determined to renovate the building I occupied, 
 by placing a row of granite stores in the basement ; 
 but it was all in vain. I clung to my quarters 
 
230 THE WINTERGREEN, 
 
 indeed, until, looking out of my window one morn- 
 ing, I found the whole upper part of the house 
 suspended upon a couple of temporary supports of 
 most equivocal thickness. They had knocked 
 away some dozen square yards of brick wall 
 beneath me, and I was fairly improved out of the 
 premises. 
 
 Upon looking around for new chambers, the 
 only rooms I could obtain were in a tall house 
 upon a side hill, in the lower part of the city ; 
 where the inequalities of the surface enable you 
 often to overlook a whole neighbourhood when 
 thus situated. The street was narrow and dis- 
 agreeable, but I did not mind that ; I came to 
 live in the house, not in the street and the com- 
 manding height of my chambers made them suffi- 
 ciently airy. My books were again unpacked ; 
 my ancient sofa extended before the fire-place ; 
 my hookah enthroned upon the mantel-piece ; and 
 after the only portrait I possess had been hung up 
 in the pier, and a breathing landscape of Weir's, 
 and a gem of Inman's, which I am fortunate 
 enough to own, were suspended in their proper 
 lights, I felt myself once more settled and at home. 
 " This," said I mentally, as Jasper removed the 
 cloth, and stretching my legs befere the fire, I be- 
 
MY FAMILI AR. 231 
 
 gan to sip my solitary Hock "this is privacy 
 and seclusion the turmoil of the busy world may 
 rage around me, but I have neither part nor lot 
 in its struggles nor vexations the roar of its 
 surges may, indeed, reach my ear on this high 
 perch, but they cannot agitate my resting place 
 nor affect my tranquillity. I am in the midst of a 
 crowd where each is watching his own concerns 
 with an eagerness that prevents him from observ- 
 ing his own neighbour ; and, un watched myself, I 
 can in such a vicinage pursue my favourite study 
 of character without molestation." 
 
 As these thoughts passed through my mind, I 
 naturally raised my eyes to the window, to view 
 the general appearance of the neighbourhood I was 
 thus mentally eulogizing. My rooms were in the 
 rear of the building, and, looking round, a wilder- 
 ness of houses seemed clustered near, the roofs of 
 which, from their being upon a lower plane than 
 was that wherein I lived, were generally brought 
 upon an immediate line with my windows. I 
 was sufficiently annoyed to find my position thus 
 commanded ; but what was my concern and 
 vexation to see a person coolly reconnoitring it 
 from the hostile eminence yes ! as I live, there 
 lay upon the flat modern roof of a house opposite, 
 
232 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 the figure of a man basking, as it were, in the 
 mild autumnal sun, while he amused himself by 
 looking as coolly into my apartment as if he were 
 examining the cage of a menagerie. There 
 were neither blinds nor shutters to the room, and 
 it seemed impossible to exclude the gaze of the 
 fellow. I gave him a look that ought to have 
 rolled him into the gutter, if it really reached 
 him ; but it did not even make him alter his 
 position upon the leads. I tried another with the 
 same effect, though, as Colonel Crockett would say, 
 it was a grin that must have taken the paint off 
 the spot, if it struck the roof near him. The calm 
 stare with which he answered it, told at once that 
 it was impossible to bring the wretch to action 
 that way. It was a siege he meditated, and he 
 had no idea of risking anything by meeting me 
 in a mere sally. 
 
 Provoked beyond endurance at such imperti- 
 nence, and provoked at myself at being so pro- 
 voked, I seized my hat in a fit of vexation and 
 sallied out in the street. A walk on the Battery 
 cooled my feelings, and the infinite diversity of 
 objects upon the bay, which a glorious sunset 
 burnished into gold, gave a new turn to my ideas. 
 I continued walking long after the veil of twilight 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 233 
 
 had stolen the purple heights of Staten Island, 
 and the storied shores of Communipaw, from view. 
 The evening was so still that I fancied I could 
 almost hear the thick-throated chuckle of the 
 clam-catching negroes who yet linger in that 
 singular fastness of old Dutch peculiarities, gurg- 
 ling over the calm water like voices from another 
 planet : and soothed by the tranquillity that reigned 
 around me, I at last returned to my chambers in 
 a mood so genial, that I retired for the night 
 wholly forgetful of every source of irritation. 
 
 If there is any hour in the whole day when I 
 really do take comfort, it is that when in dressing, 
 gown and slippers I sit with a very mild segar 
 over my cup of coffee and newspaper at breakfast. 
 I don't think that any thing in the world can make 
 me form an engagement for any moment before 
 eleven ante -meridian, lest the perfect luxury of 
 that hour should be in some wise trenched upon ; 
 and yet there is no hour of the day when my 
 benevolence is more expansive, and when my 
 plans for bettering the condition of the whole 
 human race are more active. The philanthropy 
 of Howard himself though would have been turned 
 into hatred of his species, had his gentle nature 
 been practised upon as mine was at this moment. 
 
