A MAY SONG.

———

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

———

Hurrah! for sweet May, it is here with its brightness,The songs of the birds, and the breath of the flowers,The sighs of the zephyrs, that woo with their lightness,And hasten the steps of the Summer’s glad hours;The earth is all gladness—the sky is all beamingWith rose-tinted shadows of beauty and light,As rich as those insects whose golden wings gleamingAre twined in the hair of the maidens at night.The soft balmy air through the casement is singingIn tones of delight to the bud and the bee—Like the laughter of girlhood in ecstasy ringing,When the first star of evening has bidden them free—In the depths of the forest the wild vine is creepingAround the huge oak with its blossoms of gold—And, curtained with leafiness, flowerets are sleeping,Surrounded with perfume and beauty untold.Come out with the sunrise!—all Nature is glowing—Each hill-top is bathed in the morn’s early beams;In the valley the fragrance of spring-time is blowing,To scatter the mists from the flower-margined streams;On the greensward the footsteps of children are straying,As free as the gambols of Summer’s pure air,As, ladened with health, from the mountain ’tis playing,And tossing each ringlet of gold-colored hair.With an echo of music the river is lavingIts white pebbled shore, as it dances along;Now sunshine, now shade o’er its clear bosom waving,Like the world’s beaten pathway, half sorrow, half song,Far, far in the distance, the ocean is lying,As calm and as tideless as infancy’s breast;While the last lingering rays of the purple light dyingIs shed on its face ere it sinks into rest.And then comes theevewith its moonlight and dreaming,When melody floats on each whisper and sigh.When eyes are as bright as the stars that are gleaming,And hearts are as free as the breeze passing by.In the wildwood the song of the night-bird is blendingWith the light tread of dancers, and shoutings of mirth,Whilst all round are therosy boy’sarrows descending,Andlove, like our joys, has a star-lighted birth.The Summer’s young Ganymede’s cup is o’erflowingWith dew-drops, distilled from the Spring’s early morn,As pure as the breath of the west wind that’s blowing,Or wishes deep down in a maiden’s heart born;Then a health for sweet May! what heart is not swellingAs the mild air of Summer comes soft o’er the brow,And a thousand bright tokens all round us are tellingThat the May-day ofYouthandAffectionis now.

Hurrah! for sweet May, it is here with its brightness,

The songs of the birds, and the breath of the flowers,

The sighs of the zephyrs, that woo with their lightness,

And hasten the steps of the Summer’s glad hours;

The earth is all gladness—the sky is all beaming

With rose-tinted shadows of beauty and light,

As rich as those insects whose golden wings gleaming

Are twined in the hair of the maidens at night.

The soft balmy air through the casement is singing

In tones of delight to the bud and the bee—

Like the laughter of girlhood in ecstasy ringing,

When the first star of evening has bidden them free—

In the depths of the forest the wild vine is creeping

Around the huge oak with its blossoms of gold—

And, curtained with leafiness, flowerets are sleeping,

Surrounded with perfume and beauty untold.

Come out with the sunrise!—all Nature is glowing—

Each hill-top is bathed in the morn’s early beams;

In the valley the fragrance of spring-time is blowing,

To scatter the mists from the flower-margined streams;

On the greensward the footsteps of children are straying,

As free as the gambols of Summer’s pure air,

As, ladened with health, from the mountain ’tis playing,

And tossing each ringlet of gold-colored hair.

With an echo of music the river is laving

Its white pebbled shore, as it dances along;

Now sunshine, now shade o’er its clear bosom waving,

Like the world’s beaten pathway, half sorrow, half song,

Far, far in the distance, the ocean is lying,

As calm and as tideless as infancy’s breast;

While the last lingering rays of the purple light dying

Is shed on its face ere it sinks into rest.

And then comes theevewith its moonlight and dreaming,

When melody floats on each whisper and sigh.

When eyes are as bright as the stars that are gleaming,

And hearts are as free as the breeze passing by.

In the wildwood the song of the night-bird is blending

With the light tread of dancers, and shoutings of mirth,

Whilst all round are therosy boy’sarrows descending,

Andlove, like our joys, has a star-lighted birth.

The Summer’s young Ganymede’s cup is o’erflowing

With dew-drops, distilled from the Spring’s early morn,

As pure as the breath of the west wind that’s blowing,

Or wishes deep down in a maiden’s heart born;

Then a health for sweet May! what heart is not swelling

As the mild air of Summer comes soft o’er the brow,

And a thousand bright tokens all round us are telling

That the May-day ofYouthandAffectionis now.

FIFTY SUGGESTIONS.

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

It is observable that, while among all nations the omni-color, white, has been received as an emblem of the Pure, the no-color, black, has by no means been generally admitted assufficientlytypical of Impurity. There are blue devils as well as black; and when we thinkveryill of a woman, and wish toblackenher character, we merely call her “ablue-stocking” and advise her to read, in Rabelais’ “Gargantua,” the chapter “de ce qui est signifié par les couleurs blanc et bleu.” There is far more difference between these “couleurs,” in fact, than that which exists between simpleblackand white. Your “blue,” when we come to talk of stockings, is black inissimo—“nigrum nigrius nigro”—like the matter from which Raymond Lully first manufactured his alcohol.

