Chapter III (5)

“Absurd,” exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, now more nettled than ever. “Absurd, my dear Mrs. Grey, I wonder you could have patience to listen to such an evident tissue of falsehoods. You could not suppose I would tolerate such a person as you describe.”

“I had no right to suppose them falsehoods,” replied the other quietly, for she was the least bit of a quiz in the world. “I found the lady comfortably seated in Mrs. Leonard’s drawing-room, and conversing familiarly of you as a friend for whom she had the highest esteem. I saw she was rather ill-bred to be sure, but she may be a very good sort of woman for all that you know, and so on the strength of your friendship I invited her to call upon me.”

“Poor Mrs. Grey,” ejaculated Helen, laughing, “she will come of course, and then it will be your turn to be victimized. How could she ever have become known to the Leonards?”

“I shall take care never to meet her,” said Mrs. Armitage, decidedly. “To think of that officious person who insisted upon carrying my traveling bag upon her lap, and constantly annoyed me with offers of services, claiming my acquaintance, indeed. One thing is very certain, she shall never procure an introduction.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said her merry friend, as she rose to take leave; “strange things do happen sometimes. However, I am sorry that I have caused you any annoyance, though I must say I think I have the worst of it.”

So speaking Mrs. Grey departed, and Mrs. Armitage was speedily so deeply engaged in household arrangements, that she forgot for a season the unlooked-for acquaintance of Mrs. Rumsey.

A few days after her return home, Mrs. Armitage called upon Mrs. Leonard, and here again was doomed to hear of Mrs. Rumsey, and the warm friendship that existed between the young scion of the Rumseys and her son Harry, with the decided admiration of the former for her daughter Helen. Poor Mrs. Armitage! she began to think this Mrs. Rumsey was an evil-genius sent to persecute her. She disclaimed all knowledge of her tormentor, and asked Mrs. Leonard how she became known to _her_.

Her friend replied that she had met Mrs. Rumsey at the house of a friend very frequently, and from her apparent familiar acquaintance with many good families, supposed her to be a desirable visiter. She gave her a casual invitation to call, which was immediately accepted, and she had since brought her daughters. They were tall, showy girls, Mrs. Leonard said, and much more presentable than their mother.

Mrs. Armitage denying all knowledge of the family seemed to surprise her friend, as Mrs. Rumsey, to her knowledge, had used her name as a card of introduction to several other persons.

Perplexed and thoroughly annoyed, Mrs. Armitage returned home. This determined claim of friendship from a person who she was very sure must be ill-bred and ridiculous, troubled her not a little.

The Armitage family occupied a high position in society. Mr. Armitage was a man of intelligence and wealth, his mercantile influence was great, and though mingling but little in the gay crowds which his wife and daughter frequented, he was universally sought after and respected. Mrs. Armitage was a refined and elegant woman, nurtured in luxury—she shrunk from any contact with rude, or ill-bred persons, and thoroughly despised the mean-spirited parasites who sought to bask in the influence which her husband’s wealth and her own fashion shed abroad. She was fastidious in her choice of associates, perhaps a little too much so, and consequently her acquaintance was eagerly sought.

Her daughter Helen was, as has been said, a beautiful girl of eighteen, with as much refinement, and less exclusiveness than her mother; a belle in society, and the idol of her father at home. While Harry Armitage, a frank, manly, high-spirited youth, just of age, full of fun, yet the soul of honor, was his mother’s delight and the beau ideal of the ladies.

Truly not to know the Armitages was to argue oneself unknown.

Harry Armitage, who was away on a shooting excursion, did not return home until a few days after his mother, and consequently had heard nothing of the Rumseys. But it so chanced, that on the very morning upon which his mother called upon Mrs. Leonard, he was strolling up one of the principal promenades with a friend, when they met a person whose appearance attracted Harry’s attention.

“Who, in the name of all the tailors, is this walking fashion-plate?” he exclaimed, glancing at the same moment toward a small, slight young man, with very light hair, and a luxuriant buff-colored moustache, who, with an air of ill-attempted ease, came sauntering toward them. He was attired according to the latest mode, his bottle-green “cut-away” displaying a gaudy vest and plaid neckerchief to great advantage, while from beneath his drab pantaloons appeared feet snugly encased in patent-leather pumps and crimson hose.

Harry’s friend looked up, as he replied smiling—“Why, Armitage, don’t you remember your old chum and particular friend, young Rumsey?”

“I can’t say that I do,” replied the other with a smile, as the individual in question passed, with a stare at Armitage and a low bow to his friend. “At least,” he added, “you see he has cut me quite coolly. I don’t think he recognized me any better than I did himself, for I am pretty sure we never met before.”

“Strange, that he should not have known you,” said his companion. “Why, he used your name as a means of introducing himself to me.”

“My name!” ejaculated Harry in surprise. “Impossible—how did it happen?”

“Why, I met him at the tailor’s one day, and as I was waiting to be served, heard him say—‘I think I will have a coat from the same piece as my friend Armitage ordered, I like his taste.’ Of course I turned upon hearing your name, and noticing my inquiring look, he asked—‘Do you know Harry Armitage, sir?’ I bowed assent. ‘Fine fellow,’ said he, ‘an old college chum, and particular friend of mine—his sister Helen is a superb girl. Happy to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He tendered me his card, which bore the name of Samuel Rumsey, Esq., and received mine in exchange. Since then I have met him several times at the theatre and elsewhere, and have been not a little amused at his assumption of fashionable manners, which sit upon him as awkwardly as a dress-coat upon a Turk; but as your friend I have always treated him civilly. I am surprised at your apparent ignorance of each other now.”

