Chapter VI: Part 6

Harry Gay used to go to Squire Coleman’s very often, and sit all the evening and talk with the squire and Aunt Martha, while his great, black eye turned slowly in the direction Kitty moved; but Kitty would not look at him, not she. What right had a stranger, and a visiter, too, to make such a very great parade of his disapprobation? If she did not please him, why she pleased others; and that was enough, she would not turn over her finger to gain his good will. So Harry and Kitty never talked together; and when he went away, (he never went till the conversation fairly died out, and the lamps looked as if about to join it,) he bowed to the old people gracefully and easily, but to the young lady he found it difficult to bend at all. Conduct like this provoked Kitty Coleman beyond endurance; and one evening, after the squire and spinster had left her alone, she sat down and in very spite, sobbed away as though her little heart would break. Now it happened that the squire had lent his visiter a book that evening, which, strange enough for such a scholar, he had forgotten to take with him; but Harry remembered it before it was too late, and turned upon his heel. He had gone out but a moment before, and there was no use in ringing, so he stepped at once into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her feet at the intrusion, and crushed with her fingers two tears that were just ready to lanch themselves on the roundest and rosiest cheek in the world, but she might have done better than blind herself for her foot touched Aunt Martha’s _fauteuil_, and, in consequence, her forehead touched the neck of Rover. It is very awkward to be surprised in the luxurious indulgence of tears at any time, and it is a trifle more awkward still to fall down, and then be raised by the last person in the world you would receive a favor from. Kitty felt the awkwardness of her situation too much to speak; and, of course, Harry, enemy as he was, could not release her until he knew whether she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the crimson blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry’s face immediately took the same hue, probably from reflection. Kitty looked down until a golden arc of fringe rested lovingly on its glowing neighbor; and Harry looked down, too, but his eye rested on Kitty Coleman’s face. If soul and heart are one and the same thing, as some metaphysicians tell us, Harry must now have discovered the mistake he once made, for there was a strange commotion beneath the boddice of Kitty Coleman; it rose and fell, as nothing but a bounding, throbbing, frightened heart, in the wildest tumult of excited feeling, could make it. And then (poor Kitty must have been hurt, and needed support) an arm stole softly around her waist, dark locks mingled with her sunny ones as a warm breath swept over her cheek—and Kitty Coleman hid her face, not in her hands.

Harry forgot his book again that night, and never thought of it until the squire put it in his hand the next morning; for Harry visited the squire very early the next morning, and had a private interview; and the good old gentleman tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “with all my heart;” and Aunt Martha looked as glad as propriety would let her. As for Kitty Coleman, she did not show her face, not she—for she knew they were talking about her, the sober old people and the meddling Harry Gay. But when the arrant mischief-maker had accomplished his object, and was bounding from the door, there came a great rustling among the rose-bushes, insomuch that a shower of bright blossoms descended from them, and Harry turned a face, brimming over with joy, to the fragrant thicket, and shook down another fragile shower, in seeking out the cause of the disturbance. Now, as ill-luck would have it, Kitty Coleman had hidden away from her enemy in this very thicket; and there she was discovered, all confusion, trembling and panting, and—. I am afraid poor Kitty never quite recovered from the effects of her fall—for the arm of Harry Gay seemed very necessary to her forever after.

* * * * *

THE SILVER SPOONS.

A TALE OF DOMESTIC LIFE AND AMERICAN MANUFACTURE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “KEY WEST AND ABACO.”

“Here we go, up, up, up—and here we go, down, down, downy,” is a quotation not more applicable to the movements of children in a swing, than to the same children in after life, when they are tossed about by the rude hands of unsteady fortune. In all countries, and in all times, it has been so to some extent, but never, and no where, in the degree in which it may be observed in the land and age in which we live.

James Elliot, it is very pleasant for me to state, was an exception to this general rule: he was a rich man, his father before him was rich, and his grandfather, who founded the family in this country, was richer still.

My friend Mr. Elliot lived in a fine old house that had been standing for two generations; and he lived in a style worthy of a man who owned a river plantation, and who knew the baptismal name of his grandfather. You Philadelphians and Knickerbockers cannot be expected to understand what I mean, or rather the emphasis of my language, when I say _river plantation_; and therefore I take the trouble to explain that a river plantation is as different a thing from a sand-hill plantation, or even a creek plantation, as property in Water street or Wall street is from a lot up town. There is many a man among us who is undisputed master of hundreds of acres, who can scarcely pay his taxes: whilst his neighbor, who owns only half as much, but of a different sort, goes to the springs every summer, and sends his children into the north to school. You have seen the “Songs of the South,” I suppose, and I doubt not you liked them: but let me, as a friend, warn you against forming your opinions of us and ours from them. They were written by a poet, and if you have any idea of speculating in southern property do not trust Mr. Simms.

The land of the pine, the cedar, the vine!
O! may this blessed land ever be mine!

