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AMERICAN WILD FLOWERS

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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. <A tenacity
of power, an assertion of claims, an imperceptible legality of
mind, so to say, usurped the place of love. She belonged
to him by legal bonds, and these should be recognized to the
utmost.

“¢ As the religious impressions of Agnes deepened, she learned
to compassionate the deluded man, who had made so fearful a
wreck of his peace—who in the bewilderment of fancy, had
conjoined his maturity of character to one inexperienced,
undeveloped, and altogether unlike his own. She pitied him
for having lavished his soul upon one who could not respond
to the boon. She ceased to think upon the wrong done to
herself; ceased to blame him who had availed himself of her
gentleness and ignorance of life to bind her in the fearful bonds
that await only the severance of death; and a nobleness of
sacrifice grew upon her. She felt as if called upon to make
an atonement for that perversity of nature, that failed to find
content where the law directed.

“‘ She sometimes grew bewildered in the study of herself—
feared she might be peculiar; one too coldly intellectual, too
abstractly spiritual for human sympathy—and the restless void
of the heart, the wild craving for companionship that so

FAITH AND LOVE. 103

often oppressed her, might be only the strugglings for the
Infinite.

“Tt was in this state of mind, that she was called to the
dying pillow of Gordon. Even at the threshold of the grave,
the fearful selfishness of his passion held its ascendency. Even
there he who had debarred her fine nature from its free
exercise ; had shackled its freedom of choice, dared to go
further, and fetter his victim after death should have can-
celled the former bond. Yes, he, he, to whom the vistas
of this world were closing forever, took her hand, warm with
health, and youth, and vitality, within his cold, dying grasp,
and bound her by a perilous oath never to yield that hand to
another. And then he died.

“Years passed away, and we met. My God! the gulf that
his selfishness had cast between us and happiness! I would
not willingly believe such an oath to be binding. I used all the
subtleties of logic to convince her that a promise extorted
under such circumstances must be a nullity. That her state of
mind was unnatural; that the mind itself was weakened by the
preponderance of compassion, and therefore she had become
as it were, irresponsible for its doings. Heaven forgive me!
even while uttering this, I trembled lest it should corrupt her
sense of truth—I hoped, and feared, and shuddered, for the
vehemence of my love was bewildering my own clearness of
perception, and I was in danger of wresting truth from its
legitimate bearing, to meet the wants of mine own blind will.

104 FAITH AND LOVE.

Alas! alas! what human enormity might not in this way find
an apology.

“ But the mind of Agnes was clear as a sunbeam where
truth was involved. She had taken the oath voluntarily upon
herself—coolly, dispassionately—from what she had conceived
at the time duty. She had taken it in the maturity of her
judgment ; and understanding, in part, from her fearful craving
for sympathy, the sacrifice it might involve. Yet had she taken
it in her sound mind and clear judgment, and she dared not
reverse its doom.

“Enough! enough! We parted to meet no more on this
earth. The sacrifice to be a sacrifice must be entire, complete.
The love, the devotedness of this noblest of beings, became
super-human in its elevated purity. She lifted me above myself,
and gave my soul an assertion of its high claims, such as I had
never before conceived to be possible. Certain hours of the
day we devoted to inter-communion. One day likewise in the
year, was passed by each in solitude—the anniversary of our
meeting. And so perfect has been our sympathy, that we are
often apprised through our own consciousness each of the state
of the other’s mind.

“ Our letters were written and marked, when designed to be
opened on this anniversary of our meetings. The letters of
yesterday were of this character, and accompanied by one
from her only female friend who shared her confidence

FAITH AND LOVE. 105

announcing the fatal news. Alas! I needed it not. Blessed
spirit ! I felt in my own frame the shiver of thy disseverance.

“Ernest, you have shared my joy and my grief. God bless
you! For few know the holiness of such a trust.”

Gilbert lived on, a graver man, it may be. When the sacred
twelfth arrived there were no sweet records of devoted affection
to meet his eye ; and when I waited the long day of silence for
his re-appearance, my heart misgave me that all might not be
well, The hour of breakfast arrived, and all was yet silent.
Trembling with apprehension I entered his room. Gilbert was
seated by the table with his two hands folded together and his
head resting upon them. As I lifted up his face a miniature
met my eye. Great God! it was that of my noble, my sainted
mother, and Gilbert—he was dead.

REMEMBERED LOVE.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

Recaut the past? and wouldst thou dash the cup
Thy sweet hand lifted, to the barren earth—
Now that my grateful prayer is offered up,
And love grows conscious of its angel birth ?
Thy nature is too kindly thus to lure
A weary pilgrim unto Eden’s gate,
Then bid him once again the world endure—
By that fair prospect rendered desolate :
Recall the past ? thou canst not ; it is mine!
That look, those tones I will forever hold,
Such momentary rapture makes divine
Years that were else all listless, vain and cold :
Passion, caprice and fancy pass away,
But when love dawns, eternal is her day.

SISYRINCHIUM ANCEPS:—BLUEEYED GRASS.

LINN. CLASS, MONADELPHIA 5 ORDER, TRIANDRIA.

NATURAL ORDER, IRIDEX.

Tuts beautiful little flower is found growing in meadow-
lands, and, as it seldom exceeds eight inches in height, is
generally lost to the eye of the unobservant, hiding its sweet
treasures of purple buds and sapphire blossoms beneath the
shade of the more aspiring, though unadorned varieties of the
grass tribe. It prefers a soil that is moist, though by no
means swampy; and is found in perfection during the month
of June. It has no qualities to recommend it, save its simple
beauty, and as such may well be chosen the emblem of
maiden modesty.

This flower belongs to the Natural Order, Iridee; the
members of which are slightly stimulating, and some are
poisonous. Its scape or culm is simple, two-edged; spathe,
two-leaved: corolla, superior, six-cleft, tubular ; stigma, three-
cleft; capsule, three-celled.

108 VIEW ON THE HUDSON.

VIEW ON THE HUDSON NEAR VERPLANCK’S POINT.

The view attached to this plate was taken from a meadow
about four miles below Caldwell’s Landing, on the Hudson,
about forty miles from New York, overlooking the western
portion of Haverstraw Sea or Bay, and embracing within its
limits Verplanck’s Point on the left, Stony Point with its
lighthouse, and Grassy Point on the right; while the Haver-
straw or Rockland Hills close the view. ‘The highest summit
of this range is seen towering over Grassy Point, and is
called the High Torr, rising about seven hundred feet above
the level of the sea, and affording one of the finest and most
extensive views from its summit in the United States of North
America.

y i mh ;

ihe
aS.

BLUE-EYED GRASS.

SENSIBILITY.

“ The Joy Untasted.”’

Ay, it is ever thus ;—in every heart

Some thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang ;
Some deep desire in every soul has part;

Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang ;
For who from such a brimming cup has quaffed,
That not one drop was wanting to life’s draught ?

It comes to us in youth, that pining thirst,—
And then we seek to quench it at Love’s spring,
Cheating the soul with visions, that, at first,
Seem bright and glorious as an angel’s wing,
Till time and change o’ershadow them, and leave
The heart in deeper loneliness to grieve.

Tis with us in our later life;—in vain
We win the sweetest draught of wealth or fame ;

110 THE JOY UNTASTED.

Still in the bosom dwells th’ unquiet pain,

Still burns, unquenched, unquenchable, the flame ;
The “joy” is still “ untasted,” and we wear
Our lives away in hope which brings despair.

How often are such repinings breathed out from the weary
spirit, which has sought again and again to slake its thirst at
some wayside fountain, but found only the brackish waters of
the desert! Alas, that such things should be! Alas, that
the soul, on whom God has bestowed a gift like that of
prophecy, should be especially doomed to wander wearily
through the world, vainly seeking for that perfect sympathy
which can alone satisfy its thirst !

To men of common minds, sympathy comes under such
common forms, and they are so content with its homely and
inefficient ministry, that they know little of the pming want
which those must feel to whom a loftier mission has been
entrusted. The friend who will enter into their schemes of
worldly aggrandizement,—who will encourage their hopes of
gain, and quiet their fears of disappointment,—who will share
the mirthfulness of their hours of health, and offer the healing
draught in the chamber of sickness, is sufficient for the man
who lives in outward things. And is not this enough? Why
should we sometimes turn, almost with loathing, from the
kindly, commonplace charities of our narrow-minded but
benevolent neighbor, while we yearn with vain longing for
something which shall minister to the wants of the soul?
Why should we find ever a vacant place even in the fullest

THE JOY UNTASTED. 111

heart? Why look into the recesses of our own nature only
to learn that there are chambers tenantless and lone, through
which even the voice of joy must echo like a wail of sorrow?

Heart, weary Heart! what means thy wild unrest?
Hast thou not tasted of earth’s every pleasure ?
With all that mortals seek thy lot is blest ;
Yet dost thou ever chant in mournful measure :
“Something beyond !”

Heart, weary Heart! canst thou not find repose
In the sweet calm of friendship’s pure devotion ?
Amid the peace which sympathy bestows,
Still dost thou murmur with repressed emotion,
“Something beyond !”

Heart, weary Heart! too idly hast thou poured
Thy music and thy perfume on the blast ;
Now, beggared in affection’s treasured hoard,
Thy cry is still,—thy saddest and thy last,—
“ Something beyond !”

Heart, weary Heart! oh! cease thy wild unrest,—
Earth cannot satisfy thy bitter yearning ;
Then onward, upward speed thy lonely quest,
And hope to find, where Heaven’s pure stars are burning,
“ Something beyond !”

Ay, this is the reply ;—it is because we must look beyond
and above this world, that we are not permitted to find the
communion of heart, which would make earth’ another

112 THE JOY UNTASTED.

Eden. The poet has a prophet voice, and from the teachings
of the oracles within him, does he learn to enkindle to nobler
life the hearts of others. It is his duty and his privilege to
awaken perceptions of the good, the beautiful, and the true ;
and if he find no sympathy—if the dream of his life be unful-
filled,—the “joy” be still “ untasted,”—-yet may he trust that
his spirit-tones will be heard in the far-off Heaven, where he
shall at length “know as he is known.” Let him not faint
beneath the heat and burden of the day. The wave that
woos his thirsting lip may flow from the fountain of Marah ;
but, in the blossoming almond rod of Christian hope, he may
find the branch of healing for the bitter waters.

KALMIA LATIFOLIA—BROAD-LEAVED LAUREL

LINN. CLASS, DICANDRIA ; ORDER, MONOGYNIA.

NATURAL ORDER, ERICE.

Tue calyx of the Kalmia is five-parted; corolla, wheel-
salver form, with ten horns without and ten cavities within,
containing the anthers until the pollen is mature; capsule
five-celled, many seeded ; leaves long-petioled, scattered, oval,
smooth on both sides; corymbs terminal, with viscid hairs.

This unquestionably equals, if it does not surpass in beauty,
any flower to be found on the continent of North America.
There are two varieties of this species ; one nearly white, and
the other a pale rose color; the latter of which is represented
in the accompanying plate. It is in full bloom during the
months of June and July, and is found growing in woods,
preferring a rather moist soil. It is an evergreen, and its leaves
are very poisonous, while the fruit is narcotic and astringent.
It forms a bush of considerable size, varying from three to
fifteen feet in height.

15

114 FALL OF THE YANTIC.

FALL OF THE YANTIC, NORWICH, CONNECTICUT.

The Yantic is a small, though very picturesque river, rising
in the eastern part of the State of Connecticut, and uniting at
the city of Norwich with the Shetucket: their united waters
form the Thames, which, after passing New London, enters the
Atlantic ocean.

The fall here represented, is situated about half a mile above
the junction of the two rivers; and although the volume of
water is not large, as compared with some other falls, yet few
exceed it in beauty. The wildness of the rocks, the rich
masses of overhanging foliage;. the transparent bay below,
with a pretty island reposing on its bosom, altogether present
a scene rarely to be equalled.

Not far from this fall, on the eastern side of the river, the
tomb of Uncas, the well-known Indian Sachem, may be seen.
It is a neat monument, enclosed from the public road near
which it stands, and kept in good repair by the gentleman who
resides a few yards from the spot.

No city or village in Connecticut, probably, can boast of so
many wild and romantic scenes as Norwich. ‘Two charming
rivers hold it in their embrace, while the lofty hills on every
side that surround it, afford some of the most extensive,
varied, and delightful prospects that can well be conceived.

poet

tee re
eae pel athens
DY en We

THE WILD LAUREL.

UNTAUGHT GENIUS.

BY Cc. F. HOFFMAN.

Beuieve him not, that rhyming, rakish Roman,
Who swore so roundly that a lover’s quarrel

Between one Phoebus and some thick-shod woman,
First caused to sprout the leaflets of the laurel!

Why, long ago,—ere his Deucalion floated
Upon that freshet, which was so surprising

In that small world. where every rill is noted,
As if it were a Mississippi rising—

Yes, long ere then, on Apalachia’s* mountains,
Nannabozhoy had seen the laurel growing,

* Washington Irving has done the young writers of this country a service, that should at least
be appreciated by every versifier,in suggesting that this characteristic name for the United
States, should be used in song, instead of the misapplied epithet of “‘ Columbia.”

+ For the aboriginal myth of Nannabozho, see Schoolcraft’s works. Also, “Wild Scenes of
the Forest and Prairie.”

116 THE WILD LAUREL.

With berries glassed in Adirondach fountains,
Or cup mist-filled near Niagara’s flowing :

A crimped and dainty cup, whose timid flushing
Tinted the creamy hue of lips so shrinking,

He thought, at first, some sentient thing was blushing,
To be thus caught from such a cauldron drinking.

Plants then had tongues,—if we believe old story,
As told by red-men under forest branches,—

(Who still insist they hear that language hoary,
Ere mountain-woods descend in avalanches :*)

Plants then had tongues, and in their careless tattle,—
Each painted creature on its footstalk swaying,

Beguiled the loitering hunter with their prattle,
Secrets of Nature and old Earth betraying.

And once, they said, when Earth seemed fully freighted
With pearly cup, and star, and tufted blossom,

An Indian youth, with spirit all unmated,
On old Ta-ha-wusf flung his weary bosom.

He knew not, could not comprehend the feeling

That kept him mute, oppressed with thought unuttered,
That wild, wild sense of loveliness o’erstealing

Which urged his pent soul forth on wing unfettered.

* Forest Avalanches, or “ Mountain Slides,” as they are called in the language of our north
country, are said to be preceded by a strange groaning of the trees. It is most probably, how -
ever, only the grinding of the loosened ground beneath them.

+ The high peak of the Adirondachs.

THE WILD LAUREL. 117

Despairing and bewildered in his sorrow,
He pressed with quivering lip the hollow mountain,
As he its giant hardihood would borrow,

Its free-voiced rushing wind and chainless fountain.

This for a savage to be sure was tender,—

Whose hottest passion chiefly for the chace is :—
And when his native soil refused to render

Aught of response to her own child’s embraces,—

He breathed into the ground vague thoughts of power.
The yearnings of a soul in silence hidden ;

Beneath the midnight sky, in that lone hour,
Thought found a language by itself unbidden.

Then, with no human eye its birth beholding,
No fostering plaudit human hands bestowing,
First to the dew its glossy leaves unfolding,
Sprouted the Laurel, from its own heart growing

And still that type of native genius telleth,
On barren rock, or lonely woodland bower,

Not in approval, but in utterance dwelleth
The Poet’s craving, and the Poet’s power.

THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS.

“‘ For thou wert monarch born : Tradition’s pages
Tell not the planting of thy parent tree,
But that the forest tribes have bent for ages
To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee.”,—Hatteck.

Amone the many beautiful pictures which adorn the chambers
of my remembrance, there are few equalling in loveliness, that
of the environs of Norwich, in Connecticut. Three beautiful
rivers, the Shetucket, the Quinebaug and the Yantic, (the
inhabitants of that part of our country have had the good taste
to retain many Indian names,) unite to form the Thames,
which sweeps with a short and rapid course into the ocean ;
and at the junction of two of these rivers stands the city of
Norwich. The approach to this place is exceedingly lovely.
A bend in the river shuts off all view of its continuous course
towards the sea, and the voyager finds himself, as he nears the
city, on what seems to be the bosom of a large and tranquil
lake. Cliffs clothed with the verdure of the hardier evergreens,
tower above the level of the river, while every variety of forest

THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS. 119

tree skirts their precipitous sides. The city, built on what, at
first sight, appear terraces cut in the steep acclivities, has a
most picturesque appearance. When the rosy light of early
dawn has driven the mist from the wooded hills, while the tall
warehouses at the brink of the river are illumined by the beams
of the rising sun, and the strange irregular piles of houses are so
strongly marked against the sky that one can distinctly trace
the roofs of one line of buildings almost on a level with the
foundations of another, the effect is beautiful beyond description.
But on entering the place, the enchantment is speedily dissolved,
and there is little beauty to compensate for the irregularity of
a city built on a hill-side. The traveller who should be set
down in that part of Norwich which is devoted to trade and
commerce, and who should content himself with what he could
behold from his Hotel window, would know little of a place
which actually contains a greater variety of beautiful scenery
than almost any domain of the same extent in our country.

About two miles northward of Norwich city is what is now
styled Norwich Town; and never was a lovelier spot hallowed
by the affections and virtues of human hearts. A _ beautiful
section of table-land lying just without the city, and bearing
the humble title of “The Plain,” is filled with villas and
homesteids of tasteful and elegant appearance ; while many
a massive looking mansion, seated in the midst of a fine green
lawn, and surrounded by trees a century old, still remains to
prove the antiquity of the place. I have one such now in
my mind’s eye,—a fine old building, not mounted up in the air
like the modern houselings of our great city, but planted with

120 THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS.

deep and firm foundations upon the earth, occupying place and
not filling empty space; with a wide hospitable-looking hall,
and a broad richly carved staircase, the very sight of which
brings one back to the days of the revolution, when the owner
of this fair domain was the honored friend of Washington.

The country around abounds in fine views. Every variety
of scenery, from the rugged pile of lofty rocks clothed in gray
moss and covered with a scanty vegetation, to thesoft green-
sward of the low-lying and sunny valley, is there found. But
perhaps the peculiar charm which belongs to the environs of
Norwich, may be found in the windings of its many rivers. It
is scarcely possible to look out upon any point of view without
beholding the flashing of water in the distance, or its glittering
flow beside you. Other places may have hills and valleys,
woodlands and meadows, but few spots can be found which
combine with these such exceeding picturesqueness of rock
and cliff, and such wealth of rushing waters, as the neighbor-
hood of Norwich.

About a mile above the mouth of the Yantic is a scene of
surpassing beauty. The river which has heretofore glided on
in a quiet course through green meadows fringed with aquatic
plants and moisture-loving trees, suddenly pitches over a rocky
ledge into a narrow but deep ravine, that seems to have been
cleft by some convulsion of nature. Huge masses are piled
up directly in the path of the turbulent river; and as the
waters strike and divide on all sides, the narrow bounds within
which they are confined compel them to go on flashing and.

THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS. 121

fretting against the broken sides and rifted fragments of the
cliff, until they reach the outlet, which instantly widens into a
broad smooth stream, so mirror-like that one would suppose
nothing but the forest leaf had ever rested on its bosom. On
one side of this ravine, the rocks descend so gradually that
one may approach very near to the foaming waters; but, on
the other, a high precipitous rock, as perpendicular as if cut
by line and plummet, rises to a great height just at that point
where the river finds its outlet from this rugged pass.

It was while standing in face of that lofty precipice, with
the rushing cataract making wild music in my ears, and the
perfume of a thousand odoriferous shrubs mingling with the
freshness of the spray-filled air, that I listened to the tale of
human suffermg which had hallowed that hard, cold rock.

In the year 1643, soon after the general confederation of
the New England colonies, which subsisted until the abrogation
of their charters by James the Second, and, for more than forty
years, formed the chief security of the colonists, the Indians
became so formidable and hostile that it was scarcely possible
to prevent a general war. The chief instigator of this disquiet
was Miantonimoh, chief sachem of the Narragansetts. He
had attempted to place himself at the head of all the Indians
in New England, and, failing in this, chiefly through the energy
and courage of Uncas, sachem of the Pequods and Mohegans,
he vowed deadly hatred against him. Uncas was, both by
his father and mother’s side, lineally descended from the royal

line ; and his wife was the daughter of a distinguished Pequod
16

122 THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS.

chief. At the time of the arrival of the English in the country,
he was in rebellion against Sassacus, prince of the nation,
and this circumstance no doubt contributed to make him the
early friend and ally of the whites.

