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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Gifts of Genius + A Miscellany of Prose and Poetry by American Authors + +Author: Various + +Release Date: February 27, 2006 [EBook #17872] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIFTS OF GENIUS *** + + + + +Produced by Curtis Weyant, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +(This file was produced from images produced by the Wright +American Fiction Project.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1>GIFTS OF GENIUS:</h1> +<p> </p> + +<h3 >A Miscellany</h3> +<p> </p> +<h4 >OF</h4> +<p> </p> +<h2 >PROSE AND POETRY,</h2> +<p> </p> +<h3>BY</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h2>AMERICAN AUTHORS.</h2> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3>NEW YORK:<br /> +PRINTED FOR C.A. DAVENPORT.</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + + +<p class="center">Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1859,<br /> by +C.A. DAVENPORT,<br /> +in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern<br /> +District of New York.</p> + + +<hr style="width:65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> + +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + + + +<table summary="Contents"> +<tr><td ></td><td class="tocpg" >PAGE</td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#INTRODUCTORY">INTRODUCTORY,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_ix">ix</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#GIFTS_OF_GENIUS">OUT AT ELBOWS.—THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE. <span class="smcap">By John +Esten Cooke</span>,</a> </td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#MY_SECRET">MY SECRET. (<i>From the French.</i>) <span class="smcap">By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</span>,</a> </td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#A_LEAF">A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK.<span class="smcap">By H.T. Tuckerman</span>,</a> </td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> + <td ><a href="#THE_RETURN_OF_THE_GODDESS">THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS. <span class="smcap">By Bayard Taylor</span> + </a>,</td> + <td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#ON_POPULAR_KNOWLEDGE">ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE. <span class="smcap">By George S. Hillard</span>,</a> </td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#ON_RECEIVING_A">ON RECEIVING A PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS FROM A FRIEND. <span class="smcap">By Thomas Buchanan Read</span>,</a> </td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_PRINCE_AT_LANDS_END">THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END. <span class="smcap">By Caroline Chesebro</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_62">62</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#SEA-WEED">SEA-WEED. <span class="smcap">By James Russell Lowell</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#TREFOIL">TREFOIL. <span class="smcap">By Evert A. Duyckinck</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_91">91</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#MISERERE_DOMINE">MISERERE DOMINE. <span class="smcap">By William H. Burleigh</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE">THE KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD.—A SHORT ESSAY ON THE 148th PSALM. <span class="smcap">By C.A. Bartol</span></a>,</td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#TRANSLATIONS">TRANSLATIONS. <span class="smcap">By the Rev. Charles T. Brooks</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#RECOLLECTIONS_OF_NEANDER">RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN. <span class="smcap">By the +Rev. Roswell D. Hitchcock, D.D.</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#POEMS">POEMS. <span class="smcap">By Julia Ward Howe</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#EARTHS_WITNESS">EARTH'S WITNESS. <span class="smcap">By Alice B. Haven</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_NEW_ENGLAND_THANKSGIVING">THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. <span class="smcap">By the Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D.</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#SONG_OF_THE_ARCHANGELS">SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS. (<i>From Goethe's Faust.</i>) <span class="smcap">By George P. Marsh</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_171">171</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#A_NIGHT_AND_DAY_AT_VALPARAISO">A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO. <span class="smcap">By Robert Tomes</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#TRANSLATIONS_1">TRANSLATIONS. <span class="smcap">By the Rev. Theodore Parker</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_181">181</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#PAID_FOR_BY_THE_PAGE">PAID FOR BY THE PAGE. <span class="smcap">By Edward S. Gould</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#WORDS_FOR_MUSIC">WORDS FOR MUSIC. <span class="smcap">By George P. Morris</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_191">191</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_CHRISTIAN_GREATNESS">"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS." (<i>Passages from a Manuscript Sermon.</i>) <span class="smcap">By the Rev. Orville Dewey, D.D.</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_193">193</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_BABY_AND_THE_BOY_MUSICIAN">THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN. <span class="smcap">By Lydia Huntley Sigourney</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_197">197</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_ERL-KING">THE ERL-KING. (<i>From the German of Goethe.</i>) <span class="smcap">By Mrs. E.F. Ellet</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THOUGHTS_UPON_FENELON">THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. <span class="smcap">By the Rev. Samuel Osgood, D.D.</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_202">202</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#POEMS_1">POEMS. <span class="smcap">By Mrs. George P. Marsh</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_214">214</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#A_STORY_OF_VENICE">A STORY OF VENICE. <span class="smcap">By George William Curtis</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_TORTURE_CHAMBER">THE TORTURE CHAMBER. <span class="smcap">By William Allen Butler</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_HOME_OF_CHARLOTTE_BRONTE">THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË. <span class="smcap">By Francis Williams</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THORWALDSENS_CHRIST">THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. <span class="smcap">By Rev. E.A. Washburn</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#JUNE_TWENTY-NINTH_EIGHTEEN_FIFTY-NINE">JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE. <span class="smcap">By Caroline M. Kirkland</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_253">253</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#NO_SONGS_IN_WINTER">NO SONGS IN WINTER. <span class="smcap">By T.B. Aldrich</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#THE_BENI-ISRAEL">BENI-ISRAEL. <span class="smcap">By Oliver Wendell Holmes</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_260">260</a></td> +</tr> +<tr><td ><a href="#BOCAGES_PENITENTIAL_SONNET">BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET. <span class="smcap">By William Cullen Bryant</span>,</a></td> +<td class="tocpg" ><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td> +</tr> +</table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TO_THE_PUBLIC" id="TO_THE_PUBLIC"></a>TO THE PUBLIC.</h2> + + +<p>At the desire of <span class="smcap">Miss Davenport</span>, for whose benefit this +collection of original Miscellanies by American authors has +been made, I write this brief Preface, without having had +time to read the contributions which it is designed to introduce. +The names of the writers, however, many of which +are among the most distinguished in our literature, and are +honored wherever our language is spoken, will suffice to +recommend the volume to the attention of the reading world.</p> + +<p>If this were not enough, an inducement of another kind +is to be found in the circumstances of the lady in whose +behalf the contents of this volume have been so freely contributed. +A few years since, she was a teacher in our schools, +active, useful, and esteemed for her skillful communication of +knowledge. At that time it was one of her favorite occupations +to make sketches and drawings from nature, an art in +which she instructed her pupils. A severe illness interrupted +her duties, during which her sight became impaired, and +finally lost. A kind of twilight came over it, which gradually +darkened into utter night, shutting out the face of nature +in which she had so much delighted, and leaving her, without<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> +occupation, in ill health. In this condition she has already +remained for five years.</p> + +<p>To this statement of her misfortunes, which I trust will +commend her to the sympathies of all who are made +acquainted with them, as one who was useful to society while +Providence permitted, I have only to add the expression +of her warmest thanks to those who have generously furnished +the contents of the volume she now lays before the +public.</p> + +<p class="sig" >W.C. BRYANT.</p> + +<p class="sig1"><span class="smcap">New York</span>, <i>June, 1859</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="INTRODUCTORY" id="INTRODUCTORY"></a>INTRODUCTORY.</h2> + + +<p>This volume speaks so well for itself that it does not +need many words of preface to commend it to a wide circle +of readers. Its rich and varied contents, however, become +far more interesting when interpreted by the motive that +won them from their authors; and when the kindly feeling +that offered them so freely is known, these gifts, like +the pearls of a rosary, will be prized not only severally but +collectively, because strung together by a sacred thread.</p> + +<p>The story of this undertaking is a very short and simple +one. Miss Davenport, who had been for many years an +active and successful teacher in our schools and families, +especially in the beautiful arts of drawing and painting, +was prostrated by a severe illness, which impaired her sight +and finally terminated in blindness.</p> + +<p>The late Benjamin F. Butler, in a letter dated October +13, 1858, which will have peculiar interest to the many +readers who knew and honored that excellent man, writes +thus:</p> + +<p>"Miss Davenport has for several years been personally +known to me. She is now blind and unable to follow the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span> +calling by which, before this calamity befell her, she obtained +her living. Having lost her parents in early life, and having +few relatives, and none able to assist her, she is dependent +for her support on such efforts as she is still capable +of making. These, were she a person of common fortitude, +energy and hopefulness, would be very small, for to her great +privation is added very imperfect general health. Yet she +has struggled on in the hope of gaining such a competency +as should ultimately secure 'a home that she may call her +own.' I commend Miss Davenport to all who feel for the +afflicted and who wish to do good."</p> + +<p>The Rev. Dr. S. Storrs writes: "Miss Davenport is a +Christian woman, of great excellence of character, and of +many accomplishments, whom God in his providence has +made totally blind within a few years past."</p> + +<p>We need add but two remarks to these statements—one +in reference to the volume itself, and the other in reference +to her for whose welfare it is contributed.</p> + +<p>The volume is one of the many proofs which have been +gathering for years, of the alliance between literature and +humanity. Every good and true word that has been written +from the beginning has been a minister of mercy to +every human heart which it has reached, whilst the mercy +has been twice blessed when the word so benign in its +result has been charitable in its intention, and the author at +once yields his profits to a friend's need, and his production +to the public eye. Thackeray has written well upon +humor and charity, but should he undertake to carry out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span> +his idea and treat of literature and humanity in their vital +relations, he would have his hands and heart full of work +for more than a lifetime. Princes who give their gold to +generous uses are worthy of honor; but there is a coinage +of the brain that costs more and weighs more than gold. +The authors of these papers would of course be little disposed +to claim any high merit for their offerings, yet any +reader who runs his eye over the list of contributors will +see at once that they are generally writers whose compositions +are eagerly sought for by the public, and among them +are some names whose pens can coin gold whenever they +choose to move. All these articles are original, and nothing +is inserted in this book that has been before published. +We are confident that it deserves, and will command wide +and choice circulation.</p> + +<p>A word as to the lady for whose benefit these gifts are +brought together. The preface of Mr. Bryant and the +letter of Mr. Butler, tell her story with sufficient distinctness, +and the readiness with which our men and women of +letters have so generally complied with her request, shows +what eloquence she bears in her presence and statement. +Some certificates from her pupils in drawing, who testify to +her love of nature and her delight in sketching directly +from nature, so greatly to their improvement in this beautiful +art, give peculiar pathos to her case. The organ that +was the source of her highest satisfaction is closed up by +this dark sorrow, and the gate called Beautiful, to this +earthly temple no longer is open to scenes and faces<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span> +of loveliness. What a fearful loss is this loss of sight—on +the whole the noblest of the senses, and certainly the +sense of all others most serviceable, alike to the working +hand and the creative imagination. The eye may not be +so near the fountains of sensibility as the ear, and no +impression reaches the sympathy so profoundly as the +pathos of living speech, but the eye has a far wider range +than the ear and fathoms the heavens and sweeps the earth +and sea, whilst the ear hears distinctly but within a very +narrow limit, hardly a stone's throw. When the eye, then, +loses its marvellous faculty and sees no longer the light of +day and the countenances of friends, let the ear do what it +can to make up for the loss by every cheering word of sympathy +and hope. In God's Providence there is a principle +of compensation that aims to balance every privation by +some new privilege, as for instance by giving new acuteness +to the senses which are called to do the work of the senses +lost. But genial humanity is the great principle of compensation, +and by this God's children glorify the Father in +Heaven. May this volume serve his merciful will, and may +the light shed from the stars of our literary firmament do +something to lessen the night upon every dark path.</p> + +<p class="sig2">S.O.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h2>GIFTS OF GENIUS.</h2> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="GIFTS_OF_GENIUS" id="GIFTS_OF_GENIUS"></a>OUT AT ELBOWS.</h2> + + +<h3>THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE.</h3> +<h4>BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA.</h4> + +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>How good a thing it is to live! The morn is full +of music; and Annie is singing in the hall!</p> + +<p>The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields +and forests, burning with the golden splendors of +the autumn—the variegated leaves of the mighty +oaks are draped about the ancient gables, like a +trophy of banners. The landscape sleeps; all the +world smiles—shall not I?</p> + +<p>I sat up late last night at my accounts; to-day I +will take a holiday. The squire has bidden me +good morning in his courteous, good-humored way, +and gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his +brother magistrates:—I am away for the time<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +from my noisy courts—the domain is mine—all +the world is still!</p> + +<p>No;—Annie is singing in the hall.</p> + +<p>She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morning, +and would not like to be interrupted. I will +therefore take a ramble—and you shall accompany +me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant +lands, but beside me still! Whither shall we go? +It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely. +Shall we go to my favorite woodland? It skirts the +river, and I love the river; so we pass into the +forest.</p> + +<p>How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves! +A thousand brilliant colors charm the eyes—the +eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty oaks +reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome +us!—how their ponderous shoulders bear aloft the +imperial trappings—trappings of silk and velvet, +all orange, blue, and purple! The haughty pines +stand up like warriors—or call them spears of +nordland heroes, holding on their summits emerald +banners! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with +flowers in their hair, who bend and welcome you +with gracious murmurs; the slender elms sway to +and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood; and +sigh, and smile, and whisper, full of the charming +grace of youth, and tenderness, and beauty.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span></p> + +<p>I salute my noblemen, and queens, and princesses; +they bow in return to me, their king. Let +us wander on.</p> + +<p>—Ah! that is well; my river view! Of all +my broad domain, I think I like this part the best. +Is it not beautiful? That clump of dogwood, however, +obstructs the view somewhat; I must cut it +down. Let us move a little to the right. Ah! +there it is! See my lovely river; surely you must +admire my swan-like ships, flying, with snowy canvass +spread, before the fresh breeze. And see that +schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is +that a telescope which the captain of my vessel +points toward us? He salutes me, does he not? +But I fear the distance is too great; he could +hardly recognize me. Still I shall bow—let us not +neglect the laws of courtesy.</p> + +<p>My ship is sailing onward. In earlier days I +had many barks which sailed from shore; they +were freighted with the richest goods, and made +me very anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but +they never came again. One bore my poem, which +I thought would make me very celebrated, but the +ship was lost. Another was to bring me back a +cargo of such beautiful things—things which make +life delightful to so many!—pearls, and silks, and +wines, and gold-laced suits—garters, rosettes, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +slips of ribbon to be worn at the button-hole. +This, too, was lost, and yet it did not grieve me +much. The third caused me more regret; I do not +think I have yet wholly recovered from its loss. +It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the tenderest, +sweetest eyes! She said she loved me—yes +a thousand times! and I—I loved her long and +dearly. But the ship in which she sailed went +down—the strong, good ship, as I regarded it. +She died thus,—did she not?—or is it true that she +was married to a richer suitor far away from me in +foreign lands?... These are foolish tears—let +me not think of her with want of charity; she was +only a woman, and we men are often very weak. +<span class="smcap">One</span> over all, is alone great and good. So, beautiful +ship!—I say—that sailed across my path in +youth, sail on in peace and happiness! A lonely +bark, lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the distant, +happy seas, and the pennon floats from the +peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and +farewell! Heaven send the ship a happy voyage, +and a welcome home!</p> + +<p>This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is +ended. Let us sail for an hour or so on the silver +wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here beneath +in the shadow of the oak. She is built for +speed. See how gracefully she falls and rises, like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +a variegated leaf upon the waves—how the slender +prow curves upward—how the gaily-colored sides +are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous +stream! Come, let us step into the little craft, and +unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking! I +have left my boat key at the hall; another day we +will sail. Let us stroll back to the good old house +again.</p> + +<p>Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are +bringing in my wheat, which stretches, you perceive, +throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly +arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent—my +servants enjoy this season, and its occupations. +They will soon sing their echoing "harvest home"—and +over them at their joyous labor will shine the +"harvest-moon," lighting up field and forest, hill +and dale—the whole "broad domain and the hall." +The affection of my servants is grateful to me. +Here comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen, +and there goes Cæsar, leading my favorite racehorse +down to water. Cato, Cæsar, and I, respectively +salute each other in the kindest way. I +think they are attached to me. Faithful fellows! +I shall never part with them. I think I will give +this coat to Cæsar; but, looking again, I perceive +that his own is better. Besides, I must not be +extravagant. The little money I make is required<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +by another, and it would not be generous to buy a +new coat for myself. This one which I wear will +do well enough, will it not? I ask you with some +diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea +has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect +of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by +my coat being shabby. Even Annie——, but +I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the +hasty word which we all utter at times—'tis forgotten. +Still, I think, I will give you the incident +some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields.</p> + +<p>From the fields we approach the honest old mansion, +across the emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds +are singing, around the sleepy-looking gables, and +the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in +sign of welcome.</p> + +<p>'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think +he's smiling.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> +<p>My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable +taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my +books; my numerous children cannot disturb me +when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered +in the Senate, or my work which is destined +to refute Sir William Hamilton.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p> + +<p>Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes +from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite +air of "Katharine Ogie" which Annie is singing. +Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we +pass.</p> + +<p>What a stately head my old grandfather had! +He was president of the King's Council, a hundred +years ago—a man of decided mark. He wears a +long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders—a +gold-laced waistcoat—and snowy ruffles. His +white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests +on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke. +He must have been a resolute old gentleman. +How serene and calm is his look!—how firm are +the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of +collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad +white brow! He was a famous "macaroni," as +they called it, in his youth—and cultivated an +enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared, +and he became one of the sturdiest patriots +of the Revolution, and fought clear through the +contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being +descended from a worthy race of men—from a +family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not. +I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat—but I would +rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier +than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier +Bayàrd, simple knight though he was, than to +France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.</p> + +<p>So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave +and truthful gentleman—that grandma yonder, smiling +opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not +remember her, but she must have been a beauty. +Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an +exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are blue—her +arms round, and as white as snow—and what lips! +They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty +smiling air, which must have made her dangerous. +She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa, +who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely +courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a +lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my +best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of "sweet +seventeen," who smiles and seems graciously to bow +in return.</p> + +<p>All around me I see my family. There is my +uncle, the captain in Colonel Washington's troop. +I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the +French wars, who afterward became General +Washington of the American Revolution—though +my uncle, the captain, knew him very well, I am +told, and often visited him at <i>Mount Vernon</i>, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span> +colonel's estate, where they hunted foxes together, +along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel +Washington who fought so nobly in North Carolina. +My uncle died there. His company was +much thinned at every step by the horrible hail-storm +of balls. He was riding in front with his +drawn sword, shouting as the column fell, man by +man, "Steady, boys, steady!—close up!"—when +a ball struck him. His last words were "A good +death, boys! a good death! Close up!" So, you +see, he ended nobly.</p> + +<p>Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and +kin of the wars, you see, yonder, a row of beauties, +all smiling and gay, or pensive and tender—interspersed +with bright-faced children, blooming like +so many flowers along the old walls of the hall. +How they please and interest me! True, there are +other portraits in our little house at home—not my +hall here—which, perhaps, I should love with a +warmer regard; but let me not cramp my sympathies, +or indulge any early preferences. I must +not be partial. So I admire these here before me—and +bow to them, one and all. I fancy that they +bow in return—that the stalwart warriors stretch +vigorous hands toward me—that the delicate beauties +bend down their little heads, all covered with +powder, and return my homage with a smile.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> + +<p>Why not? Can my shabby coat make the +lovely or proud faces ashamed of me? Do they turn +from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined +line? Do they sneer at my napless hat, and laugh +at my tattered elbows? I do not think of them so +poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but +I think, at least I hope, that it covers an honest +heart.</p> + +<p>So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and +again they smile in return. I seem to have wandered +away into the past and dreamed in a realm +of silence. And yet—it is strange I did not hear +her—Annie is still singing through the hall.</p> + + +<h3>III.</h3> +<p>I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat, +the unfortunate coat which I sometimes think +makes the rich folks visiting the hall look sidewise +at me. It is strange! Am I not <i>myself</i>, whether +clad in velvet or in fustian—in homespun fabric, or +in cloth of gold? People say I am simple—wholly +ignorant of the world; I must be so in truth.</p> + +<p>But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even +saw, and alluded to it; it was not long after my +arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the +neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> + +<p>They were standing on the portico, and I was +leaning against the trunk of the old oak beneath, +admiring the sunset which was magnificent that +evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turning +round toward the young ladies, saw them +laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the +hole in my elbow, and I could not fail to understand +that she was laughing at my miserable coat.</p> + +<p>I was not offended, though perhaps I may have +been slightly wounded; but Annie was a young +girl and I could not get angry; I was not at all +ashamed—why should I have been?</p> + +<p>"I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my +elbow," I said, calmly and quietly, with a bow and +a smile; "I tore it by accident, yesterday."</p> + +<p>Annie blushed, and looked very proud and +offended, and it pained me to see that she suffered +for her harmless and, careless speech. I begged +her not to think that my feelings were wounded, +and bowing again, went up to my room. I looked +at my coat, it <i>was</i> terribly shabby, and I revolved +the propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up +the idea with a sigh. She needs all my money, and +my mind is made up; she <i>shall</i> have the black silk, +and very soon.</p> + +<p>I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the +little scene on the portico. During all that even<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>ing, +and the whole of the next day, Annie scarcely +looked at me, and retained her angry and offended +expression. I was pained, but could add nothing +more to my former assurance that I was not +offended.</p> + +<p>Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon +the portico, when Annie came out of the parlor. +She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated, +but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She +came quickly to my side, and holding out her hand +said frankly and kindly, with a little tremor in her +voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:</p> + +<p>"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. +Cleave, indeed I did not, sir; my speech was the +thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very +sorry that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will +you pardon me, sir?"</p> + +<p>I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the +white little hand which lay in my own, slightly +agitated,—</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie," I said, +"if you will let me call you by your household +name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was +shabby; had it been a new one, you would never +have observed it, and I should have lost these +sweet and friendly accents."</p> + +<p>And that is the "incident of the coat."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p>The week that has just passed has been a +pleasant one. I have thought, a hundred times, +"how good a thing it is to live!"</p> + +<p>I must have been a good deal cramped and +confined in the city; but I enjoy the fair landscapes +here all the more. The family are very friendly +and kind—except Mrs. Barrington, who does not +seem to like me. She scarcely treats me with anything +more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire +and Annie, however, make up for this coldness. +They are both extremely cordial. It was friendly +in the squire to give me this mass of executorial +accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his +entire satisfaction; and the payment for my services +is very liberal. How I long for money!</p> + +<p>There was a splendid party at the hall on Tuesday. +It reminded me of old times, when we, +too,—but that is idle to remember. I do not +sigh for the past. I know all is for the best. Still, +I could not help thinking, as I looked on the brilliant +spectacle, that the world was full of changes +and vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and +delightful one; the dancing quite extravagant. +Annie was the beauty of the assemblage—the belle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +of the ball—and she gave me a new proof of the +regret which she felt for the speech about my coat. +At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of +half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and +promenade out on the portico.</p> + +<p>"Do you ever dance?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," I replied; "that is, I did dance once; +but of late years I have been too much occupied. +We live quietly."</p> + +<p>"You say 'we.'"</p> + +<p>"I mean my mother and I; I should have said +'poorly,' perhaps, instead of 'quietly,' And I am +busy."</p> + +<p>She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:</p> + +<p>"But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll +not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette, +and ask you to dance with me."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?"</p> + +<p>"Could you doubt it?"</p> + +<p>"I was so <i>very</i> rude to you!"</p> + +<p>And she hung her head. That, then, was the +secret of her choice of my arm. I could only +assure her that I did not think her rude, and I +hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was +pleased in spite of all—for I like to think well of +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>women. The cynical writers say they are all +mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie? +She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, faultlessly +appointed, to dance with a poor stranger, +quite out at elbows.</p> + +<p>I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and +when Annie took my arm to go into supper, the +gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been +refused, made me smile. When the party was +over, Annie gave me her hand at the foot of the +staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mischievous +eyes, as she glanced at the departing +gallants; her rosy cheeks dimpled, and she flitted +up, humming a gay tune.</p> + +<p>It is singular how beautiful she is when she +laughs—as when she sighs. Am I falling in love +with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I +think that my pride and self-respect will keep me +rational. Pshaw! why did I dream of such +nonsense!</p> + + +<h3>V.</h3> +<p>So—a month has passed.</p> + +<p>My coat, it seems, is to be the constant topic of +attention.</p> + +<p>A day or two since, I was sitting in my chamber,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +reflecting upon a variety of things. My thoughts, +at last, centred on the deficiencies of my wardrobe, +and I muttered, "I must certainly have my +coat mended soon;" and I looked down, sighing, at +the hole in my elbow.... It +had disappeared! There was no longer any rent. +The torn cloth had been mended in the neatest +manner; so neatly, indeed, that the orifice was +almost invisible. Who could have done it, and +how? I have one coat only, and—yes! it must +have been! I saw, in a moment, the whole secret: +that noise, and the voice of Sarah, the old chambermaid.</p> + +<p>I rose and went out on the staircase; I met the +good crone.</p> + +<p>"How did you find my coat in the dark?" I said, +smiling; "and now you must let me make you a +present for mending it, Sarah."</p> + +<p>Sarah hesitated, plainly; but honesty conquered. +She refused the money, which, nevertheless, I gave +her; and, from her careless replies, I soon discovered +the real truth.</p> + +<p>The coat had been mended by Annie!</p> + +<p>I descended to the drawing-room, and finding her +alone, thanked her with simplicity and sincerity. +She blushed and pouted.</p> + +<p>"Who told you?" she asked.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<p>"No one; but I discovered it from Sarah; she +was unguarded."</p> + +<p>"Well, sir," said Annie, blushing still, but laughing, +"there is no reason for your being so grateful, +I thought I would mend it, as I formerly laughed +at it—and I hope it is neatly done."</p> + +<p>"It is scarcely visible," I said, with a smile and +a bow; "I shall keep this coat always to remind +me of your delicate kindness."</p> + +<p>"Pshaw! 'twas nothing."</p> + +<p>And running to the piano, the young girl commenced +a merry song, which rang through the old +hall like the carol of a bird. Her voice was so +inexpressibly sweet that it made my pulses throb and +my heart ache. I did not know the expression +of my countenance, as I looked at her, until turning +toward me, I saw her suddenly color to the roots of +her hair.</p> + +<p>I felt, all at once, that I had fixed upon her one of +those looks which say as plainly as words could +utter: "I love you with all the powers of my +nature, all the faculties of my being—you are dearer +to me than the whole wide world beside!"</p> + +<p>Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did +not know that I loved Annie—I was not conscious +that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpressible +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up +everything like a flash of lightning—I rose, set my +lips together, and bowed. I could scarcely speak—I +muttered "pray excuse me," and left the apartment.</p> + +<p>On the next morning I begged the squire to +release me from the completion of my task—I had a +friend who could perform the duties as well as +myself, and who would come to the hall for that +purpose, inasmuch as the account books could not +be removed—I must go.</p> + +<p>The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did +not ask my reasons for this sudden act—he simply +inclined his head—and said that he would always +be glad to serve me. With a momentary pressure +of Annie's cold hand, and a low bow to the frigid +Mrs. Barrington, I departed.</p> + + +<h3>VI.</h3> +<p>Five years have passed away. They have been +eventful ones to me—not for the unhoped for success +which I have had in my profession, so much as +for the long suffering which drove me, violently as +it were, to seek relief in unceasing toil.</p> + +<p>The thought of Annie has been ever with me—my +pain, though such a term is slight, was caused +by my leaving her. I never knew how much I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +loved her until all those weary miles were thrown +between us. My days have been most unhappy, +my nights drearier still; for a long time now, I have +not thought or said "how good a thing it is to live!"</p> + +<p>But I acted wisely, and honorably; did I not? I +did my duty, when the temptation to neglect it +was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from +the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and +respected my own name and honor, too much to +remain. It was better to break my heart, I said, +than take advantage of my position at the hall, to +engage a young girl's heart, and drag her down, in +case she loved me, to the poor low sphere in which +I moved. If her father had said to me, "You have +abused the trust I placed in you, and acted with +duplicity," I think it would have ruined me, forever, +in my own esteem. And would he not have +had the right to say it?</p> + +<p>So I came away from the temptation while I +could, and plunged into my proper work on earth, +and found relief; but I loved her still.</p> + +<p>Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued +between the squire and myself? 'Twas a somewhat +singular one, and revealed to me something which +I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath +my hand; let us look at it. It passed soon after +my departure:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="sig3">"Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18—.</p> + +<p class="sig1">"<span class="smcap">My dear young Friend</span>:</p> + +<p>"Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered +that event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned +by a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family. +I saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look upon +you with as much favor as I hoped. If any word or action of mine +has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it.</p> + +<p class="sig4">"Your friend,</p> +<p class="sig5">"C. Barrington.</p> + +<p>"P.S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was +many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine."</p></div> + +<p>My reply was in the following words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p class="sig1">"<span class="smcap">My dear Mr. Barrington</span>:</p> + +<p>"Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat +hasty departure: 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any member +of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable circumstances. You +will not think me wanting in candor or sincerity when I add that I +think these circumstances were better not alluded to at present.</p> + +<p class="sig4">"Truly and faithfully,</p> + +<p class="sig5">"<span class="smcap">St. George Cleave.</span>"</p> +</div> + +<p>Thus ended then our correspondence. Three +years afterward I received another letter, in a +handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It +contained simply the words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask you +to come and see me, my young friend?</p> + +<p class="sig5">"<span class="smcap">C. Barrington</span>."</p> +</div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span></p> +<p>I need not say that I went at once. As I +approached the old manor house a thousand memories +knocked at the door of my heart. There were +the fields over which I had rambled; there was +the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered +in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great +oak against which I had leaned on that evening to +watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had +whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still +raised its head proudly, and embowered the old +gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn.</p> + +<p>I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed +to smile; they saluted me sweetly, as in other +hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me—I +saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the +hall.</p> + +<p>All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep; +my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to +my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to +meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days? +I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes +for some moments without uttering a word. She +was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed +a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than +before. Her eyes were filled with the strangest +sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed +at me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Papa has been waiting impatiently for you, +Mr. Cleave," she said, in a low, sad voice; "will +you come up and see him at once? he is very ill."</p> + +<p>And turning away her head, the fair girl burst +into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went +to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield +to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led +the way into the parlor, where I was received by +Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more +subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce +my arrival to her father, and soon I was alone with +the old man.