Chapter XI: Part XV (3)

Mizzle's last catastrophe, like the last catastrophe of many other distinguished citizens, was effected by means of a ladder, which he had ascended cautiously by night, after the painters had left their work, to see what was going on in the chamber of a second story. Suddenly, there was a dog at the bottom of the aforesaid ladder, and a cudgel at the top, presenting the alternatives of a dilemma. Switches above and bark below, what could the unfortunate Mathew Mizzle do but surrender himself a prisoner of war? Poor Mizzle! They put him under the pump, and made him acquainted with the nature of ducks.

Is it not a pity that the system of "espionage" does not obtain in America, that Mathew Mizzle might have a field for the exercise of the qualities which are so remarkably developed in his constitution? It would be a perfect union of duty and of pleasure, if he could be employed to find out every thing that goes on in town and about, and it is a great pity that means could not be devised to save so fine a young man from the waste of his genius.

"People are so fussy about their secrets," says he, "as if there were any use of having secrets, if it were not for the fun of finding them out and talking about them. It's mean and selfish to abridge intelligence in that sort of way, and if I knew of any country where they manage matters on a different system, I'd emigrate right away, I would. A pretty piece of business, to put a man under the pump, because he seeks after knowledge."

SHAWANGUNK MOUNTAIN.

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

Before the plough had scattered fields of grain
And grassy orchards midst the oaken woods
Of Shawangunk, upon the mountain's top
Stood a wood-cutter's hut. Himself and wife
Shared it alone. The spot was green and sweet.
The earth was covered with a velvet sward,
Grouped with low thickets, here and there a tree
Rearing its dark rich foliage in the heavens.

Pleasant the echoes of his fast plied axe,
Merrily rattling through the mountain-woods,
To those who sought the old surveyor's road
For shade and coolness; and amidst the sounds
Would boom deep heavy shocks of falling trees,
Like growls of thunder in the noontide-hush,
So that the eye would glance impulsively
Up to the tree-tops, to discern the peak
Of the ascending cloud.

His forest-life,
Though rude, was joyous. When the mellow charm
Of sunset on the smiling mountains lay,
The creaking of his high-piled cart would blend
With song or whistle blithe, as, dipping down
The road, he sought the village in the midst
Of the green hollow. This slight mountain-road
Went slanting to the summit, with blazed trunks
On either side, and soft delicious grass
Spreading its carpet; one faint track alone
Telling that wheel had e'er its beauty scarred.
Close to the hut it passed, then downward plunged,
And sought the level of the opposite side.

'T was at the close of one cold winter day
That down this road I trod. My weary steps,
With efforts vain, had tracked, for hours, the deer,
And now, with empty flask and rifle, swift,
I journeyed homeward. Nature's great bright eye
Low beaming in the west, still poured sweet light
Upon the mountain. The pure snow, all round,
In delicate rose-tints glowed. The hemlocks smiled,
Speckled with gold. The oak's sear foliage, still
Tight clinging to the boughs, was kindled up
To warm rich brown. The myriad trunks and sprays
Traced their black lines upon the soft snow-blush
Beneath, until it seemed a tangled maze.
Upon the mountain's top, a thread of smoke
From the low cabin rose, as though a streak
Of violet had been painted on the air.
I heard the ring of the wood-cutter's axe,
And, through an opening, saw his instrument
Flashing into a walnut's giant stem,
Whose upborne mass, in the fast lowering light,
Seemed cut in copper. A broad wind-fall near
Let down my eyes upon the hollow. White
In snow it lay, with long and dusky lines
Of fences crossing--groups of orchard-trees--
Hay-barracks--barns and long low dwelling-roofs.
Straight as an arrow ran the streak of road
Athwart the hollow. As I looked, the eye
In the red west sank lower, till half quenched
Behind the upland, then a shred of light
Glittered and vanished, and the sky was bare.

Whilst gazing on this splendor, suddenly
I heard a shriek. Shrill, ringing midst the woods
In piercing clearness, through my ears it cut,
And left a sense of deafness. Startled, round
I gazed. Again the horrid sound thrilled past.
I knew it then as the terrific cry
Of the fierce, bloody panther. In our woods
Naught fiercer, bloodier dwells, when roused by rage
Or hunger. Oft our hunters had of late
Marked the huge foot-prints of the ravenous beast,
And heard his scream at midnight, but no eye
As yet had seen him. With a nervous grasp
Upon my useless weapon, and a weight
Of helplessness, like lead, upon my soul,
I started on my path. At every step
I thought his tawny form and fierce green eye
Would meet my sight, upon some limb o'erhead.
But naught was seen. The village soon I reached,
And gladly crossed the threshold of my home.

