And pure as virgin's visionary's dream, The true and deep music of Festus breathes in its love-passages. The wisdom, the glory, the religion which the poet recognises and advocates, borrow their motive and sanction from his heart. Life and love are to him identical, or, rather, the former derives all its interest and vitality from the latter. Not as a romantic episode or a fanciful accident of existence, but as the "food of being," do devotion and tenderness mingle with the tides of his destiny. He glories in the exercise of his affections "as a strong man to run a race." He dedicates himself to beauty not only with enthusiasm, but calmly, reflectively, solemnly, as if it were so ordained by God. That the object of his attachment is unattainable, matters little, if the feeling is reciprocated. He is proud to suffer, to give evidence of his sin cerity; he is willing to immolate self on the altar he has chosen. The richness and inspiration of the feeling itself, the simple consciousness of being endowed with a capacity so divine, is enough. To see, to minister, to hold communion, to sound the depths of his impassioned heart; to feel himself upborne on the waves of life by the elastic sympathy of an absorbing sentiment,-in its strength to wrestle, in its beauty to luxuriate, in its deep calm to worship-this is to him the grace and the promise of being. We have seldom encountered more adequate illustrations of all the phases of love, or seen it most nobly justified or truly described, than in various passages scattered through the pages of Festus. A few examples, taken without connection, will evidence this: But why call on God, But that the feelings of the boundless bounds All feeling, as the welkin does the world? Then first we wept, then closed and clung together: Like a live engine booming up and down. P. 51. Helen.-I am so happy when with thee. They tell us virtue lies in self-denial: So that I wrong none else. These arms were given me These limbs to leap, and wander where I will; These eyes to look on everything without Effort; these ears to list my loved-one's voice, And every sense, pulse, passion, power, to be She did but look upon him, and his blood As might a formless mass of marble feel, Were being wrought from out of it. She spoke, And his love-wildered and idolatrous soul Clung to the airy music of her words, Like a bird on a bough, high swaying in the wind.-P. 245. By love's sweet will and sweeter way! by all Nor look so temptingly angry. I was but trifling. Not a necessity, is not for me, Whose bliss, whose woe, whose life, whose all is love.-P. 251 The great truth which we infer from this as from every genuine production of imagination inspired by sincere feeling, and shaped by noble thought, is, that enthusiasm, strength of purpose, moral energy, earnest sentiment, or by whatever name we call the real, profound and intense in experience is the greatest earthly good, and the medium of the greatest spiritual. Self-preservation is said to be the first law of nature; we deem it a principle having nobler ends than material well-being. It is not actual error alone that perverts humanity. A moral evil not less ruinous is destitution of soul. While feeling remains, while any native sentiment exists, there is always a foundation upon which truth and duty can rear their beautiful and holy temples. We need not despair of ourselves or others until the fountain of pure emotion is exhausted in the heart. It is in vain to hope for the renovation and progress either of the individual or society through systems of faith merely addressed to the reason, or rules of life that hem in action, but have no influence upon motive. Many of the richest spirits that abide in the world can only become disinterested, reverent of themselves, patient and faithful in duty, and hopeful of immortality, through the free, powerful and happy indulgence of their sympathies. Absolute selfdenial of lofty enthusiasm is, in their case, a frightful alternative. It is, in fact, sacrificing what is highest and most sincere to the temporary and convential. It is literally selling their birth-right for a mess of potage. The great and good have ever recognized these truths. They have scrupulously controlled their passions in order more bravely to develope their souls. This is the very essence of moral courage; and its exercise alone makes life endurable and futurity bright. Without it the world, indeed, becomes a vain shadow-with it, an arena of deep and blest experience. Let the genuineness and excellence of all enthusiasm be tried by its fruits. If it call out latent and genial powers, inake the human being independent of frivolous objects, the yoke of daily obligation light, the consciousness of immortal tendencies strong, the sense of beauty and truth quick and impassioned, and the whole of existence more serene, clear and glad, it must be not only justifiable in Ion finely expresses our meanbut good. The exquisite metaphor ing: ITS NOMENCLATURE, HABITS, HAUNTS, AND SEASONS; WITH HINTS ON THE SCIENCE OF WOODCRAFT. THERE is, perhaps, no country in the world which presents to the sportsman so long a catalogue of the choicest game, whether of fur, fin or feather, as the United States of North America; there is none, probably, which counts more numerous or more ardent devotees; there is none, certainly, in which the wide-spread passion for the chase can be indulged under so few restrictions, and at so trifling an expense. Yet, all this notwithstanding, it is to be regretted greatly that there is no country in which the nomenclature of these feræ naturæ, these roving denizens of wood, wold and water, is so confused and unscientific; none in which their habits are so little known and their seasons so little regarded; none in which the gentle craft of venerie is so often degraded into mere pothunting; and in which, as a natural consequence, the game that swarmed of yore in all the fields and forests, in all the lakes, streams, bays and