Chapter XXV: Section XII (6)

Midnight was brooding o’er the Arctic highlands
Midnight, the dim, and faint, and strangely cold;
When on an iceberg, ’mid the icy islands,
Sat the chill Northern Spirit, weird, and cold.
Her floating tresses hung,
Wailing unto the blast;
Her vapory vestment swung
As the wind hurried past:
And ever and anon she moaned, and sung,
With tremulous voice, such as the tempest leaf
In piny woods, and then again she flung
Her slender fingers o’er a harp, and wept,
And wailed unearthly music, as when grieves
And sings a fallen angel, then it slept
A moment in the rude arms of the blast—
The snowy-footed madly rushing past—
And then sprung up again, as when o’erleap
Rich showers of harmony Heaven’s rampart steep,
And, star-like, from on high
Far-trailing down the sky,
Strike mortals mad, or wild:
So the pale Boreal Child
Sang to the soul of Naught, that brooded o’er
Lone semi-annual nights, and days as long,
An icy ocean, with an icy shore,
And icy islands, sparsely thrown among
A yest of icy waves; and all was ice,
By sempiternal Winter wrought
To many a quaint device.

And then again, when the cold North-wind kissed
Her pallid lips, up to the amethyst
Of the far heaven she raised her spirit eyes,
Then beat, and wept, while ever grim Surprise
Wondered that she should weep, and then she played
A prelude to her harp, then sung, then paused,
While symphonies filled up the gaps she made,
And Echo woke applause.
Wondrous the sadness of her floating strain!
The icebergs thrilled unto their heart of hearts,
And Ocean’s breast rose with convulsive starts;
While from her eyes the tearful-beaded rain
Froze into gems upon her vapory dress,
Embroidered loveliness.

O Loneliness, O Nothingness, O Death!
O Dreariness around me, I must weep!
Would that my very soul were tears to steep
The wind with, that, at every breath,
With weeping, I might spend my soul so fast
My agony’s last throb would soon be past.

O Desolation, wild, and gaunt, and grim!
O hopeless absence of all glad and bright!
O horrid shapes fantastical, what hymn
Of mine, alas! can tell such shapes aright
Would ye but strike me mad,
I should indeed be glad,
I now can pass the dark hours but in weeping;
And could my soul but freeze,
Like the breast of the seas,
How rapturous would be my silent sleeping.

Thou cold and icy moon,
Thou dost not pity me!
Six long months hast thou seen
My weary soul, each year,
Since Earth began, nor wept.
Away, thou’rt hateful now!
Away, for I am mad!

And Earth, detested orb,
How long must thou exist?
Each throb of thy vast pulse
Strikes keenest agony
Into this soul of mine.
If thou hast loveliness,
It ne’er was shown to me.
Come, let us die together!
Hurry thy steeds, O Time!
Bear us into the dark
Of that Eternity,
Whose shadows are so deep
We cannot pierce them yet.

Ye icebergs, that have seen
My wildest misery,
Do ye know sympathy?
Then melt ye down in tears,
And in a sea of grief
Flow round me with sweet sound!

They feel not, know not, aught!
My misery is full!
I must unto my bower—
My bower of chillest ice—
Would that it were my tomb
Ye smile on me in scorn,
Ye that do see my grief!

Then spreading out her wings,
Toward the extremest North
She took her liquid way.
The moon withdrew, and wept;
The stars died out with grief;
The icebergs thrilled again
Unto their icy hearts.
All things were sad for her,
Saddened by her wild song.

* * * * *

SONNET.—ART.

BY WM. ALEXANDER.

Art! what were mankind destitute of thee?
Religion’s handmaid oft do we thee find,
As to thy polished car seek’st thou to bind
True elegance with sweet utility—
Long, wide, extensive is thy magic sway,
O’er matter all inanimate and mind,
E’en savage man thou teachest to be kind,
And charmest his rude soul with thy harmony;
Cross seas the ship by thy good guidance goes;
Fields arable, rich gardens, sacred grove,
Town, temple, feel the influence of thy love;
Thy sacred power the mind immortal knows,
Nor can thy empire, universal, end
Till Nature’s forces all in sweet subjection bend.

* * * * *

A REPLY TO DWIGHT’S ARTICLE ON MOZART’S DON GIOVANNI.

This is the title of a long and prominent article in Graham’s February number: the writer is but a wordy plagiarist. He has received many rebukes already for his cool appropriation of the ideas of others, but Aristabulus Bragg fashion, he still goes on, in the calmest, most approved style, perfectly unblushing. A year or eighteen months ago an article of his in Sartain’s Magazine was pointed out to us as containing some clever thoughts on a very original idea, “the Musical Trinity.” Oh, we exclaimed, this is not original, the whole idea is stolen from the German; then we turned to Goethe’s correspondence with a child, Bettina von Arnheim, and found several passages on the same subject in conversations with Beethoven and Schlosser. Some time after we read in Saroni’s Musical Times that the editor had also detected the plagiarism in this article, and pointed out another author, book and page; saying with great good-nature that he would not have noticed it, had Mr. Dwight only written his article as clearly and concisely as the original; “but to rob an author first and then murder him,” says the editor, “is more than we can bear.” The author alluded to by Mr. Saroni, is the German Marx, and he tells us that the fourth paragraph in Sartain’s article is an almost literal translation of a paragraph in Marx’s “_Komposition-shlere_,” second edition, p. 24.

