STANZAS 
 
 AND 
 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES J. O'CONNELL. 
 
 BROOKLYN : 
 
 JAMES J. O'CONNELL, 
 
 1883. 
 
^ 
 
 
 
 
 BROOKLYN: 
 PRESS OF JAMES J. O'CONNELL 
 
TO 
 
 JAMES ROSEVELT GLEASON, 
 
 WHO, 
 
 THOUGH HUMAN, 
 
 HAS EVER BEEN MY FRIEND, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 TN publishing his first thin volume of juvenalia, 
 -*- it is customary for the young author to make 
 this the vehicle for excuses, as though he had been 
 guilty of some crime. In my case, I have no excuse 
 to offer. This volume contains a selection of my 
 contributions to the amateur press during the past 
 two years, and comprises all I desire to preserve. 
 In one respect, I am sure, this little book will be 
 more fortunate than many others of greater preten- 
 sions ; for, as it will circulate only among my 
 personal friends and fellow-workers in the cause of 
 amateur journalism, I can reasonably expect to carry 
 my readers beyond the preface. 
 
 We are told that one can make himself understood 
 much easier, and with fewer words, in conversation 
 than in writing. I have often thought that the 
 reader, however appreciative, can never understand 
 a sentiment so fully as the writer. We have all 
 heard of how the poet, while under the influence of 
 the divine afflatus, has torn his hair and foamed at 
 the mouth on being delivered of a happy thought. 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 But he is indeed fortunate if his words arouse more 
 than a passing feeling in the heart of his reader. 
 To me, these con amore articles mean a great deal ; 
 they mean more, perhaps, than I would wish the 
 reader to know. Literature has been my recreation : 
 I have pursued it with the spirit of Spenser's angels, 
 " All for love, and nothing for reward." From 
 necessity, and not inclination, I have been compelled 
 to say with Henry Kirke White : 
 
 For me the day 
 Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 
 Of steadfast application, but which leave 
 No deep improving trace upon the mind. 
 But be the day another's ; — let it pass ! 
 The night's my own ! They cannot steal my night ! 
 When Evening lights her folding star on high. 
 I live and breathe ; and in the sacred hours 
 Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, 
 Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space, 
 And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven. 
 
 Brooklyn, January, 1883. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Mammon, Our City Boys 
 
 The Hermit's Dream, . Paragon . . 
 
 What the Wind Did, . Pilot . . . 
 
 Dereliction, .... Our Sanctum 
 
 Imprisoned, .... Youth's Enterprise 
 
 Thoughts of the Holidays, Northern Breezes 
 
 Lines, Our Sanctum 
 
 Camoens, Golden Moments 
 
 While the tear in thine Eye, Scrutinize}- . 
 
 Anacreontic, .... Le Critique . 
 
 After Many Years, . . Mentor . . 
 
 A Shell Paragon .' . 
 
 The Cynic to his Books, Our Sanctum 
 
 Byron, Junior Press 
 
 Stanzas to Myra, . . . Ark . . . 
 
 How Gay are the Spirits, Youth's Enterp 
 
 Sunrise, Lantern . 
 
 The Suicide, .... Bugle 
 
 Voila Tout, Bay State Brilliant 
 
 Child of Nature, . . . Thames Budget 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 7 
 
 12 
 
 14 
 16 
 18 
 
 20 
 
 22 
 
 24 
 
 25 
 26 
 29 
 30 
 
 3 1 
 3 2 
 33 
 34 
 36 
 37 
 39 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 The First Snow, 
 
 Annie, 
 
 To a Friend, 
 
 Hope, .... 
 
 Snow-Bound, 
 
 The Death of Love 
 
 Lines, .... 
 
 Stanzas, 
 
 Kismet, . . . 
 
 The Pharisee, 
 
 The Robin, . 
 
 My Lady, Playing, 
 
 Lines, .... 
 
 Rondeau, . . . 
 
 Vanities in Verse, 
 
 Pedestal 
 Grit . . 
 Sentinel . 
 Advocate 
 Sunflower 
 Young Amet 
 Youth's Enterpi 
 Eclipse . . 
 Eclipse 
 Mayflower . 
 Paragon 
 Amateur Sun 
 
 4i 
 
 42 
 
 43 
 
 45 
 46 
 
 47 
 49 
 
 5° 
 5i 
 
 5 2 
 53 
 54 
 55 
 56 
 57 
 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 The Pleasures of Solitude, Detroit Amateui 
 Ethel Ark . . . 
 
 T|?e Bore, .... 
 
 Seth, 
 
 Christmas Afterthoughts, 
 Daddy's Dust, . . . 
 The Bird of Love, . . 
 The Vagabond, . . . 
 The Apostate of Love, 
 
 Paragon 
 
 Paragon 
 
 Amateur Sun 
 
 Enterprise . 
 
 Detroit A mate id 
 Young America 
 Young America 
 
 63 
 
 69 
 
 76 
 
 84 
 
 9i 
 
 97 
 
 104 
 
 108 
 
 118 
 
STANZAS 
 
MAMMON. 
 
 A man's a man, for a' that. — Burns. 
 
 OH ! mighty Mammon ! in thy sway secure, 
 Slave of the rich, and monarch of the poor ! 
 Judge of all men, of all the universe, 
 Man's truest friend, and yet his greatest curse :— 
 Squandered in youth, to be in old age sought, 
 Man loves thee better as his life grows short. 
 
 For thee the Bravo plies his barbarous trade, 
 Making of life a bloodly masquerade. 
 
 For thee the Statesman, in his proud array, 
 Damns his own name, and falls a willing prey ; 
 While breaking, where he should sustain, the laws, 
 Forsakes his party and his party's cause. 
 False to his friends, and toady to his foes, 
 Soon he gets rich — but how ? — God only knows ! 
 
 For thee the Preacher in the pulpit stands. 
 Opes the wide mouth and waves the grasping hands ; 
 No more to God his tender flock he leads, 
 But loudly fights the Battle of the Creeds ; 
 See how he stands, all damned except his own — 
 A little God upon a little throne ! 
 
2 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Full well he feigns the counterfeited tear 
 Where Poverty runs shrieking in despair ; 
 While the rich wines upon his table spread 
 Would clothe the naked, give the hungry bread. 
 
 For thee the Maiden spurns her laboring swain, 
 Leaves all she loves, and joins the tinselled train 
 To dance attendance on some wealthy rake. 
 Unmindful she, her honor all at stake, 
 Prefers a tawdry and a shameful life, 
 Being his mistress, than a poor man's wife. 
 
 For thee the Poor Relation, humbly grave, 
 Foregoes her freedom and becomes a slave ; 
 Soon learns to draw the sympathetic tear 
 At her friend's griefs, for sundry pounds a - year. 
 Though met by insult, though repulsed with scorn, 
 Her pride sore wounded, and her lot forlorn, 
 Yet will she flatter ; weaving, as she smiles, 
 'A thread of candor with a web of wiles.' 
 
 The thin-clad Miser, gloating o'er his store, 
 Counts piece by piece, and ever longs for more ; 
 Views, with rapt eye, along the glittering hoard, 
 And loves it better than he loves his Lord ! 
 Charmed with the sight, so charming to behold, 
 The gold is tarnished, yet it still is gold ! 
 When lo ! what terror flashes from his eye, 
 Bursts in a groan, and withers to a sigh ! 
 As with his long, attenuated hand 
 He plucks one coin from out the chosen band : 
 
MAMMON. 3 
 
 Sounds on the table the suspicious piece, 
 Its worth to test ; and, as his fears decrease, 
 He rubs it briskly on his shrunken shank, 
 And lightly drops it in his stocking - bank. 
 Then drawing from amidst his treasures mixed 
 A single coin, unto a ribbon fixed ; 
 Once more he sees the sad and weeping maid 
 Who to his care this votive pledge conveyed ; 
 Once more he grins to see her eyes grow dim — 
 Well could he smile — her tears were not for him ! 
 And as the faded ends of silk unfold, 
 He sighs to think that they too are not gold. 
 
 Lo ! stands the Bard ! the Muses weep to see 
 Their favored son to Mammon bend the knee; 
 When pinched with want, without a friend to soothe, 
 The ill-starred poet prostitutes his muse. 
 Deserting honor and its kindred ties, 
 He, flying from danger, into danger flies ; 
 And lost to shame, stands at his patron's nod, 
 Ready to damn his fellow and his God. 
 Yet such the charm, sweet Poetry, is thine ! 
 Thy grace angelic, and thy voice divine, 
 Teach us with pity o'er his faults to scan — 
 To love the poet, and forget the man ! 
 
 Behold the Mistress of the Village School ! 
 Not the aged dame, by practise skilled to rule, 
 But the young nymph who, brought up in the town, 
 Left her own home to teach the country clown. 
 
4 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Perverse her act, yet she has cause to show 
 Her home unhappy — for she made it so ! 
 Self-willed herself, and tardy to obey 
 Her parents' word ; as obstinate as they, 
 111 could she brook the chiding glance and word 
 Received from parents whom she now abhorred. 
 Before her class she stands, with opened book, 
 Scorn on her lip and anger in her look ; 
 Shallow of knowledge, her blear eye must reach 
 The answer to the question she would teach ! 
 And yet, withal, she prospers passing fair — 
 They want no genius, having no genius there ! 
 Though scorned by many, and esteemed by few, 
 Though scholars hate her, yet they fear her too ; 
 Still is she happy, and if sometimes sad, 
 'T is to behold a fellow - creature glad ! 
 Upon the Sabbath to the church she hies, 
 Quick with her ears and busy with her eyes ; 
 Chanting in concert as the organ plays, 
 How God must blush to hear her sing his praise ! 
 The class is formed ; the answers soon express 
 The class knows little and the teacher less : 
 For since the day the children met before, 
 Not once her eyes have scanned the lesson o'er. 
 Yet she instructs them, nor in words concise, 
 To follow Virtue and refrain from Vice ; 
 Then prays to God their plastic minds to shield 
 From Byron, Shelley, Burns, and Chesterfield. 
 Till, like herself, the little flock is seen 
 All narrow-minded, bigoted and mean! 
 
MAMMON. 5 
 
 Abashed with fear, not one has pluck to say : 
 ' What art thou better, meddling fool, than the)' ?' 
 For underneath her seeming truth and grace 
 Lurks the black heart — no index to the face. 
 ( Beneath such armor is it strange to find 
 The sordid soul and mercenary mind?) 
 As she at Mammon's shrine now humbly bows, 
 Forsakes her lover and her maiden vows, 
 She gives to Virtue one last farewell view, 
 And then to Honor bids a long adieu ! 
 Next she engages — anxious still to rule — 
 The aged director of the village school ; 
 Though thrice her age, still amorously inclined, 
 He, for a foster - father, proves most kind ; — 
 And she submits, t' retain her paltry place, 
 To his lewd kisses and his foul embrace ; 
 And should she sometimes find his passion cold, 
 'T would know no limit were he not so old ! 
 While sharp compunction for her own mistake 
 Would break her heart — had she a heart to break ! 
 
 Mammon ! there is no limit to the crimes 
 That mark thy reign throughout a thousand climes ! 
 Sly as the serpent doomed for evermore 
 To drag its length along the Stygian shore, 
 Man sinks beneath the magic of thy spell, 
 And hates his fellow — loving thee so well ! 
 On fertile plains, on barren, desert ground ; 
 Upon the rocks where mighty billows bound ; 
 'Neath azure skies, and Arctic's frozen zone ; 
 
6 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 On lucid streams, and where the tempests moan 
 Where'er we go — where'er our footsteps stray, 
 Mammon ! the Universe bows to thy sway! — 
 Wealth cannot make man happy, it is true ; 
 But without wealth, the happy men are few ! 
 
w 
 
 THE HERMIT'S DREAM. 
 
 "HERE towering mountains rear their height 
 And leap to meet the bending skies ; 
 Where halts the eagle in his flight 
 To rest, before he onward flies : 
 There, shines more bright the starry fleet, 
 Where earth and heaven nearest meet. 
 
 Far, far remote from human eye, 
 Where none save pilgrim ever knelt 
 In reverence to Him on high, 
 In solitude a Hermit dwelt — 
 A penitent, with none to love, 
 Who hoped for mercy from above. 
 
 He left the busy world below 
 
 To flee the horror of a crime ; 
 
 To hide a ghastly tale of woe 
 
 That stained his very soul. Though time 
 
 Had eased him of the keenest smart, 
 
 Memory kept gnawing at his heart. 
 
 His brow was stern, and wrinkled o'er 
 With gaping furrows, deeply set ; 
 While on his face he constant wore 
 
8 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A gloom that one could ne'er forget — 
 A haggard mien that well defied 
 The closest cowl or hood to hide ! 
 
 Vague fears by day, unrest by night, 
 Made him grow loathsome to himself ! 
 Till oft, when paled red Phoebus' light, 
 He crawled upon some rocky shelf 
 To die, but quailed at the abyss — 
 Could any hell be worse than this ? 
 
 'T was midnight. — In his narrow cell 
 Upon a truss the Hermit lay, 
 Where phantoms o'er his slumber fell 
 And snatched all hope of peace away ! 
 He slept, but o'er his sleep there came 
 A vision linked with all his shame. 
 
 He dreamt he was a boy again, 
 
 A happy, joyous, careless boy ; 
 
 How could he but be jocund, when 
 
 He was his mother's fadeless joy ? 
 
 He lived once more those childhood days 
 
 When angels crowned his brow with bays. 
 
 The years rolled on — he was a youth ; 
 Buoyed up by thoughts of future fame, 
 He rallied round the flag of Truth, 
 And hoped to win a lasting name : 
 Then he was young, and little knew 
 The lamp of Fame but shines for few. 
 
THE HERMIT S DREAM. 
 
 The vision changed — he was in love ; 
 All thoughts of fame were then forgot ; 
 A star seemed fallen from above, 
 And raised him from the common lot : 
 Rais'd him so high on Pleasure's throne, 
 He scorned to deem the world his own. 
 
 O those were lucid intervals ! 
 When, fleeing from his daily toil, 
 They hand in hand paced Fancy's halls, 
 With hearts entwined in Cupid's coil : 
 The sun shone brighter, and at night 
 The moon gave forth a clearer light. 
 
 But Mammon thrust his bloodless hand 
 And reared a barrier in their love ; 
 Hope trembled at the dread command, 
 Grew faint, and fled to realms above : 
 While Fate's sad curtain softly stole, 
 In mantling folds, around his soul. 
 
 He felt her ravished from his side, 
 He heard her spirit's wild regret, 
 He saw her made another's bride, 
 He heard her promise to forget « — 
 Ay, to forget her plighted troth, 
 Once pledged to him by lovers' oath. 
 
 His spirits fell, but as they sank 
 Revenge within his bosom rose ; 
 His thirsty soul full quickly drank 
 
IO STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 The poison drops that Hate bestows : 
 He drank, but could not quench the fires 
 Kindled by hate and love's desires. 
 
 Had not his rage and hatred stirred 
 
 Conflicting passions in his breast ; 
 
 Had not revenge his spirit lured 
 
 Into a self - deceiving rest, 
 
 The loss of her he held most dear 
 
 Were more than single heart could bear ! 
 
 Had Death but snatched her from his grasp, 
 Then he had bowed to Fate's decree ; 
 But to see her in his rival's clasp 
 Was worse than any death could be ! 
 For where'er Death its mantle flings, 
 Fond Memory around it clings. 
 
 Hate whispered in his eager ear : 
 
 ' He stole your bride — she was your life ; 
 
 'T was he who wedded you to Care 
 
 To make your years with sorrow rife : 
 
 Fear not your chastisement to meet, 
 
 But lay him low — revenge is sweet ! ' 
 
 As winds upon the tinder blow, 
 
 That long a slumbering spark has nursed, 
 
 Will cause the latent flame to glow 
 
 And in a blazing torrent burst ; 
 
 So, on his heart these promptings fell, 
 
 And lashed within his breast a hell. 
 
THE HERMITS DREAM. II 
 
 Urged on by hate, abashed by fear, 
 With bated breath, and stealthy tread, 
 (Like when a tiger nears its lair) 
 He glided toward the bridal bed ; — 
 Pity his bosom never knew, 
 Since Mercy bade his soul adieu ! 
 
