APRIL.

Now fitful clouds scud o’er the skies,And fairy showers patter by,And in the wood the low wind sighs,And shadows o’er the brown fields fly!Low fades the sun, then blazes out,Glinting on grass, and twig, and tree⁠—Ah! April, boyish out and out,Now tears, and now all jollity!

Now fitful clouds scud o’er the skies,

And fairy showers patter by,

And in the wood the low wind sighs,

And shadows o’er the brown fields fly!

Low fades the sun, then blazes out,

Glinting on grass, and twig, and tree⁠—

Ah! April, boyish out and out,

Now tears, and now all jollity!

MR. KERR MUDGEON.

OR “YOU WONT, WONT YOU?”

———

BY JOSEPH C. NEAL.

———

There; now!

You see—do you not?—Nay, you may almost hear it, if you listen attentively. Mr. Kerr Mudgeon—great many of the Kerr Mudgeons about, in various places—but this Mr. Kerr Mudgeon—going to a party as he was—desirous too, as people generally are on such occasions, of looking particularly well—and all ready, to his own infinite satisfaction—all ready except the final operation of putting on his bettermost coat—has torn that important article of gentlemanly costume—one may work without a coat, you know, and work all the easier for the relief; but it is not altogether polite to leave it at home on a peg when you go to a party. Torn his coat—not through his own fault, as Mr. Kerr Mudgeon would tell you explicitly enough—he never is, never was, never can be in fault—but because of that coat’s ill timed and provoking resistance to the operation of being donned. The coat might have known—who is ever thus to be trifled with in the process of dressing? Yes, the coat must have known. Ah, coats and the makers of coats have much to answer for. Kerr Mudgeon is ruffled, ruffles of this sort, causing a man to look none the handsomer or the more amiable for the ruffle. Such ruffles are not becoming.

“Ho! ho! wont go on, hey?” cried Mr. Kerr Mudgeon, and Mr. Kerr Mudgeon panted and Mr. Kerr Mudgeon blew, on the high pressure principle, until the steam of his wrath had reached its highest point.

It is a fearful moment with the Kerr Mudgeons, when it is manifest that something must break—a blood vessel or the furniture, or the peace of the commonwealth. Why will things animate and inanimate conspire to bring about such a crisis? Kerr Mudgeons would be sweet tempered if you would only permit them.

The coat positively refused to go on any further—the contumacious raiment. What could Kerr Mudgeon do in such a strait of perverse broad cloth?

“Tell me you wont go on,” muttered Kerr Mudgeon, setting his teeth, as a rifleman sets his trigger; “I’ll make you go on, I will,” shouted he.⁠—

There’s no such word as fail with Mr. Kerr Mudgeon. Something is sure to be done when he is once fairly roused to the work. It is a rule of his to combat like with like; and so—and so—stamping his foot determinedly, and gathering all his forces for a grand demonstration against the obstinacy of tight sleeves, he carried his point as he proposed to carry it, by a rushingcoup de main, to the material detriment of the fabric.—But what of that? Was it not a victory for Kerr Mudgeon? The coat had yielded to the force of his will; and if the victory had been gained at cost, is it not always so withvictories?—Glory—is that to be had for nothing?—No—depreciate the cost of glory, and pray tell me what becomes of glory?—It is glory no longer. A luxury, to be a luxury, must be beyond the general reach—too expensive for the millions—too costly for the masses.

“And now—ha! ha!—ho! ho!—he! he!—come off!” shrieked Mr. Kerr Mudgeon; “Now you’ve done all the mischief you could, come off.” Kerr Mudgeon divested himself of the fractured, but now humbled, penitent and discomfitted coat, and following up his first success, like an able tactician, he danced in a transport of joy upon its mangled fragments and its melancholy remains. Ghastly moment of triumph o’er a foe. Alas, Kerr Mudgeon be merciful to the vanquished when incapacitated for the war.

But no—coolness comes not on the instant—not to the Kerr Mudgeons. They have no relationship to the Kew Cumbers. They disdain the alliance; and Mr. Kerr Mudgeon’s coat had been conquered only—not punished.

“That’s what you get by being obstinate,” added he, as he kicked the expiring coat about the room, knocking down a lamp, upsetting an inkstand, and doing sundry other minor pieces of mischief all of which, of course, he charged to the account of the coat, as aforesaid—It was coat’s fault altogether. Mr. Kerr Mudgeon is not naturally in a passion. He would not have been in a passion had it not been for the coat—not he—the coat was the incendiary cause; and we trust that every coat, frock or body—sack-coat or any other of the infinite variety of coats now in existence, with all other coats that are to be, may take timely example and salutary warning from the doleful fate of Mr. Kerr Mudgeon’s coat, that there may be no sewing of tares, and an exemption from rent. A coat is never improved by participation in battle.