We have waded through this last article of Mr. Dwight’s on Don Giovanni, partly from curiosity, partly for amusement. We wanted to see the extent to which he would go: and then it amused us to detect the little pilfered thoughts, trigged out in the Boston transcendental clothing until their parents would have scarcely recognized them.

It opens with quite a flourish, trying to decorate the story and hero as the German Hoffman did long ago, but though the whole of the first part is a spun-out translation of the German critic’s description, it is so mingled with his own crude, half-educated thoughts, as to require some little skill in separating Hoffman from Dwight. He has made an attempt to improve upon the German, and we can not say we admire the Boston imitation. Judge for yourself by the following comparison:

DWIGHT.

The true conception of Mozart’s Don Giovanni is that of a
gentleman, to say the least, and more than that, a man of
genius: a being naturally full of glorious passion, large
sympathies and irrepressible energies, noble in mind, in person
and in fortune; a large, imposing, generous, fascinating
creature. He is such as we all are—“_only more so_,” to borrow
an expressive vulgarism. He is a sort of ideal impersonation of
two qualities or springs of character, raised as it were to the
highest power projected into supernatural dimensions—which is
only the poet’s and musician’s way of truly recognizing the
element of infinity in every passion of the human soul, since
not one ever finds its perfect satisfaction.

HOFFMAN.

Nature had provided for Don Giovanni, one of her dearest
children, all that could elevate a man above the crowd which is
condemned to be, to do, and to suffer: she had lavished on him
the gifts which bid the human nature approximate to the divine.
She had destined him to shine, to conquer and to rule. She had
animated with a splendid organization that vigorous and
accomplished frame: had inspired that breast with a celestial
spark: had given to him a soul of deep feeling, quick and
penetrating intelligence.

We think Hoffman’s description of Don Giovanni a little exaggerated, but the Boston imitation is what may be called a “free translation,” _very_ free. All that duality business—“_that ideal impersonation of two qualities or springs of character_,” is decidedly an attempt to amplify, if not to improve the German criticism, and is in the usual moral-defying style of the no-principle school of Harbinger and Phalanx writers. In olden times our grand-parents, when they saw any thing particularly broad or free in expression or action, were apt to say, with a proper shrug of the shoulders, that it was “_very French_.” At the present day, when we see any thing questionable in morals or opinions we exclaim, “_transcendental, mock German_, and, _very Boston;_” and thus we say of this attempt of Mr. Dwight’s to idealize the very sensual, commonplace libertine of the opera.

We will now give another comparison.

DWIGHT.

Excessive love of pleasure, helped by a rare magnetism of
character, and provoked by the suppressive moralism of the
times, have engendered in him a reckless, roving, unsatiable
appetite, which intrigue excites and disappoints until _the very
passion in which so many souls are first taught the feeling of
the infinite_ becomes a fiend in his breast, and drives him to a
devilish love of power that exults over woman’s ruin, or rather,
that does not mind how many hearts and homes fall victims to his
unqualified assertion of the every where rejected and snubbed
faith in Passion.

HOFFMAN.

In truth, there is nothing on earth which more elevates a man in
his own opinion than love, that love whose vast and conquering
influence gives light to the heart, and gives it at once
happiness and confusion. Can we be surprised if, when Don Juan
hoped to appease by love the passions which rent his breast,
that the devil spread a net for him? It was he who inspired Don
Juan with the thought that by love and the society of woman we
may accomplish on earth _those celestial promises which we bear
written in the deepest recesses of our hearts, that intense
desire which from our earliest days brings us most closely to
heaven_.

The principal difference Mr. Dwight makes in his rendering of this passage of Hoffman’s is, that where the German, in a very old-fashioned manner, attributes Don Juan’s wickedness to the influence of the Spirit of Evil, Mr. Dwight, by some slight of hand, metamorphoses the Passion of Love into an evil demon, and then gives a _fling_, as he would express it, at the religious discipline of the times to which he applies the very lucid epithet, “_suppressive moralism_.” We wish we had some of that “_suppressive moralism_” at the present day to exercise a little wholesome discipline over the authors of this

_Phalanx Socialist Literature_.

After this piece of borrowing and altering from Hoffman, the writer talks a great deal about “_the old theme and under-current of Opera—the Body and the Soul—the liberty of Passion in conflict with the Law intensely narrowed down by social custom from God’s great law of universal harmony_,” and such like rubbish, and then informs us in a note, with his usual precision, by way of illustrating this “_under-current_” of “_Body and Soul_” in “_Old Opera theme_,” that, strange to say, the first Opera _he_ reads of, and which was produced at Rome in 1600, bore the name of “_Rappresentatione di Anima e di Corpo!_”

Now if this were so, it is puzzling to know what it would have to do with all his talk about “_the under-current of Body and Soul_” in Don Giovanni: but it is not true. The first Opera on record is _Euridice_, the libretto composed by the poet Rinuccini, the music by the composer Peri. It was presented, as he says, in 1600, but not at Rome—at Florence, on the occasion of the marriage of Mary di Medici with Henri Quatre of France.

In 1600, Emilio del Cavalieri, of Rome, brought out an _Oratorio_, which was sung in a church in that city, which bore the title “_Dell Anima e di Corpo_;” and the invention of _Recitative_ dates from these two compositions—the opera _Euridice_ of Peri, and the _Sacred Oratorio_ of Cavalieri. But it answered his purpose to imagine this the other way, and with his usual want of accuracy he applied it—or he was ignorant, and with true transcendental presumption, took it for granted no one knew any more than he did.

