Town and Country; Or, Life at Home and Abroad Part 20

Written for KAH-GE-GA-GAI-BOWH, a representative from the Northwest Tribes of American Indians to the Peace Convention in Frankfort-on-the- Maine, Germany; and recited by him on board the British steams.h.i.+p Niagara, at the hour of sailing from Boston, July 10th, 1850.

THE day is brightening which we long have sought; I see its early light and hail its dawn; The gentle voice of Peace my ear hath caught, And from my forest-home I greet the morn.

Here, now, I meet you with a brother's hand- Bid you farewell-then speed me on my way To join the white men in a foreign land, And from the dawn bring on the bright noon-day.

Noon-day of Peace! O, glorious jubilee, When all mankind are one, from sea to sea.

Farewell, my native land, rock, hill, and plain!

River and lake, and forest-home, adieu!

Months shall depart ere I shall tread again Amid your scenes, and be once more with you.

I leave thee now; but wheresoe'er I go, Whatever scenes of grandeur meet my eyes, My heart can but one native country know, And that the fairest land beneath the skies.

America! farewell, thou art that gem, Brightest and fairest in earth's diadem.

Land where my fathers chased the fleeting deer; Land whence the smoke of council-fires arose; Land whose own warriors never knew a fear; Land where the mighty Mississippi flows; Land whose broad surface spreads from sea to sea; Land where Niagara thunders forth G.o.d's praise;-- May Peace and Plenty henceforth dwell with thee, And o'er thee War no more its banner raise!

Adieu, my native land,--hill, stream, and dell!

The hour hath come to part us,--fare thee well.

UNLEARNED TO LOVE.

HE hath unlearned to love; for once he loved A being whom his soul almost adored, And she proved faithless; turned in scorn upon His heart's affections; to another gave The love she once did pledge as all his own.

And now he doth not love. Within his heart Hate dwells in sullen silence. His soul broods Over its wrongs, over deluded hopes.

Fancy no more builds airy castles.

Amid the crowd he pa.s.ses on alone.

The branches wave no more to please his eye, And the wind singeth no sweet songs to him.

The murmuring brook but murmurs discontent, And all his life is death since Love hath fled.

O, who shall count his sorrows? who shall make An estimate of his deep, burning woes, And place them all in order, rank on rank?

Language is weak to tell the heart's deep, wrongs.

We think, and muse, and in our endless thought We strive to grasp, with all the mind's vast strength, The undefinable extent of spirit grief, And fail to accomplish the herculean task.

WHAT WAS IT?

IT was a low, black, miserable place; Its roof was rotting; and above it hung A cloud of murky vapor, sending down Intolerable stench on all around.

The place was silent, save the creaking noise, The steady motion of a dozen pumps, That labored all the day, nor ceased at night.

Methought in it I heard a hundred groans; Dropping of widows' tears, and cries of orphans; Shrieks of some victim to the fiendish l.u.s.t Of men for gold; woe echoing woe, And sighs, deep, long-drawn sighs of dark despair.

Around the place a dozen hovels stood, Black with the smoke and steam that bathed them all; Their windows had no gla.s.s, but rags and boards, Torn hats and such-like, filled the paneless sash.

Beings, once men and women, in and out Pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed from darkness forth to light; And children, ragged, dirty, and despised, Clung to them. Children! heaven's early flowers, In their spring-time of life, blighted and lost!

Children! those jewels of a parent's crown, Crushed to the ground and crumbled to the dust.

Children! Heaven's representatives to man, Made menial slaves to watch at Evil's gate, And errand-boys to run at Sin's command.

I asked why thus it was; and one old man Pushed up the visor of his cap, and said: "That low, black building is the cause of all."

And would you know what 't was that wrought such ill, And what the name of that low building was?

Go to thy neighbor, read to him these lines, And if he does not tell thee right, at first, Then come to me and you shall know its name.

LETTERS AND LETTER-WRITING.

THERE is nothing from which more real enjoyment can be derived than the art of letter-writing. All praise to the inventive genius that gave to man a written language, and with it the implements with which to talk across the world! Did you ever think, reader, what a world this would be without pen, ink, and paper? Then, the absence of friends were painful, and, as we grasped the friendly hand, bade our acquaintances "good-by," and saw the last, far-distant wave of the parting signal, we might turn aside to weep, as we thought we should never hear from them till we met face to face-perhaps never.

