University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANY.

THE BACHELOR RECLAIMED;
A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

“So, you are determined not to marry?”

“Absolutely.”

“And why?”

“In the first place, I never expect to be able to support
a wife according to my ideas of comfort. In the second
place, I have no hope of meeting a woman who will sympathise
sufficiently with my feelings and views, to be a
congenial companion. Thirdly, I cannot bear the idea of
adopting as constant associates the relations of her I may
love, and fourthly, I consider housekeeping and all the
details of domestic arrangements, the greatest bore in
existence.”

This colloquy took place between two young men, in
the garden of one of the fashionable hotels at Saratoga.
It was a sultry afternoon, and they had retired under the
shade of an apple-tree, to digest their dinner, which process
they were facilitating by occasionally puffing some
very mild, light-brown Havana segars. The last remarks

were uttered in a very calm and positive tone, by
McNiel, a philosophical and quiet gentleman, who had
a most sensible theory for everything in life. Among
other things, he took great pleasure in the conviction
that he thoroughly understood himself. The first time
his interest was truly excited by a member of the gentler
sex, he had acted in the most extravagant manner, and
barely escaped with honor from forming a most injudicious
connection. To guard against similar mishaps,
he had adopted a very ingenious plan. Being uncommonly
susceptible to female attractions, he made it a
rule when charmed by a sweet face, or thrilled by a winning
voice, to seek for some personal defect or weakness
of character, in the fair creature, and obstinately dwell
upon these imperfections, until they cast a shade over the
redeeming traits, and dissolved the spell he feared.
When this course failed, he had but one resource.
With Falstaff, he thought discretion the better part of
valor, and deliberately fled from the allurements that
threatened his peace. Thus he managed not to allow
love to take permanent possession, and, after various
false alarms and exciting vigils, came to the conclusion
that no long siege or sudden attack would ever subdue the
citadel of his affections,

But McNiel had so braced himself in a spirit of resistance,
that he had made no provision against the unconscious
lures of beauty. He could chat, for hours,
with a celebrated belle, and leave her without a sigh;
he could smile at the captivating manners which over-came
his fellows. Regarding society as a battle-field,

he went thither armed at all points, resolved to maintain
his self-possession, and be on the watch against the
wiles of woman. He had seen lovely girls in the drawing-room,
followed their graceful movements in the
dance, heard them breathe songs of sentiment at the
piano, and walked beside them on the promenade. On
these occasions, he coolly formed an estimate of their
several graces, perfeetly appreciated every finely-chiselled
nose and tempting lip, noted with care the hue and
expression of the eye, but walked proudly away at parting,
murmuring to himself, “all this I see, yet am not in
love.”

But who can anticipate the weapon that shall lay him
low, or make adequate provision against the inexhaustible
resources of love? McNiel had sat for a week at
table, opposite an invalid widow and her daughter. He
had passed them potatoes not less than a dozen times,
and helped the young lady twice to cherry-pie. The
only impression he had derived from their demeanor
and appearance, was, that they were very genteel and
quiet. On the morning after his conversation in the
garden, he awoke just before sunrise, and found himself
lying with his face to the wall, in one of the diminutive
chambers in which visitors to the Springs are so
unceremoniously packed. His eyes opened within six
inches of the plaster; and he amused himself for some
minutes, in conjuring the cracks and veins it displayed,
into imaginary forms of warriors and animals. At
length his mind reverted to himself, and his present
quarters. “Well, I've been here just a fortnight,” thus

he mused, “and a pretty dull time I've had of it. Day
after day, the same stupid routine. In the morning I
swallow six glasses of Congress water at the spring,
with the hollow eyes of that sick minister from Connecticut
glaring on me like a serpent, and the die-away
tones of that nervous lady from Philadelphia, sounding
like a knell in my ears. I cannot drink in peace for
those everlasting Misses Hill, who all three chatter at
once, and expect me to be entertaining and talkative so
early in the morning, with my stomach full of cold liquid,
and a long dull day in perspective! Then comes breakfast.
The clatter of plates, the murmur of voices, the
rushing of the black waiters, and the variety of steams,
make me glad to retreat. I find a still corner of the
piazza, and begin to read; but the flies, a draught of
air, or the intrusive gabble of my acquaintances, utterly
prevent me from becoming absorbed in a book. It has
now grown too warm to walk, and I look in vain for Dr.
Clayton, who is the only man here whose conversation
interests me. I avoid the billiard-room because I
know who I shall meet there. The swing is occupied.
The thrumming on the piano of that old maid from
Providence, makes the saloon uninhabitable. They are
talking politics in the bar-room. The very sight of the
newspapers gives me a qualm. I involuntarily begin to
doze, when that infernal gong sounds the hour to dress.
No matter; any thing for a relief. Dinner is insufferable;
more show and noise, than relish and comfort.
How gladly I escape to the garden and smoke! That
reminds we of what I told Jones, yesterday, about matrimony.
He laughed at me. But there's no mistake
about it. Catch me to give up my freedom, and provide
for a family—be pestered with a whole string of new connections,
when I can't bear those I have now—never have
a moment to myself—be obliged to get up in the night for a
doctor—have to pay for a boy's schooling, and be plauged
to death by him for my pains—be bothered constantly with
bad servants—see my wife lose her beauty, in a twelve-month
from, care—my goddess become a mere household
drudge—give up segars—keep precise hours—take care
of sick children—go to market! never, never, never!”

As his reverie thus emphatically terminated, NcNiel
slowly raised himself to a sitting posture, in order to ascertain
the state of the weather, when a sight presented
itself which at once put his philosophy to flight and
startled him from his composure. He did not cry out,
but hushed his very breath. Beside him lay a female
form in profound slumber. Her hair had escaped from
its confinement, and fell in the richest profusion around
her face. There was a delicate glow upon the checks.
The lips were scarcely parted. The brow was perfectly
serene. One arm was thrust under her head, the other
lay stretched upon the coverlid. It was one of those accidental
attitudes which sculptors love to embody. The
bosom heaved regularly. He felt that it was the slumber
of an innocent creature, and that beneath that calm breast
beat a kindly and pure heart. He bent over the vision,
for so at first it seemed to him, as did Narcissus above
the crystal water. The peaceful beauty of that face entered
his very soul. He trembled at the still regularity of

the long, dark eye-lashes, as if it were death personified.
Recovering himself, all at once something familiar struch
him in the countenance. He thought awhile, and the
whole mystery was solved. It was the widow's daughter.
They occupied the adjoining chamber; she had gone
down stairs in the night to procure something for the invalid,
and on returning, entered in the darkness, the wrong
room, and fancying her mother asleep, had as she thought
very quietly taken her place beside her, and was soon lost
in slumber. No sooner did this idea take possession of
McNiel, than with the utmost caution and a noiseles movement,
he stole away and removed every vestige of his
presence into a vacant apartment opposite, leaving the
fair intruder to suppose she alone had occupied the room
At breakfast, he observed the mother and daughter whisper
and smile together, and soon ascertained that they
had no suspicion of the actual state of the case. With
the delicacy that belonged to his character, McNiel in
wardly vowed to keep the secret forever in his own breast
Meantime, with much apparent hilarity, he prepared to
accompany Jones to Lake George. His companion
marvelled to perceive this unwonted gaiety wear off a
they proceeded in their ride. McNiel became silent and
pensive. The evening was fine, and they went upon the
lake to enjoy the moonlight. Jones sung his best song
and woke the echoes with his bugle. His friend remained
silent, wrapt in his cloak, at the boat's stern. At last
very abruptly he sprang up, and ordered the rowers to
land him. “Where are you going?” inquired Jones
“To Saratoga,” was the reply. “Not to-night, surely?'
“Yes, now, this instant.” Entertaining some fears for
his friend's sanity, Jones reluctantly devoted that lovely
night to a hard ride over a sandy road, instead of lingering
away its delightful hours, on the sweet bosom of the
lake.

Six months after, McNiel married the widow's daughter,
and the ensuing summer, when I met him at Saratoga,
he assured me he found it a delightful residence.

HAIR.

Hair is an eloquent emblem. It is the mother's pride
to dress her child's rich locks; the lover's joy to gaze on
the hair-locket of his mistress; the mourner's despair to
see the ringlet stir as if in mockery of death, by the marble
cheek of the departed. How the hue of hair is hallowed
to the fancy! From the “glossy raven” to the “silver
sable,” from the “brown in the shadow, and gold in the
sun,” to the blonde and silken thread, there is a vocabulary
of hues appealing to each memory.

The beautiful economy of nature is signally displayed
in the human hair. The most simple expedient in the
animal frame, the meanest adjunct, as it were, to the
figure, yet how effective!

In this passage, the blind bard of Paradise has interpreted
the natural language of woman's hair before the artifices
of fashion had marred its natural grace. Whoever
has attentively perused one of the pictures of the old masters,
where a female figure is represented, must have perceived,
perhaps unconsciously, that the long flexible ringlets
conveyed an impression to the mind of dependence.
The short, tight curls of a gladiatorial statue, on the contrary,
give the idea of self-command and unyielding will.
There is a poetical charm in the unshorn tresses of a
beautiful woman, which Milton has not exaggerated. I
have seldom received a more sad conviction of the bitterness
of poverty, than was conveyed by the story of a lovely
girl in one of the continental towns, who was obliged to
sell her hair for bread. She was of humble parentage,
but nature had adorned her head with the rarest perfection.
Her luxuriant and glowing ringlets, constituted the pride
of her heart. She rejoiced in this distinction as the redeeming
point of her destiny. Often would a blush of
pleasure suffuse her cheek as she caught a stranger's eye
regarding them with admiration, when at her lowly toil.
The homeliness of her garb, and the poverty of her condition
were relieved by this native adornment. It is wonderful
to what slight tokens the self-respect of poor mortals will
cling, and how the very maintenance of virtue often depends
upon some frail association. A strain of music,

glimpses of a remembered countenance, a dream, a word,
will often annihilate a vile intention, or unseal the fountain
of the heart. A palm tree in England drew tears
from an Eastern wanderer; and the native wisdom of
Jeanie Deans led her to make her first visit to the Duke
of Argyle, arrayed in a plaid, knowing his honor's heart
“would warm to the tartan.” And thus to the simple-hearted
maiden her rich and flowing hair was a crown of
glory—the only circumstance that elevated her in her own
estimation. And when the iron necessity of want came
upon her, and she was a homeless orphan—when every
thing had been parted with, and all appeals to compassion
had failed, the spirit of the poor creature yielded to hunger,
and she sold her hair. Before this sacrifice, she had
resisted, with the heroism of innocence, the temptation to
purchase food at the expense of honor. But when the
wants of nature were appeased, and she went forth shorn
of her cherished ornament, the consciousness of her loss
induced despair, and she resigned herself hopelessly to a
career of infamy.

Abundant hair is said to be indicative of strength, and
fine hair, of susceptibility. In the hair are written the
stern lessons of life. It falls away from the head of sickness,
and the brows of the thoughtful. The bright lot of
childhood is traced in its golden threads, the free buoyancy
of youth is indicated by its wild luxuriance; the throe of
anguish, the touch of age, entwine it with a silver tissue;
and intensity of spirit will there anticipate the snows of
time. The hair of Columbus was white at thirty; and
before that period, Shelley's dark waving curls were dashed

with snow. In the account of the execution of the
unfortunate Mary, the last touch of pathos is given to the
scene when it is stated that as the executioner held up the
severed head, it was perceived that the auburn locks were
thickly strewn with grey.

