Chapter VIII: Part THE FIRST (2)

Madeline had seen sufficient proofs of Alfred’s facile temper and instability of purpose to dread his introduction into scenes of greater temptation, and, vainly fancying that he would be safer any where than in the busy city, she preferred that he should enter a distant college. At the age of seventeen he was removed from his sister’s influence to enter upon his new course of studies, and although at first truly unhappy at this separation from his only relative, it was not long before the absence of her keen eye and stern rebuke became a positive relief to him. Hitherto his life had passed amid the sombre shades of domestic life, and with all Madeline’s noble traits of character, she lacked the tact, so truly feminine, which enables a woman to throw sunshine around the humblest home. The cheerful song, the pleasant jest, the merry voice, the bright smile, the buoyant step—all the lighter graces without which a woman’s character, however elevated and noble, is but as a Corinthian column without its capital, or as a rose without its perfume—were wanting to the unbending nature of Madeline. The world was to her a scene of probation and preparation, and to waste a thought upon enlivening its grave duties seemed to her as idle as planting flowers around a sepulchre. When therefore Alfred found himself amid a throng of young men from every part of the country—some ambitious of renown, some fond of study for its own sake, some utterly careless of present duties, some slothful and indifferent to honor, but all equally alive to pleasurable excitement and equally eager in the pursuit of amusement, he felt as if he had suddenly been transported to a world of which he had never dreamed. His susceptible temper rendered him an easy prey to the lures of gay society. Intellectual enjoyments mingled their pure odors with the fumes of the wine cup, and the refinements of elegant taste served to veil the native deformity of vice, until, long before he had learned the danger of his position, he was bound in the strong toils of sensual indulgence. Full of intellect, and wonderfully acute in his perceptions, he soon became distinguished for his genius, and the heart of his sister was often gladdened by tidings of his success. But she knew not that he was drinking from more turbid waters than those which flow from the fountain of wisdom—she dreamed not that the offering which she hoped to bring pure and unpolluted to the altar of Heaven was already blemished and unworthy to be presented.

Alfred Graham was not designed by nature to be a votary of evil. Temptation had found him weak to resist, but conscience was still true to her charge, and the youth was as free from habitual vice as he was destitute of unsullied virtue. When the vacations brought him to his quiet home, the better feelings of his nature were ever aroused; he respected the virtue of his sister’s character, and when surrounded by that pure atmosphere which envelopes real goodness, he forgot even to harbor a sinful thought. But day by day the profession to which he was destined became more repugnant to his feelings, and after deferring as long as possible the announcement of his wishes, he at length summoned courage to reveal the truth to his sister. The blow fell upon Madeline with almost stunning violence. He had just left college crowned with honors and flushed with success, and Madeline was exulting in the hope of his future usefulness, when he revealed to her his change of purpose. The first intimation of his unwillingness to devote himself to the church, almost drove her to frenzy. All the violence of her secret nature broke forth in the fearful threats of temporal and eternal punishment which she predicted for such apostacy, and Alfred’s feeble temper was actually crushed beneath the weight of her indignation. He trembled at the storm which he had raised, and when, after days of entreaty and expostulation, Madeline, the stern, proud Madeline, even knelt at his feet, and implored the child of her affections to listen to the voice of God, speaking by the lips of her who had ever been as a mother to his heart, the weak youth yielded to her prayers and promised what he well knew he could not conscientiously perform. His was not the free-will offering of talents and time and health and strength in the service of the Redeemer. He entered the sanctuary as one driven onward by irresistible force, not as one drawn by the cords of love and piety.

Time passed on and taught Alfred a lesson of deep hypocrisy. His timid and feeble nature could neither resist the influence of evil nor brave its consequences, and therefore it was that the fair face of the youth became more and more characterized by sanctity in proportion as his heart became less susceptible of its influences. Happy is it for mankind that the eye rarely pierces beneath the veil which conceals the hideous depravity of the heart. Who but would have shrunk from the delicate beauty of Alfred’s gentle countenance—who but would have shuddered at the contemplation of those clear blue eyes, that feminine complexion, the delicate rose tint of his thin cheek, and the exceeding loveliness of his chiselled and flexible lips, if the dark mass of evil thoughts which lay beneath that fair seeming, could have been discerned. Yet Alfred was far from being happy. Unstable as water, he had no power over his own impulses, and remorse preyed upon him, even while he sought to drown his senses in indulgence. Conscience was his perpetual tormentor, and yet a constant course of sinning and repenting left him neither time nor will to struggle effectually with his errors.

