Sartain's Union Magazine of Literature and Art

ordinary incentives be, compared with the | At present, man is wont to look upon many of
silent delight of knowledge? If the husband- the powers of nature with a kind of supersti-
man, as he turns the slow furrow, saw the tious feeling, as if they were his enemies.
component parts and chemical properties of This superstition especially characterized the
the soil, and what would improve it, and, elder periods of the world-the times of the
moreover, with philosophic eye saw the all-world's ignorance. But it still remains, for
surrounding vision of nature; if the manufac- | ignorance still remains. Man still looks upon
turer in leather, in silk, in wood and iron, and
in every material, understood the processes
amidst which he is working; if they that go
down to the sea in ships, that do business in
great waters, saw the works of the Lord, and
his wonders in the deep, how would toil be
lightened, brightened, beautified, by that infu-
sion of the Promethean fire-ay, and of the
holy unction! Man, the labourer, would no
longer be the drudge, the slave, the victim of
tasks. He would be a loving pupil of great and
beautiful Nature. He would stretch forth his
brawny arms to embrace her. He would open
his bright eye to read her lessons. He would
be a "worker together" with nature, and with
God. He would not feel like a shivering out-
cast upon the bleak and pitiless bosom of the
world. Soils, and rocks, and mines, would be
his materials; rain, and storm, and cloud,
would be his ministers; fire, steam, and water
his subject powers; the winds would be his
sportive companions, and the rippling waves
would be music in his ear; earth should nou-
rish him, and ocean cradle him, and heaven
o'er-canopy; and this great world-house should
be a home to him. Yes, he should have a
home in the elements-a home in the storm-a

home in the sunshine-a home in the very
bosom of labour. Often would he go forth,
methinks, hymning his thoughts as he went,
and saying with feeling, if not with words like
those of the poet.

"The turf shall be my fragrant shrine,
My temple, Lord, that arch of thine,
My censer's breath, the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my constant prayers.

"My choir shall be the moonlight waves
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of thee.
"Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

"There's nothing bright above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of the Deity.

"There's nothing dark below, above,

But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again."

Such, then, when duly mixed with higher ends, is the friendly ministration of labour.

many things around him as hostile to him, and
all his thoughts are of resistance, protection,
defence. Cold, and storm, and darkness, and
lightning are his enemies; and worst of all,
his greatest enemy is-amidst this turmoil of
things-the hard necessity of labour. And so he
fleeth from the country, from the tilled field,
and from the bending harvest that waiteth for
the reaper, to the city. He had rather stand
behind the counter and be a mere seller than
to live in the country and be a maker, a
grower, or a manufacturer. And here, too, he
gathereth a fortune, whose great advantage,
in his eyes, is that it is to deliver him from
man's great enemy, the necessity of labour.
And then he buildeth a guarded palace of ease
and luxury, and when the black storm roars in
the heavens, and the rain or snow beats against
his window, he is glad in his heart, and he
rejoiceth that the folding curtain is there, and
the soft couch is by his side, and the bright
fire is before him, and he is fed and clothed,
and cushioned in luxury.

Well, I am not about to deny that ease, and
leisure, and protection are good things in their
place. But this I say, that the world, in all
its elements, and all their visitations, is de-
signed to develope the faculties and energies of
a man. This I say, that the storm is as truly
adapted to this end as the sunshine, and chill
winter as warm summer, and the lightning
itself as much as the equable light of day.
And this too, I say, that toil is more adapted to
this high end than ease; and exposure, wres-
tling with the elements, more than heated rooms
and soft couches and luxurious entertain-
ments.

What is the fact? How many have gone forth amidst the wrestling elements, and in this, "ennobling stir," as the poet says, "felt themselves exalted;"-how many have walked, ay, and worked amidst them as magicianmasters, controlling them with the wand of philosophy, marking and moulding them with the keen eye and the skilful hand; and have themselves become the ornaments and blessings of society. Witness our own Fulton and Franklin. And now turn to the other hand, and look at the possessor of hereditary fortune, more often found in other countries than in this. What has he become? Amidst his abundance it is very likely that he has become helpless; amidst the gathered stores of others' cares and energies, useless and inert. His nerve wants firmness,

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE POET-MARTYR.

and his heart wants fortitude, and his very muscular fibre has lost the true energy through softness and indulgence. He is very likely at least to yield himself up to the enervating appliances of his condition, and if he does so, he is diseased before nature demands it, and superannuated before he is old, and dead before he can be fairly said to have lived. And when he is dead it may be said of him, "he was well clothed, and well fed, and well housed; everything was well but himself."

But I may be told, that although such a comparison may do for satire or declamation, it is all Utopian. Utopian! is it? Is Franklin's fame in Utopia? Are Fulton's steamboats, or Watt's steam-engines in Utopia? Is Sir Richard Arkwright's house in Utopia? I might go on till your patience was exhausted, enumerating examples of those who have risen from obscurity to the loftiest distinction in literature, in arts, in philanthropy; and then I might ask you to give me, for a hundred of my examples, one of an equally noble use of hereditary fortune. And when you had given me your example, then should I claim it for my argument. For this example, too, implies labour, a struggle with the physical or the moral elements of life -and the noblest of all struggles, for it is purely voluntary, and made in resistance to many adverse influences.

But it is time that I should bring this discussion to a close. Let me say, then, as my conclusion, that intelligent effort, homely,

man.

honest virtue, will bear a man through the noblest course that is marked out for us on earth. They will make the true and lofty They will make the artisan an artistworking not merely in mines of gold, or with colours of the painter's palette, but working in mines of wisdom, and with dyes of immortal truth. Philosophy, which rightly understood is both knowledge and piety, would make, amidst all the toils of life, great Nature our mistress. It would make all her powers teachers, and all her tasks lessons. Then, would the great and appointed vocation of our humanity-labour-be indeed a high calling. To the man whose lot it is to toil or to do business, I would say, though all the world says otherwise-though all the maxims of all ages be against me,-yet would I say, and with something the more of earnestness and directness-Sir, think not evil nor scorn of thy lot. I scarcely care what may be the conditions and appendages of that lot. With thy wooden bench instead of a silken couch-with thy rude wagon instead of planks of cedar, and thy cloud-curtain of mist and storm, not gorgeous tapestry; and the lightning's flash upon thy path, not evening's sickly taper; ay, and with thy strong arm and brave heart, and the colour woven upon thy cheek by fresh winds and bright rays of the golden sun, with thy manly form and free attitude and fearless trust in the good Providence, stand in thy lot, or step forward on thy way.

THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

WHAT point of time, unchronicled, and dim
As yon gray mist that canopies your heads,
Took from the greedy wave and gave the sun
Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and hoary Pines?
When, from the barren bosoms of the hills,
With scantiest nurture did ye slowly climb,
Of these remote and latest-fashioned shores
The first-born forest? Titans gnarled and rough,
Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew
To clothe the cold loins of the savage earth,
What fresh commixture of the elements,
What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn soil
Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give
The hills a mantle and the wind a voice?
Along the shore ye lift your rugged arms,
Blackened with many fires, and with hoarse chant-
Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates touch
In elder regions-fill the awful stops
Between the crashing cataracts of the surf.
Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of sound,

To syllable the secret-no still voice
To give your airy myths a shadowy form,
And make us of lost centuries of lore
The rich inheritors?

The sea-winds pluck

Your mossy beards, and gathering as they sweep,
Vex your high heads, and with your sinewy arms
Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper roar,
Sullen and cold, and rousing into spells
Of stormy volume, is your sole reply.
Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride the blast
And from the promontory's utmost verge
Make signal o'er the waters. So ye stood,
When, like a star, behind the lonely sea,
Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's sail;
And when, through driving fog, the breaker's sound
Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy breath
Played as in welcome round their rusty helms,
And backward from its staff shook out the folds
Of Spain's emblazoned banner.

Ancient Pines,

Ye bear no record of the years of man.
Spring is your sole historian-Spring, that paints
These savage shores with hues of Paradise;
That tricks with glowing green your branches out,
And through yon lonely, far cañadas pours
Her floods of bloom, rivers of opal dye
That wander down to lakes and widening seas
Of blossom and of fragrance-laughing Spring,
That with her wanton blood refills your veins,
And weds ye to your juicy youth again
With a new ring, the while your rifted bark
Drops odorous tears. Your knotty fibres yield
To the light touch of her unfailing pen,
As freely as the lupin's violet cup.

Ye keep, close-locked, the memories of her stay,
As in their shells the avelonès keep

Morn's rosy flush and moonlight's pearly glow.
The wild northwest, that from Alaska sweeps,
To shake Point Lobos with the icy scud

And white sea-foam, may rend your boughs and leave
Their blasted antlers tossing in the gale;

Your steadfast hearts are mailed against the shock,
And on their annual tablets nought inscribe

Of such rude visitation. Ye are still
The simple children of a guiltless soil,
And in your natures show the sturdy grain
That passion cannot jar, nor force relax,
Nor aught but sweet and kindly airs compel
To gentler mood. No disappointed heart
E'er sighed its bitterness beneath your shade;
No angry spirit ever came to make

Your silence its confessional; no voice,

Grown harsh in Crime's great market-place, the world, Tainted with blasphemy your evening hush

And aromatic air. The deer alone

The ambushed hunter that brings down the deer

The fisher wandering on the misty shore

To watch sea-lions wallow in the flood-
The shout, the sound of hoofs that chase and fly,
When swift vaqueros, dashing through the herds,
Ride down the angry bull-perchance, the song
Some Indian heired of long-forgotten sires-
Disturb
your solemn chorus.

Stately Pines,
But few more years around the promontory
Your chant will meet the thunders of the sea.
No more, a barrier to the encroaching sand,
Against the surf ye'll stretch defiant arm,
Though with its onset and besieging shock
Your firm knees tremble. Never more the wind
Shall pipe shrill music through your mossy beards,
Nor sunset's yellow blaze athwart your heads
Crown all the hills with gold. Your race is past:
The mystic cycle, whose unnoted birth
Coeval was with yours, has run its sands,
And other footsteps from these changing shores
Frighten its haunting Spirit. Men will come
To vex your quiet with the din of toil;
The smoky volumes of the forge will stain
This pure, sweet air; loud keels will ride the sea,
Dashing its glittering sapphire into foam;
Through all her green cañadas Spring will seek
Her lavish blooms in vain, and clasping ye,
O mournful Pines, within her glowing arms,
Will weep soft rains to find ye fallen low.
Fall, therefore, yielding to the fiat! Fall,
Ere the maturing soil, whose first dull life
Fed your belated germs, be rent and seamed!
Fall, like the chiefs ye sheltered, stern, unbent,
Your gray beards hiding memorable scars!
The winds will mourn ye, and the barren hills
Whose breast ye clothed; and when the pauses come
Between the crashing cataracts of the surf,

A funeral silence, terrible, profound,
Will make sad answer to the listening sea.

THE HOUSEHOLD.

BY MR S. C. M. KIRKLAND.

WHAT an old-fashioned word! Yes-and it means an old-fashioned thing too. A "postcoach" of twenty years ago in comparison with a rail-car of the present day, is as the "household" of our great grandfathers to the "menage" of our time. The keep of a feudal castle would look rather out of place among the conservatories, artificial waterfalls, and Chinese bridges of a modern garden; perhaps the household, or citadel of home, has as little claims to a position of honour among the "refinements" of fashionable society. What need of walls or intrenchments when we live for the public? Privacy is but another word for ennui; retirement has but one meaning or value that of affording opportunity of preparation for display. If we would shut out the world, it is only when nature imperiously demands a moment's respite from its glare. Happy they whose nerves, like iron, grow the tougher by hammering! They need lose no time.

for light made gray or milky by struggling through thick linen, and he has never been used to sitting in the basement to "save the parlours." What a cheerful rendezvous this makes for the children when they come from school; no seeking mamma in bed-rooms, nurseries, or odd, out-of-the-way nooks and corners, to which it would require a terrier's instinct to trace her with any precision. A radiating centre of light and love is easily found, and young hearts thrill with a pleasure, all the sweeter for being undefined, as they approach it. Affection melts and flows around in this genial atmosphere, till it fills the whole mould, giving out smiles and kisses as it goes.

Such a parlour as we are describing-large, square, light, cheerful, and intensely human in its aspect,-admits no furniture too rich or too fragile for daily use. Any brown-hollanding of chairs and sofas, or gauzing of lamps and candeA drugget is labra would be out of character. admissible, for a great deal of eating is done in this room, and little feet might tread breadThe old-and-butter and potato into the carpet unhandsomely. A sideboard is essential, for it A nest of gives a hint of hospitality; and a plate-warmer may stand near it without a blush. salvers graces a recess-old social friends now banished to the china-closet. The mantelpiece shows lamps and candlesticks; a three-minute glass for boiling eggs by; a small marble bust of Washington for a centre-piece, and china flower-pots at the ends; beside a pair of cardracks, in which are displayed a dozen or so of cards somewhat yellowed by time and good A picture hangs above, perhaps a fires. coloured engraving from Morland, in which cows, pigs, and chickens remind the young folks of that delightful summer when they were in the country, romping in haymows, and chasing Uncle John's old horse round the field, hoping to inveigle his senile sagacity to the bridle cunningly hidden behind Charlie's back. Crimson curtains there are, but not too close, and a few geraniums and monthly roses stand just where they can catch the morning sun, The tables have which shines through their leaves producing another summer illusion. newspapers, pamphlets, and books on them, for conversation is a chief amusement of the true household parlour, and all the topics of the day are in place, from the congressional

Yet there was something pleasant in the antiquated idea of the home citadel. fashioned parlour-what a nice place it was! It had no twins, and could have none, for its best ornaments were such as no skill of upholWhere could we get anstery could match. corner? other grandmamma for the warm Dear old lady-with her well-starched laces, her spotless white satin cap-riband, her shining black silk gown and shawl, her knitting, and And in her foot-stove-who can replace her? the corner next the window, where the light can fall on her left hand, so that the flitting shadow of the ever busy right may not confuse the stitches, there is mamma, with her capacious work-basket before her; a whole array of, not spools, but cotton-balls or threadpapers; pin-cushions, emery-bags, thimbles, needle-books, on the table at her side, not to mention the piece of wax gashed and criscrossed in every direction by whistling threads, the very emblem of seamstress-thrift in the good days of old. A clear light comes in at the window, for rooms, where sewing is to be done, must not be dimmed, let the carpets fade as they will; no becoming twilight, therefore, can be among the attractions of our household parlour. When papa sits down to his paper he must have sunshine, or the next best thing that is to be had; his eyes will not serve him

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Sartain's Union Magazine of Literature and Art, Volume 7