STANZAS TO E——.

STANZAS TO E——.Wherethe young mountain riverSprings for the far-off ocean;Where the fresh leaflets quiverWith a delightful motion;Oh! thither hie, and seeHow Nature’s youth doth tell of thee.Where hang the sweet wild roses,And the pale lilies drooping;Where the violet reposes’Neath young leaves o’er it stooping;Oh! wander there, and seeHow Nature’s beauty speaks of thee.Where the glad brook is bringingSweet music never dying;Where the bright birds are singing,And gentle winds are sighing;Oh! thither go with me,And list to Nature’s song of thee.Where ivy is entwining,The stern tree’s branch down-bending;Where flowers are e’er combiningTheir perfume, heaven-ascending;Oh! roam thou there, and seeHow Nature’s love breathes but of thee.

Wherethe young mountain riverSprings for the far-off ocean;Where the fresh leaflets quiverWith a delightful motion;Oh! thither hie, and seeHow Nature’s youth doth tell of thee.Where hang the sweet wild roses,And the pale lilies drooping;Where the violet reposes’Neath young leaves o’er it stooping;Oh! wander there, and seeHow Nature’s beauty speaks of thee.Where the glad brook is bringingSweet music never dying;Where the bright birds are singing,And gentle winds are sighing;Oh! thither go with me,And list to Nature’s song of thee.Where ivy is entwining,The stern tree’s branch down-bending;Where flowers are e’er combiningTheir perfume, heaven-ascending;Oh! roam thou there, and seeHow Nature’s love breathes but of thee.

Wherethe young mountain riverSprings for the far-off ocean;Where the fresh leaflets quiverWith a delightful motion;Oh! thither hie, and seeHow Nature’s youth doth tell of thee.

Wherethe young mountain river

Springs for the far-off ocean;

Where the fresh leaflets quiver

With a delightful motion;

Oh! thither hie, and see

How Nature’s youth doth tell of thee.

Where hang the sweet wild roses,And the pale lilies drooping;Where the violet reposes’Neath young leaves o’er it stooping;Oh! wander there, and seeHow Nature’s beauty speaks of thee.

Where hang the sweet wild roses,

And the pale lilies drooping;

Where the violet reposes

’Neath young leaves o’er it stooping;

Oh! wander there, and see

How Nature’s beauty speaks of thee.

Where the glad brook is bringingSweet music never dying;Where the bright birds are singing,And gentle winds are sighing;Oh! thither go with me,And list to Nature’s song of thee.

Where the glad brook is bringing

Sweet music never dying;

Where the bright birds are singing,

And gentle winds are sighing;

Oh! thither go with me,

And list to Nature’s song of thee.

Where ivy is entwining,The stern tree’s branch down-bending;Where flowers are e’er combiningTheir perfume, heaven-ascending;Oh! roam thou there, and seeHow Nature’s love breathes but of thee.

Where ivy is entwining,

The stern tree’s branch down-bending;

Where flowers are e’er combining

Their perfume, heaven-ascending;

Oh! roam thou there, and see

How Nature’s love breathes but of thee.

BELISARIUS.Thetrumpet’s voice had stirred the sky,And rustling banners waved on high;The shouts of victory went up,And wreaths of laurel crowned the cupThat flowed amid the festal halls,Within the crowded city’s walls;Stern warriors came in long arrayTo grace the conqueror’s pageant day:Triumphant peeled the clarion’s toneAnd spears and glancing armor shone,Mid the dust of thousands sweeping by,Like meteors in a midnight sky.They’d left behind their hosts of slainUpon the far-off battle plain,And brought the marks of conquest back;Proud trophies glittered on their track:Rich armor from the vanquished won,Bright jewels glancing in the sun;A captive monarch’s golden throne,And heaps of countless treasure shone;But prouder, nobler spoils and high,Adorned that mighty pageantry.Reluctantly, with lofty form,Like strong oaks blasted by the stormBut not bowed down, the captives came,Their dark brows flushed with grief and shame;And he, their sovereign, king no more,In mockery the purple wore.His the proud step, majestic mien,The lip compressed and look sereneThat mark a spirit strong and high,A soul that smiles on destiny.As surges breaking on the shore,Or like the distant torrents roar,The shouts of victory rolled afar.And shook the hills, as the victor’s carGorgeous and bright was borne alongBy the swift rush of the gathered throng.A glorious sight on his haughty way,With laurel crown, and mail-clad breast,With waving plume and princely crest,Was the conqueror on that day.·····An old man paced the guarded room,With quivering lip and brow of gloom,And his silver hair in the moonlight shoneLike the grayish front of a time-worn stone;Nor voice, nor sound the still air woke,Till his burning words the silence broke:I.‘Whereis the shining carAnd where the gorgeous train?Fled as the falling starThat sunk behind the main!II.‘Where is the victor’s crown?The pageant sweeping past?Gone with the thistle-down,Swept by the hurrying blast.III.‘Where is the trump of FameThat woke the startled air?’Tis like my branded name,And like my dying prayer.IV.‘I’ve braved the din and strifeOf many a battle-plain,And lavished strength and life;My guerdon is a chain!V.‘I brought a true heart brave,A spirit bold and free,Free as the ocean wave;My country! unto thee.VI.‘I had not thought to startBefore thy stinging frown;Wo for the trusting heart!Wo for the laurel crown!’Shelter Island.Mary Gardiner.

Thetrumpet’s voice had stirred the sky,And rustling banners waved on high;The shouts of victory went up,And wreaths of laurel crowned the cupThat flowed amid the festal halls,Within the crowded city’s walls;Stern warriors came in long arrayTo grace the conqueror’s pageant day:Triumphant peeled the clarion’s toneAnd spears and glancing armor shone,Mid the dust of thousands sweeping by,Like meteors in a midnight sky.They’d left behind their hosts of slainUpon the far-off battle plain,And brought the marks of conquest back;Proud trophies glittered on their track:Rich armor from the vanquished won,Bright jewels glancing in the sun;A captive monarch’s golden throne,And heaps of countless treasure shone;But prouder, nobler spoils and high,Adorned that mighty pageantry.Reluctantly, with lofty form,Like strong oaks blasted by the stormBut not bowed down, the captives came,Their dark brows flushed with grief and shame;And he, their sovereign, king no more,In mockery the purple wore.His the proud step, majestic mien,The lip compressed and look sereneThat mark a spirit strong and high,A soul that smiles on destiny.As surges breaking on the shore,Or like the distant torrents roar,The shouts of victory rolled afar.And shook the hills, as the victor’s carGorgeous and bright was borne alongBy the swift rush of the gathered throng.A glorious sight on his haughty way,With laurel crown, and mail-clad breast,With waving plume and princely crest,Was the conqueror on that day.·····An old man paced the guarded room,With quivering lip and brow of gloom,And his silver hair in the moonlight shoneLike the grayish front of a time-worn stone;Nor voice, nor sound the still air woke,Till his burning words the silence broke:I.‘Whereis the shining carAnd where the gorgeous train?Fled as the falling starThat sunk behind the main!II.‘Where is the victor’s crown?The pageant sweeping past?Gone with the thistle-down,Swept by the hurrying blast.III.‘Where is the trump of FameThat woke the startled air?’Tis like my branded name,And like my dying prayer.IV.‘I’ve braved the din and strifeOf many a battle-plain,And lavished strength and life;My guerdon is a chain!V.‘I brought a true heart brave,A spirit bold and free,Free as the ocean wave;My country! unto thee.VI.‘I had not thought to startBefore thy stinging frown;Wo for the trusting heart!Wo for the laurel crown!’

Thetrumpet’s voice had stirred the sky,

And rustling banners waved on high;

The shouts of victory went up,

And wreaths of laurel crowned the cup

That flowed amid the festal halls,

Within the crowded city’s walls;

Stern warriors came in long array

To grace the conqueror’s pageant day:

Triumphant peeled the clarion’s tone

And spears and glancing armor shone,

Mid the dust of thousands sweeping by,

Like meteors in a midnight sky.

They’d left behind their hosts of slain

Upon the far-off battle plain,

And brought the marks of conquest back;

Proud trophies glittered on their track:

Rich armor from the vanquished won,

Bright jewels glancing in the sun;

A captive monarch’s golden throne,

And heaps of countless treasure shone;

But prouder, nobler spoils and high,

Adorned that mighty pageantry.

Reluctantly, with lofty form,

Like strong oaks blasted by the storm

But not bowed down, the captives came,

Their dark brows flushed with grief and shame;

And he, their sovereign, king no more,

In mockery the purple wore.

His the proud step, majestic mien,

The lip compressed and look serene

That mark a spirit strong and high,

A soul that smiles on destiny.

As surges breaking on the shore,

Or like the distant torrents roar,

The shouts of victory rolled afar.

And shook the hills, as the victor’s car

Gorgeous and bright was borne along

By the swift rush of the gathered throng.

A glorious sight on his haughty way,

With laurel crown, and mail-clad breast,

With waving plume and princely crest,

Was the conqueror on that day.

·····

An old man paced the guarded room,

With quivering lip and brow of gloom,

And his silver hair in the moonlight shone

Like the grayish front of a time-worn stone;

Nor voice, nor sound the still air woke,

Till his burning words the silence broke:

I.‘Whereis the shining carAnd where the gorgeous train?Fled as the falling starThat sunk behind the main!

‘Whereis the shining car

And where the gorgeous train?

Fled as the falling star

That sunk behind the main!

II.‘Where is the victor’s crown?The pageant sweeping past?Gone with the thistle-down,Swept by the hurrying blast.

II.

‘Where is the victor’s crown?

The pageant sweeping past?

Gone with the thistle-down,

Swept by the hurrying blast.

III.‘Where is the trump of FameThat woke the startled air?’Tis like my branded name,And like my dying prayer.

III.

‘Where is the trump of Fame

That woke the startled air?

’Tis like my branded name,

And like my dying prayer.

IV.‘I’ve braved the din and strifeOf many a battle-plain,And lavished strength and life;My guerdon is a chain!

IV.

‘I’ve braved the din and strife

Of many a battle-plain,

And lavished strength and life;

My guerdon is a chain!

V.‘I brought a true heart brave,A spirit bold and free,Free as the ocean wave;My country! unto thee.

‘I brought a true heart brave,

A spirit bold and free,

Free as the ocean wave;

My country! unto thee.

VI.‘I had not thought to startBefore thy stinging frown;Wo for the trusting heart!Wo for the laurel crown!’

VI.

‘I had not thought to start

Before thy stinging frown;

Wo for the trusting heart!

Wo for the laurel crown!’

Shelter Island.Mary Gardiner.

