Lydia H. Sigourney. Scenes in My Native Land. Boston: James Munroe & Co., 1844.

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  THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS.


It was the leafy month of June,
And joyous Nature, all in tune,
     With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward Niagara's fearful side
     A youthful stranger prest;
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe,
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,
     While bending o'er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,
     And heard its thunder-hymn.

His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade,
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,
     Till winter hurled its dart,
For deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of quenchless love,
     That would not let him part.

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p. 149 | THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. |

When darkest midnight veiled the sky,
You 'd hear his hastings step go by,
To gain the bridge beside the deep,
That where its wildest tor[r]ents leap
     Hung threadlike o'er the surge,
     Just there, upon its awful verge,
          His vigil hour to keep.

And when the Moon, descending low,
Hung on the flood that gleaming bow,
Which it would seem some angel's hand
With heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned,
Pure symbol of a Better Land,
He, kneeling, poured in utterance free
The eloquence of ecstasy;
Though to his words no answer came,
Save that One, Everlasting Name,
Which since Creation's morning broke,
Niagara's lip alone hath spoke.

When wintry tempests shook the sky,
And the rent pine-tree hurtled by,
Unblenching mid the storm he stood,
And marked sublime, the wrathful flood,
While wrought the frost-king fierce and drear,
His palace mid those cliffs to rear,
And strike the massy buttress strong,
And pile his sleet the rocks among,
And wasteful deck, the branches bare
With icy diamonds, rich and rare.

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p. 150 | THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. |

Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed
     Such comforts as our natures ask
     To fit them for their daily task,
The cheering fire, the peaceful bed,
The simple meal in season spread:--
While by the lone lamp's trembling light,
As blazed the hearth-stone clear and bright,
     O'er Homer's page he hung,
Or Maro's martial numbers scanned,
For classic lore of many a land
     Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue.
Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound,
He woke the entrancing viol's sound,
     Or touched the sweet guitar,
Since heavenly music deigned to dwell
An inmate in his cloistered cell,
     As beams the solemn star
All night, with meditative eyes,
Where some lone rock-bound fountain lies.

As through the groves with quiet tread,
On his accustomed haunts he sped,
The mother-thrush unstartled sung
Her descant to her callow young,
And fearless o'er his threshold prest
The wanderer from the sparrow's nest;
The squirrel raised a sparkling eye,
Nor from his kernel cared to fly
As passed that gentle hermit by;

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p. 151 | THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. |

No timid creature shank to meet
His pensive glance, serenely sweet;
From his own kind, alone, he sought
The screen of solitary thought.
Whether the world too harshly prest,
Its iron o'er a yielding breast,
Or taught his morbid youth to prove
The pang of unrequited love,
We know not, for he never said
Aught of the life that erst he led.

On Iris isle, a summer bower
He twined with branch, and vine, and flower,
And there he mused, on rustic seat,
Unconscious of the noon-day heat,
Or 'neath the crystal waters lay
Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play.

Yet once, the whelming flood grew strong,
And bore him like a weed along,
Though with convulsive grasp of pain,
And heaving breast, he strove in vain,
Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide,
Lone as he lived, the hermit died.

On, by the rushing current swept,
The lifeless corse its voyage kept,
To where, in narrow gorge comprest,
The whirling eddies never rest,

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p. 152 | THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. |

But boil with wild tumultuous sway,
The maelstrom of Niagara.
And there, within that rocky bound,
In swift gyrations round and round,
     Mysterious course it held,
Now springing from the torrent hoarse,
now battling as with maniac force,
     To mortal strife compelled.

Right fearful 'neath the moonbeam bright,
It was to see that brow so white,
     And mark the ghastly dead
Leap upward from his torture-bed,
     As if in passion-gust,
And tossing wild with agony,
To mock the omnipotent decree,
     Of dust to dust.

At length, where smoother waters flow,
Emerging from the gulf below,
The hapless youth they gained and bore,
Sad to his own forsaken door:
There watched his dog, with straining eye,
And scarce would let the train pass by,
     Save that with instinct's rushing spell,
Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue,
And stiff and stony form, he knew
     The master he had loved so well.

