Part 9

THE JOYS OF FORMER YEARS HAVE FLED.

BY G. A. RAYBOLD.

The joys of former years have fled, Like meteors through the midnight skies; The brief but brilliant light they shed, Serves but to blind our anxious eyes: So flee the joy of early days, And perish like the meteor’s blaze.

The joys of former years decay Like summer flow’rs we linger o’er, While, one by one, they fade away, And fall to earth to bloom no more; Touch’d by the chilling hand of Time, Thus fail the joys of manhood’s prime.

The joys of former years are like The last sweet notes of music, when Upon your ear they faintly strike, You know they’ll ne’er be heard again The breaking harp, last sweetest strain, Ne’er woke by hand or harp again.

The joys of former years when past, Seem like a poet’s dream of bliss; Too brightly beautiful to last In such a changing world as this: Where stern reality destroys Life’s poetry, and all its joys.

The joys of former years expire, As each loved one is from us torn; The dying flame of life’s last fire, Then lights us to their grave to mourn; Where joy entomb’d for ever, lies, Hope still may from that grave arise.

Swedesboro’, N. J. 1841.

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POETRY:

THE UNCERTAINTY OF ITS APPRECIATION.

BY JOSEPH EVANS SNODGRASS.

There is nothing more uncertain than the nature of the reception a Poet’s productions, and particularly his shortest pieces, are destined to meet. Especially is this true with respect to the more egotistical sort of versifications—such as sonnets, and the like—in which one’s own feelings find vent in verses penned, perhaps, for an album, or intended for the perusal of the immediate circle in which the writer moves. Now, the appreciation of sentiments thus embodied, when they come to be _volume-ized_, depends entirely upon the mood of mind in which they find the reader. Such is, indeed, the case with _personal_ thoughts, even when they appear amid the popular literature of the day—but is more strikingly so under the circumstances named. If a sonnet, for example, which has been addressed to some real or fancied idol of the heart, falls into the hands of one who is under the influence of the tender passion, it is sure to be fully appreciated, and pronounced “beautiful.” To such an one, nothing is too sentimental.[5] Anything which tells of the “trials of the heart”—of “true love”—of a “broken heart”—is doubly welcome. If it have a sprinkle of star-and-moon-sentiment about it, all the better. But place a piece of poetry headed, “Sonnet to the Moon,” or “To Mary,” before a heartless old bachelor, or an unsentimental matron, and the exclamation would be—“what nonsense—what stuff!”

But it is not only in the case of the love-struck, and the _sans-love_ portions of the community, that the uncertainty named is made manifest, by any means. The most thoughtful and dignified productions may be the recipients of censure, for want of a _kindredness_ of sentimentality—or absence of it—on the part of the reader. The mind may be totally unfitted for the thoughts before it, by very conformation,—or what is the same thing in effect—from habit. And, then again, the mind of the most sentimental order by nature, may be placed under unfavorable circumstances to appreciate the thoughts of the poet. So much so, that the most beautiful creations of the most fanciful author, may be as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, though clothed in most harmonious numbers. How, for instance, may we expect the merchant or mechanic, wearied with the toils of the day, to peruse a poem, however short, with the same pleasure and favorable reception as the man of leisure? The thing is among the impossibles. But even the man of taste and leisure, may fail (nay, often does,) to enter into the feelings of the writer—and without _feeling_ the appreciation and penning of poetry, are, alike, out of the question—unless we except some of the poetry of Pope and others, which has left the ordinary track. It is so exceedingly difficult to catch the nice shades of meaning which it is intended to express, unless assisted by the heart. Poetical _allusions_ especially, are always liable to be mistaken, if not scanned with a poetic eye.

But it is the change of circumstances which often, more than aught else, prevents the comprehension and appreciation of a poet’s thoughts—his descriptive thoughts particularly. As much as descriptive poetry resembles painting, it comes far short of the power which the latter art exerts in representing scenes _as a whole_. Take a pastoral poem, by way of making my meaning understood. A poet would describe the parts and personages separately—such as the wood,—the stream,—the flocks, and the pastoral lovers—but the painter can present them all at once, as a single idea, so to speak. How difficult, then, must it be for an author so to describe scenes, the like of which the reader may never have beheld, as to be fully appreciated by all. If he is sketching,—as did Thompson,—the customs and scenes of rural life, he will be understood fully by those alone who have enjoyed such scenes and practised such customs. Those who, in this case, had viewed the _original_, would be able best to decide upon the merits of the picture. A poet might rhyme forever about scenes which he had never looked upon, but he would utterly fail to satisfy one familiar with the same, that his portraitures were correct. So a reader, who had never viewed a river, or a waterfall, or a gloomy ravine amid rock-ribbed mountains, would scarcely be able fully to appreciate a description of the same. He might, indeed form an idea of the reality—but it would be only _ideal_ after all. I have often thought of Byron’s exclamation in connection with the above train of reflections:

“Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain’s air, Which bloated ease can never hope to share.”

