Newspaper Page Text
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY. JULY 10, 1875.
lift III* D&piSf&fc&i.
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MARY E. BRYAN, ... Editress.
The Only Hope of the South.
The rush of an impecunious population to the
already crowded cities of the Union is becoming
a serious evil. The active charitable institutions
of New Orleans are now taxed to their utmost to
keep this class of population from famishing in
their midst. Starvation and suicide are occur
ring in the str ets nd pestilential recesses of
San Francisco, where white emigrants, coming
in search of labor and sustenance, vainly attempt
to compete in the matter of wages with the
thirty thousand Chinese who are already in that
city, and who can afford to work for a pittance,
since they are willing to “ live in a hog pen and
dine on half a rat and an ounce of boiled rice.”
We are told that hundreds of white emigrants,
recently arrived in that city, are this minute
wandering through the streets, “seeking in vain
for labor, and going to their beds (which gener
ally consist of bundles of straw), supperless and
despairing.” * * * * Many of these poor,
starving wretches seek to end their misery by
laying violent hands upon their own lives, rather
than walk the streets in hunger and idleness.
It seems hardly possible that there can be such
destitution and such impossibility of obtaining
employment in a country w T here millions of un
used acres lie between the Atlantic and the
Sierra Nevada. There are at this moment many
hundreds of acres of excellent open land lying
in Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi and other
States, waiting for human industry to make
them wave with yellow grain or gleam with our
snowy staple, or yield rich returns of fruits,
vegetables and esculents. YY’e know from per
sonal observation that there are many rich farms
in Louisiana lying idle, or but partially culti
vated, because their owners are unable to pro
cure hands to cultivate them. The labor is not
to be "had. The bone and sinew of the coun
try—young, able-bodied men and women—have
swarmed to the city to huddle in its pestilential
purlieus and swell the record of pauperism and
crime. Would it not be better to work upon
farms in the free, pure air of the country, at the
lowest wages—even for food and shelter ? We
are afraid that it is indolence and the desire to
get easy places that cause so many drones to
swarm to the busy hives of our cities. They
dread the hoe and plow as though they were
the treadmill and the'torture-wheel, not beiitg
wise enough to see that health, virtue and com
petence wait upon the honest farmer, who eats
the plain, sweet food his hands have earned with
the keen relish of hunger and enjoys the refresh
ing sleep that is the reward of toil.
Ours is an agricultural country. Its climate,
its broad lands, its many fertilizing water-courses
point to its peculiar destiny. More farms, more
tillers of the soil, an improved agriculture, is the
only solution we can see to that troublesome
problem of poverty, which has now become a
question of such vital importance in the South.
We want producers, not consumers. The pro
fessions are overcrowded. We have an overplus
of lawyers, doctors, clergymen and merchants
as well. What our country needs just now is
farmers, farmers, farmers, with a sprinkling of
skilled workmen, educated mechanics who take
pride in their trade, engineers and artisans,with
as many large-minded, go-ahead capitalists as
we can get. who will build flour mills and facto
ries, and put into operation upon farms all those
new inventions and labor-saving contrivances
that will one day make agriculture easy.
The Novel as a Teacher.
In the earlier days of the novel, its province
was merely to amuse. The public was content
with a panorama of romantic pictures—the expe
riences of the various characters, who were either |
fiends, angels, or nonentities. A more earnest
age refuses to be amused by such superficial rep- j
resentation. The deeper life of the present re- ;
quires a profounder mirror. The magic lantern
play of incident and sentiment will not suffice.
The modern novel takes a higher place in morals
as in art. It calls for the insight of the poet,
the research of the philosopher; to be as oil to
the lamp with which it goes down and searches
the human heart, with its spiritual mysteries,
its intricate motives, its hidden feelings and
shades of feeling, its complex processes of rea
son—all the wheels within wheels that direct
the course of that outward conduct which alone
was the subject of the earlier novels.
But the modern novel takes upon itself a yet
higher mission. Not content with the clear por
traiture of men as they are and society as it is,
the novel steps forward in advance of the time
and holds up) the torch of noble aspiration, giv
ing us ideals such as genius can conceive—grand
ideals of freer and higher life—of men and women
with larger souls, with broader and more active
sympathies, with more enlightened charity, and
a less slavish subservience to the narrow restric
tions of fashion and conventionalism, —men and
women, in brief, moulded after the grand pat
tern furnished by the man of Nazareth.