And this unhappy coat, which has thus fallen a victim to its incapacity to adapt itself to the form and pressure of circumstances, is by no means a singular case in the experience of Mr. Kerr Mudgeon. We mention it rather as a symbol and as an emblem of the trials and vexations that ambuscade his way through life, to vex him at unguarded moments and shake him from his propriety. Boots, it will appear, have served him just so, particularly on a warm morning when unusual effort fevers one for the day. Did you ever see Kerr Mudgeon in a contest with his boots, when the leather, like a sturdy sentinel, refused ingress to Kerr Mudgeon’s heel and declared that there “was no admission” to the premises, in despite of coaxings, of soap, and of the pulverizations of soap-stone? If you never saw that sight, you ought to see it, before you shuffle off this mortal coil—indeed you ought, as Kerr Mudgeon toils and pants at the reluctant boots, in the vain effort “to grapple them to his sole, with hooks of steel.” Then it is most especially that a Kerr Mudgeon is “lovelily dreadful,” like ocean in a storm. Whether Salt Petre will explode or not, just set the Kerr Mudgeons at a tight boot, and you shall hear such explosions of tempestous wrath as were never heard under other circumstances. The Gun Cotton is like lambs-wool in the comparison, as Kerr Mudgeon hops about in a state of betweenity, the boot half on, half off, declining either to go forward or to retreat. We pity that boot should Kerr Mudgeon find a failure to his deep intent. It has sufferings in store—a species of storage which is never agreeable.

Corks, too—did you ever dwell upon a Kerr Mudgeon endeavoring to extract a cork, without the mechanical appliances of a screw? The getting out of corks with one’s fingers is always more or less of a trial. There is donkeyism in corks; and those that will yield a little, are generally sure to break. Concession, conciliation, and compromise demand under these circumstances, that if the cork will not come out, it should be made to go in, to employ the ingenuity of future ages in fishing it up with slip-knots and nooses. But Kerr Mudgeon with a cork—he never, “Mr. Brown,” can be prevailed upon to “give it up so;” not even if you find the cork-screw for him. Rather would he hurt his hand, loosen his teeth, break his penknife or twist a fork into an invalid condition, than allow himself to be ingloriously baffled by the contemptible oppugnation and hostility of a cork and a bottle, thirsty and impatient as he may be for the imbibation of the contents thereof. If all else fail—Kerr Mudgeon enraged, and the bystanders in an agony of nervousness at the scene—“smack” goes the bottle’s neck against a table or “whack” over the back of a chair—“you wont, wont you!”—or in the more protracted and aggravating case, “smash!” goes the whole bottle to the wall, for the embellishment of paper hangings and the improvement of carpeting—Victoria!

Something is always the matter, too, with the bureau when he would open or shut a drawer.—Either it will not come out or it wont go in. That drawer must take the consequences; and doors—lucky are they to escape a fractured panel, if doors prove refractory, as doors sometimes will.—Nobody can open a door so featly as a Kerr Mudgeon.

“You wont, wont you?” and so he appeals to theultima ratio regum—the last reasoning of Kings—which means as many of thumps, cuffs and kicks as may be requisite to the purpose. It is a knock-down argument.

Pooh! pooh!—how you talk of the efficacy of the soft answer in the turning away of wrath.—Nonsense, Mr. George Combe, that wrath to the wrathful is only fuel to the flame. Mr. Kerr Mudgeon has no faith in passive resistance and in other doctrines of that sort. Smite his cheek, and then see what will come of the smitation. Go to him if you want “as good as you give,” and you will be sure to obtain measure, exact, yea, and running over.

And so Mr. Kerr Mudgeon has always a large stock of quarrel on hand, unsettled and neat as imported—feuds everywhere, to keep him warm in the winter season. A good hater is Mr. Kerr Mudgeon—a bramble bush to scratch withal.

“Try to impose on me,” says Kerr Mudgeon, “I’d like to see ’em at it. They’ll soon find I’m not afraid of anybody;” and he therefore seeks to impress that fact with distinctness on everybody’s mind; and, in consequence, if anybody has unexpended choler about him—a pet rage or so, pent up, or a latent exasperation—make him acquainted with Kerr Mudgeon, and observe the effect of the contact of such a spark as Mudgeon with an inflammable magazine. Should you find yourself peevish generally, and a little crusty or so, to those around you—primed, as it were, for contention, should it be fairly offered, stop as you go to business, at Kerr Mudgeon’s. He will accommodate you, and you will feel much better afterward, you will—“calm as a summer morning,” as the politicians have it.

Kerr Mudgeon rides; and his horse must abide a liberal application of whip and spur, sometimes inducing it as a corollary—is a tumble to be regarded as a corollary from the saddle?—inducing it as a corollary, that Kerr Mudgeon must abide in the mire, with a fractured tibia or fibia, as the case may be. “You wont, wont you?”— and there are horses who don’t, when not able clearly to understand what is to be done. Now, the horse swerves, and Kerr Mudgeon takes the lateral slide. Again the steed bows—with politeness enough—and Kerr Mudgeon is a flying phenomenon over his head—gracefully, like a spread-eagle in a fit of enthusiasm. When he isdownhe says he never givesupto a horse.

Kerr Mudgeon delights also to quicken the paces of your lounging dog, by such abrupt and sharp appeal to the feelings of the animal as occasion may suggest; and often there is an interchange of compliment, biped and quadrupedal, thus elicited, returning bites for blows, to square accounts between human attack and canine indignation. Some dogs do not appreciate graceful attentions and captivating endearments. “Dogs are so revengeful,” says Kerr Mudgeon. His dogs always run away; “dogs are so ungrateful, too,” quoth he.

Unfortunate Kerr Mudgeon!—What is to become of him until the world is rendered more complaisant and acquiescent, prepared in all respects to go his way?

In the street, he takes the straightest line from place to place, having learnt from his schoolboy mathematics, that this is decidedly the shortest method of going from place to place. And yet, how people jostle him, first on the right hand and then on the left? Why do they not clear the track for Kerr Mudgeon?

Then at the Post Office, in the hour of delivery.

Kerr Mudgeon wants his letters. What is more natural than that a man should want his letters?

“Quit scrouging!” says somebody, as he knocks Mr. Kerr Mudgeon in the ribs with his elbow.

“Wait for your turn!” cries somebody else, jostling Mr. Kerr Mudgeon on the opposite ribs.

Still Kerr Mudgeon struggles through the press, resolved upon obtaining his letters before other people obtain their letters, having his feet trampled almost to a mummy, his garments disarranged, if not torn, and in addition to bruises, perhaps losing his fifty dollar breast-pin, to complete the harmony of the picture; but still obtaining his letters in advance of his competitors—five minutes saved or thereabouts—what triumph! what a victory! To be sure, after such a struggle, Mr. Kerr Mudgeon consumes much more than the five minutes, in putting himself to rights, and finds himself in a towering passion for an hour or two, besides groaning for a considerable length of time over his bruises and his losses, all of which might have been escaped by a few moments of patience. But then the victory—“you wont, wont you?” Was Kerr Mudgeon ever baffled by any species of resistance? Not he.

“People are such brutes,” says he; “no more manners than so many pigs—try not to let me get my letters as soon as any of them, will they? I’ll teach ’em that a Kerr Mudgeon is not to be trifled with—just as good a right to be first as anybody; and I will be first, wherever I go, cost what it may.”

We do not know that Kerr Mudgeon ever entered into a calculation as to the profit and loss of the operation of the rule that governed his life in intercourse with society. Indeed, we rather think not. But it is probable that in the long run, it costs as much as it comes to, if it does not cost a great deal more, thus to persist in having one’s own way in every thing. In crossing the street now, when the black and fluent mire is particularly abundant, Mr. Kerr Mudgeon insists upon the flag-stones—“as good a right as anybody,” and thus pushes others into a predicament unpleasant to their boots and detrimental to their blacking, so that their understandings become clouded, as they lose all their polish. In general, such a course as this does very well—but it will sometimes happen, as it has happened, that two Kerr Mudgeons meet—the hardest fend off—and thus our Kerr Mudgeon is toppled full length into a bed much more soft than is altogether desirable, which vexes him.

Did you, of a rainy day, ever see Kerr Mudgeon incline his umbrella to allow another umbrella to pass? We are sure you never did. Kerr Mudgeon’s umbrella is as good as anybody’s umbrella, and will maintain its dignity against all comers, though it has been torn to fragments by the sharp points of other umbrellas, which thought themselves quite as good as it could pretend to be—and so, Kerr Mudgeon got himself now and then into a fray, to say nothing of suits for assault and battery, gracefully and agreeably interspersed. Ho! ho! umbrellas!—“you wont, wont you?”

Kerr Mudgeon walks with a cane—carries ithorizontally under his arm, muddy at the ferule perchance; and canes thus disposed, come awkwardly in contact with the crossing currents of persons and costumes. But what does he care for the soiled garments of the ladies or the angry countenances of offended gentlemen? Is not Kerr Mudgeon with his cane, as good as anybody else and his cane? Horizontally—he will wear it so. That’s his way.

“The world don’t improve at all,” cries Kerr Mudgeon. “They may make speeches about it, and pass resolutions by the bushel; but it is my candid opinion that it grows obstinater and obstinater every day. It never yields an inch, and a man has to push, and to scramble, and to fight forever to make any headway for himself—black and blue more than half the time. Every day shoots up all over rumpuses and rowses. But, never mind—the world needn’t flatter itself that it’s a going to conquer Kerr Mudgeon and to put him down too, as it does other people. Kerr Mudgeon knows his rights—Kerr Mudgeon is as good as anybody else. Kerr Mudgeon will fight till he dies. He was never made to yield, and he never intends to yield, so long as his name is Kerr Mudgeon. It’s a good name—never disgraced by movements of the knuckle-down character, and I’m determined to carry on the war just as all the Mudgeons did that went before me. If a horse kicks me, I’ll kick him back; and I wouldn’t get out of the way, like Mr. Daniel Tucker in the song, if a thirty-two pound shot was coming up the street, or a locomotive was a whizzin’ down the road. Stand up straight—that’s my motto. Give ’em as good as they can bring; that’s the doctrine; and while a single bit of Kerr Mudgeon remains—while any of his bones hang together, that’s him squaring off right in the centre of the track, ready for you, with his coat buttoned up and a fist in each of his hands.”

