Chapter XII: Introduction (10)

To our little pet Lizzy, for instance, a damsel of seven, she predicted a fairing; to Ben Kirby, a youth of thirteen, head batter of the boys, a new cricket-ball; to his sister Lucy, a girl some three years his senior, and just promoted to that ensign of womanhood—a cap—she promised a pink top-knot; while for Miss Sophia Matthews, our old-maidish schoolmistress, who would be heartily glad to be a girl again, she foresaw one handsome husband, and for the smart widow Simmons, two. These were the least of her triumphs. George Davis, the dashing young farmer of the Hill-house, a gay sportsman, who scoffed at fortune-tellers and matrimony, consulted her as to whose grayhound would win the courser’s cup at the beacon meeting, to which she replied that she did not know to whom the dog would belong, but that the winner of the cup would be a white grayhound, with one blue ear and a spot on its side, being an exact description of Mr. George Davis’ favorite Helen, who followed her master’s step like his shadow, and was standing behind him at this very instant. This prediction gained our gipsy half-a-crown; and Master Welles, the thriving, thrifty yeoman of the lea, she managed to win sixpence from his hard, honest, frugal hand, by a prophecy that his old blood mare, called Blackfoot, should bring forth twins. And Ned, the blacksmith, who was known to court the tall nurse-maid at the mill—she got a shilling from Ned, simply by assuring him that his wife should have the longest coffin that ever was made at our wheelwright’s shop: a most tempting prediction! ingeniously combining the prospect of winning and of surviving the lady of his heart—a promise equally adapted to the hot and cold fits of that ague called love—lightening the fetters of wedlock—uniting in a breath the bridegroom and the widower. Ned was the best pleased of all her customers, and enforced his suit with such vigor, that he and the fair giantess were asked in church the next Sunday, and married at the fortnight’s end.

MARY R. MITFORD.

A STERILE FIELD.

Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o’er, Sends the light turf that warms the neighboring poor; From thence a length of burning sand appears, Where the thin harvest waves its wither’d ears; Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o’er the land, and rob the blighted rye;

There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, And to the ragged infant threaten war; There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil; There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil; Hardy and high, above her slender sheaf, The shiny mallow waves her silky leaf; O’er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, And clasping tares cling round the sickly blade; With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound, And a sad splendor vainly shines around. So looks the nymph whom wretched arts adorn, Betray’d by man, then left for man to scorn; Whose cheek in vain assumes the mimic rose, While her sad eyes the troubled breast disclose; Whose outward splendor is but folly’s dress, Exposing most when most it gilds distress. GEORGE CRABBE, 1754–1832.

THE ENGLISH COMMON.

Turning again up the hill, we find ourselves on that peculiar charm of English scenery, a green common, divided by the road; the right side fringed by hedge-rows and trees, with cottages and farm-houses irregularly placed, and terminated by a double avenue of noble oaks: the left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools of water, and islands of cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually down to corn-fields and meadows, and an old farm-house with pointed roofs and clustered chimneys looking out from its blooming orchard, and backed by woody hills. The common itself is the prettiest part of the prospect, half covered with low furze, whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely the last beams of the setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two sets of cricketers: one of young men, surrounded with spectators—some standing, some stretched on the grass, all taking a delightful interest in the game: the other a group of little boys at an humble distance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough, shouting, leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts’ content.

MARY R. MITFORD.

LINES

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE.

Once more, sweet stream! with slow foot wandering near, I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours, With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers

(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn), My languid head shall wreathe thy mossy urn. For not through pathless grove, with murmur rude, Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph Solitude; Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell! Pride of the vale! thy useful streams supply The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh; The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks, With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, Released from school, their little hearts at rest, Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. The rustic here at eve, with pensive look, Whistling lorn ditties, leans upon his crook; Or starting, passes with hope-mingled dread To list the much-lov’d maid’s accustom’d tread; She, vainly mindful of her dame’s command, Loiters, the long-fill’d pitcher in her hand. Unboasted stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls, What time the morning sun of Hope arose, And all was joy; save when another’s woes A transient gloom upon my soul imprest, Like passing cloud impictur’d on thy breast. Life’s current then ran sparkling to the noon, Or silv’ry stole beneath the pensive moon. Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, Or o’er the rough rock bursts and foams along! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

LINES

FROM “INDEPENDENCE.”

Nature I’ll court in her sequestered haunts, By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the pois’d lark his evening ditty chants, And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell. Where Study shall with Solitude recline; And Friendship pledge me with his fellow-swains; And Toil and Temperance sedately twine The slender cord that fluttering life sustains, And fearless Poverty shall guard the door; And Taste unspoil’d the frugal table spread, And Industry supply the humble store;

And Sleep unbrib’d his dews refreshing shed; White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite, Shall chase far off the goblins of the night; And Independence o’er the day preside, Propitious power! my patron and my pride! TOBIAS SMOLLETT, 1721–1771.