Many novelists have given us these glimpses
into nobler life—glimpses that draw the soul up
from the level grounds of thought and feeling
to the heights on which are set these beacons of
aspiration. Other novels have given us intel
lectual ideals—beings whose enjoyment of art
was full and spontaneous, whose love for music,
poetry and philosophy was an inspiration—sweet,
free and child-like as it was deep. Such a love
for art, literature and beauty had Theodora and
Mr. Phcrbus, in Disraeli's “Lotliair.”
There are novels whose perusal induces an “ The Cruelty of Earthly Love.”
unrest, which is not the “noble discontent” Jn Mr Bassett - s n 771tory of “The White
that preludes and produces aspiration and pro- CrQf . s )m(l D(W e of Pearls ,” there are some beau
tiful passages descriptive of the struggle in the
gress. It is rather an aching dissatisfaction, a
feverish thirst that can never be slaked at the
bitter waters of cynical pihilosophy, which is
the only well-spring such authors point to in the
desert of human frailty. A recent critic accuses
George Eliot of belonging to this class of novel
ists, and says that in reading “ Middlemarch ”
and “Felix Holt,” one is pursued “by a phan
tom of unrest—a shade of disappointment—and
at the end, one sighs and says: ‘What did George
Eliot create those rare possibilities in Dorothy
Brook and the young Doctor for ? What did she
make Felix Holt a Radical for ?’ ”
“Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade do not
display so deep a cynical insight, so profound
an analysis of motives, so searching a sweep of
worldly wisdom, but their deep-souled faith in
human nature is more than a match for philo
sophic brilliancy. What has been the bitterness
of George Eliot’s life that she has dropped dead-
sea apples all through her pages? We shall con
tinue to read her books, but not in simple faith
that we shall love our kind better for them. But
all such books as the ‘New Magdalen ’ leave the
impression of faith at the foot of the cross. The
true standard of greatness is, after all, in the
heart. Christ needed not to elucidate the prob
lems of Euclid to enable him to sympathize with
sinners. The one pearl of great price is a heart
full of love to one’s fellow-sinners, and such a
heart do we find in the pages of Wilkie Collins.”
A Grand Picture.
We hang entranced over pictures painted by the
ancient and modern masters; we peer at them
in detail through our lorgnettes, and exclaim
ecstatically over the grace of form or sumptu
ousness of color; yet the pictures of beauty
which are daily provided for our enjoyment by
the greatest of all Masters, we seldom think it in it.
worth while to contemplate. Instance
“ The picture that God hangs daily in the West ”—
the sunset marvel — ever varying and always
beautiful. This evening, it was wildly magnifi-
breast of the lovely heroine, between affection
for her gifted father, to whom she has been
strangely restored, and the love and duty she
owes to Christ. Her father is an Earl—an ac
complished man of the world, whose heart’s de
sire is to.see his daughter queen of the most
brilliant society in which his wealth and station
can place her, and which her grace and loveli
ness befit her to adorn. She is in Paris, tasting
for the first time the seductive delights of that
city of pleasure. She is drawn into its gay whirl,
whose tendency is to drown the still, small
voice of conscience. She sees Parisian society,
not as it is, but through a soft halo of romance,
and she dreams not of its hollowness, its vani
ties, its professed adoration of reason and implied
disbelief in God. “Its spacious saloons, so
much more ample than any she had seen in
London, and never overcrowded, gratified her
love of freedom; so did the morning and even
ing calls to the ladies in their ‘ at homes ’ at
their pretty hotels. There was a graceful aban
don, an artistic carelessness about these ‘at
home ’ receptions which charmed her uncon
ventional mind and disposition exceedingly.
Her wonderful music and singing were con
stantly laid under tribute. Theresa was on en
chanted ground, breathing a dangerous atmos
phere, but for a time she little suspected it.”
At last, she awakes to a sense of her peril.
She resolves to withdraw from the danger, and
incurs by this her father’s strong displeasure.