Associations of sentiment attach strongly to the hair.
Around it is wreathed the laurel garland of fame. Amid
it tremble the flowers of a bridal. Putting up the hair is
the signal of womanhood. The Andalusian women always
wear roses in their glossy black hair. The barbarous
practice of scalping doubtless originated in a
savage idea of desecrating the temple of the soul, as
well as of gathering trophies of victory. The head is
shaven by the monks in token of humility, and the stationary
civilization of the Chinese is indicated by no
custom more strikingly than that of wearing only a single
cue, the very acme of unpicturesque. There were few
more characteristic indications of a highly artificial state
of society than the absurd style of dressing the head once
so fashionable. Even at the present day, no part of female
costume betrays individual taste more clearly than
the style in which the hair is worn. To tear the hair is a
true expression of despair, and the patriarchal ceremony
of scattering ashes on the head, was the deepest sign of
sorrow. How much the desolate grandeur of the scene
on the heath, in Lear, is augmented by his “white flakes”
that “challenge pity,” and what a picture we have of Bassanio's
love, when he says—

The women at the siege of Messina, wrought their hair
into bow-strings for the archers, and on a similar occasion
in the Spanish wars, the females of a small garrison bound
their hair under the chin, to appear like beard, and arranging
themselves on the ramparts, induced the enemy
to surrender.

Sampson's hair was singularly associated with his misfortunes,
and the abundant locks of Absalom wrought
the downfall of his pride. It is often a net to entrap the
affections. The hair speaks to the heart. Laura's flying
tresses haunted Petrarch's fancy:

That the hair may figure to advantage in literature, the
“Rape of the Lock,” is an immortal proof. The Puritans
cut it short and the cavaliers wore it luxuriantly.
Human vanity displays itself nowhere more conspicuously
than in the arrangement of the hair. When Benedict
enumerates the qualifications required in a wife, he says
in conclusion—“her hair shall be of what color it please
God;”—alluding to the common custom of dyeing the
hair. Bassanio, when moralizing on the caskets, utters a
satire upon false hair;

Among the beautiful touches, alike true to nature and
poetry, in Talfourd's Ion, is the language of the dying
Adrastus to his newly-discovered son:—

It is the surviving memorial of our physicial existence:

D'Israeli paints Contarini Fleming, the creature of
passion, after his wife's death, as clipping off her long
tresses, twining them about his neck, and springing from
a precipice. Miss Porter makes Helen Mar embroider
into the banner of Wallace, the ensanguined hair of his
murdered Marion. Goldsmith's coffin was opened to obtain
some of his hair for a fair admirer, and there is a
striking anecdote of a man who was prevented from declaring
love to his friend's betrothed, by recognizing on the
hand he had clasped, a ring, containing the hair of his
rival. With what a pathetic expressiveness does the
“Cenci” conclude:

The dialogue between King John and Constance, is very
significant:—

EYE-LANGUAGE.

Of Nature's minuter wonders, the human eye is the
paragon.—Vainly will Science explore her rich arcana
for a more impressive example of the marvels she would
illustrate. But it is not the apparatus which the delicate
knife of the anatomist reveals—the retina and lenses, or
even their combined arrangement that most strikingly
indicates the subtle workmanship involved in the little
fleshy globule we call the eye;—it is the effect they produce,
the purposes they subserve, the results they accomplish.
Far greater are these than the careless crowd
dream of; far more marvelous than even the intelligent
and imaginative can fully realize. The phenomenon of
sight is, indeed, sufficiently extraordinary. Not less so
are the minor missions which the visual organ fulfils.
The eye speaks—with an eloquence and a truthfulness
surpassing speech. It is the window out of which the
winged thoughts often fly unwittingly. It is the tiny
magic mirror on whose crystal surface the moods of feeling
fitfully play, like the sunlight and shadows on a still
stream. Yes—if there is one material form through

which the spirit is visible, and with which, when humanly
embodied, it has specially to do, that form is the EYE.
Even in animals it is emphatically the expressive feature.
Who that has noted the look of timid fondness with which
a recreant dog approaches his master, or observed the
gleam of wo with which the dying deer regards his hunters
—and has not felt this? How much more significant is the
language of the human eye! How ceaselessly does it
represent the soul! The instrument by which our most
valuable knowledge is received; it is, at the same time,
the outward interpreter of the inward world. How immediate
and delicate is the spirit's sway over the aspects and
movements of this complicated organ! Instinctively it is
raised in devotion, and bent downward in shame. When
enthusiasm lends fire to the soul, the eye flashes; when
pleasure stirs the heart, the eye sparkles; when deep
sorrow darkens the bosom, the eye distils hot tears, “faster
than Arabian trees their medicinal gum;” when confidence
stays the mind, the eye looks forth proudly; when love
fills the breast, the eye beams with glad sympathy; when
insanity desolates the brain, the eye roves wildly; and
Thus through all the epochs of human experience, the eye
typifies the workings of the soul.

To a warm-hearted wanderer through the world—to one
who finds in his fellow-beings the chief sources of by-way
pleasure—to a benevolent cosmopolite who is an adept
in eye-language, it is a delightful and constant resource.

He may be a silent man as far as regards his organs of
speech, yet he is ever conversing. In a stage-coach, by
one glance around, he discovers with whom he can find
sympathy. With these he interchanges looks during the
journey, and enjoys all the delights of sociability with
none of its trials. He reads family histories in the eye-language
of their members. If he but catch the `bonnie
blue e'en' of the passing peasant girl, a cheerful humor
is induced which abides with him for hours. And the
momentary beaming of a pair of dark lustrous orbs, fills
him with high and moving thoughts. A glance to him
is rife with expression, beyond that of his vernacular
tongue. And thus gazing into these fountains for refreshment,
and drawing thence inspiration and solace, his eye
at length meets one, the glance of which is deeply responsive—an
eye that shines like the star of a happy
destiny into his soul, and he is not again contented till
the beautiful orb beams only for him, and becomes the
light of his home. The most interesting portion of his
studies in eye-language is completed. A modern
writer, in order to illustrate an almost indescribable sentiment,
says `it was like the eye of a woman first-loved
to the soul of the poet.'

There is no lack of well-authenticated instances to
prove the power of eye-language. An infuriated animal
has often been kept trembling at bay, by the steadfast
gaze of man, beneath which its own angry eye quailed,
yet could not turn aside. I knew a venerable man who
kept a powerful ruffian quietly seated in his little parlor
for an hour at night, while the only servant of his small

household was absent in quest of aid, merely by silently
fixing upon him a fearless look, such as awed his perverted
heart and chained his strong limbs. Many a rebuke
has been silently but deeply conveyed, by the calm yet
indignant glance of the injured. How intuitively does a
child understand the slightest expression of its mother's
eye! How well do congenial beings comprehend their
affinity before any communion, save that of eye-converse!
Consider, too, the singular duration of the impression
imparted by this feature. The world abounds with minute
symbols. Each small and exquisite flower, gem or insect,
addresses the sense of the beautiful; yet they interest
but for a moment. What more expressive similitude
has poetry found for the stars, than `angels' eyes?' The
living gem of nature is the eye, and how like a spell
doth its language haunt us! Even in the pictures of the
old masters, the effect is often centered in the expression
of this single organ. What fanciful man, having an
inkling of superstition within him, has not sometimes
imagined a portrait animated with life? Shroud the eyes,
and the fantasy is gone. It has been finally remarked
of Titian's portraits that they look at us more than we at
them. We may forget the countenance of a friend from
whom we are divided in many respects; but if our
interest has ever been truly awakened in a fellow-being,
the eye-language of the individual can scarcely escape our
memories. Who cannot recall, though he may not describe,
the eye-language with which a gifted man, under
some strong inspiration, has uttered a memorable thought,
or that with which one near and dear to him has breathed
aught of deep interest to his ear? The dignity of self-possessed
thought was in the eye of Paul, ere his words
affected Festus. The beaming glance of the Grecian mother
pointed out her jewels before her lips proclaimed them.
The unfortunate know a friend and are re-assured, the
timid recognise a master spirit and are nerved, and the
guilty know their accuser and quail, at the first momentary
meeting of their gaze. Beware of the man whose eye
you can never meet.

Correggio excelled in painting downcast eyes; those
of Allston's pictures are remarkable for their grey, intellectual
expression. The St. Cecilia of Raphael probably
presents the best instance in the art, of the upturned eyes
of inspiration. Eye-language is richly illustrated in the
pages of Shakspeare. What an idea is given of its perversion
in Lear's adjuration to the unfortunate Gloster:—

Addressing Regan, he says of Goneril, `her eyes are
fierce, but thine do comfort and not burn.' Cordelia
envies not their `still soliciting eyes' and her more honest
orbs, at length, prove their sincerity, by shedding
`tears as pearls from diamonds dropp'd.' Othello when
first awoke to jealousy, in order to satisfy his doubts, exclaims
to Desdemona, `let me see your eyes!' Alas!
that he did not credit their truthful expression. Fear, too,'
is strongly evinced by the same wondrous organs. In
the awful hints the Ghost gives Hamlet of `that undiscoved
country,' among the effects prophecied from a more full

revelation, is to make his `eyes like stars start from their
spheres.' In some eyes, the bard bids us behold `a lurking
devil,' in others `love's richest book,'—in the poet's
`a fine frenzy;' and, be it remembered, it was upon the
eyes that that Puck was ordered to squeeze the little purple
flower. Perdita with her fine imagination, could find no
better similitude for `violets dim' than `the lids of Juno's
eyes.' Prospero exultingly declares, when Ferdinand
and Miranda meet, `at the first glance, they have changed
eyes.' Hear Olivia in Twelfth Night:

What poet has presented such an image of the closed
eyes of beauty as that contained in Iachimo's soliloquy
over the sleeping Imogen?—

The prominent part this miraculous little globe performs
in love, is indicated by Romeo in Capulet's garden;

And when Juliet warns him of her kinsman's designs,
he ardently exclaims,—

The fair object of his passion, as if to reciprocate the
sentiment, upon the idea of his death, cries out.—

Wolsey anticipated his downfall from the glance of
King Henry;—“ruin leaped from his eyes.” Faulcon-bridge,
as the favors of fortune depart from King John,
bids him

Biron, in Love's Labors Lost, in balancing the advantages
of book-lore and eye-language, declares—

How finely is the moral expression of the eye suggested
by the Friar who advocates the innocence of Hero;—

Bassanio augurs his success with Portia because, he
says

And even the incorrigible Benedick says to Beatrice—
“I will be buried in thy eyes.” Phœbe declares of Rosalind—

In discussing the beauty of the ancient Greeks, Shelley
suggests that the eyes of the women of that nation,
on account of their social degradation, `could not have
been deep and intricate from the workings of the mind.'
Eye-language is, indeed, no light test of cultivation; of
native disposition it is a most authentic reporter. Hunt,
in describing the hero of Rimini, alludes with singular
beauty, to the

Who has not realized the power of Byron's simile—
`like the light of a dark eye in woman?' Falstaff vaunts
of Page's wife `sometimes the beam of her view gilded
my foot, sometimes my portly belly.' Uncle Toby's dangerous
experiment in the sentry-box is well-known; and
what a holy guidance Petrarch found in the eyes of
Laura!

