Chapter VII (5)

“Now, in Heaven’s name, don’t trifle! Tell me something about yourself, about your past life; if you do not, Lucy, I shall go mad at once.”

Lucy seemed lost in wonder, or in retrospection, as Kitty spoke thus; she did not answer, and the impatient child, unable to bear the silence and suspense, threw herself on her knees, and looked up imploringly, with clasped hands, on the governess; finally, she said, “Lucy Freer, tell me—_do_ you love Eugene? What has made you so sad and pale lately?”

“Do I love _him_! Yes, heartily—he has been so kind to me!” was the now immediate and energetic reply. “Would you hear of my past, dear Kitty? It is a dreary story.”

But it was now the young girl who was silent; with her head bent to her knees she sat at the feet of the governess; perhaps Lucy comprehended her thoughts by intuition, (I know not,) but at all events she did not wait long for a reply.

“I am a married woman already,” she said.

And now was Kitty all life and fire—up she sprung, exclaiming,

“Is _he_, then, your husband?”

“No, far from it,” was the answer which rolled back a cloud that threatened to make more than Hadé’s gloom in the soul of the pupil.

“I will tell you all, dear child; indeed, I will, for I can _now_—sit down.” She was obeyed. “To-night Eugene Lind, God bless him! has sent me a letter, the first received in months from my husband, Richmond Freer. Come nearer, Kitty, look up, I am sad no longer, even though I tell you he is exiled, he can never come back to old England again. But I am going to him. I am going very soon.” No, even at this sudden and most unexpected announcement, the listener would not lift her head. “When I was at school, in London, I wrote occasionally for a paper which Richmond edited; and by so doing I was able to help my poor, dear mother very much—and she was in need of help. After a while I became personally acquainted with the editor, and when at last he was arrested for publishing what was called an incendiary—a too patriotic a paper for these slavish times—you may be sure I did not forget to feel for him. After his trial was over, and the sentence of banishment was passed on him, we met again, for we loved each other, Kitty, and misfortune made him only dearer to me. The very night of his departure from England, his cousin, Eugene Lind, married us—and my poor mother was present at the ceremony; she would not oppose the union, wild as it doubtless seemed to her, because she knew that we were not fickle in our love, and felt that a bright time might at last come even to us. Shortly after the exile’s departure she died. I was left _alone_! When I had finished the course of studies, and was a graduate, owing to Eugene’s efforts, this situation of governess in your home was secured to me. May Heaven bless and make all your life happy, Kate; you have been kind and dear to me. For a long time Richmond lived on the Continent; but he did not prosper there—he has been very unfortunate, poor fellow! Now that he has gone to the New World, a pilgrim shorn of all things but my love, do you not see—I must go to him? He calls me—I must go; and what a glorious word is that _must_! Kitty, you will not ask me again if I love Eugene Lind, or I shall launch out into such praises of him as will astonish you.”

And thinking now but of one thing, that Lucy _had_ certainly, in some unaccountable way, discovered her secret, Kitty sprung from her humble posture, she could not speak one word, but with a kiss she left the governess alone.

And oh, what a miserable little puss was she that live-long night. It was now all clear; she, the proud, lofty-hearted, impulsive Kate, stood in the eyes of another as having demanded his love—a beggar, imploring his hand in payment of the heart given him unasked. Hugh! what blackness of darkness was that which enveloped her now, body and spirit, as she sat through the night-hours pondering with burning brain on her wretched mistake. How hateful, how intrusive seemed the sunlight which at last streamed in upon her! How would he ever believe, how could he ever be told the ridiculous truth of the matter? For the very tenor of that philanthropic letter she had written, made it impossible for her to find or even seek a confidante in Lucy.

There was but one thought that could at all console the mourner; perhaps Eugene Lind would seek her hand some day, relying on the truth of what he imagined her declaration, and then how disdainfully she would spurn him—yes! if she died in the struggle, she would renounce him! Dear spirit of human pride, what a mighty thing thou art!

True to his expressed intention, Eugene visited Woodland Cottage the next day, and everyday until the departure of the governess; but Lucy and Mr. Clover alone received him. It was said in the house that Kitty, in her grief at parting with Lucy, had wept herself sick; and for some cause or other it was very evident that the gay girl was transformed into a “weeping maiden.”

But to Lucy’s mind it was all very clear; she had read Kitty’s heroic appeal to Eugene, and could not doubt that it had been made on her own account; she had no occasion to seek her pupil’s confidence, and when her _cousin_, in his trouble, revealed to her all his doubt and grief, though she made no explanation, she felt warranted in reassuring him, in promising him an ultimate victory, if not an easy one.

It was a relief to Kitty Clover when she was left alone in the cottage; _alone_, I say, for her father accompanied Lucy and Mr. Lind to the sea-side; the sorrow at parting with her friend was soon overcome, the tears wiped away, and she breathed freely once more.

When Eugene returned from Liverpool, as Lucy had counseled him, he wrote to Kate a frank and manly letter, which ended with these words, “You have my life in your hands—to make it glad or miserable. I love you, and can be happy only if you return my love. May I come to you, and will you welcome me? Oh remember, I pray you, how much depends on your reply, and be merciful!”

And the speedy answer was, only, “I do not love—I cannot receive you.”

With a smile of triumph this was written, reader; and though a more thoroughly false declaration never issued from the _will_ of a proud woman, still, when it was penned and sent, the more Kitty felt her respect and power of self-endurance rising rapidly; life seemed to her then, as, after all, a pleasant burden, easy to be borne. Yes, she could live—live happily, too, alone with her dear old sire, free in heart and in fancy, fetterless as the winds—for the shadow of a shade of control Mr. Clover never thought of exercising over her.

