KUBLEH.

What though they left him without guard or memorial, alone in the wilderness! Kind hands had laid him there, prayer had hallowed the spot, tears of affection bedewed his grave, and guardian spirits would watch with jealous care his “sleeping dust.” “Rest, thee, my brother, last of my kindred,” said Amy, sending a lingering look backward.

“There softly lie, and sweetly sleep,Low in the ground,The storm that sweeps the wintry skyNo more’ll disturb thy deep repose,Than summer evening’s latest sigh,That shuts the rose.”

“There softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground,

The storm that sweeps the wintry sky

No more’ll disturb thy deep repose,

Than summer evening’s latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.”

KUBLEH.

A STORY OF THE ASSYRIAN DESERT.

———

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

———

Sofuk, the Sheik of the Shammar Arabs, was the owner of a mare of matchless beauty, called, as if the property of the tribe, the Shammeriyah. Her dam, who died about ten years ago, was the celebrated Kubleh, whose renown extended from the sources of the Khabour to the end of the Arabian promontory, and the day of whose death is the epoch from which the Arabs of Mesopotamia now date the events concerning their tribe. Mohammed Emir, Sheik of the Jebour, assured me that he had seen Sofuk ride down the wild ass of the Sinjar on her back, and the most marvelous stories are current in the desert as to her fleetness and powers of endurance. Sofuk esteemed her and her daughter above all the riches of the tribe; for her he would have forfeited all his wealth, and even Amsha herself.Layard’s Nineveh.

Layard’s Nineveh.

The black-eyed children of the Desert droveTheir flocks together at the set of sun.The tents were pitched; the weary camels bentTheir suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand;The hunters quartered by the kindled firesThe wild boars of the Tigris they had slain,And all the stir and sound of evening ranThroughout the Shammar camp. The dewy airBore its full burden of confused delightAcross the flowery plain, and while, afar,The snows of Koordish Mountains in the rayFlashed roseate amber, Nimroud’s ancient moundRose broad and black against the burning west.The shadows deepened and the stars came out,Sparkling in violet ether; one by oneGlimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain,And shapes of steed and horseman moved amongThe dusky tents, with shout and jostling cry,And neigh and restless prancing. Children ranTo hold the thongs, while every rider droveHis quivering spear in the earth, and by his doorTethered the horse he loved. In midst of allStood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch⁠—The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the SheikA dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls.But when their meal was o’er—when the red firesBlazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed⁠—When Shammar hunters with the boys sat downTo cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar,The poet of the tribe, whose songs of loveAre sweeter than Balsora’s nightingales⁠—Whose songs of war can fire the Arab bloodLike war itself: who knows not Alimar?Then asked the men: “O Poet, sing of Kubleh!”And boys laid down the knives, half-burnished, saying:“Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw⁠—Of wondrous Kubleh!” Closer flocked the group,With eager eyes about the flickering fire,While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars,Sang to the listening Arabs:“God is great!O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rodeThe sands of Yemen, and by Mecca’s gateThat wingéd steed bestrode, whose mane of fireBlazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called,He bore the Prophet to the walls of Heaven,Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk’s wondrous mare:Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dashed flameIn Bagdad’s stables, from the marble floor⁠—Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in stateThe gay bazars, by great Al-Raschid backed:Not the wild charger of Mongolian breedThat went o’er half the world with Tamerlane:Nor yet those flying coursers, long agoFrom Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian groomsTo Persia’s kings—the foals of sacred mares,Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea!“Who ever told, in all the Desert Land,The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tellWhence came she, whence her like shall come again?O Arabs, like a tale of SherezadeHeard in the camp, when javelin shafts are triedOn the hot eve of battle, is her story.“Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say,Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm.The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eyeGlared red and sunken, and her slight young limbsWere lean with thirst. He checked his camel’s pace,And while it knelt, untied the water-skin,And when the wild mare drank, she followed him.Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle girdUpon her back, or clasp the brazen gearAbout her shining head, that brooked no curbFrom even him; for she, alike, was royal.“Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace,Than some impassioned Almée’s, when the danceUnbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleamThrough floating drapery, on the buoyant air.Her light, free head was ever held aloft;Between her slender and transparent earsThe silken forelock tossed; her nostril’s arch,Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread,Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neckCurved to the shoulder like an eagle’s wing,And all her matchless lines of flank and limbSeemed fashioned from the flying shapes of airBy hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rangFrom tent to tent, her keen and restless eyeShone like a blood-red ruby, and her neighRang wild and sharp above the clash of spears.“The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her:Sofuk before the Shammar bands she boreTo meet the dread Jebours, who waited notTo bid her welcome; and the savage Koord,Chased from his bold irruption on the plain,Has seen her hoof prints in his mountain snow.Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle,O’er ledge and chasm and barren steep amidThe Sinjar hills, she ran the wild ass down.Through many a battle’s thickest brunt she stormed,Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock deepIn curdling gore. When hot and lurid hazeStifled the crimson sun, she swept beforeThe whirling sand-spout, till her gusty maneFlared in its vortex, while the camels layGroaning and helpless on the fiery waste.“The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her:The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet neighBefore the walls of Teflis; pines that growOn ancient Caucasus have harbored her,Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom.The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks,When from the shore she saw the white-sailed barkThat brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet,O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh!“And Sofuk loved her. She was more to himThan all his snowy-bosomed odalisques.For many years she stood beside his tent,The glory of the tribe.At last she died.Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs⁠—Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved.The base Jebours—on whom be Allah’s curse!⁠—Came on his path, when far from any camp,And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprangAgainst the javelin points, and bore them down,And gained the open Desert. Wounded sore,She urged her light limbs into maddening speedAnd made the wind a laggard. On and onThe red sand slid beneath her, and behindWhirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence,As when some star of Eblis, downward hurledBy Allah’s bolt, sweeps with its burning hairThe waste of darkness. On and on, the bleak,Bare ridges rose before her, came and passed,And every flying leap with fresher bloodHer nostril stained, till Sofuk’s brow and breastWere flecked with crimson foam. He would have turnedTo save his treasure, though himself were lost,But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen rein.At last, when through her spent and quivering frameThe sharp throes ran, our hundred tents arose,And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joyO’ercame its agony, she stopped and fell.The Shammar men came round her as she lay,And Sofuk raised her head and held it closeAgainst his breast. Her dull and glazing eyeMet his, and with a shuddering gasp she died.Then like a child his bursting grief made wayIn passionate tears, and with him all the tribeWept for the faithful mare.They dug her graveAmid Al-Hather’s marbles, where she liesBuried with ancient kings; and since that timeWas never seen, and will not be again,O Arabs, though the world be doomed to liveAs many moons as count the desert sands,The like of wondrous Kubleh. God is great!”

The black-eyed children of the Desert drove

Their flocks together at the set of sun.

The tents were pitched; the weary camels bent

Their suppliant necks, and knelt upon the sand;

The hunters quartered by the kindled fires

The wild boars of the Tigris they had slain,

And all the stir and sound of evening ran

Throughout the Shammar camp. The dewy air

Bore its full burden of confused delight

Across the flowery plain, and while, afar,

The snows of Koordish Mountains in the ray

Flashed roseate amber, Nimroud’s ancient mound

Rose broad and black against the burning west.

The shadows deepened and the stars came out,

Sparkling in violet ether; one by one

Glimmered the ruddy camp-fires on the plain,

And shapes of steed and horseman moved among

The dusky tents, with shout and jostling cry,

And neigh and restless prancing. Children ran

To hold the thongs, while every rider drove

His quivering spear in the earth, and by his door

Tethered the horse he loved. In midst of all

Stood Shammeriyah, whom they dared not touch⁠—

The foal of wondrous Kubleh, to the Sheik

A dearer wealth than all his Georgian girls.

But when their meal was o’er—when the red firesBlazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed⁠—When Shammar hunters with the boys sat downTo cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar,The poet of the tribe, whose songs of loveAre sweeter than Balsora’s nightingales⁠—Whose songs of war can fire the Arab bloodLike war itself: who knows not Alimar?Then asked the men: “O Poet, sing of Kubleh!”And boys laid down the knives, half-burnished, saying:“Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw⁠—Of wondrous Kubleh!” Closer flocked the group,With eager eyes about the flickering fire,While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars,Sang to the listening Arabs:

But when their meal was o’er—when the red fires

Blazed brighter, and the dogs no longer bayed⁠—

When Shammar hunters with the boys sat down

To cleanse their bloody knives, came Alimar,

The poet of the tribe, whose songs of love

Are sweeter than Balsora’s nightingales⁠—

Whose songs of war can fire the Arab blood

Like war itself: who knows not Alimar?

Then asked the men: “O Poet, sing of Kubleh!”

And boys laid down the knives, half-burnished, saying:

“Tell us of Kubleh, whom we never saw⁠—

Of wondrous Kubleh!” Closer flocked the group,

With eager eyes about the flickering fire,

While Alimar, beneath the Assyrian stars,

Sang to the listening Arabs:

“God is great!O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rodeThe sands of Yemen, and by Mecca’s gateThat wingéd steed bestrode, whose mane of fireBlazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called,He bore the Prophet to the walls of Heaven,Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk’s wondrous mare:Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dashed flameIn Bagdad’s stables, from the marble floor⁠—Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in stateThe gay bazars, by great Al-Raschid backed:Not the wild charger of Mongolian breedThat went o’er half the world with Tamerlane:Nor yet those flying coursers, long agoFrom Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian groomsTo Persia’s kings—the foals of sacred mares,Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea!

“God is great!

O Arabs, never yet since Mahmoud rode

The sands of Yemen, and by Mecca’s gate

That wingéd steed bestrode, whose mane of fire

Blazed up the zenith, when, by Allah called,

He bore the Prophet to the walls of Heaven,

Was like to Kubleh, Sofuk’s wondrous mare:

Not all the milk-white barbs, whose hoofs dashed flame

In Bagdad’s stables, from the marble floor⁠—

Who, swathed in purple housings, pranced in state

The gay bazars, by great Al-Raschid backed:

Not the wild charger of Mongolian breed

That went o’er half the world with Tamerlane:

Nor yet those flying coursers, long ago

From Ormuz brought by swarthy Indian grooms

To Persia’s kings—the foals of sacred mares,

Sired by the fiery stallions of the sea!

“Who ever told, in all the Desert Land,The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tellWhence came she, whence her like shall come again?O Arabs, like a tale of SherezadeHeard in the camp, when javelin shafts are triedOn the hot eve of battle, is her story.

“Who ever told, in all the Desert Land,

The many deeds of Kubleh? Who can tell

Whence came she, whence her like shall come again?

O Arabs, like a tale of Sherezade

Heard in the camp, when javelin shafts are tried

On the hot eve of battle, is her story.

“Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say,Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm.The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eyeGlared red and sunken, and her slight young limbsWere lean with thirst. He checked his camel’s pace,And while it knelt, untied the water-skin,And when the wild mare drank, she followed him.Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle girdUpon her back, or clasp the brazen gearAbout her shining head, that brooked no curbFrom even him; for she, alike, was royal.

“Far in the Southern sands, the hunters say,

Did Sofuk find her, by a lonely palm.

The well had dried; her fierce, impatient eye

Glared red and sunken, and her slight young limbs

Were lean with thirst. He checked his camel’s pace,

And while it knelt, untied the water-skin,

And when the wild mare drank, she followed him.

Thence none but Sofuk might the saddle gird

Upon her back, or clasp the brazen gear

About her shining head, that brooked no curb

From even him; for she, alike, was royal.

“Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace,Than some impassioned Almée’s, when the danceUnbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleamThrough floating drapery, on the buoyant air.Her light, free head was ever held aloft;Between her slender and transparent earsThe silken forelock tossed; her nostril’s arch,Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread,Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neckCurved to the shoulder like an eagle’s wing,And all her matchless lines of flank and limbSeemed fashioned from the flying shapes of airBy hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rangFrom tent to tent, her keen and restless eyeShone like a blood-red ruby, and her neighRang wild and sharp above the clash of spears.

“Her form was lighter, in its shifting grace,

Than some impassioned Almée’s, when the dance

Unbinds her scarf, and golden anklets gleam

Through floating drapery, on the buoyant air.

Her light, free head was ever held aloft;

Between her slender and transparent ears

The silken forelock tossed; her nostril’s arch,

Thin-drawn, in proud and pliant beauty spread,

Snuffing the desert winds. Her glossy neck

Curved to the shoulder like an eagle’s wing,

And all her matchless lines of flank and limb

Seemed fashioned from the flying shapes of air

By hands of lightning. When the war-shouts rang

From tent to tent, her keen and restless eye

Shone like a blood-red ruby, and her neigh

Rang wild and sharp above the clash of spears.

“The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her:Sofuk before the Shammar bands she boreTo meet the dread Jebours, who waited notTo bid her welcome; and the savage Koord,Chased from his bold irruption on the plain,Has seen her hoof prints in his mountain snow.Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle,O’er ledge and chasm and barren steep amidThe Sinjar hills, she ran the wild ass down.Through many a battle’s thickest brunt she stormed,Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock deepIn curdling gore. When hot and lurid hazeStifled the crimson sun, she swept beforeThe whirling sand-spout, till her gusty maneFlared in its vortex, while the camels layGroaning and helpless on the fiery waste.

“The tribes of Tigris and the Desert knew her:

Sofuk before the Shammar bands she bore

To meet the dread Jebours, who waited not

To bid her welcome; and the savage Koord,

Chased from his bold irruption on the plain,

Has seen her hoof prints in his mountain snow.

Lithe as the dark-eyed Syrian gazelle,

O’er ledge and chasm and barren steep amid

The Sinjar hills, she ran the wild ass down.

Through many a battle’s thickest brunt she stormed,

Reeking with sweat and dust, and fetlock deep

In curdling gore. When hot and lurid haze

Stifled the crimson sun, she swept before

The whirling sand-spout, till her gusty mane

Flared in its vortex, while the camels lay

Groaning and helpless on the fiery waste.

“The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her:The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet neighBefore the walls of Teflis; pines that growOn ancient Caucasus have harbored her,Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom.The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks,When from the shore she saw the white-sailed barkThat brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet,O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh!

“The tribes of Taurus and the Caspian knew her:

The Georgian chiefs have heard her trumpet neigh

Before the walls of Teflis; pines that grow

On ancient Caucasus have harbored her,

Sleeping by Sofuk in their spicy gloom.

The surf of Trebizond has bathed her flanks,

When from the shore she saw the white-sailed bark

That brought him home from Stamboul. Never yet,

O Arabs, never yet was like to Kubleh!

“And Sofuk loved her. She was more to himThan all his snowy-bosomed odalisques.For many years she stood beside his tent,The glory of the tribe.At last she died.Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs⁠—Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved.The base Jebours—on whom be Allah’s curse!⁠—Came on his path, when far from any camp,And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprangAgainst the javelin points, and bore them down,And gained the open Desert. Wounded sore,She urged her light limbs into maddening speedAnd made the wind a laggard. On and onThe red sand slid beneath her, and behindWhirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence,As when some star of Eblis, downward hurledBy Allah’s bolt, sweeps with its burning hairThe waste of darkness. On and on, the bleak,Bare ridges rose before her, came and passed,And every flying leap with fresher bloodHer nostril stained, till Sofuk’s brow and breastWere flecked with crimson foam. He would have turnedTo save his treasure, though himself were lost,But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen rein.At last, when through her spent and quivering frameThe sharp throes ran, our hundred tents arose,And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joyO’ercame its agony, she stopped and fell.The Shammar men came round her as she lay,And Sofuk raised her head and held it closeAgainst his breast. Her dull and glazing eyeMet his, and with a shuddering gasp she died.Then like a child his bursting grief made wayIn passionate tears, and with him all the tribeWept for the faithful mare.They dug her graveAmid Al-Hather’s marbles, where she liesBuried with ancient kings; and since that timeWas never seen, and will not be again,O Arabs, though the world be doomed to liveAs many moons as count the desert sands,The like of wondrous Kubleh. God is great!”

“And Sofuk loved her. She was more to him

Than all his snowy-bosomed odalisques.

For many years she stood beside his tent,

The glory of the tribe.

At last she died.

Died, while the fire was yet in all her limbs⁠—

Died for the life of Sofuk, whom she loved.

The base Jebours—on whom be Allah’s curse!⁠—

Came on his path, when far from any camp,

And would have slain him, but that Kubleh sprang

Against the javelin points, and bore them down,

And gained the open Desert. Wounded sore,

She urged her light limbs into maddening speed

And made the wind a laggard. On and on

The red sand slid beneath her, and behind

Whirled in a swift and cloudy turbulence,

As when some star of Eblis, downward hurled

By Allah’s bolt, sweeps with its burning hair

The waste of darkness. On and on, the bleak,

Bare ridges rose before her, came and passed,

And every flying leap with fresher blood

Her nostril stained, till Sofuk’s brow and breast

Were flecked with crimson foam. He would have turned

To save his treasure, though himself were lost,

But Kubleh fiercely snapped the brazen rein.

At last, when through her spent and quivering frame

The sharp throes ran, our hundred tents arose,

And with a neigh, whose shrill excess of joy

O’ercame its agony, she stopped and fell.

The Shammar men came round her as she lay,

And Sofuk raised her head and held it close

Against his breast. Her dull and glazing eye

Met his, and with a shuddering gasp she died.

Then like a child his bursting grief made way

In passionate tears, and with him all the tribe

Wept for the faithful mare.

They dug her grave

Amid Al-Hather’s marbles, where she lies

Buried with ancient kings; and since that time

Was never seen, and will not be again,

O Arabs, though the world be doomed to live

As many moons as count the desert sands,

The like of wondrous Kubleh. God is great!”

A MEMORY.

———

BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.

———

The shadows are dark on thy soul,And thoughts of the lost will throng,For a voice hath vanished from the earth,Sweeter than the spring bird’s song.

The shadows are dark on thy soul,

And thoughts of the lost will throng,

For a voice hath vanished from the earth,

Sweeter than the spring bird’s song.

Thou lookest on the still blue sky,And pinest ’mid its peace to be,For the grass springeth green on a grave,And the world hath a grief for thee.

Thou lookest on the still blue sky,

And pinest ’mid its peace to be,

For the grass springeth green on a grave,

And the world hath a grief for thee.

The flowers may be bright as they were,And a fragrance as soft may fling,But the verdure hath faded from thy life⁠—And the heart hath but one sweet spring!

The flowers may be bright as they were,

And a fragrance as soft may fling,

But the verdure hath faded from thy life⁠—

And the heart hath but one sweet spring!

I was a transient dweller in a strange land—one distant from my childhood’s home, and far away from those who knew me first and loved me best. Gradually, as the vivid excitements of life had surrounded me, as new ties had sprung up and old hopes faded, I had lost the intimate knowledge of the welfare or the afflictions of many who had formerly been familiar friends, and a lengthened separation had produced that ignorance of the details of their destiny frequently occurring, even where affection still lingers unaltered. But there are periods when, as it were, remembrance irresistibly presses upon us, and we all have seasons when old times and buried associations crowd around us with inexplicable distinctness—when the actual loses for a while its absorbing interest, and the past, with all its radiant dreams, its rainbow illusions, is enchanting reality once more.

I was sitting alone, at the close of a lovely autumn afternoon, before an open window, my fancy busy with the throng of older associations, and inattentive to the beautiful view stretching beneath me, strikingly fair as were its features, now glowing through the crimsoning sunlight. But something—I know not what, for such glimpses are among the spirit’s mysteries—had recalled other times, and my soul communed with itself and was still. The mind has its own restless and concealed creation—its hidden world of active silentness; and to those who have battled with the depression attendant on human experience, there is untold luxury in reveling amid the crowding memories that “longest haunt the heart.” Even as I sat thus idly reflecting, a paper reached me, sent by some friendly hand from my early home, and earnestly as I would have read a loving letter, Ipored over the contents of that every-day record. It spoke to me as a messenger from the absent; each well-known name mentioned in its columns, held a thousand clustering reminiscences for me; the trivial local news was like welcome household tidings; and I spoke aloud the old familiar names I had not heard for years, as if a spell lay in their sound. Last of all I turned to the page where, side by side, were chronicled marriages and deaths. The first were those of strangers; among the last was noticed the final departure of one whom I had once loved, as we only love in the purity of youth. The announcement was worded in the usual form with which we herald to the careless world that a soul has gone to the mysterious future. Nothing was there to arrest the contemplation of the reader—to speak of inevitable human destiny to a throbbing human heart—to reveal the agony of mortality, the bitterness of death, or the trials of the wearily burdened and loving ones, perchance well-nigh borne down by that one event. “Died at sea, during her homeward voyage, Mary Vere, aged 24, for three years a resident missionary in Persia.” And this was all! The ending of the saddest life I ever knew, the knell of as pure a spirit as was ever bowed and fettered by earthly cares—this was the cold, brief recording of the history of a warm nature, that had patiently toiled and uncomplainingly suffered—that even in its youth had been old in grief—that had wandered abroad and found no rest, and then, like a wounded bird, had winged its way homeward to die! Ah, Mary! little dreamed we, in our sunny days, that mine eyes should ever trace the chronicle of such a destiny for thee!

We had first met, in childhood, at the country residence of a friend, where we were both spending the summer months. She accompanied her mother—her only surviving parent, then slowly declining in the last stage of consumption. Mary and myself, thrown continually together, without other companions, speedily became warm friends, though her pensive, irresolute disposition, had little in common with my natural impetuous animation. She had been the attendant on suffering from her earliest recollection, for her father had died after a lingering illness, during which he had desired the constant enlivenment of his only child’s society, and her mother had for years been a resigned but hopeless invalid. All who have closely observed children, are aware of the influence such things half-unconsciously exert over minds susceptible to every impression, and it was not strange that one so used to look on sorrow, should have learned at last to doubt the very existence of happiness.

Mary was a strikingly beautiful child, with dark, soul-revealing eyes, bright with the mystical fire of the burning thoughts within. I well remember their rapturous expression when she was excited by some tale of heroism—for she was full of a strange, quietenthusiasm, that wasted itself in fruitless sympathy with the moral greatness of others, but shrank with painful distrust from reliance on its own impulsive guidance. She was quick of feeling, and easily touched by the most trivial deed of kindness, and her being was toosensitive for her ever to be thoughtlessly happy. Her look and manner were peculiarly winning in their tranquil, subdued gentleness; and when this was, occasionally, though rarely, laid aside for awhile, amid the irrepressible mirth of childish amusement, her laugh had the ringing, silvery melody which seems the musical essence of enjoyment. For two successive summers we met and were inseparably intimate, and then four years elapsed before we were again together. During this interval Mary’s mother died, and she went far from my home, to reside with a distant relation. We had, from our first parting, corresponded regularly, and her letters were, like herself, poetical and visionary. I know not wherefore, for she wrote no murmur, but they left the impression that she was not satisfied with her new home, and my heart yearned to comfort her, to remove from her lot its loneliness, from her soul its dimness. But she shrunk, with what then appeared to me morbid delicacy, from all approach to confidence on this subject, and gradually grew in all things less communicative regarding herself, as if doubting the response of sympathy. There was evidently a constraint placed on her spontaneous emotions—a quiet concealment of her deeper interests, which to me spoke mournfully, and recalled that silent, dejected consciousness of mental and spiritual solitude, which is the saddest portion and the most touching consequence of an orphan’s unshared and melancholy destiny. It was not until long afterward that I learned the domestic trials and annoyances to which she had been subjected, and the dreary, joyless routine in which she dragged on the years that should have been her brightest ones.

It was with many a sweet anticipation of friendly, unreserved intercourse and affectionate solace—such dreams as are borne by loving angels to hearts strong in youth and rich in tenderness, that I looked impatiently forward to my next meeting with my old playmate, for now we had both glided from childhood to womanhood, and the firm bond was between us that links those who remember together. I shall never forget my astonishment when, after our first fond and impetuous greeting, I turned, with tearful eyes, to mark the alteration time had wrought in the appearance of my companion. She was calm and composed, almost to coldness, and there was no visible exhibition of the agitation struggling beneath, or of all the afflicting reminiscences which I knew were recalled by looking on my face again. She had grown from the timid, irresolute girl, to the proud, self-possessed woman, and her manner had the tranquil air of one aware of her own moral strength, and of the existence of impulses and feelings too pure and sacred to be lightly displayed to a world which had nothing in common with them. She was more beautiful than ever, and I have never seen a being whose polished, intellectual tranquillity was so faultlessly graceful. She had acquired the early maturity of mind given in kindness to those who are tried in their youth; for she had evidently “thought too long and darkly;” her feelings were still from their intensity, and hers was the reflective repose which, wearied and desponding, folds its drooping pinions and sleeps on the bosom of darkness.

