صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

friend, expecting she would come out to meet me, but I found she was not able to do so; and, when I saw her, I was struck with the thought that she would never living leave the house again. She was at first overcome at meeting me, but, after a few moments, she wiped away her tears and talked cheerfully. "I hoped," she said, "my journey would have done me good, but I think it has been too much for me; I have so longed to get back to father's house, and to look over these hills once more: and though I am weak and sick, words can't tell how contented I feel; I sit in this chair and look out of this window, and feel as a hungry man sitting down to a full table. "Look there," she continued, pointing to a cherry-tree before the window, "do you see that robin? ever since I can remember, every year a robin has had a nest in that tree. I used to write to father and inquire about it when I was gone; and when he wrote to me, in the season of bird-nesting, he always said something about the robins; so that this morning, when I heard the robin's note, it seemed to me like the voice of one of the family." "Have you taught your children, Mary," I asked, all the other cocks in regular battle, who cares for "to love birds as well as flowers?"

materials for building, straw by straw and feather by feather; for, as I suppose all little people know, birds line their nests with some soft material, feathers, wool, shreds, or something of the sort that will feel smooth and comfortable to the little unfledged birds. Strange, is it not, that a bird should know how to build its nest and prepare for housekeeping! How, think you, did it learn? who teaches it? Some birds work quicker and more skilfully than others. A friend of mine who used to rear canaries in cages, and who observed their ways accurately, told me there was as much difference between them as between housewives. Some are neat and quick, and others slatternly and slow. Those who have not observed much are apt to fancy that all birds of one kind, for instance, that all hens are just alike; but each, like each child in a family, has a character of its own. One will be a quiet, patient little body, always giving up to its companions; and another for ever fretting, fluttering, and pecking. I know a little girl who names the fowls in her poultry-yard according to their characters. A lordly fellow who has beaten

"I believe it is natural to them,” she replied; "but | I suppose they take more notice of them from seeing how much I love them. I have not had much to give my children, for we have had great disappointments in the new countries, and have been what are called very poor folks; so I have been more anxious to give them | what little knowledge I had, and to make them feel that God has given them a portion in the birds and the flowers, his good and beautiful creation."

"Mother always says,” said Lyman; and there, seeming to remember that I was a stranger, he stopped. "What does mother always say?" I asked.

"She says we can enjoy looking out upon beautiful prospects, and smelling the flowers, and hearing the birds sing, just as much as if we could say 'they are

mine !! "

"Well, is it not just so?" said Mrs. Lyman; "has not our Father in heaven given his children a share in all his works? I often think, when I look out upon the beautiful sky, the clear moon, the stars, the sunset clouds, the dawning day; when I smell the fresh woods and the perfumed air; when I hear the birds sing, and my heart is glad, I think, after all, that there is not so much difference in the possessions of the rich and poor as some think; 'God giveth to us all liberally, and withholdeth not." "

“Ah!" thought I, "the Bible says truly, as a man thinketh, so is he.' Here is my friend, a widow and poor, and with a sickness that she well knows must end in death, and yet, instead of sorrowing and complaining, she is cheerful and enjoying those pleasures that all may enjoy if they will; for the kingdom of nature abounds with them. Mrs. Bradly was a disciple of Christ; this was the foundation of her peace; but, alas, all the disciples of Christ do not cultivate her wise, cheerful, and grateful spirit."

I began with the story of the robin-family on the cherry-tree, and I must adhere to that. I went often to see my friend, and I usually found her in her favorite seat by the window. There she delighted to watch, with her children, the progress of the little lady-bird that was preparing for her young. She collected her

nobody's rights, and seems to think that all his companions were made to be subservient to him, she calls Napoleon. A pert, handsome little coxcomb, who spends all his time in dressing his feathers and strutting about the yard, is named Narcissus. Bessie is a young hen, who, though she seems very well to understand her own rights, is a general favorite in the poultry-yard. Other lively young fowls are named after favorite cousins, as Lizzy, Susy, &c. But the best loved of all is one called “Mother,” because she never seems to think of herself, but is always scratching for others; because, in short, she is, in this respect, like that best, kindest, and dearest of parents, the mother of our little mistress of the poultry-yard.

