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THE 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WORKS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 Richard Penn Smith 
 
 COLLECTED BY HIS SOJf, 
 
 HORACE W. SMITH. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 PUBLISHED BY H.W. SMITH 
 
 No. 69 SOUTH SEVENTH STREET. 
 1856. 
 

 King & Baird, Printers, 
 No. 9 Sansom Street, Philadelphia. 
 
T© T}iIE a^iOE 
 
 ^mastb parents, 
 RICHARD PENN SMITH., 
 
 AND 
 
 ELEANOR M. SMITH, 
 
 THIS BOOK 
 
 is afTectionately dedicated by their only 
 remaining child, 
 
 HORACE W. SMITH. 
 
 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 Introduction 7 
 
 The Mariner's Tale 16 
 
 Changes 33 
 
 The Fisherman's Song 37 
 
 Bornouese War Song 39 
 
 The Plague of Tripoli 41 
 
 From Amalthaeus 47 
 
 The Cottage Lovers 48 
 
 Kiskauko 51 
 
 Hope 54 
 
 Prologue to Oralloosa 55 
 
 Farewell Address 58 
 
 A Health to My Brother t31 
 
 Answer to a " Health to My Brother." 63 
 
 Prologue to the '* Red Rover." 65 
 
 Lines to a Favourite Actress 69 
 
 Song of Mortality 71 
 
 Lesbia's Sparrow 74 
 
 The Old Man's Lament 76 
 
 Fishing Song 78 
 
 Ode 80 
 
 Latin Poem 83 
 
 Seasons of Life v ^^ 
 
 Fragment 85 
 
 Apologue 88 
 
 To 89 
 
 Lines 91 
 
 To a Lady 93 
 
 Song 94 
 
 Lines written in an Album 95 
 
 Song 98 
 
 To 99 
 
 The Coquette 101 
 
 Stanzas to Ellen 102 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 From Anficreon.,.. 104 
 
 The Penitent 105 
 
 Lines 107 
 
 Epigram 108 
 
 Epitaph on an aged couple 109 
 
 To 110 
 
 Song 112 
 
 Stanzas 113 
 
 France 115 
 
 Stanzas 117 
 
 Epigrams 119 
 
 «♦ 120 
 
 «« 121 
 
 122 
 
 Song for the Fourth of July 123 
 
 Lines sent to a Lady, &c 125 
 
 The Labourer to his wife 126 
 
 Forrest 127 
 
 To Rebecca.... 128 
 
 Lines 129 
 
 " 131 
 
 Fragment 133 
 
 To the Lost One 135 
 
 The Village School 141 
 
 Salek 147 
 
 Nettles on the Grave 151 
 
 The Dream of Mehemet 158 
 
 Self-importance 168 
 
 Bator the Dervise 177 
 
 Azib and his Friends 180 
 
 My Uncle Nicholas 196 
 
 Dydimus Dumps 210 
 
 Mr. Aspenleaf 234 
 
 Lady of Ruthvan 263 
 
 The Visionary , 270 
 
 The Widow Indeed 288 
 
 The Recluse of Black Log Mountain 304 
 
INTEODUCTIOK 
 
 Ix publisliing the following pages I have given 
 them to the printer in the exact condition in which 
 the author left them — I have not altered nor added 
 a line, except by way of note. And not wishing to 
 publish any thing which the reader might think 
 was flattery, I have taken the liberty of using a 
 biographical sketch — written some years ago by my 
 father's friend, Morton McMichael, Esq. : — 
 
 EiCHARD Penn Smith was born at the south-east 
 corner of Fifth and Chesnut, on the 13th day of 
 March, 1779 ; he received his early education at 
 Mount Airy, and at Joseph Neef 's Grammar School, 
 at the Falls of Schuylkill. He entered the law 
 office of the late William Eawle, Esq., and upon 
 arriving at age was admitted as a member of the 
 Bar. From his father— the late William Moore 
 Smith, a gentleman of the old school, of highly 
 polished education and manners, and a poet of 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 considerable reputation, in his day — lie inherited a 
 taste for letters, and was early distinguished for 
 the extent and variety of his acquirements. 
 His first appearance as an author, was in the 
 columns of the Union^ where he published a 
 series of papers, moral and literary, under the 
 title of the "Plagiary." About the close of the 
 year 1822, he purchased the newspaper establish- 
 ment, then well known throughout this country as 
 the Aurora^ from the late Mr. Duane, and assumed 
 the arduous and responsible duties of an editor. 
 At this dray-horse work he continued about five 
 years, when, finding it both weary and unprofitable 
 he abandoned it, and resumed his profession. A 
 good classical scholar, and a tolerable linguist, with 
 a decided bent for the pursuits of literature, his 
 mind was well stored with the classics, both ancient 
 and modern ; and amid the vexations and drudgery 
 of a daily newspaper, he wooed the Muses with con- 
 siderable success. Perhaps, to the discipline which 
 editorship necessarily imposes, and the promptness 
 which it requires, may in part be attributed the 
 great facility he possesses in composition. While 
 engaged in the duties of a profession, generally con- 
 sidered uncongenial to the successful prosecution of 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 literary adventure, lie produced a number and 
 variety of pieces, both in prose and verse, wbicb 
 stowed considerable versatility of talent. His 
 favorite study is the drama, and with this depart- 
 ment of literature he is thoroughly familiar. With 
 the dramatists of all nations he has an extensive 
 acquaintance ; and in the dramatic history of 
 England and France, he is profoundly versed. 
 Perhaps, there are few who have studied the old 
 English masters in this art with more devoted 
 attention, and with a keener enjoyment of their 
 beauties. But it is not alone in the keen enjoyment 
 and appreciation of others that he deserves atten- 
 tion. He has given ample evidence that he pos- 
 sesses no ordinary power for original effort in this 
 most difficult department of literature. We do not 
 know how many plays he has produced, but the 
 following, all from his pen, have been performed at 
 different periods, and in most instances with com- 
 plete success : — Quite Correct — Eighth of January — 
 The Disowned, or the Prodigals — The Deformed, or 
 Woman's Trial— A Wife at a Yenture— The Senti- 
 nels — William Penn — The Triumph at Plattsburg 
 — Caius Marius — The Water Witch — Is She a 
 
10 INTRODUCTIOiN'. 
 
 Brigand ? — My Uncle's "Wedding — Tlie Daughter 
 — The Actress of Padua. 
 
 Of late years, Mr. Smith has avowedly written 
 for money, and he requires something more sub- 
 stantial than the blandishments of the Muses, to 
 tempt him to put pen to paper. If Green Eoom 
 anecdotes can be depended on, he is blessed with a 
 much thicker skin than usually falls to the lot of 
 the geniis irritabile vatum. It is said that on one 
 occasion he happened to enter the theatre during 
 the first run of one of his pieces, just as the curtain 
 was falling, and met with an old school-fellow, who 
 had that day arrived in Philadelphia, after an 
 absence of several years. The first salutation was 
 scarcely over, when the curtain fell, and the author's 
 friend innocently remarked, "Well, this is really 
 the most insufferable trash that I have witnessed 
 for some time." " True," replied S., " but as they 
 give me a benefit to-morrow night as the author, I 
 hope to have the pleasure of seeing you here again." 
 At another time, a friend met him in the lobby, as 
 ihQ green curtain fell, like a funeral pall, on one of 
 his progeny, and, unconscious of its paternity, asked 
 the author, with a sneer, what the piece was all 
 about. " Keally," was the grave answer, "it is now 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 some years since I wrote that piece, and tliough I 
 paid the utmost attention to the performance, I 
 confess I am as much in the dark as you are." 
 
 As an evidence of his facility in composition, it 
 may be mentioned that several of his pieces have 
 been written and performed at a week's notice. 
 The entire last act of William Penn was written on 
 the afternoon of the day previous to its performance, 
 yet this hasty production ran ten successive nights, 
 drawing full houses, and has since been several 
 times revived. His '' Deformed" and " Disowned," 
 — two dramas which may be compared favorably 
 with any similar productions of this country — were 
 both performed with success in London, an honor 
 which, we believe, no other American dramatist has 
 yet received. The tragedy of " Caius Marius," 
 written for Edwin Forrest, and brought out by him 
 at the Arch Street Theatre, possesses sterling merit. 
 The plot is well imagined — the principal characters 
 are well developed and sustained — the language is 
 uniformly vigorous, and the sentiments are poetical 
 and just. For more than three years Mr. S. has had 
 in preparation another tragedy, commenced at the 
 instance of his friend Forrest, and in view of his 
 peculiar capabilities which, though for a long time 
 
12 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 nearly finished^ lias never, we believe, been com- 
 pleted* 
 
 In 1831 Mr. S. pnblisbed a work in two volumes, 
 called The Forsaken^ tbe scene of which is laid in 
 Philadelphia and the adjoining country, during our 
 revolutionary struggle. Five years ago, American 
 novels — with the exception of Cooper's — were not 
 received with the same favor as now ; but a large 
 edition of the Forsaken was even then disposed of, 
 and it obtained from all quarters strong commenda- 
 tion. In our Judgment, it is a work highly credit- 
 able to the author. The story is interesting, and in 
 its progress, fiction is blended with historical truth 
 with considerable skill and force. 
 
 During the year 1836 Mr. S. published two 
 volumes, entitled the " Actress of Padua, and other 
 Tales," which have been eminently successful. We 
 understand they were the means of increasing his 
 literary profits, and we know they have extended 
 his literary reputation. As a writer of short tales, 
 he is natural and unaffected in manner ; correct in 
 description; concise in expression; and happy in 
 the selection of incidents. He possesses, moreover 
 
 * The Venetian — in Five Acts, since finished. 
 
INTRODUCTION". 13 
 
 a quiet humour, and an occasional sarcasm, wliicli 
 make his productions both, pleasant and pungent. 
 
 Mr. S. has written much for the periodical litera- 
 ture of the day, both political and literary, and his 
 poetical pieces, if collected, would make a large 
 volume ; but these appear to have been scattered 
 abroad, without any purpose of reclamation. His 
 name is attached to a limited number, which are 
 distinguished by a healthy tone of thought, neatness 
 of expression, and harmony of versification ; but as, 
 generally, they were produced for some particular 
 occasion, they have — most of them at least — passed 
 into oblivion with the occasions that called them 
 into existence. 
 
 Mr. S. has been active as a politician, and as all 
 politicians, no matter how pure the patriotism they 
 possess, look to the " loaves and fishes," he was not 
 unwilling to accept the situation of Clerk to the 
 Incorporated District of the Northern Liberties. In 
 this station he remained four years, and as might 
 have been expected, discharged his duties with 
 ability and dispatch, until he was himself discharged 
 with corresponding dispatch, when his political 
 opponents came once more into power. His mind 
 is now engrossed with his professional pursuits, and 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 as lie has always looked upon literature as being 
 subsidary to graver concerns, it is problematical 
 wlietber lie will hereafter produce any laboured 
 effort, though we know that highly advantageous 
 offers have been made to induce him again to exer- 
 cise his talents in the region of fiction. 
 
 In 1822 Mr. Smith married a daughter of Samuel 
 Blodget, Esq. She died in 1833, leaving but one 
 son, the collector of these works. 
 
 In 1836, Mr. Smith again married—and retired 
 to the family seat at the Falls of Schuylkill, near 
 Philadelphia, at which place he died, August 11th, 
 1854. His remains were interred at Laurel Hill, in 
 the same grave with those of his grand-father, the 
 Eev. Dr. William Smith — his father, and children. 
 
POEMS 
 
THE MAEINEE'S TALE, 
 
 Scene. A Flower Garden of a Mariner's Asylum. 
 
 Characters. An aged Sailor and a Visitor. 
 
 Sailor. All things must move in circles as earth 
 doth. 
 The orbs that make space gorgeous move in circles ; 
 E'en space itself is one eternal circle ; 
 For were it not, its end would sure be reached. 
 All drag a chain still moving round and round 
 Until we join the two ends of the chain: 
 Thus man completes his circle. No escape then. 
 
 Stranger. You spoke, sir, of a voyage. 
 
 Sailor. Oh ! pardon me : 
 
 I had forgot — those circles set me wild. 
 
 Where left I off? 'Tis strange, the thread is 
 
 broken. 
 
 Stranger. In the South Sea. 
 2 
 
18 THE mariner' S TA LE. 
 
 Sailor. 0, true ! — 'mong fruitful isle 
 The jocund waters leaped when morn arose, 
 And fringed each billow's snow-white pinnacle 
 With golden tissue. Waves that wildly roared 
 Through night, like fiends contending for their 
 
 prey, 
 Now smiled serenely as a lawn in spring 
 Spangled with herbage 'mid the wasting snow ; 
 And as our gallant vessel glided on 
 The joyful waters, like some amorous dame, 
 Kissed the bright prow in very wantonness, 
 Ees^ardless of the wound so rudelv made 
 In the too pliant bosom. 
 
 Stranger. You liken well 
 
 The waters to a woman ; beau.tiful 
 In the bright sunshine of prosperity ! 
 But when the tempest rages, sea-tossed man 
 Oft finds a shoal there, where his bark may strand, 
 Expecting a safe haven. 
 
 Sailor. You are bitter : 
 
 But truth is not always sweet. All on board 
 Assembled on the deck to hail the sun 
 Weaving with gold Grod's heaving world of green ; 
 While lowly murmuring the gladsome waves 
 Sang matins to their master. Voices full 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 19 
 
 As deep -toned organ's swell, and others slirill 
 As notes of linnets, mingled with the songs 
 The glad sea made in praising Him who made it. 
 
 Stranger. Let the great sea and all that therein is ; 
 The earth — its frnit — and all that live thereby — 
 And all that live hereafter, praise his name. 
 
 Sailor, Amid our happy concourse there was seen 
 A father and his little family. 
 And the fair partner of his joys and griefs. 
 The mother of his children. While they gazed 
 Upon the wide expanse, their bosoms heaved 
 With admiration for His mighty works 
 Who rules the fearful sea. They thanked and 
 trusted. 
 
 Stranger. All thank and trust, who know the Grod 
 they trust in. 
 
 Sailor. Among them was a fair-haired rosy boy 
 Who hugged his father's knee ; his little hands 
 Clasped in devotion to the unseen God, 
 In ignorance adoring ; for his spirit. 
 Unstained of earth, was redolent of heaven, 
 And instinct with the praises he had learnt 
 From angel-lips in his celestial birth-place. 
 
20 
 
 Stranger. Childliood's inheritance, whicli manhood 
 squanders. 
 God gives ns all, while we return but little, 
 
 Sailor. As the sun rose he sung a little hymn. 
 The words were these. I think his father made it. 
 In the morning of existence, 
 
 Earth smiles, as Eden smiled on Adam ; 
 With God and angels for companions, 
 Man — little lower than the angels — 
 Keceives the truth as it was given 
 Once — face to face, and fresh from heaven. 
 
 In the noontide of existence, 
 
 With bathed brow and stalwart limb, 
 
 Man, singing, struggles for subsistence 
 For those in sin begot by him, 
 Kejoices in those human frailties 
 Which makes him imitate his God. 
 
 In the sunset of existence, 
 
 Alone, in thy Gethsemane, 
 Quaff the cup bravely and repine not — 
 
 For man, thy God is there with thee. 
 
 Meekly obey the mandate given. 
 
 It purifies thy soul for heaven. 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 21 
 
 Stranger. A strange thoiiglit that — childhood is 
 Adam's Eden, 
 Where man beholds his Maker face to face ; ' 
 The close of life is his Gethsemane, 
 Where he must quaff the chalice to the dregs, 
 Without a prayer to take it from his lips. 
 I've heard that hymn before. 
 
 Sailor. Why call it strange ? 
 
 The cup is sweetened though it smack of bitter, 
 And the most bitter drops become the sweetest. 
 Gethsemane was nearer heaven with him 
 Who bathed with tears and blood the sacred soil, 
 Than fresh blown Paradise appears to have been 
 With angel visitants. Perchance they are 
 The self-same garden, typed by Spring and Autumn, 
 Seed-time and harvest ! If that thought be true, 
 With bathed forelock and with steadfast soul 
 Gather the harvest of Gethsemane, 
 More precious than the flowers that smiled in Eden. 
 The task is thine — first husbandman, then reaper. 
 
 Stranger. Talk further of the boy who sung the 
 hymn. 
 
 Sailor. That spotless child, the rudest of the crew 
 Loved, for his presence made us better men. 
 
22 T H E M A R I N E II S T A L E. 
 
 Strange^'. True, all men who love cliildren still 
 grow better; 
 And the best men are children to the last, 
 At least in thought and feeling. 
 
 Sailor. There's the circle — 
 Extremes must meet, and we are hedged within 
 
 them. 
 But to pursue our voyage — and the boy. 
 Day past away, and as the night came on 
 The full-orbed moon rolled in a cloudless sky, 
 And the high waters now lay hushed in sleep. 
 As gentle as the slumber of a child 
 Wearied with gambols through the live-long day. 
 The night-breeze from the orange-groves passed by, 
 Laden with odor. Heaven was chrisolite ; 
 The sea a living mirror, in whose depths 
 The richly studded concave was reflected. 
 Making a perfect globe ; and as the ship 
 Pursued her trackless flight, she seemed to be 
 Some spirit on errand supernatural, 
 So dark and silently she glided on 
 The babbling waves were scarcely audible. 
 
 Stranger. A pleasant sail which landsmen only 
 dream of — 
 But never enjoy. 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 23 
 
 Sailor. All joy hath bitterness. 
 Stretched on the deck the sailor-boy reposed, 
 And lived in dreams his infant years again. 
 The seamen, 'mid the shronds aloft reclining. 
 Told o'er their tales of wreck and lingering death, 
 And in the drowsy interval was heard 
 The rugged cadence of the helmsman's song. 
 " A pleasant sail I" But pleasure has strange wings, 
 She comes a zephyr and departs a whirlwind. 
 
 Stranger, Kisses the flower to blooming, then de- 
 stroys. 
 
 Sailor, Sudden the helmsman's drowsy song was 
 hushed. 
 A fearful cry arose — " The ship's on fire !" 
 The seamen from aloft sent back the cry ; 
 The sailor-boy shook oQ* his happy dream. 
 And woke to horror. All was wild dismay ; 
 Half sleeping — half awake, the crew came forth ; 
 Grim death, enveloped in his robes of flame, 
 Marched on and laughed. There was no human 
 
 power 
 To put aside his footstep. On he moved 
 In awful majesty ; whate'er he touched, 
 True to its origin, returned to dust, 
 And Nature's master-work, man's godlike frame, 
 
24 THE mariner's tale. 
 
 Became as worthless as tlie spars and sails, 
 Each made its pile of ashes — nothing more. 
 
 Stranger. Ashes to ashes all, and dust to dust. 
 The self-same mandate both on earth and sea. 
 
 Sailor. The flames attained dominion. Tyrant- 
 like, 
 They ruled and raged. Upon the shrouds they 
 
 seized, 
 Kissing destruction — laughing as they kissed ; 
 While the broad glare they spread upon the deep 
 Changed the sea's nature. Water soon became 
 A lake of living fire. " A pleasant sail !" 
 
 Stranger. You weep. Go on. 
 
 Sailor. that I then had perished ! 
 I seized the boy and leaped into the waves. 
 Upon a fallen spar we safely rode 
 Until the ship went down. " A pleasant sail !" 
 Her knell one shriek of mortal agony. 
 We had no heart to weep for their sad fate — 
 No heart to pray for one less terrible. 
 I gathered fragments from the floating wreck, 
 And made a raft, where two immortal souls 
 Struggled with time to check eternity 
 With frail appliance. For three days we suffered ; 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 25 
 
 And tlien a passing ship preserved our lives 
 For greater snfiering. 
 
 Stranger. Tlie boy — his fate ? 
 
 Sailor. His parents dead — the lad became my 
 charge. 
 I then was married to a worthy woman — 
 God's kindest gift. We had an only child — 
 My wife brought up the children as if twins, 
 And at a proper age he sailed with me. 
 He grew to manhood — noble — cheerful — kind 
 As those who love the artless lips of children ; 
 A very babe was he in his affections — 
 A very demon in his bitter passions. 
 The eagle and the dove oft make their nest — 
 The tiger and the ermin find a lair 
 In the same bosom. 
 
 Stranger. What became of him ? 
 
 Sailor. My wife grew sick. He loved her as his 
 mother ; 
 He loved my daughter too. I sailed, and left him 
 To till my little ground and smooth their pathway. 
 After three years I came to port again. 
 Crossing my fields, which now poured forth their 
 increase, 
 
20 THE mariner's tale. 
 
 I saw a man resting upon his plough, 
 Singing right lustily. 
 
 Stranger. What did he sing ? 
 
 Sailor. In the noontide of existence, 
 With swarthy brow and rugged limb, 
 
 Man bravely struggles for subsistence 
 For those in sin begot by him ; 
 
 Rejoices in all frailties — sorrows, 
 
 They draw him nearer to his God. 
 
 Stranger. The hymn of early childhood still 
 remembered. 
 
 Sailor. A bending in the chain to form the circle. 
 He led me to my home — and such a home ! 
 It seemed as if the fairies had been there 
 Making their May-day — wife and daughter happy. 
 Then, from an arbor overgrown with flowers. 
 He placed a prattling child upon my knee. 
 And called him by my name. He laughed out- 
 right — 
 My daughter blushed. They now were man and 
 
 wife. 
 I danced — then blubbered like a very child. 
 Tears are at times a truer sign of joy 
 Than smiles and laughter. 
 
 Stranger. 'Twas a boy you said ? 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 27 
 
 Sailor. A boy — liis bud of Paradise, be called him. 
 Such flowers, too, often yield most bitter fruit 
 In man's Getbsemane. 
 
 Stranger. Thank God ! not always. 
 
 Sailor. We dwelt together for a few brief months. 
 He then proposed to try the sea again, 
 To place the beings whom Ave fondly loved 
 Beyond the cold calamities of earth. 
 Three years we sailed — we prospered, and returned 
 With means to make those happy whom we loved. 
 On wearied pinions, like the dove of peace 
 When land was found, he flew to seek the ark 
 Where our best feelings day and night reposed, 
 While struggling with the ocean. God ! God ! 
 ISTo ark was there — no resting-place for him ! 
 Even Ararat was covered with the deluge. 
 
 Stranger. I understand you not. 
 
 Sailor. His wife was false. 
 
 Stranger. Impossible ! 
 
 Sailor. But true. You tremble, sir. 
 Her father curst the memory of his child ; 
 Her mother withered, and soon died heart-broken. 
 You seem disturbed. 
 
 Stranger. 'Tis past. What did your son ? 
 
28 THE mariner's TALE. 
 
 Sailor. He slew the slimy reptile tliat crawled 
 over him ; 
 Put his hard heel upon her glossy front, 
 Trampled her out in cold blood. 
 
 Stranger. God of heaven ! 
 
 Sailor. And he did right. 
 
 Stranger. Your daughter ! 
 
 Sailor. He did right. 
 She who betrays the honor of her husband, 
 Eegardless of her parents, self and children, 
 Should cease to live, though all unfit to die. 
 Better to rot in earth, than crawl through life, 
 Offending all things with her foul pollution. 
 I love my God : knowledge increases love. 
 I ask forgiveness of him, as Christ prayed. 
 I am his child, and yet I curse my child. 
 Her sin hath made the best of prayers from my lips 
 An invocation of a lasting curse 
 On her old father's head — a mockery ! 
 Forgive as I forgive — a lie to God ! 
 Her sin hath robbed me of my prayer of child- 
 hood — 
 The prayer I gathered from my mother's lips — ' 
 The prayer that opens the celestial portals — 
 The prayer He taught when He appeared as mortal. 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 29 
 
 Stranger. His destiny. 
 
 Sailor. He fled and took his child ; 
 But not as Cain fled with the brand upon him. 
 'T was sacrifice to virtue, and no murder. 
 When I arrived my Eden was Golgotha ; 
 I found a corpse — my wife bereft of reason. 
 I buried one, attended to the other 
 For years until she died. The fruits of lust ! 
 I went to sea again in search of strife — 
 The quiet of the land near drove me mad. 
 The ship I sailed in scoured the southern sea, 
 To quell the pirates. We o'ertook a rover. 
 A deadly strife ensued — 'twas life or death ; 
 Their chief and I by chance met sword to sword ; 
 I knew him not, and strange, he knew not me. 
 
 ! grief outstrips the rapid wing of time 
 In marring youthful beauty ! See this scar ! 
 His cutlass gave it — but I mastered him. 
 Their chief subdued, the rover soon surrendered. 
 
 Stranger. His destiny? 
 
 Sailor. The yard-arm, and a halter. 
 
 1 saw him pass away. 
 
 Stranger. And said he nothing ? 
 
30 THE mariner's TALE. . 
 
 Sailor. Nauglit to tlie crowd — but I remember 
 
 this: 
 In the sunset of existence, 
 
 Alone in my Gethsemane, 
 I quaff the cup without repining, 
 For God, I feel thou'rt still with me. 
 Meekly obey the mandate given 
 That purifies the soul for heaven. 
 Stranger. His cradle-hymn still chanted to the 
 
 grave. 
 Sailor. The circle, sir — the end and the begin- 
 ning — 
 The two ends of the chain are linked together. 
 Stranger. You said he had a boy. 
 Sailor. I said not so. 
 There was a boy whom I have searched for since ; 
 But, like the shadows of all earthly hope. 
 He hath eluded me. 
 
 Stranger. I am that boy. 
 
 Sailor. Thou ! — thou that boy ! The wheel is 
 
 still in motion ! 
 Stranger. I stood beside the gallows when he died. 
 Sailor. His bird of Paradise ! A cherub then ! 
 I've seen you often sleeping among roses. 
 And he ; a guardian angel, smiling o'er you. 
 
THE mariner's TALE. 31 
 
 You liave not slept on roses often since, 
 But wept beneath your father's gallows-tree. 
 And my blind deeds have shaped your destiny. 
 I brought your father to a shameful death, 
 Which your young eyes beheld. And I've made 
 
 known 
 A thing, perhaps unknown to you before — 
 Your mother's infamy. Alas ! poor boy ! 
 What an inheritance have we bequeathed you ! 
 
 Stranger. You did your duty, sir. 
 ^ Sailor. Ay, there's the question. 
 Can duty lead man's footsteps to God's throne, 
 Making life death, the glad earth Tartarus ? 
 I snatched a fellow-being, winged for heaven. 
 With God's own impress on him still unblurred, 
 Who, but for me, would have flown chanting there 
 Anthems to angels. But with rufiian hands 
 I checked his flight, and stayed him for perdition. 
 Would that the ocean had received the child ! 
 Would that I had let him perish in the flames ! 
 Would that his wound had marked me for the 
 
 grave. 
 Ere I had saved him for an after life 
 Of sin and sorrow, though impelled by — duty. 
 
32 T H E M A R 
 
 Stranger. Why do you pluck those gorgeous 
 poppy-flowers, 
 And cast them in the walk ? 
 
 Sailor. They now are harmless ; 
 Suffered to ripen, they are poisonous. 
 Let them die blooming, while they are innoxious. 
 Would he had perished as these simple flowers, 
 Ere his bloom faded, yielding deadly seed. 
 
 Stranger. I've sought you, sir, to solace your old 
 age. 
 
 Sailor. God bless my child ! We're in the circle 
 still. 
 Good begets evil often — evil good. 
 The grandsire and the grandson close the chain — 
 Alone — forlorn ! Yet both have done their duty. 
 The world goes round and round, 'till hidden things 
 Stalk forth as spectres from the rotten grave. 
 All, all is plain ! These circles drive me mad ! 
 
CHANGES. 33 
 
 cha:^ges 
 
 Here's pansies for thoughts. 
 
 Ophelu. 
 
 All tilings on earth are subject to a change. 
 
 Where firm-based mountains once upreared their 
 
 heads, 
 
 Snow-capped amidst the clouds, now valleys smile. 
 
 And shepherds pipe to flocks in flowery meads. 
 
 Eivers forsake their channels and become 
 
 As rippling brooks, that with a tiny voice 
 
 Babble of former greatness. Mighty seas, 
 
 Where navies battled and the strong whale dwelt, 
 
 Now wash the axle of the globe we tread, 
 
 Ne'er to be seen by mortal eye again. 
 
 Nations, that in their pride and magnitude 
 
 Threatened to burst the confines of this globe, 
 
 Have passed away, and scarcely left behind 
 
 A record of their names. The giant Eome 
 
 Has dwindled to a pigmy. Macedon 
 
 Is, as it were, a village among nations ; 
 3 
 
o4 CHANGES. 
 
 Of Cartilage scarce a single stone remains 
 
 To designate her grave ; and Egypt now, 
 
 Though once the sun that hurled back ravs to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Is in Egyptian darkness. — 
 
 All things change ! 
 Say, where is now the race of Pericles, 
 The Ptolemies and Caesars ? Look among 
 The refuse of mankind, you'll find them there, 
 Unmindful of their name, and what they are 
 To us, the men we magnify will be 
 To after aores. — 
 
 o 
 
 Naught is lasting here ! 
 Wealth taketh wings and fleeth as a bird, 
 While penury usurps her empty temple. 
 Friendship gives place to hate, and love to scorn ; 
 Pride is o'ertoppled by humility ; 
 Courage forsakes the strong man's heart to fear. 
 And avarice — that yellow devotee 
 Who would far rather starve for lack of bread 
 Than take one glory from the golden god 
 His own hands fashioned — plays the prodigal. 
 Our rooted passions have not nerve to stay. 
 
CHANGES. 35 
 
 E'en Time, who changes all things in his turn, 
 Wearied, must drop his scythe and crush his glass, 
 And in his second childhood sink to sleep. 
 And rise regenerate — Eternity. 
 
 And what is man for man to magnify, 
 Though made but little lower than the angels. 
 And crowned with glory and with loving kindness ! 
 The dust we tread on was perchance a flower ; 
 The ox consumed it, and that shrub became 
 His flesh and blood ; then man consumed the ox. 
 And made the creature human, of that flesh 
 That rises in God's image on that day, 
 When spectral myriads of forgotten nations 
 Stalk from the earth and deep to meet their doom, 
 And in celestial armor feel a dread 
 That human weakness knew not. — We are told 
 All things were made for his use ; he consumes 
 Fish, flesh and fowl, and various fruits of earth 
 Combine to form and mingle in his frame. 
 Making themselves immortal by the change, ' 
 And subject to immortal punishment. 
 Better remain the fruit, the fish, the fowl 
 Than live as human, and to rise immortal 
 As some must rise ! — 
 
36 CHANGES. 
 
 ! strange metemsychosis ! 
 Lo ! man returns to motlier earth again, 
 And from his dust new slirubs and beasts are fed, 
 Wlio in like manner are by man consumed, 
 Throngli countless generations, making thus 
 Even the grave prolific, till earth's surface,* 
 By transmutation has at last become 
 The human family and not its grave ; 
 Flesh of our flesh and bone of human bone, 
 That, Saturn-like, devours her own creation 
 To feed an after progeny, and fatten 
 On the stark limbs and heart's blood of her children. 
 There's naught on earth wherein we find no 
 
 change — 
 Save empty pockets ! • 
 
THE fisherman's SONG. 87 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S SONG. 
 
 When the morning sun is breaking 
 
 In a pure and cloudless skj, 
 And the sleeping world is waking 
 
 With a burst of melody ; 
 Then we leave our humble dwelling, 
 
 Put our little bark to sea, 
 And though angry waves be swelling, 
 
 Still we sing, merrily, 
 Merrily, O merrily. 
 
 When the storm is madly roaring, 
 
 And death walks upon the wave, 
 Then we think of friends deploring 
 
 Lest we find a watery grave ! 
 Think then of our lowly dwelling, 
 
 While the winds pipe drearily, 
 Like wild dirges o'er us swelling, 
 
 Still we sing 0, merrily. 
 Merrily, Merrily. 
 
38 THE fisherman's song. 
 
 But our toils and dangers over, 
 
 Then the faggots brightly burn ; 
 Soon the festive board they cover, 
 
 And to welcome our return. 
 See the good wife blandly smiling 
 
 With the child on either knee, 
 And the bowl our cares beguiling. 
 
 Then we sing, O merrily, 
 Merrily, merrily. 
 
BOURNOUESEWAR SONG. 89 
 
 BOENOUESE WAE SONG 
 
 Thou God of our prophet! whose strength we all 
 
 own, 
 Whose smile is all sunshine, but tempest his frown ; 
 Look forth on the fight, make our spears like thy 
 
 flame, 
 To scathe where they strike, and to strike in thy 
 
 name. 
 
 Make the battle to us like the gay wedding feast. 
 And the neigh of our steeds like thy bolt in the east. 
 To the ears of the Kerdies : let us the fight wage 
 With the strength of the elephant — buffaloe's rage. 
 
 Make us rush upon danger with death in full view, 
 
 For glory is sweeter than honey when new ; 
 
 And the faithful who fight for their prophet and 
 
 creed, 
 Shall never expire, though in battle they bleed. 
 
40 BOURN OUESE WAR SONG. 
 
 And now for Mandara ! the battle of spears, 
 The thunder of strife and the blood-stream of tears ! 
 Wherever we strike, may wild terror prevail. 
 And the might of our strength make the Kerdies 
 bewail. 
 
 Our spears now shine forth like the red lightning 
 
 fire. 
 To shed the foul blood of the foes who conspire 
 To scoff at our prophet, his sheik and his laws — 
 The all-seeing eye that looks down on our cause. 
 
 Stronger than rocks, than the lion more fierce, 
 Our forest of spears shall the enemy pierce. 
 For who can the rage of the Bornouese restrain ? 
 The flame of his fixed eye what foeman sustain ? 
 
 Till prostrate on earth, they our mercy implore. 
 Acknowledge our prophet, and vow to adore. 
 Spear them, nor cease till the sun sees their bones, 
 And hyaenas feast in the midst of their groans. 
 
 The timbrels and zemtoos now bid us prepare, 
 The yerma is floating too, proudly in air ; 
 Then onward, believers, then onward ! away ! 
 The sword of the prophet must conquer to-day. 
 
THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 41 
 
 THE PLAGUE OF TKIPOLI 
 
 'Tis midnight, and the Ml orb'd moon, 
 
 A globe of fire, seems motionless ; 
 Yon dark clond will not pass it soon, 
 But hangs in token of distress. 
 For not a breath of air can stir 
 To move the tender gossamer. 
 
 Deserted is each busy street ; 
 
 The gorgeous halls dismantled now ; 
 Each object that the eye doth meet 
 
 Is tott'ring 'neath disease and woe. 
 The palaces and lofty towers. 
 
 Feel conscious that their pride is gone ; 
 The maiden's green and rosy bowers, 
 
 Are withering unseen, unknown. 
 
 Or now are sought by her alone 
 Who there had passed her blissful hours, 
 
42 THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 
 
 With him whom most on earth she. loved, 
 That she may bless her life's decay, 
 And calmly breathe her sonl away. 
 
 Where all her earthly bliss she proved. 
 
 But ah ! that pale one tottering there ! 
 
 Thy fate is not in bowers of roses ! 
 Hark, to her vain and dying prayer, 
 
 Whilst on the pavement she reposes ; 
 " A little water. Alia, give. 
 And then my trembling sonl receive ; 
 One drop to cool my burning breast ; 
 
 T' assuage my dying agony ; 
 One drop, one drop would give me rest ; 
 
 I knew not half the pain to die ! 
 I left my couch to cool the flame 
 That parches all my feeble frame, 
 
 But not one grateful breeze returns, 
 
 And e'en the flinty pavement burns ! — 
 My child, my child, why art thou here ? 
 
 Hence to our home of wildest woe ; 
 Leave me, or thou my fate must share ; — 
 
 'Tis death to kiss thy mother now ; 
 
 The big drops standing on my brow 
 
THE PLAGUE OP TRIPOLI. 43 
 
 Soon to the grave will press me ; 
 
 My feeble pulse is ebbing low ; 
 Bless thee, child, bless thee ! 
 Leave me, my child, to die alone ; 
 
 Leave me, it is my latest prayer ; 
 Touch not my corse when I am gone, 
 
 Or thou thy mother's fate must share." 
 Hush'd is the sigh ! the plaintive moan, 
 No struggle now, the spirit's flown. 
 
 Around her neck the infant clings. 
 
 Deeming his tender mother sleeps ; 
 " Wake, mother, wake," he fondly sings, 
 
 Then closer to her bosom creeps. 
 He seeks the lips that oft carest 
 
 With tenderest love her infant joy, 
 And little dreams the lips that blest 
 
 Him o'er and o'er, will now destroy. 
 
 " Wake, mother, wake," he fondly cries, 
 
 Then softly steals in sport away ; 
 He kisses now her rayless eyes ; 
 
 Now pats her cheek in infant play — 
 
 The livid cheek of gelid clay. 
 " Wake, mother, wake," or I will leave thee, 
 
 Fast sleeping here, 
 
44 THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 
 
 But that I know 'twould sadly grieve thee, 
 
 When I'm not near. 
 Forgive me, mother, do not weep, 
 
 And have I then disturb'd thy rest ? — 
 Sleep on, dear mother, calmly sleep, 
 
 And I will fan thy breast." 
 Beside the spotted corse he kneels 
 
 And waves his hand to stir the air ; 
 Now from her lips a kiss he steals, 
 
 Then glides away with care, 
 
 Lest he her endless sleep should break, 
 
 And smiles to see she does not wake. 
 
 The grey morn glimmers in the east. 
 And still he fans the clay cold breast ; 
 But he has watched so long her waking 
 He dreads that sleep will know no breaking. 
 Since e'en the startling cry he hears, 
 Disturb her not ; excites no fears. 
 
 " Bring forth your dead, the pitman comes, 
 To furnish the houseless with endless homes. 
 When the tenant is dust and blown away, 
 And the hands and the tools .that build, decay. 
 
 This still must last 
 
 In spite of the blast, 
 
THE PLAGUE OP TRIPOLI. 45 
 
 Or the tooth of Time that all corrodes, 
 Or the shock that crumbles mortal abode." 
 
 He passes the street where the corse is lying, 
 Which he heaves in the cart 'mid the dead and 
 
 the dying ; 
 His course resumes towards the spot, 
 Where the lord and the pauper together must 
 
 rot; 
 The proud, the meek, the great, the small, 
 The Christian, Jew, the Pagan and all. 
 And that little child crawls after the cart, 
 With fainting limbs and with sobbing heart. 
 
 While still arise, 'mid the pitman's cries 
 His plaintive wail, unmark'd by the other, 
 
 " My mother, oh ! my mother." 
 
