Chapter I (5)

Here was the paradise of the feathered creatures, here they were all fostered and protected; and Mr. Edwin had attained the mysterious art of taming the wild denizens of the woods as surely and wonderfully, if not quite as rapidly, as did that celebrated Arab horse-leech exert his skill on quadrupeds, whispering in the ear of vicious and hitherto untamable steeds, who immediately became docile and subdued. Even shy and stately swans knew this lonely clearing on the river banks, and frequently came to be fed by Mr. Edwin’s gentle hand; the swans had a nest here among the reeds, and broods of cygnets were reared in this haven of peace. Mr. Edwin had made many beautiful copies of rare birds, which he could not otherwise preserve, the colors being brilliant and true to nature, as well as the size of each specimen; and I felt not a little delighted when he accepted my timid offer of assistance in this branch of his study, for I was afraid that my poor efforts would fall far short of his masterly productions. But Mrs. Priestly re-assured me, and she told Mr. Edwin that he had found a valuable coadjutor, for bird-painting had always been quite a passion with me—a strange taste, perhaps, for a young lady, though I know not why it should be considered more out of the way than copying flowers from nature. However, I exerted myself to the utmost, and succeeded well, for he gave my drawings unqualified approbation, and was eloquent in thanking me. I am sure the amiable recluse read my heart at once, and saw how eagerly and gratefully I availed myself of this opportunity, trifling as it was, of gratifying Mrs. Priestly, to whom I owed so much; for her affection toward Mr. Edwin rendered attentions bestowed on him personally felt and acknowledged by her. This similarity of taste, together with our mutual love and veneration for Mrs. Priestly, induced that kindly communion between Mr. Edwin and myself which afterward ripened into a lasting friendship, cemented by time. He was, indeed, wise unto salvation. Learned not only in this world’s lore, but in that wisdom which maketh not ashamed, he bore his daily cross most meekly, and yet most manfully. Deeply alive to the beautiful, keenly sensitive on all points, tender-hearted and affectionate, he lived alone in the woodland solitude, not, I was convinced, from any morbid disinclination to encounter his kind on account of his personal affliction (he was too humble and good for that), but from some unknown and mysterious cause, some hidden sorrow, which rendered solitude in a retreat like this desirable. At Lodimer, I never gazed on the gay and sparkling river, without remembering that it flowed onward toward the swan’s nest among the reeds. I never gazed on the thick, rich woods, or heard the wood-pigeon’s cooing across the waters at the hushed evening hour, without a sensation of tranquillity and peace stealing over my spirit, as fancy pictured the lonely lodge, the soft twittering around it, and the dense shadows beyond.

I obeyed Mrs. Priestly, and never asked a question concerning Mr. Edwin, but I pondered much on this interesting subject; and whenever my thoughts turned away from the vanities of this world, they always rested with satisfaction on the ornithologist.

As the time drew nigh for our departure to Lovell Castle, I observed a degree of restlessness on Mr. Edwin which I had not hitherto noticed, and frequent gloomy abstraction, which he vainly endeavored to shake off in our presence. Mrs. Priestly often conversed alone with him, when traces of agitation were visible on her countenance, and tears on his; and when she bade him farewell, these words lingered on his lips—“Tell dear Mildred how happy I am.”

Lovell Castle was a dark, frowning pile, bearing an ancient date, while some portions were more antiquated still, and had fallen into disuse. It was a real castle of the olden time; I had often read of such with interest and delight, but now I could explore for myself. Here were dungeons and vaulted chambers, trap-doors and loop-holes, intricate passages, secret hiding-places, and curious old oaken chests, battlements and turrets, carved work and tapestry, banqueting hall and chapel—in short, all the appendages necessary for romance in feudal days.

The family consisted of Mr. Lovell, Mildred, his eldest daughter by a first wife, and Harold and Rose, the children of the second Mrs. Lovell, who had died when Rose was an infant. Mildred was tenderly beloved by Mrs. Priestly; and, as she never quitted her hypochondriacal father, it was principally to see this dear niece that the widow left her quiet home on the margin of Lodimer’s blue waters. I was absolutely startled by the extraordinary and striking likeness between the ornithologist and Mildred Lovell—the same placid, sweet expression of countenance, the same gentle, winning manners, too. While in unobtrusive performance of her duties toward God and man, this good daughter and sister journeyed onward through life, ministering to the comfort and well-being of all, but without exacting a meed of praise or a single glance of admiration. Mildred was nobody at Lovell Castle; but, had she been absent, her absence would have been universally bewailed, and her value known: they were perhaps too used to the blessing to appreciate it, even as the sun shines day after day, and we do not remark it as any thing unusual.

