A DAY AT NIAGARA.

———

BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.

———

“Well, here’s an evil of rail-road travelling that I never thought of before!” screamed a bright girl, with pouting, rosy lips and a dimpled chin, at the risque of spoiling as sweet a voice as ever warbled “Away with Melancholy,” on a May morning; addressing her words to our good cousin, who had taken upon himself the responsible charge of escorting a party of ladies, (among whom were the fair speaker, his sister, and my fortunate self,) to see the great ‘lion’ of this western world.

“You say that we are within five miles of Niagara, yet I cannot hear its voice for the eternal gabble, gabble of this locomotive. Why, all my dreams have been associated with the geographic recollections of childhood, which invariably said, ‘The roar of the cataract may be heard distinctly at the distance of fifteen or twenty miles.’ ”

“You forget,” replied her brother, “that it is when those wise assurances were written, which make the eyes of the school-girl stand out ‘as visibly as letters on a sign,’ that this rapid, noisy mode of travelling was unthought of: wait a little, my sweet sis., till we reach the point of our destination, and Niagara’s thundering bass will sound all the mightier, for bursting suddenly upon your ear.”

While these remarks were passing, we were nearing the end of our journey; and on reaching the depot, our party was among the foremost to leave the puffing, snorting, “black poney” behind, as we turned our faces towards the hotel. But neither my fair cousin nor myself seemedastoundedat the noise of the cataract; much to the surprise of her brother. The truth was, that in this particular ofsoundour “loud expectations” exceeded the reality; though it may as well be remembered here as elsewhere, that before leaving Niagara, our earswere“filled with hearing,” no less than were our “eyes satisfied with seeing.” The sun was first hiding his face behind the golden curtain of a July evening, and tea already sending its grateful fragrance from the ample board, as we reached “The Cataract House;” so it was agreed that we should refresh ourselves with a dish of the green beverage, before sallying out for a peep at the Falls:—furthermore, that until then, no one of our party should approach a certain window which commanded a view of the rapids, upon the penalty of our good-natured cousin’s displeasure; and as we had one and all promised obedience to his wishes, each poised herself on the tip-toe of curiosity, long enough to swallow a boiling draught, at the expense of sore, though notdisabledtongues, for some days thereafter. We were, however, too unmerciful to allow our gallant the comforts of his cigar after tea; but by sundry hints, in the form of bonnets and shawls, compelled his politeness to yield to our impatience for the evening ramble. Our footsteps were first directed to the bridge which extends over the boiling, angry rapids, to Goat Island. Even here, it would seem that as much of the awful, the sublime, and the beautiful, had met together, as human eyes could endure to look upon! As we leaned over the railing of the bridge, (holding on instinctively with convulsive grasp,) and surveyed the yawning whirlpools beneath, encompassed by the ever-restless foam, I, for one, thought I had never seen any thing terrific before! But from the imperfect view of the falls, which the gathering shades of twilight and the American side gave us that evening, my “first impressions” were those of bitter disappointment. “And is this the end of all my vast imaginings?” said I, in haste to myself, but breathed it not aloud; for, indeed, even then and there, the scene was grand and imposing: so I held my peace, resolving to await the morning beams, for its rainbow crown, and retire to my pillowopinionless, touching the glories of the grand cataract.

The sun looked down upon us the next morning without the shadow of a cloud between, and preparations commenced at an early hour, for a day at Niagara. Much to our delight, we found a familiar party of ladies and gentlemen, at a sister hotel, who had arrived during the night, and would join us in the pleasures of the day. As it happened that the gentlemen of said party outnumbered the ladies, thefairresponsibilities of our obliging cousin (who had performed the part of “beau-general” much to the credit of his gallantry) werefairlydivided with the other beaux, and all things being arranged, each lady could boast of her own protector. I know of nothing that quickens the pleasing excitement of these excursions more than an unexpected recruit of acquaintances and friends. Never was there a gayer or happier little company than left the “Cataract House” that shadowless summer morning, to cross the green waters of Niagara river for the Canada side. Oh! how those bright faces come up before me now, as if among the vivid recollections of yesterday! There was the brilliant Mrs. —— with her raven curls, matchless form, and “dangerous eyes of jet,” ever and anon returning a dazzling smile for the involuntary gaze of admiration. And what coquette bynatureever learned, until she had been the happy wife and mothermorethan two years, to confine her favorable glances toonebeloved object. Albeit the beautiful Mrs. —— is “a jewel of a wife,” though I heard her adoring husband confess that very day, that she “caught” him “with her eyes!” There, too, in striking contrast, was the gentle wife of our happy cousin, with her hazel “eyes, like shaded water;” the carnation of modesty on her cheeks, and “the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit” beaming on her brow. And then the fair Miss ——, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. ——, from New York, who were exposing, for the first time, their fragile flower of sixteen summers, whose delicate complexion, and lily hands, needed none to affirm that “the winds of heaven never visited her too roughly;” but whose chief attraction seemed in some way connected with the appellation of “heiress!” So no doubt thought a whiskered “fortune-hunter,” who, by dint of bows and smiles, had contrived to insinuate himself into the good graces of our party, and played the devoted to Miss ——, after the most approved fashion. To say nothing of the pretty sister of our cousin, with her tiny feet—“the lightest and gentlest that ever from the heath-flower brushed the dew!” Nor of the radiant and fascinating belle of ——, who had already commenced a flirtation with the rich southerner, who was her chosenknightfor the day. Nor of other laughing eyes and mirth-stirring spirits that made up the party. But, alas! the shadow of death falls ever upon life’s retrospect picture. Of one individual, whose gallantry, good sense and extraordinary musical powers, rendered him a favorite of the fair, on that occasion, may it now be said, “the places that knew him shall know him no more.” In early manhood, and in a stranger’s grave, sleeps he whose active step, whose buoyant spirits, whose melody of song and sparkling wit concealed from us the insatiate disease, whose slow, sure worm had even then fastened upon his vitals. Consumption sent him to the balmy south, there to find a resting place ’mid orange groves and perpetual-blooming flowers. Peace be with the ashes of the early, the gifted dead.

