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EMMA C. E M B U m 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1844, by 

D. Appleton & Co., 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. 



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 lakes 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 


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. Whitefield. 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. 

Brooklyn, September 15, 1844. 


A Chapter on Flowers, - - - - - 9 

The American River, - - - - - 17 

The Sleep of Plants, - - Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 20 

Transplanted Flowers, - - - - -22 

Wild Honeysuckle — Description of Plate, - - 23 

Bonds of Love, 25 

Bertha, - - - - - - 27 

Stanzas, To ****** * .^ . . 41 

Fairy Flax and Crow-foot Geranium — Description of Plate, . 42 

The Flower of Innocence, - Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 45 

The Elfin Exile, - - - - - 47 

Stanzas, - - - - D. M. Burgh, 58 

Bellwort — Description of Plate, - - - 59 

The Omen, - - Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 61 

Early Asclepias — Description of Plate, - - - 65 

Sorrowful Remembrance, 67 

Love beyond the Grave, - - - - 68 

Wild Columbine — Description of Plate, ... 73 

Sonnet, - - - • Henry T. Tuckerman, 75 

Modern Constancy, 76 

To , - - - - - 88 

Slender-leaved Gerardia — Description of plate, - - 89 

Sympathy, - - - - - 91 

Faith and Love, - - Ernest Helfenstein, 92 

Remembered Love, - Henry T. Tuckerman, 106 

Blue-Eyed Grass — Description of Plate, ... 107 

Sensibility, ..... 109 


Broad-Leaved Laurel — Description of Plate, 

The Wild Laurel, - 

The Vengeance of Uncas, 

True Greatness, 
Prince's Pine — Description of Plate, 

The Mourner's Appeal, 

Adder's Tongue Violet — Description of Plate, 

Sonnet, ... 

Ma-ma-twa and Mo-na-wing, - 
Hare-Bell and Lespedzea — Description of Plate, 

Answered Love, 

Pollipell's Island, 
Wild Rose — Description of Plate, 

The Rose-Leaf ; To , 

The Village Girl, - 
Brook-Lime — Description of Plate, - 


Records of a Heart, 

The Eolian Harp, - 
Eye-Bright — Description of Plate, - 



The Poetic Impulse, 
Wild Strawberry — Description of Plate, 

Sonnet, - 

The Strawberry Party, 

Azure Star Flower — Description of Plate, 

A Forest Legend, 
Cardinal Flower — Description of Plate, 

Offered Love, 

The Proud Ladye, 
Yellow Star Grass — Description of Plate, 


The Dreamer's Mission, 
Wood Lily — Description of Plate, - 

The Rustic Maiden to her Lover, 

The Fountain, - 

C. F. Hoffman, 

Ernest Helfenstein, 

Henry T. Tuckerman, 
C. F. Hoffman, 

Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 

Henry T. Tuckerman, 

C. F. Hoffman, 

Elizabeth Oakes Smith, 









































Frontispiece. — Falling Spring and Dial Mountain, at the head of 

Wyoming Valley, Pa. 
The Wild Honeysuckle. — Fall on Buttermilk Creek, Pa. : : : 24 
Fairy Flax, and Crow-Foot Geranium. — Passaic Falls, New Jersey. 44 
Bellwort. — View near the city of Hudson, New York, : : : 60 
Early Asclepias — Otsego Lake, New York, : : : : : 66 
Wild Columbine. — Matanga Fall, Pennsylvania, : : : : 74 
Slender-leaved Gerardia. — View near Fort Montgomery, : : 90 
Blue-Eyed Grass. — View on the Hudson, near Verplanck's Point, : 108 
Broad-Leaved Laurel. — Y antic Falls, Norwich, Conn., : : : 114 
Prince's Pine. — View near Poughkeesie, :::::: 130 
Adder's Tongue Violet. — View near Tioga Point, Pennsylvania, : 136 
Hare-Bell and Lespedeza. — Upper Entrance of the Highlands, : : 150 
The Wild Rose. — View on Staten Island, : : ; : : 164 
Brook-Lime. — Distant View of Albany, :::::: 176 
Eye Bright. — View from Constitution Island, opposite West Point, 190 
Wild Strawberry. — Distant View of Cattawissa, Pennsylvania, : 204 
Azure Star Flower, — View on the Susquehanna, near Nineveh, : 218 

Cardinal Flower. — Outlet of Fishkill Creek, : : : : 224 

Yellow Star Grass. — View on the Juniata, Pennsylvania, : : 234 

Wood Lily. — High Bridge and Croton Fountain at Haarlem, N. Y. 250 


" With 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." 


Flowers ! 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- 


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 arc 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 beliind, 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 


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 


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 
gravity 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. 