Kerr Mudgeon’s face is settled grimly into the aspect of habitual defiance. His brows are forever knitting, not socks or mittens, but frowns, and his mouth is knotted like a rope. When he looks around, it seems to be an inquiry, as to whether any gentleman present is disposed to pugilistic encounter,—if so, he can be accommodated; and the whole disposition of his garments indicates contention—war to the knife.

Kerr Mudgeon complains that he has no friends, and is beginning to stand solitary and alone, with but a dreary prospect before him, in a world that grows “obstinater and obstinater every day;” and he has yet to learn, if such learning should ever penetrate through the armor of hostility wherewith he is begirt, that perhaps, if we desire to have a smooth and easy time of it, we must ourselves begin by being smooth and easy. The belligerent ever meets with belligerents. There’s no difficulty about that. There is a sufficiency of war in every atmosphere, if you are disposed to condense it upon yourself; and no one eager to enjoy the pleasure, need wander far in search of quarrels. Kerr Mudgeon finds them everywhere—“rumpuses and rowses”—But it is a shrewd doubt whether one’s general comfort is greatly promoted by the aggravation of rudeness and roughness. It is easier to bend a little to inclement blasts, than to be snapped off by perpendicular resistance—easier to go round an obstacle than to destroy your temper and your clothing, in the exhausting effort to clamber over it; and it may be said of every quarrel in which Kerr Mudgeonism is engaged, that probably both parties are in fault, though Kerr Mudgeonism is in all likelihood, the responsible party.

Yet, “you wont, wont you?” is a great temptation to combativeness and destructiveness. Is it not, all ye people of the Kerr Mudgeon temperament?

Painted by Frankenstein Engraved by A. W. GrahamPITTSBURGEngraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

Painted by Frankenstein Engraved by A. W. Graham

Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine

PITTSBURGH.

———

BY E. M. SIDNEY.

———

As some vast heart that high in healthBeats in its mighty breast,So, to and fro, thy living wealthThrobs through the boundless West.Thy keels the broad Ohio plow,Or seek the Atlantic main;Thy fabrics find theArctic snow,Or reach Zahara’s plain!Toil on, huge Cyclop as thou art,Though grimed with dust and smoke,And breathing with convulsive start⁠—There’s music in each stroke!What if the stranger smirch and soilUpon thy forehead sees?Better the wealth of honest toilThan of ignoble ease!And yet thou’rt beautiful—a queenThroned on her royal seat!All glorious in emerald sheen,Where thy fair waters meet.And when the night comes softly down,And the moon lights the stream,In the mild ray appears the town,The city of a dream!

As some vast heart that high in health

Beats in its mighty breast,

So, to and fro, thy living wealth

Throbs through the boundless West.

Thy keels the broad Ohio plow,

Or seek the Atlantic main;

Thy fabrics find theArctic snow,

Or reach Zahara’s plain!

Toil on, huge Cyclop as thou art,Though grimed with dust and smoke,And breathing with convulsive start⁠—There’s music in each stroke!What if the stranger smirch and soilUpon thy forehead sees?Better the wealth of honest toilThan of ignoble ease!

Toil on, huge Cyclop as thou art,

Though grimed with dust and smoke,

And breathing with convulsive start⁠—

There’s music in each stroke!

What if the stranger smirch and soil

Upon thy forehead sees?

Better the wealth of honest toil

Than of ignoble ease!

And yet thou’rt beautiful—a queenThroned on her royal seat!All glorious in emerald sheen,Where thy fair waters meet.And when the night comes softly down,And the moon lights the stream,In the mild ray appears the town,The city of a dream!

And yet thou’rt beautiful—a queen

Throned on her royal seat!

All glorious in emerald sheen,

Where thy fair waters meet.

And when the night comes softly down,

And the moon lights the stream,

In the mild ray appears the town,

The city of a dream!

ABROAD AND AT HOME.

———

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF “AARON’S ROD,” “PRIZE STORIES,” ETC.

———

Ros.Farewell, Monsieur traveler: Look you, lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola.As You Like It.

“I did not see you at the opera, last night, Mrs. Fielding,” said Miss Collingwood.

“No,” replied the other, “I was not there. How were you pleased?”

“Oh, delighted!” returned the young lady, with animation. “It is an excellent company. Thetenorehas a superb voice, and theprima donnais charming. And everybody was there. You mean to go to-morrow, I suppose?”

“No,” said Mrs. Fielding; “the last time I heard that opera was in Paris. Lablache, Tamburini and Persiani sang; and I cannot bear to destroy the illusion by seeing it here. When one has been abroad, and heard music in such perfection, it spoils one for all one can get in this country.”

