Part 10

Is there any thing so exquisite in the older poets as their habit of constantly alluding to the merry sports with which our English ancestors were accustomed to celebrate the first of May? Is there any thing more captivating to the lover of green and sunshiny fields and antique customs, than the dance around the flower-decked pole of the village, with the rosy-cheeked maidens for partners, and the hobby-horse, the morrice-crew, and the combatants of the ring around? Alas! the day for these spectacles has gone forever. Even in merry England the first of May has lost its popularity, and it is only in some quiet dell, secluded among the hills, far away from the metropolis, that the Maypole is wreathed with garlands on the eventful morning, and the blushing beauty is crowned with flowers as queen of May. How many kindly feelings, how many happy hours, how many holy associations have been lost to us by the neglect of this simple rural custom! Far away from home and friends, in lands remote even from his native continent, the sight of a pole decked out with flowers for some pagan festival, has recalled to the wanderer’s mind the happy days of his youth, when he sported with his gay companions on the village lawn, or slily kissed some blushing little beauty who had been his partner on the first of May.

We wish this good old custom could be revived among us, not with its grotesque maskers, but as a day for greenwood sports. We sing “Io Pæn” at the few celebrations which are vouchsafed to us in these degenerate days. Your crabbed utilitarians may talk of its uselessness, and sneer at it as a childish pastime, but who that has a soul for the beautiful in nature can fail to love this merry-making on the greensward? Give us the pure canopy of heaven for our ball-room ceiling—let us dance where the birds may carol around us and the balmy breath of flowers kiss our cheeks. Let us welcome in the blushing month with the young, and beautiful, and gay, feeling as we partake in their sports, as if old Spenser had dreamed of the fair ones around us, when he drew that immortal picture of May:

“Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground, Deckt all with dainties of her season’s pryde, And throwing flow’res out of her lap around: Upon two bretheren’s shoulders she did ride, The twinnes of Leda; which on either side Supported her, like to their Soveraine Queene. Lord! how all creatures laught, when her they spide, And leapt and daunc’t as they had ravisht beene! And Cupid selfe about her fluttered all in green.”

Exquisite! “The fayrest mayd on ground!” Have you ever been on a May party? Then do you not remember that blue-eyed one, with the golden tresses, and that small fair hand, whom your eyes followed throughout the whole bright day, and whom you could have gone on your knees and sworn to be not only the loveliest flower of the group, but of the county, aye! for that matter, of the world? You were just nineteen then, and she was in her sixteenth spring, by our faith! You had never met before, but long ere nightfall,—what with wandering through the wood together, or plucking flowers for each other, or lifting her over the pebbly little brook clear and musical as her own pure heart—you have come to feel as if you had known each other for years. And that night you cannot sleep for thinking of her, or if toward morning you drop into a doze, you dream—oh! how sweetly—of your little partner; so sweetly that when you awake, you sigh, and close your eyes, and would give the world if you could only sleep and dream thus of her forever. And you get up and feel even melancholy, wishing all the while that every day was the first of May, and that—for why not?—your golden-haired darling was your constant partner. And that very morning you chance, mind! only chance—to have some business that takes you down the street where she resides, and you happen _so_ accidentally to meet her as she comes forth, looking to your eyes, with her snowy virgin robe, and her blooming cheek, and her neat chip bonnet wreathed around with flowers, more beautiful than ever—aye! more beautiful than you had imagined aught earthly could be, even though “Deckt all with dainties of the season’s pryde.” And so you can but address her—and she happens to be going your way too—and nothing can be more natural than that you should talk about yesterday—and thus you go on smiling and chatting and feeling so joyous withal, that in the very gladness of your heart you can almost carol aloud with the happy birds, or “leap and daunce as you had ravisht beene!” Ah! verily young May-goer thou hast lost thy heart.

And so it proceeds. And you call upon her—as _of course_ you must—to ask her whether she over-fatigued herself on May-day, you having forgotten altogether in your _casual_ meeting to propound to her that question. And when thus calling you find she has a harp or a piano, and as you play on the flute, it is the most natural thing in the world to practise duetts together. Or perhaps you are both learning French, or reading Goethe in the original, or doing something else—no matter what!—which can be better done in company. And by and bye you get so used to these visits, that not an evening passes without beholding you together; and gradually you forget your studies and care less for them, though all the while perhaps you are learning a sweeter lesson; and your golden-haired partner will sigh now—most singular!—so very often; and you yourself will begin to feel your heart flutter when her soft blue eye meets your own by chance, for of late you do not look into each other’s faces as you used to; and so by and bye—heaven only knows how—you will find yourselves sitting side by side on the sofa; a few smothered words will be whispered; you will draw her with a holy embrace toward you; her head will sink upon your bosom; and thus for—it may be five minutes, it may be longer—you will sit in silence, a deep sacred silence, with your hearts quick beating against each other in a rapture no words can tell. And at length you will whisper her name: and with a happy sigh she will look up “smiling tearfully,” as the blind old Sciote has it; and again you will press her to your bosom, breathing your deep, deep love in every word; and she will murmur back your vows, at length, with maidenly whispers, blushing to her bosom the while, and speaking lower than an angel might be thought to sigh. And so—and so—years after, when she sits beside you at your household hearth, with that fair-haired little one smiling on her knee, you will bless God that ever you went a-Maying. Ah! give us the love which comes in the freshness and innocence of youth.

