nair. All around their little domain looked peacefully, but Anna echoed her mother's sigh, as the beating of the drum and other sounds of war came faintly from the hostile camps and awakened in their bosoms sorrowful thoughts of the situation of their country, and the welfare of the husband and father, whose life was so precious, yet in such peril. As they silently approached the house, Anna felt conscious that her mother was becoming absorbed in melancholy reverie, and, to divert her attention, proposed to meet Arthur. Mrs. Leslie consented, and they passed through the flower beds and proceeded to the lower parts of the grounds, where Arthur employed himself in cultivating the vegetable garden; for it was impossible to procure a man in the town for that purpose, all who were able having joined the army of their country. But Arthur, with the occasional assistance of Rachel, their faithful black servant, had managed to raise quite a respectable stock of vegetables, not only for his own family, but he sometimes found means to carry a portion to supply his father's table at the camp. Arthur, who had just completed his work and refreshed himself by a bath in the river, as his mother and sister appeared in sight, hastened to join them, and to communicate an account of an extensive depredation commit ted the preceding night in his garden. Naturally impetuous in his temper, Arthur now complained bitterly, and vowed vengeance on the British thief, as he persisted in calling him, for he had traced the footsteps over his delicate lettuce beds and young peas, till they terminated on the verge of the river. As his boyish imagination magnified his wrongs, Arthur's dark eye sparkled, his cheek flushed, and his red lip curled with scorn, and not till the sweet voice of his sister had communicated in a whisper a plan for watching that night, and at least ascertaining who the thief was, did his brow become unclouded, just as they entered their quiet, low-ceiled sittingroom. A very pleasant room it was, though old fashioned. Its deep window seats were nicely cushioned, its clumsy-looking mahogany tables, with dark, time-colored surfaces, highly polished, the carved boxes and stands that came from Calcutta, its fireplace, surrounded by small Dutch tiles, the antique-looking portraits, that came over in the Mayflower, it was said, and the painted screens placed around, made the apartment a favorite with Ar thur and Anna. The bright flowers in the old China vases, and the white drapery of the table, now spread with their simple evening repast, enlivened the somewhat sombre aspect of the room, for the sun had just sunk below the horizon and the vines hung thickly over the windows; but Rachel pushed them aside and commenced swaying her fly-brush, as Mrs. Leslie seated herself at the table. Rachel was somewhat a privileged being in the family, as she was a faithful and trusty domestic, and she often enlivened the children at meal times by her quaint expressions and anecdotes of the olden time. This evening she began to lament, as she glanced ruefully at the plain bread, fresh strawberries, and bright water from their own cool and shaded well, that her lady could no longer preside, as formerly, over the splendid silver plate and beautiful China tea-set, that once adorned the table, covered with the delicacies of the season. But now what was the use of the plainest cups and saucers without tea, and even the strawberries must be eaten without cream, for the British foragers had stolen their last

BOW.

Arthur, who had been absorbed in his own thoughts, now joined in the conversation, for he generally felt interested when any thing was said respocting the injuries inflicted by the foes of his country; and, long after Mrs. Leslie had retired from the room, did the eager boy continue to listen to Rachel's tales, and even Anna at last left them, and passing out of the glass door into the large hall, for she was perfectly acquainted with every nook in her childhood's home, and could find her way without difficulty through every room of the house, she ascended the broad staircase with large wooden balustrades at the head of the hall, and entered her own

it it

chamber. Drawing the snowy curtain aside, Anna seated herself on 10 window seat, for though she could not look out upon the moonlit scer was pleasant to feel the cool fragrant breeze play over her face, and he rustling among the branches of the horse-chestnut trees. Long did Anna sit there, and longer she would have lingered, indulging in those waking dreams, sad and yet sometimes enchanting, that are peculiarly endeared to those, who, like her, are shut out from many of the bright realities of life, if the door communicating with her mother's apartment had not gently opened, and Mrs. Leslie entered with a mother's care to see that all was safe. Anna, my child, nine o'clock, and you sitting here, when the damp breeze f om the river is blowing directly in the window? what imprudence!" The window was closed, and Anna was carefully enveloped in flannel, and only her urgent remonstrances prevented her mother from administering some hot herb tea. After Anna had retired, Mrs. Leslie withdrew to her chamber, full of anxiety for her beloved child, whose delicate health and helplessness seemed to increase the love she felt for her.

When the old clock in the corner of the hall struck nine, Arthur lighted his candle and hastened to his room. After closing the door, he took from his chest an old fowling-piece, and carefully examined it. Placing it on the table, he repaired to the window, and, parting the waving tendrils of the vine, looked out anxiously. Light clouds had been flying across the deep blue of the sky all the evening; but now, darker and darker they gathered in huge masses, till it was impossible to discern objects with any distinctness on the river, or even in the garden below. Arthur was a brave boy, but he hesitated at the thought of descending to the garden and there watching for the thief, for the increasing darkness made it impossible to see from the window; but his hesitation vanished, for he thought he faintly neard the sound of oars on the river, and snatching up his fowling-piece, and silently opening his door, he proceeded lightly along the hall. As he passed the clock, it struck ten, and its silvery sound somewhat startled him as he felt his way in the dark. Noiselessly he opened the hall door, and stepped out into the yard. Everything around was quiet, except the rustling of the branches as a gust passed by, and the sound of oars striking the waves, which he now heard with more distinctness. Arthur bounded lightly over the hedge of sweetbrier, and made his way through the dewy shrubbery to his garden. It was very dark, and as he hid behind a group of currant bushes and awaited the coming of the depredator, he could scarcely distinguish a single object. Suddenly the noise ceased on the river, and breathlessly Arthur watched through the gloom. He started as he thought he perceived a tall form bending over near him; but, looking more closely, he saw it was a large sunflower bowing its head in the breeze. Again; did his imagination deceive him? No; a tall Highlander, his tartan and plumes shaken by the wind, crept cautiously through the bushes and proceeded to fill a large bag with all that the increasing darkness would enable him to lay his hands on. Arthur's fears, if he had any, were now dispelled, so indignant did he feel as he saw the inroads made in his fine beds of vegetables, and he sprung behind the startled Highlander, and in a voice hoarse with rage, levelling his fowling-piece close to his head, threatened him with instant death if he made the least resistance. The frightened fellow, rendered confident and more daring by his former unmolested visit, had come totally unarmed save a dirk in his belt; but the surprise and consternation which his sudden detection had occasioned, not being able to see his enemy and with death so near, his presence of mind utterly forsook him, and he followed implicitly the commands of Arthur, who ordered him to take up the bag and to walk in front whether he should direct. Tremblingly the Highlander, not daring to move his head, for the loaded gun still threatened him with instant death, obeyed; and Arthur, following closely and silently through the garden and along the road, stopped

aot till he arrived at the camp in Cambridge, where he delivered his prisoner nto his father's hands. Proudly Captain Leslie gazed on his intrepid boy, and many were the compliments that his courage obtained from the officers and soldiers. Nothing could exceed the anger and mortification which the Highlander felt as he gazed in surprise on his youthful captor, and many were the oaths that fell from his lips, as he saw the scoriful sneers and listened to the contemptuous remarks of the American soldiers as they passed him and looked upon his sturdy form, and compared it with the slight, graceful figure of Arthur Leslie. Arthur did not long remain at the camp, but hastened home to relieve the anxiety of his mother and sister, and just as the sun began to gild "tree, shrub, and flower," Arthur with one bound sprang over the thicket, shaking large pearly dew-drops from the roses, and entered the portico just as his mother was descending the stairs from his room, where the bed, which evidently had not been occupied, had dreadfully alarmed her. Her anxiety was somewhat allayed by the appearance of Arthur; and when at the breakfast table he related to her and to Anna the adventure of the night, Mrs. Leslie knew not whether to blame the temerity, or praise the courage which he undoubtedly had manifested. Rachel was delighted with her brave boy's conduct; and long afterward, when the war was ended and Captain Leslie had removed to the city, where Mrs. Leslie resumed her former station at the head of a splendid establishment, and the sweet Anna had cultivated, with her brother's assistance, the learning and accomplishments attainable by one in her situation, then did Rachel recount to her wondering hearers the story of Arthur's adventure with the Highlander.

LXII.

DESCRIPTION.

Description, as defined by Webster, is "a representation of rames, natures, or properties, that give to another a view of the thing."

It is, in fine, a picture, delineated, not by lines, but by words; and it must be so presented as to convey a clear, definite, and exact semblance to the mind, such as the object described presents to the eye. Such a representation may be called a faithful description. Faithful descriptions, therefore, are faithful pictures. All definitions must be less perfect des criptions of a material thing, than a visible figure or delineation. But when a definition is expanded, so as to embrace not only all the particulars in which the object defined differs from other objects, but also those in which it resembles others of the same kind, such a definition, is, in fact, a description.

Owing to peculiar associations in the mind, and the difference in the habits of perception and observation, no two individuals would probably describe the same scene or the same object alike. This is particularly the ease with voung writers. Some, from a natural sluggishness of mind,

will perceive few particulars worthy of notice, where others, of differen temperament, will find the subject replete with interesting details, all worthy of regard.*

A few suggestions will now be presented, which will probably lead those who may use this book to think, and to use their eyes to some purpose, when called upon to give a written description of any sensible object These suggestions will be followed by a list of details, some one or more of which may always be noticed in a written description.

It will be noticed, that the object in presenting such a list is only, as has already been said, to suggest ideas, which the student himself is to mould as they may arise, and combine with what may spring spontaneously from his own mind.

To collect materials for a good description, there must be a devoted at tention to the beauties of nature and to the scenes of social life. The mind will thereby be rendered susceptible and discriminative, acquiring sources of improvement which would otherwise be lost, while variety and copiousness of expression will at the same time be secured.