But, as it is, when friends leave, we expect a message from their hearts soon, to solace our own. How we watch, and how we hope! What a welcome rap is the postman's! With what eagerness we loosen the seal; with what pleasure we read, from date to signature, every word!

It may not be uninteresting, nor wholly uninstructive, to examine the various modes of letter-writing, and to spend a brief half-hour with those who have by their letters made grave or gay impressions on the public mind.

Some write letters with great ease; others, with great difficulty.

Miss Seward was an inveterate letter-writer. There have been published six large volumes of letters written by her; besides these, she left twelve quarto volumes of letters to a publisher of London, and these, it is said, are but a twelfth part of her correspondence. It seems as though she must have written nothing but letters, so many and various were they; but her fame as an auth.o.r.ess will convince any one that her industry overcame what might seem an impossibility, and that her genius in this particular resembled that of the steam-writing machine, Dumas, of the present time.

Lord Peterborough had such a faculty for this kind of composition, that, when amba.s.sador to Turin, according to Pope, who says he was a witness of the performance, he employed nine amanuenses, who were seated in a room, around whom Lord Peterborough walked and dictated to each what he should write. These nine wrote to as many different persons, upon, perhaps, nine times as many subjects; yet the amba.s.sador retained in his mind the connection of each letter so completely as to close each in a highly-finished and appropriate manner.

These facts show the ease and rapidity of some writers. In contradistinction to these are the letters of many eminent Latin writers, who actually bestowed several months of close attention upon a single letter. Mr. Owen says: "Such is the defect of education among the modern Roman ladies, that they are not troubled to keep up any correspondence; because they cannot write. A princess of great beauty, at Naples, caused an English lady to be informed that she was learning to write; and hoped, in the course of time, to acquire the art of correspondence."

There are many persons with whom it is the most difficult task of their existence to write a letter. They follow the old Latin writers, and make a labor of what with others is a recreation. They begin with the stereotyped words, "I take my pen in hand," as though a letter could be written without doing so. Then follows, "to inform you that I am well, and hope this will find you the same." There is a period-a full stop; and there are instances of persons going no further, but closing with, "This from your friend, JOHN SHORT."

This "difficulty" arises not from an inability, but from an excessive nicety-a desire to write a prize essay, instead of a good, sociable, familiar letter. To make a letter interesting, the writer must transfer his thoughts from his mind to his paper, as truly as the rays of the sun place the likeness of an object in front of the lens through which it acts upon the silvered plate. Seneca says, "I would have my letters be like my discourses when we sit or walk together, unstudied and easy."

Willis' letters are of a kind always "free and easy." His "Letters from Under a Bridge" are admirable specimens of letters as they should be; and his "Pencillings by the Way" owe much of their popularity to their easy, familiar, talkative style. The letters of Cicero and Pliny, of ancient, and Swift, Pope, Arbuthnot, Madame de Svign, and Lady Mary Wortley Montague, of modern times, are generally received as some of the best specimens extant of epistolary composition. The letters of Charles Lamb are a series of brilliances, though of kaleidoscope variety; they have wit without buffoonery, and seriousness without melancholy. He closes one of them by subscribing himself his friend's "afflicted, headachey, sorethroaty, humble servant, CHARLES LAMB."

Some men, and women too, of eminence, have written curiosities in the form of correspondence. The letter of the mother of Foote is a good example of this kind of correspondence. Mrs. Foote became embarra.s.sed, and, being unable to meet a demand, was placed in prison; whereupon she wrote to Mr. Foote as follows:

"DEAR SAM: I am in prison for debt; come, and a.s.sist your loving mother, E. FOOTE.

It appears that "Sam" was equally entangled in the meshes of the law, for he answered as follows:

"DEAR MOTHER:-So am I; which prevents his duty being paid to his loving mother by her affectionate son,

"SAM FOOTE.

"P. S.-I have sent my attorney to a.s.sist you; in the mean time, let us hope for better days."

These laconic epistles are well matched by that of a French lady, who wrote to her husband this missive of intelligence, affection, &c., &c.: