THE SHEPHERD AND THE BROOK.

IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

———

BY WILLIAM FALCONER.

———

The Shepherd.Whither speed you, brooklet fair,Fringed with willows green,Blue-gleaming clear as summer air,Your rival banks between;Singing to the listening treesAn endless melody,Kissed by every amorous breeze?Come tarry and reply.The Brook.I haste to turn the mill-wheel gay,That glads the summer morn;The mill must clatter night and day,To grind the miller’s corn.The Shepherd.I envy you your joyous life⁠—With courage rare you race,To meet the miller’s bonnie wife,And glass her morning face.The Brook.Yes! when Aurora lights the sceneWith charms, as fresh she lavesHer sunny hair and brow sereneIn my dew-treasured waves,To me her beauty she confides,I smile her blush to greet,And when her form my lymph divides,It thrills with passionate heat.The Shepherd.If thus your gelid waters glow,With love’s pervading flame,To echo, murmuring as they flow,Her soft and winning name;How must my throbbing bosom burn,Warmed by life’s fitful fever,Still doomed, where’er my steps I turn,To love her more than ever.The Brook.On the mill-wheel, with blustering toil,I burst in pearly shower,But when I view her bloomy smile,Fresh at the matin hour,A polished mirror, gleaming sweet,I tremble into calm,To woo, in love, her gentle feet,My azure to embalm.The Shepherd.Are you, too, love-sick, leafy brook?Yet why?—on you she smiles,And pays you, with a grateful look,Your pleasant summer toils;She sports upon your crystal breast,Pure as your mountain source⁠—Fond brook, do not her charms arrestYour shady downward course?The Brook.Alas! ’tis with a world of pain,I murmuring glide away,A thousand turns I make, in vain,’Neath many a birchen-spray;But through the meadows I must glide—Ah! were it in my power,A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,I’d spread, nor quit her bower.The Shepherd.Companion of my luckless love,Farewell! But may, ere long,Thy plaint, which saddens now the grove,Be turned to merry song;Flow on, my vows, and sigh declare,Paint—paint in colors warm⁠—The bliss her shepherd hopes to share,Where birds the greenwood charm.

The Shepherd.

Whither speed you, brooklet fair,

Fringed with willows green,

Blue-gleaming clear as summer air,

Your rival banks between;

Singing to the listening trees

An endless melody,

Kissed by every amorous breeze?

Come tarry and reply.

The Brook.I haste to turn the mill-wheel gay,That glads the summer morn;The mill must clatter night and day,To grind the miller’s corn.

The Brook.

I haste to turn the mill-wheel gay,

That glads the summer morn;

The mill must clatter night and day,

To grind the miller’s corn.

The Shepherd.I envy you your joyous life⁠—With courage rare you race,To meet the miller’s bonnie wife,And glass her morning face.

The Shepherd.

I envy you your joyous life⁠—

With courage rare you race,

To meet the miller’s bonnie wife,

And glass her morning face.

The Brook.Yes! when Aurora lights the sceneWith charms, as fresh she lavesHer sunny hair and brow sereneIn my dew-treasured waves,To me her beauty she confides,I smile her blush to greet,And when her form my lymph divides,It thrills with passionate heat.

The Brook.

Yes! when Aurora lights the scene

With charms, as fresh she laves

Her sunny hair and brow serene

In my dew-treasured waves,

To me her beauty she confides,

I smile her blush to greet,

And when her form my lymph divides,

It thrills with passionate heat.

The Shepherd.If thus your gelid waters glow,With love’s pervading flame,To echo, murmuring as they flow,Her soft and winning name;How must my throbbing bosom burn,Warmed by life’s fitful fever,Still doomed, where’er my steps I turn,To love her more than ever.

The Shepherd.

If thus your gelid waters glow,

With love’s pervading flame,

To echo, murmuring as they flow,

Her soft and winning name;

How must my throbbing bosom burn,

Warmed by life’s fitful fever,

Still doomed, where’er my steps I turn,

To love her more than ever.

The Brook.On the mill-wheel, with blustering toil,I burst in pearly shower,But when I view her bloomy smile,Fresh at the matin hour,A polished mirror, gleaming sweet,I tremble into calm,To woo, in love, her gentle feet,My azure to embalm.

The Brook.

On the mill-wheel, with blustering toil,

I burst in pearly shower,

But when I view her bloomy smile,

Fresh at the matin hour,

A polished mirror, gleaming sweet,

I tremble into calm,

To woo, in love, her gentle feet,

My azure to embalm.

The Shepherd.Are you, too, love-sick, leafy brook?Yet why?—on you she smiles,And pays you, with a grateful look,Your pleasant summer toils;She sports upon your crystal breast,Pure as your mountain source⁠—Fond brook, do not her charms arrestYour shady downward course?

