We played at chess, Bianca and myself,One afternoon, but neither won the game,Both absent-minded, thinking of our heartsMoving the ivory pawns from black to white,Shifted to little purpose round the board;Sometimes we quite forgot it in a sighAnd then remembered it, and moved again;Looking the while along the slopes beyond,Barred by blue peaks, the fountain, and the groveWhere lovers sat in shadow, back again,With sideway glances in each other's eyes;Unknowingly I made a lucky move,Whereby I checked my mate, and gained a queen;My couch drew nearer hers, I took her hand—A soft white hand that gave itself away—Told o'er the simple story of my love,In simplest phrases which are always best,And prayed her if she loved me in return—A fabled doubt—to give her heart to me;And then, and there, above that game of chess,Not finished yet, in maiden trustfulness,She gave me, what I knew was mine, her heart!
We played at chess, Bianca and myself,One afternoon, but neither won the game,Both absent-minded, thinking of our heartsMoving the ivory pawns from black to white,Shifted to little purpose round the board;Sometimes we quite forgot it in a sighAnd then remembered it, and moved again;Looking the while along the slopes beyond,Barred by blue peaks, the fountain, and the groveWhere lovers sat in shadow, back again,With sideway glances in each other's eyes;Unknowingly I made a lucky move,Whereby I checked my mate, and gained a queen;My couch drew nearer hers, I took her hand—A soft white hand that gave itself away—Told o'er the simple story of my love,In simplest phrases which are always best,And prayed her if she loved me in return—A fabled doubt—to give her heart to me;And then, and there, above that game of chess,Not finished yet, in maiden trustfulness,She gave me, what I knew was mine, her heart!
Alas! I think of you the live-long day,Plying my needle by the little stand,And wish that we had never, never met,Or I were dead, or you were married off,Though that would kill me; I lay down my work,And take the lute you gave me, but the stringsHave grown so tuneless that I cannot play;I sing the favorite airs we used to sing,The sweet old tunes we love, and weep aloud!I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-dayTo read a chapter in the Holy Book;I could not see a line, I only readThe solemn sonnets that you sent to me:Nor can I pray as I was wont to do,For you come in between me and the Lord,And when I strive to lift my soul above,My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!And nights, when I am lying on my bed,(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly,)I think of you, and fall asleep, and dreamI am your own, your wedded, happy wife,—But that can never, never be on earth!
Alas! I think of you the live-long day,Plying my needle by the little stand,And wish that we had never, never met,Or I were dead, or you were married off,Though that would kill me; I lay down my work,And take the lute you gave me, but the stringsHave grown so tuneless that I cannot play;I sing the favorite airs we used to sing,The sweet old tunes we love, and weep aloud!I sought forgetfulness, and tried to-dayTo read a chapter in the Holy Book;I could not see a line, I only readThe solemn sonnets that you sent to me:Nor can I pray as I was wont to do,For you come in between me and the Lord,And when I strive to lift my soul above,My wits are wandering, and I sob your name!And nights, when I am lying on my bed,(I hope such thoughts are not unmaidenly,)I think of you, and fall asleep, and dreamI am your own, your wedded, happy wife,—But that can never, never be on earth!
We gave in the lastInternationala short notice of "Von Babylon nach Jerusalem" (A Journey from Babylon to Jerusalem), by Ida, Countess of Hahn-Hahn, in which she declares her conversion to Christianity and Catholicism. What the Germans themselves think of this work may be gathered from the following brief review, which has just fallen under our notice in theCentral Blatt. The article is curious, from the "intensely German" style and spirit in which it is written, though we cannot very warmly commend either.
"The above-mentioned work," which contains an account of the conversion of its celebrated authoress to the Catholic belief, says the critic, "presents a sad picture of the complete decay and dissolution of avoid subjectivity(a vacant mind).
"The writer falls a sacrifice to her exclusive, aristocratic position in society. Without occupying any place in the world, won and maintained by personal ability, and consequently without a well-grounded moral standard, she wanders like a homeless being from land to land, every where influenced, 'as far as it agreed with her disposition,' by her momentary interests, and thus rendering apparent the barrenness of her soul. But this had been developed at an early period. 'That this feeling (that of joy) was occasionally accompanied by the deepest discontent, appearing as an unearthlyennui—and that over it swept the darkest melancholy, will be readily intelligible to every one, for they are the twin sisters of the fortune of this world.' 'And occasionally it was a kind of heroism, in that I sat myself down, and—wrote a romance. Was it finished, I travelled—did I return, I described the tour—was there a time when the book was complete and circumstances did not permit of travelling, I took with raging appetite to reading—and when I no longer wrote, no longer travelled, and could no longer read for any determined purpose—because I had none—I knew not what to do with my time. I could not create illusions, and say to myself, Try this! try that! perhaps the world hath yet somewhat hidden for thee—the call of Knowledge is incessant. No, no! she hath nothing. Well—what then? God? There stood the Word, the One, the Eternal.' Thereupon she reads the greater and lesser catechisms of Luther, the creeds of the evangelic reformed church, and the decrees and canons of the Council of Trent. 'But only the Catholic church hath under roof and proof brought her dogma-buildings to a tower, provided with the lightning-rod of authority.' Thereupon she determines, 'I asked no human being for explanation, information, or counsel—not even myself.' Three months after, on the first day of January, 1850, she wrote to the Cardinal Prince-Bishop of Breslau, to beg of him aid in her entrance to the church.
"The moral vacancy displayed in these quotations corresponds with the shallow manner and half romantic, half French style of the book. Though the first part be written in a fresher and livelier style than the second, there is still not to be found in the whole a single well-determined and clearly-impressed thought, and whenever we imagine that we have hit upon such a thing, straightway we find whirling forth the dust-clouds of an obscure, phrase-laden, highly affected sentimental feeling, which, without any real energy, stirs itself up with repeated 'ohs!' and 'ahs!' and other forced sighs and artificial aids. In place of such thoughts we find a shallow and occasionally insupportably wearisome speech on the ideal of Catholicism, or 'the heathenish abomination in art and literature, which, after the fall of Byzantium was transported thence to Italy, and there received with that love which impels sensuous mortals to joyfully draw into the sphere of his life the new and glittering, because it promises fresh and shining pleasures.'(!) In another place she speaks of the reformers as 'miserable, narrow-minded heads, who should have chosen other ground whereon to exercise their love of quarrelling;'while the second half of her book is confined almost exclusively to the democrats, and the events which took place from 1847 to 1849. In this part the authoress displays the greatest want of intellect, and is sadly wearisome; but her frivolity of manners and morals appears most repulsive in her account of the Reformation. None of the Catholics—not even Cochlæus himself—has so far degraded himself as to interpret in such a vulgar manner the deeds of the reformers (more particularly Luther's) as is here done by—a lady!
