Sep ocerets. nm a DRA Sees soe cre 7 he Se oe tetaaenen ae ren Wate fot th meth -ae gehen oa eee eer ees SN eget acetate etniabet emcee Ke 23(A00) es i, Digitized by the Internet Archive In 2012 with funding from Biodiversity Heritage Library http://www.archive.org/details/americanwildflowO0embu & BRUWN NEW YORK. a UTH.OF LEWIS D.APPLETON & CO.NEW—YORK . TAA SYS) | Bra lG / SAS AMERICAN WILD FLOWERS IN THEIR NATIVE HAUNTS, LN eC sus BY r - Z WG a) : ee SF = phn EMMA CC. EMBURY. WITH TWENTY PLATES OF PLANTS, CAREFULLY COLORED AFTER NATURE3 AND LANDSCAPE VIEWS OF THEIR LOCALITIES, FROM DRAWINGS ON THE SPOT, BY E. WHITEFIELD. NEW YORK: D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. PHILADEPHIA: GEORGE § APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT STREET. MDCCCXLV. i 027 ae 4 ae Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by D. Appreron & Co, in the Clerk’s office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. PREFACE, In offering to the public, this volume of American Wild Flowers, the author cannot but feel, that, while every apology ought to be made for the imperfect manner in which she has executed her not unpleasant task, no excuse is necessary for the subject she has chosen. Every one hears of our towering mountains, our mighty rivers, our dense forests, our ocean-like Jakes and our boundless prairies. The grand features of nature are so imposing that we forget the lesser beauties, which amid gentler scenery would claim our chief interest; and therefore it is that the blossoms which fringe our rushing streams and enamel our sunny vallies are rarely noted among the characteristics of American scenery. Yet why should our wild flowers lack the poetic association which lends such a charm to the “pied daisy,” and the “primrose pale?” Why should the tiny blossom whose life is nurtured by the spray of the mightiest of cataracts, and whose hues are brightened by the circling rainbows which gird Niagara as with a cestus of beauty,—why should it be less suggestive to the imagina- tion than the ivy gathering over a ruined turret, or the wall-flower nodding from a crumbling buttress ? It is not pretended that the present work can do more than afford a feeble idea of the wealth of our wood-land haunts. The flowers here given, bear the smallest possible proportion to the many which iv. PREFACE. could be gathered from Nature’s treasures. Nor have they been selected for their superior beauty, since many equally worthy of note have been necessarily excluded in order to bring the work within its prescribed limits. Should its success prove that an American public can be interested in a purely American subject, other volumes may succeed it, which will give completeness to the design. The botanical and local descriptions accompanying the plates, have been furnished by the artist, Mr. E. Wurrertip. The verses, begin- ning “She sleeps.” inserted in “ Love beyond the Grave,” were presented for publication by a friend. With these exceptions, the author is alone responsible for every thing in the volume which has not the name of its writer affixed. To the friends who have assisted her in this undertaking, she would fain offer her heart-warm thanks. Of the high value of their aid, every intelligent reader can judge, but of the spontaneous kind- ness with which that aid was afforded, this is not the place to speak, since it would be invading the rights and encroaching upon the privi-— leges of that friendship which claims to belong to social, even more than to literary life. It is only necessary to add that every thing contained in the volume was written expressly for it, with the exception of a few short poems, selected from the author’s early writings, which after appearing under other signatures, are now for the first time claimed. Brooxtyn, SEPTEMBER 15, 1844. TABLE OF CONTENTS. A CuapTer on Fiowers, = = = = Z Tue American River, - - - Fs z Tue SLEEP oF PLANTS, - = Elizabeth Oakes Smith, TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS, - - = : Z Witp Honeysucxte—Description of Plate, = = - Bonds of Love, - = 3 z Bertha, - = = = bs = Stanzas;lo= =) + * * 4% =e 2 a Famy Frax anp Crow-root Gerantum—Description of Plate, Z The Flower of Innocence, - Elizabeth Oakes Smith, The Elfin Exile, - - = . 2 Stanzas, = - - - OD. M. Burgh, Bettwort—Description of Plate, - - 5 s The Omen, - - Elizabeth Oakes Smith, Earty Ascrepras—Description of Plate, = 3 : Sorrowful Remembrance, - = = x Love beyond the Grave, - - = 2 Wizp Cotumsine—Description of Plate, = 2 2 Sonnet, - : ak" Henry T. Tuckerman, Modern Constancy, - - 5 2 To ; - - - = a SLENDER-LEAVED Grerarpia—Description of plate, = 2 Sympathy, - - - : : Faith and Love, : - Ernest Helfenstein, Remembered Love, - Henry T. Tuckerman, Brur-Evep Grass—Description of Plate, : 2 a Sensibility, = - < S = 92 106 Vi. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Broap-Leavep Lavret—Description of Plate, 2 = 113 The Wild Laurel, - = = C. F. Hoffman, 115 The Vengeance of Uncas, - = = 118 True Greatness, - - < - 128 Prince’s Pine—Description of Plate, - - - 129 The Mourner’s Appeal, - - - - 131 Peace, - - - - - 133 Apper’s Toneve Viotet—Description of Plate, - - - 135 Sonnet, - = = Ernest Helfenstein, 137 Ma-ma-twa and Mo-na-wing, - - - - 138 Hare-Bert and Lespepzea—Description of Plate, - - 149 Answered Love, = = Henry T. Tuckerman, 151 Pollipell’s Island, - = C. F. Hoffman, 152 Witp Rosse—Description of Plate, = = f =) 158} The Rose-Leaf; To 7 = 5 ! 165 The Village Girl, - - - - - 167 Broox-Lime—Description of Plate, - é Si 5 175 Poesy, - - - - - a Alii? Records of a Heart, = 2 4 2 179 The Eolian Harp, - S = : - 188 Eye-Bricht—Description of Plate, - = = z 189 Cheerfulness, = = < s - 191 Na-wi-qua, - - - Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 193 The Poetic Impulse, - = - 5 BY Wirp Srrawserry—Description of Plate, - a r 203 Sonnet, - - - - - - 205 The Strawberry Party, - - E - 206 Song, = = - = = - 216 Azure Star Ftower—Description of Plate, - 5 = 217 A Forest Legend, - = = Fs - 219 CarpinaL FLrowEr—Description of Plate, : = : 223 Offered Love, - - Henry T. Tuckerman, 225 The Proud Ladye, = = = E 226 Yettow Srar Grass—Description of Plate, - - - 288 Stanzas, : - C. F. Hoffman, 235 The Dreamer’s Mission, - 5 x - 236 Woop Litry—Description of Plate, - - 249 The Rustic Maiden to her Lover, Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 251 The Fountain, - = : : - 253 LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS. FRoNTISPIECE.—Fattinc Spring and Dian Mountain, aT THE HEAD OF Wvromine VALLEY, Pa. Tue Witp Honeysuckie.—F ai on ButrerMink Creek, Pa. : : : 24 Farry Fiax, anp Crow-Foor Geranium.—Passaic Fanis, New Jersey. 44 BELLWorT.—VIEW NEAR THE CITY OF Hupson, New York, : g : 60 Earty Asciepras-—Ortsrco Laxre, New York, : 3 : 3 66 Wirp Cotumpine.—Martanea Fatt, PENNSYLVANIA, 2 : 2 14! SLENDER-LEAVED GERARDIA.—VIEW NEAR Fort Montcomery, : : 90 Buve-Eyrep Grass.—View on THE Hupson, NEAR VERPLANCK’s Point, : 108 Broap-Leavep LAavrEeL.—Y antic Fartus, Norwicu, Conn, : : len: Prince’s PinE.—V1EW NEAR POoUGHKEESIE, : : 5 z : 130 ApvEr’s TonevE VIOLET.—ViEw NEAR Tioca Pornt, PENNSYLVANIA, : 136 Hare-Bett AnD LespEDEZA.—UPrer ENTRANCE OF THE HIGHLANDS, : : 150 Tue Witp Rose.—View on Staten IsLanp, : : 8 c : 164 Broox-Lime.—Disrant View oF ALBANY, : : : : : 176 Eve Bricut.—View From Constitution Istanp, opposire West Point, 190 Wip Srrawserry.—Distant View oF Catrawissa, PENNSYLVANIA, : 204 Azure Srar FLrowEer,— VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA, NEAR NINEVEH, : 218 CarpinaL FirowEer.—Ovrt Let oF FIsHKiLL CREEK, : : : : 2924 Yettow Srar Grass.—View on THE Juniata, PENNSYLVANIA, : : 234 Woop Lity.—Hicx Broce and Croron Fountain at Haartem, N. Y. 250 —— ETI ta i A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS, “ Wir what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy Life’s newness, and earth’s garniture spread out ; And when the silver habit of the clouds Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with A sober gladness the old year takes up His bright inheritance of golden fruits, A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.” LonGFELLOW. Frowers! Wild Flowers! how full of association is the very name! How fraught with reminiscences of the breezy hill— how redolent of woodland odors,—how musical with the dash of the waterfall—the rushing of the mountain stream—the rustling of the sedgy rivulet! The blossoms which reward our patient care within the garden’s bounds, are beautiful beyond compare,—they have grown up beneath our guardianship, and they recompense us, as only nature can recompense the heart that values her gifts. ‘They are beautiful, and we watch their development, we dwell upon their loveliness, we drink their per- 2 10 A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. fumed breath with a sense of pleasure and of pride. But the Wild Flowers,—the gems which God’s own hand has scattered abroad in the wilderness,—blossoms sown by the wind, nursed by the shower, peering from their covert on the hill-side, smiling upon us from the cleft of some dark ravine, looking down ten- derly from the face of some rugged cliff,—these bring to our souls those surprises of sudden joy which keep the heart forever awake to a blessedness like that of innocent childhood. Nature ne’er betrays The heart that loves her. Other joys may fail, And other hopes may wither; blight may fall On Love’s fair blossom, and dark mildew steal O’er wealth’s rich gifts; the laurel crown may drop Its shining leaves, and all that men most prize May cheat their souls with promises untrue ; But nature’s gifts are boundless, she doth show Ever a loving face to those who come In lowliness of spirit to her shrine. Of all remedies for a world-wearied spirit, commend me to a day in the woods. ‘The feeling of freedom, the consciousness of having left turmoil and disquiet behind, becomes the first element of repose to the heart. Then come the thousand new delights—new, even if enjoyed a myriad of times before— which nature offers to our acceptance. ‘The soul and the sense alike are gratified. Beneath our feet is spread a carpet of moss and fallen leaves, whose elastic fabric gives buoyancy to our step. We inhale the spicy fragrance of the woodland air; we gaze upward and behold the towering majesty of the forest A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. 11 king,—we look beside us, and the meek beauty of the wild- flower greets the eye; while the ear, pained so long by the confused murmur of a crowd, is now soothed by a stillness unbroken save by nature’s voices. Let us forth, and wander, in memory or in fancy, through such a scene, in the soft balmy days of early summer, or be- neath the lingering influences of departing spring. The sun beats with too fierce a heat on the upland walk, but lo! a green and sheltered vale invites our steps, and leads to the cool forest shade. We seek no path, for we would fain wind as we list through the leafy labyrinth, and look on nature in her most secluded bowers. The interlacing branches have shut out every ray of sunshine, and the shadows lie in heavy blackness upon the thick turf. A pleasant shiver runs through the heated frame, and we pause a moment to enjoy the grateful coolness. A little onward lies a discrowned monarch of the woods; he has fallen beneath the weight of years, and moss and wild-vines are wreathing the upturned roots, while from the spot where he once flourished are already springing other trees and of a totally different race. How beautifully the sunshine breaks into the glade through the opening left by the ruined tree! See how it flickers through the maple’s spreading branches ; glancing with arrowy beams between the pagoda-like boughs of the hemlock, and touching with gold the dark leaves of the gnarled oak, while it falls like network upon the greensward, bringing out a thousand beauties before unseen. Look how the red berries of the serpent’s eye 12 A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. moss gleam out from their velvet sheaths, mark the pale beauty of yon clump of violets, whose perfume would betray their presence, even though we saw them not. Behold the gorgeous garb of that glowing woodlily, lifting its head, as if in wonder at this sudden intrusion of sunlight upon its royal retiracy. Let us seat ourselves at the root of this rough old oak. ‘The short grass lies thick beneath our feet, while a cushion of rich velvet moss is spread over the rustic couch we have chosen. Oh! we have driven a tiny snake from his covert, and he glides rapidly away from his woman-born enemy. 'The squirrel—the harlequin of the woods—bounds in antic mirth above our heads, and as he looks down upon us with a sort of ludicrous grayity in his little black eyes, seems disposed to test our good humor by showering his nutshells in the midst of us. The rabbit gazes out from his hiding place, and then, pointing his long ears in terror, leaps away to find some more secure retreat. Nor are there wanting sweet sounds in this sylvan hall. High on the topmost bough of the tallest tree, (for he is the most ambitious of warblers,) is poised the bluebird, making the clear air echo with his rich notes. ‘The gushing melody of the wood- robin comes at intervals like the bubbling over of a musical fountain, while blended in sweet concord come the voices of an undistinguishable throng of lesser songsters. And when, beneath the midday sun, the birds cease their carols, then we have the vague music of leafy harps, the distant murmur of a mountain stream, the quiet ripple of a woodland brook. A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. 13 Earth speaks in many voices: from the roar Of the wild cataract, whose ceaseless din Shakes the far forest and resounding shore, To the meek rivulet, which seems to win Its modest way amid spring’s pleasant bowers, Singing its quiet tune to charm earth’s perfumed flowers. Earth speaks in many voices: from the song Of the free bird which soars to Heaven’s high porch, Asif on joy’s full tide it swept along, To the low hum which wakens when the torch Summons the insect myriads of the night To sport their little hour and perish in the light. Earth speaks in many voices: music breathes In the sweet murmur of the summer breeze That plays around the wildflower’s pendant wreaths, Or swells its diapason ’mid the trees When eve’s cold shadow steals o’er lawn and lea, And day’s glad sounds give place to twilight minstrelsy. Reader, did you ever spend a day in the woods, loitering the hours away amid sights and sounds like these, and wending your course homeward at nightfall, with a handfull of flowers, a bunch of moss, or a curiously knotted stick, as your only visible reward ; while the wise and practical notabilities who call themselves your friends, would shake their heads, half in scorn half in pity, of your idleness and folly? And did you not feel that the patience with which you listened to the lessons of narrow-minded worldliness, was gained from the quiet teachings of Nature in her woodland temple? 