[Helen Fiske Hunt Jackson, better known by her initials, "H. H.," an American poet and novelist, born in Amherst, Mass., in 1830; died at San Francisco in 1886. She was the daughter of Prof. N. W. Fiske, of Amherst College, and was twice married, her first husband, Mr. Hunt, dying during the civil war. She became widely known as a contributor to periodicals, and wrote a charming narrative of foreign experiences. entitled Bits of Travel (1872); a volume of Verses (1879), marked by fine ideality and rhythmic faculty; Bits of Talk about Home Matters (1873); A Century of Dishonor (1881), which is a forcible arraignment of the United States government in its dealings with the Indians; and Ramona (1885), a powerful romance, the scene of which is laid in California, and which depicts with free and graphic touch the wrongs done to the aborigines of our country. She also wrote Hetty's Strange History, and Mercy Philbrook's Choice, for the No Name Series, and several books for children; and the Saxe Holm stories have been confidently attributed to her pen.] November woods are bare and still, November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning's chill, THE OTHER WORLD. It lies around us like a cloud A world we do not seeYet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be. Its gentle breezes fan our cheek: And mingle with our prayers. Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, The silence, awful, sweet and calm, They have no power to break, For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake. So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, So near to press they seem, They lull us gently to our rest, They melt into our dream. And in the hush of rest they bring How lovely and how sweet a pass To close the eye and close the ear, Wrapped in a trance of bliss, And gently drawn in loving arms, To swoon to that from this;Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, Scarce asking where we are, To feel all evil sink away, All sorrow and all care. Sweet souls around us, watch us still, THE SONG OF HARALD THE HARDY. [Harald the Hardy reigned in Norway the latter half of the eleventh century. The Russian maiden, alluded to in the following poem, was the daughter of Jarisleif, king of Gardarike (a part of Russia). In this song he vaunts his own prowess, as was the custom of the Northern sea-rovers; though, in his feats of dexterity, he hardly equalled his predecessor, Olaf Tryggvason, of whom it is said, that he could walk on the oars outside of his boat while the men were rowing. The original may be found in Bartholinus' "De Causis Contemptæ a Danis Mortis," and in Percy.] My bark around Sicilia sailed; Then were we gallant, proud, and strong. The winged ship, by youths impelled, Skimmed (as we hoped) the waves along. Fierce was the fight on Trondhiem's heath; 1 See Vol. II., page 302. Young from my king in battle slain I press the steed; I cast the dart; With golden ring in Russia's land To me the virgin plights her hand. Let blooming maid and widow say, 'Mid proud Byzantium's southern walls What deeds we wrought at dawn of day! What falchions sounded through their halls! What blood distained each weighty spear! Those feats are famous far and near! With golden ring in Russia's land Kisses the sea its rocks among. With golden ring in Russia's land tion, and the services he rendered to the Portuguese language and style make an era in that literature. His principal prose work is the Corte na Aldea, e Noites de Inverno (the Court in the Country, and Winter Nights). He also wrote pastoral romances, in which were introduced sonnets, songs, redondilhas, etc., of great beauty.] How, lovely Tagus, different to our view Our past and present states do now appear! Muddy the stream, which I have seen so clear, And sad the breast, which you contented knew. Thy banks o'erflowed, through unresisting plains, Thy waters stray, by fitful tempests driven, Lost is to me the object which had given A life of pleasures or a life of pains. As thus our sorrows such resemblance bear, May we of joy an equal cup partake! But, ah, what favoring power to me can make Our fates alike?-for spring, with soothing air, Shall to its former state thy stream restore; Whilst hid if I again may be as heretofore. Translated by ADAMSON. SONNET ON YOUTH DEPARTED. Not [Manoel de Faria e Souza. This voluminous author, whose writings belong more to Spanish than to Portuguese literature, was born at Lisbon, in 1590. At the age of fifteen he was appointed secretary by one of his relations who held an office, and he soon displayed a remarkable capacity for business. having, however, obtained an appointment commensurate with his desires, he left his native country and went to Madrid. He was appointed to a place in the embassy to Rome; but on his return to Madrid withdrew from public affairs and devoted himself to literature. He boasted that he filled every day twelve sheets of paper, each page containing thirty lines. He died in 1649.] Now past for me are April's maddening hours, When idly, reasonless, I