te J MEMORIES AND LEGENDS. NUMBER II. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. A LADY OF THE OLDEN SCHOOL. retical. Somewhat above the common hight, all her movements were marked by grace and dignity. Her clear, blue eye was singularly expressive, and her voice an echo of the soul's harmony. She had grown old in this lovely WILL first tell you about her mansion, as the retreat; but Time had respected the beauty I frame of a picture has something to do with he had been unable the impression it makes. Look back to the Three gardens were there, where the heart of The two other gardens were devoted to fruittrees and esculents, and kept in perfect order. In their beautiful bounds might often be seen walking, yes, and working, too, the lady of the mansion. Her knowledge of horticulture and floriculture had become practical, as well as theo reluctant to impair. Birth and marriage had nurtured her in aristocracy and affluence. The discipline of sorrow, that had held in check this flood of prosperity, was severe: the death of three fair sons, her only children, in the bloom of childhood, and early widowhood. Deep sympathy for all who mourned, ineffable tenderness for the little ones, and a pious trust in the Fatherly hand that had smitten her, were the results of affliction. Emphatically was she a lady of the old school, looking well to the ways of her householdtouching every spring of order and economythinking nothing beneath her that promoted the comfort and improvement of those whom God had gathered under her own roof. A sacred relation seemed to her to grow out of the circumstance of sharing the same home, which she strove to make conducive to rational happiness. If in her worldly ambition had ever existed, it had been so chastened by the adversity of suffering as to leave only apparent the elements of exquisite refinement and high intellectual culture. Her piety partook more of her own idiom of character than of the spirit of the times, combining active benevolence with an innate forbearance, and having no admixture of that bigotry which would fain extinguish every light which its own torch hath not kindled. To liberality of sentiment was added a free expenditure of money and of time, as the needs of those around her suggested. Counsel was sought for from her, experience and wisdom having made her a kind of Delphic oracle. She took the minute concerns of others into her heart, having more room for them from the circumstance that self did not monopolize the usual amount of space. The colored person and the poor Indian-for the remnant of an aboriginal tribe dwelt near her-were received with courtesy and kindness, whether they came for bread, or for a garment, or for the sweetness of advice. Her benevolence was proverbial. Gifts for display formed no part of it. Her almoners were trained to an invisible ministry. Food for the hungry and shelter for the homeless were ever found in her hospitable abode. That a bounty so unrestricted should be sometimes abused, was to have been expected. There were those who counseled her to more of worldly wisdom, or a sterner discrimination. beggar would evade it. It can be only well tested in the families of the active and healthful poor. I have myself distributed wool and flax among this class, and found them gladly received and faithfully manufactured. This afforded them profitable occupation and me an opportunity, through the intercourse that followed, of becom habits, and ministering to their improvement. Among these was a gentleman whom she greatly respected-the brother of her departed husband. The residence of his family being opposite to her own, he daily came to inquire after her welfare, and to offer that counsel and aiding better acquainted with their character and which are so soothing and acceptable to the widowed heart. The winter of life had fallen upon him, but without chilling his fine social feelings. He had never changed the gentlemanly costume, which was then beginning to be somewhat antique-the white, full-bottomed wig-the cocked three-cornered hat-large silver buckles in the shoes, and smaller ones at the knees-with fair, plaited ruffles at the bosom and over the hands. Seated side by side, in her scrupulously neat parlor, he might sometimes be heard to say, "You have been deceived lately in some of your objects of charity. The good are unsuspicious, and the designing ready to turn it to their own advantage." "I know," she would reply, with that sweettoned voice, "I have sometimes given to the unworthy. But how shall I discriminate, not having power to read the heart? Suspicion might save us from imposition on some occasions, and on others seal up our sympathies from the deserving. God sendeth rain upon the just and the unjust. If we too rigidly adjust our scales, may we not withhold from those poor who are his family? Does he require us to proportion our bounties accurately to the merits of the receiver? Methinks I had rather give to ten unworthy persons than neglect one lowly servant of my Lord." "Systems like these can not be too highly praised; but they will never become general. Love of ease is the insuperable barrier. As long as the gift of money, with little inquiry, involves no labor, quiets conscience, and is the form of charity of which the world takes cognizance with praise, it will be apt to prevail.” Conversations of this nature were prone to end by the kind gentleman's forgetting to practice what he preached, and leaving a donation for some of the numerous pensioners of his sister. In the days of which we speak, large private collections of books in the provincial towns were almost unknown. Yet in the library of this lady was a cabinet of dark, rich wood, whose shelves were stored with standard authors, selected by her husband during a visit to London. In their pages she found aliment for intellect and taste, and solace for loneliness. Most frequently drawn from their recesses were Tillotson and Sherlock, and the witty South; among historians, Burnet and Clarendon; and that keen, political satire, "Chrysal; or, the Adventures of a Guinea;" of the English Augustan age, Steele and Addison, Pope, Dryden, and Young, but especially the "Night Thoughts" of the latter, which was her daily companion. That same precious cabinet had a nook for children. Meager enough would it be thought nowadays, when Genius and Fancy take them upon their wings, and Science and Literature bow to them at every turn. What do you think was in that small and rather secret nook, climbed after, surreptitiously peeped into, and even rifled by the little ones? I take shame at writing the "Your arguments honor your benevolence, my sister. Shall I say that they impeach your judgment? I know you do not intend to reward deceit or encourage vice. Indiscriminate alms tempt the thriftless to continue in indolence, and the sinner to repeat his sin. Both these results are an injury to the community." "What, then, do you consider the safest mode list which then excited my cupidity: "Grumboof charity?" "Undoubtedly that of investing capital in the industry of the poor. Thus you preserve their self-respect and lead them to a right use of their being and its capacities. Whoever undertakes to support the family of an intemperate man, takes from him the strongest motive to his own reformation." "Brother, your theory is good, but the practice difficult. Childhood, sickness, and imbecility must always be exceptions. The roaming lumbo," "Mother Goose," "The Bag of Nuts ready Cracked," "Robinson Crusoe," and the dramatic elegy of "Who Killed Cock Robin?" This lady of the olden school had a delightful habit of gathering around her, by invitation, groups of her juvenile friends. Who knew so well as she how to make them happy, and, at the same time, better and wiser. Seated around her every eye was fixed, every heart a listener. Stories she told them, either from the inspired volume or the broad range of history, with NUMBER VI. BY THE EDITOR. SOME NOTICE OF THE WRITINGS AND GENIUS OF ALICE CARY. WE E have already intimated that, besides the temporary consideration which she has attained as a successful magazine writer, the literary fame of Alice Cary rests mainly upon her Clovernook series,* and upon her published poems.† which she was familiar. Songs she sang them, LITERARY WOMEN OF AMERICA. her voice being one of great compass and melody. Flowers she had for them, as little text-books of botany, or themes to illustrate the bounty of the Giver. Her skillful and flying scissors produced for them imitations of the beautiful things of creation-birds on the nest, squirrels among the branches, clusters of grapes, and wreaths of the rose and lily-keepsakes that they pressed in their Bibles, or sent to distant friends as forget-me-nots. When the sun grew low, she seated them at her tea-table, not thinking it beneath her to minister bountifully yet judiciously to those animal appetites, which, among juveniles, are wont to have so keen a life. As their social visits were generally on the afternoons of Saturday, some earnest precept about reverencing the Sabbath, obeying parents, loving brothers and sisters, making playmates and all people happy, were so tenderly mingled with the parting kiss as to be as a gem in memory for all future time. The good thus done by this childless mother, whose heart yearned over those whom Jesus Christ took in his arms and blessed, will be known in that world where all hallowed influences are traced to their true source. Thus loving and loved-making woman's own sphere beautiful and more and more venerated by each succeeding race-she serenely numbered fourscore and eight years. Beautiful was she to the last. Like unto the angels was she, when they stood around her couch and claimed her company. Let no one think that extreme age need be unlovely or lonely. More than seventy years had scattered almond-blossoms on her temples ere I saw the light. Yet by that intuition by which children discern the loving and the good, I drew near to her in