This was said in such a tone of superiority, that Miss Collingwood was a little dashed; but she replied,

“Oh, we cannot expect Lablache and Persiani; but still, this is an excellent company.”

“I’m told they are very tolerable,” replied Mrs. Fielding, in the same languid, supercilious manner. “But music, I think, should know no mediocrity. Now, in Paris, you have every thing in such perfection! There was nothing I enjoyed so much while I was abroad, as the opera. Persiani is an exquisite creature! And Lablache—what a voice! And Tamburini!” And Mrs. Fielding rolled up her eyes in an ecstasy, quite breathless and overcome by her recollections. “I don’t think,” she continued “I could bear hearing the same music sung by second-rate, or probably third or fourth-rateartistes, which I presume these people are. They are from Havana, I believe?”

“Yes,” answered Miss Collingwood, now quite ashamed of the enthusiasm with which she had first spoken of them, and almost thankful she had not mentioned the “season tickets,” she had been before on the point of announcing with such pride and delight. “We had a very full house,” she continued, however, too full of the subject to desist from it altogether, though not daring to dwell upon the music any longer. “Everybody, you know, was there; and I am told every seat in the house is engaged for to-morrow.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mrs. Fielding. “How these people do succeed here! Poor wretches, that can scarce get an engagement at one of the third or fourth-rate theatres abroad, have nothing to do but to come to this country to make their fortunes.”

“But Mr. Livingston told me that he had heard Signora D. in Paris, at the Grand Italian Opera,” replied Miss Collingwood, plucking up a little courage.

“He never heard her in the world, at the Grand Italian Opera,” replied Mrs. Fielding, as decidedly as if she had kept the run of all the operas and prima donnas from the beginning. “She sang some ten or fifteen years ago, at the French opera, the OperaComique, which is quite a different affair; but that, as I say, was ten or fifteen years ago—and fifteen years is the life of an opera singer. She is quitepasséenow, and could not, at the present time, get an engagement at even one of the minor theatres in Paris.”

“She has a beautiful voice,” persisted Miss Collingwood, “and sings with exquisite taste and execution.”

“Oh,” replied Mrs. Fielding, raising her shoulders with what was meant for a French shrug, “she is thedebrisof a good singer, I admit. Her style must be correct ever to have sung even at the OperaComique. All of course we can expect in this country, are those whose best days are gone abroad.”

“Did you see much of the Falconers, when you were abroad, Mrs. Fielding?” resumed Miss Collingwood, glad to turn the conversation from music, which she was all but told she had no opportunity or possibility of understanding.

“I merely met them,” replied Mrs. Fielding, in a somewhat slighting manner. “They were in no society, you know,” she continued, as if the inferior circle in which they moved was such as to prevent their coming in contact with herself, who was of course in a very different atmosphere.

“Indeed!” said Miss Collingwood, with much interest and curiosity in her manner; “we heard here that they were in a good deal of society. Mrs. Falconer told me they were at a concert at Prince B.’s, where they saw the countess G. and Lady A. and all the great people; and they were presented at court—and—I don’t know where they were not.”

“Oh, my dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Fielding, as if too much amused by their assurance to utter more on the instant.

“But was it not so?” pursued Miss Collingwood.

“They may have been at a charity concert at the Prince B.’s,” replied Mrs. Fielding; “I think it very probable—for these poor nobles are very glad to sell tickets on such occasions to any one who can afford to buy them; and, indeed, they prefer Americans, as people they never can come in contact with again. But in no other way, I assure you, could they ever have been at the Prince B.’s. As to being presented at court, anybody can—that is, I mean, who takes letters to our Ambassador. Poor Mr. L., I used to pity him, for the people he was obliged to present! I do assure you, one often blushes for one’s countrymen abroad!” continued Mrs. Fielding. “Such looking, such dressed creatures as they are! And talking so loud, too! And it is so difficult to make foreigners understand that these vulgarians are not first class Americans. I have often tried to explain it; but I seldom found Europeans, even of the highest rank, who understood our society.”

“But that would not apply to the Falconers,” persisted Miss Collingwood. “They had as much right to good society abroad as anybody.”

“Perhaps so,” replied Mrs. Fielding; “I did not mean them, particularly. But, my dear Miss Collingwood, it amuses me to hear these people talk of the society they were in abroad. Now, they were in no society at all. It’s not the easy matter to get in society in Europe, that it is in this country. People do not throw their doors open to Americans, I assure you, unless, indeed, under very extraordinary circumstances.”

“But I understood the Falconers had excellent letters,” continued Miss Collingwood; “and, then, their fortune would give them every facility, you know, that could be desired.”

