NEW YORK, MARCH, 1 8 39.

Original.

Ꭲ Ꮋ Ꭼ Ꮪ Ꮮ Ꭼ Ꭰ Ꮐ Ꭼ ;

OR, THE POETRY OF A WINTER SLEIGH-RIDE.

BY ANN 9. STEPHENS.

THE Spring is full of poetry-the sweet, "unwritten poetry" of nature. The singing birds have set it to music, and the south wind and the rivulets join in the symphony. It slumbers in the blue depths of an April sky-it nestles in the azure bosom of the violet-trifles with the fragrant breath of the May-flower, and glows in the pearly beauty of the snow-drop. It settles upon the branches when the first tender foliage sheds over them a delicate green, and on the hawthorn bush when its buds unfold like a shower of bursting pearls. When the trees spread their blossoms to the warm sunshine when the orchards are laden with fragrance, and the deep forest is tangled together in a woof of flowers when meadows are thrifty with rich grass, and the very turf blossoms as it is trod upon, then is the earth, indeed, full of poetry-rare, glorious poetry, breaking over the face of nature in a flood of loveliness, written out by the finger of the Almighty in the beautiful language of flowers, light, and music-a language that makes the pulse leap, and the heart thrill as with a sweet melody.

tufts of down through the still air. There is stirring poetry in the soul-like dirge of the winter winds as they sweep through the mighty forest, with their wild and quivering howl-as they swell into a thundering chorus, and rush by with their terrible melody-and in their deep and more solemn lull as they mutter and sing through the leafless trees and swaying branches. When the clouds darken and thicken, the winds grow louder and fiercer in their wailings, and the storm begins to lash the earth with its fearful and boding wrath; when the doors creak, and the windows clatter, and the very houses seem to quake upon their foundations with the fierce and reiterated attacks of the winter wind; when the mingled hail, snow and rain, dash against our windows with fitful violence, now and then hushing their wild muttering, as if in sullen wrath at being thwarted in their attempts to besiege our dwellings, and again, as if summoning up all their strength, into one effort of mad desperation, pouring a shower of pelting fury upon our trembling casements-when we sit in a hushed and awed stillness, listening to the unearthly music of the element, and rocked into a strange but beautiful lullaby, a meditative and poetic feeling, by their angry clashings, we feel that there is beauty and wild, sweet poetry in it all.

But the most cheering poetry lies in the merry, merry sleigh-ride. Each tone of the dancing bells is replete with life and animation. Each merry peal, ringing out its anthem upon the clear air, sends a thousand joyous sensations trooping up from the sanctuaries of our bosoms, like fairies from their lily homes.

There is poetry in Summer. It lingers in the warm sunset of a July evening, and in the ripe, heavy foliage, laden with the crimson and golden fruit of August. It mingles with the dew that bathes the queenly bosom of the damask-rose, glows in the bloom which clings to the ripening grape, and is visible in the myriads of tiny wild-flowers that flush the pasture-lands, and are haunted by the hum of the roaming insects. It is heard in the low of cattle, at nightfall, and swells in the plain-markably within the last five years. tive notes of the whip-poor-will as he breathes his melancholly song amid the darkling leaves of the forest. There is a vein of rich poetry which melts with the summer into the gorgeous magnificence of autumn, which steals to the rife foliage with the first hoar-frost, and kindles among it the dyes of the rainbow. The trees fling their regal drapery to the breath of coming winter, and then a sad, sweet poetry, like that which lingers about the grave, is abroad.

Do you ask, reader, where is the poetry of a sleighride? A fine body of snow has just fallen; go with me to any of the country villages down-east, and if we do not find something of it, things will have changed re

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Well, suppose yourself magnétized, my gentle reader, and sit down in the heart of some bustling country village, where the younger inhabitants are just preparing for a sleigh-ride. Mark that group of girls wrapped to the chin in cloaks and furs, their bright eyes peering roguishly out from their closely-drawn hoods, and the rosy lips parted with smiles as they stand in the piazza of that public house, waiting for the sleighs to draw up. They fold their cloaks tighter, and gather the furs to their pretty faces as the cutting air penetrates their ap

Wild and chilling is the Autumn as it merges into Winter; but with it comes the poetry of home, the as-parel, sends a shiver through the frame, and calls up a sociations which gather about the hearth-stone which brighter glow to their dimpling cheeks. There come embrace family and friends, and which keep the affec- the young men, bringing up the sleighs—and a fine set of tions warm. The out-door world, too, is not without its fellows they are, each equipped in his Sunday's gear, interest; there is the bright clear morning with its his surtout thrown wide open to expose the snow-white icicles and its fairy frost-work-the day of wintry sun- linen and the collar nicely starched by the hand of some shine, when the glittering and crusted snow lies, a sheet kind mother or fair young sister, for this especial occaof burnished silver, over the earth—the calm, pleasant sion. Mark the expression of their brown honest faces snow-storm, when the flakes fall thick and large, like the triumphant pleasure which beams over them,

