^ 
 
•*• 
 
 THE 
 
 
 PLUME; 
 
 A TUFT OF LITERARY FEATHERS. 
 
 By JOHN H. WARLAND. 
 
 " Take ye this Plume of mine, faithful warriors of the cross, who do 
 battle for righteousness and humanity's sake. Its bright feathers shall 
 be tell-tales of my exceeding gladness at your victories— its darker hues 
 shall be symbols of my sorrows if you fall. Whatever fortune betide 
 ye, and light upon your plume, the down of its feathers shall be as the 
 love of my heart for your endeavors and chivalrous bearing in the fight 
 for the cross." — De Lisle to the Crusaders. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 BENJAMIN B. MUSSEY, 
 No. 29 CORNHILL. 
 
 1847. 
 
 * 
 
I £)bo 
 
 I 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, 
 
 By Benjamin Adams, 
 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
 A. B. Kidder, Printer, 7 Cornhill. 
 

 I TO JOSEPH T. BUCKINGHAM, Esq., 
 
 \ THE NESTOR OF THE NEW ENGLAND PRESS, 
 
 < THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 V/nri 8EST1MKNTS OF SINCKKE REGARD AND FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 I BY ONE OF THE YOUNGER MEMBERS 
 
 OF THE EDITORIAL FRATERNITY. 
 
 '^ 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 t 
 
 Dull and plodding, almost to a proverb, as the life of 
 an editor in the country is, there are yet some springs 
 of en oyment open to him which are closed to the more 
 busy actors in the scenes around him. Though buried 
 for weeks, months and years, within his little room, and ; 
 but seldom holding communion with the great world i 
 without, except through his little hebdomedal, he need ; 
 not murmur at his seclusion, if he will but sound the right 
 note upon his heart and his mind. What though his own 
 life present but little incident in itself, calculated to in- 
 terest those who tread the great thoroughfares of the 
 world ? Is he not in a position, if he will but avail himself 
 of it, to become a spectator and recorder of heart-stirring 
 scenes in the lives of others ? Life, indeed, appears to 
 him under a thousand different phases, which pass un- 
 observed by his little family of readers. He is an 
 eye-witness of scenes of absorbing interest, and notes 
 them down while yet fresh in his memory, to become the 
 
 4- 
 
Vi INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 pleasant theme of his thoughts, when he would while 
 away the leisure hours which the pauses in the political 
 storm afford. Thus, in the columns of his paper, he is 
 the politician, the preacher, the sketcher of the times, 
 the biographer and the moralist. He kills off the actors 
 upon the stage of the world under his obituary, and mar- 
 ries them under his hymenial, head. In a word, he walks 
 abroad in his little kingdom, both as king and subject, 
 for while he rules and directs public opinion, he is yet 
 the creature of the same omnipotent sovereign. 
 
 It has been my habit, while seated upon my tripod in 
 the country, to look abroad from the loophole of my 
 retreat upon the busy world without, and note down such 
 < passages in every day life as possessed any interest for a 
 > retired student like myself. As I have been somewhat 
 [ busy in this way, I have quite a collection of shreds and 
 \ patches, prosaics and poetics, some of which I propose to 
 ^ give the public in the same unambitious style in which 
 I they were recorded while fresh in my recollection. It is 
 '/ possible the reader may have seen some of them before. 
 ^ I will not conceal the pleasure which I have felt, at times, 
 ) when 1 have observed sketches that have appeared in 
 I my humble journal, sailing along the newspaporial sea, 
 and travelling even beyond the water to other shores. 
 When I have seen lionored names attached to some of 
 them, I have complained not. I have rather felt gratified 
 that, by attracting more attention, they would do more ^ 
 good than if boine up only by ray own humble name. I < 
 
'^^ 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 would shine in no borrowed plumes, and if they have been 
 feathers in the caps of others, I have been gratified so far 
 as they have touched the heart or imagination in the right 
 spot. But, although several of the articles in this volume 
 may have come under the observation of the reader, he is 
 assured that a la i>e pt rtion of them have never before 
 appeared in print, indeed not one of them all as they are 
 now presented to him. 
 
 As its name imports, this book is a tuft of literary feath- 
 ers, of various shades and colors, the dark ones expres- 
 sive of moments of sorrow, and the bright of those of 
 g\: d less and joy. Happiness and moral purity are the 
 great ends of existence, and if the heart can be made 
 better, cither through a smile or a tear, it is well — all 
 well. So the prize be won, what matters it, how the 
 weapon receive its polish, or with what metal its blade 
 be tempered? The Plume which I here present to the 
 reader, is not itself, it is true, the nodding plume of the 
 warrior, but I may express the hope that it will never be 
 the occasion of nodding in others. I am sure that no 
 feather, which it contains, will be found, when applied to 
 the cheek of delicacy, gentleness and refinement, to raise 
 any other tlian an innocent blush or a praiseworthy emo- 
 tion. 
 
 I must add, however, that there are a few lines in the 
 volume which I wish that I could erase — one brief poeti- 
 cal article, and three stanzas in another of the same class. 
 1 ;im afraid they may give pain in a quarter where I would 
 
 •4- 
 
•*- 
 
 via 
 
 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 be the last to inflict pain. Inasmuch, however, as the 
 secret can be known only to the writer and those who are 
 aimed at, I indulge the hope that this explanation will 
 be received by them as an ample atonement. 
 
 In conclusion, let me observe, that should this volume 
 meet with tolerable success, it will shortly be followed 
 by others of a similar character and tendency. 
 
 4- 
 
 4- 
 
-^ 
 
 ♦^ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Introductory, 5 
 
 The Genius of the Library, 13 
 
 Dream of the Dying Undying One, .... 29 
 
 Times' Day Book and Ledger, 34 
 
 The Butterfly to the Dying Child, ... 53 
 
 To A Miniature, ........... 56 
 
 The Antlers, 57 
 
 ^ ONG OF THE AnGEL OF THE FlOWERS, .... 61 
 
 The Devil among the books, 66 
 
 Voice of the Mountain Brook, 92 
 
 The Missing Star, 94 
 
 The Western Mounds, 96 
 
 Clara Revere, the little Blind Girl, 
 
 (With a Plate,) 99 
 
 Song of the Blind Girl, 107 
 
 The Triumphs of Labor, US 
 
 Lay of the Soldier's Bride, 120 
 
 The Death of Wolfe, 122 
 
 The first Robin of Spring, 123 
 
 A Short Chapter on Long Ears, 126 
 
 Kate and Will, 131 
 
 A Rare Visitor, 135 
 
 Album Verses, 155 
 
 An Essay on Garretts, 159 
 
 Tom Skinflint, 176 
 
 The Loved and Lost, . • 181 
 
 I WOULD not live alway, 182 
 
 The Mother to her first born, ..... 185 
 I have loved thee on earth, may I meet 
 
 thee in heaven, 198 
 
 •4*- 
 
 --^ 
 
•<^— 
 
 -5^ 
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 Thk Orphans, 199 
 
 They say he is another's now, 203 
 
 Mrs. Nicely's System of Economy, .... 206 
 
 April and June, 209 
 
 TrfE Mountaineer, 212 
 
 On Visiting a Grave, 213 
 
 To Mary, 215 
 
 Editorial Comforts, (With a Plate,) .... 218 
 Scene in the Editorial Sanctum, .... 221 
 
 Lines to a Cucumber, 226 
 
 The Small-nosed Man to His Nose, . . • . 229 
 
 A Coterie of Tea-pot Ladies, 236 
 
 The Heart that's true, 240 
 
 Answer to the Old Arm Chair, 241 
 
 A Thanksgiving Editorial, 243 
 
 The New-Englander abroad at thought of 
 
 HIS Thanksgiving Home, 252 
 
 To Sybil, 255 
 
 The Ice-King and the King of the Thaw, . 257 
 
 The Royal Duett, 260 
 
 The Boblink, 267 
 
 to one who cannot understand it, .... 270 
 
 Come, Brothers, Come! 272 
 
 A Glimpse of the Sweet-Named, 273 
 
 Ditto seen through Glasses, 275 
 
 ascutney, 276 
 
 A VERY Clever Fellow, But — 279 
 
 The Teazle Family, 284 
 
 Temperance Hymn, 290 
 
 Chronicle of the Bennington Gun, . . . 292 
 Do. Chapter H. ......... 299 
 
 The Star in the East, 308 
 
 ,4- 
 
THE PLUME. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 
 
 One cold, dreaiy, and drizzly afternoon in au- 
 tumn, some years ago, I found myself in one of 
 the proudest cities of the old world, threading its 
 circuitous streets and alleys, with the view of pass- 
 ing the remainder of an exceedingly uncomfortable 
 day in one of the largest libraries of Europe. I 
 was led to this place more from curiosity than any 
 other motive, and determined for the time to shut 
 out the noise and turmoil of the world. "Let it 
 rain, blow, and drizzle," said I to myself, "let 
 the clouds gather above, and the sky become low- 
 ering and dark; here, at least, within this sanctu- 
 ary of great and good minds, it shall be all bright 
 sunshine to a weary traveler like myself." The 
 shadows of evenino^ were fallino- thick and fast, much 
 earlier than usual, and I feared that I should not i 
 be able to look into any of the numerous volumes I 
 before candle-light. As soon, however, as the li- | 
 brarian had pointed me to an old arm-chair, which, i 
 
 2 I 
 
I 
 
 14 THE PLUME. 
 
 from its dimensions, might have held a fat abbot 
 and three or four spare and lean monks, I took an 
 old, musty, cobweb-covered folio from a shelf, and, 
 seating myself in the farthest alcove of the apart- 
 ment, was soon lost in deciphering its strange and 
 antique characters. The volume was written by 
 one of those patient scholars, and sharp contro- 
 versialists in metaphysics, who wielded their pens 
 against false systems of philosophy, whose names 
 have now passed away, or are known only to the 
 student, and whom it is the fashion for modern 
 writers of the same school to decry, as having 
 added nothing to the sum of human knowledge. 
 I insensibly found myself giving utterance to my 
 thouofhts, now in the languao-e of the old, and al- 
 most forgotten philosopher, and now in my own. 
 
 "Yes! true it is, old Patriarch! thou sayest 
 well! Miserable — miserable, indeed, should we 
 be, if what thy antagonist asserts were true. Let 
 not the world contemn thee and thy host of follow- 
 ers, who consumed their days and nights in bat- 
 tling it with those vain sophists, who think death 
 puts an end to our spiritual as well as our physical 
 being. Thou hast fought the battle manfully and 
 well ! 'Mid all this ocean of words, sharp and 
 keen though they be, thou hast fathomed the 
 depths of the soul, and, diving into the heart of 
 man, hast brought up that imperishable jewel — 
 Truth. The mind die ! The soul suffer annihila- 
 
 
 ^ 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 
 
 tion! Well dost thou write, 'AH nature cries out 
 against it!' Well dost thou say to thy opponent, 
 ' Thou art thyself a refutation of what thou dost 
 aver.' The demigods of the heathen world, the 
 sages and philosophers of a remote age, ay, and 
 the untutored child that roams the wilderness, have 
 \ embraced, as it were by intuition, what thou in thy ^ 
 blindness wilt not grasp, although the morning- 
 star of Revelation has beamed upon thy vision. 
 Plato, Socrates, and Cicero knew the glorious 
 truth — and thou, vain reasoner, deniest it ! The 
 thousand rushing waters of the earth make it the 
 burthen of their ever-rolling anthem. The birds 
 at morn and eve proclaim it with their sweetest 
 sono-. It comes to us on the wings of the breeze, 
 in the air, and it is written in undying lines 
 upon the blue sky above us. Every living thing 
 sends back a thrilling response to the involuntary 
 exclamation that comes from the hearts of myriads 
 of human beings — 'We live hereafter!' And 
 who art thou, pretender to wisdom! that proclaim- 
 est thyself a light in a dark age, and wouldst teach 
 the nations of the earth that they will die, and go, 
 with no torch to light them, to their tomb — with 
 no ray to illumine the darkness and make bright 
 the path onward to Eternity? Canst thou shut 
 out the light that every thing sends to thee? Life 
 hereafter! If Reason unfolded the glorious truth 
 to a few of the mighty ones of the heathen world. 
 
16 THE PLUME. 
 
 to the Hindoo, as well as to the Grecian and Ro- 
 man sage, thinkest thou to sit in thy dark cell and 
 persuade man that it is all a dazzling dream? 
 Open thine ears to the glad tidings that are break- 
 ing the shackles which have kept the mind so long 
 in bondage. Hearken to that burst of praise and 
 song, which will sound in the remotest corners of 
 the earth! Away! vain sophist! Know'est thou 
 not that the Creator would not suffer the sublime 
 Truth, which thou art assailing, to die away, or 
 be hid by all the subtleties which thou and thy dis- 
 ciples can weave around it? Look! the light of 
 Revelation is sending its beams into the darkest 
 cell, and writing the golden truth upon its walls! 
 Open thine eyes, then, curious, but misnamed 
 Reasoner ! Its radiance is streaming from a 
 thousand points, and showing the world every film 
 of thy fine-spun and unsubstantial subtleties. 
 Rise up, shake off thy false philosophy, and em- 
 brace the Truth ere thou dost die! " 
 
 Thus, in almost the language of one of those 
 controversialists of the middle ages, to whom I 
 have alluded, did I involuntarily give utterance to 
 ray thoughts. There are subjects, that will for a 
 time lock up the senses, and make the man a mere 
 passive being. Among them are those themes, the 
 grandest that dwell upon our lips, which concern 
 our immortal destinies, and have the power of 
 curbing and guiding the thoughts in unison with 
 
 4- 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 17 
 
 them, and making the will their slave. So it was 
 with me, as I was following this old reasoner, 
 whose words at once went to the heart, and buried 
 themselves in the inmost recesses of the mind. 
 My eyes were fixed, absorbed as I was in thought, 
 upon something, indistinct in the distance and twi- 
 light, at the farthest side of the library, with an in- 
 tensity and earnestness of gaze like that of Ham- 
 let, when, for the first time, the semblance of his 
 father comes" upon his vision. A sound like the 
 sliding of folding-doors came to my ears; the al- 
 coves widened and grew larger, expanding and 
 spreading away as far as the eye could reach, as 
 if obeying the potent touch of a magician's wand. 
 The volumes, also, seemed to increase in size, and 
 the names upon their backs appeared as if seen 
 through a magnifying glass, glowing and sparkling 
 as if written with fire. At different points be- 
 tween the two longest sides of the apartment, 
 were placed, on marble pedestals as white as snow, 
 the sculptured forms of the Muses, and of some of 
 those mighty ones whom nations have delighted to 
 honor. And, above all, I was struck with a rep- 
 resentation of Fame, bearing in one hand a white 
 scroll, and raising with the other a trump to her 
 breathing lips. These forms seemed instinct with 
 life, as they gazed with rapture and admiration up- 
 on the immortal volumes around them; and, as a 
 
 I mellow and golden light diffused itself around upon | 
 
 I 2* I 
 
18 THE PLUME. 
 
 the various objects, the whole scene realized my 
 conception of the magnificence of a fairy palace in 
 eastern romance. 
 
 As I sat musing and wondering at the novelty 
 of the scene, I for the first time observed that a 
 figure was approaching me from the farthest side 
 of the apartment. He bore an old parchment vol- 
 ume under his arm, and leaned upon something 
 that resembled an enchanter's wand. His dress 
 was in the fashion of a remote age, over which was 
 carelessly thrown a loose, flowing mantle. Al- 
 though his beard was long and white, and he was 
 arrayed in garments that might give one of thirty 
 the appearance of fourscore, yet, tottering as he 
 was, and leaning now and then upon his wand, 
 there was a youthfulness and vigor in his whole 
 appearance, and a fire in his eye, which old age, 
 with its silver locks and crutch, but rarely exhib- 
 its. I took him for some one of those, who are in 
 the habit of passing their days in the libraries of 
 Europe — one of those venerable scholars of which 
 the country affords so many, who ponder for years 
 over the red-letter folios of a by-gone age, and 
 seem coeval with the volumes they study — to 
 whom Time has forgotten to issue his summons. 
 I was about to rise to offer him the old arm-chair, 
 but he waved his hand that I should keep my seat. 
 "You seem," said I, "to be one who may have 
 seen this immense library growing up, volume af- 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 19 J 
 
 ter volume, under your eye, and may have num- 
 bered among your personal friends many who have 
 recorded their names upon the scroll of Fame." 
 
 "Ay! you may say that," replied the figure; 
 "centuries have gone by since the first volume \ 
 was placed here, and 1 was by to record its name. 
 It is this which I hold in my hand. I have seen 
 generations pass away and m.en grow old, but I — 
 1 grow younger as Time rolls over my head. My 
 home is in this Library — this "monument of ban- 
 ished minds." I imparted to Faust and his co-work- 
 ers the first idea of that invention which has im- 
 mortalized their names, and wrought such a won- 
 derful change in the condition of the world. 1 was 
 with Caxton and Wynkin de Worde, in England; 
 I rescued many volumes from the fire at Alexan- 
 dria, and searched into monastic cells and monas- 
 teries, for the precious manuscripts, upon which 
 the poor monks, in their blind zeal, copied out 
 their missals. You see around you the result of 
 my labors. I am the guardian of the place — the 
 Genius of the Library. 
 
 My thoughts went back to the period he men- 
 tioned; and, as my imagination followed him in 
 his sublime undertaking, I could not help reflect- 
 ing upon the toil and suffering, the anxious days 
 and niofhts to which the countless volumes around 
 us had given birth. 
 
 "What hours of pain and suffering," I ex- 
 
20 THE PLUMB. 
 
 claimed, *' have been passed in the composition of 
 these ponderous tomes ! But what a bahn to many 
 a wounded spirit have they afforded ! The lonely 
 student has pored over the volumes with aching 
 eyes and a breaking heart. He pressed not his pil- 
 low by night, and the blessed beams of the morn- 
 ins brought no refreshment to his burningj brow. 
 And all this for Fame — to be read and remembered 
 when the eloquent lip is mute, and the heart can 
 ache and beat no longer. Fame ! thou art a daz- 
 zling, splendid cheat ! Thou makest fools of the 
 wise and gray-headed. We grasp at thee, but 
 thou art not there. Thou whisperest to the young, 
 and they see a Paradise beyond, which is still be- 
 yond, the farther the youthful aspirant travels up- 
 on the road. How few are the springs upon the 
 way-side, where he may stoop and cool his parched 
 lip. Thou lurest us on, making our existence ap- 
 pear a splendid dream, promising us that happi- 
 ness, which we might acquire from more lasting 
 and substantial things. And then, how much 
 greater the fall — how much more bitter the dis- 
 appointment I Why should we follow and pant 
 after thee up the hill whither thou wouldst lead us.'* 
 What is there in living in the memory of men, 
 ages after we have mouldered in the dust, that we 
 should so thirst and long for it? Vain, vain is it 
 all ! Our own minds and hearts contain the only 
 true and unfailing springs of happiness in this 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 21 
 
 '/ world. That men should not discover these foun- 
 tains and drink deep at them, that, — when they 
 know they may be summoned from the earth and 
 all they hold dear in it, the next day, the next 
 hour, ay, or the next moment — they should be so 
 thoughtless of that other hereafter, is one of those 
 mysteries which no knowledge of human nature or 
 of man's constitution can solve. Why then this 
 passion for Fame — this longing to be remembered 
 when we no longer exist, if we are regardless of 
 what we are to be when Time shall be no more I 
 Why listen with rapture to the strokes of Time, 
 and heed not the peals of Eternity? " 
 
 " Solemn and true are thy last words; but man! 
 despise not, nor contemn Fame and worldly glory. 
 Despise her not, when she would linger around 
 the grave of Genius. See her here as she stands; 
 read the names that she has enrolled there. Wor- 
 ship her, and she will sound thy name to the re- 
 motest spot on the earth. Open some of the vol- 
 umes that you see before you. Here are the 
 works of one who never dreamed of being known 
 to an after age; who, though dead, yet liveth, to 
 instruct and enlighten mankind. There are the 
 unfinished volumes of another, who thought to be 
 welcome to the highest seat in the Temple of Fame, 
 from whose mass of chaff not three particles of 
 wheat can be gathered. Well have you painted 
 the life of many a student of the olden time, whom 
 
 -♦^ 
 
4- 
 
 [ 22 THE PLUME. 
 
 I have found wrapt in bright visions, that were 
 never to be realized, when I knocked at his hum- 
 ble door. True! it cannot be denied! How many 
 bitter disappointments and heart-aches has the 
 poor, care-worn scholar endured, with the hope of 
 having his name registered upon the roll of the 
 Undying Ones! 1 see him now in his cell, poring 
 over the huge volume by the midnight taper — the 
 hectic flush upon his cheek, and the wild glare of 
 the mind diseased in his eye. Morning dawns, 
 and finds the poor, exhausted scholar, wrapt in 
 earnestness upon the magic page, or putting down 
 thoughts that he fain would believe will never die. 
 See him, pale and flushed, lift his bright eye from 
 the page, wondering if it be not all a dream. But 
 Fame hails him on at a distance, sounds her trum- 
 pet in his ears, clear, full, and loud, beckoning 
 him onward to the dazzling prize. He clasps his 
 hands in rapture — the lamp burns dim, and dim- 
 mer — the characters before him become blurred 
 and unintelligible — the light flickers up — goes 
 out — and the poor fame-cheated student dies un- 
 known and unpitied in his smoken cell. But has 
 he not known such moments of happiness as belong 
 rather to the condition of angels than mortals ? He 
 thirsted for an immortality on earth, and lost the 
 prize. Think not, therefore, his life was all pain 
 and anxiety. He died, believing his name would 
 be cherished forever. Fame cannot be insured 
 
 4-' 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 23 
 
 during the short pilgrimage of her devotee. But 
 is there not the hope she inspires, the joy she dif- 
 fuses, the anticipation and the bracing up of the 
 energies of the mind which it occasions? These 
 jgreate a rapture and enthusiasm, an excitement 
 and activity in the mind and soul, which no charm 
 of wealth and beauty can equal. Did I not hear 
 you but a moment ago commenting upon that sub- 
 lime truth, 'The soul shall never die?' What 
 cunning sprite held your powers in subjection, 
 that you did not see that the desire to be remem- 
 bered when you are no more — that this very aspi- 
 ration is one of the strongest proofs that you will in- 
 deed live on, when the world is crumbled to atoms?" 
 "I acknowledge it; but the mere existence of 
 this thirst for Fame, proves not that she is a 
 praiseworthy object of pursuit. Why should we 
 fret these curious pieces of divine workmanship, 
 which enclose a gem that no diamond in the cav- 
 erns of the earth can outshine in splendor? WHiy 
 should we wear out these frail caskets, only that 
 this jewel may send forth a beam upon our grave- 
 stones when we are gone, — to show our names 
 to the world, and tell it that we once lived? " 
 
 "Man, you are in error. Think you that the 
 martyrs of learning, whose immortal works are 
 around us, enjoyed no happiness, while exerting 
 their god-like energies to gain a place upon the 
 1 scroll of Fame? " 
 
•4^ 
 
 24 THE PLUME. 
 
 " Martyrs of learning! venerable sir! the bare 
 expression carries with it the best comment upon 
 what you would urge. That great minds, who 
 have stood forth, the lights of their age, and worn 
 out their powers in poring over the lore of antiqui- 
 ty, that they might re-produce it under a more at- 
 tractive form, may have experienced moments of 
 such happiness, as falls not to the lot of others, is, 
 — nay, must be true; for happiness is the birth- 
 right of the mind, which it cannot lose, while ra- 
 tionally exercising its own powers, whatever the 
 ultimate object at which it would grasp. But that 
 they, who have done all, endured all, and risked 
 all, only that they might be remembered when they 
 are no more, have been as happy as the more de- 
 vout sons of men, whose names were never sound- 
 ed by the trump of fame, is a position, which these 
 oracles of wisdom, could they speak, would neither 
 approve nor confirm." 
 
 '* To you 1 appeal," he exclaimed, " ye speech- 
 less interpreters of the mind! What joy did not 
 they feel, who sent you into the world, when Fame 
 whispered her call into their ears, dearer, even, 
 than the song of the nightingale to the poet of the 
 east, sweeter than his lute to the ravished ear 
 of his bride! What happiness was there in the 
 wide world, like that which they knew, when the 
 Muse touched their lips with the fire of inspiration.'' 
 What was the fevered brow, the burning cheek, — 
 
 •^- 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 25 
 
 ay, or the pale lip, to the thought of the glorious 
 hereafter on earth? Ye passed away from the 
 earth, poets, philosophers, and sages, from whose 
 lips thousands of your disciples drank in divine 
 wisdom, sitting at your feet in the hall, and in 
 the grove by the hallowed stream. Ye passed 
 away, but I have borne the offspring of your 
 minds along the stream of Time, and you now en- 
 joy what your untiring spirits thirsted for, while 
 your venerable forms were yet on the earth. And 
 so shall it ever be! Wherever the foot of man 
 has trod, wherever a name is spoken with praise 
 and admiration, there shall your own immortal 
 ones be sounded too. I call you to witness, mute 
 oracles of wisdom! that they who breathed into 
 you the breath of life, felt, in their moments of 
 inspiration, such happiness as all the allurements 
 and charms of the world cannot bestow. When 
 their perishable frames would have yielded to de- 
 cay and suffering, the heavenly spark within still 
 burned on bright, sending its rays through the fee- 
 ble tenement that enshrined it, giving it joy and 
 vitality, and lighting up with smiles the cheeks of 
 millions, whose very existence, but for you, would 
 have been a burthen." 
 
 He pointed, as he spake, to the volumes in the 
 alcove, in which I was sitting, and I could have 
 listened to him forever, so impassioned and earnest 
 was his manner. I hung upon his lips, and drank 
 
 J 3 
 
26 THE PLUME. 
 
 in their sounds, as if eloquence had steeped them 
 in her honied words. He spoke with an energy 
 also, that I looked not for in one of his years. A 
 heavenly radiance streamed along the room, and 
 lit up the countenances of the sculptured forms be- 
 fore us with celestial smiles. He wrought up my 
 feelings to such a degree, that methought I could 
 see the philosophers and poets of another age, 
 whom he invoked, coming on at his summons, to 
 respond to his heart-stirring appeal, 
 
 "True! true!" I exclaimed, catching a portion 
 of his enthusiasm; "true it is, nothing can equal 
 the happiness of that mind, which exercises its 
 powers for the noblest ends, fulfilling its own high 
 destinies, and creating joy and love wherever its 
 aspirations are breathed, or its influence is felt. 
 Let this be done, — then welcome. Fame ! Wel- 
 come, with your smiles and tears, your joys and 
 your sorrows! Welcome to the student's burning 
 and fevered brow, as the morning dews to the ex- 
 panding rose, or the evening breeze to the flushed 
 cheek in midsummer, that is wafted from the bow- 
 ers of some paradise beyond." 
 
 "I have roved the earth for centuries," he re- 
 plied; " I have seen the rich man luxuriating in 
 all that wealth could give, and the man of rank 
 making the suppliant knee bend before him. I 
 have seen Beauty, splendid and dazzling, draw 
 murmurs of rapturous applause from the lips of ad- 
 
 ♦i^- 
 
THE GENIUS OF THE LIBRARY. 27 
 
 miring thousands. But I have seen but one sight 
 so godlike as the scholar, who trims his midnight 
 lamp in his lonely cell, living for the good of oth- 
 ers, and therefore best answering the ends of his 
 own being, and thirsting for a lasting and imperish- 
 able name among men. There is one sight, upon 
 which I have gazed with equal, if not greater ad- 
 miration: it is the unlettered and unknown child 
 of adversity, who binds up the wounds of his 
 bruised heart with the holy balm of religion, who 
 looks into the Book of Books, for support in the 
 dark and trying hour, when he is called to suf- 
 fer unmerited reproach, whose every action is 
 done under a feeling of responsibility to his God, 
 and whose eye beams up with hope and joy, as it 
 looks through the dark vista of Time to the bright 
 and glorious prize of immortality beyond. When 
 the hour comes — and come it will — that Fame 
 will be but the herald of immortality, and her as- 
 pirant mounts up with his thoughts yet beyond the 
 earth to the golden portals of heaven, then, in- 
 deed, the sum of human perfection will be attained. 
 This is the object of my mission, — then my hour 
 will come, my task be ended, and the wand fall 
 from the hand that has wielded it for centuries." 
 
 ** Angel of bliss ! I will henceforth follow thee 
 to the ends of the earth ! I will take heed to thy 
 words as they fall from thy divine lips. Fame! 
 thou art no longer a dream, glittering and beck- 
 
28 THE PLUME. 
 
 oningj but to deceive. For thy smiles my heart 
 thirsts, and all my happiness is centred in thee ! 
 Henceforth what is wisdom, what is goodness or 
 virtue, but thy breath and thy smile! I risk my 
 all of hope, here and hereafter, upon thee! Oth- 
 ers have taken thee to their bosom as a bride — -I 
 would be cherished in thine as a child." 
 
 The Genius of the Library waved his wand, and 
 a vision burst upon my eyes like that of some fairy 
 palace in an enchanted grotto. Streams were 
 seen at a distance, sparkling and beaming in the 
 light, on whose banks the Muses reclined, playing 
 upon their harps and lyres. Birds warbled their 
 sweetest notes in the trees that waved upon the 
 borders of the stream. The alcoves had expand- 
 ed and spread away into brilliant columns of gold 
 and jasper, and the myriads of books, which they 
 once contained, were seen in the hands of the liv- 
 ing and breathing forms who composed them — re- 
 clining beneath the shade of the trees, or walking, 
 in countless multitudes, along the paths that led 
 to the bowers of the muses, leading their disciples 
 by the hand. Nearer stood Fame, bright as an 
 angel, extending her scroll, containing in golden 
 characters the names of her worshipers. I was 
 about to record my name among the rest, as she 
 greeted me with her radiant smile; but the Genius 
 pointed back through a long vista, which I had not 
 seen before, where men seemed to be plodding 
 
DREAM OF THE DYING UNDYING ONE. 29 
 
 and toiling for gain, rubbing the sweat from their 
 brow, and striving for that splendid and deceptive 
 bauble — wealth. 
 
 "Go back!" said he; " go back to the world; 
 you must be tried still longer — and if you are not 
 wanting to yourself, then welcome to our retreat. 
 But, man! remember that all your fond desires to 
 be remembered and applauded among men are 
 nought, unless they are akin to, and spring from, 
 still nobler aspirations for immortality beyond the 
 grave." 
 
 So saying, he waved his wand once more, the 
 scene shifted, and I was left alone in the Library. 
 
 DREAM OF THE DYING UNDFING ONE. 
 
 Pale bends the student o'er the page, 
 
 Within his solitary cell, 
 Like one entranced, and heedeth not 
 
 The deep stroke of the midnight bell. 
 The summer breeze, with lip of love, 
 
 His wan and sunken cheeks doth kiss; 
 But not eve's soft, delicious breath, 
 
 Can woo him from his dreams of bliss ; 
 It parts the locks with sweet caress. 
 
 Upon his hot and aching brow, 
 But ah ! with all its wealth of balm, 
 
 It brings no life or healing now. 
 3* 
 
30 THE PLUME. 
 
 Burneth the student's lamp more dim — 
 
 He throws the magic volume by, 
 And turns, as if some vision bright 
 
 Had caught and chained his eagle eye. 
 Sweet smiles are playing round those lips. 
 
 Once eloquent, now silent, pale ; 
 And see ! hot tears his cheeks have wet, 
 
 And told the feeble scholar's tale. 
 O say, what sprite or conjuror 
 
 Hath stole into the dreamer's cell, 
 Who thus can charm his eye away 
 
 From the old book he loves so well ? 
 Why those bright smiles ? 
 
 Has Love, young Love, 
 
 Revealed her dazzling form this hour, 
 Or lulled his ear with witching song, 
 
 Spell-bound his thoughts with cunning power ? 
 Has Poesy, with magic glass. 
 
 Called forms from other worlds than this ? 
 And are his smiles sweet signals given. 
 
 To meet them in their bowers of bliss ? 
 Or buried is the scholar's mind 
 
 Far within the shadowy Past, 
 Where Fame, upon her sculptured urn 
 
 First rose to sound her trumpet blast? 
 Rove with the godlike Socrates 
 
 His thoughts, or Plato the divine — 
 In Academia's hallowed shades. 
 
 His heart gray Wisdom's holy shrine ? 
 Where Eloquence lit up her fires. 
 
 And young Philosophy her page 
 
DREAM OF THE DYING UNDYING ONE. 31 
 
 Unrolled, to spread the glorious truth — 
 
 To beam upon an after age — 
 " o man, thy soul shall never die 
 
 The light within thee ne'er expire." 
 Or is the Muse the scholar's lip 
 
 Touching with Inspiration's fire ? 
 Breathes she such golden, burning thoughts, 
 
 The birthright of a soul like his, 
 As waking with a giant's strength, 
 
 From her long sleep of centuries, 
 The godlike mind creates, when far 
 
 Where Nature's mysteries are hid, 
 Glances her eagle-eye through Time, 
 
 The dews of ages on its lid ? 
 Or wrapt in glorious vision there. 
 
 Sees he the form of young Romance, 
 With golden scarf and silken plume. 
 
 Keeping all bright her hero's lance ? 
 Whispers she words so magical. 
 
 To lure him, care-worn, from his cell, 
 To the red field of bright renown. 
 
 To hear Death peal the warrior's knell — 
 To listen to the minstrel's song 
 
 Of Love and Chivalry — and see 
 Young Beauty, with her jewelled zone. 
 
 Sweep by in pride, then bend the knee 
 And weep above the moss-grown stone, 
 
 That marks her hero's, lover's grave, 
 Where once she heard his bugle-note. 
 
 And saw his silken banner wave. 
 Tell me, gray reader of the mind. 
 
 Who solv'st its riddles, thoughts sublime, — 
 
-^ 
 
 32 THE PLUME. 
 
 Dreams he of these, these visions bright, 
 At this still, lonely, midnight time? 
 
 That thus his soul, this blessed hour, 
 No calm mid all its calmness knows, 
 
 Nor thirsts he for the magic page. 
 Nor seeks his pillow's sweet repose ? 
 
 No ! — Fame's enchanting trump hath pealed 
 
 Upon his ear her stirring theme, 
 Such as no lore of deep Philosophy, 
 
 Young, budding Love's first, witching dream • 
 Poesy, that with young Romance 
 
 To Beauty's ear her legend tells. 
 Can bring from all their wondrous stores, 
 
 Or summon with their magic spells. 
 Scholar entranced ! O, dost thou see 
 
 Fame's radiant vision passing near ? 
 Dost hear her, as she stoops to bless, 
 
 And chant a welcome in thine ear ? 
 
 " Young student, live, when eloquence 
 
 JVo more shall linger on those lips, 
 When those bright eyes shall close in deaths 
 
 And pale in their long, last eclipse ; 
 When mouldering lies, as lie it must, 
 
 Thy godlike form beneath the sod, 
 And on her heaven-born wings thy soul. 
 
 Pure one ! soars upward to thy God. 
 Live ! live ! till Time shall be no more, 
 
 And Fame drops her recording pen ; 
 lAve, till Eternity begins. 
 
 And angels take it up again ! " 
 
 -H^ 
 
DREAM OF THE DYING UNDYING ONE. 
 
 H^ 
 
 33 
 
 "Bride of my soul ! " — his pale lips part — 
 
 "Sweet as to summer rose the dew, 
 Thy voice comes to my spirit now; 
 
 O, peal thy silver trump anew ! 
 Thy music on my ravished ear 
 
 Falls, like the strains of bards, whose lyres, 
 Still trembling with entrancing songs, 
 
 Wake in all hearts their purer fires." 
 
 Upon the walls of that lone cell, 
 
 Lo ! rays celestial burst and stream, 
 Writing in golden characters. 
 
 Fulfillment of his glorious dream — 
 A name that ne'er shall die — and Fame, 
 
 Of that poor scholar's world the queen. 
 Stands by — on her undying scroll 
 
 Blazons it bright, and smiles serene. 
 
 The vision passed. O, can it be 
 
 A dream, wild phantom of the brain ? 
 And will he wake, to struggle on 
 
 With Penury, and Want, and Pain ? 
 Sweet Night, star-lit and beautiful ! 
 
 Not thee the dying scholar greets: 
 His broken heart, no breeze of thine 
 
 Can heal, with all its wealth of sweets. 
 No mother's tear, no sweet bride's kiss 
 
 Doth bless him, in his humble home ; 
 God help thee now ! No loved one bends 
 
 Above thee in thy martyrdom. 
 Awake ! awake ! 
 
34 THE PLUME. 
 
 Thy dream is o'er ! 
 And Toil and Want their work have done ; 
 Thy book thy only pillow is, 
 Poor dying, yet undying one ! 
 
 His pale lips close — his hands are clasped — 
 And burns the dim light still more dim; 
 
 Nothing within the wide, wide world, 
 Hath joy or sorrow more for him. 
 
 He dies ! — his spirit's eye upturned 
 Still bright to its celestial goal — 
 
 He dies ! He dies ! — 
 
 Nor knew that Fame 
 His own name blazoned on her scroll! 
 
 TIME'S DAY-BOOK AND LEDGER. 
 
 Ah! Time! old gray-beard! take a chair — 
 
 And pray be seated, where you are — 
 
 No nearer, if you please. Let's see 
 
 How matters stand 'twixt you and me. — Old Song. 
 
 As I was sitting in my chamber, before a com- 
 fortable fire, one cold, snappish afternoon, not long 
 ago, I insensibly fell into that state of mental and 
 bodily stupor, quite common with fat gentlemen 
 after dinner, when one is puzzled to tell whether 
 he is asleep or awake. I seemed to be vibrating 
 
 •f 
 
•^ 
 
 TIME S DAY-BOOK AND LEDGER. 
 
 35 
 
 between two indistinct, indefinite sources of enjoy- 
 ment, if I may so speak, but could grasp at neith- 
 er. It had been a hard day among merchants, and 
 was no time for money to be lying idle. A note in 
 hand was worth two in the pocket. Many, as full 
 as a soaked sponge in the morning, were wrung 
 dry by night. I was blessing- my stars that I was 
 too poor to be one of these — for there are times 
 when a man may thank God for his poverty as well 
 as his riches — and looking over the bills and ac- 
 counts, with which my table was covered, of every 
 description, from demands for the clothes that cov- 
 ered my body and the books that ministered to my 
 mind, down to those for the oats upon which my 
 horse was dining in the stable. They were all 
 paid and receipted in due form, and it was with a 
 sincerity and gratitude, which few Avere in a situa- 
 tion to experience, that, after having tied them with 
 red tape into bundles, I exclaimed, aloud, "Thank 
 God! I am rid of duns! " 
 
 " Not so fast, not so fast, Mr. Snooks ! " said a 
 gruff voice behind me. 
 
 My jaw fell, my hair rose, and I felt an inex- 
 pressible terror at turning my head either to the 
 right or left. 
 
 "Not so fast, not so fast, Mr. Snooks!" con- 
 tinued the same terrific and horrible voice, in a 
 long-drawn tone, — "Thank God, if you will, when 
 you are rid oi me! " 
 
 '4*- 
 
 •^ 
 
♦^H- 
 
 36 THE PLUME. 
 
 My curtains were drawn, and the room almost 
 dark; and, as I turned my head towards the door 
 — Heavens! what an unearthly object met my 
 gaze! A figure of small size had entered the 
 room and was still in some kind of motion. He 
 neither knocked nor passed the customary saluta- 
 tion. The vision was too indistinct in the dark- 
 ness for me accurately to ascertain his dress, even 
 if my amazement would have permitted; but he 
 seemed to be clothed in tatters of a dark and 
 shadowy hue, mouldering, decaying, and filmy as 
 cobwebs, as if he had just arisen from one of the 
 catacombs of the Nile, after a sleep of three thou- 
 sand years. He was bent almost double, and 
 wore a long and bushy beard, as white as snow, that 
 trailed upon the floor. The lower part of his body 
 seemed encased in something like bronze, and his 
 sandals seemed of iron, or adamant; and yet he 
 moved as light as a fawn. I thought I discovered 
 something like wings, at his sides; but what sur- 
 prised me more than any thing, was, that he bore 
 on his back two immense parchment-covered and 
 iron-clasped folios, nearly as large as the door, and 
 almost half as thick as they were long. How this 
 strange figure found his way into my chamber, I 
 know not, for certain I am that the door was locked 
 on the inside; and how he moved about with his 
 huge burden without upsetting every thing, is a 
 mystery, of which I felt no disposition to attempt a 
 
 -4- 
 
TIME S DAY-BOOK AND LEDGER. 
 
 37 
 
 solution. As I sat gazing and wondering, tramp, 
 tramp, he went about the room, keeping his sharp 
 eyes turned upon me all the while, as if they would 
 wither me with their unearthly gaze; and, point- 
 ing with his finger to the huge volemes, beneath 
 which he was bending, on the back of which 1 be- 
 held, for the first time, in large characters, the 
 words — Day-Book and Ledger. His counte- 
 nance, or what I could see of it, wore so severe 
 and forbidding an expression, as to defy all at- 
 tempts at speech. He still pointed to his burthen, 
 and, as I fancied, was narrowing the distance be- 
 tween us. "Pray, sir," said I, attempting to turn 
 my eyes from his, and speaking in an almost inau- 
 dible voice — "May I ask your name, and busi- 
 ness? " "Name!" said he, and he was nearly a 
 minute pronouncing the word — "Name! I have 
 as many different names as there are nations on 
 the earth, — ay, as there are men in those nations, 
 or hairs upon your head. I have been called 
 Chronos, Tempus, and a million other names; but 
 I am best known to you as Time — call me Time. 
 My business you will find by opening these books;" 
 and he unpacked the folios from his back, and laid 
 them on the floor. I had a very little recovered 
 myself, but felt no more like doing business than 
 I should after having had a tumble down the cata- 
 ract of Niagara. I fancied I could feel his cold 
 and withering breath as he spoke, and I felt chilled 
 4 
 
 •<^- 
 
38 THE PLUME. 
 
 to my very bones. Time ! thought I. My God! 
 is it possible? I could not think or talk straight. 
 I could not put two ideas together, even if 1 had 
 possessed them at the moment. I spoke as if full 
 of courage, but I cowered and trembled in his 
 presence. 
 
 "Pray — sir — Mr. — Time — pray, take a chair. 
 I — I did not know that you had any demands 
 against me." 
 
 I felt the big drops of sweat, cold as I was, 
 trickle from my forehead. 
 
 "Time — t-i-m-e ! Has 7ny time cornel ^^ I 
 asked, breathing to myself. 
 
 "I never stop. Stop! why should I — when I 
 have millions to overtake? You, vain mortals, 
 think to outstrip me in the race. You think to run 
 away from me as from a bailiff or a dun. But hide 
 where you will, I will be there too; and if my ac- 
 counts and my reckonings are not heeded, before 
 I bring them all to the earth — to the cold prison- 
 house of the tomb — let them look io it hereafter 
 — ay, hereafter.''^ I shuddered, as his trembling 
 voice dwelt on the last words, as if they were in- 
 tended to carry a terrible import to the soul. 
 
 "Here," he continued, pointing to the ponder- 
 ous volumes with some glittering, flashing instru- 
 ment that I had not beheld before — " here is your 
 account. Look over my books, and see that it is 
 right. I must be off. I have many debts to col- 
 
 •4^ 
 
4- 
 
 time's day-book and ledger. 39 
 
 lect. I shall call at four ; we must then have a 
 settlement, and well will it be for you if I am in 
 your debt. I must be gone — and yet," he con- 
 tinued, drawing nearer, " I shall be with you when 
 you think I am gone. Remember, at four ! " 
 
 As he spoke, he pointed to my watch, on the ta- 
 ble, which told the hour of two; but, as he pro- 
 nounced the word four, the hands moved in a sec- 
 ond to the hour of four, and immediately moved 
 back again to two. I saw him not. He was gone ; 
 and yet I feared he was there. I saw him not; 
 but methought 1 heard him in the room. 
 
 All this was done in so strange and mysterious 
 a manner, and this unearthly visitant took me so 
 completely by surprise, that it was some moments 
 before I could recollect where 1 was. As I cast 
 my eyes upon the decaying embers of the fire, 
 strange and uncouth forms rose there upon my 
 vision, flickered and disappeared — symbols of my 
 hopes, my prospects, and my resolutions, "Has 
 my time come?" I asked myself I seemed to 
 have no control over my will, my thoughts, or my 
 very movements. Terrors innumerable flitted be- 
 fore my mind, and despair seemed to have settled 
 upon my soul. The world was shut out from my 
 thoughts, and I seemed to myself for a moment to 
 be the only creature in existence. As my eyes 
 wandered here and there, they rested upon the old 
 mirror. I looked the image of stupor and amaze- 
 
40 THE PLUME. 
 
 ment. My hair stood out like bristles; my eyes 
 were wild and unsteady, and my tongue hung out 
 of my open mouth like a dog's, panting after the 
 hot chase is ended. But O ! as the dying tire illu- 
 mined different points around me, the books, the 
 curtains, and the walls, it fell brightly upon the 
 name of one volume, and seemed to light it up with 
 such a glory as riveted my gaze, long and stead- 
 fast. 1 saw written, in golden letters, upon the 
 opposite wall, the words — The Holy Bible! A 
 ray of heavenly hope and joy darted into my soul. 
 A thought of heaven rose up from the unsettled 
 and troubled musings of my mind, and gleamed 
 over them like a ray from God's throne, bearing 
 order, joy, and confidence upon its wings. Long 
 did my eyes rest upon those golden words; and 
 quick as the broken heart drinks in consolation 
 and hope from the lips of eloquent wisdom and di- 
 vine communion, did the founts of all that is good 
 in me open, and administer life to my thirsty soul. 
 What springs, which the cares of the world had 
 almost locked up, were unsealed, and now gushed 
 up in this hour of lost hope ! How the troubles of 
 the moment and the sadness of the hour press down 
 both soul and body, unless the clear and hidden 
 springs of goodness in the heart have been fed and 
 filled up, day after day, and year after year, by the 
 sweet and gentle rains and dews of heaven! 
 
 *' Yes! " said I, as my thoughts began insensi- 
 
.•^ 
 
 time's day-book and ledger. 41 
 
 bly to speak forth; "yes, true it is — Religion is 
 the pure and undying beacon-flame of the soul, that 
 can alone guide the mariner over the waters of life 
 safely to heaven and to his God! " 
 
 My watch pointed to the hour of three. Was 
 this strange being in the room, watching my mo- 
 tions, and prying into my thoughts? I looked not 
 to ascertain, for 1 cared not. I was re-assured 
 with confidence; but it was a confidence as differ- 
 ent from that which I felt before the appearance 
 of my visiter, as the ray of the diamond from that 
 of an expiring taper. Still his repeated "Not so 
 fast — not so fast! thank God, if you will, when 
 you are rid of me!" rung like a warning note of 
 alarm in my ears. I proceeded to look over the 
 Day-Book, which opened at my touch as easily as 
 if it had been instinct with life and anticipated my 
 wishes. As well acquainted as business had made 
 me with books for many years, yet I confess there 
 was somethino; so ludicrous to me in the idea of 
 making people Debtors and Creditors of Time, 
 that my gravity would frequently relax into a smile. 
 And then the various items that were put down in 
 the books were done in so mercantile a fashion, 
 and yet, withal, sounded so oddly to my ears, that 
 I began at first to make a jest of what was in good 
 truth no very jesting matter. Most of the charac- 
 ters were so blurred and worn, and written in so 
 many tongues, dead and living, forgotten and re- 
 
 4 * 
 
 ■f 
 
•^ 
 
 42 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 membered, that it would have required the pres- 
 ence of a representative of every age and nation, 
 that ever existed, to have rendered all the contents 
 of these folios perfectly intelligible. I had the rep- 
 utation in my younger days of being a very respec- 
 table linguist; but there were thousands of words 
 before me, at reading which I made a dead stand. 
 In the Day-Book were put down all the favors that 
 Time had granted to individuals — each minute, 
 hour, day, week, and year of their existence; and 
 O! what a fearful array of these was written 
 against the names of some ! The accounts of those 
 who were dead were crossed by two large and full 
 black lines. Noah was made debtor for being 
 carried in the ark safely over the waters. There 
 were to be seen the names of Socrates, Plato, and 
 Aristotle, made debtors to sundry opportunities, 
 and credited for wisdom; Cleopatra made debtor 
 for BEAUTY, with hardly an item to her credit. 
 There were the names of kings and their para- 
 mours; priests and their wives; cardinals with 
 their favorites; queens, mistresses, and maids; 
 knights, squires, and gentlemen of every degree; 
 warriors, and the historians who recorded their 
 names on their pages; poets, popes, and poltroons; 
 tavern-keepers, duns, and lawyers; actors, in- 
 triguers, and prime-ministers, — some made debt- 
 ors for success in battle; some, success in love; 
 some, success in politics; some for health, riches, 
 
 •<^' 
 
TIMK's UAY-BOOK and LKl;GER. 43 
 
 children, and so on, from the alpha to the omega 
 of the hook. I very hastily ran ovei- the Day- 
 Book, hut remember that I was struck with the 
 idea, that Faust was not the first book-maker, if 
 he was the first type setter. The contents of the 
 Ledirer were more startlinsf to ex.amiiie ; for here 
 the creditor and debtor sides were wiitten out to- 
 gether, and a balance struck in most cases either 
 in favor of or ajjainst the name of individuals. 
 Here I observed that credit was civen to great 
 names, which the world had slandered and abused; 
 and here, too, the balance was struck against 
 some, who are heroes on the pages of history. So 
 different, thought 1, is the estimation placed upon 
 them by Time and the age in which they flourished. 
 Few are great who are not the objects of this topsy- 
 turvy reputation. Fame is an idle jade, that will 
 wag her tongue to a man's injury as well as to his 
 glory; and the dishonor, whether momentary or 
 lasting, that she suffers to tarnish the names of the 
 great, during some part of the period, in which they 
 are on the lips of men, is but the penalty which 
 they are compelled to pay for their greatness. 
 "Ah! virtue is the being upon which we may alone 
 securely rest our affections, and at whose breath 
 dishonor melts away, when she advances to settle 
 upon her votary," 1 exclaimed, as I read over the 
 names of martyrs, and of those meek sufferers who 
 endured all things for the Gospel of Peace. 
 
44 THE PLUME. 
 
 I turned with fear to my own account in the 
 Ledger, for it was growing late, and began to look 
 over the various items, wondering and absorbed 
 in thought. I observed that no balance was 
 struck. "Pray Heaven," I exclaimed, ''that I 
 may get rid of this dun as easily as others." 
 