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p. 153 | THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. |

The kitten fair, whose graceful wile,
So oft had won his musing smile,
As round his slippered foot she played,
Stretched on his vacant pillow laid.
While strewed around, on board and chair,
     The last plucked flower, the book last read,
     The ready pen, the page outspread,
     The water-cruise, the unbroken bread,
Revealed how sudden was the snare
     That swept him to the dead.

And so he rests in foreign earth,
Who drew mid Albion's vales his birth;
Yet let no cynic phrase unkind
Condemn that youth of gentle mind,
Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart,
And lettered lore, and tuneful art,
     Who here his humble worship paid,
In that most glorious temple-shrine,
Where to the Majesty divine
     Nature her noblest altar made.

No, blame him not, but praise the Power
Who in the dear, domestic bower,
Hath given you firmer strength to rear
The plants of love, with toil and fear,
The beam to meet, the blast to dare,
And like a faithful soldier bear;

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p. 154 | THE HERMIT OF THE FALLS. |

Still with sad heart his requiem pour,
Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar,
And bid one tear of pitying gloom
Bedew that meek enthusiast's tomb.
            ------

About fifteen years since, in the glow of early Summer, a young stranger, of pleasing countenance and person, made his appearance at Niagara. It was at first conjectured that he might be an artist, as a large portfolio, with books and musical instruments, were observed among his baggage. He was deeply impressed by the majesty and sublimity of the Cataract, and its surrounding scenery, and expressed and intention to remain a week, that he might examine it accurately. But the fascination which all minds of sensibility feel, in the presence of that glorious work of the Creator, grew strongly upon him, and he was heard to say, that six weeks were inadequate to become acquainted with its outlines.

At the end of that period, he was still unable to tear himself away, and desired to "build there a tabernacle," that he might indulge both in his love of solitary musings, and of nature's sublimity. He applied for a spot upon the island of the "Three Sisters," where he might construct a cottage after his own model, which comprised, among other peculiarities, isolation by means of a drawbridge. Circumstances forbidding a compliance with his request, he took up

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p. 155 | LOVE OF BOOKS AND MUSIC. |

his residence in an old house upon Iris Island, which he rendered as comfortable as the state of the case would admit. Here he continued about twenty months, until the intrusion of a family interrupted his recluse habits. He then quietly withdrew, and reared for himself a less commodious shelter, near Prospect Point. His simple and favorite fare of bread and milk was readily purchased, and whenever he required other food, he preferred to prepare it with his own hands.

When bleak winter came, a cheerful fire of wood blazed upon his hearth, and by his evening lamp he beguiled the hours with the perusal of books in various languages, and with sweet music. It was almost surprising to hear, in such depth of solitude, the long-drawn, thrilling tones of the viol, or the softest melodies of the flute, gushing forth from that low-browed hut, or the guitar, breathing out so lightly, amid the rush and thunder of the never slumbering torrent.

Yet, though the world of letters was familiar to his mind, and the living world to his observation, for he had travelled widely, both in his native Europe, and the East, he sought not association with mankind, to unfold, or to increase his stores of knowledge. Those who had heard him converse, spoke with surprise and admiration of his colloquial powers, his command of language, and the spirit of eloquence that flowed from his lips. But he seldom, and sparingly, admitted

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p. 156 | WINTER SCENERY. |

this intercourse, studiously avoiding society, though there seemed in his nature nothing of moroseness or misanthropy. On the contrary, he showed kindness to even the humblest animal. Birds instinctively learned it, and freely entered his dwelling, to receive from his hands, crumbs or seeds.

But the absorbing delight of his existence was communion with the mighty Niagara. Here, as every hour of the day or night, he might be seen, a fervent worshipper. At grey dawn, he went to visit it in its fleecy veil; at high noon, he banqueted on the full splendor of its glory; beneath the soft tinting of the lunar bow, he lingered, looking for the angel's wing, whose pencil had painted it; and at solemn midnight, he knelt soul-subdued, as on the footstool of Jehovah. Neither storms, nor the piercing cold of winter, prevented his visits to this great temple of his adoration.

