SACREDTO THEMEMORYOF THEHON. NATHANIEL GREENE,who departed this lifethe 19th of June, 1786.LateMajor-Generalin the service of the United States,and commander of the army in theSouthern Department.The United States in Congress assembledin honor ofhis patriotism, valor and ability,have erected thismonument.”
SACRED
TO THE
MEMORY
OF THE
HON. NATHANIEL GREENE,
who departed this life
the 19th of June, 1786.
LateMajor-General
in the service of the United States,
and commander of the army in the
Southern Department.
The United States in Congress assembled
in honor of
his patriotism, valor and ability,
have erected this
monument.”
His relative and biographer very appropriately remarks—“More than sixty years have elapsed since the body of Greene was consigned to the tomb; and thus far, a medal for the Eutaws, two pieces of cannon for his general services, and a vote for a monument,which has never been erected, are the only tributes which the general government has ever paid to his memory. The spot in which his ashes repose has long been forgotten, and the chances of the preservation of the simple silver slab on which his name was engraved, are the only hopes which remain of ever distinguishing his bones from those, which during this long interval, have silently mouldered by their side. Not a statue, not a bust, not a portrait of him, adorns the halls of our national councils; and of the many objects of interest which command the admiration of the stranger at the seat of government, there is not one which recalls his memory.” General Greene had just completed his forty-fourth year, when he was thus suddenly taken from his friends and his country.
Of all those who had distinguished themselves during the war of the Revolution, he was, next to Washington, the one who will ever hold the highest place in public esteem; and few men, if any, have ever built themselves a name upon purer or more durable foundations.
From the governor to the humble citizen, General Greene was regarded as the object of every eye, the praise of every tongue, he closed a life of deep, pure, devoted patriotism to his country, and love and good-will to all mankind.
THE DYING STUDENT.
———
BY D. ELLEN GOODMAN.
———
I feelthe fever’s hot breath flashingIn deep and deadly strife,From my pale, parched lips slowly dashingThe golden cup of life!Disease, with cold and icy fingers,Now creeps about my heart,And Death but for a moment lingers,To snap its chords apart!My heavy pulse is weaker growing;Life’s lamp burns feebly now,And the long locks are darkly flowingUpon my damp, cold brow.I hear a voice, low, faint and broken,Falling upon my heart;Its tones in solemn awe have spokenThat I must soon depart.And must my wild dreams coldly perish,And wither in the dust!The golden hopes I fondly cherish—My earthly joy and trust!The schemes my soul has long been forming,Just bursting into light,And tones of love my fond heart warming,All—allbe quenched in night!Full many a bud of hope was wreathingAbout my thornless path,In mellow tones of music breathingOf all but blight and death;I had not thought to see them fadingAnd dying at their birth—To view this cloud of darkness shadingThe beautiful of earth.Oh, there were softest whispers tellingOf greatness and of fame;Of rapture in the bosom swelling,And of an honored name;And how the knee of genius bending,Should own a deeper sway,And shouts of joy the blue skies rending,Bear higher deeds away.And there were gentle voices findingA way to my deep soul,Love’sown sweet angel softly bindingMy heart to her control;And in my dreams of fame and glory,Beamed ever her meek eyes,Telling a fond and pleasant storyOf mingled smiles and sighs.That tone—’twas music, ever hushingMy panting heart to rest—And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing,Thrilled through my peaceful breast,Those dreams like summer buds have faded,That tone hath died away,Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded,And quenched the light of day.I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary,No hand upon my brow;Through the dark valley, cold and dreary,No voice to cheer me now.My life has been a dream; in vainHave soft eyes shed their light;Frail phantoms of a fevered brain—Their ray has sunk in night.And thus, when earthly trust hath perished,And earthly joy hath fled—When hopes my fond heart loved and cherishedAre lying with the dead—Oh! may there not in yonder heavenBe for my brow a wreath,Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be rivenBy the rude hand of Death!Father above, wilt thou now hearkenUnto my feeble cry—Dispel the mists that coldly darkenAnd dim my failing eye?I bless thee—for the cloud hath partedThat hid thy glorious face;Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted,I sink in thine embrace.
I feelthe fever’s hot breath flashingIn deep and deadly strife,From my pale, parched lips slowly dashingThe golden cup of life!Disease, with cold and icy fingers,Now creeps about my heart,And Death but for a moment lingers,To snap its chords apart!My heavy pulse is weaker growing;Life’s lamp burns feebly now,And the long locks are darkly flowingUpon my damp, cold brow.I hear a voice, low, faint and broken,Falling upon my heart;Its tones in solemn awe have spokenThat I must soon depart.And must my wild dreams coldly perish,And wither in the dust!The golden hopes I fondly cherish—My earthly joy and trust!The schemes my soul has long been forming,Just bursting into light,And tones of love my fond heart warming,All—allbe quenched in night!Full many a bud of hope was wreathingAbout my thornless path,In mellow tones of music breathingOf all but blight and death;I had not thought to see them fadingAnd dying at their birth—To view this cloud of darkness shadingThe beautiful of earth.Oh, there were softest whispers tellingOf greatness and of fame;Of rapture in the bosom swelling,And of an honored name;And how the knee of genius bending,Should own a deeper sway,And shouts of joy the blue skies rending,Bear higher deeds away.And there were gentle voices findingA way to my deep soul,Love’sown sweet angel softly bindingMy heart to her control;And in my dreams of fame and glory,Beamed ever her meek eyes,Telling a fond and pleasant storyOf mingled smiles and sighs.That tone—’twas music, ever hushingMy panting heart to rest—And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing,Thrilled through my peaceful breast,Those dreams like summer buds have faded,That tone hath died away,Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded,And quenched the light of day.I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary,No hand upon my brow;Through the dark valley, cold and dreary,No voice to cheer me now.My life has been a dream; in vainHave soft eyes shed their light;Frail phantoms of a fevered brain—Their ray has sunk in night.And thus, when earthly trust hath perished,And earthly joy hath fled—When hopes my fond heart loved and cherishedAre lying with the dead—Oh! may there not in yonder heavenBe for my brow a wreath,Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be rivenBy the rude hand of Death!Father above, wilt thou now hearkenUnto my feeble cry—Dispel the mists that coldly darkenAnd dim my failing eye?I bless thee—for the cloud hath partedThat hid thy glorious face;Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted,I sink in thine embrace.