234 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 I was just tenderly turning over a very delicate 
 muffin with my fork, pondering whether I should 
 coquette with another piece, or swallow my coffee 
 and commence upon the segar, when my eyes 
 rested upon that infernal face glowering upon me 
 from a dormer-window opposite. It was the 
 same imperturbable rascal who had fixed his evil 
 eye upon me the afternoon before. He looked 
 and I looked but where was the use of flinging 
 look for look with such a creation as that ? His 
 fixed and stony glance had no effort in it, and yet 
 I knew that there was speculation in his eyes, 
 for I felt their searching gaze all over my body. 
 It was horrible, methought, to be subject the live- 
 long day to such an influence. Nay, I thought I 
 should go mad with vexation at the idea of a 
 single hour being past in this unwelcome com- 
 munion with a stranger ; and when that hour 
 was the one of all others in the whole twenty- 
 four which I must wish to call my own, to have 
 it so Zounds ! the thought was past endu- 
 rance. It was********** 
 
 I know not how I got through that agitating 
 and most miserable day but I did survive it ; 
 nay, more, I saw it followed by another and ano- 
 ther, each marked by the same causes of disquiet, 
 
MY FAMILIAR. -235 
 
 until now, resigned to my fate but not hardened 
 to its endurance, I am become but the shadowy 
 memorial of what I once was. My strange 
 watcher, indeed, no longer fixes his withering 
 regards on me as at first, but I can never look 
 from my window without seeing him walk up and 
 down the roofs, and along the gutters of the houses 
 opposite scarce a minute in the day but his 
 person or his shadow flits by my window, and 
 falls like a blight over any sunshiny moment that 
 may be breaking upon me. Even at night I am 
 never sure that I am alone. Often by the clear 
 moonlight I see my unaccountable familiar stalk- 
 ing along the eaves or climbing the gables of the 
 neighbourhood, and pausing ever and anon to 
 throw a penetrating glance within my casement. 
 Nay, when there is nothing but*the stars to light 
 his eccentric path, his dark figure will appear 
 suddenly drawn against the horizon, so erect and 
 motionless that I sometimes mistake it for a 
 chimney, until one of the arms is raised as if 
 pointing toward where I am sitting. Sometimes 
 I behold him pacing up and down the leads with 
 agitated strides, as if impatient to overcome the 
 space between us, and thrust himself still more 
 closely upon my intimacy, while again he appears 
 
236 THEWINTERGREEN. 
 
 to be roving from roof to roof without any object 
 whatever. His attitudes are then grotesque in 
 the extreme continually his steps will approach 
 the very edge of the eaves, and then suddenly, 
 checking his rapid movement, he will pause, 
 bending over the precipitous heights as if about 
 to plunge upon the destruction that yawns beneath. 
 A thrill of horror has more than once seized me 
 at the moment when apparently I was thus about 
 to be relieved of my persecuting companion and 
 then again as his swaying form became once 
 more erect, and with steady steps he retired from 
 the giddy verge, I could fancy his withering laugh 
 ringing in my ears, at having practised so success- 
 fully upon my sympathies. But why should I 
 thus harrow longer those of my readers ? Singular 
 as is my fate, I have learnt in a measure to en- 
 dure it aye, as the worried wolf endures the 
 toils that waste his vigour away by driblets. I 
 find myself by some strange combination of 
 chances subjected to a peculiar intelligence 
 placed beneath an eye, which, though probably 
 mortal like mine own, is still fixed upon me in 
 ceaseless watchfulness. I am the slave and 
 victim of an ever vigilant inquisition. The victim, 
 I say ; for though philosophy may tell me that 
 
MY FA MIL I AH. 237 
 
 the sleepless spectator of my every action and 
 movement cannot penetrate into the secrets of 
 my soul yet my heart somehow seems never to 
 beat so freely, nor to hold the same communion 
 with my brain, since another has become privy 
 to each act that volition may prompt. The 
 winged eye that followed the doomed sachem, in 
 Indian story, was not more blighting in its glances 
 than are the looks of my remorseless sentinel. 
 
 The laughing demon at the banquet of . By 
 
 heavens ! My Familiar is at this moment glower- 
 ing upon me through that window, and I can no 
 more. 
 
THE DEW-DROP AND LILY. 
 
 BY G. ALVAN HOWARD. 
 
