Known to the friend I was with, he in the entr'acte introduced me;

And from that moment her box became the shrine of a goddess.

Little I saw of the play, now even its name I've forgotten; Little I thought of my friend, but sheltered behind a box curtain,

Kept I my lorgnette on Mabel, watching her moods and her glances.

Perfect was each of her poses as that of a painter's lithe model;

E'en when she talked to her friends the shape of her lips seemed like poetry;

Smiles rippled over her face like sunshine upon broken

water.

During the war between the Northern and Southern States of America many humorous works were published which were intended to expose the weaknesses, and abuses, in the policy and administrations of both sides in the struggle. Amongst these, few were more amusing, or more popular than the Orpheus C. Kerr (ie., officeseeker) Papers, and the following chapter is quoted, as it contains imitations of the poets most popular in the States twenty odd years ago. Under the thin veil of initials the names may be traced of H. W. Longfellow, Edward Everett, J. G. Whittier, Dr. O. W. Holmes, R. W. Emerson, W. C. Bryant, G. P. Morris, N. P. Willis, T. B. Aldwick, and R. H. Stoddart.

LETTER VIII.

THE REJECTED "NATIONAL HYMNS."

Washington, D.C., June 30th, 1861. IMMEDIATELY after mailing my last to you, I secured a short furlough, and proceeded to New York, to examine into the affairs of that venerable committee which had offered a prize of 500 dollars for the best National Hymn.

Astounding and distracting to relate, the committee announces the reception of no less than eleven hundred and fifty" anthems!"

And all these "anthems" are rejected by the venerable committee ! But must they all, therefore, be lost to the world? I hope not, my boy,-I hope not. Having some acquaintance with the discriminating rag-merchant to whom they were turned over as rejected, I have procured some of the best, from which to quote for your special edification. Imprimis, my boy, observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY H. W. L, OF CAMBRIDGE.

Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch

Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen,

Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at

the heavens

Ursa, the noblest of all the Vikings and horsemen.

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY THE HON. EDWARD E- OF BOSTON.
Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands,
Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head,
Ere she a stadium had well advanced
On the great path that to her greatness led;
Her temple's propylon was shattered ;]
Yet thanks to saving Grace and Washington,
Her incubus was from her bosom hurled ;

And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun,

She took the oil, with which her hair was curled,
To grease the "Hub" round which revolves the world.

This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace. We now come to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY JOHN GREENLEAF W

My native land, thy Puritanic stock

Still finds its roots firm-bound in Plymouth Rock,
And all thy sons unite in one grand wish-
To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish.
Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true,
Told our New England what her sons should do,
And should they swerve from loyalty and right,
Then the whole land were lost indeed in night.

The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable
for use in that small margin of the world situated outside of
New England. Hence the above must be rejected.
Here we have a very curious

NATIONAL ANTHEM
BY DR. OLIVER WENDell H-

A diagnosis of our hist❜ry proves
Our native land a land its native loves;
Its birth a deed obstetric without peer,
Its growth a source of wonder far and near.

To love it more behold how foreign shores
Sink into nothingness beside its stores;

Hyde Park at best-though counted ultra-grand-
The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land-

Turn we now to a

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY RALPH WALDO E.

Source immaterial of material naught,

Focus of light infinitesimal,

Sum of all things by sleepless Nature wrought,

Of which abnormal man is decimal.

Refract, in prism immortal, from thy stars
To the stars blent incipient on our flag,
The beam translucent, neutrifying death;
And raise to immortality the rag.

This "anthem" was greatly praised by a celebrated German scholar; but the committee felt obliged to reject it on account of its too childish simplicity.

Here we have a

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY WILLIAM CULLEN B―.

The sun sinks softly to his evening post,
The sun swells grandly to his morning crown;

Yet not a star our flag of Heav'n has lost,

And not a sunset stripe with him goes down.

So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those,
New thrones may rise, to totter like the last;
But still our country's nobler planet glows

While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast.

Upon finding that this did not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle," the committee felt justified in declining it; being furthermore prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line.

Its blue is the ocean shadow

That hides in her dreamy eyes;
It conquers all men, like her,
And still for a Union flies.

Several members of the committee being pious, it is not strange that this "anthem" has too much of the Anacreon spice to suit them.