An old dramatist has this conceit;—

Eye-language in its sweetest manifestations, is unfortunately
liable to change, like every thing delightful upon
this earth. Touching this, a bacheloric essayist of some
note, thus reasoneth:—`Ask the married man who has
been so but a short time, if those blue eyes, where, during
many years of anxious courtship, truth, sweetness, serenity
seemed to be written in characters which could not be
misunderstood, ask him if the characters they now convey,
be exactly the same? if for truth, he does not read a
dull virtue (the mimic of constancy) which changes not
only because it wants the judgment to make a preference?
if for sweetness, he does not read a stupid habit of being
pleased at everything, if for sincerity he does not read animal
tranquillity, the dead pool of the heart, which no breeze
of passion can stir into health.'

According to Burke, clearness has much to do with the
beauty of the eye, and a languid movement of the organ is
most fascinating. Thus Venus is represented with drooping
lids. It is observable that while intense thought is indictated
by a fixed gaze, pleasurable emotions, especially of
a quiet kind, induce the lids to fall somewhat, while the orb
gently rolls. A naturalist once gave me a most vivid
description of a species of eagle common in the West,
the vibration of whose eye corresponded precisely with that
of the second hand of an old-fashioned clock. Whoever
has attentively watched the progress of a bust under the
hand of the modeller, must have realized the importance
of shape in giving its peculiar character to the eye. Indeed,
the skill of an artist may be estimated, in no small
degree, by his success in this regard. Inferior sculptors

generally fail in representing nice distinctions in the form
of the individual eye, which once caught, gives it even in
the cold and colorless marble, a life-like appearance.

Richly expressive as is the human eye, the depths and
gradations of its language are not to be lightly scanned.
Men of the most profound sentiment not unfrequently wear
an aspect of indifference, because common life awakens
not their spirits. We are often startled by the eye-language
of such persons, from the intensity with which it
breaks from the dimness of habitual reserve. I remember
two nobly endowed individuals—devoted to very different
pursuits—whose eyes are seldom lifted from the downward
gaze of meditation. I have often remarked the effect
upon their whole aspect, when, under the excitement of a
happy thought, they raise their eyes from their veiled abodes.
The sudden rising of a smiling star in a monotonous sky,
or the quick gleaming of a sunbeam athwart a dim landscape,
could not be more electrical. We are told of Coleridge,
that in moments of intense abstraction, his eyes
were so void of language as to appear almost senseless;
yet in an expressive mood they were proverbially eloquent.
And it is said of Schiller, “his deportment, his gait, the
mould of his limbs, his least motion was dignified and
grand, only his eyes were soft.” Whoever remarked the eye
of Spurzheim when he spoke of `the little beings,'—children,
must have realized the mildness and warmth of his
benevolence. I can never forget the conception of the
power of eye-language which dawned upon me, on seeing
an Italian vocalist, at the very climax of an opera, suffer the
melody to die away, and look the intense feeling of the

moment so effectively as to visibly impress the silent
multitude. Having heard much of the eye-language of
an accomplished lady, I was several times at great pains
to observe, but was invariably unsuccessful. The conversation
in each instance, had been of a general nature,
which helped to reconcile me to the disappointment. Being
soon after possessed of some circumstances of the
lady's history which gave me a clue to her inward experience,
I managed on the next opportunity to strike the
`electric chain,' and draw her into a brief but touching
narration. The gradual increase of expression and eventual
melting gaze induced by the excitement, was more
moving than any pathos of mere words or circumstance
that I ever knew.

The comparative dearth of eye-language in this country
is lamentably significant of the narrow sway of the
Ideal, and the rarity of fresh and spontaneous self-development.
Exceptions, many and brilliant, there
doubtless are;—but the traveller who has been wont to
note the eloquent activity and profundity of expression of
the eye in most of the continental countries, will feel, as
he wanders about the new world, a difference, not to say
a deficiency, in this respect. The guarded expression,
the waving, the indifferent or at best merely brisk tenor
of eye-language among the busy men around him, cannot
escape his notice. And when from beneath a fair brow,
or in the glance of an enthusiast, the mystic organ speaks
with unwonted freedom and effect, he feels revived as by
a fondly-remembered tune. Beautiful are the workings of
the mystic and microscopic machine. The flowers and

the stars speak a moving language; but from the eye
beams what will endure when fragrance and light are no
more. The curious characters of written language—barren
words treasured up by lexicographers, and arbitrarily
decreed—the lovelier hieroglyphics which bespangle the
sky, or deck the fields,—what are they compared with the
more subtle signs which beam in the visual organs—the
breathings of the soul, in that

ART AND ARTISTS.

I was struck, recently, with an unfinished sketch by a
young artist, who has since lost his reason from the intense
activity of a rarely-gifted, but ill-balanced mind. It
struck me as an eloquent symbol of his inward experience—a
touching comment upon his unhappy fate. He
called the design `an artist's dream. It represented the
studio of a painter. An easel, a pallet, a port-folio, and
other insignia of the art, are scattered with professional
negligence, about the room. At a table sits the youthful
painter, his head resting heavily on his arm, buried in
sleep. From the opposite side of the canvass the shadowy
outlines of a long procession seemed winding along, the
figures growing more distinct as they recede. In the
front rank and with more defined countenances, walk
the most renowned of the old masters, and pressing hard
upon their steps, the humbler members of that noble brotherhood.
It was a mere sketch—unfinished, but dimly
mapped out, like the career of its author, yet full of promise,
and indicative of invention. It revealed, too, the
dreams of fame that were agitating that young heart; and

proved that his spirit was with the honored leaders of the
art. This sketch is a symbol of the life of a true artist.
Upon his fancy throng the images of those whose names
are immortal. It is his day-dream to emulate the great
departed—to bless his race—to do justice to himself.
The early difficulties of their career, and the excitement
of their experience, give to the lives of artists a singular
interest. West's first expedient to obtain a brush—Barry's
proud poverty, Fuseli's vigils over Dante and Milton;
Reynolds, the centre of a gifted society; the `devout quiet'
of Flaxman's home, and similar memories, crowd upon
the mind, intent upon their works. Existence, with them
is a long dream. I have ever honored the fraternity, and
loved their society, and musing upon the province they
occupy in the business of the world, I seem to recognize
a new thread of beauty interlacing the mystic tissue
of life. In speaking of the true artist, I allude rather to
his principles of action, than to his absolute power of execution.
Mediocrity, indeed, is sufficiently undesirable
in every pursuit, and is least endurable, perhaps, in those
with which we naturally associate the highest ideas of excellence.
But when we look upon artists as a class—
when we attempt to estimate their influence as a profession,
our attention is rather drawn to the tendency of their
pursuit, and to the general characteristics of its votaries.

“Man!” says Carlyle, “it is not thy works which are
all mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than
the least, but only the spirit thou workest in, that can
have worth or continuance.” In this point of view, the
artist, who has adopted his vocation from a native impulse,

who is a sincere worshipper of the beautiful and the picturesque,
exerts an insensible, but not less real influence
upon society, although he may not rank among the highest,
or float on the stream of popularity. Let this console
the neglected artist. Let this thought comfort him, possessed
of one talent—if the spirit he worketh in is true, he
shall not work in vain. Upon some mind his converse
will ingraft the elements of taste. In some heart will his
lonely devotion to an innocent but unprofitable object, awaken
sympathy. In his very isolation—in the solitude of his
undistinguished and unpampered lot, shall he preach a silent
homily to the mere devotee of gain, and hallow to the
eye of many a philanthropist, the scenes of bustling and
heartless traffic.

I often muse upon the life of the true artist, until it redeems
to my mind the more prosaic aspects of human existence.
It is deeply interesting to note this class of men
in Italy. There they breathe a congenial atmosphere.
Often subsisting upon the merest pittance, indulging in
every vagary of costume, they wander over the land, and
yield themselves freely to the spirit of adventure, and the
luxury of art. They are encountered with their portfolios,
in the midst of the lone campagna, beside the desolate
ruin, before the masterpieces of the gallery, and in the
Cathedral-chapel. They roam the streets of those old and
picturesque cities at night, congregate at the caffé, and
sing cheerfully in their studios. They seem a privileged
class, and manage, despite their frequent poverty, to appropriate
all the delights of Italy. They take long tours
on foot, in search of the picturesque; engage in warm

discussions together, on questions of art, and lay ever
town they visit, under contribution for some little romance
It is a rare pastime to listen to the love-tales and will
speculations of these gay wanderers. The ardent your
from the Rhine, the pensioner from Madrid, and the mercurial
Parisian, smoke their pipes in concert, and wrangle
good-humoredly over national peculiarities, as they copy
in the palaces. Thorwaldsen is wont to call his birth-day
the day on which he entered Rome. And when we consider
to what a new existence that epoch introduces the
artist, the expression is scarcely metaphorical. It is the
dawning of a fresher and a richer life, the day that make
him acquainted with the wonders of the Vatican, the palace
halls lined with the trophies of his profession, the daily
walk on the Pincian, the solemn loneliness of the surrounding
fields, the beautiful ruins, the long, dreamy day
and all the poetry of life at Rome. Whoever has frequently
encountered Thorwaldsen in the crowded saloon
or visited him on a Sabbath morning, must have read it
his bland countenance and benignant smile, the record of
his long and plesant sojourn in the Eternal city. To
him it has been a theatre of triumph and benevolence.
Everywhere in Italy are seen the enthusiastic pilgrims
of art, who have roamed thither from every part of the
globe. Each has his tale of self denial, and his vision of
fame. At the shrine of Art they kneel together. Year
by year they collect, in the shape of sketches and copies,
the cherished memorials of their visit. A few linger on,
until habit makes the country almost necessary to their
existence, and they establish themselves in Florence or
Rome. Those whom necessity obliges to depart, tear
themselves, full of tearful regret, from the genial clime.
Many who come to labor, content themselves with admiring,
and glide into dreamy habits from which want,
alone, can rouse them. Others become the most devoted
students, and toil with unremitting energy. A French
lady, attached to the Bourbon interest, has long dwelt in
Italy, intent upon a monument to Charles X. Her talents
for sculpture are of a high order, and her enthusiasm for
royalty, extreme. Her hair is cut short like that of a man,
and she wears a dark robe, similar to that with which Portia
appears on the stage. Instances of a like self-devotion
to a favorite project in art, are very common among
those who are voluntary exiles in that fair land. One
reason why the most famous portraits of the old masters,
such as the Fornarina of Raphael and La Bella of Titian,
are so life-like and inspire so deep a sense of their authenticity,
is doubtless that the originals were objects of affection
and familiar by constant association and sympathy,
to the minds of the artists. This idea is unfolded in one
of Webster's plays, where the advantage of a portrait taken
without a formal sitting, is displayed with much quaintness
and beauty:—

