'In thoughts which answer to our own,
In words which reach the inward ear
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
We feel his living presence here!'
Something there is in the autumn season which reaches back into those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible being! Enter with us, reader, upon Mirza's Bridge, and listen to the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:
'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons, but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.
'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves. Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'
The misty expanse which was spanned by this bridge opened at length, it will be remembered, at the farther end; where, thronging the Islands of the Blessed, that were covered with fruits and flowers, and 'interwoven with shining seas that ran among them,' were seen 'innumerous persons, dressed in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers;' and there was a confused harmony of singing-birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical instruments. 'Gladness,' exclaims the rapt dreamer, 'grew in me, upon the discovery of so delightful a scene! I longed for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats!' But there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death, that were opening every moment upon the bridge. Happy are they who can say, in the fullness of faith and hope, 'Come the hour of reünion with the loved and lost on earth! and the passionate yearnings of affection shall bear us to that blessed land! Come death to this body!—this burthened, tempted, frail, failing, dying body!—and to the soul, come freedom, light, and joy unceasing!—come the immortal life!' * * * The 'Tale' of our Zanesville (Ohio) friend is too long for our pages. It is well written, however; and especially the third chapter, which describes the progress of a Yankee pedler through the 'Buckeye State,' thirty-five years ago. But for the injunction of the writer, we should have ventured to appropriate this chapter entire. The ''cute trick' upon the honest farmer was capital, and a fair quid pro quo. It was not better, however, than the following, which is equally authentic. A gentleman from New-York, who had been in Boston for the purpose of collecting some moneys due him in that city, was about returning, when he found that one bill of a hundred dollars had been overlooked. His landlord, who knew the debtor, thought it 'a doubtful case;' but added, that if it was collectable at all, a tall raw-boned Yankee, then dunning a lodger in another part of the room, would 'annoy it out of the man.' Calling him up, therefore, he introduced him to the creditor, who showed him the account. 'Wal, 'Squire, 'tan't much use tryin', I guess. I know that critter. You might as well try to squeeze ile out o' Bunker-Hill monument, as to c'lect a debt o' him. But any how, 'Squire, what'll you give, s'posin' I do try?' 'Well, Sir, the bill is one hundred dollars. I'll give you—yes, I'll give you half, if you can collect it.' ''Greed!' replied the collector; 'there's no harm in tryin', any way.' Some weeks after, the creditor chanced to be in Boston, and in walking up Tremont-street, encountered his enterprising friend: 'Look o' here!' said he, ''Squire, I had considerable luck with that bill o' your'n. You see, I stuck to him like a dog to a root, but for the first week or so 't wan't no use—not a bit. If he was home, he was 'short;' if he wasn't home, I couldn't get no satisfaction. By and by, says I, after goin' sixteen times, 'I'll fix you!' says I; so I sot down on the door-step and sot all day, and part o' the evenin'; and I begun airly next day; but about ten o'clock, he g'in in. He paid me my half, an' I 'gin him up the note!' * * * We invite the attention of our readers to the following spirited lines. We shall be glad to hear again from the writer, when he returns to his 'several places of abode.' He tells us that his physician, 'after giving him a little of every thing in his shop, and doubly jeopardizing his life by a consultation, has advised a change of air.' We shall less regret his temporary indisposition, if we can be made the recipient of his pleasant letters from the Southern Springs. In the stanzas annexed, not unmixed with one or two infelicities, are several fine pictures. The chant pealing from the choir of the North Winds; the fierce armies of the pole issuing from their battlements of snow to ravage the fair fields of the temperate regions; the hail-stones beating the march of Winter on the hollow trees; the snow falling silently in the garden of the dead; all these are poetical conceptions, graphically expressed:
WINTER.
BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.
And art thou coming, Winter!
In thy wild and stormy might
To cast o'er all earth's lovely things
Thy pale and withering blight?
Ay, here he comes o'er the dreary wold;
I feel his breath—ah me! how cold!
He wears the same wild, haggard brow
Which he wore when in his prime;
And he singeth the same shrill, wailing song,
Which he sang in the olden time;
The same hoarse moan o'er field and fell—
Ah! ha! old Winter! I know thee well!
Thou art coming, icy Winter!
To tell the same sad tale,
Of bright things passing from the earth,
With sigh and moan and wail;
Of fair flowers fading, one by one,
As thy sable banners cloud the sun:
A chant from the polar choir peals out,
Wildly, and full of wo,
As march thy fierce escadrons forth
From their battlements of snow:
A requiem 'tis o'er pale Summer's form,
Or the deep war-cry of the gathering storm!
Thy cohorts with their night-black plumes
Shut out the bright blue sky;
All nature mourns the fast decay
Of Summer's blazonry:
Now murmuring low, now shrieking wild,
She sorrows o'er her dying child.
The lips of the prattling brook are sealed,
And the singing birds have flown
Away, away to some bright land
To thee and thine unknown;
And even man in his pride grows pale,
And trembles at thy fierce assail.
Thy trumpet rings through the mountain pass,
With a fitful, wild halloo;
And the hail-stones drum on the hollow trees,
With a mournful rat-tat-too!
Oh spare, in thy fearful marches, spare
The fruitful field and the gay parterre!
But the fierce battalions, filing on,
Nor heed nor hear my cry;
And a dirge for the fair and flowery field
Swells through the darkened sky:
And showers of icy javelins fall,
The only answer to my call!
But ho! a flag of truce hangs out
In spotless folds on high;
And the snow-flakes wheel in light platoons
Through the dark and troubled sky:
And now, like the ghosts of murdered flowers,
They seek the earth in countless showers;
They fall on the mountain's giddy height,
In the dark ravine they fall,
And o'er the distant city's domes
They spread their radiant pall;
That beauteous snow, like a winding-sheet,
Is spread over forest and field and street.