But May-Day is not all that charms us in the blushing month. All through its sunny days there is the song of birds, and the odor of flowers, and the waving of green grass, the more beautiful because we have just emerged, from the snows of Winter, the blustering winds of March, and the fickle skies of April. Everything is budding and breaking into life. If you go out into the fields you can almost hear the grass growing. The garden has a thousand colors, and they all mingle in harmony. The birds greet you at morning beneath your window, and your favorite steed gambols at your approach in wanton joy. The winds murmur low like rushes by the river side, the hills are covered once more with verdure, and the delicious greenness of the meadow land is past the poet’s pen. And most of all, the ONE whom for years you have loved, seems to grow more beautiful daily, smiling and carolling around you, to your eyes more lovely than when you first won her for your bride. May! bright beautiful May, why tarry the wheels of thy chariot?

J. S.

April, 1841.

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LIFE.

Oh! life is but a dream, A sunbeam’s play, A flower on a stream Passing away.

A song upon the air, A festal gay, A something wondrous fair Passing away.

A prison-house of woe, A wintry day, A dark gulf’s ceaseless flow Passing away.

A bird upon the wing, A meteor ray, A wild mysterious thing Passing away. R. E. J.

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THE SWEET BIRDS ARE SINGING:

A MUCH ADMIRED DUETT;

ARRANGED FOR THE PIANO FORTE,

BY

J. MOSCHELLES.

Philadelphia, John F. Nunns, 184 Chesnut Street.

First and Second Voice:

The sweet birds are winging From arbour to spray, from arbour to spray, And

First and Second Voice:

cheerily singing Of spring time and May, merry May, merry May. Sing, shepherds sing with me, Cheerily, cheerily, Sing, shepherds sing with me, Merry, Merry May

2

Our dear girls to meet us, Are now on their way, With garlands to greet us, And songs of the May. Sing shepherds, &c. &c.

3

The cattle are lowing, Come! up from your hay, Lads! let us be going, The morning is May. Sing shepherds, &c. &c.

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SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

DOG BREAKING.

To ensure good sport, the shooter must be provided with good dogs. However _abundant_ game may be, there can be no real sport _without_ good; and however _scarce_ game may be, a good day’s sport is attainable _with_ good dogs, by a person who feels what sport is, and who does not look upon filling the game-bag and loading the keepers with game, as the sole end and aim of the sportsman’s occupation. The mere act of killing game no more constitutes sport, than the jingling of rhyme constitutes poetry. Since, then, good dogs contribute to good sport, the shooter should be careful to whom he entrusts the breaking of them. Bad habits, by dogs, as well as by bipeds, are sooner acquired than got rid of. If it suit his convenience, the shooter should frequently accompany the breakers when practising his dogs: he should direct them to make use of few words, and those words should be the same that _he_ is in the habit of using. A multiplicity of directions only serves to puzzle a dog, as a person’s speaking Irish, Scotch, and Welsh alternately would perplex a Spaniard!

In common with other sports, shooting has a vocabulary of its own. We subjoin a list of some of the words made use of by breakers and sportsmen to dogs, many of them being anything but euphonious to the unaccustomed ear. _To-ho_ spoken in an under tone, when the dog is ranging, is a warning to him that he is close upon game, and is a direction to him to stand. There is no necessity for using it to a dog that knows his business. Spoken in a peremptory manner, it is used to make the dog crouch when he has run up game, or been otherwise in fault. _Down-charge_, or _down-to-charge_, is to make the dog crouch while the shooter charges. _Take-heed_, and _be-careful_, are used when the dog ranges over ground where it is customary to find birds. _Take-heed_, is a word of correction; _be-careful_, of encouragement. The former is used by way of caution or notice to prevent the dog putting up birds by running over the ground too fast; the latter is likewise a caution, but used when the dog beats slowly or carelessly. _Back_, is used to make a dog follow at heel. _’Ware fence_, is used to prevent dogs passing a fence before the gun. The dog should never, on any account, leave an enclosure until its master has left it. _’Ware_ or _beware_, is used to rate a dog for giving chase to a hare, birds, or cattle, or for pointing larks, or approaching too near the heels of a horse. _Seek_, is a direction to the dog to look for a dead or wounded bird, hare, or rabbit. _Dead_, is to make a dog relinquish his hold of dead or wounded game. The dog should not touch a dead bird, but should retain possession of wounded game until it is taken from him; for should he suffer a bird that is only slightly wounded to disengage himself from his grasp, another _seek_ becomes necessary, and the bird is either lost, or despoiled of its plumage by the catching and re-catching.