The Shepherd.

Are you, too, love-sick, leafy brook?

Yet why?—on you she smiles,

And pays you, with a grateful look,

Your pleasant summer toils;

She sports upon your crystal breast,

Pure as your mountain source⁠—

Fond brook, do not her charms arrest

Your shady downward course?

The Brook.Alas! ’tis with a world of pain,I murmuring glide away,A thousand turns I make, in vain,’Neath many a birchen-spray;But through the meadows I must glide—Ah! were it in my power,A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,I’d spread, nor quit her bower.

The Brook.

Alas! ’tis with a world of pain,

I murmuring glide away,

A thousand turns I make, in vain,

’Neath many a birchen-spray;

But through the meadows I must glide—

Ah! were it in my power,

A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,

I’d spread, nor quit her bower.

The Shepherd.Companion of my luckless love,Farewell! But may, ere long,Thy plaint, which saddens now the grove,Be turned to merry song;Flow on, my vows, and sigh declare,Paint—paint in colors warm⁠—The bliss her shepherd hopes to share,Where birds the greenwood charm.

The Shepherd.

Companion of my luckless love,

Farewell! But may, ere long,

Thy plaint, which saddens now the grove,

Be turned to merry song;

Flow on, my vows, and sigh declare,

Paint—paint in colors warm⁠—

The bliss her shepherd hopes to share,

Where birds the greenwood charm.

HARRY CAVENDISH.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.

———

How shall I describe the horrors of that seemingly endless night. Borne onward at the mercy of the waves—possessing just sufficient control over the boat to keep her head in the proper direction—now losing sight altogether of our consort, and now hanging on the top of the wave while she lay directly under us, we passed the moments in a succession of hopes and fears which no human pen can adequately describe. As the night advanced our sufferings increased. The men, worn out with fatigue, were kept at their oars only by the consciousness that even a moment’s respite might be our destruction. With difficulty we maintained even the slightest communication with our fellow sufferers in the other boat, and, as the hours wore away, communication became almost impossible. It was only at intervals that we caught sight of our companions through the gloom, or heard their loud huzzas in answer to our shouts. And no one, except he who has been in a like situation, can tell how our sense of loneliness was relieved when we saw these glimpses of our consort, or caught the welcome sound of other voices than our own across that fathomless abyss.

At length a gigantic wave rolled up between us and the launch, and, when we rose from the trough of the sea, I fancied I heard beneath us a wild, prolonged cry of human agony. At the sound, my blood curdled in my veins, and I strove to pierce the obscurity ahead, hoping almost against hope that our companions yet survived, and that I might catch a glimpse of the launch; but my straining eyes scanned the prospect in vain, for the thick darkness shut out every thing from my vision, except when the ghastly foam whitened along the waves beside me. For an instant I tried to believe that what I heard had sprung from a disordered fancy, but the eager, yet horror-struck faces of my shipmates beside me soon convinced me that I was not the only one who had heard that cry. We looked at each other for a moment, as men may be supposed to look who have seen a visitant from the tomb, and then, with one common impulse, we joined in a halloo that rose wildly to windward, swept down on us, rose again, and finally died away to leeward in melancholy notes. No answering cry met our ears. Again and again we united in a shout—again and again the roar of the wind and wash of the waves was our only reply. Suddenly a flash of lightning blazed around us, and, taking advantage of the momentary light thus shed on the prospect, I gazed once more across the waste of waters. We hung, at the moment, on the topmost height of a mountain wave, while beneath yawned a black abyss, along whose sides the foam was rolling in volumes, while the ghastly crests of each mimic billow and the pitchy darkness of the depths below were lit up with the awful glare of the lightning, presenting to the imagination a scene that reminded me of the lake of fire into which Milton’s apostate spirits fell. Just at the lowest point of the vortex a boat was seen, bottom upwards, while, in close proximity to it, one or two human forms were struggling in the sea; but all in vain; for at every despairing stroke they were borne further and further from the few frail planks which now were to them their world. Oh! never will that sight fade from my memory. A cry of horror broke simultaneously from all who beheld the scene, and long after it had vanished from our eyes, we heard the first despairing shriek of our drowning messmates, we saw the last look of agony ere they sank forever. To save them was beyond our power. As we were whirled down into the abyss we leaned over the gun-wale to catch, if possible, a sign of the vicinity of any of the sufferers, but our efforts were in vain, and, after watching and listening for more than an hour, we desisted in despair. As the storm gradually passed away, and the stars broke out on high, diffusing a shadowy light around us, we gazed again across the waste for some token of our lost messmates, but our scrutiny was in vain. The tale of their death, save as it is rehearsed in these hurried pages, will never be told until the judgment day.

Morning at length dawned. Insensibly the first cold streaks of day crept along the eastern horizon, gradually diffusing a gray twilight over the vast solitude of waters around, and filling the mind with a sensation of utter loneliness, which, though I had experienced it partially before, never affected me with such indescribable power as now. As far as the eye could stretch there was nothing to break the vast monotony of the horizon. The first glance across the deep destroyed the hope which so many had secretly entertained, that morning would discover some sail in sight, and, though no unmanly lamentations were uttered, the dejected look with which each shipmate turned to his fellow was more eloquent than words. All knew that we were out of the usual route of ships crossing the Atlantic, and that our chances of rescue were consequently lessened. We were, moreover, nearly a thousand miles from land, with but scanty provisions, and those damaged. Our boat was frail, and one far stronger had already been submerged—what, then, would probably, nay! must be our fate. It was easy to see that these thoughts were passing through the minds of all, and that a feeling akin to despair was gathering around every heart.

“Cheer up, my hearties!” at length said Bill Seaton, a favorite topman, looking round on his companions, “it’s always darkest just before day, and if we don’t meet a sail now we must look all the sharper for one to-morrow. Never say die while you hear the wind overhead, or see the waves frolicking around you. Twenty years have I sailed, in one craft or another, and often been in as bad scrapes as this—so it’s hard to make me think we’re going to Davy Jones’ locker this time. Cheer up, cheer up, braves, and I’ll give you ‘Bold Hawthorne,’ ” and, with the words, he broke out into a song, whose words acted like an inspiration on the crew, and in a moment the air rung with the ballad, chorused forth by a dozen stentorian voices. And thus, alternating between hope and despair, we spent the day. But, unlike the others, my situation forbade me to betray my real sentiments, and I was forced to maintain an appearance of elation which illy agreed with my feelings.

Meanwhile the day wore on, and as the sun mounted toward the zenith, his vertical rays pouring down on our unprotected heads, became almost insupportable. The gale had long since sunk into a light breeze, and the mountainous waves were rapidly subsiding into that long measured swell which characterizes the deep when not unusually agitated. Over the wide surface of the dark azure sea, however, might be seen ten thousand crests of foam, one minute crisping into existence, and the next disappearing on the declining surge; and, as the hour approached high noon, each of these momentary sheets of spray glistened in the sunbeams like frosted silver. Overhead the dark, deep sky glowed as in a furnace, while around us the sea was as molten brass. Parched for thirst, yet not daring to exceed the allowance of water on which we had determined—burning in the intense heat, without the possibility of obtaining shelter—worn out in body and depressed in spirits, it required all my exertions, backed by one or two of the most sanguine of the crew, to keep the men from utter despair, nor was it until evening again drew on, and the intolerable heat of a tropical day had given way to the comparative coolness of twilight, that the general despondency gave way. Then again the hopes of the men revived, only, however, to be once more cast down when darkness closed over the scene, with the certainty we should obtain no relief until the ensuing day.

Why need I recount the sufferings of that second night, which was only less dreadful than the preceding one because the stars afforded us some comparative light, sufficing only, however, to keep us on the watch for a strange sail, without allowing us to hope for success in our watch, unless by almost a miracle? Why should I narrate the alternation of hope and fear on the ensuing day, which did not differ from this one, save in the fiercer heat of noon day, and the more utter exhaustion of the men? What boots it to recount the six long days and nights, each one like its predecessor, only that each one grew more and more intolerable, until at length, parched and worn out, like the Israelites of old, we cried out at night, “Would God it were morning,” and in the morning, “Would God it were evening.” And thus, week after week passed, until our provisions and water were exhausted, and yet no relief arrived, but day after day we floated helplessly on that boiling ocean, or were chilled by the icy and unwholesome dews of night. Hunger and thirst, and heat—fever and despair contended together for the mastery, and we were the victims. Often before I had read of men who were thus exposed, coming at length to such a pitch of madness and despair, that they groveled in the bottom of the boat, and cried out for death; but never had I thought such things could be credible. Now, how fearfully were my doubts removed! I saw lion-hearted men weeping like infants—I beheld those whose strength was as that of a giant, subdued and powerless—I heard men who, in other circumstances, would have clung tenaciously to life, now sullenly awaiting their fate, or crying out, in their agony, for death to put a period to their sufferings. No pen, however graphic—no imagination, however vivid, can do justice to the fearful horrors of our situation. Every morning dawned with the same hope of a sail in sight, and every night gathered around us with the same despairing consciousness that our hope was in vain.

There was one of my crew, a pale, delicate lad, whom I shall never forget. He was the only son of a widow, and had entered the navy, though against her will, to earn an honorable subsistence for her. Though he had been among us but a short time, he had already distinguished himself by his address and bravery, while his frank demeanor had made him a universal favorite. Since the loss of the Dart he had borne up against our privations with a heroism that had astonished me. When the rest were sad he was cheerful; and no suffering, however great, could wring from him a complaint. But on the twentieth day—after having tasted no food for forty-eight hours—the mortal tenement proved too weak for his nobler soul. He was already dreadfully emaciated, and for some days I had been surprised at his powers of endurance. But now he could hold out no longer, and was forced to confess that he was ill. I felt his pulse—he was in a high fever. Delirium soon seized him, and throughout all that day and night he was deprived of reason. His ravings would have melted the heart of a Nero. He seemed conscious of his approaching end, and dwelt constantly, in terms of the most heart-rending agony, on his widowed mother—so soon to be deprived of her only solace and support. Oh! the terrible eloquence of his words. Now he alluded in the most touching accents to his father’s death—now he recounted the struggles in his mother’s heart when he proposed going to sea—and now he dwelt on her grief when she should hear of his untimely end, or watch month after month, and year after year, in the vain hope of again pressing him to her bosom. There were stern men there listening to his plaintive lamentations, who had perhaps never shed a tear before, but the fountains of whose souls were now loosened, and who wept as only a man can weep. There were sufferers beside him, whose own anguish almost racked their hearts to pieces, yet who turned aside from it to sorrow over him. And as hour after hour passed away, and he waxed weaker and weaker, one feeble shipmate after another volunteered to hold his aching head, for all thought of the lone widow, far, far away, who was even now perhaps making some little present for the boy whom she should never see again.

It was the evening of the day after his attack, and he lay with his head on my lap, when the sufferer, after an unusually deep sleep of more than an hour, woke up, and faintly opening his eyes lifted them to me. It was a moment before he could recognize me, but then a grateful smile stole over his wan face. I saw at a glance that the fever had passed away, and I knew enough of the dying hour to know that this return of reason foreboded a speedy dissolution. He made an attempt to raise his hand to his face, but weakness prevented him. Knowing his wishes, I took my handkerchief and wiped the dampness from his brow. Again that sweet smile played on the face of the boy, and it seemed as if thenceforth the expression of his countenance had in it something not of earth. The hardy seamen saw it too, and leaned forward to look at him.

“Thank you, Mr. Cavendish, thank you,” he said faintly, “I hope I haven’t troubled you—I feel better now—almost well enough to sit up.”

“No—no, my poor boy,” I said, though my emotion almost choked me, “lie still—I can easily hold you. You have slept well?”

“Oh! I have had such a sweet sleep, and it was full of happy dreams, though before that it seemed as if I was standing at my father’s dying bed, or saw my mother weeping as she wept the night I came away. And then,” and a melancholy shadow passed across his face as he spoke, “I thought that she cried more bitterly than ever, as if her very heart were breaking for some one who was dead—and it appears, too, as if I was that one,” he said, with child-like simplicity. Then for a moment he mused sadly, but suddenly said—“Do you think I am dying, sir?”

The suddenness of the question startled me, and when I saw those large, clear eyes fixed on me, I was more embarrassed than ever.

“I hope not,” I said brokenly. He shook his head, and again that melancholy shadow passed across his face, and he answered in a tone of grief that brought the tears into other eyes than mine,

“I feel I am. Oh! my poor mother—my poor, poor widowed mother, who will care for you when I am gone?”

“I will,” I said with emotion; “if God spares me to reach the land, I will seek her out, and tell her all about you—what a noble fellow you were—”

“And—and,” and here a blush shot over his pale face, “will you see that she never wants—will you?” he continued eagerly.

“I will,” said I, “rest easy on that point, my dear, noble boy.”

“Aye! and while there’s a shot in the locker for Bill Seaton she shall never want,” said the topman, pressing in his own horny hand the more delicate one of the boy.

“God bless you!” murmured the lad faintly, and he closed his eyes. For a moment there was silence, the hot tears falling on his face as I leaned over him. At length he looked up; a smile of joy was on his countenance, and his lips moved. I put my ear to them and listened.

“Mother—father—I die happy, for we shall meet in heaven,” were the words that fell in broken murmurs from his lips, and then he sunk back on my lap and was dead. The sun, at the instant, was just sinking behind the distant seaboard. Ah! little did his mother, as she gazed on the declining luminary from her humble cottage window, think that that sun beheld the dying hour of her boy. Little did she think, as she knelt that night in prayer for him, that she was praying for one whose silent corpse rocked far away on the fathomless sea. Let us hope that when, in her sleep, she dreamed of hearing his loved voice once more, his spirit was hovering over her, whispering comfort in her ear. Thank God that we can believe the dead thus revisit earth, and become ministering angels to the sorrowing who are left behind!

Another sun went and came, and even the stoutest of hearts began to give way. For twenty-three days had we drifted on the pathless deep, and in all that time not a sail had appeared—nothing had met our sight but the brazen sky above and the unbroken deep below. During the greater portion of that period we had lain motionless on the glittering sea, for a succession of calms had prevailed, keeping us idly rocking on the long, monotonous swell. When the sun of the twenty-fourth day rose, vast and red, there was not one of us whose strength was more than that of an infant; and though, at the first intimation of dawn, we gazed around the horizon as we were wont, there was little of hope in our dim and glazing eyes. Suddenly, however, the topman’s look became animated, and the color went and came into his face, betokening his agitation. Following the direction of his eyes, I saw a small, white speck far off on the horizon. I felt the blood rushing to the ends of my fingers, while a dizziness came over my sight. I controlled my emotion, however, with an effort. At the same instant the doubts of the topman appeared to give way, and waving his hand around his head, he shouted,

“A sail!—a sail!”

“Whereaway?” eagerly asked a dozen feeble voices, while others of the crew who were too far gone to speak, turned their fading eyes in the direction in which all were now looking.

“Just under yonder fleecy cloud.”

“I can’t see it,” said one, “surely there is a mistake.”

“No—we are in the trough of the sea—wait till we rise—there!”

“I see it—I see it—huzza!” shouted several.

A sudden animation seemed to pervade all. Some rose to their feet and clasping each other in their arms, wept deliriously—some cast themselves on their knees and returned thanks to God—while some gazed vacantly from one face to another, every now and then breaking out into hysterical laughter. For a time it seemed as if all had forgotten that the strange sail was still far away, and that she might never approach near enough to be hailed. But these thoughts finally found their way into the hearts of the most sanguine, and gradually the exhilaration of sudden hope gave way to despair, or the even more dreadful uncertainty of suspense. Hour after hour, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, the sufferers watched the course of that strange sail, and when at length her topsails began to lift, and her approach was no longer doubtful, a faint huzza rose up from their overcharged hearts, and once more they exhibited the wild delirious joy which had characterized the first discovery of the stranger.

The approaching sail was apparently a merchant ship of the largest class, and the number of her look-outs seemed to intimate that she was armed. She was coming down toward us in gallant style, her canvass bellying out in the breeze, and the foam rolling in cataracts under her bows. Once we thought that she was about to alter her course—her head turned partially around and one or two of her sails shook in the wind—but, after a moment’s anxious suspense, we saw her resume her course, her head pointing nearly toward us. For some time we watched her in silence, eagerly awaiting the moment when she should perceive our lug sail. But we were doomed to be disappointed. Minute after minute passed by, after we had assured ourselves that we were nigh enough to be seen, and yet the stranger appeared unconscious of our vicinity. She was now nearly abreast of us, running free before the wind, just out of hail. Our hearts throbbed with intense anxiety. But though several minutes more had passed, and she was directly on our beam, her look-outs still continued gazing listlessly around, evidently ignorant that we were near.

“She will pass us,” exclaimed Seaton, the topman, “how can they avoid seeing our sail?”

“We must try to hail them,” I said, “or we are lost.”

“Ay—ay, it is our only chance,” said the topman, and a grim smile passed over his face as he looked around on his emaciated shipmates, and added bitterly, “though it’s little likely that such skeletons as we can make ourselves heard to that distance.”

“We will try,” said I, and raising my hand to time the cry, I hailed the ship. The sound rose feebly on the air and died waveringly away. But no symptoms of its being heard were perceptible on board the stranger.

“Again,” I said, “once more!”

A second time the cry rose up from our boat, but this time with more volume than before. Still no look-out moved, and the ship kept on her course.

“A third time, my lads,” I said, “we are lost if they hear us not—ahoy!”

“Hilloo!” came floating down toward us, and a topman turned his face directly toward us, leaning his ear over the yard to listen.

“Aboy!—a-hoy!—Ho-ho-o-oy!” we shouted, joining our voices in a last desperate effort.

“Hilloo—boat ahoy!” were the glad sounds that met our ears in return, and a dozen hands were extended to point out our location. At the instant, the ship gallantly swung around, and bore down directly toward us.

“They see us—praise the Lord—they see us—we are saved!” were the exclamations of the crew as they burst into hysteric tears, and fell on their knees in thanksgiving, again enacting the scene of delirious joy which had characterized the first discovery of the strange sail.

On came the welcome ship—on like a sea-bird on the wing! Scores of curious faces were seen peering over her sides as she approached, while from top and cross-trees a dozen look-outs gazed eagerly toward us. The sun was shining merrily on the waves, which sparkled in his beams like silver; while the murmur of the wind over the deep came pleasantly to our ears. Oh! how different did every thing appear to us now from what it had appeared when hope was banished from our hearts. And when, weak and trembling, we were raised to the deck of the stranger, did not our hearts run over with gratitude to God? Let the tears that even our rescuers shed proclaim.