XX.
=Autumn.=

Autumn is a favorite season with American poets; they have taken great delight in singing the high-toned magnificence of the season, as well as that delicacy and sweetness of aspect which so often adds an exquisite charm to the brilliancy of autumnal beauty under our native skies. The poets of Europe have scarcely sung the delights of Spring with more eloquent fervor. We can not wonder that such should be the case; from the first tinge of peculiar coloring to the last smile of the Indian Summer, the season is full of interest and beauty, of ever-varying aspects. It has been with real reluctance that we have been compelled to turn aside from many beautiful passages of American verse which we had originally hoped to have inserted in this division of the volume; but fortunately they lie already within every reader’s reach, in other forms.

TO AUTUMN NEAR HER DEPARTURE.

Thou maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove vest, And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair; Thy melancholy voice and languid air, As if shut up within that pensive breast, Some ne’er-to-be-divulged grief was prest; Thy looks resign’d, that smiles of patience wear, While Winter’s blasts thy scattered tresses tear; Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight, That dazzling Summer shall of her be born; Let Summer blaze, and Winter’s stormy train Breathe awful music in the ear of night; Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn, And from thy glance will catch th’ inspired strain. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762–1837.

AUTUMN.

ODE.

I.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To Silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;
Shaking his languid locks, all dewy bright,
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

II.

Where are the songs of Summer? With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,
'Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm, odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—away, away,
On panting wings, through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey,
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

III.

Where are the blooms of Summer? In the West,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest,
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs,
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer—the green prime—
The merry, merry leaves all twinkling?—there
On the moss’d elm; there on the naked lime
Trembling—and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad’s immortality?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long, gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly’s green eternity.

IV.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard;
The ants have cramm’d their garners with ripe grain,
And honey-bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have winged across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Among the sunless shadows of the plain:
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a lone-rosary,
While all the wither’d world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into the distance, gray upon the gray.

V.

O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair; She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care; There is enough of withered everywhere To make her bower, and enough of gloom, There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty’s—she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light. There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear— Enough of chilly droppings from her brow— Enough of fear and shadowy despair To frame her cloudy prison for the soul! THOMAS HOOD.

]

ODE

TO WILLIAM LYTTLETON, ESQ.,

TOWARD THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1748.

How blithely passed the summer’s day!
How bright was every flower!
While friends arrived in circles gay
To visit Damon’s bower!

But now with silent step I range
Along some lonely shore;
And Damon’s bower (alas the change!)
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne,
In quest of joy they steer;
While I, alas, am left forlorn
To weep the parting year!

O pensive Autumn, how I grieve
Thy sorrowing face to see!
When languid suns are taking leave
Of every drooping tree.

Ah! let me not with heavy eye
This dying scene survey!
Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;
Complete my bower’s decay!

Ill can I bear the motley cast
Yon sickening leaves retain,
That speak at once of pleasure past,
And bode approaching pain.

Ah, home unblessed! I gaze around,
My distant scenes require,

Where, all in murky vapors drown’d,
Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, sweet, descriptive bard!
Inspiring Autumn sung;
Yet how should he the months regard,
That stopp’d his flowing tongue?

Ah, luckless months, of all the rest,
To whose hard share it fell!
For sure his was the gentlest breast
That ever sung so well.

And see, the swallows now disown
The roofs they loved before;
Each, like his tuneful genius, flown
To glad some happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes with pale affright
The sportsman’s frantic deed,
While hounds, and horns, and yells unite
To drown the Muse’s reed.

Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown;
Ye skies! no longer blue;
Too much we feel from Fortune’s frown,
To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead’s unsullied green?
The zephyr’s balmy gale?
And where sweet Friendship’s cordial mien
That brighten’d every vale?

What though the vine disclose her dyes,
And boast her purple store,
Not all the vineyard’s rich supplies
Can soothe our sorrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain
Could wit and mirth refine;
He! he is gone, whose social vein
Surpass’d the power of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign’d to praise,
In yon sequester’d grove,
To him a votive urn I raise,
To him and friendly love.

Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad,
I 'grave your Thomson’s name;
And there his lyre, which Fate forbad
To sound your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive song recount
Dark themes of hopeless woe;
And faster than the drooping fount,
I’ll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green
Shall shade the hallow’d ground;
And Spring will there again be seen,
To call forth flowers around.

But no kind suns will bid me share
Once more his social hour;
Ah, Spring! thou never can’st repair
His loss to Damon’s bower.
WILLIAM SHENSTONE, 1714–1763.

SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Tell me where’s the violet fled,
Late so gayly blowing;
Springing 'neath fair Flora’s tread,
Choicest sweets bestowing?
Swain, the vernal scene is o’er
And the violet blooms no more!

Say, where hides the blushing rose,
Pride of fragrant morning;
Garland meet for beauty’s brow,
Hill and dale adorning?
Gentle maid, the summer’s fled,
And the hapless rose is dead!

Bear me then to yonder rill,
Late so freely flowing,
Watering many a daffodil
On its margin glowing;
Sun and wind exhaust its store;
Yonder rivulet glides no more!

Lead me to the bowery shade,
Late with roses flaunting;
Loved resort of youth and maid,
Amorous ditties chaunting;
Hail and storm with fury shower.
Leafless mourns the rifled bower!

Say, where bides the village maid,
Late yon cot adorning?
Oft I’ve met her in the glade,
Fair and fresh as morning.
Swain, how short is beauty’s bloom!
Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Whither roves the tuneful swain,
Who of rural pleasures,
Rose and violet, rill and plain,
Sung in dulcet measures?
Maiden, swift life’s vision flies,
Death has closed the poet’s eyes!
_Translation of_ BERESFORD. JOHAN GEORG. JACOBI, 1740–1814.

AUTUMN SCENE IN ENGLAND.

But see the fading, many-color’d woods, Shade deepening over shade the country round Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark—these now the lonesome Muse, Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks, And give the season in its latest view.

Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn The gentle current; while illumin’d wide, The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, And through their lucid vail his softened force Shed o’er the peaceful world. Then is the time For those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm, To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, And soar above this little scene of things; To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet; To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.

* * * * *

The pale descending year, yet pleasing still, A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf Incessant rustles from the mournful grove; Oft startling such as studious walk below, And slowly circles through the waving air. But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs Sob, o’er the sky the leafy deluge streams; Till choked and matted with the dreary shower, The forest-walks, at every rising gale, Roll wide the wither’d waste, and whistle bleak. Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields, And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race Their sunny robes resign. Even what remained Of stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree, And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around The desolated prospect thrills the soul. JAMES THOMSON, 1700–1748.

INDIAN SUMMER.

It is the season when the light of dreams
Around the year in golden glory lies—
The heavens are full of floating mysteries,
And in the lake the vailed splendor gleams!
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,
Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,
While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,
Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.
There the frail maples, and the faithful firs
By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake
Skirts the low pool, and starred with open burrs
The chestnut stands; but when the north-wind stirs,
How like an armed host the summoned scene shall wake!
T. B. READ.

AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.

Far and wide Nature is smiling in her loveliness. Masses of wood, green strips of fields, ravines Shown by their outlines drawn against the hills,

Chimneys and roofs, trees, single and in groups, Bright curves of brooks, and vanishing mountain-top Expand upon my sight, October’s brush The scene has color’d; not with those broad hues Mix’d in his later pallet by the frost, And dash’d upon the picture till the eye Aches with varied splendor, but in tints Left by light, scatter’d touches. Overhead There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky, A silvery sheet with spaces of soft blue; A trembling vail of gauze is stretch’d athwart The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks; A soothing quiet broods upon the air, And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness. Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark— The bleat—the tinkle—whistle—blast of horn— The rattle of the wagon-wheel—the low— The fowler’s shot—the twitter of the bird, And e’en the hum of converse from the road. The grass, with its low insect-tones, appears As murmuring in its sleep. This butterfly Seems as if loth to stir, so lazily It flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops, The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks out In brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps. The beetle, glistening in its sable mail, Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e’en the ant Darts round less eagerly.

* * * * *

ALFRED STREET.

AUTUMN WOODS.

Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that enfold
In their wide sweep the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow—
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn
Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,
The sun that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;
So grateful when the noon of summer made
The valleys rich with heat?

Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright!
Their sunny-colored foliage in the breeze
Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,
Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

Beneath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark within its roseate canopy
Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn, why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,
Thy gentle wind, and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! twere a lot too bless’d
Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the tresses of the soft southwest,
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain, low strife
That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

XXI.
=Medley.=

A WISH.

Mine be a cot beside the hill, A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear, A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy at her wheel shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage vows were giv’n, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav’n. SAMUEL ROGERS.

A COUNTRY LIFE.

FROM THE LATIN OF AVIENUS, A.D. 380.

Safe-roof’d my cottage; swelling rich with wine
Hangs from the twisted elm my cluster’d vine.
Boughs glow with cherries, apples bend my wood;
And the crush’d olive foams with juicy flood.
Where my light beds the scattering rivulet drink,
My simple pot-herbs flourish on the brink;
And poppies smiling wave the rosy head,
That yield no opiate to a restless bed.
If for the birds I weave the limed snare,
Or for the startlish deer the net prepare,
Or with a slender thread the fish delude,
No other wiles disturb these woodlands rude.
Go now, and barter life’s calm stealing days
For pompous suppers, that with luxury blaze!
Pray Heaven! for me the lot may thus be cast,
And future time glide peaceful as the past.
_Translation of_ SIR C. A. ELTON.

OF BUILDING.

COUNTRY HOUSES.

He that alters an old house is tied as a translator to the original, and is confined to the fancy of the first builder. Such a man were unwise to pluck down good old buildings, to erect, perchance, worse new. But those that raze a new house from the ground are blameworthy if they make it not handsome, seeing, to them, method and confusion are both at a rate. In building, we must respect situation, contrivance, receipt, strength, and beauty. Of situation:

Chiefly choose a wholesome air. For air is a dish one feeds on every minute, and therefore it need be good. Wherefore great men (who may build where they please, as poor men where they can), if herein they prefer their profit above their health, I refer them to their physicians to make them pay for it accordingly.

Wood and water are two staple commodities, where they may be had. The former, I confess, hath made so much iron, that it must now be bought with the more silver, and grows daily dearer. But it is as well pleasant as profitable to see a house cased with trees, like that of Anchises, in Troy,

“——quanquam secreta parentis
Anchisæ domus arboribusque obtecta recessit.”

The worst is, where a place is bald of wood, no art can make it a periwig. As for water, begin with Pindar’s beginning, “ἄρισον μεὺ hύὁωρ.” The fort of Gogmagog Hill, nigh Cambridge, is counted impregnable, but for water; the mischief of many houses, where the servants must bring the water on their shoulders.

Next, a pleasant prospect is to be respected. A medley view (such as of water and land at Greenwich) best entertains the eye, refreshing the wearied beholder with exchange of objects. Yet I know a more profitable prospect, where the owner can only see his own land round about.

A fair entrance, with an easy ascent, gives a great grace to a building, where the hall is a preferment out of the court, the parlor out of the hall; not (as in some old buildings) where the doors are so low, pigmies must stoop, and the rooms so high that giants may stand upright. But now we are come to the contrivance:

Let not thy common rooms be several, nor thy several rooms be common. The hall (which is a pandocheum) ought to lie open, and so ought passages and stairs (provided that the whole house be not spent in paths); chambers and closets are to be private and retired.

Light (God’s eldest daughter) is a principal beauty in a building; yet it shines not alike from all parts of heaven. An east window welcomes the infant beams of the sun before they are of strength to do any harm, and is offensive to none but a sluggard. A south window in summer is a chimney with a fire in it, and needs the screen of a curtain. In a west window in summer time, toward night, the sun grows low and over-familiar, with more light than delight. A north window is best for butteries and cellars, where the beer will be sour for the sun’s smiling on it. Thorough-lights are best for rooms of entertainment, and windows on one side for dormitories. As for receipt:

A house had better be too little for a day than too great for a year. And it is easier borrowing of thy neighbor a brace of chambers for a night, than a bag of money for a twelvemonth. It is vain, therefore, to proportion the receipt to an extraordinary occasion, as those who, by over-building their houses have dilapidated their lands, and their estates have been pressed to death under the weight of their house. As for strength:

Country houses must be substantives, able to stand of themselves; not like city buildings, supported by their neighbors on either side. By strength we mean such as may resist weather and time, not invasion—castles being out of date in this peaceable age. As for the making of moats round about, it is questionable whether the fogs be not more unhealthful than the fish bring profit, or the water defense. Beauty remains behind, as the last to be regarded, because houses are made to be lived in, not looked on.

Let not the front look asquint on a stranger, but accost him right at his entrance. Uniformity, also, much pleaseth the eye; and it is observed

that freestone, like a fair complexion, soonest waxeth old, while brick keeps her beauty longest.

Let the office-houses observe the due distance from the mansion-house. Those are too familiar which presume to be of the same pile with it. The same may be said of stables and barns; without which a house is like a city without outworks, it can never hold out long.

Gardens, also, are to attend in their place. When God (Genesis ii. 9) planted a garden eastward, He made to grow out of the ground every tree pleasant to the sight, and good for food. Sure He knew better what was proper to a garden than those, who, now-a-days, therein only feed the eyes, and starve both taste and smell.

To conclude. In building, rather believe any man than an artificer in his own art for matter of charges; not that they can not, but will not, be faithful. Should they tell thee all the cost at the first, it would blast a young builder in the budding, and therefore they sooth thee up till it hath cost thee something to confute them. The spirit of building first possessed people after the flood, which then caused the confusion of languages, and since, the estate of many a man.

THOMAS FULLER, “_Holy and Profane States_,” 1608–1661.

OF BUILDING.

