And all this rhythm and ecurrence, borne in upon the brain-itself rhythmic-through intermittent senses, is converted into motion, and the mind, yielding utterly to its environment, knows the happiness of faith, the ecstasy of compliance, the rapture of congruity. And this the dull dunces-the eyeless, earless, brainless and bloodless callosities of cavil pleased to call lust!

O ye, who teach the ingenuous youth of nations
The Boston Dip, the German, and the Glide,
I pray you guard them upon all occasions
From contact of the palpitating side;
Requiring that their virtuous gyrations

are

They sit and watch, these two, they do not dance-
Malice suggests that they have not the chance;
But they possess sharp tongues and sharper eyes,
And so are competent to criticise.

Draw near and listen, for the dame begins
A rapid catalogue of ball-room sins.
Drawing her scarf across her scrawny breast,
She wonders "Women can go so undressed!"
Her foot, that envies her companion's crutch,
She hides "How can they show their feet so much!"
Remarking, as she drops her rheumy eyes:
"Glances so free are anything but wise."

Ah, madam, there are faults that envy seeks,
And some might fancy 'tis your malice speaks.
Pray heaven you hide not other, graver faults
Than lissome motion in the graceful waltz-
The "poetry of motion" set to tune,
And harmless most wherein you most impugn.

So, we will dance, and harmlessly; your sneer Shows that your breast holds all the evil here; For foul must be the mind that can discern Embryo bawdry in a graceful turn.

Eyes that condemn the waltz must find, no doubt,
The wrong within they think they see without;
For if you see pollution in the dance,
Just construe Honi soit qui mal y pense.
You argue that were dancing no disgrace
We'd dance at all times and in every place;
But since the liberty is not allowed
Save when excused by music and a crowd,
Whene'er the chance arises we break loose,
And waltzing serves as lechery's excuse.

What downright folly!-half the things we do
Have their appointed place and moment too;

Because we eat at stated place and time,
Is a good dinner to be called a crime?
Some more of this cheap logic you advance:
"Evil loves darkness-'tis by night you dance."

Regarding this, I humbly would submit
Before we dance the gas is mostly lit;
And for the fact of night—it may be said
It is at night most people go to bed.

Enough of this; if dancing lead to shame,
'Tis not the waltz, the waltzer is to blame;
And if a maid be over warm and bold,
She'll walk, not waltz, beyond discretion's fold.
A few old Puritans and maiden aunts
Who have forgot, or ne'er knew how, to dance,
Raise claw-like hands and artificial brows
To deprecate the license it allows.
Well, let them chew the tender morsel up,
Distill their venom in young Pleasure's cup,
Mumble sweet scandal in their toothless chops-
Their teeth will grow again ere dancing stops.
They may talk down the virtue of a girl-
There is an acid that can eat a pearl;
May e'en convince themselves beyond dispute
That, for she dances, she's a prostitute;
May push their malice further still than this,
And drive her to be what they say she is.

Yes, madam, evil tongue and evil thought Exert more baneful power than they ought. You may, by lying, make a maiden's eyes Look through the glass of your impurities, Seeing the image that they once thought bright Fouled by your slime and blackened to the sight. But, mark my words, ye Pharisees and Prudes, Whose presence soils wherever it intrudes: For all your efforts dancing will endure, And to the pure all things will still be pure. Experience shows your vile forebodings falseThe public verdict justifies the waltz.

XIII.

OUR GRANDMOTHERS' LEGS.

Oh, will you-won't you-will you-won't you Come unto the dance?

It is depressing to realize how little most of us know of the dancing of our ancestors. I would give value to behold the execution of a coranto and inspect the steps of a cinque-pace, having assurance that the performances assuming these names were veritably identical with their memorable originals. We possess the means of verifying somewhat as to the nature of the minuet; but after what fashion did our revered grandfather do his rigadoon and his gavot? What manner of thing was that pirouet in the deft execution of which he felt an honest exultation? And what were the steps of his contra (or country) and Cossack dances? What tune was that "The Devil amongst the Fiddlers"-for which he clamored, to inspire his feats of leg?

In our fathers' time we read:

"I wore my blue coat and brass buttons, very high in the neck, short in the waist and sleeves, nankeen trousers and white silk stockings, and a white waistcoat. I performed all the steps accurately and with great agility."