He was probably among the hills of Portugal at the time, and, doubtless, felt what he wrote. I never realized the force of the thought as I did one summer morning, while seated in a piazza, a half mile or so from the North Mountain, in my native Virginia, with a beautiful, green and flowery meadow intervening. Just as I came to the stanza of “Childe Harold,” from which I have quoted, a delightful mountain-breeze swept over the plain. As it tossed my locks to and fro, and gamboled with the leaves of the volume before me, I _felt_ indeed, that there was “sweetness in the mountain air.” Nothing could set forth that uncertainty of appreciation I have been dwelling upon, more clearly than such an incident. It is probable that the greatest city admirer of his lordship’s poetry, never noticed the full force of the idea which thus arrested my attention, but passed it unappreciated, in admiration of some sentiment, in the very same stanza, whose full import he could comprehend, while he entered into the feelings of the poetic traveller.

But the greatest difficulty with the “occasional” as well as shorter pieces of a volume of poems, is the difference between the circumstances under which they were severally penned, and those under which they are perused. One reads, in the self-same hour, the diversified productions of years. How, then, can a writer anticipate the appreciation of his sentiments? He has ceased to enter into his _own_ peculiar, circumstance-generated emotions. How, therefore, may others take his views? To suppose an ability on the part of the critic, to do justice, then, to the earlier and less-studied _morceaux_, (or, as I have styled them above, the egotistical pieces of an author,) would be to suppose an utter impossibility—a sort of critical _ubiquity_. Coleridge felt the truth of what I have advanced,—as any one may learn from the preface of his “Juvenile Poems.” He therein expresses his apprehensions in the following language:—“I shall only add, that each of my readers will, I hope, remember that these poems, on various subjects, which he reads at one time, and under the influence of one set of feelings, were written at different times, and prompted by very different feelings; and, therefore, the inferiority of one poem to another, may, sometimes, be owing to the temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it.”

What shall we say, then? Shall an author abstain from publishing his shorter and occasional pieces, on account of the facts alluded to by Coleridge? By no means, I would say, though a consideration thereof may well deter the judicious writer from admitting into his volume every thing he may have penned. As to the dimensions of pieces, it may be more advisable, in some cases, to republish the shortest sonnets, and the like, relating to one’s own personal feelings and relations, than longer productions—at least they are likely to be more pleasing to the general reader. They are unquestionably useful, as throwing light upon points of a man’s private history with a force of illumination which no biographer could use, were he to attempt it—a something, by-the-bye, which seldom happens; indicating the probability, that we seldom read _the_ man’s real biography, but merely _a_ man’s—often an ideal man only.

As to the effect of fugitive and earlier poems, when republished, upon an author’s reputation—let them be appreciated or not, it matters little. His fame does not hang upon such “slender threads.” It is to his more elaborate productions that the public will look for evidences of genius. It is a fact that a poet’s reputation, generally speaking, depends upon the appreciation of some particular production. It is true, readers may differ in their assignment of merit—but the fact of non-agreement, as to the question of comparative merit, does not alter the principle. If each one comes to the conclusion that the poet has penned _one_ poem of prime excellence, his name is safe—the residue are set down not as evidences of a want of genius, but of the neglect of a right and careful use of it. The conclusion is, in other words, that he could have written the others better, if he had made proper use of the talents with which he was endowed. Were an example needed, I might refer to Milton. When we think of him we never associate with his name any of his productions but “Paradise Lost.” He might have published in the same volume thousands of fugitive pieces, no better than those he did suffer to see the light, (and they are with few exceptions, poor enough, as the emanations of such a mind,) and yet his fame not suffer in the smallest degree—the names of Milton, and of that great poem, would still have descended as one and inseparable.

[5] Omnia vincit amor.—_Virg. Bucol._

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JUNE.

When the low south wind Breathes over the trees With a murmur soft As the sound of the seas; And the calm cold moon From her mystic height, Like a sybil looks On the voiceless night— ’Tis June, bright June!

When the brooks have voice Like a seraph fair, And the songs of birds Fill the balmy air, When the wild flowers bloom In the wood and dell And we feel as if lapt In a magic spell— ’Tis June, bright June! A. A. I.

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LET ME REST IN THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.

WRITTEN BY CHARLES JEFFERYS, COMPOSED BY J. HARROWAY.