Miantonimoh, in the prosecution of his ambitious schemes,
had hired a Pequod, one of the warriors of Uncas, to murder
his chief. The traitor succeeded in shooting Uncas through
the arm, and then taking refuge among the Narragansetts,
proclaimed, through all the Indian towns, the death of Uncas.
But when it was discovered that the sachem was only wounded,
Miantonimoh, to screen himself, contrived a story by which
it was made to appear that Uncas had cut his arm with a flint,
with the insiduous design of unjustly accusing the Pequod
warrior. The suspected Indian, however, having soon after
visited Boston in company with the Narragansett chief, was
subjected to so severe an examination by the magistrates that
no doubt remained of his guilt. Miantonimoh, pretending to
be convinced of his treachery, pleaded hard to have the
assassin delivered up to him, promising to send him to Uncas
immediately upon his return. ‘The Governor accordingly
confiding in this promise, suffered him to go unmolested, and
two days after, while on their homeward journey, Mianto-
nimoh murdered the Pequod, in order to prevent his disclosure
of the sachem’s designs.

But little time elapsed before Miantonimoh, without pro-
claiming war, or affording Uncas the least intimation of his
designs, raised an army of a thousand men, and set out

THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS. 123

towards the country of his enemy. The spies of Uncas,
however, perceived their approach, and though the chief was
totally unprepared for such an attack, he suddenly gathered
a body of four or five hundred warriors and determined to
meet Miantonimoh before he should enter the settlement.
The two armies met upon a large plain about three miles
distant from the town. When they had advanced within
bow-shot of each other, Uncas demanded a parley. Advancing
in front of his band, he proposed to Miantonimoh that they
should settle their dispute by single combat. Whether he was
really actuated by a sort of chivalric spirit, and wished to
avoid risking the lives of so many brave warriors in a personal
quarrel, is still a matter of doubt. But with true Indian
craft, he had concerted with his men a scheme of vengeance
in case his proffer was rejected. No sooner did Miantonimoh
utter a bold and fierce refusal, than Uncas fell flat to the
ground, and his warriors discharging a shower of arrows over
his prostrate body, rushed upon the Narragansetts with such
fury that they were instantly put to flight.

Behind the retreating army rose the rugged cliffs of the
Yantic falls, and as their enemies pressed them with savage
fierceness, they were hunted down the rocks and precipices
like wild beasts. In this terrible straight they had to choose
between the tomahawk of their ruthless enemies glittering
behind them, and the yawning abyss of greedy waters raging
before them. At the foot of the rock which has been
already described, is said to be an awful pit hidden beneath
the rushing stream, whose depths have never yet been

124 THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS.

fathomed. Into this frightful “hell of waters,” the hunted
Indians leapt. The waters flashed as one and another and
another sprang into the chasm. A moment their dusky
forms were seen struggling in the whirling mass, and then,
drawn down by the strong under-current, they were swept
beneath the tide.

Thus perished the last of Miantonimoh’s warriors; but the
sachem was reserved for a more cruel fate. As he was has-
tening to join his devoted band, two of the enemy, who were
swifter of foot, passed him, and turned him back into the path
of his pursuing foe. Uncas, who was a man of gigantic
strength, sprang forward and grasped him by the shoulder.
Miantonimoh saw that all was lost, and with the sullen pride of
his race he calmly seated himself upon the ground, in perfect
silence. He uttered not one word of remonstrance or entreaty ;
and, though compelled to witness the merciless butchery of his
warriors, and the murder of his own brother, he scorned to
unclose his lips. Uncas, elated by his victory, spared his life for
the present, and conducted him in triumph to Mohegan.

Some dispute occurring, soon after, between Uncas and a
portion of the colonists, who, having purchased lands of the
Narragansetts, were disposed to protect their sachem, the victor
determined to carry his prisoner to Hartford, and ask counsel
of the whites. ‘The proud savage who had refused to employ
entreaty towards his conquerors, now broke silence, and begged
to be left in the hands of the English. To this Uncas con-
sented upon condition that Miantonimoh should be held as his

THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS. 125

prisoner, and the unfortunate chief was accordingly left under
guard in Hartford.

Upon the annual meeting of the Commissioners of the
Colonies, the whole affair of Uncas and Miantonimoh was laid
before them. The treachery and evil designs of the latter being
fully proved, it was decided that Uncas should be delegated to
put him to death. But with a remarkable degree of squeam-
ishness, they ordered that the murder (for it was little else,)
should not be committed in any of the English plantations ;
and they ‘advised’ that no torture or cruelty should be exercised
towards the victim. Uncas was therefore directed to repair to
Hartford with a band of trusty warriors to carry into effect the
decision of the judges. The haughty sachem obeyed the wel-
come summons. He received the prisoner, and, accompanied
by his warriors and also by “ two Englishmen who were sent to
witness the execution, and to prevent all unnecessary torture,”
(Luse the words of the chronicler,) he silently marched his
enemy to the spot where he had captured him. The instant
they arrived at the ground, one of the warriors coming up be-
hind Miantonimoh split his head with a hatchet, killing him with
a single blow. In the quaint language of the same historian :
“he was probably unacquainted with his fate, and knew not by
what means he fell.” The vindictive Uncas cut a large piece
of the dead sachem’s shoulder, and ate it in savage triumph,
declaring it to be “the sweetest meat he had ever tasted, for it
made his heart strong !”

The place of Miantonimoh’s execution is about a mile and

126 THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS.

a-half northeast of Yantic Falls, and is still known by the name
of “ Sachem’s Plain.” The Mohegans, by command of Uncas,
buried Miantonimoh in the spot where he fell, and erected a
rude pillar upon his grave, a memorial of which still exists.

On the summit of a hill which commands a lovely view of
the lake-like outlet of Yantic Falls, is the burial ground of the
Mohegans, and in that beautiful spot lie the remains of Uncas,
the last powerful sachem of that once powerful tribe. A nar-
row ravine, which seems to have been originally the bed of a
little mountain stream, leads from the brow of the hill directly to
the river ; and up this defile the Indians always bore their dead
to the place of tombs. The footsteps of white men have
marked every rood of ground in the neighborhood, but with a
spirit of forbearance, too unusual in the annals of civilization,
the Indian death road and the Indian burial ground are still
left free to the poor remnant of the red race which exists
in the land. A small enclosure, within which has been erected
a monument to the memory of Uncas, is still appropriated as
the place of graves, and occasionally there may still be seen
the melancholy spectacle of a few squalid miserable Indians,
pacing with slow step the mountain pass, as they bear to its
last resting place the body of some wretched degraded being,
in whose veins ran the blood of the inheritors of the soil.

As I stood upon that green and tree-crowned hill, looking
down upon the cove which puts in at its foot, it needed little
imagination to picture such a scene. I could fancy the bark
canoes sweeping over the tranquil waters,—the silent disem-

THE VENGEANCE OF UNCAS. 127

barkation of the funeral train,—their solemn tread up the dark
and narrow ravine,—their dusky forms now lost in the gloom
of the overhanging trees, now seen gradually emerging, until
the waving plumes upon their stern brows, rose above the sides
of the chasm, and they stood gathered in stoic calmness beside
the grave of a brother.

Alas, for the poor Indian! that small green spot is all he now
can claim in a land once his by birthright and possession. Of
all his wide domains, his hunting grounds and camps, his range
of forests and his sweep of hills, nothing remains but the grave
which he soon must fill, while his very name will exist only
in the prejudiced records of the white man’s history.

TRUE GREATNESS.

Avg, men may boast of conquerors, and tell
Of trophies that adorned a Cesar’s car,
Spreading his glory to the world afar,
Until his name becomes a mighty spell
To wake the hearts of nations :—it is well
That souls should thus be roused ; but, are there not
Far nobler triumphs in the humble lot
Of him who turns, when passion’s hosts rebel,
Undaunted to the conflict ? then the heart
Against itself in warfare must arise,
While, one by one, the joys of life depart,
And e’en the hope that nerved the spirit dies:
Yet not to him are earthly honors given,
Enough if conquest win th’ approving smile of Heaven.

CHIMAPHILA UMBELLATA—PRINCE’S PINE.

LINN. CLASS, DECANDRIA 5 ORDER, MONOGYNIA.

NATURAL ORDER, PYROLACEA.

Tue Prince’s Pine or Bitter Wintergreen, as it is sometimes
called, flowers in July, remaining in bloom but a short time.
Its petals are of a delicate white wax-like hue, which contrast
beautifully with its richly variegated stamens and pistil, and
its deep green shining leaves make it one of the prettiest
flowers to be found in the wild woods. It delights in a dry
and wooded situation, and is found in abundance in the
neighborhood of the Hudson River. It grows from six to
eight inches in height, and is an evergreen plant.

The calyx is five-parted ; petals five ; anthers beaked, with
two pores at the base before and at the top after the opening
of the flower; style immersed ; stigma thick, orbiculate ; cap-
sule five-celled, dehiscent at the angles near the summit;
leaves serrate, uniformly green, wedge lanceolate, with an acute
base ; scape corymbed ; filaments glabrous.

W7

130 VIEW NEAR POUGHKEEPSIE.

VIEW NEAR POUGHKEEPSIE.

The view was taken near Crum Elbow Point, between
Hyde Park and Poughkeepsie. This Point is a low rocky
projection causing the river to describe a sudden curve, about
amile below the village of Hyde Park. The hills on the
opposite side are quite high, and in some places precipitous,
and from their summit very extensive and charming views
may be obtained whether the spectator cast his eyes to the
North or the South. The variety of sail seen coming up
the river with a fair wind will be recognized as a familiar sight
to any one at all conversant with the Hudson River.

PRINCE’S PINE, OR BITTER WINTER-GREEN.

HOPE IN SORROW.

THE MOURNER’S APPEAL.

Frowrrs, happy flowers! methinks your tender eyes
Look kindly on me in my deep distress ;
Dwells there no healing virtue in your sighs ?
Have ye no balm the weary heart to bless ?
Can ye not give, from out your glowing hearts,
A freshness like the joy of childhood’s hours?
Or must I sadly feel, as youth departs,
Life’s dial only once is wreathed with flowers’

Stars, holy stars! pure watchers of the night !
Is there no beam that points the way to hope ’
Amid a world of so much gladsome light,
Must I forever in thick darkness grope?
Oh! chase this vague wild horror from my thought,
Let me but feel Heaven pities my deep woe ;

132

THE MOURNER’S APPEAL.

My future years are with such anguish fraught
I would look upward,—peace dwells not below.

Since first my soul took cognizance of life,
I've looked on nature with a lover’s eye ;
Amid the world’s vain toil and bitter strife
I still have felt her gentle influence nigh:
Yet now, when in my agony I come,
Fleeing to her in refuge from despair,
Her shrine is cold,—her oracles are dumb,—
No sympathy nor solace wait me there.

’Tis that mine eyes are dimmed with frequent tears,
Else would I see a balm in every flower,
And find a light to chase my gloomy fears
In every star that gems the evening hour;
’Tis that my soul is dark with sinful doubt,
And finds no promise in a world so fair,
Else would each star and fragrant bud give out
Its pledge that God,—our Hope, is everywhere.

PEACE.

Ou! seek her not in marble halls of pride,

Where gushing fountains fling their silver tide,
Their wealth of freshness, to the summer sky ;

The echoes of a palace are too loud,

They but give back the footsteps of the crowd
That throng about some ido! throned on high,

Whose ermined robe, and pomp of rich array

But serve to hide the false one’s feet of clay.

Look not for her in poverty’s low vale,
Where, touched by want, the bright cheek waxes pale,
And the heart faints with sordid cares oppress’d,
Where pining discontent has left its trace
Deep and abiding, in each haggard face ;
Not there,—not there Peace builds her halcyon nest:
Wild revel scares her from wealth’s towering dome,
And misery frights her from a lowly home.

Nor dwells she in the cloister, where the sage
Ponders the mystery of some time-stained page,
Delving with feeble hand the classic mine ;

134

PEACE.

Oh! who can tell the restless hope of fame, |
The bitter yearnings for a deathless name,
That round the student’s heart like serpents twine !
Ambition’s fever burns within his breast,
Can Peace, sweet Peace, abide with such a guest !

Search not within the city’s crowded mart,
Where the low-whispered music of the heart

Is all unheard amid the clang of gold;
Oh never yet did Peace her chaplet twine
To lay upon base mammon’s sordid shrine,

Where earth’s most precious things are bought and sold;
Thrown on that pile the “ pearl of price” would be
Despised, because unfit for merchantry.

Go! hie thee to God’s altar,—kneeling there,
List to the mingled voice of fervent prayer

That swells around thee in the sacred fane ;
Or catch the solemn organ’s pealing note,
When grateful praises on the still air float,

And the freed soul forgets earth’s heavy chain,
And learn the seraph peace is always found
In her eternal home on holy ground.

ERYTHRONIUM AMERICANUM—ADDER’S TONGUE VIOLET.

LINN. CLASS, HEXANDRIA ; ORDER, MONOGYNIA,

NATURAL ORDER, LILIACE&.

Tue corolla of this flower is liliaceous, inferior, six-petalled ;
petals oblong-lanceolate, obtuse at the point, reflexed, having
two pores and two tubercle-form nectaries at the base of the
three inner alternate petals; capsule somewhat stiped ; seeds
ovate; leaves lance-oval, maculate; style clavate; stigma
three-lobed.

This is one of the earliest gifts of spring, being rarely found
later in the season than the month of April, and delighting in
low wet meadow lands. Its bright yellow petals, and its leaves
ornamented with crimson spots, make it altogether one of the
prettiest flowers to be found at this season of the year. Its
height generally reaches from six to eight inches.

VIEW NEAR TIOGA POINT, PENNSYLVANIA.

‘This view was taken a few miles below Athens, Pennsylvania,
on the Susquehanna river. ‘Tioga Point, on the neck of which

136 VIEW NEAR TIOGA POINT.

the village of Athens stands, is a peninsular tract of land, formed
by two rivers, the Chemung and the Susquehanna, which unite
their waters about a mile below the village. Athens is a small,
though rather pretty village, promising to become, however, a
place of considerable importance, should the North Branch
Canal and its continuation, the Chemung, ever be completed.
The country around is broken, and on each side of the Susque-
hanna hills rise to the height of five or six hundred feet. From
the summit of the highest, on the eastern side of the Susque-
hanna, the prospect is a glorious one. The courses of the two
rivers can be traced for miles, winding among the hills and
forests, sometimes lost apparently for ever, and then again
appearing in the dim distance, at intervals brief yet beautiful.
Below the spectator’s feet the two streams unite their clear and
rapid waters, while every house in the village of Athens, and
every tree on the farm of Mr. Welles, the owner of the beau-
tiful peninsula, can be distinctly seen. Away to the north
stretches a beautiful undulating country, with here a village and
there a farm-house, while in the middle distance is noticed an
isolated hill of a nearly square shape, rising some two hundred
feet above the general level, and said to have once been fortified.
It is known by the name of Spanish Hill, though whence this
term is derived is now impossible to decide.

From the spot whence this view was taken, the hills around
Tioga Point are conspicuous in the distance.

Pose te eae aa

Mnial eter bo ~¥.

THE ADDER’S TONGUE VIOLET.

JEALOUSY.

SONNET.

BY ERNEST HELFENSTEIN

Atas! for he who loves, too oft may be
Like one who hath a precious treasure seaied
Whereto another hath obtained the key:
And he, poor soul, who there his all concealed,
Lives blindly on, nor knows that, mite by mite,
It dwindleth from his grasp; or, if a thought
That something hath been lost, his mind affright,
He puts it by, as evil fancy-wrought,
Yet will there sometimes come a ghostly dread,
From which the soul recoils, and he will sleep—
Aye, sleep, and when he wakes, all, all is fled.
Thus we may garner up our hearts, and keep
A more than human trust, and yet be left

Despoiled of all. Of hope—of faith—of love bereft.

18

MA-MA-TWA AND MONA-WING.,

AN INDIAN LEGEND.

“ Call not up
Amid thy fresh and virgin solitudes,
The faded fancies of an elder world.”
Bryant.

Mo-NA-wINnG was one of the loveliest of Indian maidens, but
she was as timid as a young fawn, and no warrior of the
tribe had ever ventured to approach her with the words of
love, or dared to interpret the language of her tender eyes.
She was yet a child, for she had only counted the blossomings
of fifteen springs, and she dwelt in her father’s lodge, exempt
from toil and as free from care as a forest bird.

Not far from her home was a green dell, so hidden by sur-
rounding rocks and interlacing trees, that it was difficult to
discover the narrow pathway which led into its recesses.
This spot was the favorite resort of the Manitto of flowers, and
therefore it was that its soft green turf was always enamelled

AN INDIAN LEGEND. 139

with the loveliest blossoms of the changing year. But Mo-na-
wing knew nothing of this. She only knew that it was a
fair and secluded spot, where she could be alone in the
presence of nature, and the timid girl loved it for its quiet
beauty.

One summer day Mo-na-wing had loitered long in the sweet
glen, and as she lay upon the soft grass, beneath the shadow
of a spreading tree, sleep fell upon her eye-lids. She dreamed,
and beautiful was the vision that blessed her slumbering eyes.
Before her stood a boy, graceful but delicate as the waving
willow-branch. On his head he wore a crown of the rich
crimson blossoms of the Indian-feather, while a mantle woven
from the silken tufts of the thistle down covered his shoulders.
He bore in his hand a bow and arrows, but the bow was
unbent, and the arrows, though barbed with the sharp thorns
of the wild rose were feathered with its fragrant blossoms.
His eyes were full of light, and his lips were as bright as the
scarlet berry of the mountain ash.

Mo-na-wing gazed with tender awe upon this beautiful
apparition, and a new delight filled her soul. Suddenly a
strain of music, so sweet, so faint, and so strangely blended
with the perfume of flowers that she could scarce tell which
sense was addressed, rose upon the air, and as it died away,
she heard these words :

Mortal, who, with gentle feet,
Roamest through my lone retreat,

140 AN INDIAN LEGEND.

Maiden, who with tender eye,

Watchest where the flowrets die.

Blessed art thou, for thy heart

Scorns to seek a lowly part,

Human love may never win

Soul that knows not earthly sin,

Human love is born for weeping,

Rest thee then where flowers are sleeping.

As the melody floated off upon the breeze Mo-na-wing
awoke. A tiny branch of the wild rose, with its sharp thorns
and blossomed spray, was lying upon her bosom, and then the
maiden knew that the gentle Manitto of flowers had appeared
to her. From that moment she considered herself under the
especial guardianship of the sweet spirit. The love of flowers
which had been only a girlish fancy, became a passion with
her, and while her simple offerings were daily presented to the
good being who now watched over her, she rejoiced to behold
the manifestations of his continual care in the blossoms which
seemed ever to surround her path. Wherever she went, she
still found herself amid flowers ; and beauty was imparted to
every spot gladdened by her presence ; for where her foot
fell, there were sure to be seen bright and fragrant flowers
springing up in the tiny print of her beaded moccassin.

Mo-na-wing was very happy, for her heart was pure, and
her pleasures were the most sinless of all earth’s joys. She
had but to think of a flower when it was laid at her feet, and
when she sat in the lonely dell where she now passed many
of her hours, a single heart-warm wish was sure to bring the

AN INDIAN LEGEND. 141

beautiful spirit in visible presence before her. A sort of half
dreamy listlessness would steal over her senses; and as the
honey-dews of slumber fell upon her eyelids, the musical
chimes of the Manitto’s voice would awaken the echoes of
her heart. But it was only when she was alone that he
appeared as the youth of her first vision. If the wish to
behold him rose up in her heart, as it often did, when her
youthful companions were around her, then the soft faint
music would sound in her ear alone; and in the joyous
humming-bird which quivered among the flowers beside her,
or in the many-tinted butterfly which rested on her cheek as
if mistaking it for a rose, she could recognize the presence of
the gentle spirit.

One day Mo-na-wing was crossing one of those deep and
rapid streams which the mountain gorges send down toward
the great river, when she was overtaken by a sudden thunder-
storm. Her frail bark was driving rapidly down the current,
when the Manitto, who perceived, though he could not prevent
her danger, sent to her aid a young hunter who was at that
moment clambering down the cliff towards the river-bank.
The hunter plunged boldly into the stream, and seizing the
prow of the canoe with one hand, while he supported himself
in the water with the other, he guided the bark safely to a
little cove where it was sheltered from the fury of the storm.
Fervent was the gratitude of Mo-na-wing both to the hunter
and to the watchful spirit who had sent him; and she vowed to
offer her richest bracelet to the good Manitto for his timely aid,

142 AN INDIAN LEGEND.

But the storm lasted long, and hours had passed away ere
the young hunter would venture the maiden’s life on the tur-
bulent waters. In the mean time Mo-na-wing had discovered
that the youth was tall and stately, and of noble presence, bearing
too in his eagle eye that look of power which always subdues
a woman’s heart. It was sunset ere the hunter conducted the
maiden to her father’s lodge ; and when they parted, it was
with a mutual promise to meet again. On the morrow Mo-
na-wing arrayed herself in her gayest garb, and gathering the
freshest flowers for her brow and bosom, awaited the visit of
her preserver. He failed not to come, but he almost forgot
to go, and when he bade her farewell, the shades of night had
fallen, and Mo-na-wing found she could not visit the dell of
flowers with her promised offering to the Manitto. That
night the spirit visited her dreams. His face was sorrowful
and the blossoms of his urrow heads were faded. But he
uttered no reproach to the sleeping maiden. The tones of
of his musical voice were hushed, for the gentle spirit could
not speak through tears.

When the beams of morning had dispelled the mournful
shadows Mo-na-wing arose, and taking a wampum bracelet
of great beauty, she bound it with a silver chain from her
neck, and wreathing both with fresh flowers, she went forth
to present her offering in the Manitto’s dell. But ere she
reached the enchanted knoll, on which her gifts were always
laid, a light step printed the dewy grass beside her, and the
young hunter was at her feet. Together they entered the
secluded glen, together they offered their sacrifice, and together

AN INDIAN LEGEND. 148

they prayed for the protection of the Manitto of flowers. A
murmur, as of a rushing wind, was their only answer; but
Mo-na-wing filled with troubled happiness by the new feelings
which now thrilled her heart, looked in her lover’s eyes, and
forgot to fear.

Time passed on; and at length it was known that Ma-ma-
twa, the young hunter, was preparing his lodge for the recep-
tion of his bride. Daily were rich presents laid at the door
of Mo-na-wing’s father—and the value of the gifts offered by
Ma-ma-twa attested the bravery of the lover, no less than the
value of his love. In the meantime Mo-na-wing, unconscious
of the jealous affection of the Manitto, did not fail to visit the
dell daily with her lover ; and though the spirit appeared not
as he had been wont to do, she attributed this to the presence
of another mortal. Her offerings were laid, as usual, upon
the grassy knoll; and she sat for hours beneath the shadow
of the sycamore where the Manitto had first shown himself
to her dreams; but she no longer yearned for the visible
presence of the spirit. An earthly love had taken possession
of her heart ; and the vague tenderness which had mingled in
her religious veneration, now found a defined object in her lover.

But Mo-na-wing was not suffered to escape the usual trials
of awakened hearts. There was a beautiful maiden in the
camp, whose vain soul sought for empire over all that came
near her. She was full of guile; and the wiliness of her
nature aided by her exceeding beauty, gave her almost magical
power over the passions of men. She saw Ma-ma-twa and

144 AN INDIAN LEGEND.

she determined to win him from his gentle mistress. But her
arts were all in vain, she could not shake the constancy of the
lover; and baffled in her schemes she determined to be revenged,
She visited Mo-na-wing in secret, and showing various love-
gifts which she said were presented to her by Ma-ma-twa, she
besought Mo-na-wing to spurn the love which was so lightly
given and so falsely reclaimed. Mo-na-wing was very wretched,
for she was as truthful as the light of day; and she suspected
not the guile of others. She was too proud to reproach Ma-
ma-twa with his inconstancy, and too timid to bear the thought
of losing him. So she withdrew to the flower-dell and wept in
secret over the trouble which was so new to her young heart.

She was alone and very sorrowful, when suddenly she heard
the low music which preceded the Manitto’s presence ; and,
looking up, she perceived him indeed before her. But he came
not now in all the pride of spirit life. Seated on the knoll in an
attitude of deep dejection, with his head bowed down upon his
breast, and his clasped hands hiding his averted face, he seemed
overwhelmed with grief. At length his voice, musical as the
chime of the harebell, was heard, and in tones of mournful
sweetness he sung:

Maiden, thou art doomed to feel
Grief no human hand can heal,
For thy heart has given to earth
Thoughts which were of heavenly birth.

Maiden, let the shadow flee,
I will set thy spirit free ;

AN INDIAN LEGEND. 145

Let the guileful love depart,
Give me all thy sinless heart.

“Too late—too late,” murmured Mo-na-wing sadly, “I
cannot silence the voice within my heart; while he lives I am
his in body and soul.”

As she uttered these words the Manitto rose to his feet ;
his robe of mourning fell back from his heaving breast, and a
strange dark smile flitted over his red lip as he sung :

There are secrets hidden deep
Where the sylvan treasures sleep ;
There are spells of mighty power
Lurking in the greenwood bower ;
Come with me if thou wouldst find
Chains the untamed heart to bind.

“‘ Oh give me such a spell” cried the impassioned girl ; “give
me a spell to bind Ma-ma-twa to me forever.” The cheek of
the Manitto flushed, and the plumes of his flower-crown waved
proudly, as he replied :

Where the hemlock’s branches dark
Overhang its caverned bark,

Hid from all, is safely laid

Honey by the wild-bee made,
Gathered in the moon of flowers,
Where old Cro’-nest proudly towers.

19

146 AN INDIAN LEGEND.

Flowers by spirit hands imbued

In that far-off solitude.

Gave the dews, which, mingle well
Love’s resistless, maddening spell.

Wouldst thou win a charm of might,
Seek that honied store to-night ;

To thy lover’s lip impart

Sweetness from the flowret’s heart ;
And his latest thought shall be
Fraught with tenderness for thee.

Mo-na-wing’s heart grew light as she listened to the Ma-
nitto’s words, and she awoke from her pleasant dream only
to go directly to the old hemlock which overhung the entrance
to the Manitto’s dell. Concealed in the cavity of the hollow
trunk was a honey-comb as rich and luscious as if just
gathered from the summer flowers. A green leaf, folded into
a cup by her delicate fingers, served to bear the precious
treasure, and with a beating heart she hurried to her home.

The shadows of the tall trees were flung in lengthened lines
towards the eastern horizon, when Mo-na-wing approached tlie
lodge, and her bosom thrilled as she beheld Ma-ma-twa
sitting at the door awaiting her return. Her impatient love
forbade any delay, and beckoning him to approach, she seated
herself at the root of a gnarled tree, which bordered a marshy
lake of flowers, and offered him the magical honey. Smiling
gently at the earnestness of the girlish creature, who could
find so much excitement in so small a success, and not dreaming

AN INDIAN LEGEND. 147

of any secret power in her simple offering, the hunter ate of the
honey, and raising the folded leaf to the lips of his beloved, he
bade her share the feast with him. A sweet interchange of
love-language now followed,—gentle words almost meaningless,
and tender looks far more expressive, until the lovers were ina
sort of delirium of joy ; when suddenly a voice was heard as if
rising from the earth beneath their feet :

Now his heart is thine forever,
By a bond no hand may sever,
In the laurel flowrets lie

Dews that dim the human eye,
And the honey-bee may sip
Sweets that seal the human lip.

Ere the words had ceased to vibrate in their ears, a strange
and terrific change had come upon the maiden. Her feet grew
rooted to the earth, her graceful form became attenuated in its
fair proportions, the arms which she strove to raise toward her
lover, retained their position while they lost all semblance to
humanity, and as she bowed her head towards her bosom, her
delicate features became as it were blurred by the deep yellow
tint which overspread her face. ‘The maiden was lost forever ;
and in the place where she had sate appeared the flower which
still bears her name. In vain did her lover call upon her ; in
vain did he seek to clasp the rapidly changing form of his
mistress. A transformation equally frightful was doing its work
with him. The tones in which he pronounced her name grew
plaintive and querulous, his outstretched arms were clothed

148 AN INDIAN LEGEND.

in soft and downy plumage, the feathers of his head-dress became
blended with his thick black locks, and his robe of dressed skins
seemed to clasp him more closely while it slowly changed into
a vesture of feathers. Ere he had time to pour his heart’s wail
over his gentle mistress, a new sense of freedom and bouyancy
led him to rise from the earth. Poised on a branch of the old
tree which overhung the new-born flower, he carolled his deli-
cious and heaven-piercing strains, while the mingled emotions
of a soul once human, gave a variety to his notes which still
ranks the Ma-ma-twa among the sweetest of all songsters.*

* The Adder’s Tongue Violet bears the name of Mo-na-wing in one of the
Algonquin dialects, while the Ma-ma-twa is well known to all urchins under the
luckless soubriquet of “ Cat-Bird.”

CAMPANULA ROTUNDIFOLIA—HARE- BELL.

LINN. CLASS, PENTANDRIA 5 ORDER, MONOGYNIA.

NATURAL ORDER, CAMPANULACE.

THE calyx of this flower is five-parted ; corolla bell-form, five-
cleft, closed at the bottom by valves bearing the flattened
stamens ; radical leaves heart-reniform crenate ; cauline ones,
linear, entire; panicle, lax, few-flowered; flowers nodding.
Radical leaves wither as soon as the flower expands.

It delights in a rocky soil, and blooms during the months of
July and August.

LESPEDEZA PROCUMBENS—CREEPING LESPEDEZA.

LINN. CLASS, DIADELPHIA 5; ORDER, DECANDRIA.

NATURAL ORDER, LEGUMINOS.

Tue calyx is five-parted, two-bracted, minute; divisions
nearly equal, keel of the corolla transversely obtuse ; leaves

150 VIEW ON THE HUDSON.

ternate, oval ; peduncles very long; flowers in setaceous spikes;
legumes naked.

This variety of the Lespedeza family is found in the months
of July and August, preferring a light and rocky soil to any
other. It seldom attains a greater length than eighteen inches,
and although sometimes found growing nearly upright, is more
generally seen lying near the surface of the ground.

VIEW ON THE HUDSON—UPPER ENTRANCE TO THE HIGHLANDS.

In this view the Hudson is seen entering the gorge of the
Highlands on its way to the ocean. To the right appear the
bold and precipitous sides of Butter Hill, while receding in the
distance may be noticed Crow-Nest, and the mountains around
West Point, though the Point itself is concealed by the projection
on the left. Bull Hill and Break-neck Hill are seen on the left,
and the small rocky island called Pollipell’s island, occupies
nearly the centre of the river.

The sketch was taken from a spot about six miles below
Fishkill Landing, which is a small village opposite Newburg, on
the eastern side of the Hudson.

HARE-BELL.

LOVE'S MUSIC.

ANSWERED LOVE.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN,

Lirr’s chalice sparkles to the brim once more !
Such pure endearments vital good impart,
How blest this glimpse of a celestial shore !
How god-like this o’erflowing of the heart!
It is no dream ;—her pale, impassioned face,
Her answering glance so liquid, warm and deep.
Those fervent tones, that long and hushed embrace,
Were not the offspring of enchanted sleep ;
Yet, yet I hear each soul-endearing word,
My ravished ear those strains delicious fill,
And every pulse that joy tumultuous stirred,
With a remembered transport vibrates still :
This hour absolves me from time’s hopeless reign,
And with one golden link redeems his wasting chain.

POLLIPELL'S ISLAND.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

“T tell over these reputed tales, be it for nothing else than in favor of our
Poets, but will not recount the year lest I should be vainly curious about the

circumstances of the things whereof the substance is so much in the dark.”
MILTON .

Tue learned Mr. Schoolcraft in noticing the Weendigoes,
and other fabled races of Giants among our aborigines, alludes
no where to the miraculous performances of the famous Giant
Pottrrett. His memory belongs indeed to a school of
traditions entirely distinct from those which characterize the
favorite Algonquin family of that able Ethnographist ; still the
omission is not unworthy of note when coupled with the fact
that the early Jesuit writers upon this country who are so
minute in describing the marvels of the New York and Cana-
dian wilderness, have in the same unaccountable manner
utterly suppressed his name. It is a mystery, worthy of much
closer enquiry than we have the leisure to bestow, how these
last faithful chroniclers—who have transmitted such careful

POLLIPELL’S ISLAND. 153

accounts of strangely formed beasts and monstrously endowed
men, supposed in their time to exist upon this new continent—
how they could possibly pass over in silence the Herculean feats
of that remarkable individual whose very name alone has made
famous throughout the earth one of the smallest possible islets
in the whole course of the majestic Hudson. For who has ever
heard of the Hupson without hearing of THE ISLAND OF
Potireett ? and who—though dying with curiosity to know
* who was Pollipell”—who would be willing to betray his igno-
rance of a name so familiar? Surely no one! The greenest
tourist over that storied wave would not blush more dunce-
ishly if compelled to ask “ who was Hendrich Hudson.”

We will not insult the reader by presuming that we could
enlighten him by a direct reply to so ignorant a question ;
knowing at the same time that he will absolve us from all
intentional impertinence if it should be necessary hereafter to
allude incidentally to the personage who gave name to the
island while pursuing the present cursory enquiry in relation
to the peculiarities and history of this celebrated spot.

Pollipell’s Island then—in shape like a cloven-cone, tufted
here and there with scrub-oaks and evergreens—will, to the eye
of many a gazer, often change its position when viewed from
the adjacent head-lands. ‘These changes, as some of the most
learned professors of the neighboring National Academy have
not disputed—these apparent changes of position are not
explainable by any new law of optics as yet discovered. They

are called “ apparent” because each fresh observation that has
20

154 POLLIPELL’S ISLAND.

been taken with the improved instruments of that institution
determine the latitude and longitude of the island to be very
nearly if not exactly the same as we find it laid down in the
earliest charts of the river. But—and moreoyer—though the
island is always found, by those who actually land upon it—
yes we may say invariably found to be near the Eastern shore
of the Hudson, and (to the natural vision) almost upon a
direct imaginary line that might be drawn between the bases
of Break-Neck Hill and the mouth of the Mateawan, yet,
viewed at a distance it often presents itself as dividing the
channel of the river into two equal parts; seeming then to
lift its crest from the very centre of the broad waters of
Newburgh Bay! While, again, when the last rays of sun-set
are streaming against the sides of the Fishkill mountains it
will appear to have passed across the jaws of the Highlands
and lie so closely under the shadowy western shore—springing,
as it were from the very base of Butter Hill, that a geologist
would swear it was only some huge boulder detached from the
well seamed sides of that craggy mountain.

Now to suppose that the granite rock of Pollipell thus
changes its position from being lifted or moved indeed in any
way by the tides, which rush so forcibly through the narrow
pass below it, to make this supposition we say seems prepos-
terous in the extreme; and none but the most ignorant and
credulous can for a moment admit such an hypothesis. Yet
the phenomenon of a floating island is by no means unknown
among the myriad lakes and countless streams of the state of
New York. ‘Adams’ Pond,” or Cawaynoot, in Washington

POLLIPELL’S ISLAND. 155

county and lake Igoma, or “Superior,” in Sullivan, were both
in former times, visited by the curious who would witness a
natural curiosity of the kind. We ourselves saw the latter
some years since; at a season of the year indeed most
unpropitious for bearing personal testimony to the fact of its
solitary islet being buoyed up upon the waters, for the lake,
frozen over at the time, was covered with a deep snow, yet
we had the best circumstantial evidence that such a freak of
nature did exist or rather had existed within a very brief period.

We had stopped at a saw-mill in company with the propri-
etor of a large timber tract, in the heart of which the lake is
situated, when our attention was drawn to the more interesting
feature of the locality, by the incidental remark of one of his
woodmen.

“T don’t think the island will give us any more trouble, sir,”
said the man, “but last fall when it drifted into the outlet of
the lake here it choked the stream so that we had to stop the
saw-mill for a week.”

A little wooded peninsula, now rigidly imbeded in ice, being
pointed out to us as the once vagrant islet, naturally suggested
an enquiry as to its intermediate travels.

“A storm druv it out into the lake,” said the forester, “ and
then we went to work to fix it, so that it will hardly trouble us
more.”

156 POLLIPELL’S ISLAND.

Upon subsequent enquiry, we learned from the owner of the
tract, that the miller and his men had gone with boats and, by
the aid of ropes made fast to the trees, had towed the island
from the centre to the side of the lake, and by felling trees upon
the main so that their branches should fall upon and interlace
with those growing upon the island, secured it permanently to
one of the shores between which it must have vibrated for ages
before becoming thus moored by artificial means.

Meditative Reader, does not such a wild freak of nature as
the production of that island and such a simple contrivance of
human ingenuity for converting it into a peninsula, call forth a
world of wholesome reflections in thee? Think of the deli-
cate accident which must have brought the floating boughs
together which probably formed the first germ of that little
aquatic planet-ling! How silently and unobtrusively must the
congeries have collected not to have awakened the suspicion of
the storm-king, ever on the alert to disperse them! Only con-
ceive then the mosses, the plants that must have grown and
decayed to form the soil which produced those bushes which
afterwards become like sails to move the islet. ‘Think of the
combinations of circumstances, through countless years, which
permitted the mass of fibrous earth to hold together while
drifting upon the storm-vexed lake until larger and tougher roots
could lace it through and through, and bind it compactly enough
in all its parts to support its present more lordly growth. And
then think of the birds of Heaven building safely in that forest,
while it still toppled on the waves, and the beasts of those wilds
making their lair upon a spot where they would be literally
“ rocked” in their slumbers.

POLLIPELL’S ISLAND. 157

They say that in summer it abounds in flowers of every de-
scription. Alack, alack, dear lady reader, how, with thee “ fair
spirit, for a minister,” (and a small carpet bag,) we would like
to step aboard of that enchanted island, and float away to
some clime where those flowers would bloom forever! Shall
we not unite in quarrelling with the man by whose agency it
was bound as now to common earth? That fairy islet! Earth-
bound by human expediency, how many a bright and floating
creation in the world of thought does it typify !

The fate of this captured and manacled islet, which has de-
tained us too long from more serious disquisition, is, however,
common to the whole class of beautiful monstrosities to which
it belongs. For these floating bogs, or submerged rafts, (such
being generally the original formation of these amphibious acres
of verdure,) seem always sooner or later to get stranded on
some shoal, where if unmolested by violent storms they will
after a season or two become permanent fixtures. Sometimes
indeed they get wedged among rocks, over which they gradu-
ally extend their vegetation and which thus incorporated with
themselves as it were, give them the aspect of having been
anchored there since Time began. ‘Two such islands, formed
probably in this way originally, are said to have crowned a reef
and a shoal in the bay of New York, which are still visible
at low water: and tradition, which gives five as the origi-
nal number of islets in that beautiful harbor, yet preserves a
vague memory of the storm by which two of those were broken
up, swept away, and obliterated. ‘The immense quantity of drift
wood for which the Hudson was once noted, with the position

158 POLLIPELL’S ISLAND.

of this shoal and reef, immediately opposite the mouth of the
river, and nearly in the rear of an islet still existing, with the
attending fact that some of the carly voyagers mention five, and
even six as the number of islands in the bay, establish this
tradition as perfectly reliable.

Not so, however, with that old legend which would make us
believe that the solid granite of Pollipell’s island once floated
about Newburgh bay, thumping and grinding against its iron
headlands, and that even now, anchored by a huge grape vine,
it swings to and fro in the jaws of the Highlands, threatening at
times to close them up completely. Yet the story, absurd as it
is, has that in its very extravagance which may recommend it
to some minds ; and now that the grave attention of Geologists
has been turned to the well known, but still inexplicable phe-
nomenon of what are called “creeping rocks,” observable in
some of our northern lakes, and of which Sebago pond in Maine
is popularly noted for so remarkable a specimen, a new interest
attaches to the ingenious fancies of our aborigines when con-
ceiving or explaining these mysteries of nature.

These geologists too, are raising some queer questions about
former feats of this mighty river, which have no:slight bearing
upon the dignity of our present subject. An enormous boulder
of granite for instance, a rock nearly one fourth the size of
Pollipell’s island, is found sixty miles from the Hudson High-
lands, upon the flat shores of Long Island. Drawings and
measurements are made of it: a broken cliff in the Highlands
is also measured, examined, and every line in its profile minutely

POLLIPELL’S ISLAND. 159

ascertained, until the learned have no hesitation in deciding that
the mysterious Long Island boulder originally belonged near
West Point; and, if human power could carry back this
truant mountain fragment, human ingenuity would be in no
way taxed to piece it on to its parent cliff as neatly as one
could fit a bit of china clipped from the edge of a tea-cup
yesterday. We know not whether these learned gentlemen
make ice or fire the motive power, or rely only upon the im-
proved water carriage of a deluge for their agent in this long
conveyance of a naked crag to the ocean border: one thing is
certain, however, we have now no traces of how or where this
unwonted tourist passed over the country. Not so, however,
with Pollipell’s Island! originally, a crest of one of the High-
lands there is not only a mountain lake, (into which by the way
it will be found, by measurement, to fit as nicely as a peanut in its
shell,) there is not only this mountain tarn on the summit of
the hill from which it was plucked, but its rasped pathway down
the mountain, which from its barren yawning aspect, bears the
name of ‘‘ Hungry Hollow,” is plainly visible to this day.

