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Title: Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 1, July 1850
Author: Various
Language: English
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[Illustration: GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
1850.
GEO. R. GRAHAM, EDITOR.
_Devereux, del._ _Hogan and Thompson, pr._
_Lake of Como._]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXVII. July, 1850. No. 1.
Table of Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
The Vital and the Mechanical
For’ard and Aft
Jenny Lind
The Bride of the Battle
Stories from the Old Dramatists
Lucy Leyton
George R. Graham
The Genius of Burns
The Gambler’s Daughter
Woodcock and Woodcock Shooting
The Shark
Review of New Books
Editor’s Table
Poetry, Music, and Fashion
Sonnets
Dara
A Legend of Tyrol
The Lady of Castle Windeck
The Young Mother’s Lament
The Poet’s Prayer
Implora Pace:—A Version
The Fall of the Fairies
The Spirit Lovers and the Spirit Bridal
Lines Written at Night in Cave Hill Cemetery
A Song for a Down-Trodden Land
To Jenny Lind
A Requiem by the Sea
Jenny Lind’s American Polka
Details of the New Fashions in Sacques and
Mantelets
Le Follet
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
CONTENTS
OF THE
THIRTY-SEVENTH VOLUME.
JUNE, 1850, TO JANUARY, 1851.
A Romance of True Love. By Caroline H. Butler, 100
A Visit to Staten Island. By Mrs. Lydia H. 149
Sigourney,
Bridget Kerevan. By Enna Duval, 116
Bay Snipe Shooting. By Frank Forester, 126
Blanche of Bourbon. By Walter Brooke, 348
Coquet _versus_ Coquette. By Caroline H. Butler, 177
Chateaubriand and His Career. By Fayette Robinson, 356
Doctrine of Form. By E. 170
Edda Murray. By Enna Duval, 238
Early English Poets. By James W. Wall, 250
Enchanted Beauty. By E. 265
For’ard and Aft. By S. A Godman, 8
Familiar Quotations from Unfamiliar Sources. By A 312
Student,
George R. Graham. By C. J. Peterson, 43
Jenny Lind. By Henry T. Tuckerman, 15
Lucy Leighton. By Caroline H. Butler, 37
Music and Musical Composers. By R. J. De Cordova, 73
Mandan Indians, 195
Music. By Henry Giles, 223
Minnie De La Croix. By Angele De V. Hull, 294, 339
Nettles on the Grave. By R. Penn Smith, 311
Of and Concerning the Moon. By Calvin W. Philleo, 329
Pedro de Padilh. By J. M. Legare, 92, 144, 231,
305, 372
Quail and Quail Shooting. By Henry Wm. Herbert, 317
Rail and Rail Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 190
Ruffed Grouse Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 382
Stories from the Old Dramatists. By Enna Duval, 31
Shakspeare. By Henry C. Moorhead, 137
The Vital and the Mechanical. By P. 1
The Bride of the Battle. By Wm. Gilmore Simms, 23, 84, 163
The Genius of Burns. By Henry Giles, 45
The Gambler’s Daughter. By Henry C. Moorhead, 53
The Shark. By L. A. Wilmer, 64
The Chase. By Charles J. Peterson, 79
The Fine Arts, 132
The Genius of Byron. By Rev. J. N. Danforth, 185
The Fine Arts, 193
The Slave of the Pacha. From Santaine, 201
Thomas Johnson. By Thomas Wyatt, A. M. 245
Teal and Teal Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 256
The Fine Arts, 259
The Vision of Mariotdale. By H. Hastings Weld, 273
Tamaque. By Henry C. Moorhead, 277
The Sunflower. By Major Richardson, 285
Two Crayon Sketches. By Enna Duval, 314
Thistle-Down. By Caroline Chesebro’, 361
The Comus of Milton. By Rev. J. N. Danforth, 367
Woodcock and Woodcock Shooting. By H. W. Herbert, 61
Wordsworth. By P. 106
What Katy Did. By Caroline Chesebro’, 121
Woodlawn. By F. E. F. 152
“What Can Woman Do?” By Alice B. Neal, 158
POETRY.
A Legend of Tyrol. By J. T. Fields, 7
A Song for a Down-Trodden Land. By Wm. P. 36
Mulchinock,
A Requiem by the Sea. By Helen Irving, 60
A Health to My Brother. By R. Penn Smith, 157
A Sea-Side Reverie. By Enna Duval, 162
Audubon’s Blindness. By Park Benjamin, 169
A Night at the Black Sign. By T. B. Read, 220
Alone—Alone! By Mrs. I. W. Mercur, 230
Charlotte Corday. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 310
Dara. By James R. Lowell, 7
Hylas. By Bayard Taylor, 271
Implora Pace. By Elizabeth J. Eames, 20
Impulse and Principle. By A. B. Street, 105
Inspiration. By Wm. P. Brannan, 237
I Dreamed. By Wm. M. Briggs, 293
I Think of Thee. By Geo. D. Prentice, 381
Lines Written at Night in Cave Hill Cemetery.
By Geo. D. Prentice, 35
Lines in Memory of My Lost Child. By Geo. D. 143
Prentice,
Lines to a Bird. By T. Buchanan Read, 355
Manuella. By Bayard Taylor, 78
Memories. By Geo. D. Prentice, 83
Moral Strength. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 276
Ode. By R. H. Stoddard, 142
On a Portrait of Cromwell. By J. T. Fields, 162
On the Death of General Taylor. By Robert T. Conrad, 175
Outward Bound. By T. Buchanan Read, 189
On San Francisco’s Splendid Bay. By T. G. Spear, 370
“Psyche Loves Me.” By T. Dunn English, 176
Picture of Childhood. By Wm. Alexander, 338
Red Jacket. By W. H. C. Hosmer, 91
Riverside. By Geo. Canning Hill, 129
Sonnets. By Alfred B. Street, 6
Sonnets. By Mary Spenser Pease, 169
Sonnets. By Miss A. D. Woodbridge, 221
Spring Lilies. By Mrs. Mary G. Horsford, 229
Sonnet. By Wm. Alexander, 236
Sin No More. By R. T. Conrad, 237
Sonnets. By Mrs. E. J. Eames, 244
Sorrow. By Alfred B. Street, 276
Sonnet. By R. T. Conrad, 310
The Lady of Castle Windeck. By William Cullen 14
Bryant,
The Young Mother’s Lament. By Mrs. E. C. Kinney, 14
The Poet’s Prayer. By Emma C. Embury, 20
The Fall of the Fairies. By Henry B. Hirst, 21
The Spirit Lovers. By Miss L. V. Smith, 29
To Jenny Lind. By J. R. Fry, 42
The Mariner’s Tale, By R. Penn Smith, 97
The Wasted Heart. By L. Virginia Smith, 156
To the Lost One. By Duncan Moore, 176
The Bright New Moon of Love. By T. H. Chivres, M. D. 195
To a Friend. By Miss L. Virginia Smith, 222
The Earth. By R. H. Stoddard, 230
The Name of Wife. By Mrs. A. M. F. Annan, 236
Thinking of Minna. By Ellis Martyn, 244
The Maiden’s Lament for her Shipwrecked Lover. 249
By Wm. Albert Sutliffe,
The Gift of a Rose. By Geo. D. Prentice, 253
The Reconciliation. By L. Virginia Smith, 283
The Wife’s Last Gift. By Julia C. Dorr, 293
Theodora. By Geo. Canning Hill, 304
The Spectre Knight and His Ladye Bride. By Fanny 320
Fielding,
To L——. By Grace Greenwood, 321
To Miss Martha Griffith. By Grant Danby Polworth, 338
To a Celebrated Singer. By R. H. Stoddard, 347
To J. F. H. By J. R. Lowell, 360
To a Summer Haunt. By H. T. Tuckerman, 360
The Death of Wordsworth. By Wm. Sydney Thayer, 366
The Grave’s Pale Roses. By C. F. Orne, 370
The Quiet Arbor. By Wm. H. C. Hosmer, 371
Unhappy Love. By Geo. D. Prentice, 284
Wood Violets. By Alice B. Neal, 83
Wordsworth. By James T. Fields, 237
Wordsworth. By Wm. Alexander, 321
REVIEWS.
The Life and Correspondence of R. Southey.
Edited by his son, Rev. C. C. Southey, 65
Historic View of the Languages and Literature
of the Sclavic Nations. By Talvi, 66
Indiana. By George Sand, 67
Latter-Day Pamphlets. By Thomas Carlyle, 133
Webster’s Dictionary, 133
Eldorado. By Bayard Taylor, 134
In Memoriam, 198
Chronicles and Characters of the Stock Exchange.
By John Francis, 199
Evangeline. By Henry W. Longfellow, 199
Elementary Sketches of Moral Philosophy.
By Rev. Sidney Smith, A. M. 261
Confessions of an English Opium Eater. By
Thomas De Quincy, 262
Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell.
Edited by William Beattie, M. D. 263
The Prelude. By William Wordsworth, 322
Christian Thought on Life. By Henry Giles, 323
Specimens of Newspaper Literature. By J. T. 324
Buckingham,
Songs of Labor and Other Poems. By J. G. Whittier, 324
Memoirs of the Life of Anne Boleyn. By Miss Benger, 326
Lynch’s Dead Sea Expedition, 326
Astræa. By Oliver Wendall Holmes, 385
Five Years of a Hunter’s Life in the Far Interior
of South Africa. By R. G. Cumming, 387
MUSIC.
Jenny Lind’s American Polka, 68
Chant of the Nereides, 130
Barcarole, 196
Ah, Do Not Speak so Coldly, 254
Come Touch the Harp, My Gentle One, 388
ENGRAVINGS.
Portrait of Jenny Lind, engraved by Mote, London.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Portrait of the Editor, engraved by Armstrong.
Lake of Como, executed in colors by Devereux.
Woodcock Shooting, engraved by Brightly.
Designs for Mantelets, engraved by Brightly, Thomas,
and Talfer.
The Shark, engraved by Brightly.
The Origin of Music, engraved by Tucker.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
The Sisters, engraved by Thomas B. Welch.
He Comes Not, engraved by Holl.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Dance of the Mandan Indians, engraved by Rawdon,
Wright & Hatch.
Rail Shooting, engraved by Brightly.
The Slave of the Pacha, engraved by J. Brown.
The Way to Church, engraved by T. McGoffin.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
Portrait of Thomas Johnson, engraved by Brightly.
Teal Shooting, engraved by Brightly.
The Highland Chase, engraved by T. B. Welch.
The Angel’s Whisper, engraved by T. Illman & Son.
Paris Fashions, from Le Follet.
American Quail, engraved by Brightly.
Catskill Mountain House, engraved by Smillie.
The Home of Milton, engraved by W. E. Tucker.
Mariner’s Beacon, engraved by H. Smith.
Paris Fashions, engraved by David.
Ruffed Grouse, engraved by Brightly.
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXVII. PHILADELPHIA, JULY, 1850. No. 1.
* * * * *
THE VITAL AND THE MECHANICAL.
It may be universally affirmed that every thing having shape either
grows or is put together, is a living organism or a contrived machine;
and the radical distinction between minds in all the modes of their
operation, and between things in all the forms of their manifestation,
is expressed in the antithesis of vitality and mechanism. To suggest, in
a manner necessarily imperfect and rambling, some of the important
consequences involved in this distinction, is the object of the present
essay.
And first, in regard to minds, it may be asked, to what faculties and
operations of the intelligence do you apply the term vital, as
distinguished from other faculties and operations indicated as
mechanical? The answer to this question may be spiritually true without
being metaphysically exact, and we shall hazard a brief one. The soul of
man in its essential nature is a vital unit and person, capable of
growth through an assimilation of external objects; and its faculties
and acquirements are all related to its primitive personality, as the
leaves, branches, and trunk of a tree to its root. In the tree there are
sometimes dead branches and withered leaves, which constitute a part of
the tree’s external form without participating in the tree’s internal
life. The same thing occurs in the human mind. Faculties, originally
springing from the soul’s vital principle, become disconnected from it,
lose all the sap and juice of life, and dwindle from vital into
mechanical powers. The customary vocabulary of metaphysics evinces the
extent of this decay in its division of the mind into parts, each part
with a separate name and performing a different office. It is plain that
no organism, vegetable, animal, or human, admits of such a
classification of parts, for the fundamental principle of organisms is
unity in variety, each part implying the whole, growing out of a common
centre and source, and dying the moment it is separated. When,
therefore, we say that the mind has faculties which are not vitally
related to each other, that the whole mind is not present in every act,
that there are processes of thought in which a particular faculty
operates on its own account, we assert the existence of death in the
mind; what is worse, the assertion is true; and, what is still worse,
this mental death often passes for wisdom and common sense, and mental
life is stigmatized as fanaticism.
Now, this antithesis of life and death, vitality and mechanism, the
conception of the spirit of things, and the perception of the forms of
things, is a distinction available in every department of human thought
and action, and divides minds into two distinct classes, the living and
the lifeless. The test of the live mind is, that it communicates life.
The only sign here of possession is communication; and life it cannot
possess unless life it communicates. Spiritual life implies a
combination of force and insight, an indissoluble union of will and
intelligence, in which will sees and intelligence acts. A mental
operation, in the true meaning of the phrase, is a vital _movement_ of
the mind; and although this movement is called a conception or an act
according as it refers to meditation or practice, it cannot in either
case be a conception without being an act, or an act without being a
conception. Conception, in the last analysis, is as truly an act of the
mind as volition; both are expressions of one undivided unit and person;
and the only limit of conception, the limit which prevented Kepler from
conceiving the law of gravitation, and Ben Jonson from conceiving the
character of Falstaff, is a limitation of will, of personality, of
individual power, of that innate force which is always the condition and
the companion of insight. All the vital movements of the mind are acts
whether the product be a book or a battle; and that is a singular
philosophy of the will which calls Condé’s charge at Rocroi an act, and
withholds the name from Shakspeare’s conception of Othello.
As this spiritual force is ever the characteristic of vital thought,
such thought is both light and heat, kindles as well as informs, and
acts potently on other minds by imparting life as well as knowledge.
There are many books which contain more information than Paradise Lost,
but Paradise Lost stimulates, dilates and enriches our minds by
communicating to them the very substance of thought, while the other
books may leave us as poor and weak as they found us, with the addition
only of some names and forms of things which we did not know before. The
great difference, therefore, between a vital and mechanical mind is
this, that from one you obtain the realities of things, and from the
other the mere appearances; one influences, the other only informs; one
increases our power, the other does little more than increase our words.
The action of a live mind upon other minds is chiefly an influence, and
the true significance of influence is that it pierces through all the
formal frippery of opinion and speculation lying on the surface of
consciousness, and touches the tingling and throbbing nerve at its
centre and soul; rousing the mind’s dormant activity, breathing into it
a new motive and fresh vigor, and making it strong as well as wise. As
regards the common affairs of the world, this influence is as the blast
of an archangel’s trumpet, waking us from the death of sloth and custom.
In the fire of our newly kindled energies the mean and petty interests
in which our thoughts are ensnared wither and consume; and, discerning
vitalities where before we only perceived semblances, a strangeness
comes over the trite, a new meaning gleams through old appearances, and
the forms of common objects are transfigured, as viewed in the vivid
vision of that rapturous life. Then, and only then, do we realize how
awful and how bright is the consciousness of a living soul; then
immortality becomes a faith, and death a delusion; then magnanimous
resolves in the heart send generous blood mantling in the cheek, and
virtue, knowledge, genius, heroism, appear possibilities to the lazy
coward who, an hour before, whined about his destiny in the hopeless
imbecility of weakness. Although this still and deep ecstasy, this
feeling of power and awe, is to most minds only a transient elevation,
it is still a revelation of the vital within them, which should at least
keep alive a sublime discontent with the sluggish apathy of their common
existence. “Show me,” says Burke, “a contented slave and I will show you
a degraded man,”—a sentence right from the hot heart of an illustrious
man, whose own mind glowed with life and energy to the verge of the
tomb, and who never knew the slavery of that sleep of mental death,
which withers and dries up the very fountains of life in the soul.
The usual phrases by which criticism discriminates vital from mechanical
minds, are impassioned imagination and logical understanding. This
vocabulary, though open to objections, as not going to the root of the
matter, is still available for our purpose. It draws a definite line
between genius and talent. The man of impassioned imagination is vital
in every part. The primitive spiritual energy at the centre of his
personality permeates, as with warm life-blood, the whole of his being,
vivifying, connecting, fusing into unity, all his faculties, so that his
thought comes from him as an act, and is endowed with a penetrating and
animating as well as enlightening power. The thoughts of Plato, Dante,
Bacon, Shakspeare, Newton, Milton, Burke, not to mention others, are
actors in the world—communicating life, forming character, revealing
truth, generating energy in recipient minds. These men possess
understanding as far as that term expresses an operation of the mind,
but understanding with them is in living connection with imagination and
emotion; they never use it as an exclusive power in themselves, they
never address it as an exclusive power in others. To understand a thing
in its external qualities and internal spirit, requires the joint
operation of all the faculties; and no fact is ever thoroughly
understood by the understanding, for it is the person that understands
not the faculty, and the person understands only by the exercise of his
whole force and insight. The man of understanding, so called, simply
perceives the forms of things and their relations; the man of
impassioned imagination perceiving forms and divining spirit, conceives
the life of things and their relations. The antithesis runs through the
whole realm of thought and fact. The man of understanding, when he rises
out of sensations, simply reaches abstractions; and in the abstract
there is no life. Ideas and principles belong as much to the concrete,
to substantial existence, as the facts of sensation; the law of
gravitation is a reality no less than the planet Jupiter; but to the man
of mechanical understanding, ideas subside into mere opinions, and
principles into generalities; and as by the very process of his thinking
he disconnects, and deadens by disconnection, the powers by which he
thinks, he cannot exercise, conceive or communicate life, cannot invent,
discover, create, combine. This is evident from the nature of the mind,
and it is proved by history. In art, religion, science, philosophy,
politics, the minds that organize are organic minds, not mechanical
understandings.
The principle we have indicated, applies to all matters of human
concern, the simplest as well as the most complicated. Let us first take
a familiar instance from ordinary life. In the common intercourse of
society we are all painfully conscious of the dominion of the
mechanical, prescribing manner, proscribing nature. In the Siberian
atmosphere of most social assemblies the soul congeals. The tendency to
isolation of mind from mind, and heart from heart, is most apparent in
the contrivances by which society brings its members bodily
together—the formal politeness excluding the courtesy it mimics.
Hypocrisy, artifice, non-expression of the reality in persons—these are
apt to be the characteristics of that dreary solitude which passes under
the exquisitely ironical appellation of “good society.” The universal
destiny of men and women who engage in this game of fashion as the
business of life, is frivolity or ennui. They either fritter to pieces
or are bored to death. Nothing so completely wastes away the vitality of
the mind, and converts a person into a puppet, as this substitution of
the verb “to appear,” for the verb “to be.” Whatever is graceful in
manner, carriage and conversation, is natural; but the art of
politeness, as commonly practiced, is employed to deaden rather than
develop nature, from its ambition to reduce the finer instincts to
mechanical forms. In the very term of gentleman there is something
exceedingly winning and beautiful, expressing as it does a fine union of
intelligence and courtesy; but in genteel society the word too often
means nothing more than foppish emptiness, and Sir Philip Sidney gives
way to Beau Nash.
Even here, however, the moment a person with a genius for society
appears, it is curious to see how quickly the different elements are
fused together, by a few flashes of genuine social inspiration.
Convention is at once abolished, each heart finds a tongue, giggling
turns into merriment, conversation occurs and prattle ceases, and a
party is really organized. A little sincerity of this sort in social
intercourse would infinitely beautify life.