 " Bring forth your dead," the cry resumes, 
 And sounds through the streets like a voice from 
 
 the tombs, 
 " Heed not the fondest ties of the heart ; 
 The bridegroom from the bride must part ; 
 The mother her infant child must yield. 
 And tottering age his staff and shield. 
 The miser, his gold and jewels now ; 
 A spot of death is on his brow. 
 
46 THE PLAGUE OF TRIPOLI. 
 
 But silence your anguisli and cease to complain 
 For those wlio are severed, shall soon meet again, 
 The plague poison's now every breath of the air, 
 And the grave shall be wide enough, and to 
 spare." 
 
 Faint on the pavement the babe is lying ; 
 The pitman hears him feebly crying ; 
 
 Without checking his horse 
 
 In his measured course, 
 He hurls the poor thing 'mid the dead and the 
 
 dying, 
 And his feeble voice is drown'd, 
 In the wild discordant sound. 
 Of rattling wheels and the horse's tread, 
 And the fearful cry, " bring forth your dead." 
 
 He's now at the grave where the wicked and just, 
 In the wildest confusion must mingle their dust ; 
 
 But each atom is known, 
 
 By the Omniscient One, 
 In whom now repose both their fear and their 
 trust. 
 
 The pitman covers the mortal clay 
 
 And to-morrow himself may be as they. 
 
FROM AMALTH^US. 47 
 
 FEOM AMALTH^US. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 There were three distinguislied Latin poets of 
 Italy of tliis name, whose compositions were printed 
 ai Amsterdam in 1685. The following epigram 
 was occasioned by the afl&iction of two children of 
 remarkable beanty, though each had lost an eye. 
 
 Lumine Aeon dextro, capta est Leonilla sinistro ; 
 
 Et poterat forma vincere uterque deos. 
 Parve pner, lumen quod habes concede sorori, 
 
 Sic tu csecus amor, sic erit ilia Yenus. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 Of his right eye young Aeon was bereft ; 
 
 His sister Leonilla lost the left ; 
 
 Still each in form can rival with the gods. 
 
 And, though both Cyclops, beat them by all odds. 
 
 Spare her, my boy, your blinker, be not stupid, 
 
 She then will be a Yenus, you a Cupid. 
 
48 THE COTTAGE LOVERS. 
 
 THE COTTAGE LOVERS 
 
 The mist of tlie morn is still gray on tlie mountain ; 
 The heather bell blooms on the brink of the 
 
 fountain ; 
 Soft murmurs the stream from the mossy rock 
 
 gushing, 
 But wildly and loud through the dark ravine 
 
 rushing. 
 
 The heath-cock is springing elate from his nest ; 
 The pale morn is sinking in calmness to rest ; 
 The first streak of light is seen over the ocean ; 
 The chorister's songs put the dull air in motion. 
 
 The horn of the huntsman sounds far o'er the hill ; 
 The voice of the fleet hound is frequent and shrill ; 
 While panting the chased stag appears at the lake ; 
 He swims the dark stream and then bounds through 
 the brake. 
 
THE COTTACxE LOVERS. 49^^ 
 
 How sweet is the woodbine o'er yon lattice creep- 
 ing, 
 
 Wliicli blushingly steals where the maiden is 
 
 sleeping, 
 How softly the breeze sounds that kisses the billow ; 
 But softer by far is the sigh on yon pillow I 
 
 The dash of the light oar is heard on the lake ; 
 The soft voice of love sings, " Awake, oh awake, 
 The first streak of morning is gray on the hill ; 
 The voice of the barn-cock is frequent and shrill. 
 
 " Then come, dearest come, where thy soul may 
 
 be free. 
 As the pure breeze that waft's o'er the marginless 
 
 sea; 
 We'll sport on life's stream as we gently pass o'er it, 
 And feel not the breeze as we're gliding before it." 
 
 The light form of one at the lattice is seen. 
 And ruby lips glow through the foliage of green, 
 Like a bud of the vine the fresh breezes perfuming, 
 Ere the breath of the morning has kissed it to 
 blooming. 
 
50 THE COTTAGE LOVERS. 
 
 " Oh come, dearest, come, to the cot of tlij lover. 
 Where souls may be free as the wings of the plover, 
 And hearts be as pure as the vestal maid's shrine, 
 And the day-star of true love shall never decline." 
 
 The maiden now stands on the brink of the stream, 
 A;id looks upon life as a fairy-like dream ; 
 For she hies to the spot where her soul may be blest, 
 "With a passion as mild as the dove in its nest. 
 
 On the stern of the skiff she is seated in haste ; 
 Her lover beside her, with arm round her waist ; 
 He presses her lips as they float from the shore, 
 And they mingle their songs with the dash of the 
 oar. 
 
 With spirits as wild as the fawn at the fountain. 
 They glide o'er the lake and then stroll up the 
 
 mountain, 
 Where the day-star of true love in beauty is 
 
 shining, 
 And burns still more brightly as life is declining. 
 
KISKAUKO. 51 
 
 KISKAUKO.^ 
 
 He wrong'd me, and when I forget 
 A kindness render'd, insult given, 
 May my last sun in darkness set, 
 
 And lie who rules the white man's heaven ! 
 Blot out my name, until I know. 
 Fully to pay both friend and foe. 
 
 The tide of time had cooled my blood ; 
 My hairs became both few and gray ; 
 And cheerful as the babbling flood 
 I hoped life's stream might pass away 
 But serpent-like he crossed my path, 
 And hissed to madness gray-hair'd wrath. 
 
 * The subject of the foregoing verses was a respectable 
 Indian Chief, who, for some private and long-endured wrong, 
 wreaked his vengeance in the manner stated, upon one of his 
 tribe. This occurred twenty years ago, near Detroit. The 
 murderer was arrested for the crime, convicted, and executed. 
 
52 KISKAUKO. 
 
 lie fancied that the old cliief' s ire, 
 
 Could be extinguish'd by bis breath ; 
 He saw pale ashes dim the fire, 
 
 And little thought hell burnt beneath. 
 In strife for life shall youth control? 
 No ! — strength's not sinew, but the soul. 
 
 We met, 'twas on a mountain's brow. 
 
 That beetled o'er a turbid flood ; 
 " Time once was yours," I cried, " but now 
 We tread a narrow path of blood." 
 He laugh'd, for in a deadly strife. 
 Age hath poor chance with youth for life. 
 
 His throat my fingers clasped ; 
 
 'Twas soul to soul and eye to eye ; 
 He quail'd ; for thickening breath he gasped 
 AVhile ravens croaked his destiny — 
 
 The strife was brief; I sneer 'd and smiled. 
 Then hurled him from me as a child. 
 
 " Roll on," I cried, " thou carrion slave !" 
 His death song was the raven's scream ; 
 From clifi* to rock he sought a grave. 
 And found it in the turbid stream. 
 
 Where now he floats with sluggish motion, 
 Ghastly and bloated through Time's ocean. 
 
K I S K A U K O. 53 
 
 And I before the pale face stand, 
 
 To meet the fate his laws decree; — 
 Milder the red-man's scourge and brand 
 Than death on Christian cross or tree ; 
 Tortur'd by laws too blind to know, 
 Maneto asks but blow for blow. 
 
 Some deeds call'd crimes by erring man, 
 
 Are glorious in the eye of God ; 
 Fiends oft seem angels in his plan, 
 While angels animate a clod ; 
 To prove his justice cannot be, 
 Time born but of Eternity. 
 
54 HOPE. 
 
 HOPE 
 
 Hope in the young heart springeth, 
 As flowers in the infant year ; 
 
 Hope in the young heart singeth, 
 As birds when the flowers appear. 
 
 Hope in the old heart dieth, 
 As wither those early flowers ; 
 
 Hope from the old heart flieth, 
 As the birds from wintry bowers. 
 
 But spring will revive the flower ; 
 
 And the birds return to sing ; 
 And death will renew Hope's power 
 
 In the old heart withering. 
 
PROLOGUE TO ORALLOOSA. 55 
 
 PROLOGUE TO ORALLOOSA.* 
 
 To wake the mould'ring aslies of the dead, 
 
 And o'er forgotten ages light to ^hed, 
 
 Until the picture in such colors glows, 
 
 That Place approaches, —Time his power foregoes 
 
 T' anatomise the pulses of the soul, 
 
 From gentlest throb to throes beyond control : 
 
 The varied passions from their germ to trace, 
 
 Till Reason totters from her judgment place ; 
 
 To call the latent seeds of virtue forth, 
 
 And urge the mind to deeds of lasting worth. 
 
 For this the Stage in ancient days arose ; 
 
 In teaching this she triumphed o'er her foes, 
 
 And soon became, in spite of bigot rule, 
 
 A nation's glory, and a nation's school. 
 
 Too long we've been accustom'd to regard 
 Alone the dogmas of some foreign bard ; 
 
 * Dr. Bird's Tragedy. 
 
56 PROLOGUE TO ORALLOOSA. 
 
 Too long imagined, 'neath our shifting skies, 
 " That Fancy sickens, and that Genius dies." 
 Dreaming, when Freedom left old Europe's shore, 
 Spread the strong wing new regions to explore, 
 Her altar in the wilderness to raise, 
 "Where all might bend and safely chaunt her praise, 
 The gifted nine refused to join her train. 
 And still amidst their ruined haunts remain. — 
 Banish the thought ; extend the fostering hand, 
 And wild-eye'd Genius soars at your command ; 
 With " native wood-notes wild" our hills shall 
 
 swell 
 Till all confess the muses with us dwell. 
 
 Our bard, to-night, a bold adventurer grown, 
 A flio'ht has taken to the torrid zone ; — 
 Calls from the grave the ruthless Spaniard's dust, 
 To meet the judgment of the free and just, 
 Shows, in the progress of his mournful song. 
 The Indian's vengeance and the Indian's wrong : 
 How bigots, with the cross, and sword in hand, 
 Unpeopled and laid waste the peaceful land, 
 Then scourg'd the conquered with an iron rod 
 And stabb'd for gold with seeming zeal for God. 
 
 Critics ! a word ! — we pray be not too hard 
 On native actor or on native bard. 
 
* 
 PROLOGUE TO ORAL LOOS A. 57 
 
 A second time tli' offenders stand before you, 
 Therefore for mercy humbly we implore you. 
 When last arraigned the cause was ably tried, 
 For Gladiatoks battled on their side : 
 Took you by storm : — ere you knew what to say 
 The valiant rogues had fairly won the day. 
 Should Okalloosa prove a victor too, 
 His triumph here repays for lost Peru. 
 
58 FAREWELL ADDRESS. 
 
 FAKEWELL ADDRESS. 
 
 We are all pilgrims here. From clime to clime 
 We're doom'd to wander through the realms of 
 
 time; 
 Some with light hearts — others their journey trace, 
 Like Noah's dove, without a resting place : 
 No olive branch appears above the wave ; 
 No sign of peace until they reach the grave. 
 
 We are all pilgrims here. We journey on, 
 Hoping the ideal meed may yet be won, 
 Day after day, scene after scene flits by. 
 And scarcely leaves a trace on memory ! 
 Still, though the promise of the present day. 
 Like morning mists, should quickly pass away. 
 We trust the morrow may our hopes fulfil, 
 And hug the phantom confidently still. 
 
 * Spoken by Mrs. Sloman, at her farewell benefit at the 
 Chestnut Street Theatre. 
 
FAREWELLADDRESS. 59 
 
 Thrice bless'd are they, who in their progress find 
 
 One joyous scene to captivate the mind ; 
 
 Stamp, on the mem'ry in such bold relief 
 
 As bids defiance to all future grief ; 
 
 A spot of green that in the waste of years, 
 
 Will freshly bloom, though watered by our tears. 
 
 That boon is mine — for ne'er shall I forget 
 The kind reception that I here have met. 
 Time may roll on, and space may intervene, 
 But nought can cloud the mem'ry of that scene. 
 
 I came a stranger from a distant shore, 
 Left kindred, friends, new regions to explore ; 
 I sought the country that gave birth to one. 
 Whose name still stands, and ever must — alone ! 
 Where freedom moves in beauty, unconfined ; 
 The exile's home ; the nation of mankind ! 
 Where all the stranger's welcome did extend, 
 Until the welcome made the stranger — friend. 
 
 Land of the brave and free, though now we part, 
 I bear those sacred feelings in my heart, 
 That when between us rolls the expansive sea, 
 " My mind untravell'd still will turn to thee ;" 
 
60 FAREWELLADDRESS. 
 
 The happy hours I've past, again live o'er, 
 And friends far distant, to my soul restore ; 
 Still scan with rapture life's most flattering page, 
 Until death's curtain falls upon the stage. 
 
A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER. 61 
 
 A HEALTH TO MY BROTHEK. 
 
 Fill tlie bowl to the brim, there's no use in com- 
 plaining ; 
 
 We'll drown the dark dream, while a care is 
 remaining ; 
 
 And though the sad tear may embitter the wine, 
 
 Drink half, never fear, the remainder is mine. 
 
 True, others may drink in the lightness of soul. 
 But the pleasure I think is the tear in the bowl ; 
 Then fill up the bowl with the roseate wine. 
 And the tears of my soul shall there mingle with 
 thine. 
 
 And that being done, we will quaff it, my brother ; 
 Who drinks of the one should partake of the other. 
 Thy head is now gray, and I follow with pain, — 
 Pshaw! think of our day, and we're children again. 
 
62 A HEALTH TO MY BROTHER. 
 
 'Tis folly to grieve that our life's early vision 
 Shone but to deceive, and then flit in derision. 
 A fairy -like show, far too fragile to last ; 
 As bright as the rainbow and fading as fast. 
 
 'Tis folly to mourn that our hearts' foolish kindness, 
 Eeceive in return but deceit for their blindness ; 
 And vain to regret that false friends have all flown ; 
 Since fortune hath set, we can buffet alone. 
 
 Then fill up the glass, there's no use in repining 
 That friends quickly leave us, when fortune's 
 
 declining — 
 Let each drop a teai: in the roseate bowl ; 
 A tear that's sincere, and then pledge to the soul. 
 
ANSWER TO *'A HEALTH." G3 
 
 ANSWER TO "A HEALTH TO MY 
 BROTHEE." 
 
 BY WM. E. SMITH, OF WISCONSIN. 
 
 Yes, brother, quaff the gen'rous bowl, 
 
 Though tears have mingled with the wine ; 
 
 Our pledge — let each congenial soul 
 
 Respond— " Thy joys, thy griefs, are mine!" 
 
 Our sun of youth rose brightly gleaming, 
 And promised flowers in every path ; 
 
 How soon, aroused from blissful dreaming, 
 We struggled with the whirlwind's wrath ; 
 
 Now, in the world alone, my brother, 
 
 Two scions of one parent tree. 
 Soon shall the earth, our common mother, 
 
 Reclaim her own, and set us free! 
 
64 ANSWER TO ^'A HEALTH. 
 
 Religion teaches souls immortal 
 To bear submissive worldly pain ; 
 
 For, soaring up to heaven's portal, 
 The pure in bliss shall live again. 
 
 Then let us bear our griefs awhile — 
 No cause exists to shed a tear. 
 
 When we look backward with a smile. 
 And forward gaze without a fear. 
 
PROLOGUE TO THE '^RED ROVER." 65 
 
 PKOLOGUE TO THE "EED ROYEE." 
 
 Spoken by Mr. "Wemyss and Mr. S. Chapman. 
 Enter the Manager, followed by the Call-Boy. 
 
 Manager. Another author ! what is this yon say, 
 Another author, with another play — 
 Who vows with all the vehemence of rage, 
 That I onust forthwith bring it on the stage ; 
 The fellow's mad — stark mad — to brave the town, 
 And vi et armis^ force his rubbish down ; 
 But show him in — (exit boy ;) they shall not make 
 
 me fear 
 Tho' authors now like Banquo's race, appear 
 A moment, and then vanish. 
 
 (Enter Author.) — Sir, your most — 
 A virgin author, to give up the ghost. 
 
 Author. You're wrong, my friend, my drama ; — 
 
 (offers MS.) 
 Manager. Let me see! 
 
 Author. We'll charm the town, and fill your 
 treasury. 
 
66 PROLOGUE TO THE *'RED ROVER." 
 
 Manager. A modest youth — the town — I under- 
 stand ; 
 
 But genius-like, you write a d d crarnp'd hand, 
 
 Which I cannot decypher ; — Sir, no doubt 
 You can explain what this is all about. 
 
 Author. The title will explain — there — there, turn 
 over; 
 One leaf speaks volumes. 
 
 Manager. (Reading.) — " The Red Rover." 
 A cunning rogue, the critics to confound. 
 Here builds his fabric on another's ground ; 
 But let us hear what arguments you bring, 
 By way of recommending this strange thing. 
 
 Author. Our scenes are drawn from Cooper's 
 graphic page, 
 Sufficient passport, surely, to the stage. 
 Sublime his taste — in beauty e'en profuse ; 
 Yet yielding little to the Drama's muse. 
 For these descriptions, which with nature vie, 
 The painter's brush but feebly can supply ; 
 Yet much depends upon the painter's art ; 
 And how — the plane — and saw — perform their part. 
 So critics who uphold the stagyrite. 
 May close their ears, and shut their eyes to-night. 
 
 Manager. Zounds! how is this? 
 
PROLOGUE TO THE ^^RED ROVER." G7 
 
 Author. Be patient, you shall see, 
 A scene to tickle the catastrophe; 
 " One," as Bays say, " shall set the audience mad, 
 And pit, and box, and gallery it, egad. 
 With anything extant." 
 
 Manager. (Surprised.) — You mean to say. 
 With hammer, paint, and boards, you wrote ikts 
 play. ^ I 
 
 Author. Precisely so. 
 
 Manager. And should it chance to hit. 
 Of course you'll lay a claim to taste and wit. 
 
 Author. You're right again. 
 
 Manager. Modest, — but if it fails — 
 
 Author. Well! damn the carpenter, the boards 
 and nails. 
 But that's impossible — impossible. 
 
 Manager. Indeed! 
 
 Author. My dukedom to a dernier, 'twill succeed. 
 A showy drama from a native tale. 
 In this fair city, ne'er was known to fail. 
 
 Manager. We'll try that point. 
 
 Author. Perhaps 'twill be the rage ; 
 The " Eover" — what ! already on the stage — 
 This looks like expediton, cries that heau^ 
 While sauntering in the lobby, to and fro 
 
5 PROLOGUE TO THE ''RED ROVER. 
 
 A wisli to please tlie town ; egad ! that's right — 
 A native play — I'll take a box to-niglit. 
 
 Manager. To please tlie town has been, I here 
 declare, 
 My proudest study, and my hourly care ; 
 And when I prove imperfect in the part, 
 The fault lies here ; (touching his head,) but comes 
 
 not near the heart 
 The wish to please, at least all must allow : 
 The " RoverJ'' shall be done — so make your bow. 
 
 Exeunt together. 
 
LINES TO A FAVOURITE ACTRESS. 69 
 
 LINES TO A FAYOUEITE 
 ACTEESS* 
 
 That thou art fair and lovely the coldest heart must 
 
 feel, 
 And the arrows that thy dark eyes shoot would 
 
 pierce a heart of steel ; 
 Thy lips will match the coral, and thy teeth with 
 
 pearls may vie. 
 Thy locks are of the raven's hue, thy step is 
 
 majesty. 
 
 Thy every look and action is fraught with match- 
 less grace, 
 
 And those who once have seen thee, can thy image 
 ne'er efi'ace ; 
 
 But what avails, thou fair one, the arrows of thine 
 eyes? 
 
 They're quick to shoot, but cannot reach time's 
 strong wings as he flies. 
 
 * Mrs. I). P. Bowers. 
 
70 LINES TO A FAVOURITE ACTRESS. 
 
 Thy check where health now revels, and the lips 
 
 where roses grow. 
 ! soon will fade, in the dust be laid, and grass 
 
 from out them grow. 
 And she whose grace and beauty made the coldest 
 
 bosom burn, 
 As a brilliant ray must pass away and dust to dust 
 
 return. 
 
 But wdiat wise mortal can foretell the fate of his 
 remains, 
 
 A crock may from his bones be formed, and brick- 
 bats of his brains ; 
 
 And in some future age, perhaps, a potter may 
 discover. 
 
 The porcelain clay of her who fixed the heart of 
 many a rover. 
 
 And from the sj^ren of the stage may make a tea- 
 pot fine. 
 
 If that's thy fate, I trust he'll make a water-pot of 
 mine, 
 
 That I may meet my lovely friend upon a silver 
 tray, • 
 
 And still enjoy the presence of the Jordan of the 
 day. 
 
S O N G F M R T A L I T Y. 71 
 
 SONG OF MOETALITY. 
 
 Overture^ full orchestra. 
 Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 
 Whj drag our chains so wearily! 
 
 1st vocie — Young Debauchery. 
 The hectic spot upon my cheek, 
 
 My wasted frame, my shortened breath ; 
 My voice subdued, my spirit meek 
 
 Proclaim the near approach of death. 
 
 2nd Voice — Truth. 
 These mortal vestments, soiled and torn 
 
 You'll lay aside as over worn ; 
 And ne'er again shall you resume — 
 Such gear as useless in the tomb. 
 
 Chorus, 
 
 Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 
 
 Why drag your chains so wearily ! 
 
72 SONG OF MORTALITY. 
 
 Srd Voice — Old Decrepitude. 
 Thougli slowly moving, swiftly going ; 
 
 (Like snow in spring dissolving fast,) 
 To where no fiery snn is glowing, 
 
 Where I shall fear no wintry blast. 
 
 2nd Voice — Truth. 
 Where all the heavy laden rest ; 
 
 Without oppressor, or oppressed — 
 Where truth and justice ever flowing. — 
 
 Srd Voice — Old Decrepitude. 
 I feel I'm going. — 
 
 2nd Voice. 
 Chorus. 
 
 You are going. 
 
 Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 
 Why drag your chain so wearily ! 
 
 4:th Voice — Sanctified Hypocrisy. 
 Though I brought nothing in this world, 
 
 My anxious spirit hopes to see 
 When its last pinions are unfurled. 
 
 Time's death beget eternity. 
 
SONG OF MORTALITY. 
 
 2nd Voice — Truth. 
 Did jou bring notliing — have yon grown 
 
 From earth, where seed was never sown ? 
 Yet hope to take — though blnrred, indeed, 
 
 A record for your God to read ? 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Sing, sing, and dance it cheerily — 
 
 Why drag your chain so wearily ! 
 
 ^th Voice — Human Nature. 
 Nay ye brought all — to man was given 
 
 The greatest gift — The power to be — 
 Enjoy, prepare a soul for heaven. 
 
 And stand before Immensity. 
 
 2nd Voice— Truth. 
 And is this nothing ? a mere clod, 
 Endued with attributes of God, 
 By him approved and stamped as good ? 
 
 All the voices. 
 All nothing " says Ingratitude. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Sing, sing, and dance it merrily — 
 
 Why drag your chains so wearily ! 
 
L E S B I A S SPARROW. 
 
 FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 LESBIA'S SPARKOW 
 
 ''^ Lugite^ Oh I Veneres Cupidenesquey 
 
 Ye Cupids droop jowx lieads and mourn, 
 My Lesbia's favorite sparrow's gone, 
 
 WMcli she did prize, 
 
 More than her eyes. 
 He was so fond and faithful too, 
 
 Whene'er a pang touch'd Lesbia's breast, 
 
 He'd nestle in the place distrest, 
 As if he were in love with woe. 
 
 But when a smile her face o'erspread. 
 With joy he'd raise his drooping head. 
 
 Then plume his wing. 
 
 And chirp and sing. 
 His heart brim full of song and play ! 
 
 Then fondly bite her coral lip, 
 
 All twittering now the nectar sip. 
 And then in frolic wing away. 
 
LESBTAS SPARROW. <0 
 
 Upon her finger he wonld stand, 
 And eat Ms meal from her fair hand, 
 
 His feathers sleek, 
 
 And wipe his beak ; — 
 Her laughing eyes with joy wonld glisten. 
 
 When speaking in a playful mood 
 
 He'd chirp as if he understood. 
 And archly turned his head to listen. 
 
 Oh, death ! curst be thy craving jaws, 
 That never yield to Pity's laws, 
 
 For kindred dear 
 
 Or friends sincere ; 
 But thou a shaft for all art steeping ; 
 
 Even this sparrow thou hast ta'en. 
 
 For whose sad fate I now complain. 
 And Lesbia's eyes are red with weeping. 
 
« 
 
 76 THE OLD man's lament. 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S LAMENT. 
 
 Mj boyliood, my boyliood 1 lias long since passed 
 
 away, 
 And like tlie flowers of spring its hours have faded 
 
 in decay, 
 And time, with all his promises, hath yielded scarce 
 
 a joy 
 That can repay those swept away from me whilst 
 
 yet a boy. 
 
 The world lay fresh before me and like a summer 
 
 bird. 
 On eager wing I rose to sing where melody was 
 
 heard. 
 The heavens were calm, the air was balm, the earth 
 
 was gemm'd with flowers ; 
 And shouts of joy without alloy brought on the 
 
 winged hours. 
 
THE OLD man's LAMENT. 77 
 
 But now I mourn mj infancy, as I my babes 
 
 deplore, 
 Who like bright visions flitted b}^ and then were 
 
 seen no more. 
 But when as they I passed awa}^, O ! not a tear was 
 
 shed, 
 Although my boyhood is a thing now number'd 
 
 with the dead. 
 
 All radiant in their innocence my babes again shall 
 
 live; 
 But the bright boy that time destroy'd no power 
 
 can bid revive, 
 And of the beings manifold that breath'd and moved 
 
 in me. 
 An old man broken down with care is all that God 
 
 will see. • 
 
 My boyhood — my manhood ! have vanish'd like the 
 wind, 
 
 Or eager birds that clip the air and leave no trace 
 behind, 
 
 They lived — they died — both suicide, and are for- 
 ever gone, 
 
 Or at the judgment I appear a myriad in one. 
 
FISHING SONG. 
 
 FISHING SONG.-^ 
 
 Come, pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row, 
 We all are lishermen here below. 
 Some fisli on land, and some on sea. 
 And some wliere fisli could never be. 
 Some bob for whale and some for sprats. 
 While others catch but water rats. 
 
 No matter where our boats we row. 
 
 We find all fishing here below. 
 
 The statesman who protests that he 
 Would die for us and liberty : 
 The swain who swears ^n spite of time, 
 The wealthy widow's in her prime : 
 The demagogue who makes a fuss, — 
 Are fishing all to gudgeon us. 
 
 Then pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row, 
 
 We all are fishing here below. 
 
 * Written for the Centennial Celebration of the Fisliinj 
 Company of the State in Schuylkill, May 1, 1832. 
 
FISHING SONG. 79 
 
 The lawyer casts the wily net, 
 The parson, too, some lines has set. 
 The damsel, timid as the deer. 
 The widow with the roguish leer, 
 Though modest as the wife of Lot, 
 Are fishing both for— you know what. 
 
 Then pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row, 
 
 We all are fishing here below. 
 
 Yes, e'en heloiv extends the plan. 
 Old Nick himself 's a fisherman. 
 And few like him can bait a hook— 
 The best, sometimes, have "fisher's luck?" 
 But rain or shine, what e'er befall. 
 He never gets a water haul. 
 
 Then pull, boys, pull, and row, boys, row. 
 
 We all are fishing here below. 
 
80 ODE. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 Head at the celebration of Penn's Landing, 24th October, 1829. 
 
 Let poets sing tlie Yictor's praise, 
 And Time, until his latest days, 
 
 Tlie eclio of tlie strain prolong ; 
 Let Fame the bloody page record ; 
 The human sacrifice applaud, 
 " And nations deify the sword," 
 Far other thoughts demand my song. 
 
 O ! what was he of Zama's plain. 
 Or they who piled the countless slain 
 
 At Marathon — Thermopylae ! 
 To him for whom our strains ascend. 
 Who taught the savage knee to bend 
 Who made the savage foe his friend. 
 
 And gain'd a bloodless victory. 
 
ODE. 31 
 
 The Victor's laurel \\rreatli must fade • 
 
 The sceptre in the dust be laid ; 
 
 The proudest works of man consume. 
 Obedient to the voice of God, 
 Together in their last abode, 
 The beggar and the prince corrode— 
 
 Virtue alone defies the tomb. 
 
 Then sing his praise whose copious plan, 
 Confess'd the work of God in man, 
 
 And from The Book his precepts drew ; 
 
 At whose approach the forest smil'd ; 
 
 A brother found in nature's child 
 His brother's breafet of fear beguil'd, 
 
 'Till strong the bond of friendship grew. 
 
 Let others sing the warrior's deed, 
 
 Who lives to make a nation bleed, 
 
 Then meteor-like from earth depart ; 
 
 Mj humble muse I consecrate 
 
 To him who raised— not crush'd a state : 
 
 Whose victories were countless— great ! 
 
 For lo ! he conquer'd ev'ry heart 
 6 
 
ODE. 
 
 Then never be his name forgot 
 And verdant be that hallow'd spot, 
 
 Beneath the ancient Elm tree's shade, 
 Where erst the lesson was imbib'd 
 Of faith unbroken — virtue tried ; 
 And now upon the stone inscrib'd, 
 
 Rever'd and classic ground has made. 
 
L A T I N P E M. 83 
 
 LATIN POEM. 
 
 VitcB Humancz Tempora. 
 
 BY WM. ALEXANDER. 
 
 Mane veni ; erat Yer, 
 
 Atque risi. 
 Meridiano tempore, 
 
 Perdeambulavi, 
 Erat iEstas ; 
 
 Atque gavisus Sum. 
 Consedi Yesperi ; 
 
 Erat Autumnus; 
 Atque tristiti^ affectus Sum, 
 Nocte quieti me dedi ; 
 Erat Hy ems; atque dormivi. 
 
84 SEASONSOFLIFE. 
 
 SEASONS OF LIFE. 
 
 A Paraphrase of Wm. Alexander'' s Latin Poem, 
 
 I came in Morning ; it was Spring, 
 
 And I smiled. 
 At Mid-day, I, on eager wing, 
 Kambled o'er the green to sing, 
 
 As bird or cliild. 
 It now was Summer, fruitful, bland, 
 My Soul and Joy walked hand in hand 
 O'er flowery fields in merry glee ; 
 I smiled at Joy, he laughed at me. 
 
 Shades of eve came slowly on, 
 'Twas Autumn now; 
 
 My joys had vanished one by one, 
 Grief pressed my brow. 
 Although my breast was sore distrest, 
 Soon night approached to give me rest ; 
 'Twas Winter now, all nature wept ; 
 I shed no tear, but calmly slept. 
 
FRAGMENT. 85 
 
 FRAGMENT.* 
 
 Art thou a husband ? — hast thou lost 
 The partner of thy joys — thy woes ; 
 
 Didst watch her when in anguish tost, 
 And share the dire conflicting throes 
 
 Of agonized mortality, 
 
 Till e'en to thee 'twas bliss to close 
 
 The last fond look of her glazed eye ? 
 
 Art thou a father ? — hath thy son, 
 The prop of thy declining life, 
 
 Fail'd ere his manly race was run. 
 And left thee to a world of strife ? 
 
 * From a poem entitled Francesca, written before the 
 author was aware that Leigh Hunt had pre-occupied the 
 subject. This circumstance induced him to withhold it from 
 publieatiou. 
 
86 F R A G M E N T. 
 
 Dost tliou pursue in cold neglect 
 
 The remnant of tliy journey here ; 
 No one thy frailties to protect, 
 
 Or gray-hair'd sorrows to revere ? 
 Is it denied thy stricken heart 
 
 To gaze upon the face of one, 
 Who seem'd thy former counter part, 
 
 Kecalling ages long since gone ? 
 To see the follies that were thine 
 
 When life ran frolic through each vein ; 
 And thus, e'en in thy life's decline 
 
 To live the hours of youth again. 
 
 Art thou a lover ? — is the theme 
 
 Of all thy raptures torn from thee ? 
 Hast broke the wild ecstatic dream 
 
 And woke to actual agony ? 
 The eyes where countless cup ids play'd ; 
 
 The form as light as gossamer ; 
 The neck where thy warm lips have stray'd- 
 
 Say, does the grave-worm fatten there ? 
 
 If so, say, hast thou never known 
 The joy of gazing on the sky 
 
 While nature sleeps, and you alone 
 Seem roused to thought and misery. 
 
FRAGMENT. 87 
 
 Hast never watched tlie pallid moon, 
 
 "While rested on some sifted cloud, 
 Pure as the fretful ocean's foam, 
 
 And filthy as an angel's shroud. 
 Gazed on her while her cresent pride 
 
 Seem'd through a sea of pitch to float ; 
 Then from the depth of darkness glide, 
 
 And burst to view a fairy boat ; 
 And shed her beams so strong and bright, 
 
 That the globe seemed a crysolite ? 
 'Tis heavenly at that hour to muse. 
 
 When sleep is o'er the senses stealing, 
 And e'en to agony profuse. 
 
 Indulge the luxury of feeling. 
 The features to recall of those. 
 
 Who moulder in their last repose ; 
 To chase each image that may rise 
 
 In mockery before the eyes, 
 Until you catch the happy clue 
 
 That brings to life the wonted smile, 
 And gives the cheek its roseate hue 
 
 That moulders in decay the while ; 
 Then dead to reason ; dead to pain. 
 You dream an hour of bliss again. 
 
88 APOLOGUE, 
 
 APOLOGUE 
 
 A Tar, who long had roam'd the main, 
 About to trust the sea again. 
 Was thus addressed at his departure, 
 By Hodge, who had no faith in water. 
 " Your father, and his sire before him, 
 
 And many others of your stock, sir. 
 Have left their children to deplore 'em, 
 
 Stow'd snug away in Davy's locker ; 
 
 Then how the d 1 can it be, 
 
 You trust again the treacherous sea ?" 
 
 " Pray answer me," Jack Tar replied, 
 
 " And where was it your father died ?" 
 
 " He died," quoth Hodge, and scratch'd his head, 
 
 " Where his own father died — in bed." 
 
 " You're a bold man, if that's the case," 
 
 Said Jack, " to trust to such a place : 
 
 The scene where all your tribe were slain — 
 
 Pray never go to bed again." 
 
TO 89 
 
 TO 
 
 When lowly in the dust thou 'rt laid, 
 And all has faded, that can fade, 
 I shall not shed one tear for thee. 
 To stain thy Angel purity. 
 
 Tho' thou art all on earth I own. 
 The spot my spirit rests upon ; 
 Till torn with earthly agonies. 
 It finds a solace in the skies. 
 
 Tho' in thy angel breast I trace 
 The link that binds me to my race : 
 And tho' I feel when thou art gone, 
 I here shall wander — dark — alone. 
 
 Yet not one bitter tear shall flow, 
 To break thy sleep — to sooth my woe ; 
 No sigh be heav'd — no tear be shed. 
 No more than if thou wert not dead. 
 
90 TO 
 
 For wlio could slied one tear for tliee, 
 Knowing, belov'd, tliy purity? 
 Say, who could force one sinful tear. 
 To mourn tliy loss, to wish thee here ? 
 
 But if one tear should chance to flow, 
 Belov'd, it shall not spring from woe ; 
 But calmly to thy grave be given. 
 To prove, I feel that thou 'rt in Heaven ! 
 
MNES. 91 
 
 LINES. 
 
 There is an liour of sadness — 
 A balm for every woe — 
 
 A wild delusive madness, 
 
 Tliat forms our Heaven below. 
 
 'Tis when at eve we're roving, 
 To brood upon our pain, 
 
 And feel the pangs of loving, 
 Yet dream of bliss again. 
 
 E'en then the eye that waileth, 
 Will glisten tbrough. the tear ; 
 
 E'en then the hope that faileth, 
 Is calm and doubly dear. 
 
 Oh ! Mary, though now parted, 
 It brings thee to my sight ; 
 
 Though almost broken hearted, 
 I feel a faint delight. 
 
92 LINES. 
 
 That tells nie hard fate left as 
 One hope to rest upon, 
 
 The act that has bereft us, 
 Had made our Spirits one. 
 
T A L A D Y. 93 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 Upon her ashing " What is LoveV 
 
 And can'st thou dearest gravely ask 
 The meaning of the word " to Love ?" 
 
 How could'st thou teach so oft the task, 
 And yet its meaning never prove ? 
 
 But since thou'st taught my breast to burn 
 
 With love's delightful misery, 
 It were but justice in return 
 
 That I should teach the same to thee. 
 
 But, ah ! my tongue would strive to tell 
 
 In vain the agony I feel, 
 For as the trembling accents fell 
 
 Thy cheeks would check the tender tale. 
 
 Then in my breast, thy blushes hide ; 
 
 The brain the meaning ne'er can prove ; 
 The heart will tell, and thou'lt not chide, 
 
 The heart alone can tell what's love. 
 
94 SONG. 
 
 SOJSTG 
 
 There's not on earth a joy so sweet 
 
 As that the tender maiden proves — 
 When kneeling — sighing at her feet, 
 She see's the youth she fondly loves. 
 She weeps and heaves a broken sigh ; 
 And cannot tell the reason why. 
 
 There's not on earth a pang so great, 
 
 As that which stabs the doating fair, 
 Who falls deserted — knows her fate ; 
 Her lover false — her life despair, 
 She weeps and heaves a broken sigh. 
 And well she knows the reason why. 
 
LINES WRITTEN, ETC. 95 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF MISS 
 ELLEN M . 
 
 I walked with thee beneath the sky, 
 When the angels had hung their lamps on high, 
 And I loved the moon as in early years 
 Ere I found this world was a world of tears, 
 And I loved the stars with a holy love 
 For they win the soul to their realms above, 
 And I thought what a heaven of joy 'twould be 
 l^o rove through that world of love with thee. 
 
 But I turned from God's resplendent skies 
 To gaze in the heaven of thy blue eyes ; 
 little dreaming I there should see 
 The star of my evil destiny, 
 That told me there is nought to hope, 
 Within my gloomy horoscope. 
 
96 LINES WRITTEN IN THE 
 
 Ellen — I love thee for that name 
 
 So long familiar to my tongue, — 
 So cherished in my heart, my brain. 
 
 When life and love and hope were young. 
 That there is not a sound on earth, 
 
 Nay, there is not a note in heaven, 
 Could waken to a second birth 
 
 The holy feelings crush'd and riven. 
 
 In my poor heart, like that dear name, 
 It comes like the eternal flame 
 Of light on chaos, rousing up 
 
 The speeches of departed years — 
 They tempt me with the rosy cup, 
 
 I taste and find it steep'd with tears, 
 Still do I love thee for that name. 
 More than ambition, power or fame. 
 