The long, cold, breathless night came swiftly down.
The clear, magnificent moon seemed not inlaid
In the bright blue, but stood out bold, distinct,
As though impending from the cloudless skies
Glittering with frost. Upon the sparkling snow
The rich light slept in such sweet purity
As naught on earth can match. The hours sped on,
The silver day still shone serene and clear,
And twinkled on the crystals shooting round.
Gazing once more upon the splendid scene,
Before I sought the couch, my wandering eye
Glanced at the mountain. There it grandly stood
A giant mass of ivory. On the spot
Where the steep slanting road the hollow joined,
My sight a moment dwelt, for there I last
Had swept around a quick and piercing gaze,
In search of the gaunt monster whose keen cry
Still echoed in my ears. Is that a spot
Of shadow flickering in some transient breeze?
No. O'er the hollow, gliding swift, it comes.
Is it the ravenous panther, fierce for blood,
Seeking the village? Closer as it speeds
A clearer shape it shows--a human form--
'T is the wood-cutter's wife! She loudly shrieks,
"My husband--lost--wake, wake!" the moonlight falls
Upon her features swollen with tears. A band
Of villagers was soon aroused, and forth
We sallied toward the mountain. So intense
The cold, the snow creaked shrilly at our tread,
And the strewed diamonds on its surface flashed
Back the keen moonlight. As we trod along,
The wife in breathless haste, her story told,
How, when the sunset fell, she watched to see
Her husband's form swift speeding up the road,
From the side-clearing, at that wonted hour,
Toward his low roof. The sunset died, and night
Sprang on the earth; the absent one came not.
The moon moved up; the latch-string was not pulled
For entrance in the cabin. Hours sped on.
And still, upon the silvered snow, no form
Her gaze rewarded. Once she heard afar
A panther's shriek. Her fear to frenzy rose.
To the side-clearing sped she; naught was there
But solitude and moonlight. As she told
Her tale I shuddered. In my ear again
Rang the fierce shriek I heard as sunset glowed,
And my flesh crept with horror. Up we trod
Our mountain snow-path speedily. At length,
To where the narrow opening in the woods
Led from the road, we came. 'T was at this spot
I stood, and watched the form and flashing axe
Of him, the lost. We passed within. The moon
Threw on the little clearing a full flood
Of radiance. There the crusted wood-pile stood;
There was the walnut with a ghastly notch
Deep in its heart. A ledge of rock rose up
Beside the wounded tree, and at its base
A space of blackest hue proclaimed a chasm.
No life was stirring on the brilliant waste;
The trees rose like a wall on every side
But where the ledge frowned darkly. As I checked
My footsteps at the half-hewn walnut, drops
Thick sprinkled round--the snow stamped down--an axe
Lying upon the high wreathed roots, my gaze,
As with a charm, arrested. From this spot
Large prints and a broad furrow stretched along
To the black chasm within the rocky ledge.
We clustered round the mouth. A low, deep growl
Came from the depths. Two orbs of flashing fire
Glared in the darkness. Brace, the hunter, aimed
His rifle just between the flaming spots,
And fired. Fierce growls and gnashings loud of teeth
Blent with the echoes, and then all was still.
The spots were seen no more. A few had brought
Splinters of pine for torches, and the flint
Supplied the flame. With one hand grasping tight
A hatchet keen, the other a bright torch,
The dauntless hunter ventured, with slow steps,
Within the cavern. Soon a shout we heard,
And Brace appeared, with all his giant strength
Dragging a lifeless panther. In again
He passed, and then brought out a human form,
Mangled and crushed. A shriek pealed wild and high,
And, swooning, sank the wife upon the snow,
Beside the dead. With silent, deep-felt awe
We bore both to the hut. A sudden cloud
Rose frowning from the north, and deep and fierce
Howled the loosed tempest. From her death-like swoon,
Roused by our care, the hapless wife poured out
Her cries and wailings. Through the livelong night
We heard her moans and screams and ravings wild,
Blending with all those stern and awful tones
That the scourged forest yields. But morning dawned,
And brought the widowed and the broken heart
The peace of death. Beside the lonely hut,
Two graves were opened in the frozen snow,
And silence then fell deeply on the spot.
No more the smoke curled up. No more the axe
Rang in the mountain; and a few short years
Leveled the cabin with the forest-earth,
Midst spreading bushes, fern and waving grass.

INNOCENCE.

Let me, lamb-like, share caresses,
From thy hand that knows not stain;
Flowers that woo, the smile that blesses,
Hours that pass and leave no pain!

Be with me in sleeping, waking;
Be with me in toil and rest;
Living, thine; and, life forsaking,
Let me slumber on thy breast!

A DRAMA OF REAL LIFE.

(IN A LETTER FROM N. P. WILLIS TO THE EDITOR OF GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.)

TO GEO. R. GRAHAM, ESQ.
_New York, December_ 1, 1847.

DEAR SIR,--By to-night's mail should go to you a
piece of mental statuary, which is yet in a marble
block of the reluctant quarry of my brain--due to
you by agreement on the first of December, one
unconceived tale! But though we do so strangely
bargain the invisible wares of the imagination,
deliverable, like merchandize, on a certain day,
the contractor is still liable to the caprices of
the world he trades from, and your order on me for
fancy yet undug, must, I fear, be protested. You
would not believe me if I were to tell you
literally why. But the truth is that I, and a
certain cave (mentioned by Humboldt, on the banks
of the Oronookoo, which he calls a "subterranean
organ,") can only give out music in certain states
of the weather. With the dry, sharp, icy north wind
of the last few days, I could no more write than I
could supply electricity to Morse's wire.

But--no failure is _quite_ twenty shillings in the
pound. What say you to the assets? The statue will
not be forth coming--but will you have the model,
after which the undug block was to have been
chiseled? Shall I send you the literal truth which
I had intended to drape with imagination--tell the
facts of real life which I had designed to weave
into a story. I shall thus, at least, clear
_yourself_ of the non-fulfillment of the promise of
your pre-advertised contents, and (engaging to send
you a story properly completed for the next number)
shall effect, perhaps, a compromise for my
delinquent punctuality.