But was she _really_ happy? Why, then, was she so tearful, so shy of cherishing old memories? And if she was _not_ fearful, how happened it that she so carefully piled away her old music, every song, every tune she had used in the by-gone? Why did she hide from sight, in the high, remote shelves of the library, all those books from which Eugene once read to her and Lucy Freer? Why was the school-room, that pleasant chamber, so studiously shunned? _Why was it_, dear, wise reader?

During all the summer days the daughter spent much time in company with her sire; and to please her, the old man began to be quite literary in his tastes; and with chess, and books, and gardening, the time went swiftly on to both. But a change had come over Kitty—and Mr. Clover had eyes to perceive it; but he rather rejoiced in it, and became more proud of her than ever. She was a child no longer—nor a lively, joyous girl, but a quiet, thoughtful woman, becoming every day more beautiful, more studious, and womanly. The idea of going into the gay world had once made her almost wild with joy, but now the proposal which the father made, that they should pass the ensuing season in the metropolis with his relatives, was received with simple quiescence, and the preparations for a long sojourn from home made calmly and soberly. The brain of the lovely heiress teemed with no brilliant anticipations of conquest; and love and show—what could it mean?

The sickness which, for the first time in her life, prostrated Kitty, the very week previous to the intended departure, was not therefore attributable to great excitement, or to any like cause. It was a slow, nervous fever, which, by degrees, wasted her strength away, and left her an infant in helplessness on her bed. The course of the disease could not be checked; it brought her to the very door of death, and there the angel stood, ready to break the slender thread of life, yet the destroying work, as if in mercy to the father, was delayed.

Much of the time of this sickness her mind had wandered sadly; and he who watched incessantly beside the girl, the adoring old man, had become cognizant of a secret which he was not too proud to use. And so, one evening, just at twilight, he stood with another—not the nurse, nor the physician—in the sick chamber. Kitty had seemed sinking all the day, and at nightfall the doctor had left her for a moment, almost at his (professional) wit’s end. Then it was that Mr. Clover also had gone forth, and when he came again, Eugene Lind was with him.

She was sleeping when they entered, and both of those strong men trembled when they stood together, looking silently upon her wasted, pallid face. Eugene sat down beside her, and when she awakened, reader, the father went softly from the room.

* * * * *

Hush! I cannot tell you of that awaking from death to life—from the assumed indifference which had nearly chilled a young heart out of existence, to the life of love. No! and I _will_ not tell it; but don’t you say it is because I am tired of talking that I pause, or that I feel inefficient to tell it all. It is not true.

* * * * *

But, still later in the season, when the brown leaves were falling in every direction from the trees, when the clouds gathered often in the sky, and the frequent rains presaged cold winter storms, there stood, one of those intensely bright days yet vouchsafed October, a little lady, frail and young, leaning on the arm of a gentleman, in the beech grove, near Woodland Cottage. Cheerily fell the sunlight through the almost leafless branches, and numberless insects flitted to and fro—one of these, a tiny thing, alighted on the maiden’s hand, _not_ the one clasped in _his_! They had paused in their walk to rest, and neither had for many moments spoken; but as they began, as by mutual consent, to retrace their steps, the gentleman looked up into the blue sky, exclaiming fervently, “How _beautiful_ it is to-day!” and with a heart full of thankfulness, he murmured fondly a name—a name with which the reader is familiar. Then he looked upon _her_, and he seemed to find all of heaven reflected in her eyes—and more beautiful than the sky or the sunshine seemed she to him; he bent his stately form, he kissed her; and, reader, her arms wound round him in a moment, she returned his embracing. It was a marriage-covenant—nothing more or less!

Ha! then the insect flitted away, far, far up above the happy mortals, with a cry heard never before, and the grove became vocal with it; how crimson grew the girl’s pale face, as she heard that strange, bold voice, proclaiming to the winds, “_Katy did!_”

* * * * *

Over the ocean flew a message—thus it run:

“She is mine, Lucy! this brave, proud, generous little Kitty, is mine! And because she is given to me in this eleventh hour, I feel that she is a ‘gift of God,’—a gift unspeakably precious. My heart is _full_ of ‘thanksgiving and the voice of melody,’ for we are one now—one forever—in life and in death, one. I shudder when I think how she has twice been nearly lost to me—once by her own lofty pride, and again by the Angel of Death, who seemed a terror-king when he hovered beside her. She is so pale and weak, so unlike her former self in physical beauty, that I tremble when I look upon her; yet I know, Lucy, that she will not die. We shall both live, to prove, on earth, how strong a tie of love unites us.”

Yes, they did live to prove it; and certainly a happier poet never breathed, than he whose bright and cheering songs, springing from a deep, clear fountain in the heart, went afterward, floating over the wide earth—they were the most glorious “songs of the affections.”

And so you have the long and the short of the matter. You know as well as I, all that poor Katy did! How many times on this great earth have “trifles, light as air,” set all the world a-gadding! Alas! yes, creatures as brainless and chattering, and far less innocent, than the insect disputants, have we humans too often proved ourselves. Many a great matter has a spark of fire kindled; and the “Comedy” has become a rare thing in comparison with the Tragedy of Errors.

* * * * *

THE GAME OF THE SEASON.

BY FRANK FORESTER.

BAY SNIPE SHOOTING.

The Hudsonian Godwit. _Limosa Hudsonica. Vulgo._ Ring-tailed Marlin.