 " Well, well! to business. I cannot wait!" ex- 
 claimed the figure behind me, though I was not 
 aware of his approach. " No nearer! if you 
 please," said I, as 1 saw him approaching and 
 shaking his white head almost in my face — " No 
 nearer! It wants a quarter to four, by my 
 watch." "It is four! I alone have the true 
 time," said the figure. "Come! Mr. Snooks, I 
 have waited long enough; let us wind up our af- 
 fairs ! I must turn over a new leaf for you in my 
 books." I was not now so completely deprived of 
 all presence of mind as before; but look him 
 straight in the face I dared not. How he moved 
 I know not ; but that he was constantly in motion, 
 though I could not now perceive it, as I thought I 
 could upon his first appearance, I am as certain as 
 of my own existence; for turn my eyes which way 
 I would, they were sure to light upon his moulder- 
 ing, unearthly garments, or upon his sallow, 
 bronze-looking countenance. If my glances shift- 
 ed with the rapidity of thought, they were sure to 
 meet his fixed and settled gaze. 
 
 "Millions have been summoned to their last ac- 
 
TIMk's day-book and LEDGEIt. 45 
 
 count," said he, in a solemn voice, *' since I laid 
 my books before you. 1 have tiaveled over the 
 universe since then; and yet, 1 have not been ab- 
 sent from your chamber. 1 possess the power of 
 ubiquity. Millions have been sunnnoned awav, — 
 ay, and millions have sprung into being, whose 
 names are to be written in niy books, and whose 
 accounts this day begin." 
 
 As he spoke, 1 gazed upon him with an earnest- 
 ness that, to an observer, would have proved the 
 power which he had over me. Indeed, 1 felt my 
 interest in the old gentleman increasing each mo- 
 ment, and began to desire that our interview mijzht, 
 by some possibility, be prolonged. All fear that 
 my account was to be settled forever, and that his 
 books were to be closed against me forever, had 
 vanished, upon listening to his woids and looking 
 into his Ledger. 1 had not, therefoie, at present, 
 that dread and stupor upon me, which I have men- 
 tioned as having seized me, when the idea flashed 
 upon my mind, that at four I was to he sutnninned 
 from time into eternity. No! my thread (»f life 
 was to be spun on still farther, and not snapped in 
 twain at the very next stroke of 'lime. 1 there- 
 fore addressed my visiter, as one with whom I 
 stood well, and whose favor 1 was desirous of se- 
 curinor. 
 
 *' At any moment you please," I said, " I will 
 look over your Ledger with you. 1 am young, 
 
■¥■ 
 
 46 THE PLUME. 
 
 though my years are almost as many as are allot- 
 ted to man, — and you, sir, must be old. May 1 
 hope that so aged a creditor will not be hard with 
 one whose years are but a point to his?" 
 
 " As you are ready, I will not press the matter. 
 Others would have reason to thank God, if they, 
 also, could say they were ready, when I call. 
 Old! call you me? Ay ! when the Almighty spoke 
 creation into birth, I was there. Then was I 
 born. Mid the bloom and verdure of Paradise, I 
 gazed upon the young world, radiant with celes- 
 tial smiles. I rose upon the pinions of the first 
 morn, and caught the sweet dew-drops as they 
 fell, and sparkled on the bowers of the garden. 
 Ere the foot of man was heard sounding; in this 
 wilderness, 1 gazed out upon its thousand rivers, 
 flashing in light, and reflecting the broad sun, like 
 a thousand jewels, upon their bosoms. The cata- 
 racts sent up their anthems in these solitudes, and 
 none was here to listen to the new-born melody 
 but I! The fawns bounded over the hills, and 
 drank at the limpid streams, ages before an arm 
 was raised to injure or make them afraid. For 
 thousands of years the morning star rose in beauty 
 upon these unpeopled shores, and its twin-sister 
 of the eve flamed in the forehead of the sky, with 
 no eye to admire their rays but mine. Ay ! call 
 me old. Babylon and Assyria, Palmyra and 
 Thebes, rose, flourished, and fell, — and I beheld 
 
 4- 
 
time's day-book and ledger. 47 r 
 
 [ 
 
 them in their glory and their decline. Scarce a 
 melancholy ruin marks the place of their exist- 
 ence; but when their first stones were laid in the 
 earth, I was there! Mid all their glory, splendor, 
 and wickedness, I was in their busy streets, and 
 crumbling their magnificent piles and their gor- 
 geous palaces to the earth. My books will show 
 a long and fearful account against them. I con- 
 trol the fate of empires, — I give them their period 
 of glory and splendor; but, at their birth, I con- 
 ceal in them the seeds of death and decay. They 
 must go down, and be humbled in the dust, — 
 their proud heads bowed down before the risino- 
 glories of young nations, to whose prosperity there 
 will also come a date, and a day of decline. I 
 poise my wing over the earth, and watch the 
 course and doings of its inhabitants. I call up the 
 violets upon the hills, and crumble the gray ruins 
 to the ground. I am the agent of a Higher Pow- 
 er, to give life and to take it away. I spread silk- 
 en tresses upon the brow of the young, and plant 
 gray hairs on the head of the aged man. Dim- 
 ples and smiles, at my bidding, lurk around the 
 lips of the innocent child, and I furrow the brow ; 
 of age with wrinkles. Old, call you me? ay, but < 
 when will my days be numbered? When will \ 
 Time end, and Eternity begin? When will the \ 
 earth and its waters — the universe be rolled up, \ 
 and a new world commence its revolutions? Not \ 
 
•*• 
 
 48 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 till He, who first bid me begin my flight, so orders 
 it. When His purposes, who called me into be- 
 infr, are accomplished, then, and not till then, — 
 and no one can proclaim the hour, — I too shall 
 go to the place of all living." 
 
 His manner and voice were so different from 
 any thing I had before observed while speaking, 
 that, lor a moment, 1 gazed upon his venerable 
 form with wonder and admiration. As he finished, 
 he called my thoughts back to myself, by point- 
 inty, in the Oj en Ledger, to the different items that 
 made up my account. My name was written in 
 startling characters; and, with all my confidence, 
 1 trembled to add up the debit and credit sides, 
 lest the balance should go against me. Who ever 
 had a bill presented, th^t he did not question its 
 correctness in some part? Not I. I looked over 
 the account, making observations as I proceeded, 
 as I would have done in any case, and asking 
 questions that were promptly answered. There 
 were thousands of items for which I was made 
 debtor to him, of this kind — "Dr. to Time for 
 opportunity," and I was glad to observe that 1 
 was, in most cases, credited for improving them. 
 
 •' What," said I, *' here is an item for which I 
 am made debtor, and which has but little credit 
 against it, — item, gray hairs." 
 
 "Why should you be credited," he replied, 
 " by more than a single mite of true wisdom.'* " 
 
time's day-book and ledger. 49 
 
 "Have I not learned knowledge of the world? 
 Have I not learned the uselessness and vanity of 
 all worldly things? What, but these gray hairs, 
 for which I am fairly your debtor, has given me 
 this knowledge, and taught me to raise my thoughts 
 from earth to heaven, the only abode of true hap- 
 piness ? Have I not seen the faults and errors of 
 others, and profited by them? Have I not avoid- 
 ed the paths in which they have been lost? Have 
 not their losses proved my gain, and shall I have 
 no credit therefor? You have given me gray 
 hairs; but you have taken from me the soft locks 
 of innocent youth. If I am gray, I have seen 
 trouble, — and is the lesson I have learned to be 
 of no use to me? Have others profited as well by 
 their white locks, as I have by mine? Are not 
 some gray-headed men old in vice? " 
 
 " Every gray hair upon your head should have 
 brought you wisdom, instead of but one in a hun- 
 dred. You have had lessons set before you, but 
 have failed always to draw that improvement and 
 instruction from them, which alone are the foun- 
 dation of true wisdom. I robbed you of your 
 youthful locks, but it was that you might be ma- 
 tured in mind. Rely upon your own powers, and 
 lean not for support upon the falling bodies of oth- 
 ers? " 
 
 "Ay, but is it no merit in me that I have avoid- 
 ed the errors into which others have fallen, and 
 5 
 
> 
 
 50 THE PLUME. 
 
 though my loss is not their gain, individually con- 
 sidered, yet is it not to be accounted the greater 
 merit to have gone right, where so many have 
 gone wrong? " 
 
 "True, Man! in that you have shown wisdom, 
 and for that I have given you ample credit, as you 
 observe. Yet, wisdom is so costly and precious 
 a jewel, that but a ray sent forth from it out-shines 
 all the concentrated beams of pride and worldly 
 lory. You have passed through troubles, and 
 your spirit has not been broken down, but in the is- 
 sue elevated and exalted. If every opportunity, for 
 which you are my debtor, has not been improved 
 as it might have been — yet you have done well, 
 though others may have done better. Moments 
 have been lost, and you must have been more than 
 mortal not to have suffered some to pass by unim- 
 proved; and fortunate is it for you at this hour 
 that these were in your more juvenile days." 
 
 " You took from me the wife of my bosom — O! 
 what can I have gained by that loss.'' " 
 
 " I gave her to thee, and I took her away. So 
 far, we are even. But you have been the gainer. 
 Look! have I not passed much to your credit on 
 that score? Were not your thoughts, before I 
 called her away, centred on the earth, and did I not 
 raise them to heaven? What possession of earth, 
 though but little inferior in beauty to angels, will 
 you weigh against an inheritance in the realms of 
 
time's day-book and ledger. 51 
 
 bliss, Avhere you will again meet your partner? I 
 stole her from your bosom, it is true; but did I not 
 plant principles there, which have since sprung up 
 and imparted a new existence to your soul — prin- 
 ciples that will outlive the perishing tabernacle of 
 clay which encloses them? Sorrow you have 
 known by this bereavement; but you came forth 
 from the trial like gold from the furnace." 
 
 "But you might have spared my only boy, just 
 budding into loveliness and beauty?" 
 
 "Blame not my actions; I do the will of One 
 higher than us all. He was cut down ere the 
 temptations of the world lured him astray from the 
 paths of virtue — ere the blast of its impurities had 
 sullied his pure spirit. You are a gainer by these 
 losses, and I have given you much credit in my 
 Ledoer on their account." 
 
 "You have temptations innumerable against 
 me; — it is like lending me false coin." 
 
 "Yes! " he replied, "and you may be thank- 
 ful that you have resisted so many of them — and 
 enabled me to give you so much credit therefor. 
 They are no base coin, but the true touchstones 
 of the soul — the tests of its purity. In resisting 
 these consists true merit — in such curbings of the 
 spirit, in such checking of the weak part of your 
 nature, you have come off conqueror many times 
 and oft, and in this have shown yourself superior 
 to thousands who have borne the names of philos- 
 
52 THE PLUME. 
 
 ophers and sages. I have given you chances to 
 err, but you turned away from them; and, instead 
 of you being my debtor, I have become yours. 
 True greatness consists as much in avoiding er- 
 rors, that have been committed by men since the 
 world began, as in doing great actions." 
 
 "You took from me all my fortune — the accu- 
 mulated earnings of years of toil, labor, and suf- 
 fering." 
 
 "Suffering! Honor not with that name the 
 rubs which you get in the war for riches. You 
 were reduced from affluence to poverty: was not 
 your soul wrapped up in the love of gain? Were 
 not riches your god — your idol? Did you not 
 often take from others, that you might enrich your- 
 self? I gave you an opportunity to learn a lesson 
 of prudence and wisdom; but it passed by unim- 
 proved. You went on, from day to day, adding 
 to your almost exhausted stock — and had I not 
 taken from you what was dearer even than life, 
 you would now tremble at my account against 
 you." 
 
 " I am content," I exclaimed; "you have dealt 
 fairly with me. Strike the balance; if it goes 
 against me, I am undone — the fault be at my own 
 door! " 
 
 "It is done ! — I thought it not ; I am your debt- 
 or to a very small amount! " 
 I "/ then am the Dun! Pray, take your own 
 
-H^ 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY TO THE DYING CHILD. 53 
 
 time, — if you please; pass the balance to my 
 credit on the new page." 
 
 "No! I must begin again square. Here is my 
 note, payable in Eternity. When presented, I 
 will be there to take it up. It is for a small sum; 
 but by the time it becomes due, when you, and the 
 nation of which you are a part, are no more, it will 
 be trebled, billions of times, and out-value all the 
 possessions of this world." 
 
 So saying, he shut up his Day-Book and Ledg- 
 er, clasped and shouldered them, and vanished 
 like a ghost at twilight." 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY TO THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 [ The incident, in which the subjoined lines had their origin, 
 conveys to the heart one of those beautiful and touching lessons, 
 which are sometimes vouchsafed to us, as if to remind us of the 
 close and sisterly communion which exists between the inno- 
 cent child upon earth and the spirits of the better land. Their 
 eloquent teachings will not be lost, if they reconcile parents to the 
 early loss of the little cherubs, who are, as it were, loaned them 
 but for a season, and admonish them not to mourn too bitterly the 
 return of a wandering child of heaven to its celestial home. A few 
 days before the illness of the little one, to whom reference is had, 
 says the writer of the obituary, a butterfly, very large, and of sin- 
 gular beauty, was found hovering in the room where she was at 
 play, quite fascinating her with its graceful motions and brilliant 
 colors, and after being several times thrust out, flying back at last, 
 and resting on the infant's forehead. For a moment, the beauti- 
 ful insect remained there, expanding its brilliant wings, to the 
 5* 
 
 ♦^ 
 
•^- 
 
 54 THE PLUME. 
 
 great delight of the child, then suddenly, as if it had accomplished 
 its purpose, took its departure, and was soon out of sight. The 
 child sickened ; and, again, but a few hours before her death, the 
 butterfly was seen fluttering and seeking entrance at the window 
 of her chamber. It matters not, to our faith, whether, as the in- 
 nocent superstition of another land would tell us, there was a mes- 
 sage thus borne from the holy world, that this young life was 
 needed there, and must be taken away. But at least, while we 
 remember that this frail insect is the emblem not only of a fleeting 
 existence, but of a resurrection from a narrow and humble life to 
 a higher and a brighter, we may find in the incident an illustration 
 that shall teach us the Christian lesson which can never reach 
 us too powerfully ; — that the spirit, of which we witness the first 
 unfolding here, has a freer and nobler expansion in a home where 
 our love, though not our care, can follow it.] 
 
 Sweet child ! but yesterday — 
 When the glad breeze swept o'er the summer lawn — 
 How blithely thou didst chase me, far away, 
 
 Fleet as the bounding fawn. 
 E'en now I hear thy joyous laugh ring out — 
 I see thy smile, as thou dost trip about. 
 
 " I'll have thee ! " — thou didst sing, 
 As my gay pinions lured thee from the door — 
 " Light now upon my hand, bright, tiny thing ! 
 
 And roam the fields no more." 
 With mirth worn out, thou slept beneath the tree, 
 And I watched thee, dreaming of heaven and rae. 
 
 Sweet was thy slumber, child ! 
 Upon that mossy couch — oh ! sweet thy dream, 
 I lit upon thy sunny brow ; as honey wild 
 
 Thy breath was sweet, or thyme. 
 
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE DYING CHILD. 55 
 
 "Father, who art in heaven" — thy lips did part, 
 As thine infant prayer came gushing from thy lieart. 
 
 But the cold damp of earth 
 Shaded thy spirit, — chilled thy little hand. 
 They bore thee to thy home — no more thy mirth, 
 
 Jewel of the little band ! 
 Flashed from thy lip, thine eye. Thy mother's breast 
 Thy dying pillow is — thy home of rest ! 
 
 There, sweet child ! reposing, 
 I guard thee now. I come, ere thou dost die, 
 To mark the beauty of thine eye, just closing. 
 
 And catch that last sweet sigh. 
 I loved thy mirth, but, dying, more, oh, more, 
 That cherub smile thy lips that lingers o'er. 
 
 From shrub to floweret driven. 
 Like thee, I've roamed the fields, nor dreamed of earth, 
 My brilliant wings have fanned the air of heaven ; 
 
 I watched thy gentle birth 
 In the bright realms of bliss. To lead thee right, 
 I took the form most lovely to thy sight. 
 
 But thou art summoned home ! 
 And I, thine angel, wait to bear thee back ; 
 Thy gentle spirit I receive. Sweet child, come! 
 
 See, on our homeward track 
 Angels' smiles are beaming. See ! near the Throne, 
 The sainted spirits welcome thee, loved one. 
 
 Hark ! thy last breath and sighs 
 Upon thy mother's bosom ! Thou dost but sleep, 
 And shalt awake asfain in Paradise. 
 
 '♦4« 
 
56 THE PLUME. 
 
 Then who, oh who, would weep ? 
 Rise! rise! my wings shall bear thy spirit on — 
 To earth a child is lost — to heaven a cherub won ! 
 
 The moss rose, near thy bed, 
 Is mine, emblem of one so pure and fair ; 
 Its leaves now shrink, its stalk is dying — dead! 
 
 And scarce it scents the air. 
 Thy vital spark, sweet child, is linked with it, 
 As dies the rose — thy soul doth homeward flit. 
 
 Come home, oh spirit dear ! 
 I've watched thy budding bloom, I've caught thy sigh, 
 Thy jocund laugh upon my wings, to bear 
 
 As an offering on high. 
 And noAv, my mission done, I soar away, 
 To bathe my pinions in celestial day. 
 
 TO A MINIATURE. 
 
 Eyes that have seen thee, lady, say thou art 
 Lovely in feature as in mind and heart; 
 If so, — no smile of thine e'er beamed on me, — 
 
 Zephyrs be laden with my love to thee ! 
 
 Angels guard thee in thy virgin bloom. 
 
 Thy slumbers bless, and from theii* wings perfume 
 Ever shed o'er thee, in thy young love's dreams. 
 
 Though we have never met, in thee, it seems 
 
 As if the idol of my heart I meet ; 
 
-•*• 
 
 THE ANTLERS. 57 
 
 Go on thy happy way — Heaven bless that sweet, 
 Innocent face, and angel mien of thine, 
 
 Lingering near me, as if they once were mine ; 
 
 Each day, like doves, some sweeter charm or grace, 
 Sliall nestle in thy heart and thy sweet face. 
 
 THE ANTLERS. 
 
 [ In a beautiful dllage, some forty miles from Boston, is a pair of 
 antlers fastened to a post, once a flourishing tree, at the intersec- 
 tion of tAVo roads. They were placed there many years ago, by 
 an Indian Chief, one of the last of his tribe, who had pursued the 
 deer from sunset till sunrise the next morning, and finally shot 
 her a few yards distant from the tree on the bank of the rivsr, 
 just as she had leaped in, almost exhausted and unable to fly, from 
 the fatigue of the chase. Tradition also says that his own bones 
 were laid beneath the tree upon which he fastened her antlers.] 
 
 It was one broad and green domain. 
 
 Which white man's foot had never trod ; 
 No pilgrim's blood had flowed, to stain 
 
 The verdure of the wind-kissed sod. 
 The giant oaks their branches swung, 
 
 To winds that swept through forest aisles ; 
 The Indian lurked the trees among, 
 
 Or crept along the rock defiles, 
 And narrow paths wound through the Avood, 
 Where here and there a wigwam stood. 
 The black duck, on his glossy wing, 
 
 Sailed the calm blue water over. 
 And o'er the marsh in airy ring, 
 
4^- 
 
 58 THE PLUME. 
 
 Wheeled, at morn and eve, the plover. 
 Along the green and lovely lawn 
 
 Bounded forth most playfully. 
 To river's brink, the agile fawn, 
 
 To bathe her graceful limbs, as free 
 As if she feared no arroAv true 
 Would harm her in those waters blue. 
 The partridge, from her covert green. 
 
 Led forth her gay and chirping brood. 
 And there the rabbit shy was seen 
 
 Upon her form ; the solitude 
 Of verdant plain and woodland hill 
 
 Was yet unbroken by the tread 
 Of busy man ; as silent, still. 
 
 As some lone city of the dead — 
 Save when the eagle, from his warm 
 
 And beetling eyrie from on high, 
 Bade proud defiance to the storm. 
 
 And screamed his notes in loud reply ; 
 Or when the Indian war-song, heard. 
 Aroused from his high perch, the bird, 
 Or wild beast from his noon-day lair, 
 To cower in fright and terror there. 
 
 Young morning's lids are opening now. 
 
 Upon that lawn, with dewdrops wet. 
 And all the mountain's rocky brow 
 
 Sparkles, as if with jewels set. 
 The sunlight streams along the sky, 
 
 And fragrant dell, and dancing river; 
 On dewy lawn and oak-tree high 
 
 Its golden light is seen to quiver, 
 
THE ANTLERS. 59 
 
 O'er every shrub the radiance stealing ; 
 
 And as the leaves upon the trees 
 In the first breath of morning stir, 
 
 The landscape far beyond revealing, 
 The scene is like some paradise, 
 
 Than earthly garden lovelier. 
 
 Lo ! panting by that silver stream. 
 
 The antlered faAvn is standing now ; 
 All night — since his last setting beam 
 
 The sun threw on that mountain's brow, 
 And eve's dim shadows came — no green 
 
 Retreat had she to cool her breast ; 
 The Indian on her track hath been. 
 
 Giving no peaceful evening rest. 
 She pants — those nimble limbs, whose spring 
 Was rapid as the lightning's wing. 
 No longer bound o'er hill and dale, 
 As wafts the hunter's cry the gale ; 
 Full many a mile, o'er wood and plain, 
 As morn night's veil doth lift again. 
 The foot-prints on the dewy grass 
 Are seen, where that fleet fawn did pass ; 
 And at the moonlit brook and rill, 
 The hunter close upon her still. 
 Is her light track, ere she did spring, 
 Then hear far back their waters sing. 
 As she bounds on through grassy dell, 
 Whose sweet retreats she knows so well, 
 She stops not, for the Indian's tread 
 Nearer is heard, and now hath sped 
 His bolt from out the leafy trees, 
 
60 THE PLUME. 
 
 While she far off snuffs in the breeze ; 
 O'er hill and plain, with rapid pace 
 Bounding, she finds no resting-place, 
 Till now, as drinking the cool wave. 
 She fears the current's might to brave ; 
 And what but weariness could keep 
 
 Her limbs chained to that fatal place — 
 From trusting to the rushing deep 
 
 Her form of loveliness and grace ? 
 She dreads into its whirling flood 
 
 To plunge once more to reach the plain, 
 Lest the winged arrow with her blood 
 
 The silver-leaping tide should stain. 
 Why turns her eye to woodland glen ? 
 Why start at rustling leaves, as when 
 The wild beast rushes from his lair, 
 To spring upon his victim there ? 
 Hears she the Indian on his path, 
 
 Creeping along with stealthy tread. 
 The well-known sound that warning hath. 
 
 And draws the arrow to its head ? 
 
 One plunge 
 
 That arrow cuts the air, 
 And quivers in its victim there, 
 Drinking the life-blood from her breast ; 
 And ere the hunter's foot hath pressed 
 The river's bank, that fawn hath died. 
 Mingling her warm blood with the tide. 
 
 But many years have fled since then. 
 And white men's feet have trod that glen. 
 Many an autumn, on that plain, 
 
SONG OF THE ANGEL OF THE FLOWERS. 61 \ 
 
 The harvest ripe of golden grain 
 Has been garnered, and that stream, 
 From dawn till day's last golden beam, 
 Has borne upon its silver tide 
 Many a noble ship in pride, 
 Where red men, in their light canoe, 
 Shot swiftly o'er those waters blue. 
 Now not a relic of the race 
 Is seen upon that lovely place, 
 Save when the ploughman, with his spade. 
 Turns up a bone where they were laid. 
 Beneath yon tree is mouldering now 
 His noble frame, who drew that bow; 
 Above his grave on that sweet laAvn, 
 Hang the broad antlers of the fawn ; 
 But not a deer upon the green 
 And blooming forest-fields is seen ; 
 They're gone ; — the hunter and his game 
 From woodland path — their fate the same. 
 
 SONG OF THE ANGEL OF THE FLOAVERS. 
 
 Sung^ at the Horticultural Festival, in Boston, September 16, 1842. ; 
 
 I rose mid Eden's virgin bowers, 
 
 And caught upon my wings 
 Your rosy tints, celestial flowers ! 
 
 That bloomed beside her springs. 
 The golden sun his new-born light, 
 
 Shed through the perfumed air ; 
 No foot but mine, at morn or night, 
 
 Did press the flower-cups there ; 
 G 
 
62 THE PLUME. 
 
 And morning's dew-drops, as they fell, ; 
 
 And sparkled in her bowers, \ 
 
 Imaged, in each bright and tiny cell, > 
 
 The Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 And thou, sweet bird of Paradise ! | 
 
 Dancing from spray to spray. 
 Who, in the soft and silver light, > 
 
 * Singest the livelong day — | 
 
 Thou wooedst me, with thy strain of love, \ 
 
 From flowery laAvn to hill, | 
 
 And to my song — as wreaths I wove — 
 
 Gay danced each laughing rill. \ 
 
 Thy music, on the freighted breeze, \ 
 
 That kissed th' Elysian bowers. 
 Entranced, amid young Eden's trees, 
 
 The Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 And when, in that enchanting hour, 
 
 I saw thee soar away, 
 I rose with thee from Eden's bower, 
 
 Into celestial day : 
 I flew o'er earth, her flowers to cull. 
 
 And sighed for Eden's bliss, 
 Among the bright and beautiful 
 
 Whose cheeks the soft winds kiss ; 
 Sailing on the delicious breeze, 
 
 I heard them in their bowers ; 
 
 * *' Joyous the birds, fresh gales and gentle airs 
 
 Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings 
 
 They rose, flung odors from the spicy shrub, 
 
 Disputing till the amorous bird of night, 
 
 Sung spousal." — Paradise Lost. I 
 
) 
 
 SONG OF THE ANGEL OF THE FLOWERS. 63 
 
 Each daughter hailed, beneath the trees, 
 The Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 And as we sung a sad adieu 
 
 To our sweet Eden clime — 
 I heard angelic voices chant 
 
 A farewell song, sublime. 
 I saw them wave their hands, and lean 
 
 Upon their harps the while ; 
 I wept — as closed the golden gates. 
 
 Upon their heavenly smile ; 
 I turned away, and on my wings 
 
 Caught the light of Eden's bowers, 
 And far I heard their farewell chant, 
 
 To the Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 Downward to earth I winged my way, 
 
 And wooed the laughinof sfirls, — 
 I wove my roses in their cheeks, 
 
 Their lips and sunny curls. 
 The lily's white, the rose's blush — 
 
 I wove them into one ; 
 I braided in their hair the flush 
 
 Of the golden, setting sun. 
 Me pressing, till our hearts were one, 
 
 They sung, those blissful hours ; 
 And pledged their love foreverraore. 
 
 To the Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 I saw one take her bridal vow, 
 
 A rose upon her breast — 
 She blushed, as to her bosom's shrine 
 
 Her lover's hand she pressed. 
 
64 THE PLUME. 
 
 I marked the graceful creature's tear, 
 
 As she gave her heart away, 
 And crushed, in that embrace, the rose 
 
 Upon her breast that lay. 
 Its fragrance breathed from her sweet lips, 
 
 As she kissed him in her bowers, 
 And welcomed to their green retreat. 
 
 The Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 Another, in her radiant bloom, 
 
 I watched upon the green, — 
 She bent above the church-yard tomb. 
 
 And wept for one within. 
 She plucked the moss-rose from her breast, 
 
 And placed it on his bier — 
 And, as her low-voiced prayer she breathed, 
 
 I caught that mother's tear. 
 But, as she turned in grief away, 
 
 And sought her cypress bowers, 
 She touched her lute, in plaintive strain, 
 
 To the Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 I saw a rosy child at play. 
 
 His laughing dimples hid 
 Beneath his silken curls, — his eyes. 
 
 Like jewels of Giamschid. 
 He chased the gorgeous butterfly 
 
 From fragrant shrub to tree — 
 He plucked the wild rose from its stalk, 
 
 And laughed with boyish glee ; 
 The rose no thorn shall bear for him. 
 
 In youth's unclouded hours — \ 
 
 I 
 
SONG OF THE ANGEL OF THE FLOWERS. 65 
 
 She fanned the cherub with her wing, — 
 Sweet Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 And oh! amid that lovely throng, 
 
 Two sisters, in sweet glee, 
 Were singing, as they tripped along 
 
 O'er blooming lawn and lea. 
 They plucked the daisy in their path. 
 
 The violet from its bed. 
 And strewed them where a brother lay, 
 
 To rest his aching head. 
 He kissed them for the grateful boon — 
 
 So sweet in his sick hours. 
 And bade them cling, with sister's love, 
 
 To the Angel of the Flowers. 
 
 I gazed at Beauty, as she sighed. 
 
 And left her jewelled throne. 
 To twine gay roses mid the pearls 
 
 That clasped her virgin zone. 
 Q,ueen-like she trod — her fairy feet 
 
 Tripping to songs of mirth ; 
 The south wind dallied with her cheeks, 
 
 Bright creature of the earth ! 
 I pressed her lily hand in mine. 
 
 As we sought the rosy bowers, 
 I breathed my perfumes to her lips, 
 And Woman, since, herself hath been 
 
 The Angel of the Flowers.* 
 
 * This song supposes that, at the creation of Eden, the guardianship 
 
 of its flowers, — tliey being, as it were, the very breath of heaven, — 
 
 was entrusted to a special angel. While watching them, she is lured 
 
 from her bowers by the "amorous descant" of one of the golden- 
 
 6* 
 
'^. 
 
 66 THE PLUME. 
 
 THE DEYIL AMONG THE BOORS. 
 
 "In faith, a resurrection of the damned 
 
 And mouldering volumes buried in the dust ; 
 
 They do move and talk like those who made them — 
 
 And the brain's offspring as gently roar you 
 
 As sucking calf or bleating sheep, whose hides 
 
 Are laid upon their backs, encasing them, 
 
 On which are gilded their baptismal names," — OldPlarj. 
 
 In one of the principal streets of a great me- 
 tropolis, whose borders enclose many a beautiful 
 form and patriotic heart, and whose environs, 
 graced with all that is lovely and enchanting in 
 the natural world, have been long consecrated by 
 deeds of valor and undying fame, there might have 
 
 plumaged warblers with which Milton has peopled the garden of Para- 
 dise. Flying over the earth, she gazes upon all the most beautiful and 
 lovely visions which it presents. The young bride, wreathed with bridal 
 flowers — the weeping mother, who casts a rose into the coffin other de- 
 parted spouse — the sisters, who scatter flowers in the sick room of their 
 brother — the sporting child, who plucks the wild rose in his play — all 
 these win her love and admiration ; but it is not until the personification 
 of all that is beautiful and lovely in woman presents itself to her vision, 
 that she is enticed to touch her foot upon the earth. The An^el of the 
 flowers no sooner presses her perfumed lips to those of the dazzling 
 Beauty, and clasps her lily hand in her own, than the celestial visitant 
 vanishes into the ambrosial perfume that freights the air. From that mo- 
 ment woman herself takes the shape of the departing angel, and becomes 
 the special guardian of the flowers. Hence her peculiar and beautiful 
 fondness for the cultivation of flowers in every path through lite in which 
 she may be called to walk. The idea is original, at least, if not poetical ; 
 and, if pursued at length, could hardly fail, in the hands of a true poet, to 
 lead to the creation of a beautiful work of fancy. 
 
 *^' 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 67 
 
 been seen, some years ago, a long sign, projecting 
 over the door of a large, old-fashioned building, 
 bearing the name of "Timothy Folio, Printer 
 &. Bookseller," in large, antique characters. 
 On one side of it was painted, what was probably 
 intended for a folio Bible, which one would take 
 to be as old as Faust. On the other was drawn 
 an odd-looking volume, which, though one might 
 fancy it designed to represent no one book in par- 
 ticular, but all in general, like an algebraic quan- 
 tity, yet looked, for all the world, like an old-fash- 
 ioned psalm-book, with the leaves torn out. The 
 counters and shelves within were laden with lite- 
 rary treasures of different nations, dressed out in 
 elegant, gilt covers, in sheep, morocco, boards, 
 and parti-colored paper. Here were to be seen 
 literary flowers, whose perfume had been ex- 
 haled the moment they saw the light, blossoms and 
 buds of native growth, and exotics, whose fra- 
 grance and bloom became sweeter and more beau- 
 tiful, the more they were gazed at and examined. 
 Wherever the eye wandered, it could discern 
 nothing but perennials, annuals, and ephemerals, 
 mingled with a few weeds and plants of a different 
 character. In short, Mr. Folio's store, or rather 
 Literary Room, held the same rank, at the period 
 I allude to, that is now held in our city by any of 
 the prime bibliopolists of Washington Street. 
 I never knew precisely what use Mr. Folio made 
 
 •►^ 
 
•<^- 
 
 68 THE PLUME. 
 
 of the apartment immediately over the store. It 
 was never opened but in the night, when it was 
 regularly once a week lit up to a very late hour. 
 As several thin-looking and meagre personages 
 were seen, at times, stealing their way up stairs, 
 who appeared to live on spare diet, it was supposed 
 that this room was devoted to the sittings of a con- 
 venticle of critics. Certain demoniac laughs, 
 which were occasionally heard there, seemed to 
 confirm the supposition. I have myself frequently 
 seen the names of unfortunate and condemned au- 
 thors scratched on the walls, if that circumstance 
 can be considered as throwing any light upon the 
 matter. Such was the belief, at all events, of au- 
 thors and writers, who declared that few books, 
 which had seen the inside of this den, were ever fa- 
 vorably received by the public, and only left it to 
 be consigned to the spiders of the attic. Immedi- 
 ately above this apartment, and on the third story, 
 was a book-bindery and Mr. Folio's large printing 
 establishment. In the attic, with which we are 
 more immediately concerned, were stowed away 
 various publications, odd volumes, and supernu- 
 merary copies. Here were the last new poem, 
 and the last year's novel, on the same shelf with a 
 volume of some forgotten history, flanked by an 
 old almanac, and supported by a gazetteer. Long- 
 winded epics had been puffed into this receptacle 
 of lost and forgotten books. Shelf-worn spelling- 
 
 •^- 
 
-4- 
 
 THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 69 
 
 books, and primers — "the cast-offs of a former 
 generation," — which had been in the highest 
 classes at school, were here turned back again to 
 their own alphabets. New troops of words had 
 driven old dictionaries into this gloomy retreat, 
 and almanacs were here consigned to a darker 
 and more disastrous eclipse than any they had 
 ever predicted. Arithmetics might be seen here 
 figuring in darkness, adding up the sum total of 
 their miseries, and listening to the dying croak of 
 a song, or the long-drawn sigh of an amatory 
 poem. A few stray volumes of some classic pined 
 away in this place of literary ease and elegant 
 leisure; but it was used and known as the resting- 
 place and tomb of all unsaleable books, "dead as 
 soon as born," which neither Mr. Folio nor any 
 of his brethren could force into circulation. The 
 cases and shelves literally groaned beneath their 
 dead weight, and spiders spun their webs over vic- 
 tims which had not life enough to break through 
 their fetters. Mr. Folio, who was unanimously 
 appointed by the public voice to usher these abor- 
 tions of the press into their dark abode, would 
 most willingly have enlarged his store below, to 
 make room for them, if they had not been too 
 weak to support themselves upon his counters. 
 Mr. Folio was a business man, and, what is more 
 to the point, Mr. Folio was a peaceable man, a 
 gentlemanly and a very polite man. He was 
 
^^- 
 
 70 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 something of a scholar withal, and, if it had de- 
 pended upon himself, every volume in this attic 
 would have found a purchaser. He was not sup- 
 posed to have an enemy in the world, unless a few | 
 poor authors, whose works he had published, but | 
 which were lying snugly in his attic, could be | 
 termed such. He lost money to a considerable 
 amount by these literary adventurers; and they 
 complained that they had lost their fame and rep- 
 utation through his means; but, as they had none 
 to lose, it is fair to presume that he was the only 
 sufferer. Such was Timothy Folio, Bookseller & 
 Publisher. 
 
 The adventure I am going to relate, which be- 
 fel this gentleman, whose memory I respect, will 
 hardly be believed, I dare be sworn, among even 
 the most credulous and superstitious of my read- 
 ers; and, had I not. the best possible reasons for 
 placing full confidence in its truth, I should set it 
 down at once as an improbable fable, ^sop, in- 
 deed, made birds and quadrupeds discourse as 
 wisely as bipeds, but I confess that my belief in the 
 eastern doctrine of metempsychosis is not so great 
 as to suppose the soul of a defunct author could 
 pass into, and animate, a book, which died before 
 the moist earth was fairly over his remains. 
 
 Towards the close of a summer afternoon, Mr. 
 Folio, wearing a long gown and red slippers, was 
 seated behind his counter, lookinsf over the sheets 
 
 4-^ 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 71 
 
 of a new poem, that was to see the light in a few 
 days. Owing either to the warmth of the atmos- 
 phere, or to some soporific quality in the poem, he 
 felt uncommonly dizzy and sleepy, as he sat pen- 
 cilino; the margin of the leaves in his hand. At 
 length he was so far gone, that the pencil fell out 
 of his hand upon the floor. He started, and 
 heard, or thought he heard, a considerably loud 
 noise somewhere about his premises, as if a large 
 volume or two had fallen to the floor; but as his 
 clerks continued writing, he supposed himself mis- 
 taken, and, taking up his pencil again, was soon 
 lost in a comfortable nap. It was not five minutes 
 before the noise was repeated. He was on his 
 feet in an instant. He thought at first that it was 
 a gentle clap of thunder; but, as he listened, a 
 noise like that produced by paper blown over a 
 floor by the wind, came to his ears, which led him 
 to suppose something was out of place in his bin- 
 dery or printing-office. As he stood yawning and 
 rubbing his eyes, he was certain that he heard a 
 sound overhead somewhere, like the march and 
 tramp of a miniature army, and the sway and flut- 
 tering of its paper banners. It was certainly an 
 unusual noise. The clerks, being over head and 
 ears in writing and casting up figures, merely 
 smiled, when he asked them if they heard it, and 
 were almost too busy to give him an answer. 
 " Faith! " said Mr. Folio, " if the building were 
 
 '4- 
 
4- 
 
 72 THE PLUME. 
 
 to tumble over their ears, they would never know 
 it. Something's to pay up stairs! The devil's in 
 the attic among the books, for aught I know; I 
 must go up and close the windows." 
 
 As the old gentleman did not remember to have 
 ever heard such a noise before, he determined to 
 give up his doze, and ascertain its cause. I do 
 not know why he directed his steps immediately to 
 the attic — whether because he thought the wind 
 w^as creeping in at the windows and doing mischief 
 there, or whether, from a lurking fear that, as the 
 contents of that room had been the occasion of not 
 a little malice and hard thought to himself, some 
 disappointed author had found his way there to 
 work mischief, or to hold communion with the lost 
 children of his brain, I know not; but certain it is 
 that Mr. Folio did not stop till his hand was on the 
 lock of the garret door. He entered in a moment, 
 and the door closed after him. I question if ever 
 a mortal was more astonished or put to his wit's 
 end, than he, when he found himself fairly in the 
 room. An enchanter, who had suddenly evoked 
 a legion of devils, when he expected the appear- 
 ance of good spirits, could not have been more 
 confounded, amazed, and perplexed, than was the 
 worthy bookseller. 
 
 All the books in the room were in motion. 
 They seemed to have legs and wings. They 
 walked, ran, and flew, with as much ease and vigor 
 
 •4^- 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 73 
 
 as their unfortunate authors could have done in 
 their best days. Mr. Folio, being weak in the 
 eyes, put on his spectacles, to be sure that he was 
 not deceived. Contrary to his expectation, the 
 windows were all closed, so that not a particle of 
 air could gain admittance. Finding the room air- 
 tight, he was more at a loss and confounded than 
 before, and the sweat began to fall from him in \ 
 big drops. If his hair did not stand on end, it \ 
 was because the worthy gentleman's head was \ 
 bald, and his voice clung to the roof of his mouth, 
 unless a few quick ejaculations — "zounds!" — J 
 "faith!" — "strange!" — "whew! " — "heaven i 
 
 'to 
 
 and earth! " can be considered as articulate 
 speech. By degrees, he took a survey of the 
 room. The bibles, poems, primers, dictionaries, 
 almanacs, and novels, were dancing about, and 
 hurrying from their lazy resting-places, on the 
 shelves, cases, and stands, as if they were all de- 
 termined upon one general and final circulation at 
 least, to pay for their years of durance. What a 
 clatter of leaves, what a strange and contemptuous 
 hissing sound did these blind, maimed, and halt 
 children of the brain send forth! Though most of 
 these volumes were as heavy as lead, yet they 
 went through all their motions so lightly and ac- 
 tively that the floor seemed hardly to feel their 
 weight. They platooned, faced about, and 
 wheeled round, with apparently as much skill and 
 
 7 
 
4-' 
 
 I 74 THE PLUME. 
 
 science as if they had been drilled to it by a hun- 
 dred reviews. As if determined to circulate, in 
 some shape or other, Mr. Folio remarked that 
 most of their motions were gyratory, a circum- 
 stance which surprised him not a little, as he well 
 knew they had never been in circulation at all. 
 It seemed impossible for them to keep still a mo- 
 ment, flying round and round, as though they were 
 anxious to convince him that they could show life 
 and animation enough if they chose, and were not 
 the dull, stupid, and inanimate things he took them 
 for. And, in truth, their movements in circles were 
 so dexterous, that if old Eternity himself, to whom 
 they had been dedicated, at their birth, had sud- 
 denly stepped in among them, to offer his protec- 
 tion, in his proper shape of a circle, he would have 
 sworn they had been well drilled in his service, 
 and were no fools in the art of circulation. Mr. 
 Folio dodged about as well as he was able, and 
 endeavored to stop their motions; but slap followed 
 slap so fast, and every inch of his body was so be- 
 set with blows, that he was fain to retreat, and sit 
 down on an old chest, as a mere looker-on, to see 
 how this singular matter would end. He hoped 
 here to have a comfortable seat, upon which he 
 might rest himself; for, what between slaps, blows 
 and astonishment, the worthy gentleman was not a 
 little exhausted. 
 
 "Upon my word!" said Mr. Folio, breathing 
 
 ^- 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 75 
 
 hard, "this is the most singular thing I ever heard 
 of. I must make a memorandum of it. What 
 evil spirit can have possessed them. Would to 
 God their authors could exhibit half their vitality." 
 While he was endeavoring to account for this 
 singular behaviour, and to distinguish the identical 
 volume which struck him on the nose, he heard a 
 slight tick beneath himself, and the chest, on which 
 he was seated, sprang its cover, which, flying up, 
 sent him a rod across the room, and threw him in 
 contact with an old Epic in three volumes. He 
 started round with his fist doubled, supposing very 
 naturally that some one, who meant him ill, was 
 concealed in it; but what was his surprise to be- 
 hold, issuing from the chest, a troop of reviews 
 and magazines, in blue and yellow covers, who 
 took up the line of march around the room, into 
 which volume after volume fell by degrees. He 
 followed them about with his eyes, and, as he 
 stood, soon became the centre of a large circle, 
 which was filling up every moment and in perpet- 
 ual motion. They went round in single, double, 
 treple, quadruple, and sextuple file, according to 
 the number of volumes of each, while a few old 
 newspapers hovered over the scene, as if ambitious 
 of playing the part of standards. He was puzzled 
 to ascertain who was the leader, so closely were 
 they huddled together, and so rapid was their cir- 
 culation. He inferred, however, that an old Epic, 
 
4- 
 
 76 THE PLUME. 
 
 in three volumes — the identical one against which 
 the chest had thrown him so unceremoniously — 
 took the lead, as he seemed to look about, now 
 and then, by way of surveying his troops, and 
 make motions to the rest, as they wheeled round 
 the apartment. He immediately seized a limping 
 dictionary, that stood on one leg upon a shelf, a dis- 
 abled but quiet observer of the manoeuvres of his 
 able-bodied fellow-prisoners, — he seized this dic- 
 tionary, I say, and let it fly, with all his might, at 
 the body of the Epic that seemed to direct the 
 movements of all the rest. The first volume fell 
 down, when springing up again in an instant, he 
 endeavored to regain his former place; but as his 
 two assistants or co-volumes were some way ahead, 
 he made an effort to squeeze himself in between 
 two old psalm-books that were marching with the 
 rest, double file. Finding it impossible to do this, 
 he stepped aside, and was soon joined by a troop 
 of light reading, old almanacs and novels which left 
 the circle, and came on with stitched covers in a 
 smart trot. At last the two remaining volumes of 
 the Epic that had continued their march, missing 
 their mate, suddenly halted; upon which all the 
 rest were huddled together, some falling out of the 
 ranks, some springing up, and all in the greatest 
 confusion imaginable. They seemed to take very 
 little notice of Mr. Folio, and showing no disposi- 
 tion to attack him, as he expected they would do, 
 
 •^ 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 77 
 
 he once more seated himself on the chest, ready 
 to await any motion, and desirous of seeing what 
 these crazed fellows would do next. At last a vol- 
 ume of old reviews sprang upon a table, and waved 
 his hand in token of silence. He was a grim and 
 savage-looking fellow, and cast his sharp eyes 
 around, as if he considered himself a judge who 
 had power to enforce any sentence he might think 
 proper to pronounce. After stamping once or 
 twice upon the table, he thus spoke in a sharp 
 voice : — 
 
 "Fellow-prisoners, Epics, Novels, Essays, His- 
 tories, Almanacs, Poems, and all ye men of let- 
 ters, who have been held in durance together so 
 many years, by whatever name ye are called, I 
 demand the reason of these strange movements. 
 Since my first entrance into this place, all has 
 been peace and quiet till this day. I was stationed 
 here to keep you in order, and am sorry to see a 
 disposition in you to revolt and break out of your 
 prison, I have done all in my power to prevent 
 it. Sentence of condemnation was passed upon 
 you years ago, and I have in my pocket " 
 
 He was here interrupted by cries of "Down 
 withhim!" — "Slit his leaves for him!" — "Pitch 
 him over!" — "Dot his I's for him!" — "Nail 
 him to the counter!" He made several attempts 
 to go on; but nothing could be heard save a few 
 broken sentences, such as — "Damned again and 
 
 7* 
 
 ■^ 
 
4- 
 
 78 THE PLUME. 
 
 again" — "A pack of fools" — " If some of you 
 had not strong covers, I would take fifty at once!" 
 — "Back to your dens!" He was finally obliged 
 to get down; and clapping a miserable little poem 
 that stood near, shivering at the sound of his 
 voice, between his covers, he mounted the highest 
 shelf in the room, and, by his looks, seemed de- 
 termined to keep a dog-eared silence. 
 
 The Epic in three volumes, before mentioned, 
 called to order, and when all was quite still again, 
 he walked up, limping on his poetical feet, to with- 
 in a yard of Mr. Folio, while the rest were all 
 ranged around, and thus, with an air of offended 
 dignity, addressed him : — 
 
 "Well may you be surprised at our proceed- 
 ings, to-day, sir! But we could bear it no longer. 
 Here have we been imprisoned for years, mere 
 dead weights upon your shelves in this old garret, 
 while our more fortunate brethren are lying in ev- 
 ery parlor in the country. We have determined 
 to exercise our limbs, and change the postures in 
 which we have been lying on your shelves, buried 
 in dust, till a simultaneous spirit aroused us this 
 day. We feel persuaded that we shall yet have 
 our turn in traveling through the city, and visiting 
 foreign nations." 
 
 As he pronounced the last sentence, the idea it 
 conveyed seemed too great for him. He strutted 
 a little, clapped his covers, and seemed about to 
 
 •^' 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 79 
 
 rise. The dust flew about so much that it greeted 
 Mr. Folio's nostrils, and he sneezed aloud three 
 times. At this they all started upright, and took 
 a menacing attitude. 
 
 " Mr. Folio," continued the amazed Epic, "this 
 is not a matter to be sneezed at. We have been 
 most foully, cruelly, and unjustly treated; and, in 
 the name of the offended tenants of this attic 
 around you, I call upon you to give us a conspic- 
 uous place on your counter below. Set your crit- 
 ics to work to give us a lift, and you may depend 
 upon reaping your reward." 
 
 Here the Magazines and Reviews in stitched 
 covers, which had issued from the chest, appre- 
 hensive that dangerous movements were on foot, 
 protested by their gestures against this measure, 
 and seemed almost in the act of flying into the face 
 of the Epic. 
 
 ''Sir," said one, "we have all damned you 
 once, and should not disturb you in your purgato- 
 ry, did you not make such bare-faced and empty 
 boasts of your vain pretensions, by recalling to 
 your recollection any unsavory passages. Here," 
 he continued, opening his leaves in the face of the 
 epic, "read this review and account of yourself 
 on my fourth page." 
 
 " And mine," said another. 
 
 "And mine, and mine," cried six successive 
 numbers. 
 
80 THE PLUME. 
 
 " Miserable drivelers," cried the incensed Epic, 
 " nothing but the contempt and oblivion into which 
 you have fallen, saves you from my anger. What 
 would have been your circulation, had you not 
 been upheld by the author of my being. Every 
 line of intelligence in your distorted countenances, 
 every mark of expression, and every thing about 
 you, by the help of which you gained your short- 
 lived reputation, you owe to my author and his 
 brethren. Turn over some of your leaves and 
 read those immortal verses, the very quintessence 
 of his brain and fancy, which alone have given 
 you vitality, and even the breath of life that yet 
 keeps your bodies together. Review an Epic, in- 
 deed! Why, you are not worthy to review my 
 title-page. Review me, forsooth ! Heavens! 
 what presumption.'"' 
 
 The Epic shook himself, till they all bounced 
 from the floor, none keeping their position but the 
 Magazines. 
 
 Though there were a great many controversial 
 and polemics in his attic, Mr. Folio did not look 
 upon the tame, lifeless, and inanimate poems 
 around him as belligerents. Their sensitiveness, 
 bravado, and menacing tone were to be expected 
 from their irritable race ; but he now began to fear 
 that they would all fall to blows and fisticuffs, and 
 pull each other by the ears. The Magazines and 
 Reviews bristled up a little at first, upon hearing 
 
 ^- 
 
■^ 
 
 THE TEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. SI 
 
 the retort of the Epic; but, suddenly changing 
 their aspect, they set up such a horrible laugh 
 that Mr. Folio thought they would shake them- 
 selves to pieces, and that their leaves would actu- 
 ally fall from their covers. The whole assembly 
 seemed to take this in great dudgeon. They hud- 
 dled along, going this way and that, advancing 
 back first, and showing their soiled gilt names in 
 formidable array. They mounted each other's 
 shoulders, volume standing on volume, and pre- 
 sented a high wall to the eyes of the astonished 
 bibliopolist, shaped like a pyramid. While they 
 were in this position, a little imp of a Satire 
 perched on the very top of the whole, begged a 
 moment's hearing. 
 