In one of the most important matters connected with the welfare of men,
that of practical ethics, we have another example of the despotism of
the mechanical and disregard of the vital, in human life. A true writer
on morals should understand two things, morality and immorality; but a
mechanical mind can do neither. He neither communicates the life of
moral ideas, nor discerns the life of vicious ideas, but simply has
opinions on morals, and opinions on vice. The consequence is that most
of the “do-me-good” books are lifeless as regards effect—are
contemptuously abandoned by men to children, and by children are learned
only to be violated. At last it becomes the sign of green juvenility to
quote an abstract truism against a concrete vice, and no person in
active life considers himself at all bound to accommodate his conduct to
axioms. Indeed, common writers on ethics have become unenviably
notorious for expending the full force of their feebleness in statements
of generalities, which are universally assented to, and almost as
universally disregarded. Complacently perched on the chill summits of
abstract principles, these gentlemen appear to experience a grim
satisfaction in sending down into the warm and living concrete a storm
of axiomatic snow and sleet. Having no practical grasp of things, they
emphasize duties without possessing any clear insight of practices, and
accordingly their indignant blast of truism whistles shrilly over the
heads of the sinners it should lay prostrate. Wanting the power to pass
into the substance and soul of existing objects and living men, they
content themselves with applying external rules to external appearances,
glory in the gift of invective as divorced from the secret of
interpretation, and being thus shrews rather than seers, they do that
worst of injuries to the cause of morality which results from denouncing
the devil without understanding his deviltry. In the republic of
delusion and democracy of transgression there are certain errors
deserving the name of “popular,” errors which mislead three quarters of
the human race; and the analysis and exhibition of these should be a
leading object of practical morality. Thoroughly to comprehend one of
these impish emissaries of Satan, and clearly to demonstrate that the
rainbow bubbles he sports in the sun are begotten by froth on emptiness,
might not be so grand a thing as to strut about in the worn-out frippery
of moral commonplaces, but it would expose one fatal fallacy which
assists in misguiding public sentiment, distorting human character, and
impelling reasonable men into those expeditions after the unreal, which
are every day wrecked on the rocks of nonsense or crime. But to do this
requires a vital mind, and in matters of morals society is very well
content not to be pricked and probed in conscience by the sharp
benevolence of truth. The mechanical moralists disturb no robber or
murderer, no cheat or miser, no spendthrift or profligate, no man who
wishes to get what he is pleased to call a living by preying on his
neighbors. They neither expose nor reform wickedness, but simply toss
words at it, for a consideration. Yet from such moral machines it is
supposed that, in the course of education, ingenuous youth can get moral
life; and real surprise is often expressed by parents, when their
children return from academies or colleges, that the only vital
knowledge, in form and in essence, that the dear boys have mastered,
relates to sin and the devil.
If the mechanical moralists are to be judged by their effects—by their
capacity to do the thing they attempt—and thus judged, have terrible
sins of omission resting on their work, what shall we say of the
mechanical theologians?—There is against each of three liberal
professions a time-honored jest, adopted by “gentle dullness,” all over
the world, and from its universality almost worthy of a place in Dugald
Stewart’s “fundamental principles of human belief.” The point of these
venerable facetiæ consists in associating law with chicane, medicine
with homicide, and preaching with Dr. Young’s “tired nature’s sweet
restorer, balmy sleep.” A joke which seems to be thus endorsed by the
human race carries with it some authority, and it would be presumptuous
to touch never so gently the subject of theology, without a preliminary
remark on this question of dullness. Sin is sarcastic, sin is
impassioned, sin is sentimental, sin is fascinating, sin swaggers in
rhetoric’s most gorgeous trappings and revels in fancy’s most enticing
images, and why should piety alone have the reputation of being feeble
and dull? The charge itself, while it closes to the general reader
Jeremy Taylor’s wilderness of sweets equally with Dr. Owen’s “continent
of mud,” is not without its benumbing effect upon the preacher, for
bodies of men commonly understand the art of adapting their conduct to
the public impression of their character, and are not apt to provide
stimulants when readers only expect soporifics. The truth is that
sermons are never dull as sermons, but because the sermonizer is weak in
soul. No man with a vision of the interior beauty and power of spiritual
truths, no man whom those truths kindle and animate, no man who is truly
alive in heart and brain, and speaks of what he has vitally conceived,
can ever be dull in the expression of what is the very substance and
doctrine of life. The difficulty is that clergymen are apt to fall into
mechanical habits of thinking; then ideas gradually fade into opinions;
truths dwindle into truisms; a fine dust is subtly insinuated into the
vitalities of their being; the holy passion with which their thoughts
once gushed out subsides, and “good common sense” succeeds to rapture;
and thus many an inspiring teacher, originally a conductor of heaven’s
lightning, and exulting in the consciousness of the immortal life
beating and burning within him, has lapsed into a theological drudge,
dull in his sermons because dull in his conceptions, neither alive
himself nor imparting life to others. This decay often occurs in
conscientious and religious men, who sufficiently bewail the torpor of
soul which compels them to substitute phrases for realities, and to whom
this mental death, as they feel it stealing over them, is at once a
spell and a torment. The clergyman, who does not keep his mind bright
and keen by constant communion with religious ideas, is sure to die of
utter weariness of existence. He has once caught a view of the promised
land from the Pisgah height of contemplation—wo unto him if it “fades
into the light of common day.”
But leaving such perilous topics as ethics and divinity to wiser heads,
and passing on to the subjects of philosophy and science, it may be
asked—does not the mechanical understanding hold undisputed sway in
these? Has impassioned imagination any thing to do with metaphysics,
mathematics, natural philosophy, with the observation and the reasoning
of the philosopher who deals with facts and laws? The answer to this
question is an emphatic yes. That roused, energetic and energizing state
of mind which we have designated as impassioned imagination, is as much
the characteristic of Newton as of Homer. The facts, direction and
object are different, but the faculty is the same. A man of science
without a scientific imagination, vital and creative like the poetical
imagination, belongs to the second or third class of scientific men, the
Hayleys and Haynes Baileys of science. Men of mechanical understandings
never discover laws and principles, but simply repeat and apply the
discoveries of their betters. Nothing but the fresh and vigorous
inspiration which comes from the grasp of ideas, could carry such men as
Kepler and Newton through the prodigious mass of drudgery, through which
ran the path which led to their objects; for genius alone is really
victorious over drudgery, and refuses to submit to the weariness and
deferred hope which attend upon vast designs. Indeed, in following the
processes of scientific reasoning, whether inductive or deductive, we
are always conscious of an element of beauty in the impression left on
the mind, an element which we never experience in following the steps of
the merely formal logician. Take the discussion, for instance, between
Butler and Clarke on the à priori argument for the existence of God, and
no reader who attends to the progress of the reasoning can fail to feel
the same inner sense touched which is more palpably addressed by the
poet. All the great thinkers, indeed, in all the branches of speculative
and physical science, are vital thinkers, and their thoughts are never
abstract generalities, but always concrete conceptions, endowed with the
power to work on other minds, and to generate new thought. Bacon, the
greatest name in the philosophy of science, was so jealous of the
benumbing and deadening effect of all formal and mechanical arrangement
of scientific truth, that he repeatedly opposes all systematization of
science, and in his Natural Philosophy followed his own precepts. In the
Advancement of Learning he says: “As young men, when they knit and shape
perfectly do seldom grow to a further stature, so knowledge, while it is
in aphorisms and observations, it is in growth; but when it is once
comprehended in exact methods, it may perchance be further polished and
illustrated, and accommodated for use and practice; but it increases no
more in bulk and substance.” And again he remarks: “The worst and most
absurd sort of triflers are those who have pent the whole art in strict
methods and narrow systems, which men commonly cry up for their
regularity and style.” In illustration of this we may adduce Whewell’s
celebrated works, The History and Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences.
Here are great learning, logical arrangement, a complete superficial
comprehension of the whole subject; but life is wanting. Most of the
great discoveries and inventions with which such a book would naturally
deal have been made since the publication of Bacon’s Novum Organon; but
more mental nutriment and inspiration, more to advance the cause of
science, can be found in one page of the Novum Organon than in Whewell’s
whole five volumes. Such is the difference between a vital and
mechanical mind in the history and philosophy of science; and the
difference is more observable still when we come to consider the deep
and constant enthusiasm, the persisting, penetrating genius of the
practical discoverer, as contrasted with the cold and uncreative
memory-monger and reasoning machine, who too often passes himself off as
the real _savant_. The only great man of science who has detailed his
processes in connection with his emotions is Kepler, and everybody has
heard of the “sacred fury” with which he assaulted the fortresses in
which nature long concealed her laws. His page flames with images and
exclamations. His operations to conquer the mystery in the motions of
the planet Mars are military. His object is as, he says, “to triumph
over Mars, and to prepare for him, as one altogether vanquished, tabular
prisons and equated eccentric fetters.” When “the enemy left at home a
despised captive, had burst all the chains of the equations, and broken
forth of the prisons of the tables,” and it was “buzzed here and there
that the victory is vain,” the war rages “anew as violently as before,”
and he “suddenly brings into the field a new reserve of physical
reasonings on the rout and dispersion of the veterans.” A poet can thus
vitalize mathematics, and “create a soul under the ribs” of physical
death.
In politics and government, the most practical objects of human
interest, the men who organize institutions and wisely conduct affairs,
are men of vital minds; while the whole brood of ignorant and scampish
politicians, whose vulgar tact is but a caricature of insight, and who
are as great proficients in ruining nations as statesmen are in
advancing them, are men of mechanical minds. In politics, perhaps, more
practical injury has resulted from the dominion of formal dunces, than
in any other department of human affairs—politics being the great field
of action for all speculators in public nonsense, for all men whose
incompetency to handle things would be quickly discovered in any other
profession. But a great statesman, no less than a great poet, discerns
the life of things in virtue of having himself a live mind, and, not
content with observing men and events, divines events in their
principles, and thus reads the future. When he proposes a scheme of
legislation, all its results exist in his mind as possibilities, and if
an effect is produced not calculated in the conception, he is so far to
be accounted a blunderer, not a statesman. Perhaps of all the statesmen
that ever lived, Edmund Burke had this power of reading events in
principles in the greatest perfection; and certainly there are few
English poets who can be said to equal him in impassioned imagination.
This imagination was not, as is commonly asserted, a companion and
illustrator of his understanding, appending pretty images to strong
arguments, but it included understanding in itself, and was both impetus
and insight to his grandly comprehensive and grandly energetic mind.
Fox, Pitt, and all the politicians of his time, were, in comparison with
him, men of mechanical intellects, constantly misconceiving events; mere
experimenters, surprised at results which they should have predicted.
There is something mortifying in the reflection that, in free countries,
the people have not yet arrived at the truth, that great criminality as
well as great impudence are involved in the exercise of political power
without political capacity. A politician in high station, without
insight and foresight, and thus blind in both eyes, is an impostor of
the worst kind, and should be dealt with as such.
In art and literature the doctrine of vital powers lies at the base of
all criticism which is not mere gibberish. It is now commonly understood
that the creative precedes the critical; that critical laws were
originally generalized from poetic works; and that a poem is to be
judged by the living law or central idea by which it is organized, which
law or idea is as the acorn to the oak, and determines the form of the
poem. The power and reach of the poet’s mind is measured by his
conception of organic ideas, of ideas which, when once grasped, are
principles whence poems necessarily grow, and are eventually realized in
works. The universality of Shakspeare is but a power of vital
conception, not limited to one or two ideas, but ranging victoriously
over the world of ideas. These celestial seeds, once planted in a poetic
nature, germinate and grow into forms of individual being, whose
loveliness and power shame our actual men and actual society by a
revelation of the real and the permanent. Chaucer, Shakspeare, Spenser,
Milton, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, in virtue of their power to
realize and localize the ideal, give us “poor humans” a kind of
spiritual world on earth.
The schoolmasters of letters, those gentlemen who frame laws of taste,
and manufacture cultivated men, commonly display a notable oversight
instead of insight of the distinction between vital and mechanical
minds, between authors who impart power and authors who impart
information. They judge the value of a book by its external form instead
of internal substance, and altogether overlook the only important office
of reading and study, which plainly is the acceleration of our faculties
through an increase of mind. Mind is increased by receiving the mental
life of a book, and assimilating it with our own nature, not by hoarding
up information in the memory. Books thus read enrich and enlarge the
mind, stimulating, inflaming, concentrating its activity; and though
without this reception of external life a man may be odd, he cannot be
original. The greatest genius is he who consumes the most knowledge, and
converts it into mind. But a mechanical intellect merely attaches the
husks of things to his memory, and eats nothing. It is for this reason
that heavy heads, laden with unfertilizing opinions and dead facts which
never pass down into the vitalities of their being, are such terrific
bores. Considering literature not as food but as luggage, they cram
their brains to starve their intelligence—and wo to the youth whom they
pretend to instruct and _in_form! A true teacher should penetrate to
whatever is vital in his pupil, and develop that by the light and heat
of his own intelligence—like the inspiring master described by Barry
Cornwall’s enthusiast:—
He was like the sun, giving me light;
Pouring into the caves of my young brain
Knowledge from his bright fountains.
A man who reads live books keeps himself alive, has a constant sense of
what life means and what mind is. In reading Milton, a power is
communicated to us, which, for the time, gives us the feeling of a
capacity for doing any thing, from writing a Hamlet to whipping Tom
Hyer. “My ——, sir,” said the artist who had been devouring Chapman’s
Homer, “when I went into the street, after reading that book, men seemed
to be ten feet high.” This exaltation of intelligence is simply a
movement of our consciousness from the mechanical to the vital state,
and to those whose common existence is in commonplaces such an
exaltation occasions a shock of surprise akin to fear.
In an art very closely connected with one of the highest forms of
literature, the art of acting, we have another illustration of the
fundamental antithesis, in processes and in results, between vitality
and mechanism. Few, even among noted performers, have minds to conceive
the characters they play; and it consequently is a rare thing to see a
character really embodied and ensouled on the stage. The usual method is
to give it piece by piece, and part by part, and the impression left on
the audience is not the idea of a person, but an aggregation of personal
peculiarities. Mr. Macready, for instance, has voice, action,
understanding, grace of manner, felicity in points: but each is
mechanical. His mind is hard and unfusible, never melts and runs into
the mould of the individuality he personates, never imparts to the
audience the peculiar life and meaning embodied by his author. His
energy is not vital but nervous; his mode of arriving at character is
rather logical than imaginative. He studies the text of Hamlet, infers
with great precision of argument the character from the text, and plays
the inference. Booth, on the contrary, who of all living actors has the
most force and refinement of imagination, _conceives_ Hamlet as a
person, preserves the unity of the person through all the variety in
which it is manifested, and seems really to pass out of himself into the
character. Macready leaves the impression of variety, but of a variety
not drawn out of one fertile and comprehensive individuality: Booth
gives the individuality with such power that we can easily conceive of
even a greater variety in its expression without danger to its unity.
The impression which Macready’s Hamlet leaves on the mind is an
impression of Mr. Macready’s brilliant and versatile acting; the
impression which Booth stamps on the imagination is the profound
melancholy of Hamlet, underlying all his brilliancy and versatility. A
man can witness Booth’s personation of Macbeth, Hamlet, Lear and
Othello, with great delight, and with great accession of knowledge,
after reading the deep Shakspearian criticism of Goethe, Schlegel and
Coleridge: but every one feels it would be unjust to bring Macready to
the test of such exacting principles.
In these desultory remarks on a variety of suggested topics, we have
attempted to illustrate the radical distinction between vitality and
mechanism, impassioned imagination and logical understanding, the
communication of mental life and the imparting of lifeless information,
as that distinction applies to all things which occupy human attention
and stimulate human effort. We have indicated, in a gossiping way, the
dangerous ease with which the mechanical supersedes the vital in those
departments of knowledge and affairs which originated in the mind’s
creative and organizing energy; in society, in governments, in laws,
literature and institutions, in ethical, mental and physical science;
and have tried to show that such an usurpation of torpor over activity
dulls and deadens the soul, makes existence a weakness and weariness,
and mocks our eyes with nothing but the show and semblance of power. A
man of mechanical understanding can but exist his four-score years and
ten, and a dreary time he has of it at that, bored and boring all his
few and tiresome years; but a live mind has the power of wonderfully
condensing time, and lives a hundred common years in one. From the
phenomena presented by men of genius we can affirm the soul’s
immortality, because they give some evidence of the joy, the ecstasy,
involved in the idea of life; but to a mechanical being, endowed with a
spark of vitality sufficient only to sting him with rebuking
possibilities, an endless existence would be but an endless ennui. The
ground for hope is, that man, using as he may all the resource of stupid
cunning, cannot kill the germ of life which lies buried in him; hatred
and pride, the sins of the heart, may eat into it, and his “pernicious
soul” seem, like Iago’s, to “rot half a grain a day;” mechanism, the sin
of the head, may withdraw itself into “good common sense,” and
contentedly despise the joyous power of vital action; but still the
immortal principle constituting the Person survives—patient, watchful,
persistent, unconquerable, refusing to capitulate, refusing to die.
P.
* * * * *
SONNETS.
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
I.—CELINE.
Those deep, delicious, heavy-lidded eyes
Oh, I could bask forever in their light!
What raptures, sweet, heart-thrilling raptures, rise
Whene’er I pierce their depths with eager sight!
The profile pure and soft—the bright full face—
The cupid mouth with rows of flashing pearls—
The waist so dainty—step of gliding grace—
White brow—curved hair, more beautiful than curls,
All make her sweetest, loveliest of girls.
Her breath is balmier than May’s downiest breeze;
Rosier than rose-buds are her moist, plump lips;
Than the pure nectar there, no purer sips
The clinging bee—all beauty’s harmonies
Are in her sweetly blent—all hearts her graces seize.
II.—THE LESSONS OF NATURE.
Nature in outward seeming takes the hue
Of our chance mood; if sad, her tones and looks
Are full of grief; if glad, her winds and brooks
Are full of merriment. But piercing through
Her outward garb, her sadness whispers “Peace—
Peace to thee, mourner! day succeeds to night,
Sunshine to storm!” Her brightest mirth says “Cease
This thoughtless rapture! flowers must suffer blight,
Change is my law of order.” Then a voice
Swells from her deep and solemn heart, “Rejoice
With purer joy, ye mirthful! and be glad
With a sustaining, steadfast faith, ye sad!
In this swift, changeful life, whate’er befall
(Blest truth) a watchful God of love is over all!”
* * * * *
DARA.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
When Persia’s sceptre trembled in a hand
Wilted by harem-heats, and all the land
Was hovered over by those vulture ills
That snuff decaying empire from afar,
Then, with a nature balanced as a star,
Dara arose, a shepherd of the hills.
He, who had governed fleecy subjects well,
Made his own village, by the self-same spell,
Secure and peaceful as a guarded fold,
Till, gathering strength by slow and wise degrees,
Under his sway, to neighbor villages
Order returned, and faith and justice old.
Now when it fortuned that a king more wise
Endued the realm with brain and hands and eyes,
He sought on every side men brave and just,
And, having heard the mountain-shepherd’s praise,
How he renewed the mould of elder days,
To Dara gave a satrapy in trust.
So Dara shepherded a province wide,
Nor in his viceroy’s sceptre took more pride
Than in his crook before; but Envy finds
More soil in cities than on mountains bare,
And the frank sun of spirits clear and rare
Breeds poisonous fogs in low and marish minds.
Soon it was whispered at the royal ear
That, though wise Dara’s province, year by year,
Like a great spunge, drew wealth and plenty up,
Yet, when he squeezed it at the king’s behest,
Some golden drops, more rich than all the rest,
Went to the filling of his private cup.
For proof, they said that wheresoe’er he went
A chest, beneath whose weight the camel bent,
Went guarded, and no other eye had seen
What was therein, save only Dara’s own,
Yet, when ’twas opened, all his tent was known
To glow and lighten with heapt jewels’ sheen.
The king set forth for Dara’s province straight,
Where, as was fit, outside his city’s gate
The viceroy met him with a stately train;
And there, with archers circled, close at hand,
A camel with the chest was seen to stand;
The king grew red, for thus the guilt was plain.
“Open me now,” he cried, “you treasure-chest!”
’Twas done, and only a worn shepherd’s vest
Was found within; some blushed and hung the head,
Not Dara; open as the sky’s blue roof
He stood, and “O, my lord, behold the proof
That I was worthy of my trust!” he said.
“For ruling men, lo! all the charm I had;
My soul, in those coarse vestments ever clad,
Still to the unstained past kept true and leal,
Still on these plains could breathe her mountain air,
And Fortune’s heaviest gifts serenely bear,
Which bend men from the truth, and make them reel.
“To govern wisely I had shown small skill
Were I not lord of simple Dara still;
That sceptre kept, I cannot lose my way!”
Strange dew in royal eyes grew round and bright,
And thrilled the trembling lids; before ’twas night
Two added provinces blessed Dara’s sway.