14 A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. Oh! it is good for the heart to give itself up to such pure and genial influences. Refreshing to the soul are these fre- quent draughts from the well-spring of truth. We learn pru- dence and circumspection, and self-concealment, in our inter- course with the world; but it is only in the presence of the works of God that we learn to commune with the living soul which he has breathed into our frail and perishing body. In the thronged marts of our busy cities so much is done by man,— so many wonderful things are achieved by his enterprise and genius, that we are apt to forget the Creator who gave him power over all things earthly. But when we see around us the rich garniture of the fields—the hills clothed in verdure—the trees lifting their crowned heads to Heaven—the flowers open- ing their many-colored urns of incense to the breeze—when we hear no sounds but the voices of God’s humbler creatures, then do we feel ourselves alone in the presence of the Most High. Then do we find that within the recesses of our hearts is a sanctuary where only God is worshipped ; then do we learn the mystery of Faith and the peace of Hope. “To him who recognises not the presence of a God, creation is but an illuminated missal,—he knows not that is a book of prayer.” * Who will not recognise the truth as well as the beauty of this remark? Alas! to how many is the Book of Nature but a yolume in an unknown tongue, instead of being a wide * Dr. Dewey. A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. 15 scroll written over with blessings and promises by the finger of God! It was Wordsworth, was it not? who thanked God for the mountains,—feeling in his utmost heart how much the sublimity of external life aided the soul in its lofty soarings to the infinite. May we not also thank the Creator m the same spirit for the lowly blossom which spangles the wayside, as if to show that the Being whose omnipotent hand could fix the mountain on its rocky base, had yet the omniscient goodness to foresee and provide for the humblest wants of his creatures. As if to make us feel that the Almighty Creator was also our “ Father in Heaven.” Beautiful indeed are the wild flowers of our own dear land. They grow not in hedge-rows and beside the tiny cottage, but they hide within the forest, thiey climb the lofty mountain, they enamel our wide expanse of wilderness. Listen to the sweet utterance of “ Eva the sinless” :— “They tremble on the mountain height The fissured rock they press, The desert wild with heat and sand, Shares too their blessedness ; And wheresoe’er the weary heart Turns in its dim despair, The meek-eyed blossom upward looks Inviting it to prayer. 16 A CHAPTER ON FLOWERS. “Each tiny leaf becomes a scroll Inscribed with holy truth, A lesson that around the soul Should keep the dew of youth. Bright missals from angelic throngs In every wayside left : How were the earth of glory shorn Were it of flowers bereft!” THE AMERICAN RIVER. Ir rusheth on with fearful might, That river of the west, Through forests dense, where seldom light Of sunbeam gilds its breast ; Anon it dashes wildly past The wide-spread prairie lone and vast, Without a shadow on its tide Save where the long grass skirts its side; Again its angry currents sweep Beneath the tall and rocky steep Which frowns above the darkened stream, While doubly deep its waters seem. No rugged cliff may check its way, No gentle mead invite its stay, Still with resistless, maddened force, Following its wild and devious course The river rusheth on. It rusheth on,—the rocks are stirred, And echoing far and wide Through the dim forest aisles is heard The thunder of its tide ; 3 18 THE AMERICAN RIVER. No other sound strikes on the ear, Save when, beside its waters clear, Crashing o’er branches dry and sear ; Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; Or when, perchance, the woods give back The arrow whizzing on its track, Or deadlier rifle’s vengeful crack. No hum of city life is near, And still uncurb’d in its career The river rusheth on. It rusheth on,—no firebark leaves Its dark and smoking trail O’er the pure wave, which only heaves The batteau light and frail ; Long, long ago the rude canoe Across its sparkling waters flew. Long, long ago the Indian Brave In the clear stream his brow might lave ; But seldom has the white-man stood Within this trackless solitude. Yet onward, onward dashing still, With all the force of untamed will, The river rusheth on. It rusheth on,—no changes mark How many years have sped Since to its banks, through forests dark, Some chance the hunter led; Though many a season has pass’d o’er The giant trees that gird its shore, THE AMERICAN RIVER. 19 Though the soft limestone mass, unprest By naked footstep on its breast, Now hardened into rock appears By work of indurating years, Yet ’tis by grander strength alone That Nature’s age is ever known. While crumbling turrets tell the tale Of man’s vain pomp and projects frail, Time, in the wilderness displays Th’ ennobling power of length of days And mid the forest's trackless bound, Type of Hternity, is found, The river rushing on. THE SLEEP OF PLANTS. BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. Tue leaves of plants are observed to take a peculiar position during the night season; being folded over the germ, and the whole presenting the appearance of rest. ‘The common Locust is a beautiful example of this, whence a child very prettily said, “Tt is’nt time to go to bed till the Acacia goes to sleep.” Linnzus elegantly terms this property of vegetables, “ The Sleep of Plants.” Away, pretty zephyr, away, away, The flowrets all are sleeping, The moon is out with her silver ray, The stars, too, watch are keeping— It is all in vain, thou silly thing, To lavish the incense from thy wing. They will not awake from love of thee, Gay truant from sunny skies— Who dippest thy wing in the glassy sea, Stealing along with quiet surprise, Bending the grass, and bowing the grain, A moment here and away again. THE SLEEP OF PLANTS. 2) Nay toss not the leaves, it is useless all, For closed is each dewy eye, The insect hum, and the waterfall Are singing their lullaby, And each, in folding its mantle up, The incense crushed from its perfume cup. The blushing bud is but lightly stirred— The pendant leaf is at rest ; And all will sleep till the little bird Springs up from its downy nest, And then the blossom its leaf will raise To greet the morn with a look of praise. THE TRANSPLANTED FLOWERS. Nay, hold, sweet Lady, thy cruel hand, Oh sever not thus our kindred band, And look not upon us with pitiless eye As flowerets born but to blossom and die. Together we drank the morning dew, And basked in the glances the sunbeams threw, And together our sweets we were wont to fling When zephyr swept by on his radiant wing. When the purple shadows of evening fell ’T was sweet to murmur our low farewell, And together, with fragrant sighs to close Our perfumed blossoms in calm repose. But now, with none to respond our sigh, In a foreign home we must droop and die, The bonds of kindred we once have known, And how can we live in the world alone? AZALIA NUDIFLORA—WILD HONEYSUCKLE. LINN. CLASS, PENTANDRIA ; ORDER MONOGYRIA.—NATURAL ORDER, RHODORACEA, Tuts is one of the most beautiful flowers to be found in American woods, and though generally termed the Wild Honeysuckle, is-well known by its Dutch name of the “ Pinxter Blumache.” It is a shrub, and grows sometimes to the height of five and six feet, though seldom exceeding two or three. It delights in dry, sandy situations near the margin of woods, and may be seen in full flower early in the month of May. There are many varieties of this plant, some flowering as late as the month of July. Nearly all of them are more or less fragrant, though the Azalia Nitida, or Swamp Honeysuckle, exceeds in sweetness all others of the species. The Azalia has a calyx five parted ; corolla tubular, half five- cleft; stamens on the receptacle; stigma declined obtuse ; capsule five-celled; five-valved, opening at the top; leaves lanceolate-oblong or oval, smooth or pubescent; flowers abun- 24 THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. dant, viscous ; their stamens longer than their divisions; teeth of the calyx short, sub-rounded ; stamens very much exsert. The view attached to this plate, is one of the Upper Fall on the Buttermilk Creek, a small stream which issues from a moun- tain-lake about four miles east of the Susquehannah, ito which it falls, about ten miles below Tunkhannok, Wyoming County, Pennsylvania. The country around is wild and but thinly settled. A small village stands at the mouth of the creek, containing some flour mills and a factory, but it is in rather a depressed condition. THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. BONDS OF LOVE. A strain of the heart’s music! yet one more, Though it be low and broken in its tone, And feeble as an infant’s dying moan, For thee, beloved, I pour. A strain of the heart’s music, full of love, Tender and grateful,—love the tried and true, Yet mingled with a touch of sadness too, Like voice of pining dove. For past is now life’s glad and joyous spring, When every breeze my busy pulses stirred, And my heart carolled, like a forest-bird Rising on new-fledged wing. Now through life’s summer-time we journey on, Bearing the heat and burden of the day, Finding, at every footstep of the way, Some loved companion gone. 4 26 THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE. Hope weaves no more her wild fantastic measure, But wraps herself in memory’s mantle gray, And chaunts with quiet voice, truth’s simple lay Of mingled pain and pleasure. Yet in my bosom joy doth still abide, Aye, joy as pure as ever earth has proved, For am I not still loving and beloved? Still, dear one, at thy side? The happiness we have together known, The bitter tears we have together shed, The gentle memories of our blessed dead, Cherished by us alone: These are the links that bind our wedded hearts, These are the bonds that make me love thee more, As years, like spent waves, die upon life’s shore And youth departs. Men are ever A mystery to themselves, and ’tis their doom To err through their own fantasies, and make A life-long anguish of some fancied good. Our passions are the minsters of fate. Mucn, very much of the unhappiness of daily life is caused by a want of self-knowledge,—an ignorance of our own nature with its capacities and exigencies. The joyous spirit of youth looks not into the depths of life; the sunshine of a happy heart is shed over all things present and future, and what marvel, therefore, that the eye should be dazzled by excess of light? But how terrible is the late awakening of the soul to a perception of its own wants,—to a certainty of its own lifelong thirst for that which is unattained and unattainable ! My early friend, Bertha Woodford, was one of those lovely impersonations of joyousness which sometimes cross our path in life, and which always come like a human sunbeam to the 23 BERTHA. hearts of the careworn and the world-wearied. She was as delicate as a sylph, with eyes of that deep clear blue, so rarely seen except in infancy, and a profusion of pale, golden locks which she arranged in a singularly picturesque manner, around her small and beautifully formed head. But the exceeding brightness of her expression, the joy which seemed to radiate from her whole countenance, and the extreme grace of her lithe form, with its quick agile movements, were beyond any cold description. Ardent and impetuous in her feelings, full of strong emotion, but without a single awakened passion, she was the creature of every impulse, and though her instincts were noble and good, yet there was a degree of inconsistency and indiscretion about her which excited the interest as well as the fears of those who loved her. She was light and volatile in her tastes, thoughtless and whimsical im many fancies, yet her manners were characterized by a delicate and maidenly gentle- ness which was perfectly lovely ; and though she was too much of the child to claim the respect due to womanhood, she was too much the woman to be trifled and toyed with as a child. Living in the pleasant seclusion of a country residence, yet finding in a large circle of family friends and relatives, all the society which her gay spirit required, Bertha had grown up amid all those pleasant influences which make youth the season of enjoyment, but afford it no discipline for future sorrows. One of the sweetest traits of the German character, is a deep love for childhood, and one of the noblest teachings of German wisdom is the art of keeping the young heart fresh amid the simplicity of innocent pleasures. Those with whom Bertha BERTHA. 29 claimed kindred, were among the earliest settlers of Pennsyl- vania ; but the reminiscences of their distant land were handed down as traditions to another generation, and the tender home affections, which form almost a national trait in Germany, were not chilled by the atmosphere of freedom and repose. ‘There are perhaps no people in the world who devote so much thought to the daily happiness of children as do our Teutonic brethren ; and the consequeuce is, that the impatience to escape from the limits of childhood, which is so strongly marked a trait of American youth, is rarely seen among the descendants of those who have early learned to respect the claims of “ little people.” Among such hearts, Bertha was allowed to remain a child as long as she would. Sure of meeting with kindliness and affee- tion on every side, sure of finding her whims tolerated, her fancies considered, and even her follies forgiven, Bertha led a gay and happy life. She had no motive for self-examination— no innate perception of the heart’s hidden things. The only point which seemed really a decided one in Bertha’s character, was her love for flowers. Never was there a creature so wild in her fondness for these beautiful creations. She was never without a bud or blossom, entwined in her hair, or repos- ing upon her bosom. Like the enchantress, Namouna, she seemed to live upon their fragrance, and it would not have been difficult to believe that her delicate beauty was nurtured by no more material food. From her earliest childhood Bertha was accustomed to range the woods and wilds. Many a gay nutting party, many a search 30 BERTHA. after wildflowers, many an aimless ramble in the forest glades, many a scramble after mountain berries and frost grapes had given joy to Bertha’s heart, and health to her elastic frame. But in all these frolic wanderings, she was always entrusted to the care of one, whose distant relationship, (for he was a sort of second cousin,) whose worthy parentage, (for he was the only son of the ‘Dominie,’) and above all whose superior age and prudence, rendered him a most proper guardian for the merry heedless child. Elbert Von L * * * * was a student both from love of knowl- edge and from ambition. He had early resolved to win a name that should not die, and all his energies from his very boyhood had been devoted to this end. But his was no cold passionless desire of aggrandizement. Every man must set before him some prize in life; there must be some fixed aim, or existence becomes a series of vain experiments and tran- sient pursuits. Therefore had Elbert determined to pursue fame, as the most ennobling of all motives for thought and action, which can present itself to the fancy of an ardent boy. The occasional presence of a being like Bertha was as a gleam of childhood’s sunniness to the abstracted student, and he was never happier than when he was holding her hand, while she climbed the mountain side, or bearing her delicate form in his arms across the swollen and angry brook. Every morning, as the sun rose, Elbert might be seen alone among the foldings of the hills, or threading the labyrinths of the forests ; and every morning, during the season of blossoms, BERTHA. 