Mr. ——, I perceive, has been appointed Librarian to the new —— Athenæum. To him, the appointment is advantageous in many respects. Especially:—“Mon cousin, voici une belle occasion pour apprendre à lire!”

As far as I can understand the “loving our enemies,” it implies the hating our friends.

In commencing our dinners with gravy soup, no doubt we have taken a hint from Horace.

—— Da, he says, sigravenon est,Quæ prima iratum ventrem placaverit isca.

—— Da, he says, sigravenon est,

Quæ prima iratum ventrem placaverit isca.

Of much of our cottage architecture we may safely say, I think, (admitting the good intention,) that itwouldhave been Gothic if it had not felt it its duty to be Dutch.

James’s multitudinous novels seem to be written upon the plan of “the songs of the Bard of Schiraz,” in which, we are assured by Fadladeen, “the same beautiful thought occurs again and again in every possible variety of phrase.”

Some of our foreign lions resemble the human brain in one very striking particular. They are without any sense themselves and yet are the centres of sensation.

Mirabeau, I fancy, acquired his wonderful tact at foreseeing and meetingcontingencies, during his residence in the stronghold ofIf.

Cottle’s “Reminiscences of Coleridge” is just such a book as damns its perpetrator forever in the opinion of every gentleman who reads it. More and more every day do we modernspavoneggiarsiabout our Christianity; yet, so far as thespiritof Christianity is concerned, we are immeasurably behind the ancients. Mottoes and proverbs are the indices of national character; and the Anglo-Saxons are disgraced in having no proverbial equivalent to the “De mortuis nil nisi bonum.” Moreover—where, in allstatutory Christendom, shall we find alawso Christian as the “Defuncti injuriâ ne afficiantur” of the Twelve Tables?

The simplenegativeinjunction of the Latin law and proverb—the injunctionnot to do illto the dead—seems at a first glance, scarcely susceptible of improvement in the delicate respect of its terms. I cannot help thinking, however, that the sentiment, if not the idea intended, is more forcibly conveyed in anapophthegm by one of the old English moralists, James Puckle. By an ingenious figure of speech he contrives to imbue the negation of the Roman command with a spirit of active and positive beneficence. “When speaking of the dead,” he says, in his “Grey Cap for a Green Head,” “so fold up your discourse that their virtues may be outwardly shown, while their vices are wrapped up in silence.”

10.

I have no doubt that the Fourierites honestly fancy “a nasty poet fit for nothing” to be the true translation of “poeta nascitur non fit.”

11.

There surely cannotbe “more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of” (oh, Andrew Jackson Davis!) “inyourphilosophy.”

12.

“It is only as the Bird of Paradise quits us in taking wing,” observes, or should observe, some poet, “that we obtain a full view of the beauty of its plumage;” and it is only as the politician is about being “turned out” that—like the snake of the Irish Chronicle when touched by St. Patrick—he “awakens to a sense of hissituation.”

13.

Newspaper editors seem to have constitutions closely similar to those of the Deities in “Walhalla,” who cut each other to pieces every day, and yet got up perfectly sound and fresh every morning.

14.

As far as I can comprehend the modern cant in favor of “unadulterated Saxon,” it is fast leading us to the language of that region where, as Addison has it, “they sell the best fish and speak the plainest English.”

15.

The frightfully long money-pouches—“like the Cucumber called the Gigantic”—which have come in vogue among our belles—arenotof Parisian origin, as many suppose, but are strictly indigenoushere. The fact is, such a fashion would be quite out of place in Paris, where it is moneyonlythat women keep in a purse. The purse of an American lady, however, must be large enough to carry both her money and the soul of its owner.

16.

I can see no objection to gentlemen “standing for Congress”—provided they stand on one side—nor to their “running for Congress”—if they are in a very great hurry to get there—but it would be a blessing if some of them could be persuaded into sitting still, for Congress, after they arrive.

17.

IfEnvy, as Cyprian has it, be “the moth of the soul,” whether shall we regardContentas its Scotch snuff or its camphor?

18.

M——, having been “used up” in the —— Review, goes about town lauding his critic—as an epicure lauds the best London mustard—with the tears in his eyes.

19.

“Con tal que las costumbres de un autor sean puras y castas,” says the Catholic Don Tomas de las Torres, in the Preface to his “Amatory Poems,” “importo muy poco qui no sean igualmente severas sus obras:” meaning, in plain English, that, provided the personal morals of an author are pure, it matters little what those of his books are.

For so unprincipled an idea, Don Tomas, no doubt, is still having a hard time of it in Purgatory; and, by way of most pointedly manifesting their disgust at his philosophy on the topic in question, many modern theologians and divines are now busily squaring their conduct by his proposition exactlyconversed.

20.

Children are never too tender to be whipped:—like tough beefsteaks, the more you beat them the more tender they become.

21.

Lucian, in describing the statue “with its surface of Parian marble and its interior filled with rags,” must have been looking with a prophetic eye at some of our great “moneyed institutions.”

22.

