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under the young beeches; and how the white butterflies play about their smooth stems, and follow one another up among the branches! Is this the path,—almost in the water? Yes; but it is firm white shingle, and will not wet our feet. This must be charming after sunset; but the sun beats hot from the lake at present, and we are glad to turn up the ravine behind the boat-house. A steep ascent, beside the tumbling brook, brings us out upon the road.
This u, after all, the finest view in our whole neighbourhood,—from the lofty mountain-peaks in the north, down over the valleys, down over the spreading Calgarth woods, and along the whole lake, from end to end, with all its bays and promontories, and alluvial bottoms, and steep skirting sides, and wooded islands, and seats of the gentry, and farmsteads of the statesmen,—with the white sails of pleasureboats gliding hither and thither, and the plodding steamer seen far off beyond the Ferry House. Is it most beautiful now,—all verdure and gleams and deep shadows,—or as I have seen it in January, when, at sunset, there was a bar of red-hot snow on the ridge of Wansfell, and the islands lay purple in the crimson lake, the Calgarth woods standing so still as that not a single twig let fall its burden of snow? Each season decides in favour of itself.
And now, to Bowness! After passing the hotel and shops, I must take my way through the churchyard, for the sake of the old yews and firs, all garlanded with ivy. I know of no churchyard more distinguished by its growth of funereal trees, and their black shade is eminently weleome on a hot day like this. The square tower and long nave of the church seem to tell of its age. So this is one of the good works of the supposed murderer, King Richard III.! In 1485 he granted a warrant for five marks (£3 Gs. Sil.) towards building this church, and its style is Norman accordingly. Now, a few yards more from the gate under the yews, past the great ash, which is the advertising station of Bowness (how its trunk is stuck over with handbills!), and I am at my friend's door. There is Carlo's bark! He and his mistress are on the watch for me.
There is claret and water on the table. While I am resting and refreshing, we lay our scheme for the day. I meant to call at the parsonage, where one may always hear something of Mrs. Hemans (who was guide and friend to the curate in his youth), and where I love to see the most old-fashioned parsonage I know of; and I wished to pay my respects to the aged daughters of Bishop Watson, who are curious and interesting specimens of the literary ladies of the last century, of whom we have very few left: but F. M. tells me I shall not go to-day. It is too hot, and
both houses are too far off; I must come another day for these purposes. One visit, however, she does not oppose my making, but flushes with pleasure at the proposal;—to her landlord's shed, to see how her new boat gets on. It is just at hand, and a cool place. So we go, after desiring to have dinner at two o'clock. Carlo runs before us, to see the curious boat in which he will have to sit so still, that he may not turn his mistress and himself over into the water. It is a curiosity —this new boat,—of mahogany, thirty-three feet long, and only twenty-six inches wide in the middle. It will be a pretty sight—the shooting of this arrow-like skiff over the smooth lake,—with the one graceful rower and her demure friend Carlo seated in front of her. She vows I shall never set foot in it. She is not a whit afraid for herself; but she will admit no one but Carlo into so nicely balanced an affair. What grace there is in her freedom of action [ Who would have thought of boatbuilding being a graceful operation? Yet now, when she cannot hold her hand off the work, how beautifully she uses the hammer, and rapidly makes a row of copper-headed nails shine along the side!
While waiting for dinner, and having taken note of any new fishing-rod, boat-model, or fowling-piece hung against the wall, or any new miniature of my friend's painting, or workbox of her construction, I get her to give me the literal English of some passages of Humboldt's Kosmos, which seem to me wrongly rendered in all our published translations. She confirms me, and I am truly glad; for it is painful to suppose Humboldt inconsistent with himself, or timidly complying with popular prejudice. Meantime, Carlo waits upon us,— opens or shuts the door, rings the bell, and even sings when desired, or when bribed by a mouthful of our dinner. Was ever anything more ridiculous than a handsome dog on his hind legs, looking up to the ceiling, and modulating his whine and howl into a doleful song? Dinner done, and the young peas much praised, down we go to the boat, not to return till, perhaps, midnight; and, therefore, carrying with us biscuits, a bottle of claret, and glasses. F. M. takes the oars first, as I shall have my turn by-and-by. We wander for an hour down and across the lake, visiting particular points of view,—passing Storr's Hall, putting in near the Ferry, and then betaking ourselves to the shades of Curwen's Island, till the sun shall have sunk lower. And what could we do better than moor our boat in this little cool cove, where the birch and ash hang over almost into the water? In such a place as this it was that Wordsworth, being hoaxed by a wag, accosted my friend in a way which somewhat astonished her. Having been assured that she was a gipsy, he naturally felt some curiosity about her; and, one hot day, when she was lying at the bottom of her boat reading, in one of these coves, he came up, and asked questions about her origin and supposed wanderings. Her replies did not remove his fixed impression; and it was with extreme surprise that he soon after met and recognised her in an evening party.
