THE POETRY OF CHARLES II. HITCHINGS.* Books are in one sense-like precious stones. A diamond the size of a pea outvalues a score of common jewels, each many times its circumference; thus a sonnet may shine out like a gem of purest water, while a heavy tome of blank verse may seem, in comparison, but a block of carnelian. Now the little volume before us, neatly and nicely got up, but unpretending in style, and only running to some hundred and fifty pages, is literally a string of precious jewels, without one of low degree-without one unfit to star a regal crown among them. The comparison might seem strained and far-fetched, or it would not be difficult to carry the metaphor farther, and show how some of these poems shine out, as if with the passionate fire-heart of the ruby, the shifting lights of the opal, or the limpid-like prism of the diamond. Like other poets, no doubt Mr. Hitchings has written inferior verses; but he has shown the rare discretion not to publish them. He has not tolerated his ricketty offspring, or asked others to foster them; and the consequence is that his volume is a book of real poetry, in which even an ill-natured and venomous critic would find it difficult to say "strike out this," or "alter that." Every writer must be indebted, more or less, to those who have gone before; nor would any one wish it otherwise, except those raving idiots who talk nonsense about "originality" and "uneducated genius." It is from the vast store of literature heaped up before the modern author, that he is able to pile it still higher, and make on the hill-top his own bright fresh flowers to bloom. But do not say, because he wisely and gladly seizes the vantage-ground before him, that he is not original; on the contrary, there is no greater proof of width of mind and self-reliance (other phrases for originality) than prompt recognition and avoidance of a fault, quickness and readiness to improve on a hint, and to perceive a beauty, and see to what other excellence that beauty points. In this sense, but in no other, has Mr. Hitchings profited by the long line of English poets of which he is a worthy younger brother. Having the capacity, from wide sympathy, of looking at life and seizing the poetical aspect from many points of view, he has still his own individual forte; it is when standing as it were on the boundary-line of the past and present, he looks back far enough to win a grace from some romantic in POEMS: BY CHARLES H. HITCHINGS, of the Middle Temple. Fscp. 8vo. (Bosworth.) Thou wilt," she cried, "that law restore, Or ere I reigned that pressed them down; That drenched their streets with mingling gore, And armed the crook against the crown. "Now, therefore, prince, a boon of theeThy promise, for this people's sakeAnd God be judge 'twixt thee and me, If thou that promise falsely break: That law thou wilt no more revive: The root of so much wrong and painSo may'st thou long and prosperous liveSo may'st thou long and prosperous reign." He raised her from the palace floor, How sweet compassion lendeth grace: Then answered in a softer tone, "I have no heart to say thee naySo thou wilt reign my queen, my own, And call this day our bridal-day." Then spake she forth : "It cannot be." Whereat the prince in anger sware, "Well, lady, well: it rests with thee, Thy people, if thou wilt, to spare. But, as I live, my former will, Evil or good, shall hold its way, If thou thy part dost not fulfil Before the sunset close the day." The tears fell fast adown her cheek, And heavy drooped her laden eyesShe, struggling vainly, strove to speak, But found no words. A storm of sighs Heaved her sweet bosom, till she fell A fainting form before his sight, "Lady," he, passing, said, Farewell! I wait to hear thy will to-night." PART II. THE CHAMBER. She bowed her head-she pressed her hand And bless but with a wish--and now— : She dashed her starting tears away, She sat one moment calm and still, Bent down beneath the maddening sway Of wounded love and struggling will. She thought on one whose voice's tone Had thrilled so oft her listening ear; That spake of all save that alone Had been her dearest joy to hear. "He loves me-loves me not!" she said: "Would God the fateful truth I knew! Better to rest among the dead Than wrong a heart whose love is true." She turned to where the casement stood, Listening the tramp of clattering feet That doomed to death the fatal law. There came anear an aged man, That leaned upon his daughter's arm: Her child beside them leaped and ran, With cheeks like roses red and warm. panion-picture to Tennyson's Godiva," with the advantage of a finer subject? "The Benediction," "The Children in the Colosseum," "The Sky-lark," and other favourites here included, having already appeared in various popular publications, we need only recall them to our readers' minds, to claim for Charles Hitchings recognition as one of the band of living poets that make bright the galaxy of which Tennyson and the Brownings are the chief stars. What a mass of vital breathing poetry has been published within the last year -poetry which is slowly but surely making its way-any one selection of which would have made the town's talk thirty years ago! For instance, and writing from random recollection, the volume of poems by W. C. Bennett, whose versatile genius can one moment seize the spirit of an old Greek, and the next breathe out some simple ditty with quite womanly tenderness; those by the young Irish poet, William Allingham, full of vigour and fancy; and Mrs. D. Ogilvy's volume, of which we have more to say by and bye. But it is with Mr. Hitchings we have now to do, though less as a critic than as a sincere admirer. On looking over this collection of his poems, we are struck with the rare union of vigorous imagination and graceful fancy