Philadelphia, John F. Nunns, 184 Chesnut Street.

Farewell to the home of my Childhood, Farewell to my cottage and vine; I go to the land of the Stranger, Where pleasures alone will be mine. When Life’s fleeting journey is over, And Earth again mingles with

Earth,

I can rest in the land of the Stranger As well as in that of my birth. Yes, these were my feelings at parting, But absence soon alter’d their tone; The cold hand of Sickness came o’er me, And I wept o’er my Sorrows alone.

No friend came around me to cheer me, No parent to soften my grief; Nor brother nor sister were near me, And strangers could give no relief. ’Tis true that it matters but little, Tho’ living the thought makes one pine,

Whatever befalls the poor relic, When the spirit has flown from its shrine. But oh! when life’s journey is over, And earth again mingles with earth, Lamented or not, still my wish is, To rest in the land of my birth.

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SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

HUNTING DOGS.

We said, in our last, that no sport could be attained without _good_ dogs. The first dog, and the very best for the sportsman, is _the Pointer_. All our pointers are, in some degree, of Spanish extraction; and such of them as have the most Spanish blood in their veins are unquestionably the best. The Spanish pointer is about twenty-one inches in height. He has a large head, is heavily made, broad-chested, stout-limbed, with a large dew-lap; his eyes are full, and widely apart, and his nose is broad; his tail is straight, short, and thick, and his ears large, pendulous, and fine; he should have a round-balled and not a flat foot.

“The most essential point about the dog,” says General Hanger, “is a good foot; for, without a good, firm foot, he can never hunt long. I never look at a dog which has a thin, flat, wide, and spread foot. As long as the ground is dry and hard, I always wash my dog’s feet with warm soap and water, and clean them well, particularly between the toes and balls of the feet; this comforts his feet, allays the heat, and promotes the circulation in the feet. In the more advanced period of the season, when the ground is very wet, then salt and water may be proper.”

Scarcely two pointers are to be seen so much alike, that a naturalist would pronounce them to belong to the same class of dogs, inasmuch as they are dissimilar in size, weight, and appearance. We recognise only two pointers—the Spaniard and the mongrel. Nearly all the pointers we see are, in fact, mongrels, although each may have more or less of the original Spanish blood. Such, however, is the force of nature, that a dog, having in him very little of the blood of the pointer, may prove a very serviceable dog to the shooter. We frequently meet with very good dogs—dogs deemed by their owners first-rate—which bear little resemblance, in point of shape and appearance, to the true pointer; some of these have the sharp nose of the fox, others the snubbed nose of the bull-dog; in short, there is every diversity in size and appearance from the greyhound to the pug. The excellence of such dogs must be attributed to judicious treatment, severe discipline, or having been constantly out with a good shot, or in company with highly-trained dogs. It is, however, a mistake to suppose that they are of a proper strain to breed from. Their offspring will be deformed, and will probably manifest some of the worst and more hidden qualities of the parents.

The attempt to lay down a written rule whereby to distinguish between a good and an indifferent pointer, would be futile. How much of the blood of the pointer a dog has in him, will be read in his countenance, rather than inferred from his general shape and appearance. There is an indescribable something in the countenance of a thorough-bred pointer, which a little habit of observation will enable the sportsman to detect with tolerable accuracy, so that he may judge of the capabilities of a dog, as a physiognomist will read at a glance a person’s disposition and ability in his countenance.

The instinct of pointing, we apprehend, is an indestructible principle in the blood of the pointer, which, however that blood may be mingled with inferior blood, will always, in some degree, manifest itself; and on this ground we build our theory, that the farther any dog is removed from the original Spanish pointer, the worse the dog is; and, consequently, that all attempts to cross the pointer with any other blood must necessarily deteriorate the breed. The greyhound is seldom or never crossed to give him additional fleetness, nor the hound to improve his nose; why then should the pointer be crossed with dogs which, in so far as the sports of the field are concerned, scarcely inherit one quality in common with him? Attempts, however, are constantly made to improve the pointer, by a cross with the blood-hound, fox-hound, Newfoundland dog, or mastiff, sometimes with a view of improving his appearance, and bringing him to some fancied standard of perfection; but, in reality, inducing a deformity. One of these imaginary standards of perfection is, that to one part thorough Spanish blood, the pointer should have in him an eighth of the fox-hound, and a sixteenth of the blood-hound. A cross will sometimes produce dogs which are, in some eyes, the _beau idéal_ of beauty; but however handsome such dogs may be, they will necessarily possess some quality not belonging to the pointer. A thorough-bred pointer carries his head well up when ranging; he will not give tongue, nor has he much desire to chase footed game. The hound pointer may be sometimes detected by his coarse ears, by his tail being curled upwards, and being carried high, or by his rough coat. An occasional cross with the mastiff or Newfoundland dog, is said to increase the fineness of nose, but it is converting the pointer into a mere retriever. Another, and the main source of the unsightliness of sporting dogs, is the allowing an indiscriminate intercourse between pointers and setters. Good dogs may be thus obtained sometimes, but they are invariably mis-shapen; they have generally the head and brush tail of the setter, with the body of the pointer, and their coats are not sleek, and instead of standing at their point, they will crouch. When the sire is nearly thorough-bred, dogs of a superior description, but certainly not the best, are sometimes produced by the Newfoundland or some other not strictly a pointer. We are not willing to allow that the pointer is improved in any quality that renders him valuable to the sportsman, by a cross with the hound or any other sort of dog; though we cannot deny that the setter is materially improved in appearance by a cross with the Newfoundland, but what it gains in appearance it loses in other respects.