But a still darker change came upon his character. His health, which had several times required a suspension of his studies, began again to fail, a short time before the period fixed upon for his ordination, and he eagerly seized the opportunity of deferring the dreaded ordeal. The physicians ordered perfect relaxation from all mental labors, and unfortunately for his future peace, the listlessness of unwonted idleness led him to examine a chest of old papers, the accumulated records of many years, where he accidentally met with a catalogue of his father’s library. Alfred was so young at the time of his father’s death that he retained little recollection of him, and Madeline had carefully kept him in ignorance of those skeptical opinions which had so grieved both mother and daughter. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that Alfred found the names of so great a number of infidel works among his father’s books. He pondered long upon the subject, and at length conjectured the truth. This excited his interest, and a vague curiosity, awakened rather by a belief in his sister’s desire to conceal from him his father’s opinions, led him secretly to procure the prohibited volumes. Upon the feeble mind of one who was “blown about by every wind of doctrine,” and who yearned after worldly pleasures while he shrunk with unutterable disgust from religious duties, the subtleties of the skeptics had a most fatal effect. He had never been well grounded in the faith, and the doubts now suggested to his mind were exactly such things as in his present state of feeling he would gladly have adopted as truths. These six months of respite from theological studies were spent in the careful perusal of all skeptical writings, and when Alfred resumed his former pursuits the plague spot of infidelity had already given evidence of the fatal disease which was spreading over his moral nature.

If my tale were designed only for the eye of the student of human nature, I might dwell long upon the strange incongruity of feeling and action, the wonderful contrariety between principle and practice, and all the complicated workings of a wayward heart, which characterized the deceptive course of the young student. With his usual timid hypocrisy he concealed every real feeling, every genuine impulse. His conduct was apparently irreproachable, his principles seemed unimpeachable, and he even schooled himself to come forward and enrol himself beneath the banner of the cross, when he was but too conscious that he had already trampled the holy emblem beneath his feet. Why did he carry his deceit to such an awful extent? Alas! who can tell just where the waves of sin may stay their whelming force? He feared the world’s dread laugh at his apostacy, he shrunk from the scorn of all good men, and, above all, his mind absolutely cowered at the thought of his sister’s bitter wrath. So he buried his secret within his own bosom, and trusting to some future chance to rescue him from the irksome duties of his profession, prepared himself for the ceremony of ordination. But he was not yet sensible of the terrible power of Conscience.

The day came, and, as usual, crowds were assembled to witness the dedication of the youthful candidates. The two young men—for Alfred had a companion, a pious, humble-minded, meek-hearted youth—stood before the altar to offer their vows. Madeline, the weeping but happy Madeline—who had sacrificed her youth and health and beauty, aye and the hopes ever dearest to a woman’s heart, to this one darling hope—was there too, and as she looked on her brother bending before the altar, while his bright curls just caught one straggling sunbeam which shed a glory around his youthful brow, she was heard to murmur “Lo, here am I, Lord, and the child which thou hast given me.”

The services commenced—the prayers of the congregation had arisen to Heaven, the incense of praise had floated upward on the solemn melody of the organ, the exhortation to the candidates had been affectionately uttered by an aged pastor, and the moment came when the presentation of the two was made to the Bishop by the officiating clergyman. The solemn appeal was then uttered—

“_Brethren, if there be any of you who knoweth any impediment or any notable crime on either of these persons for the which he ought not to be admitted to the holy office, let him come forth in the name of God and show what the crime or impediment is._”

At these words a sudden terror seemed to seize upon Alfred Graham. His frame shook with suppressed emotion, his countenance became livid, and his fine features were strangely contorted as if some sudden pang had convulsed him. The next instant he uttered a faint cry and fell prostrate to the ground, while his very life-blood was poured at the foot of the altar which he had dared to touch with polluted hands.

He was borne to his home in utter insensibility. The sting of conscience had finished the work which disease had long since begun, and the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs had been the consequence of his unnatural excitement and self-command. All that medical skill could effect was tried, but without success, and ere the lapse of another day it was known that Alfred Graham was sinking into the arms of death. There was no time for repentance—no time to combat prejudices and awaken better impulses. He lay as if in the deep torpor of insensibility, until aroused by some cordial administered by his physician, when his strength seemed to rally, and raising himself on his pillow, he addressed his sister in words which fell like molten lead upon her heart. With all the eloquence of passion he poured forth a wild confession of his errors and his doubts, and then, in language equally fervid but far more bitter, he reproached her—_her_ who had devoted her whole life to his welfare—as the cause of all his guilt. He accused her of having crushed his timid spirit by sternness and unbending rigor—of having taught him hypocrisy by her fierce contempt for his weaknesses—of having killed him by forcing him to a profession which he hated and contemned.

“I am not mad, Madeline,” he exclaimed, in a hoarse voice, broken by his difficult and long-drawn breath, “I am not mad, but so surely as I am now stretched upon the bed of death, so surely has your ambition and your mistaken zeal laid me here to die. I seek not to excuse myself, and may God forgive me my many secret sins; but never, never would my soul have been so deeply stained had it not been for your unrelenting indignation at my boyish follies, and your determined will in the choice of my future destiny. I forgive you, Madeline, but you will not forgive yourself.”

The exertion of uttering these terrible words was too great, and ere the sounds yet died upon the ear of the horror-stricken sister, the spirit of the misguided youth had gone to its dread account.

