Chapter IX: Conclusion (1)

I was now alone in the world; I had neither ship, nor home; and she I had loved was wedded to another. It is strange how misanthropical a man becomes, after disappointment has soured his disposition, and destroyed, one after another, the beautiful dreams of his youth. When I sat down and thought of the hopes of my earlier years, now gone forever; when I speculated upon my future prospects; when I recalled to mind how few of the friends I had begun life with remained, an indescribable sadness came over me, and, had it not been for my manhood, I would have found a relief in tears. My zest for society was gone. I cared little for the ordinary business of life. I only longed for a fitting opportunity to re-enter the service, and distinguish myself by some gallant deed, which I did not care to survive, for even fame had become hateful to me, since it reminded me how insufficient it was to win or retain the love of woman. In a word, I had become a misanthrope, and was fast losing all the energy of my character in sickly regrets over the past.

Of the St. Clairs I had not inquired since my return, and their names, from motives of delicacy perhaps, were never mentioned in my presence. Yet they occupied a large portion of my thoughts, and often would I start, and my heart flutter, when, in the streets, I fancied, for a moment, that I recognized the form of Annette. But a nearer approach made evident my mistake, and dissipated my embarrassment. Much, however, as I thought of her, I had never inquired to whom she had been married; yet my curiosity on this point continually gained strength; and when I had been a fortnight in Newport without hearing any allusion to her, I began to wish that some one would break the ominous silence which seemed to hang around her and her family. Still I dared not trust myself to broach the subject. I continued, therefore, ignorant of their present situation, and of all that concerned them.

There is, not far from the town, and situated in one of the most beautiful portions of the island, a favorite resort which has long been known by the familiar and characteristic name of “The Glen.” The spot is one where the deity of romance might sit enshrined. Here, on a still summer night, we might, without much stretch of fancy, look for fairies to come forth and gambol, or listen to the light music of airy spirits hovering above us. The whole place reminds you of an enchanted bower, and dull must be his heart who does not feel the stirrings of the divinity within him as he gazes on the lovely scenery around. He who can listen here unmoved to the low gurgle of the brook, or the light rustle of the leaves in the summer wind, must be formed of the coarsest clods of clay, nor boast one spark of our immortal nature.

The glen was my favorite resort, and thither would I go and spend whole afternoons, listening to the laughing prattle of the little river, or striving to catch, in pauses of the breeze, the murmur of the neighboring sea. A rude bench had been constructed under some trees, in a partially open glade, at the lower extremity of the ravine, and here I usually sat, indulging in those dreamy, half-sick reveries which are characteristic of youth. The stream, which brawled down the ravine, in a succession of rapids and cascades, here glided smoothly along on a level bottom, its banks fringed with long grass interspersed with wild roses, and its bed strewed with pebbles, round and silvery, that glistened in the sunbeams, which, here and there, struggled through the trees, and shimmered on the stream. Faint and low came to the ear the sound of the mill, situated at the upper end of the ravine; while occasionally a bird whistled on the stillness, or a leaf floated lazily down into the river, and went on its way, a tiny bark. The seclusion of my favorite retreat was often enlivened by the appearance of strangers, but as they generally remained only a few minutes, I had the spot, for most of the time, to myself. Here I dreamed away the long summer afternoons, often lingering until the moon had risen, to make the scene seem even more beautiful, under her silvery light. I had no pleasure in any other spot. Perhaps it was because I had once been here with Annette, when we were both younger, and I, at least, happier; and I could remember plucking a flower for her from a time-worn bush that still grew on the margin of the stream. God knows how we love to haunt the spot made dear to us by old and tender recollections!

I was sitting, one afternoon, on the rude bench I have spoken of, listlessly casting pebbles into the river, when I heard the sound of approaching voices, but I was so accustomed to the visits of strangers, that I did not pause to look up. Directly the voices came nearer, and suddenly a word was spoken that thrilled through every nerve of my system. It was only a single word, but that voice!—surely it could be none other than Annette’s. My sensations, at that moment, I will not pretend to analyze. I longed to look up, and yet I dared not. My heart fluttered wildly, and I could feel the blood rushing in torrents to my face; but, if I had been called on at that instant to speak, I could not have complied for worlds. Luckily the tree, under whose shadow I sat, concealed me from the approaching visitors, and I had thus time to rally my spirits ere the strangers came up. As they drew near I recognized the voice of Mr. St. Clair, and then that of Annette’s cousin Isabel, while there were one or two other speakers who were strangers to me. Doubtless one of them was Annette’s husband, and, as this thought flashed across me, I looked up, impelled by an irresistible impulse. The party were now within almost twenty yards, coming gaily down the glen. Foremost in the group walked Isabel, leaning on the arm of a tall, gentlemanly looking individual, and turning ever and anon around to Annette, who followed immediately behind, at the side of her father. Another lady, attended by a gentleman, made up the rest of the company. Where could Annette’s husband be? was the question that occurred to me—and who was the distinguished looking gentleman on whose arm Isabel was so familiarly leaning? But my thoughts were cut short by a conversation which now began, and of which, during a minute, I was an unknown auditor—for my position still concealed me from the party, and my surprise at first, and afterwards delicacy, prevented me from appearing.