Houses are built to live in, and not to look on; therefore let use be preferred before uniformity, except where both may be had. Leave the goodly fabrics of houses, for beauty only, to the enchanted palaces of the poets, who build them with small cost. He that buildeth a fair house upon an ill seat, committeth himself to prison; neither do I reckon it an ill seat only where the air is unwholesome, but likewise where the air is unequal; as you shall see many fine seats set upon a knap of ground, environed with higher hills round about it, whereby the heat of the sun is pent in, and the wind gathereth as in troughs; so as you shall have, and that suddenly, as great diversity of heat and cold as if you dwelt in several places. Neither is it ill air only that maketh an ill seat, but ill ways, ill markets; and if you will consult with Momus, ill neighbors. I speak not of many more; want of water, want of wood, shade, and shelter, want of fruitfulness, and mixture of grounds of several natures; want of prospect, want of level grounds, want of places at some near distance for sports of hunting, hawking, and races; too near the sea, or too remote; having the commodity of navigable rivers, or the discommodity of their overflowing; too far from great cities, which may hinder business; or too near them, which lurcheth all provisions, and maketh every thing dear; where a man hath a great living laid together and where he is scanted; all which, as it is impossible perhaps to find together, so it is good to know them, and think of them, that a man may

like as many as he can; and, if he have several dwellings, that he sod them so, that what he wanteth in one he may find in another. Lucullus answered Pompey well, who, when he saw his stately galleries, and rooms so large and lightsome, in one of his houses, said, “Surely an excellent place for summer, but how do you in winter?” Lucullus answered, “Why do you not think me as wise as some fowls, that ever change their abode toward the winter?”

LORD BACON, 1561–1627.

THE WISH.

Well, then, I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne’er agree—
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, the buzz, and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th’ grave,
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And, since love ne’er will from me flee,
A mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only beloved, and loving me!

Oh fountains! when in you shall I
Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?
Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shades?
Here’s the spring-head of Pleasure’s flood;
Where all the riches lie, that she
Has coin’d and stamp’d for good.

Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch’d metaphors appear;
Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And naught but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way,
And therefore we may boldly say,
That ’tis the way, too, thither.

How happy here should I
And one dear she, live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear—
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me
And so make a city here.
ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618–1657.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard,
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall,
And kitchen small;
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread,
Unchipt, unflead.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee;
The worts, the purslane, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou has sent;
And my content
Makes these and my beloved beet
To be more sweet.
’Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv’st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That sows my land.
All this, and better dost Thou send
Me for this end—
That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,
Which, fir’d with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be,
O Lord, of Thee!
ROBERT HERRICK.

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.

Between broad fields of wheat and corn Is the lowly home where I was born; The peach-tree leans against the wall, And the woodbine wanders over all; There is the shaded doorway still— But a stranger’s foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn—and, as of yore, I can smell the hay from the open door, And see the busy swallows throng, And hear the peewee’s mournful song; But the stranger comes—oh! painful proof— His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard—the very trees Where my childhood knew long hours of ease, And watched the shadowy moments run, Till my life imbibed more shade than sun; The swing from the bough still sweeps the air— But the stranger’s children are swinging there.

He bubbles, the shady spring below, With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;

’Twas there I found the calamus root, And watched the minnows poise and shoot, And heard the robin lave his wing— But the stranger’s bucket is at the spring.

Oh ye who daily cross the sill, Step lightly, for I love it still; And when you crowd the old barn eaves, Then think what countless harvest sheaves Have passed within that scented door, To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees, And when your children crowd your knees, Their sweetest fruit they shall impart, As if old memories stirred their heart; To youthful sport still leave the swing, And in sweet reverence hold the spring. T. B. READ.

THE INVITATION.

FROM THE GERMAN.

I have a cottage by the hill,
It stands upon a meadow green,
Behind it flows a murmuring rill,
Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.

Beside the cottage stands a tree,
That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;
And scarce the sunshine visits me,
Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.

A nightingale sings on a spray,
Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers, on their way,
Linger to hear her plaintive song.

Thou maiden with the yellow hair,
The winds of life are sharpened chill,
Will thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill?
_Translation of_ S. H. WHITMAN. JOHANN W. L. GLEIM, 1719–1803.

ICELANDIC LINES.

FROM THE DISCOURSE OF ODIN.

On guests who come with frozen knees
Bestow the genial warmth of fire;
Who has walked far and waded streams
Needs cheering food and drier clothes.

To him about to join your board,
Clear water bring to cleanse his hands,
And treat him freely, would you win
The kindly word, the thankful heart.
_Translation of_ W. TAYLOR.

DOMESTIC PEACE.