sowed those seeds Yielding to manhood charms, now proving weeds, With gaudy colors, poisoning as they climb. And well I fancy that they both are flown, And that beyond their tyrant reach I'm placed; But yet I know not if I yet must taste Their vain attacks; my thoughts still make me own, That fruits of weeds deceitful do not die, When feelings sober not as years pass by. Translated by ADAMSON. NIGHT OF MARVELS. [Violante do Ceo, who has been called the Tenth Muse of Portugal, was born at Lisbon, in 1601. At the age of eighteen she wrote a comedy in verse. She is said to have been a good singer and performer on the harp. Afterwards she devoted herself to a religious life, and entered a cloister. She lived to the age of ninety-two, dying in 1693.] In such a marvellous night, so fair, And full of wonder strange and new, FIRST. I saw the trembling fire look wan, SECOND. I saw the sun shed tears of blood. THIRD. I saw a God become a man. FOURTH. I saw a man become a God. O wondrous marvels! at the thought, The bosom's awe and reverence move. But who such prodigies has wrought? What gave such wonders birth? 'Twas love! What called from heaven that flame divine Which streams in glory from above; And bid it o'er earth's bosom shine, And bless us with its brightness? Love! Who bid the glorious sun arrest His course, and o'er heaven's concave move In tears, the saddest, loneliest, Of the celestial orbs? 'Twas love! Who raised the human race so high, E'en to the starry seats above, That, for our mortal progeny, A man became a God? 'Twas love! Who humbled from the seats of light Their Lord, all human woes to prove; Led the great source of day to night; And made of God a man? "Twas love! Yes! love has wrought, and love alone, The victories all,-beneath, above; The song through all heaven's arches ran, Translated by BOWRING. MAJOR FRANCES. [Mrs. A. L. G. Bosboom-Toussaint, who is universally acknowledged as the sun of modern Dutch novelistic literature, was born about 1812, at Alkmaar, a little town in the province of North Holland, noted for its cheese-market. Mrs. Bosboom-Toussaint is the daughter of a chemist. A great part of her youth was passed in Harlingen, and she early showed a love of literature. Her first work, written while she was still very young, was De Graaf van Devonshire ("The Earl of Devonshire"), an historical novel, laid in the time of Queen Elizabeth. This was followed by another novel called The English in Rome. She then published Het Huis Lanernesse, an historical novel of great merit, which she is univer sally acknowledged never to have surpassed, though she has written many historical novels since, all of which contain beauties of the highest order. The book made a sensation; her native city was proud of its child, and accorded to her its honorary citizenship. In Abondio II., a work less extensive than its prede cessors, she proved herself able to portray other characters and other circumstances. Abondio II. is the incarnation of moral cowardice: he has not the courage to do those things which he thinks right himself, for fear of public opinion and of being called eccentric. She depicts, with marvellous talent, the many and great evils that result from such cowardice, a feeling so common among the lower classes or inferior minds. After this she returned to her old style. Her next production was De Wonderdokter. The specimen of her writing which we give contains all the author's peculiarities, her merits and her faults. It has been needful to retrench the sentences, but even so they are long, and reflections have been omitted. The scene is thoroughly Dutch. The extract we make is from Major Frances.] "That is Major Frances," said the driver, turning round to me. 'Major Frances!" I repeated, half angrily, half surprised. "Whom do you mean by that?" "Well, the lady of the castle, so all the people of the village call her." The driver begged me to alight. I walked in front of him to find the right way; but, alas, we were at the end of a path at the extreme edge of the wood. · Opposite to us were ploughed cornfields which were rather large, and from which we were separated by a half-dry ditch, in which heaps of dead leaves lay rotting, and all manner of marsh-plants were growing luxuriantly. There was not the least possibility of our reaching the other side from here, and even if we could, where should we be then? On the right hand spread nothing but heath, its undulations covered with firs and pines; on the left hand, also separated from us by dykes and ditches, lay fields sown with potatoes, whose soft, light-green foliage was peeping a few inches above the ground; behind us was the forest that we had already traversed without finding an outlet. I looked at my watch; it was about twelve o'clock, consequently the dinner-hour of the laborers who had business in the fields. No information was to be got; there remained nothing for it but to return the same way that we had come up to the toll-bar, and then to begin once more from the beginning. Suddenly we heard a peal of resounding laughter quite close to us, only the sound seemed to come somewhat from above. I looked up in the direction of the hilly heath. On the top of an overgrown hill stood the person who was enjoying our perplexity. 