TYPOGRAPHIC ART JOURNAL
"Il ne faut pas tant regarder ce qu'on doit faire que ce qu'on peut faire."
NEW YORK: JAMES SUTTON & COMPANY. 1873.
"THE ALDINE PRESS."—JAMES SUTTON & Co., Printers, 58 Maiden Lane, New York.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by JAMES SUTTON, JR., in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.
Abyssinia, A Peep at Editorial 186 Adirondacks, The Heart of the Editorial 194 After the Comet W.L. Alden 136 A Great Master and His Greatest Work Editorial 83 Aldine Chromos for 1873 Editorial 228 Alpine World, The Editorial 134 America, Home Life in Editorial 76 American Robin, The Gilbert Darling 327 Angling, A Few Words on Henry Richards 155 Architecture W. Von Humboldt 43 Art 28 Artistic Evening, An Editorial 248 Art-Musee in America, An Erastus South 127 Art, Roman Ottfreid Mueller 32 At Rest. (Poem) Julia C.R. Dorr 234 August in the Woods W.W. Bailey 161 Ausable, Morning on the Editorial 40 Authorship, Style in Stewart 75 Autumn Rambles W.W. Bailey 212 A Yarn Uncle Bluejacket 216
Babes in the Wood, The Editorial 223 Badger Hunting Editorial 225 Barry Cornwall, To. (Poem) A.C. Swinburne 50 Beauty, Of Bacon. 107 Beside the Sea. (Poem) Mary E. Bradley 161 Biography Henry Richards 65 Bishop's Oak Caroline Cheesebro' 172 Black Gnat, The A.R.M. 34 Blood Money Editorial 207 Blue-Birds Gilbert Burling 163 Books, Borrowing Leigh Hunt 36 "Bridge of Sighs," Hood's Editorial 50 Bronte's (Charlotte) Brother and Father January Searle 111 Building of the Ship, The. (Poem) Longfellow 89
Cedar Bird, The Gilbert Burling 85 Celebration of the Passover, The Editorial 64 Chase, After the Editorial 227 Chet's, Miss, Club Caroline Cheesbro' 59 Children, Loss of Little Leigh Hunt 104 Chinese Stories Henry Richards 215 Christmas Trees W.W. Bailey 234 Coleridge as a Plagiarist 23 Coming Out of School Editorial 12 Cosas de Espana Editorial 86 Crown Diamonds and other Gems S.F. Corkran 181
Daisies, Among The A.S. Isaacs 23 December and May Editorial 147 Death Chase, The Editorial 236 Dogs, About Henry Richards 175 Dogs, Education of Henry Richards 234
Englishmen, Religion of H. Taine 183 English Rhymes and Stories Henry Richards 96 En Miniature. (From the German) M.A.P. Humphreys 132 Exquisite Moment, An Editorial 93
Fancie's Dream Lolly Dinks's Mother 34 Fancie's Farewell Lolly Dinks's Mother 114 Fawn Family, A Day with a Editorial 107 Feast of the Tabernacles, The Editorial 64 Fra Bartolomeo Editorial 106 Forester's Happy Family, The Editorial 167 Forester's Last Coming Home, The Editorial 56 Fortune of The Hassans, The C.F. Guernsey 123 Friendship of Poets, The Editorial 50 Frosty Day, A. (Poem) J.L. Warren 11
Garden, In the Betsy Drew 138 Gems, Colored W.S. Ward 39 Going to the Volcano T.M. Coan 245 Green River. (Poem) W.C. Bryant 72 Gypsies, The Editorial 166
Heart of Kosciusko, The Editorial 113 Heartsease. (Poem) Mary E. Bradley 43 Hello! Editorial 193 Home and Exile Editorial 237 House with the Hollyhocks, The A.L. Noble 177 House Wrens Gilbert Burling 105 How to Tame Pet Birds January Searle 146 Hunt (Leigh), A Last Visit to January Searle 192 Hunting Snails T.M. Coan 156
Ideal, The Theodore Parker 133 Il Beato. (From the German) M.A.P. Humphrey 183 Ill Wind, An Leslie Malbone 112 Inside the Door Caroline Cheesebro' 30 Ireland, A Glimpse at T.M. Coan 119 Island, On an Caroline Cheesebro' 114
Jack and Gill Editorial 223
King Baby. (Poem) George Cooper 224 Kingfisher, The Editorial 125 King's Rosebud, The. (Poem) Julia C.R. Porr 107 Knowledge Ethics of the Fathers 135
"Lais Corinthaica," Holbein's Editorial 182 Lalalo—A Legend of Galicia. (From the Spanish) H.S. Conant 164 Lamp-Light Julian Hawthorne 165 Lisbon, Loiterings around Editorial 44 Literature 28, 47, 67, 88, 108, 128, 148, 168, 188, 208 Little Emily Editorial 178 Liverworts. (Poem) W.W. Bailey 70 Longfellow's House and Library Geo. W. Greene 100 Love Aloft Editorial 116 Love's Humility. (Poem) B.G. Hosmer 141
Mandarin, A From the French 19 Manifest Destiny. (Poem) R.H. Stoddard 47 Man in Blue, The R.B. Davey 50 Man in the Moon, The Yule-tide Stories 120 Man's Unselfish Friend Editorial 60 Married in a Snow-Storm. (From the Russian) Wm. Percival 152 Marsh and Pond Flowers W.W. Bailey 126 Martinmas Goose, The Editorial 243 Maximilian Morningdew's Advice, Mr. Julian Hawthorne 74 Millerism Editorial 10 Minster at Ulm, The Editorial 158 Misers, About Betsy Drew 99 Mother is Here! 20 Morning Dew Editorial 76 Morning and Evening Editorial 242 Mountain Land of Western North Carolina J.A. Oertel 52 Mountain Land of Western North Carolina J.A. Oertel 214 Mountains, In the Editorial 16 Mouse Shoes Lolly Dinks's Mother 197 Music in the Alps Editorial 33
Necessity of Believing Something Jean Paul 31 Neighbor Over the Way, My. (Poem) G.W. Scars 110 Newport, At. (Poem) Geo. H. Boker 10 Niagara Editorial 213 Noble Savage, The 110 Nooning, The 16
Oblivion Browne 120 October W.W. Bailey 192 Old Maid's Village, The Kate F. Hill 26 Old Oaken Bucket, The Editorial 152 Othello, How Rossini Wrote L.C. Bullard 91 Out of the Deeps Elizabeth Stoddard 94
Painted Boats on Painted Seas Hiram Rich 201 Patriotism and Powder Editorial 132 Pavilions on the Lake, The. (From the French) H.S. Conant 14 Pepito Lucy Ellen Guernsey 212 Perkins, Granville 48 Peruvians, Among the Editorial 24 Play for a Heart, A. (From the German) H.S. Conant 54 Pleasure-Seeking Editorial 240 Poet's Rivers Editorial 70 Portugal, Wanderings in Editorial 224 Pottery, Ancient S.F. Corkran 72 Prince and Peasant. (From the German,) H.S. Conant 196 Puddle Party, The Lolly Dinks's Mother 83 Punishment after Death. (From the Danish) James Watkins 218 Puss Asleep Henry Richards 143
Queen's Closet, The Lolly Dinks's Mother 27
Rainy Day, The. (Poem) H.W. Longfellow 120 Raymondskill, The E.C. Stedman 154 Real Romance, The Julian Hawthorne 10 Ruse de Guerre. (Poem) H.B. Bostwick 63
School-Children Editorial 198 Scissor Family, The Lolly Dinks's Mother 144 Secret, A. (Poem) Julia C.R. Dorr 212 September Reverie, A Editorial 172 Serious Case, A Editorial 203 Shadows Julian Hawthorne 142 Shakspeare Celebrations Editorial 90 Shakspeare Portraits R.H. Stoddard 103 Shameful Death. (Poem) Wm. Morris 83 Shrews A.S. Isaacs 63 Simple Suggestion, A Mary E. Bradley 216 Smallpox, Worse than L.E. Guernsey 157 Snow-Bird, The Gilbert Burling 207 Song Sparrow, The Gilbert Burling 32 Song or Wood Thrush, The Gilbert Burling 66 Sonnet Alfred Tennyson 67 Sparrows' City, The. (Poem) George Cooper 165 Stael, Baroness de, The Salon of. (From the French) 43 Story of Coeho, The R.B. Davey 71 Street Scene in Cairo, A Editorial 239 Stuffing Birds January Searle 246 Summer Fallacies C.D. Shanly 176 Sunshine Julian Hawthorne 92 Superstition Bacon 56 Swift, Dean Lady Mary Wortley Montague 53
Temple of Canova, The Editorial 203 Thievish Animals Editorial 238 Thistle-Down. (Poem) W.W. Bailey 145 Tired Mothers. (Poem) Mrs. A. Smith 172 Tropic Forest, A. (Poem) Montgomery 20 Trout Fishing C.D. Shanly 141 Truants, The 40 Two J.C.R. Dorr 152 Two Gazels of Hafiz Henry Richards 145 Two Lives, The. (Poem) S.W. Duffield 201 Two Queens in Westminster. (Poem) H. Morford 132
