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in Lear advances like a thunder-storm darken
ing the earth and the heavens, or such as in
Romeo and Juliet allies itself with moonbeams
tipping the fruit-tree tops with silver, and the
song 3 of nightingales, and the buds ripening to
beauteous flowers in the quick Southern spring.
This is what gives such intense reality to his
dramas This ,is their perpetual charm. ,In
this respect, in the exercise of this sovereign
power, the English is immeasurably superior to
the Grecian bard.
We have thus exhibited poetTy as a natural
utterance, as a descriptibn, as au association,
and as a symbol. And now the question natu
rally arises: v/hat office does poetry hold?
what good does it accomplish ? lor our age is
utilitarian, and we are willing even on this
point to hear and, as best we may, to answer
its questions. We have then to review our
subject with reference to three particulars, and
to consider the imagination as it moulds into
human speech the creations of the heavenly ar
tist, as it displays the marvellous unity ot his
works, and as it ministers to our yearning for
the infinite.
Nature has been fantastically described as an
immense epic, of which suns are the capital
letters, worlds the punctuation, and the harmo
nies of all the rhythm.* Yet, the conceit is the
expression of a great truth. The universe illus-.
trates the glory of its author. Uncreated wis
dom, power and love assume earthly shapes;
and thus poetry which clothes these shapes in
ideal grace affords occasions and motives to
natural piety. What intimate acquaintance
with nature do we not owe to the poets!
What tender love for the divine works have
they not fostered! Palestine reappears in the
learned verse of Keble. We behold the deep
decays of Zion whence the ancient light is van
ishing as evening sunbeams from the sea, or
beneath the moon lie the shores of Jennesaret
where the oleander spreads its soft red blos
soms “all through the summer night.” The
landscape glows with life under the pencil of
Joanna Baillie. Her notes are full of a sweet
enthusiasm which steals into our hearts as they
sound:
In all his beauteous robes of fleckered clouds
And ruddy vapors and deep glowing flames
And softly varied shades, looks gloriously.
The green woods dance to the wind. The lakes
Cast np their sparkling waters to the light;
And the sweet hamlets in their bushy dells
Send winding up to heaven their curling smoke
On the soft morning air.”
How refreshing it is to escape to nature when
we will, from the strife and clamor of men.—
How quickly we are soothed and calmled as by
a holy presence, while Coleridge kneels to the
mountain that he has anointed with a prophet’s
hand, and that now rears its calm, great front,
a hierarch between esirth and heaven. What
springs of pensive tenderness are opened in
our hearts as Burns pauses in the furrow to
bless the bonnie gem, the flower, wee, modost
and crimson-tipped, which his plough has
upturned. Every melodious chant has quick
ened the air of outdoor life. There is a circle
of brighter green wherever the fkky foot of
poetry has tripped. Its magic incantations be
guile the captive with the wild freedom of the
woods, open heaven’s gates of cloudless blue
upon the dreariest days, and amid the frosts of
winter renew the flowers and fruits of tho
tropics. One of the designs of poetry, then, is to
endear the universe to the human heart, and
thus to create reverence and love for its author.
From this principle it follows that disdain,
skepticism and licentiousness have no place in
this high art. It is the sentence of criticism
as truly as of religion, that when Byron raves,
and the fluttering, gilded wings of Moore’s an
gels are foul with earthly slime, and the aspir
ing muse of Shelley Soars only to
“Stain tho white radiance of eternity,”
these poets for the season abjure their title.
Again, we have seen that poetry is depeu
dent upon the harmony which exists in crea
tion. Its rhythmical form suggests the’exis
tence of something in tho objects it describes
accordant with the sounds that please the ear.
There is that in nature which the organ tones
of Milton and the varied and thrilling notes of
Shakspeare’s passion adequately represent.—
And the figures of poetry are allegorical. They
rest upon the wondrous adaptation of the spirit
of man to the scene in which it now abides.