which they display-two very different qualities, though often foolishly confounded—and by the artistlike mastery of his materials which he has acquired. As a writer of finished and melodious lyrics, he seems to us nearly unrivalled; sometimes displaying the grace and quaint fancy that one associates with Herrick and Lovelace, though generally conveying a deeper and truer meaning than those old writers (with a few exceptions) cared to embody. And yet the longer poems have their own special and rare marks of excellence, so that one is sometimes puzzled which to think the greater. Many of the poems, too, are so dramatic in their treatment or their suggestions that we cannot help thinking their author would succeed were he to plume his wing for a higher flight and try dramatic writing. He has sufficient invention and constructive power, we are pretty sure; while of the needful poetry, philosophy, and healthy tone of mind, this little volume is quite sufficient evidence. We must make room for another extract. "THE LAY OF ONE FORGOTTEN. Sleep soft upon your silken beds, And hushed from every wakeful sound; As real as pain! O, sisters fair, The world is very cold and bleak, Beneath thy magic music, beings start And breathe of harmonies from spheres above; TIMOTHY PETTIGREW'S WIFE'S HUSBAND. (An American Sketch.) BY MISS LESLIE. It was twelve o'clock at noon, and the family of Hilary Corndaffer (a substantial farmer in one of the middle states), were seated round the dinner-table, and partaking of such fare as was customary in farm-houses thirty or forty years ago. In those days no country people were dyspeptic; and men, women, and children could eat pie upon pudding and pudding upon pie. In the present instance the first course was a "bag-pudding," with abundance of cream-dip, to be followed by a vast pot-pie, piling a vast dish with plenty of soft crust and hard crust well steeped in thick gravy. The last course was a great peach pie. Massy slices of the pudding had just been helped round, when the attention of the eaters was diverted by an unusual tramp of horses, and Gideon and Martin Corndaffer (two tall young men, commonly called "the boys") ran to the porch-door to ascertain what was going by. Their laughing exclamation of "Look! look-come and look at the moving!" brought out immediately all the rest of the family, including Betsey Buffum, the spinninggirl. After the man came horse the third, with a big boy, who carried a small girl before him, and a large one behind him; the foremost girl holding on by the horse's tangled mane, the hindmost by the boy's jacket, thereby pulling it nearly off his shoulders; the spare hand of the boy shouldering an old gun, the tall girl conveying a long broom, and the little one a patched calibash. The rear was brought up by what at first seemed a sumpter horse, that appeared to be following of his own accord, and who was nearly hidden by beds and bedding tied up in old coverlets, and diversified by all manner of things stuck in here and there, and which it must have required some ingenuity to tie on and about, and to stuff down here and stand up there. But on a nearer view, a little boy might be discerned in the midst. The four steeds seemed paragons of meekness, all looking as if long since resigned to their condition, and the expression of their countenances having a great resemblance to that of their master. The costume of the whole family was shabby, ill-assorted, and inconvenient. raised her head sternly and proudly; the man bent his still lower. The tall girl looked straight forward; and the big boy shouted --"Hurrahı for all of us!" Passing slowly along the road, they beheld There was something so grotesque in this the strangest cavalcade that had ever greeted strange procession*, that the Corndaffers found their eyes. On horse the first rode a woman in it difficult to keep their countenances "within a dingy calico gown and a battered black bonnet, the limits of becoming mirth." The equestrians carrying upright before her a small circular tea-perceived this as they rode along. The woman table, turned up perpendicularly, and screening her face like a great heavy sun-shade. At the pommel of her saddle hung by a loop an ancient band-box, tied round with a long strip of red flannel, that scarcely kept it from falling to pieces. It went bumping against the shoulder of the horse in a manner that could not be agreeable to him, notwithstanding that he looked like an animal accustomed to all the rubs of life, except those of rubbing down. And the pommel carried double, sustaining, in addition to the band-box, a large bundle tied up in a checked handkerchief. Attached to the crupper hung a tin coffee-pot, balanced on the other side by a pair of tall iron candlesticks tied together by a strip of rag. Horse the second was occupied by a thin, stoop-shouldered, yellow-faced man, carrying crossways before him a cradle, beneath which was folded an old quilt. Within the cradle was tied a baby, its head jogging from side to side; but happily it had jogged itself to sleep. In his hand the man carried a frying-pan, and a gridiron dangled from his saddle. High behind him, and close at his back, so as to bend him uncomfortab'y forward, rose a mysterious pile of strangely irregular form, its contents concealed beneath a blanket. A turn in the road soon carried the strangers out of sight, and the Corndaffers all went back to their dinners; the men laughing, and the women ejaculating, "Well, if ever!"—"Well, I never!" A goodly company," said Martin Corndaffer, who had read some books; though in those days books were scarce among country people. "A handsome moving, an't it, Margy?" said the farmer to his wife." carrying their goods in such an unchristian way, all upon horses, and never a cart or waggon." 