“Ah! Annette,” said Isabel, archly, turning around to her cousin, “do you know this spot, but especially that rose-bush yonder?—here, right beyond that old tree—you seem wonderfully ignorant all at once! I wonder where the donor of that aforesaid rose-bud is now. I would lay a guinea that it is yet in your possession, preserved in some favorite book, pressed out between the leaves. Come, answer frankly, is it not so, my sweet coz?”

I could hear no reply, if one was made, and immediately another voice spoke. It was that of Isabel’s companion, coming to the aid of Annette.

“You are too much given to believe that Annette follows your example, Isabel—now do you turn penitent, and let me be father confessor—how many rose-buds, ay! and for that matter, even leaves, have you in your collection, presented to you by your humble servant, before we had pity on each other, and were married? I found a flower, last week, in a copy of Spenser, and, if I remember aright, I was the donor of the trifle.”

“Oh! you betray yourself,” gaily retorted Isabel, “but men are foolish—and of all foolish men I ever met with, a certain Albert Marston was, before his marriage, the most foolish. I take credit to myself,” she continued, in the same playful strain, “for having worked such a reformation in him since that event. But this is not what we were talking of—you wish to divert me from my purpose by this light Cossack warfare—but it won’t do,” she continued, and I fancied she stamped her foot prettily, as she was wont to do at Clairville Hall, when she was disposed to have her way; “no—no—Annette must be the one to turn penitent, and I will play father confessor. Say, now, fair coz, was it not a certain fancy to see this same rose-bush, that induced you to insist on coming here?”

During this conversation the parties had remained nearly stationary at some distance from me. Strange suspicions began to flash through my mind, as soon as Isabel commenced her banter; and these suspicions had now been changed into a certainty. Annette was still unmarried, and it was Isabel’s wedding at which I had come so near being present, at Clairville Hall. Nor was this all. I was still loved. Oh! the wild, the rapturous feelings of that moment. I could with difficulty restrain myself from rising and rushing toward them; but motives of delicacy forbade me thus to reveal that the conversation had been overheard. And yet should I remain in my present position, and play the listener still further? I knew not what to do. All these considerations flashed through my mind in the space of less than a minute, during which the party had been silent, apparently enjoying Annette’s confusion.

“Come, not ready to answer yet?” began Isabel; “well, if you will not, you shan’t have the rose from that bush, for which you’ve come. Let us go back,” she said, playfully.

The whole party seemed to enter into the jest, and laughingly retraced their steps. This afforded me the opportunity for which I longed. Hastily rising from my seat, I glided unnoticed from tree to tree, until I reached a copse on the left of the glen, and advancing up the ravine, under cover of this screen, I re-entered the path at a bend some distance above the St. Clairs. Here I listened for a moment, and caught the sound of their approaching voices. Determining no longer to be a listener to their conversation, I proceeded down the glen, and, as I turned the corner, a few paces in advance, I came full in sight of the approaching group. In an instant the gay laughing of the party ceased, and I saw Annette shrink blushing behind her father. Isabel was the first to speak. Darting forward, with that frankness and gaiety which always characterized her, she grasped my hand, and said—

“You don’t know how happy we all are to see you. Where could you have come from?—and how could you have made such a mistake as to congratulate Annette, instead of me, on being married? But come, I must surrender you to the others—I see they are dying to speak to you. Uncle, Annette—how lucky it was that we came here to-day!”

“My dear boy,” said Mr. St. Clair, warmly pressing my hand, “I cannot tell how rejoiced I am to see you. We heard a rumor that you were lost, and we all wept—Isabel for the first time for years. It was but a few days since that we heard you were at Newport, and, as we were coming hither, I hastened my journey, determined to search you out. We are on our way there now, and only stopped here a few minutes to relieve ourselves after a long ride. This day shall be marked with a white stone. But here I have been keeping you from speaking to Annette—we old men, you know, are apt to be garrulous.”

My eyes, indeed, had been seeking Annette, who, still covered with blushes, and unable to control her embarrassment, sought to conceal them by keeping in the back ground. As for me, I had become wonderfully self-possessed. I now advanced and took her hand. It trembled in my own, and when I spoke, though she replied faintly, she did not dare to look into my face, except for a moment, after which her eyes again sought the ground in beautiful embarrassment. My unexpected appearance, combined with her cousin’s late raillery, covered her face with blushes, and, for some time, she could not rally herself sufficient to participate in the conversation.

What more have I to tell? I was now happy, and for my misanthropy, it died with the cause that produced it. Mr. St. Clair said that the wedding need not be delayed, and in less than a month I led Annette to the altar. Years have flown since then, but I still enjoy unalloyed felicity, and Annette seems to my eyes more beautiful than ever. It only remains for me to bid my readers FAREWELL!

* * * * *

THE HOLYNIGHTS.

BY HENRY MORFORD.

Some say that ’gainst the time that season comes
Wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated
The bird of dawning singeth all night long,
And then they say no sprite dares stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome then, no planets strike,
No fairy takes or witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.
Hamlet.