I feelthe fever’s hot breath flashingIn deep and deadly strife,From my pale, parched lips slowly dashingThe golden cup of life!Disease, with cold and icy fingers,Now creeps about my heart,And Death but for a moment lingers,To snap its chords apart!
I feelthe fever’s hot breath flashing
In deep and deadly strife,
From my pale, parched lips slowly dashing
The golden cup of life!
Disease, with cold and icy fingers,
Now creeps about my heart,
And Death but for a moment lingers,
To snap its chords apart!
My heavy pulse is weaker growing;Life’s lamp burns feebly now,And the long locks are darkly flowingUpon my damp, cold brow.I hear a voice, low, faint and broken,Falling upon my heart;Its tones in solemn awe have spokenThat I must soon depart.
My heavy pulse is weaker growing;
Life’s lamp burns feebly now,
And the long locks are darkly flowing
Upon my damp, cold brow.
I hear a voice, low, faint and broken,
Falling upon my heart;
Its tones in solemn awe have spoken
That I must soon depart.
And must my wild dreams coldly perish,And wither in the dust!The golden hopes I fondly cherish—My earthly joy and trust!The schemes my soul has long been forming,Just bursting into light,And tones of love my fond heart warming,All—allbe quenched in night!
And must my wild dreams coldly perish,
And wither in the dust!
The golden hopes I fondly cherish—
My earthly joy and trust!
The schemes my soul has long been forming,
Just bursting into light,
And tones of love my fond heart warming,
All—allbe quenched in night!
Full many a bud of hope was wreathingAbout my thornless path,In mellow tones of music breathingOf all but blight and death;I had not thought to see them fadingAnd dying at their birth—To view this cloud of darkness shadingThe beautiful of earth.
Full many a bud of hope was wreathing
About my thornless path,
In mellow tones of music breathing
Of all but blight and death;
I had not thought to see them fading
And dying at their birth—
To view this cloud of darkness shading
The beautiful of earth.
Oh, there were softest whispers tellingOf greatness and of fame;Of rapture in the bosom swelling,And of an honored name;And how the knee of genius bending,Should own a deeper sway,And shouts of joy the blue skies rending,Bear higher deeds away.
Oh, there were softest whispers telling
Of greatness and of fame;
Of rapture in the bosom swelling,
And of an honored name;
And how the knee of genius bending,
Should own a deeper sway,
And shouts of joy the blue skies rending,
Bear higher deeds away.
And there were gentle voices findingA way to my deep soul,Love’sown sweet angel softly bindingMy heart to her control;And in my dreams of fame and glory,Beamed ever her meek eyes,Telling a fond and pleasant storyOf mingled smiles and sighs.
And there were gentle voices finding
A way to my deep soul,
Love’sown sweet angel softly binding
My heart to her control;
And in my dreams of fame and glory,
Beamed ever her meek eyes,
Telling a fond and pleasant story
Of mingled smiles and sighs.
That tone—’twas music, ever hushingMy panting heart to rest—And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing,Thrilled through my peaceful breast,Those dreams like summer buds have faded,That tone hath died away,Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded,And quenched the light of day.
That tone—’twas music, ever hushing
My panting heart to rest—
And glorious dreams like sunlight gushing,
Thrilled through my peaceful breast,
Those dreams like summer buds have faded,
That tone hath died away,
Death’s cloud my beaming skies hath shaded,
And quenched the light of day.
I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary,No hand upon my brow;Through the dark valley, cold and dreary,No voice to cheer me now.My life has been a dream; in vainHave soft eyes shed their light;Frail phantoms of a fevered brain—Their ray has sunk in night.
I lay me down, faint, lone, and weary,
No hand upon my brow;
Through the dark valley, cold and dreary,
No voice to cheer me now.
My life has been a dream; in vain
Have soft eyes shed their light;
Frail phantoms of a fevered brain—
Their ray has sunk in night.
And thus, when earthly trust hath perished,And earthly joy hath fled—When hopes my fond heart loved and cherishedAre lying with the dead—Oh! may there not in yonder heavenBe for my brow a wreath,Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be rivenBy the rude hand of Death!
And thus, when earthly trust hath perished,
And earthly joy hath fled—
When hopes my fond heart loved and cherished
Are lying with the dead—
Oh! may there not in yonder heaven
Be for my brow a wreath,
Whose fadeless flowers shall ne’er be riven
By the rude hand of Death!
Father above, wilt thou now hearkenUnto my feeble cry—Dispel the mists that coldly darkenAnd dim my failing eye?I bless thee—for the cloud hath partedThat hid thy glorious face;Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted,I sink in thine embrace.
Father above, wilt thou now hearken
Unto my feeble cry—
Dispel the mists that coldly darken
And dim my failing eye?
I bless thee—for the cloud hath parted
That hid thy glorious face;
Joyful and glad, yet humble-hearted,
I sink in thine embrace.
G. CATTERMOLE. H. ROSSA DANGEROUS STUDENT.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.
G. CATTERMOLE. H. ROSS
TO —— IN ABSENCE.