 Thou little dreamest, gentle one. 
 
 The mischief that thine eyes have done ; 
 
 How like a little thief you stole, 
 
 Into the cloister of my soul, 
 
 And scattered round my foolish heart, 
 
 Visions of bliss, so heavenly wild, 
 Like to an angel's whisperings 
 In the ear of a sleeping child. 
 
ALBUM OP MISS ELLEN M 07 
 
 Still I'll not blame the artless wile 
 That killed me with an angel's smile, 
 Though, true, at times, I may regret 
 We ever parted, ever met. 
 And I may grieve, that thou wilt be 
 As dear to others, as thou'rt to me. 
 
 But fare thee well — we soon must part 
 
 And ne'er perhaps to meet again, 
 I bear thy image on my heart. 
 
 And on the tablets of my brain 
 Is written much that I shall read. 
 
 When thou'rt not near, and thy loved voice 
 Shall cease to make my bosom bleed, 
 
 With recollection of the joys 
 Of former days, and as the flower 
 
 Kill'd by the wintry snow and rain, 
 Peeps forth at spring's reviving power 
 
 E'en so my heart may bloom again. 
 And so my thoughts still fondly dwell with thee 
 Love, Hope and Joy will break their sepulchre. 
 
98 SONG. 
 
 SOJ^G, 
 
 Yes I should mourn, 
 
 The false friends gone — 
 If you had left me too forlorn, 
 
 But still you are ; 
 
 The Polar star ; 
 That guides my weary foot-steps on. 
 
 A meteor light, 
 
 In the darksome night. 
 Whilst all around the stars are set, 
 
 That struggles to show, 
 
 In the midst of woe. 
 There are things worthy living for yet. 
 
 "Whilst your smiles beam 
 Thro' life's dark dream. 
 Unbroken 'twill be with sigh or tear, 
 I shall not grieve, 
 If fate but leave. 
 The angel that cheers my existence here. 
 
TO 99 
 
 TO 
 
 When tlie gloom of the grave is around me, 
 And the scene of mortality sunk in decay ; 
 
 When the visions of love that so madly had bound 
 me 
 To thee, and despair have all flitted away. 
 
 Perchance thou'lt remember that I did adore thee, 
 And cease to reproach the sad spirit that's gone ; 
 
 Nay e'en thy proud bosom may deign to deplore 
 me 
 When virtues, not faults, are remember'd alone. 
 
 When thou shalt remember how fondly you hung 
 On the breast where the grave-worm make his 
 repast ; 
 How falsely you smiled and how madly I clung 
 To the lips that swore they would love to the 
 last 
 
100 TO 
 
 Perchance tliQU wilt weep, and oh! well I may 
 claim, 
 
 One drop of affliction to hallow my nrn : 
 The tears that I've shed in my anguish and shame 
 
 May ask this of thee as a trifling return. 
 
 Since our fatal loves, a dark record of crime. 
 Imagined or real has been blazon'd to me : 
 
 Eeproach for my faults ! Heaven knows since that 
 time. 
 My greatest was too much affection for thee. 
 
 But now let that pass, since you wish to forget 
 That I once adored, and your bosom could feel, 
 
 I shall not recall the sad moment we met. 
 
 And the scenes that soon follow'd, shall strive to 
 conceal. 
 
 Aye, even from thee, for if there be a sting 
 In recalling the past, I should cease to repine. 
 
 Could I bear it alone, and reflection ne'er bring 
 One pang to the heart that has near broken 
 mine. 
 
THE COQUETTE. 101 
 
 THE COQUETTE, 
 
 I love little Marj to madness 
 I've told lier a hundred times o'er, 
 From all I have hidden my sadness, 
 Yet all seem to know I adore. 
 
 How is it the world should discover 
 The secret I closely conceal ; 
 And she alone know not I love her. 
 Though I daily my passion reveal ? 
 
102 TO ELLEN. 
 
 STANZAS — TO ELLEN 
 
 I knew thee when tliy heart was light, 
 As down beneath a seraph's wing, 
 
 No tears thy rosy cheeks to blight 
 
 Or thought that left the poisoning sting ; 
 When all was calm within thy breast. 
 As the grave where sainted mortals rest. 
 
 I clung round thee then, 
 
 In the madness of bliss. 
 
 And felt naught was worth living for, 
 
 Ellen, save this. 
 
 I knew thee when thy heart was rent. 
 Thy brain to madness nearly driven ; • 
 
 "When every earthly hope was spent, 
 And e'en perhaps thy hopes in Heaven ; 
 And 'twas to me as bitterest gall. 
 To know that I had caused thee all. 
 
TO ELLEN. 103 
 
 I clung around tliee then, 
 In my grief and dismay, 
 And saw all tliat I doated on, 
 Fading away. 
 
 Thy shame has past — thy fears have gone ; 
 Thy brow as calm as Heaven appears — 
 Thy voice — 'tis bliss ! — the only one, 
 That soothes me in this vale of tears ; 
 Thine eyes — I draw from them the light 
 That guide me through this world of night. 
 I cling round thee now. 
 From anxiety free. 
 And find all that I live for, Oh ! 
 Ellen, in thee. 
 
104 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 FEOM ANACEEON 
 
 If hoarded gold would but bestow 
 
 On man a longer life below, 
 
 I never would forsake the pleasure 
 
 Of adding to the valued treasure, 
 
 And thus when death would call, I'd pay 
 
 My fee to live another day. 
 
 But since the proud and poor are doom'd 
 
 Alike to moulder in the tomb, 
 
 And wealth of worlds hath not the power 
 
 One moment to prolong the hour, 
 
 Why should I strive that dross to save. 
 
 Will yield it pleasure in the grave ; 
 
 Then give me whilst through life I pass 
 
 The smiling girl — the sparkling glass. 
 
 That I for griefs may make amends 
 
 With faithful love — and cheerful friends — 
 
 But where's the man possesses here 
 
 A faithful woman — friend sincere ! 
 
THE PENITENT. 105 
 
 THE PENITENT, 
 
 Spirit of Hope, I have gazed upon thee, 
 
 With thy radiant smile and thine eye of flame ; 
 When Time, sped on with his merriest glee, 
 
 The burthen of which, was thy heart cheering 
 name. 
 And the fairy dreams of earliest love, 
 
 (When the soul is pure, and the heart is light,) 
 O'er my enchanted senses would move. 
 
 As the first planets shining on Eden, bright. 
 
 Spirit of Hope, I have called upon thee. 
 
 When the daemon of folly pass over my soul, 
 And I felt, as thy smile was turned fondly on me. 
 
 It embittered the poison that mantled the bowl. 
 And I turned from thy smile, though thy heavenly 
 glance 
 
 Would have banished me far from my sinful fate ; 
 Yet senseless I lay in the pride-killing trance, 
 
 'Till roused to a world that was desolate. 
 
106 THE PENITENT. 
 
 Spirit of Hope, thou hast past from my sight, 
 
 Like the wild eagle's course through the trackless 
 wind, 
 I heedlessly gazed at your terrible flight, 
 
 That left but a voidless bloom behind. 
 'Till the fitful star that led me on 
 
 From all the bowers of Eden, with promised bliss 
 Had darkly set — 'till its splendor had gone 
 
 And left me to utter wretchedness. 
 
LINES. 107 
 
 LINES 
 
 In answer to some verses from a Lady. 
 
 Oh ! yes, thou art mine till the sepulchre close, 
 Thy moments of bliss and my measure of woes ; 
 Till the last mortal sigh shall have scatter'd the 
 
 gloom 
 That dampens all raptures this side of the tomb. 
 
 I feel thou art mine, whilst a spark shall remain 
 Of life in thy heart, or of sense in my brain ; 
 And till my life's blood, or my reason depart. 
 Thy image, beloved, shall remain in my heart. 
 
 'Tis the light of my life, and oh ! thou art to me. 
 As the watch-star over the turbulent sea — 
 And though the world deem it 2^ fatuous flame, 
 I'll follow it even to death or to shame. 
 
 I ask but that light — 'tis the light of my soul. 
 Call it madness or reason — no word shall control; 
 For whilst you still love, I care not for the name, 
 Guilt, rapture, or phrenzy, so thou art the same. 
 
108 EPIGRAM. 
 
 EPIGEAM 
 
 Mj little babes — said Jane to Kitty, 
 Are quite unlike— tbougb botb are pretty. 
 One has a little flaxen poll, 
 The other's hair is black as coal — 
 This striking contrast I admire. 
 
 The reason why, said Kate to Jane, 
 'Tis not so easy to explain, 
 Tho' one has eyes as black as jet. 
 The other's blue as violet. 
 
 Still each resembles much his sire. 
 
EPITAPH ON AN AGED COUPLE. 109 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN AGED COUPLE. 
 
 Their joys througli life were one, and so their woes ; 
 In the same grave their ashes now repose ; 
 At the last trump when myriads shall arise, 
 God grant they hand in hand ascend the skies, 
 " And the bright hope that guided to their rest, 
 Angels may sing — * Consummatum est.' " 
 
110 TO 
 
 TO 
 
 True, we may dream awhile, my dear 
 
 In all tlie luxury of feeling, 
 And I may drink tliy smile, my dear, 
 
 'Till madness o'er each sense is stealing. 
 
 And I may gaze upon thee, too, 
 
 'Till all is fairy land around me. 
 And you may dream of love, 'tis true. 
 
 Nor see the snake that lurks to wound thee. 
 
 But when from madness' waking, love. 
 And there is nought but sorrow near us, 
 
 And when our hearts are breaking, love. 
 Without a single hope to cheer us, 
 
 In vain we'll dream of blisses past, 
 Forgotten, then, thy love for me ! 
 
 Thy heart will wither in the blast, ■ 
 E'en as the rose in Araby. 
 
TO 
 
 111 
 
 Then shall we cease to cherish, dear, 
 The passion that will shortly doom us ? 
 
 'Tis better far to perish here, 
 If such a Heavenly flame consume us, 
 
 Than pass an age of littleness. 
 And scarcely find a pleasure in it. 
 
 Then Hght the lamp of love and bliss. 
 We'll live a life in one short minute. 
 
112 SONG. 
 
 SONG 
 
 And wilt tlion, Mary, never say ; 
 
 The feelings of tliy breast disclose ? 
 See, on my knees I weep — I pray 
 
 My fate impart and end my woes. 
 
 If life by tliee can ne'er be blest, 
 
 I shall not live to mourn my fate : — 
 
 If pity dwell within thy breast 
 Then end my woes and say you hate. 
 
STANZAS. 113 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Whilst there's a star in the dark blue sky, 
 
 Or sand on the desert of Araby : 
 Till the winds be hnsh'd, and the ocean be dry, 
 
 My bosom shall doat and chng fondly to thee. 
 
 The stars of the night in the morn may set, 
 And winds be all hushed in the holiest sleep : 
 
 But, Oh ! thy affection I ne'er shall forget, 
 
 While my soul can feel, or my heart can weep. 
 
 And thou wilt be mine while thy bosom can beat, 
 While woman can love — or thy memory last ; 
 
 And when we are doom'd but in anguish to meet, 
 We'll turn with delight to the blisses we've past. 
 
 And dream over moments of rapture again, 
 'Till life burns more brightly, and woes disappear 
 
 But e'en when the bosom is deluged with pain, 
 We'll sigh not, but live for each other, my dear. 
 
114 STANZAS. 
 
 Yes, I will be thine, while my bosom can beat, 
 While honour remains, or my memory last : 
 
 And when we are doom'd but in sorrow to meet. 
 Oh 1 I shall still love for the blisses we've past. 
 
FRANCE. 115 
 
 FRANCE.* 
 
 Unfold your banners to tlie wind ; 
 
 Display the sleeping blade to light ; 
 Send forth the slave — the trembling hind 
 
 To perish in the unholy fight. 
 
 The banner deep in slaughter dy'd 
 The blade encrusted o'er with blood, 
 
 The heart by tyranny well tried, 
 
 That ne'er a Louis' frown withstand ; 
 
 Compose the band that would control 
 
 The flight of freedom and the soul. 
 
 Go forth, sweet France, while damsels sing 
 Thy former pride and majesty, 
 
 The first great deed of Gallia's king 
 Is now to shackle liberty. 
 
 * Written in 1821. 
 
116 JPRANCE. 
 
 For he is gone, wliose deatUess name 
 Stands forth among the great, the brave, 
 
 Whose sword bequeath'd a nation's fame 
 That now is cringing to a slave ; 
 
 But he is gone, or else this blow 
 
 Had laid his exiled bosom low. 
 
 Thy banners wanton in the wind. 
 
 The sleeping blades now leap to light, 
 
 The monarch sends the trembling hind 
 To perish in the unholy fight. 
 
 But lo ! around the dotard's head 
 
 The fates the wreath of cypress twine ; 
 
 And now the crimson mantle spread 
 To catch the bitterest drops of brine 
 
 Shed by that poor and trifling thing, 
 
 All Europe's dupe — no longer — King ! 
 
STANZAS. 117 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 In imitation of some French verses. 
 
 Source of my bliss ; thy soothing smile 
 Consoles me in this world of ill ; 
 
 For in the midst of shame and toil, 
 I find a bliss in living still. 
 
 Though wreck'd, forlorn with worldly care, 
 And fainting with my load of grief, 
 
 Thy image flits between despair. 
 To yield my wounded soul relief. 
 
 The taunting world may shun — despise — 
 Pursue me to the wilderness ; 
 
 "Whilst fondness sparkles in thine eyes, 
 My anguish only serves to bless. 
 
118 STANZAS. 
 
 Despair is in my wild retreat — 
 My only comrade — misery — 
 
 But whilst this wretched heart will beat, 
 'Twill throb with gratitude for thee. 
 
 My life — my Mary — thy dear form 
 Eaises such transports in my soul, 
 
 That in the midst of sorrow's storm, 
 I mock the tempests as they roll. 
 
 Yes ; Mary, whilst thou cling'st to me, 
 I'll mock the tempests of my woes ; 
 
 But when deprived of love and thee, 
 I'll sink into the grave's repose. 
 
EPIGRAM. 119 
 
 EPIGKAM. 
 
 In days of old — so stories go, 
 Old Orpheus took a trip below, 
 But modern husbands need not roam 
 They've wife and h-U enough at home. 
 
 ANOTHEK. 
 
 Eurydice, as stories tell, 
 Led her spouse Orpheus down to h-U ; 
 But wives have long since changed the evil, 
 Now drive their husbands to the devil. 
 
120 EPIGRAM. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 On a certain Doctor, running for a seat in the Senate of 
 Pennsylvania. 
 
 A Roman Emperor once, it is said, 
 
 Of his favorite horse a Senator made ; 
 
 But a wonder far greater has now come to pass, 
 
 "We'd make a grave Senator out of an ass ! 
 
 PAUPER'S DEATH. 
 
 Hard Case. 
 
 He was a stranger, no one took him in, — 
 Oppress'd by poverty — perchance by sin ; 
 No nurse assisted, and no parson pray'd. 
 Alone he died, without a doctor's aid. 
 
EPIGRAM. 121 
 
 EPIGEAM. 
 
 " Delia, my dear, you're so unkind, 
 That I have lost my peace of mind ;" 
 Quoth Delia " that's no loss at all, 
 Your piece of mind's so very small." 
 
 ANOTHEE. 
 
 " I owe you a grudge," said Brown to Jones, 
 " And when we meet I'U break your bones ;" 
 " An idle threat," Jones calmly said, 
 "No debt you owed was ever paid." 
 
122 EPIGRAM. 
 
 THE SCOLD'S LAST SQUALL. 
 
 " A woman overboard ! my eyes ! she's lost ! 
 See, on the foaming billows how she's tost ! 
 Jack, can you swim ?" " Like any fish." " save 
 That struggling victim from a watery grave." 
 " Not I. Row on, and pray make no alarm, 
 Her worthy husband never did me harm." 
 
SONG FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. l!23 
 
 SONG FOE THE FOUKTH OF JULY 
 
 The shrill bngle sounds and the war-horse is 
 prancing, 
 The flags and the plumes are now waiving on 
 high; 
 The bright polish'd arms in the sun beams are 
 glancing, 
 But brighter the beam that is shot from each eye, 
 Each bosom is bounding, each pulse now is filling 
 With drops that are rich as the gems of the sea, 
 And each one we meet in his extacj thrilling 
 Has stamped on his visage the soul of the free. 
 
 The cripple goes forth to the splendid array, 
 
 "With spirit roused up that long dormant had 
 lain; 
 
 He shoulders his crutches, to honor the day. 
 And fights o'er his battles, and conquers again. 
 
124 SONG FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. 
 
 His little grand-child that is scarcely knee high, 
 Now mimics precisely his fugleman sire, 
 
 He stedfastly looks on the warriors eye, 
 
 And draws from their beams an unquenchable 
 fire. 
 
 The voice of the maiden is sweeter by far 
 
 As she breathes on this day the bold national 
 song, 
 And mingles the emblems of peace and of war 
 In a wreath for the brows, where her feelings 
 belong. 
 Each heart is as buoyant as gossamer new. 
 Each drop in it pure as a gem of the sea, 
 For where is the spirit so dastardly low 
 
 Could sleep through the moment that shouted 
 you're free ! 
 
LINES. 125 
 
 LINES SENT TO A LADY WITH A 
 BEOACH. 
 
 This broach I send, dear Nell, 
 Is an emblem fit for thee ; 
 
 Behold, the spotless shell, 
 Is as pure as pure can be. 
 
 And though the bauble's made 
 Of but a spurious shell, 
 
 The likeness still prevails. 
 My fair and lovely Nell. 
 
 The time may yet arrive 
 
 When cherub boys and girls 
 
 May call thee, gentle Nell, 
 Mother of many pearls. 
 
126 THE LABORER TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 THE LABOEER TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 Our love was born in poverty, 
 
 His cradle rocked midst doubts and fears ! 
 But still the urchin stoutly grew, 
 
 Though nourished with our tears. 
 
 Though roses bloomed upon his cheeks. 
 His bright eyes sickened with despair. 
 
 But as we nursed the angel child, 
 We found great beauty there. 
 
 At length we kissed away the tears 
 That had bedewed his rosy cheek : 
 
 And then we saw the rays of Hope 
 Within his bright eyes break. 
 
 And since he has to manhood grown. 
 And dried with smiles the infant's tear, 
 
 He proves a very Hercules — 
 Our strenojth and solace here. 
 
FORREST. 127 
 
 FOEEEST 
 
 Let no one question his transcendent art, 
 
 Tlie tragic muse to him should yield the throne, 
 
 Who to Bird's muse new beauties can impart. 
 And cast a veil e'en o'er the faults of Stone. 
 
128 TO REBECCA. 
 
 TO KEBECCA. 
 
 Be pure in heart and strong in mind, 
 Perform your duty — kind on earth 
 
 Towards the feeble, and unkind, 
 For God creates a second birth. 
 
 Our mortal birth to Time was given. 
 The trist of joy and misery — 
 
 Earth's but the vestibule of heaven, 
 Time — doorkeeper to eternity. 
 
LINES. 121' 
 
 LINES. 
 
 "Written in a young Lady's Album on the eve of her 
 Marriage. 
 
 The world laughs out before thee, 
 The heavens smile brightly o'er thee, 
 
 Hope revels in thy heart. 
 Flowers in thy path are springing, 
 Birds on each spray are singing, 
 AVhile heaven and earth are ringing, 
 
 "Joy, joy can ne'er depart." 
 
 The mountain stream when gushing 
 
 From the cleft rock, and rushing 
 
 Through green and flowery vales, 
 
 Long ere it meets the ocean 
 
 Are lost in wild commotion, 
 
 Its brightness — the devotion 
 
 Eeceived from fragrant gales. 
 9 
 
130 LINES. 
 
 The world soon frowns before us, 
 The heavens soon darken o'er us, 
 
 Still hope will cheer the heart. 
 Though thorns in your path- way spring, dear, 
 Though some may rankle and sting, dear, 
 While fondly to one you cling dear ; 
 
 "Joy, joy can ne'er depart." 
 
 The white and filmy cloud, 
 
 That floats like an angel's shroud, 
 
 By the storm is rudely driven ; 
 And when it is rent asunder 
 By the lightning and the thunder, 
 It ceases to raise man's wonder. 
 
 That cloud is still in heaven. 
 
LINES. 131 
 
 LINES 
 
 Say what lias bound mj soul to thee, 
 With fetters death can scarcely break ; 
 
 Is it the fire that lights thine eye, 
 Thy fairy form or rosy cheek ? 
 No — there are other eyes as bright, 
 Cheeks as rosy, forms as light. 
 
 Is it thy breast of driven snow, 
 Or jetty curls — that bind my soul, 
 
 Thy coral lips where pearls do grow, 
 Or kisses sweet, that thence I stole ? 
 No — there are bosoms full as fair, 
 And lips that all those treasures bear. 
 
 Then what has thus ensnared my breast, 
 
 If not that thou art heavenly fair ? 
 Oh ! when thy angel form I press'd, 
 
 And felt a heart of fondness there. 
 
 'Twas then my mind confess'd there's one 
 
 To rest all earthly hopes upon. 
 
132 LINES. 
 
 When I beheld thy parting glance, 
 And heard the sigh that bade farewell ! 
 
 Oh ! there was more in that short trance, 
 Than years of bliss — or words can tell. 
 It bade hope rise — life brightly roll 
 And fixed thy image in my soul. 
 
FRAdMENT. 133 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Adieu ! farewell earth's bliss, 
 Tliis world uncertain is ; 
 Fond are life's lustful joys, 
 Death proves them all but toys, 
 None from his darts can fly. 
 I am sick, I must die ; 
 Lord have mercy on us ; 
 
 Rich men, trust not in wealth , 
 Gold cannot buy you health. 
 Physic himself must fade ; 
 All things to end are made. 
 The plague full swift goes by. 
 I am sick, I must die ; 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
134 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Haste, therefore, each degree, 
 To welcome destiny ; 
 Heaven is our heritage, 
 Earth but a player's stage. 
 Mount we unto the sky. 
 I am sick, I must die ; 
 Lord have mercy on us ! 
 
TO THE LOST ONE. 135 
 
 TO THE LOST ONE.* 
 
 Vale et Benedicite. 
 
 In joy we met ; in anguish part ; 
 
 Farewell thou frail misguided one ! 
 Young hope sings matins in thy heart, 
 
 While dirges ring in mine alone, 
 
 Solemn as monumental stone. 
 
 Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine ; 
 
 Thy hope all flowers ; mine bitter fruit, 
 For hope but blossoms to repine ; 
 
 It seldom hath a second shoot ; — 
 
 A shadow that evades pursuit. 
 
 Though poets are not prophets here, 
 Yet Time must pass and you will see, 
 
 While o'er dead joys you drop the tear. 
 This world is one Gethsemane 
 Where all weep — die — still dream to be. 
 
 * This is the last poem written by R. P. S. It was pub- 
 lished in Graham's Magazine a few months before his death, 
 
 H. W. S. 
 
13f) TO THE LOST ONE. 
 
 Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart, 
 But Time spares not the flowers of Spring ; 
 
 The birds that sang there soon depart. 
 And leave God's altar withering — 
 Flowerless and no bird to sing. 
 
 God pronounced all things good in Eden ; 
 Young Adam sang — not knowing evil. 
 
 Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden, 
 And made himself to Eve quite civil. — 
 Did he tempt her, or she the devil? 
 
 True, she made Eden Adam's heaven ; — 
 Also the green earth Adam's hell ; 
 
 Tore from his grasp all God had given ; 
 Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell ; 
 To make her food by his sweat and blood. 
 
 Then what should man from woman hope, 
 Who hurled from Paradise his sire ? 
 
 Her frailty drew his horoscope, 
 
 And barred the gates of heaven with fire 
 Chano^ed God's intent for her desire. 
 
TO THE LOST ON E. 13" 
 
 And what should she from man expect 
 Who slew his God her soul to save ? 
 
 A dreary life of cold neglect ;— 
 For Eden lost ; — a welcome grave, 
 Where kings make ashes with the slave ! 
 
 A welcome grave ! man's crowning hope ! 
 
 All trust from dust we shall revive ; 
 Despite our gloomy horoscope, 
 
 Incarnadined God will receive 
 
 His children who slew him to live. 
 
 A frail partition but divides 
 Your husband from insanity ; 
 
 He stares as madness onward strides 
 
 To crush each spark of memory 
 
 I gave you all— this you give me ! 
 Vale et henedicite. 
 
FUGITIVE PROSE 
 
 FIRST COLLECTED 
 
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 
 
 How unstable is human opinion! In childliood 
 we look forward to the years of maturity for the 
 consummation of our dream of happiness; and 
 when that period has arrived, we caU up the recol- 
 lections of youth, and they bloom again as spots of 
 green in the desert. 
 
 I passed by boyhood in a village far remote from 
 our populous cities, and the occurrences of those 
 thoughtless days made so deep an impression, that 
 at this distant period they retain their freshness, and 
 doubtless will do so even to the close of life. The 
 joys of youth take deep root in the mind and bloom 
 for years, whether it be winter or spring with us ; 
 but the pleasure of after life are but as flowers of a 
 season, that blossom for a day and fade, and fresh 
 seed must be scattered before others appear. 
 
 I re-visited the village not long since, after an 
 absence of many years. It had undergone numer- 
 ous changes, and, as I walked along the streets, 
 
142 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 
 
 man J new faces presented themselves, and but few 
 of the old ones were to be seen. In fact, time had 
 rendered me a stranger in a strange place, though I 
 had imagined that all would be as familiar to me 
 as my own fire-side, and that my welcome would 
 have been as cordial. 
 
 With feelings of disappointment, I extended my 
 walk to the commons beyond the skirts of the 
 village where the school house stood. That had 
 undergone no change ; it was still the same but it 
 struck me that time had materially diminished it in 
 magnitude. It is remarkable how our optics deceive 
 us at different stages of life. I looked around with 
 delight for every thing was familiar to me: but 
 the picture was now in miniature. Objects that I 
 had considered remote were near at hand, and 
 mountains had dwindled away to comparative 
 mole-hills. 
 
 While enjoying the recollections that the scene 
 awakened, the door of the school house opened, and 
 a man approached. He would have been known 
 among a thousand, by his step and air, for a country 
 school master. After an awkward bow, he said : 
 
 "A pleasant evening, sir. A charming land- 
 scape, and you appear to enjoy it.'' 
 
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL 143 
 
 " Yes ; it is delightful to look upon familiar faces 
 after a long separation." 
 
 He gazed at me earnestly and muttered, " Faces ! 
 I have surely seen that face before !" 
 
 " Very possibly ! but not within twenty years." 
 
 "At that period I was a pupil in this school," 
 said he, " and if I mistake not, you were also." I 
 answered in the affirmative. He grasped me 
 immediately by the hand, and shaking it cordially, 
 called me by my name. " But," continued he, " you 
 appear not to remember me !" 
 
 "True; the human countenance is a tablet upon 
 which time is constantly scribbling new characters 
 and obliterating the old, and his hand has been 
 busily employed upon your front ?" 
 
 " Yes ; another story has been written there since 
 the time when we used to lie in wait by a salt lick, 
 at midnight, for the coming deer, or glide over the 
 surface of the river, with a fire in the stern of our 
 canoe, to light us to the hiding places of the salmon 
 trout." 
 
 I knew him now to be the same who had been 
 my constant companion in the excursions of my 
 boyhood. " But, hoAv is this ?" I exclaimed : " have 
 
144 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 
 
 the old duties of the school devolved upon you ? 
 Where is our preceptor ?" 
 
 " Debemur morti nos nostraque !" 
 
 "Dead!" 
 
 "So his tombstone informs us; and in this in- 
 stance it speaks the truth, contrary to the usual 
 practice of tombstones. He took a cold by exposing 
 himself when overheated by the labour of a severe 
 flagellation inflicted upon the broad shoulders of a 
 dull urchin. You may remember that his manner 
 of teaching was impressive, for he rigidly pursued 
 the ancient system for imparting knowledge." 
 
 "0! I remember. And doubtless you are as 
 great a terror to the rising generation as he was to 
 us and our companions. Well, I might have fore- 
 told your destiny. Our inclinations are early deve- 
 loped ; and it was a prime joke with you, as soon 
 as the school was dismissed, to put on the teacher's 
 gown, and cap and spectacles, and seating yourself 
 in his large oaken chair, call upon us, with mock 
 gravity, to go through the forms we had just 
 finished." 
 
 " You may also remember," said the school mas- 
 ter, "that upon one of these occasions you clam- 
 bered up behind me, and gave me a libation from 
 
THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 145 
 
 an inkhorn, while the master was standing in the 
 door- way, the only one present who could not enter 
 into the spirit of the farce we were performing." 
 
 "Xor did we highly applaud his epilogue to our 
 entertainment. But where are they now, who joined 
 in our thoughtless amusements on that day ?" 
 
 " Scattered as far apart as the four corners of the 
 earth! A small room there contained them, and 
 they found happiness in it ; but grown to man's 
 estate, they roamed the wide world in pursuit of the 
 phantom and it eluded their grasp." 
 
 " What became of little Dick Gaylove, who, on 
 that occasion, was detected making a profile of our 
 old preceptor on the door ? He was a promising 
 lad, the pride of his father's heart, and a universal 
 favorite in the school." 
 
 " He was, indeed, a boy of fine talents : but judge 
 not of the fruit from the flower. He left the village 
 for the metropolis, and was educated for the bar. 
 He was admired and caressed by his acquaintances, 
 became dissipated, ruined his father's fortune, and 
 died the death of a prodigal at five-and -twenty." 
 
 " And his brother Tom, who overturned the bench 
 
 upon which Jack Williams and his cousin were 
 
 seated ?" 
 
 10 
 
146 THE VILLAGE SCHOOL. 
 
 "He imitated the example set by father Adam ; 
 and by cultivating the earth, supported his aged 
 parents. If more would do so the world would be 
 happier." 
 
 As we walked to the village he gave me a brief 
 history of the whole of our schoolmates, and the 
 picture presented a vast deal more of shade than 
 sunshine. Life may be compared to a tree in full 
 bearing. Of the multitude of blossoms how many 
 are nipped in the bud I Of the fruit more than half 
 falls in its green state, and of that which attains 
 maturity much goes to decay before it is gathered 
 to use. 
 
SALEK. 147 
 
 SALEK 
 
 Once upon a time there dwelt in a cave near 
 Ispahan, a poor dervise of the name of Salek. He 
 belonged to the most self-denying class of his order, 
 and as his wants were few, his scanty food and 
 miserable raiment satisfied the necessities of nature, 
 and daily did he thank Allah for his beneficence. 
 Salek was happy in the midst of privation, but his 
 heart was touched for the sufferings of others, and 
 he prayed that it might be granted him to lighten 
 the burthen of those who were heavy laden, and 
 wipe the tear from the eye of the mourner. He 
 went forth and gathered alms by the way-side from 
 the rich, which he distributed to the helpless ; and 
 he found that his charity, like the blessed dew of 
 heaven, revived alike the drooping weed and the 
 flower, wherever it fell. Again did he pour forth 
 his soul in gratitude for the charities he had been 
 enabled to confer, and in the purity of his heart 
 he prayed that his sphere of usefulness might be 
 
148 S A L E K. 
 
 enlarged, for countless tears were slied he had not 
 the power to wipe away. He then threw himself 
 upon his bed of torture and slept in peace. 
 
 There were genii in those days. In his sleep the 
 dervise had a vision, in which a genius appeared 
 and promised that his prayer should be granted to 
 the extent of his will; that even the wealth of 
 Ispahan, if necessary, should flow into his coffers, 
 on condition that he would daily bestow but one 
 tithe of his receipts in charity. Fervently did he 
 thank Allah in his dream, and promise that his feet 
 should know no rest in seeking objects who needed 
 his assistance. When he awoke, he found a bag of 
 gold on the floor of his cell, which he grasped with 
 equal amazement and delight, and went forth on his 
 charitable mission. Many a heavy heart did Salak 
 that day relieve of its burthen ; and on returning 
 to his cell at night, he found ten bags of gold of 
 the same size as that he had distributed. He prayed 
 and slept. Early the next morning he again went 
 forth, bearing as many of the bags as he could carry, 
 and wherever he appeared the stricken and the 
 oppressed went on their way rejoicing. At night 
 he again found that the alms he had distributed had 
 been replaced tenfold ; and thus he continued his 
 
SALEK. 149 
 
 good works, day after day, until his narrow cell 
 became too small to contain tlie wealth that Allah 
 showered upon him. 
 
 The dervise now purchased a palace in the Square 
 of Meyden, and his gardens were freshened with 
 cascades from the sparkling waters of the Zender- 
 out. For a time he continued to bestow his charity, 
 which daily yielded him the promised harvest in 
 return; but possessed of the means of indulging 
 his appetites, he gradually yielded to the frailties of 
 his nature, which he pampered until it became irk- 
 some to relieve the craving necessities of his fellow 
 mortals. He slept in luxury; thought lightly of 
 the stewardship that had been intrusted to him, and 
 at length wholly neglected to perform the condition 
 upon which his wealth and happiness depended. 
 
 The genius again appeared, and said, "Awake, 
 thou sluggard ! Thy promised inheritance, though 
 boundless, will escape thee through thy indolence. 
 He who bestows all, has asked but one tithe out of 
 thine abundance, which has been refused. He asked 
 not of thine necessity, but of his own profusion ; 
 and thou has withheld a mite from the cravings of 
 his children, though thy own reward would have 
 been multiplied to the extent of thy wishes. 
 
150 S A L E K. 
 
 Awake, thou fool I He who refuses to scatter the 
 seed, must not hope to gather in the harvest." 
 
 When the dervise awoke, he discovered that his 
 wealth had vanished, and that he was again as 
 destitute as when the genius first appeared to him. 
 Humbled in spirit, he left his palace and returned to 
 his cell : and as he resumed his garb of penitence, 
 he sighed, '*-In my poverty I was keenly alive to 
 the misfortunes of the most lowly ; in my pros- 
 perity, dead even to my God." He again gathered 
 alms by the way-side, and dried the tears of the 
 stricken. He no longer gave sparingly from pro- 
 fusiouy but freely from his frugal store ; and at 
 length the genius again appeared and renewed the 
 promise, " Thou art now truly the almoner of Allah. 
 He has entrusted but little to thee, yet of that little 
 thou bestowest all, and with all thy heart. Thy 
 reward shall be, not only tenfold, but as the single 
 grain of wheat compared to the yield of the harvest 
 field ; and it shall be garnered for thee where the 
 thief cannot break in, nor time consume it." 
 
NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 151 
 
 NETTLES ON THE GEAYE. 
 
 Strolling througli a cemetery, I beheld within 
 one of the enclosures a widow who had buried her 
 only child there, some two years before. I accosted 
 her, and tendered my assistance. "Thank you," 
 she replied, " my task is done. I have been pulling 
 up the nettles and thistles that have overgrown little 
 Willie's grave, and have planted mnemonics, heart's 
 ease, and early spring flowers in their place, as 
 more fitting emblems of my child ; and though they 
 may fail to delight him, they will remind me that 
 there is a spring time even in the grave, and that 
 Willie will not be neglected by Him who bids these 
 simple flowers revive. But is it not strange how 
 rank nettles and all offensive weeds grow over the 
 human grave — even a child's grave?" 
 
 " I remember you mourned grievously at losing 
 him, but trust time has assuaged affliction." 
 
 "Its poignancy is blunted, but memory is con- 
 stantly hovering around my child. Duty and reason 
 
152 NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 have taught me resignation ; still I seldom behold a 
 boy of his age, but fancy pictures to me how he 
 would have appeared in the various stages of his 
 progress toward manhood. And then again I see 
 him like his father — and myself a proud and happy 
 mother in. old age. True, you may call it an idle, 
 baseless dream ; and so it is, but I cannot help in- 
 dulging in it." 
 
 " Dream on ! the best of life is a dream." 
 
 We walked a few steps, and paused before an in- 
 closure where reposed the remains of a worthy man, 
 with nothing more than his unobtrusive name in- 
 scribed upon a marble slab to designate his resting- 
 place. He was respected for his integrity and energy ; 
 beloved for his utility and benevolence. Here was 
 no lying inscription, making the grave gorgeous, as 
 if monumental mendacity might deceive Divinity. 
 His record was elsewhere, traced by unseen fingers. 
 
 "There are no nettles on that good man's grave," 
 said the widow. " I knew him well ; weeds would 
 wither there ; nothing but flowers should cover his 
 ashes." 
 
 A few young men at the time were idly passing. 
 They paused, when one tearing a weed from the 
 pathway, hurled it among the floAvers, exclaiming, 
 
NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 153 
 
 " Let him rot there with weeds for his coverinsf." The 
 slumbering dust thus spurned had long sustained the 
 ingrate who now voided his venom upon the bene- 
 factor who had fed him until there was no longer 
 faith in hope. The widow sighed ; " And this is on 
 the grave of the good and just !" 
 
 " Had Willie lived, he might have been such a 
 man, and such would have been his harvest." 
 
 In the next tomb a brave soldier mingled his ashes 
 with the red earth of Adam. In his early career he 
 was placed in a position where daring energies alone 
 could command success. He succeeded, and was 
 rewarded by a nation's approbation. No subsequent 
 opportunity occured to acquire peculiar distinction ; 
 and when he died, a shaft was erected commemo- 
 rating the most remarkable action of his life. His 
 tomb attracted the attention of some visitors who 
 read his epitaph. " Characteristic of the age !" ex- 
 claimed one, throwing a pebble at the inscription, 
 " to swell a corporal to the dimensions of a Csesar. 
 It was the only action of a protracted life, worthy of 
 record, and here it is emblazoned for the pride of 
 posterity." Had the thoughtless scoffer of the un- 
 conscious dead occupied his position, which gained 
 renown, history possibly might have perpetuated 
 
151 NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 disgrace, instead of a tombstone record of gallant 
 services — the patriot's sole reward. 
 
 " You knew the soldier?" 
 
 " For years, and well. A brave and worthy man. 
 The current of his useful life flowed smoothly on, 
 without being ruffled by the breath of calumny." 
 
 " And yet nettles cover his grave already !" 
 
 '• Such might have been your child's destiny — but 
 that matters little ; praise or scorn are now alike to 
 the old soldier." 
 
 We passed to a spot where a gay party was lean- 
 ing on a railing. A young woman had plucked some 
 of the gayest flowers from the enclosure, and was 
 laughing with her merry companions. As we ap- 
 proached, she threw the bouquet already soiled and 
 torn, on the grave ; and they went their way with 
 some idle jest upon their lips. The widow paused, 
 and struggled to suppress her emotion, 
 
 " Did you know the tenant of this grave ?" 
 