a companionship blessing and blessed; and now, after this lapse of years, tears of gratitude suffuse my eye at the memory of her sublimated goodness-her active and beautiful old age. WHERE WE MAY SEARCH FOR THE ANGELS. SEARCH for the angels in your households, and cherish them while they are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown upon them, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceeding worth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; but when they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mourn for them as for a jewel of great worth. The recent publication of her select poems has contributed much to forward her growing reputation, and also to place it upon a substantial basis. Here we have a collection of her best poems that have heretofore appeared, and also a new poem of some length, "The Maiden of Tlascala." Alice Cary has written much during the past fifteen years-we know of no one who has written more-too much, we think, for the good of her own reputation. She writes with great facility; her thoughts flow with ease; and she revises, prunes, and condenses comparatively little. She exhibits but little of the pains-taking of some of the choice English authors who "built for all time." We think it would have been better for her literary fame had she written less and elaborated more. Nevertheless, these poems vindicate the claim of Alice Cary to rank among the poets of our country; nay, we will go further-to rank among the poets of the world. Wherever the English language is spread she will be known as one gifted with the inspiration of song. Brought up, as we have already seen, under the genial influences of rural life, her communings are with nature and with the heart. And as the music of nature is always solemn, so is it with the productions of nature's poets. With Alice Cary the sad, the almost despairing melancholy predominates. We may say of her as she says of the genius of poetry: "But mostly were his visions sorrowful; For all the higher attributes of life Have still some touch of sadness." We see it in her choice of themes, in her imagery, in her thoughts, and, above all, we feel it in the very spirit that pervades the productions of her pen. A critic-himself a poetț-justly inquires: "To say nothing of the distressing sameness of the subjects, are not four hundred pages of sorrow too much to be bound in one volume? Does not one come out with a rather cloyed sensation of crossed love and sentimental death, after having agonized along these thousands of passion-dyed and fancy-spun lines of beautiful woe? Why should the silvery ringings of the running brooks, and the delirious music of the wild birds, and the whisper of the winds, and the glory of the stars, and the sunsets of summer, and the bloom of the earth, and the blue of the sky-all beautiful things, below and above, be muffled to the melancholy pitch of poetic pathos, and wailed in a most melodious dirge forever?" And yet poetry that is poetry must be the outflowing of the heart; and if the heart be sorrowful, how shall its creations be otherwise than tinged with somber hues? We do not care to compare her with other female poets. But it is due to truth and to her to say that it is a partial judgment that places her first among the female poets of America. Few have excelled her; she is equaled by few. She may yet surpass all, for she has the elements of growth. A high yet unreached goal is before her. The past ten years have marked a rapid development of the elements of the genuine poet in her. Let her struggle onward and upward. We know that men talk about genius as though it were something distinct from and independent of labor. Greatness, they think, is the gift of nature and not a product of labor. We do not much wonder that such an impression should obtain, when we reflect how seldom the popular mind rests upon the care and watching, the privation and toil the truly eminent have struggled through before their brows were decked with the laurel of renown. Their long and painful cloister struggles, the patience and endurance with which they met and overcame the obstacles in their path, are all unknown to the world. We gaze upon the victor, we are dazzled and astonished at the glory which encircles his name, but we forget the mighty struggles of the battle-field. No one, however celebrated in his course, has spontaneously "burst away from those bands thrown by nature around our finite capacities," and glided without effort up the rugged summits of literary fame. The altitude where they seem to peer above the vast multitude has not been attained without distinguished effort. We appeal to history, that faithful chronicler of the characters and fortunes of men. You all recollect the beautiful eulogium pronounced by Erskine upon one who was undoubtedly the greatest philosopher that ever lived: "Newton, whose mind burst forth from the fetters cast by nature upon our finite conceptions-Newton, whose science was truth, and the