Hushed be the voice of mirthfulness,
And stilled be the plaintive tones of care,
That from too many a heart recess
Go forth to float on the midnight air;
It is no time for the wild excess,
No time for the loose unbridled reign
That passion gives to her votaries
When they sever away the golden chain.

Stilled on the ears of the seraph choir
Let the lingering hymns of the season go,
As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire
To the anthem of love and peace below;
And let us keep in a holy mood
The coming hours of that sacred time
When the word went forth for the hush of blood
And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

When the hosts of the upper region stirred
That another star came forth to shine,
And the rush of an angel’s wing was heard
O’er the moonlit plains of Palestine,
And a softer light o’er the earth was flung
And the pale stars waxed no longer dim,
And forth on a thousand harps outrung
The rising notes of the angels’ hymn.

The same bright stars that then looked down
With a guardian watch o’er hill and plain,
Unfading gems in the starry crown
Glittering on in the blue remain,
And the solemn awe that crept them round
As they watched their flocks that holy time,
An echo with us to-night has found
In the new-born light of another clime.

It has been felt this many a year,
The sacred spell of the season’s death,
And the brighter glow of the starry sphere
As it came that time with the angels’ breath,
For brighter yet the stars gleam out
As the noisome vapor shrinks away
From the open glade that it hung about
Darkened and damp this many a day.

List how the spirit-breathings come
Upon our ears from the voice sublime
Of him who ruled in the spirits’ home,
Who wrote and sang for the end of time!
Hark how he tells when the time is near,
The bird of the dawn sings all night long
And the fairy legions disappear
When he comes abroad with his matin song.

No spirits forth, nor the rank compound
That glows with the witches’ midnight toil,
No deeps of the forest-close resound
With the wizard shriek and the caldron boil.
No planets chill the warm heart’s blood
With the mockery of a demon fire,
No vapors veil with a sickly shroud
The moss-grown top of the old church spire,—

For he who stood in that dreadful watch
On the gray rampart of Elsinore
Told how they ceased from their revel catch
And their reign at the Christmas time was o’er;
We feel it now, as he felt it then,
That the air is full of holiness,
And we need not forms from the earth again
Of the starry hosts to guard and bless.

Then stilled on the ears of the seraph choir
Let the lingering hymns of the season go,
As they sweep their hands o’er the golden wire
To the anthem of love and peace below;
And let us keep in a holy mood
The passing hours of that sacred time
When the word went forth for the hush of blood
And the passing knell for the soul of crime!

* * * * *

THE LADIES’ LIBRARY.

BY W. A. JONES.

That admirable manual of “_les petites morales_,” and even of higher matters occasionally, the Spectator, contains a paper which we hesitate not to accept as a just specimen of cotemporary satire on female education; we refer to the catalogue of a Ladies’ Library. This heterogeneous collection embraces heroical romances and romancing histories, the ranting tragedies of the day, with the libertine comedies of the same period. In a word, it leads us to infer pretty plainly the insignificant pretensions the gentle women of Queen Anne’s day could lay to any thing like refinement of education, or even a correct propriety in dress and demeanor. Tell me your company, and I will disclose your own character; speak that I may know you, are trite maxims; but give me a list of your favorite authors is by no means so common, though at least as true, a test. The literary and indirectly the moral depravity of taste exhibited by the women of that age, is easily accounted for, when we once learn the fashionable authors and the indifferent countenance given to any authors but those of the most frivolous description. The queen herself was an illiterate woman, and we are told never once had the curiosity to look into the classic productions of Pope. King William, the preceding sovereign, was so ignorant of books and the literary character, as to offer Swift, with whom he had been agreeably prepossessed, the place of captain of a regiment of horse.

Indulging ourselves in a rapid transition, we pass from this era to the epoch of Johnson and Burke, and Goldsmith and Sheridan, we come to the reign of George III. Here we find the scene altered. From the gay saloon we are dropped, as if by magic, into the library or conversation room. We read not of balls, but of literary dinners and æsthetic teas, and we meet for company, not thoughtless, dressy dames of fashion and minions of the goddess of pleasure, but grave, precise professors in petticoats, women who had exchanged a world of anxiety for the turn of a head-dress, or the shape of a flounce for an equally wise anxiety about the philosophy of education, the success of their sonnets and tragedies, and moral tales for the young. The pedantry of authorship and dogmatic conversation superseded the more harmless pedantry of dress. Then we read of the stupidest company in the world, which arrogated to itself the claim of being the best. A race of learned ladies arose; _bas bleus_, the Montagues, the Mores, the Sewards, the Chapones, patronized by such prosing old formalists as Doctors Gregory and Aiken, and even by one man of vigorous talent, Johnson, and one man of real genius, Richardson. The last two endured much, because they were flattered much.

When we speak thus contemptuously of learned ladies, we intend to express a disgust at the pretensions of those who pass under that name. Genuine learning can never be despised, whoever may be its possessor; but of genuine learning it is not harsh to suspect a considerable deficiency where there is so much of display and anxious rivalry. Even where the learning is exact and solid, it is to be remembered that many departments are utterly unsuited to the female mind; where, at best, little can be accomplished and that of a harsh repulsive nature. We want no Daciers, no Somervilles, no Marcets, but give us as you will as many Inchbalds, Burneys, Edgeworths, Misses Barrett, as can be had for love or money.

