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“ And will be, you may depend. Bnt who
else?”
“ Then there is Miss Morgan.”
“ Kate?”
“ The very same—the matchless Kate. Ah !
Jack, you need not compare any one else to her.
Juno; Hebe; Venus; The Loves; Tho Gra
if Pshaw ! Tom. I’ll listen to all that with
pleasure, when you have told me who is here.’
“ Just listen at the man. You who go mad
whenever you begin to praise the object of your
affection ”
“ I beg your pardon, Tom ; but my fervor is
real —earnest, while yours is, I fear, to a great
extent, affected.”
“ Give me leave to assure you, Mr. Jack, that
you are mistaken.”
“ I sincerely hope I am. Nothing would af
ford me greater pleasure than to see you wooing
Kate Morgan. If you are in earnest, say
on."
“Never mind; the fit is off now.”
“ Then you can finish your list.”
“ Yes. Then there is Miss Hillsman from A.,
and Miss Jekyl from South Carolina—a groat
belle —and Miss Johnson from M., and—let me
see. There are the Hepbumes and the—; —”
“Oh the devil! Tom,” said I, impatiently,
“ What do I care for all these people ?”
“Who ever saw such a man? First he asks
me who is here, and then he interrupts me, not
allowing me to proceed. Then I stop giving the
list, and fall to praising Kate Morgan. Then
he abuses me as insincere, and tells me to re
sume my list. At last. 1 What do I care for all
these people ?’ ” •
“Now, Tom, don't be stubborn, but tell me
who is here from Florida ?”
“ Oh! that’s it, eh ? There are plenty of peo
ple here from that State —Mr. and Mrs. Barton
—two young ladies named Hood —they are stars,
too. Then there is Mr. Butler and ”
“Grant me patience. Why, Tom, what on
earth ”
“Hold on, man! ‘What on earth* is the
trouble with you f Let me finish my—what was
I going to say? Oh! there is a Miss Bently,
who is said to——”
“ That will do, Tom. The list is complete.”
“ And really, Jack, I am not surprised that you
fell in love at first sight. If I had only seen her
before you did!”
“What then ?”
“ Why I might have fallen in love with her
myself.”
“ And yet you talk of Kate Morgan.”
“Yes. But here comes the baggage wagon.
Take the key, and while you are making your
toilet, I’ll see who’s in the parlor.”
After bathing and dressing, I sallied forth
from my room. The colonnade and the parlor,
crowded with a gay, laughing throng when I
first came, were now deserted. I rang the bell
and sent my card to Miss Bently’s room. She
was taking a walk. True to her habit at home,
after the sun had sank behind the hills, she
must go out into the open air—on a bounding
steed when convenient—on foot otherwise.
I started to the billiard room. That was like
ly to be deserted also; but as I walked along,
1 heard my name called and, turning, I saw Fitz
warren's pale countenance.
“You here, Fitz?” I exclaimed. “ You come
south, in the summer, instead of going north.”
“ Yes. My friends—at least my friend,” said
he, taking my hand in his vice-like grip, and
speaking with more warmth than ordinary,
“My friend, Jack, lives at the south. Why, then,
should I go north ?”
“ You look a little surprised,” he continued,
" that I should talk so; but there are times,
Jack, when even I feel a yearning after friend
ship and sympathy. You are the only one to
whom I have looked for either, lately.”
“You always find what you seek, Fitzwarren,"
I replied. “ Frequently, though—generally, in
deed —you seem to avoid, rather than seek,
both.”
“I know it, Jack,” he said, “ but forgive me.
It is not my fault, but my misfortune; circum
stances of a fearful nature, operating on a melan
choly and sensitive disposition, have made one
what I am—a gloomy, repulsive misanthrope—
hating and hated.”
I made no reply to this, and he went on.
“ The events of ray early life, if you were ac
quainted with them, would cause even you to
avoid me.”