Such reviews as this we now write of would be scarcely worth noticing, if it were not for the fact, that they are accepted by the uninstructed, for real _bona fide_ musical criticisms, founded on actual knowledge. One might have expected that Mr. Saroni’s rebuking exposure of his Musical Trinity Article, would have startled the author into something like modesty; and when one sees how reckless he is, it makes one wish that Mr. Saroni would carry his threat into execution, and publish those “certain articles” on Mozart’s Don Giovanni, which bear such a remarkable similarity to Mr. Dwight’s lectures.

M. Bombert says, in his “Life of Mozart,” when speaking of this Opera of Don Giovanni—

“He (Mozart) shines in the awful accompaniment to the reply of the statue—a composition perfectly free from all inflation or bombast—it is _the style of Shakspeare in music_.”

Now for Mr. Dwight’s patch-work—straightway he snatches up this idea of M. Bombert, and makes use of it thus:

“The splendid sinner’s end is rather melo-dramatic in the Opera, and yet there is a poetic and moral truth in it—and _the spectre of the commendatore is a creation fully up to Shakspeare_.”

This is literary murder as well as literary theft. Now any one who knows any thing of this Opera will see that the “_creation of the commendatore_” has nothing remarkable in it, but the _Orchestral Accompaniment_ is one of the grandest things ever composed. Mozart cared very little for the stage part of the affair; and this is proved by the finest music in this Opera being given to the Orchestra. We have heard—we cannot give the authority—but we have read somewhere, that a contemporary critic said that Mozart had put his statue in the Orchestra, and left only the pedestal on the stage—and this is true.

Mr. Dwight gives such an exaggerated, spun-out account of this famous Opera, endeavoring at the same time to gloss over the gross, vulgar, immorality of the plot, with all that confused mysticism peculiar to this Harbinger and Phalanx style of composition, that we will sketch a short matter-of-fact outline of it. Mr. Dwight, with the usual insane transcendental desire to apply an epithet, and make a speech, says, in a short sentence, which he thinks very comprehensive, that it “_is an old middle age Catholic story_;” making a sort of defense for the shocking immoralities in it, by accusing, impliedly, the strict discipline of the church for the libertine hero’s licentiousness, to whom he applies another string of expletives. In the opening, Mr. Dwight calls him “_a large, imposing, generous, fascinating creature_.” Now he has him “_an elegant, full-blooded, rich, accomplished, and seductive gallant_.” A sort of “_a love of a man_” according to Mr. Dwight’s ideas.

The subject of the story of Don Giovanni was a favorite one in the 17th century—“_the middle age Catholic times!_” Mr. Dwight talks of, in his off-hand sentence characterizing the story, was a little earlier than that, we think, a trifle of two or three hundred years or so—but let that pass. French, Italian, and Spanish writers all used it. Moliere wrote a famous play on it, “_Festin de Pierre_,” and from Moliere’s play Da Ponte prepared his libretto.

The story is a decided failure; and a great deal of time, and paper, and manufactured sentiment have been wasted in endeavoring to excuse and even to discover hidden philosophy and a good moral in it. Mr. Dwight is not the first one at this piece of business. If the wish is to make operatic music elevate and refine the public taste, by contributing to the moral purity of our people, composers should not select immoral and wicked plots; and no matter how beautiful the music may be, no audience should tolerate such a degrading story as Don Giovanni. It is full of all sorts of unnatural and disgusting scenes. The opening is very fine, and leads one to expect something tragic and grand.

Don Giovanni, a wicked, reckless libertine, has entered at midnight the house of an old military officer, and is seen at the rising of the curtain rushing out of the door, followed by the beautiful daughter of the commander, who he had intended to add to the list of his victims. A beautiful, rapid duet ensues between this daughter, Donna Anna, and Don Giovanni, she endeavoring to discover the bold ravisher. During this, her old father comes out, sword in hand—a combat ensues—Don Giovanni kills the old officer, and escapes. Then follows a beautiful _scena_, one of the gems of the Opera, between Donna Anna and her lover, Ottavio. She expresses her grief in heart-rending notes, and with frantic earnestness calls on her lover to avenge the murder. All this promises well, and one would imagine from so grand a commencement, something magnificently tragic was surely to follow. But the whole of the middle part of the Opera is flat and insipid—we are speaking now only of the story—filled with disgusting scenes of Don Giovanni’s gallantries. With a hard and sensual heart, he betrays alike the high and the low—the lady and the maid; he stains the palace and pollutes the peasant’s cot with his wanton treachery and crimes. He goes to a village festival, and selects for another victim, a poor village girl, a bride—Zerlina. This character was one of Madam Malibran’s famous parts, as Donna Anna was of Sontag’s. Zerlina, though properly the second Donna’s character, occupies more room in the Opera than the first soprano, Donna Anna. The famous duet, “_La ci darem la mano_,” is sung by Don Giovanni and her; and her little _coquetries_ with the libertine lord, and seductive coaxing scenes with her peasant bridegroom, occupy a large portion of the middle part of the Opera.