Rose was a volatile, thoughtless girl, yet affectionate and kind-hearted withal, and dearly loved her elder sister, who had indeed filled the place of a mother to her. Rose had elastic, unvarying spirits, which were not unwelcome in that dull old place, and kept the inmates from stagnation. She and Harold were the father’s darlings, though all Mr. Lovell’s hope and pride centred in his son. Pre-eminently beautiful in person, active and graceful, Harold Lovell was born the same year as his deceased cousin, Jocelyn Priestly, and the youths had strongly resembled each other, not only in person but in disposition. The partial parents had not, perhaps, read those dispositions truthfully, or in both their children they might have traced evil propensities, which went far to counterbalance the good—revengeful passions, and a proneness to selfish indulgence, which not all their brilliant acquirements and feats of gallant prowess could conceal from a close observer of character. They were at the same school together, and at Lovell Castle for the vacation, when that sad catastrophe took place which plunged the family in irremediable affliction. Mr. Lovell, who had always been a nervous, ailing man, never recovered the shock, and latterly he had sunk into complete indolence, and left the care and management of his affairs entirely to Harold, who, however, ill-fulfilled his duties. The aversion which Mrs. Priestly entertained toward her nephew, and which she vainly strove to conceal, had once been the source of painful contention between Mr. Lovell and his sister, though now it had settled down into a silent grief never alluded to by either of them. All these particulars I had heard from Rose; and much I was amazed at Mrs. Priestly’s conduct, coupled with the avowal she had made to me respecting the disposal of her property in favor of her nephew; but I knew her to be a just and strong-minded woman, and felt sure there was some mystery connected with these family details, which Rose was bursting to disclose, the first convenient opportunity. But I gave her no encouragement to do so, for I thought that, had Mrs. Priestly wished me to know the secret motives by which she was actuated, her confidence would have been already bestowed; and it seemed a breach of trust, or dishonorable, to gain the knowledge by other means. The sweet benignity of Mildred Lovell, her untiring patience and unaffected cheerfulness, as well as the strong resemblance of feature, continually reminded me of Mr. Edwin, and I pondered often on the parting words which I had heard him address to Mrs. Priestly—“Tell dear Mildred how happy I am.”

And what was Mildred to Mr. Edwin? Wherefore was he exiled and alone? What had he done that his name was forbidden to be spoken at Lovell? These ideas constantly haunted me, despite my determination to exclude such idle questionings concerning the mysterious affair. Rose sometimes communicated some portion of her own gay spirit to me: we were thrown much together, for Mildred was constantly occupied with her invalid parent, and Mrs. Priestly shared the duties of her beloved niece. But I often desired the solitude which was more congenial to my turn of mind, though it was not always easy to obtain it, as Rose, from a mistaken kindness, continually watched my movements, and accompanied me wheresoever I desired to go. It was impossible to check the affectionate girl in a direct manner; but I discovered that there was one locality particularly avoided by all the inmates of the castle, which had fallen into decay, and was seldom approached by Rose. This was the western wing or turret; and thither, accordingly, I often bent my steps, in search of quietude, and also of a magnificent prospect to be viewed from the summit. In this sumptuous home at Lovell Castle, my thoughts often wandered to Ivy Lodge on Lodimer’s banks, and its lonely occupant, apart from the vanities of life, contented and cheerful under afflictions which were, I felt sure, of no common nature. I compared the pious recluse with the heir of Lovell, toward whom an inexpressible feeling of repugnance reigned in my breast. Harold was devoted to field sports and the pleasures of the table; he was, in fact, the real master, consulting only his own time and inclinations on all occasions. His bloated, though still handsome countenance, evidenced excess; while a dictatorial manner, as of one unused to reproof or contradiction, was habitual. A constant restlessness and irritability, a quick turn of the eye, a wild glance, betokened a mind ill at ease. He was a scoffer at religion, too, an unkind brother, and an undutiful son to the doating father, who yet believed and saw no faults in his offspring. Despite her brother’s harshness, Rose, with devoted sisterly affection, extenuated Harold’s conduct, and it was very beautiful to witness her womanly tenderness and forbearance. It might be that Mildred was the child of another mother, and that circumstances had somewhat weakened the ties of blood; but notwithstanding her general kindness of demeanor toward all, including Harold, there was a perceptible shade of coldness when addressing him. She never volunteered an embrace, to be cast off, like the persevering, warm-hearted Rose; she never clung to her brother, praying him to remain at home, when he was about to engage in any hazardous or foolish exploit. No; there was some sin or sorrow which had weaned and divided this brother and sister, until the erring one should turn and repent. And who could doubt that Mildred Lovell would open wide her arms to receive the penitent?

I had sought my favorite deserted turret, to contemplate a glorious sunset behind the distant mountains, when Rose joined me on the summit, from whence we gazed on the dizzy depth below. She was unusually serious and pale; her laugh was hushed, and she spoke in whispers.

“Why do you choose this spot, Evelin, to indulge your reveries?” she said, “for I can not bear to remain here; and Harold would not ascend this western tower for all the universe.”

“And why is it so distasteful to you, Rose?” I inquired, with some curiosity, “for the view is the most superb I ever witnessed. Is this wing of the castle _haunted_?” I added, with a smile, taking her arm, and making a step nearer to the edge, guarded only by a very low, broad parapet.

She convulsively drew me back, exclaiming—“Oh! Evelin, if you knew the dreadful recollections attached to this turret, you would not marvel at my being so nervous. _I_ do not believe it is haunted, but there are folks who do. They report that white fleecy shadows hover around it by night, though perhaps the owls and birds building in the crevices may account for the supposed supernatural appearances.”

“And wherefore, Rose, is this turret in such bad repute? What are the dreadful recollections attached to it? A legend of olden times, perhaps?”