Now for a summer residence this is all very well; health oozes from the resinous bark of the pine, the coolest breezes are playing amidst its leaves, and the most limpid water bubbles from beneath its roots: but the fine equipages which dash through your cities, and the well-dressed ladies who occupy them, would not shine long if they trusted to nothing better than such “land” to support their bravery. O! no, you must ask for river bottoms, or rich uplands, and then I will go your security for the cotton they will grow.

Jane Elliot sings this song remarkably well. I was with her last summer at Saratoga, and one would think, to hear her, that she was dying to get back, from the pathos with which she would pray—to the guitar—

“Hide not from mine eye the blue of its sky,”

whilst at the same time I was perfectly aware that she was night and day teasing her father to spend the whole summer in the north, and then go to Paris in the fall.

The beaux knew nothing of this however; and one whispered to another, “I say, Bob, what a sweet little patriot she is. Would not she make a capital wife, so domestic?”

“I have a great mind,” said Bob, as they walked to the other end of the saloon, “to try and make an investment in that same ‘land of the pine;’ do you know any thing about the old man? Is he rich?”

“Rich!” ejaculated the dandy, with that upward and downward inflection of the voice which indicates a good deal of surprise, and some indignation, “a great deal too rich to own such a man as you for his son-in-law. No, no, my fine fellow, that’s my game. You could not spend half her income, whereas, I flatter myself, _I_ can do that easily, and run the estate in debt by the end of the year.”

Edward Neville was quite in earnest in what he said about his intentions, and I do not think that any of his friends would differ with him as to his capacity for getting into difficulties. He had inherited a small property, enough to educate him, bear his expenses in a few years’ travel, and lanch him, with a good library, upon the wide ocean of the law: but he inherited none of the perseverance and plodding industry that had elevated his father to the bench, and made him regarded as the best read lawyer of his day; and after struggling awhile with his virtuous impulses, he carefully locked the door of his office, writing upon the outside, “gone to _court_,” and commenced the ignoble trade of a fortune-hunter. This was his first season, and Jane Elliot was the first divinity he had encountered, whose shrine was golden enough to bring him to his knees.

So far, however, he had made no impression. In fact, I hardly think he did himself justice. The part was new to him; and the girl herself seemed worthy of so much purer a feeling, that he was constantly struggling with himself. “By heavens, I do love her for herself alone,” he would mutter to himself. “I could die for her, fight for her, do any thing under heaven for her, except _work_.” And then a sense of his meanness would overcome him with shame, and he would allow any one else to take his place in the conversation, whilst he would wander off by himself to renew his struggles.

My sweet young fortune-hunter, who art reading this page, think what a poor devil thou art making of thyself. How much more honorable and noble would it be to labor for thine own support as a street-sweeper even. How contemptible to coin the heart’s best affections, to degrade the holy state of matrimony to a matter of bargain and sale, to sell thyself of thine own will, as an eastern slave is by her masters. O! go to work, and be a man!

But for this, I should have liked Neville well enough; not however as a suitor to Jane Elliot. I had other views in relation to that matter. Tom Barton is a friend of mine, and _though_ the son of a silversmith, or rather, shall I say, _because_ the son of a silversmith, he is one of the worthiest fellows I ever knew. I went to school with him, and so in fact did Jane Elliot. We were in Latin and Algebra, and all that, when she was only beginning to read: but our old master had a fashion of making the whole school form a ring in the afternoon, and young and old were compelled to spell a page of “Dictionary.”

What a speller Jane was! The little thing was sometimes far ahead of some of the largest scholars, and it was a _caution_ to hear how her little tongue would rattle off the letters of any word in the column, from “chatter” to “chevaux de frise.” Tom used to be always just next below her, never getting above her, and never suffering anybody to get above him.

It was very curious how they stuck together. Tom always missed when she did: I have known him in fact, to spell “caper” with two “p’s,” though a better speller than he was I never met. It was a long time before I found out the secret; but one day as we were all going to our seats, I overheard Tom saying, rather reproachfully, “Jane, what _did_ you do that for?” “Why, Tom, you did not speak loud enough.” Aha! said I to myself, I understand it now. I thought there must be some prompting going on, or that little girl would never have stood so high in the school.

I was very old-fashioned as a boy; they used in fact to call me the old bachelor; and certainly I had one of the habits of the tribe—a greater pleasure in watching the developments of the hearts of other people, than in attending to the beating of my own. Any one, however, might have taken a delight in observing the present case. Jane I shall not describe, because she has always been a pet of mine, and I should be certain to overdo it if I made the attempt: but Tom, I shall let you know was a fine looking boy, with fair hair, an open countenance, and a muscular and well knit frame; and he has grown up to be decidedly the best looking lawyer that practices in our circuit.

All our village had watched the progress of this affair with interest, and we had all settled down into a calm certainty that it was to be, and even the envious were prepared to wish them joy. The Elliots had always been popular; and the Bartons, by correct deportment, hard work for themselves, civility to their neighbors, and kindness to the poor, had gained the good will of all. There was malice among us, to be sure, and there would have been the usual ebullition of it had the affair come off suddenly; but it was too gradual: Tom and Jane had been lovers from childhood; it was an understood matter, and each man began to feel that he had a particular vocation to help to bring it about.