 "Mr. Folio," he said, "1 have the names of 
 most of these gentlemen in my pocket, and am 
 only sorry that I did not come into the world 
 twenty years sooner, that I might have enrolled 
 them all on my pages. Most of them have been 
 immortalized by my efforts, and I am sorry to find 
 myself in their company. I am an old book-worm, 
 and am here only to shut their mouths, and keep 
 them still. Whatever notice thev have attracted, 
 has been owing to my humble self They have 
 often escaped, when my nails were upon them; 
 but I have got them once more, as you see, sir, 
 under me; and it shall go hard, old as I am, if 1 
 do not keep them quiet forever." 
 
 V? 
 
82 THE PLUME. 
 
 He grinned horribly, showed his teeth, and, in 
 biting the ears of a novel under him, bit his own 
 tongue, and fell to the floor. They all now dis- 
 mounted, and, treading over the prostrate Satire, 
 and on each other's heels, sprang into the window- 
 seats, upon the book-cases, chests, and old chairs, 
 and some of them stuck to the ceiling. A Novel, 
 that straddled an old line, on which were hung 
 some newspapers, demanded audience. 
 
 "It is a hard case, that I, Mr. Folio, a gentle- 
 man of wit and elegant manners, a person of fig- 
 ure and parts, though possessing, I own, but little 
 bottom, — it is hard, 1 say, that I should be caged 
 up here, and waste my precious moments in such 
 vile company. I was born to live forever; and 
 my author's brains were squeezed into my pages. 
 It is an everlasting shame to any age, that one of 
 my consequence should not fulfil the expectations 
 of my author. Really, sir, it is too bad I never 
 had but one kind look in my life, and that was 
 from a fashionable belle, who once lifted me from 
 your counter, cut open a lew of my leaves, and 
 gave me a sweet smile, as she threw me down 
 again. I would have given the world to have 
 known what particular passage she was laughing 
 at. I wish that old volume of Magazines above 
 there, had pressed me a little more lightly, as I 
 lay under him, for really I led a most miserable 
 life in his company." As he spoke, he cast his 
 
 <J 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 83 \ 
 
 eyes upon the dead Satire on the floor, and, miss- \ 
 ing his hold, fell down and gave up the ghost. | 
 
 A Poem, in small duodecimo, now arose, and ; 
 breaking loose from the covers of a Review that \ 
 held him, stood before his companions, with an air ) 
 of great importance. He was evidently quite \ 
 young, and acquainted with the fashions of the \ 
 age. He bowed very gracefully, and, opening to \ 
 his title-page, showed his author's portrait, done 
 in the best style of the art. 
 
 "As to this old gentleman," said he, pointing 
 to the Epic, " and these sentimental dandies in the 
 world of letters," bowing to the Novels, "I con- 
 fess 1 think they well deserve their confinement, i 
 For myself, I am content to remain here a little \ 
 longer; for, my life on it, the day is near when I \ 
 shall go forth, and put to shame the critics and \ 
 reviewers. I maintain that every one has a right \ 
 to sing his own praises; for the glory redounds | 
 not to us, but to our authors. I was nursed with > 
 the greatest care; every foot, nay, every line of V 
 my body was perfumed with the sweetest fragrance \ 
 of the brain. I was early taught to imitate the ^ 
 best masters of the school of poetry now in fashion. ^ 
 The graces presided at my birth, and I was chris- \ 
 tened with the greatest ceremony. As soon as \ 
 my author's portrait was made to face my title- \ 
 page, to ornament my person, and to complete the \ 
 number of my graces, I was sent to my tailor's, \ 
 \ \ 
 
•#- 
 
 84 THE PLUME. 
 
 the book-binder's, measured, arrayed in an ele- 
 gant court-dress, and then ushered into the world 
 to gain my reputation. But, heavens I what a fate 
 did I experience! I was sent to every editor in 
 the city, I was advertised, but, — miserable return 
 for my author's generosity! — not a single puff was 
 bestowed upon me; I was set down every where 
 as a dull and stupid fellow, without strength or 
 imagination. If 1 had been cloven-footed, I could 
 not have been more positively damned. I had a 
 mind to commit suicide; but, having more respect 
 than others for the reputation and the feelings of 
 my author, I dragged out my existence on the 
 counter, or was stuck up in the window for years, 
 with my author's portrait to the street, in the shop 
 of Battledore, Shuttlecock & Co. till finally I was 
 thrust away into this miserable place. That fiend 
 of a Review who sits grinning on the window-seat, 
 gave me a mortal stab, and hastened my entrance 
 into the attic, as well as the death of my parent. 
 He pined away and died. No one knew the rea- 
 son; but the manner in which I was treated, no 
 doubt, brought him to his end. He was found 
 dead in his chamber, with the review in his hand, 
 which had treated me so rascally. The jury, who 
 sat on his body, gave in their verdict — Died of 
 information in the hrain.^' He whined and whim- 
 pered a little, and then continued: — "Thank 
 Heaven, and my author! I am not weak, but 
 
 •^- 
 
THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 85 
 
 strong, and shall live forever, and I hope ere long 
 to show my strength." While uttering the last 
 word, he fell down from mere want of stamina, 
 and, in the fall, spoilt his author's picture. 
 
 The speech of the Poem, whose vigor and vital- 
 ity were so unfortunately belied by the event with 
 which it terminated, seemed to excite general 
 sympathy and commiseration. Six or eight Pa- 
 thetic Poems, and Sentimental Effusions, almost 
 wept themselves to tatters, bursting forth into 
 sighs and tears in this obscure garret, such as they 
 had in vain endeavored to draw from the eyes of 
 their few solitary readers. There seemed to be a 
 general condolence among the assembly with the 
 sufferings and fate of the Poem and his author; 
 and even the Reviews and Magazines relaxed a 
 very little in their grins, when the poor, exhausted 
 Poem sunk down, and blasted his author's picture. 
 
 Another little Poem, affecting to be a smart, 
 dapper gentleman, pricked up his ears a little, 
 as he observed the calm that had settled over 
 the assembly; and, edging along between Psalm- 
 books, and a dozen tall and gaunt octavos, pre- 
 sented himself before the bookseller, and burst out 
 into a loud and obstreperous laugh. This was 
 received by some of his fellow-captives as mis- 
 timed, and with evident disfavor, but most of them 
 again relapsed into their former state of feeling, 
 without any out-break, when they saw that he was 
 
 8 
 
 4 
 
.hJj* 
 
 86 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 determined to obtain a hearing, at any rate. He 
 laughed again, as loud as before, and, looking 
 about in perfect good nature, thus spake: — 
 
 " I am content with my situation, Mr. Folio, and 
 am heartily obliged to you for taking me from your 
 counter and thrusting me into this place. Your 
 kindness has spared me many hours of shame 
 and mortification. In a garret I was born, and, 
 please Heaven! in a garret will I die, and give up 
 what little life is within my body. I have no pic- 
 ture fronting my title-page, to show you, like the 
 gentleman who has just touched us up so patheti- 
 cally; for, to tell you the truth, my author was so 
 ugly that he could not relish his victuals. I have 
 had all manner of assistance in my time, but never 
 had a long run; in fact, I had no run at all. If 
 puffs could have helped me, I should have been 
 exalted to the skies. I was called beautiful, glo- 
 rious, magnificent, grand, and even sublime. I 
 was said to possess the fire of Homer, the sublim- 
 ity of Milton, and the grace of Horace; but I am 
 persuaded that my sublimity and my beauty were 
 of a peculiar, unprofitable, and unpopular kind, 
 for I could not become a favorite, notwithstanding 
 all the exertions of editors, and of my author. I 
 was hushed into silence, and finally every voice 
 uplifted in my praise was put down, as if by 
 general consent. It was in vain that my author 
 sent me to his friends — in vain that he tore out 
 
-^ 
 
 THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 
 
 87 
 
 my title-pages, one after another, putting new 
 ones in their places, calling me the first, second, 
 third, and even sixth edition. Heaven help my 
 author! for no mortal will; for my part, I know 
 not what has become of him; though it is not ten 
 minutes since a little Drama strutted towards me, 
 and claimed to be my brother. I shook him off at 
 once; as my author long since disinherited me, 
 and for five years has not opened me. In a word, 
 he cut my acquaintance, without cutting my 
 leaves. He declared I had disgraced him, and 
 that he would disown me. Truly, I think this is 
 no lie; and I have no doubt there are twenty as 
 brainless fellows as I am, in this company, who 
 claim to be my brothers, and who have all shared 
 the same fate with myself" 
 
 A great many voices were here heard, exclaim- 
 ing — "Lost Beauty! are you there? poor fellow, 
 poor fellow!" The Lost Beauty — such was the 
 name upon the back of the Poem — retreated to 
 his hiding-place, to avoid acknowledging his rela- 
 tionship with the speakers. 
 
 Several others now came forward, and made 
 short speeches, of a seditious character, declaring 
 their intention of leaving; this attic, and running 
 their chance of immortality in the wide world with- 
 out. An old Arithmetic stated the exact number 
 of days, hours, minutes, and seconds of their con- 
 finement, and said a good deal about barter and 
 
•^^ 
 
 88 THE PLUME. 
 
 exchange. An old Algebra hammered out a set 
 speech upon the infinite series, negative quanti- 
 ties, and ad infinitum. An old Geography grew 
 eloquent in describing foreign countries. An Al- 
 manac talked of fine weather, who had not seen 
 the sun for a score of years, and actually declared 
 that all his predictions and observations would an- 
 swer for the current year, though by no means for 
 the meridian of a garret. An old medical work 
 thought the health of all the tenants of the attic 
 required an immediate exposure to the air, but 
 would by no means recommend blood-letting, as 
 they were all so lean and thin. The Singing 
 Books were all for psalm tunes, and one actually 
 went through with Old Hundred. A few old mus- 
 ty Quartos and Folios were for reposing forever 
 on the shelves where they had lain so long, and 
 cursed the hour their rest had been disturbed. 
 The Newspapers and Reviews were for maintain- 
 ing quiet and order, and waiting patiently, till they 
 were called to leave their present place of abode. 
 They advised all the company to do the same, as 
 they were evidently not long for this world. They 
 all continued however, to speak, and put forth their 
 pretensions to reputation so fast, and there were 
 so many speakers at a time, that nothing could be 
 heard but voice upon voice, crying out for imme- 
 diate deliverance from their prison-house. The 
 noise seemed gradually to swell into one loud and 
 
 '1^- 
 
■f 
 
 THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 89 
 
 boisterous chorus. Mr. Folio clapped his hands 
 to his ears, and thrust forward his feet, as he 
 saw them edging towards him, as if about to sur- 
 round him. Their voices, however, grew faint- 
 er and fainter, as they themselves became fainter 
 and more exhausted, and finally an old Dictionary 
 was heard crying out, that all they said was mere 
 words, words, words, and therein they were very 
 like himself, only that every word had not a mean- 
 ing. At last an odd volume of Milton, that was 
 lying on a shelf, got up, shook off the dust from 
 his covers, looked around him, and immediately 
 lay down again, with his back to the company. 
 This seemed a trifling circumstance, and yet the 
 slight noise, which he made, drew all eyes towards 
 him, and, at sight of his old gilt name, they looked 
 mightily abashed and confounded, sighing the 
 while for some Paradise not Lost, and therefore 
 not to be Regained. They all held down their 
 heads and were silent. Some skulked away, and 
 others fell down prostrate at Mr. Folio's feet. 
 
 The old volume of Reviews, who had endeavored 
 to restore order at the commencement of the up- 
 roar, thinking it a good time to complete his inten- 
 tion of sending the rebels to their shelves, left his 
 high place of retreat, and, alighting in the midst 
 of the disheartened company, began to lay about 
 him in good earnest. Some went up, and some 
 went down. The Fugitive Pieces all took to their 
 
 8 * 
 
•^- 
 
 90 THE PLUME. 
 
 heels; and as the old fellow dealt his blows 
 around him, volume fell on volume, squeaking 
 and groaning, as if their last hour had come. He 
 tore the covers from the backs of a great many, 
 and seemed to aim at getting hold of those who 
 had cried the loudest. In five minutes from the 
 moment he began, they were all drawn up into 
 a conical pile, upon the very pinnacle of which 
 the Review mounted, and thus addressed Mr. Fo- 
 lio:— 
 
 '' I have, finally, got these insolent fellows under 
 my thumb, and, pray Heaven, they may now sleep 
 soundly forever. Their exercise this day has been 
 too great for them, and they are now, as you may 
 see, mere skeletons. Heavens! methinks they 
 grow smaller every moment. I, at first, thought it 
 would be best to knock their brains out; but I see 
 they have fairly expended what little they had, in 
 their vauntings this day. As for me, it is not my 
 nature to live long " 
 
 So it seemed; for before he had finished his 
 words, he fell down upon the pile> as dead as the 
 rest of them. 
 
 Mr. Folio arose, and called to one of his clerks 
 to assist him in replacing the books upon the 
 shelves. The clerk entered the attic, and was 
 somewhat surprised to see him reclining on the 
 chest, and yawning, as if he had been napping 
 — three or four odd numbers of Magazines, 
 
 •*• 
 
-4^ 
 
 THE DEVIL AMONG THE BOOKS. 91 
 
 placed upon an old open copy of Fox's Book of 
 the Martyrs, having served him as a pillow. He 
 saw no books on the floor, but found them all neat- 
 ly arranged on their shelves. Mr. Folio looked 
 surprised in his turn, for he was certain the books 
 were on the floor a moment ago. It was suggest- 
 ed to him, that he might possibly have been dream- 
 ing. But he denied that he had even been asleep, 
 and then proceeded to relate all that had hap- 
 pened, just as he witnessed it. The clerk stared 
 and looked the old gentleman in the face, as if he 
 thought his head might be a very little deranged. 
 Mr. Folio was angry at this incredulity, and de- 
 clared he would not hear a word against his state- 
 ment, concluding with the assertion, that he was 
 ready to take his oath of the truth of all he had 
 uttered. 
 
 "Ah, I see how it is," said Mr. Folio to the in- 
 credulous clerk, "they all went back to their pla- 
 ces the moment they heard you coming. You 
 need'nt mention the matter to any one. I'll ship 
 all these fellows oflfto the trade sale; and while I 
 think of it, Thomas, you may as well take down 
 their names, at once, so as to have them in sea- 
 son for the catalogue." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Folio went down stairs, two steps 
 at a time, caught up his hat from the counter, and, 
 with almost as rapid a pace as if he had been 
 shot out of a cannon, run to his house, which he 
 
 4- 
 
■^ 
 
 92 THE PLUME. 
 
 reached just as his wife was about clearing away 
 the supper table. 
 
 "Eight o'clock and the lamps lit!" quoth the 
 dumbfounded bibliopolist, as he swallowed a cup 
 of tea — "What a short day is this! It seems as 
 though the Devil had got into the books and every 
 thins: else this afternoon." 
 
 YOICE OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 
 
 Oh ! come to me here in this silent oflen, 
 
 Far away, away from the haunts of men, 
 
 Where the wild flower blooms with beautiful hue, 
 
 And unfolds its leaves to the silver dew, 
 
 Where the robin at morn and evening sings. 
 
 And sports on my bank with his glossy wings, 
 
 Where the swallows fly low and gently skim, 
 
 Dimpling my cheek, till the day is dim. 
 
 And the moon walks up to her throne of light, 
 
 Mid stars, bright gems on the brow of night. 
 
 Oh ! come at morn, when the blossoming trees 
 Receive the first light and the virgin breeze. 
 And their boughs, bending low, reveal the blue 
 With sparkles of gold, as the sun gleams through — 
 When rosy and pure is the sky above, 
 And the light, torn feather doth scarcely move 
 From the branch, where the goldfinch trims his breast, 
 And calls to his mate from her hanging nest ; 
 
VOICE OF THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. 93 
 
 Where the yellow-bird sings from his willow tree, 
 And the oriole flashes so goldenly. 
 
 Oh come ! — oh come ! I will lead thee away, 
 Where far with their baskets the anglers stray. 
 And bend o'er my banks for the wily trout, 
 As, scared from the brink, he is darting about ; 
 Or with speckled skin on the grass is seen, 
 To pant for his home in my waters green. 
 Oh ! come to me now, ere the hum of men 
 Hath broke on the ear of this peaceful glen. 
 
 Oh ! come to me here in the burning noon, 
 I will sing thee a sweet and soothing tune, 
 When the air abroad is quivering quick, 
 When the pulse beats fast and the heart is sick, 
 And the weary fram«, in the heat of day. 
 Would inhale new life in the shade, away. 
 Here's a grassy seat ; oh ! come with a book, 
 Or bring thee a reed with a baited hook, 
 Or the sweet summer wind, if thou choose to sleep. 
 Like a spirit of love, to thy cheek shall creep. 
 While the leaves of many a branching tree 
 Will shield thee from heat, refreshingly. 
 The oak with its lofly and waving arms. 
 The white, leaning birch, with its leafy charms. 
 The graceful maple, with feathery skin, 
 Here weave a cool bower, and woo thee within. 
 As their boughs above spread their arms of green, 
 All mirrored below in my sparkling sheen. 
 Oh ! come to me now ! there's a song in the trees. 
 To gladden thy heart, and thine ear to please. 
 
 Oh! come to me here, when the moonlight gleams 
 O'er valley and hill, and o'er dancing streams, 
 
94 THE PLUME. 
 
 When the stars mount up with a fervent glow, 
 
 And fresh is the moon-shiny air below, 
 
 When the robin hath sung his evening song. 
 
 And my waters in music dance along, 
 
 And glance on thine eye their swimming light, 
 
 Now dim and pale, now glowingly bright. 
 
 Oh ! come to me then, I will breathe in thine ear 
 
 Sweet music thy soul shall delight to hear, 
 
 That shall teach thee to Heaven a hymn to raise. 
 
 And open thy lips in eloquent praise. 
 
 THE MISSING STAR. 
 
 Star ! that on the brow of night 
 Didst, like a jewel, shine, when, to her throne 
 Majestical, in car of silver light. 
 
 Mounted the regal moon — 
 Hast vanished from that glorious throng which keep 
 Their vigils in the sky, when mortals sleep ? 
 
 Gone, gone from human eye ! 
 He, who first called thee, when together sung 
 The morning stars, to take thy place on high 
 
 The myriad orbs among, 
 Hath bid thee roll through the blue depths away, 
 And gild new worlds with thy bright, golden ray. 
 
 And hast thou shone, lost Star ! 
 Amid that splendid company so bright 
 That watched the birth of Time — illumining afar 
 
 The dark paths of the night ? 
 
 •*•• 
 
THE MISSING STAR. 95 
 
 Wast there, when first young Time, upon his wing 
 Arose, and all the heavenly choir did sing ? 
 
 O'er Eden in her bloom, 
 Did thy rays fall, the groves of Paradise 
 Touching all goldenly, whose sweet perfume 
 
 From new-born earth did rise ? 
 Did Eve watch thee, when her first evening prayer 
 Arose, and the grand hymn resounded there ? 
 
 Wast thou that Eastern star 
 Which o'er Judea's hills did send thy ray, — 
 The beacon-flame that led the Magi far, 
 
 To where the Saviour lay ? 
 And did the shepherds with their flocks, lost one ! 
 Hail thee, bright pointing to the Infant Son ? 
 
 O'er Calvary wast thou 
 That awful hour, when, like a curtain, spread 
 The darkness round — when rocked the earth, and lo ! 
 
 Walked from their tombs the Dead ? 
 And did tliy light, lost, wandering star ! illume 
 The shadowed earth, and shine athwart the gloom ? 
 
 Did sages of old time. 
 Who read the heavens, as a written scroll. 
 Call thee a nation's star, whose march sublime, 
 
 And fate thou didst control ? 
 Did thy light fall, when fell old Babylon ? 
 What nation's splendor hast thou dimmed, lost one ! 
 
 Thou art gone ! and yet how few 
 Of earth's uncounted sons will miss thy light, 
 
 4 
 
96 THE PLUME. 
 
 As, gazing on the watchers of the blue, 
 
 They read His power and might, 
 Who bids the stars arise, and bids them fall, — 
 Whose word created and sustains them all ! 
 
 Roll on ! thou radiant Star ! 
 Thy fall is not unnoticed ; there is One 
 That guides thy motions in the depths afar. 
 
 And scans them from his throne. 
 The comet's path, the sparrow in her flight. 
 The course of worlds, and men, He guides aright. 
 
 THE WESTERN MOUNDS. 
 
 Ruins of ages gone ! 
 What pen has told the history of your birth ? 
 What record writ on page, or carved on stone, 
 
 In some lost tongue of earth. 
 Shall mark the day, when ye, old Mounds, arose ? 
 Time, Time alone, your secret can disclose. 
 
 Chronicler of the Past ! 
 And of the Dead, deep buried in its caves ! 
 Magician ! at whose bidding, empires vast 
 
 Are hurried to their graves ; 
 What nations lived and died upon this spot, 
 Whose monuments outlived their ill-starred lot ? 
 
 Faint are thy whispers. Time ! 
 And yet a voice through ages gone I hear, ' 
 
 •f- 
 
THE WESTERN MOUNDS. 97 
 
 A sound of centuries, rolling out their chime, 
 
 That, for a sigh or tear. 
 Calls upon the living in their power, whose tread 
 Echoes along the caverns of the dead. 
 
 Who saw these pyramids 
 First cast their shadows o'er the forest green ? 
 Was it when earth was young, and morning's lids 
 
 Were opening on the scene. 
 Wet with the dews creation's rosy dawn 
 Had sprinkled o'er the fresh and blooming lawn ? 
 
 Are ye the silent graves 
 Of empires and of men, whose languages 
 With those that spake them died ; on whom the waves 
 
 Of dark oblivion press ? 
 Did jewelled crowns here glisten on gray hairs ? 
 Or Vengeance lift her sword that never spares ? 
 
 Could the rude savage sing 
 Your history, old Piles ? Was the red child 
 Born of a happier race, than any king 
 
 That roamed the green wood wild, 
 When came the Genoese ? Where rolled away 
 The star of Science with its heavenly ray ? 
 
 Did they, who reared you, scan 
 The stars in their deep mystery — and tell 
 That all your glory yet should fade and wane ? 
 
 That Time should sound his knell. 
 When all, save ye, old Ruins, from the spot 
 Should pass — their deeds, their very names, forgot ? 
 9 
 
98 THE PLUME. 
 
 Saw ye the noble streams 
 Poured from a thousand hills, whose waters danced 
 Brightly in the uprising sun's gay beams, 
 
 And man walked forth entranced, 
 In all the freshness of creation's smile 
 Radiant, through balmy grove, and woodland aisle ? 
 
 To the uprising sun 
 Bowed down the men in worship — to the bright 
 And solemn stars, that keep their courses on 
 
 Through the still depths of night ? 
 Or did they kneel to the Eternal One, 
 And send their orisons to His high throne ? 
 
 To idols, carved in stone, 
 With strange devices, did they pour their prayer ? 
 And had no light along their pathway shone. 
 
 To touch and kindle there 
 The ray of heaven within them? Mid the gloom 
 Did no torch shine, to light them to their tomb ? 
 
 Did ages roll away, 
 Suns rise and set upon the hills and lawns, 
 Untracked, save by the lions in their play 
 
 With the light-bounding fawns ? 
 Were the broad plains unpeopled — the green bowers 
 The lair of wild beasts in the midnight hours ? 
 
 Loud storms have riven the trees, 
 And Time has mingled their old trunks with earth ; 
 Have they passed o'er you as the summer breeze, 
 
 Which in the south has birth ? 
 
 «4*- 
 
■4- 
 
 CLARA REVERE. 99 
 
 Braved ye the thunder's might, that scathed the woods, 
 And pealed its anthem through the solitudes ? 
 
 Time's Miracles ! Ye tell 
 Of human grandeur that hath passed away ; 
 Ye have outlived earth's pageantry ; the knell, 
 
 Which sounded its decay, 
 Sent its loud summons forth to you, in vain, 
 {Still your broad shadows darken the green plain ! 
 
 CLARA REVERE, THE LITTLE BLIND GIRL. 
 
 Autumn! Beautiful, mellow Autumn! Thy 
 golden tresses waving in the fields — 
 
 Piling the sheaves, 
 Tasseled with gold, or dressing in deep red 
 The maples on the hills, or bearing on 
 Thy basket laden with ripe fruit, as 'twere 
 To grace thy bridal day — 
 
 — Thou art, indeed, the Queen-Season of the 
 year! Let others call thee sad, as they mark the 
 decay of thy regal glories. Not so art thou to 
 him, who reads thee aright, and listens, with a 
 Christian hope, to thy eloquent teachings. The 
 green leaves wither and fall to the earth, to min- 
 gle with the dust like those who sleep beneath the 
 sod of the church-yard. The kingly oak is stripped 
 
 L.cf 
 
 4- 
 
'^• 
 
 100 THE PLUME. 
 
 of its leafy glories, and the woodbine and honey- 
 suckle, which so gracefully entwined their tendrils 
 around its decaying trunk, like a sweet child 
 clasping the neck of its father, no longer expand 
 their fragrant blossoms to the air. The purple 
 grapes, which cluster so thickly along the stone 
 walls and among the silver-leafed birches on the 
 hill-side, will soon be plucked, and the vines which 
 bear them rot in the earth from which they draw 
 their nourishment. The ripe harvest — type of 
 the good man's inheritance hereafter — whose 
 golden fruitage is ready for the reaper, the corn 
 and nodding grain, will soon fall before the 
 sickle, and the merry boys and girls, like Ruth in 
 the barley harvest, gleaning after the reapers 
 among the sheaves in the field of Boaz, will gather 
 up the shocks and the scattered ears. But soon 
 both the reapers and the gleaners will themselves 
 fall, and, like the harvest, be gathered into the 
 granary which opens for all, and tarries not for the 
 ripening of its fruits. The crimson and yellow 
 tints of the maples, which give so mellow and gol- 
 den a radiance to the landscape around, must soon 
 wither and fade and lose their brilliant hues like 
 the thousand eyes which admire their surpassing 
 loveliness. The little flowers that lift their modest 
 heads in the gardens, and in the recesses of the 
 woods, must give up their incense — their delicate 
 cups wither, and their stalks mingle with the earth 
 
 •^- 
 
•*• 
 
 CLARA REVERE. 101 
 
 — and yet they are lost not forever. They go but 
 for a season, and shall re-appear with renewed 
 life and vigor and beauty. In the new spring they 
 will rise again from the sod which covers them, 
 and put forth their glories with a fresher perfume 
 and a more perfect splendor. The winds of Autumn 
 may blow over the spot where they fell, and the 
 snows of winter bury their stalks from the eye — 
 and yet they are not gone. As the warm breezes 
 of April play over their beds and the gentle Spring 
 touches their roots with her magic wand, they will 
 shoot up again and become the pride and glory of 
 the field. It is for this, for this that I love thee, 
 beautiful Autumn, with thy sunshine, thy shade, 
 and thy chilling blasts. If thou art sad and mel- 
 ancholy, there is sweetness in thy very sadness, 
 and sunlight in thy sombre hues. How sweet and 
 consoling the thought, that after the Autumn of 
 Life hath set in upon us, and closed our eyes 
 in death, we shall awake asain in an eternal 
 Spring beyond the grave. Not more certain are 
 the rose and wild-flower to re-appear after their 
 winter sleep, than are the flowers that bloom in 
 the domestic garden and beautify the walks of life, 
 to spring forth hereafter in the garden of Paradise, 
 arrayed in such glory as the tongue cannot de- 
 scribe nor the heart of man conceive. What 
 sweeter or more perfect symbol is there of man's 
 immortality, than the flower-wreathed evergreen 
 9 * 
 
 •<|j» 
 
•4^ 
 
 102 THE PLUME. 
 
 that climbs around his tombstone and sheds its 
 perfume over the sod beneath which he sleeps? 
 
 Reflections like these rose involuntarily to my 
 lipSj as, in one of my evening rambles about the 
 village in which I had erected my editorial throne, 
 and from which I was in the habit of delivering 
 sage homilies and exhortations as often as once a 
 week, I came, for the thousandth time, upon the 
 old church-yard. It was at the close of one of 
 those enchanting days, known only to our New 
 England climate, when Summer and Autumn, min- 
 gling their balmy breaths into an atmosphere of al- 
 most Elysian softness, seem to embrace and smile 
 upon each other with unwonted sweetness. The 
 rays of the setting sun glanced with their arrowy 
 light from point to point, gilding every tombstone 
 and mound and modest shaft, with a brilliancy as 
 dazzling and golden as if it were an irradiation 
 from the confines of the better land. 
 
 As I threaded the little avenues of the sacred 
 enclosure, and marked the crowded slabs and de- 
 cayed stones at the head of the graves of the vil- 
 lage dead, I could not avoid giving utterance to 
 the language with which I have introduced this 
 simple sketch. Strolling leisurely along the 
 well-trod paths, now stopping to pluck a decaying 
 flower, or to decipher an inscription upon some 
 moss-covered stone, I observed the old sexton at 
 his customary labors with his spade. Near him ; 
 
CLAKA REVERE. 103 
 
 stood a modest slab, of virgin whiteness, which he 
 seemed to regard with more than ordinary rever- 
 ence, as, pausing from his work and wiping the 
 sweat from his forehead, he leaned upon his spade 
 to direct my attention to it. 
 
 "What grave is that, my good friend?" said 
 I, ''around which the drooping wild flowers 
 cluster so beautifully. They seem to linger near 
 it as though they were the peculiar guardians of 
 the spot, and were loath to breathe their last in- 
 cense-offering to the sleeper below, and surrender 
 their holy trust." 
 
 "That simple slab," said the old man, "is one 
 of the f^ew — pardon me for saying so — that I 
 love to stop, in my labors, to gaze at. It records 
 the name of her who is known as the Poor Blind 
 Girl. Just stoop down, if you please, and read 
 its inscription." 
 
 I did so, and read upon the little white slab the 
 following simple but touching inscription : — 
 
 HERE LIES 
 
 1 
 
 CLARA REVERE, 
 
 
 THE POOR BLII^D GIRL. 
 
 
 She shall see in heaven. 
 
 
 "What is her story?" said I. "Is it wild and 
 
 •*• 
 
•^f*' 
 
 104 THE PLUME. 
 
 romantic, or simple and without incident ? Was 
 she in love?" 
 
 "She was, but with her Father in Heaven," 
 said the sexton, with an impressiveness which I 
 did not look for. " It is a sad tale, and I cannot 
 bear to think of it. It was but yesterday that I 
 plucked a flower from her grave, whose cup was 
 closed and opened not, as the warmth of the balmy 
 air played upon it. How like the fate of the poor 
 girl was that little flower. If you will sit down 
 upon this stone, I will tell you her brief story." 
 
 Seating ourselves at the foot of the slab, the old 
 man gave me a sketch of the little sufferer, which 
 1 will relate, in my own way. Though brief and 
 devoid of stirring or splendid incident, its very 
 simplicity touched my heart and left an impression 
 there which has often led me to seek the little 
 white slab in the village church-yard. 
 
 Clara was in her sixteenth year, fair and beau- 
 tiful exceedingly. And yet it was not her personal 
 attractions alone, matchless as they were, which 
 constituted her supreme loveliness. The beauty 
 of her soul was impressed upon every line of her 
 witching countenance, and her heart, which was 
 love itself, seemed to be imaged in the sunny dim- 
 ples and smiles that nestled around her transpa- 
 rent cheeks and her budding lips. Blessed as she 
 was, beyond most of her sex, with a fascinating 
 
 *^- 
 
CLARA REVERE. 105 \ 
 
 exterior — gay and high-spirited to an unwonted 
 degree, she had passed most of her infancy and 
 girlhood without being permitted to behold the 
 faces of father and mother, or to admire those 
 beautiful scenes in the natural world, of which she 
 might be deemed the impersonation. So young, 
 so amiable, so beautiful, and yet, by a solemn vis- 
 itation of God, Clara was all but hopelessly blind. 
 Such an affliction would have broken the spirit of 
 most girls of her age, and blighted their hopes of 
 earthly happiness forever. Not so with Clara Re- 
 vere. Nature had blessed her with a sunny heart, 
 which lent its hues to every incident that marked 
 her innocent life. Her laugh was as [ree, and 
 rung as merrily, as that of any of the playmates 
 who sought to administer to her happiness in her 
 privation. 
 
 There was one thing, above all, that contrib- 
 uted, in no small degree, to her gladness and 
 cheerfulness — it was the idea, long cherished 
 — one which seemed to have taken possession of 
 her very soul, absorbing all her thoughts, form- 
 ing the subject of all her dreams — that she 
 should SOON BE RESTORED TO SIGHT.' In her 
 playful hours, or in those moments of abstrac- 
 tion which would now and then suddenly come 
 upon her, while engaged in her sports, this one 
 idea — this glorious hope, appeared to fasten upon 
 her with a tenacity which no returning sense of \ 
 
106 THE PLUME. 
 
 her situation could undermine or weaken. To 
 prevent their daughter falling into a melancholy 
 state of mind, and to keep up the buoyancy of 
 her heart, her parents had flattered her, perhaps 
 too often, with the belief — nay, with the promise 
 — that she should soon be restored to sight. It 
 is not strange that, by degrees, her thoughts 
 became almost exclusively directed to the ful- 
 filment of what she at last regarded as a sacred 
 pledge from their lips. In her artless and some- 
 times touching conversations with her mother, she 
 often alluded to the promise of her restoration, in 
 language which partook of the warmth and ear- 
 nestness of her soul, and borrowed its coloring 
 from that sweetness of disposition which so 
 charmed those who saw her. Perhaps no specta- 
 cle sooner excites the sympathy of the beholder, 
 than that of a young and beautiful girl in her sit- 
 uation. Her blindness rendered her trebly dear 
 and interesting to all. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening in June. The wind, 
 dallying among the roses and honey-suckles which 
 clasped the pillars on the terrace in front of the 
 mansion, sported with Clara's dark ringlets, as 
 she sat at the open window. Mrs. Revere had 
 been reading to her daughter a touching story of 
 a bird that died imprisoned in its cage. She was 
 interrupted by the frequent exclamation from her, 
 "Was it blind, mother! — was it blind!''' She 
 
 ^. 
 
4- 
 
 CLARA REVERE. 107 
 
 took up, for the thousandth time, the all-absorbing 
 subject of her thoughts. 
 
 " Clara, my dear," said her mother, wishing, if 
 possible, to lead her mind from the subject which 
 occupied it, "I have not heard you play this 
 morning. The little bird, of which I have been 
 reading, could sing sweetly in the midst of its con- 
 finement. Will you not give me one of your fa- 
 vorite airs?" 
 
 " O yes, mother, you will be so good to me, and 
 I shall see you so soon — shall I not? What shall 
 I sing ? Shall it be sad, or merry as the note of 
 the little captive in the cage?" 
 
 Seating herself at the piano, Clara run her fin- 
 gers over the keys with matchless skill, and sung 
 the following words, addressed by a blind scholar 
 to one who had alluded, in his presence, to the dark 
 eyes of a beautiful sister, who tenderly watched 
 over him in his blindness : — 
 
 And did'st thoa say her eyes are black ? 
 
 Their glances ne'er met mine. 
 And yet thy words this bosom rack, 
 
 To see their light divine. 
 Those deep black eyes! Those deep black eyes! 
 From out whose star-lit heaven Love flies. 
 
 And did'st thou say her eyes are black ? 
 
 Oh! tell me, if her face, 
 Like Angels, doth no sweetness lack — 
 
 All love is it and grace ? 
 
 --*• 
 
108 THE PLUME. 
 
 Those eyes must light a face most rare, 
 As brightest stars gem skies most fair. 
 
 And didst thou say her eyes are black ?] 
 
 And is her heart all love ? 
 And doth their light bear to and back, 
 
 Sweet thoughts, like carrier dove ? 
 Those deep black eyes! Oh! could I see 
 Their silken fringes turned on me ! 
 
 And dost thou say her eyes are black ? 
 
 Her spirit, like them, pure ? 
 One that might tempt an angel back. 
 
 Her beauty to adore ? 
 Oh! tell me, if I e'er shall see 
 Those angel glances beam on me ! 
 
 And dost thou say her eyes are black ? 
 
 Their lustrous orbs may shine, 
 Though not for me, o'er life's dull track — 
 
 They never may meet mine. 
 Oh! not for me those eyes of jet — 
 Tell her I'll dream they sparkle yet! 
 
 Tell her I'll dream I see their light — 
 
 E'en though no random ray 
 May ever, from their starry night,* 
 
 Smile on my darkened way. 
 And tell her, in my visions sweet, 
 
 I will not dream we ne'er shall meet! 
 
 * Oh Night — 
 Lovely in your strength as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman, — Childe Harold. 
 
CLARA REVERE. 109 
 
 Tell, tell her when life's dream is o'er, 
 
 I'll crave her angel kiss, 
 In brighter lands, with love more pure 
 
 Than that I've felt in this; 
 Yes, tell her, when life's ties are riven. 
 Oh bliss ! I'll see her smile in heaven. 
 
 During her performance of this little air, Mrs. 
 Revere, who had thus been the innocent means of 
 giving a fresh vibration to the tenderest chord in 
 her child's bosom, turned her eyes away to conceal 
 her emotion. When Clara had concluded, she 
 rose, with one of her sweetest smiles, and threw 
 herself into her mother's arms. 
 
 "Oh, mother! when will it be? When will the 
 day come you have so often promised me that 
 I shall look out upon the green world of which 
 you speak, and admire its beautiful things — 
 its flowers and the gay birds that sing so sweetly ? 
 Every thing can see but me — when will it come? 
 Soon, soon! will it not, mother?" 
 
 "Are you not happy, my daughter?" 
 
 "Happy! Oh, yes, yes! — but, mother, me- 
 thinks I should be happier, if I could look up into 
 your face and see you smile — should I not? 
 There is the little rose which you planted under 
 the window; you told me last year I should gather 
 its first blossoms, and admire its beautiful color, 
 and now it is summer again, and every one has 
 10 
 
 4- 
 
110 THE PLUME. 
 
 seen it but me. The birds sing, but I see them 
 not." 
 
 "My dear Clara, do not repine and grieve at 
 your misfortune. We will hope for the best, and 
 pray that you may soon be restored to sight. 
 What if I should tell you that the physician may 
 be here to see you, to-morrow?" 
 
 ''Will he, mother! oh, will he?" almost 
 shrieked the little girl. 
 
 The physician was expected to come the next 
 day and perform an operation upon her eyes. Mrs. 
 Revere had kept this intelligence from her daugh- 
 ter till the last moment, from an unwillingness to 
 flatter the poor child with any false or delusive 
 hopes. She was restrained also from breaking the 
 news to her, from an apprehension that, should the 
 operation be unsuccessful, — and the chance was 
 very slight that it would be otherwise, — so sudden 
 a blight of her heart's yearnings and hopes, which 
 had acquired intensity from the nutriment that 
 years of affection had administered — would prove 
 fatal and strike down the little sufferer from their 
 side. It is impossible to describe the effect of the 
 annunciation of the intelligence upon her. Her 
 simple exclamation of delight gives but a faint idea 
 of her feelings at that moment. Her cheeks crim- 
 soned suddenly, and she wept for joy. Mrs. Re- 
 vere was alarmed. 
 
 "My daughter!" 
 
'^ 
 
 CLARA REVERE. Ill 
 
 " Oh, will he! did you say so! will he, then, re- 
 store me to sight? Then I shall see you, mother. 
 I shall see the robin that has sung for so many 
 years at morn and evening upon the old elm tree, 
 whose sweet song I have almost got by heart. 
 Day after day I hear father's step as he comes up 
 the path, and sweet is the sound. But I shall see 
 him now! I shall see him. Oh, tell me, mother, 
 how does he look.'* Is his face as kind and pleas- 
 ant as he talks? Shall I then see, see to-morrow? 
 Oh, do not, DO not disappoint me this time, 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 I" 
 
 Thus did the sweet girl run on, delighted, en- 
 raptured, almost frantic with joy. 
 
 "My sweet Clara, you must not raise your 
 hopes too high. Be assured that your father and 
 mother would make any sacrifice that would re- 
 store their daughter to sight. Were it possible, 
 they would either of them consent to be blind, that 
 you might see. The physician will come to-mor- 
 row, but you must not expect to see immediately. 
 It may be months — it may be " 
 
 "Oh, say not so, say not so, dear mother! I 
 will undergo any thing for my sight — endure any 
 pain without a murmur, that I may not only hear 
 your voice, but greet your smiles, and see you 
 welcome me to a new life. Oh, say not so, 
 mother." 
 
 Such artless, natural, and unaffected language. 
 
 ••*• 
 
112 THE PLUME. 
 
 was inexpressibly touching to her, whose very ex- 
 istence seemed bound up in her only child. Her 
 feelings on such occasions can be but faintly im- 
 agined. 
 
 " Clara, my dear, you must be calm, and we 
 will pray that the skill of the physician may restore 
 you to sight. 
 
 "I will! I will, mother! but oh, do not, do not 
 
 DISAPPOINT ME THIS TIME." 
 
 Such expressions went to the mother's heart. 
 Mrs. Revere, as I have said, was apprehensive that 
 Clara would attempt to grasp too suddenly, too ea- 
 gerly, at what perhaps might not be realized, that 
 her thoughts would centre upon nothing but the 
 idea of her complete restoration to sight; and oh! 
 if their prayers and wishes should not be crowned 
 with that blessed consummation, which they hoped 
 and for which they so ardently prayed, she trem- 
 bled lest bitter disappointment should follow, and 
 lead to a settled and confirmed melancholy, that 
 would either dethrone her reason or send her to 
 the grave. Her exclamation, " do not disappoint 
 me," was repeated earnestly and often, after the 
 brief conversation detailed, and when, the next 
 day, the physician was announced, whom Clara 
 had fancied that she heard coming to her relief in 
 every step towards the house, she burst into an 
 almost uncontrollable gush of tears. 
 
 Mrs. Revere, speechless with grief and wholly 
 
CLARA REVERE. 113 
 
 unable to control her emotions, while witnessing 
 the frantic delight of her darling child, as she 
 dwelt upon the prospect of seeing, and of seeing 
 HER, took her husband by the hand, and, without 
 speaking a word, entered an adjoining room. 
 There they knelt together, and offered a fervent 
 supplication to the Almighty that the operation 
 about to be performed might, in his good pleasure, 
 lead to the restoration of their beloved child, and 
 that she might not be lost to them forever. 
 
 In a darkened room this beautiful girl was seat- 
 ed, accompanied only by her parents, while the 
 physician commenced the performance of his cure. 
 The operation was painful in the extreme, exceed- 
 ingly difficult to perform, and of a very delicate 
 character. It was a last resort, and the submis- 
 sion with which this girl of fifteen bore up under it, 
 was astonishing and admirable. She was calm, 
 and scarcely a murmur escaped her lips. Every 
 thing was at last happily completed, and a bandage 
 was placed over her eyes. The remedy was not 
 certain, but the chances were greatly in her favor, 
 that it would be completely successful — not im- 
 mediately, but in a few weeks, at most. On one 
 point, however, the physician had warned her pa- 
 rents, freely telling them that if their child was not 
 calm and quiet, and especially if she were to tear 
 the bandage from her eyes, her case would be be- 
 yond human skill, and her eyesight be lost forever. 
 10* 
 
•^> 
 
 114 THE PLUME. 
 
 If she were extremely careful, they were assured 
 that she would, in all probability, be able soon to 
 see. Soon to see! The thought of it thrilled 
 through her soul, imparting a new existence to the 
 poor girl. 
 
 This was glorious news to Clara — so delightful 
 that the warning, which accompanied it, was lost 
 upon her ear. Hardly had the operator depart- 
 ed ere she began^to discourse of her returnins: 
 sight. Seated in the chair, which she was cau- 
 tioned not to leave, she almost shouted with de- 
 light, and longed to bound, in the excess of her 
 joy, into the room, and clasp her parents to her 
 bosom. They had at last fulfilled their promise, 
 and light was about to dawn upon her eyes. She 
 would sing some fragment of a song, that she had 
 I learned, and call for her mother and father to 
 I stand close to her side, and place the canary birds 
 I with their cage, and the rose and geranium in a 
 I chair by her — that when the glorious moment ar- 
 } rived, she might first open her eyes upon the dear- 
 < est objects of her heart. 
 
 i It appeared, indeed, as if all her bright hopes 
 > were realized at once. Years seemed compressed 
 ^ into a single moment of inexpressible joy. She 
 I spoke, with a full heart, of the pleasures in which 
 she should indulge — of visiting her playmates, 
 conversing with them, and, most of all, seeing them, 
 face to face. It was no moment to think or even 
 
 •*• 
 
CLARA REVERE. 115 
 
 breathe of disappointment. But, alas! how often 
 does some dark shadow suddenly fall upon our 
 hopes, when they are the highest and brightest, to 
 dispel and eclipse them forever! Her feelings be- 
 came so wrought up, and she so longed to see, 
 that suddenly, at a moment when her spirits were 
 most excited, and regardless of the voice that had 
 warned her, she tore the bandage from her eyes, as 
 innocent smiles played upon her lips, with the 
 heartfelt exclamation, "I must see, I must see 
 you, 3iother!" 
 
 All was dark and dim as midnight to the poor 
 girl. Her feelings and those of her mother, so 
 different in their character, at this moment, must 
 be left to the imagination — if indeed they can be 
 fully imagined. Who shall number the bright 
 hopes that were thus suddenly eclipsed! 
 
 "Clara, my own Clara!" exclaimed the moth- 
 er, in the anguish of her heart. 
 
 "How could you disappoint me, mother! For- 
 give, oh, forgive me Dark — dark — dark! 
 
 AU-seei7ig God, forgive me!" 
 
 The once gay and beautiful Clara Revere is no 
 lono-er amonor the living:. For several years after 
 
 ODD •/ 
 
 her sight was hopelessly gone, and "disastrous 
 eclipse" had fallen upon her in the manner I have 
 narrated, blighting her hopes and her blissful 
 dreams, she lived entirely shut out from the world. 
 
 •*• 
 
•^- 
 
 116 THE PLUME. 
 
 She still retained her surpassing beauty, but cheer- 
 fulness had passed away from her spirit forever. 
 The joys of earth seemed to have been as sudden- 
 ly stricken out from her heart, as the light of 
 heaven from her eyes. Her parents, it may well 
 be supposed, were almost inconsolable at the 
 mournful spectacle, which their daughter exhibit- 
 ed. Every effort to restore her former buoyancy 
 and gaiety was unavailing. Her heart was brok- 
 en, and although — 
 
 The stricken heart, 
 Like to the bleeding bird that cannot sing, 
 And bathe its pinions in the golden air, 
 Will live, and live, and brokenly live on — 
 
 She seemed no longer to have a wish that she 
 might be restored to sight, or even to live. Occa- 
 sionally, indeed, the light of the expiring taper 
 would flicker up, for a moment, and then as sud- 
 denly die away. As she was, sometimes, led out 
 upon the lawn in front of the house, and caught 
 the music of the birds or inhaled the fragrance of 
 the flowers, she would give utterance to a passion- 
 ate exclamation of delight and joy, and then, as if 
 some heavy affliction were casting its shadow over 
 her spirit, she would sink into her former sadness, 
 and sorrow would be imaged in every line of her 
 beautiful countenance. If at such times you had 
 passed the cottage at the foot of the hill, you might 
 
 '^^ 
 
-^ 
 
 CLARA REVERE. 117 
 
 have seen a little girl, whose duty it was to lead her 
 by the hand or watch her footsteps, reading from 
 a thumb-worn volume, as they sat beneath the old 
 elm; and if you listened attentively, you would 
 have found the volume to be the Bible, and that 
 she was reading of the blind man who was re- 
 stored to sight. Her health and delicate frame at 
 length gave way under the blight and disappoint- 
 ment which had fallen upon her, and the poor 
 thing was consigned to the grave, at the foot of 
 which we are sitting. She had but few of the 
 pleasures of life — but few of the treasures of this 
 world, but she had laid up in heaven riches which 
 are incorruptible, and which cannot pass away. 
 Yes, the little blind girl will see in heaven; and 
 who shall say that she is not even now looking 
 down upon us from her blissful abode, as we min- 
 gle our tears by this simple slab which marks 
 her burial-place. 
 
 '' It is a sad tale," said I, as the old sexton end- 
 ed his recital, " and if you will pluck me a flower 
 from her grave, I will cherish it till its cup closes, 
 and it withers in death, as a symbol of the sweet 
 girl who sleeps beneath the sod upon which it lav- 
 ishes its fragrance."* 
 
 *This little sketch is by no means a creation of the fmicy. The main 
 feature of it, at least — that which represents Clara as tearing away the 
 bandage from her eyes, that she might see her mother the first nioinent 
 
< 118 THE PLUME. 
 
 THE TRIUMPHS OF LABOR. 
 
 Sung at the Twelfth Triennial Festival of the Massachu- 
 setts Charitable Mechanic Association, at Faneuil Hall, 
 October 6, 1842. 
 
 Stout Hearts ! who guard the starry banner, 
 That streams our glorious Union o'er — 
 
 Bold spirits ! chant, with loud hosanna, 
 Labor's Triumphs on the sea and shore ! 
 
 Say ! shall the Hero's deeds of glory, * 
 
 His blood-stained spirit wed to Fame — 
 And the victories of Peace your name 
 
 Enshrine not in the heart of story ? 
 Press on ! Press on, true men ! 
 
 Who make the earth smile bright 
 With Labor's magic arm and wand — 
 The broad world feels your might ! 
 
 Nature's Noblemen ! whose honor bright 
 
 Is the best guardian of your fame! 
 What sceptred fool, with proud birth-right. 
 
 Can match ye in your deeds or name ? 
 Your sceptre — your true arm uplifted, 
 
 To fell the oak that builds his throne — 
 
 Your empire — - Nature's broad realm alone. 
 Your law — your own strong minds, high gifted. 
 Press on! Press on! &c. 
 
 she was restored to sight — is true to the letter. The child, whose hopes 
 were thus suddenly eclipsed and blighted, in her excess of joy at seeing 
 her mother, resided not far from Worcester, and her parents are still 
 living. 
 
