HAMET, A TALE

ANONYMOUS

N the delightful region of Arabia the Happy, that country so dear to the shepherd Hamet. He was born on the side of a mountain which is seen to rise abruptly from the ocean, and whose rocky base often resounds to the waves, as they break in idle fury at its foot. Here, occupied in the care of his flocks, that were often seen by the mariner skipping with airy levity from rock to rock, Hamet tasted all those solid enjoyments which health and nature ever bestow. He drank the water as it rolled in crystalline purity from the hillside; his food was gathered by his own hand from its parent tree; Content was the companion of his daily rambles; and Health watched every night over his slumbers.

Happy if Hamet had been permitted to enjoy the pleasures of his lot. But one of those malignant genii who are always on the watch to thwart the happiness of the followers of the Prophet, and look with envious eyes on those enjoyments they are forever debarred from tasting, infused into his mind a feeling of disgust which, gaining strength from indulgence, at length poisoned every moment of his life. Hamet was taught to believe that the life he led, in comparison with that of those who lived at a distance, in the cities, was desolate and forlorn, and precluded from those ravishing delights which constitute the true charm of existence. This thought, cherished for a time, at length generated a repining spirit: every hour increased his discontent; and now his only pleasure consisted in indulging his imagination in sketching exaggerated and fantastic pictures of every untried mode of life, and of every enjoyment that was out of his reach.

One evening he sat on a jutting rock, that projected far into the sea, indulging in those dear but fatal reveries, and listening to the dashing of the waves which, returning at regular intervals, increased his abstraction, and threw over his soul an exquisite feeling of musing melancholy. Here, while wrapt in visionary pleasures, his eye was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a little island, that seemed just risen from the depths of the ocean, with all the freshness and bloom of youth. It appeared like a new Eden, floating upon the waves. Orange, citron, and all the spicy growth of the East flourished luxuriantly on its borders, that gracefully sloped down. to the level of the sea; and as the breeze passed, lingering over the flowery meads and vocal groves, it gathered a thousand odors, and wafted the melody of a thousand birds. Hamet gazed on this scene, over which the

From The Port Folio, August, 1812.

last rays of the sun threw a glorious luster, with a pleasure that thrilled to his heart. He stretched forth his trembling hands to grasp the distant blessing, and exclaimed with youthful enthusiasm, "Happy, thrice happy, O fair island! must be the shepherds that sport in thy green fields, and rest in thy spicy groves. The toil of ascending the rugged precipice, of pursuing their flocks over flinty rocks, and through briery dells, is unknown to them; for their path is over genial plains, enameled with flowers, while mine" As he said this, Hamet turned towards the rude and barren hills of his nativity, and contemplated them with increasing disgust.

He remained with his eyes riveted towards the happy island until it vanished in the mists of evening; and, when he could no longer discern a vestige of its existence, he returned, disconsolate and miserable, to the simple home of his parents.

Every day Hamet came and placed himself on the spot whence he had first caught a view of the little island, and there indulged his glowing fancy in a thousand dangerous and delusive reveries. As he contemplated its beautifully fringed borders, his horror of his native home, and his disgust for the sober enjoyments of real life increased every hour, and every night he returned with his flocks diminished.

One morning, as he sat on the accustomed spot, musing, as usual, on the possibility of passing over to this delightful region, a little painted boat, gaily and fantastically decorated with flowers, floated towards him, and bounded ashore just at his foot. It was guided by a female of exquisite beauty. Her figure was so light and ethereal that she seemed self-balanced in the air. Her face was marked with an expression so singularly, yet so beautifully wild, and there was such an inexpressible grace in every motion, that the heart of the delighted and amazed youth was ravished with transport. In tones sweeter than echo, and more seducing than the voice of whispered love, she addressed him: "Hamet, I have seen and sympathized in thy regrets, and am come to relieve them. Follow me, and exchange this dull and dreary abode for one where nature and man are dressed in smiles of immortal beauty. All that thy imagination has painted of happiness shall be thine, and all that experience has shown thee of misery shall be excluded." Saying this, she extended her hand, and clasped that of the eager Hamet. At that touch a thrill of trembling transport darted through his frame, and struck at his heart. The sensation was like that of the youthful genius when touched by the finger of Fancy; he feels the inspiration of the divinity, and pours forth a torrent of glowing thoughts that secure him immortality.

The little painted boat carried the young adventurer and his guide with inconceivable swiftness, and in a few minutes they approached the island. The nearer they came, the more transcendent appeared its beauties; and, when they arrived at the fringed border, a troop of nymphs, clothed in all the splendors of the rainbow, advanced to welcome Hamet, and chant the glories of their queen. They sung the praises of Fancy, and the happiness of those who live under her enchanting reign. "Here, in this chosen retreat, the pale form of Misery never disturbs the blissful dreams of the happy subjects of the empire of Imagination. Here, free from the

inexorable tyranny of dull reality, they sport in flowery regions of everblooming beauty, while round their brows float airy forms of love and rapture. Here the sad soul, sated with sensual joys, or pressed down with a load of worldly cares, will find a refuge, where suffering is divested of its pangs, and joy comes to the soul unclogged with those attendants which, in the real world, turn it into all the bitterness of sorrow. Hither, O mortal! turn thy erring and doubtful steps, for here only wilt thou find that heaven which is fabled in the skies!" Hamet listened to this delusive rhapsody with breathless impatience, and, falling at the feet of his conductor, thanked her for having at length brought him to a spot that realized all his anticipations.

