Part 11

The close of the year, whose last knell has just been heard, amid the chills and gloom of winter, when all around reminds us of our departed friends and the loss we have sustained, is peculiarly adapted to arouse us from our inattention to the lapse of time, and impress on our hearts the solemn truth that life itself is but a vapor. Many, it is true, when they look into the grave of the year, may experience a rush of bitter feeling, as they fondly recollect how many cherished hopes they have been called upon to bury in the tomb, during the lapse of the year: how many friends have proved false or ungrateful--how many of their suns have gone down in the gloom of solitude, or amidst scenes of sickness and poverty, or of sighing and sorrow. All this is true, and such ever has been and ever will be the complexion of human life. But though thousands are thus educated in a school where such is the salutary discipline, yet millions have been spending the year in peace and joy--in health and abundance. Their journey has been gladdened with sunshine, and their course has been through fields of beauty and beside "the still waters of comfort." It is useful--it is a species of _gratitude_ thus to look back and trace the course we have been pursuing. If it has been delightful or smooth and peaceful, our hearts should melt in tenderness while we look to the _fountain_ of all our blessings. If our course has been wearisome through fields of sterility, or melancholy and companionless, we should remember that Wisdom and Goodness preside over our destinies, whether we are breasting the storm, or calmly beholding the rainbow of promise. The year that has bidden us adieu, was pleasant in its course, and its decline gradual and beautiful. An unusual degree of softness distinguished its autumn, resembling the last years of the life of man, when the agitation of the passions has in a great measure subsided; when his feelings have become tranquilized, and all around him peaceful and serene, if he has been careful to regulate his conduct, on life's journey, by the principles of justice and the commands of duty--if in his social intercourse his passions have been preserved in due subjection to the gentle influences of a benevolent heart, displaying itself in acts of mercy like the good Samaritan.

"Sure the last end Of the good man is peace. How calm his exit! Night dews fall not more gently on the ground Nor weary, worn-out winds expire so soft."

The new year to which we have just been introduced is, in one sense, a perfect stranger, though we have long been intimate with the _family_ to which it belongs, and of course have some general acquaintance with certain features of its character, leading us to anticipate its promises and its failure to perform them in many instances,--its smiles and its tears--its flatteries and its frowns--its gaieties and hopes--its gradual decline--decay and dissolution:--but we have abundant reason too for indulging the belief that we may enjoy thousands of blessings, if we are disposed to cherish proper feelings--to be kind and courteous and obliging, and ever on our guard to avoid unnecessarily wounding the feelings of others; ever ready to acknowledge the favors we receive, and render a suitable return. How easily all this may be done! How often is it grossly neglected! He who consults _his own_ ease and comfort cannot in any manner attain the desired result so readily and certainly, as by habitually consulting the ease and comfort of others, with whom he is in the habit of associating: and this is true politeness also. A man who is dissatisfied with himself and those around him, and laboring under the darkening influence of disturbed or morose feelings "may travel from Dan to Beersheba and say it is all barren;"--to him it will appear so; and the effect would be the same if his journey lay amidst the most delightful scenes of rural beauty. The seasons of the year all give their annual _lessons_ for instruction: It is our wisdom to regard them carefully. _Spring_ summons us all to cheerful activity, with assurances that our labor will not be in vain. _Summer_ performs what _Spring_ had promised, and shews us the advantage of listening to early instruction and wisely improving it. Ten thousand songsters are filling the branches with their animating strains of music and gratitude, and teaching us to enjoy, as they do, the countless blessings and bounties of nature; _their_ music is never failing--nor do we see it ending in _discords_. Let us all, as we journey onward together through the year, learn to tune our _hearts_ as they do their _voices_, and pass the fleeting period in harmony, and in that _cheerfulness_ which the excellent Addison has honored with the name of a _continual expression of gratitude to Heaven_. In Germany the _study_ and _practice_ of music are general among the people. Besides other advantages resulting from making music a part of common education, it is not romantic or utopian to observe that it teaches how easily music--pure and surpassing music--may be made on the _same_ instrument, which under an ignorant or purposed touch will send forth discords in prodigious varieties. He who has become _acquainted_ with the instrument, though not a _master_ of it, well knows how to _avoid_ those combinations of sound which are painful to the ear, and often tend to disturb feelings and passions. What tones are sweeter than those produced by the gentle breeze of heaven in passing over the strings of the AEolian Harp? The reason is, those strings are so attuned as that their vibrations will not respond except in notes of harmony: but only disorder the strings, by increasing the tension of some and decreasing that of others, and the sweetest zephyr will produce nothing but the vilest discords, resembling angry passions. Let us then, in our journey through the year on which we have entered, acquire as much as possible a knowledge of the _science_ and the _art_ of social and domestic _moral music_. Let us learn to measure our _time_ with care, to cultivate our _voices_, that they may lose all harshness: let each attend to _his own part_, and strive to excel in that. Let us consider our _feelings_, _passions_ and _dispositions_, as the _strings of the Harp_; and the _ordinary events of life_ as the _breezes_ which give vibration to the strings: if these strings--our feelings, passions and dispositions--are in proper tune--under due regulation, and preserving a just relation, each to all the others, we have then all the elements of moral music, domestic and social, and in a few weeks, by due regard to all the principles and arrangement above mentioned, we shall soon be good scholars, _giving_ and _receiving_ all that pleasure which harmony can afford; and as the sober _autumn_ advances, our _tastes_ for this kind of music will be more and more ripened towards perfection; and when the cold _decemberly_ evenings shall arrive, we can listen to the _angry music_ of the elements abroad, full of discordant strains, sweeping by our peaceful homes, while _within_ them all may be the music of the heart, in its gentlest movements.

It is a melancholy truth that we ourselves manufacture seven eighths of what we are disposed to term our _misfortunes_ in this world. Want of precaution mars our arrangements: want of prudence exposes us to dangers which we might easily have avoided--want of patience often hurries us into difficulties, and disqualifies us to bear them with calmness or decency. Indulgence in follies and fashions often plants the seeds of wasting disease. Intemperance in our passions always is followed by unwelcome sensations, and sometimes with a sense of shame. Stimulants are succeeded by debility, and when they are used to excess, we know and daily witness the dreadful results--if death is not one of them--either the death of the offender, or of some other destroyed by his hand in the tempest of infuriated passions--we are too often compelled to mourn over the desolation they occasion--presenting in one view,

"Hate--grief--despair--the family of pain."

THE RUIN OF A NIGHT.

STANZAS SUGGESTED ON VIEWING THE GROUND OF THE GREAT FIRE IN NEW-YORK.

By Grenville Mellen.

It was still noon--and Sabbath. The pale air Hung over the great city like a shroud-- And echo answer'd to a footstep there, Where late went up the thunder of a crowd! I wander'd like a pilgrim round the piles That Ruin heap'd about the wildering way-- And as I pass'd, I saw the withering smiles That did on faces of dull gazers play, As they stood round the ashes of that grave Of all that yesterday rose there, so broad and brave!

I mus'd as I went thro' the shadowy path Of broken, blacken'd walls, and pillars high, Which had surviv'd that visiting of wrath, And now lean'd dim against the lurid sky-- I heard the rude laugh break from ruder hearts, Those ruffian exclamations of lost souls, At which a better spirit wakes and starts-- The revelry of demons o'er their bowls-- Until I felt how faint rebuke may fall Over a people, tho' it come in sword and pall!

There was no lesson in that mighty pyre-- Or, if it rose, it faded with the flame; And crime, relentless, from that smouldering fire Would lift, at night, its stealthy arm the same On the lone wanderer, as, amid the crowd, It glided oft before, to filch its gold, When the great voice of rivalry was loud, And onward the deep tide of commerce roll'd! I thought how idle was the darkest ban, Fate, in her fiercest eloquence, can pour on man!

I thought how quick the seal of nothingness Is set on man's best glory--and how deep! How soon the Greatest grovels with the Less, And they who shouted bravest, bow to weep! How quick the veriest triumph of our years, Fulfill'd by a dim life of toil and pain, Is chang'd to one sad festival of tears-- When Time is but a storm--and visions wane! How quick Destruction can make classical The crowded, golden ground, where her fell footsteps fall!

The ground that yesterday was consecrate To the wild spirit-power of Gold and Gain-- Where riches, like some thing of worship sate, And Worth of Wealth ask'd precedence in vain! Where the hard hand was busy with the dust With which it soon must mingle--though it gleam Often with jewels--splendid, but accurst, That make the trappings of this Life's poor dream! And where, too, Bounty, like a fountain, sprung, In streams, though not unfelt, in shadow, and unsung!

Alas! that pillar'd pile! how, as I gaz'd Upon the blacken'd shafts, did I recall The sculptur'd marble there, whose brow was rais'd So like a god's, within that shadowy hall! Immortal HAMILTON!--though crumbled deep In the red chaos of that billowy night, It needs no chisel's memory to keep Thy spirit's nobler outline vast and bright! No Time--no element can mar the fame, Gather'd, like fadeless sunlight, round thy spotless name!

COURTSHIP.

By Wm. L. McClintock.

After my sleighride, last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the women again in a hurry. To hear me curse and swear and rail out against the whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never so much as look at one again, to all eternity--O, but I was wicked. "Darn and blast their eyes"--says I.--"Blame their skins--torment their hearts and darn them to darnation." Finally I took an oath and swore that if I ever meddled or had any dealings with them again (in the sparking line I mean) I wish I might be hung and choked.

But swearing off from women, and then going into a meeting house chock full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and going into a grog shop. It's all smoke.

I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays. Forenoons, a'ternoons and intermissions complete. On the fourth, there were strong symptoms of a change of weather. A chap, about my size was seen on the way to the meeting house, with a new patent hat on; his head hung by the ears upon a shirt collar; his cravat had a pudding in it and branched out in front, into a double bow knot. He carried a straight back and a stiff neck, as a man ought to, when he has his best clothes on; and every time he spit, he sprung his body forward, like a jack-knife, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles.

Squire Jones' pew is next but two to mine; and when I stand up to prayers and take my coat tail under my arm, and turn my back to the minister, I naturally look right straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has got a face not to be grinned at, in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty, some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part, I think there is not much boot between them. Any how, they are so nigh matched that they have hated and despised each other, like rank poison, ever since they were school-girls.

Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to reading the great bible, when he heard a rap at his door. "Walk in.--Well, John, how der do? Git out, Pompey."--"Pretty well, I thank ye, Squire, and how do _you_ do?"--"Why, so as to be crawling--ye ugly beast, will ye hold yer yop--haul up a chair and set down, John."

"How do _you_ do, Mrs. Jones?" "O, middlin', how's yer marm? Don't forget the mat, there, Mr. Beedle." This put me in mind that I had been off soundings several times, in the long muddy lane; and my boots were in a sweet pickle.

It was now old Captain Jones' turn, the grandfather. Being roused from a doze, by the bustle and racket, he opened both his eyes, at first with wonder and astonishment. At last he began to halloo so loud that you might hear him a mile; for he takes it for granted that every body is just exactly as deaf as he is.

"Who is it? I say, who in the world is it?" Mrs. Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, "it's Johnny Beedle."--"Ho--Johnny Beedle. I remember, he was one summer at the siege of Boston."--"No, no, father, bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that's been dead and gone this twenty year."--"Ho,--But where does he come from?"--"Daown taown."--"Ho.--And what does he follow for a livin'?"--And he did not stop asking questions, after this sort, till all the particulars of the Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs. Jones' last screech. He then sunk back into his doze again.

The dog stretched himself before one andiron; the cat squat down before the other. Silence came on by degrees, like a calm snow storm, till nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping tune with a sappy yellow birch forestick. Sally sat up prim, as if she were pinned to the chair-back; her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her eyes looking straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten herself too, and laid her hands across in her lap. But they would not lay still. It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work, and they were out of all patience with keeping Sunday.--Do what she would to keep them quiet, they would bounce up, now and then, and go through the motions, in spite of the fourth commandment. For my part _I_ sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to say something the more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over the left and said "hem." Then I changed, and put the left leg over the right. It was no use; the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker. The drops of sweat began to crawl all over me. I got my eye upon my hat, hanging on a peg, on the road to the door; and then I eyed the door. At this moment, the old Captain, all at once sung out "Johnny Beedle!" It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I started right up an eend.

"Johnny Beedle, you'll never handle sich a drumstick as your father did, if yer live to the age of Methusaler. He would toss up his drumstick, and while it was whirlin' in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then ketch it as it come down, without losin' a stroke in the tune. What d'ye think of that, ha? But scull your chair round, close along side er me, so yer can hear.--Now, what have you come a'ter?"--"I--a'ter? O, jest takin' a walk. Pleasant walkin' I guess. I mean jest to see how ye all do." "Ho.--That's another lie. You've come a courtin', Johnny Beedle; you're a'ter our Sal. Say now, d'ye want to marry, or only to court?"