No sooner was our little barge on the centre of the rapid tide, and the eye glanced upward and round about, than a scene of magnificence and glory burst upon us, which it had “never entered into the heart to conceive!” Many have attempted to describe it; but if the ablest pen of the most ready writer hath failed to embrace half its wondrous beauties, let not this humble pen dare to desecrate what for sublimity and loveliness is verilyindescribable! To us it seemed that “the fountains of the deep were again broken up”—as if oldOceanwas pouring forth his deep green floods into that awful abyss, so wide, so vast, so terrible was their rush to the brink—so mighty and resistless their plunge into the boiling chasm! There hung the rainbow, with God’s promise in its hues of beauty—

“That arch, where angel-forms might lean,And view the wonders of the mighty scene!”

“That arch, where angel-forms might lean,

And view the wonders of the mighty scene!”

On reaching the Canada side, our first “post of observation” was Table Rock. The picture it presents—who shall paint it? The most striking feature of the whole is the vastquantityof water which pours unceasing and unspent, and its consequent deeply emerald hue as it passes the rocks, before breaking in its fall to the pure, amber-shaded foam, which sends up an eternal incense of spray to Heaven. Another feature of beauty which arrested our attention was the meeting of the floods at the termination of the “Horse-shoe Fall,” where an angle of the rocks causes a continualembrace of the waters. The eye could scarce weary in viewing thisonebeauty of the scene; but before the mightywhole, awe-struck, the heart could only bow in silent adoration to that Great Being who made it all, for “the spirit ofGodmoved on the face of the waters!” We next ascended the craggy steep to a wide-extended plain above, where are placed the barracks of the “Forty-third regiment of Her Majesty’s troops.” Fortunately for us, the day was one of regular review, and the whole regiment was out on duty. As we reached the brow of the hill, where, on the one side, was Niagara in all its glory, and on the other an extensive military display of red coats and arms of steel flashing in the sunlight, I thought that Nature and Art needed no embellishment from the pen of Fancy—“ ’Twas like enchantment all!” While in the full enjoyment of this glorious scene, her Majesty’s well-disciplined band played the familiar air of “God save the Queen!” as tousit was never played before, and my heart vibrated with as much joy as it ever felt at the sound of our national air, “Hail Columbia!”

Our party returned to the hotel at sunset, all uniting in the opinion that it is impossible to anticipate too much of enjoyment at Niagara, so far as it respects the marvellous and beautiful in nature, and only regretting that we could not pass a month, instead of a day, with its scenes around us. A few hours, previous to our departure the following morning, were spent in exploring Goat Island, so far as our limited time would allow. ’Tis in sooth a “fairy isle,” lashed day and night by the untiring rapids, and affording various and beautiful views of the great cataract it divides. The luxuriant foliage of its majestic trees shelters the admirer of the scenes around from the noonday heat, and the odors from its garden of flowers regale his senses the while.

We bade a reluctant adieu to Niagara, calling to mind all the imaginations that the heart had devised—all the descriptions we had heard from others’ lips—but with the words of “the Queen of the East” on our own, “The half was not told me.”

By way of concluding this imperfect sketch, we add some few lines, which were written in despite of a resolution most religiouslymadeagainst such a presumptive measure; for, somehow or other, the humblest, as well as the loftiest pen, will attempt in numbers to express theunnumbered thoughts and “strange, which crowd into the brain” at Niagara. And while this prince of cataracts flows on, its terrific beauties will be still the oft-told but unspent theme of the “spirit-stirring muse.”