The Red-Breasted Snipe. _Scolopax Noveboracensis. Vulgo._ Robin-breast,
Quail Snipe, Dowitcher.

Under the general, and very incorrect appellation of Bay Snipe, and sometimes of Plover, the sea-shore gunners, and city fowlers who accompany them for pleasure, are wont to include many totally distinct and different families of waders, each containing several varieties, and all, though in some sort connected, entirely dissimilar in characteristics, plumage, cry and flight, as well as in some peculiarities of habit.

Of these families, the most remarkable are the Curlew, _numenius_; the Godwit, _limosa_; the Sandpiper, _tringa_; the Tattler, _totanus_; the Plover, _charadrius_; the Snipe, _scolopax_; the Turnstone, _strepsilas_; the Sanderling, _calidris_; the Avoset, _recurvirostra_; and the Stilt, _himantopus_; all of which at some period of the year are visiters or temporary inhabitants of some portion of the Atlantic shores of North America, from the Bay of Boston to the Belize.

In the tepid waters of Florida, the great bay of Mobile, the sea lakes of Borgne and Pontchartrain, and all along the muddy shoals and alluvial flats of the lower Mississippi, these aquatic races dwell in myriads during the winter months, when the ice is thick even in the sea bays of the Delaware and Chesapeake, and when all the gushing streams and vocal rivulets of the Northern and Middle States, are bound in frozen silence. In the spring, according to the temperature of the season, from the middle of April until the end of May, these migratory tribes begin to visit us of the northern shores, from the Capes of the Chesapeake, along all the river estuaries, sea bars, lagoons, and land-locked bays, as they are incorrectly termed, of Maryland and Delaware, the Jersey shores and the Long Island waters, so far as to Boston Bay, beyond which the iron-bound and rugged nature of the coast deters them from adventuring, in the great flights with which they infest our more succulent alluvial shores and sea marshes.

With the end of May, with the exception only of a few loitering stragglers, wounded, perhaps, or wing-worn, which linger after the departure of their brethren, they have all departed, steering their way, unseen, at immense altitudes, through the trackless air, across the mighty continent, across the vast lakes of the north, across the unreclaimed and almost unknown hunting-grounds of the red man, to those remote and nearly inaccessible morasses of the Arctic Regions whither the foot of man has rarely penetrated, and where the silence of ages is interrupted only by the roll of the ocean surf, the thunderous crash of some falling iceberg, and the continuous clangor of the myriads and millions of aquatic fowl, which pass the period of reproduction in those lone and gloomy, but to them secure and delightful asylums. Early in the autumn, or, to speak more correctly, in the latter days of summer, the Bay birds begin to return in hordes innumerable, recruited by the young of the season, which, not having as yet indued the full plumage of their respective tribes, are often mistaken by sportsmen and gunners, unacquainted with the distinctions of natural history, for new species. During the autumn, they are much more settled and less restless in their habits than during the spring visit, when they are impelled northward by the irresistible _æstrum_, which at that period stimulates all the migratory birds, even those reared in confinement and caged from the nest, to get under way and travel, whither their wondrous instinct orders them, in order to the reproduction of their kind in the localities most genial and secure.

Throughout the months of August and September, they literally swarm on all our sand-bars, salt meadows, and wild sea marshes, feeding on the beaches and about the shallow pools left by the retiring tide, on the marine animalculæ, worms, aquatic insects, small crabs, minute shell-fish, and fry; after this time, commencing from the beginning of October, they move southward for winter quarters, although some species tarry later than others, and some loitering individuals of all the species linger behind, until they have assumed their winter garniture, when they are again liable to be mistaken for unknown varieties.

Of these misnamed Bay Snipe, the following are the species of each family most prized by the sportsman and the epicure, all of which are eagerly pursued by the gunner, finding a ready sale at all times, although, _me judice_, their flesh is for the most part so oily, rank and sedgy, that they are rather nauseous than delicate or palatable. Much, however, depends on the state of their condition, the nature of the food on which they have fattened, and localities in which they feed; and to some persons the very flavor, of which I complain as rank, sedgy and fishy, appears to take the guise of an agreeable _haut gout_.

The Red-breasted Sandpiper, _Tringa Icelandica_, known on the Long Island waters, among the small islets of which it is very abundant, as the “Robin Snipe,” by which name it is generally called, owing to the resemblance of its lower plumage to that of the Red-breasted Thrush, or Robin, _Turdus migratorius_, of this continent. In autumn this bird assumes a dusky gray upper, and white under, plumage, and is then termed the “White Robin Snipe.” In point of flesh it is one of the best of the Shore-birds. It is easily called down to the decoys by a well simulated whistle, and is consequently killed in great numbers.

The Red-backed Sandpiper, _Tringa Alpina_, generally known as the “Black-breasted Plover.” It is a restless, active and nimble bird, flies in dense bodies, whirling at a given signal; and at such times a single shot will frequently bring down many birds. In October it is usually very fat, and is considered excellent eating. In its autumnal plumage it is generally known to fowlers as the “Winter Snipe.”