“I have been trying to recollect when I ever knew a person by that name,” said Harry, after a pause, “and I remember such a boy at one of the first schools to which I ever went. He was a lazy fellow, who spent all his pocket-money in buying gilded watch-chains and imitation breast-pins, and his leisure time in writing letters directed to himself, purporting to come from fashionable friends in town. I recollect he burnt nearly half his hair off at one time with the curling tongs, and was constantly begging old boot-tops from the elder boys to make straps, which he pinned fast to his pantaloons. We called him ‘gentleman Rumsey,’ a title with which he appeared highly delighted. This person is doubtless the same, though I have never met him since I left school, and why he should claim me as an acquaintance, I know not. Do you know the family?”

“I have seen his sisters,” replied the other, “they are dashing girls, but seemingly infected with the same desire to shine.”

“It is very evident that he did not know me, at least,” said Harry; “if you meet him don’t enlighten him as to my identity, we may have some sport yet.”

Soon after the young men separated, and Harry returned home.

Mrs. Armitage had just concluded a most pathetic account of her morning visit, when Harry entered the room where his mother and sister were seated, and began in his off-hand style an amusing relation of his morning rencontre. When he mentioned the name of Rumsey, his mother lifted her hands with an exclamation of terror, and Helen exclaimed laughing—

“‘Monsieur Tonson come again,’ I declare. Well, Harry, I am wicked enough to rejoice in your share of our annoyance, as perhaps through your restless wits we may find a way to rid ourselves of it. This very morning, when I returned to purchase some more ribbon such as I had to trim my fall bonnet, the milliner said she had sold the last to the Miss Rumseys, who were decided in their choice on being told I had selected the same.”

“What is all this about the Rumseys?” asked Harry. And forthwith his mother and sister proceeded to enlighten him on the subject so far as they knew themselves.

Harry shared fully in the annoyance, and determined to devise some method of punishing this pushing and impertinent family, and to find out who and what they were.

“Who were the Rumseys?” This was a question much easier asked than answered, as all allusion to past years was carefully avoided by the people in question, and moreover, they came from an eastern city. They occupied a stylish house in a fashionable quarter, and lived in a showy manner; spending most of their time in promenading and receiving the visits of those who ventured to call upon them.

The mother was an ignorant, ill-bred, over-dressed woman, who, to judge by her conversation, was intimate with almost every family of note, and who by dint of persevering assiduity had succeeded in gaining the _entrée_ to a few fashionable houses. It was whispered about, to be sure, that a waiter had seen her quietly transfer the card of an _exclusive_ from the card-receiver of the lady she was visiting to her own pocket, and said card was afterward observed occupying a conspicuous place upon her centre-table. But this might have been mere servant’s gossip, and it was scarcely credible that all the cards of distinction that filled her gilded card-racks were obtained in the same way. The supposition that she was known in one circle was the magical spring that opened her way into another, and in this way she endeavored to pick the locks, as it were, of the gates of fashionable society.

The daughters were what men of coarse taste would call “dashing girls that make a fine show.” They were rather tall, with bright dark eyes, brilliant complexions, irregular features, wide mouths, and large feet. Their bonnets were always bent to the last extreme of fashion, and the bright colors they wore were always in striking contrast. They affected the fashionable, and certainly most ungraceful lounge, with decided success, and in their daily promenades received numerous bows from gentlemen of every variety. The son has been already introduced, it need only be added that he excelled his family in forward impertinence, and we have the picture complete.

Such were the Rumseys as they appeared candidates for fashionable distinction. One peep behind the curtain will discover who they were.

Samuel Rumsey, senior, had been a green grocer in an eastern city. He was a thrifty, pains-taking, plain man, who amassed a small fortune by small means. His wife, who was a milliner’s apprentice, never could persuade him to live in any other than the plain manner to which he had always been accustomed. She succeeded, however, in prevailing on him to send his children to fashionable boarding-schools, and upon his death, the delighted widow found herself mistress of her own actions, and a comfortable income. She immediately determined to become a woman of fashion, but finding this impossible in a place where she was known, and which is beside noted for the peculiarly high-bred tone of its aristocracy, the ambitious widow removed to the goodly city of Gotham, where she had understood that a golden key would unlock every avenue to distinction, and where wealth is the only acknowledged sign of caste.

True as this opinion was, (and it has passed into a proverb and a reproach to the great metropolis,) Mrs. Rumsey found some difficulty in making her way. She visited watering-places, and freely used the names of those of standing in her original place of abode. But she found herself regarded with distrust by those whose acquaintance she was most anxious to claim, and thought no subterfuge too mean to gain her desired aim. The _prestige_ of Mrs. Armitage’s friendship she was particularly anxious to secure, and thus followed the family to the watering-place where they were staying, in the hope of accomplishing her designs. Their unexpected departure foiled her plans; but determined not to be baffled, she returned to town in the same cars, and hastened to spread abroad the news of her friend, Mrs. Armitage’s, unexpected arrival. It did not seem to occur to her shallow conception that such bare-faced falsehoods as she found it necessary to tell must eventually be exposed. In her anxiety to accomplish her wishes she lost sight of prudence, and thus hastened the mortifying _dénouement_.

Harry could not discover much of the Rumseys’ history, but he heard enough of their proceedings to justify himself, he thought, in the scheme he had formed for their mortification and exposure. He persuaded his friend to introduce him to young Rumsey by his middle name, which was Lee, and represented himself as a young stranger who was anxious to become acquainted in the city. His friend feared exposure, but Harry was sure of never meeting the Rumseys in his circle, and so persisted in his design.

