DREAMS OF HEAVEN.

———

BY M. E. THROPP.

———

IRREGULAR LINES.From orient climes to the lands that glowIn the last red light of even,Indian, Paynim, Moslem, Jew—All have their dreams of Heaven.The Moslem dreams of a green, fair clime,Lit up by the sun’s broad beams,Where flowers gaze down at their own bright formsIn still transparent streams;Where soft winds sigh, and gay birds sing,In tones so sweetly clear;Where palm groves rustle cool and still,And bright-eyed Houries cheer;Where the banquet waits, with its viands crowned,And the wine-cup’s rosy gleam,While soft luxuriant bowers around,Invite to recline and dream:Such is the vision of future blissTo the Prophet-followers given—The “true-believer’s” goal of hope,The Moslem’s dream of Heaven,The Indian dreams of a sunset land,Where the great Manitto reigns;Where deer and stately bison roamO’er broad, uncultured plains.A land whose giant lakes and streams,With gleaming fish abound;Where forests wave, and mountains tower—A boundless hunting-ground.’Tis his dream, as he calmly looks abroadOn the sunset glow, at even—A hunting-ground, where that sun sinks down,Is the Indian’s dream of Heaven.The Jew of his New Jerusalem dreams,With its streets of shining gold,And temples, that rival the regal faneOn Moriah’s brow of old.Still dreams, that Judah’s harps shall sound,And Judah’s pennons stream,Where now muezzin’s calls are heard,And Moslem crescents gleam.Zion rebuilt, and the land restored,To his forefathers given,Is the Hebrew exile’s guerdon high,His earnest here of Heaven.The Norseman chief, in the olden times,Sprang up, with Valkyriur callsRinging shrill and clear in his dreaming ear—“Up! come to ‘Valhalla’s Halls!’”Would ye know how the chieftain sought those halls?—Away to the battle-plain—The warrior sleeps on the ghastly heaps,His own red sword has slain!Visions of blood, in that dying hour,To his stormy soul were given—Feasts, and victorious battle-fields,Were the Norseman’s dreams of Heaven.The Greek had high, ambitious dreams,Of Elysium’s fabled clime;The Druid too—ah, many and strange,Were the dreams of olden time.How will those dreams accord with thee,When time exists no more,Unseen, unknown, unpictured realmBeyond the silent shore?Now, shines the gospel sun, the mistsOf Error roll away;And earth, from pole to central zone,Rejoices ’neath its sway.Like some tired wanderer of the deep,The Christian struggles on;While day and night, in calm or storm,How yearns his heart for home!Dreams he of sensual joys? the chase?Some ruined city, lone?Of feasts and battle-fields? Not so—His is a spirit-home.To Him, who formed yon glorious sky,This green enameled sod,The Christian trusts his future home—His architect—is God.

IRREGULAR LINES.

From orient climes to the lands that glow

In the last red light of even,

Indian, Paynim, Moslem, Jew—

All have their dreams of Heaven.

The Moslem dreams of a green, fair clime,

Lit up by the sun’s broad beams,

Where flowers gaze down at their own bright forms

In still transparent streams;

Where soft winds sigh, and gay birds sing,

In tones so sweetly clear;

Where palm groves rustle cool and still,

And bright-eyed Houries cheer;

Where the banquet waits, with its viands crowned,

And the wine-cup’s rosy gleam,

While soft luxuriant bowers around,

Invite to recline and dream:

Such is the vision of future bliss

To the Prophet-followers given—

The “true-believer’s” goal of hope,

The Moslem’s dream of Heaven,

The Indian dreams of a sunset land,

Where the great Manitto reigns;

Where deer and stately bison roam

O’er broad, uncultured plains.

A land whose giant lakes and streams,

With gleaming fish abound;

Where forests wave, and mountains tower—

A boundless hunting-ground.

’Tis his dream, as he calmly looks abroad

On the sunset glow, at even—

A hunting-ground, where that sun sinks down,

Is the Indian’s dream of Heaven.

The Jew of his New Jerusalem dreams,

With its streets of shining gold,

And temples, that rival the regal fane

On Moriah’s brow of old.

Still dreams, that Judah’s harps shall sound,

And Judah’s pennons stream,

Where now muezzin’s calls are heard,

And Moslem crescents gleam.

Zion rebuilt, and the land restored,

To his forefathers given,

Is the Hebrew exile’s guerdon high,

His earnest here of Heaven.

The Norseman chief, in the olden times,

Sprang up, with Valkyriur calls

Ringing shrill and clear in his dreaming ear—

“Up! come to ‘Valhalla’s Halls!’”

Would ye know how the chieftain sought those halls?

—Away to the battle-plain—

The warrior sleeps on the ghastly heaps,

His own red sword has slain!

Visions of blood, in that dying hour,

To his stormy soul were given—

Feasts, and victorious battle-fields,

Were the Norseman’s dreams of Heaven.

The Greek had high, ambitious dreams,

Of Elysium’s fabled clime;

The Druid too—ah, many and strange,

Were the dreams of olden time.

How will those dreams accord with thee,

When time exists no more,

Unseen, unknown, unpictured realm

Beyond the silent shore?

Now, shines the gospel sun, the mists

Of Error roll away;

And earth, from pole to central zone,

Rejoices ’neath its sway.

Like some tired wanderer of the deep,

The Christian struggles on;

While day and night, in calm or storm,

How yearns his heart for home!

Dreams he of sensual joys? the chase?

Some ruined city, lone?

Of feasts and battle-fields? Not so—

His is a spirit-home.

To Him, who formed yon glorious sky,

This green enameled sod,

The Christian trusts his future home—

His architect—is God.

COL. WASHINGTON AT THE BATTLE OF COWPENS.Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine by S. H. Gimber

THE YOUNG DRAGOON.

A STORY OF THE COWPENS.

———

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.

———

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

There is a thing—there is a thing,I fain would have from thee;I fain would have that gay, gold ring.The Spectre Lady.

There is a thing—there is a thing,

I fain would have from thee;

I fain would have that gay, gold ring.

The Spectre Lady.

The period of our revolutionary history immediately succeeding the defeat at Camden, is still remembered in the Carolinas with horror. The British, elated with their success, and regarding the South as now their own, proceeded in the work of confiscation and massacre with pitiless severity. In that terrible crisis many a family was deprived of its head either by exile or by execution. Yet larger numbers were shorn of their property and reduced to comparative indigence. In a word, terror reigned paramount.

But the common events of life still went on. The transactions of business, the struggle for wealth, the toils of the husbandman, births, deaths, marriages, cares, hopes, fears—all followed each other down the deep current of existence, almost wholly unaffected by the storm of war which agitated the surface. It is an error to suppose that great convulsions disturb the whole order of society. Men will still hate, though the entire nation be turned into a camp; will still strive for the dross of earth; will still, if young and generous, risk their heart’s happiness in love.

It was toward the close of a winter evening that a youth of noble mien and handsome face stood at the foot of one of those long avenues of trees, which, in South Carolina, lead up from the road to the mansions of the wealthier proprietors. For nearly half an hour he had been there, as if awaiting the approach of some one from the house: now looking anxiously up the long avenue, now restlessly walking to and fro. During that interval but one person had passed along the highway, and the notice of this one the youth had skillfully avoided by concealing himself behind some dwarf trees within the plantation-fence. This act, as well as his whole demeanor, proved that he was awaiting some secret interview.

At last, just when the dusk began to deepen into night, the flutter of a white dress was seen coming down the avenue. A minute more, and a beautiful girl of eighteen summers appeared on the scene.

“Albert,” said the new comer, as the youth, seizing her hand, passionately kissed it, “I have not a second to stay. It was with difficulty I could leave the house unseen, and my absence has doubtless been noticed before this; what we have to say, therefore, must be said at once; why have you sought this interview?”

“I have sought it, Ellen,” he replied, still holding her hand, “because, despairing of gaining your consent, I have volunteered in Capt. Washington’s cavalry corps, and to-morrow set forth. Perhaps you will never see me more. I could not leave the neighborhood without seeing you once more, and bidding you an eternal farewell; and, as your father’s orders had banished me from the house, there was no method of giving you my adieux except by soliciting an interview.”

The tears had started to the eyes of his listener, but she turned away her head to conceal them; and for some time neither spoke.

“Ellen, dear Ellen,” said the young soldier, earnestly, “will you not now, in this solemn moment, say you love me? I once hoped you did, but since your father has forbidden me the house, you have been less kind; and I fear that I have lost your heart—that you, too, have ceased to care for me, now that I am beggared—”

His hearer suddenly turned her face full upon him, with a look of tearful reproach that cut short his words.