Ah, me! it is a dreary thing to feel alone in the world—to have no eye brighten at our coming, no voice ever ready with its eager welcoming, nothing to tell us we are beloved, and that fond thoughts and wishes are around our onward pathway. O, ye who have never felt this worst of desolations—ye whose best affections bind ye still, who have no link broken, no yearnings unfulfilled, fold to your hearts the precious blessing that lives in domestic ties and speaks in household love, and greet kindly and gently those whose life is lonely—who look around them and find no answering gaze, who pine with many tears for one glimpse of the tenderness whose living light is daily yours, who go forward sadly and silently, with none to love them, save those who are angels in Heaven.

But there is a romance in every one’s experience, evanescent though it be; and at length its bright change rose upon Mary’s existence. I heard she was soon to be married, to a young clergyman, of whom all spoke in terms of approval and admiration. I sincerely rejoiced at an event so calculated to relieve at once her perplexities and regrets, and to summon sweet visions for one who had too long lived without affection in the world. I wrote to her, expressing all I felt—all my fervent hopes for her dawning welfare. I longed impatiently for her answer, anxious to discover if she realized as I wished the brighter career opening before her; but several weeks wended on, and brought me no reply. It was from another source I learned the dangerous and protracted illness of her lover, and a paper, tremulously directed by Mary’s hand, at length informed me of his death.

Finally a letter came, with its black seal. It was the last farewell of one who loved me—the last pouring forth of tenderness from a heart that was broken; and yet, sorrowful as those lines were, they spoke of hopes unshadowed and immortal—of a pilgrimage troubled and toilsome, but full of reward, and of all an enthusiast’s delusive anticipations in the sacred enterprise before her.

She wrote on the eve of her departure from her native land, and with her singular, acquired shrinking from the avowal of her feelings, she made no allusion to the connection recently broken; and not a word revealed the grief that clouded over her fairest prospects and sent her forth an exile. Frequently afterward I saw her name mentioned as one of unwavering zeal in her adopted cause, and faithfully devoted to the laborious responsibilities of her mission. But between herself and her early friends a gulf seemed to be, perhaps because she did not wish to revive the over-powering recollections of the past. The absence of all communication with those once dear to her, must have been intentional, for she was not one to forget. Three years of this unbroken existence of care and labor had gone by, and then I had thus accidentally learned the mournful doom of a being endowed with all earth’s purest impulses, yet so soon recalled from its wanderings. Hers is no uncommon history—for many such are on our daily annals. O! give them kind thoughts and words, for these are the sad heart’s treasured gems!

THIS WORLD OF OURS.

———

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

———

This world of ours is beautiful—right beautiful, I ween,Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green,Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half shade,Like love’s first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid.The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day,And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way;The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty’s sheen;This world of ours is beautiful—wherever it is seen.This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden daysWhen knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise;When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword,These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of oneWho joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night;And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear;Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great and free,And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty;When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls,And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls;When on the yellow Tiber’s wave the shouts of victory came,And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror’s lauded name;Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays;Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days?This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide,And thousand voices rose to greet the old man’s ocean bride;The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud,And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd,Gleamed forth the light of beauty’s eye—Venetia’s daughters fair,With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair;As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men’s brides should be;Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea?This world of ours was beautiful when ’neath Italia’s skiesHer passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes.Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air,And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair;No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with each tone,And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone,Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth;Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth!This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno’s streamSweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream;So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze,Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees;And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown,Or sun-clad monuments on which Time’s rays come proudly down,To gild with beauty e’en decay—but what decay hast thou?Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow?This world of ours was beautiful in England’s palmy times,When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sportive chimes,When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free,With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree;Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green,All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen,And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told;Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old?This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and trueSpread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue⁠—They found it ’neath the forest old, ’mid wild and savage men,Beside the ocean’s rocky shore, within the mountain glen;And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the mother’s tone,Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altar-stone;Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary hours,Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours?This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke,Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke,Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight,And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might,The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear,They grasped their swords more tightly then—’twas victory or a bier;Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won;Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom’s sun?This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago,When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below;Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to beTo teach man all his duties here—Love, Faith and Energy,To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel;Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel;Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul;Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control?This world of ourswasbeautiful, and still is so to me;Since boyish days I’ve clung to it, with wildness and with glee;Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky,When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by,Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every streamOf joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream,And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child;This world of ours is beautiful as ’twas when Eden smiled?This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say;There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May;But what of that?—there’s joy in both the sunshine and the shade,The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade.Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life’s lessons right,Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night.Up! up! to action, armed with Love, Faith and Energy;And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be.

This world of ours is beautiful—right beautiful, I ween,

Are all its mountains tipt with gold, its valleys tinged with green,

Its thousand laughing streams that sport, half sunshine and half shade,

Like love’s first herald seen upon the rosy cheeked maid.

The springing flowers are beautiful that open to the day,

And spread their perfume far and wide along the sunny way;

The vine-clad rocks and shady dells that bask in beauty’s sheen;

This world of ours is beautiful—wherever it is seen.

This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden daysWhen knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise;When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword,These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?

This world of ours was beautiful in those good olden days

When knights would battle valiantly for ladies’ smiles and praise;

When in the list and on the turf, with lance and spear and sword,

These iron-handed men would meet no bond but plighted word.

Each castle was a fortress then; each man could bend the bow,

Or lead the dance, or join the song with voice as soft and low,

As maidens when at night they hear their lovers’ whispered praise;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good olden days?

This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of oneWho joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night;And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear;Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?

This world of ours was beautiful, when troubadours first sang,

And castle hall and cottage roof with love and glory rang;

When high-born damsels clustered round—perhaps to hear of one

Who joined the armies of the Cross, to fight ’neath Syria’s sun;

How he had borne the banner high amid the thickest fight,

And placed his name where it will shine like stars amid the night;

And then bright eyes would brighter beam, despite the truant tear;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when minstrelsy was here?

This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great and free,And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty;When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls,And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls;When on the yellow Tiber’s wave the shouts of victory came,And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror’s lauded name;Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays;Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days?

This world of ours was beautiful when Rome was great and free,

And proudly shone her mountain-bird, the type of Liberty;

When Freedom found a resting-place within those trophied walls,

And circled with her eagle wing its temples and its halls;

When on the yellow Tiber’s wave the shouts of victory came,

And pride and glory mingled with the conqueror’s lauded name;

Then came the proud triumphal march, the heroes crowned with bays;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those her palmy days?

This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide,And thousand voices rose to greet the old man’s ocean bride;The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud,And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd,Gleamed forth the light of beauty’s eye—Venetia’s daughters fair,With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair;As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men’s brides should be;Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea?

This world of ours was beautiful when Venice ruled the tide,

And thousand voices rose to greet the old man’s ocean bride;

The waters gladly danced around the castles old and proud,

And from the latticed balconies, upon the passing crowd,

Gleamed forth the light of beauty’s eye—Venetia’s daughters fair,

With hearts as pure as were the gems that glistened in their hair;

As bold in danger, true in love, as brave men’s brides should be;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Venice ruled the sea?

This world of ours was beautiful when ’neath Italia’s skiesHer passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes.Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air,And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair;No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with each tone,And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone,Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth;Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth!

This world of ours was beautiful when ’neath Italia’s skies

Her passion sons, like meteor stars, flashed on their wondering eyes.

Born in that sunny clime of love, where beauty tints the air,

And earth and ocean, sun and shade, are more divinely fair;

No marvel that their minds upgrew full freighted with each tone,

And Love and Beauty sheltered them within their magic zone,

Till all they saw and all they felt found in each work a birth;

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Genius walked the earth!

This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno’s streamSweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream;So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze,Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees;And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown,Or sun-clad monuments on which Time’s rays come proudly down,To gild with beauty e’en decay—but what decay hast thou?Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow?

This world of ours was beautiful when by fair Arno’s stream

Sweet Florence lay bedecked with gifts, like beauty in her dream;

So soft her skies, so mild her suns, such perfume in each breeze,

Such songs of gladness from her plains, such flowers upon the trees;

And then her dowered children stood like jewels in her crown,

Or sun-clad monuments on which Time’s rays come proudly down,

To gild with beauty e’en decay—but what decay hast thou?

Oh! was not the world beautiful when Florence decked her brow?

This world of ours was beautiful in England’s palmy times,When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sportive chimes,When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free,With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree;Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green,All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen,And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told;Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old?

This world of ours was beautiful in England’s palmy times,

When merrily from church and tower pealed out the sportive chimes,

When deep within the greenwood haunts dwelt honest men and free,

With hearts as gay and minds as light as birds upon the tree;

Right honestly the day was passed; at night, upon the green,

All joining in the merry dance the young and old were seen,

And many a jocund song was sung, and many a tale was told;

Oh! was not the world beautiful in those good days of old?

This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and trueSpread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue⁠—They found it ’neath the forest old, ’mid wild and savage men,Beside the ocean’s rocky shore, within the mountain glen;And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the mother’s tone,Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altar-stone;Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary hours,Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours?

This world of ours was beautiful when valiant men and true

Spread their white sails, and sought a home beyond the waters blue⁠—

They found it ’neath the forest old, ’mid wild and savage men,

Beside the ocean’s rocky shore, within the mountain glen;

And there was heard the childish laugh, and there the mother’s tone,

Brought joy and gladness in their sound to many an altar-stone;

Men toiled and strove, and strove and toiled, through all the weary hours,

Oh! was not the world beautiful, this western world of ours?

This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke,Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke,Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight,And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might,The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear,They grasped their swords more tightly then—’twas victory or a bier;Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won;Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom’s sun?

This world of ours was beautiful, when Freedom first awoke,

Its cradle song the trumpet call, its toy the sabre stroke,

Full armed, like Pallas, then she stood amid the deadly fight,

And man by man stood boldly up, and clenched their hands of might,

The tempest came, no cheek turned pale, no heart unnerved with fear,

They grasped their swords more tightly then—’twas victory or a bier;

Long was the struggle, hard the fight, but liberty was won;

Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath fair Freedom’s sun?

This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago,When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below;Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to beTo teach man all his duties here—Love, Faith and Energy,To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel;Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel;Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul;Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control?

This world of ours was beautiful in times long, long ago,

When those good men of earnest souls dwelt with us here below;

Large was their faith in human kind; their mission seemed to be

To teach man all his duties here—Love, Faith and Energy,

To link each man to brother man, with links of firmest steel;

Then touch the spark of sympathy, and all the shock will feel;

Stamp the nobility of truth upon each deathless soul;

Oh! was not the world beautiful beneath such pure control?

This world of ourswasbeautiful, and still is so to me;Since boyish days I’ve clung to it, with wildness and with glee;Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky,When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by,Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every streamOf joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream,And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child;This world of ours is beautiful as ’twas when Eden smiled?

This world of ourswasbeautiful, and still is so to me;

Since boyish days I’ve clung to it, with wildness and with glee;

Have laughed when others talked of wo beneath so fair a sky,

When time, like flights of singing birds, with melody went by,

Have roved amid its fairy bowers, and drank of every stream

Of joy and gladness, till I lived within a blissful dream,

And life, deep ladened with its fruits, slept like a weary child;

This world of ours is beautiful as ’twas when Eden smiled?

This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say;There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May;But what of that?—there’s joy in both the sunshine and the shade,The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade.Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life’s lessons right,Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night.Up! up! to action, armed with Love, Faith and Energy;And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be.

This world of ours is beautiful despite what cynics say;

There must be storms in winter time as well as flowers in May;

But what of that?—there’s joy in both the sunshine and the shade,

The light upon the mountain-top, the shadow in the glade.

Be free of Soul, and firm of Heart, read all life’s lessons right,

Nor look for roses in the snow, nor sunbeams in the night.

Up! up! to action, armed with Love, Faith and Energy;

And then this world is beautiful, as beautiful can be.

MY SPIRIT.

———

BY HENRY MORFORD.

———

Spirit, my own proud spirit!We may not sleep in dust,There is a path marked out for usOf a high and a holy trust;Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born,To die as cravens die,With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,No record on the sky.We came up life together,We have lived but a few short years,We have tasted well at the fountain headOf human hopes and fears;Yet life is young, shall we not be so?Shall we not drink and singOf the many glorious hopes that flowFrom many a hidden spring?Ay, and the streams shall gatherIn a broad and open sea,The laving of whose crystal tideIs immortality;There shall be a time when we shall rest,Some gentle summer even,With a calm content, upon its breast,And an opening view of heaven.Storms will be wild around usBefore that time shall come,And the thunder of blame will fill the air,And the voice of praise be dumb;Yet as we draw from the glorious starsBeauty and light and love,Hope’s wing shall gild the closing barsThat shut us from above.Spirit, my own proud spirit,Thou wilt not fail me now,Thy hands shall wreathe the chaplet wellAnd place it on my brow;Spirit, tried spirit, we were not bornTo die as cravens die,With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,No record on the sky.

Spirit, my own proud spirit!

We may not sleep in dust,

There is a path marked out for us

Of a high and a holy trust;

Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born,

To die as cravens die,

With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,

No record on the sky.

We came up life together,We have lived but a few short years,We have tasted well at the fountain headOf human hopes and fears;Yet life is young, shall we not be so?Shall we not drink and singOf the many glorious hopes that flowFrom many a hidden spring?

We came up life together,

We have lived but a few short years,

We have tasted well at the fountain head

Of human hopes and fears;

Yet life is young, shall we not be so?

Shall we not drink and sing

Of the many glorious hopes that flow

From many a hidden spring?

Ay, and the streams shall gatherIn a broad and open sea,The laving of whose crystal tideIs immortality;There shall be a time when we shall rest,Some gentle summer even,With a calm content, upon its breast,And an opening view of heaven.

Ay, and the streams shall gather

In a broad and open sea,

The laving of whose crystal tide

Is immortality;

There shall be a time when we shall rest,

Some gentle summer even,

With a calm content, upon its breast,

And an opening view of heaven.

Storms will be wild around usBefore that time shall come,And the thunder of blame will fill the air,And the voice of praise be dumb;Yet as we draw from the glorious starsBeauty and light and love,Hope’s wing shall gild the closing barsThat shut us from above.

Storms will be wild around us

Before that time shall come,

And the thunder of blame will fill the air,

And the voice of praise be dumb;

Yet as we draw from the glorious stars

Beauty and light and love,

Hope’s wing shall gild the closing bars

That shut us from above.

Spirit, my own proud spirit,Thou wilt not fail me now,Thy hands shall wreathe the chaplet wellAnd place it on my brow;Spirit, tried spirit, we were not bornTo die as cravens die,With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,No record on the sky.

Spirit, my own proud spirit,

Thou wilt not fail me now,

Thy hands shall wreathe the chaplet well

And place it on my brow;

Spirit, tried spirit, we were not born

To die as cravens die,

With no proud niche for the wreathed urn,

No record on the sky.

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

———

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

———

Sarcoramphus Gryphus, male.

This bird is one of the largest of the vultures. The early Spanish writers on America gave the most exaggerated accounts of its size and strength; and its true history and dimensions have been only recently ascertained. The bird was compared with the Roc of the Arabian romance writers. Acosta says that the bird called Condor is able singly to eviscerate and devour a whole sheep or a calf. Garcilaso de la Vega makes them measure 16 feet from tip to tip of the extended wings; he says their beaks are sufficiently strong to perforate and tear off a bull’s hide, and to rip out its entrails; and that a single Condor “will set upon and slay boys of ten or twelve years;” which last exaggeration, though now exploded, has found its way into our common school geographies.

Investigation has shown that the Condor is merely a large, perhaps not the largest of the vultures. “The Condor,” writes Mr. Bennett, “forms the type of a genus, a second species of which is theVultur papaof Linnæus, the king of the vultures of British writers. They are both peculiar to the New World, but approach in their most essential characters very closely to the vultures of the Old Continent, differing from the latter principally in the large, fleshy, or rather cartilaginous, caruncle which surmounts their beaks, in the large size of their oval and longitudinal nostrils, placed almost at the very extremity of the cere; and in the comparative length of their quill feathers, the third being the longest of the series. The most important of these differences, the size and position of their nostrils, appears to be well calculated to add to the already highly powerful sense of smell possessed by the typical vulture, and for which the birds have been almost proverbially celebrated from the earliest ages. There is also a third species, the Californian vulture, two noble specimens of which, the only pair in Europe, are preserved in the London Zoological Society’s Museum, rivaling the Condor in bulk, and agreeing in every respect with the generic characters of the group, except in the existence of the caruncle, of which they are entirely destitute.

“In size the Condor is little, if at all, superior to the Bearded Griffin, the Lämmergeyer of the Alps, with which Buffon was disposed conjecturally to confound it, but to which it bears at most but a distant relation. The greatest authentic measurement scarcely carries the extent of its wings beyond fourteen feet, and it appears rarely to attain so gigantic a size. M. Humboldt met with none that exceeded nine feet, and was assured by many credible inhabitants of the province of Quito that they had never shot any that measured more than eleven. The length of a male specimen somewhat less than nine feet in expanse was three feet three inches from the tip of the beak to the extremity of the tail; and its height, when perching with the neck partly withdrawn, two feet eight inches. Its beak wastwo inches and three quarters in length, and an inch and a quarter in depth when closed.

“The beak of the Condor is straight at the base, but the upper mandible becomes arched toward the point, and terminates in a strong and well curved hook. The basal half is of an ash brown, and the remaining portion, toward the point, is nearly white. The head and neck are bare of feathers, and covered with hard, wrinkled, dusky reddish skin, on which are scattered some short brown or blackish hairs. On the top of the head, which is much flattened above, and extending some distance along the beak, is attached an oblong firm caruncle or comb, covered by a continuation of the skin which invests the head. This organ is peculiar to the male. It is connected to the beak only in its anterior part, and is separated from it at the base in such a manner as to allow a free passage of the air to the large oval nostrils, which are situated beneath it at that part. Beyond the eyes, which are somewhat elongated, and not sunk beneath the general surface of the head, the skin of the neck is, as it were, gathered into a series of descending folds, extending obliquely from the back of the head over the temples, to the under side of the neck, and there connected anteriorly with a lax membrane or wattle, capable of being dilated at pleasure, like that of the common turkey. The neck is marked by numerous deep parallel folds, produced by the habit of retracting the head, in which the bird indulges when at rest. In this position scarcely any part of the neck is visible.

“Round the lower part of the neck both sexes, the female as well as the male, are furnished with a broad white ruff of downy feathers, which forms the line of separation between the naked skin above and the true feathers covering the body below it. All the other feathers, with the exception of the wing coverts, and the secondary quill feathers, are of a bright black, generally mingled with a grayish tinge of greater or less intensity. In the female the wing coverts are blackish gray; but the males have their points, and frequently as much as half their length, white. The wings of the latter are consequently distinguished from those of the female by their large white patches. The secondary quill feathers of both sexes are white on the outer side. The tail is short and wedge shaped. The legs are excessively thick and powerful, and are colored of a blueish gray, intermingled with whitish streaks. Their elongated toes are united at the base by a loose but very apparent membrane, and are terminated by long black talons of considerable thickness, but very little curved. The hinder toe is shorter than the rest, and its talon, although more distinctly curved, is equally wanting in strength, a deficiency which renders the foot much less powerful as an organ of prehension than that of any other of the large birds of the raptorial order.”

The Condor is found in various parts of the vast mountain chain on the western border of the American continent, but it is most common in Peru andChile. Its habitation is most frequently at an elevation of 10,000 or 15,000 feet above the level of the sea, and there these birds are seen in groups of three or four, but never in large companies like the true vultures. Some of the mountain peaks bear names which in the Indian tongue mean Condor’s Look-out, Condor’s Roost and Condor’s Nest. Two of them will attack a vicuna, a heifer or even a puma, and overcome it by repeated strokes of their beaks and talons. When gorged, says Humboldt, they sit sullen and sombre on the rocks; and when thus overloaded with food they will suffer themselves to be driven before the hunter rather than take wing. They do not attack men or even children, although it is admitted that two of them would be a match for a powerful man without weapons. Sir Francis Head gives an amusing account of a contest between one of his Cornish miners and a gorged Condor, which lasted an hour, and terminated in the escape of the bird.

EDITOR’S TABLE.

My Dear Jeremy.—I presume you are shaking the spray from your locks, and are over head and ears in love with salt water, while I am among the weeping willows in these days of hydrophobia, when water—that we cannot get at—provokes a feeling of madness. You glory in a proprietorship over which your plough passes, turning up soil that is all your own, while the nodding grain, golden and pulpy, ripens in your absence for your abundant granaries, while I cultivate this, my small patch, “a tenant at will,” whose harvest of gleaning would be blown to the winds without a painstaking care and watchfulness. You are the lord of acres, while I wander around forbidden enclosures, and look upon many a Castle of Indolence longing but for a yard of ground all my own, upon which to plant a firm foot, to sound the challenge and cry—war! The very utterness of poverty is grandeur and riches, compared to the feeling of having the pent-up energies which have found a full outlet in enterprise, growing fiery in inaction, and panting for room, continually battling at the heart, and knocking in vain for freedom and exercise. But if you have ever felt the utter insignificance of wealth and high advantage combined with indolence and inactivity, and forever do-nothingness, before the godlike attributes of persevering energy and indomitable will, you have felt the pride of manhood in its full force and power. You have reaped in anticipation the rewards of high courage, of manly resolve, of personal industry and victory. You have enjoyed in your day-dreams the full fruition of assured success—and awoke to hope on, to resolve and to conquer. Consider me, my dear Jeremy, as winding myself up for the next seven years, after having run down—as having stopped, if you please, to blow; and while you are luxuriating in the surf, and shaking the briny water from your shoulders, as throwing off surfdom, with a defiant air, and a determined purpose of taking a few strides forward, to meet that “good time a coming.”

Who does not love the sound of the breakers at Cape May, who has once listened to their wild melody? What a chance for love-making is the evening stroll upon the beach. On the one side the rugged bank, on which the white houses sit like a flock of wild-birds suddenly alighted, and the faint twinkle of rush-like lights dancing like fire-flies in the night air; on the other, the wild waters—sad emblem of the wild unrest of the human heart—their huge waves reflecting from their sides the quiet light of the moon,while the white-caps come trooping in, like a squadron of dragoons, with their plumes dancing, and a roar, as if the tread of an army were near, and a thousand park of artillery were booming in the distance. The music of rich voices hushed amid the uproar—the light of kind eyes sparkling with a subdued eloquence—the loved face impressively thoughtful, indicating that God has laid his hand upon the heart, and whispered amid the tumult of its worldly thoughts, “be thou still!”

It was my good fortune to see both Cape May and the Falls of Niagara, for the first time, by moonlight, and whether the hush of evening naturally associated in the mind with twilight, deepened the impressions of awe and wonder with which I gazed upon them, or to the greatness of the novelty was added through the misty twilight, a dim religious sanctity to the impression, I know not, but they have never since charmed me so much in the broad glare of day, as in the evening, with a quiet moon looking placidly down upon the flashing foam, seemingly rebuking the uproar.

The bathers, too, at mid-day, screaming like sea-birds amid the surf, with their many-colored garments dancing amid the foam—beauty floating upon the breakers as calmly as if reposing upon the virgin snow of her own pillows. Manhood breasting the billow, and riding securely far out where the huge porpoise rolls lazily along, while tiny feet go patting, and tiny hands go clapping along the shore, the very idleness and luxury of the sport impressing upon the beholder a sense of enjoyment, a feeling of relief from the work-day world, a consciousness of manhood and freedom above the value of dollars—a heart eased of the oppressiveness of brick and mortar, and open to a sense most acute of the very luxury of being idle.

If Philadelphians had made half as much of Cape May as the New Yorkers have of Saratoga, or the Yankees have of Newport, its visiters from all parts of the country would number tens of thousands; but I question whether its present character of being Philadelphia in holyday dress, let loose for a romp, does not add much to its charms. The relief from absurd ceremony, where every face is familiar. The easy, unrestrained life, the freedom of remark and retort, and the exuberant gayety of the whole company, add to the enjoyment of the place, and make it a home in a family circle greatly enlarged and full of good humor.

But, my dear Jeremy, you must have observed that at Cape May we got along comfortably, without the towering and overshadowing influence of the “upper ten thousand,” which stands up to be worshiped by the people without money orbrains. It might be a serious question, how long a man may exist, with great self-complacency, withoutheart, or intellect, yet with a purse well lined with gold—regarding the world of men and of matter as especially made for him—the lord paramount of the soil, and of the sinews, which of right belong to his betters. Cannot some one curious in nature and philosophy, analyze one of this genus, and tell the world how the appearance of humanity can be preserved without a single attribute of it, existing life-like and active in his breast. The whole effort of this air-drawn animal appears to be to rise, to get up in society, to overlook the pigmies who toil and sweat for bread—to loose his identity in the upper circle, that he may forget his grandfather, the soap-boiler, upon whose bubbles he has been shot upward—as we expel a pea from an air-gun. Prick the bubble, and the thing vanishes into air, without leaving behind him a trace of existence of the value of a pepper-corn, andso,

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