creeks of its vast territory, are in such peril of becoming speedily extinct. That in a nation, every male inhabitant of which is, with but rare exceptions, a hunter, and ready with the gun almost beyond example, this should be the case, can be explained only by the fact that, as I have said before, little is known generally of the habits of game; and that the rarest and choicest are slaughtered inconsiderately, not perhaps wantonly, at such times, and in such manners, as are rapidly causing them to disappear and become extinct. That such is the case, can be proved in few words, and by reference to few examples; the most evident perhaps of which is the absolute extinction of that noble bird, the heath-hen, or pinnated grouse, on Long Island, where within the memory of our elder sportsmen they might be taken in abundance at the proper season, but where not a solitary bird has been seen for years. In the pines on the southern shores of New Jersey, and in the oak-barrens of North-eastern Pennsylvania, the same birds were also plentiful within a few years; but now they are indeed rara aves; and after a few more returns of the rapidly-succeeding seasons, they will be no more known in their old-accustomed places. The destruction of this, the finest of our gallinaceous game, is to be attributed wholly, in all the districts I have enumerated, to the same cause, the havoc made among them at periods when a little knowledge of their habits would protect them from the most ruthless pot-hunter; the season I mean when they are occupied in laying, hatching, or rearing their young broods, during which to kill the parent ensures the loss of the whole hatching, cruelly famished orphans; a veritable illustration of the fable which holds up to contempt and laughter the slayer of the goose which laid the eggs of gold. In all the European countries, writers on all branches of sporting have long abounded; many of them high of birth, many of them distinguished in the world of science or of letters, some even of the gentler sex. The greatest chymist of his day, Sir Humphrey Davy, was not ashamed to record his piscatory experiences in "Salmonia," a work second only in freshness and attraction to its prototype by old Izaak Walton. That fair and gentle dame, Juliana Berners, deemed it not an unfeminine task to indite what, to the present day, is the text-book of Falconry; and hapless beautiful Jane Grey thought she had given the extremest praise to Plato's eloquence when she preferred it to the music of the hounds in the wild green-wood. But, till within the last few years, America has found no son to record the feats of her bold and skilful hunters; to build theories on the results of their experience; to plead the cause of her persecuted and almost exterminated game. Within the last few years, however, much has been done. A whole host of sporting writers have sprung up in all quarters of the land, having their rendezvous and rallying point in the columns of the Spirit of the Times. Most of these writers have aspired, indeed, rather to entertain than to instruct; rather to depict scenes and incidents to the life, than to draw from those scenes a moral and a theory. How amply they have succeeded, I need not say to those who are acquainted with the writings of N., of Arkansas; Tom Owen, the Bee Hunter; Dr. Henry, of Quebec; J. Cypress, Jr., of New York; and others whose name is legion; but to those who are ignorant of this, perhaps the most original, branch of our national literature, I may be allowed to say that it is to be surpassed in its own line in no European language; and that Nimrod, Hawker, Beckford and Tolfrey, of English notoriety, would lose none of their laurels by being compared to the least excellent of these writers. I have myself long felt a humble pride in being able to subscribe myself as one of the earliest laborers in this fruitful vineyard, ever endeavoring to blend with such incidents and anecdotes as my poor skill might devise for the amusement of my readers, some facts ascertained by a long experience of field sports, both here and in other lands; and some pleas in behalf as well of the gentle science itself as of the wild animals which it teaches us alike how to pursue and slay when in, and how to spare when out of season. So much has been already accomplished by the efforts of many among those whom I have named, and so well am I convinced that the most excellent results may be obtained, as relating to the preservation of our game, from a wider dissemination of facts connected with its habits, haunts and seasons, that I have embraced with real pleasure the opportunity of presenting my views to the numerous readers of a work holding so high a character as this Review, as many persons may be induced to pay some attention to papers from respect to their medium, which they might not have been led into the way of reading had they ap peared in a purely sporting periodical. With these few general remarks, 1 shall plunge at once in medias res, commencing my series on the Game of North America with the bird dearest to the thorough sportsman, THE WOODCOCK. Scolopax Minor, as he is judiciously named by naturalists, to distinguish him from his European brother Scolopar Rusticola, which is above one-third larger and heavier in the ratio of 16 to 9, the mud-snipe, blind-snipe, or bigheaded snipe, as he is variously called in various parts of the country, may be termed an amphibious bird, and is nearly allied to the waders. He haunts woodland streams and swamps; sunny hill-sides covered with saplings, if contiguous to wet feeding-grounds; wide meadows interspersed with tufts of alders or willows; and at times, and in peculiar districts, open and grassy marshes, quite destitute of underwood or timber. With us, of the Northern States, he is a summer bird of passage, as he may be termed with propriety; although he pays us his annual visit early in spring; sometimes, in open seasons, before the last moon of winter has |