66 Poor things!" said Margy. "I wish we had asked them to stop and get some dinner. Victuals never comes amiss to travellers." "I don't know," replied her husband. "Do you remember the two English beggars that you called in last summer? One despised Indian pudding, and the other would not touch pumpkin-pie; and both of them laughed at hominy." * The writer has witnessed one exactly similar. "Well, well," resumed the good Margy, "these an't English. They belong to our own people; but where they come from it's hard to guess. "I've a notion," said Gideon Corndaffer, "they're the people that have taken Stony Lonesome. If so, I heard of them yesterday at John Downer's mill. A man who came to look at the new wheel was telling about them; and this is the account he gives: One time or another, they have lived in every county of the state, and next move they'll have to progress out of it, for they're pretty near the border now." "Did you learn their name?" inquired the farmer. 66 "Now, what I say is this," observed the farmer; "I doubt they're an idle, worthless pack, and ought not to be encouraged. If such people were not always better treated than they deserve, there would not be so many of them; for they'd have to turn to and help themselves as their betters are obliged to do. Now, take notice all of you, I insist on it, that nothing shall be done for these Pettigrews." "After to-day," said his wife, entreatingly; "after to-day, Hilary. You know dinner is always welcome to folks that are moving." "I don't know," replied her husband, we've always lived in being my father's before "having never moved myself-this home that He that an't the head of the family," reme. However, the dinner business is no conplied Gideon," is known in all their neighbour-where's the use of asking me? Come, boys, cern of mine. If you want to send them any, hoods as Timothy Pettigrew's wife's husband." "That's enough," said Martin. "It gives at come; it's time to go to work again." once his character in all its double-distilled hen-who, after reaching the door, turned back and The boys departed, followed by their father, peckery." "It's plain to be seen they're a queer family," said Hilary Corndaffer. And what do they do?" "Nothing." 66 And why?" 66 said to his wife, "Margy, you may as well send them enough for their suppers too, only don't trouble me about it. And it may be right to see if they've candles to put in their old candlesticks, or wood to make a fire." "To be sure they have not," replied Margy. The man can do nothing because he is a poor creature; and the wife will do nothing be- "Then send them some; only don't ask me cause she comes of a great family. One of her which pile the wood's to be taken from. They grandfathers was a squire, and the other an may as well have some that's dry enough to assembly man. There was nothing grand about kindle quick; but I've other things to think of Timothy Pettigrew, but she married him for his than house trifles. And," again turning back, beauty-he is said to have had some once. He "you may send Nace, as soon as he has done did not make his fortune by marrying, for his his dinner, with the wheelbarrow to take the wife brought him nothing but the glory of her victuals and the wood, and whatever else they grandfathers; her own father being a worthless, don't deserve, down to Stony Lonesome." broken-down scamp. Timothy has tried to get along in various ways, but never could manage it. And they have now taken to depending on luck, comforting themselves with the notion that the world is always moving on, and that nobody sticks by the way." "Yet it takes hard shoving to get some people along," observed Corndaffer. Timothy owned a bit of a farm once," pursued Gideon," away on the other side of the state; but it was sold by the sheriff; and ever since they have been nothing but renters, only they never pay their rent. Still, nobody distresses them for it, as they never have anything worth seizing. Latterly, cach of the children has had a legacy of an old horse left them by an uncle that kept a tavern and owned stages. Having worn out their last neighbourhood, they've come now to live in ours. The man and his wife were in these parts reconnoitring about a week ago, and so they took the old red house down at Stony Lonesome, that has had nobody living in it these three years, and is to be pulled down and built upon when young Ira Green comes of age; and, he says, till then they may live in it for nothing." "So we shall truly have them for neighbours," said Margy Corndaffer. "Well, it's very good of young Ira. But who can be hard with such poor do-less creatures ?” When the men were gone, and the table cleared, Mrs. Corndaffer began preparing to fill a large basket for the benefit of the strangers, when a man came in at the gate, and ascending the porch, walked straight into the front room, gave her a short nod, and seating himself in a rocking-chair, spoke, and said, "How are you, neighbour?" وو As well as common,' was her reply; and she recognized him as the father of the nomade family. After he had sat a long time in silence (a practice which was not the least new to Mrs. Corndaffer, as it prevailed among most of her neighbours when they volunteered a visit), she commenced conversation by inquiring if he had come to live at Stony Lonesome? To this he replied in the affirmative. "And what business are you going to carry on there?" was her next question. "I think of doing a little at farming." "The place an't much of a farm." "Then maybe I may try my hand at something else." "If you'll take and do any job that offers, you may get along middling well," observed Mrs. Corndaffer. "Well, we'll see how it will be. As wife says, there's never no danger of our sticking by the way. She wants to be neighbourly, so she sent C |