From the ladies we seek literature, not learning, in its old scholastic sense. They certainly have received pleasure from books, and are bound to return the gratification in a similar way by delighting us. And this they can do in their legitimate attempts. It shall be a prominent object of the present general introduction to a short series of critical sketches, to attempt a definition of the limits which should bound those attempts, and also to endeavor at suggesting the proper studies for ladies, and the authors that ought to rank as favorites with the fair. In a list of the latter, female writers should bear a considerable proportion, and will assuredly not be forgotten.

We believe the question as to the relative sexual distinctions of intellectual character, is now generally considered as settled. There is allowed to be a species of genius essentially feminine. Equality is no more arrogated than superiority of ability, and it would be as wisely arrogated. The most limited observation of life and the most superficial acquaintance with books, must effectually demonstrate the superior capacity of man for the great works of life and speculation. It is true, great geniuses are rare and seldom needed, and the generality of women rank on a par with the generality of men. In many cases, women of talent surpass men of an equal calibre of mere talent, through other and constitutional causes—a greater facility of receiving and transmitting impressions, greater instinctive subtlety of apprehension, and a livelier sympathy. We cordially admit the female intellect, in the ordinary concerns of life and the current passages of society, has often the advantage of the masculine understanding. Cleverness outshines solid ability, and a smart woman is much more showy than a profound man. In certain walks of authorship, too, women are pre-eminently successful; in cases narrative of real or fictitious events, (in the last implying a strain of ready invention,) in lively descriptions of natural beauty or artificial manners; in the development of the milder sentiments, especially the sentiment of love; in airy, comic ridicule. On the other hand, the highest attempts of women in poetry have uniformly failed. We have read of no female epic of even a respectable rank: those who have written tragedies, have written moral lectures (of an inferior sort) like Hannah More; or anatomies of the passions, direct and formal, like Joanna Baillie; or an historical sketch, as Rienzi. We are apt to suspect that the personal charms of Sappho proved too much for the admirers of her poetic rhapsodies, otherwise Longinus has done her foul injustice; for the fragment he quotes is to be praised and censured solely for its obscurity. This would have been a great merit in Lycophron.

In the volume of British Poetesses, edited by Mr. Dyce, it is astonishing to find how little real poetry he has been able to collect out of the writings of near a century of authors, scattered over the surface of five or six centuries. It must be allowed that some of the finest shortest pieces by female writers have appeared since the publication of that selection. In the volume referred to, much sensible verse and some sprightly copies of verses occur; a fair share of pure reflective sentiment, delivered in pleasing language rarely rising above correctness; of high genius there is not a particle,—no pretensions to sublimity or fervor. The best piece and the finest poem, we think, ever composed by woman, is the charming ballad of Auld Robin Gray. That is a genuine bit of true poesy, and perfect in the highest department of the female imagination in the pathos of domestic tragedy. In the present century we have Mrs. Howitt and Mrs. Southey, but chief of all, Miss Barrett.[6] The finest attempts of the most pleasing writer of this class, do not rise so high as the delightful ballad above named. They are sweet, plaintive, moral strains, the melodious notes of a lute, tuned by taper fingers in a romantic bower, not the deep, majestic, awful tones of the great organ, or the spirited and stirring blasts of the trumpet. The ancient bard struck wild and mournful, or hearty and vigorous, notes from his harp—perchance placed “on a rock whose frowning brow,” &c. and striving with the rough symphonies of the tempest; but the sybil of modern days plays elegant and pretty, or soft and tender airs upon her flageolet or accordion, in the boudoir or saloon.

A poet is, from the laws both of physiology and philology,—masculine. His vocation is manly, or rather divine. And we have never heard any traits of feminine character attributed to the great poet, (in the Greek sense,) the Creator of the universe. The muses are represented as females, but then they are the inspirers, never the composers, of verse. So should be the poet’s muse, as she is often the poet’s theme. There are higher themes, but of an abstract nature, in general: ethical, religious, metaphysical. Let female beauty then sit for her portrait instead of being the painter. Let poets chant her charms, but let her not spoil a fair ideal image by writing bad verses. If all were rightly viewed, a happy home would seem preferable to a seat on Parnassus, and the Fountain of Content would furnish more palatable draughts than the Font of Helicon. The quiet home is not always the muses’ bower; though we trust the muses’ bower is placed in no turbulent society.

Women write for women. They may entertain, but cannot, from the nature of the case, become instructors to men. They know far less of life, their circle of experience is confined. They are unfitted for many paths of active exertion, and consequently are rendered incapable of forming just opinions on many matters. We do not include a natural incapacity for many studies, and as natural a dislike for many more. Many kinds of learning, and many actual necessary pursuits and practices, it is deemed improper for a refined woman to know. How, then, _can_ a female author become a teacher of men?