When the frozen mists, gathering upon the lofty trees, seemed to have transmuted them to columns of alabaster, when every branch, and shrub, and spray, glittered with transparent ice, waved in the sum-beam its coronet of diamonds, he gazed, unconscious of the keen atmosphere, charmed and chained by the rainbow-cinctured Cataract. His feet had worn a beaten path from his cottage thither. There was, at that time, and extension of the Terrapin Bridge, by a single shaft of timber, carried out ten feet over the fathomless abyss, where it hung tremulously, guarded only

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p. 157 | DEATH OF THE HERMIT. |

by a rude parapet. To this point he often passed and repassed, amid the darkness of night. He even took pleasure in grasping it with his hands, and thus suspending himself over the awful gulph; so much had his morbid enthusiasm learned to feel, and even to revel, amid the terribly sublime.

Among his favorite, daily gratifications, was that of bathing. The few who interested themselves in his welfare, supposed that he pursued it to excess, and protracted it after the severity of the weather rendered it hazardous to health.

He scooped out, and arranged for himself, a secluded and romantic bath, between Moss and Iris Islands. Afterwards, he formed the habit of bathing below the principal Fall. One bright, but rather chill day, in the month of June, 1831, a man employed about the Ferry, saw him go into the water, and a long time after, observed his clothes to be still lying upon the bank.

Inquiry was made. The anxiety was but too well founded. The poor hermit had indeed taken his last bath. It was supposed that cramp might have been induced by the unwonted chill of the atmosphere or water. Still the body was not found, the depth and force of the current just below, being exceedingly great.

In the course of their search, they passed onward to the Whirlpool. There, amid those boiling eddies, was the pallid corse, making fearful and rapid gyra-

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p. 158 | THE WHIRLPOOL. |

tions upon the face of the black waters. At some point of suction, it suddenly plunged and disappeared. Again emerging, it was fearful to see it leap half its length above the flood, and with a face so deadly pale, play among the tossing billows, then float motionless as if exhausted, and anon, returning to the encounter, spring, struggle, and contend like a maniac battling with mortal foes.

It was strangely painful to think that he was not permitted to find a grave, even beneath the waters he had loved; that all the gentleness and charity of his nature, should be changed by death to the fury of a madman; and that the King of terrors, who brings repose to the despot, and the man of blood, should teach warfare to him who had ever worn the meekness of the lamb. For days and nights this terrible purgatory was prolonged. It was on the 21st of June, that, after many efforts, they were enabled to bear the weary dead back to his desolate cottage.

There they found his faithful dog guarding the door. Heavily must the long period have worn away, while he watched for his only friend, and wondered why he delayed his coming. He scrutinized the approaching group suspiciously, and would not willingly have given them admittance, save that a low, stifled wail at length announced his intuitive knowledge of the master, whom the work of death had effectually disguised from the eyes of men.

They laid him on his bed, the thick, dripping mass-

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p. 159 | DESOLATE HERMITAGE. |

es of his beautiful hair clinging to, and veiling the features so late expressive and comely. On the pillow was his pet-kitten; to her, also, the watch for the master had been long and wearisome.

In his chair lay the guitar, whose melody was probably the last that his ear heard on earth. There were also his flute and violin, his portfolio and books, scattered and open, as if recently used. On the spread table was the untasted meal for noon, which he had prepared against his return from that bath which had proved so fatal. It was a touching sight; the dead hermit mourned by his humble retainers, the poor animals who loved him, and ready to be laid by stranger-hands in a foreign grave.

So fell this singular and accomplished being, at the early age of twenty-eight. Learned in the languages, in the arts and sciences, improved by extensive travel, gifted with personal beauty, and a feeling heart, the motives for this estrangement from his kind are still enveloped in mystery. It was, however, known that he was a native of England, where his father was a clergyman; that he received from thence ample remittances for his comfort; and that his name was Francis Abbot. These facts had been previously ascertained, but no written papers were found in his cell, to throw additional light upon the obscurity in which he had so effectually wrapped the history of his pilgrimage.

