WINTER.

———

BY J. W. FORNEY.

———

Theleaf hath fallen!E’en the withered leaf; and from the treesHath faded Nature’s robe of living green;While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze,Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene—The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers,That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air,When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours,The graceful monarchs of the season were.The song is hushed!And gone those warblers for a softer clime,Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymnMade the gay summer but a trysting time,And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!No more they usher, with their mellow song,The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.The brook is frozen!The babbling streamlet sparkles now no moreIn the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,And sleep is brooding on the modest stream.There are no flowers on its frozen side—The sun shines only with a cheerless glance:Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride,Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

Theleaf hath fallen!

E’en the withered leaf; and from the trees

Hath faded Nature’s robe of living green;

While, thro’ their naked boughs the wintry breeze,

Makes mournful music o’er the vanished scene—

The funeral requiem of those blushing flowers,

That bloomed and flaunted in the sunny air,

When the coy spring-time and her laughing hours,

The graceful monarchs of the season were.

The song is hushed!And gone those warblers for a softer clime,Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymnMade the gay summer but a trysting time,And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!

The song is hushed!

And gone those warblers for a softer clime,

Whose morning welcome, and whose evening hymn

Made the gay summer but a trysting time,

And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!

No more they usher, with their mellow song,The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.

No more they usher, with their mellow song,

The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—

Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,

Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.

The brook is frozen!The babbling streamlet sparkles now no moreIn the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,And sleep is brooding on the modest stream.There are no flowers on its frozen side—The sun shines only with a cheerless glance:Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride,Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

The brook is frozen!

The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more

In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;

The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,

And sleep is brooding on the modest stream.

There are no flowers on its frozen side—

The sun shines only with a cheerless glance:

Still is its melody; and the valley’s pride,

Is calm as Beauty in a pleasing trance.

Lancaster, Pa. January, 1841.

THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

———

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

———

Onewho dothe hymself professe to be the teller of a hystorye, must often be contente to doe that whych in annye other character he would be ashamed to owne to. He must unryddle thoughts, telle tales, spake of factes done pryrilye and not for worldlye showe.A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis.

A Legende of the Monasterye of Lylis.

Whenlife ceases to afford us gratification, we not unfrequently take a strange delight in reviewing and pondering over the misdeeds of the past, and in anticipating the weird and desolate future. This revelling in the consequences of our own depravity; this spirit of darkness and recklessness; this tendency to a defiance of all moral and religious consolation—when morality and religion no longer dwell within us—may be termed the wreck of hope, and life, and salvation; for as the mariner, engulphed by the tempest, faces death in boisterous revelry, so we seek to riot in our own wickedness, and plunge into perdition, rejoicing in the sin, and reckless of its consequences.

Even while I write, the recollection of deeds which might well cause the blood to curdle and the flesh to crawl, thrills me with an awful and savage delight. The open gates of hell are ready to receive me, but I rejoice in anticipating the hour of eternal ruin!

I am a native of Italy—a Venitian by birth; a wanderer by choice. During the political disturbances under the doge, Paolo Reniers, I obtained an office of considerable value; by which I was enabled to enjoy a handsome annuity. For some time the French forces, commanded by Bonaparte, had been endeavoring to take possession of Verona; and had already made some attempts on Venice; but these eruptions were if any thing the means of my promotion. Before the downfall of my patron, I acquired a fortune which placed me on a footing with the patricians of the day. Had heaven so ordained it, I might then have retired to my villa, and in peace and seclusion enjoyed the fruits of my industry; but the seeds of avarice were sown—I was destined to reap their harvest. The intrigues of political life were not sufficiently disgusting to deter me from applying for employment under the government, to the successor of Reniers. That wary craft which had rendered me so indispensable to this corrupt and imbecile monarch, was not overlooked by Lugi Manini; for in a country where duplicity is the chief point, in the education of individuals, to whom the official authority is entrusted; and where art and cunning are so universal as to render every man a match for his fellow, superiority of this kind is regarded with peculiar veneration.

The satellites who swarmed about the court of Manini, were not slow in betraying their jealousy at the preference with which he regarded me; but where jealousy exists there is dissention; and even among my enemies I had my partisans. The rancor of political strife rendered me fierce and haughty; and few dared to avow their hostility in my presence. Hardened in dissimulation, I could at once assume the gentlest tones of friendship, or the most cutting sarcasm, and the coldest frown of dignity. Increase of influence gradually compelled those who at first resorted to the basest methods for my overthrow, to relinquish their attempts, and acquiesce in my measures.