“Water—give us water, for God’s sake,” was the cry of my men as they struggled to the deck.

“Only a drop now—more you shall have directly,” answered the surgeon, as he stood between the half frenzied men and the water can.

With difficulty the ravenous appetites of the crew were restrained, for to have suffered the men to eat in large quantities after so long an abstinence would have ensured their speedy deaths. The sick were hurried to cots, while the captain insisted that I should share a portion of his own cabin.

It was many days before we were sufficiently recovered to mingle with our rescuers, and during our sickness we were treated with a kindness which was never forgot.

The strange sail was a privateersman, sailing under the American flag. We continued with her about two months, when she found it necessary to run into port. As we were nearly opposite Block Island, it was determined to stand in for Newport, where accordingly we landed, after an absence of nearly a year.

Here I found that we had been given up for lost. A bucket, with the name of the Dart painted on it, having been picked up at sea, from which it was concluded that all on board the vessel had perished. This belief had now become general in consequence of the lapse of time since we had been heard from. I was greeted, therefore, as one restored from the dead.

“WRITE TO ME, LOVE,”

A BALLAD.

THE POETRY BY MISS PARDOE, THE MUSIC BY DAVID LEE.

Selected for Graham’s Magazine by J. G. Osbourn.

Write to me, love,When thou art far away,Write every thought which glances o’er thy mind,⁠—Write to me, love,And let thy fond words say,All that may spirit unto Spirit bind!Write to me, love,Write to me;Write to me, love,Write to me!Write to me, love,And let each glowing lineTeem with the vows we have so often ta’en.Write to me, love,And when the treasure’s mine,Resume thy task, and write to me again.Write to me, love,Write to me;Write to me, love,Write to me!

Write to me, love,

When thou art far away,

Write every thought which glances o’er thy mind,⁠—

Write to me, love,

And let thy fond words say,

All that may spirit unto Spirit bind!

Write to me, love,

Write to me;

Write to me, love,

Write to me!

Write to me, love,And let each glowing lineTeem with the vows we have so often ta’en.Write to me, love,And when the treasure’s mine,Resume thy task, and write to me again.Write to me, love,Write to me;Write to me, love,Write to me!

Write to me, love,

And let each glowing line

Teem with the vows we have so often ta’en.

Write to me, love,

And when the treasure’s mine,

Resume thy task, and write to me again.

Write to me, love,

Write to me;

Write to me, love,

Write to me!

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

History of Charles VIII., King of France. By Count Philip de Segur, Lieutenant-General, Peer of France, Member of the French Academy, Author of “Napoleon’s Russian Campaign,” etc. Translated by Richard R. Montgomery. Two volumes, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker.

This work in its original language has been very popular, and some critics have deemed it the best of Segur’s productions. It is a history of France while that country was in the transition state between feudalism and centralism, and is written in the picturesque style of the old chroniclers.

Louis XI., the father of Charles, died in 1483. He had wielded the sceptre with strong hands, and given an extraordinary impulse to public affairs. It was therefore necessary that the government should be administered by an experienced person during the minority of the young king. There was a deep and pervading dissatisfaction in the country, especially among the nobles, who had been repressed by Louis, and were now anxious to reclaim their lost privileges. Anne of Beaujeu, the eldest daughter of the deceased monarch, and wife of the lord of Bourbon Beaujeu, had been selected by her father for the regency. She was not more than twenty-two years old, but at that early age was shrewd, resolute and dignified—the wisest and most beautiful woman of the realm. Her first act was the convocation of the Estates General at Tours, an event long celebrated on account of the ability and independence manifested by the deputies in their debates. She afterward undertook and accomplished the conquest of Bretagne—the great measure for which the regency was distinguished,—and finally, having maintained her position amid innumerable dangers, adding from year to year to her own and the national glory, resigned the government to Charles. A new policy was from that time pursued. The young king was ignorant and capricious, guided by his own mad impulses, or the wishes of intriguing courtiers, to whom he had given the places before occupied by gravest and wisest counsellors; and his reign, disastrous to France, prepared the way for the most important changes in European politics. A false notion of honor and the ambition of two favorites made him undertake the conquest of Naples. He succeeded, but instead of endeavoring to secure the permanent possession of that kingdom, gave himself up to a thoughtless voluptuousness, until a confederacy was formed which expelled him from Italy. After re-entering his own dominions his conduct and policy continued to be nerveless and vacillating. He seemed to regard the Neapolitan expedition as of slight importance, speaking of it as a series of passages at arms, a royal adventure which had resulted somewhat unfortunately; and never dreamed that the foolishly commenced and insanely conducted enterprise had destroyed the balance of power in Italy, taught the states of Europe to view with jealousy each other’s motions, and opened the way for the cultivation of those sciences and arts which civilized society and made men feel that they had other pursuits and pastimes than war. A short time before the close of his life a change came over his character; hitherto Cæsar had been his hero, and Charlemagne his model, but from the death of his third son, in infancy, he was ambitious to imitate St. Louis, and occupied himself with reforms in religion, legislation, and the administration of justice. How long he would have continued in his new career, but for his sudden death, cannot be known. He died in consequence of an injury, received in his magnificent château d’Amboise, in the year 1498.

Many eminent men flourished in France during this reign, among whom were the brave and intriguing Dunois; Philip de Comines, the celebrated historian and minister; La Tremouille, a principal actor in the Neapolitan expedition; Savonarola, the prophet priest of Florence; and others of less distinction.

The work of Segur is not alone interesting as a history of important political transactions; it contains numerous passages of a romantic description, characteristic of the age and its institutions, and written in a highly dramatic and picturesque style. The translation we doubt not is rigidly correct; but had Mr. Montgomery been less studious to render his original literally, his version would have flowed somewhat more smoothly, without losing any of its freshness or animation.

The Book of the Navy; comprising a general History of the American Marine, and Particular Accounts of all the most celebrated Naval Battles, from the Declaration of Independence to the present time; compiled from the best authorities, by John Frost, A. M., etc. One volume, octavo. New York, D. Appleton & Co. Philadelphia, Herman Hooker.

Mr. Frost has succeeded in his attempt to present the leading incidents in the history of our national marine in an attractive form. The Book of the Navy is one of those “books for the people” which awaken only patriotism, pride and emulation. The Appendix, containing selections of naval lyrical pieces and anecdotes, seems to have been prepared with less care than the historical part of the work. The best American naval songs are Edwin C. Holland’s “Pillar of Glory” and the “Old Ironsides” of Oliver W. Holmes, neither of which appears in Mr. Frost’s collection, while it embraces some which have no allusion to the navy, and others too worthless in a literary point of view to deserve preservation. The volume is very elegantly printed, and is embellished with several portraits on steel, and other engravings from designs by Croome.

Family Secrets, or Hints to those who would make Home Happy. By Mrs. Ellis. Two volumes, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard.

This work is composed of a series of tales, each illustrating a principle or enforcing a moral. The first volume contains, Dangers of Dining Out, Confessions of a Madman, Somerville Hall, The Rising Tide, and The Favorite Child; the second, First Impressions, and The Minister’s Family. The characters are usually well-drawn, and the interest of some of the stories is deep and well sustained.

The Life of Jean Paul Frederic Richter, Compiled from various Sources, together with his Autobiography. Translated from the German. Two volumes, duodecimo. Boston, Little & Brown.

The name of Jean Paul has become so familiar to American and English readers, that this work will doubtless supply a great desideratum with many ardent admirers of German literature. Our ideas of Jean Paul do not coincide with those of most critics. We have great respect for his genius, the purity of his thoughts, the extreme delicacy of his sentiments, and his almost universal learning; but we think his style forced and unnatural, and the amount of his wit, sarcasm, humor and hyperbolical refinement, altogether disproportionate to the “littleness” of his subjects. He is the most poetic of prose writers, and his autobiography furnishes many happy illustrations of this assertion. In our opinion, however, he indulges far too much indidacticism, a style which we dislike equally in poetry or prose, and which is seldom chosen by men of great intellect. He is afemininewriter, and much which in his works appears and is applauded as poetry, is in truth only high wrought feminine delicacy. He is accordingly much read and admired by women. But we doubt whether in all his productions there is a well drawn character of aman. When we look upon his heroes we cannot but remember Hotspur⁠—

“I would rather be a cat and cry mewThan one of those self same ballad mongers.”

“I would rather be a cat and cry mew

Than one of those self same ballad mongers.”

The writings of Jean Paul have had a pernicious influence on the minds of the youth of Germany, who are naturally inclined to sojourn in the regions of fancy; but it is a proof of returning reason that among the numerous republications of the works of German authors his have not gone through very large editions.

Schiller and Goethe disliked the muse of Jean Paul; the former because she had not warmth, and the latter because as an artist he was shocked with her morbid taste. Jean Paul was much mortified at the coldness of this Corephæus of German literature, and in giving an account of his visit to Weimer, says⁠—

“On the second day I threw away my foolish prejudices in favor of great authors. They are like other people. Here every one knows that they are like the earth, that looks from a distance, from heaven, like a shining moon, but, when the foot is upon it, is found to beboue de Paris(Paris mud.) An opinion concerning Herder, Wieland, and Goethe is as much contested as any other. Who would believe that the great watch towers of our literature avoid and dislike each other? I will never again bend myself anxiously before any great man, only before thevirtuous.”

