International Weekly Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science — Volume 1, No. 2, July 8, 1850

And I will think of all our blest communing,
And all thy low-breathed words of tenderness;
Thy voice to me its melody attuning
Till every tone seemed fraught with a caress.

And feel thee near me, while in thought repeating
The treasured memories thou alone dost share
Hark! with hushed breath and pulses wildly beating
I hear thy footstep bounding o'er the stair!

And I no longer to my heart am telling
The weary weight of loneliness it bore;
For thou, whose love makes heaven within our dwelling,
Thou art returned, and all is joy once more.

TO ——. By Mrs. R.B.K

Oh how I loved thee! how I blessed the hour,
When first thy lips, wak'ning my trusting heart,
Like some soft southern gale upon a flower,
Into a blooming hope, murmured "we ne'er will part."

Never to part! alas! the lingering sound
Thro' the sad echoes of pale Memory's cave,
Startles once more the hope my young soul found,
Into bright hues, but, only for the grave ...

Must we then part! ah, till this heavy hour,
Fraught with the leaden weight of sorrowing years,
I could have stemmed grief's tide like some light shower,
Where shows a rainbow hope to quell all idle fears.

But the dim phantoms of o'er shadowed pleasures,
Gleaming thro' gathering mists that cloud my heart,
Lend but a transient ray, those fragile treasures—
And heavier darkness falls to gloom the thought "We part!"

    JUNE 22, 1850.

Original Correspondence

RAMBLES IN THE PENINSULA

NO. II

GRENADA, May 26, 1850

My Dear Friend—My companion, Mr. Ronalds, left this morning in the diligence for Madrid, and I am, therefore, for the first time since I have been in Europe alone—the only citizen of the United States at present in this ancient Moorish city: alone, I may almost say, in the midst of paradise. Yet the beauties of nature will not compensate for the solitude of the heart, which is continually yearning after sympathy; we wish for something beyond the pleasures of the eye, and I would that you were with me. I would take you up to me Alhambra, and descant to you for hours upon its perfections and its romantic history. To me this wondrous pile has become familiar; I have seen it at all hours of the day, and have visited it in the enchantment of moonlight; and never will pass from my memory the pleasant hours I have spent within its sacred precincts; I shall remember them and those who shared them with me—forever. A few days since we made up a party and rode out to the famous town of Santa Fe, in the delightful Vega, about eight miles away. We were all dressed in the gay costume of Andalusia, and presented, as you may imagine, a picturesque appearance; my companions were lively fellows, and we had a great deal of sport on the way. Santa Fe is now a dilapidated place, but its associations make it well deserving a visit. It was built by Ferdinand, during the memorable siege of Grenada; it was here that Boabdil signed the capitulation of his city; and it was from this spot, too, that Columbus was dispatched on his mission of discovering a new world. The rich and fertile Vega, as we rode with the speed of the wind over it, seemed to me like a fairy land—so luxuriant the vegetation—so rich the meadows and fields of waving grain—so exquisite the variety of cottages, and villages, and groves, dotting so vast a plain—so pure and transparent the atmosphere, that the most distant objects are as clearly defined as those nearest us. Imagine so lovely a landscape—thirty miles in length by twenty-five in width, surrounded by tremendous mountains,—those of the Sierra Nevada, rising back of Grenada to the height of thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, their summits covered by a dazzling mantle of snow: imagine this, and you will have some faint idea of this beautiful Eden of Spain. It is worth a long pilgrimage to gaze but for one moment upon it, particularly from the Torre de la Vela of the Alhambra, whence I have beheld it, both in the bright, gay sunshine, and through the solemnly beautiful night, illumined by the stars and moon.

The walks and gardens of Grenada are exceedingly beautiful. The principal promenade is called (and very appropriately) El Salon. It is of considerable extent—about eighty feet in width, with regular lines of lofty elms on either side, the bending branches of which nearly meet in an arch overhead. At both extremities of this charming avenue is a large and handsome fountain of ever-flowing water. The ground of the walk is hard—slightly curved; and as smooth and clean as the floor of a ball-room, where convenient seats of stone, tastefully arranged beneath the shade of the spreading trees, seem to invite one to meditation and repose. Outside of this lovely promenade, are blooming gardens, teeming with roses and other flowers, which fill the air with fragrance, while through them on one side runs the river Darre, and on the other the Xenie—gentle streams, whose waters unite their melodious rippling to the chorus of nightingales, ever singing above their pleasant banks. But description is tiresome, especially when one is attempting to present something beyond his power, so I shall not fatigue you with it any longer: besides, a worthy English curate, now my only companion in this wretched hotel, is boring me so incessantly with conversation that I find it difficult to collect any thoughts to put on paper. I wish he was already in heaven, as, surely, he well deserves to be.