That poets (using the word comprehensively, as including artists in general) are agenus irritabile, is well understood; but thewhy, seems not to be commonly seen. An artist is an artist only by dint of his exquisite sense of Beauty—a sense affording him rapturous enjoyment, but at the same time implying, or involving, an equally exquisite sense of Deformity of disproportion. Thus a wrong—an injustice—done a poet who is really a poet, excites him to a degree which, to ordinary apprehension, appears disproportionate with the wrong. Poetsseeinjustice—neverwhere it does not exist—but very often where the unpoetical see no injustice whatever. Thus the poetical irritability has no reference to “temper” in the vulgar sense, but merely to a more than usual clear-sightedness in respect to Wrong:—this clear-sightedness being nothing more than a corollary from the vivid perception of Right—of justice—of proportion—in a word, of το καλου. But one thing is clear—that the man who isnot“irritable,” (to the ordinary apprehension,) isno poet.

23.

Let a man succeed ever so evidently—ever so demonstrably—in many different displays ofgenius, the envy of criticism will agree with the popular voice in denying him more thantalentin any. Thus a poet who has achieved a great (by which I mean an effective) poem, should be cautious not to distinguish himself in any other walk of Letters. In especial—let him make no effort in Science—unless anonymously, or with the view of waiting patiently the judgment of posterity. Because universal or even versatile geniuses have rarely or never been known,therefore, thinks the world, none such can ever be. A “therefore” of this kind is, with the world, conclusive. But what is thefact, as taught us by analysis of mental power? Simply, that thehighestgenius—that the genius which all men instantaneously acknowledge as such—which acts upon individuals, as well as upon the mass, by a species of magnetism incomprehensible but irresistible andnever resisted—that this genius which demonstrates itself in the simplest gesture—or even by the absence of all—this genius which speaks without a voice and flashes from the unopened eye—is but the result of generally large mental power existing in a state ofabsolute proportion—so that no one faculty has undue predominance.Thatfactitious “genius”—that “genius” in the popular sense—which is but the manifestation of the abnormal predominance of some one faculty over all the others—and, of course, at the expense and to the detriment, of all the others—is a result of mental disease or rather, of organic malformation of mind:—it is this and nothing more. Not only will such “genius” fail, if turned aside from the path indicated by its predominant faculty; but, even when pursuing this path—when producing those works in which, certainly, it isbestcalculated to succeed—will give unmistakeable indications ofunsoundness, in respect to general intellect. Hence, indeed, arises the just idea that

“Great wit to madness nearly is allied.”

I say “justidea;” for by “great wit,” in this case, the poet intends precisely the pseudo-genius to which I refer. The true genius, on the other hand, is necessarily, if not universal in its manifestations, at least capable of universality; and if, attempting all things, it succeeds in one rather better than in another, this is merely on account of a certain bias by whichTasteleads it with more earnestness in the one direction than in the other. With equal zeal, it would succeed equally in all.

To sum up our results in respect to this very simple, but muchvexata questio:—

What the world calls “genius” is the state of mental disease arising from the undue predominance of some one of the faculties. The works of such genius are never sound in themselves and, in especial, always betray the general mental insanity.

Theproportionof the mental faculties, in a case where the general mental power isnotinordinate, gives that result which we distinguish astalent:—and the talent is greater or less, first, as the general mental power is greater or less; and, secondly, as the proportion of the faculties is more or less absolute.

The proportion of the faculties, in a case where the mental power is inordinately great, gives that result whichisthe truegenius(but which, on account of the proportion and seeming simplicity of its works, is seldom acknowledged tobeso;) and the genius is greater or less, first, as the general mental power is more or less inordinately great; and, secondly, as the proportion of the faculties is more or less absolute.

An objection will be made:—that the greatest excess of mental power, however proportionate, does not seem to satisfy our idea of genius, unless we have, in addition, sensibility, passion, energy. The reply is, that the “absolute proportion” spoken of, when applied to inordinate mental power, gives, as a result, the appreciation of Beauty and horror of Deformity which we call sensibility, together with that intense vitality, which is implied when we speak of “Energy” or “Passion.”

24.

“And Beauty draws us by a single hair.”—Capillary attraction, of course.

25.

It is by no means clear, as regards the present revolutionary spirit of Europe, that it is a spirit which “moveth altogether if it move at all.” In Great Britain it may be kept quiet for half a century yet, by placing at the head of affairs an experienced medical man. He should keep his forefinger constantly on the pulse of the patient, and exhibitpanemin gentle doses, with as muchcircensesas the stomach can be made to retain.

[Conclusion in our next.

HISTORY OF THE COSTUME OF MEN,

DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

———

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

———

(Concluded from page 266.)