This sentiment is unworthy the mind of Jean Paul. The best relations existed between Schiller and Goethe through life. Each of them was great enough in his sphere to fear no rival. The jealousies which Jean Paul refers to were those of some women in “the society” of Weimer, but the men whom they maligned were both immeasurably beyond their reach.

Gervinus, in his “History of German Literature,” the most national work lately published, assigns to Jean Paul rather a low rank among the poets of his country. There is much thought and meditation in his works, but that divine spark which kindles enthusiasm and inspires men to sublime action is not in them. Even his female portraits are not drawn after Nature, and his Linda, in “Titan”—perhaps the best of his novels—is, after all the praise it has received, but a transparent shadow.

This memoir contains Jean Paul’s autobiography, reaching to his thirteenth year; a connected narrative of his life, compiled and translated from the best sources, and copious extracts from his correspondence. The translation is generally correct and elegant, but many errors occur in the proper names, especially by the transpositions of theiande. We have seen mentioned, as the compiler and translator, Miss Lee of Boston, a lady of taste and learning, to whom the public have before been indebted for several pleasing and instructive publications.

Remains of the Rev. Joshua Wells Downing, A. M. With a brief Memoir. Edited by Elijah H. Downing, A. M. One volume, duodecimo. New York, J. Lane and P. P. Sandford: 1842.

We have read the sermons, sketches of sermons, and letters in this volume with considerable attention, and regret finding in them so little to praise. Mr. Downing died when but twenty-six years old, in Boston. He was a pious, earnest and efficient minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and, had he lived to a mature age, we doubt not, would have been one of the most useful clergymen of his denomination. But, however excellent his qualities as a man or as a preacher, his printed discourses bear too few of the marks of genius or learning to secure for him a high reputation as a writer. They are not distinguished for graceful expression, vigor, or originality. The fraternal partiality of the editor deserves not to be censured, but the common practice of printing sermons, “called so,” as Bishop Andrews well remarks, “by acharitable construction,” and other “remains,” not originally designed for the press and unworthy of publication, is an evil which can be remedied only by honest critical judgments.

Elements of Chemistry, Including the most recent Discoveries and Applications of the Science to Medicine and Pharmacy, and to the Arts. By Robert Kane, M. D., M. R. T. A., &c. An American Edition, with Additions and Corrections, and arranged for the use of the Universities, Colleges, Academies and Medical Schools of the United States. By John William Draper, M. D. New York, Harper & Brothers.

Chemistry, more than any other science, is progressive. In the work before us Mr. Kane has exhibited with great ability its advancement, general extent, and present condition. There is no lack of elementary works on the subject, but we know of none which enter into it so fully or are so clear and comprehensive as this. Dr. Kane ranks among the first philosophical inquirers of the day, and is probably unequaled as a chemist. The American editor is likewise well known for his profound knowledge of this science. In looking through the work we have been particularly pleased with its practical character—the explanations it contains of the various processes by which chemistry has been made to contribute to the progress of the arts, which enhance its value to the medical practitioner and the manufacturer.

Lives of the Queens of England, from the Norman Conquest: With Anecdotes of their Courts. Now first published from Official Records and other Authentic Documents, Private as well as Public. By Agnes Strickland. Second Series. Three volumes, duodecimo. Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard.

The new series of Miss Strickland’s Lives of the Queens of England contains memoirs of Elizabeth of York, Katharine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, Anne of Cleves, Katharine Howard, Catherine Parr, and Mary “the Catholic.” The work improves as it advances and the materials for history accessible to the authoress become more abundant. Some of the memoirs in the second series are exceedingly interesting. The volumes deserve a place in every lady’s library.

Uncas and Miantonimoh; A Historical Discourse delivered at Norwalk, (Con.) on the fourth day of July, 1842, on the occasion of the erection of a Monument to the Memory of Uncas, the White Man’s Friend, and first Chief of the Mohegans. By W. L. Stone. New York: Dayton & Newman.

This is an interesting and valuable contribution to our historical writings. Uncas, “the white man’s friend,” was the king of a powerful tribe of Indians occupying a large part of the territory now called Connecticut, when it was colonized by the English Pilgrims, in 1635. His ashes rest in the “royal burying-ground” near Norwich; and, above them, in 1833, when General Jackson was on a visit to that city, the corner stone of a monument was laid, with imposing ceremonies. The granite obelisk, with the simple inscription,Uncas, was finished on the fourth of July, 1842, and on that day Mr. Stone delivered the address which, with its appendix and notes, composes the volume before us.

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