They show that we are members of a vast
organization, all whose parts are wisely and
gloriously adjusted. They exhibit the results
of-an overruling, creative design, which includes
man and the universe. We, with the material
things that are all about us, and that yield as
plastic clay to every impression of thought and
fancy and feeling, are truly a created plan—a
proof of the existence and government of God,
and an illustration of his attributes. The argu
ment of design is as truly incorporated into the
.Hneid of Virgil as it is expressed in the theolo
gy of Cicero.
Once more, poetry expresses man’s yearning
for the infinite. This is its highest aim. The
imagery which poetry uses in its first accents,
and to which it returns in its latest words, is
the language of .the soul. Unless its pictures,
however brilliant, are touched with human re
flections and sentiments, they are little worth.
The wonders of the material world are not so
great, its charms are not so winning, as the
wonders and the beauties of humanity. The
most admirable thing beneath the arch of hea
ven is that humble yet exalted being who looks
with such ebHdlike awe and love on the stu
♦AS. Constant Litterat Chrstienne, c. 1107.
THE SOUTHERN FIELD AND FIRESIDE.
pendous scene. In him dwells the profoundest
mystery of creation. He is its sovereign.—
Power has been given him as with an Orphean
lyre to cause the rocks and the trees to move.
The untutored notes of his praise send sweeter
music to the ear of God than the fabled music
of the spheres; and he is not permitted to sing
without pouring his own heart into the strain
—youth's brilliant and teaming fancies, the ma
jestic sadness of age, the diverse yet thrilling
passion of the lover, the patriot, and
the holy enthusiasm of the worshipper, lie
does not sing without expressing, whether con
sciously or unconsciously, a desire for some
thing more grand, more beautiful, more harmo
nious, than the fitful passions of daily life, or
the withering scenes of earth can supply. He
is an immortal, and, when be gives a free ex
pression to his emotions, the sense of an
emancipated and boundless existence sounds
from the chords.
Thus poetry becomes a divine philosophy.
Her breathing marbles, her festive processions,
her Athenian sanes, she ranges beside the blue
eternal sea. As we pass amid her graceful
wonders, she bids us pause, now to hear the
Apostle of the resurrection preaching from the
Acropolis, now to place gifts upon a decora
ted altar graven with inscriptions to the un
known God; and, familiar as we may be with
her speech and people, we must yet consent to
be foreigners among them, uninitiate in the
greater mysteries of the realm, until we have
learned—
“ How great, while yet we tread the kindred clod.
How great, in the wild whirl of Time’s pursuits.
To stop and pause, involved in high presage,
To stand contemplating our distant selves
As in a magnifying mirror seen
Enlarged, ennobled, elevate,divine;
To prophesy our own futurities;
Ta gaze in thought on what all thought transcends!
To talk, with fellow candidates, of Joys
As far beyond conception as desert;
Ourselves the astonished talkers and the tale!
“ Night Thoughts, 0.”
Hence from the earliest times a certain in
stinct has associated poetry with religion.
The rude songs of remote antiquity were sung
in sacred places. The ode, the hymn to the
gods, preceded tho epic which sung of heroes.
The drama at its origin with Aeschylus was
fu’l of mysterious mytbologic meanings. Prome
theus chained to Caucasin heights and with the
vultures preying on his breast, was a type of
humanity with its earthly cares and heavenly
cravings, conquered but not subdued, subject to
the power of the Prince of this world, but
waiting for deliverance. The Bible is rich with
the finest poetry. We have nothing more
sublime iu literature than the lament over
Babylon, the falling of the’ eclipse of
the morning star of history, the picture of dead
kings starting from their marble sarcophagi
and their welcome to the brother who has fill
ed the world with his fame and who now descends
to dweel among them iu sackcloth and dust.
So the crowns of earth wither as the light of
eternity falls. We have nothing more pathetic
than the elegy of David over Jonathan. We
have nothing more terrible than the picture of
Apocalyptic warriors trampling ‘laud empire's
under their horses’feet. But not only are the
scattered hymns and prophecies poetical. The
Bible contains the ethereal principle which must
permeate the highest poetry. For it displays
the object which poetry seeks, it incarnates
the infinite. It displays the union of the
heroic and the divine. It presents the only
true ideal to thought, to feeling, and to desire.
