Monster Hunter Generations Guide &

Walkthrough
The following guide to Monster Hunter Generations is addressed to
those of the players who are either new to the series, or those who
are getting back after years. The first chapters contain information
concerning a rather uncommon, for such games

Author: Emily J. Ramsey

ISBN: 1230006033538
Category: Video & Electronic Games
File Fomat: PDF, EPUB, DOC...
File Details: 8.2 MB
Language: English
Publisher: Emily J. Ramsey
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.
dimension, or of both, wherever there is unlikeness of quality; and
that this difference of form thus commensurate with difference of
constitution, is not merely a matter of arbitrary distinctiveness
among the multifarious objects of creation, as names or marks are
sometimes attached to things for certainty of reference and
recognition, appears from such facts and considerations as follow—
1. All mineral substances in their fixed, that is, in their crystaline
form, are angular with flat sides and straight edges. This is not only
a general rule and an approximate statement, but exactly accurate
and universal; for in the few instances of crystals occurring with
convex or curvilinear faces, such as the diamond, it is known that
their primary forms have plane or flat faces and a parallel cleavage—
making the rule good against accidental influences and superficial
appearances.
Here then we have a mode of configuration appropriate to and
distinctive of one whole kingdom of nature.
2. In vegetables we have a different figure and characteristic
conformation. Their trunks, stems, roots and branches are nearly
cylindrical, and uniformly so, in all individuals clearly and completely
within the class.
Soon as we enter the precincts of life curvature of lines and
convexity of surface begin to mark the higher styles of existence, the
law being that nothing which lives and grows by the reception and
assimilation of food is angular, rectilinear or included within plane
surfaces. Inert bodies take straight, but life assumes curve lines.
3. In animal forms the curve or life line is present of necessity,
but it undergoes such modification and departure from that which
marks vegetable existence as our law demands. We no longer have
almost cylindrical simplicity of shape as the sign of character and
kind, but, retaining curvity, which is common to vitality of all modes,
we find the cylinder shaped or tapered toward the conical, with
continually increasing approach to a higher style of configuration as
we ascend toward a higher character of function.
In the human body all that belongs to the whole inferior creation
is represented and reproduced, for man is logically a microcosm, and
in his body we find the various orders of natural beings marked by
their appropriate modes of construction and configuration—from a
hair to a heart, the multifarious parts bring with them the forms
native to their respective varieties of being.
The bones have in them the material of the mineral kingdom,
and they have conformity of figure. In the short, square bones of the
wrist, in the teeth, and several other instances, the flatness,
straightness and angularity proper to crystalized matter, marks its
presence as an element of the structure.
The correspondence of the vascular system with the forms
proper to vegetation, is most striking. A good drawing of the blood
vessels is a complete picture of a tree. Now, animals and vegetables
differ widely in their manner of taking in food, but they are alike in
the method and end of the distribution of the nutritious fluids, and
between them the resemblance of form obtains only in this, as our
law requires. There is nothing in trees, shrubs or grasses, that has
any outline likeness to the esophagus, stomach or intestinal tube;
nothing in them has any resemblance of office, and nothing,
therefore, is formed upon their pattern. The roots of trees, which are
the avenues of their principal aliment, are merely absorbing and
circulating instruments—a sort of counterpart branches in function—
and they have, therefore, what scientific people call the arborescent
arrangement wherever they find it.
If it is answered here that a hydraulic necessity determines the
general form of circulating vessels, and that certain immediate
mechanical advantages belong to the cylindrical over the square or
polygonal shape of tube, our point is not affected. We are showing,
now, that the expected conformity never fails. It is essential to our
position that mechanical requirements shall not over-rule the general
law. The instance given is in accordance, and a presumption rises
that even mechanical conformation itself is covered and
accommodated by the great principle which we are illustrating. It is
enough for us, however, that no facts contradict, though it be
doubted whether all the instances cited afford us the expected
support.
But, leaving the functions and organs, which belong to all living
and growing beings in common, and entering the province of animal
life and animal law proper, we everywhere observe a significant
departure from the angular and cylindrical forms of the mineral and
vegetable kingdoms, and an approach, in proportion to the rank and
value of the organ and its use, toward an ideal or model, which is
neither conical nor heart-shaped, exactly, but such a modification of
them as carries the standard figure farthest from that uniformity of
curve which marks a globe, from the parallelism of fibre which
belongs to the cylinder, and from the flatness of base and sharpness
of apex which bound the cone.
The limbs that take their shape from the muscles of locomotion,
and the internal parts concerned in those high vital offices, of which
minerals and vegetables are wholly destitute, are examples and
proof of the configuration proper to the animal kingdom. The thigh,
leg, arm, fore-arm, finger, the neck and shoulders, the chest, and
the abdomen meeting it and resting on the pelvic bones, are felt to
be beautiful or true to the standard form as they taper or conform to
this intuitive life-type.
The glands are all larger at one end than the other, and those
that have the highest uses are most conspicuously so, and have the
best defined and most elegant contour. The descending grade of
figure and function is marked by tendency to roundness and
flatness. In the uses, actions and positions of these organs, there is
nothing mechanical to determine their figure. The human stomach is
remarkable for an elegance of form and conformity to the ideal or
pattern configuration, to a degree that seems to have no other
cause, and, therefore, well supports the doctrine that the importance
of its office confers such excellence of shape. The facts of
comparative anatomy cannot be introduced with convenience, but
they are believed to be in the happiest agreement and strongest
corroboration.
The heart, lungs and brain, are eminent instances of the
principle. They hold a very high rank in the organization, and, while
their automatic relations, uses and actions are toto cœlo dissimilar,
their agreement with each other in general style of configuration,
and their common tendency toward the standard intimated, is most
remarkable.
 Their near equality of rank and use, as measured by the
significance of form, over-rides all mechanical difference in their
mode of working. The heart is, in office, a forcing pump or engine of
the circulation. The lungs have no motion of their own, and the
porosity or cellular formation of the sponge seems to be the only
quality of texture that they require for their duty, which is classed as
a process of vital chemistry. The brain differs, again, into a distinct
category of function, which accepts no classification, but bears some
resemblance to electrical action. Yet, differing thus by all the
unlikeness that there is between mechanical, chemical and electro-
vital modes of action, they evidently derive their very considerable
resemblance of figure from their nearly equal elevation and dignity
of service in the frame. This near neighborhood of use and rank
allows, however, room enough for their individual differences and its
marks. The heart is lowest of the three in rank, and nearest the
regularly conical form. The lungs, as their shape is indicated by the
cavity which they occupy, are more delicately tapered at their apex,
and more oblique and variously incurvated at their base. And the
brain, whether viewed in four compartments, or two, or entire, (it
admits naturally of such division,) answers still nearer to the highest
style and form of the life pattern; and with the due degree of
resemblance, or allusion to it, in its several parts, according to their