NIAGARA.“How dreadful is this place!” forGodis here!His name is graven on th’ eternal rocks,As with an iron pen and diamond’s point:While their unceasing floods his voice proclaim,Oft as their thunder shakes the distant hills.O! if the forest-trees, which have grown oldIn viewing all the wonders of this scene,Do tremble still, and cast to earth their leaves—Familiar as they are with things sublime—Shall not the timid stranger here unlooseHis sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,”And bow in humble worship to his God?For unto such as do approach with aweThis bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind,Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roarOf “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,”Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not—Know that this God, this awful God, isyours!”Yes, here have wrath and peace together met—Justice and Mercy sweetly have embraced;For, o’er the terrors of the angry floods,The bow of promise and of beauty hangs:When in the sunbeams, with its matchless hues,Or as a silver arch on evening’s brow,Saying, “God’s works are marvellous and great,But ah! when understood, his name isLove.”

NIAGARA.

“How dreadful is this place!” forGodis here!His name is graven on th’ eternal rocks,As with an iron pen and diamond’s point:While their unceasing floods his voice proclaim,Oft as their thunder shakes the distant hills.O! if the forest-trees, which have grown oldIn viewing all the wonders of this scene,Do tremble still, and cast to earth their leaves—Familiar as they are with things sublime—Shall not the timid stranger here unlooseHis sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,”And bow in humble worship to his God?

“How dreadful is this place!” forGodis here!

His name is graven on th’ eternal rocks,

As with an iron pen and diamond’s point:

While their unceasing floods his voice proclaim,

Oft as their thunder shakes the distant hills.

O! if the forest-trees, which have grown old

In viewing all the wonders of this scene,

Do tremble still, and cast to earth their leaves—

Familiar as they are with things sublime—

Shall not the timid stranger here unloose

His sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,”

And bow in humble worship to his God?

For unto such as do approach with aweThis bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind,Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roarOf “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,”Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not—Know that this God, this awful God, isyours!”Yes, here have wrath and peace together met—Justice and Mercy sweetly have embraced;For, o’er the terrors of the angry floods,The bow of promise and of beauty hangs:When in the sunbeams, with its matchless hues,Or as a silver arch on evening’s brow,Saying, “God’s works are marvellous and great,But ah! when understood, his name isLove.”

For unto such as do approach with awe

This bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind,

Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roar

Of “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,”

Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not—

Know that this God, this awful God, isyours!”

Yes, here have wrath and peace together met—

Justice and Mercy sweetly have embraced;

For, o’er the terrors of the angry floods,

The bow of promise and of beauty hangs:

When in the sunbeams, with its matchless hues,

Or as a silver arch on evening’s brow,

Saying, “God’s works are marvellous and great,

But ah! when understood, his name isLove.”

Cedar Brook, Plainfield, N. J.

MAJOR DADE’S COMMAND.

A requiem for the gallant dead?A dirge for those who died,With banner streaming overhead,Unsoiled, unterrified!A gallant but devoted band,They fell, unyielding, sword in hand.They hear not now the Indian yell,Nor cannon’s angry roar;The clash of arms, or ’larum bell,Shall startle them no more!Unlike and severed were their homes—One sepulchre contains their bones.The spangled banner that has ledSo oft to victory,Its stars undimmed, above their bed,Unfolded to the sky,When in the unconquered hearts below,The tide of life had ceased to flow.No sculptured imagery on high,Reveals their lonely grave.No epitaph can passer spy,To tell where rest the brave!Such may become the gilded tomb,But not the stern old forest’s gloom.Like streamers, to the passing breeze,The unshorn grass waves here;As silent mourners, blighted trees,Or monuments appear;The glad, wild birds their requiem sing,And flowers around their incense fling.The smile that struggles in the eye,When withered is the heart,Reminding us of hopes gone by,No joy, but gloom impart;So nature loses all its bloom,And beauty round the loved one’s tomb.Though wild and distant is the spot,Where their bleached bones are laid,More hallowed ground is honored notBy widow, sire, or maid:And fame shall shield from vulgar tread,The ashes of the valiant dead.And though around their lowly tomb,No kin or friends are found,Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloomOn valor’s sacred ground;Yet loving hearts are chill with woe,And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow.As to some venerated shrine,Whose lights have ceased to hum,Shall pilgrims here, in after time,Their wand’ring footsteps turn,And view in Fancy’s magic glass,The scene of death before them pass.Perchance, upon the spot they fell,Some monument may thenIts lofty column rear to tellThe gratitude of men;The noble dead! they need it not;Their valor consecrates the spot.Conrad.

A requiem for the gallant dead?A dirge for those who died,With banner streaming overhead,Unsoiled, unterrified!A gallant but devoted band,They fell, unyielding, sword in hand.

A requiem for the gallant dead?

A dirge for those who died,

With banner streaming overhead,

Unsoiled, unterrified!