———
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
———
Whenfirst we met, beloved, rememberest thouHow all my nature was athirst and faint?My soul’s high powers lay wasting still and slow,While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint.For frowning pride life’s summer waves did lockAway from light, their restless murmuring hushed —But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock,And full and fast the living waters gushed!Oh, what a summer glory life put on!What morning freshness those swift waters gaveThat leaped from darkness forth into the sun,And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!. . . . . . . . .The cloud that darkened long our sky of love,And flung a shadow o’er life’s Eden bloom,Hath deepened into night, around, above —But night beneficent and void of gloom.The dews of peace and faith’s sweet quiet bringing,And memory’s starlight, as joy’s sunlight fades,While, like the nightingale’s melodious singing,The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades.Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day,The time of farewells that beheld us part,I miss thy presence from my side alway —Thy smile’s sweet comfort raining on my heart.Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name,And listen long, but no dear voice replies;I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame,And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes.Yet no,not parted. Still in life and powerThy spirit cometh over wild and wave,Is ever near me in the trial-hour,A ready help, a presence strong and brave.Thy love breathes o’er me in the winds of heaven —Floats to me on the tides of morning light —Descends upon me in the calms of even,And fills with music all the dreamy night.It falleth as a robe of pride around me,A royal vesture, rich with purple gleams —It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me,The large fulfillment of my soul’s long dreams!It is a paean drowning notes of sadness —It is a great light shutting out all gloom —It is a fountain of perpetual gladness —It is a garden of perpetual bloom.But tothynature pride and power belong,And death-defying courage; what to thee,With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong,May my one love in all its fullness be?An inward joy, sharp e’en to pain, yet dearAs thy soul’s life—a warmth, a light serene,A low, deep, voice which none save thou may hear —A living presence, constant, though unseen.Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast,In the dark days, when other loves depart —And when thou liest down for the long rest,Then, oh, beloved, ’twill sleep upon thy heart!
Whenfirst we met, beloved, rememberest thouHow all my nature was athirst and faint?My soul’s high powers lay wasting still and slow,While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint.For frowning pride life’s summer waves did lockAway from light, their restless murmuring hushed —But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock,And full and fast the living waters gushed!Oh, what a summer glory life put on!What morning freshness those swift waters gaveThat leaped from darkness forth into the sun,And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!. . . . . . . . .The cloud that darkened long our sky of love,And flung a shadow o’er life’s Eden bloom,Hath deepened into night, around, above —But night beneficent and void of gloom.The dews of peace and faith’s sweet quiet bringing,And memory’s starlight, as joy’s sunlight fades,While, like the nightingale’s melodious singing,The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades.Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day,The time of farewells that beheld us part,I miss thy presence from my side alway —Thy smile’s sweet comfort raining on my heart.Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name,And listen long, but no dear voice replies;I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame,And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes.Yet no,not parted. Still in life and powerThy spirit cometh over wild and wave,Is ever near me in the trial-hour,A ready help, a presence strong and brave.Thy love breathes o’er me in the winds of heaven —Floats to me on the tides of morning light —Descends upon me in the calms of even,And fills with music all the dreamy night.It falleth as a robe of pride around me,A royal vesture, rich with purple gleams —It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me,The large fulfillment of my soul’s long dreams!It is a paean drowning notes of sadness —It is a great light shutting out all gloom —It is a fountain of perpetual gladness —It is a garden of perpetual bloom.But tothynature pride and power belong,And death-defying courage; what to thee,With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong,May my one love in all its fullness be?An inward joy, sharp e’en to pain, yet dearAs thy soul’s life—a warmth, a light serene,A low, deep, voice which none save thou may hear —A living presence, constant, though unseen.Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast,In the dark days, when other loves depart —And when thou liest down for the long rest,Then, oh, beloved, ’twill sleep upon thy heart!
Whenfirst we met, beloved, rememberest thouHow all my nature was athirst and faint?My soul’s high powers lay wasting still and slow,While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint.
Whenfirst we met, beloved, rememberest thou
How all my nature was athirst and faint?
My soul’s high powers lay wasting still and slow,
While my sad heart sighed forth its ceaseless plaint.
For frowning pride life’s summer waves did lockAway from light, their restless murmuring hushed —But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock,And full and fast the living waters gushed!
For frowning pride life’s summer waves did lock
Away from light, their restless murmuring hushed —
But thou didst smite the cold, defying rock,
And full and fast the living waters gushed!
Oh, what a summer glory life put on!What morning freshness those swift waters gaveThat leaped from darkness forth into the sun,And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!. . . . . . . . .
Oh, what a summer glory life put on!What morning freshness those swift waters gaveThat leaped from darkness forth into the sun,And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!. . . . . . . . .
Oh, what a summer glory life put on!
What morning freshness those swift waters gave
That leaped from darkness forth into the sun,
And mirrored heaven in every smallest wave!
. . . . . . . . .
The cloud that darkened long our sky of love,And flung a shadow o’er life’s Eden bloom,Hath deepened into night, around, above —But night beneficent and void of gloom.
The cloud that darkened long our sky of love,
And flung a shadow o’er life’s Eden bloom,
Hath deepened into night, around, above —
But night beneficent and void of gloom.
The dews of peace and faith’s sweet quiet bringing,And memory’s starlight, as joy’s sunlight fades,While, like the nightingale’s melodious singing,The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades.
The dews of peace and faith’s sweet quiet bringing,
And memory’s starlight, as joy’s sunlight fades,
While, like the nightingale’s melodious singing,
The voice of Hope steals out amid the shades.
Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day,The time of farewells that beheld us part,I miss thy presence from my side alway —Thy smile’s sweet comfort raining on my heart.
Now it hath come and gone, the shadowed day,
The time of farewells that beheld us part,
I miss thy presence from my side alway —
Thy smile’s sweet comfort raining on my heart.
Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name,And listen long, but no dear voice replies;I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame,And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes.
Yes, we are parted. Now I call thy name,
And listen long, but no dear voice replies;
I miss thine earnest praise, thy gentle blame,
And the mute blessing of thy loving eyes.
Yet no,not parted. Still in life and powerThy spirit cometh over wild and wave,Is ever near me in the trial-hour,A ready help, a presence strong and brave.
Yet no,not parted. Still in life and power
Thy spirit cometh over wild and wave,
Is ever near me in the trial-hour,
A ready help, a presence strong and brave.
Thy love breathes o’er me in the winds of heaven —Floats to me on the tides of morning light —Descends upon me in the calms of even,And fills with music all the dreamy night.
Thy love breathes o’er me in the winds of heaven —
Floats to me on the tides of morning light —
Descends upon me in the calms of even,
And fills with music all the dreamy night.
It falleth as a robe of pride around me,A royal vesture, rich with purple gleams —It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me,The large fulfillment of my soul’s long dreams!
