man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct which sends them to seek the land before a storm arises, were now winging towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang which announces fear and disquietude. The disk of the sun became almost totally obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the horizon, and an early and lurid shade of darkness blotted the serene twilight of a summer evening. The wind began next to arise, but its wild and moaning sound was heard for some time, and its effects became more visible on the bosom of the sea, before the gale was felt on the shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threatening, began to lift itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, forming waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or burst upon the beach with a sound resembling distant thunder.-Antiquary, Vol. I. p. 72.

Example 5th.

NATURAL SCENERY.

Cities and villages were scattered over hill and valley, with cultivated environs blooming around them, all giving token of a dense and industrious population. In the centre of this brilliant circumference stood the Indian metropolis, with its gorgeous tiara of pyramids and temples, attracting the eye of the soldier from every other object, as he wound round the borders of the lake. Every inch of ground which the soldiers trod was familiar to them; familiar as the scenes of childhood, though with very different associations, for it had been written on their memories in characters of blood. On the right rose the hill of Montezuma, crowned by the teocalli, under the roof of which the shattered relics of the army had been gathered on the day following the flight from the capitol. In front lay the city of Tacuba, through whose inhospitable streets they had hurried in fear and consternation; and away to the east of it stretched the melancholy causeway.-Prescott's Conquest of Mexico, Vol. III. p. 31.

Example 6th.

NATURAL SCENERY.

They moved cautiously forward, straining their vision to pierce the think gloom of the forests, where their wily foe might be lurking. But they saw no living thing, except only the wild inhabitants of the woods and flocks of the zopolite, the voracious vulture of the country, which, in anticipation of a bloody banquet, hung like a troop of evil spirits, on the march of the army.

As they descended, the Spaniards felt a sensible and most welcome change in the atmosphere. The character of the vegetation changed with it; and the funereal pine, their only companion of late, gave way to the sturdy oak, to the sycamore, and lower down, to the graceful pepper tree, mingling its red berries with the dark foliage of the forest; while in still lower depths, the gaudy-colored creepers might be seen flinging their gay blossoms over the branches, and telling of a softer and more luxurious climate.

At length, the army emerged on an open level, where the eye, unob

structed by intervening wood or hill-top, could range, far and wide, over the Valley of Mexico. There it lay, bathed in the golden sunshine, stretched out, as it were, in slumber, in the arms of the giant of hills, which clustered, like a phalanx of guardian genii, around it. *- Conquest of Mexico, Vol. II, p. 463.

From the same source from which the preceding extract was taken, the following personal description has been borrowed.

HERNANDO CORTÉS.

Hernando "Cortés at this time was thirty-three, or perhaps thirty-four years of age. In stature he was rather above the middle size. His complexion was pale, and his large dark eye gave an expression of gravity to his countenance, not to be expected in one of his cheerful temperament. His figure was slender, at least until later life; but his chest was deep, his shoulders broad, his frame muscular and well proportioned. It presented the union of agility and vigor, which qualified him to excel in fencinghorsemanship, and the other generous exercises of chivalry. In his diet he was temperate, careless of what he ate, and drinking little; while, to toil and privation he seemed perfectly indifferent. His dress, for he did not disdain the impression produced by such adventitious aids, was such as to set off his handsome person to advantage; neither gaudy nor striking, but rich. He wore few ornaments, and usually the same; but these were of great price. His manners frank and soldierlike, concealed a most cool and calculating spirit. With his gayest humor there mingled a settled air of resolution, which made those who approached him feel they must obey; and which infused something like awe into the attachment of his most devoted followers. Such a combination, in which love was tempered by authority, was the one probably best calculated to inspire devotion in the rough and turbulent spirits among whom his lot was to be cast."

*The introduction of figurative language in descriptive writing, if not too luxuriantly indulged, adds much to the beauty and animation of the style. The student will not fail to admire the beautiful figure here introduced from one of the most elegant historical writers of any age or country. Mr. Prescott, in the work from which the extract above was taken, has conferred a favor on the republic of letters, which will hand him down to posterity as the modern "Dulcis et candidus et fusus Herodotus." The same remark that has been made in relation to the Father of History, may be applied with equal truth and justice to the author of "The Conquest of Mexico." "His style abounds with elegance, ease, and sweetness; and if there is any of the fabulous or incredible, the author candidly informs the reader that t is introduced on the authority of others." They who are not attracted by the thrilling nature of the incidents which he relates, will be captivated by the glowing colors in which they are described, the purity and animation of his style, the witchery he has woven around his subject, and the won derful skill with which he has thrown into a connected narrative a mass of details, which with indefatigable industry he has tithed from a great variety of authors, often at variance with one another, and not unfrequently at issue with themselves. The pride with which an American peruses his works, naturally breaks forth into the apostrophe, "Perge modo, et quà te via ducit dirige gressum."

The character of Cortés seems to have undergone some change with change of circumstances; or, to speak more correctly, the new scenes in which he was placed called forth qualities which before were dormant in his bosom. There are some hardy natures that require the heats of excited action to unfold their energies; like the plants, which, closed to the mild influence of a temperate latitude, come to their full growth, and give forth their fruits only in the burning atmosphere of the tropics. Such is the portrait left to us by his contemporaries of this remarkable man.