66 'Major Frances!" shouted the loud voice of my driver, making no attempt to hide his astonishment and annoyance. It was she herself, Frances Mordaunt, who was mocking us. Really I had not anticipated such a reception. As she stood there, some feet above me, but still pretty near, I had a good view of her; and I cannot say that this first glance reconciled me to this person who had already caused me so many disagreeable emotions. Perhaps that was not her fault; but certainly she need not have equipped herself in such an odd way that we doubted at first sight whether a man or woman stood before us. She had gathered up her riding-habit in a way that recalled Zouave trousers, and she had, besides, put over the tight jacket of her dress a wide cloak made of some long-haired material, which was doubtless very useful this sharp, cold spring day, but which, buttoned up to the throat, was not adapted to show off the beauty of her form if she was really well shaped. Her head was covered by a gray billycock hat with a soft downward bent brim; the blue or green veil ladies generally attach to their masculine headgear, and which would have given her a more womanly appearance, was absent. Instead, a bunch of cock's feathers was fastened negligently with a green ribbon, as if the person who wore the hat wished to imitate the wild huntsman of the fairy tale. Last, but not least, she had fastened on her hat by a red silk handkerchief tied under her chin. As far as this unattractive fancy costume made it possible to me to judge of her appearance, she seemed to be rather delicately built and slim than rough and manly-indeed, the whole person was the exact contrary of what I had dreamed. I had convinced myself that she would resemble Ristori in the character of Medea, have coal-black frizzled hair, and a face expressively lined. Of her hair I could see nothing, owing to the downward-bent brim of her hat; but, as far as I could judge by that part of her face which was not hidden by the ungraceful covering, she was fair and delicately shaped, with a fine Roman nose. Still, it needed more good-will than I possessed at that moment to be agreeably impressed by that face, screaming with laughter, and tied up in an ugly red silk toothache bandage. Her laugh sounded to my ears like a provocation, and made me yet more disinclined to give a proof of courteousness to a woman who had so evidently forgotten all feminine self-respect. "Listen!" I cried. "Listen for a moment, you who rejoice so much at your neighbor's distress. You would do better to show us how we can pursue our road.' There is no road to pursue here. He who enters this wood with any other purpose than to have a walk or a ride, does a stupid thing; that is all I can say.' And you?" "I?" she laughed again. "I sprang with my horse across the dry ditch yonder, between the shrubs-this was my way of getting on to the heath. Imitate me if you feel inclined, though I fear that with a carriage and horse you will not succeed. But where do you intend to go?" "I intend to go to the mansion De Werve." "To De Werve," she repeated; and now for the first time gave herself the trouble to descend the hill and approach me as nearly as she could, so that it was possible to converse with her. What is your business at the castle, sir?" she inquired, in quite another manner than before, no longer in the tone of a somebody speaking to a nobody. "To pay a visit to the General van Zwenken, and Freule Mordaunt, his granddaughter.' "The general is no longer in the habit of receiving visitors, and what you have to say to his grandchild you can address to me. I am Freule Mordaunt. "I do not intend to beg for any hospitality. I only wish to call at your grandfather's, and to make his and your acquaintance, for I intend to stay a while in this neighborhood; and I remember that I am related on the maternal side with the family van Zwenken." 66 "Still worse, since at De Werve we do not specially suffer from family affection." I have heard this said before, but I am no Rozelaer. I am a van Zonshoven, Freule-Leopold van Zonshoven." 66 And I have never heard that my grandfather lived in friendship with people of that name. But if you are no Rozelaer, your visit will do less harm; and as a curiosity that any member of the family cares for us, you may perhaps succeed with the general. But it is quite certain that you do not come on business?" "I can only tell you that I shall assist you as far as possible in your endeavors to keep far from him any trouble or discomfort." "That proves your good heart; but if such are your intentions, I hesitate to see in you a member of the family, for such behavior is totally contradictory to the family traditions." It may be; but you may safely call me cousin, for even in our family there are exceptions, and I hope to prove one of these." |