Though the mere tyros in the field of letters and of art,
those who pursue these liberal aims without either the
genius that hallows, or the disinterestedness that redeems
them, are not worthy of encouragement—let respect await
the artist whose life and conversation multiply the best
fruits of his profession—whose precept and example are
effective, although nature may have endowed him with but
a limited practical skill. There is a vast difference between
a mere pretender and one whose ability is actual
but confined. A man with the soul of an artist, is a valueable
member of society, although his eye for color may be
imperfect, or his drawing occasionally careless. There
is, in truth, no more touching spectacle, than is presented
by a human being whose emotions are vivid, but whose
expression is fettered; in whose mind is the conception
which his hand struggles in vain to embody, or his lips
to utter. It is a contest between matter and spirit, which
angels might pity. It is this very struggle, on a broad
scale, which it is the great purpose of all art and all literature
to relieve. “It is in me, and it shall come out,”
said Sheridan, after his first failure as an orator. And the

trial of Warren Hastings brought it out. If we could analize
the pleasure derived from the poet and painter, I suppose
it would partake much of the character of relief. A
great tragedy unburdens the heart. In fancy we pour forth
the love, and partake of the sacrifice. And so art gratifies
the imagination by reflecting its pictures. The lovely
landscape, the faithful portrait, the good historical composition,
repeat, with more or less authenticity, the story
that fancy and memory have long held in a less defined
shape. The rude figures on old tapestry, the
miniature illustrations of ancient missals, the arabesques
that decorate the walls of the Alhambra, are so many early
efforts to the same end. The inventive designer, the gifted
sculptor, the exquisite vocalist, are ministers of humanity,
ordained by Heaven. The very attempt to fulfil such
high service, so it be made in all truthfulness, is worthy
of honor. And where it is partially fulfilled, there is occasion
for gratitude. Hence I cannot but regard the worthy
members of such professions with peculiar interest.
They have stepped aside from the common thoroughfare,
to cultivate the flowers by the wayside. They have left
the great loom of common industry, to weave “such stuff
as dreams are made of.” Their office is to keep alive in
human hearts, a sense of the grand in combination, the
symmetrical in form, the beautiful in color, the touching
in sound, the interesting in aspect of all outward things.
They illustrate even to the senses, that truth which is so
often forgotten—that man does not live by bread alone.
As the sunlight is gorgeously reflected by the clouds,
they tint even the tearful gloom of mortal destiny with the
warm hues of beauty. Artists instruct and refine the
senses. With images of grace—with smiles of tenderness—with
figures of noble proportions—with tones of
celestial melody, they teach the careless heart to distinguish
and rejoice in the richest attractions of the world.
He who has pondered over the landscapes of Salvator,
will thenceforth pierce the tangled woodlands with a
keener glance, and mark a ship's hulk upon the stocks,
with unwonted interest. John of Bologna's Mercury,
will reveal to him the poetry of motion, and the Niobe or
the statue of Lorenzo, in the Medici Chapel, make him aware
how greatly mere attitude can express the eloquence of
grief. The vocalism of a prima donna, will unveil the
poetical labyrinths of sound. Claude will make him sensible
of masses of golden haze before unobserved, and long
scintillations of sunlight, gleaming across the western
sky. The neck and hair of woman will be better appreciated
after studying Guido; and the characteristic in
physiognomy become more striking from familiarity with
the portraits of Vandyke. Hogarth, in the humble walk
he adopted, not only successfully satirized the vices and
follies of London, but gave the common people no small
insight into the humorous scenes of their sphere, and Gainsborough
attracted attention to many a feature of rustic
beauty. Pasta, Catalani and Malibran, have opened a
new world in music to countless souls, and Mrs. Wood
has produced an era in the musical taste of our land. The
artist thus instructs our vision and hearing. But his
teachings end not here. From his portraitures of martyrdoms,
of the heroic in human history, of the beautiful in
human destiny, whether pencilled or sung, he breathes
into the soul new self-respect, and moral refinement.
We look at the Magdalene prostrate upon the earth, pressing
back the luxuriant hair from her lovely temples, her
melancholy eyes bent downward, and the lesson of repentance,
the blessedness of `loving much,' sinks at once
into the heart. We muse upon Raphael's Holy Family,
and realize anew the sanctity of maternal love. We commune
with the long, silent line of portraits—the gifted and
the powerful of the earth, and read, at a glance, the most stirring
chronicles of war and genius, of effort and suffering,
of glory and death. We drink in the tender harmony of
Bellini, and the fountains of sentiment are renewed.

The golden age of Art and Artists, the splendid era that
dawned early in the fifteenth century is one of the most
romantic episodes in human history. The magnificent
scale of princely patronage, the brilliant succession
of unsurpassed productions, and the trials and triumphs of
artists that signalize that epoch, place it in the very sunlight
of poetry. There is something in the long lives of
those eminent men toiling to illustrate the annals of faith,
pursuing the beautiful, under the banner of religion, that
gives an air of primeval happiness to human toil, and
robs the original curse of its bitterness. The lives of the
old masters partake of the ideal character of their creations.
Scarcely one of their biographies is devoid of adventurous
interest or pathetic incident. Can we not discover
in the tone of their works, somewhat of their experience
and character? As the poet's effusions are often
unintentionally tinged with his moral peculiarities, is there

not a certain identity of spirit between the old artists an
their works? Leonardo supped with peasants and related
humorous stories to make them laugh, that he might
study the expression of rustic delight; by writing, conversation,
and personal instruction, promoted that most important
revolution, the reconciliation of nicety of finish
with nobleness of design and unity of color, and having
thus prepared the way for a higher and more perfect school
of art, expired in the embrace of a king. The though
of his efforts as a reformer, and the precursor of the great
prophets of art, imparts a grateful sentiment to the mind of
the spectator who dwells upon his Nun in the Pitti-palace
the Herodias of the Tribune, and the Last Supper at Milan.
In the variety of expression displayed in the various head
and attitudes of this last work, we recognize the effect of
Leonardo's studies from nature. It is singular that the chief
monument to his fame, should of all his works, have me
with the greatest vicissitudes. The feet were cut off to
enlarge the refectory, upon the walls of which it is painted
and a door has been made through the finest part. It is with a
melancholy feeling, that the traveller gazes upon its dim and
corroded hues, and vainly strives to trace the clear outline
of a work made familiar by so many engravings. From
Leonardo's precision of ideas, the strictness of taste
that marked his personal habits, and his attachment to
principles of art, something even of the mathematician is
recognized in his works. It might be argued from his
pictures, that he was no sloven and was fond of rules.
Titian's long career of triumph and prosperity, was cheerful
and rich as the hues of his canvass, dream-like as his
own Venice; his fair and bright-haired mistress, his honors
and wealth, contrasting strangely with a death amid
pestilence and desertion, come over the memory like a
vivid picture. In infancy, Titian colored a print of the
Virgin with the juice of flowers, in a masterly manner.
In early youth he deserted his teachers for the higher
school nature opened to him. The passers uncovered to
his portrait of Paul III., as it rested on a terrace at Rome,
deeming it alive; and when Charles V. of Spain sat to
him for the last portrait, he exclaimed, “This is the third
time I have been made immortal!” These exuberant tokens
of contemporary appreciation—these, and countless
other indications of a life of success and enjoyment, seem
woven into the fleshy tints of his Venus, and laugh out in
the bright faces of Flora and La Bella. And Correggio's
sad story! His lowly toil as a potter, the electric joy
with which the conviction came home to him, that he,
too, was a painter;—his lonely struggle with obscure
poverty;—his almost utter want of appreciation and sympathy;—the
limits of a narrow lot pressing upon so fine
a soul, and then his rare achievements and bitter death,—
worn down by the weight of very lucre his genius had
gained,—can fancy, in her widest range, depict a more affecting
picture of the “highest in man's heart struggling
vainly against the lowest in man's destiny?” His Magdalene,
bowed down, yet serene, sad, yet beautiful, sinful
yet forgiven, is an emblem as lovely as it is true, of the
genius and fate of Correggio. Salvator Rosa has written
the history of his own life in those wild landscapes he
loved so well. One might have inferred his Neapolitan
origin. There is that in his pictures that breathes of
southern fancy. We there feel not the chastened tone
a Tuscan mind, not the religious solemnity of a Roman,
but rather the half-savage genius of that singular region
where the lazzaroni sleep on the strand and the fisherman
grow swarthy beneath the warmest sky of Italy. The
wanderer, the lover of masquerade, he who mingled in the
revolt of Massaniello, and roamed amid the gloomy grandeur
of the mountains, speaks to us from the canvass of
Salvator. Delicacy and affection, taste and sentiment
characterize Raphael's paintings. There is in them that
refinement of tone, born only of delicate natures, such as
this rude world often jars into the insanity of an Ophelia
or bows to the early tomb of a Kirk White. Murillo's
style has been characterized as between the Flemish and
high Italian, and we are told that, as a man, he combines
rare simplicity of manners with the greatest elevation
and modesty of soul. Michael Angelo has traced the inflexibility
of his soul in the bust of Brutus, his self-possessed
virtue in the calm grandeur of his muscular figures.
One dreams over them of stern integrity and noble self-dependence.

It is common to talk of the genius of artists as partaking
of the “fine frenzy” attributed to that of the poet.
The intense excitement which accompanies the process
of conception, is, however, comparatively rare, with the
votaries of art. They have this advantage over the great
thinker and the earnest bard—that, much of their labor is
mechanical, and calls rather for the exercise of taste than
mental effort. There is, indeed, a period in every work

when imagination is greatly excited and the whole mind
fervidly active, but the painter and sculptor have many
intervals of repose, when physical dexterity and imitative
skill are alone requisite. And when the hand of the artist
has acquired that habitual power which makes it ever
obedient to the will, when he is perfectly master of the
whole machinery of his art, and is confident of realizing,
to a great degree, his every conception, a delightful serenity
takes possession of his soul. Calm trust in his own
resources, and the daily happiness of watching the growth
of his work, induce a placid and hopeful mood. And when
his aim is exalted and his success progressive, there are
few happier men. They have an object, the interest of
which familiarity cannot lesson nor time dissipate. They
follow an occupation delightful and serene. The atmosphere
of their vocation is above the “smoke and stir of
this dim spot that men call earth.” The graceful, the
vivid, and the delicate elements of their art, refine their
sensibilities and elevate their views. Nature and life
minister to them more richly than to those who only
“poke about for pence.” Hence, methinks, the masters
of the art have generally been remarkable for longevity.
Their tranquil occupation, the happy exercise of their faculties
was favorable to life.

It has been said of Michael Angelo's pupils, that they
were “nursed in the lap of grandeur.” And it may be
said of all true artists, that they are buoyed up by that spirit
of beauty that is so essential to true happiness. I have
ever found in genuine artists, a remarkable simplicity
and truthfulness of character. There is a repose about

them as of men who commune with something superior,
and for whom the frivolous idols of the multitude have no
attraction. I have found them usually fond of music and
if not addicted to general literature, ardently attached to
a particular poet. They read so constantly the book of
nature, that written lore is not so requisite for them. The
human face, the waving bough, the flower and the cloud,
the fantastic play of the smouldering embers, moonlight
on a cornice, and the vast imagery of dreams, are full of
teachings for them.