“Bless you, Ellen, for that look,” he said. “Though my father’s estate is confiscated, and he and I both indigent, it is not on that account that you have seemed so cold to me lately. Say then, dearest, only say that I have been mistaken in thinking you at all altered.”

Another look, equally eloquent, answered him; but still his hearer did not speak.

“Oh! Ellen,” he continued, “when I am far away fighting my country’s battles, what bliss it would be to know that you sometimes think of me; and that if I should fall, you would shed a tear for me.”

His listener, at these words, wept freely, and when her agitation had somewhat passed, spoke.

“Albert,” she said, “you have conquered. Know then that I do love you.” At these words the impetuous young man clasped her in his arms, but she disengaged herself, saying, “But, while my father opposes your suit, I can never be yours. The consciousness of his disapproval has made me affect a coldness to you which my heart belied, in the hope that you would think of some one more worthy of you—but—but,” she hesitated, then quickly added, “in a word, if it will comfort you, when away, to know that I think of you, and pray for you, go forth happy—the misery is for us who stay behind, and who are hourly anxious for the fate of the absent.”

The tears fell fast as she spoke, and, concluding,she suffered her head to be drawn to her lover’s shoulder, while a deep and holy silence succeeded, as these two young and already unhappy beings held each other in a first embrace.

It was only for a moment, however, that Ellen yielded to weakness. Raising her head and brushing the tears from her eyes, she said, while crimson blushes overspread her face,

“And now farewell—perhaps all this is wrong—but I could not see you leave me in anger.”

“God bless you for those kind words,” said Albert. “But, Ellen, before you go, one more request. That miniature that hangs around your neck—is it too much to ask for it?”

She hesitated: then, as steps were heard in the road, suddenly gave it to him. He drew a heavy signet-ring from his finger, and said, tendering it in exchange,

“Take this, and let us be true to each other—so help us God!”

And with this parting adjuration, he sprang over the fence to conceal himself behind the brushwood, while Ellen, hastening up the avenue, was soon lost to sight in the obscurity of the hour.

The wind sighed mournfully through the pine woods as this betrothal was consummated, and the dark, starless sky overhead looked down with its weird and melancholy face.

——

Heard ye the din of battle bray,Lance to lance, and horse to horse.Gray.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse.

Gray.

It is well known that, after the defeat of Gates, Congress hastened to supersede that general, and appoint Greene to succeed him. At the period of the incidents narrated in the last chapter, the new commander-in-chief had arrived in the South, and was organizing his forces.

His very first proceeding showed the resources of an intellect, which, in military affairs, was second only to that of the “father of his country.” Aware that the initiatory step toward redeeming the South was to arouse the confidence of its people, he determined to divide his force. While, therefore, he moved with one portion down the Pedee, he despatched Morgan, with the remainder, west of the Catawba, in order to encourage the inhabitants in that quarter. Morgan’s corps was accompanied by Capt. Washington’s light dragoons, of which our hero had already become a conspicuous member.

This division of his army, in the face of an active foe, would have been a capital error, but for the political advantages it offered, and which over-balanced the military ones. Cornwallis, then in command of the royal army, determined to frustrate the success of Greene’s plan, by cutting off Morgan’s detachment; and accordingly ordered Col. Tarleton, with his renowned dragoons, accompanied by a competent force of infantry, to give pursuit.

It was on the 14th of January, 1781, a day ever to be remembered in the annals of our country, that the heroic Morgan learned the danger in which he stood. He determined immediately to give battle. For this purpose he halted at a place called the Cowpens, and having drawn up his troops, awaited, though not without anxiety, the appearance of the foe.

The attack of Tarleton, as usual, was impetuous, and for awhile the American militia were driven helplessly before it; but soon they rallied, under cover of a few continentals belonging to Morgan’s command, and in turn forced the British to give ground. These brave soldiers of the line, led by their colonel, now charged with the bayonet, when the route of the royal infantry became complete.

Washington, with his cavalry, had been waiting impatiently a chance to participate in the fight; but having been stationed as a partial reserve, the order for him to engage did not for some time arrive. His troops shared his enthusiasm. Composed chiefly of young men of family, and mounted on thorough-bred animals, they presented a formidable appearance, as they stood, awaiting the order to engage, the horses champing at the bit, and the riders nervously fingering their swords: they saw the onset of the British, the flight of the first line, and the partial panic that extended through the foot soldiers with horror; but still their leader remained unmoved. Many had never been in battle before, and such believed the day lost; among these was Albert.

At last the confusion became so great around them that troops so undisciplined, if less brave, would have taken to ignominious flight; for the defeated militia were pouring down upon them from all sides, almost compelling them to break their ranks, or see the fugitives perish under the hoofs of their horses. But now Washington seemed to rouse from his inaction. Ordering his men first to allow the flying militia to gain their rear, he then directed them, his sharp, quick tones showing that the moment for action had come, to close up and prepare to charge.

As he spoke, he pointed with his sword ahead, and our hero beheld the renowned regiment of Tarleton coming down upon them at full gallop, and amid a cloud of dust, driving before a mass of dismayed fugitives. The keen eye of Washington measured, for an instant, the distance between them, and then said,

“I want no fire-arms used to-day, my lads. Stick to the cold steel. And now, for God and your country—charge!”

Away went the troop, like a thunder-bolt suddenly loosed from a cloud, with every scabbard jingling, every steed snorting with excitement, and the solid earth shaking under them. In full career they burst upon the flank of the enemy, who, disordered by his pursuit, could make but a feeble resistance. Horse and rider went down before the impetuous charge of the Americans, who for awhile fairly rode down their foes. But British valor soon proved too weak for the combined patriotism and courage of Washington’s cavalry; and the royal troops, taming their bridles, took to ignominious flight.

“On, on,” cried Washington, waving his sword for his men to follow, “remember the cruelties of these myrmidons. Revenge for our slaughtered countrymen!”

At the word, his men, thus reminded of the butchery of the Waxhaws and of the other atrocities perpetrated under the eye of Tarleton, spurred their horses afresh, and dashed on in pursuit. A complete panic had now taken possession of the royal cavalry, who hurried on at full gallop, each man thinking only of himself. Close on their heels followed the indignant Americans, cutting down mercilessly every red-coat they overtook, until the road was strewed with the dead. Foremost in this pursuit rode Washington, a precedence he owed, not only to his superior steed, but to his eagerness to overtake an officer just ahead, whom he judged to be Tarleton himself from his effort to rally the fugitives.

The tremendous pace at which Washington rode, at last carried him so far ahead of his men, that, at a bend in the highway, he found himself totally alone. At this moment, the British, looking back, perceived his situation, and immediately turned on him, his principal assailants being Tarleton and two powerful dragoons.

Knowing, however, that assistance must be close at hand, Washington resolutely advanced to meet the enemy, determined to seize Tarleton for his prisoner. But, before he could reach the colonel, the two dragoons dashed at him, the one on the right, the other on the left. He saw only the first of them, however, and accordingly turned on him, clove him down with a single blow of his sabre, then rushed at Tarleton himself.

But, meantime, the other dragoon was advancing, totally disregarded, upon him, and with upraised blade would have cut him down, had not our hero, who had pressed close after his leader, at this instant wheeled round the corner of the wood. At a single glance he took in the whole scene. Albert saw that before he could come up Washington would be slain, unless fire-arms were employed. In this emergency he did not hesitate to disobey the orders of his leader. Jerking a pistol from his holster, he aimed full at the dragoon, just as the sabre of the latter was sweeping down on Washington’s head. The man tumbled headlong from his saddle, his sword burying itself, in the dust.

“Ha! who is that?” said Washington, sternly, so astonished to find his orders disobeyed, that he turned; a movement which Tarleton took advantage of to make good his escape. “You, Albert!—you!”

“There was no other way,” answered our hero, and he pointed to the dead dragoon, “to save your life. His sabre was within six inches of you when I fired.”

“It could not be helped, then, I suppose,” answered Washington, who now comprehended the event, and saw that he owed his life to the quickness of thought of his young friend; “but stay, you are yourself hurt.”

As he spoke, he saw blood issuing from the sleeve of Albert, and immediately afterward the young soldier reeled and fell senseless to the ground.

Two pistol shots had been discharged from the enemy, Washington now recollected, immediately after Albert had fired. On examination, one ball was found in the arm of our hero. The other had perforated the coat, immediately over the heart.

“He is dead,” cried the leader, “that second shot has touched a vital part.”

He tore away the garments as he spoke, but uttered a cry of joy when he exposed the chest, for there, right over the heart, lay a miniature, which had stopped the ball.

Washington looked at the picture, and muttered, “Ha! I have heard of this—and now I will see if I cannot serve my young friend a good turn.”

——

Marry never for houses, nor marry for lands,Nor marry for nothing but only love.Family Quarrels.

Marry never for houses, nor marry for lands,

Nor marry for nothing but only love.