This, then, is the thread of literal truth which
was to have run through the fancy-woof of my story.

Some years ago, after a year or two of residence in
different cities of Italy, I found myself very much
at home in Naples. It was an unusually gay
season--the concentration of the rank and fashion
of the floating society of travelers varying
between Rome, Florence, and Naples, very much as it
does, in our country, between the different
watering-places--by caprices that no one can
foresee. The English people of rank, more
particularly, were in very great force; and the
blonde moustaches, so much admired in the
dark-haired South, and the skins of alabaster and
rose, so envied by the brunettes of Italy, abounded
at the balls and in the public places. The king
kept very gay court, the royal entertainments
accessible to all strangers properly introduced,
and the ambassadors and bankers, nobles and wealthy
strangers, seemed to want twice as many nights and
mornings in the week, so conflicting were the balls
and breakfasts, driving-parties and dinners.

As, of course, an unobserved looker-on in scenes of
such brilliant rivalry and display, I had more
attention to spare than most whom I met; and I
soon found myself--eyes, mind, fancy, and
interest, absorbed in one study--a new revelation
of a type of woman. We are accustomed to see the
sex in classes--hundreds of a kind--and find them
sufficiently absorbing as nouns of multitude. It is
probably one of Heaven's principles of human
safety, that women are made in "lots" so like, that
a transfer of a slighted heart, from an unwilling
beauty to some willing likeness of her, safely
vents the volcano. Proportionately dangerous,
however, are those rare women--of whom a man sees,
perhaps, one or two in his life--who are the only
ones of their type and kind; for, out of love for
them, their is no exit but through their hearts.

You are going too fast if you fancy I am about to
record a fruitless passion of my own. Though of
"easy wax," I am not stamped, except by will of the
imprintress; and my only cobweb thread of personal
remembrance is a horseback excursion to Camaldoli,
in which I played the propriety-third to the best
of my discretion. It is necessary to define thus
much, to redeem my estimate of the lady from the
imputation of mere fancy. Had I known her
intimately, or not known her at all, my judgment of
her would be less reliable. In just the position
for untroubled and most favorable observation, I
studied her in silence through that brilliant
season, and laid away her image (as one does
without more than one or two choked-down
aspirations) to people castles in the air, and fill
niches in the temple of dreams.

The foregoing prepares you for a portrait of the
proposed heroine of my story--but that you would
have had, had the story been written. I never could
draw a picture of a woman but from the life, and to
that fictitious tale I should have transferred,
with studied and careful truthfulness, the enamel
portrait burnt in upon my memory, and which you
would have admired my fancy for conceiving. Oh! the
mistake of supposing that we can imagine things
brighter than we have seen with our eyes--that
there is any kingdom of air, visitable by poets,
which is comparable to the glorious world we live
in, with its _some_ women, _some_ sunsets, _some_
strains of music, and _some_ fore-tasted
heaven-thrills of emotion.

The heir to one of the oldest titles of England was
the husband of this lady. The fortunes of his
family had been wasted; and they had lived for a
generation or two in comparative obscurity, when
the present Lord ---- came of age. He had been
educated carefully, but was of great personal
beauty, and I thought when I first saw him, was as
fine a model as I had ever seen of the quiet,
reserved, self-intrenched school of modern English
manners. With his beauty and his title, though with
little or no estate, he had easily married a lady
of fortune--the only daughter of a retired banker.
And this heiress, Lady ----, is the one whose story
I would have told through a veil of fiction.

The Countess of ---- was an unsurpassed horsewoman,
and rode constantly. Her blood-horses had been sent
round by ship from England; and she was always
mounted on an animal whose every fibre seemed
obedient to her thought, and with whose motion
every line of her own tall and slenderly-rounded
person, and every ringlet of her flowing, golden
curls seemed in a correspondence governed by the
very spirit of beauty. She rode with her rein
loose, and her mind apparently absorbed with any
thing but her horse. A turn of her head, or the
pressure of her foot upon his shoulder, was
probably the animal's guidance. But, of an
excessively impassioned nature, she conversed in
the saddle with the expression and gesture of the
most earnest untrammeling of mind, and, in full
speed, as in the repose upon a lounge in a saloon,
she carried away the listener with her
uncalculating and passionate absorption--no
self-possession, however on its guard it might be,
able, apparently, to withstand the enveloping and
resistless influence which she herself was a slave
to. Unconsciousness of every thing in the world,
except the feeling she was pouring from her soul,
seemed the only and every-day condition and law of
her nature; and supreme as she was in fashion of
dress, and style of manner, these seemed matters
learned and lost thought of--she having returned to
nature, leaving her triumphs as a belle to be cared
for by infallible habit. A separate spirit of
light, speaking from the lips of the most
accomplished and best perfected of women--the
spirit, and the form possessed, being each in full
exercise of their best faculties--could scarcely
have conveyed more complete impressions of wondrous
mind, in perfect body, or have blended more
ravishingly, the entireness of heavenly with the
most winning earthly development. She was an
earnest angel, in the person of a self-possessed
and unerringly graceful woman.