81 a bunch of fresh wildflowers adorned Bertha’s table. Was it strange that the image of that fair girl bending with parted lip above those dewy flowers, should go with the student to his lonely room, and too often cross his mental vision in the hour of intellectual toil? Was Elbert in love with Bertha? Who can say? He was verging towards manhood, full of ambition, full of energy, while she was only a merry child who had scarce counted her fourteenth summer. But when another year had passed, and again another glided on, then Elbert knew that in the secret temple of his heart, her name was inscribed in char- acters which time could not eftace ;—he knew that he loved her. But Bertha had no such perceptions. As childlike at sweet sixteen as she had been years before, she still bore with- in her bosom an unawakened heart. Her birds, her flowers, her friends, were all loved with an affection differing only in degree, but not in character. Whether this apparent want of depth in her feelings disheartened Elbert, or whether he looked upon his love as hopeless from other causes, and therefore resolved to root it out from his strong nature, I know not, but about this period he resolved to leave his native land, and finish his studies at the university of Gottingen. He accordingly sailed for Europe,—his last parting gift to Bertha being a cluster of the sweet blossoms of the wild Honeysuckle, gather- ed on the mountain-top at sunrise on the morning of his de- parture. Her grief at his absence was so frankly expressed, and she shed tears so unrestrainedly over the faded flowers which day after day were allowed to linger in the vase where his hand had placed them, that it needed no great skill in hu- man nature to decide upon the character of her affection. She 32 BERTHA. loved him with a sister’s love, but there was none of the maid- enly reserve which would have betrayed a deeper feeling. At eighteen Bertha was a beauty and a belle. Gay, care- less and thoughtless as ever, she found only amusement in society, and still ‘fancy-free’ she flutter’d amid life’s flowers like a butterfly which could scare bear even the touch of ten- derness without losing some of its bright plumage. But the time came when suitors pressed around her, and when officious friends began to assure her of the absolute necessity of decid- ing her future position in life. One of the axioms of those who influenced her opinions was that a woman’s destiny could only be accomplished by marriage ; and that therefore she must make a choice, even if she still pmed for something beyond what was within her reach. Bertha had heard these things so often, that she unconsciously imbibed them as truths, and al- though quite content with her free and unfettered condition, she began to think that she must marry from the fear of a lonely and uscless future. Among her many admirers was a man some twenty years her senior, whose great wealth, and undoubted respectability won the immediate suffrages of all Bertha’s prudential friends. Mr. Aulen Van Aulen, (he was very proud of his name,) was the descendant of an old Dutch family, and along with the fine estate which he derived from his grandfather he inherited no small portion of the phlegmatic temper of his ancestors. There was nothing remarkable about him. He looked young- er than he really was, because there had been no wear and BERTHA. 33 tear of feeling to leave a wrinkle on his brow. His smiles were rare, but, few as they were, they never ‘formed the fur- rows of a future tear,’ for the simple reason that he never shed one. A quiet, courteous, gentlemanly bearing, the result of an habitual consciousness of defined and superior posi- tion in society, made him a favorite with all, while there Was no assumption or pretension to alarm the pride of any, He had vegetated on his own domain during half his life, and wandered with aimless purposes through society during the other half. He was a great devourer of books, but his digestive powers were by no means equal to his appetite. The grave dignity of his deportment awakened a degree of respect for him which, on closer acquaintance, was sure to be diminished by the indefiniteness of his character and the vague indolence of his temper. Yet there was also a provoking degree of petty industry about him; for no one was more exact in all the small detail of life. Indeed he had a real Chinese mind,—he saw every thing ‘in little,’ and, like the artificer of the Celestial Empire, who carves a pagoda as delicately as a snuff- box, his limited range of intellect only allowed him to elaborate the minute ideas which came immediately within its scope, without suffering him to take a grand and enlarged view of any subject. Such was the person who now appeared as the lover of Bertha, proffering her exactly the kind of quiet unpretending attentions which were least calculated to disturb her feelings, and which seemed the result of perfect taste and tact on his part, while they were in fact only exponents of his really cold 3 34 BERTHA. temper. There was nothing to alarm a young girl’s heart in such a suitor, and Bertha, who shrunk timidly from more violent demonstrations of affection in others, found repose and not disquiet in the placid kindliness of her good-natured admirer. But Mr. Van Aulen was not destitute of a certain degree of perception in the more trivial traits of character, while he possessed a sort of Dutch doggedness which always led him straight to the fulfilment of his designs. He knew Bertha’s passion for flowers, and he counted upon this taste as a means of determining the liking which he believed she felt for him. The result showed that he was not deficient in craft and tact. Not far from the simple and unpretending abode in which Bertha’s early years had been spent, was the magnificent domain of her wealthy lover. Ona certain day in the early summer, he proposed a party to visit his grounds and view the improvements which had been made during the past winter. Bertha was like a happy child among them, and after a gay stroll through wooded lawns and amid luxurious shrubbery, the company found themselves in a close walk, which opened upon a superb conservatory filled with the rarest exotics from all parts of the world. Others might admire the architectural beauty of the building, the art with which it had been reared against, and almost within, the lofty hill which kept off the chill air from the river, and the mechanical skill of its whole arrange- ment. But Bertha saw nothing of all these ; she plunged among the flowers like a humming-bird, for never had she seen such quantities and of such exquisite varieties. Long after the others had wandered off to some new object of interest, she BERTHA. 35 was still buried in this wilderness of beauty and sweetness. Her eyes became wearied with gorgeous tints, her brain was be- wildered by the rich and mingled perfumes which she had been inhaling, and a sort of dreamy languor stole over her senses. She retreated to a grotto, which opened from the conservatory, and was scooped into the very heart of the hill. The soft and tender light diffused through this moss-lined cave; the tinkling of a fountain which played in the midst; the shadowy presence of a water-nymph carved in Parian marble; the vista of flower- ing shrubs which guarded the entrance, and the faint odor of the blossoms which came blended with the freshness of the musical waters, all combined to attune her whole soul to ten- derness. She feltas she had never done before. A vague want had been created; and her heart seemed to be in a mood of sweet expectancy, when she was suddenly joined by the master of all this fair domain. It was the precise moment for a decla- ration; and though the calm lover could form no idea of the full power of the spell he had used, yet he saw enough to satisfy him that he had gained his point. Ere Bertha recovered from her intoxication of feeling, she had plighted her faith, and was an affianced bride. No after misgivings troubled Bertha’s heart. The matter once decided, she gave it no further thought; for the unwonted excitement she had felt at the moment when her lover proffered his heart and hand, was so painful to her joyous temper, that she shrunk almost with terror from any thing which could re- new such emotion. She mistook the bewilderment of her senses for the influence of first love; and she cared not to 36 BERTHA. experience again the troubled and vague feelings which had once overpowed her. I saw Bertha arrayed as a bride, and I thought I had never seen any thing so graceful, so ethereal in loveliness as the deli- cate and fairy-like creature. The sunniness of innocent girlhood still illumined her face ; and the sweet gravity which settled on her fair open brow, was like the pretty thoughtfulness which dwells for a brief moment on the glad countenance of a child. But changes now took place in my own fate, which led me far from my native land, and years elapsed ere I again beheld the friend of my youth. I had never ceased to think of her with affection, however, and on my return, I hastened to visit her in her stately home. How was I startled at the change in her appearance! ‘Time had not touched her with defacing finger ; she was still beautiful, but a change had come over the charac- ter of her lovelinesss. As delicate and fragile in her propor- tions, as she had been in girlhood, she was now spiritual, not sylphlike. The joyousness of a happy heart no longer lighted up her face; the ennobling touch of grief had been there. She was no longer a “fairy creature of the elements,” but a being who had tasted the cup of human sorrow. Gentle, sweet, but subdued in her demeanor, she was like one whose thoughts dwelt in another sphere. I observed, with deep regret, the weakness of her nerves, the frequent tears that filled her eyes, and the unquiet pain which seemed ever stirring within her bosom. I asked her of her greenhouse, and of her love for flowers. BERTHA. 37 “Tt is all gone from me;” was her reply, “I scarcely ever enter the conservatory, and the perfume of flowers produces faintness, and even spasmodic attacks of pain and nervous debility. I believe I have been a sort of floral epicure, and have cloyed my appetite forever with a surfeit of my favorite food. Once I could live on flowers, and now I turn with loathing from their sweetness.” “ Strange that so simple and natural a taste should lead to such a result !” “It has taught me that even the purest affections of our nature may be sinful in excess, and that even the simplest pleasures may be bought too dearly.” Her eyes filled, as she spoke, and she was silent fora moment. I stepped out upon the verandah and she followed me. “ Look at this honeysuckle,” said she, pointing to one which entwined a column beside us, “it is a wild flower, brought from beyond that distant hill. It has little beauty, and yet it is dearer to me than all the rare treasures of nature which have been gathered in that lofty conservatory. I believe that, at one period of my life, I was under the influence of lunacy; the ‘ Moon of Flowers,’ to use the beautiful Indian fancy, must have had full power over me. But I am quite cured now,” she added, and a sigh followed the words as she changed the subject of conversation. Poor Bertha! she had awakened too late to the knowledge of her soul’s true exigencies. She had led so thoughtless a life in girlhood, that she knew not her own capacity for happiness 35 BERTHA. she suspected not her need of sympathy and support. But gradually the truth dawned upon her. There was something in her nature which called for utterance. She was a creature of lofty impulses, and, as her intellect expanded, these demand- ed expression and appreciation. Her mind had remained fold- ed like a flower within its sheath, but suddenly it had unclosed, like the evening primrose whose buds burst into blossoms be- neath the gazer’s eye. Her husband was a man of common- place ideas, without one elevated thought or one refined fancy. He could love her in his own way, and lavish his money upon her; but he could not understand her character. He had found her a child, he had married her as a child, and as such he continued to regard her. She was his pet, a creature to be fondled in his own cold manner ;—to be patted under the chin, and coolly kissed, as a matter of right, with about as much feeling as would have induced him to stroke the head of his favorite pointer. Bertha had nothing of which to complain, nothing that the world would recognize as a source of unhappiness; for the world see only the surface of things. But there was such a total incongruity of character, such a wide difference between the tender and imaginative woman, and the cold, narrow-mind- ed, matter-of-fact man, that it was utterly impossible happiness should grow up beneath such influences. Mr. Van Aulen was exact in all the minute observances of duty and attention; but his obtuse mind was incapable of discovering the pining thirst which might be felt by a woman’s soul for something grander and nobler. He dreamed not that his wife could be other than BERTHA. 39 a happy woman, when he kept the best horses, drove the finest equipage, lived in the largest house, and, above all, possessed the most extensive collection of flowers in the state. But Bertha awoke too late ; she awoke to learn that she respected her husband, admired his homely virtues, but had no sympathy with his narrow soul. She was like a child who has been dreaming of all things bright and beautiful, and is suddenly awakened to find itself in darkness and solitude. But other influences were brought to act upon her morbid feelings. She had heard of the rising fame of Elbert Von L * * * *, the companion of her early youth. She knew that he was occupying a post of honor and usefulness in the coun- sels of the country which was proud of such a son; and in the sweet vagueness of her dreams, his image was often present with her. But she knew not the whole truth,—she sus- pected not the real nature of her lingering remembrances ; until Death had set the seal of unchangeableness upon the heart of the aspirmg scholar. She had been ten years a wife, leading an aimless weary life, finding solace in deeds of charity, but shutting up within her heart untold treasures of tenderness, when she received the tidings of Elbert’s death. With the melancholy news came a letter to herself. It had been written at intervals during his fatal illness. He had not sufficient he- roism to go down to the grave with his secret undisclosed and his memory unwept. His last moments had been spent in giv- ing utterance to the passionate love, the vain longings, the bitter sufferings of his unsatisfied heart ; and in that letter from the dead, Bertha read the first love-vows to which her feelings had ever responded. 40 BERTHA. It needed only something like this to give a definite form to Bertha’s vague and troubled fantasies. That letter,—the breathing of a soul on the very threshold of eternity, mingling so strangely the aspirations after a better world with the wild yearnings of an earthly passion,—was the key-note to the broken melody which echoed within her heart. She had now discovered the true tendency of her nature ; but its unsatisfied thirst could only be slaked in the waters of the “ River of Life.” Meek, gentle, and uncomplaining, she went through her duties mechanically, for her thoughts were among higher things. Her husband was content ; for so long as outward ob- servances were not neglected, he questioned nothing of the inmost soul. But she gradually faded away, until health, and beauty, and energy, all were lost. “1 shall never see it bloom again,” said she, one day, as she plucked the last lingering blossom of the wild Honeysuckle, which was so dear to her as a memento of past days; “I shall never see it bloom again; yet I would fain think that it may drop its delicate leaflets upon my grave.” Her wish was heard by one who could sympathise with the mournful fancy. Ere the autumn leaves fell thick in the forest paths, Bertha was laid to rest in the village churchyard ; and when May-buds opened again their eyelids to the sun, a wild Honeysuckle was wreathing the stately monument which her husband’s love or pride, had erected to her memory. STANZAS. TO x * * * * * * I wit not love thee: I have ever cast Too many passion-flowers on life’s dark tide, Then, like a truant schoolboy, idly passed My vacant hours to see them onward glide. I will not love thee: why should I re-ope My bosom’s secret treasury for thee, And cull its richest gems, without one hope To see them shine amid thy blazonry. I will not love thee: thou shalt never find My hopes to thee, like incense, offered up ; I will not fling sweet odors to the wind, Or melt another pearl in passion’s cup. HOUSTONIA CAARULEA—INNOCENCE OR FAIRY FLAX. LINN. CLASS, TETRANDRIA 5; ORDER, MONOGYNIA. NATURAL ORDER, GENTIANG. Tue calyx is half-superior, four-toothed or four-parted, corolla salver-formed, four-cleft; capsule two-celled, many-seeded ; stem erect, setaceous, dichotomous ; radical leaves, spatulate ; cauline ones oblanceolate, opposite ; peduncles, one-flowered, elongated. This sweet flower must be a general favorite, if we may judge from the multiplicity of names which its admirers have given it, for in addition to the two, given above, it is also called “ Venus’ Pride,” “ Dwarf Pink,” etc. It flowers during the months of May and June, and is found in great profusion in Connecticut, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts. It is occasion- ally seen in New York and New Jersey, but does not grow in such abundance as in the New England States. GERANIUM MACULATUM.—PASSAIC FALLS. 43 GERANIUM MACULATUM—SPOTTED CRANE’S-BILL OR CROW-FOOT GERANIUM. LINN. CLASS, MONADELPHIA ; ORDER, DECANDRIA. NATURAL ORDER, GERANIACEC. The generic term Geranium is derived from a Greek word signifying ‘a crane,’ from the fancied resemblance of its per- manent style to a crane’s bill. This extremely pretty plant is a very common wild flower, though it is really much more worthy of cultivation than many of the exotic species so uni- versally nurtured in our green-houses. It grows in fields and woods, wherever the soil is ight and moderately dry. It blooms early in May, and is sometimes found as late as July. Its common height is from twelve to eighteen inches, though in very favorable situations it sometimes exceeds two feet. Its root is medicinal as a powerful astringent. PASSAIC FALLS, NEW JERSEY. These Falls, long known and celebrated for their picturesque beauty, are in the immediate vicinity of Patferson, a flourishing manufacturing village in Kssex county, New Jersey, about six- teen miles distant from the city of New York. The scenery around the falls is exceedingly wild and romantic. The rocks around them are bare and rugged, forming perpendicular pre- 44. PASSAIC FALLS. cipices, varying in height from eighty to one hundred feet. A large portion of the river is diverted from its original chan- nel for manufacturing purposes, and the body of water which formerly fell over three different ledges of rock, is now mate- rially diminished. The appearance of these falls is continually changing, owing to the rapid wearing away of the cliffs. The waters now plunge into a deep and narrow gorge, and then rush on their course, confined between steep and lofty walls of granite, against which they lash themselves in wild fury, while the spray of the “vexed cauldron,” rising high in air, reflects the sunbeam in rainbow hues. Just below the fall is a bridge, connecting the two sides of the chasm, from whence a fine view may be obtained. THE FAIRY FLAX, OR FLOWER OF INNOCENCE. BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. Ir comes when wakes the pleasant spring, When first the earth is green,— Four white or pale blue leaves it hath, With yellow heart between. Tt grows about a heap of stones, For there the dew will stay— It springs beside the dusty road, Where children are at play. It dots with stars the grassy bank That slopes adown the brook,— * And there it takes a deeper blue, And there a fresher look. On upland sod when doomed to bloom, Its leaves are small and white, As if it shrank within itself And paled amid the light. 46 THE FAIRY FLAX. A dweller in a common path, With myriads of its kind, Yet doth its unpretending grace A oneness bring to mind ; Like household charities that seem So native to the heart, That we forget, in seeing all, That each is fair apart. We call thee Innocence, sweet one, And well it thee beseems, For thou art cherished in the heart, With childhood’s sinless dreams. THE ELFIN EXILE. *Tis but a fancy, born ’mid woodland dells, Nurtured within the sound of tinkling brooks, And fed from flowery chalices with dew Perfumed and honey-sweet. You say we have no Fairies in America—it is true the race are not found here, but did you never hear the story of the gentle Mimosa? Let us sit down on this mossy old root, and while the brook tinkles pleasantly at our feet, I will tell you what befel the Elfin Exile. The Fairy Mimosa was one of the sweetest and tenderest of creatures ;—not beautiful, if bloom and radiance are essential to beauty, but so gentle, so full of kindly affections, so ex- quisitely sensitive to all tender and good impulses that her face beamed with a loveliness far better than mere beauty. Simple in all her tastes, she never decked herself in the gay colors which her sisters often assumed. A vesture of dark green, bound to her slender waist by a girdle of silver thread drawn 48 THE ELFIN EXILE. from the web which the wood-spider weaves beneath the moonlight, was her usual garb; but the sinless purity of her nature was her chief ornament, while she was always decked with the ever-changing but ever-precious gems of good and kindly thoughts. ‘Though one of the most sensitive of the fairy tribe, she had yet guarded her heart from elfin love. A vague terror took possession of her when she looked upon the affection of others; and, with trembling haste, she closed her sympathies, even as a flower shuts its petals from the fervid sunbeam. Now the fairies, though a gentle, are also a most freakish race, and Titania, their queen, the loveliest and the noblest, is also the chiefest in elvish whim. Long before the time when she quarrelled with her petulant lord for the little Indian changeling, (the story is told in the veritable pages of one William Shaks- peare,) she had troubled his repose by a jealousy, which, sooth to say, was not always causeless. King Oberon, like most other monarchs, loved sometimes to lay aside his dew-gemmed crown, and rest his head upon a lowly pillow. The stately beauty of his regal bride did not always suffice for the happi- ness of a spirit which shared some of the weaknesses of that humanity to which it was linked by invisible bonds. One midsummer night, the fairies had met to celebrate an elfin marriage, and gaily was the dance kept up in the charmed ring, while sweetly did the harebells chime their soft music to the tiny feet of the merry troop. Oberon, wearied with the gayety, withdrew from the midst of the joyous fays, and as he THE ELFIN EXILE. 49 wandered listlessly away, he espied Mimosa, half hidden be- neath the shadow of a cowslip leaf. Believing herself safe from the eyes of her gay companions, she had loosed the clasps of her dark robe, and the rich soft moonlight fell full upon her upturned brow, while it seemed to nestle tenderly upon her half-veiled bosom. Oberon was in one of those moods of idlesse which always leave the heart or the senses dangerously free. He gazed upon the loveliness of the half-sad, half- dreaming fairy, until a sweet bewilderment took possession of him, and with a sudden impulse he glided like a ray of light to the feet of Mimosa. Starting from her reverie, and hastily folding her robe around her shrinking form, the fairy sprang from her graceful repose, but she escaped not until Oberon had tasted the sweets of a kiss stolen from unsullied lips. It happened, most unluckily, that a cross, gnarled-looking old fairy, who had never, in her whole life, been pretty enough to tempt a lover, or good enough to win one, had, just at that moment, peered out from her covert in the poisonous foxglove’s bell. Her keen eyes beheld the whole affair, and with the speed of malice, she had flown to the queen with the tale. Titania was in a particularly ungracious mood, for one of the stateliest of the fays, whom she would fain have kept at her feet until he had won some favor, flew off at the precise moment when she had decided that it would not be inconsistent with propriety to allow him to kiss her hand. Under such circumstances, the tale of Oberon’s misconduct was received with double indignation. The elfin monarch obtained timely notice of the gathering storm from his faithful Puck, and spreading his winglets on the night- 7 50 THE ELFIN EXILE. breeze he was soon beyond the reach of conjugal anger. The gentle Mimosa, conscious of her innocence, but outraged and degraded by the insolence of the king, appeared with down- cast eyes before her enraged mistress. All the gossips of the fairy court gathered round her to witness her disgrace, and they who would have given their crowns to win one kiss from their monarch, now turned up their eyes in holy horror, and fluttered their wings with virtuous indignation. ‘The end of the matter was, that Mimosa was tried and convicted of /ése majesté ; but the queen, who now affected magnanimity, commuted the punishment of banishment into imprisonment for three moons in the green-leaf of a primrose, which the skill of the mason- caterpillar soon converted into a prison house. It may be that Titania would have relented when she recoy- ered from her fit of il) humor, but, unhappily, she was deprived of the opportunity of showing mercy, by a strange freak of hu- man affection. There was a certain young and lovely lady, who had wedded the object of her heart’s best love, and now, forsaking parents, and friends, and country, she was about to embark on the broad sea, to find a new home in the wilds of America. But with that caprice of human will, which, while it makes great sacrifices, yet pines over small wants, she who had willingly resigned all the blessings of kindred, now sought to bear with her to a strange land some blossoms from the soil which her infant feet had trod. A sister’s care, therefore, sought out a clump of English primroses, and placing them, together with the earth to which they clung, in a garden vase, she en- closed them beneath a crystal canopy, to protect them from THE ELFIN EXILE. 51 the blighting sea-breeze, until they should reach the land of promise. Strange to say, out of all the vast field of flowers that makes England a garden, the girl unconsciously selected those in which Mimosa was immured. Enclosed in her narrow cell, with the light coming dimly to her eyes through the green walls of her prison-house, Mimosa was weeping over her unmerited punishment, when suddenly she felt the earth convulsed around her. The slender limbs of the plant swayed as if a mighty tempest had burst upon them, and the timid fairy swung at the mercy of the blast, without power to discover the cause of this unwonted disquiet. Every fibre of her tender frame felt the vibration of this sudden dis- ruption of deeply ooted attachments, and though unconscious of the fate that awaited her, Mimosa trembled with vague fear. A long and weary tossing on the restless sea now ensued. But of this Mimosa knew nothing, for, imprisoned in her dun- geon, which was now in total darkness, since the plant had been shut up in a close and ill-lighted cabin, she could see no- thing of the terrors which surrounded her. But she thirsted for the fresh dew of the morning, she pined for the honey that lies hidden in the perfumed chalice of the flower, and she grew wild with longing for the pure air and the bright sunshine. Still her gentle influences were not unfelt, for the plant, as if con- scious of her presence, grew_and thrived as luxuriantly as if it still bloomed on its mossy bank, and the sweet lady, who loved it for the sake of her native land, rejoiced in its vigorous life. 52 THE ELFIN EXILE. Weeks passed on; the long voyage was ended, and the term of Mimosa’s imprisonment at length was fulfilled. One evening she felt the gradual unclosing of the leaf which had been her cell, and beneath the broad light of a clear winter’s moon, Mi- mosa suddenly found herself once more at liberty. But how strange was the scene into which she now emerged! Instead of the fairy dell and charmed ring, upon which she had last looked, she now found herself in a large but close apartment, where books and music, needlework and flowers were gath- ered together by feminine taste. A bright fire blazed in the ample hearth, and as Mimosa peered out of the casement which admitted the frosty moonlight, she perceived that a man- tle of snow covered the green earth. Forlorn and disconsolate, the poor fairy felt as if she had gained little by exchanging a nar- row cell for a wider and more desolate prison. So she returned to her primrose leaf and crept once more into its covert with a sensation of utter despair. But the cheerful tenderness of the gentle creature soon found a ministry with which to solace her weary hours. The vase of English flowers had been placed amid many rich and rare ex- otics which graced the lady’s chamber, and Mimosa soon dis- covered that the delicate strangers were pining in the close at- mosphere. To freshen their drooping hearts by her sweet breath, to revive their fading blossoms by her dewy touch, and to give them back the glory of their summer prime by her kindly influences, became now her duty and her delight. Thus did the elfin exile pass the long and dreary winter, until the genial airs of spring had unlocked the frozen earth, and given THE ELFIN EXILE. 