Young Mr. Lee was accordingly introduced, and received with patronizing condescension. His fine appearance and elegant manners could not fail of making a favorable impression, and the family contented themselves with the remark, that if they were harboring a nobody, he was at least a very presentable one.

Harry said nothing at home regarding his plans, but visited the family frequently. He could scarcely forbear discovering himself when he heard his mother and sisters mentioned in the most familiar terms, and one of the Miss Rumseys would occasionally say—

“I certainly must introduce you to my lovely friend, Helen Armitage; you will be struck with her, I am sure.”

On one occasion Harry could not forbear pointedly replying that he should claim her promise upon the first opportunity. He amused himself by observing their adroitness in parrying questions about their supposed acquaintances, while he became thoroughly disgusted at the deliberate falsehoods which he heard them repeat of persons whom he knew perfectly well, but of whom they had no knowledge further than a chance introduction, or perhaps only knew by sight. When he thought them sufficiently committed by their deceptions, he prepared for the grand finale.

Harry’s friend and confidant in this affair was Mrs. Grey, with whom he was an especial favorite, and who, beside her innate love of mischief and desire to assist her young friend, had her own private reasons for desiring to mortify the Rumseys. They had annoyed her exceedingly by the perseverance with which they followed up her chance invitation to Mrs. Rumsey. That lady promptly accepted the invitation, and although her visit was not returned, yet came again, introducing her daughters, and running over her list of fashionable friends with all the volubility of a parrot. Go where she would, poor Mrs. Grey was doomed to meet her tormentor, and at every turn found herself already heralded by her indefatigable follower. She fully sympathised now in the annoyance of her friend Mrs. Armitage, but concealing her vexation waited until the proper season for crushing this impertinence effectually.

Many moments of merriment did the two conspirators enjoy over the contrivances to which this foolish family subjected themselves. And Harry described the patronising air of Samuel Rumsey, Esq., and his adroit avoidance of those to whom he had promised Mr. Lee an introduction, with infinite glee. It was fortunate for Harry that his companion did so, or the ruse might have been discovered too early. He frequently heard himself mentioned as a particular and intimate associate, and often felt like punishing the impostor who thus made mention of himself and family.

It was decided, at length, that Mrs. Grey should give a _soirée_, to which the Rumseys were to be invited. She was afraid they would decline the invitation, fearing to meet the people of whose acquaintance they had falsely boasted; but Harry, who knew them better, was sure they would not lose so favorable an opportunity of an introduction into the society they aspired to, and so prevailed upon his friend to send the invitations.

The Rumseys received Mrs. Grey’s card of invitation with delight. No scruples were felt, no fear of exposure entertained. The mother had repeated the names of fashionable people so often, that she began to believe she really knew them, and the daughters trusted to their address in avoiding any mortifying _contre-temps_, while the son was wholly absorbed in the one idea of the great sensation his stylish appearance would produce. An acceptance was sent, dress-makers, milliners, and tailors put in immediate requisition, and on the appointed evening, fluttering in lace and rustling in silks, the Rumseys were ushered into Mrs. Grey’s elegant and crowded apartments.

After due presentation to the hostess, the Rumseys looked about them and found themselves surrounded by entire strangers. There were a very few, and among them Mrs. Leonard, upon whom Mrs Rumsey had called, and several whom they knew by sight only. As the group were debating which way to turn their steps, Mrs. Grey advanced, and addressing Mrs. Rumsey, said—

“You will meet many of your friends here this evening, Mrs Rumsey. There are Mrs. Starsbury and the Floyds, have you spoken to them yet? Shall I walk over with you?”

Now these ladies Mrs. Rumsey had only heard of through her milliner, and had no claim whatever to their acquaintance; she therefore replied that she was waiting an opportunity of speaking to her friend, Mrs. Leonard, who was engaged in conversation with another lady.

“Oh yes!” said the provoking Mrs. Grey, “now she is looking this way, she evidently recognizes you, as does her friend.” So saying she escorted her visiter toward the group.

Mrs. Leonard replied civilly to Mrs. Rumsey’s eager salutation, but the lady at her side maintained a dignified silence.

“My dear Mrs. Mornton,” cried Mrs. Grey, “don’t you recognize your friend, Mrs. Rumsey? I have heard her talk of you so frequently.”

“Who is Mrs. Rumsey?” replied the lady, who was very exclusive, with a well-bred stare. “I do not know her.”

“Not know her! Oh, I understand—some little disagreement,” said Mrs. Grey, in an undertone.

“Not at all,” answered the other decidedly; “the lady is an utter stranger, believe me.”

Mrs. Grey looked around, but Mrs. Rumsey had disappeared.

Meanwhile the young ladies met several gentlemen whom they knew slightly, and who relieved their awkwardness by a polite attention. They were evidently surprised, however, to see troops of ladies constantly passing, among whom were many whose acquaintance the Miss Rumseys had claimed, but none of whom recognized or noticed them in any way. As for Samuel Rumsey, Esq., he was quite shocked at the indifference with which his attentions and remarks were received, and Mrs. Rumsey now joining her daughters, their position was becoming very unpleasant, when they beheld the quondam Mr. Lee talking with their hostess. Surprise at seeing him was mingled with satisfaction at the appearance of one person, at least, to whose acquaintance they had a real claim. But their astonishment was increased upon beholding the general welcome he received from those to whom they supposed him an utter stranger.

He soon approached them, and after a few remarks observed that he had been introduced to several of their friends, and offered his arm for a promenade. This offer was gladly accepted by the young ladies.