"If the Countess places at the conclusion of her work the words 'Soli Deo Gloria,' this is merely in accordance with a Catholic custom, and by no means meant in earnest, since the work is more particularly adapted to flatter the vanity and self-conceit of its composer, who cannot imagine why she should suffer the disgrace to belong to the German nation. A vain, coquettish self-regard, an affected, aristocratic-noble nonchalance, and a contradicting, heresy-accusing confidence of judgment, meet us on every side, and render us completely opposed to the pretence and moral vacancy of this book."
These are bitter words, and bitterly spoken, when thus applied to a woman. The reader will in their perusal remember that the writer is evidently influenced by a deep feeling against all that savors of conservatism in politics, and shares in an unusual degree the popular German feeling againstemancipiste Frauen, or women who strive against the bonds which the customs of society have imposed on the sex,—a feeling, which, however creditable it may be when applied to undue extravagances of manners or morals, should be carefully guarded against when it threatens an unconditional restraint of every exertion of feminine genius and talent.
Jules Janin, whose name, of so constant recurrence in the contemporary history of light literature, artistic criticism, andfeuilleton, is the Prince Royal of the brilliant court of gifted, tasteful, witty andspirituelwriters, who compose the body of Parisianfeuilletonistes. These are men who write, not because they have any thing especial to say—for their peculiar function is to say nothing, in a pointed and brilliant manner—but because they love leisure and luxury, the opera, pictures, and beautiful ballet girls, and must themselves make the golden lining to their purses, which they can do by the very simple process of weaving the similar lining of their brains into afeuilleton. They are often scholars, men of fine cultivation and genius, whose tastes however are so imperious, and who enjoy so much the ease thus facilely achieved, that they accomplish no great work, win no lasting name. Of course thefeuilletonistproper is to be distinguished from the author or novelist who publishes a work in theFeuilleton, as Lamartine hisConfidences, and Sue and Dumas and George Sand, their romances. We propose now to follow briefly the sparkling career ofJules Janinas the type of the life, character, and success of thefeuilletonistes.
He came to Paris, a Jew: as Meyerbeer, Heine, Grisi, Rachel, and the long luminous list of contemporary artists who have made fame in Paris, are Jews. He supported himself by teaching—doing nothing, but very conscious that he could do something—at all events he could lecture upon the Syrian language, if for a week he could prepare himself. Then he wrote in little theatrical papers, and received twenty-five francs a month. But in 1830 he happily succeeded to his present position in theJournal des Debats. He is now a rich man. He gives splendid soirees in his saloons glittering with oriental luxury, and artists and authors bow before him. Like Henry Heine, his contemporary, whom he as much resembles in talent as in manner, he declared now for the Republic and Freedom, now for the Church and King, until his connection with theDebatsimpressed upon him the conservative seal. He since loudly declaims for public morality—against the prostitution of the press; but his early works were the most licentious of any that have swarmed from the fertile French genius of social protestantism. His first novel, published in 1829,The Dead Donkey and the Guillotined Woman, is the history of a prostitute, from the brothel, to the murder of her child, and her execution, garnished with Byronic sentimentalities upon the transitoriness of things temporal.
Jules Janin's next work was one of the most instructive illustrations of the character of French romance at that period when literary feeling and taste seemed to reach the artificial point that is artistically achieved by the melo-dramas of Chatham-street and the Strand. We record it as a literary curiosity, as the work of a "fast" Frenchman, a Parisian Vivian Grey, on a small scale. It is calledThe Penitent, and was published in 1830. It opens with a marriage. The bride, who has been violently dancing, retires, overcome with sleep, and the husband in his rage at her sleepiness smothers her. It is nominally supposed that she has been stricken with apoplexy, but a Jesuit, who meditates many mysteries, understands the whole matter, yet observes the most discreet silence. The young man, who is somewhat conscience-pricked, still persists in profligacy, until he is overwhelmed by remorse, and rushes to the church to receive absolution. He seeks a trusty confessor, and of course finds the old Jesuit; but as he finds it difficult to obtain access to him, makes the acquaintance of a girl, with whom the Jesuit has some kind of relation, and in order to win her to his will, seduces her! Then comes the Jesuit and beginsto fulminate excommunications and damnations. But the youth bursts into a passionate strain of repentance, and is told by the old Jesuit, that the difficulty in his case, is a religious one, that in fact the murder was "a circumstance" arising from his irreligious state, and that by genuine repentance the matter will be arranged.Presto: The youth repents and enters the church, is made Bishop and proceeds through an endless course of fat capon and Château Margaux to an edifying end!
The boldest efforts of young France and young Germany, are feeble by the side of this extraordinary effort. His earlier tales, which are somewhat in the style of Hoffmann, Jules Janin published in the year 1833, under the title ofFantastic Tales, and a series of works of less size and importance followed, until the series of papers, half fiction, half fact, which, in the novel form, treated a great variety of historico-literary subjects. His last romance is theNun of Toulouse, written during the revolution of '48. It sparkles with the same sprightly skepticism and spiritual coquetry that distinguished his earlier works, yet he celebrates in it those beautiful times, the "old times," in which the serenity of faith was never ruffled by impertinent thought; and in his recent letters from the Great Exhibition, he indulges in the same strain, and sighs for the magnificence of the monarchy.
But his weekly contributions to theDebats, the rapid dashing review of the dramatic novelties and incidents in a metropolis where alone a living drama survives, and which he serves up garnished with the most felicitous verbal graces and the most charming intellectual conceits, every Monday morning—these are the flowers whence the brilliant Jules Janin builds the honey hive of his reputation. He has decreed the fashion of theFeuilleton, and the other Parisian critics flash and snap and sparkle, as much like Jules Janin as possible. Their articles are the streak oflightin the dimness of the preponderating political literature of the week. They hold high holiday at the bottom of the page, although the history of revolutions, and woes, and the rumors of wars and impending millenniums may throw their sombre shadows along the columns above. They raise their banner of a butterfly's wing, emblazoned withVive la Bagatelle, and march on to the tournament of wit and beauty. They belong to France; their game is the gambol of the exuberance of French genius. They are more than witty, they arespirituel; and they have more than talent, they have taste.