 / 
 
 t^ 
 
THE TRIUMPHS OF LABOR. 119 
 
 The pine-tree, from the forest springing", 
 Rides old ocean like a "thing of life," 
 
 And, proudly out your hanner flinging. 
 Stems the surges of the battle-strife. 
 
 The kingly oak, no storm that bendeth, 
 
 Bows crownless down — lo ! spring roof and wall, 
 From rock and jewelled mine, majestical, 
 
 As Toil her magic wand extendeth, 
 Press on! Press on! &c. 
 
 The loom comes forth — the bright lights kindle — 
 
 And the music of the dashing stream 
 Singeth your praise — the busy spindle, 
 
 With cunning hand, weaves it in its theme. 
 " God's first Temples," all art excelling. 
 
 Your touch transforms, like Genii's lamp of gold, 
 
 To poor man's palace, Avith hearts ne'er cold, 
 And splendid Misery's heartless dwelling. 
 Press on ! Press on ! &c. 
 
 Bethink ye of that god-like spirit 
 
 Which nerves strong hands, and true hearts feeds ! 
 Aye — be the blood your sons inherit, 
 
 Ennobled but by noble deeds ! 
 Your Franklins and your Fultons cherish, 
 
 Explorers of the realms of mind ; 
 
 Earth's treasures though ye search and find, 
 The mind's wealth only cannot perish. 
 Press on I Press on ! &c. 
 
 Mild Charity is Labor's brightest 
 
 Jewel, that decks her moistened brow — 
 
 4. 
 
120 THE PLUME. 
 
 She sweetens Toil, and makes that lightest, 
 Which but for it the aching head would bow ; 
 
 The orphan's tear — can ye forget it ? 
 The widow's prayer — oh, will ye spurn ? 
 From the memory of your comrade turn ? 
 
 Within your heart of hearts ye'll set it. 
 Press on ! Press on ! &c. 
 
 Brave Hearts ! who guard the starry banner, 
 
 That streams our glorious Union o'er. 
 Well may ye chant, in loud hosanna. 
 
 Labor's triumphs on the sea and shore; 
 Boast Earth's Mightiest none more splendid — 
 
 Joint offspring of mind, and heart, and hand ; 
 
 The Builders of your own Fame ye stand : 
 Your deeds with stainless glory blended. 
 Press on ! Press on I &c. 
 
 LAY OF THE SOLDIER'S BRIDE. 
 
 [ Recently set to Music, and published by C. H. Keith.] 
 
 Many a string hath the harp of Fame, 
 Which sweetly trills on Beauty's ear. 
 
 But the one that sounds the soldier's name 
 And daring high, of all is dear. 
 
 Ever bright his sword and true as its steel, 
 
 His heart to his land, her glory and weal. 
 
 Oh ! the Muse of Song will breathe in vain 
 Soft music from her rose-lipped shell. 
 
■f 
 
 LAY OF THE SOLDIEr's BRIDE. 121 
 
 Unless she wake her loftiest strain, 
 
 The soldier's fame-wrought deeds to tell. 
 Ever bright his sword, and true as its steel, 
 His heart to his land, her glory and weal. 
 
 They may twine with wreaths the statesman's brow, — 
 
 To Glory bright may wed his name, 
 But though dear the shrine Avhere others bow, 
 
 Give me the soldier's deathless fame. 
 Ever bright his sword, and true as its steel. 
 His heart to his land, her glory and weal. 
 
 And oh ! sweet may be the golden light 
 O'er all its paths which Genius sheds, 
 
 But sweeter far is the radiance bright, 
 That streameth where the soldier treads. 
 
 Ever bright his sword, and true as its steel, 
 
 His heart to his land, her glory and weal. 
 
 Gloweth pure and bright the mountain air 
 That waves the gallant soldier's plume — 
 
 And young Freedom's torch, if dimmed its glare. 
 His bosom's fire will quick relume. 
 
 Ever bright his sword, and true as its steel, 
 
 His heart to his land, her glory and weal. 
 
 Oh, sweet each string on the harp of Fame, 
 
 O'er which young Love doth sweep her fingers — 
 
 Over that which sounds the soldier's name 
 And noble deeds, she longest lingers. 
 
 Ever bright his sword, and true as its steel, 
 
 His heart to his land, her glory and weal. 
 11 
 
122 THE PLUME. 
 
 THE DEATH OF WOLFE. 
 
 [Recently set to Music, and published by C. H. Keith.] 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the booming cannon's roar — 
 
 The tread of armies rushing ! 
 Death rides the fearful battle o'er, 
 
 And see the warm blood gushing. 
 Mid sounding trump and clashing gun, 
 The hero spurs his comrades on. 
 
 His banner waving o'er him. 
 
 Wild, wild and deep as ocean's wail. 
 
 The cry of brave men dying ! 
 The plumed warrior, faint and pale, 
 
 Upon the red sod lying. 
 Mid roll of drums, and plunge of steed. 
 And trumpets sounding, though he bleed, 
 
 High waves his banner o'er him. 
 
 And wilder yet that battle din ! 
 
 The last deep summons sounding ; 
 The prancing war-horse, o'er the slain, 
 
 At the dread blast is bounding. 
 Mid fire and smoke that wrap the dead, 
 The bleeding warrior bows his head — 
 
 His shroud, the banner round him. 
 
 Low chant the sad and solemn dirge, 
 For the young hero sleeping ; 
 
THE FIRST ROBIN OF SPRING. 123 
 
 He sees not on the battle-surge, 
 
 Victory her vigils keeping. 
 She lights upon his sword and steel, 
 Hails the loud trumpet's stirring peal, 
 
 And waves her banner o'er him.* 
 
 THE FIRST ROBIN OF SPRING. 
 
 Blithe warbler of the Spring! 
 Ere the glad earth puts on her robe of green, 
 And braids her damask tresses, thou art seen 
 
 On the old elm to sing. 
 
 Oh, whither from the storm, 
 That in its revelry the forest bowed. 
 Didst thou betake thee, far from busy crowd, 
 
 To hide thy slender form ? 
 
 Hid from the eye of day, 
 Didst thou seek shelter in the wood's recess. 
 Alone, alone within the wilderness. 
 
 Far from thy mates away ? 
 
 * The death of the gallant Wolfe, on the Heights of Abraham, at the 
 head of his victorious grenadiers, and in the very moment of victory, 
 has been cited by the historian as one more to be envied than that of 
 any other hero in the annals of military glory. His reply, as he fell, ex- 
 piring in the arms of a comrade, when assured the enemy were retreat- 
 ing from the field, is memorable — " Then, my boya, I die content." 
 
 4. 
 
4- 
 
 124 THE PLUME. 
 
 Swept the loud tempest by, 
 Tearing the feathers from thy shivering breast, 
 And pelting thee from thy warm, sheltering nest. 
 
 On the bare oak-bough high? 
 
 Ah ! it were vain to search 
 Where thou from winter's cold didst find a home — 
 But glad I see thee, so familiar, come. 
 
 And near my window perch. 
 
 Yet, in thy wintry flight. 
 His hand did watch and shield from harm thy form. 
 Who guides the sailor in the ocean storm. 
 
 And the bright stars of night. 
 
 How many years thy song 
 Hath poured its music on my slumbering hours. 
 When morn's first breath doth wake the blushing 
 flowers. 
 
 Bearing their sweets along. 
 
 Ah I now thy strain I hear. 
 Among thy mates, poured from thy warbling throat. 
 Filling each grove with thy gay, cheerful note, 
 
 Spring's feathered pioneer ! 
 
 I love to hear thee sing. 
 When summer groves are glistening in the dew, 
 And gleams, in morning's mingling gray and blue. 
 
 Thy brown and glossy wing. 
 
 Thou callest to thy mate 
 To perch upon thy favorite breezy tree. 
 
THE FIRST ROBIN OF SPRING. 125 
 
 As floats to heaven thy grateful minstrelsey, 
 With happy heart elate. 
 
 And when the crimson glows 
 Gaily, along the soft and mellow west, 
 Thou teachest to thy young, within their nest, 
 
 Thy song at evening's close. 
 
 Oh, sing thy gladsome note, 
 While May her chaplet of bright, budding flowers 
 Weaveth o'er hill and plain; through her green 
 bowers 
 
 Let thy sweet music float. 
 
 Sing, when the golden light 
 Gleams in the blushing east at morn — oh sing. 
 When dew-drops sparkle on each growing thine, 
 
 And on thy wings, so bright. 
 
 Warble thy song, spring bird ! 
 When tinted flower-cups open to the sun — 
 And the light breezes waft thy music on, 
 
 Be thy sweet carol heard ! 
 
 And when, at eve again, 
 Lingers the freighted air the groves among, 
 To Him who shelters thee, thy vesper song 
 
 Chant in one happy strain ! 
 
 There is that to thee given, 
 Which teaches man to hymn his Maker's praise, 
 And his faint soul from cares of earth to raise. 
 
 To the pure joys of heaven. 
 11 * 
 
I 
 
 ] 126 THE PLUME. 
 
 A SHORT CnAPTER ON LONG EARS. 
 
 " 'Ear him ! 'ear him ! 'ear the honorable member ! " > 
 
 Cry of a Cockney at the Hustings. l 
 
 I am a true son of the Puritans, and, of course, j 
 an admirer of all long-eared gentry. Talk of a j 
 large nose — the joke is in having long ears. The i 
 nose is a sneaking, neutral sort of a fellow, who 
 seats himself plump, right in the middle of the ^ 
 face, selecting the best seat for himself; but the j 
 ear takes one side or the other, generally both > 
 sides, and, therefore, must be in the right. The 
 ear is, also, the most important functionary of the 
 two; for a man's reputation is often at the mercy 
 of the ear, but never of the nose. These organs, 
 these "side-intelligencers," as Charles Lamb 
 somewhere calls them, have been sadly abused, 
 and most shabbily cuffed in modern days. Novel 
 writers will discourse eloquently, while describing 
 their heroes or heroines, of the color of their hair, 
 the shape of their noses, the turn of their lips, the 
 expression of their countenance, and chase a smile 
 or a dimple from one cheek to the other; but not 
 a word of their ears. Not one of Scott's heroes 
 or heroines have ears; or, at any rate, it is a mere 
 matter of inference with the reader, whether they 
 
 '^' 
 
A SHORT CHAPTER ON LONG EARS. 127 
 
 have or not. In ancient times, it was the custom 
 of females to suspend jewels from the nose as well 
 as the ear; but with the advance of civilization, 
 the former were dropped, and the ear only was 
 raised to this dignity. This is about the only cus- 
 tom we retain from an uncivilized age as worth 
 keeping; and it shows, as plainly as the nose on 
 one's face, or as the universal consent of all na- 
 tions, wise and unwise, can show, that the ear 
 is the master organ of the human frame. 
 
 ** Survey mankind, from China to Peru," 
 
 with Dr. Johnson, and it will be seen that this 
 honorable member has not always been treated as 
 shabbily as it is now. If we may believe Sir John 
 Mandeville, (and he had great credit with Colum- 
 bus,) the people of a portion of China have such 
 large ears that they use them for cushions. - Sir 
 John himself used his own for a night-cap, as I 
 read in a volume before me; and we have the \ 
 word of Montaigne, sceptic as he was, that in Pe- j 
 ru large ears are esteemed a great and most beau- 
 tiful ornament. It is as well settled, I believe, 
 that Homer had large ears, as that he was an 
 early riser. Commentators do not agree whether 
 the one-eyed Polyphemus had one or two ears. 
 Some assert that the escape of Ulysses is proof 
 positive that he had but one, and offer in evidence 
 that while in the cave the latter kept himself al- 
 
128 THE PLUME. 
 
 ways in the direction of the earless side of the gi- 
 ant's head, and thus, being unheard, effected his 
 retreat. 
 
 In Rome, the females wore jewels of every des- 
 cription in their ears, and the men wore chains. 
 They thought so much of this organ, that they did 
 not tap a man on the shoulder, as we do, to draw 
 his attention, but were accumstomed vellere au- 
 rem, to pull him by the ear, whence, probably, our 
 custom of boxing the ears is derived. I can easily 
 imagine Juvenal clapping both hands to his ears, 
 when, in a passion at the stupidity of the poets, 
 and the sensuality of the profligates of his time, he 
 exclaims, at the opening of his satire, ^^ semper 
 
 ego auditor tantum ? " — still must my ears ? 
 
 The family of the Aurelii were named from the 
 largeness of their ears, as any etymologist may 
 see at once; and I could hardly refrain from 
 breaking out into a horse-laugh, a few days ago, 
 as, bearing in mind this circumstance, I was read- 
 ing an account of a traveler, who stated that, while 
 wandering among the ruins of Pompeii, he stopped 
 to examine an inscription on a door of the house 
 of Aurelius, and disturbed a whole nest of ear- 
 wigs! Shakspeare, among other things, is sup- 
 posed to have known something of human nature, 
 and, of course, was well aware of the great value 
 the Romans set upon their ears. Strange that an 
 unlettered player should know so much of the real- 
 
-^ 
 
 A SHORT CHAPTER ON LONG EARS. 129 
 
 ities of the world, — and of the Roman world, too. 
 What an exquisite allusion to the value the Ro- 
 mans placed upon their ears, there is in Anthony's 
 speech over the body of Caesar, — 
 
 " Fiiends! Romans! Countrymen! lend me your ears 
 
 I »> 
 
 Ears were scarce in Rome in later days; and 
 we have some insight into the mode of punishment 
 adopted by the Roman governors in the time of the 
 apostle, from his frequent exclamation, — "Let 
 them who have an ear to hear, hear! " 
 
 An old writer tells an amusing story of a witty 
 knave, who went to an old woman, in London, 
 and bargained for as much lace as would reach 
 from ear to ear. When the price was settled, he 
 told her he believed she had not quite enough in 
 her shop, for one of his ears was nailed to the pil- 
 lory at Bristol. Many an Englishman went to his 
 grave, in the sixteenth century, with but one ear, 
 leaving the other nailed to the pillory to look after 
 his reputation. Then was the glory of ears in 
 England, when they had the honor of christen- 
 ing millions, and became more prominent by the 
 black velvet scull-caps which gave them the name 
 of prick-eared puritans. 
 
 There are certain modes of speech, that break 
 out, now and then, in spite of prejudices and one's 
 teeth, which show the importance that is almost 
 universally, but tacitly, attached to this honorable 
 
 .♦^ 
 
130 THE PLUME. 
 
 member, (pardon us, Senators!) We say of one 
 who has the confidence of a great man, that " he 
 has his ear;" and 1 can very readily enter into 
 the astonishment of a Frenchman, but little ac- 
 quainted with the English language and its idoms, 
 who, upon being told of various members of the 
 cabinet that "had the ear of the Executive," 
 asked the precise length of the Executive ears, or 
 if he had more than the common number. We 
 ask if such a one has an ear for music; but it 
 would be deemed disrespectful to the supremacy 
 of the ear, if we were to ask if one had a nose for 
 smell, or a leg for walking. We speak of a man's 
 " falling over head and ears " in debt, or in love, 
 — thus placing those flankers of the head next to 
 the head itself Combatants are, also, described 
 as "falling together by the ears." I once heard 
 a person assert, seriously, that, rather than cheat 
 another, he would cut off his finger nails. I 
 should have placed more confidence in the fellow, if 
 he had said he would lose an ear. In some stages 
 of society, the laws would be satisfied with no less 
 than an ear — thus showing the importance of this 
 organ; and it is only in the highest degree of civ- 
 ilization and refinement that they demand the 
 whole body; but I never heard that they would 
 touch the nose. Law-makers, however, it may be 
 added, by the way, if not the laws themselves, 
 > have, now and then, shown a disposition to tweak 
 
-^ 
 
 KATE AND WILL. 
 
 131 
 
 the nasal organ of " the human face divine;" and 
 even the statutes have sometimes demanded that 
 one of the hands should be thrown in, by way of 
 making up the full complement of justice. 
 
 Small ears are said to denote what is expressive- 
 ly called stinginess; but I have known men with 
 ears as large as those of Midas, who would spoil 
 a hatchet to cut a copper into half cents, and were 
 unwilling to pay for the instruments to make them 
 with. I am not in the same category with Cow- 
 per, who says that Nature, 
 
 " Though ears she gave me two, gave me no ear;" 
 
 but as the reader, probably, has concluded, by this 
 time, that my own ears are long enough, I shall 
 not trouble him with any farther description. 
 
 KATE AND WILL. 
 
 THEIR UNHAPPY LOVES AND SAD METAMORPHOSIS. 
 [ Recently set to Music, and piiMished by C. H. Keith.] 
 
 " Oh dear," sighed Will Willow, " there's no rest in my 
 pillow, 
 
 Kate teazes and vexes and bothers me so ; 
 She laughs as she calls me her poor weeping Willow, 
 And, though she will swear I'm a hopeful young fellow, 
 
 When I ask for a kiss, tut ! she's sure to say No ; 
 
 I'm dying, oh, oh ! yet she's sure to say No. 
 
132 THE PLUME. 
 
 Cries Kate — " Dear, I'm sorry, but pray, what can I do ; 
 
 I have lots of prime lovers wherever I go : 
 If on dying your set, have a decent set-to, 
 I will lend you two ribbons, go, hang till you're blue ; 
 I'll know hoAv it feels to have two strings to my beau, 
 Two strings to my beau — Oh ! oh ! still I say No." 
 
 " Oh, surely this Love is a dangerous fellow, 
 A sly, arrant thief, who will rob and will steal ; 
 
 He never takes No, and behaves very ill — oh ! 
 
 He breaks into parlors and kitchens. Will Willow, 
 And he breaks into hearts, as I'm sure you must feel, 
 You must feel, oh, oh, still I'm sure to say No." 
 
 " Oh, yes, cruel Kate, he is a sly rogue, I know ; 
 
 There is something gone here that each moment I miss ; 
 And strange freedom he takes with both coquette and beau, 
 So pray, pardon him, Kate, if while stealing things so, 
 In despite of your No, he thus steals but — a kiss. 
 But a kiss, oh ! oh ! 'Tis too late to say No." 
 
 So, quick as a flash, he sought the rose of her cheek, 
 " There, take that, and take that ! '- in a passion Kate 
 cried, 
 " If such favors you want, 'tis not here you must seek." 
 And she gave him two boxes, so sharp and so quick. 
 On his ear, that poor Will, oh, he moaned and he sighed, 
 Yes, he sighed, he sighed — " Oh, oh, would I had died." 
 
 " Oh Kate, I could bear it, if you only had chid ; 
 
 I have loved you too well, but you treat me too ill, 
 For you smote both my heart and my ear, yes you did ; 
 
KATE AND WILL. 133 
 
 Would a bird I could be, in the green forest hid, 
 
 Where you could not come near, no, nor whip your 
 
 poor Will. 
 How you whipped poor Will, all alone would I trill. 
 
 "And I — I too," Kate cried, with a toss of her head, 
 " Than be wooed in this fashion, and do as you bid, 
 I'd be an insect, I would, and like an old maid. 
 Forever scold in the woods, how rather than wed. 
 She did whip her poor Will, yes she did, Katy did, 
 Ever prate how she did, yes, Kate, Katy did." 
 
 Now, sly Cupid no sooner their fond wishes heard, 
 As the quarrelsome lovers each other thus chid. 
 
 Than, ere they once thought, he took them both at their \ 
 word. 
 
 Changing Kate to an insect, and Will to a bird, 
 To rehearse their complaints in the deep forest hid. 
 There ever to moan, whip poor Will Katy did. 
 
 If you stroll to the woods, you may hear what they say ; 
 
 At it early and late, they the old story trill — 
 "Katy did ! Katy did ! " — Katy's tongue wags away, 
 While moaning Will answers, as he hops on the spray. 
 And the tears trickle down from his eyes to his bill, 
 "Whip, whip, whip poor Will, whip-poor-will, whip- 
 poor-will." 
 
 No coquette, would they say — if to speak not forbade — 
 
 Her lover should whip, as whip poor Will Katy did ; 
 Nor he venture too far Avith a young or old maid, 
 Lest doomed they both be to pine away in the shade, 
 12 
 
 > 
 
 -^ 
 
134 THE PLUME. 
 
 With scarce any repose to their tongue or eye-lid — 
 And moan without mates, " Whip-poor-will" — " Katy- 
 did!"* 
 
 * The note of the Katj'-did is generally heard, I believe, on the edge of 
 a summer evening, and that of the Whip-poor-will very early in the 
 morning, though not unfrequently at night. Should any critical reader sup- 
 pose there is any incongruity in bringing the two together, and making 
 them respond to each other, I must quote the authority of Drake, whose 
 opening lines, in that beautifully imaginative poem, "The Culprit Fay," 
 must have long been familiar to every admirer of American poetry. 
 
 " And nought is heard on the lonely hill, 
 But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 
 
 Of the gauze-winged Katy-did, 
 And the plaint of the wailing Whip-poor-will, 
 
 Who moans unseen and ceaseless sings, 
 Ever a note of wail and wo, 
 
 Till morning spreads her rosy wings. 
 And earth and sky in her glances glow." 
 
 Kate and Will are here made by the poet, it is true, to utter their re- 
 sponsive notes on the classic banks of the Hudson ; but they may be 
 heard in almost every part of New England, complaining of each other 
 in the same never-varying duett. The former scolds in a somewhat 
 louder, shriller, and more energetic tone than her old lover — a circum- 
 stance, by the way, which some ill-natured old bachelors attribute to 
 her being named from one of the softer sex. It is said, however, by nat- 
 uralists, who have looked into the matter, that Will has an impediment 
 in his speech, occasioned, either by his repeated attempts to out-talk his 
 testy companion, before their melancholy transformation, or by his con- 
 stant exposure to the damps of the night and morning air, in which he is 
 miost frequently obliged to be out. However this may be, the com- 
 plaining couple may be heard, in all the New England States, at the 
 proper season. The reader need hardly be told, that a very large and 
 respectable community of Kate's ancestors and family connections has 
 been established, from time immemorial, in Maine. Indeed, their con- 
 certs in that State have immortalized one of its proudest mountains, by 
 giving to it the entire family name, Katahdin, which is merely an abbre- 
 viation oi Katydidian. 
 
H^ 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 13( 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 
 
 " Thou com'st in such a questionable shape — 
 Pry' thee, see there ! Behold ! Look ! Lo ! 
 If I stand here I saw him." — Hamlet. 
 
 There are some people in the world who enter 
 an editor's sanctum with as much freedom and 
 familiarity as if they were themselves the lords 
 of his little empire, and had been formally installed 
 upon the editorial throne. They will seize his 
 sceptre — the pen omnipotent — from his very 
 hand, and brandish it before his eyes with all the 
 pride of sovereignty. They will lay violent hands 
 upon the regalia of his office, and not unfrequent- 
 ly trample them under foot in the very presence 
 of royalty itself Nor do their spoliations always 
 stop here. They cast wistful eyes upon all the 
 paraphernalia of papers and prints, which may hap- 
 pen to lie upon his table or decorate the walls of 
 his little palace, as if their fingers itched to appro- 
 priate them. Indeed, I have known individuals of 
 this class so oblivious in the excess of their delight, 
 as to thrust some of the editor's precious belongings 
 into their pockets, or, it may be, bear them off in 
 his presence, with all the pomp of a conqueror dis- 
 placing the trophies of victory. Among his visitors 
 some rather queer and comical specimens of hu- 
 manity will, of course, occasionally drop in, either 
 
 4- 
 
136 THE PLUME. 
 
 on business or for the laudable purpose of whiling 
 away an hour in familiar chit-chat with the presid- 
 ing Genius of the place. I do not speak particular- 
 ly of individuals belonging to the denomination of 
 Duns and Bores, as they are technically termed 
 by the fraternity. These, indeed, are a privileged 
 class, and will find their way into the sanctum 
 through the key-hole, although the occupant may 
 have locked himself in and put the key in his pock- 
 et. I refer, also, to those well-meaning persons, 
 who, having bestowed what they are pleased to call 
 their patronage, to the enormous extent of a quar- 
 ter's subscription in advance, conceive that they 
 are, in consequence, entitled to a free pass at all 
 hours of the day, and of the night to boot. One 
 happens in for the express purpose of passing the 
 the time of the day, or, what is the same thing, for 
 no purpose at all. Another is desirous of being 
 initiated into the mysteries of the craft, or, perhaps, 
 of "seeing the printing office go." A third will 
 come in for the excellent reason, that his curiosity 
 and extreme anxiety for the editor's welfare, will 
 not allow him to keep out. But I must not forget 
 to introduce to the reader one or two visitors 
 a little out of the usual way. 
 
 Being in somewhat of a drowsy mood one eve- 
 ? ning just as day was thinking about putting on his 
 I night-cap, I leaned my three-legged chair against 
 1 the wall, and, by way of a soporific, began to look 
 
,H^ 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 137 
 
 over the most delightful of all books upon an edi- 
 tor's table — I mean that, of course, containing the 
 long catalogue of delinquents. My little room had 
 been almost crowded, during the day, with speci- 
 mens of the various classes of visitors, to whom I 
 have just alluded, and I felt in no very amiable 
 mood. I had written no editorials, and some one 
 had stolen my scissors. Six or eight patrons also, 
 had run away without paying their bills, whose re- 
 spective delinquencies were to be transferred to 
 the Profit and Loss page in the Ledger. In ad- 
 dition to these vexations, a large note fell due on 
 the morrow, which must be met at all hazards. As 
 I sat endeavoring to drive these unpleasant mat- 
 ters from my mind, and, if possible, fasten my 
 thoughts upon something that might place me in 
 better humor with myself at least, a slight tap was 
 heard at the door, and in stepped a bright-eyed girl, 
 courtesying and blushing like a full-blown rose. 
 
 "Are you the editor, sir?" said she, in almost a 
 whisper, as she closed the door and looked around, 
 as if to be sure there was no third person present. 
 
 "I am that happy mortal," said I, offering the 
 only chair in the room. 
 
 "No, I'm obliged, sir, I believe I will not sit 
 down, as my business is pressing. Do you publish 
 here, sir?" 
 
 "Publish! Oh yes — we do almost anything in 
 
 that line." 
 
 12 * 
 
 ->^ 
 
138 THE PLUME. 
 
 ' ' Well, sir, I — I want — that is, I — should like 
 to have you publish me, sir," continued my fair 
 visitant, not a little confused, and in a low voice. 
 
 "You! Publish you! My dear girl, our press 
 will do most anything — but, publish! did you 
 say?" 
 
 "You see, sir, I — I am going to be — I hope 
 there's nobody to hear, sir" — said she, looking 
 under the table, and blushing — "You, see, sir, 
 I'm going to be married — there, it's out now!" 
 
 "Indeed — I am very happy to hear it, and if 
 I can help you at all " 
 
 " Why, sir, they told me the editor would do all 
 the publishing, and that I must be sure and call 
 here first. I'm sorry to trouble you, sir." 
 
 "Oh, my dear girl," said I, seeing her confu- 
 sion — " Dont be alarmed. I assure you there is 
 some mistake — there is, indeed. 1 can publish 
 almost anything but girls. That is a little out of 
 my line. If you will step over to the Town Clerk, 
 he will do the business for you." 
 
 " O dear ! Sir, excuse me, I beg. I thought the 
 editor did all kinds of publishing." 
 
 " We do — but, still, this particular kind belongs 
 rather to the Town Clerk. When he and the par- 
 son have done with the couple, we clinch their 
 work, if I may so say, that is, we take the happy 
 ones out of their hands and set them off in the 
 world. In fact, our publishing begins just where 
 
A RARE VISITOR. 139 
 
 theirs ends. After you are married to your inten- 
 ded, my dear, I shall be most happy to marry you 
 again — in the paper. This is all the relief I can 
 possibly give you, in the way of publishing." 
 
 " Dear me ! What a mistake!" said she, blush- 
 ing redder than before, and courtesying, as she 
 opened the door — "I'll go right off to the Town 
 Clerk's; but I beg, sir, you wont say anything 
 about my mistake in your paper — and, when I do 
 get married, I'll send you a nice piece of the wed- 
 ding cake, I will. Good day, sir." 
 
 And away she tripped, leaving me in much better 
 humor than I had been before her entrance. 
 
 I had hardly bowed my fair visitor out of the 
 room, before in walked a young man, in great 
 haste, and somewhat out of breath, who, taking 
 out his pocket-book, demanded, in rather an im- 
 patient tone, a receipt for ten years' subscription! 
 
 "Ten years! Ten, did you say?" exclaimed I, 
 staring at him incredulously, and doubting the evi- 
 dence of one of my senses, at least. 
 
 "Yes, ten! Five back and five ahead, in ad- 
 
 < vance. The truth is, sir, I and the little romp, who 
 \ has just stepped out, are about forming a life co- 
 I partnership, and she insists, as the very first arti- 
 I cle in the contract, that I shall be on good terms 
 \ with the editor, or else she will never be on good 
 
 < terms with me, married or not. She this moment 
 \ stopped me in the street, to insist upon this, and 
 
•^-■ 
 
 140 THE PLUME. 
 
 made me promise to call in and see you, immedi- 
 ately. I have just been into the*Town Clerk's, to 
 get published, and, if 1 dont hurry, I believe, upon 
 my soul, she will go in there herself, and get the 
 business all undone again." 
 
 Thrusting the receipt into his pocket, he hurried 
 out, and overtook my blooming visitor just as she 
 was entering the Town Clerk's office. 
 
 I was so much astonished and taken aback by 
 this last operation, that it was not till after half a 
 dozen counts, that I could satisfy myself the money 
 was all right, or indeed that I had not been dream- 
 ing the while. Having counted it over a seventh 
 time, and carefully placed the godsend away in 
 my desk, I determined to have a little nap in 
 my chair, after the fatigue of the day. I, accord- 
 ingly, locked the door of my sanctum on the in- 
 side, took a cioar, and, leaning back against the 
 wall again, began to congratulate myself that I 
 was rid of visitors for the day, and to speculate — 
 speculation was all the go, then — upon the times. 
 A spider on the ceiling was cutting capers with a 
 daddy-long-legs, and, having bitten off a couple of 
 his legs, let him go again. 
 
 *' So it is," thought I, watching the maimed in- 
 sect, as he endeavored to limp from the scene of 
 action, "the tallest of us must knock under to the 
 iron gripe of the speculator. Ten dollars a barrel 
 
«4^ 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 141 
 
 for flour! — The banks blowing up! — A shilling a 
 dozen for eggs! — How the hens will cackle! — 
 Twenty five cents for butter! — How the cows will 
 caper! — Fifteen cents for bacon! — How the hogs 
 will squeal ! — And only nine shillings for a coun- 
 try newspaper, and grumbling at that ! — No cash 
 — no cash — C-a-s-h ! Oh, Cash ! How omnipo- 
 tent art thou ! If thou wouldst but deign to make 
 thy appearance here — if, O Cash " 
 
 " Chink! — chink! — chink! " said a little silver 
 voice, somewhere in the room. 
 
 Starting from the slight doze into which I had 
 fallen, and looking about the apartment, I ob- 
 served, through the smoke-wreaths that curled 
 so gracefully around, a dapper little gentleman 
 near me, with a couple of huge bags upon his 
 shoulders. His appearance was rather singular. 
 Dressed in rags, from head to foot, he wore a sil- 
 ver beard trailing upon his breast, had a gold ring 
 on his finger, and his phiz — or what I could see 
 of it — shone like a bran new dime. When seen 
 through the smoke, his face looked almost as yel- 
 low as if he had a seven years' fit of the jaundice. 
 
 "Did you call me?" said the ragged, bushy 
 little gentleman, setting down his bags, and help- 
 ing himself to the stool upon which I had cocked 
 my editorial perpendiculars. How he got into the 
 room, unless through the key-hole, is more than 
 I know. 
 
-^- 
 
 142 THE PLUME. 
 
 •* Call you? Not I — some mistake!" said I, 
 puffing a whifFor two in his face. 
 
 '^Not at all! I know better! You did call me. 
 Editors will lie so! [What an impertinent chap! 
 thought I.] But, no matter, 1 dont always come 
 when summoned. Give us your hand! I'm going 
 South." 
 
 **The deuce you are ! Well, what of it?" 
 
 " Oh, nothing particular — only I thought you'd 
 like to know it, [oh ho ! he's some old subscriber 
 come to pay up,] and publish the fact in your pa- 
 per. I'm going to make myself scarce. Come — 
 your hand before I go." 
 
 Seizing my dexter, he gave it a gripe — not a 
 very hard though a cordial one — and was about 
 shoulderino; his bag's to be off. " In the name of 
 all the delinquent subscribers in the world," said 
 I, [but I said it to myself,] "what tag-rag and 
 bobtail fellow is this ! He's a curious specimen 
 of something, any way — an oddity, and I might 
 as well have some further chat with him." 
 
 "Stop! don't go yet. You say you are going 
 South, hey?" 
 
 "Exactly! Every body goes South no\y, you 
 know. Any commands?" 
 
 "Got a — a family — I suppose?" 
 
 "A family! ha! ha! ho! ho! he! guess you'd 
 think so! Why, I've got more children of one 
 sort and another, than you can shake a stick at in 
 
 •^- 
 
-hJj* 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 143 
 
 a century, my little fellow! [Little! quotha; what 
 impertinence ! Why, I am full six feet, when free 
 from the cramp.] You laugh — but I've got some 
 thousands of my darlings tied up here in these 
 bags. Chink! chink! chink! Don't you hear 
 them laugh at ye? A family! — He! ho! hum! 
 That is a good one! Yes, that I have! I'm the 
 very prince of lovers, and all the girls run after 
 me, ragged as I am. Why, I'm the crack father 
 of the day." 
 
 "And a little cracked in the upper story, Mr. 
 Rags." 
 
 I let the fool run on, and laugh as much as he 
 chose. Observing that he was evidently out of his 
 senses, and a candidate for the Lunatic Asylum, 
 what was the use of getting in a passion. 
 
 ' ' Mr. — a — what's your name — Ragmuffin — 
 how many of your likely family are girls?" 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! You want to marry one of my 
 daughters, do you? Ragged as I am, I can give 
 them a good setting out." 
 "How many 've you got?" 
 "Oh, donno — ha! ha! ha! — as to that. Never 
 counted 'em — can't count 'em! The old women 
 have acted so like the deuce, in years back, with 
 some of my eagle-eyed offspring, tucking them 
 away in ol4 stockings as curiosities ! What you 
 grinning at, sir? [I laughed outright, in the fel- 
 low's face.] No matter, I'm in hopes to raise up 
 
 ^'^ 
 
•(Jh- 
 
 144 THE PLUME. 
 
 a precious set of yellow boys soon, but donno as I 
 shall succeed." 
 
 *'You don't, hey! Pray, how old do you call 
 yourself?" 
 
 "Old! ha! ha! ha! Oh, only about three thou- 
 sand years, more or less !" I instinctively looked 
 at his lower regions for a cloven foot. 
 
 "You are a merry devil, any how." 
 
 "That I am — and yet I've been treated shab- 
 bily enough to make any one sober. I've been 
 regularly buried in the earth ever so many thou- 
 sand times — but some of my friends have always 
 hunted me up, and brought me to life again. Many 
 of my children, too, have had their ears clipped 
 off, been horribly beaten, and knocked down under 
 the hammer. Then, again, rogues have tried to 
 pass off their counterfeit brats for my resplendent 
 progeny. I wish you could see one of my daugh- 
 ters, after she has passed from one hand to anoth- 
 er, had a regular rubbing down, ay, and her 
 bright face flattened to boot. I've been drowned, 
 too, and had a narrow escape from sharks several 
 times of late. Don't I smell a little of salt water?" 
 
 "Rather more of brimstone. Where do you 
 live, if one may be so bold; that is, when you are 
 at home?" 
 
 "Live! ha! ha! ha! what a question! live! 
 quotha ! Oh ! I live every where and no where — 
 any how and no how. I can live in a thimble, in 
 
 ■¥ 
 
•4^ 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 145 
 
 an old drawer, squeeze myself into an old boot or 
 a lady's slipper — I'm not at all particular. I can 
 sleep in the clutch of the miser, or the reticule of 
 the dazzling Beauty who leads up the dance. I 
 come at t!ie earnest call of the poor man, and 
 bring comfort and good cheer to his fireside. I 
 bear healing to the sick, ay, and balm to the 
 wounded heart and the broken spirit. At one 
 wave of my wand, the desert smiles and the wil- 
 derness blossoms like the rose. The log-house ex- 
 pands into the regal palace and the princely hall, 
 along the paths where my heavy foot has trod. I 
 perch on the brow of kings, and shine there like a 
 star in the forehead of the sky. I can take a 
 thousand shapes, and find a home, with any of 
 them, in palace or cot. I always start at a law- 
 yer's whistle. I am the magic wanderer, and 
 have no particular abiding place. But, at the 
 same time, I have a private country residence in 
 almost every village, and several splendid mansions 
 in all your cities, where I draw my children about 
 me as fast as I can get them in, and always find a 
 welcome lodging. People are sometimes in too 
 great a hurry to get me out, and, for aught I know, 
 would pull down my own house about my ears, if 1 
 did not stand firmly on my own bottom. What the 
 deuce you giggling at, sir?" 
 
 "D'ye know you are crazy, Mr. Merridevil? 
 You talk as crooked as a corkscrew, and as poeti- 
 13 
 
 ^ 
 
 r 
 
5 
 
 146 THE PLUME. 
 
 cal withal as the champagne it sets sparkling in 
 the glass. You must be love-cracked I" 
 
 "No more than you are! I know what I'm 
 about. You are cracked with love of me or some 
 of my bright-eyed daughters. Cracked! ha! ha! 
 ha! Crackee! Why, look here, I'm an old crony 
 of the Rothschilds and the Barings. I'm hand- 
 and-glove with most of your great men. Were 
 I to give you a letter of introduction to one of 
 my correspondents, he'd fork over the shiners for 
 you, that is, unless the shiners should happen to 
 have forked him over, a thing which will befall 
 the best of them, occasionally, in spite of all my 
 warnings." 
 
 "Poor devil! are you worth any thing?" 
 
 "Oh — a trifle. I've enough to pay my expenses, 
 «s I go along. I suppose I might buy up your 
 whole continent, if I said the word — and a good 
 speculation I could make of it." 
 
 How wildly an insane fellow will talk, when he 
 gets a going! There is no end to his castle-build- 
 ing. 
 
 "If you are so well off, Mr. Yellowface, why 
 do you go South?" 
 
 "Why — some of my children, I fear, are not 
 doing very well, there. Their dwelling places are 
 hard run upon, and I must go to look into matters 
 a little. Speculators find they can't do without 
 them — but they are pushing them too far. I 
 
 -^ 
 
4- 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. 147 
 
 MUST go. Natural affection spurs me, if nothing 
 else. I am afraid, as it is, I shall be too late to 
 save them from a general smash. It is too bad. 
 But I mean to be back here again soon among my 
 old customers, and wander up and down through 
 the country, as lively as ever. I am a great hand 
 for being among active people; I make business 
 brisk; and, again, business always keeps me in a 
 healthy complexion. I am not naturally an an- 
 chorite — though some fellows would like to keep 
 me locked up in a strong box forever." 
 
 Why — he talks sensibly and coherently enough 
 at times. If it be madness, "there's method in 
 it," thought I. 
 
 "Will you believe it — I have been seen so 
 rarely, of late, in this quarter, that some very par- 
 ticular friends of mine, the moment I was caught 
 out, seeing that my silver beard was rather long, 
 have, not much to my liking, given me a tremen- 
 dous shaving. You see there's more left to shave 
 yet." 
 
 "Yes, I see there is. Why don't you take a 
 tumble over Niagara Falls, to get your senses 
 straightened out!" 
 
 "Pooh! Some of my children are under the 
 water there, to be sure — but I shan't trouble 
 them. D'ye know I was one of the greatest 
 thieves in the world? Ha! ha! ha! You start; 
 I, or some of my children, have been imprisoned 
 
 .•^ 
 
148 *♦ THE PLUME. 
 
 about half our days. I'm a regular bred pick- 
 pocket — that's half my trade." 
 
 I insensibly thrust a hand into my own pocket to 
 see if all was right there. 
 
 ' ' A pick-pocket — in prison — hey ! how'd you 
 get out?" 
 
 "Get out! Why, my friends took me out, to 
 be sure. Yes, I've had my hands in every body's 
 pocket, and drawn out their purses v>hen I chose. 
 I've fingered your pocket a hundred times, and I 
 mean to do it again before I leave you." I start- 
 ed at this annunciation. 
 
 "The d you do? You are wise to give 
 
 timely notice — but you are welcome to all you 
 can find, Mr. Impertinent. What else can you 
 boast, in that line?" 
 
 "Why, there is not a store or counting-room 
 which I have not entered, day and night, for the 
 purpose of taking away whatever I had a fancy to. 
 I can have my pick of the goods. at any time, and 
 the seller does nothing to hinder me. He is always 
 glad to see me, though I sometimes make heavy 
 drafts upon his pockets. I don't like to boast, but 
 I am the most popular customer merchants have. 
 They wink at my stealing, in every nook and cor- 
 ner of their stores. An old fellow, calling himself 
 Longcredit, or some such name, has lately made 
 me a little unpopular and driven me at a distance. 
 But chink! chink! chink! that's my music. I 
 
 
A RARE VISITOR. 149 
 
 < 
 
 have half a mind to introduce you to some of my ^ 
 
 bright-eyed and golden-haired daughters, on the i 
 
 spot. I 
 
 "There is one firm," he continued, " that al- < 
 
 ways keeps its head above water, with which I J 
 
 have many dealings. Do you wish to know what i 
 
 one it is?" J 
 
 " Run on, old boy, I have nothing to say; only, \ 
 
 if convenient, keep within gun-shot of the truth," l 
 
 said I, thinking it best to humor the feilov/. ' 
 
 "There is one firm, I say, that always lifts its ; 
 
 head the higher in the tornado which prostrates '^ 
 
 others, and gathers strength from their weakness ] 
 
 and prostration. Its existence dates from the very ; 
 
 existence of the country, and so extensive are its < 
 
 operations, that the partners have found it neces- ; 
 
 sary to establish branches in every village where ,■ 
 
 a lawyer can live, and in a vast many where he / 
 
 cannot." I 
 
 " Of course, then, good Mr. Merridevil," said J 
 
 I, "they advertise in all the newspapers." <, 
 
 " Just so — but their advertisement is always the \ 
 
 last that people like to look at. Owing to a de- ^ 
 
 feet somewhere — in the pocket, or in human na- ', 
 
 ture, I suppose — their gains are not always pro- \ 
 
 portionate to the extent of their advertising or the < 
 
 amount of their business. Attempts have been \ 
 
 made by swindlers to get the copartnership dis- J 
 
 solved, or the firm entirely broken up, but they ^ 
 
<; 150 THE PLUME. 
 
 V 
 
 \ have proved wholly abortive. The partners are 
 j very affable, and salute those with whom they 
 < have to do, with a greeting so courteous and 
 I graceful, that it is next to impossible to resist their 
 i call to walk up to their desk or counter. The 
 • fascination of the reptile, coiled beneath the bush- 
 es, cannot be more complete upon the unv/ary bird 
 ;: upon the overhanging tree, than that of the mem- 
 ; hers of this firm upon those v/ith whom they have 
 dealings. Bankruptcies among other houses only 
 strengthen the bonds of this, and draw the cords 
 betv/cen the partners still tighter together. The 
 senior in the concern is a smart, active, bustling^ 
 and exceedingly clamorous little fellow, who does 
 j' all tlie talking, and will hardly take no for an an- 
 \ swer. You might as well tread on the tail of a 
 rattle-snake, as to offend him by an incautious 
 word; for, though pleasant and sociable in con- 
 versation, disposed to accommodate, and do the 
 "thing that's right," he is easily offended, and 
 .^ quick as a flash of gunpowder, in his resentments. 
 ^ The junior partner, the principal book-keeper, by 
 \ the way, says but little, is rather pettish, ex- 
 l tortionate, and for bringing matters to a conclu- 
 \ sion, in short metre. Any thing like delay is his 
 \ chief abhorrence; and if an imposition is practised 
 ■ against this younger brother in the concern, they 
 i both resent it upon the spot, and you might as 
 
 •f- 
 
•^ 
 
 A RARE VISITOR. ' 151 
 
 well think to set a bumbailiff at defiance as to get 
 
 out of his clutches." \ 
 
 "Pray, what may be the name of this firm?" J 
 
 "A pretty fellow you, to ask that! Why, you \ 
 
 are deeply interested in it, yourself. You stare, ; 
 
 but, ha! ha! ha! I know you a7'e. It is the well- ] 
 
 known firm of ' Call £c Settle.' Ha! ha!" \ 
 
 "But come, I must be off," he continued, "I J 
 
 must keep my promise good, at all events. I want < 
 
 you to send me your paper." ? 
 
 My little gentleman jumped up from the stool, ;; 
 
 which had almost split with his frequent peals of J 
 
 laughter, and, shouldering his bags, was going off / 
 
 vritlioiit even tellin:^ me his name. Chink! chink! \ 
 
 cliiiik! cried all his eagle-eyed offspring, peeping ' 
 
 through the interstices of his bao;s. '/ 
 
 "To v/hom shall I direct your paper, and I 
 
 where?" '< 
 
 " Why, to ME — any where — every where." | 
 
 "That's very definite. Who'll pay the post- ; 
 
 age?" ^ \ 
 
 "I — to be sure. You called me in here, and ] 
 
 \-\o\y you ask my name. Here, I'll leave my card j 
 
 with you. Don't fail to send me your paper. I <: 
 shall be one of your best subscribers. Good bye, 
 
 for the present; when you want your pay, just < 
 
 give Old Cash a call. Ha! ha! ha! I'm off. \ 
 Chink! chink! chink!" 
 
 \ 
 
>^' 
 
 152 THE PLUME. 
 
 "Old Cash!" I exclaimed, at the top of my 
 lungs, starting up and rubbing my eyes. 
 
 "Old Cash!" replied echo, in a shrill, quiver- 
 ing voice of consternation. 
 
 "Old Cash!" thundered out an iron-lunged 
 subscriber, who, passing my visitor on the stairs, 
 came in, at that moment, to pay for another year, 
 in advance, (the best possible proof that I had not 
 been dreaming, all the while.) 
 
 "Chink! chink! chink!" was the only reply 
 he gave, as he hurried along the street, turning 
 his little bright eyes towards my window. 
 
 "Old C-a-s-h!" I vociferated again, on look- 
 ing at the card he had left on the table, in the 
 shape of a ten dollar bill. 
 
 "Old Cash!" thundered a hundred voices, out 
 doors, till the v/elkin rung again, as they caught 
 up the magic sound. There was a perfect fever 
 to get a sight at Old Cash, and take him by 
 the hand, "Chink! cliink! chink!" was heard 
 ajrain, fainter and fainter. 
 ) I reproached myself for having treated my val- 
 l ued visitor so disdainfully, and was about calling 
 I him back, to apologize, though he seemed to take 
 I it in good part; but, looking out of the window, I 
 < saw, through the bright moon-shine, Old Cash, 
 with his bags, trudging along, up one street and 
 down another — his old familiar places — till he 
 came to a horse, by tiie wayside. He mounted. 
 
A RARE VISITOR. 153 
 
 and rode off, full speed — for money makes the 
 mare go, you know. "Chink! chink!" came 
 again, like the chime of sleigh-bells, as the hoofs 
 of his horse struck a golden light from the stones, 
 in his way. 
 
 "Old Cash!" shouted every lawyer, running 
 after him, and pleading with a most litigious elo- 
 quence. But he paid no regard to the lawyer's 
 whistle, this time. On he went, just looking 
 around, now and then, as though giving a sort of 
 half promise that he would turn back — but no! 
 When it fairly got wind that a glimpse had 
 been had of such an old friend, every body was in 
 the streets after him. Sheriffs made menacing 
 motions v*ith their insignia of office. Merchants 
 and butchers held out invitingly to him what they 
 thought would tickle his palate, if he would but 
 turn and look — such as flour, beef, he. But 
 no; he was as shy of them all as a Jew is of 
 pork. He rode off, stiff and straight, and people, 
 thrusting their hands in their breeches pockets, as 
 if their regrets came from that region, seemed 
 dumfounded, that they had got so near (he Rare 
 Visitor, without shaking him by the hand. But 
 the Magic Wanderer will return; and, in the 
 mean time, I shall take the greatest pleasure in 
 sending my paper to him and his ten thousand 
 sons and daughters. 
 
 Returning to my desk, I found one year's sub- 
 
 
 •^ 
 
154 THE PLUME. 
 
 scription to the paper, in specie. Upon taking it 
 Up, what was my surprise, to see that I had struck 
 it so hard with my fist, as it lay before me, in 
 pure consternation that a subscriber should call 
 and pay for his paper, in advance, that it had ac- 
 tually indented my old desk, and left an indelible 
 impression on its lid. 
 
 I have only to add, that when I related this ad- 
 venture, the next day, no one would believe a syl- 
 lable of it, except tlie cashier of the bank, and he 
 was incredulous, until he saw me Vi^alk straight up 
 to his counter and cash the note which had fallen 
 due that morning. Every one else pronounced it 
 an editor's story — \vhich they seemed to regard 
 as synonymous with a fabrication or an idle 
 dream — and, to cap the climax, the Printer's 
 Devil thought he must say a word, by way of add- 
 ing to my confusion. This little imp affirmed that, 
 having a curiosity to know vv'hat kept me so long 
 in my room, at such an hour, he had peeped 
 through the key-hole, and actually seen me, 
 through the twilight, dozing away in my chair! I 
 immediately gave him a column of the worst man- 
 uscript I could write, to set up, as a slight punish- 
 ment for his ill-timed curiosity. 
 
 hJj- 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 155 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 Now, by the point of Cupid's dart ! 
 Whicli one day yet will make you smart. 
 
 I know not what to say ; 
 For, Sukey, love-themes, like a coat, 
 Have been so oft turned in and out, 
 
 They're thread-bare and all gray. 
 
 Album poets are so graphic, 
 
 Their strains so honied and seraphic. 
 
 When poetizing girls. 
 They swear their lips are rubies rare, 
 Their eyes bright diamonds in their glare, 
 
 Their teeth all costly pearls. 
 
 All mad they run with downy cheek. 
 With nose and mouth, and hair so sleek — 
 
 'Tis auburn, when it's red ; 
 The waist, as slender as a wasp, 
 They'll make a finger ring to clasp, 
 
 A five-feet belt instead. 
 
 The foot is small, and neatly turned — 
 No matter whether sprained or burned, — 
 
 Bless me ! how they go ! 
 And chase a dimple or a smile, 
 And hunt a beauty half a mile, — 
 
 At least, from head to toe. 
 
