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<pre>
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Gifts of Genius, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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
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</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>
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