Family Quarrels.

When our hero, after a long interval of unconsciousness, opened his eyes, he found himself, to his surprise, in a large and elegantly furnished apartment, entirely strange to him. He pulled aside the curtains of his bed with his uninjured arm, and looked out. An aged female servant sat watching him.

“What massa want?” she said.

“How did I get here?” he asked.

“Captain Washington heself left you here, massa, after de great battle. De surgeon staid to dress your arm, and den follow arter de troops, who had lick de red-coats, dey say, all to pieces.”

“Yes! I know—then the army has pursued its march to the Catawba.”

“It hab, massa; and you be to stay here till you well.”

“But where am I?”

The old negro woman smiled till she showed all her teeth.

“You no know, massa?”

“I do not.”

“You forgit me, Massa Albert—me, Missus Ellen’s maman?”

“Good God!” cried our hero, scarcely believing his senses, and scrutinizing her features, “can it be? You are indeed she. And this is Mr. Thorndike’s house.”

He had started up in bed, and was now confronted by the figure of the owner of the mansion himself, who entered at an opposite door; but who, instead of wearing the angry air which Albert had last seen upon him, smiled kindly upon him.

“I was passing along the corridor,” he said, seating himself on the bedside familiarly, and taking the hand of his wounded guest, “and hearing your voice, learned for the first time that you were awake. Accordingly I made bold to enter, in order to assure you of a welcome. When we last parted, Mr. Scott,” he said, noticing our hero’s look of astonishment, “it was with ill-feeling on both sides. Let all that be forgotten. Whatever I may have said then I now recall. In saving the life of Capt. Washington, who is my dearest friend, you have laid me under infinite obligations, and at his request I have consented to overlook the past, and to give you my daughter. I only make a single stipulation, whichis that you will not ask her hand until this war is over, which,” he added, lowering his voice, “can not be long, now that things have begun to go so auspiciously.”

Our hero well understood the character of Mr. Thorndike, who was noted for his prudent adherence to whichever side was uppermost, and he attributed this sudden change not only to Capt. Washington’s intercessions, but also in part to the prospect there now was of the triumph of the colonial cause, in which case the confiscated estates of the elder Mr. Scott would be restored. He kept this to himself, however, and expressed his thanks for Mr. Thorndike’s hospitality.

“But I shall owe you even more,” he added, “for the happiness with which your promise has filled me, and I cheerfully accept your terms. Meantime, let me rise, and pay my respects to the ladies in person—I am sure I am well enough.”

Our hero, however, was compelled to keep his bed for two entire days, in consequence of the fever, a period which appeared to him an age.

We shall not attempt to describe his meeting with Ellen. Let us pass over the first few minutes of the interview.

“I have but one thing to regret,” he said at last, in a low whisper, for Mr. and Mrs. Thorndike were at the other end of the apartment, “and that is the loss of your miniature. I had it around my neck when I went into battle, but have not seen it since.”

Ellen smiled archly, and drew it from her bosom.

“How did it reach your possession?” he said in surprise. And, taking it in his hand, he added, “What means this dent, so like the mark of a ball?”

Tears gushed to Ellen’s eyes, as she said—

“Capt. Washington, who gave it to me, said that it lay over your heart, and that but for it, Tarleton’s pistol-shot would have killed you. Oh! Albert, I sometimes thought, after I gave it to you, that I had done wrong, knowing that my parents would not approve of the act; but when I heard that it had saved your life, I saw in it the hand of Providence.”

“Yes! for it not only preserved me from death, but was the means of interesting Washington in our favor, and thus bringing about this happy re-union,” said Albert, after a pause.

We have no more to tell. On recovering from his wound, our hero rejoined his corps, with which he continued until the expulsion of the British from the Carolinas.

After that happy event he was married to Ellen, and with her spent a long life of felicity.

Their descendants still preserve the battered miniature as an heir-loom.