Uncollected Poems 50 Uncollected Poems by Campbell. Editorial 144 Uncollected Poems by "L.E.L." Editorial 94 Uttmann, Barbara. (From the German) 66
Venice, A Glimpse of Editorial 13 Violins, About J.D. Elwell 36 Virginia, On the Eastern Shore of Mary E. Bradley 79
Water Ballad S.T. Coleridge 67 Weber (Von), Karl Maria Editorial 206 Wine and Kisses. (Poem) From the Persian Joel Benton 27 Winter-Green. (Poem) Mary E. Bradley 90 Winter Pictures from the Poets Editorial 14 Winter Scenes Editorial 230 Wolf, Calf and Goat, The AEsop, Junior 124 Woman in Art E.B. Leonard 145 Woman's Eternity, A E.B.L. 204 Woman's Place Editorial 162 Wood or Summer Ducks Editorial 187 Woods, In the. (Poem) G.W. Sears 192 Woods Out in the. (Poem) Mary E. Bradley 126 Wordsworth Taine 33 Wyoming Valley Editorial 36
Young Robin Hunter, The Editorial 60
Zekle's Courtin' Editorial 30
Adirondack Scenery G.H. Smillie 97 Advance in Winter, The 236 After the Storm Schenck 231 After the Storm a Calm. (I, II, III, IV,) 244 Agnes R.E. Piguet 112 Albai, View on the River 183 American Robin, The Gilbert Burling 227 Artistic Evening, An 248 At Home 239 Ausable, Morning on the G.H. Smillie 41
Babes in the Wood, The John S. Davis 222 Badger Hunting L. Beckmann 226 Blood Money Victor Nehlig 190 Blowing Hot and Cold John S. Davis 142 Blowing Rock R.E. Piguet 57 Blue-Birds Gilbert Burling 163 Bonnie Brook, near Rahway R.E. Piguet 112 Bridal Veil Granville Perkins 154 Bridge of Sighs, The (View of) 13 Bridge of Sighs (Hood's) Georgie A. Davis 49 Building of the Ship, The T. Beech 89
Capella Imperfeita, Archway in the 44 Casa do Capitulo, The 224 Casa do Capitulo, Window in the 46 Castle of Meran, The. (Frontispiece) C. Heyn. Opp. 189 Caught At Last 238 Cedar Birds Gilbert Burling 85 Chase, After the David Neal 219 Christmas Visitors Guido Hammer 231 Coming Out of School Vautier 12 Crossing the Moor After F.F. Hill 228
December and May W.H. Davenport 146 Death Chase, The 236 Deer Family, The Guido Hammer 106
Enjoyment 241 Evening Paul Dixon 205 Evening 243 Evenings at Home A.E. Emslie 77 Exquisite Moment, An John S. Davis 93
Fashionable Loungers of Lima 24 Feast of the Passover, The Oppenheim 64 Feast of the Tabernacles, The Oppenheim 65 Fisherman's Family, The 239 Forester's Happy Family at Dinner, The Guido Hammer 167 Forester's Last Coming Home, The 56 For the Master Offterdinger (Opp.) 236
Garden, In the Arthur Lumley 138 Gertrude of Wyoming Victor Nehlig 117 Glen, The F.T. Vance 194 God's Acre 232 Gondar, Emperor's Palace at 186 Good Bye, Sweetheart 233 Grandfather Mountain, N.C. R.E. Piguet 215 Green River August Will 69 Green River R.E. Piguet 72 Green River R.E. Piguet 73 Guide-Board, The Knesing 230 Gypsy Girl at her Toilette G. Dore 166
Happy Valley R.E. Piguet 53 Heart of a Hero, The. (Kosciusko's Monument) 113 Here. Chick! Chick! 240 Hollo! John S. Davis 191 House Wrens Gilbert Burling 105 How a Spaniard Drinks Dore 86 Hudson at Hyde Park, The G.H. Smillie 81
In-Doors 243 Infant Jesus, The Copied by J.S. Davis 229 "Is the solace of age." 247 "It ofttimes happens that a child" 245
Jack and Gill John S. Davis 223
Kate R.E. Piguet 112 Keeping House John S. Davis (Opp.) 29 Kingfisher, The L. Beckmann 125 King Witlaf's Drinking Horn A. Kappes 131 Kwasind, the Strong Man T. Moran 109
Lais Corinthaica Holbein 182 Lake Henderson F.T. Vance 195 Limena, Middle-Aged 25 Linville, On the R.E. Piguet 52 Linville River, The R.E. Piguet 53 Little Emily John S. Davis 178 Little Mother, The John S. Davis 80 Loffler Peak, Tyrol, The 135 Longfellow's House A.C. Warren 100 Longfellow's Library A.C. Warren 101 Longing Looks J.W. Bolles 96 Love Aloft Otto Gunther 116
Manifest Destiny W.M. Cary 37 Man's Unselfish Friend Chas. E. Townsend 61 Marston Moor, Before the Battle of 121 Mestizo Woman, Young 25 Mill, in Wyoming Valley, An Old F.T. Vance 36 Minster at Ulm, The 158 Monastery de Leca do Balio, The 225 Monk's Oak, The (After Constantine Schmidt) 33 Moonlight on the Hudson Paul Dixon 170 Moose Hunting 232 Morganton, View in R.E. Piguet 53 Morganton, View near R.E. Piguet 214 Morning 242 Morning Dew. (Frontispiece) Victor Nehlig. Opp. 69 Morning in the Meadow R.E. Piguet 113 Mother is Here! Deiker 20 Mountains, In the 16 Mueller, Maud Georgie A. Davis 9 Music in the Alps Dore 33
Naughty Boy, The John S. Davis (Opp.) 89 Navaja, Duel with the Dore 86 New England, Hills of Paul Dixon 204 Niagara Jules Tavernier 211 Nooning, The (After Darley) 17
Old Oaken Bucket, The John S. Davis 159 Ornamental, The Deiker 234 Out of Doors 242
Patriotic Education F. Beard 130 Penha Verde, Doorway and Oriel in the 45 Perkins, Granville 48 Peruvian Ladies, Costumes of 24 Peruvian Priests 25 Pets, The 241 Picking and Choosing Beckmann 238 Pines of the Racquette, The John A. Hows 121 Playing Sick A.H. Thayer 174 Preston Ponds, From Bishop's Knoll .F.T. Vance 199 Puss Asleep C.E. Townsend 143
Rainy Day, The John S. Davis 120 Raymondskill, Falls of The Granville Perkins 150 Raymondskill, View on the Granville Perkins 155 Raymondskill, The Main Fall Granville Perkins 155
Scene on the Catawba River R.E. Piguet 210 School Discipline John S. Davis 198 Serious Case, A Ernst Bosch 202 Shakspeare, Ward's J.S. Davis 104 Shipwreck on the Coast of Dieppe, A T. Weber 139 Singing the War Song 187 Snow-Birds Gilbert Burling 207 Song Sparrow, The Gilbert Burling 32 Song or Wood Thrush, The Gilbert Burling 66 South Mountain R.E. Piguet 53 Spanish Postilion Dore 87 Spanish Ladies Dore 87 Sport 240 Squaw Pounding Cherries, Old W.M. Cary 162 Standish, Miles, Courtship of J.W. Bolles 151 Street Scene in Cairo, A Opp. 229 Surenen Pass, Switzerland, View in the 134
Temple of Canova 203 Then fare thee well, my country, lov'd and lost! 237 "There's a Beautiful Spirit Breathing Now" 218 Tight Place, In a W.M. Cary 76 Tropic Forest, A Granville Perkins 21 Truants, The M.L. Stone 40
Useful, The Deiker 235 Uttmann, Barbara 68
Venetian Festival, A. (Frontispiece) C. Hulk Vischer's, Peter, Studio 84 Visconti, Princess (After "Fra Bartolomeo") 108 Villa de Conde, Church at 215 Village Belle, The After J.J. Hill 228
Waiting at the Stile 147 Watauga Falls R.E. Piguet 53 Watering the Cattle Peter Moran 171 Wayside Inn, The (After Hill) 107 Weber, Von, Last Moments of 206 What Was That Knot Tied For? (After I.E. Gaiser) 92 "Which in infancy lisped" 246 "Who Said Rats?" A.H. Thayer 175 Winter Sketch, A. (Frontispiece) George H. Smillie. Opp. 149 Wolf, Calf and Goat, The H.L. Stephens 124 Wood or Summer Ducks Gilbert Burling 179
"Ye limpid springs and floods," 237 Young Robin Hunter, The John S. Davis 60
Zekle's Courtin' Frank Beard 29
VOL. V. NEW YORK, JANUARY, 1872. No. 1.
"MAUD MUeLLER looked and sighed: 'Ah, me! That I the Judge's bride might be!
"'He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.
"'My father should wear a broad-cloth coat: My brother should sail a painted boat.'