To return to the robin. She seemed to be of the quietest and gentlest, minding her own affairs, and never meddling with other people's; never stopping to gossip with other birds, but always intent on her own work. In a few days the nest was done, and four eggs laid in it. The faithful mother seldom left her nest. Her mate, like a good husband, was almost always to be seen near her. Lyman would point him out to me as he perched on a bough close to his little lady, where he would sit and sing most sweetly. Lyman and I used to guess what his notes might mean. Lyman thought he might be relating what he saw when he was abroad upon the wing, his narrow escapes from the sportsman's shot, and from the stones which the thoughtless boy sends, breaking a wing or a leg, just to show how he can hit. I thought he might be telling his little wife how much he loved her, and what good times they would have when their children came forth from the shells. It was all guesswork, but we could only guess about such matters, and I believe there is more thought in all the animal creation than we dream of.

Once, when he had been talking in this playful way, Lyman's mother said, "God has ever set the solitary birds in families. They are just like you, children; better off and happier for having some one to watch over them and provide for them. Sometimes they lose both their parents, and then the poor little birds must perish; but it is not so with children; there are always some to take pity on orphan children, and, besides, they

can make up, by their love to one another, for the love they have lost."

I saw Lyman understood his mother; his eyes filled with tears, and, putting his face close to hers, he said, "Oh no, mother! they never can make it up; it may help them to bear it."

When the young birds came out of their shells it was our pleasure to watch the parents feeding them. Sometimes the father-bird would bring food in his bill, and the mother would receive it and give it to her young. She seemed to think, like a good, energetic mother, that she ought not to sit idle and let her husband do all the providing, and she would go forth and bring food for the young ones, and then a pretty sight it was to see them stretch up their little necks to receive it.

"Is it not strange," said Lyman to me, “that any one can begrudge birds their small portion of food? They are all summer singing for us, and I am sure it is little to pay them to give them what they want to eat. I believe, as mother says, God has provided for them as well as for us, and mother says she often thinks they deserve it better, for they do just what God means them to do." It was easy to see that Lyman had been taught to consider the birds, and therefore he loved them.

Our attention was, for some days, taken off the birds. The very night after the robin's death, my friend, in a fit of coughing, burst a blood vessel. Lyman came for me early the next morning. She died before evening. I shall not now describe the sorrow and the loss of the poor children. If any one who reads this has lost a good mother, he will know, better than I can tell, what a grief it is; and, if his mother be still living, I pray him to be faithful, as Lyman was, so that he may feel as Lyman did when he said, "Oh, I could not bear it if I had not done all I could for mother!"

Our eyes were one day fixed on the little family. Both parents were perched on the tree. Two young men from the village, who had been out sporting, were passing along the road. "I'll bet you a dollar, Tom," said one of them, "I'll put a shot into that robin's head." "Done!" said the other; and done it was for The day after the funeral I went to see the children. our poor little mother. Bang went the gun, and down As I was crossing the field and walking beside the little to the ground, gasping and dying, fell the bird. My brook I have mentioned, I saw Sam Sibley loitering poor friend shut her eyes and groaned; the children along. Sam is an idle boy, and, like all idle boys I burst out into cries and lamentations; and, I must ever knew, mischievous. Sam was not liked in the confess, I shed some tears-I could not help it. We village; and, if you will observe, you will see that those ran out and picked up the dead bird, and lamented over children who are in the habit of pulling off flies' wings, it. The young man stopped, and said he was very throwing stones at birds, beating dogs, and kicking sorry; that if he had known we cared about the bird horses, are never loved; such children cannot be, for he would not have shot it; he did not want it; he only those that are cruel to animals will not care for the shot to try his skill. I asked him if he could not as feelings of their companions. well have tried his skill by shooting at a mark. "Certainly!" he answered, and laughed, and walked on. Now I do not think this young man was a monster, or any such thing, but I do think that, if he had known as much of the habits and history of birds as Lyman did, he would not have shot this robin at the season when it is known they are employed in rearing their young, and are enjoying a happiness so like what human beings feel; nor, if he had looked upon a bird as a member of God's great family, would he have shot it, at any season, just to show his skill in hitting a mark. We have no right to abate innocent enjoyment nor inflict unnecessary and useless pain.*

The father-bird, in his first fright, darted away, but he soon returned and flew round and round the tree, uttering cries which we understood as if they had been words; and then he would flutter over the nest, and the little motherless birds stretched up their necks and answered with feeble, mournful sounds. It was not long that he stayed vainly lamenting. The wisdom God had given him taught him that he must not stand still and suffer, for there is always something to do; aI lesson that some human beings are slow to learn. So off he flew in search of food; and from that moment, as Lyman told me, he was father and mother to the little ones; he not only fed them, but brooded over them just as the mother had done; a busy, busy life he had of it.

