JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN.

(‡ decoration)JANE GOODWIN AUSTIN.THE STORY-TELLER OF THE PILGRIMS.THIS famous daughter of the Pilgrims has become a specialist in their behalf, and has pledged her remaining years to develop their story. Every summer she visits Plymouth, where she constantly studies not only the written records of the Pilgrim Fathers, but the crumbling gravestones and the oral traditions which have come down among their descendants. Her contribution to the literature of early New England possesses a rare value, found, perhaps, in no other writer, enriched from her intimate knowledge of the pioneers of the Eastern Colonists gained from her long study, thorough reading, and a careful investigation of their history and traditions.Mrs.Austin was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1831. Her parents were from Plymouth, and counted their lineage back to the Mayflower Pilgrims in no less than eight distinct lines. She also claims a descent from Francis le Baron; thus, believers in heredity will recognize in this the root ofMrs.Austin’s remarkable devotion to Pilgrim stories and traditions. Her father, Isaac Goodwin, was a lawyer of considerable prominence, and had also devoted much study to genealogy. Her brother, the Honorable John A. Goodwin, was the author of “The Pilgrim Republic,” which is considered the best history of the settlement of Plymouth. Her mother, besides being a poet and song-writer, was also a lover of the traditions and anecdotes of her native region, and many of the stories embodied inMrs.Austin’s later works she has heard as a child at her mother’s knee, especially those relating to “The Nameless Nobleman,” “Francis le Baron and His Family.”Among the best ofMrs.Austin’s Pilgrim story-books are “The Nameless Nobleman” (1881); “Standish of Standish” (1889); “Doctor le Baron and His Daughters” (1890); and “Betty Alden” (1891). These cover the ground from the landing of the Pilgrims upon Plymouth Rock in 1620 to the days of the Revolution in 1775. Aside from these books,Mrs.Austin has produced in addition to a number of magazine stories and some poems, “Fairy Dream” (1859); “Dora Darling” (1865); “Outpost” (1866); “Taylor Boy” (1867); “Cypher” (1869); “The Shadow of Moloch Mountains” (1870); “Moon-Folk” (1874); “Mrs.Beauchamp Brown” (1880); and “Nantucket Scraps” (1882). Since 1891Mrs.Austin has added a fifth volume to her “Pilgrim Stories,” completing the series. All of her writings are in a finished style, remarkable alike for delicacy, purity and clearness of expression, and her work is distinctly American.PersonallyMrs.Austin is a charming woman, much beloved by those who know her best. She has three children, and her home is with a married daughter at Roxbury, Massachusetts; but she spends much of her time in Boston.AN AFTERNOON INNANTUCKET.¹FROM “NANTUCKET SCRAPS,” 1883.¹Copyright,Jas.R. Osgood.THE drowsy hours of afternoon were devoted to the museum, collected and exhibited by the public-spirited widow of a sea-captain named McCleve. An upper room to her comfortable house is devoted to the curios, although, like attar of roses, or some penetrating oils, they seem to have saturated the entire mansion,—the good-natured proprietress occasionally haling a favored guest away from the rest to look at some quaint picture, piece of china, or bit of furniture in her own private apartments. The party of twelve or fourteen collected on this special afternoon were taken to the upper room and seated around a small table, as if for a spiritualséance, the hostess arranging precedence and proximity with an autocratic good-humor to which everybody yielded except the señor, who, standing looking in at the door, was presently accosted with—“That gentleman at the door—why—I’ve seen that face before! Don’t you tell me it’s Sam!”“No, I won’t, Aunty McCleve, for you’d be sure to contradict me if I did,” replied the señor, coolly; whereupon Aunty shook him affectionately by the hand, assuring him he was the same “saucy boy” he used to be, and dragged him most reluctantly to a seat in the magical circle.“At what period of the entertainment do we pay?” inquired one of the persons one meets everywhere, and who may be called the whit-leather of society.Mrs.McCleve looked at him with an appreciative eye for a moment, and then quietly replied:“Well, it isn’t often people bring it out quite so plain as that, but I guessyou’dbetter pay now before you forget it.” Whit-leather does not suffer from sarcasm, and the practical man, producing a quarter of a dollar, held it tight while asking—“Have you got ten cents change?”“No, brother; but you can keep your quarter till I have,” replied Aunty, with the quiet gleam still in her eye, and the business was soon adjusted. This over, she placed upon the table a tray containing some really exquisite carvings in whale’s-tooth ivory, comprising a set of napkin-rings, thread-winders, spoons of various sizes, knife-handles, and several specimens of a utensil peculiar to Nantucket, called a jagging-knife, used for carving ornamental patterns in pastry,—a species of embroidery for which Nantucket housewives were once famous, although, “pity ’tis, ’tis true,” they have now largely emancipated themselves from such arts.As the guests examined these really wonderful products of talent almost unaided by implements or training, one of the ladies naturally inquired: “Who did these?” The hostess assumed a sibylline attitude and tone: “Perhaps, my dear, you can tell us that; and if so, you’ll be the first one I ever met that could.” This obscure intimation of course awakened an interest far deeper than the carvings, in every mind; and in reply to a shower of questioning the sibyl gave a long and intricate narration, beginning with the presence on board of her husband’s whale-ship of a mystic youth with the manners and bearing of Porphyrogenitus, and the rating of a common sailor; the delicate suggestion of a disguised lady was also dimly introduced. What succeeds is yet more wonderful, as Scheherezade always said when obliged to cut short the story that the Sultan might get up and say his prayers; but we will not evadeMrs.McCleve’s copyright by telling it, simply advising everyone to go and listen to it.“Two, four, six, eight, ten—elev-en!” counted she at the end, picking up the napkin-rings; “I don’t seem to see that twelfth ring!” and she looked hard at the unfortunate that had acquired her dislike in the first of the interview by an unfeeling allusion to money.“Here it is, Aunty,” remarked the señor. “I wanted to hear you ask after it.”“Now, look at here, Sammy, you’re too old forsuch tricks,”♦expostulated the dame, in precisely the tone one admonishes a child; and then turning to the company generally she added confidentially:♦‘exposulated’ replaced with ‘expostulated’“I ain’t one of them that’s given to suspicion, and it ain’t a Nantucket failing; but last summer there was a boy, one of those half-grown critters, you know, neither beef nor veal, and I just saw him pocket—well, it was that very knife-handle. I always kept an eye on it since, thinking it might be off yet. So I waited till I saw he actooally meant it, and was fixing to go off with it, and then says I:“‘Well, sonny, going to unload before you start out on a new v’yge?’ So that’s all about the carvings; and these are shark’s teeth,—none of your Wauwinet sand-sharks that would run away from a puppy-dog no bigger than that, but a reg’lar man-eater off the West Indies; and these very teeth took a man’s leg off.”“Horrible!” cried one, while another, one of the persistent souls who must finish A before they begin B, inquired: “But did the boy give up the knife-handle?”“Why, of course he did, my dear, since that’s it,” replied the hostess compassionately; and then, with the inborn courtesy peculiar to Nantucket folk, turned aside the laugh that followed by hastily displaying some new marvel. The room was crowded with marine curiosities, many of them brought home by the deceased captain, many of them presented to his relict by his comrades or by her own friends; they were mostly such as we have seen many times in many places, but some few weresui generis, such as a marriage contract between a Quaker bachelor and maid in the early days of the island, with the signatures of half the settlers appended as witnesses, mutual consent before others being the only ceremony required by the canon of these Non-sacramentarians. Then there was Phœbe Ann’s comb, a wonderful work of art in tortoise shell, anent which the possessor, Phœbe Ann’s sister, delivered a short original poem, setting forth how ardently Phœbe Ann had desired one of these immense combs, their price being eight dollars each; and how, having engaged it, she set to work to earn it by picking berries for sale; but before the pence had grown to the pounds the big comb was out of fashion, and poor Phœbe Ann’s hair, which had been wonderfully luxuriant, fell off through illness, and what remained was cut short. Nantucket probity would not, however, be off its bargain for such cause as this; and Phœbe Ann paid her money and took her ornamental comb,—more useful in its present connection, perhaps, than it could have been in any other. The crown and glory ofMrs.McCleve’s museum, however, is a carved wooden vase, twelve or fourteen inches in height, made from the top of one of the red-cedar posts planted a century or two since by this lady’s ancestor, to inclose a certain parcel of land belonging to him. Twenty or thirty years ago the fence was to be renewed, and one of her cousins proposed to her to drive out to the place and secure a relic of the original island cedar now extinct. She accepted; and the section of the post, sawed off with great exertion by the cousin, was turned and carved into its present shape in “Cousin Reuben Macy’s shop on Orange Street.”But all this set forth in an original poem delivered with much unction by its author, who decisively refuses a copy to any and everybody, and is even chary of letting any one listen to it more than once. It is original—in fact, one may say, intensely original—and quite as well worth listening to as the saga of a royal skald. It begins after this fashion:“This vase, of which we have in contemplation,Merits, my friends, your careful observation.Saturday, the busiest day of all,From Cousin Thomas I received a call.”Some lost couplets record the invitation to drive, and the demur on account of pies then baking in the oven; but this being overruled by masculine persuasiveness—“Across the hall I gayly skipped,And soon was for the cruise equipped.”Then follows the drive, the arrival, and the attempt to cut the stern old cedar trunk with a dull saw,—“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation,Until he was in a profuse perspiration,”and finally secured the trophy here exhibited. But these stray couplets give a very inadequate idea of the poem as delivered by its author; and he whovisits Nantucket and does not hear it has for the rest of his life a lost opportunity to lament.Just at the close of the recital the poetess fixed her eye steadily upon a figure beside one of the windows, and sternly inquired:“Is that woman sick? Why don’t somebody see to her?”It was true that the culprit, overcome by the heat of the room, the excitement of the narrative, and possibly certain ancient and fish-like odors connected with the marine specimens, had fainted a little; but was speedily recovered by the usual remedies, prominent among which in those days is a disinclination to have one’s crimps spoiled by the application of water; and the incident was made more memorable by the valedictory of the hostess:“Now, if any of you want to come in again while you stay on the island you can, without paying anything; and if I don’t remember you, just say, ‘I was here the day the woman fainted,’ and I shall know it’s all right.” And we heard that the experiment was tried and succeeded.As the party left the house the señor lingered to say: “We are going up to the old windmill, Aunty. Didn’t it belong to your family once?”“I should say it did, Sammy. They wanted a windmill and didn’t know how to make one: and they got an off-islander, name of Wilbur, to make it, and like fools gave him the money beforehand. He went back to the continent for something—nails maybe, or maybe idees—and carried the money with him; some pirate or other got wind of it, and the first thing they knew down here, the man was robbed and murdered there on Cape Cod. That didn’t put up the windmill though, and the women had got almost tired grinding their samp and meal in those old stone mortars, or even a handmill; so some of the folks spoke to my grandfather, Elisha Macy, about it, and he thought it over, and finally went to bed and dreamed just how to build it, and the next day got up and built it. That’s the story ofthat, my dear.”“A regular case of revelation, wasn’t it?” suggested the señor with a twinkle in his eye; to which the hostess rather sharply replied:“I don’t profess to know much about revealation, and I don’t surmise you know much more, Sammy; but that’s how the windmill was built.”History adds another anecdote of the windmill, worthy to be preserved for its Nantucket flavor. Eighty-two years from its marvelous inception, the mill had grown so old and infirm that its owners concluded to sell it for lumber if need be. A meeting was called, and Jared Gardner, the man who was supposed to be wisest in mills of any on the island, was invited to attend, and succinctly asked by Sylvanus Macy—“Jared, what will thee give for the mill without the stones?”“Not one penny, Sylvanus,” replied Jared as succinctly; and the other—“What will thee give for it as it stands, Jared?”“I don’t feel to want it at any price, friend,” replied Jared indifferently.The mill-owners consulted, and presently returned to the charge with—“Jared, thee must make us an offer.”“Well, then, twenty dollars for firewood, Sylvanus.”The offer was accepted immediately; the shrewd Jared did not burn his mill, even to roast a suckling pig; but repaired and used it to his own and his neighbor’s advantage, until the day of his death.

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THE STORY-TELLER OF THE PILGRIMS.

THIS famous daughter of the Pilgrims has become a specialist in their behalf, and has pledged her remaining years to develop their story. Every summer she visits Plymouth, where she constantly studies not only the written records of the Pilgrim Fathers, but the crumbling gravestones and the oral traditions which have come down among their descendants. Her contribution to the literature of early New England possesses a rare value, found, perhaps, in no other writer, enriched from her intimate knowledge of the pioneers of the Eastern Colonists gained from her long study, thorough reading, and a careful investigation of their history and traditions.

Mrs.Austin was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1831. Her parents were from Plymouth, and counted their lineage back to the Mayflower Pilgrims in no less than eight distinct lines. She also claims a descent from Francis le Baron; thus, believers in heredity will recognize in this the root ofMrs.Austin’s remarkable devotion to Pilgrim stories and traditions. Her father, Isaac Goodwin, was a lawyer of considerable prominence, and had also devoted much study to genealogy. Her brother, the Honorable John A. Goodwin, was the author of “The Pilgrim Republic,” which is considered the best history of the settlement of Plymouth. Her mother, besides being a poet and song-writer, was also a lover of the traditions and anecdotes of her native region, and many of the stories embodied inMrs.Austin’s later works she has heard as a child at her mother’s knee, especially those relating to “The Nameless Nobleman,” “Francis le Baron and His Family.”

Among the best ofMrs.Austin’s Pilgrim story-books are “The Nameless Nobleman” (1881); “Standish of Standish” (1889); “Doctor le Baron and His Daughters” (1890); and “Betty Alden” (1891). These cover the ground from the landing of the Pilgrims upon Plymouth Rock in 1620 to the days of the Revolution in 1775. Aside from these books,Mrs.Austin has produced in addition to a number of magazine stories and some poems, “Fairy Dream” (1859); “Dora Darling” (1865); “Outpost” (1866); “Taylor Boy” (1867); “Cypher” (1869); “The Shadow of Moloch Mountains” (1870); “Moon-Folk” (1874); “Mrs.Beauchamp Brown” (1880); and “Nantucket Scraps” (1882). Since 1891Mrs.Austin has added a fifth volume to her “Pilgrim Stories,” completing the series. All of her writings are in a finished style, remarkable alike for delicacy, purity and clearness of expression, and her work is distinctly American.

PersonallyMrs.Austin is a charming woman, much beloved by those who know her best. She has three children, and her home is with a married daughter at Roxbury, Massachusetts; but she spends much of her time in Boston.

AN AFTERNOON INNANTUCKET.¹

FROM “NANTUCKET SCRAPS,” 1883.

¹Copyright,Jas.R. Osgood.

THE drowsy hours of afternoon were devoted to the museum, collected and exhibited by the public-spirited widow of a sea-captain named McCleve. An upper room to her comfortable house is devoted to the curios, although, like attar of roses, or some penetrating oils, they seem to have saturated the entire mansion,—the good-natured proprietress occasionally haling a favored guest away from the rest to look at some quaint picture, piece of china, or bit of furniture in her own private apartments. The party of twelve or fourteen collected on this special afternoon were taken to the upper room and seated around a small table, as if for a spiritualséance, the hostess arranging precedence and proximity with an autocratic good-humor to which everybody yielded except the señor, who, standing looking in at the door, was presently accosted with—“That gentleman at the door—why—I’ve seen that face before! Don’t you tell me it’s Sam!”“No, I won’t, Aunty McCleve, for you’d be sure to contradict me if I did,” replied the señor, coolly; whereupon Aunty shook him affectionately by the hand, assuring him he was the same “saucy boy” he used to be, and dragged him most reluctantly to a seat in the magical circle.“At what period of the entertainment do we pay?” inquired one of the persons one meets everywhere, and who may be called the whit-leather of society.Mrs.McCleve looked at him with an appreciative eye for a moment, and then quietly replied:“Well, it isn’t often people bring it out quite so plain as that, but I guessyou’dbetter pay now before you forget it.” Whit-leather does not suffer from sarcasm, and the practical man, producing a quarter of a dollar, held it tight while asking—“Have you got ten cents change?”“No, brother; but you can keep your quarter till I have,” replied Aunty, with the quiet gleam still in her eye, and the business was soon adjusted. This over, she placed upon the table a tray containing some really exquisite carvings in whale’s-tooth ivory, comprising a set of napkin-rings, thread-winders, spoons of various sizes, knife-handles, and several specimens of a utensil peculiar to Nantucket, called a jagging-knife, used for carving ornamental patterns in pastry,—a species of embroidery for which Nantucket housewives were once famous, although, “pity ’tis, ’tis true,” they have now largely emancipated themselves from such arts.As the guests examined these really wonderful products of talent almost unaided by implements or training, one of the ladies naturally inquired: “Who did these?” The hostess assumed a sibylline attitude and tone: “Perhaps, my dear, you can tell us that; and if so, you’ll be the first one I ever met that could.” This obscure intimation of course awakened an interest far deeper than the carvings, in every mind; and in reply to a shower of questioning the sibyl gave a long and intricate narration, beginning with the presence on board of her husband’s whale-ship of a mystic youth with the manners and bearing of Porphyrogenitus, and the rating of a common sailor; the delicate suggestion of a disguised lady was also dimly introduced. What succeeds is yet more wonderful, as Scheherezade always said when obliged to cut short the story that the Sultan might get up and say his prayers; but we will not evadeMrs.McCleve’s copyright by telling it, simply advising everyone to go and listen to it.“Two, four, six, eight, ten—elev-en!” counted she at the end, picking up the napkin-rings; “I don’t seem to see that twelfth ring!” and she looked hard at the unfortunate that had acquired her dislike in the first of the interview by an unfeeling allusion to money.“Here it is, Aunty,” remarked the señor. “I wanted to hear you ask after it.”“Now, look at here, Sammy, you’re too old forsuch tricks,”♦expostulated the dame, in precisely the tone one admonishes a child; and then turning to the company generally she added confidentially:♦‘exposulated’ replaced with ‘expostulated’“I ain’t one of them that’s given to suspicion, and it ain’t a Nantucket failing; but last summer there was a boy, one of those half-grown critters, you know, neither beef nor veal, and I just saw him pocket—well, it was that very knife-handle. I always kept an eye on it since, thinking it might be off yet. So I waited till I saw he actooally meant it, and was fixing to go off with it, and then says I:“‘Well, sonny, going to unload before you start out on a new v’yge?’ So that’s all about the carvings; and these are shark’s teeth,—none of your Wauwinet sand-sharks that would run away from a puppy-dog no bigger than that, but a reg’lar man-eater off the West Indies; and these very teeth took a man’s leg off.”“Horrible!” cried one, while another, one of the persistent souls who must finish A before they begin B, inquired: “But did the boy give up the knife-handle?”“Why, of course he did, my dear, since that’s it,” replied the hostess compassionately; and then, with the inborn courtesy peculiar to Nantucket folk, turned aside the laugh that followed by hastily displaying some new marvel. The room was crowded with marine curiosities, many of them brought home by the deceased captain, many of them presented to his relict by his comrades or by her own friends; they were mostly such as we have seen many times in many places, but some few weresui generis, such as a marriage contract between a Quaker bachelor and maid in the early days of the island, with the signatures of half the settlers appended as witnesses, mutual consent before others being the only ceremony required by the canon of these Non-sacramentarians. Then there was Phœbe Ann’s comb, a wonderful work of art in tortoise shell, anent which the possessor, Phœbe Ann’s sister, delivered a short original poem, setting forth how ardently Phœbe Ann had desired one of these immense combs, their price being eight dollars each; and how, having engaged it, she set to work to earn it by picking berries for sale; but before the pence had grown to the pounds the big comb was out of fashion, and poor Phœbe Ann’s hair, which had been wonderfully luxuriant, fell off through illness, and what remained was cut short. Nantucket probity would not, however, be off its bargain for such cause as this; and Phœbe Ann paid her money and took her ornamental comb,—more useful in its present connection, perhaps, than it could have been in any other. The crown and glory ofMrs.McCleve’s museum, however, is a carved wooden vase, twelve or fourteen inches in height, made from the top of one of the red-cedar posts planted a century or two since by this lady’s ancestor, to inclose a certain parcel of land belonging to him. Twenty or thirty years ago the fence was to be renewed, and one of her cousins proposed to her to drive out to the place and secure a relic of the original island cedar now extinct. She accepted; and the section of the post, sawed off with great exertion by the cousin, was turned and carved into its present shape in “Cousin Reuben Macy’s shop on Orange Street.”But all this set forth in an original poem delivered with much unction by its author, who decisively refuses a copy to any and everybody, and is even chary of letting any one listen to it more than once. It is original—in fact, one may say, intensely original—and quite as well worth listening to as the saga of a royal skald. It begins after this fashion:“This vase, of which we have in contemplation,Merits, my friends, your careful observation.Saturday, the busiest day of all,From Cousin Thomas I received a call.”Some lost couplets record the invitation to drive, and the demur on account of pies then baking in the oven; but this being overruled by masculine persuasiveness—“Across the hall I gayly skipped,And soon was for the cruise equipped.”Then follows the drive, the arrival, and the attempt to cut the stern old cedar trunk with a dull saw,—“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation,Until he was in a profuse perspiration,”and finally secured the trophy here exhibited. But these stray couplets give a very inadequate idea of the poem as delivered by its author; and he whovisits Nantucket and does not hear it has for the rest of his life a lost opportunity to lament.Just at the close of the recital the poetess fixed her eye steadily upon a figure beside one of the windows, and sternly inquired:“Is that woman sick? Why don’t somebody see to her?”It was true that the culprit, overcome by the heat of the room, the excitement of the narrative, and possibly certain ancient and fish-like odors connected with the marine specimens, had fainted a little; but was speedily recovered by the usual remedies, prominent among which in those days is a disinclination to have one’s crimps spoiled by the application of water; and the incident was made more memorable by the valedictory of the hostess:“Now, if any of you want to come in again while you stay on the island you can, without paying anything; and if I don’t remember you, just say, ‘I was here the day the woman fainted,’ and I shall know it’s all right.” And we heard that the experiment was tried and succeeded.As the party left the house the señor lingered to say: “We are going up to the old windmill, Aunty. Didn’t it belong to your family once?”“I should say it did, Sammy. They wanted a windmill and didn’t know how to make one: and they got an off-islander, name of Wilbur, to make it, and like fools gave him the money beforehand. He went back to the continent for something—nails maybe, or maybe idees—and carried the money with him; some pirate or other got wind of it, and the first thing they knew down here, the man was robbed and murdered there on Cape Cod. That didn’t put up the windmill though, and the women had got almost tired grinding their samp and meal in those old stone mortars, or even a handmill; so some of the folks spoke to my grandfather, Elisha Macy, about it, and he thought it over, and finally went to bed and dreamed just how to build it, and the next day got up and built it. That’s the story ofthat, my dear.”“A regular case of revelation, wasn’t it?” suggested the señor with a twinkle in his eye; to which the hostess rather sharply replied:“I don’t profess to know much about revealation, and I don’t surmise you know much more, Sammy; but that’s how the windmill was built.”History adds another anecdote of the windmill, worthy to be preserved for its Nantucket flavor. Eighty-two years from its marvelous inception, the mill had grown so old and infirm that its owners concluded to sell it for lumber if need be. A meeting was called, and Jared Gardner, the man who was supposed to be wisest in mills of any on the island, was invited to attend, and succinctly asked by Sylvanus Macy—“Jared, what will thee give for the mill without the stones?”“Not one penny, Sylvanus,” replied Jared as succinctly; and the other—“What will thee give for it as it stands, Jared?”“I don’t feel to want it at any price, friend,” replied Jared indifferently.The mill-owners consulted, and presently returned to the charge with—“Jared, thee must make us an offer.”“Well, then, twenty dollars for firewood, Sylvanus.”The offer was accepted immediately; the shrewd Jared did not burn his mill, even to roast a suckling pig; but repaired and used it to his own and his neighbor’s advantage, until the day of his death.

“That gentleman at the door—why—I’ve seen that face before! Don’t you tell me it’s Sam!”

“No, I won’t, Aunty McCleve, for you’d be sure to contradict me if I did,” replied the señor, coolly; whereupon Aunty shook him affectionately by the hand, assuring him he was the same “saucy boy” he used to be, and dragged him most reluctantly to a seat in the magical circle.

“At what period of the entertainment do we pay?” inquired one of the persons one meets everywhere, and who may be called the whit-leather of society.Mrs.McCleve looked at him with an appreciative eye for a moment, and then quietly replied:

“Well, it isn’t often people bring it out quite so plain as that, but I guessyou’dbetter pay now before you forget it.” Whit-leather does not suffer from sarcasm, and the practical man, producing a quarter of a dollar, held it tight while asking—

“Have you got ten cents change?”

“No, brother; but you can keep your quarter till I have,” replied Aunty, with the quiet gleam still in her eye, and the business was soon adjusted. This over, she placed upon the table a tray containing some really exquisite carvings in whale’s-tooth ivory, comprising a set of napkin-rings, thread-winders, spoons of various sizes, knife-handles, and several specimens of a utensil peculiar to Nantucket, called a jagging-knife, used for carving ornamental patterns in pastry,—a species of embroidery for which Nantucket housewives were once famous, although, “pity ’tis, ’tis true,” they have now largely emancipated themselves from such arts.

As the guests examined these really wonderful products of talent almost unaided by implements or training, one of the ladies naturally inquired: “Who did these?” The hostess assumed a sibylline attitude and tone: “Perhaps, my dear, you can tell us that; and if so, you’ll be the first one I ever met that could.” This obscure intimation of course awakened an interest far deeper than the carvings, in every mind; and in reply to a shower of questioning the sibyl gave a long and intricate narration, beginning with the presence on board of her husband’s whale-ship of a mystic youth with the manners and bearing of Porphyrogenitus, and the rating of a common sailor; the delicate suggestion of a disguised lady was also dimly introduced. What succeeds is yet more wonderful, as Scheherezade always said when obliged to cut short the story that the Sultan might get up and say his prayers; but we will not evadeMrs.McCleve’s copyright by telling it, simply advising everyone to go and listen to it.

“Two, four, six, eight, ten—elev-en!” counted she at the end, picking up the napkin-rings; “I don’t seem to see that twelfth ring!” and she looked hard at the unfortunate that had acquired her dislike in the first of the interview by an unfeeling allusion to money.

“Here it is, Aunty,” remarked the señor. “I wanted to hear you ask after it.”

“Now, look at here, Sammy, you’re too old forsuch tricks,”♦expostulated the dame, in precisely the tone one admonishes a child; and then turning to the company generally she added confidentially:

♦‘exposulated’ replaced with ‘expostulated’

“I ain’t one of them that’s given to suspicion, and it ain’t a Nantucket failing; but last summer there was a boy, one of those half-grown critters, you know, neither beef nor veal, and I just saw him pocket—well, it was that very knife-handle. I always kept an eye on it since, thinking it might be off yet. So I waited till I saw he actooally meant it, and was fixing to go off with it, and then says I:

“‘Well, sonny, going to unload before you start out on a new v’yge?’ So that’s all about the carvings; and these are shark’s teeth,—none of your Wauwinet sand-sharks that would run away from a puppy-dog no bigger than that, but a reg’lar man-eater off the West Indies; and these very teeth took a man’s leg off.”

“Horrible!” cried one, while another, one of the persistent souls who must finish A before they begin B, inquired: “But did the boy give up the knife-handle?”

“Why, of course he did, my dear, since that’s it,” replied the hostess compassionately; and then, with the inborn courtesy peculiar to Nantucket folk, turned aside the laugh that followed by hastily displaying some new marvel. The room was crowded with marine curiosities, many of them brought home by the deceased captain, many of them presented to his relict by his comrades or by her own friends; they were mostly such as we have seen many times in many places, but some few weresui generis, such as a marriage contract between a Quaker bachelor and maid in the early days of the island, with the signatures of half the settlers appended as witnesses, mutual consent before others being the only ceremony required by the canon of these Non-sacramentarians. Then there was Phœbe Ann’s comb, a wonderful work of art in tortoise shell, anent which the possessor, Phœbe Ann’s sister, delivered a short original poem, setting forth how ardently Phœbe Ann had desired one of these immense combs, their price being eight dollars each; and how, having engaged it, she set to work to earn it by picking berries for sale; but before the pence had grown to the pounds the big comb was out of fashion, and poor Phœbe Ann’s hair, which had been wonderfully luxuriant, fell off through illness, and what remained was cut short. Nantucket probity would not, however, be off its bargain for such cause as this; and Phœbe Ann paid her money and took her ornamental comb,—more useful in its present connection, perhaps, than it could have been in any other. The crown and glory ofMrs.McCleve’s museum, however, is a carved wooden vase, twelve or fourteen inches in height, made from the top of one of the red-cedar posts planted a century or two since by this lady’s ancestor, to inclose a certain parcel of land belonging to him. Twenty or thirty years ago the fence was to be renewed, and one of her cousins proposed to her to drive out to the place and secure a relic of the original island cedar now extinct. She accepted; and the section of the post, sawed off with great exertion by the cousin, was turned and carved into its present shape in “Cousin Reuben Macy’s shop on Orange Street.”

But all this set forth in an original poem delivered with much unction by its author, who decisively refuses a copy to any and everybody, and is even chary of letting any one listen to it more than once. It is original—in fact, one may say, intensely original—and quite as well worth listening to as the saga of a royal skald. It begins after this fashion:

“This vase, of which we have in contemplation,Merits, my friends, your careful observation.Saturday, the busiest day of all,From Cousin Thomas I received a call.”

“This vase, of which we have in contemplation,

Merits, my friends, your careful observation.

Saturday, the busiest day of all,

From Cousin Thomas I received a call.”

Some lost couplets record the invitation to drive, and the demur on account of pies then baking in the oven; but this being overruled by masculine persuasiveness—

“Across the hall I gayly skipped,And soon was for the cruise equipped.”

“Across the hall I gayly skipped,

And soon was for the cruise equipped.”

Then follows the drive, the arrival, and the attempt to cut the stern old cedar trunk with a dull saw,—

“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation,Until he was in a profuse perspiration,”

“Cousin Thomas worked with desperation,

Until he was in a profuse perspiration,”

and finally secured the trophy here exhibited. But these stray couplets give a very inadequate idea of the poem as delivered by its author; and he whovisits Nantucket and does not hear it has for the rest of his life a lost opportunity to lament.

Just at the close of the recital the poetess fixed her eye steadily upon a figure beside one of the windows, and sternly inquired:

“Is that woman sick? Why don’t somebody see to her?”

It was true that the culprit, overcome by the heat of the room, the excitement of the narrative, and possibly certain ancient and fish-like odors connected with the marine specimens, had fainted a little; but was speedily recovered by the usual remedies, prominent among which in those days is a disinclination to have one’s crimps spoiled by the application of water; and the incident was made more memorable by the valedictory of the hostess:

“Now, if any of you want to come in again while you stay on the island you can, without paying anything; and if I don’t remember you, just say, ‘I was here the day the woman fainted,’ and I shall know it’s all right.” And we heard that the experiment was tried and succeeded.

As the party left the house the señor lingered to say: “We are going up to the old windmill, Aunty. Didn’t it belong to your family once?”

“I should say it did, Sammy. They wanted a windmill and didn’t know how to make one: and they got an off-islander, name of Wilbur, to make it, and like fools gave him the money beforehand. He went back to the continent for something—nails maybe, or maybe idees—and carried the money with him; some pirate or other got wind of it, and the first thing they knew down here, the man was robbed and murdered there on Cape Cod. That didn’t put up the windmill though, and the women had got almost tired grinding their samp and meal in those old stone mortars, or even a handmill; so some of the folks spoke to my grandfather, Elisha Macy, about it, and he thought it over, and finally went to bed and dreamed just how to build it, and the next day got up and built it. That’s the story ofthat, my dear.”

“A regular case of revelation, wasn’t it?” suggested the señor with a twinkle in his eye; to which the hostess rather sharply replied:

“I don’t profess to know much about revealation, and I don’t surmise you know much more, Sammy; but that’s how the windmill was built.”

History adds another anecdote of the windmill, worthy to be preserved for its Nantucket flavor. Eighty-two years from its marvelous inception, the mill had grown so old and infirm that its owners concluded to sell it for lumber if need be. A meeting was called, and Jared Gardner, the man who was supposed to be wisest in mills of any on the island, was invited to attend, and succinctly asked by Sylvanus Macy—

“Jared, what will thee give for the mill without the stones?”

“Not one penny, Sylvanus,” replied Jared as succinctly; and the other—

“What will thee give for it as it stands, Jared?”

“I don’t feel to want it at any price, friend,” replied Jared indifferently.

The mill-owners consulted, and presently returned to the charge with—

“Jared, thee must make us an offer.”

“Well, then, twenty dollars for firewood, Sylvanus.”

The offer was accepted immediately; the shrewd Jared did not burn his mill, even to roast a suckling pig; but repaired and used it to his own and his neighbor’s advantage, until the day of his death.

REPRESENTATIVE WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA.WOMEN POETS OF AMERICAPHOEBE CARY•ALICE CARYLUCY LARCOM•LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTONLYDIA H. SIGOURNEY•ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH(‡ decoration)LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.PIONEER FEMALE POET OF AMERICA.MRS.SIGOURNEY, was among the first, and is the most voluminous of all the early female poets of America. In fact she has been, up to this date, one of the most prolific of all the women writers of our country, having published fifty-six volumes of poetry and prose, the first appearing in 1815, and the last in 1863,♦forty-eight years later. Her most successful efforts are her occasional poems, which abound in passages of earnest, well expressed thought, and exhibit in their graver moods characteristics of a mind trained by exercise in self-knowledge and self-control. Her writings possess energy and variety, while her wide and earnest sympathy with all topics of friendship and philanthropy was always at the service of those interests.Mr.Edward H. Everett in a review ofMrs.Sigourney’s works declared: “They express with great purity and evident sincerity the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principles in art as well as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song. If her power of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton or a Christian Pindar.” Continuing he says: “Though she does not inherit‘The force and ample pinion that the Theban eagles bear,Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of air,’she nevertheless manages language with an ease and elegance and that refined felicity of expression, which is the principal charm in poetry. In blank verse she is very successful. The poems that she has written in this measure have much of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be nearly or quite as highly relished by his admirers.”♦‘fifty-eight’ replaced with ‘forty-eight’To the above eminent critical estimate ofMrs.Sigourney’s writings it is unnecessary to add further comment. The justice of the praise bestowed upon her is evinced by the fact that she has acquired a wider and more pervading reputation than many of her more modern sisters in the realm of poesy, but it is evident that, of late years, her poetry has not enjoyed the popular favor which it had prior to 1860.Lydia Huntley was the only child of her parents, and was born at Norwich, Connecticut, September1st, 1791. Her father was a man of worth and benevolence and had served in the revolutionary struggle which brought about the independenceof America. Of the precocity of the child Duyckinck says: “She could read fluently at the age of three and composed simple verses at seven, smooth in rhythm and of an invariable religious sentiment.” Her girlhood life was quiet and uneventful. She received the best educational advantages which her neighborhood and the society of Madam Lathrop, the widow ofDr.Daniel Lathrop, of Hartford, could bestow. In 1814, when twenty-three years of age, Miss Huntley was induced to take a select school at Hartford, and removed to that city, where the next year, in 1815, her first book, “Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse,” was published. The prose essays are introduced by the remark: “They are addressed to a number of young ladies under my care,” and the writer throughout the volume seems to have had her vocation as a teacher in view. In the summer of 1819 Miss Huntley became the wife ofMr.Charles Sigourney, an educated gentleman and a merchant of Hartford. In 1822 a historical poem in five cantos, entitled “Traits of the Aborigines,” was published, and about the same time a London publisher made a miscellaneous collection of her verses and published them under the title of “Lays from the West,” a compliment of no small moment to an American poetess. Subsequent volumes came in rapid succession, among them being “Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since,” “Letters to Young Ladies” and “Letters to Mothers,” “Poetry for Children,” “Zinzendorf and Other Poems,” the last named appearing in 1836. It introduces us to the beautiful valley of Wyoming, paying an eloquent tribute to its scenery and historic fame, and especially to the missionary Zinzendorf, a noble self-sacrificing missionary among the Indians of the Wyoming Valley. The picture is a very vivid one. The poem closes with the departure of Zinzendorf from the then infant city of Philadelphia, extols him for his missionary labor, and utters a stirring exhortation to Christian union. In 1841 “Pocahontas and Other Poems” was issued by a New York publisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest and most successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines each, opening with a picture of the vague and shadowy repose of nature as her imagination conceived it in the condition of the new world prior to its discovery. The landing at Jamestown and the subsequent events that go to make up the thrilling story of Pocahontas follow in detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical compositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject.In 1840Mrs.Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in 1842 published a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous and picturesque scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the book was “Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in Europe there were also published two volumes of her works in London, and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the author from various distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond bracelet from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846 and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded Hope,” a touching and beautiful memento of her severe♦bereavement in the death of her only son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is also a graceful volume of prose sketches.♦‘bereavment’ replaced with ‘bereavement’Mrs.Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when seventy-three years of age.COLUMBUS.ST.STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proudIn learning’s pomp that day,For there a robed and stately crowdPressed on in long array.A mariner with simple chartConfronts that conclave high,While strong ambition stirs his heart,And burning thoughts of wonder partFrom lips and sparkling eye.What hath he said? With frowning face,In whispered tones they speak,And lines upon their tablets trace,Which flush each ashen cheek;The Inquisition’s mystic doomSits on their brows severe,And bursting forth in visioned gloom,Sad heresy from burning tombGroans on the startled ear.Courage, thou Genoese! Old TimeThy splendid dream shall crown,Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,Where unshorn forests frown,The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow,The Indian hunter’s bow,Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,And rocks of gold and diamonds, thouTo thankless Spain shalt show.Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!In Fates’ unfolding scroll,Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,That rack the noble soul.On! on! Creation’s secrets probe,Then drink thy cup of scorn,And wrapped in Cæsar’s robe,Sleep like that master of the globe,All glorious,—yet forlorn.THE ALPINE FLOWERS.Meek dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs!With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips,Whence are ye? Did some white winged messengerOn Mercy’s missions trust your timid germTo the cold cradle of eternal snows?Or, breathing on the callous icicles,Did them with tear drops nurse ye?——Tree nor shrubDare that drear atmosphere; no polar pineUprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice,And looking up with brilliant eyes to HimWho bids you bloom unblanched amid the wasteOf desolation. Man, who, panting, toilsO’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the vergeOf yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plungeIs to eternity, looks shuddering up,And marks ye in your placid loveliness—Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands,Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pompOf mountain summits rushing on the sky,And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,Inhales your spirit from the frost winged galeAnd freer dreams of heaven.NIAGARA.FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robeOf terror and of beauty. Yea, flow onUnfathomed and resistless. God hath setHis rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloudMantled around thy feet. And he doth giveThy voice of thunder power to speak of himEternally—bidding the lip of manKeep silence—and upon thy rocky altar pourIncense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dareTo lift the insect trump of earthly hope,Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublimeOf thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinkBack from thy brotherhood: and all his wavesRetire abashed. For he doth sometimes seemTo sleep like a spent laborer, and recallHis wearied billows from their vexing play,And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,With everlasting, undecaying tide,Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,When first they sang o’er young Creation’s birth,Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolveThis solid earth, shall findJehovah’s nameGraven, as with a thousand diamond spears,Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,That lifts itself within thy wide domain,Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birdsDo boldly venture near, and bathe their wingAmid thy mist and foam. ’Tis meet for themTo touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stirThe snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,Without reproof. But as for us, it seemsScarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speakFamiliarly of thee. Methinks, to tintThy glorious features with our pencil’s point,Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,Were profanation. Thou dost make the soulA wondering witness of thy majesty,But as it presses with delirious joyTo pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,And tame its rapture, with the humbling viewOf its own nothingness, bidding it standIn the dread presence of the Invisible,As if to answer to its God through thee.DEATH OF AN INFANT.DEATH found strange beauty on that polished browAnd dashed it out. There was a tint of roseOn cheek and lip. He touched the veins with iceAnd the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyesThere spake a wishful tenderness, a doubtWhether to grieve or sleep, which innocenceAlone may wear. With ruthless haste he boundThe silken fringes of those curtaining lidsForever. There had been a murmuring soundWith which the babe would claim its mother’s ear,Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler setHis seal of silence. But there beamed a smileSo fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not stealThe signet ring of heaven.A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD’S GRAVE.ABUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave,Where a lily had chanced to grow;“Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,When she of the blue and sparkling eyeMust sleep in the churchyard low?”Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,And spoke from its shining track:“I was a worm till I won my wings,And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings,Wouldst thou call the blest one back?”(‡ decoration)

WOMEN POETS OF AMERICAPHOEBE CARY•ALICE CARYLUCY LARCOM•LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTONLYDIA H. SIGOURNEY•ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH

WOMEN POETS OF AMERICA

PHOEBE CARY•ALICE CARYLUCY LARCOM•LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTONLYDIA H. SIGOURNEY•ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH

(‡ decoration)

PIONEER FEMALE POET OF AMERICA.

MRS.SIGOURNEY, was among the first, and is the most voluminous of all the early female poets of America. In fact she has been, up to this date, one of the most prolific of all the women writers of our country, having published fifty-six volumes of poetry and prose, the first appearing in 1815, and the last in 1863,♦forty-eight years later. Her most successful efforts are her occasional poems, which abound in passages of earnest, well expressed thought, and exhibit in their graver moods characteristics of a mind trained by exercise in self-knowledge and self-control. Her writings possess energy and variety, while her wide and earnest sympathy with all topics of friendship and philanthropy was always at the service of those interests.Mr.Edward H. Everett in a review ofMrs.Sigourney’s works declared: “They express with great purity and evident sincerity the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principles in art as well as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song. If her power of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton or a Christian Pindar.” Continuing he says: “Though she does not inherit

‘The force and ample pinion that the Theban eagles bear,Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of air,’

‘The force and ample pinion that the Theban eagles bear,

Sailing with supreme dominion through the liquid vaults of air,’

she nevertheless manages language with an ease and elegance and that refined felicity of expression, which is the principal charm in poetry. In blank verse she is very successful. The poems that she has written in this measure have much of the manner of Wordsworth, and may be nearly or quite as highly relished by his admirers.”

♦‘fifty-eight’ replaced with ‘forty-eight’

To the above eminent critical estimate ofMrs.Sigourney’s writings it is unnecessary to add further comment. The justice of the praise bestowed upon her is evinced by the fact that she has acquired a wider and more pervading reputation than many of her more modern sisters in the realm of poesy, but it is evident that, of late years, her poetry has not enjoyed the popular favor which it had prior to 1860.

Lydia Huntley was the only child of her parents, and was born at Norwich, Connecticut, September1st, 1791. Her father was a man of worth and benevolence and had served in the revolutionary struggle which brought about the independenceof America. Of the precocity of the child Duyckinck says: “She could read fluently at the age of three and composed simple verses at seven, smooth in rhythm and of an invariable religious sentiment.” Her girlhood life was quiet and uneventful. She received the best educational advantages which her neighborhood and the society of Madam Lathrop, the widow ofDr.Daniel Lathrop, of Hartford, could bestow. In 1814, when twenty-three years of age, Miss Huntley was induced to take a select school at Hartford, and removed to that city, where the next year, in 1815, her first book, “Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse,” was published. The prose essays are introduced by the remark: “They are addressed to a number of young ladies under my care,” and the writer throughout the volume seems to have had her vocation as a teacher in view. In the summer of 1819 Miss Huntley became the wife ofMr.Charles Sigourney, an educated gentleman and a merchant of Hartford. In 1822 a historical poem in five cantos, entitled “Traits of the Aborigines,” was published, and about the same time a London publisher made a miscellaneous collection of her verses and published them under the title of “Lays from the West,” a compliment of no small moment to an American poetess. Subsequent volumes came in rapid succession, among them being “Sketch of Connecticut Forty Years Since,” “Letters to Young Ladies” and “Letters to Mothers,” “Poetry for Children,” “Zinzendorf and Other Poems,” the last named appearing in 1836. It introduces us to the beautiful valley of Wyoming, paying an eloquent tribute to its scenery and historic fame, and especially to the missionary Zinzendorf, a noble self-sacrificing missionary among the Indians of the Wyoming Valley. The picture is a very vivid one. The poem closes with the departure of Zinzendorf from the then infant city of Philadelphia, extols him for his missionary labor, and utters a stirring exhortation to Christian union. In 1841 “Pocahontas and Other Poems” was issued by a New York publisher. Pocahontas is one of her longest and most successful productions, containing fifty-six stanzas of nine lines each, opening with a picture of the vague and shadowy repose of nature as her imagination conceived it in the condition of the new world prior to its discovery. The landing at Jamestown and the subsequent events that go to make up the thrilling story of Pocahontas follow in detail. This is said to be the best of the many poetical compositions of which the famous daughter of Powhatan has been the subject.

In 1840Mrs.Sigourney made a tour of Europe, and on her return in 1842 published a volume of recollections in prose and poetry of famous and picturesque scenes and hospitalities received. The title of the book was “Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.” During her stay in Europe there were also published two volumes of her works in London, and tokens of kindness and esteem greeted the author from various distinguished sources. Among others was a splendid diamond bracelet from the Queen of France. Other volumes of her works appeared in 1846 and 1848. Prominent among the last works of her life was “The Faded Hope,” a touching and beautiful memento of her severe♦bereavement in the death of her only son, which occurred in 1850. “Past Meridian” is also a graceful volume of prose sketches.

♦‘bereavment’ replaced with ‘bereavement’

Mrs.Sigourney died at Hartford, Connecticut, June 10, 1865, when seventy-three years of age.

COLUMBUS.

ST.STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proudIn learning’s pomp that day,For there a robed and stately crowdPressed on in long array.A mariner with simple chartConfronts that conclave high,While strong ambition stirs his heart,And burning thoughts of wonder partFrom lips and sparkling eye.What hath he said? With frowning face,In whispered tones they speak,And lines upon their tablets trace,Which flush each ashen cheek;The Inquisition’s mystic doomSits on their brows severe,And bursting forth in visioned gloom,Sad heresy from burning tombGroans on the startled ear.Courage, thou Genoese! Old TimeThy splendid dream shall crown,Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,Where unshorn forests frown,The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow,The Indian hunter’s bow,Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,And rocks of gold and diamonds, thouTo thankless Spain shalt show.Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!In Fates’ unfolding scroll,Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,That rack the noble soul.On! on! Creation’s secrets probe,Then drink thy cup of scorn,And wrapped in Cæsar’s robe,Sleep like that master of the globe,All glorious,—yet forlorn.

T.STEPHEN’S cloistered hall was proud

In learning’s pomp that day,

For there a robed and stately crowd

Pressed on in long array.

A mariner with simple chart

Confronts that conclave high,

While strong ambition stirs his heart,

And burning thoughts of wonder part

From lips and sparkling eye.

What hath he said? With frowning face,

In whispered tones they speak,

And lines upon their tablets trace,

Which flush each ashen cheek;

The Inquisition’s mystic doom

Sits on their brows severe,

And bursting forth in visioned gloom,

Sad heresy from burning tomb

Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time

Thy splendid dream shall crown,

Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,

Where unshorn forests frown,

The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapt brow,

The Indian hunter’s bow,

Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,

And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou

To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!

In Fates’ unfolding scroll,

Dark woes, and ingrate wrongs I read,

That rack the noble soul.

On! on! Creation’s secrets probe,

Then drink thy cup of scorn,

And wrapped in Cæsar’s robe,

Sleep like that master of the globe,

All glorious,—yet forlorn.

THE ALPINE FLOWERS.

Meek dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs!With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips,Whence are ye? Did some white winged messengerOn Mercy’s missions trust your timid germTo the cold cradle of eternal snows?Or, breathing on the callous icicles,Did them with tear drops nurse ye?——Tree nor shrubDare that drear atmosphere; no polar pineUprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice,And looking up with brilliant eyes to HimWho bids you bloom unblanched amid the wasteOf desolation. Man, who, panting, toilsO’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the vergeOf yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plungeIs to eternity, looks shuddering up,And marks ye in your placid loveliness—Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands,Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pompOf mountain summits rushing on the sky,And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,Inhales your spirit from the frost winged galeAnd freer dreams of heaven.

eek dwellers mid yon terror stricken cliffs!

With brows so pure, and incense breathing lips,

Whence are ye? Did some white winged messenger

On Mercy’s missions trust your timid germ

To the cold cradle of eternal snows?

Or, breathing on the callous icicles,

Did them with tear drops nurse ye?—

—Tree nor shrub

Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine

Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand,

Leaning your cheeks against the thick ribbed ice,

And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him

Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste

Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils

O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge

Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge

Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness—

Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands,

Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp

Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,

And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe,

He bows to bind you drooping to his breast,

Inhales your spirit from the frost winged gale

And freer dreams of heaven.

NIAGARA.

FLOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robeOf terror and of beauty. Yea, flow onUnfathomed and resistless. God hath setHis rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloudMantled around thy feet. And he doth giveThy voice of thunder power to speak of himEternally—bidding the lip of manKeep silence—and upon thy rocky altar pourIncense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dareTo lift the insect trump of earthly hope,Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublimeOf thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrinkBack from thy brotherhood: and all his wavesRetire abashed. For he doth sometimes seemTo sleep like a spent laborer, and recallHis wearied billows from their vexing play,And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,With everlasting, undecaying tide,Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,When first they sang o’er young Creation’s birth,Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolveThis solid earth, shall findJehovah’s nameGraven, as with a thousand diamond spears,Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,That lifts itself within thy wide domain,Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birdsDo boldly venture near, and bathe their wingAmid thy mist and foam. ’Tis meet for themTo touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stirThe snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,Without reproof. But as for us, it seemsScarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speakFamiliarly of thee. Methinks, to tintThy glorious features with our pencil’s point,Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,Were profanation. Thou dost make the soulA wondering witness of thy majesty,But as it presses with delirious joyTo pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,And tame its rapture, with the humbling viewOf its own nothingness, bidding it standIn the dread presence of the Invisible,As if to answer to its God through thee.

LOW on, for ever, in thy glorious robe

Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on

Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set

His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud

Mantled around thy feet. And he doth give

Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him

Eternally—bidding the lip of man

Keep silence—and upon thy rocky altar pour

Incense of awe struck praise. Ah! who can dare

To lift the insect trump of earthly hope,

Or love, or sorrow, mid the peal sublime

Of thy tremendous hymn? Even Ocean shrink

Back from thy brotherhood: and all his waves

Retire abashed. For he doth sometimes seem

To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall

His wearied billows from their vexing play,

And lull them to a cradle calm: but thou,

With everlasting, undecaying tide,

Dost rest not, night or day. The morning stars,

When first they sang o’er young Creation’s birth,

Heard thy deep anthem; and those wrecking fires,

That wait the archangel’s signal to dissolve

This solid earth, shall findJehovah’s name

Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears,

Of thine unending volume. Every leaf,

That lifts itself within thy wide domain,

Doth gather greenness from thy living spray,

Yet tremble at the baptism. Lo! yon birds

Do boldly venture near, and bathe their wing

Amid thy mist and foam. ’Tis meet for them

To touch thy garment’s hem, and lightly stir

The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath,

For they may sport unharmed amid the cloud,

Or listen at the echoing gate of heaven,

Without reproof. But as for us, it seems

Scarce lawful, with our broken tones, to speak

Familiarly of thee. Methinks, to tint

Thy glorious features with our pencil’s point,

Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,

Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul

A wondering witness of thy majesty,

But as it presses with delirious joy

To pierce thy vestibule, dost chain its step,

And tame its rapture, with the humbling view

Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand

In the dread presence of the Invisible,

As if to answer to its God through thee.

DEATH OF AN INFANT.

DEATH found strange beauty on that polished browAnd dashed it out. There was a tint of roseOn cheek and lip. He touched the veins with iceAnd the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyesThere spake a wishful tenderness, a doubtWhether to grieve or sleep, which innocenceAlone may wear. With ruthless haste he boundThe silken fringes of those curtaining lidsForever. There had been a murmuring soundWith which the babe would claim its mother’s ear,Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler setHis seal of silence. But there beamed a smileSo fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not stealThe signet ring of heaven.

EATH found strange beauty on that polished brow

And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose

On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice

And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes

There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt

Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence

Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound

The silken fringes of those curtaining lids

Forever. There had been a murmuring sound

With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear,

Charming her even to tears. The Spoiler set

His seal of silence. But there beamed a smile

So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow,

Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal

The signet ring of heaven.

A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD’S GRAVE.

ABUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave,Where a lily had chanced to grow;“Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,When she of the blue and sparkling eyeMust sleep in the churchyard low?”Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,And spoke from its shining track:“I was a worm till I won my wings,And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings,Wouldst thou call the blest one back?”(‡ decoration)

BUTTERFLY basked on a baby’s grave,

Where a lily had chanced to grow;

“Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye,

When she of the blue and sparkling eye

Must sleep in the churchyard low?”

Then it lightly soared through the sunny air,

And spoke from its shining track:

“I was a worm till I won my wings,

And she whom thou mourn’st like a seraph sings,

Wouldst thou call the blest one back?”

(‡ decoration)

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