“I don’t know, for you have never given me
the slightest idea of them; but I think you are
mistaken. Whatever you may have done that
is wrong, from what I know of you, now, I
should conclude you were forced into it by inex
orable fate—some cruel necessity, which was a
part of your nature.”
“How well you have read me, Jack,” answer
ed my friend, with a surprised look—“ and how
favorably! Yes, you put the right construction
upon it. There can be no doubt that I was
born tho child of misfortune. I was brought
into the world for one single purpose—to com
mit a horrible crime, and to be accursed—miser
able, in this life. As to the next world, concern
ing which so many fables are related, I am per
fectly easy, because I know no greater damna
tion can await me in that, than rests on me,
ii •
now.
I was shocked, and silent. I disliked to hear
such language, but I had long been aware that
Fitzwarren was a free-thinker, and now I was
almost ready to believe he was a monomaniac.
At any rate, I was fully convinced it would be
folly to attempt to argue or reason with him, so
I said nothing.
“ Does my heterodoxy shock you, Jack ?” he
now asked, with a sickly smile, relapsing into
his usual coldness and indifference of man
ner.
“ Almost.”
“Ah?”
“ Yes; but, independently of that, and serious
ly, I am, heart and soul, opposed to tabooing
a man on account of his opinions. It has got to
be too much the custom in this free country of
ours to persecute people on account of their pe
culiar belief in matters of religion."
“ You are right, Jack. / don’t care a fig for
the opinions the world entertains of me; but I
know this, that a great many of the so-called
“ Christians ” are totally and hopelessly devoid
of the thing which their Bible says lies at the
very foundation of their religion—charity. Ah!
the smooth-faced hypocrites! I only wish I had
the power which they arrogate to themselves —
but which they do not possess, the blasphemers!
—I would soon consign them all to the hell they
are so busy trying to prepare for me.”
“It would be useless to trouble yourself
about it, Fitz,” answered I, “ the kind of ‘ peo
ple ’ you describe will be sure to go there any
way.”
“We agree on that point, Jack. We differ,
though, as to the number of this kind of ‘ chris
tians' which exists in the world.”
“Let’s waive all this, though,” continued
Fitzwarren. “ You had started to the billiard
room. Come on, and let me beat you.”
(to be continued.)
wmm mmmm'BM hip ud w 'XUBXD&
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE DYING YOUNG WIFE.
BY ANNIE E. BLOI NT
They tell me, when they gaze upon
My dim and sunken eye,
I'm passing from the earth —alas!
I am so young to die!
So young to feel the tide of life
Fast ebbing from my heart;
To look on those I fondly love,
And feel that we must part
’Twas but ajew short years ago
I stood a happy bride,
And left my childhood's early home
To test the love untried.
The future seemed so bright to me;
With joy my pulse beat high;
Life's enp is scarcely tasted—yet
They say that I must die!
Oh God I to know my pulse each day
Is flickering and slow;
To feel the life-blood of the heart
Grow sluggish in its flow I
And when I struggle to forget,
And smile amid the gay,
A shadowy hand 1 seem to see,
That beckons me away.
I am so young—so very young,
Oh! death, why come tome
When life is new ? Go seize upon
The winter-blighted tree;
Take for thy prey some aged one
Who's seen each joy pass by,
And scarcely hath a wish to live—
I am too young to die!
They brought, to-night, my bridal veil
And twined it o'er my brow—
-1 seemed a shrouded nun—my face
Is pale and sunken now.
I forced a piteous, mocking smile,
I tried, but could not speak,
To see my silken bridal robe
Scarce whiter than my cheek
The world is bright and beautiful,
The stream glides softly by;
There’s beauty on the sleeping earth,
There’s beauty in the sky:
The lamps of heaven so brightly burn,
The flowers so graceful wave;
Alas! to-morrow eve those stars
Will shine upon my grave.