“Alas, Evelin,” responded my companion, “’tis a reality of our own. My poor cousin, Jocelin Priestly, met with his fearful end here. He fell from this dizzy height on the shaven turf beneath, and lived but a few moments afterward.”

“But how did this fatal accident occur, Rose?” I inquired. “Why have you never mentioned it before?”

Paler than ever, Rose replied, with a faltering voice, “Because it was _not_ an _accident_, Evelin” (she shivered, and put her lips close to my ear). “He was cast down intentionally.”

“By whom, Rose?” My heart throbbed violently; strange thoughts were rushing through my brain.

“I dare not tell you; I am forbidden to reveal more. I was very young at the time, and things were hushed up; but poor Milly has been a changed being ever since.”

“Mildred!” I exclaimed, in surprise; “what effect could this tragedy have on her, more than on other members of your family?”

“It had, it had, Evelin, because she desired to screen the guilty; but ask me no more, and let us quit this hateful place.”

My mind was bewildered and uneasy. Who could the guilty person alluded to be, and wherefore such a mystery preserved? The wildest conjectures disturbed my imagination, while redoubled love and sympathy were given to the bereaved mother. But this tangled web was soon to be unraveled—unraveled in an awful and sudden manner, for that avenging arm was outstretched which no mortal can withstand.

We were preparing to return home, and I was happy in the near prospect of seeing dear Lodimer so soon. Harold Lovell left the castle at early morn in high health and spirits, to attend a race meeting, some few miles off, with several boon companions. A quarrel arose, and Harold, deeming himself insulted, and more than half inebriated, struck a desperate gambler, who demanded satisfaction on the spot. Harold fell, mortally wounded, and was borne back to Lovell on a litter, late in the evening. The father’s despair, blessedly merged in insensibility, the sister’s agony, we draw a vail over.

Mrs. Priestly, Mildred, and myself, with the medical attendants, alone were calm and of use, so far, indeed, as human aid extended. The domestics were wildly running hither and thither, but to no purpose: Harold Lovell was rapidly dying. Mrs. Priestly supported the expiring sufferer; she bathed his temples, and spoke words of peace. You would have deemed him the son of her fondest love, all dislike merged in pity and the tenderest solicitude. Suddenly Harold opened his glazing eyes to their widest extent; he recognized her, while a shudder convulsively shook his whole frame. He essayed to articulate, and at length these broken sentences were heard, “Forgive me, Aunt Priestly—_now_ forgive. ’Twas I did it! Edwin is innocent; I am the murderer. Oh! mercy! mercy!”

Mrs. Priestly had sank down beside the couch, as with clasped hands she raised her streaming eyes to heaven; then burying her face, she murmured—“I do forgive you, poor boy, and so does Edwin, freely.” The spirit passed into eternity as she spoke these words. I saw Mildred fling herself into Mrs. Priestly’s arms, and I remember no more, for, unused to such scenes, my strength succumbed.

Mr. Lovell and his son were laid side by side in the family vault on the same day; the broken-hearted father surviving his beloved child but a few hours. That son’s dying confession was repeated to him, although he took no notice at the time, and lived not to make restitution to the innocent; but to his daughters, as co-heiresses, the whole of his immense wealth descended; and yet Mr. Lovell left a son—a good, noble-hearted son, whom he had unjustly disinherited. When the disinherited was told that the only words his departed parent had spoken after receiving his death-blow, the only token of consciousness he had evinced was in faintly murmuring, “Bless Edwin, my son,” that son valued the world’s wealth but as dross in comparison; nor would he have exchanged those precious words for all the uncounted riches of the globe! His father then had believed him innocent, and had blessed him; and Edwin, the ornithologist of Ivy Lodge, came to Lovell Castle, justly lord of all, but owning nothing save a thankful heart and a peaceful mind, to be clasped in the arms of his faithful sister Mildred, for they were twins, and linked together in heart. Then, and not till then, were the following particulars narrated to Rose and myself by Mrs. Priestly. Rose mourned deeply for her brother, but justice to the living demanded full disclosure of the truth.

Edwin had never been a favorite with his father, a fall in infancy having rendered him unsightly, and probably occasioned the delicate health which induced that love of studious repose so opposite to those qualities which Mr. Lovell admired in his younger son. A tutor was provided for Edwin at home, while Harold, with his cousin, Jocelin Priestly, was sent to a public school. With unfeeling thoughtlessness, Jocelin used often to amuse himself by joking at the expense of Edwin’s personal deformity, calling him “hunchback,” and many other nick-names, all of which the amiable youth bore with unflinching patience and fortitude, ever returning good for evil. The quarrels and rivalry between Harold and Jocelin were violent and unceasing; and, previous to the last vacation, they had risen to a fiercer pitch than formerly, Jocelin Priestly having carried off a prize from Harold, which the latter declared was unfair. Jocelin’s spirits were outrageous, and in reckless levity he made so unceasing a butt of the unfortunate elder brother, that Edwin determined to keep himself as much aloof as possible from the boisterous pair, whose bickerings and headstrong passion disturbed his equanimity. Mildred, whose love and veneration for her beloved brother was returned by him with a depth of affection which only the isolated can feel, vainly tried to make peace and preserve concord. Mrs. Priestly, with a mother’s doating partiality for an only child, never _allowed_ Jocelin to be in fault, though she would chide his exuberant spirits, and liked not that he should wound the gentle Edwin, whom she dearly loved. Mr. Lovell, on the other hand, laughed at the lads’ faults; and, when he could not laugh, winked at them: “Edwin was a milk-sop, and Harold and Jocelin fine, high-spirited, handsome fellows, who would grow wiser as they grew older.” Mrs. Priestly “hoped so”—she “prayed so; and Jocelin was so clever and handsome, that a little steadiness was all he needed; there was nothing else amiss.” So argued the blind mother; and, next to Harold, his uncle Lovell’s affections were lavished on this nephew.