There are three great classes, under one of which all the varieties of description may be arranged. Under the first class are included all those subjects which are immediately under personal notice; which are actually present before our eyes. In the second class may be arranged all those which have been noticed, but have left only their pictures in the memory. The third class includes only those subjects which are purely imaginary. In the descriptions of all these classes, the object to be effected is one and the same; namely, to present to the reader a picture, easy and natural, lively in its character, and animated in its appearance; making those de tails the most prominent which would affect the beholder as most striking, and throwing, as it were, into the shade those circumstances which are designed to produce a subordinate impression. In producing such an effect, the writer should pay particular attention to the epithets † with which he designates particular objects, that he may render the impression, which he designs that they should convey, strong and durable. For this reason he cannot be too particular in the choice of his qualifying words, for they are sometimes more expressive than the objects themselves when presented in naked simplicity.

Thus, for instance, suppose we are describing a scene in a wood or forest; the following terms would appropriately describe the appearance of the scene: Dark, obscure, deep, dreary, gloomy, overcast, indistinct, dim, cloudy, dense, lurid, livid, &c.

Or a summer's noon; the following terms will be found in most cases suitable: Bright, shining, clear, lucid, brilliant, dazzling, splendid, resplendent, sparkling, refulgent, ardent, conspicuous, clear, placid, &c.

Or a storm, or a cataract; the following terms will be found expressive: Harsh, discordant, roar, howl, hiss, crash, reverberate, dash, splash, murmur, growl, clamorous, confused, terrific, tremendous, thundering, &c.

There are many kinds of description, also, in which the following terms may not only, with considerable advantage, be interwoven, but the terms themselves, by the law of association, will suggest ideas; such as, placid, calm, tranquil, motionless, peaceful, serene, restless, lazy, unruffled,

* See the "Dialogue between a Tutor and his Pupils," or page 8th. † See the article on epithets.

hushed, silent, voiceless, sleeping, breathless, transparent, clear, waveless engulphed, unmeasured, beautiful, mingled, crystal, golden, silvery, mag. nificent, breezeless, kindred, &c., &c., &c.

Acquaintance with the beauties of nature, particularly with those of the earth and the sky, and with the lights and shadows of life, must be considered as a great acquisition to any mind; and consequently the command of language, so requisite to embody and depicture the same with the glow and warmth which imagination lends to description, must be regarded as an object worthy of the highest regard by all who aim at being distinguished as writers. *

In descriptions, the principal point to which to direct the attention is the selection of the circumstances. The scene, or the circumstance, should be brought with distinctness and fulness to the view. We should be placed, as it were, by the description in the midst of the group of particulars, and be made fully acquainted with all its peculiarities. That which is called truth to nature is effected by the skilful selection and ar rangement of the circumstances, and constitutes the amplification of descriptive writing. In some instances, especially where it is desirable that the description should be bold and striking, the enumeration of circum stances may be less full and minute.

In describing natural scenery, the student will find some

*Probably no writer has ever surpassed Sir Walter Scott in the beauty fidelity, and accuracy of his descriptions. The following extract, from Mr Morritt's "Memorandum," taken from Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter, Vol. III., page 30, exhibits his views, and the pains that he took to be accurate. Speaking of the visit of the great novelist at Rokeby, Mr. Morritt says: had many previous opportunities of testing the almost conscientious fidelity of his local descriptions; but I could not help being singularly struck with the lights which this visit threw on that characteristic of his compositions. The morning after he arrived, he said, 'You have often given me materials for a romance; now I want a good robber's cave, and an old church of the right sort.' We rode out, and he found what he wanted in the old slate quarries of Brignal, and the ruined Abbey of Egglestone. I observed him noting down even the peculiar little wild flowers and herbs that accidentally grew around and on the side of a bold crag, near his intended cave of Guy Denzil; and could not help saying, that as he was not to be upon oath in his work, daisies, violets, and primroses would be as poetical as any of the humbler plants he was examining. I laughed, in short, at his scrupulousness; but I understood him when he replied, "that in nature herself no two scenes are exactly alike; and that whoever copied truly what was before his eyes, would would possess the same variety in his descriptions, and exhibit apparently an imagination as boundless as the range of nature in the scenes he recorded; whereas, whoever trusted to imagination, would soon find his own mind circumscribed and contracted to a few favorite images, and the repetition of these would sooner or later produce that very monotony and barrenness which had always haunted descriptive poetry in the hands of any but patient worshippers of truth. Besides which,' he said, 'local names and peculiarities make a fictitious story look so much better in the face.' In fact, from his boyish habits, he was but half satisfied with the most beau tiful scenery when he could not connect with it some local legend; and when I was forced sometimes to confess, with the knife-grinder, 'Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,' he would laugh, and say, 'Then let us make one, nothing so easy as to make a tradition."""