Which, it appears, gained the attention of the company. And it well might, for the year was 1830, and the mode of performing the cotillon of the period was undergoing the metamorphosis of which the perfect development has been familiar to ourselves. In its next stage the male celebrant is represented to us as "hopping about with a face expressive of intense solemnity, dancing as if a quadrille"-mark the newer word “were not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings." There is a smack of ancient history about this, too; it lurks in the word "hopping." In the perfected development of this dance as known to ourselves, no stress of caricature would describe the movement as a hopping. But our grandfather not only hopped-he did more. He sprang from the floor and quivered. In midair he crossed his feet two, and even three, times before alighting. And our budding grandmother beheld, and experienced flutterings of the bosom at his manly achievements. Some memory of these feats survived in the performances of the male ballet-dancers-a breed now happily extinct. A fine old lady-she lives, aged eighty-two-showed me once the exercise of "setting to your partner," performed in her youth; and truly it was right marvelous. She literally bounced hither and thither, effecting a twisting in and out of the feet, a patting and a flickering of the toes incredibly intricate. the celebration of these rites her partner would array himself in morocco pumps with cunningly contrived buckles of silver, silk stockings, salmon-colored silk breeches tied with abundance of riband, exuberant frills, or "chitterlings,” which puffed out at the neck and bosom not unlike the wattles of a he-turkey; and under his arms as the fowl roasted might have carried its gizzard-our grandfather pressed the flattened simulacrum of a cocked hat. At this interval of time charity requires us to drop over the lady's own costume a veil that, tried by our canons of propriety, it sadly needed. She was young and thoughtless, the good grandmother; she was conscious of the possession of charms and concealed them not.

For

To the setting of these costumes, manners, and practices, there was imported from Germany a dance called Waltz, which, as I conceive, was the first of our "round" dances. It was welcomed by most people who could dance, and by some superior souls who could not.

"The lady takes the gentleman round the neck with one arm, resting against his shoulder. During the motion, the dancers are continually changing their relative situations: now the gentleman brings his arm about the lady's neck, and the lady takes him round the waist."

At another point, the lady may "lean gently on his shoulder,” their arms (as it appears) “entwining." This observation is by an eye-witness, whose observation is taken, not at the rather debauched court of the Prince Regent, but at the simple republican assemblies of New York. The observer is the gentle Irving, writing in 1807. Occasional noteworthy experiences they must have had — those modest, blooming grandmothers-for, it is to be borne in mind, tipsiness was rather usual with dancing gentlemen in the fine old days of Port and Madeira; and the blithe, white-armed grandmothers themselves did sip their punch, to a man. However, we may forbear criticism. We, at least, owe nothing but reverent gratitude to a generation from which we derive life, waltzing, and the memory of Madeira. Even when read, as it needs should be, in the light of the above prose description of the dance to which it was addressed, Lord Byron's welcome to the waltz will be recognized as one more illustration of a set of hoary and moss-grown truths:

"As parlor-soldiers, graced with fancy-scars,
Rehearse their bravery in imagined wars;
As paupers, gathered in congenial flocks,
Babble of banks, insurances, and stocks;
As each is oft'nest eloquent of what
He hates or covets, but possesses not;
As cowards talk of pluck; misers of waste;
Scoundrels of honor; country clowns of taste;
Ladies of logic; devotees of sin;

Topers of water; temperance men of gin"My Lord Byron sang of waltzing. Let us forgive and-remembering his poor foot-pity

*I. e., one of the lady's hands.

A remark of Horace Walpole (that most acute judge of the niceties of literature) is set down in the "Walpoliana" on this very topic, and which, indeed, has suggested the following illustrations of his criticism. He speaks of writers who, like certain plants, flower but once-whose poetic genius bloomed early, for a single time, and never again put forth a bud. These writers in poetry resemble One- Speech Hamilton in oratory, and ever remain a source of literary curiosity-a problem not to be readily solved on ordinary premises. It is one of the most curious of literary curiosities, and yet we do not remember that the elder D'Israeli has devoted a paper to the subject, nor even made any reference to it-an omission quite unaccountable, as it naturally fell within the province of his writings.

A beautiful anthology might be collected from the writings of poets who have exhausted themselves, as it were in a single effort-caught but a single glance of the divinity, but once felt "the god." In a supplement to this exquisite bouquet, richer than that of Coppée, Longfellow, or Bryant, though they came quite near the ideal we speak of, might be included the few fine short poems of those who have written long works of mediocre, or perhaps even doubtful standing. A few delicate morceaux of Southey will be preserved by an affectionate race of readers; but even their benevolence could not prevent the utter oblivion of his unwieldy epical attempts. Even Gay, who wrote well always, has been immortalized by his "Ballads" and "Fables" rather than by his "Trivia."

Another class still-beside the writers of one or more choice short poems, and the writers of long and dull insipid productions-is that of the great writers who have written much, and of whose works, even when equally fine, the shortest are best known, merely because they are brief. Thus, Dryden's "Alexander's Feast" is known to many from being met with in many of the ordinary selections and elegant extracts, while his no less admirable romantic tales from Boccaccio and Chaucer, his delightful "Fables,” "Epistles to Oldham and Congreve, and Kneller" (on which Pope could only refine), “Secu- | lar Masque," and his vigorous political satires, are comparatively unknown. Thousands have read, or sung, or heard sung, "Young Lochinvar," for hundreds who have read "Marmion."

And Moore is the poet of the parlor for the "Melodies" he has written, while his "Lalla Rookh," like Byron's "Childe Harold,” is read as a critical duty or study, and by way of task.

According to a classification like the above, these certain verse-makers would rank very high among the minor poets, whose standing is low among the master bards. As to the philosophy of the matter, we confess it inexplicable. Why should one who has once succeeded not do equally well again? Many causes may be assigned, yet not one of them carry sufficient weight to settle the question definitely. The various reasons are sufficiently plausible, yet may be easily set aside, on further reflection. "Sheer indolence," cries one. "Timidity," exclaims another. "Want of leisure," reasons a third. "Rather, want of power,” adds a fourth. "Perhaps, all of these," liberally concludes a fifth. Some persons seem to regard these writers as some snuffy old dogmatist called Goldsmith—as inspired idiots, who have by chance hit upon a new thought or view, which they lack skill and training to follow up-as delicious harmonies may float into the mind of one who is ignorant of the science of sweet sounds:

"Lingering and wandering on, as loth to die, Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality."

In truth, the fact is as wonderful as that would be (of which we are ignorant, if it has ever happened) of a painter who had finished but one good picture in the course of his life; who had caught, for a single time, the cordial and kindly aspect of nature; who, once only, had gained power to interpret the soul speaking in the face. Who ever heard, or read of, or saw, the single celebrated production of a sculptor, or musical composer, or architect, who had anything of a desirable reputation? We do not speak of the clever things done by ingenious amateurs, but of single works - not plays, as Ben Jonson used to distinguish—executed by professional artists.

Yet as matters of literary and personal history, that was really the case of the authors of the "Burial of Sir John Moore” and the “Ode to the Cuckoo." Wolfe wrote two or three other fine things in verse and prose, yet nothing comparable to this masterpiece. Logan is known only by the ode we refer to. "The

Braes of Yarrow" enshrine the memory of Hamilton of Bangour, and have led greater bards to the scene to offer up their tributes, still inferior to the first. Why is this all we have of these delicate poets? With such fancy, such feeling, a taste so refined, a versification so graceful, how happens it we hear no more strains of these nightingales of a night? Not wholly so besotted as to be careless of fame-rather so far from that, as in the case of Wolfe, to be sensitively alive to generous praise and to noble action; and as to Logan, we believe he, too, was a clergyman, a retired scholar, and man of pure taste. Both were (if we recollect aright) invalids, constitutionally feeble, and hence incapable of long flights of fancy or close study. They had leisure. Poetic impulses could not have been wanting, for subjects and occasions never wholly fail the muse. The admiration of friends, we may conclude, was theirs. A single obstacle only remains, and that furnishes, probably, the occasion or reason of their silence-a fastidious taste, like Gray's, or like Campbell's -who was said to be frightened by the shadow of his fame-that could not be satisfied with anything short of perfection, which it failed to realize. Genuine modesty and a sensitive temperament were leading traits, we presume, of the writers. These held their hands and restrained the otherwise willing pen.

The same reasons will not seem to excuse the short poems of Raleigh and Walter, who feared no critical tribunals; whose minds were braced by manly action; who united all characters, and talents, and accomplishments; who, with learning and- at some period-leisure, and fancy, and power, have left a very few and very brief copies of verse, worthy of being printed in letters of gold. They were not men like their later brother bards, to entertain a feeling of despair at ever again equalling the fine things they had accomplished early in life. And yet what is finer than this:

|

The minds of men change, their aims vary at different epochs. They entertain different views of life, of action, of ambition. Many youthful tastes-the accompaniment of animal spirits rather than the fruit of settled inclination-vanish as men grow older. How many young poets have settled down into middleaged prose men; how many airy romancers become converted into "disturbers of human quiet," as Johnston calls the critics. Religion, in some instances, teaches (falsely, we conceive) the sin of all but devotional strains; unquestionably, when pure and noble, the highest kind of verse, but not the only allowable form. In this case, too, where piety is perverted, the praises of men appear so worthless and unsatisfactory, that the bard relinquishes the exercise of his divine gift-in a wrong spirit-before men, that he may offer up his praises, pure and unalloyed, to the great All-Father, the giver of the glorious gift itself-witness Toplady's "Rock of Ages," among other instances, which Gladstone has bequeathed to time by rendering into Latin:

"Jesu, pro me perforatus,
Condar intra tuum latus,
Tu per lympham profluentem,
Tu per sanguinem tempentem
In peccata mi redunda

Tolle culpam sordes munda," etc.

Various pursuits, too, warp the imagination from poetical flights, and confine the studies that arise from fancy and taste to a narrow circle, if not consign them over to "dumb forgetfulness a prey." Three great lawyers have been made out of tolerable poets, who might have ranked among the first of the third rank-the Dii Minores of our idolatry: Blackstone, Sir William Jones, and Lord Thurlow. The judge's ermine and the bishop's mitre oblige the holders and recipients of these dignities to hide sometimes a rare and peculiar talent. But some bishops have been wits, as Earle and Corbet; though too frequently the office stultifies the head while it hardens the heart. We have heard and known of many capital storytellers and mimics converted into dignified judges.

Without any further attempt at unraveling the causes of this literary phenomenon, we will at once bring together the following notices of writers of the kind we have undertaken to describe, without pretending (from the nature of the case an almost impossible thing) to produce all who deserve mention. On the contrary, we can promise to quote only a few, as we write largely from memory, and without ready means of extending our list.