* * * * *
A LEGEND OF TYROL.
BY JAMES T. FIELDS.
In a green sheltered nook, where a mountain
Stood guarding the peace-haunted ground,
Lived a maiden whose smile was the sunlight
That gladdened the hill-sides around.
Her voice seemed a musical echo,
Whose notes wandered down from above,
And wherever she walked in her beauty
Sprang blossoms of joy and of love.
As she stood at her door in the morning,
The hunter below, riding by,
Cried out to his comrades, “we’re early!
For look, there’s a star in the sky!”
At the chapel, when good men were praying
That angels of God would appear,
Every heart turned to her, lowly kneeling,
And felt that an angel was near.
Thus radiant and pure in her presence,
A blessing she moved, day by day,
Till a proud lord beheld her, and loved her,
And lured her forever away.
He bore this bright bird of the mountain,
Watched over and shielded the best,
From the home of her youth and her kindred,
Away to his own haughty nest.
And lo! the grim idols in waiting
Beset her for worship, and won;
And the light of her beautiful childhood
Went down like the swift-fading sun.
And sudden as rises the black cloud,
When tempests the thunder-gods start,
Strange wishes encircled her bosom,
And Pride swept the halls of her heart.
And once, when o’ermastered by anger,
Her golden-haired boy sought her side,
In her fury she smote down her first born,
And he fell like a lily and died.
There were tears, burning tears, to recall him,
And anguish that scorches the brain,
But the harp-strings of life never answered
The touch that would tune them again!
She sleeps in a dark mausoleum,
And ages have rolled o’er her head,
But her name is remembered in Tyrol
As when she was laid with the dead.
And to-day, as the traveler sits weary,
And drinks from the rude fountain-bowl,
They tell the sad story, and whisper
The warning that speaks to your soul.
* * * * *
FOR’ARD AND AFT;
OR THE CAPTAIN’S SON AND THE SAILOR BOY.
A SEA STORY.
BY S. A. GODMAN.
CHAPTER I.
Fortune, the great commandress of the world,
Hath divers ways to enrich her followers:
To some, she honor gives without deserving;
To other some, deserving without honor;
Some wit—some wealth—and some wit without wealth;
Some, wealth without wit—some, nor wit nor wealth.
Chapman.
“Rouse up, rouse up, my hearty! Bear a hand and be lively for that
little devil-skin abaft, has been hailing for you this five minutes.”
Thus spoke, with a rough voice, but in a kind tone, a tall and
powerfully built sailor, as he descended the forecastle-ladder, to a boy
of some ten years of age, who, lying stretched upon his back on a
mess-chest, was fast asleep. Loud as were the tones of the speaker, they
made no impression upon the boy. Wrapped in the deep, sweet slumber of
childhood, his body fatigued, his conscience clear, and his mind at
ease, he was enjoying one of those refreshing rests that are only
permitted to the young and contented—the sleep that manhood longs after
but seldom experiences.
A beautiful picture would that forecastle and its inmates have made,
could they have been transferred to canvas. The boy, a noble one, as he
reposed with closed eye-lids and upturned face, over which bright smiles
were flitting—the reflection of pleasant, hopeful dreams—seemed an
embodiment of intelligence and innocence; notwithstanding the coarse
canvas trowsers and striped cotton-shirt which formed his only attire.
The man, with his muscular and strongly-knit figure, his bronzed cheeks,
huge whiskers, brightly gleaming eyes and determined expression of
countenance, was the personification of bodily strength, physical
perfection and perfect self-reliance. The one looked as if he were a
spirit from a higher sphere, who had by chance become an inmate of that
dark, confined, triangular-shaped and murky apartment; and appeared all
out of place amidst its mess-chests, bedding, and other nautical
dunnage, and its atmosphere reeking with the odors of bilge-water, tar,
and lamp-smoke. The other was in keeping with the surrounding objects;
his bright red flannel shirt, his horny hands, his very attitude showed
him one to ease and comfort unaccustomed, whose only home was a
forecastle, his abiding-place the heaving ocean.
Wearied with awaiting the result of his verbal summons, the seaman
reached down to awaken his companion with a shake; and as he did, a beam
of affection so softened the expression of his countenance, and lent so
much tenderness to his eye, that with all his roughness and uncouthness,
the weather-beaten tar became really handsome; for, than love, there is
no more certain beautifier. Though undisturbed by noise, no sooner was
the sailor-boy touched, than, true to the instinct of his calling, he
sprung from his resting-place, as wide awake, and with his faculties as
much about him, as if he had always been to sleep a stranger—and
exclaimed,
“Is it eight bells already, Frank? I thought I had just closed my
peepers.”
“Just closed your peepers, my little lark! I began to think your
eye-lids were battened down, it seemed such a hard pull for you to heave
them up. You haven’t had much of a snooze though, for it’s only four
bells; but that young scaramouch astern wants you to take him in tow. So
you had better up-anchor and make sail, Tom, for the cabin, or the
she-commodore will be sending the boatswain after you with the colt.”[1]
Scarcely waiting to hear the completion of the sentence, the lad hurried
up the ladder to the deck, and in a few seconds was at the door of the
cabin. Standing just inside the entrance, a drizzling rain preventing
him from coming further, stood the youth to whom Frank had referred, by
the not very flattering appellations of devil-skin and scaramouch. There
was but little difference in the age of the two boys. Not the slightest
resemblance or similarity, however, existed between them in any other
respect.
The sailor-boy was large for his years—with a figure that gave promise
of symmetry, grace, and an early maturity; his head was in keeping with
his body—admirably developed, well balanced, and covered with a
profusion of rich, dark brown hair; his forehead, broad and
intellectual, lent additional beauty to his full, deep-blue eyes; and
with his ruddy cheeks, giving evidence of vigorous health, he was just
such a boy as a prince might desire his only son and heir to be.
The captain’s son was slight and rather under-sized, with a sickly look,
produced apparently more by improper indulgences than natural infirmity;
sparkling black eyes, black hair, and regular features, added to a
well-shaped head and fine brow, would have rendered him good-looking in
spite of his sallow complexion, had it not been for a peevish,
discontented and rather malignant expression, that was habitual to him.
The _physique_ of the lads did not differ more than their dress. The one
was clothed in a suit of the most costly broadcloth, elegantly made,
with boots upon his feet, and a gold chain around his neck to support
the gold watch in his pocket. The other, bare-footed, bare-necked,
jacketless, was under no obligations to the tailor for adding to the
gentility of his appearance. Yet any person, even a blind man, could he
have heard their voices, would at once have acknowledged that the
roughest clad bore indellibly impressed upon him the insignia of
nature’s nobility.
No sooner did the captain’s son see the boy of the forecastle, than he
addressed him in a tone and style that harmonized with the sneering
expression of his face:
“So, you good-for-nothing, lazy fellow, you’ve made me stand here
bawling for you this half hour. What’s the reason you did not come when
I first called?”
“Why, Master Charles, I would not have kept you waiting if I had known
you wanted me; but I was asleep in the forecastle, sir. Frank Adams woke
me up—and I’ve come as quick as I could.”
“Asleep this time in the afternoon! Why don’t you sleep at night? I
never sleep in the afternoons. But you had better not make me stand and
wait so long for you another time, or I’ll tell my mamma, and she’ll get
father to whip you.”
At this threat a bright flush overspread the face and neck of the
sailor-boy, and for an instant his eye assumed a fierce expression that
was unusual to it; but suppressing his feelings, he replied in his
accustomed tone,
“I was up all night, Master Charles, helping to reef top-sails, and
lending a hand to get up the new fore-sail in place of the old one that
was blown out of the bolt-ropes in the mid-watch. This morning I could
not sleep, for you know I was playing with you until mess-time.”
“Well, Tom, come into the cabin and let’s play, and I wont say any thing
about it this time,” said Charles, as he walked in, followed by his
companion.
What a difference there was between the apartment in which the lads now
were, and the one which Tom had left but a few moments before. It was
the difference between wealth and poverty.
The vessel, on board of which our scene is laid, was a new and
magnificently-finished barque of seven hundred and fifty tons, named the
Josephine. The craft had been built to order, and was owned and
commanded by Lewis Barney Andrews—a gentleman of education and
extensive fortune, who had been for many years an officer in the United
States navy. Getting married, however, and his wife’s objecting to the
long cruises he was obliged to take in the service, whilst she was
compelled to remain at home, he effected a compromise between his better
half’s desire that he should relinquish his profession, and his own
disinclination to give up going to sea entirely, by resigning his
commission in the navy, and purchasing a ship for himself. The Josephine
belonged to Baltimore—of which city Captain A. was a native, and was
bound to the East Indies. She was freighted with a valuable cargo, which
also belonged to the captain, and had on board besides the captain, his
wife, son and servant-girl, a crew consisting of two mates, and a
boatswain, fourteen seamen, a cook, steward, and one boy.
Her cabin—a poop one—was fitted up in the most luxurious style. Every
thing that the skill of the upholsterer and the art of the painter,
aided by the taste and experience of the captain, could do to make it
elegant, beautiful and comfortable, had been done. Extending nearly to
the main-mast the distance from the cabin-door to the transom was full
fifty feet. This space was divided into two apartments of unequal size,
one of twenty, the other thirty feet, by a sliding bulkhead of highly
polished rosewood and superbly-stained glass.
The after-cabin was fitted up as a sleeping-room, with two mahogany
bedsteads and all the appurtenances found in the chambers of the wealthy
on shore. The forward-cabin was used as a sitting and eating-room. On
the floor was a carpet, of whose fabric the looms of Persia might be
proud—so rich, so thick, so magnificent was it, and deep-cushioned
ottomans, lounges and rocking-chairs were scattered along the sides and
were placed in the corners of the apartment.
Not far from the door, reclining on a lounge, with a book in her hand,
was the wife of the captain, and the mother of Master Charles. She was a
handsome woman, but one who had ever permitted her fancies and her
feelings to be the guides of her actions. Consequently her heart, which
by nature was a kind one, was often severely wrung by the pangs of
remorse, caused by the recollection of deeds committed from impulse,
which her pride would not permit her to apologize or atone for, even
after she was convinced of her error.
As the two boys entered the cabin she looked at them, but without making
any remark, continued the perusal of her book, whilst they proceeded to
the after-cabin, and getting behind the bulkhead were out of her sight.
For some fifteen minutes the stillness of the cabin was undisturbed; but
then, the mother’s attention was attracted by the loud, angry tones of
her son’s voice, abusing apparently his play-fellow. Hardly had she
commenced listening, to ascertain what was the matter, ere the sound of
a blow, followed by a shriek, and the fall of something heavy upon the
floor, reached her ear. Alarmed, she rushed into the after-cabin, and
there, upon the floor, his face covered with blood, she saw the idol of
her heart, the one absorbing object of her affection, her only son, and
standing over him, with flashing eyes, swelling chest, and clenched
fists, the sailor-boy.
So strong was the struggle between the emotions of love and revenge—a
desire to assist her child, a disposition to punish his antagonist—that
the mother for a moment stood as if paralyzed. Love, however, assumed
the mastery; and raising her son and pressing him to her bosom, she
asked in most tender tones, “Where he was hurt?”
“I ain’t hurt, only my nose is bleeding because Tom knocked me down,
just for nothing at all,” blubbered out Charles.
The mother’s anxiety for her son relieved, the tiger in her disposition
resumed the sway; letting go of Charles, she caught hold of Tom, and
shaking him violently, demanded, in shrill, fierce tones, how he, the
outcast, dared to strike her child!
Unabashed and unterrified, the sailor-boy looked in the angry woman’s
face without replying.
“Why don’t you answer me, you cub! you wretch! you little
pirate!—speak! speak! or I’ll shake you to death!” continued the lady,
incensed more than ever by the boy’s silence.
“I struck him because he called my mother a hussy, if you will make me
tell you,” replied Tom, in a quiet voice, though his eye was bright with
anger and insulted pride.
“Your mother a hussy! Well, what else was she? But you shall be taught
how to strike your master for speaking the truth to you, you good for
nothing vagabond. Run and call your father,” she continued, turning to
Charles, “and I’ll have this impertinent little rascal whipped until he
can’t stand.”
In a moment Captain Andrews entered; and being as much incensed as his
wife, that a sailor-boy, a thing he had always looked upon as little
better than a block or rope’s end, had had the audacity to strike his
son, he was furious. Taking hold of Tom with a rough grasp, he pushed
him out on deck, and called for the boatswain. That functionary,
however, was slow in making his appearance; and again, in louder and
more angry tones, the captain called for him. Still he came not; and,
spite of his passion, the captain could but gather from the lowering
expressions of the sailors’ countenances, that he was at the
commencement of an _emeute_.
-----
[1] Colt.—A rope with a knot on the end. Used as an instrument of
punishment in place of the cat-o’-nine-tails.
CHAPTER II.
The deepest ice that ever froze
Can only o’er the surface close;
The living stream lies quick below,
And flows, and cannot cease to flow.
Byron.
Accustomed to have his commands always promptly obeyed, the wrath of
Captain Andrews waxed high and furious at the dilatoriness of the
boatswain. Without any other exciting cause, this apparent
insubordination on the part of one of his officers, was enough to arouse
all the evil passions of his heart. Educated under the strict discipline
of the United States service, he had been taught that the first and most
important duty of a seaman was obedience. “Obey orders, if you break
owners,” was the doctrine he inculcated; and to be thus, as it were,
bearded on his own quarter-deck, by one of his own men, was something
entirely new, and most insulting to his pride. Three times had he called
for the boatswain without receiving any reply, or causing that
functionary to appear.
When the captain first came out of the cabin, his only thought was to
punish the sailor-boy for striking his son; but his anger now took
another course, and his desire to visit the boatswain’s contumacy with a
heavy penalty was so great, that he forgot entirely the object for which
he had first wished him. Relinquishing his hold on Tom’s shoulder, the
captain hailed his first officer in a quick, stern voice,
“Mr. Hart, bring aft Mr. Wilson, the boatswain.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the mate, as he started toward the
forecastle-scuttle to hunt up the delinquent. “Hillo, below there!” he
hailed, when he reached the scuttle, “You’re wanted on deck, Mr.
Wilson!”
“Who wants me?” was the reply that resounded, seemingly, from one of the
bunks close up the ship’s eyes.
“Captain Andrews is waiting for you on the quarter-deck; and if you are
not fond of tornadoes, you had better be in a hurry,” answered the mate.
Notwithstanding the chief dickey’s hint, the boatswain seemed to
entertain no apprehensions about the reception he would meet at the
hands of the enraged skipper; for several minutes elapsed before he made
himself visible on deck.
As soon as the captain saw the boatswain, his anger increased, and he
became deadly pale from excess of passion. Waiting until Wilson came
within a few feet of him, he addressed him in that low, husky voice,
that more than any other proves the depth of a person’s feeling, with,
“Why have you so long delayed obeying my summons, Mr. Wilson?”
“I was asleep in the forecastle, sir, and came as soon as I heard Mr.
Hart call,” replied Wilson.
But the tone in which he spoke, the look of his eye, the expression of
his countenance, would at once have convinced a less observant person
than Captain Andrews, that the excuse offered was one vamped up for the
occasion, and not the real cause of the man’s delay.
“Asleep, sir! Attend now to the duty I wish you to perform—and be
awake, sir, about it! And you may, perhaps, get off easier for your own
dereliction afterward—for your conduct shall not remain unpunished,”
answered the captain.
“Captain Andrews, boy and man, I have been going to sea now these
twenty-five years, and no one ever charged Bob Wilson with not knowing
or not doing his duty before, sir!” rejoined the boatswain, evidently
laboring under as much mental excitement as the captain.
“None of your impertinence, sir! Not a word more, or I will learn you a
lesson of duty you ought to have been taught when a boy. Where’s your
cat,[2] sir?” continued the captain.
“In the razor-bag,”[3] replied the boatswain.
“Curse you!” ejaculated the captain, almost beside himself at this
reply, yet striving to maintain his self-possession; “one more insolent
word, and I will have you triced up. Strip that boy and make a
spread-eagle of him; then get your cat and give him forty.”
During this conversation between the captain and the boatswain, the crew
had been quietly gathering on the lee-side of the quarter-deck, until at
this juncture every seaman in the ship, except the man at the wheel, was
within twenty feet of the excited speakers. Not a word had been spoken
amongst them; but it was evident from the determination imprinted upon
their countenances, from their attitudes, and from the extraordinary
interest they took in the scene then transpiring, that there was
something more in the boatswain’s insubordination than appeared on the
surface; and whatever it was, the crew were all under the influence of
the same motive.
Mr. Wilson, the boatswain of the Josephine, was a first-rate and
thorough-bred seaman. No part of his duty was unfamiliar to him; and
never did he shrink from performing any portion of it on account of
danger or fatigue. Like many other simple-minded, honest-hearted sons of
Neptune, he troubled himself but little about abstruse questions on
morals; but he abhorred a liar, despised a thief, and perfectly detested
a tyrant. And though he could bear a goodly quantity of tyrannical
treatment himself, without heeding it, it made his blood boil, and his
hand clench, to see a helpless object maltreated.
Ever since the Josephine had left port, there had been growing amongst
the crew a disposition to prevent their favorite, Tom, the sailor-boy,
from being imposed upon and punished, as he had been, for no other
reason than the willfulness of the captain’s son, and the caprice of the
captain’s wife. Not a man on board liked the spoiled child of the cabin.
No fancy, either, had they for his mother; because, right or wrong, she
always took her son’s part, and oftentimes brought the sailors into
trouble. The last time Tom had been punished a grand consultation had
been held in the forecastle, at which the boatswain presided; and he,
with the rest of the crew, had solemnly pledged themselves not to let
their little messmate be whipped again unless, in their opinion, he
deserved it.
This was the reason why the boatswain, one of the best men in the ship,
had skulked when he heard the captain’s call: he had seen him come out
of the cabin with Tom, and rightly anticipated the duty he was expected
to perform. Such great control does the habit of obedience exercise over
seamen, that although he was resolved to die before he would suffer Tom
to be whipped for nothing, much less inflict the punishment himself, the
boatswain felt a great disinclination to have an open rupture with his
commanding officer. The peremptory order last issued by the captain,
however, brought affairs to a crisis there was no avoiding; he either
had to fly in the face of quarter-deck authority, or break his pledge to
his messmates and his conscience. This, Wilson could not think of doing;
and looking his captain straight in the face, in a quiet tone, and with
a civil manner, he thus addressed his superior:
“It does not become me, Captain Andrews, so be as how, for to go, for to
teach my betters—and—and—” here the worthy boatswain broke down, in
what he designed should be a speech, intended to convince the captain of
his error; but feeling unable to continue, he ended abruptly, changing
his voice and manner, with “Blast my eyes! if you want the boy whipped,
you can do it yourself.”
Hardly had the words escaped the speaker’s lips, before the captain,
snatching up an iron belaying-pin, rushed at the boatswain, intending to
knock him down; but Wilson nimbly leaped aside, and the captain’s foot
catching in a rope, he came down sprawling on the deck. Instantly
regaining his feet, he rushed toward the cabin, wild with rage, for the
purpose of obtaining his pistols. Several minutes elapsed before he
returned on deck; when he did he was much more calm, although in each
hand he held a cocked pistol.
The quarter deck he found bare; the crew, with little Tom in their
midst, having retired to the forecastle, where they were engaged in
earnest conversation. The second mate was at the wheel, the seaman who
had been at the helm having joined his comrades, so that the only
disposable force at the captain’s command was the chief mate, the
steward and himself, the cook being fastened up in his galley by the
seamen. On the forecastle were fifteen men. The odds were great; but
Captain Andrews did not pause to calculate chances—his only thought was
to punish the mutinous conduct of his crew, never thinking of the
possibility of failure.
Giving one of his pistols to Mr. Hart, and telling the steward to take a
capstan bar, the captain and his two assistants boldly advanced to
compel fifteen sailors to return to their duty.
-----
[2] An instrument used for punishment.
[3] The technical name of the bag in which the cats are kept.
CHAPTER III.
They were met, as the rock meets the wave,
And dashes its fury to air;
They were met, as the foe should be met by the brave,
With hearts for the conflict, but not for despair.
Whilst the captain, mate and steward, were making their brief
preparation for a most hazardous undertaking, the men of the Josephine,
with that promptness and resolution so common amongst seamen when they
think at all, had determined upon the course they would adopt in the
impending struggle.