Mr. Elliot decidedly gave into the general way of thinking; but no ears had ever heard his wife say a word on the subject. She was of Huguenot descent, and rather too fond of mentioning that circumstance; but still no one disliked her on that account, every one has a perfect right to think of his grandfather if he likes, and even to speak of him whenever he can find a listener who is willing to endure it. On the whole, I confess I took pleasure in hearing her talk. How she used to bridle up! how firm her voice grew! and how patronizing her manner! I could listen to her for hours—especially when Jane was sitting by me.

But that is all over now. I hate the Huguenots, the Edict of Nantes, the Revocation, and every thing else; and I wish to Heaven old Adam’s blood in flowing down to the Elliots had come through some other veins than those of that same fierce French faction.

What do you think? About four years ago, when Tom and I came from college, both having graduated with honor, he decided that it was time for him to make open and resolute approaches toward the great end upon which his hopes were fixed. Consequently, all the time he could spare from the study of law, and his excellent family, he used to spend with Jane; and so far as I could judge, from occasionally playing the part of “Monsieur de trop,” in a ride, or walk, or at the piano, she was entirely satisfied to have it so.

But one night, after Tom had been making himself particularly agreeable, as he thought, to the old lady, and had listened to the tale of the Huguenots for the fortieth time, with exemplary patience, though his brain was boiling, and he was wishing to the very bottom of his heart that all her ancestors _had_ passed “that bourne from which no traveler returns!” that very night, after he had taken his leave, Mrs. Elliot called her daughter to her, and said in a calm and serious voice, “My dear, I must request that you will not be quite so familiar with Mr. Barton. I begin to fear that you are liking him too well.”

“Why, mother, we all like Tom.”

“I know that; and I’m very well satisfied to have him here as often as the other young gentlemen of the town. His mother is a very proper person, and so is his father, but there has never been any thing further than a street acquaintance between us, and I do not mean that there shall.”

“But, mother, why so? they are very good people surely.”

Mrs. Elliot did not answer directly, but walked to the centre-table, upon which some refreshments were still standing, and taking up one of the spoons from a waiter, she placed it in her daughter’s hand, and with an air of quiet satisfaction, directed her to read aloud what she saw on the handle.

“I see nothing very remarkable, my dear mother,” said the smiling Jane. “Here is the old family crest, and your initials and my father’s blended, and quite an ambitious wreath of flowers running round the whole.”

“I will thank you, my daughter, to speak more respectfully, when you do speak of such matters; but that is not what I mean, read the stamp on the other side.”

“A. Barton, and some hieroglyphics which I cannot make out, is all that I see.”

“Do you know who A. Barton is, my dear?”

“Of course; it is old Mr. Barton, Tom’s father. Why, mother, I have read this a hundred times before. It is printed on my pap spoon, and on all the new-fashioned silver we have in the house. But what of that?”

“Simply this, Miss Jane Elliot, I shall never give my consent for you to receive as a lover the son of a man who makes our spoons, and cleans our watches, and who, in short, is only a mechanic. Good night.”

Jane was too much surprised and grieved to say any thing, and she went to her room, her heart cruelly divided between the duty she owed to her mother, and the love that she had so long cherished for her _betrothed_.

I ought not to have written that last word. I am not a good novelist, or I would have been brought to my confessions at a slower rate. However, it is a fact. Theirs was the rare case, in which neither the language, nor the feelings of childhood had ever changed. They had vowed themselves to each other at least a hundred times. More and more solemn the pledge had grown at every repetition; and when Tom came from college a few weeks before, it had been cemented with tears.

Ah! she was a noble girl, that Jane! Why did not fate give me a chance at her, or rather, why did not I, instead of flirting with all the pretty faces that I saw, why did not I love her, and cherish her, as Tom did from the first.

However, that is nothing to any body but myself. Jane rose next morning unrefreshed from her sleepless couch, and the first thing she did was to write the following note:

“Dear Tom,—My mother is angry with me for the intimacy to which
I have admitted you, and has directed me to break it off. So you
must not come here so often. Nothing in my life has grieved me
more than this, but I am sixteen only, and my mother’s will is
mine. Wont you travel? I prefer not seeing you at all, than not
to see you as of old. But be assured, wherever you go, and
whatever may be your fortune, one heart will be with you, that
of yours ever,

Jane Elliot.”

Now was not she a dear girl. She wept when she wrote it, and she wept when she sent it, and she had not dried her tears when little Cæsar brought back this answer:

“Dear Jane,—Your letter was like a thunderbolt to me, and I am
hardly able to pen a reply. But I see the wisdom of the course
you suggest, and shall make my arrangements at once to go to the
law school at Cambridge. I know my own heart so well that I can
have no doubts concerning yours; and if labor, and toil, and
success can win your mother’s approbation, it shall be mine. But
in any case I am yours till death.