Literature would miss many pleasant associations if the names of the best female writers were expunged from a list of classic authors, and the world would lose many delightful works—the novel of sentiment and the novel of manners, letter writing, moral tales for children, books of travels, gossiping memoirs—Mrs. Inchbald, Madame D’Arblay, Miss Edgeworth, Lady M. W. Montague, Miss Martineau, and Miss Sedgwick, with a host besides. Women have sprightliness, cleverness, smartness, though but little wit. There is a body and substance in true wit, with a reflectiveness rarely found apart from a masculine intellect. In all English comedy, we recollect but two female writers of sterling value, Mrs. Conley and Mrs. Guthrie, and their plays are formed on the Spanish model, and made up of incident and intrigue, much more than of fine repartees or brilliant dialogue. We know of no one writer of the other sex, that has a high character for humor—no Rabelais, no Sterne, no Swift, no Goldsmith, no Dickens, no Irving. The female character does not admit of it.

Women cannot write history. It requires too great solidity, and too minute research for their quick intellects. They write, instead, delightful memoirs. Who, but an antiquary or historical commentator, had not rather read Lucy Hutchinson’s Life of her Husband, than any of the professed histories of the Commonwealth—and exchange Lady Fanshawe for the other royalist biographers.

Neither are women to turn politicians or orators. We hope never to hear of a female Burke; she would be an overbearing termagant. A spice of a talent for scolding, is the highest form of eloquence we can conscientiously allow the ladies.

Criticism is for men; when women assume it, they write scandal. The current notion of criticism with most, is that of libelous abuse. From all such, Heaven defend us.

Women feel more than they think, and (sometimes) say more than do. They are consequently better adapted to describe sentiments, than to speculate on causes and effects. They are more at home in their letters, than in tracts of political economy.

The proper faculties in women to cultivate most assiduously are, the taste and the religious sentiment; the first, as the leading trait of the intellectual; and the last, as the governing power of the moral constitution. Give a woman a pure taste and high principles, and she is safe from the arts of the wiliest libertine. Let her have all other gifts but these, and she is comparatively defenceless. Taste purifies the heart as well as the head, and religion strengthens both. The strongest propensities to pleasure are not so often the means of disgrace and ruin, as the carelessness of ignorant virtue, and an unenlightened moral sense. This makes all the difference in the world, between the daughter of a poor countryman, and the child of an educated gentleman. Both have the same desires, but how differently directed and controlled. Yet we find nineteen lapses from virtue in the one case, where we find one in the other.

Believing that what does not interest, does not benefit the mind, we would avoid all pedantic lectures to women, on all subjects to which they discover any aversion. Study should be made a pleasure, and reading pure recreation. In a general sense, we would say the best works for female readers are those that tend to form the highest domestic character. Works of the highest imagination, as being above that condition, and scientific authors, who address a different class of faculties, are both unsuitable. An admirable wife may not relish the sublimity of Milton or Hamlet; and a charming companion be ignorant of the existence of such a science as Algebra. A superficial acquaintance with the elements of the physical sciences, is worse than total unacquaintance with them.

Religion should be taught as a sentiment, not as an abstract principle, or in doctrinal positions, a sentiment of love and grateful obedience; morality, impressed as the practical exercise of self-denial and active benevolence. In courses of reading, too much is laid down of a dry nature. Girls are disgusted with tedious accounts of battles and negotiations, dates and names. The moral should be educed best filled for the female heart, and apart from the romantic periods, and the reigns of female sovereigns, or epochs when the women held a very prominent place in the state, or in public regard. We would have women affectionate wives, obedient daughters, agreeable companions, skilful economists, judicious friends; but we must confess it does not fall within our scheme to make them legislators or lawyers, diplomatists or politicians. We therefore think nine tenths of all history is absolutely useless for women. Too many really good biographies of great and good men and women can hardly be read, and will be read to much greater advantage than histories, as they leave a definite and individual impression. The reading good books of travels, is, next to going over the ground in person, the best method of studying geography. Grammar and rhetoric,[7] (after a clear statement of the elements and chief rules,) are best learnt in the perusal of classic authors, the essayists, &c.; and, in the same way, the theory of taste and the arts. The most important of accomplishments is not systematically treated in any system—conversation. But a father and mother of education, can teach this better than any professor. Expensive schools turn out half-trained pupils. Eight years at home, well employed, and two at a good but not fashionable school, are better than ten years spent in the most popular female seminary, conducted in the ordinary style. Such is a meagre outline of our idea of female education, into which we have digressed unawares.

Female authors should constitute a fair proportion of a lady’s library—and those masculine writers who have something of the tenderness and purity of the feminine character in their works. The subjects and authors we propose for occasional consideration, will embrace specimens of each, in prose and poetry, fiction and reality, satire and sentiment. We think we may promise a less erudite paper for the second number, though to some readers all that is not very lively is proportionably dull.

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[6] This lady’s failure in an attempt to translate Æschylus, is a fair confirmation of our opinion of the inability of the female imagination to soar beyond a certain height.

[7] The benefit flowing from _these_ studies is chiefly of a negative character.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PASTOR’S VISIT.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

The noon is past—the sun declines
Below the western hills;
Upon the peasant’s face joy shines.
And peace his bosom fills.
He stands beside the cottage door,
His wife and children round,
With that content which evermore
Doth with the true abound.