</p> + +<p>I was grieved and shocked at his appearance. +He seemed twenty years older. I scarcely recognized +in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country +gentleman whom I had known.</p> + +<p>The motive for his letter was soon explained. +The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrangement +I had aided, five years before, in remedying, +still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare. +He could not die, he said, with the thought +in his mind, that any one might attribute this +disorder to intentional maladministration—"to +fraud, it might be."</p> + +<p>And at the word "fraud," his wan cheek became +crimson.</p> + +<p>"My own affairs, Mr. Cleave," he continued,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +"are, I find, in a most unhappy condition. I have +been far too negligent; and now, on my death-bed, +for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, +that I am well-nigh a ruined man!"</p> + +<p>He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in +vain, attempted to impress upon him, the danger +of exciting himself.</p> + +<p>"I must explain everything, and in my own +way," he said, with burning cheeks, "for I look to +you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr. +Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely +upon you, I adjure you, to protect my good name +in those horrible accounts, which you once helped +to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like +the ghost of a murdered man!"</p> + +<p>The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in +spite of all which I could say. It led him to make +me a singular revelation—to speak upon a subject +which I had never even dreamed of. His pride +and caution seemed wholly to have deserted him; +and he continued as follows:</p> + +<p>"You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call +upon you. You are young. But I know very well +what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is +sufficient guaranty that you are competent to +perform the trust—my knowledge of your character +is correct enough to induce me not to hesitate.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +There is another tie between us. Do you suspect +its nature? I loved and would have married your +mother. She was poor—I was equally poor—I +was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy +when your mother's pride made her refuse my suit. +I married—I have not been happy. But enough. +I should never have spoken of this—never—but I +am dying! As you are faithful and true, St. George +Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be untarnished!"</p> + +<p>There the interview ended. The doctor came in, +and I retired to reflect upon the singular communication +which had been made to me. On the same +evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me. +In a week the sick gentleman was sleeping with his +fathers. I held his hand when he died.</p> + +<p>I shall not describe the grief and suffering of +every one. I shall not trust myself, especially, to +speak of Annie. Her agony was almost destructive +to her health—and every throb which shook +her frame, shook mine as well. The sight of her +face had revived, in an instant, all the love of the +past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now, +passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might +win her love in return, I thrilled with a vague +delight.</p> + +<p>Well, let me not spin out my story. The result<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +of my examination of Mr. Barrington's affairs, was +saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined. +Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts, +had mortgaged his entire property. When it was +settled, and the hall was sold, his widow and +daughter had just enough to live upon comfortably—scarcely +so much. They gladly embraced +my suggestion to remove to a small cottage near +our own, in town, and there they now live—you +may see the low roof through the window.</p> + +<p>I am glad to say that my reëxamination of the +executorial accounts, which had so troubled the +poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite unfounded. +There was mere disorder—no grounds for +"exception." I told as much to Annie, who alone +knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and +filled with thanks, was my sole executorial "commission."</p> + + +<h3>VII.</h3> +<p>I have just been discarded by Annie.</p> + +<p>Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and +recall what she said to me. My head is troubled +to-day—it is strange what a want of self-control I +have! I thought I was strong—and I am weaker +than a child.</p> + +<p>I told her that I loved her—had loved her for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +years—that she was dearer, far, to me than all on +earth beside my mother. And she answered me—agitated, +but perfectly resolved:</p> + +<p>"I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave."</p> + +<p>A long pause followed, in which she evidently +labored with great distress—then she continued:</p> + +<p>"I will frankly and faithfully say <i>why</i> I cannot. +I know all—I know your feelings for me once. +You went away because you were poor, and you +thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than +yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it, +except—pardon me, sir, I am confused—I meant to +say, that <i>you</i> are now the richer. It humbles me +to speak of this—why did you not"—</p> + +<p>There she stopped, blushing and trembling.</p> + +<p>"Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray +you."</p> + +<p>She replied to my words in a broken and agitated +voice:</p> + +<p>"I cannot finish. I was thinking of—of—the +day when I mended your coat!"</p> + +<p>And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, +as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong +the account of our interview. She soon left me, +resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly +miserable.</p> + +<p>What shall I do? I cannot live without her.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her +there near me, at the window, in the street; to see +her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it +flits through the flower-enveloped gate; to feel that +she is near me, but lost to me! Never could I +endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything +that can move her?</p> + +<p>—Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate +accident. To-morrow, or very soon—very +soon!</p> + + +<h3>VIII.</h3> +<p>A week after my rejection, I went up to my +chamber, and drew from the depths of my wardrobe, +the old coat which Annie had mended. I +had promised her to preserve it. I had kept my +promise. Yes, there it was, just as I had worn it +at the hall—my shabby old coat of five years ago! +I put it on, smiling, and surveyed myself in a +mirror. It was strangely old-fashioned; but I +did not think of that. I seemed to have returned, +all at once, to the past; its atmosphere +embraced me; all its flowers bloomed gaily before +my eyes.</p> + +<p>I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +Annie's stitches—her fingers had clasped the worn, +decayed cloth—the old garment had rested on her +arm!</p> + +<p>I think I must have gazed at the coat for an +hour, motionless in the sunlight, and thinking of +old days. Then I aroused myself, suddenly, put on +my hat, and, with a beating heart, went to ask if +Annie remembered.</p> + +<p>I shall not relate the details of our interview. +She remembered! Oh, word so sweet or so filled +with sadness! with a world of sorrow or delight in +its sound! She remembered—and her heart could +resist no longer. She remembered the poor youth +who had loved her so dearly—whom she, too, had +loved in the far away past. She remembered the +days when her father was well and happy—when +his kind voice greeted me, and his smile +gave me friendly welcome. She remembered the +old days, with their flowers and sunshine—the +old hall, and the lawn, and the singing birds. +Can you wonder that her soft, tender bosom +throbbed, that her heart was "melted in her +breast?"</p> + +<p>So she plighted me her troth—the dream and +joy of my youth. We shall very soon be married. +The ship which I sent from the shore long +ago has come again to port, with a grander<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +treasure than the earth holds beside—it is the +precious, young head which reclined upon my +heart!</p> + +<p>—And again I can say, as I said long ago: +"how good a thing it is to live!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MY_SECRET" id="MY_SECRET"></a>MY SECRET.</h2> + +<h4>(FROM THE FRENCH.)</h4> +<h4>BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A love eternal in a moment's space conceived;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she who was the cause, nor knew it, nor believed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She will go on her way distraught and without hearing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span><span class="i0">Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_LEAF" id="A_LEAF"></a>A LEAF</h2> + +<h3>FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK.</h3> +<h4>BY H.T. TUCKERMAN.</h4> +<p>Fresh from Italy, we enter the gallery of the +Louvre with a feeling that it is but a grand prolongation +of the glorious array of pictured and sculptured +trophies, scattered in such memorable luxuriance, +through that chosen land of art; but the +sensation is that of delightful surprise when we +have but recently explored the dim chambers of the +National Gallery, or obtained formal access to +a private British collection. To cross the now +magnificent hall of Apollo, with its grand proportions +flooded by a cloudless sun, expands the mind +and brightens the vision for their feast of beauty. +Here too, a magic improvement has been recently +wrought, and the architectural renovation lends new +effect to the ancient treasures, so admirably preserved +and arranged. I stood long at one of the +windows and looked down upon the Seine; it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +thence that the people were fired upon at the massacre +of St. Bartholomew; there rose, dark and +fretted, the antique tower of Notre Dame, here was +the site of the Tour de Nesle, that legend of crime +wrought in stone; gracefully looked the bridges as +they spanned the swollen current of the river; cheerfully +lay the sunshine on quay and parapet; it was +a scene where the glow of nature and the shadows +of history unite to lend a charm to the panorama of +modern civilization. And turning the gaze within, +how calm and refreshing seemed the long and high +vistas of the gallery; how happy the artists at their +easels;—girls with their frugal dinners in a basket +on the pavement, copying a Flemish scene; youths +drawing intently some head of an old master; veterans +of the palette reproducing the tints born +under Venetian skies; and groups standing in silent +admiration before some exquisite gem or wonderful +conception. It is like an audience with the peers +of art to range the Louvre; in radiant state and +majestic silence they receive their reverend guests; +first smiles down upon him the celestial meekness +of Raphael's holy women, then the rustic truth of +Murillo's peasant mothers, and the most costly, +though, to our mind, not the most expressive, of all +his pictures—the late acquisition for which kings +competed at Marshal Soult's sale; now we are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span> +warmed by the rosy flush of Rubens—like a mellow +sunset beaming from the walls; and now startled at +the life-like individuality of Vandyke's portraits, as +they gaze down with such placid dignity and keen +intelligence; at one point, we examine with mere +curiosity the stiff outlines of early religious limning; +and, at another, smile at the homely nature of the +Dutch school; Philip de Champagne's portraits, +Wouverman's white horses, Cuyp's meadows and +kine, Steen's rural <i>fêtes</i>, Claude's sunsets, Pannini's +architecture and Sneyder's animals; David's melodramatic +pieces, Isabey's miniatures, Oudny's dogs, +Robert's "Harvest Home," all hint a chapter, not +only in the history of art, but in the philosophy of +life and the secrets of the beautiful—enshrined there +for the world's enjoyment, with a liberal policy yet +more aptly illustrated by the vast and lofty colonnades, +the courteous custodes, and the provisions for +students in the drawings of successive schools.</p> + +<p>In order to exchange the fascinations of the +moment for the lessons of the past, one cloudy +morning we drove through the avenue of the +Champs Elysées, by the triumphal arch of Napoleon, +to the palace of St. Cloud, and from the esplanade +gazed back upon the city, over the plain below, +to the dense mass of buildings surmounted by the +domes of the Invalids, and the Pantheon and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +towers of Notre Dame. To the eye of contemplation +it is one of the most memorable of landscapes; +a stand-point for historical reverie, which attunes +the mind for subsequent and less discursive retrospection. +Enter the apartment where Bonaparte +dispersed the assembly of five hundred—the initatory +act of his rule; it is now a conservatory, whence +rising terrace walks, statues and fountains only are +visible; in the fresh silence of morning, they offered +a striking contrast to that eventful scene. In an +adjacent room a picture representing Maria de +Medici's interview with Sully after the death of +Henry IV., carries us back to an earlier era. Here +Blucher had his headquarters, and here was settled +the convention by which Paris was yielded to +the allies. The saloon of Vernet, the well-trimmed +vine-trees of the garden, the vivid hues of the +tapestry, the newly waxed floors, the hangings and +couches of Lyons silk, the elegant Sèvres vases, and +Florentine tables of <i>pietra dura</i>, the velvet cushions +of the chapel, and late publications on the library +desks—all free of speck or stain—proclaim this summer +palace as great a favorite now as when resorted +to by the princes of Orleans. In this hall the two +Napoleons were proclaimed; and the brilliant +memory of those summer festivals that lately made +St. Cloud dazzling with light and beauty, was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +reflected from mirror, cornice, and tinted fabric; +from this gilt on the iron chain of usurped dominion, +a glance through the window revealed its origin: +a throng of people were on their way to mass and a +regiment was on parade—the one illustrating the +blind exaction of bigoted authority, the other the +machinery of brute force—the church and the army, +the mitre, and the sword, superstition and violence; +with these, in all ages, have the multitude been subdued; +and between these two representations of +elemental despotism, clustered on a high wall, stood +a crowd to watch the meek procession of worshippers, +and the exactitude of the manual, or admire the +spirited, yet controlled, evolutions of the officer on +his noble charger. The whole scene typified France +as she is; uneducated devotees, a military organization +at the beck of its chief, and a surplus of curious, +intimidated or acquiescent spectators.</p> + +<p>To pass from St. Cloud to Versailles is like turning +from the last to the first chapters of French +history. The vast court of the palace is lined with +colossal statues; and thus we enter the vestibule +through a file of pale and majestic sentinels, summoned, +as it were, from the tomb to guard the +trophies of nationality. Our pilgrimage through +such a world of effigies begins with Clovis and +Charlemagne, and ends with Louis Philippe: the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span> +place itself is the ancient home of royalty; the +gardens, visible from every window, have been trod +by generations of monarchs and courtiers; the +ceilings bear the arms of the noble families of the +kingdom; while around are the faces and figures of +the men of valor and of genius that consecrate her +history. Through this panorama move peasants, +workmen, citizens, and foreigners, gazing unrestricted, +as upon a procession evoked from the inexorable +past, in which are all those of whom they +have heard or read as illustrious in France; they +see the battles, the leaders, the kings, the poets, the +human material of history. This grand conception, +which has of late years been mainly realized by the +last king, is certainly one of the most grand and +significant of modern times. Even in this, our one +day's observation, how many ideas are revived, how +many characters brought into view; what events, +associations and people throng upon our consciousness, +as slowly gazing, we tread the interminable +halls and scan the countless memorials of Versailles!</p> + +<p>Taking up the thread of reminiscence when looking +at the old moldy mortar that belonged to the +knights of St. John when at Rhodes, the expiring +chivalry of Europe gleams fitfully upon us, once +more, to provoke a mortifying comparison with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +not yet completed pictures of the capture of Abd-el-Kader +and the last siege of Rome; thence turn +to the "Jeu de Paume," where the ardent figure of +Mirabeau represents the genius of the Revolution, +and from it to "Louis XVIII. and the Charter," +emblematic of the Restoration; how shines on this +canvas the "helmet of Navarre" in the "Battle +of Ivry," as in Macaulay's spirited lyric, and +chastely beautiful in its stainless marble, stands the +heroic Maid of Orleans; while, appropriately in +the midst of these historic characters, we find the +bust of that ideal of picturesque narrators, Froissart. +The modern rule of France is abruptly and +almost grotesquely suggested amid such associations, +by the figure of De Joinville on the deck of a +man-of-war, well described by Talfourd, as "the +type of dandified, melodramatic seamanship." +The cycles of kingly sway is abruptly broken by +the meteoric episode of Bonaparte: first he appears +dispersing the Assembly, and then in his early +victories, wounded at Ratisbon, at the tomb of +Frederick the Great, distributing the Legion of +Honor at the Invalides, quelling an insurrection at +Cairo, engaged in his unparalleled succession of +battles, and at the altar with Maria Louisa. The +divorce from Josephine and the murder of the +Duc D'Enghien, are events that only recur more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +impressively to the mind of the spectator because +uncommemorated. From the career of military +genius which transformed the destinies of France, +we pass to apartments where still breathes the +vestiges of legitimacy as in the hour of its prime. +The equestrian statue of Louis XIV. in the court-yard, +his bed and crown, his clock and chair in the +long suite of rooms kept sacred to his memory, +typify the age when genius and beauty mingled +their charms in the corrupt atmosphere of +intrigue and profligacy. The noble expanse of +wood, water, and meadow; the paths lined with +stately myrtles and ancient box, spread as invitingly +to the eye from this embayed window, as +when the <i>grand monarque</i> stood there to watch the +graceful walk of La Vallière, or the staid carriage +of Maintenon. The abandonment and quietude of +these chambers, mirrored, tapestried, and solitary, +owe not a little of the spell they exercise over the +imagination, to the vicinity of the galleries devoted +to the men of the Revolution and the campaigns +of '92; amid the smoke of conflict ever appears +that resolute, olive face with the dark eye fixed and +the thin lip curved in decision or expectancy. We +mechanically repeat Campbell's elegy as we mark +"Hohenlinden," and linger with patriotic gratitude +over "Yorktown," notwithstanding the absurd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +prominence given to the French officers; Condé, +Turenne, Moreau, Lannes, Massena, and Lafayette +fight over again before us the wars of the Fronde, the +Empire, or the Republic. The monotony of these +scenes of destruction is only relieved by the individual +memories of the chiefs; they link a certain individuality +with the flame and shroud of war, the +fragmentary conquests, and the struggles that make +up so large a portion of external history; and we +emerge from the crowd of warriors into the company +of statesmen, wits, and poets, with a sensation +of refreshment. Each single triumph of thought, +each victory of imagination and memorial of +character, has an absolute worth and charm that +the exploits of armies can never emulate.</p> + +<p>Racine's portrait revives the long controversy +between the classic and romantic schools; that of +La Bruy re the art of character-painting now one +of the highest functions of popular literature; that +of Bossuet the pulpit eloquence of France and the +persecution of Fenelon, and that of Saint Cyr the +Jansenist discussion. A blank like that which designates +the place of Marino Faliero in the Ducal +palace at Venice, is left here for Le Sage, as the +nativity of the author of Gil Blas is yet disputed. +We look at Rousseau to revert to the social reforms, +of which he was the pioneer; at La Place to realize<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +the achievements of the exact sciences, and at St. +Pierre to remember the poetry of nature. Voltaire's +likeness is not labelled for the same reason that +there is no name on the tomb of Ney; both are too +well known to require announcement. How incongruous +become the associations as we proceed; old +Père la Chaise cheek by jowl with the American +Presidents; Cagliostro, who died before the word +his career incarnated had become indispensable to +the English tongue—the apotheosis of humbug; +Marmontel, dear to our novitiate as royal leaders; +and near to the original Pamela; Chateaubriand's +ancestor the Marshal; Bisson going below to +ignite the magazine, rather than "give up the +ship;" and the battered war dog, with a single eye +and leg, beneath whose fragmentary portrait is +inscribed that Mars left him only a heart.</p> + +<p>It is with singular interest that we look upon the +authentic resemblance of persons with whose minds +and career literature has made us familiar, and +compare what we have imagined of their appearance +with the reality. Of such characters as +Gluck, Klopstock and Madame Le Brun, whose +ministry of art has excited a vague delight, we may +have formed no very distinct image; but associated +as is the name of Madame Roland with courage, +suffering and affliction, we naturally expect a more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span> +dignified and less vivacious expression than here +meets us, until we remember the earlier development +of her rare and sympathetic intelligence. +Count Mirabeau has a look of mildness and <i>sang +froid</i> instead of the earnestness we fancied. Who +would have supposed the fair assassin of Marat such +a thin, delicate and spirituelle blonde? The sensuous +face of George IV. and the tragic one of Charles I., +in the ever recurring Vandyke, with Sheridan's +confident, handsome and genial physiognomy, seem +grouped to make more elevated, by comparison, +the noble abstraction of Flaxman. Talleyrand +resembles a keen, selfish, humorous and gentlemanly +man of the world, in an unexceptionable +white wig. Richelieu is piquant and Madame +de Staël impassioned and Amazonian. What +decadence even in the warlike notabilities is hinted +by glancing from Soult to Oudinot! I thought of +the French fleet in the memorable storm off Newport, +as I recognized the portrait of the Count +d'Estaing; and realized anew the military instinct +of the nation in the preponderance of battle-scenes +and heroes, and marked the interest with which +groups of soldiers lingered and talked before +them.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_RETURN_OF_THE_GODDESS" id="THE_RETURN_OF_THE_GODDESS"></a>THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS.</h2> + +<h4>BY BAYARD TAYLOR.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And cheeks all bright from rapture of the way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">She comes to me to-day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Does she forget the trysts we used to keep,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep<br /></span> +<span class="i4">With threats of silver sound?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Does she forget how shone the happy eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When they beheld her?—how the eager tongue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To reach her where she sung?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How at her sacred feet I cast me down?<br /></span> +<span class="i1">How she upraised me to her bosom fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from her garland shred the first light crown<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That ever pressed my hair?<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Their freshness back: why lingers she so long?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pulseless air is waiting for her wing,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Dumb with unuttered song.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If tender doubt delay her on the road,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Oh let her haste, to find that doubt belied!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If shame for love unworthily bestowed,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That shame shall melt in pride.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If she but smile, the crystal calm will break<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In music, sweeter than it ever gave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And laughs in every wave.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The ripples of awakened song shall die<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until, as once, upon her breast I lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Pardoned and loved again.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="ON_POPULAR_KNOWLEDGE" id="ON_POPULAR_KNOWLEDGE"></a>ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE.</h2> + +<h4>BY GEORGE S. HILLARD.</h4> +<p>Against all institutions for the diffusion of knowledge +among the community, an objection is often +urged that they can teach nothing thoroughly, but +only superficially, and that modest ignorance is +better than presumptuous half-knowledge. How +frequently is it said that "a little learning is a +dangerous thing." This celebrated line is a striking +instance of the vitality which may be given to +what is at least a very doubtful proposition by +throwing it into a pointed form. If anything be a +good at all, it is a good precisely in proportion to +the extent in which it is possessed or enjoyed. A +great deal of it is better than a little, but a little is +better than none. No one says or thinks that +a little conscience, or a little wisdom, or a little +faith, or a little charity is a dangerous thing. Why +then is a little learning dangerous? Alas, it is not +the little learning, but the much ignorance which +it supposes, that is dangerous!</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> +<p>We also frequently hear it said, that the general +diffusion of popular knowledge is unfavorable to +great acquisitions in any one individual. This is a +favorite dogma with those persons whose views are +all retrospective, who are ever magnifying past +ages at the expense of the present, and who will +insist upon riding through life with their faces +turned toward the horse's tail instead of his head. +"We have smatterers and sciolists in abundance," +say they, "but where are the giant scholars of +other days?" Dr. Johnson once said, in reply to a +remark upon the general intelligence of the people +of Scotland, that learning in Scotland was like +bread in a besieged city, where every man gets a +mouthful, but none a full meal. He also observed +in a conversation held with Lord Monboddo, that +learning had much decreased in England, since his +remembrance; to which his lordship remarked, +"you have lived to see its decrease in England; I, +its extinction in Scotland." The fallacy of views +like these consists in taking it for granted that +there is always just about the same aggregate +amount of knowledge in the world, and that only +the ratio of distribution is changed. But there is +no such analogy between learning and material +substances. The wealth of the mind is not like +gold, which must be beaten out the finer, as the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +surface to be covered by it is more extensive. As +to the alleged superiority of past ages, in anything +essential, I am more than skeptical. I hold rather +that of all good things, learning included, there is +as much in the world now as there ever was—not +to say more. The great scholars of Europe in our +time are not inferior to the greatest of their predecessors. +Even in classical literature and antiquities, +the searching, analyzing and investigating +spirit of our age has poured new light upon the +remote past, and rendered the labors of former +generations useless. By elevating the general +standard, it is true that there is less distance +between the common mind and the deeply learned. +The scholars of the middle ages seem the higher, +from the low level of ignorance from which they +rise. They are like mountains shooting abruptly +from the plain. Our scholars seem to have reached +an inferior point of elevation, because the level of +the general mind has come nearer to them, as +mountain peaks lose somewhat of their apparent +height when they spring from a raised table land.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span></p> +<h4><a name="ON_RECEIVING_A" id="ON_RECEIVING_A"></a>ON RECEIVING A</h4> +<h2>PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS</h2> +<h3>FROM A FRIEND.</h3> +<h4>BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A modest bud matured mid secret dews,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">May yield its bloom beside some hidden path,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of sweet perfumes and of rarest hues<br /></span> +<span class="i1">While few may note the beauty which it hath—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">May bend beside it with a loving look,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or by the streamlet place it in her hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And smile above her image in the brook.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A bird with pinions beautiful, and shy,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">May sing scarce noted mid the noisier throng;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or 'scaping earth, take refuge in the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And though concealed still charm the air with song.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet haply some enamored ear may hark,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And deem it sweetest of the birds that sing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or in his heart still praise the unseen lark<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That leads his fancies toward its heavenward wing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A star in some sequestered nook on high,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In its deep niche of blue may calmly shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While careless eyes that wander o'er the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">May only deem the brightest orbs divine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But there are those who love to sit and trace<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Between all these some shy retiring light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For such, they know, shed through the veil of space<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The general halo that adorns the night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed<br /></span> +<span class="i1">By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The few may deem as worthy to be named,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">(As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star!<br /></span> + +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_PRINCE_AT_LANDS_END" id="THE_PRINCE_AT_LANDS_END"></a>THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END.</h2> + +<h4>BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO.</h4> +<p>Last from the church came the organist, Daniel +Summerman. He was less hurried than others; to +him it was not, as to people in general, a day of +increased social responsibility. His great duty was +now performed. Done, whether well or ill. He +descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so light +you might have taken it for a child's. No need for +him to haste; the precious moments would go fast +enough—he wished not to lose one.</p> + +<p>In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his +woollen gloves, and button his great coat, and for +something besides. Perhaps the person who laid +the wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was +somewhere about, and had some criticism to offer +in respect to the choir's performance.</p> + +<p>But he descended the church steps without having +met even the sexton; somewhat disappointed, +it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger +standing in the churchyard among the graves; by<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +the grave, it chanced, of a child who died in +October, five years old. When the organist perceived +this, a purpose which he would have formed +later in the day, anticipated itself, and led him to +the little mound. He would leave the cedar +wreath on Mary's grave.</p> + +<p>He was not ashamed of his gracious purpose +when he had drawn near. His gentle heart was +glad to do this homage to the dead, in the presence +of a stranger who had never seen the living child. +Stooping down, he smoothed the frozen grass, and +laid the wreath upon it; and when he saw the +stranger watching him, he said:</p> + +<p>"She was the prettiest child in the village; if +she had lived, we should have had one singer in the +choir. I would have taught her. She loved music +so much."</p> + +<p>Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordinary +man. At least the organist thought so. But +when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that +he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that +face, and still less in the voice that asked,</p> + +<p>"Will you leave the wreath here? Where did +it come from?"</p> + +<p>The organist replied as though he did not perceive +the indifference with which the questions were +asked:</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p> +<p>"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the +children left it, may be. Any way this is the best +place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to +think that she was really down there."</p> + +<p>"Where, then?" asked the stranger.</p> + +<p>"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As +Summerman spoke, he stepped from the frozen +ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on +the stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.</p> + +<p>The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, +followed him. He was a well-dressed person; +indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with +the rough garments of the little organist. His fine +broadcloth cloak was trimmed profusely with rare +fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost half +as much as the church paid Summerman for playing +the organ a twelvemonth. He was a noticeable +person, not merely on account of his dress. His +bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not +indifferent to the eyes of others; that of a man +somewhat cautious of the reflection he should cast +in a region of shadows and appearances. But, +moreover, the face of this Redman Rush was the +face of misery. If ever a wreck came to shore, +here was the torn and battered fragment of a +gallant craft.</p> + +<p>"Were you in the church this morning?" asked<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +the organist, struggling with himself, speaking +with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the +stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was +beyond his power to walk by the side of any man +cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least +a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.</p> + +<p>"Yes," was the brief answer.</p> + +<p>"How did the singing go?"</p> + +<p>"Tolerably."</p> + +<p>"That's a comfort," said the organist, looking +more pleased than the occasion seemed to warrant. +But he was not a vain man; he merely supposed +that the gentleman's reply promised criticism worth +hearing.</p> + +<p>"Didn't you hear it yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, after a fashion. I play the organ. It +isn't the best situation for hearing. I thought it +decent. Particularly the <i>Gloria in Excelsis</i>. I +was most anxious about that. How did it sound to +you, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Well."</p> + +<p>"But, after all, they didn't understand it."</p> + +<p>"Understand what?"</p> + +<p>"The meaning. It opens with the song of the +angels, you know. 'Glory be to God on high; on +earth, peace, good will toward men.' They couldn't +tell, coherently, what the Peace and Good Will<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +meant. That's the worst of it. How can they +sing what they don't understand?"</p> + +<p>"Surely. Why don't you teach them?"</p> + +<p>"Why don't I teach them!" exclaimed the +organist. "I'm not a brain-maker; that's the +reason, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"Then, you've tried it?"</p> + +<p>For a minute Summerman seemed vexed by this +question; but for no longer than a minute.</p> + +<p>"What's the use? what's the use?" he said to +himself, and his answer to the question was a +laugh.</p> + +<p>The laugh, though neither loud nor boisterous, +but merely a mild evidence of good-nature that +was not to be clouded by vexations, had a disagreeable +sound to Redman Rush. He looked contemptuous, +and felt more than he looked, so that it +was really surprising to see him linger for such +conversation as this of the organist, and to hear +him ask,</p> + +<p>"How do you teach your choir? Whose fault is +it that they cannot learn?"</p> + +<p>"Their own fault," answered Summerman. +"They've got to learn more than the notes. So +they complain. You can't make a singer out of a +note-book. I've tried that enough. Now I try to +show them that peace means a riddance of selfish<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>ness, +and that selfishness is the devil's device for +holding the world together. Not God's; for his +idea is love, and was in the beginning. Wasn't +the world given to understand, that the life which +was born was the love, truth, and beauty of the +world, and that by Him all truth and beauty must +live? They can't see it. I can't make a man or +woman understand that an idea must be the centre +around which the life will revolve. They come to +practise, not to hear preaching, they say."</p> + +<p>It seemed as if at this, and because of this +announcement, Redman Rush drew himself apart +and up, loftily, and with a gloomy defiance looked +around him. When Summerman's eyes turned +toward him, he seemed gazing into distance, and +gave no indication that he had heard a word of +what had been said. The organist was disappointed. +He had hoped again for criticism; but +he went on, perhaps with some suspicion of the +correctness of his convictions—at least he had not +said all he wished to say.</p> + +<p>"We must have a centre—an idea," said he. +"And if that be self, then the devil's to pay. +Christ is the only absolute idea—the only possible +giver of peace, therefore. I mean by Him, His +doctrine. He stands for that, <i>being</i> Truth, as he +said, you know. They came out better on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +'good will to men,' if you noticed. It was easier +for them to believe in the eternal good will of God, +this morning. But they failed in the next line, +'We bless Thee, we give thanks to Thee, for Thy +great glory!' If they knew more they would sing +better. You know what was said, sir, 'Milton +himself could not teach a boy more than he could +learn.' That's the amount of it."</p> + +<p>Now and then, during these last words, spoken so +evidently by a man who liked to talk because he +looked for sympathy, and hoped for it, the face +of the stranger had changed in its expression; there +seemed to be less fierceness, more sadness in his +gloom. But the change was so slight as to be +hardly perceptible, even to the eyes of Summerman. +When he paused in speaking he had still no +answer.</p> + +<p>They walked on a few paces in silence, when +suddenly the organist stepped up to the door of a +house that opened on the sidewalk, and unlocked it.</p> + +<p>"This is my shop," said he; "won't you come in, +and warm yourself? it is so cold in spite of the +sun."</p> + +<p>Redman Rush hesitated, with his foot upon the +doorstep. He looked up and down the street. It +was beautiful and bright without, but, oh, how bare +and cold! homely enough within, but the glare of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +a hot coal fire suggested comfort, as the skylight +did cheerfulness. Did he really wish for warmth +and comfort, for cheerfulness and company? That +was the point.</p> + +<p>"Come in, I will show you something," said +Summerman.</p> + +<p>"He invites me as if I were another boy like +himself," thought the man. Perhaps for the sake +of that unimaginable boyhood he crossed the +threshold, and allowed Summerman to close the +door behind him.</p> + +<p>This room was the organist's home. His household +goods were all around him when he stepped +into the shop. It was a little place, but so well +arranged, that there seemed room, and to spare. +Summerman was hospitable as a prince—the shade +of Voltaire reminds me of the great Frederick's +hospitality! yet, let the word stand.</p> + +<p>This shop gave outward and visible signs of the +versatility of its owner's mind. The front part was +devoted to the clock and watch making business; +before the large window stood a table, where the +requisite tools were kept for conduct of that business. +A few clocks, and frames of clocks, gathered +probably from auction rooms, were ranged upon a +shelf, and dust was never allowed to accumulate +around or upon them. Never was housemaid<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +more exact and scrupulous than the proprietor of +this Gallery.</p> + +<p>In the back part of the shop, which was lighted +by the skylight, stood the instrument for daguerreo-typing, +possession of which would have made the +organist a proud man, if anything could have +done so.</p> + +<p>When he had invited Mr. Rush to sit down, and +the invitation was accepted, it was by a device of +Summerman's that the gentleman found himself +directly facing the machine, and now, if he took an +interest in any earthly thing, or was capable of +curiosity, some good would come of it, thought the +organist.</p> + +<p>He had promised to show his visitor somewhat, +and accordingly approached him with a miniature +case in his hand.</p> + +<p>Mr. Rush had removed his fur cap, and Summerman +approaching him, was so struck by his appearance, +the dignity, and pride, and trouble his +countenance expressed, that he nearly exclaimed in +his surprise, and quite forgot the intention he had, +till Mr. Rush reminded him by extending his hand +for the picture.</p> + +<p>"This is little Mary," exclaimed he, presenting +the miniature. "I took it last summer. She died +in October. Maybe you will understand now why<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> +I said that we should have had a singer, if she had +lived."</p> + +<p>But Summerman was in doubt about this, as, +from the point to which he immediately retired, he +cast a glance at the face of the stranger, who took +the picture, and surveyed it, with such a look.</p> + +<p>At first, it appeared as if a glance would suffice +him. But he did not return it with a glance. +Was it the brightness and innocence of the young +face that won upon him, or did it for the moment +take its place as the type of all beauty and innocence, +and hold him to contemplation, as for the +last time. Was it really into the face of <i>that</i> little +child, dead and buried since October, that he +looked? or was <i>he</i> really <i>here</i>, under the roof of +this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his +coal stove this bright Christmas day, locked safe +his secret thoughts, himself secure with them?</p> + +<p>At last some word or sound escaped the organist. +He had gazed at Mr. Rush till he seemed possessed +of nightmare. So wild, so haggard, so awful, the +man's face appeared to him, that the cry, an involuntary +one, expressed better than any inquiry could +have done, how much disturbed he was. The stranger +heard, and seemed to understand, for at the +sound he rose quickly, and laid the picture on the +counter; not gently; at the same time he looked at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +Summerman and laughed; but without merriment.</p> + +<p>"Come," said Summerman quickly, "let me +take your portrait. I have quite a collection here, +you see." And as he spoke he did not remove his +eyes from the stranger—he had come to the conclusion +that he was mad, or in some direful strait +that made him almost irresponsible, and his first +purpose was one of helpful commiseration.</p> + +<p>Instead of quitting the shop straightway, as Summerman +expected he would do when he made this +proposition (and if he did depart he meant to follow), +the stranger walked toward the instrument, +and on his way picked up the picture he had thrown +down with so little ceremony. He seemed to think +he owed this courtesy:</p> + +<p>"Do you find much patronage here?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh, considerable," replied Summerman. "Just +now more than common. Your likeness is such a +good present to make your friend!"</p> + +<p>"Do you think so?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly," was the emphatic response.</p> + +<p>"You ask to take my likeness—what for?"</p> + +<p>"I want it myself."</p> + +<p>"Oh—for a sign. Well, young man, you don't +know what it's the sign of, after all," and here Mr. +Rush evidently set himself against the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I hope it's the sign of a friend," answered Summerman, +who was keeping up his spirits by an +effort, for the mere presence of this man weighed on +them with an almost intolerable weight. Yet he +was sparing no effort to retain that presence.</p> + +<p>"Why do you hope that?" asked Mr. Rush with +a disagreeable show of authority.</p> + +<p>"Because we met at the church door on Christmas +day." Simple answer—yet it was spoken so +gently, so truthfully, it seemed to make an impression.</p> + +<p>"Christmas day. So it is. But it's getting late. +How high is the sun yet?"</p> + +<p>"Three hours, maybe."</p> + +<p>Hearing this, the gentleman turned away, and +walked to the further extremity of the shop. Summerman's +eyes followed him with anxiety. But he +went on polishing a plate, and seemed beyond all +things intent on that.</p> + +<p>Presently Mr. Rush came back.</p> + +<p>"You may take my likeness," said he. "You +are a good fellow. And it will help pass time."</p> + +<p>So the artist stepped quickly about, and looked +pleased, but not too much so. The work was soon +done. While Summerman was putting it through +the process of perfection, the gentleman stood and +watched him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> + +<p>"How did you want your choir to sing 'good +will to men?'" he asked.</p> + +<p>Summerman did not look up to answer—did not +express any surprise, but the whole man was in the +reply given:</p> + +<p>"From the heart, sir. Full, confident, assuring. +They owe that to God and man, or they've no business +in a choir."</p> + +<p>"Do you suppose they could do it?" asked Mr. +Rush, not immediately, but, as it seemed, when he +had controlled the unpleasant influence the speaker's +enthusiastic mode of address had upon him. It +seemed as if he were not merely speaking, and +engaging the organist in speech for pastime—but +rather because he could not help it. His questions, +when he asked them, had a more surprising sound +to himself than to the person who answered. And +they vexed him—but not Summerman. When Mr. +Rush asked him if he supposed it possible for them +to sing in the way signified, he replied quite confidently:</p> + +<p>"Yes, if they only knew what they were about."</p> + +<p>"But you explained that to them?"</p> + +<p>"Well, then, yes, if they believed it; for after +all, belief is of the heart."</p> + +<p>"You don't think they believe it?"</p> + +<p>"It's a hard thing to say. But if they did, they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +would do better. They are not a happy set altogether. +They whine—they talk one thing, and live +another. One of them lost a little money the other +day—pretty nearly all he had, I suppose—but what +of that?"</p> + +<p>"What of that!" exclaimed Mr. Rush, and he +looked at the organist amazed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, what of it? The man has his health and +his faculties. What's money?"</p> + +<p>"What's money!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, when you come to the point—what is +it? Eyes, hands, feet—blood, brain, heart, soul? +You would think so to hear him talk. It's dust! +I've seen that proved, sir, and I know 'tis true!"</p> + +<p>"You don't allow for circumstances," said the +stranger, sharply.</p> + +<p>"Circumstances!" repeated Summerman, incredulous.</p> + +<p>"Yes, the difference between your affairs and +those of your neighbors. You seem to judge others +by yourself?"</p> + +<p>"My affairs! I haven't any to speak of," said +the organist, with a grave sort of wonder.</p> + +<p>"I suppose," replied the stranger, almost angrily, +"you are a human creature; things happen to you, +and they do not. If you have any feeling at all +you are affected by what happens." He ceased<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +speaking with the manner of a man who is annoyed +that he should have been so far beguiled into +speech.</p> + +<p>"Some things have happened to me," answered +Summerman quietly, seeing everything, pretending +to see nothing. "I lived ten years among the Gipsies. +I belonged to them. That's where I had my +schooling. I worked in the tin ware; and clock +mending I took up of myself. I left my people +on account of a church-organ. My father and +mother were dead. I had no brother or sister; nor +any relation. But I had friends, and they would +have kept me; but I had to choose between them +and the rest. I couldn't learn the organ in the +woods and meadows; I was caught by the music as +easily as a pink by a pin. But I kept to the clock +mending. I used to travel about on my business +once in a while, for a man can't settle down to four +walls and a tread-mill in a minute, when he's been +used to all creation. Then I learned to take pictures, +and I travelled about for a time, carrying the +machine with me. But for the last year I've lived +in this shop and had the church organ. So you see +how it is. I have all these things to look after, and +I try to keep in tune, and up to pitch.</p> + +<p>"You are a happy man," said Mr. Rush, who +had listened with attention to this humble story.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +"But," he added, "you could not understand—for +you have had no cares, no one dependent on you—how +necessary to some persons money is for happiness. +What ruin follows the loss of it. How +many a man would prefer death to such a loss."</p> + +<p>"I guess not," said Summerman, in a low tone. +"I believe in the Good Will doctrine."</p> + +<p>"What has that to do with it?" asked the +stranger, impatiently.</p> + +<p>To this Summerman replied, speaking slowly—humblest +acquiescence sounding through his +speech.</p> + +<p>"When I settled down, and got the situation in +the church, I was about to bring her here.... +You understand.... She died about that time. +I have not seen her picture. Her brother had died +before. I was to be the son of the old people. We +were sure that after awhile they would be attracted +by our happy home, and by our fireside all their +wanderings would end. They should be free as in +the forests.... It is all changed now—but I am +still their son, and I wish nothing better than to +work for them. The old man is failing, and I +think that I shall yet persuade them to come and +live with me—we might be one family still—and it +would please her. If I succeed, there are two or +three rooms close by where we can be tolerably<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +happy, all together. God is not indifferent. He +sees all. And sure I am that He bears me no +ill will. So it must be for the best. She used to +wear this ribbon around her splendid hair. She +was so young and gay! It would have done +you good to look at such a face. Sometimes I +catch myself thinking what a long, gay life we +ought to have lived together—and I know there's +no wickedness in that. It's more pleasant than +bitter."</p> + +<p>"So you support the old people," was the listener's +sole comment. Not loss, but fidelity—not +grief, but constancy, impressed him while he +hearkened to this story.</p> + +<p>"I have adopted them," answered the organist. +"Yes, they are mine now. Just as they were to +have been. Just as she and I used to talk it over. +Only she is not here."</p> + +<p>"So you support them," repeated Mr. Rush. +And he seemed to ponder that point, as if it +involved somewhat beyond his comprehension.</p> + +<p>The organist replied, wondering. And he looked +at the questioner—but the questioner looked not at +him.</p> + +<p>"Yes, certainly," he said.</p> + +<p>"I suppose they are moderate in their wants. +They don't require suites of chambers with frescoed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +ceilings, and walls hung with white satin, rose +color, lavender—and the rest. They don't need a +four-story palace, with carpets of velvet to cover +the floors from attic to basement. Do they?" All +the scorn and bitterness expressed in these words +the organist happily could never perceive. But he +discerned enough to make him shudder, and he +believed that the speaker was mad.</p> + +<p>"I don't think I understand you," he answered, +perplexed and cautious. He feared the effect of +his words. But anything that he might say would +produce now one sole result.</p> + +<p>"Very likely you don't understand," said Mr. +Rush.</p> + +<p>"But," said the organist, "I wish I did."</p> + +<p>"Why, man?"</p> + +<p>"You look so troubled, sir."</p> + +<p>"Troubled?"</p> + +<p>"As if you—hadn't—tried out the Good Will +doctrine. I mean—yes, I do! that I shouldn't +suppose you believed in it," said Summerman, +bravely.</p> + +<p>Mr. Rush laughed bitterly. "I'll tell you a +story," said he.</p> + +<p>"No—no—I mean not yet—don't," exclaimed +Summerman, quickly.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's a short tale. I'm not going to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +trouble you much longer. A fine holiday you're +having! But you'll never have another like it, +I believe. I—I want your advice before I go. +Besides, you have kept to your green, sunny love so +long, I would like to give you a notion of what's +going on the other side of the fence."</p> + +<p>"Then we will walk," said Summerman, "if it's +agreeable to you, sir, I mean, of course. I always +walk around the lake at this hour." The little +man had put on his overcoat while he spoke, and +now stood waiting the stranger's pleasure, cap in +hand.</p> + +<p>"Dare you leave that face of mine among the +other faces?" asked Mr. Rush, with all seriousness.</p> + +<p>The organist looked nervously around as if he +expected something to justify the trouble this +question occasioned him.</p> + +<p>"Yes—yes—I'll take the risk," he answered, but +he spoke without a smile. One thought alone prevented +him from heartily wishing himself rid of +this companion, who, in spite of him, had cast such +a gloom over his Christmas day. The man seemed +to have more need of him than Summerman had of +his dinner deferred.</p> + +<p>They set out together to walk through the frosty +air under the cloudless sky. The sun was near +to setting. In half an hour a deep orange belt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +would unroll round the east, flaming signs would +mark the heavens, and a great star hang in the +midst of an amethyst hemicycle.</p> + +<p>They noticed that the sun was near to setting, +and one of them saw the glory.</p> + +<p>"I want you to tell me honestly," said the other. +"You have taken my picture; what do you think +it looks like? That is a fair question."</p> + +<p>"Like misery," replied Summerman, promptly +enough.</p> + +<p>"Is that all? I thought worse. I thought it +looked like a very devil's face. When I go back, +I'll destroy it. But, then, it looks like me! Now, +I can't afford to live a scarecrow. I believe I +wasn't made to frighten others to death. I'd choose +to die myself first." He dropped his voice to a +whisper. "I've been trying to do that. Tried +twice. Is there any particular luck in a third time, +that you know of?"</p> + +<p>Summerman did not answer, though Rush was +looking full upon him; neither did he avoid the +long and piercing gaze the stranger fixed upon him. +He met that like a man.</p> + +<p>"You think I'm mad," at last said Mr. Rush.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly."</p> + +<p>"Thank you. But you are a gipsy. Read +my fortune."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span></p> + +<p>Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth +palm that was suddenly stretched before him.</p> + +<p>"You have been unfortunate," said he.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; you mustn't admit that. Only a little +money lost, that's all."</p> + +<p>"Is it all, indeed?" asked Summerman, and he +dropped the palm. Then he shook his head. "I +do not think it could have served you so. A little +loss!" said he.</p> + +<p>"That is because fortune never made a fool of +you. Let me alone; I want to think." He spoke +in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is +accustomed to command; but he came very near +to smiling the next moment, as he looked down +at the little person whom he had ordered into +silence.</p> + +<p>Then he broke the silence he had enjoined.</p> + +<p>"Suppose you were in my case," said he, "how +would you act?"</p> + +<p>"I am not. How can I tell?" was Summerman's +prudent answer.</p> + +<p>These words, as indeed any words that he could +have spoken, were the best that Redman Rush +could hear; for now he was leaning with the whole +weight of his moral nature on the life of this +strong-hearted, true-hearted organist. He liked the +unpresuming, modest, generous word.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'll tell you what you would be," said he, +quickly. "A month ago worth half a million—to-day +not a cent. Brought up like a fool, you +would probably be one. Turned out of house, +helpless as a baby. You have yourself—master of +your wits and your hands. Look at these hands! +And all my wits can advise me is, this life isn't +worth the keeping."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no; not to-day! They don't say that +to-day!" exclaimed Summerman, speaking as if he +knew. And he ventured further, boldly: "They +advise you, go home to your wife and your child; +live for them and yourself, and God's honor."</p> + +<p>"Wife—child!" repeated Rush; and he blushed +when he added; "you read fortunes. Your +pardon."</p> + +<p>"I saw it in your face," said the organist, +quietly. "When you looked at our little Mary, I +believed you were thinking of some other little +child. And it reminded you of some other young +lady, when I told you what I expected once. If it +hadn't been for them, you would never have +thought of destroying yourself; and I'm sure, on +their account, what you ought to ask and hope is, +that your life may be spared."</p> + +<p>It is said that drowning men will grasp at straws. +This elegant stranger, who had emerged from mys<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span>tery +to disturb the Christmas day of a humble +organist, now leaned on the friendly arm of the little +man, walking along with him, <i>not</i> as he once sauntered +through the promenade, a butterfly disdaining +all but the brightest of sunbeams, the sweetest of +flowers. Poor worm! he was half frozen in this +wintry brightness, this exhilarating atmosphere, in +which Summerman throve so well.</p> + +<p>"Are all the men that are born in woods and +meadows, and brought up tinkers, like you?" he +asked.</p> + +<p>"No," answered Summerman. "Some turn out +fools, and some knaves, and some ten times better +men and wiser men, than I shall ever be."</p> + +<p>"Like the rest of the world. Are men, men +everywhere?"</p> + +<p>"Pretty much. You talk about your wits. +You were made to do a bigger business than I shall +ever do. Go home and begin it. I've a mind to +go with you, so you shan't lose your way."</p> + +<p>"You know the way so well," said Rush. He +had not before spoken as he now spoke, almost +cheerfully, almost hopefully. Here was this fellow +that told fortunes, daring to prophesy good days for +him! But then, was he not a bankrupt? And if +he lived—a beggar still?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p><hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The sun had set, and the faces of the two men +were again turned to the village. They had walked +quite round the lake, and Summerman had concluded +that he would invite the gentleman to dine +with him when they came back to the inn; would +he accept the courtesy? Summerman looked at +Mr. Rush, that he might ascertain the probabilities, +and thought that he could see a breaking of the +black clouds which held this man a prisoner. He +wanted to preach to him. He wanted exceedingly +to launch out again on the Good Will doctrine; +and at length he did, but not exactly in the +manner he would have chosen, had he been left to +himself.</p> + +<p>As they walked along in silence, suddenly came +and met them the sound of a quick clanging church +bell; then rose a mighty cry, and a still more potent +flame ascending heavenward.</p> + +<p>"It's a fire!" cried Summerman. And, true to +his living impulse and instinct, which was forever—first +and last, and ever—the good of the public, the +little man set off on a run. His companion, the +gentleman who had never, in his thirty years, run +to a fire, with generous intent, followed on as +fleetly. So they came together to the village +street, when, lo! the shop of Daniel Summerman, +was making all this stir! drawing such crowds<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +about it as never before the artist's varied powers +had done.</p> + +<p>There was neither door nor roof, wall or window, +visible, but a pit of flame, and within, as everybody +knew, the entire stock, sum total of the +organist's worldly goods.</p> + +<p>"Well! well!" said he, as, panting, he came to +a stand-still in the middle of the street, his companion +close beside him.</p> + +<p>"Curse God, and die!" was all that the wife of +Job could think to say to him, in his extremity.</p> + +<p>"Well! well!" was the comment Redman Rush +could make on this disaster, repeating Summerman's +words with an emphasis not all his own. It +was evident that, for a moment at least, he had +forgotten himself; his face was no longer dark with +misery, but full of consternation, alive with sympathy. +And still he said:</p> + +<p>"Where's your Good Will doctrine, though?"</p> + +<p>"Safe!" cried the organist, and he crossed his +arms on his breast with a look of perfect triumph.</p> + +<p>"You eat your words with a vengeance. You +preach the best sermon I ever heard, <i>I</i> swear," +said Mr. Rush, looking at him with amazement.</p> + +<p>"Humph!" ejaculated Summerman.</p> + +<p>"I believe, after all, 'twas my cursed picture +that did it," continued Rush. He was not able to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +stand there in silence listening to the roaring of the +fire, by the side of the man whose property was +being destroyed in this relentless manner. He +must talk; and no one hindered him, for the most +of the working force of the village was busy trying +to draw water from the frozen pumps of the neighborhood.</p> + +<p>"I might have known such a face would raise +the devil," muttered he.</p> + +<p>"Then, they are both done for!" was Summerman's +quick answer. "If you are burnt to death, +it's clear you can't be drowned. So, it seems +you're a new man altogether. Sir, your wife calls +you! But, before you go, pray, take the Good +Will doctrine in. A present from me, if you +please."</p> + +<p>Having said these words, the organist wiped his +eyes, and laughed.</p> + +<p>"If this is a dream," said Redman Rush, astonished +into doubt of all he saw and heard, "let me +get home before I wake up, for God's sake." And he +turned away from the organist, and was hid in the +crowd from the eyes that followed him.</p> + +<p>He turned away, but would he ever lose the +memory of a soft voice, saying:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Summerman, my boys and I insist on your +coming to spend the holidays with us."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span></p> + +<p>Or, of a grey-haired gentleman's aspect, who +came hurrying through the crowd till he stood face +to face with the little organist, whose hands he +grasped as he said:</p> + +<p>"Never mind, lad; never mind. You'll be a +richer man before night than you ever were before. +Here is a year's salary in advance, from the church, +sir. You understand. And we all want our +daguerreotypes; so order an instrument."</p> + +<p>Or, of an agitated voice, that followed him like +the voice of a spirit, mysterious and persuasive:</p> + +<p>"Oh, believe in the Good Will Doctrine!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SEA-WEED" id="SEA-WEED"></a>SEA-WEED.</h2> + +<h4>BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Not always unimpeded can I pray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too closely clings the burden of the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the mint and anise that I pay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But swells my debt and deepens my self-blame.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shall I less patience have than Thou, who know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That Thou revisit'st all who wait for Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor only fill'st the unsounded depths below<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But dost refresh with measured overflow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rifts where unregarded mosses be?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The drooping sea-weed hears, in night abyssed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far and more far the waves' receding shocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor doubts, through all the darkness and the mist<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shoreward lead once more her foam-fleeced flocks.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For the same wave that laps the Carib shore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With momentary curves of pearl and gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lorn shells camped on rocks of Labrador,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By love divine on that glad errand rolled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I, too, can wait and feed on hopes of Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And of the dear recurrence of thy Law,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sure that the parting grace which morning saw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Abides its time to come in search of me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TREFOIL" id="TREFOIL"></a>TREFOIL.</h2> + +<h4>BY EVERT A. DUYCKINCK.</h4> +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Hope, by the ancients, was drawn in the form of a sweet and +beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-leaved +grass in her hand."</p> + +<p class="sig1"><i>Citation from old Peacham in Dr. Johnson's Dictionary.</i></p> +</div> + +<p>Three names, clustered together in more than +one marked association, have a pleasant fragrance +in English literature. A triple-leaved clover in a +field thickly studded with floral beauties, the +modest merits of <span class="smcap">Herbert, Vaughan</span> and <span class="smcap">Crashaw</span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Smell sweet and blossom in the dust"—<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>endeared to us not merely by the claim of intellect, +but by the warmer appeal to the heart, of +kindred sympathy and suffering. True poets, they +have placed in their spiritual alembic the common +woes and sorrows of life, and extracted from them +"by force of their so potent art," a cordial for the +race.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p> + +<p>Has it ever occurred to the reader to reflect how +much the world owes to the poets in the alleviation +of sorrow? It is much to hear the simple voice +of sympathy in its plainest utterances from the +companions around us; it is something to listen to +the same burden from the good of former generations, +as the universal experience of humanity; but +we owe the greatest debt to those who by the +graces of intellect and the pains of a profounder +passion, have triumphed over affliction, and given +eloquence to sorrow.</p> + +<p>There is a common phrase, which some poet must +first have invented—"the luxury of woe." Poets +certainly have found their most constant themes in +suffering. When the late Edgar Poe, who prided +himself on reducing literature to an art, sat down to +write a poem which should attain the height of +popularity, he said sorrow must be its theme, and +wrote "The Raven." Tragedy will always have a +deeper hold upon the public than comedy; it +appeals to deeper principles, stirs more powerful +emotions, imparts an assured sense of strength, is +more intimate with our nature, or certainly it +would not be tolerated. There is no delight in the +exhibition of misery as such, it is only painful and +repulsive; we discard all vulgar horrors utterly, +and keep no place for them in the mind. Let,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +however, a poet touch the string, and there is +another response when he brings before us pictures +of regal grief, and gives grandeur to humiliation +and penalty. Nor is it only in the higher walks of +tragedy, with its pomp and circumstances of action, +that the poet here serves us. His humbler minstrelsy +has soothed many an English heart from the +tale of "Lycidas" to the elegiac verse of Tennyson. +George Herbert still speaks to this generation as +two centuries ago he spoke to his own. His quaint +verses gather new beauties from time as they come +to us redolent with the prayers and aspirations of +many successions of the wives, mothers and daughters +of England and America; bedewed with the +tears of orphans and parents; an incitement to +youth, a solace to age, a consolation for humanity +to all time.</p> + +<p>These have been costly gifts to our benefactors. +"I honor," says Vaughan, "that temper which can +lay by the garland when he might keep it on; +which can pass by a rosebud and bid it grow when +he is invited to crop it." This is the spirit of self-devotion +in every worthy action, and especially of +the pains and penalties by which poets have +enriched our daily life. We are indebted to the +poets, too, for something more than the alleviation +of sorrow. Perhaps it is, upon the whole, a rarer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +gift to improve prosperity. Joy, commonly, is less +of a positive feeling than grief, and is more apt to +slip by us unconsciously. Few people, says the +proverb, know when they are well off. It is the +poet's vocation to teach the world this—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">—"to be possess'd with double pomp,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To guard a title that was rich before,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To throw a perfume on the violet."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The poet lifts our eyes to the beauties of external +nature, educates us to a keener participation in the +sweet joys of affection, to the loveliness and grace +of woman, to the honor and strength of manhood. +His ideal world thus becomes an actual one, as the +creations of imagination first borrowed from sense, +alight from the book, the picture or the statue once +again to live and walk among us.</p> + +<p>The resemblances which have induced us to +bring together our sacred triumvirate of poets, are +the common period in which they lived, their +similar training in youth, a congenial bond of learning, +a certain generous family condition, the inspiration +of the old mother church out of which they +sprung, the familiar discipline of sorrow, the early +years in which they severally wrote.</p> + +<p>A brief glance at their respective lives may indi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>cate +still further these similarities and point a +moral which needs not many words to express—which +seems to us almost too sacred to be loudly +or long dwelt upon.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Herbert was the oldest of the band, having been +born near the close of the sixteenth century, in the +days of James, who was an intelligent patron of the +family. The poet's brother, the learned Lord Herbert +of Cherbury, whose "Autobiography" breathes +the fresh manly spirit of the best days of chivalry, +was the king's ambassador to France. George Herbert, +too, was in a fair way to this court patronage, +when his hopes were checked by the death of the +monarch. It is a circumstance, this court favor, +worth considering in the poet's life, as the antecedent +to his manifold spirit of piety. Nothing is +more noticeable than the wide, liberal culture of +the old English poets; they were first, men, often +skilled in affairs, with ample experience in life, and +then—poets.</p> + +<p>Herbert's education was all that care and affection +could devise. "He spent," says his amiable +biographer, Izaak Walton, "much of his childhood +in a sweet content under the eye and care of his +prudent mother, and the tuition of a chaplain or +tutor to him and two of his brothers in her own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +family." At Cambridge he became orator to the +University, gained the applause of the court by his +Latin orations, and what is more, secured the friendship +of such men as Bishop Andrews, Dr. Donne, +and the model diplomatist of his age, Sir Henry +Wotton. The completion of his studies and the +failure of court expectations were followed by a +passage of rural retirement—a first pause of the +soul previous to the deeper conflicts of life. His +solitariness was increased by sickness, a period of +meditation and devotional feeling, assisted by the +intimations of a keen spirit in a feeble body—and +out of the furnace came forth Herbert the priest +and saint. All that knowledge can inspire, all that +tenderness can endear, centres about that picture of +the beauty of holiness, his brief pastoral career—as +we read it in his prose writings and his poems, and +the pages of Walton—at the little village of Bemerton. +He died at the age of thirty-nine—his gentle +spirit spared the approaching conflicts of his country, +which pressed so heavily upon the Church which he +loved.</p> + +<p>The poems of Herbert are now read throughout +the world; no longer confined to that Church which +inspired them. They are echoed at times in the +pulpits of all denominations, while their practical +lines are, if we remember rightly, scattered among<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +the sage aphorisms of Poor Richard, and their wide +philosophy commends itself to the genius of +Emerson.</p> + +<p>It is pleasant in these old poets to admire what +has been admired by others—to read the old verses +with the indorsement of genius. The name adds +value to the bond. Coleridge, for instance, whose +"paper," in a mercantile sense, would have been, +on "change," the worst in England, has given us +many of these notable "securities." They live in +his still echoing "Table-Talk," and are sprinkled +generously over his writings—while what record +is there of the "good," the best financial names +of the day? One sonnet of Herbert was an +especial favorite with Coleridge. It was that +heart-searching, sympathizing epitome of spiritual +life, entitled</p> + + +<h3>SIN.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Parents first season us; then school-masters<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Deliver us to laws; they send us bound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rules of reason, holy messengers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bibles laid open, millions of surprises.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sound of Glory ringing in our ears:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Without, our shame; within, our consciences:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yet all these fences and their whole array,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>These poems, it should be remembered, are private +devotional heart-confessions, not written for sale, +for pay or reputation; they were not printed at +all during the author's life, but were brought forth +by faithful friends from the sacred coffer of his +dying-room, in order that posterity might know the +secret of that honorable life and its cheerful end. +Izaak Walton has given a beautiful setting to one +stanza from the eloquent ode "Sunday." "The +Sunday before his death," his biographer tells us, +"he rose suddenly from his bed or couch, called for +one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and +said:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"'My God, my God<br /></span> +<span class="i3">My music shall find thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And every string<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Shall have his attribute to sing.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>And having tuned it, he played and sung:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">"'The Sundays of man's life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Threaded together on time's string,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span><span class="i0">Make bracelets to adorn the wife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the eternal glorious King.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On Sundays, heaven's door stands ope;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blessings are plentiful and rife;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">More plentiful than hope.'<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Thus he sung on earth such hymns and anthems +as the angels and he, and Mr. Farrer, now sing in +heaven."</p> + +<p>As we have fallen upon this personal, biographical +vein, and as the best key to a man's poetry is to +know the man and what he may have encountered, +we may cite the poem entitled "The Pearl." It is +compact of life and experience: we see the courtier +and the scholar ripening into the saint; the world +not forgotten or ignored, but its best pursuits +calmly weighed, fondly enumerated and left behind, +as steps of the celestial ladder.</p> + + +<h3>THE PEARL.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I know the ways of learning; both the head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pipes that feed the press, and make it run;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What reason hath from nature borrowed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or of itself, like a good housewife, spun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In laws and policy; what the stars conspire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What willing nature speaks, what forc'd by fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stock and surplus, cause and history:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All these stand open, or I have the keys:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Yet I love thee.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I know the ways of honor, what maintains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick returns of courtesy and wit:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In vies of favor whether party gains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When glory swells the heart and mouldeth it<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To all expressions both of hand and eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which on the world a true-love knot may tie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bear the bundle, wheresoe'er it goes:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How many drams of spirits there must be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sell my life unto my friends or foes:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Yet I love thee.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lullings and the relishes of it;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The propositions of hot blood and brains;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What mirth and music mean; what love and wit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have done these twenty hundred years, and more;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know the projects of unbridled store:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My stuff is flesh, not grass; my senses live,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And grumble oft, that they have more in me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than he that curbs them, being but one to five:<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Yet I love thee.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I know all these, and have them in my hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I fly to thee, and fully understand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Both the main sale, and the commodities;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at what rate and price I have thy love;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all the circumstances that may move:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet through the labyrinths, not my grovelling wit,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But thy silk-twist let down from heav'n to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Did both conduct and teach me, how, by it,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">To climb to thee."<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p>A splendid retrospect this of a short life: and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +with what accurate knowledge of art, science, +policy, literature, of powers of body and mind. +Herbert's poems are full of this sterling sense and +philosophical reflection—the mintage of a master +mind.</p> + +<p>Addison's version of the twenty-third Psalm has +entered into every household and penetrated every +heart by its sweetness and pathos. There is equal +gentleness and sincerity in Herbert's:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The God of love my shepherd is,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And he that doth me feed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While he is mine, and I am his,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">What can I want or need?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"He leads me to the tender grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where I both feed and rest;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then to the streams that gently pass:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In both I have the best.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Or if I stray, he doth convert,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And bring my mind in frame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all this not for my desert,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">But for his holy name.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yea, in death's shady, black abode<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Well may I walk, not fear:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For thou art with me, and thy rod<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To guide, thy staff to bear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">E'en in my en'mies' sight;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span><span class="i0">My head with oil, my cup with wine,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Runs over day and night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Surely thy sweet and wond'rous love<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shall measure all my days:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as it never shall remove,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">So neither shall my praise."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We might linger long with Herbert, gathering +the fruits of wisdom and piety from the abundant +orchard of his poems, where many a fruit "hangs +amiable;" but we must listen to his brethren.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Henry Vaughan was the literary offspring of +George Herbert. His life, too, might have been +written by good Izaak Walton, so gentle was it, full +of all pleasant associations and quiet nobleness, +decorated by the love of nature and letters, intimacies +with poets, and with that especial touch of +nature which always went to the heart of the Complete +Angler, a love of fishing—for Vaughan was +wont, at times, to skim the waters of his native +rivers.</p> + +<p>He was born in Wales; the old Roman name of +the country conferring upon him the appellation +"Silurist"—for in those days local pride and +affection claimed the honor of the bard, as the +poet himself first gathered strength from the home, +earth and sky which concentrated rather than cir<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>cumscribed +his genius. His family was of good +old lineage, breathing freely for generations in the +upper atmosphere of life, warmed and cheered in a +genial sunlight of prosperity. It could stir, too, at +the call of patriotism, and send soldiers, as it did, to +bite the heroic dust at Agincourt. Another time +brought other duties. The poet came into the +world in the early part of the seventeenth century, +when the great awakening of thought and English +intellect was to be followed by stirring action. He +was not, indeed, to bear any great part in the +senate or the field; but all noble spirits were moved +by the issues of the time. To some the voice of the +age brought hope and energy; to others, a not +ignoble submission. It was perhaps as great a +thing to suffer with the Royal Martyr, with all the +burning life and traditions of England in the throbbing +heart, as to rise from the ruins into the cold +ether where the stern soul of Milton could wing its +way in self-reliant calmness. Honor is due, as in +all great struggles, to both parties. Vaughan's lot +was cast with the conquered cause.