 " From his childhood. He loved that woman, and 
 struggled to acquire wealth to make her happy. He 
 succeeded, and when she discovered that he was 
 completely within her toils, she deceived and left 
 him hopeless. There are men whose hearts retain 
 the simplicity of childhood through life ; and such 
 
NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 155 
 
 was his. Without reproaching her, or breathing her 
 name to any one, he suddenly shrunk as a blighted 
 plant, and withered day by day, until he died. Like 
 the fabled statuary, he was enamored of the creature 
 his own mind had fashioned, and in the credulity of 
 his nature, he made her wealthy, trusting that time 
 would infuse truth and vitality into the unreal vision 
 of his youthful imagination. The world of love is 
 a paradise of shadows ! The man beside her is now 
 her husband ; the wealth they revel in, this grave 
 bequeathed them." 
 
 " The fool ! to die heart-broken — for a dream. But 
 great men have at times died broken-hearted. I 
 should not call him fool. It is a common death 
 among good men." 
 
 " Great men ! But women, sir, have pined away 
 to death." 
 
 " In poetry, the bill of mortality is a long one ; in 
 real life the patients seldom die, unless they chance 
 to be both vain and poor. Did a rich widow ever 
 grieve to death for the loss of the noblest husband ? 
 Wealth is a potent antidote to the malady, and teaches 
 resignation; while poverty, with the first blow of 
 his iron sledge, will make his cold anvil smoke with 
 
156 NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 
 
 the heart's blood, for he is buried who for years had 
 withstood the blow." 
 
 ^' That woman did not cast nettles on his grave." 
 " No nettles, but faded roses which she tore from 
 it — blooming when she came there. Better cast 
 stones and nettles than those withered flowers. 
 Your boy has escaped this poor man's destiny — the 
 Avorst of deaths ! His was the happiest ! he died — 
 smiling — on his fond mother's bosom ! But there 
 is a grave around which weeds grow more luxu- 
 riantly, than about the sepulchre where mortal dust 
 reposes. Daily watchfulness is required to prevent 
 the bright creations therein buried, from being so 
 over-run until nothing is seen to designate the 
 beautiful tomb, where we had carefully embalmed 
 them, as if in amber." 
 
 " What grave, sir, do you refer to ?" 
 "The human mind. A mighty grave wherein 
 we daily bury crushed hopes and brilliant epheme- 
 rons, too fragile to survive the chill atmosphere of a 
 solitary day. Keep the weeds from growing there 
 and smothering their memories. They are the pro- 
 geny of the soul, and should not be allowed to 
 perish Shall the joyous and beautiful creations of 
 childhood be forgotten in age? must the noble 
 
NETTLES ON THE GRAVE. 157 
 
 aspirations of the vigor of manliood pass away with- 
 out even an epitaph, because crushed in their vigor ? 
 Eather contemplate them hourly; plant flowers 
 beside them, though they bloom but briefly and 
 fade, they will send forth perfume even in decay, 
 and inevitably revive in due season, bearing refresh- 
 ing fruit; and old age, with palsied hand, will 
 readily gather up the long account of his steward- 
 ship, and as he glances over the lengthened scroll 
 that must become a record in the archives of 
 eternity, may rejoice that he has not been an ingrate 
 and idler in the heat of the harvest-field, but hath 
 diligently laboured to make the entrusted talent 
 yield the expected usage. Tear up the weeds that 
 are incessantly growing there, ere he who was 
 placed little lower than the angels, becomes an 
 empty cenotaph — a stranger's grave — mouldering 
 and mingling with his mother earth unheeded and 
 unknown." 
 
158 THE DREAM OF MEDEMET. 
 
 THE DKEAM OF MEHEMET. 
 
 An Apologue. 
 
 Thus spoke the gray-haired dervise. Selim was 
 left to my care ; his dying parents bequeathed him 
 an ample fortune, and their example of virtue and 
 affection. Such was his inheritance. 
 
 He was a dreamy boy, in whose soul the opposite 
 passions revelled. Gentle as the dove, yet, under 
 aggression, fierce as the tiger. He loved as angels 
 love ; hated as fiends hate. Framed as delicately as 
 the gazelle, yet every sinew was endowed with the 
 tenacity of steel. At the age of manhood, I, his 
 old preceptor, bowed to the superior endowment of 
 my pupil, but knew not the fountain of his know- 
 ledge. 
 
 I have said he was a dreamy boy, yet he had 
 made the broad pages of nature his book of know- 
 ledge, even while dreaming. The fertile earth pre- 
 
THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 159 
 
 sented her abundant lap overflowing witli fruit to 
 delight his palate ; the flowers peered in his face 
 with their variegated eyes, and sent forth their 
 incense, even while he trod upon them. The 
 cadence of the waterfall, the low twittering of the 
 wearied bird as it flitted to its fledglings in the nest, 
 and the murmuring of the passing breeze as it 
 struggled through the grove, were to him a lullaby 
 that charmed to sleep as the angels sleep. Nature 
 was his mother, and she nursed him with playthings 
 as her child. 
 
 I have seen him by the small streams composing 
 songs to the music that the dimpled waters babbled, 
 until his rosy cheeks dimpled and laughed in con- 
 cert with the rippling brook, as if it were a thing 
 of life, rejoicing in its existence, as his own pure 
 heart rejoiced. They laughed and babbled together. 
 
 On the wood-clad mountains at midnight, when 
 the elements battled, I have seen him straining his 
 feeble voice to sound the master-key that attunes to 
 universal harmony ; and having caught it, he would 
 spring like the antelope to a lofty waterfall to dis- 
 cover the same note there ; and then turn up his 
 bright face to the stars that smiled upon him, and 
 laugh, expecting to hear them respond to his note 
 
160 THE DREAM OF M E H E M E T. 
 
 as they revolved on tlieir eternal axes. His dark 
 eyes smiled, and the conscious stars smiled back in 
 the heaven of his dark eyes, which glanced with 
 delight in the diamond rays of the stars. 
 
 Flowers were books to him, and from every leaf 
 he read wisdom fragrant with truth. He cultivated 
 them as a father would his last child. The little 
 birds were his companions, and every morning he 
 joined their concert until the tiny minstrels seemed 
 to imagine that he was the leader of their orchestra. 
 All nature was to him one mighty minister, bestow- 
 ing all, while he asked from nature no more than 
 the blessed privilege of imitating her, by bestow- 
 ing on his fellow-man all in return. He had a dog, 
 whose former owner had thrown into a stream to 
 drown as worthless. Selim swam and saved the 
 ill-looking cur, who followed him ever after until it 
 appeared that instinct trod close upon the heel of 
 reason. Selim in his turn, while bathing, became 
 exhausted, and sinking beneath the stream, the dog 
 plunged in and saved his dying master. Was this 
 instinct or reason ? It matters not, but Selim per- 
 ceived that the Prophet had made his humanity 
 toward a friendless dog the means of prolonging his 
 own existence here. Despise not little things, cried 
 
THE DREAM OP MEHEMET. 161 
 
 Mehemet, for tlie smallest is of magnitude in the 
 sight of tlie Prophet. A straw may break the back 
 of the over-burthened ; one word may consign a 
 man to poverty or prosperity, one deed to hell or 
 heaven. 
 
 Selim's wants were few, his fortune ample, which 
 he bestowed upon the deserving with as liberal a 
 hand as it had been bestowed upon himself. Still 
 he labored in the pursuit he had adopted, not for 
 self-aggrandizement, but to assist others; and he 
 knew not why man should be a sluggard while all 
 nature is incessantly at work. The bee and ant 
 work in their season — and even the spider too. 
 
 His garden blossomed as Eden, and the flowers 
 
 offered up their grateful incense even as they faded 
 
 and died upon the universal altar of Nature's God. 
 
 His aviary from morn until night was vocal, and 
 
 when the flaming chariots of the bright eye of day 
 
 was whirled by fiery -footed steeds over the eastern 
 
 hills, I have seen him with his flute, surrounded by 
 
 nature's tiny choristers pouring forth their matins 
 
 until some note in the universal harmony touched 
 
 the heart of his poor shaggy cur who sported 
 
 around and tried to bark in unison. Then Selim 
 
 laughed outright, and the birds stopped their 
 
 11 
 
163 THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 
 
 hymns, and seemed to langli witli Selim, and the 
 poor dog slunk away abashed, and slyly laughed at 
 his miserable failure. 
 
 He married the dark-eyed Biribi. Selim was a 
 poet ; his soul revelled alike in tempest or sunshine, 
 and his voice was as musical as the wings of the 
 bee when he distills honey. He possessed the 
 sweets of the bee, and his sting also. Biribi was 
 abjectly poor, but in Selim's eyes as full of truth 
 and as beautiful as the houries. He exclaimed, I 
 will raise poverty above oppression, and place 
 virtue where all her handmaids may minister to her 
 enjoyment. Alas ! it was but a young poet's dream 
 — and such dreams are too frequently disturbed by 
 palpable agony. Thus spoke Mehemet. 
 
 He had a friend who was his fellow-student while 
 under my charge. Selim loved him as a brother, 
 and when he married he requested Zadak to dwell 
 with him. Neither house, garden, nor fields could 
 be more beautiful, while his flocks and herds were 
 nature's ornaments. Such was Selim's Eden. 
 
 Zadak borrowed a portion of his fortune, which 
 he squandered ; but the poor boy simply replied, 
 " no matter, we require but little, and enough still 
 remains to make us happy. Thank the Prophet for 
 
THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 163 
 
 that wMcli we still possess, and repine not for that 
 wliicli we have lost. "We can labor with our fellow- 
 men." 
 
 Biribi became estranged from the pure being who 
 fancied he had made in her bosom a nest for his 
 dove-like heart to sing in. He awoke from a dream 
 of repose to battle with the tempest. Zadak had 
 betrayed him, and the gentle spirit of my boy was 
 crushed between the sledge and the anvil ; but the 
 eternal fire that burnt within him, burst forth in one 
 mighty blaze as the sledge fell ; and even the sledge 
 and the anvil rejoiced at the fire they had elicited 
 from his heart's blood. 
 
 What was to be done ? The question was soon 
 settled. The dove had winged its way to heaven, 
 but left the tiger on earth to punish the injuries 
 done to the dove. Selim slew Zadak, and then 
 walked to the tribunal to receive his sentence, 
 knowing that an act that was approved by the 
 immutable principle of eternal justice in heaven, 
 would be pronounced a damning crime by drones 
 who are fed to dole out punishment for breaking 
 the conventional rules by which fools and knaves 
 are linked together on earth. He confessed all 
 before man as he had already confessed before God. 
 
164 THE DREAM OF MEHEMET. 
 
 Ignominious deatli was Ms sentence in tlie eye of 
 his fellow-creature ; but God changed his sentence 
 to that of eternal life ; he died of a broken-heart, 
 and escaped man's justice, tempered with degrada- 
 tion, and flew to the limpid and overflowing 
 fountain — the bosom of his Creator for justice — 
 knowing it to be a principle of eternity, and not of 
 time. 
 
 I buried him beneath a cluster of trees, where he 
 had pursued his studies. He had no mourners 
 except myself and his dog. The grave of the rich 
 man is seldom bedewed by the tears of his heirs ; 
 while the poor hard-working man may have many 
 sincere mourners, provided they depended upon his 
 daily labor for their bread. It was spring-time, I 
 planted flowers from his garden over his grave, 
 and placed his aviary among the trees. The birds 
 sang and the flowers smiled as if he were still with 
 them. One morning I missed his dog, and searched 
 for him until the impulse of nature guided my foot- 
 steps to the boy's grave. The dog was there, pil- 
 lowed on a cluster of fragrant flowers — dying ; big 
 tears stood in his leadened eyes, while the little 
 birds from the blooming trees, warbled his requiem. 
 They knew the dog, and he knew the birds, even 
 
THE DREAM OF M E H E M E T. 165 
 
 while dying. The flowers were bedewed with his 
 tears, and I buried him beside his master, beneath 
 the flowers. 
 
 Autumn came ; the little birds had taken wing ; 
 the grove was no longer vocal ; the flowers had 
 faded, and their fragrance had passed away. Well, 
 I exclaimed, the rosy-fingered stream will return, 
 leading the birds back to warble as usual, and the 
 flowers will revive with their former fragrance and 
 beauty? "And is my boy dead?" my soul 
 shrieked. " No !" replied a voice, kindly, and it 
 seemed to me as if the lips were smiling as the 
 judgment passed the lips, " the boy is not dead, but 
 sleepeth, awaiting his spring-time, when the birds 
 will sing, and the flowers bloom for him again, and 
 bloom for eternity." Thus spoke the dervise, and 
 his old frame chuckled with delight, for he was 
 confident of the fulfillment of the promise. 
 
 I reposed by his grave, said Mehemfet, and had a 
 vision, which was this. His grave opened, and he 
 arose more beautiful than when in the bloom of 
 manhood. There was a bright star just over his 
 heart, and methought it was composed of the tears 
 his dying dog had shed upon his grave, and I smiled 
 in my sleep at the fantastic thought. The flowers 
 
166 THE DREAM OF M E H E M E T. 
 
 sent fortli their incense, and myriads of birds, as 
 he ascended from his tomb, fluttered about him, 
 leading the way, warbling their anthems ; the gay 
 flowers smiled at heaven, as if they were the eyes 
 of the teeming earth, laughing their gratitude. 
 The features of Selim became more benign as he 
 ascended; the songs of the birds more seraphic, and 
 the fragrance of the flowers more refreshing. 
 
 Suddenly a cloud of inky darkness covered the 
 face of the earth. Two ghastly figures emerged 
 from it, with uplifted eyes that were rayless, and 
 supplicating hands that trembled with terror. Oh ! 
 what must that man be, exclaimed Mehemet, who 
 trembles before the All-merciful, even while sup- 
 plicating mercy ! Selim cast a look of compassion 
 upon the guilty pair, and tried to tear the star from 
 his bosom to throw to them, but the more he strove, 
 the brighter the star became — it illuminated his 
 ascending spirit— and finding his efforts fruitless, 
 he raised his radiant face toward the boundless blue 
 canopy, cheered onwards by the hymns of his little 
 choristers through regions of light, and the teeming 
 earth smiled as she poured forth her grateful 
 incense, as if jealous that the disembodied spirit 
 
THE DREAM OP MEHEMET. 167 
 
 miglit forget tlie fragrance of this world wliile 
 reveling in the atmosphere of heaven. 
 
 I heard a shriek of despair, and turning to the 
 sea of darkness which was fearfully troubled, I 
 beheld the guilty pair, desperately struggling in 
 their agony against the angry billows. They 
 struggled in vain. With a fiend-like shriek they 
 disappeared, and sunk through a rayless abyss of 
 doom, without even the tear of a dog to bewail their 
 destiny. Selim soared upward, and still more 
 effulgent became the heavens as he ascended. 
 There was one mighty strain of seraphic music that 
 filled the universe ; the blue arch opened, from 
 which issued a stream of light strong enough to 
 restore vision to the rayless eyes of the ancient dead ; 
 then I awoke as I beheld Selim enter the eternal 
 portals. 
 
 This continued the old man, may be but a dream 
 at present, but the time will come when it must be 
 verified. He then slowly tottered to his cell to dream 
 out the remnant of his existence. 
 
168 SELF-IMPORTANCE. 
 
 SELF-IMPOETANCE 
 
 Self-importance is a prominent feature in tlie 
 genus homo. Most men delude themselves with, the 
 idea that they are naturally endowed with abilities 
 for all purposes, but circumstances have retarded 
 the full development of their faculties. We accord- 
 ingly have tinkers mending the constitutions of the 
 several States, which our forefathers imagined were 
 framed by the wisest sages of their times ; and we 
 behold the artist, whose business it is to heel-tap 
 our soles and patch up our understanding, gravely 
 revising the decisions of our highest judicial 
 tribunals, reversing their judgments, and satisfying 
 an approving audience that he and the chief justice 
 of the United States should change positions for the 
 benefit of the universal human family. Nee sutor 
 ultra crepidam. 
 
 There is not a venerable crone, whose wisdom 
 consists in a portion of Esau's peculiar beauty on 
 
SELF-IMPORTANCE. 169 
 
 her cbin, and who may have prepared a salve to 
 cure a disease, very annoying to the motive-power 
 of fubsy dowagers, and celebrated on the hoofs of 
 Caesar's horse, who does not imagine that the mantle 
 of Galen has descended on her shoulders, and that 
 the whole medical faculty, compared to her in the 
 healing art, are immeasurably worse than even old 
 women. When some fashionable finisher of the 
 human form divine, has managed to equip a non- 
 descript so as to pass muster in a ball-room, whose 
 proper place of exhibition would have been a 
 menagerie of strange animals, but that the good- 
 nature of naturalists, stretching to the extent 
 Monboddo's theory, classified him as belonged to 
 those who form the first connecting link with 
 human beings — we behold him, like Ancient Pistol, 
 strutting about as if the world were his oyster, and 
 imagining that all gazers are his admirers, and 
 vainly striving to become his icon — and then he 
 shows his paces and his graces, to make manifest 
 the utter futility of the attempt of his uninitiated 
 imitators. 
 
 The female belonging to this variety, as entomolo- 
 gists term it, labor under a similar delusion ; and 
 when they have buckled on their panoply, and 
 
170 
 
 SELF-IMPORTANCE 
 
 sally fortli for miglitj deeds of arms, tbey feel them- 
 selves as invulnerable as Acliilles, unmindful that, 
 like him, one spot is frequently left unguarded — 
 the heel ! Better remain within their fortress and 
 darn their hose before they march to the battle- 
 field. Many a captive, who has fallen prostrate at 
 the victor's feet, has miraculously escaped through 
 an unsightly hole espied in a dirty stocking. 
 Linnaeus has clearly demonstrated that all perfect 
 Eeliconii and Nymphales, most thoroughly cleanse 
 themselves of the remains of the Larvae and Pupa 
 state, before they venture to appear as the Imago. 
 
 A scribbler who has written a sonnet on a setter 
 slut will class himself among literary characters, 
 and because Shakspeare and Milton both wrote 
 sonnets, he entertains a fraternal feeling for them, 
 and that they may not be forgotten, he condescends 
 to review the dramas of the one, and the Paradise 
 Lost of the other ; and it is a daily entertainment to 
 hear pot-house politicians pronouncing judgment 
 upon the gravest questions of national policy, and 
 measuring the ocean of intellect of profound states- 
 men by the shallow capacity of their own conceited 
 craniums. 
 
 But what is the result of this self-esteem — 
 
SELF-IMPORTANCE. 171 
 
 assumption of the tripod — supposed ability for all 
 things ? Most who entertain such an exaggerated 
 estimate of themselves, become dissatisfied with the 
 pursuit in which they were instructed, and looking 
 with envy upon the success of others in a different 
 calling, they listen to the promptings of vanity, and 
 imagine they would have been equally prosperous 
 had they adopted the same course. They abandon 
 a trade in which they have skill, and steer their frail 
 bark into an untried channel, which almost invaria- 
 bly conducts them to wreck and ruin, and society 
 loses an adept in an important pursuit, and gains a 
 miserable quack in another, who brings disgrace and 
 poverty upon himself, and injury to those who are 
 sufficiently credulous to entrust him. 
 
 By way of illustration, suppose a village where 
 the blacksmith, from having been a farrier, turns 
 physician, and is prepared to bleed and drench any 
 donkey — biped or quadruped — who will entrust his 
 life in his hands, and the disciple of Galen exchanges 
 his pestle and mortar for the sledge and anvil. We 
 may safely assert there would be but little entertain- 
 ment for either man or horse in that village. The 
 tailor, from having made many suits, imagines that 
 he could conduct one as well as the attorney, and 
 
172 SELF-IMPORTANCE. 
 
 they accordingly change positions. What would be 
 the result ? It is proverbial, that when a man goes 
 to law, he will certainly have his coat stripped from 
 his back — and perhaps he deserves it ; but if the 
 village litigants should be so fortunate as to prove 
 the proverb a fallacy, and escape with a certain por- 
 tion of those external embellishments which Adam, 
 when he made his entrd into the wide world, thought 
 it decent and proper to put on, they must go about 
 in their shirt-sleeves, or wear garments of more fan- 
 tastic fashion than the party-colored coat which the 
 fond old patriarch made for his favorite child. Al- 
 though there are instances of legal scoundrels being 
 made of very indifferent tailors — for lawyers are 
 now manufactured from all sorts of mongrel mate- 
 rial — yet it is not of record that a pettifogging law- 
 yer ever made even a tolerable tailor, from which it 
 may be inferred that the villagers would soon desire 
 to behold their Knight of the Goose and Shears 
 seated, like the god Vishnu, cross-legged, on his 
 shop-board again, making pockets for others to 
 pick, and the lawyer-tailor attending to his legiti- 
 mate pursuit of stripping backs instead of covering 
 them. 
 
 It is a dogma that all men are born free and equal, 
 
SELF-IMPORTANCE. 173 
 
 consequently all factitious distinctions have very 
 properly been abolished from among us. We look 
 with sovereign contempt upon a star and garter, in- 
 tended to distinguish one mass of conceited mortality 
 from another, but at the same time frequently dero- 
 gate from high moral worth and intellectual endow- 
 ment when they combine to create pre-eminent dis- 
 tinction. "We shrink instinctively "from all titles, 
 such as — my lord, count, duke, or prince — for they 
 are the Shibboleth to test our sense of equality ; and 
 yet every man in the limited circle of his acquain- 
 tance has a whole regiment of captains, colonels, 
 majors and corporals, every one of whom would 
 feel curtailed of his fair proportions, if his title of 
 distinction be omitted ; and if you write to your 
 tailor — as that important artist was styled in the 
 olden time, but mercer in this age of improve- 
 ment — to send home your galligaskins, you wound 
 to the very quick his chivalrous spirit and delicate 
 sense of etiquette, if you fail to attach esquire to his 
 name. 
 
 Self-esteem is illustrated by an anecdote related 
 by the Duke of Saxe- Weimer, in his book of travels 
 through this country. He was waiting in front of 
 a tavern for a stage-coach, when the driver accosted 
 
174 SELF-IMPORTANCE. 
 
 him thus : " Are you the man who is going to Con 
 cord ; if so, get in — for I am the gentleman that's to 
 drive you." Now there was a man of keen percep- 
 tive faculties. True, he failed to discover the gen- 
 tleman in the duke, but the gentleman, with all his 
 inherent rights, titles and appurtenances, could not 
 escape him when he contemplated the coach-driver. 
 
 We cling to petty distinctions, however insignifi- 
 cant, and accordingly address some by the title of 
 " your excellency ;" and others we style " the hon- 
 orable ;" though at times it happens that they never 
 possessed one spark of excellence or honor on God's 
 earth, until we thought proper to make them either 
 a governor, a judge, or a member of Congress. This 
 silly vanity is increasing to such an extent that the 
 time must arrive when we shall be unable to find a 
 private and untitled citizen in the whole United 
 States. We shall become a perfect anomaly on the 
 map of the world, presenting a nation composed 
 altogether of corporals and generals, judges and gov- 
 ernors — or at least, not to speak it profanely — jus- 
 tices of the peace. 
 
 Although, as a nation, we are ever ready to mag- 
 nify the worth of our great departed — the sages of 
 the revolution — and with one accord admit that 
 
SELF-IMPORTANCE. 175 
 
 there were giants on the earth in those days, we 
 are blind to the fact, though the civilized world 
 bears voluntary testimony to its truth, that there 
 are giants in this nation even now. But, unfortu- 
 nately, self-conceit and envy, have generated 
 myriads of little Davids in the land, who imagine 
 they possess the ability with their pebble-slings to 
 reach the radiant foreheads of those giants, and 
 bring them to the dust ; and what is rather remarka- 
 ble, these pigmy Davids, in the vanity of their 
 ambition, aim at slaughtering Goliahs only. Self- 
 importance, with a smack of envy, soon begets the 
 spirit of detraction — all things on earth pay tribute 
 to detraction. It is a tax which the little and 
 envious exact from the great and good; but no 
 nation can become truly great without entertaining 
 an honest veneration for the characters of its distin- 
 guished citizens. 
 
 What would have been the history of Ancient 
 Greece and Rome but one noisome record of aggres- 
 sion and voluptuousness, had it not been for their 
 philosophers, statesmen, patriots, and poets. Those 
 nations are indebted for their permanent glory to 
 the exalted virtues of individuals ; for their down- 
 fall and degradation to the weakness and vices of 
 
176 BELF-IMPORTANCE. 
 
 the multitude. Let us not become weary of hearing 
 Aristides called the Just, but rather render unto 
 Ca3sar the things which are Caesar's. Sustain those 
 whom merit has exalted, and not from envy, 
 attempt to pull them down to our individual level. 
 The reckless and imbecile defamer should ever bear 
 in mind, that although the filthy snail may leave 
 his slimy trace even on God's sacred altar, that 
 altar is still as sacred, and is approached by the 
 pure and just with undiminished veneration, not- 
 withstanding the mark of the snail may continue 
 for a time. 
 
BATOR THE DERYISE. 177 
 
 BATOE, THE DERVISE. 
 
 In" tlie olden time there dwelt near Basra, a 
 poor dervise by the name of Bator. He belonged 
 to the most rigid and pure of their numerous 
 orders, and such was his zeal that he refused to 
 recognise the Naeshbendies as belonging to their 
 fraternity, for they mingled with mankind as other 
 men, while he dwelt in a cave secluded and alone. 
 No human ear heard his incessant shout — " Ya hu ! 
 ya Allah !" — that commenced with the morning 
 sun, and ceased not, until he fell through exhaustion 
 at midnight, on the bed of spikes he had prepared 
 to receive him. No one beheld the unsightly 
 wounds he had inflicted in the zeal of his devotion ; 
 and not even Allah himself heard a sigh of anguish 
 at his sufferings. 
 
 There were good genii in those days. They 
 
 knew that Bator wished to strip off all human 
 
 frailty, and cultivate alone those virtues that would 
 
 render him acceptable in the sight of Allah. His 
 
 12 
 
178 BATOR, THE DERVISE. 
 
 prayers at lengtTi were lieard ; tTie few evil passions 
 he possessed were exorcised, and charity, mercy, 
 benevolence, and all the heavenly emanations that 
 mortal may attain, came and took np their dwell- 
 ing in the lonely cell of Bator. 
 
 He was now happy; no mortal more so. Sur- 
 rounded alone by virtues, the solitude re-echoed 
 his incessant cry — " Ya hu ! ya Allah ! Praise to 
 thee ! I am not as a ISTaeshbendie, and dwell not 
 among sinful men." And then he would scourge 
 his flesh, and stretch himself upon his bed of torture, 
 and turn smiling, for the approval of the heavenly 
 attributes, who sat drowsily beside him — all save 
 Pity, who at times would drop a tear as she beheld 
 his sufferings. 
 
 Thus years passed away, and the guests of Bator, 
 from sheer idleness, slumbered undisturbed even by 
 his shouts of devotion, and Pity herself had m> 
 longer the tribute of a tear to offer. 
 
 One day as he beheld them sleeping, and 
 thought — "why is it they sleep?" — he heard a 
 voice cry — "Bator, come forth!" and suddenly 
 there appeared at the door of his cell the most 
 beautiful and fascinating figure, the imagination of 
 the recluse could conceive. She was attired in a 
 fantastic manner, and in the brightest colours, but 
 
BATOR, THE DERVISE. 179 
 
 every movement was full of grace and seduction. 
 The hermit felt lier influence, and tried to woo her 
 to his cell — " I may not dwell with thee there," she 
 cried, " I should perish soon. But arise, Bator, and 
 come forth, and I am thine." It was beyond the 
 power of the dervise to resist, he rushed into the 
 embrace of the tempter; and all the virtues that 
 were slumbering in his cell, suddenly awoke, and 
 followed him. The gay visitant was Yanity. 
 
 She led Bator and his train to Basra, and as they 
 mingled in the populous city, the dervise found that 
 the virtues that had hitherto slept were now even 
 prompting him to deeds of benevolence. Charity 
 opened his hand, and Pity the fountain of tears, 
 while Yanity prevented him from relaxing in his 
 labours. There passed not a day in which Bator 
 did not some good ; and his fame spread abroad 
 until it reached the ears of the Shiek of Basra, who 
 made him his public almoner, and then the dervise 
 cried, " Ya hu! ya ! Allah ! Praise to thee! — thou 
 hast made me a Naeshbendie, to live among men 
 as other men" — and it was a saying of his to the 
 day of his death, that " all the virtues are of little 
 use to the human heart, if we strip it of the frailties 
 of mortality; for they would seldom go far from 
 home if they were not accompanied by Yanity." 
 
180 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 AZIB AND HIS FEIENBS, 
 
 Azib's father was a wealthy merchant of Bagdad. 
 He did not garner to gratify avarice or ostentation, 
 but that his strength might sustain the feeble and 
 unfortunate. Azib, full of intelligence and benevo- 
 lence, was the pride and joy of his father's soul ; 
 and when the old man was dying, he blessed him, 
 and said, " Thou hast been to me, my son, all I could 
 have asked of Heaven to make earth heaven ; and 
 though you have dimmed my old eyes with many a 
 tear, they were but tears of gratitude to Omnipo- 
 tence for making me the father of such a son." The 
 dying blessing was a richer inheritance to Azib than 
 all his father's wealth. 
 
 Azib had now many friends, for he was liberal in 
 aiding those less prosperous than himself. On the 
 anniversary of his birth-day he entertained them 
 splendidly, and even the caliph could scarcely have 
 numbered as many friends as surrounded Azib on 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 181 
 
 that occasion. A feast will furnish the rich man 
 with many friends, but very few friends will furnish 
 the poor man with a feast. Among the guests, Azib 
 discerned one whose graceful movements riveted his 
 attention ; he was charmed with him, but he could 
 not recognize him, for his features were hidden bj 
 an impervious mask. The stranger appeared to be 
 familiar with all the company, yet all avoided him. 
 Azib requested his guests to introduce him, but all 
 disavowed the slightest knowledge of the stranger. 
 Azib approached the intruder, gave him a cordial 
 welcome, and asked his name. 
 
 " Not at present," he replied. " I am the bosom 
 companion of all your friends, yet they are ashamed 
 to acknowledge me in your presence. My appear- 
 ance seems to please you ; still, at some future day, 
 when you thoroughly know me, you will recoil from 
 me with disgust." 
 
 Azib smiled, and taking him by the hand, said : 
 " You are frank, however, my friend. Come, our 
 feast is ready ; and though your friends may disown 
 you, sit at my right hand at the head of the table." 
 
 It was a joyous festival ; the guests smiled to be- 
 hold the favor that Azib bestowed upon the stranger, 
 who chuckled with such inward delight, that it was 
 
182 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 with difficulty lie prevented tlie mask from falling 
 from his countenance. 
 
 Years passed away. There is no well so deep but 
 that it may be drained. Azib's wealth was now 
 exhausted, like a spring in a dry season, that had 
 supplied manifold babbling streams, which never 
 return a drop to the fountain head, but when ex- 
 hausted, unmindful of the days of plentitude, 
 reproach their source with the last drop given. 
 
 In his difficulties, Azib gave a feast, confident 
 that his friends would be anxious to return him the 
 money he had loaned them, and relieve him from 
 his embarrassment. All assembled at the time 
 appointed, with smiling faces, and the man in the 
 mask, though not invited, was among them. Azib 
 made his necessities known to each, but so far from 
 being grateful for benefits conferred, they excused 
 themselves from being even honest. As a last re- 
 source, he appealed to his unknown guest, who 
 laughed in his face, and turning on his heel, min- 
 gled among the guests, shaking each cordially by 
 the hand ; they knew him now, returned the grasp, 
 and smiled. 
 
 " And who are you, sir ?" demanded Azib of the 
 stranger, " who appear so intimate with my friends." 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 183 
 
 " That is of little moment now," he replied, with 
 a sneer, " as it is improbable that I shall ever cross 
 your threshold again." 
 
 " Unmask, that I may see your face." 
 " As you please. I have no longer any reason to 
 conceal my features, homely as tbey are, since your 
 dispensing power is at an end." The mask fell, 
 and Azib recoiled from the repulsive object, who 
 coolly continued: "Well, I perceive you do not 
 admire my appearance. If you wish never to see 
 me again, there is but one way by which you ean 
 avoid my intrusion." 
 
 " Name it ; anything to escape your presence." 
 "It is simply this — never confer a benefit on 
 your fellow-man, and henceforth I shall not trouble 
 
 you." 
 
 " But who are you ? Answer me." 
 
 " The paymaster of your many friends." 
 
 " Your name ?" 
 
 "Ingratitude." Saying which, he joined the 
 other guests, and they hurried away to lighter- 
 hearted companions, for it was too painful for their 
 delicate feelings to behold a benefactor in adversity. 
 
 Azib was now alone ; no one to condole with or 
 encourage him. His first reflections were bitter, 
 
184 
 
 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 but lie soon tore from liis bosom tlie serpents tbat 
 were coiling within liim. He exclaimed : 
 
 " Never confer a benefit on my fellow-man ! — 
 Shall I not hand a crutch to the cripple, lest, when 
 strengthened, he turn it as a weapon against me ? 
 Shall I not give bread to the famished, for fear his 
 fangs may wound the hand that feeds him ? Death 
 were better than life, deprived of the power of doing 
 good and of forgiving injury. And how dare man 
 repine at ingratitude, since it is the most common 
 vice of his nature, and daily manifested towards his 
 God. All the good bestowed upon him in this 
 world is overlooked, until he finds it necessary to 
 pray for greater in the world to come. The true 
 man never repines at his own afllictions, when he 
 reflects upon the suffering that the ingratitude of 
 the universe hurls back to the fountain of benefi- 
 cence. May my heart cease to beat when it has no 
 room for benevolence towards man and gratitude to 
 God." 
 
 A mendicant now entered the deserted hall of 
 Azib, and asked for food. The master of the feast 
 placed the beggar at his board, and with his own 
 hands served him with the best. 
 
 " You appear dejected," said the mendicant. 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 185 
 
 "For a time only," replied Azib; "the darkest 
 night must soon give place to morning, and the sun 
 will shine forth again." 
 
 " True, but where will his rays fall to give light 
 and life ? Even the sun rejoices in the lofty and 
 proud places, but leaves the obscure valleys shiver- 
 ing in darkness. Although the shades of night 
 have already taken possession of yon mountain's 
 base, ascend, and you will still find the golden glo- 
 ries of the setting sun encircling its brow, proud to 
 pay homage. A few short living rays of his cheer- 
 ing influence would make the valleys smile with 
 gratitude, but they are withheld." 
 
 " Man imitates the example of the sun," replied 
 Azib; "for even the sun himself may rise gor- 
 geously, but let him set in clouds and tempest, and 
 the splendor of the morn will be forgotten until he 
 shines forth again." 
 
 The mendicant, refreshed, pursued his journey. 
 Azib's career was one of struggle, without friends 
 or relatives to aid or encourage him. They had 
 little else to bestow than reproof for having lost 
 what he once possessed. Still he was happy, and 
 daily returned thanks for the little his efforts yielded. 
 
 Years passed, and again the mendicant called at 
 
18Q AaiB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 the now humble dwelling of Azib, and asked for 
 food and shelter. Both were bestowed as freely as 
 when he was entertained in a palace. AYhen the old 
 man was refreshed, Azib discovered, for the first 
 time, that a singularly beautiful companion, in the 
 vigor of youth accompanied him. 
 
 " You have a companion, I perceive ; will he not 
 feed also." 
 
 " He fed as I fed. You see he is refreshed, and 
 smiles cheerfully." 
 
 " His features are your own, though brighter. — 
 Who is he?" 
 
 " The first-born of my soul." 
 
 " Your first-born ! You are aged and apparently 
 worn down with a long life of care, while he is still 
 in the vigor of boyhood. How can that be ?" 
 
 *' His beauty can never fade, and he can never 
 grow old, for he has little to do in this world ; while 
 my daily trials have left their wrinkled record on my 
 brow, and furrowed channels in my cheeks for tears." 
 
 "His name?" 
 
 '* Gratitude. He and myself will never leave 
 you ; for on a former occasion, you gave us an invi- 
 tation to stay with you through life, and we are 
 here." 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 1S7 
 
 " I Tinderstand you not ! Invite yon for life ! I 
 am poor ; still you are welcome." 
 
 " Eemember your words when in deep affliction 
 — 'May my heart cease to beat when it has no 
 room for benevolence towards man and gratitude 
 to God.'" 
 
 " Still, I know you not." 
 
 " Yet I have been the inmate of your heart from 
 its first pulsation. Man boasts of his wisdom, even 
 while blindly ignorant of that which dwells within 
 him ! At my birth I was called Benevolence. — 
 My life has been most active ; incessantly required 
 to perform the most arduous duties ; and where I 
 most expected the cheering approbation of my son, 
 he has withheld the light of his countenance. He is 
 a wayward boy, though he doats on his father ; and 
 my fondness for him is such, that at times I am sick 
 even to death at his long absence." 
 
 From that day Azib and his guests dwelt together, 
 and their wealth increased, until, from the position 
 of an humble dealer, Azib became the wealthiest 
 merchant in Bagdad. Then his kindred, from the 
 nearest of blood to the most remote, flocked around 
 him, open-mouthed in praise of his sagacity; cla- 
 morous in asking his advice, and in the same breath 
 
188 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 his assistance. His friends were now so nnmerons 
 that lie could not name them ; they were once so 
 few that he labored under a similar difficulty. His 
 coffers were constantly open, and old Benevolence^ 
 who was the cash-keeper, industriously scattered the 
 contents with a self-satisfied and idiotic smile. — 
 Gratitude, at times, would look exceedingly blank, 
 and remark — 
 
 " Father, with all due appreciation for the purity 
 of your motives, may the Prophet pardon me, when 
 I most respectfully suggest, sir, that I consider you 
 a consummate old fool." 
 
 " Son," replied the old man, with becoming dig- 
 nity, " I care not a fig for what you think. True, 
 I do a great many foolish things which you never 
 mention; but if I were to await your slow-paced 
 sanction, before I perform my duty, my office would 
 be a sinecure." Saying which, he thrust his hands 
 into the coffers, and scattering the gold broadcast, 
 exclaimed, with an air of importance — "There, 
 take an account of that, you idle scamp. There, 
 there ; I will find you employment." 
 