Power, however, was not my chimera. I had contracted an undying thirst for riches. I longed to regard myself as the master of millions. The very clink of gold was sweeter to me than the applause of an enraptured populace. Daily—hourly—my thoughts were concentrated on the darling object of my ambition. That cold and stern temperament, which, in my political schemes, had been fostered by every act of diplomacy, and every duty of my office, rendered me callous to all worldly allurements, save the desire of personal emolument.

Constantly moving in the gaudy circles of the court, I was at once disgusted with the prodigal splendor of every thing around me, and incited to aspire for the most exalted degree of opulence. Those whose power was greater than mine, I merely looked upon as instruments by which the great object of my life was to be effected. Even Manini himself I did not consider in any other light than as one ultimately to be the means of my success. Deceit in the service of others had made me too wary a courtier not to cloak my designs in professions of the most disinterested friendship toward him who was already the tool of my machinations.

The schemes were too well concerted to fail. A few years of untiring zeal found the doge still nominally my patron, but in reality my minion. Wealth had poured in upon me. No longer was the desire of riches a chimera; no longer had I to live in feverish and dreamy suspense; no longer was I fortune’s votary.

Though in the prime of life, I too, passionately loved the possession of my gold, to violate in my enjoyment the strictest rules of economy. I gambled—but that was my business. I drank—but the excitement was necessary to sustain my vital principle.

Having adhered to my victim till he was weak and worthless, I abandoned him for more lucrative game. I sought out the haunts of the young and inexperienced. I became a kind of polite sharper; for though I generally gambled for the riches of my victims, I so managed as to secure the spoils in defiance of ill-fortune.

We all know that the peculiar vices of a man’s character increase in extent as his evil course of life is persisted in; even when that course is not more intrinsically depraved by continuance. It was the case with me. I did not actually rob; I did not murder; I committed no more heinous crime than that of swindling or gambling; and yet every day I became a worse and worse black-hearted man.

Before this epoch in my career had drawn to a close, I became acquainted with the daughter of a Venitian banker. She was not beautiful; she was not accomplished; she was not amiable—but she was rich. At this time, I too, was rich. Both fortunes united would make a brilliant coalescence. I pressed my suit, and succeeded. The foolish girl did not discover till too late, that I despised herself, though I adored her fortune. My wealth was now immense; and it might be supposed that I was satisfied; but my thirst for accumulation was only excited by what I had already acquired. Had I been possessed of the world’s wealth, I am pursuaded I would have wept, like Alexander, because there was nothing left to satisfy my desires.

That fortunate tissue of events which had hitherto marked my career, was destined to be speedily reversed. In Venice there lived at this time an individual, who, if he had not my boldness of purpose and capacity for scheming, was at least my equal in shrewdness and avarice. This person was called Carlo Dolci—a nomenclature which he boasted as certain evidence that he was descended from the great painter of that name. Dolci met me at my accustomed resort—one of those hells with which Venice then abounded. His appearance was peculiarly forbidding; but I fancied I had seen too much of the world to be prejudiced by mere outward show. We were introduced by a mutual friend. I found that my new acquaintance was a man of some knowledge, and of polished and persuasive manners. His characteristic trait was extreme cunning; nor did his grey, twinkling eye and piercing glance contradict what his manners and language bespoke.

One topic led to another. We spoke of games. Dolci with his infernal art, flattered me out of all prudence, by declaring he had heard so much of my skill at play that he was determined to avoid strife in such an accomplished quarter. Fired with a desire to verify his words, I immediately challenged him. We began with moderate stakes, and I won. We doubled, and I still won. We continued to increase the stakes till they amounted to an immense sum. Both were equally excited; but my good fortune did not yet leave me. Dolci, I knew, was rich; and I was determined to fleece him. I doubled the largest stakes we had yet contended for. Dolci was the winner. Maddened at such an unusual reverse, I dared him to contend—fortune against fortune! Each now staked his entire wealth. It was to be riches or poverty to me. The swollen veins stood out on my forehead. A cold perspiration teemed from the brow of Carlo Dolci. His teeth were clenched; his hair wild and matted—his eye unusually haggard. The dice were thrown. I gasped for breath. A dimness came over my eyes. With a dreadful effort I strained them to catch a glimpse of my fate. Merciful God! I had lost—I was a beggar!

With a grim smile, Dolci grasped the stakes. I rushed from the hell, a frenzied wretch. A mocking laugh was borne after me; and I knew no more. For several days I was a raving maniac. When I recovered my reason, I found myself stretched on a pallet in my own house. My wife stood by, with disgust and hatred pictured in her countenance. Her first words were those of contumely and reproach. She did not make any allowance for my situation; she reflected not that it was the province of the female to forgive error, and to administer consolation. I married her for her money; that was gone, and I now was to feel all the miseries of my choice.

The only solace to my afflictions, was a little daughter about eight years old, but uncommonly mature both mentally and physically. She attended me with untiring assiduity; she lifted the cup to my lips; she soothed with her silvery tones the agony of my mind; she sang for me her plaintive airs; she bathed my burning temples; she prayed for me—she wept for me—she was every way the beau ideal of innocence and affection.

“Father,” she would say, “why do you clench your hands—why do you rave of ruin and beggary? We shall all go to work when you recover; and we shall earn more money and be very happy.”

Alas poor Valeria! she little knew the loss I had sustained. It was not the loss of luxury for that I never enjoyed; it was not the loss of domestic peace—for I was a stranger to it; it was not the loss of reputation, for I cared nothing about it; but it was the loss ofMONEY—of that which gave the only zest and pleasure to my life.

One mortification was spared us in our beggary. No splendid edifice was to be abandoned—no luxurious equipage to be sold—no servants to be dismissed—no fine costumes to be sacrificed—no sensitive feelings to be wounded by a change from affluence to penury and want; our condition remained unaltered. While blessed with riches I was too careful of them to be guilty of extravagance. My avarice, not my prodigality, was my ruin. I did not gamble for the pleasure of the game, but from sheer desire to accumulate immense sums of money. I then conducted my affairs on a grand scale. Wealth poured in on me not by degrees, but in floods. Now, however, the time arrived when I was doomed to begin a new career under new auspices. I had no Reniero or Manini to plunder by a few acts of political sagacity. I had no immense states to retrieve my want of luck with Carlo Dolci. To toil up the rugged path—to exert my humble acquirement—to trade—to barter—to beg—were now the only means in my power to make amends for want of prudence.

Having settled my wife and daughter in a small house, I procured, partly on credit and partly with what little was left, a meagre stock of jewelry, with which I sallied out as a travelling pedlar. By adopting this course of life I sacrificed no fine feelings; I never was proud of any thing except of my riches. I considered not that because I had wielded an intriguing pen in the great contest between Bonaparte and Lugi Manini, my dignity would in any degree be lessened by honest exertions for the retrieval of my fortune.

The succeeding epoch in my career may be passed over. To detail the vicissitudes of my wandering life—to dwell upon the manifold reverses of fortune—to trace succinctly the gradual and disheartening manner in which I acquired money—and to portray the eagerness—the infantile delight with which I grasped it and hoarded it to my bosom—would be alike futile and uninteresting.

In struggling between penury and avarice, the autumn of my life passed away. The misery of connubial contention, I am persuaded, whitened the hair of my head, even before my winter had blasted it with its frosts; but heaven ordained it that my declining age should not be harassed by the persecutions of her with whom I had never known an hour of true happiness. She died in a fit of madness—a malady to which her passionate and ungovernable temper had frequently subjected her. It would be adding hypocrisy to my manifold sins to say that I regretted this instance of divine dispensation. I still had a companion—differently, but no less intimately dependent on me for her support and protection. This was my daughter, who had attained her eighteenth year.

Valeria was beautiful—extremely beautiful. I had roamed in the Florentine and Venitian Vatican; I had studied, if not with the eye of an artist, at least with the eye of an ardent admirer, the most exquisite productions of Georgione, Titian, Correggio, and Veronese; I had dwelt in ecstacy on the master-works of every school from the Appellean and Protogenean, to the Lombard, the Bolognese, the Carraci, and the Rasain; but I had never seen any thing either ideal or substantial, so exquisitely symmetrical—so etherially chiselled in every feature—so thoroughly the impersonation of angelic beauty and sweetness, as Valeria. I speak it with a father’s pride; I may be partial, but I believe I am sincere. The dark, luxuriant hair—the languishing eye—the finely rounded arm—the faultless figure bespoke Italian blood; and that too of a gentle quality; for though I claim no distinction, I am myself of noble descent.

In Valeria, then, I saw my future fortune. I had sufficient to support life; but I desired wealth. To sell my daughter to the best advantage was now the sole and engrossing subject of my thoughts. I cared not whether I gained her an honorable alliance or not; money, not titular distinction, was the object for which I determined she should be sacrificed.