A Donna Elvira, a discarded wife or mistress it seems to matter little which—of Don Giovanni comes in also. A trying scene ensues between her and Leperello—the impudent, buffoon valet of Don Giovanni—the _buffo_ character of the opera, during which, he tells her of his master’s conquests, while the poor Elvira has to stand mute, and listen to his long, comic piece; which—if she is not a better actress than is generally cast in a third-rate character—makes it very absurd in representation.

After the grand opening scene of the first Act, Donna Anna and her lover Ottavio dwindle down into insignificance. All their frantic declarations of revenge end in nothing, and they content themselves with following the licentious nobleman about in masquerade; once in a while picking him up in the streets, unmasking, and entertaining themselves in berating him. They sing a beautiful trio with Elvira, just before the banquet scene; which is about the only good and useful thing they do in the Opera. For it serves a double purpose—as an English critic suggests—besides pleasing the audience, it gives time to have the stage prepared for the banquet-scene.

Don Giovanni, after flirting with and seducing fine ladies and humble peasant maidens, at last meets with his punishment; but not at the hands of the injured fair ones, or at the more probable ones of the outraged lovers; that would be too reasonable for this most unnatural story, but the grave must yield up its dead, and the infernal regions disclose their horrible secrets. At midnight, again he enters upon the stage—the scene represents a square, containing a marble monument, erected by Donna Anna to the memory of her murdered father. Leporello is with him, frightened to death at the sight of the grave by moonlight, and he declares to his reckless master that the statue moves its head. The bold libertine scoffs at the valet’s cowardice, and by way of bravado, invites the marble statue to sup with him. To his amazement the Statue answers “Yes,” “_Si_,” and here is that beautiful passage in the _music_ which M. Bombert considers the Shakspearian style in music—it is the _Orchestral Accompaniment_ to the simple _reply_ of the Statue. A little startled, Don Giovanni leaves the stage. But in the next scene he appears as abandoned as ever. What a capital transcendental critic he would have made. He is supping alone, and seems to eat with great _goût_. During his solitary banquet the Statue enters, according to the engagement. Don Giovanni can scarcely credit his senses; but, bold to the last, receives his remarkable guest with great ceremony. The Statue tells him he has come on a mission of warning, and that he has yet a chance for repentance. Don Giovanni scoffs at the offer, and overcoming his awe, takes the extended hand of the Statue. In an instant, he is struck with the death-pangs—the Statue disappears—and he dies in a vision of endless torments, which is generally represented on the stage by a display of fireworks, giving the vulgar idea of the infernal regions; a place made for the devil and his angels.

Now it is this shameless, coarse libertine that Mr. Dwight in his article, following in the wake of others, strives not only to excuse, but to idealize and elevate.

We have done with the story: let us return for a few moments to Mozart’s part of this Opera—the music. Off of the stage, in a _salon_ or concert-room, the effect of this Opera is most beautiful; for on the stage the immoral, vulgar story, low buffoonery and farce-like appearance of many of the scenes, are sadly at variance with the elevated and almost religious tone of the music, and disgust even a hearty admirer, if he is candid enough to admit it.

Let us here take leave of this subject and of Mr. Dwight: begging of him in future, if he is not able to be original, to at least copy good models of style and morals, and not inflict upon the community his own exaggerated, loose-principled, Boston notions. Luckily, however, his style is so confused and mystified, that much of the injurious effect is lost. We have heard these Boston non-religionists talk, and we know with what _goût_ they “_defy the moral_” of any matter, to use Mr. Dwight’s own words; then, how can one expect better principles, where such laxity of morals are avowed. The closing sentence in this Don Giovanni article is a pretty fair specimen of this anti-religious, moral-defying kind of literature; indeed, the whole article is—for “_passion life_,” “_innate gospel of joy_,” and such English run-mad expressions dance through the whole article, enlivened and varied, once in a while, with some of the fire-engine vernacular.

Shame! shame upon such literature! Mr. Dwight talks of the “_divine good of the senses and the passions_,” and longs for that “_pure and perfect state_,” when these grosser parts of our nature “_shall be—not dreaded, not suppressed; but regulated, harmonized, made rythmical and safe, and more than ever lifesome and spontaneous, by Law as broad and as deep themselves_.” A pretty state of affairs we should have in such a hereafter as these people long for. All this is entirely foreign to our old-fashioned notions of Heaven and a hereafter. It may be the Heaven of an Agapedome, or a Woman’s Rights Convention, but it is not the Heaven of a Christian. And they will find out, sooner or later, that there is a real hereafter—a solemn, and stern judging hereafter; and though they may imagine that their transcendental “_Souls, with their capacity for joy and harmony, is of that godlike and asbestos quality_,” as to defy punishment, punishment will come, and pretty effectual it will be, and they will see all this “spiritual asbestos quality”—why not _gutta percha_, just as well—of little account, when they are found with lamps untrimmed, and talents buried in the earth.

Mount Edgecumb.

* * * * *

THE AUTOGRAPH OF GOD.

BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY.

The thirsty earth, with lips apart,
Looked up where rolled an orb of flame
As though a prayer came from its heart
For rain to come; and lo! it came.
The Indian corn, with silken plume,
And flowers with tiny pitchers filled,
Send up their praise of sweet perfume,
For silver drops the clouds distilled.

The modest grass is fresh and green—
The fountain swells its song again;
An angel’s radiant wing is seen
In every cloud that brings us rain.
There is a rainbow in the sky,
It spans the arch where tempests trod;
God wrote it ere the world was dry—
It is the Autograph of God.