Breeding mongrels, especially crossing with hounds, has given the gamekeepers and dog-breakers an infinity of trouble, which might have been avoided by keeping the blood pure. The Spanish pointer seldom requires the whip; the hound pointer has never enough of it. One of the main sources of the sportsman’s pleasure is to see the dogs point well.

Dogs should be constantly shot over during the season by a successful shot, and exercised during the shooting recess by some person who understands well the management of them, otherwise they will fall off in value—the half-bred ones will become unmanageable, and even the thorough-bred ones will acquire disorderly habits.

We look upon the setter to be an inferior kind of pointer perhaps; originally a cross between the pointer and the spaniel, or some such dog as the Newfoundland, for it has some qualities in common with each. The pointer has the finer nose, and is more staunch than the setter; his action is much finer. Pointers are averse to water; setters delight in it. The setter will face briars and bushes better than the pointer, which is in this respect a tender dog; and for this reason the setter is preferred to the pointer for cover-shooting. Besides, his being not so staunch as the pointer is an additional advantage in heavy covers. The sportsman who shoots over well-broken pointers, frequently passes game in woods, while the pointers, which are not seen by him, are at their point; the setter, being more impatient to run in, affords the shooter many shots in cover, which the over-staunch pointer would not. The pointer is always to be preferred on open grounds. In hot weather the pointer will endure more fatigue than the setter.

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_The Spaniel, Cock Dog, or Springer._—Spaniels are the best dogs for beating covers, provided they can be kept near the gun. They are generally expected to give tongue when game is flushed: some Spaniels will give notice of game before it rises, which is very well where woodcocks only are expected to be found. Woodcock and pheasant shooting are often combined; when that is the case, a noisy cry is not desirable: pheasant shooting cannot be conducted too quietly, where covers are limited. Wherever the underwood is so thick that the shooter cannot keep his eye on the dogs, spaniels are to be preferred to pointers or setters, whatever species of game the shooter may be in pursuit of. When spaniels are brought to such a state of discipline as to be serviceable in an open country, they will require no further tutoring to fit them for the woods, unless it be that the eye of their master not being always on them, they begin to ramble. The efficiency of the training of spaniels for cover-shooting, depends, for the most part, on their keeping near the shooter; for if they riot, they are the worst dogs he can hunt.

There is much less trouble in making a spaniel steady than at first thought may be imagined. A puppy eight months old, introduced among three or four well-broken dogs, is easily taught his business. The breaker should use him to a cord of twenty yards length or so, before he goes into the field, and then take him out with the pack. Many a young dog is quiet and obedient from the first; another is shy, and stares and runs about as much at the rising of the birds as the report of the gun. Shortly he gets over this, and takes a part in the sport—he then begins to chase, but finding he is not followed after little birds or game, he returns; and should he not, and commence hunting out of shot, which is very likely, he must be called in, and flogged or rated, as his temper calls for. With care and patience, he will soon “pack up” with the others, especially if that term is used when the dogs are dividing; and if not, he may be checked by treading on the cord, and rated or beaten as his fault requires. Spaniels will, in general, stand more whipping than other dogs, but care must be taken not to be lavish or severe with it at first, or the dog becomes cowed, and instead of hunting will sneak along at heel.

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_The Retriever._—The business of the retriever is to find lost game. Newfoundland dogs are the best for the purpose. They should have a remarkably fine sense of smelling, or they will be of little use in tracing a wounded pheasant, or other game, through a thick cover, where many birds have been running about. A good retriever will follow the bird on whose track he is first put, as a blood-hound will that of a human being or deer. He should be taught to bring his game, or in many instances his finding a wounded bird would be of no advantage to the shooter.

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