Lord Byron somewhere says, that he was so much moved by seeing the change from life to death in a bird he had shot, that he could never shoot another. I may lay myself open to the inculcation of a mawkish and unnecessary tenderness, but

At a short distance from the brook there was a rocky mound, and shrubbery growing around it, and an old oak-tree in front of it. The upper limbs of the oak were quite dead. Sam had his hand full of pebbles, and, as he loitered along, he threw them in every direc tion at the birds that lighted on the trees and fences. Luckily for the birds, Sam was a poor marksman, as he was poor in everything else; so they were unhurt till, at length, he hit one perched on the dead oak. As Sam's stone whistled through the air, Lyman started from behind the rocks, crying, “Oh, don't—it's our robin !'” He was too late; our robin fell at his feet; he took it up and burst into tears. He did not reproach Sam; he was too sorry to be angry. As I went up to him he said, in a low voice, "Everything I love dies!" I did not reply, I could not. "How sweetly," resumed Lyman," he sung only last night, after we came home from the burying-ground, and this morning the first sound Mary and I heard was his note; but he will never sing again!"

Sam had come up to us. I saw he was ashamed, and believe he was sorry too; for, as he turned away, I heard him say to himself, "By George! I'll never fling another stone at a bird so long as I live.”

It must have done something towards curing his bad habits to see the useless pain he had caused to the bird and the bird's friend; and the lesson sank much deeper than if Lyman had spoken one angry or reproachful word, for now he felt really sorry for Lyman. One good feeling makes way for another.

To our great joy, the robin soon exhibited some

I believe a respect to the rights and happiness of the defenceless signs of animation; and, on examination, I perceived

always does a good work upon the heart.

he had received no other injury than the breaking of a

leg. A similar misfortune had once happened to a caWhere erst I roam'd delighted, deeming earth nary-bird of mine, and I had seen a surgeon set its leg; With all its wealth, had nought so beautiful, so, in imitation of the doctor, I set to work and splinted As its trim hedge of roses, and the ranks it, and then despached Lyman for an empty cage in our Of daffodils, with snow-drops at their feet, garret. We moved the little family from the tree to How small and chang'd, it seems!—That velvet turf the cage. The father-bird, even with the young ones, With its cool arbor, where I lingered long, felt strange and unhappy for some time. It was a very Learning my little lesson, or perchance, different thing living in this pent-up place from enjoying | Eying the slowly-ripening peach, that lean'd the sweet liberty of hill and valley, and he did not know Its glowing cheek against the lattic'd wall,— our good reason for thus afflicting him any better than we Or holding converse with the violet-buds, sometimes do of our troubles when we impatiently fret That were to me as sisters,-giving back and grieve. In a short time he became more contented. Sweet thoughts. I would not wish to sit there now! The family said he knew Lyman's footstep, and would | Changes, 'mid scenes that we so much have lov'd, reply to his whistle; sure am I Lyman deserved his Are death-bells to the soul. love and gratitude, for he was the faithful minister of Providence to the helpless little family. They never wanted food nor drink. When, at the end of a very few weeks, he found them all able to take care of themselves, he opened the door of the cage and said, "Go, little birds, and be happy, for that is what God made you for."

The birds could speak no word of praise or thanks; but happiest are those who find their best reward, not in the praise they receive, but the good they do.