 •*• 
 
156 THE PLUME. 
 
 The heaving bosom and the sigh, 
 Will never let their eyes be dry, 
 
 They make such strange ado! 
 Queer they who face the cannon's thunder, 
 To love's small pop-gun should knock under- 
 
 'Tis odd, I think, don't you ? 
 
 If I remember right, your hair 
 Hangs not in curls, or ringlets fair; 
 
 'Tis fastened with a comb — 
 And, tied with papers and with pins, 
 It goes no penance for its sins. 
 
 But curls up fast at home. 
 
 'Tis chesnut color, I should say, 
 And neither yellow, red, or gray — 
 
 But very comely hair ; 
 You do it up with turtle shell. 
 Like any other modern belle — 
 
 And, Suk, you're right, I swear. 
 
 'Tis sleek, although you do not use, 
 Or grease or oil, as on your shoes. 
 
 To make it gaily shine — 
 As I have known some folks to do. 
 With whiskers, which they wished to grow- 
 
 I never so used mine. 
 
 I know your lips are rosy red. 
 Your cheeks as soft as feather-bed, 
 That is, as down, I mean — 
 
ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 But who would think to tell a cherry 
 That it was red, or ripe a berry, 
 That grass in spring is green ? 
 
 Your waist is small as I should choose, 
 Your feet some smaller than your shoes — 
 
 Your ankle — I ne'er saw it — 
 Was badly burned some time ago, 
 And sent you limping, to and fro — 
 
 I'm sure I'm sorry for it. 
 
 I'll lay a dollar to a pea, 
 
 'Tis turned as neatly as could be, 
 
 And yet be made of clay — 
 And when short gowns come into vogue, 
 I say he's blind, or else a rogue, 
 
 Who dares to tell me nay. 
 
 Though not known as literary. 
 Let me say it slyly — very — 
 
 Your stockings, Suk, are blue. 
 And could holes see, you'd darn their eyes, 
 Mistress of long-yarn mysteries, 
 
 (Not spun by Boz or Sue.) 
 
 157 
 
 You play upon the piano. 
 
 Much like other maidens, I know — 
 
 And then I've heard you sing. 
 Not like an angel, ere he fell, 
 But like each modern, mortal belle — 
 
 No seraph or such thing. 
 14 
 
 -•*• 
 
158 THE PLUME. 
 
 I never heard an angel's lyre, 
 
 His heavenly voice and words of fire, 
 
 Nor you, I think, my dear ! 
 But when our mortal dance is o'er. 
 You'll be an angel, not before — 
 
 But not like angels here. 
 
 Suk, were a friend but sick abed, 
 You'd softly pillow up his head, 
 
 And sweetly soothe his pain ; 
 Oh ! then, most heavenly, Suk, you'd be, 
 A seraph with your cup of tea — ^ J' 
 
 Oh ! most an angel then ! 1 in 
 
 Perhaps on washing days you are, 
 Like others, who are sweet or fair, 
 
 A little tart, or so ; 
 But then the very sweetest pies, 
 Are not so good, in some folks' eyes, 
 
 As cranberry tarts, you know. 
 
 But, bless me ! how I race along, 
 And sing your praises in this song. 
 
 Or whate'er you name it — 
 I'll rein my pigmy courser in. 
 And to his neck his bridle pin. 
 
 Else, dear Suk, you'll blame it. 
 
AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 159 
 
 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 
 
 Good apartments, Jack! — Bob Acret. 
 
 I have a peculiar regard for old garrets. One 
 sings the praises of old maids and other family 
 pieces of antiquity; another of old wine and old 
 books; but, without meaning any disparagement 
 to these, I hold that an old garret is many steps 
 above them all. I never passed six hours together 
 in one of these upper regions; but if I had as many 
 lives as Plutarch, as the man says (or should have 
 said) in the Play, one of them should be devoted 
 to the composition of a quarto on garrets. I trust 
 I have as much politeness as most men of my 
 inches, [five feet ten.] I can make as genteel a 
 bow as your Frenchman, at the door of a splendid 
 mansion — and that, too, without fainting at the 
 knocker, through fear of misbehaviour or miscar- 
 riage in the parlor; but — it must out — your gar- 
 ret is the only place on earth, except the church, 
 in which I take off my hat at the very vestibule. 
 I will go one step farther. I have not unfrequent- 
 ly prostrated myself, upon entering a garret, with 
 as much reverence as a worshipper of the Grand 
 Lama, or a courtier of his infernally black Majes- 
 ty of Nigritia — to say nothing of the prostrations 
 before his Lowness the Great Toe of his Highness 
 
100 THE PLUME. 
 
 the Pope. It might be sufficient, as a reason for 
 my respect for old garrets, to say, with Shylock, 
 that **such is my humor;" and that would be as 
 good a one as nine-tenths of mankind can give for 
 their opinions and whims. Such is my humor, 
 then, till I tind a more satisfactory answer. 
 
 I have ollen thought that a garret would be a 
 capital apartment for a phrenologist. It appears 
 to me that, if a man's bumps could be developed 
 in one place more prominently than in another, it 
 would certainly be in the cranium of the house. 
 It seems natural, too, that one, who is to examine 
 our own upper stories, should perch himself in the 
 very brain, so to say, of the mansion. This is on- 
 ly a passing remark, however. 
 
 Thanks to our climate, and to the noble science 
 of architecture, every man, unless, like Methuse- 
 lah, he lives in the open air, can have a comforta- 
 ble garret. How senseless and stupid did the 
 Egyptians show themselves, in having flat roofs to 
 their houses! Is it not strange that the eternal 
 i pyramids, those garrets of kings, did not suggest 
 J to them the idea of oblique roofs, casting, as they 
 I did, their shadows over their dwellings? No gar- 
 \ rets! No retreats for the muses from the noise of 
 \ the world! No Grub-street! What wonder is it 
 \ that poetry — a weed on the earth, a flower in the 
 \ air — never flourished in the land of the pyramids. 
 \ No high places! No attics for her magicians, her 
 
 s 
 
 X 
 
> 
 
 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 101 
 
 Star-gazers and philosophers! Well might those I 
 
 dialects of Babel tongues, the rnind-defying hiero- I 
 
 glyphics, settle on the land. Miserable contor- j 
 
 tions and twistings of the primitive parts of speech! I 
 
 Should any descendant of Champolion ever make / 
 
 his way through the more than Egyptian darkness \ 
 
 that has so long overshadowed the scratches of i 
 
 Time and the zeros of Eternity, which disfigure the ? 
 
 thousand columns, obelisks, and ruins of this flat- | 
 
 roofed region, there cannot be the shadow of a / 
 
 doubt, that the first legend he deciphers will de- j 
 
 clare the curious fact, that all the garrets of the l 
 
 Egyptians were cut off in an instant by the sword | 
 
 of some mighty Avenger, as a punishment for their ! 
 
 idolatry and obstinacy. ] 
 
 There is as great a difference in garrets as in { 
 
 drawing-rooms and cellars. Our hipped-roofs | 
 
 make very respectable garrets — but they are no | 
 
 places for your straight-laced gentry, your Pata- ' 
 
 gonians et id omne genus. They are all angles, I 
 
 and one might fancy that the sublime science of ge- < 
 
 ometry drew some of her diagrams in the first gar- | 
 
 ret. Our pent-roofs are very accommodating to / 
 
 perpendiculars — yet even here tall people would | 
 
 be compelled to knock under. But Hogarth him- { 
 
 self could hardly find a spot where there is so / 
 
 grand an assemblage of his lines of beauty as in a | 
 
 curb-roof garret. / 
 
 It would be amusing to peep into garrets, when | 
 
 14* ! 
 
•^J" 
 
 162 THE PLUME. 
 
 one pleases, if one could unroof them, like Asmo- 
 deus. What a treat there would be for antiqua- 
 ries and collectors! I question if a place could 
 be found in the world, to match these neglected 
 spots, as receptacles of rare and odd things. Many 
 an old literary treasure has been buried here, and 
 seen no resurrection till Time has lifted the lid 
 from its mouldering urn. What a loss to the 
 world would it have been, if Waverley had contin- 
 ued to repose among the rubbish of the old garret 
 at Abbotsford, and been banqueted upon by Time 
 and Decay! I venture to say, that the best mate- 
 rials of history and biography have been found 
 hidden in the corners of garrets. It is easy 
 enough to throw manuscripts into a writing-desk; 
 but not quite so easy a matter to keep the old 
 desk, contents and all, from the lumber-garret. 
 Search the garrets of England, and end the con- 
 troversy upon the authorship of Junius and the 
 Man in the Iron Mask. You may find a key here 
 that will unlock mysteries and problems! When 
 a great hue and cry was once set up after a par- 
 ticular edition of Cotton Mather, the reverend 
 gentleman was found snugly reposing under an 
 old bed, in a country garret. I would rather have 
 the pickings of some attics, than the most savory 
 dishes in the kitchens below. Give a person the 
 contents of all the old garrets in Europe, and let 
 him present them to an English University, and he 
 
 -4-~ 
 
AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 163 
 
 will be loaded with more titles of honor than the 
 greatest poet in the world. 
 
 Unroof me that curb-roof yonder. What a gal- 
 lery of old, odd, antique pictures, smoky, dusty, 
 and tottering in their frames! There are alma- 
 nacs for every year since the war. What bundles 
 of old newspapers, magazines, and reviews, not 
 wearing the dignity of calf with gilt edges, but re- 
 posing in dog-eared glory in covers, purple, yel- 
 low and green. There stands the old cradle, which 
 has almost rocked itself to pieces in the service of 
 the family. It has held its scores, from the great- 
 grandfather down to that little prattler beneath the 
 window. Venerable nurse of generations! It is 
 now loaded with pictures of aunts, cousins, and 
 uncles innumerable, and sprinkled with many a 
 sweet-smelling herb. There stands the old fash- 
 ioned chest of drawers, as hump-backed as Rich- 
 ard, and here a table as lame as Byron. You 
 may see an odd assemblage of bottles, in that cor- 
 ner, huddling around an old demijohn or jug, be- 
 wailing its fate with open mouth and broken arm. 
 Every thing which the contrivance and industry of 
 man has thrown out of employment, is shivering 
 and tottering here, cursing the Spirit of the Age, 
 and thrown into ague-fits at thought of the busy 
 intermeddlinor of Invention. Chief amonor these is 
 that old prince of grumblers — the spinning-wheel 
 — formerly buzzing and whizzing out its long 
 
 -4- 
 
 > 
 
 ■•^J* 
 
^. 
 
 164 THE PLUME. 
 
 yarns, and still so complaisant as to allow that 
 "whatever is, is right," except Arkwright and 
 Cartwright. There lies an old gun, primed with 
 dust, and charged to the muzzle with rust, which 
 I warrant, has done the state good service. It 
 has no lock, and though it is as rusty as an an- 
 chor, and has not been within smell of gunpowder 
 these fifty years, yet the timid good-wife below is 
 in a terrible pet lest it should take it into its barrel 
 to go off. But this place is especially deserving 
 of notice, as being the retreat of old fashions. 
 Here is many a loop-hole through which Dame 
 Fashion, as old, antiquated, and shorn of her 
 graces as a«pinster, peeps forth upon the world, 
 and laughs at the triumphs she has gained. See 
 that brood of old-fashioned garments nailed to the 
 sides of the roof! They have had their day again 
 and again; and yet, trust me, the day is coming, 
 when they will step forth from their aerial tower 
 at the summons of the Great Magician, Time, to 
 decorate the limbs of the poor puppets of humani- 
 ty, who dance their little hour on the theatre of 
 the world, as gaily as if the curtain would not fall 
 at last. What a museum of curiosities! There 
 lies an old garment, which was once a fine military 
 coat, as blushing as Chanticleer, knight of the 
 bloody crest — but alas! it has crowed its last 
 crow! It once had the tail of a comet — but how 
 horribly maimed! Spirit of Seventy-Six! It was 
 
 •4-; 
 
AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 
 
 shot into a short jackpt at Bunker's Hill, and rich- 
 ly deserves a pension for its honorable curtail- 
 ment. There is another coat, which its wearer 
 has just thrown into this out-of-the-way corner of 
 his mansion, because the cut has been the fashion 
 a dozen times before. That pair of tights was for- 
 bidden the light, because it reminded the owner 
 of the tailor's unpaid bill. Those other vestments 
 which are dangling from their pegs, like criminals, 
 have not committed suicide, but are aged and tot- 
 tering exiles from the circles of Fashion,which have 
 worn themselves thread-bare — mere shadows of 
 their former glory — and live in honorable banish- 
 ment, away from the hard knocks, the wear and 
 tear of the world. Time will pull out the best 
 stitches of Snip, the tailor. Here are pantaloons, 
 as large and ample as a Turk's, which you might 
 take for meal-bags, while others are as lean and 
 meagre as snake-skins. Here are old buckles for 
 the knees, and for the feet — the decorations of 
 your true gentleman of the last century — and 
 near them are velvet breeches, their venerable 
 
 and rich accompaniments. Behold those fans 
 
 how large and broad! Spangled screens, behind 
 which our grandmothers blushed, and smiled — 
 and fainted, and smiled again! Star-spangled 
 banners! The hands that waved them are cold^and 
 motionless; the fingers that ornamented them have 
 mouldered in the earth; but how many young Cu- 
 
166 THE PLUME. 
 
 pids, painted devices, flowers and flower-pots, 
 breathe forth from their ample folds! Could you 
 but see one of these huge fans spread out its 
 wings, you would suppose it must have been made, 
 like Mr. Primrose's picture, in the apartment that 
 holds it. You would wonder how it could be got 
 out, but still more how it ever got in. Behold the 
 old genealogical tree, its branches lopped off* and 
 its trunk withered. It hung over the mantel-piece 
 in the parlor, till the glass fell out and the frame 
 was broken; but now it lies concealed in this re- 
 ceptacle of lost things, never to blossom or bear 
 fruit more. St. Crispin! Behold the boots, 
 bootees, and shoes, square-toed and peaked! 
 Alas! they have been on their last legs, and are 
 all now on the same footing. How oft has the 
 floor sprung and sounded to their light dance, or 
 their heavy tramp! Here are rights and lefts 
 enough for a regiment; but you cannot find two 
 that are mates, among the whole company. Some 
 have beat time to fife and drum, and some to the 
 squeaking violin; but their last dance is over, and 
 their last squeak gone forth. What an assem- 
 blage of hats! Truly, the articles of the wardrobe 
 of your cockloft are as numerous, if not as costly, 
 as were those of good queen Bess. Here are hats 
 of every size and shape, from the pudding-head 
 and dumpling, down to the last new turn-over. 
 They are cocked by Time and cocked by Fashion, 
 
.^ 
 
 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 167 
 
 three-cornered and no-cornered, with narrow 
 brims and broad Quaker brims. This one has 
 the damme look of the bravado — and that the 
 squint of the old gentleman. Here is a bonnet, 
 which seems to have been made by some of Nature's 
 journeymen, and there a hood, that, like chaos, 
 is *' without form and void." They are all cocked 
 into one indiscriminate heap — the cast-offs of 
 many generations; for here Fashion has drawn to- 
 gether all the trumpery which she has sent out into 
 the world. How she laughs and smiles as she 
 counts up her triumphs, and scores down in the 
 garret the number of fools she has made! Every 
 thing you see here is like an old coin, which has run 
 its round till, its gloss gone, its image and super- 
 scription worn off, it is finally lost in some remote 
 corner of a pocket; for, pray, what is your cock- 
 loft, but an old, forgotten pocket? 
 
 I need hardly say a word of the antiquity of gar- 
 rets. It is unquestionable, let some carping gen- 
 try of the parlor say what they will. It dates 
 back to the Antediluvians. It was about this 
 time, though commentators mention not the pre- 
 cise period, that men learned 
 
 '• To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 And spread the roof above them." 
 
 It seems natural, also, that, in the early ao-es, 
 people should turn their attention to garrets rather 
 
168 THE PLUME. 
 
 than to elegant parlors. The former bear the 
 same relation to the latter, which a state of nature 
 bears to civilization. At the same time, I allow 
 that first-chop garrets can only be made in periods 
 of great refinement; but the deuce is, that your 
 elegant drawing-room steps in then, and jostles 
 the last and most exalted piece of architecture, the 
 garret, out of its dignity; so that the latter shines 
 with that sort of splendor which the stars possess, 
 when the sun is at its height. I have little doubt 
 that Noah's ark had a glorious garret. The scrip- 
 tures make no mention of this, it is true; but we 
 are told it was three stories high, and no reasona- 
 ble person can doubt that it was topped by a fine, 
 capacious garret. There must have been an 
 apartment of this kind, in which to stow away old 
 chattels, and, perhaps, some of Noah's superflu- 
 ous, floating population. Should his log-book 
 ever be found, some positive information may be 
 obtained upon this difl[icult subject. 
 
 It is a singular fact, and one which speaks vol- 
 umes in praise of garrets, that the Roman supper 
 or dining-room corresponded with these despised 
 modern apartments. Ay, ye modern epicures! the 
 dandies and gentlemen loafers, whom Horace and 
 Juvenal have lashed so unmercifully, partook of 
 their deep potations and their delicious banquets 
 in garrets. It was here, that the Falernian, Mas- 
 sic, and Cecubaean wine sparkled in the goblet. 
 
4- 
 
 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 169 
 
 Here the roasted shrimps and the African cockles 
 were devoured, after the rich and exhilaratino- 
 wine-cups had touched the lip. Here the lost ap- 
 petite was restored by sausages and bacon. Here 
 the Venafrian oil trickled over the delicate sauces 
 — here smoked the barbel and turbot, the Um- 
 brian bore and the Circean oysters, the delicate 
 kid and the no less delicate hare. These garrets 
 were splendidly furnished, and the architecture 
 was befitting their beautiful and elevated situation. 
 But that prince of Epicures, Horace, like most 
 poets, had a miserable garret. He sings the 
 charms of the table in eye and mouth-waterin^ 
 strains, but no palace of an attic enclosed him as 
 he suns — 
 
 o 
 
 Non ebur, neque aureum 
 
 Mea renidet in domo. lacunar. 
 
 Or as we rendered it at Cambridge — 
 
 No ivory or gold 
 
 Within iny garret shines. 
 
 The poet could not have prayed for a more glo- 
 rious, song-inspiring spot than a Roman garret, in 
 which to retreat with his mistress, and escape the 
 jaws of the wolf he celebrates. I can face the 
 Cholera, the cold of Greenland, and the heat of 
 the torrid zone, cries the amorous lyrist, but re- 
 
 15 
 
 --^ 
 
 I 
 
■4- 
 
 170 THE PLUME. 
 
 move far from my sight the luxurious temptations 
 
 of the garret — 
 
 ** In terri, domibus negatd, 
 Dulce videntem, Lalagen amabo, 
 Dulce loqueritem." 
 
 Had a Roman garret been the despicable room 
 which the moderns affirm it to be, Horace would 
 have sung a different song. It would have been the 
 first place he would have sought with Miss Lalage. 
 
 The Romans showed their judgment, in my 
 opinion, by taking their meals in the airy cockloft. 
 They showed their wisdom, also, by excluding 
 from its precincts, mice, poets, and all their mus- 
 cipular abortions. They could here eat and drink 
 in peace and quiet, without fear of being disturbed 
 by the bawl of the oyster-man — non clam exclam- 
 avit — and the whole tribe of market-men. How 
 refreshing, too, the breezes that were wafted to 
 these aerial domains. But, alas! in time the 
 princely epicures deserted their tables, as the 
 Muses deserted the temples and hallowed streams. 
 Hungry poets thronged in, and made the chosen 
 supper-room their domicil. When the gorgeous 
 temples, porticos, and mansions of Rome were 
 bowed to the earth, the glory of garrets departed 
 forever. Bacchus retreated, and the serving- 
 maids of Apollo and the Muses rushed in to clear 
 the tables, and take up their abodes amid the glit- 
 tering ruins. Even in Juvenal's time, garrets 
 
 4-- 
 
^ 
 
 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 171 
 
 were the hiding-places of poetasters. In his sev- 
 enth satire, he thus addresses a poet — 
 
 Q,ai facis in parva sublimia carmina cella. 
 
 '* Writ'st lofty verses in a garret small." 
 
 He seems to think that bailiffs had not yet found 
 out these retreats of starving rhymesters — 
 
 •* Rarus venit in coenacula miles." 
 *' Handsome the sheriff, still he can't come in.'* 
 
 The satirist mourns over the ruins of garrets, 
 and thinks their glory will return in happier days. 
 This, however, may be, in part, the idea of his 
 translator, Dryden, who thus renders the line to 
 which I refer: — 
 
 " Cocklofts and garrets yet will have their turn." 
 But alas! what thoughts would crowd the brain 
 of Juvenal, could he rise from the grave and open 
 his eyes first in a modern garret. Would he not 
 suppose that he was in the lower, instead of the up- 
 per regions? Alas and alack! for the attic in our 
 day ! I fancy Wordsworth's upper story was full 
 of this subject, when he wrote these lines, 
 
 ** A merry place, 'tis said, in days of yore, 
 
 But something ails it now, — the place is cursed. " 
 
 It is a matter of wonder to me that no modern 
 author has treated of this subject. It is a theme 
 worthy of the highest intellect of Grub-Street. 
 We have lines and sonnets by the scores to 
 mistresses and their eye-brows, but I have look- 
 
 ^•^ 
 
172 THE PLUME. 
 
 ed in vain for a few choice lines to a garret. 
 When the subject has had paid to it the cold trib- 
 ute of a passing notice, it has been done in a most 
 contemptuous and ungentlemanly manner. If the 
 value of literary labor were estimated, as some 
 wits have supposed it to be, by the number of quills 
 that have been worn to stumps in the service of 
 the Muses, the fools-caps in which they have been 
 dressed out, or the gallons of ink with which they 
 have been baptized, I should claim for the garret 
 the honor of being the most literary room in the 
 house. As it is, it claims no mean praise; and, 
 say what you will, ye lovers of parlors and kitch- 
 ens, the garret has a high and elevated rank. All 
 the wit which has been reared and bred in it, is of 
 a purely attic character. And yet what a race of 
 miserable, poor devil authors has infested these 
 high, classic places, time out of mind ! They 
 were, if one may so sing — 
 
 Boeotian heads in Attic cradles rocked. 
 
 Your Drydens, Steeles and Savages, have 
 passed half of their lives in garrets — not that 
 they were hackneyed, Grub-street inditers of ver- 
 ses; but they were forced to bury themselves here 
 to escape the clutches of catch-poles, duns, and 
 bumbailiffs, 
 
 '* To hide them from the garish eye of day.'* 
 
 Half the world has made a visit to the room in 
 
 ■#• 
 
.♦^ 
 
 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 173 
 
 which Shakspeare sat — and to the apartments in 
 which Goldsmith and Johnson took their wine and 
 tea, but your great men might be born every hour 
 of the day in garrets, and yet these tenements 
 would not draw a dozen visitors. Who will ever 
 visit the garret of Abbotsford, which was honored 
 with the presence of the manuscript Waverley for 
 years, because a wrong-headed critic attempted to 
 strangle the young Immortal in its cradle? And 
 yet Sir Walter Scott — the man who has given the 
 world a new, stereotyped edition of human nature. 
 Homer having given the first, and Shakspeare the 
 second — tells us he spent a whole day, in this iden- 
 tical garret, in search of Waverley. Think of 
 that, ye contemners of cocklofts and garrets! 
 
 Dean Swift speaks of garrets most contemptu- 
 ously; and yet, had it not been for garreteers, he 
 and Pope would have starved. They fed upon 
 them — and, of course, grew fat, as the tenants of 
 cocklofts grew lean. They cracked their brains, 
 and cracked their wit at their expense. I would 
 as soon think of extracting sunbeams from cucum- 
 bers, like one of his own heros, as dream of 
 finding a word in praise of attics in all the Dean's 
 volumes. He advises all garreteers to carry their 
 poems to Pope, if they wish for immortality — 
 which is something like cutting the dog's tail off 
 close to his ears. Hear the parson's fiddle. 
 15* 
 
 ■4- 
 
174 THE PLUME. 
 
 *' Ye poets, ragged and forlorn, 
 
 Down from your garrets haste, 
 
 Ye rhymers dead as soon as born — " 
 
 He prophesied that all the garrets in Grub-Street 
 would be annihilated in ten days, and yet they are 
 likely to outlive his own, as well as Grub-Street 
 verses. He had an eye to his own country, how- 
 ever, and declares, on the word of a parson, that 
 nothing is more wanted in Ireland, than a good 
 row of garrets. 
 
 What though our garrets are like chaos and 
 old night! They are the last hiding-places of 
 superstition. I reverence them, on this account. 
 You will find a ghost here, if not in broad day- 
 light; and, to tell the truth, I believe this same 
 hag, Superstition, is the very creature who has 
 brought attics into disgrace and disrepute. Some 
 people, and those honest ones, had as lief enter a 
 tomb as a garret. They have a mortal dread lest 
 their grandfathers and grandmothers should ap- 
 pear to them, clothed in their old breeches, 
 gowns, &c., which have taken up their lodgings in 
 these dark and gloomy holes; for your true ghost, 
 let me tell you, is no respecter of fashions. He is 
 robed in white, only in the grave-yard. In the 
 garret, a grey or black suit, of any cut — he is not 
 at all fastidious — is as good as the best broad- 
 cloth, fresh from the tailor's shop. But, ghost or 
 no ghost, I challenge any man to select an apart- 
 
 4 
 

 AN ESSAY ON GARRETS. 175 
 
 ment in the house, where sleep is so sweet as in a 
 cockloft on a rainy night. Repose, here, is a lux- 
 ury which a king in his palace knows not. The 
 rain patting on the roof is sweeter than the chime 
 of musical glasses. But yet few will enter a 
 garret, day or night; and if they do, they retreat, 
 with an oath, like the man who, puffing with the 
 asthma, exclaimed — "Gad! if I once get this 
 cursed breath out of my body, I'll take care it 
 don't get in again." If they once get out of the 
 garret, they will take care they do not enter it 
 again in a hurry. People, who speak thus disre- 
 spectfully — grovellers, who tread the earth and 
 will not look up to those above them — these folks, 
 I say, generally have their heads stuffed with old 
 lumber — whims and caprices — and a whole tribe 
 of useless articles, which blind their better judg- 
 ment. For this very reason, they ought to ex- 
 hibit some lurking sympathy with the contents of 
 their garrets. 
 
 Parlors and drawing-rooms, with all their pomp 
 and circumstance of sofas, pianos, couches, and 
 other articles of elegant furniture, are at present 
 the tip-top of fashion. The kitchen and pantry 
 are odorous of all the balms and perfumes of Ara- 
 by the Blest. The cellar, too, is the pride of the 
 gay gentleman, the spendthrift; and the neat 
 housewife. But these things will not endure for- 
 ever. Our immortal skinflint, the economical Dr. 
 
 4- 
 
^ 
 
 176 ^ THE PLUME. 
 
 Franklin, declares that a fat kitchen makes a lean 
 will; but it is equally true, and I wonder the Doc- 
 tor did not think of it, that a fat kitchen makes a 
 fat garret. The splendor and extravagance of 
 modern days will, ere long, make our garrets fit 
 palaces for exiled kings. These contemned, high, 
 though humble apartments, " unpatronised, and 
 therefore little known," will yet blaze forth in all 
 their glory — not with the fire of their own com- 
 bustibles, — but with the light and brilliancy of 
 their own supremacy. Good Heaven forbid they 
 should ever become the retreats of ragged and 
 half-starved poets — for of all lofty poetry your 
 cockloft verse is the worst. Yet, believe me, yotir 
 Excellency, the Cellar, and your Honor, the Par- 
 lor, will one day bow before His Highness, the 
 Garret. 
 
 TOM SKINFLINT. 
 
 Tom Skinflint was a vender of small wares, 
 
 A six-feet travelling- grocery — 
 A chat-box, saying all things but his prayers, 
 
 Who'd fit you to an artificial nose, or a 
 Pair of ears or eyes, as well as Dr. Scudder 
 (A rhyme is but a verse's rudder 
 To steer one clear of such a name as this — 
 Merely by help of a parenthesis :) 
 
4- 
 
 TOM SKINFLINT. 177 
 
 A fellow that will spin you gratis 
 Horribly long yarns — 
 Just as they measure ribbons, strolling the road by day, 
 With huge great packs 
 Swung on their backs, 
 Who roll and pack themselves by night away, 
 In cocklofts of old barns — 
 Of curiosities a museum 
 Perambulatory, 
 Carrying in his upper story, 
 Videlicit, the box, or garret on his head, 
 
 His stock in trade. 
 No danger he'd refuse you 'em — 
 For, though a bank-note Tom would shun 
 
 Like the tooth-ache or a dun. 
 Yet he always got hard rhino — 
 But how, is more than I know ; 
 Though Tom was sharp as any chap with packs on. 
 And loved to turn a penny 
 
 As well as any — 
 As well as you or I, 
 Thompson or Jackson. 
 For good hard cash he'd give you vials, violins. 
 Spectacles for old eyes or for young — 
 Old Almanacs and new, and pins. 
 And blisters for the tongue. 
 Hoarse, cracked and squeaking fiddles, 
 Boxes in boxes to puzzle you. 
 And puzzling riddles, 
 Plasters and oils for broken heads and shins. 
 Songs for broken hearts — 
 New made epitaphs and charts, 
 
-4>l 
 
 178 THE PLUME. 
 
 Catholicons self-pufFed, and panaceas — 
 
 Dull razors, duller shears; 
 With dolls for grown-up babies, undrest or drest, 
 Or headless, just as'd suit 'em best, 
 How Tom would guzzle you ! 
 He'd mend old noseless tea-pots, broad-bottomed chairs, 
 Small-headed tongs, that got broke unawares, 
 Lean candle-sticks and snuffers ; 
 And leaner folks, dyspeptic and hard puffers, 
 Who could'nt cast a shadow in the sun, 
 
 Before their dinner, 
 H'd make cast two or three when they had done, 
 
 Or swear he was a sinner, 
 Or that his name wa'nt Skinflint Skinner. 
 He'd make them shadows by long fasting 'em, 
 And so would save the pains of casting 'em. 
 He'd patch and work upon a sickly frame, 
 
 And put a stitch or so into an arm or leg, 
 And hang upon't his own immortal fame 
 As on a peg. 
 He was a Jack-knife, walking on two legs, 
 
 Springing and cutting at your purse — 
 An animal that's often seen in rags, 
 
 However dressed in verse. 
 A stickler at his prices he — 
 
 He would not bate an inch. 
 Whether you'd have a pound of old rappee, 
 
 Or but a pinch ; 
 And Skinflint was he rightly called, I ween, 
 For he would shave a four-pence-half-penny. 
 Close as a broker shaves a note, or any 
 Razor your chin. 
 
TOM SKINFLINT. 179 
 
 Could he make a cent, gods I how he'd chuckle, 
 
 That he had given some raw chap 
 
 Such a devil of a rap 
 
 Over the knuckle. 
 
 Old Skinflint Skinner, as I'll tell before I'm done, 
 Was sometimes skinned himself, and lost his number 
 one. 
 Tom wanted a small hatchet once. 
 For some odd purpose or another. 
 Probably to cheat some raw, half-witted brother. 
 But no matter — 
 Old Skinflint hunts 
 
 Through Jacob Smith's old grocery shop 
 From cellar up to top. 
 And finds the very thing. It makes his grinders chat- 
 ter, 
 It is so sharp and keen, 
 (Not so sharp as Tom, I ween ;) 
 
 " How much for this ? " cries Tom. 
 
 " Just three and ninepence, sir." 
 " That's plaguy dear. " 
 
 * Take it or not, as you prefer." 
 
 **I must make profit, if I sell it off again; 
 I'll tell you what I'll do" — 
 
 " Well, Tom that's you. 
 
 " I'll give you — let me see — yes, one and sixty cents, 
 Though 'gainst my grain." 
 
 4- 
 
180 THE PLUME. 
 
 " Well, take it hence 
 I never stand or bother for a cent or so." 
 Tom shakes his head, and says, " But I do, though." 
 
 He throws a ninepence and half dollar down, 
 
 And Jacob gives him one cent back as change. 
 
 " What ! here's not enough," cries Tom, with rising 
 
 frown, 
 "I want a half cent more, exact — 'tis strange!" 
 
 " Pray, get it, if you can." 
 
 "Odd rot it! 
 I'll not leave you till I've got it ; 
 I'll take it from your skin, as I'm a Skinner, 
 Or you a sinner." 
 
 "You swear you'll never darken my door sill, 
 Ifl the half cent pay?" 
 
 " Why, to be sure I will." 
 
 Old Smith takes Tom's new hatchet in his hand. 
 As idle fellows round him wink and stand. 
 Wondering how he'll do't, 
 And strike the matter to the root. 
 He lays a cent upon 
 The old door-stone, 
 And with good aim and true 
 He cuts it with a thundering blow right through, 
 Or, as we say, in two. 
 
 " Zounds, hold! " shrieks Tom, with sudden jumj^ 
 Hitting old Smith a devil of a thump ! 
 "You'll spoil my hatchet, gump! 
 
THE LOVED AND LOST. 181 
 
 Curse such a half-cent mould, 
 See my new hatchet — 
 Odds scratch it ! 
 I can't match it, 
 
 I'll ring your nose for two-pence, you old " 
 
 " Asy, good sir ! " — quoth Smith, giving a toss 
 To hatchet and broken cent — not worth a louse — 
 "There's your change, old Half-Cent, there's your due 
 
 If you can't wait, 
 
 Old Money-pate, 
 
 (Here, take it!) 
 Till Uncle Sam can coin a half-cent, you 
 Shall Jind the instrument to make it ! " 
 
 THE LOVED AND LOST— THE BRIDAL RING. 
 
 How beautifully true is the scriptural compari- 
 son of life to a flower, which springeth up in the 
 morning and blooms, but in the evening is cut 
 down and withers away ! Its exceeding beauty 
 and comeliness, its delicate tints, rose-colored 
 and golden, its virgin buds and blossoms, and the 
 incense which it lavishes from its fragrant urn 
 upon the summer air, as it leans forward for its 
 gentle kiss — what are they all, and what do they 
 avail? Alas! they are as nothing. Radiant 
 though it be with nature's sunniest smile, and 
 16 
 
•<^- 
 
 182 THE PLUME. 
 
 arrayed in her loveliest attire, the little flower, 
 which lifteth up its head so proudly at morn, 
 bows to the blast, is stricken down and withers 
 away, wet with the dews of night. And so it is 
 with LIFE. We hardly enter the world, flushed 
 with bright hopes and anticipations, ere we are 
 summoned by the angel of Death to leave it. We 
 hardly taste its enjoyments and its pleasures 
 ere the cup is dashed from our lips forever. The 
 eloquent lip becomes pale and mute at the moment 
 we are drinking in its honied accents. The bright 
 eye grows dim, and the strong arm motionless, 
 while we are witnessing their power and con- 
 quests. The brilliant intellect flashes upon us, 
 dazzling and delighting the world, and in an 
 instant is gone ! The loved one clings to us in 
 the bloom of life, folds her hands about our neck, 
 and the next moment lies lifeless in our arms. 
 Honor and station, however high, have no power 
 to arrest the hand of the Destroyer. The silver 
 locks of age bow before him — Youth and Inno- 
 cence smile and plead to him, but he delights to 
 feast upon their very smiles and dimples — and 
 Beauty — 
 
 As with embroidered scarf and golden zone, 
 She sweepeth by towards her jewelled throne — 
 
 Beauty — the impersonation of all that is lovely 
 and excellent in woman — is touched by the icy 
 
 ^. 
 
•#• 
 
 THE LOVED AND LOST. 183 
 
 finger of death, falls to the earth and becomes the 
 food of worms ! 
 
 Such is the common lot of humanity — such, 
 the end of all earthly hopes and aspirations ! A 
 reflection so solemn — pressed upon us, as it is, 
 day after day and hour after hour — should teach 
 us not to cling to life too tenaciously, or place our 
 affections on earthly things. All — all must 
 PASS AWAY — and why, with this solemn admo- 
 nition so constantly mingling itself with our 
 thoughts, should we wish to live alvvay ? If one 
 might clothe in humble verse the favorite senti- 
 ment of her, who while livin^ clunsj to him with a 
 devotion which woman only knows, and whose 
 memory will be ever green in his heart of hearts, 
 he would say — 
 
 I WOULD NOT LIVE AIi\irAY. 
 
 Oh no, '* I would not live alway," 
 
 In this dull world, though fair it seem; 
 On all is stamped thy name, Decay, 
 
 Deceptive as a summer dream. 
 Behold that sweet moss rose which blooms, 
 
 So like a flower of Paradise; 
 A worm feeds on its rich perfumes, 
 
 As hid within its bud it lies. 
 
 No ! No ! I would not live alway — 
 
 Not mid the green and sunny dells, 
 Where falls no music but the play 
 
 Of streams, or chime of Sabbath bells — 
 
 -^ 
 
184 THE PLUME. 
 
 Where earth a primrose mantle wears. 
 
 Like Eden in her virgin prime; 
 And Peace her flower-wreathed sceptre rears. 
 
 Guardian of the blissful clime. 
 
 Care gnaws around the fibres of the heart. 
 
 And Hope doth droop her golden wing, 
 Struck like a bird, by unseen dart, 
 
 Heavenward no more to soar and sing; 
 Friends, whom we love and cherish, die. 
 
 And sink into the tomb of night. 
 Snatched from our bosom, while the eye 
 
 With joy at meeting them is bright. 
 
 I would not live on earth alway — 
 
 Oh, not of heaven I crave this boon : 
 When death shall summon me away. 
 
 In life's bright morning or sweet noon. 
 And earth fades to my closing eye — 
 
 Father ! be thou my staff and stay. 
 And bear me to thy realms on high — 
 
 There — oh, there, I would live alway. 
 
 There I would live alway ! What but the 
 assurance of a happier existence hereafter would 
 enable us all to bear up under affliction. The 
 flower, which is so emblematic of human life, is 
 cut down and withers, but with the first breeze of 
 the new spring, it rises and blooms again in all its 
 wonted beauty and glory. So with the flowers 
 which spring up along the domestic path, and are 
 sheltered at our firesides. They are taken away, 
 
 4- 
 
^ 
 
 THE LOVED AND LOST. 185 
 
 but will they not rise and live again in an eternal 
 spring in the garden of Paradise? It is hard to 
 part with those we love — and it seems like tear- 
 ing away the heart-strings to surrender them up 
 to the cold chamber of the tomb. Notwithstanding 
 all the consolation which religion or philosophy 
 brings to the wounded spirit, still the loss of those 
 to whom we are endeared, unmans one, if he has 
 a throb of kindly feelings in his bosom. Cold and 
 heartless, indeed, must be that philosophy — born 
 of Christianity it cannot be — which weeps not 
 over the remains of the loved and lost. The tear 
 gushes to the sealed eye from the desert heart 
 within, when smitten by the hand of Omnipotence, 
 as the waters gushed from the rock in the wilder- 
 ness, when the prophet smote it with his wand. 
 To see the lip pale in death — yet wreathed with a 
 living smile — to feel the brow cold and icy, and 
 the eye like that of Medora — 
 
 Oh o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of light — 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
 But spares us yet the smile around her lips. 
 
 All this moves us unless we have a heart of 
 adamant. And, then, the light, bounding step so 
 familiar and pleasant to hear — the voice of wel- 
 come at morning, noon, and night — the eye that 
 weeps over our misfortunes and fills with tears of 
 joy at our success — the smile at all times, and al- 
 16* 
 
 4* 
 
'^^ 
 
 186 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 ways happy and bright and cheerful — the earnest 
 prayer for the little ones — the care and watchful- 
 ness over them — the devotion and unceasing at- 
 tention, the clinging love and more than earthly 
 affection by the side of the sick couch at midnight 
 — how can we forget them, or, remembering, for- 
 bear to weep and mourn the loss of those who pos- 
 sess them. 
 
 We miss, we miss thee from those pleasant places, 
 
 Where thy soft smiles and glances used to shine 
 Upon bright forms and fair familiar faces. 
 
 And gladden hearts that knew no love but thine. 
 We miss thee from the family board and hearth, 
 
 And from our scenes of mirth. 
 We miss, at silent eve, the half-heaid whisper. 
 
 In which thou erst didst breathe thy nightly prayer. 
 As in thine arms thou d'st fold each tiny lisper, 
 
 The objects of thy earliest love and care, 
 And pray that we might be one family band. 
 
 In that bright, better land. 
 Thou art where low-toned lutes breathe silvery gushes 
 
 Of sweetness to the listening ones on high. 
 Like the wind's music as it sweetly rushes 
 
 O'er waters leaping to the moonlit sky. 
 In the deep quiet of a summer even — 
 
 Sweet One ! thou art in heaven ! 
 
 And children too — how the little ones twine 
 their young affections around the parent's heart, 
 like the honeysuckle whose tendrils clasp the old 
 oak, the moment it springs from the earth, and 
 
THE LOVED AND LOST. 187 
 
 before it unfolds its blossoms to the summer air. 
 Dearer than life itself to those who have nurtured 
 and watched over their infant growth, little does 
 he know of the human heart and the affections 
 implanted within it, who smiles at the tears shed 
 over their premature loss, when — if one may so 
 express himself — 
 
 Death's icy hand 
 Unclasps the tendrils from the parent vine, 
 And strikes them from the earth, as their sweet buds 
 Are half unfolded to the summer sun. 
 
 "Those whom the Gods love, die young," is 
 a sentiment, which, though the teaching of hea- 
 then philosophy, commends itself to the heart and 
 the belief of the Christian world. The innocence 
 and spotless purity of childhood, which the senti- 
 ment implies, breathe forth, also, from the inspired 
 teachings of the Savior in the Word of God. Every 
 feeling of man approves it. It is the natural lan- 
 guage of the human heart, the world over. We 
 speak of children as cherubs, not in the language 
 of endearment only, but in that of sober truth. 
 We regard them as creatures who approach nearer, 
 in their innocence and purity, to the spirits of the 
 better land than those who have buffeted the 
 storms of the world. Their hearts are unsullied 
 by its rude blasts, its temptations, its cares, and 
 its thousand corroding influences. As we witness 
 
 ■ ^ 
 
•4^ 
 
 188 THE PLUME. 
 
 with delight their infant faculties daily expanding 
 before us, like the bud into the blossom, our 
 hearts become almost wrapped up in them, if I 
 may say so, before we are conscious of the 
 strength of our love, and the earnestness of our 
 unwearied affection. The playfulness of infancy, 
 its artless simplicity, its endearments, its love, 
 which prompts it to cling to the arm that supports 
 it, as the vine clings to the tree — its joys and its 
 sorrows, its merriment and buoyancy, its inquisitive- 
 ness, its proneness to imitation, and its eager cu- 
 riosity — are so many charms, as it were, to 
 endear the little prattlers to the heart, and we 
 cheerfully submit to any sacrifice on their account 
 as a pleasure and a delight. And to have them 
 torn away suddenly, or after a distressing sick- 
 ness — they alone may know the pain, who have 
 felt the barb of the arrow. The mother, whose 
 midnight vigils have been incessant over the pil- 
 low of her dying child, and who has folded it to 
 her bosom, in its hours of pain, with all the anx- 
 iety of a mother's love — the father who has 
 watched over it, and prayed for its restoration to 
 health — the relatives who have witnessed its 
 fading bloom day by day — they only can know 
 the sorrow which fills the heart at such bereave- 
 ments. 
 
 Perhaps the following lines, descriptive of the 
 feelings of a mother on the return of the birth day 
 
 *i^ 
 
THE LOVED AND LOST. 189 
 
 of her infant son, may not be unacceptable to 
 my readers : 
 
 THE 3IOTHER TO HER FIRST BORN. 
 
 'Ti3 come — 
 
 My lovely boy, thy first bright natal day, 
 And morn, all radiant, soars on purple wings, 
 To usher in the rosy hours. Ah, yes ! 
 The earth is wrapt in beauty; each tender blade, 
 Each softly quivering leaf, a pearly gem 
 Of living brightness hath put on, and nature wears 
 Her gala-robe, begemmed with tinted flowers. 
 From whose bright, golden urns the zephyr laves 
 His wings with balm, and mild as spirit's breath, 
 He comes, to play around thy snowy brow, 
 And wanton with thy fair and sunny locks. 
 Each little bird, whose radiant wing aloft 
 On gentle breeze is borne, or flutters soft 
 Amid each leafy bower of tree, or shrub, 
 Warbles its wild-wood note, so sweet, so clear, 
 So full of harmony, as if it learned 
 Its song from angel lyres. 
 
 O cherub boy ! 
 All things without are fair, and bright, on this 
 Thy primal birth day. Yet, nor golden beam, 
 Kindling the dew, the violet's meek eye, 
 The rose's blushing cheek, the morning's breath. 
 Nor pure cerulean sky, nor nature's matin song — 
 With such glad joy my breast inspire, as when 
 On thy sweet face I look, all wreathed in smiles 
 So heavenly, and watch the rays of mind. 
 
 -•^ 
 
•*• 
 
 190 ■ THE PLUME. 
 
 Bright playing o'er each soft-pencilled feature. 
 On that pure brow, beneath that drooping lid, 
 Sits infant thought with meekly folded wings. 
 Imparting to my heart a rapturous joy, 
 And turning it around, with rainbow hopes 
 Of future promise. 
 
 Yet through the vista long of coming years, 
 I fear to gaze in fancy. Well I know 
 That life is heir to sorrow : well I know 
 Thy fairy bark not always may glide on. 
 With gentle gales and sunny skies, as now. 
 The world's harsh breath thy spirit oft will blight 
 With sadness and with sorrow. Yes, my boy ! 
 Thine eye, now radiant as the morn, the tear 
 Oft will dim, and many a golden hope. 
 And aspiration high, sweet spring-like plants 
 Of heavenly growth, within thy breast be crushed. 
 And withered iii their vernal bloom. 
 
 Ah ! these may be — 
 
 Yet with that Holy One, who children blessed, 
 I leave thee, cherished boy ! May He, who loved 
 To bind the broken heart and heal the wounds 
 Of sorrow, to my soul a gift of strength 
 Impart, to guide aright thy infant steps 
 In pure religion's path. May He whose life 
 Was undefiled, my lovely flower, preserve 
 Thee, pure and fair as now, till, ripe for heaven. 
 He shall transplant thee to celestial soil, 
 To flourish there, fast by the stream of life. 
 
 The wife and child of our love, the brother of 
 our boyhood, the sister, so buoyant a playmate of 
 
THE LOVED AND LOST. 191 
 
 our tender years, and the warm-hearted friend of 
 our manhood are, one by one, stricken down at 
 our side, and we follow them to their last home. 
 It is then, in this hour of the heart's desolation, 
 that we feel how strong, how enduring was the 
 tie which bound us to the Loved and Lost. — 
 Then it is that dwelling upon their virtues, em- 
 balmed in the most precious recesses of our hearts, 
 we cherish their memories and the sunny spots 
 which their presence so endeared to us, with a 
 tenderness which can be measured only by 
 the strength and ardor of the love we bore them. 
 Who, at such a time, shall say to which of them 
 all, if to either, while smiling around us, our 
 affection clung most devotedly ? Who, in that 
 hour of bereavement, shall divide and weigh out 
 by grains the affection, which has become the 
 master passion of the soul ? 
 
 In one of the sweetest creations of his fancy, 
 the bard of Lallah Rook sings of the wanderings 
 of the Peri, and their precious offerings at the por- 
 tals of Eden, as the price of re-admission to their 
 celestial home. Such is the matchless beauty and 
 glowing reality with which the poet invests his 
 song, that, as the gate opens to receive the boon, 
 we seem to hear the glad hymns of the blessed 
 indwellers, standing ready to welcome their lost 
 sister back to her blissful abode. It was not the 
 
 
4- 
 
 192 THE PLUME. 
 
 young lover's sweetest sigh — nor the frolicsome 
 laugh of happy childhood, sporting in its bright 
 innocence and buoyancy, nor the enchanting smile 
 of beauty in all its mellow, virgin bloom — no, nor 
 the glorious heroism of the dying warrior, as he 
 lay on the field which his own true arm had de- 
 fended, and his own warm blood had crimsoned — 
 nor yet the gushing tear of the young soldier, at 
 seeing pass forever from his dying vision the glo- 
 rious banner of his country, which had so often 
 waved over him, and cheered his comrades to vic- 
 tory. No ! it was not the offering of these boons, 
 priceless as they are, at the gate of Paradise, 
 that could secure the celestial wanderer entrance 
 through its golden portals. Can it be that earth, 
 in its wide circuit, or the human heart, in its lofti- 
 est range, has a treasure more dear than one or 
 all of them? It was not until the Peri bore aloft 
 on her dazzling pinions the bitter, burning tear of 
 a penitent child of earth, weeping over his guilt 
 and his deeds of blood, that the glad creature of 
 heaven was greeted with a welcome to her Eden 
 home. How beautiful this orientalism ! It is not 
 merely a splendid conception of the poet, gilded 
 with the gorgeous drapery of eastern song, but what 
 is far better, it is in harmony with the sublime 
 teachings of inspiration. And yet there are feel- 
 ings within that impel one to ask if the tears of 
 the penitent, remorse-stricken sinner, gushing up 
 
THE LOVED AND LOST. 193 
 
 warm from the heart, be the only or the most pre- 
 cious boon that can be borne to the gates of Par- 
 adise? Does the wide earth, with its heart -jewels, 
 its splendid deeds, and its heaven-descended attri- 
 butes, contain nothing, from the magnificent pal- 
 ace and the happy mansion, to the rayless hut of 
 the poor man who toils for his daily bread and 
 finds it not, that may be deemed as acceptable an 
 offering to the spirits above ? I may err, and yet 
 I cannot but regard the tie, which binds the 
 husband to the wife of his bosom, as the golden 
 thread of life, and the affection which springs 
 from that relation as the holiest and purest of all 
 the passions. Indeed, it embraces within itself, 
 and centres upon the very heart's shrine, the 
 purer and better attributes of them all. The undy- 
 ing strength, the tenderness and gushing ardor of 
 other affections is admitted. Their developments 
 are delightful, and what a sweet, mellow radiance 
 do they spread over the pathway of life, as it were 
 a golden ray from the throne of heaven itself The 
 love which exists between young hearts, in the hey- 
 day of life, has been sung and felt and pronounced 
 extatic — the love of sister for sister or brother for 
 brother, of a brother for his sister, his early play- 
 mate and the sharer of his sports and his sorrows, 
 and the return of that love from the sister's heait 
 the love of a mother for her child — aye — and 
 above all, the love of a father for his daughter — 
 17 
 
•^■ 
 
 194 THE PLUME. 
 
 how sweet, how endearing are they all ! But that 
 affection which exists between a young wife and 
 the object of her earliest love, the creature of her 
 thoughts and feelings, as well as the centre of her 
 virgin heart, is chaster, purer, holier than all. 
 Indeed, it is all in one; and when the. tie which 
 binds them is broken, when the young mother is 
 stricken down to the cold earth, and Death feasts 
 upon her lips, her dimples and her smiles — when 
 the young father is snatched away from the side of 
 her, the mother of his children and the being of his 
 tenderest love — what a void is left ! What agony, 
 what grief presses upon the spirit of the surviving 
 one I We feel as though a golden harp, to whose 
 seraphic tones we are listening, had suddenly 
 stopped, while we strain the ear to catch its magic 
 sounds. The survivor for the moment seems to 
 die, and the living heart to lie in the cold tomb 
 with the dead and gone. The presiding spirit has 
 vanished from the family circle, and the bereft — 
 as the household gods lay scattered around, no 
 longer to be gathered up by that presiding one, 
 removed from earth to heaven — exclaims in the 
 touching language of Ruth, the beautiful gleaner 
 of Bethlehem — "Whither thou goest I will go, 
 and where thou lodgest I will lodge. Thy people 
 shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where 
 thou diest will I die, and there will 1 be buried." 
 Ay — it must be so. If either of the affections 
 
 4-- 
 
•f 
 
 THE LOVED AND LOST. 195 
 
 — which, nurtured and ripening this side of the 
 grave, animate the frame that, springing from 
 earth at first, mingles with earth again at last — 
 be heaven-born, it can be no other than that which 
 binds the husband to the wife of his bosom. 
 