She says to him;
“I am young; I can enjoy life; I have found it
very sweet since I have known you until this
bitter hour. I am not ignorant of the claim so
ciety has upon my father’s drfffjffiter; I would
try, if you would let me, in my own way, to
enjoy all of the noble, intellectual and refined
I simply ask to be kept out of these
scenes which are a snare to me. I am fully re
solved not to be drawn again into the vortex of
dissipation.”
She refuses to go to a ball at the Tuilleries,
and tenderly but firmly tells her father her rea-
Here is the scene that fol-
“ ‘Only promise me this, my darling, and to
night's disappointment, though a sad one, shall
be as it had never been. Let me have my own
dear child given back to me. and I shall be too
happy in having her restored to remember
against her her mistaken but. I would fain be-
] lieve, not undutiful revolt.'
“She was silent. The struggle was very se
vere, but the inward eye saw more than the
father's wistful face. Well that it was so. All
color died out of hers, even out of her lips.
L Estrange bent low to hear the almost inarticu
late whisper:
“‘Oh. papa! that it could be on any other
terms!’
“‘No.’
“ ‘Then let the worst be what it will, I must
endure and meet it.’
••He took her hands between his own coldly
and resolutely, intending to lead her back to her
seat: but the momentary faintness passed, and
she said again passionately:
“‘Oh! you cannot surely mean to exile me
from your heart! I am all that you have.’
“ ‘You exile yourself. You are at pains to do
so.’
“With cold courtesy he placed her in her
chair, looking haughtily down on her as she sat
there. He was bleeding inwardly, and his ex
pression was that of a man trying to conceal the
existence of a wound. She saw it and shuddered;
for by this time she understood her father.
“ ‘It could not be much harder,’ she said, ‘ to
be an exile again, thrown barefoot on the world.
Yet better this than that I should be an exile
from the presence of the King—banished from
the beautiful city and from Him who has bought
me and redeemed me with His own blood.’ ”
cent. There had been a storm of wind and sons for doing so.
thunder, and a brief, fierce dash of rain, leaving ' lows:
the clouds piled darkly in the west. Suddenly, j “In the gorgeous drawing-room of their hotel,
these were smitten into lurid glory by the blaze Lady Theresa l Estrange was alone with her
.. ___ • , ■ -yr father. He was in full dress, but she sat with
oi tiiG suu sinking bGninil tiiGin. sun was t \ n • .l
® . slightly disheveled hair, eyes swollen with
visible, but the whole western horizon glowed , weeping, and a general negligence and disar-
witli a red, vivid light, like that of a burning : rangement of attire, such as betokens a corres-
prairie. Around and above this gulf of fire,
rolled masses of livid clouds, seeming blacker
by the contrast; and in the midst of the glow,
low down on the horizon’s verge, were seen the
outlined shapes of clouds looming up like
Titans, being consumed in some grand auto-da-fe
ponding disorder of mind. The mellow light
from the agate lamp behind her fell upon her
face, revealing while it softened and etherealized
its unusual pallor. What could be the meaning
of it ? At this very hour she was to have ap
peared at a grand ball held in the Tuilleries: this
ball was to have been her concluding triumph
ere she left the city; but the carriage, after wait-
of old gods, occurring out of time, out of space; ; ing long, had been dismissed, and ‘ milord’ fore-
or like the dark forms of the fallen angels as goes his intention of appearing in public to-
described by Milton, up-rearing their grim heads ni « ht « word of explanation. Evidently
J .j. . ° ° j a fierce struggle is taking place within him; his
from the lake of fire into which the thunders of j arms are folded across his breast, an.l an expres-
Jehovah had hurled them. ! sion of almost Napoleonic daterndnation sits
As we^ gazed, the glow of the fiery cavern grew j| j'P 01 ^ hw ^' r °w ani ^ k^iits^tog^ fine,^reso-
deeper, and suddenly the sun burst forth in daz
zling splendor, and smote steeple, dome and
rain-glittering tree-tops with a brief glory of
gold and crimson; the mocking-bird in o.ur oak
tree gave a musical shriek of delight, and the
round eyes of the children playing below looked
up in wondering admiration.
Longfellow must have watched such a sunset
“‘Papa,’ says Theresa, and the tears start
anew from the unsealed fountain, ‘ if you will
insist on such utter and painful misconceptions
of me and my motives, I think it will kill me.’-
“ ‘Nothing of the kind,’ he answers dryly. ‘I
do not allow the justice of the term misconcep
tion; we are told to “judge of the tree by its
fruits.” As to killing, you are growing dra
matic. Reassure yourself, I beg of you; you
have a fine constitution, and withal, a suffi-
to have given us the graphic picture contained ciency of nerve power, as this evening’s episode
in his last beautiful poem, “Fifty Years of Wed- j goes to prove.’
ded Life:”
I am broken-
‘ After a day of cloud, and wind, and rain,
Sometimes the setting suu breaks out again,
And touching all the darksome woods with light,
Smiles on the fields until they laugh and sing;
Then, like a ruby from the horizon’s ring,
Drops down into the night.”
Charlotte Cushman.
“‘Indeed, you mistake me.
hearted. ’
“‘At what? Setting me completely at defi
ance, asserting your own will and having it?’
He laughed scornfully. “Nay, then, Theresa,
the strong-minded, self-opinionated young lady
who can do that is not likely to die of a broken
heart. ’
“ ‘ I am not setting you at defiance, papa. I
could not, would not do it if I dared. Oh ! why
are you not more easy to be entreated ? Do you
o „ . .. . not know, will you not believe, that it is all for
Some punster ot the press calls Miss Cush- • , , ’ 2 T • . „
F * love of you that I compromised myself so far?
man’s farewell to the stage a Charlotte Ruse, j q 0( j will not have it, papa. “Whoso loveth
We only trust it may prove so; we should rejoice father and mother more than me is not worthy
at the opportunity of seeing yet once again me * This is what I have done. Openly giv-
, . , . , . . . ing one hand to the world, secretly giving the
America s great tragedienne in her impersona- Qt g er to Him whom I h;u l espoused as the faith-
tions ot Lady Macbeth, Queen Margaret, Meg Mer- ful bridegroom of my soul; and therefore, He
illes, and other roles suited to her majestic style, has withdrawn Himself, hidden Himself from
When Ristori and Cushman have made their me, until I can put both hafiuUwitlun His own
. „ ,, . ,, . , and shew that He is more to me even than you.
final exit from the stage, there will be none to .-Theresa, if you would not have me speak
take their places. We have plenty of histrionic to you, under this unparalleled provocation, as
talent; but genius is the “fruit of centuries,” no gentleman should speak to a daughter, for-
and it is no. „tob.Me tbs, ,M. 8 ,n OT ,ion sh.ll bSl
give birth to another infatuation and enthusiasm. I cannot bear sen-
>• spirit weird as hers, to call to life j timental, would-be-sensational vaporings from
The wondrous visions of the English seer.” the lips of the child ot whom I thought I had so
. . , much reason to be proud, but whose religious
It seems a wolul pity that genius (or rather the principles, as she received them from Hugh
frame which enfolds genius) should ever grow Wanford, prompt her to disappoint me.’
old. We picture it always as divinely voung “ ‘ Ah ! you reflect upon him. Yet, papa,
and beautiful, and can hardly realize that time when J' 011 S1 !- v ^ Imve been proud of me, have
J you no word ol thanks tor him ?
should dare to mar its fair proportions. .< ‘To-night I have not. I could reward him
But if we are to see no more of Charlotte like a prince, but I cannot thank him. Thank
the man that has marred my gem in the setting!
Nay, I would rather have taken you rough and
unpolished from the gypsy camp, a diamond
still for my own hand to polish and refine. You
would have been passive enough then. Hugh
Warnford’s pains have been thankless pains, his
generosity has been most cruel.’
“The Earl’s tone was losing its harshness;
his voice was full of emotion. Theresa could
not restrain her affectionate impulse. He was
leaning over the high back of a devotional chair.
She darted to his side; with exquisite daring,
she put her arm around his neck. But he sor
rowfully repulsed her.
“•Defiance and caresses in the same hour?
No, for I'm a l'Estrange.’
“ 'And I am one, too,’ said she, with a miser
able attempt at archness. ‘ Oh, papa! tell me
that you will love me still, although I am not
what you would wish me to be.’
To Procure Sleep.—Take an easy posture in “ 'My child,’ he said, -what is separating us?
bed; with determined effort, direct the thoughts Surely it must be a terrible dream an excite-
, . , „ ,, ment into which you me been thrown. You
to some subject as remote as possible from all brought it aJ JOUt; jou end it. Promise me
vexing cares: invite cordially the visits ot pleas- that you will tight against these early preju-
ing, cheery thougnts and anticipations. "Happy dices ot a mistaken education; that you will
and calm will be the sleep of those who. on their “°'' e f^ely in the circle to which you were born;
... ,. . . ' , that you will try to redeem yourself trom the
pillow, can muse on the consolations of the gos- qisadvantages of that which has been the great
pel, and resign themselves implicitly and with misfortune of your life, as it has been for years
out wavering into the keeping of a heavenly the greater sorrow of mine.’
Protector and Father.” ' . “, He P. nt arm around her and looked ten
derly in her lace. It was a moment of soretemp-
tation. Theresa knew that her father was not to
be trifled with—that his affections, once disap-
Cushman, we have still in our mind the memory
of her triumphs, and can say of her:
“ Others have trod
The Shakspeare world before thee. Some have wept
Like Juliet and Ophelia; some have died
Like Katharine; some have plotted like Macbeth,
Or jested like gay Rosalind in the wood;
But thou alone hast eonjured with thy spell
All the enchanter's fancies into shape.
And made them speak at will, from grave to gay,
From lively to severe.
W e are most proud
To say thou art American; but this
Is meagre claim for thee. L'nto no land
Nor line dost thou belong; thou shin'st eternal
In the fair parthenon of mimetic lore—
Pallas Athame—helmeted and throned.”
Ax economical girl refused to be married by
the clergyman of her lover's denomination be- pointed, would be hard to recall, and she loved
cause another parson owed her two dollars for him with all the. strength of her warm and ar-
knitting stockings and was too poor to pay cash, dent nature. There was a pause.
.My First Experience With “Trains.”
In the last number of The Sunny South, a
fair “West Pointer” appeals to the editor in re
gard to the proper management of her train.
Not possessing that august appendage ourselves,
and having never given our mind to the import
ant subject of its graceful adjustment, we were
forced to confess ignorance. A fair correpond-
ent, however, steps in to our aid, and in the fol
lowing little sketch tells us what she knows
about trains and their management:
Having three sisters already “out”—not mar
ried, but only in the delightful transition state
of being “ engaged I was permitted to stay in
the background rather longer than usual, and
enjoy the freedom of short dresses, broad-
brimmed hats, and a school-girl’s insouciant
manners until my seventeenth birth-day. Then
I made the grand debut, having been ably drilled
for the occasion by an aunt, who was to be my
chaperon, and who was an undoubted oracle in
all matters pertaining to dress and social eti
quette. So often was it dinned into my ears
that a young lady must do this and refrain from
that and be careful to observe the other, that I
grew nervous and timid when the important
night arrived, and felt as if I were about to un
dergo some complete transformation—to be met
amorphosed into a new creature as different
from my present insignificant self as the splen
did butterfly from the ugly chrysalis it lias just
emerged from. I had some misgivings that I
should not know how to conduct myself in this
new state of being—apprehensions which were
not altogether dispelled, even by the sight of the
splendid ball dress of pink silk and tulle, with
its flowing train. That train! It was at once
my admiration and my dread. I knew it was
the distinctive mark of my new phase of exist
ence. It was the wings of my new-fledged but-
terflyliood. But would I know how to manage
ft? Could L*fever glide and sweep in it like
my experienced sisters? But I experienced a
rapturous delight when I was fairly appareled
in my new robes, and could not refrain from
looking back as I walked to watch the floating
folds of my train. My oracle’s uplifted finger
stayed my ecstacy.
“Never do that,” she enjoined; “it is snob
bish; it is not ladylike. Nothing marks the so
ciety lady so truly as the graceful, unconscious
management of her train.”
I felt a weight of dignity and propriety at once
placed upon my movements. I descended to
the parlors, a little fluttered with the new re
sponsibilities of dress and position; but when
the music began, the light and young life flamed
up in cheek and eye, and I forgot everything
but enjoyment and dancing. Couples were
already filling the floor for the lancers, when
somebody asked me to dance. I arose and
stepped up very quickly, forgetting all about
rules and trains; but alas! in the course of chas-
seing and bowing, I felt my steps arrested.
Somebody’s foot was firmly planted in my dress
and caught in the misty folds of tulle, which,
with my own motion forward, caused the calam
ity I had been warned against. My dress was
partly jerked from the waist, my overdress torn.
I felt I had disgraced my aunt’s teachings. In
stinctively I turned round with that feeling of
disgrace in my eyes, when they met a pair of
distressed gray ones locking at me and the ruin
he had made. Just then the whole thing came
over me, and I couldn’t resist laughing and say
ing, in reply to his stammering apology:
"Nevermind; 'tis as much my fault as yours.
It is the first time I have been in trains; I’m
afraid I don't know how to manage them. ”
I could say no more, for the dance separated
us; but afterwards, when wishing for a partner
as Strauss’ inspiring waltzes seemed calling me
to come, I saw my “coz” approaching with the
identical gentleman I had spoken to in the
lancers; but the distressed look had gone from
his eyes, and instead, a most quizzical one was
there. He asked me to dance, and after the
waltz was over, we sat on the sofa and talked in
a manner not at all conventional, for I couldn’t
think of him as a formidable society gentleman,
but as a very agreeable person and a delightful
partner. YYe both laughed over the adventure
of the dress, and I’m afraid I told him all about
myself; just quitting school; my delight incom
ing out in society, marred only by the dread of
not behaving properly, especially in the import
ant matter of the train.
I met my aunt next morning, to receive a seri
ous lecture on the ruin to my evening dress and
my inexcusable awkwardness, winding up with:
“The first thing in this morning’s exercises
will be a lesson on trains and their proper man
agement.”
Arrayed accordingly in the most courtly one
I possessed, she carried me into the parlor, and
standing before the full-length mirror, I began
my instruction:
“ The present style of dress,” began my aunt,
“ with narrow front, is especially adapted to ease
in handling a train, which falls gradually to its
fullest length at the back. The front and sides
being of proper length, what prevents you when
on tfie street from drawing the back widths
tightly and holding them firmly on the right
side? That is the only way they should be held.
No unnecessary bending of the arm should be
allowed; it should fall perpendicularly from the
right shoulder and secure the dress firmly. All
otfier curvatures only excite the smile of ridi
cule they so well merit. But the proper sphere
for the full display of trains is the parlor and
drawing-room. It is there alone they are seen
to the utmost advantage. A train ought natu
rally to excite in a feminine soul that indescri
bable and indefinable air of dignity and con
scious womanhood which lies dormant in the
school-girl, and which should exact the respect
due to the train. There is a spirit within the
wearer which should direct its course, and I say
that no well-bred young lady ever has her dress
torn or trampled upon by the crowd around; nor
does she need clear space for its preservation
that some simple ones suppose. For promenad
ing and square dances, nothing is so courtly and
i elegant as the graceful train; and for the round
dances, they can be very dexterously managed.
It is simply ridiculous, all these caricatures and
talks in the papers about drawbacks and trains.
It is the caricature of what should be that at
tracts the critical notice of connoisseurs."
There were many difficulties in those first ex
periences of my young ladyhood, and I wished
! often to return to the halcyon days of school life,
to careless steps, short dresses and freedom; but
I was sustained under my difficulties by the
novel and very agreeable support I received from
the companionship of the gentleman who had
been so unfortunate to my first train. Lena.
Paul Ha.vne’s New Book.
The Mountain of the Lovers. By Paul H. Hayxe. E.
J. Hale & Sons, Publishers. For sale by Phillips &
Crew, Atlanta, Georgia.
A new volume of poems by Paul Hayne is sure
to be well received by the higher class of the
reading public, with whom the author's classic
purity of style and graceful dignity of thought
have long ago made him a favorite. The elegant
little volume before us (printed on tinted paper,
gilt-edged, and prettily bound) is inscribed to
Mrs. Margaret Preston, of Virginia, in a charm
ing little dedicatory poem, beginning:
“ Mine eyes have never gazed in thine—
Our hands are strangers; yet divine
The deathless sympathy which binds
Our hearts and minds.
Thou singest along the mountain side,—
Thy golden songs are justified
By the rich music of their flow;
I sing below,
Where the lone pine-land airs are stirred
By notes of thrush and mocking-bird.
The heights befit thy loftier strain;
Mine courts the plain.”
“The Mountain of the Lovers” weaves into
Spenserian verse a pathetic traditional story of
a haughty Earl who put the yeoman lover of his
only daughter to the cruel trial of being forced,
on pain of direst punishment to her as well as
to him, to carry his lady-love in his arms to the
summit of a rugged mountain.
At sunrise on the day appointed for the test,
a mighty crowd, called together by the trumpet
of the Earl’s high seneschal, assemble at the
foot of the mountain to witness the consumma
tion of the strange sentence, which is known to
mean death, though dashed with a mockery of
hope. The young woodsman is there:
“ His comely head thrown back, his eyes on fire
With hot contempt, fixed on an armed band,
Which, stationed near him by the Earl’s desire,
His every move o’erlooked, did Oswald stand,
Striving his roused anger to command,
And lift his clouded aspirations higher
Than thoughts reveugeful. Hark! a deepening hum
On the crowd’s verge.—the trial hour has come.”
The brave and loyal-hearted lover lifts the
maiden tenderly in his arms, while she
“ Turns her eyes apart
From the great throng, and pierced by modest pain,
Veils her sweet face upon her lover's heart.”
When half-way up the terrible ascent, he pauses
“to nerve his soul for what must be done,” and
receives a strengthening cordial from this grate
ful source:
“With a gentle, quivering, flute-like laugh,
Holding a sob, the maiden rose and kissed
Her hero’s lips, sought through a tremulous mist.”
“The Ylountain of the Lovers” ;is succeeded
by “ Avolio,” another versified legend, suggest
ive of Keats, but with an originality of its own,
and a certain warmth and genuineness in which
Mr. Hayne is sometimes lacking.
The pictures of Southern scenery are exquis
itely true, and show that the author has watched
the changeful phases of nature with the eye of
a lover. Most of these pictures are painted in
the contemplative, but thoroughlj' receptive and
sympathetic mood, which belongs to the true
artist, and we can figure the poet as he describes
himself:
“In midsummer uplands, free
To the bold raids of breeze and bee,
Cool-nested in the yellowing grass,
To hear the swift-winged partridge pass
With whirr and boom of gusty flight
Across the broad heath's treeless height;
Or just where, elbow-poised, I lift
Above the wild flowers’ careless drift
My half-closed eyes to see and hear
The blithe field-sparrow twittering clear,
Quick ditties to his tiny love.”
As a contrasting picture to this, we have the
“Arctic Visitation,” when
“The woful sky slow, passionless tears did weep,
Each shivering rain-drop frozen as it fell;
The woodman's ax rang like a muffled knell,
Faintly the echoes answered, fraught with sleep.”
Mr. Hayne has not opened the heart of his
“Lowland Muse” as freely to the sympathies of
humanity as he has to those of nature; but this
may be owing not so much to constitutional
coldness as to scholastic reserve and a certain
sensitive shrinking from laying bare the emo
tions, which accompanies delicacy of nature.
That a genuine feeling can melt these restraints
at once, and overflow them in a tide of pure and
tender passion, is seen in his lament for his
brother poet—the sweet, sensitive-souled Henry
Timrod. -There is as much feeling and almost
as much poetry in this beautiful elegy as in
Shelley’s “Lament for Adonais.” YVe have room
but for one exquisite verse:
“ Death gave thee wings, and lo! thou hast soared above
All human utterance and all finite thought;
Pain may not hound thee through that realm of love;
Nor grief, with which thy mortal days were fraught,
Load thee again; nor vulture want, that fed
Even on thy heart’s blood, wound thee;—idle then
Our bitter sorrowing. What though bleak and wild
Rests thine uncrowned head ?
Known art thou now to angels and to men—
Heaven’s saint and earth's brave singer u.i .-filed.”
A max will carry five hundred debars in^his
vest pocket; but a woman needs a morocco porte-
monnaie as large as a reticule, and too heavy to
carry in the pocket, to carry a fifty cent script,
a receipt for making jelly-cake, and two samples
of dress goods, down town and back every pleas
ant afternoon.
He blushed a fiery red; her heart went pit-a-
pat; she gently hung her head and looked down
at the mat. He trembled in his speech; he rose
from where he sat, and shouted with a screech
“Y'ou’re sitting on mv hat!”