 Hate aimed so well, no stifled cry 
 
 Followed the movement of the stroke ; 
 
 But from the black o'erarching sky 
 
 The wrath of God in thunder spoke : 
 
 He, by the lurid lightning, saw 
 
 The woman's breast all red with gore ! . . . . 
 
 The Hermit woke, but woke to die ! 
 
 To feel his life's blood ebb away, 
 
 To welcome with his dying sigh 
 
 The red Aurora of the day : 
 
 For the blade that pierced his loved Celeste 
 
 Had found its sheath within his breast ! 
 
WHAT THE WIND DID. 
 
 'T is an ill wind blows no one good. 
 I. 
 
 It roused the waters of the ocean 
 
 And lashed the waves in wild commotion, 
 
 And on the rocks it cast 
 
 A gallant ship, now homeward bound ; 
 
 The spars it crushed with mournful sound, 
 
 And terrifying blast. 
 
 II. 
 
 The swaying masts went by the board, 
 By cruel rocks the hull was gored, 
 And on the storm - bound air . 
 Re-echoed far and wide the wail 
 Of tortured souls, above the gale — 
 Distress was everywhere ! 
 
 III. 
 Before its breeze securely ran, 
 From foreign climes, the merchantman, 
 Unto her moorings free ; 
 Restored the sailor to his bride, 
 Made glad the cheerless fireside 
 With festival and glee. 
 
WHAT THE WIND DID. 
 IV. 
 
 With humming sound the fresh wind flings 
 
 Around the windmill's mighty wings, 
 
 With eager pace and swift ; 
 
 It grinds the harvest of the fields, 
 
 To rich and poor its bounty yields 
 
 With lavish hand — yet thrift. 
 
 V. 
 
 It filled the child's heart with delight 
 
 To have it waft his playful kite 
 
 Far up into the skyl; 
 
 Where, like a fettered bird, it strove 
 
 To free itself, and ever rove 
 
 Once more the welkin high. 
 
 VI. 
 Athwart the church - yard's sacred ground, 
 With many a melancholy sound, 
 Its whispering murmurs spread ; 
 To chant in the voice of the unseen choir, 
 All pregnant with the sobbing lyre, 
 A requiem o'er the dead. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Let not a man lament his lot, 
 
 Nor think his life is but a blot 
 
 Upon the scroll of Fame : 
 
 The hand that dealt his keenest grief 
 
 May soon reveal another leaf 
 
 Embellished with his name. 
 
L 
 
 DERELICTION. 
 
 Love still a boy, and oft a wanton, is. — Sir Philip Sydney. 
 
 ONG years had vanish'd ere their love took flight 
 From its close prison — like unto the morn 
 That grows in splendor from the dying night ; — 
 A friendship perished, Jout a love was horn ! 
 
 It was a little rosy boy and fair, 
 
 Most delicate, and fragile was its frame; 
 
 But from their hearts, so loving, breathed an air 
 
 That nurtured it, and fanned the sacred flame. 
 
 They saw it wax in strength from day to day, 
 And they were wondrous happy in the sight ; 
 For when it smiled, it drove their cares away ; 
 But when it frowned, their day was turned to night. 
 
 This love that gained possession of their hearts, 
 And charmed to sweet repose their twofold souls, 
 Was innocent of guile, and of the arts 
 And misery that jealousy unfolds. 
 
 But they were far too happy in their love 
 To live forever thus ; the moon, at times, 
 Serenely sailing through the sky above, 
 Shines bright to some, but dim to other climes. 
 
DERELICTION. 1 5 
 
 A cloud came o'er the welkin of their joy, 
 And sunk his star of fortune in despair ; 
 Robed in a veil of black their cherished boy — 
 So black, not even Love could enter there ! 
 
 The cloud that crossed the sunshine of their peace 
 Was one who envied them their happiness ; 
 Who planned, with deep manceuvrings to decrease 
 Their joy, and plunge their hearts into distress. 
 
 He was one of the many men who take 
 A sordid pleasure, and a savage joy, 
 In sowing seeds of discord and mistake 
 Atween those hearts whose love knew no alloy. 
 
 An unseen power aided in his suit ! 
 Their darling boy, erstwhile so full of glee, 
 Soon died and turned to ashes, like the fruit 
 That floats upon the breast of the Dead Sea. 
 
 How diff'rent feels the object from the cause 
 Of woman's perfidy ! He who succeeds, 
 Smiles o'er his triumph, greets her with applause, 
 Unmindful of the broken heart that bleeds. 
 
 O woman ! graced with charms to catch the eye ! 
 
 And subtle power to ensnare the heart ! 
 
 Yet, whilst as fickle as an April sky, 
 
 An ever -willing slave at Mammon's mart. 
 
IMPRISONED. 
 
 I SPIED beneath a grove of yielding yews 
 A tiny flower ; 
 And wondered how so dainty bud could choose 
 So mean a bower. 
 
 It looked so lonely, all bereft of kin, 
 I dug it up ; 
 
 And, going to my chamber, placed it in 
 A crystal cup. 
 
 Upon the window - sill, where shone the sun, 
 My floweret stood ; 
 
 And as its leaves unfolded, one by one, 
 My solitude 
 
 Seemed penetrated by their odors sweet, 
 When, at the dawn, 
 
 With half - awakened eyes, I turned to greet 
 The day new - born. 
 
 I learned to love that floweret with a love 
 
 My youth had known ; 
 
 'Twas strange so small a thing my heart could move, 
 
 Now callous grown. 
 
IMPRISONED. 17 
 
 But as my happiness increased, I saw 
 Its little heart 
 
 Sink slowly into sadness ; while a hoar 
 Spread round each part. 
 
 And as it slowly withered, day by day, 
 
 With plea devout 
 
 My plant, like Sterne's sad starling, seemed to say : 
 
 ' Let me get out ! ' 
 
 I saw it fade away, as fades a dream 
 We dream by day — 
 One of those visionary views that seem 
 Too bright to stay. 
 
 Until at last that tiny, tender crest, 
 
 Once turned toward me, 
 
 Sank tired and meekly on the Parent's breast — 
 
 My flower was free ! 
 
 Alas ! how many like that simple flower 
 From lonely place 
 
 Are taken, and wear out the gilded hour 
 In crystal vase ; 
 
 Nor know, till late, 't is better we dwell free 
 In lonely vale, 
 
 Than in some fretted, pompous page to be 
 A gilded tale. 
 
THOUGHTS OF THE HOLIDAYS. 
 
 To meet, to know, to love — and then to part, 
 
 Is the sad tale of many a human heart. — Coleridge. 
 
 THE lazy breeze is whispering overhead, 
 As in my hammock, swinging to and fro, 
 I lift Oblivion's veil from off the dead, 
 And view the friends I knew so long ago. 
 
 While half - asleep, indulging in day - dreams 
 Of airy castles when my ship comes home, 
 Upon the beach a lovely figure seems, 
 Like Aphrodite, rising from the foam. 
 
 I look again — ah, me ! I know that face, 
 Those laughing eyes, those chubby arms that brave 
 The power of Neptune, as, with peerless grace, 
 She leaps into the close - embracing wave. 
 
 As two lone birds, in unfamiliar wood, 
 Both seeking rest, yet both inclined to love, 
 By meeting oft, disdain their solitude, 
 And tune their mingled lay along the grove ; 
 
THOUGHTS OF THE HOLIDAYS. 19 
 
 So we, who fled the busy haunts of men 
 To seek communion with the lovelier clime, 
 By casual meetings in some brake or glen, 
 Our solitude was robbed of its sublime. 
 
 Sweet were the kisses that I might have had ! 
 And oh! how kind the words I might have said! 
 But with those words I never dared to clad 
 The hidden meaning we both plainly read. 
 
 The engine whistles; now her hand in mine 
 Confiding rests. The words that I would say 
 Freeze on my lips, and then my dream divine 
 Has, like the summer, gently passed away. 
 
LINES, 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, ON HIS ADVISING THE 
 AUTHOR TO MINGLE MORE IN SOCIETY. 
 
 Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
 And know, whatever thou hast been, 
 'T is something better not to be. — Byron. 
 
 REFRAIN, dear Jim, and ask me not 
 To mingle in the haunts of men ; 
 The past, which I would wish forgot, 
 Would only be recalled again. 
 
 Why should I join the surging throng, 
 To prey upon my fellow - men ? 
 Why should I struggle with the strong, 
 To perish in the human fen ? 
 
 I was not born to trample down 
 My fellows in an humbler sphere ; 
 I could not brook the curse and frown 
 The usurer meets everywhere. 
 
 1 hate the noisy paths of life, 
 
 The vacant laugh, the hollow praise ; 
 
LINES. 2 1 
 
 I hate the base, ignoble strife 
 
 To which mankind devote their days. 
 
 Nor think it strange that I should say 
 New scenes could not abate my sorrow ; 
 I know that e'er so sad to - day, 
 My heart will sadder be to - morrow. 
 
 To all my faults no malice add — 
 Not 1 alone the past may rue — 
 What boots it, when my heart is sad, 
 To know that she is wretched, too ? 
 
 None but the meanest soul can take 
 A morbid pleasure in the thought 
 That, though his heart is fit to break, 
 His grief, compared with some, is naught. 
 
 I will not call the world unkind, 
 Nor stop to haggle with my fate ; 
 What I had wished I could not find, 
 Which now, if found, would be too late. 
 
 New friends and joys I can resign, 
 Without regret, or sigh, or pain, 
 Content to know what once were mine, 
 Can never more be mine again. 
 
CAMOENS. 
 
 He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ; 
 His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
 Like his, may love be thy reward, 
 But not thy hapless fate the same. — Byron. 
 
 [ The closing scene in the life of Camoens, who is fitly termed the Shake- 
 speare of Portugal, was an unparalleled exhibit of ingratitude. After 
 devoting his life to elevating his country's belles-lettres, he was left to die of 
 penury and disease in an alms-house. Antonio, a former slave, did much to 
 dissipate his sufferings, but was unable to stem the current of his master's 
 adversity. J 
 
 ANTONIO, my true and only friend, 
 Slave of my youth — friend of my slow decay ; 
 Wee]) not for me that this should be my end, 
 But let all Lisbon hear my dying lay. 
 
 O curse of pomp ! ingratitude of man ! 
 Yet still I love thee, Lisbon, still I love ! 
 
 natal land, where erst my muse began 
 To teach me how the angels sang above. 
 
 When I was young, and in my vernal prime, 
 
 1 scaled the summit of Fame's jagged steep ; 
 But Fortune fled me with fast - fleeting Time, 
 And left a wreck upon a lampless deep. 
 
CAMOENS. 23 
 
 This Fame is but a hollow, nameless thing, 
 The shadow of the substance I would crave — 
 A luring serpent, with a deadly sting, — 
 A marble slab above a lowly grave. 
 
 Now aged with care, and tortured by disease, 
 With stooping form and tottering steps, I go 
 From door to door, and bend, with servile knees 
 To those who were my friends not long ago. 
 
 The light of death is in mine eyes, I feel 
 
 Its sable mantle spreading over me ; 
 
 Before thy shrine, dear Lethe, now I kneel — 
 
 O Death ! twice - welcome Death. I fly to thee ! 
 
WHILE THE TEAR IN THINE EYE. 
 
 WHILE the tear in thine eye now so well is 
 revealing 
 The inward emotions thy tongue dare not speak ; 
 Believe me, 't is useless thy passion concealing — 
 Thy love is betrayed by the blush on thy cheek. 
 
 It is vain to repress the hot tear that is starting, 
 For fear that thy secret should thus be confest ; 
 For the tremulous feeling evinced at our parting, 
 Betrays the warm passion that throbs in thy breast. 
 
 But grieve not, fair maiden, that I should discover 
 The bud that was blooming alone in thy heart ; 
 Ne'er should a sweet rose be condemned to uncover 
 Its beauties to view — but to live all apart. 
 
 Though the chain which now binds us together may 
 
 lengthen, 
 Since Fate hath decreed that I wander from thee ; 
 May each link that I drag in my pilgrimage 
 
 strengthen 
 The votive affection now cherished for me. 
 
ANACREONTIC. 
 
 FILL high the bowl ! Farewell to sorrow ! 
 Farewell to every carking care ! 
 The heart that dreads the coming morrow, 
 Hath made its sorrows double here ! 
 
 Let every cup be over - laden 
 With rosy grapes' most fragrant dew ; 
 We '11 pledge a toast to every maiden, 
 To every maiden, false and true. 
 
 Aye, pledge the maids who loved us kindly, 
 Nor scorn the nymphs who spurned our flame, 
 Nor chide ourselves for loving blindly, 
 Since constancy is but a name. 
 
 So we will drink and sing in chorus 
 To those who never gave us pain — 
 Those kindred souls who went before us — 
 And, drinking, have them back again ! 
 
 Then, whilst their spirits hover round us, 
 We'll live our happier moments o'er, 
 And bless the vines that now surround us 
 With all those joys that are no more ! 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS. 
 
 AND do you think, my boy, 
 Now years have passed away, 
 That she, in all her joy, 
 Ever recalls the day 
 
 When her young heart turned cold 
 And spurned old friends for new, 
 When she sold her love for gold, 
 And sold her body, too ? 
 
 And yet, as this world goes, 
 She had not acted vile ; 
 And, save herself, none knows 
 Of the pain behind her smile. 
 
 low 
 
 I met her here to - night, 
 But there was naught to shi 
 That we, as we stood in the light, 
 Had been lovers long ago. 
 
 'T is many a year since then ! 
 My friends ? Oh, where are they ? 
 The boys have grown to men, 
 And the men have passed away. 
 
AFTER MANY YEARS. 2J 
 
 Yet, had I never ranged, 
 I now might feel as you ; 
 But all I knew is changed, 
 And all I see is new. 
 
 She had all she longed - for here : 
 I looked into her face, 
 But she did not seem so fair 
 For all her jewels and lace. 
 
 With youth's departing day 
 Beauty had fled her face, 
 And time had taken away 
 What art could never replace. 
 
 I heard her voice in the throng — 
 And it seared my heart with nard — 
 Like the long - forgotten song 
 Of some once - remembered bard. 
 
 It all came back to me then, 
 Unobscured by the dust of the past, 
 And she seemed the same, as when 
 I looked and saw her last. 
 
 The years had rolled away, 
 The wrinkles left my brow, 
 My hair no more was gray, 
 As I heard her maiden vow. 
 
28 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 A gush of tenderness 
 Athwart my breast did dart, 
 As in one wild caress 
 I strained her to my heart. 
 
 And then the vision fled, 
 Leaving a cureless pain, 
 For my early love was dead, 
 And 1 was old again. 
 
A SHELL. 
 
 I SAW a blushing shell upon the shore 
 And, stooping, held it to mine ear ; it gave 
 A sweet and purling sound, as though it bore 
 The echo of the far - receding wave. 
 
 It was a sound I ne'er before had heard, 
 Like joy and sorrow melting in one sigh ; 
 It was a sound as of a lonely bird, 
 So sweet, yet sad — a melancholy cry. 
 
 I thought if it were like the syrens' choir 
 That oft had led the mariner to his doom ; 
 That filled his anxious heart with vain desire, 
 But to betray him to a lampless tomb. 
 
 Yet whilst I mused in meditative mind, 
 No melancholy bodings could dispel 
 My fervent fancies, for I learned to find 
 The voice of Nature in that tiny shell. 
 
THE CYNIC TO HIS BOOKS. 
 
 AS one who, young in years, yet old in grief, 
 Halh lost all hope, from seeing all his aims 
 And cherished yearnings perish in the flames 
 Of circumstance — for which there's no relief; 
 As one who, sought a friend to find a foe, 
 And learnt to love to learn that love was frail, 
 Hath still some years, ere death's relentless flail 
 Will mark him for its own and lay him low : 
 'T was thus, dear books, with heavy heart and sad, 
 I turned to ye for consolation's balm, — 
 Like shipwreck'd mariner, grateful for the calm 
 That nursed his life when 'reft of all he had, — 
 For though ye cannot ease me of the past, 
 Ye still will be my friends, and faithful to the last. 
 
BYRON. 
 
 UNHAPPY bard ! whose aim to raise mankind 
 Above the brute - like level where they toil 
 And sell their souls to treasure up such spoil 
 As brings them opulence, but palls the mind ; 
 By such as those thy talents are defin'd 
 As ill - employed. They, viper - like, uncoil 
 And sting thy noble spirit. The turmoil 
 Aroused by such a horde is like the wind 
 Howling against the Hand that gave it power. 
 Thy heart, to which no mother's love was given, 
 Immortal words left to thy fellow - men ; 
 For what ? — to be despised ! In Grecian bower 
 Thy hand was stilled in death, to sway in heaven, 
 And guide the angel of celestial pen. 
 
STANZAS TO MYRA. 
 
 FAIR girl, why should a crimson blush 
 . O'erspread the whiteness of thy cheek? 
 'T is vain, indeed, to strive to crush 
 The secret which thy heart would speak. 
 
 The rising zone, the downcast eye, 
 The trembling lips so closely prest, 
 To hide the inward tearless sigh, 
 Betray the secret in thy breast. 
 
 When love o'erflows the conscious heart 
 
 A silent tongue can ne'er eclipse, 
 
 Or bid its influence to depart — 
 
 'T is in the eye, though closed the lips. 
 
HOW GAY ARE THE SPIRITS. 
 
 T TOW gay are the spirits when love is just dawning 
 -*- ■*- Within the recess of a maiden's warm, breast ! 
 When love, like the pearly dew-drops of the morning, 
 Awakes all the slumbering beauties from rest. 
 
 Then the satyrs of love with new pleasures sur- 
 round her, 
 
 '1111 she soars in an atmosphere calm and serene ; 
 
 They transport her to heaven, from the earth 
 where they found her, 
 
 There, to wander about in a fairy - like scene. 
 
 But love is a passion at best evanescent, 
 A feeling of pleasure that's born but to die; 
 So deceiving in youth, and when life is senescent, 
 It flies from our grasp, and but leaves us a sigh. 
 
 O farewell to the joy and the balm of affection, 
 Her bright dream of love has now vanished for aye; 
 Foul jealousy plunged her young heart in dejection, 
 And spread a black cloud o'er a glorious day ! 
 
SUNRISE. 
 
 BRIGHTER grows the summer landscape, 
 Lighter shades proclaim the morn ; 
 Dismal night has slowly vanished — 
 Soon another day will dawn. 
 
 From their nests among the tree - tops, 
 Jocund birds in plumage gay 
 Send throughout the air so sweetly 
 Carols to the infant day. 
 
 In the east a radiant halo 
 Hovers o'er the rising sun, 
 Lighting up the hills and valleys 
 As the day has just begun. 
 
 Now old Sol is o'er the mountains, 
 Lapping up the evening dew ; 
 Lovely flowers from reposing 
 Ope their clusters into view. 
 
 In the farm - yard cocks are crowing 
 Hearty welcomes through the air ; 
 Flocks of ducklings breast the streamlets ; 
 Innocence and peace are there ! 
 
SUNRISE. 35 
 
 Sad and lonely would this sphere be 
 If the sun did not appear, 
 Like a man without a purpose — 
 Full of anxious doubt and fear. 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 THE angry waves roll up, and seem to say 
 ' Come here and seek thy rest ; 
 This world is but the dark night of the day 
 Death bringeth the distrest.' 
 
 I weary of this fickle world and life, 
 With all its cares and pain, 
 Its endless troubles and its ceaseless strife — 
 To live seems all in vain. 
 
 I toil unaided and receive no joy ; 
 
 My heart, no longer brave, 
 
 Succumbs to those grim bodings that destroy 
 
 The terrors of the grave. 
 
 'T is Lethe's stream I see before mine eyes 
 Beyond the ocean wild ; 
 'Twill bear me safely to that Paradise 
 I dreamt of when a child. 
 
VOILA TOUT. 
 
 BY the stars that were shining above her, 
 She swore she would ever be true ; 
 Till, though cynic, she taught him to love her 
 With a love that is nurtured by few : 
 And she showed him the faults he was heir to, 
 As only a girl's love can show, 
 Till his life was but happy when near to 
 The one he once thought was his foe. 
 
 But, oh ! how could he trust in a woman, 
 
 Or how could her love he believe, 
 
 When his soul told him all were but human, 
 
 And their love but a snare to deceive ! 
 
 For a change soon came over his being — 
 
 A change he could never forget — 
 
 For the love that had kept him from seeing, 
 
 Like the sun in the heavens, had set. 
 
 And he saw that his whole life was blighted, 
 And the love of his soul was ignored ; 
 For the vows that her false heart once plighted, 
 Had vanished — to ne'er be restored. 
 
38 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Though the rage of the tempest is over, 
 And his heart to its fate is resigned, 
 Every thought of the past must discover 
 The vestige it never can blind. 
 
CHILD OF NATURE. 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone, 
 Half-hidden from the eye ! 
 — Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky. — Wordsworth. 
 
 /^V CHILD of Nature ! Simple maid ! 
 ^^ With heart so pure, by God's behest, 
 That to its depths no cares invade, 
 To rob thee of a moment's rest : 
 Thou art so happy in thy glee, 
 How all mankind must envy thee ! 
 
 Thou art, in sooth, a favored child, 
 When linked to Virtue, side by side, 
 Thou rovest through the woodlands wild 
 With gay - voiced songsters for thy guide : 
 So kind, so gentle, and so free, 
 How all mankind must envy thee ! 
 
 Into thy heart no Vanity 
 
 Hath ever yet maintained its way ; 
 
 Nor Pride, curse of humanity ! 
 
 Hath planted its ignoble sway, 
 
 To make thee what most women be — 
 
 How all mankind must envy thee ! 
 
40 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 O Child of Nature ! Child of God ! 
 Thou well deservest such a name ; 
 Who e'er in Virtue's pathway trod, 
 Must win an everlasting fame ; 
 With such an immortality, 
 How all mankind must envy thee ! 
 
THE FIRST SNOW. 
 
 THE virgin flakes fell thick and fast 
 Upon the barren ground ; 
 The angry storm, in fretful blast, 
 Then whirled them all around. 
 
 The stately poplars in the wood 
 Took color from the clouds, 
 And in the gloaming silent stood 
 Like dead men in their shrouds. 
 
 The flakes hung o'er the river's breast 
 In fear to take the plunge, 
 Until at last they sank to rest 
 Like rain - drops on a sponge. 
 
 Upon the road a carpet white 
 
 By ruthless winds was strewn, 
 
 As though to hide from Heaven's sight 
 
 Man's misery and ruin. 
 
 O Snow ! so spotless at thy birth ! 
 By gelid tempests tost, 
 Till landed on this wicked earth, 
 Thy purity is lost. 
 
ANNIE. 
 
 SOFTLY the bell is pealing, 
 Gently the waves are stealing, 
 Love's lips the wind is sealing, — 
 Annie is born ! 
 
 Gayly the bell is ringing, 
 Bright sprays the waves are flinging, 
 Carols the wind is singing, — 
 Annie is married ! 
 
 Lowly the bell is tolling, 
 Sadly the waves are rolling, 
 Lonely the wind is strolling, — 
 Annie is dead ! 
 
TO A FRIEND. 
 
 r I ^HOU art so young, and yet so sad, 
 
 -■- I dread to think what thou wilt be 
 When Time will other sorrows add 
 To flood thy brimming destiny. 
 
 And yet, perchance, I do thee wrong, 
 Whom I should strengthen and protect, 
 In prophesying of the throng 
 Of coming cares, thou wouldst reject. 
 
 For why should I, with doubts and fears, 
 Thus load thine overburdened breast, 
 When there is comfort in our cares 
 To know whatever is, is best ? 
 
 But I, nor can I tell thee why, 
 Have sometimes thought 't is best to know 
 That, when we would, we can not die, 
 Nor live again the long ago. 
 
 Yet Hope, with many a cheerful ray, 
 Adorns the shade of many a sorrow ; 
 And when we may be blithe to - day, 
 What boots it to foresee the morrow ? 
 
44 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Howe'er that be, live on in hope, 
 
 In faith and hope thy trust repose ; 
 
 For shouldst thou strive with Fate to cope, 
 
 Thou 'It but augment thy weighty woes. 
 
HOPE. 
 
 WHEN summer skies take on a wintery hue, 
 And thunder claps awake the sleepy sea, 
 When liquid mountains hide our bark from view, 
 We turn to thee. 
 
 When fickle Fortune, by invidious arts, 
 Hath led us onward to some victory, 
 Then left us in despair : with yearning hearts 
 We turn to thee. 
 
 When Fate relentless drives our Ship of Life 
 A hapless wreck upon a sunless sea, 
 With sinking spirits, overcharged with strife, 
 We turn to thee. 
 
 When Death is sitting on our window - sill, 
 And beckons us unto our destiny : 
 Though life is fleeting fast away, still, still 
 We turn to thee. 
 
SNOW-BOUND. 
 
 ( IN IMITATION OF WOLFE. ) 
 
 NOT a star is seen, not a moonbeam shines, 
 As on to the homestead he hurries ; 
 Not a sound does he hear, save the shrouded pines 
 As they groaning wave in the flurries. 
 
 He thinks of the friends he is going to meet, 
 Of the father and mother who love him ; 
 And he gives not a care for the wind and the sleet, 
 Nor the blinding snow above him. 
 
 Lonely and slowly he staggers on, 
 With the face of his mother before him, 
 Till he sinks in his tracks, all tired and wan, 
 'Neath that sleep whence no care could restore him. 
 
 They waited and watched for the night to depart : 
 In the gray of the morning they found him ; 
 They thought him asleep, but that poor young heart 
 Was as cold as the snow flakes around him. 
 
THE DEATH OF LOVE. 
 
 WHAT means this frown, this callous look, 
 This cold and haughty greeting? 
 Can love like ours, that ne'er could brook 
 An angry word, be fleeting ? 
 Thou smilest still, but in thy smile 
 No old - time love is beaming ; 
 While e'en thy laugh is filled with guile — 
 Can Love be dead, or dreaming ? 
 
 It is not dead, nor doth it dream, 
 But clustered close around it, 
 A thousand bitter memories seem 
 Closing their links to bound it ; 
 Dulling the heart to former joy, 
 Recalling only sorrows, 
 They rouse a tempest to destroy 
 The calm of future morrows. 
 
 Hath absence made thy love grow less ? 
 Hath distance made it glimmer ? 
 Or hath another's soft caress 
 Caused the old flame to simmer ? 
 
48 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Whate'er it be, there is no love 
 Like that of yore about thee — 
 A love that breathed of all above, 
 And made me scorn to doubt thee. 
 
 Thine arms are round my neck again, 
 ' Thy lips to mine are pressing ; 
 But love hath fled, and only pain 
 Wells in thy false, caressing. 
 Call this not love — profane it not, 
 Deceit can ne'er deceive me ; 
 So let it die — alone, forgot, 
 But ask me not to shrive thee. 
 
LINES, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY READING A VOLUME OF ANONYMOUS 
 POEMS. 
 
 r I ^HE greatest heroes have been never sung ! 
 
 -*- The noblest deeds have unrewarded been ! 
 Worth shrinks from converse with the Babel tongue, 
 And blighted genius dies, unhonored and unseen. 
 
 The vernal Mayflowers trail their length along, 
 Spreading their creeping fragrance as they go ; 
 Far from the casual eye, and gaping throng, 
 They blush in modesty beneath the chilling snow. 
 
 Amid the clash of arms, the battle's roar, 
 Where heroes struggle for their leader's fame, 
 Far in the van some stoic soul will soar, 
 And pierce the hostile ranks, to die without a name. 
 
 There is a greater glory than the praise 
 The vulgar crowd bestows ; by him possessed, 
 Who makes an old age of his younger days, 
 Forsaking all he loves at Duty's stern behest. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF GOLDSMITH'S POEMS. 
 
 SWEET Bard ! O would my Muse but aim 
 To lofty flights, its strain would rise 
 To waft an anthem, in your name, 
 On aerial pinions to the skies ! 
 
 For you first taught my soul to feel 
 The grandeur of the sacred Nine ; 
 And led me, proselyte, to kneel 
 In worship at the Muses' shrine. 
 
 Though you are dead, your glorious name 
 Grows brighter as each cycle flies ; 
 While you but left your earthly frame 
 To find an Auburn in the skies ! 
 
KISMET. 
 
 MY guiding star was clear and bright 
 When at its birth, 
 But Fate eclipsed its lustrous light, 
 In ruthless mirth. 
 
 I saw it struggle in its thrall — 
 My star was dead ! 
 It chilled my heart, and over all 
 A gloom was spread. 
 
 Now, like a mastless hull, I float 
 
 On Life's deep sea ; 
 
 While Fate's simoons, with angry throat, 
 
 Blow down on me. 
 
THE PHARISEE. 
 
 METHINKS there must be something wrong 
 In all his worshipping and praying, 
 That it should make him ever long 
 To be upon his fellows preying. 
 
 For when he goes to church and kneels, 
 A look of godly mien he 's wearing ; 
 Yet when at home he seldom feels 
 The gospel's truth when he is swearing. 
 
 But then he is not what he seems ! 
 A dove by day, at night a raven ; 
 He damns the needy in his dreams, 
 And is at heart at best a craven. 
 
 Yet still he hopes to go to heaven, 
 Though all the poor have learned to fear him ; 
 Should heaven to such a wretch be given, 
 No honest man could bear be near him. 
 
THE ROBIN. 
 
 A ROBIN came to my window-sill, 
 And tapped at the pane with his hungry bill ; 
 Where he seemed, as he rapped with his wings apart, 
 To keep time to the throbs of his beating heart. 
 
 I opened the window, and said, ' Little bird, 
 How comes it in winter your notes are still heard, 
 While all your companions have fled to the clime 
 Of the cedar and myrtle, and cypress and lime ?' 
 
 1 Oh, why should I fly from the land of my birth, 
 Though I perish of want in the wintery dearth, 
 When all that is nearest and dearest to me 
 Is the nest we have built in the old apple tree? 
 
 ' There, I and my mate in sweet harmony live, 
 Nor complain of the seasons, whatever they give ; 
 Tho' bleak blows the blast in December's chill hour, 
 The sweeter, in contrast, come sunshine and flower. 
 
 ' Vain mortal, called man, take a lesson from me — 
 Be content with your station, whatever it be ; 
 What boot foreign glory and riches to you, 
 If the scenes that you cherish have faded from view !' 
 
MY LADY, PLAYING. 
 
 SHE swept the keys with aspen fingers, 
 And drove the nervous strain along ; 
 Still in my mind the music lingers, 
 Sweet as the bard's unuttered song. 
 
 Then changed it to an icy pealing : 
 Cold as the player was the tone 
 That came upon my spirit stealing, 
 Until I felt I was alone ! 
 
 Once more it changed ; so low and tender, 
 Throbbing with love the music sighed. 
 My arm around her waist so slender 
 Irresistibly began to glide. 
 
 On went the strain, still more beguiling, 
 
 A ditty of the golden age ; 
 
 Until her head she lifted, smiling, 
 
 And said, ' Will you please turn the page ? ' 
 
LINES, 
 
 FOR A LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 TO thee I send, 
 My faithful friend, 
 These unassuming verses ; 
 That they may tend 
 Our hearts to blend 
 More close through life's reverses. 
 
 Oh, may the day 
 
 Be far away 
 
 When thou and I must sever ; 
 
 Had I my way, 
 
 I well might say, 
 
 I wish it would be never ! 
 
RONDEAU. 
 
 FAREWELL ! and think of me, when thou 
 Art happy as thou used to be, 
 Ere carking Care upon thy brow 
 Had set its hand. Thou wert to me 
 One lifted from the vulgar crowd — 
 A lily fair that floats above 
 The stagnant waters of its shroud — 
 But it were sin that we should love ; 
 Farewell, and think of me ! 
 
VANITIES IN VERSE. 
 
 A SIMILE. 
 
 AS a dew - drop, fresh from heaven, will impart 
 A new - born vigor to the withered leaf ; 
 So a tear, the liquid language of the heart, 
 Revives the languid bosom from its grief. 
 
 LOVE AND JEALOUSY. 
 
 She built a fairy boat for him, 
 For sails it bore a snow-white dove ; 
 She rigged it with her golden hair, 
 And, siren - like, she called it Love. 
 
 The sky was clear, the zephyrs light, 
 They sailed serenely o'er the sea, 
 Till a storm arose, and they were wrecked 
 Upon the shoal of jealousy. 
 
 For love is far too fair a thing 
 To live without some bitter foes ; 
 And jealousy to purest love, 
 Is what the thorn is to the rose. 
 
58 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 WISHES. 
 
 May sorrow weave a slender chain 
 Around thee of her sordid strife, 
 So thou mayst know enough of pain, 
 To keenly feel the joys of life. 
 
 In eastern skies there is a star, 
 That brightens as its end draws near ; 
 So may the joys of thy life far 
 Increase with each successive year. 
 
 TO MYRA. 
 
 Thine eye is like a lonely star that gleams 
 
 Apart amidst the ether of the sky ; 
 
 An orb that sheds such iridescent beams 
 
 Could ill reflect a melancholy sigh. 
 
 I pray, fair girl, that to thy heart there come 
 
 No pangs to wring thy bosom with a sigh ; 
 
 For Care would be a Gorgon to benumb 
 
 The lustrous light of thy seraphic eye ! 
 
 THE LOVER'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 As his heart had not known a pain 
 Ere the unlucky moment he met her, 
 He knew he 'd be happy again, 
 As soon as he learned to forget her ! 
 
VANITIES IN VERSE. 59 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope is a bubble on the tide of life. 
 Which larger grows with each succeeding year ; 
 When punctured by drear Fate's impending knife, 
 It bursts and leaves the heart in blank despair. 
 
 As when we woo a fickle maiden's heart, 
 We learn to love it but to be deceived ; 
 When Hope's delusive star we see depart, 
 We sigh that it was not all we believed. 
 
 to l . 
 
 Poor girl, I 'm really grieved to hear 
 You deem a kiss a senseless token ; 
 But when you say you could not bear 
 To kiss a man, I really swear 
 Such nonsense should remain unspoken. 
 A kiss is nice — why feign to hide it ? 
 Miss Prue, I guess you 've never tried it ! 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 Ask him to sing of sunny skies, 
 Of nymphs, of wines, of laughing eyes ; 
 Ask him to paint fair eastern scenes — 
 But do not ask him what he means ! 
 
60 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Love is a little rosy - visagerl boy, 
 Who lights the soul up with his subtle beam 
 He holds the heart in thraldom with his joy, 
 Then steals away as softly as a dream. 
 
 But scarcely has young Cupid from us fled 
 Than grim misgivings throng upon the mind, 
 Like recollections of a dream long dead, 
 Like idle leaves that rustle in the wind. 
 
 TEARS. 
 
 Oh, think not tears will cause unrest, 
 Nor that they 're shed in vain ; 
 The tears that wring the anxious breast 
 Relieve it of its pain. 
 
 As summer clouds, in noonday's tide, 
 Obscure the welkin's sheen ; 
 Will only meet, to then divide, 
 And show the sun between ! 
 
 THE CHEMIST. 
 
 When tired of life the chemist took 
 Some poison as a last resort ; 
 Who, strange to say, though he was dumb, 
 Was yet the best at a retort. 
 
SKETCHES. 
 
THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, 
 Thus unlamented let me die, 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. — Pope. 
 
 A DISREGARD for the pomp and vanities of 
 this world is seldom cherished in an ignoble 
 mind. It is the nature of man to desire to raise 
 himself above the lot in which he has been cast. 
 Man is selfish ; he thinks but of himself. If he 
 helps his fellow, it is only unintentionally. But 
 for this the laws of Nature provide. The architect 
 improves the world, not for the sake of the world, 
 but because he is benefited thereby. The laborer, 
 in turn, is aided by the architect, not through any 
 compassion for his less fortunate fellow - creature, 
 but because his labor is useful to him. Thus, 
 from the highest to the lowest rank in life, each 
 man works for the benefit of his fellow as well as 
 for himself. It is for this reason that we are 
 endowed with Ambition — that insatiable longing 
 after «a visionary happiness. For how little is the 
 power of a monarch over his meanest subject, 
 when compared with that of the Infinite Being, 
 
64 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 who keeps the world revolving through space, and 
 directs the course of the sun, of the moon, and 
 of the stars ! 
 
 But, on account of inherent ambition, the higher 
 rank a man attains in this life, the better pleased 
 is he with himself ; yet, as this passion is increased 
 by success, he can never be satisfied. To be sure, 
 it must be admitted that some men are content 
 with their lot, but they are generally the lowest 
 order of the genus hom.o, devoid of the cardinal 
 virtue that spurs men on to daring and noble 
 deeds. In fact, they are little removed from the 
 brute creation. When ambition is unusually devel- 
 oped, it is called genius. A man so endowed by 
 nature is conscious of his own power in a certain 
 direction. His whole life is bent on the cue 
 object. It robs him of the virtue of perseverance. 
 He is not content with plodding on, rising step 
 by step ; instead of commencing at the foot of 
 Parnassus, he directs his flight towards the pinnacle. 
 But his fate rests with the world ; and the opinion 
 of the world is often wrong. Sometimes posterity 
 corrects the judgment, but too late to repair the 
 injury. George Villiers has said that there is 
 nothing so dangerous as extraordinary virtues ; 
 and he surely wrote from conviction. Extraordin- 
 ary and unappreciated virtues were the means of 
 breaking the hearts of Keats, of Chatterton, of 
 Shelley, and of Burns. Byron's constitution was 
 different. He combated the world's indifference — 
 
THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. 65 
 
 and he conquered it ; but he was never happy. 
 What the world gave him, it gave with reluctance. 
 He despised it as one does a cowed cur. He had 
 nothing left to live for ; he grew reckless, and 
 expired on the battlefield of liberty. 
 
 As I have remarked, only noblest minds disre- 
 gard the pomp and vanities of this world. The 
 more a man reads, the more conversant he becomes 
 with the treachery and depravity of human nature. 
 Should he have personal experience to ruminate 
 upon, he becomes only the more convinced. There 
 can be no doubt but that the aphorism, 
 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God," 
 
 is as true now as when Pope wrote it nearly one 
 hundred and fifty years ago ; for our great moral 
 poet did not use the word honesty in its narrow 
 and conventional form, but to the fullest extent of 
 its meaning. A man may be upright in financial 
 matters, and yet be a great scoundrel. He alone 
 is an honest man whose integrity is unimpeachable, 
 and who has never sacrificed his principles to 
 interest. 
 
 Taking it for granted, that no man is satisfied 
 with his own condition, but, on account of an 
 innate passion of ambition, is ever striving to 
 promote himself ; we can readily see that the more 
 unprincipled a man is, the greater advantage he 
 will take of his fellow. In this world, therefore, 
 the honest man is much at the mercy of the rogue. 
 To be sure, he has the law to protect him ; but 
 
66 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 the rogue can employ many species of chicanery 
 not amenable to law. The monopolist, the pharisee, 
 and the usurer, prey upon their fellows with 
 impunity. In the eyes of the law, he who takes 
 a shilling out of your pocket is a greater scoundrel 
 than the bankrupt who robs you of your all. 
 The law affords no protection to the poor man 
 against the monopolist, who gorges on the heart's 
 blood of the nation. Therefore, he who treads in 
 the upright path of life, ever scorning to sacrifice 
 his principles to interest, has only his conscience 
 to support him when he falls by the wayside. A 
 man in this situation naturally retires into solitude ; 
 for the pleasures of an easy conscience are purely 
 contemplative. Instinct prompts him to flee the 
 haunts of man, as he who escapes scathless from 
 a conflagration is possessed of but one thought, 
 and that is, to retire from the power ol the flames. 
 A man may lead a life of solitude, and yet not 
 be a misanthrope. Byron, who has been accused 
 of every crime which could be invented by the 
 bigotry and the malignity of those who could never 
 hope to " awake one morning and find themselves 
 famous," has, of course, not escaped the charge 
 of hating his fellow, even though he has repeatedly 
 professed that, 
 
 " To fly from, need not mean to hate, mankind." 
 
 Besides, how much misanthropy was there in Byron's 
 sacrificing his life and fortune in the cause of a 
 down - trodden race ? 
 
THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. 67 
 
 A man may have many reasons for seeking 
 solitude. If he be possessed of talent, the bitter 
 pangs of unrewarded merit ; if he has endeavored 
 to advance himself in the commercial world, the 
 treachery of mankind ; if he has been indulgent 
 to his friends, the rankling thoughts of misplaced 
 confidence ; if he has loved, the inconstancy of 
 woman ; if he has sinned, the hope of expiating 
 his fault. 
 
 Perhaps there is more enjoyment than pleasure 
 in a sedentary life. Pleasure is a word of manifold 
 interpretations, and refers more to the senses than 
 to the heart. A man who seeks solitude to forget 
 an injury, or to atone for a crime, wishes comfort 
 rather than enjoyment — happiness rather than 
 pleasure. Whatever delight he receives, is derived 
 from his surroundings. The blue sky, the waving 
 trees, the purling brooks, the variegated flowers, 
 all these possess a more than usual charm for 
 him, by being associated only with pleasing ideas. 
 The contrast between them and his former habi- 
 tation is too marked to recall the unpleasant phases 
 in his life. In the place of friends, he has books, 
 those " silent companions of the lonely hour," of 
 which Lord Bacon says : " Do but look upon 
 good books ; they are true friends, that will neither 
 flatter nor dissemble." The loneliness of a life of 
 solitude is much dissipated by a predilection for 
 polite learning. A man with such a bent wishes 
 no other friend than a book ; and being [removed 
 
68 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 from the objects of his past unhappiness, he will 
 lead a life of contentment, if not of pleasure. 
 Under the circumstances, he could expect no more. 
 The pleasures of solitude have only a negative 
 quality ; they afford rest rather than enjoyment. 
 Man is a social being ; and the wilderness is the 
 home of the savage, and of the beast. The ere- 
 mite retires from the haunts of man to flee the 
 cruelties of the world. He no longer seeks enjoy- 
 ment, but his desire is a rational one — it is rest. 
 
ETHEL, 
 
 TN the western part of England, during the 
 -■- mediaeval ages, Castle Elderclaire reared its 
 frowning height in all its gloomy, stolid, yet grand 
 beauty. Situated on the brow of a gently -sloping 
 hill, it resembled some grim monument of awe 
 keeping silent vigils over the far - retreating plain 
 at its base. The turret walls commanded a mag- 
 nificent view of the environs. In the immediate 
 vicinity the monotony of the verdant plain was 
 broken by the interspersing of numerous picturesque 
 groves. Embowered in trees of marked beauty, 
 with the musical purl of many merry brooks, their 
 prodigal splendor caused the mind to revert to 
 those elysian bowers which Boccaccio so loved to 
 paint. A thickly - wooded forest stretched in the 
 distance for miles and miles. Sombre and tire- 
 some though the woodland were, when viewed 
 from afar the eye was enchanted at not unfrequent 
 intervals by glimpses of sundry grassy hills and 
 an occasional plateau. 
 
 The owner of the castle, Baron Bertrams, a 
 man of a savage and morose disposition, was 
 
70 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 somewhat past the meridian of life. His ancestors, 
 who had come over to England with the invading 
 Normans in the eleventh century, had ousted the 
 rightful occupants of the castle from their possess- 
 ions, and substituted themselves. Though time 
 had erased the vestiges of his ancestral usurpation, 
 the lust for wealth was still inherent in the present 
 baron. Like all those who have risen to opulence 
 from the depths of penury, he was overbearing to 
 those beneath him. So much did he give a loose 
 to the exercise of his authority, that he was secretly 
 hated and despised, despite the respectful obeisance 
 to his wishes, which his position commanded. 
 
 The only female occupant of the castle, apart 
 from the menials, was Ethel, the niece and ward 
 of Baron Bertraine. She was a most beautiful 
 maiden, in the heyday of her vernal charms. Her 
 pleading, melting, and expressive blue eyes ; her 
 wealth of golden hair, which fell in nondescript 
 wavy curls down her gently - arching shoulders, 
 coupled with her symmetrical form, bespoke her 
 Saxon pedigree. Her outward charms were only 
 surpassed by the indigenous purity and innocence 
 of her nature. As she wandered about the gloomy 
 confines of the castle, where all the surroundings 
 were so alien to her disposition, the contrast was 
 so marked that she seemed some angel strayed 
 from heaven — a gay but fettered gazelle. A nature 
 like hers was more fitted for a nomadic life among 
 the ever - changing beauties of nature, than to be 
 
ETHEL. 71 
 
 pent - up in a dingy* warlike castle, under the 
 thraldom of an avaricious guardian. But Ethel 
 was of too noble a disposition to ever complain 
 of her lot. She even loved her uncle ; but with 
 that love which is engendered more by instinct 
 than as a reward for kindness. 
 
 So docile had Ethel always been that but little 
 restraint was placed upon her movements. She 
 was permitted to stray among the neighboring 
 groves, and even to penetrate the leafy depths of 
 the forest, at pleasure. It was these ramblings 
 that kept the roses in her cheeks, and prevented 
 her nature from taking on a gloominess in keeping 
 with the castle. 
 
 During one of her pastoral excursions, Ethel's 
 pensive solitude was broken into by the appearance 
 of a young forester, named Egbert. Ethel, who 
 had never known the pleasure of associating with 
 those of her own age, felt herself irresistibly drawn 
 towards the sprightly young nomad. The spark 
 of friendship then conceived, by subsequent ren- 
 counters, was nourished into a tender and enduring 
 love, before the maiden was even aware of the 
 existence of such a passion. Love generally comes 
 to us first unperceived, or prompted by instinct ; 
 but we leave it to die, only feeling to desire it 
 when our hearts have grown callous. If all men 
 but followed instinct, and wedded their first loves, 
 might not marriage be generally more happy ? 
 From that day Ethel's loiterings became more 
 
72 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 frequent and prolonged, until at last they attracted 
 the attention of her uncle. 
 
 One afternoon the young lovers were strolling 
 through a shady grove, experiencing all the trans- 
 ports peculiar to first love, when a shadow darkened 
 their path. Ethel raised her eyes in surprise 
 toward the unexpected intruder, and encountered 
 the cruel visage of her uncle, whose face was 
 distorted by the throes of unpitying rage. The cry 
 of wild despair that issued from the inmost depths 
 of Ethel's heart, froze on her lips, and she lost con- 
 sciousness. Egbert was in the act of tendering her 
 assistance when a blow from a halberd, wielded by 
 the infuriated baron, laid him low. Without deign- 
 ing to cast one look upon the object of his anger, 
 Bertraine raised the inanimate form of his niece 
 from the ground, and with hasty steps hurried in 
 the direction of the castle. Arriving there, he 
 placed the maid in a chamber in the turret, and 
 carefully secured the door. 
 
 When Ethel recovered consciousness, the sun 
 was streaming through the window of her prison. 
 Several moments elapsed before she could collect 
 the scattered fragments of her thoughts ; but when 
 the utter wretchedness of her condition dawned 
 upon her in all its vividness, she gave vent to a flood 
 of wild, passionate tears. There is something so 
 pure, so intense in first love, that even when it is 
 allowed to perish of its own accord, the tender 
 recollections of our early passion will continue to 
 
ETHEL. 73 
 
 haunt us in our after-life. But when the affection 
 is rudely ruptured — when all hopes of amelioration 
 have vanished — what a feeling of hopeless despair 
 and utter loneliness takes possession of the soul ! 
 All former pleasures are lost sight of in the one 
 absorbing sorrow ; for when wan grief is gnawing 
 at the heart, any retrogression to past joys but adds 
 to the intensity of the present pangs. 
 
 Although separated, Ethel was not deserted by 
 her lover. Young Egbert, after many assiduous 
 manoeuvres, discovered the place of her captivity, 
 and aided by the ivy - clad walls of the castle, suc- 
 ceeded in gaining the casement under cover of the 
 night. Joyous though all their meetings had been, 
 these clandestine interviews were rendered doubly 
 so after their recent separation, for the heart must 
 be acquainted with sorrow before it can know a 
 transport. 
 