Conducted by his charming guide, he wandered about through all the mazes of visionary enchantment, and his senses became bewildered in a tumult of delight. It seemed as if nature had selected this little region from the whole world, to display the charms, the wonders, and the powers of her creative hand. The grass was greener and more luxuriant than was ever seen, and softer than Persian silk. Groves of myrtle, orange, and citron, whose branches intertwined in social harmony, foliaged the landscape, and the birds that sung in these delightful shades were birds of paradise, whose plumage and whose song are the delight of the immortals. Beautiful transparent streams meandered, in graceful curves, among the meadows, and with their low murmuring lulled the heart of Hamet, which was tumultuous with admiration, into a feeling of languid felicity, more luxurious than all his former sensations. The air too possessed a seductive power, whose balmy influence disposed the mind to reverie and, while it relaxed the body to a state of delicious lassitude, quickened the imagination into the most glowing conceptions. At length, having exhausted himself in wandering and admiring, Hamet laid himself down at the foot of a spreading tree, at whose root ran a little gurgling stream, and fell asleep.

When he awoke he, for the first time since his abode in the happy island, felt a sensation of hunger; for, though the imagination sometimes conquers our reason, it cannot overcome the wants of our nature. The visionary who wastes his time in the indulgence of idle abstraction, and permits his fancy to transport him whither she pleases, will soon be brought to the sense of suffering reality by some of those inevitable wants which are the common lot of humanity. Seeing the oranges waving luxuriantly above his head, Hamet stretched out his arm, and essayed to pluck one from its branch; but it eluded his grasp. He tried another, and a third; but still, as his hand approached, they vanished from his view. In wonder and disappointment he contemplated the delusion, and, faint with hunger. laid himself down, to slake his thirst in the stream that murmured at his feet. As he approached his lips towards it the water retired, and, though its murmurs still continued, the bottom became dry. A dire and horrible apprehension that his senses had been deluded now rushed over his mind, and the prospect of starving in the lap of seeming plenty struck a cold damp upon his heart. In hopeless distraction he wandered through vocal groves and verdant valleys, in search of something to alleviate his wants; but, wherever he came, the fruits eluded his grasp, and the waters vanished under his lips.

At length, faint, weary and exhausted, he arrived at the spot where he first landed, and, sinking down to the ground, waited, in gloomy and hopeless resignation, the consummation of his fate. As his last hour approached, raising himself with a desperate effort, he beheld afar off the smoke of his native cottage curling above the blue hills, and presenting an image of peaceful tranquillity. The thought of his youthful home, now forever forsaken of his aged parents, now forever abandoned -- of their tenderness in his boyhood, and their sorrow for his loss, came over his soul, and darkened it with gloomy horror.

The wretched being who is suffering the penalty of his imprudence or his crimes seldom places it to the charge of his own weakness or wickedness, but rails against the disastrous chance that allured, or the vile tempter that persuaded him to err. So Hamet; he cursed the airy and deceitful being that had seduced him to destruction, and, in the bitterness of unjust crimination, impiously dared to arraign the holy Prophet himself. In the midst of his complaints the figure that guided the little boat again appeared. She was still gay and beautiful, but to the eye of Hamet she seemed a deformed and malignant being. "Hamet," said she, "I, who listened to the complaints of thy erring and querulous spirit, when enjoying, on yonder mountain, as high a state of happiness as is consistent with the nature of thy frail being, have heard the wailings of thy misery, and the reproaches of thy despair. Blame not, O wretched mortal! the decrees of the Most High, for thy own discontented spirit was thy ruin - nor load me with reproach, for thou voluntarily deliveredst thyself into my power. Hadst thou not murmured at thy situation, and slighted thy comforts, because thou thoughtest those of others greater, my spells would have had no power, and my influence could not have harmed thee. Know, Hamet, that there is no other happiness in this world than a contented mind, and no misery but a repining and discontented spirit." So saying, she vanished from his view; and when in the evening the last rays of the setting sun vanished from the high hills of his youth, the spirit and the body of Hamet parted forever.

RIP VAN WINKLE

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER

BY WASHINGTON IRVING (1783-1859)

By Woden, God of Saxons,

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday,

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep

Unto thylke day in which I creep into

My sepulchre.-CARTWRIGHT.

The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm.

The result of these researches was a history of the province during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority.

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby in his own way; and, though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbours, and grieve the spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk whose good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.

WH

HOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river,

From The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent (1819-20), by Washington Irving; May, 1819.