In a day of such rapid and facile printing as ours, this department of literary labor was a necessity. Every man who has a conceit and can write, may parade it before the world. In the mass of pleasant common-place, what isbizarremay supplant the symmetrically beautiful. To seize therefore what every man saw, and with nimble fingers to weave a transparent tissue of gorgeous words through which every man's impressions of what he saw look large and graceful and piquant—to sum up a vaudeville in abon mot, and a ballet in a voluptuous trope,—voila! c'est fait, you have the recipe of a successfulfeuilletoniste. Hence, the influence of these writers, uponwords, has been remarkable. The French language, long so precise, is now among the most dissolute of tongues. It reels through the columns of afeuilleton, drunk and dim-eyed with expletives and exaggerations and beatified adjectives, so that, fascinated with the casket, you quite forget the jewel. The language of dramatic and operatic criticism in Paris is now inexplicable to any one but anhabitué. If you should tell John Bull, who wishes to go to the opera, that Alboni's singing ispyramidale, he would expect to see the fair and fat contralto sharpened to a point at top,—but, I grant, if you should call it "jolly" or "stunning," he would entirely comprehend that you meant to express your admiration in superlatives.
I must not longer gossip as these gay gossips do, these fancifulfeuilletonistes, nor seek more deeply to draw the outline of these rainbow bubbles upon the stream of the time, whether it flow turbid or transparent. One cannot live upon sugar and nutmeg, or even upon allspice. But our friends are a literary phenomenon not to be omitted, and if you love the Muses, you will not omit to snuff the azure incense offered weekly by thefeuilletonistes.
Jules Janin shall show us out of this article as he ushered us in. The Great Mogul of theFeuilletonhad purchased a carriage whose luxury, and taste of appointment, and perfection of footman, was unsurpassed in the Champs Elysée. But the gods are jealous and thefeuilletonisteshave thus the highest authority for jealousy. So, on one evening when the exquisite equipage awaited its master at the grand opera, a crowd of lesser critical luminaries gathered around it, and both reviled and envied the fortunate owner. While they were thus engaged, the great critic came out of the opera house and saw his contemporaries engaged in longing and envious remark. Now tact is the sublimest secret of success—and smilingly Jules Janin advanced cheerily, greeted his friends cordially, and piled into the carriage all of them who lived in his neighborhood.
They naturally reserved the seat of honor for the owner, but this great General seizing the most inimical of all the party who lived in a quarter of the city farthest from his own home, pushed him into the vacant seat, ordered his coachman to set him down first, and then humming the finale of the opera, lighted a cigar and sauntered leisurely down the street. It was like Jules Janin to make his own marriage the subject of aFeuilleton. In his case the man and thefeuilletonisteare the same.
Niobé, maddened by her woes, of yore.The gods in pity turned to marble fair;And wretched Progné, doomed for evermore,Changed to a swallow wings the upper air.But ah! would Love, whom I, enslaved, obey,By his sweet power transform me, I would beThe mirror in thy hand, if thus, alway,Thy gentle eyes would fondly turn on me.Or, I would be the perfume that revealsIts fragrance 'mid the tresses of thy hair;Or, that soft veil which o'er thy bosom steals,And jealous, hides the ivory treasure there.Or I would be the robe that round thee flows,The zone that circles thee with fond caress;The rivulet that with thy beauty glows,And to its breast enclasps thy loveliness.Or I were blest those envied pearls to beThat closely thus thy swan-white neck entwine;Or e'en to be the sandal, pressed by thee,Were, for thy lover, destiny divine.
Niobé, maddened by her woes, of yore.The gods in pity turned to marble fair;And wretched Progné, doomed for evermore,Changed to a swallow wings the upper air.
But ah! would Love, whom I, enslaved, obey,By his sweet power transform me, I would beThe mirror in thy hand, if thus, alway,Thy gentle eyes would fondly turn on me.
Or, I would be the perfume that revealsIts fragrance 'mid the tresses of thy hair;Or, that soft veil which o'er thy bosom steals,And jealous, hides the ivory treasure there.
Or I would be the robe that round thee flows,The zone that circles thee with fond caress;The rivulet that with thy beauty glows,And to its breast enclasps thy loveliness.
Or I were blest those envied pearls to beThat closely thus thy swan-white neck entwine;Or e'en to be the sandal, pressed by thee,Were, for thy lover, destiny divine.
In the lastInternationalwe gave some characteristic historical sketches from Hans Christian Andersen's latest and most delightful book, thePictures of Sweden; but the inspiration of nature is more powerful with him than that of history, and he is never so felicitous as when painting the scenery of his native country, though he has certainly indulged, to a greater extent than a sober taste can approve, in that passion for the fantastic and visionary, which has been but too visibly manifested in some of his later and slighter works. Our readers, however, shall judge for themselves. The forests of Sweden and its rivers give the most noticeable features to its landscape. This is how they appeared to Andersen—the forest first:
"We are a long way over the elv. We have left the corn-fields behind, and have just come into the forest, where we halt at that small inn which is ornamented over the doors and windows with green branches for the midsummer festival. The whole kitchen is hung round with branches of birch and the berries of the mountain ash; the oat cakes hang on long poles under the ceiling; the berries are suspended above the head of the old woman who is just scouring her brass kettle bright."The tap-room, where the peasants sit and carouse, is just as finely hung round with green. Midsummer raises its leafy arbor every where, yet it is most flush in the forest which extends for miles around. Our road goes for miles through that forest, without seeing a house, or the possibility of meeting travellers, driving, riding, or walking. Come! The ostler puts fresh horses to the carriage; come with us into the large woody desert: we have a regular trodden way to travel, the air is clear, here is summer's warmth and the fragrance of birch and lime. It is an up-and-downhill road, always bending, and so, ever changing, but yet always forest-scenery—the close, thick forest. We pass small lakes, which lie so still and deep, as if they concealed night and sleep under their dark, glassy surfaces."We are now on a forest plain, where only charred stumps of trees are to be seen; this long tract is black, burnt, and deserted, not a bird flies over it. Tall, hanging birches now greet us again; a squirrel springs playfully across the road, and up into the tree; we cast our eyes searchingly over the wood-grown mountain side, which slopes so far, far forward, but not a trace of a house is to be seen: nowhere does that bluish smoke-cloud rise, that shows us, here are fellow-men. The sun shines warm; the flies dance around the horses, settle on them, fly off again, and dance as though it were to qualify themselves for resting and being still. They perhaps think, 'Nothing is going on without us: there is no life while we are doing nothing.' They think, as many persons think, and do not remember that time's horses always fly onward with us!"How solitary is it here! so delightfully solitary! one is so entirely alone with God and one's self. As the sunlight streams forth over the earth, and over the extensive solitary forests, so does God's