"'I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"'And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. And all should bless me who left our door.
"The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Mueller standing still.
"'A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
"'And her modest answer and graceful air, Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"'Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her a harvester of hay.'"
—Whittier's Maud Mueller.
JAMES SUTTON & CO., PUBLISHERS
23 LIBERTY STREET, NEW YORK.
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$5.00 per Annum (with chrono.) Single Copies, 50 Cents.
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I stand beside the sea once more; Its measured murmur comes to me; The breeze is low upon the shore, And low upon the purple sea.
Across the bay the flat sand sweeps, To where the helmed light-house stands Upon his post, and vigil keeps, Far seaward marshaling all the lands.
The hollow surges rise and fall, The ships steal up the quiet bay; I scarcely hear or see at all, My thoughts are flown so far away.
They follow on yon sea-bird's track. Beyond the beacon's crystal dome; They will not falter, nor come back, Until they find my darkened home.
Ah, woe is me! 'tis scarce a year Since, gazing o'er this moaning main, My thoughts flew home without a fear. And with content returned again.
To-day, alas! the fancies dark That from my laden bosom flew, Returning, came into the ark, Not with the olive, with the yew.
The ships draw slowly towards the strand, The watchers' hearts with hope beat high; But ne'er again wilt thou touch land— Lost, lost in yonder sapphire sky!
—Geo. H. Boker.
Toward the close of the last century there was born in New England one William Miller, whose life, until he was past fifty, was the life of the average American of his time. He drank, we suppose, his share of New England rum, when a young man; married a comely Yankee girl, and reared a family of chubby-cheeked children; went about his business, whatever it was, on week days, and when Sunday came, went to meeting with commendable regularity. He certainly read the Old Testament, especially the Book of Daniel, and of the New Testament at least the Book of Revelation. Like many a wiser man before him, he was troubled at what he read, filled as it was with mystical numbers and strange beasts, and he sought to understand it, and to apply it to the days in which he lived. He made the discovery that the world was to be destroyed in 1843, and went to and fro in the land preaching that comfortable doctrine. He had many followers—as many as fifty thousand, it is said, who thought they were prepared for the end of all things; some going so far as to lay in a large stock of ascension robes. Though no writer himself, he was the cause of a great deal of writing on the part of others, who flooded the land with a special and curious literature—the literature of Millerism. It is not of that, however, that we would speak now.
But before this Miller arose—we proceed to say, if only to show that we are familiar with other members of the family—there was another, and very different Miller, who was born in old England, about one hundred years earlier than our sadly, or gladly, mistaken Second Adventist. His Christian name was Joseph, and he was an actor of repute, celebrated for his excellence in some of the comedies of Congreve. The characters which he played may have been comic ones, but he was a serious man. Indeed, his gravity was so well known in his lifetime that it was reckoned the height of wit, when he was dead, to father off upon him a Jest Book! This joke, bad as it was, was better than any joke in the book. It made him famous, so famous that for the next hundred years every little bon mot was laid at his door, metaphorically speaking, the puniest youngest brat of them being christened "Old Joe."
After Joseph Miller had become what Mercutio calls "a grave man," his descendants went into literature largely, as any one may see by turning to Allibone's very voluminous dictionary, where upwards of seventy of the name are immortalized, the most noted of whom are Thomas Miller, basket-maker and poet, and Hugh Miller, the learned stone-mason of Cromarty, whose many works, we confess with much humility, we have not read. To the sixty-eight Millers in Allibone (if that be the exact number), must now be added another—Mr. Joaquin Miller, who published, two or three months since, a collection of poems entitled "Songs of the Sierras." From which one of the Millers mentioned above his ancestry is derived, we are not informed; but, it would seem, from the one first-named. For clearly the end of all things literary cannot be far off, if Mr. Miller is the "coming poet," for whom so many good people have been looking all their lives. We are inclined to think that such is not the fact. We think, on the whole, that it is to the other Miller—Joking Miller—his genealogy is to be traced.
But who is Mr. Miller, and what has he done? A good many besides ourselves put that question, less than a year ago, and nobody could answer it. Nobody, that is, in America. In England he was a great man. He went over to England, unheralded, it is stated, and was soon discovered to be a poet. Swinburne took him up; the Rossettis took him up; the critics took him up; he was taken up by everybody in England, except the police, who, as a rule, fight shy of poets. He went to fashionable parties in a red shirt, with trowsers tucked into his boots, and instead of being shown to the door by the powdered footman, was received with enthusiasm. It is incredible, but it is true. A different state of society existed, thirty or forty years ago, when another American poet went to England; and we advise our readers, who have leisure at their command, to compare it with the present social lawlessness of the upper classes among the English. To do this, they have only to turn to the late N.P. Willis's "Pencilings by the Way," and contrast his descriptions of the fashionable life of London then, with almost any journalistic account of the same kind of life now. The contrast will be all the more striking if they will only hunt up the portraits of Disraeli, with his long, dark locks flowing on his shoulders, and the portrait of Bulwer, behind his "stunning" waistcoat, and his cascade of neck-cloth, and then imagine Mr. Miller standing beside them, in his red shirt and high-topped California boots! Like Byron, Mr. Miller "woke up one morning and found himself famous."
We compare the sudden famousness of Mr. Miller with the sudden famousness of Byron, because the English critics have done so; and because they are pleased to consider Mr. Miller as Byron's successor! Byron, we are told, was the only poet whom he had read, before he went to England; and is the only poet to whom he bears a resemblance. How any of these critics could have arrived at this conclusion, with the many glaring imitations of Swinburne—at his worst—staring him in the face from Mr. Miller's volume, is inconceivable. But, perhaps, they do not read Swinburne. Do they read Byron?
There are, however, some points of resemblance between Byron and Mr. Miller. Byron traveled, when young, in countries not much visited by the English; Mr. Miller claims to have traveled, when young, in countries not visited by the English at all. This was, and is, an advantage to both Byron and Mr. Miller. But it was, and is, a serious disadvantage to their readers, who cannot well ascertain the truth, or falsehood, of the poets they admire. The accuracy of Byron's descriptions of foreign lands has long been admitted; the accuracy of Mr. Miller's descriptions is not admitted, we believe, by those who are familiar with the ground he professes to have gone over.
Another point of resemblance between Byron and Mr. Miller is, that the underlying idea of their poetry is autobiographic. We do not say that it was really so in Byron's case, although he, we know, would have had us believe as much; nor do we say that it is really so in Mr. Miller's case, although he, too, we suspect, would have us believe as much.
Mr. Miller resembles Byron as his "Arizonian" resembles Byron's "Lara." Lara and Arizonian are birds of the same dark feather. They have journeyed in strange lands; they have had strange experiences; they have returned to Civilization. Each, in his way, is a Blighted Being! "Who is she?" we inquire with the wise old Spanish Judge, for, certainly, Woman is at the bottom of it all. If our readers wish to know what woman, we refer them to "Arizonian:" they, of course, have read "Lara."
Byron was a great poet, but Byronism is dead. Mr. Miller is not a great poet, and his spurious Byronism will not live. We shall all see the end of Millerism.
THE REAL ROMANCE.
The author laid down his pen, and leaned back in his big easy chair. The last word had been written—Finis—and there was the complete book, quite a tall pile of manuscript, only waiting for the printer's hands to become immortal: so the author whispered to himself. He had worked hard upon it; great pains had been expended upon the delineations of character, and the tone and play of incident; the plot, too, had been worked up with much artistic force and skill; and, above all, everything was so strikingly original; no one, in regarding the various characters of the tale, could say: this is intended for so-and-so! No, nothing precisely like the persons in his romance had ever actually existed; of that the author was certain, and in that he was very probably correct. To be sure, there was the character of the country girl, Mary, which he had taken from his own little waiting-maid: but that was a very subordinate element, and although, on the whole, he rather regretted having introduced anything so incongruous and unimaginative, he decided to let it go. The romance, as a whole, was too great to be injured by one little country girl, drawn from real life. "And by the way," murmured the author to himself, "I wish Mary would bring in my tea."
He settled himself still more comfortably in his easy chair, and thought, and looked at his manuscript; and the manuscript looked back; but all its thinking had been done for it. Neither spoke—the author, because the book already knew all he had to say; and the book, because its time to speak and be immortal had not yet arrived. The fire had all the talking to itself, and it cackled, and hummed, and skipped about so cheerfully that one would have imagined it expected to be the very first to receive a presentation copy of the work on the table. "How I would devour its contents!" laughed the fire.
Perhaps the author did not comprehend the full force of the fire's remark, but the voice was so cosy and soothing, the fire itself so ruddy and genial, and the easy chair so softly cushioned and hospitable, that he very soon fell into a condition which enabled him to see, hear, and understand a great many things which might seem remarkable, and, indeed, almost incredible.
The manuscript on the table which had hitherto remained perfectly quiet, now rustled its leaves nervously, and finally flung itself wide open. A murmur then arose, as of several voices, and presently there appeared (though whether stepping from between the leaves of the book itself, or growing together from the surrounding atmosphere, the author could not well make out) a number of peculiar-looking individuals, at the first glance appearing to be human beings, though a clear investigation revealed in each some odd lack or exaggeration of gesture, feature, or manner, which might create a doubt as to whether they actually were, after all, what they purported to be, or only some lusus naturae. But the author was not slow to recognize them, more especially as, happening to cast a glance at the manuscript, he noticed that it was such no longer, but a collection of unwritten sheets of paper, blank as when it lay in the drawer at the stationer's—unwitting of the lofty destiny awaiting it.
Here, then, were the immortal creations which were soon to astound the world, come, in person, to pay their respects to the author of their being. He arose and made a profound obeisance to the august company, which they one and all returned, though in such a queer variety of ways, that the author, albeit aware that every individual had the best of reasons for employing, under certain special circumstances, his or her particular manner of salute, could scarcely forbear smiling at the effect they all together produced in his own unpretending study.
"Your welcome visit," said the author, addressing his guests with all the geniality of which he was master (for they seemed somewhat stiff and ill-at-ease), "gives me peculiar gratification. I regret not having asked some of my friends, the critics, up here to make your acquaintance. I am sure you would all come to the best possible understanding directly."
"They cannot fathom me," exclaimed a strikingly handsome young man, with pale lofty brow, and dark clustering locks, who was leaning with proud grace against the mantel-piece. "They may take my life, but they cannot read my soul." And he laughed, scornfully, as he always did.
This was a passage from that famous ante-mortem soliloquy in which the hero of the romance indulges in the last chapter but one. The author, while, of course, he could not deny that the elegance of the diction was only equaled by the originality of the sentiment, yet felt a slight uneasiness that his hero should adopt so defiant a tone with those who were indeed to be the arbiters of his existence.
"I'm afraid there's not enough perception of the comme il faut in him to suit the every-day world," muttered he. "To be sure, he was not constructed for ordinary ends. Do you find yourself at home in this life, madame?" he continued aloud, turning to a young lady of matchless beauty, whose brief career of passionate love and romantic misery the author had described in thrilling chapters. She raised her luminous eyes to his, and murmured reproachfully: "Why speak to me of Life? if it be not Love, it is Life no longer!"
It was very beautiful, and the author recollected having thought, at the time he wrote it down, that it was about the most forcible sentence in that most powerful passage of his book. But it was rather an exaggerated tone to adopt in the face of such common-place surroundings. Had this exquisite creature, after all, no better sense of the appropriate?
"No one can know better than I, my dear Constance," said the author, in a fatherly tone, "what a beautiful, tender, and lofty soul yours is; but would it not be well, once in a while, to veil its lustre—to subdue it to a tint more in keeping with the unvariegated hue of common circumstance?"
"Heartless and cruel!" sobbed Constance, falling upon the sofa, "hast thou not made me what I am?"
This accusation, intended by the author to be leveled at the traitor lover, quite took him aback when directed, with so much aptness, too, at his respectable self. But whom but himself could he blame, if, when common sense demanded only civility and complaisance, she persisted in adhering to the tragic and sentimental? He was provoked that he had not noticed this defect in time to remedy it; yet he had once considered Constance as, perhaps, the completest triumph of his genius! There seemed to be something particularly disenchanting in the atmosphere of that study.
"I'm afraid you're a failure, ma'am, after all," sighed the author, eyeing her disconsolately. "You're so one-sided!"
At this heartless observation the lady gave a harrowing shriek, thereby summoning to her side a broad-shouldered young fellow, clad in soldier's garb, with a countenance betokening much boldness and determination. He faced the author with an angry frown, which the latter at once recognized as being that of Constance's brother Sam.
"Now then, old bloke!" sang out that young gentleman, "what new deviltry are you up to? Down on your knees and beg her pardon, or, by George! I'll run you through the body!"
On this character the author had expended much thought and care. He was the type of the hardy and bold adventurer, rough and unpolished, perhaps, but of true and sterling metal, who, by dint of his vigorous common sense and honest, energetic nature, should at once clear and lighten whatever in the atmosphere of the story was obscure and sombre; and, by the salutary contrast of his fresh and rugged character with the delicate or morbid traits of his fellow beings, lend a graceful symmetry to the whole. The sentence Sam had just delivered with so much emphasis ought to have been addressed to the traitor lover, when discovered in the act of inconstancy, and, so given, would have been effective and dramatic. But at a juncture like the present, the author felt it to be simply ludicrous, and had he not been so mortified, would have laughed outright!
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Sam," remonstrated he. "Reflect whom you're addressing, and in what company you are, and do try and talk like a civilized being."
"Come, come! no palaver," returned Sam, in a loud and boisterous tone (to do him justice, he had never been taught any other); "down on your marrow-bones at once, or here goes for your gizzard!" and he drew his sword with a flourish.
So this was the rough diamond—the epitome of common sense! Why, he was a half-witted, impertinent, overbearing booby, and his author longed to get him across his knee, and correct him in the good old way. But meantime the point of the young warrior's sword was getting unpleasantly near the left breast-pocket of the author's dressing gown (which he wore at the time), and the latter happened to recollect, with a nervous thrill, that this was the sword which mortally wounded the traitor lover (for whom Sam evidently mistook him) during the stirring combat so vividly described in the twenty-second chapter. Could he but have foreseen the future, what a different ending that engagement should have had! But again it was too late, and the author sprang behind the big easy chair with astonishing agility, and from that vantage ground endeavored to bring on a parley.
Yet how could he argue and expostulate against himself? How arraign Sam of harboring murderous designs which he had himself implanted in his bosom? How, indeed, expect him to comprehend conversation so entirely foreign to his experience? It was an awkward dilemma.
It was Sam who took it by the horns. Somebody, he felt, must be mortally wounded; and finding himself defrauded of one subject, he took up with the next he encountered, which chanced to be none other than the venerable and white-haired gentleman who filled the position, in the tale, of a wealthy and benevolent uncle. The author, having always felt a sentiment of exceptional respect and admiration for this reverend and patriarchal personage, who by his gentle words and sage counsels, no less than his noble generosity, had done so much to elevate and sweeten the tone of his book, fell into an ecstasy of terror at witnessing the approach of his seemingly inevitable destruction; especially as he perceived that the poor old fellow (who never in his life had met with aught but reverence and affection, and knew nothing of the nature of deadly weapons and impulses) was, so far, from attempting to defend himself, or even escape, actually opening his arms to the widest extent of avuncular hospitality, and preparing to take his assassin, sword and all, into his fond and forgiving heart!
"You old fool!" shrieked the author, in the excess of his irritation and despair; "he isn't your repentant nephew! Why can't you keep your forgiveness until it's wanted?"
But Uncle Dudley having been created solely to forgive and benefit, was naturally incapable of taking care of himself, and would certainly have been run through the ample white waistcoat, had not an unexpected and wholly unprecedented interruption averted so awful a catastrophe.
A small, graceful figure, wearing a picturesque white cap, with jaunty ribbons, and a short scarlet petticoat, from beneath which peeped the prettiest feet and ancles ever seen, stepped suddenly between the philanthropic victim and his would-be-murderer, dealt the latter a vigorous blow across the face with a broom she carried, thereby toppling him over ignominiously into the coal-scuttle, and then, placing her plump hands saucily akimbo, she exclaimed with enchanting naivete: "There! Mr. Free-and-easy! take that for your imperance."
This little incident caused the author to fall back into his easy chair in a condition of profound emotion. It appeared to have corrected a certain dimness or obliquity in his vision, of the existence of which its cure rendered him for the first time conscious. The appearance of the little country girl (whose very introduction into the romance the author had looked upon with misgivings) had afforded the first gleam of natural, refreshing, wholesome interest—in fact, the only relief to all that was vapid, irrational, and unreal—which the combined action of the characters in his romance had succeeded in producing. But the enchantress who had effected this, so far from being the most unadulterated product of his own brain and genius, was the only one of all his dramatis personae who was not in the slightest degree indebted to him for her existence. She was nothing more than an accurate copy of Mary the house-maid, while the others—the mis-formed, ill-balanced, one-sided creations, who, the moment they were placed beyond the pale of their written instructions—put out of the regular and pre-arranged order of their going—displayed in every word and gesture their utter lack and want of comprehension of the simplest elements of human nature: these were the unaided offspring of the author's fancy. And yet it was by help of such as these he had thought to push his way to immortality! How the world would laugh at him! and, as he thought this, a few bitter tears of shame and humiliation trickled down the sides of the poor man's nose.
Presently he looked up. The warlike Sam remained sitting disconsolately in the coal-hod; his instructions suggested no means of extrication. Forsaken Constance lay fainting on the sofa, waiting for some one to chafe her hands and bathe her temples. The strikingly handsome betrayer leant in sullen and gloomy silence against the mantel-piece, ready to treat all advances with stern and defiant obduracy. The benevolent uncle stood with open arms and bland smile, never doubting but that everybody was preparing for a simultaneous rush to, and participation in, his embrace; and, finally, the pretty little country girl, with her arms akimbo and her nose in the air, remained mistress of the situation. Her unheard of innovation, of having done something timely, sensible, and decisive, even though not put down in the book, seemed to have paralyzed all the others. Ah! she was the only one there who was not less than a shadow. The author felt his desolate heart yearn towards her, and the next moment found himself on his knees at her feet.