That he was neither an ascetic nor a misanthrope, has been sufficiently proved. Why he should choose

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p. 160 | BIRDS AMONG THE RUINS. |

to withdraw from society, which he was so well fitted to benefit and to adorn, must ever remain unexplained. That no crime had driven him thence, his blameless and pious life bare witness to all who knew him.

It might seem that no plan of seclusion had been deliberately formed, until enthusiastic admiration of the unparalleled scenery among which he was cast, induced, and for two years had given it permanence. And if any one could be justified for withdrawing from life's active duties, to dwell awhile with solitude and contemplation, would it not be in a spot like this, where Nature ever speaks audibly of her majestic and glorious Author?

We visited, in the summer of 1844, the deserted abode of the hermit. It was partially ruinous, but we traced out its different compartments, and the hearth-stone where his winter evenings passed amid books and music, his faithful dog at his feet, and on his knee his playful, happy kitten.

At our entrance, a pair of nesting-birds flew forth affrighted. Methought they were fitting representatives of that gentle spirit, which would not have disturbed their tenantry, or harmed the trusting sparrow. If that spirit had endured aught from man, which it might neither recover nor reveal; if the fine balance of the intellect had borne pressure until it was injured or destroyed; we would not stand upon the sufferer's grave to condemn, but to pity.

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p. 161 | FATAL ERRORS. |

We would think with tenderness of thee, erring and lonely brother. For at the last day, when the secrets of all are unveiled, it will be found that there are sadder mistakes to deplore than thine:--time wasted idly, but not innocently,--and talents perverted, without the palliation of a virtuous life, the love of Nature, or the fear of God.

        HIGH STREET GARDEN,

       IN HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT.


Flowers!  Flowers! the poetry of earth,
     Impulsive, pure, and wild,
With what a strange delight they fill
     The wandering, mirthful child.
It clasps their leaflets close awhile,
     Then strews them wide around,
For life hath many a joy to spare
     Along its opening bound.

The maiden twines them in her hair,
     And mid that shining braid,
How fair the violet's eye of blue,
     And the faint rose-bud's shade,
Upon her polished neck they blush,
     In her soft hand they shine,
And better crown those peerless charms
     Than all Golconda's mine.

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p. 163 | HIGH STREET GARDEN. |

Above the floating bridal veil
     The white Camella rears
Its innocent and tranquil eye,
     To calm young beauty's fears;
And even when hoary Age recalls
     The memories of that hour,
Blent with the heaven-recorded vow
     Will gleam that stainless flower.

The matron fills her crystal vase
     With gems that summer lends,
Or groups them round the festal board
     To greet her welcome friends.
Her husband's eye is on the skill
     With which she decks his bower,
And dearer is his praise to her
     Than earth's most precious flower[.]

Frail gifts we call them, prone to fade,
     Ere the brief spring is o'er,
Though down the smitten strong man falls
     Returning never more:
Time wears away the arch of rock,
     And rends the ancient throne,
Yet back they come, unchanged as when
     On Eden's breast they shone.

How passing beautiful they are
     On youth's unclouded plain,

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p. 164 | HIGH STREET GARDEN. |

And yet we scarcely know their worth
     Till life is in its wane;
Then grows their love a deeper thing,
     As our lone pathway tends
Down mid the withering plants of hope,
     And graves of buried friends.

Like ready comforters they bend,
     If sorrow pales the cheek,
And to the sad, desponding heart,
     An angel's message speak;
While to the listening mourner's ear
     They fondly seem to say,
The words of those departed ones
     Who sleep in mouldering clay.

We nurse them in our casement warm
     When winter rule the year,
And see them raise their graceful form,
     The darkest day to cheer;
Amid our folded shroud they glow,
     When death hath had his will,
And o'er our pillow in the dust
     They spring, and blossom still.