The pastor, pausing on his way,
Surveys the happy scene;
If all mankind were pure as they
Slights tasks for him, I ween!
Not in the peasant’s cottage dwell
Sin and her joyless train,
He thinks of palace, dome and cell,
And passes on again!

* * * * *

THE HASTY MARRIAGE.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BRIDAL.”

How few “look before they leap,” even in an affair of so much moment as matrimony. We fear the fault is in our system. We educate our daughters superficially—for _display_ rather than usefulness—to catch the eye rather than win the heart. Our girls are taught in early life, either directly or indirectly, that marriage is the great object of woman’s ambition, and in endeavoring to secure that object, and to surpass in the race of conquest their companions and rivals, they sometimes wed rashly and to the sacrifice of happiness. Difficult, we are aware, is the task of discrimination with the young and inexperienced. Pure and artless themselves, they are apt to imagine the possession of like virtues by all others, and to conceive it impossible for a fine form and a handsome face to be associated with a false heart. Alas! how often are they disappointed! How frequently do the sudden attachments of early life prove hollow and unsubstantial! How often is it discovered that the first dream of love, which has been so extravagantly eulogized by poets and romancers, was a mere delusion that would not bear the test of time and of reason! With what bitterness of disappointment have many started from this dream! Stripped of the rainbow coloring with which the fancy is apt to paint an object of idolatry, how prominent appear the darkness and the deformity! How broad the contrast between the just view of truth and the rapid and prejudiced survey of passion! How often do we see beings standing before the altar, pledging themselves to each other for weal and for wo, who, comparatively speaking, were strangers but yesterday! Knowing little of each other’s lives and dispositions, merits or demerits, they are willing to risk peace of mind for long years, and to identify destinies for time, perhaps for eternity! Can we wonder that strife sometimes mars the domestic circle—that wives are left lonely and deserted—that the agency of man should so often be invoked to part beings who have been joined together by an ordinance of God!

A happy union is indeed a scene upon which, without irreverence, we may suppose the angels in Heaven gaze from their bright places of abode with delight and approval. An unnatural or a discordant marriage, on the other hand, must form a source of delight to the arch enemy of mankind, for in it he can recognize the soul of evil. That the young should seek for and cling to a kindred spirit is natural. The undivided possession of a pure heart is perhaps the very acme of human felicity. “One home, one wife, and one God,” is the sentiment of one of the wisest of his race, and it is only when man is on the shady side of fifty that he begins to appreciate the truth of this philosophy in all its solemnity and force. Then his pleasures of life are derived as much from the past as the future, and the associations of that past, if mingled with virtue, fidelity, patriotism and religion, are indeed blissful.

We pity the lonely and the desolate—the loveless and the unloved—the being without a wife or a friend—without one trusting and confiding spirit, to whom the heart may turn in its hour of sorrow and pour out its inmost and saddest thoughts. The cold and selfish mortal who passes year after year without experiencing the delightful concord of sentiment to be found in a kindred soul, is indeed the most miserable of his species. Even his joys are robbed of half their delight, because unshared by another, by one to whom he is allied by love and friendship. Wretched indeed is the isolated individual who, mingling with the multitude, can single out no destiny identified with his—no faithful and devoted heart, the breath of whose existence seems bound up with his. Nature has denied to such a being the holiest impulses that warm and agitate the human breast. Even the birds are mated, and without a ministering angel “a sweet companion,” the first born was lonely and desolate in the garden of Eden. So it must ever be with the frail and feeble things of mortal existence. If Paradise could not be appreciated and enjoyed alone, how can man reconcile loneliness to his fallen condition? The desire of the heart is for sweet companionship—the inward craving of the spirit is for a being to love. Can we wonder then that in this country, where early marriage is taught to be desirable, so many should choose rashly?

We remember Annette Delisle as a being of yesterday. She sang well—she danced well—and in many respects she was a beauty. Not one of our beauties at the time, for her form was too slight and sylph-like,—her joy was too gushing—her spirits too redundant. She dressed from early childhood with taste and elegance, and wore her dark hair in long ringlets over her shoulders. She had many friends, and even at sixteen her admirers were liberal in number and profuse in flattery. Her mother, a weak and vain woman, was proud of her daughter—proud of the attention that daughter received, and eager to display her on every occasion. Thus she not only frequently accompanied her to public balls, which were then more fashionable and somewhat more select than at present, but she permitted her to accept of numerous invitations to parties, and to mingle almost nightly during the winter season in the gay scenes of our metropolis. The father, good-natured man, was a manufacturer, and was so wedded to business, that he could not spare time even for the proper care of his favorite child. Alas! this good nature in fathers! It sometimes degenerates into a sad vice, and is the source of much misery in after life. The man who lacks the energy to control his own household,—who is either too negligent, or too weak to point out the true path and to direct the footsteps of his offspring therein, is guilty of much that is unpardonable.

But such a father was Mr. Delisle, while the mother, worse if possible, gave the reins almost wholly into the hands of her daughter, and was but too fond of the hollow and unmeaning admiration which the practiced in art and in compliment among the sterner sex are so apt to bestow upon the vain and empty, whether old or young.