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, 

As if 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 ? 


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 volume in an unknown tongue, instead of being a wide 

* Dr. Dewev. 


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 in 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, they 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. 


" 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 !" 


It 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 ; 


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, 


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 Eternity, is found, 

The river rushing on. 



The 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, 
" It is'nt time to go to bed till the Acacia goes to sleep." 
Linnaeus 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. 


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. 


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 
'Twas 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 1 



This 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- 


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, into 
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. 



' ^ •'•>, 



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. 


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. 

Much, 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 


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 in 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 


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 


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 desii-e 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, 


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 efface ; — 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 jhem, that it needed no great skill in hu- 
man nature to decide upon the character of her affection. She 


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 fiutter'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 pined 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 useless 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 


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 wpre 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 

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 


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. On a 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 


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 felt as 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 


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. 


" It 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 for a 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 


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 


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 aspiring 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. 


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 

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. 

" I 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. 



I will 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 chrulea-innocence or fairy flax. 


The 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, 


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. 




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 light 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. 


These Falls, long known and celebrated for their picturesque 
beauty, are in the immediate vicinity of Patterson, a flourishing 
manufacturing village in Eaaex 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- 


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. 



It comes when wakes the pleasant spring, 
When first the earth is green, — 

Four white or pale blue leaves it hath, 
With yellow heart between. 

It 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. 


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. 


"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 


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 


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- 


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 lese majeste ; 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 recov- 
ered from her fit of ill 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 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 coining 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. 


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 


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 of a 
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 


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 


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 in 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 instant 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- 


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 ?" 


" 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." 




►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 1 

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. 



The 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, 


oval, obtuse ; corol-bell liliaceous, scabrous or granular within ; 
anthers cuspidate. 


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. 

v-' 1 







' . 





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 ? 


" 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? 


There was a ditch — 'twas dark and broad- 
With black and sluggish tide. 

" It 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. 

" I 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 V 


" Come, tell me, child, the sun is high — 
Do chills oppress thee now ?" 

The boy glanced wistfully about 
The damp and gloomy place, 

Then at the warm bright sun without, 
Then in the old mans face. 

A moment shook his wasted frame 

As by a palsy touch — 
The boy, half-whispering, nearer came — 

" I'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. 



The 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 eighteen inches in 

The petals are five, reflexed ; nectaries five, concave, erect, 
containing little horns ; each stamen with a pair of pendulous 


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 Asclepidas 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. 


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- 



■ *:• 




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 ! 


" Lilian ! 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 


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 into 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 


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 1 

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 

" 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, 


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, 


It 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, lii't up the head 
To meet the Birthday of the Sainted Dead !" 

Note. — The foregoing touching lines 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. 



This 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 j 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 


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 



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 

-I £«fr 


■'"■" ■ 






And why, 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. 


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 


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- 
pillotes, — 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. 


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 
liealthy appetite made her continually forget her fasting, her 
cheeks retained their roses, and her well-rounded figure was as 
(dump 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 

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 


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 

" Pshaw, Fanny : every body would love you if you would 
only lay aside your mopish notions, and as for an early grave, 


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 provoked 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 


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 


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 


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- 
lieve 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. 


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 ?" 

" In Liverpool, — she wanted to find a husband, and I was 
kind enough to assist her." 


" 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 


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 


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 

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." 


Thou 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 ? 



This is an exceedingly delicate and graceful flower, bloom- 
ing in the 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 

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 


The view accompanying this plate was taken from Fort 
Montgomery, looking towards the north-east. The most 


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 tho 
surrounding surface. 



Like 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. 



" The soul is the essence of a man ; and you cannot have the true man 
against his inclination." — Sir Walter 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 


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 

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 in his 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. 


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 V " 

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. 


" 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-stains 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, and 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 


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 


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 



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 

" 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 
balo 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 


" I 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 

" 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 


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 ?' 

" I smiled at a spiritualism I scarcely believed real. 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.' 

" I 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 I, but half awakened to a sublime sympathy, was to be at 


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 


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 

" 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 


often oppressed her, might be only the strugglings for the 

" It 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. 


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 


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. 



Recall 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. 



This 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, Irideae; 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. 



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 



"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 ; 


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 pining 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 


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 


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. 



The 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. 



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. 

'•, -.«■■■ 





Believe 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, 
Nannabozhof 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." 

t For the aboriginal myth of Nannabozho, see Schoolcraft's works. Also, " Wild Scenes of 
the Forest and Prairie." 


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. 

t The high peak of the Adirondachs. 


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. 


" 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." — Haixeck. 