Although the numerical discrepancy between the two parties seemed so
great, the actual difference in their relative strength was not so
considerable as it appeared. The sailors, it is true, had the physical
force—they were five to one; but the captain’s small band felt more
confidence from the moral influence that they knew was on their side,
than if their numbers had been trebled, without it.
Habit ever exercises a controlling influence, unless overcome by some
powerful exciting principle, and men never fly in the face of authority
to which they have always been accustomed to yield implicit obedience,
but from one of two causes—either a hasty impulse, conceived in a
moment, and abandoned by actors frightened at their own audacity; or, a
sense of wrong and injustice so keen and poignant, as to make death
preferable to further submission.
Aware of custom’s nearly invincible power, having often seen seamen
rebel, and then at the first warning gladly skulk back to their duty,
the captain unhesitatingly advanced up the weather-gangway to the break
of the forecastle, and confronted his mutinous crew. The men, who were
huddled around the end of the windlass, some sitting, others standing,
talking together in low tones, only showed they were aware of the
captain’s presence by suddenly ceasing their conversation—but not a man
of them moved.
Captain Andrews, though quick tempered, was a man of judgment and
experience; and he saw by the calmness and quietness of his men, that
their insubordination was the result of premeditation—a thing he had
not before thought—and he became aware of the difficulties of his
position. He could not, for his life, think of yielding; to give up to a
sailor would, in his estimation, be the deepest degradation. And moral
influence was all he could rely upon with which to compel
obedience—feeling that if an actual strife commenced, it could but
result in his discomfiture. His tone, therefore, was low and determined,
as with cocked pistol in hand he addressed his crew:
“Men, do you know that you are, every one of you, guilty of mutiny? Do
you know that the punishment for mutiny on the high seas is death? Do
you know this? Have you thought of it?” Here the captain paused for an
instant, as if waiting for a reply; and a voice from the group around
the windlass answered—
“We have!”
Rather surprised at the boldness of the reply, but still retaining his
presence of mind, the captain continued:
“What is it then that has induced you to brave this penalty? Have you
been maltreated? Do you not have plenty of provisions? Your regular
watches below? Step out, one of you, and state your grievances. You know
I am not a tyrant, and I wish from you nothing more than you promised in
the shipping articles!”
At this call, the eyes of the men were all turned toward Wilson, the
boatswain, who, seeing it was expected from him, stepped out to act as
spokesman. Respectfully touching his tarpaulin, he waited for the
captain to question him. Observing this, the captain said,
“Well, Wilson, your messmates have put you forth as their speaker; and
it strikes me that you are the ringleader of this misguided movement. I
am certain you have sense enough to understand the risk you are running,
and desire you to inform me what great wrong it is that you complain of.
For assuredly you must feel grievously imposed upon, to make you all so
far forget what is due to yourselves as seamen, to me as your captain,
and to the laws of your country!”
“I ain’t much of a yarn-spinner, Captain Andrews, and I can turn in the
plies of a splice smoother and more ship-shape than the ends of a
speech; and it may be as how I’ll ruffle your temper more nor it is now,
by what I have to say—” commenced the boatswain.
“Never mind my temper, sir,” interrupted the captain, “proceed!”
“We all get plenty of grub, Captain Andrews, and that of the best,”
continued Wilson; his equanimity not in the least disturbed by the
skipper’s interruption. “We have our regular watches, and don’t complain
of our work, for we shipped as seamen, and can all do seamen’s duty. But
sailors have feelings, Captain Andrews, though they are not often
treated as if they had; and it hurts us worse to see those worked
double-tides who can’t take their own part, than if we were mistreated
ourselves; and to come to the short of it, all this row’s about little
Tom, there, and nothing else.”
“Is he not treated just as well as the rest of you? Has he not the same
quarters, and the same rations, that the men are content with? Who works
him double-tides?” answered the captain, his anger evidently increasing
at the mention of Tom’s name; and the effort to restrain himself, being
almost too great for the choleric officer to compass.
“You can’t beat to wind’ard against a head-sea, Captain Andrews, without
a ship’s pitching, no more than you can reef a to’s-sail without going
aloft.” Wilson went on without change in manner, though his voice became
more concise and firm in its tone. “And I can’t tell you, like some of
them shore chaps, what you don’t want to hear, without heaving you
aback. We ain’t got any thing agin you, if you was let alone; all we
wants is for you to give your own orders, and to keep Mrs. Andrews from
bedeviling Tom. The boy’s as good a boy as ever furled a royal, and
never skulks below when he’s wanted on deck; but he stands his regular
watches, and then, when he ought to sleep, he’s everlastingly kept in
the cabin, and whipped and knocked about for the amusement of young
master, and that’s just the whole of it. We’ve stood it long enough, and
wont return to duty until you promise—”
“Silence, sir!” roared the captain, perfectly furious, and unable longer
to remain quiet. “Not another word! I’ve listened to insolence too long
by half, already! Now, sir, I have a word to say to you, and mind you
heed it. Walk aft to the quarter-deck!”
The boatswain, though he heard the order plainly, and understood it
clearly, paid no attention to it.
“Do you hear me, sir?” asked the captain. “I give you whilst I count
ten, to start. I do not wish to shoot you, Wilson; but if you do not
move before I count ten, I’ll drive this ball through you—as I hope to
reach port, I will!”
Raising his pistol until it covered the boatswain’s breast, the captain
commenced counting in a clear and audible tone. Intense excitement was
depicted on the faces of the men; and some anxiety was shown by the
quick glances cast by the chief mate and steward, first at the captain,
and then at the crew. Wilson, with his eyes fixed in the captain’s face,
and his arms loosely folded across his breast, stood perfectly quiet, as
if he were an indifferent spectator.
“Eight! Nine!” said the captain, “there is but one left, Wilson; with it
I fire if you do not start.”
The boatswain remained motionless. “Te—” escaped the commander’s lips;
and as it did, the sharp edge of Wilson’s heavy tarpaulin hat struck him
a severe blow in the face. This was so entirely unexpected, that the
captain involuntarily threw back his head, and by the same motion,
without intending it, threw up his arm and clenched his hand enough to
fire off the pistol held in it; the ball from which went through the
flying-jib, full twenty feet above Wilson’s head.
The charm that had held the men in check, was broken by the first
movement toward action, and they made a rush toward the captain and his
two supporters. Bravely, though, they stood their ground; and Frank
Adams, the sailor introduced with Tom in the forecastle, received the
ball from the mate’s pistol in the fleshy part of his shoulder, as he
was about to strike that worthy with a handspike. Gallantly assisted by
the steward, the captain and mate made as much resistance as three men
could against fifteen. The odds were, however, too great; spite of their
bravery, the three were soon overpowered and the contest was nearly
ended, when a temporary change was made in favor of the weaker party by
the appearance in the fray of the second mate. He, during the whole
colloquy, had been at the wheel, forgotten by both parties. His sudden
arrival, therefore, as with lusty blows he laid about him, astonished
the seamen, who gave back for an instant, and allowed their opponents to
regain their feet. They did not allow them much time, however, to profit
by this respite, for in a few seconds, understanding the source from
whence assistance had come, they renewed the attack with increased
vigor, and soon again obtained the mastery. But it was no easy matter to
confine the three officers and the steward, who resisted with their
every power, particularly as the men were anxious to do them no more
bodily injury than they were compelled to, in effecting their purpose.
So absorbed were all hands in the strife in which they were engaged,
that not one of them noticed the fact that what had been the
weather-side of the barque at the commencement of the affray, was now
the lee; nor did any of the men—all seamen as they were—observe that
the vessel was heeling over tremendously, her lee-scuppers nearly level
with the water. A report, loud as a cannon, high in the air, first
startled the combatants; then, with a rushing sound, three large, heavy
bodies, fell from aloft, one of which striking the deck near the
combatants, threatened all with instant destruction, whilst the other
two fell with a loud splash into the sea to leeward.
In the new danger, both the victors and vanquished were equally
interested, and at the same instant looked aloft to discover the cause.
The first glance convinced every one of the necessity for prompt and
vigorous action. Their position was, indeed, one fraught with imminent
danger. Left without a helmsman, by the second mate going to the
assistance of the captain, the barque, close-hauled with a stiff breeze
blowing, had come up in the wind, and was now flat aback; that is, the
wind, instead of blowing against the sails from behind, was before them.
The fore and main-royal, and top-gallant masts, with all their gear, had
been carried away; and the ship was gathering stern-way at a rate that
would soon run her under.
The natural desire for self-preservation, combined with the instincts
and habits of both officers and men to cause them entirely to forget the
fierce contest in which they had just been engaged—their thoughts were
changed from each other, to the ship and its situation—and the officers
were at once permitted to regain their feet.
No sooner did Captain Andrews find himself at liberty, than he at once
assumed command, and issued his orders as loud and clear as if nothing
had interrupted his authority.
“To the wheel! to the wheel! Mr. Hart! All hands ware ship!” were his
first words; and the men with alacrity hurried to their stations, whilst
the mate ran to the helm.
The captain’s wife and son had been in the cabin, anxiously awaiting the
result of the controversy on the forecastle, but alarmed by the failing
spars, they had hurried on deck and were now on the poop. In the hurry
and confusion consequent upon the ship’s hazardous position, all hands
were so busy that no one paid attention to Charles and Mrs. Andrews; and
they were too much alarmed to take due care of themselves, else would
they have sought a less exposed situation. As the spanker jibed, Charles
was standing nearly amidships on the deck, and before he even had time
to shriek, the boom struck him and hurled him over the monkey-rail into
the sea. His mother, who was close to the mizzen-mast, saw him just as
he went over, and terror-stricken, sunk to the deck in a swoon, without
uttering a sound. Unable to swim, a puny child in the angry waves of the
rough Atlantic, the case of Charles seemed a hopeless one; but rescue
came from a source he could have least expected. Tom, the sailor-boy,
who was on the tafferel belaying the spanker-sheet to windward,
recognized the captain’s son as he floated clear of the stern; and
actuated by that generous, gallant spirit that had so endeared him to
his messmates, he shouted to the mate that Charles was over-board! and
fearlessly sprang into the sea to his assistance. Tom was an excellent
swimmer, and he found no difficulty in supporting Charles’ delicate form
until the barque hove round, when they were both picked up and taken on
board.
The joy of the mother at having restored to her the idol of her heart;
the grateful feelings she and the father felt toward the deliverer of
their child, we will not attempt to describe; only the results will we
give of this heroic action. Tom was treated by the captain as a son; the
crew were forgiven for their mutinous conduct, and cheerfully returned
to duty; and Tom, now a distinguished naval officer, dates his first
step upon the ladder that leads to eminence, from the day he so narrowly
escaped a severe whipping.
_Laurensville, South Carolina._
* * * * *
THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK.
(FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO.)
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Rein in thy snorting charger!
That stag but cheats thy sight;
He is luring thee on to Windeck,
With his seeming fear and flight.
Now, where the mouldering turrets
Of the outer gate arise,
The knight gazed over the ruins
Where the stag was lost to his eyes.
The sun shone hot above him;
The castle was still as death;
He wiped the sweat from his forehead,
With a deep and weary breath.
“Who now will bring me a beaker
Of the rich old wine that here,
In the choked up vaults of Windeck,
Has lain for many a year?”
The careless words had scarcely
Time from his lips to fall,
When the Lady of Castle Windeck
Come round the ivy-wall.
He saw the glorious maiden
In her snow-white drapery stand,
The bunch of keys at her girdle,
The beaker high in her hand.
He quaffed that rich old vintage;
With an eager lip he quaffed;
But he took into his bosom
A fire with the grateful draught.
Her eyes unfathomed brightness!
The flowing gold of her hair!
He folded his hands in homage,
And murmured a lover’s prayer.
She gave him a look of pity,
A gentle look of pain;
And quickly as he had seen her
She passed from his sight again.
And ever, from that moment,
He haunted the ruins there,
A sleepless, restless wanderer,
A watcher with despair.
Ghost-like and pale he wandered,
With a dreamy, haggard eye;
He seemed not one of the living,
And yet he could not die.
’Tis said that the lady met him,
When many years had past,
And kissing his lips, released him
From the burden of life at last.
* * * * *
THE YOUNG MOTHER’S LAMENT.
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
Oh, what is all this world to me,
Now that my babe is gone—
From every thing I hear, or see,
The light of life has flown!
It is not summer to my eyes,
For summer’s sun is hid—
He, who made fair the earth and skies,
Sleeps ’neath a coffin-lid.
There is no verdure to be seen—
No flowers upon the lea;
For he, whose smile made all things green,
Hath no more smiles for me.
Now all things wear the sickly-hue
Of my own spirit sad,
And nothing can that charm renew
Which made the earth look glad.
Oh, he was such a lovely boy—
So innocent, so fair;
His every look so full of joy—
Such sunlight in his hair!
That when he nestled to my breast,
And looked up lovingly,
I thought no mother half so blest
In all the world as I.
But now, alas! since he has died,
All day and night I pine,
And never was a heart beside
So desolate as mine.
Here are the toys his little hands
So sportively did use,
And here his empty cradle stands,
And here his tiny shoes:
Oh, take them, take them from my sight!
Each sends a cruel dart—
Sharpened by fatal memories bright—
Into my bleeding heart.
Take all away, since _he_ is gone—
Save one of his fair curls,
And that shall on my breast be worn,
Set round with costly pearls.
But, like the diamond glistening bright
Upon a withered wreath,
’Twill make more dreary by its light
The wasted heart beneath.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Jenny Lind_
(IN LA SONNAMBULA)
Engraved in London for Graham’s Magazine by W. H. Mote after the original
Painting by J. W. Wright]
* * * * *
JENNY LIND.
BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.
[WITH A PORTRAIT.]
Sure something holy lodges in that breast,
And with mere rapture moves the vocal air,
To testify its hidden residence.
How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of Silence, through the empty-vaulted night,
At every fall smoothing the raven down
Of darkness till it smiled. Comus.
The Life of the North is to us a fresh revelation; and, by a striking
coincidence, one after another of its phases have come upon our
transatlantic vision, in rapid succession. To many Americans Thorwaldsen
was the only name associated with art, but a few years since; and to
those who had visited Rome, the benign and venerable man was a vivid and
pleasing reminiscence, appropriate to the idea of his grand apostolic
figures, and the affectionate honor in which his native Denmark held
their noble sculptor. But with Ole Bull fairly commenced our knowledge
of the genius of Northern Europe. The play of the wind through her
forests of pines, the glint of her frozen streams, the tenderness of her
households, and the solemnity of her faith, seemed to breathe in the
wizard tones of his violin; while her integrity was written in the form,
the manners, and the very smile of the musician. Then the spirit of her
literature began slowly to win its gentle but impressive way to the
American heart. Longfellow’s translation of Bishof’s Tegnér’s Children
of the Lord’s Supper, with the graphic introduction descriptive of moral
life in Sweden, touched the same chord in New England breasts, that had
vibrated to the religious pathos of Bryant, Dana, and Hawthorne; while
not a few readers became simultaneously aware of a brave Danish poet
recently followed to the tomb by the people of Copenhagen, with every
token of national grief. The dramas of Œhlenschläger, from their union
of familiar expression with the richest feeling, though but partially
known in this country, awakened both curiosity and interest. Then, too,
came to us the domestic novels of Miss Bremer, portraying so heartily
the life of home in Sweden, and appealing to the most universal
sympathies of our people. Finally, Hans Andersen’s delicious story-books
veiling such fine imaginative powers under the guise of the utmost
simplicity, raised up for him scores of juvenile admirers, while
children of a larger growth enjoyed the originality of his fictions with
equal zest, as the offspring of rare human sympathy and original
invention. The pictures wafted to our shores by the late revolutionary
exigencies of the Continent, have often yielded glimpses of northern
scenery. Norwegian forests, skies and mountains, attracted the eye at
the Dusseldorf gallery; and thus through both art and literature, the
simple, earnest, and poetic features of life in the north, were brought
within the range of our consciousness. It developed unimagined
affinities with our own; and now, as it were, to complete and consecrate
the revelation, we are to hear the vocal genius of Northern Europe—the
Swedish nightingale, Jenny Lind, is coming!
From an unpretending edifice in one of the by-streets of the city of
Stockholm in Sweden, a quarter of a century ago, a troop of children
might have been seen to emerge, at noon, and break the silence that at
other hours invested the place, with the lively chat and quick laughter
natural to emancipated scholars. In a few moments they dispersed to
their several homes, and early the next day were again visible, one by
one, disappearing, with a more subdued bearing, within the portal of the
humble domicil.
Stockholm is justly regarded as the most elegant city of Northern
Europe. It is situated at the junction of the lake Mälar with an inlet
of the Baltic. Although usually described as founded on seven isles, it
is, in point of fact, mainly situated on three; the smallest and most
central having been the original site, and still constituting the most
populous and active section. The irregularity of its form, and the
blending of land and water, renders the appearance of the city
remarkably picturesque. From the elevated points, besides the various
buildings, craft of all kinds in motion and at anchor, numerous bridges
and a fine back-ground of mountains are discernible, and combine to form
a beautiful panorama. The royal palace is exceeded in magnificence only
by that of Versailles. Through this busy and varied scene, on a pleasant
day, there moved rapidly the carriage of one of those useful, though
unrecognized beings, who seem born to appreciate the gifts which God so
liberally dispenses, but whom the insensibility and selfishness of
mankind, in general, permit to languish in obscurity until a fortunate
circumstance brings them to light. Some time previous, the good lady, in
passing the seminary to which we have alluded, had been struck with the
beauty of a child’s voice that rose blithely from the dwelling. She was
induced to alight and enter; and her astonishment was only increased
upon discovering that this cheerful song came from a diminutive girl,
busied in arranging the school-room, during a temporary recess. She
learned that this maiden was the daughter of the school-mistress; and
the somewhat restricted air of homely comfort visible in the
establishment, and the tinge of severity in the manners of the mother,
contrasted forcibly in the lady’s imagination with the apparently
instinctive soaring of the child’s spirit into the atmosphere of song,
from her dim and formal surroundings, as the sky-lark lifts itself from
a lowly nest among the dark weeds up to the crystal heavens. It was a
sweet illustration of the law of compensation.
The air the child was singing, as she busied herself about the room, was
a simple, native strain, quite familiar and by no means difficult of
execution; it was the quality of the voice, the natural flow of the
notes, the apparent ease, grace and earnest sweetness of the little
songstress, that gained the visiter’s ear and heart; and now she had
come to urge upon the parents the duty of affording every encouragement
to develop a gift so rare and beautiful; she expressed her conviction
that the child was born for a musical artist, and destined not only to
redeem her parents from want, but to do honor to her country. This
impression was deepened when she learned that this musical tendency
manifested itself as early as the age of three, and that the little girl
had long awakened the wonder of the family by repeating accurately even
intricate airs, after having heard them but once; that she had thus sung
habitually, spontaneously, and seemed to find of her own volition, a
peculiar consolation in the act for the dry routine of her life, though
from without, not a single circumstance gave any impulse or direction to
this vocal endowment.
She exhibited also to the just perception of Madame Lundberg, herself a
celebrated Swedish actress, as well as a benevolent woman, the usual
conditions of genius, in backward physical growth, precocious mental
vigor, and mature sensibilities. The latter, indeed, were so active,
that her mother, and even her kind adviser doubted if she possessed
sufficient energy of character for so trying a profession as that of an
artist; and this consideration added to the prejudice of the parents
against a public, and especially a theatrical career, for a time,
chilled the hopes of the enthusiastic patroness. At length, however,
their consent was obtained that the experiment should be tried, and the
diffident little girl, only accustomed to domestic privacy, but with a
new and strange hope wildly fluttering in her bosom, was taken to
Croelius—a veteran music-master of Stockholm; who was so delighted with
her rare promise that one day he led her to the house of Count Pucke,
then director of the court theatre. Her reception, however, did not
correspond with the old man’s desires; for the nobleman coldly inquired
what he was expected to do with such a child? It must be confessed that
the absence of beauty and size did not, at the first glance, create any
high anticipations in behalf of the demure maiden. Croelius, though
disappointed, was quite undismayed; he entreated the director to hear
her sing, and declared his purpose to teach her gratuitously, if he
could in no other way secure the cultivation of her voice and talents.