The Pectoral Sandpiper, _Tringa pectoralis_. This is a much smaller, but really delicious species, particularly when killed on the upland meadows, which it frequents late in the spring and early in the summer, and on which I have killed it lying well to the dog, which will point it, while spring snipe shooting. On Long Island it is known as the “Meadow Snipe,” or “Short Neck;” on the Jersey shores, about Egg Harbor, where it sometimes lingers until the early part of November, it is called the “Fat Bird,” a title which it well merits; and in Pennsylvania, where it occurs frequently, is often termed the “Jack Snipe.” It is these blunders in nomenclature, and multiplication of local misnomers, which render all distinctions of sportsmanship so almost incomprehensible to the inhabitants of distant districts, and so perplexing to the youthful naturalist. During the autumn of 1849 I killed the Pectoral Sandpiper in great numbers, together with the American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, and the Black-bellied Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, on the marshes of the _Aux Canards_ river, near Amherstberg, in Canada West, in the month of September, and a month later at Montgomery’s Pool, between lakes Simcoe and Huron.

Of the Tattlers, three only are in repute as shore-birds, the best of the species, the Bartramian Tattler, _Totanus Bartramius_, better known as the “Upland Plover,” which is, in fact, with scarcely an exception, the most delicious of all our game-birds, being a purely upland and inland variety, and as such never, or but extremely seldom, shot on the coast.

These three are,

The Yellow-shanks Tattler, _Totanus Flavipes_, vulgo, “the lesser yellow legs”—a bird, in my opinion, of very indifferent qualifications for the table, but easily decoyed, and readily answering the fowler’s whistle, and therefore affording considerable sport.

The Telltale Tattler, _Totanus Vociferus_, vulgo, “greater yellow legs,” a less numerous species than the former, and more suspicious. Its flesh, when it feeds on the spawn of the king-crab, or “Horse-shoe,” is all but uneatable, but later in the season it is in better condition, and is esteemed good eating. A few are said to breed in New Jersey. In the neighborhood of Philadelphia, where these birds are shot in great numbers on the mud-flats of the Delaware from skiffs, with carefully concealed gunners, stealthily paddled down upon them till within close shooting distances, these birds are termed “Plovers,” and the pursuit of them plover shooting; of course wrongfully.

The last of this family is the Semipalmated Tattler, _Totanus Semipalmatus_, universally known as the “Willet,” from its harsh and shrill cry, constantly repeated during the breeding season, the last note of which is thought to bear some resemblance to that sound. It is a swift, rapid and easy flyer, and though rather shy when in exposed situations, can be allured to the decoys. When in good order the flesh of the Willet is very palatable, although not so greatly esteemed as its eggs, which really are delicious.

Next to these come the Godwits, two in number, known by the unmeaning title of Marlin.

The great Marbled Godwit, _Limosa Fedoa_, the “Marlin.” This bird, though not very abundant, is a regular visitant of the seashores and bays in the spring and autumn. It is very watchful, and will permit of no near approach, unless some of its fellows are killed or wounded, when it will hover over the cripples, with loud, shrill cries, affording an easy opportunity of getting several barrels in succession into the flock.

And the Hudsonian Godwit, _Limosa Hudsonica_, or the “Ring-tailed Marlin,” is a still rarer and smaller variety than the last, of very similar habits and of equal excellence in flesh. It is far more common in the Middle States than in the Eastern districts, and is abundant in the wild and barren lands far to the northward. I have seen it shot, likewise, on the swamps of the _Aux Canards_, to which I have already referred. This is the larger of the three birds, lying uppermost, in the group, at the head of this article; it was sketched from a fine specimen shot on the Delaware in the month of May. It is thus described by Giraud in his excellent work on the Birds of Long Island:

“Bill, blackish-brown, at base of lower mandible yellow; upper parts light-brown, marked with dull-brown, and a few small, white spots; neck all round brownish-gray; lower parts white, largely marked with ferruginous; basal part of tail-feathers and a band crossing the rump, white. Adult with the bill slender, blackish-brown toward the tip, lighter at the base, particularly at the base of the lower mandible; a line of brownish-white from the bill to the eye; lower eyelid white. Throat white, spotted with rust color; head and neck brownish-gray; lower parts white, marked with large spots of ferruginous; under tail coverts barred with brownish-black and ferruginous; tail brownish-black cast, a white band at the base; a band over the rump; tips of primary coverts and basis of quills white; upper tail-coverts brownish-black, their basis white; upper parts grayish-brown, scapulars marked with darker spots; feet bluish. Length fifteen inches and a half, wing eight and a half.”

Among the various families of birds, which are all known, as I have stated, by the general title of Bay Snipe, there is but one Snipe proper, and that is one of the most numerous, and perhaps the most excellent of the tribes.

The Redbreasted Snipe, _Scolapax Noveboracensis_—the “Dowitcher,” the “Quail Snipe,” the “Brown Back.”

A brace of these excellent and beautiful birds are depicted as thrown carelessly on the ground, under the neck of the Ring-tailed Marlin, in the preceding sketch.

This bird has the bill of the true snipe, _Scolopax Americanus_, excepting only that the knob at the tip of the upper mandible of the bill is less distinctly marked. The spring plumage of this bird, in which it is depicted above, is on the upper parts brownish-black, variegated with clove-brown, and light reddish-brown, the secondaries and wing-coverts tipped and edged with white. Lower parts bright orange colored ferruginous, spotted with dusky, arrow-headed spots. The abdomen paler. The tail-feathers and upper tail-coverts alternately barred with black and white; the legs and feet dull yellowish-green.

“At the close of April,” says Mr. Giraud, “the Redbreasted Snipe arrive on the coasts of Long Island. Invited by a bountiful supply of food, at the reflux of the tide, it resorts to the mud-flats and shoals to partake of the rich supply of shell-fish and insects which nature in her plenitude has provided for it. As the tide advances, it retires to the bog meadows, where it is seen probing the soft ground for worms. In the spring it remains with us but a short time. Soon after recruiting it obeys the unerring call of nature, and steers for the north, where it passes the season of reproduction. About the middle of July it returns with its young, and continues its visit during September, and if the season be open, lingers about its favorite feeding grounds until the last of the month.”

The specimens from which the above sketch is taken, were procured on the Delaware so late as the latter part of May; but it must be remembered that this spring, 1850, was unusually late and backward.

This snipe associates in large flocks, is very easily whistled, flies in dense and compact bodies over the decoys, and is so gentle that, after half the flock has been cut down by the volleys of the lurking gunner, the remainder will frequently alight, and walk about demurely among their dead companions and the illusive decoys, until the pieces are reloaded, and the survivors decimated by a fresh discharge.

Even when feeding on the open mud-flats, the Redbreasted Snipe is so tame as to allow itself to be approached by the sportsman, with little or no address, running about and feeding perfectly unsuspicious, until its enemy has come within short range, when it springs with its tremulous cry only to be riddled with the shot of the close discharge.

The other of these birds worthy of the most attention are,

The Sanderling, _Calidris Arenaria_, which, though very small, is fat and excellent.

The Black-bellied Plover, _Charadrius Helveticus_, “Bull-headed,” or “Beetle-headed Plover,” a shy bird, but frequently whistled within gunshot. On the coast it is apt to be fishy, but when shot inland, and on upland pastures, of superior quality.

The American Golden Plover, _Charadrius Marmoratus_, “the Frost bird;” a very beautiful species, and of rare excellence when killed on the upland, where it is found more frequently and more abundantly than on the shore.

The Long-billed Curlew, _numenius Longirostris_, “Sickle-bill,” a large, coarse-flavored bird, easily decoyed.

The Hudsonian Curlew, _numenius Hudsonicus_, “Short-billed Curlew,” or “Jack Curlew.” Similar to the latter in all respects, although smaller in size.

And last, The Esquimaux Curlew, _numenius Borealis_, “the Futes,” “the Doe Bird.” This bird feeds principally on the uplands, in company with the golden plovers, and on the same food, _videlicet_, grasshoppers, insects, seeds, worms, and berries. Its flesh is delicate and high flavored. It breeds far to the north, and winters far to the south of the United States, residing with us from early in August until late in November.

With this bird, although there are numerous other smaller species, the list of these tribes may be held complete.

From the commencement of the present month until late in the autumn, anywhere along the coasts and bays of the Northern and Middle States a bag may readily be filled to overflowing with these varieties by the aid of good decoys and skillful whistling, or of a skiff paddled by a cunning fowler; a gun of 8 to 10 pounds weight, of 12 gauge, with two oz. of No. 5 shot, and an equal measure of powder, will do the work. But when the work is done, comparatively the game is worthless, and the sport, as compared with upland shooting, scarcely worth the having.

* * * * *

RIVERSIDE.

BY GEO. CANNING HILL.

In a wood, all deep and solemn,
Where fall many a leafy column
Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky—
Where the sunbeams bright and golden,
Gloss the mosses dank and olden,
And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie;—

A piazza, broad and shaded,
By the vines about it braided,
Has within its wreathed pilasters full a world of lovely dreams;
And it looks toward the river,
Where long shadows lie and quiver—
Lie and quiver in the sun that through the nodding treetops streams.

I can hear the distant tumble
Of the waters, and the rumble
Of the mill-wheel, never ceasing on its constant, busy round,
And the cascade’s steady drumming
Comes like sweet and lowly humming,
As if water-sprites were chanting, with a low and dreamy sound.

If the sun have just arisen,
With its brightness to bedizen
Clustered leaves, and vines, and flowers—and the dew-drops on the lawn—
What a glory is before me—
All around, beside, and o’er me—
What a glory, all of colors that no human hand hath drawn!

Or if it be at even,
When soft breezes blow from heaven,
And the glimmer of the twilight comes a-dancing through the leaves—
Oh! how thick my brain is crowded
With sweet images enshrouded—
With sweet images enshrouded in the mists my fancy weaves!

Little pools lie closely hidden
In the woods, as if forbidden
To reflect within their surface but a hand’s breadth of the sky—
Where the turtle’s lonely whirring
Is at evening ever stirring,
Winning over the calm list’ner with its saddest melody.

I have often sat, when saddened,
And as often, too, when gladdened,
At the side of these clear mirrors, where the sweetest dreams have slept;
And the world beyond forgotten,
Quiet thoughts would be begotten—
Thoughts of Life, and Love, and Heaven, over which I fondly wept.

And beside the river’s dashing,
In the tumult of its plashing,
I have felt my pulses quickened, and my spirits bravely stirred;
Then below, where it runs slowly,
And the boughs bend over lowly,
My soul again was saddened, as by some enchanter’s word.

Upon every tree are builded—
By the garish sun ne’er gilded—
Nests of songsters, close secluded in the still and welcome shades;
And within their snug dominions
I can see the fledging pinions
Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.

The fresh morning air is ringing
With a concord of sweet singing,
From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;
High within the sylvan arches
Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches,
Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.

I love to sit at morning,
In the glory of the dawning
Of the sunlight, flashing over the high eastern hills afar,
On this broad piazza olden,
Where the gray streaks and the golden
Come a-streaming from their chambers through the vines that curtains are.

The hawthorn and the holly,
Bearing berries red and jolly,
Are inwoven with the bushes that run riot with them all;
And like caps of grenadiers
The dark moss in clumps appears—
The dark moss that stands in bunches all along the garden wall.