When these two youths made their appearance at the castle, Edwin frequently retired to the western turret, where he could read and meditate alone, and enjoy the lovely landscape. Here he was resting on a projecting stone, which served as a bench, part of the edifice screening him from view, when Jocelin Priestly appeared on the summit with a telescope in hand, and, with boyish recklessness, jumped on the low parapet, balancing himself on the extreme verge, as he applied the glass to his eye. In another moment Harold came leaping up the turret-stairs, boiling with furious passion; and, darting forward, he clutched at the glass, screaming, as he did so, “How dare you take my telescope, sir, when you know I forbade you?” There was a struggle, a violent thrust, succeeded by a scream of horror and despair, and Edwin beheld his brother Harold alone on that dizzy height.

All this had passed in a moment a of time apparently. Harold looked round with a wild, terrified glance, and fled, Edwin’s limbs refusing to sustain him in his efforts to reach the parapet, as he lost consciousness, and swooned. Jocelin Priestly’s fall had been noticed by a gardener, who gave an instant alarm; but the ill-fated lad expired in his distracted mother’s arms, after articulating, “I am murdered.”

Edwin was found on the summit of the western turret, his incoherent exclamations and agitation being considered proofs of guilt by his father and tutor. He solemnly asseverated his innocence, but refused to enter into particulars until his brother Harold returned, for Harold was absent, it was supposed, in the adjacent woodlands, where he ofttimes resorted to practice with his gun. When he did return, Harold with well-acted surprise heard the dreadful tidings, and demanded, in a careless manner, where Edwin had been at the time? When informed that he was found on the summit of the tower, and of the deceased’s fearful avowal in his dying moments, Harold exclaimed, “Edwin has indeed avenged himself on poor Jocelin.” And Edwin was branded as the dastardly wretch who had taken his cousin’s life thus!

Edwin denied the foul deed with indignation and horror; but, when Harold’s words were repeated to him, he hung his head, and blushed scarlet. He spoke no more, save to affirm his innocence; and, when questioned as to Jocelin Priestly having been near him on the tower just before he met with his death, Edwin admitted the fact; but, when further pressed, he became confused, and painful internal struggles were evident.

Mr. Lovell discarded his son forever. He would not harbor, he said, one who had vengefully taken the life of his beloved nephew; the law, indeed, could not reach the criminal, but a father’s malediction could! So the hapless Edwin was disowned and disinherited by his indignant parent, who granted him a stipend barely sufficient for subsistence, and thrust him forth as an alien. Harold had not encountered his brother’s placid gaze; he shrank from being alone with him, and when Edwin begged for an audience, it was refused. Mildred protested her brother’s innocence. Edwin had never swerved from truth in his life; and, strange to say, there was another who sided with Mildred, and that other, the miserable mother of the victim. She had scrutinized and watched Harold Lovell closely; and when Edwin knelt beside her, and said, with quiet, but impressive calmness, “I am innocent, aunt; I never injured a hair of my cousin’s head,” he was believed by that jealous, breaking heart.

“But you were _there_, Edwin,” cried the poor lady; “you witnessed it: he came not to his end by fair means. Speak—your brother—was it _he_ did this foul deed, for he envied and hated my son—the base, cowardly traitor!”

Passion choked Mrs. Priestly’s utterance, and Edwin was mute. Neither prayers nor entreaties induced him to explain past circumstances connected with the direful catastrophe. He bore the burden of another’s guilt; he bore in silence the contumely that should have been heaped on another, and was banished from the parental roof. But conviction found its way to Mrs. Priestly’s heart; and, though Mr. Lovell was implacable, nor would listen to a suspicion implied that he _might_ be deceived, _the mother_ intuitively shrank from contact with the false-hearted Harold Lovell. As years progressed, the truth became more and more firmly impressed on her mind; and to him, accused by his own father of being her only child’s destroyer, she left the bulk of her fortune, and established the outcast in her near vicinity, firmly trusting that the Almighty, in his own good time, would bring the real culprit to light. _Her_ heart fixed on this culprit, but Mr. Lovell continued in error and darkness. Those precious words spoken in his last hour proved, however, that darkness was dissipated, and error abandoned, when the dying man murmured a blessing on his exiled son, who had sacrificed himself to shield an ungrateful brother from shame and opprobrium.

Within two years after her father and brother’s decease, Rose rewarded the long and sincere attachment of a neighboring squire by becoming his wife. Lovell Castle was sold, and Mildred repaired to Lodimer; while, on the original site of Ivy Lodge, a more commodious dwelling was in course of preparation. There she resided with her beloved brother for the remainder of their joint lives, and Mr. Edwin found in his sweet companion not only a valuable coadjutor in his favorite pursuits, but an absolute rival in the affections of his feathered pets; while the swan’s nest among the reeds on Lodimer’s fair waters continued to be as carefully preserved and guarded as it had been during the solitary years of the now happy ornithologist.