This earnestness induced the count to listen with attention and candor;
and the instant she had finished, he exclaimed, “She shall have all the
advantages of the Stockholm Academy!” Such was Jenny Lind’s initiation
into the life of an artist.
She now began regularly to appear on the stage, and was soon an adept in
juvenile parts. She proved widely attractive in vaudevilles, which were
written expressly for her; and it is remarkable that the charm did not
lie so much in the precocious intelligence, as in the singular geniality
of the little actress. Nature thus early asserted her dominion. There
was an indefinable human interest, a certain original vein that
universally surprised and fascinated, while it took from the child the
_eclat_ of a mere infant phenomenon, by bringing her from the domain of
vulgar wonder into the range of that refined sympathy one touch of which
“makes the whole world kin.” In a year Croelius reluctantly gave up his
pupil to Berg, who to kindred zeal united far more energy; and by him
she was inducted thoroughly into the elements of her art.
Probation is quite as essential to the true development of art as
encouragement. The eager, impassioned, excitable temperament needs to be
chastened, the recklessness of self-confidence awed, and that sublime
patience induced through which reliable and tranquil energy takes the
place of casual and unsustained activity. By nature Jenny Lind was
thoughtful and earnest, disposed to silence, and instinctively reserved;
while the influence of her early home was to subdue far more than to
exhilarate. The change in her mode of life and prospects was so
unexpected, her success as a juvenile prodigy so brilliant, and the
universal social favor she enjoyed, on account of the winsome amiability
of her character, so fitted to elate a youthful heart, that we cannot
but regard it as one of the many providential events of her career, that
just at the critical moment when the child was losing herself in the
maiden, and nature and education were ultimately shaping her artistic
powers, an unexpected impediment was allowed to check her already too
rapid advancement; and a pause, sad enough at the time, but fraught with
enduring benefit, gave her occasion to discipline and elevate her soul,
renew her overtasked energies, and plume her wings while thus aware of
the utility of her trial, we can easily imagine its bitterness. The loss
of a gift of nature through which a human being has learned to find both
the solace and the inspiration of existence, upon which the dearest
hopes were founded, and by which the most glorious triumphs were
achieved, is one of those griefs few can realize. Raphael’s gentle heart
bled when feebleness unnerved the hand that guided the pencil to such
lovely issues, and big tears rolled down Scott’s manly cheek when he
strove in vain to go on with his latest composition. How desolate then
must that young aspirant for the honor, and the delights of the vocal
art, have felt when suddenly deprived of her voice! The dream of her
youth was broken in a moment. The charm of her being faded like a mist;
and the star of hope that had thus far beamed serenely on her path, grew
dim in the cold twilight of disappointment—keen, entire and apparently
irremediable. This painful condition was aggravated by the fact that her
age now rendered it out of the question to perform childish parts, while
it did not authorize those of a mature character. The circumstances,
too, of her failure were singularly trying. She was announced to appear
as Agatha in Weber’s Frieschutz—a character she had long regarded as
that in which her ability would be genially tested. To it her young
ambition had long pointed, and with it her artistic sympathies were
familiarly identified. The hour came, and that wonderful and delicate
instrument—that as a child she had governed so adroitly, that it seemed
the echo of her mind;—that subtle medium through which her feelings had
been wont to find such ready and full vent, refused to obey her will,
yielded not to the pleadings of love or ambition; was hushed as by some
cruel magic—and Jenny Lind was mute, with anguish in her bosom; her
friends looking on in tearful regret, and her maestro chagrined beyond
description! Where had those silvery tones fled? What catastrophe had
all at once loosened those invisible harp strings? The splendid vision
of fame, of bounteous pleasure, of world-excited sympathy, and of
triumphant art, disappeared like the gorgeous cities seen by the
traveler, from the Straits of Messina, painted in tinted vapor on the
horizon. Jenny Lind ceased to sing, but her love of art was deepened,
her trust in nature unshaken, her simplicity and kindliness as real as
before. Four long years she lived without the rich promise that had
invested her childhood; but, with undiminished force of purpose, she
studied the art for which she felt herself born, with patient, acute,
earnest assiduity, and then another and blissful episode rewarded her
quiet heroism. The fourth act of Robert le Diable had been announced for
a special occasion; and it so happened that in consequence of the
insignificant _role_ of Alice, consisting of a single solo, no one of
the regular singers was disposed to adopt the character. In this
emergency, Berg was reminded of his unfortunate pupil. She meekly
consented to appear, pleased with an opportunity to be useful, and
oblige her kind maestro. While practicing this solo, to the delight and
astonishment of both teacher and pupil, the long-lost voice suddenly
re-appeared. It seemed as if Nature had only withdrawn the gift for a
season, that her child might gather strength and wisdom to use it
efficiently, and in an unselfish spirit; and then restored it as a
deserved recompense for the resignation and truth with which the
deprivation had been borne. We can fancy the rapturous emotions of the
gentle votary that night, when she retired from the scene of her new and
unanticipated triumph. The occasion has been aptly compared to the
memorable third act of the Merchant of Venice on the evening of Kean’s
_debut_ at Drury Lane. Jenny Lind immediately reverted to her cherished
ideal part—that of Agatha. She was now sixteen years of age—her
character rendered firm by discipline, her love of music deepened by
more comprehensive views and a better insight, and her whole nature
warmed and softened by the realization of the fondest and earliest
hopes, long baffled, yet consistently cherished. The most experienced
actors were struck with wonder at the facility and perfection of her
dramatic style; in this, as in her vocalism, was, at once, recognized
that peculiar truth to nature which constitutes the perfection of
art—that unconsciousness of self and circumstance, and that fresh idea
of character, at once so uncommon and so delightful. She drew the
orchestra after her by her bold yet true execution; and seemed possessed
with the genius of the composer as well as with the idiosyncrasies of
the character she sung, so complete and individual was the result.
Already the idol of her native city, and the hope of the Swedish stage,
her own ideas of art and aims as an artist remained unchanged. Her first
desire was to seek the instruction of Garcia, with a view to perfect her
method and subdue some vocal difficulties. She gracefully acknowledged
the social homage and theatrical distinction awarded her; but these were
but incidental to a great purpose. She had a nobler ambition to satisfy,
a higher ideal to realize, and pressed on her still obstructed way,
unallured by the pleasures of the moment and undismayed by the distance
of the goal. In order to obtain the requisite means for a sojourn at
Paris, she made excursions through Norway and Sweden, with her father,
during the vacations of the theatre, to give concerts, and when
sufficient had thus been acquired, she obtained leave of absence from
the Stockholm director, and left home for Paris, notwithstanding the
dissuasion of her parents. They confided, however, as before, in her own
sense of right; and she hastened to place herself under the instruction
of Garcia. Here another keen disappointment subdued her reviving hopes.
At the first trial, her new teacher said: “My child, you have no voice;
do not sing a note for three months, and then come and resume again.”
Once more she wrapt herself in the mantle of patience, went into
studious retirement, and, at the prescribed time, again returned to
Garcia, whose cheering words now were, “My child, you can begin your
lessons immediately.” Simple words, indeed, but more welcome to that
ardent child of song, intent on progress in the art she loved, than the
wildest plaudits. She returned with an elastic step, and entered with
joyful enthusiasm upon her artistic career. Meyerbeer immediately
offered her an engagement at Berlin. The consummate skill of her
teacher, and her own enlarged experience and high resolves, made her
advancement rapid and genuine. Thenceforth a series of musical triumphs
unexcelled in the history of the lyrical drama, attended the life of
Jenny Lind. We might repeat countless anecdotes of the universal
admiration and profound sympathy she excited at Berlin, Vienna, Dresden,
Bremen, Munich, Aix la Chapelle, and, indeed, wherever her voice was
heard on the stage and at concerts. The testimonies of the highest
private regard, and public appreciation, were lavished upon her in the
shape of costly gifts, wreaths of silver, poetic tributes, philosophical
criticisms, the breathless silence or overwhelming applause of entranced
multitudes, and all the signs of enthusiastic delight at the advent of a
true child of nature and of song. To us the record of her two visits to
England are yet vivid, and it is needless to reiterate the extraordinary
demonstrations which there attested her singular merits, and unequalled
attractiveness. The population of Berlin and Vienna assembled at
midnight to bid her adieu; and when she last left her native city, every
ship in the harbor was manned and every quay crowded to see her embark
in the presence of the queen. Nor are these spontaneous tributes to be
exclusively ascribed to the love of novelty and the excitement of
renown. Heroes and heroines the world cannot do without, unless it
lapses into frigid and selfish materialism; admiration for talent and
sympathy with genius are but human instincts. It is seldom, however,
that these sentiments are upheld and sanctioned by reverence for worth.
Therefore is it beautiful to witness the voluntary oblations which
attend the great artist whose expression, however eloquent, is the true
manifestation of a pure, noble and disinterested spirit. It is not Jenny
Lind in her personality, but as a priestess of art, an interpreter of
humanity, a gifted and loyal expositer of feelings, that lend grace to
life and elevation to the soul, that draws the common heart toward her
with such frank and ardent gratulation. Her well-known and
unostentatious charities, her simplicity of life, her sympathy with her
fellow-creatures, and unaffected manners, so accord with the glorious
art she so rarely illustrates as to justify to reflection the impulsive
admiration she excites.
It is not in sublimity that Jenny Lind excels; and whatever excellence
her Norma may possess, it is not of that characteristic species which
renders her impersonations of _La Figlia del Regimento_, of _Alice_, of
_Lucia_, and of _Amina_, so memorable. In the former character she makes
innocence play through the rude habits acquired in the camp, in a way so
exquisite as to enchant as by the spell of reality. In the Bride of
Lammermoor, there is a melancholy beauty which haunts the listener. It
is her greatest tragic part. The pathos of the third act seems
re-produced from the very genius which created the romance. Her Amina is
Bellini’s; and this is saying all that praise can utter. We may realize
her versatility by comparing the comic jealousy so archly displayed in
the _Noces de Figaro_, with the tenderness of the sleep-walking scene in
_La Somnambula_. It has been well observed of her that, in the former
opera, “she adheres to the genius of Mozart with a modest appreciation
of the genius of that master”—a commendation as high as it is rare. One
of the most remarkable traits of her artistic skill is its exquisite and
wonderful discrimination—a quality no description can make obvious.
The peculiar charm of Jenny Lind, as an artist, is her unconsciousness.
We are disposed to regard this as one of the most reliable tests of
superior gifts. It at least proves the absorption of self in what is
dearer—a condition essential to all true greatness. The most acute
observers of this beautiful vocalist fail to detect the slightest
reference either to her audience or herself while engaged in a part. For
the time being her very existence seems identified with the character
she represents; it is the after-thought, not the impression of the
moment that brings us to the artist; infected by the complete
realization of the scene, we think of it alone; and only when it has
passed away do we become aware that the genius of another has, as it
were, incarnated a story or a sentiment before us, through will,
sympathy and talent. The process is quite as unthought of as that by
which a masterpiece of painting or sculpture has been executed, when we
stand before it rapt in that harmonious spell that permits no analysis
and suggests no task-work, any more than the landscape of summer, or the
effulgence of a star. We feel only the presence of the beautiful, the
advent of a new creation, the irresistible appeal to the highest
instincts of the soul. Carlyle says “the unconscious is the alone
complete”—an aphorism which Jenny Lind robs of all mystery; for her
superiority consists in the wholeness and unity of her effects, and this
is produced by a kind of self-surrender, such as we rarely see except in
two of the most genuine phases of humanity—genius and childhood; in
this tendency they coalesce; and hence the freshness that lingers around
the richly endowed nature, and the universal faith which it inspires.
The secret is that such characters have never wandered far from nature;
they have kept within sight of that “immortal sea that brought us
hither;” they constitute an aristocracy spontaneously recognized by all;
and they triumph as poets, artists, and influential social beings, not
through the exercise of any rare and wonderful gift, but from obedience
to the simple laws of truth—to the primal sympathies, and to a kind of
innate and glorious confidence which lifts them above ignoble fear and
selfish tricks. The true hero, poet, artist, the true man or woman, who
seem to the multitude to be peculiarly endowed, differ from those who do
them voluntary homage, chiefly in this unconsciousness of self; this
capacity to be ever “nobler than their moods;” this sympathetic breadth
of life that enables them to go forth with a kind of elemental power and
enter into other forms of being; the principle of their existence is
faith, not dexterity; sentiment, not calculation.
It will be seen that we recognize a moral basis as the source of Jenny
Lind’s fascination; and if we were obliged to define this in a single
word, perhaps the lexicon would furnish none so expressive as the homely
one—_truth_. But we use it as significant of far more than the absence
of falsehood; we mean by it candor, trust, spontaneity, directness. We
believe that Jenny Lind inspires sympathy in spite of her petite figure,
not altogether because she warbles enchantingly, and has amiable
manners, but also on account of the faith she at once excites. We
perceive that love of approbation is not her ruling impulse, although
her profession might excuse it; but that she has an ideal of her own, an
artistic conscience, a love of art, a musical ministry to satisfy and
accomplish, and that these considerations induce a nobler ambition than
co-exists with mere vanity. It is said that the remarkable novel of
Consuelo, by George Sand, is founded on the character and history of
Jenny Lind. Whether this be so or not, the theory of the tale, the
guileless devotion to art as such, which stamps the heroine with such
exalted grace, finds a parallel in this famed vocalist of the North; the
same singleness of purpose and intact clearness of soul, the same firm
will and gentle heart are evident. Much, too, of her success is
attributable to the philosophy of Consuelo’s _maestro_—that to reach
the highest excellence in Art, the affections as well as the mind must
be yielded at her shrine. There is a subtle and deep relation between
feeling and expression, and the biographies of those who have achieved
renown in the latter, under any of its artistic forms, indicate that it
has embodied that within them that found no adequate response in actual
life. The highest efforts of the poet and musician, are confessedly the
result of baffled or overflowing emotion; disguised, perhaps, as to the
form, but clearly evident in the tone of their productions. Mozart and
Raphael, Bryant and Paganini, have illustrated this most emphatically.
Jenny Lind seems to have kept her better feelings alive by the habitual
exercise of benevolence, and a diffusive friendliness, while her
concentrated and earnest activity finds utterance in her art. Hence the
sway she has gained over countless hearts, each absorbed in its own
dream or shadowed by its own regrets, that glow again in the kindling
atmosphere of song, which gushes from a soul over which no overmastering
passion has yet cast a gloom, and whose transparent waters no agitation
of conflicting desires has ever made turbid and restless. Jenny Lind has
been a priestess at the shrine of Art, and therefore interprets its
oracles “as one having authority.”
In this country the idea of fashion and the mere relish of amusement,
have blended so exclusively with the support of the Opera, that we
seldom realize its artistic relations and influence. The taste for the
Italian Opera seems to have extended in the ratio of civilization; and
although it is, after all, an exotic among the Anglo-Saxons—a pleasure
born in the “sweet South,” and in its very richness of combination,
suggestive of the impassioned feeling and habitual luxury of those
climes—yet, on the other hand, it is typical of the complex life, wants
and tendencies of modern society. The old English tragic drama, robust,
fierce-hearted and unadorned, has faded before it; the theatre, as a
reunion of wits, and an arena for marvelous histrionic effects, as a
subject of elegant criticism, and a nucleus for universal sympathy, may
be said not to exist; while the Opera has become the scene of display,
elegance, and pleasure on the one hand, and of the highest triumphs on
the other. The sentiment of the age has written itself in music—its
wide intelligence, its keen analysis, its revolutionary spirit, its
restlessness, and its humanity, may be traced in the rich and brilliant
combinations of Rossini, in the grand symphonies of Beethoven, in the
pleading tenderness of Bellini, and in the mingled war-notes and
sentiment of Verdi. The demand for undisguised and free expression,
characteristic of the times, finds also its requisite scope in the
lyrical drama. Recitation is too tame, pantomime too silent, scenic art
too illusive, costume too familiar, music too unpicturesque; but all
these combined are, at once, as romantic, exciting, impressive, and
melo-dramatic as the varied aptitudes, the exacting taste, and the
broad, experimental genius of the age. The gifts of nature, the
resources of art, the gratification of the senses, the exigencies of
fashion and taste, and the wants of the heart and imagination find in
the Opera a most convenient luxury. The lyrical drama has thus gradually
usurped the place of tournament and theatre; it is a social as well as
an artistic exponent of the day; and those who have best illustrated it
are justly regarded as public benefactors. Few, however, have ministered
in this temple, with the artless grace, the pure enthusiasm, the vestal
glory of Jenny Lind. The daughters of the South, ardent and susceptible,
but capricious and extravagant, heretofore won its chief honors; their
triumphs have been great but spasmodic, gained by impulse rather than
nature, by glorious gifts of person rather than rare graces of soul.
Jenny Lind, with her fair hair and blue eyes, her unqueenly form, and
child-like simplicity, has achieved almost unparalleled success, by
means quite diverse. Her one natural gift is a voice of singular depth,
compass, flexibility and tone. This has been, if we may be allowed the
expression, mesmerized by a soul, earnest, pure and sincere; and thus,
with the clear perception and dauntless will of the North has she
interpreted the familiar musical dramas in a new, vivid, and original
manner. One would imagine she had come with one bound from tending her
flock on the hill-side, to warble behind the foot-lights; for so
directly from the heart of nature springs her melody, and so beyond the
reach of art is the simple grace of her air and manners, that we
associate her with the Opera only through the consummate skill—the
result of scientific training—manifested in her vocalism. The term
warbling is thus adapted peculiarly to express the character of her
style; its ease, fluency, spontaneous gush, and the total absence of
every thing meretricious and exaggerated in the action and bearing that
accompanies it. It is like the song of a bird, only more human. Nature
in her seems to have taken Art to her bosom, and assimilated it, through
love, with herself, until the identity of each is lost in the other.
The union of such musical science—such thoroughly disciplined art with
such artlessness and simplicity, is, perhaps, the crowning mystery of
her genius. To know and to love are the conditions of triumph in all the
exalted spheres of human labor; and in the musical drama, they have
never been so admirably united. Her command of expression seems not so
much the result of study as of inspiration; and there is about her a
certain gentle elevation which stamps her to every eye, as one who is
consecrated to a high service. Her ingenuous countenance, always
enlivened by an active intelligence, might convey, at first, chiefly the
idea of good-nature and cleverness in the English sense; but her
carriage, voice, movements, and expression in the more affecting moments
of a drama, give sympathetic assurance of what we must be excused for
calling—a crystal soul. In all her characters she transports us, at
once, away from the commonplace and the artificial, if not always into
the domain of lofty idealism, into that more human and blissful domain
of primal nature; and unhappy is the being who finds not the unconscious
delight of childhood, or the dream of love momently renewed in that
serene and unclouded air.
In accordance with this view of Jenny Lind’s characteristics, the
enthusiasm she excited in England, is alluded to by the leading critics,
as singularly honest. No musical artist, indeed, was ever so fitted to
win Anglo-Saxon sympathies. She has the _morale_ of the North; and does
not awaken the prejudice so common in Great Britain, and so truly
described in Corinne, against the passionate temperament and tendency to
extravagance that mark the children of the South. No candidate for
public favor was ever so devoid of the ordinary means of attaining it.
There is something absurd in making such a creature the mere nucleus of
fashionable vanity, or the object of that namby-pamby criticism that
busies itself with details of personal appearance and French terms of
compliment. Jenny Lind is not beautiful; she does not take her audiences
by storm; she exercises no intoxicating physical magnetism over their
sensitive natures. She is not classic either in form or feature, or
manner, or style of singing. Her loveliness as a woman, her power as an
artist, her grace as a character, lies in expression; and that
expression owes its variety and its enchantment to unaffected truth to
nature, sentiment and the principles of art.
And now that Jenny Lind is hourly expected among us, let a word be
ventured as to what self-respect and the love of art make appropriate
for her reception. Let not so charitable a soul be mortified by a
tasteless hospitality; let not this genuine artist be seized upon by the
remorseless purveyors of meretricious Fashion; and, above all, let not
her gentle and candid nature be subjected to the vulgarism of the
lionizing mania! As a priestess of Art, in its highest and sweetest
form, as a fair ministrant to the spirit of Beauty, as a true musical
interpreter of humanity—let the people welcome her with sincere and
grateful recognition. This is the most acceptable tribute an unperverted
soul can receive or bestow. It is that intelligent sympathy due from a
free and educated society, and cheering to a discriminating recipient.