Thomas Barton.”

Accordingly, Tom went off to Cambridge, and devoted all his strength to the herculean task of piling up his legal knowledge “higher than one story”—Everett has said so many witty things in his day, that he need not mind lending one occasionally—whilst I, with envy in my heart, was still playing the part of a faithful friend, and keeping Jane advised of all his movements, and of all his success.

But neither his success in his studies, nor the reputation which one year’s practice at the bar had given him, softened the prejudices of the Huguenot lady; and it was as much with a view of keeping them apart as any thing else, that she traveled with her daughter every summer.

Edward Neville was precisely to the taste of the old lady. She favored him in every way—gave him a seat in her carriage to Lake George, invited him to her private parlor, told him at what hour in the morning she drank the water—in short, turned me completely adrift, and adopted him as her constant attendant.

I feared the result, and wrote to Tom about it. In reply he thanked me for the interest I had manifested, but assured me that he had no fears, that he had the most perfect trust in Jane, that he was laboring with assiduity to improve the little fortune he had inherited, for he was sorry to add that there was every probability, that the Elliots would be in need of the assistance of their friends, and that very soon.

This intelligence very much surprised me. I knew that the old gentleman had endorsed most imprudently for a friend who was speculating in western lands, but I had heard only the day before the most glowing accounts of the value of those lands.

However, the season ended; and when leaving the springs, Mr. Elliot, at his wife’s earnest solicitation, invited Neville to pay him a visit during the winter. He accepted it gladly, went to New York, sold his books, rented his office, and told his friends that he had given up law, and was thinking of _making an investment in the South_.

But the denouement of this true history presses upon me, and I must hurry its narration.

About the merry Christmas time, our court-house door and village papers informed the people that the SHERIFF would sell “all that valuable, &c., &c.,” enumerating every earthly thing that Mr. Elliot possessed.

It was a melancholy truth. His friend’s debts came upon him with such suddenness that he was overwhelmed. He gave himself up for lost, refused every offer of assistance from Tom and myself, and every one else, and determined to let the law take its course. He confessed that all he wanted was time, but he declared he would not suffer any of his friends to endanger themselves for him.

Tom and I sat up nearly the whole night laying our plans; and it was determined that I should bid off every article, and that he would be prepared to pay for them.

On the day of sale one might have thought that there was to have been a funeral instead of a vendue. The bell seemed to toll in melancholy notes, and the red flag that the old negro was hobbling about the village with, one would have thought, by the countenances of those who looked upon it, was rather the forerunner of a pirate’s visit, than of a sheriff’s sale.

The northern stage had just driven up to the tavern door, and a handsome man was stepping from it as the flag was passing. He caught it from the negro’s hand, and exclaimed, “Good God! driver, what Elliot is this who is to be sold out to-day? Not Mr. James Elliot the rich planter!”

“Well, I reckon it is,” was the cool reply, as he handed down hat-box and dressing-case, and a couple of large trunks.

The handsome stranger walked with a very unsteady step into the bar, and took up an old paper, which one might have supposed that he was reading, if he did not notice that he was holding it upside down. He appeared to be dreadfully agitated, but at length he started up and asked if the stage had gone.

The barkeeper told him that it had driven round to the stable to change horses, and would be back in an instant.

The stage soon came with a new driver and fresh horses, and into it the handsome man tumbled with bag and baggage as before. As he wheeled off, the old driver said to the barkeeper,

“That ’ere is a quare chap. He rode on the top with me a while to-day, and told me he was gwine to spend the winter here, and p’raps to live. Did he let you into his name and business?”

“No, but that infernal big trunk of his’n was marked in white paint, ‘E. Neville.’”

Meantime the sale went on. The property realized more than enough to pay all that Mr. Elliot was bound for, and yet was struck off for one third its value.

I settled with the sheriff, and then went to Mr. Elliot, and offered to put the property again in his hands, and give him his own time to pay for it.

He accepted my offer with tears in his eyes, and although I felt mean for taking, even for a moment, the credit which belonged of right to Tom, yet I stood it like a man.

All would have gone on very well, but the wife of the man from whom Tom borrowed the money for the purchase was a gossip, and could not keep to herself any thing she knew; and very soon the true state of the case was made known to the Elliots.

For a while Tom was very anxious about the result, but he came to me one morning with this note in his hands:

“Dear Sir,—I have behaved very foolishly. If you can add
charity to generosity, come and see us, and you will find me
very truly your friend,

Emile Neufchatel Elliot.”

It did not take Tom long to go. It did not take me long to explain to Parson Harris that his services would be wanted in the chancel one of those mornings. The service itself was short, though from my boyhood up, I never knew Mr. Harris to offend against a rubric. And it was a short ride from the church to the plantation. Mr. Harris said a short grace, and the dinner was delightfully long.

At the end of it, I noticed Mrs. Elliot playing with one of the silver spoons, and then suddenly dropping it when she perceived that I was observing her.

This motion drew general attention to her, but though embarrassed for a moment, she recovered herself, and said with a pleasant smile, “I must confess, my dear Jane, that I am entirely happy in retracting a speech which I made to you some years ago. You shall have all the new-fashioned silver in the house, and I am sure it will be doubly valuable in your eyes, because the name you have adopted is already stamped upon it.”

Thus happily endeth the true history of the Silver Spoons.

* * * * *

THE RUSTIC DANCE.

ELSCHEN.

Break forth in music: swell the sound,
Till wood and glen re-echo round.
Let lute and harp unite, to tell
The sweet discourse that in them dwell,
And cymbal join its lightest notes;

List! on the air how sweet it floats!
And rustic feet keep measure free,
While all around is harmony.
Then swell the sounds—prolong the spell,
Till each forgets his wo to tell!

* * * * *

* * * * *

RURAL LIFE.

(ILLUSTRATED.)

I left the crowded city,
In my sulky, one hot day,
Quite tired of noise, and dust, and crowds,
And glad to get away;
And thought I’d take a famous drive,
At least ten miles or more,
And have a glance at country life,
If I’d never had before.

Old Hector seemed as glad as I
To leave the rattling street,
And dashed along the pleasant road,
With footfall light and fleet.
Up steep hill-side, o’er level reach,
Far down in shady vale,
Where blossom never bent its head
To rudely passing gale;

Right onward, onward, swift and far
I kept my rapid way.
Till bright, and still, and beautiful,
Sweet nature round me lay:
Then checked my speed, and let the rein
Fall loosely from my hand;
And bared my forehead to the kiss
Of breezes cool and bland.

The dark green wood, the emerald field,
On which a silver stream
Like chord of molten silver lay
Beneath the sunny beam,
The blossoms gemming every spot
In colors rich and rare,
And breathing out their fragrant love
To bless the wooing air—

Beautiful! All was beautiful,
And calm and sweet and pure;
With naught from sense of loveliness
The spirit to allure.
“God made the country,” low I spoke,
And meekly bowed my head;
“And man the town;” more loud and stern
These other words I said.

Then down a shady lane I turned,
And slowly moved along,
Where blossoms filled with odors sweet
The air, and birds with song.
Soon, from amid some broad old elms,
I saw a cottage rise,
And soon old Hector’s pace I checked,
In sudden, mute surprise.

Unseen, I saw, O loveliness!
Was ever like displayed
In form so chaste and innocent,
As in that heavenly maid?
I sketched the scene: ’tis sent with this;
Now say, in mien and face,
Did city maiden ever show
Such purity and grace.

I lingered long, then turned away,
And slowly homeward went,
That lovely maiden’s image fair
With all my fancies blent.
For weeks my dreams were full of her,
And then I went again
To seek the cottage where she dwelt,
But sought for her in vain.

The old, plain cottage mid the elms,
Stood where it stood before,
The rustic lad was there, and sat
Asleep within the door;
The kid beside its stately dam
In the warm sunshine lay:
But the maiden and the child were gone!
I slowly turned away.

Since then, of rustic loveliness,
Till city belles have curled
Their lips of beauty, I have talked,
And challenged half the world
To show in silks, and lawns, and gems,
A maiden half so fair
As she whose bright young cheek was fanned
By purest summer air.

THE SEQUEL.

Last week, of fair young city belles
I met a brilliant throng,
Where jewels gleamed, and bright eyes flashed
’Mid laughter dance and song.
One in the crowd, for loveliness,
Was peerless ’mong the fair—
Gems glittered in her rich attire,
And glittered in her hair.

I saw her—started—looked again—
Yes, ’twas my rustic maid.
How sweet her face! how bright her smile!
Even thus in gems arrayed.
But something from her lip, and eye,
And cheek, and brow was gone:—
The rustic maid, in native grace,
The city belle outshone.
A.

* * * * *

FLOWERS.

Golden treasures; fairy flowers—
Spreading all earth’s sunny bowers.
Bright and fleeting as youth’s day:
Smiling sunny hours away.
Thou dost heighten beauty’s glow;

Youth’s companions, too, art thou,
Gladd’ning youth and beauty now,
Soon thou’rt decking death’s pale brow.
Idol treasures! fairy flowers—
Brightly decking Flora’s bowers!
S. E. T.

* * * * *

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. VII.

GOOSANDER. (_Mergus Merganser._ Linnæus.)

It may be considered doubtful whether the bird now before us can fairly be included in a list of the birds acknowledged as _game_ by the American sportsman. Their food, consisting entirely of fish, causes their flesh to be, in our estimation unfit for food; yet there are not wanting some, who pretend to consider them capital meat, and others who pursue them as game, from a love of sport and a desire to acquaint themselves with its natural history. On this ground, therefore, we have admitted his name into our catalogue, and placed his portrait in our gallery.