Up where the heavy thunders rolled,
Where clouds on fire were swept along,
The sun rides in a car of gold,
And soaring larks dissolve in song.
The rills that gush from mountains rude,
Flow trickling to the verdant base—
Just like the tears of gratitude
That often steal adown the face.

Great King of peace, deign now to bless—
The windows of the sky unbar;
Shower down the rain of righteousness,
And wash away the stain of war;
Though we deserve the reeking rod,
Smile from thy throne of light on high—
That we may read the name of God,
In lines of beauty on the sky.

* * * * *

IF I WERE A SMILE.

BY RICHARD COE.

If I were a smile, a beautiful smile,
I would play o’er the infant’s face,
And stamp such an heavenly impress there
That never a tinge of sorrow or care
Should ever its beauty efface,
To appear the while,
If I were a smile, a beautiful smile.

If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh,
In the breast of a maiden fair;
I would speed me on angel wings above,
And lie like a beautiful wounded dove
At the feet of my Saviour there,
Till he heard my cry,
If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh.

If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear,
In the eye of a Christian mild;
I would flow at the sight of keen distress,
As the dew-drop falls on the earth to bless,
To calm the heart from tumult wild
Were my task so dear,
If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear.

But as I am neither a smile nor sigh,
Nor even a tear pearly bright;
But an humble poet singing the while,
The world of its sorrows and to beguile,
I’ll scatter my songs with delight
To the passer-by,
Till smiles take the place of the tear and sigh.

* * * * *

A TRUE IRISH STORY.

BY REDWOOD FISHER.

“Erin-Go-Bragh,” the celebrated Irish song of an exiled
patriot—Why it was written by a Scotchman, with an interesting
account of Campbell the poet, and some account of Gen. A.
McC——n, the Irish Patriot.

O, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger:
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not for me.

Ah! never again in the green shady bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.
_See Campbell’s Poems._

In the year 1810, a native of Philadelphia resided in the city of Altona, and became intimately acquainted with Gen. McC——, who commanded the Irish patriots at the battle of Ballanahench.

The general was a real Irish gentleman, with a heart alive to every refined sympathy of human nature, and warmly attached to Americans and the American character. Never can it be forgotten by those who were so happy as to share his confidence, how his fine manly countenance would light up, as he listened to the answers his questions would draw forth, when inquiring into the private characters of any of our revolutionary sages or soldiers.

Often would the tears start into his eyes, when, at the social bowl, some unpublished anecdote would be elicited of the daring of Putnam, the Hannibal-like qualities of Greene and Marion, the persevering bravery of Rifle Morgan, or the daring of General Wayne in his battles with the savage foe.

His whole soul would appear to flash from his expressive eye, and he would burst forth with the exclamation: “Oh, Erin, oh my beloved country, from which, alas! I am banished, when will heroes such as these arise and burst the bands by which thou art enslaved?—Will a just God never hear thy prayers? Will the groans of enslaved millions, will the agonies of a brave and generous people never reach thy throne, and call down thy vengeance upon her persecutors? Excuse me,” he would say, “excuse the companion of the Emmets, the McNevens, and others, who were confined with me in Fort George, in Scotland, from whence I was transported hither—banished! What a word! banished from the home of my childhood—torn from the land where my forefathers dwelt!” On one occasion of this kind, when the most of the company had retired, in his own hospitable mansion, he invited his Philadelphia friend to remain and hear the sad story of his life.

He rose from the table, and going to a book-case, he produced a copy of Campbell’s poems, and turning to the beautiful song of Erin-go-bragh—“there,” said he, “is my history, I am the original Erin-go-bragh. My countrymen, I am told, often inquire how it happened that a Scotchman should write this national, this glowing account of the wrongs of my devoted countrymen. Listen to me, and I will truly tell you the whole story—that is, if I can tell it! If I can sufficiently compose myself, you shall hear it; and should you survive me _you_ may publish it, that the mystery may be solved and the world may know how the heart of a Scotch poet was touched with the holy sympathy of our common nature, and has placed on record, in the most exalted and touching numbers, the feelings of an Irish exile. While confined in the fortress of Fort George I was, without any knowledge of what was to be my fate, conveyed to a seaport and put on board of an English frigate, to be banished I knew not whither!” (The name of the port of embarkation and of the vessel were given, but are not now remembered.) “On board of this vessel was Campbell, the Scotch poet, then about to make his pedestrian tour on the continent of Europe. It was not long before we became intimately acquainted, and as you may suppose my whole heart was filled with wo.

“During our passage to this place, we had many and very close conversations, pending which I poured into his attentive ear, in impassioned language, the sad—the overwhelming woes of my countrymen, and particularly my own hard fate.

“We were not very long in reaching our destination—we landed together at Altona, and what was my surprise to find my companion as destitute of money as myself. I had been hurried away without the knowledge of my friends, who had no intimation of my banishment, and coming from close confinement, was not overburdened with a wardrobe, much less with the necessary funds for decency, to say nothing of comfort.

“Campbell was as poor as myself, and in this condition we entered a very common inn, and were ushered into a room, not very well furnished, having nothing but an oaken table and a very few common chairs. We seated ourselves at opposite sides of the table, and gazed at each other with no enviable feelings, when, on examining our exchequer, we found the whole sum in the treasury amounted to no more than a crown. We called for a candle, for it was growing dark, and ordered, in consonance with our finances, a small bottle of rum. The light came, and you must believe me when I tell you it was a dip candle stuck in a black bottle. There was something so ludicrous in this, and in our general circumstances, that we both indulged in a hearty laugh, applying ourselves to the ‘Cruise Keen Lawn’ to keep up for a time the tone of our feelings.

“As our spirits were operated upon by the wretched liquor, which we drank more to drown the rising sigh than for any partiality for it, Campbell called for pen, ink, and paper. ‘Mr. McC.’ said he, ‘your story has deeply interested me, and a kind of notion has arisen that I should like to put it upon paper.’

“In a little time a miserable ink-horn was produced, and something which was called paper, but it was so stained, and otherwise disfigured, it seemed almost impossible, with the wretched pen that accompanied it, that legible characters could be traced upon it; and I could but indulge in my risible propensities, at the idea of any attempt to write with such materials.

“But the soul of the poet had been aroused, and he bade me again to refresh his memory with my tale, which I did by replying to such questions as he from time to time propounded to me. Every now and then he would pause, and pledge me in the tin cup with which we were furnished, for glasses there were none; when he would again commence to write, and before he had finished, so potent were the draughts in which we had indulged, that some of the last lines ran in any other direction than parallel to each other.

“At last he finished his labors, and the result of them was the song of Erin-go-bragh, the very song printed in his works, and which I now hand to you.

“This is a true history of that inimitable production, more full of feeling, in my opinion, than any thing he has ever written before or since.

“Read it to me,” said the general, “for if the king would withdraw the act which banished me, the object nearest my Irish heart, I could not read that song aloud!”

Such was the story told to the writer, as nearly as it can be remembered, after a lapse of thirty-eight years. There are yet living in this city several persons who will recognize it, and an appeal to them for the accuracy with which it is here told, would confirm it in every particular; its only defect being the absence of power in the writer to impart to his readers any thing of the enthusiasm with which General McC. related it—nor the heart-stirring emotion ever exhibited by him when it became, as it often did, the subject of conversation.

As the reader may feel desirous to know what was subsequently the fate of the real and original Erin-go-bragh, he may be told that his friends found out where he was, remitted him funds, that he embarked in a profitable pursuit, and ever after lived in comparative affluence.

The story of his marriage is of so romantic a nature, that as he is now no more, and there is therefore no impropriety in giving it publicity, the writer is tempted to narrate it, as he has often listened to it from the lips of the general, at his own hospitable board, in the presence of his wife.

“‘There she is,’ he would say, ‘she is my preserver!’ Campbell and myself continued in our lodgings, and with Saturday night came the bill of expenses, but alas! our means were exhausted.

“When the bill for the first week was presented to us, ‘Well,’ said the poet to me, ‘what do you propose to do, general?’ To which I replied, ‘Do!—what do I propose to do, did you ask me? I might put the same question to you—but no! let an Irishman alone for getting out of a scrape. I will call up the landlord, and tell him our story; adding, that I expect ere long my relatives will find out whither I have been sent, and it cannot be, but that in a short time funds will be sent to me.’ Suiting the action to the word, I rang the bell, the landlord appeared, and I gave him our story in a few words, for though a German, he was well acquainted with our language. ‘An Irish general,’ said the apparently incredulous Boniface, ‘and a Scotch poet!’ He left us with the exclamation, and after he had gone, I proposed a walk, to which my companion assenting, we strolled around the city of Altona, and returned to our lodgings, without having met with any occurrence worthy of remark. Being somewhat fatigued, and having no book, or other means of occupation, we retired to our humble chamber, which had in it two single beds, by no means luxurious.

“Another week of anxiety passed away, and no advices reached me. The poet and myself were in a considerable stew. Another bill was presented, and to our great surprise we found our host very lenient indeed. He made no remark when presenting it—simply asked me had I received my funds, and on expressing my mortification that my reply must be in the negative, he left me with a polite bow.

“‘The accommodations,’ said the poet, ‘are here none of the best, but our host is an honest fellow, we have inspired him with confidence, and he appears content to wait!’

“I know not how it was, but I felt a strange sensation come over me, a feeling that relief was at hand. So strongly was I impressed with this belief that I communicated it to my friend, who laughed out at what he called my Irish modest assurance.

“‘Relief,’ he said, ‘may come when your relations hear of you, but my word for it, that will not be soon. No, no, there is no relief, and I must leave you for my continental tour.’

“He however yielded to my solicitation to walk, which was always my resource, and as we left the house, I said to him, ‘Campbell, when we come back I shall hear something.’

“‘If you do,’ said he, ‘it may be in the shape of a dun for our unpaid bills.’

“‘You will see,’ I replied; when we sallied forth, and were gone perhaps an hour. On returning to our room, judge of the sensation I experienced when I discovered on the oaken table, a neat envelope directed, in a female hand, ‘To Gen. A. McC.’ With an eagerness much more easily conceived than described, I broke the seal—not a line of manuscript did it contain—but for a moment my heart leaped with joy, for I found within the envelope a Schleswig Holstein bank bill of twenty dollars! Although my surprise was without bounds—‘Did I not tell you,’ said I to my friend, ‘that relief was at hand?’

