“Alas! for the rarityOf Christian CharityUnder the sun;”
“Alas! for the rarityOf Christian CharityUnder the sun;”
“Alas! for the rarityOf Christian CharityUnder the sun;”
“Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian Charity
Under the sun;”
because thereisplenty of charity and sympathy in the world, if people were only so wise as to know where to look for it. Do you think to find fragrance in the dahlia, and the bright-hued tulip-flowers? Vain will be your seeking. Go into the woods and fields, along the banks of the little stream—search insuchplaces, you will not return successless, you will come back with your handsfilledwith fragrant violets and wild-roses!) as to offer to take charge of the younger member of the family during her necessary absence, and also to endeavor to gather from the neighbors sufficient funds to carry her to those friends. But to all these kind proposals, greatly astonished was the good woman by Delle’s firm refusal.
“No,” said she, “Mrs. Jones, I remember when our misfortunes overtook us three years ago; father wrote to uncle, and told him of our necessities, begging him to assist us, but uncle made such answer, thatIwill never repeat those requests; no, Mrs. Jones, though I should starve! But we shall not starve, neither shall my little ones come on the town. You know that after I left school, for some time I taught Charley and Georgy, and Jane, and I have learned them a great deal, beside improving myself, and this is what I’ll do. I’ll open a small school for children, and the neighbors—will they patronize me for my poor dear mother’s sake—oh, I will try, and teach so well!”
Poor Delle’s voice was not quite firm as she disclosed these projects to the kind-hearted old woman, but she did not cry; there was not a tear in her soft, down-cast eyes—but Mrs. Jones did weep outright when she looked on the excited young girl, and saw the flashes of color which betrayed her emotion, deeply tinging her cheek one moment, and the next leaving it colorless.Shedid weep, I say, and for some minutes made no answer to Delle’s inquiry; this sympathy which the old woman evinced, emboldened the maiden to speak again, for she feltshehad no time to weep then—she mustact.
“Do you think, dear Mrs. Jones, I shall succeed? Will the people be afraid to send their children to me because I am so young? Oh, if you will but speak to a few, just a few people, and tell them how I will try to do justice to their little ones. And tell them, yes, tell them, Mrs. Jones, that I do it to give bread tomychildren; they have always known me, they need not fear I will neglect theirs.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old woman, hurriedly, starting up and wiping her eyes, “I’ll go this minute; bless your noble heart! theyshallsend their children to your school. I’ll be bound you’ll do justice to ’em—when shall I tell ’em you’ll open?”
“To-day—to-morrow—any day; let them come here, I shall be ready for them, I have no time to wait or to waste.”
And in a moment old Mrs. Jones (blessed be her memory!) was gone on her errand of mercy; and then, yes, as a true historian, Imustsay, Delle’s tears did burst forth, resisted no longer. The children left their broken toys and their play, when they saw their sister weeping, and came softly and stood beside her—every little face that had a moment before been covered with smiles, wore a most touching, solemn expression, when they saw how grieved she was; Jane laid her head on Delle’s knee and wept too, scarcely knowing why; and little Willy crept into her arms, and while he nestled there so lovingly, he brushed away her tears with his tiny hand, saying, “Dear, dear Delle, don’t cry, we all love you so dearly.”
But the words and sympathy of the children only brought the tears faster to her eyes, even while they fell like balm on her heart. Was she notrichin the love of those children? What a pleasure would it be to labor for them, and to see them guided by her hand, growing up in goodness and knowledge; and again, in that home, before God she vowed she would be unceasingly faithful to her dead mother’s charge.
Two years passed away, and Delle’s school was continued with the greatest success; indeed, it had becomethechild’s school of our village. You should have seen her in the school-room of her now comfortable home, amid the multitudes of youth who gathered around her, whose “young ideas” she was teaching to “shoot” in the right direction. You should have seen her in the hours when she was alone in her home with her brothers and invalid sister. How unabated was her tender and watchful care of the fragile Jane; how unceasing her efforts to secure the comfort and happiness of the poor girl; how happy she herself was when a smile and visible contentment on the part of the sufferer was returned for all her pains. You should have seen her encouraging,or mildly reproving, or joining the three light-hearted boys in their sports, who regarded her with the deference and affection they would have shown toward a parent. You should have seen her on the Sabbaths when she went with the children, whomherdiligence andperseverance fed and clothed, to the village church, teaching them by her example to “remember their Creator in their youth.” You should have watched her when she went with them to the church-yard, to the place where their parents were buried—a little spot which their hands had made beautiful as a garden. You should have seen Delle at such times to have rightly and fully estimated her worth. Those only who saw her and knew her in all these lights,couldknow her truly; for as she grew nigh to womanhood, there was a dignity and reserve in her manners, resulting from the manifold trials to which she had been exposed, which made her not readily understandable to those who had not known her from childhood.
Do you abominate parties? So do I. But follow me this once, ’tis a beautiful moonlight night, to yonder well-lighted mansion. I have trod through it oftentimes, and with me for your guide, there is no possible danger of losing your way. Here we are in the midst of the gay assemblage; what profusion of flowers, what pleasant voices and bright smiles, and happy hearts; and, hark! there are sounds of music and of dancing feet. Let us wander, now, through the rooms,in spirit, and amuse ourselves for a moment with “seeing what is to be seen,” and hearing what is to be heard; and if there be any malice in our remarks, we can keep our own secret, and not expose those “modern belles” to more ridicule than very naturally they draw forth from common, ordinary observers; nor will we say any thingaloudabout that nondescript sort of personage yclept a fashionable beau, whose culminated faculties emerge before the public in the shape of unmitigatednonsense.