O, ’tis glorious in October,
When the sky is clear and sober,
To rove among the beauties that abound at Riverside!
For the forest is all blazing
With the Autumn colors, raising
Painted groves, and tinted arbors, where was naught but green beside,

And the influences setting
In upon me are begetting
Purer thoughts than those I felt away among the busy crowd;
For the earth hath such a seeming,
With its thousand glories teeming,
That I dare not always trust myself to utter words aloud.

Yes, for me the deep wood solemn,
Where full many a leafy column
Lifts aloft its crested summit to the beautiful blue sky,
And the sunbeams, bright and golden,
Gloss the mosses gray and olden,
And the brooks, from out them slipping, to the gleaming river hie.

* * * * *

CHANT OF THE NÉREIDES.

FROM THE

SECOND PART OF GÖETHE’S FAUST.

MUSIC BY

ENNA DUVAL.

Oh, follow our counsel,
And rest thee in gladness;
The flow’rs ’neath the willows shall

ease thee of sadness.
Here slumber thou lov’d one,
Thy labours shall cease;
We breathe and we warble of gladness and peace.

* * * * *

THE FINE ARTS.

The Opera.—Strange, that Philadelphia, with so much musical taste and cultivation, cannot have an Opera. Once in a while an Operatic troupe wanders along, and rests, for a short time, in our sober town, gives a few representations, then away it goes. Our neighbors of New York manage this thing better—an Opera they will have, even if they run in debt for it. And yet it seems that one, properly managed, might succeed in this concert-loving town of Penn. It must be a moderate one, however; that is, moderate in price. A serious old merchant, well to do in the world, will hesitate at taking even two tickets, at a dollar a-piece, but he would not mind taking a half dozen tickets if they cost only half that sum. The principle is the thing.

Brother Jonathan likes a show of economy, at least. Every politician in Congress, who wishes to be popular in Bunkum, invariably makes speeches against appropriations, mileage, &c., in order to prove that he is anxious to save Uncle Sam’s purse; but, at the same time, this same politician will have his pet appropriations, and not refuse his mileage either.

The small circle of fashionable people may subscribe and talk, but they can do little in this opera matter, without the support of the plain, unpretending portion of the inhabitants, who, after all, make up the audience, and bring in the money; and they have made up their minds to give only a moderate sum, and they will not give any more.

Then the Troupe must be a good one; or, if only a slender one, it must not attempt too much. The Seguins always drew well, because they only attempted _Operettes_ and _Vaudevilles_. Not that the Philadelphians do not like a higher order of music, but they are fastidious, and know when a good Opera is badly given. They will not go to hear the rich, full music of Norma murdered by a poor Troupe, with worn-out voices, and meagre choruses. Whatever they listen to must be well sung.

We wish that inimitable knight of the Baton—the white cravated Max Maretzek—would think a little of this. But if he does, there is one hint that it would be well to whisper in his ear, or in the ear of any other venturesome Opera proprietor, who is bold enough to undertake the establishing of an Opera here. There must be no cliques—no _donnas_ of different schools in the Troupe. We can all remember how weary we all were of the Biscaccianti and Truffi feud; and then, again, of the Truffi and Laborde cliques. The real lovers of music, who went for the love of the Opera, and not in a spirit of pedantic fashionable affectation, were ready to exclaim, with Mercutio,

A plague o’ both your houses.

Let the Opera be of either the French or Italian School, so that it be of one, alone. There is sufficient love for music with us, to make us liberal to either school, so that it be well represented. So far as our own taste is concerned, the Italian school is the more pleasing. The French _vocalization_ is too exaggerated, we think. It is a mere matter of taste, however, and we will be content to listen to either, so that we have an Opera.

In the early part of the summer of ’47, an Italian Opera Troupe, from Havana, tarried a few weeks in Philadelphia. Most of the townsfolk, especially the wealthier class, had left the town, and were at different watering places; and, yet, we remember this company drew good houses.

It was one of the best Troupes we have ever had in Philadelphia. Its Donnas were Tedesco and Caranti Vita, and Marini. Tedesco, with her rich, mellow, mezzo-soprano voice, and the timid _petite_ Vita, with a delicate _sympathetic_ soprano, that warbled like a bird—it was a treat indeed. Then Marini—the only true Contr’alto we ever heard—how she startled the audience with her fulness and depth of tone. She was awkward as an actress, and her voice, though rich, was rough; but there was so much melody in it that it touched us, and we could not, if we would, criticise.

Of the Operas sung by this Troupe we speak of, Saffo and Sonnambula were our favorites. True, the Choruses in Norma were beautifully done—for the Choruses of this well-balanced Troupe were full, and well trained—but the chaste, simple music of Saffo, suited Tedesco’s fresh, young voice; and the delicate, melodious caroling of Amina, was the very character of Caranti Vita.

Perelli—the popular Perelli, without whose instructions no lady in Philadelphia, with any pretensions to a voice, can possibly get along—was the Tenore in this Troupe, and its Maestro. In Verdi’s Hernani, his voice produced a fine effect and, every thing he sung, gave evidence of high culture and good taste.

The Opera of Saffo pleased us, particularly—the music was so pure and chaste. Such compositions are the sculpture of Music; a simple, classic plot—clear, decided harmony—pure melody. This is enough—scenic illusions and orchestral effects are of secondary importance.

This style of music belongs to a good, old school—the story also is effective. Schlegel it is, we think, who says, that there is a fanciful freedom in the handling of mythological materials, or subjects taken from chivalrous or pastoral romances, which always produces a fine effect in Opera. That so soon as the Heroic Opera chains itself down to History, after the manner of Tragedy, Dullness, with a leaden sceptre, presides over it.