Far from Nature’s minstrel be the critical affectation of the professed
amateur, and the empty adulation of the coxcomb. Let her pure and
exquisite vocalism—the result of such discipline, faith, and rare gifts
of heaven, find a response in the American heart unprofaned by absurd
excitement, and truly indicative of a genuine and cordial appreciation
of the beautiful in art, and the excellent in character.
* * * * *
THE POET’S PRAYER.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
Leave me not, Love! ’twas thus a poet chanted
His heart’s fond pleadings to the midnight air—
Leave not the dwelling by thy presence haunted,
The home thou long hast filled with visions fair.
Oh, leave me not! although thy fleeting pleasures
Are but as snow-flakes in the sun’s warm ray;
Though thy best gifts are only fairy treasures,
A golden glitter flung o’er things of clay;
Yet leave me not!—all earthly hopes have perished,
And e’en thine hour of promise has gone by,
But I would fain the fond illusion cherish
Which still in joy or sorrow brought thee nigh.
Perhaps my hand, like hers[4] in olden story,
Let fall the burning drop that broke thy rest,
Marring by base distrust thy veiléd glory,
And scaring thee too rudely from my breast;
Yet leave me not!—although thy shrine be broken,
Though all its votive wreaths are long since gone,
Faith lingers there, albeit the prayer, unspoken,
Dies on her lip like sorrow’s half-breathed moan.
-----
[4] Psyche.
* * * * *
IMPLORA PACE:—A VERSION.
BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES.
Oh, Rest! serenest rest!
Mild evening of the soul—
Thou soft and silent Hesperus
Whose influences control
The pulses of the weary-hearted—
How often have our warm tears started
At mention of thy name,
When pictures blest of days departed
Our memories overcame!
Oh, Rest! serenest rest!
That by the sun of Truth
Art standing firm and fast,
Sought after from our youth—
Through all the changes of life’s lot,
But oh! sad truth, we find _thee_ not!
* * * * *
THE FALL OF THE FAIRIES.
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
The night was clear and cool and calm,
The evening wind, exhaling balm
From spicy Caribbean isles,
Perfumed the forest’s deep defiles.
The mournful sister Pleiades
Arose from oriental seas;
Lyra no more, as once, in old,
Shook harmony from her harp of gold.
Silence, like God, was every where:
There was no sound in earth or air:
An omnipresent quietude
Reposed on field and flood and wood.
Serenely calm, the waning moon
Rose, dreaming of the nights of June,
And silently, from weeping eyes,
Shed tears of silver down the skies.
She seemed to walk her pilgrimage
Like one who, in the frosts of age,
Totters on toward the Holy Land,
Impelled by some pale phantom hand.
Wan August _in extremis_ lay:
He knew that the approaching day
Consigned him to the solemn tomb
Which yawned upon him through the gloom.
The summer flowers were on their wane;
And silently, like one in pain,
Who hides his pangs from loving eyes,
The brooks looked calmly toward the skies.
A little circle in a wood—
The heart of the old solitude—
Lay wrapped in something more than sleep—
A boding silence, stern and deep.
Suddenly, from a distant bell,
Ten several sounds fell, like a knell,
And like a sigh (which was despair)
A shudder thrilled the tremulous air.
The leaves fell rustling from the trees,
The grasses shivered in the breeze,
As Saturn, with complacent eye,
Walked coldly up the central sky.
Slowly among the quivering limbs
Come hollow moons, like funeral hymns;
The trees, aroused from slumber, wail
Before the occidental gale.
The clouds, in horror, hurry by;
Unusual darkness drowns the sky;
The moon moves with suspended breath,
Like one who dreads the approach of death.
The stars expire, the moon grows dim,
The wind has ceased to be a hymn,
And through the arches of the wood
Roars, like a lion scenting blood.
Above the wind, whose surging sound
The brazen tumult almost drowned,
Pealing and ringing as it passed,
A clarion’s clamor filled the blast.
Along the earth, among the elms
Who shook and clanged their hoary helms,
And waved their arms in wild despite,
Again that summons filled the night.
Up, piercing space, again it rung
Where fair-haired Lyra sat and sung
Like Sappho, in a passionate trance,
Stunning her with its dissonance.
The little vista of the wood
Suddenly in the darkness stood
Flushed with a wild, unusual light,
Which filled the filmy eyes of night.
From oak and elm, from beech and larch,
That crowned the vista, like an arch,
Between whose leaves, like frowning eyes,
Came glimpses of the gloomy skies;
From Asia’s sultry hills and vales,
From far Topróbanè’s dells and dales,
From Ganges’ source, from Niger’s side,
And turbid Nile’s eternal tide;
From England’s fields, from Scotland’s glens,
From Ireland’s mosses, bogs and fens;
From sunny France, from swarthy Spain,
As if the skies shed golden rain,
Flashing, like streams of falling stars,
A myriad million minim Lars,
With terror painted on each face,
Stood, shuddering in that solemn place.
And from the farthest sphere of even,
From every sun (whose name is heaven,
And whose inhabitants are kings,)
Was heard the rushing of their wings.
Some stood attired in elfin steel,
With sword on hip, and spur at heel,
And crimson cheeks, and brows aflame;
Some in long, flowing garments came,—
Sages, whose sunken eyes had caught
From ceaseless study quenchless thought—
Maidens, with timid, trembling lips,
Their beauties purple with eclipse;
Mothers, within whose matron eyes
Dwelt all the depth of tropic skies,
Clasping their offspring, as the rose
Enfolds its heart at evening close.
Some stood alone, with drooping wings;
Some gathered here and there in rings,
But each one felt, though far apart,
The beating of his neighbor’s heart.
And each one, with a sad surmise,
Gazed wistfully in his fellow’s eyes,
And turned, and doubtfully bowed his head,
Despairing at the lore he read.
Each seemed to wonder why that hour
Beheld them in that ancient bower,
Where tree, and leaf, and grass, and stone,
Spoke audibly of ages gone.
Where shining, ghostly, through the trees,
Were idols, fern-clad to the knees,
And scattered round, in pale decay,
The ruins of old temples lay.
Altars of many a mythic age,
Forgotten even on history’s page,
With sacrificial knife and brand,
Arose, like tombs, on either hand.
And each one seemed to ask, though not
A word disturbed that haunted spot,
For some one, who, with eye of lynx,
Would read this riddle of the Sphynx;
And with oracular voice and air
Declare why they were summoned there—
Why called from worlds that felt no flood
To tremble in that ancient wood—
That wood which from the birth of time
Had gone on growing, through the chime
Of falling spheres,—a Druid sage,
Unwearied with life’s pilgrimage.
While standing thus in mute amaze,
Sadly, along the forest ways
Came slowly toward the appointed place
The Fathers of the Fairy Race.
And as, by sacred instinct urged,
From gloom to light their forms emerged,
It seemed as if unnumbered years
Of elfin lore had made them seers.
And each one seemed to walk the sod,
Clothed in his wisdom, like a god;
But in his step, and in his air,
Were mingled terror and despair.
Even as they came, the distant bell
Again proclaimed its solemn knell;
Eleven deep sounds, which, one by one,
Through every shuddering bosom run.
The night grew light, and on the skies
Each one in wonder fixed his eyes,
And saw, encircled with his rays,
Cold Saturn, like a comet, blaze.
Saturn, who on the zenith stood,
Freezing, it seemed, their very blood;
So cold, so thin it grew, they shook
As if by sudden palsy strook.
Each gazed in terror on the other;
Sister sought sister—brother brother—
But over all had come a strange,
Unprecedented—horrid change.
A moment did the work of years;
And gazing through their blinding tears,
They felt that centuries had passed
Since they saw one another last—
That what was youth was wrinkled age,
Sere, hoary, palsied, trembling age:
The very babe, so great the charm,
Grew gray upon its mother’s arm.
Suddenly, on the gloom of night,
Leaving a trail of silvery light,
Six coursers, with disheveled hair,
Swept madly through the fields of air.
Their argent manes, in separate threads,
Streamed from their bony necks and heads;
The crooked lightnings of their eyes
Flashed fitfully athwart the skies;
Behind a sparkling chariot shone,
Burning with many a precious stone
And flaming on the eyes of all—
A planet trembling to its fall!
Erect, while sobbing, at his side
Reclined his once immortal bride,
Sat Oberon, with pallid brow,
And tresses white as winter’s snow.
Pale Hecatè, peering from a cloud—
A maiden, lying in her shroud—
Less pale were than the Fairy Queen,
Less cold, less motionless of mien.
Heart-broken Titania, wan with age,
Leant feebly on her Indian page,
Looking as if all hope was gone;—
Than even Death himself more wan.
“Subjects,” said Oberon, “gentle friends,
This night our long dominion ends;
Stern Saturn, with his stony eyes,
Smiles grimly on his sacrifice.”
“Henceforth all poetry is dead!”
And as he spoke, above his head
In masses rolled the weltering clouds;
The stars still lay within their shrouds;
Save Saturn, whose untroubled light
Almost made daylight of the night.
With groans the myriad mourners said—
“Henceforth all poetry is dead!”
“The Ideal age, the lyric strain
Expire; with them the fairy reign;
The Real comes with iron tread:—
Henceforth all poetry is dead!”
So said the king, and as he spoke
Long, heavy, rolling thunders broke
Above them, rattling through the spheres,
Whose eyes were drowned with pitying tears.
The wind arose and struck the wood;
The rain descended in a flood;
Hither and thither rushed the leaves
Along the ruined temples’ eaves.
But Saturn shone as cold and stern
As death beside a funeral urn,
Looking as though his lustre said—
“Henceforth all poetry is dead!”
And now the storm was at its height;
The trees rolled to and fro in fright;
The lurid lightnings blazed and played
Demoniac through the eternal shade.
While far above the tempest’s plash,
Above the thunder’s deafening crash,
Twelve sounds fell, fainting, on the blast
Which rushed in eddying whirlwinds past.
Even as the last sound rent the air
A hopeless shriek of fierce despair
Shook earth and heaven! and all was calm—
Unutterably, coldly calm.
The stars came out; the moon once more
Shone bright as on its birth of yore;
Lyra alone looked down in pain:
Her golden chords were rent in twain.
But Saturn, smiling, seemed to say—
“The Ideal Age has passed away;
I have devoured my sons,” he said—
“_Henceforth all poetry is dead!_”
* * * * *
THE BRIDE OF THE BATTLE.
A SOUTHERN NOVELET.
BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.
CHAPTER I.
To the reader who, in the pursuit of the facts in our national history,
shall confine himself only to those records which are to be found in the
ordinary narrative, much that he reads will be found obscure, and a
great deal absolutely untruthful. Our early historians gave themselves
but little trouble in searching after details. A general outline was all
that they desired, and, satisfied with this, they neither sought after
the particular events which should give rise to the narrative, nor into
the latent causes which gave birth to many of its actions. In the
history of South Carolina, for example, (which was one brimming with
details and teeming with incidents,) there is little to be found—as the
history is at present written—which shall afford to the reader even a
tolerably correct idea of the domestic character of the struggle. We
know well enough that the people of the colony were of a singularly
heterogeneous character; that the settlers of the lower country were
chiefly Cavaliers and Huguenots, or French Protestants, and that the
interior was divided into groups, or settlements, of Scotch, Irish, and
German. But there is little in the record to show that, of these, the
sentiment was mixed and various without degree; and that, with the
exception of the parishes of the lower country, which belonged almost
wholly, though with slight modifications, to the English church, it was
scarcely possible to find any neighborhood, in which there was not
something like a civil war. The interior and mountain settlements were
most usually divided, and nearly equally, between their attachments to
the crown and the colony. A Scotch settlement would make an almost
uniform showing in behalf of the English authority—one, two, or three
persons, at the utmost, being of the revolutionary party. An Irish
settlement (wholly Protestant, be it remembered) would be as unanimous
for the colonial movements; while the Germans were but too frequently
for the monarchical side, that being represented by a prince of Hanover.
The German settlements mostly lay in the Forks of Edisto, and along the
Congarees. The business of the present narrative will be confined
chiefly to this people. They had settled in rather large families in
Carolina, and this only a short period before the Revolution. They had
been sent out, in frequent instances, at the expense of the crown, and
this contributed to secure their allegiance. They were ignorant of the
nature of the struggle, and being wholly agricultural, could not well be
taught the nature of grievances which fell chiefly upon commerce and the
sea-board. Now, in Carolina, and perhaps throughout the whole south, the
Revolution not only originated with the natives of the country, but with
the educated portions of the natives. It was what may be termed the
gentlemen of the colony—its wealth and aristocracy—with whom and which
the movement began; and though it is not our purpose here to go into
this inquiry, we may add that the motives to the revolutionary movement
originated with them, in causes totally different from those which
stimulated the patriotism of the people of Massachusetts Bay. The pride
of place, of character and of intellect, and not any considerations of
interest, provoked the agricultural gentry of the south into the field.
It was the earnest desire of these gentry, at the dawning of the
Revolution, to conciliate the various people of the interior. At the
first signs of the struggle, therefore, an attempt was made to influence
the German population along the Edisto and Congaree, by sending among
them two influential men of their own country, whose fidelity to the
_mouvement_ party was beyond dispute. But these men were unsuccessful.
They probably made few converts. It is enough, if we give a glimpse at
the course of their proceedings in a single household in the Forks of
Edisto.[5] George Wagner and Felix Long arrived at the habitation of
Frederick Sabb, on the 7th day of July, 1775. Frederick was an honest
Dutchman of good character, but not the man for revolution. He was not
at home on the arrival of the commissioners, but his good _vrow_,
Minnicker Sabb, gave them a gracious reception. She was a good
housekeeper, with but one daughter; a tall, silent girl, with whom the
commissioners had no discourse. But Minnicker Sabb, had _she_ been
applied to, might have proved a better revolutionist than her spouse. It
is very certain, as the results will show, that Frederica Sabb, the
daughter, was of the right material. She was a calm, and sweetly-minded
damsel, not much skilled in society or books—for precious little was
the degree of learning in the settlement at this early period; but the
native mind was good and solid, and her natural tastes, if
unsophisticated, were pure and elevated. She knew, by precious
instincts, a thousand things which other minds scarcely ever reach
through the best education. She was what we call, a good girl, loyal,
with a warm heart, a sound judgment, and a modest, sensible behavior. We
are not seeking, be it remembered, a heroine, but a pure, true-hearted
woman. She was young too—only seventeen at this period—but just at the
season when the woman instincts are most lively, and her
susceptibilities most quick to all that is generous and noble. She made
the cakes and prepared the supper for the guests that evening, and they
saw but little of her till the evening feast had been adjusted, and was
about to be discussed. By this time old Frederick Sabb had made his
appearance. He came, bringing with him three of his neighbors, who were
eager to hear the news. They were followed, after a little space, and in
season for supper, by another guest—perhaps the most welcome of all to
the old couple—in the person of a favorite preacher of the Methodist
persuasion. Elijah Fields, was a man of middle age, of a vigorous mind
and body, earnest and impetuous, and represented, with considerable
efficiency, in his primitive province, the usefulness of a church which,
perhaps, more than any other, has modeled itself after that of the
Primitive Fathers. We shall see more of Elijah Fields hereafter. In the
course of the evening, three other neighbors made their appearance at
the farm-house of Frederick Sabb; making a goodly congregation upon
which to exercise the political abilities of Messrs. Wagner and Long.
They were all filled with a more or less lively curiosity in regard to
the events which were in progress, and the objects which the
commissioners had in view. Four of these neighbors were of the same good
old German stock with Frederick Sabb, but two of them were natives of
the country, from the east bank of the north branch of the Edisto, who
happened to be on a visit to an adjoining farmstead. The seventh of
these was a young Scotchman, from Cross Creek, North Carolina, who had
already declared himself very freely against the revolutionary movement.
He had, indeed, gone so far as to designate the patriots as traitors,
deserving a short cord and a sudden shrift; and this opinion was
expressed with a degree of temper which did not leave it doubtful that
he would gladly seek an opportunity to declare himself offensively in
the presence of the commissioners. As we shall see more of this person
hereafter, it is only right that we should introduce him formally to the
reader as Matthew or Mat Dunbar. He went much more frequently by the
name of Mat than Matthew. We may also mention that he was not entirely a
politician. A feeling of a tender nature brought him to the dwelling of
old Sabb, upon whose daughter, Frederica, our young Scotchman was
supposed to look with hungry eyes. And public conjecture did not err in
its suspicions.
But Mat Dunbar was not without a rival. Richard Coulter was the only
native of the country present, Parson Fields excepted. He was a tall,
manly youth, about the same age with Dunbar. But he possessed many
advantages over the latter, particularly in respect to person. Tall,
while Dunbar was short, with a handsome face, fine eye, and a luxuriant
shock of hair, and a massive beard of the same color, which gave quite a
martial appearance to his features, otherwise effeminate—the spectator
inevitably contrasted him with his rival, whose features, indeed, were
fair, but inexpressive; and whose hair and beard were of the most
burning and unmitigated red. Though stout of limb, vigorous and
athletic, Mat Dunbar was awkward in his movement, and wanting in dignity
of bearing. Mentally, the superiority of Coulter was not so manifest. He
was more diffident and gentle than the other, who, experienced by
travel, bold and confident, never exhibited himself at less than his
real worth. These preliminaries must suffice. It is perhaps scarcely
necessary to say that Frederica Sabb made _her_ comparisons between the
two, and very soon arrived at one conclusion. A girl of common instincts
rarely fails to discover whether she is sought or not; and the same
instincts lead her generally to determine between rivals long in advance
of the moment when they propose. Richard Coulter was certainly her
favorite—though her prudence was of that becoming kind which enabled
her easily to keep to herself the secret of her preference.
Old Sabb treated his guests with good Dutch hospitality. His wife and
daughter were excellent housekeepers, and the table was soon spread with
good things for supper. Butter, milk, and cream-cheeses, were not
wanting; pones and hoe-cakes made an ample showing, and a few boiled
chickens, and a large platter of broiled ham, in the centre of the
table, was as much a matter of course in that early day, in this
favorite region, as we find them among its good livers now. Of course,
supper was allowed to be discussed before the commissioners opened their
budget. Then the good _vrow_ took her place, knitting in hand, and a
huge ball of cotton in her lap, at the door, while the guests emerged
from the hall into the piazza, and sweet Frederica Sabb, quietly, as was
her habit, proceeded to put away the _debris_ of the feast, and to
restore the apartment to its former order. In this she was undisturbed
by either of her lovers; the custom of the country requiring that she
should be left to these occupations without being embarrassed by any
obtrusive sentiments, or even civilities. But it might be observed that
Richard Coulter had taken his seat in the piazza, at a window looking
into the hall, while Mat Dunbar had placed himself nearly at the
entrance, and in close neighborhood with the industrious dame. Here he
divided himself with attentions to her, and an occasional dip into the
conversation on politics, which was now fully in progress. It is not our
purpose to pursue this conversation. The arguments of the commissioners
can be readily conjectured. But they were fruitless to persuade our
worthy Dutchman into any change, or any self-committals, the issue of
which might endanger present comforts and securities. He had still the
same answer to every argument, delivered in a broken English which we
need not imitate.
“The king, George, has been a good king to me, my friends. I was poor,
but I am not poor now. I had not a finger of land before I came hither.
Now, I have good grants, and many acres. I am doing well. For what
should I desire to do better? The good king will not take away my
grants; but if I should hear to you, I should be rebel, and then he
would be angry, and he might make me poor again as I never was before.
No, no, my friends; I will sign no association, that shall make me lose
my lands.”
“You’re right!” vociferated Mat Dunbar. “It’s treason, I say, to sign
any association, and all these rangers here, in arms, are in open
rebellion; and should be hung for it; and let the time come, and I’m one
to help in the hanging them!”
This was only one of many such offensive speeches which Dunbar had
contrived to make during the evening. The commissioners contented
themselves with _marking_ the individual, but without answering him. But
his rudely expressed opinions were not pleasing to old Sabb himself, and
still less so to his worthy _vrow_, who withdrew at this into the hall;
while the stern voice of Elijah Fields descended in rebuke upon the
offender.