I chanced to be looking on, when Prince ----, one
of the brothers of a royal family of central
Europe, was presented to the Countess ----. It was
at a crowded ball; and I observed that, after a few
minutes of conversation with her, he suddenly
assumed a ceremonious indifference of manner, and
went into another room. I saw at once that the
slightness of the attention was an "anchor to
windward," and that, in even those few minutes the
prince had recognized a rare gem, and foreseen
that, in the pursuit of it, he might need to be
without any remembered particularity of attention.
Lady ----- conversed with him with her usual
earnest openness, but started a little, once or
twice, at words which were certainly unaccompanied
by their corresponding expression of countenance;
and this, too, I put down for an assumption of
disguise on the part of the prince. It was natural
enough; with his conspicuous rank, he could only
venture to be unguarded in his attentions to those
for whom he had no presentiment of future intimacy.

That the progress of this acquaintance should
assume for me the interest of a drama--a scene of
it played every night, with interludes every day,
in public drives and excursions--would not be
wonderful to you, could I have drawn the portrait
of the principal performer in it, so that you would
understand its novelty. I had never seen such a
woman, and I was intensely interested to know how
she would bear temptation. The peculiar character
of the prince I easily understood; and I felt at
once, that of all stages of an accomplished man's
progress, he was at the one most dangerous to her,
while, perhaps, no other kind of woman in the world
would have called upon any but very practiced
feelings of his own. He was of middle age, and had
intellect enough to have long anticipated the ebb
of pleasure. With his faculties and perceptions in
full force, he was most fastidious in permitting
himself to enjoy an enthusiasm, to admire, to yield
to, or to embark upon with risk. The admiration of
mere beauty, mere style, mere wit, mere superiority
of intellect in woman, or of any of these combined,
was but a recurrent phase of artificial life. He
had been to the terminus, the farthest human
capability of enjoyment of this, and was now back
again to nature, with his keenest relish in
reserve, looking for such outdoings of art as
nature sometimes shows in her caprices. In the
Countess ---- he recognized at once a rare miracle
of this--a woman whose beauty, whose style, whose
intellect, whose pride, were all abundant, but,
abundant as they were, still all subservient to
electric and tumultuous _sensation_. Her life, her
impulse--the consciousness with which she
breathed--was the one gift given her by Heaven in
tenfold measure, and her impression on those she
expanded to, was like the magnetizing presence of
ten full existences poured into one. The heart
acknowledged it before her--though the reason knew
not always why.

Lord ---- would scarce have been human had he not
loved such a woman, and she his wife. He did love
her--and doubtless loves her at this hour with all
the tenderness of which he could ever be capable.
If they had lived only on their estates in England,
where seclusion would have put up no wall of
concealment to his feelings, she might have drawn
from the open well of his heart, the water for
which her ardent being was athirst. But with the
usage of fashionable life, he followed his own
amusements during the day, leaving the countess to
hers; and in scenes of gayety they were, of course,
still separated by custom; and all she enjoyed of
nature in her rides, or of excitement in society,
was, of course, with others than her husband.
Naples is in the midst of palace-gardens, and of
wonders of scenery--in seeing which love is
engendered in the bosom and brain with tropical
fruitfulness--and Lady ---- could no more have
lived that year in Italy without passionate loving,
than she could have stayed from breathing the
fragrance of the orange blossoms, when galloping
between the terraced gardens of Sorrento.

* * * * *

When abroad, a little more than a year ago, I made
a visit to a friend, whose estate is in the same
county with that of the father of Lady ----, and
between whose park-gates and his extends the
distance of a morning's drive through one of the
loveliest hedged winding-roads of lovely England. A
very natural inquiry was of the whereabout and
happiness of the Countess of ----, whom I had left
at Naples ten years before, and had not been in the
way of hearing of since; and I named her in the gay
tone with which one speaks of the brilliant and
happy. We were sitting at the dinner-table, and I
observed that I had mis-struck a chord of feeling
in the company present, and with well-bred tact,
the master of the house informed me that
misfortunes had befallen the family since the
period I spoke of, and turned the conversation to
another topic. After dinner, I heard from him the
following outline of the story, and its affecting
sequel.

Near the close of the season when Lord ---- was at
Naples, he suddenly left that city and returned
with his wife and their one child to England. To
the surprise of the wondering world, Lady ---- went
to her father's, and Lord ---- to the small estate
of his widowed mother, where they remained for a
while in unexplained seclusion. It was not long
before rumors arrived from Italy, of a nature
breathing upon the reputation of the lady; and soon
after a formal separation took place, Mr. ----, her
father, engaging to leave his whole fortune to the
son of Lord ----, if that nobleman would consent to
give him to the exclusive keeping of his mother.
With these facts ended the world's knowledge of the
parties, the separated pair remaining, year after
year, in absolute seclusion; and Lady ---- never
having been known to put foot beyond the extending
forest in which her home was hidden from view, and
the gates to which were guarded from all entrance,
even of family friends.

It was but a few days before this sequel was
narrated to me, that the first communication had
been made from the Countess of ---- to her
husband. It was a summons to attend, if he wished,
the burial of his only child--the heir of his name,
and the bringer-back, had he lived, of wealth to
the broken fortunes of his title. A severer blow
could hardly have followed the first--for it struck
down heart, pride, and all that could brighten this
world's future. Lord ----came. The grave was made
in a deep grove of firs on the estate of the boy's
mother. There were but three mourners
present--herself, her father, and her husband. The
boy was ten or eleven years old when he died, and
one of the most gifted and noble lads, in mind and
person, that had ever been seen by those who knew
him. On his horse, with his servant behind him, the
young boy-lord was a constant sight of pride and
beauty to the inhabitants of the county, and was
admired and beloved every where he rode in his
daily excursions.