 It was but yesterday that a young gentleman of 
 fine intellect and of a noble heart, was suddenly 
 snatched by the hand of Death from the endear- 
 ments of life, in the midst of a brilliant career of 
 usefulness. Surrounded by every thing which could 
 make existence pleasant and happy — a wife who 
 idolized him — children who loved him as they only 
 can love, and friends devoted to him — the sum- 
 mons came, and he lay upon the bed of death. 
 But a few short years ago, she to whom he was 
 wedded had placed a bridal ring on his finger, up- 
 on the inner side of which he had himself privately 
 engraven a few words. The husband would never 
 permit his young bride to read them, telling her 
 that the day would come when her wish should be 
 gratified, and she should know the secret. Seven 
 years glided happily away, and, when conscious 
 that he must soon leave his wife forever, he called 
 her to his bedside, and with his dying accents told 
 her that the hour had at last come when she was 
 to see the words — which had been his guide and 
 solace since he pledged to her his love — engraven 
 upon the ring. Though almost heart-broken with 
 grief, the eyes of the young mother, as the tears 
 
 •^ 
 
196 THE PLUME. 
 
 were falling upon his cold cheek — were riveted 
 upon the magic words, hidden from her for years, 
 but now revealed at last — "I have loved thee 
 
 ON earth MAY 1 MEET THEE IN HEAVEN." As 
 
 she read them, the dying husband raised his head 
 from his pillow, placed the ring upon the young 
 mother's finger, kissed her, fell back and expired ! 
 
 How touchingly beautiful this simple incident ! 
 The garnered thoughts of years rush into that single 
 moment, as the words greet the eye of the young 
 wife. Sorrow and wedded love, and the bright 
 dreams of the world — the heart's dearest trea- 
 sures — the endearments of the life that is past, 
 and the bliss of the life that is to come — how they 
 mingle at this hour, as the widowed mother, placing 
 the ring in her bosom, rushes to his dying pillow, 
 to catch his last breath, and impressing a kiss upon 
 his cold forehead, weeps over the lifeless form 
 of the husband of her love ! Well might she 
 exclaim, in the fervent language of the widowed 
 daughter of Judea, when greeted by her kinsmen 
 — "Call me not Naomi, call me Mara, for the 
 -Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me." 
 
 I have: liOVED THEE ON EARTH, MAY I MEET 
 THEE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Oh, weep not, my love ! hark, voices celestial 
 Now call me away from the bright world and thee. 
 Sweet visions of earth and pleasures terrestrial 
 
THE LOVED AND LOST. 197 
 
 From my view, fadeaway — see ! Death beckons to me ! 
 
 Weep not — though the last tie that binds us be riven; 
 
 " I have loved thee on earth, may I meet thee in heaven" 
 
 The tear in thine eye so sorrowfully glistening, 
 
 Is the seal of the love which hath bound me to thee; 
 
 Thy faltering voice to mine ear as 'tis listening, 
 
 Soundeth not, love, as on that sweet eve of glee, 
 
 When to my arms as a bride thou wert given, 
 
 " I have loved thee on earth, may I meet thee in heaven." 
 
 The warm kiss, which now on my damp cheek thou pressest. 
 
 Is sweeter, love, far than thy bridal eve kiss; 
 
 The one is the pledge that our earthly love blessest, 
 
 The other of love in worlds better than this. 
 
 Oh! weep not; the last tie now soon will be riven, 
 
 •• I have loved thee on earth, may I meet thee in heaven." 
 
 The little ones, dearest, now weeping beside thee, 
 
 Oh! the sweet treasures to thy bosom-shrine gather; 
 
 God's blessing upon them, and, whatever betide thee. 
 
 Love, teach them to whisper the fond name of Father. 
 
 Oh! tell them, my love, when life's last tie is riven, 
 
 "I have loved them on earth, — may I meet them in heaven." 
 
 Farewell, Love ! one kiss, one last, ere the summons 
 Calls me from thee, and in death I am sleeping ; 
 Hard — hard 'tis to leave thee forever, and loved ones, 
 Farewell, young bride of my heart! — Still weeping ? 
 See! heaven's gate opens; the last tie soon will be riven, 
 " I have loved thee on earth, may I meet thee in heaven." 
 
 17* 
 
> 
 
 \ 198 THE PLUME. 
 
 The ring on that eve which thou placed on this finger, 
 
 I have worn as a token of thy love, dear, for me; 
 
 Take it; as thine eyes on the talisman linger, 
 
 Oh ! think that above re-united we'll be. 
 
 Farewell ! Eternity's portals are riven, 
 
 ** I hare loved thee on earth. Oh! meet me in heaven." * 
 
 THE ORPHANS. 
 
 It was the dawn of summer time ! 
 
 And gentle as the breath of Heaven, 
 Its piniona laden as with thyme, 
 
 Came the sweet air ; Oh was it given 
 To man, as his good angel's blessing, 
 
 To cool his aching brow and calm 
 His troubled soul, its hopes caressing ; 
 Turning its sleepless eye above, 
 To Heaven, which there its hues impressing 
 Chastens it with a holy love, 
 
 And pours within celestial balm ! 
 
 I stood among the village Graves, 
 
 And marked the slabs above the dead, 
 
 * These lines were published by Oakes, a year or two since, under the 
 name of the Bridal Ring — the music by Mr. Maeder, the well-known 
 composer and pianist. In this shape, as well as through the press, they 
 have had a wide circulation. There can be no impropriety in adding 
 that the deceased friend, to whom they refer, was the late Peter Clark, 
 Jp.jOf Nashua, one of the most gifted and amiable sons of Dartmouth, and 
 whom to know was to love. May the turf be evergreen above his grave! 
 
THE ORPHANS. 199 
 
 As treading the tall grass that waves 
 
 Beside their cold, forgotten bed, 
 I traced their names and ages, graven 
 Upon the simple stones ; but one, — 
 A new-made grave — there was, a mound, 
 Though one of many yet alone, 
 
 Which had no slab to mark the spot, 
 Or tell whose portal 'twas to Heaven. 
 The modest wild-flowers breathed around 
 
 Rich incense there — but all forgot 
 The beauty of their tinted leaves. 
 And odors which the air receives, 
 
 Forgotten all, — for as I stood 
 Musing on life which speaks of death, 
 In every breeze that whispereth. 
 
 And thought of that Bright Brotherhood, 
 
 On high, the Pure and Just and Good — 
 I saw beside that grave (oh sight, 
 Worthy an angel's pen of light !) 
 Two children kneeling. They had brought 
 
 Fresh flowers to strew upon the sod, 
 Where slept beneath the heart-enshrined, 
 They who had trained their infant thought, 
 From the first dawning of the mind, 
 
 And turned their infant hearts to God. 
 
 They knelt — and as they prattled on, 
 
 Talking of little schemes begun — 
 
 ** Father ! My Mother !" — (Oh what words 
 
 Are dearer when by children spoken? 
 Each in itself all feeling hoards. 
 
 •^ 
 
200 THE PLUME. 
 
 With current ever warm, unbroken ;) — 
 Breathed from their lips. I heard them tell 
 In that blithe tone we love so well. 
 How pleasant 'twas with flowers to come, 
 All desolate their happy home, 
 
 And kneel upon that new grave's edge. 
 No mother's smile, no sire's caress 
 Have they in their deep loneliness, 
 
 God bless them in their orphanage ! 
 
 They knelt — and in endearing tone, 
 
 As when around the hearth they played, 
 Prattled ; were they in sweet commune 
 
 With those dear ones beneath them laid .'' 
 And ever and anon they seemed 
 
 Buried in sad and earnest thought, 
 Which chased away the smiles that beamed 
 
 But now upon their lips, and brought 
 A sense of their own loneliness ; 
 And then I saw them meekly press 
 Their little hands together there, 
 As she had taught them when in prayer ; 
 
 Their lips moved gently and I heard, 
 In accents low and yet how sweet. 
 When, Heaven-address'd, the ear they meet. 
 
 What seemed to breathe of Holy Word. 
 
 " Our Father I Thou who art in Heaven! 
 
 Give us each day our daily bread, 
 And let us not from thee be driven. 
 
 Who have not where to lay our head. 
 She told us, who beneath is sleeping, 
 
 Thou hear'st the ravens when they cry, 
 
THE ORPHANS. 201 
 
 Take us, Father ! in thy keeping, 
 
 And oh restore us when we die 
 
 To those beneath this sod who lie !" — 
 And as they breathed their fervent prayer, 
 
 They wept as children only weep 
 When seen no more those loved ones near, 
 
 Whose tender care hath known no sleep. 
 Whose kind, familiar faces, smiling 
 Ever upon them, pain beguiling. 
 
 Unceasing vigils o'er them keep. 
 They wept, but rising from the mound. 
 Bright smiles their features played around. 
 Which seemed to say — I'm sure they said — 
 " We know our prayer is answered." 
 
 I saw them stroll the graves among, 
 
 Now listening to the robin's song. 
 
 Now chasing the gay butterfly. 
 
 Which with its brilliant wings skimm'd by. 
 
 Unfeeling world ! Shall such be driven 
 
 Friendless away, without a haven 
 
 To rest their weary feet, but lie 
 
 On the cold earth, perchance to die ? 
 
 As thus I mused, a female form, 
 A rainbow 'mid life's beating storm. 
 Approached, and walking where they lay 
 Beside a tomb-stone tired of play. 
 She kissed their rosy cheeks and brow, 
 And gently spake — I hear her now — 
 "Mother!" — they thus to speak began 
 To her, their Good Samaritan — 
 " Mother !" — She took them by the hand 
 
\ 202 THE PLUME. 
 
 And led them to her home, which bland 
 And gentle voices, ever heard. 
 Made dearer than to storm-toss'd bird 
 His own warm nest. Oh blessed deed ! 
 
 That o'er the soul such beauty flings, 
 Claimingf no other boon or meed 
 
 Than the pure pleasure which it brings. 
 It shall be registered on high, 
 And when Death's shadow hovers nigh, 
 It shall unbar the gates of Heaven, 
 And to that angel entrance there be given ! 
 
 " Those orphans shall not wake again 
 To penury and want and pain " — 
 I said. My thoughts then unaware 
 Found, utterance in a fervid prayer. 
 
 « Oh Thou ! God of the Fatherless ! 
 
 It is to thee we turn alway, 
 When sorrow's blight and deep distress 
 
 To darkness turn the brightest day ; 
 Oh ! shield with thy protecting wing, 
 
 The orphan who the sweets of home 
 Knows not, but poor and wandering, 
 
 God ! let him not an outcast roam, 
 Unfriended, houseless and alone. 
 Tempted from virtue's path, and thrown 
 Into the haunts of wretchedness, 
 With no kind one to guard and bless. 
 \ Guide thou his erring steps through life, 
 
 I And arm him for its hottest strife, 
 
 > That when the fierce encounter comes 
 
4- 
 
 THEY SAY HE IS ANOTHER'S NOW. 203 
 
 In the world's battle (no loud drums 
 
 Or trumpets sounding) he may meet 
 The foe like one with armor bright, 
 And clad in virtue's steel of might, 
 
 Lay the last foe beneath his feet. 
 Thus arm him, Father ! and at last, 
 When the great strife with Death is past, 
 Give him a home with thee on high, 
 In that Celestial Company, 
 Where dry the Orphan's tear and sigh ; 
 And when his mission Time shall end. 
 And Thou proclaim'st the good deeds given, 
 
 God ! in thy Book, which glory lend 
 To woman's name while here below. 
 In all her love, her toils and woe — 
 If one there be which nearest Heaven 
 
 Brings her, and doth all virtues blend, 
 Oh ! this shall first be found there graven — 
 
 She was through life the Orphan's Friendi 
 
 THEY SAY HE IS ANOTHER'S NOW! 
 
 They say he is another's now. 
 
 That I no more his smile shall see, 
 Oh ! say not so — he would not break 
 
 The solemn vow he pledged to me. 
 They tell me like the diamond's ray. 
 
 Her love-lit eyes upon him shine — 
 Can he forget those sacred hours, 
 
 When every prayer he breathed was mine ? 
 
 4- 
 
^ 
 
 204 THE PLUME. 
 
 They say he is anotlier's now — 
 
 Oh, no I his love is mine alone — 
 If not my lips, speak not my tears, 
 
 This breaking heart his own — his own ! 
 They tell me that lie still is fifay, 
 
 And that he never lisps my name — 
 Can he forget the face that smiled 
 
 So dear a welcome when he came ? 
 
 They say he is another's now, 
 
 Whose witching tones delight his ear — 
 Hath he forgot the favorite airs, 
 
 I used to sing when he was near? 
 They tell me he no more will come, " 
 
 Nor at the door his step be heard — 
 Can he forget our moonlight walks. 
 
 The sweet embrace, tlie parting word ? 
 
 They say he is another's now — 
 
 My heart is like a cherished flower. 
 Which not till crush'd, around the vase 
 
 Its long imprisoned sweets will shower. 
 Can he forget when first it bloomed. 
 
 In all love's primrose colors drest, 
 When plucking it from where it grew. 
 
 He nursed it gently in his breast. 
 
 They say he is another's now — 
 And I a poor forgotten thing ; 
 
 Oh no, oh no ! — he bade me wear 
 
 For his dear sake this treasured ring. 
 
 They do but jest who say his lips 
 
THEY SAY HE IS ANOTHER'S NOW. 205 1 
 
 Another's clieeks have press'd than mine 
 
 Can he forget the garden bower, 
 
 The kiss behind the trellis'd vine ? 
 
 They say he is another's now — 
 
 Who, for his love, her home forgot ; 
 That I must think of him no»more — 
 
 It cannot be, oh! say it not. 
 The heart will hoard its secret love, 
 
 As hoards the miser's hand his gold — 
 It counts its treasures, one by one, 
 
 And grasps them in its dying hold. 
 
 They say he is another's now — 
 
 That vain are all the tears I shed — 
 It may be so — can I forget 
 
 That to his heart my own was wed? 
 Can he forget the early love. 
 
 That clung to him so pure and deep — 
 The smile so gay when he was gay. 
 
 The eye that wept when he did weep ? 
 
 They say he is another's now — 
 
 That I shall see him not again — 
 She cannot love as I have loved. 
 
 She cannot be what I have been. 
 Oh, do not say that he forgets — 
 
 He loves me yet — he loves me yet ! 
 The vow, the smile, the kiss, the tear — 
 
 Can he forget — can he forget ? 
 
 18 
 
 ■•*• 
 
-^ 
 
 206 THE PLUME. 
 
 MRS. NICELY'S SYSTEM OF ECONOMY. 
 
 Mrs. Nicely was cried up by certain people as 
 the very pink of economy. The word was cer- 
 tainly often on her ligs — so much so, indeed, that 
 she began to think she really was one of the most 
 prudent and economical wives in the world. 
 
 "Mr. Nicely, my dea^*/' said Mrs. Nicely a 
 few months after marriage, *'I have been thinking 
 that you are too extravagant by half." 
 
 Mr. Nicely threw one leg over the other, and 
 puffed away leisurely upon his cigar. " I dare 
 say, Mrs. Nicely ; but a married man must look 
 to his wife to cure him of his little extravagan- 
 cies, you know ; so I hope to reform soon. Have 
 you reference to any particular instance of prodi- 
 gality ?" 
 
 " Why," continued Mrs. Nicely, " here you 
 have spent more than a hundred dollars in the 
 last few months at the tailor's, hatter's and shoe- 
 maker's, merely to cover your person " 
 
 " Why, surely you'd have my person covered 
 — and decently, Mrs. Nicely ?" — 
 
 " If," continued she, without heeding the inter- 
 ruption — " if I — I, Mr. Nicely, had only had jthe 
 laying out of that money, instead of your expend- 
 ing it so extravagantly !" 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Nicely, how would you have spent 
 
 -^ 
 
MRS. NICELy's system OF ECONOMY. 207 
 
 it ? Pray give me an idea of your system of 
 economy." 
 
 " Why, in the first place, I would have bought 
 me three or four nice silk gowns, like the Misses 
 Beaver — women must wear gowns, you know, 
 Mr. Nicely, and then I would have bought a 
 number of tables, chairs, boxes, barrels, cradles, 
 and many other articles of furniture, to be stored 
 away in the garret against a wet day — a time 
 of need, which you know, Mr. Nicely, is likely to 
 overtake us all." 
 
 " And nothing would hasten it sooner than such 
 a system of economy as yours, allow me to say, 
 Mrs. Nicely." 
 
 "Why, there's Mrs. Dashaway, and Mrs. Horn- 
 pipe — I have induced them to practise on this 
 system, and finding they have succeeded so well, 
 I mean to carry it out myself." 
 
 "You have not heard, Mrs. Nicely, that Mr 
 Dashaway and Mr Hornpipe both failed last night?" 
 
 "Failed! You astonish me, Mr. Nicely. It 
 was because their wives did not equalize their ex- 
 penses. Economy is not so much a retrenchment 
 of expenditures as equalizing them upon necessary 
 objects — upon things that will one day come in 
 use. That's the true philosophy of economy, Mr. 
 Nicely." 
 
 " I do not exactly understand your system of 
 equalizing expenditures." 
 
 4 
 
^ 
 
 208 THE PLUME. 
 
 "Pooh — pooh ! you are decidedly stupid to- 
 day, Mr. Nicely. Nothing is plainer. Now take 
 that cigar you are smoking, for instance. Pray 
 what did you give for that cigar ?" 
 
 ''This! oh, this is a Regalia — a — a what 
 they call a three-center, I believe." 
 
 *' Three cents for a cigar, Mr. Nicely ! oh ! 
 Lord ! how extravagant ! We must have some 
 regard for economy. Three cents ! Lordy ! if 
 you had only let me equalize the expense ! On- 
 ly think, Mr. Nicely, what a monstrous lot of su- 
 gar ylums I inight have bought for three cents .'" 
 
 This is what Mrs. Nicely called *' equalizing 
 expenses." There are many Mrs. Nicelys in 
 the world — people who preach up that kind of 
 economy which is for getting rid of one luxury, 
 merely to substitute another in the place of it, 
 equally expensive — who are always talking of 
 economy, but never practise it — who blame others 
 for extravagance, while they are themselves an 
 illustration of its effects — and who are for laying 
 up every little trifle, nick-nack, and piece of furni- 
 ture that strikes their fancy, merely because it is 
 cheap, and they have an idea that a day may ar- 
 rive when it will come into use. True economy 
 is a commendable and praiseworthy virture, but 
 that mongrel species of it, more properly called 
 extravagance, which is preached up by the Mrs. 
 Nicelys of the world, and which, instead of a prop- 
 
APRIL AND JUNE. 
 
 209 
 
 er husbandry of means, and retrenchment of ex- 
 penditures, merely devises ways of diverting them 
 from a single channel of luxury into a dozen dif- 
 ferent ones, is the ruin of many, and unless exam- 
 ple treads closer on the heels of precept, will yet 
 be the ruin of thousands. "Lordy ! how very ex- 
 travagant," exclaim these economical and expense- 
 equalizing Mrs. Nicelys — " why only think how 
 
 MANY SUGAR PLUMS I MIGHT HAVE BOUGHT WITH 
 THE SAME MONEY !" 
 
 APRIL AND JUNE. 
 
 Welcome, sweet April ! to the earth once more — 
 To the bright rivers and the woodland bowers ; 
 
 No jewelled bride more brilliant robes e'er wore, 
 When love and beauty graced her bridal hours, 
 
 Than thine, while lawn and hill thou trippest o'er. 
 Braiding thy chaplet of young leaves and flowers. 
 
 Earth blooms before thee, as with step of pride 
 
 Thou comest now, so like a blushing bride. 
 
 Sweet daisies line the margin of the rills. 
 
 The mountain brooks and the broad inland streams, 
 Violets bloom upon the verdant hills 
 
 With thousand tints, in summer's golden beams ; 
 The blue-bird at thy coming early trills 
 18* 
 
 ^ 
 
210 THE PLUME. 
 
 His song, and gold-finch shows the brilliant gleams 
 or his gay plumage, as he pours his note, 
 Warbled to thee in sweetness, from his throat. 
 
 The trees for thee put on their dress of green, 
 
 Their silken tresses and their coronals 
 Of blossoms, and new buds, when thou art seen 
 
 Robed like a fairy in her queenly halls ; 
 The wild-flower springeth where thy step hath been, 
 
 And on thy path a wreath of roses falls, 
 Strewn there to scatter all their sweet perfume, 
 As thou dost pass in thy young, mellow bloom. 
 
 And thou art welcome, were it but to hear 
 
 New England's pride, the robin, trill his song ; 
 
 His old familiar perch, the window near, 
 He seeks at dawn, and pours his music long ; 
 
 The old man wakes, and knows his notes, so dear 
 And loved his old remembrances among ; 
 
 Ere yet his window lets in morning's beam, 
 
 How oft that song hath mingled with his dream ! 
 
 Thou sweet, mild summer breeze! how grateful thou 
 To earth and all its living things once more ! 
 
 Viewless, yet felt, there's healing with thee now 
 As the sick couch at eve- thou breathest o'er ; 
 
 And thou art welcome to the healthy brow, 
 Delightful voyager ! welcome to the shore — 
 
 Thy summer bark skims lightly o'er the sea. 
 
 With freight more precious than rich argosy. 
 
 The student greets thee in his smoky cell. 
 As o'er the page he bends, so pale and weak, 
 
 •f- 
 
4- 
 
 APRIL AND JUNE. 211 i 
 
 His eye chained down, as if beneath a spell ; 
 
 He feels thee gently coming to his cheek, 
 Fresh bloom to bring and weariness dispel, 
 
 Kissing his brow, and wooing him to seek, 
 The forest path, the cool and breezy rivers. 
 Ere yet the sun-beam on the mountain quivers. 
 
 At morn the grey old man doth leave his home. 
 And lean upon his staff to greet thee now, 
 
 He bares his head to thee, as thou dost come 
 And part the hoary locks from his hot brow — 
 
 How sweet to him ! He blesses thee, as some 
 Kind, watching spirit, sent to spread the glow 
 
 Of youth's bright tints his cheeks and temples o'er, 
 
 And kindle boyhood's feelings up once more. 
 
 The virgin seeks her bower and wooeth thee, 
 To sport thy fingers with her tresses fair — 
 
 She feels thy cool breath to her cheeks come free. 
 And in her sweet dalliance wave her silken hair ; 
 
 Thousteal'st sweet perfume from the blooming tree, 
 Kissest her cheek and spreadest crimson there ; 
 
 Delicious breeze! she hails thee to her bower. 
 
 And woos thy coming in soft evening's hour. 
 
 But, Summer ! with thy glories thou shalt fall 
 
 Into the tomb of Autumn and shalt die — 
 O'er thee, as shrouded in thy dreary pall , 
 
 The cold and piercing wi: te.-wind will sigh. 
 And yet each year shalt thou come forth till all 
 
 Earth's seasons die — so to Eternity, 
 Triumphant from the chambers of the tomb, 
 Miiii w.ll lise radiant wi.h celestial bloom. 
 
212 THE PLUME. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINEER. 
 
 (music by MARSHALL.) 
 
 It is I am the Mountaineer — 
 
 My kingdom the green-wood free — 
 My subjects the wild bird and deer, 
 
 My palace the spreading tree. 
 I climb up the craggy mountain, 
 
 And inhale its bracing airs, 
 I drink at the gushing fountain, 
 
 And laugh at the world and its cares. 
 For 'tis I am the Mountaineer — 
 
 Ha ! ha ! I am the Mountaineer ! 
 
 My throne is the bleak rock riven, 
 
 Where the eagle builds his nest — 
 Mid the dark clouds tempest-driven 
 
 O'er the mountain's lordly crest. 
 Let the world jog on as it may, 
 
 Oh ! where is the home like mine ? 
 I can laugh at care ill I'm gray, 
 
 Mid the oak and mountain pine. 
 For 'tis I am, &c. 
 
 My sceptre is the rifle dearer 
 
 Than fairest bride ever won — 
 
 Oh ! what to the heart can be nearer 
 Than the shrill and cracking gun .' 
 
 4- 
 
ON VISITIiNG A GRAVE. 213 
 
 It rings along the mountain crags, 
 
 With its music glad and free — 
 It laughs at the world, howe'er it wags — 
 
 Ho ! a mountain life for me ! 
 For 'tis I am, &c. 
 
 I love the anthem, grand and deep, 
 
 That swells o'er my palace high, 
 Mid the thunder's roll and tempest's sweep. 
 
 As the bolts around me fly. 
 I laugh at the storms of life, whose din 
 
 Gives the world without no rest, 
 For rage as they may, peace smiles within 
 
 My home on the mountain's crest ! 
 For 'tis I am the Mountaineer 
 
 Ha ! ha ! I am the Mountaineer ! 
 
 ON VISITING A GRAVE. 
 
 Three summers, love, their dews have shed 
 Above the sod v/here thou dost sleep — 
 Still bleeds my heart as erst it bled, 
 And still I weep. 
 
 I pluck the sweet, briyht-tinted flov.-crs, 
 
 Which spring has strewn upon thy tomb ; 
 They whisper of those blissful hours. 
 In thy young bloom — 
 
4-™ 
 
 214 THE PLUME. 
 
 When to my heart, love, thou wast given. 
 Ere yet these eyes with tears were wet, 
 And earth to us seemed bright as Heaven — 
 Can I Ibrget ? 
 
 When, happy all and merry save thee, 
 
 As is a gladsome bird in Spring, 
 Thou blushing at my side, I gave thee 
 Tliat bridal ring ! 
 
 When thou did'st smile so sweetly on me, 
 
 And press thy lips upon my brow. 
 And ask God's dearest blessing on me — 
 I see thee now ! 
 
 Thy form celestial greets mine eyes, 
 
 As when thy words did time beguile, 
 Like vpice of one from Paradise — 
 And that bright smile ! 
 
 When round our hearts Love spread his wiles. 
 
 Ere Sorrow o'er their chords had swept — 
 When smiled the Mother in tliy smiles — 
 With thee I wept ! 
 
 In joy we wept, that to thy bosom 
 
 So sweet a ciierub, love, was given, 
 To nurture as a lovely blossom — 
 Sent thee from Heaven ! 
 
 When Death stole to our Eden bower, 
 The little fragle bud to take, 
 
•^ 
 
 TO MARY. 215 
 
 I thought, as thou gav'st up the flower, 
 Thy heart would break ! 
 
 Could I, as at thy grave I kneel. 
 
 But hear thine angel footsteps come, 
 To bless, ere on Death's shadows steal, 
 My widow'd home, — 
 
 I'd fold thee to my heart again, 
 
 And crave thy presence now, to bless 
 Her, who oft upon thy cheek hath lain, 
 In sweet caress. 
 
 Still she is left, to watch and love me, 
 
 Thine image dear — sw^eet sainted one ! 
 Who bitter tears will shed above me. 
 When I am gone ! 
 
 TO MARY, 
 
 [A beautiful child suddenly stopping in the midst of her sports 
 to gaze upon the brilliant clouds at sunset.] 
 
 Bounding, jumping, romping Mary ! 
 
 Thy laugh so full of glee, 
 Why stoppest thou, my little fairy, 
 
 The gorgeous clouds to see ? 
 What vision bright, or sudden thought 
 Hath hushed thy merry laugh and shout ? 
 
 h 
 
216 THE PLUME. 
 
 Skipping, dancing-, tripping Mary ! 
 
 Fleet as the agile fawn, 
 Why leave the ring, where dance so merry, 
 
 Thy playmates on the lawn ? 
 They call thee, but thou heedest not — 
 The hoop and swing alike forgot. 
 
 Mirthful, playful, gleeful Mary I 
 
 Dost see the gates of heaven, 
 Where bathes the clouds, like phantoms airy, 
 
 The golden light of even ? 
 Charmeth some angel's form thine eye, 
 Who calls thee to thy native sky ? 
 
 Laughing, prattling, sporting Mary ! 
 
 Now tell me, what shall be 
 The tint of sky, sunlit or starry, 
 
 To which I'll liken thee ! 
 The softest shades of heaven's own blue 
 Those lustrous eyes seem melting through. 
 
 Blue-eyed, bright-eyed, blue-eyed Mary ! 
 
 The rosy tints of even 
 Are woven in thy cheeks, my fairy, 
 
 Like hues that melt in heaven ! 
 The sweetest tints at day's decline, 
 Have not so sweet a blush as thine. 
 
 Blushing, blooming, blushing Mary ! 
 
 To what shall I compare 
 The ringlets flowing, soft and airy, 
 
TO MARY. 217 
 
 Upon thy neck so fair ? 
 They're like the golden clouds that weave 
 Their tresses on the brow of eve. 
 
 Golden, sunny, fair-haired Mary ! 
 
 Where shall my pencil dip, 
 In tints above, to paint the cherry 
 
 Vermilion of thy lip ? 
 There are no hues, o'er clouds tha^ play? 
 But fade beside those lips away. 
 
 Gleesome, winsome, gladsome Mary ! 
 
 That merry heart of thine 
 Laughs through thy dimpled cheeks, my fairy. 
 
 In every tint and line. 
 No sullen cloud that floats on high 
 Is imaged in thy heart or eye. 
 
 Lovely, cherub, dove-like Mary ! 
 
 So frolicksome and gay — 
 Far be the day, when angels carry 
 
 Thee to their home away ! 
 That face so sweet, that radiant smile, 
 Bespeak thy spirit free from guile. 
 
 Dear, celestial, angel Mary ! 
 
 Of love and beauty bright 
 Heaven to thee hath not been chary, 
 
 Thou laughing little sprite ! 
 Its brightest smiles beam in thine own. 
 And all its hues are round thee thrown. 
 
 19 
 
218 THE PLUME. 
 
 EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 
 
 Drizzle ! Drizzle ! Drizzle ! There is noth- 
 ino- which sooner takes the starch out of the intel- 
 lectual dickey, than your true blue dog-day weath- 
 er, when one' vibrates, like a pendulum, between 
 the dumps and that peculiar titillation of the 
 spirits, occasioned by the genial sunshine. The 
 animal spirits, too, become limber and pendulous 
 under the atmospheric influences. The whole 
 man is transformed into a walking sensitive plant, 
 alive to the slightest touch upon his physical or 
 metaphysical, his social or his intellectualepider- 
 mis. The change, also, is so rapid from hot to 
 cold, from cloudy to sunshine, from the clear and 
 bright to vapor, mist and fog, with all imagin- 
 able shades, degrees and differences, interspersed 
 in the evening with an occasional commingling of 
 daw-bugs, fire-flies and cock-roaches, that he must 
 be fastidious indeed, who finds nothing to his taste in 
 some one of the comical varieties of dog-day weath- 
 er. You start from the door-stone with an um- 
 brella, to fence off the mist or drizzling fog, 
 and before reaching your journey's end, it serves 
 as a damper to the concentrated rays of the blaz- 
 ing sun. Perhaps you shiver in the morning in an 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 219 
 
 overcoat, while at noon you bake under shooting 
 fires, and become of the consistency and color of 
 a mummy, three centuries old. If you get out of 
 humor with the weather during the day, yet what 
 ample compensation does night bring with it, 
 as you lay you head upon the pillow. Dog-days 
 are sure to be followed by cat-nights. You wake 
 after a slight doze, and hear a catawauling under 
 your window, or are roused from sleep by a whole 
 posse of the canine race, serenading in the front 
 yard. If you happen to have* the tooth-ache, so 
 much the better for your enjoyment of the music. 
 Perhaps some dog, more ambitious to please than 
 the rest, will play you a fresh solo to each jump 
 of your tooth, or the whole orchestra of feline 
 performers join in a grand fantasia, worthy of 
 the King of Catgut, to soothe your shooting 
 pains. When you rise in the morning, after toss- 
 ing about the bed all night, and stand cogitating 
 with yourself before the window, whether it is best 
 to go muffled in thick clothes or in a summer dres s 
 ten to one you see a dozen dogs running, single file, 
 round a barn at a distance, as if chasing each 
 others tails, and howling as they go — or, per- 
 chance, a sleek-tailed rooster crawling under a cart 
 in the yard, as wel as a drowned rat, and grum- 
 bling because he cannot change his coat. And 
 yet he seems to chuckle over the general down-in- 
 the-mouth aspect of every thing around him, as if 
 
 •4* 
 
n 
 
 •*• 
 
 220 THE PLUME. 
 
 his chicken-hearted progeny were safe from the spit 
 for another day Presently he crows hoarsely, 
 as if he had taken a severe cold, and anon as you 
 watch his long, sleek and dripping tail feathers, the 
 dogs have filed round in front of the barn again, and 
 set up a long, simultaneous and most querimoni- 
 ous howl, as if in honor of the advent of their patron 
 Star, and his season of triumph. It is a general 
 holiday — the Dog-star rages, and every dog has 
 his day and his night too, during its ascendancy. 
 Drizzle ! Drizzle T Drizzle ! 
 
 Yes, believe me, there is nothing which takes 
 the starch out of one's social nature, or loosens his 
 intellectual joints, like weather of this description. 
 But an editor has a thousand little vexations, un- 
 known to others, which acquire fresh life and in- 
 tensity under its influences. Four or five visitors 
 drop in, some to extend their commiseration upon 
 the cheerless aspect of things without, or to read 
 the news within, and others to present him with some 
 wonderful vegetable or animal monstrosity. He sits 
 at his table to write, and while the tongues of his 
 visitors keep time with his quill, in runs the office- 
 boy, so hungry for copy, that he snaps at a bit of 
 paper like a pike at a minnow. He rubs his fore- 
 head for an idea, and if he be so fortunate as to 
 catch one, even by the tail-feather, it slips back 
 unperceived, and soon makes its exit out of some 
 
 •4*" 
 
•^ 
 
 EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 221 
 
 open window in his brain, before he has a chance 
 to pin it down with the point of his pen. In a word, 
 what with calls for copy, exhaustion from atmos- 
 pherical influences without, and official influences 
 within, the editor has the dumps to such a degree 
 at this season, that you might fancy an east-wind 
 was constantly playing at every avenue of his 
 heart. Drizzle ! Drizzle ! Copy ! Copy ! Driz- 
 zle ! Copy ! 
 
 Scene First. Interior of an Editor^s Sanctum. 
 The Knight of the Inky Thumb seated at his 
 table, ivriting and smoking. Half a dozen 
 loafers distributed about the room^ reading 'pa- 
 yers — one looking over his shoulders, — another 
 with his legs on the chair editorial, and a third 
 sitting on his tabic. Boy calling for copy. 
 Three or four loafers passing in and out. 
 
 Devil. Copy, Sir ! 
 
 Editor. Imp ! go back ! Distribute what you've 
 set up and set it over again. 
 
 Devil. Yes, sir. 
 
 Patron. Well, Squire, do you think this cold 
 weather is owing to the comet .'' 
 
 Ed. Why, — y-e-s — quite likely. You see 
 19* 
 
 ■^•^ 
 

 222 THE PLUME. 
 
 the comet has no doubt made a dive at the North 
 Pole and got a few thousand acres of ice hooked 
 on it's tail. 
 
 Fatron. Should think it would melt in such a 
 hot place. 
 
 Ed, It does — hence the continual uncorking 
 of the bottles overhead. 
 
 Boy. Here's a marriage, Sir, and cake, Sir, for 
 the paper. 
 
 Ed. Yes, Sir. Thankee Sir. I'll try to find a 
 place for them both. 
 
 Devil. Copy, Sir. All out, vSir ; waiting ! 
 
 Farmer. Here's a Thanksgiving pumpkin, Sir, 
 and a long-necked squash, and a dozen nice cu- 
 cumbers, and potatoes and an old cheese, which 
 Mr. Whisp begs you to accept. 
 
 Devil. Copy, Sir. 
 
 Loafer. What's the news to-day, Mr. Editor. 
 
 Devil. Here's a sentence I can't make out — 
 the word looks like "abominable " — Can't read 
 your writing, Sir. 
 
 Ed. throiving doiv7ikis pe?i and jumping vp. Good 
 filks, be merciful. One at a time, ifl you' please 
 You infernal little copy devil ! Set up that mar- 
 riage, and request printers in Ohio, Nova Scotia, 
 Timbuctoo and Lands End to notice the same and 
 send their bills to this office — and spin out the 
 sentence to the four corners of the world, you pest ! 
 And you, my dear Sir, tell Mr. Whisp I thank him 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 223 
 
 for his long-necked cheese, potatoes, old cucum- 
 bers and dried squashes, from the bottom of my 
 heart I thank him. He's a fine fellow to think of 
 the editor. Can't make out the sentence ! Why 
 you've lost the slip that had the verb on't, and now 
 have the impudence to come to me with the nom- 
 inative case ! Off ! Scud ! Read your own copy 
 for yourself ! Come here to get your words read ! 
 Zounds ! go to your dictionary — it's enough for 
 me to write ! You lose the head, and come to 
 me with the tail of a sentence, a plague on you all ! 
 
 Patron. Here's an accident, Sir. 
 
 Ed. Thankee, Sir ! Glad o'nt — hope its noth- 
 ing very horrid. Our accident-maker was ruined 
 some months ago. He was rash enough to sup- 
 pose the shower was over, and shut up his um- 
 brella — and was sun-struck at once in conse- 
 quence ! What's your accident, Mr. Megrim ! 
 
 Patron. Why, a man in Dog Hollow was 
 shaving himself while it stormed yesterday, and 
 was so startled at the noise that he cut his 
 head off close to his feet. Some say he dropped 
 his razor and stepped over it, but that is a down- 
 right exaggeration, Sir ! Downright exagger- 
 ation ! 
 
 Ed. Certainly — no doubt of it ! most certainly 
 Mr. Megrim ! It is an unjustifiable exaggeration, 
 Mr. Megrim ! It spoils the story and is no 
 
 ■4- 
 
4- 
 
 224 THE PLUME. 
 
 horrid accident at all. It shall be mentioned with- 
 out the least exaggeration, Sir ! Here ! Sam ! 
 Devil ! when out of copy set up, that a man cut 
 his dog's tail off close to his ears — in a thunder 
 storm, Bill — and Peter ! you may finish the sen- 
 tence, and say the dog jumped over the razor — 
 when his head was off — you said, Mr. Megrim, 
 I think. Harkee ! Sam — and when you get 
 through, — head it " Horrid Accident." Confu- 
 sion ! how one's head swims in these days ! 
 
 Loafer. Mr. Editor, I've brought you a daw- 
 bug three inches long — want you to notice it. 
 
 Ed. It's worth noticing for its smallness, that's 
 all — got some forked against the ceiling there, 
 that you might mistake for lobsters. Going to 
 report them as public nuisances. 
 
 Devil. Here's a line I can't make out, Sir. It 
 looks like 
 
 " Qeter Qijer gicked a qeck of pickled qeqqers " 
 
 Ed. Back, imp ! and mind your P's and Q's. 
 
 Visitor. You the Editor, Sir ? 
 
 Ed. What's left of that happy mortal, — at 
 your service, Sir. 
 
 Visitor. Mr. Quince wishes you to give public 
 notice that there is a great mistake in the Alma- 
 nac for this year — three days being left out of 
 July. 
 
 Ed. They have got crowded into August, 
 
 •*•- 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 225 
 
 to make out the dog-days, that's, all. I'll make a 
 paragraph of it, and state that the Clerk of the 
 weather does'nt keep his accounts right. 
 
 Visitor. Thankee, Sir, and Mr. Quince asked 
 me to state that Mr. Codger, the Almanac-maker, 
 was struck with an apoplexy, while calculating an 
 eclipse yesterday. He was son of old Deacon 
 Codger of Bungtown, who had his long-tailed coat 
 cut into a short jacket by a ball at Bunker Hill, 
 and the jury gave their verdict that he " died of 
 information on the brain." 
 
 Ed. It shall be done, Sir. 
 
 Loafer. Here's some poetry, Sir. 
 
 Ed. Thankee, Sir ! it must be doggerel, if 
 manufactured in this dog-day weather — Let's see 
 — "Lines to a Cowcumber." Why, that's cooling, 
 to begin with ! Let's read. 
 
 Devil. Copy ! Sir ! Copy ! 
 
 Ed. Vanish! imp! scud ! evaporate! or I'll 
 knock you into the middle of next week for tor- 
 menting one in such blazing weather as this — 
 Back to your den ! Hungry, never-satisfied tor- 
 mentor — and twister of the brain ! Back, I say \ 
 Won't eight columns of manuscript do, but you 
 must yelp — more ! more ! more ! One feels as 
 uncomfortable in such an eternal din, as a dog who 
 has got his head into a junk bottle, and can't get it 
 
 4- 
 
I 226 THE PLUME, 
 
 out again. Now let us run over these Cowcum- 
 ber, lines. (Reads.) 
 
 Thou green and luscious sparkler of the vine ! 
 
 Cowcuniber ! thy sweet daintiness I sing ! 
 Not all the grapes that cluster near the Rhine 
 
 Would set my mouth so soon a watering — 
 So cool — so brisk — so tempting to the tongue — 
 Ungrateful they, who not of thee have sung ! 
 
 I know not whether Eden in her bloom, 
 
 With all her wealth of fruits and virgin flowers, 
 
 Could boast that thou wast kissed by each perfume, 
 The breezes stole from her celestial bowers — 
 
 Wast thou the fruit that tempted mother Eve ! 
 
 Alas ! for this so many o'er tliee grieve ! 
 
 Each city Belle who takes her promenade — , 
 
 At Fashion's shrine a constant devotee, 
 
 With all her furbelows would find it hard 
 
 To deck herself, cool vegetable, like thee ! 
 
 Oh ! would like thee each Beauty could be seen 
 
 Through all life's stages still forever green ! 
 
 The parson will not whisper grace o'er thee. 
 Thou blessed, scripture-celebrated one I 
 
 The lawyer grasps at thee as at his fee. 
 His brother shuns thee as a hated dun. 
 
 The doctor svv^allows thee, and his patients bids 
 
 To shun thee — swollen with cholera seeds. 
 
 Thou cunning Tempter ! Tickler of the palate ! 
 \ Too oft backbiters' tongues have cut thee up — 
 
 \ E'en while they foully slandered thee, all ate 
 
 >, Then drank confusion to thee from the cup ; 
 
 < Blasphemers vile ! — 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 227 
 
 Very cool, refreshing and philosophical verses 
 to read in dog-day weather. As the sun has thrust 
 out his jaundiced visage for a second, I'll step out. 
 Sam ! if you want more copy — set up those 
 " Lines to a violin " — very good dog-day reading 
 — beoinninop 
 
 Thou screeching, unharmonious thing ! 
 
 Across that fellow's arm ! 
 1 wish you'd stop, that I might hear 
 
 Albina sing a psalm — &c. 
 
 Devil. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Ed. And, Sam, if you want any more copy — 
 take these lines on a Bell. Be sure and not print 
 them " Lines on a Belle." That would be a sad 
 mistake — though, to be sure, the tongue of the one 
 is as constantly going and on the clatter, as that 
 of the other : {reads.) 
 
 In youth it jingles us on to school, • 
 
 And it jingles us home to dinner. 
 
 It jingles the wise man, it jingles the fool. 
 
 It jingles the saint, it jingles the sinner, 
 
 It jingles the doctor, it jingles the preacher. 
 
 It jingles the lawyer, it jingles the teacher, 
 
 It jingles us all, whate'er we're about, 
 
 It jingles us in life and will jingle us out. 
 
 Enter Loafer. Sir — Mrs. Cataplasm sends her 
 compliments and wishes to know if you can tell 
 
'^- 
 
 228 THE PLUME. 
 
 her, why it is that cats are everywhere seen 
 chasing their tails in such weather as this. The 
 ladies are all disputing about it, and have agreed 
 to leave it out to you. 
 
 Ed. Sir ! My compliments to the ladies of the 
 Reform Society in general and to Mrs. Cataplasm 
 in particular. Tell them the reason a cat chases 
 her tail so fast, in dry weather, is easily explained 
 on philosophical principles. The caloric and elec- 
 tricity of the atmosphere collect at that extreme 
 with such oppressive intensity, that poor puss be- 
 comes exceedingly sensitive. If on a house-top, 
 she jumps to the earth, and is sure to fall on 
 her feet, if not on her tail. If on the ground, 
 the sensation becomes so painful, that she flies 
 round after her tail and tries to catch it, till 
 she becomes involved in a complete gyration. The. 
 reason she runs to the water, the moment a shower 
 falls, is, like many bipeds, to do that by dipping 
 which she cannot do by scratching, viz : to keep 
 cool. This is the only theory I can advance on the 
 subject. 
 
 Loafer. Thankee, Sir. Mrs. Cataplasm will be 
 infinitely obliged. 
 
 Ed. No doubt. Now let me run away from 
 these pests. 
 
 Enter Messenger. Is the Editor in, Sir ? 
 
 Ed. He will not be in a second, if he can get 
 out. What news. Sir ? 
 
 •4*^ 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 229 
 
 Messenger. Mr. Smallclothes, Sir, wished me 
 to see this safe in your hands. It's a poetical con- 
 tribution for the paper. He wished me to take 
 word back whether it could go in. 
 
 Ed. I can tell better, when I see it. What 
 is it about ? 
 
 Messenger. Well, Sir, Mr. Smallclothes has 
 suffered so much, in various ways, from the 
 smallness of his nose, that his feelings have found 
 an outlet in verse. 
 
 Ed. Ah ! 
 
 Messenger. He begs, therefore, you will insert 
 it as soon as you possibly can, as his present suf- 
 ferings are perfectly intolerable. I will read it. 
 Sir, if you will wait a moment, for I see you have 
 your cane and are about going out. 
 
 Ed. Heavens and earth ! Well — be quick, 
 ** Stanzas to his Nose," are they ? 
 
 Messenger. The same Sir. Its rather a small sub- 
 ject, to be sure, but he handles it with real gusto. 
 Why — Sir, just listen, and see if he does'nt give 
 that nose of his a strong pull, a long pull, and a 
 pull altogether, {reads.) 
 
 My nose ! my nose^! oh ! mercy me ! my dreadful little 
 
 nose ! 
 Why can't we have a settlement, small cause of all^ my 
 
 woes ! 
 
 20 
 
 -k- 
 
•^ 
 
 4 
 
 230 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 Oh ! why art thou so flat, ao pug, queer handle of my face ! 
 To make of me a laughing stock, and bring me to disgrace ? 
 
 My whiskers both are large and black — they suit me very 
 
 well ; 
 1 put them off and on again to please each city belle ; 
 But thou art fixed, forever fixed between my mouth and eye. 
 
 Thou little dot ! I wish thou wert more prominent and high. 
 
 My pantaloons are just the cut, the best that Snip could 
 
 make : 
 My coat the richest blue, or black, all for the ladies' sake; 
 But yet, ah me ! what use are they, thou cause of so much 
 
 ill ? 
 I wish thou wert but half as long as is my tailor's bill. 
 
 And if I walk to quiz the girls, as now and then I do, 
 
 Or at a corner take my stand, particularly blue. 
 
 Each dandy holds his quizzing glass, then, grinning, onward 
 
 goes. 
 He thinks — the fool ! I do not know he tries to spy my 
 
 nose. 
 
 *'Your feet are large enough," one says, "they're always in 
 the way ;" 
 
 I made an accidental step on one the other day — 
 
 " You'd I etter keep those feet," says she, " oflf decent peo- 
 ple's toes. 
 
 And make them to change places with your — something of 
 a nose." 
 
 Oh dear ! the jokes, the jibes, the jests, that saucy fellows 
 play, 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 231 
 
 With noses large, and fair and square, at every time of day — 
 •' How strait and tall that exquisite !" each Bantam dandy 
 
 crows ; 
 ** Ah, happy gentleman ! no wife will lead him by the nose.'* 
 
 I waked from pleasant sleep one morn, and saw upon the 
 wall, 
 
 A little and a large nose drawn, with this tremendous scrawl — 
 I *' You'd better have no nose at all, than such a nose as this, 
 i) But one like to that large one there, were ecstacy of bliss" 
 
 And BO they talk and laugh at me, all safe within their sleeve, 
 Their every word doth touch me quick and make me sorely 
 
 grieve ; 
 They speak their daggers to my face, and rub me very close, 
 " For he," say they, ** at all our pranks can ne'er turn up hii 
 
 nose." 
 
 I am near-sighted, too ; and plump I ran against a girl — 
 "Oh, if you had a nose," cried she, "I'd give it such a 
 
 twirl — " 
 " I ask your pardon, dear" — I said, *' I'll make you fit 
 
 amends — " 
 '• Not as you knows — " said she, *' oh no, we never can 
 
 be friends." 
 
 Ah me ! and specs, I never can, I never can look through ; 
 I And so I twirl my cane all day, not knowing what to do — 
 I lounge about the gallery, to see the pictures close ; 
 But every painted man and girl has something for a nose. 
 
 At two I take my dinner cheap at some new eating house. 
 At sight of me the exquisites are still as any mouse : 
 
4- 
 
 232 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 " How could," say they, "this noseless fellow smell us at 
 
 our blows ; 
 How much he doth intrude himself, — we' re sure he little 
 
 knows.^^ 
 
 *' Upon that Lilliputian nose he ne'er can tread," say one ; 
 " But Sir !" thus cries a second out before the first is done, 
 *• And yet 'tis strange he every where is poking in his nose." 
 Oh ! would that Ovid's nose were mine, with wart like 
 Cicero's ! 
 
 The barber ne'er can cut my nose, while he is shaving me, 
 "Your ears are long enough," says he, "for nose defi- 
 ciency." 
 They call me the Noseologist ; and fix it as I can, 
 I certainly am now, and aye shall be a half-nosed man. 
 
 Good name in man or woman is the jewel of their soul ; 
 
 So Shikspea • said, and he was right, I think, upon the 
 
 whole. 
 But thou, oh ! Slaukenbergius ! I ask thee in his place* 
 Is not a handsome nose in all the jewel of the face ? 
 
 5 
 4- 
 
 Messenger. There, Sir, those are the lines. Will 
 they do. Sir } 
 
 Ed. Oh ! certainly. The case of Mr. Small- 
 clothes is one of real distress, and he shall have 
 a hearing. Just say to him that he had better 
 submit to a Taliacotian operation, and have 
 a new nose manufactured immediately. One of 
 my advertisers will give him a new proboscis, or 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 233 
 
 agree to have his own pulled, if he fails. He will 
 enter into a bond that it shall smell, blow and 
 look as well as any born nose in the world. 
 
 Messenger. Thank you, Sir, I'll certainly tell 
 him. 
 
 Devil. Here's the first number of a new lite- 
 rary paper, Sir, which Mr. Folio, the bookseller, 
 wishes you to notice at full length. 
 
 Ed. The plague on him ! Does he want an- 
 other puff so soon as this ? What is this new lit- 
 erary bantling ? 
 
 Devil. It is called the Town Pump Magazine 
 and Corkscrew Advertiser, edited by Messrs. 
 Tomtit, Thingumbob St Co. 
 
 Ed, Well, the whole concern be but no 
 
 matter. Take my scale of prices to Mr. Folio at 
 once, and ask him, for the hundreth time, to give 
 it a conspicuous place in his counting room. Do 
 you understand ? 
 
 Devil. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Ed. But first read it over, and let me see if I 
 have any alteration to make. 
 
 {Devil reads.) 
 
 1. For one general puff, merely recommend- 
 ing the Town Pump Magazine, and Corkscrew 
 Advertiser, or the Pumkin Vine Bugle, and their 
 kindred prints, without mentioning the name of the 
 
 —4. 
 
234 THE PLUME. 
 
 i 
 
 Editors, or enlarging upon their peculiar qualifica- 
 tions, &.C — three dollars in advance, and the 
 difference of exchange. 
 
 2. For lumping the aforesaid editors together, 
 and stating they are all clever fellows — one dollar 
 additional. 
 
 3. For stating that they are individually very 
 clever fellows, two dollars additional. Very clev- 
 er f^eWows indeed — three dollars additional. 
 
 4. For stating that Messrs. Tomtit, Thingum- 
 bob & Co, &c., preside over their Magazines with 
 "distinguished ability" — four dollars additional. 
 If " unequalled ability" — five dollars additional. 
 
 5. hat their style might be mistaken for that 
 of Addison or Irving, six dollars additional. 
 
 6. That the Town Pump Magazine and Cork- 
 screw Advertiser have each five thousand subscri- 
 bers, which are continually increasing, ten dollars 
 additional. Ten thousand subscribers, twenty 
 dollars, and fifteen thousand subscribers thirty dol- 
 lars, additional. 
 
 7. That Messrs, Tomtit, Thingumbob & Co. 
 are fully adequate to the task of making the 
 most elegant miscellany in this country or Great 
 Britain, thirty-five dollars additional. 
 
 8. That the Town Pump Magazine, Corkscrew 
 Advertiser, &c. would die, if under the auspices of 
 any other than those distinguished literati, Tomtit, 
 Thingumbob &, Co. forty dollars additional. 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 235 
 
 Ed. There, that will do, as it is. Just take it 
 to Mr. Folio, with my compliments, and ask him to 
 make Mr. Tomtit, Thingumbob & Co. acquainted 
 with its contents, before their new bantling dies. 
 Scud ! Now, by Apollo ! I'll walk out and see if 
 I can catch a breath of fresh air ! Here it comes 
 again. Drizzle ! drizzle ! drizzle ! (Exit with 
 umbrella.) 
 
 Reader! I do assure you there is nothing like your 
 true blue dog-day weather to make an editor wasp- 
 ish, when he is beset by visitors, copy-devils and the 
 innumerable little annoyances, incident to his call- 
 ing. It is so cold at one moment, and so warm at 
 the next, that his ideas may almost be said to freeze 
 while they are thawing out, and his kindly nature 
 within to become infected with the general drear- 
 iness which prevails without. While he is employed 
 upon his paper, suppose I introduce you to a con- 
 venticle of critics who are sitting in judgment upon 
 its merits. 
 
 ■^ 
 
•^ 
 
 236 THE PLUME. 
 
 Scene II. A Literary tete-a-tete — Half a dozen 
 women, of no particular age, sitting round a 
 tea-tahle ; discussing the articles in the newspa- 
 per. What the tea-pot ladies have to say of 
 the editor. Immense loss of Patronage, etc., 
 etc. 
 
 ** I don't think Shikspeer the greatest man ever 
 lived, nor his co-trumpery (cotemporary?) Homer 
 nother," said Miss Laura Snakeroot, on the wrong 
 side of thirty. 
 
 *'0h ! no ! as my Lard Bacon says, I think our 
 John has written some things that — you under- 
 stand — I say it between ourselves, you know — 
 that Mr. Shickspur awould never have thought 
 of," said Miss Matilda Bouncer, sipping her fourth 
 cup of tea. " Just look at his lines to the Venus 
 of the Medicine Chest (probably Venus de Medi- 
 ci) •— Splendid !" 
 
 "Now I think on't " — quoth Miss Diana 
 Shagbark, who not having a tooth in her head, 
 was violently suspected of a disposition to gum 
 every body — "what do you think of the village 
 paper ?" 
 
 " Abominable !" quoth MissCorinna Straitfoot, 
 
'^ 
 
 EDITOKIAL COMFORTS. 237 
 
 who was more than suspected of having sent some 
 poetical articles to the editor. 
 
 '•'Will you believe it," said Miss Snakeroot, " I 
 
 know somebody that sent some very affecting 
 
 * lines to a Dog ' to the editor — and he said they 
 
 ought to be — only think — all ought to be curtaiVd.^' 
 
 "The vulgar crittur !" ejaculated Miss Boun- 
 cer, holding a handkerchief to her eyes — "what 
 strange things editors are — ain't they, Miss Scar- 
 let ?" 
 
 *'0 ! thertainly ! thertainly ! tharsey dogs !" said 
 Miss Angelina Lobelia Scarlet, who lisped a good 
 deal. 
 
 The village newspaper was brought in, and the 
 company began to apply the dissecting knife. 
 
 " He knows nothing about making a paper — he 
 } don't have poetry enough ! I should like to pre- 
 side over the poetical apartment myself!" 
 
 " He has too much politics and such stuff." 
 
 "He don't have any sentimental stories, nor 
 nothing of that sort that's taking." 
 
 "No Deaths and Marriages — all advertise- 
 ments." 
 
 "My grathious ! he never gets any foreign 
 news such as murthers, horrid acthidents, rapeths 
 and thuch things." 
 
 "1 heard Mrs. Thompson say the other day," said 
 Miss Shagbark, " that Mrs. Corkscrew told Miss 
 Fag how it was currently reported, and violently 
 
 •*• 
 
^ 238 THE PLUME. 
 
 suspected that the editor meant Mr. Thompson, 
 when he said some folks like to play cards a little — 
 and that such a scurrilous personality as that 
 would lose him one subscriber any how." 
 
 " And I heard Miss Blackbird say she had had 
 thirteen articles rejected, and was only waiting 
 for a fourteenth injection, when she meant to write 
 for another paper," quoth Miss Snakeroot. "Such 
 things is scandalous in an editor." ^ 
 
 "He has given me three or four hints " said 
 Miss Bouncer — '* but I'm determined not to take 
 them. Now, the other day, he said, " There are 
 some amazing tonguey women in the world" — 
 I knew who he meant, the moment I set eyes on 
 he paper. 
 
 " He gave me a pretty broad hint tother day, 
 hat I was no better than I should be, and said I 
 was going it on the oyster figure a little too fast for 
 an honest woman," said Miss Blackbird. "Til 
 make him prove his word. Guess I am better 
 than I should be." 
 
 " He thaid how he knew one woman who only 
 need put on breeches to be a man, and that she 
 was only a Loky Foky in petticoats. He thaid it a 
 hundred times — gueth he won't thay it more than 
 a hundreth and oneth time," lisped Miss Scarlet, 
 as red as a beefsteak. 
 
 " Oh, he's excessively vulgar to us literary 
 folks ! And then he's always talking about the 
 
EDITORIAL COMFORTS. 239 
 
 Great Abolition Anti-slavery Bobolation and Col- 
 ornization Society, plainly insinivating, that white 
 ladies may take care of themselves, but he's for 
 black ones — the nigger!" said Miss Douorh- 
 nut, who had "just dropped in to say, how do you 
 do." 
 
 " If an editor don't suit every body, whig and 
 Loky Foky, temperate and intemperate, mar- 
 ried and single, literary and unliterary, black 
 and white — he don't desarve to be patronized. 
 Them's my sentiments. Miss Scarlett," said Miss 
 Bouncer. 
 
 "Why! yeth ! I think jeth tho ; editors no 
 buthiness to have any 'pinion themselves — that 
 ith indithputable. They're made up of the opin- 
 ions of other folks, and the moment they drop 
 ihemy they are all gone goothes ! — thath my 
 mind I" 
 
 "Goothes is profane, Miss Scarlet" — said a 
 lisping sister at her side — " Goothe is a wicked 
 word. Who'd thought she'd have thword (swore) 
 so." 
 
 Thus did these tea-pot ladies fairly use up the 
 editor and bestow upon him their commiseration. 
 Poor fellow ! Let all editors take warning by his 
 fate — for, by the goose-quill which he wields. Miss 
 Laura Snakeroot, Miss Matilda Bouncer, Miss 
 Diana Shagbark and eke Miss Angelina Lobelia 
 Scarlet voted unanimously, on the spot, to withdraw 
 
^- 
 
 ^ 
 
 240 THE PLUME. 
 
 their patronage from said editor, in consideration of 
 his personalities, his rejection of sundry articles 
 and his masculine bearing in the chair editorial. 
 Let them, 1 say, beware of his fate, for these la- 
 dies HAD CLUBBED TOGETHER AND SUBSCRIBED FOR 
 ONE COPY OF HIS PAPER FOR ONE QUARTER. HoW hc 
 
 got over this immense loss of patronage, I have 
 never inquired, but I infer that he survived it, 
 as his paper makes its appearance regularly every 
 week and promises very well. 
 
 THE HEART THAT'S TRUE. 
 
 They may sing of the Avine that sparkles, 
 
 Of its red and golden hue — 
 Be my song of the Love divine, 
 
 Which glows in a heart that's true ! 
 What wine half so sparkling and mellow, 
 
 Where the feast with joy is crowned, 
 As the heart of a noble fellow, 
 
 When the festive hour comes round. 
 
 They may sing of Love in a bower. 
 
 Of its bright and glowing flame — 
 
 It buds like a beautiful flower, 
 
 And it droopeth like the same. 
 
 4- 
 
ANSWER TO THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 241 
 
 But give me the love of a brother, 
 
 At home or in distant land, 
 Whose heart ever warms to another, 
 
 Who hath ever an open hand. 
 
 They may tfell of the song that gushes 
 
 From the lips of a maiden fair — 
 Of her burning wonds as she blushes, 
 
 At hearing her lover's prayer. 
 But give me the song of greeting, 
 
 When the festive hour comes round, 
 The good fellow's welcome at meeting. 
 
 When the heart with mirth is crowned. 
 
 ANSWER TO THE OLD ARM CUAIR. 
 
 [Addressed to a young lady after hearing her sing Eliza Cook's 
 beautiful song, " I love it, 1 love it, that old Arm Chair."] 
 
 MUSIC BY BISSELL. 
 
 Oh, sacred through life be that relic to thee. 
 The old oaken chair, with its memories dear ! 
 
 It hath seen the leaves of the ancestral tree, 
 
 One by one, from its boughs fall stricken and sear. 
 
 Oh, shelter it kindly in the household nook, 
 
 21 
 
242 THE PLUME. 
 
 In her vigils of love, a mother sat there, 
 And it hath ever a dear, familiar look, 
 
 Like the face of a friend, bless that Old Arm Chair ! 
 
 She is gone — she is gone ! But it stands there yet — 
 
 They have taken it not from the old fire-side — 
 Undisturbed be it still, in the same nook set — 
 
 Let it stand where it stood, when thy mother died. 
 Oh, she loved it, she loved it, the old heir-loom. 
 
 And, though smileth no longer her sweet face there. 
 The spirit of the loved and lost shall come. 
 
 Ever to bless thee and guard the Old Arm Chair. 
 
 When the family sit at their daily meal. 
 
 In its place is each chair, but that vacant one — 
 Yet holy around them her presence they feel, 
 
 And they seem still to hear her familiar tone. 
 See the little ones turn from the sacred book. 
 
 As speaketh the father her name in his prayer, 
 To her favorite seat, for their mother's look — 
 
 They shall see her no more in the Old Arm Chair ! 
 
 Oh sacred through life be that relic to thee, 
 
 . Thy mother's arm chair, with its memories dear. 
 Forget not the day, when thou sat'st on her knee. 
 
 And so sweetly she smiled, ere sorrow was near. 
 It was there, it was there she reposed her head. 
 
 When she breathed for her loved ones her dying 
 prayer, 
 Then deem, though her form in the cold earth be laid. 
 That her spirit still guardeth the Old Arm Chair. 
 
■H^ 
 
 A THANKSGIVING EDITORIAL. 
 
 243 
 
 A THANKSGIVING EDITORIAL. 
 
 If there be one heart which beats more warmly 
 in the human breast than another, it is that of the 
 brave American tar. Whether the many dan- 
 gers, which beset him on a perilous voyage, or 
 the sense of loneliness which steals over him, while 
 rocked upon the mountain wave, induce him 
 to cherish and lock up, with almost sacred care, his 
 affections and the better feelings of his nature, 
 keeping them untouched by the scenes of vice 
 and temptation of which he is so often a witness — 
 certain it is that the American sailor is more sen- 
 sitive to wrong, more grateful for the slightest 
 favors, and more keenly touched. by misfortune, 
 than almost any other individual in the world. 
 It may be that his adventurous life — teaching 
 him, as it does, to cling to his shipmates, as to his 
 little world, his all — strengthens his nobler and 
 kindlier feelinfrs, and warms them into livelier 
 action, than the more monotonous and peaceful life 
 of the landsman. As I was riding in the interior 
 in company with a friend, "xi few years since, on the 
 day before our annual 'J'hanksgiving, we observed 
 an individual, sitting by the way-side, with a tar- 
 
 ik~ 
 

 244 THE PLUME. 
 
 paulin in his hand, who was weeping like a child. 
 His story was soon told. He had been long ab- 
 sent on a distant voyage, and having but a day or 
 two previous arrived in port, he started immediate- 
 ly, on foot, for the home of his childhood, that he 
 might enjoy the fireside delights and pleasures of 
 our Thanksgiving Festival among his relatives and 
 friends. Upon his arrival at the endeared spot, 
 cradled among the Green Mountains, the light- 
 hearted tar, who was anticipating a few days of 
 unalloyed happiness with his kinsmen, to recom- 
 pense him, in no small degree, for his years of toil 
 and peril upon the ocean, he received the painful 
 and stunning intelligence that they had all died 
 during his absence at sea ! His parents, his sis- 
 ters — all were gone. Even the bright-eyed girl, 
 whom he had left in her youthful bloom — she to 
 whom he was betrothed, and who year after year had 
 anxiously watched for his return — slept beneath 
 the cold sod of the valley f He retraced his steps, 
 and when we met him on his way back to the city, 
 he was seated by the road-side, utterly overcome 
 by the magnitude of his misfortune and the poig- 
 nancy of his grief A feeling of loneliness had come 
 over the noble-hearted fellow, and touched a chord 
 in his bosom, which all the loneliness of the ocean, 
 in its most fearful power, had failed to reach. His 
 home desolate, the cherished of his heart and the 
 loved of his youth, the sturdy oak and the lily 
 
 •^ 
 
-•^ 
 
 A THANKSGIVING EDITORIAL. 245 
 
 which bloomed in its shade — gone, all gone for- 
 ever ! The sailor was shipwrecked on land, and 
 the bold heart of one, who had withstood the beat- 
 ing of the surge and the mountain wave, who had 
 braved the perils of the deep in the midnight storm, 
 without the trembling of a nerve or the blink of an 
 eye — had now lost sight of the polar star of his des- 
 tiny, and bitterly wept at the desolation which had 
 come upon him. Such a one has treasures within 
 his bosom above all price, treasures which are the 
 fruit of a noble nature alone, and which can be 
 found embedded in none other than an honest 
 heart. We endeavored to speak some words of 
 consolation and cheerfulness to the brokei;-spirited 
 tar, but he would not be comforted. ** At least," 
 said I, '* you will accompany us home, and pass 
 Thanksgiving with us. We will do all in our pow- 
 er to make your sojourn pleasant and agreeable. 
 You will surely not refuse us .'*" "No — no, I can- 
 not go with you. 1 am alone in the world, and have 
 no fireside now, and sisters and loved ones to gather 
 around it, to join in thanksgiving to God. But 
 you will remember me in your prayers, when you 
 assemble at the family table, and for your kindness 
 the last throb of the poor sailor's heart shall be for 
 you and for yours. God bless you !" My friend 
 having placed a small sum of money in the pedes- 
 trian's hand, he resumed his journey, while we 
 
 11^ 
 
 4- 
 
•4- 
 
 246 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 passed on, to partake, at our own happy firesides, of 
 the social and religious enjoyments which belong 
 to our New England Thanksgiving,* 
 
 * The little incident, which I have narrated in the text, is no fiction. 
 When originally published in a brief paragraph, it attracted considerable 
 attention, and gave rise to some fine verses from the pen of S. D. Patter- 
 son, Esq., at present editor of one of the literary journals in Philadel- 
 phia. But what gave me far more pleasure than this, was the circum- 
 stance, that the newspaper paragraph, in which I had embodied the inci- 
 dent, in its numerous wanderings caught the eye of the sailor himself, 
 who immediately published a note in one of the Boston papers, in which 
 he thus gracefully alludes to the matter. 
 
 " Perhaps it would be gratifying to the feelings of the gentleman, who 
 gave the brief sketch of the sailor shipwrecked on land, to know, that 
 the tar to whom he referred, though buffeted by the storms of the shore, 
 (which he found harder to contend with than those of the watery ele- 
 ment) until shipwrecked on the breakers of misfortune, has at last found 
 a harbor, and is safely anchored with a part of the fleet which he had left 
 cruising in happiness, and he would now return to the writer of the ar- 
 ticle referred to, a sailor's thanks for his kindness, shown not only in 
 words by which he endeavored to soothe the afflicted, but for nobly open- 
 ing bis purse to a stntnger; and his memory shall cease to hold its em- 
 pire, ere he forgets the shipwrecked sailor's friend." 
 
 I can sincerely say that I have rarely experiencet! mere true pleasure, 
 than when I heard of the safe anchorage of the gallant sailor in port, 
 and I pray that he may neither never be shipwrecked on the sea, nor 
 called upon again to witness that which it is harder even to endure — the 
 shipwreck of his hopes and happiness on the shore. 
 
 •*• 
 
•^ 
 
 A THANKSGIVn^G EDITORIAL. 247 
 
 Thanksgiving! There is no word that falls from 
 the lips, in moments of fervent devotion, or even 
 of thoughtless gaiety, which carries a sweeter 
 charm to the heart of a son or daughter of New 
 England than this. The associations which clus- 
 ter around it, the remembrances which it brings 
 up, the fire-side attachments which, it revives and 
 strengthens, the visions of domestic happiness, cen- 
 treing around that little world of the heart, home, 
 which it makes so palpable to the mind's eye, that 
 we almost seem to live the scenes over again — 
 and, above all, the feelings of gratitude which it 
 awakens — ^ are they not all of a character to hal- 
 low it and endear it to every descendant of the 
 pilgrims ? It is, indeed, the festival of the heart. 
 There are other days, conspicuous in the calendar, 
 the observance of which, as commemorating some 
 great event in our history, appeals to our patriot- 
 ism and national pride. But this is a festival of a 
 religious, rather than of a political or secular 
 character, and, as such, appeals directly to the bet- 
 ter feelings of our natures. 
 
 When the little band of exiles from their coun- 
 try and the endearments of home, after a long ex- 
 posure to the perils of the deep, reached our 
 inhospitable shores, their first act was to pour out 
 their hearts in gratitude and thanksgiving to God, 
 and annually after, when the harvest was gathered 
 in, they met with their wives and little ones to 
 
 ^ 
 
248 THE PLUME. I 
 
 commemorate His goodness and to supplicate His ^ 
 smiles upon the infant colony. The little handful 
 of wanderers, whom the Mayflower rocked upon 
 ^he ocean, and safely brought, under the guidance 
 of Providence, to the wintry coast of New England, 
 has become a great nation. The acorn has grown 
 into a sturdy oak, and the hearts of the children, as 
 they sit beneath its branches, and reflect upon the 
 sufferings and privations of those who reared it, 
 swell with gratitude to Him who held them in the 
 hollow of His hand, who blessed them in the 
 store-house and the field, and sending the warm 
 breeze and sunshine of heaven upon the little 
 germ which they planted, nursed it into the bud 
 and expanded the bud into the vigorous tree. They 
 annually go up to the House of God, to acknowl- 
 edge their dependence upon the Creator, and to 
 unite in thanksgiving for His blessings to them and 
 to their fathers. What spectacle more beautiful 
 than this? What festival, in any other country, 
 partakes of the sacred and religious character, 
 which belongs to that of our New England Thanks- 
 giving .'' Is there not, in its annual observance, a 
 pledge that the union of religion with good gov- 
 ernment, which the pilgrims deemed of such 
 vital importance to the prosperity of the infant col- 
 ony, and which by their practice they cemented — 
 will be preserved unbroken by their descendants, 
 while out political fabric endures ? 
 
-^ 
 
 A THANKSGIVING EDITORIAL. 249 
 
 I have. spoken of Thanksgiving as the Festival 
 of the Heart. It is so, and its lecurrence, more 
 than that of any other, awakens within it those 
 gentle affections, which, nurtured around the old 
 family hearth, impart so delightful a charm to the 
 pleasures of domestic life. If there be no place 
 like home, sweet home — and how beautifully true 
 it is — when is home sweeter or dearer than on 
 this day ? The heart then does not give utterance 
 to its gratitude alone. It seeks ' communion and 
 fellowship, in its thanksgiving, with those around 
 whom its tendrils have been entwined, and whom 
 the ties of kindred and affection have, in other 
 years, made the sharer, of its joys and its sorrows. 
 The members of the family circle, who, in the 
 course of life, have become separated from each 
 other, are brought together again, and meet once 
 more around the old fireside, to mingle their sym- 
 pathies and good wishes, and tell over the scenes 
 and joys of by-gone years. What can be more 
 delightful than these meetings at the old home- 
 stead ? We may miss from its accustomed place, 
 at the festive board, the form of some loved one, 
 whom death has stricken from the little circle — 
 the eye which beamed so sweet a welcome upon us 
 at every return of this anniversary, and the smile 
 which gladdened every heart. Yes, we miss them — 
 but the virtues and excellencies of the departed are 
 cherished and recounted on this day of family sym- 
 
 "^ 
 

 250 THE PLUME. 
 
 pathies and congratulations, with a purer and 
 more heart-felt satisfaction than ever. There 
 may be others who, having become wanderers from 
 the homestead, are unable to be present at the 
 annual family meeting. But, though absent in 
 body, they are present in spirit. The heart's 
 attachment to home, at all times strong, now be- 
 comes more active and vigorous than ever. Time 
 and distance rather strengthen than weaken it. 
 Each hurrying year, and each new remove from 
 the spot of his birth, brightens the chain which binds 
 the heart of the wanderer to it. The old familiar 
 faces — how they smile upon us, as on this day 
 our thoughts run back to the family circle which 
 we have left ! The sympathies and associations, 
 engendered within it, cannot be transferred to oth- 
 er places. We quit the old mansion in youth or 
 manhood, and form new associations which win up- 
 on our hearts and influence our destinies in life. 
 They are ever dear to us, and link themselves with 
 all our thoughts and feelings, but yet how unlike 
 those which rush to the mind at the mention of our 
 Thanksgiving Home ! The latter stand out by 
 themselves, ever green, ever young, ever active, 
 requiring but the sound of those talismanic words, 
 to bring them out in their brightest play and most 
 delightful expansion. The son goes forth from his 
 father's roof and forms new connexions in life. 
 Amid the active scenes which he encounters, and the 
 
 ♦^ 
 
A THANKSGIVING EDITORIAL. 251 
 
 struggles in which he mingles, to gain possession 
 of that splendid bauble, wealth, as it glistens be- 
 fore him and beckons him on — one star beams 
 ever upon his eye, sending its golden rays upon 
 his heart, and casting other lights into the shade. 
 It is the star of his home ! And the dauo-hter, too, 
 who leaves her parents and the loved ones who 
 have grown up with her beneath their wing — she 
 who clings to him who hath wooed and won her 
 virgin heart with his love — she goes forth to a 
 new home in a strange land. But at the mawic 
 sound of Thanksgiving — how she yearns ao^ain 
 to meet the pleasant and happy faces, which 
 were wont to welcome her in their midst with 
 their sunniest smiles ! Not the soft dalliance of 
 young love, in its brightest dreams or its tenderest 
 gushes — not the primrose path of wedded bliss, nor 
 the delights to which its new and sacred ties give 
 birth — can win her thoughts from the scenes of 
 her youth, or prevent theii wandering back to the 
 bright and sunny spots of her childhood. 
 
 Yes — Thanksgiving is peculiarly a Home Fes- 
 tival, and, as such, it is dearer to a son or daugh- 
 ter of New England, than any other of whatever 
 character in the wide world. Its annual return 
 is hailed with a pleasure and joy, which cannot be 
 described or imagined by one, who has never been 
 a participator in its fireside delights and its thou- 
 sand pleasant and holy associations. To the Lord 
 
 > 
 
 •^J* 
 
'^- 
 
 252 THE PLUME. 
 
 of Millions, who turns the poor child of misfortune 
 from his door, and to the laboring man who sweats 
 for daily bread for his little ones — to the aris- 
 tocratic mother, who proudly sits in her splendid 
 mansion, with her little ones at a distance, and to 
 the humble factory-girl who labors day and night for 
 that which will make her poor parents comfortable 
 and happy, and who counts the hours which are to 
 intervene between the present and that which shall 
 witness her departure to the old farmhouse — 
 Thanksgiving is one and the same — a day of de- 
 lightful anticipation, and, in its almost hallowed 
 pleasures, of more delightful realization. But, 
 perhaps I cannot better give utterance to my own 
 feelings in regard to this Home Festival, than 
 by a brief recital in unpretending verse. 
 
 THE NEAV ElVGIiANDER ABROAD AT THOUGHT 
 OF HIS THANKSGIVING HOME. 
 
 I love earth's bright and primrose paths, her lawns and 
 
 blooming trees, 
 The warblers in the summer woods, the music in the 
 
 breeze — 
 But dearer yet the happy hearth, the sounds that from it 
 
 come — 
 The voices to my childhood dear, the voices of my 
 
 HOME ! 
 
 •f 
 
4- 
 
 A THANKSGIVING EDITORIAL. 253 
 
 What pleasant dreams at night will come with their enchant- 
 ing hue — 
 
 Where stoop those angel forms to bless — we wake and wish 
 them true ; 
 
 But sweeter and more gentle ones do not in visions come, 
 
 Than they who smile and welcome us around the 
 
 HEARTH AT HOME. 
 
 How many happy faces flit before us in the crowd; 
 
 I catch their faintest whispers well, mid thousand voices 
 
 loud — 
 A tie still binds my heart to theirs, when far away I roam. 
 But oh ! I'm bound by dearer ties to those I love at home. 
 
 The weary frame may seek relief, in fairest climes of eaith, 
 But one is dearer than they all — the spot that gave us birth. 
 
 The voices to my heart so dear, I hear where'er I roam 
 
 How swells my bosom at the sound, the magic sound of 
 home ! 
 
 ) The beauty of Italia's skies may win upon the soul. 
 The sea in dread magnificence before the eye may roll — 
 But oh, while gazing on them all, a sweeter thought will come — 
 The beauty of the sky that bends, the stream 1 love at home. 
 
 And maidens, gay ard beautiful, on the sunny shores of 
 
 France — 
 And Spain's proud daughters may have seemed like visions of 
 
 romance — 
 But dearer yet New England's hills — her bright-eyed ones 
 
 more fair — 
 I see their well known forms arise — my own sweet home is 
 
 there ! 
 
 ^ 
 
254 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 The father sits beside the hearth, his child upon his knee — 
 And dearer yet than all the rest, my mother's smile 1 s ; 
 And sisters' forms, so gentle, kind, upon the fancy come — 
 Oh, where are they so dear to us as those we love at home ? 
 
 Oh ! tell me not of other climes, their maids with raven 
 
 carls — 
 Give me New England's mountains wild, her rosy-cheek'd, 
 
 dear girls. 
 And tell me not of those away, so fair, where'er I roam — 
 My own loved land is dearest far — my own Thanksgiv- 
 ing Home ! 
 
 Such are the emotions and feelings which 
 Thanksgiving awakens in the heart of a son or 
 daughter of New England. It is a day of Thanks- 
 giving to God and of pleasant communion with 
 kindred and with friends. It is a jubilee of the 
 heart, when its sentiments are kindled afresh, and 
 gather with renewed strength around the objects 
 of its love and its gratitude. Blessed as a people 
 and as individuals — prospered as members of the 
 little family where our infancy was nurtured, and 
 as members of the great family of man — let us 
 never be unmindful of the Author of our blessings; 
 but, year after year, on the recurrence of this glo- 
 rious old Pilgrim Festival, repair to the House of 
 God. Having there united in songs of Thanks- 
 giving and Praise to the Giver of all Good, let us 
 gather around the family board, mingle our sym- 
 
 ^- 
 
TO SYBIL. 255 
 
 pathies, our joys, and our sorrows with each other, 
 and kindle anew those feelings of love, affection 
 and gratitude, which are the sweetest charms of 
 domestic life, and which mark the day of our njeet- 
 ing together around the old fire-side, as the 
 
 THANKSGIVING OF THE HEART. 
 
 TO SYBIL. 
 
 Ask'st thou a verse ? What can I say 
 
 Betittin^ one so bright and gay ? 
 
 Ay, tell me, Lady, what shall be 
 
 The tribute of my muse to thee ? 
 
 Shall I recount thy graces rare, 
 
 And say thou art divinely fair — 
 
 That lilies with the rose entwine 
 
 To nestle in those cheeks of thine. 
 
 That Heaven's own stars together vie 
 
 To lend their lustre to thine eye. 
 
 And beam into its glances bright 
 
 Some of their own celestial light — 
 
 That blushes flutter in thy fkce, 
 
 Like rose-tints melting on a vase — 
 
 That, like two cherries on one stem. 
 
 When the bright dew hath moistened them. 
 
256 THE PLUME. 
 
 Are thy lips — that thy teeth are pearls, 
 Befitting only sweet-lipp'd girls, 
 Set in rich rubies — that thy words 
 Are musical as notes of birds — 
 Thine eye as glowing as the morn, 
 When its soft-pencilled light is born, 
 That the witching sweetness of thy smile 
 Would win a sinner from his guile. 
 And thy clustering ringlets grace 
 A Hebe's brow, a Juno's face, 
 That, buoyant as the light gazelle 
 Thy step, or Eve's before she fell, 
 Thou seem'st a wanderer from the skies, 
 A Peri strayed from Paradise ? 
 
 Shall thus I paint tliee ? Shall this be 
 The tribute of my muse to thee ? 
 Nay, Lady, I would rather pray 
 No cloud may ever dim thy way. 
 That life's gay flowers for thee may bloom, 
 From tinted urns breathe sweet perfume, 
 And, bright as sparkling dew-drops, be 
 The sky which bendeth over thee — 
 Thy charms — all beautiful thou art — 
 Be but reflections from thy heart. 
 That virtue, with her hand divine, 
 May rear thee as a heavenly vine, 
 And her celestial mantle fling 
 Around thee, in thy blossoming. 
 Bidding her shining graces be 
 The holy guardians of thee ! 
 
THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 257 
 
 That Love along- thy path may weave 
 
 All of enchantment it can give, 
 
 And its sweet vision, brig-htest dream, 
 
 Lady, be realized supreme. 
 
 Oh, when thy summer sands are run, 
 
 Thy life's unquiet mission done. 
 
 An angel soaring to the sky, 
 
 Be thou a blissful bride on high ! 
 
 THE ICE -KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 
 
 The first strain of the ^olian harp summoned 
 the Queen of the Spring to the earth, to decide 
 the contest between the rival monarchs, the Ice- 
 King and the King of the Thaw. Folding her 
 drapery of silver clouds ji^round her, she sailed 
 with the speed of the wind over hill and plain, in 
 search of a spot upon which to alight and resume 
 her empire below. As she was borne hither and 
 thither by the April breezes, looking down upon 
 the outstretched earth, just awakening from its 
 winter sleep, she descried a green spot upon the 
 
4- 
 
 258 THE PLUME. 
 
 margin of a beautiful stream, which lay, like a sil- 
 ver thread, flashing and sparkling in the sunlight. 
 Quick as thought she stood upon the river's brink 
 and laved her tresses in its dancing waters. A 
 giant elm stretched out its branches above her, 
 and as she gazed upwards to its naked limbs, the 
 little buds put forth, and where she trod, the 
 violet and daffodil sprang into life and beauty. 
 Plucking from the turf, at the foot of the old elm, 
 a wild flower which had just peeped from the sod, 
 and opened its purple leaves to the sun, she held it 
 aloft in her hand. *' This," said she, '* be the prize 
 of the successful monarch ! It shall wither on the 
 brow of the Ice-King, or bloom upon that of his 
 rival of the Thaw !" 
 
 On came the rival monarchs, and warm was the 
 struggle between them for dominion over the land 
 and the sea. For six long months had the Thaw- 
 King been a prisoner of the Ice-King, bound hand 
 and foot in the cold manacles of his relentless 
 foe. And for six months longer might he have re- 
 mained in chains, had not a straggling sunbeam 
 from the crown of the Thaw-King, darted through 
 the wall of his prison house, and whispered him of 
 release. Another and yet another golden ray stole 
 in, warmed the heart of the royal prisoner and il- 
 lumined the walls of his dungeon. Quick as light, 
 his manacles snapped asunder and dissolved. 
 The thick walls of his prison crumbled and melted 
 
 •*• 
 
■^ 
 
 \ 
 
 THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 259 
 
 away into thin transparencies, rich and beautiful as 
 the tints of the rainbow. Away — away sped the 
 Thaw-King on the pinions of the sweet south-west, 
 as gay and blithsome as a bird, at his escape from 
 the dominions of the Ice-King. He alighted on 
 the margin of the beautiful stream, where the 
 Queen of the Spring, enthroned beneath the elm, 
 held aloft the shrinking violet as the prize for the 
 conqueror. He was about bidding its half impris- 
 oned waters to throw off their fetters and leap for 
 joy, when he felt the cold breath of the Ice-King, 
 who had left his palace upon the mountain-top to 
 pursue and recapture the flying prisoner. On — 
 on canje the Ice-King, brandishing his glittering 
 sceptre and preparing to bind the King of the 
 Thaw in more enduring chains. And now grew 
 fiercer the struggle for mastery between the mighty 
 potentates. The Ice-Monarch, with a glittering 
 tiara upon his brow, darted his sharp arrows at 
 his adversary, and stationed his forces beneath 
 every blade of grass, every twig, and beneath the 
 eaves of every roof around. Not a shrub was 
 there, nor a tree, nor a bush, nor a hedge which 
 did not bristle with the burnished armor and pointed 
 weapons of the Ice-King's warriors. Thick 
 and fast sped their arrows about the Thaw- 
 King, but they became pointless ere they struck 
 him. Manfully and well did he battle it to the 
 last. Gathering his dazzling and flowing robes 
 
 -^ 
 
260 THE PLUME. 
 
 around him and with his quiver of sunbeams at his 
 back, he marched to the encounter, and darted his 
 arrows of flame ao^ainst the helmet of his shivering 
 and retreating adversary. And, lo I the magical 
 change ! The bright sceptre of the Ice-King melt- 
 ed in his grasp, his shield shivered and fell, his 
 crown broke into a thousand fragments, and his 
 armor rattled like hail-stones upon the ground. 
 Stripped of the insignia of royalty, he retreated 
 with his warriors to a distance upon the pinnacle 
 of a snow-crowned rock, and bade defiance to the 
 Kino; of the Thaw. Then, raising his bugle to his 
 lips, he sounded a blast, to which came a cheerful 
 and merry response from the King of the Thaw. 
 
 THE ROYAIi DUET. 
 
 Ice-King. 
 Tho Ice King 13 come with his chilly breath, 
 
 And he winds his horn over hill and dale, 
 Closing each beautiful thing in death. 
 
 And hushing the note of the Autumn gale. 
 Ills icy sceptre he rears in the woods, 
 
 And blight it glistens o'er mountain and plain — 
 
 Thaw-King. 
 
 But, ah, ha ! it will fall and the solitudes 
 
 In their green robes will smile, will smile again ! 
 Ah, yes ! and again the sweet eglantine 
 
THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 261 
 
 With its blushing garlands will clasp the trees, 
 The oriole plucking his breast be seen, 
 
 As his feathers of gold sail down the breeze. 
 
 Ice King. 
 
 O, the Ice-King locks up the merry rills, 
 And the brooks which danced on their joyous way, 
 
 Leaping so gladly from a thousand hills — 
 How he dashes aside their silver spray ! 
 
 The light shrub and furze that fringed their brink. 
 Have withered away and sealed is the wave — 
 
 Thaw-Ktivg. 
 
 Where the plover and wild-deer came to drink, 
 But, ah, ha ! they will rise from their icy grave, 
 
 And again, again will the lily's bell 
 
 Bloom on the lawn and from their wintry sleep 
 
 The delicate furze and shrub, by the spell 
 Of Spring, into a joyous life will leap ! 
 
 Ice-King. 
 
 The Ice King hath hushed the hymn and the sorg 
 Of the birds which sang from the old elm tree. 
 
 And no more is heard tht:re all the day long 
 The music that burst forth so merrily. 
 
 Ha, ha I he is gone ! The Ice King's wail 
 
 Hath driven him away from wood and plain — 
 
•#• 
 
 262 THE PLUME. 
 
 Thaw-King. 
 But he knows the sound of the vernal gale, 
 
 And soon he will come^ he will come again. 
 All crownleas the Ice-King ! In the meadows green 
 
 Soon boblink will sing, and hum the wild-bee — 
 Twitter the swallow the barn out and in, 
 
 And the yellow bird hop on the willow tree. 
 Ah, ha, soon again will the beautiful flowers 
 
 O'er hill and o'er plain bright peeping be seen. 
 And earth, as the spring-harp sounds through her bowers. 
 
 Will dolfher white robe for a mantle of green. 
 
 Farther and farther retreated the Ice-King, as 
 he sounded his retreat, until he drew up his war- 
 riors within his mountain fortress. Dimmer and 
 dimmer became their forms to the eye of the King 
 of the Thaw, as his last notes, niingling with the 
 soft music of the ^olian harp, died away in the 
 distance. Then again and for the last time the 
 Ice-King placed his bugle to his skeleton lips, and 
 sounding one shrill and piercing blast, announced 
 his empire at an end. Fainter and fainter came 
 its notes to the ear of the Thaw-King. Ere their 
 last cadence had died away upon the vernal air, the 
 Ice-King and his warriors, stricken by a sunbeam, 
 had died with it, and from that moment the dominion 
 of the King of the Thaw was undisputed and su- 
 preme. 
 
THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 263 
 
 The Queen of the Spring stepped from her vel- 
 vet throne and planted a violet upon the brow of 
 the King of the Thaw ! 
 
 "This be thine 1" said she, *' Let it bloom up- 
 on every hill-side, in every valley, and by every 
 stream whose fetters you have broken, whose em- 
 pire you have won, and whose glad music shall 
 welcome you on." 
 
 Light as the gossamer, the Queen of the Spring 
 folded her robes around her blushinjr form, and 
 floated aloft into the mild regions of the upper 
 sky. 
 
 The King of the Thaw stood on the margin of 
 the beautiful stream, and, as he raised his sceptre 
 aloft, the waters broke from their confinement, 
 and rushed over rock and waterfall, dashing and 
 foaming in their wild career. Springing upon an 
 ice throne, he floated down the river — on and on 
 — till, arrived at a green strip of land jutting into 
 the stream, he stepped ashore, and his throne 
 sunk into its depths and was no more. Like a 
 fawn he dashed over the fields and through the 
 forests. The spring birds greeted him, as he drew 
 near their coverts, with their sweetest songs. The 
 grass started into life, as if by magic, and put on its 
 brif<-htest verdure, to welcome him onward. The 
 withered shrubs burst forth into loveliness and 
 beauty, as he approached, and under the enchant- 
 
 ■<^ 
 
264 THE PLUME. 
 
 ment of his breath, the trees arrayed themselves 
 in their coronals of leaves and fragrant blossoms. 
 The daisy and lily bloomed in his track, and the 
 fountains on the hill-side gushed up, where he 
 passed, and went on their way, laughing and sing- 
 ing and babbling the praise of the Thaw-King. 
 Every living thing, after months of suspended 
 animation, resumed its wonted activity and energy. 
 The perpetual song of Nature, reverberating from 
 hill and dale and from stream to stream, was — re- 
 sume, KEsuME, RESUME ! And lo ! how sudden and 
 magical the general resumption, as the King of 
 the Thaw gave out the vivifying word. May 
 resumed her velvet "sandal shoon," her green 
 slippers and her gorgeous drapery of blushing 
 flowers. Again she went forth with her step of 
 pride, her mien of surpassing loveliness and beau- 
 ty, walking abroad like a Queen with her lilied 
 scarf and her blossoming wreath. The streams 
 and brooks resume their merry dance and their 
 orlad music — the birds their old familiar sonors 
 and their gay plumage. The swallow resumes his 
 twittering, the bee his hum, the flower, which he 
 sips, its crimson hue and its fragrance, and the at- 
 mosphere its genial warmth and balmy influences, 
 for joy that the Thaw-King is come ! 
 
 Hark ! in what a merry concert the birds and 
 livino- things mingle their voices, as they feel the 
 warm breath of the King of the Thaw, as he passes 
 
THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 265 
 
 their coverts and hiding-places. Their unwritten 
 music is heard from the air and among the reeds 
 of every dancing stream. There sits an old bull- 
 frog upon the margin of a brook, with one leg in 
 the water by way of a cooler. How he thrums 
 away upon that bass-viol of his ! 
 
 ThUNG ! THUNG ! THONG ! THUNG ! THONG ! ; 
 POUT ! 
 
 And that little frogess opposite plays the treble 
 to a charm, without scarcely opening her mouth. 
 Listen ! 
 
 Te-WEET ! TE-WEET ! HIKR-IRR-RR ! HlRR-IRR- 
 
 RR ! Te-weet ! Gosu ! 
 
 Down she dashes into the water — her grent 
 toe awfully mangled by a stone from some truan^ 
 boy. 
 
 Then, that green-eyed monster — the old lender 
 of the orchestra, dressed in yellow breeches, and 
 a white sash around him — hear him tune his viol ! 
 
 Paddy got-droonk ! Paddy got-droonk ! got- 
 
 DROONK OONK UNK ! GoSH ! SkY ! 
 
 And down he goes to wet his whistle and pre- 
 pare for a new concert. 
 
 Ha ! if there is not our old pet, Robert Lincoln 
 Esq, alighting on the top of the very apple-tree 
 where I have ^een him for a dozen years. Ah ' 
 
 23 
 
266 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 '^ 
 
 you "feathered voluptuary" — you dandy at noon 
 and alderman at night — welcome, old fellow ! — 
 Wearing the same black swallow-tail, the same 
 yellow vest and airy tights ! By our lady, but he 
 is a spruce little gentleman, and, with his gaudy 
 epaulettes, must be the chief musician in the 
 winged regiment. Hear him ! Hear him ! 
 
 BoBLTNK ! BOBLINK ! STINGY ! STINGY ! Go-AND- 
 
 SEE Miss Philesy — Philesy. Oorioo ! Bobunk ! 
 
 TOODELEE ! SWEET ! SWEET ! PhILESY ! She'lL 
 
 DIE SOON ! Quick ! Sneeziominee ! 
 
 Pshaw ! Pshaw ! chuck ! trills the thrasher. 
 MiEU ! MiEu ! MiEu ! squeaks the cat-bird. 
 
 Whippoorwill ! ^vhip ! who-whip ! who whip 
 POOR Will ? begins another in a melancholy 
 voice. 
 
 Katy did ! Kate, Katy did. Katy did ! 
 breathes an insect. 
 
 I'll come and see, I will, sings the yellow bird. 
 
 OoRIOO ! ToODELEE ! BOBLINK ! LINK ! SkiES 
 
 bright, d'ye SEE. Spring's here ! hitch-sky ! 
 Been on a spree ! Oorioo ! Toodelee ! sweet ! 
 sweet ! whiskee ! Toodylink ! sweet ! sweet ! 
 And so sing they all their unwritten music, with- 
 out a discordant note, unless perhaps from some 
 hoarse, unsoaked bull-frog, who has caught a 
 wheezing cold from lying too long upon the damp 
 ground. And see that lean mare endeavoring to 
 
 hJs- 
 
•^ 
 
 THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 267 
 
 join in the general chorus, shaking her sides and 
 giving three or four salutatory hors^-laughs in 
 honor of the advent of the Boblink and the glorious 
 King of the Thaw ! 
 
 Boblink ! Boblink ! Oorioo ! — 
 
 There he goes again with his joUj music ! Stay 
 — voluptuous mad-cap ! Let me give thee a 
 parting song, ere I leave thee, and thou seekest 
 the rice fields of the South. I will take down thy 
 words, in short hand, as I listen to thee, and defy the 
 most critical composer, to say that they are not 
 the exact notes which thou art warbling at this 
 moment. Stay ! Bob ! — Ay, I have it ! 
 
 THE BOBIilKK. 
 
 Oh merry and gay is the Boblink's lay, 
 
 When he waibleih in the Spring, 
 And at early morn, o'er the field and lawn, 
 With his notes so clear and so full of cheer. 
 He poiseth upon his wing. 
 
 Song. Oorioo, boblink ! Sing, sing, cheer! cheer ! 
 Sweet, sweet and bright the earth and sky ! 
 Toodelee ! boblink ! wink, wink, wink ! 
 Philesy ! You're ail in my eye ! 
 
268 THE PLUME. 
 
 And hrs jovial tune in the rosy June, 
 
 How blithe he singeth away — 
 As with gaudy sash, liUe a golden flash. 
 And his new black coat, he around doth strut. 
 When he lights on the fragrant hay. 
 
 Song. Oorioo, boblink ! sing ! sing ! cheer ! cheer ! 
 Sweet is the hay, sweet, sweet to me ! ' 
 Skies blight ! but look there I Philesy ! 
 Clear ! clear ! the cat steals up the tree ! 
 
 Oh, he's a merry bird, when his laugh is heard 
 
 In the corn and waving rye ; 
 He escheweth the woods where the night-owl broods. 
 But laugheth away in the broad bright day, 
 
 Till his music fills the sky. 
 
 Song. Boblink, sing, sing, sweet Philesy ! 
 
 Skies bright and now's the time, d'ye see ! 
 Toodeloo, what a witch, swpet, sweet ! 
 Boblink — link ! link yourself to me J 
 
 Oh, he's merry and queer and charming to hear, 
 
 When he lights among the reeds. 
 And strutteth so gay as he flutters away. 
 And the notes rolleih out from his tiny throat. 
 As up and sidelong he speed he speeds. 
 
 Song. Oorioo '. Toodelee I boblink ! 
 
THE ICE-KING AND THE KING OF THE THAW. 269 
 
 ■ Boblink, come. Philesy sweet, d'ye hear ! 
 Sing ! sing ! but hark ! fly, fly! Q,uick ! quick ! 
 See I where lurketh the fowler near ! 
 
 Bob Lincoln so gay, ever chatter away, 
 
 For I love thy comic look ! 
 And in May or in June, I welcome thy tune. 
 As thou gaily doth sing and sport on thy -wing. 
 
 O'er the field and reedy brook. 
 
 Song. Toodelee, oh, cheerily sing ! 
 
 Thou hasi for thy mate sweet Philesy. 
 ** Cheer, cheer, skies bright, boblink, link, link " 
 She siaseth and flies with thee. 
 
 Hail ! Hail to thee ! potent King of the Thaw ! 
 May flowers bloom before thee, as thou passest, 
 and health, vigor, life and energy follow in thy 
 track over the land and the sea ! 
 
 23* 
 
270 THE PLUME. 
 
 TO ONE AVnO CANNOT UNDERSTAND IT. 
 
 Eclipsed ? — And is it so, thy mental light ? 
 
 And can no sovereign art its flame re-lume ? 
 Dispel the darkness which, like brooding night, 
 
 O'erspread thy hopes, as they began to bloom ? 
 
 Oh I playmate of my boyhood's once-loved home ! 
 
 Thou can'st not know what anguish fills my heart I 
 What shadows o'er its day-dream visions come, 
 
 At thought of what thou wast — what now thou art. 
 
 Thy aims, thy hopes, thy favorite books were mine — 
 Loving what thou did'st love, our hearts were one ; 
 
 We walked together, and, my arm in thine. 
 Basked in the splendor of thy rising sun. 
 
 Thine intellect was of a noble mould. 
 
 Thy heart all love, its treasures freely given, 
 
 (Far richer than Golconda's mines of gold !) 
 The humblest e'en who breathes the air of heaven. 
 