A dog-breaker who has not a good temper, or what is tantamount thereto, a plentiful store of patience, should never be employed, or he will ruin any really valuable dog entrusted to his care. Dog-breakers are an impatient race of people, and it is but natural that they should be so, since nothing tries the patience more than the management of a number of young dogs of different dispositions, except shooting over bad ones.

A young dog that carries his head well up when beating, should be chosen in preference to one that hunts with his nose on the ground. It is not only the best dog that carries his head up, but game will suffer him to approach nearer than one that _tracks_ them. The handsomest dog is that which shows the most breed; the most valuable that which affords the sportsman the greatest number of shots.

It is more desirable to break young dogs in company with a pointer than with a setter. The former makes a more decided point than the latter.

The dog should be taught to quarter his ground well. He should cross over before the shooter continually, at not more than twenty paces distance in advance, ranging about thirty paces on either hand, and leaving no part of his ground unbeaten. If in company with other dogs, he should not follow them, but each dog should beat independently.

The dog may be taught to back or back-set, by the breaker holding up his hand and crying _to-ho!_ when another dog makes a point. A well-bred dog will invariably back-set instinctively. To back-set instinctively is the distinctive characteristic of a promising young dog; indeed, it is the only safe standard by which the shooter may venture to prognosticate future excellence. A dog’s pointing game and larks the first time he is taken out, is no certain criterion of merit: but there is no deception in a dog’s backing instinctively the first time he sees another dog make a point. It is a proof that he is a scion from the right stock.

The shooter should kill nothing but game over a young dog, or the dog will never learn his business. He should of all things avoid shooting larks and field-fares. When the shooter is in the habit of killing small birds, such as larks sometimes, and at other times is in the habit of correcting him for pointing them, the dog becomes confused, and is puzzled when he comes upon a snipe, whether to point or not. Where game is scarce, the best dogs will occasionally point larks: and it requires much time to teach a young dog that they are not game, and to break him of pointing them when once he has acquired the habit.

When punishing a dog, it is better to beat him with a slender switch than with a dog-whip. But whether a switch or dog-whip be used, the dog should be struck across, not along, the ribs; or, in other words, the switch or lash should not be made to lap round his body, but the blow should fall on the whole length of his side. A dog should never be kicked, or shaken by the ears. When the shooter is unprovided with a switch or dog-whip, he should make the dog lie at his foot several minutes, which the dog, eager for sport, will consider a severe punishment, and it is a sort of punishment not soon forgotten.

The following is the routine of dog breaking. We very much approve of the system. The first lesson, and the one on which the breaker’s success chiefly depends, is that of teaching the dog to drop at the word “_down_;” this must be done before he is taken into the field. Tie a strong cord to his neck, about eighteen yards long, and peg one end into the ground. Then make the dog crouch down, with his nose between his front feet, calling out in a loud voice “_down_.” As often as he attempts to rise, pull him to the ground, and repeat the word “_down_” each time. When he lies perfectly quiet while you are standing by him, walk away, and if he attempt to follow you, walk back, and make him “_down_” again, giving him a cut or two with the whip. This lesson must be repeated very often, and will take some trouble before it is properly inculcated. When once learned it is never forgotten, and if properly taught in the beginning, will save an infinity of trouble in the end. He ought never to be suffered to rise, until touched by the hand. This lesson should be practised before his meals, and he will perform it much better as he expects his food, and never feed him till you are perfectly satisfied with his performance. After you have been flogging him, always part friends, and never let him escape while you are chastising him, at least, if he does, do not pursue him, as if he sees (which he soon will) that he is the quicker runner of the two, all discipline will be at an end.

When he has become tolerably steady, and learned to come in to the call, and to drop to the hand, he must be taught to range and quarter his ground; a thing which is seldom seen in perfection. On some good brisk morning choose a nice piece of ground, where you are likely to find. Take care to give him the wind, _i. e._ to let him have the wind blowing in his face, wave your hand with “hey on good dog,” and let him run off to the right hand to the distance of about eight yards. (We suggest thirty.) Call him in, and, by another wave of the hand, let him go off to the same distance to the left. Walk straight-forward with your eye always on him. Go on and let him keep crossing you from right to left, and _vice versâ_, calling him in when at the limit of his range. This is a difficult lesson, and requires great nicety in teaching. Never let him hunt the same ground twice over. Always have your eye on him, and watch every motion.

A fortnight’s attention to diet, bedding, and exercise, will bring a dog into condition, however lean or cumbrous he may be, if not diseased. Dogs should be allowed plenty of exercise. They cannot be too often taken out, either with or without a gun, by a person who understands their management, and is disposed to attend to them. Their kennels should be warm and _dry_, and, if not under cover, should be placed in sheltered situations. The straw should be often changed, as cleanliness is indispensable to health. They should be kept free from ticks: when a dog is tormented with these troublesome creatures, he should be well rubbed with a mixture of train oil and spirit of turpentine, which maybe washed off the next day with soft soap.

The dog seems to be endued with some instincts for the exclusive service of man; whereas the instincts of all other animals are conducive to the supply of their individual wants, and their usefulness to man is secondary thereto. It would be difficult to controvert the argument, that the pointer’s instinct was given for the purpose of aiding men to capture or kill game, by means of such engines as nets or guns. This, we are aware, may be a doubtful position to maintain; but who can say for what other apparent purpose this peculiar faculty was given? It may, indeed, be urged, that the propensity to point, in the pointer, is a means ordained by Providence for his subsistence in a wild state, by enabling him to approach within reach of his prey, and thus to accomplish, by another species of stealth, what the tiger and other animals of the cat tribe effect by ambuscade. Such an argument, however, is presumptively rebutted by the fact, that all existing races of wild dogs are gregarious, and resort to the chase for food; nor is there any record of the existence of dogs in a state of nature, except those calculated for the chase. It is therefore gratuitous to assert, that the instinct or faculty of pointing was bestowed upon the pointer as a means of subsistence, since he has ever been dependant on man for food.

It is strongly argued, that all dogs have descended from one common stock, and that by difference in food, climate, and training, they have become what they are at present; nor is it more improbable that such is the fact, than that the human race are descended from one common parent; for dogs are not more dissimilar than the various tribes of men, who differ not only in outward form, but morally and intellectually, as much as dogs vary in size, shape, temper, and sagacity. Those animals which can be domesticated improve by acquaintance with man, as the wild fruits by cultivation. All wild dogs have some qualities in common; but their instincts are somewhat limited or not called forth. It is only in its domesticated state that we find the various qualities which render the dog so useful a servant to man. Wild dogs are, in comparison with domesticated dogs, what savages are to civilised society; for wherever savages are found, they bear some resemblance to each other, and are engaged in similar pursuits.

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REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

_“The Old Curiosity Shop, and other Tales.” By Charles Dickens. With Numerous Illustrations by Cattermole and Browne. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._

_“Master Humphrey’s Clock.” By Charles Dickens. (Boz.) With Ninety-one Illustrations by George Cattermole and Hablot Browne. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard._

What we here give in Italics is the duplicate title, on two separate title-pages, of an octavo volume of three hundred and sixty two pages. Why this method of nomenclature should have been adopted is more than we can understand—although it arises, _perhaps_, from a certain confusion and hesitation observable in the whole structure of the book itself. Publishers have an idea, however, (and no doubt they are the best judges in such matters) that a complete work obtains a readier sale than one “to be continued” and we see plainly that it is with the design of intimating the _entireness_ of the volume now before us, that “_The Old Curiosity Shop and other Tales_,” has been made not only the primary and main title, but the name of the whole publication as indicated by the back. This may be quite fair in trade, but is morally wrong not the less. The volume is only one of a series—only part of a whole; and the title has no right to _insinuate otherwise_. So obvious is this intention to misguide, that it has led to the absurdity of putting the inclusive, or general, title of the series, as a secondary instead of a primary one. Anybody may see that if the wish had been fairly to represent the plan and extent of the volume, something like this would have been given on a single page—

“_Master Humphrey’s Clock. By Charles Dickens. Part I. Containing The Old Curiosity Shop, and other Tales, with Numerous Illustrations, &c. &c._”

This would have been better for all parties, a good deal more honest, and a vast deal more easily understood. In fact, there is sufficient uncertainty of purpose in the book itself, without resort to mystification in the matter of title. We do not think it altogether impossible that the rumors in respect to the sanity of Mr. Dickens which were so prevalent during the publication of the first numbers of the work, had some slight—some very slight foundation in truth. By this, we mean merely to say that the mind of the author, at the time, might possibly have been struggling with some of those manifold and multiform _aberrations_ by which the nobler order of genius is so frequently beset—but which are still so very far removed from disease.