53 liberty to the imprisoned flowers, which now revelled in the light and dew of heaven. It was on a moonlit evening in early spring, that Mimosa ven- tured to leave her narrow home to learn something of the strange land in which she now found herself. ‘The spot in which she had been set down, was a lovely domain on the banks of the noble Hudson, which sweeps proudly and majestically through a country of unrivalled beauty. But Mimosa had been accus- tomed to sheltered dells, and little cosy retreats, to green glades and tiny thread-like streams. The lofty Highlands, the dense forests, the broad and rushing river, all combined to form a scene of sublime grandeur which overpowered and disheartened her. It needed little wisdom to discover that there could be no fairy dells in these mighty forests. The spirits of this mountain land, if such there were, must be, she thought, of a sterner and har- dier race than the gentle sprites of Albion’s green isle. In the course of many after wanderings around her solitary home, Mimosa found one sweet spot which, save that it was lone and unpeopled, was even lovelier than the fairy haunts of her own dear land. From a narrow ravine at the top ofa lofty cliff, rushed a full deep stream, which breaking over the up-piled rocks, flashed and sparkled into an oval basin, that seemed hollowed by the hand of nature to be the mirror and the bath of beauty. Large trees bordered and shut in this beautiful glen, while flowering shrubs of every variety inter- laced their branches. A narrow strip of greensward edged the clear but shallow lakelet, whose waters found their way out in 54 THE ELFIN EXILE. a narrow thread-like rivulet, winding far off amid the brush- wood, until lost in the distant Hudson. Beautiful indeed was the spot—beautiful is it even now; for while men have left their footprints on every rock, and have levied tribute from every tributary of that noblest of rivers, the “Indian Fall,” is still as lovely in its simple and sublime loneliness, as when none but the red hunter had climbed its steep sides to bathe his heated brow in its crystal waters. To this sweet spot Mimosa unsconciously directed her flight on a calm still evening in the glad summer-time. En- tranced with delight when she found herself amid so much beauty, the pale and drooping fairy folded her gossamer wings, and, gliding like a ray of moonlight amid the dark foliage, at length threw herself upon a bed of soft velvet moss, which had felt the freshness of the waterfall until its hue was like the emerald, and its touch like the lip of beauty. Suddenly there arose upon the still air a faint sweet music, like the chime of the fairy harebell, only clearer, more distinct, more wildly sweet. The heart of Mimosa thrilled with delight; it was the elfin signal; some gentle sprite was near, and the lonely fay felt a new hope spring up within her bosom. Anon the strain was repeated from the other side; then it resounded from beneath her feet; and as she looked down she perceived the delicate blossoms of the blue harebell, swinging gently in the breeze, and giving out their melodious chimes. Delighted to find that which reminded her so sweetly of home, she raised her eyes in rap- ture, when they encountered a figure which rivetted their gaze. THE ELFIN EXILE. 55 Standing on the quivering branch of a Kalmia, with his tiny form half hidden by the clustering blossoms, and his little brown face peering curiously down upon her, was a creature evidently of elfin race, but of some strange nation and tribe. His swarthy skin, his glittering black eyes, and the straight raven locks which hung down to his slender waist, were unlike any thing Mimosa had ever seen, while his moccasined feet, his mantle of silvery down, his crown of feathery scarlet blossoms, and the bow and arrows which he bore in his hand, excited her utmost wonder. 'Timid, yet half rejoiced, Mimosa drew her green robe closely around her, and gazed half in ex- pectancy half im fear, upon the stranger. It was the gentle Manitto of Flowers; and with strange delight did the red spirit gaze upon the pale fair beauty of the elfin exile, as with golden tresses glistening in the moonlight, and blue eyes swimming in tender tears, she lay on the mossy turf, looking upward towards him. There is a language which all can understand, a tone of sympathy which appeals to all, an mstant recognition of kindred which is felt even by human nature amid all its bonds ; and oh! how much more keenly in the sweet intercourse of spirit-life. Heretofore the Manitto had been content to reign and rule alone. He had breathed the fragrance of flowers, and fed his sense of beauty upon their loveliness, but he had never known the power nor the need of sympathy. Now a sudden and delicious thrill pervaded his delicate frame. He leapt from his high eminence, and, with the bewitching tender- 56 THE ELFIN EXILE. ness of a loftier and bolder nature, he wooed the gentle fairy to trustfulness and happiness. Mimosa had shrunk from the feeble and freakish love of her own people ; she had shut up her heart from the influences of the mystic passion ; but the bold bearing, the proud tenderness, the gentle, yet lofty courtesy of the woodland spirit, won her admiring affection. Alone and exiled from the sweet but ener- vating influences of fairy frolics, she learned the high, free pleasures of forest life. Ere the moon had waned, Mimosa had learned the happiness of loving; and the delicate English fairy became the bride of the Indian Manitto of Flowers. No longer pining after her distant home, she yet delighted to exhibit some of its beauties to her lover, and many a wild- flower until then unknown in our forest glades, did her sweet breath call into life to adorn the enchanted glen where the pair had found their home. “ And is this the reason why so many English wildflowers are found in our woodlands, while the richest and most gorgeous of our wildflowers refuse to spring spontaneous in the fair garden of Albion’s lovely isle ?” “‘Precisely—the wildflowers which the fairy strewed in her lover’s pathway, though changed by atmosphere and soil, are yet of the same race as those of her own far land.” *¢ And where is now the Manitto and his fairy bride ?” THE ELFIN EXILE. 57 “Wend your way toward the setting sun, whither the red men are fast retiring before the hurrying footsteps of the pale faces. Where dwells the Indian hunter in the fastnesses of inaccessible,—wilds where the wide prairie spreads its ocean of flowers unrifled by the bee, whose busy hum is so sure a herald of civilization, that it is known among the Indians as ‘the white man’s fly,—where the deer and the buffalo roam amid forests unprofaned by the axe of the settler,—where the dweller in cities has never come with his poisonous ‘ fire- water,’ and his ill-taught creed,—there may still be found the abode of the Elfin Exile, and her dusky lord.” STANZAS. ON FINDING A PRESSED VIOLET BETWEEN THE LEAVES OF A VOLUME WHICH THE AUTHOR WAS READING. BY D. M. BURGH. Some gentle hand has treasured thee, pale flower, Within the foldings of this storied leaf; Art thou the record of some fleeting hour Of faded joys, like thine own life, too brief? Wert thou not gathered at soft eventide, When by sweet nature’s harmonies attuned, In the lone walk or by the green hill-side, Two souls in mystic sympathy communed ? Bearest thou, unprinted on thy fragrant leaves, A tale of Love, with all its hopes and fears, O’er whose sad dreams some heart still fondly grieves, While memory’s hand unseals the fount of tears? Of gentle feelings, of emotions sweet, Of fantasies by Love or Friendship framed, Thou art, in sooth, crushed flower, an emblem meet, And thou, “ Forget-me-not,” art fitly named. UVULARIA PERFOLIATA—BELLWORT. LINN. CLASS, HEXANDRIA ; ORDER, MONOGYNIA. NATURAL ORDER, SMILACECE. Tue Bellwort is an unpretending and modest flower, grow- ing in shady and sequestered spots, where, sheltered from the fervid beams of the sun by the thick foliage of some giant oak, it blooms in modest retirement. Its delicate bells droop gracefully amid the dark green leaves, as if it shrunk even from the wooing of the bird and bee, whose music alone stirs the air of its secluded retreat. It grows from eight to twelve inches in height, and flowers during the month of May. The corolla is inferior, six-petalled, with a nectariferous hollow at the base of each petal; filaments very short, grow- ing to the anther; stigmas reflexed ; capsule three-cornered, three-celled, three-valved, with transverse partitions; seeds many, sub-globose, arilled at the hilum; leaves perfoliate, 60 VIEW NEAR HUDSON. oval, obtuse; corol-bell liliaceous, scabrous or granular within; anthers cuspidate. VIEW NEAR THE CITY OF HUDSON, NEW YORK. The sketch given in the plate was taken from the foot of Merino Hill, about one mile south of the city of Hudson. This hill forms a conspicuous and picturesque object, rising nearly to the height of three hundred feet, and presenting a beautiful outline from whatever point it may be viewed, while its surface is finely diversified with woods, cornfields and pas- ture lands. On the north-western side stands the fine mansion of W. Wiswall, Esq., commanding magnificent views of the surrounding country, the winding river, and the noble range of the Kaatskill mountains. The city of Hudson occupies a bluff on the eastern bank of the river, about one hundred and twenty miles from the city of New York, and is a place of considerable size, containing about five thousand inhabitants. It is the prettiest town lying on the river between New York and Albany, and from various points in its vicinity, may be seen some of the finest views in the State. BELLWORT. HOPELESSNESS. THE OMEN. BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. For fifty years the old man’s feet Have crossed the oaken sill, And never an eye his own to greet, Nor lip with smiles to fill. Silent he comes and silent goes With a cold and covert air, Around a searching look he throws, Then mounts the creaking stair. He’s a sallow man with narrow heart And feelings all of self— And thoughts he may to none impart— They all-are thoughts of pelf. But now he enters not the door ; He stands on the threshold stone— What think you has come his spirit o’er That he loiters in the sun? 62 BELLWORT. “Come hither child,”—he stretched his hand And held a boy from play,— “The old green woods throughout the land I fear will pass away ; I remember now ’tis a bye-gone joy Since birds were singing here— * Twas a merry time and I a boy To list their spring-time cheer.” He loosed his hold of the wondering child And fiercely closed the door, For there was something new and wild That came his nature o’er, A crowding of unwonted thought That would not be repressed, An inward pang that aching sought A sympathising breast. The long lost years of sullen life Apart from human kind, Long torpid powers awaked to strife Are struggling in his mind ; The child still near the threshold stays And ponders o’er and o’er With a perplexed and dull amaze, The words of him of yore. A stealthy foot beneath the sill— A dry hand, pale and thin— And that old man all hushed and still, Has drawn the boy within, “ How long is’t, child, since that cross-road The green wood severed wide? BELLWORT. 63 There was a ditch—’twas dark and broad— With black and sluggish tide. “Tt seems but yesterday that I Was hunting bird’s eggs there— To-day it chanced to meet mine eye A dusty thoroughfare.” Breathed freely once again the child— “That road was alway so— With wains of hay and wagons piled Thus passing to and fro.” “ Nay, once a goodly wood was there With blossoms in the spring— Where darted out the crouching hare And bird upon the wing,— But now a lengthened dusty way— A cross-road—mile-stone too— Things that to you have been alway, To me are strange and new. “T have not slept these long blank years For store of gold is here— Apart from joy—apart from tears With neither grief nor cheer, And never on my conscience left The stain of any wrong— Why should I feel as one bereft, With yearnings new and strong ? * Why hear a voice forever cry,— ‘Unfaithful steward thou ” 64 BELLWORT. “Come, tell me, child, the sun is high— Do chills oppress thee now 2” The boy glanced wistfully about The damp and gloomy place, Then at the warm bright sun without, Then in the old man’s face. A moment shook his wasted frame As by a palsy touch— The boy, half-whispering, nearer came— “T’ve often heard of such; Tis said that when a foot is press’d On grave that we must fill, Recoils the living human breast, Recoils with sudden chill.” “ Now get thee hence,” the old man cried “ Thou bringest little cheer”— And then he thrust the boy aside As with a deadly fear, Who wondering cast his eyes about To drink in life and air— Then burst his lips in one wild shout That both were buoyant there. Three days from thence a mound of earth The cross-road marked anew— And children staid their voice of mirth When they beside it drew ; Unhallowed though the sleeper’s rest, Where men pass to and fro— Yet e’en the rudest foot is press’d Aside from him below. ASCLEPIAS QUADRIFOLIA. LINN. CLASS GYNANDRIA 5 ORDER, PENTANDRIA,. NATURAL ORDER, ASCLEPID. Tue genus to which this beautiful wildflower belongs de- rives its name from Esculapius, the god of medicine. The Asclepias 'Tuberosa, known also as the “ Butterfly Weed,” “* Pleurisy Root” etc., is often used medicinally in pleuritic and catarrhal affections, but the Early Asclepias, which is given in the plate, has no such virtue. This variety of the plant is found much earlier in the season than any other, being seldom in bloom later than the month of May. Its flowers, though less showy than many of its race, are very delicate and odoriferous. It is fond of shady places in dry situations, and grows from twelve to eighteea inches in height. The petals are five, reflexed ; nectaries five, concave, erect, containing little horns ; each stamen with a pair of pendulous 9 66 OTSEGO LAKE. masses of pollen, suspended from the top of the stigma ; folli- cles smooth ; stem erect, simple, smooth ; leaves ovate, acute, petioled; those in the middle of the stem are largest, and mostly in fours; umbels two to four, terminal, lax-flowered ; pedicles filiform. Several varieties of the Asclepide are noted for secreting a white milk-like fluid, which on being injured they discharge freely from every pore. This juice is very poisonous. The specimen here presented, however, has no such property. VIEW OF OTSEGO LAKE, NEW YORK. Otsego Lake, a partial view of which is represented in this plate, is a small though exceedingly beautiful sheet of water, lying in the county of Otsego, New York. It is about nine miles in length, and varies from half a mile to one mile and a half in breadth. At the foot of the lake lies the pretty village of Cooperstown, a small but thriving place, containing about two thousand inhabitants. Nearly in the centre of the village stands Otsego Hall, the residence of James Fennimore Cooper, Esq. From the windows of this mansion charming views of the Lake and surrounding country may be obtained. The residence of Mr. Keese, standing as it does on the margin of the Lake, commands one of the finest views in the neigh- borhood. EARLY ASCLEPIAS. SORROWFUL REMEMBRANCE. Never forget the hour of our first meeting, When, ’mid the sounds of revelry and song, Only thy soul could know that mine was greeting Its idol, wished for, waited for, so long. Never forget ! Never forget the joy of that revealment, Centring an age of bliss in one sweet hour, When Love broke forth from friendship’s frail concealment, And stood confest to us in godlike power ; Never forget Never forget my heart’s intense devotion, Its wealth of freshness at thy feet flung free, Its golden hopes, whelmed in that boundless ocean, Which merged all wishes, all desires, save thee : Never forget ! Never forget the moment when we parted When from life’s summer-cloud, the bolt was hurled That drove us, scathed in soul, and broken hearted, Alone to wander through this desert world! Never forget ! LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE, “Tian! sweet Lilian! how shall we do without thee ? How shall we bear a life from which has been taken all the music and the sunshine ?” Such was the half-despairing cry of the hearts that loved thee, thou gentlest of earth’s children, when thou wert sum- moned to the shadowy-peopled realm of death. How much of hope and promise died with thee, lovely one! Years have gone by since we gave thee to the keeping of the grave, yet do we find ourselves listening for thy light footstep on the stair, wait- ing for thy gay laughter in the hall, looking out wistfully for thy bright face in the vacant chamber. ‘Thou wert of those whom God lends to earth for a season, as if to show us what human nature may be in its purest, and highest, and holiest state of being; then gathers to Himself ere the dust of wordly care should settle on the spirit’s snowy wings, to stain their spotless plumage. LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE. 69 Let no one talk of disappointment in schemes of earthly ag- grandizement,—of failing hopes,—of blighted prospects. ‘This only is utter disappointment,—this only is entire crushing of earthly hope,—to look upon the face of one whom we love, and know—aye—know, that the shadow of the grave already dark- ens over it;—to watch beside the pillow of the beautiful and the good while death keeps sentry at the threshold; or, worse far worse: to part from the beloved and cherished, with smiles on her lip, gladness in her heart, and health in every vein, and to meet her again, only when the fearful stroke of an unlooked- for and awful calamity has crushed that fragile form mto dust and ashes! Beautiful wert thou in thy calm maidenhood, sweet Lilian! Lofty wert thou in thy aspirations, yet meek in the holiness of thy saint-like spirit! Thou wert indeed meet for the kingdom of Heaven; yet would we fain have kept thee to minister in all pure and good influences to the hearts that were ever swayed at thy mild bidding. Yet it is better thus; for art thou not ever nigh to those whom thou didst love so well upon earth? When the evil thought dies within the soul ere it frames to itself a voice,— when the evil deed remains only in the tempted fancy,—when the foot is withdrawn unconsciously, and the single step which remained between us and ruin is still untrodden,—when the hand falls powerless at the very instant when it would fain have set its seal to the soul’s destruction,—when such things are, and we know not why, may we not trace them to the invisible 70 LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE. agency of the angel whom we have given back to Heaven, and who is now permitted to watch over those that garner up a tender and unidolizing affection for the good and the true ? Yet do we miss thee, sweet one; and there are kindly and gentle hearts to sympathise with our grief. It was a nature, worthy to mate with thine own, which breathed out its sweet moanings over thy grave, when time had brought the day once so welcomed and so hallowed,—the day which first ushered thee into a world made brighter by thy brief, bright life. Kindly, and gentle, and full of sweet thoughts was the soul which poured forth this wail over the birthday of the loved and lost. “She sleeps—she sleeps, but oh! she hath been won To a green pillow that ye cannot share, She hath gone down to that green rest alone, And Death, the mighty one, hath laid her there ; Meekly she rose his summons to obey, And while he clothed her with celestial light, Cherished and cherishing she passed away, And softly bade your loving hearts ‘Good Night.’ And now ye can but weep and bow the head To meet the birthday of the early Dead! “She sleeps—she sleeps—and where she lieth low The stars of Heaven their quiet watch may keep ; Th’ immortal yew may stand, the willow bough, Perpetual mourner, for your sakes may weep, There the wild bee may hum its lullaby, The night-bird join the music of the river, LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE. 71 But ye,—alas! beneath God’s spreading sky Your hearts and hers may meet no more forever ! So dimly and with grief ye bow the head To meet the birthday of the early dead! “She sleeps—she sleeps—and ye are bent in gloom, Cheerless your home and desolate your hearth, Listless ye wander on from room to room, Missing the loveliest smile in all the earth ; Music is silent, for ye could not bear Her keys should waken at another’s touch, Her flowers are tended, but the white rose there Speaks of her purity—too much—too much, And ye must weep, and bow the grief worn head To meet the birth-day of the early dead ! “She sleeps—she sleeps—when she hath slept before A tear would tremble ‘neath her eye’s dark fringe ; On that soft cheek, whose color comes no more, Some restless dream would throw a fever tinge ; Now her high heart is still—her earnest soul Is dim no more with shadows of the past, But with the breaking of that ‘ golden bowl,’ Your hopes were shivered, and their radiance cast. So dimly and with grief ye bow the head To meet the birth day of the early dead ! “She sleeps—she sleeps—but let the grateful air Come freshly to each dim and aching brow, *Tis borne from her low grave whose slumber there Hath wakened in your hearts this anguish now, 712 LOVE BEYOND THE GRAVE, {t hath just waved the grass above her rest, And from tear-watered flowers drawn fragrant breath, The flowers ye planted o’er the loved and blest Lend you their freshness from the home of Death, To comfort you and raise the drooping head To meet the birth day of the early dead ! “ She sleeps—she sleeps—her heavenly rest is won, And her immortal waking hath been bright, A little longer yet, and one by one, Ye too shall bid the earth a sweet ‘Good night.’ The earth was kind, but ever had been given A yearning to her heart for other spheres, And now the Angels sing her birth in Heaven, And God himself hath wiped away her tears, Then calmly, gratefully, lift up the head To meet the Birthday of the Sainted Dead!” Note.—The foregoing touching lmes were written by one unknown to fame, but whose heart evidently possesses genuine poetic sensibilities. 'They were suggested by the first anniver- sary of a friend’s birthday, which occurred after her decease. AQUILEGIA CANADENSIS—WILD COLUMBINE, LINN. CLASS, POLYANDRIA ; ORDER PENTAGYNIA. NATURAL ORDER, RANUNCULACE. Tuts flower has no calyx; petals five, caducous ; nectaries five, alternating with the petals and terminating downwards in a spur-like nectary; carpels five, erect, acuminated with the permanent styles; many seeded; horns straight; stamens exsert; leaves decompound. The wild Columbine is one of the earliest flowers of spring, being found in bloom in the month of April. It chooses dry rocky situations, gleaming from ravines, and nodding over precipices where there is scarcely footing for a blade of grass. Its brilliant red blossoms form a beautiful contrast to the grey lichens and brown mosses, which are its only companions on the bare and rugged cliff. To see it in perfection, it must be viewed in its native home, for the free and fearless beauty with which it peers over lofty steeps and looks down into the dark crevices of the rock, is exchanged for a dull, drooping, half 10 74 VIEW OF MATANGA FALL. withered appearance, almost on the instant that it is gathered from the parent stem. It is a perennial plant, and seldom exceeds nine or ten inches in height. The members of the family to which it belongs are noted for being acrid, caustic and poisonous. VIEW OF MATANGA FALL NEAR WYALUSING, PENNSYLVANIA. The view here given, represents one of the many pretty waterfalls which pour down the precipitous banks of the Susquehanna. Between Tioga Point and Lackawanna, there are frequently seen small streams hurrying over rocks, some- times an hundred feet in height, to unite their waters with those of the Susquehanna. Matanga Fall is about eight or ten miles below the village of Wyalusing, on the eastern side of the Susquehanna, and descends over a steep rocky precipice from a height of nearly one hundred and fifty feet. It is a stream of considerable size, issuing from a lake lying among the mountains about two miles distant from the river. ‘The country around is mountainous and extremely picturesque. Not far to the north of Matanga Fall, on the western side, is a precipitous rock, which is said to contain a vast amount of treasure. Many attempts have been made to obtain it, but without success. The Indian Manitto seems to possess something of the freakish spirit of his fairy brethren in the old world, and seldom rewards the toil of sordid intruders into his wild domains. WILD COLUMBINE. INCONSTANCY. SONNET. BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN, Ayo why, O why didst thou so quickly turn , From love that never faltered? Could’st thou find No lasting peace in that exhaustless urn? No sanction meet thy woman’s heart to bind ? Perchance thy fancy o’er me threw a light That dazzled e’en a vision clear as thine, And after-knowledge, like a fatal blight, Withered each garland on the humble shrine ; Yet hadst thou patience, time might still restore Thy soul’s creation,—love new traits can mould ; We ever grow like that which we adore, And promise fills all hearts that are not cold ; Teach me my errors, prove my faith awhile, Then send me if thou canst, an exile from thy smile. MODERN CONSTANCY. Would you seek Constancy ? ’Tis out of date, Laid by, with the brocades, the three-piled velvets, That decked our grand-dames for the festival ; And maidens now wear with their lighter robes, A faith as easily put on and off As an old glove. “To love one lover or more is constancy,—not to be able to love at all is inconstancy.” ‘The sentiment is not mine, gen- tle reader ; it issued from the oracular lips of a renowned Ger- man lady, who has lately been enshrined as a modern goddess of reason, by a certain class of philosophers ; and certainly a more convenient doctrine to extenuate fickleness could scarcely be desired by a coquette. The remark struck me, however, not so much for its frank effrontery, as for its whimsical coin- cidence with the practice, if not the theory of little Fanny Gay, our minister’s daughter. Fanny was a pretty little creature, with the bluest of eyes, the rosiest of lips, and the merriest of faces. But unfortunately MODERN CONSTANCY. id for her own comfort, Fanny had read novels, old fashioned Minerva-press novels, until her brain was half turned with that excitement which Byron has so well styled ‘ the opium-dream of too much youth and reading.” Long before she arrived at womanhood, Fanny decided that she would be a heroine ; but as the heroines of her favorite volumes were pale, delicate, sylph- like creatures with hair always curling without the aid of Pa- pulotes,—wearing white dresses which retained their snowy hue even amid the vapors of a dungeon,—playing on certain ubiqui- tous harps, and writing verses to sunset, moonlight and other equally unusual natural occurrences,—the poor girl felt all the dif- ficulties of her determination. Fanny was most unromantically healthy, and her plump little figure was anything but sentimen- tally proportioned. Her cheeks had much more of the damask than of the white rose tint, and any emotion, instead of paling their hue, was sure to deepen it to a fever tinge. ‘Then she had no musical taste, and scarcely knew one tune from another ; but even if she had, there was no harp in the whole village. As for poetry, she could write with great facility the verses of other peo- ple, and had several albums filled with sentimental poems from newspapers and magazines. She was once sufficiently under lunar influences to attempt a sonnet to the moon, and actually commenced her apostrophe: “ Thou lovely moon! thou lovely moon!” but here the inspiration failed, and the unwritten son- net must be placed on the same list with that vast amount of unuttered poetry, which, like the bubble on a boiling spring, comes warm and effervescing from the depths of the heart, but breaks into empty air when it reaches the surface. 78 MODERN CONSTANCY. There was one part, however, in the heroi-romantico line which Fanny could play to perfection. She could fall in love with as much facility as any Ethelinda or Celestina recorded in the pages of romance. Her first sentimental essay was directed towards a handsome young stripling of sixteen, (Fanny was about a year his junior,) who thought infinitely more of his dog and gun than he did of ladies’ looks. Of course his indifference afforded a fine opportunity for the display of the many varia- tions on the theme of hopeless affection. So Fanny sighed, and looked doleful, and tried to go without food, and hoped she was growing pale. But it would not do; the claims of a healthy appetite made her continually forget her fasting, her cheeks retained their roses, and her well-rounded figure was as plump as ever. It was certainly provoking, but there was no help for it. At length, after moping through a whole summer, she came to the conclusion that she had mistaken her own feelings, and for a time, she was once more natural and agreeable. But this was only the beginning of a series of similar errors ; for Fanny was always fancying herself in love with somebody, and, as tears and sighs were, in her mind, the only food of love, she was always pining after some unattainable object. At one time she was on the brink of despair for the village school- master, a long, gaunt yankee, in blue spectacles, who read mathematics, and studied the main chance, but who had no more sentiment than his own ferule. At another time she was all gentle sadness for the sake of a young shop-keeper, who had recently removed to the village, and who displayed his white MODERN CONSTANCY. 79 hands and city graces to the admiring damsels of Millville. She was once greatly endangered by the moving discourse of a middle-aged clergyman, who, soon after the death of his wife, officiated in her father’s pulpit. ‘The grave demeanor of this worthy man excited Fanny’s deepest sympathy, and she would fain have condoled with him and comforted him, when she ac- cidentally discovered that he had already found consolation in the favor of her mature maiden aunt. So time passed on, while Fanny grew prettier, and plumper than ever, in spite of her many sorrows and disappointments, until at eighteen she was decidedly the loveliest girl in Millville. But her assumed air of sentimentality sat as ill upon her as her grandmother’s tab-cap might have done. In spite of herself, smiles would dimple her round cheek, or flit over her pouting lip ; and a merry light would dance in her blue eyes, just when she most wished to exhibit their humid lustre. Poor Fanny! what trouble it cost her to resist her own cheerful and mirthful impulses ! So thought and so said her cousin Frank Hartwell, but Fanny only regarded him with a half-angry feeling. “You do not understand me, Frank,” she would say “ no- body does comprehend me; I shall go down to my early grave unappreciated.” “ Pshaw, Fanny: every body would love you if you would only lay aside your mopish notions, and as for an early grave, 80 MODERN CONSTANCY. you will live as long as I shall, if you will only stop drinking vinegar to make yourself thin. I can’t see why a pretty girl should try to spoil her good looks. You are always sighing like a broken bellows, and throwing down your eyes as if they had a squinting fancy towards your nose. Why the deuce don’t you act out your own glad and happy nature ?” Frank Hartwell was a shrewd, sensible, warm-hearted sailor, who had loved Fanny ever since she was a little teasing baby, whose humors nobody could quiet so well as cousin Frank. He had all the genial qualities belonging to his profession, with no small share of its hearty roughness and honesty. He saw clearly enough all Fanny’s foibles, but he saw also many excel- lent traits beneath the overlaying of this foolish affectation of sentiment. He loved her dearly, and he knew that her affec- tion for him had become so much a habitude of her very being that she was utterly unconscious of its real strength. He looked upon her frequent fits of romance as the safety-valves of that curious machine, a heart, and he was certain all would go right, as soon as her various experiments had been fairly tried. Fanny was proyoked by his plainly expressed contempt of her favorite studies, and pained by his ridicule of her sentimen- tality; yet some how or other, there was a lurking regard for him in her nature, which made her tolerate all these things. Besides, he was so often absent on the perilous duties of his profession, that she could not cherish any other but kindly af- fections for him. One thing was certain, all Fanny’s attacks of fancy fever occurred during Frank’s absence, and, if they did MODERN CONSTANCY. 81 not disappear before his return, they usually subsided in violence very soon after. On a very sultry day in August, a stranger arrived at the Millville Tavern, and after making sundry enquiries respecting stage-routes, etc., declared his intention of remaining some weeks in so beautiful a spot. He accordingly hired the best room in the inn, and it was not long before it was generally rumored that “ the foreign gentleman with black whiskers” was a stranger of distinction, travelling incog. to view the country. Of course this was enough to rouse the lionizing spirit, which prevails so generally in our country, and in less than a week every man, woman, and child in the place had peeped at “ the Count.” He was invited to visit the churches, (Millville had a church for every hundred inhabitants,) he was honored with a free ticket to the Lyceum lectures, he was requested to allow a cast of his head to be taken by an itinerant Phrenolgist, and he was waited upon in person by every male in the village, from the parson down to the fisherman’s boy, who proffered all needful assistance in the way of boating and baiting. There was nothing very remarkable about “the Count,” except his huge whiskers and moustache, which completely con- cealed the lower half of his face. He wore a damask silk dressing gown when in his own apartment, sat much at the open window, played a little on a cracked flute belonging to his host, and spent part of every day on the river bank, in the society of the fisherman’s boy, who seemed to be his favorite among all those who had honored him with a call. He declined all the i 82 MODERN CONSTANCY. proffered civilities of the kindly villagers, and visited no one excepting old parson Gay, from whom he had borrowed a set of fishing tackle. ‘The worthy clergyman who had not escaped a slight touch of the Mania-Americana, or lion-hunting insanity which is so prevalent in the United States, was exceedingly flattered by the deference of the polite stranger. He was pleased to listen to his descriptions of life in foreign lands ; and though the Count seemed to know little of the scenes hallowed by his- toric or romantic associations, yet he could talk of pomps and princes, of pageants and princesses, as glibly as a court-parrot. It was wonderful to find a denizen of courts bending his high thoughts down to enquire into the state of the crops, the prospects of the farmer, and especially studying with so much care the map of the roads and by-ways across the country. It was evident that the Count was no common traveller; he did not mean to fly through the country at a rail-road pace, and see nothing but the spittoons in our steamboats, or like another celebrated traveller, mistake the feathery down of the silver maple tree, which fills the air, at a certain season of the year, for the “ ptyalations” of his fellow passengers. No, this enlightened nobleman meant to view the internal resources of the country, and shunning the broad high-ways, it was his purpose to tread the less frequented paths of inland towns and villages. From his first appearance in the village, however, Fanny Gay had been persuaded that there was some romantic mystery con- nected with him. His pale and swarthy visage, his black eyes and heavy brows, his tall thin figure, and above all, his wealth of MODERN CONSTANCY. 83 raven locks and whiskers, made him a fit subject for Fanny’s vivid imaginings. The day after his arrival he had seen Fanny, as she was tying up some pinks in the garden. He had spoken to her in his broken English, and though he had only enquired the road, yet she fancied that there was a peculiar melancholy in his tone. When therefore he selected Mr. Gay as his only acquaintance, Fanny had little doubt as to the reason of this preference. She was now almost at the sum- mit of her wishes. A nobleman, a real live Count was near,— he was evidently pleased with her, and she could scarcely be- eve in the good fortune which thus afforded the opportunity of becoming a heroine of romance. The Count evidently knew something of women, for he seemed to understand Fanny at a glance, and he found little dif- ficulty in satisfying her taste for the sublime and the sentimen- tal. He walked with her at sunset, and by moonlight,—he wrote French verses to her, which she could not understand, and which he could not translate,—he played the tenderest of airs on the old flute, and although little mindful of mere decoration, Fanny could not help noticing the splendid diamond which sparkled on his finger, as he ran over the stops of the melodious instru- ment. He made love too, like a veritable Mortimer. He knew how to drop on one knee with infinite grace, and he took her hand with such tender respect, or pressed the fringe of her scarf to his lips with such a gallant air of chivalric devotion, that Fanny had nothing to desire. Her ideal was fully satisfied —she had found a real lover far exceeding the fancied adorer for whom she had so long sighed. 84 MODERN CONSTANCY. How did her heart thrill when the Count imparted to her the real secret of his seclusion, and when she saw in him not only the accomplished nobleman, but also the persecuted and pro- scribed patriot! A moving tale of his sufferings in the cause of freedom, an avowal of his most unpronouncable name, and a declaration that he was in reality a banished Pole, completed his conquest over the heart of the romantic girl. When at length he avowed his passion, and besought her to cherish in secret the love which he dared not claim openly, she yielded to the dictates of her bewildered fancy, and promised all he asked. In pledge of faith he drew from her finger a slender circlet of gold, which Cousin Frank had given her, and placed in its stead a rich ruby ring, which, not daring to exhibit, she attached to a ribbon, and concealed within her bosom. Matters had just reached this crisis, when cousin Frank returned from sea. Fanny had never before shrunk from his presence ; but now she had a vague fear, an indefinite sense of something which seemed half remorse, half regret. “ What will you say to me, Fanny, when I tell you I have brought home a wife?” was his first question. A sort of suffocating sensation rose in Fanny’s throat as she struggled to reply, “A wife, Frank! where did you find her ?” “Jn Liverpool,—she wanted to find a husband, and I was kind enough to assist her.” MODERN CONSTANCY. 85 “ Frank !” “Its true, Fanny.” Fanny was half vexed, and yet half relieved. She was a little mortified that Frank should have anticipated her when she was just beginning to feel conscience-stricken at her desertion of him. “You look grave, coz, are you sorry I should find a wife ? Well, don’t be alarmed, I didn’t say she was my wife. Come, it is a story in your own line, Fanny, full of romance.” And the hardy sailor drew Fanny towards him, and held both her hands, while he told her, how he had found an “ out- landish body,” waiting for a passage to America, where she expected to meet her husband,—how he had taken care of the poor pining creature on her passage,—how he had saved her from being swept overboard during a gale of wind,—how she had found in New York a letter from her husband directing her to repair to Millville, where he would join her,—and how Frank had escorted her to the village. ‘So you see, cousin Fan, I have brought home a wife, but not for myself;” and Frank, mistaking the cause of Fanny’s disquieted look, kissed her fondly ere he released her hands. Poor Fanny! she little knew how completely Frank’s story was destined to annihilate her fairy fabric of hope. While the gay seaman was recounting his tale in the quiet parlor of the 86 MODERN CONSTANCY. old parsonage, a very different scene occurrred at the inn, where he had left the poor woman. Scarcely had Frank turned his back, when the “outlandish body,” who could not speak a word of English, espied the Count, sitting at his window—uttered a wild cry, and rushed directly into his apartment. A tender scene ensued,—tender, at least, on the part of the lady, who had found in the secluded nobleman, the husband she had come so far to seek. What explanation he might have found it necessary to make to Fanny, cannot now be known, for his interview with the true claimant on his affections, was suddenly and disagreeably interrupted by the entrance of two police officers. The story is soon told. Some months previous, a certain Princess in Europe had been robbed of jewels to a large amount by one of her valets. ‘The robber had been traced to America, but there all track of him was lost, until an agent of police who was keeping watch over his wife, discovered that she was preparing to join him. Disguising himself and assuming a feigned name, the myrmidon of the law took passage in the same ship, and following closely in her footsteps, discovered him in his village retreat. It was hard that Love should have thus turned traitor; but the unhappy woman did all she could to atone for her unconscious error. She determined to share her husband’s misfortune and disgrace, and when he was carried back to his native land, with the brand of shame stamped deeply upon him, she was the companion of his long dreary voyage. MODERN CONSTANCY. 87 Fanny would fain have kept her own counsel, but she knew not how to return the jewel which the quondam Count had bestowed upon her. So she confided in cousin Frank, and told him the whole story. He was in a towering passion, and swore like an “old salt,” at her folly, but ended by forgiving her, and helping her out of her difficulty. He managed the affair so well, that no one ever knew how long the princess’s ring had lain upon the bosom of the village maiden, or how deeply she had risked her happiness in the acquisition of the jewel. This adventure cured Fanny of her romance and of her inconstancy. She has now been for some years the plump, rosy, happy wife of cousin Frank. Some persons might have been fastidious about the waste of her fresh feelings in all these fanciful attachments, but Frank had no such ideas. Instead of flinging away a rose because others had inhaled its perfume, he determined to pluck it and hide it within his own bosom, so that in future it should bloom only for him. Fanny had been a foolish fantastic girl, and I doubt whether she ever became a very wise and prudent woman, but she became a less fickle one. To use Frank’s own words : “¢ When she was once moored, and especially when there were two or three little kedge-anchors out to hold her, she was as steady as a seventy-four.” TO Tuovu art amid the festive halls, Where Beauty wakes her spells for thee, Where Music on thy spirit falls Like moonlight on the sea; But now while fairer brows are smiling, And brighter lips thy heart beguiling, Think’st thou of me? Young forms and faces pass thee by, Like bright creations of a dream, And lovelit eyes, when thou art nigh, With softer splendors beam ; Life’s gayest witcheries are round thee, But now, while mirth and joy surround thee Think’st thou of me ? GERARDIA TENUIFOLIA—SLENDERLEAVED GERARDIA. LINN. CLASS DIDYNAMIA 5 ORDER, AGIOSPERMIA, NATURAL ORDER, SCROPHULARIACEA, Tus is an exceedingly delicate and graceful flower, bloom- ing inthe month of September, and delighting in a dry soil, being found in abundance on the sides of rocks among the Highlands, where there would scarcely appear to be sufficient earth to afford it a foothold. It seldom exceeds eight or nine inches in height, and is one of the most graceful varieties of its species. Its calyx is five-cleft, or five-toothed ; corolla sub-campa- nulate, unequally five-lobed ; segments rounded ; capsule, two- celled, dehiscent at the top; leaves linear, acute, scabrous ; peduncles axillary, longer than the flowers ; teeth of the calyx acute. VIEW NEAR FORT MONTGOMERY. The view accompanying this plate was taken from Fort Montgomery, looking towards the north-east. The most 12 90 VIEW NEAR FORT MONTGOMERY. \ prominent object in the distance is sugar-loaf mountain, rising nearly eight hundred feet in height. At the foot of this mountain within a short distance from the river, stands the Beverly House, celebrated for having been the head-quarters of the traitor Arnold, during the revolutionary war. Its appearance is much the same as it was at that time; very few alterations having since been made. The property is now owned by Mr. Arden, who resides about one mile north of the Beverly House ; and from whose grounds one of the finest views among the Highlands may be obtained. West Point lies on the opposite side, about two miles above, and about ten miles distant from Fort Montgomery, from which it cannot be seen. During the Revolutionary War Fort Montgomery, as well as Fort Clinton, on the opposite side of Fort Montgomery Creek, which here falls into the Hudson, was taken, after a severe struggle, by the British, and the works were never afterwards repaired. Although many of the outworks can still be traced, they are mostly overgrown with trees, and nearly level with the surrounding surface. SLENDER-LEAVED GERARDIA. SYMPATHY. Lise the sweet melody which faintly lingers Upon the windharp’s strings at close of day, When gently touched by evening’s dewy fingers It breathes a low and melancholy lay ; So the calm voice of sympathy meseemeth ; And while its magic spell is round me cast, My spirit in its cloistered silence dreameth, And vaguely blends the future with the past. But vain such dreams while pain my bosom thrilleth, And mournful memories around me move ; E’en friendship’s alchemy no balm distilleth, To soothe th’ immedicable wound of love. Alas! alas! passion too soon exhaleth The dewy freshness of the heart’s young flowers; We water them with tears, but nought availeth, They wither on through all life’s later hours. FAITH AND LOVE BY ERNEST HELFENSTEIN. “The soul is the essence of a man; and you cannot have the true man against his inclination.”