From that hour Madeline was utterly and entirely changed. Whatever were her feelings she shared them with none, but shrunk alike from question and sympathy. Those dying reproaches, unjust as she felt them to be, were yet engraven in ineffacable characters upon her heart, and with a feeling akin to the mistaken austerity which punishes the body for the sins of the soul, she resolved to make her future life a penance for her involuntary error. Lonely and desolate, she took up her abode in a place well suited to her embittered and almost misanthropic feelings. For more than ten years the gray cottage was her abode, and the labors of the seamstress furnished her scanty subsistence. During all that period not a creature was ever admitted beyond the threshold of her door, and all curiosity about her had quite subsided long before the termination of her lonely career. At length she was missed from her usual lowly seat in church. A second Sabbath came, and still the black and veiled form of the recluse was not seen. Common humanity demanded some inquiry into her fate, and after several vain attempts to procure admission into the cottage, the door was forced. Upon a truss of straw, in one corner of the desolate chamber, lay the emaciated form of the unfortunate Madeline, stiff, and cold, and ghastly, as if days had passed since the spirit had escaped from its clay tenement. She died as she had lived, lonely, and unknown, for it was not until years had elapsed that I heard the story of the brother and the sister from the lips of one who had known them in early days; while other incidental circumstances enabled me to identify Madeline Graham with the tall “_weird woman_” who had so terrified my childish fancy.

The erring brother sleeps beneath the shadow of the sanctuary, in ground still consecrated by holy usage, but all trace of the hapless sister has vanished from the earth. The village graveyard is now a populous highway, bordered by tall houses and traversed by busy feet, while the green hillock which once marked the burial place of Madeline Graham has long since been crushed beneath the weight of pavements, echoing to the noisy tread of many a thoughtless wayfarer.

Alas, for human love! and, alas, for human error! How dreary and desolate would seem many a scene of unmerited suffering did we not know that there is a brighter world, where all tears shall be wiped from all eyes, and where there shall be no sorrow nor sighing through an eternity of happiness!

* * * * *

TO AN INFANT IN THE CRADLE.

BY REV. GEORGE B. CHEEVER.

Thou lovely miniature of Nature’s painting!
Thy beauty mingles care with my delight.
These colors are to grow: not like the fainting,
Soft, dying hues, that mark the eve’s twilight—
But evermore renewed, as if the dawn,
With its deep rosy tinge, instead of fading,
Ran hand in hand with the bright dewy morn,
The sky by sunlight with all colors shading.

These colors are to grow, from where, an infant,
Thou sleepest cradled by thy mother’s side,
On through thy childhood’s beauty, every instant,
To maiden loveliness—thy mother’s pride.
And she will guide the pencil, hers the art
To deepen Nature’s lineaments, or alter:
To image Heaven or Earth upon the heart—
What if her love should err, her pencil falter!

O! ’tis a sacred, sweet and fearful duty
To train these earth-born spirits for the skies!
To keep this household flower green in its beauty,
Till it in Paradise transplanted rise.
May He, who took the nurslings in his arms,
Keep thee and thine, his richest grace revealing,
Hid, as his Pilgrims, from the world’s alarms,
Where quiet brooks in pastures green are stealing!

* * * * *

WILL NOBODY MARRY ME?

A COMIC SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

Heigh-ho! for a husband!—heigh-ho!
There’s danger in longer delay!—
Shall I never again have a beau?
Will nobody marry me, pray?
I begin to feel strange, I declare!
With beauty my prospects will fade!—
I’d give myself up to despair
If I thought I should die an old maid!

I once cut the beaux in a huff!—
I thought it a sin and a shame
That no one had spirit enough
To ask me to alter my name!
So I turned up my nose at the short,
And rolled up my eyes at the tall;
But then I just did it in sport,
And now I’ve no lover at all!

These men are the plague of my life!—
’Tis hard from so many to choose!—
Should one of them wish for a wife,
Could I have the heart to refuse?
I don’t know—for none have proposed!
Oh, dear me!—I’m frightened, I vow!
Good gracious!—whoever supposed
That I should be single till now?

* * * * *

TROPICAL BIRDS.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

Beautiful are the Birds of the Tropics. Bright, clear, sparkling, brilliant is their plumage. It is steeped in “all the hues that gild the rainbow.” I seek in vain for epithets by which to convey a thought of their surpassing beauty. Had I, dear reader, the pencil of Audubon, I might show you what they are in repose; but repose does not display their loveliness in its perfection. They are most charming to behold when in motion—when their many vivid colors contrast with the deep green of the forests, in which they live and hold their jocund revels.

Not many years ago, I passed a winter—or, I might better say, the first months of the year—in the Northern part of South America, where these birds abound. There, was I often delighted by these “exquisite, gay creatures of the element.” They seemed to me like so many winged jewels, as they glanced about in the rays of a dazzling sun. But let me not indulge too much in fanciful allusions, lest I should reluctantly enter upon the real purpose I have in view in preparing this article: which is to offer some account of Tropical Birds, so that the reader may be attracted to the study of their Natural History. It appears to me that our American periodicals have too much of the _dulce_ and too little of the _utile_. It is well, sometimes, to mingle the useful with the agreeable even in works of taste: I may fail in my attempt to do so in this place, but I shall at least deserve the credit of having made the attempt.

Doubtless many of my readers have in their possession certain glass cases in which specimens of birds with variegated plumage, having undergone the art of the taxidermist, are arranged on artificial trees or bushes as ornaments for the drawing room. There are many persons in Guiana, who make it their business to kill and prepare these birds, so that they may adorn the halls of Natural History Societies or private cabinets. Some birds, which fly about the houses or plantations, are easily obtained; but those, upon which most value is set, live in distant wilds and woods, and are procured with great difficulty and only by individuals long practised in the art. Great caution must be observed in approaching, and greater skill in shooting them; for they must be slain so skilfully that their feathers shall not be torn nor their color spoiled by an effusion of blood from the wound. When one, who is unskilful, tears or disfigures his birds, he makes up one specimen out of two or more individuals of the same species. Thus, upon a close examination, you may often detect the wings of one bird joined to the body of another, or, perhaps, an old head upon young shoulders. But the worst piece of trickery, and one which renders the specimen wholly valueless to an ornithologist, is the altering of the natural color of the bird by fire. I have seen many a brilliant specimen exceedingly admired, which obtained a false lustre in this manner.

There seems to be no limit to the wonderful varieties of these birds. Every day brings to view some new species, which outvies its compeers in the grace of its form and the brilliancy of its plumage. The adventurous bird-seeker will penetrate deeper and deeper into the solitudes of those vast forests, which, in primitive grandeur, lift up their leafy columns and form umbrageous temples in the heart of the Southern continent. Those lovely and still unexplored domains are the probable haunts of thousands and thousands of birds of dazzling beauty. The clear beams of the sun, glinting through the leaves of mighty trees, play among colors, as various and as shifting as those of gems. No human eye, save that of some Indian hunter who may have lost his homeward way, has gazed upon these strange, bright creatures; and the most fantastic imagination may vainly endeavor to paint those tribes of the air which have lived in their safe retreats, undisturbed save by one another and the war of the elements, since light first dawned upon creation.

Among the various little birds, black, yellow and red, which may be observed in the midst of the sugar canes and in the many trees of orange, mango and lemon, there is a tribe, called Tyrants, which is very extensive. Great numbers are constantly seen. They are about the size of our robin. One species is called “the butcher bird,” and most appropriately, since it pounces upon and slaughters its prey with tyrannical cruelty. It is said to be of service to the planter in destroying grubs and insects, upon which it seizes in the manner of a hawk. It first strikes its prey with its _bill_ (like a dun) and then grasps it in its claws so instantaneously afterward, that the most acute observation alone can enable one to decide on the priority of the action. Its bill is of moderate length (unlike a tailor’s) compressed and sharp. Its head is black and all its body is white, save the outer feathers of the wings and tail, which are black. This family of “Tyrants,” of which the butcher bird is an influential member, has very extensive connections; but as they are distinguished neither for beauty nor behavior (“handsome is that handsome does”) and can be very easily “got round,” no great consequence is attached to their possession.

The next most numerous tribe is one whose habits and characteristics are widely dissimilar—the Parrots. These exhibit plumage of the most diversified hues; but the predominating is bright green. This is often set off and contrasted by black, lilac, pink, orange, violet and blue. It is impossible to tell how many species have been discovered; for our traveller refers the specimen which he has obtained to some former description, and then points out the differences. “This,” says one, “is the _blue_ parrot; our specimens, however, are bright _lilac_, with _red_ spots on the back, between the wings”—a remark which, were it made by a native of the Emerald Isle, would be called a bull; but the fact, nevertheless, may be as true as the somewhat notorious one that “black-berries are red when they are green.”

The parrots are of all sizes from the macaw or ava, down to the smallest paroket. The common green parrot, which is known in the United States, and taught to speak, is of the medium size. The best and clearest whistle is uttered by the homely brown parrot, which is brought from Africa. It is likewise the most docile. These birds resemble humanity in other respects besides the faculty of speech; some are hopelessly stupid, while others take to learning very kindly. Curious stories are told of their powers of articulation. The smallest kind, which cannot live in our climate, are sometimes very successfully educated. The manager of a plantation, which I visited, owned a little parrot, which used to reside in a cage at the door of his house. As I rode up, I was agreeably astonished by hearing the polite bird very considerately sing out, “Boy, take the gentleman’s horse—boy, why the deuse don’t you take the horse!”

The largest kind is the macaw. It is a huge, clumsy _thing_, with a head out of all proportion to its body, (“great head, little wit;”) its plumage is for the most part red, interspersed with green and blue. The noise which it makes is most horribly discordant; and its loudest yell is very like an Indian war-whoop, (one of Mr. Cooper’s;) yet is this monster a great favorite in the West Indies, and, as you pass the residences of the inhabitants, you often see three or four of these ugly wretches clambering awkwardly up the piazzas, and uttering their hoarse, scolding cries, ten times more grating to the ear than the objurgations of a Xantippe, heard above the shrieks of her castigated offspring. The hardihood of these birds is surprising. There was one of them on board of a small vessel, in which it was my ill fortune to voyage from the mainland to the island of Barbadoes. Mr. Macaw, like a militia major in red and blue uniform, would strut about on the lower rigging, and, as soon as he could get near enough to the ear of a sailor, would utter one of his shrillest and most appalling yells. Jack Tar, in his summary method of dealing vengeance, would fetch him a blow with a handspike, that would send him flapping to the quarter-deck; perhaps, with an utter disregard of decorum and discipline, into the very face and eyes of the surly old captain, who, in his rage, would beat him soundly; yet would the valiant and stalwart feathered marine regard those lusty strokes no more than would a pet goldfinch the taps of his lady’s fan.