The Physiologist must determine the period at which that
vast lake, once dammed in by these Highlands—traces of whose
western border are still plainly visible along the terraced edges
of the Shawungunk mountains—the Physiologist must trace the
period when it burst its southern barrier, and swept through the
pass of West Point to meet and commingle with the ocean
tides. The Poet, mindful only of so grand a convulsion, sur-
veys the enormous remains of gigantic animals, dug out from

160 POLLIPELL’S ISLAND.

its ancient bed,* and passes at once in imagination from the dry
contemplation of dates to the scene once presented by the in-
land sea from which they drank, diversified by the myriads of
islands which now form mountain-tops around.

Mr. Jefferson, in his “ notes upon Virginia,” referring to a
similar convulsion, and change in the aspect of nature, when
the Potomac burst its way through the famous pass at Harper’s
Ferry, incidentally alludes, in the same connection, if we recollect
aright, to an aboriginal tradition which accounts for the disap-
pearance of the mammoth upon our atlantic border by making
him retire with such trepidation from that wild commotion of
matter, that he bounded over the Ohio in his fright! The
Iroquois legend of New York strikes us as much finer. The
Ol-ne-yar-heh, or stonish giants,t whose power was so terrible in
the land at that day, at this point it seems first encountered the
wrath of Curemantrov, who ultimately destroyed them for their
crimes. ‘Those strange flinty men, it is said, built their lodges
like beavers, partly under the water. The bed of this great
lake was covered with their habitations, and when a power
stronger than theirs pierced the firm hills, and by draining the
lake, would expose their dwellings to his thunderbolts, the
stonish giants drove vast herds of the mammoth into the greedy
sluice, in their first frantic effort to close up the chasm! striding

* The famous skeleton of the Mammoth, in Peale’s Museum, Philadelphia,
was exhumed from the “ drowned lands,” in this valley, near the base of the

Shawungunk mountains.

+ See “ Wild Scenes of the Forest and Prairie.”

POLLIPELL’S ISLAND. 161

then over the rocky ramparts of the Highlands, they tore off
the mountain peaks, and succeded so well in their first efforts
to block up “the crevasse in their dam” that the refluent wave
swept back those monstrous carcasses to the ancient banks,
where their bones are found to this day.

It was in this fearful conflict, it is said, that the huge rock,
known ever since as Pollipell’s Island, was wrested from its
position, where cresting one of the mountains near, and pina-
cled with pines that seemed to pierce the skies, it offered itself
to the furious grasp of one of the most powerful of the Ot-ne-
yar-heh ; who, hurling it into the roaring gulph below, bade his
unearthly comrades anchor the rock where it fell, to prevent its
sweeping through the jaws of the pass, which it proved not
large enough to choke up entirely. It may be proper to say
here, however, that this version of the legend is disputed by
some, who insist that as another mountain (Break-neck) inter-
venes between the island and Hungry Hollow, where its descent
can be so plainly traced, Pollipell’s could clearly not have been
thus summarily transplanted by the single act of an individual.
The almost resistless strength of the giant Pottreen1, the
leader of the Ot-ne-yar-heh, (whom some would absurdly identify
with the classic Poliphemus,) might indeed, say they, have borne
it from its original seat and given an impetus which would have
sent it, like the celebrated slide of the White Mountains in our
day, cleaving its terrible path into the valley ; but there his confed-
erates must have taken it in charge, and towed it a mile or more
up the river before they could anchor it in its present position.
If this supposition be the true one we must be permitted to

21

162 POLLIPELL’S ISLAND.

surmuse that no beings, unless endowed with the strength that
is claimed for those aboriginal giants, could have worked such
a craft up the current that must have been running at the time
the Hudson broke its way through the Highlands.

In conclusion, it may be said, that as for the grape vine by
which these primitive navigators moored the island, that must
have been somewhat stronger than the chain cable, which, at
the period of the Revolution spanned the river a few miles be- —
low. ‘This is, however, a region of wonders, and that Pollipell’s
island does actually change its position is proven by the fact
that for the last hundred years every land surveyor who has run
his lines over property adjacent, on either side of the river, has
managed to bring it within his plot; until now there are so many
claimants to the rock that a yacht club, who would make it their
head quarters, can find no one to give a good title. ‘The re-
mains of an old powder magazine in a natural hollow of the
rock, would indicate that either the State or the General gov-
ernment are the true owners of this queer, knotty, marvellous,
and storied little cock-boat, changeling, and hermit of an island.

ROSA PARVIFLORA—WILD ROSE

LINN. CLASS, ICOSANDRIA 3 ORDER, POLYGYNTA.

NATURAL ORDER, ROSACE/,

Tue Calyx of the rose is urn-form, inferior, five-cleft, fleshy ;
petals five; carpels numerous, bristly, fixed to the side of the
calyx within; tube of the calyx depressed, globose, and with
the peduncles hispid; petioles pubescent, sub-aculeate ; stem
glabrous ; prickles stipular ; leaflets lance-oval, simply serrate,
glabrous ; flowers sometimes in pairs.

This variety of the Wild Rose is generally found of a bright
crimson color, and delights in dry and rather sandy soils,
attaining a height varying from one to three feet. It is fond
of growing among bushes and low shrubbery, amid whose
deep-green foliage its blushing petals and ruby buds glow with
gem-like beauty. In tangled brake, and wood-land dell the
wild rose is always found ; and although many more brilliant
wild flowers adorn our forests, there are few which find such
universal favor.

164 VIEW ON STATEN ISLAND.

VIEW ON STATEN ISLAND, NEAR THE TELEGRAPH STATION.

This view was taken about two miles south of the Quaran-
tine, and embraces within its range Fort Tompkins on the right,
the Telegraph on the point of high ground near the centre of
the picture, while below it, near the water’s edge, may be seen
the half-moon Fort, and in the distance lies Coney Island,
beyond which the waters of the broad Atlantic terminate the

view.

Fort Tompkins, as well as the Half-moon Fort, was erected
during the second war with Great Britain, by the state of New
York, although now in the possession of the United States.

Not far from the spot where this view was taken, were the
head quarters of General Knyphausen, commander of the
Hessians, during the revolutionary war ; and in the year 1841
there was excavated near the Telegraph, at about ten feet
below the surface, a large quantity of bullets, bayonets, sword
blades, and other military weapons.

This Telegraph is the connecting link between the one on
Sandy Hook, and that on the Merchants’ Exchange in the city
of New York.

The views from this part of Staten Island are extensive and
highly picturesque.

a4

se WTR ay ah is
i haa

THE WILD ROSE.
SIMPLICITY.

THE ROSE LEAF.

TO * * *

THERE is an academy at Amadan whose statutes are: “we
think much, write little, talk less.” When Dr. Zeb applied for
admission, his rejection and its cause were typified by placing
before him a cup, so exactly filled with water that the slightest
increase must make it overflow. The Doctor replied in the
same symbolic language, by placing a rose-leaf upon the top
of the water, without displacing a drop. The silent assembly
departed for once from their wonted habits, and received the
ingenious candidate among them by acclamation.

Not in thy heart, where Love has reared alone
His watch-tower to the skies would I abide;

Nor would I be the worthless foam-wreath, thrown
For one brief hour, on Passion’s rushing tide.

166

THE ROSE LEAF.

I would be numbered with each gentler feeling,
Treasured with memories of thy by-gone years.

Loved with vague, dreamy tenderness, concealing
Nought to disturb the heart, or waken tears.

Be mine the sage’s meek, unuttered prayer,—

I would not make thy brimming cup run o’er,
But let me be the rose-leaf resting there

To drink new freshness, and I ask no more.

THE VILLAGE GIRL.

One of the wildest and loveliest of hoydens was Kate Lis-
bourne. Her dark complexion, her glittering black eyes, and
the thick masses of her short curling hair, gave her a very
gipsey-like look, while she seemed to have imbibed no small
portion of the spirit of those free and lawless people. From
her childhood she had been a sad romp, and she could not be
brought to feel that at seventeen she was bound by any more
restrictions than she had been at seven. Her merry laugh rang
through the house from morning till night, and the sound of her
dancing footsteps, (for she never walked demurely, and properly
as a young lady should,) inspired every one with cheerfulness.
She was like an embodied sunbeam, for her presence diffused
light and joy wherever it appeared.

Yet, sooth to say, pretty Kate was not one of the utilities of
a household. Books she regarded with a cordial hatred;
needlework was her detestation, for she could never master the
mysteries of side-stitching, gaging, overhanding and hemming ;
and music was a perfectly stupid affair when she was compelled

168 THE VILLAGE GIRL.

to sit down before a piano to discover the sympathy between
ivory keys and black-headed notes. But she had those quick
perceptions which make a person wiser than mere book-learn-
ing ; and if she did not know much about feminine employments,
she had delicate womanly instincts, and an inherent sense of
order and neatness ; while her voice was perfect melody, and
her untaught songs, like the carol of the forest-bird, seemed
to gush forth from the overflowing of a joyous and thankful
heart.

Poor Kate! she had lost her mother when she was too young
to feel the bereavement; and the fond love of an indulgent
father had been her only guide. No wonder she knew so little
of the decorum of young-ladyism. She had always dwelt too
in a little country village, where her father’s moderate fortune
was comparative wealth ; and happy in her own joyous im-
pulses, she had never known a want or felt a sorrow.

Once, and once only, had Kate been made sensible of her
own defects. Her cousin, Harry Leighton had once spent
some weeks with her father, and during his visit, she felt most
painfully the difference between her own manners and those
of the polished and refined youth. Yet he was so kind, so
gentle, and so good, that although she was daily mortified by
some ebullition of her own irrepressible gayety, yet she could
not but regret the moment of his departure, and cherish a
tender recollection of him long after she fancied he had
forgotten her.

THE VILLAGE GIRL. 169

Kate had counted her eighteenth summer when the sudden
death of her father first acquainted her with real grief. Her
only living relatives were the Leightons ; and when her cousin
Harry hurried to share her sorrow, he bore with him a request
from his mother that Kate should hereafter take up her abode
The orphan gladly accepted

with them in the city of
this proffered kindness; and looking forward with the buoy-
ancy of youth to the pleasures of a city life, left her home
with little regret.

Mrs. Leighton, who had so kindly offered Kate a home,
(which, by the way she did not actually need, as her father’s
pretty cottage was now her own,) was one of those persons
who are “content to dwell in decencies forever,” and who find,
in the respect of society, ample reward for all sacrifices of
feeling and affection. Possessing much practical good sense,
she was yet incapable of enlarged or original views. She
saw every thing through the distorted medium of worldly
opinion, and she had fixed certain theories in her own mind,
to which she wished all within her influence to agree. There
was no softness, no tenderness about her, and she could make
no distinction between a violation of the rules of etiquette
and a breach of the moral law. She might be described, in a
few words, as one of those cast-iron women, whom time may
rust and corrode, but can never soften.

This pattern lady had five daughters, who had been moulded
in her own image, mentally as well as bodily. They looked
like her, walked like her, talked like her and thought like her ;

22

170 THE VILLAGE GIRL.

while they regarded her witha species of blind reverence very
flattering to her vanity. But her only son, the “ cousin Harry”
of Kate’s early reminiscences, was far more impracticable than
his sisters. He had fine talents and studious habits ; but there
had always been so many restrictions on his freedom of will
in boyhood, that he learned to look with perfect hatred upon
every thing which seemed like a fetter to his spirit. His mother
was ambitious, and the wish to see Harry occupying a con-
spicuous station in society, either as the wisest or the richest of
his associates, had been cherished ever since his infancy. But
Harry had imbibed so thorough a dislike of all unnecessary
restraints, and had learned so well to love the liberty of thought
and action which he now enjoyed, that he had no idea of putting
himself into the trammels either of a professional or mercantile
life. ‘The decided bent of his genius was artistic ; he had the
eye and hand which could embody visions of beauty upon the
glowing canyass; and as his competent fortune enabled him
to consult his own wishes in the matter, he resolved to devote
himself to the art which he loved. His mother, however, had
no sympathy with such tastes. ‘To her a painter was a painter,
whether he daubed signs, or depicted forms of breathing
loveliness, and she was mortified beyond measure.

Kate Lisbourne was not likely to be very happy in such a
household. At first her grief so subdued her natural vivacity
that there was little to blame except her ignorance and her
disregard of etiquette ; but these were great grievances to Mrs.
Leighton, and she determined to educate the untamed girl to
suit her own standard of propriety. She first undertook to

THE VILLAGE GIRL. 171

teach her needle-work, and it was surprising to see how soon
Kate caught all the necessary knowledge of that which had
once seemed so mysterious to her. Perhaps the wearisome
monotony of her present existence tended to give a new charm
to the occupation, but, certain it is, that the poor child acquired
in a month what had been to her five cousins the labor of a
life, and found in the quiet toils of the needle a resource for
many a heavy hour.

But vain were all her aunt’s endeavors to bend her pliant
mind into the constrained attitudes of fashion and frivolity.
Kate would sing her plaintive songs in the solitude of her
chamber, but she would not sit for six hours a day perked up
before the grand piano in the drawing-room. She had a fairy-
like step, and the most perfect grace was evident in every free
motion of her delicate form; but she would not learn contor-
tion from a French dancing-master, nor would she adopt the
straitened garb of fashion. Then too she was continually
offending against propriety. She had been known to laugh
outright at the platitudes of one of the richest young men in
society,—had yawned almost in the face of a prosy old gentle-
man when he talked to her of his lonely widowhood,—nay, she
had even ventured, upon more than one occasion, to blurt out
her own crude opinions upon some mooted point of etiquette,
in such a manner as to disconcert, most effectually, the
upholders of fashion’s despotism.

Poor Kate! she was like a forest-bird, suddenly caught and
caged. Her cousin Harry looked calmly on, never interfering

172 THE VILLAGE GIRL.

except to save her from positive oppression. He knew exactly
the degree of discipline her wild temper needed, and he
restrained his own impetuous feelings, for the sake of her future
welfare. So he read, and studied, and painted, and lounged
in the drawing-room with his sisters and cousin, but seemed
to be gifted with one of those happy, poco-curante tempers
which nothing can ruffle or disconcert.

* * * * * * * * *

Two years had nearly passed away since her father’s death,
when Kate, one morning, entered unannounced into her
cousin’s painting-room.

“Cousin Harry, Iam going home ;” says she.
“What do you mean Kate ?”

“JT am going back to my own dear home ;” said she, bursting
into tears. “I cannot bear this kind of life any longer. I am
tired of being snubbed and scolded. I am sick of hearing how
often I mortify the pride of your mother and sisters. I am
not fit for a city life, and no one here cares any thing about
me. The very dogs and cats in my native village know me
better than rational beings ever will here.”

“ But Kate, dear Kate !”

“There ’s no use in talking, Harry ; I have written to old

THE VILLAGE GIRL. 173

Mr. Lee who now occupies the house, that I shall be home in
a month, and that will give him time to remove his family.”

“ And do you really think of living there quite alone, Kate ?”

The poor girl’s tears fell like rain as she leaned her head
upon the table: “I feel alone in the world, cousin Harry ;
there is no one to love me, no one to understand me. I know
I am a wild, ignorant creature; but I have warm affections
and I might be happy if people would let me; so I will go
back and try if I cannot forget every thing and every body.”

“Not every body, dear Kate—do not strive to forget every
body ; for when you go I must be your companion, sweet.”

“ You, Harry !”

“ Aye, even I, dear Kate; look up and I will show you the
scene of my long-cherished dream of happiness.”

Kate did look up, and upon the easel before her, rested a
picture of her own sweet cottage, with its spreading elms, and
the silver brook winding round the foot of the hill.

“ Look again, cousin, and see the object of my long-silent
love.”

The girl’s eye-lids trembled, but she raised them not, for the
weight of consciousness was upon them.

174 THE VILLAGE GIRL.

“ Look, sweet one, and confirm my hopes.”

Her dark eyes flashed for an instant from beneath her long
lashes as her glance fell upon her own portrait, and then her
head sunk upon her cousin’s shoulder.

Kate went back to her village home, but not alone. There
were cold looks and stern remonstrances to be encountered,
but these were trifles. Love had awakened in her a more
enlightened sense of enjoyment, and during after years of
peaceful happiness, when, as the honored wife of Harry
Leighton, she won the love of all who knew her, she often
recurred to her sorrowful discipline as the beginning of all
her usefulness and all her bliss.

VERONICA BECCABUNGA—BROOK-CIME,

LINN. CLASS, DIANDRIA ; ORDER, MONOGYNIA,

NATURAL ORDER, SCROPHULARIA.

Tuts simple and pretty flower is found growing near the
margin of small brooks; it blossoms early in June, and
continues in bloom until late in August. It seldom exceeds
twelve inches in length, and is generally found growing in
clusters. It is sometimes mistaken for the Forget-me-not ;
and indeed in many places it is termed the “ Wild” or “ False
Forget-me-not.”

Its racemes are opposite, long; leaves oval, obtuse, sub-ser-
rate, glabrous ; calyx four-parted ; corolla cleft into four lobes ;
capsule obcordate, few seeded, two-celled.

This plant belongs to the Natural Order, Scrophularia, the
members of which are distinguished for being acrid poisonous,
and anti-scorbutic.

176 VIEW OF ALBANY.

DISTANT VIEW OF ALBANY.

This view was taken from the east side of the Hudson,
about two miles north of Albany. It embraces all the promi-
nent buildings of the city, comprising, as they range from right
to left, the Academy, the Capitol, the State House, the City
Hall, the Episcopal, Catholic, Lutheran, Presbyterian and
Baptist Churches, together with the dome of Stanwix Hall
The Caatskill mountains, about twenty-five miles distant from.
the city, are seen stretching from east to west. Amid the
variety of beautiful scenes which succeed each other to the
eye of the voyager as he floats upon the bosom of this mag-
nificent river, it is difficult to select for graphic delineation any
one, while so many claim the artist’s attention. Those who
have ever approached the city of Albany when sunset had
flung its veil of rosy hght above and around it, or when the
beams of early morning were reflected from its domes, will not
easily forget the exceeding beauty of the view which has been
selected as the background to the delicate flower given in the

plate.

BROOK-LIME.

POESY.

Hast thou ne’er marked a fount from earth upspringing,
Within the shelter of some green-wood glade,

Scarce seen by human eye, yet gladly flinging
Its wealth of freshness in that sylvan shade ?

The very herbage that its waters nourish
Serves to conceal it from the passer by ;

Only the flowrets on its brink that flourish
Reveal its windings to the thoughtful eye.

Oh! thus be poesy within my bosom,—
A bubbling fountain ever pure and bright,
Known only by the charities that blossom
Beneath its influence into life and light !

Within my heart unchecked, that sweet stream gushes,
As fresh and pure as in my girlhood’s day ;

No beam from glory’s sun its surface flushes,
Love only marks its solitary way.

23

178

BROOK-LIME.

What though its early freshness has been wasted
On many a way-side herb and lowly flower ?
It floweth on, and one beloved hath tasted
Its cooling wave in many a weary hour.

Full well I know that silently it wendeth,
In seeming idlesse, to oblivion’s sea, -
And yet to daily life its presence lendeth
A beauty and a bliss enough for me.

RECORDS OF A HEART.

Tuere are few things more painful than the task of reading
and arranging the papers of one who has passed away from
earth, with the light of genius, or at least that which seemed
like genius, yet undimmed in the soul. The duty is a sad one,
for it makes us fearfully sensible of the indefiniteness of human
designs, the vanity of human hopes. It admits us into the
laboratory of genius, where we behold, in the shattered crucible
and wasted elixir, all that remains of a life-long dream. It is
like entering the work-shop of the sculptor, where, amid chip-
pings from the rough marble and fragments of broken tools
and casts, we may find the delicately-moulded hand, the
superb bust, the noble statue, all beautiful and full of promise,
but attesting by their incompleteness the need of the artist’s
finishing touch.

But doubly painful is such research, when it leads us to look
into the heart as well as the mind of the departed,—to see
not only the strivings of the soaring intellect, but also to note
the struggles of the soul yearning for sympathy and love. And

180 RECORDS OF A HEART.

when those aspirings have been vague and undirected ;—when
those yearnings have been vain and unappreciated ;—when the
genius which would have led its possessor into the sublime
mysteries of ideal life, and the affections which would have
bestowed a blessing on the realities of existence, have been
alike wasted, how full of sorrow are the thoughts which such
a contemplation awakens.

A casket of papers belonging to one who died a few years
since, has recently come into my possession ; and seldom have
I felt so profound a sadness as has crept over me while looking
into the manuscripts, whose faded ink and time-stained paper
showed in strange contrast with the glowing words. When I
was a child, I used to hear much of the talents and accomplish-
ments of Marguerite H*****, and my earliest ambition was
excited by the fame of her elegant scholarship and classical
attainments. She was then an impulsive, high-minded woman,
with a mind that grasped at universal knowledge; and when,
with the vague fantasies of childhood, I ventured to frame
pictures of the future, my highest hopes were centered in the
thought that I might, at some distant day, attain to the wisdom
and celebrity of this brilliant woman.

Long before I grew old enough however to enter society,
Marguerite H***** had withdrawn almost entirely from its lists.
She had lost her parents, her brothers had married, and people
said she had grown “queer.” 'This dreaded epithet, together
with my fortunate discovery that learned women were regarded
as a species of monster, cured me of my ambition to attain the

RECORDS OF A HEART. 181

position she had once held, and I had almost forgotten the
unknown idol of my childish fancy, when I accidentally met
her, some years later, at a remote watering place.

The impression she made upon me was any thing but
favorable. I beheld a tall, thin, pale woman, with features
delicately fashioned, but immobile and almost destitute of any
expression except cold intellectuality. Her manners were
chilling and unsocial, while her habitual moodiness struck me
as the result of her inordinate and purposeless devotion to
metaphysical studies. Perhaps a young, glad heart, in all its
early freshness, was neither a competent nor an impartial judge
of such a person. Certain it is that I rather disliked and
feared her, as a learned, sensible but decidedly unamiable
woman. I was however thrown into her society afterwards,
and learned to modify my first opinions, though I never under-
stood her, nor ever cordially sympathised with her apparently
cold nature.

She died ere she attained middle age, yet her brown hair
was thickly mingled with silver threads; and the furrows on
her brow showed how surely painful thought may anticipate
the work of time. Why she should have directed her papers
to be given to me I cannot imagine, unless indeed her know-
ledge of her own heart enabled her to discover a secret
sympathy between us, which, though unacknowledged by me,
was gratifymg to her. The casket, I am ashamed to say,
remained unopened for several years, as I felt little disposition
to pore over the metaphysical essays and philosophical specula-

182 RECORDS OF A HEART.

tions which were supposed to form its contents. At length,
one day, in idle mood, I bethought me of the papers of poor
Marguerite H*****, and with feelings but little in unison with
sorrowful reminiscence I commenced my research.

How did my heart thrill with “late remorse” as I looked
upon these silent records of a wasted heart! From the dis-
jointed fragments of her poetic fancy I framed the truthful tale
of her life; and the sorrows which she had never breathed in
human ear were uttered in the oratory of her own soul.

I am not going to tell that history,—let me give thee some
of these unspoken confessions, gentle reader, and tell me
whether thine own experience and thine own dear-bought
knowledge will not lead thee to divine the tale. We will not
select at random ; let us mark the dates, and fix the chronology
of love and sorrow in a single heart.

Oh! knowest thou, dearest, the love of youth,

With its wayward fancies, its untried truth,

All cloudless and warm as the sunny ray

That opens the flowers of a summer’s day,
Unfolding the passionate thoughts that lie

’*Mid feelings pure as an angel’s sigh,

Till the loftiest strength of our nature wakes,

And the soul from its slumber of childhood breaks ;
Oh! knowest thou, dear, what such love may be 7—
Since my earlier days, such was mine for thee.

Oh! knowest thou, dearest, of woman’s love,
With its faith that sorrow alone can prove,

RECORDS OF A HEART. 183

Its fondness as wide as the limitless wave,

And chilled by nought but the cold dark grave ;

In devotion, as humble as that which brings

To his idol the Indian’s offerings,

Yet proud as that which the priestess feels,

When feeding the flame of the shrine where she kneels ;—
Oh! knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ?

Such ever has been in my heart for thee.

Oh! knowest thou the love of the poet’s soul,

Of the mind that from Heaven one bright spark stole.—
Where the gush of song, like the life-blood, springs
Unchecked from the heart, while the spirit’s wings

Are nerved anew in a loftier flight,

To seek for its idol a crown of light ;

When the visions which wake beneath fancy’s beam
But serve to brighten an earthly dream ;—

Oh! knowest thou, dear, what this love may be ?

Such long has been in my heart for thee.

Oh! tell me, then, can such love decay,

Like the sapless weed in the morning ray ?
Can the love of earlier brighter years

Be chased away like an infant’s tears ?

Can the long-tried faith of a woman’s heart,
Like a summer bird from its nest depart ?

Can affection, nursed amid poesy’s bowers,
Find deadly herbs in those fragrant flowers !—
Oh no! believe not such things can be,—
Such end awaits not my love for thee.

Was there ever a more buoyant, joyous, yet deep and fervent
tone of feeling, than rings out in these verses? I speak not

184 RECORDS OF A HEART.

of their poetic merit—that is slight, and the most careless eye
may perceive defects which mar the smoothness of the lines ;
but it is the passionate utterance of this girlish tenderness
which makes its only charm.

About a year later was written one of different character :

No, dearest one,—not mine the hand
To bind thy free and tameless heart
In fetters, which thou canst not break
When changeful fancy bids us part ;
Be it my task alone to bear
Affection’s daily-strengthening chain,
And thou mayest wreathe its links with flowers
But never feel its pain.

The slender fibre that unites

The young peach-blossom to the bough,
Is not more fragile than the tie

Which binds our hearts together now ;
Yet better to be thus, for when

The tempest comes,—and come it will,—
It can but rend the fading flower,

The branch may flourish still.

Here is love, tender and true, yet self-sacrificing; refusing
even to be happy, while a doubt remains as to its power of
conferring happimess on another. ‘This forms the second
epoch in the heart’s history, and now comes a third and darker
era. Some months after the date of the little poem just given
I find the following :

RECORDS OF A HEART. 185

Oh! for one hour, one blissful hour,
Like those my young heart knew

When all my dreams of future joy
From love their coloring drew ;

I deemed affection then might be

The very life of life to me,—

Alas! ’twas source of every ill,

And yet,—* the cure is bitterer still” !

Oh! fearful is the untamed strength
Of woman’s love, combined
With all the spirit’s high-wrought powers.
The energies of mind:
Such deep devotedness as feels
The Indian, when he humbly kneels
Before his idol’s car to meet
A death of rapture at his feet,—
Such love was mine ; though fraught with ill,
The cure,—* the cure is bitterer still.”

Oh ! grief beyond all other griefs !
To feel the swift decay

Of love and hope within the heart
Ere youth be passed away ;—

To know that life must henceforth be

A voyage o’er a tideless sea,

No ebb or flow of hopes or fears,

To vary the dull waste of years ;—

Oh! Love may be life’s chiefest ill,

But ah! “the cure is bitterer still.”

Does not this breathe the intensity of sorrow and tenderness ?

Poot Marguerite, her heart had awakened to the glad morning
24

186 RECORDS OF A HEART.

of love,—it had shrunk timidly from its noon-tide ray, and now
she was doomed to watch the cold shadows of its evening deep-
en into the blackness of unbroken night.

I have selected but one from the many records which mark
each epoch of her life. Let me give one more,—the saddest
and the last :—

I have no heart,—I know not where

The wild and wayward thing has fled ;
It lives not in a mortal breast,

Nor is it with the dead.

I have no heart,—too early chilled
It slumbered, ne’er to wake again,

E’en as the frozen traveller sleeps
Through all life’s parting pain.

I have no heart,—love, hope and joy
Stir not the current of my life,
Nor know I aught of rapture’s thrill,

Nor passion’s fearful strife.

I have no heart,—no power can wake
My spirit from its heavy trance ;

Alike to me are love’s sweet smile,
Or hatred’s withering glance.

I have no heart,—nor would I call
The restless thing to life once more,
F’en if a wish could give me all
I sought in days of yore.

RECORDS OF A HEART. 187

Poor Marguerite ! in vain researches after philosophic truth
she sought refuge from the blighting sorrows of the heart. Her
tale is told: we know not, nay, we care not who was the object
of this deep affection; it is enough for us that it was doomed
to disappointment. It is enough for us to learn from these
frail memorials that the life of a human heart was crushed
out, and the light of a human soul almost extinguished, by the
power of a passion, which the philosopher and the legislator,
no less than the coarse-minded sensualist, regard as a weakness
and an error. When will men learn that Love is as mighty as
Death ?

THE EOLITAN HARP.

Hare of the winds! how vainly art thou swelling
Thy diapason on the heedless blast ;
How idly too thy gentler chords are telling
A tale of sorrow as the breeze sweeps past ;
Why dost thou waste in loneliness the strain
Which were not heard by human ears in vain?

And the Harp answered: “ Though the winds are bearing
My soul of sweetness on their viewless wings,

Yet one faint tone may reach some soul despairing,
And rouse its energies to happier things ;

Oh! not in vain my song if it but gives

One moment's joy to any thing that lives.”

Oh heart of mine! canst thou not, here discerning
An emblem of thyself, some solace find ?
Though earth may never quench thy life-long yearning
Yet give thyself like music to the wind :—
Thy wandering thought may teach thy love and trust,
And waken sympathy when thou art dust.

EUPHRASIA OFFICINALIS—EYE. BRIGHT.

LINN. CLASS, GYMNOSPERMIA 5 ORDER, AGIOSPERMIA.

NATURAL ORDER, RHINANTHACEA.

Tuts pretty flower, of which there are two varieties,
differing only in color, is found growing in situations where
the soil is light and dry. It is frequently seen on the borders
of the travelled high road, and seems to smile upon the way-
farer as cheerfully from its dusty bed as it might from its more
woodland haunts. It is one of the most delicate of our wild
flowers, and the peculiar form of the bud, with its square fold-
ings, like the envelope of a tiny billet-doux, might entitle it to
the name of the “ Fairy’s Love-letter.” It blooms during the
months of July and August, and seldom exceeds eighteen inches
in height.

The calyx is cylindric; corolla two-lipped; the upper lip
two-cleft; lower lip three-cleft, lobed, with the divisions two-
cleft; lower antlers lobed, spinose; leaves ovate, obtusely
toothed ; lower division of the lip emarginate.

190 VIEW FROM CONSTITUTION ISLAND.

It derives its common name from its reputed virtue in reliev-
ing diseases of the eye.

VIEW FROM CONSTITUTION ISLAND, OPPOSITE WEST POINT.

Tus island derives its name from Fort Constitution, the
remains of which are still to be seen on its highest ground.
This spot commands a fine prospect of West Point, Fort Put-
nam, Crow-Nest, Cold-Spring and other well-known places on
this part of the Hudson River.

In the view here presented are associated many of the most
interesting objects in the neighborhood. Nearly in the centre
stands Kosciusko’s Monument ; farther to the right is seen the
Hotel, above which are the remains of Fort Putnam. The new
and most prominent buildings on the Point lie too far back to
be seen from this position. In the distance the bold promon-
tory known by the whimsical name of “ Anthony’s Nose,”
forms a very conspicuous feature, while on the left stands
“ Sugar-loaf Mountain,” so called, probably from the “ lucus a
non lucendo” principle, as from this point its outline bears no
possible resemblance to a sugar-loaf.

EYE-BRIGHT.

CHEERFULNESS.

A gentle heritage is mine,
A life of quiet pleasure ;
My heaviest cares are but to twine
Fresh votive garlands for the shrine
Where ’bides my bosom’s treasure ;
I am not merry, nor yet sad,
My thoughts are more serene than glad.

I have outlived youth’s feverish mirth,
And all its causeless sorrow ;
My joys are now of nobler worth,
My sorrows too have holier birth
And heavenly solace borrow ;
So, from my green and shady nook,
Back on my by-past life I look.

The past has memories sad and sweet,
Memories still fondly cherished,

Of love that blossomed at my feet,

Whose odors still my senses greet,

192

EYE-BRIGHT.

E’en though the flowers have perished ;
Visions of pleasures past away
That charmed me in life’s earlier day.

The future, Isis-like, sits veiled,

And none her mystery learneth ;
Yet why should the bright cheek be paled,
For sorrows that may be bewailed

When time our hopes inurneth ?
Come when it will, grief comes too soon —
Why dread the night at highest noon ?

I would not pierce the mist that hides
Life’s coming joy or sorrow ;

If sweet content with me abides

While onward still the present glides,
I think not of the morrow ;

It may bring griefs,—enough for me

The quiet joy I feel and see.

NAWILQUA

A METOWAC LEGEND.—BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

“ When Che-che-qua had finished his legend, I could not help asking him
whence came the plants and animals which had sprung into existence since the
days of this Chippewa Deucalion. These, he answered, have been subsequently
created in various ways.”’—HOFFMAN’S FOREST AND PRAIRIE.

Every student, in examining the materials which are here-
after to supply our American literature, must be impressed
with the abundant resources to be found amongst the legends
of the Aborigines. Innumerable as have been the books,
through which is seen stalking the “stoic of the woods,” we
rarely meet the red man, such as he really is. We find sketch-
es of fancy, bold and graphic it is true, but not a portraiture
of the primitive man.

In connection with this subject, the writer recalls with
melancholy pleasure, since the object is no more, a brief
acquaintance with one,* descended from the royalty of nature,

*The late Mrs. H. R. Schoolcraft.
25

194 A METOWAC LEGEND.

a woman whose original graces of mind, and literary acquire-
ments, might have well qualified her to present the characteris-
tics of her people in a just light before the public. The
accomplished Mrs. Jameson makes honorable mention of one,
who never failed to awaken the sympathy and respect of all
who approached her; and none, who have ever listened to her
simple and earnest recital of the traditions of the red man will
fail of a sad tribute to her memory. Through her we beheld
the aboriginal in his own domain. Her stories had life and
soul, quaintness and humor, and a directness of detail akin to
that of the Arabian Nights.

The Indian sages, especially those of the Algonquin race,
(to which the Merowac, or Long Island tribes belonged,)
abound with stories and traditions, curious and interesting in
themselves, and not the less so from betraying no far-fetched
analogy to classical or inspired writings. Such is the story so
often told amongst them of Na-wi-qua, or the origin of Eye-
Bright !

It is well known that Curemanrrovu is at the head, and is
the ruler of all the lesser spirits, or Manittos: but these having
power over different departments of his kingdom, are in some
respects independent of him, and may in effect control his
motions, by withholding that, over which they preside, and
which may be necessary to his operations. This they not
infrequently do; and although they in return are exposed to
discomfort and punishment, and are at length compelled to
yield, yet such is their freakishness and ambition, they are
often thwarting him in this way.

A METOWAC LEGEND. 195

_ Chemanitou became weary of this continued contest for
power, and longed for a creature who should be entirely
dependent upon his will. He therefore went round to the
different Manittos, and having spoken fairly to them all, they
each gave him a small portion of that which belonged to
themselves, and he went his way. He had fire, and air, and
water, besides many smaller gifts which he picked up in various
forms. He put these all by themselves, and for many days he
sat apart, and in silence.

No one dared approach him. He sat as in a screen of fire.

After a while the flame cleared away, and the Master ol
Life led forth a new creature. It was a man.

The Manittos saw too late what they had done, for each
beheld something taken from himself to make up the creation.
while the form was that of the Great Being, who has all things
within himself.

Chemanitou was filled with delight at his work, and he
went on and made a great many more just like him. So these
men, who were very large and very strong, moved about amid
trees, and flowers, and fruits, and slept, and awoke, and for a
while seemed quite content. Having the air as a part of them-
selves, they wrestled, and leaped, and danced as they would live
in that element. Then the water attracted them and they
played for a long time in its waves, and after sat in the warm
light. But still the master of life saw they were not satisfied.

196 A METOWAC LEGEND.

He had conceived a great affection for them, for they did
not rebel against him as the Manittos did. So he began to make
an immense number of creatures, to please them. He went on
making, and making. The woods, and the air, and the water
became filled. And then the men learned to hunt and fish,
and for awhile did very well. But this state of things did
not last. He saw he might create forever, and they would
in the end, still tire of every thing.

Chemanitou began to tire himself—for this new creature
seemed never able to rest. So he laid his hand over them
while he thought what next to do.

He conceived if he could make some beings a little like the
men themselves, to be with them at all times, they might be
content. Here again he found a new difficulty. In making
the men he had found little trouble, as he only wished to please
himself, and had his own form for a model. But in this new
being it was different. It was not to be made to please himself.

He thought a long time.

At length he raised his hand and the men looked about, and
saw a number of very comely beings akin to themselves. They
approached them, and although shy, they were pleased to find
they did not, like the antelope, dart away for the woods, but
might be secured without any very great trouble.

It soon appeared, however, that they were all deaf, for they
were made very early in the morning, when there is no sound.

A METOWAC LEGEND. 197

The men laughed at this, and thought it very good. Things
went on very well for a considerable length of time: but at
last the men began to feel as if the women ought not to talk if
they could not hear. They found many other faults, but this
was the chief.

The Master of Life laughed at an evil so easily cured, and
he made more women like these, excepting that they were
created at mid-day, when there are so many sounds to be heard.
So these women were all dumb. They were much more intel-
ligent than the others, and he thought his task must now be
done. Sometimes the deaf and sometimes the dumb women
pleased best, and matters went on very well.

But neither did this state of things last. The Great Spirit
found man by far the most troublesome being in the universe.
Yet he was resolved to try to the utmost to adapt things to his
strange powers. He saw the husband of the deaf woman and
the husband of the dumb woman were neither of them content.

So he made another woman.
This time he made but one. She was far more beautiful
than the rest. She could both hear and speak. But she

was blind, for she was created as the day was going out.

The men and women looked at her, and then they looked at
each other ; and they all laughed.

198 A METOWAC LEGEND.

The Master of Life was angry. He determined to do no
more for them. He led the woman away to a fair lodge,
and left her by herself.

Na-wi-qua, (Eve, or evening,*) or the blind, was very lonely.
She often wept, but she did not complain. She had no com-
panion but the Great Spirit, who learned to love her better
than any thing he had ever made. And now he sent the birds
to sing to her, and brought a stream of water from the hill-side
that it might pass the door of her lodge and give her joy. She
was very gentle, and the fawn came and laid its head upon her
lap. The mocking bird learned many notes from the tones of
her voice. The flowers gathered about her, and there was no
other place so fair as that about the lodge of Na-wi-qua.

The men and women often came to look at her and then
went away, for she seemed of no use in the world. She could
neither plant corn, nor preserve venison, nor manage a canoe,
look after the lodge or anything else. So she lived a long
time. She was affectionate, but there was no one to love her.
She was not unhappy, but she was very solitary.

One day Gua-Niev, or the War Eagle, as he was called,
thought he would go and see Na-wi-qua. He had often heard
of her, but as she seemed so much worse off than other women,
he had hitherto felt little curiosity to see her. Gha-Nieu was
the handsomest man in the world, and as brave in war, and

*Literally “after mid-day.”

A METOWAC LEGEND. 199

as expert in the chace as he was handsome. He was swifter
and stronger than any of his kind. Of course Gha-Nieu might
have won the love of the fairest women. But he was indiffer-
ent to them all. He complained that those who were deaf
could talk too well, and see too much, and those who were
mute might just as well be deaf and blind. None pleased him.

So he came to the lodge of Na-wi-qua, who heard his foot-
steps, and she smiled and said,

“‘Netawis (my cousin) comes to talk with me ?”

“‘ Nee-Sheema (my younger sister) knows all things,” replied
Gha-Nieu. But he did not approach, for her beauty was
exceeding great. He sat down at the door of the lodge, and
she being blind did not know how intently he looked at her,
and so she talked with him a long time without fear. At length
she arose, and he gave her his hand lest she should stumble,
and they went out together talking all the time.

Gha-Nieu was enchanted. He forgot Na-wi-qua could
neither dress venison, plant corn, nor look after the lodge. He
only saw she was gentle, lovely, and very beautiful. They
walked on for a very long time, and both grew silent.

Nha-ha! (oh dear!) at last suddenly exclaimed Na-wi-qua,
as he attempted to take her hand, and she turned away. Gha-
Nieu looked sorrowful. He was at a loss how to act. He had
never known fear. Na-wi-qua moved on: but she was blind

200 A METOWAC LEGEND.

and did not see a large stone that was in her path-way. Gha-
Nieu sprang forward and saved her, or she would have fallen.
She learned she could not go alone. She trembled and stood
still. And now Gha-Nieu spoke that which no woman had
ever before heard ; and it was pleasant, for it was new.

Na-wi-qua stood before Gha-Nieu, her head drooping, and she
wept bitterly—for she loved him, and grieved that she could
not see him. Her tears fell at the feet of the strong and the
brave. ‘They watered the earth. Gha-Nieu also wept that she
was blind—and then he thought, perhaps Na-wi-qua would not
love a chief she had seen weeping. And so he was content.

Now it was so, that where the tears of the lovers fell, and
mingled on the earth, a cheerful, hght-loving flower sprang up;
for it is the will of the Great Spirit that fruits should grow to
satisfy every innocent desire, and flowers should spring from
the earth as records of human emotions. They are the types
of sentiments registered upon the earth, just as the sentiment
itself is registered in the heart. The Eyr-srigut was thus
the birth of tears; but such tears as are the heralds of cheer-

fulness.

Na-wi-qua stood with her head drooping. She had never
seen light, and knew not where to direct her eyes: thus she
bent her head to listen to Gha-Nieu. Now as he told of his
love, and tried to comfort her on account of her blindness,
Na-wi-qua began to see. She was not surprised at this, for
love was new to her, and that was a greater surprise. She

A METOWAC LEGEND. 201

kept her eyes fixed upon the ground where the flowers were
springing about her feet, and opening their blossoms, as if light
had been imprisoned within their chalices and was now making
its escape.

Na-wi-qua watched them a long time, and they looked up at
her, as each became perfect. Then Na-wi-qua began to look
up likewise. She lifted her head and saw the face of her
lover. She did not speak. She looked into his eyes. Na-wi-
qua next raised hers upward and she met the blue sky.

The Great Spirit then smiled upon them both, for Na-wi-qua
had approached his seat. He had never been so pleased
before. Love had perfected the creation of the Master of
Life. It had given eyes to Na-wi-qua.

Na-wi-qua is still held in great reverence. All the graces
of womanhood are supposed to have been derived from her.
She is the ideal of the aboriginal creation. The beautiful
instinct that caused her to raise her eyes upward from the
blossom at her feet, to the face of her lover, and still in pursuit
of the good and the true lifted them to the sky, first taught
men the sentiment of love, and the sentiment of worship.
Na-wi-qua became the embodiment of innocence, of love, and
religion. Through her men first learned the worship of the
Great Spirit.

Even now, when they speak of a woman remarkable for her

virtues they say her mother was Na-wi-qua.
26

THE POETIC IMPULSE.

Away vain yearnings for a wild ideal !
Why tempt ye me like visions from above ?

Why throng round one who dwells amid things real,
Who quaffs the cup of earthly grief and love?

Away,—away,—and leave me still to follow
The varied path God gives me to pursue ;

The joys of fancy are but false and hollow,
They shall not win me to forget the true.

Away,—nor tempt me with your bright revealings
Of poesy’s sweet fairy-land of dreams;
Better for me to nurse the gentler feelings
Which light my home with calm contentment’s beams.

Away,—away—ye make my footsteps falter,
When o’er my lowly path your fair forms come
To her who serves at the Penates’ altar
The Delphic oracle must still be dumb.

FRAGARIA VIRGINIANA—WILD STRAWBERRY.

LINN. CLASS, ICOSANDRIA 5; ORDER, POLYGYNIA,

NATURAL ORDER, ROSACEA.

Tue calyx is inferior, ten-cleft; five alternate divisions
smaller ; corolla five-petalled ; receptacle ovate, berry-like ;
acines naked, immersed in the receptacle, caducous ; calyx of
the fruit spreading, distinct ; hairs on the petioles erect, on the
peduncles close-pressed ; leaves somewhat glabrous above ;
pedicles generally few; receptacles of the carpels conic-oblong,
or ovate with carpels immersed.

The flowers of the wild strawberry are white, and are found
in bloom during the month of June, and sometimes as early as
May; while the fruit seldom ripens before the middle of the
former month. It is a perennial plant, found both in woods
and fields, delighting in a moderately dry and sandy soil.
Farther description of so well known a plant would undoubt-
edly be superfluous.

The members of the Natural Order Rosacez are noted for
being astringent, febrifuge, and refrigerant.

204 VIEW OF CATTAWISSA.

DISTANT VIEW OF CATTAWISSA, PENNSYLVANIA.

This view was taken about a mile below the village of
Cattawissa, on the Susquehanna. The country around is very
broken and hilly, and as an almost inevitable consequence,
highly picturesque. Cattawissa is a small straggling place, on
the eastern bank of the Susquehanna, which is here crossed by
a bridge of considerable length. ‘The river both above and
below is full of islands varying from half an acre to thirty or
forty acres in extent, generally well wooded, and exceedingly
pretty. The banks of the Susquehanna on the eastern side are
here very bold and rugged, rising several hundred feet in height,
and presenting from their summits the most extensive and
varied prospects that can well be imagined. ‘The country in the
neighborhood of Cattawissa is well settled and in general
very fertile; although agriculture is in a very backward con-
dition compared with what it isin some other parts of the

state.

THE WILD STRAWBERRY.

WASTED SWEETNESS.

SONNET.

No more,—no more, my heart ! give out no more
Thy solemn music to th’ inconstant wind ;
Suffer not every careless hand to find

Thy hidden stops of harmony, nor pour,

As thou wert wont to do in days of yore,
Thy sweetest tones on ears that yield no heed:
Oh, be not thou like the responsive reed,

That, ever as the light air wandereth o’er,
Utters its wild and broken melody ;

For I would have thee like the ocean-shell,
Breathing a monotone of that deep sea

Whose moaning waves within my breast must swell,
Marking with ebb and flow my destiny,

Until death’s icy touch the restless surge shall quell.

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY.

I ave less reason to remember it than some of my com-
panions, but I shall certainly never forget that Strawberry party.
It was a bright and beautiful morning when we set off, each
bearing a basket to contain our expected spoils. We were
rather an incongruous set, for there was Alice May, a city-bred
belle, cold, proud, and beautiful, with a manner of such perfect
repose that no one could tell whether she was indifferent or
reserved ; and little F anny Wilson, a gay hoyden, fresh from
boarding-school, as good-natured as she was ugly ; and Louisa
or, as we better loved to call her, Lily Bell, one of those pale,
fair, gentle creatures, who seem so nun-like in the quietude of
their own happy thoughts. Then we had two or three of those
pleasant, cheerful, commonplace girls, who always seem de-
signed to fill vacancies; chatty, good-tempered and obliging ;
just the sort of women who become, in after life, what Cowper
styled “comfortable people.” We were escorted as ladies-
errant always should be, by loyal knights and true. Cousin
Tom Harris, the young owner of the rich domain in which we
were to forage, was as good a creature as ever hooked a fish
or brought down a bird, though the highest reach of his intellect

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY. 207

seldom went beyond these or similar exploits in wood-craft.
His old school-mate, Lionel Morton, was his very antipodes ;
for he was an indolent, abstracted, dreamy sort of being, who
would lie all day under a tree with a book ; and it really seemed
a pity that such “thews and sinews” should be thrown away
upon one who was so little disposed to manly exercises. Then
we had young Charlie Walton, the handsomest boy I ever saw
in my life, with his chestnut locks, his deep grey eyes, and
superbly cut features. Two or three of those indescribable
sort of men, who have nothing but youth and gay spirits to
recommend them, but who make very good companions for the
commonplace girls I have just mentioned, and five or six
joyous children completed our merry company.

It was one of those delicious days in summer, when a cool
breeze is stirring every leaf, and giving the charm of vivid life
to the beauty of nature. The sky was flecked with a few light
clouds, whose fleecy folds seemed to hang far below the lofty
vault of Heaven, which looked so deeply blue beyond. The
air was full of music from the gentle swaying of the forest
-branches, and the rustling of the leaves, as well as from the
‘hum of insects and the song of birds:

*T was one of those sweet days, when summer wakes
Her gentlest zephyrs and her softest light,

Wooing the wild flower in the wood-land brakes,
And winning the young bird to joyous flight.

We were all in holiday spirits, for this was none of those
premeditated pic-nics, which lose half their charm in the

208 THE STRAWBERRY PARTY.

preparation necessary to their enjoyment. It was a sudden
whim, a sort of improvised frolic, and a merry, gipsying
feeling possessed us all. Even Lily was excited to something
like gayety, and Alice scrambled over rocks and through
thorn-bushes without the least attempt at ball-room graces,
We plucked wild-flowers, and made nosegays and garlands,
which scarce kept their freshness while we were weaving them
together ; for there is nothing so perishable as wood-land blos-
soms. ‘They live in the soil of freedom, and if plucked, they
perish ; while our garden flowers, trained in servitude, will long
give out their sweetness in the hand that gathers them.

Sometimes we would discover a curious bit of moss which we
wanted for our cabinet; sometimes there was a peculiar leaf
‘well worth placing ina herbarium; sometimes a squirrel would
bound up a tree before us, and then cousin Tom would wish for
his gun to stop the gambols of the saucy little grey man of the
woods. Then too we had our mishaps; the children met
with sundry bumps and scratches, while many were the rents
which the envious branches made in frocks and aprons. But
all added to the mirth of the party, and we wént along delight-
ed until we reached the place where the strawberries grew
most abundantly, when we immediately scattered ourselves
around to gather the rich fruit. Cousin Tom threw himself at
the root of a tree, and pulling some twine out of his pocket,
began to construct a new fashioned rabbit-snare. Our friend,
Lazy Lionel, as we styled him, with a sort of half contemptu-
ous smile upon his face, stretched himself upon a bed of moss
and drew out a book from the basket which we had insisted

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY. 209

he should carry, while Alice May, gathering, her. shawl in
graceful folds around her, reclined against a rock at a little
distance, in a most picturesque and effective attitude. It was
easy to see that both she and Lionel were acting a part, and as
each already cordially disliked the affectation of the other, it was
a little surprising that they should take so much pains to assume
disagreeable characters towards each other. The rest of us
went diligently to work among the strawberry-vines, and
certainly we had little reason to complain of any stint in dame
Nature’s gifts.

It seemed to me that Alice had never been so full of whim
as on that day. She talked grave nonsense with Cousin Tom,
rallied the somewhat dull and heavy beaux who were puzzled
to reply to her light jests, teased the children, and in short
appeared like a wilful school-girl rather than the haughty belle.
I rather think, though I never knew, that she and Lionel had
fallen out by the way, for she seemed to take especial pleasure
in annoying him by all sorts of things which her knowledge of
his character led her to suppose would be disagreeable. ‘There
was one youth, who, delighted at the unwonted affability of the
city lady, was seduced into making a perfect fool of himself.
He was a shallow, good humored coxcomb, as vain as a peacock,
and when he seated himself at the feet of Alice May, in the
most approved pastoral attitude, she seemed to consider him a
fair subject for her saucy humor. His new beaver hat and
bright yellow gloves were the especial objects of her attention,
and she set him upon all kinds of tasks, until she finally suc-

ceeded in effectually dimming the brilliancy of the gloves which
27

210 THE STRAWBERRY PARTY.

he dared not take off because he was ashamed of his hands,
hardened by rural labor. Her last stroke of policy was directed
against the hat, which in obedience to her commands he filled
with water, to serve as a basin for the ablution of her taper
fingers. Lionel lay quietly watching the movements of the
spoiled beauty, until thoroughly disgusted with what he believed
to be her selfish vanity, he rose and sauntered away.

No sooner had he gone than Alice instantly returned to her
natural character, and rising from her seat, she came round the
base of the rock, to join me in my labors. The rock formed
a sort of barrier at the entrance of a narrow glen which looked
so wild that we determined to explore it, and, forcing our way
through the brush-wood, we found ourselves completely shut
within one of the loveliest dells I have ever beheld. Straw-
berries were abundant and very large, in this sylvan retreat ;
and pleasing ourselves with the idea that we were the first
visitants of this garden of sweets, we went on gathering the
fruit. We were scarce conscious of the space we had traversed
when we found the glen opening into a wild and rugged part
of the forest. We were about to retrace our steps, when we
saw, at a little distance before us, a child apparently engaged
_ in the same pursuit with ourselves. Feeling in that mood
when every thing seems like an adventure, we approached the
little girl to ask questions. She had entered the wood from
the other side for the purpose of gathering strawberries, but
she had met with little success, for some one had been
before her, and she dared not go very far into the recesses of
the forest. The poor child was in great distress, for, as she

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY. 211

said ; “ father was very sick, and mother could not leave him,
and the lady who lived on the hill wanted a great many quarts
of strawberries for a dinner party, and she had got so few that
she should not get money enough to pay for father’s doctor’s
stuff.” The tears rolled down her cheeks, as she told her
simple tale, and in an instant Alice and myself had emptied our
baskets into her tin kettle. We then went to work to procure
for her the “ great many quarts” she wanted, and Alice was as
industrious as if she had been educated all her life for a straw-
berry-picker. When we had finished our task we found the
kettle quite too heavy for the child to carry, so we took it
between us, and the little girl guided us to a cottage at the
edge of the wood, where we found her sick father and her
patient, toil-worn mother. As we were coming away Alice
stepped back to speak to the poor woman, and I saw her slip
a bank-note into her hand. Ah! thought I, Alice May is not
as heartless as I supposed ; only give her a motive, and she can
be natural and unselfish.

But Iam spinning out my tale without coming to the chief
adventure of the day, so I will say nothing of our delicious
feast within the forest, where we sat beside a bubbling spring,
with a leafy canopy over our heads and a mossy carpet beneath
our feet, while our rustic board was spread with delicate condi-
ments, better suited to the pampered tastes of the company,
than to the simple beauty of our sylvan hall. It was near sun-
down ere we set out on our return, and though we were wearied
yet we were scarcely less merry than when we went forth in
the freshness of the morning.

212 THE STRAWBERRY PARTY.

Cousin Tom had undertaken to conduct us by a path which
led near the “ Devil’s Chasm.” This was a deep ravine, open-
ing like a narrow cut between the cliffs, but expanding into a
large oblong basin, with rocks and stones lying thickly strewn
at the bottom, and looking like the dry bed of a lake. It was
one of the wildest places I had ever seen. We stood ona flat
table of rock and gazed over into a deep and gloomy hollow,
with trees growing on its precipitous sides, and masses of stone
projecting in all directions, while immediately opposite to us,
was another table of rock, overhanging the yawning chasm,
and so nearly approaching that on which we stood that it
almost formed a natural bridge across the ravine. We were
speculating upon the rifted appearance of the cliffs, and won-
dering where the waters had found an outlet from their former
bed, when suddenly Charlie Walton exclaimed :

“Why it is only a stride,—come—who'll follow me ?”

Ere we could utter a remonstrance, the agile boy had leapt
the chasm and ‘stood on the opposite projection of rock, look-
ing like a young Mercury, as the wind lifted his curls from his
superb brow. For an instant we were struck dumb, and then
Cousin Tom, in a tone, half of vexation and half of triumph,
(for he was provoked at the boy’s folly,) called out :

“ Well, sir, you have given yourself a pleasant walk by this
mad freak ; you will have to go seven miles round, in order to

get home.”

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY. 213

**T mean to travel back the same way I came,” said the boy
with a merry laugh, and ere the words had left his lips we saw
him leap lightly forward. His foot touched the rock on which
we stood, but he missed the broad flat surface, and striking the
sloping edge of the cliff, he was instantly precipitated into the
abyss. A wild cry burst from his lips and then all was silent.

The excitement of the moment was terrific. Pressing to
the verge of the cliff, with little regard to our own safety, we
looked down, dreading to behold his mangled body lying among
the rocks at the bottom. But he had been caught by a pro-
jecting ledge of rock about half way down the ravine, and
there, apparently lifeless, he lay with his limbs hanging over
the chasm below. The slightest movement would be sufficient
to hurl him from his perilous resting-place, and, even if life
were not yet extinct, we knew he must perish the very instant
that his paralysed faculties began to revive.

Cousin Tom’s practical wisdom at once decided that
Charlie’s only chance was in his continued unconsciousness
until aid could be procured, and he immediately hurried off to the
nearest farm-house for men and ropes, though how the poor
boy was to be reached seemed impossible to imagine. Lionel
Morton only waited until Cousin 'Tom had given his opinion
and hastened away to obtain asssistance, then turning to us
ladies, he asked for a scarf. In an instant Alice had flung off
her rich shawl and placed it inhis hands. Carefully winding it
about his body so as not to impede his movements, he bent
over the face of the cliff, and deliberately began to descend.

214 THE STRAWBERRY PARTY.

Alice was beside me, she grasped my arm and her face grew
deadly pale, but she did not speak. Slowly and cautiously
fixing his feet in the patches of herbage, or projecting stones
on the rugged sides of the chasm, Lionel descended. 'The rock
sloped inwards, and at one moment, he was literally hanging,
face upward, from the frightful precipice. As he approached
the ledge upon which lay the helpless boy, the descent became
still more difficult, until at length he reached a point from whence
a perpendicular wall of stone went sheer down some fifteen feet,
terminating on the table of rock where Charlie had been caught
in his fall. For a moment Lionel paused, and looked upward,
then seizing the tough branches of a wild grape-vine, which
wound itself among the stones and trees above his head, he
swung himself loose, and guarding himself with one hand from
being dashed against the rock, he slid down, until with one bold
leap he placed himself beside the unconscious boy.

“He lives! he breathes!’ was the joyful exclamation that
burst from the lips of the courageous climber as he placed his
hand upon the extended body. ‘The boy moved feebly as he
spoke, and on the instant, we saw Lionel unwind the shawl
from his own body, and bind it firmly around Charlie; then
passing the ends around the trunk of a stunted tree which push-
ed itself forward between the masses of stone, he secured him
from any further danger until help should arrive. To this
forethought Charlie owed his life, for no sooner did he begin to
revive than his convulsive struggles would certainly have pre-
cipitated him from the rock had he not been thus guarded.

THE STRAWBERRY PARTY. 215

An hour, a long and anxious hour passed on, while Lionel, pale
and exhausted, could with difficulty retain his foot-hold on the
narrow ledge beside the half-senseless boy. At length came
Cousin ‘Tom with two stout farmers and plenty of ropes.
Charlie, bruised and bleeding, was drawn up from his perilous
position, and then, with the assistance of the ropes, Lionel
clambered up the frightful ascent. A carriage, which cousin
Tom’s providence had ordered, awaited them at the edge of
the wood, and Charlie, borne on a sort of hammock made of
Alice’s cachemere, to which he owed so much, was safely
deposited within it; while Lionel, notwithstanding his exhaus-
tion insisted upon walking with us.

Upon our arrival at home, it was found that Charlie had
broken his arm and was seriously bruised, but no fatal injury
had been sustained. He was soon as well, though not quite
as fool-hardy, as ever, and a deep scar on his_ beautiful
forehead remained to remind him, for the rest of his life, of his
debt of gratitude to Lionel Morton. But the most serious and
lasting consequences of the adventure were experienced by the
courageous student and the haughty belle. ‘The undeveloped
sensibility of Alice’s nature had been suddenly awakened, and
all her petty affectations had disappeared before true feeling ;
while Lionel had lost all his indolent dreaminess of mind in the
strong excitement of self-sacrifice.

Before the next June they were married, and they have never
yet found reason to regret the results of our Strawberry party.

SONG.

“The remembrance of youth is a sigh.”
Arasic PROVERB.

Auas! we must weep over moments departed
And look on the past with a sorrowful eye,

For who, roving on through the world weary hearted,
But feels “the remembrance of youth is a sigh ?”

Though earth still may wear all its verdure and flowers,
Though our path-way may smile ’neath a bright summer sky,
Yet the serpent lies hid in life’s sunniest bowers,
And still “ the remembrance of youth is a sigh.”

Then surely the heart whose best pleasures have vanished,
As spring-birds depart ere the winter draws nigh,

The bosom whence hope’s sweet illusions are banished,
Must know “ the remembrance of youth is a sigh.”

ASTER LINARIFOLIUS—AZURE STAR FLOWER.

LINN. CLASS, SYNGENSIA ; ORDER, POLYGAMIA SUPERFLUA.

NATURAL ORDER, ASTERE.

Tue involucre of this variety of the Aster is imbricate ; the
inferior scales generally spreading ; egret simple, pilose ; leaves
thick-set, nerveless, linear, mucronate, rough, stiff, those on the
branches recurved; stem sub-decumbent; branches one-
flowered; involucre of the length of the disk; rays about
ten-flowered, reflexed ; stem rough and yellowish.