Spirit stream over and into mankind; ideas and thoughts unfold themselves—endless, inexhaustible, as He is—as the magnet which apportions its powers to the steel, and itself loses nothing thereby. As our journey through the forest scenery here along the extended solitary road, so, travelling on the great high road of thought, ideas pass through our head. Strange, rich caravans pass by from the works of poets, from the home of memory, strange and novel; for capricious fancy gives birth to them at the moment. There comes a procession of pious children with waving flags and joyous songs; there come dancing Menades, the blood's wild Bacchantes. The sun pours down hot in the open forest; it is as if the Southern summer had laid itself up here to rest in Scandinavian forest solitude, and sought itself out a glade where it might lie in the sun's hot beams and sleep; hence this stillness as if it were night. Not a bird is heard to twitter, not a pine tree moves. Of what does the Southern summer dream here in the North, amongst pines and fragrant birches?"In the writings of the olden time, from the classic soil of the South, are sagas of mighty fairies, who, in the skins of swans, flew towards the North, to the Hyperboreans' land, to the east of the north winds; up there, in the deep still lakes, they bathed themselves, and acquired a renewed form. We are in the forest by these deep lakes; we see swans in flocks fly over us, and swim upon the rapid elv and on the still waters....""Woodland solitude! what images dost thou not present to our thoughts! Woodland solitude! through thy vaulted halls people now pass in the summer time with cattle and domestic utensils; children and old men go to the solitary pasture where echo dwells, where the national song springs forth with the wild mountain flower! Dost thou see the procession? Paint it if thou canst! The broad wooden cart, laden high with chests and barrels, with jars and with crockery. The bright copper kettle and the tin dish shine in the sun. The old grandmother sits at the top of the load, and holds her spinning wheel, which complete the pyramid. The father drives the horse, the mother carries the youngest child on her back, sewed up in a skin, and the procession moves on step by step. The cattle are driven by the half-grown children; they have stuck a birch branch betweenone of the cows' horns, but she does not appear to be proud of her finery; she goes the same quiet pace as the others, and lashes the saucy flies with her tail. If the night becomes cold on this solitary pasture, there is fuel enough; here the tree falls of itself from old age, and lies and rots."But take especial care of the fire—fear the fire-spirit in the forest desert! He comes from the unextinguishable pile; he comes from the thunder-cloud, riding on the blue lightning's flame, which kindles the thick, dry moss of the earth: trees and bushes are kindled; the flames run from tree to tree, it is like a snow-storm of fire! the flames leap to the tops of the trees. What a crackling and roaring, as if it were the ocean in its course! The birds fly upward in flocks, and fall down suffocated by the smoke; the animals flee, or, encircled by the fire, are consumed in it! Hear their cries and roars of agony! The howling of the wolf and the bear, dost thou know it? A calm rainy day, and the forest-plains themselves alone are able to confine the fiery sea, and the burnt forest stands charred, with black trunks and black stumps of trees, as we saw them here in the forest by the broad high-road. On this road we continue to travel, but it becomes worse and worse; it is, properly speaking, no road at all, but it is about to become one. Large stones lie half dug up, and we drive past them; large trees are cast down, and obstruct our way, and therefore we must descend from the carriage. The horses are taken out, and the peasants help to lift and push the carriage forward over ditches and opened paths. The sun now ceases to shine; some few rain-drops fall, and now it is a steady rain. But how it causes the birch to shed its fragrance! At a distance there are huts erected of loose trunks of trees and fresh green boughs, and in each there is a large fire burning. See where the blue smoke curls through the green leafy roof; peasants are within at work, hammering and forging; here they have their meals. They are now laying a mine in order to blast a rock, and the pine and birch emit a finer fragrance. It is delightful in the forest."
"We are a long way over the elv. We have left the corn-fields behind, and have just come into the forest, where we halt at that small inn which is ornamented over the doors and windows with green branches for the midsummer festival. The whole kitchen is hung round with branches of birch and the berries of the mountain ash; the oat cakes hang on long poles under the ceiling; the berries are suspended above the head of the old woman who is just scouring her brass kettle bright.
"The tap-room, where the peasants sit and carouse, is just as finely hung round with green. Midsummer raises its leafy arbor every where, yet it is most flush in the forest which extends for miles around. Our road goes for miles through that forest, without seeing a house, or the possibility of meeting travellers, driving, riding, or walking. Come! The ostler puts fresh horses to the carriage; come with us into the large woody desert: we have a regular trodden way to travel, the air is clear, here is summer's warmth and the fragrance of birch and lime. It is an up-and-downhill road, always bending, and so, ever changing, but yet always forest-scenery—the close, thick forest. We pass small lakes, which lie so still and deep, as if they concealed night and sleep under their dark, glassy surfaces.
"We are now on a forest plain, where only charred stumps of trees are to be seen; this long tract is black, burnt, and deserted, not a bird flies over it. Tall, hanging birches now greet us again; a squirrel springs playfully across the road, and up into the tree; we cast our eyes searchingly over the wood-grown mountain side, which slopes so far, far forward, but not a trace of a house is to be seen: nowhere does that bluish smoke-cloud rise, that shows us, here are fellow-men. The sun shines warm; the flies dance around the horses, settle on them, fly off again, and dance as though it were to qualify themselves for resting and being still. They perhaps think, 'Nothing is going on without us: there is no life while we are doing nothing.' They think, as many persons think, and do not remember that time's horses always fly onward with us!
"How solitary is it here! so delightfully solitary! one is so entirely alone with God and one's self. As the sunlight streams forth over the earth, and over the extensive solitary forests, so does God's Spirit stream over and into mankind; ideas and thoughts unfold themselves—endless, inexhaustible, as He is—as the magnet which apportions its powers to the steel, and itself loses nothing thereby. As our journey through the forest scenery here along the extended solitary road, so, travelling on the great high road of thought, ideas pass through our head. Strange, rich caravans pass by from the works of poets, from the home of memory, strange and novel; for capricious fancy gives birth to them at the moment. There comes a procession of pious children with waving flags and joyous songs; there come dancing Menades, the blood's wild Bacchantes. The sun pours down hot in the open forest; it is as if the Southern summer had laid itself up here to rest in Scandinavian forest solitude, and sought itself out a glade where it might lie in the sun's hot beams and sleep; hence this stillness as if it were night. Not a bird is heard to twitter, not a pine tree moves. Of what does the Southern summer dream here in the North, amongst pines and fragrant birches?
"In the writings of the olden time, from the classic soil of the South, are sagas of mighty fairies, who, in the skins of swans, flew towards the North, to the Hyperboreans' land, to the east of the north winds; up there, in the deep still lakes, they bathed themselves, and acquired a renewed form. We are in the forest by these deep lakes; we see swans in flocks fly over us, and swim upon the rapid elv and on the still waters...."
"Woodland solitude! what images dost thou not present to our thoughts! Woodland solitude! through thy vaulted halls people now pass in the summer time with cattle and domestic utensils; children and old men go to the solitary pasture where echo dwells, where the national song springs forth with the wild mountain flower! Dost thou see the procession? Paint it if thou canst! The broad wooden cart, laden high with chests and barrels, with jars and with crockery. The bright copper kettle and the tin dish shine in the sun. The old grandmother sits at the top of the load, and holds her spinning wheel, which complete the pyramid. The father drives the horse, the mother carries the youngest child on her back, sewed up in a skin, and the procession moves on step by step. The cattle are driven by the half-grown children; they have stuck a birch branch betweenone of the cows' horns, but she does not appear to be proud of her finery; she goes the same quiet pace as the others, and lashes the saucy flies with her tail. If the night becomes cold on this solitary pasture, there is fuel enough; here the tree falls of itself from old age, and lies and rots.
"But take especial care of the fire—fear the fire-spirit in the forest desert! He comes from the unextinguishable pile; he comes from the thunder-cloud, riding on the blue lightning's flame, which kindles the thick, dry moss of the earth: trees and bushes are kindled; the flames run from tree to tree, it is like a snow-storm of fire! the flames leap to the tops of the trees. What a crackling and roaring, as if it were the ocean in its course! The birds fly upward in flocks, and fall down suffocated by the smoke; the animals flee, or, encircled by the fire, are consumed in it! Hear their cries and roars of agony! The howling of the wolf and the bear, dost thou know it? A calm rainy day, and the forest-plains themselves alone are able to confine the fiery sea, and the burnt forest stands charred, with black trunks and black stumps of trees, as we saw them here in the forest by the broad high-road. On this road we continue to travel, but it becomes worse and worse; it is, properly speaking, no road at all, but it is about to become one. Large stones lie half dug up, and we drive past them; large trees are cast down, and obstruct our way, and therefore we must descend from the carriage. The horses are taken out, and the peasants help to lift and push the carriage forward over ditches and opened paths. The sun now ceases to shine; some few rain-drops fall, and now it is a steady rain. But how it causes the birch to shed its fragrance! At a distance there are huts erected of loose trunks of trees and fresh green boughs, and in each there is a large fire burning. See where the blue smoke curls through the green leafy roof; peasants are within at work, hammering and forging; here they have their meals. They are now laying a mine in order to blast a rock, and the pine and birch emit a finer fragrance. It is delightful in the forest."
So say we. It is delightful in the forest; not less so on the torrent-river of Scandinavia:
"Before Homer sang, there were heroes; but they are not known, no poet celebrated their fame. It is just so with the beauties of nature; they must be brought into notice by words and delineations, be brought before the eyes of the multitude; get a sort of world's patent for what they are. The elvs of the North have rushed and whirled along for thousands of years in unknown beauty. The world's great high-road does not take this direction; no steam-packet conveys the traveller comfortably along the streams of the Dal-elvs; fall on fall makes sluices indispensable and invaluable. Schubert is, as yet, the only stranger who has written about the magnificence and southern beauty of Dalecarlia, and spoken of its greatness."Clear as the waves of the sea does the mighty elv stream in endless windings through forest deserts and varying plains, sometimes extending its deep bed, sometimes confining it, reflecting the bending trees and the red-painted block-houses of solitary towns, and sometimes rushing like a cataract over immense blocks of rock."Miles apart from one another, out of the ridge of mountains between Sweden and Norway, come the east and west Dal-elvs, which first become confluent and have one bed above Balstad. They have taken up rivers and lakes in their waters. Do but visit this place! here are pictorial riches to be found: the most picturesque landscapes, dizzyingly grand, smilingly pastoral, idyllic; one is drawn onward up to the very source of the elv, the bubbling well above Finman's hut; one feels a desire to follow every branch of the stream that the river takes in."The first mighty fall, Njupesker's Cataract, is seen by the Norwegian frontier in Semasog. The mountain stream rushes perpendicularly from the rock to a depth of seventy fathoms."We pause in the dark forest, where the elv seems to collect within itself nature's whole deep gravity. The stream rolls its clear waters over a porphyry soil, where the mill-wheel is driven, and the gigantic porphyry bowls and sarcophagi are polished."We follow the stream through Siljan's lake, where superstition sees the water-sprite swim like the sea-horse, with a mane of green seaweed; and where the aërial images present visions of witchcraft in the warm summer day."We sail on the stream from Siljan's lake under the weeping willows of the parsonage, where the swans assemble in flocks; we glide along slowly with horses and carriages on the great ferry-boat, away over the rapid current under Balstad's picturesque shore. Here the elv widens and rolls its billows majestically in a woodland landscape, as large and extended as if it were in North America."We see the rushing, rapid stream under Avista's yellow clay declivities; the yellow water falls, like fluid amber, in picturesque cataracts before the copper works, where rainbow-colored tongues of fire shoot themselves upwards, and the hammer's blow on the copper-plates resound to the monotonous, roaring rumble of the elv-fall."
"Before Homer sang, there were heroes; but they are not known, no poet celebrated their fame. It is just so with the beauties of nature; they must be brought into notice by words and delineations, be brought before the eyes of the multitude; get a sort of world's patent for what they are. The elvs of the North have rushed and whirled along for thousands of years in unknown beauty. The world's great high-road does not take this direction; no steam-packet conveys the traveller comfortably along the streams of the Dal-elvs; fall on fall makes sluices indispensable and invaluable. Schubert is, as yet, the only stranger who has written about the magnificence and southern beauty of Dalecarlia, and spoken of its greatness.
"Clear as the waves of the sea does the mighty elv stream in endless windings through forest deserts and varying plains, sometimes extending its deep bed, sometimes confining it, reflecting the bending trees and the red-painted block-houses of solitary towns, and sometimes rushing like a cataract over immense blocks of rock.
"Miles apart from one another, out of the ridge of mountains between Sweden and Norway, come the east and west Dal-elvs, which first become confluent and have one bed above Balstad. They have taken up rivers and lakes in their waters. Do but visit this place! here are pictorial riches to be found: the most picturesque landscapes, dizzyingly grand, smilingly pastoral, idyllic; one is drawn onward up to the very source of the elv, the bubbling well above Finman's hut; one feels a desire to follow every branch of the stream that the river takes in.
"The first mighty fall, Njupesker's Cataract, is seen by the Norwegian frontier in Semasog. The mountain stream rushes perpendicularly from the rock to a depth of seventy fathoms.
"We pause in the dark forest, where the elv seems to collect within itself nature's whole deep gravity. The stream rolls its clear waters over a porphyry soil, where the mill-wheel is driven, and the gigantic porphyry bowls and sarcophagi are polished.
"We follow the stream through Siljan's lake, where superstition sees the water-sprite swim like the sea-horse, with a mane of green seaweed; and where the aërial images present visions of witchcraft in the warm summer day.
"We sail on the stream from Siljan's lake under the weeping willows of the parsonage, where the swans assemble in flocks; we glide along slowly with horses and carriages on the great ferry-boat, away over the rapid current under Balstad's picturesque shore. Here the elv widens and rolls its billows majestically in a woodland landscape, as large and extended as if it were in North America.
"We see the rushing, rapid stream under Avista's yellow clay declivities; the yellow water falls, like fluid amber, in picturesque cataracts before the copper works, where rainbow-colored tongues of fire shoot themselves upwards, and the hammer's blow on the copper-plates resound to the monotonous, roaring rumble of the elv-fall."
And so on, past the famous fall down which the waters gush, ere they lose themselves in the waters of the Baltic. One glimpse more ere they reach their resting-place. We take them up as they are circling the garden of a trim Swedish manor-house:
"The garden itself was a piece of enchantment. There stood three transplanted beech trees, and they throve well. The sharp north wind had rounded off the tops of the wild chestnut trees of the avenue in a singular manner; they looked as if they had been under the gardener's shears. Golden yellow oranges hung in the conservatory; the splendid Southern exotics had to-day got the windows half open, so that the artificial warmth met the fresh, warm, sunny air of the Northern summer."The branch of the Dal-elv which goes round the garden is strewn with small islands, where beautiful hanging birches and fir-trees grow in Scandinavian splendor. There are small islands with green, silent groves; there are small islands with rich grass, tall brakens, variegated bell flowers, and cowslips. No Turkey carpet has fresher colors. The stream between these islands and holmes is sometimes rapid, deep, and clear; sometimes like a broad rivulet with silky green rushes, water lilies, and brown feathered reeds; sometimesit is a brook with a stony ground, and now it spreads itself out in a large, still mill-dam."Here is a landscape in midsummer for the games of the river-sprites, and the dancers of the elves and fairies! There, in the lustre of the full moon, the dryads can tell their tales, the water-sprites seize the golden harp, and believe that one can be blessed, at least for one single night, like this."On the other side of Ens Bruck is the main stream—the full Dal-elv. Do you hear the monotonous rumble? It is not from Elvkarleby Fall that it reaches hither; it is close by; it is from Laa Foss in which lies Ash Island: the elv streams and rushes over the leaping salmon."Let us sit here, between the fragments of rock by the shore, in the red evening sunlight, which sheds a golden lustre on the waters of the Dal-elv."Glorious river! But a few seconds' work hast thou to do in the mills yonder, and thou rushest foaming on over Elvkarleby's rocks, down into the deep bed of the river, which leads thee to the Baltic—thy eternity."
"The garden itself was a piece of enchantment. There stood three transplanted beech trees, and they throve well. The sharp north wind had rounded off the tops of the wild chestnut trees of the avenue in a singular manner; they looked as if they had been under the gardener's shears. Golden yellow oranges hung in the conservatory; the splendid Southern exotics had to-day got the windows half open, so that the artificial warmth met the fresh, warm, sunny air of the Northern summer.
"The branch of the Dal-elv which goes round the garden is strewn with small islands, where beautiful hanging birches and fir-trees grow in Scandinavian splendor. There are small islands with green, silent groves; there are small islands with rich grass, tall brakens, variegated bell flowers, and cowslips. No Turkey carpet has fresher colors. The stream between these islands and holmes is sometimes rapid, deep, and clear; sometimes like a broad rivulet with silky green rushes, water lilies, and brown feathered reeds; sometimesit is a brook with a stony ground, and now it spreads itself out in a large, still mill-dam.
"Here is a landscape in midsummer for the games of the river-sprites, and the dancers of the elves and fairies! There, in the lustre of the full moon, the dryads can tell their tales, the water-sprites seize the golden harp, and believe that one can be blessed, at least for one single night, like this.
"On the other side of Ens Bruck is the main stream—the full Dal-elv. Do you hear the monotonous rumble? It is not from Elvkarleby Fall that it reaches hither; it is close by; it is from Laa Foss in which lies Ash Island: the elv streams and rushes over the leaping salmon.
"Let us sit here, between the fragments of rock by the shore, in the red evening sunlight, which sheds a golden lustre on the waters of the Dal-elv.
"Glorious river! But a few seconds' work hast thou to do in the mills yonder, and thou rushest foaming on over Elvkarleby's rocks, down into the deep bed of the river, which leads thee to the Baltic—thy eternity."
We could fill half our number with passages just as beautiful; but will leave the rest of the poet's landscapes till some American publisher brings out the book. We must nevertheless quote one picture of a different kind. "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin;" and the sorrows of the palace and the cottage alike find their level and their rest in the grave. The "Mute Book" speaks with a moving eloquence to those who can read it aright:
"By the high-road into the forest there stood a solitary farm-house. One way lay right through the farm-yard; the sun shone; all the windows were open; there was life and bustle within, but in the yard, in an arbor of flowering lilacs, there stood an open coffin. The corpse had been placed out here, and it was to be buried that forenoon. No one stood by, and wept over that dead man; no one hung sorrowfully over him. His face was covered with a white cloth, and under his head there lay a large, thick book, every leaf of which was a whole sheet of gray paper, and, between each, lay withered flowers, deposited and forgotten,—a whole herbarium, gathered in different places. He himself had requested that it should be laid in the grave with him. A chapter of his life was blended with every flower! 'Who is that dead man?' we asked, and the answer was, 'The old student from Upsala. They say he was once very clever; he knew the learned languages, could sing and write verses too; but then there was something that went wrong, and so he gave both his thoughts and himself up to drinking spirits, and, as his health suffered by it, he came out here into the country, where they paid for his board and lodging. He was as gentle as a child when the dark humor did not come over him, for then he was strong, and ran about in the forest like a hunted deer; but when we got him home, we persuaded him to look into the book with the dry plants. Then he would sit the whole day, and look at one plant, and then at another, and many a time the tears ran down his cheeks. God knows what he then thought! But he begged that he might have the book with him in his coffin; and now it lies there, and the lid will soon be fastened down, and then he will take his peaceful rest in the grave!'"They raised the winding sheet. There was peace in the face of the dead. A sunbeam fell on it; a swallow, in its arrow-flight, darted into the new-made arbor, and in its flight circled twittering over the dead man's head."How strange it is!—we all assuredly know it—to take out old letters from the days of one's youth, and read them: a whole life, as it were, then rises up, with all its hopes and all its troubles. How many of those with whom we, in their time, lived so devotedly, are now even as the dead to us, and yet they still live! But we have not thought of them for many years—them whom we once thought we should always cling to, and share our mutual joys and sorrows with!"The withered oak-leaf in the book here, is a memorial of the friend—the friend of his school days—the friend for life. He fixed this leaf on the student's cap, in the greenwood, when the vow of friendship was concluded for the whole life. Where does he now live? The leaf is preserved; friendship forgotten. Here is a foreign conservatory plant, too fine for the gardens of the North. It looks as if there still were fragrance in it.Shegave it to him—she, the lady of that noble garden!"Here is the marsh-lotus, which, he himself has plucked and watered with salt tears—the marsh-lotus from the fresh waters! And here is a nettle; what do its leaves say! What did he think on plucking it?—on preserving it? Here are lilies of the valley, from the woodland solitudes; here are honeysuckles from the village ale-house flower-pot; and here the bare, sharp blade of grass. The flowering lilac bends its fresh, fragrant clusters over the dead man's head; the swallow again flies past—'qui-vit! qui-vit!' Now the men come with nails and hammer; the lid is placed over the corpse, whose head rests on the 'Mute Book'—preserved—forgotten!"
"By the high-road into the forest there stood a solitary farm-house. One way lay right through the farm-yard; the sun shone; all the windows were open; there was life and bustle within, but in the yard, in an arbor of flowering lilacs, there stood an open coffin. The corpse had been placed out here, and it was to be buried that forenoon. No one stood by, and wept over that dead man; no one hung sorrowfully over him. His face was covered with a white cloth, and under his head there lay a large, thick book, every leaf of which was a whole sheet of gray paper, and, between each, lay withered flowers, deposited and forgotten,—a whole herbarium, gathered in different places. He himself had requested that it should be laid in the grave with him. A chapter of his life was blended with every flower! 'Who is that dead man?' we asked, and the answer was, 'The old student from Upsala. They say he was once very clever; he knew the learned languages, could sing and write verses too; but then there was something that went wrong, and so he gave both his thoughts and himself up to drinking spirits, and, as his health suffered by it, he came out here into the country, where they paid for his board and lodging. He was as gentle as a child when the dark humor did not come over him, for then he was strong, and ran about in the forest like a hunted deer; but when we got him home, we persuaded him to look into the book with the dry plants. Then he would sit the whole day, and look at one plant, and then at another, and many a time the tears ran down his cheeks. God knows what he then thought! But he begged that he might have the book with him in his coffin; and now it lies there, and the lid will soon be fastened down, and then he will take his peaceful rest in the grave!'
"They raised the winding sheet. There was peace in the face of the dead. A sunbeam fell on it; a swallow, in its arrow-flight, darted into the new-made arbor, and in its flight circled twittering over the dead man's head.
"How strange it is!—we all assuredly know it—to take out old letters from the days of one's youth, and read them: a whole life, as it were, then rises up, with all its hopes and all its troubles. How many of those with whom we, in their time, lived so devotedly, are now even as the dead to us, and yet they still live! But we have not thought of them for many years—them whom we once thought we should always cling to, and share our mutual joys and sorrows with!
"The withered oak-leaf in the book here, is a memorial of the friend—the friend of his school days—the friend for life. He fixed this leaf on the student's cap, in the greenwood, when the vow of friendship was concluded for the whole life. Where does he now live? The leaf is preserved; friendship forgotten. Here is a foreign conservatory plant, too fine for the gardens of the North. It looks as if there still were fragrance in it.Shegave it to him—she, the lady of that noble garden!
"Here is the marsh-lotus, which, he himself has plucked and watered with salt tears—the marsh-lotus from the fresh waters! And here is a nettle; what do its leaves say! What did he think on plucking it?—on preserving it? Here are lilies of the valley, from the woodland solitudes; here are honeysuckles from the village ale-house flower-pot; and here the bare, sharp blade of grass. The flowering lilac bends its fresh, fragrant clusters over the dead man's head; the swallow again flies past—'qui-vit! qui-vit!' Now the men come with nails and hammer; the lid is placed over the corpse, whose head rests on the 'Mute Book'—preserved—forgotten!"
The book, to those who are not repelled by a certain quaintness of manner from the enjoyment of a work of true genius, will form a permanent and delightful addition to those pictures of many lands which the enterprise and accomplishment of modern travellers is creating for the delight of those whose range of locomotion is bounded by the limits of their own country, or by the four walls of a sick chamber.
Andersen has grown old in years, and with age he has increase of art, but he was never younger in spirit, and his genius never blossomed with more freshness and beauty.
My desk is heaped with nicetiesFrom tropic lands divine,But this is braver far than all—A flask of Chian wine!Brim up my golden drinking-cup,And reach a dish of fruit,And then unlock my cabinet,And hand me out my lute;For when these luxuries have fedAnd filled my brain with light,I must compose a nuptial song,To suit my bridal night!
My desk is heaped with nicetiesFrom tropic lands divine,But this is braver far than all—A flask of Chian wine!
Brim up my golden drinking-cup,And reach a dish of fruit,And then unlock my cabinet,And hand me out my lute;
For when these luxuries have fedAnd filled my brain with light,I must compose a nuptial song,To suit my bridal night!
Parodies have been much in vogue in almost every age; among the Greeks, Latins, Germans, French, and English, it has been among the commonest of literary pleasantries to turn verses into ridicule by applying them to a purpose never dreamed of by their authors, or to burlesque serious pieces by affecting to observe the same rhymes, words, and cadences. The wicked arts of Charles the Second's time thus made fun of the hymns of the Roundheads, and pious people have since turned the tables by adapting to good uses the profane airs and sensual songs of the opera house. Of the class of puns, parodies have in the scale of art a much higher rank, and occasionally they furnish specimens of genuine poetry. Among the best we have ever seen are a considerable number attributed to Miss Phebe Carey, of Ohio; they are rich in quaint and natural humor, and as a London critic describes them, "wonderfully American." In its way, we have seen nothing better than this reflex of Bayard Taylor's poem of "Manuela."
From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stood there making pies,Southward looks along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;Where along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.All the air is full of noises, for there isn't any school,And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;Blithely frisk, unnumbered chickens cackling for they cannot laugh,Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gazeOn the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way,Far beyond the cattle pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay?Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine,With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line;And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her freckled cheek,—Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed,She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road;Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.Ere supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick,Crossed the rushing Yellow River and had forded quite a creek,And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.Therefore watches Martha Hopkins—holding in her hands the pans,When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough,But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,As he jogs along at leisure with his head down like a sheep's.She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest;By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spreadBy a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroke ox can throw,None amid his father's corn-fields use like him the spade and hoe;And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen,That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin.He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now,For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,When the buck-eye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown,And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape,'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape,Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread,As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, 'tis John Jackson's self that's there!
From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stood there making pies,Southward looks along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes;Where along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds,And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds.
All the air is full of noises, for there isn't any school,And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool;Blithely frisk, unnumbered chickens cackling for they cannot laugh,Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf.
Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gazeOn the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize?Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way,Far beyond the cattle pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay?
Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine,With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line;And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her freckled cheek,—Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak.
When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed,She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road;Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn,Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn.
Ere supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick,Crossed the rushing Yellow River and had forded quite a creek,And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans,With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans.
Therefore watches Martha Hopkins—holding in her hands the pans,When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's;Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars,But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars.
Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough,But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough;Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps,As he jogs along at leisure with his head down like a sheep's.
She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest;By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west;By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spreadBy a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed.
None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroke ox can throw,None amid his father's corn-fields use like him the spade and hoe;And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen,That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin.
He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now,For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow,When the buck-eye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn,Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn.
He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown,And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town;That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give,To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live.
Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape,'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape,Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees,One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees.
But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread,As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed.Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair,'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, 'tis John Jackson's self that's there!
Here is one scarcely less happy upon Mr. Willis's "Better Moments:"
That fellow's voice! how often stealsIts cadence o'er my lonely days!Like something sent on wagon wheels,Or packed in an unconscious chaise.I might forget the words he saidWhen all the children fret and cry,But when I get them off to bed,His gentle tone comes stealing by—And years of matrimony flee,And leave me sitting on his knee.The times he came to court a spell,The tender things he said to me,Make me remember mighty wellMy hopes that he'd propose to me.My face is uglier, and perhapsTime and the comb have thinned my hair;And plain and common are the caps,And dresses that I have to wear—But memory is ever yetWith all that fellow's flat'ries writ.I have been out at milking-timeBeneath a dull and rainy sky,When in the barn 'twas time to feed,And calves were bawling lustily—When scattered hay, and sheaves of oats,And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard,And all that makes the cattle passWith wilder richness through the yard—When all was hateful, then have I,With friends who had to help me milk,Talked of his wife most spitefully,And how he kept her dressed in silk;And when the cattle, running there,Threw over me a shower of mud,That fellow's voice came on the air,Like the light chewing of the cud—And resting near some spreckled cow,The spirit of a woman's spite,I've poured a low and fervent vow,To make him, if I had the might,Live all his life-time just as hard,And milk his cows in such a yard.I have been out to pick up woodWhen night was stealing from the dawn,Before the fire was burning good,Or I had put the kettle onThe little stove—when babes were wakingWith a low murmur in the beds,And melody by fits was breakingAbove their little yellow heads—And this when I was up perhapsFrom a few short and troubled naps—And when the sun sprang scorchinglyAnd freely up, and made us stifle,And fell upon each hill and treeThe bullets from his subtle rifle—I say a voice has thrilled me then,Hard by that solemn pile of wood,Or creeping from the silent glen,Like something on the unfledged brood,Hath stricken me, and I have pressedClose in my arms my load of chips,And pouring forth the hatefulestOf words that ever passed my lips,Have felt my woman's spirit rushOn me, as on that milking night,And, yielding to the blessed gushOf my ungovernable spite,Have risen up, the wed, the old,Scolding as hard as I could scold.
That fellow's voice! how often stealsIts cadence o'er my lonely days!Like something sent on wagon wheels,Or packed in an unconscious chaise.I might forget the words he saidWhen all the children fret and cry,But when I get them off to bed,His gentle tone comes stealing by—And years of matrimony flee,And leave me sitting on his knee.
The times he came to court a spell,The tender things he said to me,Make me remember mighty wellMy hopes that he'd propose to me.My face is uglier, and perhapsTime and the comb have thinned my hair;And plain and common are the caps,And dresses that I have to wear—But memory is ever yetWith all that fellow's flat'ries writ.
I have been out at milking-timeBeneath a dull and rainy sky,When in the barn 'twas time to feed,And calves were bawling lustily—When scattered hay, and sheaves of oats,And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard,And all that makes the cattle passWith wilder richness through the yard—When all was hateful, then have I,With friends who had to help me milk,Talked of his wife most spitefully,And how he kept her dressed in silk;And when the cattle, running there,Threw over me a shower of mud,That fellow's voice came on the air,Like the light chewing of the cud—And resting near some spreckled cow,The spirit of a woman's spite,I've poured a low and fervent vow,To make him, if I had the might,Live all his life-time just as hard,And milk his cows in such a yard.
I have been out to pick up woodWhen night was stealing from the dawn,Before the fire was burning good,Or I had put the kettle onThe little stove—when babes were wakingWith a low murmur in the beds,And melody by fits was breakingAbove their little yellow heads—And this when I was up perhapsFrom a few short and troubled naps—And when the sun sprang scorchinglyAnd freely up, and made us stifle,And fell upon each hill and treeThe bullets from his subtle rifle—I say a voice has thrilled me then,Hard by that solemn pile of wood,Or creeping from the silent glen,Like something on the unfledged brood,Hath stricken me, and I have pressedClose in my arms my load of chips,And pouring forth the hatefulestOf words that ever passed my lips,Have felt my woman's spirit rushOn me, as on that milking night,And, yielding to the blessed gushOf my ungovernable spite,Have risen up, the wed, the old,Scolding as hard as I could scold.
And in the same vein "The Annoyer," in which is imitated one of the most delicate pieces of sentiment and fancy which Willis has given us: