'You would n't have me go out in the rain, would you?' answered the host, still playing the 'cursed fiddle.' No; but why don't you stop them when it do n't rain?' Oh, they don't leak then!' responded the Orpheus of the Alatamaha, continuing the tune. Out rushed my friends, leaving matters in statu quo; but though some years have elapsed, one of them, in narrating to me the circumstances a few days ago, added, as his firm conviction, that 'that man, to this very hour, is playing that eternal tune!' I purpose going that way, on my next circuit, and I will give you the result of my inquiries and observations, in a future number. 'WHEN the stoic philosopher was informed of the death of his beloved son, he calmly replied, I always knew that be was mortal;' but how much more reason has a christian pareut to be resigned under such an affliction, when she can look on the lifeless form of her child, and say, in the language of undoubting faith, 'I know that this mortal shall put on immortality!'' I KNEW that thou wert mortal; ay, my heart A joy as sinless as thine own pure dreams; I knew that thou wert mortal; the blue vein, And the hour come when flesh and heart should fail. I knew that thou wert mortal; yet my tears Have flowed like rivers o'er thy lowly bed; The joys of life, the hopes of coming years, Were crushed when death bowed down thy graceful head; I knew that thou wert mortal; but the GoD Who filled with deathless love a mother's heart, I knew that thou wert mortal; yet can nought Bring solace to the soul in sorrow's hour? Is there no consolation in the thought, That CHRIST has robbed the grave of half its power? Not without hope, beloved one! do I weep; Thou yet shalt waken from thy dreamless sleep. I knew that thou wert mortal; but the bright Which crowns thy spirit now with cherub grace; E. C. E. A JOURNAL IN FLOWERS. BY L'AEIELLE. YESTERDAY, while arranging the contents of an old book-case, and indulging in one of those dreamy moods in which one wanders over pages that won the enthusiasm of earlier days, I encountered a volume, with whose contents I had long been familiar; a Journal in Flowers; a record, kept in those hieroglyphics, of all my wanderings, and all those little events, in sentiment or action, which, like the tributaries of a mighty stream, wear for themselves a channel, and fall into the memory, to be again distributed amid other scenes and other associations. It has been my companion in the school-room and the play-ground, in childhood; and unobtrusively presented its claims in after wanderings, by the shores of the Rhine, at the tomb of Laura, and the passes of the Pyrenees. my The idea was first suggested, on bidding farewell to an old family mansion, and all its early associations, for a distant school. In the bustle of preparation, and the anticipations I had indulged, I scarcely dreamed that so much feeling awaited the separation; but at parting, as a thousand attachments gathered around me, and each claimed its remembrance, I sighed like the Abyssinian monarch, that I was not content to remain within the circle of home's simple enjoyments, careless of the future, and alone engrossed by that natural philosophy, which finds 'Books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing.' It was a bright morning, and the country had just put on her beautiful spring dress. The peach bloom was scattering its showers on the gravel walk, and as a capricious breeze tossed them around, I could not refrain from gathering a few of the perishing blossoms, to bear as it were a tangible recollection of my own dear home to the stranger-land that was before me. There lay the fields through which I had so often rambled, in quest of the delicious strawberry; or, disappointed in the search, had borne in its stead whole gardens of wood-flowers in my basket. Other feet should now wander by that quiet stream, which wound its way through the grounds, or climb its rugged shore, to gaze on its waters, as they leaped from rock to rock; wave chasing wave through its worn fissures, until, exhausted by the pastime, they sank, wearied though restless, in a bed of foam, which was spread over the broad basin; or again darting from its hiding place, flinging its spray on the mossy rock and wild columbine that bowered in its cleft; quarrelling with the dropped branches of the oak and hemlock; the eye could trace it, until, tranquillized by distance, it crept from observation amid the sloping woodlands, and rich meadows that embossed its margin. There, too, among the land-marks of that secluded spot, was the locust grove, with its little brook winding its sinuous way' through the dense shade, that almost hid it from view. Other hands should now gather the mint and cresses from its border, or tend the little arbor where the rose, and violet, and other garden flowers, grew side by side, in perfect harmony with the natives of the soil. It was a place of all others to make one poetical : It was a spot with beauty rife; 6 The trees, the flowers, the birds, “ that good morrow gave from bush to bush ;' the drowsy hum of the busy bee, wandering over the high clover, with its bending blossom; the mimic stream, and the very rock that provoked its tiny ripple, all had their peculiar instinct ; and when proud of the assimilation, who could endure to be estranged from such good society? In truth, our cottage had but little other. The younger members of our household had scarcely left the precincts of merry childhood; and it is a common misfortune, to regard the intrusion of children, when we have taken a few steps beyond their tender age, as they