When Parisian society had passed the dread ordeal which bears the name of the Reign of Terror, through continual scenes of blood and tears, it seemed by a strange and almost unaccountable impulse to be impelled to mirth and festivity. On the day after the disappearance of the guillotine French frivolity resumed its sway with a thousand whims and vagaries, to which the stern muse of history would pay no attention, but to which, in this sketch of the follies of humanity, we may aptly attend. One of the whimsicalities peculiar to the day is that in memory of the sad toilette of the guillotine, when the hair was cropped by the shears of the executioner, a similarcoiffurewas themode. Women laid aside their luxuriant locks for acoiffure à la victime, and wore a band of blood-red velvet around the neck, as if in derision of the fall of the axe. This fashion, emanating in France, where recklessness had been produced by the constant presence of danger, went the round of the world, and thecoiffure à la victimewas worn by both sexes in quiet neighborhoods, which had learned only by report of the fearful atrocities committed in the capital of civilization. Ballsà la victimealso became the vogue, and none were at first admitted to them except those who had lost relations on the scaffold. To some of these balls it was requisite not to have lost collaterals only, but a parent, or brother, sister, husband or wife. There were exclusives even there, and a new nobility of the scaffold was created. This was the era of corsetsà la justiceand bonnetsà la humanité.

Away with care! Bring in the violin and minstrels! was the cry. A mania for the dance pervaded all society. High and low, aristocrats and people, antiques and moderns all danced. The chapel of the old Carmelite convent became a ballroom, and the Jesuits’ college a place of festivity, as did also the convents ofSaint-Sulpiceof theFilles de Saint-Marie. In theguinguettesand in the most elegant society all danced. “If the traces of crime and degradation were seen every where else,” says a writer of that age, “a man of taste had at least the consolation to find in these brilliant assemblages society not unlike that which made Paris once the wonder of the world. The winter-balls are the asylum of good taste, elegance and propriety. In them a young man may purify himself by the spectacle of triumphantVirtue.” Yet the only requisite to admission to these balls was a subscription of 96 francs, (about $19.20.) A cotemporary thus describes one of the most celebrated of these reunions, that at the Hotel Richelieu, in a manner to make us skeptical about the virtue. “It is,” says he, “an arch oftransparent robesof lace, head-dresses of gold and diamonds. A subscription is required, and the visiter is ushered into the society of perfumed goddesses, crowned with flowers, who float about in Athenian robes, and receive the lisping flattery of theincroyables, who prate of theirparole d’honneur.” It need not be said this is a merephaseof Parisian society, fortunately not reflected by the rest of the world.

The ball of the Opera was revived, and to it we must look for the most striking specimens of costume. The plain black domino exclusively worn at such places during the monarchy had disappeared,and was replaced by a similar garment of the most striking colors. Turks, Chinese and the old traditional characters were exiled to the places of popular amusement, and the great room of the Opera was filled with Caius Marius, Dentatus, Cicero, Mutius Scævola, Pericles, Lycurgus, Cymon and Herodotus. The charm, however, was gone; the new society had no traditions; the people composing it were almost ignorant of each other, and the playful badinage of which the old balls had been the scene was lost forever. TheJeunesse Dorée, as the courtiers of the Directory and Consulate were called, frequented these balls most faithfully, but the old prestige was destroyed, and families were not seen as they had been in the days of old.

It is strange with what rapidity from the epoch of the Directory a taste for luxury and pleasure sprung up in the minds of the people. Music again resumed its sway, and a hundred places of public amusement were opened. One of the most significant evidences that the late or present French Revolution is not yet over, is the fact that as yet public amusements do not thrive, and that the people look elsewhere for excitement than to the stage and concert. The most curious of all spectacles is the stormy deliberation of the Assembly, and the artistes of the Executive power the most attractive of all performers.

Gradually a dispositionto make a figureinoculated society. As the Revolution became distant luxury increased. Yet it was not thefasteof old monarchy, but a new splendor, which the persons left on the surface of society by thebouleversementof all orders threw around them. The women in the lowness of the bosoms of their dresses descended below even the modesty required by the Regency, and theincroyablesbecame more fantastic than themarquis. The following was the costume they adopted, and a more tasteless one can scarcely be conceived:

They were not so richly dressed as their predecessors, nor were they so elegant and graceful, but their manners were quite as affected. Then came again the taste for gallant acrostics and love songs, which caused the poetry of the Cheniers to be forgotten forfantasiesaddressed to the popular actresses. This prodigality was the more criminal because it had a contrast in alarming want. The Revolution did not make France more rich, nor did the hecatombs slain in defence of the liberty of the country make the cornfields and vineyards more fruitful. French prodigality was imitated everywhere, and to this recklessness may we attribute the fact of the great increase of the expense of dress in every grade of society over all the civilized world.

The mode of wearing the hair for men had long become fixed; it was cropped andau naturel, and has thus remained to our own day. The male costume became every day more and more inelegant. Frocks were worn short, loose and broad; pantaloons loose as a sailor’s lasted to a late day of the empire. This costume had but one merit, simplicity, a quality inspection of the following engraving will show it to have possessed in a great degree.

All embroidery was abandoned. In 1803 the coat had taken its definite form, where there is every prospect that it will remain permanent. It had an immense collar and was very short before, but it was yet a coat. Pantaloons were by no means what they are now, yet still the garment is unchanged. The hat had become round, and the cravat was stationary.

This brings us to the end of our subject. From the doublet of Louis XIV. costume has been traced to our time, and an impartial observer will be satisfied we have lost nothing by the change; for none who compare the garments of theschneidersof our own era with those of the Latours or Justins of old, will think good taste has retrograded, or dream of comparing the bucket-like things which once were wornon the head, with the tasteful and artistic hats of Oakford. Thus ends this disquisition on dress, which, believe me, is no trifle; and the evidence of it is, that nothing more ridiculous can be conceived, than would be a President, a Senate, or a Supreme Courtin puris naturalibus.

