“Miss Lincoln,—The buttons on my traveling dress, which you made, do not give me any satisfaction. This is for you to come to Mrs. Varley’s this afternoon, directly after dinner, and alter them, and I shall expect you to make no extra charge for it.“Elizabeth Tyler.“P. S. Mrs. Varley’s family would be willing to employ you on my recommendation.”
“Miss Lincoln,—The buttons on my traveling dress, which you made, do not give me any satisfaction. This is for you to come to Mrs. Varley’s this afternoon, directly after dinner, and alter them, and I shall expect you to make no extra charge for it.
“Elizabeth Tyler.
“P. S. Mrs. Varley’s family would be willing to employ you on my recommendation.”
The color went and came in Jessie’s cheek, as she read the deliberate insult the writer evidently intended.
“What is it, Jessie?” said Emilie, whose electrical sympathy was instantly roused, “any thing more from those abominable Tylers? Pray let me see?” Mrs. Tower looked over Emilie’s shoulder as she read. “What insolence! Jessie Lincoln, if I were only aman, I am sure I should avenge your insult in single combat! Why, brother, areyoua man, and will you see a lady treated like that?” she continued with thrilling emphasis, throwing the note disdainfully out of her hands.
“Yes, sister, I hope I am a man,” replied the young naval officer, “but not quite so hot-headed and reckless a man asyouwould have made. If you were on board our vessel, I fear we might have our hands full to keep you out of ‘affairs of honor!’ Miss Lincoln, I presume,” he continued, laying down the note, while a flush slowly crept to his forehead, “has wisdom enough to manage with the contempt it deserves, so very contemptible an assault!”
“I will reply to it, Jessie,” said Mrs. Tower, as she sat down before her writing-table and wrote:—
“Mrs. Tower takes the liberty to decline for Miss Lincoln, the proposition Miss Tyler has seen fit to make, as the change in Miss Lincoln’s circumstances and prospects renders any further intercourse with Miss Tyler unbefitting entirely. That intercourse is therefore at an end.”
“Mrs. Tower takes the liberty to decline for Miss Lincoln, the proposition Miss Tyler has seen fit to make, as the change in Miss Lincoln’s circumstances and prospects renders any further intercourse with Miss Tyler unbefitting entirely. That intercourse is therefore at an end.”
Jessie begged that any thing so like retaliation, might not be sent, as Miss Tyler was unquestionably instigated by the Varleys, who were too cowardly to assail her only through a tool.
“It becomes me, Jessie, to vindicate the honor of my family, and I feel justified in checking such effrontery, and foiling it with its own weapons,” insisted Mrs. Tower.
“Yes, yes indeed!” said Emilie. “I’m glad of it, Mrs. Tower, and I only wishIhad the inditing of the reply. It would scorch like a flame, I’m sure it would, every word of it. Do, please charge me with the delivery of the missive, Mrs. Tower! my fingers ache for the commission, and I’ll add an oral appendix on myownhook!”
“O, no, Emilie,” replied Mrs. Tower, smiling; “I appreciate your generous intention, but I fear your enthusiasm and indignation might spoil your embassy.”
Meantime the whole Varley family were indulging in boisterous exultation over Elizabeth’s “capital trick, to show a mantuamaker girl that she was out of her reckoning when she sailed intotheirlatitude—she did not belong withthem, no how you could fix it;” for it must be humiliating, indeed, to be ordered to such paltry service after deceiving such wealthy and important people into showing her some distinguished civilities. Charlotte said she “guessed it would convince Mr. Style that there was something to choose between an heiress and a servant!” Mrs. Tyler simpered from behind her porcelain, that “it would learn people to know their places—and onemightlose somecustomby such a fraud on society—the matter would not stop in a corner!” Annette declared it was “too good.” Mrs. Varley echoed, as usual, the respective opinions, as they came from the mint, and Adelaide gleefully suggested that it “might taste a little bitter to Mrs. Tower’s palate, as she made such a prodigious favorite of the girl. Forherpart, she expected Mrs. Tower would import a colony of chimney-sweeps, to give brilliancy to society there, she was so much the patron of the ‘lower classes!’ ”
But the reply came far sooner than it was looked for, and exultation speedily changed hands with consternation. What could it mean? “Change in her circumstances and prospects!” What possible interpretation could be applied to that? Charlotte fell into hysterics, and screamed she “knew it could mean nothing less than that Jessie Lincoln was engaged to Mr. Style!” and to complete the excitement, she actually fainted away.
“Good gracious me!” stormed Miss Tyler, almost choking with passion, “I should like to know what ‘change of circumstances and prospects,’ can license an impertinent, presuming, poverty-pinched hussy of a dress-maker to withdraw her acquaintance from a lady ofmyposition in the fashionable world! Mother, did we tear ourselves from the importunities of our city friends, and patronize these Varleys, for such insulting treatment as this? Mrs. Varley, we did not know you lived among Hottentots, or we should have refused to come here, in the face of all your urgency, every soul of you!”
Mrs. Varley and her four conscious daughters, vituperated, apologized, and appeased, as well as their own choler would permit, the excited and wrathfulvisiters, who declared “they would leave the house and the town immediately, and spread the story as far as the newspapers would carry it, and that was everywhere!” But it was finally suggested by the daring Adelaide, that her mother should go to Mrs. Tower, clothed with all the terror of their united resentment, and demand a satisfactory explanation. Especially was she commissioned to discover if possible what sudden “change in circumstances and prospects,” had set Jessie Lincoln upon such a pinnacle over the heads of everybody.
“I declare, girls,” said Mrs. Varley to her daughters, in secret session, before she started on her errand, “I do feel like pizon about this affair! I am half skart out of my wits at such a breeze between us and Mrs. Tower! I wish to the mercy we had never seen these mischief-making Tylers! As if them that touches porcupines mustn’t expect the quills! Or them that insults, to be insulted back again. I don’t believe they are half sorichanduppercrustas they pretend—and then they make such a sight of trouble! Besides, you know what I told you I surmised about Mrs. Tower. If itisso, she will be sure to let me and other people know it, if she hasn’t already!”
The girls all looked doubtfully at each other.
“I wish in my heart these Tylers would go,” said Annette, “for of all the conceited trumpery old sights that ever I saw, Mrs. Tyler is the foremost.”
“I cannot express my detestation of Liz,” interrupted Adelaide. “She is as false and cunning as the very old snake himself, and bad asIam, I do thinksheis worse!”
Charlotte had come to life enough by this time to mention Miss Tyler’s flirtation with Mr. Style, when she was checked by Adelaide with,
“Hush! she is coming—it’s saidsomebodyis always at hand when you are talking about him!”
“O, do go quick, Mrs. Varley! Havn’t you got readyyet? I’m terribly impatient for that woman’s apology;” said Miss Tyler, as she unceremoniously opened the door and thrust in her face. “But what are you talking about with closed doors?Us, I presume! You look caught, every one of you,” and Miss Tyler turned up her disdainful nose, as if there would be no further amity till she heard a disclaimer of that offence.
“O, no, no, Lizzie, my dear!” supplicated Mrs. Varley, in her blandest and most conciliatory tone. “Pray come right in, love, and cheer up these poor disconsolatecreatures while I am gone. Bring my hat and parasol, Adelaide. Shameful, isn’t it, to drag a body out in this briling sunshine, on such business?”
“We were saying,” remarked Adelaide, as she handed the bonnet and parasol to her mother, “how much we do despise these deceitful kind of upstarts, who pretend to be so much more than they really are!”
“It is the tendency of our American institootions,” replied Elizabeth, in a tone more pacific, but very affectedly sage, as she settled herself indolently into a rocking-chair. “They encourage upstarts! You don’t see nothing of this kind in England. For my part, I think it devolves on the higher classes to—to—hem—” she found herself unexpectedly wading beyond her depth, and unfortunately afloat in the high flown piece of wisdom she had started to express. Charlotte hastened to the rescue, in a very luminous climax to Miss Tyler’s halting proposition.
“To let them know,” she interposed.
“Yes, to let them know!” replied Elizabeth, with clinching emphasis.
Meanwhile Mrs. Varley was sailing majestically along the street toward Mrs. Tower’s residence. Her face was very brazen, but there was a trembling and apprehension in her heart, which communicated itself to her body, and her hand shook nervously as she twitched the door-bell.
“Is Mrs. Tower in?” she said to the servant who opened the door, in a very sharp and insolent voice—and before he had time to reply, she added, “go and tell her that Mrs. Varley wishes to speak with her alone.”
In a few minutes Mrs. Tower entered the drawing-room, her countenance and carriage as placid as if never a breath had disturbed her. A cold and haughty bow was the response she received to her polite and polished greeting. Mrs. Varley seemed entirely at a loss for her next measure—she was confused—exceedingly confused, but the sternness of her coarse features softened not a shadow. Mrs. Tower inquired for the health of her family.
“Yes, ma’am! it becomes you to ask, I should think,” retorted Mrs. Varley, very bitterly. “Did you write this note, ma’am?” and she advanced toward Mrs. Tower with the offending document.
“I did, indeed, Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, as she just glanced at the note, and gave it back to Mrs. Varley.
“Ah, you did! and you seem very cool and indifferent about it, too, as if it was a small matter to insult a genteel family like mine, just because we wont have any thing to do with the lower clashes, nor upholdyouin it,” said Mrs. Varley, losing all control of herself, and swelling her tones as she grew angrier and angrier, to the keen and wiry pitch peculiar to the voice of an excited woman. “I’ll thank you to tell me what it means?”
“Precisely what it says,” replied Mrs. Tower, in a low, calm voice; “but what doyoumean by the ‘lower classes?’ ”
“I mean allmantymakers, and servants, and tradespeople, and everybody thatworksfor a livin’,” quickly responded Mrs. Varley—she was fortified on that point. “I’d have you to know that my family is too rich and high up in the world to have any thing at all to do with them sort of folks, whateveryoursmay be, Mrs. Tower! But I know one’s bringing up has a great deal to do with one’s genteelety—it don’t set easy on everybody!”
“A very pertinent remark, Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, with an effort to repress a smile. “I conclude you do not embrace your visiters in your catalogue of the ‘lower classes?’ ”
“No, indeed! that’s what I don’t! they are very wealthy, and fashionable, and high-bred people, and know all the richest and fashionablest people in thecity of New York; and what’s more, they know how to resent an affront as well as some other folks—I guess you will find out.”
“I must take the liberty to correct one of your statements, madam,” replied Mrs. Tower. “Mr. Tyler, the husband and father of your visiters, rents his hardware store in New York of the business agent of my adopted daughter and heiress, Miss Jessie Lincoln, to whom I have given my estates in that city. And, moreover, he is so deeply indebted for borrowed capital, to support the extravagance of his wife and daughter, that every farthing he possesses would not liquidate his debt. So much for the wealth and independence of thetradesman’sfamily. As to the fashionable part of the story, without any arrogance I may assert that my acquaintance for years has included the first and wealthiest families in New York, and I venture to affirm that in those circles Mrs. Tyler and her designing daughter were never so much as heard of!”
Mrs. Varley began to look crestfallen.
“Well,” she rejoined, “I don’t know but itmaybe so, but I have no reason to think it is. At any rate, they don’t hug up mantymakers, and take ’em out visiting with them!”
“Mrs. Varley,” replied Mrs. Tower, rising from her chair and assuming a moral majesty before which her narrow-souled assailant quailed, “I acknowledge it is exasperation which prompts to the disclosure of another truth, which may sound rather painfully to your pride. I deplore the occasion, but you have really driven me to it, in order to vindicate the dignity of my family, which you have willfully wounded. Mrs. Varley,youwere a servant in my father’s house—you contracted a vicious and disgraceful marriage with a servant in a large gambling establishment in the city of Baltimore, where we then resided, and when you ran away with your husband—mycasketofjewelswent with you! Isawyou take it, but I forebore to expose you to my father, because I pitied your sin and folly, and I knew the severity of his sense of justice and injury would pursue you without mercy, so he died in ignorance of your crime. You lived in degradation and poverty for years and years, and I have seen those fastidious daughters of yours, now so sensitive lest they should be contaminated by contact with what you are pleased to call the “lower classes,” ragged and hungry in the streets of C., while I lived in that city with my departed husband. And more than once have I carried food and clothing to the miserable abode you called your home. Do you remember your own almost mortal illness when the cholera scourged that city? Some fortunate stakes at the gaming-table subsequently put Mr. Varley in possession of considerable sums of money, and the diligent pursuit of the same vicious business for many successful years, has put you and your family in possession of an independent fortune. For these facts I can refer you to authorities if you will. Now, have I read this chapter of your private history correctly?”
Mrs. Varley turned every imaginable color as the relation proceeded—pale, red, speckled and spotted. She was utterly confounded for a moment, and then she exclaimed, as she seized Mrs. Tower’s passive hand in both her own.
“Josepha Gordon! I have sometimes thought it must be the same!”
“Josepha Gordon was my maiden name,” replied Mrs. Tower, calmly yet sorrowfully watching the whirlwind in poor Mrs. Varley’s soul. “Twenty years, and bitter sorrows, have wrought more changes in me than fortune has inyou, Cynthia Varley. But have I spoken truly?”
Mrs. Varley could scarcely reply; she sunk down upon the sofa completely overcome. Mortification and deep humiliation seemed to paralyze her faculties. Tears, and sobs, and groans, right pitiful to witness followed. One moment a storm of furious passion rose in her bosom, and the next a torrent of tears poured over her cheeks.
“It is all true,” she stammered at length; “but O don’t, for mercy’s sake, don’t expose us! It would be our ruin, our utter ruin, and I am sure I have suffered enough already. I will restore your jewels fourfold,” and she began nervously working at a magnificent diamond that sparkled on her bosom.
“Keep the jewels, Mrs. Varley. I do not need them, neither will I accept what you have so long called your own,” said Mrs. Tower mildly. “I know not what remorseful visitings have struggled in your heart, but if they had wrought a moral renovation there, I would have left this painful story in oblivion, and spared you so much humiliation. Believe me, Mrs. Varley,moneyis not the true criterion in estimating respectability or character, as you seem to judge. That man is poor indeed who only possesses heaps of shining gold, though so great he cannot count their value—but the wealth garnered in the heart, the gems of virtue set around the immortal soul, are the only imperishable riches, which are the legitimate and justifiable ambition of an imperishable nature. I will keep your secret sacredly, as I have kept it these many years that we have been neighbors and acquaintances. I will only exhort you to remember, madam, that there is nothing dishonorable in honest, laborious, physical industry—the working with one’s hands. The fact that my beloved Jessie toiled to provide for the comfort of her sick and indigent parents, and discharged with her own noble efforts all their pecuniary obligations, only renders her more admirable in my estimation, and worthier to receive the inheritance I feel honored to bestow upon her. Hereafter she will be recognized as my own daughter.”
Mrs. Varley was perfectly subdued. The character of the lady she had come armed to annihilate, stood out sublimely before her, in contrast with her own conscious duplicity and assumption—humbled and silenced she rose to go, with very much the feeling of an arrogant general vanquished and routed, and forced into a disgraceful and disordered retreat.
My pen is unequal to the description of the scene at Mrs. Varley’s own house, when she at length reached home, and detailed to her daughters the whole story, and relieved the suspense of her guests, by so much of it as related to themselves. Mrs. Tyler and Elizabeth decided to leave in the first train the next morning,bearing with them any thing but the cordiality and good wishes of their hostess and her five daughters, who gave the “metropolitan friends” definitely to understand that they regarded themselves most scandalously imposed upon, by the shabbiest of pretenders, and that any further acquaintance would be unthought of, which complimentary farewells the guests fiercely retorted.
Mrs. Varley very shortly concluded that the health of her family, which, in truth, had suffered somewhat by their unexpected defeats, required journeying; and in a few days the house was closed, the servants discharged, and the household had departed, rumor said to spend the winter in Cuba. And not long after the citizens of N. were very much astonished by an advertisement in the papers, stating that “the entire establishment lately occupied by Mrs. Cynthia Varley, deceased, would be sold at public auction on such a day—house, grounds, furniture, plate, horses and carriages, etc., and that the sale must be positive, for cash.” Subsequently the melancholy report was confirmed, that Mrs. Varley and her fair and beautiful Charlotte were taken with violent fever on their journey southward, and had both died. The fate of the survivors remained in mystery, as the administrator of the estate had no liberty to communicate their place of residence, or their future intentions. No doubt they chose some fashionable resort, and I fear became the prey of fortune-hunters.
Mrs. Tyler, on her return to New York, found not only that her husband was bankrupt, and his affairs in a state of irretrievable ruin, but his mind also was a perfect wreck, fluctuating between idiocy and insanity, but its coloring always that of the most hopeless depression. Jessie Lincoln’s bounty long supported him at a lunatic asylum, while his wife and Elizabeth managed to support themselves by the proceeds of a small millinery shop.
The revolution of a few years brought some interesting changes over the society of N. Jessie Lincoln, the faithful and dutiful daughter, became the beloved and lovely wife of—“The Rev. Mr. Style of course!” cries my hasty reader. “Who ever read a story where the hero and heroine were not finally married? it is an event to be fully anticipated.” Then, indeed, is my tale a novel one. Be not too confident in coming to conclusions, because precedents happen to be in their favor.
Jessie Lincoln became the beloved and lovely wife of Lieutenant George Jones! I do not know but she would have married Mr. Style, if, like too many others, he had not lingered in the vestibule of the temple of Hymen till another hand lighted the torch, and proudly stood beside her at the altar. The heart of Jessie Lincoln was irrevocably given, with all its wealth of love to the young naval officer, and the minister was left to regret his too confident and presumptuous delay when regrets were unavailing. But Jessie was a “mourning bride”—for only a few weeks after her marriage, her noble and beloved patroness sickened and died, leaving Jessie and her husband the proprietors of her tasteful and elegant mansion, and the principal heirs to her estate.
“But did Mr. Style—such a fine young man, and so royally gifted, consign himself to a gloomy celibacy, and live and die a bachelor—‘which being interpreted,’ ishalf a man?”
Nay, reader, I’ll hasten to tell you that Emilie Jones, that wild, hair-brained, passionate, but truly generous and high-minded Emilie, learned lessons of gentleness and piety, and married—because they mutually and earnestly loved—the young clergyman of the church of N.; and by bequest of Mrs. Tower, the beautiful residence of the Varleys became the village manse, and their lovely home!
TO INEZ.—AT FLORENCE.
———
BY S. D. ANDERSON.
———
I wonder how thou look’st,In thy home far, far away,Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet,Is singing all the day.Is thine eye as bright as ever?Have thy footsteps lost their bound,That they had when last we listenedTo the moonlit ocean’s sound?Has thy young heart quit its dreaming,’Neath thy own pure sunny skies,In those nights when stars are vieingWith the lustre of thine eyes?When the dreams of youth were flingingTheir roses round thy way,’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time—That herald in life’s May.Say, does the Arno run as clear,Beside thy palace walls,As when upon its waves we lookedFrom out thy father’s halls?Music was there when last I pressedMy lips upon thy brow.And left thee—eye, and voice, and form,Are all butmemorynow.But memory, such as o’er the heartIts rainbow arch still throws,As bright as when on ocean’s breastIts sunlit beauty glows—Is with me now; the forest shade,The brook, the flower, the tree,The tones of music ’mid the night,Are peopled all with thee.Then, Inez, in that distant clime,If still thou think’st of me,At evening when thou goest outUpon the tranquil sea,Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones,That bow at memory’s shrine,Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heartShall often join with thine.
I wonder how thou look’st,In thy home far, far away,Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet,Is singing all the day.Is thine eye as bright as ever?Have thy footsteps lost their bound,That they had when last we listenedTo the moonlit ocean’s sound?Has thy young heart quit its dreaming,’Neath thy own pure sunny skies,In those nights when stars are vieingWith the lustre of thine eyes?When the dreams of youth were flingingTheir roses round thy way,’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time—That herald in life’s May.Say, does the Arno run as clear,Beside thy palace walls,As when upon its waves we lookedFrom out thy father’s halls?Music was there when last I pressedMy lips upon thy brow.And left thee—eye, and voice, and form,Are all butmemorynow.But memory, such as o’er the heartIts rainbow arch still throws,As bright as when on ocean’s breastIts sunlit beauty glows—Is with me now; the forest shade,The brook, the flower, the tree,The tones of music ’mid the night,Are peopled all with thee.Then, Inez, in that distant clime,If still thou think’st of me,At evening when thou goest outUpon the tranquil sea,Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones,That bow at memory’s shrine,Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heartShall often join with thine.
I wonder how thou look’st,In thy home far, far away,Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet,Is singing all the day.Is thine eye as bright as ever?Have thy footsteps lost their bound,That they had when last we listenedTo the moonlit ocean’s sound?
I wonder how thou look’st,
In thy home far, far away,
Where thy voice, like Summer’s streamlet,
Is singing all the day.
Is thine eye as bright as ever?
Have thy footsteps lost their bound,
That they had when last we listened
To the moonlit ocean’s sound?
Has thy young heart quit its dreaming,’Neath thy own pure sunny skies,In those nights when stars are vieingWith the lustre of thine eyes?When the dreams of youth were flingingTheir roses round thy way,’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time—That herald in life’s May.
Has thy young heart quit its dreaming,
’Neath thy own pure sunny skies,
In those nights when stars are vieing
With the lustre of thine eyes?
When the dreams of youth were flinging
Their roses round thy way,
’Mid the perfumed airs of spring-time—
That herald in life’s May.
Say, does the Arno run as clear,Beside thy palace walls,As when upon its waves we lookedFrom out thy father’s halls?Music was there when last I pressedMy lips upon thy brow.And left thee—eye, and voice, and form,Are all butmemorynow.
Say, does the Arno run as clear,
Beside thy palace walls,
As when upon its waves we looked
From out thy father’s halls?
Music was there when last I pressed
My lips upon thy brow.
And left thee—eye, and voice, and form,
Are all butmemorynow.
But memory, such as o’er the heartIts rainbow arch still throws,As bright as when on ocean’s breastIts sunlit beauty glows—Is with me now; the forest shade,The brook, the flower, the tree,The tones of music ’mid the night,Are peopled all with thee.
But memory, such as o’er the heart
Its rainbow arch still throws,
As bright as when on ocean’s breast
Its sunlit beauty glows—
Is with me now; the forest shade,
The brook, the flower, the tree,
The tones of music ’mid the night,
Are peopled all with thee.
Then, Inez, in that distant clime,If still thou think’st of me,At evening when thou goest outUpon the tranquil sea,Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones,That bow at memory’s shrine,Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heartShall often join with thine.
Then, Inez, in that distant clime,
If still thou think’st of me,
At evening when thou goest out
Upon the tranquil sea,
Our souls shall meet—for kindred ones,
That bow at memory’s shrine,
Oft meet in dreams, and thus my heart
Shall often join with thine.
COMMUNION OF THE SEA AND SKY.
———
BY ELVIRA JONES.
———
It was a night whose starry rayE’en matched the brilliant hue of day,A night replete with gifts of June—A flowery earth and silver moon.Sleep softly waved her opiate rod,And stilled all things on earth’s green sod.The ocean slept, so gently breathing,Scarce I marked its bosom’s heaving.In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,The violet’s azure eye was closed;The balmy, odor-laden airScarce stirred beneath its burden rare,Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,And on its harp sweet music make;The list’ning waves would catch the lay,With silver lutes so sweet they’d playThat e’en the peerless nightingale,Warbling within some quiet vale,Would cease his matchless melody,To list, and dare no rivalry.At last a swifter breeze did comeDown from its far off heavenly home;Bright dew-drops on its wings it bore,The fairest gems of midnight’s store;O’er all the earth like stars they lie,As if to imitate the sky;Brighter than monarch’s sparkling gemWas the lowly flow’ret’s diadem.Methought indeed ’twaslove’sown hour—He could not choose a fairer bower—A scene so still, so void of strife,So stirless, yet replete with life.A lily by a rose-bud stood,Partaking of its honey food,With tender and confiding graceThey waved to each a fond embrace.A star in the far azure skyHeard a murm’ring streamlet’s sigh,His image in her bosom stillHe saw, and blessed the gentle rill.A zephyr sought the rose’s bower,To serenade the lovely flower,Yet all unlike the constant star,He sees the streamlet from afar.For her forsakes his tender rose,To her his love would fain disclose;She trembled at his light caress,Yet kept the image in her breast.Sudden a voice that came along,As softly as a fairy’s song,Or like the wind-harp’s faintest sigh,That scarcely lives ere it doth die,Folded the pinions of my thought,And deep and mute attention brought—’Twas the voice of the far off skyWhisp’ring its scarce heard melodyTo its kindred sea, whose list’ning wavesScarce stirred within their azure caves.“Ocean, sleepest thou thy nightly rest?Or with thy weight of stars so prest,Thou canst not hear my lay of love,My wooing whispers from above?Thy brilliant burden I will lift,Awhile withdraw my nightly gift;My graceful clouds shall intervene,No more thy brilliant load is seen.Now listen to my nightly song,My voice unheard to mortal throng.“How strange none mark our sympathy,And yet how like I am to thee.My voice to thee a passage findsIn music of the tuneful winds,While soft thy murm’ring waves replyWith a sound more faint than joy’s sigh.“I gaze at thee with eyes of light,With loving look, from orbs as bright,Thou answer’st me. My beams I send,As messengers to thee. They lendA golden chariot to thy waves,In which they leave their dark blue cavesAnd joyously to me they come;Though grieved to leave their native home,In purple mansions here they dwell,But mark thy bosom’s sorrowing swell,And weary of their absence long,Again they seek their home of song.“Within thy bosom hidden lie,Fair pearls unseen to mortal eye—I, too, have jewels e’n more bright—My dew-drop gems, which deck the night.“In their blue home thy gold-fish rove—I, too, have children whom to love,My fairy birds who sport along,Here in their happy world of song.”The voice was still. The ocean sighed,In harp-like tones its waves replied—“Our converse, unperceived by men,Still lasts, though sound is hushed, e’en then,Though winds are still, nor waves rejoice,I speak to thee in silence’s voice.What gives to us our hue of love,This azure tint, below, above?It is ourdepth, unseen, profound,In shallow-hearted man ne’er found.”The voice of the sea was hushed.A fairy cloud the heavens brushed,And tears of joy the sky was weeping,Aroused the wavelets lightly sleeping,They sprang to meet so playfully,A union ’twas of sea and sky.
It was a night whose starry rayE’en matched the brilliant hue of day,A night replete with gifts of June—A flowery earth and silver moon.Sleep softly waved her opiate rod,And stilled all things on earth’s green sod.The ocean slept, so gently breathing,Scarce I marked its bosom’s heaving.In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,The violet’s azure eye was closed;The balmy, odor-laden airScarce stirred beneath its burden rare,Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,And on its harp sweet music make;The list’ning waves would catch the lay,With silver lutes so sweet they’d playThat e’en the peerless nightingale,Warbling within some quiet vale,Would cease his matchless melody,To list, and dare no rivalry.At last a swifter breeze did comeDown from its far off heavenly home;Bright dew-drops on its wings it bore,The fairest gems of midnight’s store;O’er all the earth like stars they lie,As if to imitate the sky;Brighter than monarch’s sparkling gemWas the lowly flow’ret’s diadem.Methought indeed ’twaslove’sown hour—He could not choose a fairer bower—A scene so still, so void of strife,So stirless, yet replete with life.A lily by a rose-bud stood,Partaking of its honey food,With tender and confiding graceThey waved to each a fond embrace.A star in the far azure skyHeard a murm’ring streamlet’s sigh,His image in her bosom stillHe saw, and blessed the gentle rill.A zephyr sought the rose’s bower,To serenade the lovely flower,Yet all unlike the constant star,He sees the streamlet from afar.For her forsakes his tender rose,To her his love would fain disclose;She trembled at his light caress,Yet kept the image in her breast.Sudden a voice that came along,As softly as a fairy’s song,Or like the wind-harp’s faintest sigh,That scarcely lives ere it doth die,Folded the pinions of my thought,And deep and mute attention brought—’Twas the voice of the far off skyWhisp’ring its scarce heard melodyTo its kindred sea, whose list’ning wavesScarce stirred within their azure caves.“Ocean, sleepest thou thy nightly rest?Or with thy weight of stars so prest,Thou canst not hear my lay of love,My wooing whispers from above?Thy brilliant burden I will lift,Awhile withdraw my nightly gift;My graceful clouds shall intervene,No more thy brilliant load is seen.Now listen to my nightly song,My voice unheard to mortal throng.“How strange none mark our sympathy,And yet how like I am to thee.My voice to thee a passage findsIn music of the tuneful winds,While soft thy murm’ring waves replyWith a sound more faint than joy’s sigh.“I gaze at thee with eyes of light,With loving look, from orbs as bright,Thou answer’st me. My beams I send,As messengers to thee. They lendA golden chariot to thy waves,In which they leave their dark blue cavesAnd joyously to me they come;Though grieved to leave their native home,In purple mansions here they dwell,But mark thy bosom’s sorrowing swell,And weary of their absence long,Again they seek their home of song.“Within thy bosom hidden lie,Fair pearls unseen to mortal eye—I, too, have jewels e’n more bright—My dew-drop gems, which deck the night.“In their blue home thy gold-fish rove—I, too, have children whom to love,My fairy birds who sport along,Here in their happy world of song.”The voice was still. The ocean sighed,In harp-like tones its waves replied—“Our converse, unperceived by men,Still lasts, though sound is hushed, e’en then,Though winds are still, nor waves rejoice,I speak to thee in silence’s voice.What gives to us our hue of love,This azure tint, below, above?It is ourdepth, unseen, profound,In shallow-hearted man ne’er found.”The voice of the sea was hushed.A fairy cloud the heavens brushed,And tears of joy the sky was weeping,Aroused the wavelets lightly sleeping,They sprang to meet so playfully,A union ’twas of sea and sky.
It was a night whose starry rayE’en matched the brilliant hue of day,A night replete with gifts of June—A flowery earth and silver moon.Sleep softly waved her opiate rod,And stilled all things on earth’s green sod.The ocean slept, so gently breathing,Scarce I marked its bosom’s heaving.
It was a night whose starry ray
E’en matched the brilliant hue of day,
A night replete with gifts of June—
A flowery earth and silver moon.
Sleep softly waved her opiate rod,
And stilled all things on earth’s green sod.
The ocean slept, so gently breathing,
Scarce I marked its bosom’s heaving.
In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,The violet’s azure eye was closed;The balmy, odor-laden airScarce stirred beneath its burden rare,Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,And on its harp sweet music make;The list’ning waves would catch the lay,With silver lutes so sweet they’d playThat e’en the peerless nightingale,Warbling within some quiet vale,Would cease his matchless melody,To list, and dare no rivalry.
In em’rald couch the flow’rs reposed,
The violet’s azure eye was closed;
The balmy, odor-laden air
Scarce stirred beneath its burden rare,
Though oft a slumbering breeze would wake,
And on its harp sweet music make;
The list’ning waves would catch the lay,
With silver lutes so sweet they’d play
That e’en the peerless nightingale,
Warbling within some quiet vale,
Would cease his matchless melody,
To list, and dare no rivalry.
At last a swifter breeze did comeDown from its far off heavenly home;Bright dew-drops on its wings it bore,The fairest gems of midnight’s store;O’er all the earth like stars they lie,As if to imitate the sky;Brighter than monarch’s sparkling gemWas the lowly flow’ret’s diadem.
At last a swifter breeze did come
Down from its far off heavenly home;
Bright dew-drops on its wings it bore,
The fairest gems of midnight’s store;
O’er all the earth like stars they lie,
As if to imitate the sky;
Brighter than monarch’s sparkling gem
Was the lowly flow’ret’s diadem.
Methought indeed ’twaslove’sown hour—He could not choose a fairer bower—A scene so still, so void of strife,So stirless, yet replete with life.
Methought indeed ’twaslove’sown hour—
He could not choose a fairer bower—
A scene so still, so void of strife,
So stirless, yet replete with life.
A lily by a rose-bud stood,Partaking of its honey food,With tender and confiding graceThey waved to each a fond embrace.
A lily by a rose-bud stood,
Partaking of its honey food,
With tender and confiding grace
They waved to each a fond embrace.
A star in the far azure skyHeard a murm’ring streamlet’s sigh,His image in her bosom stillHe saw, and blessed the gentle rill.
A star in the far azure sky
Heard a murm’ring streamlet’s sigh,
His image in her bosom still
He saw, and blessed the gentle rill.
A zephyr sought the rose’s bower,To serenade the lovely flower,Yet all unlike the constant star,He sees the streamlet from afar.For her forsakes his tender rose,To her his love would fain disclose;She trembled at his light caress,Yet kept the image in her breast.
A zephyr sought the rose’s bower,
To serenade the lovely flower,
Yet all unlike the constant star,
He sees the streamlet from afar.
For her forsakes his tender rose,
To her his love would fain disclose;
She trembled at his light caress,
Yet kept the image in her breast.
Sudden a voice that came along,As softly as a fairy’s song,Or like the wind-harp’s faintest sigh,That scarcely lives ere it doth die,Folded the pinions of my thought,And deep and mute attention brought—’Twas the voice of the far off skyWhisp’ring its scarce heard melodyTo its kindred sea, whose list’ning wavesScarce stirred within their azure caves.
Sudden a voice that came along,
As softly as a fairy’s song,
Or like the wind-harp’s faintest sigh,
That scarcely lives ere it doth die,
Folded the pinions of my thought,
And deep and mute attention brought—
’Twas the voice of the far off sky
Whisp’ring its scarce heard melody
To its kindred sea, whose list’ning waves
Scarce stirred within their azure caves.
“Ocean, sleepest thou thy nightly rest?Or with thy weight of stars so prest,Thou canst not hear my lay of love,My wooing whispers from above?Thy brilliant burden I will lift,Awhile withdraw my nightly gift;My graceful clouds shall intervene,No more thy brilliant load is seen.Now listen to my nightly song,My voice unheard to mortal throng.
“Ocean, sleepest thou thy nightly rest?
Or with thy weight of stars so prest,
Thou canst not hear my lay of love,
My wooing whispers from above?
Thy brilliant burden I will lift,
Awhile withdraw my nightly gift;
My graceful clouds shall intervene,
No more thy brilliant load is seen.
Now listen to my nightly song,
My voice unheard to mortal throng.
“How strange none mark our sympathy,And yet how like I am to thee.My voice to thee a passage findsIn music of the tuneful winds,While soft thy murm’ring waves replyWith a sound more faint than joy’s sigh.
“How strange none mark our sympathy,
And yet how like I am to thee.
My voice to thee a passage finds
In music of the tuneful winds,
While soft thy murm’ring waves reply
With a sound more faint than joy’s sigh.
“I gaze at thee with eyes of light,With loving look, from orbs as bright,Thou answer’st me. My beams I send,As messengers to thee. They lendA golden chariot to thy waves,In which they leave their dark blue cavesAnd joyously to me they come;Though grieved to leave their native home,In purple mansions here they dwell,But mark thy bosom’s sorrowing swell,And weary of their absence long,Again they seek their home of song.
“I gaze at thee with eyes of light,
With loving look, from orbs as bright,
Thou answer’st me. My beams I send,
As messengers to thee. They lend
A golden chariot to thy waves,
In which they leave their dark blue caves
And joyously to me they come;
Though grieved to leave their native home,
In purple mansions here they dwell,
But mark thy bosom’s sorrowing swell,
And weary of their absence long,
Again they seek their home of song.
“Within thy bosom hidden lie,Fair pearls unseen to mortal eye—I, too, have jewels e’n more bright—My dew-drop gems, which deck the night.
“Within thy bosom hidden lie,
Fair pearls unseen to mortal eye—
I, too, have jewels e’n more bright—
My dew-drop gems, which deck the night.
“In their blue home thy gold-fish rove—I, too, have children whom to love,My fairy birds who sport along,Here in their happy world of song.”
“In their blue home thy gold-fish rove—
I, too, have children whom to love,
My fairy birds who sport along,
Here in their happy world of song.”
The voice was still. The ocean sighed,In harp-like tones its waves replied—“Our converse, unperceived by men,Still lasts, though sound is hushed, e’en then,Though winds are still, nor waves rejoice,I speak to thee in silence’s voice.What gives to us our hue of love,This azure tint, below, above?It is ourdepth, unseen, profound,In shallow-hearted man ne’er found.”
The voice was still. The ocean sighed,
In harp-like tones its waves replied—
“Our converse, unperceived by men,
Still lasts, though sound is hushed, e’en then,
Though winds are still, nor waves rejoice,
I speak to thee in silence’s voice.
What gives to us our hue of love,
This azure tint, below, above?
It is ourdepth, unseen, profound,
In shallow-hearted man ne’er found.”
The voice of the sea was hushed.A fairy cloud the heavens brushed,And tears of joy the sky was weeping,Aroused the wavelets lightly sleeping,They sprang to meet so playfully,A union ’twas of sea and sky.
The voice of the sea was hushed.
A fairy cloud the heavens brushed,
And tears of joy the sky was weeping,
Aroused the wavelets lightly sleeping,
They sprang to meet so playfully,
A union ’twas of sea and sky.
THE BULLFINCH.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys from an original drawing
THE BULLFINCH.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by F. Humphrys from an original drawing
COLORED BIRDS.—THE BULLFINCH.
———
FROM BECHSTEIN.
———
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
This is one of the indigenous tame birds which is a favorite with the rich and noble. Its body is thick and short. Its whole length is six inches and three-quarters, of which the tail measures two and three-quarters; the beak is only six lines in length, short, thick, and black; the iris is chestnut-colored; the shanks eight lines high, and black; the top of the head, the circle of the beak, the chin, and beginning of the throat, are of a beautiful velvet black; the upper part of the neck, the back and shoulders, deep gray; the rump white; the under part of the neck, the wide breast, and to the centre of the belly, are of a fine vermilion, less bright, however, in the young than old; the blackish pen-feathers become darker toward the body; the secondaries have the outer edge of an iron blue, which in the hinder ones is reddish. The tail is rather forked, and of a brilliant black, tinged with iron-blue.
The female is easily distinguished from the male, for what is red on him is reddish-gray on her, while her back is of a brownish-gray, and her feet are not so black; she is also smaller.
This species has some singular varieties; the principal are:—
1. TheWhite Bullfinch, which is of an ashy-white, or wholly white, with dark spots on the back.
2. TheBlack Bullfinch. These are most generally females, which become black, either with age, when they are only fed on hemp seed, or with having been kept when young in a totally dark place. Some resume at their moulting their natural colors, others remain black; but this black is not the same in all; some are of a brilliant raven black, others dull, and not so dark on the belly; in some the head only is of a raven black, the rest of the body being duller; in others the black is mixed with red spots on the belly, or the latter is entirely red. I have seen one in which the head and breast, as well as the upper and under parts of the body, were of a raven black, every other part of a dull black, with the wings and tail white; it was a very handsome bird, rather larger than a redbreast.
3. TheSpeckled Bullfinch. It is thus called, for, besides its natural colors, it is spotted with black and white, or white and ash color.
4. TheMongrel Bullfinch. It is the offspring of a female reared in the house from the nest, and of a male canary. Its shape and color partake of those of the parent birds; its note is very agreeable, and softer than that of the canary; but it is very scarce. This union rarely succeeds; but when tried, a very ardent and spirited canary should be chosen.[5]
5. The other varieties are: theLarge Bullfinch, about the size of a thrush, and theMiddling, orCommon. As to dwarf birds, which are not as large as a chaffinch, it is a bird-catcher’s story, for this difference in size is observed in all kinds of birds. I can affirm it with the more certainty, having had opportunities every year of seeing hundreds of these birds, both wild and tame. I have even in the same nest found some as small as redbreasts, and others as large as a crossbill.
Habitation.—When wild, bullfinches are found over Europe and Russia. They are particularly common in the mountainous forests of Germany. The male and female never separate during the whole year. In winter they wander about everywhere in search of buds.
Food.—When wild the bullfinch does not often suffer from the failure of its food; for it eats pine and fir seeds, the fruit of the ash and maple, corn, all kinds of berries, the buds of the oak, beech, and pear trees, and even linseed, millet, rape, and nettle seed.
In the house those which run about may be fed on the universal paste, and, for a change, rape seed may be added; those which are taught must be fed only on poppy seed, with a little hemp seed, and now and then a little biscuit without spice. It has been remarked that those which are fed entirely on rape seed soaked in water live much longer, and are more healthy. The hemp seed is too heating, sooner or later blinds them, and always brings on a decline. A little green food, such as lettuce, endive, chickweed, water-cresses, a little apple, particularly the kernels, the berries of the service tree, and the like, is agreeable and salutary to them.
Breeding.—These tenderly affectionate birds can hardly live when separated from one another. They incessantly repeat their call with a languishing note, and continually caress. They can sometimes be made to breed in the house, like the canary, but their eggs are rarely fruitful. In the wild state they breed twice every year, each time laying from three to six eggs, of a bluish white, spotted with violet and brown at the large end. Their nest, which they build in the most retired part of a wood, or in a solitary quickset hedge, is constructed with little skill, of twigs which are covered with moss. The young ones are hatched in fifteen days. Those which are to be taught must be taken from the nest when the feathers of the tail begin to grow; and must be fed only on rape seed soaked in water and mixed with white bread; eggs would kill them or make them blind. Their plumage is then of a dark ash-color, with the wings and tail blackish-brown; the males may be known at first by their reddish breast; so that when these only are wished to be reared they may be chosen in the nest,for the females are not so beautiful, nor so easily taught.
Although they do not warble before they can feed themselves, one need not wait for this to begin their instruction,[6]for it will succeed better, if one may say so, when infused with their food; since experience proves that they learn those airs more quickly, and remember them better, which they have been taught just after eating. It has been observed several times, that these birds, like the parrots, are never more attentive than during digestion. Nine months of regular and continued instruction are necessary before the bird acquires what amateurs call firmness, for if one ceases before this time, they spoil the air, by suppressing or displacing the different parts, and they often forget it entirely at their first moulting. In general it is a good thing to separate them from the other birds, even after they are perfect; because, owing to their great quickness in learning, they would spoil the air entirely by introducing wrong passages; they must be helped to continue the song when they stop, and the lesson must always be repeated whilst they are moulting, otherwise they will become mere chatterers, which would be doubly vexatious after having had much trouble in teaching them.
Diseases.—Those bullfinches which are caught in a snare or net are rarely ill, and may be preserved for eight years or more; but those reared from the nest are subject to many diseases, caused by their not having their natural food, or by those injurious delicacies which are always lavished on favorite birds; they rarely live more than six years. The surest means of preserving them healthy for a long time, is to give them neither sweets nor tit-bits of any kind, scrupulously to confine their food to rape seed, adding now and then a very little hemp seed to please them, and a good deal of the green food before mentioned. The bottom of their cages should be covered with river sand, as the bird there finds some stones which aid the functions of the stomach. Their most frequent diseases are moulting, costiveness, diarrhœa, epilepsy, grief, and melancholy, in which case they are quite silent, and remain immovable, unless the cause can be discovered. They must not be given any delicacy, and must be fed entirely on soaked rape seed. A clove in their water, proper food, and particularly a good deal of refreshing green food, enables them to pass the moulting time in good health.
[5]However difficult this pairing may be, it sometimes succeeds very well. A bullfinch and female canary once produced five young ones, which died on a journey which they could not bear. Their large beak, and the blackish down with which they were covered, showed that they were more like their father than mother.—Translator.
[5]
However difficult this pairing may be, it sometimes succeeds very well. A bullfinch and female canary once produced five young ones, which died on a journey which they could not bear. Their large beak, and the blackish down with which they were covered, showed that they were more like their father than mother.—Translator.
[6]I do not recommend the employment of bird organs for instructing birds, because they are rarely accurate, and their notes are harsh and discordant; for bullfinches repeat the sounds exactly as they hear them, whether harsh or false, according to the instrument used. The good and pure whistling of a man of taste is far preferable; the bird repeats it in a soft, flute-like tone. When one cannot whistle well it is better to use a flageolet.—Translator.
[6]
I do not recommend the employment of bird organs for instructing birds, because they are rarely accurate, and their notes are harsh and discordant; for bullfinches repeat the sounds exactly as they hear them, whether harsh or false, according to the instrument used. The good and pure whistling of a man of taste is far preferable; the bird repeats it in a soft, flute-like tone. When one cannot whistle well it is better to use a flageolet.—Translator.
TIME AND CHANGE.
———
BY ISAAC GRAY BLANCHARD.
———
Time’s flood sweeps on with ceaseless flow,And o’er all things that are belowChange hath his empire: every daySome object testifies his sway,The falling leaf, the fading flowerShow Change and Death are Nature’s dower;And every day that passes o’er usTakes something time shall not restore us;Some dear delight, some hope in blossom,Some cherished memory from our bosom,Some holy impulse which Heaven lent usWhen first on life’s fair voyage it sent us,Some sunny hue of childhood bright,That blest us with its lingering light,Some pleasant friend, some earthly stay,We fondly hoped to keep for aye,These hearts of ours, though once so bright,Have less and less of love’s young light;The world has lost the charm it had,Even Nature seems less green and glad,And from our bosoms, shut and lone,Faith, like a beauteous bird, has flown.O, Time and Change! how strong ye be!How unlike what we were are we!
Time’s flood sweeps on with ceaseless flow,And o’er all things that are belowChange hath his empire: every daySome object testifies his sway,The falling leaf, the fading flowerShow Change and Death are Nature’s dower;And every day that passes o’er usTakes something time shall not restore us;Some dear delight, some hope in blossom,Some cherished memory from our bosom,Some holy impulse which Heaven lent usWhen first on life’s fair voyage it sent us,Some sunny hue of childhood bright,That blest us with its lingering light,Some pleasant friend, some earthly stay,We fondly hoped to keep for aye,These hearts of ours, though once so bright,Have less and less of love’s young light;The world has lost the charm it had,Even Nature seems less green and glad,And from our bosoms, shut and lone,Faith, like a beauteous bird, has flown.O, Time and Change! how strong ye be!How unlike what we were are we!
Time’s flood sweeps on with ceaseless flow,And o’er all things that are belowChange hath his empire: every daySome object testifies his sway,The falling leaf, the fading flowerShow Change and Death are Nature’s dower;And every day that passes o’er usTakes something time shall not restore us;
Time’s flood sweeps on with ceaseless flow,
And o’er all things that are below
Change hath his empire: every day
Some object testifies his sway,
The falling leaf, the fading flower
Show Change and Death are Nature’s dower;
And every day that passes o’er us
Takes something time shall not restore us;
Some dear delight, some hope in blossom,Some cherished memory from our bosom,Some holy impulse which Heaven lent usWhen first on life’s fair voyage it sent us,Some sunny hue of childhood bright,That blest us with its lingering light,Some pleasant friend, some earthly stay,We fondly hoped to keep for aye,
Some dear delight, some hope in blossom,
Some cherished memory from our bosom,
Some holy impulse which Heaven lent us
When first on life’s fair voyage it sent us,
Some sunny hue of childhood bright,
That blest us with its lingering light,
Some pleasant friend, some earthly stay,
We fondly hoped to keep for aye,
These hearts of ours, though once so bright,Have less and less of love’s young light;The world has lost the charm it had,Even Nature seems less green and glad,And from our bosoms, shut and lone,Faith, like a beauteous bird, has flown.O, Time and Change! how strong ye be!How unlike what we were are we!
These hearts of ours, though once so bright,
Have less and less of love’s young light;
The world has lost the charm it had,
Even Nature seems less green and glad,
And from our bosoms, shut and lone,
Faith, like a beauteous bird, has flown.
O, Time and Change! how strong ye be!
How unlike what we were are we!