“Letters!” repeated Mrs. Fielding, contemptuously. “It does amuse me to hear you Americans talk of letters. I should like to know who has a right to give them! They might as well have taken so much waste paper abroad! And, as to their fortune! What is an American fortune in Europe!” continued Mrs. Fielding, warmly, (for her husband’s means were quite limited;) just enough to make them conspicuous without being sufficient to give them consequence! “Of all the people one meets traveling, there are none so ridiculed or ridiculous as our millionaires, who think their money must carry them through every thing. They are cheated and fleeced, and laughed at by the very people who are cheating them. No, my dear Miss Collingwood, I don’t deny that it is a very pleasant thing to have money abroad, as well as at home; but don’t suppose that it is going to give you anyconsequencethere. In a polished society like that, education, accomplishments, personal qualifications, are all an American can hope to rest any claim upon at all. Now, I don’t mean to say that we had any superior claims of any kind; but, owing to some circumstances, we saw society that few Americans are ever admitted in. My mother’s English relatives treated us with the utmost kindness, and through Sir Frederick T., we really had opportunities that were very gratifying, of seeing every thing that was desirable. We could not have traveled under more delightful auspices.”

This was said with an air of careless modesty, as if announcing a fact about which there was no dispute.

“How charming it must have been!” exclaimed Miss Collingwood. “And did you really find the higher classes so superior to ours, Mrs. Fielding?”

“Oh, my dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Fielding, “unfortunately there’s no question about it! I sometimes almost regret our visit to Europe, on that account. It does spoil one so for home.”

While she was still speaking, the Falconers entered. They and Mrs. Fielding had not met (being residents of different cities) since their return from Europe. They greeted each other with great cordiality, and were, during the first few minutes of their interview, so occupied with what really seemed the pleasure of seeing each other, that Miss Collingwood, the lady on whom they were calling, seemed in a fair way of being forgotten. After having, however, inquired and taken the address of the Falconers, Mrs. Fielding took her leave of the party. After a few minutes’ general conversation, Miss Collingwood said,

“I observed you at the opera, last night, Miss Falconer; how were you pleased?”

“Very well,” replied the young lady. “It is not a first-rate company, of course—but very fair.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” replied Miss Collingwood, eagerly, “for it struck me as such; but Mrs. Fielding spoke of its being so very inferior, that I supposed I must be mistaken. Indeed, I take it for granted, that hearing such music as she has heard at the opera, in Paris, must make one fastidious.”

Miss Falconer smiled as she replied,

“I don’t think Mrs. Fielding heard music enough at the Italian Opera, in Paris, to spoil her for any she may hear in this country.”

“Why,” returned Miss Collingwood, with the sudden expression of one who has caught a new light, “she tells me she has heard Lablache, Tamburini, Persiani, &c.”

“Of course,” replied Miss Falconer. “Everybody hears them once or twice. But what is it to hear an opera once?”

“But why only once or twice?” inquired Miss Collingwood.

“It’s so expensive,” replied Miss Falconer. “I forget what our box cost us—but something enormous. I know papa said it was one of our principal expenses in Paris. And the Fieldings, you know, are in very moderate circumstances. I doubt whether Mrs. Fielding was ever a second time at the Grand Opera. The minor French theatres are cheap enough; but to hear these great singers repeatedly, really costs a young fortune. Indeed, Mrs. Fielding,” she continued, laughing, “may goand hear this company with profit, if not pleasure; for she knows nothing of music. It was thespectacle, I do believe, she enjoyed, more than the music, when she was there.”

“She seems to have enjoyed her visit to Europe excessively,” returned Miss Collingwood.

“Yes, so she says,” replied the other; “and I am surprised at it, too.”

“Indeed! Why so?”

“Oh, they traveled with no advantages; and I should not think there was much pleasure in seeing merely the outside of places.”

“But I understood they had peculiar advantages,” persisted Miss Collingwood; “particularly with regard to society. Their cousin, Sir Frederick T., was very kind to them.”

“I know—they are forever talking of Sir Frederick T. But, after all, who is Sir Frederick T.? A mere country baronet! The idea of his introducing American cousins, is amusing!”

Miss Collingwood laughed.

“You throw quite a new light on the subject, Miss Falconer. Here Mrs. Fielding has been quite dazzling poor simple me, who took it all for gospel. She really made me feel as if I knew nothing of either music, men or manners. I was ignorant enough to suppose that Sir Frederick T. or sir anybody could introduce whoever they pleased.”

“It’s just as much as those people, the poorer branches of the nobility, I mean, can do to keep their own footing,” replied Miss Falconer, “let alone bringing in American relations. On the Continent, if you have money, the thing is easier. Democracy and poverty have made greater strides there. The golden key is apassée partoutin Paris. Without it, to be sure, there is little to be enjoyed; with it, much, indeed.”

“Did you see much of the Fieldings, abroad?” inquired Miss Collingwood, amused, and curious to hear what version Miss Falconer would give of the acquaintance with her country people in Europe.

“No,” she replied. “It was such a journey to get up to their rooms in Paris, that I only called a few times. Climbing those Parisian stairs is no small exertion, I assure you, without you are really interested in the people you are visiting.”