A VERITABLE GHOST STORY.‘Thereare more things in heaven and earthThan are dreamed of in our philosophy.’Someforty years since, an elderly English gentleman, who had been successful in his pursuit after wealth in the British metropolis, determined upon purchasing an estate in the country, upon which he might retire and enjoy the residue of life in unostentatious ease and quiet. He was a man of elegant tastes and fond of antiquarian pursuits. This latter predilection induced him, in his various summer journeyings in England, to select from among those old inns or taverns which are invariably to be met with in every ancient borough or market-town, the most respectable one, as the place at which he would put up; and when ‘mine host’ gave token of being a gentleman, his companionship would generally be requested, through a card by the waiter, bearing the compliments of the guest, with a hope that it might be convenient for the landlord to favor him with his company over a bottle of wine. This was the almost invariable plan adopted, when he was unaccompanied with his ‘better half.’ It will readily be conceived that in these tête-à-tête gossipings, a great fund of anecdote and legendary tales had been gleaned, which were made subservient to the entertainment of friends when assembled around the social board. It is from this fund of gossip to which I have so often listened, that I propose to select one which, owing to my close relationship to the stout gentleman, has been to me a source of no little interest, even as a ‘thrice-told tale.’ The incident occurred at the time when he was in search of the estate to which I have alluded in the commencement of this sketch.It was late in the evening, in the spring of the year, when he arrived at the destined stopping-place for the night, which if I remember rightly was the ancient borough of St. Albans. Here he selected an inn according to his usual taste; an old rambling disjointed patch-work piece of architecture, the gradual accumulation of many preceding generations, where might be seen rude carvings of grinning nondescript monsters supporting the projecting stories as they each hung over the side-walk; large and small casement windows, with square mullions and gothic arches, and many a gabled roof fronting on the street, where at their junction the continuous gutters projected in the form of long pipes, which in rainy weather discharged cataracts of water, deluging the unfortunate pedestrian who should unwittingly prefer the side-walk to the rough paved road. In the centre of this pile of buildings was the gate-way, large enough to admit coaches with outside passengers; and under its ample, shadowy shelter would be found the entrance to the building itself. On one side was the door to the tap-room, used by post-boys, servants, and the like class, while on the opposite side the glazed door led to the coffee-room and the more respectable apartments. Here Boniface would present himself whenever a carriage drove up, to give a hearty welcome to his guests. The interior, in accordance with the outside, was composed of low, spacious rooms, wainscoated in oaken pannels, blackened with age, but brightly polished by continued rubbings. The furniture was of a past century; the floors worm-eaten but of scrupulous cleanliness, their centres covered with modern or perchance Turkish carpets. The mullioned windows with their appropriate leaden-lozenged casements, glazed with glass of various shades of green, were ornamented with curtains, not hung for show but intended to be used nightly.Into one of these rooms our elderly gentleman was ceremoniously shown by the obsequious waiter; and here, after the hearty meal was ended and the newspaper run through, the evening was spent, as the reader will perhaps anticipate, in company with ‘mine host.’ It was spring, as I have before said; cold and cheerless without, but within a bright blazing fire, and a table upon which sparkled generous wine, ‘that maketh glad the heart of man,’ gave earnest of comfortable quarters. You may fancy the stout gentleman and his companion honest Boniface, no shadow, each seated in arm chairs of creditable proportions, whiling away the evening hour with many a tale; a fragment of one of which we will now just touch upon.‘And you really think the tile which you have dug up from below the foundation in the cellar, to be of the date of Julius Cæsar; and infer from it that a roof has sheltered this spot for two thousand years? It is a hallowed thought to reflect upon the crowd of spirits which must hover over and around us, if we suppose, as some do, that when we leave this tabernacle of clay, we shall continue to linger in the midst of our old haunts; and that these spirits are the unseen and unfelt witnesses of our every act. It may be mere fancy, but I am inclined to think there is more truth in the thought than cold philosophy is willing to admit.’‘Then, Sir, you are a believer in ghosts?’ observed Boniface.‘Why, no; I cannot say truly that I am, though I have oftentimeslonged to make an acquaintance with one. By the way, I should think this building of nooks and corners was admirably adapted for the carrying out some marvel of the sort. Pray, is there not some hobgoblin or merry sprite playing his antics about your premises, my worthy host?’Hereupon Boniface looked doubtingly, and feeling his way before committing himself, he at last admitted that ‘there was some idle story of the kind, but for his part, he put no faith in such silly things.’‘Well, of course,’ said his guest, ‘it must be some particular room that is thus honored?’‘Well?’ was the deferential rejoinder, in a tone denoting a wish to hear the deduction.‘Then, if it is a bed-chamber, snug and comfortable, do me the favor to apportion it to me for the night.’‘Most certainly, if you are serious,’ rejoined Boniface; ‘it shall be made ready immediately; but I assure you that my patrons seldom give it the preference.’Hereupon the bell was rung, and the waiter presenting himself, was requested to direct the chamber-maid to prepare the large room, and to see that the bed was well aired, and to tell Boots to take the gentleman’s trunk up, to kindle a fire, and to see that every thing was tidy.The evening was thus whiled away until the hour of eleven had arrived, when the great stillness of the house betokened the time for retiring. Accordingly, the chamber-maid was summoned, and with a candle in each hand, she led the way up a wide stair-case, graced with twisted bannisters and of easy ascent, terminating on a long corridor, the floor full of uncertain undulations, running the entire length of the building. At the end was a door, which upon opening, discovered a room of large proportions, with a low ceiling divided into square compartments. Here our traveller was no sooner installed and left alone, than he locked the door; then with candle in hand he began to examine each crack and cranny, but could find nothing suspicious. There were few things in it worthy of note, excepting a large bed with drawn curtains of dazzling whiteness; a most ample hearth, on which was blazing a bundle of dry faggots, sending forth a warm, cheerful light into the room, more powerful than both the candles. This huge fire-place, with its concomitant ornament, a profusely-carved mantel-piece of the usual time-stained oak, was at least five feet high, and more than two feet broad; its ingenious workmanship occupied his attention, and kept him for some time engaged in curious admiration of its exquisite quaintness. The other furniture consisted of chairs, a chest-of-drawers, and a table, all the work of a former age. An easy chair was placed in the middle of the room, in which the stout gentleman composed himself luxuriously for a short time. The room however was too large to be easily warmed, and he soon abandoned it for the bed, but not before he had raked the remaining brands together and extinguished the candles. Not feeling at once the influence of the drowsy god, he abandoned himself to many fanciful speculations. He marvelled why it was that the concurrence of all ages and nations, enlightened or ignorant, savage or civilized, should have so uniformly led to the belief in good and evil spirits wandering at large on the earth, not subject to the laws of matter, save inthe sensation of sight and hearing. The creditable phalanx of names of distinguished persons who had placed their veracity on the side of believers, as having themselves been visited by the inhabitants of the other world, was opposed by his own experience; for although he had frequently thought he had been so honored, yet upon investigating the cause, he had invariably found it to be a mere delusion.It was not long however that he was suffered thus to enjoy himself; for hearing a slight noise near the fire-place, he turned his head, and saw a deformed, dwarfish body emerge from the shadowy part of the room, proceed stealthily toward the fire, over which he rubbed his thin, attenuated hands, and then placing them under their opposite arms, he hugged himself in evident comfort. The fire had by this time so far dwindled away as to be only a handful of smouldering embers, which cast but an exceedingly feeble and uncertain light, sufficient only to reveal the general outline of the pigmy spectre. The old gentleman, with strained eyes, attentively observed his motions, till from very weariness, caused by looking through a light so dim, he began to doubt whether he saw truly: he reasoned with himself, but with no satisfactory result; till at last, desirous of ‘making assurance doubly sure,’ he gently enlarged his look-out in the slightly-opened curtains in order that he might more attentively observe the room; but all was darkness, save in the immediate vicinity of the fire. The removal of the curtain however had made a rustling noise, which had given the alarm to the spectre-imp, who immediately vanished into the gloom of the apartment on the side of the fire-place.This was no sooner observed by the wide-awake old gentleman, than he jumped out of bed, resolved to give chase; but although stout gentlemen are generally no-wise active, not a second had elapsed before he reached the hearth, and scattering the embers in order to obtain more light, he looked carefully around, but no trace of the phantom could be seen. A few seconds more, and one of the candles was lighted, when the room was again subjected to a more rigid scrutiny; but all to no purpose; for the door remained locked, and the closet-doors were equally secure; nothing was under the bed, nor behind the table; the easy-chair could afford no shelter; in the front of every lower tier of pannels was some article of furniture, which effectually prevented their being used suddenly; beside, how could the furniture be reädjusted? The upper ones were too high to be at all likely to afford the means of such quick concealment. Hence he was completely mystified, amazed, perplexed. His mental powers were in a whirl; until at length he became perfectly bewildered, and concluded that he had been dreaming, or had been taking a short trot on a night-mare; and with this latter idea he returned, shivering like an ague, to his cold bed. The candle was now suffered to burn, and pillowing his head high, so as to see all around, the curtains having been previously withdrawn, he determined to keep vigilant watch. At length becoming composed and comfortably warm, he distinctly recalled the whole train of thought which had preceded the appearance of the strange phantom. Finally, he concluded that if it were all a dream, an illusion, never was a dream or an illusion so like reality. He must from henceforth doubt the evidence of hissenses. Thus he reasoned and doubted, doubted and reasoned, until the candle’s light and all around had faded into dimness. Slumber gradually usurped its sway, and he slept till late next morning. On awaking, the whole affair was too vividly remembered, for him to settle down into a belief that he had dreamed. He was determined to satisfy himself. It was not long before his feet were in his slippers; and throwing on his dressing-gown, he went the round of another and still another examination, with no more satisfactory result than before; until at last, tired with conjecture, he dismissed it from his mind, and completed his toilet.At the breakfast-table, he simply remarked, in reply to the inquiry if he had slept well, that he had dreamed the room was haunted by a dwarfish ghost, but he pretended to believe that it was only a dream.‘There!’ rejoined the auditor; ‘othershave dreamed the same thing!’The discussion of the creature-comforts on the table was too interesting to permit a discussion of discomforts, and inquiry was silenced.The morning sun was shining brightly, tempting the healthful to enjoy his cheerful beams. It was not long therefore before our traveller was seen taking the direction to the old abbey-church. The sight of such ancient buildings was always keenly relished by him, by reason of his antiquarian tastes; but in this instance, it led to the clearing up of the last night’s mystery; for in his rambles around this immense pile of architecture, he literally ‘stumbled upon’ an old friend, who was connected with the parish affairs, and was consequently enabled to give much interest to his descriptions of the place. The last night’s events were of course not forgotten; in fact it was all circumstantially detailed, even to a minute description of the dwarf.‘Well, well,’ was the reply, ‘I think I can show you the living facsimile of your fancied dream; the only thing which puzzles me is to account for his entrance to your chamber. Let us step into the house adjoining the inn, and you shall judge for yourself.’They accordingly adjourned to the place indicated; and there the very imp himself was actually felt and handled! It required some coaxing, not unmixed with threats, before he could be prevailed upon to unfold the secrets of his prison-house, but they were finally extorted. It seemed, that up stairs, on a level with the haunted chamber, was a closet, immediately back of the fire-place with the carved oaken mantelpiece, once side of which, it will be remembered, was at least two feet wide; and its curious carvings were so adroitly made as to conceal the cracks of that part which opened as a door: this, if even left ajar, would still be in shadow from the fire on the hearth, and consequently an instant of time was only necessary for the person near by to make his escape, and to effectually conceal the mode by which it was accomplished. The brick jam was of course hollow, and led to the back of the closet in the next house; which, being pannelled all around, and situated against a solid wall, as was supposed, had eluded discovery after the builders had passed away. How this misshapen piece of humanity had re-discovered it, I never knew; but I fancy that, accidentally being in the closet at the time when there had been a noise made in the fire-place, either from kindling a fire or cleaning it; and hearingthis noise distinctly, might have suggested to him to try the back; which, opening inside of the secret passage, might have been forced from its spring-catch; while the holes in the carved work of the mantel enabled him to see if any one was in the room; and thus prevent an intrusion which would lead to his detection.G. R. V.

‘Thereare more things in heaven and earthThan are dreamed of in our philosophy.’

‘Thereare more things in heaven and earth

Than are dreamed of in our philosophy.’

Someforty years since, an elderly English gentleman, who had been successful in his pursuit after wealth in the British metropolis, determined upon purchasing an estate in the country, upon which he might retire and enjoy the residue of life in unostentatious ease and quiet. He was a man of elegant tastes and fond of antiquarian pursuits. This latter predilection induced him, in his various summer journeyings in England, to select from among those old inns or taverns which are invariably to be met with in every ancient borough or market-town, the most respectable one, as the place at which he would put up; and when ‘mine host’ gave token of being a gentleman, his companionship would generally be requested, through a card by the waiter, bearing the compliments of the guest, with a hope that it might be convenient for the landlord to favor him with his company over a bottle of wine. This was the almost invariable plan adopted, when he was unaccompanied with his ‘better half.’ It will readily be conceived that in these tête-à-tête gossipings, a great fund of anecdote and legendary tales had been gleaned, which were made subservient to the entertainment of friends when assembled around the social board. It is from this fund of gossip to which I have so often listened, that I propose to select one which, owing to my close relationship to the stout gentleman, has been to me a source of no little interest, even as a ‘thrice-told tale.’ The incident occurred at the time when he was in search of the estate to which I have alluded in the commencement of this sketch.

It was late in the evening, in the spring of the year, when he arrived at the destined stopping-place for the night, which if I remember rightly was the ancient borough of St. Albans. Here he selected an inn according to his usual taste; an old rambling disjointed patch-work piece of architecture, the gradual accumulation of many preceding generations, where might be seen rude carvings of grinning nondescript monsters supporting the projecting stories as they each hung over the side-walk; large and small casement windows, with square mullions and gothic arches, and many a gabled roof fronting on the street, where at their junction the continuous gutters projected in the form of long pipes, which in rainy weather discharged cataracts of water, deluging the unfortunate pedestrian who should unwittingly prefer the side-walk to the rough paved road. In the centre of this pile of buildings was the gate-way, large enough to admit coaches with outside passengers; and under its ample, shadowy shelter would be found the entrance to the building itself. On one side was the door to the tap-room, used by post-boys, servants, and the like class, while on the opposite side the glazed door led to the coffee-room and the more respectable apartments. Here Boniface would present himself whenever a carriage drove up, to give a hearty welcome to his guests. The interior, in accordance with the outside, was composed of low, spacious rooms, wainscoated in oaken pannels, blackened with age, but brightly polished by continued rubbings. The furniture was of a past century; the floors worm-eaten but of scrupulous cleanliness, their centres covered with modern or perchance Turkish carpets. The mullioned windows with their appropriate leaden-lozenged casements, glazed with glass of various shades of green, were ornamented with curtains, not hung for show but intended to be used nightly.

Into one of these rooms our elderly gentleman was ceremoniously shown by the obsequious waiter; and here, after the hearty meal was ended and the newspaper run through, the evening was spent, as the reader will perhaps anticipate, in company with ‘mine host.’ It was spring, as I have before said; cold and cheerless without, but within a bright blazing fire, and a table upon which sparkled generous wine, ‘that maketh glad the heart of man,’ gave earnest of comfortable quarters. You may fancy the stout gentleman and his companion honest Boniface, no shadow, each seated in arm chairs of creditable proportions, whiling away the evening hour with many a tale; a fragment of one of which we will now just touch upon.

‘And you really think the tile which you have dug up from below the foundation in the cellar, to be of the date of Julius Cæsar; and infer from it that a roof has sheltered this spot for two thousand years? It is a hallowed thought to reflect upon the crowd of spirits which must hover over and around us, if we suppose, as some do, that when we leave this tabernacle of clay, we shall continue to linger in the midst of our old haunts; and that these spirits are the unseen and unfelt witnesses of our every act. It may be mere fancy, but I am inclined to think there is more truth in the thought than cold philosophy is willing to admit.’

‘Then, Sir, you are a believer in ghosts?’ observed Boniface.

‘Why, no; I cannot say truly that I am, though I have oftentimeslonged to make an acquaintance with one. By the way, I should think this building of nooks and corners was admirably adapted for the carrying out some marvel of the sort. Pray, is there not some hobgoblin or merry sprite playing his antics about your premises, my worthy host?’

Hereupon Boniface looked doubtingly, and feeling his way before committing himself, he at last admitted that ‘there was some idle story of the kind, but for his part, he put no faith in such silly things.’

‘Well, of course,’ said his guest, ‘it must be some particular room that is thus honored?’

‘Well?’ was the deferential rejoinder, in a tone denoting a wish to hear the deduction.

‘Then, if it is a bed-chamber, snug and comfortable, do me the favor to apportion it to me for the night.’

‘Most certainly, if you are serious,’ rejoined Boniface; ‘it shall be made ready immediately; but I assure you that my patrons seldom give it the preference.’

Hereupon the bell was rung, and the waiter presenting himself, was requested to direct the chamber-maid to prepare the large room, and to see that the bed was well aired, and to tell Boots to take the gentleman’s trunk up, to kindle a fire, and to see that every thing was tidy.

The evening was thus whiled away until the hour of eleven had arrived, when the great stillness of the house betokened the time for retiring. Accordingly, the chamber-maid was summoned, and with a candle in each hand, she led the way up a wide stair-case, graced with twisted bannisters and of easy ascent, terminating on a long corridor, the floor full of uncertain undulations, running the entire length of the building. At the end was a door, which upon opening, discovered a room of large proportions, with a low ceiling divided into square compartments. Here our traveller was no sooner installed and left alone, than he locked the door; then with candle in hand he began to examine each crack and cranny, but could find nothing suspicious. There were few things in it worthy of note, excepting a large bed with drawn curtains of dazzling whiteness; a most ample hearth, on which was blazing a bundle of dry faggots, sending forth a warm, cheerful light into the room, more powerful than both the candles. This huge fire-place, with its concomitant ornament, a profusely-carved mantel-piece of the usual time-stained oak, was at least five feet high, and more than two feet broad; its ingenious workmanship occupied his attention, and kept him for some time engaged in curious admiration of its exquisite quaintness. The other furniture consisted of chairs, a chest-of-drawers, and a table, all the work of a former age. An easy chair was placed in the middle of the room, in which the stout gentleman composed himself luxuriously for a short time. The room however was too large to be easily warmed, and he soon abandoned it for the bed, but not before he had raked the remaining brands together and extinguished the candles. Not feeling at once the influence of the drowsy god, he abandoned himself to many fanciful speculations. He marvelled why it was that the concurrence of all ages and nations, enlightened or ignorant, savage or civilized, should have so uniformly led to the belief in good and evil spirits wandering at large on the earth, not subject to the laws of matter, save inthe sensation of sight and hearing. The creditable phalanx of names of distinguished persons who had placed their veracity on the side of believers, as having themselves been visited by the inhabitants of the other world, was opposed by his own experience; for although he had frequently thought he had been so honored, yet upon investigating the cause, he had invariably found it to be a mere delusion.

It was not long however that he was suffered thus to enjoy himself; for hearing a slight noise near the fire-place, he turned his head, and saw a deformed, dwarfish body emerge from the shadowy part of the room, proceed stealthily toward the fire, over which he rubbed his thin, attenuated hands, and then placing them under their opposite arms, he hugged himself in evident comfort. The fire had by this time so far dwindled away as to be only a handful of smouldering embers, which cast but an exceedingly feeble and uncertain light, sufficient only to reveal the general outline of the pigmy spectre. The old gentleman, with strained eyes, attentively observed his motions, till from very weariness, caused by looking through a light so dim, he began to doubt whether he saw truly: he reasoned with himself, but with no satisfactory result; till at last, desirous of ‘making assurance doubly sure,’ he gently enlarged his look-out in the slightly-opened curtains in order that he might more attentively observe the room; but all was darkness, save in the immediate vicinity of the fire. The removal of the curtain however had made a rustling noise, which had given the alarm to the spectre-imp, who immediately vanished into the gloom of the apartment on the side of the fire-place.

This was no sooner observed by the wide-awake old gentleman, than he jumped out of bed, resolved to give chase; but although stout gentlemen are generally no-wise active, not a second had elapsed before he reached the hearth, and scattering the embers in order to obtain more light, he looked carefully around, but no trace of the phantom could be seen. A few seconds more, and one of the candles was lighted, when the room was again subjected to a more rigid scrutiny; but all to no purpose; for the door remained locked, and the closet-doors were equally secure; nothing was under the bed, nor behind the table; the easy-chair could afford no shelter; in the front of every lower tier of pannels was some article of furniture, which effectually prevented their being used suddenly; beside, how could the furniture be reädjusted? The upper ones were too high to be at all likely to afford the means of such quick concealment. Hence he was completely mystified, amazed, perplexed. His mental powers were in a whirl; until at length he became perfectly bewildered, and concluded that he had been dreaming, or had been taking a short trot on a night-mare; and with this latter idea he returned, shivering like an ague, to his cold bed. The candle was now suffered to burn, and pillowing his head high, so as to see all around, the curtains having been previously withdrawn, he determined to keep vigilant watch. At length becoming composed and comfortably warm, he distinctly recalled the whole train of thought which had preceded the appearance of the strange phantom. Finally, he concluded that if it were all a dream, an illusion, never was a dream or an illusion so like reality. He must from henceforth doubt the evidence of hissenses. Thus he reasoned and doubted, doubted and reasoned, until the candle’s light and all around had faded into dimness. Slumber gradually usurped its sway, and he slept till late next morning. On awaking, the whole affair was too vividly remembered, for him to settle down into a belief that he had dreamed. He was determined to satisfy himself. It was not long before his feet were in his slippers; and throwing on his dressing-gown, he went the round of another and still another examination, with no more satisfactory result than before; until at last, tired with conjecture, he dismissed it from his mind, and completed his toilet.

At the breakfast-table, he simply remarked, in reply to the inquiry if he had slept well, that he had dreamed the room was haunted by a dwarfish ghost, but he pretended to believe that it was only a dream.

‘There!’ rejoined the auditor; ‘othershave dreamed the same thing!’

The discussion of the creature-comforts on the table was too interesting to permit a discussion of discomforts, and inquiry was silenced.

The morning sun was shining brightly, tempting the healthful to enjoy his cheerful beams. It was not long therefore before our traveller was seen taking the direction to the old abbey-church. The sight of such ancient buildings was always keenly relished by him, by reason of his antiquarian tastes; but in this instance, it led to the clearing up of the last night’s mystery; for in his rambles around this immense pile of architecture, he literally ‘stumbled upon’ an old friend, who was connected with the parish affairs, and was consequently enabled to give much interest to his descriptions of the place. The last night’s events were of course not forgotten; in fact it was all circumstantially detailed, even to a minute description of the dwarf.

‘Well, well,’ was the reply, ‘I think I can show you the living facsimile of your fancied dream; the only thing which puzzles me is to account for his entrance to your chamber. Let us step into the house adjoining the inn, and you shall judge for yourself.’

They accordingly adjourned to the place indicated; and there the very imp himself was actually felt and handled! It required some coaxing, not unmixed with threats, before he could be prevailed upon to unfold the secrets of his prison-house, but they were finally extorted. It seemed, that up stairs, on a level with the haunted chamber, was a closet, immediately back of the fire-place with the carved oaken mantelpiece, once side of which, it will be remembered, was at least two feet wide; and its curious carvings were so adroitly made as to conceal the cracks of that part which opened as a door: this, if even left ajar, would still be in shadow from the fire on the hearth, and consequently an instant of time was only necessary for the person near by to make his escape, and to effectually conceal the mode by which it was accomplished. The brick jam was of course hollow, and led to the back of the closet in the next house; which, being pannelled all around, and situated against a solid wall, as was supposed, had eluded discovery after the builders had passed away. How this misshapen piece of humanity had re-discovered it, I never knew; but I fancy that, accidentally being in the closet at the time when there had been a noise made in the fire-place, either from kindling a fire or cleaning it; and hearingthis noise distinctly, might have suggested to him to try the back; which, opening inside of the secret passage, might have been forced from its spring-catch; while the holes in the carved work of the mantel enabled him to see if any one was in the room; and thus prevent an intrusion which would lead to his detection.

G. R. V.

RÊVES ET SOUVENIRS.I.I rememberroaming lonely by the mournful forest streams,The loveliness and melody of childhood’s happy dreams;Pale flowers, the vermeil-tinted, lightly fanned by vernal breeze,Whose fitful breath went sighingly among the solemn trees;Sunny streamlets, gushing clearly in their fresh and tameless glee,Sparkling onward, ever onward, toward a golden summer sea.Fairy isles of green were sleeping on its softly-heaving breast,Where the chime of waves low rippling forever lulled to rest.The slanting sunbeams wandered through each quiet vale and dell,Shaded glen, and gray old cavern, where the foamy cascade fell;And birds, the starry-wing’d, flitting through the rich perfume,Filled with their gladsome minstrelsy the depths of leafy gloom.II.I remember, I remember, in my musings sad and lone,The beauty and the brightness, that have vanished, and are gone,Rosy clouds at eve reposing in the crimson-curtained west,Mocking with their tranquil splendor the human heart’s unrest.They are gliding through my visions, as they used to do of yore,Yet the gentle thoughts they wakened, shalltheycome back no more?Oh! many an hour I lingered to watch their gorgeous dyesIn soft and shadowy outlines against the purple skies;Through their regal halls, air-woven, the parting radiance streamed,Ever varying like the opal’s hue: and often have I deemedThey were come with tender message, in the holy hush of even,From the Loved of years departed, spirit-guardians in Heaven!III.To my memory come back darkly in the stilly midnight hour,Dim and faded now, the pictures of Life’s early glow and power,When the world was arched with halos of hopes unmixed with fears,And I marvelled they should tell me but of sorrowing and tears!When my spirit loved to revel in its palaces of dreams,Lit with lightning-flash of fancy, rosy bloom and starry gleams;Listening to the choral harmonies that filled each lofty dome,Like the clear and liquid music in the Nereid’s azure home.And it looked from its proud towers on the Future’s magic scene,Till the Present grew all gladsome with the brightness of its sheen;Far off-notes of triumph swelling, floated up from years to come,Silver blast of clarion blending with the roll of stormy drum!IV.I remember, I remember, in my vigils cold and lone,Brilliant reveries, burning fantasies, forever fled and gone!Stately visions passed before me in the mystic realms of Mind,Shapes of glory lightly wafted on the balmy summer wind;Forms of pale and pensive loveliness, with eyes like pensile stars,Such as never yet were beaming ’mid this world’s discordant jars.And their whispers wild, unearthly, unutterable, felllike a harp-string’s dying echo, or a fair young spirit’s knell,On my soul amid the shadows of my native forest trees,Rustling melancholy, lowly, in the wailing of the breeze,Till, unknowing pain or agony, I’ve wept such blissful tearsAs shall never, never flow again ’mid darker later years!V.I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the bright ones that are gone,The gifted and the beautiful, from Time’s sad wasting flown,Of those beings pure and gentle, like the passing glow of even,Sent to teach us of a better, higher heritage in Heaven!Sweet they were as first wild flowers that herald coming spring,Or a mellow gleam of sunset through the storm-cloud’s raven wing.Fragile as that opening flower, fleeting as that golden ray,Like the snow-wreath of the morning, full soon they fled away!And fit it is it should be so; their mission here was brief’Mid the blighting and the bitterness of Earth’s unquiet grief;So their hands were meekly folded, and closed their dreamful eyes,And they passed in stainless innocence to dwell beyond the skies!VI.I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the lordly minds of old,Whose ‘winged-words’ of power had once like glorious music rolled;Lofty intellects that kindled as a far-off beacon flame,Sending down the stream of ages the light of deathless fame;Bursting through the rusty shackles of dark and spectral fears,Leaving Freedom as a legacy to men of coming years.And I’ve read in hoary records solemn story of the dead,The mighty, the immortal, with their souls’ vast treasures fled.The piercing eyes of Genius, lit with unearthly fire,Seemed to thrill me as I listened to his wild and burning lyre;And their spell was on my spirit in the starry cope above,In the gush of morning sunlight, and the fervent glance of love.VII.I am lonely, I am lonely! In the palace of my soul,As I walk its lofty corridors, I read a mystic scroll,And it seemed a fearful warning, yet I knew not whence it came,Writ in wild and wondrous characters of rosy-colored flame;And a deep voice murmured: ‘Destiny, that wrought thy web of life,Hath inwoven fierce unrest, brilliant dreams, and fiery strife.And this solemn spell shall bind thee, be thy shrinking what it may,Strength, and Faith, and earnest Suffering to thy latest earthly day!’Ever since a dusky Presence seemeth phantom-like to brood,Dim and shadowy and tearful, o’er my haunted solitude;And a wind-harp waileth lowly ‘mid the swell of joyous song,Breathing from the lips of beauty o’er the listening festal throng.VIII.I am weary, I am weary! Cometh not across my breastTransient thought of that which shall be, presage of better rest?And the sounds of early spring-time with an inner meaning fraught,Seem the last notes of a requiem from some old minster brought;Solemn mass for gentle spirits, the unsullied and the true,Gone with all their bright aspirings, like the fragrant morning dew.Yet the visions of their soulful glance, and the intellectual brow,The memory of their poet words, is present with me now!Oh! I would that I were slumbering where moaneth the sea-wave,Where the setting sun might linger with a smile upon my grave!Emblems fit of life’s dark heaving, and of that blessed shoreWhere these wearyDreamsandMemoriesshall sadden me no more!

I.I rememberroaming lonely by the mournful forest streams,The loveliness and melody of childhood’s happy dreams;Pale flowers, the vermeil-tinted, lightly fanned by vernal breeze,Whose fitful breath went sighingly among the solemn trees;Sunny streamlets, gushing clearly in their fresh and tameless glee,Sparkling onward, ever onward, toward a golden summer sea.Fairy isles of green were sleeping on its softly-heaving breast,Where the chime of waves low rippling forever lulled to rest.The slanting sunbeams wandered through each quiet vale and dell,Shaded glen, and gray old cavern, where the foamy cascade fell;And birds, the starry-wing’d, flitting through the rich perfume,Filled with their gladsome minstrelsy the depths of leafy gloom.II.I remember, I remember, in my musings sad and lone,The beauty and the brightness, that have vanished, and are gone,Rosy clouds at eve reposing in the crimson-curtained west,Mocking with their tranquil splendor the human heart’s unrest.They are gliding through my visions, as they used to do of yore,Yet the gentle thoughts they wakened, shalltheycome back no more?Oh! many an hour I lingered to watch their gorgeous dyesIn soft and shadowy outlines against the purple skies;Through their regal halls, air-woven, the parting radiance streamed,Ever varying like the opal’s hue: and often have I deemedThey were come with tender message, in the holy hush of even,From the Loved of years departed, spirit-guardians in Heaven!III.To my memory come back darkly in the stilly midnight hour,Dim and faded now, the pictures of Life’s early glow and power,When the world was arched with halos of hopes unmixed with fears,And I marvelled they should tell me but of sorrowing and tears!When my spirit loved to revel in its palaces of dreams,Lit with lightning-flash of fancy, rosy bloom and starry gleams;Listening to the choral harmonies that filled each lofty dome,Like the clear and liquid music in the Nereid’s azure home.And it looked from its proud towers on the Future’s magic scene,Till the Present grew all gladsome with the brightness of its sheen;Far off-notes of triumph swelling, floated up from years to come,Silver blast of clarion blending with the roll of stormy drum!IV.I remember, I remember, in my vigils cold and lone,Brilliant reveries, burning fantasies, forever fled and gone!Stately visions passed before me in the mystic realms of Mind,Shapes of glory lightly wafted on the balmy summer wind;Forms of pale and pensive loveliness, with eyes like pensile stars,Such as never yet were beaming ’mid this world’s discordant jars.And their whispers wild, unearthly, unutterable, felllike a harp-string’s dying echo, or a fair young spirit’s knell,On my soul amid the shadows of my native forest trees,Rustling melancholy, lowly, in the wailing of the breeze,Till, unknowing pain or agony, I’ve wept such blissful tearsAs shall never, never flow again ’mid darker later years!V.I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the bright ones that are gone,The gifted and the beautiful, from Time’s sad wasting flown,Of those beings pure and gentle, like the passing glow of even,Sent to teach us of a better, higher heritage in Heaven!Sweet they were as first wild flowers that herald coming spring,Or a mellow gleam of sunset through the storm-cloud’s raven wing.Fragile as that opening flower, fleeting as that golden ray,Like the snow-wreath of the morning, full soon they fled away!And fit it is it should be so; their mission here was brief’Mid the blighting and the bitterness of Earth’s unquiet grief;So their hands were meekly folded, and closed their dreamful eyes,And they passed in stainless innocence to dwell beyond the skies!VI.I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the lordly minds of old,Whose ‘winged-words’ of power had once like glorious music rolled;Lofty intellects that kindled as a far-off beacon flame,Sending down the stream of ages the light of deathless fame;Bursting through the rusty shackles of dark and spectral fears,Leaving Freedom as a legacy to men of coming years.And I’ve read in hoary records solemn story of the dead,The mighty, the immortal, with their souls’ vast treasures fled.The piercing eyes of Genius, lit with unearthly fire,Seemed to thrill me as I listened to his wild and burning lyre;And their spell was on my spirit in the starry cope above,In the gush of morning sunlight, and the fervent glance of love.VII.I am lonely, I am lonely! In the palace of my soul,As I walk its lofty corridors, I read a mystic scroll,And it seemed a fearful warning, yet I knew not whence it came,Writ in wild and wondrous characters of rosy-colored flame;And a deep voice murmured: ‘Destiny, that wrought thy web of life,Hath inwoven fierce unrest, brilliant dreams, and fiery strife.And this solemn spell shall bind thee, be thy shrinking what it may,Strength, and Faith, and earnest Suffering to thy latest earthly day!’Ever since a dusky Presence seemeth phantom-like to brood,Dim and shadowy and tearful, o’er my haunted solitude;And a wind-harp waileth lowly ‘mid the swell of joyous song,Breathing from the lips of beauty o’er the listening festal throng.VIII.I am weary, I am weary! Cometh not across my breastTransient thought of that which shall be, presage of better rest?And the sounds of early spring-time with an inner meaning fraught,Seem the last notes of a requiem from some old minster brought;Solemn mass for gentle spirits, the unsullied and the true,Gone with all their bright aspirings, like the fragrant morning dew.Yet the visions of their soulful glance, and the intellectual brow,The memory of their poet words, is present with me now!Oh! I would that I were slumbering where moaneth the sea-wave,Where the setting sun might linger with a smile upon my grave!Emblems fit of life’s dark heaving, and of that blessed shoreWhere these wearyDreamsandMemoriesshall sadden me no more!

I rememberroaming lonely by the mournful forest streams,

The loveliness and melody of childhood’s happy dreams;

Pale flowers, the vermeil-tinted, lightly fanned by vernal breeze,

Whose fitful breath went sighingly among the solemn trees;

Sunny streamlets, gushing clearly in their fresh and tameless glee,

Sparkling onward, ever onward, toward a golden summer sea.

Fairy isles of green were sleeping on its softly-heaving breast,

Where the chime of waves low rippling forever lulled to rest.

The slanting sunbeams wandered through each quiet vale and dell,

Shaded glen, and gray old cavern, where the foamy cascade fell;

And birds, the starry-wing’d, flitting through the rich perfume,

Filled with their gladsome minstrelsy the depths of leafy gloom.

II.I remember, I remember, in my musings sad and lone,The beauty and the brightness, that have vanished, and are gone,Rosy clouds at eve reposing in the crimson-curtained west,Mocking with their tranquil splendor the human heart’s unrest.They are gliding through my visions, as they used to do of yore,Yet the gentle thoughts they wakened, shalltheycome back no more?Oh! many an hour I lingered to watch their gorgeous dyesIn soft and shadowy outlines against the purple skies;Through their regal halls, air-woven, the parting radiance streamed,Ever varying like the opal’s hue: and often have I deemedThey were come with tender message, in the holy hush of even,From the Loved of years departed, spirit-guardians in Heaven!

I remember, I remember, in my musings sad and lone,

The beauty and the brightness, that have vanished, and are gone,

Rosy clouds at eve reposing in the crimson-curtained west,

Mocking with their tranquil splendor the human heart’s unrest.

They are gliding through my visions, as they used to do of yore,

Yet the gentle thoughts they wakened, shalltheycome back no more?

Oh! many an hour I lingered to watch their gorgeous dyes

In soft and shadowy outlines against the purple skies;

Through their regal halls, air-woven, the parting radiance streamed,

Ever varying like the opal’s hue: and often have I deemed

They were come with tender message, in the holy hush of even,

From the Loved of years departed, spirit-guardians in Heaven!

III.To my memory come back darkly in the stilly midnight hour,Dim and faded now, the pictures of Life’s early glow and power,When the world was arched with halos of hopes unmixed with fears,And I marvelled they should tell me but of sorrowing and tears!When my spirit loved to revel in its palaces of dreams,Lit with lightning-flash of fancy, rosy bloom and starry gleams;Listening to the choral harmonies that filled each lofty dome,Like the clear and liquid music in the Nereid’s azure home.And it looked from its proud towers on the Future’s magic scene,Till the Present grew all gladsome with the brightness of its sheen;Far off-notes of triumph swelling, floated up from years to come,Silver blast of clarion blending with the roll of stormy drum!

To my memory come back darkly in the stilly midnight hour,

Dim and faded now, the pictures of Life’s early glow and power,

When the world was arched with halos of hopes unmixed with fears,

And I marvelled they should tell me but of sorrowing and tears!

When my spirit loved to revel in its palaces of dreams,

Lit with lightning-flash of fancy, rosy bloom and starry gleams;

Listening to the choral harmonies that filled each lofty dome,

Like the clear and liquid music in the Nereid’s azure home.

And it looked from its proud towers on the Future’s magic scene,

Till the Present grew all gladsome with the brightness of its sheen;

Far off-notes of triumph swelling, floated up from years to come,

Silver blast of clarion blending with the roll of stormy drum!

IV.I remember, I remember, in my vigils cold and lone,Brilliant reveries, burning fantasies, forever fled and gone!Stately visions passed before me in the mystic realms of Mind,Shapes of glory lightly wafted on the balmy summer wind;Forms of pale and pensive loveliness, with eyes like pensile stars,Such as never yet were beaming ’mid this world’s discordant jars.And their whispers wild, unearthly, unutterable, felllike a harp-string’s dying echo, or a fair young spirit’s knell,On my soul amid the shadows of my native forest trees,Rustling melancholy, lowly, in the wailing of the breeze,Till, unknowing pain or agony, I’ve wept such blissful tearsAs shall never, never flow again ’mid darker later years!

I remember, I remember, in my vigils cold and lone,

Brilliant reveries, burning fantasies, forever fled and gone!

Stately visions passed before me in the mystic realms of Mind,

Shapes of glory lightly wafted on the balmy summer wind;

Forms of pale and pensive loveliness, with eyes like pensile stars,

Such as never yet were beaming ’mid this world’s discordant jars.

And their whispers wild, unearthly, unutterable, fell

like a harp-string’s dying echo, or a fair young spirit’s knell,

On my soul amid the shadows of my native forest trees,

Rustling melancholy, lowly, in the wailing of the breeze,

Till, unknowing pain or agony, I’ve wept such blissful tears

As shall never, never flow again ’mid darker later years!

V.I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the bright ones that are gone,The gifted and the beautiful, from Time’s sad wasting flown,Of those beings pure and gentle, like the passing glow of even,Sent to teach us of a better, higher heritage in Heaven!Sweet they were as first wild flowers that herald coming spring,Or a mellow gleam of sunset through the storm-cloud’s raven wing.Fragile as that opening flower, fleeting as that golden ray,Like the snow-wreath of the morning, full soon they fled away!And fit it is it should be so; their mission here was brief’Mid the blighting and the bitterness of Earth’s unquiet grief;So their hands were meekly folded, and closed their dreamful eyes,And they passed in stainless innocence to dwell beyond the skies!

I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the bright ones that are gone,

The gifted and the beautiful, from Time’s sad wasting flown,

Of those beings pure and gentle, like the passing glow of even,

Sent to teach us of a better, higher heritage in Heaven!

Sweet they were as first wild flowers that herald coming spring,

Or a mellow gleam of sunset through the storm-cloud’s raven wing.

Fragile as that opening flower, fleeting as that golden ray,

Like the snow-wreath of the morning, full soon they fled away!

And fit it is it should be so; their mission here was brief

’Mid the blighting and the bitterness of Earth’s unquiet grief;

So their hands were meekly folded, and closed their dreamful eyes,

And they passed in stainless innocence to dwell beyond the skies!

VI.I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the lordly minds of old,Whose ‘winged-words’ of power had once like glorious music rolled;Lofty intellects that kindled as a far-off beacon flame,Sending down the stream of ages the light of deathless fame;Bursting through the rusty shackles of dark and spectral fears,Leaving Freedom as a legacy to men of coming years.And I’ve read in hoary records solemn story of the dead,The mighty, the immortal, with their souls’ vast treasures fled.The piercing eyes of Genius, lit with unearthly fire,Seemed to thrill me as I listened to his wild and burning lyre;And their spell was on my spirit in the starry cope above,In the gush of morning sunlight, and the fervent glance of love.

I am dreaming, I am dreaming of the lordly minds of old,

Whose ‘winged-words’ of power had once like glorious music rolled;

Lofty intellects that kindled as a far-off beacon flame,

Sending down the stream of ages the light of deathless fame;

Bursting through the rusty shackles of dark and spectral fears,

Leaving Freedom as a legacy to men of coming years.

And I’ve read in hoary records solemn story of the dead,

The mighty, the immortal, with their souls’ vast treasures fled.

The piercing eyes of Genius, lit with unearthly fire,

Seemed to thrill me as I listened to his wild and burning lyre;

And their spell was on my spirit in the starry cope above,

In the gush of morning sunlight, and the fervent glance of love.

VII.I am lonely, I am lonely! In the palace of my soul,As I walk its lofty corridors, I read a mystic scroll,And it seemed a fearful warning, yet I knew not whence it came,Writ in wild and wondrous characters of rosy-colored flame;And a deep voice murmured: ‘Destiny, that wrought thy web of life,Hath inwoven fierce unrest, brilliant dreams, and fiery strife.And this solemn spell shall bind thee, be thy shrinking what it may,Strength, and Faith, and earnest Suffering to thy latest earthly day!’Ever since a dusky Presence seemeth phantom-like to brood,Dim and shadowy and tearful, o’er my haunted solitude;And a wind-harp waileth lowly ‘mid the swell of joyous song,Breathing from the lips of beauty o’er the listening festal throng.

I am lonely, I am lonely! In the palace of my soul,

As I walk its lofty corridors, I read a mystic scroll,

And it seemed a fearful warning, yet I knew not whence it came,

Writ in wild and wondrous characters of rosy-colored flame;

And a deep voice murmured: ‘Destiny, that wrought thy web of life,

Hath inwoven fierce unrest, brilliant dreams, and fiery strife.

And this solemn spell shall bind thee, be thy shrinking what it may,

Strength, and Faith, and earnest Suffering to thy latest earthly day!’

Ever since a dusky Presence seemeth phantom-like to brood,

Dim and shadowy and tearful, o’er my haunted solitude;

And a wind-harp waileth lowly ‘mid the swell of joyous song,

Breathing from the lips of beauty o’er the listening festal throng.

VIII.I am weary, I am weary! Cometh not across my breastTransient thought of that which shall be, presage of better rest?And the sounds of early spring-time with an inner meaning fraught,Seem the last notes of a requiem from some old minster brought;Solemn mass for gentle spirits, the unsullied and the true,Gone with all their bright aspirings, like the fragrant morning dew.Yet the visions of their soulful glance, and the intellectual brow,The memory of their poet words, is present with me now!Oh! I would that I were slumbering where moaneth the sea-wave,Where the setting sun might linger with a smile upon my grave!Emblems fit of life’s dark heaving, and of that blessed shoreWhere these wearyDreamsandMemoriesshall sadden me no more!

I am weary, I am weary! Cometh not across my breast

Transient thought of that which shall be, presage of better rest?

And the sounds of early spring-time with an inner meaning fraught,

Seem the last notes of a requiem from some old minster brought;

Solemn mass for gentle spirits, the unsullied and the true,

Gone with all their bright aspirings, like the fragrant morning dew.

Yet the visions of their soulful glance, and the intellectual brow,

The memory of their poet words, is present with me now!

Oh! I would that I were slumbering where moaneth the sea-wave,

Where the setting sun might linger with a smile upon my grave!

Emblems fit of life’s dark heaving, and of that blessed shore

Where these wearyDreamsandMemoriesshall sadden me no more!

A FIRST NIGHT OF RACINE.FROM DE JOUY’S ‘HERMITE’ OF THE FOURTH OF JANUARY, EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND TWELVE.Voilà de vos arrêts, Messieurs les Gens de Goût!Prior La Metromaine.Every-bodyhas a hobby-horse, as the English say, on which he is mounted, even when sneering at the steeds of his neighbors. The wits themselves are not exempt from this mental preöccupation, which brings every taste to bear upon only one point. Some ruin themselves in books, some in pictures and statues, others in minerals, shells, or medals. The bibliomaniac, the picture-dealer, the naturalist, the numismatist, all appear to me equally absurd. I speak of course of those who have the collecting mania without the love of science. They play at science as we play at cards, and the ridiculous part of the matter is, the perfect seriousness with which they do it.One of my friends has become infatuated with a taste which is much less common; one that he brought back with him from his travels, together with albums, mnemonics, and Kant’s Philosophy. It is a taste for autograph letters. It is well known that the English, who are always ready to confound what is rare with what is really admirable, are very successful in their curiosities of this kind. They collect them at a great expense, and employ skilful engravers to reproduce fac-similes for second-rate amateurs, whose whole fortune would not suffice for the acquisition of the originals.Last week I came upon my friend the autographist, just as he was receiving a note of Boileau, of only four lines, in which he regrets that he cannot dine the next day with a Mr. Le Vasseur. This note, written in the most simple style, contained no anecdote, nor curious fact, and was only remarkable for a fault in its orthography. So that all the respect I have for our great critic did not prevent me from testifying some surprise, when I saw my friend pay ten Louis for a paper rag of no value at all.‘I understand your astonishment,’ he said; ‘but to complete a collection, no matter of what kind, one must make sacrifices;’ and at the same time he placed his precious paper in acarton, labelled ‘Age of Louis XIV.’ ‘You see,’ he continued, pointing to a part of his library where several similar cartons were arranged, ‘you see the result of my collections for some years. I have sixty thousand francs’ worth of autographs in that corner.’‘For which you cannot get ten from the grocer at the next corner, who is probably the only person to whom the rubbish would be of any use.’‘Vandal!’ he exclaimed, with a mixture of indignation and contempt; ‘you talk like a man whom posterity will never mention. Look at the names you have insulted! Look at this letter from Montaigne to Boëtius, so illegible that it has never been printed; look at that billet of HenryIV. to the Duchesse de Verneuil; and that Sonnet of Malherbe, written entirely by Bacon’s own hand; that letter from Madame de Maintenon to Father Le Tellier; that order from the Prince the night before the battle of Senef—’‘Even if I were wishing,’ I answered, ‘to share your veneration for some of these relics which excite so many historical recollections, I should not laugh the less at the zeal with which you preserve all that waste paper, which has nothing to recommend it. For instance, what is this letter worth which I have just taken up? It is signed by a Marquis d’Hernouville, whom no one ever heard of, and directed to a Comte de Monchevreuil, who is remembered only for one or two instances of gallantry in the field, and for having been, if I am not mistaken, the governor of the Duc de Maine.’‘You could not have furnished me with a better opportunity of proving to you that we always run some risk in assertions upon subjects of which we know nothing. Oblige me by reading that letter, and then laugh, if you can, at the importance which I attach to similar papers.’Never, I must own, was triumph more complete. Not only did I confess, after having perused it, that it was well worthy of the honor of the port-folio, but I begged him to let me copy it for publication. I had some difficulty in obtaining this favor, which was only granted me in exchange of a letter of Hyder Ali Khan to Suffren, which I promised to send him.This is the letter of the Marquis, which I certify to be in every respect a true copy of the original:‘Paris, the 30 December, 1669.‘I seizethe occasion, my dear Comte, afforded me by a cold which has kept me some days by the fire-side, to send you news from this part of the country. The most important, and what will give you the most pleasure is, that M. de Guise has obtained the favor of a cushion at the King’s mass; he did not fail to make use of it on Sunday, and between ourselves, with rather too much ostentation. Every one expects wonders from the Marquis de Chastet, who has boasted that he will soon bring the Algerians to terms, but I have no faith in his predictions. The Duc de Vermandois has been raised to the dignity of Admiral. Madame de la Valliere received this mark of the royal favor with the most perfect indifference. I am quite of your opinion: that woman is not in her proper place.‘Did your brother write you that we went together to the first representation of Britannicus? Some admirers of Racine had praised the piece so much to me, that not being able to get a box, I sent my valet at ten o’clock to keep a place for me. I thought that I should never reach the Hôtel de Bourgogne, although I left my carriage at the corner of the Rue Mauconseil: without Chapelle and Mauvillain, who know all the actors in Paris, I should never have succeeded in getting a place. Do not mistake this eagerness of the public; there was much more malevolence than curiosity in it. I paid my respects to Madame de Sévigné in her box, where I found Mesdames de Villars, de Coulanges and de La Fayette, escorted by the little Abbé de Villars and de Grignau theFrondeur. You may imagine what treatment Britannicus received inthat box. Madame de Sévigné said the other day at Madame de Villarceau’s that ‘Le Racine passerait comme le café.’ This speech made every one laugh; all agreed that it was as just as it was good. What I most like is the presumption of this tragedy student, who undertakes to make Romans talk for us after our great, our sublime Corneille; but some people think that they can do any thing. I never saw the Hôtel de Bourgogne so brilliant. Such a fashionable audience deserved a better piece. The people in the pit yawned, and those in the boxes went to sleep. Vilandry was snoring away in the box of the Commandeur de Louvré. Since he dines at that table, the best kept in Paris, he goes to the theatre to digesthaciendo la siesta, wakes up when all is over, and pronounces the play detestable. I cannot understand what pleasure the brave and witty Commandeur can take in the society of a man who never opens his mouth but to eat. Despréaux, (Boileau,) beside whom I was sitting, was furious at the coldness of the pit. He protested that it was Racine’s chef d’œuvre; that the ancients had never written any thing finer; that neither Tacitus nor Corneille had ever produced any thing more forcible. He had like to have quarrelled with Subligny, because in the scene where Nero hides behind a curtain to listen to Junia, he could not restrain a burst of laughter, which was echoed all over the house. Perhaps this bad play will furnish him with the materials for another ‘Folle Querelle,’3which will make us laugh as much as the first. Ninon and the Prince sided with Despréaux. They defended the ground inch by inch, but without being able to cover the retreat of Britannicus. I am curious to know how the little rival of the great Corneille will take this failure, for it certainly is one. The worst of the business for him is, that every one remarked some very clear and very audacious allusions. The King said nothing about them; but yesterday at his levee, he countermanded a ballet in which he was to have danced at St. Germain. This may put our poet somewhat out of favor at court; but what the devil have poets to do there?‘Floridor was sublime. You would have sworn that he had wagered to make one of the worst parts he overplayed successful. I cannot tell you much of the plot of this tragedy. How could I hear it? I sat between your brother and the fat Vicomte. Nevertheless you may rely on me that it is bad, decidedly bad, whatever the satirist may say about it. I am quite of his opinion when he says, ‘That a work of that importance must be listened to with attention, and that it is unjust to pronounce upon a play in the midst of the clamors of theatre-factions, and the chattering of that crowd of women who are always eager to display themselves at a first representation.’ All this is very true, but not at all applicable in this instance. This time Racine is well judged. The dénouement is the most ridiculous I ever heard. Imagine that silly, conceited Junia turning vestal, as if Madame de Sennès were to enter the Ursuline Convent. Heaven forbid that I should play the scholar; but I have read in Ménage that it required other formalities to take the veil in the convent of ladies of the society of Vesta. I forgot the mostessential. Your little Desœuillet played like an angel. I spoke to her about you in her box. I think that you had better come and speak about it yourself. She is a girl for whom constancy is only the interval that separates two fancies.‘If you ever get theNouvelles à la Mainwhere you are, you will see Racine handled without gloves. The number which treats of his play has not yet appeared; but if Le Clerc does things as he should, and remembers the just resentment of d’Olonne and de Créqui,4from whom he received two hundred pistoles, poor Britannicus will pay for Andromache.‘Gourrilu has probably given you the perfumes you ordered for your pretty cousin; Martial would not receive the money. He said that he was in your debt. Dubroussin sends his love. We had such a charming supper at his house! You were the only one wanting. I was obliged to bring Chapelle home in my carriage, dead drunk: to pay for it, I left him the next day under the table atLa Pomme de Pin, where he has passed more than one night.‘I shall try to get to the levée next Sunday. My uncle is doing his best to make me rejoin my regiment. If he should succeed, I shall see you on my way. I should much prefer to have the meeting take place here; but whatever happens, believe me, etc.,‘Hernouville.’

Voilà de vos arrêts, Messieurs les Gens de Goût!Prior La Metromaine.

Voilà de vos arrêts, Messieurs les Gens de Goût!

Prior La Metromaine.

Every-bodyhas a hobby-horse, as the English say, on which he is mounted, even when sneering at the steeds of his neighbors. The wits themselves are not exempt from this mental preöccupation, which brings every taste to bear upon only one point. Some ruin themselves in books, some in pictures and statues, others in minerals, shells, or medals. The bibliomaniac, the picture-dealer, the naturalist, the numismatist, all appear to me equally absurd. I speak of course of those who have the collecting mania without the love of science. They play at science as we play at cards, and the ridiculous part of the matter is, the perfect seriousness with which they do it.

One of my friends has become infatuated with a taste which is much less common; one that he brought back with him from his travels, together with albums, mnemonics, and Kant’s Philosophy. It is a taste for autograph letters. It is well known that the English, who are always ready to confound what is rare with what is really admirable, are very successful in their curiosities of this kind. They collect them at a great expense, and employ skilful engravers to reproduce fac-similes for second-rate amateurs, whose whole fortune would not suffice for the acquisition of the originals.

Last week I came upon my friend the autographist, just as he was receiving a note of Boileau, of only four lines, in which he regrets that he cannot dine the next day with a Mr. Le Vasseur. This note, written in the most simple style, contained no anecdote, nor curious fact, and was only remarkable for a fault in its orthography. So that all the respect I have for our great critic did not prevent me from testifying some surprise, when I saw my friend pay ten Louis for a paper rag of no value at all.

‘I understand your astonishment,’ he said; ‘but to complete a collection, no matter of what kind, one must make sacrifices;’ and at the same time he placed his precious paper in acarton, labelled ‘Age of Louis XIV.’ ‘You see,’ he continued, pointing to a part of his library where several similar cartons were arranged, ‘you see the result of my collections for some years. I have sixty thousand francs’ worth of autographs in that corner.’

‘For which you cannot get ten from the grocer at the next corner, who is probably the only person to whom the rubbish would be of any use.’

‘Vandal!’ he exclaimed, with a mixture of indignation and contempt; ‘you talk like a man whom posterity will never mention. Look at the names you have insulted! Look at this letter from Montaigne to Boëtius, so illegible that it has never been printed; look at that billet of HenryIV. to the Duchesse de Verneuil; and that Sonnet of Malherbe, written entirely by Bacon’s own hand; that letter from Madame de Maintenon to Father Le Tellier; that order from the Prince the night before the battle of Senef—’

‘Even if I were wishing,’ I answered, ‘to share your veneration for some of these relics which excite so many historical recollections, I should not laugh the less at the zeal with which you preserve all that waste paper, which has nothing to recommend it. For instance, what is this letter worth which I have just taken up? It is signed by a Marquis d’Hernouville, whom no one ever heard of, and directed to a Comte de Monchevreuil, who is remembered only for one or two instances of gallantry in the field, and for having been, if I am not mistaken, the governor of the Duc de Maine.’

‘You could not have furnished me with a better opportunity of proving to you that we always run some risk in assertions upon subjects of which we know nothing. Oblige me by reading that letter, and then laugh, if you can, at the importance which I attach to similar papers.’

Never, I must own, was triumph more complete. Not only did I confess, after having perused it, that it was well worthy of the honor of the port-folio, but I begged him to let me copy it for publication. I had some difficulty in obtaining this favor, which was only granted me in exchange of a letter of Hyder Ali Khan to Suffren, which I promised to send him.

This is the letter of the Marquis, which I certify to be in every respect a true copy of the original:

‘Paris, the 30 December, 1669.‘I seizethe occasion, my dear Comte, afforded me by a cold which has kept me some days by the fire-side, to send you news from this part of the country. The most important, and what will give you the most pleasure is, that M. de Guise has obtained the favor of a cushion at the King’s mass; he did not fail to make use of it on Sunday, and between ourselves, with rather too much ostentation. Every one expects wonders from the Marquis de Chastet, who has boasted that he will soon bring the Algerians to terms, but I have no faith in his predictions. The Duc de Vermandois has been raised to the dignity of Admiral. Madame de la Valliere received this mark of the royal favor with the most perfect indifference. I am quite of your opinion: that woman is not in her proper place.‘Did your brother write you that we went together to the first representation of Britannicus? Some admirers of Racine had praised the piece so much to me, that not being able to get a box, I sent my valet at ten o’clock to keep a place for me. I thought that I should never reach the Hôtel de Bourgogne, although I left my carriage at the corner of the Rue Mauconseil: without Chapelle and Mauvillain, who know all the actors in Paris, I should never have succeeded in getting a place. Do not mistake this eagerness of the public; there was much more malevolence than curiosity in it. I paid my respects to Madame de Sévigné in her box, where I found Mesdames de Villars, de Coulanges and de La Fayette, escorted by the little Abbé de Villars and de Grignau theFrondeur. You may imagine what treatment Britannicus received inthat box. Madame de Sévigné said the other day at Madame de Villarceau’s that ‘Le Racine passerait comme le café.’ This speech made every one laugh; all agreed that it was as just as it was good. What I most like is the presumption of this tragedy student, who undertakes to make Romans talk for us after our great, our sublime Corneille; but some people think that they can do any thing. I never saw the Hôtel de Bourgogne so brilliant. Such a fashionable audience deserved a better piece. The people in the pit yawned, and those in the boxes went to sleep. Vilandry was snoring away in the box of the Commandeur de Louvré. Since he dines at that table, the best kept in Paris, he goes to the theatre to digesthaciendo la siesta, wakes up when all is over, and pronounces the play detestable. I cannot understand what pleasure the brave and witty Commandeur can take in the society of a man who never opens his mouth but to eat. Despréaux, (Boileau,) beside whom I was sitting, was furious at the coldness of the pit. He protested that it was Racine’s chef d’œuvre; that the ancients had never written any thing finer; that neither Tacitus nor Corneille had ever produced any thing more forcible. He had like to have quarrelled with Subligny, because in the scene where Nero hides behind a curtain to listen to Junia, he could not restrain a burst of laughter, which was echoed all over the house. Perhaps this bad play will furnish him with the materials for another ‘Folle Querelle,’3which will make us laugh as much as the first. Ninon and the Prince sided with Despréaux. They defended the ground inch by inch, but without being able to cover the retreat of Britannicus. I am curious to know how the little rival of the great Corneille will take this failure, for it certainly is one. The worst of the business for him is, that every one remarked some very clear and very audacious allusions. The King said nothing about them; but yesterday at his levee, he countermanded a ballet in which he was to have danced at St. Germain. This may put our poet somewhat out of favor at court; but what the devil have poets to do there?‘Floridor was sublime. You would have sworn that he had wagered to make one of the worst parts he overplayed successful. I cannot tell you much of the plot of this tragedy. How could I hear it? I sat between your brother and the fat Vicomte. Nevertheless you may rely on me that it is bad, decidedly bad, whatever the satirist may say about it. I am quite of his opinion when he says, ‘That a work of that importance must be listened to with attention, and that it is unjust to pronounce upon a play in the midst of the clamors of theatre-factions, and the chattering of that crowd of women who are always eager to display themselves at a first representation.’ All this is very true, but not at all applicable in this instance. This time Racine is well judged. The dénouement is the most ridiculous I ever heard. Imagine that silly, conceited Junia turning vestal, as if Madame de Sennès were to enter the Ursuline Convent. Heaven forbid that I should play the scholar; but I have read in Ménage that it required other formalities to take the veil in the convent of ladies of the society of Vesta. I forgot the mostessential. Your little Desœuillet played like an angel. I spoke to her about you in her box. I think that you had better come and speak about it yourself. She is a girl for whom constancy is only the interval that separates two fancies.‘If you ever get theNouvelles à la Mainwhere you are, you will see Racine handled without gloves. The number which treats of his play has not yet appeared; but if Le Clerc does things as he should, and remembers the just resentment of d’Olonne and de Créqui,4from whom he received two hundred pistoles, poor Britannicus will pay for Andromache.‘Gourrilu has probably given you the perfumes you ordered for your pretty cousin; Martial would not receive the money. He said that he was in your debt. Dubroussin sends his love. We had such a charming supper at his house! You were the only one wanting. I was obliged to bring Chapelle home in my carriage, dead drunk: to pay for it, I left him the next day under the table atLa Pomme de Pin, where he has passed more than one night.‘I shall try to get to the levée next Sunday. My uncle is doing his best to make me rejoin my regiment. If he should succeed, I shall see you on my way. I should much prefer to have the meeting take place here; but whatever happens, believe me, etc.,‘Hernouville.’

‘Paris, the 30 December, 1669.

‘I seizethe occasion, my dear Comte, afforded me by a cold which has kept me some days by the fire-side, to send you news from this part of the country. The most important, and what will give you the most pleasure is, that M. de Guise has obtained the favor of a cushion at the King’s mass; he did not fail to make use of it on Sunday, and between ourselves, with rather too much ostentation. Every one expects wonders from the Marquis de Chastet, who has boasted that he will soon bring the Algerians to terms, but I have no faith in his predictions. The Duc de Vermandois has been raised to the dignity of Admiral. Madame de la Valliere received this mark of the royal favor with the most perfect indifference. I am quite of your opinion: that woman is not in her proper place.

‘Did your brother write you that we went together to the first representation of Britannicus? Some admirers of Racine had praised the piece so much to me, that not being able to get a box, I sent my valet at ten o’clock to keep a place for me. I thought that I should never reach the Hôtel de Bourgogne, although I left my carriage at the corner of the Rue Mauconseil: without Chapelle and Mauvillain, who know all the actors in Paris, I should never have succeeded in getting a place. Do not mistake this eagerness of the public; there was much more malevolence than curiosity in it. I paid my respects to Madame de Sévigné in her box, where I found Mesdames de Villars, de Coulanges and de La Fayette, escorted by the little Abbé de Villars and de Grignau theFrondeur. You may imagine what treatment Britannicus received inthat box. Madame de Sévigné said the other day at Madame de Villarceau’s that ‘Le Racine passerait comme le café.’ This speech made every one laugh; all agreed that it was as just as it was good. What I most like is the presumption of this tragedy student, who undertakes to make Romans talk for us after our great, our sublime Corneille; but some people think that they can do any thing. I never saw the Hôtel de Bourgogne so brilliant. Such a fashionable audience deserved a better piece. The people in the pit yawned, and those in the boxes went to sleep. Vilandry was snoring away in the box of the Commandeur de Louvré. Since he dines at that table, the best kept in Paris, he goes to the theatre to digesthaciendo la siesta, wakes up when all is over, and pronounces the play detestable. I cannot understand what pleasure the brave and witty Commandeur can take in the society of a man who never opens his mouth but to eat. Despréaux, (Boileau,) beside whom I was sitting, was furious at the coldness of the pit. He protested that it was Racine’s chef d’œuvre; that the ancients had never written any thing finer; that neither Tacitus nor Corneille had ever produced any thing more forcible. He had like to have quarrelled with Subligny, because in the scene where Nero hides behind a curtain to listen to Junia, he could not restrain a burst of laughter, which was echoed all over the house. Perhaps this bad play will furnish him with the materials for another ‘Folle Querelle,’3which will make us laugh as much as the first. Ninon and the Prince sided with Despréaux. They defended the ground inch by inch, but without being able to cover the retreat of Britannicus. I am curious to know how the little rival of the great Corneille will take this failure, for it certainly is one. The worst of the business for him is, that every one remarked some very clear and very audacious allusions. The King said nothing about them; but yesterday at his levee, he countermanded a ballet in which he was to have danced at St. Germain. This may put our poet somewhat out of favor at court; but what the devil have poets to do there?

‘Floridor was sublime. You would have sworn that he had wagered to make one of the worst parts he overplayed successful. I cannot tell you much of the plot of this tragedy. How could I hear it? I sat between your brother and the fat Vicomte. Nevertheless you may rely on me that it is bad, decidedly bad, whatever the satirist may say about it. I am quite of his opinion when he says, ‘That a work of that importance must be listened to with attention, and that it is unjust to pronounce upon a play in the midst of the clamors of theatre-factions, and the chattering of that crowd of women who are always eager to display themselves at a first representation.’ All this is very true, but not at all applicable in this instance. This time Racine is well judged. The dénouement is the most ridiculous I ever heard. Imagine that silly, conceited Junia turning vestal, as if Madame de Sennès were to enter the Ursuline Convent. Heaven forbid that I should play the scholar; but I have read in Ménage that it required other formalities to take the veil in the convent of ladies of the society of Vesta. I forgot the mostessential. Your little Desœuillet played like an angel. I spoke to her about you in her box. I think that you had better come and speak about it yourself. She is a girl for whom constancy is only the interval that separates two fancies.

‘If you ever get theNouvelles à la Mainwhere you are, you will see Racine handled without gloves. The number which treats of his play has not yet appeared; but if Le Clerc does things as he should, and remembers the just resentment of d’Olonne and de Créqui,4from whom he received two hundred pistoles, poor Britannicus will pay for Andromache.

‘Gourrilu has probably given you the perfumes you ordered for your pretty cousin; Martial would not receive the money. He said that he was in your debt. Dubroussin sends his love. We had such a charming supper at his house! You were the only one wanting. I was obliged to bring Chapelle home in my carriage, dead drunk: to pay for it, I left him the next day under the table atLa Pomme de Pin, where he has passed more than one night.

‘I shall try to get to the levée next Sunday. My uncle is doing his best to make me rejoin my regiment. If he should succeed, I shall see you on my way. I should much prefer to have the meeting take place here; but whatever happens, believe me, etc.,

‘Hernouville.’

STANZAS TO MARY.Thineeye is like the violet,Thou hast the lily’s grace;And the pure thoughts of a maiden’s heartAre writ upon thy face.And like a pleasant melodyTo which memory hath clung,Falls thy voice in the loved accentOf mine own New-England tongue.New-England—dear New-England!All numberless they lie,The green graves of my people,Beneath her far blue sky;And the same bright sun that shinethOn thy home at early morn,Lights the dwellings of my kindred,And the house where I was born.Oh, fairest of her daughters!That bid’st me so rejoice’Neath the starlight of thy beautyAnd the music of thy voice,While Memory hath powerIn my breast her joys to wake,I will love thee, Mary, for thine ownAnd for New-England’s sake.M. E. Hewitt.

Thineeye is like the violet,Thou hast the lily’s grace;And the pure thoughts of a maiden’s heartAre writ upon thy face.And like a pleasant melodyTo which memory hath clung,Falls thy voice in the loved accentOf mine own New-England tongue.New-England—dear New-England!All numberless they lie,The green graves of my people,Beneath her far blue sky;And the same bright sun that shinethOn thy home at early morn,Lights the dwellings of my kindred,And the house where I was born.Oh, fairest of her daughters!That bid’st me so rejoice’Neath the starlight of thy beautyAnd the music of thy voice,While Memory hath powerIn my breast her joys to wake,I will love thee, Mary, for thine ownAnd for New-England’s sake.

Thineeye is like the violet,

Thou hast the lily’s grace;

And the pure thoughts of a maiden’s heart

Are writ upon thy face.

And like a pleasant melody

To which memory hath clung,

Falls thy voice in the loved accent

Of mine own New-England tongue.

New-England—dear New-England!All numberless they lie,The green graves of my people,Beneath her far blue sky;And the same bright sun that shinethOn thy home at early morn,Lights the dwellings of my kindred,And the house where I was born.

New-England—dear New-England!

All numberless they lie,

The green graves of my people,

Beneath her far blue sky;

And the same bright sun that shineth

On thy home at early morn,

Lights the dwellings of my kindred,

And the house where I was born.

Oh, fairest of her daughters!That bid’st me so rejoice’Neath the starlight of thy beautyAnd the music of thy voice,While Memory hath powerIn my breast her joys to wake,I will love thee, Mary, for thine ownAnd for New-England’s sake.

Oh, fairest of her daughters!

That bid’st me so rejoice

’Neath the starlight of thy beauty

And the music of thy voice,

While Memory hath power

In my breast her joys to wake,

I will love thee, Mary, for thine own

And for New-England’s sake.

M. E. Hewitt.

ON RIVERS AND OTHER THINGS.IfI were as tedious as a King, I could find in my heart to bestow it all on your worship.Shaks.Itis a comfort still remaining to me, to reflect, that after all the evil that the Tourists, the Reviewers and the Satirists of England together have said and done and imagined of America, they have never yet annihilated our Lakes; dispossessed us of our Rivers; disproved our Waterfalls; nor made bitter to us, our fountains and streams and brooks and water-courses. I thankGodwith a full heart that from whatever cause these still abide unchanged among us; still flow, still control the ear with the majesty of sound, and make glad the solitary places of the heart.It is not often indeed that they admit the existence of these objects in set terms; nor introduce into their works a paragraph upon the subject: nor would any one who had never visited America be expressly informed perhaps by them, that our part of the world contained within its compass any thing at all comparable in the way of Rivers to the Thames or the Tweed; or to the ponds of Cumberland in the way of Lakes; or to the Pisse Vache in Switzerland in the way of a fall of water: but yet they have not deprived us of them; and, incidentally, when they sometimes mention their having been shockingly annoyed and incommoded by a scrub, who spat several times upon the floor of the steamer in their presence, during a trip of three hundred, five hundred or a thousand miles that they have had the mishap to make with him, (instead of using his stomach like a true born Englishman, or his parti-coloured flag of abomination like a continental personage,) they give the reader some idea of the scope of a River or of a Lake in America. Or, when they note down that a parcel of knaves, with sterling money of the realm of Great Britain, borrowed doubtless for the purpose and, as they verily believe, never repaid to this hour, bought a merchant ship; loaded her with every variety of live animals like an ark, and then cruelly and nefariously precipitated her over the Falls of Niagara, in order to gratify that national tendency for a greatSplash, which exists universally in every form throughout the whole of that wretched experiment at self-government called the United States—they then give the untravelled reader some conception of an American Fall of Water. One may therefore with confidence write down in a grave Essay like this, and expect it to be believed even by those who have not Morse’s Geography before their eyes, that there still is, and long has been, a fall of Water by common courtesy distinguished as The Cataract of Niagara; and a river in the State of Connecticut, called, without any of our ‘usual’ cisatlantic inflation, Connecticut River.I pass over all further preliminary matter, and proceed at once to state, that the steamer which leaves New-York in the course of the afternoon, enters, during the night, the long and tranquil expanse of waterknown by the name of the Connecticut; and that when the passengers, after a quiet night’s rest, assemble upon decks that are moist with dew in the bright, still, cheery morning of the early summer, they are gliding onward far up that river, cutting its glassy bosom in the direction of the rays of the rising Sun; the overpowering lustre of which is diminished by a soft and precious Claude-like haze that hangs like a gauze of gossamer on the borders of their way, a bridal veil just being lifted by the Sun; tempering while it enriches the gilding of the shores, the waters, the far-off spire, the contented farmer’s house and barns, the unfrequent trees, the cattle gazing at the approaching object, the sail you are overtaking or meeting, and often, the fisherman, seen in the distance, standing in his boat on the margin of the river, in his white shirt-sleeves, waiting the passage of the steamer.For these shores very rarely form themselves into any picturesque acclivity. Hardly is there on the whole course of the river one bold bluff or headland to obstruct the sight; and the scenery might even be thought tame and uninteresting, but for a home-born feeling that comes over the kind heart as it approaches so close to the mowers on the meadow-field as to scent the fragrance of the hay; to hear the song of the Boblink, or the rhythmic whetting of the scythe; or passes the ends of those primitive, those pilgrim-fences of post and rail, that enter the brink of the river to mark the boundaries of the small, paternal, and though frequently sterile, the much loved fields into which this home of industry is divided.The moment you have passed the fisherman, and the noise and movement of the steamer have frightened the fish toward the shore, he darts out in his boat with one end of a net of many roods in extent, takes a semi-circular sweep and frequently draws in again with very little delay fraught with a school of most luxurious Shad. It is of this fish that Basil Hall I think says it is worth crossing the Atlantic to taste them; and although I fear I may shock the prejudices of some of my friends who highly favour those of the Delaware when caught above Bordentown, I cannot but opine that the shad of the Connecticut is the best shad in the Union.The opinion if incorrect may have arisen from the freshness with which I have beheld them taken and have partaken of them from these nets, brought without the least bruise or violence on board the steamer which lies ‘blowing off’ for a moment or two while it receives on the forward deck a rich supply for breakfast of these broad thick-backed fellows, all wet and spangling from the River, as stout at the dorsal fin as at the shoulder, leaping hither and thither astonished at the suddenness of the change, pausing at each instant to expand the deep pomegranate-coloured gills that decorate their small and beautiful heads, and puffing on the deck as if the air they inhaled could be nothing else but water; or else imagining and planning an escape into their proper element; and at each exhalation after a desperate leap, vying almost with the dolphin in the richness of the hues of purple green and gold upon the laughing scales!Now, one fine fish lies extended at its length, wondering and appalled and tremulous with fear, as the cook’s assistant, for the first time thatany human being has touched it, lays his hand upon the fullness of that line of beauty, the curved and satisfying swell that extends from the head to the graceful little swallow tail that flutters and pleads so eloquently for its wonted employment. ‘Heavens! is it possible,’ it says to itself—I mean that beautiful female shad on which the hand is just laid—‘can it be that this warm hand is that of man; that the tradition of our forefathers is indeed true; and that this fish-devouring monster is going to destroy me after a mystick fashion of his own, so different from that of the porpoise and the sturgeon, whom I have escaped so well! Is it for a fate like this, that, avoiding the Delaware river and the profound Hudson, I have returned to these scenes of my nativity and earliest youth! Is it for an end so cruel as this, that I have taken such care of myself upon the southern shores of this unworthy continent, feeding with a tasteful choice and epicurean delicacy amid the marine vegetation that adorns its milder latitudes, and plumping and beautifying myself into this admired shape, and all to gratify at last the cormorant appetite of this unfishlike animal, and decorate, with my remains and memory, a mere steam-boat breakfast! O Dickens!theDickens! sworn enemy of the enemies of my race! thou Hannibal of my expiring hopes—’ Alas! her apostrophe is cut short at the moment by the ruthless knife that strips her of her coat of many colours, and in one fell stroke prepares her delicious belle-ship for the broil!It forms no part within the scope of our intention in the present Essay, to dwell upon the various modes of cookery of this annual and precious accession to the riches of our waters; but it is not to be supposed that the arrival of theShadin this beautiful river of Connecticut can be a slight advent to the inhabitants upon its borders, particularly in villages and towns too densely populated to admit the idea, that their occupants derive a livelihood, either from agriculture, fishing, or the commerce that can be maintained by the yearly launch of a square-rigged vessel or two, depending mainly on the profits of a freighting voyage: now that the trade with the West-Indies, (formerly a rich source of the wealth of this state,) has dwindled into insignificance and loss. On the contrary, the first appearance of the shad imparts an hilarious sensation of abundance all along the shores. The retired sea-captain, the small annuitant, the broken-down family, and the capitalist, are all alike interested in the welcome. The price falls immediately within the compass of the very poorest inhabitant, while the luxury of the regale it furnishes is one that the richest epicure might covet. The green lanes that lead toward the shore, and that at other seasons are hardly visited except by lovers on a moonlit evening, now grow lively with the morning movement of the householder and his flock of little ones.The poor man’s cow now no longer browses there in a neglected and undisturbed possession; now no longer does the stiff and shackled plough-horse graze leisurely along the path, but is startled by some youthful shout into an attempt at what was once a leap; now half-ripe berries are furtively gathered in spite of all advice as to unwholesomeness; dogs move round as if upon a hunt and on the scent for game; the yoked goose, after more than one expression of its sense of dignity, retires a little out of the way; and now the ground sparrow, deeminghis thistle or over-hanging Barberry-bush insecure against the incursions of all these comers and goers, regrets at a short and watchful distance, and with all the anxiety of a politician, that he had not built more wisely under covert ofthe other side of the hedge.Boys and girls, young men and maidens, old men and widows, meet each other on the path of the green lane, like angels on the steps of Jacob’s Ladder in a Flemish picture that I have, where the ladder is represented by a broad stone stair-case; except that blessings are here all broughtupinstead ofdown, for a brace of Shad is in the hand of every family-man returning from the shore.Cordial greetings are every where interchanged, and every where the question rises or is answered that determines the market value of the morning; that makes known the signal success of the great haul of Enoch Smith; the further fall of prices in the perspective; and the general promise of the season in the way of shad; and all agree that however large or small may be the supply, never, since the memory of man, have the shad been quite so good as they are this season; and that Connecticut River Shad are decidedly the best imaginable of all possible shad.Having in my purse the ring of Gyges, which is too ponderous for ordinary wear, I placed it on my finger and accompanied home unseen a hale bandy-legged old gentleman with a florid complexion, a benevolent wart upon his nose, an alert step, drab-breeches with thin worsted stockings of pepper and salt, plated buckles worn to the brass in his shoes, and silver ones at the knees, and the heaviest pair of shad that had appeared in the lane during the morning. I saw him deposit the Fish safely in his kitchen which he entered through a side gate, giving some strict injunctions to the cook with the air of a person who had certainly made a good bargain and was speaking to one who best knew how to appreciate it.We then wended our way together to a neighboring house where we were immediately admitted. A person older than the visitor, quite deaf, pale and suffering but without complaint, lay extended upon a couch in a soft chintz dressing-gown, afflicted with that sort of Will-o’-the-wisp gout, that takes the toe, the heel, the knee, the hip, the heart, the neck, the head, and hands, in turn: not in any graceful rotation, not in any quiet or systematic order; but that gratifies itself by darting with the quickness of the electrick fire to which it is allied, to the part least expecting or prepared to sustain the pang. Not an honest gentlemanly gout that will exhibit itself and meet one fairly toe to toe with the inflammation of undisguised passion; but an adder, a viper of the nerves that stings and flies; and darts and disappears before the flesh has even time to blush for its existence; so subtle yet so tormenting, so deep yet so evanescent, that the patient in his agony half wonders whether it be a malady of the body or of the soul; and only knows that it is a pain, aye marry ‘past all surgery!’Our invalid was now enjoying a momentary interval of ease, and welcomed his guest very cheerfully, although without attempting to do more than extend his hand to him and beg him to sit near. Notwithstanding all deafness the compliments of the morning, the enquiriesafter different members of each other’s family, and the comments on the weather, were made and understood and interchanged with great facility, and the visit went off swimmingly; until the stout gentleman, probably actuated by his desire to speak of his successful purchase of the morning, ventured, at the first pause, to ask his acquaintance if he were fond of fish?‘I thank you,’ said the latter, ‘the mare is decidedly better; that bleeding in the hoof did her business completely, and I don’t doubt that by autumn she will be as well as ever.’‘I asked you,’ said the visitor, in a determined tone, and like a person who has something to say, ‘I asked you, whether you were fond of Fish?’—Alas! my masters! how many unnecessary, how many futile, how many absurd questions, among the idle words that are dignified with the title of conversation, are daily propounded in this grave world of ours!Fondof fish! Fond ofFish! and that fish, a Shad! and that shad, a Connecticut River Shad! and that Connecticut River Shad, a prime brace of shad! in the highest season, and the highest order, and the finest brace of shad in the entire haul of Enoch Smith, now yet quivering, without the loss of one radiant scale, upon the snow-white dresser of this man’s imagination! Ought I to call it, an imagination? Ought I to go on with the story, or abandon it as an impracticable thing? Fond of fish!Oh commend me to a life of leisure in a small town upon the right bank of the River Connecticut, and let my lease begin at the beginning of the shad season! Give me Enoch Smith to draw the seine, a green lane to conduct me to the river shore, and a Claude Lorraine morning for my day of purchase! Fond of Fish! Why what an idea, to be conveyed upon the subject of this brace of shad, from one Christian Being to another Christian Being, who had both—as it is to be supposed—read and studied the lives of the apostles! Fond of Fish!!!But the stout man, finding that he was not apprehended, reiterated the remarkable question; and in a still louder tone, exclaimed: I—asked—you—whether—you—are—fond—of—Fish?’ making a pause between each of these peculiar words, and shooting the last word of the singular interrogatory out of his mouth, by means of his fore-teeth and a most emphatic under-lip, as a boy does a marble with the bent fore-finger and thumb of the right hand.‘I perceive,’ said the quiet person upon the couch, ‘that you are asking me a question; but really therhumatis, (this is the way in which the quiet person upon the couch thought proper to pronounce it,) has, I think, quite got the better of my right ear. Would you do me the favour,’ continued he, turning the left side of his head toward his interlocutor with the suavity of a person already obliged, ‘would you do me the great favour to repeat your enquiry?’‘I asked you,’ said the other, growing scarlet in the gills like the shad of his imagination, ‘I—merely—asked—you,’—for he began (I thought at the time) to grow vexed with the absurdity of his position in having given utterance to a conception at once so feeble and yet so eccentrick; and being a coarse man, could only get out by passionately going through what he had to say; ‘if—you—were—fond—of—Fish?’And on this occasion each word seemed to me to have the force of a pistol-shot, and the last word that of a cannon ball; and he rose as he spoke like a man of might and purpose as he was, and clenched his hand, and quivered upon the stout bow legs that sustained him as he stood: ‘Fish,’ roared he! ‘Fish,’ shouted he! ‘I asked you if you were fond of FISH,’ thundered he!‘I quite regret being so very deaf to-day, and yet I should be sorry,’ replied his imperturbable friend, fumbling in his pockets and looking about the couch, ‘to lose any observation of yours, and particularly one in which you seem so earnest; here is a piece of paper, and here is a pencil; be kind enough to write it down while I get on my glasses.’ By the time his eyes were reinforced the paper was ready, and glancing it over he answered at once, raising himself suddenly upward, as he exclaimed at the utmost reach of his voice and with deep and increasing energy, ‘Oh, Very!’ ‘Very!’ ‘Very!’‘Good morning, Mr. Johnson,’ said his now blown and indignant visitor. ‘Are you off? Well, good morning, captain!’ replied the other; and as soon as the door was closed, ‘My neighbor Captain Tompkins, I am sorry to perceive, has grown quite as deaf as myself,’ said he in a musing manner. ‘If I had his legs—’tis there he has the advantage of me—if I had his legs, I could have collected all the news of the parish in the time that he has been prosing here about my mare! And I wanted too to know something this morning about shad. Here, Sally! tell Bob to run down the lane and find out whether Enoch Smith is going to draw soon; and if Bob meet any persons on the way with shad let him ask the price of the day before he says a word to Smith.’Away flew the little flaxen-haired fairy with her eyes of sapphire, leaving her grandfather to relapse upon his couch in the posture in which we first saw him, and to moralize on the impatience with which his neighbour Captain Tompkins seemed to bear the approaching infirmities of age. And now, Dear Reader, do thou emulate the patience of the old Valetudinarian, while I relieve thee of my further presence; or, if thou wilt permit the thought to enter the charities of thine heart, vanish from thee like the blue-eyed girl.John Waters.

IfI were as tedious as a King, I could find in my heart to bestow it all on your worship.Shaks.

IfI were as tedious as a King, I could find in my heart to bestow it all on your worship.

Shaks.

Itis a comfort still remaining to me, to reflect, that after all the evil that the Tourists, the Reviewers and the Satirists of England together have said and done and imagined of America, they have never yet annihilated our Lakes; dispossessed us of our Rivers; disproved our Waterfalls; nor made bitter to us, our fountains and streams and brooks and water-courses. I thankGodwith a full heart that from whatever cause these still abide unchanged among us; still flow, still control the ear with the majesty of sound, and make glad the solitary places of the heart.