probable value; for the hemispheres are shaped much more
conformably to the ideal than the cerebellum or the cerebral
apparatus at the base of the brain, where the office begins to
change from that of generating the nervous power to the lower
service of merely conducting it out to the dependencies.
IV. Hitherto we have looked for proof and illustration only to well
marked and clearly defined examples of the orders and kinds of
things examined. But the borders of kingdoms and classes, the
individuals which make the transitions, and the elements and
qualities common to several provinces which link kind to kind and
rank to rank, confess the same law, and even more nicely illustrate
where, to superficial view, they seem to contradict it.
Every species of beings in the creation is a reproduction, with
modifications and additions, but a real reproduction, in effect, of all
that is below it in the scale; so that the simplest and the lowest
continues and reappears in all, through all variety of advancement,
up to the most complex and the highest; in some sense, as decimals
include the constituent units, and hundreds include the tens, and
other multiples of these embrace them again, until the perfect
number is reached, if there be any such bound to either numerals or
natures.
1. The rectilinear and parallel arrangement of parts proper to
crystalization, which is the lowest plastic power of nature known to
us, continues, proximately, in the stems and branches of vegetables.
This will accord with our theory, if ascribed to the abundant mineral
elements present in the woody fibre, and to its insensibility and
enduring nature, as shown by its integral preservation for ages after
death, to a degree that rivals the rocks themselves. But the stems of
trees are not exactly cylindrical and their fibres are not quite parallel;
for there is something of life in them that refuses the arrangement
of dead matter. From root to top they taper, but so gradually that it
is only decidedly seen at considerable distances or in the whole
length.
2. A section of a timber tree shows a regular concentric
arrangement of rings—the successive deposits of sequent years—
and its cleavage proves that it has also a radiated disposition of
fibres. In the flat bones of the head this same arrangement of parts
obtains. The cartilaginous base of bone has a life of perhaps equal
rank with that of the vegetable structure; it has its insensibility,
elasticity, and durability at least, with scarcely any higher qualities;
and the osseous deposit is thrown into figure and order similar to
the ligneous.
3. The fruits, kernels, and seeds of plants, being the highest
results of the vegetable grade of living action, and so bordering
upon the sphere of animal existence, and even intruding into it,
begin to take its proper forms, and they are spheroidal, oblate
spheroids, conical exactly, ovoid, and even closely touch upon the
heart-shaped; yet without danger of confusion with the forms
distinctive of the higher style of life. This comparison, it must be
remarked also, is between the fruits of one kind and the organic
structures of the other, and not of organ with organ, which in
different kinds shows the greatest diversity, but of spheres of
existence immediately contiguous, and therefore closely resembling
each other.
V. Of these forms the globular is probably the very lowest; and,
accordingly, of it we have no perfect instance in the animal body,
and no near approach to it, except the eye-ball, where mechanical
law compels a rotundity, that muscle, fat, and skin seem employed
to hide as well as move and guard, and, in the round heads of
bones, where the ball and socket-joint is required for rotatory
motion. But in both these cases the offices which the roundness
serves are mechanical, and so, not exceptions to our rule. The
perfectly spherical must rank as a low order of form, because it
results from the simplest kind of force, mere physical attraction
being adequate to its production, without any inherent modifying
power or tendency in the subject. It is, accordingly, very repugnant
to taste in the human structure; as, for instance, rotundity of body,
or a bullet-head. Nothing of that regularity of curve which returns
into itself, and might be produced upon a turning lathe, and no
continuity of straight lines within the capacity of square and jack-
plane, are tolerable in a human feature. Lips, slit with the
straightness of a button-hole, or conical precision, or roly-poly
globularity, would be equally offensive in the configuration of any
feature of the face or general form. Cheek, chin, nose, brow, or
bosom, put up into such rotundity and uniformity of line and surface,
have that mean and insignificant ugliness that nothing can relieve.
In raggedest irregularity there is place and space for the light and
shade of thought and feeling, but there is no trace or hint of this
nobler life in the booby cushiony style of face and figure. Nose and
brows, with almost any breadth of angle; and chin, with any variety
of line and surface, are better, just as crystalization, flat and straight
and sharp as it is, nevertheless, seems to have some share in its
own make and meaning, which rolls and balls cannot lay any claim
to.
VI. But the law under consideration cannot be restrained to
shape only. Dimension is also a result of intrinsic qualities, and must
in some way and to some extent, indicate the character to which it
corresponds. Druggists are so well aware of, and so much concerned
with the difference in the size of the drops of different fluids, that
they have constructed a table of equivalents, made necessary by the
fact. Thus a fluid drachm of distilled water contains forty-five drops,
of sulphuric ether one hundred and fifty, of sulphuric acid ninety, and
of Teneriffe wine seventy-eight. So that the law is absolutely
universal, however varied in expression, and a specific character in
fluids and other parts of the inanimate world declares itself as
decidedly in bulk or volume, as difference of constitution is shown by
variety of figure in the living and sentient creation.
Among the crystals termed isomorphous by chemists, the
dominant ingredient which is common to them all, controls the form,
but difference of size answers sufficiently to the partial unlikeness of
the other less active elements; and so in the instances of cubes and
octahedrons formed of dissimilar minerals where difference of
constitution is indicated by varied dimensions only.
VII. Crystal and crystal, and, drop and drop, are alike within the
limits of the species, or their unlikeness, if there be any, is not
appreciable to our senses, and scarcely conceivable though not
absolutely impossible to thought; but we know certainly that clear
individuality of character is everywhere pursued and marked by
peculiarity of form and size throughout the entire universe.
While among minerals and fluids dissimilarity occurs obviously
only between species, among plants it begins to be conspicuous
between individuals, growing more and more so as observation
ascends in the vegetable kingdom. Two stalks of grass may resemble
each other as much as two crystals of the same salt, but timber
trees grow more unlike, and fruit trees differ enough to make their
identification comparatively easy. But it is in the animal kingdom,
eminently, and with increasing distinctness as the rank rises, that
individuals become distinguishable from each other; for it is here
that diversity of character gets opportunity, from complexity of
nature, freedom of generating laws, and varied influence of
circumstances, to impress dissimilarity deepest and clearest. Crystals
undergo no modification of state but instant formation and the
sudden violence which destroys them. Vegetables pass through the
changes of germination and growth, and feel the difference of soil,
and winds, and temperature, and to the limits of these influences,
confess them in color, size, and shape; but animals, endowed with
acuteness of sense, enjoying locomotion, and related to all the world
around them—living in all surrounding nature, and susceptible of all
its influences—their individual differences know no limits, and they
are universally unlike in appearance as in circumstances, training
and character.
Even in the lower orders there is ample proof of this. The mother
bird and beast know their own young; the shepherd and the
shepherd’s dog know every one of their own flock from every other
on all the hills and plains; and among the millions of men that
people the earth, a quick eye detects a perfectly defined difference
as broad as the peculiarity of character which underlies it.

Narrowness of relations and Simplicity of function are as narrowly

restrained in range of conformation; Complexity makes proportionate
room for difference; and Variety is the result, the sign, and the measure
of Liberty.

Detailed illustrations of the law would interest in proportion to

the range of the investigation; and gratification and delight would
keep pace with the deepening conviction of its universality; but the
limits of an essay restrain the discussion to mere hints and
suggestions, and general statements of principles which reflection
must unfold into formal demonstration for every one in his own
department of observation.
Some inaccuracies of statement have been indulged to avoid the
complexity which greater precision would have induced. Broad, frank
thinking will easily bring up this looseness of language to the
required closeness of thought as the advancing and deepening
inquiry demands. Moreover, it may be difficult or impossible to meet
every fact that presents itself with an instant correspondence in the
alleged law; but such things cannot be avoided until people learn
how to learn, and cease to meet novel propositions with a piddling
criticism, or a wrangling spirit of controversy. Looking largely and
deeply into facts in a hundred departments of observation will show
the rule clear in the focal light of their concurrent proofs, or, looking
out from the central position of a priori reasoning, it will be seen in
every direction to be a necessary truth.
It would be curious, and more than curious, to trace ascent of
form up through ascertained gradation of quality in minerals, plants,
fruits, and animal structures; and it would be as curious to apply a
criticism derived from this doctrine to the purpose of fixing the rank
and relations of all natural beings—in other words, to construct a
science of taste and beauty, and, striking still deeper, a science of
universal physiognomy, useful at once as a law of classification, and
as an instrument of discovery. The scale would range most probably
from the globular, as the sign of the lowest character, through the
regularly graded movement of departure which in nature fills up all
the stages of ascending function from a drop of fluid to the model
configuration of, perhaps, that cerebral organ which manifests the
highest faculty of the soul.
The signs that substance and its states give of intrinsic nature
and use, or the connection of configuration and function, are not
understood as we understand the symbols of arithmetic, and the
words of artificial language; that is, the symbols of our own creation
answer to the ideas they are intended for, but the signs of the
universal physiognomy of nature are neither comprehended fully, nor
translated even to the extent that they are understood, into the
formulæ of science and the words of oral language. Many of them
are telegraphed in dumb show to our instincts, to the great
enlargement of our converse with nature, both sentient and
inanimate; but still a vast territory of knowledge lies beyond the
rendering of our intuitions, and remains yet unexplored by our
understanding; a dark domain that has not been brought under any
rule of science, nor yielded its due tribute to the monarch mind. We
have no dictionary that shows the inherent signification of a cube, a
hexagon, an octagon, circle, ellipse, or cylinder; no tables of
multiplication, addition, subtraction, and division, which, dealing in
forms and their equivalents, might afford the products, quotients,
and remainders of their various differences and interminglings with
each other. States, qualities, and attitudes of structure, contribute
much of that natural language by which we converse with the animal
world beneath us, and with the angel world within us, but it remains
as yet instinctual, except so far only as the fine arts have brought it
out of the intuitive and oracular into rule and calculation, nor have
we any methodic calculus, universally available, by which these
revelations of nature may be rendered into demonstrative truth ruled
by scientific method.
It is conceivable that the form of every natural being is a full
report of its constitution and use, but as yet, tedious and dubious
chemical analysis, observation, and experiment are our directory to
the hidden truth. In some things it is otherwise. We know perfectly a
passion or emotion, and the meaning of the attitudes, colors, and
forms of limb, person and feature which denote them; and the
interior qualities of texture, also, as they are intimated to the sight
and touch, lead us without reasoning, to definitive judgments of
human character. Of animals, in their degree, we receive similar
impressions and with equal conviction, but we know so little more
about these things, than that we know them, that we can make no
advantage of such knowledge beyond its most immediate purpose in
our commerce with the living beings which surround us.
It remains, therefore, for mind to explore the philosophy of form,
that all which lies implied in it, waiting but still undiscovered, may
come out into use, and all that we instinctively possess of it may
take a scientific method, and so render the service of a law
thoroughly understood.
The principle gives us familiar aid every day, yet without
revealing its own secret, in physiognomy, painting, statuary,
architecture, and elocution. It is obeyed in all the impersonations of
metaphor, fable and myth; it is active every instant in the creations
of fancy, and supplies, so to speak, the material for all the structures
of thought—ruling universally in the earth, and fashioning and
peopling the heavens. To the most delicate movements of the
imagination it gives a corresponding embodiment of beauty; and it
helps, as well, to realize the monstrous mixtures of man and beast
occurring in human character by the answering monstrosity of
centaur, syren, sphinx, and satyr. The old Greek theology held that
the eternal Divinity made all things out of an eternal matter, after
the forms of eternal, self-subsisting patterns; a statement, in its
utmost depth beyond the discovery of human faculties, certainly, but
not too strong to express the universal prevalence of this law in the
creation. To the human intellect all things must exist in space,
bounded and determined by figure appropriate to the subject; in
fact, we can conceive of nothing except under such conditions; and
our doctrine but refers this necessity of mind to a primordial
necessity of being, ranking it among the harmonies of existence, as
an adaptation of sense, thought, and feeling to the correspondent
truth in the constitution of the universe.
E.

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL TAYLOR.

———
BY R. T. CONRAD.
———

Quid me mortuum miserum vocas, qui te sum multo felicior? aut

quid acerbi mihi putas contigisse?
 Weep not for him! The Thracians wisely gave
Tears to the birth-couch, triumph to the grave.
’Tis misery to be born—to live—to die:
Ev’n he who noblest lives, lives but to sigh.
The right not shields from wrong, nor worth from wo,
Nor glory from reproach; he found it so.
Not strong life’s triumphs, not assured its truth;
Ev’n virtue’s garland hides an aspic tooth.
His glorious morn was past, and past his noon;—
Life’s duty done, death never comes too soon.
Then cast the dull grave’s gloomy trappings by!
The dead was wise, was just—nor feared to die.
Weep not for him. Go, mark his high career;
It knew no shame, no folly and no fear.
More blest than is man’s lot his blameless life,
Though tost by tempests and though torn by strife.
’Neath the primeval forest’s towery pride,
Virtue and Danger watched his couch beside;
This taught him purely, nobly to aspire,
That gave the nerve of steel and soul of fire.
No time his midnight lamps—the stars—could dim;
His matin music was the cataract’s hymn;
His Academe the forest’s high arcade—
(To Numa thus Egeria blessed the shade;)
With kindling soul, the solitude he trod—
The temple of high thoughts—and spake with God:
Thus towered the man—amid the wide and wild—
And Nature claimed him as her noblest child.
Nurtured to peril, lo! the peril came,
To lead him on, from field to field, to fame.
’Twas met as warriors meet the fray they woo:
To shield young Freedom’s wild-wood homes he flew;
And—fire within his fortress, foes without,
The rattling death-shot and th’ infuriate shout—
He, where the fierce flames burst their smoky wreath,
And war’s red game raged madliest, toyed with death;
Till spent the storm, and Victory’s youngest son
Glory’s first fruits, his earliest wreath, had won.
Weep not for him, whose lustrous life has known
No field of fame he has not made his own:
In many a fainting clime, in many a war,
Still bright-browed Victory drew the patriot’s car.
Whether he met the dusk and prowling foe
By oceanic Mississippi’s flow;
Or where the southern swamps, with steamy breath,
Smite the worn warrior with no warrior’s death;
Or where, like surges on the rolling main,
Squadron on squadron sweep the prairie plain;
Dawn—and the field the haughty foe o’erspread,
Sunset—and Rio Grande’s waves run red;
Or where, from rock-ribbed safety, Monterey
Frowns death, and dares him to the unequal fray;
Till crashing walls and slippery streets bespeak
How frail the fortress where the heart is weak;
How vainly numbers menace, rocks defy,
Men sternly knit and firm to do or die;
Or where, on thousands thousands crowding, rush
(Rome knew not such a day) his ranks to crush,
The long day paused on Buena Vista’s height,
Above the cloud with flashing volleys bright;
Till angry Freedom, hovering o’er the fray,
Swooped down, and made a new Thermopylæ;—
In every scene of peril and of pain,
His were the toils, his country’s was the gain.
From field to field, and all were nobly won,
He bore, with eagle flight, her standard on:
New stars rose there—but never star grew dim
While in his patriot grasp. Weep not for him.
The heart is ne’er a castaway; its gift
Falls back, like dew to earth—the soul’s own thrift
Of gentlest thoughts by noblest promptings moved:
He loved his country, and by her was loved.
To him she gave herself, a sacred trust,
And bade him leave his sword to rest and rust;
And, awed but calm, nor timid nor elate,
He turned to tread the sandy stairs of state.
Modest, though firm; decided, cautious, clear;
Without a selfish hope, without a fear;
Reverent of right, no warrior now, he still
Cherished the nation’s chart, the people’s will;
Hated but Faction with her maniac brand,
And loved, with fiery love, his native land.
Rose there a foe dared wrong in her despite,
How eager leaped his soul to do her right!
Her flag his canopy, her tents his home—
The world in arms—why, let the armed world come!
Thus loved he, more than life, and next to Heaven,
The broad, bright land to which that life was given;
And, loving thus and loved, the nation’s pride,
Her hope, her strength, her stay—the patriot died!
Weep not for him—though hurried from the scene:
’Twill be earth’s boast that such a life has been.
Taintless his truth as Heaven; his soul sincere
Sparkled to-day, as mountain brooklets clear.
O’er every thought high honour watchful hung,
As broods the eagle o’er her eyried young.
His courage, in its calmness, silent, deep,
But strong as fate—Niagara in its sleep;
But when, in rage, it burst upon the foe—
Niagara leaping to the gulf below.
His clemency the graceful bow that, thrown
O’er the wild wave, Heaven lights and makes its own.
His was a spirit simple, grand and pure,
Great to conceive, to do and to endure;
Yet the rough warrior was, in heart, a child,
Rich in love’s affluence, merciful and mild.
His sterner traits, majestic and antique,
Rivaled the stoic Roman or the Greek;
 Excelling both, he adds the Christian name,
And Christian virtues make it more than fame.
To country, youth, age, love, life—all were given;
In death, she lingered between him and Heaven;
Thus spake the patriot in his latest sigh,
“My duty done—I do not fear to die.”
Weep not for him; but for his country, tost
On Faction’s surges: “think not of the lost,
But what ’tis ours to do.”[2] The hand that stayed,
The pillar that upheld, in dust are laid;
And Freedom’s tree of life, whose roots entwine
Thy fathers’ bones—will it e’er cover thine?
Root, rind and leaf a traitor tribe o’erspread;
Worms sap its trunk and tempests bow its head.
But the land lives not, dies not, in one man,
Were he the purest lived since life began.
Upon no single anchor rests our fate:
Millions of breasts engird and guard the state.
Yet, o’er each true heart, in the nation’s night,
Will Taylor’s memory rise, a pillared light;
His lofty soul will prop the patriot’s pride,
His virtues animate, his wisdom guide.
Faction, whose felon fury, blind and wild,
Would rend our land, as Circe tore her child,
In sordid cunning or insensate wrath,
Scattering its quivering limbs along her path—
Ev’n Faction, at his name, will cower away,
And, shrieking, shrinking, shield her from the day.
Then up to duty! true, as he was true;
As pure, as calm, as firm to bear and do;
Nerve every patriot power, knit every limb,
And up to duty: but weep not for him!