Ah, what an unexpected relief—the belabored piano is resting now; the incessant battering and twisting of the keys, which, alas! rarely open the real gates of glorious music, is stilled—the harp is twanged no more—the guitar is silenced, yet the music-room is filled, and every sound is hushed, and they await in expectancy a somewhat—there it is! Heard you ever the like. Thatis music! keep silent, it will not do to criticisesuchsinging. How melodiously the words gush forth; they are new, but how distinctly they are pronounced! The song is finished. What, not one concluding, prolonged trill of approved flourish? No—for it is finished.
See how they crowd round the pale, sweet-faced girl who has filled the room with such melody, and all, excepting the performers who have so prodigiously exerted themselves on the musical instruments, entreat foronemore song. And while she stands silently for a moment, see the delighted countenance of the tall, well-formed gentleman who stands near her; listen, he is saying in the lowest possible tone, “pray, lady, sing once more.” And the lady heard his words, and as she raises her eyes to the stranger, a scarcely perceptible flush is on her pale face. Again her eyes are drooping, and the rich voice is doing ample justice to Mrs. Heman’s splendid poem, “The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.” Is not the wild, drear scene before you—can you not see it all as she sings, how
“The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy sky,Their giant branches tossed.”
“The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy sky,Their giant branches tossed.”
“The breaking waves dashed highOn a stern and rock-bound coast,And the woods against a stormy sky,Their giant branches tossed.”
“The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed.”
And again they are beseeching for but one more song; but see how mildly, yet so firmly, that they cannot doubt she means to sing no more, does she decline. No one essays to charm the ear now aftersuchsinging—and already they are beginning to pour out of the music-room, whitherhervoice had drawn them. But, see! there is one who remains standing, as spell-bound, beside the lady. Who is this stranger? A city gent, but to-day arrived from the East, at the residence of his relative,ourhostess. How refined he is in manner and dress, and apparently not tinged with coxcombry at all, yet this may be the effect of an education conducted solely with the intent to please and catch the world’s eye, as well as of good sound common sense. At all events, if heispuffed up with inordinate vanity because Heaven has suffered him to attain the ordinary stature of manhood, in the possession of a fine, intelligent face, he conceals it with consummate skill, does he not? That is one thing in his favor, for a proper appreciation of the rarity of such an instancevidethe Book of Human Life. They are in the midst of a most agreeable conversation; happily, the gentleman touches on the right topics to interest the maiden; you can tell that by her manifest attention, and pleasure, as well as by the spirit with which she carries on her part of the conversation. Suddenly and abruptly he has left her. Ah! the hostess has entered the room, and he is speaking with her rapidly. Now, leaning on his arm, she approaches the pale little lady standing beside the piano, and makes Mr. Alfred Livingstone, whose most unreserved admiration she had won, acquainted with Miss Delleparetta Hogg! Do but see that sudden lifting of the gentleman’s eyebrows, the half frown on his forehead, and the ill-concealed smile of his lips, which even his “good breeding” cannot wholly banish, as he listens to her name; fortunate for Delle is it that her eyes are just now cast down; but never seemed she more fair, graceful and lovable than now, while she stands confessing to that outrageous name!
Despite this little drawback, the city gentleman seems in a fair way of falling desperately in love with Delle. Not for a moment since her first song has he left her side; and now she has gone so early from the gay company, because she thinks of the dear ones at home, waiting to hear all about the party—and he accompanies her. Delle seldom appears in such scenes—but the heart beating beneath those eyes which never shone so brightly before is not weary; she feels no fatigue because of the unwonted excitement. And to-morrow, when she sits in her pleasant school-room again, initiating her pupils inthe mysteries of common-sense, which no teacher ever knew how to teach more successfully,perhapsthose words which Alfred Livingstone has spoken to her, will not bequiteforgotten.
A fortnight passed away, and three weeks, and a month, still young Livingstone tarried in our dull village; and every night his tall figure might be seen wending its way up our beautiful street to the tasteful, cheerful home of Delle. And it grew at last to be not the most wonderful sight in the world to see the poor school-teacher taking the walk she so much needed, after the close confinement of the day, not with her usual companion, her oldest brother, but with the stately youth already named. It was a happy month to Delle, if we might judge from appearance. One could not but see there was a certain lightness in her step, and a general joyousness in her whole appearance, that was alone wanting in former times to make her beautiful. But at the end of the month it became necessary that Livingstone should return to his city home; and the last we to the opposite saw of him, he was emerging from the cottage-home of Delle, as the whistle of the approaching cars was heard—and he was gone; and the children had a holyday!
They who prided themselves on being learned in such matters, said that every week brought with it regularly a letter from —— to Delle, and thatveryoften the western mail bore a most lady-like (in its outward garb) epistle to the eastern city. Then, when all this was currently reported and believed, some wise head, judging from appearances, added to the story the information, that early in the spring Delle was to discontinue her school altogether.
How near “they” came to the right of the story, let us try and find out, which I think having earnestly set ourselves about it, we shall do suddenly.
Just imagine Alfred Livingstone, two or three months after his return from his country sojourning, seated, alone, in his exquisitely furnished apartment at the Astor, before a table covered with writing materials. The paper over which his pen is hovering is unstained yet by the ink—for he is arrested by voices speaking in the adjoining room, which are neither hushed nor moderate, they are speaking with all thefreedom of tone one is wont to indulge in at home. Do but hear them and watch him!