Yes, o'er the cradle-bed they creep,
     With rich and sweet perfume,
Around the marriage-altar twine,
     And cheer the darksome tomb,

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p. 165 | HIGH STREET GARDEN. |

They whisper to the faithful dead,
     With their fresh, vernal breath,
That such his rising hour shall be,
     Through Him who conquered death.
             ------

The beautiful domain, known by the name of the High Street Garden, in Hartford, comprises sixteen acres, and is laid out with great taste and adaptation to the nature of the soil and surface. Spacious walks are so arranged as to give effect to the elegance of the parterres, and seats skilfully disposed, under spreading shades, where the visitant may rest, and enjoy the surrounding attractions.

Among eneless varieties of flowers, three hundred families of the queenly rose, with carnations of every shade and hue, diffuse the richest fragrance in their respective seasons. Partially encompassed by a fine hedge, and approached by steps cut in the turf, is a small circular piece of water, where the broad leaves, and pure petals of the water-lily expand themselves, and around whose margin, vases of the hydrangia [sic] luxuriate. The fairest annual flowering plants, shrubs, ornamental trees, foreign and domestic fruits, with a large and splendid green-house, adorn this delightful spot, which, by the liberality of its proprietor, Dr. E. W. Bull, is freely open both to the inhabitants, and to strangers, with only the restriction which their own good sense and good feeling ought to suggest and

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p. 166 | HORTICULTURE. |

enforce, of not defacing or injuring, what they come to admire.

It is the opinion of many lovers of flowers, that their cultivation must necessarily be expensive of both time and money. We are authorized by the owner of this noble garden, to say, that it need not be so. His original purchase of what has since become a possession which the most accomplished florist might covet, was only a few hundred feet, made twenty years since, when just entering on commercial business. Though he had at that time no capital to spare, he felt that daily exercise among the plants that he loved, would be beneficial to his health, and resolved on the establishment of such a system. For this, his first investment in land, he gave six notes, payable in the same number of years.

"These notes," he says, "then troubled me much, as I doubted whether I should be able to pay them at maturity. But at the expiration of six years, I had cancelled them all, and this encouraged me to enlarge my domain to the amount of thousands instead of hundreds. As it was necessary for me to apply myself continually to business, during business hours, I then adopted a plan of early rising, which I have ever since persevered in. My practice for years, was to be at the garden, from half past three to six in the morning, and this gave me an opportunity, in the best and most quiet part of the day, unnoticed, to visit the grounds and mature my plans for their extension and improve-

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p. 167 | VALUE OF EARLY RISING. |

ment. My custom, for a few years past, has been to rise in summer at half-past four, reaching the garden, after breakfast, at six, and regulating my stay there, so as to return precisely at nine, ready to attend to the business of my store."

Can any stronger example be adduced, that a love of flowers, when under the control of a spirit of order and punctuality, may be an appropriate relaxation from the pressure of mercantile care, and perfectly consistent with its prosperous pursuit? May it not also be fraught with collateral benefits of a still higher order? Suppose only the habit of early rising, to be thus acquired and confirmed. What an important addition would two or three hours daily, be to the actual limits of a brief span of life.

Horticulture has long been pronounced by physiologists, salutary to health, and cheerfulness of spirits; and if he who devotes a portion of his leisure to the nurture of the lovely things of nature, benefits himself, he who beautifies a garden for the eye of the community, should surely be counted a public benefactor. He instils into the bosom of the care-worn, the sorrowful, or the selfish, thoughts that heal like a medicine. He cheers the languid, desponding invalid, and brightens the eye of the child, with a more intense happiness.

If simply the admiration of plants and flowers, has a tendency to refine the character, their actual culture must have a more powerful and abiding

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p. 168 | TEST OF MENTAL HEALTH. |

influence. It takes the form of an affection. The seed which we have sown, the blossom we have nursed, the tree of our own planting, under whose shadow we sit with delight, are to us as living and loving friends. In proportion to the care we have bestowed on them, is the warmth of our regard. They are gentle and persuasive teachers of His goodness, who causeth the sun to shine, and the dews to distil, who forgetteth not amid the ice and snows of winter, the tender, buried vine, and calleth forth the germ long hidden from the eye of man, to vernal splendor or autumnal fruitage.

A love of the beautiful things of Nature, has been sometimes assumed as a criterion of the health of the mind. Those who are under the habitual influence of evil tempers, do nto approximate to the spirit and language of flowers. In vain do they reach forth their sweet, clustering blossoms,--envy, hatred, and malice are beyond the reach of such charmers, "charm they never so wisely." But he, who amid the care and weariness of life, finds daily an interval or a disposition to commune with the dew-fed children of Heaven, to devise their welfare, and shelter their purity, has not yet been injured by the fever of political strife, the palsy of the heart, or the eating gangrene of the inordinate desire of riches.

In many other countries, we see the love of flowers, a far more pervading and decided sentiment than in our own. "In Germany," says a female tourist, "garlands of flowers are continually used as tributes of

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p. 169 | FLOWERS IN GERMANY. |

friendship, and parting gifts. Let not these things be accounted trifles. They are, in fact, matters of importance, inasmuch as everything that draws heart to heart, and mind to mind, that contributes even in a remote degree to unite human beings in kind and affectionate remembrance, is of great consequence. Among the working classes, much might be done for the improvement of their morals, habits and manners, by encouraging them to use their few periods of leisure, for the cultivation of flowers. The difference between two poor families, one loving flowers, and the other, ardent spirits, would, at the end of twelve months, be very striking. It ay be said, all cannot have gardens. True. But all may have a few flowers in their windows. More than this, a little wooden balcony might be easily made on the outside of every window. To our own sex, flowers are a boon beyond price. The lady who is fond of her garden, and delights in the cultivation of it, will not seek abroad for expensive pleasures. Home is every thing to her, and if her husband is wise enough to encourage this taste, it will be for his happiness."

The description of the rose-harvest at the Hague, and the flower-markets in other parts of Holland, by Davezac, seems instinct with the very breath and spirit of those gems of creation.

"The harvest of roses draws to the fields, near the Hague, where they are cultivated, throngs of visitants. In the month of May, nothing can be imagined more

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p. 170 | ROSE-HARVEST AT THE HAGUE. |

beautiful, than the aspect of these rose-fields. The air, filled with the sweetest emanations, makes you aware of your approach to them before you come in sight, surrounded as they are, by thick, live hedges, intended to guard the young buds from the inclement winds. An air of festival spread all around, proclaims that this is no vulgar field-work. Hundreds of young girls, dressed as if for a village holiday, commence the gathering with appropriate songs. The first time I witnessed this novel harvest, it seemed like a dream. I became doubtful, whether I stood on Batavian ground. The ethereal sweetness inhaled in every breeze, the earth covered as it were, with a green carpet, embroidered with roses, the melodious voices of so many young and beautiful girls, would have indeed wafted the imagination to the milder regions of Greece or Italy, but that the azure eyes, and golden hair of the pretty Rosières, proclaimed them of the Norman race. These roses, gathered in Holland, strange as it may appear, are shipped to Constantinople, destined to return to Europe, so concentrated by chemical art, that the perfume of 10,000 is often used by a lady, to scent her embroidered handkerchief. The roses are packed up in large hogsheads, and in alternate layers of flowers and salt, pressed with great force." "At Amsterdam, Utrecht, Rotterdam, the Hague, but above all at Harlaem, the floral city, crowds of all classes of society, assemble at the flower-markets, which are held twice a week. There the rich attends,

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p. 171 | CORRECT TASTE. |

to make exclusively his own, by purchase, the rubies, the emeralds, the sapphires of the vegetable kingdom, formed in the depths of the earth, by the slow elaboration of ages; but the humble violet and rose are taken to the home of the poor, to light the gloom of his lowly shed."

If the admiration of what is beautiful in Nature, tends to refine and elevate, that for what is graceful and good in manners and character, might seem to be a step towards their acquisition. "Our taste declines with our merits," said a philosopher of other times. Was his position correct? May taste in any degree be admitted as a test of mental or moral integrity?

"Taste," says a fine writer, "is of all attainments the most easily perceived, yet the most difficult to describe." Its more common modifications, as they are seen in the style of dress, furniture, or arrangements of a household, seem to prove an innate perception of delicacy, a sense of propriety, or a principle of adaptation, which, though not entitled to rank with the severe conclusions of an accurate judgment in matters of higher import, are still in our sex no slight accomplishments, or trifling indications of character. When manifested in graceful movement, or manners, elegance or language, and correct appreciation of the fine arts, it serves as a sort of historical index, pointing to the influence of refined society, education, or such means of improvement, as are seldom accessible in solitude and obscurity. It aids in decyphering the drama in

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p. 172 | MRS. HEMANS' LOVE OF FLOWERS. |

which the individual has moved, or the use made of opportunities, or that inherent strength of the self-taught, which vanquishing obstacles, possesses itself of the fruits, without the usual process of cultivation.

Taste, when drawn into strong sympathy with the beautiful things of nature, cheers the hours of sickness, or decline, and glows even amid the icy atmosphere of death. Combined with a vivid imagination it colors like a passion-tint, the whole of existence, and if surrounding scenes are devoid of its favorite objects, peoples for itself a world of ideal beauty. How touchingly did Mrs. Hemans exclaim, as she drew near the close of life: "I really think the pure passion for flowers, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence. Often, during this weary illness of mine, have I looked upon new books with perfect apathy, when if a friend has sent me but a few flowers, my heart has leaped up to their dreamy hues and odors, with a sudden sense of renovated childhood, which seems one of the mysteries of our being."

And almost the last tone of her sweet lyre, ere it was crushed by death, perpetuated her love of flowers.

"Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again
 Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
 For not alone ye bring a joyous train
 Of summer-thoughts, attendant on your bloom,
 Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
 Of the low murmurs, filling mossy dells,
 Of stars, that look down on your folded bells,

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p. 173 | TASTE, A MENTAL CRITERION. |

 Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume,
 Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
 Like sudden music; more than this ye bring--
 Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love
 Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
 Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fevered breath,
 Whether his lingering couch be that of life or death."

Many instances might be quoted where the true love of Nature has softened asperity of temper, and contributed to the growth of charity towards mankind. Vulgar minds seem not capable of appreciating its pleasures, and the vicious have perverted its purity. The mercenary and the miser suppress it. Hoarded gold monopolizes their devotion. Milton, in portraying Mammon, represents him before his fall from bliss, with eyes and thoughts

"Forever downward bent, admiring more
 The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
 Than aught divine or holy."

Dark passions, and debasing crimes destroy the fine edge of the soul, and corrode it like a canker. Admitting therefore, that a pure taste for the beautiful in nature, is among the tests of mental and moral welfare, we shall prize it not only as a source of pleasure, but an ally of virtue and of piety. Shall we not then seek to multiply the objects which it is legitimate and healthful to admire? Shall we not familiarize our childrn with the harmony of color, the melody of

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p. 174 | LOVE OF NATURE. |

sound, the symmetry of architecture, the delights of eloquence, and the charms of poetry? The fragrant flower, the whitening harvest, the umbrageous grove, the solemn mountain, the mighty cataract, are they not all teachers, or text-books in the hands of the Great Teacher?

Err they not, therefore, who consider a taste for the charms of Nature, a waste of time? The railroad machinery of a jarring world, bridging its abysses, and tunneling the rocks of political ambition, her steamboats rushing to the thousand marts of wealth, silence with their roaring funnels, its still, small voice. But let it be heard by those who meditate at eventide when the rose closes its sweet lips, and the tired babe is lulled on the breast of its mother. Let it be a companion to those, who in the morning prime walk forth amid the dewy fields, loving the beauty of the lily, which Omnipotence stooped to clothe, and from whose bosom, as from a scroll of Heaven, the Redeemer of man taught listening multitudes, the lesson of a living faith.

             BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.


Rise, lofty Column! in thine attic grace,
And to the stranger-bark that ploughs the deep,
Show Freedom's land.  Beckon the homeward-bound,
Like some good angel, hovering o'er the roof
Where sport his little ones, and where with song,
Whose oft-repeated burden is his name,
The mother lulls to sleep her cradled babe.
--Then the rough sailor, battling with the surge,
Forgets his toil, and he who wandered long
In foreign climes, perchance, with eager eye
For glittering pageant, or for regal pomp,
Owns the electric chain that binds so strong
Unto his native hills, and feels how good
To live and die amid his fathers' graves.

But thou,--around thy base, when early Spring
Tints the first violet, lure those beauteous groups
Who gambol free from care.  There should they meet
Some ancient soldier leaning on his staff,
And lost amid the memories of the past,

By their young footsteps roused, he 'll haply raise
His wasted hand, and point each fearful change
Of Bunker's battled-ay,--where the assault
Kindled to wildest fury,--where the voice
Of Prescott and of Putnam, nerved their troops
To deeds of untold daring,--where the cry
Burst forth when Warren fell,--where the dire flash
Was hottest, and the life-blood of the brave
Gushed reddest, till the kingly crest was bowed
To infant Liberty.  Then may they trace,
Those childish listeners, on that furrowed brow
The holy zeal of men of other days,
Who sought no guerdon save their country's weal;
And should that country need, so may they stand,
When time hath knit their sinews, in the might
Of the same heaven-born trust.
                              And if the hands
That never plucked a laurel in the fields
Of iron warfare, nor the fitful weight
Of empire poised, have lent their humble aid
In woman's weakness, to cement thy stones,
Think it no scorn, oh Column! but uprear
Thy glorious head as proudly toward the cloud!
For these, amid their sheltered, lowly sphere,
Making the hearth-stone beautiful with love,
And in the fountain of a nation's hopes
Mingling sweet drops of purity and peace,
Subserve the cause which thou art bound to praise,
To far posterity.

                  And when we pass
On, with our generations to the tomb,
When age on age, like tossing bubbles break,
Stand thou, and mark the dim decay of time.
Yea, though the Sun, like a wounded Cæsar, fold
His mantle darkly round him, be thou firm,
Even till the last flame wraps the wrinkled Earth.
                  ------

Break forth, break forth, in raptured song,
And bid it pour thy vales along,
     Thou pilgrim-planted land!
From fields where ripening harvests bend,
From marts where thronging thousands tend,
     Arouse thy tuneful band.

The breeze that curls thy watery deeps,
The strain that o'er thy mountain sweeps,
     Is fresh with freedom's breath,
Thine annals boast the great and brave
Thy star-clad banner, tells the wave
     Of Liberty or Death.

Rememberest thou those ancient sires,
Who mid the Indian's council fires,
     Explored a trackless clime?
The pillar of their God was bright,
His cloud by day, his flame by night,
     Impelled their course sublime.

Remberest thou the men who shed
Their blood upon thy bosom red,
     When haughty foes were nigh?
The remnant of that wasted band
Here, mid their buried comrades stand,
     Oh! bless them ere they die.

All hail, proud column, strong and fair,
Which to exulting throngs dost bear
     High record of the past,
And show them on this glorious morn,
The spot where Freedom first was born
     Amid the thunder-blast.

Not like those gloomy mounds that rise
O'er crouching Egypt's sultry skies,

     Nor fretted fanes that brave
Old Time, on Rome's imperial soil,
By stern taxation wrung from toil,
     The tyrant from the slave;

But the free gift of hands unchained,
And hearts uncrushed and homes unstained,
     Thou through the cloud dost peer,
And warn, like morning's blessed star
The watchful mariner from far,
     That all he loves draws near.

Still onward o'er the sea of time
Unfold thy chronicle sublime,
     And teach a race unborn
The lesson learned on Bunker's height,
To trust in Heaven, uphold the right,
     And base oppression scorn;

Point to the skies, and bid them read
Of patriot faith, the hallowed creed,
     And guard its ritual bright,
And choose the path their fathers trod,
Those friends of liberty and God,
     Who rose to realms of light.

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