It is not often indeed that they admit the existence of these objects in set terms; nor introduce into their works a paragraph upon the subject: nor would any one who had never visited America be expressly informed perhaps by them, that our part of the world contained within its compass any thing at all comparable in the way of Rivers to the Thames or the Tweed; or to the ponds of Cumberland in the way of Lakes; or to the Pisse Vache in Switzerland in the way of a fall of water: but yet they have not deprived us of them; and, incidentally, when they sometimes mention their having been shockingly annoyed and incommoded by a scrub, who spat several times upon the floor of the steamer in their presence, during a trip of three hundred, five hundred or a thousand miles that they have had the mishap to make with him, (instead of using his stomach like a true born Englishman, or his parti-coloured flag of abomination like a continental personage,) they give the reader some idea of the scope of a River or of a Lake in America. Or, when they note down that a parcel of knaves, with sterling money of the realm of Great Britain, borrowed doubtless for the purpose and, as they verily believe, never repaid to this hour, bought a merchant ship; loaded her with every variety of live animals like an ark, and then cruelly and nefariously precipitated her over the Falls of Niagara, in order to gratify that national tendency for a greatSplash, which exists universally in every form throughout the whole of that wretched experiment at self-government called the United States—they then give the untravelled reader some conception of an American Fall of Water. One may therefore with confidence write down in a grave Essay like this, and expect it to be believed even by those who have not Morse’s Geography before their eyes, that there still is, and long has been, a fall of Water by common courtesy distinguished as The Cataract of Niagara; and a river in the State of Connecticut, called, without any of our ‘usual’ cisatlantic inflation, Connecticut River.

I pass over all further preliminary matter, and proceed at once to state, that the steamer which leaves New-York in the course of the afternoon, enters, during the night, the long and tranquil expanse of waterknown by the name of the Connecticut; and that when the passengers, after a quiet night’s rest, assemble upon decks that are moist with dew in the bright, still, cheery morning of the early summer, they are gliding onward far up that river, cutting its glassy bosom in the direction of the rays of the rising Sun; the overpowering lustre of which is diminished by a soft and precious Claude-like haze that hangs like a gauze of gossamer on the borders of their way, a bridal veil just being lifted by the Sun; tempering while it enriches the gilding of the shores, the waters, the far-off spire, the contented farmer’s house and barns, the unfrequent trees, the cattle gazing at the approaching object, the sail you are overtaking or meeting, and often, the fisherman, seen in the distance, standing in his boat on the margin of the river, in his white shirt-sleeves, waiting the passage of the steamer.

For these shores very rarely form themselves into any picturesque acclivity. Hardly is there on the whole course of the river one bold bluff or headland to obstruct the sight; and the scenery might even be thought tame and uninteresting, but for a home-born feeling that comes over the kind heart as it approaches so close to the mowers on the meadow-field as to scent the fragrance of the hay; to hear the song of the Boblink, or the rhythmic whetting of the scythe; or passes the ends of those primitive, those pilgrim-fences of post and rail, that enter the brink of the river to mark the boundaries of the small, paternal, and though frequently sterile, the much loved fields into which this home of industry is divided.

The moment you have passed the fisherman, and the noise and movement of the steamer have frightened the fish toward the shore, he darts out in his boat with one end of a net of many roods in extent, takes a semi-circular sweep and frequently draws in again with very little delay fraught with a school of most luxurious Shad. It is of this fish that Basil Hall I think says it is worth crossing the Atlantic to taste them; and although I fear I may shock the prejudices of some of my friends who highly favour those of the Delaware when caught above Bordentown, I cannot but opine that the shad of the Connecticut is the best shad in the Union.

The opinion if incorrect may have arisen from the freshness with which I have beheld them taken and have partaken of them from these nets, brought without the least bruise or violence on board the steamer which lies ‘blowing off’ for a moment or two while it receives on the forward deck a rich supply for breakfast of these broad thick-backed fellows, all wet and spangling from the River, as stout at the dorsal fin as at the shoulder, leaping hither and thither astonished at the suddenness of the change, pausing at each instant to expand the deep pomegranate-coloured gills that decorate their small and beautiful heads, and puffing on the deck as if the air they inhaled could be nothing else but water; or else imagining and planning an escape into their proper element; and at each exhalation after a desperate leap, vying almost with the dolphin in the richness of the hues of purple green and gold upon the laughing scales!

Now, one fine fish lies extended at its length, wondering and appalled and tremulous with fear, as the cook’s assistant, for the first time thatany human being has touched it, lays his hand upon the fullness of that line of beauty, the curved and satisfying swell that extends from the head to the graceful little swallow tail that flutters and pleads so eloquently for its wonted employment. ‘Heavens! is it possible,’ it says to itself—I mean that beautiful female shad on which the hand is just laid—‘can it be that this warm hand is that of man; that the tradition of our forefathers is indeed true; and that this fish-devouring monster is going to destroy me after a mystick fashion of his own, so different from that of the porpoise and the sturgeon, whom I have escaped so well! Is it for a fate like this, that, avoiding the Delaware river and the profound Hudson, I have returned to these scenes of my nativity and earliest youth! Is it for an end so cruel as this, that I have taken such care of myself upon the southern shores of this unworthy continent, feeding with a tasteful choice and epicurean delicacy amid the marine vegetation that adorns its milder latitudes, and plumping and beautifying myself into this admired shape, and all to gratify at last the cormorant appetite of this unfishlike animal, and decorate, with my remains and memory, a mere steam-boat breakfast! O Dickens!theDickens! sworn enemy of the enemies of my race! thou Hannibal of my expiring hopes—’ Alas! her apostrophe is cut short at the moment by the ruthless knife that strips her of her coat of many colours, and in one fell stroke prepares her delicious belle-ship for the broil!

It forms no part within the scope of our intention in the present Essay, to dwell upon the various modes of cookery of this annual and precious accession to the riches of our waters; but it is not to be supposed that the arrival of theShadin this beautiful river of Connecticut can be a slight advent to the inhabitants upon its borders, particularly in villages and towns too densely populated to admit the idea, that their occupants derive a livelihood, either from agriculture, fishing, or the commerce that can be maintained by the yearly launch of a square-rigged vessel or two, depending mainly on the profits of a freighting voyage: now that the trade with the West-Indies, (formerly a rich source of the wealth of this state,) has dwindled into insignificance and loss. On the contrary, the first appearance of the shad imparts an hilarious sensation of abundance all along the shores. The retired sea-captain, the small annuitant, the broken-down family, and the capitalist, are all alike interested in the welcome. The price falls immediately within the compass of the very poorest inhabitant, while the luxury of the regale it furnishes is one that the richest epicure might covet. The green lanes that lead toward the shore, and that at other seasons are hardly visited except by lovers on a moonlit evening, now grow lively with the morning movement of the householder and his flock of little ones.

The poor man’s cow now no longer browses there in a neglected and undisturbed possession; now no longer does the stiff and shackled plough-horse graze leisurely along the path, but is startled by some youthful shout into an attempt at what was once a leap; now half-ripe berries are furtively gathered in spite of all advice as to unwholesomeness; dogs move round as if upon a hunt and on the scent for game; the yoked goose, after more than one expression of its sense of dignity, retires a little out of the way; and now the ground sparrow, deeminghis thistle or over-hanging Barberry-bush insecure against the incursions of all these comers and goers, regrets at a short and watchful distance, and with all the anxiety of a politician, that he had not built more wisely under covert ofthe other side of the hedge.

Boys and girls, young men and maidens, old men and widows, meet each other on the path of the green lane, like angels on the steps of Jacob’s Ladder in a Flemish picture that I have, where the ladder is represented by a broad stone stair-case; except that blessings are here all broughtupinstead ofdown, for a brace of Shad is in the hand of every family-man returning from the shore.

Cordial greetings are every where interchanged, and every where the question rises or is answered that determines the market value of the morning; that makes known the signal success of the great haul of Enoch Smith; the further fall of prices in the perspective; and the general promise of the season in the way of shad; and all agree that however large or small may be the supply, never, since the memory of man, have the shad been quite so good as they are this season; and that Connecticut River Shad are decidedly the best imaginable of all possible shad.

Having in my purse the ring of Gyges, which is too ponderous for ordinary wear, I placed it on my finger and accompanied home unseen a hale bandy-legged old gentleman with a florid complexion, a benevolent wart upon his nose, an alert step, drab-breeches with thin worsted stockings of pepper and salt, plated buckles worn to the brass in his shoes, and silver ones at the knees, and the heaviest pair of shad that had appeared in the lane during the morning. I saw him deposit the Fish safely in his kitchen which he entered through a side gate, giving some strict injunctions to the cook with the air of a person who had certainly made a good bargain and was speaking to one who best knew how to appreciate it.

We then wended our way together to a neighboring house where we were immediately admitted. A person older than the visitor, quite deaf, pale and suffering but without complaint, lay extended upon a couch in a soft chintz dressing-gown, afflicted with that sort of Will-o’-the-wisp gout, that takes the toe, the heel, the knee, the hip, the heart, the neck, the head, and hands, in turn: not in any graceful rotation, not in any quiet or systematic order; but that gratifies itself by darting with the quickness of the electrick fire to which it is allied, to the part least expecting or prepared to sustain the pang. Not an honest gentlemanly gout that will exhibit itself and meet one fairly toe to toe with the inflammation of undisguised passion; but an adder, a viper of the nerves that stings and flies; and darts and disappears before the flesh has even time to blush for its existence; so subtle yet so tormenting, so deep yet so evanescent, that the patient in his agony half wonders whether it be a malady of the body or of the soul; and only knows that it is a pain, aye marry ‘past all surgery!’

Our invalid was now enjoying a momentary interval of ease, and welcomed his guest very cheerfully, although without attempting to do more than extend his hand to him and beg him to sit near. Notwithstanding all deafness the compliments of the morning, the enquiriesafter different members of each other’s family, and the comments on the weather, were made and understood and interchanged with great facility, and the visit went off swimmingly; until the stout gentleman, probably actuated by his desire to speak of his successful purchase of the morning, ventured, at the first pause, to ask his acquaintance if he were fond of fish?

‘I thank you,’ said the latter, ‘the mare is decidedly better; that bleeding in the hoof did her business completely, and I don’t doubt that by autumn she will be as well as ever.’

‘I asked you,’ said the visitor, in a determined tone, and like a person who has something to say, ‘I asked you, whether you were fond of Fish?’—Alas! my masters! how many unnecessary, how many futile, how many absurd questions, among the idle words that are dignified with the title of conversation, are daily propounded in this grave world of ours!Fondof fish! Fond ofFish! and that fish, a Shad! and that shad, a Connecticut River Shad! and that Connecticut River Shad, a prime brace of shad! in the highest season, and the highest order, and the finest brace of shad in the entire haul of Enoch Smith, now yet quivering, without the loss of one radiant scale, upon the snow-white dresser of this man’s imagination! Ought I to call it, an imagination? Ought I to go on with the story, or abandon it as an impracticable thing? Fond of fish!

Oh commend me to a life of leisure in a small town upon the right bank of the River Connecticut, and let my lease begin at the beginning of the shad season! Give me Enoch Smith to draw the seine, a green lane to conduct me to the river shore, and a Claude Lorraine morning for my day of purchase! Fond of Fish! Why what an idea, to be conveyed upon the subject of this brace of shad, from one Christian Being to another Christian Being, who had both—as it is to be supposed—read and studied the lives of the apostles! Fond of Fish!!!

But the stout man, finding that he was not apprehended, reiterated the remarkable question; and in a still louder tone, exclaimed: I—asked—you—whether—you—are—fond—of—Fish?’ making a pause between each of these peculiar words, and shooting the last word of the singular interrogatory out of his mouth, by means of his fore-teeth and a most emphatic under-lip, as a boy does a marble with the bent fore-finger and thumb of the right hand.

‘I perceive,’ said the quiet person upon the couch, ‘that you are asking me a question; but really therhumatis, (this is the way in which the quiet person upon the couch thought proper to pronounce it,) has, I think, quite got the better of my right ear. Would you do me the favour,’ continued he, turning the left side of his head toward his interlocutor with the suavity of a person already obliged, ‘would you do me the great favour to repeat your enquiry?’

‘I asked you,’ said the other, growing scarlet in the gills like the shad of his imagination, ‘I—merely—asked—you,’—for he began (I thought at the time) to grow vexed with the absurdity of his position in having given utterance to a conception at once so feeble and yet so eccentrick; and being a coarse man, could only get out by passionately going through what he had to say; ‘if—you—were—fond—of—Fish?’And on this occasion each word seemed to me to have the force of a pistol-shot, and the last word that of a cannon ball; and he rose as he spoke like a man of might and purpose as he was, and clenched his hand, and quivered upon the stout bow legs that sustained him as he stood: ‘Fish,’ roared he! ‘Fish,’ shouted he! ‘I asked you if you were fond of FISH,’ thundered he!

‘I quite regret being so very deaf to-day, and yet I should be sorry,’ replied his imperturbable friend, fumbling in his pockets and looking about the couch, ‘to lose any observation of yours, and particularly one in which you seem so earnest; here is a piece of paper, and here is a pencil; be kind enough to write it down while I get on my glasses.’ By the time his eyes were reinforced the paper was ready, and glancing it over he answered at once, raising himself suddenly upward, as he exclaimed at the utmost reach of his voice and with deep and increasing energy, ‘Oh, Very!’ ‘Very!’ ‘Very!’

‘Good morning, Mr. Johnson,’ said his now blown and indignant visitor. ‘Are you off? Well, good morning, captain!’ replied the other; and as soon as the door was closed, ‘My neighbor Captain Tompkins, I am sorry to perceive, has grown quite as deaf as myself,’ said he in a musing manner. ‘If I had his legs—’tis there he has the advantage of me—if I had his legs, I could have collected all the news of the parish in the time that he has been prosing here about my mare! And I wanted too to know something this morning about shad. Here, Sally! tell Bob to run down the lane and find out whether Enoch Smith is going to draw soon; and if Bob meet any persons on the way with shad let him ask the price of the day before he says a word to Smith.’

Away flew the little flaxen-haired fairy with her eyes of sapphire, leaving her grandfather to relapse upon his couch in the posture in which we first saw him, and to moralize on the impatience with which his neighbour Captain Tompkins seemed to bear the approaching infirmities of age. And now, Dear Reader, do thou emulate the patience of the old Valetudinarian, while I relieve thee of my further presence; or, if thou wilt permit the thought to enter the charities of thine heart, vanish from thee like the blue-eyed girl.

John Waters.

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