Among 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 


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 
homesteads 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 


deep and firm foundations upon the earth, occupying place and 
not filling empty space ; Avith 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 the soft 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 


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 suffering 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 


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 


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 


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 


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," 
(I use 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 


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- 


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. 


Aye, men may boast of conquerors, and tell 

Of trophies that adorned a Caesar'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. 



The 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. 



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 
a mile 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 a s a familiar sight 
to any one at all conversant with the Hudson River. 





Flowers, 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 ; 


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. 


Oh ! 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 idol 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. 



The 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 

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. 


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


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. 





Alas ! for he who loves, too oft may be 

Like one who hath a precious treasure sealed 
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. 



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


Mo-na-wing 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 


XL -fv . £*\ 


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 

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, 


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 


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. 


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 arrow 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 


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 


she determined to win him from his gentle unstress. 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 ; 


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. 


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- 
uitto'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 the 
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 


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 in a 
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 


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." 



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. 



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


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. 


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. 



love's music. 


Life'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. 



" I 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." 


The 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 
Pollipell. 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 


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 Hudson without hearing of the island of 
Pollipelx ? 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. 

PolIipelPs 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 


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 moreover — 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 
Newhurgh 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 


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 

" I 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 thai it will hardly trouble us 


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, docs 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. 


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 


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 early 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 


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 


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 
Ot-nc-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 Chemanitou, 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. 

•j- See " Wild Scenes of the Forest and Prairie." 


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 Pollipell, 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 


surmise that no beings, unless endowed with the strength thai 
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. 



The 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. 



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 

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. 

4 I 







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. 


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. 


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 


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 

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. 


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 

with them in the city of . The orphan gladly accepted 

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 ; 



while they regarded her with a 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 canvass ; 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 


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 


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, I am going home ;" says she. 

" What do you mean Kate ?" 

" I 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 


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 


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


" 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 
Leigh ton, 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. 



This 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 

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, Scrophulariae, the 
members of which are distinguished for being acrid poisonous, 
and anti-scorbutic. 



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 light 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 







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 nourish 
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. 



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. 


There 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 straggles of the soul yearning for sympathy and love. And 


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 


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 gratifying 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- 


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 ? — 

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. 


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 


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 may est 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 happiness 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 : 


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 ? 
Poof Marguerite, her heart had awakened to the glad morning 



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, 
E'en if a wish could give me all 

I sought in days of yore. 


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 ? 


Harp 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. 



This 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. 


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


This 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. 




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, 


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. 



" 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. 



a woman whose original graces of mind, and literary acquire- 
ments, might have well qualified her to present the characteris- 
tics ot* 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, quaintncss 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 Metowac, 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- 
Brisht ! 


It is well known that Chemanitou 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. 


Cheraanitou 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 <>l 
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. 


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. 


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. 


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 Gha-Nieu, 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." 


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 


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, light-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 Eye-bright was thus 
the birth of tears ; but such tears as are the heralds of cheer- 

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 


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 GreatSpirit 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. 



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. 



The 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 Rosacea? are noted for 
being astringent, febrifuge, and refrigerant. 



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 is in some other parts of the 




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. 


I have 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 Fanny 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 


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 : 

'Twas 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 


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 blosr 
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 in a 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 wftit 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, 
be<mn 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 


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 


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 


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 I am 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. 


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 on a 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." 


" I 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 thine off" 
her rich shawl and placed it in his 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. 


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. 


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 
strons 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. 


" The remembrance of youth is a sigh." 

Arabic Proverb. 

Alas ! 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 V 

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." 



The 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. 


The Susquehanna, the " winding river," of the Indian, no 
longer re-echoes to his hunting cry or battle shout. Long 



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. Tbese 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. 



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. 


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. 


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, 

Still 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, 
As if 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. 


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. 




This 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 

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


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


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 Newburs. 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. 



'.. ■ , 





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." 


What 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 


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 like 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- 


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 


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 


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 


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 
light 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 at a 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 


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.' 



This 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. 



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


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. 





" Lady Bell. — When I am sad I commune with the stars." — old plav. 

Oh ! tell not the stars, the free scars, 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 lender 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. 


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 


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 


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 rilled 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. 


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 look with the clear eye of 
Faith, we can behold much to satisfy the doubts and fears of 


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, 


— 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. Few women learn to reason until 
long after they have been taught to weep. 


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 inexpressibly 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, — 


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 j.s hot 


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 


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. 


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 


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 


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 « membrance 
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. 



This 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. 




The view represented in this plate includes the aqueduct 
erected across the Hartem 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. 

At a 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. 

I * 

fir * \it 







I 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. 


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. 

'Twas 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. 


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 


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 in a 
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 


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, 
not at 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 


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