The result of this course upon Annette Delisle may well be imagined. While she sparkled in the ball room, and glittered in the giddy throng, her heart, her mind, and her morals were neglected. The mazes of the world, its quicksands and its hypocrisy were unknown to her. She flirted, laughed and trifled with the many, caught one hour by a fine form, another by a rich voice, and a third by a dashing exterior. And yet, in the depths of that young girl’s breast, were rich and true affections. Properly trained, she would have graced any circle. Her mind was good by nature—her spirit was benevolent and cheerful—and many of the lights of beauty flashed and brightened around her. Despite her artificial manner, and her air of coquetry, her feelings were deep and strong. Her being was one of impulse, and her attachments, even to her school companions, were animated by truth and fidelity. Thus it was when Annette discovered that the society of Howard Leroy possessed an unusual charm for her—that she saw him approach with pleasure—that she listened with more than her wonted attention to his remarks—that she felt the blood mount to her cheek at his compliments—that she found her eyes following as he wandered through the ball room—that she lisped his name even in her dreams.

Never can I forget the dashing Leroy. He was what is usually denominated “a handsome fellow”—one of the butterflies of society—a ladies’ man, in the general acceptation, and a favorite also with his own sex. He rode well, talked well, and sang an excellent song. This latter qualification was in some respects a fatal gift, for it introduced him into many a gay circle from which he otherwise would have been excluded—made him sought for, and vain of his voice, and thus won him away from the more useful pursuits of life. Leroy, moreover, was fond of poetry—was able to quote glowing passages, and had, withal, a touch of romance in his character, which served not a little to enhance him in the estimation of some of his female acquaintance. He assumed a remarkable degree of independence—was rather bold and reckless in his manner and language, and possessed the faculty of talking for hours in relation to the prominent beauties of Moore, Byron and Bulwer. These were the traits of character which won upon the mind and heart of Annette Delisle. Her education and mode of life had fitted her for the arts of such a man. She fancied him something superior to the ordinary fop—to the mere merchant or shopkeeper. Leroy became her ardent and enthusiastic admirer. The fact soon reached the ears of her father. He roused himself for the moment, and proceeded to investigate the realities of the case. Leroy he ascertained to be an idle, dissolute pretender, and dependent, he feared, upon the gaming-table for his means of subsistence. He was of good family, and had received a fair education. But he had gone astray from the path of rectitude in early life, and now contrived to appear on the principal promenades as a fashionable lounger—but the world wondered how!

The manufacturer was terrified at the prospect for his daughter, whom he really loved, but it was too late. Leroy saw the storm coming, and prevailed upon Annette, by falsehood and misrepresentation, to consent to a secret marriage. Fondly and long she clung to the delusion that her husband had been slandered—that one who could _talk_ so well, and _profess_ so much, could not be a villain. He _was_ not one, perhaps, in the usual interpretation; but we can conceive of no more heartless wretch than the man who deliberately deceives and betrays a fond and confiding woman. Leroy never loved Annette with a true and exalted affection. He felt himself bankrupt in fortune, and nearly so in character, and he was base enough to become the husband of an unsuspecting girl, in the hope of a dependency upon the bounty of her father. Deceived in this, for the old manufacturer would have nothing to do with him, he soon threw off the mask. At first cold and indifferent, he speedily grew harsh and unkind. True, there were moments when his better nature prevailed, and he would endeavor, by apparent contrition and well turned promises, to atone for his conduct. But, they were few and far between, and diminished in number as time rolled on. Strange, despite the giddy character of Annette—despite the little care which had been bestowed upon her principles, she clung to him with the true fidelity of woman. She loved him with her whole soul, and while the pride of her woman nature repelled the idea of any public exposure of her situation, and while she even concealed from her parents much of the unworthy conduct of Leroy, she still cherished a belief of his ultimate reform. Night after night she sat in her quiet chamber, or gazed earnestly from the window, in the hope that the form of her husband might appear before the midnight hour. Who may paint the agony of her mind at such moments—the jealous fears that shot like daggers through her breast, as to his haunts and his society—the apprehension of danger and of death—the terrible fancies which mingled him in some dreadful scene at the gaming table—and, worse than all, the oft repelled, but still returning conviction, that the wine cup was too familiar with his lips!

God, in pity look down upon and impart moral courage to the lonely wives of the world—the dejected ones to whom home is desolate, whose hearts are breaking slowly, secretly, string by string—who live only for their little ones, and because they know it wrong to plunge unbidden into eternity! Beings who have ventured their all of earthly happiness, and have lost all—who have been deceived, betrayed, and are now deserted! Pity and console them, Great Creator, for the misery of unrequited love, of wounded pride, of crushed affection, of hopeless despair throughout this life, can only be soothed and softened by a heavenly influence!

Poor Annette! Step by step her husband plunged on in the downward path. Ray after ray departed from the light of her beauty. Wider and wider became the gulf between the manufacturer and his son-in-law. But, horror of horrors! the crisis soon came! The resource of gambling failed at last with Leroy, and _then_—he resorted to forgery!—ay! he forged the name of George Delisle, the father of his wife, and fled the country in order to escape the penalty of his crime!