“Here are the Miss Floyds,” said Harry, pausing before two elegant looking girls; “doubtless they will be delighted to see you.”

The Miss Rumseys colored—they had seen the Miss Floyds at their milliners. They bowed in confusion, and Harry mischievously added:

“The Miss Rumseys have not met you before in a long time, I presume.”

“I do not remember the name,” replied the eldest Miss Floyd politely; “where had we the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Rumsey?”

“We met at Mrs. Leonard’s,” answered one of the young ladies, determined to brave it out, and with an affected air of indifference she gave place to a group who now advanced, and remarking to Harry that “they were proud girls,” moved away.

Harry replied with a quizzical look, and the young ladies fearful of another mortification, complained of the heat, and took their seats near where Mrs. Armitage was sitting. Mrs. Rumsey was upon a sofa at their side talking energetically to a strange lady, who, like many others had been, was deceived by her apparent acquaintance with persons of standing, and who was entertained by the personal chit-chat which she retailed.

Meanwhile the rebuff of Mrs. Mornton, and the confusion of the young ladies upon meeting the Miss Floyds was whispered about, and the question of “Who are the Rumseys?” was passed from one to another of those whose names had been freely used by the family.

Harry stationed himself behind the young ladies, and out of his mother’s view, then bending low—

“Who is that beautiful girl with a camelia in her hair?” he asked, pointing to his sister, who stood near her mother with a group of admirers about her.

“That is Helen Armitage,” replied Miss Rumsey, proud of her knowledge of the belle of the evening.

“I shall claim your promise of an introduction,” answered Harry, “she does not appear at all proud.”

The sisters looked confused, and Harry pitying their evident uneasiness almost repented of his scheme, when he heard his mother’s name coupled with that of “dear Helen,” mentioned in the most familiar manner by Mrs. Rumsey, who was enlarging upon the delightful summer excursion which she had so much enjoyed with her dear friend Mrs. Armitage. Harry could bear this no longer, but rising, addressed Mrs. Rumsey.

“My dear madam, your daughters have kindly promised me an introduction to Miss Armitage, but as the young lady is engaged at present, may I beg your kind offices in making me acquainted with her mother, who it seems is your intimate friend, and I will trust to my own address in winning her daughter’s suffrage.”

Just then Mrs. Grey, accompanied by young Rumsey, approached. She had heard Harry’s speech, and Mrs. Rumsey finding herself completely cornered, and elated by her confidential conversation with the strange lady, who was evidently a guest of note, determined by a bold stroke to master her dilemma. She accordingly, despite her daughters’ appealing looks, rose, and accompanied by Harry and her son, approached Mrs. Armitage, and dropping a profound courtesy, said very rapidly—

“My dear Mrs. Armitage, you have perhaps forgotten me, as we have not met since last summer, but allow me to present you my son, Mr. Samuel Rumsey, a college chum and companion of your son Henry, they were great friends, I assure you; and this is a young _protégé_ of mine, very desirous to make your acquaintance, Mr. Harry Lee.”

“Armitage!” added Mrs. Grey, who stood at her shoulder.

Mrs. Rumsey looked around in surprise, and Mrs. Armitage with a flushed cheek, rose from her seat, saying haughtily—

“The introduction is altogether valueless, as yourself and son are both entirely unknown to me—and as to this young gentleman,” she added, turning with a displeased air to the ci devant Mr. Lee, “it is scarcely necessary to introduce a son to his mother, though I marvel much at finding him in such society.” And placing her hand upon her son’s arm she moved away with a stately air.

Poor Mrs. Rumsey stood perfectly still in a state of blank bewilderment, while Mrs. Grey exclaimed—

“How could you, Mrs. Ramsey, present Harry Armitage as a stranger to his mother, can it be possible that you had no acquaintance with her after all?”

Mrs. Rumsey looked around, she saw the suppressed smile that hovered on the lips of those about her, and murmuring something about explaining it all on another occasion, hastily left the room. Her daughters had already vanished, and as for Samuel Rumsey, Esq., he was no where.

Mrs. Armitage was some time in becoming reconciled to the stratagem of Mrs. Grey and Harry, but finding herself no longer haunted by the Rumseys, forgave the two conspirators at last.

The Rumseys found it convenient to leave town immediately. Their furniture was sold—the house rented to another tenant, and “The people who knew every body and whom nobody knew,” ceased to be talked of or remembered.

But many hundred miles away, in another state, the Rumseys still flourish, and occasionally boast of their charming friend Harry Armitage, and the elegant Mrs. Grey.

Who that mingles in the harlequin crowd of this jostling, restless world, has not known one person at least who might belong to the Rumseys?

* * * * *

EDEN.

BY JOHN A. STEIN.

Proudly down the western mountains
Rolls the monarch of the skies,
And the heavy clouds around him
In a craggy archway rise—
Seeming, with their rugged edges,
In a molten glory bright,
Glowing portals to a region
Bathed in Eden’s golden light.

And as downward from the headland
On the wooded vale I gaze,
I may view the sunbeam fainting
On the forest’s bluish haze—
And, in bronzéd lustre winding,
Mark the bright Swatara glide,
With the trees like joyous pilgrims
Flocking by on every side.

And I hear the vesper warbling
Of the wood-birds ’mid the trees—
And I breathe the odorous incense
Of the flow’rets of the leas—
And I hear the reapers singing
’Mid the nodding yellow grain,
Till the universal gladness
Wakes a rapture in my brain.