“Where in all the world did you hear that?” asked one.
“What?” responded the other, carelessly.
“That you were speaking about at Howard’s, that Fred Livingstone, prince of beaux and gentlemen, is going to marry a dowdy little country Miss?”
“Hear it!” ejaculated the other, “why it’s the town talk.”
“But who is she—is she rich, or beautiful? Something she must be beyond the common to win him. Who are her relations? What—”
“Stop, stop—how shall I wade through all these questions. What an inquisitor you’d make! but I acknowledge that for once your curiosity is laudable. First, as towhoshe is? She is the daughter of some miserable low family, remarkable for nothing but their poverty. Second,whatis she? A country school-teacher, who spends her days in teaching a set of insufferable children their ab-abs. Is she a beauty? Don’t know, deponent saith not. She sings well though, and you know music was always Fred’s hobby—he says he abominates this fashionable singing.”
“Well, but you haven’t told me her name.”
“Ah, that’s the horrible part of the thing. Listen while I try to pronounce it, and then say wonders will never cease. The name of this captivator, this charmer of ‘the greatest match in town,’ is—Delleparetta Hogg! Do but think ofhisasking, in his bland voice,Miss Hogg, to favor him with a song!”
“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the other, after a moment’s silence, for he had seemed struck dumb with amazement; and then the hopeful conversationists burst into such a roar of laughter as quite drowned the noise of the crash with which Alfred Livingstone’s hand was brought down on his writing-desk, making in its descending progress the most dreadful marks on his paper, which, in their confusion and blackness, perhaps resembled closely the color and confusion of his thoughts at that present moment.
Now be it known that this unfortunate name of his lady-love had been the sorest of all points with Alfred Livingstone, Esq. Indeed, it had instituted a series of doubts in his mind which were there agitated for a long time, before he arrived at the brave conclusion that hewouldmarry her, name and all—that is, supposing he could win her consent. But to be jested with by his city friends, and inhiscircle, onsucha subject, the very thought was insupportable. He had hoped with all his heart that her name would never elapse till he introduced her, to the envy of all the town, as Mrs. Livingstone.
But now it was all over; his love was not proof against such a trial—such a mortificationhethought it—for her name was a most indisputable fact, a tangible thing on which his friends and enemies might harp to his continual agony. There was but one remedy—a desperate one it was—but there wasno otherremedy, or way of escape. It took him not long to concoct and despatch that letter which he hadmeantto fill with kind and loving words. Poor Delle, she never quite understood that cruel epistle; but there was one thing about it she could sufficiently comprehend, that all was passed that ever could pass between her and Alfred Livingstone.
The next morning the elegant Mr. Livingstone laid his hand, andheart,(?) and fortune, andname, at the feet of the most accomplished and brilliant “belle of the season,” which, I scarcely need say, when it was held in consideration, that he was “the greatest match in town,” was without hesitation accepted.
Delle’s school was carried on as usual; there was no cessation or holyday when that letter of renouncement came to her. She had lived through and borne nobly sharper griefs than was hers when she readhisstrange, cold words. With renewed diligence sheturned to her occupation—that was not “gone”—but it was a hope that struggled long in her heart, that the recreant would at least write to explain—that he would tell herthere was no meaning to his words. Such an explanation never came, however. The school continued, I said, and it continues still; and one would scarcely think, to look on the self-possessed, noble young lady at its head, that she had hadsuchan experience in love matters.
There is another report circulating extensively in our neighborhood just now, relative to Delle’s movements in the coming spring. I will not vouch for its truth. I have not dared askherif it be true; but peopledosay that a rich bachelor in our neighborhood, is then to relieve her of that odious name which is now so indisputably hers; and that at that happy time she will take up her abode, with the children who are her constant care, in his beautiful mansion. If this be true, it is hardly necessary for me to ask what kind of wife you think she’ll make. Iknowyour thoughts already on this subject; and if you be a gentleman, I fancy that I hear you “heaving a sigh,” and longing for just such a wife, becauseyouare, of course, far too sensible to thinkthere’s any thing in a name!
Some say this is no love match—that Delle will only marry this bridegroom elect for the purpose of ridding herself of the fatigues of school-teaching, arguing from the fact, I suppose, that he is sounlike Alfred Livingstone in all respects; and that he is so much older than she—and his hair is already tinged with gray; beside he is an odd sort of man, as is usually the case with old bachelors. Be this as it may, whether Delle is so foolish as to marry for love (which generally turns out to be such a delusion) or not, of this thing be convinced, reader, the marriage will be a happy one, for everybody knows he is as “kind as kind can be;” and she—but I’ve already said enough about her; and after all, if she derives but one benefit from the union, it will not be a small one—for will not that name, that horrid name of hers, be merged in partial forgetfulness? Don’t call namestrifles! By hers she lost him whom she did truly love, and who, perhaps, was not, strange as it may seem that I should say so, wholly unworthy of her love; for in very deed and truth, he had but one weak side, and that was most mortally pierced by the sharp arrow pointed withher name.
If there be one whose eyes have followed the jottings of my pen thus far, let me say to such an one another word aboutproper nouns in particular. If with most philosophic indifference you have, after mighty struggles, brought yourself to repeat with the chiefest of bards, on thinking of your own high-sounding misfortune,
“What’s in a name?”
“What’s in a name?”
please let me advise you “lay your mouth in the dust,” remembering, my word for it, that there is something “considerable, if not more,” in a name—especially in such an one as Miss Delleparetta Hogg—poets and philosophers “to the contrary notwithstanding,” which I hope and pray for your edification and enlightenment I have satisfactorily proved.
GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. XII.
THE DUNLIN. (Tringa Variabilis.Temminck.)
THE DUNLIN. (Tringa Variabilis.Temminck.)
The Dunlin, or Ox-bird, or Purre, is well entitled to the epithet “variabilis,” from the great difference between its summer and winter plumage. It is the Purre in summer and the Dunlin in winter in England, while in the United States it is called most commonly the Red-backed Sandpiper. In winter these birds assemble in small parties, following the tide on the oozy shores and estuaries near the sea. When undisturbed they run rather swiftly, and utter a sort of murmuring note, but when they are alarmed and forced to take wing, they utter a querulous and wailing scream. In the autumn they are seen around Vera Cruz, and may be bought in the markets of Mexico, while many, in their winter dress, remain throughout the winter within the limits of the Union. At times they frequent the coast of the Carolinas ingreat numbers about February, leading a vagabond life, and swayed hither and thither by every change in the temperature.
In the Middle States, the Dunlins arrive on their way to the North in April and May, and in September and October they are again seen pursuing the route to their hybernal retreat in the South. At these times, according to Nuttall, they mingle with the flocks of other strand birds, from which they are distinguishable by the rufous color of their upper plumage. They frequent the muddy flats and shores of the salt marshes, at the recess of the tide, feeding on the worms, insects and minute shell-fish which such places generally afford. They are very nimble on the strand, frequenting the sandy beaches which bound the ocean, running and gleaning up their prey with great activity on the reflux of the waves. When, says Nuttall, in their hybernal dress they are collected in flocks, so as to seem at a distance like a moving cloud, performing their circuitous waving and whirling evolutions along the shores with great rapidity, alternately bringing its dark and white plumage into view, it forms a very grand and imposing spectacle of the sublime instinct and power of Nature. At such times, however, the keen gunner, without losing much time in contemplation, makes prodigious slaughter in the timid ranks of the Purres, while, as the showers of their companions fall, the whole body often alight, or descend to the surface with them, until the greedy sportsman becomes satiated with destruction.
Length of the Dunlin is eight inches and a half; extent, fifteen inches; bill black, longer than the head, which would seem to rank it with the snipes, slightly bent, grooved on the upper mandible, and wrinkled at the base; crown, back, and scapulars bright reddish rust, spotted with black; wing coverts pale olive; quills darker; the first tipped, the latter crossed with white; front cheeks, hind head, and sides of the neck quite round; also the breast, grayish white, marked with small specks of black; belly white, marked with a small crescent of black; tail pale olive, the two middle feathers centered with black; legs and feet ashy black; toes divided to their origin, and bordered with a slightly scolloped membrane; irides very black.
The males and females are nearly alike in one respect, both differing greatly in color, even at the same season, probably owing to difference of age; some being of a much brighter red than others, and the plumage dotted with white. In the month of September many are found destitute of the black crescent on the belly; these have been conjectured to be young birds.
SEMIPALMATED SNIPE, OR WILLET. (Scolopax Semipalmata.)
SEMIPALMATED SNIPE, OR WILLET. (Scolopax Semipalmata.)
Willets breed in great numbers along the shores of New York, New Jersey, Delaware and Maryland, and afford the sportsman an easy prey and excellent eating. The experienced gunners always select the young birds, which are recognized by the grayness of their plumage, in preference to the older and darker birds, which are not so tender and well flavored. In the month of October they generally pass on to their winter-quarters in the warmer parts of the continent. Their food consists chiefly of small shell-fish, aquatic insects, their larvæ and mollusca, searching for which they may be found on the muddy shores and estuaries at low water. The Willet is peculiarly an American bird, its appearance in the north of Europe being merely accidental, as is also that of the Ruff in America. The Willets wade more than most of their tribe, and when disabled by a wound they take to the water without hesitation, and swim with apparent ease.
The length of the Willet is about fifteen and a half inches; length of the bill to the rictus two and a half inches, much shorter in the young bird of the season; tarsus two inches eight lines. In the summer plumage, according to Nuttall, the general color above is brownish gray, striped faintly on the neck, more conspicuously on the head and back, with blackish brown; the scapulars, tertiaries and their coverts irregularly barred with the same; tail coverts white, tail even, whitish, thickly mottled with pale ashy brown, that color forming the ground of the centralfeathers, which are barred with dusky brown toward their extremities; spurious wing, primary coverts, a great portion of the anterior extremities of the primaries, the axillary feathers, and under-wing coverts black, with a shade of brown; the remaining lower and longer portion of the primaries, and the upper row of under-wing coverts white; the posterior primaries tipt with the same; secondaries and the outer webs of their greater coverts white, marbled with dusky; wings rather longer than the tail, the lower with a spotted liver-brown streak, bounded above by a spotted white one; eyelids, chin, belly and vent white; the rest of the under plumage brownish white, streaked on the throat and transversely barred, or waved on the breast, shoulders, flanks, and under tail coverts with clove-brown, the bars pointed in the middle. Female colored like male, but an inch longer. Legs and feet dark lead color, the soles inclining to olive, the toes broadly margined with a sort of continuation of the web; iris hazel. Winter dress with fainter spots on the upper plumage, and without the dark waving transverse bars below, only the fore part of the neck and breast of a cinereous tint, marked with small brown streaks.