A gallant but devoted band,

They fell, unyielding, sword in hand.

They hear not now the Indian yell,Nor cannon’s angry roar;The clash of arms, or ’larum bell,Shall startle them no more!Unlike and severed were their homes—One sepulchre contains their bones.

They hear not now the Indian yell,

Nor cannon’s angry roar;

The clash of arms, or ’larum bell,

Shall startle them no more!

Unlike and severed were their homes—

One sepulchre contains their bones.

The spangled banner that has ledSo oft to victory,Its stars undimmed, above their bed,Unfolded to the sky,When in the unconquered hearts below,The tide of life had ceased to flow.

The spangled banner that has led

So oft to victory,

Its stars undimmed, above their bed,

Unfolded to the sky,

When in the unconquered hearts below,

The tide of life had ceased to flow.

No sculptured imagery on high,Reveals their lonely grave.No epitaph can passer spy,To tell where rest the brave!Such may become the gilded tomb,But not the stern old forest’s gloom.

No sculptured imagery on high,

Reveals their lonely grave.

No epitaph can passer spy,

To tell where rest the brave!

Such may become the gilded tomb,

But not the stern old forest’s gloom.

Like streamers, to the passing breeze,The unshorn grass waves here;As silent mourners, blighted trees,Or monuments appear;The glad, wild birds their requiem sing,And flowers around their incense fling.

Like streamers, to the passing breeze,

The unshorn grass waves here;

As silent mourners, blighted trees,

Or monuments appear;

The glad, wild birds their requiem sing,

And flowers around their incense fling.

The smile that struggles in the eye,When withered is the heart,Reminding us of hopes gone by,No joy, but gloom impart;So nature loses all its bloom,And beauty round the loved one’s tomb.

The smile that struggles in the eye,

When withered is the heart,

Reminding us of hopes gone by,

No joy, but gloom impart;

So nature loses all its bloom,

And beauty round the loved one’s tomb.

Though wild and distant is the spot,Where their bleached bones are laid,More hallowed ground is honored notBy widow, sire, or maid:And fame shall shield from vulgar tread,The ashes of the valiant dead.

Though wild and distant is the spot,

Where their bleached bones are laid,

More hallowed ground is honored not

By widow, sire, or maid:

And fame shall shield from vulgar tread,

The ashes of the valiant dead.

And though around their lowly tomb,No kin or friends are found,Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloomOn valor’s sacred ground;Yet loving hearts are chill with woe,And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow.

And though around their lowly tomb,

No kin or friends are found,

Who weep the blight of manhood’s bloom

On valor’s sacred ground;

Yet loving hearts are chill with woe,

And eyes are dim with sorrow’s flow.

As to some venerated shrine,Whose lights have ceased to hum,Shall pilgrims here, in after time,Their wand’ring footsteps turn,And view in Fancy’s magic glass,The scene of death before them pass.

As to some venerated shrine,

Whose lights have ceased to hum,

Shall pilgrims here, in after time,

Their wand’ring footsteps turn,

And view in Fancy’s magic glass,

The scene of death before them pass.

Perchance, upon the spot they fell,Some monument may thenIts lofty column rear to tellThe gratitude of men;The noble dead! they need it not;Their valor consecrates the spot.

Perchance, upon the spot they fell,

Some monument may then

Its lofty column rear to tell

The gratitude of men;

The noble dead! they need it not;

Their valor consecrates the spot.

Conrad.

THE WIDOW.

There sits a mourner, solitary nowWith downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow.Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,When last they sat beneath their favorite shade—Hushed is the voice, which ever to her ownAnswered in tones of tenderness alone.Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee,And she is left—of all that family!She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile,No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile,She looks within—and all is mute despair,She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.M. S. B. D.

There sits a mourner, solitary now

With downcast eyes, and pale dejected brow.

Cold is the pillow where she laid her head,

When last they sat beneath their favorite shade—

Hushed is the voice, which ever to her own

Answered in tones of tenderness alone.

Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee,And she is left—of all that family!She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile,No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile,She looks within—and all is mute despair,She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.

Stilled are the merry notes of childish glee,

And she is left—of all that family!

She looks abroad—and sees no welcome smile,

No cheerful sounds her weary hours beguile,

She looks within—and all is mute despair,

She looks to Heaven—oh! joy! her all is there.

M. S. B. D.

WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

Since our last number went to press, we have been called upon to mourn the death ofWillis Gaylord Clark, one of the contributors to this Magazine, and a poet of unusual sweetness, elegance, melody and pathos. He died, in his thirty-second year, of pulmonary consumption. He had more than once been almost prostrated by this fell disease, but his constitution had rallied against its attacks, and he, as well as his friends, entertained hopes of his recovery; but about two months before his death, the disease apparently returned with renewed violence, and, after sinking gradually beneath its power, Mr. Clark’s life terminated on Sunday, the 13th of June, 1841.