There is a definiteness in the art of sculpture, that renders
its language more direct and immediate than that of
painting. Masses of stone were revered as idols, in remote
antiquity; and men soon learned to hew them into
rude figures. When architecture, the elder sister of
sculpture, had given birth to temples of religion, the
statues of deities were their chief ornaments. Images of
domestic gods existed as early as the twenty-third century
before the Christian era. The early Indian and Hindoo
idols, as well as the gloomy sculpture of the Egyptians,
evidence how naturally the art sprung from the human
mind, even before a refined taste had developed its real
dignity. Sculpture was a great element of Grecian
culture. In the age of Pericles, it attained perfection.
In the square and the temple, on the hill-top and within
the private dwelling, the beautiful productions of the
chisel met the eye. They addressed every sentiment of
devotion and patriotism. They filled the soul with ideals
of symmetry and grace, and the traces of their silent
eloquence were written in the noble air, the harmonious

costume and the very forms of the ancient Greeks. The
era of ideal models and a classic style passed away. In
the thirteenth century, the art revived in Italy, and there
are preserved some of the noblest specimens of Grecian
genius, as well as those to which M. Angelo and his
countrymen gave birth. The Apollo looks out upon the
sky of Rome, while the Venus “loves in stone” and
Niobe bends over her clinging babe in the Florence gallery.
Shelley used to say, that he would value a peasant's
criticism upon sculpture, as much as that of the most
educated man. Form is, indeed, more easily judged
than color. There is a certain vagueness in painting,
while sculpture is palpable, bold and clear. There is a
severe nobility in the art; its influence is to calm and
elevate rather than excite. The Laocoon, Niobe and
Allesandro doloroso are indeed expressions of passion;
but they are striking exceptions. Sculpture soothes the
impetuous soul. The heads of the honored dead wear a
solemn dignity. The stainless and cold marble breathes
a pure repose, stamped with the calm of immortality. In
walking through the Vatican by torch-light, we might
deem ourselves, without much exercise of fancy, in a
world of spirits. The tall white figures stretching forward
in the gloom, the snowy faces, upon which the flambeaux
glare, the winding drapery and the outstretched
arm, strike the eye in that artificial light, with a startling
look of life. One feels like an intruder into some hall
of death, or conclave of the great departed. A good bust
is an invaluable memorial; it preserves the features and
expressions without their temporary hue. There is associated
with it the idea of durability and exactitude.
Though the most common offspring of sculpture, it is one
of the rarest in perfection. Few sculptors can copy nature
so faithfully as to give us the very lineaments wholly
free from caricature or embellishment. Those who have
an eye for the detail of expression, often fail in general
effect. To copy the form of the eye, the texture of the
hair, every delicate line of the mouth, and yet preserve
throughout an air of veri similitude and that unity of
effect which always exists in nature, is no ordinary
achievement. The requisite talent must be a native endowment;
no mechanical dexterity can ever reach it.
“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.” This sentiment
spontaneously fills the heart in view of the great products
of the chisel. We contemplate the Niobe and Apollo, as
millions have before us, with growing delight and the
most intense admiration. They have come down to us
from departed ages, like messengers of love; they assure
us, with touching eloquence, that human genius and
affection, the aspirations and wants, the sorrow and the
enthusiasm of the soul, were ever the same; they invoke
us to endure bravely and to cherish the beautiful and true,
as our best heritage. So speak they and so will they
speak to unborn generations. In the silent poetry of
their expressive forms lives a perennial sentiment. They
keep perpetual state, and give the world audience, that it
may feel the eternity of genius, and the true dignity of
man. It is delightful to believe that sculpture is destined
to flourish among us. It is truly the art of a young republic.
Let it perpetuate the features of our patriots, and
people our cities with images of grandeur and beauty.
Worthy votaries of the art are not wanting among us: on
the banks of the Arno, they speak of Greenough and
Powers; from the studios of Rome come praises of Crawford,
and beside the Ohio is warmly predicted the fame of
Clevenger. Let us cherish such followers of the art with
true sympathy and generous patronage. The national
heart will not then be wholly corroded by gain, and a few
places will be kept green for repose and refreshment, upon
the great highway of American life.

THE WEATHER.

I have just parted with one of those insensible beings
who profess perfect independence of the weather,—a
class, one would think, by their manner of treating this
popular topic, differently organized from the majority of
mankind. It is really provoking to remark the complacency
with which they declare that the atmospheric vicissitudes
affect them not, that they are too busy to note
the course of the wind, and that half the time they know
not whether it rains or shines; as if it were a fit subject
for congratulation—this unnatural insusceptibility to what
human beings should, from their very constitution, consciously
feel. Much pleasure do these weather-despisers
lose. It is true, they suffer not the throe; but, be it remembered,
they enjoy not the thrill. Welcome are they
to their much vaunted indifference to the state of the elements.
Better, methinks, to suffer somewhat, and even
fancifully, from the weather, than to be wrapped up in a
mantle of unconcern—to walk forth regardless of the
temperature, and without any more interest in the existent
face of the heavens, than if they were changeless and

stony, like the mood of such spirits. This independence
`argues an insensibility.' A hopeful token, in truth, is
a just susceptibility to the weather. There is reason in
its universality, as a subject of discussion; there is a real
benefit in being alive to its influences. Dr. Johnson
indeed, with characteristic hardihood, boasted of his
immunity from `skyey influences;' but Milton confesses
that his poetical vein flowed only between the autumnal
and vernal equinox. Thomson declared his muse was
most docile in the fall; and Byron always felt most religiously
disposed on a sunny day. Hear the stout Ashyre
ploughman—

In Naples, they have a saying, when any literary production
is very bad, that it was written during a sirocco.

The air and sky are a common heritage—they greet
all the living impartially; and, while the changes of all
things else affect only certain classes and individuals,
their variations influence us all. It is well that there is
thus a theme of universal sympathy, about which men,
as such, can exchange opinions. The weather is essentially
a republican subject; and of all topics, whereby to
get over the awkwardness of a first interview, it is decidedly
the most convenient. What idea would answer
to begin a colloquy with, had we not the weather? If
the elements were as fixed, or as regular in their changes,
as the earth, what an available starting point in conversation
should we be deprived of! After being introduced

to an individual of whom we know nothing, what could
we find to talk about, were this elemental theme not
ever-present? To speak of literature or music, without
knowing the taste of our new acquaintance, might prove
a damper; to begin chatting about other people, might
betray us into scandalizing the kindred of our auditor;
but to allude enthusiastically to the beauty of the evening,
or sympathetically to its coldness, would, in all probability,
advance us at once far on the pleasant track of
sociability. Besides it is altogether so natural and human
to talk about the weather—to tell how we feel under its
prevailing influence—and to listen, with profound interest,
to the details our companion may give as to its effect
on him. In this way we glide, with transcendant
ease, into a sympathizing vein; glimpses of mutual character
are incidentally afforded, and then the way to more
familiar communion lies clear and open. Let the conceited
non-observers of the weather, who are liable to
find themselves at a non-plus in conversation, consider
the remarkable adaptativeness of the theme; and for this,
if for no better reason, hasten to excite their lukewarm
zeal as amateur meteorologists.

Weather-wisdom is a consoling acquirement. I have
often re-learned the lesson of human equality, in observing
the complacency of an honest tar, as he interpreted
the signs of the sky to some accomplished veteran in
book lore. The poor sailor, only matriculated by some
marine witchery on crossing the line for the first time—
and who only graduated, after some fierce whaling adventure,
from cabin-boy to seaman—thenceforth witless

of farther degrees—expounding to the attentive university-man,
a chapter of his knowledge in the ways of the
wind, with as much zest as his hearer ever cleared up a
puzzling passage in the Georgies to a group of wondering
striplings. Such a scene, not seldom witnessed
by the voyager, evinces what a comfortable device is
weather-wisdom. Admitting it is the illusive thing
many deem it, what a pleasant peg it affords some people
to hang a little self-sustaining pride upon. To those who
have not wit enough to comprehend the abstract sciences,
—to those who regard the beauties of literature as mysteries,
and who can make nothing of political economy—
what a ready alternative is weather-wisdom! It requires
little sense to keep a journal of the dates of snow storms,
or to talk, with seeming sagacity, of the prospects of the
season. And what a benevolent provision is this of nature's—that
such as are bereft of more recondite lore, can
yet nourish self-respect on their notable attainments in
weather-wisdom!

But these are only secondary evidences of our obligations
to the weather; insensibly do its variations gratify
our love of novelty. Every day is new—if not from
change of circumstances, from change of weather. How
tame might not be our feelings, if sameness was a law of
the elements! It is no inconsiderable pastime to note,
on every successive morning, a new condition of the
physical world; and pitiable, we repeat, is he who finds
no refreshment in the shifting scene—to whose eye all
aspects of external nature are alike; then, be assured,

some deep grief has overshadowed the soul, or some physical
infirmity palsied the sense.

There is something morbid in those who are insensible
to the weather, as well as in such as are nervously
alive to its every minute alteration. It is a beautiful indication
of humanity to habitually take cognizance of these
subtle agencies that surround us—to regard them as ministrants
intimately associated with human weal. I once
stood amid the ruins of an ancient amphitheatre with a
man of deep social sympathies; we spoke of the myriads
who once thronged the now silent spot. `We have reason
to believe,' said he, `that wherever they are, they are together;
what a happy idea, that even a dismal fate may be
meliorated by sympathy!' And we that now throng a
living temple—would it not be an anomaly if we did not
sympathize under the operation of universal laws?
There is truth to human nature in Hamlet's allusion to
the weather, even when awaiting his father's ghost.

Our interest in the weather is not altogether direct.
Not alone to our individual senses does it appeal. Human
hopes sway in every breeze. Destiny sometimes
seems dependent upon the elements. How many anxious
beings are noting the wayward winds when their
loved ones are upon the waters; how many tearful eyes
are directed to the sky when the cherished invalid is exposed
to its varying phases. Property and life, success
and love, are too often and too nearly associated with the
weather, to permit even the hardy and the stern to boast
perfect immunity from its influences. And we wonder
not that the ancients deified and invoked the agents of

such mighty revolutions. Invisibly, and with a scarcely
perceptible increase, the new wind arises; but on its unseen
wings float—how many human interests! It bears
to the worn and watching tidings of the absent, it wafts
to the unthinking breast the seeds of a fell disease; it
awakens hymns among the light foliage, and refreshes
the care-shadowed brow:—odours and music, gladness
and grief, life and death, are borne with silence and
certainty to their destined ends. And so with the sunlight
and the storm, the summer shower and the noontide
heat—they have voices many and impressive, and fulfil
a thousand noiseless and subtle missions with promptitude.

We are told that at one period in the ancient history
of medicine, but two kinds of disease were recognized,
resulting from the contracted and relaxed state of the
pores. Doubtless this system originated in the observation
of the effects of atmospheric changes upon the skin.
Some individuals feel the weather chiefly through this
medium; some are made aware of its variations by the
sensations they excite in the region of the lungs or
stomach; and to others the temples or thorax are as a perpetual
barometer. By the peculiar sensibility of some
part of their bodies, all are, in a greater or less degree,
physically susceptible to the weather; and through whatever
portal the unbidden guest enters, the nervous sense
is soon aware of iis presence. And thus, the universal
agent, the spirit of the elements, insinuates itself into a
higher domain. Our mental moods are, more or less,
affected; and when the temperament is poetical, the

weather, like all things else, abounds with under-currents
of influence and mystic echoes to its common language,
of which the multitude are scarcely conscious.

The weather is an impressive time-keeper. To many
it is the most regulating of dials. Not only does it serve
to mark the flight, but to control the appropriation of
time. The dreamy mood, induced by a warm, cloudy
day, inclines us to visit ruins. The blitheness excited
by a cold, clear morning, suggests a rapid promenade.
When the night wind sighs dismally, our fancies rove
through the world of dark romance. A winter twilight
makes us realize `how transitory are human flowers;'
and the same season in mid summer, quickens the idea
of being into a sense of immortality. All the world over,
mild and moonlight evenings are sacred to young love.
Old Walton wisely invokes a wet evening for the perusal
of his discourse; and,

The poets from first to last, in things human and
scientific, are, after all, the best philosophers. How
universally have they taken cognizance of, and chronicled
the elements; and how appropriately adapted them
to the circumstances of their heroes and heroines. How
feelingly they speak of the weather! What obesrvant,
particular, and sensitive meteorologists are they all.
How graphic is Byron's description of a London daybreak
and how sweetly does Mrs. Hemans extol the
magic of a sunbeam! What influential, ay, and metaphysical

storms, dog-days, and spring mornings, are those
immortalized in the annals of every celebrated bard.
In truth, poets seem intuitively weather-wise.

The weather is eloquently symbolical. It is a perennial
fountain of metaphors. The clouds that fly over the
star gemmed sky, typify the exhalations of earth which,
ever and anon, shade the spirit in its pilgrimage. The
wreaths of vapour circling on the gentle breeze, and
made rosy and radiant by the sun-light, present an apt
similitude of the rise, expansion, and glow of the enthusiast's
visions. An icy footpath preaches a homily on
mortal instability to the pedestrian, and a deep azure sky
is a pure symbol of peace to the gifted eye. The moonlight
reposing on snow has been fitly made to illustrate
memory; and the dew sparkling in the sun, is a bright
emblem of youth, as its vanishing is of decay. Happy
the being, whose consciousness is so lost in the blest intensity
of the elements within him, as to be unconscious
of those around him; for the glow of human enthusiasm
is more beautiful than the flush of the most magnificent
sunset. But undesirable is the sternness that disdains
to recognize the contrasts of the elements; for the aspect
of a frozen lake or the touch of a northern blast is far less
chilling, than an unsympathizing spirit to a being of worthy
sensibility.

MANNER.

When the fluid particles composing the primeval earth
settled into consistent masses, an unbroken, uniform,
plain was not the result; but everywhere, form, color
and density indicated the various species of matter. Verdure
crept over the rich loam, long tables of sand marked
the limits of the sea, and rocks of every hue stood forth
from the hills. Form of aspect and movement became a
law of creation. Even the unstable elements obeyed it.
The waters projected themselves into billows, currents,
and fountains, and the aeriform waves of the “upper
deep” were poured forth in as certain developments. To
everything a manner was awarded, by which it was to
be recognised, and through which it was to be studied.
Another world was then called into being,—a universe of
thought, sentiment, fancy, and feeling, a human world.
And in this, too, external forms were assumed, and manner
became a characteristic of mortals. The same law
obtains in the spheres of mind and matter; but how differently
displayed! Since the first song of the stars, the
heavens have worn the same successive drapery, the earth

has changed not her four familiar robes. The winds have
raised the billows into mountains or dallied with the rose-leaves.
In all things has nature been variable, yet the
same—ever presenting a well-known though ever varying
feature. She knows not the law of fashion. She is inexpert
in artificial diplomacy. But manner, among human
beings, is subject to the modifications of time and
place; it can be made subservient to the will. In its
very nature, manner is a means, and greatly do those err
who make it an end. Yet are there individuals, by whom
this adjunctive, secondary, exponent principle is supremely
cultivated and mainly relied on. There are those who
manage to glide along through the world by a kind of
mannered legerdemain, who have acquired their manner
in the ancient school of Proteus, and by their singular
dexterity in ever imparting the required impression, from
moment to moment, fail not in their social objects.
There is a species of shufilers, who succeed, by virtue of
an off-hand manner, which mankind, in general, are content
to yield to. The most popular class is, doubtless,
that which reduces Chesterfield to practice, on principle,
and with veritable punctilio. These devotees lean on a
broken reed. Their faith in a manner is too perfect.
With wonder did I once hear a man of sense console
himself for the unprincipled conduct of his son, by declaring
that `through all he had kept his manners.' When
tact at mere verbal rhyming constitutes a poet, musical
memory a composer, or taste in colors a painter, then
may we believe that manner will make a man, for,

There is a policy in manner. I have heard one, not inexperienced
in the pursuit of fame, give it his earnest
support as being the surest passport to absolute and brilliant
success. And who, that has been chained, for hours,
as by enchantment, with the grace and elegance of an
orator, and then, in solitude, reviewed his words and recalled
not a single original and impressive idea—has not
realised this? It is wonderful how a skilful mannerist
can deceive the world as to his acquirements and motives.
I have, at this moment, in my mind's eye, the comely
figure of an individual who has attained no undesirable
elevation in the world of letters, whose manner is so profound
and scholar-like, so redolent of the otium cum dignitate,
that it has earned him the cognomen of the learned.
A Greek name is inscribed upon his cane, and a Latin
adage upon his tongue's end. He yields not to familiar
discourse, nor manifests an interest in aught save what is
classical. In company with scholars, he is silent, seemingly
from abstraction; in the society of the uninitiated
he speaks much, apparently to relieve the exuberance of
his acquisitions: the one class attempt not to examine
his pretensions, from a horror (natural to high minds) of
pedantic display; the other, awe-struck, yield him reverence.
Now a few years since, —; but I will not
betray him. Suffice it to say, that the first time the magnificence
of his manner is invaded, the commanding
frost-work of his reputation will melt in air. We habitually

suspect the truthfulness of a prominent manner. If,
in the presence of an individual, he induces us to think
continually of his manner and forget himself, we are quickly
aware of our want of affinity. There is no delight in
his fellowship. Of all forbidding inventions, an assumed
manner is the most effectual. We instinctively anticipate
the forthcoming scene behind our backs. Some masterly
delineation of the Duke of Gloster, in the act of hurling
away the prayer book, occurs to us. We are ill at ease;
we seem to hear the laugh and witness the mimicry which
is to occur when the door has closed upon our exit. We
discern beyond the smile and the honeyed word, and are
sickened at the self created hollowness of a human heart.
We have admirable provisions in our civil code, for the
crimes of perjury and overreaching. A thrice heavy penalty
should fall upon him convicted of deliberately and
habitually practising upon mankind, through the agency
of a pre-assumed, politic manner. Manner is the universal
language, the grand circulating medium; and should
not the attempt to counterfeit the genuine, native stamped
coin, be made penal? There are no greater forgers in the
universe than cunning mannerists. Their whole lives are
false. The loveliest of human attributes, the beautiful, the
winning virtue of sincerity abides not with them. They
have abjured the profession of humanity. They have become
players—with none of the ideal interest and singleness
of purpose which may belong to the legitimate followers
of Thespis. The wearisome rehearsals, the guarded
conduct, the oppressive sense of having a part to play, the
struggles between the real man and the assumed character—
all press upon and disturb them; and there is for them
no refreshing returns to nature, no blissful interludes in
the trying drama, for habit has bound them to the task, and
policy goads them on.

There is a poignancy in manner. I have often heard a
friend describe the effect produced at a well-surrounded dinner
table, by the silence of a gentleman to whom one of the
company, in a very audible voice, had addressed an impertinent
question. The tacit rebuke was most keenly felt;
it was more effectual than a public reprimand, and yet how
entirely devoid of irrational severity. Similar results
may be effected through expert application of manner.
An instance occurs among the innumerable anecdotes related
of John Randolph. A young aspirant for congressional
fame saw fit, in his maiden speech, to give proof
of his boldness and eloquence, by a long and abusive attack
upon the eccentric member from Virginia. At the
conclusion of the young orator's voluminous address, the
hero of Roanoke arose, and stretching his long, nervous
arm toward the seat of the complacent youth, with a half-enquiring,
half-contemptuous look, thus replied:—“Mr.
Speaker, who's that?” There was a sarcastic bitterness
in his manner, under which the offender quailed. I was
never more impressed with the poignant sting mere manner
can inflict, than on one occasion, when abroad. Soon
after day-break, on a misty morning, the steam-boat which
had brought us from Naples, dropped anchor in the port
of Leghorn. We waited, with great impatience, the arrival
of the permit to land, from the board of health. At
length, understanding it had been received, I joined a party

of the pasengers and entered one of the boats which surrounded
us. We were distant from the shore about an
eighth of a mile. The wind was blowing a gale and the
sea running very high. We had reached about the middle
of the intervening space, and were beginning to rejoice
at the prospect of a comfortable shelter, when the
health-officer, from the steam-vessel, hailed our boatman,
ordering him, upon his peril, not to proceed. It seemed
some form had been omitted; and, we were kept in the
rain, and among the dashing billows, for more than half
an hour. Thoroughly vexed at the officer's conduct, we
began at last to approach the quay, cold, wet, and comfortless.
Various measures were suggested for bringing
him to punishment. An Englishman begged that we
would leave it to him, assuring us he was well acquainted
with the temperament of the people. Soon after, the official
barge approached, and in the prow sat our enemy
with that air of superiority characteristic of underlings.
With much curiosity we awaited the movements of our
British companion. To our astonishment he doffed his
hat, and said—addressing the officer—“Your name, sir,
if you please.” The rowers of the barge slackened their
oars and gazed curiously upon their commander; his face
was suffused with scarlet—“My name! my name!” he
muttered fiercely, and impatiently waving to the oarsmen,
they soon shot rapidly away. We looked to the English
gentleman for an explanation. “Gentlemen” said he,
“be assured I have wounded him to the quick; if I had
parleyed with him, his pride would have been gratified;
but by asking, in a ceremonious manner, for his name,
in the presence of his men, as if we disdained to do less
than complain to his superior, I have both mortified and
alarmed him. The formality of my manner has punished
him more than words could possibly do.” And so
proved. For, on landing, we found him pacing the wharf
and uttering his indignation and fears most violently
while ample apologies were proffered us from all quarters.
I afterwards discovered that to bandy words with the lower
classes of Italy, was but to waste one's breath and subject
the patience to a great trial;—to meet them on their
own ground and give them the advantage which the fluency
of their language affords. They must be addressed
the language of manner, to which they are peculiarly susceptible.
There is a power in manner. How finely
Byron describes, in the bearing of Conrad—

Who that is susceptible to nature, will deny that the sway
of manner consists in its truth? We speak of the impressive
dignity of some of the Indian tribes; kings might
strive to imitate it in vain. It is the gift of nature— the
ennobling grace of the forest lords. The companionship
of genius—when do we most perfectly realise it? What
enthusiasm has led the gifted mind into such an outpouring
that manner is forgotten, and every look and movement
is instinct with soul. In aged persons and children—those
who have lived too long to meditate effect, and
those who, as yet, listen only to the inward oracle, we more
frequently see the perfect spell of manner. What a world

of allurement is involved in the common phrase, an unaffected
manner! Nothing is so delightful as what is spontaneous.
A frank expression of sentiment, a native
manner, captivate; thrice happy when the latter is habitual.
Memnon's image imparted not its mysterious
strains except at the touch of the sunbeams, nor will manner
yield its true witchery from any inspiration but that
of the soul.

PET-NOTIONS.

Our loving tendencies, like Bob Acres' valor, sometime
ooze out, if not from the finger ends, yet in forms
the most various and fantastic imaginable. All of us
have our little oddities, minor loves and minor interests,
objects trifling, and perhaps ridiculous in themselves, and
yet were we at strict confessional, perchance, it would
appear that these pet-notions are as much heart-binders
as mightier things. For my part, I see nothing to be
ashamed of in the minute eccentricities of our wayward
hearts, restless minds, or fanciful idealities. I love to
see human nature vindicate itself, however quaintly. It
is a proof of the ethereal essence of the soul that when a
man is entombed between four bare walls, he will, like
poor Trenck, cherish amity with a dungeon mouse, or
love, like Pellico, of prison memory, to minister to the
pleasure of a spider. Pet-notions, like every other species
of the immense family of notions, are highly reprehensible
in their excess. When instead of serving their
appropriate office of nooks for the play of our little amiable
humors, they are made the sole fields for the free bounding

affections to revel in, then are pet-notions rendered
stocks wherein to cramp and pervert humanity. I would
fain believe that this is less the case than formerly. Here
and there only in the wide world, I ween, may the woman
now be found whose love has yielded up its sanctity,
and become concentrated in a poodle-dog or a parrot.
The pet-notions of our day, I take to be legitimate, and
not seldom interesting. They are what they should be,
tiny curious leaves, peeping out comically from among
the more umbrageous foliage of our love-bowers.

Few things minister more generally and appropriately
to the pet passions than flowers. Beautiful provision does
Flora make for our little loves. I marvel not that many
are touched with an universal affection for the entire contents
of the goddess's cornucopia; and, like Horace
Smith, merge in attachment to the delightful family their
partiality for an individual member, and exclaim, with that
fond bard,

But it is essential to a pet-passion that its objects should
be petty and single, minute, and, as far as may be, unique.
Accordingly those who love flowers at all, generally love,
with especial affection, a particular species. Could the
truth be known, I think the above-named Horace is partial
to some bell-flower, he speaks so touchingly of the

But however that may be, it is an obvious fact that pet-flowers
are remarkably common. Witness the tributary
stanzas of the standard poets; and observe how individual
characteristics are shadowed forth even in pet-notions.
Who but poor Burus could have written so lovingly
of a mountain daisy? His deep, tender spirit of humanity
led him to cherish the wee bit flower as it did to
note the young castaway, with a sympathy surpassing
what gaudier flowers and more prosperous human beings
could inspire. Does not Wordsworth affect primroses because
they are so common and grow wild? Mrs. Hemans,
methinks, would scarcely have spoken of any but
a pet-flower as she has of the water-lily; and of a truth, I
know of few similitudes whereby her own sweet self
can be better typified. Graceful, lovely, and upward
gazing is the lily—and so was the poetess. A friend of
mine is passionately fond of pinks. In summer
you may know him among a thousand, by one of his little
favorites protruding from his button-hole or twirling
between his lips. There is an analogy between his pet-flower
and himself. He admires neatness, order, and
symmetry of arrangement. He suffers if a picture hangs
awry, and wherever he is, begs leave to right its position.
A smile lights up his countenance whenever a man of
well-arranged exterior presents himself. In a word, my
friend is `as neat as a pink.'

There are those who have so little of their proper
humanity remaining, that nature furnishes no little emblems
which please them by affinity; so, their pet notions
are confined to some trinket of rare materials or peculiar

workmanship. There's old Carville—who with much
precision of character unites not a little of superstition
and technicality—one of that class so admirably described
as `endeavoring to atone by microscopic accuracy for
imbecility in fundamental principles.' Carville's pet-notion
some time ago, was a very small and exquisitely wrought
death's head, which he carried in his waiscoat pocket, to
remind him, as he said, `of his coming change.' Now
he has the key of his tomb hung up above his writing desk
for the same purpose. I've heard of a gentleman who
carries a phrenological chart on the lid of his snuff-box.
This pet-notion ministers highly to his pleasure and advantage,
since all his brother mortals are, as soon as
seen, brought to trial, as his eye glances from his mull to
their craniums. Medals, coins, old china, and autographs,
are the pets of many.

The pet-notions of others are far more abstract than
these; they consist of words or phrases which have become,
from long use, inseparably associated with the individual.
They may have been first adopted from caprice;
but usually we find the person has, or fancies he
has, the tact of making them very expressive, or they
mean much in his estimation, suit his voice and air, or
indicate from his mouth a mystic profundity of knowledge,
wit, or sentiment. At all events, they are pet-notions,
as you may know from their frequent use, and the aim at
effect with which they are uttered. An acquaintance of
mine exclaims, `My dear fellow' every five minutes,
with an affectionateness which is touching in the extreme.
He knows it, and therefore has petted the phrase till now

he would as soon part with his own name as discontinue
the moving enunciation. A fashionable, conversable lady,
whom I have often heard talk, expresses her assent to
whatever views are promulgated to her by the term `decidedly,'
uttered with an intonation and nod superlatively
impressive. It was a decidedly pet-notion of hers to
introduce this word continually into her vivacious chattings.
I know a poetical dandy who used to accomplish
the same object by the phrase `true, true.' The articulation
of these words did not cost him much breath, of
which tight garments left him little to waste; there was
a dignity in their very brevity, and therefore were they
complacently adopted into his petty vocabulary.

My quondam friend in the city of — was a fine-hearted
old Italian bachelor, who had sojourned years by-gone
in this country. He spoke tolerable English, except
the accent and nasal melody with which the words
were connected at long intervals. Now the choice of a
phrase for a pet was of no small importance to the good
signor. In the first place, it ought to be a priori, of universal
applicability, in order to come in whenever his verbal
memory should fail—an accident by the way, of no
unfrequent occurrence—then it should have a latent wisdom,
for my old friend prided himself upon his knowledge
of the world, and delivered the most ordinary expressions
with an air of oriental gravity; therefore must
the phrase be rife with meaning. Whether these considerations
led to its selection, whether he gleaned it from
learned men of this land, consulted Dr. Johnson, or hit
upon it by a happy effort of his own genius, I cannot

positively declare; but assuredly never was there a better
or more fitting pet-notion furnished foreigner from
the bounteous bosom of our blessed vernacular. The
first time I heard it from the lips of the signor, I was
lost in admiration, and not doubting it was the precursor
of some profound discourse, I composed myself to listen
with an emotion of thankful expectancy; the second time,
I was taken less by surprise, and noted with new delight
the gesture, glance, and preparatory ahem; by and by, I
became accustomed to it, and never ascended the high
winding stairs which led to the old man's apartment,
without an indefinite anticipation, or descended them
without a lurking lingering sense of my friends pet-notion.
I seem even now to hear him. I admired to go
thither with novices, to witness the effect. It was astonishing
with what facility he introduced the phrase into
conversation, no matter what its nature or end. Whether
speaking of the latest political intelligence, of the weather,
of the opera, of dinner, of time past, present or future;
of this or that man, woman or child, of books
or beggars, of war or walking, of money or martyrdom;—still,
still would he gravely, solemnly, fondly
reiterate, `My dear sir, human nature has always been
the same.'

The natural interest in the principle of life which characterises
human beings, influences their pet-notions.
We instinctively love animation—the embodying of a
living, moving, self-actuating energy. Hence the most
generally cherished pet-notions are taken from the animal
world. And herein I again recognize a true humanity

in these foibles of the affections; if such they may be
called. I have found those who make an intimate of
some lone member of the feathered tribe, find companionship
in one of the canine species, or tenderly care for a
steed, generally prove, in the double and best sense of the
term, clever fellows. I know much is said of the dearth
of domestic attachment, of the folly of bestowing so much
care on a brute, &c.; but, when not over-indulged, such
pet-notions are usually discoverable in whole-hearted and
susceptible beings. I have heard of an eccentric Englishman
who petted an oyster many years, feeding it
with oat-meal till its size was prodigious. No less cheerful
are the little back yards of the French metropolis,
because at noon and eve the white-capped housewife provokes
the mocking-bird, whose cage hangs under the
vine leaves, by her endearing greetings, to echo every
note of the woodland. The favored dove that stoops at sunrise
to the window, and quaintly turns upward her sparkling
eye as she perches on the fair hand which has nourished
her; the spaniel who leaps to hail the return of his
master, despised old bachelor though he be; the tabby favorite
who purs forth her love in the lap of her whose
blessedness were otherwise indeed single; the pampered
gold fish in their glassy globe, and the froward kid who
looks in at the door,—indicate to the reflective observer
that the freshness and expansion of humanity have not
departed from the dwelling; that love is there, albeit some
of its overflowings fall soothingly even upon the soulless
brute.

It was no small amusement to Shelley, at Oxford, to

sail paper-boats. Dr. Johnson used to save orange-peel
and feed his cat with oysters. Many a milliner's apprentice
cherishes a box of mignonette, and the poorest clerk
can afford to keep a geranium in his window—of which
the feel of the leaf, says Hunt `has a household warmth
in it somewhat analogous to clothing and comfort.' A
man in Germany, once collected a large number of
ropes with which criminals had been executed; and a
monk passed years in attempting to gather all the prints
of the Madonna ever issued.

Vaucluse was as odd and withal as affectionate as any
of the students at the university of —. I have seldom
known a more singular pet-notion, or one more fondly
petted than was his. He was romantic in the extreme,
and the mysterious appearance of his notion coupled with
a highly romantic era in its history, which I will relate,
combined to deepen the pride and interest with which he
cherished his pet. He was gazing thoughtfully from his
window, just as the sun beamed brightly upon the sill,
when bending his eye thither, from an aperture beneath,
he saw a young toad spring out and composedly seat himself
in the genial rays. Presently an unfortunate fly
sailing languidly by, was snapped at, and devoured in a
twinkling, by the speckled intruder, and this act of destructiveness
was repeated at intervals, until the shadows
darkened the sill, when the toad quietly retreated to his hole.
Vaucluse marked this for a white day in his monotonous
life. Already his heart yearned toward the independent
fly hunter. He found something singularly interesting
in his appearance and manners. There was a touch

of misanthropy, a grave contempt of the world, a magistrate-like
dignity, a solitary quietude and an honest bachelorism
about the toad, that chimed in with the student's
humor. He determined to adopt and cherish him; and
accordingly was at the window, to welcome his pet-notion,
as soon as Sol brightened the sill, and joining in the fly
hunt, he daily surfeited the stomach of his favorite till he
looked, for all the world, like a Dutch alderman. Things
were in this state, when Vaucluse was disturbed in the
midst of his feeding operations, by the abrupt entrance of
the last man he wished to see, under such circumstances.
It was no other than Snider, a medical student, noted
for his sarcastic drollery, and prematurely, by complaisance,
ycleped doctor. The toad-fosterer prepared himself
for a wit-battering; but he looked upon the child of
his adoption and felt a martyr's courage nerve him.
What was his surprise to see his friend assume an expression
of sadness as his eye rested on the toad, and
then look mournfully in his face.

“What's the matter?” he enquired.

“Vaucluse,” he replied solemnly, “I'm sorry for you;”
and he drew out his handkerchief.

“For heaven's sake, explain yourself; this suspense is
insupportable.”

“Is it possible that a man of your intelligence has suffered
himself to be deceived?”

“My dear doctor, do, do, I pray you, speak.”

“Know then, Vaucluse, that your unwise pampering
has induced the incipient symptoms of apoplexy in yon
poor toad.”

“No; you are not in earnest”—

“I am. Mark his distended sides, his gasping breath,
his heavy eyes.—Vaucluse, he cannot survive the night,
but through the application of immediate medical aid.”

“Say not so. Can you, my dear doctor, can you cure
him?”

“If the case is unconditionally left with me.”

“Doctor, I fear to trust you; but there's no remedy.
Do what thou wilt, but do it quickly.”

“The eye of the young Esculapius brightened; the toad
was his first patient. Softly upheaving the sash, he gently
lifted the wheezing animal from his warm seat, and raising
him as if more nearly to inspect the gustatory organs, he
suddenly ejected from his mouth into the open maw of the
unfortunate toad, an immense quid of half-consumed
cavendish; then replacing him, he awaited only to see
him sneeze thrice, with a shudder swallow the pill, and
retire to his dark abode; then glancing at the confounded
and indignant Vaucluse, he made his exit, murmuring
the while—“emetic and cathartic—large dose—operation
protracted result—general reduction of the system.”