There lived in Venice, at this time, a Neapolitan nobleman, of agreeable and accomplished manners, and fine fortune, named Don Ferdinand Razzina, upon whom I had long looked as the instrument by which my schemes were to be consummated. Razzina was young and volatile. His imprudence rendered him easily subservient to my machinations. By the most consummate art I managed that he should get a glimpse at Valeria. This proved sufficient stimulus to an ardent imagination, to fire him with the most extravagant notions of her beauty. He had barely seen her as a flitting shadow: that shadow surpassed to him in loveliness the beau ideal of his airiest dreams. I knew too much of the human heart not to concert my measures on the fact that mystery is the food of love; and in a very short time Don Ferdinand was supplicating at my feet for information concerning the fairy vision he had seen.

“Nothing,” said he, “shall be spared in remuneration for your services. I love her. I shall never love another. My peace and happiness for ever more depend on her. If you respect the passions common to humanity; if you are not devoid of every feeling of sympathy; if you value your own welfare, and my peace of mind—procure me an interview!”

Schooled in cunning, I treated the matter with indifference; I dwelt on other themes—but finding Don Ferdinand deaf to aught, save the engrossing object of his thoughts, I consented to introduce him, on an enormous advance, to my daughter. He seemed much surprised at this declaration; for he had fancied—from what cause I know not—that Valeria was my protege, and the unfortunate pledge of some noble amour. In a moment the truth of my schemes burst upon him. He was young—ardent—impetuous—but he neither wanted penetration nor humanity.

“Wretch!” he cried, with all the indignant fervor of one unaccustomed to such unnatural cupidity—“you would sell your daughter’s honor!—you would ruin her for your own emolument!” He paused in agitation for some moments, during which I maintained a grim and stony smile—then continued, “but your villainy is nothing to me. I shall not upbraid you for what turns to my own advantage. Here is the sum. Recollect, however,we perfectly understand each other as to the terms.” I answered merely by a leering nod of the head. Razzina departed—promising to call on the ensuing evening.

That short but active interview had laid bare the character of the noble prodigal. He was evidently gifted with no common intellect. He had seen little of the world; so that whatever sagacity he had was inherent. Much good was mixed with the evil which formed his prominent traits. He was young and passionate; but he had no small share of the milk and honey of human kindness. His opinions respecting my course I regarded with contempt. I had studied too deeply the mysteries of human nature to be baulked in my designs by a beardless and soft-hearted youth. I knew that the bait was too well administered to be rejected.

Returning to a miserable garret in which I always slept to avoid the expense of furnishing the lower part of the house, and also to enjoy the solitude, I flung myself on a pallet, and spread the gold on the floor.

A filthy lamp threw a sickly and flickering light on every thing around. The wretched place was strewn with rubbish and dirt; here and there lay a broken stool, or the remains of a chair; in the centre stood a greasy and ricketty table, and hung up in confusion, on the walls, were battered tin-cups—a few platters—a spoutless coffee-pot—and sundry tattered habiliments.

I glanced around me with a smile of sinister meaning. I piled up the gold—threw it down again—and scattered it about, and grasped it once more with childish eagerness. Then, as if fearful of detection, I hid it, fervently praying that the Almighty would watch over, and preserve it.

It was now necessary that my daughter should become acquainted with part of my designs; and I summoned her. In a moment she was at my feet.

“Valeria—” and as I addressed her, I endeavored to modulate my voice into tones as affectionate and as soothing as possible—“Valeria, we are very poor—God knows we are.”

“Yes; but father why speak of it now? We are as well off as most people, and I am sure we need no luxuries.”

“My child, you know not our poverty. You see me now a decrepid and palsied old man. I am unable to make a living; and henceforth on you I must depend.”

“I shall cheerfully do what I am able, father.”

“I know it my child—I know it; but your utmost exertions cannot save us from starvation, unless properly directed. Valeria, listen to me. I ask you as a father will you obey my commands?”

“As long as they are bounded by reason and virtue, I shall. I have always obeyed you—I am not disobedient, I sincerely believe.”

“Valeria, can you love?”

“I can. Idolove.”

“Ha! whom do you love?”

“I love you, my father—and—”

“Speak!”

“I love Marco da Vinci—I never intended to deny it.”

In a frenzy of rage and astonishment, I started to my feet, and stood for some moments like one transfixed. My lips were white; my mouth foamed; my cheek was blanched; my eye fiery and distorted; and my whole frame convulsed with passion.

“God’s curse be on you!” I shrieked, shaking my clenched hand in the face of the terrified girl—“God’s curse be on you, for the declaration.Youlove Marco da Vinci?May a father’s ban fall like the flames of perdition on you! May the heart that you so foolishly bestowed, be blighted and withered in its bloom! May the avenging hosts gather round you at your death-bed; and taunt you, and riot in your agony!”

“Father! Father! O, cease those horrible words! you will drive me mad!”