VISIT TO THE NATIVE PLACE.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

Bright summer's Aush was on thee, clime belov'd,
When last I trod thy vales. Now, all around,
Autumn, her rainbow-energy of tint
Poureth o'er copse and forest,-beautiful,
Yet speaking of decay. The aspiring pine
Wears his undying green, but the strong oak
Like smitten giant, casts his honors down,
Strewing brown earth, with emerald and gold.
Yon lofty elms, the glory of our land,

So lately drooping 'neath their weight of leaves,
With proud, yet graceful elegance, to earth,
Stand half in nakedness, and half in show
Of gaudy colors. Hath some secret shaft
Wounded the maple's breast ?—that thus it bends
Like bleeding warrior, tinging all its robes
With crimson,-while in pity by its side,
The pallid poplar, turning to the eye

Its silver lining, moans at every breeze.

I walk'd with sadness thro' these alter'd scenes.

The voice of man was painful. On the ear,
Idly and vain it fell,—for tearful thought
Brought faded images of early joys,
And lost affections.

Yonder low-brow'd cot,
Whose threshold oft my childish foot has cross'd
So merrily,-whose hearth-stone shone so bright,
At eve,-where with her skilful needle wrought
The industrious matron, while our younger group
Beguil'd with fruit and nuts, and storied page,
The winter's stormy hour,-where are they now?
Who coldly answers,—dead?

Fast by its side,

A dearer mansion stands, where my young eyes
First opened on the light. Yon garden's bound,

See, by rude cliffs
O'ercanopied,—the dome, where science taught
Her infant rudiments. First day of school!
I well remember thee,—just on the verge
Of my fourth summer. Every face around,
How wonderful and new! The months mov'd on,
Majestically slow. Awe-struck, I mark'd
The solemn school-dame, in her chair of state,
Much fearing, lest her all-observant eye
Should note me, wandering from my patch-work task,
Or spelling-lesson. Still, that humble soil
Lent nutriment to young ambition's germs:
"Head of the class !" what music in that sound,
Link'd to my name-and then, the crowning joy,
Homeward to bear, on shoulder neatly pinn'd,
The bow of crimson satin, rich reward
Of well-deserving, not too lightly won,
Or worn too meekly. Still, ye need not scorn
Our ancient system, ye, of modern times,
Wiser, and more accomplish'd. Learning's field,
Indeed, was circumscribed,—but its few plants
Had such close pruning, and strict discipline,
As giveth healthful root,-and hardy stalk,-
Perchance, enduring fruit.

Beneath yon roof,

1

Our own no more,--beneath my planted trees,
Where unfamiliar faces now appear,
She dwelt, whose hallow'd welcome was so dear,➡
O Mother, Mother!--all thy priceless love
Is fresh before me,-as of yesterday.
Thy pleasant smile,--the beauty of thy brow,
Thine idol fondness, for thine only one,-
The untold tenderness, with which thy heart
Embrac'd my first-born infant, when it came
With its young look of wonder,—to thy home
A stranger visitant. Fade!-visions, fade !—
For I would think of thine eternal rest,
And praise my God for thee.

And now, farewell

Dear native spot! with fairest landscapes deck'd,
Of old romantic cliff, and crystal rill,
And verdant soil,--enrich'd with proudest wealth,
Warm hearts and true.

Yet deem not I shall wear
The mourner's weeds for thee. Another home
Hath joys and duties,-and where'er my path
On earth shall lead,--I'll keep a nesting bough
For Hope the song-bird,—and with cheerful step
Hold on my pilgrimage,-remembering where
Flowers have no autumn-languor. Eden's gate
No flaming sword to guard the tree of life.
VOL. IV.-41

SPRING.

A SONNET.

"From all she brought to all she could not bring.”

The gentle gales, the warbling birds of spring,

Its woods, its verdant fields and opening flowers, Fresh o'er the mind that feels their presence-bring The memory sad of unreturning hours:-Of friends whose heart his heart was wont to meet When on the earth this joyous season shone, Of scenes and pleasures mournful--yet how sweet! Sweet, for they have been,-mournful, because gone! Alas! that joys should be so brief, so few,

While griefs are many and so long remain:

Like shady springs which once or twice we view
In toilsome journeys o'er a desert plain,

Or like lone isles that dot the deep wide sea;
So small life's bliss,--so great its griefs to me!

Norfolk, May, 1939.