 " You will never hear of a sequen of it from me, 
 father. It will be picked up by those who use my 
 name most familiarly, protesting that I am never 
 
AZIB AND HIS PRIENDS. 189 
 
 absent from them, thougli they never beheld me, and 
 care not a rush for me." 
 
 Azib overheard them. He smiled somewhat 
 sadly, while raising his hand towards heaven, but 
 it fell upon the old man's bead, and he patted it 
 fondly. Gratitude raised the uplifted hand to point 
 above, his face all radiant as the morning sun — 
 ** There, there !" he cried. 
 
 " Eight, right, my child !" exclaimed Benevolence. 
 " There, there alone. He gave us all ; and no one 
 but you can teach us to deserve it." Gratitude fell 
 upon the neck of Azib, and a copious flood of tears 
 bedewed his bosom, and the old man chuckled, as a 
 father, in his second childhood, would over a re- 
 claimed son, and he scattered from the abundance 
 before him as if it were but child's play, and he had 
 escaped from leading-strings thrown around him by 
 his favorite child. 
 
 Azib died, and, of course, was followed to the 
 grave by an extended retinue. " Man is a noble 
 animal; splendid in ashes, and pompous in the 
 grave ; solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal 
 lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery in the 
 infamy of his nature." After the funeral came a 
 feast which was more speedly buried than poor 
 
IGO AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Azib, for there is nothing like grief for whetting the 
 appetite for a funeral festival. "When gorged to 
 the gullet, some thought it appropriate to commend 
 the virtues of the departed, to which his immediate 
 heirs yielded a cold assent, tempered bj a censure 
 for his misplaced extravagance. With prudence, 
 he would have died more wealthy. 
 
 The man in the mask was present, for he is ever 
 in the house of mourning when it becomes the house 
 of feasting. " man, thou fool !" he exclaimed, 
 "he who would die deplored should die poor, 
 leaving idle ingrates dependent on his labor for 
 their bread and shelter. Hunger will make them 
 mourn without the aid of hypocritical tears. But 
 die wealthy, and your heirs will make a merry 
 feast, and dance on your grave before the grass is 
 green; and if perchance they revert to your 
 memory, it is but to deplore that on some particular 
 occasion you failed to increase their inheritance." 
 
 The day appointed for reading the will arrived. — 
 All again assembled, more serious than at his 
 funeral. No will was found; and then the heirs, 
 in disputing about their individual rights, became 
 as clamorous as crows dissecting carrion. They 
 thought little of the living Azib, who was pure 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 191 
 
 gold, but very mucli of tlie dross he liad left in 
 passing throngli the fiery furnaces of this world. 
 All were now disposed to gather up the fragments 
 of the eaten feast, and see that nothing was lost, 
 though no one had a scrap to throw npon the same 
 board, when famine shrieked there. 
 
 "When the contest was at its height, old Benevo- 
 lence drew a paper from his bosom, and applying 
 the thumb of his dexter hand to the termination of 
 his nasal organ, at the same time vibrating signifi- 
 cantly the extended digits, coolly and emphatically 
 exclaimed, in pure Arabic, " You can't come it, no 
 how you can fix it. Here is his will ; I am his sole 
 heir ; and what is better, his executor also !" A half- 
 suppressed chuckle shook his old frame, and a sar- 
 donic twinkle danced in his eyes, which, however, 
 no sooner beamed, than it was quenched by a tear 
 of pity for their disappointment. The man in the 
 mask meandered gracefully through the assemblage, 
 bestowing upon each a fashionable salutation of 
 condolence, then clapped his hands as if he were the 
 floor manager of a modern menagerie ball, cried 
 aloud, "choose your partners!" then, with a har- 
 lequin leap — stampede in uno, he extended his dex- 
 ter pedestal, which vibrated as if touched with St. 
 
19^ AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Vitus' dance, wliicli exhibition was succeeded by an 
 unparalleled number of pirouettes. After this, lie 
 contorted bis attenuated figure into all sorts of angles 
 and curves, as if he were resolving a problem in 
 Euclid by ocular demonstration ; be significantly 
 snapped bis thumb and finger, as much as to say — 
 " Azib be hanged ! Promenade ! Forward two ! — 
 Go it you cripples I" He led the way to the grace- 
 ful measure of an expressive dance, now familiarly 
 known to all enlightened nations by the euphonical 
 title of the polka. The heirs silently dropped into 
 the retinue, two by two ; but their movements were 
 by no means as nimble and hilarious as when they 
 followed Azib to the grave. Kow Gratitude came 
 in to see how the fortune would be disposed of by 
 the old man, whose youth seemed to be renewed by 
 his inheritance. 
 
 They walked through the streets of Bagdad hand 
 in hand, in search of the feeble and the oppressed ; 
 such as adversity had rendered so unsightly, as to 
 curdle the milk of humanity in the breast of charity. 
 His pensioners consisted principally of destitute and 
 care-worn old women, with scarce sufficient strength 
 to bear them to the grave. His presence, however, 
 renewed the flickering lamp of life, and his atten- 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 193 
 
 tions became so marked, tliat his son, in alarm, ex- 
 postulated against his imprudence. 
 
 " Old gentleman," he said, " allow me to intimate 
 that your motives are misunderstood ; that you are 
 losing caste daily, and what is worse, the old ladies 
 are looked upon with a suspicious eye. Consider 
 their reputation." 
 
 " Eeputation ! Fudge ! They need not be alarmed 
 about that. No one will take it from them, for 
 there is nothing to be made out of it. It is of no 
 use to any one but the owner, and frequently of 
 very little use to him. If it were worth a fig, they 
 would have been robbed of it lono^ ao^o." 
 
 " You are called an old reprobate !" 
 
 " What do I care for that ? But reproof comes 
 with an ill grace from you, for already you have 
 made a deeper impression on the old ladies' hearts, 
 than all that I have done." 
 
 "Father, that is true; I confess that, as you 
 opened the door, I quietly crept in." 
 
 "Then oblige me by quietly creeping out again, 
 for I have all my life been trying to get absolute 
 possession of an old woman's heart, without success, 
 for, I assure you, it is no small undertaking. If you 
 want a job, see what impression you can make upon 
 
194 AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 the hearts of the young and beautiful ; leave the old 
 and tough to me." 
 
 "I would rather break stone in the streets of 
 Bagdad. Vanity can find an easy entrance there, 
 and rich entertainment ; while I too frequently, after 
 snapping, with patience, the iron-bound barriers, 
 have found myself famished in an empty citadel, 
 from which I was speedily ejected by vanity and 
 affectation. I am perfectly at home in the hearts of 
 your poor pensioners, and as you do not expect me 
 to work hard there, I will take my repose in their 
 bosoms." 
 
 " Then let us finish the work we have in hand." 
 
 Gratitude followed the footsteps of Benevolence 
 OS he performed the labors of love, and the recipients 
 of his bounty became so enamoured with the heav- 
 enly smile of Gratitude, that finally their shrivelled 
 features were moulded into the beauty and freshness 
 of his own. The work progressed until they had 
 fashioned from the refuse of mortality, immortals, 
 more bright and beautiful than the houries that 
 revel in the imaginary paradise of Mahomet. 
 
 " The work is done !" cried Gratitude, " but father, 
 you have been extravagant, in your day." 
 
 " True ; but one smile of yours always repays me 
 
AZIB AND HIS FRIENDS. 195 
 
 tenfold, and witliont that smile, we could never have 
 revivified our old women into angels. Thej loved 
 you, boy, in their dotage. But you seem restive. 
 Where are going now?" 
 
 " To carry our work home, and render an account 
 of your stewardship. There, there, to the place from 
 whence we came." 
 
 " But when shall we meet again ?" 
 
 " As soon as you find another Azib who will en- 
 trust you with the disposal of his fortune ; for until 
 then, you will have but little employment for me on 
 earth." 
 
 Benevolence, now destitute and alone, pursued a 
 thankless labor, until his countenance became so 
 care-worn and repulsive that even the scalding tears 
 he shed for the unfortunate were rejected, for they 
 seemed to be forced from an iron heart, to bedew a 
 channel in the haggard features of misanthropy. — 
 " Alas I" he sighed, " with Azib's wealth I was wel- 
 comed by all — from the pauper to the prince ; — but 
 unassisted, my test wishes are flowerless and fruit- 
 less ; they cannot call forth even a smile from Grati- 
 tude." 
 
196 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 "Call no man happy 'till you l<now the nature of his death ; he is at best but 
 fortunate."-— Solon to Cresds. 
 
 Time eats tlie cliildren lie begets, and tlie memo- 
 ries of few men outlive their monuments; nay, 
 myriads pass into oblivion even before the elements 
 tave sullied their epitaph. My uncle Nicholas, 
 notwithstanding his deserts, has not escaped this 
 order of things. I knew him in the April of my 
 years — the flower-time of my life ; and as my mind 
 reverts to those sunny days, the first object it rests 
 ■apon is the beloved image of my uncle Nicholas. 
 
 He was a placid being, overflowing with the best 
 of humanities. His heart and his doors were open 
 to all his fellow beings, and there was not a creature 
 endued with animal life, towards which he did not 
 studiously avoid giving pain. His dogs loved him, 
 and he could not walk abroad into his fields but his 
 cattle followed him, and fed out of his hand. 
 
 " He was a scholar, a ripe and a good one," at 
 
MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 197 
 
 least I viewed him as such in my boyhood. His 
 mind was stored with good learning, but his favorite 
 companions were those hearty old poets who have 
 retained their freshness for centuries, and who 
 possess a re-productive faculty that will make them 
 blossom through succeeding ages. "With what de- 
 light would he pore over the harmonious numbers 
 of Spencer, and Drayton, and Drummond, and the 
 vigorous dramatists of those times ! and there was 
 scarcely a gem of the minor poets that he had not 
 culled to grace his memory. These he would recite 
 with all the feeling and enthusiasm of early life, and 
 at times I imagined they were golden links that 
 inseparably bound him to his boyhood. They 
 appeared to possess the faculty of making him 
 young again. 
 
 He was a quiet humorist, but with no more gall 
 than might be found in a dove. His face was ever 
 mantling with some pleasant thought, and his mind 
 flowed on as gently as a secret brook, that ever and 
 anon dimples and smiles at its own babbling. 
 
 He was married, and my aunt was one of the 
 gentlest of creatures. You might have searched 
 the world without finding a pair whose hearts and 
 minds so perfectly harmonized. She was a deli- 
 
198 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 cately attuned instrument, ever breatliing tlie softest 
 music; never depressed to sadness, and seldom 
 exhilerated beyond a placid smile. If perchance 
 slie laughed, it was at some jest of mj uncle 
 Nicholas; not that it excited her risible faculties, 
 but that she perceived by the mantling of his 
 countenance there was more intended than came 
 within the scope of her apprehension; and she 
 would laugh outright that he might more fully 
 enjoy the freak of his imagination. How they 
 loved each other ! 
 
 My uncle dwelt on a farm on the outskirts of a 
 village. He had selected it as a residence in early 
 life, and had lived long enough to see the primitive 
 settlement assume something like a name on the 
 map of his country. He was identified with the 
 spot ; all the villagers in a measure looked upon 
 him as a patriarch, and even the children would 
 break off their amusements to salute him as he 
 passed ; and he ever had a kind word and a jest to 
 bestow upon the humblest of the little troglodytes. 
 They all called him uncle Nicholas, and he was so 
 kind to them, that many grew up in the belief that 
 he was actually the uncle of the whole village. 
 
 His residence was a delightful spot. His farm 
 
MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 199 
 
 was well cultivated, and his buildings, while they 
 afforded every comfort, were not so ostentatious as 
 to awaken the envy of his less prosperous neigh- 
 bors. A river flowed beside it, and in the rear 
 were shady walks of sugar maple, to which the 
 villagers would resort of a summer afternoon for 
 recreation, and few would fail in returning to stop at 
 my uncle's cottage and partake of the hospitality of 
 his board. Indeed he and his were looked upon as 
 common property. 
 
 At these social gatherings, all the belles of the 
 village would rival each other to secure my uncle's 
 attention. He was ever the gayest among the gay, 
 while his gentle manners and playful fancy minis- 
 tered to the delight of all ; and it was amusing to 
 behold the quiet complacency of my aunt as she 
 gazed on his little gallantries, and to watch her 
 countenance gradually light up, as her mind would 
 pass from the scene before her, to the halcyon days 
 when he wooed and won her, and then she would 
 turn to her next neighbor and whisper in a tone 
 mingled with pride and fondness, "You see his 
 winning ways have not yet left him." And then 
 she would smile and look on in silence, as if life 
 
200 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 could afford no delight like gazing on mj uncle 
 Nicholas, when he was happy. 
 
 Happy ! — The heavens themselves are never so 
 bright and clear, but that a cloud overshadows 
 some portion, and there lives not that man whose 
 mind is so free, but that at some period a phantom 
 pursues it, from which he fears escape is impossible. 
 My uncle's phantom was the dread of poverty. He 
 had lived generously and from his habits and tone 
 of mind was ill calculated to increase his posses- 
 sions. As he advanced in life he perceived that his 
 property had imperceptibly wasted away ; and to 
 increase his terrors, there was a lawsuit against him 
 that had been pending many years. He dreaded 
 its termination would result in ruin, though con- 
 vinced that justice was on his side ; but the boosted 
 trial by jury is by no means as infallible, as 
 its ' encomiasts pretend, for it is a difficult matter 
 for one man who does not understand his case 
 to explain to twelve who frequently are in- 
 capable of comprehending the matter under any 
 circumstances. And by this frail tenure do we 
 cling to our possession of liberty and life. The 
 sword of Damocles is a type of the trial by jury. 
 
 It was a melancholy sight to behold the old 
 
MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 201 
 
 gentleman, term after term, attending court to learn 
 the issue of his cause. It absorbed all his faculties 
 and sapped the very foundation of his mind. He 
 was wont to have a word and a cheerful smile 
 for all he met, but now he would pass his next 
 neighbor, without token of recognition. His little 
 friends, the children, no longer followed him. His 
 favorite volumes remained undusted on the shelves 
 — their charm had passed away, and those vernal 
 fancies, that were wont to make his heart like a 
 singing bird in spring, had died and it sung no 
 more. 
 
 He would at times struggle to disengage his mind 
 from the phantom that embraced it with iron 
 clutches, and affect more cheerfulness in the 
 presence of my aunt, for he perceived that his 
 melancholy was contagious. How tenderly she 
 watched over him, and soothed him and encouraged 
 him! God bless her! — At one of those tender 
 interviews which were frequent, he appeared sud- 
 denly animated with hope — the world was open to 
 him — he was a man and could labor like other 
 men — his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, 
 exultingly : 
 
 •' The spider taketh hold with her hands and is 
 
202 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 in king's palaces." — He fondly looked into the 
 recess of his wife's heart through her glistening 
 eyes, and continued. " The ants are a people not 
 strong." — He paused, and finished the proverb in a 
 tone scarcely audible, — "yet they prepare their 
 meat in the summer. — Alas ! the snows of many 
 winters are on my head." — A tear dropped from his 
 eye on the pale forehead of the partner of his 
 bosom. She consoled him no more that day. 
 
 He had contracted various small debts with the 
 tradesmen of the village, among whom were some 
 new-comers who had not known him in his palmy 
 days. And even if they had, the chances are that 
 it would not have altered their conduct towards him. 
 Few men make an asgis of the past to shield them 
 from present evils. True, he has been as liberal as 
 the sun that shines on all alike without distinction 
 but how soon do we forget the splendor of yester- 
 day, if the sun rise in clouds to-morrow. 
 
 His creditors became impatient, and though there 
 was some hesitation in taking out the first execution, 
 yet that being done, others followed as regularly as 
 links of the same chain. There was a time when he 
 felt as confident and secure among the villagers as 
 in the bosom of his own family ; but now there was 
 
MY UNCLE NICnOLAS. 203 
 
 no longer safety for the sole of his foot on His lieartli- 
 stone. He was humbled, and he moved among his 
 neighbors, a broken down man, with fear and trem- 
 bling, dreading all whom he chanced to meet. 
 
 At length his library was seized upon and sold. 
 His books were of no great value to any other than 
 himself, but he prized them beyond every thing. 
 He had bought them in his boyhood ; to lose 
 them was to sever the chain that bound him to 
 happier days, and as he beheld them scattered one 
 by one, he wept as if they had been things of life 
 that had abandoned him in his misfortunes. 
 
 It was a melancholy sight to behold him after this 
 event, seated in his study, gazing on the empty 
 shelves, and repeating various choice passages from 
 his favorite volumes. I witnessed him once, 
 looking intently on the vacant spot where a fine 
 old copy of Herrick's poems had stood for near 
 half a century. I knew the place well, for at that 
 time it was my delight to delve for the pure ore of 
 that " very best of English lyric poets." A melan- 
 choly smile came over his bland countenance, and 
 he repeated, in a low tremulous voice : 
 
204 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 Call me no more, 
 As heretofore, 
 
 The music of the feast; 
 Since now alas I 
 The mirth that was 
 
 In me, is dead or ceased. 
 
 Before I went 
 To banishment 
 
 Into the loathed west ; 
 I could rehearse 
 A lyric verse 
 
 And speak it with the best 
 
 But time, ah me ! 
 Has laid, I see, 
 
 My organ fast asleep ; 
 And turn'd my voice 
 Into the noise 
 
 Of those that sit and weep. 
 
 His eyes slowly moved along tlie empty shelves 
 until they rested upon a place that had been occu- 
 pied by a collection of the old dramatists. He 
 smiled, though he shed tears, 
 
 " Beshrew me, but thy song hath moved me." I 
 turned from the window through which I was 
 gazing, unperceived, and left him breathing frag- 
 ment upon fragment. 
 
MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 205 
 
 , My uncle was accustomed to rise with tlie sun, 
 and continued his habit to the last. But he no 
 longer enjoyed the songs of the birds, the babbling 
 of the waterfall, nor the fresh breeze of the morning 
 laden with fragrance — their influence had departed 
 from them ; still he adhered to his custom, and 
 would wander from his green meadows to the maple 
 grove and from the grove to the river, as if in 
 pursuit of something — he knew not what. On his 
 return, his usual remark was, "Is it not strange 
 that the flowers should have lost their fragrance, 
 and the little birds their skill in singing?" In 
 happier days how he would praise the flowers and 
 the birds ! 
 
 As term-time approached, his malady ever in- 
 creased. His morning meal would scarcely be over 
 when he would adjust his dress, and call for his hat 
 and cane, and on being asked whither he was 
 going, he would invariably reply, " To the village 
 to see my friends. Of late they have ceased to come 
 here, and it is right that I should see them." He 
 would for hours walk from one end of the village 
 to the other, and bow to all who accosted him, yet 
 pause to converse with none ; and on his return, 
 when my good aunt would inquire whether he had 
 
206 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 seen his friends, tlie constant reply was, "N'o, I 
 liave fallen in with none of them." Alas ! my poor 
 nncle, how thy brain must have been shattered to 
 imagine that a man in adversity can ever find his 
 friends ! 
 
 At length the dreaded day arrived — ^his cause 
 was marked for trial, and in a few hours the result 
 would be known. The matter in dispute was not 
 of such a great moment, but he had brooded over 
 it imtil his fears had magnified it to vital impor- 
 tance. His opponent was a course and brutal man, 
 and in their protracted contest, the abruptness of 
 his demeanor had awakened whatever latent asperity 
 had found a hiding place in my uncle's bosom. He 
 looked upon that cause, trifling as it was, as the 
 most important matter of his life. His daily 
 thoughts and irritated feeling had magnified it. 
 Even the little ant by constant application can 
 create a mound altogether disproportionate to its 
 size, and there is not a column so beautiful that 
 may not be defaced by the trail of a slimy snail. 
 My poor uncle feared the ant-hill and recoiled at 
 the filth of the worm. 
 
 The morning his cause was to be tried, he dressed 
 himself with unusual care, and my aunt, knowing 
 
MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 207 
 
 the bent of his mind, exercised all her little appli- 
 ances to encourage him. He went to the court 
 house, and took his seat, a dejected man. He 
 looked around as if in search of some one to sit 
 beside him to aid and sustain him, but none such 
 were present, and he sat alone. 
 
 The cause was called, the jury empanelled, and 
 the investigation proceeded. Every question that 
 arose in its progress, wrought up my uncle's mind 
 to painful intensities. In the ardor of his feelings 
 he at times interrupted the proceedings, and was 
 rudely ordered by the court to sit down and be silent. 
 He obeyed, while every fibre of his frame shook 
 with passion, and offended pride. His opponent 
 smiled in triumph as he beheld his confusion. He 
 sat alone ; no one approached to sympathize with 
 him, and he felt as if deserted by all. In conse- 
 quence of the distracted state of his mind, his 
 defence, though a just one, had been imperfectly 
 made out. Facts had escaped his memory; papers 
 were missing that should have been produced, and 
 the result was, the j ary returned a verdict against 
 him without leaving the box. It fell like a 
 thunderbolt upon him; he fancied the last busi- 
 ness of his life was over, and in the triumph of the 
 
208 MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 
 
 moment, his adversary taunted him, and openly 
 charged him with dishonesty. The old man rose 
 to repel the insult, while every limb shook with 
 passion as if palsy-struck. All was confusion. 
 The judges interferred to preserve order. My 
 uncle heard them not. He was commanded to sit 
 down, but still persisted to vindicate his character. 
 A second — a third time was he called upon to sit 
 down and be silent, which awakened him to a 
 sense of his position. He beheld his antagonist 
 still smiling ; he slowly sunk into his seat, and as 
 if abashed, his head hung over his bosom, and 
 gradually descended until it rested on the desk 
 before him. Order was again restored, and the 
 court proceeded in its business. A few moments 
 after, some one approached my uncle, and on 
 raising him, he was found to be dead ! 
 
 Thus died that good old man. There was a time 
 when I looked upon him being secure from the 
 shafts of fate ; but who may boast of to-morrow ! 
 He was wealthy, had health and friends, and his 
 gentle spirit made his home a paradise. His sources 
 of enjoyment were boundless, for all nature, from 
 her sublimest mysteries, even down to the petals of 
 a simple flower was one mighty minister, and he 
 
MY UNCLE NICHOLAS. 209 
 
 drew wisdom and delight from all. And yet a 
 single cloud was magnified until it overshadowed 
 his heaven of happiness, and he died friendless and 
 heartbroken, all had vanished that made earth 
 beautiful. But is this strange ? — The flowers of life 
 pass away as the flowers of the seasons, without 
 our being conscious of the cause of their decay, and 
 there breathes not that man, however prosperous, 
 but like my poor uncle, hath his phantom, and in 
 time, discovers that " even in laughter the heart is 
 sorrowful and the end of that mirth is heaviness." 
 
 14 
 
210 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 " On Horror's head horrors accumulate." 
 
 Some are enamoured of the graceful movements 
 of a horse, others of a painted, dancmg gipsy ; some 
 pass their lives in examining the petal of a flower, 
 or the brilliancy of a bug — some disregard the earth 
 and read the heavens, while others find nothing half 
 so beautiful in all creation as a well-cooked terrapin 
 or partridge pie. Dydimus Dumps belonged to 
 neither of these varieties — he eschewed the beauti- 
 ful ; his taste was for the horrible. 
 
 The parentage, education and pursuits of Dydi- 
 mus tended to develop this prominent feature in his 
 character. His father was a little, consumptive 
 tailor, who was obliged to ply his needle incessantly 
 for cabbage, and as tailors are proverbially melan- 
 cholic, his hard fate, acting on his temperament, 
 according to the settled laws of Gall and Spurzheim, 
 rendered him as solemn and mysterious as a tomb- 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 211 
 
 Stone without an epitaph. Subsequently he turned 
 to exhorting in the conventicle, which increased the 
 longitude and acerbity of his meagre visage, and 
 also the sonorous bass of his deep-toned nasal organ. 
 Spirit of Slawkenberges ! with such a second, you 
 might have deceived the dry bones of the valley 
 with the belief that the diapason of universal nature 
 had been rudely set in motion, and that it was time 
 to come forth and attune their pipes to concert 
 pitch. 
 
 His favorite text was the transgression of mother 
 Eve, against whom he declaimed unmercifully, not 
 so much on account of her having brought sin and 
 death into the world, but that for her curiosity he 
 never would have been condemned to the unappre- 
 ciated and indispensable vocation of finishing man's 
 god-like form in such a fashion as to appear in de- 
 cent society. Pure nature shrinks abashed when 
 castigated by conventional rules. A babe denuded 
 of its swaddling clothes may not cut its caprioles 
 on a Brussels' carpet, without awakening spasmodic 
 delicacy in the painted face of factitious modesty, 
 that never blushed in the dark. 
 
 The mother of our hero was a layer out of the 
 dead, and from her calling she imagined herself a 
 
212 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 sort of connecting link between this world and the 
 next — a hyphen between time and eternity. Dydi- 
 mus, in early childhood, attended her on these solemn 
 missions, and he claimed it as a prescriptive right to 
 officiate as chief-mourner in all fashionable funeral 
 processions. It was flattering to his juvenile ambi- 
 tion, and that his grief might be rendered the more 
 impressive, his considerate mother invariably har- 
 nessed him in the longest weeds and weepers, and 
 the best black silk gloves that the bereaved relatives 
 had furnished to make a public demonstration of 
 their secret sorrow. Such was the serious cast of 
 his mind in his early years, that he despised the 
 restraint of the ordinary system of education, and 
 actually made considerable progress in the alphabet 
 by conning over the epitaphs on the tomb-stones, and 
 ultimately acquired as much knowledge of the dead 
 languages as most collegians with the appendix of 
 A. M., LL. D., and A. S. S. to their otherwise insig- 
 nificant names. 
 
 Many years ago I knew Dydimus intimately. He 
 was at that time a middle aged and independent 
 man, having come into possession of the wholesome 
 accretions of his prudent and watchful mother. He 
 was fond of relating narratives of barbarity, whether 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 213 
 
 fact or fiction, it was immaterial, for he believed all 
 he saw in print, and as I was a patient listener — the 
 most gratifying compliment that can be paid to all 
 old women of either sex — it afforded him infinite 
 pleasure to bestow all his tediousness upon me. His 
 library was limited — " better have a few volumes," 
 said he, " and digest them well, than, as some pre- 
 tenders to literature, make a large collection without 
 reading beyond the labels." His library consisted of 
 " The Life and Death of Cock-Robin," with colored 
 sculptures — his mother's first present — which time 
 had already rendered exceedingly valuable, for there 
 was no other copy of the same edition extant ; 
 Fox's Book of Martyrs, horribly illustrated; the 
 Buccaneers of America, and a History of the Span- 
 ish Inquisition. His walls were adorned with pic- 
 tures in keeping — one of which he highly prized for 
 its antiquity and truth of design. It was the sacri- 
 fice of Isaac, taken from a Dutch bible, published in 
 an age when they weather-boarded books, and put 
 iron clasps upon them, anticipating Locke on the 
 Human Understanding — which illustration of that 
 most solemn and impressive narrative, represented 
 the agonized, yet obedient parent, with a huge 
 blunderbuss presented at the breast of his innocent 
 
214 , DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 and unresisting offspring, while an angel, propor- 
 tioned and appareled like a well-fed Amsterdam 
 belle, seated aloft on a cloud resembling a feather- 
 bed, dropped tears as big as hail-stones in the pan 
 of the fire-lock, while Abraham was in the act of 
 pulling the trigger. 
 
 Poets and painters in all ages excite a shudder or 
 a smile by their feeble attempts to bring within our 
 perceptive faculties sublime mysteries over which 
 an impenetrable veil is drawn, yet which the intel- 
 ligent mind feels and understands without the assist- 
 ance of corporeal agency. The seminal ideas were 
 implanted at our birth, they grow with our growth, 
 and imperceptibly produce their fruit without the 
 light and heat of external sunshine. How vague 
 are the ideas we entertain of the personal appear- 
 ance of the angels ! Enthusiasts of all nations, arro- 
 gantly people the celestial scenery with the female 
 beauty of their own time and clime ; and the poetic 
 creation of the Venus de Medici — the softened 
 lineaments of Lucrece Borgia, have been used as 
 the archetypes of the female personages in altar- 
 pieces, before which the purest in heart and the 
 strongest in brain bow with reverence. The coun- 
 tenance and the drapery of angels depend upon the 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 215 
 
 fashion of the age in which the artist lived, and the 
 nation to which he belonged. Michael Angelo's 
 angels are not those of a modern Italian or a French- 
 man — in the age of Elizabeth of England, a high- 
 starched ruff and hooped petticoat were angelic, be- 
 cause they concealed that which would have ren- 
 dered the saint equivocal — some artists fancy fat 
 angels and others lean, and a Flemish painter of the 
 old school would indignantly reject such angels as 
 they fashion in China or Hindostan, as unworthy of 
 a place in the general exhibition. Even Mahomet's 
 houries will have a hard scratch to hold their own, 
 when the curtain is raised, and myriads of long-for- 
 gotten nations — the progeny of orbs unknown to 
 earth — denuded of the costume of time and station, 
 stand forth to be tried by the impartial and immu- 
 table test of universal beauty. 
 
 But I am losing sight of Mr. Dumps. His regi- 
 men was somewhat remarkable. His organ of ali- 
 mentiveness was largely developed, and his tempera- 
 ment was what phrenologists would pronounce the 
 bilious melancholic, combined with the nervous, and 
 a sprinkle of the lymphatic. This is all Hebrew- 
 Greek to me, but doubtless is correct, for he was an 
 extraordinary man, and richly entitled to all the 
 
216 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 temperaments referred to bj Gall and Spurzheim. 
 He supped every niglit on clam fritters, hard-boiled 
 eggs, pickled sturgeon, and raw cabbage, all of which 
 he washed down with an unconstitutional quantity 
 of muddy beer, that he might more fully enjoy the 
 fantastic and horrible caprioles of the night-mare. 
 The profound gravity with which he would attack 
 his nightly repast, would have inspired Apicius with 
 veneration for his gastronomic abilities. 
 
 One morning he called upon me, and appearing 
 more dejected than usual, I inquired the cause — he 
 replied : 
 
 " I have exhausted all the places of rational 
 amusement in the city, wax-works, puppet-shows, 
 and all. I finally purchased a season-ticket of ad- 
 mission to that meritorious institution called the 
 Washington Museum, esteemed as the only exhibi- 
 tion that could awaken the sensibilities of a deli- 
 cately attuned and cultivated mind. But I have 
 gazed so long upon the headless trunk of poor Marie 
 Antoinette, the dying Hamilton, Moreau, and many 
 others — including the emaciated Baron Trenck, 
 peeping through the bars of his cage, like Sterne's 
 starling, that they have lost their pungency. The 
 fountain of tears is exhausted, and I am most mise- 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 217 
 
 rably cheerful. I feel no more pleasure in contem- 
 plating the jealous Moor in the act of stabbing his 
 sleeping Desclemona, or Queen Dido preparing to 
 hang herself in her garters, than I do in beholding 
 those immortal worthies, Washington and Franklin, 
 placidly seeming to read unutterable things illegibly 
 scrawled upon a piece of dirty parchment, or the 
 portly William Penn, in the attitude of leading out 
 a fair Quakeress to a country-dance. Nay, you will 
 scarcely credit it, but it is a melancholy fact — I 
 have become so accustomed to the horrible discord 
 of that eternal organ-grinder, who silenced and put 
 the starved treble of fish-wenches out of counte- 
 nance, that it no longer creates any titillation on my 
 tympanum, but sounds as melodiously as the music 
 of the spheres. I am in absolute despair ! What 
 shall I do?" 
 
 " You are a bachelor, and rich. Get married." 
 " That would be horrible, indeed ; but then it lasts 
 for life. I wish variety ; a monotony of horror 
 would pall upon the palate." 
 
 Yet Dydimus was a kind-hearted man. His bene- 
 factions were liberally bestowed. His pensioners 
 were comprised of the lame, blind and destitute, 
 whom he visited systematically to drop his unseen 
 
218 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 charity, and tliougli he could not minister to their 
 minds by cheerful converse, he never failed to 
 awaken them to a keen sense of their forlorn con- 
 dition by his tears of sympathy. 
 
 " What's to be done !" continued Dydimus. " This 
 dearth of excitement will drive me to do something 
 terrible." 
 
 " Do you never go to the theatre ?" 
 
 "When Cooke was here, I went, but seldom since." 
 
 " Go now, and you will find the exhibitions most 
 truly awful." 
 
 " Say you so ? You cheer me," he exclaimed, 
 leisurely rubbing his hands and smiling like a caput 
 mortuum. " Pray inform me what sort of shows 
 do they exhibit to gratify a cultivated taste?" 
 
 " I see it announced that Mr. Stoker will hang 
 himself for the first time, at the circus, this evening, 
 for the edification of an enlightened public." 
 
 " Hang himself ! That indeed approximates my 
 ideas of the interesting. But is there no humbug 
 about it ? I despise humbug." 
 
 " I am assured that it falls little short of a bona 
 fide hanging, and that the exhibition is really delight- 
 ful to those who take pleasure in witnessing execu- 
 tions of the sort." 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 219 
 
 " I never saw a man hanged in all my life, and as 
 it is probable I never shall, I would not neglect this 
 opportunity of having my ideas enlarged as to the 
 manner of performing this interesting branch of 
 jurisprudence. Will you accompany ?" 
 
 " With pleasure, as they only hang in jest." 
 
 " The real thing must be exciting !" 
 
 " Doubtless, and more especially to the principal 
 performer." 
 
 We accordingly repaired to the circus at an early 
 hour, and took our seats as soon as the doors were 
 open. Dydimus was impatient until the horseman- 
 ship commenced, but as the equestrians performed 
 their feats with so much self-possession, he soon 
 became wearied with the monotony of the exhibi- 
 tion, and emphatically pronounced it to be a popular 
 humbug. At length an artist appeared in the arena, 
 mounted without saddle or bridle, who rode like a 
 lunatic flying from his keepers, who had out- voted 
 him on the score of sanity — throwing himself into 
 all perilous attitudes upon his untamed Bucephalus. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" exclaimed Dydimus, "this is reality! 
 What was Geoffrey Gambado or the Macedonian 
 compared to him! The progress of the human 
 faculties toward perfection is wonderful. A few 
 
220 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 riding-masters of tliat description would soon send 
 harness-makers to the region where the son of Philip 
 no longer obstructs the sunshine of Diogenes. He 
 may have conquered a world, but he would not 
 make salt to his porridge if he were a circus-rider in 
 the present age of improvement. A fig for the 
 ancients and their Olympic games." 
 
 Mr. Dumps expected every moment to behold 
 the daring rider's brains dashed out, but to his great 
 astonishment, not to say disappointment, the agile 
 equestrian invariably regained his equilibrium when 
 apparently in the most perilous position. The 
 anxiety and all absorbing interest awakened in the 
 mind of Dydimus, became apparent by the contor- 
 tions of his countenance, and the gyrations of his 
 nervous system. A lad seated beside him, who was 
 " native and to the manner born," and who for some 
 time had watched his movements with mischievous 
 satisfaction, addressed him in a tone loud enough to 
 attract the attention of those around us : 
 
 "Stranger, there's no use in fretting j out innards 
 to fiddle-strings ; I know that 'ere covey, and he 
 would see the whole house, managers and all, in a 
 place unfit to mention, before he would break his 
 neck for the amusement of a levy spectator. Eemem- 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 221 
 
 ber we are in the pit, and lie can't afford such a 
 show as that for a shilling every day. He will 
 break it on his benefit night ; you can go then and 
 get the worth of your money, and encourage 
 merit." 
 
 This remark excited the risible faculties of those 
 who overheard it, and Dydimus, disconcerted and 
 looking unutterable things, stammered out : 
 
 " Pshaw ! Fudge ! Do you take me for a green- 
 horn ? I know it all to be catch-penny — consum- 
 mate humbug — imposture!" 
 
 " You wouldn't have him break his neck for a 
 shilling? Posterity, I grant, has never yet done 
 anything for us, but then, only think, how could 
 posterity possibly get along without that man ? Let 
 posterity know that we foster genius and patronize 
 the fine arts." 
 
 To escape the impertinence of the boy, Dydimus, 
 turning to me, remarked : 
 
 " That equestrian would have been distinguished 
 
 among the Persians. To be a great horseman with 
 
 them was second only to shooting with the bow and 
 
 speaking the truth." 
 
 " The horse-jockeys of the present day differ from 
 
222 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 those of Persia. Ours draw a mucli longer bow, 
 and seldom speak the truth." 
 
 The horsemanship being over, Mr. Stoker made 
 his appearance, and as he ascended to the rope, sus- 
 pended from the roof of the theatre, Mr. Dumps' 
 pulse could not have throbbed more rapidly if he 
 had been placed in similar jeopardy. He was all 
 eye. The gymnic commenced operations, and when 
 at full swing he sprang headlong from his seat — thirty 
 feet from the floor. 
 
 "Huzza!" shouted Dumps, starting to his feet. 
 " Huzza ! there he goes ! Not a plank between him 
 and eternity!" 
 
 There was a spontaneous burst of applause, which 
 the showman modestly appropriated to his own 
 credit, though Mr. Dumps was entitled to more than 
 an equal division of the honor. Fortunately for the 
 rope-dancer, though to the chagrin of some of the 
 spectators, he had taken the precaution of fastening 
 his right leg in a noose attached to the swing, and 
 thus he was suspended, head downwards, like Ma- 
 homet's coffin, between heaven and earth. He was 
 greeted with a more hearty and spontaneous burst 
 of applause than Newton received when he illus- 
 trated the laws of gravity. But what was Newton 
 
DTDIMUS DUMPS. 223 
 
 and all his discoveries, in popular estimation, wlien 
 brought in juxtaposition with the science of a rope- 
 dancer! Mr. Stoker, soon discovering that it was 
 an unpleasant position for the blood to circulate 
 through the human form divine, that wonderful 
 work — " Finxit in effigiem moderantum cuncta de- 
 orum" — than he hastened to regain his former 
 position, which he effected without even dislocating 
 a limb, and recommenced his operations with a self- 
 complacencj, which plainly demanded of the spec- 
 tators — " Ladies and gentlemen, what do you think 
 of me?" 
 