Why need I relate the vigils of a romantic student who
vainly watches for the coming of his pet-notion? Suffice
it to say that days, weeks, nay a whole month flew by, and
the toad greeted not the eyes of Vaucluse. “Hope darkened
into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair.”
The solitary student observed the first monthly
anniversary of his pet's departure by unusual moodiness
and abstinence. When the sun kissed the white surface
of the window sill, he stood with a fixed eye, folded arms

and a frowning brow, looking upon its solitude. Did he
dream? Something like a toad's head seemed protruding
from the hole. He rubbed his eyes; and with what emotions,
I leave the reader to imagine, beheld something
very like a toad, the outline, the shadow of his corpulent
pet, slowly creep forth and drag himself to his old position.
The speckled skin hung flabbily, the legs were perfect
anatomies; the toad seemed in the last stage of a consumption.
In vain his feeble jaws essayed to seize their
prey. His eye gleamed brilliantly. Vaucluse tearfully
opened the casement, placed the daintiest flies in the open
mouth of the convalescent, and ere many days beheld the
bright colours revive upon the epidermis, the sides and
back plump heartily out, and the fly-hunt proceed more
briskly than ever. He once more rejoiced in his pet-notion.

LOITERING.

Philosophers seldom deem the minor characteristics
of their kind worthy of discussion. Otherwise, methinks
they would have analysed a feeling of which not a few are
conscious; I mean the loitering propensity. Even the
poets, who are vastly more circumspect in nothing the
quaint things of life, have scarcely alluded to this. Neither
Crabbe, indefatigable as he was in taking cognizance
of the veriest humors of our nature, nor Wordsworth,
bravely as he has persevered in showing up the more simple
and native workings of the heart, have done justice
to the inherent disposition to loiter which belongs to some
men, as truly as their gait or their noses. Let no one
suggest that the topic would have been appropriate to
Thomson's “Castle of Indolence.” Your legitimate loiterers
are the busiest men alive. Depend upon it their air
of leisure, though it may indicate the absence of certain domestic
inspirers of activity—proves any thing rather than
the absence of thought. Why, Addison was wont to loiter
in club-rooms, Irving in old English castles, and Charles

Lamb at book-stalls. The Spectator, Sketch-Book, and
Elia, prove that they did not loiter in vain. Taste and
circumstances combine to influence our habits of loitering.
The young physician loiters in the druggist's shop, the
coxcomb in the street, and the poet by the river's side.
Loiterers of some kind and in some degree are we all,
superlatively busy and time-saving as we may complacently
think ourselves.

There is no little philosophy in loitering. The driving
creatures who are ceaselessly on the move, brushing by
you with a smile of recognition which habit has stereotyped
on their countenances, and a nod which says, “How
d' ye do,” and “good b' ye” at the same time, know none
of the true zest of life, save the little modicum which is involved
in mere locomotion. They are like certain poetasters
who in the race of rhyme, linger not for ideas.
What to them are the border roses and beautiful vistas of
rural pathways, or the heart-stirring faces and rich print-shop
windows of the metropolis? Like Young Rapid, their
watch-word is “keep moving;” and as to by way thoughts
or observations, they'll none of them. Now, consider
how much of the pleasure of life is contingent, and how
little direct. In pressing ardently onward to a much desired
goal, we, in a manner, prepare ourselves for disappointment.
But the flower that smiles up to us unbidden
from the hedge, the splendid prospect suddenly encountered,
the en passant greeting—these are thrice enlivening
because expected.

Fertilizing and auspicious as is the energetic play of
all the faculties, there is a deep wisdom in allowing the

mind to lie fallow. Like the soil thus exposed to the
grateful agencies of nature and its own self-evolved energy,
its productiveness is eventually enhanced. Amid the
exciting elements in which we live, there is a little danger
of a dearth of action. And if one would press on with
secure intelligence, let him sometimes loiter to scrutinize
and meditate, let him behold what is around as well as before
him. Oh, it is true philosophy, in such a shadowy
world as ours, to linger momentarily over every joy-beam,
were it only to garner up its blessedness in our memories!

It is, after all, by dribblets that good comes to us; and
thus only can we happily imbibe it to any great degree.
A lover of books unless thoroughly imbued with the
spirit of Dominie Sampson, feels rather oppressed than
inspired on first entering an immense library. Yet such
a one may lounge an hour over a bookseller's counter, or
scan the pages of a racy magazine, enjoying the while a
mood the most calmly pleasurable. In this, as in many
other respects, there is a coincidence between the influences
of art and literature. To one whose love of the
beautiful is passionate and keen, there is something oppressive
in the aspect of a well-stocked gallery, while an
artist's sanctum proves a delightful resort; and a fine parlour
picture, accidentally fallen in with, is productive of
unalloyed delight. A single congenial volume represents
to the imaginative mind the idea of literature; and a sketch
or statue is an eloquent symbol of art. There is a philosophical
principle involved in these facts. The truth is, the
feelings of a man of ideal and susceptible temperament—
and these characteristics are rarely disunited—are as

delicate as they are vivid. An imposing array of objects,
until singly and methodically scanned, by the variety and
richness of their suggestions, confuse and satiate his sensitive
taste. Individually, unobtrusively, unexpectedly addressed,
his mind freely responds. The current of feeling
thus receives an impetus, neither rude nor onerous,
but precisely strong enough to urge it into a thoughtful
and happy flow. Painters speak of a feeling for color;
so is there a feeling for the beautiful and the true in man,
which will not bear forcing nor feasting, but finds its own
gratification in self-possessed and spontaneous observation.
And thus the loiterers, on the world's highway, in
true enjoyment and actual good, not unfrequently outstrip
the most bustling and speedy of the careering multitude:

BROAD VIEWS.

I love to steal away from a group of system-worshippers,
and commune awhile with some solitary, uncourted
being, whose scope of thought is unlimited by any artificial
bounds, and the play of whose feelings is as free as
the mountain wind. It is like leaving the smoky precincts
of a highland hut, on a summer morning, to stand
beneath the open sky and look forth upon the hills.
There is something as refreshiug to the mind's eye in
broad views of life and man, of art and literature, of facts
and individuals, of nature and society, as there is to the
bodily sense in majestic and boundless scenery. Broad
views are characteristic of mental elevation. To the
eagle's eye, when he hangs poised among the clouds, a
common arena and universal atmosphere blend the aspect
of earth and her myriads. By as certain a law, does the
human universe present a general and softened picture
to the intellect, sublimated by love and enlarged by culture.

It was once my privilege to walk through a renowned

repository of art, with a man of genius. I had scrutinized
the various objects there preserved with companions
of less calibre, who evidently prided themselves
upon detecting discrepancies of style and errors of execution.
My new cicerone, on the contrary, designated
beauties in works, which, as wholes, are held in light estimation,
and was continually directing my attention to
the lesser excellencies of the more celebrated productions.
This was the genuine spirit of noble criticism. Broad
views are as naturally taken by gifted men, as limited
ones by those of subordinate intelligence. You never
hear an ardent lover of art or literature commenting con
amore, upon the minor blemishes of a production in which
genius is dominant. How do the aspirants for a reputation
for gentility err by continually mooting the narrow
topic of rank; and how do the would-be critics mistake
their vocation by anxiously discussing etymologies!
Broad views are the legitimate result of experience and
general knowledge.

The author of some modern farce makes one of his
heroes, an accomplished Parisian duellist, console a foreign
coxcomb whom he has challenged, by promising to
have him `neatly packed up and directed.' Somewhat
after this fashion, men appear to be dealt with in society.
Because an individual sees fit to connect himself with a
certain association, manifest an interest in a specific object,
or temporarily display, with more than ordinary
force, a particular principle of his nature, he is at once
classed, newly baptized with a party name, enrolled,
severed by an artificial distinction—in a word, `packed

up and directed.' An imaginary badge is affixed to him
as significant as the philactery of the pharisee, the star of
courtly honour, or the colored ribbon denoting academic
or knightly preferment. To all the general interests and
purposes of social life, he is proscribed. The usual method
of answering the question, `What sort of a person is
—?' is to designate the body political, scientific or otherwise,
to which the individual is attached. A fashionable
votary refers you to the `circle,' a religionist to the
`sect,' and an intellectualist, to the `school;' each
`packs up and directs' that most diverse, spontaneous,
and free of human results—character, according to his
whim.

Classification is doubtless very applicable to minerals
and plants, and labels have been found very useful in
pharmacy. The inert, unalterable, fixed qualities of
matter may be designated by a specific or generic name,
may be `packed up and directed:' but the idea of so
disposing of human beings—of indicating the endless
modifications of feeling, imagination and thought, by any
epithet referring only to opinions, is preposterous in the
extreme. We have two brief, but most expressive terms
for the two most sublime objects in the universe; we
speak of sea and sky; but whoever thinks of taking profound
cognizance of a particular wave, or devoutly following
through the horizon a single, shifting cloud?
We regard the various movements of the deep and the
ever changing aspect of the heavens, with perfect confidence
that the calm etherial canopy of the one still
stretches in beauty above, and the fathomless depths of

the other still sound on their way below. Why should
we be less just to man? Why believe that the deep attributes,
the great elements of his nature, are invaded by
the aspects his versatile being presents in a world of
circumstances? Why fix our eye upon the temporary
wave or the passing cloud, when there is an infinite
depth below and a glorious expanse above, which
shall endure when the currents of opinion and the
breezes of circumstance have died away on an illimitable
shore?

If Madame de Staël did not grievously err in her idea
that mankind are never alike but `through affectation
or design,' then this system of classifying is especially
unjust, and to form any definite notion of an individual
from the party-title affixed to him, is altogether unphilosophical.
Yet how perversely we cut ourselves off
from society calculated to inspire the deepest interest or
to exert a most auspicious influence, by the dominion of
some foolish antipathy! Hundreds are avoided or but
casually known because they labor under the imputation
of being antiquarians, phrenologists, or littérateurs,
as if each and all of these characters might not be cultivated
without absording humanity! Yet being `packed
up and directed' under these or equally effective terms,
men, ay, and women too, are rendered obnoxious to
no small portion of their fellow creatures. `Why do you
not converse with Miss A—?' I enquired of a very
sensible lady at a party the other evening. `Oh, I'm
terribly afraid of literary ladies,' she replied, with an ill-suppressed
shudder at my suggestion. Now the lady in

question had merely given to the public some lively
sketches of common life, such as would have been very
appropriate epistolary matter wherewith to entertain an
absent friend; and she was in the habit of talking
well of every thing in the whole range of topics, except
literature, about which she knew and cared no more
than was absolutely necessary to vindicate her claims
to ordinary cultivation. Yet was she thus unceremoniously
`packed up' in that peculiarly odious box marked
`BLUES.'

This miserable habit of our times is vividly illustrated
by the manner in which those next most sacred things
to mortals, books are treated. Celsus reprobates the
idea of a fixed system of diet, on the ground that men
are exposed to every variety of influence and condition
of body; and if books have been justly considered
as mental food, then may we, on the same ground, advantageously
vary our reading. Yet there is scarcely
an individual who has not `packed up and directed'
numberless works, of the true value of which he is altogether
unaware; packed them up in the iron casket of
prejudice, and directed them to the far distant region of
neglect.

`It is the spirit of the soul's natural piety,' says
a British divine, `to alight on whatever is touching
or beautiful in every faith, and take thence its secret
draught of pure and fresh emotion.' And so is it
the spirit of him accustomed to broad views, to recognize
man, as such, however artificially displayed,
to blot out, at a glance, the label society has attached to

him, and behold the earlier and indelible signature of
nature;—