Tell me on what holy ground May Domestic Peace be found— Halcyon daughter of the skies! Far, on fearful wings she flies, From the pomp of scepter’d state, From the rebel’s noisy hate. In a cottaged vale she dwells, Listening to the Sabbath bells! Still around her steps are seen Spotless Honor’s meeker mien, Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow smiling through her tears, And, conscious of the past employ, Memory, bosom-spring of joy. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

]

XXII.
=THE HUNT.=

ANCIENT HUNTING SONG.

The hunt is up, the hunt is up!
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up
The birds they sing,
The deer they fling,
Hey, nonny, nony, no;
The hounds they cry,
The hunters fly,
Hey, trolilo, trololilo.
The hunt is up, the hunt is up!
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!

The wood resounds
To hear the sounds,
Hey, nonny, nony, no;
The rocks report
This merry sport,
Hey, trolilo, trololilo,

The hunt is up, the hunt is up! Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!

Then hie apace
Unto the chase,
Hey, nonny, nony, no!
While every thing
Doth sweetly sing
Hey, trolilo, trololilo,
The hunt is up, the hunt is up!
Sing merrily we, the hunt is up!
_Anonymous._

HOUNDS.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew’d, so sanded, and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee’d and dew-lapp’d, like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells, Each under each: a cry more tunable Was never halloo’d to, nor cheered with horn. W. SHAKSPEARE.

DEER LEAP.

In our way to Hound’s-Down we rode past a celebrated spot, called the Deer Leap. Here a stag was once shot, which, in the agony of death, collecting his force, gave a bound which astonished those who saw it. It was immediately commemorated by two posts, which were fixed at the two extremities of the leap, where they still remain. The space between them is somewhat more than eighteen yards.

GILPIN’S “_New Forest_.”

THE HARE.

FROM “THE CHASE.”

Delightful scene! Where all around is gay, men, horses, dogs, And in each smiling countenance appears Fresh blooming health and universal joy. Huntsman! lead on—behind, the clustering pack Submiss attend, hear with respect thy whip

Loud clanging, and thy harsher voice obey.

* * * * *

Here on this verdant spot, where Nature kind With double blessings crowns the farmer’s hopes; Where flowers autumnal spring, and the rank mead Affords the wandering hares a rich repast, Throw off thy ready pack. See where they spread, And range around, and dash the glittering dew! If some staunch hound, with his authentic voice, Avow the recent trail, the jostling tribe Attend his call, then with one mutual cry The welcome news confirm, and echoing hills Repeat the pleasing tale. See how they thread The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along! But quick they back recoil, and wisely check Their eager haste; then o’er the fallow’d ground How leisurely they work, and many a pause Th’ harmonious concert breaks; till more assur’d, With joy redoubled, the low valleys ring. What artful labyrinths perplex their way! Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants, she doubts If now she lives; she trembles as she sits, With horror seiz’d! The withered grass that clings Around her head, of the same russet hue, Almost deceiv’d my sight, had not her eyes, With life full beaming, her vain wiles betray’d. At distance draw thy pack; let all be hush’d— No clamor loud, no frantic joy be heard, Lest the wild hound run gadding o’er the plain Untractable, nor hear thy chiding voice. Now gently put her off; see how direct To her known mew she flies! Here, huntsman, bring (But without hurry) all thy jolly hounds, And calmly lay them in. How low they stoop, And seem to plow the ground! then all at once, With greedy nostrils, snuff the fuming steam That glads their fluttering hearts. As winds let loose From the dark caverns of the blustering god, They burst away and sweep the dewy lawn. Hope gives them wings, while she’s spurred on by fear. The welkin rings—men, dogs, hills, rocks, and woods In the full concert join. Now, my brave youths, Stripp’d for the chase, give all your souls to joy! See how their coursers, than the mountain roe More fleet, the verdant carpet skim; thick clouds

Snorting they breathe; their shining hoofs scarce print The grass embruis’d; with emulation fir’d, They strain to lead the field, top the barr’d gate, O’er the deep ditch exulting bound, and brush The thorny-twining hedge: the riders bend O’er their arch’d necks; with steady hands, by turns, Indulge their speed, or moderate their rage. Where are their sorrows, disappointments, wrongs, Vexations, sickness, cares? All, all are gone, And with the panting winds lag far behind. Huntsman! her gait observe; if in wide rings She wheel her mazy way, in the same round Persisting still, she’ll foil the beaten track; But if she fly, and with the favoring wind Urge her bold course, less intricate thy task: Push on thy pack. Like some poor exil’d wretch, The frighted Chase leaves her late dear abodes; O’er plains remote she stretches far away, Ah! never to return! For greedy Death Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey. Hark! from yon covert, where those towering oaks Above the humble copse aspiring rise, What glorious triumphs burst in every gale Upon our ravish’d ears! The hunter’s shout, The changing horns, swell their sweet-winding notes; The pack wide opening load the trembling air With various melody; from tree to tree The propagated cry redoubling bounds, And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy Through all the regions near: afflictive birch No more the school-boy dreads; his prison broke, Scampering he flies, nor heeds his master’s call; The weary traveler forgets his road, And climbs th’ adjacent hill; the plowman leaves Th’ unfinish’d furrow; nor his bleating flocks are now The shepherd’s joy! Men, boys, and girls Desert th’ unpeopled village, and wild crowds Spread o’er the plain, by the sweet frenzy seiz’d. Look, how she pants! and o’er yon opening glade Slips glancing by! while, at the farther end, The puzzled pack unravel wile by wile, Maze within maze. The covert’s utmost bound Slily she skirts; behind them cautious creeps; And in that very track, so lately stain’d By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue

The foe she flies. Let cavilers deny That brutes have reason; sure ’tis something more, ’Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems inspires Beyond the short extent of human thought. But hold! I see her from her covert break; Sad on yon little eminence she sits; Intent she listens, with one ear erect, Pondering, and doubtful what new course to take, And how t’ escape the fierce, blood-thirsty crew That still urge on, and still in valleys loud Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress. As now in louder peals the loaded winds Bring on the gathering storm, her fears prevail, And o’er the plain, and o’er the mountain’s ridge Away she flies; nor ships with wind and tide, And all their canvas wings, scud half so fast. Once more, ye jovial train, your courage try, And each clean courser’s speed. We scour along In pleasing hurry and confusion lost; Oblivion to be wish’d. The patient pack Hang on the scent unwearied; up they climb, And ardent we pursue; our laboring steeds We press, we gore; till once the summit gain’d, Painfully panting, there we breathe awhile; Then, like a foaming torrent, pouring down Precipitant, we smoke along the vale. Happy the man who with unrival’d speed Can pass his fellows, and with pleasure view The struggling pack; how in the rapid course Alternate they preside, and jostling push To guide the dubious scent; how giddy youth Oft babbling errs, by wiser age reprov’d; How niggard of his strength, the wise old hound Hangs in the rear, till some important point Rouse all his diligence, or till the Chase Sinking he finds: then to the head he springs, With thirst of glory fir’d, and wins the prize. Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career! Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance gaze, Have haply foil’d the turf. See! that old hound, How busily he works, but dares not trust His doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring. Hark! now again the chorus fills. As bells Stilled awhile, at once their peal renew, And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls.

See how they toss, with animated rage Recovering all they lost! That eager haste Some doubling wile foreshows. Ah! yet once more They’re checked—hold back with speed—on either hand They flourish round—ev’n yet persist. ’Tis right; Away they spring; the rustling stubbles bend Beneath the driving storm. How the poor Chase Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduc’d! From brake to brake she flies, and visits all Her well-known haunts, where once she rang’d secure, With love and plenty blest. See! there she goes, She reels along, and by her gait betrays Her inward weakness. See how black she looks! The sweat that clogs th’ obstructed pores scarce leaves A languid scent. And now in open view, See, see, she flies! each eager hound exerts His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve. How quick she turns! their gaping jaws eludes, And yet a moment lives; till, round inclos’d By all the greedy pack, with infant screams She yields her breath, and there reluctant dies! WILLIAM SOMERVILLE, 1692–1742.

A HUNTER’S MATIN.

Up, comrades, up! the morn’s awake Upon the mountain side, The curlew’s wing hath swept the lake, And the deer has left the tangled brake, To drink from the limpid tide.

Up, comrades, up! the mead-lark’s note And the plover’s cry o’er the prairie float; The squirrel he springs from his covert now, To prank it away on the chestnut bough, Where the oriole’s pendent nest, high up, Is rock’d on the swaying trees, While the hum-bird sips from the harebell’s cup, As it bends to the morning breeze.

Up, comrades, up! our shallops grate
Upon the pebbly strand,
And our stalwart hounds impatient wait
To spring from the huntsman’s hand!
CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

A SPORTSMAN OF OLDEN TIME.

I shall conclude this account of the officers of the forest with the singular character of one of them who lived in the times of James I. and Charles I. * * *

The name of this memorable sportsman—for in that character alone was he conspicuous—was Henry Hastings. He was second son to the Earl of Huntingdon, and inherited a good estate in Dorsetshire from his mother. He was one of the keepers of New Forest, and resided in his lodge there during a part of every hunting-season. But his principal residence was at Woodlands, in Dorsetshire, where he had a capital mansion. One of his nearest neighbors was Anthony Cooper, afterward Earl of Shaftesbury. Two men could not be more opposite in their dispositions and pursuits. They seldom saw each other, and their occasional meetings were still more disagreeable to both, from their opposite sentiments in politics. Lord Shaftesbury, who was the younger man, was the survivor; and the following account of Mr. Hastings, which I have somewhat abridged, is said to have been the production of his pen. If Mr. Hastings had been the survivor, and had lived to have seen Lord Shaftesbury one of the infamous ministers of Charles II., he might, with interest, have returned the compliment.