And a host of blesséd memories,
Long unthought-of, burst their trance—
And in fairy garb around me
Weave a wild, fantastic dance—
Weave a glad and restless measure
To the heart’s accordant beat,
Circling merrily around it
With their airy, agile feet.

To my soul they sing a yearning
They at times have sung before—
“Oh! that upward through the ether
I in ecstasy could soar—
Burst the shackles which confine me
To this slavish earth, and fly
With my tinted wings the ranger
Of the gleaming evening sky.”

And responsive to the cadence,
’Neath inspired Fancy’s spell,
With its fringéd wings expanding,
Leaps my spirit from its cell;
And above it hovering, whispers,
In the golden sunset light,
“Oh! for one to share the rapture
Of my Eden-seeking flight.”

By the cloud-arch bounded radiance
Of the regions of the blest—
By the empress star that gleams above,
That cloudy archway’s crest—
By the gladness of the earth beneath—
The loveliness above—
I invoke thee, and entreat thee,
Glorious spirit of my Love!

Thou art with me, oh, my idol!
Thou art trembling by my side—
And with rustling pinions crossing,
Through the lambent air we glide.
Through the glowing arch before us
Let us seek the Eden-land—
We are pilgrims of the Beautiful,
The Happy, and the Grand.

* * * * *

JANUARY.

In the illuminated calendars prefixed to old Romish Missals, January is frequently represented as a man carrying faggots for burning, or a woodman’s axe, shivering and blowing his fingers. Modern artists and poets represent Winter as a feeble old man—a type of the pale “descending year.” Against this idea a celebrated writer thus warmly protests:—

Talk not of Winter as a dotard old!
Gray-haired and feeble, palsied every limb,
‘A withered branch his sceptre:’ ’tis a whim
He well may laugh to scorn; a warrior bold,
Girded with strength is he! Asleep—awake—
He is all energy to ear and sight;
He bids the winds go forth, and forests quake,
Like flowers before gay Summer’s fresh’ning gale;
He doth unchain the floods, and, in their might,
Adown the hills they rush, and through the vale,
With deafening clamor, till they reach the main.

The Romans dedicated this portion of the year to the heathen god Janus, from whom it derives its name. Our Saxon ancestors gave it the name of _wolf-monath_, or wolf-month, because the wolves, which anciently infested the British forests, impelled by hunger, at this season descended from their accustomed haunts and attacked the domestic animals, and even man himself, when the inclemency of the weather had destroyed or put to flight their usual prey. Such scenes are now unknown in Great Britain. Thomson describes the dire descent of a troop of such monsters from

The shining Alps,
And wavy Apennines and Pyrenees,
——By wintry famine roused:
Cruel as death, and hungry as the grave,
Burning for blood!—bony, and gaunt, and grim!
Assembling wolves in raging troops descend;
And, pouring o’er the country, bear along,
Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow.
All is their prize.
Rapacious at the mother’s throat they fly,
And tear the screaming infant from her breast,
E’en beauty, force divine! at whose bright glance
The generous lion stands in softened gaze,
Here bleeds, a hapless, undistinguished prey.

In this inclement month, the feeble rays of the sun are rarely felt, the smaller rivers and ponds are frozen over, and sometimes a strong and sudden frost converts the gliding streams into blocks of solid ice.

An icy gale, oft shifting o’er the pool,
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career
Arrests the bickering storm.
Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects
A double noise; while, at his evening watch,
The village dog deters the nightly thief;
The heifer lows; the distant waterfall
Swells in the breeze; and with the hasty tread
Of traveler, the hollow-sounding plain
Shakes from afar.
It freezes on
Till Morn, late rising o’er the drooping world,
Lifts her pale eye, unjoyous. Then appears
The various labor of the silent Night:
Prone from the dripping eave and dumb cascade,
Whose idle torrents only seem to roar;
The pendent icicle, the frost-work fair,
Where transient hues and fancied figures rise;
Wide-spouted o’er the hill, the frozen brook,
A livid tract, cold gleaming o’er the morn.

How strikingly beautiful is the appearance of the hoar frost, which clothes the trees in crystals, which sparkle like the most brilliant gems. Well might Howitt exclaim, as he gazed on the gorgeous effects of its incomparable loveliness,

What dream of beauty ever equalled this!
What visions of my boyhood do I miss,
That are not here restored! All splendors pure;
All loveliness, all graces that allure;
Shapes that amaze; a Paradise that is—
Yet was not—will not in few moments be;
Glory from nakedness, that playfully
Mimics with passing life each summer boon,
Clothing the ground, replenishing the tree,
Weaving arch, bower, and delicate festoon,
Still as a dream—and, like a dream, to flee!

The inclemency of the season is shown by its effects on animals, particularly on the numerous tribes of birds. As the cold advances, they become bold by want, and fearlessly approach the habitations of man. The little snow-birds, as they are commonly called, crowd into the farm-yards, and at the barn-doors pick their scanty fare from the chaff and straw. Robins and thrushes in flocks descend from the tops of trees, and frequent the warm manured fields in the neighborhood of towns. Snipes, woodcocks, wild ducks, and other water-fowl, are forced from the frozen marshes, and obliged to seek their food about the rapid streams which are yet unfrozen.

As the cold grows more intense, various kinds of sea-fowl quit the bleak open shores, and ascend the rivers, where they offer a prey to the fowler. Cowper thus beautifully paints the sufferings of the feathered tribes:—

How find the myriads that in summer cheer
The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs,
Due sustenance, or where subsist they now?
Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm is safe
Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs
Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns
That feed the thrush, (whatever some suppose,)
Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.
The long protracted rigor of the year
Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and holes
Ten thousand seek an unmolested end,
As instinct prompts; self-buried there they die.

And Burns, with true poetic sympathy for the sufferings of all created things, while listening to the stormy terrors of a winter’s night, thus apostrophizes the feathered songsters of the grove:—

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing,
That in the merry months o’ spring
Delighted me to hear thee sing—
What comes o’ thee?
Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing,
An’ close thy e’e?

Yet amid all these indications of the severity of the season, there are pleasing circumstances which sometimes occur. In the prairies of our western world, the song of the prairie-thrush is heard occasionally ushering in the new year. This is the most early songster in that part of the world, which, sitting on the top of some high bending shrub, in showery weather, as he rides to and fro with the breezes, exerts his throat in loud, uninterrupted strains, which has gained for him the appellation of the storm-bird.

In this month the small wren of the prairie sings melodiously as it hops from reed to reed in search of food. If we examine the plants at this season of the year, we perceive the hand of the Creator, in his wise protection of what he intends for the happiness of his children. Those plants called herbaceous, which die down to the root every autumn, are safely concealed under ground, preparing their new shoots to burst forth when the earth is softened by spring. Shrubs and trees, which are exposed to the open air, he has closely wrapped in a covering sufficient to protect them from the most severe weather. The buds are protected in their hard-coated calyx to secure their forthcoming beauty from decay; if one of those buds be carefully opened, it is found to consist of young leaves rolled together, within which are even all the blossoms in miniature, which are afterward intended to delight our eyes, or probably to refresh by their fragrance our senses. As that great and celebrated naturalist, Cuvier, would often say to his pupils, “Show me a botanist who is a skeptic, and I will show you an idiot. An infidel naturalist is a _rara avis_ I have never yet met with.”

This gloomy month is, however, not altogether without flowers, for now the _Heleborus fœtidus_, and various mosses blossom in our woods, and fructification goes on below a depth of snow. One of the most remarkable products of the season are the white berries of the mistletoe. This plant, which was almost worshiped by the Druids as a sacred emblem and decoration of their domestic hearths, during the festival of Christmas, is chiefly remarkable for the peculiarity of its growth—being always found adhering to and deriving its nourishment from the juice of some tree, and never attached to the earth. It flowers early in the year, but its berries do not make their appearance till December. They are the food of non-migrating birds of the most hardy kinds; the plant is principally found attached to the apple-tree, but sometimes, though rarely, on some others; it is least frequently found on the oak, on which its occurrence is considered a curiosity by botanists.

We have, however, in the month of January, occasionally, days which we, for the moment, regard as of exceeding beauty, because, perhaps, of the contrast between them and seasonable weather amidst which they occur. The sun shines bright and warm, the gnat is tempted forth from its secret dormitory, and we are apt to forget that the winter is not yet “past and gone.” The morrow recalls us to a full sense of our position in the scale of the seasons—the sky is black and threatening, or a pelting storm of snow and sleet so alters the fair face of nature, that we are glad once more to take refuge from her frowns amid the delights of the social hearth.

The amusements of sliding, skating, and other pastimes on the ice, give life to this dreary season; and during the continuance of our long frosts, armies of skaters of all ages may be seen almost equal to the skaters of Wilna, where the peasant girl frequently skates sixteen miles to market to dispose of her basket of eggs, which she carries on her head.

The opening and the close of the year each afford topics and occasion for mournful meditation. Who is he, on taking a view of the past, but would gladly recall many words and actions which at the moment of utterance were thought to be correct, or actions for which he would gladly make restitution? The following reflections are very appropriate:

“I stood between the meeting years,
The coming and the past;
And I asked of the future one—
Wilt thou be like the last?

For sorrow, like a phantom, sits
Upon the last year’s close;
How much of grief, how much of ill,
In its dark breast repose!

I think on many a wasted hour,
And sicken o’er the void;
And many darker are behind,
On worse than naught employed.

Oh vanity! alas, my heart!
How widely hast thou strayed;
And misused every golden gift,
For better purpose made!

I think on many a once loved friend,
As nothing to me now;
And what can mark the lapse of time
As does an altered brow?

Thus thinking of the meeting years,
The coming and the past;
I needs must ask the future one—
Wilt thou be like the last?“

* * * * *

THE LIGHT OF LIFE.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

In times of joy, when pleasure’s glow
Sends through the heart a rapturous thrill;
In hours of care and mournful wo,
When all is anguish, pain and ill:

From the blest volume of God’s word.
The _light of life_ shines bright and clear,
Awaking praise for good conferred,
And bidding grief find comfort there.
CLARA.

* * * * *

THE LIGHT OF LIFE. ENGRAVED BY T. B. WELCH EXPRESSLY FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.]

* * * * *

ABOUT CRITICS AND CRITICISM.

BY THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.

Our most analytic, if not altogether our best critic, (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, excepted,) is Mr. _William A. Jones_, author of “The Analyst.” How he would write elaborate criticisms I cannot say; but his summary judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In fact, his papers on _Emerson_ and on _Macaulay_, published in “Arcturus,” are better than merely “profound,” if we take the word in its now desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and just:—as summaries, leaving nothing to be desired.