It was my intention to have gone from this place to Almeria on horseback, but as R. has left for Madrid, I shall return to Malaga, probably, in the diligence to-night. It leaves at 12 o'clock, under an escort of six cavalry, which on this road is indispensably necessary. From Malaga I shall take steamer for Valencia and Barcelona, and according to my present calculations, will reach Paris about the first of June next. F—— wants me to go to Italy—I do not know exactly what course to take, as traveling in Italy during the summer season is not considered healthy. I should like to remain in France a month or so, in order to improve myself in their language: as for Spanish, I speak it with fluency and ease already, and it is certainly one of the most beautiful languages in the world.

    Yours, JOHN E. WARREN.

THE SUMMER NIGHT

We are in the midst of July—in the midst of summer—of the most genial and pure-aired summer that we have had for years. How beautifully RICHTER, translated by our Longfellow, of kindred genius, describes the holy time! "The summer alone might elevate us. God what a season! In sooth, I often know not whether to stay in the city, or go forth into the fields, so alike is it everywhere and beautiful. If we go outside the city gate, the very beggars gladden our hearts, for they are no longer cold; and the post-boys who can pass the whole night on horseback, and the shepherds asleep in the open air. We need no gloomy house. We make a chamber out of every bush, and therefore have my good industrious bees before us, and the most gorgeous butterflies. In the gardens on the hills sit schoolboys, and in the open air look out words in the dictionary. On account of the game-laws there is no shooting now, and every thing in bush and furrow, and on green branches, can enjoy itself right heartily and safely. In all directions come travelers along the roads; they have their carriages for the most part thrown back—the horses have branches stuck in their saddles, and the drivers roses in their mouths. The shadows of the clouds go trailing along,—the birds fly between them up and down, and journeymen mechanics wander cheerily on with their bundles, and want no work. Even when it rains we love to stand out of doors, and breathe in the quickening influence, and the wet does the herdsman harm no more. And is it night, so sit we only in a cooler shadow, from which we plainly discern the daylight on the northern horizon and on the sweet warm stars of heaven. Wheresoever I look, there do I find my beloved blue on the flax in blossoms, on the corn-flowers, and the godlike endless heaven into which I would fain spring as into a stream. And now, if we turn homeward again, we find indeed but fresh delight. The street is a true nursery, for in the evening after supper, the little ones, though they have but a few clothes upon them, are again let out into the open air, and not driven under the bed-quilt as in winter. We sup by daylight, and hardly know where the candlesticks are. In the bed-chamber the windows are open day and night, and likewise most of the doors, without danger. The oldest women stand by the window without a chill, and sew. Flowers lie about everywhere—by the ink-stand—on the lawyer's papers—on the justice's table, and the tradesman's counter. The children make a great noise, and one hears bowling of ninepin alleys half the night through our walks up and down the street; and talks aloud, and sees the stars shoot in the high heaven. The foreign musicians, who wend their way homeward toward midnight, go fiddling along the street to their quarters, and the whole neighborhood runs to the window. The extra posts arrive later, and the horses neigh. One lies by the noise in the window and droops asleep. The post-horns awake him and the whole starry heaven hath spread itself open. O God! what a joyous life on this little earth."

Emma is from the German, and signifies a nurse; Caroline, from the Latin—noble minded; George, from the Greek-a farmer; Martha, from Hebrew—bitterness; the beautiful and common Mary is Hebrew, and means a drop of salt water—a tear; Sophia, from Greek—wisdom; Susan, from Hebrew—a lily; Thomas, from Hebrew—a twin; and Robert, from German—famous in council.

Authors and Books

Mr. James and Copyright.—It appears that the visit of Mr. G.P.R. James, with which we are presently to be honored, is not, after all, solely for the "gratification of the natural curiosity" of the author of the book with so many titles, as some time ago he advised one of his correspondents here. The London News observes incidentally: "The long-vexed question of an international copyright with our transatlantic cousins shows symptoms of rising to a speedy crisis. Up to a recent period the Yankees had all the advantage of the defective state of the law. They could steal freely from our literary richness; whereas, not only had they little of their own to be robbed of, but their handful of authors took very good care to secure English publishers, and, therefore, English copyrights, for their works. This defense, however, a recent law decision has wrested from the Coopers and Irvings of the States; so that English booksellers have now a perfect right to treat American authors as American booksellers have long been in the habit of serving English authors. And there is something just in this lex talionis. If Dickens, may be reprinted and sold for a shilling in New York, why may not Cooper be reprinted and sold for a shilling in London? At all events, the reprisal system will possibly incline our Yankee neighbors to listen to reason, and to favor the embassy which Mr. James, the novelist, is to undertake to the States, with a view of making preliminary arrangements for a full and satisfactory code directed against all future international literary free-booting."