As a man, Mr. Clark was universally esteemed. His warm heart, frank nature, and social qualities endeared him to all his friends, and he has left a blank in the little circle which he was wont to grace. To the last he enjoyed the society of his friends. He breathed to them the wish that no venomous tongue should be suffered to insult his fame when he was dead, and thus rob his orphan boy of his father’s only heritage—his name. God knows, the heart that could entertain aught evil towards the departed deserves not the companionship or sympathy of mankind. The dying moments of Mr. Clark were filled with the memory of his lost wife—to whom he has written some of the sweetest verses in the language—and his parting request was that he should be buried by her side, at the same hour of the day at which she was interred. Need we say his request was religiously fulfilled?

The closing days of the poet are finely drawn in the following lines, for which we are indebted to Robert Morris, Esq., another of our valued contributors, and one of the circle of Mr. Clark’s friends. They need no eulogy at our hands. They will commend themselves to all who loved the departed, or admire true poetry.

A DEATH SCENE IN THE CHAMBER OF A POET.

Come hither, friend! My voice grows thin and weak—

My limbs are feeble, and I feel that Death

Will soon achieve his conquest. Look not sad!

The being best beloved has gone before—

Why shouldItarry here? An angel form

Beckons me on. Amid my morning dreams,

I hearhervoice and see her starry eyes!

That voice so full of woman tenderness;

Those eyes that mirrored an unsullied soul!

Then look not sad! My peace is made with God,

And in the hope, which is the dawn of Heaven—

The Christian’s hope—I will a little hence

On my mysterious journey. Soon—how soon!—

The truth will break upon me! The dim stars,

Which now, this mellow night, like sands of gold,

Glitter amid the distance—it may be

That I may pass their confines on my course;

That peopled worlds may greet my spirit’s gaze!

Look, gentle friend, how brightly do they shine!

How like to living things! How beautiful!

How more than wonderful the mighty hand

That placed them there, all radiant with light!

Oh, God! in whose high presence soon my soul

Will stand uncovered, what a worm am I

Amid thy wonders vast and infinite!

And yet I feel th’ immortal burns within—

The quenchless light of an eternal soul!

Yes! as the frame decays; as this frail dust

Sinks to its native earth, the spirit’s wings

Unfold, and all within seems eager for the flight!

My voice is almost lost. Friend!—faithful friend,

Long tried and well beloved—before I leave

This summer scene of earth, yon fields and flowers—

Alas! like youth and life, they soon will fade—

I have a boon to crave. My boy, my only boy,

Will soon be fatherless! Forgive this tear;

It is among the last.

Hither, my child!

There lives his mother’s image—her soft eyes,

So large and full and dove-like; her brown hair,

So rich and silken, and her cheek of rose!

Oh! what a fate was hers! But yesterday,

All youth and hope and beauty; and to-day,

A banquet for the cold and creeping worm!

But far above the grave her spirit dwells,

Among the white-robed circles of the blest:

In that bright clime where Faith and Fancy soar,

And Love and Hope and Joy walk hand in hand.

But to the boon.

I would not, when my dust

Lies still and cold, leave bitter memories.

I would not leave a wound in any breast,

But fain with all the world would die in peace,

Forgiving all, and asking all forgiveness.

The only legacy that I may leave

My idol boy, is a weak dream of fame:

A phantom that has cheated me of life,

And fails me now, I fear, before the grave.

And yet, how that wild dream, tempting and bright,

Has spanned my youthful life, as does the bow

The summer storm! And now, e’en while I gaze.

And feel the mortal passing slowly off,

How dust still clings to dust, and a desire

Burns at my breast, that justice may be done

My memory!—that he, in after time—

(Poor child, how little recks he of this scene!—)

May speak his father’s name with love and pride.

* * * * * * * * * *

A hand—a friendly hand!—mine eyes grow dim—

His pale lip quivered, and the hectic tinge

Passed from his hollow cheeks. And see, he sleeps!

Alas! ’tis Death’s unchangeable repose—

The spirit of the poet soars to God!

Mr. Clark possessed poetic talents of no ordinary merit. He belonged to the school of Goldsmith and Pope, rather than to that of Byron or Coleridge. He was more remarkable for sweetness than passion, for melody than force, for fancy than imagination. The rank to which he belonged was not the highest, but in that rank he occupied one of the foremost stations. He was distinguished for his grace and euphony. Few men have written so elegantly as Mr. Clark; no man has excelled him in the melody of numbers. He obviously devoted the greatest attention to the composition of poetry, and no piece left his hand until it had received its utmost polish. There was a deep abiding sense of religion in his compositions which commend them to every heart. He was indeed almost the first poet to render the poetry of religion attractive; for Young, Cowper, Wordsworth, and even Milton, too often fail in this. But Mr. Clark was always successful, breathing, as he did, aspirations after a higher and better state of being, and emulating, if that were possible, the rapt enthusiasm of the Hebrew poet, when dreaming of the “better land”—that land to which he has now followed his long-wept wife. Yes! he has gone—

“Gone to his Heavenly Father’s rest!The flowers of Eden round him blowing,And on his ear the murmur blestOf Siloa’s waters softly flowing!—Beneath that Tree of Life which givesTo all the earth its healing leaves!In the white robe of angels clad,And wandering by that sacred river,Whose streams of loveliness make gladThe city of our God forever!”

“Gone to his Heavenly Father’s rest!

The flowers of Eden round him blowing,

And on his ear the murmur blest

Of Siloa’s waters softly flowing!—

Beneath that Tree of Life which gives

To all the earth its healing leaves!

In the white robe of angels clad,

And wandering by that sacred river,

Whose streams of loveliness make glad

The city of our God forever!”

Why should we mourn his loss? This is no home for the weary spirit. Earth has nothing to satisfy the immortal mind; but, with a reach after higher and holier things, it struggles to be away, satisfied only when roaming free through the wide expanse of Eternity.

FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER,

A BALLAD—WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON.

MUSIC COMPOSED BY

J. DODSLEY HUMPHREYS.

Philadelphia:John F. Nunns,184 Chesnut Street.

Farewell if ever fondest prayer for others’ weal availed on high,Mine will not all be lost in air,But waft, but waft thy name beyond the sky.’Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh,Oh more than

Farewell if ever fondest prayer for others’ weal availed on high,

Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft, but waft thy name beyond the sky.

’Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh,

Oh more than

tears of blood can tell,When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,Are in that word farewell.Are in that word farewell, farewell,When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,Are in that word, are in that word farewell.These lips are mute, these eyes are dry,But in my breast and in my brain,Awake the pangs that pass not by,The thought, the thought that ne’er shall sleep again.My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,Though grief and passion there rebel,I only know we lov’d in vain.I only feel farewell,I only feel farewell, farewell,I only know I loved in vain,I only feel, I only feel farewell.

tears of blood can tell,

When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,

Are in that word farewell.

Are in that word farewell, farewell,

When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,

Are in that word, are in that word farewell.

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry,But in my breast and in my brain,Awake the pangs that pass not by,The thought, the thought that ne’er shall sleep again.My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,Though grief and passion there rebel,I only know we lov’d in vain.I only feel farewell,I only feel farewell, farewell,I only know I loved in vain,I only feel, I only feel farewell.

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry,

But in my breast and in my brain,

Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought, the thought that ne’er shall sleep again.

My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,

Though grief and passion there rebel,

I only know we lov’d in vain.

I only feel farewell,

I only feel farewell, farewell,

I only know I loved in vain,

I only feel, I only feel farewell.

Sports and Pastimes.

The prevailing attributes and domestic economy of fishes may be described as exactly the reverse of those of birds. These gay and airy creatures possess the power of surveying distinctly, at a glance, an immeasurable extent of horizon; their acute perception of sound appreciates all intonations, and their glad voices are exquisitely skilled in their production. Though their bills are hard, and their bodies closely covered by down and feathers, they are by no means deficient in the sense of touch. They enjoy all the delights of conjugal and parental affection, and perform their incumbent duties with devotedness and courage. They cherish and defend their offspring, and will sometimes even die in their defence; and of all the wonderful labors of instinctive art, none is so beautiful as the formation of their mossy dwellings. With what deep and continuous affection does the female brood over her cherished treasures!—how unwearied is the gallant male in his tender assiduities, and with what melodious love does he outpour that rich and varied song by which he seeks to soothe her sedentary task!

“Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods!”

But close at hand, on that umbrageous bough, sits the fond partner of his joys and sorrows, so that it is in no spirit of selfish solitary musing that he ever murmurs, by woodland stream and shadow-haunted brook, “a music sweeter than their own.” The slender winged and glossy plumaged swallow, which skims the verdure of the new-mown meadow, or dimples the surface of the breezeless lake—the ponderous but giant-pinioned eagle, winging his way from distant isles, o’er waters glittering with redundant life—the proud, far-sighted falcon, which, launching from some hoar cliff or lightning-scathed peak,

“Doth dally with the wind, and scorn the sun,”—

the wild and fearful lapwing, with graceful crest and dark dilated eye, are each and all enslaved for many a long-enduring season by this love of offspring, and toil in its support from dewy morning until latest eve.