Mr. Whipple has less analysis, and far less candor, as his depreciation of “Jane Eyre” will show; but he excels Mr. Jones in sensibility to Beauty, and is thus the better critic of Poetry. I have read nothing finer in its way than his eulogy on Tennyson. I say “eulogy”—for the essay in question is unhappily little more:—and Mr Whipple’s paper on Miss Barrett, was _nothing_ more. He has less discrimination than Mr. Jones, and a more obtuse sense of the critical office. In fact, he has been infected with that unmeaning and transparent heresy—the cant of critical Boswellism, by dint of which we are to shut our eyes tightly to all autorial blemishes, and open them, like owls, to all autorial merits. Papers thus composed may be good in their way, just as an impertinent _cicerone_ is good in _his_ way; and the way, in either case, may still be a small one.

Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,” tells us that Zoilus once presented Apollo with a very caustic review of a very admirable poem. The god asked to be shown the beauties of the work; but the critic replied that he troubled himself only about the errors. Hereupon Apollo gave him a sack of unwinnowed wheat—bidding him pick out all the chaff for his pains.

Now this fable does very well as a hit at the critics; but I am by no means sure that the Deity was in the right. The fact is, that the limits of the strict critical duty are grossly misapprehended. We may go so far as to say that, while the critic is _permitted_ to play, at times, the part of the mere commentator—while he is _allowed_, by way of merely _interesting_ his readers, to put in the fairest light the merits of his author—his _legitimate_ task is still, in pointing out and analyzing defects and showing how the work might have been improved, to aid the general cause of Letters, without undue heed of the individual literary man. Beauty, to be brief, should be considered in the light of an axiom, which, to become at once evident, needs only to be distinctly _put_. It is _not_ Beauty, if it require to be demonstrated as such:—and thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work, is to admit that they are _not_ merits altogether.

When I say that both Mr. Jones and Mr. Whipple are, in some degree, imitators of Macaulay, I have no design that my words should be understood as disparagement. The style and general conduct of Macaulay’s critical papers could scarcely be improved. To call his manner “conventional,” is to do it gross injustice. The manner of Carlyle _is_ conventional—with himself. The style of Emerson is conventional—with himself _and_ Carlyle. The style of Miss Fuller is conventional—with herself and _Emerson_ and Carlyle that is to say, it is a triple-distilled conventionality:—and by the word “conventionality,” as here used, I mean very nearly what, as regards personal conduct, we style “affectation”—that is, an assumption of airs or _tricks_ which have no basis in reason or common sense. The quips, quirks, and curt oracularities of the Emersons, Alcots and Fullers, are simply Lyly’s Euphuisms revived. Very different, indeed, are the _peculiarities_ of Macaulay. He has his mannerisms; but we see that, by dint of them, he is enabled to accomplish the extremes of unquestionable excellences—the extreme of clearness, of vigor (dependent upon clearness) of grace, and very especially of thoroughness. For his short sentences, for his antitheses, for his modulations, for his climaxes—for every thing that he does—a very slight analysis suffices to show a distinct reason. His manner, thus, is simply the perfection of that justifiable rhetoric which has its basis in common-sense; and to say that such rhetoric is never called in to the aid of _genius_, is simply to disparage genius, and by no means to discredit the rhetoric. It is nonsense to assert that the highest genius would not be benefited by attention to its modes of manifestation—by availing itself of that Natural Art which it too frequently despises. Is it not evident that the more intrinsically valuable the rough diamond, the more gain accrues to it from polish?

Now, since it would be nearly impossible to vary the rhetoric of Macaulay, in any material degree, without deterioration in the _essential_ particulars of clearness, vigor, etc., those who write _after_ Macaulay have to choose between the two horns of a dilemma:—they must be weak and original, or imitative and strong:—and since imitation, in a case of this kind, is merely adherence to _Truth_ and _Reason_ as pointed out by one who feels their value, the author who should forego the advantages of the “imitation” for the mere sake of being erroneously original, “_n’est pas si sage qu’il croit_.”

The true course to be pursued by our critics—justly sensible of Macaulay’s excellences—is _not_, however, to be content with tamely following in his footsteps—but to outstrip him in his own path—a path not so much his as Nature’s. We must not fall into the error of fancying that he is _perfect_ merely because he excels (in point of style) all his British cotemporaries. Some such idea as this seems to have taken possession of Mr. Jones, when he says:

“Macaulay’s style is admirable—full of color, perfectly clear,
free from all obstructions, exactly English, and as pointedly
antithetical as possible. We have marked two passages on Southey
and Byron, so happy _as to defy improvement_. The one is a sharp
epigrammatic paragraph on Southey’s political bias:

‘Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He
judges of a theory or a public measure, of a religion, a
political party, a peace or a war, as men judge of a
picture or a statue, by the effect produced on his
imagination. A chain of associations is to him what a
chain of reasoning is to other men; and what he calls
his opinions are, in fact, merely his tastes.’

The other a balanced character of Lord Byron:

‘In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his
character, in his very person, there was a strange union
of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet
and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages
which he possessed over others, there was mingled
something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a
house, ancient, indeed, and noble, but degraded and
impoverished by a series of crimes and follies, which
had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he
succeeded had died poor, and but for merciful judges,
would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had
great intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part
in his mind. He had naturally a generous and tender
heart; but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had
a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the
deformity of which the beggars in the street mimicked.’”

Let us now look at the first of these paragraphs. The opening sentence is inaccurate at all points. The word “government” does not give the author’s idea with sufficient definitiveness; for the term is _more_ frequently applied to the _system_ by which the affairs of a nation are regulated than to the act of regulating. “The government,” we say, for example, “does so and so”—meaning those who govern. But Macaulay intends simply the act or acts called “governing,” and this word should have been used, as a matter of course. The “Mr.” prefixed to “Southey,” is superfluous; for no sneer is designed; and, in _mistering_ a well-known author, we hint that he is not entitled to that exemption which we accord to Homer, Dante, or Shakspeare. “_To_ Mr. Southey” would have been right, had the succeeding words been “government _seems_ one of the fine arts:”—but, as the sentence stands, “_With_ Mr. Southey” is demanded. “Southey,” too, being the principal subject of the paragraph, should precede “government,” which is mentioned only in its relation to Southey. “One of the fine arts” is pleonastic, since the phrase conveys nothing more than “a fine art” would convey.