Ah! when the heart is cold and still,
That once beat high and warm,
And when a marble seal is pressed
Above my fading form:
And when I slumber, calm and still,
In some lone, quiet spot,
I know that I, once loved so well,
Will quickly be forgot.
Loved one! draw closer to me now,
I’ve something for thine ear;
Nay; weep not—from thy cheek wipe off
That bitter, scalding tear.
I would but pray that when the flowers
Shall bloom my tomb above,
That thou wilt sometimes think of me
With tenderness and love.
I know thy heart is sorely wrung
With grief and anguish now;
I see the look of wretchedness
That settles on thy brow.
And yet, ere many years have passed,
Ere many moons shall wane,
Thy grief will pass away—and thou
■Wilt learn to love again.
Back, selfish tears! down, straggling heart!
I know that it must be;
Some other life thou’lt bless with that
Fond love thou gavest me;
i 1 know that when the chilling grave
Hath ta’en me from thy side,
Thou'lt fondly woo another one,
. And win thy second bride.
She'll press her lips to that warm cheek
That once mine own have pressed;
She'll twine her arms around thy neck,
And nestle on thy breast.
And thou wilt murmur love to her
! In soft and gentle tone,
While I am sleeping in the grave,
Forgotten and alone.
Yet, sometimes, when at evening hour
( Her hand is clasped in thine —
Thy hand, that in our early love,
( So tenderly held mine:
And sometimes, when her low-toned voice
Shall softly sing to thee;
Oh I let thy memory awake
Some passing dream of me.
’Tis all I ask—l would not have
Thee mourn my early doom
Too long—nor shroud thy youthful heart
In never-ending gloom.
I would not have thee wildly weep,
When I have left thy side;
I only ask remembrance kind
Os her—thy lost young bride.
And ye —my children— motherless
So soon, alas! to be;
My little ones that lovingly
Have nestled on my knee :
, Soon shall the orphan’s fate be thine,
Its anguish deep and wild —
Oh God! I would thou now would’st take
' Each little angel child!
I
For soothe thy infant woes,
When I am gone from sight?
And who shall watch beside thy couch
Throughout the livelong night ?
And who shall join thy little plays,
And kiss each baby brow ?
Whose heart feel sad when thou shalt say,
4 1 have no mother now’ ?
To-morrow ye will lift the sheet
That hides my faded lace,
And wonder why I don’t return
Each timid, warm embrace;
Thou'lt wonder why my morning kiss
Thou hast so vainly plead,
And why my lips are cold and still,
Nor know thy mother dead.
Thy mother's chair will vacant be ;
Her garments, on the wall,
Will useless hang—nor will she hear
Thy eager, listening call
Her voice around the hearth at eve
Will never more be heard —
In time, thy mother's name may be
A long-forgotten word.
Farewell, my babes! God grant that she
Who fills my empty place,
Will wear, when she shall look on ye,
A gentle, loving face:
God grant her eyes may ne’er be stern,
Her voice grow cold and high
In angry tones—alas! ’tis hard,
Tis very hard to die!
Tis hard to leave my helpless ones
Consigned to stranger hand;
To enter, in my early youth.
The dim, mysterious land.
Life is so young,- so bright, so new,
I
And hath so many a tic
Os human love to bind me here —
I'm very young to die.
I>raw nearer yet, beloved one!
With that fond look of old;
Press kisses quickly on my lips—
They fast are growing cold.
Tell me again that yon forgive
Each harsh, each thoughtless word—
Tell me once more, for in the grave
Thy voice cannot be heard !
If carelessly within thy heart
I ever plaoed a thorn;
If e'er I gave thee needless pain,
, Forget it when I’m gone.
Some youthful error may have grieved
When I might know it not—
Think only of my virtues, love,
And be the rest forgot
If ever thou should'st miss the voice
That once to thee did sing;
If ever life should seem to thee
A bitter, weary thing—
Come to my quiet lonely grave,
And kneel in humble prayer;
And I will steal from heaven above
To meet and bless thee there.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE PRIDE OF THE LAIRD OF STRATHSPEY.