[2] Non quos amisimus, sed quantum lugere par sit

cogitemus. Cicero.
“PSYCHE LOVES ME.”
———
BY THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.
———
I have no gold, no lands, no robes of splendor,
No crowd of sycophants to siege my door;
But fortune in one thing at least is tender—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no fame, nor to the height of honor

Will my poor name on tireless pinions soar;
Yet Fate has never drawn my hate upon her—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no station, know no high position,

And never yet the robes of office wore;
Yet I can well afford to scorn ambition—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no beauty—beauty has forsworn me,

On others wasting all her charming store;
Yet I lack nothing now which could adorn me—
For Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

I have no learning—in nor school nor college

Could I abide o’er quaint old tomes to pore;
But this I know which passeth all your knowledge—
That Psyche loves me! Could I ask for more?

Now come what may, or loss or shame or sorrow,

Sickness, ingratitude or treachery sore,
I laugh to-day and heed not for the morrow—
For Psyche loves me—and I ask no more.

TO THE LOST ONE.

 ———
BY DUNCAN MOORE.
———
 Vale et Benedicite.

In joy we met; in anguish part;

Farewell, thou frail, misguided one!
Young Hope sings matins in thy heart,
While dirges ring in mine alone,
Solemn as monumental stone.

Thy life is Spring, but Autumn mine;

Thy hope all flowers; mine bitter fruit,
For hope but blossoms to repine;
It seldom hath a second shoot;—
A shadow that evades pursuit.

Though poets are not prophets here,

Yet Time must pass and you will see,
While o’er dead joys you drop the tear,
This world is one Gethsemane
Where all weep—die—still dream to be.

Flowers spring, birds sing in the young heart,

But Time spares not the flowers of Spring;
The birds that sang there soon depart,
And leave God’s altar withering—
Flowerless and no bird to sing.

God pronounced all things good in Eden;

Young Adam sang—not knowing evil,
Until the snake plucked fruit forbidden,
And made himself to Eve quite civil.—
Did he tempt her, or she the devil?

True, she made Eden Adam’s heaven;—

Also the green earth Adam’s hell;
Tore from his grasp all God had given;
Cast him from bliss in sin to dwell;
 To make her food by his sweat and blood.

Then what should man from woman hope,

Who hurled from Paradise his sire?
Her frailty drew his horoscope,
And barred the gates of heaven with fire;
Changed God’s intent for her desire.

And what should she from man expect

Who slew his God her soul to save?
A dreary life of cold neglect;—
For Eden lost;—a welcome grave,
Where kings make ashes with the slave!

A welcome grave! man’s crowning hope!

All trust from dust we shall revive;
Despite our gloomy horoscope,
Incarnadined God will receive
His children who slew him to live.

A frail partition but divides

Your husband from insanity;
He stares as madness onward strides
To crush each spark of memory—
I gave you all—this you give me!
Vale et Benedicite.

COQUET versus COQUETTE.

———
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
———
 Benedict. One woman is fair; yet I am well:
another is wise; yet I am well: another virtuous;
yet I am well: but till all graces be in one woman,
one woman shall not come in my grace.
Much Ado About Nothing.

Princess. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

Rosaline. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.