Already it has had its inilunco upon great works
of art. Milton constructed his great epic from
a few chapters of Genesis. Klopstock, in com
posing a metrical translation of the gospel nar
rative, delivered Germany from intellectual
thraldom. With a finer taste, and a spirit
equally devout, Kirke White begun his “Chris.
tiacL” Alas! his work is but a fragment, the
splinter of a shattered diamond. His shell was
indeed hung upon the dark cypress, and only a
casual uote escaped from the strings as the
breeze passed by. And for “the solemn stole’’
he sought from Urauia, the pall feel upon his
youth and silenced his chant forever. Chateau
briand has striven to represent iu prose, that
is a looser form of poetry, the doctrines and
institutions of religion. A noble enterprise,
yet, not wholly successful. There is discord in
his notes, although he chanted like a prophet.
Too often do dujl echoes from Gothic aisles and
planitive misereres disturb the gentle charm of
the genius of Christianity. Too. often does be
subject the yearaiug sense of the infinite to the
influence of the present. The solemnity of
established forms, the glare of ecclesiastical
parades, too largely divide his affeetions with
what is home-like and heartfelt in devotion. —
The world yet waits for the Christian Shaks
peare. He has not yet appeared. The scroll
that is to bear earth’s greatest name lies yet
untouched beneath the brooding vjrings and
watchful eyes of cherubim, and above it floats
the glory of the eternal.
• i«i
Sydney Smith, passing tbrough a by-street
behind St. Paul’s beard two women abusing
each other from opposite houses. ‘They will
never agree,’ said 1 ' -the wit; - 1 they argue from
different premises.’
When Charles V. read upon the tomb of a
Spanish nobleman— ‘ Here lies one who never
knew a fear,’he very wittily observed —‘Then
he never snuffed a candle with his fingers.’
The sun shone brilliantly into the room
where Humboldt died, and it is reported that
bia last words, addressed to his niece, were :
‘ Wie herrlich diese strdbkn; sic schienen die
Erde zum Himmal surufen.. [How grand these
rays; they seem to beckon Earth to Heaven!]
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
TO MY WIFE.
BY W. B. 8.
Whfltt the spring-time in its beauty
Crowned the land with nature’s pfidc,
The* I led thee to the altar,
Trembling, and a blushing bride.
But the flowers all have faded,
And the spring-time is no more;
And the wild winds of December
. Drive the snow beneath the door.
And thou art unchanged—devoted,
And tho’ seasons come and go,
Truo affection changes never,
In life’s sunshine nor its woe.
Tho’ the rose on thy cheek fadeth,
Or by time should e’er be torn,
In my heart ’twill bloom as freshly
As when on thy bridal morn.
When thy eyes shall lose their sparkle,
And thy dark hair silver o'er;
When thy song shall lose its sweetness,
Or thy beauties charm no more!
Still, to me, <hou wilt be lovely,
And the living substance fair—
Os my mind’s young dreams and shadows—
Rich reward for all my care!
Petersburg,
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
THE GREAT BATTLES OF ANTIQUITY.
I. — Marathon.
BY ARCH’D ARM M’BRYDE.
To avenge the burning of Sardis, aud from
other motives, Darius the, King of Per
sia, meditating nothing less then the conquest
of Greece, dispatched a fleet of 300 sail to the
coasts of that country. But this was wrecked
off the promontory of Mount Athos; and the
Persian monarch equipped another armament
lor the same object, consisting of 600 sail,
which commenced operations by the reduction
of the island of Naxos. A large army was
then landed in Euboea, commanded by Datis
and Artapheoues, which plundered and laid
waste the country on its ambitious and destruc:
tive march to Athens. But the Persian lead
ers were suffered to approach no nearer the
city thaa Marathon, a small maritime village,
ten miles Northeast of it, where their passage
was contested by 10,000 Athenians and 1000
Plateans, only; the suddenness of the emer
gency preventing the confederate States of
Greece from sending assistance—except the
Lacedemonians, who delayed marching from
an absurd belief that no enterptfso could be
successful unless undertaken after the full
moon.