 'TwAS verdant Jane ; the evening air, 
 
 Leaving awhile the chrystal'd cave, 
 Stole laughingly forth from its drowsy lair 
 
 To dip its wing in the rippling wave, 
 And frolic away the vesper hour, 
 With the dimpling spring, and the fragrant flower. 
 The stars that jewel'd the Spirits' way, 
 Faded before the moon's bright ray 
 Stealing silently one by one away, 
 As, half the maiden, half the queen, 
 She blushing rose the hills between ; 
 And still, with modest firmness trod 
 
 Steadily onward to her throne, 
 'Till her silvery light on all abroad 
 
 Like a glance of conscious power was thrown ; 
 And the azure realm of the cloudless sky 
 Brighten'd beneath her gentle eye ; 
 While earth, from lakelet, rill, and main, 
 Gave timidly back her smiles again. 
 
THE DEW-DROP AND LILY. 239 
 
 Touched by her light, the trembling grove 
 
 Cast on the sward a deeper shade ; 
 
 Like the quiet sadness ever made 
 (Shadows dark from the light above,) 
 In the earnest hearts of those that love. 
 
 Studding the plain, bright flowers were seen, 
 Twining themselves with the blended green ; 
 A brilliant band of rivals they, 
 With graceful forms and vestures gay ; 
 Spreading each one its tiny bell, 
 
 And breathing a perfum'd witchery up, 
 To meet the dews that sparkling fell, 
 And lure them into its scented cup. 
 One glittering drop, as it left the sky, 
 
 And hovered down on its silvery wing, 
 Sought with a wandering glance to spy 
 
 By rippling rill, or welling spring, 
 Its favourite bloom ; and many a one 
 
 Trembled and blush'd, as his brilliant eye 
 Rested awhile on her alone, 
 Bending modestly down while he lingered nigh. 
 
 With simple grace, in a little dell, 
 
 Its beauty but half revealed, 
 A delicate lily raised its bell, 
 
 And its sweets from the zephyr concealed. 
 Thither the sparkling wanderer flew, 
 
 For her pure and innocent loveliness 
 Was a greater charm to the spotless dew, 
 
 T2 
 
THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 Than a gaudy bloom, and a flaunting grace. 
 Did she yield consent when he gently sued 
 To cheer with his love her solitude ? 
 Not a word, I trow, did the fair one say ; 
 
 But he caught the glance of her modest eye, 
 As she timidly turned her head away, 
 
 And waited, I ween, no bolder reply. 
 O, happy was he while nestling there ! 
 
 For he gave not a thought to the morning hour, 
 When he must leave, for the realms of air, 
 
 The verdant earth, and his beautiful flower ; 
 But sweetly whiled the hours away, 
 
 With answering smile, and words that stray, 
 
 And cease at times, in rapt delay. 
 Telling her tales of his wanderings wide 
 
 On the wings of the wind ; on the wild rushing tide ; 
 In the still, lucid stream, gliding through the dark glade, 
 
 Or silently stealing along the green lea ; 
 Of his leap from the hills in the foaming cascade ; 
 
 And his eddying dive to the depths of the sea. 
 Of many a bright and vernal land, 
 Where flowers in beauty and pride expand, 
 
 Of stately form, and lasting bloom, 
 In gorgeous hues of beauty drest, 
 With purple robe, and golden crest, 
 
 And petals rich in a sweet perfume. 
 And she timidly listened to hear him swear, 
 
 With all their queenly pride and show, 
 He thought not one of them half so fair 
 
 As she who listens to him now ! 
 
THE DEW-DROP AND LILY. 241 
 
 And soon the little flatterer knew 
 
 The innocent flower did love him well ; 
 Closer her snowy cup she drew, 
 
 And prayed him ever with her to dwell, 
 
 Shielded from harm in that verdant dell. 
 Till he fondly swore he never would leave 
 So sweet a flower for him to grieve. 
 
 Alas ! his vows were all in vain 
 
 E'er the hour returned again 
 The light breeze came from its gladsome play 
 
 With the frolicsome waves of the ruffled sea ; 
 Over the lovers he wing'd his way, 
 
 And, mischief-mov'd, in sportive glee, 
 Kiss'd the unwilling flower the dew 
 Shook from its clasping bell, and flew 
 
 Away, the laughter-loving gale, 
 
 To tell some other flower the tale, 
 Nor cared that Flora's pet did mourn 
 In silent grief for her lover gone. 
 
 The stars twinkle brightly as ever above ; 
 
 The flowers on Earth are as gay ; 
 The dews are as bright ; and the light zephyrs rove 
 
 With the fountains and flowers at play ; 
 But lonely, and sad, from that hour, 'tis said, 
 The lily-bell never has raised its head. 
 