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

———

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

———

The Cat-Bird is one of our earliest morning songsters, beginning generally before break of day, and hovering from bush to bush with great sprightliness when there is scarcely light sufficient to distinguish him. His favorite note is the one from which he takes his name, and is known to every farmer’s boy in the United States. It so exactly resembles the mewing of a kitten as to be invariably taken for it by the uninitiated; and when a number of these birds get together it is difficult to resist the impression that all the feline residents of an entire village are gravely discussing some important subject. But in addition to this rather singular tone, the Cat-Bird has a variety of others, made up, it is true, mostly of imitations, but blended together with considerable strength and melody. The Cat-Bird is indeed no mean songster, and when listened to attentively is capable of at once pleasing and interesting. He is one of the most familiar of the feathered race, seeming to have very little dread of man, and building his nest in every garden hedge. His confidence is but too often repaid with death; and notwithstanding his friendly habits he is persecuted with singular and unrelenting prejudice by every inmate of the farm-house. It must be acknowledged that he sometimes revenges himself by drafts upon the strawberry-beds and cherry-trees.

The Cat-Bird is one of the most prolific of the feathered race, and were he to fly in flocks would darken the air. He probably winters in Florida, from whence he reaches Georgia early in March. In the following month he appears in Pennsylvania. His nest is generally finished by the beginning of May. The place is usually a hawthorn fence, a small tree, briers, brambles or a thick vine. The female lays four eggs, of a greenish blue color, and sometimes raises three broods in a season. In affection and attention to their young the Cat-Bird is unsurpassed. The cry of man imitating their brood will frequently throw her apparently into fits; and in their defence both male and female often risk their lives. He boldly attacks the black-snake, striking him on the head with his bill, until the baffled reptile is glad to withdraw from the coveted nest. It is rare that the female forsakes her eggs, even after they have been handled by man. If one or two be broken she continues to sit upon the others; and if strange eggs are put in she, with the assistance of her mate, turns them out. If the nest be removed to another situation she follows it and continues to sit as before.

The Cat-Bird is nine inches long, of a deep slate color above, which fades into a lighter tint on the breast and throat. The legs, bill and tail are black, with some red about the latter. He is sometimes domesticated, and in the cage will eat fruit, insects, bread, cakes, and nearly every kind of vegetable. He is fond of the water, and, when wild, frequentlydashes through it with great velocity. The species is said to reach as far north as Kamschatka.

The author of the American Ornithology thus philosophizes on the ungrounded antipathy against this harmless and interesting bird:

“Even those by whom it is entertained, can scarcely tell you why; only they ‘hate Cat-Birds;’ as some persons tell you they hate Frenchmen, they hate Dutchmen, etc., expressions that bespeak their own narrowness of understanding and want of liberality. Yet, after ruminating over in my own mind all the probable causes, I think I have at last hit upon some of them; the principal of which seems to me to be a certain similarity of taste, and clashing of interest, between the Cat-Bird and the farmer.

“The Cat-Bird is fond of large, ripe garden-strawberries; so is the farmer, for the good price they bring in the market; the Cat-Bird loves the best and richest early cherries; so does the farmer, for they are sometimes the most profitable of the early fruit; the Cat-Bird has a particular partiality for the finest, ripe mellow pears; and these are also particular favorites with the farmer. But the Cat-Bird has frequently the advantage of the farmer, by snatching off the first fruits of these delicious productions; and the farmer takes revenge by shooting him down with his gun, as he finds old hats, wind-mills, and scare-crows are no impediments in his way to these forbidden fruits; and nothing but this resource—the ultimatum of farmers as well as kings—can restrain his visits. The boys are now set to watch the cherry-trees with the gun; and thus commences a train of prejudices and antipathies, that commonly continue through life. Perhaps, too, the common note of the Cat-Bird, so like the mewing of the animal whose name it bears, and who itself sustains no small share of prejudice, the homeliness of its plumage, and even his familiarity, so proverbially known to beget contempt, may also contribute to this mean, illiberal and persecuting prejudice; but with the generous and the good, the lovers of nature and rural charms, the confidence which the familiar bird places in man, by building in his garden, under his eye, the music of his song, and the interesting playfulness of his manners, will always be more than a recompense for all the little stolen morsels he snatches.”

This bird is also known as the Black-capt Titmouse. It is an active, hardy animal, abounding in the Northern and Middle States, Canada, and as far north as the 60th parallel. It is a familiar and amusing bird, often making its appearance in our cities in fall or winter, and approaching near to man, in order to glean from his bounty or carelessness a supply of food. During the same seasons large flocks scour the fields and woods in search of insects, larvæ, seeds and berries. Kernels containing oil, and the fat of animals are greedily devoured by them. When all these fail, they enter barns, sheds, and the roofs of houses, clearing them of moths, eggs of insects, spiders and wood-worms. They appear to be very little affected by extreme cold, being provided with thick downy feathers, and a constitution naturally robust. In winter, numbers collect on a snow-bank, and swallow small pieces, either to slake thirst or for pleasure. On such occasions, and generally when collecting food, they keep up a continual chattering, which renders their places of haunt easy of discovery.

The Chicadee builds in the hollows of trees, the nest being constructed of moss, feathers, and similar soft materials. The eggs are from six to a dozen in number, white, speckled with red. They rear two broods in a season. The young are strong and lively, requiring little assistance from the old ones, but living with them, as one family, through the fall and winter.

Beside the usual chicking note of this bird, from whence its name, it has a harsh angry tone, to express anger or fright, and a kind of melancholy wail, approaching a song. Sometimes its voice is said to resemble the noise produced by sharpening a saw. “These birds,” says Wilson, “sometimes fight violently with each other, and are known to attack young and sickly birds that are incapable of resistance, always directing their blows against the skull. Being in the woods one day, I followed a bird forsome time, the singularity of whose notes surprised me. Having shot him from off the top of a very tall tree, I found it to be the Black-Headed Titmouse, with a long and deep indentation in the cranium, the skull having been evidently at some former time drove in and fractured, but was now perfectly healed. Whether or not the change of voice could be owing to this circumstance, I cannot pretend to decide.” The unnatural practice of destroying their sick is however denied of these birds by late writers.

The Chicadee is five and a half inches in length, and six in extent. The whole upper part of the head and neck is black, and the body a mouse-color. It has often been confounded with the European Marsh Titmouse, but there seems good reason to consider this as an error. The foreign bird is never seen in flocks, frequents streams or water-courses, and has a note quite different from that of the Chicadee. It is also an inch shorter.

ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE.

———

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

Now the frosty stars are gone:I have watched them, one by one,Fainting on the shores of Dawn.Round and full the glorious sunWalks with level step the spray,Through his vestibule of Day,While the wolves that howled anonSlink to dens and coverts foul,Guarded by the demon owl,Who, last night, with mocking croonWheeled athwart the chilly moon,And with eyes that blankly glaredOn my direful torment stared.The lark is flickering in the light;Still the nightingale doth sing—All the isle, alive with Spring,Lies, a jewel of delightOn the blue sea’s heaving breast:Not a breath from out the West,But some balmy smell doth bringFrom the sprouting myrtle buds,Or from meadows wide, that lieEach a green and dazzling sky,Paved with yellow cowslip-stars,Cloud-like, crossed by roseate barsOf the bloomy almond woods,And lit, like heaven, with fairest sheenOf the sun that hangs between.All is life that I can spy,To the farthest sea and sky,And my own the only painWithin this ring of Tyrrhene main.In the gnarled and cloven PineWhere that hell-born hag did chain me,All this orb of cloudless shine,All this youth in Earth’s old veinsTingling with the Spring’s sweet wine,With a sharper torment pain me.Pansies, in soft April rainsAnd April’s sun, from Thea’s lapFill their stalks with honeyed sap,But the sluggish blood she bringsTo the tough Pine’s hundred rings,Closer locks their cruel hold,Closer draws the scaly barkRound my prison, lightning-riven;So when Winter, wild and dark,Vexes wave and writhing woldAnd with murk vapor swathes the heaven,I must feel the vile bat creepIn my narrow cleft, to sleep.By this coarse and alien stateIs my dainty essence wronged;The fine sense that erst belongedTo my nature, chafes at Fate,Till the happier elves I hate,Who in moonlight dances turnUnderneath the palmy fern,Or in light and twinkling bandsFollow on with linked handsTo the Ocean’s yellow sands.The primrose-bells each morning opeIn their cool, deep beds of grass;Violets make the airs that passTell-tales of their fragrant slope.I can see them where they springNever brushed by fairy wing.All those corners I can spyIn the island’s solitude,Where the dew is never dry,Nor the miser bees intrude.Cups of rarest hue are there,Full of perfumed wine undrained—Mushroom banquets, ne’er profaned,Canopied by maiden-hair.Pearls I see upon the sands,Never touched by other hands,And the rainbow bubbles shineOn the ridged and frothy brine,Tenantless of voyagerTill they burst in vacant air.O the songs that sung might beAnd the mazy dances woven,Had that witch ne’er crossed the seaAnd the Pine been never cloven!Many years my direst painHas made the wave-rocked isle complain.Winds, that from the CycladesCame, to ruffle with foul riotRound its shore’s enchanted quiet,Bore my waitings on the seas;Sorrowing birds in Autumn wentThrough the world with my lament.Still the bitter fate is mine,All delight unshared to see,Smarting in the cloven Pine,While I wait the tardy axeWhich, perchance, shall set me freeFrom the damned witch, Sycorax.

Now the frosty stars are gone:

I have watched them, one by one,

Fainting on the shores of Dawn.

Round and full the glorious sun

Walks with level step the spray,

Through his vestibule of Day,

While the wolves that howled anon

Slink to dens and coverts foul,

Guarded by the demon owl,

Who, last night, with mocking croon

Wheeled athwart the chilly moon,

And with eyes that blankly glared

On my direful torment stared.

The lark is flickering in the light;

Still the nightingale doth sing—

All the isle, alive with Spring,

Lies, a jewel of delight

On the blue sea’s heaving breast:

Not a breath from out the West,

But some balmy smell doth bring

From the sprouting myrtle buds,

Or from meadows wide, that lie

Each a green and dazzling sky,

Paved with yellow cowslip-stars,

Cloud-like, crossed by roseate bars

Of the bloomy almond woods,

And lit, like heaven, with fairest sheen

Of the sun that hangs between.

All is life that I can spy,

To the farthest sea and sky,

And my own the only pain

Within this ring of Tyrrhene main.

In the gnarled and cloven Pine

Where that hell-born hag did chain me,

All this orb of cloudless shine,

All this youth in Earth’s old veins

Tingling with the Spring’s sweet wine,

With a sharper torment pain me.

Pansies, in soft April rains

And April’s sun, from Thea’s lap

Fill their stalks with honeyed sap,

But the sluggish blood she brings

To the tough Pine’s hundred rings,

Closer locks their cruel hold,

Closer draws the scaly bark

Round my prison, lightning-riven;

So when Winter, wild and dark,

Vexes wave and writhing wold

And with murk vapor swathes the heaven,

I must feel the vile bat creep

In my narrow cleft, to sleep.

By this coarse and alien state

Is my dainty essence wronged;

The fine sense that erst belonged

To my nature, chafes at Fate,

Till the happier elves I hate,

Who in moonlight dances turn

Underneath the palmy fern,

Or in light and twinkling bands

Follow on with linked hands

To the Ocean’s yellow sands.

The primrose-bells each morning ope

In their cool, deep beds of grass;

Violets make the airs that pass

Tell-tales of their fragrant slope.

I can see them where they spring

Never brushed by fairy wing.

All those corners I can spy

In the island’s solitude,

Where the dew is never dry,

Nor the miser bees intrude.

Cups of rarest hue are there,

Full of perfumed wine undrained—

Mushroom banquets, ne’er profaned,

Canopied by maiden-hair.

Pearls I see upon the sands,

Never touched by other hands,

And the rainbow bubbles shine

On the ridged and frothy brine,

Tenantless of voyager

Till they burst in vacant air.

O the songs that sung might be

And the mazy dances woven,

Had that witch ne’er crossed the sea

And the Pine been never cloven!

Many years my direst pain

Has made the wave-rocked isle complain.

Winds, that from the Cyclades

Came, to ruffle with foul riot

Round its shore’s enchanted quiet,

Bore my waitings on the seas;

Sorrowing birds in Autumn went

Through the world with my lament.

Still the bitter fate is mine,

All delight unshared to see,

Smarting in the cloven Pine,

While I wait the tardy axe

Which, perchance, shall set me free

From the damned witch, Sycorax.

REMINISCENCES;

OR AUNT ABBY’S PINCUSHION.

———

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

Reader, do you love old houses, old books, old pieces of furniture, old chairs, in short, all the relics of antiquity which fashionable people usually discard and despise? If so, there is a bond of sympathy between us, and I shall not be afraid to rake among the cold ashes of the past for some unconsumed remnant of other days, even though I find only trifles to reward my search. The very table on which I write, black with age, and wearing a polish which nothing but years and years of manual labor could have given it, owes its peculiar favor in my eyes to the fact of its being more than a century old. What stories could it not tell of days gone by; what reminiscences of tea-drinkings, and christenings, and weddings, and funerals must be imbedded in every pore of the old mahogany!

But for real hearty enjoyment of such a taste for homely antiquities, commend me to an old-fashioned secretary, (thatis the true name—bureauis but a modern Gallicism,) with its desk, and pigeon-holes, and secret-drawers, especially if it have been an heirloom in possession of a maiden aunt, who died a spinster of seventy-two, or thereabouts. What stores of relics it contains—locks of hair taken from the heads of pretty children, whom we only recollect as wrinkled old bodies that seemed never to have been young; mourning-rings, with obituary inscriptions of persons whose existence we should never have known but for this record of their death; golden knee-buckles and sparkling paste shoe-buckles, reminding us of the days when the dress of a gentleman was hopelessly inimitable to the rowdies and loafers of the period; fragments of wedding-gowns, carefully rolled in bits of linen, yellow with age—preserved in order to impress the next generation with due respect for some wizened-up, childish old lady, who was once a belle, and was married in a dress of silver brocade.

Perhaps, too, there are more tender memorials hidden in the secret drawer. Let us touch the spring, and lo! what trophies of love’s power are there. Shall we pause to read these verses? The ink is almost faded out, the paper is falling to pieces in its folds, and he who wrote, and she who with fluttering heart first read those tender lines, have long since been dirt and ashes. Here is a quaint old ring—two hands clapped together, and within the circle an inscription in old English characters—the single word, “Forever.” She who once wore that ring was an angel upon earth, and he who placed it there, lived and died “as the beasts that perish;” will their union be, indeed,forever? Look at that bracelet, woven of soft, silken hair, its golden clasps are dimmed with age, but the hair still wears its rich sunshiny lustre, though she who bestowed it as a parting gift to a sister, has been long a tenant of the tomb. What is this, folded so carefully and so closely, like one of the mummied mysteries of the pyramids? A curl, a thick, dark curl—not the long flowing tress that might have floated over woman’s graceful neck; these crisped and glossy tendrils tell of the strength and beauty of manhood. A faint perfume rises from the inner folds of the envelope—the ashes of a rose are there enclosed. And this is all! But what a tale do these scanty memorials of a by-gone love impart to the beholder! What matters it that the details of the story are forgotten? What matters it whether the lady or her lover were to blame? It was a love tender and true, but yet unhappy, else wherefore the curl of raven hair so carefully cherished, and the dead rose so reverently buried beside the more life-like memento? The love which brings happiness becomes diffusive in its expression, and the love-tokens of the youth and maiden are hidden, in after-days, beneath the accumulation of affection’s later offerings. But when one flower becomes the treasure of a life-time; when one lock of hair is guarded like the heart’s pearl of price, then be sure that the hallowing touch of sorrow has been there. It is only when grief and love go hand in hand, that trifles become holy relics wherever they tread. Alas! do we not all wear upon our hearts a reliquary, in which, impearled with tears, and adorned with the fine gold of our best affections, we have enshrined some fragment of the past, whose value we alone can tell?

But I am growing sad, serious, and, of course, dull; yet the object which led me into this train of thought was certainly not calculated to inspire any especial exhibition of sentiment. I was rummaging in such a secretary as I have described, when I accidentally pulled out a round pincushion, banded with silver about the middle, and attached to a substantial silver chain, which terminated in a broad hook, for the purpose of fastening it to the girdle of some thrifty housewife. On the heavily-wrought circlet which made the equinoctial line of the purple velvet globes which had been doomed to do duty in so humble a capacity, were the initials “A. L.,” and I at once recognized it as the constant appendage of my respected and venerated relative, Aunt Abby.

I had just been reading a paragraph respecting the female clubs in Paris, and the sight of this relic of old times, reminded me of the fact that poor Aunt Abbey had lived just half a century too soon, for tothe day of her death the old lady’s favorite topic of conversation was the “equality of the sexes.” How would she have rejoiced in the modern attempts to enfranchise woman from her thraldom! how would she have gloried in the idea of woman’s equal rights of property! how would she have delighted in the prospect of political privileges for her sex! how she would have expatiated upon the benefits of a female House of Representatives! Aunt Abby (mygreataunt, by the by) was emphatically an advocate for woman’s “standing alone,” (I believe that is the phrase among the reformers,) and certainly, though she had a father, uncles, cousins, to say nothing of a husband, she succeeded in “standing alone,” to a certain extent, all her life.

But what, you will say, had a disciple of progress, a defender of woman’s rights, a declaimer against woman’s slavery, to do with apincushion? Let me sketch her portrait at full length, and then you will see how curiously she blended the duties and prerogatives of both sexes in her own proper person.

Abigal, or, as she was usually called, Abby Leyburn, was the only child of a learned and eccentric clergyman, who, being disappointed in his hope of exercising his theories of education on a son, chose to educate his daughter after the manner of a boy. Fortunately for him, the little girl possessed a singularly strong and quick mind. She grasped at knowledge as most children would at playthings, and imbibed wisdom with as much zest as others would have sucked an orange. Latin, Greek and Hebrew, mathematics, moral philosophy, to say nothing of the lighter accomplishments of botany, geology, and natural history, wereamongthe young lady’s acquirements. Her father had determined to make her a second Madame Dacier, and he really seemed likely to find her a sort of femaleCrichton. Nor were these all her acquisitions. The details of housekeeping, the thrift, management, and tidiness necessary to the comfort of American homes, was as easy as the alphabet to Abby. She could knit, and spin, and sew; she could bake, and brew, and cook; she could milk, and churn, and make cheese; and nobody could so effectually and rapidly “set things to rights.”

Beside all this, Abby Leyburn, at twenty years of age, was one of the handsomest girls in the country. She was like nothing so much as the effigy of Britannia on an English penny. Don’t laugh, reader, the comparison is a highly complimentary one, but lest you should not recollect the stately Mrs. Bull, I will describe my heroine. Abby was just six feet high, but magnificently proportioned, a perfect Juno in form, with large black eyes, a high forehead, full red lips, and a chin as massive and as despotic in its expression as Napoleon’s. Her profile was superb—bold, strongly-marked, but beautifully classical. Her abundant hair, usually worn back from her brow, and gathered into a knot at the back of her head, was black as the crow’s wing. Her teeth were white, strong, and somewhat pointed in shape, a peculiarity which rather impaired the softness of her smile, inasmuch as it was always associated with the beholder’s remembrance of a somewhat similar conformation in the dental perfections of the only wild animal who has ever been accused of laughing—I mean the hyena. Not that Abby bore the slightest resemblance to the disagreeable creature just named. But her smile certainly lacked that indefinable charm which usually belongs to such pleasant demonstrations of good humor.

As a specimen of the human animal Abby was perfect. The superb proportions of her well-rounded figure, her complexion, pure, fresh, and radiant with health, her firm step, quick, active motions, and great strength of frame, combined to make her a model of “le grandeet beau physique.” Add to these personal attractions, her learning, and her domestic accomplishments, and one might almost fancy that Aunt Abby, in her younger days at least, came near being

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