The examples which have now been introduced are deemed sufficient, both in variety and extent, to introduce the student to descriptive writing. The attentive perusal of the examples given, with careful attention to the preliminary hints and observations, it is thought will furnish considerable aid in this department of composition.

LXIII.

NARRATION AND DESCRIPTION UNITED.

That the student may perceive how much is added to the beauty and the interest of a narration by the union of description with the narrative, the following model is presented, which is founded on the simple circumstance, that a young man in a feeble state of health is called home, after a long absence, to be present at the death-bed of his mother. The student will observe how beautifully many of the particulars presented in the list in the preceding exercises are interwoven with the narrative, and how much the union of description with the narration has added to the beauty of the story.

Example.

In looking over some papers of a deceased acquaintance, I found the following fragment. He had frequently spoken to me of the person whom it concerned, and who had been his school-fellow. I remember well his one day telling me that, thinking the character of his friend, and some circumstances in his life, were of such a kind that an interesting moral little story might be made from them, he had undertaken it; but, considering as he

was going on, that bringing the private character and feelings of a deceased friend before the world, was something like sacrilege, though done under a fictitious name, he had stopped soon after beginning the tale, — that he had laid it away amongst his papers, and had never looked at it again.

As the person it concerns has been a long time dead, and no relation sur vives, I do not feel that there can be any impropriety in my now making it public. I give it as it was written, though evidently not revised by my friend. Though hastily put together, and beginning as abruptly as it ends, and with little of story and no novelty in the circumstances, yet there is a mournful tenderness in it, which, I trust, will interest others in some portion as it did me.

"The sun not set yet, Thomas?" "Not quite, Sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yonder, as if their branches were all on fire."

Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and with his hat still over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes towards the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in it, that, except in relation to his own home, there were the same vague and strange notions in his brain concerning the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign land.

The main feeling which this self-made world excited in him was love, and, like most of his age, he had formed to himself a being suited to his own fancies. This was the romance of life, and though men, with minds like his, make imagination to stand oftentimes in the place of real existence, and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet in domestic relations, which are so near, and usual, and private, they feel longer and more deeply than those who look upon their homes as only a better part of the world to which they belong. Indeed, in affectionate and good men of a visionary cast, it is in some sort only realizing their hopes and desires, to turn them homeward. Arthur felt that it was so, and he loved his household the more that they gave him an earnest of one day realizing all his hopes and attachments.

Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in having a character so much like his own. For though the cares and attachments of life had long ago taken place of a fanciful existence in her, yet her natural turn of mind was strong enough to give to these something of the romance of her dispo sition. This had led to a more than usual openness and intimacy between Arthur and his mother, and now brought to his remembrance the hours they had sat together by the firelight, when he listened to her mild and melancholy voice, as she spoke of what she had undergone at the loss of her parents and husband. Her gentle rebuke of his faults, her affectionate look of approval when he had done well, her care that he should be a just man, and her motherly anxiety lest the world should go hard with him, all crowded into his mind, and he thought that every worldly attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing.

He had passed the night between violent, tumultuous grief, and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his sick chamber for the first time, he began his journey homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars that were here and there over the sky seemed to look down in pity, and shed a re ligious and healing light upon him. But they soon went out, one after another, and as the last faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in the east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in full glory. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockerv of his misery.

Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went on talking in a low, monotous tone; but Arthur only heard something sounding in his ears, scarcely heeding that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisomeness from the motion of the carriage, but in all things else the day passed as a melancholy dream.

Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he shuddered through his whole frame, and then became sick and pale. He thought he knew the hill near him; and, as they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near his home. The river before him reflecting the rich evening sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine. The birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, bursting into short, gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful, and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to his heart. It was here his mother took her last leave of him, and blessed him.

As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of strangeness, that every thing should be just as it was when he left it. There was an undefined thought floating in his mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change in all that he had been familiar with. But the boys were at their noisy games in the street, the laborers returning, talking together, from their work, and the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He con cealed himself as well as he could, and bade Thomas hasten on. As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in about it, and there was a melancholy, gusty sound in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb. He entered the parlor. All was as gloomy and still as a deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, cautious step over head. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. She hurried down and threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon as he could speak, he asked, "Is she alive?". he could not say, my mother. She is sleeping," answered his sister, "and must not know to-night that you are here; she is too weak to bear it now." "I will go look at her, then, while she sleeps," said he, drawing his hand kerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy had made him shed the first tears which had fallen from him that day, and he was more composed.

He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon him; and as he drew near his mother's bed side, and looked on her pale, placid, and motionless face, he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should disturb the secret communion that the soul was holding with the world into which it was about to enter. The loss that he was about suffering, and his heavy grief, were all forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of invisible spirits, ascending and descending. His mother's lips moved slightly, as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke. It was the same gentle voice which he had known and felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left him, - he sunk down, and his misery went over

him like a flood. The next day, as soon as his mother became composed enough to see him, Arthur went into her chamber. She stretched out her feeble hand, and turned towards him, with a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt at being spared to see him before she died.

"My dear mother," said Arthur,- but he could not go on. His voice was choked, his eyes filled with tears, and the agony of his soul was visible