romp along our quiet walks, crushing the flowers, frightening the birds, and spoiling a day dream, as so many annoyances, that add nothing to the history of enjoyment. On every hand, I had a friend to part with. The distant mountains grew less formal, and the intervening valley more picturesque and winning. But the scene is changed. Years and improvement' have desecrated its charms. A village has sprung up on the borders of its beautiful stream; the busy manufactory mingles the music of its water-wheel with the voice of the cascade ; quiet and seclusion have given place to the bustle and excitement of labor and enterprise. New faces meet you at every turn, and but for its mountain outline, and distant scenery of wood and meadow, the old cottage, and a few kind faces that looked on our infancy, there is but little left to recognize in that sweet home, in the · Happy Valley.' Our peach blossoms have told their tale; and such are of the associations that have thrown a charm around this little volume, and its natural erudition; a charm arising, perhaps, from a conviction that it is sacred, and inaccessible to the careless observer. It is composed in a language that can alone be translated by the compiler; it can have but one interpreter. There was something, too, to love, in its unpretending character. It had neither the interior nor exterior mechanisın of authorship; it had neither preface nor dedication ; it had neither title-page nor motto; but it seemed wrapped among its compeers in a kind of intellectual misanthropy; scanning the trappings of their gilded pages, and prouder, it would some a seem, in its own little mystery, than if vanity had enclosed it in a calfskin, and swelled it to a folio. There was a portion of the volume in which the heart had traced its own boundary; and if Kotzebue's planetary system be true, it could have revealed such discoveries in that region, and such counter revolutions in its purposes, as would have sadly puzzled his poetic philosophy. In another part, the mind seemed to have more absolute control, though a blank leaf, between the two territories, seemed to indicate a kind of state-like independence; a partial separation, that if I had not been convinced, by critical examination, were most closely bound, and most necessarily dependant, I should have feared an entire falling off from the union. In giving an occasional leaf to the KNICKERBOCKER, I shall, gipsey like, take possession of either. The reader will find me sometimes a traveller, and sometimes the wearied sentimentalist, pausing by the wayside, as the mood shall find me; now wandering over the wide Alleghany, or again treading the ashy pathway of Vesuvius; or on that Alpine summit, "Where Jura answers from her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, that call to her aloud.' The mind, from its very nature, requires interval and repose. If, like the Bird of Paradise, its rest be motion, its repose be on the wing, like that bird, it will choose its own path, and its own enjoyment. A lofty theme will call for corresponding exertion, and vigor equal to the nature of its subject; or, wearied by the ascent, it will delight to hover over the beaten path of existence, and gather the sympathies of social life. And as this journal has an interest beyond the aid of its interpreter, it must rely exclusively on itself, and its own associations. A leaf from the Coliseum conveys a sentiment beyond the power of any translator. It has played too long over the buried past, and spread too luxuriantly around the crumbling ruin; it has gathered the instinct of history, and its own life, amid the desolation of empire; and it would be nothing short of sacrilege, to chain it to the common-place wonder of any mind. It should be gazed at, not handled ; looked upon as the past, in the immortality of its future. Although I have gathered the leaf, and would give it to the reader in the freshness of present enjoyment, I would still have them remember that I am but arranging a tableau vivant, in the repose of its own history. I ought also to add, as this journal is in its nature purely intellectual, that it was intended to be happy, in all its reminiscences. I could not use such type to 'syllable apprehension,' or to recall a scene that was not at peace with enjoyment. I have endeavored to avoid the monotony of travel ; for it is dull employment to watch the retreating or advancing ripple of existence, instead of the beautiful scenery through which it is ever flowing. A rose from Abbotsford has its own associations; and the blade of grass I gathered from the field of Waterloo, a volume for the enthusiast. It will be my task to arrange the contents of my • Journal in Flowers,' and to give to memory alone the power that Milton has ascribed to music : "To create a soul under the ribs of death.' 6 a New-York, July, 1839. BATTLE. HE comes, and in him the great gods have part; His polished armor glittering in the sun, But now the dogs are slipped,' the strife's begun; The worm possesses him, and not a god! BEAUTY. NATURE is full of beauty; golden morn, Birds' song, flowers' perfume, and the earth's green lawn, But there is one in which are all combined, The sun of Beauty! at whose shrine we bow; It is a beauteous woman's beauteous mind Must earth's most brightest beauty brightly show: No song of bird is as its music rare, In no sweet flower such balmy incense lives, Morn, eve, nor twilight, such rich lustre gives; Ᏼ Ꭼ Ꭰ . OUR Sweetest and most bitter hours are thine; And he exults, feeling in that dark sod His robe alone will lie - the rest with God! 20 QUINCE. |