The service was read; the two parents stood side by
side at the grave, while the body was laid in
it--the first time they had met since their
separation, and both in the prime of life, and with
hearts yearning--both hearts, beyond a doubt--with
love, and longing for forgiveness; and when the
earth rang on the coffin, they _parted without
exchanging a word_. The carriage of Lord ----
waited for him in the avenue; and with the expiring
echo of his wheels through that grove of fir-trees,
died all hope and prospect, if any had been
conceived, of a re-union, in grief, of these proud
broken-hearted.

I have told you thus, with literal truth, all that
I could know of this drama of real life; but, of
course, its sketchy outline could be easily filled
out by fancy. Your readers, perhaps, will like to
do this for themselves.
Yours truly,
N. P. WILLIS.

LINES TO ----.

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

Like a cloud of the summer sunset
Gleaming across the blue,
Like a star of the golden twilight
Through the misty evening dew,
Like a strain of heavenly music
Breathed mournfully and low,
Charming the heart to sadness
By its bewildering flow--
Thou camest to my presence
In the far off long-ago.
Thou camest for a moment,
Then fleeted swift away,
As the rosy cloud of sunset
Fades at the close of day,
As the beaming star of twilight
Withdraws its golden ray.
Thou hast past from out my presence
As the songs low cadence dies,
Which the heart seeketh ever,
And evermore it flies.
Oh, in my weary journeying
Come to me yet once more,
While still my footsteps wander
On Time's uncertain shore.
Come to me, oh, sweet vision
Of what my soul has sought,
And with mine once more mingle
Thy far, sky-piercing thought.
Call I in vain thy spirit?
Do I seek thee all in vain?
Shall I never hear thy accent
In music fall again?
Why didst thou cross my pathway,
Oh soul so pure and true?
To fade like the clouds of sunset.
Like the star from the misty blue?

AUTUMNAL SCENERY.

WHAT IS NECESSARY TO THE ENJOYMENT OF NATURE'S BEAUTIES.

BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.

I am not of those who think that a true enjoyment of the beauties of nature, of natural scenery, and natural objects, generally, is a test of the purity of principle or the delicacy of sentiment, any more than I hold that a love of music is essential to domestic, social or political virtue. The cultivation of the eye and the ear--or the capabilities in those organs for cultivation--have more to do with all this than many seem to allow; and men and women of the purest principles, and the highest benevolence, may stand within the loveliest scenes that nature has ever spread out, or may listen to the most delicious music that art has ever prepared and performed, without comprehending the beauties or the excellence of either, or imagining that there is a moral test applied to them in these attractions. Nevertheless, there is an enjoyment in such scenes and such sounds, and those who are permitted to share therein have another life--or such an additional enjoyment added to _that_ of ordinary minds, that they seem to live more, if not longer, in such pleasures than the common allotment; and none, I suspect, will doubt that the indulgence of a taste for natural beauties tends to soften the mind, soothe the passions, and thus elevate the feelings and aspirations.

If I have less of the power of appreciating and enjoying rural sights and rural sounds, if there is vouchsafed to me a _limited_ capability of understanding and delighting in the beauties of the field and wood, of gathering pleasure from the outstretched loveliness of land and stream, still I thank God; and I speak with reverence, I thank God that I have _some_ pleasure in these things; and more than that, I have a certain fixed delight in noticing the enjoyment which the better formed and higher cultivated mind derives from what a good Providence has poured out for the decoration of the earth. Humble as this faculty may be, which is partly exercised through intermediate objects, I find it useful to me, and, still better, I find that it ministers to other pleasures--to enjoy what is lovely is a high and a cultivated talent--the enjoyment of that loveliness with another kindred or more elevated mind is a yet higher attainment, as the performance of _concerted_ music is more difficult and more gratifying than a simple solo.

Rarely within my recollection, and that is as inclusive as the remembrance of almost any around me, rarely has an autumn been more delightful than that which has just closed, in its clear, shining sunlight, or more attractive for its bland and healthful temperature. Not leisure--for that I have little to boast of, or to _fear_. Let my young readers mark that word, _fear_. I am not about to write a homily upon the uses of time and talents, but let me parenthetically note that the gift of enjoying leisure is so rare in the young, that a lack of constant occupation should be rather feared than courted. I do not speak of the danger of flagrant vice, but of a growing propensity to disregard portions of time, because only _portions_ may be necessary to the discharge of admitted duties--the danger is imminent--but not to the young alone. In youth, love of action _may_ employ the leisure to the promotion of vice in age, a tendency to inertness may induce the abuse of the leisure to total inaction. I can hardly imagine any object more unsightly than an idle old man--the dead trunk of a decayed tree, marring the landscape and injuring culture. But I must return. Not leisure, for I have little of that to boast of or fear; not leisure, but a love, a growing love for the partial solitude of the field, and something of an enjoyment of the elevating communion which it leaves, sent me more than once in November last strolling beyond the dusty roads and noisy turnpike in the vicinity of our city. It was, as I have reason to recollect, on the eighteenth of November, that I was wandering observantly, but in deep contemplation, across some of the fields that lie near the road leading from the city to Frankford. It was a lovely day, and every feeling of my heart was consonant to the scene. Ascending a little eminence, I obtained an extensive view. The forest trees had lost their rich garb of mottled beauties, and their denuded limbs stretched out with attenuated delicacy, seemed to streak the distant horizon with darkened lines. On my right the winding Delaware lay stretched out in glassy beauty, and near me, glittering in the sunlight beyond, were a thousand gossamer webs that had survived a recent storm. The fields were unusually green, for the season, as if the year were clothing itself, like an expiring prelate, with its richest habiliments, that its departure might leave the impress of that beauty which comes from its usefulness. I had yielded to the influences of the scene, had allowed my feeling to predominate, and was in the midst of an unwonted abstraction from all ordinary cares and relations, catching something of that state with which the more gifted are indulged, when I was startled by the sound of footsteps upon the carpet-like grass around me.

"Hardly looking for game here?" said the person inquiringly.

"And without dog and gun?" said I.

"There's not much game in these parts," said he.

"And yet I was hunting!" said I. "Hunting pleasure from the prospect."

"I do not derive much pleasure," said my companion, "from such things. Almost all fields are alike to me. Generally they are places for labor, or they lie between my residence and labor, and thus make a toilsome distance."

"But do you not enjoy the pleasure of this scene? Do you not, while looking abroad from some eminence, feel a sensation different from what you experience while walking on the turnpike?"

"Most generally. I think there was once or twice a feeling came over me here which I did not exactly understand."

"And when was that?"

"Always on Sunday morning, as I have been crossing the field to attend service at the church yonder. I could not tell whether it was a sense of relief from ordinary labor, or something connected with the service in which I was about to join; but, certainly, the fields, and woods, and water beyond, had a different appearance, and seemed to affect me differently from their ordinary influence. Perhaps as these feelings are recent, they may have sprung from another cause."

"If the beauties of nature, and the influence of religious aspirations could not account for those feelings which you experienced, I can scarcely tell whence you derived the sensation."

"I suppose that all beauties are not discernable at once, and our sympathies are not all awakened by a single exhibition of what may be productive of delight or sorrow. Whatever of pleasure I have derived from the beauties observable from such places as this, are not primarily referable to my own powers of application, but rather from the lessons of another--lessons derived from a few words, and from constant example."

"And, pray, what _example_ could open to you new beauties in a landscape, or develop attractions in a scene which you had been in the habit of seeing for many years?"

"I do not know that any one has taught me by word and example to see from any point of observation, aught that I had not discerned before, but it is certain that what was unnoticeable became an object of contemplation, and points of the scenery have been made to harmonize by association, when viewed separately, they had little that was attractive.

"A few years since, a young lady, I think of European birth, was brought to live in the house which stands near yonder clump of trees; her situation seemed that of an humble companion to the lady--but her services and her influence made her more than loved. I never saw more affection exhibited than all of the household manifested toward her. I cannot tell you what means she used to acquire such a mastery over the love of all around her, but, though less within the influence of her attractive manners than some others, I yet shared in the general feeling of regard. She was a frequent visiter to a small eminence in this immediate neighborhood, and I often followed her thither, though I was careful not to reach the place until her departure; and then I have gone around as she did, looking at the various points of the scenery, to try to have the enjoyment which was imparted to her from the visits. Once I came when she was here, and met a condescension entirely hidden in kindness; she called my attention to what she designated the numerous beauties of the place, and subsequently I went frequently to the spot to look at what she had pointed out, and I think I occasionally derived some new pleasure from the scene. I am not able now to say whether that pleasure was the result of new capacities to behold beauties, or whether it was consequent upon my respect for her who had imparted the lesson. Perhaps both.

"There was a young man, a relative of Mrs. ----, with whom this lady resided, that came frequently to the house. I never saw a person apparently more winning in his manner, or more delicate in his attentions; and, as all expected, he proposed for marriage to the young woman. It was thought that there would be objections on the part of _his_ relations--and there were; but they came from the gentleman of the house, who plainly declared that the young man was not worthy of the woman he sought. Her heart, it was evident, was concerned; it was whispered, I know not how truly, that the youth had associations in the city unworthy his relations at home. But when do the young and confiding ever regard monitions of this kind. She, whose good sense had restored order to a family that needed direction, and had sustained her against all adverse circumstances among strangers, could not influence her against the pleadings of her own heart. The young man, more than a year since, received a commission, and joined the army at Mexico. He left with her a sealed paper, and his favorite dog. The animal was already most affectionately attached to her, and now became her constant companion. Never did I see an animal so completely devoted to a human being; never was kindness more reciprocated than was that of the companion of her walks; he patiently awaited at the door of the church for the conclusion of the services, and at night held vigils beneath her window. I think the dog, too, must have understood something of the beauty of this scenery; for I have seen him for an hour together standing wistfully beside his mistress, and gazing up into her face, and then not meeting with an encouraging look, stretching his sight far away in the direction of her eyes, as if determined to share with her whatever contributed to her pleasure or her pain.

"Less than four months ago news reached the family of the death of the young man--I do not remember the exact time, or the place of the engagement in which he fell--but his death produced deep sensation in the family generally, but it went to the heart of the young lady. I saw her once or twice on her favorite place in the field, but I dared not approach her--she had no companion but the faithful dog. In two weeks she was confined to her bed--and shortly afterward the family was plunged in new afflictions by her death. I was inquiring of one of the family relative to the particular disease of which she died, and heard it suggested that it might have been a rapid consumption."

"I think not," said a very little girl, who had shared in the affectionate instruction of the deceased.

"And why?"

"Can the heart of a person break to pieces?" asked the child.

"The heart may be broken," I said.

"Then that is it--for I heard mamma tell sister that Miss Mary's heart was broken."