VISITANTS FROM SPIRIT-LAND.
———
BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.
———
Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door,The loved ones, the true-hearted,Come to visit us once more.—Longfellow.They are ever hovering round us,A mysterious, shadowy band,Singing songs, low, soft and plaintiveThey have learned in Spirit-Land.Bright their wings as hues elysian,Blended on the sunset sky,By unseen, but angel-artists,That concealed behind it lie.Sweet their soft and gentle voicesMingle with each passing breeze,And the sorrowing heart rejoices,As amid the leafy treesIn the green and verdant summer,Tones long-hushed are heard again,And the quick ear some new-comerCatches joining in their strain.Sceptics say ’tis but the breezesWandering on their wayward way—That the souls of the departedRest in peace and bliss for aye.But I know the fond, the loved ones,Cleansed from every earthly stain,Who have passed away before us,Come to visit us again!True, our eyes may not behold them,Nor the glittering robes they wear.True, our arms may not enfold them,Radiant phantoms formed of air!But I often hear them round me,And each gentle voice is known,When some dreamy spell hath bound me,As I sit at eve alone!Playmates of my joyous childhood,Wont to laugh the hours away,As they roamed with me the wildwood,In life’s beauteous break-of-day;They are spirits now, but hoverOn bright pinions round me still,Tender as some doting lover,Warning me of every ill.And among them comes one, brighter,Fonder far than all beside,Sunlight of my young existence,Who in life’s green springtime died.Music from her lips is gushing,Like the wind-harps plaintive tune,When the breeze with soft wing brushesO’er its strings in flowery June.O, thou white-browed peerless maiden,Holiest star that beams for me!Thou didst little dream how ladenWas this heart with love for thee!Once fair garlands thou didst weave me,But to gemEmanuel’sthroneThou didst soar away and leave meIn this weary world alone!But in dreams thou comest often,Hovering saint-like round my bed,Telling me in gentle whispersOf the loved and early dead!Once, methought, thou didst a letterBring from one remembered well,Who has left this world of sorrow,In the Spirit-Land to dwell!Strange the seal, and when ’twas broken,Strange the characters within,For ’twas penned in language spokenIn a world devoid ofSin;Told, no doubt, of joys that wait themWho shall enter spotless there,But before I could translate themI awoke, and found them air!Deem not that the soul reposesIn its radiant home for aye,On the fragrant summer rosesSunset beams may sadly play;But they whisper “banish sorrow,And from bitter thoughts refrain,On the bright and glorious morrowWe will gild your leaves again!”
Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door,The loved ones, the true-hearted,Come to visit us once more.—Longfellow.They are ever hovering round us,A mysterious, shadowy band,Singing songs, low, soft and plaintiveThey have learned in Spirit-Land.Bright their wings as hues elysian,Blended on the sunset sky,By unseen, but angel-artists,That concealed behind it lie.Sweet their soft and gentle voicesMingle with each passing breeze,And the sorrowing heart rejoices,As amid the leafy treesIn the green and verdant summer,Tones long-hushed are heard again,And the quick ear some new-comerCatches joining in their strain.Sceptics say ’tis but the breezesWandering on their wayward way—That the souls of the departedRest in peace and bliss for aye.But I know the fond, the loved ones,Cleansed from every earthly stain,Who have passed away before us,Come to visit us again!True, our eyes may not behold them,Nor the glittering robes they wear.True, our arms may not enfold them,Radiant phantoms formed of air!But I often hear them round me,And each gentle voice is known,When some dreamy spell hath bound me,As I sit at eve alone!Playmates of my joyous childhood,Wont to laugh the hours away,As they roamed with me the wildwood,In life’s beauteous break-of-day;They are spirits now, but hoverOn bright pinions round me still,Tender as some doting lover,Warning me of every ill.And among them comes one, brighter,Fonder far than all beside,Sunlight of my young existence,Who in life’s green springtime died.Music from her lips is gushing,Like the wind-harps plaintive tune,When the breeze with soft wing brushesO’er its strings in flowery June.O, thou white-browed peerless maiden,Holiest star that beams for me!Thou didst little dream how ladenWas this heart with love for thee!Once fair garlands thou didst weave me,But to gemEmanuel’sthroneThou didst soar away and leave meIn this weary world alone!But in dreams thou comest often,Hovering saint-like round my bed,Telling me in gentle whispersOf the loved and early dead!Once, methought, thou didst a letterBring from one remembered well,Who has left this world of sorrow,In the Spirit-Land to dwell!Strange the seal, and when ’twas broken,Strange the characters within,For ’twas penned in language spokenIn a world devoid ofSin;Told, no doubt, of joys that wait themWho shall enter spotless there,But before I could translate themI awoke, and found them air!Deem not that the soul reposesIn its radiant home for aye,On the fragrant summer rosesSunset beams may sadly play;But they whisper “banish sorrow,And from bitter thoughts refrain,On the bright and glorious morrowWe will gild your leaves again!”
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door,
The loved ones, the true-hearted,
Come to visit us once more.
—Longfellow.
They are ever hovering round us,
A mysterious, shadowy band,
Singing songs, low, soft and plaintive
They have learned in Spirit-Land.
Bright their wings as hues elysian,
Blended on the sunset sky,
By unseen, but angel-artists,
That concealed behind it lie.
Sweet their soft and gentle voices
Mingle with each passing breeze,
And the sorrowing heart rejoices,
As amid the leafy trees
In the green and verdant summer,
Tones long-hushed are heard again,
And the quick ear some new-comer
Catches joining in their strain.
Sceptics say ’tis but the breezes
Wandering on their wayward way—
That the souls of the departed
Rest in peace and bliss for aye.
But I know the fond, the loved ones,
Cleansed from every earthly stain,
Who have passed away before us,
Come to visit us again!
True, our eyes may not behold them,
Nor the glittering robes they wear.
True, our arms may not enfold them,
Radiant phantoms formed of air!
But I often hear them round me,
And each gentle voice is known,
When some dreamy spell hath bound me,
As I sit at eve alone!
Playmates of my joyous childhood,
Wont to laugh the hours away,
As they roamed with me the wildwood,
In life’s beauteous break-of-day;
They are spirits now, but hover
On bright pinions round me still,
Tender as some doting lover,
Warning me of every ill.
And among them comes one, brighter,
Fonder far than all beside,
Sunlight of my young existence,
Who in life’s green springtime died.
Music from her lips is gushing,
Like the wind-harps plaintive tune,
When the breeze with soft wing brushes
O’er its strings in flowery June.
O, thou white-browed peerless maiden,
Holiest star that beams for me!
Thou didst little dream how laden
Was this heart with love for thee!
Once fair garlands thou didst weave me,
But to gemEmanuel’sthrone
Thou didst soar away and leave me
In this weary world alone!
But in dreams thou comest often,
Hovering saint-like round my bed,
Telling me in gentle whispers
Of the loved and early dead!
Once, methought, thou didst a letter
Bring from one remembered well,
Who has left this world of sorrow,
In the Spirit-Land to dwell!
Strange the seal, and when ’twas broken,
Strange the characters within,
For ’twas penned in language spoken
In a world devoid ofSin;
Told, no doubt, of joys that wait them
Who shall enter spotless there,
But before I could translate them
I awoke, and found them air!
Deem not that the soul reposes
In its radiant home for aye,
On the fragrant summer roses
Sunset beams may sadly play;
But they whisper “banish sorrow,
And from bitter thoughts refrain,
On the bright and glorious morrow
We will gild your leaves again!”
HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,
DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
———
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.
———
People grieve about the departure of the good old times, and prate of the days of chivalry, which Mr. Burke sixty years ago said were gone. That they are gone the world may well rejoice at, not only because they were times of ignorance and cruelty, but also of discomfort and inconvenience. In the diary of a court-officer of the days of Henry VII. is the note of a charge for cutting rushes, to strew on the floor of the Queen-closets; and another one mentions the number of under-garments belonging to Henri III. of France as considerably less than any one of the better orders in our own time would require. In those days, the downy couch meant a bed of goose-wing feathers; gloves were not; and when a gentleman needed a new doublet or head-piece, he went not to a tailor or the hatter of the day, but to a blacksmith. Let the lovers of romance talk as they please, there was little true poetry, and less feeling, in the minds of the heroes they wish to extol, than of the veriest apostles of commerce of our own age. Rightly enough do we date civilization from the times when men laid aside the rugged manners of old with the bronze and iron armor, and doffing the hammered helmet, assumed the cap of velvet and the hat of plush; when they laid aside the iron gauntlet for the chamois glove, and assumed the Cordovan boot in place of the leg-pieces of steel.
The feelings of chivalry yet lingered as late as the days of the English Charles I. and the French Louis XIII. in the minds of the nobility. A new series of ideas, however, had arisen in the breasts of the people at a date long previous to this. Printing had become general, and thelearning previously the property of the priests had become the heir-loom of humanity: As a natural consequence, new ideas and new wants were unfolded, and these same ideas had become more general. At this crisis France took the lead, and not only in philosophy but in the minor things of life, French manners and habits were copied. Consequently, in describing costume, Paris will be perpetually referred to, from the fact that from that great city emanated the fashions which controlled the costume of the world.
It is true that other nations had their peculiar costume, handed down and preserved by the tradition of courts, as the Norman dress continues even now the court uniform of the state officials of the British kingdom; Spain had her peculiar doublet, hose and cloak, and Holland her own court apparel. If, however, we look nearer and closer, we shall discover each of these were dresses imported from France at some particular crisis, and retaining position and importance in their new home, when they were forgotten in the land whence they were adopted.
The most highly civilized of all the nations of Europe at the time that this supremacy over the costume of the world was exerted by France, it might have been expected that its selection would have been guided by good taste and propriety. This was not however the case, for in spite of the progress the world has made, the women of France and our own country, and the men also, are not to be compared to the members of the most savage tribes, either in gracefulness of form or propriety of dress. If the Chinese distort the foot, or the Indians of the North West Coast of America the forehead, the civilized women of to-day compress the waist, and men commit not less enormities.
These matters are, however,incontestable; and though we might regret we cannot prevent them. They simply therefore give us a clue in treating our subject, of which we will avail ourselves. They teach us, that to Paris belongs theincontestable empire of that mysterious power known in France aslamode, and in our own land asFashion. Possibly this may be a remnant, the solevestige, of that tone of pretension which led France in other days to aspire to universal empire. If so, the pride of other nations which led them elsewhere to resist French assumption here has been silent. Though not the rulers of the world by the power of the sword; though the French idiom be not so universal as the English, even the denizens of “Albion perfide” submit to the behests of the controlling powers of the Frenchmode. Let the French language be universal or not, is to us now of no importance; that French fleets will drive English and American squadrons from the seas, is doubtful, but it is very certain Englishmen and Americans for all time to come will wear French waist-coats, and Germans both in London and Philadelphia will call themselves French bootmakers. How fond soever a people may be of its national garb, ultimately it must submit to the trammels devised in Paris. Ultimately all men will wear that most inconvenient article called a hat, will insert their extremities into pantaloons, and put their arms into the sleeves of the garment, so short before and so long behind, they are pleased to call a coat. When all nations shall have come to this state of subserviency, the end of the world will certainly be at hand, whether because theultima perfectiohas been reached, or because God, who created man after his own likeness, will be angry at the ridiculous figure they have made of his features, better theologians than I must decide. We certainly are not very near this crisis, for hundreds of yellow-skinned gentlemen are yet ignorant of the art and mystery of tying a cravat, and never saw a patent leather boot.
Like great epidemics, the passion for dress often leaps over territorial boundaries, and ships not unfrequently carry with the cholera andvomitobales of articles destined to spread this infection among lands as yet ignorant of it; so that some day we may live to hear of Oakford sending a case of hats to the Feejees, and of Watson making an uniform for the general-in-chief of the King of the Cannibal Islands.
Possibly this passion for our costumes is to be attributed to the deterioration of the morals of thesavages, and if so, even dress has its historical importance and significance, and is the true reflection ofmorale. It may be that the days of the iron garb were days of iron manners, and also of iron virtue, and that in adopting a silken costume we have put on, and they may be about to adopt a silken laxity of virtue and honor.
We will begin to treat of costume as it was in the days of Louis XIV., the solemn mood and ideas of whom exerted their influence even on dress, and the era which saw all other arts become pompous and labored, also saw costume assume the most complicated character. Costume naturally during this reign was permanent in its character, and when Louis XV. succeeded to the throne he found his courtiers dressed entirely as their fathers had done, and the young king, five years of age, dressed precisely like his great-grandfather, with peruke, cane and breeches. When he had reached the years of discretion, Louis XV. continued to devote himself more to the trifles of the court than to affairs of state.
The following engraving is an illustration taken from a portrait of a celebrated marquis of that day.
This, it will be remembered, was the era when women wore whalebone frame-works to their dresses and caps, or a kind of defensive armor over the chest and body. The fine gentlemen also encased themselves in wires, to distend the hips of theirculottesor breeches. This was the costume of the fine gentlemen, and in it kings and heroes appeared on the stage almost without interruption until the days of Talma, if we except the brief and unsuccessful attempt at reform, as far as theatres were concerned, by Le Kain and Mademoiselle Clairon.
The foregoing was the prevailing court costume, the next is the military garb of the day, recalling the costume of Charles XII. of Sweden, and not unlike that of our own Putnam or Mad Anthony Wayne. Thus the lowland gentlemen who fought in ’45, dressed after this mode, were the opposing parties of the armies at Ramilies. As a whole it is notmalapropos, and altogether more suitable and proper than the uniforms of our own day. The following is the portrait of a mousquetaire just one century after the time of Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artignan, whom Dumas made illustrious.
MAPLE SUGAR.
———
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
———
Oh, the rich, dark maple sugar! how it tells me of the woods,Of bland south winds and melting snows, and budding solitudes!Oh, the melting maple sugar! as I taste its luscious sweets,Remembrance in my raptured ear her witching song repeats;Once more my heart is young and pure! once more my footsteps strayAmid the scenes, the lovely scenes, of childhood’s opening day.A frosty night! the searching air made hearth-fires a delight,Stern Winter seemed as if again to rally in his might;But, oh, how pure and beautiful the morning has arisen!What glorious floods of sunshine! off! the dwelling is a prison!Off, off! run, leap, and drink the air! off! leave man’s roofs behind!Nature has more of pleasure now than haunts of human kind.How free the blood is bounding! how soft the sunny glow!And, hearken! fairy tones are ringing underneath the snow!Slump, slump! the gauzy masses glide from hemlock, fence and rock,And yon low, marshy meadow seems as spotted with a flock;Drip, drip, the icicle sends its tears from its sparkling tip, and stillWith tinkle, tinkle, beneath the snow rings many a viewless rill.We cross the upland pasture, robed with a brown and sodden pall,The maple ridge heaves up before—a sloping Titan wall!The maple ridge! how gloriously, in summer it pitches tent:Beneath, what a mossy floor is spread! above, what a roof is bent!What lofty pillars of fluted bark! what magical changeful tintsAs the leaves turn over and back again to the breeze’s flying prints.Up, up, the beaten path I climb, with bosom of blithesome cheer,For the song, oft varied with whistle shrill of the woodsman Keene, I hear;The bold and hardy woodsman, whose rifle is certain death,Whose axe, when it rings in the wilderness, makes its glory depart like breath,Whose cabin is built in the neighboring dell, whose dress is the skin of the doe,And who tells long tales of his hunting deeds by the hearth-fire’s cheerful glow.The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops!And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops;A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view,And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue,Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skillHis ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will.The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there,He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air;From kettle to kettle he ladles it to granulate rich and slow,Then fashions the mass in a hundred shapes, congealing them in the snow,While the blue-bird strikes a sudden joy through the branches gaunt and dumb,As he seems to ask in his merry strain if the violet yet has come.The rich, dark maple sugar! thus it brings to me the joy,The dear warm joy of my heart, when I was a careless, happy boy;When pleasures so scorned in after life, like flowers, then strewed my way,And no dark sad experience breathed “doomed sufferer be not gay!”When Life like a summer ocean spread before me with golden glow,And soft with the azure of Hope, but concealing the wrecks that lay below.