The hours slip away as we lie couched among the ferns, reading our newspapers, or amusing each other by narratives of our wide travels. If F. M. tells me of the Pyrenees or the Danube, I tell her of the Mississippi, or Pharpar and Abana, the rivers of Damascus, or of adventures in Nubia. And then we walk round the island, which is a mile in circuit, or play duck and drake from the white pebbly beaches, on the still waters. At length, we agree that the shadows are deep enough under the wooded steep to the west; and, as in another hour it will be moonlight, we may now set about our fishing.
Carlo looks on demurely while F. M. arranges her lines, and I take charge of the oars. We first go under the western shore, and float among the islands, where we have the waters pretty much to ourselves. For two hours we hardly speak. I row gently, dipping as softly as I may; and F. M. starts with delight at 'pull at her trolling lines. It is not with
BY EDITH MAY.
Since we know her for an angel,
Bearing meek the common load, Let us call bur Theodora.
Gift of God I
Still so young, that every summer
Is a rose upon her brow,
She is vory slight, and graceful
As the bending of a fern;
In her eyes aro tranquil shadows
If you speak, the slow returning
Of her spirit from afar
No one marvels at her beauty;
Blended with a perfect whole, Beauty seems the just expression Of her soul.
For her lightest word, or fancy,
Unarrayed for human ear, Might be echoed by an angel
Be a theme however homely,
It is glorious at her will.
By a master's skill.
And her words, severely simple,
As a drapery Grecian-wrought, Show the clear, symmetric outline Of ber thought.
To disguise her limbs with grandeur,
Would seem strange as to dispose Gold and velvet round a statue's Pale repose.
But a robe of simplest texture
Should be gathered to her throat. And her rippled locks, part braided. Part afloat.
While a pendent spray of lilies
In their folds should be arrayed. Or a waxen white camelia
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.
BY R. H. STODDARD.
(See also Engraving on the first page.)
"I'faith, this world of ours is a brave world,
We have two lives about us.
Within os, and without us ;—
A world of daily toiling.
Our spirits' pinions soiling.
And brighter worlds apart
My Castle stands alone,
Away from Earth and Time,
In Fancy's tropic zone,
Beneath its summer skies, Where all the live-long year, the summer never dies! A stately Palace built of marble white, Hewn from Pentelicus renowned of old; A pile of purcness interveincd with light, A peak of pearls with streams of jagged gold; The slender shafts , the delicate pillars rise From sculptured bases, fluted to the dome, Encrowned with wreathed frieses, carven nice, With pendent leaves, like fringy crests of foam; A thousand windows front the rising sun, Deep-set between the columns, many-pamnl, Tri-arched, emblazoned, gorgeously stained, All hues and colours blending into one, Flooding the corridors and courts below. Like rainbows shattered on a field of snow; A bordering gallery runs along the roof, Topt by a cupola, whose gilded spire, Piercing the shifting clouds' transparent woof, Shines like a spindle in the morning's loom of fire!:
What fine and rare domains
Unfold for leagues around;
Green parks, and meads, aud plains.
And quiet nooks and lanes,
And bosky woods profound, A realm of leafiness and sweet enchanted ground; Before the palace lies a shaven lawn. Sloping and shining in the dews of dawn,
With turfy terraces and garden plots, And rows of slender urns, and mossy pots, Laden with budding flowers, whose odours rise, And tempi the plundering bees and butterflies; Vistas of lofty, bough-inlacing trees, Wind-tossed and murmurous as the surfy seas, O'erarch the gravelled, winding avenues, Edged round with evergreens of fadeless bloom, Pouring a thousand intermingling hues, From Heaven's o'erflowing goblet through the leaves, A many-tinted flood of verdurous gloom; And fountains gush aloft, like silver sheaves, Drooping with shining ears, and plumes of spray, And foamy tassels blowing every way, Shaking in marble basins white and cold, A drainless shower of diamond-beaded grain, Which winnows off. in sun-illumined rain, The dusty chaff, a cloud of misty gold; And swans, superbly-nocked, in stately pride, Brushing with trailing waves the lilies white, Sail slowly up and down the plashy tide, Like peerless queens In beautiful disdain, Sweeping amid their maids with trains of light; And slim and graceful deer with startled looks, Beneath the mimic forest where they browse, il^ad-down are drinking at the lucid brooks, Their antlers mirrored with the swaying boughs; An obelisk enrailed upon a mound, In a green opening where the morning shines, And woodland deities are ranged around, In rural temples over flowery shrines; And here and there are seats with lattice backs Smiling in shadow, painted screens, and racks, And summer-houses wreathed with ivy twines, And trimmest arbours bent with hanging vines, Whose quivering leaves and clusters checker o'er The carven benches and the grassy floor; My rivers flow beyond, with guardant ranks tif silver-liveried poplars on their banks; Barges are fretting at the castle piers, Moving with every ripple in the tide, And bridges span the stream with arches wide, Their stony 'hutments mossed and gray with years; An undulating range of vales, and hills Tree-girt, and spots of meadow-land serene, Thick-starred with lushest blooms, and silver rills Stealing along through streaks of freshest green; Sweet lanes and pastures, swarded glades and bowers, And columned palaces and distant towers; And on the welkin mountains bar the view, Shooting their jagged peaks sublimely up the blue!
I saunter up the walks,
The great main avenue;
My sandals wetted through,
With dripping flowers and stalks,
(Roses, violets blue!) My brwidered mantle all bedabbled with the dew; I climb a flight of steps, in regal pride, And stroll along an echoing colonnade, Sweeping against its pillared balustrade, Adown « porch, and through a portal wide, And I am in my castle, Lord of all; My faithful groom is standing in the hall To doff my shining robe, and servitors And cringing chamberlains at open doors, Waving their gilded wands, obsequious wait, And bow me on my way, in royal pomp and state!
My chamber lies apart,
Are lavished with a wild and waste profusion there!
With all the knightly stars he won in ]
My gallery sleeps aloof, A dreamy little room. Dim-lighted through the roof, And bathed in pleasant gloom, Enshrining pictures old, And groups of statues cold, Of wealth immense, untold, The gems of art, when art was in her age of gold.
Helen and Paris on their bridal night,
Wild eyed, her raven tresses all unbound,
Andromache with all her tearful charms,
The towers of Iuon girt by warring hosts,
The giant Cyclops sitting in his cave,
Anacreon couch ant in the myrtle shades,
An Orient Sunrise on the sluggish Nile,
The Virgin Mother and the Holy Child,
A Summer Fete, a party on a lawn,
A bleak Depile, a pass In mountains deep,
A Harvest scene, a vineyard on the Rhine,
A Flemish Tavern, boors and burghers hale,
A picture of Cathat, ajustice scene,
And many more that Fancy fails to draw,
And statues of the Grecian gods divine,
My study walls are niched,
And full of busts sublime,
And cabinets enriched
With books from every clime, A harvesting of lore from out the fields of Time; I throw the portals wide and stand before A pyramid, where mighty souls are shrined, Embalmed for ages in their robes of mind, Thought-sceptered kings of earth for ever more; Here slumbers Homer, with his world-wide story, Simple in tongue and heart, a poet's glory; Euripides and JEschylus severe, Statues of Tragedy around her bier; And eager Pindar with his fiery soul, Hailing the chariots dashing to the goal; Theocritus with choicest pastorals, Mellifluous Virgil with his polished line, And grimmest Dante, scowling Florentine, And Tasso sighing o'er the Holy Walls; And here are hieroglyphics—crumbling rolls Of papyrus, discoloured vellum scrolls, Scribe-written tomes, and saintly manuscripts, From convent libraries and cloister crypts, And monkish missals with emblazoned stains, Like sunset clouds, enclasped with argent chains. The bards of Albion: Chaucer, blithe and gay, Fresh as the dewiest morning in the May; Spenser, and Shakespeare—nature's paragon, Her first, her last—she never had but one— The monarch of the realm of poesy, With colters overheaped with richest rimo, Exhaustless, Croesus of the world and Time, The heir of ages and Eternity; Majestie, sombre Milton, stern and strong, The vastest column in the halls of song; The twins, Beaumont and Fletcher, happy men, And laboured classic Jonson, rare old Ben; Dryden, and finished Pope, and solemn Young, And timid Cowper with his nameless woes; Impetuous Byron, with his passions stung To madness, warring with his petty foes; Wordsworth, and Coleridge, Shelley, martyred saint, Exuberant Hunt, and careless, boyish Keats, A prodigal almoner of luscious sweets, And Tennyson, delicious, fine, and quaint, The Priest of Luxury in her fane apart, Like a soft thought in Cytherca's heart; The bards of Atalantis—scanty band— Grave-thinking Bryant, still, and deep, and grand, The Nestor of our poets, gray and old, Horatian Holmes, and Whittier free and bold, And lol my friends, the gifted, gentle Three, The Doric Read, and tragic Boker sweet, And Bayard Taylor, fresh from Italie, Dear heart 1 the golden dust of travel on his feet I
Away with books, away—