But it is far otherwise with our voiceless dwellers in the deep, who exhibit but few attachments, are conversant with no interchanging language, and cherish no warm affections. Constructing no dwellings, they merely shelter themselves from danger among the cavernous rocks of the ocean, in the silent depths of lakes, or beneath the murky shade of the overhanging banks of rivers; and the cravings of hunger alone seem to exercise a frequent or influential action over their monotonous movements. We must not, however, conceive that the life of fishes is not one of enjoyment, for we know that the Great Creator “careth for all his creatures;” and it ought perhaps rather to be said that we cannot appreciate the nature of their feelings, than that they are in any way fore-doomed to a negation of pleasure. Assuredly, however, the hand of nature has been most prodigal in bestowing on their external aspect every variety of adornment. Their special forms are infinite, their proportions often most elegant, their colors lively and diversified—and nothing seems wanting, either in their shape or structure, to excite the unfeigned admiration of mankind. Indeed, it almost appears as if this prodigality of beauty was intended solely for such an end. The brightness of metallic splendor, the sparkling brilliancy of precious gems, the milder effulgence of the hues of flowers, all combine to signalize fishes as among the most beautiful objects of creation. When newly withdrawn from their native element, or still gliding submerged amid its liquid coolness, their colors, fixed or iridescent, are seen mingling in spots, or bands, or broader flashes—always elegant and symmetrical, sometimes richly contrasted, sometimes gradually softened into each other, and in all cases harmonizing with a chaste fulness of effect which Titian and Rubens might envy, but could never equal. For what reason, then, it has been asked, has all this adornment been bestowed on creatures which can scarcely perceive each other amid the dim perpetual twilight of the deep? Shakspeare has already said that there are “more things inheavenandearththan are dreamt of in our philosophy;” and we fear it is no answer to the foregoing question to add, that the same observation applies with even greater truth to the “waters beneath the earth.”

The nutritive functions of fishes follow the same order of progression as those of the other classes of the vertebrated kingdom. They seize, and in some measure divide, their food with their teeth; they digest it in the stomach, from whence it passes into the intestinal canal, where it receives a supply of bile from the liver, and frequently a liquid similar to that of the pancreas; the nutritive juices, absorbed by vessels analogous to lacteals, and probably taken up in part also directly by the veins, are mingled with the venous blood which is flowing towards the heart, from whence it is pushed to the branchiæ, in which, coming in contact with the water, it is converted into arterial blood, and then proceeds to the nourishment of the whole body.

Fishes are in general extremely voracious, and the rule of “eat or be eaten,” applies to them with unusual force. They are almost constantly engaged either in the active pursuit or patient waiting for their prey—their degree of power in its capture depending, of course, on the dimensions of the mouth and throat, and the strength of the teeth and jaws. If the teeth are sharp and curved, they are capable of seizing and securing either a large and fleshy bait, or the slenderest and most agile animal; if these parts are broad and strong, they are able to bruise the hardest aliment; if they are feeble or almost wanting, they are only serviceable in procuring some inert or unresisting prey. Fishes indeed, in most instances, show but little choice in the selection of their food, and their digestive powers are so strong and rapid as speedily to dissolve all animal substances. They greedily swallow other fishes, notwithstanding the sharp spines or bony ridges with which they may be armed; they attack and devour crabs and shell-fish, gulping them entire, without the least regard to the feelings of their families; they do not object occasionally to swallow the young even of their own species, and the more powerful kinds carry their warfare into other kingdoms of nature, and revel on rats, reptiles and young ducklings, to say nothing, gentle reader, of the ferocious shark, which not seldom makes a meal even of the lord of the creation. A particular friend of ours has his right leg in the West Indies, in consequence of an act of aggression alike unpleasant and uncalled for, and which a Christian-minded pedestrian finds it easier to forgive than forget. The species which live chiefly on vegetables are few in number, almost all fishes preferring pork to green peas.

The growth of these creatures depends greatly on the nature and amount of food, different individuals of the same species exhibiting a large disparity in their dimensions. They grow less rapidly in small ponds or shallow streams, than in large lakes and deep rivers. We once kept a minnow, little more than half an inch long, in a small glass vessel for a period of two years, during which time there was no perceptible increase in its dimensions. Had it continued in its native stream, subjected to the fattening influence of a continuous flow of water, and a consequent increase in the quantity and variety of its natural food, its cubic dimensions would probably have been twenty times greater; yet it must have attained, long prior to the lapse of a couple of years, to the usual period of the adult state. The growth itself seems to continue, under favorable circumstances, for a length of time, and we can scarcely set bounds to, certainly we know not with precision, the utmost range of the specific size of fishes. Salmon sometimes attain a weight of eighty pounds and upwards, and the giant pike of Kaiserslautern is alleged to have measured nineteen feet, and to have weighed 350 pounds. No doubt, an incorrect allegation does not in any way increase the actual size of fishes, and few people now-a-days can take exact cognizance of what was done at Mannheim in the year 1497; but, even in these degenerate days, amid our own translucent waters, and among species in no way remarkable for their ordinary dimensions, we ever and anon meet with ancient individuals which vastly exceed the usual weight and measure of their kind. But, in spite of this, let no angler, whether in the bloom of early youth, the power of matured manhood, or with the silver locks of “hoar antiquity” above his wrinkled brow, ever induce within himself, or express to others, the belief that, at all times and places, he is perpetually catching enormous trouts in vast numbers, because we happen to know that this is not the case. We don’t insist upon any one weighing every fish he captures, but we insist that no one, after jerking out a few pair, will maintain next morning, or even that very night, that he has had a most toilsome but very glorious day, and has killed five dozen and four of the finest trouts the human eye ever gazed upon. “All men are liars”—and several anglers—is a proposition the exact import of which depends much on the mode of construction.