BY COUSIN' JESSIE.
“Surge,” said Alice Cameron, laying her
head upon old Elspeth Glendower’s knee,
“ whose portrait is that which hangs in the dark
recess in the library, with a curtain of green
braize drawn across it? It is a beautiful young
lady, with bright blue eyes and long golden
curls showering down all over her white neck,
and she has a ribbon, just the color of her eyes,
knotted in them. Yesterday, I was reading in
the deep window-seat in tho library, and grand
papa came in, without seeing that I was there,
and I saw him go up to it and draw the curtain
away, and he stood there for about ten minutes,
drew the curtain over it again, and sat down in
the large leather chair that has tho armorial
bearing painted on it, with his face buried in his
hands, and I heard him repeat, like his heart
was broken: 1 Alice, Alice!’ Then he gave a
great sob, and I saw the tears falling through
his fingers. I was so surprised, nurse Elspeth,
that 1 let my book fall to the floor, and grand
papa must have heard the noise, for he looked
up, and when he saw me, he gave such a terri
ble look, and called out oh 1 as sternly: 1 What
are you doing there, Alice ? Go to Elspeth I'
I tried to run away as fast as I could, but be
fore I had got half way down the stairs, he
called me back to him, and took me on his knee,
and said I was a * timid birdie to bo so easily
frightened,’ and then he kissed me and stroked
my hair, saying all the while, as if he was talk
ing to himself: ‘Just like Alice! Just like
Alice! My own wee Alice! The same lair
hair I God keep the blight from this Alice that
fell on the other!’ So 1 asked: ‘ Who is Alice,
grandpapa ? What blight do you mean ?’ ”
“ Surely, Miss Alice, ye did na ask the auld
Laird that!” interrupted Elspeth, with a faco
of horror.
“Yes. nurse; I didn’t know that ho would
mind it, but the same terrible look came back
into his face, but it only staid for a moment, and
then faded away, and the tears came again into
his eyes, and he said, quite gently: ‘ Don’t ask
questions, Alice—run away to Elspeth.’ So I
came away nurse, and tried to find you to ask
you to tell me what it all meant, but you were
so busy mending the tapestry in the state room
that I did not like to worry you, but you have
not anything now to do except that everlasting
knitting—so wont you tell me all about it ?”
and Alice Cameron coaxingly put up her rosy
lips and kissed the withered faco of the faithful
old retainer of the Cameron family.
“ Aye! Miss Alice!” returned Elspeth, fondly
laying her hand upon the young girl’s forehead,
“ syne I held ye in these ould arms a wee, help
less bairn, I ha’ tried to keep sorrow o’ every
kind from ye, so why suld ye wish noo to hear
o’ this ? ’Tis no a tiling to make ane feel glad,
and a soir heart can no' be pleasant to blithe
young thing like yoursel’.”
“Indeed, nurse, I know that it must have
been some great, very great trouble that grand
papa has borne, or he would not have been so
heart-broken about it. But do you know I
think he must be very proud to be so angry be
cause I saw him troubled ?”
“Dinna tell me o’ the pride of Archibald
Cameron, Laird of Strathspey,” exclaimed *Els
peth, drawing lmr tall figure up to its full
height, “for do I not ken fu’ wcel that it was
that same sinfu’ pride o’ his that brought this
great wae upon him, God forgi’ him. We a’ ha’
our weird, my nurseling, and sorrow comes
sune enough to us all, wi’out our bringing it on
oursel’s. I did no’ mean that ye should hear
o’ this until ye yoursel’ had tasted some o’ the
bitterness o’ life, but syne ye ha’ asked me, I
will tell ye. Listen weel:
“ Alice Cameron was your grandfather’s
youngest bairn, and the blithest young thing
that ever gathered flowers on the hill-side,
or brightened the dwelling o’ a stern auld
man like your grandfather. Tho portrait
ye speak o’ does not tell the half o’ her
charms. Oh! Miss Alice, it was a bonuie sight
to sco her in the morn scouring the hills far and
awa’ on the horse your grandfather had given
her, wi’ her beautiful curls flying behind her in .