Mr. Hastings was low of stature, but strong and active; of a ruddy complexion, with flaxen hair. His clothes were always of green cloth. His house was of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park, well stocked with deer, rabbits, and fish-ponds. He had a long, narrow bowling-green in it, and used to play with round sand-bowls. Here, too, he had a banqueting-room built, like a stand, in a large tree. He kept all sorts of hounds that ran buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk-perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers; the upper end of it was hung with fox-skins of this and the last year’s killing. Here and there a polecat was intermixed, and hunters’ poles in great abundance. The parlor was a large room, completely furnished in the same style. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels. One or two of the great chairs had litters of cats in them, which were not to be disturbed. Of these, three or four always attended him at dinner, and a little white wand lay by his trencher to defend it if they were too troublesome. In the windows—which were very large—lay his arrows, cross-bows, and other accoutrements. The corners of the room were filled with his best hunting and hawking poles. His oyster-table stood at the lower end of the room, which was in constant use twice a day, all the year round, for he never failed to eat oysters, both

at dinner and supper, with which the neighboring town of Pool supplied him. At the upper end of the room stood a small table with a double desk, one side of which held a church Bible, the other the Book of Martyrs. On different tables in the room lay hawk’s-hoods; bells; old hats, with their crowns thrust in, full of pheasant eggs; tables; dice; cards; and a store of tobacco-pipes. At one end of this room was a door which opened into a closet, where stood bottles of strong beer and wine, which never came out but in single glasses, which was the rule of the house; for he never exceeded himself, nor permitted others to exceed. Answering to this closet was a door into an old chapel—which had been long disused—for devotion: but in the pulpit, at the safest place, was always to be found a cold shin of beef, a venison pasty, a gammon of bacon, or a great apple-pie, with thick crust, well baked. His table cost him not much, though it was good to eat at. His sports supplied all but beef and mutton, except on Fridays, when he had the best of fish. He never wanted a London pudding; and he always sang it in with “My part lies therein—a—.” He drank a glass or two of wine at meals, put syrup of gilliflowers into his sack, and had always a tun-glass of small beer standing by him, which he often stirred about with rosemary. He lived to be an hundred, and never lost his eyesight, nor used spectacles. He got on horseback without help, and rode to the death of the stag till past fourscore.

WILLIAM GILPIN, 1724–1807.

SONNET.

Old Harry Hastings! of thy forest life
How whimsical, how picturesque the charms!
Yet it was sensual! With thy hounds and horn,
How cheerily didst thou salute the morn!
With airy steed didst thou pursue the strife,
Sounding through all the woodland-glades alarms.
Sunk not a dell, and not a thicket grew,
But thy skill’d eye and long experience knew.
The herds were thy acquaintance; antler’d deer
Knew where to trust thy voice, and where to fear;
And through the shadowy oaks of giant size,
Thy bugle could the distant sylvans hear,
And wood-nymphs from their bowery bed would rise,
And echoes dancing round repeat their ecstasies.
SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762–1837.

SONNET.

There is exhilaration in the chase— Not bodily only! Bursting from the woods, Or having climb’d some misty mountain’s height, When on our eyes a glorious prospect opes, With rapture we the golden view embrace: Then worshiping the sun on silver floods, And blazing towers, and spires, and cities bright With his reflected beams; and down the slopes The tumbling torrents; from the forest-mass Of darkness issuing, we with double force Along the gayly-checker’d landscape pass, And, bounding with delight, pursue our course. It is a mingled rapture, and we find The bodily spirit mounting to the mind. SIR EGERTON BRYDGES, 1762–1837.

LINES.

This world a hunting is The prey, poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death; His speedy grayhounds are Lust, sickness, envy, care, Strife that ne’er falls amiss, With all those ills that harm’d us while we breathe. Now if by chance we fly, Of these the eager chase, Old age, with stealing pace, Casts on us his nets, and then we panting die. WILLIAM DRUMMOND, 1585–1649.

]

XXIII.
=Medley.=

ODE.

FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.

How happy in his low degree,
How rich in humble poverty is he,
Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg’d of business, void of strife,
And from the griping scrivener free!
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown
Liv’d men in better ages born,
Who plow’d with oxen of their own
Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets summon him to war,
Nor drums disturb his morning sleep,
Nor knows he merchants’ painful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamors of contentious law,
And court and state, he wisely shuns;
Nor brib’d with hopes, nor dar’d with awe,