“Our treasury was now replenished, and we had a fruitful subject of conversation. Addressing himself to his attentive listener, ‘I wish,’ said the general, ‘you could have seen the stride with which I paced up and down that room.’ Never in my whole eventful life had I such commingled sensations. My pride was gratified, that I could now discharge our indebtedness to our host, while I suffered the deepest humiliation in the reflection, that I was considered an object of charity by some unknown person! My curiosity was at fault to determine who it could be, and I shall never forget Campbell’s looks as he exclaimed, ‘You have conquered here, if you could not in Ireland. But it is Cupid who has been your aid. The hand-writing, the neatness of the billet, and its diminutive proportions, all declare it to be a _billet-doux_. My word for it, your Irish complexion and figure have taken captive the heart of some fair lady!’ This idea greatly added to my embarrassment, but the pride of being enabled to discharge our indebtedness, overcame for the moment all my other sensations, and strutting up to the bell, I rang it with so much violence, that our landlord ran up in an instant, and demanded to know what was the matter? ‘_Bring your bill_,’ said I, ‘that I may at once discharge it.’ I thought this would be the most agreeable intelligence I could give him. What, then, was our joint surprise, when he replied, ‘That, gentlemen, is of no kind of importance; I pray of you give yourselves no uneasiness on that score—you can pay me at your convenience.’ Saying this, he departed, leaving my friend and myself more deeply involved in the mystery which had not only supplied us with money, but which had also placed us in such ample credit.

“‘You see,’ said the poet, ‘you are known, and Cupid has taken you under his special protection. Let us call for wine, and pledge him, and the sweet _heart_ he has enlisted in your service, in a bottle of the very best the house affords. Would for her sake and our own it were nectar!’

“The wine was ordered, and it was long before it made its appearance, for it was a fluid unknown within the precincts of our habitation; but it came at last, and though none of the best, never was the choicest Burgundy drunk with greater _gusto_, or a toast given with a more hearty glee than inspired us till we finished the second bottle.

“Time now passed more pleasantly. The second Saturday brought another note, addressed in the same hand-writing, containing a second bank-note of the same amount. Finding our finances so much improved we took better lodgings, and indulged ourselves with more of the creature comforts, for the unknown benefactor found us out in our new abode, and continued the supply, which enabled us to do so.

“I think,” continued the general, “it was in the fourth week that I was returning to my lodgings alone, in the dusk of the evening, when one of the flag-stones of the pavement being somewhat raised above its fellows, caused me to strike it with my foot, and being thus thrown from my equilibrium, I fell against the porch of a dwelling, in which was seated a lady, who did not attract my attention until I heard a voice, a sweet voice, which inquired if I was hurt. A voice in my native tongue uttering sounds of sympathy would have been accompanied with a charm, come from whom it might; but imagine the ecstasy with which I was thrilled when I heard the sweet voice which addressed me, and knew it to be from the lips of a fair daughter of the Emerald Isle—in plain English, an Irish woman.

“‘I hope you are not hurt, general?’

“‘General!’ she knows me then, thought I.

“‘Come,’ said she, ‘and rest yourself in the porch.’

“I could no longer contain myself. I had been dining out with an acquaintance—for I had by this time made one or two acquaintances—and the generous wine I had imbibed had opened my heart, alive as it was, to any and every accent of kindness to an exile. I could contain myself no longer.

“Tell me,” said I, “by what blessed influence I have been thus brought to listen to the sweet sympathizing accents of a country-woman, and one who appears to know me: for if I mistake not, you addressed me by my title—the sad, sad title which calls up all my afflictions, and revives the sad fate of my companions in a strife which failed to benefit our beloved country, proved fatal to one of the best men, and sent me hither a wandering exile.”

“There,” said he, pointing to his wife, then present, “there sits the angel of mercy, who poured into my attentive ears—till they reached my inmost soul—accents attuned to the most holy of all earthly consolations: accents of sympathy for me, and the most noble and heroic sentiments, applauding the course of our dear native land.”

“Now,” said the lady, “I pray of you do not get into your heroics:” and addressing their guest, she continued—“Receive what he says with many allowances, for on this subject he is insane. I forgive him, for he has suffered much in the cause of that dear land from which we both derive our birth; and you who know him know that he never thinks or speaks of dear Erin and his exile—of a spot for which he is ready to shed the last drop of his blood—that his whole soul is not on fire. Of this he may talk to you; and if you will listen to him he will do so till to-morrow’s sun shall warm you with his meridian rays—but I forbid him to talk of me and of our union.”

“Forbid!” said the husband, “there is no such word in the vocabulary. I will tell this to our friend, for you know I love him. I will tell him how you courted me, and how you saved me, and made me what I am, your happy husband.”

To this the fond wife would reply, deprecating the continuance of his narrative, which, however, did not prevent him from doing ample justice to every incident which occurred; from the time of their first accidental meeting as here related, until Hymen had sealed a union which had made both husband and wife as happy as they could be under the circumstances of his banishment. This was an eternal source of chagrin and mortification to his heroic soul; and never could Ireland be named within his hearing, that the tear did not start in his eye.