"I have noticed that the death of an affianced one is more severely felt by a woman, as a severe disturbance of affection, than is the death of a husband. And I suppose this comes from the delicacy of a maiden that shrinks from the utterance of a grief which finds vent and sympathy with a widow. I never hear of such a bereavement without deeper sorrow for the survivor's sufferings, than I have for the mourning wife. God help her who's crushed by a grief that she may not openly indulge; who must hide in her bosom the fire that is consuming her life."

The sealed paper was reopened; it contained a rich bequest to the young woman, and with it was a small piece of paper, containing _her_ request to be buried beyond us, whence she had so often contemplated the scene around us. The field was her own property, by the will of the young man. She relinquished all else of his gift. "We buried her _there_. I say _we_--for though my position was far below hers, yet none felt more deeply her loss than those who looked up to admire her. The little paling that surrounds the eminence was erected to keep away the foot of the thoughtless. Shall we go to see the grave?"

I followed the man into the enclosure. The sods which covered the grave of Mary had not yet united; and one or two seemed to be worn, as if they had been treated with some rudeness. I drew the attention of my guide to the abrasion.

"Ah, yes! that is poor Lara's doings," said he. "Poor dog! I looked around for him at the funeral, expecting to see him at the grave, but was disappointed. Every evening since the funeral, just before the sun goes down, and often in the morning--the hours in which Miss Mary was wont to come hither to enjoy the scenery--poor Lara has been seen stretched out upon the grave, uttering his grief in a low wail. I scarcely believe that he will recover from the loss he has sustained; and others might be equally unconsolable, if they did not feel that it is better with Mary now than when she lived."

When I had looked downward to the grave for a time, and almost into it, that I might the better contemplate the character and end of her who rested there, my companion drew my attention to the beauty of what was around us.

"Miss Mary loved to stand here," said he, "and enjoy the rich sunset. Mark, now, how richly its beams are thrown from the windows of yonder Gothic house beyond the turnpike, and on the new dwelling a little this side. A mellowness is in that light, to soothe where it falls; and the whispering of the southern wind that we now hear, is like the cries of spirits communing with their good sister below us."

"You seem now to enjoy the scenery, my friend," said I, "as much as almost any other person."

"Sir, I have felt, of late, a growing fondness for this place and this scene; and last Sunday, when returning from the afternoon service, I stood here almost wrapt in the pleasure which the place afforded to the departed one, and I have since come to believe that there is something more than book-knowledge necessary to the relish of natural scenery."

"May I ask what that _something_ is, which you think assists us to appreciate the beauty of a landscape?"

"Why, sir--perhaps I am wrong, you certainly know better than I--but, it appears to me, my growing sense of enjoyment in this scene is due to the memory of the virtues of her whom I constantly connect with this place, and that enjoyment is fixed and augmented by the frame of mind in which I go to, or come from the place of worship."

"If I understand you correctly, you have come to the conclusion that to enjoy nature, our hearts must be touched, and our affections mellowed by earthly sympathies, and our views expanded and elevated by a sense of religious duties."

"Something like that, sir."

"And is not that what is understood by 'LOVE TO GOD, AND LOVE TO MAN?'"

POETRY.--A SONG.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

To me the world's an open book
Of sweet and pleasant poetry;
I read it in the running brook
That sings its way toward the sea:
It whispers in the leaves of trees,
The swelling grain, the waving grass.
And in the cool fresh evening breeze
That crisps the wavelets as they pass.

The flowers below--the stars above--
In all their bloom and brightness given,
Are, like the attributes of love,
The poetry of earth and heaven.
Thus Nature's volume, read aright,
Attunes the soul to minstrelsy,
Tinging life's clouds with rosy light,
And all the world with poetry.

THE MOURNER.

BY THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.

Why is thy visage o'ershadowed by gloom,
Are Nature's enchantments not scattered around,
Has the rose lost her fragrance, the tulip her bloom,
Has the streamlet no longer its mild, soothing sound?
Say what are thy pleasures--or whence is thy bliss,
In thy breast can no movements of sympathy rise?
Canst thou glance o'er a region so lovely as this,
And no bright ray of pleasure enliven thine eyes?
Where are there fields more delightfully drest,
In a verdure still fresh'ning with every shower?
Here are oak-covered mountains, with valleys of rest,
Richly clothed in the blossoming sweet scented flower.
Why lingerest thou ever to gaze on that star,
Sinking low in the west e'er the twilight is o'er?
While the shadows of evening extending afar
Bid the warbler's blithe carol be poured forth no more,
Oh why when the Sabbath bell's pleasantest tone
Wakes the soul of devotion in song to rejoice,
Are thy features with sorrow o'erclouded alone,
While no sounds but of sadness are heard from thy voice?

Listen, while I tell thee, stranger!
In a brief and hurried measure:
Though my soul drink not of pleasure,
Though mine eyes be sunk in gloom;
Tis not from fear of coming danger,
Nor yet from dread of doom.

The youngest leaves must fall,
When summer beams have ceased to play;
And may not sorrow spread her pall,
When joy, and hope, and love decay?
Earth's loveliest scenes;
The boons of heaven most cherished;
Fields dressed in gladdening greens,
Are drear, when hope has perished:
Spring's beauteousness,
Followed by summer's glory,
May fade without the power to bless,
As doth a dreaméd story.