“No,” I replied, in a stern but more softened tone, “I shall not drive you mad, Valeria; but I have news that will make you feel as if madness would be a blessing.You are sold.Here is the money”—and I drew forth the gold I had received from Don Ferdinand. “Yes, to-morrow you will be the mistress of Don Ferdinand Razzina.”

“Never!—so help me God!” cried Valeria, in a voice so calm and determined, that I feared for the success of my schemes; “death—aye, a thousand deaths before dishonor!”

“We shall see,” I replied, with a grim smile.

“We shall!” said Valeria, retiring; and in tones so deep and ominous that I shuddered. She repeated, “we shall!”

Hitherto I have devoted my pen almost exclusively to the narrative of my own confessions. I must now diverge a little to introduce the reader to a character, of whom nothing has yet been mentioned except his name.

Marco da Vinci was a young painter, of extraordinary talents, and great mental accomplishments. He was descended from a noble house; and might have enjoyed the height of affluence had not misfortune set her seal upon him at an early age. Favored in an unusual degree as to his mental and physical capacities, he received all the care and cultivation that a fond father could bestow; and on attaining his eighteenth year few could boast a more vigorous mind—a more profound education, or a more chaste and amiable character. Thus far was Marco successful.

Smitten with an undying thirst for distinction, he resolved henceforth to abandon the quiet enjoyments of leisure and affluence, and dedicated himself altogether to the nobler calls of ambition. Alas! he knew not that he had yielded the substantial enjoyments of life for a misnomer—a chimera!

It was the ardent hope of Da Vinci’s father, that the youth should, at no remote period, occupy an exalted station in the affairs of the government; but the rancor and bitterness of political life had no charms for the young enthusiast. Enraged and disappointed at the unexpected determination of his son, Don Ignatius da Vinci, abjured him in the zenith of his passion—disowned him, and left him an outcast and a beggar.

The ambitious Marco wended his way to Venice, where his talents soon attracted the attention of a distinguished painter. Under this individual, Da Vinci studied with all the devotion of an enthusiast, and an unfeigned lover of the art. A very short time was requisite to make him a finished painter. That pruning to rule—that softening and chastening, which can only be attained by painful and almost hopeless perseverance in most cases, were soon mastered by the ardent disciple.

In the course of time, Marco da Vinci accumulated, by his industry, sufficient capital to begin business on a small scale. At first he succeeded beyond his expectations; but soon he found that novelty is the spice of patronage, and that before him he had every probability of sinking into oblivion, and of eking out his days in starvation. Too proud to apply for assistance to those by whom he had been so basely injured, he determined to submit to his fate with manliness and fortitude, and to merit, if possible, sufficient patronage to support him, while he should by an extraordinary effort of his pencil retrieve his past misfortunes.

A premium had been offered by the Academy of Arts, for the best portrait of a female that could be placed in the gallery in time for the annual exhibition. Da Vinci resolved to take his model from nature. The fame of Valeria’s beauty was proverbial throughout the city; and the candidate for the palm of excellence, sought out our miserable tenement, and implored permission to have a sitting. Too proud of the opportunity to extend her reputation, I consented to the proposition. Fool! fool! that I was! Why could I not see the danger of placing this young and ardent soul in such a temptation? Da Vinci was young—handsome—and intellectual: Valeria was innocent—amiable—and beautiful—could they but love? Fool, I say, fool that I was!

Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1841.

THE FAIRY’S HOME.

Ourhome is far ’mid the greenwood trees,Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze,Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide,And the lily grows in its stainless pride.There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell,In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell,Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song,Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,”Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes;We will pass those hours of careless glee,Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s lightThat shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night,And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.The notes of the song-bird echo there,And are warbled again by our sisters fair;And the tones of each pure and gentle thing,Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.Away from the cares and toils of life,No part have we in its scenes of strife,But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea,Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be.S. H.

Ourhome is far ’mid the greenwood trees,Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze,Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide,And the lily grows in its stainless pride.

Ourhome is far ’mid the greenwood trees,

Where the rose-bloom floats on the burden’d breeze,

Where the moon’s beams glance on the sleeping tide,

And the lily grows in its stainless pride.

There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell,In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell,Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song,Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.

There, deep in our flowery homes we dwell,

In the cavern’d shades of the fairy’s cell,

Where the sound of the wavelet’s ceaseless song,

Shall glad the ear of the fairy throng.

There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,”Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes;We will pass those hours of careless glee,Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.

There calm as the blue of the “bending skies,”

Whose beauty may bless e’en fairy’s eyes;

We will pass those hours of careless glee,

Whilst the woods shall ring with our melody.

Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s lightThat shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night,And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.

Our lamp shall be of the fire-fly’s light

That shines ’mid the gloom of the darksome night,

And led by its star-like rays we’ll roam

’Mid the scenes that grace our woodland home.

The notes of the song-bird echo there,And are warbled again by our sisters fair;And the tones of each pure and gentle thing,Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.

The notes of the song-bird echo there,

And are warbled again by our sisters fair;

And the tones of each pure and gentle thing,

Are voiced in the strains the fairies sing.

Away from the cares and toils of life,No part have we in its scenes of strife,But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea,Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be.S. H.

Away from the cares and toils of life,

No part have we in its scenes of strife,

But calm as the sleep of the tideless sea,

Our rest in our Fairy Home shall be.

S. H.

Philadelphia, January, 1841.

NOT LOST, BUT GONE BEFORE.

———

BY CHARLES WEST THOMSON.

———

Thedead but sleep—they do not die,They live in mem’ry’s holy cell—The woodland green, the summer skyOf them in gentle language tell.Each scene that knew them daily speaksOf all their love so fond and true,And tears that tremble on our cheeks,But nerve our sadness to renew.The grief that rent our hearts when firstDeath broke our early bond in twain,Within our souls, by memory nurst,Will oft times freshly burst again.Yet why indulge unfading grief,For those we loved and now deplore?Theirs is a slumber calm and brief—They are “not lost, but gone before.”

Thedead but sleep—they do not die,They live in mem’ry’s holy cell—The woodland green, the summer skyOf them in gentle language tell.

Thedead but sleep—they do not die,

They live in mem’ry’s holy cell—

The woodland green, the summer sky

Of them in gentle language tell.

Each scene that knew them daily speaksOf all their love so fond and true,And tears that tremble on our cheeks,But nerve our sadness to renew.

Each scene that knew them daily speaks

Of all their love so fond and true,

And tears that tremble on our cheeks,

But nerve our sadness to renew.

The grief that rent our hearts when firstDeath broke our early bond in twain,Within our souls, by memory nurst,Will oft times freshly burst again.

The grief that rent our hearts when first

Death broke our early bond in twain,

Within our souls, by memory nurst,

Will oft times freshly burst again.

Yet why indulge unfading grief,For those we loved and now deplore?Theirs is a slumber calm and brief—They are “not lost, but gone before.”

Yet why indulge unfading grief,

For those we loved and now deplore?

Theirs is a slumber calm and brief—

They are “not lost, but gone before.”

January, 1841.

NOT FOR ME! NOT FOR ME!

A popular Air in the Opera of

CATHERINE GRAY,

AS SUNG BY MRS. WOOD.

THE MUSIC COMPOSED BY M. W. BALFE.

Geo. W. Hewitt & Co. No. 184 Chesnut Street, Philadelphia.

Not for me, not for me,Regal halls and courtly life,Oh! more

Not for me, not for me,

Regal halls and courtly life,

Oh! more

blest, my lot would be,Far from ev’ry scene of strife,From the world from all retiring,Gladly would this heart remove,One dear boon alone desiringStill to be with thee I love:Still to be with thee I love.2Let me seek that tranquil home,Once I knew in happier hours,Free to wander, free to roam,Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs.Not for me the world’s false pleasures,Not for me where splendour moves,More than these my bosom treasures,More than these my heart now loves,More than these my heart now loves.

blest, my lot would be,

Far from ev’ry scene of strife,

From the world from all retiring,

Gladly would this heart remove,

One dear boon alone desiring

Still to be with thee I love:

Still to be with thee I love.

Let me seek that tranquil home,Once I knew in happier hours,Free to wander, free to roam,Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs.Not for me the world’s false pleasures,Not for me where splendour moves,More than these my bosom treasures,More than these my heart now loves,More than these my heart now loves.

Let me seek that tranquil home,

Once I knew in happier hours,

Free to wander, free to roam,

Thro’ my own lov’d peaceful bow’rs.

Not for me the world’s false pleasures,

Not for me where splendour moves,

More than these my bosom treasures,

More than these my heart now loves,

More than these my heart now loves.

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.SHOOTING.

Weopen this month with the first of a series of excellent papers on Shooting, from the pen of the author of the paper on Angling, given in our last. It contains some valuable hints to young sportsmen, on the art of Taking Aim.

The pursuit and destruction of wild animals for security, food, clothing, or pastime, have been among the occupations of men in all ages, since the primevalbruereoverspread the earth,

And wild in woods the noble savage ran!