TO MARY,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

"Tis a wild fancy, but the heart believes it,-
That when on earth of nature's handiwork
The best and loveliest specimens appear,
Her humbler children wear their robes of joy
And smile a welcome to her favorites.

Fair child of May! when thou wast born--the rose
Its sweetest breath, its richest hue displayed;
The drooping lily raised its head and smiled;
The laurel and the ivy filled the woods
With varying colors and with soft perfumes;
The sun then shed his gentlest beams and served
But to illumine, not to heat the earth,
While little birds their liveliest carols sung,
And in full chorus joined to hail thy birth.

Since then, sweet friend, thy life has been all May,
The autumn blast has seared no joys of thine,
The wintery snows have fallen not on thy heart,
Nor has the breath of summer-hot and dry-
Over thy vernal happiness been blown.
Such may it ever be,--may flowers still strew
Thy path through life, and rainbows fill thy sky;
May sorrow shun thee,-no dark cloud o'ercast
Thy blissful prospect or obscure the past!
Norfolk, May, 1838.

CHILDREN.

Blossoms of earth! our path of life adorning,
Ye are the types of guilelessness and truth?
Fresh and untainted as the breath of morning,
Ye give to age itself, a touch of youth,
And in your pure caresses hold a charm,
All grief to soothe, all anger to disarm.

Yours is the power to win us and to soften

With words of music, far beyond the notes Of harp or viol-I have heard them often,

Still on my ear their fairy sweetness floatsAnd bright locks parted o'er snowy brow, And soft blue eyes beam on me-even now!

C. H.

C. H.

I mark your eager looks, your shouts of gladness,
In sports where laughter rings a joyous peal--
Your voices chase away all thoughts of sadness,
My infant days before me seem to steal,
And bright-winged hopes a seraph train arise,
Of bliss for ye on earth and in the skies!

Hearts that seem frozen to all tender feeling

Melt at the glance of childhood-as the snow Dissolves in sunshine-in its looks appealing

Angelic innocence and beauty glow,
And breathe new harmony in life's dull strain,
Gild every sorrow-soften every pain.

Babe! whose sweet laugh like tuneful bells is ringing,—
Boy! of the sturdy step and beaming eye-

Girl! on whose dimpled cheek the rose is springing,
With voice of clear and thrilling melody-
Ye touch the chords of pleasure's silent lyre,
And with a joy untold, the soul inspire.

Visions of happy times ye bring before me

Hours when my heart was like th' untired wing Of a gay bird-their mem'ry hovers o'er me

Like autumn days that wear the smile of spring. Ah! ye are gems indeed, whose heavenly light Is the pure spirit's lustre, always bright.

Be blessings on your gentle hearts forever!

May no unkindness chill your artless glee !
No hand the links of love between ye sever,
And virtue's star your guiding planet be!
May peace and health in life's dark chalice pour
For you their sparkling waters, evermore!
March, 1838.

INNOVATIONS IN STYLE.

E. A. S.

[blocks in formation]

Man's unceasing thirst for novelty and change, is almost as conspicuous in language as in dress. Sometimes we see it in a single word or phrase, which, introduced by some eminent writer or speaker, is readily adopted by the herd of imitators until it obtains a general currency, and either becomes incorporated in the language, or, sharing the fate of last year's fashions, is laid aside and forgotten. At other times the love of innovation takes a higher aim, and ambitiously strives to introduce a new manner and style of writing, well aware that there is no praise an author can obtain which ranks so high as that of originality. If this enterprise be associated with genius, and be cleverly executed, it is sure to be rewarded with an ample harvest of admirers and imitators, most of whom, not very nicely discriminating between its merits and defects, will be likely to copy the latter, as the easier of the two, until by the effect of reiteration and extravagance, they gradually open the eyes of the public to false pretension, and good taste resumes its legitimate ascendency.

