The German's Daughter [pp. 737-760]

1S4O] Sonnet-The Germaa's Daughler. 737
ginning to look for novelty, pretty much as we
thirst for fresh air in the heat of summer. I do
long for the introduction of a new fashion of feel in g-for it is much more a fashion than people are
in the habit of fancying."
"A fashion of feeling! In the habit of fancy ing! How can you talk such nonsense, my dearest
Mrs. Vere?"
"Such wisdom, you mean, my charming Mr.
Pembroke. It is a fashion-and the present style,
rely upon it, has lasted all too long. In these days
the human heart, to borrow another phrase from
your dictionary of nothings, is like a field from
which the freshness of morning has been dried
away-arid-burning- and much do I fear that, if
the advance of time and common sense lend not
more dewy influences, "
"You are making the sun himself the type of
my favorite authors, however!"
" Yes, I know-the sun in the dog-days. Be
it so-if that may content vou. But I look forward, I confess, with pleasure, to some better influence-one which may more calmly rule the h our.
Every fashion has its day, and that which has
made Byron and Bulwer, and a n a n all who have imitated them, the sovereigns a nd aristocracy of senti"lent is, I hope, pass ing away."
"Don't you admire them, then."
"The ir p o we rs, infinitely -but no t the use to
which a ben ad ea d the hae been applied. I read them with
enthusiasm, and I close thei r volumes with a lauwmentation that so much ability should have been
directed to the creation of false and corrupt sentiment."
" Sentiment!-you have absolutely none!"
"Very little indeed, I flatter myself!"
" Flatter yourself? There again, now! Well
then, Mrs. Vere, have you any feeling?"
"I-really I hardly know. Sometimes I have
thought perhaps I had. But then your romance
writers have dressed up feeling in so many different
ways, that it is like French cookery, and when it
really is served up to me by any out of the way
occurrence, I scarcely know now-a-days what it
is-whether genuine feeling, or only some highly
seasoned imitation-just as, in the culinary case, I
am sometimes puzzled to decide whether I am
eating venison or mutton."
"W Were you ever in love, Mrs. Vere I"
"I suppose I must once have thought so, for I
remember I was married before I was eighteen.
Most of these things happen before we reach the
years of discretion."'
" Which things ~. Marrying for love, or marry~ingr
at all?"
" Neither. Falling in love —which is a different
matter?"
" You are a droll creature! Htow is it different?"
"W~hen people marry for love, it is, I imagine,
for affection based upon observation, and upon the
How sweet the memories of our early days!
They steal to view, like half-forgottenl dreams
Of walks through Paradise. Their flowery-ways,
And rustling woods, and meadows green-and streams:
A vernal landscape in mild Autumn's blaze:
And all unearthly beautiful it seems,
Like to the rising moon's, soft soothing light,
Upon the bosom of the midnight ocean,
Childhood's associations, in their flight,
Soothe and allay my heart, and its commotion.
Sweet voices from the woods, of young delight,
Come on the fragrant wind-mellows and strong
The awakened echoes of my loved one's favorite song.
"How much its sounds recall!" exclaimed Mr.
Pembroke.
It was sunset, and Mr. Pembroke was seated at
the open window of Mrs. Vere's drawing room,
enjoying the soft air of a mild evening in the end
of May. At the same time he was looking down
upon -- street-for he was then a visiter in
Philadelphia-and, until the last five minutes, he
had been musing of such things as met his eyenamely, the varieties of " life in the streets."
Within the last few moments, however, his mind
had been suddenly abstracted from this contemplation-old feelings had been conjured up, and absent
forms had obeyed the spell of the witch memory,
and become present to his heart. A crowd of
tender associations also had returned in their company, and painful thoughts, which it had long been
his study to dispel, had resutimed their sway and
influence. Not wonderful was it, then, that Mr.
Pembroke should exclaim,
" How much those sounds recall!"
"What sounds!" said Mrs. Vere, surprised not
more by the words that fell upon her ear, than by
the tone in which they were uttered.
"The German air which somebody is playing
in the opposite house."
Mrs. Vere listened a moment, and then naturally
asked,
And why should this air affect you?"
"To me," replied Pembroke, sadly, it is the
very voice of the past. I have listened to that air
long, long ago,-when I was happier than I can
ever be again."
"You are speaking like an old man," said Mrs.
Vere, smiling, "but not like a wise old man,-nay,
don't answer! Spare me, I beseech you, the idlest
common-place of the most common-place age that
time has yet dealt out. Do not tell me of' a heart
grown prematurely old.' That' sort of thing'
came in with Byron, and is growing stale with
Bulwer. We are all getting tired of it, and be
VOL. VI-93
1840,]
So)2net.-Tlze German's Dau,-hter.
737
SONNET.-CHILDHOOD.
BY GEO. W. WALLIS.
THE GERMAN'S DAUGHTER.