Some species of parrots exist in almost every region; the smallest and most beautiful, however, are found only in tropical countries. They are seldom seen near thickly populated places, but can be procured with facility in the woods adjacent, where they live in tolerable fellowship with their mischievous neighbors, the monkeys.

Another numerous tribe of tropical birds is known by the name of Chatterers. I do not know what they are called by the ornithologists; but thus are they designated by the inhabitants, from the peculiar sounds which they utter, (being not unlike those of a congress of spinsters, sitting in committee of the whole on some grand question of scandal.) They are distinguished by the epithets—red-breasted, purple-throated, firebirds, pumpadore, red-headed, gold-headed, white-throated, white-capped, purple-shouldered, and Mahometan. The first five migrate; the last five stay at home. Of the former, the firebird is so named from the fact that, in stuffed specimens, the color is sometimes changed by the application of fire. Its natural hue is a dark crimson, but it is susceptible of being changed, by the application of heat, into a rich vermilion. Of the latter, the purple-shouldered is the most rare and the most beautiful. The upper parts of its wings or shoulders are the deepest purple; the remainder of the wings is interspersed with blue, and they end in black. Its back is blue mingled with black; its breast is a delicate blue, and the lower part of its neck is a dark crimson. I describe the male bird only; for (unlike bipeds _without_ feathers) it monopolises the beauty of the species. The female is very plain, though there seems to be a certain winning modesty about her, for all her homely looks. The sumptuously attired male, (“Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these,”) if his choice of a partner were left to himself—which I doubt—must have been guided by a taste as unsophisticated as that of the praiseworthy Cock-Robin, when he courted Jenny Wren, who

“Always wore her old brown gown,
And never dressed so fine!”

While on the subject of homeliness, I may as well conclude it by alluding to a bird, which, on account of its hideousness, the negroes call “Old Witch.” What a very mortifying circumstance it must be to be so ugly, when every body else is so bewitchingly fair! Don’t you think so, Miss Smith? (I do not mean the Miss Smith, who is reading this article, but another.)

Before passing to an account of the third and last family, which I shall try to describe—being by far the most numerous, the strangest, and the most charming of all the tropical birds—I will detain the reader for a moment with an account of two rare species of water birds. They are in general so classed, because, like rails, they frequent reedy ponds and marshes and the borders of streams. I select these two species, because the one is very curious and the other is of a kind with which classical associations are connected, and because they admirably serve to show how wide and fertile a field of interesting investigation lies before the student in this particular realm of Natural History.

The curious species is the Jacana. It is doubtful whether it should be classed with land or water birds; it resembles the latter in its nature, its habits, the form of its body, the shape of its bill, and the diminutiveness of its head; it differs essentially, however, from all others of the class, in the curious spurs which protrude from its wings; its claws are very long and slender, and its nails very pointed and sharp—hence has been derived its name, “The Surgeon.” It is exceedingly wild and can be caught only by stratagem. These birds are of various colors: some dark, tinged with violet; some green; some black; some dusky red. Their flight is very rapid, and their cry sharp and shrill. They travel in pairs, frequenting the borders of rivers and deep marshes. That which is particularly singular about the Jacana is the manner in which it is armed; when it strikes with its wings, it must do considerable execution; it does not seem to be happily called the Surgeon, for its instruments are rather intended to kill than cure.

The classical species is called by moderns, “the Sultana Hen.” It is the smallest of that genus, which was named by the ancients Porphyry—in Greek, Πορφυριωι—in Latin, _Porphyrio_. Aristotle describes it as a fissiped bird, with long feet, a blue plumage, with a very strongly set, purple-colored bill, and of about the size of a domestic cock. Some old writers, in describing this bird, have said that one of its feet was furnished with membranes, and made to swim like a water-bird’s, and that the other was fissiped, so that it might run like a land-bird. This is not only untrue, but contrary to nature, and signifies no more than that the porphyry or pelican is a bird of the shore, living on the confines of land and water. It was easily tamed, and was very pleasing on account of its noble carriage, its fine form, its plumage brilliant and rich in colors of mingled blue and purple and aquamarine, its docile nature, and its happy facility of agreeing with any companions among whom its lot might be cast. It was held in the highest esteem by both Greeks and Romans; they never suffered it to be eaten; they sent to Lybia for it; always treated it with kindness, and placed it in their palaces and temples, as worthy to dwell there on account of the nobleness of its port, the sweetness of its temper, and the beauty of its plumage. The largest of the species, now known as “the sultana hen,” is precisely the same as the ancient porphyrio. The smallest is called “the little sultana hen.” Her _petite_ majesty is very queenly, but is, no doubt, as well satisfied with the modern name by which she is dignified, as she would be with that which the Greeks gave to the tall highnesses of her very old and royal family. Her robe of state is a brilliant changeable blue and green; and it has never gone out of fashion.

Having thus given an unsystemized and rather imperfect account of a few species of tropical birds, I pass on to treat of the most marvellous and most beautiful tribe of plumed creatures that float in the invisible atmosphere. There have been more than a hundred species already discovered, and every naturalist, who visits the equatorial regions of this Western World, adds a new name to the splendid schedule of HUMMING-BIRDS.[2] From their delicate structure, these tiny birds cannot endure the rigors of our climate, where there are very few of those gorgeous plants, upon which they banquet in tropical latitudes. There, when the warm sun calls into life myriads of flowers, vast numbers of humming-birds visit the fields and gardens every morning, and mingle their golden-green tints in gleaming contrast with the white and rose-colored blossoms, that cluster on the vines above the traveller’s head, or spring luxuriantly at his feet. They seem, as they dart rapidly around, humming their faintly heard tunes, to be the very Pucks and Ariels of the light, and each night take up the burden of the fairy song, sung at the feast of Titania,

Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through brier,
Over park, over pale,
Through flood, through fire,
I do wander every where,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere.

For, at one moment, you behold “the fine apparition” before the cup of a flower, and at the next he is gone

“To drink the air before him and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat.”

The bright little beings must own the very best secret of the fairies; for none, so well as they,

“Know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxslips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.”

But alas! however elfin-like and ethereal their forms appear, they share the fate of mortals. They are easily caught by nets thrown over them, or killed by very fine shot or sand. I have seen some very splendid collections. I remember one, comprising seventy-two species—from the king of the humming-birds, as he is called, with his topaz and emerald crown, to one so small that, when on the wing, it could scarcely be visible. When the glass case, in which they were arranged in too studied an order, was held in the sunshine, their myriad colors would gleam and flash with a brilliancy as perfect as that of the many gems, after which they are prettily named. An enumeration of some of their names will convey an idea of their appearance—sapphire-throated, ruby-throated, sapphire and emerald, amethystine, topaz-throated; then there are the purple, tri-colored, violet-tufted, violet-crowned, blue-fronted, the superb, the magnificent, the sabre-winged. And there is one which must have been bestowed by some ornithological phrenologist, who had great skill in interpreting “the natural language” of birds—the supercilious humming-bird. The largest species yet discovered is that which is called the gigantic, and the smallest, as I believe, is one that Sir William Jardine describes as Gould’s humming-bird.

The gigantic is in remarkable contrast to the rest of his tribe, both in size and in the color of his plumage. He is not only the largest but the homeliest, while the smallest is the most beautiful. The gigantic (the monster!) is nearly eight inches in length; the crown, the back, the under and lesser wing-coverts, brownish green, with reflections of green tint; the under parts, light reddish mingled with a deeper tint and shaded off with green; the feathers are generally darker at the base, and the paler tips give a slightly waved appearance to the breast. On the throat, the feathers, though without lustre, retain the scaly form and texture of the more brilliant species. The wings slightly exceed the tail in length, bend up at the tips, and exhibit the form of the most correctly framed organ of flight; they are of a uniform brownish violet. The tail is composed of ten feathers, of a brownish color, and with golden-green reflections; they gradually decrease in length. This is a very rare species.

Gould’s is the smallest species and of the most dazzling beauty. It is scarcely over two inches in length; its forehead, throat and upper part of its breast are of a most brilliant green—the feathers of a scaly form. From the crown springs a crest of bright, chestnut feathers, of a lengthened form and capable of being raised at pleasure. The back is a golden-green, crossed with a whitish band; the wings and tail are brownish purple, the latter having the centre feathers tinged with green; the lower parts are dark brownish green. The neck tufts are of the most splendid kind, and have a chaste but brilliant effect; they are composed of narrow feathers of a snowy whiteness—the tips of each having a round, serrated spot of bright emerald green, surrounded with a dark border; the largest are at the upper part of the tuft, and they decrease in length, assuming the shape of a butterfly’s wing; shorter feathers again spring from the base, and their green tips are relieved on the white of the longer ones behind them.

The most common species, and that which abounds in all parts of the West Indies, is the ruby-crested. Though seen every day about the gardens, near the honeysuckle and other flowering vines, it presents some of the most splendid coloring of the family. (Those which I have mentioned are of that sub-genus, which Linnæus calls trochilus.) The upper parts of the head and throat are clothed entirely with those scaly formed feathers, which always produce the parts producing the changeable hues. On the hind head, the feathers are elongated and form a short, rounded crest. In one position this part appears of a deep, sombre, reddish brown; when viewed transversely it assumes a bright, coppery lustre, and when looked upon directly with a side stream of light, it becomes of the richest and most brilliant ruby. The scaly part of the throat and breast again, when wanting the lustre, is of an equally sombre, greenish brown; and, when turned to diverse lights, changes from a clear golden-green to the most brilliant topaz. It is impossible to convey by words—especially as it is necessary to repeat the same again and again—an idea of these tints. The most that can be done is to name those substances, which they most nearly resemble, then rely upon the imagination of the reader.

The birds, thus attempted to be described, are a few of that multitudinous tribe which excites the liveliest wonder, and fills the mind with admiration of that creative power, which clothes the eagle with strength to resist the fury of the mountain storm, and so fashions the delicate plumage of the humming-bird that the softest air from heaven seems to visit it too roughly. The vine-clad forests and rose-covered gardens of Guiana literally _swarm_ with these fairy-birds. The Indian word, by which they are distinguished, signifies _beams_ or _locks of the sun_; that such a designation is not less appropriate than poetical, may be concluded by all who have seen them darting with the rapidity as well as the splendor of light from flower to flower. Compared to the humming-bird, the bee is a mere loiterer. He poises himself on wing, while he thrusts his long, slender tube into the flower-cups in search of food. But he subsists not simply on honey-dew and the nectar that dwells in the lips of roses. He may often be observed darting at the minute insects that float in the air.

Mr. Audubon thus beautifully describes the humming-bird in quest of food: “carefully visiting every opening flower-cup, and, like a curious florist, removing from each those injurious insects, that otherwise would ere long cause their beauteous petals to droop and decay. Poised in the air, it is observed peeping cautiously and with sparkling eye into their innermost recesses, whilst the ethereal motions of its pinions, so rapid and so light, appear to fan and cool the flower, without injuring its fragile texture, and produce a delightful, murmuring sound, well adapted for lulling the insects to repose. Then is the moment for the humming-bird to secure them. Its long delicate bill enters the cup of a flower, and the protruded, double-tubed tongue, delicately sensible, and imbued with a glutinous saliva, touches each insect in succession, and draws it from its lurking place to be instantly swallowed. All this is done in a moment, and the bird, as it leaves the flower, sips so small a portion of its liquid honey, that the theft, we may suppose, is looked upon with a grateful feeling by the flower which is thus kindly relieved from the attacks of her destroyers.”

Their favorite places of resort were those woods, in which the superb bignonia abounds, and when the huge trees are garlanded with parasites; but since the cultivation of the country they frequent gardens and seem to delight in society, becoming familiar and destitute of fear, hovering over one side of a shrub while the fruit or flower is plucked from that opposite. They do not alight on the ground, but easily settle on twigs and branches, when they move sidewise in prettily measured steps, frequently opening and closing their wings, shaking and arranging the whole of their apparel with neatness and activity. They are particularly fond of spreading one wing at a time, and passing each of their quill-feathers through their bills in its whole length, when, if the sun is shining, the wing thus plumed is very transparent and light. The humming noise proceeds entirely from the surprising velocity with which they perform that motion by which they will keep their bodies in the air, apparently motionless, for hours together. When flying to any long distance, the manner of their flight is very different from that shown in speeding among flowers, for they sweep gracefully through the air in long undulations, raise themselves for some distance and then fall in a curve.

Strange as it may seem, one of the chief characteristics of this tiny creature, is its bravery. It will unhesitatingly attack the mocking-bird, or the king-bird, or any other by whom it imagines its territories invaded; it directs its sharp, needle-like bill, immediately at the eyes of its enemy, and when so employed this must be a truly formidable weapon. These birds are also extremely pugnacious among themselves—two males seldom meeting, without a battle. The combatants ascend in the air, chirping, darting and circling round each other till the eye is no longer able to follow them. They are particularly susceptible of jealousy, and, under the influence of this failing, they run tilts at each other till the less doughty champion falls exhausted to the ground.

The nests of these little creatures are very curious; they are built with great delicacy, but at the same time with much compactness and warmth. Wilson says that the nest of the ruby-throated humming-bird is generally fixed on the upper side of a horizontal branch, _not_ among the twigs. It is sometimes, however, attached to an old moss-grown trunk, and sometimes fastened on a strong stalk or weed in the garden. It seldom builds more than ten feet from the ground. The nest is about an inch in diameter and as much in depth. The outward coat is formed of small pieces of a species of bluish-gray lichen, that vegetates on old trees and fences, thickly glued with the saliva of the bird, giving firmness and consistency to the whole as well as keeping out moisture. Within this are thick, matted layers of the fine wings of certain flying seeds, closely laid together; and, lastly, the downy substance from the great mullein, and from the stalks of the common fern, lines the whole. The base of the nest is continued round the stem of the branch to which it closely adheres, and, when viewed from below, appears a mere mossy knot or accidental protuberance. The nest of one species in Guiana is principally composed of a spongy cellular substance, apparently similar to that of a fungus, of which some kinds of wasps build large habitations, suspended from the branches of trees, and an account is given of a nest of another species composed entirely of the down of some thistle; the seed is attached and is placed outwards, giving a jagged and prickly appearance to the outside. Latham describes the nest of the black humming-bird as made of cotton, entwined around the thorns and twigs of the citron-tree, and of so firm a texture as not to be easily broken by winds. The nest of the topaz-crested is about seven eighths of an inch in diameter, also made of cotton, stuck over with lichens on the outside and firmly fixed in the hanging cleft of some strong creeper by threads of a cottony substance, and very slender roots or tendrils, the whole lower part as if cemented by a thin coat of glue. It is probable that the greater number build their nests nearly in the same manner. Descriptions, however, are given of those built in different forms—one is suspended with the entrance downwards; another is of a lengthened form, composed of dry grass and slender roots and moss, and is not made so compactly. A person, who saw a bird building her nest, describes her manner of construction as very ingenious. “Bringing a pile of small grass, she commenced upon a little twig about a quarter of an inch in diameter, immediately below a large leaf, which entirely covered and concealed the nest from above, the height from the ground being about three feet. After the nest had received two or three of these grasses, she set herself in the centre, and putting her long slender beak over the outer edge, seemed to use it and her throat much in the same way as a mason does his trowel, for the purpose of smoothing, rubbing it to and fro and sweeping quite around. Each visit to the nest seemed to occupy only a couple of seconds, and her absence from it not more than as many minutes.”

The extraordinary beauty of these strange beings has induced many attempts to tame and keep them in cages, but they have not been successful. When placed in cages and fed daintily on honey and water, and supplied every morning with fresh cups of flowers, they have been known to live for a long time in their native country, and in warm weather; but no artificial warmth has as yet kept them alive for many weeks, when transported to a less genial climate. It is conjectured, however, that with very great care and a strict regard to diet, as the doctors say, they will, by and by, be kept alive and happy in our conservatories. There was once a nest of them successfully carried to England from Jamaica. It was presented to a lady, from whose lips the little loves would deign to accept honey. One died, probably from excess of happiness; but the other, being more hardy, survived for two months. Could a lady succeed in so taming one of these winged jewels so perfectly that it would accompany her to a ball, curiously perched upon her bouquet, or hovering around the flowers which composed it, at her gentle bidding, so original an ornament would doubtless be more highly prized than

“Whole necklaces and stomachers of gems.”

The ancient Mexicans are said to have woven their plumage into gorgeous robes.

If the extraordinary beauty of these birds, their mode of existence, their nature, then habits, excite our admiration, how must we also wonder at their structure!—the perfect adaptation of their forms to that life which it is theirs to enjoy, and to the variations of that glowing climate where they abound. “On presenting a humming-bird to a common observer,” says an eminent naturalist, “the first exclamation generally is, ‘what a beautiful little creature!’—the second, ‘but what large wings he has!’ Such, indeed, is the case, and, in most instances, the size of the wings and strength of the quills are entirely out of proportion to our ideas of symmetry in a creature clothed with feathers; but, upon comparing them with its necessities and the other parts of its frame, their utility and design become obvious.” The principal reason for their possessing organs of such power is, doubtless, to enable them to pass in safety through the migrations and the long flights which are necessary for their preservation, and, during which, they have to withstand passing gales and showers. The delicious climes which they inhabit are at seasons subject to tremendous rains, which drench and almost inundate their abodes, or to hurricanes that, in a few minutes, leave but a wreck of all that was before so splendid and luxuriant. By means of these organs, before the dangerous season comes, which the unerring instinct of nature warns them to avoid, they fly to districts of country where the reparation of some previous wreck is proceeding with all the rapidity of tropical vegetation.

I cannot more pleasingly conclude these notices of the most wonderful tribe of birds, than by quoting the melodious verses of a poet, who is a native of that glowing clime which they so exquisitely adorn.

“Still sparkles here the glory of the West,
Shows his crowned head and bares his jewell’d breast,
In whose bright plumes the richest colors live,
whose dazzling lines no mimic art can give.
The purple amethyst, the emerald’s green
Contrasted, mingle with the ruby’s sheen,
While over all a tissue is put on,
Of golden gauze by fairy fingers spun.
Small as a beetle, as an eagle brave,
In purest ether he delights to lave;
The sweetest flowers alone descends to woo,
Rifles their sweets and lives on honey-dew,
So light his kisses not a leaf is stirred
By the bold, happy, amorous humming-bird.
No disarray, no petal rudely moved,
Betrays the flower the callibree has loved.”[3]

I have thus given partial descriptions of four of the principal tribes of Tropical Birds. I hope the reader has not been so wearied that he will not kindly suffer me to draw this article to a close by a brief notice of those two birds most remarkable for their peculiar notes. The one pours forth a stream of rich melody, which surpasses the far-famed song of the nightingale, and is, likewise, celebrated for its peculiar power of imitating the tones of almost every fellow-songster. The other utters only one sound, but so strange and solemn as to inspire the mind of the hearer with a religious awe. The natural music of the one is as gay, cheerful and enlivening as that of the other is mournful and soul-subduing.

The first to which I allude is the Matthews of the woods, THE MOCKING-BIRD. This species abound in all parts of the Western Indies; they are found in great numbers near the sea-shore. From the trees which grow on the beaches float their rich songs, more melodious than strains of flute, or bugle, or any “cunningly devised instrument;” and, in mellowness, in modulation and gradation, in extent of compass and rapidity and brilliancy of execution, outrivalling the most magnificent bravuras of a Sontag or a Malibran. When confined in cages and brought to our cold climate, for the amusement of man, the bird loses, in the loneliness of its captivity, half the richness of its voice. Though it delights to mimic other plumed minstrels, this astonishing faculty is feeble, in its most miraculous exhibition, when compared with its own delicious song; but he who would listen to it in its perfection, must go to those regions where the great magnolia shoots up its majestic trunk, covered with evergreen leaves, and decorated with a thousand flowers, where the forests and fields are buried in blossoms of every hue, and where the golden orange decorates the gardens and the groves.