There is another Opera of this school, the music of which we have heard, but we have never seen the opera represented—Niobe. Every instrumental performer will recal, with something like a loving memory, the beautiful melody from this Opera, “_I tuoi frequenti palpiti_,” which has been arranged, in “_all sorts of ways_,” for different instruments.

Good Reader, we will have a chat once in a while, on this subject of Music. We will talk together of Concerts, sometimes, both professional and amateur—and we will give some good-natured hints to our amateur _prima donnas_, about the difference between stage-singing and chamber singing. But you must join with us in all we say, and though we play spokesman and you listener, you must agree with us, and while we talk, you stand behind us, and make the gestures—then we shall succeed in interesting others as well as ourselves.

* * * * *

Spohr has completed his ninth orchestral symphony, which he has entitled “The Seasons.”

* * * * *

Madame Frezzolini, after an absence of eight years from London, has returned to her Majesty’s Theatre, which she opened with great success as Lucrezia.

* * * * *

“The Philosopher’s Stone” is the title of a new burletta, produced in London, having for its subject of ridicule the gold and California mania.

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Latter-Day Pamphlets. Edited by Thomas Carlyle. No. 6.
Parliaments. Boston: Phillips, Sampson & Co._

We think that this pamphlet, though its notions are pushed to a crazy extreme, is calculated to do good. In attacking the existence of legislative assemblies, it lays bare and mercilessly ridicules their abuses, especially their tendency to endless and worthless talk and palaver. The style is not that which Carlyle is accustomed to use in his library, but the style of Carlyle over his brandy and water; and it accordingly has the recklessness as well as the fire of that peculiar method of accelerating the faculties. The Parliament which Carlyle likes, and which he contrasts with Lord John’s, is an old Norman one, before the business of Parliament had been undertaken by the newspapers; a Parliament which advised, not a Parliament which governed. “Reading,” he says, “in Eadmerus and the dim old Books, one finds gradually that the Parliament was at first a most simple Assemblage, quite cognate to the situation; that Red William, or whoever had taken upon him the terrible task of being King of England, was wont to invite, oftenest about Christmas time, his subordinate Kinglets, Barons, as he called them, to give him the pleasure of their company for a week or two; there, in earnest conference all morning, in freer talk over Christmas cheer all evening, in some big royal Hall of Westminster, Winchester, or wherever it might be, with log-fires, huge rounds of roast and boiled, not lacking Malmsey and other generous liquor, they took counsel concerning the arduous matters of the kingdom. ‘You, Taillebois what have you to propose in this arduous matter. . . Tête-d’étoupes, speak out. And first the pleasure of a glass of wine, my infant!’ Thus, for a fortnight’s space, they carried on, after a human manner, their grand National Consult, or _Parliamentum_; intermingling Dinner with it (as is still the modern method;) debuting every thing as Tacitus describes the Ancient Germans to have done, two times; once sober, and once what he calls ‘drunk’—not exactly dead-drunk, but jolly round their big table; that so both sides of the matter might be seen, and, midway between rash hope and unreasonable apprehension, the true decision of it might be hit.”

Throughout the pamphlet the author wantons in dogmatism and impertinence, and has an especial love for a phrase representing the British people as “twenty-seven millions mostly fools.” The United States comes in as usual for a rap. The rumor is, that we are indebted for all Carlyle’s sarcasms against our people to the American tourists who have bored him; persons whom he always treated with roughness, but whom he now receives with almost savage insolence. We have heard a story of an American lady, who visited him—under the impression that he was a great philanthropist, and immediately opened the conversation with some remarks in favor of the abolition of slavery. He growled out a bitter rejoinder, in which he took strong grounds in favor of that institution, and denounced all abolitionists as sentimental fools and flunkies. The lady, irritated and surprised, hit instantly on the true woman’s method, the _argumentum ad hominum_, and put the startling question, “How, Mr. Carlyle, should you like to be a slave?” He dilated his person to its full dimensions, and in his broad Scotch brogue exclaimed, “Well, I should be glad to be a great bull-necked nigger, and have somebody to take care of me!” We must confess to a sympathy with his wish, as far as it relates to somebody’s taking care of him, we think good might be done to his head in an asylum.

There is, however, an allusion in the pamphlet to our Congress, which is not without its wisdom just at this time, and which may be safely commended to the attention of those honorable members who consume time and money, precious to the public, in speeches which rarely rise in thought to the level of party newspaper leaders, and which, in style, are often below the rhetoric of romances in yellow covers. He says, “Only perhaps in the United States, which alone of all countries can do without governing—every man being at least able to live, and move off into the wilderness, let Congress jargon as it will—can such a form of so-called ‘Government’ continue for any length of time to torment men with the semblance, when the indispensable substance is not there. For America, _as the citizens well know_, is an ‘unparalelled country’—with mud soil enough, and fierce sun enough in the Mississippi valley alone to grow Indian corn for the extant Posterity of Adam at this time; what other country ever stood in such a case? ‘Speeches to Bunkum,’ and a constitutional battle of the Kilkenny cats, which in other countries are becoming tragical and unendurable, may there still fall under the comical category.”