Before the more refined arts are introduced into any country, the chase is a necessity, and the chief business of life. The stronger and more noxious animals are destroyed for individual safety; the weaker for food. It is not until civilisation and her handmaid luxury have seated themselves, that the chase becomes a pastime. Nor does it appear when the sportsman first sprang into existence. There is no corresponding word in any ancient language, since that could not be called a sport which was a necessity. It is probable that in the earliest ages of society, the dog was the sole agent employed by the hunter. Afterward various weapons, manual, missile, and projectile—as the club, the dart, the arrow, were used by the hunter and fowler. Then would follow springs, traps, nets, and all that class of devices for the capture of beasts and birdsferæ naturæ, comprehended in the term toils. As dogs were employed to hunt quadrupeds, so, in process of time, hawks were trained to bring down birds for the service of their master. The arbalest or cross-brow, preceded the matchlock, which, however, could scarcely be called an implement of the chase, but which, in the order of succession, brings us down to the rifle, and original fowling-piece with its long, heavy barrel, and flint and steel lock; and lastly, we arrive at the double barrels and detant locks of the modern shooter.

Whenthe dog points, or when birds rise near to the shooter, he should immediately draw back one hammer with the right thumb; experienced sportsmen disapprove of the practice of cocking both barrels at the same time. They think that it ought to be a rule never to cock either barrel, until the game be upon the wing, then that the left barrel should be cocked and fired, and thereafter taken from the shoulder. The right barrel should then be cocked and fired if necessary; if not discharged, it should be put back to the half-cock, and the left re-loaded. He should never be in haste. It is more prudent to let the bird escape than to fire hastily. If on open ground, he should not fire until the bird is more than twenty yards distant. He should be deliberate in bringing up the piece to his shoulder, and in making it to bear on the object, but the moment he has brought it to bear, the finger should act in co-operation with the eye, the eye being kept open the while, so that the shooter may see whether the bird falls, or feathers fall from it, for if he does not see it distinctly at the moment of firing, there is something defective in his system of taking aim.

The shooter, when learning, should never aim directly at the body of a rabbit on foot, or of a bird on the wing. This precaution is scarcely necessary when the motion of the object is slow, but by habituating himself to it on all occasions, he will the sooner become an adept. His mark should be the head, the legs, or a wing, if within twenty yards. When farther off, he should make some allowance, according to the distance and speed of the object moving. His aim should be at the head of a bird rising or crossing—the legs of a bird flushed on an eminence and moving downward from him—the wing of a bird flying from him in an oblique direction. His aim should be at the head of a rabbit, in whatever way it may be moving. The same rules apply when the object is more than twenty paces distant from the shooter, making allowance for the speed. Thus, for a partridge crossing, the allowance of aim before it with a detonator, at twenty paces, will be one inch—at thirty paces two inches—at fifty paces five inches—at fifty-five paces seven inches. Half this allowance will be proper when the bird moves in an oblique direction. When an object moves directly from the shooter, at more than twenty paces distance, he should fire a little above it. When a bird or rabbit approaches the shooter directly, he should not aim at it until it has passed him, or has turned aside. The moment it has altered its course the gun should be brought up, and no time should be lost in firing.

It is not easy at all times to form a correct idea of the distance of a bird from the gun. The nature of the situation, and the state of the weather often deceive the eye. Thus, on a bright day birds appear to be near, and on a dull day distant. It is much easier to estimate the distance of a bird in small enclosures, where hedges or trees serve as guides, than on open ground. The hedges, indeed, tend to deceive the unpractised eye; the object is supposed to be much farther off, while on open ground it is supposed to be nearer, than it really is. It is often very difficult to determine whether a grouse is within range; and sometimes the mist increases the difficulty, for then the bird is either scarcely seen, or else magnified, by the sun’s rays gleaming through the mist, to an unnatural size. In general, grouse are farther off than they are supposed to be. The shooter, however, has a peculiar sight: every bird he brings down, in good style, is at sixty yards distance. It is amusing sometimes to hear persons talk, after they have beenwatched, of the distances at which they have effected their shots; they ever think the game so much farther off than it really was. The sportsman who has not convinced himself by actual measurement, often seems to be laboring under a species of hallucination when speaking of his distances, and, if he bets on them, to a certainty loses. Birds killed at fifteen paces are thought to be at twenty-five, and those at twenty-five are estimated at thirty-five or forty, and so on to the end of the story!

When a covey or brood rises, the shooter should fix his eye on one bird, and shoot at that bird only. He should not be diverted from it by other birds rising nearer to him while he is bringing up his gun, unless the bird he first set his eye upon be decidedly out of all reasonable distance, so as to render the chance of killing exceedingly remote. By observing this rule, he is not only more certain of bringing down his game, but he will more frequently kill the old birds—a desideratum, for two reasons; first, because he will, in all probability, disperse the covey, which being done, any sportsman may generally, without difficulty, bag a few brace; and secondly, because the old birds make a better show in the game-bag.

We think that all shooters, except the veriest bunglers, use a gun properly as regards throwing the end of it upon the object aimed at, and drawing the trigger, and that any inaccuracy of aim must be attributed to the eye not being in the proper place when the aim is taken.

The habit of missing arises not from inability to throw the end of the gun upon the bird, but from the eye not being directly behind the breech, which it necessarily must be for good shooting.

If there were a sight at each end of the barrel, it would be requisite, when taking aim, to keep shifting the gun until both sights were in a line between the eye and the mark; that, however, with a gun not well mounted to the eye and shoulder, would be too complex an operation, for before it could be performed, a swift bird would be out of reach; it follows, then, that the shooter’s attention should be directed only to the sight at the top of the barrel; and the breech end should come up mechanically to the proper level.

When a person is nervous, or afraid of the recoil, he naturally raises his head, and consequently shoots above the mark; on firing, he unconsciously throws his head back, and then seeing the bird above the end of the gun, he fancies he shot under it, when the reverse is the fact. We may also observe that if the shooter does not keep his head down to the stock, he will probably draw it aside, so that his aim will be as if taken from one of the hammers, which would, of course, throw the charge as much on one side of the mark, as raising the head would above it.

The main point, then, in taking aim, isto keep the head down to the stock, and the eye low behind the breach. The sportsman who, from habit or practice, can invariably bring his eye down to the same place, and keep it steadily there, so that he may always take aim from the same starting point, will distance all competitors.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

“The Antediluvians, or the World Destroyed.” A narrative poem, in ten books. By James McHenry, M. D. Author of the “Pleasures of Friendship,” &c. 1 vol. J. B. Lippincott & Co.: Philada.

There are two species of poetry known to mankind; that which the gods love, and that which men abhor. The poetry of the Dr. belongs to the latter class, though he seems lamentably ignorant of this, from the long essay on taste which he has given to the world in the shape of a preface to the work before us, and in which his own peculiar merits and demerits are discussed at sufficient length. He tells us that he has long been tormented with an itching after immortality, and that, being convinced not only that the writing of a poem was the surest passport to it, but that the choice of a subject was the greatest difficulty in the way of such a work, he has spent some years of his life in selecting the present theme. He has also the modesty to acquaint the public that his subject is inferior to Milton’s alone, leaving us, by a parity of reasoning, to conclude that Dr. McHenry is next in glory to the heavenly bard. We congratulate the Dr. on his finesse. There is nothing like connecting one’s name with that of a genius, for if the world is not deceived by it, you persuade yourself, like Major Longbow, by a constant repetition of your story, of its truth. You become a great man in your own conceit, fancy that the world does injustice to your talents, and go down to posterity, if not as the falcon’s mate, at least as

“A tom-tit twittering on an eagle’s back.”

Having thus associated himself with Milton, the Dr. proceeds to inform us that, in the Deluge, he at length found a theme “exalted and extensive enough for the exercise of poetic talents of the highest order,” leaving us, a second time, to infer, what he is too modest except to insinuate, that his own genius is unequalled. He then calls our attention to the plot, asserting that the general “plan and scope” of a poem are second only to its theme—that is, that diction, style, and imagination, in short every requisite of a true poet, are but “flimsy stuff.” The Dr. seems to know his own weak points, and when the “galled jade winces;” but even his elaborated plot is worse than nine men out of ten would construct. We have gleaned little from it except a few facts, which would be strange, were they not ridiculous. There is a description of a harem in the second book, from which we learn that velvets, and embroidery were as much in vogue among the antediluvians as now; an account of a siege in the eighth book, which settles the disputed question, whether Greek fire, melted lead, and catapults, were used then or not; and a detail of a battle in the same book, which gives the divisions and manœuvres of the contending armies, and puts at rest the assertions of military men, who trace our present tactics back no farther than the invention of gunpowder. Besides this, there are two marriages—a rescued maiden—one or more heroes, and as many heroines, with an innumerable catalogue of minor incidents, in short, the materials of a half a dozen bad novels, woven into a worse poem.

We are told in the outset that the “versification is not particularly modelled after that of any preceding author,” and that our classic poets afford no style “exactly suitable for this work,” and, consequently, we are but little astonished when we meet with such passages as the following:

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