 After various feats of surprising agility, he arrived 
 at the acme of the exhibition — the be all and the 
 end all — which was to hang himself by the neck. 
 It was with difficulty that I could prevent Mr. 
 Dumps from making another ridiculous display of 
 his excited feelings as he beheld him adjusting the 
 noose around that ticklish part of the human frame. 
 Having fixed it to his satisfaction, he set his swing 
 in motion, and when at the height, he slipped from 
 his seat, and to the inexpressible delight of all true 
 admirers of the sublime and beautiful, there he was, 
 sus. per. col., as natural as life — no fiction, but the 
 true thing, hanging dingle dangle. A shriek of 
 
224 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 horror burst from tlae "uninitiated, but Djdimus, a 
 true admirer of the beauties of nature, in tbe ecsta- 
 cies of the moment, sprang to his feet, and clapping 
 his bony hands, shouted in a sepulchral voice : 
 
 "Beautiful! wonderful! Encore, encore! Do it 
 again !" 
 
 " If the rope had broke," suggested the boy seated 
 beside Dydimus, " the laws of the land would com- 
 pel him to do it again, if it was the real thing and 
 no gammon — the people's majesty is not to be trifled 
 with on such occasions — but by the laws of the play- 
 house, if you are dissatisfied, your only redress is to 
 apply to the box-office for the return of your shil- 
 ling. You couldn't expect a man to hang himself 
 all night to procure the means of getting a breakfast 
 in the morning." 
 
 " You be — dashed," exclaimed Dydimus, adopting 
 from a sense of decorum a different word from that 
 which was uppermost in his thoughts, but the ex- 
 pression of his countenance plainly indicated that 
 he by no means intended to mollify the asperity of 
 his denunciation by the change of a consonant. 
 
 The showman coincided in opinion with the mis- 
 chievous persecutor of Mr. Dumps, and accordingly, 
 after hanging long enough to satisfy any reasonable 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 225 
 
 spectator, lie manifested his disinclination to termi- 
 nate his illustrious career in this ridiculous manner, 
 and scrambling up the rope as gracefully as circum- 
 stances would admit, he regained a position of com- 
 parative security. The breathless suspense that had 
 pervaded the theatre during his suspension, was 
 succeeded by an unanimous burst of applause, which 
 made the sounding-board in the dome vibrate with 
 ecstasy, and the hero of the night, having made his 
 obeisance with a solemnity becoming the important 
 occasion, withdrew from the scene of his triumph, 
 as full of the conceit of dignity as Sancho Panza 
 when installed governor of Barataria. And this is 
 fame." " Sepiterno nominahiturr 
 
 On leaving the circus I inquired of Mr. Dumps 
 how he was pleased with the entertainment. 
 
 " It is the very place for me," he replied. " He 
 escaped to-night, miraculously, but I shall live to 
 see that fellow hanged yet. I shall purchase a sea- 
 son ticket to-morrow morning and attend regularly 
 until some mischance puts a check to his proud 
 ambition." 
 
 " You certainly would not be present at such a 
 
 melancholy occurrence ?" 
 
 " He is bound to be hanged. His death-warrant 
 15 
 
226 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 is already signed and sealed, and there is no reason 
 why I should not enjoy the exhibition as well as 
 another. If reasons were as plenty as blackberries 
 you could not give me one." 
 
 He accordingly purchased a season-ticket, and be- 
 came a constant attendant at the circus, in expecta- 
 tion of witnessing some appalling accident, but 
 after wasting much time in this way, and nothing 
 serious occurring, he became dissatisfied, for though 
 hanging he admitted to be a very rational amuse- 
 ment for a week or so, yet by constant repetition it 
 was deprived of its stimulating properties, until it 
 dwindled to a mere burlesque upon the impressive 
 sublimity of the real thing. 
 
 " I despise humbug," said Dydimus, in conclusion, 
 " and shall never again cross the door of a circus." 
 
 Some months after I walked with him along a 
 street, when his attention was suddenly arrested by 
 an organ-grinder and an immense placard, which 
 exhibited, in wood-cuts, humanity more brutal than 
 the ravenous animals over which, by the first law, 
 man had been placed as the shepherd, and in blood- 
 red characters was emblazoned the attractive adver- 
 tisement — 
 
 " The Horrors of the Inquisition Illustrated." 
 
.DYDIMUS DUMPS. 227 
 
 " There is sometliing to be seen here," exclaimed 
 Mr. Dumps, " which will enlarge the mind of the 
 uninitiated, as regards the progress of humanity and 
 Christianity in the civilized world." 
 
 " The quackery of charlatans to aggravate the 
 diseased imagination of ignorance, at the moderate 
 price of a shilling a dose." 
 
 " You are skeptical, but observe, sir, the illustra- 
 tions are said to be by the best artists, and there is 
 a full description in print of each particular case — 
 and by the best authors. You would not doubt 
 what you see in print ?" 
 
 " Certainly not, if printed on hot-pressed vellum, 
 with a spacious margin. Swallow the Talmud and 
 the Koran, and all the elaborate lucubrations of 
 insane philosophers, that repose on the dusty shelves 
 of every well selected library, and your cranium 
 will soon become a more miscellaneous menagerie 
 than nature originally intended to confine within so 
 limited a compass ; a sort of rotating kaleidescope, 
 where beautiful images have but a momentary exis- 
 tence, crumble in giving place to others more attrac- 
 tive, and no power on earth can ever reproduce 
 them." 
 
 Dydimus paid little attention to my remarks, but 
 
228 DYDIMUS DUMPS.. 
 
 was intently reading the various placards strewed 
 about, like bills of fare, to stimulate a morbid appe- 
 tite, wben a man approached and invited him in, at 
 the same time assuring him that he could not fail 
 being pleased — " As it was the most diabolical exhi- 
 bition ever presented to a Christian community." 
 
 " Enough !" he exclaimed, throwing himself into 
 the attitude of Hamlet, in his first interview with 
 his father's shadow, clad in a coat of mail — which 
 incorporeal vestment must unquestionably have been 
 reduced to pig-iron, if there was any truth in the 
 statement of the ghost as to the temperature of the 
 regions whence he had ascended, and the ghost was 
 an honest ghost — Truepenny cpuld not lie — "Go 
 on," said Dydimus, in a sepulchral tone — " Go on, 
 I'll follow you." 
 
 We entered an apartment which had been care- 
 fully fitted up to represent the infernal regions, and 
 was doubtless as accurate, in the main, as the descrip- 
 tions by Dante, Quevedo, Bunyan and others, who 
 have published their travels to that interesting 
 country — but, strange is the inconsistency of man, 
 who freely pays to understand the fabricated accounts 
 of impudent impostors, when he has a reliable pro- 
 mise, reiterated once a week, that he has already 
 
D Y D r M U S DUMPS. 229 
 
 commenced his journey there, and will shortly wit- 
 ness the real thing without fee or reward. 
 
 Our guide, perceiving the astonishment of Dydi- 
 mus, turned to him, and remarked in a lachrymose 
 and nasal tone, which would have elicited tears from 
 monumental alabaster, upon which no tears had ever 
 been shed: 
 
 " Ah, sir ! I see you have a soul to enjoy these 
 matters. Man, who was placed as the pastoral pro- 
 tector of all animated nature, becomes the tyrant, 
 and finally directs his inhumanity to man, and 
 makes — " 
 
 " ! Burn the quotation. I am in pursuit of facts 
 and not ethics — go on with your show, and let me 
 understand what entertainment you can afford an 
 inquiring mind." 
 
 "Look you here, sir," continued the showman, 
 "and observe the operation of this wheel. This 
 gentle motion delicately disengages the thigh-bones 
 from the sockets — and this dislocates the arms — 
 never was there invented a more perfect piece of 
 mechanism — this is the exact expression while the 
 wheel was in this position. The portrait was taken 
 from life — or rather between life and death, by Al- 
 bert Durer — an exceedingly clever sketcher in his 
 
230 DYDIMUS DUMPS. 
 
 day, and wonderfully endued with a proper apprecia- 
 tion of the fantastic and horrible. By this motion, 
 sir, the chest yon observe is considerably elevated, 
 but so gradually as not to give any sudden shock to 
 physical endurance, until by this additional turn of 
 the wheel we dislocate the spine. Every thing com- 
 plete, you perceive, sir. Take a turn at the crank, 
 and you will see how systematically it operates." 
 
 " Beautiful !" exclaimed Mr. Dumps. " Equal to 
 a modern corn-sheller. Man's talent for mechanics 
 is wonderful ! Even in his instruments of torture he 
 manifests refinement. That machine must have cost 
 the ingenious inventor much deep reflection before 
 he could have rendered it so perfect. It moves like 
 clock-work." 
 
 " Beats it all to nothing," said the showman ; " for 
 no one who has tried that machine, ever stood in 
 need of clock-work afterward. Here, sir, is the in- 
 genious process of filling the bowels of an obstinate 
 witness with water for the purpose of washing out 
 the truth. If the proverb be correct, that truth lies 
 at the bottom of a well, the surest way to get at it is 
 to fill a man's bowels with water and then pump it 
 out of him." 
 
 " In vino Veritas^ is a proverb of equal authority,'' 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 231 
 
 said Dydimus; they should have filled him with 
 wine. But truth hath many hiding-places and is 
 hard to be discovered." 
 
 "Look this way, sir. Here are two children 
 whose feet were roasted to a coal in the presence of 
 their parents, and the instrument of torture in which 
 they were confined. This is the exact expression of 
 the countenance after ten minutes roasting ; and 
 this, after the lapse of half an hour. 
 
 " ' If t were done when 't is done, then 'twere well 
 It were done quickly.' "■ 
 
 " Here is the punishment of the iron hoot, celebra- 
 ted for being the most dreadful ever invented ; by 
 which the bones in the legs are crushed and the mar- 
 row forced from them." 
 
 Thus he went on, describing the various modes 
 of torture in the exhibition, and perceiving the in- 
 terest felt by Mr. Dumps in his exaggerated narra- 
 tive of blended fact and fiction, concluded by inform- 
 ing him that in the course of a few days he would 
 have it in his power to afford him inexpressible 
 pleasure, for he hourly expected " The Virgin Mary 
 and her hundred lances," so celebrated in the history 
 of the infernal inquisition. 
 
232 D Y D I M U S DUMPS. 
 
 Mr. Dumps continued his visits liere for several 
 weeks, to study out the complicated machinery of 
 the hundred lances with which the victim was trans- 
 pierced, while expecting to receive a benediction and 
 maternal embrace. He admired the refinement and 
 humanity of dispatching a wretch from this world, 
 when his mind was wholly occupied with serious 
 thoughts of another. Finally, even this scene of 
 complicated horrors, became " flat, stale and unpro- 
 fitable," and his mind could find no food to fatten 
 on but itself. He was now indeed a melancholy 
 man. 
 
 I had missed him for some time, and on inquiry, 
 learned that he was dead. As his departure from 
 this mundane sphere was rather unceremonious for 
 a gentleman remarkable for his rigid observance of 
 decorum, a coroner's inquest was held to ascertain 
 the cause of his hasty exit, but more especially to 
 put money in that worthy officer's pocket. It ap- 
 peared that on the evening previous to his death, his 
 mind being much depressed, he indulged to excess 
 in his favorite repast of clams and sturgeon, in order 
 to keep up his spirits, from which some conjectured 
 he had died of a surfeit, but as they found in his 
 chamber a wheel-barrow load of the writings of 
 
DYDIMUS DUMPS. 233 
 
 modern French novelists, a volume of whicli was 
 open before liim, one of the jurymen exculpated the 
 clams and sturgeon from all participation in the 
 transaction, for as he remarked, "Those books are 
 a vast deal harder of digestion, and in truth, if taken 
 in large doses, would be enough to kiU the— dickens. 
 There was a difference of opinion in the minds of 
 those jurors who flattered themselves they had 
 minds, as to the cause of the death of Dydimus, and 
 as they found it impossible to agree, they buried him 
 without a verdict, and the county paid the coroner 
 his costs. 
 
234 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 ME. ASPENLEAF.— A SHANDYISM. 
 
 "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the 
 ground."— Genesis. "Let more work be laid upon the men that they labor 
 therein." — Kxodus. <' The prince cannot say to the merchant I have no need of 
 thee; nor the merchant to the laborer I have no need of thee." — Swift. " Sir, 
 I am a true laborer. I earn that I eat; get that I wear; owe no man hate; envy 
 no man's happiness." — Shakspeare. 
 
 Anthony Aspenleaf and I studied law in the 
 the same office. The students for a time familiarly 
 called him Toney, but as he recoiled from the 
 insignificant patronymic, delicacy prompted them 
 to address him by the title of Mr. Aspenleaf, for 
 they were gentlemen, and would not disturb the 
 self-esteem of a very amiable though over-sensitive 
 creature. At that time we made lawyers out of 
 gentlemen — when will the time arrive that we can 
 make gentlemen out of lawyers ? 
 
 Mr. Aspenleaf belonged to the order of society 
 who mince their steps upon a Turkey carpet, fashion 
 their countenances in gilded mirrors on pictured 
 walls, — study their smiles, their bows and paces, 
 until their shadow gives assurance of a man, and 
 
A SHANDYISM. 235 
 
 then they step forth into the open air, daintily tread 
 upon the bosom of mother earth, as if fearful that 
 the raw material of which they are themselves com- 
 posed may sully the science of the shoemaker. 
 
 Mr. Aspenleaf had received a collegiate educa- 
 tion ; at least his father had paid divers sums of 
 money to obtain a certificate from a learned institu- 
 tion that he was enabled to call himself — " dunce" 
 in two dead languages, while the " profane vulgar" 
 could pronounce him such only in the vernacular. 
 Education had, in that particular, afforded him con- 
 siderable advantage over the uninitiated. 
 
 But Mr. Aspenleaf was no dunce. His mind was 
 a great reservoir into which countless streams 
 poured abundantly their delicious waters, but as 
 there was no living spring within, they soon became 
 a stagnant pool. 
 
 There was not a gem in the Latin and Greek 
 authors that had escaped him, and he would sing 
 them out with heart-felt glee — and then in English 
 literature to see him poking along the hedge-rows 
 — raising the rank grass in nooks and corners, like 
 a botanist, where the sun seldom shines, and dis- 
 covering a violet — with what triumph would he 
 present it, and expiate on its beauty, until his S23irit 
 
236 A S H A N D Y I S M. 
 
 became saddened by reverting to tlie liard fate of 
 him wbo planted it. 
 
 Toney's father was introduced upon this mundane 
 sphere especially to sustain the fallen fortunes of 
 long silk-hose, white-topped boots, and velvet small- 
 clothes. I see him now, in my mind's eye, passing 
 along the street — perchance meeting an acquaint- 
 ance, and then the solemnity with which he would 
 bend his powdered head, gently shake it as if appre- 
 hensive of disturbing some sleepy idea, and then the 
 practiced smile, that creamed and mantled on the 
 stagnant pool of his finely chiseled countenance, 
 while he gracefully waved his right hand, and, with 
 head erect proceeded with becoming gravity. Oh, 
 it was beautiful ! We threw aside our Chesterfield 
 and made old Mr. Aspenleaf our high priest when 
 sacrificing at the altar of the graces. 
 
 Toney was admitted as an attorney-at-law, and 
 with sound credentials, for he could construe — " In- 
 teger vitoe" — recognized the truth of the precept, 
 and reveled in the poetry — had diligently served 
 out the required apprenticeship — and most deser- 
 vedly received a certificate that he was an honorable 
 gentleman. He had eschewed Bacon — attempted 
 to digest Littleton as cooked up by Coke — and we 
 
A SHANDYISM. 237 
 
 occasionally took a liunting excursion tlirough 
 fem^ and cai'ed not a rush about our contingent 
 remainders. Ambition pointed out a vacant seat in 
 the judiciary, as a crowning reward in the distant 
 perspective, but we little dreamt that the time might 
 arrive when such distinction would be spurned as 
 an indignity proffered as a compliment to an honest 
 life of intellectual labor. 
 
 Shortly after he was admitted, we were seated in 
 the Court of Quarter Sessions, big with the conceit 
 of dignity. A poor fellow was arraigned for some 
 offence against the conventional rules that castigate 
 morals in this latitude, and as he had not the means 
 to purchase a word that might palliate his error, the 
 judge, under the mask of humanity, called upon Mr. 
 Aspenleaf to make his maiden speech in his defence, 
 that the poor creature might be deluded into the 
 idea that he was convicted according to law. Oh, 
 mockery ! He was indicted, if my memory fails not, 
 for taking improper liberties with a hen-roost — a 
 hen-roost should be as intactus as a maiden. The 
 counsel for the offended commonwealth — cocked 
 and primed — let fly at him with the whole of 
 Cicero's oration against Cataline, (as it blew up the 
 conspirator, one might reasonably expect that it still 
 
238 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 retained force enougli to knock down a cliicken 
 thief,) and Toney deluged tlie jury with a blast 
 from Demosthenes. The judge shoveled up his 
 legal accretions into a sort of a wind-mill, such as 
 farmers use to winnow the chaff from the corn, 
 though in its revolutions making considerably more 
 clatter, and when done, he requested the twelve 
 geese penned up in the jury-box to pick up the 
 grains, and accordingly they gobbled all, without 
 regarding cockle from wheat. Toney tried the case, 
 but unfortunately the case proved restive, and tried 
 Toney and floored him. The prisoner was found 
 guilty of arson, he did not clearly understand by 
 what course of reasoning they had arrived at their 
 equitable deduction, and was more amazed when 
 called upon, a week after, to hear the learned judge 
 sentence him to the penitentiary for manslaughter. 
 But he was grateful; he knew that he deserved 
 punishment for a dirty offence, and felt proud that 
 his character had been exalted by a record of man- 
 slaughter, instead of being branded with the petty- 
 larceny pilfering of a hen-roost. There are grades 
 of rank even in rascality. 
 
 " Every man has business and desires such as it 
 is." Mr. Aspenleaf and I separated ; he in pursuit 
 
A SHANDYISM. 23 J 
 
 of refined pleasures on tlie continent of Europe, I to 
 the turmoil of professional drudgery. Near thirty 
 years had elapsed since I set eyes upon him, when 
 one morning in last August, while employed in my 
 garden in consultation with my cabbages about 
 what should be done for our mutual benefit we were 
 interrupted with — 
 
 '* Ut flos iu septis secretus nascitur hortis." 
 
 I raised my head and beheld a white-haired man 
 standing on a slight eminence above me ; his right 
 hand resting on a gold-headed cane, while in his left 
 he held a jeweled snuff-box and cambric handker- 
 chief. His blue dress-coat, of the finest fabric, was 
 ornamented with bright gilt buttons, and his Mar- 
 seilles vest in like manner. He wore a white cra- 
 vat, tied with studied precision, and in all respects 
 was a second edition of old Mr. Aspenleaf, revised 
 and corrected, with an appendix to the breeches, 
 converting them into pantaloons, which were tightly 
 strapped beneath his polished boots. 
 
 He smiled blandly as we shook hands, but from 
 some nervous emotion he did not attempt to speak 
 as I conducted him from the garden to the library. 
 Being seated, after the lapse of a few minutes, he 
 
210 ASHANDYISM. 
 
 recovered himself and remarked in a low, tremu- 
 lous, silver tone : 
 
 " I have just returned from Europe after a long 
 absence. Learning that you had retired to this spot, 
 I availed myself of the first opportunity of visiting 
 you, and the old fields where we rambled in our 
 school-boy days. How we loved mother earth 
 then!" 
 
 " That is some forty years ago, if the old almanacs 
 be authority." 
 
 "I beseech you not to mention it," he replied 
 imploringly. 
 
 "Eemember, your favorite Martial says ; " Hoc est 
 vivere his^ vita posse priore fruV 
 
 "He may say so, but I care very little about 
 looking back, and even the perspective is not over 
 attractive." 
 
 " What, sir, were your sensations on setting foot 
 again on your native soil, after so long an absence." 
 
 " I can best reply in the words of John Foster — 
 ' What is become of all those vernal fancies which 
 had so much power to touch the heart ? What a 
 number of sentiments have lived and reveled in the 
 soul that are now irrevocably gone ! They died 
 like the singing-birds of that time, which now sing 
 
A SHANDYISM. 241 
 
 no more ! The life that we then had now seems 
 almost as if it could not have been our own. When 
 we go back to it in thought, and endeavor to recall 
 the interests which animated it, they will not come. 
 We are like a man returning after the absence of 
 many years to visit the embowered cottage where 
 he had passed the morning of his life, and finding 
 only a relic of its ruins.' " 
 
 " Your Horace and your Homer are still attrac- 
 tive ?" 
 
 " There was a time I fancied their freshness would 
 never fade, but their wand is broken and they 
 charm no more. ' The mind soon sickens that still 
 feeds on verse.' As well might the intellect expect 
 to sustain health and strength quaffing such stimu- 
 lants, as the body when pampered with nothing but 
 delicacies. Would I had been compelled to make 
 my bread before I ate it ! The Adamus exul was a 
 blessing and no curse, he would have sickened in 
 Eden. At least that is the fate of his children who 
 are pronounced most fortunate. I perceive my error 
 when too late to be recalled, however, ' ut semen- 
 tern feceris^ ita metes.'' What we sow, we must mow." 
 
 "You must have enjoyed yourself in your 
 
 travels ?" 
 
 16 
 
242 A S H A N D Y I S M. 
 
 " For a few years abundantly. I possessed feel- 
 ings alive to the stupendous works of nature, and 
 sufficient attainment to invest tlie artistic efforts of 
 man with incidents of their history, which seemed 
 to sanctify the interest they aivakened. For years 
 the feast was 'never ending, still beginning,* but 
 ultimately I enjoyed as the Zoophyte enjoys. How 
 is it that some retain the elasticity of their spirits to 
 the last ?" 
 
 " They build up daily to fill the vacant places of 
 those things that daily decay. They form acquaint- 
 ances with the young — the future useful, and become 
 of them, for the young grow old time enough for 
 the distinction to vanish. By clinging only to the 
 associates of our youth, we soon find ourselves 
 as the last leaf of a stately tree shivering in the 
 blasts of autumn, though the foliage in spring-time 
 was refreshing and gorgeous. Build up incessantly ! 
 Even the grave is oraculous in enforcing the pre- 
 cept. The time will arrive when the grave in his 
 turn will build up and forever." 
 
 He turned his eyes upon a picture hanging against 
 the wall, and inquired — " Whose portrait is that, 
 sir?" 
 
 " It is the likeness of Thomas Godfrey, the author 
 
A SHANDYISM. 243 
 
 of tlie first tragedy written in America, some ninety 
 years ago. The portrait was painted by his young 
 friend, Benjamin West, a Pennsylvania boy, who 
 after the death of Sir Joshua Eeynolds, was elected 
 President of the Eoyal Academy in London." 
 
 " I have heard of him, and also of the Eoyal 
 Academy in my travels, but recollect no poet by the 
 name of Godfrey." 
 
 " And yet you have recently crossed the Atlantic 
 without being aware that that man's father contri- 
 buted materially to the safety of your voyage. We 
 should look at home before we travel abroad. He 
 was a humble painter and glazier, and self-taught 
 mathematician of Philadelphia. In 1784 he in- 
 vented the sea-quadrant, which now goes by the 
 name of Hadley's quadrant. The scientific Anglo- 
 Saxon furtively appropriated to his own especial 
 use the discoveries of the poor and obscure, but 
 mathematical glazier of Philadelphia, at that time 
 little more than a village in the wilderness. This 
 was practically picking the pocket of the pauper, 
 and kicking the crutch from the cripple." 
 
 " Alter tulit honores^^'' responded my friend, vi- 
 brating his head with a solemnity which was 
 
244 A SIIANDYISM. 
 
 intended to convey more tlian the quotation — 
 " Another takes the honors !" 
 
 " And the profit also. But is not this in keeping 
 with the general conduct of that blustering old 
 Bobadil John Bull, who for centuries has committed 
 the grossest aggressions upon the feeble, and then 
 enacts ex post facto laws to make it justice. Twice 
 he has pawed up the dust, growled, shook his head 
 and thrust his horns at Uncle Sam. But Uncle Sam 
 seized him by the tail, whirled him round, and most 
 irreverently applied his foot to his seat of honor and 
 sent him home again roaring lustily. In the blind- 
 ness of self-esteem he swore that he must have been 
 thunderstruck, or it never could have occurred, 
 when in truth he was only struck with a cane." 
 
 "I fear that the alarming words are now so plainly 
 written on his wall that it requires no Daniel to 
 interpret their meaning." 
 
 " They are inscribed in damning characters on 
 the pallid faces of his over-worked and half-fed 
 children ; on the bleeding hearts of a noble sample 
 of the human family — and this is effected under a 
 system of government formed to elevate the char- 
 acter and secure the happiness of mankind. May 
 the words be wiped from the wail, the face and the 
 
A SH ANDYIS M. 245 
 
 heart, before the Daniels become weary of inter- 
 preting. The world owes John Bull a debt of 
 gratitude, which will be remembered through 
 many succeeding generations, in despite of his 
 countless aggressions and present dotage." 
 
 After we had dined, Mr. Aspenleaf inquired 
 where Godfrey, the inventor of the quadrant, was 
 buried. I told him that his remains had been 
 removed to Laurel Hill, which was but a short dis- 
 tance from us. He proposed to walk there. He 
 stood beside his monument in deep thought for 
 some time, and on leaving it remarked — 
 
 " That obscure and illiterate man did much for 
 his fellow creatures ; would that I could say that I 
 had done something, however so little." 
 
 I conducted him to a terrace that overlooks the 
 Schuylkill. I seated myself, while he stood at a 
 short distance, leaning upon the railing of an enclo- 
 sure, his mind absorbed with the beauty of the 
 scenery. Suddenly I heard him murmuring to 
 himself — 
 
 " Glorious mother earth, I have loved thee for 
 many years, but at times I have smiled to see thee 
 so fantastic. You prank yourself in your old velvet 
 coat of green, and stick in your bosom enormous 
 
246 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 and gorgeous bouquets, like some sprightly Dutcli 
 widow in her lustiliood, going to a Flemish painter, 
 to sit for her picture. It ill becomes thee, at thy 
 time of life, to assume such coquettish airs of juve- 
 nility. And then again, I see thee matronly — with 
 sunburnt cheek, robust limbs, smiling in soberness — 
 thy lap filled until it can hold no more, unblushing 
 mother earth ! If thy female children in the olden 
 time were found in that condition the beadle would 
 question them ; but you, shameless, laugh outright, 
 and impudently court the eye of heaven, expecting 
 it to wink and smile at thy dereliction, pregnant 
 mother earth !" 
 
 In amazement, I exclaimed, " what in the name 
 of common sense are you talking about, and who 
 are you talking to ?" But he did not heed me, and 
 after inflating his lungs, continued : — 
 
 " And again, when the fruit of thine iniquity is 
 brought to light, in thy decline, enfeebled by thy 
 labor, setting thine house in order, as if preparing 
 for death, thou callest all thy children around thee, 
 to an abundant feast, and bid them rejoice, and 
 dance, and sing, and not weeji) over the faded beauty 
 of thy youth ; and when thou art chiUed to the 
 heart — sapless — sterile — apparently lifeless — sud- 
 
A SHANDYISM. 247 
 
 denlj, we behold you arraying yourself in that ever- 
 lasting coat of green, sticking fantastic flowers in 
 your old breast, and then, with a boundless orchestra, 
 of varied and discordant notes, attuned to universal 
 harmony by your matchless diapason, heralding 
 your revival, and you spring forth with smiling 
 face and sparkling eye, laughing like a very wanton, 
 prepared to play your merry pranks again. ! 
 beauteous mother earth 1" 
 
 " But is it earth ? Her children named her in 
 their darkness, and, perchance, may have erred, 
 while he, who could christen, came here to make 
 her — Heaven. Let her first sponsors look to it, 
 and give place to him who followed. She would 
 become heaven, if we were only obedient to his 
 precepts and example." 
 
 Toney looked up, as a poor player would at a 
 prompter, and continued : — 
 
 " Perchance, she may be heaven — a part of it at 
 least — say but the vestibule ! I know not even that, 
 but this we all know, that he who made the heavens, 
 made you also, most kind and bountiful mother. 
 I will never return to your bosom, without having 
 poured forth to the fullest extent, my measure of 
 gratitude to you and your children. I love you." 
 
248 A SHANDY ISM. 
 
 . " Toney, liave you been poring over Jacob 
 Boelime, or pouring in too much sherry ?" He did 
 not hear me, but inhaled the passing breeze, and 
 continued : 
 
 " I can make you the altar of my God, and wor- 
 ship him upon your bosom with as pure a spirit as 
 I can elsewhere. There is light sufficient in our 
 comparative darkness to see that He is here with us, 
 then, why treat him as a stranger. Humanity dic- 
 tates to treat with hospitality a fellow creature — 
 then, why not throw open your door wide to him 
 who gave all; bar it not like a craven ingrate 
 against his landlord ; but open wide. No matter 
 how humble your dwelling, he will enter, and you 
 will soon find it large enough to contain immensity. 
 Commune with him, not as an abject thing would, 
 unfit for him to have made, but as a proud son 
 would pour forth his gratitude to an ever watchful 
 father, and say, ' I thank thee for my creation.' 
 Though humble in thine own estimation, hold up 
 thy head and aspire to decent society. He is the 
 best, and the most easy of access. He makes no 
 distinction between the hovel of a pauper and the 
 palace of a prince. All that he requires is a heart- 
 felt welcome, and he, who has bestowed that, when 
 
A SHANDYISM. 249 
 
 it becomes necessary for him, wlietlier prince or 
 panper in tliis world, to knock at his celestial por- 
 tals, he may confidently walk in, without feeling 
 himself a stranger there, having entertained Him to 
 the extent of his ability on earth. Eemember, we 
 are all by common courtesy bound to return the 
 visit. Look to it, that we keep our doors hospitably 
 open while he condescends to sojourn with us here, 
 lest we knock there as strangers." 
 
 Mr. Aspenleaf having disembogued his mind of 
 its wholesome secretions, leisurely took up the line 
 of march, apparently unconscious that I had accom- 
 panied him. I hastened after him, but as his mind 
 was deeply absorbed, we leisurely proceeded to my 
 home in silence. Our evening meal was prepared, 
 but he declined to partake of it. 
 
 " Our bottle of sherry awaits us, and there are 
 good cigars. We enjoyed those appliances some 
 thirty years ago. Refresh yourself, and crow like 
 Chanticleer. Stir up, old rooster, clap your wings 
 — crow — though you may be troubled with the 
 phthysic, make the attempt and never show the 
 white feather." 
 
 "I will not indulge in luxuries to-night." He 
 looked me full in the eyes, and something like a 
 
250 A SHA.NDYISM. 
 
 smile flashed across liis gentle countenance — if it 
 were a smile — lie was most distressingly nervous ; 
 lie continued — " Our walk, I fear has been too much 
 for me, and at your pleasure, it would be well for 
 me to retire to my chamber." 
 
 I took a light and conducted him to his apart- 
 ment, and seated mj^self, while he prepared for rest. 
 He knelt beside his bed. 
 
 There may be pictures more attractive than that 
 of a gray-haired, intelligent man kneeling and re- 
 peating the prayer which he had daily repeated 
 from the hour he nestled in his mother's arms, but 
 there are few pictures can be more impressive ; 
 none more pregnant with meaning. 
 
 He commenced the prayer in a subdued tone, and 
 when he came to the passage, " Give us this day 
 our daily bread" — his frame became deeply agitated, 
 he buried his face in the pillow, and he sobbed 
 audibly. I approached him. 
 
 " What is the matter, sir ?" 
 
 " I have never earned my bread for a single day!" 
 His whole frame shook. "Through a long and 
 useless life I have daily besought God for my bread, 
 without doing a hand's turn to make it. Pampered 
 with all luxuries, and yet a mere pauper, wholly 
 
A SHANDYISM. 251 
 
 dependent npon the labor of my fellow-man, and 
 he, perchance, half-starved, on coarse food, to 
 furnish me with luxuries." 
 
 " Eeason not thus, sir ; there is another side to 
 the question." 
 
 "I can anticipate all that you would urge. I have 
 never intentionally done wrong towards another, I 
 am naturally, I think, benevolent. I entertain no 
 ill-will — and at times, I have been reproved for 
 allowing what I considered charity, to extend 
 beyond the limits of liberality. But what does all 
 that amount to ? I am indebted for my benevo- 
 lence to my God — an innate impulse ; for my means 
 of charity to the hands of others — no product of 
 my labor." 
 
 I touched him gently on the shoulder, and would 
 have spoken when he checked me. 
 
 " Say nothing more, I pray, to-night, sir. In my 
 present tone of feeling, I can recognize but one 
 astounding truth — it possibly may be an error, but 
 I feel as if I had not done my duty, either toward 
 myself, my fellow- creature, or my God. And 
 there's a thought for an old man to dream upon." 
 
 "Good-night, and may pleasant dreams refresh 
 you." I took him by the hand. 
 
252 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 " Good-niglit, and God bless my old school-fel- 
 low." He gently pressed my liand and hastily 
 smothered his face in the pillow. I paused for a 
 moment as I opened the door and looked back, and 
 as I closed it, I heard something like a deep-drawn 
 sigh. I applied the thnmb and index-finger of my 
 right hand to my eyes, and drew them together 
 nntil they met at the root of my proboscis ; there 
 was moisture there, but how or why it got there, 
 God only knows. I proceeded to my solitary bed. 
 
 The following morning was a bright one. I arose 
 with the sun and resumed my great horticultural 
 pursuit. "With hoe in hand I selected a remarkable 
 drum-head cabbage, and went to work with a science 
 worthy of Cincinnatus. In a few minutes I became 
 philosophical; I rested on my hoe-handle, and 
 having no one else to converse with, I addressed 
 the cabbage, somewhat after this fashion : 
 
 " Thou magnificent esculent ! Upon thy broad 
 forehead I will place the crown, of my Eden. Thou 
 art henceforth prince of the cabbage-bed. I will aid 
 thee to sustain thy dignity. I have fattened thee 
 with poudret and guano ; I have studied Leibig, 
 solely to stimulate thee to carry out the important 
 project we have in hand. Conceal thine ambition ; 
 
A SHANDYISM. 253 
 
 be careful that you burst not with your importance, 
 wlien you learn the honors that await you. I am 
 prime minister, all depends upon me, but you shall 
 take the honor, and I will content myself with the 
 profit." 
 
 His royal highness stared at me with his broad 
 unmeaning face, yet seemed to say — 
 
 " The profits ! — surely you would not sell me, 
 prime minister ?" 
 
 It was a home question, which I was too politic 
 to answer, but methought, " That depends altogether 
 upon the price you will bring in the market, 
 king ! otherwise I am unfit to be prime minister." 
 I continued my instructions as if I held within my 
 grasp the destiny of all cabbages, from the noble 
 drum-head and Savoy even down to the skunk 
 cabbage. 
 
 " Listen. When our mighty scheme is matured, 
 and there is no danger of any screws getting loose, I 
 will have thee conveyed, with considerable pomp 
 and circumstance, and place thee conspicuously in 
 the most public position that we can command in 
 the approaching exhibition of the Horticultural 
 Society. I will enlarge upon your utility in sup- 
 plying that great alembic Colon with gas, in order 
 
254 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 to keep tlie liver, tlie nerves, and the brain in action, 
 and then expatiate upon the sufferings to which the 
 insatiate tyrant has condemned jou ; to be boiled 
 with rusty pork ; mangled to shreds, undergo the 
 process of fermentation, and even then not satis- 
 fied with the indignity, he will sentence thee to be 
 imprisoned in the excavated stomach of a smoked 
 goose, that he may swallow you, and triumph over 
 your humiliation, cabbage ! What is it thou hast 
 not suffered for thy country and the benefit of man- 
 kind ! When you depart this mundane sphere, in 
 truth, may Colon exclaim, ' in a windy suspiration 
 of forced breath,' as Hamlet phrases it, 'Another 
 revolutionary hero gone! Toll his requiem.'" 
 
 I paused to remember some of the long political 
 harangues used to inflate bladders, until they swell 
 to the requisite dimensions of a statesman, upon the 
 same principle that children blow bubbles through 
 the stump of a pipe, from material but little more 
 evanescent — but the child's bubble is more orna- 
 mental than the bag of wind, and frequently quite 
 as useful. 
 
 I jerked up the waistband of my nether integu- 
 ments, and throwing myself in the attitude geome- 
 trically laid down in the old editions of Scotts' 
 
A SHANDYISM. 255 
 
 immortal work on elocution, I extended one arm at 
 an angle of forty degrees, and elevated the other to 
 forty-six, and there I stood, like the cross of St. 
 Andrew, in a somewhat rickety state, but regaining 
 my equilbrium — then — " my eyes in a fine frenzy 
 rolling" over the unmeaning face of my passive 
 listener, I let him have it — Jupiter Tonan's ! — 
 full of wrath and cabbage, until his green whiskers 
 fairly curled with approbation. Thus I began: 
 
 " Thy capacious head contains the concrete result 
 of Leibig's investigation ; poudret and guano have 
 contributed their aid to enlarge thy understanding ; 
 the dews of heaven have been distilled upon thy 
 forehead to refresh thee, and thou hast thrust thy 
 toes into the chemical alembic of mother earth. 
 Few are aware of the labor bestowed, and the 
 science evoked, to make thee what thou art. What 
 shall we do ? Thou must have a sheep-skin that thy 
 science henceforth may not be questioned. What 
 college shall have the honor of conferring the honor 
 upon thee ? And what degree wilt thou take — an 
 LL. D., M. D., or D. D.; or wilt thou take all? 
 Let not thy diffidence interfere with thy preferment, 
 for rest assured you will find many who have re- 
 
256 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 ceived similar distinction standing in tlie same 
 category with thyself." 
 
 No reply ; but from the palor of his countenance 
 he seemed to say, " O leave me alone an unobtru- 
 sive cabbage !" 
 
 "That will never do. Thou shalt go to the 
 exhibition, and if the managers do not uncon- 
 stitutionally offer their own heads in competition, 
 beyond the shadow of a doubt, thou wilt be crowned 
 by public acclamation, ' King of the Cabbage- 
 heads !' Think of that. And then upon the 
 imperishable records of the society we shall descend 
 to posterity together. But bear in mind, sir ; our 
 great project accomplished, I expect that in youT 
 gratitude for my services you will appoint me 
 minister plenipo, to the King of the Mosquetos." 
 
 My candidate was silent. Taciturnity is fre- 
 quently mistaken as an evidence of profound 
 thought and wisdom, when in fact it is nothing 
 more than a panoply assumed by dignified igno 
 ranee to protect itself from public exposure. " He 
 says little but he thinks the more," whispers an 
 admirer of the sage philosopher, while the sage has 
 not sufficient activity of mind even to think he 
 
A SHANDYISM. 257 
 
 thinks. I concluded that my appointment was 
 settled. 
 