the wind like streams of gold, and her red lips,
wi’ the smiles and dimples cornin’ an’ goin’ like
ye ha’ seen the pleasant April sunshine dancin’
o’er the meadows, her cheek like the Stuart
roses, and her innocent blue e’en wi’ tho light
o’ heaveu shinin’ in them.
“Nae wonder that when Robbie Douglas met,
one bright June morn, such a vision from
Heaven, that he fell in love wi’ her. Weel,
Miss Alice, time passed on, and the young gen
tle heart could nao stand against the wooing o’
a pleasant young callaut like the Douglas.
“Although they did not try to hide it from the
auld Laird, still he ken’d nothing o’ it, for they
always held their tryst early i’ the morn. But,
one day—aye, Miss Alice, lam an auld woman
now, and sune this withered body shall be laid
in the auld kirk-yard, but s’uld it ever be grant
ed me to remain on the earth as long as did the
Lord's ancient servant Methuselah. I shall ne’er
forget that day—the sunlight was a’ gane in,
the clouds were cornin’ up dark and gray from
ower the hill, an’ the sea was foamin’ andlashin’
itsel’ against tho rocks. But Robbie Douglas
cared na’ for the gloom wi’out, for tho sunlight
was in his heart, so he rode merrily to the door,
and blithely went into the library to the auld
Laird to tell him o’ the tryst between Alice and
himself, an’ ask that she might be his bride. I
canna’ tell what passed between them there,
but when he camo out I saw that Robbie was a
blighted man. A strange wild light burned in
his e’e, and he wrung my hand wi’ a grasp like
that o’ a man about to dee, and whispered:
‘ Take care o’ her, Elspeth, puir stricken lamb,’
and then, like his mind were wand'ring, he
added: ‘ She w’uld ha’ made a bonnie bride, my
wee Alice!’ And then he mounted his horse.
! ne’er heedin’ the storm that was ragin’ wi’out,
| and rode awa’ to his ane home, and I ne’er saw
• him mair.
“ Miss Alice, ye ha' seen some flowers, that
when a storm gathers o'er them, bow their
heads never to hauld them up mair. Our Alice
was ane o’ them. She ne’er complained, but she
ne’er held up her head mair. Day by day her
step lost its blitheness, and she got paler and
; thinner. Her e’en had no mair the light they
! used to ha’, but had a wisful’, yearnin’ look, an’
she used to come and iay her head upon my
knee, and say: ‘Nurse, 1 am weary o’life. I
should like to dee.’ Weel. the Laird said things
s’uld nae gae on sae, that Alice must ha’ some
thing to rouse her from her grief, and that he
w’uld take her to the ball to be gi’en in Edin
burgh the next week. So he wrote to town,
and soon there comes a gran’ new gown, glisten
ing white silk in ornaments o’ pearl. I’ll show
them to ye now,” and taking a key from her
side, Elspeth opened an old-fashioned bureau that
stood in one corner of the room, and drew forth
to the gaze of the wondering gaze of the won
dering Alice, pearls of marvellous beauty.
“ They are fit for a queen, are they not, my
bairn?” They are to be yours when ye are of an
age to wear them, for mysel’ tho’ I canna’ look
at them wi’ any pleasureand, as she turned
to restore them to their hiding-place. Alice no
ticed that she brushed away a tear. “ I told
the Laird such things w’uld nae do for Alice’s
broken spirits, and on these auld knees I be
sought him to send for Robbie Douglas before
it was too late, and put Alico’s hand in his, but
he only glared upon me wi’ that same look ye
speak o’, and striking me awa’ from his knees,
for in my agony I had clung to them, he said:
‘Woman! how dare ye interfere! I ha’ sworn
a great oath that a Cameron shall ne’er wed a
Douglas, and I shall keep it. Let me hear no
mair of this!’ So I rose from the groun’, and
looking straight in his face, said: ‘ Keep your
oath then, proud man, but tak’ care, Archibald
Cameron, that tho Lord does na’ humble that
sinfu’ pride o’ yours in away that will make
your heart sair for mony a long day, even in re
moving from your eyes that puir bairn whose
heart is breaking.’