foundation of whose knowledge of it was philosophy. . . who carried the line and rule to the utmost barriers of creation, and explored the principles by which, no doubt, all created matter is held together and exists." Not less sublime is the tribute of the muse: "Lo! Newtón, priest of nature, shines afar, Turn now from the panegyrist of Newton to his faithful biographer:* "The flower of his youth and the vigor of his manhood were entirely devoted to science. No injudicious guardian controlled his ruling passion, and no ungenial studies or professional toils interrupted the continuity of his pursuits. His discoveries were, therefore, the fruit of persevering and unbroken study; and he himself declared that whatever service he had done to the public, was not owing to any extraordinary sagacity, but solely to industry and patient thought." The genius of Newton was the genius of persevering industry; his inspiration the inspiration of patient thought. Nor is this scarcely less the case in any department of literature. In proof of this we appeal to the laborious industry, the patient research, and the multiplied revisions of those who have written for immortality. What, then, is genius? Labor-persevering, energetic labor. Without this every gift of nature will be blighted and withered. Whatever of extraordinary gifts may lie at the foundation, they are only the basis upon which the work-man is to build. The foundation will be but a by-word and a hissing, comparatively useless, unless the superstructure go up by patient toil. We apply these thoughts to the poet. We look for him, if he be a true poet, to increase by labor. We expect him to be constantly enlarging the domain of his knowledge, rising to clearer perceptions of the beautiful and the sublime, chastening his fancy and endeavoring to enrich it with those finer and more delicate touches that distinguish the genuine muse, and, not least, do we expect his heart to be constantly * David Brewster, LL. D. expanding in the breadth and depth of its sympathy with all that is great and good. In this sense the poet is made by labor. We do not, then, underrate the genius of Alice Cary, because the labor performed in and for its development is so apparent at every stage of her intellectual history. She has read, thoughtfor Alice Cary thinks-and written almost incessantly for the past fifteen years; and but for this labor Alice Cary would have been unknown in the world of literature. Had she labored more intensely in working out-in elaborating her ideas, rather than in multiplying her poems, we have no doubt she would have produced much more than she has done that would possess "the ring of the true metal." She would have worked off her mannerisms; she would have enriched her productions with a greater variety of ideas, and ideas of higher value; she would have freed herself from the too frequent repetition of certain set phrases and images-good enough, poetic enough in themselves, but offensive enough in their repetition. Yet we must do justice to her talents and attainments. In a journal of high literary merit we find her thus characterized: "There is in her verse a luminous flow of thought and feeling, sometimes unambitious, but always true to nature and her own consciousness. Of her shorter pieces, many have been widely copied in the newspapers of the day, and are familiar to the hearts of thousands; but her fame will assuredly rest-if she, unhappily, writes no more on the longer poem, 'The Maiden of Tlascala,' now first published, which closes the volume. In this are displayed a readiness of expression, a vigor of thought, a wealth of imagery, a power of imagination, and a delicacy of fancy, for which her most partial admirers were scarcely prepared. It occasionally reminds us. of 'Festus,' by a suddenness and daring of imagery; of the 'Princess,' by the masterly skill with which a soaring thought is overmastered and trained to the uses of beauty by rules of art; of 'Evangeline,' by fervor of feeling, and mellow and undefinable sweetness as well of conception as expression." The truthfulness of this all who have read her poems will admit. "The Maiden of Tlascala” is perhaps the most ambitious of all her poems. It is a narrative poem founded on events in the history of Tezcuco during the golden age, as described by Prescott. Our readers are already familiar with many of her best poems-for many of her richest gems found their egress into the literary world through the columns of the Ladies' Repository. We shall, therefore, confine ourself mainly to a notice of some of the beauties and defects of this poem. The opening paragraph evinces descriptive power of no ordinary character: "White-limbed and quiet, by her nightly tomb Fair art thou: but more fair the rising day!" Young's Night Thoughts does not present a passage that teems with deeper thought, sounder philosophy, or more genuine poetry than the following. When we see "The purposes God puts about our woe, To keep us back from being what we would, |