The Persians numbered 100,000 foot and
10,000 horse; and the command of the Greeks
was in obedience to the Athenian law, given
to ten Generals, who acted alternately. There
was, however, among them on this occasion, a
man of superior talents, to whom his associates
accorded the supremacy, by common consent.
This was the celebrated Miltiadt-s, previously
lyratft drtbe Chersonese, who, as the event
showed, was every way fitted for the position.
On the day of the battle he marshalled bis
small army along the foot of a hill which pro
tected either flank. The Athenians trusted en
tirely to the sword, throwing aside as useless
all missile instruments of warfare, darts and
javelius. Their determination was of the most
desperate kiud. It was triumph or ruin; vic
tory or the Persian yoko. Instead of dis
charging their javelins, as was their custom, at
the first they rushed at odc© upou the
Persian ranks with the utmost fiercenoss, reso
lution and impetuosity. Disorder among the
Persians was the consequence, which the Greek
General followed up by chargiug with both
wings of his force. The confusion among the
invaders was thus not only lightened, but dis
order ouded iu rout. The numbers of the Per
sians served only to encumber their flight, and
they suffered great slaughter—6,3oo of the
army of Datis having been left lifeless on the
field. Hippias, himself a Greek, who aimed at
the Athenian sovereignty, being among the
slain- The Greek loss at Marathon was only
one hundred and ninety.
A modern traveler describes Marathon,which
still bears its ancient name, as situated at the
Northeastern end of a valley, which rises into
the extensive plain which was the scene of the
battle; a marsh, contiguous to the sea,near by.
still exhibiting marble monuments of those
who died in the contest. A tumulus also, in
honor of the Mheniau dead, was thrown up in
the middle of the plain, still visible; and
another for the Plateaus and Helots, which last
attended their masters, and bore their part in
the battle.
The couteat at Marathon showed their own
strength to the Greeks, and destroyed the
dread which the Persian name at first inspired;
but with the Persians tho effect was to increase
the rage of Darius, who to restore ;the sullied
dignity of hia kingdom, resolved to bring
against Greece the whole of the magnificent
power of Asia. Miltiades received all the hon
ors w!- : cb hwait the man who rescues bis
country from the immiqency of pet il; but af
terwards having been unsuccessful.in an expe
dition against the isle of Parro, he died in the
wretchedness of a prison. Darius also died
before the accomplishment of his designs ; but
he transmitted his hatred of Greece, along with
his throne, to Xerxes, his successor.
The battle of Marathon is of a remote and
attractive, because obscure, antiquity, having
been fought 400 years before the Christian
era.
THE HOUSEWIFE’S MANUAL.'
T - r ~ *
Salad D&I.MISG.—One cop good talar vinegar, a tea
spoon of oil, one of made mustard, a salt-spoon of salt,
and the yolk of a hard boiled egg rubbed fine ; pour
over the salad, and send to the table.
Batteb Pudding.— Five eggs beaten light; one
quart of sweat milk and one pint flour. Bak,e ten ,
minutes without a crust, and eat it hot, with butter and
sugar for sauce.
BpongbCake.—Take the yolks of five eggs, the white
of one, half a pound of sngar, one teacnpful of water;
beat sugar, eggs, aud water together, until thick as
pound cake, then add six ouncerof flour.
A Simple Pudding.—Boil a quart of milk, cat up
some bread In small pieces and soak them in the milk
for about half an hour; then add a tableapoonfnl of In
dian meal, and a piece of butter the size of a walnut;
sweeten well, and put in nutmeg and other spices.—
Bake about twenty minutes.
Wiping Dishes.—Mach time is wasted by house
keepers in wiping their dishea. If properly washed and
drained in a dry sink, with a cloth spread on the bot
tom, they iook better than when wiped, besides the
economy in time and labor.
CoughMixtube.—l taa-spoonfnl of Camphor (liquid);
1 tea-spoonful of Lobelia (liquid); 1 tea-spoonful of Lau
danum (liquid); 2 table-spoonfuls of Honey or Loaf Su
gar. Dose—l tea-spoonful night and morning, or when
the fit of coughing is very severe.
Buckwheat Bread.—Who loves not buckwheat
pancakes, and to how many in a failure of the wheat
crop, is buckwheat the staff of life? and to how many
more might it be if the fact were generally known, that
a moat palatable bread can be made from it.
The bread is as good as the pancakes—(we say bet
ter)—far less tronble to prepare, and hat no burnt grease
about it to make it unwholesome.
To Make Buckwheat Bread or JonNNY Cake.—To
one qnart buttermilk, add a teaspoonfnl of soda, and
flour enongh to make a thin batter—put in an eg? if
convenient, and bake in quick oven. Try it.
To M ake Crackers.— Take one egg, one pint sweet
milk, one teacnpful lard, a little salt and enough flour
to make a stiff dough. Rub the lard and some flour to
gether; then add the egg and milk, Add flonr and
knead well till it is a vary stiff dough. Then add to
this one-half its size of light dough, knead them well
together, and set away to rise. Whan light, roll out to
ane-eighth of an inch thick, cat in squares, prick with a
fork, and bake to a crisp.
To Keep Beds well Aired. —Nothing more is neces
sary than to fill a large stone bottle with boiling water,
and to put it into the bed, which, with the bolster and
pillows, should be pressed round it in a heap. It is as-*
tonishing the number of hoars it will be found warm-
By this simple contrivance, no one need fear giving a
friend a “damp bed,” even if It is only done once a fort
night. Care must be taken to have the bottle well
corked, and, to prevent accidents, it would be as well to
tie it down.
Simple Cube fob Cboup.—We find in the -Journal o
Health the following simple remedy for this dangerous
disease. Those who have passed nights of agony at the
bedside of loved children, will treasnre it up as a valu
able piece of information ;
If a child is taken with croup, apply cold water —ice
water If possible—suddenly and freely to the neck and
chest with a sponge. The breathing will Instantly be
relieved. Soon as possible, let the sufferer drink as
much as it can, then wipe it dry, cover it up warm, and
soon a quiet slumber will relieve the parent's anxiety
and lead the heart in thankfulness to the Power which
has given to the pure gushing fountain such medical
qualities.
Johnny Cake.— l% cups sweet cream.
b cups butter-milk .•
1 small tablespoouful saleratus and a little salt.
Add corn-meal to make a batter as stiff as can be
conveniently stirred with a spoon. It should be briskly
stirred, turned into a well buttered dripping-pan, and
baked in a quick but not too hot oven.
Cubing Meat.—Meat intended for salting should
hang a few days, until its fibres become short and ten
der ; instead of being salteu as soon as it comes from
the market; though in very hot weather it may be re
quisite to salt as soon as possible, beginning by wiping
dry, taking out the kernels and pipes, and tilling the
holes'with salt.
To Restore Tainted Meat.—if your meet be tainted,
take it out of the pickle; wash It so as to cleanse it of
the offensive pickle. Then wash your barrel well,
with a solution either of lime or ashes, after which re
pack it, and between every layer of meat put a layer of
charcoal until your barrel be foil; then make a fresh
pickle strong enough to be:u uu egg, and All up your
barrel. As you repack your pieces, it would be well to
rnb each piece with salt. Let it remain a week or ten
days, and the taint will have disappeared, and the meat
be restored to its original sweetness.
Sausages.— Chop fat and lean fresh pork, (a greater
proportion of Icaa,) very fine, season it very highly
with pepper, salt, sage, and other sweet herbs if liked.
A little saltpeter tends to preserve them. When fresh
pork cannot be had, very good sausages may be made
of beef.
To Toast Ham.—Alter boiling it well, take the skin
off; cover the top thick with bread-crumbs, and brown
it in an oven.
To Btcft Ham.—Take a ham well smoked and washed
(let the skis remain on), and make incisions all over the
top two Inches deep; stnff them fall with chopped
parsley and some pepper; to be eaten cold.
To Bboil Ham.—Ham is better broiled than fried.
Slice it thin, and broil on a gridiron. When dished,
place b fried egg on each slice. It should be broiled
over bright eosls, from ve to eight minutes, turning
it over once.
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