This pretty little flower blooms during the months of Sep-
tember and October, delighting in a dry, rocky soil. Its color
is a delicate blue, sometimes inclining to a purple. In height
it seldom exceeds eight or ten inches, and it is altogether one
of the most graceful of all the varieties of the Aster tribe.

VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA, NEAR NINEVEH.

The Susquehanna, the “winding river,” of the Indian, no

longer re-echoes to his hunting cry or battle shout. Long
ps)

218 VIEW ON THE SUSQUEHANNA.

since has the red man forsaken its clear and rapid waters,
whose surface will never again be broken by the stroke of his
paddle or the dash of his sinewy arm. The pale faces have
levelled his wigwam, and established themselves on the green
banks of his favorite river. They have cut down the giant
trees and built villages and cities along its margin. One
of these represented in the picture, is a small, straggling
place, not far from South Bainbridge, in the State of New
York, and most stupidly christened “ Nineveh;” in all
probability the most inappropriate name that could have
been given to it. Near the foreground is seen a brush dam
crossing the river, built for the purpose of catching eels,
which are said to be found of a large size and in great abun-
dance. These eel-weirs, as they are generally termed, are
very frequently met with on the Susquehanna during the first
three hundred and fifty miles of its course. They are erected
where the water is shoal, and are formed of stakes driven
down to a sufficient depth, and then interwoven closely with
brush and the smaller branches of trees.

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A FOREST LEGEND.

Know you whence sprung this starry flower.
With golden heart and azure rays,

Which blooms in every woodland bower
When fades the glow of summer days ?

Then list the legend long since heard
Beside the red-man’s winding river,

What time the wilds and forests lone
Were held by right of bow and quiver.

They tell of one,—a youthful brave,
(His name would far outrun my rhyme,)
Whose fame, in savage warfare won,
Would rival those of classic time.

They tell how, in the ambushed strife.
An arrow pierced his fearless breast.

And how, on Susquehanna’s marge,
They laid him with his sires to rest.

220

THE STAR FLOWER.

But when the burial rites were done,
And he in forest glade was sleeping,
There came a gentle Indian maid,

Whose starry eyes were dim with weeping.

She built her lodge beside the grave,
And there, as passed each dreary morrow,
She still her faithful vigil held,

And dwelt alone with love and sorrow.

Full soon beneath Annunga’s* care,

The turf was decked with many a flower,
Until Death’s dreary home appeared

As fair as Love’s own chosen bower.

There lingered last the buds of spring,

There first glowed forth the summer’s bloom,
And autumn’s gayest flowrets shed

Their glories round that wood-land tomb.

All day within her silent lodge
The mourner shrunk before the light,
For earth beneath the sun’s glad ray
Seemed to her tearful eye too bright.

But when the shades of evening fell,
Deepening the tint of leaf and blossom,

And stars came looking meekly forth,
Glassed in the river’s tranquil bosom,

*Annung, i.e, The Star.

THE STAR FLOWER. 221

Then knelt she by that hallowed spot,
And wept the live-long night away,

Until Heaven’s sparkling crown grew dim
And faded in the morning ray.

When earth was wrapt in wintry shroud,
And leafless trees stood grim and gaunt,
Like giant spectres set to guard
The spot where grief had made her haunt,

Stili dwelt she in her forest lair,

Which cowered beneath the branches low,
And seemed amid those dreary wilds,

A speck upon the waste of snow.

Thus came and went the changing times,
While still the maid her watch was keeping,
Till grief its weary task had done,
And life was worn with frequent weeping.

But in that season,* when the haze
With purple light the distance fills,
Asif old autumn in his flight,
Had dropped his mantle on the hills ;

When forest trees with regal pomp

Their wealth of gem-like leaves display,
And earth in gayest garb puts on

The glory that precedes decay ;

*The Indian summer.

222

THE STAR FLOWER.

Then prostrate on her lover’s grave,
With long black hair all lifeless spread.

Shrouding her in its pall-like gloom,
They found the gentle maiden, dead.

And where her quivering lip was pressed,
When breathing forth her life’s last sigh,

They wondering saw a nameless flower
Look meekly upward to the sky.

Such blossom ne’er before was found
In wood-land brake or tangled dell;
It sprung beneath Annunga’s sigh
Born from the heart that loved too well,

LOBELIA CARDINALIS,
INDIAN. FEATHER, OR CARDINAL FLOWER.

LINN. CLASS, MONODELPHIA 5; ORDER, PENTANDRIA.

NATURAL ORDER, LOBELIACE.

Tus variety of the Lobelia is one of the richest of American
wild-flowers, glowing as it does in the brightest crimson hues
that Nature’s pencil has ever portrayed. It is known by the
name of Indian Feather, although more generally, perhaps, as
the Cardinal Flower; the latter by no means an appropriate
appellation.

It is erect, simple, pubescent; leaves lanceolate acuminate,
denticulate; racemes somewhat one-sided, many-flowered ;
stamens longer than the corollas. It blooms during the months
of July and August, is a perennial plant, found in swamps and
wet grounds generally.

The Lobeliacee are much used in medicine, although the
variety described above, less, I believe, than most others.

224 OUTLET OF THE FISHKILL CREEK.

They are noted for being acrid, narcotic, astringent, emetic
and expectorant.

OUTLET OF THE FISHKILL CREEK.

The Fishkill Creek is a small but pretty stream, rising nearly
in the centre of Dutchess County, New York, and after flowing
a distance of nearly thirty miles, in a south-western direction,
falls into the Hudson River about two miles below Fishkill
Landing, a small village on the Hudson, opposite to Newburg.

In the view may be seen, on the opposite side of the river, a
portion of New Windsor, a small straggling place, three or four
miles south of Newburg. In the blue distance the dim outline
of a mountain presents itself: this is called Schonemock or
Skoonemuck Mountain, a lofty spur of the Alleghanies, situated
in the western part of Orange County, at a distance of more
than twenty miles from the Hudson River.

On Fishkill Creek, about one mile from the Hudson, is
the manufacturing village called Matteawan, where there are
several factories in successful operation. It is a neat and
pretty place at the foot of the Fishkill Mountains, containing
a population of nearly two thousand inhabitants.

INDIAN FEATHER, OR CARDINAL FLOWER.

PRIDE.

OFFERED LOVE.

BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.

In thy pride’s harvest—ample though it be,

Suffer a few of love’s meek flowers to spring,
They will not hush its richly-waving sea,

Nor o’er its golden sheaves a mildew fling :
Thou wert created for delights more fond

Than self e’er knows, though with high graces crowned,—
The melting gaze, the soul-entrancing bond,

The rosy dreams that mutual hope surround :
Deny it not ; those lips when silent, glow

With a heart’s wealth too boundless for decay,
And the soft beams that from those calm eyes flow,

A mine of latent tenderness betray:
Why keep the fountain sealed when one is nigh,
To whom fate ever whispers—* drink or die.”

THE PROUD “LADYE?

Wuar a fearful element in the heart of woman is pride!
Like fire in the physical world, which, when allowed to become
a ruling principle, can only ravage and destroy, while if con-
fined within its natural limits, it serves to refine the gold
and mature the gem within the bosom of the mountain; so
pride within the soul may consume or create, according as it
is the ruler or the slave of the spirit.

In one of the disused apartments in an old family mansion,
which is allowed to occupy its time-honored position only
because “city improvements” have not yet travelled so far,
there still hangs an old portrait on which the eye of many a
curious visitor has gazed with emotions of pleasure and sur-
prise. ‘Though painted before the revolution, the touch of
time has mellowed, not defaced the tints of a work which is
evidently the effort of no common skill. It is the portrait of
a young and exceedingly lovely girl, attired in the stately but
picturesque garb of an hundred years since, and bearing upon
her fine features the impress of a high and noble nature. The
curve of the sweet lips is exquisitely tender, but the flash of her

THE PROUD “LADYE.” 227

dark blue eye, the haughty arch of her superb brow, the lofty
bend of her swan-like neck, nay her very attitude as she stands
with one small hand grasping the folds of the rich mantle,
which falls off from her ivory shoulder, are indicative of the
pride of an untamed and untameable heart.

There are some pictures which awaken only a sense of the
beautiful; we admire the painter’s skill and remember his work
only as something which charmed the outward eye. ‘There
are other efforts of the graphic art, which fasten upon the
memory and the imagination—which haunt us hke half-
remembered dreams, and leave upon our minds a consciousness
that some unrecorded history is written in rainbow tints upon
the canvass. Such an one is the portrait in the old mansion
of the De Veres. There is a history in that face; for the
predominant trait of character marked on its beautiful features,
decided the destiny of the lovely original.

Never did a prouder or loftier nature inhabit mortal frame
than that which lent its dignified grace to the exceeding beauty
of Isabel De Vere. Her grandfather, the scion of a noble
house, who had received from royalty a grant of broader lands
in the new world than Albion’s isle could afford, was still in
possession of the fine estate which their adherence to Tory
principles afterwards lost to his descendants. Isabel was proud
of the blood which coursed in her veins, because it had flowed
in an untainted current since the days of the Norman conquer-
ors ;—she was proud too of the wealth which secured to her
the aristocratic position she deemed necessary to her happi-

228 THE PROUD “ LADYE.”

ness ; but she was prouder of herself than of her advantages
of birth or fortune. There was a degree of stern self-respect
in her character which seemed to place her beyond the reach
of weaknesses ; and her high principles were so beautifully
blended with her haughty tone of feeling that the one could
scarcely be lessened without impairing the value of the other.

Yet was Isabel full of tender as well as lofty impulses. Her
affections were deep and earnest; and though no trace of
strong emotion ever deformed her fair face, yet those who
knew her best, saw how readily the fervid feelings of her nature
might ripen into passions, but for the atmosphere of pride in
which they grew. No one was more regardless of the petty
restraints of society than she; for a consciousness of her own
clearly defined position, enabled her to set at nought the rules
made for those whose insecure footing over the threshold of
good society required continual guidance. She was too proud
to be afraid of stooping, and while she was full of calm dignity
towards her equals, she was all gentleness and sweetness
towards those whom she considered her inferiors.

It was, perhaps, this unlooked for gentleness in her whom the
world called proud, which first encouraged the timid love of
one, whom neither fortune nor birth had placed upon her level.
Wilhelm Von could claim no higher descent than that
of a good Dutch race, whose escutcheon bore no richer
blazonry than that of the industrious hand and the honest
heart. His fine talents and studious habits had induced his
father to accord him all the advantages of education, and

THE PROUD “ LADYE.” 229

he had just returned from one of the most renowned universi-
ties in Germany, when at a ball given by the Governor of the
province, he first met with Isabel De Vere.

It would be an idle task to trace the progress of affection
through its various phases in such hearts. To watch their
love from its first chance-sown seedling, to note its upspringing,
its slow and almost imperceptible growth, the putting forth of its
tendrils, the gradual unfolding of its tender leaves, and finally
the sudden expansion of the full-blown flower, would require a
nicer eye, and a colder philosophy than belongs to the humble
chronicler of this “ ower true tale.” It is enough to know that
pride was put off, like an obsolete garment, and Isabel gave
herself up to the enjoyment of a deep and fervent tenderness,
while Wilhelm, grateful for her preference, yet conscious that
he gave full equivalent in the devotion of a manly and true
heart, thought little of the lady’s wealth and far less of her
rank. Both had strong and unfathomed natures ; both possessed
an almost terrific power of self-command; and each revered
in the other that power of repression which was so fully equal
to the violence of the emotion.

But there were some, who though they dared not openly
oppose the wishes of the haughty Isabel, yet secretly deter-
mined that the blood of the De Veres should never mingle with
the turbid stream which ran in the veins of a Dutch burgher.
Isabel’s brothers had pretended to acquiesce in her wishes only
because they knew her temper too well to attempt any direct
thwarting of her will. To the malicious and evil-minded

230 THE PROUD “LADYE.”

opportunities for mischief are never wanting, especially when
their arts are directed against the frank and the unsuspecting.
Wilhelm’s every movement was watched by his enemies, his
foreign correspondence was pried into with curious eyes, and
at length, circumstances, innocent in themselves, but becoming
noxious from their arrangement, were accumulated to form a
plausible and well-concocted falsehood.

Isabel listened with cold incredulity to the tale of Wilhelm’s
baseness and selfishness, but when facts, which she well knew,
were brought as testimony of these charges, she imbibed the
poison of distrust into her noble nature. The pride which she
had flung aside as useless beneath the safe-guard of affection,
was now re-assumed to cloak her real sorrow, and to outward
seeming, she was as cold and frigidly correct in feeling as the
veriest prude could desire. By the insidious advice of a brother,
in whom she implicitly relied, she wrote a calm letter of
renunciation to Wilhelm, and then, little dreaming that he had
pride equal to her own, she impatiently awaited the moment
of explanation which she firmly believed he would seek.

Three days after he received that fatal letter, Wilhelm sailed
for Europe. He uttered not one word of remonstrance, he
breathed no farewell, silently he struggled with his agony, and
in bitter but unuttered anguish he left his native shores forever.
The ship in which he sailed was richly freighted with human
virtues, and with human affections. Many a prayer had been
wafted on the gale which bore her on her distant course, but
the decree had gone forth, and not a man of all that goodly

THE PROUD « LADYE.” 231

company ever reached his destined port. But whether a storm
had swept the ocean or whether she had gone down at sea
when “skies were bright and tempests hushed,” no one lived
to tell. The sea kept its secret and the dead buried their dead
in silence.

Isabel had never appeared so brilliantly gay as she did after
the tidings of Wilhelm’s departure had reached her. Her
presence graced every festival, and never before had she decked
herself so richly with the gems and gold befitting her wealth
and station. Her whole nature seemed changed, and the cold
concentrated woman, who had heretofore walked calmly in the
hght of her own loveliness, seemed suddenly to have imbibed
the joyous spirit of a ball-room belle. Yet there were those
who fancied they saw a troubled light gleaming in her proud
eyes, and a speaking paleness settling on her rounded cheek.

One evening she was presiding ata brilliant party in her
own magnificent dwelling, and well did she play the part of
mistress of the fete. Never had she looked lovelier, for her
costly robe of rose-colored brocade, embroidered in silver
flowers, set off to advantage her stately figure, while the rich
white plumes in her dark hair swayed lightly with every grace-
ful motion of the dance. No one would have dreamed that
aught but joy had ever dwelt within her heart, as with smiles
on her lip, she acted the graceful and considerate hostess.

The night had waned, and the liveried slaves were wearied
with bearing the ponderous trays of refreshments through the

232 THE PROUD “LADYE.”

many apartments. But the guests thought not yet of retiring,
when suddenly it was whispered that the “ ladye of the festival”
had vanished. She had been seen an hour before, as she
glided through the wide hall, and a servant declared that her
face was ghastly pale as she flitted past him on the broad stair-
case. ‘The door of her apartment was locked, and no answer
was made to the repeated calls of the now alarmed friends.
At length the door was forced, and then was discovered the
proud and heart-broken Isabel, lying prostrate upon her couch.

They lifted her face from the pillow, but she was dead and cold.
The roses were yet unfaded on her bosom, the plumes still
waved as if in mockery over her rigid brow, and the sheen of
her diamonds glittered fearfully upon her stony arms as the
light of many torches flashed upon the ghastliness of death.
Pride had done its work—it had crushed her heart within its iron
grasp, and long ere the rumor of her lover’s untimely fate
reached the ears of those who watched for his return, the
beautiful but mistaken girl had been consigned to darkness and
the worm.

XYRIS CAROLINIANA—YELLOW STAR GRASS.

LINN. CLASS, TRIANDRIA; ORDER, MONOGYNIA.

NATURAL ORDER, XYRIDEZ.

Tuis simple and unpretending plant, sometimes called the
Yellow Flowering Rush, though more commonly the Yellow
Star Grass, is found during the months of August and September.
It prefers woods and grass-lands, choosing light and dry soils,
and seldom growing more than from nine to twelve inches in
height. Its delicate beauty is scarcely known, even to the
dweller by field and forest, for it is so small, and so unobtrusive
that the lover of nature might well be pardoned if, in the con-
templation of the combined effect of her charms, he should
sometimes neglect to observe the minute details which produce
such results. Its name is very significant, for it resembles
nothing so much as a golden star peering up from the soft
green earth.

Its calyx is a cartilaginous glume, two or three-valved in a
head ; corolla three-petalled, equal; capsule three-valved,

many seeded ; leaves linear, grass-like ; scape two-edged.
30

234 VIEW ON THE JUNIATA.

The members of the Natural Order Xyridee are noted for
being anti-scorbutic.

VIEW ON THE PUN TATAS NEA ern Ss) SGU ine

The accompanying view was taken on the banks of the
Juniata river, near its junction with the Susquehanna at Green’s
Dam. It is here, a large and rather deep stream, and is
crossed, near its mouth, by a long bridge. The scenery here
is comparatively tame, but in the counties of Huntington and
Mifflin, through which the Juniata runs in its early and middle
course, the country is of a very different character. Indeed,
there may be obtained, in the immediate vicinity of this beau-
tiful river, some of the most picturesque views to be found in
the country.

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AIMLESS SENTIMENT.

STANZAS.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

“ Lady Bell—When JI am sad I commune with the stars.”—onp PLAY.

Ou! tell not the stars, the free stars, of thy sadness,
If moments there be when the feeling steals o’er thee ;
They may smile like the gay, o’er thy moments of gladness,
And gild each bright hope with a ray of their glory.

But their beams are too cold, and too far off, for sorrow
To awaken a sigh in their chorus of mirth,

And the heart that in sadness would sympathy borrow,
Must look for a /ender much nearer the earth.

Then lavish no more on those chilly orbs yonder
The treasures of feeling they cannot return ;

While yet on the planet from which thy thoughts wander,
There is one heart at least will with sympathy burn.

THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

Dare not to say he lived in vain:
The veriest wretch that crawls on earth,
And feels life’s varied joy and pain,
Received some mission at his birth :
Is it for thee, blind Fool, to scan

God’s purpose in the soul of man?

“ How fresh and young is the face of nature in the glad
spring-time ! how beautiful is the green earth with its garniture
of early flowers! Methinks it were hard to die in spring,
when there is so much life stirring in every forest-leaf. If ever
one could bear to reflect calmly upon death, it would be when
the wearied frame was fainting beneath the sultriness of a
summer sky, and pining for some cool, dark grotto, where
peace might dwell. But in this sweet season of delight, when
the genial air has awakened the joy of life anew within our
hearts, the grave seems a horrid fantasy. Oh! let me not die

in the spring !”

The words were those of melancholy repining, for he who
uttered them was one whose soul went forth yearningly towards

THE DREAMER’S MISSION. 237

all things beautiful. But he knew that his days were num-
bered,—he knew that death had set his mark upon him,—and
he felt too keenly the anguish of looking his last upon the
material loveliness which had ministered to his soul’s ideal.

Horace Lee was one of those dreamy, tender, fantastic
beings, who are sometimes, though rarely, seen amid the
thronged thoroughfares of life, and whose unsettled purposes
and undefined position, show that they can never be other than
“strangers and pilgrims in the land.” They are like creatures
of another sphere,—habitants of some gentler planet who have
wandered from their home, and are vainly seeking to rise above
the dense atmosphere of this nether world,—beings who need
but wings to realize our idea of angelic ministers, and yet,
wanting some outward evidence of power, seem, to our grosser
sense, inferior even to the mass of mankind.

From infancy Horace had been one of the gentlest and ten-
derest of creatures. The heart of an invalid mother had
yearned over the child who inherited so much of her own nature,
and the sweet communion of maternal and filial affection had
confirmed the softness of a character which needed rather to
be nerved against the ills of life, ‘The boy’s delicately moulded
features and slender form were exponents, to the eye, of his
real character. Essentially feminine_in so many traits, it
seemed almost an error in nature to have given such a soul to
the keeping of man. His loving and trusting nature, the sweet
vagueness of a tenderness which went out upon all things beau-
tiful, without passion yet with deep earnestness of feeling, the

238 THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

dependent uplooking character of his affections, and the ab-
sence of all firm and self-sustaining power, would have formed
an exquisite combination in the character of a woman. But
to a man, whose whole life must either be a real conflict or a
gladiatorial contest, such qualities are but as fetters. Like wild
vines growing around a stately tree, they may add to its beauty,
but they waste and exhaust its strength.