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

———

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

———

This species is widely spread over the United States, Mexico and the West Indies. Trappers have found it in abundance amid the wild solitudes of Oregon and the gorges of the Rocky Mountains. The great body of these birds winter within the tropics, from whence they reach the Southern States early in spring, and Pennsylvania in April. They begin to build in May, choosing for this purpose either the thickest parts of the forest or a low meadow, retired from the intrusion of man. The nest is constructed of dry leaves and grass, and always concealed by thick grass, heaps of brush or other undergrowth. Indeed few of our songsters are more shy or modest than the Yellow-Throat, and he seems to be devoid of the apparent vanity evinced by most birds of handsome or gaudy plumage. Thelonely banks of a small stream, overgrown with reeds and bushes, is his favorite haunt; and here, with his sober mate, he whiles away the long sultry days of our summer’s heat. The eggs are five in number, either entirely white or of a pale pink tint, varied by minute specks and lines, mostly toward the greater end. After being hatched, which occurs in June, the young birds join the parent pair, and all live as one family, roving along creeks and marshes, and defending each other from enemies. Sometimes, however, a second brood interrupts this connection. In August the lively song of the male ceases to be heard, and the whole party continue their pursuits in silence until warned by a scarcity of food to depart for the South.

The Maryland Yellow-Throat is nearly five inches long, and more than six across the spread wings. The upper parts are a light olive; the throat and breast yellow; the wings and tail brown, mixed with black; the legs are pale flesh-color, and remarkable for their delicacy. The young resemble the female at first, but the male of the season, before his departure in autumn, exhibits the brilliant yellow throat, as well as some appearance of the gray and black which ornament the sides of the face in the adult. Small insects form the almost exclusive prey of this bird, and in capturing them he often displays much art and agility. His song is a plaintive whistle, varying in power and cadence, and sometimes associated with partial imitations of other birds. In September, small flocks depart for the South, only a few stragglers being seen after that month. A few pass the winter in the Southern States, but as already stated, the greater portion retire within the Tropics.

Few birds are more common, or more widely spread than this well known species. According to Richardson, it is found as far north as the 68th degree of latitude, from whence it ranges throughout the entire North American continent, the West Indies, Bahamas, Colombia, Peru, Guiana, Brazil and other portions of South America. These latter countries are their winter residence. In the early part of March they arrive in Carolina, and two months later in Pennsylvania, New England, etc. Here they pass the summer, and leave for the South about the beginning of September, the time of departure varying with the season and latitude.

The Yellow-Bird is a general favorite with the farmer. In summer he may be seen upon almost every tree, but especially among the willows along water-courses, where his brilliant plumage forms a fine relief with the deep glossy green. Being familiar and playful, he often approaches so near as to be captured. His favorite food is larvæ and small caterpillars, which he searches for with much industry, enlivening the hardship of his labor by a cheerful whistle or song. About the time of building, and even after, the female sings almost as well as the male. Both these birds display great ingenuity and solicitude in the construction of their nest, which is usually placed on a small bush close to the ground. Instances are rare where they build on the ground or on a high tree. The nest is constructed externally of dried leaves, fine bark and fern, and within of down, wool, fine grass, and similar materials. Occasionally they forsake the woods, and build in the hedge or bushes of the garden, suiting the construction of their small home to the change of residence. “The labor of forming the nest,” as Nuttall observes, “seems often wholly to devolve on the female. On the 10th of May, I observed one of these industrious matrons busily engaged with her fabric in a low barberry-bush, and by the evening of the second day the whole was completed to the lining, which was made at length of hair and willow down, of which she collected and carried mouthfuls so large, that she often appeared almost like a mass of flying cotton, and far exceeded in industry her active neighbor, the Baltimore, who was also engaged in collecting the same materials. Notwithstanding this industry, thecompletion of the nest, with this and other small birds, is sometimes strangely protracted, or not immediately required.”

The eggs of the Yellow-Bird are four or five in number, white, with small spots of brown. After they are hatched, or even while sitting, the female often feigns lameness at the approach of a stranger, falling down near him and uttering pitiful cries, or perhaps fluttering along the ground. It is frequently annoyed by the intrusions of the Cow Troupial, which, building no nest of her own, makes use of the Yellow-Bird’s. The little builder being too weak to remove the incumbrance, generally builds a partition over it, thus preventing its being hatched. Nests have been found in which a second story has been raised in a similar manner.

The Yellow-Bird is five inches long, and seven across the wings. Greenish yellow above; below, with crown and front golden, and orange spots on the breast; wings and tail brown, and the bill blue. The female is without any variation of color on the breast.

The Green Warbler arrives in Pennsylvania about the beginning of May, and in New England somewhat later. When observed for the first time in spring, it is generally alone, seated on a fruit-tree, and industriously searching for the small insects and larvæ which constitute his food. The species is somewhat rare, rarely more than a single pair, as it is asserted, being seen together, except in the fall, when scattered individuals collect to prepare for migration. Except during the period of incubation, they are not very shy of man, often permitting him to approach within a few feet. They are supposed to wander in summer as far north as Canada and Hudson’s Bay, but the larger portion remain in the Middle and New England States.