"Mary," cried he, "you are my only reality. The others are empty and soulless, but you have a heart. They are the children of a conceited brain and visionary experience; you, only, have I drawn simply and unaffectedly, as you actually existed. Except for you, whom I slighted and despised, my whole romance had been an unmitigated falsehood. To you I owe my preservation from worse than folly, and my initiation into true wisdom. Mary—dear Mary, in return I have but one thing to offer you—my heart! Can you—will you not love me?"—
To his intense surprise, Mary, instead of evincing a becoming sense of her romantic situation, burst forth into a merry peal of laughter, and, catching him by one shoulder, gave him a hearty shake.
"La sakes! Mr. Author, do wake up! did ever anybody hear such a man!"
There was his room, his fire, his chair, his table, and his closely-written manuscript lying quietly upon it. There was he himself on his knees on the carpet, and—there was Mary the house-maid, one hand holding the brimming tea-pot, the other held by the author against his lips, and laughing and blushing in a tumult of surprise, amusement and, perhaps, something better than either.
"Did I say I loved you, Mary?" enquired the author, in a state of bewilderment. "Never mind! I say now that I love you with all my heart and soul, and ten times as much when awake, as when I was dreaming! Will you marry me?"
Mary only blushed rosier then ever. But she and the author always thereafter took their tea cosily together.
As for the romance, the author took it and threw it into the fire, which roared a genial acknowledgment, and in five minutes had made itself thoroughly acquainted with every page. There remained a bunch of black flakes, and in the center one soft glowing spark, which lingered a long while ere finally taking its flight up the chimney. It was the description of the little country girl.
"The next book I write shall be all about you," the author used to say to his wife, in after years, as they sat together before the fire-place, and watched the bright blaze roar up the chimney.
A FROSTY DAY.
Grass afield wears silver thatch, Palings all are edged with rime, Frost-flowers pattern round the latch, Cloud nor breeze dissolve the clime;
When the waves are solid floor, And the clods are iron-bound, And the boughs are crystall'd hoar, And the red leaf nail'd aground.
When the fieldfare's flight is slow, And a rosy vapor rim, Now the sun is small and low, Belts along the region dim.
When the ice-crack flies and flaws, Shore to shore, with thunder shock, Deeper than the evening daws, Clearer than the village clock.
When the rusty blackbird strips, Bunch by bunch, the coral thorn, And the pale day-crescent dips, New to heaven a slender horn.
—John Leicester Warren.
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Those who come last seem to enter with advantage. They are born to the wealth of antiquity. The materials for judging are prepared, and the foundations of knowledge are laid to their hands. Besides, if the point was tried by antiquity, antiquity would lose it; for the present age is really the oldest, and has the largest experience to plead.—Jeremy Collier.
COMING OUT OF SCHOOL.
If there be any happier event in the life of a child than coming out of school, few children are wise enough to discover it. We do not refer to children who go to school unwillingly—thoughtless wights—whose heads are full of play, and whose hands are prone to mischief:—that these should delight in escaping the restraints of the school-room, and the eye of its watchful master, is a matter of course. We refer to children generally, the good and the bad, the studious and the idle, in short, to all who belong to the genus Boy. Perhaps we should include the genus Girl, also, but of that we are not certain; for, not to dwell upon the fact that we have never been a girl, and are, therefore, unable to enter into the feelings of girlhood, we hold that girls are better than boys, as women are better than men, and that, consequently, they take more kindly to school life. What boys are we know, unless the breed has changed very much since we were young, which is now upwards of—but our age does not concern the reader. We did not take kindly to school, although we were sadly in need of what we could only obtain in school, viz., learning. We went to school with reluctance, and remained with discomfort; for we were not as robust as the children of our neighbors. We hated school. We did not dare to play truant, however, like other boys whom we knew (we were not courageous enough for that); so we kept on going, fretting, and pining, and—learning.
Oh the long days (the hot days of summer, and the cold days of winter), when we had to sit for hours on hard wooden benches, before uncomfortable desks, bending over grimy slates and ink-besprinkled "copy books," and poring over studies in which we took no interest—geography, which we learned by rote; arithmetic, which always evaded us, and grammar, which we never could master. We could repeat the "rules," but we could not "parse;" we could cipher, but our sums would not "prove;" we could rattle off the productions of Italy—"corn, wine, silk and oil"—but we could not "bound" the State in which we lived. We were conscious of these defects, and deplored them. Our teachers were also conscious of them, and flogged us! We had a morbid dread of corporeal punishment, and strove to the uttermost to avoid it; but it made no difference, it came all the same—came as surely and swiftly to us as to the bad boys who played "hookey," the worse boys who fought, and the worst boy who once stoned his master in the street. With such a school record as this, is it to be wondered at that we rejoiced when school was out? And rejoiced still more when we were out of school?
The feeling which we had then appears to be shared by the children in our illustration. Not for the same reasons, however; for we question whether the most ignorant of their number does not know more of grammar than we do to-day, and is not better acquainted with the boundaries of Germany than we could ever force ourselves to be. We like these little fellows for what they are, and what they will probably be. And we like their master, a grave, simple-hearted man, whose proper place would appear to be the parish-pulpit. What his scholars learn will be worth knowing, if it be not very profound. They will learn probity and goodness, and it will not be ferruled into them either. Clearly, they do not fear the master, or they would not be so unconstrained in his presence. They would not make snow balls, as one has done, and another is doing. Soon they will begin to pelt each other, and the passers by will not mind the snow balls, if they will only remember how they themselves felt, and behaved, after coming out of school.
There is not much in a group of children coming out of school. So one might say at first sight, but a little reflection will show the fallacy of the remark. One would naturally suppose that in every well-regulated State of antiquity measures would have been taken to ensure the education of all classes of the community, but such was not the case. The Spartans under Lycurgus were educated, but their education was mainly a physical one, and it did not reach the lower orders. The education of Greece generally, even when the Greek mind had attained its highest culture, was still largely physical—philosophers, statesmen, and poets priding themselves as much upon their athletic feats as upon their intellectual endowments. The schools of Rome were private, and were confined to the patricians. There was a change for the better when Christianity became the established religion. Public schools were recommended by a council in the sixth century, but rather as a means of teaching the young the rudiments of their faith, under the direction of the clergy, than as a means of giving them general instruction. It was not until the close of the twelfth century that a council ordained the establishment of grammar schools in cathedrals for the gratuitous instruction of the poor; and not until a century later that the ordinance was carried into effect at Lyons. Luther found time, amid his multitudinous labors, to interest himself in popular education; and, in 1527, he drew up, with the aid of Melanchthon, what is known as the Saxon School System. The seed was sown, but the Thirty Years' War prevented its coming to a speedy maturity. In the middle of the last century several of the German States passed laws making it compulsory upon parents to send their children to school at a certain age; but these laws were not really obeyed until the beginning of the present century. German schools are now open to the poorest as well as the richest children. The only people, except the Germans, who thought of common schools at an early period are the Scotch.
It cost, we see, some centuries of mental blindness to discover the need of, and some centuries of struggling to establish schools.
A GLIMPSE OF VENICE.
The spell which Venice has cast over the English poets is as powerful, in its way, as was the influence of Italian literature upon the early literature of England. From Chaucer down, the poets have turned to Italy for inspiration, and, what is still better, have found it. It is not too much to say that the "Canterbury Tales" could not have existed, in their present form, if Boccaccio had not written the "Decameron;" and it is to Boccaccio we are told that the writers of his time were indebted for their first knowledge of Homer. Wyatt and Surrey transplanted what they could of grace from Petrarch into the rough England of Henry the Eighth. We know what the early dramatists owe to the Italian storytellers. They went to their novels for the plots of their plays, as the novelists of to-day go to the criminal calendar for the plots of their stories. Shakspeare appears so familiar with Italian life that Mr. Charles Armitage Brown, the author of a very curious work on Shakspeare's Sonnets, declares that he must have visited Italy, basing this conclusion on the minute knowledge of certain Italian localities shown in some of his later plays. At home in Verona, Milan, Mantua, and Padua, Shakspeare is nowhere so much so as in Venice.
It is impossible to think of Venice without remembering the poets; and the poet who is first remembered is Byron. If our thoughts are touched with gravity as they should be when we dwell upon the sombre aspects of Venice—when we look, as here, for example, on the Bridge of Sighs—we find ourselves repeating:
"I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs."
If we are in a gayer mood, as we are likely to be after looking at the brilliant carnival-scene which greets us at the threshold of the present number of THE ALDINE, we recall the opening passages of Byron's merry poem of "Beppo:"
"Of all the places where the Carnival Was most facetious in the days of yore, For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more Than I have time to tell now, or at all, Venice the bell from every city bore."
* * * * *
"And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, Masks of all times, and nations, Turks and Jews, And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastical, Greeks, Romans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers! I charge ye."
The Bridge of Sighs (to return to prose) is a long covered gallery, leading from the ducal palace to the old State prisons of Venice. It was frequently traversed, we may be sure, in the days of some of the Doges, to one of whom, our old friend, and Byron's—Marino Faliero—the erection of the ducal palace is sometimes falsely ascribed. Founded in the year 800, A.D., the ducal palace was afterwards destroyed five times, and each time arose from its ruins with increasing splendor until it became, what it is now, a stately marble building of the Saracenic style of architecture, with a grand staircase and noble halls, adorned with pictures by Titian, Tintoretto, Paul Veronese, and other famous masters.
It would be difficult to find gloomier dungeons, even in the worst strongholds of despotism, than those in which the State prisoners of Venice were confined. These "pozzi," or wells, were sunk in the thick walls, under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the Bridge of Sighs. There were twelve of them formerly, and they ran down three or four stories. The Venetian of old time abhorred them as deeply as his descendants, who, on the first arrival of the conquering French, attempted to block or break up the lowest of them, but were not entirely successful; for, when Byron was in Venice, it was not uncommon for adventurous tourists to descend by a trap-door, and crawl through holes, half choked by rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the first range. So says the writer of the Notes to the fourth canto of "Childe Harolde" (Byron's friend Hobhouse, if our memory serves), who adds, "If you are in want of consolation for the extinction of patrician power, perhaps you may find it there. Scarcely a ray of light glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, and the places of confinement themselves are totally dark. A little hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the passages, and served for the introduction of the prisoner's food. A wooden pallet, about a foot or so from the ground, was the only furniture. The conductors tell you a light was not allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, two and a half in width, and seven feet in height. They are directly beneath one another, and respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower holes. Only one prisoner was found when the Republicans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is said to have been confined sixteen years." When the prisoner's hour came he was taken out and strangled in a cell upon the Bridge of Sighs!
And this was in Venice! The grand old Republic which was once the greatest Power of Eastern Europe; the home of great artists and architects, renowned the world over for arts and arms; the Venice of "blind old Dandolo," who led her galleys to victory at the ripe old age of eighty; the Venice of Doge Foscari, whose son she tortured, imprisoned and murdered, and whose own paternal, patriotic, great heart she broke; the Venice of gay gallants, and noble, beautiful ladies; the Venice of mumming, masking, and the carnival; the bright, beautiful Venice of Shakspeare, Otway, and Byron; joyous, loving Venice; cruel, fatal Venice!
* * * * *
MODERN SATIRE.—A satire on everything is a satire on nothing; it is mere absurdity. All contempt, all disrespect, implies something respected, as a standard to which it is referred; just as every valley implies a hill. The persiflage of the French and of fashionable worldlings, which turns into ridicule the exceptions and yet abjures the rules, is like Trinculo's government—its latter end forgets its beginning. Can there be a more mortal, poisonous consumption and asphyxy of the mind than this decline and extinction of all reverence?—Jean Paul.
WINTER PICTURES FROM THE POETS.
Although English Poetry abounds with pictures of the seasons, its Winter pictures are neither numerous, nor among its best. For one good snow-piece we can readily find twenty delicate Spring pictures—twinkling with morning dew, and odorous with the perfume of early flowers. It would be easy to make a large gallery of Summer pictures; and another gallery, equally large, which should contain only the misty skies, the dark clouds, and the falling leaves of Autumn. Not so with Winter scenes. Not that the English poets have not painted the last, and painted them finely, but that as a rule they have not taken kindly to the work. They prefer to do what Keats did in one of his poems, viz., make Winter a point of departure from which Fancy shall wing her way to brighter days:
"Fancy, high-commissioned; send her! She has vassals to attend her, She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost, She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather."
But we must not let Keats come between us and the few among his fellows who have sung of Winter for us. Above all, we must not let him keep his and our master, Shakspeare, waiting:
"When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whoo; To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
"When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw. When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-whoo; To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot."
From Shakspeare to Thomson is something of a descent, but we must make it before we can find any Winter poetry worth quoting. Here is a picture, ready-made, for Landseer to put into form and color:
"There, warm together pressed, the trooping deer Sleep on the new-fallen snows; and scarce his head Raised o'er the heapy wreath, the branching elk Lies slumbering sullen in the white abyss. The ruthless hunter wants nor dogs nor toils, Nor with the dread of sounding bows he drives The fearful flying race: with ponderous clubs, As weak against the mountain-heaps they push Their beating breast in vain, and piteous bray, He lays them quivering on the ensanguined snows, And with loud shouts rejoicing bears them home."
Cowper is superior to Thomson as a painter of Winter, although it is doubtful whether he was by nature the better poet. Here is one of his pictures:
"The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence Screens them, and seem half petrified with sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder; not like hungering man, Fretful if unsupplied; but silent, meek, And patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. He, from the stack, carves out the accustomed load, Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, The broad keen knife into the solid mass: Smooth as a wall, the upright remnant stands, With such undeviating and even force He severs it away: no needless care, Lest storms should overset the leaning pile Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight. Forth goes the woodman, leaving, unconcerned, The cheerful haunts of man, to wield the axe And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, From morn to eve his solitary task. Shaggy, and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk, Wide scampering, snatches up the drifted snow With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; Then shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, But now and then, with pressure of his thumb To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube That fumes beneath his nose: the trailing cloud Streams far behind him, scenting all the air. Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, Where, diligent to cast the first faint gleam Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing, And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood, Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge. The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves, To seize the fair occasion; well they eye The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved To escape the impending famine, often scared As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Clean riddance quickly made, one only care Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned To sad necessity, the cock foregoes His wonted strut; and, wading at their head, With well-considered steps, seems to resent His altered gait and stateliness retrenched."
The American poets have excelled their English brethren in painting the outward aspects of Winter. Here is Mr. Emerson's description of a snow storm:
"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn: Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs, and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow."
In Mr. Bryant's "Winter Piece" we have a brilliant description of frost-work:
"Look! the massy trunks Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, Is studded with its trembling water-drops, That glimmer with an amethystine light. But round the parent stem the long low boughs Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, Deep in the womb of earth—where the gems grow, And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud With amethyst and topaz—and the place Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, And fades not in the glory of the sun;— Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost, Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye; Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault; There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light; Light without shade. But all shall pass away With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks, Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont."
Winter, itself, has never been more happily impersonated than by dear old Spenser. We meant to close with his portrait of Winter, but, on second thoughts, we give, as more seasonable, his description of January. The fourth line can hardly fail to remind the reader of the second line of Shakspeare's song, and to suggest the query—whether Shakspeare borrowed from Spenser, Spenser from Shakspeare, or both from Nature?
"Then came old January, wrapped well In many weeds to keep the cold away; Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell, And blow his nayles to warme them if he may; For they were numbed with holding all the day An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray: Upon an huge great earth-pot steane he stood, From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane floud."
* * * * *
As long as you are engaged in the world, you must comply with its maxims; because nothing is more unprofitable than the wisdom of those persons who set up for reformers of the age. 'Tis a part a man can not act long, without offending his friends, and rendering himself ridiculous.—St. Gosemond.
THE PAVILIONS ON THE LAKE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THEOPHILE GAUTIER.
In the province of Canton, several miles from the city, there once lived two rich Chinese merchants, retired from business. One of them was named Tou, the other Kouan. Both were possessed of great riches, and were persons of much consequence in the community.
Tou and Kouan were distant relatives, and from early youth had lived and worked side by side. Bound by ties of great affection, they had built their homes near together, and every evening they met with a few select friends to pass the hours in delightful intercourse. Both possessed of much talent, they vied with each other in the production of exquisite Chinese handiwork, and spent the evenings in tracing poetry and fancy designs on rice-paper as they drank each other's success in tiny glasses of delicate cordial. But their characters, apparently so harmonious, as time went on grew more and more apart; they were like an almond tree, growing as one stem, until little by little the branches divide so that the topmost twigs are far from each other—half sending their bitter perfume through the whole garden, while the other half scatter their snow-white flowers outside the garden wall.
From year to year Tou grew more serious; his figure increased in dignity, even his double chin wore a solemn expression, and he spent his whole time composing moral inscriptions to hang over the doors of his pavilion.
Kouan, on the contrary, grew jolly as his years increased. He sang more gaily than ever in praise of wine, flowers, and birds. His spirit, unburdened by vulgar cares, was light like a young man's, and he dreamed of nothing but pure enjoyment.
Little by little an intense hatred sprang up between the friends. They could not meet without indulging in bitter sarcasm. They were like two hedges of brambles, bristling with sharp thorns. At last, things came to such a pass that they could no longer endure each other's society, and each hung a tablet by the door of his dwelling, stating that no person from the neighboring house would be allowed to cross the threshold on any pretext whatever.