It gives me peace to gaze at even,
Watching the latest, faintest gleam
Of yon bright traveler of heaven,
Reflected in the silver stream;
For she I love has gently leaned--
While my fond heart with bliss was swelling--
Upon my arm, to see descend
That brilliant star in light excelling.

The chiming bells give joy no more,
Long since the tones have lost their sweetness;
They now but wake me to deplore
The bliss that fled with air-like fleetness.
Blame not my sorrow: chilling pride
Nor clouds my brow nor kills the smile;
For loss of wealth I never sighed,
But all for her I mourn the while.
She was my all, my fairest, dearest, best;
I loved--I lost her--tears may speak the rest.

ELSIE.

BY KATE DASHWOOD.

A young white rose-bud--with its leaves
Just blown apart, and wet with dew--
A fair child in a garland weaves
'Mid glowing flowers of every hue.
She sitteth by the rushing river,
While the soft and balmy air
Scarce stirs the starry flowers that quiver
Amid her sunny hair--
Thou of the laughing eyes! 'mid all
The roses of thy coronal--
Thou'rt fairest of the fair.

Ah, bright young dreamer! may thy heart
In its early freshness ever be
Pure as the leaves--just blown apart--
Of the rose thou'rt wreathing in childish glee.
Ah, well I know those flowers thou'rt twining
For thy fair pale mother dear--
For the love-light in those blue eyes shining
Is shadowed by a tear;
And thy thoughts are now in that dim, hushed room--
With the sad, sweet smile, and the fading bloom--
_Thou'rt all too young to fear._

SONNET TO ----.

The crimson clouds had gathered round the sun,
Sinking full slowly to his nightly rest,
And gilding with a glory all his own
The bannered splendor of the glowing west,
Entranced I gazed upon the gorgeous scene
That thus so fair before my vision lay;
The calm, serene, blue heavens looked out between,
And softly smiled upon retiring day.
All was so beautiful, I could but feel
A shade of sadness that thou wert not nigh,
The radiant glory to behold with me;
And still the thought would o'er my spirit steal,
That all the clouds and mists in my dark sky
Would gather rays of glory, my life's sun, from thee!
C. O.

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.--NO. VIII.

AMERICAN STARLING OR MEADOW-LARK.

This well-known inhabitant of our meadows like the Partridge, is sociable, somewhat gregarious, and partially migratory. The change of country, however, appears to be occasioned only by scarcity of food, and many of them pass the whole winter with us. They may be bought in our markets when snow is on the ground; and in the month of February, Wilson found them picking up a scanty subsistence in the company of the snow-birds, on a road over the heights of the Alleghanies. Its flight, like that of the Partridge, is laborious and steady. Though they collect their food from the ground, they are frequently shot on trees, their perch being either the main branches, or the topmost twigs. At the time of pairing, they exhibit a little of the jealous disposition of the tribe, but his character vindicated by his bravery, and the victory achieved, he retires from his fraternity to assist his mate in the formation of her nest. The flesh of the Meadow-Lark is white, and for size and delicacy, it is considered little inferior to the Partridge. In length, he measures ten and a half inches, in alar extent, nearly seventeen. Above, his plumage, as described by Nuttall, is variegated with black, bright bay, and ochreous. Tail, wedged, the feathers pointed, the four outer nearly all white; sides, thighs, and vent, pale ochreous, spotted with black; upper mandible brown, the lower bluish-white; iris, hazel; legs and feet, large, pale flesh-colour. In the young bird the color is much fainter than in the adult.

This is the Rice and Reed-Bird of Pennsylvania and the Southern States, and the Boblink of New York and New England. He is of little size, but of great consequence, hailed with pleasure by the sportsman and the epicure, and dreaded as worse than a locust by the careful planter. Wilson has treated of him fully, and from his eloquent account we shall endeavor to select a few points in his history worthy of notice. According to his best biographer, then, three good qualities recommend him, particularly as these three are rarely found in the same individual--his plumage is beautiful, his song highly musical, and his flesh excellent. To these he added the immense range of his migrations, and the havoc he commits. The winter residence of this species is from Mexico to the Amazon, from whence they issue in great hosts every spring. In the whole United States, north of Pennsylvania, they remain during the summer, raising their progeny; and as soon as the young are able to fly they collect together in great multitudes, and pour down on the oat-fields of New England. During the breeding season, they are dispersed over the country; but as soon as the young are able to fly, they collect together in great multitudes, like a torrent, depriving the proprietors of a good tithe of their harvest, but in return often supply his table with a very delicious dish. From all parts of the north and western regions they direct their course toward the south, and about the middle of August, revisit Pennsylvania, on their route to winter quarters. For several days they seem to confine themselves to the fields and uplands; but as soon as the seeds of the reed are ripe, they resort to the shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill in multitudes; and these places, during the remainder of their stay, appear to be their grand rendezvous. The reeds, or wild oats, furnish them with such abundance of nutritious food, that in a short time they become extremely fat, and are supposed by some of our epicures to be equal to the famous Ortolans of Europe. Their note at this season is a single chuck, and is heard overhead, with little intermission from morning till night. These are halcyon days for our gunners of all descriptions, and many a lame and rusty gun-barrel is put in requisition for the sport. The report of musketry along the reedy shores of the Delaware and Schuylkill is almost incessant, resembling a running fire. The markets of Philadelphia, at this season, exhibit proofs of the prodigious havoc made among these birds, for almost every stall is ornamented with some hundreds of Reed Birds.