He is a winter inhabitant of the States; is found on the seas, fresh water lakes and rivers, and bears many different appellations, such as the Water Pheasant, the Sheldrake, the Fisherman, and the Diver. The name Goosander is a popular misnomer, because no one of all the nine species of the genus Mergus has either the appearance or the habits of geese of any description. They have the bill rather longer than the middle size, and much more slender and hard in its texture than the bills of ducks, not being a dabbling or sentient bill like theirs, but prehensile and of a very peculiar form. The mandibles are straight for a greater part of their length, but the upper one is much hooked at the point, and very sharp, and the cutting edges of both mandibles are in all their length beset with short, but strong and sharp teeth inclining backward. The bill is thus fitted for taking a very firm hold of slippery prey, and its skill in capturing fish proves how effective is this simple apparatus. The Goosander, from having its legs far backward, is an awkward walker, while it does not dive so well as the proper diver, yet, by the arrangement of its bill, it is enabled to levy far more severe contributions upon fish-ponds than any birds which resort to such places, not even excepting the herons. Their wings are of moderate length, but clean and firmly made, and the plumage of the body is also firm and compact, so that the power of flight is considerable, and when necessary it can be extended to long distances without much fatigue. As is the case with the ducks, there is an enlargement of the pulmonic end of the trachea, which probably answers the purpose of a magazine of air, and enables the birds to remain much longer under water than they could do if not thus provided. The general color of the bill is red; but a portion round the nostrils, the ridge of the upper mandible, and the nail on its tip are dusky. The inside of the gape is bright orange; the head and the crest, the last of which is most conspicuous in the male, together with the upper part of the neck, are dark green, passing into black on the chin and throat; the lower part of the neck, the outer scapulars, the breast, and all the under part of the body, are white, with a tinge of yellowish-red. The back and the scapulars next the back are black, fading into grayish toward the rump; and the tail, which consists of eighteen pointed feathers, is of a gray color. The principal quills and coverts are brownish-black, with the exception of the middle secondaries and the extremities of their coverts, and these form a white speculum or wing-spot. The head and neck of the female are rust color, the upper part is of a grayish tint, and the under part white, with a yellowish shade. In consequence of this she has been figured and described as the Dun Diver; and the young male, which resembles her in color, has been considered as the male of the same. The bill and feet are reddish ash color. The accurate observations of Wilson, Nuttall, and others, have proved beyond a doubt the true character of the Dun Divers, and the unfortunate Goosander, whom the English discoverers of the latter bird had deprived of any consort, has been again restored to his legitimate rights.

Among the other species which are described in the Ornithologies as belonging to the Mergansers, we may record the names of the Red-breasted Merganser and the Hooded Merganser, as species known to American sportsmen. The latter is peculiar to this continent, migrating during the winter as far south as Mexico, and displaying its high, circular and beautifully colored crest in great numbers on the broad waters of the Mississippi, its elegant form and the strong contrast of the colors of its plumage rendering it always an object of attention and admiration.

THE WILD SWAN. (_Cygnus Ferus._ Ray)

The swans are among the most ornamental of all water-birds, on account of their great size, the gracefulness of their forms and motions, and the snowy whiteness of the plumage of the most familiar species. From the remotest antiquity they have attracted attention, and the time-honored fable of the tame swan acquiring a musical song when dying, instead of the husky voice which usually characterizes him, is still repeated, though wholly destitute of foundation. The notion probably arose from confounding the wild species with the tame one, for though the note of the wild swan, or Whistler, is certainly not musical, yet there is a mournful sonorousness about it, which gives it not a little of the expression of a death-song. It is a dull and solemn hwoo-hwoo, having what is called an inward sound, though audible at a considerable distance. From this note they have acquired a popular name, that of the Hooper. They pass the period of reproduction in high northern latitudes, and in the autumn migrate southwardly over both continents. In winter they are sometimes quite numerous in the waters of the Chesapeake, and flocks are seen passing through the interior along the valley of the Mississippi to the lands around the mouth of that river. The Hooper emits his note only when flying, or calling on his mate, and though loud and shrill it is by no means unpleasant, particularly when heard high in the air, and modulated by the winds. Its vocal organs are remarkably assisted by the structure of the trachea, which forms two circumvolutions within the chest, before terminating in the respiratory organ. On their migratory flights they fly very high in the air, and close to each other. The height of their flight is probably intended as a security against their enemies, the falcons, who would prove more than a match for the swans, notwithstanding their great size and strength, if they were able to take “the sky” of them. The swan has little or no means of defence when it is on the wing, the stroke of the wing being what it chiefly depends on for its defence against an enemy, and this being but little available when the bird is flying. By taking the sky of the hostile birds, the swan, however, is enabled to perform its migratory flight in considerable safety, as the falcons are entirely harmless to any thing above them. The flight of the Hoopers when they are on their migrating journeys is much more rapid than from the size and weight of the birds one would be apt to suppose. As is the case with all birds of lofty flight, it does not appear to be so rapid as it really is. This is a point to which it is very essential to attend in all cases of birds, or indeed any thing else in motion. The portion of the retina which the visual impression of the observed object passes over is of course the standard which we have for the measure of its velocity. In consequence of this, its motion appears to be slower than it really is, in the same proportion that its distance is increased, so that a motion at five hundred yards requires to be ten times faster in order to have the same apparent speed as a motion at fifty yards distance. This renders it rather a difficult matter for an ordinary sportsman, however expert he may be in hitting partridges or other ground game when on the wing, to hit swans when they are passing over him in their migratory flight; and unless he takes aim before them, at a distance which experience only can determine, he is sure to miss. The wind, too, must be taken into calculation in order to insure a successful shot. The size and weight of the swans, with the abundance of their feathers, cause the wind to have a very great influence on the velocity of their flight. Hence they almost invariably go before the wind in their migrations, and wait, or even halt on their journey, if the wind be adverse. Before a stiff breeze they can make way at the rate of not less than one hundred miles in the hour, so that they are very soon out of the observer’s horizon; but against a wind of the same strength they can make very little way, and upon a strong cross wind they drift very far to leeward.

In all ages these birds have enjoyed a considerable degree of fictitious interest, and, therefore, beside the exaggeration of the musical power of their “sweet voices,” there are various other improbable things alleged of them. For instance, it is said that when the frost begins to set in they assemble in multitudes and keep the water in a state of agitation to prevent it from freezing. The fact is, that all the agitation a flock of swans could produce in a lake would but make it freeze the more rapidly. It is probable, however, that they break the ice, when it is thin, and continue breaking it at the same place as fast as it freezes, as is the habit of very many animals in the winter season.

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FORT MACKENZIE.

Fort Mackenzie, which was first established in 1832, is 120 paces from the north bank of the Missouri, fifteen or twenty miles from the falls of that river, and about a hundred miles from the highest range of the Rocky Mountains. It was built by the American Fur Company, for the purpose of trading with the Black-Feet and other neighboring Indians. From the force and ferocity of the large tribes of Indians in the vicinity, frequent and serious difficulties occurred. One of these, which took place in 1833, is thus described in Maximilian, Prince of Wieds’ “Travels in the Interior of North America:”

“On the 28th of August, at break of day, we were awakened by musket-shot; and Doucette entered our room crying, ‘levez-vous il faut nous battre!’ On which we arose in haste, dressed ourselves, and loaded our fowling-pieces with ball. When we entered the court-yard of the fort, all our people were in motion, and some were firing from the roofs. On ascending it, we saw the whole prairie covered with Indians, on foot and on horseback, who were firing at the fort; and on the hills were several detached bodies. About eighteen or twenty Black-Feet tents, pitched near the fort, the inmates of which had been singing and drinking the whole night, and fallen into a deep sleep toward morning, had been surprised by 600 Assiniboins and Crows. When the first information of the vicinity of the enemy was received from a Black-Foot, who had escaped, the _engages_ immediately repaired to their posts on the roofs of the buildings, and the fort was seen to be surrounded on every side by the enemy, who had approached very near. They had cut up the tents of the Black-Feet with knives, discharged their guns and arrows at them, and killed and wounded many of the inmates, roused from their sleep by this unexpected attack. The men, about thirty in number, had partly fired their guns at the enemy, and then fled to the gates of the fort, where they were admitted. They immediately hastened to the roof, and began a well supported fire upon the Assiniboins.

“When the Assiniboins saw that their fire was returned, they retreated about three hundred paces, and an irregular firing continued, during which several people from the neighborhood joined the ranks of the Black-Feet. While all this was passing, the court-yard of the fort exhibited very singular scenes. A number of wounded men, women, and children, were laid or placed against the walls; others, in their deplorable condition, were pulled about by their relations, amid tears and lamentations. The White Buffalo, who had received a wound at the back of his head, was carried about in this manner, amid singing, howling, and crying. They rattled the schischique in his ears, that the evil spirit might not overcome him, and gave him brandy to drink. He himself, though stupified and intoxicated, sung without intermission, and would not give himself up to the evil spirit. Otsequa Stomik, an old man of our acquaintance, was wounded in the knee by a ball, which a woman cut out with a penknife, during which operation he did not betray the least symptom of pain. Natah Otarm, a handsome young man, was suffering dreadfully from severe wounds. Several Indians, especially young women, were likewise wounded. A spectator alone of this extraordinary scene can form any idea of the confusion and the noise, which was increased by the loud report of the musketry, the moving backward and forward of the people, carrying powder and ball, and the tumult occasioned by about twenty horses shut up in the fort.”

Our illustration, a most spirited and vigorous representation of Indian life and character, gives a view of the attack made upon the sleeping Black-Feet early in the morning. It is eminently characteristic of Indian warfare, and affords an admirable specimen of the fierce encounters so frequent among the savage sons of that remote wilderness.

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THE FISHER BOY JOLLILY LIVES.

A GLEE, FOR FOUR VOICES.

WORDS BY ELIZA COOK.—COMPOSED AND ARRANGED BY W. R. WRIGHT.

First Verse:
Merrily, oh! Merrily, oh!
The nets are spread out to the sun;
Merrily, oh! The Fisher boy sings,
Right glad that his labour is done,
Right glad that his labour is done.

Happy and gay with his boat in the bay,
The storm and the danger forgot;
The wealthy and great may repine at their state,
And envy the Fisher boy’s lot.

Chorus:
Merrily, oh! Merrily, oh!
This is the burden he gives,
Cheerily, oh! Though the blast may blow,
The Fisher boy jollily lives,
The Fisher boy jollily lives!

Second Verse:
Merrily, oh! Merrily, oh!
He sleeps till the morning breaks;
Merrily, oh! at the sea gulls scream,
The Fisher boy quickly awakes.
The Fisher boy quickly awakes.

Down on the strand he is plying his hand,
His shouting is heard again;
The clouds are dark, but he springs to his bark,
With the same light hearted strain.

Chorus:
Merrily, oh! Merrily, oh!
This is the burden he gives,
Cheerily, oh! Though the blast may blow,
The Fisher boy jollily lives,
The Fisher boy jollily lives!

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_Reminiscences of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey. By
Joseph Cottle. New York: Wiley & Putnam. 1 vol. 12mo._

This is quite an important contribution to the literary history of the nineteenth century. To be sure, it is confined to a small space, and a few individuals, but it is full of original and important matter as far as it goes. Cottle, the author, was a bookseller at Bristol, was the early friend of Coleridge, Southey, and Wordsworth, and carried his friendship so far as to publish their first unsalable books. Throughout the lives of Coleridge and Southey, he appears to have been their associate or correspondent. He now publishes the letters of both, and his recollections of their character, conduct, and conversation. No lover of Coleridge can read the book without deep pain. It presents him as given over to sloth and self-indulgence, as careless of his word, as indifferent to the happiness and comfort of his wife and children, as a deceitful and unsafe friend, as a kind of sublime charlatan and vagabond. The revelations regarding his use of opium are astounding. About the year 1814 he consumed a pint of laudanum a day. He spent upwards of _£_2 10_s._ a week for opium, at the very time his family were suffering, and he himself was living on the charity of a friend. He borrowed money freely of his friends, ostensibly for the necessaries of life, but really to obtain the means of gratifying his debasing habit. He lost all control over himself. The champion of free will was himself the prey of a passion which swayed his volitions. The philosopher who was to reconcile philosophy with Christianity, was daily in the habit of violating both. The poet who celebrated in such exquisite verse the affections, abandoned his own family. Since Rousseau, there has not been his like among men of letters. In a letter to Josiah Wade, in 1814, a letter which he desires to have published after his death, he acknowledges all that his worst enemies could impute to him. “In the one crime of OPIUM,” he says, “what crime have I not made myself guilty of? Ingratitude to my Maker! and to my benefactors—injustice! and _unnatural cruelty to my poor children_! self-contempt for my repeated promise—breach, nay, too often, actual falsehood!” In the same letter he remarks—“Conceive a poor, miserable wretch, who, for many years, has been attempting to beat off pain by a constant recurrence to the vice that produces it. Conceive a spirit in hell, employed in tracing out for others the road to that heaven, from which his crimes exclude him! In short, conceive whatever is most wretched, helpless, and hopeless, and you will form as tolerable a notion of my state, as it is possible for a good man to have.” The apology for Coleridge’s use of opium has been found in his own assertion, that he acquired the habit originally in an attempt to quiet physical pain. Southey denies this, and, indeed, imputes duplicity to Coleridge in all the apologies he makes for his vices of self-indulgence.

Southey, it seems, from the first, never placed any dependence upon Coleridge. Writing to Cottle, in 1836, he says—“I know that Coleridge, at different times of his life, never let pass an opportunity of speaking ill of me. Both Wordsworth and myself have often lamented the exposure of duplicity which must result from the publication of his letters, and by what he has delivered by word of mouth to the worshipers by whom he was always surrounded. . . . I continued all possible offices of kindness to his children long after I regarded his own conduct with that _utter disapprobation_ which alone it can call forth from all who had any sense of duty and moral obligation.” When Coleridge placed himself under the care of his friend, Morgan, to be cured of his opium insanity, and while he was writing letters to the friends who lent him money, that he had reduced his allowance to twenty drops of laudanum a day, he was secretly taking his enormous doses, obtained by deceiving his benefactor, and by playing the meanest tricks upon his hired attendant. Coleridge’s whole life appears to have been that of a vagabond. He subsisted on the charity of friends whom he continually deceived or outraged. At least so he appears in the representations of Southey and Cottle, and partly in his own confessions. Many of Cottle’s remarks are sufficiently good for nothing; and he occasionally cants and whines distressingly, but we see no reason to doubt his statements of fact. We hope that if any thing can be said in his favor, his relations will promptly do it. In the present book the author is sunk to the level of the Savages and Dermodys of literary history.