 Thy pen was gifted with a wondrous skill — 
 Bright Eloquence had steeped it in her dews, 
 
 And thy mind's coinage, glowing at thy will. 
 Seemed the creation of a lofty Muse. 
 
TO ONE WHO CANNOT UNDERSTAND IT. 271 
 
 j Thou did'st preach Christ, and, with a Christian's soul, 
 
 Give to the world the Gospel's truths sublime, 
 Lifting men's thoughts beyond earth's narrow goal, 
 ; Far upward to Eternity from Time. 
 
 \ 
 
 \ Living, yet dead, unknowing, not unknown ! 
 
 \ I cannot meet thee in thy dismal cell, 
 
 ', And mark thy mind in ruins, which my own 
 
 ; Calls back to hours when all with thee was well. 
 
 Oh ! spare me this ! I would not see thy wreck — 
 Thy reason shattered on her lordly throne. 
 
 Like some brave bark, on whose once glorious deck 
 Lies the tall mast, her spars and rudder gone. 
 
 My poor, heart-broken one ! Thou art the same 
 ; To me as erst. I cannot thee forget ! 
 
 \ Thou hast my love, my prayers, my humble name — 
 
 Should all forsake, thou art my brother yet ! 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Oh, what is woman in this world, 
 But a sweet angel from on high, 
 
 Who, with her glorious pinions furl'd, 
 Hovers around us, ever nigh ? 
 
 •^ 
 
272 THE PLUME. 
 
 What though, while with us, she appears 
 In sunshine or the cloud it brings ? 
 
 Her ministry of smiles and tears 
 Is but the fanning of her wings. 
 
 Her tones celestial are the voice. 
 Which God to erring man has given, 
 
 To bless him and to make his choice 
 The bliss of her own home, in heaven. 
 
 COME, BROTHERS, COME! 
 
 Come, brothers, come ! The day is gone ; 
 
 Eve's shadows darken o'er us ; 
 But Friendship's work is yet undone. 
 
 Bright burns her torch before us. 
 Come, brothers, come ! How dear the night ! 
 
 No clouds around us gather ; 
 Where Love's pure flame is glowing bright, 
 
 Oh, all is pleasant weather. 
 
 Come, brothers, come ! 
 
 Come, brothers, come ! When hearts are one, 
 
 The hours are ever dearest : 
 For every act of goodness done 
 
 To heaven then brings us nearest! 
 
A GLIMPSE OF THE SWEET-NAMED. 273 
 
 Corne, brothers, come ! Love mounts his throne ; 
 
 The heart is ever ligfhtest, 
 When he pats all its jewels on, 
 
 And Charity's the brightest. 
 
 Come, brothers, come ! 
 
 Come, brothers, come ! The clay is past, 
 
 Nijjht's shadows gather round us ; 
 Truth, Love, and Friendship, strong and fast, 
 
 In brotherhood have bound us. 
 Come brothers, come ! The lodge-room brings 
 
 Its holy rites before us ; 
 Truth woos us to her chrystal springs, 
 
 Heaven's light is streaming o'er us ! 
 Come, brothers, corne ! * 
 
 A GLIMPSE OF THE S W EE T- N A M E D. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Oh, breathe her name softly, as Love sighs in his bower — 
 Though I heard it but oncis, yet how sweet to mine ear ; 
 
 And it played o'er my heart as the breeze o'er the tlower ; 
 Where its treasures it stole, it will still linger near. 
 
 * These words were written Or the Montezuma Lod^e of Odd Fel- 
 lows in Boston,as a suhstitute for tiiose usuhIIv sung at the openin'; of the 
 meetings,Hnd have been very generally adopted by ether Lodges in the city. 
 
 -^ 
 
4^- 
 
 274 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 I saw her once only, I but once heard her name — 
 Yet she floats like an angel around and above me ; 
 
 Oh, her heart I would prize more then visions of Fame, 
 Had I such an angel to watch o'er and love me. 
 
 Oh, breathe her name softly, as the lute breathes of love, 
 The Graces can paint me no creature more fair, 
 
 Than that her name conjures, nor the white turtle-dove, 
 As her song soothes the heart, wake more innocence 
 there. 
 
 That face so celestial — how can I forget it ? 
 
 That eye, mild and lustrous, so enchantingly bright ! 
 That lip like a cherry, when the dew-drop hath wet it ! 
 
 Sure the vision was that of an angel of light ! 
 
 That smile which like sunshine is ever there beaming ! 
 
 Those tresses from out which bewitchingly peeps 
 A glance so angelic, it seems but the gleaming 
 
 Of the love which her heart in its purity keeps ! 
 
 Then breathe her name softly ! And if ever again 
 That sweet vision I see, I will call it divine — 
 
 I will bless it as her's who, in joy or in pain. 
 
 Would give her own heart to share either with mine ! 
 
 •^ 
 
DITTO SEEN THROUGH GLASSES. 275 
 
 DITTO SEEN THROUGH GLASSES. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Oh, breathe her name hoarsely, for sure she is frightful — 
 Though I saw her but once, yet I took special care 
 
 To scan her more closely (how very delightful !j 
 
 And see what she's made of, from her shoes to her hair. 
 
 I saw her once only, I but once heard her name — 
 Then her tresses were false, (as I hope to be saved !) 
 
 While some hair of her own, prized like visions of Fame, 
 Grew just where my own does, when I go to be shaved. 
 
 Oh, take her oif quickly ! She tries to be graceful — 
 But what nature denies us no art can supply ; 
 
 The rouge lies so thickly (Good Lord ! what a face full !] 
 Her bloom might be bottled and so sold off for dye. 
 
 That face which so haunts me — how can I forget it ? 
 
 And that eye all but green with its lashes so grey — 
 That lip and that tooth, too, (what dentist did set it ?) 
 
 Sure the vision is that of — pray what shall I say ? 
 
 That bustle so big there, which swells up behind her ! 
 That foot elephantic, that hole in her stocking ! 
 
276 THK PLUME. 
 
 That voice like an owl's, when you happen to find her 
 At piano, guitar — oh, what is more shocking ! 
 
 Then take her off quickly ! And if ever again 
 Such a vision I see. I'll call myself stupid, 
 
 If I swear not 'tis her, who in joy or in pain, 
 
 A touch of the night-mare would give even Cupid. 
 
 Yes, breathe that name hoarsely, once so sweet to mine 
 
 ear 
 
 I recall what I sung when T thought her divine — 
 Her heart it can never ( — lucky, Julia, my dear, 
 
 I thought of my glasses — ) play the devil with mine ! 
 
 ASCUTNET. 
 
 I love \ipf>ti thy summit high. 
 
 Bald Hill I to mount in summer's hour. 
 When from between the mossy rncks 
 
 Peeps forth young Junv's first blushing flower. 
 The gnarled oaks like giants stand, 
 
 And stTf-tch their green pnlins high above, 
 As tbev would ffreel the swan-like clouds, 
 
 Like spu-its from their homes of love. 
 
 '^ 
 
 --4- 
 
ASCUTNEY. 277 
 
 How sweet to gaze abroad, and see 
 
 The lovely landscape stretching- far, 
 The verdant fields, the summer slopes, 
 
 And, like a diamond-set tiar. 
 The streamlets sparkle in the sun, 
 
 And leap along thy broad domain, 
 While Summer, in her gorgeous robes, 
 
 Her garland weaves on hill and plain. 
 
 But, wild, romantic Hill ! still more 
 
 I love to mount thy craggy side, 
 When Autumn, with his golden rod, 
 
 Is marching on with step of pride. 
 What bright, enchanting visions burst 
 
 In all their beauty on the eye, 
 As from thy summit far it roves 
 
 O'er brilliant stream and plain and sky. 
 
 The golden grain is nodding now 
 
 Upon the verdant field and hill, 
 The yellow sheaves are piled around. 
 
 Where toil the merry reapers still. 
 The purple grapes along the wall. 
 
 And up the gnarl'd and twisted tree 
 Hang gracefully, as folds the vine 
 
 Where hived and humm'd the summer bee. 
 
 And on the foliage up thy sides, 
 Sweet Hill ! what varied tints are seen — 
 
 The yellow birch, the maple red. 
 
 The pine forever fringed with green ! 
 24 
 
278 THE PLUME. 
 
 And blushing hues are lavished there, 
 As Autumn seeks thy silent wood, — 
 
 To spread his tinted glories forth, 
 And paint thy haunts of solitude. 
 
 And river, wild and beautiful! 
 
 Connecticut ! how bright thy stream. 
 As from this height I see thee glide, 
 
 Like some sweet vision in a dream. 
 Peace hovers o'er thy shor es, and fair 
 
 Thy smiling villages are seen — 
 Each with its church, its mansions white, 
 
 Its school-house with its plat of green. 
 
 And oft upon thy craggy height, 
 
 Wild Hill ! in summer's sultry hours 
 I'll mount, or yet while Autumn sports 
 
 His golden locks within thy bowers. 
 Thy bold, romantic scenes have touched 
 
 A solemn chord within my breast, 
 And turned my thoughts from thee, to Him 
 
 Who placed his signet on thy crest. 
 
 ^- 
 
•*■ 
 
 A VERY CLEVER FELLOW, BUT 279 
 
 A VERY CLEVER FELLOW, BUT 
 
 If there be one form of expression in our collo- 
 quial intercourse, that I detest more heartily than 
 another, it is that which stands at the head of this 
 chapter. It is a stab inflicted under the guise of 
 friendship. Just as the cup is raised to your lips, 
 it is dashed aside by that crabbed and insignificant 
 monosyllable — hut. The word has no particular 
 meaning attached to it — it signifies any thing, 
 every thing or nothing, as the case may be. Every 
 one forms his opinion of another's character either 
 from report or observation, and, as if the feeling were 
 implanted in his nature that perfect excellence in 
 this world is unattainable, and he were afraid, 
 when enquiry is made, to say any thing prejudi- 
 cial to his friend, he eases his conscience off with 
 this 6utt-end sort of a sentence, which sometimes 
 stuns and knocks down the hearer, as if he had 
 received a blow from a club. In a word, this ab- 
 rupt monosyllable is often thrust into one's ear 
 when he least expects it, and strikes him like a 
 clap of artificial thunder, 
 
 "Good morning, neighbor Stokes ! Well, our 
 friend Job, they say, has been quite lucky. He's 
 sold his land and made a cool thousand." 
 
 "Ah! well! who would have thought it .-^ — 
 
^^ 
 
 280 THE PLUME. 
 
 Neighbor Job is certainly one of the best men in 
 the world. He deserves to be lucky. Neighbor 
 Job knows which side his bread is buttered — in 
 short neighbor Job is " 
 
 "Is what ?" 
 
 " Neighbor Job 
 
 Neighbor Job is neighbor Job. You are as 
 smart as a steel-trap this morning, Mr. Stokes !" 
 
 " What I was going to say was, that neighbor 
 Job is a very clever fellow but — " 
 
 *' But what, Mr. Stokes !" 
 
 " Oh ! nothing in particular that I know of — 
 but—'' 
 
 *'But what, Mr. Stokes !" 
 
 ** Oh, you know people will have their opinion 
 of others. Neighbor Job is one of the very finest 
 fellows in the whole world, but — " 
 ." But what, neighbor Stokes ?" 
 
 <' But — but — but" — said he in a half hesitating 
 manner. Mr. Stokes, being followed up, was driv- 
 en into a corner. Having learned of neighbor 
 Job's good fortune that morning, he had spoken of 
 him to twenty or thirty individuals, always wind- 
 ing off his discourse with this but. He, also, often 
 accompanied his insinuations with a knowing wink 
 of the eye or nod of the head, and the consequence 
 was that many, not asking an explanation of his 
 but, began to think neighbor Job was a hard 
 drinker — a cheat — a pickpocket, or something 
 
A VERY CLEVER FELLOW, BUT -^ 2S1 \ 
 
 worse than either. Envy at Job's good fortune 
 was at the bottom of the whole matter. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Slop, they say Isabel Green is 
 going to be married. She will make a fine wife." 
 
 " Going to be married ! did you say ! do tell," 
 said Mrs. Slop, to be sure — she not having heard 
 the news before. 
 
 "Yes ! so they say ! She's a fine girl, Mrs. 
 Slop!" 
 
 " Oh yes ! Isabel is one of the finest girls I 
 know of — so pleasant and agreeable and good 
 natured ! She's a fine girl — but — " 
 
 " Well ! what fault have you to find with her 
 now, Mrs. Slop. Yes! indeed she is ! an admirable 
 girl!" 
 
 " The finest girl in the world, but — Oh ! she's 
 a grand girl — but — " — and Mrs. Slop nods and 
 winks. 
 
 " Any thing particular ? Do let me hear, Mrs. 
 Slop." 
 
 "Oh! no! nothing ?;er2/ particular — but — you 
 know it wont do to speak out always." 
 
 "I always speak out Mrs. Slop — I suppose 
 your but means Isabel is likely to be married be- 
 fore your daughter." 
 
 "Oh! how could you insinuate — I wouldn't 
 have you suppose that 1 think hard of Isabel. / 
 have'nt said a word to her prejudice. She is the 
 pride of the town, a little angel — but — " 
 
4- 
 
 282 THE PLUME. 
 
 ** Will you be good enough to speak out, Mrs. 
 Slop." 
 
 '* Well, I don't know any thing against Isabel, 
 but—'' 
 
 ** Oh Isabel goes to church and says her pray- 
 ers," said Mrs. Slop, ''but—'' 
 
 "Indeed!" 
 
 **Yes! and she goes around the village hunt- 
 ing up the poor and watching over the sick, but — " 
 *' We all know that." 
 
 " She is sweet-tempered too, and frugal. She 
 has paid all her earnings to support her parents,"^ 
 quoth Mrs. Dimple, " and is a jewel, but — " 
 
 " Any thing else in her praise .?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! God bless her, but — 
 
 Thus does this monosyllable work, when it has 
 something to set it in motion, and make it hum and 
 buzz about one's reputation. In the mouths of 
 certain particularly mischievous, and communica- 
 tive people, it is often made to mean something, 
 and frequently followed by an explanation, as the 
 ball is followed by the wadding from the canon's 
 mouth. An acquaintance of mine once wished to 
 make some familiar enquiries respecting a young 
 lady, whom he had seen but once. Happening to 
 meet with about a dozen different women, whom 
 he supposed to be acquainted with her, he address- 
 ed them some questions. "Oh, she was a splen- 
 did, captivating, kind-hearted, sweet-tempered, 
 
 ^ 
 
A VERY CLEVER FELLOW, BUT 283 
 
 accomplished, domestic creature hut /" " She 
 
 was perfection itself — hut.'''' Every one, to whom 
 he spake on the subject, gave her all the virtues 
 which a mortal could possess, but wound off with 
 this infernal little, dagger-like monosyllable. — 
 After a good deal of teazing, hut in one case meant 
 that Mrs. Stubbs had heard Mrs. Tod say that she 
 guessed from her appearance, that the young lady 
 laced. Horrible ! Another was quite positive 
 that she had heard Mrs. Buss say, that she thought 
 old widow Sly was once just going to say, that 
 Catharine must paint a little, as she could'nt have 
 such red cheeks unless she did. Dreadful I A 
 third — a very pious and devout lady — feared 
 that Catharine did not say her prayers, when she 
 went to bed So they went on with their annoy- 
 ing huts, till having made her out to be perfection 
 itself, they afterwards loaded her with every foible 
 known among the sex. My friend, however, not- 
 withstanding the huts of these respectable ladies, 
 married Miss Catharine, and if she is not perfec- 
 tion, it is because humanity caunot attain it. He 
 was more fortunate than another individual, who 
 was betrothed to a young lady, but, hearing so 
 many insinuations thrown out by spiteful people, 
 with their malicious huts, that, regarding her with 
 suspicion and distrust, he broke offthe engagement. 
 Is it not quite time that people — or rather the 
 gossip portion of them — put a curb upon their 
 
 ^^ 
 
 -^ 
 
! 284 THE PLUME. I 
 
 I tongues ? But is a very good word in its place, \ 
 
 i but a very clever word, a remarkably clever j 
 
 < word, but I 
 
 « 
 
 THE TEAZLE FAMILY. 
 
 Who has not heard of old John Teazle and his 
 family? They are all remarkable for the rever- 
 ence with which they adhere to what they call ) 
 "the good old-fashioned way." They are the | 
 best hearted people in the world and as old John / 
 would say, "have made out to scrape together a \ 
 little," but they are most doggedly opposed to all I 
 modern improvements. New fashions and inven- 
 tions are their abomination. Most of their neigh- 
 bors have given in to the spirit of the times, and 
 taken advantage of such suggestions, as would 
 enable them to turn two pence where formerly i 
 they turned but a single penny, but the Teazles 
 have held out against them all — keeping on in \ 
 the old way, and looking with a jealous eye at the \ 
 strides which improvement is making around them. | 
 They regard every movement of this kind, whether c 
 relating to agriculture, manufactures, or the arts, | 
 as a downright intrusion or some idle scheme which | 
 
f 
 
 •^^ 
 
 THE TEAZLE FAMILY. 
 
 285 
 
 is to enrich others and impoverish themselves. 
 Old John Teazle places more value upon his old 
 coat, made and fashioned some ten or fifteen years 
 ago, by an aunt Deborah Teazle, than upon all the 
 fine productions of American industry and ingenu- 
 ity put together. 
 
 " Neighbor Jones wants to buy some of our 
 land on the river to put up a factory. Talk about 
 their factories and such sort of things. Now, wife, 
 I like the good old fashioned hum of the spinning 
 wheel. It keeps the gals busy, it dont take such 
 an ocean of water, and was always such a favorite 
 of the Teazle family. I like the old way ! These 
 factories are all sizzle, sizzle, sizzle !" 
 
 "Lord, yes ! I don't know what is coming of 
 us all. We shan't get nowhere, bimby, work as 
 hard as we can — people imU get such strange no- 
 tions in their head. Why they are beginning to 
 make stockings with their new fangled machines ! 
 And then to talk of doctors — why, I'd give more 
 for a good pot of harb tea, than all the physicals 
 of the doctors. My grandmother never thought of 
 having a doctor till her death — and she, poor soul, 
 died before he got to her, so he did'nt do her any 
 good!" 
 
 Nothing could induce old Teazle to dispense 
 with that hairy appendage, his queue. It was a 
 relic of old times, and as precious in his eyes as 
 though it dangled continually before them, instead 
 
•f 
 
 286 THE PLUME. 
 
 of behind them in the rear of his head. And then 
 he felt so nice, he averred, as his wife tastefully 
 arranged it on vSunday morning with a piece of 
 black ribbon, which she had done for nearly forty 
 years. He would as soon part with his eye tooth, 
 as with the old razor, a sort of heir-loom in 
 the family, which he had used so long, that it 
 would shave on one side about as well as on 
 the other. He of course turned up his nose at 
 barbers, tailors and such people, as interfering 
 with " the good old ways." You might walk over 
 his grounds with him, and he would take delight 
 in directing your notice to the old stones, fences and 
 bushes which he had carefully kept from being 
 moved or altered in the least. 
 
 " You see what a good old fashioned look every 
 thif)g has. Neighbor Jones has been repairing 
 and building, taking down trees putting up a 
 white cottage with green blinds, and all that, but 
 I have let things stand as I found them, and 
 hope some how or other — though I donno — that 
 I'll be able to scrape together a little against a wet 
 day. They say neighbor Jones is rich — but 
 riches don't come from these improvements, as 
 they call them, depend upon it." 
 
 A railroad was projected through the village. 
 Now of all modern improvements, r.ail-roads were 
 regarded by all the Teazles as little better than 
 the inventions of the devil. 
 
THE TEAZLE FAMILY. 287 
 
 ** Now, wife, I do hate these rail road contri- 
 vances. Give me the good old fashioned way of 
 going to market with the old mare, just as my fa- 
 ther did. Besides this rail road will pass right 
 
 through my land " 
 
 •* Lord !" quoth Hannah Teazle, lifting up her 
 glasses, and sighing from the bottom of her heart. 
 " Right through our land ! Marcy on us ! What 
 are we coming to !" 
 
 " Yes, neighbor Jones says, right through our 
 land — so that I can't drive the cattle to water. 
 What would the old Teazles have said to rail 
 roads! Should'nt wonder if they started out of 
 their graves, if they ever hear the injin when it 
 come across our ground. Their bones'Il ache 
 some." 
 
 That the rail road should pass through his land 
 and prevent his driving his cattle to the brook, 
 was with old John Teazle an unanswerable argu- 
 ment against it. A hint from neighbor Jones that 
 it would double the value of his £:round was too 
 ridiculous for a moment's consideration. Double 
 the price of his land by taking away half of it ! 
 
 "Why, yes," said old Hannah, " they did'nt 
 use to do so in old times when I was a o-al. There's 
 cousin Thompson says she would'nt for the five 
 nundred silver dollars which she has got in her 
 old stockings, near a bushel full too, have the 
 rail road pass through their farm — and who 
 
288 THE PLUME. 
 
 knows better than cousin Thompson, I'd like to 
 know?" 
 
 "This all comes of cramming our children so 
 full ofschool larning. They get flighty notions in- 
 to their heads, which will yet turn the world upside 
 down. I never went to school but two winters 
 myself — and now our gals must be going all the 
 time!" 
 
 "And here's our Sal must have her comb, when 
 I used to tie up my hair. And would you believe 
 it, she wanted a silk gown the other day — Lord ! 
 what would my mother have said, if I had asked 
 her for a silk gown I And she says when the rail 
 road gets here, it will bring all Boston close to us, 
 and she can go a shopping before breakfast in the 
 morning — she forgets she's a Teazle. A Teazle 
 in a silk gown ! Boston coming to our very doors 
 and on a rail road too ! Who ever thought of 
 such a thing! And then the saucy jade says how 
 Jim Clipper will come a courting on a rail road ! 
 Ha ! ha! ha ! Courting on a rail road ! I heerd, 
 when I was a gal, of Si Barker and his sweet heart 
 courting on a mare once — but courting* on a 
 rail road ! he ! he ! he !" And the old woman laug-h- 
 ed till her sides shook, and she let fall her snufF 
 box. Then she sneezed. Yes how she did sneeze ! 
 
 "Why, wife! this is no laughing matter! It 
 aint to be sneezed at. These improvements are 
 raising the old boy with us. Every body is turning 
 
 i 
 
 4- 
 
4- 
 
 THE TEAZLE FAMILY. 289 
 
 from the good old way. They don't walk, 
 dress, and live now as they used to do in old 
 times. These inventions make folks frisky, and 
 deviate about. They'll want a rail road from their 
 plates to their mouths — because they can't eat 
 fast enough, I am determined to stand up for old 
 ways. Yes, the good old ways !" 
 
 " Guess how people won't want rail roads to 
 make 'em drink faster," said the old lady, look- 
 ing round after her spectacles, which she found, as 
 she cast her eyes at the glass, astride of her nose, 
 " but it does consarn me so to see the rising gen- 
 eration so taken with new whims. Our boys are 
 forgetting the humspun ways of their fathers, and 
 our gals are eenamost ashamed to be in their bom- 
 bazines and linsey woolseys, but are all for silks 
 and rings, and such nickery nackery, while their 
 heads are filled with factories, railroads and sich in- 
 ventions! Oh ! how flighty things are in my day !" 
 
 Old Teazle and wife, though the best natured 
 people in the world, had rather peculiar notions. 
 They were industrious enough, plodding from 
 morning to night, but had a mortal aversion to 
 adopt anything which looked like an innovation upon 
 the old fashioned ways of the Teazle family. Im- 
 provements, that were going on around, had no 
 effect upon them. The younger members of the 
 family had imbibed many of the " flighty notions " 
 of the day, and introduced some little changes in 
 
 25 
 
 •^ 
 
290 THE PLUME. 
 
 their intercourse with the world; and they will 
 no doubt in good time give the old homestead a 
 very different appearance both within and without 
 from its present one, and so manage that the rail 
 road may pass over their ground, and the cattle 
 be driven to the brook into the bargain. 
 
 TEMPERANCE HYMN. 
 
 [Sung at a Fourth of July Celebration.] 
 
 When war's loud tocsin from the sea 
 
 Along our peaceful vallies broke, 
 Our sires, resolving to be free, 
 
 Threw off the tyrant's galling yoke. 
 
 No cannon's peal, no stirring drum, 
 
 Or tread of armies now proclaims 
 From hill to vale — " They come ! They come ! 
 
 To wrap your pleasant home in flames." 
 
 No warlike sound. But through the land 
 
 Marches a desolating foe. 
 And millions rise, who, hand in hand, 
 
 Resolve to lay the Spoiler low. 
 
 See ! like the old arch-fiend who stole 
 The bloom from Eden's virgin bower. 
 
 The Tempter with ensnaring bowl. 
 Lures the young victim in his power. 
 
 •f 
 
TEMPERANCE HYMN. 291 
 
 Though thinned his ranks and from his side 
 
 In troops deserters rush away — 
 With bribes and lures extended wide 
 
 He pants to seize upon his prey. 
 
 The father who was lost and won, 
 
 The mother in her deep despair, 
 Their children, that the work be done, 
 
 Bend to the earth in fervent prayer. 
 
 Press on ! but with no weary pace 
 
 No fainting heart — they must not be ! 
 
 Expel the Tempter from his place 
 And set each struggling captive free. 
 
 Resolve I Resolve, like those of old, 
 
 To sign the chart which makes you free ; 
 
 With iNDEPEMDENCE truo and bold, 
 Assert you precious liberty ! 
 
 Maintain it in the hottest strife ! 
 
 Defend it as you prize your name ! 
 Your monument shall be your life. 
 
 Last of the Signers be your fame ! 
 
292 
 
 THE PLUME. 
 
 CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Did ye not hear it ? No, 'twas hut the wind 
 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street — 
 
 But hark, that heavy sound breaks in once more; 
 
 Arm ! arm ! it is — it is the cannon's opening roar " — Byron. 
 
 " He who fights and runs away, 
 May live to fight another day." 
 
 " Now let us sing, long live the King, 
 
 And Gilpin long live he, 
 And when he next doth ride abroad, 
 
 May I be there to see." — Cowper. 
 
 Sweet Muse of History! Deign thou to hover, 
 with thy purple pinions, over thy worshipper, as 
 he attempts to portray the terrible conflict, on 
 the morning of the ever memorable seventeenth, 
 " which tried men's soles! ^' 0^.^he night preced- 
 ing, Darkness came down from her chamber, and 
 folding around her her star-gemmed robes, threw 
 herself over the whole earth. The stars marched 
 with regal splendor to their thrones on high. The 
 zephyrs played alike over honeysuckles and barn- 
 yards — beds of onions and beds of violets, wafting 
 their precious odors to the nasal promontory. Men 
 and women went to bed — hens to roost, and the 
 
CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 293 
 
 beautiful chanticleer but if I continue in 
 
 this stately strain, I shall be unable to hold out. 
 Let me then descend from romance to sober his- 
 tory. 
 
 Every body knows, or may know, that a good 
 many cannons, captured, I believe, in the old French 
 war, by some means or other got left in different 
 towns up and down the two banks of the Connecti- 
 cut. Sometimes they have been borrowed by one 
 town of another, and remained so long in the bor- 
 rower's possession, that it at last claimed them as 
 its own property and refused to deliver them up. 
 In this way these cannons have been bones of con- 
 tention between citizens of different places, and 
 as a little local pride infuses itself into the dispute, 
 the contest sometimes becomes warm. Some of 
 the people of my old editorial home sent to Ac- 
 worth to borrow a cannon to be used on the glo- 
 rious Fourth. It came, and was retained some 
 days, and placed for safety in the cellar of one of 
 the hotels. It seems that this piece of artillery 
 was claimed by Walpole, and some of the patriotic 
 spirits of that town, hearing that it was in the 
 hands of the Claremontese, thought it a capital 
 opportunity to secure it, and " come it" over Ac- 
 worth, Accordingly, one morning, say at about 
 twelve or one o'clock, some fifty individuals stole 
 \ into the village and made "full chisel" for the 
 > cellar door of the hotel aforesaid. At it they went 
 
 \ 25* 
 
294 THE PLUME. 
 
 *' hammer and tongs," marching in solid pha- 
 lanx, plump up against the door which stood between 
 them and the old roarer within. Now they bring 
 their huge paws, with the weight of a thunderbolt, 
 against the triple oak which in turn bids defiance 
 to their blows. Now they grit their teeth, and 
 sweat and pufF like porpoises. A part try another 
 door, but it is as doggedly immoveable as the other. 
 One of the company, stepping out of the ranks be- 
 fore the cellar door, steals to a bed-room window, 
 and, as there seems no prospect of any cannonad- 
 ing, commences a serenading. No sound — no 
 opening of the window — no nothing. He taps at 
 the glass — he lifts it, and whispers soft words into 
 the ears of the fair sleeper — now wide awake — 
 and tries to persuade her to turn traitoress — be- 
 come a sort of Benedict Arnold, and deliver up 
 the keys of the fortress. She puts her thumb to 
 the tip of her nose and twirls her fingers with a 
 knowing wink — " You don't come it!" Upon the 
 ponderous door they commence another furious 
 onset. ''The combat deepeits! on ye brave!" to 
 the cannon's mouth! But — (an awful pause!) — a 
 four inch oak plank is between them and that 
 mouth — a protection, by the way, that many a 
 poor devil, on a more extensive field of glory, has 
 wished between him and that little death-dealing 
 machine. I recollect that some years ago, in j 
 the little City of Hull, where there were but i 
 
CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 295 
 
 three persons to do military duty — one being cap- 
 tain, one sergeant and one private — the poor 
 fellow, to whose hard lot it fell to shoulder his gun, 
 and be marched up and down the streets between 
 his two officers — said " he could go through all 
 the manoeuvres and evolutions but one — but he'd 
 be d if he could form a square." So our he- 
 roes could go through all the various evolutions 
 requisite except marching single-file through that 
 cellar door. The officers called to them as the 
 commanding officer at Bridgewater did upon Mil- 
 ler — "Can you take that battery?" "I'll try, 
 sir," was the response of every mother's son, as 
 he tugged away and sweat like a sponge. But 
 it was of no avail. In other respects, they were 
 all second Millers. The contest thickens — on! 
 on they rush, and meet — the men and the door — 
 as the wave meets the ocean rock. Clubs and 
 curses fly — feet kick — fists shake- — noses blow 
 
 But the historian of this terrible battle must 
 
 leave the phalanx " putting the licks" into the 
 door, and step into the inside of the house. The 
 landlord, being sound asleep at the first approach 
 of the invaders, had a dream, and lo ! it seemed as 
 if an army with banners were marching into his 
 house — though not without knocking — and about 
 to take possession of his castle, and perhaps make 
 off with the " hard cider" of one kind and another 
 in his cellar. Springing up in his sleep, he awoke 
 
 •^ 
 
i. 
 
 296 THE PLUME. 
 
 soon enough to learn the terrible reality. He 
 darted after a boarder, and despatched him out 
 privately for a writ to take the five and forty bodies 
 of the soulless assailants. He then loaded a 
 cylinder rifle, and opening the window, though he 
 felt his courage oozing out at his finger ends, like 
 that of Bob Acres, at every oath he took, yet 
 swo.re by all the gods and goddesses within a hun- 
 dred miles, that if they did not take to their heels 
 in double quick time, he would lodge a few ounces 
 of lead in their carcases, or, as we editors have it, 
 make leaded matter of the whole of them. As 
 there was no appeal from a decision of this kind, 
 he having in fact the entire argument in his own 
 hand — pointed too directly at them as he spoke — 
 the Walpolers not exactly relishing the idea of 
 carrying home any more lead than they brought 
 up, or of being tapped on the shoulder by a sheriff 
 with a writ, and believing, like the immortal Fal- 
 stafT in a similar exigency, discretion to be the 
 better part of valor, took to their heels like good 
 fellows — as they are — covered from head to foot 
 with glory. During the melee, the field was cov- 
 ered with almost every thing usually found on the 
 
 battlefield, except dead and wounded. At 
 
 least none have as yet been discovered. The last 
 official bulletin, dated a few hours after the mel- 
 ancholy affair, reads thus — 
 
 
•^- 
 
 CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 297 
 
 Killed, - 
 
 000 
 
 Bruised, 
 
 000 
 
 Kicked, 
 
 1 door 
 
 Mortally wounded, - 
 
 000 
 
 Mortally frightened, 
 
 45 
 
 Morn " stood tip-toe on the misty mountain top," 
 and beheld the scene of carnage. The golden- 
 haired Phcebus rose from his bed in the east, and 
 turning aside his window curtain, scratched his 
 head and opened his golden eye upon the backs of 
 the retreating belligerents. As he wiped away 
 the tears that clustered in his visual organs, like 
 crystals beautifully formed by a reiterated shak- 
 ing of his sides with laughter at the dismal ap- 
 pearance of so many ridiculous posteriors, as sol- 
 emnly and sad they retreated from the glorious 
 
 field a rooster in the distance croived! Zeno- 
 
 phon's celebrated retreat of the Ten Thousand 
 over the mountains of Persia into Greece, was 
 nothing to this. 
 
 I congratulate the public that the termination 
 of the affair was no worse. When one thinks 
 
 what might have happened but all our thoughts 
 
 are absorbed by what did happen. The Walpol- 
 ers, Walpoleons, or Walpolese, especially when 
 aided by a few Bellowsfallsonians — all good 
 names — are clever and shrewd calculators, but 
 no priming to the Acworthers or Claremontese. 
 
 4- 
 
298 THE PLUME. 
 
 They are very good Walpoleons, but rather poor 
 Napoleons. 
 
 The cannon was taken to Acworth the same day 
 by some fifteen individuals, who took a pistol or two 
 with them by way of caution. When they reached 
 Acworth the people turned out, loaded the cannon, 
 and pointing it down Cod River towards Walpole 
 — let her sound long and loud! It is said the 
 Walpolers, as they heard the firing, asked each 
 other " What new victory can that be for?" Had 
 they happened to be told from what cannon the 
 sound proceeded, they might have exclaimed like 
 the fellow who swore Shakspeare stole some of his 
 ideas from him — " By Jupiter, that's my thunder!" 
 
 Great praise is due to Capt. , Major , 
 
 and Corporal , for the very efficient manner 
 
 in which they conducted the expedition, superin- 
 tended the different evolutions on the field, and 
 brought the aflTair to so triumphant an issue. 
 
 I \ 
 
CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 299 
 
 CHAPTER II. THE GRAND FINALE. 
 
 The race is not alwaies to 
 
 The foots as fastest runs, 
 Nor the battel to the peopel 
 
 What shoots the longest guns. 
 
 New version of old Psalms. 
 
 Come out, ye Continentalers 
 
 Who're going for to go 
 To fight the red coat enemy, 
 
 Who're plaguy cute, you know. — Old Sorig. 
 
 The second chapter of this veritable history, 
 wherein are recounted the wars between the Wal- 
 polers on the one side and the Acworthers and 
 Claremontese on the other, to recover the old 
 British six pounder, remaineth now to be written. 
 Most gladly would the historian draw a veil over 
 the scenes which ftilowed the delivery of the Thun- 
 derer into the hands of the Acworthers, but truth 
 demands that the grand finale of the battle, and 
 the sad catastrophe, should be duly chronicled. 
 
 When the Acworthers had the cannon once 
 more safe in their possession, they began to think 
 the old fellow had had rather a narrow escape 
 during his absence among the Claremontese. 
 They turned the matter, like a sweet cud, over 
 and over in their minds, and the more they looked 
 at it, the more wrathy and uproarious they be- 
 
 ■^ 
 
300 CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 
 
 came. They could'nt eat a morsel, sleep a wink, 
 or drink a drop for the very thought of it. Their 
 old Irish blood was up in a moment, and when the 
 name of a Walpoler was mentioned, they grit their 
 teeth, and muttered, something like a hungry tiger 
 pacing before the bars of his cage. Four or five 
 of the stoutest got up before day-light the next 
 morning, and walking unconsciously on the Wal- 
 pole road, shook their fists vigorously in that 
 direction. This was the first working ofthe leaven. 
 They flew about town all day like so many work- 
 ing bees, and at last swore by all that was good, 
 that they would take that identical cannon to Wal- 
 pole village, fire it off, and bring it back again at 
 all hazards. Now, when an Acworther makes a 
 threat of this kind it will be carried out, unless 
 heaven itself interposes. The whole village make 
 common cause. There is not a more "spunky," 
 resolute and determined set of people living, than 
 in Acworth, and every mother's son of them would 
 sooner lose his well cultivated acres, than have 
 Walpole get the better in such a contest. Well, 
 the Acworthers had no sooner sworn to take the 
 *' old man eloquent" to Walpole, and make him 
 speak to the belligerents there, than he was 
 mounted on a cart, and under an escort of some 
 fifty or a hundred hard-fisted, dare-devil old farm- 
 ers and mechanics, armed to the teeth, was put 
 on the line of march. They were so furious and 
 
CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 301 
 
 impatient for an encounter with their haughty op- 
 ponents, that they ran the cart off the road a little, 
 and breaking, it let the " old burster" flat down 
 upon the ground. A detachment was sent for a new 
 vehicle, and vvhile they were absent, the guards, 
 being full of the "old boy," thought they would 
 let Walpole know they were coming, and give 
 her a rouser. No sooner said than done. The 
 order went round. Six pounds of powder were 
 brought and clapp'd in — green brake leaves at the 
 side of the road were pulled up for wadding, and 
 the whole being rammed down, the piece was 
 ready to speak for herself in short or long metre. 
 Some of the Acvvorthers, having the bump of cau- 
 tion pretty well developed, and not being over 
 anxious for any additional protuberances on the 
 head, and especially such as the old ihunderer 
 would be likely to make — thought there might 
 perhaps be a little danger in putting the match 
 to the touch-hole, For security on all sides, ihey 
 concluded to apply a slow match and conceal 
 themselves. Well — the old fellow was pointed 
 towards Walpole, loaded to the very muzzle, as 
 we have said — the slow match applied, and the 
 Acworthers exclaiming, as they lay snugly hid be- 
 hind treeS; stone walls, etc. etc. — " Let her went V'* 
 when — " Boong ! Whir-r-r-chuck," — off she 
 
 went lickity split! 
 
 Sic gloria Stark ! 
 
 2G 
 
 4- 
 
 ] 
 
302 THE PLUME. 
 
 " Why, you, we've got another hail storm, aint 
 we !" said one Acworther to another, raising his 
 head very cautiously above the wall, looking 
 around and not exactly comprehending the nature 
 of the substance that was falling about them, nor 
 in fact the nature of the ease at all, — which was 
 neither more nor less than that the old gun had 
 " bursted" into ten thousand pieces. The frag, 
 ments fell like hail, and went like grape shot into 
 the surrounding buildings. One large piece swung 
 over the whole length of the village, like a small 
 mountain — but fortunately no one was hurt by 
 the explosion. Well might the sturdy Acworth- 
 ers ask of each other — "Why, you, we've got 
 another hail storm with a vengeance, aint we.'' 
 Whew ! how it pours down !" 
 
 Sic gloria Stark ! — 
 
 The exclamation reminds me that I must not 
 close the history of this eventful day without giv- 
 ing a brief reminiscence in regard to the famous 
 cannon which came to so untimely an end. Ii is 
 famous — world-famous — in the annals of the 
 young republic. It has made more noise in the 
 world than many a greater blusterer. Fame 
 twines her evergreen around it. Ten thousand 
 associations linked with the deeds of the Green 
 Mountain Boys and the field of their youthful re- 
 nown, with every rocky pass, every glen and 
 mountain stream, cling to and cluster around its 
 
CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 303 
 
 time-honored fragments, and come thronging up 
 from the glorious past as the pen traces the exit 
 of the illustrious old out-speaker. Were every 
 particle of the ringing old metal brought back 
 again, and planted on the grave of "the Stark 
 OF Bennington," what a splendid monument would 
 it form for the old hero ! Dumb though it be, it 
 has spoken oft and loud — spoken from the British 
 camp — and when captured by the twin-brother of 
 Danger, from the American heights, it has spoken 
 terror and dismay to the hearts of its old masters! 
 The old piece which went off so suddenly at 
 Acworth, was one of those which the immortal 
 Stark took at Bennington in 1777 and brought 
 home with him. He made a formal present of 
 these trophies of victory to the State of New 
 Hampshire. They were scattered among the 
 towns along the river, and this particular cannon 
 fell within the limits of Walpole, being in posses- 
 sion of an old family well known among the early 
 settlers and residents of the town. Some years 
 after, the legislature, by a special act, made a 
 grant of the piece to Walpole. It thus belonged 
 to that town. Walpole loaned it to Alstead some 
 time after, and by some operation of which I am 
 ignorant, the last named place let the Acworth- 
 ers have it for a temporary purpose, and they 
 have claimed to be its owners from that day to 
 this. Having held it a long while undisputed by | 
 
I 304 THE PLUME. 
 
 Walpole, thej probably supposed it was theirs by 
 the right of possession. The Walpolers have tried, 
 many times and oft, to recapture the piece, but 
 the Acvvorthers have always been too cunning for 
 them, and held on, like the tooth-ache, to the 
 revolutionary veteran. The contest has not un- 
 frequently waxed warm, and, had it not been for 
 the bursting of the cannon last week, there would 
 most assuredly have been bloody work on the ap- 
 pearance of the Acworthers in the Square at Wal- 
 pole. It is fortunate that the piece is where it is 
 — blown to atoms — for, honored as the old war- 
 rior is, I should rather see him stretched mute 
 on the field than any of the valorous spirits and 
 clever fellows who would have mingled in the 
 affray, had Greek met Greek. The exploit among 
 the Claremontese on the morning of the 17th, has 
 it not been already celebrated in befitting terms? 
 How the Acworthers felt, what they did, and how 
 their favorite gun fared in "the didding on't," 
 has also been told. 
 
 The Walpolers felt much more down in the 
 mouth than their foes up the Cold River. Find- 
 ing the cannon was beyond their reach, and hear- 
 ing its unwelcome salute, as, pointed towards their 
 own pleasant village, it poured out its volume of 
 fire and smoke from the plains of Acworth, they 
 longed to get it once more into their possession. 
 Various exploits suggested themselves, and at last 
 
H^ 
 
 CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 305 
 
 one was adopted which will answer every purpose, 
 except restoring the cannon safe and sound again. 
 They immediately brought an action against 
 the acworthers for the recov'ery of the piece. 
 It had been blown sky high in the mean time, and 
 failing to recover that, they are looking for dam- 
 ages. Such is the grit, the spunk and spirit of 
 old Acworth, that I have no doubt every man 
 there would be willing to sink his farm rather than 
 that the Walpolers should get the least advantage 
 of them in the suit. 
 
 The historian cannot bring his veritable chroni- 
 cle to a close without paying due honor to two 
 actors in the eventful storming of the cellar door 
 on the morning of the 17th. Their exploits are 
 worthy of Stark, or Wolf, or Montcalm. When 
 the bloody minded Walpoler, as mentioned in the 
 first chapter, stole to the bed-room window to per- 
 suade the fair sleeper to turn traitress, and, like a 
 she-Benedict Arnold, to deliver up the keys of the 
 citadel — when he was in the very act of raising the 
 sash from without — it is related that a gentle ap- 
 parition, in dishevelled dress and rohes de chainbre, 
 stood at the window, and, with a spit in her hand, 
 threatened instant annihilation. Dartincf the for- 
 midable weapon back and forth in the moonlight, 
 through the open crack of Ihe window, and with 
 threatening mein also, she held the rash intruders 
 at bay till the keeper of the castle slipp'd up into 
 •26^ 
 
\ 306 THE PLrME. 
 
 > 
 
 the attic to rouse a boarder snoring there, Chester 
 named. The said knight sprang from his bed, 
 wrong end foremost, jumped into his *'trowsers," 
 which he tore with a noise as though heaven and 
 earth were coming together, and having procured 
 a dark lantern and an old queen's arm well loaded 
 with buck shot, slowly and cautiously on tiptoe, 
 descended the stairs of the besieged cellar. Clap- 
 ping the lantern in a twinkling under his arm, he 
 straddled the old cannon, and cocking his gun, 
 levelled it straight to the door, so wofully beset 
 from without. In this ticklish position did that 
 good knight sit for two long hours, till the cock 
 crowed, and told him that day had come and the \ 
 enemy had retreated from the field. Honor to 
 the arm that thus stood between the old Stark and 
 the jaws of death! And thus abrubtly closes the 
 chronicle of the Bennington gun! 
 
 Note. — As there has been some dispute in regard to the true 
 reading of the quotation at the head of one of the Chapters of 
 this history, I subjoin all the correspondence which has thus far 
 taken place on the subject. As I am resolved to have the last 
 word upon so important a question as this, i must caution my 
 friend of the Telegraph to be very careful in his notice of the con- 
 troversy hereafter. It is several years since the correspondence 
 took place, and every thing that has since occured has only served 
 to confirm my own statement. 
 
CHRONICLE OF THE BENNINGTON GUN. 307 
 
 From the Nashua Telegraph. 
 
 We are exceedingly pained to enter into a controversy, upon 
 any matter of vital interest to the community, with the editor of 
 a public journal, with whom we have long acted in harmony upon 
 all subjects, and for whom we have had the highest respect, both 
 for his talents and his patriotism ; but when he so far forgets his 
 duty as to do violence to the good taste and the good sense of the 
 community, we feel that " forbearance ceases to be a virtue." 
 The editor of the Claremont Eaple is certainly wrong in his quo- 
 tation of the " new version of Old Psalms." Jt should be — 
 
 " The race is not always got 
 By him that fastest runs, 
 
 Nor is the battel to the peepel 
 What has the loni^est guns." 
 
 From tke Claremont Eagle. 
 
 This is T^^hat Sheridan's heroine would call an " impeachment 
 of our parts of speech " Instead of arguing the point at all, we 
 shall silence all further controversy by informing the editor of the 
 Telegraph, that we were well acquainted with that old musical 
 firm, Sternhold and Hopkins, or in common parlance, we knew 
 them "like a book." In fact we used to spell in the same class 
 at school with them, and sing out of the same psalm book at 
 church. We saw the lines in dispute when they were written, 
 and took a copy of them, so that we cannot be mistaken, in the 
 matter. Well aware it would hurt the feelings of our friend to 
 know that we had this personal knowledge of the illustrious au- 
 thors of these more illustrious lines, we withheld it from him till 
 now. We came within an ace of making a bet with him last 
 week that ours was the true reading, but on second thought it 
 would be rather bad to see him caught in that way. The true 
 reading is that given by us as follows — " i/e" being the old ab- 
 breviation of" the," 
 
 •*• 
 
^ 308 THE PLUME. 
 
 Ye race is not alwaj's to 
 
 Ye foots as fastest runs. 
 Nor ye battel to ye peepel 
 Whats shoots the longest guns. 
 
 There is one version which runs thus, but we regard it as 
 apochraphal — 
 
 The race is nuts always guts 
 
 By feets vot fastest runs — 
 Nor is the battel to the peepel 
 
 Vot bangs on with the biggest cannons. 
 
 There, the question is no longer an open one — any more than 
 an oyster in " Orgust." It is settled — fixed — done up— closed' ( 
 in a word — hermetrically sealed at both ends. 
 
 THE STAR IN THE EAST. 
 
 Light on Judea's hills ! The Shepherds' song-, 
 As on their slopes their flocks they watched, arose, 
 Then died among the sighing of the palms 
 And the tall cedars. 
 
 Hark ! the merry dance 
 In Herod's princely halls, the music's swell, 
 And the wild joy which stirs the company. 
 When seen the royal robes ! — " The Kijvg ! The King !" 
 
 "H^ 
 
THE STAR IN THE EAST. 309 
 
 Light on Jiidea's hills ! O'er palace, cot, 
 A single star darts forth its golden ray. 
 To touch tiie embers of the sleeping soul, 
 And turn its eye to God. 
 
 The Magi come. 
 And the old philosophers of the East, 
 With myrrh and precious gifts. That twinkling star 
 Shines like a jewel from the Throne on High, 
 And bright illumes their way. Lo ! Lo ! it stands 
 High over Bethlehem, and pointeth where 
 The infant Jesus lay. 
 
 Light on thy hills ! 
 Judea! Light! Light for thy bruised hearts ! 
 
 They knelt. They worshipped him, and from their lips 
 Went up the glorious Anthem of the Soul — 
 "Glory to God! Good Will and-Peace to Man! 
 Glory and Hosanna in the Highest !" 
 
 Light on Judea's hills ! It shall herald 
 A rosy dawn. Light! Light to sinful man ! 
 Daughter of Sion I Fair Jerusalem ! 
 Light on thy spires and vine-clad hills ! Light ! Light I 
 
 And, there he lay within a manger's shroud. 
 With Mary at the inn. The iron tread 
 Of soldiers, and hurrying to and fro 
 Of the care-worn and busy citizen. 
 Fell on the Viririn's ear with dread, and smote 
 
 
310 THE PLUME. 
 
 Her throbbing breast. They passed ; not one of all 
 In that vast multitude, whom Herod sent 
 To seize her infant, thought to find a Prince 
 Throned in a hostelry. So, on they passed ! 
 
 The joyous dance went on. In royal state, 
 The King led forth his daughter, and the song 
 Rose from sweet lips, bedewed with rosy wine. 
 
 "A MESSAGE FOR THE EIlNG !" 
 
 " What ! Ho ! The Babe ! 
 Speak ye, good sirs ! He who was to be Kikg.^ 
 
 • And Herod's brow grew dark ! — 
 
 Light on thy hills, Judea ! Holy Light ! 
 And thou, Jerusalem ! Light on thy hills ! 
 Light on Gallilee ! Light, Light on Olivet ! 
 
 A King ! A King is born ! — His sceptre, Peace ! 
 
 'i His crown, the glory of the Mighty God ! 
 
 ^ His Throne, the hearts of men. His empire wide, 
 
 \ All space, the Universe of Thought. His reign, 
 
 ^ Forever, and immortal as the stars, 
 
 \ That sang together over Eden's bloom — 
 
 ? His mission. Love and Peace to all the world ! 
 
 I His subjects, all created things. His Law 
 
 I God's eternal, unchangeable decree! 
 
THE STAR IN THE EAST. 311. 
 
 Light on thy hills, Judea! Hail ! Ilail ! Hail ! 
 Light to the Universe ! Light through all time ! 
 Light celestial! Hail! Hail! A Kkvg is born! 
 The Saviour of the world I . Jesus ! All Hail ! 
 Emanuel ! Thou art ever with us ! 
 Thou cam'st to save thy people from their sms ! 
 Light ! Light to the world ! 
 
 
314.77-9 
 
 ^.