Little is known of the precise time of building, since the habits of this songster are then retired. They appear to prefer low, dry situations, and build on bushes, not far from the ground. A nest examined by Nuttall contained four eggs, of a light flesh-colored tint, variegated with pale, purplish points of various sizes, interspersed with other large, brown or blackish spots. The outside was formed of fine strips of the inner bark of juniper, with another tough, fibrous bark, the whole lined with soft feathers, horse hair, and bent grass.

The Green Warbler is four and a half inches in length, and seven across the wings. The chin and throat are black, with spots of the same color on the sides under the wings. The breast and belly are white, the wings and tail dusky, with some white, and the legs and feet pale brown. A bird called by Latham and Pennant the Yellow-Fronted Warbler, is probably but a variation of the same species. The song of the Green Warbler is a somewhat plaintive note, not unlike that of the Chicadee, uttered at short intervals, in a slow manner and with some variation. Owing to its solitary habits, it rarely mingles in the chorus of our summer groves.

VINCENTE FILICAJA’S SONNET TO ITALY.

“Dove Italia il tuo braccio.”

Where is thy might, oh Italy! and whyNow dost thou humbly kneel to other powers?They are thy foes, for both in bygone hoursSubject before thy throne were forced to lie.And is it thus thy honor is preserved?And is it thus thy glory is maintained?Thine old escutcheon thou hast darkly stained,Widely from ancient valor hast thou swerved.Well—be it so: yet cast the crown aside,Put on the shame, the languor and the chainsOf slaves, and sleep while all mankind deride—Sleep as the hireling harlot sleeps, who stainsHer bridal-bed with guilt, till in thy sideAvenging fate the glittering steel shall hide.F. R.

Where is thy might, oh Italy! and why

Now dost thou humbly kneel to other powers?

They are thy foes, for both in bygone hours

Subject before thy throne were forced to lie.

And is it thus thy honor is preserved?

And is it thus thy glory is maintained?

Thine old escutcheon thou hast darkly stained,

Widely from ancient valor hast thou swerved.

Well—be it so: yet cast the crown aside,

Put on the shame, the languor and the chains

Of slaves, and sleep while all mankind deride—

Sleep as the hireling harlot sleeps, who stains

Her bridal-bed with guilt, till in thy side

Avenging fate the glittering steel shall hide.

F. R.

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Selections from the Writings of James Kennard, Jr. With a Sketch of His Life and Character. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

This volume is printed for private circulation, and we should not have thought of making it the subject of a notice, were it not for the interest which attaches to the name of the author. Mr. Kennard was stricken early in life with a disease in his knee—was compelled, at the age of twenty-two, to have his leg amputated—and from that time to his death, ten years after, he was afflicted with a series of diseases, frightfully accumulating one upon another, which at last deprived him of all power of motion, and sparing not even his eyes. Yet though thus seemingly cut off from all enjoyments, and doomed to the peevishness as well as the pain of the sick chamber, he bravely surmounted by force of will the mental effects of his ailments, and developed in physical agony and deprivation one of the most beautiful and loveable characters we have had the fortune to meet in literature or in life. Serene, cheerful, hopeful, affectionate—uncomplaining in the midst of miseries, any one of which might well have quelled a strong spirit, and which, combined, seemed impossible for any spirit to bear—he not only was a genial companion, ready to talk of every thing but his own pains and deprivations, but a voluminous writer. The present volume, consisting of essays, reviews and poems, contributed to the Knickerbocker, the Christian Examiner, and various newspapers and periodicals, indicates not merely the degree of excellence to which by self-culture he had trained his talents for composition, but also the wide range of his studies, and the wider range of his sympathies. For every holy and beneficent enterprise started to alleviate the miseries of the unfortunate, to assist the poor and the ignorant, or to champion the oppressed, this self-forgetful valetudinary had a word of cheer warm from his heart. There is also a sunny, almost frolicksome and dancing, spirit of enjoyment in many of his pieces, which is usuallycharacteristic only of the highest physical health. The article on our “National Poets” is especially teeming with the very exuberance of fun. That on Alison’s History of Europe is one of the most judicious and brilliant papers on the subject published on either side of the Atlantic. Indeed the whole book preaches on every page the most scorching rebukes to indolent and self-indulgent health, and the most inspiring hope to despairing sickness. The reading of such a book, in connection with the character of such a man, is enough to create courage, and cheer under the very “ribs of death.”