“I was asking Mrs. Fielding if it was not a fatiguing way of living, but she said, ‘No—that you become so accustomed to it, that you never think of it, and that, though her apartments wereau troisième, she lived in such a state of excitement she was not conscious of undergoing more fatigue than when at home.’ ”

“Her apartmentsau troisième!” exclaimed Miss Falconer, laughing heartily. “Now, Miss Collingwood, did Mrs. Fielding really speak of beingau troisième—are you sure?”

“Yes, certain. Why—were they not? I thought everybody lived somewhere between heaven and earth, in Paris,” said Miss Collingwood.

“To be sure they do,” replied Miss Falconer; “and the Fieldings were considerably nearer heaven than earth. Why,wewereau troisième. The Fieldings wereau hautième, just under the roof; the very attics, I believe, for I am sure there could not possibly have been another story above. I know I never climbed so high in my life, except when I went up Mount Vesuvius, as I did when I called to see the Fieldings. I should think they must be glad to be home, to some of the comforts of life, again.”

“But I thought Paris was such a cheap place,” continued Miss Collingwood.

“Cheap! Yes, so it is, if you are willing to live as Parisians live—that is, with no luxuries, and scarce any comforts. I suppose you can live cheap here, if you take attic rooms, with hardly any furniture, and eat in all sorts of odd places. That is the way half the French people live, and Americans can do it too, if they please, abroad—which they cannot do at home. Pleasures are cheap, to be sure; that is, of the inferior sort. But I should say there was scarce enough to compensate people accustomed to a different style of living, in French vaudevilles and street amusements, for such sacrifices.”

“Hardly,” replied Miss Collingwood; “but how is it, then, that you are so delighted with Europe?”

“Why, in the first place, we don’talllive exactly in the way I have described. You can have luxuries and comforts too, beside exquisite pleasures, if you please to pay for them. But then the expense is enormous.” And so Miss Falconer continued to let Miss Collingwood know that what she had been saying only applied to other Americans, not to themselves at all. “And, moreover,” she continued, “there is much of excitement and novelty abroad, that carries one through a great deal. And perhaps most of us think it was pleasanter in looking back than it was in the reality. I dare say Mrs. Fielding actually believes she enjoyed herself excessively. But I should say the pleasantest part of her trip was the getting home,” she added, smiling.

“Then you do not think she need be spoilt for America, by all she has seen abroad?” pursued Miss Collingwood.

“She spoilt! No, indeed!” replied Miss Falconer. “I don’t deny that there is a great deal to be enjoyed there, that can’t be enjoyed at home. But I think Mrs. Fielding may enjoy a great deal at home, she certainly never enjoyed abroad.” And so saying, Miss Falconer rose and bid Miss Collingwood good morning.

“It’s very strange,” observed Miss Collingwood, afterward, to her sister, “that so few Americans give the same story of themselves and each other abroad. They all tell you that they only were in society, and that others were not. It is really amusing to hear them. I wonder, now, who tells the truth, the Fieldings or the Falconers?”

“Both, and—neither,” replied her sister, laughing.

“How so?”

“They tell truth of each other, but not of themselves. I mean,” continued the younger Miss Collingwood.

“That may be it!” exclaimed Miss Collingwood. “Thatnever occurred to me before. And then, how they all talk of being ‘spoilt for this country,’ by their travels.”

“So they are,” rejoined the younger sister—“truly spoilt. How few of them you find return really improved! They are spoilt, though not from excess of fastidious refinement, but from absurd airs. Of all things, I dread hearing, ‘When I was abroad.’ I am always sure some absurd impertinence is coming. Then the fine acquaintances they all have; when, depend upon it, they know nobody who is anybody. There’s Mrs. Ashland, who wont let you admire even a beauty she don’t happen to fancy; but she’ll tell you, ‘It is such an American taste;’ or, ‘In this country you don’t understand this, that and the other.’ Ah! that ‘In this country,’ is the worst of all. Just as if ‘thiscountry’ was not their country! And then, if they have only been in Paris a fortnight, they are omnipotent on fashions for the rest of their days.”

“But, surely,” resumed the elder sister, “there must be a great deal that is improving and delightful in foreign travel.”

“I have no doubt,” replied the other, “that there is a great deal to be enjoyed, as Miss Falconer says; and a great deal to be suffered, too,” she added, laughing, “if the whole truth were known. Much to be learnt, too. Intelligent, well-educated people, find pleasure everywhere—a great deal, no doubt, abroad—and, as Miss Falconer says, more in getting home. One thing, I am sure of, however. I never found anybody whohad improved abroad, who was spoilt for home.”

THE STATUE IN THE SNOW.

———

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

Numb and chill the Savoyard wanderedBy the banks of frozen Seine,Oft, to cheer his sinking spirit,Singing low some mountain strain.But, beside the wintry river,Rose the songs of green Savoy,Sadder than ’mid Alpine valleys,Sung by many a shepherd boy!From the bleak and distant VosgesSwept the snowy whirlwind down,Flinging wide its shifting mantleOver slope and meadow brown.Like a corpse, the silent landscapeLay all stark and icy there,And a chill and ghostly terrorSeemed to load the leaden air.Still that shivering boy went forward,Though his heart within him died,When the dreary night was closingDull around the desert wide.Sobbing wild in lonely sorrow,On his numb cheek froze the tear;And his footstep, faint and weary,Heeded not the gathering fear!

Numb and chill the Savoyard wanderedBy the banks of frozen Seine,Oft, to cheer his sinking spirit,Singing low some mountain strain.

Numb and chill the Savoyard wandered

By the banks of frozen Seine,

Oft, to cheer his sinking spirit,

Singing low some mountain strain.

But, beside the wintry river,Rose the songs of green Savoy,Sadder than ’mid Alpine valleys,Sung by many a shepherd boy!

But, beside the wintry river,

Rose the songs of green Savoy,

Sadder than ’mid Alpine valleys,

Sung by many a shepherd boy!

From the bleak and distant VosgesSwept the snowy whirlwind down,Flinging wide its shifting mantleOver slope and meadow brown.

From the bleak and distant Vosges

Swept the snowy whirlwind down,

Flinging wide its shifting mantle

Over slope and meadow brown.

Like a corpse, the silent landscapeLay all stark and icy there,And a chill and ghostly terrorSeemed to load the leaden air.

Like a corpse, the silent landscape

Lay all stark and icy there,

And a chill and ghostly terror

Seemed to load the leaden air.

Still that shivering boy went forward,Though his heart within him died,When the dreary night was closingDull around the desert wide.

Still that shivering boy went forward,

Though his heart within him died,

When the dreary night was closing

Dull around the desert wide.

Sobbing wild in lonely sorrow,On his numb cheek froze the tear;And his footstep, faint and weary,Heeded not the gathering fear!

Sobbing wild in lonely sorrow,

On his numb cheek froze the tear;

And his footstep, faint and weary,

Heeded not the gathering fear!

Through the desolate northern twilight,To his home-sick pining, roseVisions of the flashing glaciers,Lifted in sublime repose.Horns of Alp-herds rang in welcome,And his mother kissed her boy!⁠—Back his bounding heart was hurriedFrom the vales of dear Savoy!For, amid the sinking darkness,Colder, chillier, blew the snows,Till but faint and moaning whispersFrom his stiffening lips arose.Then beside the pathway kneeling,Folded he his freezing hands,While the blinding snows were driftedLike the desert’s lifted sands.As in many an old cathedral,Curtained round with solemn gloom,One may see a marble cherubKneeling on a marble tomb!With his face to heaven upturning,For the dead he seems to pray,While the organ o’er him thunders,And the incense curls away!Thus he knelt, all pale and icy,When the storm at midnight passed,And the silver lamps of heavenBurned above the pausing blast.In that starry-roofed cathedralKnelt the cherub form in prayer,While the smoke from snowy censersDrifted upward through the air.

Through the desolate northern twilight,To his home-sick pining, roseVisions of the flashing glaciers,Lifted in sublime repose.

Through the desolate northern twilight,

To his home-sick pining, rose

Visions of the flashing glaciers,

Lifted in sublime repose.

Horns of Alp-herds rang in welcome,And his mother kissed her boy!⁠—Back his bounding heart was hurriedFrom the vales of dear Savoy!

Horns of Alp-herds rang in welcome,

And his mother kissed her boy!⁠—

Back his bounding heart was hurried

From the vales of dear Savoy!

For, amid the sinking darkness,Colder, chillier, blew the snows,Till but faint and moaning whispersFrom his stiffening lips arose.

For, amid the sinking darkness,

Colder, chillier, blew the snows,

Till but faint and moaning whispers

From his stiffening lips arose.

Then beside the pathway kneeling,Folded he his freezing hands,While the blinding snows were driftedLike the desert’s lifted sands.

Then beside the pathway kneeling,

Folded he his freezing hands,

While the blinding snows were drifted

Like the desert’s lifted sands.

As in many an old cathedral,Curtained round with solemn gloom,One may see a marble cherubKneeling on a marble tomb!

As in many an old cathedral,

Curtained round with solemn gloom,

One may see a marble cherub

Kneeling on a marble tomb!

With his face to heaven upturning,For the dead he seems to pray,While the organ o’er him thunders,And the incense curls away!

With his face to heaven upturning,

For the dead he seems to pray,

While the organ o’er him thunders,

And the incense curls away!

Thus he knelt, all pale and icy,When the storm at midnight passed,And the silver lamps of heavenBurned above the pausing blast.

Thus he knelt, all pale and icy,

When the storm at midnight passed,

And the silver lamps of heaven

Burned above the pausing blast.

In that starry-roofed cathedralKnelt the cherub form in prayer,While the smoke from snowy censersDrifted upward through the air.

In that starry-roofed cathedral

Knelt the cherub form in prayer,

While the smoke from snowy censers

Drifted upward through the air.

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