A CHILD’S TOY.

The afternoon was drawing in toward evening; the air was crisp and cool, and the wind near the earth, steady but gentle; while above all was as calm as sleep, and the pale clouds—just beginning in the west to be softly gilded by the declining sun—hung light and motionless. The city, although not distant, was no longer visible, being hidden by one of the many hills which give such enchantment to the aspect of _our_ city. There was altogether something singularly soothing in the scene—something that disposed not to gravity, but to elevated thought. As we looked upward, there was some object that appeared to mingle with the clouds, to form a part of their company, to linger, mute and motionless like them, in that breathless blue, as if feeling the influence of the hour. It was not a white-winged bird that had stolen away to muse in the solitudes of air: it was nothing more than a paper kite.

On that paper kite we looked long and intently. It was the moral of the picture; it appeared to gather in to itself the sympathies of the whole beautiful world; and as it hung there, herding with the things of heaven, our spirit seemed to ascend and perch upon its pale bosom like a wearied dove. Presently we knew the nature of the influence it exercised upon our imagination; for a cord, not visible at first to the external organs, though doubtless felt by the inner sense, connected it with the earth of which we were a denizen. We knew not by what hand the cord was held so steadily. Perhaps by some silent boy, lying prone on the sward behind yonder plantation, gazing up along the delicate ladder, and seeing unconsciously angels ascending and descending. When we had looked our fill, we went slowly and thoughtfully home along the deserted road, and nestled, as usual, like a moth, among our books. A dictionary was lying near; and with a languid curiosity to know what was said of the object that had interested us so much, we turned to the word, and read the following definition: Kite—_a child’s toy_.

What wonderful children there are in this world, to be sure! Look at that American boy, with his kite on his shoulder, walking in a field near Philadelphia. He is going to have a fly; and it is famous weather for the sport, for it is in June—June, 1752. The kite is but a rough one, for Ben has made it himself, out of a silk handkerchief stretched over two cross-sticks. Up it goes, however, bound direct for a thunder-cloud passing overhead; and when it has arrived at the object of its visit, the flier ties a key to the end of his string, and then fastens it with some silk to a post. By and by he sees some loose threads of the hempen-string bristle out and stand up, as if they had been charged with electricity. He instantly applies his knuckles to the key, and as he draws from it the electrical spark, this strange little boy is struck through the very heart with an agony of joy. His laboring chest relieves itself with a deep sigh, and he feels that he could be contented to die that moment. And indeed he was nearer death than he supposed; for as the string was sprinkled with rain, it became a better conductor, and gave out its electricity more copiously; and if it had been wholly wet, the experimenter might have been killed upon the spot. So much for _this_ child’s toy. The splendid discovery it made—of the identity of lightning and electricity—was not allowed to rest by Ben Franklin. By means of an insulated iron rod the new Prometheus drew down fire from heaven, and experimented with it at leisure in his own house. He then turned the miracle to a practical account, constructing a pointed metallic rod to protect houses from lightning. One end of this true magic wand is higher than the building, and the other end buried in the ground; and the submissive lightning, instead of destroying life and property in its gambols, darts direct along the conductor into the earth. We may add that Ben was a humorous boy, and played at various things as well as kite-flying. Hear this description of his pranks at an intended pleasure-party on the banks of the Schuylkill: “Spirits at the same time are to be fired by a spark sent from side to side through the river, without any other conductor than water—an experiment which we have some time since performed to the amazement of many. A turkey is to be killed for dinner by the electrical shock; and roasted by the electrical jack, before a fire kindled by the electrical bottle; when the healths of all the famous electricians in England, Holland, France, and Germany, are to be drunk in electrified bumpers, under the discharge of guns from the electrical battery.”

We now turn to a group of capital little fellows who did something more than fly their kite. These were English skippers, promoted somehow to the command of vessels before they had arrived at years of discretion; and chancing to meet at the port of Alexandria in Egypt, they took it into their heads—these naughty boys—that they would drink a bowl of punch on the top of Pompey’s Pillar. This pillar had often served them for a signal at sea. It was composed of red granite, beautifully polished, and standing 114 feet high, overtopped the town. But how to get up? They sent for a kite, to be sure; and the men, women, and children of Alexandria, wondering what they were going to do with it, followed the toy in crowds. The kite was flown over the Pillar, and with such nicety, that when it fell on the other side the string lodged upon the beautiful Corinthian capital. By this means they were able to draw over the Pillar a two-inch rope, by which one of the youngsters “swarmed” to the top. The rope was now in a very little while converted into a sort of rude shroud, and the rest of the party followed, and actually drank their punch on a spot which, seen from the surface of the earth, did not appear to be capable of holding more than one man.

By means of this exploit it was ascertained that a statue had once stood upon the column—and a statue of colossal dimensions it must have been to be properly seen at such a height. But for the rest—if we except the carvings of sundry initials on the top—the result was only the knocking down of one of the volutes of the capital, for boys are always doing mischief; and this was carried to England by one of the skippers, in order to execute the commission of a lady, who, with the true iconoclasm of her country, had asked him to be so kind as to bring her a piece of Pompey’s Pillar.