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quickening the warm energetic blood upon their cheeks, || Every thing-the cottage in its rustic beauty-the

and lending a vigor and buoyancy to every step and motion. They mingle with the girls on the piazza, now, and a happy group they are; each in the blooming spring-tide of life, in the first flush of their bright anticipations-without a care or a thought, save how they may best enjoy themselves. There is something beautiful in the inspiration reigning over the whole group, irradiating the faces and kindling up the eyes of all as they seat themselves amid the pile of furs and Buffalo robes spread for their reception. There is a tightning of reins and a cracking of whips; the horses bound away, animated and inspired as thoroughly as their masters. The merry, merry bells send out a crash of gladdening music. Sweet voices, mellow laughter and bright glances chime with the ringing melody! It is visible music -you can read every note and discern every swell and pause. On, on they go for a mile or more, like a train of railway cars, then the horses begin to find breathing time. The gentlemen forget their whips, and are partially absorbed by the pretty faces peeping out from their envious hoods; each, at last, becomes mindful only of his companion; we can guess at the conversation passing between that foremost couple. They have no thought for the snow-capped mountain, looming in the clear distance against a background of cold blue sky, nor of the quiet valley at their feet, cradled in a drapery of glittering silver. The youth grasps whip and rein in one hand, while the other is searching beneath his companion's cloak for a little hand which will not be coaxed from its nestling-place in the jennet-skin muff. The maiden's cheek is glowing to a rich crimson, and there is a look of mischievous triumph in her saucy black eyes as they sink beneath his too intense gaze. There is poetry in that scene which we need not interpret a picture, too, with a lover's declaration in the foreground, and a wedding in the perspective.

Their

shrubs in their slender and delicate leaflessness-the caged canary with its melody, and the evergreens shrouded in their gloomy foliage, is full of poetry. But our unlucky pair have no eyes for the scene. companions are distancing them each moment, the ringing music of the sleigh bells grows fainter and fainter, and the sweet sound of laughter is no longer echoed back from the party. They are left alone in their mishap, annoyed and perplexed.

"Shall I get out?" inquires the lady of her companion, who stands, half sunk in the drift, shaking his reins, cracking his whip and striving to encourage the poor horse to fresh exertion. The gentleman replies by taking her in his arms and setting her down in the beaten track, where she remains stamping her pretty little feet to keep from freezing, and casting anxious glances, now at the struggling horse and then at the train of sleighs winding up the hill a mile distant. Relieved of its burthen, the sleigh is soon extricated, and with a careless laugh at the accident, they dash on again. We need not follow them, they will soon overtake the train, and all will end in a dance and supper at some public house.

There may be poetry in a city sleigh, with a mixture of mud, water and dirty snow to glide over, a troop of omnibusses and hackney coaches to elude, and a row of brick houses by way of prospect; but for my part I could never extract anything but the most disagreeable kind of prose from a winter ride through the town, unless it ended in a friendly visit, or a stroll through Mr. Hogg's hot-houses when his japonicas are in flower, his roses and geraniums full of blossoms, and his oranges so large and ripe, that one is sadly tempted to follow the example of our illustrious Mother Eve with regard to them. With all the poetry of flowers and fruit in perspective, one can afford to endure the mockery of a muddy sleigh ride in the city, but only with an excuse, that "the end sanctifies the means.”

The plate before thee, reader, is not without its poetry. It is a creation of the artist, and the sledge is more fitted for the Winter-king or the Ice-spirit, than for man-although many of our race would like to be possessors of a similar one. To what country the sledge might be peculiar, we are at a loss to decide. It cannot be of our own nation, for though the scenery may be of any land, nothing so unique and magnificent as that sledge has ever presented itself in Broadway, or even in the imagination of the author of Norman Leslie. It may be of Canada, but far more likely, it belongs to some of the northern countries of Europe, to Denmark or Sweden, or perchance to the imperial court of Russia. It would have been a fit

Observe the ludicrous position of that couple who bring up the rear. To avoid a circuitous route, they have heedlessly plunged into a snow-drift, and their struggling horse is wholly unable to extricate them. They call in vain for help their companions are dashing merrily on, casting no look behind, nor dreaming of the laughable plight the luckless couple have fallen into. Their mishap chanced on the edge of a pine grove. The trees bend over them, laden with a rich, white drapery, and the breeze sends down whole showers of powdered icicles and feathery snow into their shrinking faces. A little rural abode stands near, pouring out its rich curling columns of smoke into the still air. Its snow-wreathed roof is bathed in the silvery sunlight, its rude porch embowered in sheltering snow-drifts, and a caged canary sends forth its meiting warblings from the closed win-appendage to the haughty Catharine's palace of ice, and dow. The rose bushes and leafless shrubs, growing near the cottage, have just shaken off their beautiful burthen of snow and ice, and are lifting their slender twigs to the sun; the few scattered evergreens distributed thickly among the robeless trees, tower up in their sombre drapery, as if in triumph that winter with all his frost and storms cannot rob them of one summer gift, nor steal one tint from their garlands of eternal green.

even her august self might not have disdained to seek amusement in a conveyance so elaborately designed and ornamented. It may belong to the court of Vienna, where fanciful vehicles of this description abound, and where sledge-riding is a favorite amusement-but it is useless to conjecture. "The Sledge" is a beautiful one, and we leave it to the imagination of the reader to decide what it is intended to represent.