We next peruse a

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY THOMAS BAILEY A-—.

The little brown squirrel hops in the corn,
The cricket quaintly sings;
The emerald pigeon nods his head,
And the shad in the river springs,
The dainty sunflower hangs its head
On the shore of the summer sea;
And better far that I were dead,
If Maud did not love me.

I love the squirrel that hops in the corn,
And the cricket that quaintly sings;
And the emerald pigeon that nods his head,
And the shad that gaily springs.

I love the dainty sunflower too,

And Maud with her snowy breast;

I love them all ;-but I love-I love

I love my country best.

Our Columbia is a lady,

High-born and fair;

We have sworn allegiance to her—

Touch her who dare.

The tone of this "anthem " not being devotional enough to suit the committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric handkerchiefs, for ladies especially.

Observe this

NATIONAL ANTHEM

BY N. P. W—.

One hue of our flag is taken

From the cheeks of my blushing Pet, And its stars beat time and sparkle

Like the studs on her chemisette.

Yours, questioningly,

"Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,

Crosses himself, and sighs alas !

With sorrowful voice to all who pass,-

'For ever-never!
Never-for ever!'"

It is somewhat remarkable that such a poet as Charles Beaudelaire, the tone of whose writings is generally far removed from that of Longfellow, should so often have borrowed sentiments and ideas from him. Thus in "L'Horloge" he has two verses distinctly reminiscent of "The Old Clock":

'Horloge! dieu sinistre, effrayant, impassible,
Dont le doight nous menace, et nous dit: Souviens-toi!
Les vibrantes Douleurs dans ton coeur, plein d'effroi,
Se planteront bientôt comme dans une cible.

"Trois mille six cents fois par heure, la seconde Chuchote "Souviens-toi-Rapide avec sa voix D'insecte, maintenant dit: Je suis autrefois,

Et j'ai pompé ta vie avec ma trompe immonde !”

Another poem in "Les Fleurs du Mal" contains not only two verses appropriated from "A Psalm of Life," but curiously weaves in with them a verse from Gray's "Elegy in a Country Church-yard." This piece of patchwork is entitled

LE GUIGNON,

Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu'on ait du cœur à l'ouvrage,
L'Art est long, et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,

Mon cœur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.

Beaudelaire hir self admits that "Le Calumet de Paix" is an imitation of Longfellow, it is, in fact, a translation of The Peace-Pipe in "The Song of Hiawatha," and opens thus:

"Or Gitche Manito, le Maître de la Vie,
Le Puissant, descendit dans la verte prairie,
Dans l'immense prairie aux coteaux montueux;
Et là, sur les rochers de la Rouge Carrière,
Dominant tout l'espace et baigné de lumiere,
Il se tenait debout, vaste et majestueux."

The spirit of the original poem is fairly well rendered throughout, but the exigencies of French rhyme do not admit the versification of "Hiawatha." Whilst on the topic of paraphrases, it might be asked whether Longfellow did not borrow his line

from

"Tell me not in mournful numbers,"

'Singet nicht in Trauertönen," in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister?"

It should have been mentioned that the parody quoted on page 88, Part VI., entitled. "The Close of the Season," originally appeared in Punch, August 8, 1868, under the title, "Flight," also, that a political parody of " The Bridge" was contained in Punch, July 8, 1865.

*Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

25

EIRD, thrilling, and mysterious as are the poems and novels of this unfortunate man of genius, nothing that he ever wrote could call up the emotions of pity and regret more powerfully than the melancholy story of his own wayward career, and his sad and early death.

Much has recently been written about Poe, and no difficulty can be found in learning all that is known, with any certainty, of his singular career; but an impenetrable veil of mystery still obscures the record of several years of his life, in spite of all the research of his numerous biographers.

The name of Mr. John H. Ingram has long been associated with these investigations, and his pen has supplied biographical, and critical essays, to all the best modern editions of his works. Many of the following parodies are copied from the large collection formed by Mr. Ingram, and especial mention must here be made of the curious so-called "Spiritual Poems," supposed to have been written by the shade of Poe, which will be referred to later on.