This is what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump and landed in the middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping cough, was put to bed.

Then came apples and cider; and, the ice being broke, plenty chat with mammy Jones about the minister and the 'sarmon.' I agreed with her to a nicety, upon all the points of doctrine; but I had forgot the text and all the heads of the discourse, but six. Then she teazed and tormented me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery, that day. But, mum--there was no getting that out of me. "Praise to the face is often disgrace"--says I, throwing a sly squint at Sally.

At last, Mrs. Jones lighted t'other candle; and after charging Sally to look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered up his shoes and stockings and followed.

Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in, with a steady stream of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past, and also made some pretty cute guesses at what it was like to be in future. At first, I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop. Then growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma, and semicolon; and at last, it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by the side of her.

"I swow, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to day, that I wanted to eat you up."--"Pshaw, get along you," says she. My hand had crept along, somehow, upon its fingers, and begun to scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home again, with a desperate jerk. "Try it agin"--no better luck. "Why, Miss Jones you're gettin' upstropulous, a little old madish, I guess." "Hands off is fair play, Mr. Beedle."

It is a good sign to find a girl sulkey. I knew where the shoe pinched. It was that are Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her that I had never had any notion after Patty, and to prove it I fell to running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with me, and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I, now, not only got hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip an arm round her waist. But there was no satisfying me; so I must go to poking out my lips after a buss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap in the face that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a quarter of an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, tho' out of the wrong side of my mouth, which gave my face something the look of a gridiron. The battle now began in the regular way. "Ah, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha' done with it, now."--"I won't, so there, nor tech to."--"I'll take it, whether or no."--"Do it, if you dare."--And at it we went, rough and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now commenced. The bow of my cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the next bout, smash went shirt collar, and, at the same time, some of the head fastenings gave way, and down came Sally's hair in a flood, like a mill dam broke loose,--carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of Sally's elbow, and my blooming ruffles wilted down to a dish-cloth. But she had no time to boast. Soon her neck tackling began to shiver. It parted at the throat, and, whorah, came a whole school of blue and white beads, scampering and running races every which way, about the floor.

By the Hokey; if Sally Jones is'nt real grit, there's no snakes. She fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite nor scratch; and when she could fight no longer, for want of breath, she yielded handsomely. Her arms fell down by her sides, her head back over her chair, her eyes closed and there lay her little plump mouth, all in the air. Lord! did ye ever see a hawk pounce upon a young robin? Or a bumblebee upon a clover-top?--I say nothing.

Consarn it, how a buss will crack, of a still frosty night. Mrs. Jones was about half way between asleep and awake. "There goes my yeast bottle," says she to herself--"burst into twenty hundred pieces, and my bread is all dough agin."

The upshot of the matter is, I fell in love with Sally Jones, head over ears. Every Sunday night, rain or shine, finds me rapping at 'Squire Jones' door, and twenty times have I been within a hair's breadth of popping the question. But now I have made a final resolve; and if I live till next Sunday night, and I don't get choked in the trial, Sally Jones will hear thunder.

VENETIAN MOONLIGHT.

By Frederick Mellen.

The midnight chime had tolled from Marco's towers; O'er Adria's wave the trembling echo swept; The gondolieri paused upon their oars, Mutt'ring their prayers as through the still night crept.

Far on the wave the knell of time sped on, Till the sound died upon its tranquil breast; The sea-boy startled as the peal rolled on; Gazed at his star, and turned himself to rest.

The throbbing heart, that late had said farewell, Still lingering on the wave that bore it home, At that bright hour sigh'd o'er the dying swell, And thought on years of absence yet to come.

'T was moonlight on Venetia's sea, And every fragrant bower and tree Smiled in the golden light; The thousand eyes that clustered there Ne'er in their life looked half so fair As on that happy night.

A thousand sparkling lights were set On every dome and minaret; While through the marble halls, The gush of cooling fountains came, And crystal lamps sent far their flame Upon the high-arched walls.

But sweeter far on Adria's sea, The gondolier's wild minstrelsy In accents low began; While sounding harp and martial zel Their music joined, until the swell Seemed heaven's broad arch to span.

Then faintly ceasing--one by one, That plaintive voice sung on alone Its wild, heart-soothing lay; And then again that moonlight band Started, as if by magic wand, In one bold burst away.