Albert Smith and "Protection."—The Spectator, misled by a statement in the Morning Post, to the effect that a Mr. Albert Smith was present, by invitation, at a Protectionist meeting at Wallingford, made some caustic remarks on the supposed adhesion of the witty novelist to the cause of dear bread. The latter, astounded thereby, sends the Spectator a note, in which he says:

"The Sphinx, at which you pleasantly affirm I came home laughing from Egypt, never propounded a darker puzzle to any of its victims than you have to me. From last week's Spectator I learn, for the first time, that I was at a Protection meeting at Wallingford on some particular day, and that I wept at the prices of 1845. Allow me to assure you that I never was at Wallingford in my life: nor, indeed, did I ever attend a public meeting anywhere. I have not the slightest notion what the prices—I presume of corn—were in 1845; and I should never think of expressing an opinion, in any way, upon politics, except against that school which abuses respectability and philanthropizes mischievous rift-raff."

R.H. Stoddard is preparing for the press of Ticknor, Reed & Fields, a collection of his Poems, to include most of those he has contributed to the periodicals since the appearance of his "Footprints," two years ago. The book will be welcomed by the lovers of genuine poetry. Mr. Stoddard is a young man of unquestionable genius, and we have been pleased to observe that there is a decided improvement from time to time in his compositions, indicating the industry and wise direction of his studies, in refinement of taste, elegance of finish, and a rapid and vigorous expansion of his imagination. His masterpiece, thus far, is The Castle in the Air, fitly praised by our neighbor of the Albion, as one of the finest productions of the present time. We do not know of any poet at home or abroad to whose fame it would not have added new luster. In the July number of the Knickerbocker we find the following "Dirge," which is not unworthy of him:

There's a new grave in the old church-yard,
Another mound in the snow;
And a maid whose soul was whiter far,
Sleeps in her shroud below.

The winds of March are piping loud,
And the snow comes down for hours;
But by-and-by the April rains
Will bring the sweet May flowers.

The sweet May flowers will cover her grave
Made green by the April rain;
But blight will lie on our memories.
And our tears will fall in vain!

Inedited Correspondence of Goethe and Schiller.—By many friends of German literature it will be remembered that Goethe, during his life, carefully preserved a particular portion of his papers and letters, which he in 1827 transferred to the government of Weimar, on the condition that the box in which they were contained should not be opened until the present year. The 17th of May was the date fixed upon, and in accordance with the will of the deceased poet, his heirs and those of his brother poet Schiller were on that day judicially summoned to Weimar to witness the opening of the case. Of Schiller's descendants there were present on the occasion, his eldest son and eldest daughter, and the widow of Ernst von Schiller. Goethe was represented by his daughter-in-law and his two grandsons, Wolfgang and Walther, who came from Vienna, their present place of residence, for the purpose. Schiller's eldest son is chief inspector of forests in Wurtemberg. Madame de Junot and Frau von Goethe were also present. The box on being opened was found to contain a full correspondence between Schiller and Goethe, ready arranged for the press. A codicil in Goethe's will provides for their publication. Most of the letters, all of Schiller's in fact, are autograph.

The Countess Ossoli, (Margaret Fuller,) we learn from the Tribune, will be in New York about the 20th of the present month. Her work on Italy will be given to the press immediately after her arrival.

Dr. Hoefer against Dr. Layard.—Dr. Hoefer, a well-known savant in France and Germany, has astonished the Parisians by the publication of a work in which he boldly denies the authenticity of the ruins of Nineveh. Even admitting, he says, that the ruins of Nineveh remain, it is impossible that they can be in the place which Dr. Layard has explored; and, moreover, the Assyrian-like sculptures and inscriptions found in the supposed Nineveh, were the work of a later, and a different people, who had the affectation of imitating Assyrian taste.

Both Rogers and Wilson, it is said, have declined the laureateship. Referring to the office, the Daily News has a very prosy simile: "A dog, of any sense or self-respect, with a tin-kettle tied to his tail, acutely feels the misery and degradation of the music he is compelled to make. What the tin-kettle is to the dog, the yearly Ode is to the muse. The board, if you please, but not the annoyance and irritation of the jangle."

Mr. George H. Boker is at present engaged in preparing for the stage his new play of "The Betrothal." A correspondent who has seen it in manuscript, and for whose critical opinion we have a very high respect, pronounces it superior, both in action, combination and development of character, and general management of the plot, to any of his previous dramatic writings. It will probably be brought out next fall, not only in this city and Philadelphia, but in London, where his tragedy of "Calaynos" had such a successful run. We believe Mr. Boker will yet demonstrate that the art of dramatic writing is not lost, nor likely to be while we retain the language of Shakspeare, Jonson and Fletcher.

Bayard Taylor will deliver the poem before the societies of Harvard College on the 18th inst. Among his predecessors have been Charles Sprague, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edward Everett, W.C. Bryant, George Bancroft, Frederick H. Hedge, and some dozen others of the first rank in letters.

John G. Whittier, we are sorry to learn, has been for some time in ill health. He is living quietly upon his farm in Haverhill, on the Merrimack.