</p> + +<p>His youth was happy, as all poets' should be, and +as the genius of all true poets, coupled with that +period of life, will go far to make it. There must +be early sunshine far the first nurture of that delicate +plant: the storm comes afterward to perfect<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span> +its life. Vaughan first saw the light in a rural district +of great beauty. His songs bear witness to it. +Indeed he is known by his own designation, a fragrant +title in the sweet fields of English poesy, as +the Swan of the Usk, though he veiled the title in +the thin garb of the Latin, "Olor Iscanus." Another +fortunate circumstance was the personal character +of his education, at the hands of a rural Welsh +rector, with whom, his twin brother for a companion, +he passed the years of youth in what, we +have no doubt, were pleasant paths of classical +literature. How inexhaustible are those old wells +of Greek and Roman Letters! The world cannot +afford to spare them long. They may be less in +fashion at one time than another, but their beauty +and life-giving powers are perennial. The Muse +of English poesy has always been baptized in their +waters.</p> + +<p>The brothers left for Oxford at the mature age—not +a whit too late for any minds—of seventeen or +eighteen. At the University there were other words +than the songs of Apollo. The Great Revolution +was already on the carpet, and it was to be fought +out with weapons not found in the logical armory +of Aristotle. The brothers were royalists, of course; +and Henry, before the drama was played out, like +many good men and true, tasted the inside of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +prison—doubtless, like Lovelace and Wither, singing +his heartfelt minstrelsy behind the wires of his +cage. He was not a fighting man. Poets rarely +are. More than one lyrist—as Archilochus and +Horace may bear witness—has thrown away his +shield on the field of battle. Vaughan wisely retired +to his native Wales. Jeremy Taylor, too, it +may be remembered, was locking up the treasures +of his richly-furnished mind and passionate feeling +within the walls of those same Welsh hills. Nature, +alone, however, is inadequate to the production of +a true poet. Even Wordsworth, the most patient, +absorbed of recluses, had his share of education in +London and travel in foreign cities. Vaughan, too, +early found his way, in visits, to the metropolis, +where he heard at the Globe Tavern the last echoes +of that burst of wit and knowledge which had spoken +from the tongue and kindled in the eye of Shakspeare, +Spenser and Raleigh. Ben Jonson was still +alive, and the young poets who flocked to him, as a +later age worshipped Dryden, were all "sealed of +the tribe of Ben." Randolph and Cartwright were +his friends.</p> + +<p>Under these early inspirations of youth, nature, +learning, witty companionship, Vaughan published +his first verses—breathing a love of his art and its +pleasures of imagination, paying his tribute to his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +paternal books in "Englishing," the "Tenth Satyre +of Juvenal," and not forgetting, of course, the +lovely "Amoret." A young poet without a lady +in his verse is a solecism which nature abhors. All +this, however, as his biographer remarks, "though +fine in the way of poetic speculation, would not do +for every-day practice." Of course not; and the +young "swan" turned his wary feet from the glittering +stream to the solid land. The poet became a +physician. It was a noble art for such a spirit to +practise, and not a very rude progress from youthful +poesy if he felt and thought aright. There was +a sterner change in store, however, and it came to +him with the monition, "Physician, heal thyself!" +He was prostrated by severe bodily disease, and +thenceforth his spirit was bowed to the claims of +the unseen world. The "light amorist" found a +higher inspiration. He turned his footsteps to the +Temple and worshipped at the holy altar of Herbert. +His poetry becomes religious. "Sparks from the +Flint" is the title which he gives his new verses, +"Silex Scintillans." After that pledge to holiness +given to the world, he survived nearly half a +century, dying at the mature age of seventy-three—a +happy subject of contemplation in the bosom of +his Welsh retirement, passing quietly down the +vale of life, feeding his spirit on the early-gathered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +harvest of wit, learning, taste, feeling, fancy, +benevolence and piety.</p> + +<p>Of such threads was the life of our poet spun.</p> + +<p>His verse is light, airy, flying with the lark to +heaven. Hear him with "his singing robes" about +him:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I would I were some bird or star,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted far<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Above this inn<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And road of sin!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then either star or bird should be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shining or singing still to thee."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>In this song of "Peace"—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My soul, there is a country<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Afar beyond the stars,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Where stands a winged sentry<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All skillful in the wars.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">There, above noise and danger,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And one born in a manger<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Commands the beauteous files.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">He is thy gracious friend,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And (oh, my soul awake!)<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Did in pure love descend,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To die here for thy sake.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">If thou canst get but thither,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">There grows the flower of peace,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The rose that cannot wither,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thy fortress and thy ease.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span><span class="i0">Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For none can thee secure,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">But one, who never changes—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure."<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p>Or in that kindred ode, full of "intimations of +immortality received in childhood," entitled, "The +Retreat:"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Happy those early days, when I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shin'd in my angel infancy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before I understood this place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Appointed for my second race,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or taught my soul to fancy aught<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But a white, celestial thought;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When yet I had not walkt above<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mile or two from my first love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And looking back, at that short space,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could see a glimpse of his bright face;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When on some gilded cloud or flower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My gazing soul would dwell an hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in those weaker glories spy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some shadows of eternity;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before I taught my tongue to wound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My conscience with a sinful sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or had the black art to dispense<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But felt through all this fleshly dress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bright shoots of everlastingness.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Oh how I long to travel back,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And tread again that ancient track!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That I might once more reach that plain<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span><span class="i0">Where first I left my glorious train;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From whence th' enlight'ned spirit sees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shady city of palm-trees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, ah! my soul with too much stay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is drunk, and staggers in the way!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some men a forward motion love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I by backward steps would move;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when this dust falls to the urn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that state I came, return."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Here is a picture of the angel-visited world of +Eden, not altogether destroyed by the Fall, when</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i9">"Each day<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The valley or the mountain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In some green shade or fountain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Angels lay lieger here: each bush and cell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each oak and highway knew them;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he was sure to view them."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Vaughan's birds and flowers gleam with light +from the spirit land. This is the opening of a little +piece entitled "The Bird:"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For which coarse man seems much the fitter born,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Rain'd on thy bed<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And harmless head;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span><span class="i0">And now, as fresh and cheerful as the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Curb'd them, and cloth'd thee well and warm."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>How softly the image of the little bird again +tempers the thought of death in his ode to the +memory of the departed:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know<br /></span> +<span class="i1">At first sight if the bird be flown;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That is to him unknown."<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p>But we must leave this fair garden of the poet's +fancies. The reader will find there many a flower +yet untouched.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Richard Crashaw was the contemporary of the +early years of Vaughan; for, alas! he died young—though +not till he had transcribed for the world the +hopes, the aspirations, the sorrows of his troubled +life. He lived but thirty-four years—the volume +of his verses is not less nor more than the kindred +books of the brother poets with whom we are now +associating his memory. A small body of verse +will hold much life; for the poet gives us a concentrated +essence, an elixir, a skillful confection of +humanity, which, diluted with the commonplaces +of every-day thought and living, may cover whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +shelves of libraries. The secret of the whole of +one life may be expressed in a song or a sonnet. +The little books of the world are not the least.</p> + +<p>Crashaw, also, was a scholar. The son of a clergy-man, +he was educated at the famed Charter-house +and afterward at Cambridge. The Revolution, +too, overtook him. He refused the oath of the +covenant, was ejected from his fellowship, became +a Roman Catholic, and took refuge in Paris, where +he ate the bread of exile with Cowley and others, +cheered by the noble sympathy—it could not be +much more—of Queen Henrietta Maria. She recommended +him to Rome, and the sensitive poet +carried his joys and sorrows to the bosom of the +church. He lived a few years, and died canon of +Loretto, at the age of thirty-four.</p> + +<p>Though the son of a zealous opponent of the +Roman church, Crashaw was born with an instinct +and heart for its service. There runs through all +his poetry that sensuousness of feeling which seeks +the repose and luxury of faith which Rome always +offers to her ardent votaries. It is profitable to +compare the sentiment of Crashaw with the more +intellectual development of Herbert. What in the +former is the paramount, constant exhibition, in +the latter is accepted, and holds its place subordinate +to other claims. Without a portion of it there<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +could be no deep religious life—with it, in excess, +we fear for the weakness of a partial development. +There is so much gain, however, to the poet, that +we have no disposition to take exception to the single +string of Crashaw. The beauty of the Venus was +made up from the charms of many models. So, in +our libraries, as in life, we must be content with +parcel-work, and take one man's wisdom and another's +sentiment, looking out that we get something +of each to enrich our multifarious life.</p> + +<p>Crashaw's poetry is one musical echo and aspiration. +He finds his theme and illustration constantly +in music. His amorous descant never fails him: his +lute is always by his side. Following the "Steps +of the Temple," a graceful tribute to Herbert, we +have the congenial title, "The Delights of the +Muses," opening with that exquisite composition:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Untwisting all the chains that tie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hidden soul of harmony,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Music's Duel." It is the story—a favorite one +to the ears of our forefathers two centuries ago—of +the nightingale and the musician contending with +voice and instrument in alternate melodies, till the +sweet songstress of the grove falls and dies upon +the lute of her rapt rival. It is something more +than a pretty tale. Ford, the dramatist, introduced<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +it briefly in happy lines in "The Lover's Melancholy," +but Crashaw's verses inspire the very sweetness +and lingering pleasure of the contest. It is high +noon when the "sweet lute's master" seeks retirement +from the heat, "on the scene of a green plat, +under protection of an oak," by the bank of the +Tiber. The "light-foot lady,"</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"entertains the music's soft report," which begins +with a flying prelude, to which the lady of the tree +"carves out her dainty voice" with "quick +volumes of wild notes."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them sing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To their own dance."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>She</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the sleek passage of her open throat:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A clear, unwrinkled song."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The contention invites every art of expression. +The highest powers of the lute are evoked in rapid +succession closing with a martial strain:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i11">"this lesson, too,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span><span class="i0">Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pliant series of her slippery song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then starts she suddenly into a throng<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring vollies float,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And roll themselves over her lubric throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of her delicious soul, that there does lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bathing in streams of liquid melody,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Music's best seed-plot; when in ripen'd airs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A golden-headed harvest fairly rears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which there reciprocally laboreth.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sweet-lipp'd angel imps, that swill their throats<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In cream of morning Helicon; and then<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To woo them from their beds, still murmuring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That men can sleep while they their matins sing."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>What wealth of imagery and proud association +of ideas—the bubbling spring, the golden, waving +harvest, "ploughed by her breath"—the fane of +Apollo suggesting in a word images of Greek +maidens in chorus by the white temple of the God, +the dew of Helicon, the soft waking of men from +beneficent repose. It is all very well to talk of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +bird doing all this: we admire nightingales, but +Philomela never enchanted us in this way; it is the +sex with which we are charmed. The poet's +"light-foot lady" tells us the secret. We are subdued +by the loveliest of prima-donnas.</p> + +<p>There is more of this, and as good. The little +poem is a poet's dictionary of musical expression. +Its lines, less than two hundred, deserve to be committed +to memory, to rise at times in the mind—the +soft assuagement of cares and sorrows.</p> + +<p>A famous poem of Crashaw is "On a Prayer-Book +sent to Mrs. M.R." It breathes a divine +ecstasy of the sacred ode:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Delicious deaths, soft exhalations<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A thousand unknown rites<br /> +</span> +<span class="i2">Of joys, and rarefied delights."<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p>It is human passion sublimated and refined to +the uses of heaven, but human passion still—the +very luxury of religion—the rapture of earth-born +seraphs, as he sings with venturous exultation:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Of pure inebriating pleasures:<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Happy proof she shall discover,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">What joy, what bliss,<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span><span class="i2">How many heavens at once it is,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">To have a God become her lover!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Mrs. M.R., whether maid or widow we know +not—in Crashaw's day virgins were called Mistress—has +another poem addressed to her—"Counsel +concerning her choice." It alludes to some check +or hindrance in love, and asks:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dear, heav'n-designed soul!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Amongst the rest<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of suitors that besiege your maiden breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Why may not I<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My fortune try,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And venture to speak one good word,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not for myself, alas! but for my dearer Lord?<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Your first choice fails; oh, when you choose again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May it not be among the sons of men!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>This is the language of devotional rapture common +to the extremes of the religious world—Methodism +and Roman Catholicism. Every one +has heard the ardent hymn by Newton—"The +Name of Jesus," and that stirring anthem, "The +Coronation of Christ"—few have read the eloquent +production of the canon of Loretto, a canticle from +the flaming heart of Rome, addressed "To the +name above every name, the name of Jesus."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Pow'rs of my soul, be proud!<br /> +</span> +<span class="i2">And speak loud<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New smiles to nature.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet name, in thy each syllable<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand blest Arabias dwell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A thousand hills of frankincense,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ten thousand paradises,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The soul that tastes thee takes from thence,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How many unknown worlds there are<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How many thousand mercies there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Pity's soft lap lie asleeping!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Crashaw's invitations to holiness breathe the +very gallantry of piety. He addresses "the +noblest and best of ladies, the Countess of Denbigh," +who had been his patroness in exile, "persuading +her to resolution in religion."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"What heaven-entreated heart is this<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stands trembling at the gate of bliss.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What magic bolts, what mystic bars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maintain the will in these strange wars!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What fatal, what fantastic bands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Keep the free heart from its own hands!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So, when the year takes cold, we see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poor waters their own prisoners be;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Fetter'd and lock'd up fast, they lie<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a sad self-captivity;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see themselves their own severer shore.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Disband dull fears; give Faith the day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To save your life, kill your delay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is Love's siege, and sure to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your triumph, though his victory."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>His poem, "The Weeper," shoots the prismatic +hues of the rainbow athwart the veil of fast-falling +tears:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Hail sister springs,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Parents of silver-footed rills!<br /> +</span> +<span class="i2">Ever bubbling things!<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Thawing crystal! snowy hills!<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Still spending, never spent; I mean<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene.<br /></span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Every morn from hence,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">A brisk cherub something sips,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i2">Whose soft influence<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Then to his music, and his song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tastes of this breakfast all day long.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"Not in the evening's eyes,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">When they red with weeping are<br /> +</span> +<span class="i2">For the sun that dies,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Sits sorrow with a face so fair.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Nowhere but here did ever meet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"When Sorrow would be seen<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">In her brightest majesty,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i2">For she is a queen,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Then is she drest by none but thee.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Then, and only then, she wears<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">"The dew no more will weep,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">The primrose's pale cheek to deck;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dew no more will sleep,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Nuzzled in the lily's neck.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Much rather would it tremble here,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leave them both to be thy tear."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>These are some of Crashaw's "Steps to the +Temple"—verily he walked thither on velvet.</p> + +<p>"Wishes to his supposed Mistress," is more than +a pretty enumeration of the good qualities of +woman as they rise in the heart of a noble, gallant +lover:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Whoe'er she be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That not impossible she,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shall command my heart and me:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Where'er she lie,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Locked up from mortal eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In shady leaves of destiny:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Till that ripe birth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of studied fate, stand forth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And teach her fair steps to our earth:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Till that divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Idea take a shrine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Meet you her, my wishes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bespeak her to my blisses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And be ye call'd my absent kisses."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>We are not reprinting Crashaw, and must forbear +further quotation. It is enough if we have +presented to the reader a lily or a rose from his +pages, and have given a clue to that treasure-house—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"A box where sweets compacted lie."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>A generation nurtured in poetic susceptibility by +the genius of Keats and Tennyson, should not +forget the early muse of Crashaw. His verse is +the very soul of tenderness and imaginative luxury: +less intellectual, less severe in the formation of +a broad, manly character than Herbert; catching +up the brighter inspirations of Vaughan, and excelling +him in richness—it has a warm, graceful garb +of its own. It is tinged with the glowing hues of +Spenser's fancy; baptized in the fountains of sacred +love, it draws an earthly inspiration from the +beautiful in nature and life, as in the devout paintings +of the great Italian masters, we find the models +of their angels and seraphs on earth.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="MISERERE_DOMINE" id="MISERERE_DOMINE"></a>MISERERE DOMINE.</h2> + +<h4>BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou who look'st with pitying eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Thy radiant home on high,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the spirit tempest-tost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wretched, weary, wandering, lost—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever ready help to give,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And entreating, "<i>Look and live!</i>"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By that love, exceeding thought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which from Heaven the Saviour brought,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By that mercy which could dare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Death to save us from despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lowly bending at Thy feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We adore, implore, entreat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifting heart and voice to Thee—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Miserere Domine</i>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With the vain and giddy throng,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Father</span>! we have wandered long;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span><span class="i0">Eager from Thy paths to stray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chosen the forbidden way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heedless of the light within,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hurried on from sin to sin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with scoffers madly trod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the mercy of our God!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now to where Thine altars burn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Father</span>! sorrowing we return.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though forgotten, Thou hast not<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To be merciful forgot;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear us! for we cry to Thee—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Miserere Domine</i>!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the burden of our grief<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who, but Thou, can give relief?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who can pour Salvation's light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the darkness of our night?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bowed our load of sin beneath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who can snatch our souls from death?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vain the help of man!—in dust<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vainly do we put our trust!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smitten by Thy chastening rod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear us, save us, <span class="smcap">Son of God</span>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the perils of our path,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the terrors of thy wrath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save us, when we look to thee—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Miserere Domine</i>!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Where the pastures greenly grow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the waters gently flow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And beneath the sheltering <span class="smcap">Rock</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the shepherd rests the flock.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, let us be gathered there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Richly of Thy love to share;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the people of Thy choice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Live and labor and rejoice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the toils of life are done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the fight is fought and won,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the crown, with heavenly glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sparkles on the victor's brow!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear the prayer we lift to Thee—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Miserere Domine</i>!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></p> +<h4><a name="THE" id="THE"></a>THE</h4> + +<h2>KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD:</h2> + +<h3>A SHORT ESSAY ON THE 148TH PSALM.</h3> +<h4>BY REV. C.A. BARTOL.</h4> +<p>Surrounded as we are with the art and handicraft +of man—almost everything we see bearing the mark +of his finger, the house and the street, the market +and exchange, every instrument and utensil—it is +well, occasionally, to look forth from this little +world of custom and convenience we ourselves +have constructed, into that which bears the impress +of the Almighty's hand—is still as it was left from +His forming strength, and brings us into immediate +communion with His Infinite mind. Let us, at least, +listen to the notes of David's lyre on the creative +Majesty.</p> + +<p>After an invocation to the heavenly host, the +Psalmist calls first on the forms of inanimate and +inorganic existence. These things, of which he +enumerates a few, praise the power of God. The +crags and headlands, jarred and worn by the bil<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>lows +they breast; the granite peaks, bald and grey, +under light and tempest, with the silent host of +rocky boulders, swept, we know not by what convulsions, +from their native seat, stand up as the +first rank in the choir of the Maker's worship; and +infidelity and atheism are hushed and abashed by +their lofty praise.</p> + +<p>Organized, but still unconscious existence takes +the next station in this universal chorus. The +solemn grove lifting its green top into the heavens, +beside that motionless army of ancient stones, adds a +sweeter note than they can give to the great harmony. +It is a note, speaking not alone of the +Creator's power, but of His wisdom too. Here is +life and growth. Here are adaptations and stages +of progress. From the minutest germination, +from the slenderest stem, from the smallest +trembling leaf to the hugest trunks and the +highest overshadowing branches, this vegetable +organization, verdant, pale, crimson, in changeable +colors, runs; stopping short only with Alpine summits +or polar posts, swiftly and softly clothing again +the rents and gashes in the ground made by the +stroke of labor or the wheels of war—blooming +into the golden and ruddy harvest on the stalk +and the bough, even overpassing the salt shore, +to line the dismal and unvisited caves of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +deep with peculiar varieties of growth; and +forth into our hands from the foaming +brine delicate and strangely beautiful leaves and +slight ramifications of matchless tints and proportions.</p> + +<p>But the Psalmist summons a third order of beings +to contribute its melodious share to this hallelujah; +and that is the living and conscious, though irrational +tribes. This sings not of power and wisdom +alone, but more complex and rich in adoration, +sings of goodness also. God has not made the +world for a dead spectacle and mere picture for His +own eye. How full and crowded with life, and +happy life, His creation is! Go forth from inclosing +city walls, and, in the summer noontide, stop in +solitude and apparent silence and listen; and soon +the sounds of this joyous life shall come to your +ear: the chirp of the insects—the rustle of wings—the +crackling of the leaves, as the blithesome airy +creatures pass—the short, thick warble of the bird +by your side, or its varied tune, clearer than viol or +organ, from the thicket beyond—while, from time +to time, the deep low of cattle reverberates from +afar. Or if you are where the still and speechless +creatures inhabit, open your eye to gaze and examine, +and it shall be filled with the visible, as the ear +with the vocal signs of living enjoyment. Walking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +at the edge of the ebbing tide, you tread on life at +every step—shelly tribe on tribe of fish pressing +together, while in the clear water, other tribes +noiselessly swim and glide away. Every vital +motion speaks of pleasure, whether in that restless +current below, or in the air above, as the feathered +songster passes, darting up and down his element, +delight gushing from his throat at every buoyant +spring—silence and sound, with double demonstration, +declaring to the Creator's praise the great and +limitless boon of life.</p> + +<p>But there is one accent more, that of love, without +which the hymn is not complete; and there is +another human order of Being to speak that accent. +Man includes in himself all the preceding orders of +Being, with all the notes of their praise: the +material clod, for is he not made of dust; the plant, +for he has an outward growth and circulation—the +animal, for he has instinct and feeling; while reason +and conscience and spiritual affection he has peculiarly +and alone; so that Power, Wisdom, Goodness +and Love, all concentrated in him, complete the +ground of his praise.</p> + +<p>Yet, as we look out upon this mighty sum of +things in the external universe, the level earth +stretching off to some ascending ridge in the horizon's +blue distance—the boundless deep spread afar,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +till, at the misty edge of vision it bends, in mingling +threefold circles, to embrace the globe, the +impenetrable below and the infinite above him, +how slight and insignificant a creature he seems! +like a fly that clings to the ceiling, or a mote that +swims in the sunbeam, one of the mere mites of +nature, easily lost by the way or a frail figure +ready to be crushed by any stroke of the ponderous +machinery mid which he moves. When he +reflects on his condition—his brief date, his speedy +doom—how inconsiderable his existence appears! +Or when he regards himself as not a compound of +matter merely, but as a living soul, how easy it +seems, as his contemplation runs out absorbed into +the wondrous glory of the world, for all the vital +energy which is for a moment insulated in his +frame, when his frame dissolves, to pass into the +general substance from which it came, the thinking +creature ending as it began! But a voice from heaven +cries to him and says, "Because he hath set his +love upon me, therefore will I deliver him. I will +set him on high because he hath known my name; +with long life will I satisfy him and show him my +salvation."</p> + +<p>This love of God makes the society of all human +affection. "God made the country, and man made +the town," is an oft quoted line; and not seldom it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +is implied that the open or thinly-peopled landscape +is somehow a better and holier place for the +soul than the thronged city. But let it not be forgotten +that man himself is God's work and His +highest work on earth. Would we sing our psalm +now or hereafter with the sweetest relish, we must +go forth from any little circle we may have drawn +around us, of private ease and personal comfort, in +friendly intercourse to hear the cry of the unfortunate, +the sighing of the prisoner, the sob of the +mourner, the groan of the sick, the appeal of the +injured and oppressed. By our aid, consolation +and succor, we must gather their voices into the +chorus, before, with perfect satisfaction, we can +mingle in it our own.</p> + +<p>Upon a Sabbath day, I walked amid all those +charms and fascinations, in which nature can bind +us as in a spell. I passed through green aisles of +woods, that were ever-shadowed and made fragrant +with every various vegetable growth of this temperate +northern clime; while the morning beam of +the sun in heaven fell brightly aslant the leaves and +branches; and the birds, that my lonely step +startled from their perch or nest, flew from glen to +glen, making with their song, save the murmur of +the breeze in the boughs, the only sound I could +hear. At length, the high-arched avenues of this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +immense forest-cathedral let me out upon the broad, +open shore, where I saw and heard wave after wave +break on the rocks, with shifting splendor and that +mellow thundering music which so saddens while +it delights. Solitude, verily, was stretched out +asleep in the sun upon the length of sandy beach +and beetling promontory; and I sat and gazed now +over the boundless waters, now into the devouring +abysses opened by the bending crests of the billows, +and anon into the gloomy depths of the forest +or the serene and measureless openings of the sky. +What grandeur in every line transcendent! Yet +what impenetrable mystery too, what menacing +ruin to the small remnant of human life still +spared from the generations in ages past, already +swallowed up! Peering around in this pensive +mood, in which the joy of being mixed with the +uneasy doubt of its tenure, my eye fell at last on +the spire of a little church, rising like a pencil of +light to heaven, out of the fathomless waste. And +there my soul alighted and found rest. Like some +sea mark to the voyager, that slender shaft, reared +by the social religion of the world, stood to tell me +where in the universe I was; the common Christian +consciousness reinforced my own, and dark +queries and agitating uncertainties subsided from +my spirit, as the deluge from the dove that Noah<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +sent out to pluck the green branch of promise. +From the illimitable reaches of the huge, but dimly +responding creation around, the slight, frail temple +for God's praise drew me to its welcome and peaceful +embrace. As I approached it, the tolling of the +bell struck on my ear in a touch of gladder tidings +than I had received from all the melody of the +great wind-harp of the trees, with all the soft +accord of the tossing billows. Stroke after stroke, +distinctly falling, seemed to bring to me the echoes +of a million holy telegraphic towers all over the +surface of the globe; and when I came to stand +under the eaves of the small sanctuary, the measured +turning, in the belfry, of the wheel, by revolutions +such as I had seen long years ago in my +childhood, filled my eyes with gracious tokens, that +were not drawn from me by the sublime circling of +the sun and moon, then moving east and west in +their spheres. The final tone of praise in the great +ascription to God is, in its fullness, supplied by a +revelation greater than blessed the times of David. +A new and sweeter string is strung upon the lyre +his royal fingers so nobly swept, and the voice of +thanksgiving is more highly raised for an "unspeakable +gift." The kingdoms of nature are the chords +on the harp we may sound to the Creator of all. +There has been of late much discussion as to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +place nature should hold among religious influences +and appeals, some super-eminently exalting her, +and others putting her in contrast and almost opposition +with all spirit, beauty and truth. This is no +place, nor has the present writer inclination, here, +to take part in the grand debate, infinitely interesting +as it is, on either side. He would only catch, +or repeat and prolong the strain of an old and +sacred ode—he would contribute a meditation. +He would run the matchless ancient verse into a +few particulars of fresh and modern illustration, +content if he can make no melody of his own, to +recall for some, perhaps not enough heeding it, the +Hebrew music that has lingered so long on the ear +of the world.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TRANSLATIONS" id="TRANSLATIONS"></a>TRANSLATIONS.</h2> + +<h4>BY THE REV. CHARLES T. BROOKS</h4> +<h3>I.</h3> +<h3>TO GOD'S CARE I COMMIT MYSELF!</h3> +<h4>(FROM THE GERMAN OF ARNDT.)</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Again is hushed the busy day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all to sleep is gone away;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The deer hath sought his mossy bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bird hath hid his little head.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And man to his still chamber goes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To rest from all his cares and woes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet steps he first before his door,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To look into the night once more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With love-thanks and love-greeting, there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For rest his spirit to prepare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see the high stars shine abroad<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drink once more the breath of God.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Mild Father of the world, whose love<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Keeps watch o'er all things from above,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Thee my stammering prayer would rise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bend down from yonder starry skies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from Thy sparkling, sun-strewed way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh teach thy feeble child to pray!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All day Thou hadst me in Thy sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So guard me, Father, through this night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And by thy dear benignity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Satan's malice shelter me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For what of evil may befall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The body, is the least of all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh send from realms of purity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dearest angel in to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As a peace-herald let him come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And watchman, to my house and home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That all desires and thoughts of mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around thy heaven may climb and twine.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then day shall part exultingly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then night a word of love shall be,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then morn an angel-smile shall wear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose brightness no base thing can bear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we, earth's children, walk abroad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Children of light and sons of God.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when the last red evening-glow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall greet these failing eyes below,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When yearns my soul to wing its way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the high track of endless day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then all the shining ones shall come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bear me to the spirit's home.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>II.</h3> +<h3>THE UNKNOWN.</h3> +<h4>(FROM THE GERMAN OF AUERSPERG.)</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Through the city's narrow gateway<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Forth an aged beggar fares,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">None is there to give him escort,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And no farewell word he bears.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Heaven's grey cloud to no one whispers<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of God's message in its fold;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Earth's grey rock to no one whispers<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That it hides the shaft of gold.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the naked tree in winter<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tells not straightway to the eye<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">That it once so greenly glistened,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bloomed and bore so bounteously.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">None would dream that yon old beggar,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tottering, bending toward the ground,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Once was clothed in royal purple,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And his silver locks gold-crowned!<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Foul conspirators discrowned him,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tore the radiant purple off,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Placing in his hands, for sceptre,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Yonder wormy pilgrim-staff.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thus, for years, now, has he wandered,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All ungreeted and unknown,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Through so many a foreign country,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bowed and broken and alone.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Weary unto death, he lays him<br /></span> +<span class="i1">'Neath a tree, in evening's beam,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Music in the twigs and blossoms<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sings him to an endless dream.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Men that to and fro pass by him,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Speak in softened tones of grief;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Who may be the poor old beggar,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That has found this sad relief?<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But mild Nature, soft-eyed Nature,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Knows the aged sleeper there,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Obsequies of solemn splendor,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Meet for king, will she prepare.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the tree fall wreaths of blossoms,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Floating down to crown his head,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And a sceptre's golden lustre<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sunset on his staff hath shed.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For a canopy above him<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Rustling twigs a green arch throw,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And he wears a royal purple<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the evening's mantling glow.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="RECOLLECTIONS_OF_NEANDER" id="RECOLLECTIONS_OF_NEANDER"></a>RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER,</h2> + +<h3>THE CHURCH HISTORIAN.</h3> +<h4>BY THE REV. ROSWELL D. HITCHCOCK, D.D.</h4> +<p>In the spring of 1848, during the progress of the +European revolutions, which promised so much and +performed so little, I spent several weeks in Berlin, +the capital of Prussia, and saw much, both in +public and in private, of "the father of modern +church history," whose name I had long revered, +and whose image now is one of the choicest treasures +of memory. Of all the Christian scholars I +have ever known, he stands in my thoughts without +a rival; a child in simplicity, a sage in learning, +and in broad, catholic and fervent piety, a noble +saint. In common with hundreds of my countrymen, +I owe him a debt of gratitude, of which this +humble tribute to his memory will be but a faint +acknowledgment.</p> + +<p>Of Neander's outward history there is but little +to be reported; his life was the retired and unevent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>ful +one of a peculiarly intense and abstracted +student. It is hardly a figure of speech, but almost +exactly the literal truth to say that he was born, +and lived, and died, beneath the shadow of the +Universities. He was not, indeed, quite so much +of a recluse as his fellow-countryman Kant, the +renowned Königsberg philosopher, who, though he +reached the age of eighty, and had a reputation +which filled all Europe, was never more than +thirty-two miles away from the spot where his +mother rocked him in his cradle. But considering +the ampler means at his command, and the greatly +increased facilities for travelling, Neander's neglect +of locomotion is nearly as much to be wondered at +as Kant's; I doubt if he was ever beyond the +boundaries of Germany.</p> + +<p>He was born January 16th, 1789, in Göttingen, +a city of some eleven thousand inhabitants in the +kingdom of Hanover, the seat of a famous University, +which, though now less prominent than formerly, +has numbered amongst its professors such +men as Blumenbach, Eichhorn, and Michaelis. +His parents were of Jewish blood and the Jewish +religion, and he inherited from them, in a strong +degree, both the peculiar physiognomy and the +distinguishing faith of that despised but most +remarkable race. Nor was he a Jew only out<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>wardly; +from the beginning he was marked as an +Israelite indeed, a true Nathanael soul.</p> + +<p>At an early period in his life, his father having +suffered reverses and been reduced to poverty, he +removed with his parents to Hamburg, a commercial +city on the Elbe, and one of the four free +municipalities of Germany. In the Hamburg +gymnasium, corresponding in rank with our American +academies, though prescribing a wider range +of studies, he received his first public instruction. +It is related of him, that he used frequently to steal +into one of the book-stores, and for hours together +sit buried in some rare and erudite volume. And +here the original bent of his genius was early +developed; subtlety, profoundness, and intense +subjectivity of thought were noticed as the distinguishing +characteristics of his mind. In a letter +from Neumann to Chamisso, bearing date February +11th, 1806, when, of course, he was only seventeen +years old, it is said of him: "Plato is his idol, and +his perpetual watchword. He pores over that +author night and day; and there are probably few +who receive him so completely into the sanctuary of +the soul. It is surprising to see how all this has been +accomplished without any influence from abroad. +It proceeds simply from his own reflection and his +innate love of study. He has learned to look with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +indifference upon the outward world." Such was +the beginning of his illustrious career. He was +thoroughly a Platonist. And it happened to him, +as to so many of the early fathers of the church +before him; he was led from Plato to Christ. The +honored walks of the Academy were exchanged for +the manger and the cross; and so he passed from +Judaism to philosophy, and from philosophy to +faith. "Pray and labor," writes he in one of +his letters, "let that be the bass-note, or rather +praying merely; for what else should a human, or +even a superhuman do than pray?" This was the +dawning of the light. Of his progress in the +Christian experience, we have no means as yet of +tracing the steps. We only know, in general, from +what he started, and to what he came.</p> + +<p>In the April of 1806, he joined the University +at Halle, where he came under the influence of +Schleiermacher, whose learned and thrilling voice +was the first to sound the return of infidel Germany +to the truth as it is in Jesus. Schleiermacher was +then thirty-eight years old, in the first bloom and +vigor of his faculties, and made, of necessity, a +very profound and durable impression upon the +young and ardent Hebrew Platonist, who was +already, in obedience to his own impulses, seeking +the way of life.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p> + +<p>He had been in Halle about six months, when +the city was captured by the French under Bernadotte. +The University was immediately suspended +by Napoleon, and the students ordered to disperse. +Neander fled, with one of his friends, to Göttingen, +the place of his birth, where, joining the University, +he came under the instruction of Gesenius, afterward +the great Hebrew lexicographer, then but +twenty years of age, and just commencing his distinguished +career. The manner of their introduction +to each other is a curious bit of literary history +worth preserving. Gesenius was returning to Göttingen +from his native place, Nordhausen, which +was then in flames, having been set fire to by the +French. The soldiers of the broken Prussian army +were hurrying to their homes. In the general +flight and confusion, Gesenius saw two young men +on their way from Halle to Göttingen, one of whom +had broken down, unable to go any further, and was +entirely out of money. He procured a carriage +for the unknown young student and conveyed him to +Göttingen. That young student was Neander; and +this little adventure led to a friendship which lasted +for life, the gulf which subsequently yawned +between them, in respect to matters of faith, abating +nothing of their mutual respect and kindliness. +"At first it was painful to me," said Neander,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +writing from Göttingen, "to be thrown into this +place of icy coldness for the heart. But now +I find it was well, and thank God for it. In no +other way could I have made such progress. +From every human mediator, and even every +agreeable association, must one be torn away, in +order that he may place his sole reliance on the +only Mediator."</p> + +<p>In 1809 he returned to Hamburg to become a +pastor. But the city had a small fund to support +one of its theologians as a lecturer at Heidelberg. +This was wisely appropriated to Neander, who +promised more as a scholar than as a preacher. +Accordingly, in 1811, we find him established at +Heidelberg as a teacher in the University, he +having previously, on his public profession of +Christianity, assumed the name of <i>Neander</i> deriving +it from the Greek, νἑος ἁνηρ, "a new man," to +signify the entire change which had come over +him. The family name was Mendel. The year +following he was appointed Professor Extraordinary, +which, in plain English, means a professor +without a regular salary from government, and +shortly issued his work on "The Emperor Julian +and his Time," the first of those monographs +which awakened the admiration of his learned +countrymen, and paved the way for the great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +undertaking of his life, "A General History of the +Christian Religion and Church."</p> + +<p>In 1813, when but twenty-four years of age, he +was called to a professorship in the then recently +established University of Berlin, and signalized his +removal thither by a work on "St. Bernard and his +Age." Five years later, he published a work on +Gnosticism, and in 1821, his "Life of Chrysostom;" +besides some treatises of minor note, which we need +not pause to enumerate. At length, in 1825, when +of course he was thirty-six years old, the first +volume of his General History of the Church +appeared. And to say that this work put him +directly at the very head of Christendom as the +expounder of its inward life, is saying only what +we all know to be true. After that, he turned +aside occasionally in obedience to other calls of +duty, at one time to write a history of the Apostolic +Age, and at another the Life of Christ, but always +returning to his General History, as the one great +task appointed him of God to do. As I parted +with him in the spring of 1848, my heart drawn +out toward him with an admiring tenderness and +reverence, such as I had never experienced toward +any other living scholar, I could not forbear +assuring him, that many prayers would go up for +him in America as well as in Europe, that he might<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +be spared to complete his work. "I hope it," he +replied, "but that must be as God wills." But +this wish of his heart was denied him. He died in +Berlin on Sunday, July 14th, 1850, in the midst of +his unfinished labors. He had published what +brings us down to the year 1294, and was then at +work upon the centuries which lie between that +and the Reformation. The posthumous volume, +edited by Schneider, still falls short, by nearly a +hundred years, of that important epoch. Had he +been spared to proceed thus far, we had been the +better reconciled to his dying; although his +countrymen were anxious to have him turn his +peculiar powers upon the Reformation itself, and +the world-wide movements which have grown out +of it. But this was not to be. He died, leaving no +one to take his mantle; died, too, somewhat prematurely, +for he was only sixty-one years old.</p> + +<p>Of his personal appearance, which was altogether +unique, descriptions have frequently been given. +He was small of stature, his height not exceeding +five feet and four or five inches. He had studied +so hard, exercised so little, eaten so sparingly and +suffered so much from imperfect health, that his +muscles seemed entirely relaxed and flabby. His +hand, when he gave it in salutation or in parting, +was like that of a sick child. But his hair remained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +as black as a raven. His brows were shaggy and +overhanging, and his black eyes, when ever and +anon the drooping lids were lifted away from them, +shot forth a very deep and searching light. As +one sat over against him, watching his words, he +might easily imagine himself gazing through those +glowing orbs back into the ages. His study, up +two flights of stairs, overlooking one of the public +squares of the city, was a place to be remembered. +Its furniture was a plain round table, a standing-desk, +an old sofa and two or three chairs. High up +on the walls between the book-shelves and the +ceiling, nearly all round the room, hung engraved +portraits of distinguished men; and he showed his +noble catholicity of spirit, in having the great men +of his native land all there, without regard to their +peculiar schools and sentiments. His library contained +about 4,000 volumes. They filled the room; +table, chairs and sofa were loaded with them; they +lay in stacks upon the floor; and, in some cases, +were piled, two or three tiers deep, into the shelves +against the walls. To anybody else the library +would have been a chaos; but he could lay his +hand at once upon any book he wished for. It was +in this room, thus crammed with books, that he +used to entertain the little parties he invited to sup +with him. The repast was always frugal; the con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>versation, +on his part, such as might have gone into +print. A man-servant brought in the refreshments +on a tray; or, sometimes, one of his pupils +officiated. His only sister, who kept house for him +during the greater part of his life, never made her +appearance at these exclusively masculine entertainments. +He himself rarely paid any attention +to the progress of the meal, but seemed to be as +much a visitor as any of his guests. The little he +needed was soon dispatched, and his thoughts were +again afloat, sounding along from theme to theme.</p> + +<p>He never married, and, at the time I speak of, +was almost alone in the world. Neither father, nor +mother, nor any other near relative remained to +him, save his sister, Johanna, whose care of him +had need to be almost maternal. Well-nigh every +day in the year these two might be seen walking +out together to take the air. They went always +arm in arm, a beautiful embodiment of the tenderest +affection. Hardly the king himself attracted +more attention in the street. Scarcely a person he +met failed to raise his hat and salute the venerable +scholar with the heartiest good will. As he was +both short-sighted and suffering from diseased +vision, he had to depend upon his sister to know +who bowed to him; and it was amusing to see his +returning salutation bestowed, in almost every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +instance, a little too late. Many anecdotes were +afloat in Berlin, and indeed all over Germany, +going to illustrate his habits of abstraction and +absent-mindedness, some of which no doubt were +true, and all of which were likely enough to have +been so.</p> + +<p>An exact description of his manners in the +lecture-room would, by any one who never saw +him, be thought a caricature. He entered the +room with his eyes upon the floor, as if feeling his +way; a student stood ready to take his hat and +overcoat and hang them up in their places; while +he went directly to his stand—a high pine desk; +threw his left elbow upon it; dropped his head so +low that his eyes could not be seen; tilted the desk +over on its front legs, so that you expected every +moment to see it pitching forward into the lecture-room, +with the lecturer after it; and, seizing a +quill, always provided for the purpose, began at +once to speak, and to twist and twirl and tear in +pieces the quill. Sometimes, in the heat of his +discourse, he would suddenly jerk up his head, +whirl entirely round with his face to the wall and +his back to the audience, and then as suddenly +whirl back again, his words all the while pouring +along in a perfect torrent of involved and fervent +thought. Add to this a constant writhing and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span> +swinging of his legs, with a frequent slight spitting, +produced by a chronic weakness of the salivary +glands, and you have a picture of the outward +man known in Berlin as John William Augustus +Neander; to be known in history as one of the +most learned, revered and beloved teachers of our +century.</p> + +<p>While it is indispensable to our full and lively +appreciation of Neander that these little things be +known of him, no one will be so foolish as to let +such accidents and eccentricities of the outward life +divert his attention from the grand and rarely +equalled manhood which lay behind and beneath +them. To give anything like a just estimate of this +manhood would be no easy task, however. His +native endowments, the attainments he had made in +the learning pertaining to his department, and the +part he was called to play in the regeneration of German +science and German faith, were all remarkable. +From the first glimpse we catch of him, when, at +17 years of age, he had given his head and heart +to Plato, he strikes us as no ordinary character; +and our wonder deepens at every step, till at last +we behold him sinking exhausted amidst his labors, +and all Christendom gathered in sorrow around his +grave.</p> + +<p>His native instincts, tastes and sympathies were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +all singularly pure and generous. His family +attachments were strong. In the latest periods of +his life, when she had long been dead, the name of +his mother could not be mentioned by him without +a visible gush of deep and tender emotion. The +loss of his favorite sister, some years before his own +departure, almost shattered him. For days he +drooped and mourned amongst his books, and could +do no work. Only the thought that God had taken +her to Himself, and that He doeth all things well, +finally availed to quiet him. So of all his friends; +he never forgot and was never false to them. But +his special care was bestowed upon the young men +of the University, who had gathered about him, in +the spirit of a most enthusiastic discipleship, out of +all Germany, and indeed out of nearly all Christendom. +To the last he continued to be a young man +himself, as fresh, impulsive and eager, and with as +entire a freedom from all appearance of assumption +and authority, as though his pupils and he were +merely peers. There was at once a warmth, a +blandness and a child-like simplicity of manners, +which made him the idol of every heart. And he +carried the same amenity of temper into all the +theological controversies of his life. He never +stooped to ungracious personalities, and never +seemed to be in pursuit of victory at the expense<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +of truth and fairness. The result was that he was +never assailed with personalities in return. Through +all the bitterest contentions which raged around him, +he was uniformly treated with respect and deference. +Not that men were ignorant of his opinions, +or thought him neutral, but because he was felt to +be an Israelite indeed, in whom there was no guile. +He committed himself to no clique, and allowed no +clique to be committed to him.</p> + +<p>In his personal habits he was temperate and frugal +in the extreme; though not for the sake of +accumulation. His income from his books and lectures +must have been considerable; but he gave it +nearly all away. Hundreds of indigent students +could testify to his generosity, while amongst the +poor of the city, there were many pensioners upon +his bounty.</p> + +<p>In regard to his intellectual gifts and powers, +their peculiar cast has already been intimated. The +dominant feature of his genius was its deeply subjective +and spiritual character. The accidents of a +subject never detained him for a moment from his +search after the essential and the abiding. Outward +circumstances were of little interest to him. +And in this direction lay the main defect of his +mind; it was too exclusively Platonic, subjective +and spiritual. Had his profound Germanic intui<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>tiveness +of vision been tempered with a little more +of our homely Anglo-Saxon common sense, the combination +would have been well-nigh perfect.</p> + +<p>What has just been said of his intellectual peculiarities +will help us to understand also his religious +life. It was preëminently an inward life; a fire in +the very marrow of his being. As it was his own +solitary and independent reflection which first turned +his feet toward Nazareth and Calvary, so was it +by deep and steady communion with his own heart +that he advanced in sanctity. The natural and +unchanging atmosphere of his life was that of +faith and prayer. His religious experience was +rooted in peculiarly deep and pungent views of sin. +Not that he had gross outward offences to be +ashamed of; but he felt the law of evil working +within him, disturbing his peace; and he longed +for the serenity of a child of God. Thus did he +learn his need of Christ. His pupils relate with +much interest how, on the evening of one of his +birth-day festivals, when they were gathered at his +house, he spoke to them of his own spiritual infirmities, +and with trembling voice confessed himself +a poor sinner seeking forgiveness through atoning +blood. Theologically, he was comparatively indifferent +in regard to minor points; but he clung with +the tenacity of a martyr's faith to the great essen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>tials +of the Gospel. His religious life was therefore +at once very fervent and very catholic. Loving +Christ with all the ardor of a passion, he loved +with a generous latitude of heart all those of every +name in whom he discerned Christ's image. The +motto adopted by him as best describing his own +aim and method, was that of St. Augustine: "Pectus +est quod facit theologum." <i>It is the heart +which makes the theologian.</i> It was a Divine Form, +for which he was ever seeking, while he walked +about amongst men, as he walked up and down the +centuries of our Christian faith, murmuring to himself: +"It is the Lord."</p> + +<p>As a writer of church history, his first great +claim to gratitude is on account of the living pulse +of faith and love which beats through all his pages. +He traces the golden thread of Christian life +through the darkest centuries. He does much to +save the church of God from reproach, and God's +own gracious promise from contempt, by showing +how much there has been of Christian grace and +truth under the worst forms and in the worst ages. +He has thus made his History what he said it +should be, "a speaking proof of the Divine power +of Christianity, a school of Christian experience, +and a voice of edification and warning sounding +through all ages for all who are willing to believe."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +Of the original sources of history, particularly for +the earlier centuries, his knowledge was profound, +and his use of them masterly. How thorough and +how fair he is, can be fully appreciated only by +those who explore for themselves the fountains +from which he drew his materials. His chief defect +is in the matter of form. He had but little dramatic +power. He gives us the inward life, but not +the outward stir and shock of history. Nor is he +remarkable for analytical sharpness in his delineation +of the growth of Christian doctrine. It is in +the sphere of experience and life that he succeeds +the best. His own doctrinal views were not, at all +points, quite up to our English and American +standards of orthodoxy. But these points were of +minor importance. All that is cardinal was +precious to him. With peculiar fidelity did he +cling to the Head, which is Christ, and was full of +that faith which conquers the world and saves the +soul.</p> + +<p>His last days, as described by his friends and +pupils, were in marked keeping with his whole +career. On Monday, the 8th of July, at 11 o'clock, +he lectured at the University. But he had been +for some time back much feebler than usual, the +weather was sultry and debilitating, and his system +was out of tune. His voice failed him two or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +three times in the course of the lecture, and it was +only by a desperate struggle that he got to the +end; his strength barely sufficing to bring him +home. The impression upon his class was such, +that one of the students, turning to his neighbor, +said: "This is the last lecture of our Neander." +Immediately after dinner, which he scarcely tasted, +his reader came. He dictated on his Church +History three hours in succession, repressing by +force of will the rising groans, his debility all the +while increasing. At 5 o'clock the symptoms of a +dangerous illness appeared; but he would not +abandon his work. His sister, who came to +expostulate with him and warn him against further +effort, was sent impatiently away. "Let me +alone," he said; "every laborer, I hope, may work +if he wishes; wilt thou not grant me this?" At +seven he was compelled to pause. His reader gone, +his first thought was to call back his much loved +sister, and say to her: "Be not anxious, dear +Jenny, it is passing away; I know my constitution." +But his physicians were agreed in the +opinion that the very worst was to be feared. They +succeeded, however, in subduing the symptoms of +the disease, which was a violent cholera, and began +to hope. The next morning, having hardly got +breath from this first furious attack, he inquired<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +with touching sadness, "shall I not be able to +lecture to-day?" When answered in the negative, +he distinctly demanded that the suspension should +be only for that one day. In the afternoon of +Tuesday, he called out vehemently for his reader, +desired him to go on with Ritter's Palestine, with +which he had been occupied, and impatiently +blamed the anxiety of his friends who had dismissed +his assistant too hastily. He then, according +to his daily custom, had another of his pupils +read to him the newspaper. He followed the +reading with lively attention, making his remarks +now of agreement and now of dissent, till at length +he fell asleep, and so ended the day's work. Later +in the afternoon, while racked with pain, it occurred +to him that his sister might think of foregoing sleep +on his account, which he begged her not to do. +Wednesday he had the newspaper read to him, and +made his comments, as usual. Thursday night +brought with it a convulsive hiccough. Friday, his +spirit was clear, peaceful and full of love. But +Friday night extinguished the last hopes of his +friends. The pains he endured were excruciating. +With an indescribably affecting and deeply tender +voice, before which no eye remained tearless, he +exclaimed, "Would to God I could sleep." Saturday +he was clamorous for the servant to bring him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +his clothes, that he might dress and go about his +work. His sister came: "Think, dear August, +what thou hast said to me when I have rebelled +against the directions of the physician, 'It comes +from God, therefore must we acquiesce in it.'" +"That is true," answered quickly the softened +voice, "it all comes from God, and we must thank +him for it." During the day he asked to be taken +into the study. The sweet sunlight, streaming on +his nearly blinded eyes, refreshed and gladdened +him. After this, a bath of wine and strengthening +herbs was administered, which seemed to do him +good. Finding himself amongst his books again, +he rose upon the cushions which supported him, +and, to the astonishment of all, began a lecture upon +the New Testament, and announced for the coming +term a course of lectures upon the Gospel of John. +At half-past nine, having inquired the hour, he fell +asleep. When he awoke, it was Sunday. There +came back a gush of bodily strength, the last +leaping of the light before it flickered in the socket. +Taking up the thread of his history where he had +dropped it two days before, he began to dictate for +some one to write. The passage was about the +mystics of the 14th and 15th centuries. The +concluding sentence was: "So it was in general; +the further development is to follow." Then turn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>ing +to his sister, he said: "I am tired; let us make +ready to go home;" as though they were somewhere +on a long and wearisome journey. And +then rallying his last energies in one parting word +of tenderness to her who was bending over him +with a breaking heart, he murmured, "Good +night," and died.</p> + +<p>Thus he died with his harness on, not aware, +probably, that he was so near his end; else he +might have uttered some dying testimony, which +would have passed into the literature of the church +to be the comfort of other saints in their mortal +agony. But, on his own account, no such dying +testimony was required. For thirty-seven years +he had stood his ground gallantly in Berlin, +witnessing for Christ in the face of a learned +skepticism, and he could well afford to pass directly, +without an interlude, from the toils and conflicts +of earth to the joys and triumphs of the redeemed +in heaven.</p> + +<p>His labors had been prodigious. He usually +lectured not less than fifteen times a week, published +twenty-five volumes, and left behind him +several other volumes nearly ready for the press. +His health was never firm. A rheumatic disease +lurked in his system from the time of his illness +at Göttingen. Three years before he died, this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +disease settled in his eyes, and made him nearly +blind. But against all impediments, he struggled +on, fighting the good fight of faith, patient and +resolute, till suddenly his course was finished, and +he took his crown.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="POEMS" id="POEMS"></a>POEMS.</h2> + +<h4>BY JULIA WARD HOWE.</h4> +<h3>I.</h3> +<h3>THE BEE'S SONG</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Do not tie my wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Says the honey-bee;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do not bind my wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leave them glad and free.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I fly abroad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If I keep afar,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Humming all the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where wild blossoms are,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis to bring you sweets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rich as summer joy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clear—as gold and glass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The divinest toy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the god's have left,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is the pretty hive,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where a maiden reigns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the busy thrive.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If you bar my way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your delight is gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more honey-gems;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the heather borne;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more tiny thefts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From your neighbor's rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who were glad to guess<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where its sweetness goes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let the man of arts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ply his plane and glass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let the vapors rise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let the liquor pass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let the dusky slave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the southern fields;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not the task of both<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such a treasure yields;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Honey, Pan ordained,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Food for gods and men,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only in my way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shall you store again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Leave me to my will<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the bright days glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the sleepy flowers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quicken as I go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the pretty ones<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span><span class="i0">Look to me no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dead, beneath your feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crushed and dabbled o'er;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In my narrow cell<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I will fold my wing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sink in dark and chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A forgotten thing.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Can you read the song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the suppliant bee?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis a poet's soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Asking liberty.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>II.</h3> +<h3>LIMITATIONS OF BENEVOLENCE.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"The beggar boy is none of mine,"<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The reverend doctor strangely said;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">"I do not walk the streets to pour<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Chance benedictions on his head.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And heaven I thank who made me so.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That toying with my own dear child,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">I think not on <i>his</i> shivering limbs,<br /></span> +<span class="i1"><i>His</i> manners vagabond and wild."<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Good friend, unsay that graceless word!<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I am a mother crowned with joy,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And yet I feel a bosom pang<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To pass the little starveling boy.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His aching flesh, his fevered eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i1">His piteous stomach, craving meat;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">His features, nipt of tenderness,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And most, his little frozen feet.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I think, how in some noisome den,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Bred up with curses and with blows,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He lives unblest of gods or men.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I cannot snatch him from his fate,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The tribute of my doubting mind<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Drops, torch-like, in the abyss of ill,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That skirts the ways of humankind.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, as my heart's desire would leap<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To help him, recognized of none,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">I thank the God who left him this,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For many a precious right foregone.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My mother, whom I scarcely knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bequeathed this bond of love to me;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The heart parental thrills for all<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The children of humanity.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="EARTHS_WITNESS" id="EARTHS_WITNESS"></a>EARTH'S WITNESS.</h2> + +<h4>BY ALICE B. HAVEN.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That Poet wrongs his soul, whose dreary cry<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Calls "winds" and "waves," and "burning stars of night"<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">To bring our darkness nature's clearer light<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">On that just sentence, "Thou shalt surely die;"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To track the spirit as it leaves its clay<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To bring back surety of its future home,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Or echo of the voice that calleth "come,"<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">To prove that it is borne to perfect day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Say rather, "winds," who heard the Master speak,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And "waves," who by His voice transfixed were stayed,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">And stars that lighted Christ's deep shade—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Your confirmation of our trust we seek.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Ye know how shadowy Death's dreary prison,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i1">Because ye witnessed Christ our life, up risen.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p><span class="smcap">The Willows</span>, 1858.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_NEW_ENGLAND_THANKSGIVING" id="THE_NEW_ENGLAND_THANKSGIVING"></a>THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING.</h2> + +<h4>BY THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, D.D.</h4> +<p>When cellar and barn and storehouse were filled +with food for the coming winter, our pious New +England forefathers used their first common leisure +to make public and joyful acknowledgment of their +blessings to the God of sunshine and of rain; to +Him, who clothes the valleys with corn, and the +hills with flocks. Almost universally, they placed +the meeting-houses, where these thanks were rendered, +on the hill-top commanding the widest view +of the fields from which their prosperity sprung, +and nearest to the sky, whence their blessings came. +Their modest homes were sheltered from the winds +by the barns that held their wealth and overshadowed +their low dwellings. The earth was +precious in their eyes, as the source of their living. +They could spare no fertile or sheltered spot, even +for the burial-ground, but economically laid it out +in the sand, or on the bleak hill-side; while they +threw away no fencing on the house of God, but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +jealously preserved that costly distinction for their +arable lands and orchards. They were farmers; +and it was no unmeaning thing for them to keep +the harvest feast. They had prayed in drought, +with all faith and fervor, for the blessing of rain; +in seed-time, for the favoring sunshine and soft +showers; and in harvest, that blight and frost might +spare their corn; and when in the late autumn, all +their prayers had been heard, and their hands and +homes were crowned with plenty, their thanksgiving +anthem was an incense of the heart, and +their honored pastors knew not how to pour out a +flood of gratitude too copious for the thankful +people's "Amen." A full hour's prayer wearied +not their patient knees; and the sermon, with its +sixteenthly, finally, and to conclude (before the +<i>improvement</i>, itself a modern sermon in length), did +not outmeasure the people's honest sense of their +grounds of thankfulness to God.</p> + +<p>The landscape appropriate to thanksgiving is not +furnished by brick walls and stone pavements. It +is a rural festival. The smoke from scattered +cottages should be slowly curling its way through +frosty air. As we look forth from the low porch +of the homestead, the ground lightly covered with +snow, stretches off to a not distant horizon, broken +irregularly with hills, clothed in spots with ever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>greens, +but oftener with bare woods. The distant +and infrequent sleigh-bells, with the smart crack of +the rifle from the shooting match in the hollow, +strike percussively upon the ear. Vast piles of +fuel, part neatly corded, part lying in huge logs, +with heaps of brush, barricade the brown, paintless +farmhouses. Swine, hanging by the ham-strings +in the neighboring shed; the barn-yard speckled +with the ruffled poultry, some sedate with recent +bereavement, others cackling with a dim sense of +temporary reprieve; the rough-coated steer butting +in the fold, where the timid sheep huddle together +in the corner; little boys on a single skate improving +the newly frozen horse-pond—these furnish the +foreground of the picture during the earlier hours +of the morning. Later in the day, without, the +sound of church bells, the farmers' pungs, or the +double sleighs, with incredible numbers stowed in +their strawed bottoms, drive up to the meeting-house +door. An occasional wagon from the hills, +from which the snow has blown, with the crunching, +whistling sound of wheels upon snow, sets +the teeth of the crowd in the porch on edge, as it +grinds its way to the stone steps to deposit its load. +Great white coats, with seven or eight capes apiece, +dismount, and muffs and moccasins—each a whole +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>bearskin—follow. Long stoves, with live coals +got at the neighboring houses, occasionally join the +procession. Few come afoot; for our pious ancestors +seemed to think it as much a part of their +religion to fill the family horse-shed as the family +pew; and in good weather would send a mile to +pasture for the horses to drive a half mile to +meeting. But, meeting out, the parson's prayer +and sermon said, the choir's ambitious anthem +lustily sung, the politics of the prayer, and the +politics of the sermon, both summarily criticised, +approved, condemned, partly with looks and winks, +and partly with loud words in the porch, there is +now a little space for kind inquiries after the absent, +the sick, and the poor; a few solitary spinsters, and +one old soldier, lame and indigent, are seized on +and carried off to homes, where certain blessed +Mothers in Israel, are wont to keep a vacant chair +for a poor soul that might feel desolate if left alone +on this sociable day. Some full-handed visits are +paid on the way home to scattered and rickety +houses; but by one o'clock, all the people are +beneath their own roofs, never so attractive as on +this glorious day. The married children from the +neighboring towns have come home, and the old +house is full.</p> + +<p>The great event of the day is at hand. It is dinner-time. +The table of unnatural length, narrower<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +at one end, where it has been eked out for the occasion, +groans with the choicest gifts of the year. +There is but one course, but that possesses infinite +variety and reckless profusion. For one day, at +least, the doctrine of an apostle is in full honor. +"For every creature of God is good, and nothing +to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving." +The long grace sanctifies the feast with the word of +God and with prayer. The elders and males are +distributed to front the substantial of the board—the +round of <i>a-la-mode</i>, the brown crisp pig with +an apple in his mouth, the great turkey who has +frightened the little red-cloaked girls and saucy +pugs for months past, the chicken-pie with infinite +crimping and stars and knobs, decorating its snowy +face. The mothers and daughters are placed over +against the puddings and pies, which have exercised +their ambition for weeks—vying with rival +housekeepers in the number and variety of sorts—and +which, after the faint impression made on +them to-day, shall be found for a month, filling the +shelves of spare-closets and lending a delicious +though slightly musty odor to the best wardrobe +of the family. Children of all ages—to the +toddling darling, the last babe of the youngest +daughter—fill up the interstices, while the few +books in the house are barely sufficient to bring the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +little ones in their low chairs to an effective level +with the table. Incredible stowage having been +effected, the sleepy after-dinner hours are somewhat +heavily passed; but with the lamps and the tea-board, +sociability revives. The evening passes +among the old people, with chequers and back-gammon. +Puss-in-the-corner, the game of forfeits—blind-man's-buff +entertain the young folks. Apples, nuts +and cider come in at nine o'clock, and perhaps a +mug of flip—but it is rather for form's sake than +for appetite. At ten o'clock the fire is raked up, +and the household is a-bed. Excepting some bad-dreams, +Thanksgiving day is over.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="SONG_OF_THE_ARCHANGELS" id="SONG_OF_THE_ARCHANGELS"></a>SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS</h2> + +<h5>(FROM GOETHE'S FAUST.)</h5> +<h4>BY GEORGE P. MARSH.</h4> +<h3>RAPHAEL.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">E'en as at first, in rival song<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of brother orbs, still chimes the <span class="smcap">Sun</span>,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And his appointed path along<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Rolls with harmonious thundertone;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">With strength the sight doth Angels fill,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Though none can solve its law divine;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Creation's wonders glorious still,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As erst they shone, eternal shine.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + +<h3><span class="smcap">Gabriel</span>.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The gorgeous <span class="smcap">Earth</span> doth whirl for aye<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In swift, sublime, mysterious flight,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And alternates elysian day<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With deep, chaotic, shuddering night;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">With swelling billows foams the sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Chafing the cliff's deep-rooted base,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">While sea and cliff both hurrying flee<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In swift, eternal, circling race.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p> + +<h3><span class="smcap">Michael.</span></h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And howling <span class="smcap">tempests</span> scour amain<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From sea to land, from land to sea,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And, raging, weave around a chain<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of deepest, wildest energy;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The scathing bolt with flashing glare<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Precedes the pealing thunder's way;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And yet Thine Angels, <span class="smcap">Lord</span>, revere<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The gentle movement of Thy day.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + +<h3><span class="smcap">Trio.</span></h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With strength the sight doth Angels fill,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">For power to fathom <span class="smcap">thee</span> hath none.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The works of Thy supernal will<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Still glorious shine, as erst they shone.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_NIGHT_AND_DAY_AT_VALPARAISO" id="A_NIGHT_AND_DAY_AT_VALPARAISO"></a>A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO.</h2> + +<h4>BY ROBERT TOMES.</h4> +<p>As night came on, the steamer doubled the +rocky cape, and, steaming with all its engine force, +stood right for Valparaiso. Her speed soon slackened, +and she began to feel her way cautiously, +going ahead, backing, turning, and coming to a full +stop. "Let go the anchor," was now the word, followed +by a hoarse rumble of the chains and a noisy +burst of steam. A fleet of shadowy ships and +small craft surrounded us, and ahead glimmered +the lights of the city, which, irregularly scattered +about the dark hill-sides, appeared in the night like +so many stars dimly twinkling through a broken +rain cloud. With the quick instinct of the presence +of a stranger, the dogs became at once +conscious of our arrival, and began a noisy welcome +of barks and yelps, which continued throughout the +night. The port officials in tarnished gilt came +alongside the steamer, had their talk with the captain +and pushed off again. Two or three gusty-look<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>ing +sea-captains boarded us, gave their rough +grasps of welcome, drank off their stiff supplies of +grog, and pulled back to their ships. Some few of +the more impatient of our comrades turned out from +the bottom of their trunks their "best," and went +ashore in glossy coats and shining boots. Most of +us, however, awaited the coming of the morning.</p> + +<p>I was up on deck at the earliest dawn of day. +The steamer was at anchor close before the city, +and I looked with no admiring eyes upon its flimsy +white-washed houses and wooden spires, scattered +about the base and sides of the cindery, earth-quaky +hills upon which it is built. There was +hardly a blade of grass or tree to be seen anywhere, +except where the thriving European and American +residents had perched themselves on one of the +acclivities. The dwarfed trees here, moreover, +all in a row before the little painted bird-cage-looking +houses, appeared to have no more life of +growth and color in them than so many painted +semblances in a toy village. Familiar looking +shanties, of the tumble-down sort, built of pine +wood and shingles, crowded the ground by the +water side, and indeed the low land seemed better +suited to their staggering aspect than the steep +acclivities. Painted signs with English names and +English words, stared familiarly from every building.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +The universal "John Smith" there conspicuously +posted his name and his "Bakery." Mine host of +the "Hole in the Wall" invited the thirsty in good +round Saxon to drink of his "Best Beer on Tap," +or his "Bottled Porter," as "you pays your money +and take your choice."</p> + +<p>The steamer was enlivened from the earliest hour +by the native fishermen, who, with their fleet of +canoes, had sought the shades of our dark hull, to +protect them from the hot sun, which seemed to be +fairly simmering the waters of the bay. They were +making most miraculous draughts of fishes. I watched +one little fellow. He was hardly a dozen years +of age, but he plied his trade with such skill and +enterprise, that he nearly filled his canoe during the +half hour I was watching him. It was terrible to +see with what intense energy and cruelty the little +yellow devil, with bared arms blooded to the +shoulders, pounced upon his prey. With a quick +jerk he pulled his fish in, then clutching it with one +hand and thrusting the fingers of the other with the +prompt ferocity of a young tiger into the panting +gills, he tore off with a single wrench the head, and +threw the body, yet quivering with life, among the +lifeless heap of his victims lying at the bottom of +his boat. The sea gulls, hovering about shrieking +shrilly and pouncing upon the heads and entrails as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +they were thrown into the water, fighting over +them and gulping them down with hungry voracity, +seemed to heighten this picture of the "Gentle art +of angling."</p> + +<p>The return of the steward and chaplain with a +boat load of "marketing" was a welcome surprise. +The parson, whose unquestionable taste in the æsthetics +of eating had been wisely secured by the +steward, dilated with great gusto upon the juicy +beefsteaks, the freshness of the fish, and the richness +of the fruit. When, at breakfast, we enjoyed +as salt-sea voyagers only could, the stores of fresh +meat, fresh eggs, fresh butter, fresh milk, juicy +grapes, white and purple, with the morning's bloom +still upon them, the peaches, the apples, the pears, +the tumas (prickly pear fruit), the melons, musk and +water, we acknowledged his reverence's judgment, +and gratefully thanked him for his services.</p> + +<p>On landing to take a look at the town, I made +my way through a throng of boatmen, of picturesque +native fruitsellers and loitering sailors, to +the chief business street, which ran along the shore. +The stores, which were mainly under the proprietorship +of the foreign merchants, had a rich, +thriving look, being crammed full of miscellaneous +goods, while the sidewalks were heaped with bales +and boxes. Odd-looking carts moved slowly along<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +with their drivers in picturesque costume lying in +full length upon their loads, smoking their cigarettes, +and looking wondrously lazy and happy. +Stately Chilians from the interior, dressed in +genuine Fra Diavolo style, rode by on their prancing +horses, all glistening and jingling with silver. +There were abundant loungers about, in the cool +shade of every corner and projecting roof. The +listless men with the universal poncho—an oblong +mantle of variegated cotton or woollen, through a +hole in the centre of which the head is thrust, +allowing the garment to hang in folds about the +person—looked as if they had been roused suddenly +from their beds, and not finding their coats at +hand, had walked out with their coverlets over +their shoulders. The women, too, in their loose +dresses and with shawls thrown carelessly over +their heads, had a very bed-chamber look. They +were mostly pretty brunettes, with large, slumbering +black eyes, which, however, were sufficiently +awake to ogle effectively.</p> + +<p>Having a letter of introduction to present, I +entered the counting-house of the merchant whose +acquaintance I sought. I found him boxed off at +the further end of his long, heaped-up warehouse. +He had closed his ledger, lighted his cigar, and +had just filled his glass from a bottle of wine which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +stood on the window-sill, when I entered. I was +not surprised, under such provocation to good +fellowship, to receive a warm welcome. My mercantile +friend was in the best possible humor, for +times, he said, were very good. Every one at +Valparaiso was making his fortune. It was the +epoch of the gold excitement. Large fortunes had +already been made. The contents of the shops and +warehouses had, as soon as the gold discovery +became known, been emptied into every vessel in +the harbor, and sent to San Francisco. The lucky +speculators had gained five or six hundred per cent. +profit for their ventures of preserved and dried +fruits, champagne, other wines and liquors, Madeira +nuts and the most paltry stuff imaginable. In five +months some of the Valparaiso merchants had +cleared five hundred thousand dollars. The excitement +was still unabated. Shippers were still +loading and dispatching their goods daily for San +Francisco. Many were going there themselves, +and hardly a clerk could be kept at Valparaiso at +any salary, however large.</p> + +<p>The day was brilliantly bright, and the air so +pure and bracing that it did the lungs good to +breathe. So I made my way out of counting-house +and street for a walk. I ascended the dry, crumbling +hills which with long, deep gullies and breaks<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span> +in them, and friable soil, looked as if they were +ready to tumble into pieces at the first shake of one +of those earthquakes so frequent in the country. +On the road, chained gangs of surly convicts were +at work, and some smart-looking soldiers, in blue +and white, came marching along! Caravans of +mules, laden with goods, produce and water casks, +trotted on, and here and there rode a dashing Chilian +cavalier on his prancing steed, or a dapper citizen +on his steady cob. In a ravine between the +dry hills there trickled the smallest possible stream. +Above, some water carriers were slowly filling their +casks, while the mules patiently waited for their +burdens; below, was a throng of washerwomen, +beating their clothes upon the stones, just moistened +by the scant water which flowed over them, and +interchanging Spanish Billingsgate with each other +and a gang of man-of-war sailors.</p> + +<p>Frightened away by the stony stare of the English +occupant from an imposing-looking residence +on the top of the hill, I crossed the road and entered +the private hospital. Around a quadrangle, laid +out in gardens beds there was a range of low two +story buildings. Some bleached sailors, in duck +trowsers and blue jackets, were about; one was +reading a song-book, another his Bible, and a third +was busily making a marine swab out of ropes' ends.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +Among the convalescents, out on the balconies to +catch a breath of the pure air, was a naval officer in a +gilt cap, reading a novel; and all looked snug and +encouraging. On entering, I asked the attendant, a +gaunt-looking Englishman, who in his musty black +suit, was not unlike a carrion crow or a turkey buzzard, +whether there was any serious case of illness +in the hospital. "There are two consumptives," +said he, "who've been a deceiving us for the last two +weeks." He seemed to think it a very base fraud +that these two consumptives had not died when he +and the doctor thought it was their duty to do so, +some fortnight before.</p> + +<p>Coming from the one hill to another, I reached a +miserable quarter of the town, called by the sailors +the "foretop." It was composed of rude mud hovels, +stuffed with a population of half-breeds, a half-naked +gipsy-looking people, grovelling in the dirt, and breathing +an atmosphere reeking with the stench of filth, +garlic and frying fat. I was glad to escape, and get +to the "Star Hotel," where, refreshing myself with +a chop and brown stout, I could fancy myself, with +hardly an effort of the imagination, taking my dinner +at an ordinary in the Strand.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="TRANSLATIONS_1" id="TRANSLATIONS_1"></a>TRANSLATIONS.</h2> + +<h4>BY THE REV. THEODORE PARKER.</h4> +<h3>I.</h3> +<h3>TWO LOVERS.</h3> +<h5>(FROM THE GERMAN OF MOHRIKE.)</h5> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A light skiff swam on Danube's tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where sat a bridegroom and his bride,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He this side and she that side.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Quoth she, "Heart's dearest, tell to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What wedding-gift shall I give thee?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Upward her little sleeve she strips,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the water briskly dips.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The young man did the same straightway,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And played with her and laughed so gay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ah, give to me, Dame Danube fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some pretty toy for my love to wear!"<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She drew therefrom a shining blade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For which the youth so long had prayed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The bridegroom, what holds he in hand?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of milk-white pearls a precious band.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He twines it round her raven hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She looked how like a princess there!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, give to me, Dame Danube fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some pretty toy for my love to wear!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A second time her arm dips in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A glittering helm of steel to win.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The youth, o'erjoyed the prize to view,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brings her a golden comb thereto.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A third time she in the water dips.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah woe! from out the skiff she slips.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He leaps for her and grasps straightway—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dame Danube tears them both away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The dame began her gifts to rue—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The youth must die, the maiden too!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The little skiff floats down alone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the hills soon sinks the sun.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And when the moon was overhead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To land the lovers floated dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">He this side and she that side!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>II.</h3> +<h3>THE FISHER-MAIDEN.</h3> +<h5>(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.)</h5> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thou handsome fisher-maiden,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Push thy canoe to land;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Come and sit down beside me—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We'll talk, love, hand in hand.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thy head lay on my bosom,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Be not afraid of me,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">For careless thou confidest<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Each day in the wild sea.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My heart is like the ocean,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Has storm, and ebb, and flow;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And many pearls so handsome<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Rest in its deeps below.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span></p> + +<h3>III.</h3> +<h3>MY CHILD WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN.</h3> +<h5>(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.)</h5> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My child when we were children,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Two children small and gay,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">We crept into the hen-house<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And hid us under the hay.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We crowed, as do the cockerels,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">When people passed the road,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Kikeriki!</i>" and they fancied<br /></span> +<span class="i1">It was the cock that crowed.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The chests which lay in the court-yard,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We papered them so fair,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Making a house right famous,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And dwelt together there.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The old cat of our neighbor,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Came oft to make a call;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">We made her bows and courtesies,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And compliments and all.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We asked with friendly question,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">How her health was getting on:<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">To many an ancient pussy<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The same we since have done.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">In sensible discoursing<br /></span> +<span class="i1">We sat like aged men,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And told how in our young days<br /></span> +<span class="i1">All things had better been.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That Truth, Love and Religion<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From the earth are vanished quite—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And now so dear is coffee,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And money is so tight!<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But gone are childish gambols,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And all things fleeting prove—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Money, the world, our young days,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Religion, Truth and Love.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="PAID_FOR_BY_THE_PAGE" id="PAID_FOR_BY_THE_PAGE"></a>PAID FOR BY THE PAGE.</h2> + +<h4>BY EDWARD S. GOULD.</h4> +<p>The labourer is worthy of his hire. A man who +produces an available "article" for a newspaper or +a periodical, is as properly entitled to a pecuniary +recompense, as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a clergy-man, +for professional services; or, as a merchant or +a mechanic for his transferable property. This is a +simple proposition, which nobody disputes. The +rate of such compensation must be a matter of +agreement. As between author and publisher, +custom seems to have fixed on what an arithmetician +would call "square measure," as the basis of +the bargain; and the question of adjustment is +simplified down to "how much by the column, or +the page?"</p> + +<p>This system has its advantages in a business +point of view; because, when the price, or rate, is +agreed on, nothing remains but to count the pages. +Whether the publisher or the writer is benefited +by this plan of computation, in a literary point +of view, may, however, be doubted.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p> + +<p>A man who is paid <i>by the page</i> for his literary +labour, has every inducement but one to expand +lines into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and +paragraphs into extravagant dimensions. An idea, +to him, is a thing to be manufactured into words, +each of which has a money value; and if he can, +by that simplest of all processes—a verbal dilution—give +to one idea the expansive power of twelve; +if he can manage to spread over six pages what +would be much better said in half a page, he gains +twelve prices for his commodity, instead of one; +and he sacrifices nothing but the quality of his +commodity—and <i>that</i> is no sacrifice, so long as his +publisher and his readers do not detect it.</p> + +<p>When a man writes for reputation, he has a very +different task before him; for no one will gain high +and permanent rank as an author, unless his ideas +bear some tolerable proportion to his words. He +who aims to write <i>well</i>, will avoid diffuseness. +<i>Multum in parvo</i> will be his first consideration; and +if he achieves that, he will have secured one of the +prime requisites of literary fame.</p> + +<p>In the earlier days of our republic, a discussion +was held by several of the prominent statesmen of +the period, on the expediency of extending the +right of suffrage to others than freeholders. Some +of the debaters made long speeches; others made<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +short ones. At length, Mr. <span class="smcap">Jay</span> was called on for +his views of the matter. His brief response was: +"Gentlemen, in my opinion, <i>those who own the country +ought to rule it."</i> If that distinguished patriot +had been writing for the bleeding Kansas Quarterly, +at the rate of a dollar a page, he would probably have +expanded this remark. He might have written thus:</p> + +<p>"Every man is born free and independent; or, +if he is not, he ought to be. <i>E pluribus unum.</i> +He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil; +for the soil, without him, is nothing worth. He +came from the soil; he lives on the soil; and he +must return to the soil. <i>De gustibus, non est disputandum.</i> +So much for man in his natural state, +breathing his natural air, surrounded by his natural +horizon, and luxuriating in his natural prerogatives. +But this is a very limited view of the question. Man +is expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. <i>Vox populi, +vox Dei.</i> Having acquired, he wills to acquire. Acquisition +suggests acquisition. Conquest promotes +conquest. And, speaking of conquests, the greatest +of all conquests is that which a man obtains over himself—provided +always that he does obtain it. This +secured, he may consider himself up to anything. +<i>Arma virumque cano.</i> Owning the soil by right of +possession; owning himself by right of conquest; +and, being about to establish a form of government<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +conformable to his own views of right and wrong; +let him protect the right, confound the wrong, and +make his own selection of subordinate officers. +<i>Mus cucurrit plenum sed.</i>"</p> + +<p>This, by way of illustration. The Jay style +sounds the best: the dollar-a-page style pays the +best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad +one for the well-being of our newspaper and +periodical literature, simply because the chief +inducement is on the wrong side. If an author +receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a +page, he will write a page as a matter of course; +and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he +writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion. +For the same thing, said in few words, is ten +times more effectual than when said in many +words.</p> + +<p>No doubt, different subjects require different +handling, and more space is needed for some than +for others. An essay is not necessarily too long +because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but +periodical and newspaper writing demands compactness, +conciseness, concentration; and the fact +of being paid by measurement, is a writer's ever-present +temptation to disregard this demand.</p> + +<p>The conceit of estimating the value of an article +by its length and rating the longest at the highest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his +inches instead of his intellect.</p> + +<p>Certain names there are in the literary world, +which carry great weight in a reader's regard, +independently of the quality of the contributions. +If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the <i>North +American Review</i>, he would temporarily elevate +the reputation of the Review, however carelessly +he might throw his sentences together. But, +theoretically, the articles in our periodical literature +are anonymous; and, practically, they stand +on their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the +question that a system which offers a money +premium for the worst fault in periodical writing—to +wit, prolixity—should not deteriorate the character +of such writing.</p> + +<p>Much more might be said on this subject; but, +to the wise, a word is sufficient. And it would ill +become one who is endeavouring to recommend +conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by +diffuseness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="WORDS_FOR_MUSIC" id="WORDS_FOR_MUSIC"></a>WORDS FOR MUSIC.</h2> + +<h4>BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.</h4> +<h3>I.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Who was born in the shade<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">The witch-hazel-tree made,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">Where the brook sang a song<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">All the summer-day long,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And the moments, like birdlings went by,—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Like the birdlings the moments flew by.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>II.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Who replied to my vow,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">Neath the hazel-tree bough:<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">"Like the brook to the sea,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">Oh, I yearn, love, for thee."<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And she hid in my bosom her face—<br /></span> +<span class="i3">In my bosom her beautiful face.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></div></div> + + +<h3>III.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Wooed and won in the shade<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">The witch-hazel tree made,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">Where the brook sings its song<br /> +</span> +<span class="i3">All the summer day long,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And the moments in harmony glide,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Like our lives they in harmony glide.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_CHRISTIAN_GREATNESS" id="THE_CHRISTIAN_GREATNESS"></a>"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS."</h2> + +<h5>(PASSAGES FROM A MANUSCRIPT SERMON.)</h5> +<h4>BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.</h4> +<h3>THE OFFERING OF CONTRITION.</h3> +<p>That deepest lowliness of all—the prostration +before God, the prostration in penitence—is the +highest honor that humanity can achieve. It is +the first great cardinal requisition in the Gospel; +and it is not meant to degrade, but to exalt us. +Self-condemnation is the loftiest testimony that can +be given to virtue. It is a testimony paid at the +expense of all our pride. It is no ordinary offering. +A man may sacrifice his life to what he calls +honor, or conceives to be patriotism, who never +paid the homage of an honest tear for his own +faults. That was a beautiful idea of the poet, who +made the boon that was to restore a wandering +shade to the bliss of humanity—a boon sought +through all the realm of nature and existence—to +consist, not in wealth or splendor, not in regal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> +mercy or canonized glory, but in a tear of penitence. +Temple and altar, charity and pity, and +martyrdom, sunk before that.</p> + +<p>I have seen the magnificence of all ceremonial in +worship; and this was the thought that struck me +then. Permit me to describe the scene, and to +express the thought that rose in my mind, as I +gazed upon it. It was in the great cathedral +church of the world; and it brings a kind of +religious impression over my mind to recall its +awfulness and majesty. Above, far above me, rose +a dome, gilded and covered with mosaic pictures, +and vast as the pantheon of old Rome; the four +pillars which supported it, each of them as large as +many of our churches; and the entire mass, lifted +to five times the height of this building—its own +height swelling far beyond; no dome so sublime +but that of heaven was ever spread above mortal +eye. And beyond this dome, beneath which I +stood, stretched away into dimness and obscurity +the mighty roofing of this stupendous temple—arches +behind arches, fretted with gold, and touched +with the rays of the morning sun. Around me, a +wilderness of marble; with colors, as variegated +and rich as our autumnal woods; columns, pillars, +altars, tombs, statues, pictures set in ever-during +stone; objects to strike the beholder with never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>ceasing +wonder. And on this mighty pavement, +stood a multitude of many thousands; and through +bright lines of soldiery, stretching far down the +majestic nave, slowly advanced a solemn and +stately procession, clothed with purple, and crimson, +and white, and blazing with rubies and +diamonds; slowly it advanced amidst kneeling +crowds and strains of heavenly music; and so it +compassed about the altar of God, to perform the +great commemorative rite of Christ's resurrection. +Expect from me no sectarian deprecation; it was a +goodly rite, and fitly performed. But, amidst +solemn utterances, and lowly prostrations, and +pealing anthems, and rising incense, and all the +surrounding magnificence of the scene, shall I tell +you what was my thought? One sigh of contrition, +one tear of repentance, one humble prayer to +God, though breathed in a crypt of the darkest +catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous +ceremonial and this glorious temple.</p> + + +<h3>VIRTUE IN OBSCURITY.</h3> +<p>And let me add, that upon many a lowly bosom, +the gem of virtue shines more bright and beautiful +than it is ever likely to shine in any court of +royalty or crown of empire: and this, for the very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +reason that it shines in loneliness and obscurity, +and is surrounded with no circlet of gazing and +flattering eyes. There <i>are</i> positions in life, in +society, where all loveliness is seen and noted; +chronicled in men's admiring comments, and perhaps +celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. +And well, perhaps, that it is so. I would not +repress the admiration of society toward the +lovely and good. But there is many a lowly +cottage, many a lowly bedside of sickness and pain, +to which genius brings no offering; to which the +footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never +come; to which there is <i>no</i> cheering visitation—but +the visitation of angels! <i>There</i> is humble toil—<i>there</i> +is patient assiduity—<i>there</i> is noble disinterestedness—<i>there</i> +is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. +The great world passes by, and it toils on in silence; +to its gentle footstep, there are no echoing praises; +around its modest beauty, gathers no circle of admirers. +It never thought of honor; it never asked +to be known. Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its +life, and shall be, till the heavens be no more; till +the great day of revelation comes; till the great +promise of Jesus is fulfilled; till the last shall be +first, and the lowliest shall be loftiest; and the +poverty of the world shall be the riches and +glory of heaven.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_BABY_AND_THE_BOY_MUSICIAN" id="THE_BABY_AND_THE_BOY_MUSICIAN"></a>THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN.</h2> + +<h4>BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A cherub in its mother's arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Look'd from a casement high—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And pleasure o'er the features stray'd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As on his simple organ play'd<br /></span> +<span class="i1">A boy of Italy.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So, day by day, his skill he plied,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With still increasing zeal,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">For well the glittering coin he knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those fairy fingers gladly threw,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Would buy his frugal meal.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But then! alas, there came a change<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Unheeded was his song,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And in his upraised, earnest eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There dwelt a silent wonder, why<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The baby slept so long.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That polished brow, those lips of Rose<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Beneath the flowers were laid—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">But where the music never tires,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid the white-robed angel choir<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The happy spirit stray'd.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet lingering at the accustom'd place<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That minstrel ply'd his art,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Though its soft symphony of words<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Convulsed with pain the broken chords<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Within a mother's heart.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They told him that the babe was dead<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And could return no more,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0"><i>Dead! Dead!</i>—to his bewildered ear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A foreign language train'd to hear—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The sound no import bore.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At length, by slow degrees, the truth<br /></span> +<span class="i1">O'er his young being stole,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And with sad step he went his way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No more for that blest babe to play,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The tear-drop in his soul.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p>City of Washington, May 24, 1858.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_ERL-KING" id="THE_ERL-KING"></a>THE ERL-KING.</h2> + +<h5>(FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.)</h5> +<h4>BY MRS. E.F. ELLET.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By night through the forest who rideth so fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars the blast?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from harm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, father! see, father! the Erl-king is near!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his shroud!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"My boy! it is naught but a wreath of the cloud."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, pretty child! come—wilt thou go with me!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With many gay sports will I gambol with thee;<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span><span class="i0">There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My mother shall weave thee robes golden and grand."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, father! my father! and dost thou not hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Be quiet, my darling! thy hearing deceives;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp leaves."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh, beautiful boy! wilt thou come with me!—say!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My daughters are waiting to join thee at play!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In their arms they shall bear thee through all the dark night—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber so light?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"My father! oh, father! and dost thou not see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for me?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"My child! 'tis no phantom! I see it now plain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Thy sweet face hath charmed me! I love thee, my joy!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair boy!"<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span><span class="i0">"Oh, father! dear father! his touch is so cold!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He grasps me! I cannot escape from his hold!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the wild,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And folds yet more closely his terrified child;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alas! in his arms lay the fair child—dead!<br /></span></div> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THOUGHTS_UPON_FENELON" id="THOUGHTS_UPON_FENELON"></a>THOUGHTS UPON FENELON.</h2> + +<h4>BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D.</h4> +<p>Fenelon died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged +64, some years after the death of Bossuet, his antagonist, +and shortly before the death of his royal +patron and persecutor, Louis XIV. The conscience +of Christendom has already judged between the +two parties. Never was the spirit of the good archbishop +more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious +ecclesiastics may honor more the name of Bossuet, +the heart of France has embalmed in its affections +the name of his victim, and our common humanity +has incorporated him into its body. When Fenelon's +remains were discovered in 1804, the French +people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not +scattered his ashes, and a monument to his memory +was forthwith decreed by Napoleon. In 1826, his +statue was erected in Cambray, and three years +after, a memorial more eloquent than any statue, a +selection from his works, exhibiting the leading features +of his mind, bore witness of his power and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +goodness to this western world. The graceful +monument which the wife of Follen thus reared to +his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing +with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of +decay.</p> + +<p>To any conversant with that little work, or with +the larger productions of Fenelon's mind, need I +say a single word of tribute to his character or gifts? +Yet something must be said to show the compass of +his character, for common eulogium is too indiscriminate +in praise, exaggerating certain amiable +graces at the expense of more commanding virtues.</p> + +<p>He was remarkable for the harmony of his various +qualities. In his intellect, reason, understanding, +fancy, imagination, were balanced in an almost +unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his character +showed itself alike in the exquisite propriety +of his writings and the careful and generous economy +of his substance. He died without property +and without debt. Some critics have denied him +the praise of philosophical depth. They should +rather say, that his love of prying analytically into +the secret principles of things was counterbalanced +by the desire to exhibit principles in practical combination, +and by his preference of truth and virtue +in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or +metaphysical dissection. He could grapple wisely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +with the fatalism of Malebranche and the pantheism +of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he +could hold an even argument with the terrible Bossuet +on the essence of Christianity. He preferred, +however, to exhibit under forms far more winning +than controversy, his views of human agency, divine +power, and Christian love. The beautiful structure +of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not the +graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical +ideas. It is like the covering which the Creator +has thrown around the human frame, not to disguise +its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and +to ease and beautify its action. With this reservation, +we will allow it to be said that his mind was +more graceful than strong.</p> + +<p>His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. +Piety and humanity, dignity and humility, justice +and mercy, blended in the happiest equilibrium. +His gentleness never led him to forget due self-respect, +or forego any opportunity of speaking unwelcome +truths. Bossuet and Louis, in their pride, +as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attachment, +had more than one occasion to recognize the +singular truthfulness of this gentle spirit. Measured +by prevalent standards, his character may be said +to lack one element—fear. His life was love. The +text that the beloved disciple drew from his Mas<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>ter's +bosom was the constant lesson of his soul: +"He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is +love."</p> + +<p>His active powers were great, for he filled with +efficiency posts of duty so various as to call for different +orders of ability. Priest, preceptor, prelate, +as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he +was eminent in every capacity, and in each sphere +took something from his distinction by being rival +of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all—allowing +to other men superior excellence in single +departments—where can we find a man on the +whole so perfect as he was?</p> + +<p>I am well aware that he has not escaped disparagement, +and that the animadversions of his contemporary, +St. Simon, have been more than repeated +in the suspicions of the over-skeptical historian +Michelet. True, that the courtesy that won +the hearts alike of master and servant, the high-born +lady who sought his society and the broken-spirited +widow who asked his Christian counsel, +has been ascribed to a love of praise that rejoiced +in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy +that desired every person's suffrage. True, that his +self-denial has been called a deep self-interest that +would win high honors by refusing to accept the +less rewards. True, that his piety has sometimes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +been called sentimentalism, and an alloy of baser +emotion has been hinted at as running through +some of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, +that he has been called very politic and ambitious. +We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor +do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we +maintain that he was every inch a man.</p> + +<p>But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspicion +that doubts from the habit of doubting of virtue, +but by the spirit of his whole life. That life, +from beginning to end, was an example of the virtue +commended by our Lord in his charge to his +apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of +wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with +the gentleness of the dove. Whatever failings he +may have had he conquered. His course was ever +onward to the mark whither he deemed himself +called of God.</p> + +<p>We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, +as if his sweetness of temper were sometimes at the +expense of his manliness, and we could easily spare +some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of +hearty, even if bitter, indignation. To his credit, +however, be it said, that with him gentle speech was +often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most +resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences +of the great whom rudeness would offend and inele<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>gance +disgust. Recent discoveries have given ample +proof of his unflinching boldness to the French +Court. During his banishment (1694-97) he wrote +that masterly and fearless letter to Louis XIV., +which was not discovered until 1825, and which the +most earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, +we believe, seems to have noted. Than these intrepid +words, Christian heroism cannot further go.</p> + +<p>Would that there were time to speak of his works +in their various departments, especially those in the +departments of education, social morals, and religion.</p> + +<p>No name stands above his among the leaders in +the great cause of education. None surpass him in +the power with which he defended the mind of +woman from the impoverishing and distorting systems +prevalent in his day, and by his example and +pen taught parents to educate their daughters in a +manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and +blend grace with utility. None went before him +in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate boyhood +into tenderness, and with all modern improvements +our best teachers may find in his works a +mine of knowledge and incentive both in their tasks +of instruction and discipline.</p> + +<p>In social morals he was a great reformer; not, +indeed, so remarkable for being engrossed with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +some favorite innovation, as for urging the constant +need of applying Christian truth and duty to every +social institution. He rebuked the passion for war, +by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of combatants, +and by his instructions struck at the root +of warfare in the councils of princes. We may well +be amazed at his political wisdom, and taught more +emphatically than ever that we are to look for this +not to the hack-politicians who think only of the +cabals of the moment, but to the sage men who interpret +the future from the high ground of reason +and right. His political papers embody the lessons +that France has since learned by a baptism of blood. +Hardly a single principle now deemed necessary for +the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, +that cannot be found expressed or implied in Fenelon's +various advice to the royal youth under his +charge. Well may the better minds of France and +Christendom honor his name for the noble liberality +with which he qualified the mild conservatism +so congenial with his temperament, creed and position.</p> + +<p>As a theologian, he constantly breathes one engrossing +sentiment. With him, Christianity was +the love of God and its morality was the love of the +neighbor. Judged by occasional expressions, his +piety might seem too ascetic and mystical—too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +urgent of penance and self-crucifixion—too enthusiastic +in emotion, perilling the sobriety of reason +in the impassioned fervors of devotion—sometimes +bordering upon that overstrained spiritualism, +which, in its impulsive flights, is so apt to lose its +just balance and sink to the earth and the empire +of the senses. He has written some things that prudence, +nay, wisdom, might wish to erase. But, +qualified by other statements, and above all, interpreted +by his own life, his religion appears in its +true proportion—without gloom, without extravagance. +To his honor be it spoken, that in an age +when priests and prelates eminent for saintly piety +sanctioned the scourging and death of heretics, and +enforced the Gospel chiefly by the fears of perdition, +Fenelon was censured for dwelling too much on the +power of love, that perfect charity that casteth out +fear. It may, perhaps, be a failing with him that +he had too little sympathy with the fears and passions +of men, and appreciated too little the more +sublime and terrible aspects of Divine Providence. +His mind was tuned too gently to answer to all of +the grandest music of our humanity, and we must +abate something of our admiration of him for his +want of loyalty to the new ages of Christian thought +and heroism. He evidently loved Virgil more than +Dante, Cicero more than Chrysostom, and thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +the Greek Parthenon, in its horizontal lines and +sensuous beauty, a grander and more perfect structure, +alike in plan and execution, than Notre Dame +or Strasbourg Cathedral, with its uplifting points +and spiritual sublimity. He was a Christianized +Greek, who had exchanged the philosopher's robe +for the archbishop's surplice.</p> + +<p>Viewing him now on the whole, considering at +once his gifts and graces of mind, and heart, and +will; his offerings upon the altar of learning, +humanity and religion, we sum up our judgment in +a single saying. He worshipped God in the <i>beauty</i> +of holiness. His whole being, with all its graces +and powers so harmoniously combined, was an +offering to God that men cannot but admire and +the Most High will not despise.</p> + +<p>We may not take leave of Fenelon without +applying to our times the teachings of his spirit, +the lesson of his life. However rich the topic in +occasion for controversial argument, we defer all +strife to the inspiration of his gentle and loving +wisdom. Let an incident connected with the tomb +of Fenelon furnish us an emblem of the spirit in +which we shall look upon his name. His remains +were deposited in the vault beneath the main altar +at which he had so often ministered. It would +seem as if some guardian-angel shielded them from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +desecration. Eighty years passed and the Reign +of Terror came upon France in retribution for her +falsity to her best advisers. The allied armies were +marshalling their hosts against the new republic. +Every means must be used to add to the public +resources, and the decree went forth that even the +tombs should be robbed of their coffins. The republican +administrator of the District of Cambray, +Bernard Cannonne, in company with a butcher and +two artillery-men, entered the cathedral and went +down into the vault which held the ashes of so +many prelates. The leaden coffins with their contents +were carried away and placed upon the cars; +but when they came to the inclosure whose tablet +bore the name of Fenelon, and lifted it from its +bed, it appeared that the lead had become unsoldered +and they could take away the coffin and leave +the sacred dust it had contained. Years passed, +and the reign of Napoleon bringing a better day, +rebuked the Vandalism that would dishonor all +greatness and spoil even its grave. The facts regarding +the acts of desecration were legally ascertained +and the bones of the good archbishop +triumphantly reserved for a nobler than the +ancient sepulchre. There was a poetical justice in +the preservation of them from violence. It was +well that the bloody revolutionists who went to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +tombs for metal to furnish their arsenals, were +made, in spite of themselves, to respect the ashes of +one whose counsels of duty heeded would have +averted that revolution by a system of timely concessions +and benignant legislation.</p> + +<p>Now that we virtually draw near the resting-place +of this good man, let it not be to furnish material +for bullets of lead or paper to hurl against theological +antagonists. Appreciating the beauty of his +spirit, let us learn and apply the rebuke and encouragement +it affords. A genius so rare we may +not hope to approach or imitate. Graces still more +precious and imitable are associated with that +genius and create its highest charm. Our time has +been worse than thrown away, and our study of his +works and his biographies has been in vain, if we +are not better, more wise, and earnest, and gentle +for the page of history, the illustration of divine +providence that has now come before us. Placed +in the most perplexing relations, he never lost hold +of the calm wisdom that was his chosen guide. +Exposed to the most irritating provocations, he +never gave up the gentle peacefulness of his +spirit.</p> + +<p>Our age is not peculiarly ecclesiastical, yet we +have not done with the church and its teachers. +Many a time of late we have had cause to think<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +with regret of the persuasive eloquence of the Archbishop +of Cambray, of the sacred Art that could +make truth lovely to wayward youth, and religion +beautiful to hard and skeptical manhood. Has it +not sometimes seemed as if ambitious prelacy had +forgotten the purer example for the baser, and +copied Bossuet's pride instead of Fenelon's charity? +Nay, has not priestly assumption coveted the talons +and forgotten the wings of the Eagle of Meaux and +lost sight wholly of the Dove of Cambray? What +government or ruler in Christendom would not be +the better for a counsellor as eloquent and fearless +as he who dared rebuke without reserve the great +Louis of France in words like these:</p> + +<p>"You do not love God; you do not even fear +him but with a slave's fear; it is hell and not God +whom you fear. Your religion consists but in superstitions, +in petty superficialities. You are like the +Jews, of whom God said: <i>'Whilst they honor me +with their lips, their hearts are far from me.'</i> You +are scrupulous upon trifles and hardened upon terrible +evils. You love only your own glory and +comfort. You refer everything to yourself as if you +were the God of the earth, and everything else here +created only to be sacrificed to you. It is you, on +the contrary, whom God has put into the world +only for your people."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="POEMS_1" id="POEMS_1"></a>POEMS.</h2> + +<h4>BY MRS. GEORGE P. MARSH.</h4> +<h3>I.</h3> +<h3>EXCELSIOR.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The earnest traveller, who would feed his eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To fullness of content on Nature's charms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Must not forever pace the easy plain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No! he must climb the rugged mountain's side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor fear to plunge in it's eternal snows.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet, if he be wise, he will not choose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find the doubtful way alone, lest night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'ertake him wandering, and her icy breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chill him to marble; not alone will risk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His foot unwonted on the glassy bed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of rifted glacier, lest a step amiss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Should hurl him headlong down some fissure dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That yawns unseen—thence to arise no more.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mounts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From peak to peak in safety, though with toil.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once on the lofty summit, he beholds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A glory in earth's kingdom all undreamed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shut the old horizon down so close;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, lo! a world is lying at his feet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A world without a flaw! What late he held<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But as discordant fragments, now show forth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From this high vantage ground, the perfect parts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a harmonious whole! He would not dare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To change one line in all that picture marvellous<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'erhung by the great sun that gildeth all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And thou! If thou would'st truly feast thy soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the things invisible of Him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who made the visible, fear not to tread<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The awful heights of Thought! not to thyself<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But following where Faith enlightened leads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But never toil did win reward so rich<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As that she findeth here. At every step<br /></span> +<span class="i0">New prospects open, and new wonders shine!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mount higher still, and whatsoe'er thy pains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou'lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Visions of truth and beauty shall arise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So multiplied, so glorified, so vast,<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span><span class="i0">That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lighted forever by the throne of God."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>II.</h3> +<h3>FABLE.</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A widow, feeble, old and lonely,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Whose flock once numbered many a score,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Had now remaining to her only<br /></span> +<span class="i1">One little lamb, and nothing more.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And every morning forced to send it<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To scanty pastures far away,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">With prayers and tears did she commend it<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the good saint that named the day.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Nor so in vain; each kindly patron,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Still mindful of the helpless matron,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Brought home her lambkin safe at eve.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All-Saints' day dawned; with faith yet stronger,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">On the whole hallowed choir the dame<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Doth call—to one she prays no longer,—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">That day the wolf devoured the lamb!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_STORY_OF_VENICE" id="A_STORY_OF_VENICE"></a>A STORY OF VENICE.</h2> + +<h4>BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.</h4> +<h3>I.</h3> +<p>When I was in Venice I knew the Marchesa +Negropontini. Many strangers knew her twenty +and thirty years ago. In my time she was old and +somewhat withdrawn from society; but as I had +been a fellow-student and friend of her grand-nephew +in Vienna, I was admitted into her house +familiarly, until the old lady felt as kindly toward +me, as if I, too, had been a nephew.</p> + +<p>Italian life and character are different enough +from ours. They are traditionally romantic. But we +are apt to disbelieve in the romance which we hear +from those concerned. I cannot disbelieve, since I +knew this sad, stern Italian woman. Can you disbelieve, +who have seen Titian's, and Tintoretto's, +and Paolo Veronese's portraits of Venetian women? +You, who have floated about the canals of Venice?</p> + +<p>I was an American boy; and my very utter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +strangeness probably made it easier for the +Marchesa Negropontini to tell me the story, which I +now relate. She told it to me as we sat one evening +in the balcony of her house, the palazzo Orfeo, +on the Grand Canal.</p> + + +<h3>II.</h3> +<p>The Marchesa sat for a long time silent, and we +watched the phantom life of the city around us. +Presently she sighed deeply and said:</p> + +<p>"Ah, me! it is the eve of the Purification. My +son, seventy years ago to-day the woman was born +whose connection with the house of Negropontini +has shrouded it in gloom, like the portrait you have +seen in the saloon. Seventy years ago to-day my +father's neighbor, the Count Balbo, saw for the first +time the face of the first daughter his wife had given +him. The countess lay motionless—the flame of +existence flickered between life and death.</p> + +<p>"'Adorable Mother of God!' said the count, as +he knelt by her bedside, 'if thou restorest my wife, +my daughter shall be consecrated to thy service.'</p> + +<p>"The slow hours dragged heavily by. The +mother lived.</p> + +<p>"My brother Camillo and I were but two and +four years older than our little neighbor. We were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +children together, and each other's playmates. +When the little neighbor, Sulpizia Balbo, was fourteen, +Camillo was eighteen. My son, the sky of +Venice never shone on a more beautiful girl, on a +youth more grave and tender. He loved her with +his whole soul. Gran' Dio! 'tis the old, old story!</p> + +<p>"She was proud, wayward, passionate, with a +splendor of wit and unusual intelligence. He was +calm, sweet, wise; with a depthless tenderness of +passion. But Sulpizia inherited her will from her +father, and at fourteen she was sacrificed to the +vow he had made. She was buried alive in the +convent of our Lady of the Isle, and my brother's +heart with her.</p> + + +<h3>III.</h3> +<p>"Sulpizia's powerful nature chafed in the narrow +bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious +education assured her that that discipline was so +much the more necessary, and she struggled with +the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were +shocked and surprised, at one moment by her surpassing +fervor, at another by her bold and startling +protests against their miserable bondage.</p> + +<p>"Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the +chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +tears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing +and throbbing with the melancholy music, while +the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the +religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and +gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved +her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze; +but they trembled in the power of her denunciation, +which shook their faith to the centre, for it +seemed to be the voice of a faith so much profounder.</p> + +<p>"While she was yet young she was elected abbess +of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her +powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may +have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he +never betrayed repentance. Perhaps he would +have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant +worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but +he never said so.</p> + +<p>"Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I +think she loved him—at least I thought so.</p> + +<p>"The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the +superior genius which commanded them also consoled +and counselled; and her protests becoming +less frequent, her persuasive affection won all +their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth +slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became +even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +shadow fell gently over her life. The sisters +thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. +Others thought it was care; but her duties could not +harass such a spirit. Others thought it was repentance; +but natures like hers do not early repent.</p> + +<p>"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess +should be painted, and the nuns applied to her +parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted +my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the +family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, +have willingly unvowed his vow. Camillo had +left Venice as the great door of the convent closed +behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. +He lost himself in new scenes, in new employments. +He took the wings of the morning, and +flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> and there +he found—himself. So he returned an older and a +colder man. His love, which had been a passion, +seemed to settle into a principle. His life was +consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare +to have a hope.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.</p></div> + +<p>"He brought with him a friend whom he had met +in the East. Together upon the summit of the +great pyramid they had seen the day break over +Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened for +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>Memnon to gush with music as the sun struck him +with his rod of light. Together they had travelled +over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence +only with words that did not profane it. My +brother conversing with wise sadness—his friend +Luigi with hope and enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother +was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of +pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a rare +and noble friendship. Rare, because pride often +interferes with friendships among men, where all +conditions are not equal. Noble, because the two +men were so, although only one had the name and +the means of a nobleman. But he shared these +with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his +thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the +past. My brother had rolled a stone over the +mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied +with the suggestions and the richness of the life +around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell +forward upon their path from the past, it served to +Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.</p> + +<p>"'This is my memory,' he would say, touching +his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. +'These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself +written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon +your languid lagunes.'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It was not difficult for my brother to persuade +Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not +forget the night they came, as long as I remember +anything."</p> + +<p>The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily.</p> + +<p>"It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at +length, pausing again. After a little, she resumed:</p> + +<p>"We were ignorant of the probable time of +Camillo's return; and about sunset my mother, my +younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the +Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, containing +two persons only beside the rowers, followed +by another with trunks and servants. I have +always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, +for no other city in the world can be entered with +such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at +the new comers before I recognized my brother, +and was fascinated by the appearance of his companion, +who lay in a trance of delight with the +beauty of the place and the hour.</p> + +<p>"His long hair flowed from under his slouched +hat, hanging about a face that I cannot describe; +and his negligent travelling dress did not conceal +the springing grace of his figure. But to me, +educated in Venice, associated only with its silent, +stately nobles; a child, early solemnized by the +society of decay and of elders whose hearts were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +never young, to me the magnetic charm of the +young man was his youth, and I gazed at him +with the same admiring earnestness with which he +looked at the city and the scene.</p> + +<p>"The gondolas constantly approached. My brother +lay lost in thoughts which were visible in the +shadow they cast upon his features. His head +rested upon his hand, and he looked fixedly toward +the island on which the convent stands. A light +summer cloak was drawn around him, and hid his +figure entirely, except his arm and hand. His cap +was drawn down over his eyes. He was not conscious +of any being in the world but Sulpizia.</p> + +<p>"Suddenly from the convent tower the sound of +the vesper bell trembled in throbbing music over +the water. It seemed to ring every soul to prayer. +My brother did not move. He still gazed intently +at the island, and the tears stole from his eyes. +Luigi crossed himself. We did the same, and murmured +an Ave Maria.</p> + +<p>"'Heavens! Camillo!' cried my mother, suddenly. +He started, and was so near that there was +a mutual recognition. In a moment the gondolas +were side by side, and the greetings of a brother +and sisters and mother long parted, followed. +Meanwhile, Camillo's companion remained silent, +having respectfully removed his hat, and looking as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +if he felt his presence to be profane at such a +moment. But my brother turned, and taking him +by the hand, said:</p> + +<p>"'Dear mother, I might well have stayed away +from you twice as long, could I have hoped to find +a friend like this.'</p> + +<p>"His companion smiled at the generosity of his +introduction. He greeted us all cordially and +cheerfully, and the light fading rapidly, we rowed +on in the early starlight. The gondolas slid side by +side, and there was a constant hum of talk.</p> + +<p>"I alone was silent. I felt a sympathy with +Camillo which I had never known before. The +tears came into my eyes as I watched him gently +conversing with my mother, turning now and then +in some conversation with Luigi and my younger +sister. How I watched Luigi! How I caught the +words that were not addressed to me! How my +heart throbbed at his sweet, humorous laugh, in +which my sister joined, while his eyes wandered +wonderingly toward mine, as if to ask why I was so +silent. I tried to see that they fastened upon me with +special interest. I could not do it. Gracious and +gentle to all, I could not perceive that his manner +toward me was different, and I felt a new sorrow.</p> + +<p>"So we glided over the Lagune into the canal, +and beneath the balconied palaces, until we reached<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +our own. The gondolas stopped. Luigi leaped out +instantly upon the broad marble pavement, and +assisted my mother to alight, then my sister. Then +I placed my hand in his, and my heart stood still. +It was a moment, but it was also an age. The +next instant I stood free upon the step. Free—but +bound forever.</p> + +<p>"We were passing up the staircase into the +palace, Luigi plucked an orange bud and handed it +to me. I was infinitely happy!</p> + +<p>"A few steps further, and he broke an acacia for +my sister: ah! I was miserable!</p> + +<p>"We ascended into the great saloon, and a cheerful +evening followed. Fascinated by these first +impressions of Venice, Luigi abandoned himself to +his abundant genius, and left us at midnight, +mutually enchanted. Youth and sympathy had +overcome all other considerations. We had planned +endless days of enjoyment. He had promised to +show us his sketches. It was not until our mother +asked of my brother who he was, that all the +human facts appeared.</p> + +<p>"'Heavens!' shouted my younger sister, Fiora, +laughing with delight, 'think of the <i>noble</i> Marchese +Cicada, who simpers, <i>per Bacco</i>, that the day is +warm, and, <i>per dieci</i>, that I am lovelier than ever. +Viva Luigi! Viva O il pittore.'</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span></p> +<p>"'My daughter,' said my grave, cautious mother, +'you are very young yet—you do not understand +these things. Good night, my child!'</p> + +<p>"Fiora kissed her on the brow, and darted out of +the room as if she were really alive.</p> + +<p>"When she had gone, Camillo smiled in his cold, +calm way, and turning to me, asked how I liked +Luigi. I answered calmly, for I was of the same +blood as my brother. I did not disguise how much +superior I thought him to the youth I knew. I +was very glad he had found such a friend, and +hoped the young man would come often to see us, +and be very successful in his profession.</p> + +<p>"Then I was silent. I did not say that I had +never lived until that evening. I did not say how +my heart was chilled, because, in leaving the room, +Luigi's last glance had not been for me, but for +Fiora.</p> + +<p>"Camillo did not praise him much. It was not +his way; but I felt how deeply he honored and +loved him, and was rejoiced to think that necessity +would often bring us together; only my mother +seemed serious, and I knew what her gravity meant.</p> + +<p>"'Do not be alarmed, dear mother,' I said to her, +as I was leaving the room.</p> + +<p>"'My daughter,' she answered, with infinite +pride, 'it is not possible. I do not understand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +you. And you, my daughter, you do not understand +yourself nor the world."</p> + +<p>"She was mistaken. Myself I did understand; +the world I did not."</p> + +<p>Again the Marchesa was silent and tears stood in +her eyes. She was seventy years old. Yes, but in +love's calendar there is no December.</p> + +<p>"The days passed, and we saw Luigi constantly. +He was very busy, but found plenty of time to be +with us. His paintings were full of the same kind +of power I felt in his character. He never wearied +of the gorgeous atmospheric effects of which +Titian and Paul, Giorgione and Tintoretto were the +old worshippers. They touched him sometimes +with a voluptuous melancholy in which he found +a deeper inspiration.</p> + +<p>"Every day I loved him more and more, and +nobody suspected it. He did not, because he was +only glad to be in my society when he wanted +criticism. He liked me as an intelligent woman. +He loved Fiora as a bewitching child.</p> + +<p>"My mother watched us all, and soon saw there +was nothing to fear. I sought to be lively—to +frequent society; for I knew if my health failed I +should be sent away from Venice and Luigi. He +had given me a drawing—a scene composed from +our first meeting upon the Lagune. The very soul<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +of evening repose brooded upon the picture. It +had even an indefinable tone of sadness, as if he +had incorporated into it the sound of the vesper +bell. It had been simply a melancholy sound to +him. To the rest of us, who loved Camillo, it was +something more than that. In his heart the mere +remembrance of the island rang melancholy vespers +forever.</p> + +<p>"This drawing I kept in a private drawer. At +night, when I went to my chamber, I opened the +drawer and looked at it. It lay so that I did not +need to touch it; and as I gazed at it, I saw all his +own character, and all that I had felt and lived +since that evening.</p> + +<p>"At length the day came, on which the parents +of Sulpizia came to my brother to speak of her +portrait. Camillo listened to them quietly, and +mentioned his friend Luigi as a man who could +understand Sulpizia, and therefore paint her portrait. +The parents were satisfied. It was an +unusual thing; but at that time, as at all times, a +great many unusual things could be done in +convents, especially if one had a brother, who +was Cardinal Balbo.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + +<h3>IV.</h3> +<p>"It was a bright morning that Camillo carried +Luigi in his gondola to the convent. He had +merely said to him that there was a beautiful +abbess to paint, an old friend of his; and Luigi +replied that he would always willingly desert +beautiful waters and skies for beautiful eyes. They +reached the island"—</p> + +<p>The Marchesa beat the floor slowly with her foot, +and controlled herself, as if a spasm of mortal +agony had seized her.</p> + +<p>"They reached the island, and stepped ashore +into the convent garden. They went into the little +parlor, and presently the abbess entered veiled. +My brother, who had not seen her since she was his +playmate, could not pierce the veil; and as calmly +as ever told her briefly the name of his friend, said +a few generous words of him, and, rising, promised +to call at sunset for Luigi, and departed."</p> + +<p>The Marchesa now spoke very rapidly.</p> + +<p>"I do not well know—nobody knows—but +Sulpizia raised her veil, and Luigi adjusted his +easel. He painted—they conversed—the day fled +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>away. Sunset came. Camillo arrived in his +gondola, and Luigi came out without smiling. The +gondoliers pulled toward the city.</p> + +<p>"'Is she beautiful?' asked Camillo.</p> + +<p>"'Wonderful,' responded his friend, and said no +more. He trailed his hands in the water, and then +wiped them across his brow. He took off his hat +and faced the evening breeze from the sea. He +cried to the gondoliers that they were lazy—that +the gondola did not move. It was darting like a +wind over the water.</p> + +<p>"The next day they returned to the island—and +the next. But at sunset, Luigi did not come to the +gondola. Camillo waited, and sat until it was quite +dark. Then he went through the garden of the +convent, and inquired for the painter. They sought +him in the parlor. He was not there. The abbess +was not there. Upon the easel stood her portrait +partly finished—strangely beautiful. Camillo had +followed into the room, and stood suddenly before +the picture. He had not seen Sulpizia since she +was a child. Even his fancy had scarcely dreamed +of a face so beautiful. His knees trembled as he +stood, and he fell before it in the attitude of prayer. +The last red flash of daylight fell upon the picture. +The eyes smiled—the lips were slightly parted—a +glow of awakening life trembled all through the +features.</p> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> +<p>"The strong man's heart was melted, and the +nuns beheld him kneeling and weeping before the +portrait of their abbess.</p> + +<p>"But where was she?</p> + +<p>"Nobody knew. There was no clue—except that +the gondola of the convent was gone.</p> + +<p>"Camillo took the portrait and stepped into his +gondola. He returned to the city, to the palace of +Sulpizia's parents. Slowly he went up the great +staircase, dark and silent, up which his eager steps +had followed the flying feet of Sulpizia. He +entered the saloon slowly, like a man who carries a +heavy burden—but rather in his heart than in his +hands.</p> + +<p>"'It is all that remains to you of your daughter,' +said he in a low voice, throwing back his cloak, +and revealing the marvellous beauty of their child's +portrait to the amazed parents. Then came the +agony—a child lost—a friend false.</p> + +<p>"Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt +my heart wither and grow old. My mother was +grieved in her heart for her son's sorrow—in her +pride for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile +any more. Her step was no longer bounding upon +the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she +married the Marchese Cicada.</p> + +<p>"The next day, Camillo returned to the island.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +The abbess had not returned, nor had any tidings +been received. Only the gondola had been found +in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. +A new abbess was chosen. The church did not +dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no proof +that she had willingly gone away. It might be +supposed—it could not be proved. Camillo hung +in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a black +veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He +did not seem altered. He was still calm and +grave—still cold and sweet in his general intercourse.</p> + +<p>"My friendship with him became more intimate. +He saw that I was much changed—for although +pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the +head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. +People who suffer intensely often forget that there +are other sufferers in the world, you know. +Camillo was very tender toward me, for he thought +that I was paying the penalty of too warm a +sympathy with him, and often begged me not to +wear away my health and youth in commiseration +for what was past and hopeless. I cultivated my +consciousness of his suffering as a defence against +my own. We never mentioned the names of either +of those of whom we were always thinking; but +once in many months he would call me into his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +chamber and remove the veil from the portrait, +while we stood before it as silent as devotees in a +church before the picture of the Madonna. Camillo +pursued his affairs—the cares of his estate—the +duties of society. He assembled all the strangers +of distinction at his table. Yes, it was a rare and +great triumph.</p> + +<p>"For myself, I was mistress of my secret, and I +reveal it to you for the first time. Why not? I +am seventy years old. You know none of the +persons—you hear it as you would read a romance. +My heart was broken—my faith was lost—and I +have never met since any one who could restore it. +I distrust the sweetest smile if it move me deeply, +and although men may sometimes be sincere, yet +sorrow is so sure that we must steer by memory, +not by hope. In this world we must not play that +we are happy. That play has a frightful forfeit. +Society is wise. It eats its own children, whose +consolation is that after this world there is another—and +a better, say the priests. Of course—for it +could not be a worse.</p> + + +<h3>V.</h3> +<p>"Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was +in his library when a messenger came for him from +her parents. He ran breathless and pale to his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +gondola. The man was conquered in that moment +and the wild passion of the boy flamed up again. +When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a +moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the +calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is +kind in that to her noble children. Their regrets, +their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she +does not reveal to those who cause them. Every +man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man +is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood +Sulpizia with her parents.</p> + +<p>"Death and victory were in her eyes. They +were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved +features, from which the flesh had fallen during the +long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as +marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weakness, +but not a muscle moved.</p> + +<p>"Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the +woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it +was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind +their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Venice—cold +and still.</p> + +<p>"'Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a tone not +to be described, but seemingly destitute of emotion—as +the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it—'he +has left me.'</p> + +<p>"Child, I have not fathomed the human heart;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span> +but after a long, long silence my brother answered +only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of +sacrifice:</p> + +<p>"'Sulpizia, will you marry me?'</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>"Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome, +and after a short time they were married. I was +the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, +who were glad enough so to cover what they called +their daughter's shame. My mother would not +come, but left Venice that very day and died +abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were +not comprehended; but the old friends of the family +came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, +which my brother scrupulously returned.</p> + +<p>"You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of +mournful peace after the dark days of the last few +years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without +smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight. +She faded day by day. It was clear to us +that the end was not far away.</p> + +<p>"Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying +upon a couch in the room behind us, where you +have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my +brother's chamber. All the long windows and +doors were open and we sat by her side, talking +gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span> +but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, +there was one bitter drop that had been spared +him.</p> + +<p>"Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the +deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her +face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and +bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while +she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her +eyes were open and her glance was toward the +window, but her few words showed her mind to be +wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips +moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's +face and drew it toward her own with infinite +tenderness. His listening soul heard one word +only—the glimmering phantom of sound—it was +'Luigi.'</p> + +<p>"His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's +eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her +breast. I touched my brother—he started a +moment—looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, +senseless by the couch."</p> + + +<h3>VI.</h3> +<p>Think of it! The birds sing—the sun shines—the +leaves rustle—the flowers bud and bloom—children +shout—young hearts are happy—the world<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +wheels on—and such tragedies are, and always +have been!</p> + +<p>I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony, +and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no +more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it +no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide +in your black gondola along the canal, under the +balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, +listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in +your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_TORTURE_CHAMBER" id="THE_TORTURE_CHAMBER"></a>THE TORTURE CHAMBER.</h2> + +<h4>BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down the broad, imperial Danube,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">As its wandering waters guide,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Past the mountains and the meadows,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Winding with the stream, we glide.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><span class="smcap">Ratisbon</span> we leave behind us,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Where the spires and gables throng,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And the huge cathedral rises,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Like a fortress, vast and strong.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Close beside it, stands the Town-Hall,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With its massive tower, alone,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Brooding o'er the dismal secret,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Hidden in its heart of stone.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There, beneath the old foundations,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lay the prisons of the State,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Like the last abodes of vengeance,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the fabled realms of Fate.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the tides of life above them,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Drifted ever, near and wide,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">As at Venice, round the prisons,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sweeps the sea's incessant tide.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never, like the far-off dashing,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Or the nearer rush of waves,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Came the tread or murmur downward,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To those dim, unechoing caves.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There the dungeon clasped its victim,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And a stupor chained his breath.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Till the torture woke his senses,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With a sharper touch than death.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now, through all the vacant silence,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Reign the darkness and the damp,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Broken only when the traveller<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Comes to gaze, with guide and lamp.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All about him, black and shattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Eaten with the rust of Time,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Lie the fearful signs and tokens<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of an age when Law was Crime.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the guide, with grim precision,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tells the dismal tale once more,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Tells to living men the tortures<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Living men have borne before.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Well that speechless things, unconscious,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Furnish forth that place of dread,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Guiltless of the crimes they witnessed,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Guiltless of the blood they shed;<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Else what direful lamentations,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And what revelations dire,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Ceaseless from their lips would echo,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tossed in memory's penal fire.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Even as we gaze, the fancy<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With a sudden life-gush warms,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And, once more, the Torture Chamber,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With its murderous tenants swarms.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yonder, through the narrow archway,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Comes the culprit in the gloom,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Falters on the fatal threshold—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Totters to the bloody doom.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here the executioner, lurking,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Waits, with brutal thirst, his hour,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Tool of bloodier men and bolder,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Drunken with the dregs of power.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There the careful leech sits patient,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Watching pulse, and hue, and breath,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Weighing life's remaining scruples<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With the heavier chance of death.<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Eking out the little remnant,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Lest the victim die too soon,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And the torture of the morning<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Spare the torture of the noon.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here, behind the heavy grating,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Waiting till the giant terror<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Bursts the secrets of the soul;<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till the fearful tale of treason<br /></span> +<span class="i1">From the shrinking lips is wrung,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Or the final, false confession<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Quivers from the trembling tongue;<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the spirit, torn and tempted,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Tried beyond its utmost scope,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">By an anguish past endurance,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Madly cancels all its hope;<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">From the pointed cliffs of torture,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">With its shrieks upon the air,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Suicidal, plunging blindly,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the frenzy of despair!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> +<div class="poem"> +<div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the grey old tower is fading,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Fades, in sunshine, from the eye,<br /> +</span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span><span class="i0">Like some evil bird whose pinion<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Dimly blots the distant sky.<br /> +</span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So the ancient gloom and terror<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of the ages fade away,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">In the sunlight of the present,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Of our better, purer day!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_HOME_OF_CHARLOTTE_BRONTE" id="THE_HOME_OF_CHARLOTTE_BRONTE"></a>THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË.</h2> + +<h3>A PASSAGE FROM A DIARY.</h3> +<h4>BY W. FRANCIS WILLIAMS.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Such shrines as these are pilgrim shrines—<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Shrines to no code or creed confined;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The Delphian vales, the Palestines,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The Meccas of the mind."<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p class="sig3"><span class="smcap">Halleck</span>.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p>The date is September 5, 1857. I am at Haworth, + whither I had walked from the Bradford + Station, some ten or twelve miles distant. This + Haworth—a place but a few years since quite unknown + to any but the few residing in its immediate + vicinity—is built upon the side of a hill, and, with + its long line of grey houses creeping up the slope, + seems like a huge saurian monster, sprawling along + the hill-side, his head near the top and his tail + reaching nearly to the vale below. At the summit, + in the very head of our saurian, stands Haworth + Parsonage, and the church near by, with the square + old tower rising above the houses that cluster about + it. I well remember my first view of this place. + It was an autumn afternoon, and near sunset. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> sky had been cloudy, but as I stopped to take my + first long look at the little village, so hallowed by + the memory of the Brontë sisters, the declining sun + sent through a breach in the clouds a few spears of + dazzling light, that played about the old church + and parsonage with an ineffable glory. It lasted + but a few moments, the sun went down, and darkness + and night gradually settled over the scene. + The little incident seemed almost like a type of the + life of the gifted woman chiefly to whom Haworth + owes its fame; for her life, like this very day, had + been dark and wearisome, overshadowed by clouds + of cares, tears falling like rain-drops upon new-made + graves, until near its close, when there came + a sweet season of bright domestic happiness, that + lasted too shortly, and then gave place to the darkness + and night of death.</p> +<p>Strolling through the village, after my quiet meal +at the Black Bull Inn, which poor Branwell Brontë +had so often frequented, I stopped to make some +trifling purchases at a stationery store, and casually +asked the proprietor—a small, delicate-looking man, +with a bright eye and a highly intellectual countenance—if +he remembered the Brontë sisters. It +was a fortunate question, for he knew them well, +and was a personal friend of the authoress of Jane +Eyre, to whose handsomely-framed portrait he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +proudly pointed. He had provided her, as he said, +with joyful delight, with the paper on which she +wrote the manuscripts of most of her novels; he is +referred to in one of Miss Brontë's letters to Mrs. +Gaskell, as her "one friend in Haworth," and is +the "working-man" mentioned in her memoirs, +who wrote a little <i>critique</i> on Jane Eyre, that came +to the notice of the authoress and afforded her great +pleasure. To talk of the Brontë girls—to express +his admiration of them to one who had come from +America to visit their home and grave, was to him +a great gratification. He told me how he used to +meet them on the moors—how they were accustomed +to stroll all three together, and talk and +gather flowers; then how Emily died, and Anne +and Charlotte were left to pace the familiar path +arm-in-arm; then how they took Anne away to the +sea-side, whence she never returned, while Charlotte +would take her lonely moorland walk, rapt in sad +contemplation. Sometimes he would meet her on +these occasions, and if he passed by without attracting +her attention, she would chide him when +told of it afterward. She was always so kind, so +good-hearted, and with those she knew, so really +sociable.</p> + +<p>Sunday, with my new friend, I attended the +church. The storm of the day before had cleared<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +away, and even the place of graves looked bright +and cheerful. The churchyard was crowded with +country people from miles around, who sat carelessly +on the long, flat stones that so thickly covered +the ground, waiting for the opening services, while +the parish bell kept up a merry peal. Everything +seemed simple and happy, and I do not wonder +that the Brontës loved their home, with its little +garden of lilac bushes, the old church in front, and +the sweeping moors stretching far behind. On +many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden +the very path I then was treading, and had entered +the church-door; but how few of these simple villagers +knew the treasures of genius showered on +these quiet, reserved sisters!</p> + +<p>The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple; +it can neither be called elegant, comfortable, spacious +nor antique. Old Mr. Brontë was to preach, +and the Rev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a +compliment to a stranger, I had been invited by the +organist of the church to play the organ—a neat little +instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was +while "giving out" the familiar tune of Antioch +that I noticed, in the reflection of a little mirror +placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Brontë had +entered the church, and was passing up the aisle. +He wore the customary black gown, and the lower<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span> +part of his face was quite buried in an enormous +white neckcloth—the most monstrous article of the +kind I had ever beheld. The reflection in that +little mirror I shall never forget. The old man, +walking feebly up the aisle, shading his eyes with +his right hand, and supporting himself with a cane, +the quiet congregation, and the singular dress and +venerable bald head of the old preacher, all formed +a character-picture, that is not often seen. His sermon +was extempore, and consisted of a series of +running paraphrases and simple and touching explanations +upon a few verses selected from the +Lamentations of Jeremiah.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>After church, my friend the stationer walked with +me on the moors. Charlotte Brontë's experience of +the world was so very limited, that in drawing the +characters in her novels, she had to select the real, +living people in the vicinity. Thus, my friend +pointed out one house and another to me as being +the residence of many of the originals of many of +the characters in her works, especially in "Shirley." +Soon, however, our path across the moors took us +out of human habitations, and among the moorland +solitudes the Brontë sisters so fondly loved. Cold +and desolate as they appear from a distance, a nearer +examination proves them to be replete with exqui<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>site +beauty. Delicate heather-blooms carpet the +immense slope, and bend like nodding plumes, +in graceful waves, to the breezes that play heedlessly +down the hill-side. Gay yellow buttercups, +bright purple heath-flowers, and dark bilberries, +vary the general violet tint, while the tiny stems +of these gentle plants spring from rich tufts of +emerald moss, and are pushed aside by the spray-like +leaves of the wild fern. The hum of bees imparts +a half busy, half drowsy sound to the scene, +while far down the long easy slopes are little valleys, +through which trickle talkative brooks, that +sometimes peep between the low foliage on their +margins, and are the next moment lost to sight +behind the crowding bushes. It is no wonder that +Charlotte and her sisters loved their quiet walks +along the moors.</p> + +<p>The next day I bade farewell to Haworth. It is +now frequently included in the route of American +tourists, by many of whom the memory of Charlotte +Brontë is as fondly cherished as by her own +countrymen and women; and Haworth is no longer +the quiet, unknown Yorkshire hamlet that it was a +few years ago.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THORWALDSENS_CHRIST" id="THORWALDSENS_CHRIST"></a>THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST.</h2> + +<h4>BY THE REV. E.A. WASHBURN.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Silent stood the youthful sculptor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gazing on the breathing stone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the chaos of the marble<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into godlike being grown.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But a gloom was on his forehead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In his eye a drooping glance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And at length the heavy sorrow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the lip found utterance:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Holy Art! thy shapes of beauty<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have I carved, but ne'er before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reached my thought a faultless image,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still unbodied would it soar;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still the pure unfound Ideal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Would ensoul a fairer shrine;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In my victory I perish,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And no loftier aim is mine."<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Noble artist! thine the yearning,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thine the great inspiring word,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By the sleepless mind forever<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In its silent watches heard;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the earthly it is pleasure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only earthly ends to gain;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the seeker of the perfect,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To be satisfied is pain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Visions of an untold glory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Milton saw in his eclipse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paradise to outward gazers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lost, with no apocalypse;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holier Christ and veiled Madonnas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Painted were on Raphael's soul;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Melodies he could not utter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'er Bethoven's ear would roll.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ever floats the dim Ideal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far before the longing eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever, as we travel onward,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Boundless the horizon flies;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not the brimming cups of wisdom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can the thirsty spirit slake,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the molten gold in pouring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will the mould in pieces break.<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Voice within our inmost being,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Calling deep to answering deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Midst the life of weary labor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou shalt waken us from sleep!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All our joy is in our Future<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And our motion is our rest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still the True reveals the Truer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still the good foretells the Best.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="JUNE_TWENTY-NINTH_EIGHTEEN_FIFTY-NINE" id="JUNE_TWENTY-NINTH_EIGHTEEN_FIFTY-NINE"></a>JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE.</h2> + +<h4>BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND.</h4> +<p>To talk about the weather is the natural English +and American mode of beginning an acquaintance.</p> + +<p>This day—the one that glares upon us at our +present writing—is eminently able to melt away +what is called the frost of ceremony, and to induce +the primmest of us to throw off all disguises that +can possibly be dispensed with. It is a day to +bring the most sophisticated back to first principles. +The very thought of wrapping anything up in +mystery, to-day, brings a thrill like the involuntary +protest of the soul against cruelty. We are not +even as anxious as usual to cover up our faults. +We hesitate at enveloping a letter.</p> + +<p>The shimmer that lives and moves over yonder +dry fallow, as if ten thousand million fairies were +fanning themselves with midges' wings, fatigues the +eye with a notion of unnecessary exertion. Wiser +seems yon glassy pool, moveless, under heavy, not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +melancholy, boughs. That is reflecting—keeping +one pleasant thought all the time—satisfying itself +with one picture for a whole morning, as we all +did while the "Heart of the Andes" was laid +open to our longing gaze. The pool has the +advantage of us, too; for it receives into its waveless +bosom the loveliness of sky and tree without +emotion, while we, gazing on the wondrous transcript +made by mortal man of these measureless +glories, felt our souls stirred, even to pain, with a +sense of the artist's power, and of the amount of +his precious life that must have gone into such a +creation.</p> + +<p>By the way, if we had energy enough to-day to +wish anything, it would be to find ourselves far +away amid flashing seas and wild winds, hunting +icebergs, with Church for our Columbus, his banner +of <i>Excelsior</i> streaming over us, his wondrous eye +piercing the distant wreaths of spray, in search of +domes and pinnacles of opal and lapis lazuli, +turned, now to diamonds, now to marble, by sun +and shade. One whose good fortune it was to be +with the young discoverer at Niagara, came away +with the feeling of having acquired a new sense, by +the potent magic of genius.</p> + +<p>But to-day, Art is nothing—genius is nothing—but +no! that is blasphemous. It is we that are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +nothing—if not stupid. Dullness is the universe. +The grasshoppers are too faint to sing, the birds sit +still on the boughs, waiting for the leaves to fan +them. Children are wilted into silence and slumberous +nonentity; boys do not bathe to-day—they +welter, hour after hour, in the dark water near the +shaded rock. Even they and the tadpoles can +hardly be seen to wriggle. The cow has found a +shade, and, preferring repose to munching, lies +contented under the one great elm mercifully left +in the middle of her pasture.</p> + +<p>A hot day in June is hotter than any other hot +day. It finds us cruelly unguarded. After we +have been gently baked awhile, the crust thus +acquired makes us somewhat tortoise-like and +quiescent. If we were condemned to suffer thirty-nine +stripes, or even only as many as belong to our +flag, would it or would it not be a privilege to take +them by degrees, say one on the first day, two on +the second, four on the third, etc., in the celebrated +progression style, until the whole were accomplished? +Or were it better to have the whole at +once, and so be done with it? In either case, or in +present case, what a blessing to be made pachydermatous! +(a learned word lately acquired by +ladies, though doubtless long familiar to lords).</p> + +<p>But words beginning with the sound of <i>ice</i>, are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> +more agreeable for to-day—such as icicle, isolation, +Islip.</p> + +<p>Some unhappy critic has said that the "icicle +that hangs on Diana's temple" is not colder than +other icicles. We pity him, and would like to try +the comparison to-day. We have already tried +"thinking on the frosty Caucasus," and quite agree +with Claudio—was it, or Romeo, or who?—that +this is of no service in case of fire.</p> + +<p>Delicious music for to-day—the tinkling of ice in +the pitcher, as Susan, slowly and carefully, brings +up-stairs the water we wait for. It were really a +loss to have the way shorter, or the servant a +harum-scarum thing who would dash in with +her precious burden before one knew it was +coming.</p> + +<p>We might try, to-day, the latest novelty in +cookery, a ball of solid ice wrapped in puff-paste, +and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown +while the ice remains unmelted.</p> + +<p>Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, +as old as Mrs. Glasse, at least—the roasting of a +pound of butter, an operation not unlike the very +work we are engaged in at this moment—indeed so +like it, that the remembrance has occurred several +times. Your pound of butter is to be thoroughly +crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +put upon the spit and turned before a very hot fire; +the unhappy cook standing by to dredge on crumbs +continually, to prevent the slippery article from +running away. When the crumbs (and cook) are +quite roasted, the thing is done.</p> + +<p>And so should we be, but that here comes a +thunder storm, fit conclusion for an intense day, +and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up +which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships. +Thick clouds, shaped like piles of cannon +balls, have slowly peered up from behind the +horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, +spreading and gathering as they went. Now and +then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if +we were conversing, we should not notice it; and +an occasional flash of lightning seems, in the sun's +glare, like the waving of a curtain by the fitful +breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there. +The cloud masses gather fresh and fresh accession +as they move on, like revolutionary armies marching +up to battle. Looking overhead, there seems a +field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in +motion, forming themselves into solid phalanx, and +giving more and more dreadful notes of preparation. +Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light +that announces them is as if the adamantine arch +were riven, disclosing dread splendors unspeakable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +Most grand, most beautiful storm! New music—that +of the delicious rain, and in such abundance +that it washes away the very memory of the +parched and burning day. No wild commotion, +no terror! Sublime order and an awe which is like +peace. One more proof of the unfailing, tender +love of our heavenly Father.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="NO_SONGS_IN_WINTER" id="NO_SONGS_IN_WINTER"></a>NO SONGS IN WINTER.</h2> + +<h4>BY T. B. ALDRICH.</h4> +<p class="style1">I.</p> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The robin and the oriole,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The linnet and the wren—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">When shall I see their fairyships,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And hear their songs again?<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p class="tile1"><b>II.</b></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The wind among the poplar trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">At midnight, makes its moan;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">The slim red cardinal flowers are dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And all sweet things are flown!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p class="tile1"><b>III.</b></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A great white face looks down from heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The great white face of Snow;<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">I cannot sing or morn or even,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">The demon haunts me so!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<p class="tile1"><b>IV.</b></p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It strikes me dumb, it freezes me,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">I sing a broken strain—<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Wait till the robins and the wrens<br /></span> +<span class="i1">And the linnets come again!<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_BENI-ISRAEL" id="THE_BENI-ISRAEL"></a>THE BENI-ISRAEL.</h2> + +<h4>BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Crammed—lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heads piled on heads at every door.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The actors were a painted group,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of statue shapes, a "model" troupe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With figures not severely Greek,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drapery more or less antique;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The play, if one might call it so,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A Hebrew tale, in silent show.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And with the throng the pageant drew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There mingled Hebrews, not a few,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Coarse, swarthy, bearded—at their side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If scarce a Christian hope for grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That crowds one in his narrow place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What will the savage victim do,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose ribs are kneaded by a <span class="smcap">Jew</span>?<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Close on my left, a breathing form<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat wedged against me, soft and warm;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vulture-beaked and dark-browned face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Betrays the mould of Abraham's race;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That coal-black hair—and bistred hue—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I started, shuddering to the right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And squeezed—a second Israelite!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then rose the nameless words that slip<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From darkening soul to whitening lip.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The snaky usurer,—him that crawls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cheats beneath the golden balls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I stabbed them deep with muttered oaths:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spawn of the rebel wandering horde<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That stoned the saints, and slew their Lord!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up came their murderous deeds of old—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grisly story Chaucer told,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And many an ugly tale beside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of children caught and crucified.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the ducat-sweating thieves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thrust beyond the tented green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The leper's cry, "Unclean, unclean!"<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The show went on, but, ill at ease,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My sullen eye it could not please;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In vain the haggard outcast knelt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white-haired patriarch's heart to melt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I thought of Judas and his bribe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And steeled my soul against his tribe.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My neighbors stirred; I looked again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full on the younger of the twain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A soft young cheek of olive brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A lip just flushed with youthful down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Locks dark as midnight, that divide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shade the neck on either side;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An eye that wears a moistened gleam,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like starlight in a hidden stream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So looked that other child of Shem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That flows untainted from the Flood!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scum of the nations! In thy pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, lo! the very semblance there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!<br /></span> +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I see that radiant image rise,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The midnight hair, the starlit eyes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The faintly-crimsoned cheek that shows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stain of Judah's dusky rose.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy hands would clasp His hallowed feet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy lips would press His garment's hem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That curl in scornful wrath for them!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A sudden mist, a watery screen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dropped like a veil before the scene;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I strove the glistening film to stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wilful tear would have its way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shadow floated from my soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And to my lips a whisper stole,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soft murmuring, as the curtain fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Peace to the Beni-Israel!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="BOCAGES_PENITENTIAL_SONNET" id="BOCAGES_PENITENTIAL_SONNET"></a>BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET.</h2> + +<h5><i>From the Portuguese of Manoel de Barbosa do Bocage.</i></h5> +<h4>BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.</h4> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I've seen my life, without a noble aim,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">In the mad strife of passions waste away.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Fool that I was! to live as if decay<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Would spare the vital essence in my frame!<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">And Hope, whose flattering dreams are now my shame,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Showed years to come, a long and bright array,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Yet all too soon my nature sinks a prey<br /></span> +<span class="i1">To the great evil that with being came.<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Pleasures, my tyrants! now your reign is past:<br /></span> +<span class="i1">My soul, recoiling, casts you off to lie<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">In that abyss where all deceits are cast.<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Oh God! may life's last moments, as they fly,<br /> +</span> +<span class="i0">Win back what years have lost, that he, at last,<br /></span> +<span class="i1">Who knew not how to live, may learn to die.<br /> +</span> +</div></div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Gifts of Genius, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIFTS OF GENIUS *** + +***** This file should be named 17872-h.htm or 17872-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/8/7/17872/ + +Produced by Curtis Weyant, Sankar Viswanathan, and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +(This file was produced from images produced by the Wright +American Fiction Project.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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