THE PILGRIM TURNETH HIS BACK 
 UPON THE WORLD. 
 
 BY ERNEST HELFENSTEIN. 
 
 I PASS before them cold and lone, 
 
 I ask no smile, I claim no tear, 
 And like some form of chiselled stone, 
 
 Doomed words of mockery to hear ; 
 To meet with eyes that yield no ray, 
 
 No touch that might the life. pulse wake, 
 No tone that feeling might betray, 
 
 No self forgotten for its sake ; 
 
 So pass they all, and it is welH 
 
 I would not they should read the mind 
 Where hidden tenderness may dwell 
 
 Like gem in icy cave confined ; 
 I would not every eye should read 
 
 What one alone should ever know ; 
 One, only one by fate decreed, 
 
 To bid those icy fetters flow. 
 
THE PILGRIM TURNETH HIS BACK. ETC. 243 
 
 They deem that changeful, struggling still 
 
 For that nor time, nor earth can give, 
 Misled by fancy's aimless will, 
 
 I in the cold Ideal live 
 Oli, it is well, for holier far, 
 
 Is all I cherish thus apart 
 Pure as the brightness of a star, 
 
 Deep as the fountains of the heart. 
 
THE DE VOTED.* 
 
 BY ELIZABETH M. CHANDLER. 
 
 STERN faces were around her bent, 
 
 And eyes of vengeful ire, 
 And fearful were the words they spake, 
 
 Of torture, stake, and fire : 
 Yet calmly in the midst she stood, 
 
 With eye undimm'd and clear, 
 And though her lip and cheek were white, 
 
 She wore no sign of fear. 
 
 * It was a beautiful turn given by a great lady, who being asked 
 where her husband was, when he lay concealed for having been 
 deeply concerned in a conspiracy, resolutely answered that she had 
 hidden him. This confession caused her to be carried before the 
 governor, who told her that naught but confession where she had 
 hidden him, could save her from the torture. " And will that do?" 
 said she. " Yes," replied the governor, " I will pass my word for 
 your safety, on that condition." "Then," replied she, "I have 
 hidden him in my heart, where you may find him." 
 
THE DEVOTED. 245 
 
 " Where is thy traitor spouse ?" they said ; 
 
 A half-form'd smile of scorn, 
 That curled upon her haughty lip, 
 
 Was back for answer borne ; 
 " Where is thy traitor spouse ?" again, 
 
 In fiercer tones they said, 
 And sternly pointed to the rack, 
 
 All rusted o'er with red ! 
 
 Her heart and pulse beat firm and free, 
 
 But in a crimson flood, 
 O'er pallid lip, and cheek, and brow, 
 
 Rush'd up the burning blood ; 
 She spake, but proudly rose her tones, 
 
 As when in hall or bower, 
 The haughtiest chief that round her stood 
 
 Had meekly own'd their power. 
 
 " My noble lord is placed within 
 
 A safe and sure retreat" 
 " Now tell us where, thou lady bright, 
 
 As thou wouldst mercy meet, 
 Nor deem thy life can purchase his 
 
 He cannot 'scape our wrath, 
 For many a warrior's watchful eye 
 
 Is placed o'er every path. 
 
 " But thou mayst win his broad estates, 
 
 To grace thine infant heir, 
 And life and honour to thyself, 
 
 So thou his haunts declare." 
 
246 THE WINTERGREEN. 
 
 She laid her hand upon her heart ; 
 
 Her eye flash'd proud and clear, 
 And firmer grew her haughty tread 
 
 " My lord is hidden here ! 
 
 " And if ye seek to view his form, 
 
 Ye first must tear away, 
 From round his secret dwelling-place, 
 
 These walls of living clay !" 
 They quail'd beneath her haughty glance, 
 
 They silent turn'd aside, 
 And left her all unharm'd amidst 
 
 Her loveliness and pride ! 
 
THE SPRIG OF WINTERGREEN. 
 
 BY C. F. HOFFMAN. 
 
 IT grew not in the golden clime 
 
 Where painted birds, in bowers as gay, 
 Their notes on Tropic breezes chime, 
 
 While Nature keeps her holiday ! 
 'Neath northern stars its leaflets first 
 
 Expanded to the wooing air, 
 And, in the lonely wild-wood nurst, 
 
 It learn'd the northern blast to bear. 
 
 Transplanted from its simple home 
 
 By rocky dell or Wind-swept hill 
 Like birds in stranger climes that roam, 
 
 And keep their native wood-notes still 
 Still in its glossy verdure dressed, 
 
 It blooms, unchanged with change of scene, 
 An emblem on its wearer's breast 
 
 Of Truth and Purity within. 
 
YB 11627 
 
 918165 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY