RAIN AND SUNLIGHT IN OCTOBER.

———

BY EMILY HERRMANN.

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Thegrape-leaf’s edge is crispingBeside our window-pane;Small chirping things are shrinkingFrom cold October rain.I hear the pattering of its feetAll round about our home—Among the loosely garnered shocks,Along the runnel’s foam.There sings no bird among our trees—Whose robes are waxing thin—And yellow leaves, on withered grass,Dim graves are sinking in.Chilling is touch of Autumn rain,Darkly the gray cloud lowers,Shutting the sunlight from our pathsAmong the drooping flowers.Yet gently, as to our weary browsCome folding wings of sleep,It moves along the furrowed fieldsWhere summer dust lies deep.Bravely ’twill nurse the infant grainThat in its cradle lies,And nerve it to struggle with the stormBefore old Winter’s eyes.And now how quietly all aboutOctober sunlight falls;Tracking, with stars, the evening rain,Sparkling on dead leaves’ palls.Moving, in shocks of garnered maize,Is many a fluttering wing;And the wheat smiles to gentle lightAs if ’twere a living thing.In showers, their crimson garments fallFrom off majestic forms,Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm,Are fearless of wildest storms.Round us the forest, in mellow haze,Shuts a still glory in;Under its shadow the cattle graze—Soon to it we shall win!Shaking their nuts from laden limbs,Sharing the squirrel’s mite,Gaily we’ll gather on tufted mossIn the yellow Autumn light.By freshening green on the fading grassLife in its depth has stirred,We are not alone among changing leaves,For, hark! there’s a singing bird!

Thegrape-leaf’s edge is crispingBeside our window-pane;Small chirping things are shrinkingFrom cold October rain.

Thegrape-leaf’s edge is crisping

Beside our window-pane;

Small chirping things are shrinking

From cold October rain.

I hear the pattering of its feetAll round about our home—Among the loosely garnered shocks,Along the runnel’s foam.

I hear the pattering of its feet

All round about our home—

Among the loosely garnered shocks,

Along the runnel’s foam.

There sings no bird among our trees—Whose robes are waxing thin—And yellow leaves, on withered grass,Dim graves are sinking in.

There sings no bird among our trees—

Whose robes are waxing thin—

And yellow leaves, on withered grass,

Dim graves are sinking in.

Chilling is touch of Autumn rain,Darkly the gray cloud lowers,Shutting the sunlight from our pathsAmong the drooping flowers.

Chilling is touch of Autumn rain,

Darkly the gray cloud lowers,

Shutting the sunlight from our paths

Among the drooping flowers.

Yet gently, as to our weary browsCome folding wings of sleep,It moves along the furrowed fieldsWhere summer dust lies deep.

Yet gently, as to our weary brows

Come folding wings of sleep,

It moves along the furrowed fields

Where summer dust lies deep.

Bravely ’twill nurse the infant grainThat in its cradle lies,And nerve it to struggle with the stormBefore old Winter’s eyes.

Bravely ’twill nurse the infant grain

That in its cradle lies,

And nerve it to struggle with the storm

Before old Winter’s eyes.

And now how quietly all aboutOctober sunlight falls;Tracking, with stars, the evening rain,Sparkling on dead leaves’ palls.

And now how quietly all about

October sunlight falls;

Tracking, with stars, the evening rain,

Sparkling on dead leaves’ palls.

Moving, in shocks of garnered maize,Is many a fluttering wing;And the wheat smiles to gentle lightAs if ’twere a living thing.

Moving, in shocks of garnered maize,

Is many a fluttering wing;

And the wheat smiles to gentle light

As if ’twere a living thing.

In showers, their crimson garments fallFrom off majestic forms,Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm,Are fearless of wildest storms.

In showers, their crimson garments fall

From off majestic forms,

Whose hearts, in the living sap kept warm,

Are fearless of wildest storms.

Round us the forest, in mellow haze,Shuts a still glory in;Under its shadow the cattle graze—Soon to it we shall win!

Round us the forest, in mellow haze,

Shuts a still glory in;

Under its shadow the cattle graze—

Soon to it we shall win!

Shaking their nuts from laden limbs,Sharing the squirrel’s mite,Gaily we’ll gather on tufted mossIn the yellow Autumn light.

Shaking their nuts from laden limbs,

Sharing the squirrel’s mite,

Gaily we’ll gather on tufted moss

In the yellow Autumn light.

By freshening green on the fading grassLife in its depth has stirred,We are not alone among changing leaves,For, hark! there’s a singing bird!

By freshening green on the fading grass

Life in its depth has stirred,

We are not alone among changing leaves,

For, hark! there’s a singing bird!

FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

———

BY JAMES M’CARROLL.

———

When, in his strength, the monarch of the airSoars proudly through the azure fields of heaven,His pinions burning in the noontide glare,Or flashing in the deep reddyes of even,He sees the earth receding from his eye,And looking round him, in his chainless glee,Utters a loud, a long, wild, piercing cry—And that’s the joyous shout of Liberty.But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains,And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare,Beneath the icy pressure of his chains,How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;—And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods,Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free,He looks up through those shining solitudes,And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery.If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove,Say, how can we upon our fetters smile,Save those that, woven by the hand of Love,Are round us flung with many a tender wile?So pure a shrine of Freedom is the soul,That could our chains lose all their weight and chill,And, ’twined with light, extend from pole to pole,We’d sigh and feel that we were captives still.

When, in his strength, the monarch of the air

Soars proudly through the azure fields of heaven,

His pinions burning in the noontide glare,

Or flashing in the deep reddyes of even,

He sees the earth receding from his eye,

And looking round him, in his chainless glee,

Utters a loud, a long, wild, piercing cry—

And that’s the joyous shout of Liberty.

But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains,And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare,Beneath the icy pressure of his chains,How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;—And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods,Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free,He looks up through those shining solitudes,And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery.

But when he leaves those vast ethereal plains,

And falls into the fowler’s hidden snare,

Beneath the icy pressure of his chains,

How soon his sounding wing hangs listless there;—

And oft, as o’er their galling links he broods,

Dreaming of the bright hours when he was free,

He looks up through those shining solitudes,

And shrieks—the bitter shriek of Slavery.

If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove,Say, how can we upon our fetters smile,Save those that, woven by the hand of Love,Are round us flung with many a tender wile?So pure a shrine of Freedom is the soul,That could our chains lose all their weight and chill,And, ’twined with light, extend from pole to pole,We’d sigh and feel that we were captives still.

If thus ’tis, from the eagle to the dove,

Say, how can we upon our fetters smile,

Save those that, woven by the hand of Love,

Are round us flung with many a tender wile?

So pure a shrine of Freedom is the soul,

That could our chains lose all their weight and chill,

And, ’twined with light, extend from pole to pole,

We’d sigh and feel that we were captives still.

NATURE AND ART.

———

BY SAMUEL MARTIN.

———

Whenwe see an insect in the fields pumping a sweet fluid from the nectaries of flowers, and carrying it home and storing it in convenient receptacles, which it carefully covers so as to exclude the dust and hinder evaporation, we are filled with devout astonishment; and as we write hymns about the “Little Busy Bee,” in her industry and foresight, and curious contrivances, we recognize an all-pervading Mind and an all-controlling Hand. And in this we are right. But here is another animal, still more resourceful and provident. The bee collects the honey from such flowers as happen to contain it, and which yield it almost ready-made; but she takes no trouble to secure a succession of those flowers or to increase their productiveness. This other creature is at infinite pains to propagate and improve his favorite mellifluent herbs. From the sweet juices of flowers the bee can only elaborate a single fluid, while her rival from the same syrup can obtain a multitude of dainties; and, according to the taste of the consumer, he offers it in the guise of nectar or ambrosia, in crystals of topaz or in pyramids of snow. And when the manufacture is complete, the bee knows only one mode of stowage; this other creature packs it, as the case may require, in bags or baskets, in boxes or barrels, all his own workmanship, and all cleverly made. What, then, is the reason that when we look at a honeycomb we are apt to be reminded of the wisdom and goodness of God; but looking at the same thing magnified—surveying a hundred hogsheads of sugar piled up in a West Indian warehouse—we have no devout associations with the ingenuity and industry which placed them there? Why are chords of pious feeling struck by the proceedings of an insect, and no emotion roused by the on-goings of our fellow-men?

We examine two paper-mills. The one is situated in a gooseberry-bush, and the owner is a wasp. The other covers some acres of land, and belongs to a kind-hearted and popular legislator. But after exploring the latter with all its water-wheels and steam-engines, and with all the beautiful expedients for converting rags into pulp, and then weaving and sizing, and cutting and drying, and folding and packing, we go away admiring nothing except human skill; whereas, the moment Madam Vespa fetches a bundle of vegetable fibres and moistens them with her saliva, and then spreads them out in a patch of whitey-brown, we lift our hands in amazement, and go home to write another “Bridgewater Treatise,” or to add a new meditation to Sturm. That a wasp should make paper at all is very wonderful; but if the rude fabric which she compiles from raspings of wood is wonderful, how much more admirable is that texture which, as it flows from between these flying cylinders for furlongs together, becomes a fit repository for the story of the universe, and can receive on its delicate and evenly expanse, not only the musings of genius but the pictures of Prophecy and the lessons of Inspiration!

However, it is said, the cases are quite distinct. Man has reason to guide him; the lower animal proceeds by instinct. In surveying human handiwork, we admire the resources of reason; in looking at bird architecture or insect manufactures, we are in more direct contact with the Infinite Mind. Their Maker is their teacher, but man is his own instructor; and, therefore, we see the wisdom and goodness of God in the operations of the lower animals more clearly than in our own.

Without arguing the identity of reason and instinct, it will be admitted that the lower animals frequently perform actions which imply a reasoning process. Reverting to our insect illustrations, Huber and others have mentioned cases which make it hard to deny judgment and reflection to the wasp; and the reader who is himself “judicious” will not refuse a tiny measure of his own endowments to the bee. On a bright day, four or five summers since, we were gazing at a clump of fuchsias planted out on a lawn, not far from London. As every one knows, the flower of the fuchsia is a graceful pendent, something like a funnel or red coral suspended with the opening downward; and in the varieties planted on this lawn the tube of the funnel was long and slender. In the case of every expanded flower, we noticed that there was a small hole near the apex, just as if some one had pierced it with a pin. It was not long till we detected the authors of these perforations. The border was all alive with bees, and we soon noticed that in dealing with the fuchsias they extracted the honey through these artificial apertures. They had found the tube of the blossom so long that their haustella could not reach the honey at its farther end; and so, by this engineering stratagem, they got at it sideways. Surely this was sensible. When a mason releases a sweep stuck fast in a chimney by digging a hole in the gable, or when a chancellor of the exchequer gains a revenue by indirect taxation, he merely carries out the principle. And what makes the manœuvre more striking, is the fact that the problem was new. The fuchsias had come from Mexico and Chili not many years ago; whereas the bees were derived from a long line of English ancestors, and could not have learned the art of tapping from their American congeners. In cases such as these, and hundreds which might be quoted, no one feels his admiration of the all-pervading Wisdom lessen as instinct approaches reason, or actually merges in it. In the case of the inferior animals no one feels—The more of reason, the less of God. And, because man is all reason together, why should it be thought that in human inventions and operations there is nothing divine? How is it that in the dyke-building of that beaver, or the nest building of that bird, so many mark the varied evolutions of the Supreme Intelligence; but, when they come to the operations of the artisan or the architect, they are conscious of an abrupt transition, and, feeling the groundless holy, they exclaim,

“God made the country, but man made the town?”

One would think that the right way to regard human handiwork is with the feelings which an accomplished naturalist expresses:—“A reference to the Deity, even through works of human invention, must lead to increased brotherly love among mankind. When we see a mechanic working at his trade, and observe the dexterity which he displays, together with the ingenious adaptation of his tools to their various uses, and then consider the original source of all this, do we not see a being at work, employing for his own purposes an intelligence derived from the Almighty?—and will not such a consideration serve to raise him in our opinion, rather than induce us to look down slightingly upon him for being employed in a mechanical trade? For my own part, when I watch a mechanic at his work I find it very agreeable, and, I believe, a very useful kind of mental employment, to think of him as I would of an insect building its habitation, and in both see the workings of the Deity.”[7]

And yet it must be admitted that few have the feelings which Mr. Drummond describes. They cannot see as much of God in the manipulations of the mechanic as in the operations of the bird or the beaver; nor can a life-boat send their thoughts upward so readily as the shell of a nautilus or the float of a raft-building spider.

The difference is mainly moral. Man is sinful. Many of his works are constructed with sinful motives, and are destined for evil purposes. And the artificer is often a wicked man. We know this, and when we look on man’s works we cannot help remembering this. It is a pure pleasure to watch a hive of bees, but it is not so pleasant to survey a sugar plantation in Brazil, there is a painful thought in knowing how much of their produce will be manufactured into intoxicating liquors. It is pleasant to observe the paper-making of a hymenopterous insect; for it does not swear nor use bad language at its work, and, when finished, its tissues will not be blotted by effusions of impiety and vice; but of this you can seldom be assured in the more splendid manufactures of us lords of the creation. But if this element were guaranteed—if the will of God were done among ourselves even as it is done among the high artificers of heaven and among the humble laborers in earth’s deep places—our feelings should be wholly revolutionized. If of every stately fabric we knew, as we know regarding St. Paul’s, that no profane word had been uttered all the time of its construction; if of every factory we could hope, as of the mills at Lowell, that it is meant to be the reward of good conduct and the gymnasium of intelligence and virtue; if of every fine painting or statue we might believe that, like Michael Angelo’s works, it was commenced in prayer; this suffusion of the moral over the mechanical would sanctify the Arts, and in Devotion’s breast it would kindle the conviction, at once joyful and true, “My Father made them all.”

Still, however, in man’s works, we are bound to distinguish these two things—the mechanical and the moral. When God made man at first, he made him both upright and intelligent; he endowed him with both goodness and genius. In his fall he has lost a large amount of both attributes; but whatever measure of either he retains is still divine. Any dim instincts of devotion, as well as every benevolent affection which lingers in man’s nature are relics of his first estate; and so is any portion of intellectual power which he still possesses. Too often they exist asunder. In our self-entailed economy of defect and disorder, too often are the genius and the goodness divided. Too many of our good men want cleverness, and too many clever men are bad. But, whether consecrated or misdirected, it must not be forgotten that talent, genius, dexterity, are gifts of God, and that all their products, so far as these are innocent or useful, are results of an original inspiration.

