Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/661

 . 6, 1862.]  cool mattings are laid down, and mirrors, picture-frames, clocks and ornaments of all kinds are swathed in pink net, to protect them from the swarms of flies, who are anathematised under the name of “bugs.” Indeed, bug is the general term for all insects, and a devoted entomologist was shocked at hearing himself described as “a great bug-hunter.” Even the beautiful fire-fly must be spoken of as a “lightning-bug;” and English readers will remember Edgar Poe’s “Gold-bug,” or gold-beetle. Spring is a most enjoyable season in Washington; in March the heat begins, and soon the peach-trees are covered with white blossoms thick as new fallen snow, the magnolias lade the air with delicious fragrance, and countless rainbow-hued blossoms adorn the stately tulip-tree, and afford shelter in their deep calices for the fragile humming-birds. The woods are then a glorious sight, banks of kalmias are one sheet of white, pink, and crimson flowers, the undergrowth of azaleas is redolent of perfume, and strange orchidaceous plants surprise and delight the eye of the botanist. The tame blue-bird, whose plumage is truly cerulean, and the gorgeous Baltimore oriole, lend life and beauty to the scene. Then is the season of pic-nics to Mount Vernon and the Falls; one of the great amusements at the last-mentioned place is catching the “shad,” an excellent fish like a white salmon, and broiling it on a plank beside a fierce wood fire. The Potomac is very picturesque, the banks, well wooded, are in some places rocky and precipitous. The Falls are thought nothing of in the land of Niagara, but at all events are a more pleasing object than the cascades in the Bois de Boulogne.

The great market at Washington is worth a visit. It is ten times the size of Covent Garden. The stir, the excitement of vendors and buyers, the quaint old “niggers” selling their poultry and vegetables, and the numerous ladies, senators’ wives included, going from stall to stall inspecting fish, flesh, and fowl, and pausing at the pyramids of vegetables to fill the immense basket with which their sable attendant is laden, render it well worth the trouble of getting up at six in the morning. It is an almost universal custom among the thrifty housewives thus to attend to their household concerns. One senator’s wife went even further, and avowed with pride that being unable to get her ball-room floor waxed to her mind, she “reckoned she just sot down on her knees and did it herself.” Good kindly souls they are, and if they do pickle hams and wash up tea-cups with their own hands, why our great-grandmothers did the same.

Congress generally prorogued alternately in March or July, and woe betide the unhappy mortals who had to wait on till the close of the session in July. The heat then became almost tropical, 92° Fahrenheit in the shade. The flies rivalled those of Egyptian fame, the stinks of the ill-drained city became pestiferous, the fierce sunlight penetrated through the very walls of the badly-built houses. Washington was unendurable, and all who could beat a speedy retreat to Nahant, Saratoga, and the Sulphur Springs.

And it came to pass as her soul was in departing, that she called his name Ben-oni. And Rachel died, and was buried in the way to Ephrath, which is Bethlehem.—Gen. xxxv. 18. me Benoni, bring the son of sorrow, Let him lie gently on his mother’s breast, Help me to hold him to my heart. To-morrow My soul will sink to rest.

What strange mysterious magic in this meeting! Lo! while I watch his pure and even breath, My waning life’s faint pulses wildly beating, Seem struggling against death.

Nay, cheer me not with flatt’ring hopes beguiling, Nor mock my fears, ye who around my bed Rain sunshine show’rs, in love and pity smiling E’en through the tears ye shed.

Forgive, good Lord, the fretful bold petition That erst I prayed, ‘Give children, or I die.’ Withdraw the cloud of dark and stern contrition Which yet broods angrily.

For ever since that day the voice of weeping, Such as we heard in Allon-Bachuth’s shade, Hath sounded in mine ears, awake or sleeping, And made my soul afraid.

Yea, ever since, the trembling fear of dying Hath gotten hold and compass’d me around, And on the wind a wailing voice and sighing Comes with a mournful sound.

Faster and faster still, death’s hand doth beckon, As nearer unto Mamre’s land I come, Ephrath is nigh, but life by hours I reckon; I may not reach my home.

Come near and kiss me, Jacob, it is morning; Tbe clouds and darkness all have passed away, The eastern light my chamber is adorning, Day breaks, I cannot stay.

Whose is this voice that calls the shepherd’s daughter, Whence is this rod—this staff on which I lean? What is this well of pure and living water, Through the dark valley seen?

Once more, as in the morn of young affection, To meet my Lord, I wander forth alone; And, lo! the Angel of the Resurrection Hath rolled away the stone.”

the small sum of half-a-crown you may in the summer season leave hot and dusty London behind you, traverse the South Downs, skirt the South coast, spend a day in the great naval arsenal of Portsmouth, and be back again in town to a late tea—that is, those who like cheap trips and this kind of racing within an inch of their lives, may do so if they like—which I do not. Wanting a holiday this last summer, and having made inquiries for the least Cockneyfied sea-side place within a couple of hours’ journey of London, I made up my mind to spend a month at Southsea, to the horror of my respectable friends. And where in the name of fate is Southsea? inquires the reader. Southsea, then, is the