 Suddenly my ears were saluted with " Buz, buz, 
 buz I" Curse the mosquetoes ! " Buz, buz, buz ! " 
 Is a plenipo to be annoyed after this fashion? 
 "Buz, buz, buz!" "The whole swarm is about 
 me ; I will not except of the appointment, great 
 king!" " Buz, buz, buz !" 
 
 I whirled my arms about like the wings of a 
 wind-mill to rid myself of the annoyance, but in 
 so doing I destroyed the cross of St. Andrew, and 
 knocked Scott's trigonomical illustration of elocu- 
 tion into sufficient geometrical figures to solve the 
 most abstruse problem in Euclid. I resumed my 
 hoe. 
 
 " I will establish for thee a broad platform, upon 
 which we will erect a monument more lasting than 
 brass — that's from Ovid ; Latin. When you shall 
 have passed through your A B ab's, and B A ba's, 
 you will perceive the importance of those sublime 
 mysteries — " 
 
 " Cockey-doodle-doo !" 
 
 " Those troublesome chickens are in my garden 
 again! Shew! Shew!" I did not raise my head, 
 my mind was too intent upon raising the broad 
 
 17 
 
258 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 platform upon whicli I might establisli the radical 
 principles of my cabbage. I worked with my hoe, 
 believing that it would produce better results than 
 the brains of some politicians. 
 
 " Cockey-doodle-doo !" 
 
 " Confound that rooster, he shall understand that 
 he is not cock of the walk about these diggins.^'' j 
 cautiously looked around for a stone, intending to 
 have a whack at him ; having found one, I raised 
 myself very gingerly, fearful that I might disturb 
 his self-complacency, when, to my confusion, I 
 beheld my friend Mr. Aspenleaf standing on an 
 elevation a few yards from me, smiling blandly. I 
 dropped the stone and laughed. " Crow again." 
 
 He flapped his arms against his sides in imitation 
 of Chanticleer, and crowed with a voice as clear as 
 the note of a church bell chiming the Ave Mary. 
 Immediately all the roosters within hearing, each 
 on his own dung-hill, of course, answered the chal- 
 lenge, sent it back again, and made my friend 
 Toney appear as a nervous kindred of St. Yitus. 
 I addressed my Drum-Head. " There are many 
 champions in the field, sir, and from the notes of 
 their clarions, I infer they will make a -^lard fight." 
 He looked as if he had already been converted 
 
A SHANDYISM. 259 
 
 into krout. " Not a word, sir ? Thou hast all the 
 elements of gas within thee ; blaze awaj ; make a 
 noise ; rumble about the revolution you kicked up 
 in Colon — the era of the great hurricane — eh ? Still 
 silent I I indignantly decline the mission to the 
 Mosquetoes ; I throw down my hoe at the foot of 
 your platform, but as I am your prime minister, I 
 will sell you in open market, at the proper season, 
 to the highest bidder, and put the proceeds in my 
 pocket." 
 
 I approached Mr. Aspenleaf and took him by the 
 hand. 
 
 ^' How did you rest, sir ?" 
 
 "I feel much refreshed. But, pray, to whom 
 were you making that impassioned harangue ? For 
 a moment I imagined that you were dreaming and 
 talking aloud in your sleep. 
 
 "Byron somewhere remarks, 'the best of life is 
 sleep,' however that may be, the greater part of 
 life is but a dream, from which many are never 
 awakened until old Time shakes them up, pats them 
 on the head encouragingly, and kindly says, 'I 
 trust I do not disturb your repose, but it is my 
 business, sir, to call upon you, and mention that 
 you have had a long sleep ; I trust by this time you 
 
260 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 are refresliecl, and after you have opened your eyes, 
 so that you may understand that my mission with 
 you has terminated, I will respectfully suggest to 
 you that you can quietly lie down again, take 
 another nap; and if my heir, Eternity, be as 
 indulgent a father as I have been, perchance you 
 may sleep forever. Sleep on.' " 
 
 " Give me a peck of corn!" exclaimed Toney, "I 
 feel that I belong to the class, '•fruges consumere 
 nati^^ but wish to make my bread for one day, that 
 I may appreciate what those of the stalwart limb 
 and sunshine face, throwing out rays strong enough 
 to disperse the mist of the bathed brow, have to 
 endure in order to make their daily bread." 
 
 " Their daily bread ! Each will make enough by 
 one month's labor, properly distributed, with the 
 assistance of mother Earth, to sustain him for a 
 year. His daily bread would be a small requisition 
 upon his energies, if he were not required to stuff 
 the maws of swarms of non-productives with 
 delicacies." 
 
 " Give me some corn, and a hoe !" exclaimed 
 Mr. Aspenleaf, flourishing his gold-headed cane, and 
 extending his right leg with a spasmodic movement, 
 
A SHANDYISM. 261 
 
 ''Give me some corn, and I will raise a crop tliat 
 Ceres herself shall be proud to harvest." 
 
 " I fear, sir, it is rather too late in the season for 
 you to plant. That is the business of spring-time. 
 There is an appointed season for all things, and I 
 fear that the frosts of autumn may catch your 
 harvest before it is ripened for the garner." 
 
 " True. I thought not of that. To see it when 
 half ripened, checked in its promise — mildewed — 
 worthless, and then reflecting what it would have 
 produced had I but attended to my work at the pro- 
 per season. That, methinks, would give me pain." 
 
 "Still we are aware that the eleventh -hour men 
 received as full wages as those who toiled all day 
 and endured the heat of the sun." 
 
 " And so they did." 
 
 " Still something can be done. My little crop was 
 sown, as I thought in due season, and appears pro- 
 mising, but as I may be light-handed at harvest- 
 time, come out to me and lend a helping hand. 
 The smallest aid is gratefully received in those 
 emergencies. 
 
 " I will most assuredly be with you." 
 
 " And then when we have it faithfully garnered — 
 where the thief cannot break in — sheltered from 
 
262 A SHANDYISM. 
 
 the weather and tlie vermin, we will sit down to the 
 harvest feast, a board of abundance, in amity with 
 those who have toiled with us through the heat of 
 the day — see with what appetite they feed, and how 
 cheerfully they retire to their rest after their labor." 
 
 *' But what shall I do ? A mere looker-on in the 
 harvest-field, when I am summoned to take my 
 rest?" 
 
 " You and I can be watchful that no one depart 
 dissatisfied ; and the feast over, let it be our care to 
 gather up the fragments and see that nothing be 
 lost." • ■ 
 
 "My feast is over," — he smiled sadly as he 
 pressed my hand — " all that remains to me is to 
 gather up the fragments, and see that nothing be 
 lost. There is more meaning in your apparent 
 levity than I at first discovered." 
 
 " Possibly so. Call it truth in masquerade." 
 
 " I shall not forget the harvest-feast, and the frag- 
 ments. I will be with you. "Would I had labored 
 throughout the heat of the sun, that when I go 
 home I may honestly take my wages, and feel that 
 I have honestly earned them." 
 
THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 263 
 
 THE LADY OF KUTHYE^. 
 
 Teavelling in the northern part of Great Brit- 
 ain, I turned aside from my road to view more 
 closely one of those ancient edifices that stand, as it 
 were, a connecting link, between times gone by and 
 the present. I ever took delight in contemplating 
 these mighty piles of past ages, for they operate as 
 a talisman on the imagination, and in an instant the 
 mercurial mind, in defiance of space and time, lives 
 whole centuries. While surveying the building 
 an aged man approached, and accosted me. " You 
 appear," said he, " to be a stranger, and interested 
 with the exterior of the castle ; perhaps the interior 
 may equally excite your curiosity; if so, I will 
 attend you through the building." I gladly accepted 
 of the old steward's invitation, for such he proved 
 to be, and I could not possibly have had a better 
 guide, for he was communicative, and intimately 
 
264 THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 
 
 familiar witli tTie liistory of the castle and its inmates, 
 from tlie time the corner-stone was deposited. 
 
 He led me tlirougli lofty chambers that frowned 
 in all the gloom of Gothic times ; extended galleries 
 and stately halls, concerning each of which some 
 anecdote was rife in his memory. He paused with 
 peculiar satisfaction in the armory, hung around 
 with banners, arms, and the trophies of war. He 
 was familiar with the history of every weapon and 
 coat of mail, and gave with tedious accuracy an 
 account of the various conflicts in which the 
 several indentations, perceptible on the warlike 
 apparel, were received. From the armory we 
 passed into the gallery of family pictures, whicli 
 afford many of the rudest, with some of the finest, 
 specimens of art. 
 
 Here might be seen the mailed knight scowling 
 death to his prostrate antagonist, or gazing with 
 his eyes full of devotion on his lady love ; there a 
 judge, with fat, unmeaning face and full-bottomed 
 wig, looking askance at a hoop petticoat, and a 
 diminutive countenance peering beneath a wilder- 
 ness of curls ; not unlike an owl from an ivy bush ; 
 a little farther, a group of corydons and shepher- 
 desses, watching their flocks, which had called forth 
 
THE LADY OF R U T H V E N. 265 
 
 the greatest care of tlie artist, and tlien came the 
 matter-of-fact portrait of modern days, which can 
 do nothing more for an ugly face than make it 
 handsome, or place a man in a studious posture 
 with a book in his hand, though he scarcely com- 
 prehends the alphabet. 
 
 While surveying the different portraits, my eye 
 fell on one calculated to make the spectator shrink 
 at the first glance. It was a warrior clad in a coat 
 of mail, his hair was gray, his countenance thin and 
 cadaverous, and his eye as fierce as that of the 
 enraged tiger. His forehead was bony, capacious, 
 and reposed on a pair of thick bushy brows. His 
 cheek bones were high, his chin robust, and his thin 
 lips compressed, indicative of cool determination. 
 
 " That," said the old man, " is the portrait of 
 Lord Kuthven, who was at the slaying of David 
 Kizzio. He left his sick bed, to which he had been 
 confined for three months, pale and emaciated, too 
 feeble to bear the weight of his armor, or even to 
 support his own body without assistance, to do a 
 murder at the bidding of, and in the presence of, 
 his king." 
 
 " And is that," said I, " the man who took life 
 in cool blood, and calmy sat down in the presence 
 
266 THE LADY OT RUTHVEN. 
 
 of liis insulted Queen, and tauntingly called for 
 drink to quench his thirst, while his bony hands 
 were still reeking with the life-blood of her 
 favorite? But who are those young men to the 
 left, on the same canvass, whose countenances are 
 full of manly beauty, and glow with intelligence ?" 
 
 " The last of the name of Euthven. The Ions of 
 that Earl of Gowrie, whose restless spirit burst 
 forth at the maid of Euthven, and finally terminated 
 its earthly career on the scaffold. His sons were 
 the pride of Scotland in their day, and fell at the 
 same instant, while perpetrating the most inexpli- 
 cable conspiracy that history has recorded. Their 
 dead bodies were brought into parliament, indicted 
 for high treason, their honors and estates were 
 forfeited, and the ancient and proud name of 
 Euthven forever abolished." 
 
 "And who is that," I inquired, pointing at a 
 female portrait, " whose face rivals in loveliness all 
 that the Italian artists have combined in their ideal 
 beauty? Where female softness is so admirably 
 blended with masculine vigor, that the trial for 
 mastery at the first glance appears doubtful, but on 
 a nearer view it is plain to see that the latter, in this 
 instance, as in all others, maintains a transcendent 
 
THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 267 
 
 influence over tlie former! Behold the arched 
 brow where pride sits enthroned ; the eye beneath 
 it beaming love, and the lips that would tempt an 
 anchorite to press them, were it not for the latent 
 fire in that eye, and the firmness of purpose indica- 
 ted by that chin, at the same time that the curve of 
 beauty is preserved, forbids even the passionless 
 kiss of an anchorite ! This I should judge to be the 
 work of some enthusiastic painter, who, in a delirium 
 of love, delineated the mistress of his imagination, 
 rather than the being that nature had created." 
 
 The withered cheek of the old man glowed at 
 my praise, and he replied, "That is the Swan of 
 the house of Euthven, who was reared in the 
 raven's nest when her own flock was scattered. 
 She was the child of the last of the name ; still an 
 infant at the time of her father's murder, and when 
 the storm tore up, root and branch, the noble tree 
 that had withstood the rage of warring elements 
 for centuries, this last frail scion was transplanted 
 to a foreign land, where it grew in beauty worthy 
 of its parent stem. Eightly have you judged in 
 pronouncing that picture the work of an enthusiastic 
 lover; it is by the celebrated Yandyck, to whom 
 nature not only lent her coloring, but watched 
 
268 THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 
 
 every toncli and carefully guided his hand. Charles, 
 the martyr, at whose court the orphan of the fallen 
 house of Kuthven was a maid of honor, bestowed 
 her in marriage on the impassioned painter, and 
 never did the skilful artist exercise his brush with 
 greater success, than when delineating the lovely 
 features of the object of his adoration." 
 
 I left the gallery with my mind filled with 
 widely different reflections from those which occu- 
 pied it on entering. The mute canvass on which 
 I had been gazing, had read to me a striking lesson 
 on the vicissitudes of human life, and the futility 
 of the attempt to perpetuate a name. Here I 
 beheld a long line of ancestry, who had kept 
 monarchs in awe and been linked with royalty, 
 extinguished by a breath — a single word — and the 
 last remaining drop of their haughty blood, the very 
 essence of their race, a thousand times distilled, 
 indebted for its preservation to charity, and finally 
 bestowed on one whose progenitors had passed as 
 obscurely through the world as the purling stream 
 through the untrodden wilderness, and yet to the 
 talents of this man is she more indebted for the 
 duration of her name, than to the daring deeds of 
 her turbulent ancestors. I here also learnt that he 
 
THE LADY OF RUTHVEN. 269 
 
 who was tlie monarcli's terror, tlie monarcli himself, 
 and she for whose charms the monarch might 
 proudly have sighed, can obtain no more sub- 
 stantial fame than an outline of their features on 
 perishabje canvass, or a page in history seldom 
 opened. 
 
 Most glorious guerdon, after a feverish existence, 
 when we reflect — 
 
 There's not tliat work 
 
 Of careful nature or of cunning art, 
 
 How strong, how beauteous, or how rich it be, 
 
 But falls in time to ruin. 
 
270 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 THE YISIONAEY. 
 
 " He travels on, a solitary man ; 
 His age has no companion." — "Wordsworth. 
 
 It was a bright morning in spring, my uncle bad 
 returned from bis accustomed walk and retired to 
 bis study, a small building erected for tbat purpose, 
 a sbort distance from tbe main dwelling. I entered 
 to announce tbat bis breakfast awaited bim, and 
 found bim busy writing. He tbrew down bis pen, 
 and said to me, smiling, " I scarce needed anotber 
 proof to satisfy me tbat I am but a sorry poet ; but 
 we bave all sufficient vanity to imagine tbat we can 
 approach tbe sun on doedalic wings, and unhappily 
 tbe nearer tbe approach tbe greater tbe danger." 
 " What subject has engaged your pen, sir ?" 
 " In my walk this morning," be said, " I met poor 
 David Wayland, tbe village pauper. Tbe old man 
 has seen prosperous and happy days, and now be 
 lives on common charity. Oh ! my boy, how bitter 
 
THE VISIONARY. 271 
 
 must be that crust that is grudgingly given and 
 reluctantly received, but to prolong the useless 
 remnant of a wretched existence! — David was 
 seated in a solitary place on the margin of the 
 river. As I approached, I found him engaged in 
 deep thought, and there were tears in his eyes. I 
 demanded what it was afflicted him. 
 
 " 'I have little to do, but think,' he replied, ' and 
 the mind is an inn that admits strange guests at 
 times. I have been viewing myself, from my joy- 
 ous infancy unto the present hour, as in a glass, 
 and thoughts have occurred that are beyond the 
 scope of my understanding.' 
 
 " ' And what were your thoughts, David V 
 
 " He turned to me, and with a sorrowful look 
 replied, 'I am a miserable old man, sir, a mere 
 wreck of the creature that God had richly endowed, 
 and all I have to offer him in return for his bound- 
 less beneficence, is a wretch despised by his fellow- 
 man and crushed to earth by the evils of mortality.' 
 
 " ' I do not comprehend you.' 
 
 " ' I had children — they were the counterparts of 
 what I was in infancy ; they passed to the grave 
 and their loss was mourned in bitterness by me. 
 But the being of my own childhood has as irrevo- 
 
272 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 cably disappeared, and wliere is it? No one 
 deplored its departure but myself. They will 
 re- appear, radiant in tlieir innocence, but I never 
 again as I then was. Our clianges here are mani- 
 fold. The being of but yesterday ceases to exist 
 to-morrow, and time and circumstance render man 
 a daily suicide, as every stage destroys the preced- 
 ing, and a new, creation, phoenix-like, springs 
 from the ashes of the old. They pass away, but 
 whither? Kesponsible agents if when called 
 hence, they had cast off this mantle of mortality ; 
 but self-destroyed, and leaving this frail tenement 
 for their successor, where are they ? How shall I 
 appear hereafter? as I now exist, when the pro- 
 tracted lamp is flickering in the socket, or as one of 
 the countless beings that have moved and breathed 
 in this house of clay in my progress from infancy 
 to age? — Alas! I alone remain — the last metempsy- 
 chosis of a numerous progeny, long since passed 
 away, the only record of whose existence is in the 
 tablets of my own memory. I have seen them all, 
 and must they, infant, youth, and man, re-appear in 
 me, as I am now, or each assume in his own peculiar 
 shape, his individual responsibility?' 
 
 " I replied, that they were all one and the same 
 
THE VISIONARY. 273 
 
 essence and indivisible, and that the infant and 
 youth he deplored, still lived in David "Wayland, 
 borne down with age and sorrow. 
 
 " ' Then truly has it been written,' said he, sigh- 
 ing deeply, 
 
 " The child is father of the man," 
 
 and the sins of that father are visited upon the head 
 of countless generations.' 
 
 "Visionary as you may pronounce the old man's 
 theory, blood has been shed ere now to establish 
 doctrines scarce as plausible." 
 
 David had returned with my uncle to the cottage 
 to get his morning's meal, as was his custom, and 
 his hunger was no sooner satisfied when he with- 
 drew to some secluded spot among the wild hills to 
 meditate on his visionary notions of futurity. 
 " Poor fellow," said my uncle, looking after him, as 
 he slowly bent his way from the cottage. — " The 
 prophet has said ' it is good for man that he bear the 
 yoke in his youth,' thou has borne it, still the joy 
 of thy heart is ceased ; thy dance has turned into 
 mourning." 
 
 " You knew him, then, sir, in happier days ?" 
 
 "No — not in happier. My first acquaintance 
 
274 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 ■with him was somewhat remarkable. A few years 
 ago I left the little village of Munster, to descend 
 the Allegheny mountain late of an afternoon. 
 Heavy masses of clouds portended a coming storm. 
 The traveller at that period was compelled to pursue 
 his solitary journey through the wilderness along a 
 narrow and doubtful path, deeming himself for- 
 tunately if he found a hospitable hovel to shelter 
 him after the fatigues of the day's journey. I had 
 not proceeded many miles when it was with the 
 utmost difficulty I discerned the winding path 
 before me. Night was approaching, and the lofty 
 trees of the forest groaned with the weight of the 
 tempest. I spurred my horse with impatience, but 
 he ambled on as philosophically as if he thought it 
 as well to be overtaken by the storm in one place 
 as in another. I coaxed him, expostulated with, 
 flattered him on the score of his spirit and speed, to 
 no purpose, and finally I became exceedingly 
 indignant, but still he doggedly ambled on, as 
 much as to say, 'This, sir, is altogether your own 
 business ; mend matters the best way you may.* 
 The rain now came down in torrents, and large 
 branches torn from the trees were falling in every 
 direction around me. I hurried on, without know- 
 
THE VISIONARY. 275 
 
 ing wHcli way I directed my course, and was soon 
 completely lost in the wilderness. I dismounted to 
 search for shelter, when fortunately a projecting 
 rock offered itself as a protection. I secured my 
 horse and was endeavouring to reconcile myself to 
 my uncomfortable lodgings, when I fancied I heard 
 a faint strain of music in the intervals of the 
 tempest. I arose in astonishment — the music con- 
 tinued, and seemed to proceed from beneath the 
 surface of the earth. When the storm abated I left 
 the rock to ascertain the occasion of this mystery. 
 I descended a hillock and discovered the feeble rays 
 of a cavern immediately before me. I paused at 
 the door — a tremendous, but melodious voice still 
 solemnly chaunted : 
 
 'His voice doth rule the waters all as he himself doth 
 
 please ; 
 He doth prepare the thunder claps and governs all the seas. 
 The voice of God doth rend and break the cedar trees so 
 
 long, 
 The cedar trees of Lebanon which are both high and strong !' 
 
 " As it ceased I pushed open the door and dis- 
 covered an aged man in the act of devotion. His 
 flowing beard covered his bosom and his feeble hand 
 trembled as it held the book of prayer. When he 
 
276 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 finislied his devotions, he rose from his knees and 
 welcomed me to his solitary dwelling. My curiosity 
 was excited by the rudeness of his habitation, 
 which was too low to admit of a man standing 
 upright. 
 
 '"I perceive,' said the hermit, 'that you are 
 astonished how a human being can exist in a 
 miserable cell like this ; but no mortal knows what 
 he can undergo, and how very little he absolutely 
 requires until he is put to the trial.' 
 
 " ' True,' I replied, ' but are trials of this nature 
 conducive to happiness.' " 
 
 " ' Happiness,' exclaimed the old man, ' is a word 
 which scarcely conveys a definitive meaning; for 
 what we fancy one moment to be happiness, 
 frequently proves to be misery the next. It is 
 scarce worthy to be taken in the calculation of 
 human affairs, for if at the close of the longest life 
 we were to enumerate our joys and sorrows, even 
 the most fortunate would wonder at the fortitude 
 that sustained him through the chequered scene of 
 existence. At least such has been the case with 
 me.'" 
 
 On my* expressing a curiosity to learn what had 
 induced him to abandon society, he replied : 
 
THE VISIONARY. 277 
 
 " ' The circumstances of my life are soon related ; 
 they possess neither novelty nor interest, however, 
 I will comply with your request. 
 
 " ' In youth we looked upon life through a prism, 
 and from brilliant illusions that can never be 
 realized. We pursue the gaudy phantom with 
 ardor, until awakened to a sense of our folly by 
 repeated disappointment ; and highly favored is he 
 who possesses the philosophy not to become dis- 
 gusted with the world, when calmly contemplating 
 it in its real colors. 
 
 " ' I was born in the interior of Pennsylvania. 
 My father was a substantial farmer ; and as I was 
 his only child, I received every indulgence from 
 my tender parents. ISTothing but flowers sprung 
 up in my pathway. My days were passed in 
 wandering through the lofty mountains that sur- 
 rounded our humble dwelling, framing visions of 
 the fancied paradise which lay beyond them, and in 
 tracing the lines of my future conduct even to the 
 sunset of existence. Nay, my dreamy speculations 
 were not limited to this world, and I arrogantly 
 believed that the whole plan of the creator was 
 miraculously divulged to me. 
 
 "'In time I began to repine at my unvaried 
 
278 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 mode of life, and panted to pass the barriers that 
 restrained me as I thonglit from happiness. * This 
 world,' I said, ' was made for action — it is full of 
 joy, and he who supinely passes his life in a remote 
 corner, is a recreant to his duty and should be 
 classed among the dead and not the living.' 
 
 " 'I left my aged parents and went into the world. 
 They wept bitterly at my departure. But what of 
 that! Is it uncommon for children to wring the 
 hearts of their parents even to weeping tears of 
 blood? — The stream of affection flows downward, 
 sweeping away all obstacles, from parent to child, 
 but alas I how seldom does it know a returning ebb, 
 with the same strength to that pure and holy 
 fountain ! 
 
 '"I entered the army and continued there for 
 several years, and distinguished myself in the field 
 of battle, but eventually I was sorely wounded. 
 During a tedious recovery, whilst lying in a 
 wretched hospital, I began to reflect that my 
 dangers and suffering bore very little resemblance 
 to the illusions of my boyhood, for even here I 
 found no other reward for my daily trials than rest 
 when fatigued, and food when hungry. — These, I 
 sighed, might have been attained without the 
 
THE VISIONARY. 279 
 
 hazard of life, or the curse of having poisoned the 
 peace of those who gave me being. JSTo — it is not 
 in the army that my destiny is to be fulfilled and 
 my happiness completed. I threw up my commis- 
 sion, disgusted with the pursuit of military glory, 
 and returned to my native village a wiser if not a 
 better man. 
 
 " ' When I arrived, I learned that both my parents 
 had died some time before. I sought out their 
 graves, and as I stood beside them, bitter was the 
 recollection of the tears I had caused them to shed 
 when we last parted. The heart kept a faithful 
 record of its transgressions in burning characters ; 
 we may turn from it ; devote a life in striving to 
 obliterate what is therein written, but in vain — 
 sooner or later it must be read. I read and wept. 
 
 '' ' I converted the effects left at my father's 
 death into money, and directed my steps towards 
 Philadelphia, where, in a short time I appeared as 
 a merchant at the exchange. The exciting scenes 
 continually rising to view promised that I should 
 soon find the world as I imagined it. My heart 
 expanded as it daily quaffed professions of friend- 
 ship and blandishments of love, but still there was 
 somethinoj wantins: — fruition never realized the 
 
280 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 dream of anticipation. — However, tTiere was suf- 
 ficient to make the world an enticing one ; but alas I 
 tlie gaj delusion was not permitted to continue 
 long. I was cheated of my fortune by the man I 
 considered my bosom friend ; and then the mistress 
 of my heart, with whom in a short time I was to 
 have been united, thought it prudent to forget her 
 protestations of eternal affection, and marry the 
 wretch who had reduced me to poverty. I did not 
 reproach her, for it is written — " The poor is hated 
 even of his own neighbor, but the rich hath many 
 friends." — Human nature hath not changed a jot in 
 this respect since the days of Solomon. The world 
 said she acted wisely. 
 
 " ' I left the city, but not without a sigh at having 
 discovered that my vision, though so near com- 
 pletion, was not to be realized in the mercantile 
 world. As I trudged along I consoled myself by 
 reflecting that even in the midst of prosperity, I 
 had no other actual enjoyment than sleep when I 
 was weary and food when hungry. Every other 
 was deceitful and illusory. Then why should I 
 complain, for I shall be able to command a crust of 
 bread and a pallet of straw, even in the most abject 
 situation ; nature requires no more ; and possessing 
 
THE VISIONARY. 281 
 
 these, tlie wealtli of worlds cannot add to my happi- 
 ness — " Better is a little with the fear of the Lord, 
 than great treasure and trouble therewith." 
 
 " ' I had been in affluence long enough to discover 
 that prosperity is attended with a greater crowd of 
 afflictions that adversity. It affords the means of 
 gratification to every human passion, while adversity 
 closes the heart to the follies of the world, and points 
 out the vanity of human wishes. The one pursues 
 objects that are attained with difficulty, and when 
 attained, frequently yield disgust to repay the labor 
 of pursuit, while the other enjoys the sweets of life 
 in every difficulty overcome, and encounters those 
 which it is necessary to surmount in order to pro- 
 mote happiness. Again I exclaimed — " Better is a 
 little, with the fear of the Lord, than great treasure 
 and trouble therewith." Poverty points out the 
 straight path to true wisdom." 
 
 " ' I entered my native village at sun-set, weary 
 and forlorn. Yery little change had taken place 
 during my absence, and I felt a peculiar interest in 
 every object that presented itself. How pleasingly 
 melancholy are the feelings we experience in visiting 
 the place of our birth in adversity. The recollection 
 of former days rushed in more vivid colours on my 
 
282 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 dejected spirit, as I received the cordial greeting of 
 the friends of my childhood, and I felt convinced 
 that my air-built castles at length had found a firm 
 foundation on the spot that first gave rise to them. 
 
 " ' Before I made choice of a future pursuit I nar- 
 rowly investigated the lot of those who appeared to 
 enjoy most purely the blessings of the world, and 
 resolved to tread in the path of one who had the 
 reputation of being happy. The lot of a neigh- 
 bouring farmer delighted me. I observed that he 
 rose with the sun, his body full of health and vigor, 
 and his mind untainted with the corruption of the 
 world, to cultivate the soil which God had bestowed 
 upon him. This, I exclaimed, has been the osten- 
 sible duty of man since his expulsion from Eden ; 
 there is no pursuit more innocent, it yields all that 
 nature requires, and injures no one. At evening 
 when the labor of the day is over, he returns to his 
 cottage ; his blooming wife hastens to meet him 
 with smiles and caresses, while the rosy offspring of 
 health and innocence, impede his anxious steps 
 until the kiss is given ! I will get married and 
 cultivate the earth, for this is the only sure road to 
 happiness, and fortune's favours extended beyond 
 
THE VISIONARY. 283 
 
 tMs prove tlie severest affliction, as I have already 
 experienced. 
 
 ^' ' I continued, ' the burden of the world is on the 
 wealthy and not on the poor man. The one has an 
 artificial station to fulfil, the other but a natural 
 one. The one kis a thousand ideal wants to gratify, 
 without the abihty to divine the method of doing it, 
 whereas the other hears but the wants of nature, 
 who at the same time points out the simplest 
 manner of satisfying them. Yes, the burden of the 
 world is on the wealthy and not on the poor man, 
 for the one expects every thing from the world, and 
 the world expects very little from the other. 
 
 *" I now made choice of the partner of my fate, 
 to whom in due season I was married, and having 
 rented the farm where I was born, in course of a 
 few years, by dint of industry I succeeded in 
 stocking it to my satisfaction. I now resolved to 
 be happy. — I rose with the sun, and whistled at my 
 daily task, for I laboured for her whom I loved 
 with the utmost tenderness. We had three children ; 
 I watched over them and loved them as my parents 
 had watched and loved me. They died in their 
 infancy, and I mourned their loss in the bitterness 
 of a broken spirit; but I have often thought 
 
284 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 wlietlier the tears I slied on their graves, were as 
 scalding hot as those I wrung from my aged parents' 
 hearts when I forsook them. Even thus, had they 
 lived, might they have repaid my tenderness. If 
 so, God was merciful, in taking them and in sparing 
 me. « 
 
 " ' Still my heart was comparatively cheerful in 
 the midst of my struggles for bread, and I continued 
 to contemplate my vision of bliss with the same 
 hope as the shipwrecked mariner the symbol of the 
 covenant, after a tempest ; but as my wife was the 
 keystone of the arch, the dreamy fabric was fre- 
 quently shaken to the foundation. — In my own 
 mind I had prescribed her line of conduct, but as 
 she was not gifted with intuitive forecast, she knew 
 not, and, perhaps, cared not how I wished her to 
 act. In the grief of my disappointment I frequently 
 sighed, — " No blooming wife runs to welcome my 
 return after the labors of the day over ; no rosy 
 offspring impede my anxious steps until the kiss is 
 given." 
 
 " ' I became discontented, and entered upon the 
 duties of the day with disgust instead of cheerful- 
 ness, for I labored for one incapable of feeling my 
 affection, or estimating the worth of my exertions* 
 
THE VISIONARY. 285 
 
 There was a flame within my bosom that preyed 
 upon my life, and would of itself have worn me to 
 the grave — but one trial was still remaining to con- 
 firm the vanity of human prediction and complete 
 the load of mental suffering. My farm was now 
 neglected, and when the horrors of poverty sur- 
 rounded me, the death-blow came. My wife, who 
 had given me daily proof of her ingratitude and 
 aversion, gave me a fatal one of her loss of chastity. 
 0, God ! the bare recollection dissolves the frozen 
 blood of age, and forces the few remaining drops, 
 scalding hot, from the withered fibres of a broken 
 heart ! / heheld the viper who had stung me to the 
 soul^ coiling in the hosom of her paramour — the scene 
 deprived me of reason — ! that I had continued so, 
 for when I returned to my senses, the hapless 
 wretch was weltering in his blood at my feet — the 
 victim of his crime and my revenge. 
 
 " ' I went forth and surrendered myself into the 
 hands of justice. The offended law must be 
 appeased ! But laws insufficient to redress injuries, 
 beget self-avengers, and too often make victims of 
 the injured. I was tried and convicted of murder 
 in the second degree, and sentenced to ten years 
 imprisonment, part of the time in the solitary cells. 
 
286 THE VISIONARY. 
 
 I shall not attempt to describe to you tlie horrors 
 of a dungeon, as tTie picture would not represent 
 my own but the sufferings of my fellow prisoners — 
 for me it bad no terrors. He wbo bas placed bis 
 happiness on this world must necessarily be wretched 
 when deprived of the power of enjoying it ; but he 
 whom the world has deprived of happiness can feel 
 but little regret at being removed from the scene of 
 affliction. I had now time for reflection, and the 
 vanity of my earthly pursuits flashed upon my 
 brain. My life had been spent in pursuit of the 
 vision of my youth ; in struggling to realize scenes 
 which could only exist in imagination, and which 
 led me to wretchedness and disappointment. I had 
 lived for others and not for myself. I now dis- 
 covered how very few were the real wants of 
 human nature ; and on recurring to my past life, I 
 was astonished to observe how severe a tax the 
 world imposes on its votaries, for instead of having 
 the courage to live for ourselves, we live for the 
 rest of the world. At the expiration of my sentence, 
 finding I could be of little service to mankind, I 
 retired to the wilderness, well convinced that man- 
 kind could be of as little service to me. I here 
 have every thing that the world afforded me in the 
 
THE VISIONARY. 287 
 
 briglitest hours — food and rest — witliout tlie unceas- 
 ing agitation of mind and body, that preyed upon 
 my life ; and removed from temptation, I mourn 
 over the follies and weakness of my nature, and 
 strive to make amends for the past errors. And, 
 though all my earthly hopes proved to be of such 
 stuft* as dreams are made of, there is one remaining 
 that this world cannot take away, and it renders 
 even the pauper's brow more beautiful than a kingly 
 diadem — " The hoary head is a crown of glory if it 
 be found in the way of righteousness." And to 
 such it is promised — " Thine age shall be clearer 
 than the noon day ; thou shalt shine forth, thou 
 shalt be as the morning." ' " 
 
288 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 " She that is a widow indeed, and desolate, trusteth in God, and continueth in 
 supplications and prayers, night and day." 
 
 Poor old Miriam ! We beliold objects in cliild- 
 hood that remain our inseparable companions 
 tbrougb life, whose lineaments are still fresh in 
 memory, though myriads of intervening things may 
 have passed away like shadows. Such is the impres- 
 sion made upon my mind by the patient creature 
 whose humble career I am about to record. 
 
 Miriam's parents were too unobtrusive to awaken 
 malevolence, and too independent to apprehend 
 oppression. She was their only child. Possessed 
 of intellect, they afforded her every opportunity of 
 cultivating it, and with their virtuous Example before 
 her, she attained the years of womanhood, lovely 
 and beloved. Gray-haired men still speak in rap- 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 289 
 
 tures of her joutliful beauty, and deny tliat tlie 
 present age can produce her paragon. True, it 
 sounds strange to hear her queen-like figure, raven 
 hair, and pearly teeth enlarged upon by decrepid 
 age, sans teeth, sans hair, sans every thing; but 
 where breathes the artist can portray in such glow- 
 ing colors as memory, when she places before the 
 eyes of the aged their themes of young delight 1 
 
 Miriam married ; her choice was worthy of her, 
 and he fully appreciated the good bestowed upon 
 him. Their union was as one cloudless summer-day ; 
 nor was their happiness confined to themselves ; its 
 influence was felt wherever they appeared, for no 
 one ever received at their door the answer given at 
 the coming of the bridegroom — " not so ; lest there 
 be not enough for us and you." 
 
 Their union was blest with an only daughter. 
 Their cup of joy was filled without one dash of bit- 
 ter, and daily thanks to the Fountain of all, hallowed 
 their happiness. But " boast not thyself of to-mor- 
 row, for thou knowest not what a day may bring 
 forth." 
 
 They had been married some ten years when her 
 
 husband died. In the spring time of life when 
 
 earth laughs out as the primitive Eden, few reflect 
 
 19 
 
290 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 that the winged hours are incessantly working a 
 fearful change, and that the time must arrive when 
 the magic spell will be broken, and nothing remain 
 but " the flaming sword that turneth every way" to 
 bar man from his lost happiness. 
 
 Miriam anticipated the blow as little as others, 
 but she was better prepared than most to meet it. 
 She knew from whose lips the mandate issued; 
 "that whatsoever He doeth it shall be forever ; noth- 
 ing can be put to it nor any thing taken from it." 
 
 She had watched by the bedside of her companion 
 with that unwearied devotion which a true wife 
 alone can display. She had marked the gradual 
 inroads of disease, but continued to hope on, for 
 ■while he breathed, it did not occur to her how nearly 
 allied life is to death ; how brief the passage from 
 the one to the other — a single respiration and no 
 more. But when the last sigh was breathed she 
 awoke to a full sense of her loneliness. He was all 
 to her on earth and now nothing remained to the 
 future but the recollection of departed joys. When 
 the paroxysm had subsided, she arose — grief and 
 resignation struggling for mastery — she clasped her 
 hands, and turning her tearful eyes toward heaven, 
 meekly articulated — "Not as I will, but as thou 
 wilt." 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 291 
 
 Years passed away, for time pursues the same 
 even course wlietlier tliis world smiles or weeps. 
 Her spirit did not slirink from the severity of her 
 trials, for there were duties to be performed, hopes 
 iinerushed — and the human heart, like the dove of 
 peace when flitting over a deluged world, bears up, 
 trusting still to find the solitary resting-place amidst 
 universal desolation. 
 
 Her husband had left sufficient for the support of 
 herself and child. The widow devoted her days to 
 the instruction of little Mary, and she was rewarded, 
 by seeing her as she approached womanhood sur- 
 pass a fond mother's anticipations. She was a deli- 
 cate flower, nurtured in an atmosphere where no 
 breeze passed over her rudely, but where all around 
 was fragrance and sunshine. Such plants soon pine 
 away and die when removed from their native soil. 
 
 Mary knew nothing of the world beyond her 
 mother's threshold. Her young imagination peopled 
 it with such beings as her own kind mother. In 
 her mind all had their peaceful homes — the universe 
 all love and harmony — the flowers, the streams, the 
 hills unfailing fountains of delight — all joyous, and 
 she the most gladsome being in a joyful world. 
 Morn but awoke her to twitter her light-hearted 
 
292 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 song like a summer bird, and at night slie hymned 
 His praise in the same innocent strain of rejoicing, 
 while her glad mother's heart overflowed with grati- 
 tude for the blessing conferred. They indeed were 
 happy. 
 
 Happy ! If you have entrusted your happiness in 
 the hands of your fellow creature, await the rising 
 of the morrow's sun. Call no man happy until 
 death. He alone is happy who cares not how soon 
 the sun may set forever — and he himself arise be- 
 yond the influence of the sun. That man may dream 
 that he is happy. Dream on thou glorious dreamer ! 
 
 There lived in the village a young man named 
 Mark Moreland. He was handsome, and possessed 
 taste for books and music, and abounding in animal 
 spirits, he was usually the victor in all the village 
 sports. As he wore his laurels proudly, the young 
 men envied him, but the aged shook their heads, 
 and prophesied that Mark would come to no good, 
 for he was idle. 
 
 Mary's beauty did not escape his notice, and her 
 mother's little possessions rendered her more attrac- 
 tive. It was his custom when returning from 
 shooting or fishing, to stop at the widow's cottage, 
 and to present her with the choicest of his spoils. 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 293 
 
 He would read to tliem of evenings, and tlie notes 
 of his flute liarmonizing with the clear joyous voice 
 of little Mary, often arrested the step of the passing 
 villager. To the inexperienced girl he appeared 
 to be all he assumed; not so in the eyes of her 
 mother. 
 
 Mary loved him with that depth of devotion the 
 human heart can feel but once. Imagination had 
 clothed the object of her idolatry with all the 
 attributes of perfection. — Young love bends to 
 an idol of its own creation, and zealously threads 
 the universe in pursuit of the richest offerings to 
 increase its ideal beauty ; but when the charm is 
 broken, and the clouds of incense dispelled, the 
 object is frequently found to be as repulsive as the 
 ass's head around which Titania entwined her fairy 
 garlands. 
 
 The widow discovered with grief the bias of her 
 child's affections, and used all persuasion to estrange 
 her feelings. She referred to their peaceful and 
 happy condition, and deprecated a change. " He is 
 idle," said she " and such seldom obtain the respect 
 of their fellow men. Our lives have been simple 
 and harmless, his the reverse. He is not of us — a 
 scoffer at those things we hold most sacred, and 
 
294 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 remember the ingrate to his God is never trusted 
 by bis fellow man — not even by his fellow scoffer.'' 
 
 The scoffer will be somewhat astonished, if after 
 all, the things he scoffed at should turn out to be 
 the eternal truth, and the wisdom of ages has been 
 exceedingly favorable on that side of the question. 
 Scoff on, thou fool ! You first assume to yourself 
 the attributes of Omniscience, and then impudently 
 deny that Omniscience can exist elsewhere than in 
 your own brain. Thou know-all-worm ! it is possi- 
 ble, by chance, you have missed a figure. 
 
 Mary wept, for it was the first time she had given 
 her mother pain ; the first time she believed her to 
 be in error, still she appreciated her motives and 
 struggled to comply with her wishes. It was a con- 
 flict of deep-rooted feelings — a strife between duty 
 and love. It is unnecessary to add which proved the 
 victor. 
 
 Aware that Miriam would never consent to their 
 tmion, Mark persuaded the infatuated girl to be 
 married privately. It was her first act of disobe- 
 dience ; she no longer felt herself the guileless being 
 she had been up to that hour, it seemed to her that 
 she had changed nature with some abhorred and 
 guilty thing, and Mark endeavored in vain to as- 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 295 
 
 suage tlie poignancy of lier feelings. Slie liad de- 
 ceived her mother — confidence had ceased to exist 
 — and she trembled as a criminal in her presence. 
 
 When the unhappy tidings were divulged, the 
 widow wept in secret over her blighted hopes, but 
 not a word of reproach fell from her lips to embitter 
 the chalice her deluded child had prepared for her 
 own lips. She received Mark in her humble dwell- 
 ing and treated him as her son. 
 
 Mark's conduct underwent a thorough change, 
 and Miriam imagined that he had seen the errors of 
 his ways, and turned from them. In the simplicity 
 of her heart, she said — " this my son was dead and is 
 alive again, he was lost and is found." 
 
 Mark having gained her confidence proposed to 
 embark in business, as he was weary of an idle life. 
 But he had not the means, and he applied to Miriam 
 to assist him. — Mary added her entreaties, and the 
 widow pledged her little all to promote the welfare 
 of her children. The result might have been fore- 
 seen. Inexperienced — reckless — self-willed — in a 
 few years he exhausted the widow's means and 
 deeply involved all who trusted in his visionary 
 speculations. — He became bankrupt ; the widow 
 destitute. 
 
296 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 The descent to adversity is easy, but to retrace 
 our steps over obstructions which we had, ourselves, 
 thrown in the pathway, require energy possessed by 
 few. Bad became worse daily with Mark Moreland. 
 The amusements of his boyhood assumed the fea- 
 tures of vices in his riper years. The budding of 
 sin, in a child, to some appears attractive, but when 
 matured — repulsive. — The most poisonous weed, in 
 spring time may produce a gorgeous flower, but in 
 autumn the seed is death. 
 
 The widow seeing all was lost, trusted to her own 
 resources. She opened a school, that the children 
 of the village might benefit by her moral and intel- 
 lectual culture, and she maintain her independence. 
 There was a purity of purpose within her threshold 
 which creates an atmosphere the impure cannot 
 breathe. Mark returning from his midnight orgies 
 to behold the quiet simplicity of the widow's home, 
 felt, as did the rebellious angels when the subli- 
 mated atmosphere of heaven drove them mad. 
 
 Mary had a child, a boy, some two years old. 
 Late one night Mark returned from his companions, 
 ill-humored and intoxicated. He would fondle with 
 the boy, but Mary, alarmed for the child's safety, 
 opposed his wishes. He snatched the boy from her 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 297 
 
 arms and fell witli tlie infant beneatli him. From 
 that day the child, who had given promise of all 
 that partial parents anticipate from their first born, 
 became an idiot. Mark was now a changed and 
 melancholy man. He daily witnessed the desolation 
 he had occasioned, no part of which came within his 
 power to alleviate. He was chaiaed, a hopeless 
 spectator of a scene that drove him wild. The va- 
 cant stare of his beloved boy — the silent but ill-con- 
 cealed repinings of his wife, that were evidently 
 hurrying her to an untimely grave; the conflict 
 between resignation and despair which was laying 
 desolate the widow's heart, strewed the pathway to 
 duty with thorns, and the purer he became the more 
 poignant became repentance. Destitute of the means 
 to relieve their necessities ; too infirm of purpose to 
 contemplate the result of his own vices, he fled from 
 the ruin in its desolation, selfishly hoping to find a 
 Lethe for remorse in the hurried vortex of a heart- 
 less world. 
 
 Deserted by her husband, and reproaching her- 
 self for the trials her disobedience had imposed upon 
 her mother, Mary wasted to the grave with a disease 
 that knows no cure. — If the body be afflicted, there 
 is hope for extraneous remedy ; if the mind sickens, 
 
298 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 it must be its own pTiysician. Mary watched over 
 her idiot cliild — sat statue-like beside lier patient 
 motber — seldom spoke — never smiled — and died. 
 The innocent to die tbus — of self-reproacb and 
 broken-hearted, is indeed, the Human agony of the 
 cross and crown of thorns. 
 
 Miriam was now destitute and alone, but she 
 knew that " he who faints in the day of adversity, 
 his strength is small." Her time was devoted to 
 her little school and unwearied efforts to infuse light 
 into the mind of her benighted offspring. At length 
 he could imitate the sound of a few words, but not 
 for the purpose of imparting ideas. She took him 
 repeatedly to his mother's grave, and taught him to 
 pronounce the word — mother, and kneel in the atti- 
 tude of invoking a benediction. She taught him 
 to repeat the Lord's Prayer, word by word, as it fell 
 from her lips, and though its import made no im- 
 pression upon his mind, still, morning and night, he 
 prayed with as much outward zeal as many do who 
 possess all the advantages of the light of revelation. 
 The principal difference consisted in this — he prayed 
 in their lowly chamber, with no other witness than 
 his grandmother and his God, while many seldom 
 invoke the attention of the Creator without requiring 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 299 
 
 a crowded congregation to bear witness. Why hide 
 your candle under a busliel ! Let tlie meek and lowly 
 behold with what audacity pride and ostentation can 
 approach the Deity— as if there were an aristocracy 
 in heaven. 
 
 A few years rolled on rapidly. One evening, as 
 the boy was paying his accustomed homage at his 
 mother's grave — zealously repeating the overwhelm- 
 ing appeal of deity to deity— too often an unwinged 
 prayer, and, doubtless, at times, a malediction self- 
 invoked upon the head of the Pharisee, the boy, as 
 he arose, beheld a man standing beside him. 
 
 " Whose grave is that, my child, you are kneel- 
 ing on ?" 
 
 " My mother sleeps here." 
 
 The stranger read the simple inscription on the 
 head-stone — shuddered, and inquired in a tremulous 
 voice, 
 
 " Your father — do you know your father ?" 
 
 " Our father who art in heaven," began the boy, 
 standing erect, and with uplifted hands — 
 
 "His name?" 
 
 " Hallowed be thy name." 
 
 " I mean your father." 
 
 " I have no other father." 
 
300 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 The thnnder of heaven could not so have shaken 
 the iron nerves of that strong man, as did the simple 
 reply of the idiot-boy ; but was it not thunder of 
 heaven that spoke in that small voice — "I have no 
 other father." 
 
 " Come, come," said the boy, taking him kindly 
 by the hand — and the unnerved man suffered him- 
 self to be led away as if he were both maimed and 
 blind. Marvel not at that; men of the sternest 
 minds, at times, allow themselves to be led away by 
 idiots. 
 
 They reached the widow's cottage as she was in 
 the act of dismissing her little school. They paused, 
 and overheard the admonition and blessing she be- 
 stowed upon her pupils, about to leave her for the 
 night, while each shook hands with her as if impa- 
 tient for the coming morrow. The man bowed his 
 head and wept, as if he were a child again. Chil- 
 dren always make good men feel as children ; and 
 at times they restore the blurred record of childhood 
 so vividly to the minds of the impure, that they wish 
 they were children again. But as that is impossible, 
 let them indulge in a prospective view of their 
 second childhood — early vice in the seed. 
 
 They entered the cottage — Miriam was surprised 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 301 
 
 at beholding a stranger thus introduced ; she turned 
 her face toward him — recognised him and clasping 
 her hands, sunk, upon a chair exclaiming, " Mark 
 Moreland I" 
 
 Where she sat was the place where the boy was 
 accustomed to pray of nights. He ran to her and 
 knelt, saying, " Mother, I pray as Christ prayed ;" a 
 phrase she had taught him. He commenced, and 
 coming to the passage, " Forgive us our trespasses, 
 as we forgive those who trespass against us" — which 
 the widow had taught him to pronounce with the 
 solemnity due to its importance — she looked into 
 the eyes of the contrite man, then into the secret 
 recesses of her own heart, and the prayer, passing 
 from the untutored lips of an idiot child, sunk more 
 deeply than ever before, though aided by theatrical 
 gesture — pomp — and the studied elocution of the 
 preacher. Mark was forgiven as far as human 
 infirmity can forgive. 
 
 During his absence he had acquired some pro- 
 perty. His habits had undergone a change, and all 
 with whom he had any dealings pronounced him an 
 upright and industrious man. — Yet he felt himself 
 a vagrant on earth, without the prospect of ever 
 becoming a denizen of heaven. 
 
802 THE WIDOW INDEED. 
 
 The widow received liim as her son, and lie 
 employed himself to render their home the abode of 
 peace. True — it was lighted np with genial sun- 
 shine, but bright rays never played there. Clouds 
 seldom intruded, except upon Mark's soul, when 
 he contemplated the vacant stare of his child. He 
 had brought him into the light of life only to give 
 him darkness. Morning and evening he beheld 
 the boy appealing to his God in the darkness of his 
 intellect, and arise from his prayers, happy. The 
 thought occurred — I have intellect of which I was 
 once proud, yet stand aloof from the path that leads 
 to Him who gave it ! He knelt down a humbled 
 man beside his idiot son, and prayed. The boy 
 smiled to see him pray, and patted him on the head 
 in imitation of his grandmother's benediction, and 
 ever after led him to their bedside, and prayed 
 together. Truly, in this instance, "the child was 
 father of the man," though not in the sense the 
 poet intended. 
 
 All nature is at times oracular, speaking in a voice 
 too plain to be misunderstood. The earth, the sky, 
 the ocean, are unwearied and eloquent teachers. 
 The rustling of the autumnal leaf may awaken 
 faculties that would slumber on the sea-beach — ^the 
 
THE WIDOW INDEED. 303 
 
 rippling brook babbles its lesson, and even tbe 
 stroke of the dark iron upon tbe dull flint, may 
 elicit a spark sufficient for some minds ; man knows 
 not when nor whence he may imbibe the semi- 
 annual idea that expands the soul, until darkness 
 becomes luminous, and light gleams through chaos. 
 God's ministers are legion. 
 
 We move in circles. Miriam's unoffending life 
 had promised all, and yet she suffered all. Her 
 child died, harmless ; had she lived longer, would 
 she so have died ? The widow infused a glimmer 
 of light into a blank mind, which guided the foot- 
 steps of a cast-away. His sacrifice of the unof- 
 fending had worked out his own salvation. Good 
 came out of evil. The purest on earth was sacrificed 
 for the sins of man, and human nature should 
 strive to imitate the example. — The greatest evil 
 has conferred on man the greatest good. 
 
 The boy lived and died a blank, still he was born 
 for good. The widow soon followed him to the 
 grave, having fulfilled her duty; and Mark is 
 living to this day a grey -haired wealthy man — and 
 of course, respected by all ; and yet he would give 
 all earth to be respected by himself and God. 
 
304 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 THE EECLUSE OF BLACK LOG MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Ox a sultry day in the month of July, business 
 called me to visit the village of Shirleysburg, situ- 
 ated on a level piece of ground, rising gradually 
 from the banks of Aughwick creek, which is sepa- 
 rated from the town by cultivated meadows. A long 
 and wide street, or rather the public road, lined on 
 each side with plain but substantial dwelling houses, 
 to each of which is attached a sufficiency of ground 
 for gardens and out-houses, makes the town, in all 
 respects, conformable to the generality of Pennsyl- 
 vania villages in its appearance and structure. The 
 creek pursues a northerly course, and on its western 
 side the lofty summit of Jack's mountain frowns in 
 gloomy majesty over a narrow valley. On the east 
 of the village, the sandy ridge breaks the prospect, 
 and seems as a step designed by nature to enable 
 the adventurous traveller to reach the rugged and 
 romantic heights of the Black Log Mountain, whose 
 
THE RECLUSE. 305 
 
 precipitous sides, as yet undivested of the forests of 
 ages, bound the view for many miles in a continued 
 undulating chain of hills, which rise behind the vil- 
 lage, casting their depths of shade over the well 
 cultivated vale of Germany. 
 
 There is something peculiarly pleasing in arriving 
 at the end of a journey, especially if travelling 
 alone, or if little accidents on the road have in any 
 degree destroyed the equanimity of our temper. 
 Unusual heat of the weather creates lassitude, clouds 
 of dust are very incommoding ; the careless tread 
 of an animal ever ready to obey the voice of his 
 rider, and to quicken his pace over a rough road 
 may cause a momentary stumble, which often pro- 
 vokes the goad of a spur, the lash of a whip, or at 
 least an angry jerk of the bridle, accompanied with 
 an exclamation of impatience and discontent. The 
 unexpected sound of a loose shoe as it strikes the 
 rolling flint, gives indication of trouble and delay, 
 and all thoughts are banished save those of a smith 
 shop, or a lame horse in default of one — the increased 
 jingling of the receding nails are the death knells of 
 expiring patience, hopeless glances are repeatedly 
 cast at the broken hoof, until a sudden, overpower- 
 ing rattling is succeeded by a soft tread, and a full 
 
 20 
 
306 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 conviction tliat the unlucky slioe is cast, when the 
 remains of good humor are apt to be cast with it. 
 These, and many other trifling causes, powerfully 
 operate on the bile of the equestrian traveller ; but 
 the end of his journey approaches, and the house of 
 his friend, or the sign of his host, appears within 
 his reach, and all frowns are quickly dispelled ; the 
 tired animal partakes of the returning satisfaction 
 of his rider, and moves with a brisker step, whilst 
 imagination depicts the hearty welcome, the good 
 cheer, and the pleasures of rest and ablution to the 
 weary traveller. 
 
 With feelings of this nature, I approached Augh- 
 wick creek, over which is thrown a huge covered 
 bridge, whose ponderous timbers and iron-work 
 support a roof, rising and falling like the waves of 
 the sea, bidding defiance to all rules of architecture, 
 and conveying the preposterous idea of expending 
 hundreds of dollars to save a penny worth of floor- 
 ing. After crossing the bridge I soon discovered 
 the ancient site of Fort Shirley. Long previous to 
 our revolution, a block-house and outworks had 
 been erected, as well to secure the few inhabitants 
 from the predatory incursions of the red men of the 
 forest, as to form a chain of posts extending through 
 
THE RECLUSE. 307 
 
 the State, on the frontier of the settlements of the 
 agricultural adventurers of early days. The British 
 general was honored by his troops in having his 
 name given to the strong-hold, and though the 
 plough and the harrow have long since levelled all 
 traces of a warlike station, yet the village still 
 retains the ancient name, and the old men can still 
 point out to the curious inquirer, the spot where 
 once the brave dreamed Of glory, whilst wakeful 
 sentinels paced the confines of a gloomy forest in 
 constant fear of the deadly rifle aim, or tomahawk 
 stroke of the concealed savage of the wilderness. 
 
 The village school-house stands at the entrance of 
 the town ; it was noon, and the busy hum within 
 announced that the hour of relaxation from the 
 abstruse study of spelling-books, and the unknown 
 numbers of the rule of three, and temporary relief 
 from the terrors of the awe-commanding birch, had 
 happily arrived to the rising generation. A little 
 stream of water crossed the road, rapidly hastening 
 to join its tributary rill to the Aughwick, and by its 
 strong current to be borne along through many 
 channels until the whole should be lost in the world 
 of waters. And this, thou.ght I, as a group of happy 
 urchins rushed from the school-room, is an emblem 
 
308 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 of human life ! Youth is like the mountain spring, 
 bright and pure at its source, delightful to view, and 
 yielding its refreshing benefits in silence and 
 modesty. Leaving its native bed to seek its pas- 
 sage through the vale, it murmurs over rocks, 
 thunders down precipices, and winding its devious 
 course over unforeseen obstructions, it now becomes 
 a morass, and now a perturbed and polluted stream ; 
 the rivulet presses forward, and each step from the 
 fountain adds a stain upon its purity, until swelled 
 by descending rains, and mingled with the streams 
 of the valley, the mountain spring is known no 
 longer, but a rapid torrent hastens to lose itself in 
 the bosom of the ocean. Such is the varied passage 
 of man through life : pure at his outset, ambition 
 points out the enticing valley below him; rocks 
 and quicksands in vain obstruct his way ; he passes 
 onward, but the stream has partaken of the nature 
 of the obstructions ; the evils of life descend upon 
 him ; the tide of contending passions hurry him 
 into the vortex of the world, whence he rushes on 
 to the ocean of eternity ! 
 
 My horse had stopped midway of the stream to 
 drink : I had an opportunity of examining the group 
 before me. The town children were running, or 
 
THE RECLUSE. 309 
 
 rather jumping, through the dusty road, with all the 
 wild hilarity of unrestrained joy, towards their 
 respective homes. Near the road a large apple tree 
 afforded an excellent shade for the children who 
 lived at a distance, and who were now preparing 
 their frugal meal of pie and cakes, each from a little 
 basket, and spreading their cheer on the grass be- 
 neath the tree. Between two logs of the school- 
 house, a long, narrow frame, extended the whole 
 breadth of the house ; this had been covered with 
 sheets of copy-books, in place of glass lights — a 
 kind of "lucus a non lucendo." Some broken 
 sheets disclosed the faces of three unfortunate delin- 
 quents, who were peeping at, to them, forbidden 
 pleasures, for, although the door was open, they 
 were kept in until the frown of the master should 
 relax, and the welcome sound issue from his lips, 
 "Go!" — although an admonition never failed to 
 accompany the starting word, "Mind you behave 
 yourselves better after this." 
 
 The master made his appearance as I approached 
 the door, and I observed that he was in conversa- 
 tion with an elderly, magisterial looking man, who 
 was about to leave the school-house. They were 
 standing in the doorway, and I overheard part of 
 
310 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 their disconrse, as the latter took his leave — " No 
 one but a crazy woman would live as she does ; I 
 tell you she must be looked after; she must be 
 examined ; she may become a burden on the town- 
 ship ; it will never do, I tell you."—" Well, sir, I 
 will accompany you to the mountain to-morrow, and 
 I will give you a holiday for that purpose ; we shall 
 then know all about her." 
 
 I rode forward, not without some curiosity respect- 
 ing the mysterious subject of the conversation, which 
 was increased by a question put by the daughter of 
 the stranger, who was waiting until her father should 
 leave the school. 
 
 " And does she live all alone on the mountain ? 
 I wonder who she is, father." 
 
 " That's exactly what I wish to know myself" 
 And that's what I will know before I leave this 
 place, said I, mentally, for I began to feel myself 
 just as much interested as people generally are when 
 part of a mystery is disclosed, which shows that 
 something worth having is withheld. 
 
 With this determination, I alighted at the door of 
 the inn, and was cordially welcomed by my old 
 host, whose gouty limbs did not permit him to leave 
 his chair, but his smiling countenance, hearty salu- 
 
• THE RECLUSE. 811 
 
 tation, and ontstretclied hand, told me I was at 
 liome. 
 
 I soon concluded my business, and after having 
 dined, I ordered a bottle of wine to be placed in a 
 cooler and a cigar on the table, and addressed my- 
 self to my landlord on the subject of the mysterious 
 woman of the mountain. He could only inform me 
 that she was the subject of much curiosity, that few 
 people had visited her, and she would not speak to 
 any one except the schoolmaster, who had twice 
 been to her lonely habitation, and perhaps knew 
 more about her than he chose to mention. But, 
 added my host, I will send for the master, and no 
 doubt he will be pleased to communicate to you all 
 he knows concerning the "mad woman of the 
 mountain," as she is generally called. She surely 
 can have no good reason for concealment now, as 
 the overseers of the poor have spoken to the magis- 
 trates on the subject, and the master has been already 
 officially called on to disclose his knowledge of the 
 stranger. And besides that, a glass of wine and a 
 cigar are great promoters of a good understanding, 
 and freedom of conversation; and, to conclude, as 
 the master says, " in vino Veritas," that is, as I take 
 it, " when wine is in, wit is out." 
 
312 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 I mucli approved of this measure, and in a few 
 minutes the master made his appearance, and hav- 
 ing learnt my determination to visit the mysterious 
 stranger, politely offered to dismiss his school for 
 the afternoon, and to accompany me to the hermi- 
 tage of the Eecluse of Black Log Mountain. " It 
 is," said the master, *'not only for the purpose of 
 obhging you, but also to apprize the lonely inhabi- 
 tant of the mountain, that to-morrow the arm of 
 civil authority will be extended to protect her ; that 
 is, in other words, if she refuses to give a satisfac- 
 tory account of herself, the law will presume her to 
 be, what perhaps she is not, and send her to the 
 house of correction as a vagrant, or trundle her out 
 of the township as an intruder on its charitable 
 funds." Having dismissed his school, the master 
 returned, and one of my friends having joined us 
 whilst we were finishing our wine the following 
 brief statement, concerning the Eecluse, was made 
 by the master ; 
 
 " The unknown female first made her appearance 
 in the vale of Germany early in the spring of last 
 year; she was well clothed, but appeared much 
 dejected, no one knew from whence she came, and 
 she would not disclose to any one her name or for- 
 
THE RECLUSE. 313 
 
 mer place of residence : althougli certainly in want, 
 for she liad no money, she would not accept of any 
 gratuitous offering, but demanded to be set to work 
 and received her wages. It was only at two or three 
 farm houses that she would ask for employment, 
 and although her habitation is but three miles dis- 
 tant, she has never been in the town but once. As 
 soon as she had accumulated a little money, she pur- 
 chased flour and meat from one of the farmers and 
 disappeared. For some time it was not known 
 where she had gone, until she again made her 
 appearance in the valley, demanding employment. 
 To every question relative to her place of conceal- 
 ment she refused an answer, and at times spoke 
 incoherently, and apparently abstracted from the 
 knowledge of the transactions around her — but 
 still she labored assiduously, received her pay, again 
 bought provisions, and again disappeared ; a third 
 time she came into the settlement, and conducted 
 herself in the same manner; but suspicion being 
 now awakened, as soon as she had purchased pro- 
 visions, she was watched and followed at a distance 
 until she was seen to enter the thicket of Black Log 
 mountain, at a spot where no path was known to 
 lead through the forest. A party of the neighbors 
 
314 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 assembled, and after tlie utmost difficulty succeeded 
 in clambering over rocks, and through locust thick- 
 ets, until they discovered something like a path, by 
 the twigs being broken from the bushes on each 
 side. Pursuing this until they came near the sum- 
 mit of the mountain, they discovered a rude hut 
 built of stones, on a shelf or rocky bench of the 
 mountain, and in the hut the object of their search. 
 She appeared more irritated than alarmed, and 
 expressed her anger that her privacy should be 
 broken in upon. But these good people had no 
 motive save that of befriending her in their appa- 
 rent curiosity. They were Germans, who seldom 
 had communication out of their own immediate 
 society with the rest of the world, and this may 
 account for the knowledge of the conduct and habi- 
 tation of the mysterious female remaining so long 
 unknown to the rest of the inhabitants of this dis- 
 trict. By the exertions of her friends, her dwelling 
 was in some degree improved, and as no persuasion 
 could induce her to leave the mountain, except when 
 necessity drove her into the valley to seek for pro- 
 visions, she was permitted to remain unmolested in 
 her hermitage during the winter. She suffered 
 much from the extreme cold of a most rigorous 
 
THE RECLUSE. 315 
 
 season; and the terrors excited by wild beasts, as 
 she has confessed to me, bad less effect on ber tban 
 tbe dread of entering tbe habitation of human 
 beings, unless she was compelled to do so by the 
 mandates of hunger. I have twice been to see her, 
 but the conversation I have had with her I am not 
 at liberty to disclose, as she has made her communi- 
 cations under the promise of secrecy. But I will 
 conduct you to her dwelling, and as it is possible 
 she may be as communicative to you as to myself, 
 when she learns that the powers that he require her 
 submission to their decrees, your visit may be pro- 
 ductive of pleasure to yourself and of essential 
 benefit to her." 
 
 Our wine lasted just as long as the schoolmaster's 
 tale, and we were still as dry as when he began. 
 Whether this was owing to the weather, the heating 
 tendency of the wine, the exsiccant quality of the 
 cigars, or the dryness of the tale itself, I leave to my 
 readers to determine. In the meanwhile we shall 
 commence our walk towards the cave of the Eecluse 
 of the Black Log Mountain. 
 
 We passed through a lane dividing the fields 
 adjoining the town, and having entered a deep 
 ravine at its eastern extremity, our path ascended 
 
316 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 the sandy ridge tlirougli a deep shade of lofty pines 
 and oaks, the " monarchs of the forest." From the 
 summit of a high ridge we could not obtain a view 
 on either side of the valley, as the whole face of the 
 hill was thickly covered with an impervious wood, 
 and eastward the Black Log Mountain seemed to 
 unite its base with the sandy ridge, whilst all below 
 us was one deep black gulf of forest. 
 
 We descended the hill by a precipitous, narrow, 
 winding path, and over our heads the meeting 
 branches of the underwood already cast the gloom 
 of night upon our footsteps ; a gurgling stream of 
 water ran at the foot of the ridge, and having crossed 
 it on stepping stones, we immediately descried a 
 substantial farm-house on the opposite bank. Hav- 
 ing ascended the bank the effect was magical — a few 
 minutes since, and with difficulty we sought our 
 path through the darkness of the forest. We had 
 crossed the Lethe, and although we did not drink 
 of its waters, yet all recollection of dreary ways 
 was at once lost as we emerged, in the glorious sun- 
 shine of a summer's afternoon, into the Elysian 
 prospect which lay before us. 
 
 The beautiful vale of Germany extended to our 
 left, presenting to the view as far as the eye could 
 
THE RECLUSE. 317 
 
 reacTi, the well cultivated farms of its numerous 
 and wealthy inhabitants. Small copses of wood 
 separated the plantations of the proprietors, and in 
 many instances a row of trees along the fence 
 divided the fields, so that the whole country 
 appeared like an irregularly laid out garden, whose 
 beds are surrounded with evergreens. The country 
 was burthened with the harvest, and in some fields, 
 already the hand of man had partially gathered the 
 kindly fruits from their parent earth. The yellow 
 surface of the stubble interspersed with the thick 
 shocks of grain ; the waving tops of the yet stand- 
 ing patches of wheat now bending to the light 
 breeze, and now falling before the sickle of the 
 reaper ; the long line of industrious harvest men 
 stretching through the field with military precision, 
 and now stooping, and now rising, each intent on 
 keeping pace and stroke with his leader; young 
 women and little children gathering, binding, and 
 gleaning, like beauty and innocence preserving 
 what strength and labour had achieved; in some 
 fields the happy groups of labourers enjoying their 
 evening refreshment under the kindly shade of 
 trees; and the beautiful long streaming green leaves 
 of the Indian corn, shedding here and there a 
 
818 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 verdant relief over tlie golden scene of the grain 
 fields, altogetlier presented a picture wtiicli drew 
 forth, exclamations of rapture from our little party. 
 The deep pause which followed conviaced me that 
 my companions felt as I did : the heart was softened 
 and the soul elevated to give praise to the Dispenser 
 of all good gifts for the enjoyment of rebellious man. 
 
 We enjoyed this beautiful prospect for some 
 minutes in silence, but as our path did not lie 
 through the settlement we turned abruptly towards 
 the mountain and pursued our course through an 
 open wood until at the distance of half a mile, our 
 progress was impeded by a swamp, on the farther 
 side of which the pine clad heights abruptly rose 
 from a bed of granite. Our guide after some 
 reconnoitering discovered stepping stones irregu- 
 larly laid across the swamp, and led the way to the 
 rocky thicket which skirted the base of the Black 
 Log Mountain. 
 
 Having with some difficulty discovered an 
 entrance through the thicket, our guide assured us 
 that we were on the right path, which was only 
 perceptible by means of the dead branches which 
 had been broken and twisted from the bushes on 
 either side, apparently as well to assist a person in 
 
THE RECLUSE. 319 
 
 the difficult ascent, as to designate by wliicli way he 
 might return in safety. The perpendicular height 
 of the mountain is about a thousand feet above the 
 level of the waters in the valley, and we had with 
 considerable difficulty clambered our way about 
 two-thirds up its precipitous sides, when our guide 
 stopt and pointed above our heads to a rude 
 structure of stones, which appeared to be heaped 
 together without order, on the summit of a rocky 
 shelf which jutted from the side of the hill. Two 
 large trees against which the front of the building 
 leaned, apparently prevented it from falling over 
 the precipice; between the trees an opening in the 
 wall served for an entrance, and in this aperture we 
 descried a female, who by her movements in 
 adjusting her dress, we conjectured had already 
 discerned us. 
 
 Our last successful effort in climbing, landed us 
 on a flat piece of ground which surmounted the 
 rocky precipice, and was covered with a few trees 
 and low bushes. In the front, overhanging a steep 
 descent, and preserved from destruction by two 
 supporting pines, an irregular rheap of stones, 
 rudely piled on each other, and covered on the top 
 with pieces of bark stripped from the living trees, 
 
S20 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 I 
 
 composed the dwelling of the Kecluse. Behind the 
 building, a few paces distant, the mountain rose in 
 gloomy grandeur, and on one side a few yards of 
 earth, now made bare by gathering the loose rocks 
 for the walls of the hut, served as a garden, in 
 which a few vegetables and herbs were growing. 
 A little below the hut in front, a small hole in the 
 ground, with sand in the depth, indicated that a 
 spring at times flowed from it, but it was now dry ; 
 a rude seat was constructed at the foot of one of the 
 trees before the door, upon which, after saluting the 
 Eecluse, I seated myself, as her taciturnity, and the 
 circumstance of her remaining standing in the door 
 of the hut with her back turned on us, did not lead 
 lis to expect an invitation to enter. My com- 
 panions seated themselves on the ground near me, 
 and perhaps we had alarmed the Eecluse by our 
 hasty approach, and the station we had taken, for 
 she still continued inside her habitation, and spoke 
 with her back towards us during our whole conver- 
 sation. — Her bonnet was on her head, and her 
 answers were at times indistinctly heard, but she 
 always repeated them when required, and by de- 
 grees resumed confidence, so that in the end I 
 obtained admittance into the rugged apartment of 
 
THE RECLUSE. 321 
 
 the solitary, and then conversed more freely face to 
 face, but her position never was changed during 
 our stay. 
 
 I observed to her that we had come to visit her 
 habitation, and were much surprised that she had 
 chosen a spot so solitary, and so difficult of access, 
 whilst the friendly inhabitants of a beautiful valley 
 would be pleased to afford her accommodation and 
 assistance. She answered — "I live here as well 
 from choice as necessity, solitary spots are best for 
 those whom tyranny or unkindness has driven 
 from the world, and for those who have suffered by 
 the world's duplicity, and have sought retirement as 
 a relief from witnessing the professions of false 
 friendship." 
 
 I hope, said I, that in society neither of these 
 disagreeable events has fallen to your lot. 
 
 " Both — I have experienced both — false friends 
 professed much and then deserted me ; the world 
 believed much, and I was excluded social communi- 
 cation. — I might have died — for I felt that I was 
 alone in the world — pride saved me — I despised 
 falsehood, and pitied the credulity of the world — I 
 sought for solitude, and am happy that I have here 
 
 found it." 
 
 21 
 
322 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 *' But it is not proper to flj from society because 
 disappointment in friendship has been experienced, 
 or because the shafts of calumny have wounded 
 reputation ; besides, you are unprotected in this 
 wild and dreary mountain." 
 
 " True : Heaven knows I am here unprotected, 
 but I was not less so in the midst of society — I 
 have no friend left — why should I say no friend 
 hft^ I never had a friend. — Yes — my father !" — 
 here she wept bitterly — "but he is dead — or dead 
 to me. I shall never see him more — I could return 
 to the world for a moment to see my father, — but 
 that is impossible — my Father, oh ! my Father !" 
 
 I endeavoured to soothe her by observing that if 
 she would give us any clue by which we could 
 obtain information respecting her parent, we would 
 exert ourselves, and had no doubt of success. — " Im- 
 possible — they would have sent me word — I know 
 he is dead — they brought me to see him die — I 
 know not how I left him — But — my brain — no 
 recollection — Thank God 'tis over and I am happy 
 here." 
 
 I suffered her to pause for some time to recover 
 herself; I perceived that the string of insanity had 
 been touched, and I wished the chord to cease to 
 
THE RECLUSE. S23 
 
 vibrate. I told her that I was much fatigued, and 
 wished for a draught of water. She pointed to the 
 sandy basin below the hut, and observed, "Like 
 the rest of my false friends, the spring has also 
 left me." 
 
 I asked permission to enter the hut, which was 
 granted. The building was about six feet in length 
 and four feet broad, composed of rude stones 
 heaped upon each other without cement, so that 
 wind and rain could not be excluded, even were 
 there no apertures ; but there was one door in 
 front together with a small opening for a window 
 and another doorway, at one end, opposite to some- 
 thing like a hearth, upon which some embers were 
 burning, and above, the smoke escaped by reason 
 of one half of the top of the building being left 
 uncovered. I could scarcely stand upright in the 
 centre of the hut where the roof was highest, and 
 there was no article of furniture, except a box 
 apparently holding provisions. There was no bed 
 — ^the floor was the bare earth — a bundle of clothing 
 was carelessly thrown in one corner, and a few iron 
 materials for cooking hung against the wall. 
 
 I had now an opportunity of examining the 
 solitary. She appeared to be about thirty-five 
 
324 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 years old, not handsome, but with regular features, 
 deeply tinctured with a cast of melancholy, and her 
 face and hands bearing the effects of an embrowning 
 sun, and a rigid winter. Her clothing consisted of a 
 gown of coarse home made cloth, which covered her 
 to the throat, and long sleeves ; a coarse bonnet of 
 plaited straw, and a pair of men's shoes completed 
 her dress. 
 
 Comfortless, indeed, said I, is your dwelling. Is 
 it possible that you can sleep here on the earth ? 
 and how could you endure the severity of the 
 winter? the wind, the snow and rain have free 
 access ? 
 
 " I sleep on my parent earth — would to heaven I 
 could sleep beneath it! My misery indeed was 
 great during an excessively cold winter — my feet 
 were frozen. But what are these sufferings when 
 compared with the wretched situation of those who 
 live in the deceitful world ! I endure all with more 
 pleasure than when a downy bed received me in my 
 days of prosperity. One terror I experience here 
 that reminds me of the world — the wild beasts — 
 often have the wolves howled around my dwelling — 
 often have the bears approached so near that I 
 was almost tempted to escape into the valley, but I 
 
THE RECLUSE. 325 
 
 recollected that I should meet with human beings 
 not less savage, and I remained. I trembled and 
 wept in the world, and I feared and wept in my 
 retreat — the wild beast of the forest cannot harm 
 me more than man has, and why should I again 
 mix with human beings." 
 
 I requested her to inform me if I could be of 
 service to her — she replied that she only wished 
 to hear from her father, and under a promise of 
 secrecy she disclosed her name, at the same time 
 telling me that her retreat was not known to her 
 former friends, and she was fearful of being dis- 
 covered. But her anxiety to hear from her parent 
 overcame her repugnance to being known. The 
 schoolmaster now informed her of the purport of 
 the intended visit of the next morning, and she 
 observed that he knew as much of her history as 
 was proper to be known from herself, but that she 
 was fully prepared for any necessary inquiries. 
 
 The sun was sinking in the west, and after wish- 
 ing a compassionate farewell to the Eecluse, we 
 descended the mountain, and as the shades of night 
 closed in, we regained the village. 
 
 I feel so much interested in the story of the 
 unfortunate solitary, that if I can prevail on the 
 
;>26 THE RECLUSE. 
 
 schoolmaster, with tlie permission of the persons 
 interested, to give me the details, I will certainly 
 make it public, and perhaps some good effect may 
 result to the unhappy Recluse of the ^^lountain. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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