Little fellows, especially of the class of brick-layers, are no great readers, otherwise we might suspect that the feat of the skipper-boys had conveyed some inspiration to Steeple Jack. Who is Steeple Jack? asks some innocent reader at the Antipodes. He is a little, spare creature who flies his kite over steeples when there is any thing to do to them, and lodging a cord on the apex, contrives by its means to reach the top without the trouble of scaffolding. No fragility, no displacement of stones, no leaning from the perpendicular, frightens Steeple Jack. He is as bold as his namesake, Jack-the-Giant-Killer, and does as wonderful things. At Dunfermline, not long ago, when the top of the spire was in so crazy a state that the people in the street gave it a wide berth as they passed, he swung himself up without hesitation, and set every thing to rights. At the moment we write, his cord is seen stretched from the tall, slim, and elegant spire of the Assembly Hall in Edinburgh, which is to receive, through his agency, a lightning-conductor; and Jack only waits the subsidence of a gale of wind to glide up that filmy rope like a spider. He is altogether a strange boy, Steeple Jack. Nobody knows where he roosts upon the earth, if he roosts any where at all. The last time there was occasion for his services, this advertisement appeared in the _Scotsman_: “Steeple Jack is wanted at such a place immediately”—and immediately Steeple Jack became visible.

In 1827 the child’s toy was put to a very remarkable use by one Master George Pocock. This clever little fellow observed that his kite sometimes gave him a very strong pull, and it occurred to him that if made large enough it might be able to pull something else. In fact, he at length yoked a pair of large kites to a carriage, and traveled in it from Bristol to London, distancing in grand style every other conveyance on the road. A twelve-foot kite, it appears, in a moderate breeze, has a one-man power of draught, and when the wind is brisker, a force equal to 200 lbs. The force in a rather high wind is as the squares of the lengths; and two kites of fifteen and twelve feet respectively, fastened one above the other will draw a carriage and four or five passengers at the rate of twenty miles an hour. But George’s invention went beyond the simple idea. He had an extra line which enabled him to vary the angle of the surface of his kites with the horizon, so as to make his aerial horses go fast or slow as he chose; and side lines to vary the direction of the force, till it came almost to right angles with the direction of the wind. His kites were made of varnished linen, and might be folded up into small compass. The same principle was successfully applied by a nautical lad of the name of Dansey to the purpose of saving vessels in a gale of wind on “the dread lee shore.” His kite was of light canvas.

In India, China, and the intermediate countries, the aggregate population of which includes one-half of mankind, kites are the favorite toy of both old and young boys, from three years to threescore and ten. Sometimes they really resemble the conventional dragon, from which, among Scotch children, they derive their name, sometimes they are of a diamond shape, and sometimes they are like a great spider with a narrow waist. Our Old Indian is eloquent on kites, and the glory of their colors, which, in the days of other years, made her girlish heart leap, and her girlish eyes dazzle. The kite-shop is like a tulip-bed, full of all sorts of gay and gorgeous hues. The kites are made of Chinese paper, thin and tough, and the ribs of finely-split bamboo. A wild species of silkworm is pressed into the service, and set to spin _nuck_ for the strings—a kind of thread which, although fine, is surprisingly strong. Its strength, however, is wanted for aggression as well as endurance; and a mixture composed of pounded glass and rice gluten is rubbed over it. Having been dried in the sun, the prepared string is now wound upon a handsome reel of split bamboo inserted in a long handle. One of these reels, if of first-rate manufacture, costs a shilling, although coarser ones are very cheap; and of the nuck, about four annas, or sixpence worth, suffices for a kite.

In a Hindoo town the kite-flying usually takes place on some common ground in the vicinity, and there may be seen the young and old boys in eager groups, and all as much interested in the sport as if their lives depended upon their success. And sometimes, indeed, their fortunes do. Many a poor little fellow bets sweetmeats upon his kite to the extent of his only anna in the world; and many a rich baboo has more rupees at stake than he can conveniently spare. But the exhilarating sport makes every body courageous; and the glowing colors of the kites enable each to identify his own when in the air, and give him in it, as it were, a more absolute property. Matches are soon made. Up go the aerial combatants, and, with straining eyes and beating hearts, their fate is watched from below. But their masters are far from passive, for this is no game of chance, depending upon the wind. Kite-flying is in these countries an art and mystery; and some there be who would not disclose their recipe for the nuck-ointment, if their own grandfathers should go upon their knees to ask it.

Sometimes an event occurs on the common. It is the ascent of a pair of kites of a _distingué_ air, and whose grand and determined manner shows that the combat is to be _à l’outrance_, and that a large stake of money depends upon the result. The fliers are invisible. They are probably on the flat roof of some neighboring house; but the kites are not the less interesting on account of their origin being unknown. What a host of anxious faces are turned up to the sky! Some take a liking to the red at first sight, while others feel attracted by a mysterious sympathy to the green. Bets are freely offered and accepted, either in sweetmeats or money; and the crowd, condensing, move to and fro in a huge wave, from which their eager voices arise like the continuous roaring of the sea. Higher and higher go the kites. Well done, Red! he has shot above his antagonist, and seems meditating a swoop; but the Green, serenely scornful, continues to soar, and is soon uppermost. And thus they go—now up, now down, relatively to each other, but always ascending higher and higher, till the spectators almost fear that they will vanish out of sight. But at length the Green, taking advantage of a loftier position he has gained, makes a sudden circuit, and by an adroit manœuvre gets his silken string over the silken string of the other. Here a shout of triumph and a yell of terror break simultaneously from the crowd; for this is the crisis of the fight. The victor gives a fierce cut upon his adversary’s line. The backers of the latter fancy they hear it grate, and in an instant their forebodings are realized; for the unfortunate Red is seen to waver like a bird struck by a shot, and then, released from the severed string, he descends in forlorn gyrations to the earth.