They would have been glad to move their houses to different parts of the country, but, unhappily, this was not possible. Tou even tried to sell his property but he set such an unreasonable price that no buyer appeared, and he was, moreover, unwilling to leave all the treasures he had accumulated there—the sculptured wainscotting, the polished panels, like mirrors, the transparent windows, the gilded lattice-work, the bamboo lounges, the vases of rare porcelain, the red and black lacquered cabinets, and the cases full of books of ancient poetry. It was hard to give up to strangers the garden where he had planted shade and fruit trees with his own hands, and where, each spring he had watched the opening of the flowers; where in short, each object was bound to his heart by ties delicate as the finest silk, but strong as iron chains.
In the days of their friendship, Tou and Kouan had each built a pavilion in his garden, on the shore of a lake, common to both estates. It had been a great delight to sit in their separate balconies and exchange friendly salutations while they smoked opium in pipes of delicate porcelain. But after becoming enemies they built a wall which divided the lake into two equal portions. The water was so deep that the wall was supported on a series of arches, through which the water flowed freely, reflecting upon its placid surface the rival pavilions.
These pavilions were exquisite specimens of Chinese architecture. The roofs, covered with tiling, round and brilliant as the scales which glisten on the sides of a gold-fish, were supported upon red and black pillars which rested on a solid foundation, richly ornamented with porcelain slabs bearing all manner of artistic designs. A railing ran all around, formed by a graceful intermingling of branches and flowers wrought in ivory. The interior was not less sumptuous. On the walls were inscribed verses of celebrated Chinese poems, elegantly written in perpendicular lines, with golden characters on a lacquered background. Shades of delicately carved ivory, softened the light to a faint opal tint, and all around stood pots of orchis, peonies, and daisies, which filled the air with delicious perfume. Curtains of rich silk were draped over the entrance, and on the marble tables within were scattered fans, tooth-picks, ebony pipes, and pencils with all conveniences for writing.
All around the pavilions were picturesque grounds of rock, among whose clefts grew clumps of willows, their long green twigs swaying on the surface of the water. Under the crystal waves sported myriads of gold-fish, and ducks with gay plumage floated among the broad, shining leaves of water-lilies. Except in the very centre of the pool, where the depth of the water prevented the growth of aquatic plants, the whole surface was covered with these leaves, like a carpet of soft green velvet.
Before the unsightly wall had been placed there by the hostile owners, it was impossible to find a more picturesque spot in the whole empire, and even now no philosopher would have wished for a more retired and delicious retreat in which to pass his days.
Both Tou and Kouan felt deeply the loss of the enchanting prospect, and gazed sadly upon the barren wall which rose before their eyes, but each consoled himself with the idea that his neighbor was as badly off as himself.
Things went on in this way for several years. Grass and weeds choked up the pathway between the two houses, and brambles and branches of low shrubs intertwined across it, as though they would bar all communication forever. It appeared as if the plants understood the quarrel between the two old friends, and took delight in perpetuating it.
Meanwhile the wives of both Tou and Kouan were both blessed each with a child. Madame Tou became the mother of a charming girl, and Madame Kouan of the handsomest boy in the world. Each family was ignorant of the happy event which had brought joy into the home of the other, for although their houses were so near together the families were as far apart as if they had been separated by the great wall of the empire, or the ocean itself. What mutual friends they still possessed, never alluded to the affairs of one in the house of the other; even the servants had been forbidden to exchange words with each other, under pain of death.
The boy was named Tchin-Sing, and the girl Ju-Kiouan, that is to say, Jasper and Pearl. Their perfect beauty fully justified the choice of their names. As they grew old enough to take notice of their surroundings, the unsightly wall attracted their attention, and each inquired of their parents why that strange barrier was placed across the centre of such a charming sheet of water, and to whom belonged the great trees of which they could see the topmost boughs.
Each was told that on the farther side of the wall was the habitation of a strange and wicked family, and that it had been placed there as a protection against such disagreeable neighbors.
This explanation was sufficient for the children. They grew accustomed to the sight and thought no more about it.
Ju-Kiouan grew in grace and beauty. She was skilled in all lady-like accomplishments. The butterflies which she embroidered upon satin appeared to live and beat their wings, and one could almost hear the song of the birds which grew under her fingers, and smell the perfume of the flowers she wrought upon canvas. She knew the "Book of Odes" by heart, and could repeat the five rules of life without missing a word. Her handwriting was perfection, and she composed in all the different styles of Chinese poetry. Her poems were upon all those delicate themes which would attract the mind of a pure young girl; upon the return of the swallows, the daisies, the weeping willows and similar topics, and were of such merit as to win much praise from the wise men of the country.
Tchin-Sing was not less forward in his accomplishments, and his name stood at the head of his class. Although he was very young he had already gained the right to wear the black cap of the wise men, and all the mothers in the country about wished him for a son-in-law. But Tchin-Sing had but one answer to all proposals; it was too soon, and he desired his liberty for some time to come. He refused the hand of Hon-Giu, of Oma, and other beautiful young girls. Never was a young man more courted and more overwhelmed with sweets and flowers than he, but his heart remained insensible to all attractions. Not on account of its coldness, for he appeared full of longing for an object to adore. His heart seemed fixed upon some memory, some dream, perhaps, for whose realization he was waiting and hoping. It was all in vain to tell him of beautiful tresses, languishing eyes, and soft hands waiting for his acceptance. He listened with a distracted air, as if thinking of other things.
Ju-Kiouan was not less difficult to please. She refused all suitors for her hand. This did not salute her gracefully, that was not dainty in his habits; one had a bad handwriting, another composed poor verses; in short all had some defect. She drew amusing caricatures of everyone, which made her parents laugh, and show the door to the unlucky lover in the most polite manner possible.
At last the parents of both young people became alarmed at the continued refusal of their children to marry, and the mothers commenced to follow the subject in their dreams. One night Madame Kouan dreamed that she saw a pearl of wonderful purity reposing on the breast of her son. On the other hand, Madame Tou dreamed that on her daughter's forehead sparkled a jasper of inestimable value. Much consultation was held as to the significance of these dreams. Madame Kouan's was thought to imply that her son would win the highest honors of the Imperial Academy, while Madame Tou's might signify that her daughter would find some untold treasure in the garden. These interpretations, however, did not satisfy the two mothers, whose whole minds were bent upon the happy marriage of their children. Unfortunately both Tchin-Sing and Ju-Kiouan persisted more obstinately than ever in their refusal to listen to the subject.
As young people are not usually so averse to marriage, the parents suspected some secret attachment, but a few days' careful watching sufficed to prove that Tchin-Sing was paying court to no young girl, and that no lover was to be seen under the balcony of Ju-Kiouan.
At length both mothers decided to consult the bronze oracle in the temple of Fo. After burning gilt paper and perfume before the oracle, Madame Tou received the unsatisfactory answer that, until the jasper appeared, the pearl would unite with no one, and Madame Kouan was told the jasper would take nothing to his bosom but the pearl. Both women went sadly homeward in deeper perplexity than ever.
One day Ju-Kiouan was leaning pensively on the balcony of her pavilion, precisely at the same time when Tchin-Sing was standing by his. The day was clear as crystal, and not a cloud floated in the blue space above. There was not sufficient wind to move the lightest twigs of the willows, and the surface of the water was glistening and placid as a mirror, only disturbed, here and there, when some tiny gold-fish leaped for an instant into the sunshine. The trees and grassy banks were reflected so distinctly that it was impossible to tell where the real world left off, and the land of dreams began. Ju-Kiouan was amusing herself watching the beauteous water-picture when her eyes fell upon that portion of the lake, near the wall, where, with all the clearness of reality, was the reflection of the pavilion on the opposite shore.
She had never noticed it before, and what was her surprise to behold an exact reproduction of the one where she was standing, the gilded roof, the red and black pillars, and all the beauteous drapery about the doors. She would have been able to read the inscription upon the tablets, had they not been reversed. But what surprised her more than all was to see, leaning on the balcony, a figure which, if it had not come from the other side of the lake, she would have taken for her own reflection. It was the mirrored image of Tchin-Sing. At first she took it for the reflection of a girl, as he was dressed in robes according to the fashion of the time. As the heat was intense, he had thrown off his student's cap, and his hair fell about his fresh, beardless face. But soon Ju-Kiouan recognized, from the violent beating of her heart, that the reflection in the water was not that of a young girl.
Until then she had believed that the earth contained no being created for her, and had often indulged in pensive revery over her loneliness. Never, said she, shall I take my place as a link between the past and future of my family, but I shall enter among the shadows as a lonely shade.
But when she beheld the reflection in the water, she found that her beauty had a sister, or, more properly speaking, a brother. Far from being displeased to discover that her beauty was not unrivaled, she was filled with intense joy. Her heart was beating and throbbing with love for another, and in that instant Ju-Kiouan's whole life was changed. It was foolish in her to fall violently in love with a reflection, of whose reality she knew nothing, but after all she was only acting like nearly all young girls who take a husband for his white teeth or his curly hair, knowing nothing whatever of his real character.