“ Many are poets who have never penned
Their inspiration”

and many a soul has been filled with poetry, unuttered,
unexpressed, because the lips which should have breathed
it have never been “ touched with a live coal from the altar.”
‘The mind of Horace was deeply imbued with poetry ; many
of the elements which commingle in the true poet were
his, but they lacked arrangement and congruity. His fancy
revelled in an ideal world, but he had no grasp of the real ;
and his beautiful dreams faded into vagueness, because he
lacked the power to clothe them in the garb of humanity.
To lie beneath the shadow of a spreading tree, and listen to
the murmur of a running stream, while his imagination drew
around him images of loveliness, as evanescent as they were
fair,—this was his happiness. In his love for his mother he
seemed to have exhausted his capacity for mere human affec-
tion, and when her death left him alone in a world of strangers,
he sought no sympathy, and indulged in no commune with
another soul.

THE DREAMER’S MISSION. 239

Years had passed away since death had deprived him of
this only friend. He was now fast approaching the season
of manhood, and yet he was as much a child in heart as when
he was wont to rest his head on his mother’s bosom, while he
charmed her ear with his boyish dreams of poetic existence.
Neither thought nor action characterized the life of the dream-
ing youth. Vague reverie, that sweet idlesse of the mind, had
become a habitude of his being. ‘To the commonplace and
practical people by whom he was surrounded, he seemed an
idle, fanciful, unsocial being, incapable alike of strong affec-
tions or of active usefulness. Even the wisest and most
charitable saw in him only the morbid and feeble-minded
dreamer, for whom it needed little skill in prophecy to predict a

sorrowful doom.

‘Let them not despise thy youth;” was the exhortation of
St. Paul when he set Timothy as a teacher over the people.
How often might a similar precept be given to those who
contemn that which they cannot comprehend! If men would
but remember that every human creature, however feeble, how-
ever humble, has an appointed mission,—a mission as various
as the various minds to which it is intrusted,—they would have
charity for all who live-—they would scorn nothing but base-
ness,—they would hate nothing but sinfulness,—they would
despise nothing but falsehood. We cannot read the inscrutable
decrees of Providence ; we cannot see into the deep designs of
of that Power which watches alike “The crash of empires,
and the sparrow’s fall,” but if we Jook with the clear eye of
Faith, we can behold much to satisfy the doubts and fears of.

240 THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

our feeble nature,—much to assure us that no human soul ever
passed through an earthly pilgrimage without leaving the trace
of its influence, either in the upspringing of some fresh way-
side flower, or in the blight and desolation of that which was
once green and beautiful.

The father of Horace Lee was a plain farmer, perfectly
independent, because his farm supplied him with the means of
a comfortable subsistence, and content to tolerate the inertness
of his youngest child, partly because the boy had been his dead
mother’s darling, and partly because he was the only drone in
that full hive of busy workers. But the old man had a brother
who, having entered early into commerce, had amassed a fortune,
and now figured among the wealthy citizens of New York,
while his only daughter, a creature of rare beauty, was the
ornament of its gayest circles of fashion. Katharine Lee was
one of those superb women, upon whom Heaven seems to have
lavished its best gifts, both of mind and person. Stately and
noble in the full proportions of her splendid figure, with features
of perfect symmetry, but moulded into Roman grandeur rather
than Grecian softness, she might have been the model of a
sculptor ; while the rich coloring of her delicate complexion,
the dark deep tint of her proud yet tender eyes, the shadows
flung over her cheek by the long lashes fringing the veined
lids, and the soft brown hue of her wavy hair might have made
a painter despair. She knew that she was beautiful, and dearly
did she prize the gift. Not alone for its ministry to vanity did
she value it, though she was woman enough to know and love
the power it gave her. But she had also a higher motive,

THE DREAMER’S MISSION. 241

—she loved all things beautiful in nature, for she knew the
poet’s truth

“ A thing of beauty is a joy forever,”

and she was happy in the thought that her presence could be
to gentle natures a blessing and a promise.

But her soul was one which defied scrutiny, or rather, let us
say, it was veiled from others because it was as yet a mystery
to herself. Reared in the midst of luxury, and surrounded by
indulgences of every kind, she had known nothing of life but
its sunshine; and many a precious plant which might have
blossomed beneath a clouded sky, was withered by the fervid
splendors of prosperity. She was full of noble capacities, and
high instincts, and good impulses, but she lived on in that sort
of outer life, which leaves one no time to look into the hidden
springs of human action. Few women learn to think in early
youth; many women never learn to think at all,—a sort of
dim perception of cause and consequence, and a selfish calcu-
lation of probabilities, being the highest point to which their
minds attain ; while to all the sex, reflection only comes through
the portal which admits sorrow. 'The waters must have gone
over the bark which held our golden hopes,—we must have
gathered up the wrecks upon the shore as our all that the
waves have left, and as we bind the fragments together for our
second venture upon the stream of time, we learn to ponder,
to remember, to reflect. [ew women learn to reason until

long after they have been taught to weep.
31

242 THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

It was strange that a creature like Katharine should have
stooped from her “ pride of place” to minister to such a feeble
and dreamy soul as that which animated the frame of her
invalid cousin. An illness which seized upon the gay girl and
left her with a low nervous debility, had induced her father to
send her to the quiet and humble abode of his farmer brother.
The contrast between the glitter of fashionable life with its
wearing excitements, and the peaceful tenour of a rural home,
where simple kindness and affectionate hospitality would come
with a charm of freshness and novelty to the world-wearied
beauty, was judged to be beneficial. With a feeling, therefore,
of utter indifference, Katharine bade adieu to the scenes of
gayety, and took up her summer residence in the rustic abode
of her uncle. At first she was amused by the absence of her
habitual luxuries, then she was pleased by the novelty of her
associations, and finally, she became deeply interested in the
peculiar character and moody habits of Horace Lee.

The insidious disease which was slowly pointing him toward
the grave had been his maternal inheritance, and at the time
of Katharine’s visit, it was known to all that the youth was
marked for death. To the child of prosperity and gladness,
there was something imexpressibly touching in the sight of
talent, and gentleness, and goodness, thus doomed to go down
unvalued to the tomb. With the quick tact of woman’s ten-
derness she discovered the peculiar sensitiveness of his nature,
and he became a new and delightful study to her. In adapting
herself to his moods, and ministering’to his moral and mental
needs, she learned to look into some of the secrets of life,—

THE DREAMER’S MISSION. 243

And, pondering o’er another’s heart, was shown
The unsuspected mystery of her own.

It was the season of opening spring,—the snow yet lay piled
in the hollows of the lofty hills, while the violets began to peer
out from their leafy covert at the old oak’s foot, in the shelter
of the sunny vales. The swelling buds which studded every
branch, told of the awakened principle of life. The tiny leaflets
folded in each other’s warm embrace, began to unclose them-
selves to the genial air, and slender spears of new grass were
lifted here and there, amid the embrowned stubble which had
borne the winter’s snow. To use the beautiful language of
Holy Writ “the time of the singing of birds was come, and
the voice of the turtle was heard in the land.” Then in this
*‘ soote season” did Horace utter his imploring cry, “ Let me
not die in the spring !’—and his prayer was heard.

The sweet influences of the “youth of the year” had given
place to the fervid heats of summer, and still he lingered on,
with decay as gradual as that of a flower. But a deep dread
of death had taken full possession of his soul. His vision
seemed bounded by the shroud, the coffin, and the worm. He
had no power to look beyond material horrors to the glories
of the spiritual world. He shrank from that which must befal
the mortal body, and lost the faculty of imaging that which is
“incorruptible, and fadeth not away.”

“Oh! I am weary and worn with this oppressive weight of
feebleness ;” was now his repining thought; “the air is hot

244 THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

and breathes of pestilence,—my brain is fevered, my pulse
fails, my heart sinks with vague fear. I would fain meet death
with a calm spirit and an unblenching brow. I ask not for
prolonged life, but I would not fall like a beast of burden by
the way-side. Let me not sink beneath the weariness which
now oppresses me. Let me not die in the summer !”

It was sad to see one clinging to earth so fondly while exist-
ence was gliding away like the silent flow of a rapid river.
But beautiful was the ministry of the proud and brilliant Katha-
rine, as forgetting self with all its heretofore engrossing pur-
suits, she bent in lowly meekness before the new revelations
of spiritual existence which dawned upon her in her search for
that which might solace the heart of the dying youth. Once
the joys of sentient life had satisfied her glad nature, but
now she looked into deeper and nobler things. She watched
no longer the fluctuations of the tiny waves of time; for a
new power was given her to look into the mighty depths of
eternity. Her cousin’s dread of death shocked and terrified
her. She sought for consoling images with which to adorn
the tomb, and in searching for flowers to wreath around the
funeral bier, she found the tree of life which is “ for the healing
of the nations.”

But the days passed on, and summer’s glow had deepened and
brightened into autumn’s glory. The gorgeous beauty of the
many-tinted woods, the rich drapery of the fields, with their
latest blossoms, the fruits blushing on every bough, the deep
blue expanse of the autumnal sky,—all were beautiful,—all

THE DREAMER’S MISSION. 245

combined to form the loveliest of earth’s changes. But the
step of the sufferer grew feebler and his strength wasted until
he was no longer able to rise from his couch of weariness and
pain. His love for nature now centred in an intense desire for
flowers, and a morbid craving for the autumn fruits, which his
fancy pictured as the adornments of a scene he should never
again behold. Then it was,—when death kept watch beside
his pillow,—that he found the voice he had so longed for; then
it was that his struggling feeling found utterance in the language
of poesy, and thus were his vain yearnings expressed

Bring flowers, fresh flowers, the fairest spring can yield,
The starry gems of earth, o’er every field
Scattered in rich display ;
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, around my dying bed
The sweetness of the sunny south to shed,
Ere I am called away.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers from every sheltered glade,—
I know the glory of their tints will fade

Beneath my feverish breath,
Yet their sweet smiles seem to my wandering thought
With promises of bliss and beauty fraught,

Winning my soul from death.

Bring flowers, fresh flowers,—ere they again shall bloom
I shall be lying in the narrow tomb,

Mouldering in cold decay :—
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, that I may cheer my heart
With pleasant images, ere I depart,

To tread death’s darksome way.

246 THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

Bring fruits, rich fruits, that blush on every bough,
Bending above the traveller's weary brow

And wooing him to taste :
Bring fruits,—methinks I never knew how sweet
The joys that every day our senses greet,

Till now, in life’s swift waste.

Bring fruits, rich fruits ; earth’s fairest gifts are vain
To minister relief to the dull pain

That weighs upon my heart ;
Yet bring me fruits and flowers,—they still have power
To cheer, if not prolong, life’s little hour :

Bring flowers ere I depart.

It was Katharine’s gentle hand which daily placed beside
him the flowers for which he pined ; it was she who watched
his failing strength of body, and who rejoiced in his awakening
powers of mind. In vain did the world claim her as its votary ;
she had found her true position, she had learned the joy of
ministry and she could stoop to no meaner pleasure. Love,
deep, deathless but pure as the heaven where alone it could hope
for the fulness of its reward, filled her whole heart. In the gay
scenes of worldly allurement, she had been cold, proud and
insensible to such affections. The gifted and the wealthy, the
graceful and the gay, had wooed her in the words of tenderness,
but her soul had uttered no response. Yet now, in the cham-
ber of sickness and death, her heart had given itself, unsought
and almost unappreciated, to the frail, feeble, suffering being
who looked up to her for comfort and sympathy in his hour of

trial.

THE DREAMER’S MISSION. 247

Ere the woods had grown brown and sere beneath the frosts
of winter, Horace Lee had resigned himself into the keeping
of death. Clasping in his thin fingers, a gorgeous wild-flower,—
the last lingerer in a sheltered dell, where Katharine had guard-
ed it with jealous care for his sake, and with his last look fixed
fondly upon the pale face of the beautiful maiden, he sunk into
the dreamless sleep of death. But in life’s latest hour the
horrors which had so shaken his spirit were chased like clouds
away. He was enabled to see the glories of spiritual life
gleaming through the half-opened portal of the tomb, and when
the grey ghastliness of life’s parting agony had passed away,
the smile upon his dead face was like the sweet look which
settles on the brow of an unweaned child as it slumbers on a
mother’s bosom.

Katharine still lives, and though age has silvered her brown
locks, and bowed her stately beauty, the influence of her daily
life is widely felt. A gentle, unobtrusive, but devoted christian,
her time and fortune have been given to all things good and
useful. Her love and her religion grew together within her
heart, and when death set his seal on her earthly affection, it
became a hallowed thing. ‘There were no unsatisfied cravings
in her bosom,—her soul found repose in its hopes of a fulness
of joy in that higher state of being, where she knew she should
find recognition. The image of Horace was inshrined within
her inmost heart, and no other shadow ever darkened the
threshold of that sanctuary.

Who will say that the short life of the dreaming and inactive
youth was wasted, when such was its result. Who will say

248 THE DREAMER’S MISSION.

that his mission was not accomplished when a high and noble
soul was rescued from the pursuit of a happiness lower than
itself? Who will dare question the wisdom of that Power,
which made the feeble mind to shed a light upon the gifted
soul,—which limited the sphere of usefulness to one, only that
it might be made more widely expansive to another ?

No—the pure in heart,—the good, the true, never live in
vain. Action may find a limit,—thought may be chained down
to earth, but the daily beauty of a life, leaves a rcmembrance
which like the subtle essence distilled from the rose, pervades
the whole atmosphere, and lends a portion of its sweetness to
many who have never looked upon the flower.

LILIUM PHILADELPHICUM—WOOD LILY.

LINN. CLASS, HEXANDRIA; ORDER, MONOGYNIA.
NATURAL ORDER, LILIACEA.

Tuis flower has no calyx: the corolla is inferior, liliaceous,
six-petalled : petals with a longitudinal line from the middle to
the base: stamens shorter than the style: stigma undivided:
capsule three-celled, many seeded, sub-triangular, with the
valve connected by hairs crossing as in a seive; leaves
whorled, lance-linear; corolla erect, bell-form, spreading ;
petals lanceolate, having claws. By some botanists the corolla
is termed a corolod calyx.

This bright and showy flower is found growing in meadows
and woods where the ground is moist, and blooms in the
months of July and August. It attains sometimes a height of
nearly three feet, although it seldom exceeds two feet. Its
chief attraction consists in the rich colors that adorn it, as the

perfume it emits is by no means agreeable.
32

250 VIEW OF THE FOUNTAIN AND AQUEDUCT.

VIEW OF THE FOUNTAIN AND AQUEDUCT, HARLEM RIVER.

Tue view represented in this plate mcludes the aqueduct
erected across the Harlem river, for the purpose of conveying
the waters of the Croton to the City of New York, together
with the Fountain which is situated a short distance above
the bridge. The aqueduct, or high bridge as it is usually
termed, is not yet completed, but when finished, it will present
the appearance shown in the plate. It is a most stupendous
work, as the following dimensions will prove, and will rival in
grandeur any of the works of the ancients. The height from
the foundation to the top of the work is upwards of one hun-
dred and fifty feet; the width across the top is twenty-one
feet. On the south shore of the river there is one arch of
fifty feet span; across the river there are eight arches, each
of eighty feet span ; and on the north side there are six arches
of fifty feet span; making altogether a range of fifteen arches.

Ata short distance from the aqueduct is seen the fountain,
throwing its glittering streams to the enormous height of one
hundred and sixteen feet from the surface of the river. It is
projected from an orifice of seven inches in diameter, and
excels, in point of elevation at least, any thing of the kind in
the world.

ERS WrO On) alah: We

RUSTIC BEAUTY,

THE RUSTIC MAIDEN’S LOVE.

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

[ came to thee in work-day dress.
And hair but plainly kempt ;
For life is not all holy-day
From toil and care exempt ;
I met thee oft with glowing cheek,
For love its tale will tell—
But then its after paleness told
A tale of grief as well,

I sought for no bewildering lure
Thy senses to beguile ;
But checked the woman playfulness,
The witching tone and smile—
With household look, and household words
And frank, as maidens greet,
I dared with earnest, homely truth
Thy manliness to meet.

202

THE WOOD LILY.

For oh! so much of truth was mine,
So much of love beside,
I would in simple maidenhood
Be thy own chosen bride ;—
Alas! the russet robe no more
Of rustic life may tell—
And thou dost say the velvet gear
Becomes my beauty well.

*T was thy dear hand upon my brow,
That bound each sparkling gem ;

But dearer far its slightest touch
Than all the wealth of them.

Oh! talk thou not of gorgeous robes
Nor bind the jewel there ;

And tell me not with those cold eyes,
That I am wondrous fair ;

I gave thee all, the soul’s high trust,
Its truth by sorrow tried—
Nay start not thus, what hast thou given ?
Alas ! ’tis but thy pride.
Oh! give me back the tenderness.
That blest my simple love,
And call me as in those dear days,
Thine own, thy gentle dove.

THE FOUNTAIN.

One of the grandest and most imposing results ever pro-
duced by human skill and enterprize, is the Croton Aqueduct ;
and one of the most sublime combinations of nature and art
to be found in the world, may be seen in the Croton Fountain
at Haarlem. If such a thing were in the vicinity of London,
or Paris, or Rome, it would be visited, and lauded, and painted,
and poetized by travellers of all kinds. But it is unfortunately
too near home. Those who have no migratory tastes never
think of visiting it, and those who have the organ of loco-
motion strongly marked, and who have “ swam in a gondola,”
scarce condescend to gaze upon a home-bred beauty.

I shall never forget my first view of this magnificent uplifting
of the waters. I had ridden out with a friend for the purpose
of seeing it, but found on my arrival that the display of
** water power” ceased with the sunset. We were too late,
and with a feeling of disappointment, which a true lover of the
picturesque will fully understand, we turned our horses’ heads
homewards. We had gone but a short distance, yet far
enough to lose sight of the river, and I involuntarily looked

254 THE FOUNTAIN.

back with a vague, half-regretful feeling, when a scene met my
eye which drew from me an exclamation of intense delight.
Rising slowly, and, as it seemed, coming from the very midst
of the shrubbery in the distance, (for the river was completely
hidden by a projecting bank,) we beheld the mass of snow-
white waters rising like a gigantic apparition. It continued to
ascend, impelled by no perceptible power, yet rising up and up
until it reached an immense height,—the waters preserving ina
singular manner their columnar form, until they attained almost
their greatest altitude, while, flung off from the translucent
and apparently unbroken pillar, was a heavy spray which wore
the appearance of the most exquisite net-work drapery. A
back-ground of dark trees, from which the sunshine had
vanished, leaving their summits crowned by those blended hues
of gold, and purple, and rose-color that linger so long upon
our summer skies ere they darken into evening’s sober grey,
gave the effect of contrast to this superb picture.

It was like a scene of enchantment. The silence, the soli-
tude, the sudden up-springing of that superb fountain, looking
so spectral or rather so spiritual in the soft mellow light of the
sunset hour,—the seeming absence of all human appliances in
the production of the magnificent spectacle,—all combined to
make it seize strongly upon the imagination.

That scene haunts me like a dream, though I know it to
have been a beautiful reality. We had probably been observed
by some person left in charge of the unfinished works at the
Aqueduct, who, sympathising in our disappointment as we

THE FOUNTAIN. 255

turned away, had simply unclosed the valve which freed the
imprisoned waters. A trifling act of human kindness could
explain away all the seeming magic of the scene, and perhaps
the very man to whom we were indebted for so much pleasure,
would have failed to comprehend the full value of his own act.
He certainly could not have imagined the grand effect of thus
beholding from a little distance, the gradual rising of the foun-
tain. The sounds of toil had ceased,—not a creature was
seen abroad,—the stillness which broods so peacefully over
wood-land haunts was unbroken by human voice. We saw no
mere human skill at work,—no iron pipes,—no line of aque-
duct,—nothing that reminded us of the labors of man. With a
deep, rushing, concentrated sound the waters lifted themselves,
notat once, but by repeated propulsions, as if their motions
were governed by the strong pulsations of some mighty heart
beneath the earth.

We thought of Undine, the gentle and the graceful,—of
Kuhleborn the impetuous and the stern ;—but the beautiful con-
ceptions of German fantasy were not grand enough for so
sublime a spectacle. We could frame no vision of a water-
sprite to dwell in such a pavilion of light. To no dream of
human fancy could we liken that silent, spontaneous upspring-
ing of the pure wave :—to no single image of a peopled brain
could we compare that high aspiration of the gently lapsing
river. It was like the uplifting of the gifted soul towards
God,—rising strong in its own might, fearless and enduring, as
if it would surely reach the Heaven it seeks, until at length,
wasted by the feeling which it gives out towards its kindred

256 THE FOUNTAIN.

humanity, it reaches only to the highest point of finite power,
and falls back broken to the earth from whence it rose ;—yet,
in its very fall, giving out freshness, and in its renewed aspira-
tions, teaching hope, and trust, and perseverance in high
things to those who watch its seeming aimlessness and wasted
strength.

THE END.