Mardi, and a Voyage Thither. By Herman Melville. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo.

Mr. Melville has given us here an acknowledged romance, and those who doubted the veracity of “Typee” and “Omoo,” may now have an opportunity of noticing the difference between Mr. Melville recording what he has observed, and Mr. Melville recording what he has imagined. It appears to us that the two processes in the author’s mind have little in common, and the best evidence of the truthfulness of his former books is the decidedly romantic character of much of the present.

“Mardi” is altogether the most striking work which Mr. Melville has produced, exhibiting a range of learning, a fluency of fancy, and an originality of thought and diction, of which “Typee,” with all its distinctness and luxuriance of description, gave little evidence. At the same time it has defects indicating that the author has not yet reached the limits of his capacity, and that we may hope from him works better even than the present. “Mardi” is of the composite order of mental architecture, and the various rich materials which constitute it are not sufficiently harmonized to produce unity of effect. It has chapters of description, sketches of character, flashes of fanciful exaggeration, and capital audacities of satire, which are inimitable, but confusion, rather than fusion, characterizes the book as a whole. Of the two volumes the first is by far the best, but both contain abundant evidence of the richness, strength and independence of the author’s mind, and are full of those magical touches which indicate original genius.

Nineveh and Its Remains. With an Account of a Visit to the Chaldean Christians of Kurdistan and the Yezidas, or Devil-Worshipers; and an Inquiry into the Manners and Arts of the Ancient Assyrians. By Austen Henry Layard, Esq., D.C.L. New York: Geo. P. Putnam. 2 vols. 8vo.

Private letters from England confirm the reports in the public journals of the great sensation which this work has excited in Great Britain. It divides with Macaulay’s brilliant history the attention of the reading public. The American publisher, with commendable enterprise, has issued it in a style of great elegance, and has given all the illustrative engravings which decorate the English edition. The work, when we consider the expense of its mechanical execution, is placed at a very low price.

These volumes belong to a class of books which may be called the geology of history—the exhibition of a nation’s history and social life through its monuments. The greatest work of this kind in English is doubtless Wilkinson’s on the Ancient Egyptians, and the production of Mr. Layard is next in rank. It introduces us to the Assyrians through a process which enables us to comprehend their material and mental life—to see them as theyate, dressed, warred, thought and prayed. Their fine and useful arts, their costume, their amusements, their military system, their private life, their religion, are all brought directly before the eye and mind of the reader, and he is enabled to discern that peculiar combination of the elements of human nature which constituted the Assyrian mind and heart, and to reconcile the apparent anomalies in the national character. The picture is one of engrossing interest, and cannot fail to enlarge every mind which contemplates it. It is almost needless to say that the course Mr. Layard has pursued is the only possible mode by which authentic information can be obtained of an extinct people, who left no historical records, and who were almost forgotten before history began. The illustrations given in the work of the truth of many passages in the Old Testament, are not the least interesting and remarkable portions of a most interesting and striking book.

The Gold Mines of the Gila. A Sequel to Old Hicks the Guide. By Charles W. Webber. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 2 vols. 12mo.

This work possesses a double interest; first, as a most stirring and graphic delineation of life, character and scenery on the borders of Texas, and second, as indicating an almost unknown region of the Continent, rich in gold mines and wealth of various kinds, and tempting bothcuriosity and cupidity to its exploration. Mr. Webber proposes to head an expedition of some sixty men, to be called the “Centralia Exploring Expedition to California, via the valleys of the Pecos, the Gila, and Colorado of the West,” for the purpose of discovery and profit; and in the course of this delightful book of adventure, he spreads before his readers the evidence he possesses of the existence of the region into which he desires to penetrate. If his expedition succeed we have little doubt that it will be one of the most interesting and romantic since the time of Cortez; and the leader himself has qualities of valor, endurance and chivalric sentiment, sufficient to carry him through the difficulties of any enterprise, however arduous.

Apart from the information relating to a new gold region, Mr. Webber’s volumes possess an engrossing interest as records of adventure. The author has a sureness and vividness of conception, and a power of expression, which combined make his delineations singularly fresh and life-like. To read this book is the next best thing to viewing the objects it describes. It displays a representative genius of a high order, and if the author would concentrate his energies, he might produce a novel which would give him a place in the front rank of our original minds.

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