Now rush in the smaller boys to play their part. Their object is that of the plunderers who traverse the field after a battle, to rob the dying and the slain. Off run the little Hindoos, like a company of imps from the nether regions, tearing and fighting as they fly; and on reaching the fallen kite, the object of their contention is torn to pieces in the scuffle. Presently the victorious Green is seen descending, and the gross excitement of the common pauses to watch his majestic flight. He is of the largest size of Indian kites called _ching_, and of the spider shape. Before being drawn in, he hangs for an instant high up over the crowd. It is not, however, to sing _Io Pæans_ for his victory, but apparently rather to mourn over the ruin he has made; for a wailing music breathes from his wings as he passes. This is caused by the action of the wind upon some finely-split bamboo twigs arched over the kite without touching the paper, and which thus become a true Æolian harp. Sometimes a kite of this kind is sent up at night, bearing a small lighted lantern of talc; and the sleepers awakened, called to their balconies by the unearthly music, gaze after the familiar apparition not without a poetical thrill.

Upon the whole, it must be admitted, we think, that this is a somewhat interesting child’s toy. But has the kite a future? Will its powers exhibit new developments, or has it already reached its pride of place? If a twelve-feet kite has the force of a man, would it take many more feet to lift a man into the air? And supposing the man to be in a strong cage of network, with bamboo ribs, and a seat of the same material, would he have greater difficulty in governing his aerial coursers by means of the Pocock cords, than if he were flashing along the road from Bristol to London? Mind, we do not say that this is possible: we merely ask for the sake of information; and if any little boy will favor us with his opinion, we shall take it very kind. Come, and let us fancy that it _is_ possible. The traveler feels much more comfortable than in the car of a balloon, for he knows he can go pretty nearly in what direction he chooses, and that he can hasten or check the pace of his horses, and bring them to a stand-still at pleasure. See him, therefore, boldly careering through the air at the rate of any number of miles the wind pleases. At a single bound he spans yonder broad river, and then goes bowling over the plantation beyond, just stirring the leaves as he passes; trees, water, houses, men, and animals gliding away beneath his feet like a dream. Now he stoops toward the earth, just to make the people send up their voices that there may be some sound in the desert air. Now he swings up again; now he leaps over that little green hill; now he—Hold! hold, little boy! that will do: enough, for a time, of a Child’s Toy.

“RISING GENERATION”-ISM.

“Grave and reverend seniors” aver, that among the innumerable _isms_ and _pathies_ which inundate this strange nineteenth century, not the least curious, dangerous, and comical, are those phases of character, opinion, and aspiration embodied in the title of our sketch. Each day, week, or month, we receive an accession to the list of those speculations and practices, which, embracing every department of philosophy and art, seek to overturn hitherto accepted axioms, and erect in their stead—what? Some “baseless fabric of a vision,” which came we know not whence, and tends we know not very well whither? Or has the microscopic eye and telescopic mind of modern European civilization discovered other distorting flaws in the mirror in which we view truth—other idols in the den of treasured belief—faults which it is urgently necessary to remedy—vices which it were well speedily to extirpate? The answer of most men will be sometimes the latter, oftener the former.

What, then, is that fraternity whose members are now denominated in a peculiar sense “the rising generation,” albeit no existing dictionary conveys it? How came they to assume or receive that cognomen? “What are their doings—what their ends?” And, finally (for this is _par excellence_ the practical, if not the golden English era), how much are all these worth? In one shape or another, we suspect that the class embraces a great mass of our youth, we will almost say, of _both_ sexes.

Various definitions may be given of a member of the “rising generation.” The lowest, commonest, and most readily apprehensible to the general reader, is that of a “fast young man,” such as “Punch” has for some time spitted weekly as a laughing-stock for half of the population. A little, lean, lathy, sickly-looking youth, delighting in rough short coats, monkey jackets, regatta shirts, big cigars, funny walking-canes, the smallest of boots, the most angular of hats, the most Brobdignagian of ties—rejoicing in a thinly-sown mustache or imperial, addicted to brandy-and-water and casinos, going out with the “afternoon delivery,” and coming in with the milk. This is true so far as it goes. Ascend a step, and there is the representative of the class which has run to seed in the mediæval direction—fond of, and learned in, all the symbols of ancient priestly power and rank—steeped in black-letter and illuminated missal philosophy and theology—erudite in all the variations which spiritual dominance has assumed—in short, the resuscitator of the “good old times” ecclesiastical.