The vertebral column, composed of numerous articulations, united by cartilages which permit of certain movements, curves with great facility from side to side; but the vertical motion is much more restricted, chiefly in consequence of the projection of the upper and under spiny processes of the vertebræ. The great organ of movement in all fishes is the tail. The muscles, by which it is brought into play, extend in lengthened masses on either side of the vertebral column. The body, being supported chiefly by the swimming bladder, (which, however, is absent in several species), is propelled forward by the rapid flexure of the extremity acting laterally upon the resistance offered by the water. Generally speaking, neither the pectoral nor the ventral fins are of any material use during swift progressive motion; they rather serve to balance the body, or to aid its gentler movements while in a state of comparative repose. Inflying fishes, as they are called, the pectoral fins are of such great length and expansion as to support these creatures in the air; and the strength of muscular action might probably suffice even for a longer flight, but for the necessity of constant moisture for the purposes of respiration. The drying of the gills in an individual of this class is attended by results analogous to those produced in the case of a land animal; and a flying fish is obliged to descend to respire, in like manner as a swimming quadruped, or disguised mammiferous animal, as we may term a whale, is under the necessity of ascending for the same purpose.

The heads of fishes exercise but a slight movement independent of the rest of the body, but the jaws, opercular bones, branchial arches, and other parts, are very free in their motions. The muscles, like those of other vertebrated animals, are composed of fleshy fibres more or less colored, and of tendonous fibres of a white or silvery aspect. With the exception, however, of certain spinal muscles, which are sometimes of a deep red, the flesh of fishes is much paler than that of quadrupeds, and still more so than that of birds. In several species it is even entirely white.

As fishes respire through the intervention of water alone, that is, as they can scarcely avail themselves, in rendering their bloodarterial, of anything more than the small portion of oxygen contained in the air which is suspended in the water, their blood is necessarily cold, and the general energy and activity of their senses are by no means so great as those of quadrupeds and birds. Their brain also, though of similar composition, is proportionally much smaller, whether as compared with the total size of the body, with the mass of nerves which proceed from it, or with the cavity of the cranium in which it is contained. In the turbot (Gadus lota) for example, the weight of the brain to that of the spinal marrow is ascertained to be as 8 to 12, and to that of the whole body as 1 to 720; and it has been ascertained that the brain of a pike, weighed in proportion to the whole body, is as 1 to 1305. Now, in many small birds, the brain, viewed in relation to the rest of the body, is equal to a twentieth part. In the generality of fishes, the spinal cord extends along the whole of the caudal vertebræ, and it is thus that it preponderates over the brain; but the fishing frog, or sea devil (Lophius piscatorius), the moon fish (Lampris guttatus), and a few others, form exceptions to this rule, the spinal marrow disappearing before it reaches the eighth vertebra. The brain of fishes by no means fills up the cavity of the cranium; and the interval between thepia mater, which envelopes the brain itself, and thedura mater, which lines the interior of the skull, is occupied only by a loose cellulosity, frequently impregnated by an oil, or sometimes, as in the sturgeon and thunny, by a more compact fatty matter. It has also been remarked that this void between the cranium and the brain is much less in young subjects than in adults; from which it may be inferred that the brain does not increase in an equal proportion with the rest of the body. Cuvier, in fact, has found its dimensions nearly the same in different individuals—of the same species—of which the general size of one was double that of the other.

Although we should be sorry to lower the subjects of our present observation in the estimation of society, we think it undeniable that, of all vertebrated animals, fishes exhibit the smallest apparent symptoms of refined sensibility. Having no elastic air to act upon, they are necessarily mute, or nearly so, and all the sweet sensations which the delightful faculty of voice has called into being among the higher tribes, are to them unknown. Their glazed, immovable eyes, their fixed and bony faces, admit of no playful range in their physiognomical expression, of no variation connected with emotion. Their ears, surrounded on every side by the bones of the cranium, destitute of external conch, without any internal cochlea, and composed merely of certain sacks and membranous canals, scarcely suffice for the perception of the loudest sounds. Yet they will sink affrighted into the darksome depths of lakes, beneath the banks of rivers, or in oceans blue profound, when the “sky lowers and mutters thunder,” and with elemental fierceness the sheeted lightning flashes broad and bright above their liquid dwellings.

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