Tchin-Sing had also perceived the charming reflection of the young girl. "I am dreaming," he cried. "That beautiful image upon the water is the combination of sunshine and the perfume of many flowers. I recognize it well. It is the reflection of the image within my own heart, the divine unknown whom I have worshiped all my life."
Tchin-Sing was aroused from his monologue by the voice of his father, who called him to come at once to the grand saloon.
"My son," said he, "here is a very rich and very learned man who seeks you as a husband for his daughter. The young girl has imperial blood in her veins, is of a rare beauty, and possesses all the qualities necessary to make her husband happy."
Tchin-Sing, whose heart was bursting with love for the reflection seen from the pavilion, refused decidedly. His father, carried away with passion, heaped upon him the most violent imprecations.
"Undutiful child," said he, "if you persist in your obstinacy, I will have you confined in one of the strongest fortresses of the empire, where you will see nothing but the sea beating against the rocks, and the mountains covered with mist. There you will have leisure to reflect, and repent of your wicked conduct."
These threats did not frighten Tchin-Sing in the least. He quickly replied that he would accept for his wife the first maiden who touched his heart, and until then he should listen to no one.
The next day, at the same hour, he went to the pavilion on the lake, and, leaning on the balcony, eagerly watched for the beloved reflection. In a few moments he saw it glisten in the water, beauteous as a boquet of submerged flowers.
A radiant smile broke over the face of the reflection, which proved to Tchin-Sing that his presence was not unpleasant to the lovely unknown. But as it was impossible to hold communication with a reflection whose substance is invisible, he made a sign that he would write, and vanished into the interior of the pavilion. He soon reappeared, bearing in his hand a silvered paper, upon which he had written a declaration of love in seven-syllabled stanzas. He carefully folded his verses and placed them in the cup of a white flower, which he rolled in a leaf of the water-lily, and placed the whole tenderly upon the surface of the lake.
A light breeze wafted the lover's message through the arches of the wall, and it floated so near Ju-Kiouan that she had only to stretch out her hand to receive it. Fearful of being seen she returned to her private boudoir, where she read with great delight the expressions of love written by Tchin-Sing. Her joy was all the greater, as she recognized from the exquisite hand-writing and choice versification that the writer was a man of culture and talent. And when she read his signature, the significance of which she perceived at once, remembering her mother's dream, she felt that heaven had sent her the long desired companion.
The next day the breeze blew in a different direction, so that Ju-Kiouan was able to send an answer in verse by the same subtle messenger, by which, notwithstanding her girlish modesty, it was easy to see that she returned the love of Tchin-Sing.
On reading the signature, Tchin-Sing could not repress an exclamation of surprise and delight. "The pearl," said he, "that is the precious jewel my mother saw glittering on my bosom. I must at once entreat this young girl's hand of her parents, for she is the wife appointed for me by the oracle."
As he was preparing to go, he suddenly remembered the dislike between the two families, and the prohibitions inscribed upon the tablet over the entrance. Determined to win his prize at any cost, he resolved to confide the whole history to his mother. Ju-Kiouan had also told her love to Madame Tou. The names of Pearl and Jasper troubled the good matrons so much that, not daring to set themselves against what appeared to be the will of the gods, they both went again to the temple of Fo.
The bronze oracle replied that this marriage was in reality the true interpretation of the dreams, and that to prevent it would be to incur the eternal anger of the gods. Touched by the entreaties of the mothers, and also by slight mutual advances, the two fathers gave way and consented to a reconciliation of the families. The two old friends, on meeting each other again, were astonished to find what frivolous causes had separated them for so many years, and mourned sincerely over all the pleasure they had lost in being deprived of each other's society. The marriage of the children was celebrated with much rejoicing, and the Jasper and the Pearl were no longer obliged to hold intercourse by means of a reflection on the water. The wall was removed, and the wavelets rippled placidly between the two pavilions on the lake.
IN THE MOUNTAINS.
A line of Walter Savage Landor's, a poet for poets, was an especial favorite with Southey, and, we believe, with Lamb. It occurs in "Gebir," and drops from the lips of one of its characters, who, being suddenly shown the sea, exclaims,
"Is this the mighty ocean?—is this all?"
The feeling which underlies this line is generally the first emotion we have when brought face to face with the stupendous forms of Nature. It is the feeling inspired by mountains, the first sight of which is disappointing. They are grand, but not quite what we were led to expect from pictures and books, and, still more, from our own imaginations. The more we see mountains, the more they grow upon us, until, finally, they are clothed with a grandeur not, in all cases, belonging to them—our Mount Washingtons over-topping the Alps, and the Alps the Himmalayas. The poets assist us in thus magnifying them.
The American poets have translated the mountains of their native land into excellent verse. Everybody remembers Mr. Bryant's "Monument Mountain," for its touching story, and its clearly-defined descriptions of scenery.
Mr. Stedman has a mountain of his own, though perhaps only in Dream-land; and Mr. Bayard Taylor has a whole range of them, the sight of which once filled him with rapture:
"O deep, exulting freedom of the hills! O summits vast, that to the climbing view In naked glory stand against the blue! O cold and buoyant air, whose crystal fills Heaven's amethystine gaol! O speeding streams That foam and thunder from the cliffs below! O slippery brinks and solitudes of snow And granite bleakness, where the vulture screams! O stormy pines, that wrestle with the breath Of every tempest, sharp and icy horns And hoary glaciers, sparkling in the morns, And broad dim wonders of the world beneath! I summon ye, and mid the glare that fills The noisy mart, my spirit walks the hills."
* * * * *
GLADNESS OF NATURE.—Midnight—when asleep so still and silent—seems inspired with the joyous spirit of the owls in their revelry—and answers to their mirth and merriment through all her clouds. The moping owl, indeed!—the boding owl, forsooth! the melancholy owl, you blockhead! why, they are the most cheerful, joy-portending, and exulting of God's creatures. Their flow of animal spirits is incessant—crowing cocks are a joke to them—blue devils are to them unknown—not one hypochondriac in a thousand barns—and the Man-in-the-Moon acknowledges that he never heard one utter a complaint.
Mr. Darley's very characteristic picture on the opposite page needs no description, it so thoroughly explains itself, and realizes his intention. The following lines from Mary Howitt seem very appropriate to the sketch:
"O golden fields of bending corn, How beautiful they seem! The reaper-folk, the piled up sheaves, To me are like a dream; The sunshine and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there."
FROM THE FRENCH OF AUGUSTE VITU.
It was Saturday night, and the pavement sparkled with frost diamonds under flashing lights and echoing steps in the opera quarter. Tinkling carnival bells and wild singing resounded from all the carriages dashing towards Rue Lepelletier; the shops were only half shut, and Paris, wide awake, reveled in a fairy-night frolic.
And yet, Felix d'Aubremel, one of the bright applauded heroes of those orgies, seemed in no mood to answer their mad challenge. Plunged in a deep armchair, hands drooping and feet on the fender, he was sunk in sombre revery. An open book lay near him, and a letter was flung, furiously crumpled, on the floor.
An orphan at the age of twelve, Felix had watched his mother's slow death through ten years of suffering. The Marquis Gratien d'Aubremel, ruined by reckless dissipation, and driven by necessity, rather than love, into a marriage with an English heiress, Margaret Malden, deserted her, like the wretch he was, as soon as the last of her dowry melted away. A common story enough, and ending in as common a close. D'Aubremel sailed for the Indies to retrieve his fortune, and met death there by yellow fever. So that the sad lessons of Felix's family life stimulated to excess his innate leaning towards misanthropy—if that name may define a resistless urgency of belief in the appearances of evil, linked with a doubt of the reality of good. Probably, at heart, he believed himself incapable of a bad action, but he would take no oath to such a conviction, since by his theory every man must yield under certain circumstances, attacking powerfully his personal interest, while threatening slight danger of failure or detection. This style of thought, set off by a fair share of witty expression and ever-ready impertinence, gave Felix a kind of ascendancy in his circle of intimates—but naturally it gained him no friends. Common reputation grows out of words rather than actions, and Felix suffered the just penalty of his sceptical fancies. They cost him more than they were worth, as he had just learned by sad experience.
He had chanced to make the acquaintance of a rich manufacturer, Montmorot by name, whose daughter Ernestine was pleased with the devotion of a charming young fellow, who mingled the rather reckless grace of French cleverness with a reserved style and refined pride gained from the English blood of the Maldens. For his part, Felix really loved the girl, and had let his impatience, that very day, carry him into a step that failed to move the elder Montmorot's inflexibility. He refused absolutely to give his daughter to a man without fortune or prospects. Felix was crushed, his hopes all shattered at a blow, by this answer, though he had a thousand reasons to expect it. And at what a moment! A half-unfolded red ticket, stuffed with disgusting threats, peeped out from between the wall and his sofa. The officers of justice had paid him a little visit. He got into a passion with himself.