 Ethel's troubles seemed to have but commenced. 
 One day her uncle entered her chamber, and in a 
 stern tone bade her be prepared for a marriage 
 ceremony, as her nuptials were to be celebrated on 
 the morrow. Her intended husband was a certain 
 Lord Leofric, a man old enough to be her father, 
 who had spent his youth in profligacy and was now 
 a confirmed caitiff and roue. He had amassed vast 
 riches by gaming, and this covered his manifold 
 vices in the eyes of Baron Bertraine, who was easily 
 induced to barter his niece for a large portion of 
 Leofric's pelf. Grieve not, reader, at the severity 
 
74 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of Ethel's fate ; nor congratulate yourself that you 
 do not live in those barbarous ages. The same 
 things are occurring in your midst every day. It 
 has come down to us from generation to generation, 
 and will continue to exist until the world has run 
 its course, — 
 
 " For honored well are charms to sell 
 If priests the selling do ! " 
 
 When Egbert scaled the battlement that evening, 
 Ethel welcomed him with swollen and tear - stained 
 eyes ; and with many convulsive sobs recited the 
 story of the fate that encompassed her. The out- 
 burst of boundless rage subsided in the breast of 
 the young forester, and was succeeded by a period 
 of pensive meditation. The reverie over, he arose, 
 and, approaching the couch, soon improvised a rope 
 from the shreded tapestry. Securely fastening one 
 end to the buttress, he allowed it to fall in spiral 
 coils to the ground. Then assuring the maid of a 
 speedv deliverance, he suspended his weight on the 
 frail, swaying support, intending to stay its momen- 
 tum so that Ethel could alight in safety. His head 
 had scarcely disappeared from view, when the door 
 was dashed open and the baron entered. The 
 trembling maid and the debris of the rent fabrics 
 betrayed all. The wandering eye of Bertraine 
 espied the rope, and with an exultant cry he drew 
 his sword from its scabbard. One stroke, and the 
 frail support was gashed asunder in an instant. A 
 pitiful wail broke the stillness of the night air, 
 
ETHEL. 75 
 
 followed by snapping sounds of less rotundity, as 
 the treacherous ivy parted in the death - clutch of 
 the doomed youth ; then a fearful thud as the body 
 landed on the stones of the court - yard. 
 
 The morning dawned gloomy. A heavy mist 
 veiled the glorious orb of the sun, as though to keep 
 its rays from smiling on a scene of so much misery. 
 A feeling of sadness pervaded even to the groves, 
 and the birds seemed to have hushed their songs. 
 The preparations for the coming nuptials were soon 
 completed. The baron moved about with elastic 
 steps, rubbing his attenuated hands at the prospect 
 of the lee he would shortly receive as the reward 
 of his villainy. He felt no pangs of remorse for 
 the atrocious crime he had committed the night 
 before, and his niece's sorry plight was farthest from 
 his thoughts. As soon as Lord Leofric arrived, he 
 was handed the keys of the turret rooms. With a 
 sardonic smile overspreading his sinister counten- 
 ance, he hied to Ethel's chamber. He found the 
 young maid silently stretched on her couch, looking 
 more lovely than ever. He called her name, but 
 she answered not ; he shook her, but she remained 
 unmoved. With a cry of impatience, he raised her 
 in his arms ; the body was his, but Ethel was 
 beyond his power. She — she had gone home. 
 
THE BORE. 
 
 He opens everything he sees — 
 Except the entry door ! — Saxe. 
 
 WE all know him ! But I love a bore. 
 Especially one of those good - natured, 
 idle - loving bores, over whose cheerfulness the ills 
 of life glide away as water down the back of a duck. 
 He has such an ingenuous knack of wriggling him- 
 self into our good graces and confidence by his 
 insinuating suavity and studied sympathy. He is 
 a person of sympathetic impertinences, with a heart 
 most elastic and tractable. He can conjure up a 
 tear or a smile at will — just as the occasion calls 
 for. And there lies his great success : for who ever 
 heard of a bore who was not a great flatterer ? But 
 he is not a conventional flatterer by any means. In 
 fact, it takes years of study to become a perfect bore. 
 Like the poet, he must understand fully all the 
 foibles and follies of human nature, and the various 
 passions of the heart. Nor does his task end there. 
 It does not suffice for him to be conversant with 
 their causes and results, but he must have a balm 
 for every woe — a stimulant for every joy — and a 
 goad for every hale. 
 
THE BORE. 77 
 
 He seldom meddles with the fair sex ; for with 
 them his talents, be they never so great, are always 
 at a discount. He has vanity enough, to be sure ; 
 but he is not so vain as to believe that he could 
 succeed where all others have failed. Nor can we 
 blame him for the almost religious awe with which 
 he regards all matters pertaining to womankind in 
 general. His scruples are too much colored with 
 discretion and common sense to be misconstrued 
 into a lack of courage. No reasonable man could 
 expect the bore to be familiar with a woman's heart, 
 when even she does not understand it herself ! 
 Yet, in many respects, the bore could exercise his 
 talents upon the fair with great success. His chief 
 stock in trade being flattery, he has the immediate 
 key to her heart. And then he is unsurpassed on 
 the "pious lay." This is also a wonderful advan- 
 tage to him, for there is nothing more pleasing to a 
 woman, — when she has not anything more interesting 
 to talk about, — unless it be scandal. In the latter, 
 the bore is as to the manner born. His whole consti- 
 tution is like a sponge, which absorbs all the choice 
 tid - bits of human depravity and matrimonial 
 infelicity. Not only are his absorbing powers 
 wonderful, but his fecundity is so enormous, that 
 what he receives by retail assumes wholesale pro- 
 portions by passing through him. Nor is he at all 
 diffident in dispensing his scandal. The sponge will 
 divulge its contents upon the slightest pressure. He 
 would not wait for it to be scpieezed at all, did he 
 
78 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 not realize that he became enhanced in the eyes of 
 a woman by exciting her curiosity. 
 
 With all these qualifications, the reader may think 
 it strange that the bore steers clear of women. But 
 the fact is, that he is very sensitive upon some mat- 
 ters. It cuts him to the heart to discover that he is 
 becoming superannuated, and that his position is 
 being usurped by a more fortunate rival. He seems 
 ?o forgetjhat all the fickleness, the hankering after 
 novelty, was cut out of Adam when Eve was formed. 
 He would sooner encounter an irascible man, armed 
 with a club and flanked by a bulldog, than face that 
 searing scorn and those tacit innuendoes so peculiar 
 to the fair : those traits which their admirers are 
 charitable enough to attribute to a certain gentleness 
 and delicacy of feeling, which they tell us every 
 female possesses ; but which cynics stigmatize as 
 deceit and a lack of the necessary courage to plainly 
 speak their thoughts. 
 
 This is the whole secret of the bore's seeming 
 bashfulness. Although he is entirely compounded 
 of deceit and sycophancy, he despises similar traits 
 in another. Indeed, he shrinks from a bout with an 
 antagonist who meets him with his own weapons 
 And this is the reason why it is usually the younger 
 bore who plies his talents on the fair. For after his 
 first sallies have been repulsed, he seldom has suf- 
 ficient courage to persevere. All his spirit seems to 
 have 'evaporated in the unequal contest — for his 
 fair opponent stoops to artifices even too delicate 
 
THE BORE. 79 
 
 for his unscrupulous conscience. When she wishes 
 to dismiss him, she makes no emphatic commands ; 
 neither does she go to any extremes. On the con- 
 trary, her frowns gradually become more frequent, 
 while her smiles "grow small by degrees and beau- 
 tifully less." He notices, when he calls, that she 
 has become more subject to indisposition than 
 formerly ; she is frequently " engaged " ; and then 
 often "not at home." At first this surprises the 
 bore, for he never thinks his society could have 
 grown tiresome. But when he hears her tell the 
 servant - girl to inform him that she has gone into 
 the country for a month, he begins to moralize over 
 the cold - blooded deceit practiced by the fair. 
 
 When, at rare intervals, he obtains an audience, 
 his embarrassment is only increased. He wonders 
 what has made her so reserved. Where formerly 
 she had stretched out her delicate ungloved hand, 
 she now welcomes him with a most cold and haughty 
 inclination of the head. The cosy arm-chair, which 
 seemed to have just moulded itself to his form, has 
 been removed to some other apartment. This may 
 have been occasioned either by accident or necessity 
 — yet, it is very suggestive. Then he perceives that 
 she has become dreamy, lapsing into various stages 
 of ennui. She no longer smiles at his sallies of wit, 
 and his dainty bits of scandal are received as twice- 
 told tales. She suddenly remembers that she has a 
 little brother. He must be so lonesome in the 
 nursery ; she will bring him in to help entertain her 
 
So STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 company. Little Johnny is too old to be interesting, 
 yet young enough to be mischievous. At first he is 
 very shy, contenting himself with investigating Mr. 
 Leech at a distance — with a putty - blower. Then 
 his diffidence gradually wears off. He greets the 
 visitor as " Mamie's beau," and other pet names ; 
 places bent pins on his chair ; plays horsey on his 
 walking- cane — and breaks it; throws the kitten 
 on his back ; draws a bead on his silk hat — and 
 hits it three out of five; clambers up in his lap, and 
 pulls his whiskers. At last the little fiend is sent to 
 bed. Mr. Leech breathes freer, and hopes to have 
 a pleasant time the rest of the evening. He glances 
 up at the clock, and discovers it is time he were 
 leaving. He is sure some one must have put the 
 hands on at least an hour — but he does not like to 
 say so. As the forlorn hope, he produces a paper 
 of caramels. This had never yet failed to put 
 Mamie in a good humor. But Miss Miggs suddenly 
 becomes aware that she has a most distressing tooth- 
 ache. She accepts them, however, and will give 
 them to Johnny in the morning — but he never gets 
 more than one! At last Mr. Leech prepares to 
 depart. The servant is summoned to conduct him 
 to the door. This is the unkindest cut of all. For 
 he well remembers how kind Mamie was only a few- 
 weeks before. How she helped him on with his 
 overcoat and accompanied him to the door, where 
 she kept him talking so long in the hall. How 
 closely she nestled up to him when he shook her by 
 
THE BORE. c3I 
 
 the hand, and smiled so lovingly that he could not 
 resist kissing her. These reflections only augment 
 his sorrows. He regrets ever having left his quondam 
 friends of the sterner sex, and resolves to cultivate 
 their acquaintance as of yore. Their society may 
 not be so pleasant, but it is more economical ; 
 besides, he feels more at home among them. 
 
 He again knocks at your door with the same 
 autocratic insolence, grasps you by the hand, and 
 hopes that you are well. He comes early and he 
 stays late. His prolonged absence has not robbed 
 him of any of his complacent imbecility, nor taught 
 him to take a hint that was not to his advantage. 
 He drops into your . easy - chair with the verdant 
 familiarity of an old friend, and makes no excuse 
 for staying so long away. His sensibility is so acute 
 that it would seem to him like adding insult to 
 injury to do so. He likes you to ask him where he 
 has been, for it makes him believe you had missed 
 his diurnal face. He answers you with a shrug of 
 the shoulders and a smile of mysterious import, 
 while he seems to say, " Now, wouldn't you like to 
 know !" as he gives you a sly dig in the ribs. 
 
 The complexion of the bore is purely cosmopol- 
 itan ; he can make himself at home everywhere — 
 but becomes too familiar by far. He takes up your 
 pipe, smells it aesthetically, glances around the room 
 as if in search of something that is not there, and 
 casually remarks that Honeywood always keeps an 
 open box of cigars for his friends. Whenever the 
 
82 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Havannas are not forthcoming, he remembers that 
 he enjoys a pipe wonderfully at times. In fact, the 
 bore is most malleable to the emergencies of cir- 
 cumstance, and his wonderful knack of assimilating 
 himself to his surroundings makes the welcome of 
 even his meanest tarrying - place the high - water 
 mark of his expectations. 
 
 The literary bore is more bore than any of the 
 other bores — the very allegory of boredom. He is 
 an organic lie; " a mute, inglorious Milton"; a 
 pyramid of platitudes ; as prolix as Wordsworth ; a 
 disciple of Sam Patch. Hour after hour he will 
 read you one of his little poems of "linked sweet- 
 ness long drawn out" ; and though his breath may 
 fail him, his rhymes never do. He has a great 
 passion for alliteration, and tells you it comes natural 
 to him. Tennyson, he adds, carries it to the 
 extreme, and ruins his poetry by making it labored. 
 Then he will quote you a line to show his great skill 
 in the art — 
 
 The huntsman hitched on his high hunting horn, 
 
 defying any Englishman to pronounce it. He sneers 
 at the old poets, and speaks patronizingly of the new. 
 He thinks that whatever is not prose must be poetry, 
 and says Walt Whitman's is neither. When he 
 attempts wit, he becomes particularly silly ; and 
 shows the shallowness of his perception by remark- 
 ing, with a laugh, that Swinburne's poetry is soon 
 to be translated into English. 
 
 But poetry is only one of his qualifications ; he 
 
THE BORE. CS3 
 
 must have something not so well known to discourse 
 upon when he moves about in society. He mem- 
 orizes the names of all the prehistoric monstrosities 
 of earth, sea, and sky; reads up the political 
 economy of Shanghai, — the banquet oration of the 
 Anthropophagi, — the religion of the Devil-worship- 
 pers, — and Berkeley's Treatise on the Nature of the 
 Material Substance, and its Relation to the Absolute. 
 Thus equipped, he sallies forth to conquer — or 
 to keep on talking. He generally succeeds in the 
 former, for he is never afraid of making a mistake, 
 as nobody — not even himself — knows what he is 
 talking about. His tongue becomes the nearest 
 approximate to perpetual motion. There is no get- 
 ting rid of him. He is not content that his hearer 
 has a due appreciation of his talents, and never 
 offers to contradict him, but he still "keeps dinging 
 it, dinging it into one so." 
 
SETH. 
 
 I HAVE met many strange and eccentric individ- 
 uals — some naturally so, others whose peculiar 
 traits were developed by force of circumstances — 
 hut the oddest and the most curious of all was Seth 
 Madden. Often have I endeavored to account for 
 his chief characteristics by the trite rules set down 
 tor governing human nature, and just so often have 
 I failed. There was something so uncommon, so 
 unique, about him ; so many irreconcilable traits, 
 that the acutest psychologist would have been at a 
 loss for means to assimilate them in one human 
 being. He had enough individuality to make a 
 dozen ordinary men conspicuous in the circle of 
 their acquaintances. 
 
 Physically speaking, he was almost perfect, 'rail, 
 well - built, and broad - shouldered. Perhaps he 
 should have been a trifle stouter for his height ; just 
 enough to fully curve the angles of his frame with- 
 out approaching corpulency. But the vigorous 
 training he had prescribed for himself, from his 
 youth, had so coaxed the growth of muscle, that it 
 left him without an ounce of superfluous flesh. Plis 
 
SETH. 85 
 
 eyes, the most expressive of his features, contained 
 a depth of meaning which I have never seen equalled. 
 Sometimes those large steel - grey, scrutinizing orbs 
 glowed with kind, sympathetic love; and then again 
 they glistened with an almost cruel ferocity. His 
 nature, generally so strong as to seem almost super- 
 human, was yet so tractable that occasionally it 
 weakened until it became as soft as a woman's. I 
 have seen him moved to tears at the loss^of a dear 
 friend : tears that welled " from the depths of some 
 divine despair." There was something touching in 
 the tears of that strong man ; so unlike those of a 
 woman. There is a certain hypocrisy in a woman's 
 weeping which dulls the heart to the influence of 
 her tears. It is so difficult to tell what prompts 
 them. Some women weep from instinct, from habit, 
 from impulse, or from envy. They could not be 
 happy unless they did so at regular periods. Their 
 tears are idle and have little meaning when compared 
 with those of a man. It may be weakness for a man 
 to cry, but it is a laudable one. He does so when 
 he feels the most ; a woman, when she feels the least. 
 At school, Seth was remarkable for his indomitable 
 spirit, impulsive nature, and generous disposition. 
 He was the pride of his comrades ; a shining mark 
 at which they gazed with admiration. Probably his 
 abnormal strength was the cause of much of the 
 reverence and awe in which his companions held him. 
 But he was not a bully. There was no bully in that 
 school after he came! Outdoor sports were more 
 
86 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 congenial to his nature than poring over books. 
 Many times, years afterwards, I thought that it would 
 have been better for him had he devoted himself 
 more to study. He had many of the instincts that 
 make the scholar : his taste was so refined, and his 
 conception of the Beautiful, both in Art and Nature, 
 so true. He would stroll for hours through the 
 woods, stopping frequently to gaze at some little 
 beauty in nature which the other boys passed by 
 unnoticed. A tiny wild - flower, a bunch of varie- 
 gated autumn leaves, an odd scrap of moss, and 
 many other little things, afforded him an indescrib- 
 able pleasure. He was this way to the end, but 
 remained too much absorbed in himself to turn the 
 bent of his genius up the steep path of fame. 
 
 What I most admired in Seth was his true religious 
 feeling. His was the religion of humanity ; not 
 that sanctimonious hypocrisy which we almost in- 
 variably find in church - worshippers, and which is 
 merely a veneering of devoutness over an uncharitable 
 interior, polished with a varnish of seeming godliness. 
 Many would have called him an infidel. Perhaps 
 he was, if good actions, and not pretentious piety, 
 make the unbeliever. Be that as it may, he did 
 many little acts of charity of which a strict follower 
 of the orthodox would never have thought. 
 
 One incident I well remember, because it was so 
 characteristic of Seth. We were walking together, 
 when a little girl approached with a pitcher in her 
 hand. She was within a few feet of us when a large 
 
SETH. 87 
 
 savage mastiff sprang at her throat. The woollen 
 comforter around her neck saved her from any 
 serious injury, but she was paralyzed with fear. In 
 a moment Seth had placed his burly form in front 
 of the child, and just in lime to shield her from a 
 second attack. With gaping jaws the brute prepared 
 himself for another spring. I shuddered, while a 
 film came over my eyes ; but it was only a transitory 
 weakness. When I recovered myself, I saw Seth's 
 fingers clinched around the dog's throat. By main 
 strength he held it at arm's- length until the brute 
 was choked, and then dashed it to the ground. 
 The child was crying piteously ; perhaps she was 
 more frightened about the broken pitcher than her- 
 self. Seth must have thought of that, for he gave 
 her a piece of money, the sight of which dried her 
 tears. I asked Seth if he were hurt. He merely 
 held up his hand ; the thumb was terribly torn. 
 Almost mechanically I followed him into a saloon. 
 He ordered some brandy, filled the tumbler, and 
 with the utmost coolness placed the lacerated mem- 
 ber in it. I looked into his face ; every particle of 
 blood had forsaken his countenance ; great beads 
 of perspiration stood out upon his forehead ; but 
 not as much as a muscle moved. Since then I have 
 thought how terrible the torture must have been. 
 But then it was Seth ! 
 
 When Seth was in his twenty - third year he 
 formed an attachment for Gertrude Hargraves, a 
 girl who changed the whole current of his after-life. 
 
88 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 I, who always thought that there was no woman 
 worthy of his noble heart, could never approve of 
 their engagement. Gertrude was too haughty and 
 selfish, too proud and supercilious, to make a man 
 like Seth happy. Nor was I alone in my scruples ; 
 but no one dared utter them in his presence. I can 
 well imagine with what force the arm of that Titan 
 would have descended upon the unlucky head, for 
 his love for Gertrude was so wild that it brooked no 
 control. But the climax came sooner than I had 
 expected. She, who had been accustomed to being 
 worshipped by a bevy of admirers, was too capricious 
 and deceitful to remain constant for any length of 
 time. She soon tired of Seth, and cast off his love 
 with as much compunction as she would feel in 
 discarding a worn - out article of her apparel. 
 
 Shortly after this, Seth vanished from my sight 
 but not out of my memory. No one knew what had 
 become of him, until one day, two years later, I met 
 him on the street. He greeted me in his same old 
 quiet, unassuming manner, as though our separation 
 had only been one of hours instead of years. I saw 
 he did not want me to question him of the past, and 
 as I knew him too well to thwart his will, I never 
 learned what had happened to him in that time. 
 But he was a changed man. All the sunny phases 
 of his nature had faded, and in their stead was a 
 melancholy moroseness. His face told but too 
 plainly of the wild dissipation of the last two years ; 
 but he still possessed the same noble demeanor, and 
 
SETH. 89 
 
 the poise of his head retained most of its former 
 proud carriage. That iron constitution was not 
 easily broken down. I noticed a long deep scar 
 extending nearly from temple to temple. It was 
 not there when he went away. I often shuddered 
 as I wondered at the tragic circumstances with 
 which it must have been linked ; but he never 
 ventured to tell me how it was received. 
 
 A short time after, Seth and I were returning from 
 a theatre, when a fire-engine dashed wildly past us. 
 Seth's ever-unappeased longing for excitement drew 
 him, almost irresistibly, toward the conflagration. 
 As we neared the scene of the fire a feeling of un- 
 easiness came over me, which was greatly increased 
 when I perceived that the flames issued from the 
 house of the Hargraves. I cannot say whether Seth 
 knew of it then, — I hardly think he did, — for he 
 remained calm and quiet on the outskirts of the 
 crowd. 
 
 Suddenly the lamentations of a woman sounded 
 above the shrill cries of the firemen, the hoarse 
 snorts of the engine, and the fear - hushed murmurs 
 of the spectators. How Seth ploughed his way 
 through the crowd ! He faced the sorrowing 
 woman — it was Gertrude. She must have recog- 
 nized him instantly, for she stilled her cries, and an 
 expression of pleading hopelessness overspread her 
 face. I do not think she uttered a word as she 
 pointed to a window in one of the upper rooms. 
 My eyes followed the movement, and I saw her pet 
 
9° 
 
 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 dog crouching in fear upon the sill. The poor little 
 creature was moaning and whining piteously ; fear- 
 ing to retreat and afraid to leap. 
 
 Impulsively Seth moved in the direction of the 
 burning house. He turned once and raised his arm 
 with a reassuring movement, as calmly as Hiawatha, 
 when he 
 
 " Slowly waved his hand at parting." 
 
 The suspense was agonizing. It seemed to me almost 
 an age before the old familiar form appeared at the 
 window. The plaudits of the multitude below were 
 unnoticed by him. Not until the little dog had 
 been lowered in safety to the ground, did he raise 
 his eyes. Their gaze centred on Gertrude, and I 
 saw her kiss the tips of her fingers to him. She was 
 happy then, and no longer wept. For an instant 
 the old-time look of kindness beamed in his eyes, 
 but only to be replaced by a smile of exulting scorn- 
 fulness. His lips opened to speak, but she never 
 heard his half-formed words. The floor on which 
 he was standing collapsed with an awful crash, and 
 that grand and noble soul was precipitated into the 
 blazing chasm. 
 
 I have never recovered from that terrible shock. 
 It may have been a foolhardy daring. But then it 
 was so like Seth ! 
 
CHRISTMAS AFTERTHOUGHTS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS ! How the heart of man expands 
 to the sound of that word. What tender 
 recollections are closely clustered and linked to that 
 annual turnstile in each one's life. The child, to 
 whom the world is a continual panorama of happiness 
 and joy, awaits with expectant surprise the disgorging 
 of the plethoric stocking, in vivid contrast to the old 
 man, who, with a staid expression of gratitude and 
 contentment on his countenance, contemplates the 
 removal of another link from the chain which sep- 
 arates him from his Father and his God. How 
 different is the delight they experience ! We are 
 told that those who never knew a pang can never 
 know a transport ; that sorrow is given us merely to 
 augment our happiness by forming a contrast. 
 There may be some truth in that, inasmuch as the 
 continual recurrence of pleasure, year after year, 
 causing the spirits to run in one unchanging groove, 
 would, undoubtedly, grow monotonous, and dull the 
 keen edge of true happiness. But do not the sorrows 
 and the cares of this world possess a striking affinity 
 to this Utopian happiness ? The child, who is an 
 
Q2 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 utter stranger to the fretful troubles of this world, 
 revels in the Christmas cheer with a zeal and a gusto 
 altogether alien to him whose life has been one 
 vicissitude of care. To the former, all is untram- 
 melled pleasure ; to the latter, be his present 
 happiness never so great, it is alloyed with the recol- 
 lections of unpleasant phases. There is more native 
 simplicity about the child's happiness ; he gives a 
 loose to all his spirits, without a solitary thought of 
 the past or of the future. It is better so. Childhood 
 is only an atom of space in the fleeting span of life. 
 But it is the happiest. 
 
 In this season of " Peace on earth, good will to 
 man," when happiness is running rampant, how- 
 pent up are the springs of Charity ! What base 
 ingratitude and selfishness are evinced, and how 
 much more noticeable they become at this period. 
 Man has ever been prone to egoism — insular, un- 
 sympathetic and mindful only of himself and kin. 
 In the progress of Civilization, Philanthropy has 
 been relegated to Oblivion with the relics of by-gone 
 ages. Is the happiness of the wealthy marred at 
 this time by the thought of all the poverty and 
 wretchedness of the unfortunate poor ? Can they 
 be happy when so many of their fellow - beings are 
 distressed ? Yes ; their egoism prevents them from 
 thinking of others. The limit of their happiness is 
 so contracted that it is bounded by themselves and 
 immediate friends. Those removed from their nar- 
 row circle strike no responsive chord in their bosoms. 
 
CHRISTMAS AFTERTHOUGHTS. 93 
 
 Let us turn from the scenes of festivity and 
 enjoyment ; let us flee the cheerful haunts of opu- 
 lence and comfort, and let us view a few of the 
 multifarious beings who throng our great thorough- 
 fares. It is Christmas eve. The snow, which has 
 been falling all day, has turned to a thick, drizzly 
 mist. The wayfarer shudders as he glides on, 
 scarcely taking a casual peep in at the brilliantly 
 lighted store-windows, arrayed with articles to catch 
 the eye and strike the heart. The icy rain pierces 
 his clothing, while the slush oozes through his boots, 
 sending a counter-current that chills him to the very 
 soul, steeling his heart to the supplications of the 
 needy, and hurrying him on to his bright and happy 
 fireside. 
 
 I am standing in the vestibule of one of our large 
 theatres. The electric lights, which brilliantly illu- 
 mine the street, cast a ghost-like reflection on the 
 faces of the motley crowd who crouch around the 
 door. Unable to command the price of admission, 
 they still linger within sound of the pleasure which 
 is denied them ; resembling the lonely dog, which 
 sat before a mirror trying to scrape an acquaintance 
 with himself. How their countenances, hungry for 
 enjoyment, become animated, and how their eyes 
 are all drawn in the one direction each time the 
 door opens., as if they expected an invitation to enter. 
 
 While my eyes wander among the crowd of 
 wretched beings, the focus of my sight becomes con- 
 centrated, till it singles out one from their midst. 
 
94 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 It is a little girl, seemingly about nine years of age. 
 The rags, which serve for clothing, scarcely cover, 
 much less protect her from the elements. The little 
 basket of flowers she carries in her hand tends only 
 to mark the contrast. I look into her face. What 
 a frightful tale of woe and degradation is depicted 
 in the pinched and hungry features, the sunken 
 eyes, the hollow cheeks, and the thin and bloodless 
 lips ! That face was a picture of ruin, more vivid 
 and more pathetic than any pen could paint. It 
 spoke in the voice of a living pencil, leaving its 
 words indelibly engraven on the heart. Visions of 
 her once happy home thronged in my mind. The 
 father is a confidential clerk, honored and respected. 
 A false' friend induces him to enter a gambling-den, 
 where his little store of hard-earned savings is 
 quickly squandered. The demon of gaming takes 
 possession of his soul, and he borrows some of his 
 employer's money. He does not intend to steal it 
 — he could not think of that ; but takes it only as 
 a loan, which he will return when luck changes. 
 His continued losses plunge him deeper and deeper 
 into excesses, until the relentless arm of Ruin 
 crushes down, while the hand of Justice is placed 
 on his shoulder, and the finger of Scorn is pointed 
 not on him alone, but on those whom he holds most 
 
 dear When he regains his liberty, he seeks in 
 
 vain for employment. At every effort he makes to 
 rise, a dozen vulturine hands are ready to beat him 
 down. He is damned by the clergy, reviled by men, 
 
CHRISTMAS AFTERTHOUGHTS. 95 
 
 scorned by women, and ridiculed by children. God 
 seems then too far removed from him to render any 
 aid and comfort. At last he seeks oblivion in dissi- 
 pation, and perishes in a drunken brawl, without a 
 friend to close his dying eyes. The mother — for- 
 getful of herself and child, crazed by despair, taunted 
 by reproach — becomes a drunkard. She sinks to the 
 lowest depths, until she reminds one of Hogarth's 
 figure on the steps of Gin Lane. The little waif 
 before me, once the innocent pledge of two loving 
 hearts, is forced upon the streets to earn the pittance 
 that prolongs her mother's shame. 
 
 A figure looms up between me and the object of 
 my meditation. I can no longer see the little basket, 
 but a pathetic " Bouquets ! " is wafted to me on the 
 still night air. I perceive another female before me. 
 But she is older, both in sin and years, than the 
 other. Still, is it not only a question of time till the 
 affinity between them becomes perfect ? There is 
 no hope for that little child — nothing but ruin, 
 remorse, and death ! J am about to turn away from 
 the object before me ; from the bloated countenance, 
 the lewd leer, the gaudy finery, and the air of un- 
 blushing effrontery ; when the features remind me 
 of one I had once known. Only a few short years 
 ago she was the darling of her parents, the pride of 
 society — honored, worshipped, and idolized by all. 
 Then came the tempter, and then was taken the one 
 false step. A step that could never be regained; for 
 the moment it was made, an inaccessible mountain 
 
96 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 arose behind her, and cut her off from the world. 
 While her betrayer was received into society with 
 open arms, she, whose love had caused her to sacri- 
 fice all, was lost forever. But such is the way of 
 the world. He who takes up arms against public 
 opinion, but writes his own epitaph. Galileo tried 
 it, and met with persecution ; Spencer, Huxley and 
 Tyndall are still struggling with a stubborn world. 
 To argue that the wealth squandered on all the 
 massive piles of marble raised in worship of Him 
 who preached on the mountains, could be better 
 expended in charity, is to hazard the epithet of 
 infidel. I, for one, believe with Dickens, that God 
 looks with a lenient eye upon those sins arising from 
 love ; — but 
 
 " The sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven, 
 By man is curst alway." ±= ' m . '~~". 
 
DADDY'S DUST. 
 
 WHAT makes you cry, Ma ? " asked little 
 Bertie, pleadingly, as he arose from his seat 
 near the hearth and approached his mother, laying 
 his head in her lap. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, child ! I was only thinking of your 
 poor father, and how much happier we would be if 
 he were alive," returned Mrs. Murdock, drying her 
 eyes. She did not wish her little son to see that she 
 was in pain, but the bright eyes and quick ears had 
 discovered her sorrow, and so she tried to quiet his 
 fears by reminding him of his father — a name he had 
 learned to love from hearing her repeat it so often. 
 
 But Bertie seemed lo doubt whether that was the 
 cause of her trouble, for he rolled his large blue eyes 
 about till they rested upon his mother's face, as 
 though he could read in her tears more than she 
 seemed willing he should know. He had never seen 
 her so worried before, and he could not bring him- 
 self to think but that some fresh trouble had arrived, 
 for to him it seemed a long, long time since his father 
 had set out on his last journey. Indeed, Mrs. Mur- 
 doch's tears did not spring from the long dim vista 
 
98 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 of the past : her cup of sorrow was overflowed by a 
 new disaster. But she did not wish to worry her 
 little child ; besides, he would not have understood 
 her had she told him. Childhood is made happy 
 by knowing few cares. 
 
 John Murdock had been an unambitious man. 
 He was a child of the people, and grew up without 
 any desire to advance himself. He was a common- 
 place man — there was nothing beautiful in the world 
 to him. As long as he had enough 10 eat and drink, 
 he was content. He had heard of men who devoted 
 their lives to their fellows, and who had been left to 
 starve for their pains. He thought them fools, and 
 could not see how they benefited the world, for did 
 it not continue to advance after they were dead ! 
 When he arrived at the age of manhood he married, 
 but his marriage was only one of convenience ; his 
 wife was the owner of a house, and that would save 
 him the necessity of paying rent. But his expenses 
 were increased, while his income remained the same. 
 He was too ignorant to practice domestic econorrfy, 
 and spent his money when he was married as he had 
 done when he was single. He never thought that 
 by retrenching one outlet he could supply another 
 which was more pressing. Nor did he stop to con- 
 sider that the price of one round of drinks among 
 his tavern cronies would keep his family from 
 starving a whole day. 
 
 Thus matters went from bad to worse, till Sutter's 
 discoveries in California offered him a way out of 
 
DADDY S DUST. 99 
 
 his difficulties. Murdock was among the first to be 
 seized with the gold-fever, and resolved to join the 
 band of careless, mercenary adventurers. His 
 chances seemed worth any hazard, and he did not 
 scruple to ask his wife to mortgage the house, so he 
 could have money to pay for his passage and outfit. 
 Mrs. Murdock consented. She was weak-minded-r 
 even more so than is usual with the sex — and what 
 little individuality she once possessed had long since 
 been mingled with her husband's stronger nature. 
 She married for love, giving up her comfortable 
 home and all the pleasant associations of her girl- 
 hood, fully expecting to have a happier life. She 
 never stopped to think that worldly happiness is 
 visionary, and made up partly by hope and partly 
 by imagination. Her married life fell far short of 
 what she had anticipated, and became so lonely until 
 at last she had resort to the mission-house. She 
 organized a Dorcas-club among her fellow-disconso- 
 lates, who made red flannels for the heathens while 
 the hungry and naked poor of the parish were told 
 to have faith and put their trust in God, and became 
 a prime-mover in all revivals. The seeds thus spread 
 rapidly took root : she grew estranged from the 
 world, from her home, from her husband, and from 
 herself. After gradually drifting into spiritualism, 
 she at last became a monomaniac on the subject of 
 cremation, upon which many pamphlets were current 
 at the time. Woman-like, she had little self-reliance, 
 basing all her opinions upon the thoughts of others, 
 
IOO STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 opinions which could be changed as easily as they 
 were formed. The birth of her child recalled her 
 lost womanhood, motherly instinct made her once 
 more a wife, and she returned to her husband and 
 her home. But her predilection for cremation was 
 not effaced. Indeed, her last words at parting with 
 her husband were to the effect that, should anything 
 happen him, he would not be buried among the 
 wilds, but would send his ashes home. Murdock 
 laughingly gave her his promise, for he had learned 
 to humor his wife in her one absorbing hobby. 
 
 The weary months that followed brought few 
 tidings of the wanderer, and those few were dis- 
 couraging. Murdock attributed the results of his 
 lack of perseverance to ill-luck. Most of the diggers 
 around him became rich, and many made fortunes 
 out of the claims he had deserted as worthless. 
 When the first pan of dirt did not show a shining 
 nugget at the bottom of the cradle, he commenced 
 to dig in a new place, and although he worked very 
 hard, he did so without a purpose, and for the bene- 
 fit of those who followed. 
 
 For two years Mrs. Murdock supported herself 
 and son by needlework, during which time her hus- 
 band's letters became fewer and fewer, until at last 
 they ceased. Then came the news that he had been 
 killed in a railway accident. Despite the vehemence 
 of her despair, she never once forgot the promise 
 her husband had made, and when shortly afterward 
 an expressman delivered her a box, she regarded it 
 
DADDY S DUST. IOE 
 
 as the last chapter in his career. And sure enough, 
 it contained a large earthenware jug, much resem- 
 bling an urn. She placed it on the mantelpiece, and 
 guarded it with jealous and reverential care. 
 
 As Bertie grew up> his mother instilled into his 
 mind a regard for the vase, until he venerated it as 
 something holy. Often would he bring in some of 
 his playmates to take a peep at " Daddy's dust," 
 as he familiarly called it, when his mother was out 
 of hearing ; but he would never approach too near, 
 for fear of hurting it. When some youngster, more 
 daring than the others, evinced a sneaking curiosity 
 to examine the urn, little Bertie would double up 
 his chubby fists and thrash him most heartily. 
 Once, when his mother chided him for fighting thus, 
 he replied : " Mamma, I'd die sooner than let any 
 one touch it, because you love it so ! " 
 
 Bertie was now a clever little fellow of six. He 
 loved his mother, because she was the only friend 
 and protector he had, and it made him sad to see 
 her grieving. His head still lay in her lap, but he 
 had not fallen asleep. He had been thinking what 
 could have so worried his mother, when he suddenly 
 remembered that Deacon Smith had been in the 
 house during the morning, and that a very spirited 
 conversation had taken place, in which he said 
 something that made his mother cry. 
 
 " What was the deacon doing here to-day ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 She kissed him, and did not answer. But when 
 
102 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 he repeated the question, her tears burst out anew, 
 and she said : " I owe him some money, dear, and 
 he said he would put us out of the house if it wasn't 
 paid to-morrow." 
 
 " But I won't let him. I'll hit him with Daddy's 
 big stick ! " he exclaimed, passionately. 
 
 " Hush, hush, child ; you don't know what you're 
 saying. He has the law on his side, and I can do 
 nothing." 
 
 " I can, though ! " Bertie interrupted, jumping to 
 his feet. "Billy Edwards says he is an awful coward, 
 and only goes to church because he's afraid to die, 
 for he knows the bad man would take him. Why, 
 he makes his little boy tend his store every Sunday, 
 and Billy once head him say that that took all the 
 sin off his soul." 
 
 She no longer attempted to check Bertie, and he 
 continued reciting all he had ever heard about the 
 deacon. At length bed-time came ; but he could 
 not go to sleep. Though his mother had said she 
 owed a great deal of money, he thought he could 
 soon earn it. He had seen other boys working — 
 why could he not do the same ? With a mind 
 fraught with these doubting hopes he sank into a 
 restless slumber. 
 
 After breakfast the next morning he started in 
 search of the money which was to pay off the mort- 
 gage. When he had walked till he was tired a 
 gentleman gave him a silver coin for holding his 
 horse. It was more monev than Bertie had ever 
 
DADDV S DUST. 103 
 
 owned, and he felt quite rich as he ran home, thinking 
 how happy his mother would be. Quite out of 
 breath, he ascended the steps and entered the sitting- 
 room. As his mother was not there, he thought he 
 would give her a surprise by putting the money on 
 the mantel, and then call her. Jn his hasty care to 
 place it in a conspicuous position, his hand jostled 
 against the family jar, which tumbled down, breaking 
 into a hundred pieces on the hearthstone. Poor 
 Bertie's heart stood still, his tongue froze to the roof 
 of his mouth, and his knees knocked together with 
 fear, until his trembling limbs refused to support 
 him, and he fell to the floor. The awful horror of 
 what he had done was too much for him to bear. 
 Every little sin he had committed came darting 
 across his mind. There was the farmer with a big 
 stick, holding in his hand the identical apple he had 
 stolen years before. Then came the spinster, 
 berating him for tying a can to her cat's tail. After 
 scolding him till she became black in the face, her 
 whole head changed into the cat, which continued 
 swearing at him till he lost consciousness. 
 
 Mrs. Murdock, hearing the noise, hastened into 
 the room, and almost fainted at seeing the prostrate 
 form of her son. Carrying him to a couch, she was 
 returning for restoratives, when she perceived the 
 fragments of the urn. Terrified by the discovery, 
 she endeavored to collect the precious remains. But 
 she started back and screamed, for her hands were 
 running over with shining gold dust. 
 
THE BIRD OF LOVE. 
 
 DEAR ALF. — They say that Jove laughs at 
 lovers' perjuries. For the future comfort of 
 my soul, I hope that correspondents' promises are 
 included in the category of sinless sins ; for three 
 weeks of my vacation have glided away without your 
 having received one line from your truant compan- 
 ion, despite the solemn vows he plighted at parting. 
 But — though with no disrespect to your friendship — 
 when one flees from the cares and bustle of the busy 
 commercial world to seek rest in the solitudes of 
 nature, among blooming flowers, waving trees, and 
 sparkling streams, the farthest from his thoughts are 
 the scenes he lately left. The heart of man is prone 
 to novelty ; few men are content with their stations 
 in this world. However prosperous they may be in 
 business, they are ever jealous of the success of even 
 their humblest rivals. I have no doubt but that 
 many a monarch has often wished to lay aside his 
 sceptre and take up the cross of the poor man. But 
 enough of this moralizing. I am well aware you 
 have little of the philosopher in your complexion. 
 I have become habituated to rustic life and enjoy 
 
THE BIRD OF LOVE. I05 
 
 it accordingly, but at first it was very dull and 
 tedious. The fact is, that the old school of writers, 
 many of whom never saw any more of the country 
 than could be viewed from their garrets in Grub 
 street or through the grated windows of a spunging- 
 house, have given us such glowing pictures of 
 pastoral life, that when one makes a pilgrimage to 
 the shrine of Pan, he becomes dissatisfied with his 
 surroundings, and chides himself for having left the 
 comforts of a city home. But what with shooting, 
 fishing, and basking in the sun, the days glide away 
 with surprising rapidity. 
 
 My dear Alf, I can imagine how surprised you 
 will be when I tell you I have lost my heart on a 
 guileless young dryad — a very charming and original 
 little sprite, with whom I became acquainted under 
 rather singular circumstances. During one of my 
 matutinal sallies among the feathered tribe, I hap- 
 pened to wing a plump partridge. Following in the 
 wake of the fluttering bird through the gorse, I 
 suddenly came upon a broad verdant plateau ; and 
 there I met my fate. Standing before me was the 
 most beautiful creature I had ever seen. I became 
 rooted to the spot by the dazzling splendor of the 
 vision. How captivating was the tout ensemble! 
 The graceful, sylph-like form ; the sparkling blue 
 eyes ; the flowing wealth of golden hair, upon which 
 even the lengthening sunbeams seemed to cast a 
 shadow ; the delicately chiselled nose ; the laughing 
 mouth ; the ruby lips ; and the small feet and 
 
106 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 neatly-turned ankles, which the short dress failed to 
 hide from my love -inflamed eyes.. O Alf ! You 
 who have wandered only in fancy through those 
 Elysian bowers described so well by Boccaccio, 
 imagine the state of my feelings at that moment, 
 and then remember that even the most lucid sallies 
 of your imagination cannot but fall far short of the 
 reality. 
 
 At last I recovered from my trance, and saw that 
 the young girl had my wounded bird nestled in her 
 bosom. I was about to apologize for my seeming 
 cruelty to Mr. Partridge, when she anticipated me 
 with, ' Please, sir, may I keep this ? ' I hesitated a 
 moment at the prospect of losing so delicious a 
 breakfast, but as I took another survey of her 
 charms, I sacrificed appetite to love. ' But,' said I, 
 the bird is too badly hurt to live.' ' Oh, never 
 mind that ; I don't want to keep it alive.' * Well, 
 continued I, charmed by her tender feeling, 'at 
 least let me have it sent to the city to be stuffed ? ' 
 'Thank you, very much; but mother stuffs part- 
 ridges splendidly ! ' — and as she spoke, she held 
 the bird horizontally in one hand, while with the 
 other she calmly wrung its neck. O Alf ! had I 
 not felt myself entirely outwitted by this artful little 
 nymph, I should have roared out laughing. But 
 choking my rising choler, I lifted my hat and stalked 
 off in the direction of the ranche. 
 
 To make a long story short, she made such an 
 impression on my heart that I cultivated an 
 
THE BIRD OF LOVE. 107 
 
 acquaintance with her family, for like a skilful artist 
 I commenced to work in the background before I 
 put the finishing touches to the portrait, and so 
 ingratiated myself in the good graces of her mother, 
 that the whole village is agog with vague rumors of 
 ' that city chap.' 
 
 When I write again, you may expect an invitation 
 to the wedding of your friend, Jack Dalton. 
 
THE VAGABOND. 
 
 " Let him who is without sin cast the first stone." 
 
 HE had fallen into evil ways. Either his moral 
 nature had not been strong enough to combat 
 the trials and ceaseless troubles of life, or Fate had 
 dealt hardly with him. 1 do not think it was the 
 former. There was nothing faint - hearted about 
 Bill ; nor was his life wholly bad or depraved. 
 Roughing it for twenty years among the Rocky 
 Mountains, after a childhood and youth in a New 
 England village, had covered with a thick husk the 
 innocent simplicity of his nature, and given to his 
 exterior a rough and burly appearance. But the 
 fruit beneath was as mellow as ever ; the steel - grey 
 eye was still bright and piercing ; the forehead, now 
 deeply furrowed, was yet broad and noble ; and 
 even the bushy growth of whiskers could not hide 
 the delicate outlines of the mouth, when a vision of 
 happier days found expression in his countenance. 
 But there was a certain sadness about him which 
 time could not erase — some never-to-be-forgotten 
 memory that haunted him continually. It made 
 him reckless, and urged him on to deeds of useless 
 
THE VAGABOND. IO9 
 
 folly and daring. Yet although his pensiveness 
 drove him into solitude, he was a favorite with his 
 fellow-miners, who regarded him with admiration 
 and a feeling akin to pity. 
 
 I had joined the camp rather for the sake of 
 recuperating my health than from any pecuniary 
 considerations. The mining fever had little attrac- 
 tion for me ; nor were my professional duties likely 
 to be much required. A camp of miners in those 
 days seldom needed the services of a doctor. To 
 be sure, quarrels were of frequent occurrence ; but 
 they were ended in a few seconds. Each man knew 
 the consequence of having hot words with a com- 
 rade. He who drew the first was victor ; and by 
 the time the smoke had cleared away there was little 
 need of a doctor. 
 
 I had taken a liking to Bill from the moment I 
 saw him. Though somewhat effaced by rough 
 scenes and rough men, there were traces of refine- 
 ment in him not to be encountered among his 
 comrades. His education was so general that I 
 intuitively felt he had not been brought up to the 
 life he was then leading. It was sympathy with his 
 misfortunes, coupled with a desire to learn who and 
 what he was, that made me become a Boswell to his 
 Johnson. But his recluseness made me despair of 
 ever penetrating through the rough garb he had 
 assumed. With such a predilection for his welfare, 
 it was with feelings of the most poignant regret that 
 I saw Bill had fallen into evil ways. A short time 
 
IIO STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 before, his arm had received serious injury in the 
 shaft gear. The boys helped him along as well as 
 they could, and kept him employed doing small 
 jobs about the camp. But Bill seemed to have 
 become quite disheartened by the accident. He 
 did not wish to be a burden on his mates, and 
 though he would have done the same for any of 
 them, his spirit was crushed by the thought of living 
 on their bounty. He took to drinking, spending 
 day after day locked up in his cabin. His strong 
 constitution soon broke down, and he became a 
 wreck of his former self. He associated with the 
 most desperate characters, and was often absent for 
 weeks at a time, returning for a debauch in his 
 cabin with the money he had brought back. Where 
 he got it, his comrades could only guess. I was not 
 much surprised when one afternoon I saw Bill borne 
 past my door on a stretcher, but hastened to him 
 when I received word that he wished to see me. 
 
 Bill was lying upon a pile of skins in one corner 
 of the rude cabin. He half arose on my approach 
 and nodded his head in recognition. This inhospi- 
 table welcome did not astonish me, for of late Bill 
 had grown unusually taciturn. But when he sank 
 back on the couch with a low, long-drawn sigh, as 
 one oppressed with weakness and pain, I hurried to 
 his side. Feeling his pulse, I looked into his eyes. 
 The sight quite unnerved me for a time. I had 
 seen many men die, but never before had I perceived 
 so vividly that sad, unearthly light of death. Bill 
 
THE VAGABOND. ! 1 I 
 
 noticed my agitation and fixed his large eyes upon 
 me until they seemed to pierce me through and read 
 my inmost thoughts. Eying me thus for a full 
 minute, he said, in a low, firm voice : 
 
 " Doctor, must Bill pass in his checks this time ?" 
 
 I hesitated. He took me by the hand, and look- 
 ing me full in the face, continued : 
 
 44 None of that, doctor. Tell me straight and 
 honest if there's any hope?" 
 
 When I told him he must put his trust in God 
 and hope for the best, he became more resigned. 
 Motioning me to a stool, he pointed to a shelf on 
 which were pipes and tobacco, and a flask of spirits. 
 I lighted a pipe and seated myself by his side. His 
 head had fallen back on his arm, and his eyes 
 remained closed for a long time. By the twitching 
 of his muscles I saw that a violent mental struggle 
 was going on within. At last he seemed to come to 
 an understanding with himself, for he asked for a 
 drink and propped himself up in the couch. 
 
 " 1 felt I was dying, doctor, and that's why I sent 
 for you ; not because 1 thought you could prolong 
 a life that I'm now glad is drawing to a close, but 
 because you could do more for me than any of the 
 boys. I've something I reckon I should tell you, 
 for I want to make my peace with my Maker. I 
 once resolved to let my life remain buried in my 
 bosom, but I then had youth and novelty to divert 
 my thoughts. These wild scenes drove the past 
 from my memory, and made me hope for happiness 
 
112 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which my judgment should have told me I could 
 never have. But the approach of death shows me 
 that man can never be satisfied with this life, and 
 that he must look for happiness beyond the grave." 
 
 Bill remained silent for a time. I thought he was 
 doubting whether he should confide his past history 
 to a comparative stranger. He must have soon 
 silenced any scruples he might have had, for he 
 continued : 
 
 "I was born in Massachusetts, in the town of 
 
 W . At the age of twenty I'd received a good 
 
 education and aided my father in publishing the 
 weekly paper, of which he was the proprietor. 
 Everything seemed bright for me : my occupation 
 was congenial to my disposition, the inhabitants 
 looked up to me, and I had the love of one whom I 
 intended to soon make my wife. In the midst of 
 my happiness, a small band of revivalists spread 
 their tent among us, proposing to carry on a vigor- 
 ous and lengthy crusade. The leader, Judas Cant- 
 well, found lodgings at the home of my betrothed, 
 whose parents were as poor as they were happy. * 
 My father was greatly opposed to these enthusiastic 
 Christians, saying that they debased human nature 
 and brought ridicule upon religion by representing 
 it as a stump-speaker does a dishonest politician. 
 I thought he was too severe in his judgment, for 
 they appeared honest and sincere men, although 
 they did manage to get a good deal of money. 
 Under the influtnce of Cant well, my Stella conceived 
 
THE VAGABOND. I 13 
 
 an aversion to all worldly things, and was constant in 
 her attendance at the meetings. Indeed, each of 
 these men seemed to have taken some young and 
 innocent girl under his especial care. I noticed a 
 great change in Stella : she shunned her former 
 companions; a weird, wild light had come into her 
 eyes ; and she became subject to violent fits of 
 hysteria. She no longer took any pleasure in my 
 society, and my chaste caresses were met with looks 
 of disapproval. I was driven nearly insane with 
 her indifference during the few months that fol- 
 lowed, by the end of which time her dislike for me 
 had become too noticeable to be misunderstood. 
 Not long after this, Stella's mother sent me a 
 message, begging my immediate attendance. I 
 responded hurriedly, and found the whole family 
 plunged into the most vehement grief. It was the 
 same old story. Under the garb of sanctity. Cant- 
 well had gradually weaned Stella from her lover, 
 from her father, and from her mother. When he 
 had accomplished her ruin, he fled from the scene 
 of his infamy. She remained in her room. Shame, 
 humiliation, and the sudden realization of her mis- 
 placed confidence, had undermined her health. I 
 knelt by her bedside and prayed. With tears in 
 her eyes she called God to witness that she had 
 never intended to wrong me. By the most insinu- 
 ating villainy, Cantwell had weakened her intellect 
 and, under what is erroneously called religious 
 excitement, betrayed her. She assured me that she 
 
114 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 was unconscious of all at the time, and had no 
 power to resist him. I prayed God to forgive 
 her, and told her I believed all she had said. I 
 could not have said otherwise, for nothing could 
 ever have made me doubt her. — But, doctor, was 
 what she said true ? You know more about that 
 than I do." 
 
 The dying man's eyes were turned upon me. I 
 could not evade his question, nor was it in my heart 
 to tell him other than that truth which is so little 
 understood. I assured him that what she said was 
 true ; that, instead of being beneficial, all revivals 
 had the most debasing effect upon weak-minded 
 woman ; that what was called _ religious excitement, 
 was the derangement of their nervous systems and 
 the overpowering influence of passions which they 
 would be ashamed to acknowledge ; and that a 
 woman thus rendered oblivious was not to be hekl 
 responsible. I told him that sudden conversions 
 were seldom sincere ; and cited the instance of the 
 most depraved characters who often startle one with 
 the vehemence of their prayers at revivals, but who 
 return to their haunts of sin when the excitement 
 has left them. I also told him that St. Paul had 
 discountenanced all such insincerity, when he said : 
 " Hast thou faith ? Have it in thyself." My words 
 comforted him greatly, for he was perfectly calm 
 when he continued. 
 
 " I was beside myself with rage when I left the 
 house in search of the despoiler of my happiness. 
 
THE VAGABOND. I 15 
 
 The news had spread, and I found an angry crowd 
 gathered around the tent, which was being struck in 
 great haste. The revivalists protested that Cantwell 
 had nothing to do with them ; that they had met 
 him during one of their peregrinations, and that he 
 had followed them wherever they went. I knew 
 they were lying, for he had superintended all their 
 meetings. But what convinced me most, was the 
 fact that he had always taken charge of the collec- 
 tion-baskets. Cantwell was not to be found. I felt 
 that God would not let him escape my vengeance, 
 and employed a little boy to discover the destination 
 of the enthusiasts. They spread their tent in a 
 village some miles beyond, whither I rapidly fol- 
 lowed. The meeting was in progress when I arrived, 
 and, O God ! what were my feelings when I saw 
 the despicable wretch exhorting his ignorant hearers 
 to join the army of Christ ! I rushed toward the 
 platform. He heard the noise, and turned, meeting 
 me face to face. He made a movement as if to 
 draw a weapon ; but I was upon him. Seizing his 
 hands, with all the rage of blighted hopes and ruined 
 happiness, I bore him back. His wrists snapped in 
 two like pipe-stems. I grasped him by the throat 
 and dealt him a blow between the temples. He fell 
 backward with alow groan, and I lost consciousness. 
 When I regained my senses, I found myself hemmed 
 in by prison walls. The jailer said that Cantwell 
 was dead — that his skull had been fractured by 
 the fall. I got down on my knees and prayed in 
 
Il6 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 gratitude for the speedy retribution that had over- 
 taken him. 
 
 " The news of my incarceration soon reached my 
 friends, and a party of the boys, under cover of the 
 night, effected an entrance to my cell and liberated 
 me. My Stella had already breathed her last, while 
 her mother and her father were not expected to live. 
 My friends supplied me with money, and advised 
 me to escape. Why should I stay ? The public 
 sympathy was with me, but the bigotry of the jury 
 might have convicted me of a crime of which I felt 
 innocent. My Stella was dead, her murder was 
 expiated, I had nothing left to live for, so 1 was easily 
 prevailed upon to follow their counsel. Twenty 
 years have come and gone since then. If I have 
 been reckless of my life, it was because I did not 
 care to live ; if I have shunned the haunts of men, 
 it was because their treachery drove me from them; 
 if I have committed a crime, it was because my 
 necessity was great ; if T fled without looking upon 
 the last resting place of my love, it was because she 
 was buried here — away down here where a fellow 
 feels it the most," and as he spoke he placed his 
 hand upon his heart. 
 
 He ceased, because his breath had almost fled. 
 A cordial revived him only for a moment. He ex- 
 pressed a wish to be carried out in the open air, for 
 he wanted to die with the bright blue sky above 
 him. It would make him feel nearer to heaven, he 
 said. The twilight was drawing on apace ; the sun 
 
THE VAGABOND. I 1 7 
 
 was just dipping his golden disc beyond the distant 
 hills. Bill was nearing his end. He was resigned, 
 and I knew his death would be an easy one. I S3w 
 him make a movement toward his breast, and, 
 opening his buckskin jacket, I drew from his bosom 
 the miniature of a beautiful girl. He had fallen 
 back in my arms, and a smile of pleasure and 
 gratitude lit up his ghastly features as I placed the 
 picture to his lips. I asked him if he had any 
 message to leave ; there was a tremor of his mouth. 
 I bent down to catch his last words : 
 
 ' k Yes, tell the boys, Bill 's gone home ! " 
 
THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. 
 
 SOME years ago I met with a very original 
 character, Percy Milnes by name. A certain 
 similitude of disposition made us firm friends, and J 
 enjoyed his perfect confidence. He was young — 
 one-and-twenty — but an excellent education and 
 an extensive knowledge of the world made him 
 appear much older. His individuality was distinctly 
 marked, but so indigenous to himself that months 
 elapsed before I could understand him. I gleaned 
 much of his past history from a few fugitive express- 
 ions he had let fall from time to time ; for he was 
 usually very reticent in speaking of his private affairs. 
 His father, who had been a linen-draper in London, 
 died when Percy was but nine years of age. For a 
 time his mother had continued the business^ but the 
 responsibility proving too great, and affording at 
 best but a precarious subsistence, she retired, and 
 came to the new world. 
 
 Trusting explicitly in the benignity of Providence 
 to replenish their little store, they existed with no 
 thought of the future. Although they lived frugally, 
 within three years their little fortune had so visibly 
 
THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. II9 
 
 diminished as to make it apparent that something 
 must be done ; for in continual subtractions, with 
 no additions, money soon vanishes. Percy, having 
 a talent for painting, deemed it incumbent on him 
 to meet the emergencies of fortune, and with little 
 difficulty obtained employment. Urged on by am- 
 bition, and disheartened by the miserable pittance 
 he was receiving from his employers, Percy had, two 
 years before I met him, opened a small studio of his 
 own. What is known as prosperity in business, if 
 traced to its source, will, in the majority of cases, be 
 found to arise from hard work rather than from any 
 freak of fortune. Thanks to his untiring industry, 
 Percy scarcely knew an idle moment after the first 
 few months had elapsed. It was here that he dis- 
 played one of his chief characteristics. Unlike most 
 young persons, he was not versatile, continually 
 rushing headlong into Utopian enterprises, only to 
 be cast aside for new schemes as soon as the novelty 
 wore off. He never did anything hastily, but when 
 his mind was once made up, he became as fixed as 
 the north star. Whatever object he undertook, be 
 it ever so trifling in its import, he never allowed it 
 to flag, but persevered heart and soul toward its 
 consummation. Still, he received little encourage- 
 ment ; while the work was hard, the profit was pro- 
 portionately small. He soon discovered that a lack 
 of influential patrons not only operated greatly to 
 his prejudice, but placed him under the control of 
 his more fortunate collaborators. Even praise, 
 
120 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 which is so delectable to the heart and vanity of the 
 youthful dilettante, was denied him. His labors 
 consisted rather of finishing the work of others than 
 originating any of his own. In short, he belonged 
 to that vast army of supernumeraries who "fill in " 
 the less important parts of the works of more suc- 
 cessful rivals. Even though there was but little 
 responsibility attached to this calling, yet, having to 
 be executed carefully, it was very tedious and 
 laborious. 
 
 The sedentary life, incident to his occupation, had 
 a most injurious effect upon Percy, particularly as 
 he had been delicate from his birth. More than 
 once I expostulated with him, advising him to relax 
 a little from his labors, and take more out-door 
 exercise ; but he remained obstinate to my sug- 
 gestions. He was so hopeful. How the poor wan 
 face would flush with honest pride, the toil-dimmed 
 eyes sparkle with ambition, the compressed shoulders 
 cast off their roundness, and the head assume its 
 old-time carriage, as he confided to me his dream of 
 the future ! With what a throb of self- congratula- 
 tion would he show me the recent additions to his 
 little bank account ! " Only two more years," he 
 would say, " and then I shall reap the harvest of 
 my labors." I encouraged him as well as I could, 
 though my heart often prompted me to warn him 
 against placing too much confidence in the flattering 
 delusions of hope. But it seemed to me that this 
 feeling of hope was the only thing which gave him 
 
THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. 12 1 
 
 strength to cope with the importunities of the 
 consumption that was slowly wasting him away. 
 Nor was it long before my suspicions were verified. 
 Percy's ambition was to spend a few years in Italy, 
 where he would have a better opportunity of study- 
 ing. Nor did he purpose going there alone. For 
 nearly a year he had been engaged to Esther Gibson, 
 a girl whom he loved with such a love as only he 
 was capable of conceiving. Buoyed up by these 
 endearing hopes, he labored on with unceasing 
 patience, but to the detriment of his health. 
 
 Percy was so sanguine of ultimate success, living 
 with only the one object in view, that, although the 
 course of his love was anything but smooth, I could 
 not but encourage him in his ambition. Esther's 
 parents were opposed to the match, for many rea- 
 sons ; not the least being his unpromising prospects. 
 This, to me, seemed a most stubborn obstacle in his 
 way ; for however much she might love him, the 
 remonstrances of her parents could not but weaken 
 her affection, as their engagement must of necessity 
 be a prolonged one. Despite the assurances he 
 gave me of her professed constancy, I still harbored 
 misgivings. If the majority of similar cases were 
 analyzed, hypocrisy would be found lurking behind 
 these protestations of faithfulness. There are few 
 passions so incident to woman as the spirit of 
 contrariety, and she appears to derive a certain 
 satisfaction from the knowledge that she is thwarting 
 the wishes of her parents. But, eventually, this 
 
122 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 conflict so lessens her love, that the slightest un- 
 pleasantness is liable to create a breach. The 
 reason I thought of this in Percy's case was, that he 
 was subject to periodical spells of despondency. 
 When these fits of melancholy came upon him, he 
 grew very fretful and morose, and often insulted his 
 most intimate friends with his unbridled sarcasm. 
 I, who knew him so well, never paid any attention 
 to what he said during these odd intervals, for any 
 admonitions could not but result in a quarrel. He 
 was aware of this failing, and frequently counselled 
 me to never take offense at anything he might say, 
 for at those times he labored under an irresistible 
 impulse. As he had only been accustomed to them 
 of late years, he hoped they would entirely disappear 
 upon the consummation of his longings. 
 
 When the summer came I felt very sorry for 
 Percy, for I knew that Esther always spent that 
 season among her relatives in the country. But he 
 bore the pangs of separation better than 1 had 
 expected. While he suffered intensely, a flood of 
 tears frequently came to mitigate the anguish of his 
 mind. 1 often compared them to a rainbow of love, 
 for the sunshine of his heart seemed to be piercing 
 the mists that filled his eyes. 
 
 But the separation was destined to be of longer 
 duration than he had thought. Esther did not 
 return home when expected, but at the close of the 
 summer Percy received a letter, in which she asked 
 him to release her from her engagement. I saw him 
 
THE APOSTATE OF LOVE. I 23 
 
 the subsequent evening, when he handed me the 
 fatal epistle, saying, as he did so, that it was all over. 
 I was surprised at his calmness, but I should not 
 have been so, for his grief was too intense to find 
 vent in outward expressions. I should have looked 
 within for the vestige of the struggle he was having 
 with the remonstrances of misfortune ; for as the 
 continual dripping of water will wear away the 
 hardest rock, in like manner will the silent tears of 
 sorrow operate upon the heart. I noticed that he 
 no longer took any interest in his studies, and that 
 the trip to Italy was relinquished forever. I en- 
 deavored to solace him, but my rhetoric was of no 
 avail. All his hopes had been based on the one 
 object, and his nature was too unyielding to ever 
 allow him to cherish another. Because Esther no 
 longer loved him was no reason why his love for her 
 should be smothered. The average person, in 
 Percy's position, would have discarded all thoughts 
 of Esther from his mind, laboring under the delusion 
 that he had to turn his former love into hate, for the 
 purpose of retaining a certain indescribable some- 
 thing which mortals call Dignity. It is all very well 
 to be dignified, but no man should allow it to warp 
 all the finer sensibilities of his nature. Percy's 
 spirit was not vindictive, so he could derive no 
 comfort from becoming dignified. If there had 
 been less sincerity in his nature the gaunt fingers of 
 sorrow would not have left their indelible imprint 
 upon his heart. But after all, it was only hope that 
 
124 STANZAS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 had sustained him the past year, for the moment his 
 sole ambition had vanished, he fell a victim to that 
 slow-paced death — consumption. 
 
 The winter dragged slowly on. Each day Percy's 
 form became more and more emaciated, his cheeks 
 more shrunken, his step less firm, and his eyes more 
 hollow. He who had never given way to levity now 
 seldom smiled. But he did not long weary heaven 
 with his sorrow. The hacking cough, in its mono- 
 tone, seemed to mark off the days of his existence. 
 When spring came, before the birds began to sing, 
 and the flowers to bloom, the soothing hand of death 
 put the period to his life's pilgrimage.