* * * * *

Webster’s Dictionary.—A new quarto edition of Webster’s Dictionary, with additions by Professor Goodrich, has recently been issued by G. & C. Merriam, of Springfield, and is for sale in this city by booksellers generally. Study of the Dictionary is the great want of a majority of American writers. They neither drink at the sources nor draw from the depths of the language, to supply the thirst for purity, variety, and force of expression, with which truly masculine minds are panting. With a vocabulary equal to the largest demands of truth in its labors, or of imagination in its play, we find constantly recurring the same set-phrases, the same commonplaces, the same worn-out figures. Our college-bred men are not deficient in a Johnsonian stock of Latin derivatives, but into the Saxon mine of our tongue, few of them have ever delved. They are too indolent to open the record and search for the treasures bequeathed to them. Until Webster’s researches and toils brought these treasures together, they were so far hidden and scattered, that few even of the learned appreciated their amount. Thirty-five years he spent in the compilation of his Dictionary; and since the publication of the first edition, it has been enriched by himself and the present editor with thousands of words; and it is now, by the consent of the learned in England as well as this country, valuable above every other, for comprehensiveness, etymological accuracy, and clearness of verbal definitions. The new quarto contains the whole matter of the former editions in two volumes, printed with clear type, on good paper, and substantially bound. It is one of the few books, of which a threadbare recommendation may be truly repeated—“no library is complete without it.” One of the most distinguished of American writers, whose choice of fresh and forceful words has at times brought upon him a charge of pedantry, but who in fact has only used fearlessly the wealth of the language, told us, some years ago, that it was his habit to read the Dictionary through about once every year. To the student, this practice may be commended as of inestimable service. A single word is often the cue to a sentiment or a train of ideas worthy of expression. As the mind is full of words to give variety to its pictures, so will it be full of suggestions for new subjects. The relation between words and ideas is to a degree an absolute identity. An illiterate person sits down to write a letter. His fund of language being small, the paucity of his thoughts is in the same proportion. He may have traveled half over the world, yet he has nothing to say to his friends at home, except that he is well, and hopes they are the same. Our young writers may find in this illustration a reason for studying the Dictionary faithfully and continually. Not from the conversation of the educated, or from miscellaneous books alone, will they catch by accident the riches of the language. They must search and reflect—a task which the labors of Webster and his great predecessors in lexicography, have reduced to child’s play. Among the two or three thousand newspapers in the United States, are at least some hundreds edited by men who have not had the opportunities of a classical education. Minds only of extraordinary energy, or those rising to the standard of genius, can do perfect justice to the important duties of journalism without the advantages of this discipline. But they may in mature life, find its best substitute in the systematic study of a comprehensive Dictionary, in connection with the classics of the language. Were this method adopted, we would not so often have reason to blush for the feebleness and illiteracy exhibited not only in many newspaper columns, but in the pages of periodicals of far higher pretensions, as exemplars of rhetorical propriety.

* * * * *

_The Miscellaneous Works of Oliver Goldsmith. Including a
Variety of Pieces now first collected. By James Prior. New York:
George P. Putnam. 4 vols. 12mo._

Few English classics have been edited with the care and the thoroughness of this edition of Goldsmith. Prior, an antiquarian who never touches a subject which he does not exhaust, has paid especial attention to Goldsmith; has written a biography of him, which forms the basis both of Foster’s and Irving’s; and in the present edition, has printed many valuable essays and poems never before collected. The articles contributed by Goldsmith to the Monthly and Critical Reviews, when he was a hack-writer in the most dismal sense of that term, are here collected; and though not to be compared with his best works for humor or for style, they still evince the hand of genius in many a scrap of serene wisdom, and in many a sentence of penetrating sagacity. In the fourth volume, just published, we find an oratorio, “The Captivity,” and a ludicrous scene from a farce called “The Grumbler,” never before printed. Mr. Putnam has issued the edition in a style of great neatness, and has placed it at a very low price. We hope it will meet with a sale corresponding to its merits. It supersedes all the other editions of Goldsmith now in the market, being the best printed, and the best edited of all, and containing several hundred pages of matter to be found in no other collection.

* * * * *

_Moneypenny, or the Heart of the World. A Romance of the Present
Day. By Cornelius Mathews. New York: Dewitt & Davenport. 1 vol.
8vo._

Mr. Mathews is well known as an able but somewhat eccentric writer, with the grotesqueness, as well as the insight of the humorist, and often miscalculating the avenues to popular favor, while he gave no evidence of lacking the powers which deserve it. His present novel is his best production in respect to story and characterization, and is especially remarkable for its minute knowledge of every locality, and every phase of humanity and life, in the city of New York. This is not displayed in the way of a mere copyist, but in the higher mode of the observing humorist, to whom external forms are symbolical of serious or smiling spiritual facts. The style sparkles with a kind of laughing earnestness, which indicates an intense sympathy in the author with the varying throng of local objects which press upon his imagination for representation. We commend it to all readers who have fancies to be touched by its quaint analogies, and risibilities to be tingled by its humor.

* * * * *

_Heroines of the Missionary Enterprise; or Sketches of Prominent
Female Missionaries. By Daniel C. Eddy. Boston: Ticknor, Reed &
Fields. 1 vol. 16mo._

This elegant volume contains thirteen carefully prepared biographies of eminent women who have toiled and suffered, bodily and mentally, in the missionary cause. They are well worthy the honors of heroism, and some of them in Catholic countries, would have been sainted. Among the biographies are the names of Harriet Newell, Esther Butler, Sarah L. Smith, Henrietta Shuck, Sarah D. Comstock, and the three Mrs. Judsons.

* * * * *

_The Use and Abuse of Alcoholic Liquors, in Health and Disease.
By William B. Carpenter. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._