It falleth as a robe of pride around me,
A royal vesture, rich with purple gleams —
It is the glory wherewith life hath crowned me,
The large fulfillment of my soul’s long dreams!
It is a paean drowning notes of sadness —It is a great light shutting out all gloom —It is a fountain of perpetual gladness —It is a garden of perpetual bloom.
It is a paean drowning notes of sadness —
It is a great light shutting out all gloom —
It is a fountain of perpetual gladness —
It is a garden of perpetual bloom.
But tothynature pride and power belong,And death-defying courage; what to thee,With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong,May my one love in all its fullness be?
But tothynature pride and power belong,
And death-defying courage; what to thee,
With thy great life, thy spirit high and strong,
May my one love in all its fullness be?
An inward joy, sharp e’en to pain, yet dearAs thy soul’s life—a warmth, a light serene,A low, deep, voice which none save thou may hear —A living presence, constant, though unseen.
An inward joy, sharp e’en to pain, yet dear
As thy soul’s life—a warmth, a light serene,
A low, deep, voice which none save thou may hear —
A living presence, constant, though unseen.
Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast,In the dark days, when other loves depart —And when thou liest down for the long rest,Then, oh, beloved, ’twill sleep upon thy heart!
Yet shalt thou fold it closer to thy breast,
In the dark days, when other loves depart —
And when thou liest down for the long rest,
Then, oh, beloved, ’twill sleep upon thy heart!
WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.
———
BY PROFESSOR FROST.
———
THE QUA BIRD.(Ardea Nycticorax.Wilson.)
THE QUA BIRD.(Ardea Nycticorax.Wilson.)
Thisbird, otherwise known as the Night Heron, and the Rail, is found both in Europe and America. Its habits are somewhat different on the two continents, but the American bird may be safely considered as the type of the species. It is called Qua Bird on account of the rough guttural sound,qua, qua, which it utters while seeking its prey; and by some, Night Heron, from the circumstance of seeking its prey at night. During the day the Qua Birds perch in silence on high trees, and it seems probable that their eye cannot sustain the rays of the sun. But at night few birds are more active or enterprising. They are generally found in flocks, in the vicinity of deep swamps, or marshy woods, partially submerged by water. From these places troops of Qua Birds issue at twilight, and scatter themselves along ditches and by the river shore, to search for food. “On entering the swamp,” says Wilson, “in the neighborhood of one of these breeding places, the noise of the old and the young would almost induce one to suppose that two or three hundred Indians were choking or throttling each other. The instant an intruder is discovered, the whole rise in the air in silence, and remove to the tops of the trees in another part of the woods, while parties of from eight to ten make occasional circuits over the spot, to see what is going on. When the young are able they climb to the highest part of the trees, but, knowing their inability, do not attempt to fly. Though it is probable that these nocturnal birds do not see well during the day, yet their faculty of hearing must be exquisite, as it is almost impossible, with all the precautions one can use, to penetrate near their residence without being discovered. Several species of hawks hover around, making an occasional sweep among the young; and the Bald-Eagle himself has been seen reconnoitering near the spot, probably with the same design.”
Until recently the young of this bird was considered as the female. The close observations of Wilson detected the error; and his dissections proved that the male and the female were so similar in external appearance as to be distinguished only by a practiced eye. The length of the full grown bird is two feet four inches; extent of the wings four feet; the bill four inches and a quarter long from the corners of the mouth to the tip. The general color of the under plumage is white, tinged with cream; the wings are ash; and the back a glossy blue, inclining to green. From the hinder part of the head flows three long tapering feathers, about nine inches long, and so united, when the bird is quiet, as to appear but one. When alarmed or angry, the Qua Bird erects these singular appendages, which then give it a strange and threatening appearance. The eye of the species is noted for its beauty, the pupil being black and the iris blood-red. The young of the first year differs both in color and shape from the parent bird. Their food is composed of small fish, which the birds labor for with great industry at night.
The Qua Bird extends over a large portion of North America. It arrives in Pennsylvania about the beginning of April; and invariably chooses each seasonthe building place occupied the season before. If that place has been disturbed by the advances of cultivation, the bird chooses a similar spot as near to it as possible; although instances have occurred, that, when persecuted by man, or teased by other birds, the Qua flock have departed in a body, for parts unknown. The eggs are four in number, of a pale blue color. This bird is found in India; but it is smaller than the American variety, and builds on the ground among reeds. The European bird is smaller than the Indian, but closely resembles it in other respects. It is, however, undoubtedly the same species as that which we have described.
THE ROSEATE SPOON-BILL.(Platalea Ajaja.Wilson.)
THE ROSEATE SPOON-BILL.(Platalea Ajaja.Wilson.)
The group to which this bird belongs, form a connecting link between the Herons and the Tantali, and receive their name from the singular shape of the bill. Like the Herons, they live in flocks, preying in the twilight upon fish and aquatic animals. They are said to search the mud with their bills, in the manner of ducks, straining out the insects and other small animals, upon which they feed when nothing better can be obtained. The European Spoon-bills breed on trees by the sea-side, and sometimes take their prey from other birds. At such seasons they are very noisy, and will often attack birds larger than themselves. They are sometimes tamed, and their flesh is esteemed equal to that of the goose.
Of the habits of the species under consideration not much is known. It is found along the seashore from Brazil to Carolina, and has been seen in the northern parts of Louisiana. It is not very common, however, in any of the Southern States, but is frequently seen in Mexico and the West Indies. It is generally in the water, sometimes swimming about gracefully, at others diving and then searching for its prey. This consists of insects, fish, shell-fish and small crabs. Wilson gives the following account of a specimen, which he received from a friend, and which had been shot in the neighborhood of Natchez.
“The Roseate Spoon-bill now before us measured two feet six inches in length, and near four feet in extent; the bill was six inches and a half long from the corner of the mouth, seven from its upper base, two inches over at its greatest width, and three-quarters of an inch where narrowest; of a black color for half its length, and covered with hard, scaly protuberances, like the edges of oyster-shells; these are of a whitish tint, stained with red; the nostrils are oblong, and placed in the centre of the upper mandible; from the lower end of each there runs a deep groove along each side of the mandible, and about a quarter of an inch from its edge; whole crown and chin bare of plumage, and covered with a greenish skin; that below the under mandible dilatable, like those of the genus Pelicanus; space round the eye, orange; irides, blood-red; cheeks and hind head, a bare black skin; neck, long, covered with short white feathers, some of which, on the upper part of the neck, are tipped with crimson; breast, white, the sides of which are tinged with a brown, burnt color; from the upper part of the breast proceeds a long tuft of fine, hair-like plumage, of a pale rose color; back, white, slightly tinged with brownish; wings, a pale wild rose color, the shafts lake; the shoulders of the wings are covered with a long, hairy plumage, of a deep and splendid carmine;upper and lower tail coverts, the same rich red; belly, rosy; rump, paler; tail, equal at the end, consisting of twelve feathers of a bright brownish orange, the shafts reddish; legs and naked part of the thighs, dark dusky red; feet, half webbed; toes, very long, particularly the hind one. The upper part of the neck had the plumage partly worn away, as if occasioned by resting it on the back, in the manner of the Ibis. The skin on the crown is a little wrinkled; the inside of the wing a much richer red than the outer.”
MEMORY—THE GLEANER.
———
BY ANSON G. CHESTER, A. B.
———
Theharvest-field of Boaz. Like a hostDrawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny menAre there to steal its beauty—and the noiseOf the keen sickle blends with random songs.Close on their track the agile binders hasteTo form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,Which throng the field with golden monumentsTo Industry and Labor.Glance again —Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,So she among the workmen. See! she bends —And with a graceful, stainless hand collectsThe single stalks that else would perish there.’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowersOf generous remembrance—whom, though yearsCounted by centuries have come and gone,Woman delights to love and man to praise.Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,Intent upon its labor, or can catchThe mild expression of her lovely face,Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!While that blest page endures that chroniclesThy winning history for after times,Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,And hearts shall be thy home!Another scene —Behold before thine eye a mightier field —Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,Lo!Memory—The Gleaner.Not like her,The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,But as another Nemesis in look and work.One gleaned to succor life—affection ledHer footsteps to the field and cheered her toil —The other gleans for justice—hoarding upA store of testimony in her garner-place,For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile —View her vocation and its circumstance —Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails —And thy salvation may be thy reward.She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. DayAnd cheerless night are each to her the same;A stranger to vicissitude and change,She gathers up material for Heaven.Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,Yet have no signal claim to merit—theseWere but unwelcome witnesses when thouArt summoned for thy last account to meetWith thine accuser, Memory—and these,If these wereallto testify of thee,Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grainOf Goodness and of Virtue that can winFor thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.. . . . . . . . .Our lives are what we make them—human willMoulds human destiny—spirits on earthBut leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashionethThe form and features of Eternity.Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can riseUpon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.. . . . . . . . .As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean —Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterestInto Life’s furrows shall produce its kindIn generous abundance. Oh! reflectThat thou art sowing for Eternity—that thisThine earthly labor shall be known on high:For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—And as she gleans so shall thy portion be.Her store-house shall be opened—from its depthsHer treasured evidence shall be produced,Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.All else is worthless—but, if thou hast leftUpon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly wayThe perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:That, when thou meetest Memory on high,Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend: —And, counted with the angels, shalt remainIn the eternal childhood of the skies.
Theharvest-field of Boaz. Like a hostDrawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny menAre there to steal its beauty—and the noiseOf the keen sickle blends with random songs.Close on their track the agile binders hasteTo form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,Which throng the field with golden monumentsTo Industry and Labor.Glance again —Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,So she among the workmen. See! she bends —And with a graceful, stainless hand collectsThe single stalks that else would perish there.’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowersOf generous remembrance—whom, though yearsCounted by centuries have come and gone,Woman delights to love and man to praise.Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,Intent upon its labor, or can catchThe mild expression of her lovely face,Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!While that blest page endures that chroniclesThy winning history for after times,Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,And hearts shall be thy home!Another scene —Behold before thine eye a mightier field —Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,Lo!Memory—The Gleaner.Not like her,The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,But as another Nemesis in look and work.One gleaned to succor life—affection ledHer footsteps to the field and cheered her toil —The other gleans for justice—hoarding upA store of testimony in her garner-place,For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile —View her vocation and its circumstance —Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails —And thy salvation may be thy reward.She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. DayAnd cheerless night are each to her the same;A stranger to vicissitude and change,She gathers up material for Heaven.Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,Yet have no signal claim to merit—theseWere but unwelcome witnesses when thouArt summoned for thy last account to meetWith thine accuser, Memory—and these,If these wereallto testify of thee,Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grainOf Goodness and of Virtue that can winFor thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.. . . . . . . . .Our lives are what we make them—human willMoulds human destiny—spirits on earthBut leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashionethThe form and features of Eternity.Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can riseUpon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.. . . . . . . . .As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean —Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterestInto Life’s furrows shall produce its kindIn generous abundance. Oh! reflectThat thou art sowing for Eternity—that thisThine earthly labor shall be known on high:For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—And as she gleans so shall thy portion be.Her store-house shall be opened—from its depthsHer treasured evidence shall be produced,Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.All else is worthless—but, if thou hast leftUpon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly wayThe perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:That, when thou meetest Memory on high,Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend: —And, counted with the angels, shalt remainIn the eternal childhood of the skies.
Theharvest-field of Boaz. Like a hostDrawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny menAre there to steal its beauty—and the noiseOf the keen sickle blends with random songs.Close on their track the agile binders hasteTo form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,Which throng the field with golden monumentsTo Industry and Labor.Glance again —Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,So she among the workmen. See! she bends —And with a graceful, stainless hand collectsThe single stalks that else would perish there.’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowersOf generous remembrance—whom, though yearsCounted by centuries have come and gone,Woman delights to love and man to praise.Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,Intent upon its labor, or can catchThe mild expression of her lovely face,Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!While that blest page endures that chroniclesThy winning history for after times,Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,And hearts shall be thy home!Another scene —Behold before thine eye a mightier field —Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,Lo!Memory—The Gleaner.Not like her,The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,But as another Nemesis in look and work.One gleaned to succor life—affection ledHer footsteps to the field and cheered her toil —The other gleans for justice—hoarding upA store of testimony in her garner-place,For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile —View her vocation and its circumstance —Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails —And thy salvation may be thy reward.
Theharvest-field of Boaz. Like a host
Drawn up for battle stands its yellow grain,
Rustling its own sweet music. Brawny men
Are there to steal its beauty—and the noise
Of the keen sickle blends with random songs.
Close on their track the agile binders haste
To form the lately fallen grain in sheaves,
Which throng the field with golden monuments
To Industry and Labor.
Glance again —
Woman upon the field, the sweet and frail!
Like a young lily in a waste of thorns,
So she among the workmen. See! she bends —
And with a graceful, stainless hand collects
The single stalks that else would perish there.
’Tis gentle Ruth, the meek and beautiful,
Around whose name are wreathed the rarest flowers
Of generous remembrance—whom, though years
Counted by centuries have come and gone,
Woman delights to love and man to praise.
Oh! who can gaze upon her slender form,
Intent upon its labor, or can catch
The mild expression of her lovely face,
Nor feel his veins thrill deeper! Filial Ruth!
While that blest page endures that chronicles
Thy winning history for after times,
Love shall embalm thy name in benisons,
And hearts shall be thy home!
Another scene —
Behold before thine eye a mightier field —
Th’ unmeasured, the illimitable Past!
Yonder, well-busied with her ceaseless toil,
Lo!Memory—The Gleaner.Not like her,
The gentle Moabitess, laboring for love,
But as another Nemesis in look and work.
One gleaned to succor life—affection led
Her footsteps to the field and cheered her toil —
The other gleans for justice—hoarding up
A store of testimony in her garner-place,
For judgment and for Heaven. Pause awhile —
View her vocation and its circumstance —
Give wing to Thought—expand Reflection’s sails —
And thy salvation may be thy reward.
She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. DayAnd cheerless night are each to her the same;A stranger to vicissitude and change,She gathers up material for Heaven.Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,Yet have no signal claim to merit—theseWere but unwelcome witnesses when thouArt summoned for thy last account to meetWith thine accuser, Memory—and these,If these wereallto testify of thee,Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grainOf Goodness and of Virtue that can winFor thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.. . . . . . . . .
She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. DayAnd cheerless night are each to her the same;A stranger to vicissitude and change,She gathers up material for Heaven.Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,Yet have no signal claim to merit—theseWere but unwelcome witnesses when thouArt summoned for thy last account to meetWith thine accuser, Memory—and these,If these wereallto testify of thee,Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grainOf Goodness and of Virtue that can winFor thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.. . . . . . . . .
She stretcheth forth her hand and gleaneth. Day
And cheerless night are each to her the same;
A stranger to vicissitude and change,
She gathers up material for Heaven.
Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,
Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —
And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —
And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —
And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,
Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,
Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —
Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,
Yet have no signal claim to merit—these
Were but unwelcome witnesses when thou
Art summoned for thy last account to meet
With thine accuser, Memory—and these,
If these wereallto testify of thee,
Would seal thy doom with rayless misery:
It is alone the rich, ripe, perfect grain
Of Goodness and of Virtue that can win
For thee the taintless wealth of Paradise.
. . . . . . . . .
Our lives are what we make them—human willMoulds human destiny—spirits on earthBut leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashionethThe form and features of Eternity.Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can riseUpon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.. . . . . . . . .
Our lives are what we make them—human willMoulds human destiny—spirits on earthBut leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashionethThe form and features of Eternity.Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can riseUpon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.. . . . . . . . .
Our lives are what we make them—human will
Moulds human destiny—spirits on earth
But leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s —
Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashioneth
The form and features of Eternity.
Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can rise
Upon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition —
Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven,
Be quenched amid the mists of endless night.
. . . . . . . . .
As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean —Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterestInto Life’s furrows shall produce its kindIn generous abundance. Oh! reflectThat thou art sowing for Eternity—that thisThine earthly labor shall be known on high:For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—And as she gleans so shall thy portion be.
As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean —
Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterest
Into Life’s furrows shall produce its kind
In generous abundance. Oh! reflect
That thou art sowing for Eternity—that this
Thine earthly labor shall be known on high:
For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—
And as she gleans so shall thy portion be.
Her store-house shall be opened—from its depthsHer treasured evidence shall be produced,Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.All else is worthless—but, if thou hast leftUpon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.
Her store-house shall be opened—from its depths
Her treasured evidence shall be produced,
Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible.
All else is worthless—but, if thou hast left
Upon thy pathway pure and sterling grain,
And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee,
Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven,
And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown.
Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly wayThe perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:That, when thou meetest Memory on high,Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend: —And, counted with the angels, shalt remainIn the eternal childhood of the skies.
Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly way
The perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love:
That, when thou meetest Memory on high,
Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ,
Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend: —
And, counted with the angels, shalt remain
In the eternal childhood of the skies.
COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.
COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.
GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.
NO. III.—COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
Whileengaged in writing songs to the native airs of his country, Moore, in a letter to the Countess of Donegal, makes these remarks on Irish music:
“It has been often said, and still oftener felt, that in our music is found the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance succeeded by the languor of despondency—a burst of turbulence, dying away into softness the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next—and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off, or forget the wrongs which lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are even many airs, which it is difficult to listen to, without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems applicable. Sometimes, for instance, when the strain is open and spirited, yet here and there shaded by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose, marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit, forever, the land of their birth—like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated.”
In writing to these melodies, the poet’s task, a most difficult one, was to express sentiments in harmony with the air. To give an intelligible utterance to the feelings pent up in music, whether gay, solemn or mournful. At the time he wrote, Irish patriotism was in the ascendant, and many of the songs had a political bearing. So apparent was this, that the fact was noticed, we believe, by the government, or at least by some high in office. In the following well-known song, so full of the purest pathos, it is not clear to what the poet particularly alluded. If there was an allusion, as is not improbable, to Emmett and Miss Curren, Moore deemed it but an act of prudence to withhold the fact.
“Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.“Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.“Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this —Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”
“Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.“Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.“Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this —Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”
“Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.“Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.“Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this —Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”
“Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
“Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
“Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
“Oh! what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,
Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
“Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this —Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”
“Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I’ll be, ’mid the horrors of this —
Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee—or perish there too.”
At any rate, the sentiments of this song might well be applied to the personages mentioned, even if the poet himself had another application in his mind. Their tenderness is scarcely surpassed by any thing in the language; and there are states of mind with every one in which their repetition would bring tears.
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
Representative Men: Seven Lectures. By R. W. Emerson. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
Representative Men: Seven Lectures. By R. W. Emerson. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.
The subjects of these lectures, originally delivered before New England Lyceums, are Uses of Great Men; Plato, or the Philosopher; Swedenborg, or the Mystic; Montaigne, or the Skeptic; Shakspeare, or the Poet; Napoleon, or the Man of the World; and Goethe, or the Writer; subjects calculated to test the most various powers of the greatest mind, and, as treated by Mr. Emerson, appearing always in an original and fascinating, if not always a true light. The volume we consider, on the whole, the best of Mr. Emerson’s works. It is not, rhetorically speaking, so carefully written as his “Essays,” but it has more human interest, deals more generously with facts, and indicates a broader and more stalwort individuality. It is certainly one of the most fascinating books ever written, whether we consider its subtle verbal felicities, its deep and shrewd observation, its keen criticism, its beautiful mischievousness, its wit or learning, its wisdom or beauty. The best passages may be found in the lectures on Plato, Shakspeare, and Swedenborg; but the best lecture is probably that on Montaigne, which must have been writtencon amore. Indeed, the author seems a kind of Montaigne-Plato, with his eyes wide open both to material and spiritual facts, without a hearty self-surrender to either. There are in the volumes some speculative audacities which, in common with the rest of the human race, we consider equally erroneous and hurtful. In matters of religious faith it may be confidently asserted that mankind is right and Mr. Emerson wrong. Our author puts objectionable doctrines in language which shocks the minds of his readers without conveying to them his real ideas—a blunder, equally as regards prudence and expression.
The excellence of the book is not so much in its representations of the representative men who form its subjects, as in the representation of Mr. Emerson himself; and we doubt if, in all literature, there are revealed many individualities so peculiar, and so powerful in its peculiarity, as the individuality stamped upon every page of the present volume. We would not presume, in our limits, to attempt an analysis of an intellect so curiously complexas Mr. Emerson’s—with traits which strike us as a Parthian’s arrows, shot while he is flying, and which both provoke and defy the pursuit of criticism; but we will extract instead, a few of the beautiful and brilliant sentences which are inserted, like gems, in almost every lecture, and in each of which some sparkle of the writer’s quality appears. The lecture on Goethe is a perfect diamond necklace, shooting out light in every direction, with some flashes that illumine, for the instant, labyrinths of thought which darkness is considered to hold as exclusively her own.
In speaking of the acting of Shakspeare’s plays, he translates into words an emotion which everyone has felt, but which we never dreamed could be perfectly expressed. “The recitation,” he says, “begins; one golden word leaps out immortal from all this painted pedantry,and sweetly torments us with invitations to its own inaccessible homes.” Again, he remarks that Shakspeare is inconceivably wise; all other writers conceivably. “A good reader,” he says, “can, in a sort,nestle into Plato’s brain, and think from thence; but not into Shakspeare’s.We are still out of doors.” Speaking of Montaigne’s use of language, he exclaims, “but these words, and they would bleed; they are vascular and alive.” Of Mr. Emerson’s peculiar wit the present volume is full of Examples. Thus he speaks of “the heaven of law, and the pismire of performance under it;” of Plato as having “clapped copyright on the world;” of the possibility, as regards marriage, of dividing the human race into two classes; “those who are out and want to get in, and those who are in and want to get out;” but quotation of small sentences is impertinent, where so many paragraphs are thoroughly pervaded with the quality.
In speaking of Plato’s mind, Mr. Emerson gives us some of his keenest and most characteristic sentences—sentences in which the thought seems to go in straight lines right at the mark, but to lack a comprehension of relations. In Plato, he says, “the freest abandonment is united with the precision of a geometer. His daring imagination gives him the more solid grasp of facts; as the birds of the highest flight have the strongest alar bones.” . . . “His strength,” he says, a few pages after, “is like the momentum of a falling planet; and his discretion, the return of its due and perfect curve.” Perhaps the best passage, however, in the lecture on Plato, is that in which he describes the divine delirium, in which the philosopher rises into the seer. “He believes that poetry, prophecy, and the high insight, are from a wisdom of which man is not master; that the gods never philosophize; but, by a celestial mania, these miracles are accomplished. Horsed on these winged steeds, he sweeps the dim regions, visits worlds which flesh cannot enter; he saw the souls in pain; he hears the doom of the judge; he beholds the penal metempsychosis; the Fates, with the rock and shears;and hears the intoxicating hum of their spindle.”
Sentences, bright and beautiful as these, might be extracted from this volume to such an extent as to bring upon us an action for violating the copyright. For fineness of wit, imagination, observation, satire and sentiment, the book hardly has its equal in American literature; with its positive opinions we have little to do. With respect to these, it may be generally said, that Mr. Emerson is always beneath the surface, and never at the centre.
The Seaside and the Fireside. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.
The Seaside and the Fireside. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 16mo.
We have not space this month to do much more than refer to this beautiful collection of poems, instinct with sentiment and imagination, and with that drapery of beauty over the whole which constitutes the charm equally of Longfellow’s narratives and meditations. The first poem in the volume is “The Building of the Ship,” a worthy counterpart of Schiller’s “Song of the Bell,” and a grand example of the union of the common with the beautiful. We doubt if any of the poet’s longer compositions will equal it in popularity. To this succeed a number of pieces relating to the sea, of which “The Light House,” and “The Fire of Drift Wood,” appear to us the best. The poems “by the fireside,” commence with “Resignation,” an elegy warm from the author’s heart and imagination, and whose exquisite pathos has been felt and acknowledged all over the country. “The Open Window,” and “The Sand of the Desert,” belonging to this portion of the volume, are fine specimens of two processes of Longfellow’s mind—its subtle suggestiveness and its clear pictorial power. A long poem of twenty-seven pages, translated from the Gascon of Jasmin, entitled “The Blind Girl of Castèl-Cuillè,” is a tragedy whose power, sweetness, and pathos the dullest reader cannot resist. We wish that Mr. Longfellow would give us more specimens of this charming poet, as worthily “Englished” as the present.
We think that none of Mr. Longfellow’s volumes will be received with more favor than this, embodying as it does the best qualities of his muse, and leaving little for even the critic to grumble at but the smallness of its bulk.
Old Portraits and Modern Sketches. By John G. Whittier. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.
Old Portraits and Modern Sketches. By John G. Whittier. Boston: Ticknor, Reed & Fields. 1 vol. 12mo.
This elegantly printed volume, from the press of a firm celebrated all over the country for tasteful books, is one of Mr. Whittier’s most characteristic productions. It contains strongly marked representations of John Bunyan, Thomas Ellwood, James Naylor, Andrew Marvell, John Roberts, Samuel Hopkins, Richard Baxter, William Leggett, Nathaniel P. Rogers, and Robert Dinsmoore. If sympathy be, as Carlyle says, the first condition of insight, there can be no doubt that these striking individualities have sat to the right artist for their portraits. The best pieces in the volume are John Bunyan, Naylor, Marvell and Baxter, which are really mental portraits, glowing with life and meaning. The inspiration of Whittier is impassioned conscience—a conscience as bold and resolute as it is quick and delicate; and wit, imagination, understanding and learning, all work under the direction of this moral force. His general taste is for the strong and daring in action and meditation; his field, the region of great ideas and universal sentiments; but at the same time he has a capacity for embodying the delicacies and refinements of thought and emotion, and in pure pathos and beauty he has few American superiors. All these qualities are displayed in this volume in their most genial action, and the result is a book of equal fineness and power.
History of Spanish Literature. By George Ticknor. New York: Harper & Brothers. 3 vols. 8vo.
History of Spanish Literature. By George Ticknor. New York: Harper & Brothers. 3 vols. 8vo.
Ben Jonson was wont to congratulate himself that his solid dramas were called “works,” while the dramatic productions of his contemporaries were but “plays.” Professor Ticknor’s History is eminently a “work,” the result of twenty years of thought and research. To its erudition no other epithet can apply than Dominie Sampson’s epithet of “prodigious.” Every department of the literature of a whole nation, through some ten centuries of existence, the author has thoroughly mastered. No intellectual history with which we are acquainted rests on such a solid basis of authorities. As the author has had the subject in his thoughts from his youth, his erudition,immense as it is, does not encumber his mind. It does not use him, but he uses it; and the result is that the work has the great merit of clear statement. It is not only full of knowledge, but the knowledge is so presented as to be communicated to every reader. Those who are little interested in the subject as a whole, will still find the work attractive from its biographical matter, its analysis of the plot and characters of different plays, and its fine translations of particular poems and ballads. The accounts given of the stories forming the plots of some of the dramas, are interesting as mere tales.
There are few American books which are so much calculated to raise the foreign estimate of American Scholarship and intelligence as this History of Spanish Literature, and we doubt if there be many men, in Spain or out of Spain, who could have written it.
People I have Met; or Pictures of Society and People of Mark. Drawn under a Thin Veil of Fiction. By N. Parker Willis. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.
People I have Met; or Pictures of Society and People of Mark. Drawn under a Thin Veil of Fiction. By N. Parker Willis. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol. 12mo.
In this elegant volume we have a collection of Mr. Willis’s tales and sketches, recording the results of his intercourse with society on both sides of the Atlantic. It indicates that the author’s practical observation of men and things is as acute and sure as if his head did not contain the most trickery and exuberant of human fancies. No one can read the volume without delight, and without having his knowledge of society increased. It is a fit companion to the “Rural Letters,” being as full of the world as those are of nature. The writer’s sunny and sportive, keen and sparkling mind, glances and gleams through every story and sketch; and over the whole there is that indefinable grace, which the poet alone can communicate to the things of convention, and which almost lifts them into an ideal region of existence.
Monuments of Egypt; or Egypt a Witness for the Bible. By Francis L. Hawks, D. D., LL. D. With Notes of a Voyage up the Nile. By an American. New York; Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 8vo.
Monuments of Egypt; or Egypt a Witness for the Bible. By Francis L. Hawks, D. D., LL. D. With Notes of a Voyage up the Nile. By an American. New York; Geo. P. Putnam. 1 vol. 8vo.
Mr. Putnam has got up this volume with his usual indifference to expense, and his usual regard for typographical beauty. The illustrative engravings are exactly what the reader wants to assist him in the comprehension of the text. Dr. Hawks refuses, in the preface, the name of author, preferring the more modest appellation of compiler; but we should like to see many more compilations from the same source. He has carefully studied the works of the great English and French savons and travelers relating to the subject, and has presented in clear language the truths which they have established. We commend the book to all who are desirous of accurate information about a most interesting country, in its past and present condition.
A System of Ancient and Mediæval Geography, for the Use of Schools and Colleges. By Charles Anthon, LL. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo.
A System of Ancient and Mediæval Geography, for the Use of Schools and Colleges. By Charles Anthon, LL. D. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo.
This solid and well printed volume is but one out of many proofs of the author’s extensive erudition and classical enthusiasm. We are incompetent to speak of its value as a class-book, but certainly can bear testimony to its wealth of information relating to ancient countries, and its interest to all who are students of ancient history. The work rests on a solid foundation of over a hundred authorities, German, English, and French, and indicates on every page a scholarship as minute in details as it is large in its grasp. In the limits of some seven hundred and fifty octavo pages, crammed rather than filled with matter, Dr. Anthon has almost compressed a library of knowledge.