“ Weel, the night of the ball came, an’ I
dressed out Alice in tho glistening silk wi’ the
pearls glistening like dew-drops on it, and led
her down to her father. Tho auld Laird said
not a word, but put her in tho carriage and then
got in himsel’, and then, as he shut the door, he
called out: ‘ Dinna set up for us, Elspeth, we
we will no be back till twa i’ the morn.’ But
something told me Alice w'uld na sta’ till then,
so I went up to her own room, and sat down at
tho window, so that I could see the carriage as
it come back. I had na sat three hours before
it drove furiously up to the door, and the Laird
leaped out, callin’: ‘Elspeth! Elspeth! come to
Alice!’ So I went down as fast as I could, an’
there she lay, all a shiverin’ an’ tremblin’, in her
father’s arms. I took her up in my arms and
carried her up stairs an’ laid her on the bed, but
she raised hersel' up, and wi’ such a wistfu’
look as I shall ne’er forget, laid her hand on her
dress, and said: ‘Take it awa’, Elspeth, I
shall ne’er wear it mair.’ So I undressed her,
an’ when I untwined the pearls from her hair
she shivered, an’said: ‘Ay! nurse, they were
so heavy they made my heart-ache, but that
was nothing to tho pain here,’ laying her hand
upon her breast, ‘ for I saw him to-night.’ Then
she closed her e’en, and turning her faco to the
pillow, lay so all night, ne’er stirring anco. So,
when the morn came, 1 called the auld Laird,
an’ told him Alice was dying. Ho would nao
believe me, but when he camo to tho bed and
took ane look at her, ho saw that what I said
was true. Alice could no live an hour! We
tried to rouse her, to get her to speak to us, but
it was nae use, only ancc sho opened her eyes
and smiled, and then closed them again, and
that was the last o’ our Alice. At first your
grandfather would nae believe that she was
dead, but kept callin’ on her to speak ane word;
to say that she had forgi'en him. But his re
pentance came too late. Ye remember the
words of the auld ballad:
“For violets plucked, the sweetest showers
Will ne’er make grow again.”
“ An’, tho’ Archibald Cameron w’uld ha’ gi’en
a’ his broad lands to ha’ her back, she was gano
from his sight forever. Aye, Miss Alice, it is a
sad thing to see the light fade out o’ a young
e’en, and the lips that wo loved silenced for aye,
but when wo know that we ha’ dune it a’, and
had it nae been for us, those e’en w’uld still ha’
shone on in a’ their brightness, an’ the lips ha’
spoken the words that we yearn for, it is fearful,
and it is because your grandfather knows a’
this, how he darkened those two young lives,
that he prayed so earnestly: ‘ God keep the
blight from this Alice that fell on the ither.’”
—
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
MUSIC.
THE CONCERT ROOM.
We have lately dwelt on the charms of mu
sic at nightfall, when heard through the “ ses
sions of sweet, silent thought”; now, we speak
of its effect as its notes awaken tho echoes in a
thronged assembly, in rooms where “cloudless
lamps” are making “a midnight hour only than
morning less bright.” In the midst of all the
apparent mirth that reigns at such a time, what
a field of study would bo opened to the observant
spectator, if by art of some mental anatomy ho
could lay bare tho “ red-leaved volume of each
, heart,” and read there the real emotions excited!
That they would be very different from the
outward manifestations we can hardly doubt,
for there is a mysterious tie linking still the sad
with the beautiful, and often do we feel, even
when the music is of tho lightest description,
that intensely mournful emotion mastering our
spirits—a deep, yet not unpleasing melancholy.
Why this is, we do not pretend to explain, un
less we adopt in brief the conjecture of Leigh
Hunt, who attributes this saddening influence
to the connection between all lovely and holy
things and their fleeting state on earth.
We look, we listen, and even in the act, tho
objects of our admiration pass away; the music
ceases, and henceforth in no future stage of life’s
pilgrimage shall tho same notes arrest the ear
again. Therefore, while the face wears the con
ventional mask of smiles, the heart is full of
tears.
Such a spectator as we have supposed, would
probably bo struck, too, with the absolute want
of anything like real sentiment or appreciation
of the beautiful and true, that exists in many
breasts. It is too obvious, in the conduct and
speech of a majority of the audience, that they
have never cultivated the emotional part of their
nature, and what must be the barrenness of the
internal life! Sentimentality and nonsense are
the usual appellations given to any exhibition of
feelings rendered venerable and hallowed as the
primary gift of the Creator to His sentient crea
ture, man, while in the state of innocence; that
Creator, who Himself rejoices in the glories of
His works, and stoops to listen with pleasure to
tho music of the lesser intelligences. But not
pausing to discuss the popular defect of taste in
the abstract, we return to the subject proper.—
The assembly in a concert room may be divided
into three classes, —the real lovers of music
who, whether they have an ear for the science
or not, have souls to drink in its inspiration; the
critics, who contend on the merits of the me
chanical execution; and the indifferent, who
gather to the popular resort to see and to be
seen. Let us for a little while enter with the
motley crowd, and study at random some of it
characters. “Here are the prude severe, the
gay coquette, the sober widow and the sprightly
maid,’’—the grave divine, the astute lawyer,
the responsible editor, the absorbed merchant
j and the brainless fop.
The fop and the coquette are very well repre
sented by the young couple before us, who with
supercilious mien and vacant, loud laugh, are en
gaged in the interchange of unintelligent syllab
lings, of impertinent remarks relative to the
dress and comparative beauty of certain of the
performers, and laudation of their own precious
selves. If they notice the music at all, it is On
ly to mako the profound criticism, “That’s
sweet,” or “ Isn’t it nice ?” or, perhaps, to com
pare it sneeringly with some fashionable opera
or boarding-school performance. The lady tos
ses her head and flourishes her fan, as if she
were fresh from the perusal of Addison’s far
famed essay on the use of that little instrument,
and had taken every word in earnest; the gen
tleman bows and smiles, and is her “ most de
voted.” i
Passing on into the crowd, we catch sight of
a lady who belongs to the first class. Every
feature of her countenance is soul-lit; her ex
pression changes with each quivering gush of
melody. What a striking face it is 1 The high
brow, pure and CBlm as Parian mafble, large ha
zel eyes full of spirit and feeling, a remarkably
handsome mouth, —in which certain subtle but
inflexible lines in the curve, a pressure of the
lower against the full upper lip that denotes in
domitable fortitude and self control, —mark her as
one who could suffer yet be strong.
By her side sits a friend who feels the music,
but in a widely different way. To her its notes
bear the solemn cadence of a dirge; they have
that saddening power we have spoken of. Her
dark lashes sweep her pale cheek as she sits
buried in thought, her lips contract momently as
if in pain, there is a nervous quivering of the
eye-lids, denoting a strange unrest. The music
has written a plain history of grief on the com
monly placid face. She has loved and lost and
wept, hence her heart-strings tremble to the
song.
Here is a masculine countenance formed for
intellect; its seal is on the massivo forehead, in
the lines of thought, of wit and humor traced
there. The gentleman is evidently of a genial
temperament, but he is paying only a cursory
attention to the concert to-night. His pre-en
gaged air is not complimentary to the skill of
the performers. Their efforts pass across his
mind as tho summer breeze across a wood—very
pleasantly, but stirring not one leaf in the tree
of Thought.
Yonder, under the full blaze of the chandelier
sits a lady, decidedly made up from top to toe
like the peacock; her dress is the best part of
her. “ There can be no kernel in this light nut,
her soul is in her clothes.” She is got up with
infinite pains, and the show is “ for this night
only.”
Ah! here is a critic—this cadaverous, long
visaged individual who is anathemizing aloud
the “wretched music” and wishes she had stay
ed at home. So do all her party. And here is
another, that queenly looking woman, her
haughty head poised back on a Juno pair of
shoulders, her lips writhed with contemptuous
smiles. Judging from outward appearances,
that magnificent physical development is not
matched by the soul within. What could Mont
gomery mean when he wrote:
“Through every pulse the music stole,
And held sublime communion with the soul;
Wrung from the coyest breast the ‘ prisoned sigh,’
And kindled raptures In the coldest eye.”
It is not thus with our friends to-night. Let
us go. for who would see tho influence of music
so profaned? Stop, though, one moment; see
that little girl gliding like a spirit or fairy
through the crowd. How beautiful she is I
What a perfect oval face with the pouting
cherry mouth just ready for a kiss! What would
not the fashionable lady who copies nature in
rouge, give for such a delicate peach bloom as
mantles those dimpled cheeks? Never in-later
years do you find a love-light like that which
beams in the depths of those soft dark orbs.—
The whole expression is so spiriltielle, so fasci
nating, and yet so calm, that one almost be
lieves, as the little thing seats herself and gazes
fixedly at the musicians, that she is only a beau
tiful picture, painted by a master hand, with pen
cil dipped in poetic inspiration. Though of mor
tal mould, ’twas of such as she tho Saviour de
clared, “is the kingdom of Heaven.” Lovely
child! With one glimpse of thee we may well
leave the concert room, assured that memory
will never preserve a brighter vision to rise be
fore us hereafter, when we think of music at
nightfall there. Ziola.
—
Singing of Birds. —The singing of most birds
seems entirely a spontaneous effusion, produced
by no lassitude in muscle, or relaxation of the
parts of action. In certain seasons and weath
er, the nightingale sings all day and part of the
night; and wo never observe that the powers
of song are weaker, or that the notes become
harsh and untunable, after all these hours of
practice. The song thrush, in a mild, moist
April, will commence his tune early in the morn
ing, pipe unceasingly through the day, yet, at
tho close of eve, when he retires to rest, there
is no obvious decay in his musical powers, or
any sensible effort required to continue his har
mony to the last. Birds of one species sing in
general very like each other, with different de
grees of execution. Some countries may pro
duce fine songsters, but with great variation in
the notes. In the thrush, however, it is re
markable that there seems to be regular notes,
each individual piping a voluntary of its own.
Their voices may always be distinguished amid
the choristers of the corps, yet some one per
former will more particularly attract attention
by a peculiar modulation of tune; and should
several stations of these biids be visited the
same morning, few or none probably would be
found to persevere in the same round of notes;
whatever is uttered seaming the effusion of the
moment. At times a strain will break out per
fectly unlike any preceding utterance, and we
may wait a longtime without noticing ariy re
petition of it. Harsh. strained and tense as the
notes of this bird are, yet they are pleasing
from their variety. The voice of the black-bird
is infinitely more mellow, but has much less va
riety, compass or execution; and he, too, com
mences carols with the morning light, persover
ing from hour to hour without effort, or any sen
sible faltering of voice The cuckoo wearies us
throughout some long May morning with the
unceasing monotony of its song; and though
there are others as vociferous, yet it is the only
bird I know that seems to suffer from the use
of the organs of the voice. Little exertion as
the few notes it makes use of seems to require,
yet by the middle of June it loses its utterance,
becomes hoarse, and ceases from further essay.