Again, we come to the type of the chief, and perhaps the finest class—many-hued and many-sided, difficult to define, more difficult to estimate. He is a chaos of misty beliefs and dubious doubtings—a striver after theories which would exercise a spell over mind and matter of almost alchemic potency—an open receiver for every new and quackish nostrum—a shallow scholar, with the pedantry and conceit of a ripe one—a denier of other men’s attainments, without stopping to inquire whether he will ever be able to equal them—apt to give dogmatic advice, and slow to take any—lastly, and worst, he is sometimes a rash and unphilosophic would-be analyzer of the grounds of our most sacred belief. He may be—indeed, frequently is—of a genuine and earnest spirit, which he knows neither how to direct nor bound.

In judging of the frame of mind which generates and elaborates, or receives such impressions, it is necessary to remember and make due allowance for the rapid and _real_ advances which we have made in the sifting of old and the ascertainment of new truth, within an almost infinitesimal portion of time. Men now think and act vehemently—with appliances at their elbow which, to those who know their power, are a true Aladdin’s lamp, giving the key to thoughts and deeds, and the clew to facts, which erst had been deemed miraculous. When we now speak of the “rising generation,” it is seriously. We discard the class whose dress is apish, whose life is an inanity, whose thoughts are vapid, if not something fouler and worse. We would think of, and give credit for earnestness, to that large class whose ready reception and striving after the establishment of all things new, for novelty’s sake, and the demolition of many things old and revered, has fixed upon them, half in jest, half in earnest, the sobriquet. Not only on matters of faith—on innovations on all established practice, do they take their stand. Education they understand in no limited sense. The acquisition of the _circle_ of sciences, and _nothing_ less, is the average of their contentment. We are to live in an age when every man, or, at least, every second, is to be an Admirable Crichton. Formerly, it was thought that the mind of man was, even in its strength, so feeble, that strict adherence to some single and well-defined line of study or path of action was necessary, if a moderate skill in its command were desired. He who loved and pursued his knowledge of ancient people, languages, customs, and laws, was not expected to be erudite except in classical lore. The philosopher and mathematician, if well acquainted in their respective spheres with the laws and processes of mind, matter, and number, were thought to have learned their part. The laborer in the field of active industry, who was skillful in the taste and knowledge of his craft and the use of its tools, was esteemed no cumberer of the ground. If, after this, he cultivated his mind by a scrutiny of the labors of others, so much the better. Under this _régime_, each man learned his own department, every one knew something, better than his neighbors—could follow or elucidate his special study or calling through ramifications the other could not trace, and thus knowledge progressed, and became the great power that it has grown.

But now the “rising generation” will have matters altered. Education is all wrong, and too limited. The spirit of unity, as the Germans call it—that hidden elf which haunts all knowledge, and is the same, however disguised—is not to be caught except by a search which involves the acquisition of every science, art, and philosophy. This, in addition to an insane and, we shrink not from saying, a blasphemous dallying with things sacred, is the grand error of the “rising generation”—the rock on which their bark will founder, if it has not already done so. Man can not be a “universal genius.” Let us by all means shake off the trammels under which education has groveled—under which she still groans. Let us seek by all means to make education so free, that, like the winds of heaven, and the light of the sun, no man shall want a reasonable—a full share of her benefits. Let us seek accurate and varied knowledge and scholarship, endeavoring (although it is a difficult and subtle process) to find out for what our youth are best fitted, by evoking the latent special talents with which their Maker has gifted them, and thus train them in the expert use of that weapon which will enable them to do yeoman service in the wide arena of the world. But, while we do all this, let us beware. We have before now been taunted as a nation of shopkeepers. This was no evil, if true; but who can calculate the direness of that calamity which shall turn us into a nation of smatterers. This is a looming evil of unparalleled magnitude. There can be no doubt that at the present moment there is a tendency to rest content with very superficial acquirements, if they be only heterogeneous enough. A man who can gabble the alphabet of any science or subject may, if he has sufficient presumption, gain credit for possessing a knowledge of its arcana—for the ability necessary to plumb its profounder depths and unravel its intricacies. The successful practice of this imposture, for it is nothing less, has led, and is still leading, many to sacrifice accuracy for variety, both in those departments which their circumstances, rightly considered, demand that they should thoroughly understand, and in those branches which tend only to add grace and finish to a liberal education.

In “those days,” the chance was that genius often passed away unnoticed or neglected. In “the good time come,” we fear that a similar injustice will be done, and in a larger measure. The modest, the sound-thinking, and really learned, will withdraw from a field where they find as companions or competitors only strutting jackdaws and noisy shallow smatterers, who have decided that they were born for other purposes than to tread in the work-a-day paths of life. A portion of the old as well as the “rising generation” would do well to look to the present state of things. There is too often a desire on the part of parents to push their children into positions for which they are totally unfitted. There is a sphere for all, which, when chosen with a due regard to ability, and not adopted through caprice or vanity, will lead to usefulness in society and comfort to the individual.

We have little fear of that audacious phase in the character of the “rising generation,” which devotes itself to a probing of those things which have to do with our eternal destiny. A well-conducted inquiry of this kind is a healthy symptom, and tends to fix good impressions: and, as for those whose temerity exceeds their judgment, the Christian knows that his bulwarks are too many and strong ever to be shaken by any blast of human breath or stroke of human hand. Still, let every stumbling-block be removed, and no safeguard neglected, which may be of service to those of feeble knees or weak and timorous mind.