It is true that his Creator has not made each individual man an instinctive constructor of railways and palaces, as he has made each beaver a constitutional dyke-builder and each mole a constitutional tunnel-borer. But he has endowed the human race with faculties and tendencies, which, under favoring circumstances, shall eventually develop in railways and palaces as surely as beaver mind has all along developed in dykes, and mole mind worked in tunnels. And just as in carrying out His own great scheme with our species, the Most High has conveyed great moral truths through all sorts of messengers—through a Balaam and a Caiaphas as well as a Daniel and a John;—so, in carrying out His merciful plan, and gradually augmenting our sum of material comfort, the Father of earth’s families has conveyed His gifts through very various channels, sometimes sending into our world a great discovery through a scoffing philosopher, and sometimes through a Christian sage. Be the craftsman what he may; when once we have separated the moral from the mechanical—the sin which is man’s from the skill which is Jehovah’s—in every exquisite product, and more especially in every contribution to human comfort, we ought to recognize as their ultimate origin the wisdom and goodness of God. The arts themselves are His gift; the abuse alone is human. And just as an enlightened Christian looks forth on the landscape, and in its fair features as well as its countless inhabitants beholds mementoes of his Master; so, surveying a beautiful city, its museums and its monuments, its statues and fountains, or sauntering through a gallery of art or useful inventions—in all the symmetry of proportion and splendor of coloring, in every ingenious device and every powerful engine, he may read manifestations of that mind which is “wonderful in counsel and excellent in working;” and, so far as skill and adaptation and elegance are involved, piety will hail the Great Architect himself as the Maker of the Town.

Reason may be regarded as the Instinct of the human race. Like instinct, commonly so called, it has an irresistible tendency toward certain results; and when circumstances favor, these results evolve. But reason is a slow and experimental instinct. It is long before it attains to any optimism. The inferior races are only repeating masterpieces which their ancestor produced in the year of the world One. Man is constantly improving on his models, and there are many inventions on which he has only hit in this 59th century of his existence. Nevertheless, as the oak is in the acorn, so these inventions have from the first been in the instinct of humanity. That is, if you say that its nest was in the mind of the bird, or its cocoon in the mind of the silk-worm as it came from the hand of its Maker, and if you consequently deem it true and devout to recognize in these humble fabrics a trace of the wisdom which moulds the universe; so we say that the Barberini Vase and the Britannia Bridge existed in the mind of our species when first ushered into this earthly abode, and now in the providential progress of events these germs have developed in structures of beauty or grandeur, whilst admiring the human workmanship, it is right and it is comely to adore the original Authorship.

His are the minerals and the metals, the timbers and the vegetable tissues, from which our houses and our ships, our clothing and our furniture, are fabricated. Of these, the variety is amazing, and it plainly indicates that, in the arrangements of this planet, the Creator contemplated not only the necessities but the enjoyments of his intelligent creatures. For instance, there might have been only one or two metals; and the eagerness with which tribes confined to copper, or to gold and silver, grasp at an axe or a butcher’s whittle, shows how rich are the tribes possessing iron. But even that master-metal, with all his capabilities, and aided by his three predecessors, cannot answer every purpose. The chemist requires a crucible which will stand a powerful heat, and which, withal, does not yield to the corroding action of air or water. Gold would answer the latter, and iron the former purpose, well; but every one knows how readily iron rusts and how easily gold melts. But there is another metal—platinum—on which air and water have not the slightest action, and which stands unscathed in the eye of a furnace where iron would run down like wax, and gold would burn like paper. In the same way there are many ends for which none of these metals are available, but which are excellently answered by tin, and lead, and zinc, and rhodium, and mercury. Or will the reader bestow a passing thought on his apparel? His forefathers found one garment sufficient, and for mere protection from the weather a suit of cat-skin or sheep-skin might still suffice. But, oh reader! what a romance is your toilette! and should all the rest of you be prose, what a poem you become when you put on your attire! That snowy lawn once blossomed on the banks of the Don or the Dnieper, and before it shone in a London drawing-room, that broad-cloth comforted its rightful owner amidst the snows of the Cheviots. Did these boots really speak for themselves, you would find that the upper leathers belonged to a goat, and the soles to a horse or a cow. And could such metamorphic retributions happen now as in the days of Ovid, the best way to punish the pride of an exquisite would be to let every creature come and recover his own. A worm would get his satin cravat, and a pearl oyster his studs; and if no fabulous beaver laid claim to his hat, the rats of Paris or the kittens of Worcester would assuredly run off with his gloves. But viewed in a graver and truer light, it is marvellous from how many sources we derive the several ingredients in the simplest clothing, many of them essential to health, and most of them conducive to our well-being; so that we need not go to the crowded mart or the groaning wharf in order to convince ourselves of earth’s opulent resources. Few will read these pages who have not the evidence at home. Open that cupboard, unlock that wardrobe, look round the chamber where you are seated, and think a little of all the kingdoms of Nature and all the regions of the globe from which their contents have been collected, and say if the Framer of this world is not a bountiful Provider. “O Lord, how manifold are thy works! The earth is full of thy riches; so is this great and wide sea.”

The Supreme Governor has so ordered it, that the progress of the arts—that is, of human comfort and accommodation—shall be nearly in proportion to human industry, sobriety, and peacefulness. The last thirty years have been fraught with inventions, chiefly because they have been years of peace. In England, however, the reign of Charles II. was tolerably tranquil; but, except for the accident of Newton and the Royal Society, its peace was the parent of few discoveries, for it was a peace which had converted the noise of the warrior, not into the quiet of the artisan, but into the din of the drunken debauchee. Such honor does the Most High put upon peaceful activity and sober perseverance, that wherever these exist economic comfort is sure to follow. Thus, without uncommon intellectuality, and with a false religion, the Chinese anticipated many of the arts of modern Europe. Whilst Christendom, so called, was divided betwixt lazy monks and a brutal soldiery—whilst mediæval churchmen were droning masses, and feudal barons amused themselves in knocking out each other’s brains—the Chinese, neither fierce nor indolent, were spinning silk and manufacturing porcelain, compiling almanacs, and sinking Artesian wells. And long before any Friar Schwartz, or Gutenberg, or Flavio di Gioia, had revealed them to the Western World, the pacific and painstaking Chinese were favored with prelibations of our vaunted discoveries—gunpowder, book-printing, and the mariner’s compass.

We have compared our world to a well-furnished dwelling, in which, however, many of the treasures are locked up, and it is left to patience and ingenuity to open the several doors. Caoutchouc and gutta percha have always been elastic and extensible; but it is only of late that their properties have been ascertained and turned to profitable account. The cinchonas had grown for five thousand years in Peru before the Jesuit missionaries discovered the tonic influence which the bark exerts on the human system. Steam was always capable of condensation, so as to leave in its place a vacuum; but it is only a century and a half since it struck the Marquis of Worcester to employ this circumstance as a motive power. And ever since our earthly ball was fashioned, electricity has been able to sweep round it at the rate of ten times each second, though it is only within the last few years that Professor Wheatstone thought of sending tidings on its wings. And doubtless the cabinets still unlocked contain secrets as wonderful and as profitable as these; whilst the language of Providence is, “Be diligent, and be at peace among yourselves, and the doors which have defied the spell of the sorcerer and the battle-axe of the warrior will open to the prayer of harmonious industry.”

So thoroughly provided with all needful commodities is the great house of the world, that, in order to obtain whatever we desiderate, seldom is aught else requisite than a distinct realization of our want and a determined effort to supply it. In working mines, one of the difficulties with which the excavator has to contend is the influx of water. The effort to remedy this evil gave birth to the steam-engine; and, with the relief afforded by the steam-pump, many mines are easily and profitably wrought which otherwise must have long since become mere water-holes. But a worse enemy than water encounters the collier, in the shape of fire-damp, or inflammable gas. Formerly, in quarrying his subterranean gallery, the axe of the unsuspecting pitman would pierce a magazine of this combustible air, and unlike water, there being nothing to bewray its presence, it filled the galleries with its invisible serpent-coils; and it was not till a candle approached that it revealed itself in a shattering explosion, and a wretched multitude lay burning and bleeding along its track—a fearful hecatomb to this fiery dragon. What was to be done? Were the blast furnaces of Wales and Wolverhampton to be extinguished, and were household fires to go out? Or, for the sake of a blazing ingle and good cutlery, were brave men still to be sacrificed to this Moloch of the mine? The question was put to Science, and Science set to work to solve it. Many good expedients were suggested, but the most ingenious was in practice the simplest and safest. It was ascertained that a red heat, if unaccompanied by flame, will not ignite the fire-damp; and it was also known, that the most powerful flame will not pass through wire-gauze, if the openings are sufficiently small. A lamp or a candle might, therefore, be put into a lantern of this gauze, and then plunged into an atmosphere of inflammable air; and whilst the flame inside the lantern gave light enough to guide the laborer, none of that flame could come through to act as a match of mischief. And now, like a diver in his pneumatic helmet, the miner, with his “Davy,” can traverse in security, the depths of an inflammable ocean.

So plentiful is the provision for our wants, that little more is needed than a distinct statement in order to secure a supply. During his long contest with England, and when both the ocean and the sugar-growing islands were in the power of his enemy, Napoleon said to hissavans, “Make sugar for the French out of something which grows in France.” And, like Archimedes with the tyrant’s crown, they set to work on the problem. They knew that sugar is not confined to the Indian cane. They knew that it can be obtained from many things—from maple, and parsnips, and rags; but the difficulty was to obtain it in sufficient quantities, and by an inexpensive process. However, knowing the compartment in which the treasure was concealed, they soon found the key; and it was not long till beet-root sugar was manufactured in thousands of tons, nearly as good, though not nearly so cheap, as the produce of England’s colonies. A few years ago the British Foreign Office had a dispute with the Neapolitan Government. The best sulphur is found in Sicily, and from that island Great Britain imports for its own manufactures about 20,000 tons a year. On the occasion referred to, the Neapolitan Government was about to complete an arrangement which would have enormously enhanced the price of this important commodity. Some wished that England should make it acasus belli, and send her ships of war to fetch away the brimstone by force. But the chemists of England took the quarrel into their own hands; and, had not the King of Naples yielded, doubtless we should now have been supplied with sulphur from sources at command but yet undeveloped.

A modification of the same problem is constantly occurring to practical science, and its almost uniform solution shows that our world has been arranged with a benevolent eye to the growing comfort of the greater number. Science is perpetually importuned to cheapen commodities; and by substituting a simple method for an intricate process, or by making a common material fulfill the part of a rare one, it is every year giving presents to the poor. Few substances are more essential to our daily comfort than soda. It is a large constituent of glass and soap, and many other useful articles. The cleanliness of a nation depends on the cheapness of soda; and if soda is cheap, you can substitute plate-glass for crown in your windows, and you can adorn your apartments with glazed pictures and mirrors. So that from the bleacher who spends thousands-a-year on the carbonate, to the apprentice who in the dog-days lays out a penny on ginger-beer or soda-water, all are interested in the cheapness of soda. But this alkali used to be dear. Small quantities were found native, and larger supplies were obtained from the burning of sea-weed. Still the cost was considerable. However, it was well known that a vast magazine of the precious article surrounds us on every side. The sea is water changed to brine by a salt of soda. If only a plan could be contrived for separating this soda from the hydro-chloric acid, which makes it common salt, there is at our doors a depot large enough to form a Mont Blanc of pure soda. That plan was discovered; and now a laundress buys a pound of soda (the carbonate) for three half-pence, and the baker of unfermented bread can procure the more costly bicarbonate for sixpence.

Lately, if not still, in the shops of provincial apothecaries, no article was in such demand as one styled in the Pharmacopœia, muriate of magnesia. This popular medicine was first obtained by evaporation from certain mineral waters, and as the supply was limited the price was high. But few ingredients could be cheaper than the earth and the acid from which it is combined. The earth forms whole mountains, and the acid is that cheap one set free when the soda is separated from common salt. Accordingly, chemists went to work, and in their laboratories did what the mineral spring had been doing since the Deluge, and by a simple process they manufactured the muriate of magnesia. A few years ago, looking at the remarkable rocks of magnesian limestone which defend the Durham coast, near Shields, our companion remarked, “Many a hundred tons of these rocks have we converted into Epsom salts!”

“Waste not, want not.” An adage which received a touching sanction when, after a miraculous feast, and when He could have converted the whole region into bread, the Saviour said, “Gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” And in the progress of discovery, God is constantly teaching us not to waste anything, for this is a world of which nothing need be lost. At the woollen factories of Rheims there used to accumulate a refuse, which “it cost something to throw away.” This was the soap-water containing the fatty matters washed from the woollen stuffs, along with some soda and other ingredients. With its offensive scum this soap-water was a nuisance, and required to be put out of the way with all convenient speed. But now, from one portion of it gas is manufactured, sufficient to supply all the works, and the remainder yields a useful soap.[8]In the same way, when Lord Kaims found himself proprietor of an extensive peat-moss in the neighborhood of Stirling, with characteristic energy he commenced its improvement. On digging through the moss, he came to a rich alluvial soil; so that to his sanguine imagination, fifteen hundred acres, at whose barrenness his neighbors laughed, were a splendid estate, covered over meanwhile by a carpet seven feet thick. To lift this carpet was the puzzle: for every acre of it weighed some hundred tons. But “the mother of invention” is the near kinswoman of most Highland lairds, and “necessity” suggested a plan to Lord Kaims: a plan which must have approved itself to the mind of a judge, for, by a sort of retributive process, it forced the element which had done the damage to undo it again. By a hydraulic contrivance, a powerful current of water was made to traverse the moss and carry off the loosened fragments, till they reached the river Forth, and were finally floated into the German Ocean. And now “a waste,” which last century was the haunt of the curlew, is covered with heavy crops, and yields its proprietor a revenue of two or three thousand pounds a year. But had Lord Kaims foreseen Mr. Reece’s researches into the composition and capabilities of “bog-earth,” he would, perhaps, have hesitated before he consigned such a treasure to the deep. At this moment we are writing by the light of a candle which last year was a peat! And, however opinion may differ as to the probable expense of the process, there can be no doubt that peat yields in large quantities the ammonia which is so largely used by farmers; the acetic and pyroligneous acids, extensively employed by calico-printers, hatters, etc.; and, along with naptha, a fatty substance capable of being converted into beautiful candles; so that Mr. Owen’s benevolent calculation will, doubtless, sooner or later be fulfilled, and “Irish moss” become a cure for Irish misery.[9]It is pleasant to know that on every side we are surrounded with mines of unexamined wealth. Some of the old workings may be exhausted; but if we be only devout and diligent new veins will open. Forty years ago, so much oil was required for lighting the streets of cities as well as for private dwellings, that fears began to be entertained lest the great oil-flask of the Northern Ocean might run dry, and the whale family be extirpated. That fear was superseded when, in 1812, gas illumination was introduced.

“The best of things is water.” So sang a very ancient Greek; and of all the fragments preserved in Aristotle’s “Rhetoric,” hydropathy and teetotalism have assigned the palm to this old water-poem. Not so our ship-owners. To them the sorest of problems and the saddest of expenses is water. Soup can be inspissated into osmazome, and meat can be squeezed into pemican; but water is not compressible, and it is rather provoking to see the space available for stowage occupied by tanks and barrels of this cheap element. Many expedients have been suggested, and some have partially succeeded. But since we began to write this paper, our attention has been called to a beautiful contrivance which promises to conquer every difficulty. By means of Mr. Grant’s Distilling Galley,[10]the brine may be pumped up from the ocean, and, after cooking the mess of the largest ship’s company, it may be collected in the form of the purest fresh water, to the extent of some hundred gallons each day. Nor is it only a vast saving of room which is effected by this beautiful expedient. It is a saving of time. Frequently ships are compelled to leave the straight route, and sometimes lose a favoring wind, in quest of water. But a ship provided with this apparatus is as independent as if she were sailing over a fresh water lake; and, instead of putting into port, she has only to resort to the never-failing pump. And we may add that it is not only space and time which are saved, but the health of the crew and the passengers. With every precaution cistern-water is apt to spoil, and in the Indian Seas and other regions the water obtained on shore is apt to occasion disease. But the produce of this engine is always as pure as the rain which falls from the clouds.

When Pythagoras demonstrated the geometrical proposition, that in a rectangular triangle the sum of the two lateral squares is equal to the square of the hypotenuse, he is said to have offered the sacrifice of a hundred oxen. In modern art we fear that there are many discoveries for which the thank-offering has not yet been rendered.

Both the reader and the writer are deeply indebted to that gracious Providence which has cast our lot in the most favored of all times. Chiefly through the progress of the Arts, the average of existence has been lengthened many years, and into these years it is possible to concentrate an amount of literary acquisition, and moral achievement, and intellectual enjoyment, for which Methuselah himself had not leisure. For lives thus lengthened let us show our gratitude by living to good purpose; and, remembering that railways and telegraphs and steam-printed books are the good gifts of God, let the age which enjoys them be also the age of holiest obedience and largest benevolence.

[7]Drummond’s Letters.

[7]

Drummond’s Letters.

[8]Knapp’s “Chemical Technology,” p. 179.

[8]

Knapp’s “Chemical Technology,” p. 179.

[9]See Professor Brande’s “Lecture,” Jan 31, 1851.

[9]

See Professor Brande’s “Lecture,” Jan 31, 1851.

[10]The invention of Mr. Grant, of the Victualling Department, Somerset House.

[10]

The invention of Mr. Grant, of the Victualling Department, Somerset House.

SNOW.

———

BY J. P. ADDISON.

———

Falling, falling,The snow is falling;Floating, falling,To the earth tendingWith motion unending;Floating, falling.Veiled are the mountains,Dim is the plain;Who looketh afar,He looketh in vain;Wrapped in the shower,Dark pines tower,Shadow-like near,Arms outspread,As over the dead,Solemn and drear.Snow-birds cheerilyChirp as they fly;Ravens drearilyAnswer on high:Else, in the distance,One who listens,Naught may hear,Voice nor sound,In the country round,Far or near.Roof of the cottageAnd vine at the door,Chimney and latticeAre rounded o’er;The black treeIs fair to seeIn its net of snow,And the apple-boughBends nearer nowTo the casement low.The paths lie buried,The storm covers all,The high-road wideAnd the house-path small;Hid is the stainOf wind and rainOn the fences nigh,And afar, each rowWith the feathery snowIs rounded high.Muffled and heavilyMoveth the wain,Wearily waitethAnd moveth again;How for his hearth-fireSigheth the farmerHere in the storm;There, the fire verilyCrackleth merrilyThinks he, and warm.Gained that warm hearth-side,Glad by the fire’Mid his dear loved onesSitteth the sire.“Ah the fire verilyCrackleth merrily,Children mine,”In the answering gleamGlad faces beam,The white walls shine.Still it is falling,The snow is falling,Floating, falling;To the earth tendingWith motion unending,Floating, falling.

Falling, falling,The snow is falling;Floating, falling,To the earth tendingWith motion unending;Floating, falling.

Falling, falling,

The snow is falling;

Floating, falling,

To the earth tending

With motion unending;

Floating, falling.

Veiled are the mountains,Dim is the plain;Who looketh afar,He looketh in vain;Wrapped in the shower,Dark pines tower,Shadow-like near,Arms outspread,As over the dead,Solemn and drear.

Veiled are the mountains,

Dim is the plain;

Who looketh afar,

He looketh in vain;

Wrapped in the shower,

Dark pines tower,

Shadow-like near,

Arms outspread,

As over the dead,

Solemn and drear.

Snow-birds cheerilyChirp as they fly;Ravens drearilyAnswer on high:Else, in the distance,One who listens,Naught may hear,Voice nor sound,In the country round,Far or near.

Snow-birds cheerily

Chirp as they fly;

Ravens drearily

Answer on high:

Else, in the distance,

One who listens,

Naught may hear,

Voice nor sound,

In the country round,

Far or near.

Roof of the cottageAnd vine at the door,Chimney and latticeAre rounded o’er;The black treeIs fair to seeIn its net of snow,And the apple-boughBends nearer nowTo the casement low.

Roof of the cottage

And vine at the door,

Chimney and lattice

Are rounded o’er;

The black tree

Is fair to see

In its net of snow,

And the apple-bough

Bends nearer now

To the casement low.

The paths lie buried,The storm covers all,The high-road wideAnd the house-path small;Hid is the stainOf wind and rainOn the fences nigh,And afar, each rowWith the feathery snowIs rounded high.

The paths lie buried,

The storm covers all,

The high-road wide

And the house-path small;

Hid is the stain

Of wind and rain

On the fences nigh,

And afar, each row

With the feathery snow

Is rounded high.

Muffled and heavilyMoveth the wain,Wearily waitethAnd moveth again;How for his hearth-fireSigheth the farmerHere in the storm;There, the fire verilyCrackleth merrilyThinks he, and warm.

Muffled and heavily

Moveth the wain,

Wearily waiteth

And moveth again;

How for his hearth-fire

Sigheth the farmer

Here in the storm;

There, the fire verily

Crackleth merrily

Thinks he, and warm.

Gained that warm hearth-side,Glad by the fire’Mid his dear loved onesSitteth the sire.“Ah the fire verilyCrackleth merrily,Children mine,”In the answering gleamGlad faces beam,The white walls shine.

Gained that warm hearth-side,

Glad by the fire

’Mid his dear loved ones

Sitteth the sire.

“Ah the fire verily

Crackleth merrily,

Children mine,”

In the answering gleam

Glad faces beam,

The white walls shine.

Still it is falling,The snow is falling,Floating, falling;To the earth tendingWith motion unending,Floating, falling.

Still it is falling,

The snow is falling,

Floating, falling;

To the earth tending

With motion unending,

Floating, falling.

THE LOST DEED.

A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.

———

BY E. D. ELIOT.

———

(Continued from page 29.)

Oneday after one of the youth’s little visits to the terrace, Captain and Mrs. Stimpson were sitting at the door enjoying the afternoon breeze which came fresh from the ocean, and watching the craft in the harbor, when Judith came skipping up to the door, with a great red rose in her hand. Her father accosted her:

“Judy, my gal, where have you been? Sir’s flower! Come, light old daddy’s pipe for him, and tell what that youngster has been talking about so long at the gate.”

“Oh, I will, sir,” (jumping on her father’s knee, and putting the rose in his button-hole,) “if you will please call me Judith, and not keep calling yourself old daddy. You are not old, I am sure. He always says pa, or my father, and it sounds so much prettier—don’t it, ma?”

“He! who’s he?” chuckled the delighted father, winking to his wife.

“Why, didn’t you say George Fayerweather, sir?” asked Judith, stroking his chin. “He often asks me why I don’t call you two, pa and ma. Now, wont you promise not to laugh at me if I call you so sometimes?”

“You may call me what you please, if you don’t call me too late to dinner,” said her father. “But you don’t tell your old dad—father, I mean—what you’ve been talking about.”

“Why, he says,” she replied in a tremulous voice, her rosy lip quivering, “he’s going to sea soon, to be gone a year; and he says”—her eyes brightening—“that he means to bring you home the handsomest pipe he can find up the Straits.”

“I thank the lad, I thank him,” said the captain, with his usual sonorous h-m-gh; “that youngster’s a smart chap.” Turning to his wife—“Mind what I say, he’ll turn out something remarkable.”

“And he is going to bring you, mother, a beautiful tortoise shell snuff-box.”

“And what is he going to bring you, my darling?” said her father.

“I told him I would not have any thing.”

“And what did he say to you, dear?” asked her mother.

“Here comes old Mary to call us to tea,” said Judith, glad to dispose of the interrogatory in so propitious a manner.

Could you have seen Captain Stimpson at his well-furnished board, you would have been at no loss to account for his rotundity. Judith presided, with her father and mother on the side at her left hand, old grandsir Stimpson, in his arm-chair, at her right, and Mr. Solomon Tarbox, the foreman of the rope-walk, on the fourth side, opposite to her. A small, japanned tea-tray was placed before her, upon which were ranged the tea-cups of burnt china, about the size of egg-shells, with saucers to match, a silver sugar-dish and cream-pitcher, but little larger than those which would grace a child’s baby-house at the present day, and two shining black tea-pots, each holding about a pint, one filled with the best bohea and the other with boiling water.

A pewter tankard, filled with small-beer of Mrs. Stimpson’s own brewing, was placed at her husband’s right hand; it being a beverage of which he was fond, not being able to bring himself to like the new-fangled wishy-washy stuff called tea. Before grandsir was placed a small mug of peppermint-tea, which the old gentleman thought more healthful. A lobster in his scarlet suit occupied the centre of the table; flanked on one side by a parallelogram of smoked salmon, six inches by seven; on the other by a dish of cold baked beans. A plate of white bread and another of brown, half an oblate spheroid of butter, and a truncated cone of Dutch cheese found a place on the table; and to crown all, a dish of miracles, a kind of cake much in vogue in those days, and not differing materially from the crullers of New York, being the same, under a different name, with the Massachusetts dough-nuts of more modern date, excepting that the dough was formed into grotesque figures, displaying the fancy of the compounder to great advantage. In this article Judith particularly excelled, few possessing either her taste or fancy.

The old grandsir, in his white linen cap, pushed a little back from his furrowed brow, with clasped hands, and in a tremulous voice, asked a blessing; to which his son responded with an audible amen, followed by his usual h-m-gh. Judith commenced the operation of pouring out the tea, first ascertaining that her grandfather’s peppermint was to his taste, and being commended by him for having his little slip of salt fish broiled to a nicety; for notwithstanding the usual abundance of his son’s table, the good man always chose to have something prepared exclusively for himself. Judith handed the tea with a natural grace, equaling any elegance acquired at a modern boarding-school.

Her father, after seeing that all were well supplied with the good things on his table, took up his pewter tankard, and with a respectful nod to the old gentleman said, “Father, my sarvice to you; Miss Stimpson, my sarvice; sarvice, sarvice,” nodding to Judith and Mr. Tarbox; then applying the vessel to his lips, he took a long and apparently a very refreshing draught. Judith, though a beauty and a heroine, despised not the vulgar enjoyments of eating and drinking, but valued them as social pleasures.

After ample justice being done to the meal by all parties, Captain Stimpson and Mr. Tarbox went off to the rope-walk. Grandsir, removing his chair to a window, where the afternoon breeze blew in refreshingly, and placing his Bible, his favorite companion, on his knees, was soon in a gentle slumber; his head thrown back on his comfortable chair, and his hands folded on the pages of the sacred volume before him, opened at his favorite last of Revelations. Mrs. Stimpson, taking up her knitting-work, sat herself down by the side of the table, to superintend the clearing away of the tea-things. She followed Judith with her fond eyes, as the little maiden tripped lightly about in her neat, speckled apron, putting every thing in its place in the most housewifely manner, and directing old Mary in an affectionate and cheerful tone of voice.

She put away the tea-things in their accustomed places, in the little buffet with glass-doors, at the corner of the room, in which three mandarins of china were conspicuous, one on the middle projection of each shelf: then seating herself down at the window, she began to ply her needle in the embroidering of various figures in fine cat-gut to imitate lace; a kind of ladies’ work as much in vogue in those days as the worsted and crochet-work has been in our day.

Captain Stimpson soon joined them with his pipe, but their conversation was interrupted by a gentle rap at the tea-room door, and on the captain’s opening it, George Fayerweather appeared, with a lame excuse for so soon repeating his visit. He was cordially received by the captain, who invited him to sit down, which he immediately did, in such a manner as to occupy the whole width of a window in the front parlor, to which the family now all adjourned; grandsir rousing and going with them, as he loved to doze by the sound of his children’s voices. The evening being fairly set in, a light was brought by old Mary; but being placed in a little cupboard, the door of which was nearly closed, the rest of the room was left in obscurity.

The little party remained for some time almost in silence; the coolness of the hour, after the heat of the day, bringing to each a sense of tranquil enjoyment, which none felt disposed to interrupt by conversation. It is in such moments, that throwing off the cares of life, and forgetting its sorrows and disappointments, in the presence of those best loved, one feels possessed of a treasure of happiness—though the hoard maybe small—which wholly fills the mind and satisfies the wishes. “The heart” does not “distrustful ask if this be joy,” secure in the sober certainty. These are the moments, which, in their flight, mark their traces most deeply in the memory, over which we brood as a miser over his gold, and which, when past never to return, leave the heart most desolate.

The beauty of the evening drew many from their dwellings to enjoy it in the open air, and others whom thrift or need forbade to suspend longer their occupations, resumed them with fresh vigor—a murmur of voices, mingled with other sounds of busy life, softened and blended by distance, found its way into the open windows of the apartment.

At intervals, a faint and distant strain of music was heard, at first scarcely perceptible, and which each one might have attributed to imagination as it occasioned no remark; but on the breeze freshening the sounds drew nearer, and at length a strange and beautiful melody was poured forth, melancholy though delicious, which drew an exclamation of surprise and delight from the whole party.

“Oh, what is it!” exclaimed Judith; “what can it be, and where does it come from?” as a sensation almost amounting to superstition stole over her.

“It sounds,” said the father, “almost like the music which I’ve heard many a time, when I was before the mast, from some of the big churches in foreign parts, as it came over the water, whilst I kept watch on deck of a moonlight night, when the vessel was near port.”

Here the old gentleman arousing, cried out, “I’ve been asleep, I declare—what a beautiful dream I’ve had. I dreamed I was in the New Jerusalem, and was walking by the side of the river, where was the Tree of Life, with twelve manner of fruits hanging from its branches. I heard the angels with their golden harps—though somehow I couldn’t see them—why, there it is again!”

Here a swell of wild harmony filled the room, prolonged and varied for a moment, and dying away in a low wail. Judith felt her eyes fill with tears as the strain ceased, and looking in the direction where George was sitting, exclaimed, “Oh, it comes from that window! I know it does! I thought so all the time.”

George now spoke—“Well, come let us see if we can find it.”

On her approach, as he sought her hand to draw her to the window, she drew back, saying she must get the light; on bringing which, a long, slender box of polished wood was discovered, filling the space in the window, which was opened just wide enough to admit it. The sounds were now found to proceed from strings stretched across its upper surface, (which was carved and gilded,) and fastened at each end by pegs of ivory and brass. The delighted girl asked in wonder—

“What is it? Where did it come from? Whose is it?”

The latter of which interrogatories George answered by pointing to her name carved at full length at one end, his own initials, in very small characters, appearing beneath.

“It is an Eolian harp,” he said, “it is played upon by the winds, and is a little conjuror—if you should happen to have an acquaintance at sea”—here he looked full in her blushing face with an expression of much feeling, his voice slightly trembling—“and should care to know any thing how he fared, put the harp in the window, and the winds will waft the intelligence across the ocean, and as the strains are in harmony or in discord you may judge of his welfare.”

She replied—“Oh, how much I thank you for it. But I am sure I should not forget you without it—oh, I am sure I should not,” she added, in a lower tone.

He then seized her scissors, which hung at her side by its silver chain, and looking into her face for permission, separated a silken ringlet from her head, and, folding it carefully, placed it in his bosom, then, the evening being somewhat advanced, he took his leave.

When the point of George’s going to sea was first settled, his mother’s lamentations were loud and deep; but at length, when the voyage was engaged, and the time drew near for his departure, as was usual with her when an evil was unavoidable, she bore it as well as any one could, and busied herself with alacrity in his equipments. She made great complaints that he could be allowed but one sea-chest; in which, however, she managed to find room for two plum-puddings, half a dozen minced pies, and a roast-turkey, that he might at least keep Thanksgiving, which was near at hand, if not Christmas, on board the vessel.

On the day before he was to sail, a new idea seemed to strike her. She called Mrs. Wendell, who was present and assisting, as usual, when any thing extraordinary was going on in her aunt’s family; and they both went again to the chest. It had been packed and repacked six times already; but with Amy’s assistance, a closely-folded pile of sea-clothes was once more taken out, and by still closer packing, and a different arrangement, room was made for an oblong pasteboard box. She then went to the high chest of drawers of black mahogany, which stood in frowning majesty in her chamber, and was taking out an article laid with great care in one of the drawers, when her husband, who had thought all was finished, entered to see what more she had found to do.

“High! high! what are you doing with my best cravat with the Brussels lace?” he cried.

“La, Mr. Fayerweather, my dear, you know you never wear it only on great occasions—such as a wedding or so; and there is nobody to be married now, before George comes home. I am going to let him have it, for there’s no time to send to Boston for any; and if any thing should happen, you shall have my best set of lace, which is handsomer than this.”

“I don’t know that; but what upon earth can George do with a Brussels’ laced cravat at sea?”

“Oh, my dear, when he’s in London, you know, he may be invited to dine with the king; and I should want to have him dressed suitably.”

“To dine with the king!” cried Mr. Fayerweather, shouting with laughter; “what could have put such an idea into your head?”

Madam was quite offended, and said with great dignity, “Phillis Wheatly drank tea with the queen and I am sure, I do not see why our son may not be invited to dine with the king.”

“Oh, well, my dear, I ask your pardon; let George have the cravat, by all means; and you had better let him have my blue-satin waistcoat, laced with silver, to wear also, when he dines with his majesty,” said Mr. Fayerweather, turning away to hide a good-natured smile.

“Why, I was thinking of that, but we can’t find room for it in the chest; and I suppose he may find one ready made in London.”

This weighty affair settled, and the chest packed again for the seventh and last time, it was locked to go on board the vessel.

The morning came, the wind was fair, and the young sailor took his way to the wharf. “Good-bye, Cousin Amie!” he cried, to Mrs. Wendell, who was waiting at her door to shake hands with him; “when I go up the Straits, I’ll get you the handsomest brocade that was ever seen in Salem.”

In a few weeks after George’s departure, which time passed gloomily away with his family, Madam Brinley, a sister of Mrs. Fayerweather, came to Salem, and moved into the large house, opposite the Fayerweather mansion, which was a joyful event to Madam. The two sisters bore a strong resemblance to each other in features, with some shades of difference in character. Madam Brinley was a few years the elder; her nose might have been a little more pointed, and, perhaps, her temper rather sharper; then she was more worldly, and took more state upon herself. She was a widow of about ten years standing, with a handsome estate. Having lost several children in infancy, she had remaining only two daughters. Molly, the then fashionable cognomen for Mary, was then just fifteen, and Lizzy, two years younger. The three families residing so near together, made the winter a more pleasant one to the little neighborhood—George’s absence furnishing a subject of joyful anticipation in his return.

Early the next spring an important personage made his appearance in Paved Street—no less than a son to Mr. Wendell. He was, as is generally the case with the first, the wonder of the age. Madam Fayerweather declared, “He was the beautifullest baby that ever was seen.” Madam Brinley said, “It was certainly a remarkably fine infant;” while Mr. Fayerweather declared it was the exact counterpart of all the babies he ever saw. I am sorry to say that Mr. Wendell did not comport himself with all the dignity to be expected from his new character; for he only laughed as if he would kill himself, whenever his son was presented to him; but could not be prevailed upon by any means, to take it into his arms, for fear of its falling to pieces; to the great scandal of the little wizened old woman from Marblehead, in whose lap it usually lay, its long robes touching the floor; she averred, “It was a sin and a shame that its sir wouldn’t take to it more, when it was as much like him as two peas in a pod—it was the most knowinist and the most remarkablest baby ever she seed in her baarn days.”

When the young gentleman was in its fourth week, his mother, according to custom, received visitors in her chamber. In these visits, scarcely less state was observed than in those to the bride; but matrons and elderly ladies were alone privileged to make them. If any young damsel had the hardihood to make her appearance within the sacred precincts, though under shelter of her mother’s wing, she was immediately pronounced as cut out for an old maid—and the oracle seldom failed of fulfillment.

The first day on which Mrs. Wendell sat up for company, when she was just attired in a handsome undress, made expressly for the occasion, and was seated in state in her easy chair, while nurse was preparing the baby to display him to the best advantage, Scipio thrust in his black head at the door with a “He! ho! he! Missy Amy, Scip’ got suthen for de picaninny.” Here Madam Fayerweather’s voice was heard reproving him for going before her, when the door was thrown open, and in she came with Scipio after her, bearing a beautiful wicker cradle, lined with white satin. Madam unfolded the cradle-quilt with great pomp and circumstance; and now the grand secret came out—Amy’s wondering eyes beheld the great work—the very work! which had employed all her aunt’s moments of leisure for upward of three years.

It was composed of pieces of silk of every pattern that had been worn in the family for two generations, and cut into every form which Madam’s imagination could devise, or her scissors shape. There were squares, triangles, and hexagons; there were stripes perpendicular, horizontal, and diagonal, with stars, double and single; of brocade, watered tabby, paduasoy, damask, satin, and velvet; in short, it was a very grand affair. After having sufficiently enjoyed her niece’s surprise and pleasure, the happy and triumphant aunt took her grand-nephew from his nurse, and laid him on his new couch, then placed the quilt over him, turned down at the head, to display the lining of pink sarsnet; and being quite satisfied with the additional splendor which thetout ensemblegave to the apartment, she took the baby up again, (he was fortunately a very quiet one,) and put him into the lap of his nurse, until visitors should be heard coming, when he was to be reinstated in all the magnificence of his luxurious cradle. He was christened the next Sunday at church. Mr. Fayerweather having consented to stand as one of the godfathers, Madam, feeling some qualms of conscience, sent to Boston privately for a very rich lace, to replace the one which she had abstracted for George.

The succeeding summer they received two letters from George; both written in high spirits, and discovering a degree of intelligence and good sense which highly gratified his father. That same season, John, the younger son, entered college. Being of bright parts and fond of study, he bade fair to realize all the expectations his father had formed for his brother.

Dark November came again, with its naked trees and sad-colored skies. This gloomy month, in which the inhabitants ofoldEngland are said to be most prone to hang themselves, the Puritan fathers of New England, with greater wisdom, enlivened by the only festival they ever instituted—Thanksgiving. On this occasion, after offering up solemn thanks in public to the bountiful Hand, “who had crowned the year with his goodness,” with all the scattered branches of their families gathered under the patriarchal roof, they indulged in Thanksgiving-dinner—the only approach they ever made to merry-making—an abundant feast of every good thing the seasons had afforded; imparting to the poor a liberal portion. It is to be regretted, that abuses, in time, crept in, in the train of this—it might otherwise be truly called—sacred festival—that cruel sports became connected with its celebration, which have since continued almost to form a part of it. It is like associating the bloody rites of paganism with our most pure and holy worship.

On the Thanksgiving of this year, a family-party was collected at Mr. Fayerweather’s, with the addition of the Episcopal clergyman, Mr. McGregor, the family physician, Dr. Holly, and one or two other friends. In the evening, the accustomed game of Blind Man’s Buff was called for, in which no one was privileged to refuse joining. George’s absence was now loudly lamented, but he was not expected until Christmas. Much merriment and noise, however, succeeded. The good clergyman, an Oxford scholar, and a deep and sound divine, who always went into company ready prepared with a particular subject to debate upon, with all his weapons sharpened for the contest; and who had at length succeeded in engaging Mr. Wendell in a grave discussion on some knotty point in divinity, was obliged to break off, just as he had established the premises to an important conclusion. He joined in the “mad game” with a very bad grace, but by degrees, warming with the sport, he enjoyed it the most of the party, and shouted the loudest when Mr. Fayerweather, on being caught by Lizzy Brinley, left his wig in her hand, and escaped with his bare poll.

Dr. Holly, who loved sport better than his life, on being caught and blindfolded, managed, by a little cheating, to catch Madam Fayerweather, to her unfeigned astonishment. At this juncture, Flora tripped lightly into the room, and whispered to her master, who immediately followed her out, when Vi’let, in a flaming red gown, popped in her head for a moment with a most remarkable expression of countenance. As she closed the door softly, she gave a significant nod to the company, to let them know she was in possession of a great secret.

Mr. Fayerweather a moment after returned, bringing in with him a tall stranger, and made signs to the company to take no notice of the interruption. All passed so silently that Madam did not perceive either the going out or the returning, but continued to sail round the room in her green damask, without being able to catch any one. At length her husband thrust the tall stranger in her way, whom she caught amidst shouts of laughter, succeeded by deep silence, while she was naming him. All eyes were fixed on the stranger with different expressions, which we will not attempt to describe.

Madam cried out, “Well, I’ve caught somebody at last!—who upon earth is it! John, it’s you, I know; you are standing on something to deceive me, you saucy boy.”

Here she felt the clustering curls of the stranger’s head—John’s hair was straight, and all the other masculine heads in company wore peruques—when reminiscences of earlierdays seemed suddenly to strike her, and she threw off her blinder, bringing with it fly-cap and lappets, and exclaiming with a shriek—“Can it be George!”

George, indeed, it was; standing six feet one inch in his shoes. We would describe, if we could, what is indescribable, but which may easily be imagined—the exclamations—the shakes of the hand—the congratulations which followed. After the parents of the newly arrived son had sufficiently admired him, and had expended their stock of wondering expressions at his growth, the rest of the party took their turn, inwardly deciding in their own minds that he was the finest looking fellow they had ever seen. He was, in truth, a noble specimen of manhood; but his curling hair, the overflowing and almost child-like good-humor—the fun, which shone in his full blue eye, and extended his somewhat large mouth and full lips, displaying his brilliantly white teeth, seemed to bespeak him still the boy, despite his giant frame, and the brown tinge which darkened his cheek. The salutations over, the company very considerately took their leave, excepting George’s relatives, who lingered a few moments after the rest to welcome him home again, and to bid him more affectionate adieus.

During breakfast, next morning, the young mariner related his adventures, and the wonders he had beheld in foreign parts; from the first whale he saw, which awoke out of a comfortable afternoon’s nap, just after they had passed “the Banks,” and which, lazily yawning, opened its huge jaws and then closed them again, spouting water as high as the top-gallant mast, to Stromboli, spouting fire for the express entertainment of sailors on a dark night, as they neared the coast of Sicily. Not omitting the Tower of London, where he had held his head in the lion’s mouth for full five minutes.

“You naughty, wicked boy!” exclaimed his mother, almost breathless with terror; “I really believe I should have been tempted to box your ears. Did you ever hear any thing like it, Amy?” The latter during the recital having quietly slipped in, and taken her seat at the table. “Mr. Wendell being obliged to go away by daylight, and the baby not having yet awakened.”

George made no reply, but continued his narrative, eating lump after lump of sugar out of the basin, and escaping the rap over the knuckles, which he would once have had. Then the Cross of St. Paul’s—on the right arm of which he had stood upon one leg, whilst Dick did the same on the left, shaking hands together over the top.

John, who had been listening in silent wonder and delight, at this climax clapped his brother on the shoulder in an ecstasy.

“It is a pity you hadn’t both broken your necks,” exclaimed Mrs. Wendell, in indignation. “What upon earth did you play such pranks for?”

Mr. Fayerweather wore his comical look.

“Why, now, cousin—when I’ve brought you home such a beautiful gown—a rich yellow calamanco, the brightest there was in the shop. Dick went with me on purpose to help me choose it.”

“Where’s the brocade you promised me, you scapegrace?”

“Why, I’m sorry, but I forgot all about it until I came back to London; but I thought being an old married woman now, a nice calamanco would do as well.”

This turn in the conversation changed the current of his mother’s thoughts, and she wished to see the rarities he had brought home. In her impatience, before her husband had half-finished his second cup of coffee, she ordered—I am wrong. The perogative of ordering the servants in this family, Vi’let allowed to none but herself—she desired Scipio to bring in the ponderous sea-chest, the weight of which was a sufficient excuse for the appearance of the other three, each bearing a corner. Aunt Vi’let indulgently making allowances for the curiosity of Flora and Peter, and telling them, patronizingly, “to bear a hand.” Madam and her niece, full of eager expectation, seated themselves on the floor beside the chest, both ready to dive into its deepest recesses, the moment it should be opened.

The first thing which presented itself to view, was a red worsted cap with a famous red tassel. This George threw to Scipio, telling him, it was for him. It was received with a grin from ear to ear.

“Tank you, massa, now Scip got suthen to put on his head nex ’lection. Primus shan’t be king no longer. Scip king heself! He! he! he!”

The others withdrew, they having too much of the pride of the family to be willing to have it supposed they were expecting there was any thing for them. Scipio not being able to restrain his impatience to try on his new finery, pulled it on as he went into the kitchen, exclaiming—

“It fits dizackly!” and in his exultation at the favor shown himself, losing his awe of Vi’let, appealed to her, without her usual title of respect, “if it wasn’t mighty becoming?”

At which, with some indignation, she told him—“He looked like a black monkey with that red cap on his head, and that great thing jigging up and down behind,” betraying some of the infirmity of human nature, at the preference shown her rival.

Mrs. Wendell now pounced upon a package of some size, and opening it, cried—

“Oh, here’s my yellow calamanco; well, it’s really a beauty! Nobody could tell it from a rich satin! I’ll have it made up for Christmas—it’s full handsome enough, aunt, isn’t it? I’m sure, I am much obliged to you, George.”

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