Of this character were the affectations of Sterne, who had for a time a host of copyists, but who has long since ceased to exert any influence on English

literature. Dr. Johnson, too, had somewhat ear-| There can be no question that Dr. Johnson's lier introduced a new manner of writing English, influence on English style was long and extenwhich was recommended by yet more genius and mental vigor than Sterne's. He added something, as he justly alleges," to the grammatical purity of the language, and to the harmony of its cadence," and yet more, he might have added, to its compactness and precision. But with all these real improvements of our style, he worsened it, as Mr. Southey would say, or deteriorated it, as he himself would have said, by the introduction of so many words from the Latin and the Greek. The body and heart of our language are Anglo-Saxon, and while it has been enriched and improved by the naturalization of new words to express ideas which our simple-minded ancestors did not possess, such foreign intruders should not be so numerous or conspicuous as to overcrow the natives of the language. These words of foreign derivation not only take away from the homogeneousness of our mother tongue, and give to it the air of a piece of patch-work, but they also want the raciness and pungent force possessed by the Anglo-Saxon, by reason of its furnishing nearly all our names of sensible objects, our household terms, and the expressions of our simplest and strongest feelings. Nor was it only by his profusion of Anglicised Latin words, that Dr. Johnson presented a faulty model of style. He had also a stately pomp of manner, which he no more laid aside on light and gay topics, than on grave and important occasions; and he was withal so habitually sententious, that he would express the most trite and familiar truth with the solemnity of an oracle. Such as, " Labor necessarily requires pauses of ease and relaxation, and the deliciousness of ease commonly makes us unwilling to return to labor"—" It is not only common to find the difficulty of an enterprise greater, but the profit less, than hope had pictured it""He that never extends his view beyond the praises or rewards of men, will be dejected by Some writers in the most popular English journeglect and envy, or infatuated by honors and nals, perceiving that style had gained greatly in applause." Such truisms, which have been taken vivacity and attractiveness by assuming the free at random from a paper in the Rambler, Vol. III, and careless turn of conversation, or at least of No. 128, should be merely hinted, not formally epistolary writing, have so entirely affected this stated. Even when the weight of matter, as is manner, that they often exceed the utmost license most frequently the case, has much to recommend of extempore and unpremeditated speech. Findit, these insulated sentences, assuming the impor- ing that some happy novelty was occasionally a tance of maxims, seem ostentatious and dictatorial, violation of rule, they make a merit of setting all and are, at best, objectionable for their mannerism. rules at defiance, and systematically seek to give It was in vain that these faults were seen by a piquancy to language by disregarding its propriefew and condemned; that Goldsmith, Hume, and ties. Perceiving that words a little turned from some others, continued to write with the graceful their ordinary acceptation have given a grace to ease and simplicity of Addison, and that the voice the diction of such masters as Burke, or Jeffrey, of criticism was now and then raised to condemn or Sidney Smith, these imitators wrench and these solemn fopperies of style; the various know- twist them to all sorts of strange uses. Having ledge and the sterling sense they bedizened, so re-seen that some of these seasonings were useful to commended them to the mass of readers, that their stimulate the languid appetites of the overcrammagniloquence and sententiousness were every- med reader, they empty their little cruets into the where, either purposely or unconsciously imitated. dish and ruin it. They cannot distinguish between

sively felt, nor was there clear evidence that this influence was in the wane, until some time after the beginning of this century. There then appeared a body of writers, who resisting the force of his authority and example, wrote in that free, spirited, and natural manner which accords with the genius of the language as well as of the people who speak it, and to which the national taste is sure to return, as to its home, however it may be for a while, led astray by the seductive glare of novelty. From the time that all vestiges of Dr. Johnson's characteristics began to disappear, and a purer taste prevailed, English style continued to improve, and the language was never, perhaps, so generally well written as it has been in the 19th century. Since then it has possessed the terse vigor of the age of Elizabeth, without its quaintness or harshness; the simplicity of the reign of Queen Anne, without its looseness; and the rythm and correctness of Johnson, without his formality or pomp. It has added, in short, precision and force to the ease of nature and the grace of variety. In proof of this, I may refer to the writings of Southey and Sir Walter Scott, generally, to the best articles in the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, to Gifford, to Hallam, to Washington Irving, to the elder Bulwer, to Charles Lamb, to very many of the lighter articles in the English periodicals, to a few of our own, and to Dr. Channing, though his style, perfect as it is in its kind, may be said to have the excellencies which characterise the last century rather than this.

But the prurient desire of innovation, it seems, could not remain long idle, and it has lately challenged public applause,

"while it pursues

Things, unattempted yet in prose."

« السابقةمتابعة »