Oh, the rich, dark maple sugar! how it tells me of the woods,Of bland south winds and melting snows, and budding solitudes!Oh, the melting maple sugar! as I taste its luscious sweets,Remembrance in my raptured ear her witching song repeats;Once more my heart is young and pure! once more my footsteps strayAmid the scenes, the lovely scenes, of childhood’s opening day.A frosty night! the searching air made hearth-fires a delight,Stern Winter seemed as if again to rally in his might;But, oh, how pure and beautiful the morning has arisen!What glorious floods of sunshine! off! the dwelling is a prison!Off, off! run, leap, and drink the air! off! leave man’s roofs behind!Nature has more of pleasure now than haunts of human kind.How free the blood is bounding! how soft the sunny glow!And, hearken! fairy tones are ringing underneath the snow!Slump, slump! the gauzy masses glide from hemlock, fence and rock,And yon low, marshy meadow seems as spotted with a flock;Drip, drip, the icicle sends its tears from its sparkling tip, and stillWith tinkle, tinkle, beneath the snow rings many a viewless rill.We cross the upland pasture, robed with a brown and sodden pall,The maple ridge heaves up before—a sloping Titan wall!The maple ridge! how gloriously, in summer it pitches tent:Beneath, what a mossy floor is spread! above, what a roof is bent!What lofty pillars of fluted bark! what magical changeful tintsAs the leaves turn over and back again to the breeze’s flying prints.Up, up, the beaten path I climb, with bosom of blithesome cheer,For the song, oft varied with whistle shrill of the woodsman Keene, I hear;The bold and hardy woodsman, whose rifle is certain death,Whose axe, when it rings in the wilderness, makes its glory depart like breath,Whose cabin is built in the neighboring dell, whose dress is the skin of the doe,And who tells long tales of his hunting deeds by the hearth-fire’s cheerful glow.The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops!And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops;A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view,And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue,Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skillHis ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will.The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there,He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air;From kettle to kettle he ladles it to granulate rich and slow,Then fashions the mass in a hundred shapes, congealing them in the snow,While the blue-bird strikes a sudden joy through the branches gaunt and dumb,As he seems to ask in his merry strain if the violet yet has come.The rich, dark maple sugar! thus it brings to me the joy,The dear warm joy of my heart, when I was a careless, happy boy;When pleasures so scorned in after life, like flowers, then strewed my way,And no dark sad experience breathed “doomed sufferer be not gay!”When Life like a summer ocean spread before me with golden glow,And soft with the azure of Hope, but concealing the wrecks that lay below.
Oh, the rich, dark maple sugar! how it tells me of the woods,
Of bland south winds and melting snows, and budding solitudes!
Oh, the melting maple sugar! as I taste its luscious sweets,
Remembrance in my raptured ear her witching song repeats;
Once more my heart is young and pure! once more my footsteps stray
Amid the scenes, the lovely scenes, of childhood’s opening day.
A frosty night! the searching air made hearth-fires a delight,
Stern Winter seemed as if again to rally in his might;
But, oh, how pure and beautiful the morning has arisen!
What glorious floods of sunshine! off! the dwelling is a prison!
Off, off! run, leap, and drink the air! off! leave man’s roofs behind!
Nature has more of pleasure now than haunts of human kind.
How free the blood is bounding! how soft the sunny glow!
And, hearken! fairy tones are ringing underneath the snow!
Slump, slump! the gauzy masses glide from hemlock, fence and rock,
And yon low, marshy meadow seems as spotted with a flock;
Drip, drip, the icicle sends its tears from its sparkling tip, and still
With tinkle, tinkle, beneath the snow rings many a viewless rill.
We cross the upland pasture, robed with a brown and sodden pall,
The maple ridge heaves up before—a sloping Titan wall!
The maple ridge! how gloriously, in summer it pitches tent:
Beneath, what a mossy floor is spread! above, what a roof is bent!
What lofty pillars of fluted bark! what magical changeful tints
As the leaves turn over and back again to the breeze’s flying prints.
Up, up, the beaten path I climb, with bosom of blithesome cheer,
For the song, oft varied with whistle shrill of the woodsman Keene, I hear;
The bold and hardy woodsman, whose rifle is certain death,
Whose axe, when it rings in the wilderness, makes its glory depart like breath,
Whose cabin is built in the neighboring dell, whose dress is the skin of the doe,
And who tells long tales of his hunting deeds by the hearth-fire’s cheerful glow.
The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops!
And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops;
A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view,
And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue,
Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skill
His ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will.
The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there,
He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air;
From kettle to kettle he ladles it to granulate rich and slow,
Then fashions the mass in a hundred shapes, congealing them in the snow,
While the blue-bird strikes a sudden joy through the branches gaunt and dumb,
As he seems to ask in his merry strain if the violet yet has come.
The rich, dark maple sugar! thus it brings to me the joy,
The dear warm joy of my heart, when I was a careless, happy boy;
When pleasures so scorned in after life, like flowers, then strewed my way,
And no dark sad experience breathed “doomed sufferer be not gay!”
When Life like a summer ocean spread before me with golden glow,
And soft with the azure of Hope, but concealing the wrecks that lay below.