—Sir Water RALEIGH. One of the most agreeable companions I ever knew, was Edward Gilbert. Thoroughly well-bred, he was of course punctiliously considerate where the individuality of another was concerned; exempt from cavilling, curiosity, and inter- ference in every shape. His own address was free even to carelessness; yet beneath this external manifestation dwelt a vein of deep and thorough reserve, an under-current that might be felt but never penetrated. There was nothing like gloom or mystery it would seem in this; on the contrary, it was a holy and beautiful light em- anating from an inward shrine, revealing a benign radiance, yet veiled and indistinct. In the midst of others he was one ever possessing his spirit in peace, one sustained by an invisible ministry. Some called him a Devotee, but whether in worship FAITH AND LOVE. 93 of the Divine and the Infinite, or of an earthly Idol, none knew, So similar are each in their results. I had known him for many years, had conceived the most devoted and reverential affection for him, and yet had never sought to penetrate this mystery of his character; judge then of my surprise when he himself opened to me the secret of his life. We had travelled much together, and our intercourse being of the most unconstrained and cordial kind, I was not long in learning that there were frequent occasions on which he was totally silent even for an hour, and that too in the midst of gayety, when circumstances rendered it impossible to separate himself from the group. One day in a year he always passed alone inhis room. I learned this day to be the twelfth of August. After this period of seclusion he was not gloomy, as one might. be led to suppose, instead, a gentle serenity was diffused over him, a hopefulness and trust that seemed to have received a higher impulse. We were within one day’s journey of Philadelphia, and business of some importance there claimed my attention, yet did I linger amid the gorgeous scenery of the Susquehanna, with its primeval woods hanging like an eternal canopy above me, for a new and solemn sense of beauty was entering my very soul. The conversation of Gilbert too, was in- structive and ennobling in the highest degree; and there was a vein of spirituality running through it rarely perceptible. 94 FAITH AND LOVE. We were riding a sequestered road, where the branches of the trees often caused us to bend to the saddle-bow, when Gilbert after a long silence asked, “ Did it ever occur to you, Ernest, that when one who is dear to us, whose existence is indeed a part of our own, has ceased to be a dweller upon the earth, we feel as it were a loosen- ing of the senses, and the soul hears an utterance that saith ‘ Arise, let us go hence?” ” At this moment a butterfly alighted upon his forehead, paused an instant, and then floated lightly upward into the thin air. Gilbert followed it with his eyes, and to my amaze- ment turned deadly pale. “‘ Blessed Psyche, one moment stay,” he murmured, and but for my arm would have fallen from his saddle. After this little incident we rode many hours in utter silence, Gilbert was very pale, and mechanically reined his horse be- side my own; the most beautiful scenery, to which he was ever so keenly susceptible, failed to awaken his attention, or rouse him from an abstraction that seemed well nigh to sus- pend the powers of vitality. At length we reached our inn, and I was giving orders to the groom that we might be in readiness for an early start in the morning, when Gilbert arrested me. FAITH AND LOVE. 95 * Pardon me, Ernest, but I shall remain here the morrow.” I was annoyed, and endeavored to deter him from his pur- pose; I hinted his depression as an urgent reason why he should resume his social intercourse; that nature became Oppressive in our moments of despondency, that she forced upon us at such times the urgencies of the heart, and we need the conventionalism, and cold turmoil of restless humanity to recall us from egotism. Suddenly it flashed upon my mind —‘ the morrow is the twelfth of August ;” and I was silent. Every one is aware of the extreme dullness of a country Inn. The poverty of furniture, books, and all the little necessaries of refined life. Then there is the dry dust upon the window- pane; the invariable slit at the corner of the dimity curtain, showing that listless travellers, again and again, have lifted it like yourself; the revolting soap-stainms upon the pine stand, and about the table, all reminding you of prior use, which naturally is suggestive of unpleasant associations. Then time, after his hurry elsewhere, seems resting here; and the great bottle-flies that buzz slowly about the room and then bounce two or three times against the ceiling, seem created as express reminders of heat, and lassitude, und lingering time. To these annoyances are often superadded a barrenness of situation ; as if nothing but flies, poultry, and swine half buried in the moist gravel, could find anything pleasurable in it. That was a long wearisome day in the little Inn at ——. Despite all my efforts to the contrary, I found myself nervously 96 FAITH AND LOVE. interested in the seclusion of Gilbert; I could not refrain frequently glancing at his windows, and pausing in the small entry to see if he were moving; and then I blushed and checked myself in this unmanly scrutiny; yet the total silence pervading his room grew appalling. Not a curtain was stirred, not a foot-fall heard. Through the long, long hours, a still- ness like death was about him. Then the long, long night, with its lagging seconds made audible by the heavy tick of the old German clock, and the hours pealed out by its lengthened toll, as it would never cease—the breath grew labored in listening; and the brain counted as by necessity, one—two—three—and onward, with a vexed and yet mechan- ical curiosity. The senses acquired a painful intensity. I remember starting at the tramp of feet over my pillow, which proved only those of a fly—there was a confused sound at one time near my own breast, which gave a fearful dread of new and organic disease—it was a rising and falling as with my own breath; a guttural quiver that thrilled along my nerves, and seemed a part of them.—I opened my eyes and a large black cat was purring in the moonlight beside me. ‘The senses had a distinct and preternatural activity, totally independent of the reason. That night was an eternity of hours to my mind ; for apart from my interest in Gilbert, my own spirit had its sorrow, which the solitude, the night, and silence brought home to me with terrific energy. Life seemed a grey, hope- less blank, and even the spiritual aspirations, which rarely desert me, grew dim and vague, and a cold scepticism was settling upon me. Thank God I arose and prayed for deliver- ance from the subtle ingratitude, this violence done to the FAITH AND LOVE. 97 utterance of the Holy Spirit within me, and then tears came to my relief, and I felt my child-nature return, and I slept—feeling the wings of the Eternal folding me as in a garment whose texture was Love. Morning at length came, and with it I heard a mechanical step upon the stair. I hastened forward to meet the morning welcome of my friend, that friend hitherto so calm, so beauti- ful in his manliness, and I started involuntarily back at the changes of a single night. His cheek and eye were hollow, and his lips thin and rigid. His complexion had a greyness, that was cold and unearthly. I pressed his hand, for I could only look my sympathy. “© She is dead, dear Ernest, lead me wherever you list.” For hours we rode on in utter silence—for days even—for weeks we kept aloof from the great thoroughfares of men, and dwelt amid the solitary pityings of nature, where her balm is so breathed into the soul that we are healed and yet are uncon- scious of the ministry. I made no attempts to console him— I would not worry him with unavailing sympathy. “ Let me alone,” is the heart’s remonstrance, when words are thrust into its desolate chambers. Unconsciously I followed the exam- ple so pathetically beautiful in the friends of the man of Uz, when they sat beside him “seven days and seven nights and opened not their mouth, for they saw that his grief was great.” At length we alighted beside a mountain stream, and 13 98 FAITH AND LOVE. seated ourselves upon one of those rounded masses of stone that so frequently puzzle the unlearned, and are of such interest to the scientific. Gilbert was the first to break silence. “‘ Ernest, there is that in the human mind forbidding it to hold within itself a solitary secret. We are made for fellow- ship with our kind, and our instincts revolt at whatever is buried in silence. We are made to impart our joyfulness, and to divide our burdens with others. Pardon me, dear Ernest, if I confess that I seek your confidence from a neces- sity of our being, rather than from a desire of sympathy. One who must henceforth live above humanity should check his yearnings for companionship. I must tell you the one fact of my life, which for years has imparted its coloring to the rest. “It is now fifteen years since I first met Agnes Gordon. She was then a widow of perhaps twenty-five, or she might have been older, for I never thought upon the subject, any more than I did upon her beauty, which must have been of a high order; but she was so free from all vanity that my mind was rarely drawn to the fact ; and there is that about a nobly constituted woman, that at once divests a man of sensuality and makes him superior to the fascinations of mere external attractiveness. ‘There was around her a radiance of soul, a halo as of an inner life, investing her with a glory. She seemed to breathe of devotedness, if such a sentiment may be em- bodied in a human form and dwell in the air of a human movement. FAITH AND LOVE. 99 “ T need not tell where nor how we first met, for I will not dwell upon the common-placisms of events, momentous although to ourselves, and involving rare contingencies, yet apparently natural and of every-day occurrence. Neither will I dwell upon the progress of a love that soon absorbed the soul of each, for neither of us could tell when nor how it grew between us. It was as if two spirits, each with a single wing had met, and folding their arms together became one, and perfect in their power of flight heavenward. “ When I first told my love Agnes listened with a sweet down-cast look, and then her clear eyes met mine, like soul answering to soul; her gentle lips trembled, and her cheek was pale, but so holy, so loving, was the whole expression of her child-like face, that I started as at a new and sublime revelation. “* She placed her two hands within mine own, and I called her ‘ Wife.’ *“* Agnes looked earnestly in my face, and burst into tears. “<¢Thine, Gilbert, one with thee, like unto the Angels of God,’ she replied; and then she spoke of those mysterious affinities of soul, by which two beings are imperceptibly blended into one; how love between such is a necessity of their being, an ordainment, a fact. They are conjoined by God although often put asunder by men. She told of that yearning for companionship felt by every human being, a 100 FAITH AND LOVE. craving of the spirit, harder to be borne than any material necessity ; and to love, to be beloved became a conservation to the soul. She went on. “*¢ Can you love me Gilbert, and yet never seek to bind me other than by this strong bond of affinity !—Love me as thy spirit-wife only ?” “JT smiled at a spiritualism I scarcely believed rea]. Her . hands trembled, and I saw the blood steal through the trans- parency of her cheek, her eye-lids drooped, and the tears started from beneath them. ** ¢ Gilbert, I must tell thee all, even at the hazard of losing thee in this life, although I solemnly believe, that in the sight of God we are one. Gilbert, I am bound by a solemn vow, never to give this hand in marriage bonds. I can never be thine in the face of the world.’ “‘T sprang from my seat, and cast her blessed hand from me ; and_ then I caught her wildly to my breast. ‘ My God, you shall be mine, even if’—I was silent—for Agnes fell as one dead in my arms. “ Never, never shall I forget the emotions that swayed me in that brief period of her unconsciousness. I held the beautiful material within my grasp, and a cold terror seized me, lest the finer essence had departed at my fearful threat, and J, but half awakened to a sublime sympathy, was to be at FAITH AND LOVE. 101 once bereft as a penalty for my impious love. She revived, and the music of her voice, the sweet eloquence of her lips, the endearing pathos of her every word, and the subtle winningness of her gentle air, ere long won me to her noble creed, and made me her worshipper, devoted and spiritual. “She had been married in her early girlhood, before the strength of her own nature had been revealed to her; while her heart was as a pearl, buried in its purity, sealed up, cold and tranquil. She was a child careless of the morrow, and unconscious of the fearful momentousness of the vows she assumed; and not till their weight pressed upon her as a doom; not till she found herself yearning wildly for com- panionship and sympathy, did she realize how totally she was forever bereft of these. ‘Then came the long period of depression and hopeless despondency—life without aim or joy, existence borne as a dread necessity—days and months in which gloom was only relieved by a deeper gloom, and but for principle and duty, the thread of life might have been voluntarily severed. “ But she was trustful, dependent, spiritual, and soon these affections destined to be idly wasted in this world, were transferred to heaven. A depth of religious emotion soon absorbed all others. Duty, self-sacrifice, constancy, and devotion, filled up the waste places of life. “‘ Gently and forbearingly she spoke of the blind selfishness of Gordon—how the consciousness that he held a place in her 102 FAITH AND LOVE. duty, but no place in her love, often goaded him to fury. He became distrustful, and the natural selfishness of his nature grew tenfold more exacting. Petty jealousy, and habitual discontent, took possession of the unhappy man. Fretful and morose, he was content only while she was in his presence, while her slightest gayety filled him with suspicion.