That same Biron I’ll torture ere I go.
How will I make him fawn, and beg, and seek;
And wait the season, and observe the times,
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes;
And shape his service wholly to my behests;
And make him proud to make me proud that jests!
So portent-like would I o’ersway his state
That he should be my fool, and I his fate.
Love’s Labor Lost.
 CHAPTER I.
Nature had been very profuse in bestowing her favors upon Mr.
Frank Gadsby. In the first place she had given him a very elegant
person, tall and of manly proportions; secondly, a pair of large, dark-
hazel eyes, which could beam with tenderness or become fixed in
the “fine frenzy” of despair, as best suited the pleasure of their
owner. Above them she had placed a broad, white forehead, and
adorned it with waving hair, of a dark, glossy brown. Next, a
splendid set of teeth attested her skill and favor; and, to complete
the tout ensemble, whiskers and moustache were unsurpassable.
“Well,” said Fortune, rather ruffled, “if Nature has been so
prodigal, he shall have none of my assistance—not he! Let him make
his way through the world by his good looks, if he can. I will seek
out some ordinary looking fellow, whom nature has neglected, and
with my golden smiles atone for the want of those attractions which
soonest win the favor of the fair.”
And thus, under the ban of Fortune, Frank Gadsby left college.
He professed to study the law as a means of winning the favor of
the goddess, and had a small backroom, up three flights of stairs,
furnished with a table and two chairs, on which table several
voluminous law-books very quietly reposed, being seldom forced to
open their oracular jaws to give forth their sage opinions. This was
his study. But the person who should expect to find him there, I am
sorry to say, would have a fruitless visit, and drag up those steep
stairs for nothing. He would be much more likely to meet him
promenading Chestnut street, gallanting some beautiful young girl
up and down its thronged pavé—or at the Art Union, with an eye
upon the living beauties there congregated, not upon the pictures
which adorn its walls.
And yet I would not wish to convey an erroneous opinion, in thus
hinting at the usual whereabouts of Mr. Gadsby. If he did not study,
it was not for the want of talents or aptness; for he possessed a fine
mind, and only needed some impetus to call forth those brilliant
traits which were concealed beneath an exterior so vain and trifling
—for vain he certainly was, and trifling I think I can prove beyond
dispute. The fact is, being a general favorite with the ladies, he was
inclined to push his advantage a little too far; or, in other words,
Frank Gadsby was a coquet—a male coquet, of the first magnitude—
insinuating, plausible, soft-voiced, and, in the words of Spencer,
 “When needed he could weep and pray,
And when he listed he could fawn and flatter,
Now smiling smoothly, like to summer’s day,
Now glooming sadly so to cloke the matter.”

But although, like the fickle zephyr, he wooed with light dalliance
every fair flower of beauty which came across his path, he yet
managed to retain his heart safe in his own lordly bosom, and Frank
Gadsby, the charmer, alone possessed that love sworn to so many.
Yet, as one cannot very well live without money, especially in the
atmosphere which surrounded my hero, and as the law put little
money in his purse, and the small annuity left him by some
deceased relative almost as little, Mr. Gadsby resolved to make a rich
match one of these days; no hurry—there was time enough—he had
but to pick and choose—any lady would be proud to become Mrs.
Frank Gadsby—and until stern necessity forced it upon him, he
would wear no conjugal yoke! And, with this self-laudatory decision,
he continued his flirtations.
A conversation which passed between Mr. Gadsby and his friend
Clarence Walton, will serve better than any thing I can vouch to
substantiate the charge of trifling which I have preferred against
him.
This same charge Walton had been reiterating, but to which, with
perfect nonchalance, Gadsby answered:
“A trifler—a coquet! Come, that is too bad, Walton! To be sure, I
pay the ladies attentions, such as they all expect to receive from the
gentlemen. I give flowers to one, I sit at the feet of a second, go off
in raptures at the music of a third, press the fair hand of a fourth,
waltz with a fifth, and play the gallant to all—but it is only to please
them I do it; and then, I say, Walton, if they will fall in love with me,
egad, how can I help it!” and, saying this, our coxcomb looked in the
glass, as much as to say, “poor things, they surely cannot help it!”
“There was Caroline D——, for instance,” replied his friend; “why,
as well as I know your roving propensities, I was induced to think
you serious there!”
 “What, Cara D.! I smitten! O, no! I said some very tender things
to her, to be sure, and visited her every day for a month—wrote her
notes, and presented her daily with some choice bouquet; but I was
honorable; as soon as I saw she was beginning to like me too well,
why, I retreated. Did, upon my honor! Here is her last note—read it
Walton!” taking one from a private drawer, evidently crowded with a
multitudinous collection of faded bouquets, knots of ribbon, gloves,
fans, billet-doux, and silken ringlets of black, brown and golden hair.
“No; excuse me, Frank, from perusing your love notes,” said
Walton! “but there was also Emma Gay.”
“Ah, poor Emma! She was a bewitching little creature!” was the
answer. “I wrote some verses to her beautiful eyes, and gazed into
them so tenderly that they folded themselves in their drooping lids
to hide from me. She gave me a lock of her soft, brown hair—I have
it somewhere; but, faith, I have so many such tokens that it is
difficult to find the right one. O, here it is!”
“And Cornelia Hyde!”
“She was a splendid girl! Sang like an angel, waltzed like a sylph!
Yes, I flirted with her half a season. I believe she did get a little too
fond of me—sorry for it; upon my soul I meant nothing!”
“But you can hardly say your attentions to Miss Reed meant
nothing,” said Walton, continuing the category.
“Why, what could I do?” answered Gadsby. “Confound it, if she
did not send for me every third night to sing duets with her, and
every other morning to pass judgment upon her paintings. I could
not be otherwise than civil.”
“Then, there was Julia Hentz, and her friend, Hatty Harwood.”
“O, spare me, Walton! Julia was a sentimental beauty, doating
upon the moon, and stars, and charity children! On my soul, it is no
unpleasant thing to stroll in the beautiful moonlight with a pretty,
romantic girl leaning upon your arm, and to gaze down into her
languishing eyes as they turn their brilliant orbs to the less brilliant
stars. I tell you what, it is a taking way, and came pretty near taking
me; for I was nearer popping the question to the sentimental,
moon-struck, star-gazing Julia, than I love to think of now; see what
I drew from her fair hand on our last moonlight ramble,” (showing a
delicate glove.) “As for her friend Harriet, although not so handsome
as Julia, she is a shrewd, sensible girl—told me, with all the sang-
froid imaginable, that I was flirting a little too strongly—that she
could not think of having me dangling after her, for two reasons—
conclusive ones. First was, she did not like me; and, secondly, my
professions were all feigned, for she knew me to be the greatest
coquet extant—a character which, she added, with provoking
coolness, she had no respect for!”
“Good! A sensible girl, Frank!” said Walton, laughing.
“Hang me if I did not begin to like her all the better after that,”
continued Gadsby, “and had a great mind to pursue the game in
earnest; but I found it would not pay the exertion. She is as poor as
myself.”
“What can you say of the sisters, Louise and Katrine Leslie,
whom you followed as their shadow for more than six weeks?”
pursued the indefatigable Walton.
“The brunette and the blonde,” answered Gadsby. “Both
charming girls. Louise, with those large, tender, black eyes—why,
she melted one’s heart as though but a lump of wax; but, then, the
roguish glances of Katrine’s sparkling gray ones! Well, well; a
sensible fellow might be very happy with either. Fact is, they were
jealous of each other—ha, ha, ha. If I wrote poetry to Louise, then
Katrine pouted, and her little white dimpled shoulder turned very
coldly upon me. So, I gave flowers to Katrine and pressed her
dimpled hand; then the bewitching Louise cast her reproachful eyes
upon me, and a sigh came floating to me on her rose-scented
breath, at which I placed myself at her feet, and read the Sorrows of
Evangeline in Search of her Lover, and begged for the ringlet on
which a tear had fallen; then Katrine—but no matter; they were both
very fond, poor things!”
“In the words of the song, I suppose you might have sung,

“‘How happy could I be with either,

If the other charmer were away,’”

exclaimed Walton.
 “Precisely. Have you finished your catechism?”
“I have; although many other names, whose fair owners you
have trifled with, are in my mind,” said Walton. “You must excuse my
frankness, Gadsby, when I tell you that your conduct is unworthy a
man of honor or principle. There is not one of the ladies of whom we
have spoken, but has had reason to think herself the object of your
particular interest and pursuit; and if, as you flatter yourself, they
have seemed partial to your attentions, that partiality has been
awakened by those winning words and manners which none better
than yourself know how to assume. Shame on the man, I say, who
can thus insinuate himself into the affections of a young,
unsuspecting girl, merely to flatter his own egregious vanity or his
self-love! Coquetry, idle as it is, is more properly the province of
woman. Nature has given them sprightliness, grace and beauty,
which, in their hands, like the masterly fan in the days of the
Spectator, they are expected to use as weapons against us; but for a
man to assume the coquet, renders him contemptible. If there is any
thing which can add to its meanness, it is boasting of his conquests
—playing the braggart to his own vanity. Woman’s affections are too
sacred to be thus trifled with, nor should her purity be insulted by
the boasts of a—caricature, not a man! Burn all these idle toys,
Gadsby—trophies of unworthy victories—turn to more noble
pursuits, nor longer waste the talents which God has given you, nor
the time which can never be regained.”
“As fine a lecture as I ever listened to,” quoth Gadsby, feigning a
laugh. “When do you take orders, most reverend Clarence? Why, you
deserve to be elected moralist of the age—a reformer in the courts
of Cupid. However, I will give you the credit of honesty, and more—
for I confess you have given me some pretty sharp home-thrusts,
which I will not pretend to parry; but you take things too seriously,
upon my soul you do. One of these days you shall behold me a
sober, married man, in a flannel night-cap; but until then, Walton,
“vive l’amour!”

——
 CHAPTER II.
“Blue or pink, Charlotte?”
“O, the blue, by all means, Lucia.”
“And pearls or rubies?”
“Pearls.”
“Blue and pearls! Why, I shall personate the very ideal of maiden
simplicity. I might as well appear all in white!”
“And it would be beautiful, Lucia,” answered her friend.
“Think so? Well, I have a great mind to try it, for you must know
it is my desire to look uncommonly well to-night,” said Lucia.
“But why to-night do you so particularly wish to shine?” inquired
Charlotte.
“Why? Why, don’t you know we are to meet that renowned
enslaver of hearts, that coquet, Frank Gadsby! Is not that enough to
inspire my vanity?” replied the lively girl.
“And you are resolved upon leading this renowned conqueror in
your own chains, Lucia?”
“He shall not escape them, Charlotte. I will bring him to my feet,
and thus become the champion of my sex,” said Lucia.
“And have you no fears for yourself? Where so many have
yielded their willing hearts, do you expect to escape without paying
the same penalty?”
“Fears!” answered Lucia. “Why, Charlotte, you don’t think I would
give up my affections to one who has no heart, and never had one;
or, if he had, it has been so completely divided and sub-divided,
quartered and requartered, and parceled out by inches, that not a
fragment is left to hang a hope upon! Why, I should as soon think of
falling in love with one of those effigies of beau-dom—those waxen
busts at a barber’s window—as with this hollow-hearted Frank
Gadsby.”
“You are right, Lucia; for I certainly think that when you marry, it
would be well to have at least one heart between you and your cara
sposa, for I am sure you have none,” said Charlotte, laughing.
 “Now, that is the unkindest cut of all, Charlotte—I no heart! Why,
I am ‘all heart,’ as poor Mrs. Skewton would say,” answered Lucia.
“Ah, Lucia, it is conceded by all, I believe, that you are an arrant
coquette.”
“I a coquette!” exclaimed Lucia. “I deny the charge; there is my
gage!” drawing off her little glove and throwing it at the feet of
Charlotte.
“I accept the challenge,” answered her friend. “In the first place,
let me remind you of a poor Mr. F——.”
“You need not remind me of him,” answered Lucia. “I am sure I
shall not soon forget him, with his tiresome calls every day, nor his
attempts to look tender with those small, twinkling gray eyes of his.
Imagine an owl in love, that’s all.”
“And yet you encouraged his visits. Then, there was young
Dornton.”
“Dornton! yes, I remember. Poor fellow, how he did torment me
with his execrable verses!”
“Execrable! If I remember, Lucia, you once told me they were
beautiful.”
“Ah, I tired of them, and him too, in a fortnight. Why, Charlotte,
it was a perfect surfeit of antimony wrapped up in honey.”
“Then, your long walks last summer with Dr. Ives.”
“Were very pleasant walks until he grew sentimental, and
suddenly popped down upon his knees, one day, in the high grass,
like a winged partridge; he looked so ridiculous that really I could
not help laughing in his face. It was a bitter pill; doctor, as he was,
he could not swallow it.”
“For six weeks you flirted with Henry Nixon,” continued Charlotte.
“Why, he was your shadow, Lucia; what could have tempted you to
trifle with him as you did? I am sure he loved you.”
“There you are mistaken,” was the reply. “He was only flattered
by my smiles and proud of being in my train. Such magnificent
bouquets, too, as he brought me! It was party season, you know,
and his self-love, thus embodied in a flower to be worn by me, was
quite as harmless to him as convenient for myself.”
 “But not so harmless were the smiles and flattering words you
bestowed upon young Fairlie. O, Lucia, your thoughtless vanity
ruined the happiness of that young man, and drove him off to a
foreign clime, leaving a widowed mother to mourn his absence.”
“Indeed, Charlotte,” replied Lucia, in a saddened tone, “I had no
idea James Fairlie really loved me until too late. He painted so
exquisitely that, at my father’s request, he was engaged to paint my
portrait. I believe I gave him a lock of my hair, and allowed him to
retain a small miniature which he had sketched of me; but, as I told
him, when he so unexpectedly declared his love, I meant nothing.”
“Ah, Lucia,” said her friend, reproachfully, “and did you mean
nothing when you allowed the visits of Colonel W——?”
“O, the gallant Colonel! Excuse me Charlotte—a pair of
epaulettes answer very well, sometimes, in place of a heart. The
Colonel’s uniform was a taking escort through the fashionable
promenades; and, then, he was so vain that it did one good to see
him lose the ‘bold front of Mars’ in the soft blandishments of Cupid;
and not forgetting, even when on his knees, to note, in an opposite
mirror, the irresistible effect of his gallant form at the feet of a fair
lady! So far, I think, I have supported my ground against your
accusation of coquetry,” added Lucia.
“On the contrary, my dear Lucia, I am sorry to say that you have
but proved its truth,” answered Charlotte. “Sorry, because there is,
to my mind, no character so vain and heartless as that of a
coquette, and I would not that any one whom I love should rest
under such an imputation. The moment a woman stoops to coquetry
she loses the charm of modesty and frankness, and renders herself
unworthy the pure affection of any noble-minded man. It betrays
vanity, a want of self-respect, and an utter disregard for the feelings
of others. A coquette is a purely selfish being, who, by her hollow
smiles and heartless professions, wins to the shrine of her vanity
many an honest heart, and then casts it from her as idly as a child
the plaything of which he has tired. She is unworthy the name of
woman.”
“Hollow smiles—heartless professions! Why, what is all this tirade
about, Charlotte?” interrupted Lucia, indignantly. “I do not
understand you. You surely do not mean to class me with those
frivolous beings you have named.”
“It will do for young coxcombs and fops,” continued Charlotte,
“whose brains centre in an elegant moustache or the tie of a cravat,
who swear pretty little oaths, and can handle their quizzing glass
with more skill than their pen—it will do for them to inflate their
vanity by the sighs of romantic school-girls; but for a high-minded,
noble woman, like you, Lucia, to descend from the dignity of your
position to the contemptible artifices of a coquette—fie, Lucia, be
yourself.”
“From no other but you, Charlotte,” she replied, “would I bear
the unjust imputation you cast upon me, and I should blush did I
think myself deserving one half your censure. I do not feel that I
have descended at all from the ‘dignity of my position,’ as you are
pleased to term it, and consider a coquette quite as contemptible as
you do.”
“Ah, Lucia,” said Charlotte, archly,

“O wad some power the giftie gie us,

To see oursel’s as ithers see us.”

“Nonsense! I know I am not a coquette, Charlotte,” retorted

Lucia. “Gay and thoughtless I may have been; but I have never, nor
would I ever, trifle with the affections of one whom I thought any
other feeling but his own vanity had brought to my feet. But come,
Madam Mentor, I will make a truce with you. I must first vanquish
this redoubtable Gadsby, in honorable warfare, and with his own
weapons, and then, I promise you, no duenna of old Spain ever
wore a more vinegar aspect than shall Lucia Laurence, spinster.”
“But, Lucia—”
“No—no—no! stop! I know what you are going to say,”
interrupted the gay girl, playfully placing her little hand over the
mouth of her friend. “Positively I must have my way this time. And
now for the business of the toilet. Let me see—blue and pearls; no,
white—white, like a bride, Charlotte!”
——
 CHAPTER III.
A brilliant company swept through the elegant apartments of
Mrs. De Rivers. It was the opening soirée of the season, and here
had gathered, in the regal train of Fashion and Display, the wealth,
wit, beauty, and grace, of Penn’s fair city. Music’s enchanting strains
breathed delight, fair forms moved in the graceful dance, and
through the thronged assembly gay groups were gathered,

“Where the swift thought,

Winging its way with laughter, lingered not,
But flew from brain to brain.”

“Who is that queenly young lady, dressed with such elegant

simplicity, talking with Miss De Rivers?” inquired Frank Gadsby of a
friend at his elbow.
“Where? ah, I see. Why, is it possible you do not know Miss
Laurence? She is the greatest coquette in Philadelphia. Beware—no
one escapes who comes under the influence of her bewitching eyes.”
“A fair challenge—I will dare the danger. Will you introduce me?”
was the reply.
“With pleasure—but remember my warning,” answered his friend.
“Miss Laurence is full of wit, and will cut up your fairest speeches to
serve her ridicule; she is proud, and leads her many captives after
her with the air of a Juno; she is sensible, and will carry out an
argument with the skill of a subtle lawyer. She is handsome—”
“That is easily seen,” interrupted Gadsby. “Pray spare me further
detail, and give me an opportunity, if you please, to judge of the rest
for myself.”
At the same moment when these remarks were passing between
the gentlemen, Lucia said to Miss De Rivers:
“Pray tell me, Fanny, who is that stylish gent lounging so
carelessly near the door?”
“Tall—talking with young Bright, do you mean?”