The second sentence is quite as faulty. Here Southey loses his precedence as the subject; and thus the “He” should follow “a theory,” “a public measure,” etc. By “religion” is meant a “_creed_:”—this latter word should therefore be used. The conclusion of the sentence is very awkward. Southey is said to judge of a peace or war, etc., as men judge of a picture or a statue, and the words which succeed are intended to explain _how_ men judge of a picture or a statue:—these words should, therefore, run thus:—“by the effect produced on _their_ imaginations.” “Produced” moreover, is neither so exact nor so “English” as “wrought.” In saying that Southey judges of a political party, etc., as _men_ judge of a picture, etc., Southey is quite excluded from the category of “men.” “_Other_ men,” was no doubt originally written, but “other” erased, on account of the “other men” occurring in the sentence below.

Coming to this last, we find that “a chain of association_s_” is not properly paralleled by “a chain of reason_ing_.” We must say either “a chain of association,” to meet the “reason_ing_” a “chain of rea_sons_” to meet the “associations.” The repetition of “what” is awkward and unpleasant. The entire paragraph should be thus remodeled.

With Southey, governing is a fine art. Of a theory or a public measure—of a creed, a political party, a peace or a war—he judges by the imaginative effect; as only such things as pictures or statues are judged of by other men. What to them a chain of reasoning is, to him is a chain of association; and, as to his opinions, they are nothing but his tastes.

The blemishes in the paragraph about Byron are more negative than those in the paragraph about Southey. The first sentence needs vivacity. The adjective “opposite” is superfluous:—so is the particle “there.” The second and third sentences are, properly, one. “Some” would fully supply the place of “something of.” The whole phrase “which he possessed over others,” is supererogatory. “Was sprung,” in place of “sprang,” is altogether unjustifiable. The triple repetition of “and,” in the fourth sentence, is awkward. “Notorious crimes and follies,” would express all that is implied in “crimes and follies which had attained a scandalous publicity.” The fifth sentence might be well curtailed; and as it stands, has an unintentional and unpleasant sneer. “Intellect” would do as well as “intellectual powers;” and this (the sixth) sentence might otherwise be shortened advantageously. The whole paragraph, in my opinion, would be better thus expressed:

In Lord Byron’s rank, understanding, character—even in his person—we find a strange union of extremes. Whatever men covet and admire, became his by right of birth; yet debasement and misery were mingled with each of his eminent advantages. He sprang from a house, ancient it is true, and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of notorious crimes. But for merciful judges, the pauper kinsman whom he succeeded would have been hanged. The young peer had an intellect great, perhaps, yet partially unsound. His heart was generous, but his temper wayward; and while statuaries copied his head, beggars mimicked the deformity of his foot.

In these remarks, my object is not so much to point out inaccuracies in the most accurate stylist of his age, as to hint that our critics might surpass him on his own ground, and yet leave themselves something to learn in the moralities of manner.

Nothing can be plainer than that our position, as a literary colony of Great Britain, leads us into wronging, indirectly, our own authors by exaggerating the merits of those across the water. Our most reliable critics extol—and extol without discrimination—such English compositions as, if written in America, would be either passed over without notice or unscrupulously condemned. Mr. Whipple, for example, whom I have mentioned in this connection with Mr. Jones is decidedly one of our most “reliable” critics. His honesty I dispute as little as I doubt his courage or his talents—but here is an instance of the want of common discrimination into which he is occasionally hurried, by undue reverence for British intellect and British opinion. In a review of “The Drama of Exile and Other Poems” by Miss Barrett, (now Mrs. Browning,) he speaks of the following passage as “in every respect faultless—sublime:”

Hear the steep generations how they fall
Adown the visionary stairs of Time,
Like supernatural thunders—far yet near,
Sowing their fiery echoes through the hills!

Now here, saying nothing of the affectation in “adown;” not alluding to the insoluble paradox of “far yet near;” not mentioning the inconsistent metaphor involved in the sowing of fiery echoes; adverting but slightly to the misusage of “like” in place of “as;” and to the impropriety of making any thing fall like _thunder_, which has never been known to fall at all; merely hinting, too, at the misapplication of “steep” to the “generations” instead of to the “stairs”—(a perversion in no degree justified by the fact that so preposterous a figure as _synecdoche_ exists in the school-books:)—letting these things pass, we shall still find it difficult to understand how Mrs. Browning should have been led to think the principal idea itself—the abstract idea—the idea of _tumbling down stairs_, in any shape, or under any circumstances—either a poetical or a decorous conception. And yet Mr. Whipple speaks of it as “sublime.” That the lines narrowly _missed_ sublimity, I grant:—that they came within a step of it, I admit; but, unhappily, the step is that _one_ step which, time out of mind, has intervened between the sublime and the ridiculous. So true is this that any person—that even I—with a very partial modification of the imagery—a modification that shall not interfere with its richly spiritual _tone_—may elevate the passage into unexceptionability. For example:

Hear the far generations—how they crash
From crag to crag down the precipitous Time,
In multitudinous thunders that upstartle
Aghast, the echoes from their cavernous lairs
In the visionary hills!