The substance of his love affair was, that the lady of whom we have spoken was an Irish lady, who had come when a young woman with her parents to Altona, had married a young German, who did not long survive their union. She was left in very comfortable circumstances, and hearing from the keeper of the inn that a person was an inmate with him, calling himself an Irish general, who had been banished, and who had not heard from his friends, and was without funds, she had sent him the weekly supply which so much astonished the poet and the general. The innkeeper—knowing the lady to be an Irish woman—had gone to consult her as to the probability of the general’s story, and had been told to withhold nothing, and that she would be responsible. Often did she tell the writer that she sent the money without any expectation of ever seeing the recipient, who was represented to her as so fine-looking in person, that he could not be an impostor. She believed him to be a veritable Irishman in distress, and—that was enough—had she never seen him, he was a countryman of hers, and had a right to any thing she could do for him—happy to have been furnished with an object to call forth her patriotic feelings, to exercise them in his behalf was her greatest delight. Pure accident had given her a knowledge of who was the cause of calling them forth, and his heart was touched and hers responded to his love—they had been several years married when the writer became an inmate with them—their home was the abode of peace and contentment, and a hospitality that knew no limits.

It was enough that their guest was an American to call forth all their patriotic feelings: and many were there—besides the writer of this imperfect sketch of so noble a character—that can join with the writer in esteeming it a high honor, and a source of extreme gratification to have been permitted to know and to enjoy the society of the “Original Erin-go-bragh.”

His sentence of banishment was remitted many years after the period here spoken of; and he was permitted again to return to the home of his childhood, and the land of his forefathers, for which he had bled, and for the redemption of which he was ever ready to lay down his life—but it was not so ordered. He died in peace, and was buried in the tomb of his ancestors. General Anthony McCann was the veritable and original “Erin-go-bragh.”

* * * * *

TO MISS LIGHT UNDERWOOD.

BY J. R. BARRICK.

I have been out this lovely eve,
With Nature’s self to muse,
While pleasant thoughts fell gently on
My heart like falling dews;
And every star and every flower
That gave their presence to the hour,
And every voice of melody,
Seemed laden with sweet thoughts of thee.

I mused upon thy deep, high soul
Of intellect and grace:
I mused on all the loveliness
Of thy fair form and face:
And thy bright smile unto my dreams
Came stealing like the glow that beams
From sky and star, in waves of light
Upon the far, dim shades of night.

With every tone of moonlight sound,
With every breeze of balm,
With every fountain, lake and stream,
So beautiful and calm,
With every cloud, with every star,
And every sound borne from afar,
Thy voice seemed mingling with the whole,
Of Music’s self the life and soul.

And as I gazed up to the sky,
And on the earth below,
My thoughts went back a few brief months,
’Mid saddening scenes of wo:
When thou wert lost in rayless night,
A wanderer from the sense of sight,
When Nature’s self had ceased to cheer
Thy high heart with her beauty dear,

I mused on the long night of wo
That thou wert doomed to share,
When not a hope was left to beam
Upon thy dark despair:
I thought how sad it was to be
From earth and sky shut out like thee,
To pine beneath a cloud of gloom,
Hung o’er thee, like a raven’s plume.

But now thou art restored again,
To former sense of sight,
And lookest back with fearful gaze
On that remembered night:
And happy in thy mind’s high powers
Thou rangest Thought’s Elysian bowers,
And canst behold with joyous eyes,
The wide, green earth, and free blue skies.

* * * * *

THE CONDOR HUNT.[2]

BY LIEUT. WM. F. LYNCH.

In each division of the American Continent, nature seems to have carried on her operations with boundless magnificence, and upon a gigantic scale. Chateaubriand, reclining by his watch-fire on the banks of the Niagara, where the thunders of its cataract were only interrupted by the startling yell of the Iroquois, could yet _feel_, in the midst of tumult, the amazing silence and solitude of the North American forest. And the hardy mariner, whose bark has escaped the perils of the Southern sea, and is wafted along the western coast of Chili, looks with no less admiration upon the fertile plains gradually receding into the swell of the Andes, which literally lifts its smoking craters and towering eminences above the clouds, and upon its snow-capped and sunny summits, scarcely feels the undulations of the storms which gather and burst around its waist.

With the stars and stripes of the Union floating from the mast-head of our frigate, we were sailing along that part of the coast of Chili, where the waving line of the Andes rounds within a short distance of the Pacific, and were unusually solicitous, after the perils and privations of a tempestuous sea-voyage, to tread upon a soil on which nature, from her horn of abundance, has poured forth the choicest of her gifts.

Older sailors than ourselves had spoken of the generous hospitality of the Spanish colonists, and there were historical associations connected with this favored land, well calculated to render a visit agreeable. Who that has been nurtured in the lap of freedom, would not long to look upon the only race of native people on the western continent who had never been subdued, and who, to this day, tread the soil of their forefathers unvanquished and invincible?

The Araucanians, who inhabit the southern portion of this delightful country, like the Saxons of the European continent, are the only native race who have successfully repelled every invader, and who, happier than the Saxon, still rejoice in their unbridled freedom.

Neither Diego Almagro, with his brutal treachery, nor Valverde, with his unsparing cruelty, could ever subdue or intimidate a race of freemen whose liberties still survive the frequent convulsions by which they have been agitated. The flame of freedom among this gallant people, like the volcanoes of their native mountains, seems destined to burn on for ever unextinguished. But I proposed to speak of the Condor Hunt on the plains of Chili.

Every one has heard of the Condor or Great Vulture of the Andes, rivaling in natural history, the fabled feats of the Roc of Sinbad. Even the genius of Humboldt has failed to strip this giant bird of its time-honored renown, and his effort to reduce the Chilian Condor to the level of the Lammergyer of the Alps, is a signal failure.