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, United. States, on January 19, 1809. His parents, who were actors, died leaving him an orphan at an early age; he was adopted by a wealthy childless couple, of the name of Allan, by whom he was brought to England in 1816, and placed in a school at Stoke Newington. In 1821 he returned to the United States, and spent some years in desultory study and romantic rambles. abroad, of which very little, that is reliable, is known.

At length his friends obtained a nomination for him to the West Point Military Academy, to which institution he was admitted as a cadet on July 1, 1830. But Poe soon took a dislike to a military career, and wilfully set the authorities at defiance, so that they had no option but to expel him. Having thus cast away all chance of an honourable career in the United States army, Poe returned to Richmond, to the house of his only friend and protector, Mr. Allan. But that gentleman, incensed at his conduct, would not receive him, and Poe was thus thrown penniless on the world.

Poe.

He had already published a few poems, and now adopted the precarious profession of journalism, at which he laboured hard for several years, and then, with no settled income, still almost unknown, and with few prospects of an encouraging character, he was rash enough. to marry his cousin, a girl but a little over fourteen years of age. This was in May, 1836; after a few years of struggling poverty and anxiety, his young wife broke a blood-vessel, and although she lingered on several years, it was as a doomed invalid, whose death was almost daily expected.

Poe was much attached to his wife, and having a highly strung sensitive nature, the grief and anxiety about her, unfitted him at times for all mental labour. On such occasions Poe had recourse to drink, thus adding new sorrow and fresh misery to his already darkened home. Yet, during this melancholy period of his life, Poe produced many of his wonderful tales of the imagination, and was maturing his finest poems.

His wife died early in 1846, and Poe, for a time, led a retired and solitary life; then he resumed his newspaper work, and his practice of lecturing on poetry and kindred topics. He was now fast making his way to a good position, his fame as a poet was rapidly spreading, his lecture engagements were remunerative, and it was rumoured that he was about to marry a wealthy widow.

With ordinary steadiness and application, a brilliant future awaited him, but his craving for drink proved fatal, although he struggled against it so far as to take the pledge of total abstinence. He started to visit New York, on business, and reached Baltimore on October 3, 1849, where it is supposed that he took some drugged whiskey, as he was found helpless in the streets. He was conveyed to the Washington University Hospital, where he died on the 7th of October, 1849.

Of his Poems, those which are the best known, and the most generally admired, are amongst the latest he produced. Thus, "The Raven," which obtained a great and immediate success, was not published until early in 1845; "Eulalie," in

August, 1845; "Ulalume," most musical, most melancholy of poems, appropriately appeared soon after his wife's death.

"To my Mother" was addressed to his mother-in-law, and best friend, Mrs. Clemm, in 1849; "Eldorado" and "For Annie" came out in the same year; whilst the two very celebrated poems, "Annabel Lee" and "The Bells were not published until after their author's death.

All his poems have a melancholy tinge, and, unlike most modern American authors, Poe seems almost destitute of humour.

"The Raven" is at once the most characteristic and the most popular of his poems; it is also that which is most frequently selected for parody, or imitation. Many authors have also adopted the metre for serious poems, such as "The Gazelle " and "The Dove." Poe wrote an ingenious and amusing account of the origin. and growth of "The Raven." The article is much too long, and too discursive, to give in full; but the following extracts contain its most important passages:

THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.

*

HOLDING in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper length for my intended poem -a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight.

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration-the point, I mean that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the Poem.

Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the tone of its highest manifestation-and all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best refrain.

The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made up my mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary; the refrain forming the close to each stanza. That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt; and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel,

in connection with r as the most producible consonant. The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very first which presented itself.

The next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "Nevermore.' In observing the difficulty which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by a human being-I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non-reasoning creature capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended tone.

I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven--the bird of ill omen--monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore," "at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object supremeness, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself "Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death-was the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answer here also is obvious-" When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."

I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word, "Nevermore." I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the application of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending-that is to say, the effect of the variation of application. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lover-the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore" that I could make this first query a commonplace one-the second less so-the third still less, and so on-until at length the lover, startled from his original nonchalance by the melancholy character of the word itself-by its frequent repetition-and by a consi deration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character-queries whose solution he has passionately at heart-propounds them half in superstition, and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture-propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote) but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as to receive from the expected "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me—or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction I first established in mind the climax, or concluding query—that query to which "Never.