* * * * *

But a few days have gone by since we saw Annette. Only five years have elapsed since her marriage. What a change! The lily has supplanted the rose—the eye has lost its fire—the step its buoyancy—the form its grace. She is a doomed and broken hearted woman. Disease has “marked her for his own.” Loss of sleep—mental anxiety—the disgrace—the shame—the ignominy of her husband’s career, are hurrying her rapidly to a premature grave!

Mothers, be warned! Virtue, Integrity and Religion are the only safe companions for your budding and beautiful daughters!

* * * * *

TO THE NIGHT-WIND IN AUTUMN.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “TECUMSEH.”

Whence art thou, spirit wind?
Soothing with thy low voice the ear of Night,
And breathing o’er the wakeful, pensive mind
An influence of pleased yet sad delight.

Thou tell’st not of thy birth,
O viewless wanderer from land to land:
But gathering all the secrets of the earth
Where’er, unseen, thy airy wings expand,

At this hushed, holy hour,
When time seems part of vast eternity,
Thou dost reveal them with a magic power,
Saddening the soul with thy weird minstrelsy.

All nature seems to hear,
The woods, the waters, and each silent star;
What, that can thus enchain their earnest ear,
Bring’st thou of untold tidings from afar?

Is it of new, fair lands,
Of fresh-lit worlds that in the welkin burn!
Do new oäses gem Zahara’s sands,
Or the lost Pleiad to the skies return?

Nay! ’tis a voice of grief,
Of grief subdued, but deepened through long years,
The soul of Sorrow, seeking not relief,
Still gathering bitter knowledge without tears.

For thou, since earth was young
And rose green Eden purpled with the morn,
Its solemn wastes and homes of men among,
Circling all zones, thy mourning flight hast borne.

Empires have risen in might,
And peopled cities through the outspread earth,
And thou hast passed them at the hour of night
Listing the sounds of revelry and mirth.

Again thou hast gone by—
City and empire were alike o’erthrown,
Temple and palace, fall’n confusedly,
In marble ruin on the desert strown.

In time-long solitudes,
Where dark, old mountains pierced the silent air,
Bright rivers roamed, and stretched untraversed woods,
Thou joy’dst to hope that these were changeless there.

Lo! as the ages passed,
Thou found’st them struck with alteration dire,
The streams new-channeled, forests earthward cast,
The crumbling mountains scathed with storm and fire.

Gone but a few short hours,
Beauty and bloom beguiled thy wanderings,
And thou mad’st love unto the virgin flowers,
Sighing through green trees and by mossy springs.

Now on the earth’s cold bed,
Fallen and faded, waste their forms away,
And all around the withered leaves are shed,
Mementos mute of Nature’s wide decay.

Vain is the breath of morn;
Vainly the night-dews on their couches weep;
In vain thou call’st them at thy soft return,
No more awaking from their gloomy sleep.

. . . . . . . .

Oh hush! Oh hush! sweet wind!
Thou melancholy soul! be still, I pray,
Nor pierce this heart so long in grief resigned,
With ’plainings for the loved but lifeless clay.

Ah! now by thee I hear
The earnest, gentle voices, as of old:
They speak—in accents tremulously clear—
The young, the beautiful, the noble-souled.

The beautiful, the young,
The form of light, the wise and honored head—
Thou bring’st the music of a lyre unstrung!—
Oh cease!—with tears I ask it—they are _dead_!

. . . . . . . .

While mortal joys depart,
While loved ones lie beneath the grave’s green sod,
May we not fail to hear, with trembling heart,
In thy low tone the “still small voice of God.”

* * * * *

REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Natural History of New York: By Authority. Albany, Thurlow
Weed, Printer to the State. New York, Wiley & Putnam, and D.
Appleton & Co._

We are among those who believe that, as characterizing the present age, the cultivation of purely mechanical and natural science has been carried much too far, or rather, has been made too exclusive and absorbing. It is not the _highest_ science—for it concerns only that which is around us—which is altogether outward. Man is always greater than the world of nature in which he lives, and just as clearly must the _science_ of man, the philosophy of his moral and intellectual being, rank far above that of the soulless creation which was made to minister to his wants. When, therefore, this lower science so draws to itself the life of any age, as to disparage and shut out the higher, it works a positive injury to the well-being of that age. Still it is only thus in comparison with a nobler and more lofty study that we would venture to cast the faintest reproach upon that natural science which in no slight degree absorbs the intellectual effort of the present generation. Regarded as related to, and a part of, a complete system of education, it becomes most important and necessary; and its cultivation, even to apparent excess, a cause of rejoicing and a source of the highest hope.

We need scarcely say, then, that we look upon the explorations which have been made “by authority” into the Geology and general Natural History of several of the most important States in the Union, as among the proudest achievements of the present day. Most of them, it is true, grew out of designs not the highest on the part of those by whom they were originated. The development of resources, the discovery of mineral wealth, or other elements of power, formed in most cases the principal aim of those at whose instance these surveys were undertaken. But this is of little importance. The results are, on this account, none the less valuable to the cause of natural science, nor is our joy at their successful prosecution the less ardent or sincere. In all the States in which they have been undertaken, they have been fruitful of the best results; and the facts thus brought together will be found of priceless value to students and inquirers for ages to come.