“And who art thou,” said he, abruptly, “to sit in judgment upon thy
brethren? And who has commissioned thee to lend thyself to the taking of
human life. Life is a sacred thing, young man—the most precious of
human possessions, since it depends on the time which is allowed us
whether we shall ever be fit for eternity. To one so young as thyself,
scarcely yet entered on thy career as a man, it might be well to
remember that modesty is the jewel of youth, and that when so many of
the great and good of the land have raised their voices against the
oppressions of the mother country, there may be good reason why we, who
know but little, should respect them, and listen till we learn. If thou
wilt be counseled by me, thou wilt hearken patiently to these worthy
gentlemen, that we may know all the merits of their argument.”
Dunbar answered this rebuke with a few muttered sentences, which were
hardly intelligible, making no concessions to the preacher or the
commissioners, yet without being positively offensive. Richard Coulter
was more prudent. He preserved a profound silence. But he was neither
unobservant nor indifferent. As yet he had taken no side in the
controversy, and was totally uncommitted among the people. But he had
been a listener, and was quietly chewing the cud of self-reflection.
After a little while, leaving the venerable signiors still engaged in
the discussion—for Wagner and Long, the commissioners, were not willing
to forego the hope of bringing over a man of Sabb’s influence—the young
men strolled out into the grounds, where their horses had been fastened.
It was almost time to ride. As they walked, the Scotchman broke out
abruptly:
“These fellows ought to be hung, every scoundrel of them; stirring up
the country to insurrection and treason; but a good lesson of hickories,
boys, might put a stop to it quite as well as the halter! What say you?
They ride over to old Carter’s, after they leave daddy Sabb’s, and it’s
a lonesome track! If you agree, we’ll stop ’em at Friday’s flats, and
trice ’em up to a swinging limb. We’re men enough for it, and who’s
afraid?”
The proposition was received with great glee by all the young fellows,
with one exception. It was a proposition invoking sport rather than
patriotism. When the more eager responses were all received, Richard
Coulter quietly remarked:
“No, no, boys; you must do nothing of the kind. These are good men, and
old enough to be the fathers of any of us. Besides, they’re strangers,
and think they’re doing right. Let ’em alone.”
“Well, if you wont;” said Dunbar, “we can do without you. There are four
of us, and they’re but two.”
“You mistake,” replied Coulter, still quietly, “they are three!”
“How! who!”
“Wagner, Long, and Richard Coulter!”
“What, you! Will you put yourself against us? You go with the rebels,
then?”
“I go with the strangers; I don’t know much about the rebellion, but I
think there’s good sense in what they say. At all events, I’ll not stand
by and see them hurt, if I can help it.”
“Two or three boys,” continued Dunbar, “will make no difference!”
This was said with a significant toss of the head toward Coulter. The
instincts of these young men were true. They already knew one another as
rivals. This discovery may have determined the future course of Coulter.
He did not reply to Dunbar; but, addressing his three companions, he
said, calling each by his Christian name, “You, boys, had better not mix
in this matter before it’s necessary. I suppose the time will come, when
there can be no skulking. But it’s no use to hurry into trouble. As for
four of you managing three, that’s not impossible; but I reckon there
will be a fight first. These strangers may have weapons; but whether
they have or not, they look like men; and I reckon, you that know me,
know that before my back tastes of any man’s hickory, my knife would be
likely to taste his blood.”
Dunbar replied rudely for the rest; and, but that Coulter quietly
withdrew at this moment, seemingly unruffled, and without making any
answer, there might have been a struggle between the two rivals even
then. But the companions of Dunbar had no such moods or motives as
prompted him. They were impressed by what Coulter had said, and were,
perhaps, quite as much under his influence as under that of Dunbar. They
accordingly turned a cold shoulder upon all his exhortations, and the
commissioners, accordingly, left the house of old Sabb in safety,
attended by young Coulter. They little knew his object in escorting them
to the dwelling of Bennett Carter, where they staid that night, and
never knew the danger from which his prompt and manly courage had saved
them. But the events of that night brought out Richard Coulter for the
cause of the patriots; and a few months found him a second-lieutenant in
a gallant corps of Thompson’s Rangers, raised for the defense of the
colony. But the commissioners parted from Frederick Sabb without making
any impression on his mind. He professed to desire to preserve a perfect
neutrality—this being the suggestion of his selfishness; but his heart
really inclined him to the support of the “goot King Jorge,” from whom
his grants of land had been derived.
“And what dost thou think, brother Fields,” said he to the parson, after
the commissioners had retired.
“Brother Sabb,” was the answer, “I do not see that we need any king any
more than the people of Israel, when they called upon Samuel for one;
and if we are to have one, I do not see why we should not choose one
from out our own tribes.”
“Brother Fields, I hope thou dost not mean to go with these rebels?”
“Brother Sabb, I desire always to go with my own people.”
“And whom callest thou our own people.”
“Those who dwell upon the soil and nurse it, and make it flourish, who
rear their flocks and children upon it, in the fear of God, and have no
fear of man in doing so.”
“Brother Fields, I fear thou thinkst hardly of ‘goot King Jorge,’” said
our Dutchman, with a sigh. “Minnicker, my _vrow_, got you de Piple.”
-----
[5] So called from the branching of the river at a certain point—the
country between the two arms being called the Forks, and settled chiefly
by native Germans.
CHAPTER II.
We pass over a long interval of quite three years. The vicissitudes of
the Revolution had not materially affected the relations of the several
parties to our narrative. During this period the patriots of South
Carolina had been uniformly successful. They had beaten away the British
from their chief city, and had invariably chastised the loyalists in all
their attempts to make a diversion in favor of the foreign enemy. But
events were changing. These performances had not been effected but at
great sacrifice of blood and treasure, and a formidable British invasion
found the State no longer equal to its defense. Charleston, the capital
city, after frequent escapes, and a stout and protracted defense, had
succumbed to the besiegers, who had now penetrated the interior,
covering it with their strongholds, and coercing it with their arms. For
a brief interval, all opposition to their progress seemed to be at an
end within the State. She had no force in the field, stunned by repeated
blows, and waiting, though almost hopeless of her opportunity. In the
meantime, where was Richard Coulter? A fugitive, lying _perdu_ either in
the swamps of Edisto or Congaree, with few companions, all similarly
reduced in fortune, and pursued with a hate and fury the most
unscrupulous and unrelenting, by no less a person than Matthew Dunbar,
now a captain of loyalists in the service of George the Third. The
position of Coulter was in truth very pitiable; but he was not without
his consolations. The interval which had elapsed since our first meeting
with him, had ripened his intimacy with Frederica Sabb. His affections
had not been so unfortunate as his patriotism. With the frank impulse of
a fond and feeling heart, he had appealed to hers, in laying bare the
secret of his own; and he had done so successfully. She, with as frank a
nature, freely gave him her affections, while she did not venture to
bestow on him her hand. His situation was not such as to justify their
union—and her father positively forbade the idea of such a connection.
Though not active among the loyalists, he was now known to approve of
their sentiments; and while giving them all the aid and comfort in his
power, without actually showing himself in armor, he as steadily turned
a cold and unwilling front to the patriots, and all those who went
against the monarch. The visits of Richard Coulter to Frederica were all
stolen ones, perhaps not the less sweet for being so. A storm sometimes
brought him forth at nightfall from the shelter of the neighboring
swamp, venturing abroad at a time when loyalty was supposed to keep its
shelter. But these visits were always accompanied by considerable peril.
The eye of Matthew Dunbar was frequently drawn in the direction of the
fugitive, while his passions were always eager in the desire which led
him to seek for this particular victim. The contest was a well-known
issue of life and death. The fugitive patriot was predoomed always to
the halter, by those who desired to pacify old revenges, or acquire new
estates. Dunbar did not actually know that Coulter and Frederica Sabb
were in the habit of meeting; but that they had met, he knew, and he had
sworn their detection. He had become a declared suitor of that maiden,
and the fears of old Sabb would not suffer him to decline his attentions
to his daughter, or to declare against them. Dunbar had become
notoriously an unmitigated ruffian. His insolence disgusted the old
Dutchman, who, nevertheless, feared his violence and influence. Still,
sustained by good old Minnicker Sabb, his _vrow_, the father had the
firmness to tell Dunbar freely, that his daughter’s affections should
remain unforced; while the daughter herself, seeing the strait of her
parents, was equally careful to avoid the final necessity of repulsing
her repulsive suitor. She continued, by a happy assertion of maidenly
dignity, to keep him at bay, without vexing his self-esteem; and to
receive him with civility, without affording him positive encouragement.
Such was the condition of things among our several parties, when the
partisan war began; when the favorite native leaders in the South—the
first panic of their people having passed—had rallied their little
squads, in swamp and thicket, and were making those first demonstrations
which began to disquiet the British authorities, rendering them doubtful
of the conquests which they had so lately deemed secure. This, be it
remembered, was after the defeat of Gates at Camden, when there was no
sign of a Continental army within the State.
It was at the close of a cloudy afternoon, late in October, 1780, when
Mat Dunbar, with a small command of eighteen mounted men, approached the
well-known farmstead of Frederick Sabb. The road lay along the west bank
of the eastern branch of the Edisto, inclining to or receding from the
river, in correspondence with the width of the swamp, or the sinuosities
of the stream. The farm of Sabb was bounded on one side by the river,
and his cottage stood within a mile of it. Between, however, the lands
were entirely uncleared. The woods offered a physical barrier to the
malaria of the swamp; while the ground, though rich, was liable to
freshet, and required a degree of labor in the drainages which it was
not in the power of our good Dutchman to bestow. A single wagon-track
led through the wood to the river from his house; and there may have
been some half dozen irregular foot-paths tending in the same direction.
When within half a mile from the house, Mat Dunbar pricked up his ears.
“That was surely the gallop of a horse,” he said to his lieutenant—a
coarse, ruffianly fellow like himself, named Clymes.
“Where away?” demanded the other.
“To the left. Put in with a few of the boys, and see what can be found.”
Clymes did as he was bidden; but the moment he had disappeared, Dunbar
suddenly wheeled into the forest also, putting spurs to his horse, and
commanding his men to follow and scatter themselves in the wood. A keen
suspicion was at the bottom of his sudden impulse; and with his pistol
in his grasp, and his teeth set firmly, he darted away at a rate that
showed the eagerness of the blood-hound, on a warm scent. In a few
moments the wood was covered with his people, and their cries and
halloes answering to each other, turned the whole solitude into a scene
of the most animated life. Accustomed to _drive_ the woods for deer, his
party pursued the same habit in their present quest, enclosing the
largest extent of territory, and gradually contracting their _cordon_ at
a given point. It was not long before a certain degree of success seemed
to justify their pursuit. A loud shout from Clymes, his lieutenant, drew
the impetuous Dunbar to the place, and there he found the trooper, with
two others of the party, firmly confronted by no less a person than
Frederica Sabb. The maiden was very pale, but her lips were closely
compressed together, and her eyes lightened with an expression which was
not so much indicative of anger as of courage and resolve. As Dunbar
rode up, she addressed him.
“You are bravely employed, Captain Dunbar, in hunting with your soldiers
a feeble woman.”
“In faith, my dear Miss Sabb, we looked for very different game,”
replied the leader, while a something sardonic played over his visage.
“But perhaps you can put us in the way of finding it. You are surely not
here alone?”
“And why not? You are within hail of my father’s dwelling.”
“But yours, surely, are not the tastes for lonely walks.”
“Alas! sir, these are scarcely the times for any other.”
“Well, you must permit me to see that your walks are in no danger from
intrusion and insult. You will, no doubt, be confounded to hear that
scattered bands of the rebels are supposed to be, even now, closely
harbored in these swamps. That villain, Coulter, is known to be among
them. It is to hunt up these outlyers—to protect you from their
annoyances, that I am here now.”
“We can readily dispense with these services, Captain Dunbar. I do not
think that we are in any danger from such enemies, and in this
neighborhood.”
It was some effort to say this calmly.
“Nay, nay, you are quite too confident, my dear Miss Sabb. You know not
the audacity of these rebels, and of this Richard Coulter in particular.
But let me lay hands on him! You will hardly believe that he is scarce
ten minutes gone from this spot. Did you not hear his horse?”
“I heard no horses but your own.”
“There it is! You walk the woods in such abstraction that you hear not
the danger, though immediately at your ears. But disperse yourself in
pursuit, my merry men, and whoso brings me the ears of this outlaw,
shall have ten guineas, in the yellow gold itself. No Continental sham!
Remember, his ears, boys! We do not want any prisoners. The trouble of
hanging them out of the way is always wisely saved by a sabre-cut or
pistol-bullet. There, away!”
The countenance of Frederica Sabb instantly assumed the keenest
expression of alarm and anxiety. Her whole frame began to be agitated.
She advanced to the side of the ruffianly soldier, and put her hand up
appealingly.
“Oh! Captain Dunbar, will you not please go home with me, you and your
men? It is now our supper hour, and the sun is near his setting. I pray
you, do not think of scouring the woods at this late hour. Some of your
people may be hurt.”
“No danger, my dear—all of them are famous fox-hunters.”
“There is no danger to us, believe me. There is nobody in the woods that
we fear. Give yourself no trouble, nor your men.”
“Oh! you mistake, there is surely some one in this wood who is either in
your way or mine—though you heard no horse.”
“Oh! now I recollect, sir, I did hear a horse, and it seemed to be going
in that direction.”
Here the girl pointed below. The tory leader laughed outright.
“And so he went thither, did he? Well, my dear Miss Sabb, to please you,
I will take up the hunt in the quarter directly opposite, since it is
evident that your hearing just now is exceedingly deceptive. Boys, away!
The back track, hark you—the old fox aims to double!”
“Oh, go not! Go not!” she urged, passionately.
“Will I not!” exclaimed the loyalist, gathering up his reins and backing
his steed from her; “Will I not! Away, Clymes—away, boys; and remember,
ten guineas for that hand which brings down the outlaw, Richard
Coulter!”
Away they dashed into the forest, scattering themselves in the direction
indicated by their leader. Frederica watched their departure with an
anxious gaze, which disappeared from her eyes the moment they were out
of sight. In an instant all her agitation ceased.
“Now, thank Heaven! for the thought!” she cried. “It will be quite dark
before they find themselves at fault; and when they think to begin the
search below, he will be wholly beyond their reach. But how to warn him
against the meeting, as agreed on? The coming of this man forbids that.
I must see! I must contrive it!” And with these muttered words of half
meaning, she quietly made her way toward her father’s dwelling, secure
of the present safety of her lover from pursuit. She had very
successfully practiced a very simple _ruse_ for his escape. Her
apprehensions were only but admirably simulated; and in telling Dunbar
that the fugitive had taken one direction, she naturally relied on his
doubts of her truth, to make him seek the opposite. She had told him
nothing but the truth, but she had told it as a falsehood; and it had
all the effect which she desired. The chase of the tory captain proved
unsuccessful.
CHAPTER III.
It was quite dark before Captain Dunbar reached the cottage of Frederick
Sabb, and he did so in no good humor. Disappointed of his prey, he now
suspected the simple _ruse_ by which he had been deluded, and his first
salutation of Frederica Sabb, as he entered the cottage was in no
friendly humor.
“There are certain birds,” said he, “Miss Sabb, who fly far from their
young ones at the approach of the hunter, yet make such a fuss and
outcry, as if the nest were close at hand, and in danger. I see you have
learned to practice after their lessons.”
The girl involuntarily replied, “But, indeed, Captain Dunbar, I heard
the horse go below.”
“I see you understand me,” was the answer. “I feel assured that you told
me only the truth, but you had first put me in the humor not to believe
it. Another time I shall know how to understand _you_.”
Frederica smiled, but did not seek to excuse herself, proceeding all the
while to the preparations for supper. This had been got in readiness
especially for the arrival of Dunbar and his party. He, with Clymes, his
first officer, had become inmates of the dwelling; but his troopers had
encamped without, under instructions of particular vigilance. Meanwhile,
supper proceeded, Sabb and his _vrow_ being very heedful of all the
expressed or conjectured wants of their arbitrary guests. It was while
the repast was in progress that Dunbar fancied that he beheld a
considerable degree of uneasiness in the manner and countenance of
Frederica. She ate nothing, and her mind and eyes seemed equally to
wander. He suddenly addressed her, and she started as from a dream, at
the sound of her own name, and answered confusedly.
“Something’s going wrong,” said Dunbar, in a whisper to Clymes; “we can
put all right, however, if we try.”
A significant look accompanied the whisper, and made the second officer
observant. When supper was concluded, the captain of the loyalists
showed signs of great weariness. He yawned and stretched himself
amazingly, and without much regard to propriety. A like weariness soon
after exhibited itself in the second officer. At length Dunbar said to
Old Sabb, using a style of address to which the old man was familiar,
“Well, Uncle Fred, whenever my bed’s ready, say the word. I’m monstrous
like sleep. I’ve ridden a matter of fifty miles to-day. In the saddle
since four o’clock—and a hard saddle at that. I’m for sleep after
supper.”
The old man, anxious to please his guest, whom he now began rather to
fear than favor, gave him soon the intimation which he desired, and he
was conducted to the small chamber, in a shed-room adjoining the main
hall, which had been assigned him on all previous occasions. Old Sabb
himself attended his guest, while Lieutenant Clymes remained, for a
while longer, the companion of the old lady and her daughter. Dunbar
soon released his host from further attendance by closing the door upon
him, after bowing him out with thanks. He had scarcely done so, before
he approached one of the two windows in the chamber. He knew the secrets
of the room, and his plan of operations had been already determined
upon. Concealing his light, so that his shadow might not appear against
the window, he quietly unclosed the shutter so as to fix no attention by
the sound. A great fig-tree grew near it, the branches in some degree
preventing the shutter from going quite back against the wall. This
afforded him additional cover to his proceedings, and he cautiously
passed through the opening, and lightly descended to the ground. The
height was inconsiderable, and he was enabled, with a small stick, to
close the window after him. In another moment he passed _under_ the
house, which stood on logs four or five feet high, after the manner of
the country, and took a crouching attitude immediately behind the steps
in the rear of the building. From these steps to the kitchen was an
interval of fifteen or eighteen yards, while the barn and other
outhouses lay at convenient distances beyond. Shade trees were scattered
about, and fruit trees, chiefly peach, rendering the space between
something like a covered way. We need not inquire how long our captain
of loyalists continued his watch in this unpleasant position. Patience,
however, is quite as natural as necessary a quality to a temper at once
passionate and vindictive. While he waited here, his lieutenant had left
the house, scattered his men privily about the grounds, and had himself
stolen to a perch which enabled him to command the front entrance to the
cottage. The only two means of egress were thus effectually guarded.
In a little time the household was completely quiet. Dunbar had heard
the mutterings, from above, of the family prayers, in which it was no
part of his profession to partake; and had heard the footsteps of the
old couple as they passed through the passage-way to the chamber
opposite the dining hall. A chamber adjoining theirs was occupied by
Frederica Sabb; but he listened in vain for her footsteps in that
quarter. His watch was one calculated to try his patience, but it was
finally rewarded. He heard the movement of a light foot over head, and
soon the door opened in the rear of the dwelling, and he distinguished
Frederica as she descended, step by step, to the ground. She paused,
looked up and around her, and then, darting from tree to tree, she made
her way to the kitchen, which opened at her touch. Here, in a whisper,
she summoned to her side a negro, an old African, whom we may, at the
same time, mention, had been her frequent emissary before, on missions
such as she now designed. Brough, as he was called, was a faithful Ebo,
who loved his young mistress, and had shown himself particularly
friendly to her _affaires de cœur_. She put a paper into his hands, and
her directions employed few words.
“Brough, you must set off for Massa Richard, and give him this. You must
creep close, or the soldiers will catch you. I don’t know where they’ve
gone, but no doubt they’re scattered in the woods. I have told him, in
this paper, not to come, as he promised; but should you lose the
paper—”
“I no guine loss ’em,” said Brough, seemingly rather displeased at the
doubt, tacitly conveyed, of his carefulness.
“Such a thing might happen, Brough; nay, if you were to see any of the
tories, you ought to destroy it. Hide it, tear it up, or swallow it, so
that they won’t be able to read it.”
“I yerry, misses.”
“Very good! And now, when you see Massa Richard, tell him not to come.
Tell him better go farther off, across the fork, and across the other
river; for that Mat Dunbar means to push after him to-morrow, and has
sworn to hunt him up before he stops. Tell him, I beg him, for my sake,
though he may not be afraid of that bad man, to keep out of his way, at
least until he gathers men enough to meet him on his own ground.”
The startling voice of Dunbar himself broke in upon the whispered
conference. “Mat Dunbar is exceedingly obliged to you, Miss Sabb.”
“Ah!” shrieked the damsel—“Brough—fly, fly, Brough.” But Brough had no
chance for flight.
“His wings are not sufficiently grown,” cried the loyalist, with a
brutal yell, as he grappled the old negro by the throat, and hurled him
to the ground. In the next moment he possessed himself of the paper,
which he read with evident disappointment. By this time the sound of his
bugle had summoned his lieutenant, with half a dozen of his followers,
and the kitchen was completely surrounded.
“Miss Sabb, you had best retire to the dwelling. I owe you no favors,
and will remember your avowed opinion, this night, for Mat Dunbar. You
have spoken. It will be for me yet to speak. Lieutenant Clymes, see the
young lady home.”
“But, sir, you will not maltreat the negro?”
“Oh! no! I mean only that he shall obey your commands. He shall carry
this note to your favorite, just as you designed, with this difference
only, that I shall furnish him with an escort.”
“Ah!”
Poor Frederica could say no more. Clymes was about to hurry her away,
when a sense of her lover’s danger gave her strength.
“Brough;” she cried to the negro; “you won’t show where Massa Richard
keeps?”
“Never show the tories not’ing, missis.”
The close gripe of Dunbar’s finger upon the throat of the negro, stifled
his further speech. But Frederica was permitted to see no more. The hand
of Clymes was laid upon her arm, and she went forward promptly to save
herself from indignity. She little knew the scene that was to follow.
[_To be continued._
* * * * *
THE SPIRIT LOVERS
AND THE SPIRIT BRIDAL.
BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.
The twilight deepened—and its dusky shades
Crept through the crimson of the sunset clouds,
To nestle darkly where some shining star
Looped up the gorgeous foldings, as they hung
Like Eden-banners, waving far around
The purple arches of a southern sky.
From the deep forest aisles came up the wind,
Low singing in its wand’ring, with the voice
Of softly chanting waves, and whisp’ring leaves.
The silver moon came floating from the east,
Like a young angel sleeping on the wing,
Whose dream-smile glittered o’er the dewy earth,
And trembling through an open casement, kissed
A brow of maiden beauty slumbering there.
The velvet drapery of her couch was tossed
In crimson waves around her, and above
Fell snowy veilings, bending like a wreath
Of silvery vapor o’er a rosy sea;
Carelessly graceful in her sweet repose,
She rested like a lily on the stream,
When drooping gently ’neath its own perfume.
The dew of early youth was gleaming yet
Upon her pure heart-blossoms, and the first
Faint blush of love within her spirit, wrought
Rich blazonry upon their mystic leaves.
In slumber, through her softly rounded limbs
A radiant soul in bright expression stole,
Like glimpses of the evening star amid
The pure white veiling of a pearly cloud.
She watched the sunlight fade upon the hills,
And star-flames kindle in the dusky sky—
But now she rested in the land of dreams,
To wait the coming of her Spirit-Love.
He came—a vision whose bewildering eyes
Seemed light ineffable in midnight skies—
While plumes of waving frost-work, dashed with flakes
Of golden sunbeams, glittered ’mid the folds
Of woven radiance floating round his form,
Snow-flake and fire-drop wreathing into life,
His gorgeous pinion shadowed o’er his Bride,
His breath upon her cheek—his lightning glance
Stole through the visions of her dreaming soul,
As when the passion of the dying sun
Glows o’er the bosom of a sleeping cloud,
Till love’s wild worship wakes returning flame,
And each in burning blushes dies away!
As a fair volume, and a golden lyre,
Wreathed by the tendrils of an opening rose,
Her Mind, and Soul, and fresh expanding Heart,
Lay bright before his spirit-searching ken,
As one by one he softly laid aside
The crimson petals of that folded heart,
To drink the honied fragrance of its love,
The rose-bud thrilled and trembled into bloom,
Its breeze his sigh—its sun his burning glance—
Its dew-drop life his kisses wild and warm.
He lingered o’er the pure, unsullied leaves
Of Mind’s mysterious volume, and there came,
Where’er he breathed upon the virgin page,
Bright gems of glowing fancy, and deep thought,
As magic characters come stealing forth
In loveliness before the breath of flame!
His being brightened with a God-like smile,
As, closely blended with each pictured thought,
_His_ image, flashing into glorious life,
Smiled back upon him from the glowing page
So truthfully—then with the soft excess
Of dreamy rapture ’wildered, fainting bowed,
And blessed the sweet love-mirror, silently.
Her soul in beauty, an Æolian lyre,
Gleamed forth before him, where the voice of Song
Slept like its spirit in a singing shell.
His light caressing pinion swept its chords,
And Joy’s bird-carol—Hope’s aerial tone—
Pride’s sounding anthem—and the pæan wild
Of young Ambition rolled in glory forth.
He breathed upon it—and anon there swelled
(As tears will gush from rapture-laden hearts)
Her pure religion’s diapason deep;—
Sweet under-tones of dreamy melancholy—
And chords of feeling that erewhile had slept
In voiceless music, and o’er all the theme
An ever-changing, ever-sounding tone,
Was deep, immaculate, immortal _Love_!
THE SPIRIT-BRIDAL.
The Night had closed her eye of softest blue,
And, like a wearied infant, sank to rest
On Nature’s gentle bosom—Silence, pale,
With a white finger on her marble lip,
From which no lightest whisper ever came,
Was bending o’er the dim and murmured death
Of every sound—and even Echo dreamed,
As though a spirit’s wand had charmed her there
To slumber deep as that Creation held
When Night was in the heavens!
Still as the moonlight quivered through the vines
That overhung the casement, it revealed
The rosy couch, beneath its silvery veil,
As by its side the maiden knelt to pray.
Oh! if there be on earth one blessing left—
One leaf from out our faded Paradise—
One ray of glory from the heaven we lost—
It is, that we may pray for those we love!
Without it _man_ may live—his nature knows
No soft dependence—panoplied in self,
His haughty heart may burn to dash aside
The hand that formed it—and he may defy
The love that made him what he is—a god!
But _woman_ never—for her ivy soul
Must have an oak to cling to; proud and high
Its crest may be, or ruined, lightning-scathed,
It matters not—and for it she must pray!
Prayer is her nature’s pure necessity,
To calm the sorrow that with lava streams,
Pours its bewildering torrent o’er the soul,
And when she feels it crushing darkly through
A bosom all too soft to stem its tide
Of bitter, burning waters—then, for power
To “suffer and be still,” that bosom prays.
And oh! when human love has taught her heart
To dream of _one_ and _Heaven_, how pants her soul
To pour that gushing feeling freely forth,
In all its truth and deep intensity, before
The “God of love” who gave it!
’Twas for this
The gentle maiden meekly knelt to God
Till each pure love-beam from her violet eye
Seemed melting into passion’s orison.
Warm feeling folded up its starry plumes
To bow before the altar-shrine of faith,
And holy hopes looked from the golden shades
That lay upon her soul, as angels bend
O’er the bright foldings of the summer clouds,
To woo us to the sky, from whence they come.
Her eye grew dreamy, and her bosom heaved,
As though within its cell some pleasant thought
Were singing, and it rose and fell upon
The waves of that delicious melody.
Her loosened hair swept o’er the sacred page,
And, as her soul went forth in whispers low,
It stirred the shadows with the breath of prayer.
She oped the holy book, and as her lip
Trembled upon the words, they sank within
Her woman’s nature as the snow-flake falls
And melts away into the earth’s warm bosom.
Time, as he wandered by, had sighed the hour
Of “twelve,” and for a moment midnight’s hush
Grew tremulous, and echo as it fell,
Swept o’er the tension of her listening ear
Softly and thrillingly, and like to Love’s
First breathings o’er an unawakened heart.
Her voice grew fainter, as a music-vow
Stole sweetly in the cadence of her own—
She felt the glory of an angel-wing
Around her waving, and she knew the hour—
Her Spirit-Lover claimed his Spirit-Bride!
With pinions intertwining, arms enwreathed
And fervid glances bathed in passion’s dream,
They swept along the cloud-land pathway, where
The constellations, from their silver urns,
Poured incense light far down the “Milky-Way,”
And o’er its misty pavement Cynthia flung
A thousand rainbows, like the wreathed bloom
Of bridal blossoms. Still they floated on,
Far through the starry armaments that sweep
In endless circle round the battlements
Of Paradise—an everlasting guard
High flaming round the Infinite;—at length,
Within the presence-chamber of the Blest,
They knelt before the Great Unchangeable,
Whose love and mercy whispered audibly,
“_Forever be ye one—as God is One!_”
* * * * *
STORIES FROM THE OLD DRAMATISTS.
NO. 1.—MASSINGER’S GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.
BY ENNA DUVAL.
“I cannot pretend in these succinct narrations to have rivaled
Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning
drama into narrative. The “Shakspeare Tales” is an unique book,
the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but
few who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty,
the matchless skill of its execution.”
Hartley Coleridge.
Cozimo, duke of Florence, a noble and virtuous prince had the misfortune
to lose, by death, his duchess, Clarinda, a lady of such rare and
matchless virtues, that, as he said, the whole world could not produce
one worthy to be her second. In her grave he buried all thoughts of
woman.
His courtiers, and ministers of state, repeatedly urged him to a second
marriage, for they feared that after his death, he being childless,
distraction might breed in the state, and cause the downfall of his
noble house. Residing at the court was a beautiful and wealthy orphan,
Fiorinda, duchess of Urbin, the ward of Cozimo, and she was the one that
his counsellors desired him to wed. Kindly, but sadly, he always waived
aside their counsel, telling them, that the lovely Fiorinda should have
a more fitting mate, and that as regarded the welfare of the state, his
princely care would provide one worthy to succeed him.
This “worthy successor,” was his nephew Giovanni, his sister’s son, an
orphan, dependent on his bounty. This youth he loved for his dear
sister’s sake, and he spared no pains or trouble to render him worthy of
his future high position. The more to further this, Cozimo placed
Giovanni under the sole charge of a noble, and highly educated
Florentine gentleman, Carolo Charomonte by name, who lived retired on an
estate five hours distance from Florence. This gentleman discharged, to
the utmost of his power, the duty the duke committed to him, and by
means of his rare experience, using great care, he trained the young
Giovanni up in all those arts, peculiar and proper to future greatness;
therefore it was no wonder, but rather a necessity, that when this young
prince had grown to be a man, he should make good the princely education
he had derived from his accomplished tutor.
His uncle had studiously kept him away from court, during the perilous
season of youth; but as the young Giovanni approached manhood, he gave
such great promise of ability, that Cozimo could no longer withstand his
tender desire for his company. Report filled the duke’s ears with
stories of his nephew, which, if true, would have made him a miracle—a
wonder in arts and arms; and in order to test the verity of this fine
account, he sent his secretary, Contarino, to summon Giovanni to his
presence.
This secretary came to Charamonte’s house, bearing compliments, and
courtly thanks, and promises of munificent reward, from the duke. These
the noble Charamonte received with dignified, courteous gratefulness;
and although it was a sweet thought to him, that nature had so well
aided him in his great duty as to enable him to return to his royal
master a phœnix of grace and goodness, in the person of his nephew, this
very yielding up of his charge, filled his breast with sadness. The
young Giovanni had a disposition so gentle and sweet by nature, that it
won on all appointed to attend him, insomuch that it made them rivals,
even in the coarsest office, to get precedency to do him service; no
wonder then, that his guardian, who had always found him obedient,
loving, and reverential as a son, should have unconsciously permitted
his affections to twine around him with a parent’s fondness. Nor did
Giovanni receive his uncle’s summons with pleasure; as he read the
duke’s letter the frequent changes of his countenance, manifested how
strongly his unwillingness contended with his duty.
He loved his guardian, regarded him with as much respect and service as
would have been due to the one who gave him life; but still more fondly
did he love the good Charamonte’s incomparable daughter—the fair Lidia.
She had been his companion from childhood; the partner of his studies
and his pleasures. The commands of his uncle revealed to him in an
instant the nature of his regard for her; but, at the same time, he felt
the misery and hopelessness of such a love. His high station he felt
would be a barrier to honorable love, and this thought deepened tenfold
his anguish. In sweet, tender words he bewailed his sad fate, when he
bade farewell to her, describing, in touching language, their future lot
had he been born in a more humble state.
“Ah! Lidia,” he exclaimed, “then I might have seen and liked with mine
own eyes, and not as now, with others. I might still continue my
delights with you, that are alone, in my esteem, the abstract of
society. We might walk in solitary groves, or in choice gardens, and in
the variety of curious flowers, contemplate nature’s workmanship and
wonders; then for change, near to the murmur of some bubbling fountain,
I might hear you sing, and from the well tuned accents of your tongue,
in my imagination, conceive the melody of Heaven’s harmony; then with
chaste discourse we would return imp feathers to the broken wing of
time. But all this I must part from—I might after continued innocence
of love and service have been your husband—”
Here Lidia checked him, and reminded him that she was, and ever would be
his servant; that it was far from her, even in a thought, to cherish
such saucy hopes as these. Had she been heir to all the globes and
sceptres, that mankind bows to, then, at her best, she might have
deserved him; but now, in her humble state, she could only wish that he
might find a partner—a princess equal to him, who would make it the
study of her life, with all the obedience of a wife, to please him. For
her own part, she would be content to live and be their humblest
handmaid. So humble and childlike doth love show itself in a pure,
gentle nature.
In this sweet sorrowful manner they parted from each other, and Giovanni
hastened to do his uncle’s bidding; but first he embraced his good old
guardian, saying, farewell, and assured him that should he ever reach
his high destination their fortunes should be shared—then joining the
secretary, he repaired to the Florentine court.
Duke Cozimo had a favorite, Lodovico Sanazarro by name, and he loved him
so dearly that he used to say Sanazarro’s merits were so great that
should he divide his dukedom with him, he would still continue his
debtor. Princes’ favorites are apt to be undeserving men,
notwithstanding they may be set off with all the trim of greatness,
state, and power; for princes are men, not gods, and though they can
give wealth and titles, they cannot give virtues, that is out of their
power. But Duke Cozimo had proved the correctness of his judgment in the
choice of his friend. Sanazarro’s nature was like pure, tried gold, and
any stamp of grace the duke was pleased to give him, to make him current
to the world, did but add honor to the royal bestower. Even the
courtiers felt no envy against him, for he was no lazy drone, but an
industrious bee. He fought the enemies of the state, and displayed great
valor; then, after returning crowned with conquest, he labored in the
service of his royal master, sharing in the cares and burthen of the
government.
Duke Cozimo’s secret design was to wed this favorite with his wealthy
ward, Fiorinda. This noble princess was not averse to this plan, for
Lodovico being a handsome and brave gentleman, had quite won her heart
and she loved to dwell on his exploits in the field, and abilities
displayed in the council. Sanazarro, however, was very modest, and never
dared to lift his thoughts so high as to woo so rich and noble a dame as
the Princess Fiorinda.
Encouraged by her guardian, Fiorinda endeavored by courteous, but
delicate advances, to remove this diffidence. She always received him
with distinction, and took occasion repeatedly to send him gifts, which
he received with the reverent gratefulness of a subject; expressing more
ceremony in his humble thanks, than feeling of the favor—appearing
almost willfully ignorant, and blind to the tender feeling which
prompted these courteous condescensions. But true love is patient, and
forbearing, and as Sanazarro displayed no love for any other lady, she
used to comfort herself with the thought, that it was the light of her
high estate that made him blind, and taxed her woman’s wit for means to
lessen the difference between them. The frequent dangers that he was
exposed to, however, in the service of the state, made her unhappy, and
after the young Prince Giovanni came to court, she took occasion to
interest him in Sanazarro’s favor, begging that he would be suitor to
the duke not to expose this brave, noble gentleman to so much peril, but
rather to command him, after his great labors, to take rest.
Prince Giovanni received this request with delight, for he also had a
boon to ask of the duchess. So great was his love for the fair Lidia
Charomonte, that he could no longer bear the separation from her, and
after describing her with a lover’s colors to the princess, he begged
she would take occasion to ask permission of the duke, to add this
matchless virgin to her train of ladies. She promised to effect his
desire, right quickly; and they parted from each other with bright
hopes.
Soon after Giovanni’s return to court, the secretary who had brought
him, while reporting to the duke an account of his journey, gave an
enthusiastic description of Charomonte’s daughter, and in doing this,
implied that the prince loved her. Straightway, but quietly, the kind
duke conceived the design of securing also his dearly loved nephew’s
happiness, but fearing that this object of his love might not be worthy
of so high a fortune, he resolved to send his trusty favorite,
Sanazarro, to Charomonte’s house, to see this paragon of beauty and
virtue.
This he did without acquainting Sanazarro with his reasons, and the
favorite fulfilled his master’s orders, thinking the duke wished to
contract a marriage with this humble maid. But after seeing the fair
Lidia he was so struck with her beauty, modesty, and wit, that he forgot
his duty to his master and his honor. The recollection of past favors
from the duke, even the beautiful, kind, forbearing Duchess Fiorinda,
seemed as nothing to him, under the influence of this wild infatuation.
He returned to court, resolved to find some means of blinding the duke,
and turning him aside from pursuit of the fair Lidia. The secretary he
knew he could silence, and the Prince Giovanni, the only one who could
disclose his falsehood, he hoped to quiet, by telling him of the duke’s
purpose of marriage, which would of course endanger his prospect of
succeeding to the dukedom.
How weak and wicked are the best of men when exposed to some trials.
Here was this loyal, noble, honorable gentleman, who had withstood the
weakening effects of princes’ favor, yielding truth and allegiance at a
moment when he should have been most strong—at a moment when he felt
most confidence. He forgot the honors and glories by Cozimo’s grace
conferred upon him; he deceived his trust and made shipwreck of his
loyalty. Did he not deserve ruin?
Prince Giovanni received the news of his uncle’s projected marriage with
indifference, answering most nobly, that he had no right, because he had
received benefits from his uncle’s hands, to prescribe laws for his
pleasure. But when he heard who his uncle purposed to wed, then his own
love raised the standard of rebellion in his heart, and he willingly
united with the false Sanazarro in decrying the charms of his loved
mistress. Both singly and together they spoke disparagingly of this
beautiful lady, and Cozimo believed them, although it caused him some
surprise, but, as he said, he had never found them false.
But falsehood in weaving its net, always forgets to leave a loop-hole
for its own escape. Too late Giovanni remembered the favor he had asked
of the Duchess Fiorinda, and he hastened to request her to be silent in
the matter. But while he was seeking her fruitlessly, she was already
with the duke moving him, with all a woman’s eloquence, to command the
presence of Charomonte’s fair daughter at the court, saying, that his
nephew had given her such an abstract of perfection in his description
of this maiden, that she did not wish to employ her as a servant, but to
be by her instructed, and use her as a dear companion.
Duke Cozimo listened with amazement, and then, almost doubting his
senses, made the princess repeat all that Giovanni had told her. This
she did, using his very words: that she possessed all that could be
wished for in a virgin. That she had rare beauty, her discourse was
ravishing, she had quickness of apprehension, with choice manners and
learning too, not usual with women.
This account was so unlike the report given by Giovanni and Sanazarro to
him, that the duke saw with anger he had been deceived. This wounded him
deeply, for he could not bear the thought of insincerity and falsehood
in his nephew and bosom friend. He felt that he had been trifled with,
and resolved to examine into the matter himself, then, if he found they
had played him false, he would punish them with rigor. But he smothered
his wrath, meaning to act quietly without their knowledge. He told the
duchess her suit was granted; that the fair Lidia should come to her;
but in return he would ask her to go with him the following morning on a
short journey to the country. As he made this request, Giovanni and
Sanazarro entered just in time to hear it. The duke greeted them coldly
and left them. Joyfully the duchess hastened to communicate to Prince
Giovanni her success. He dissembled his confusion awkwardly, and essayed
to thank her for her kindness. She courteously received his thanks, and
then with sweet condescension greeted Sanazarro, begging him to accept
of a diamond from her, and wear it for her sake. Saying this, she bade
them both adieu, and hastened to be in readiness for the duke’s journey.
The young prince and Sanazarro gazed at each other in consternation.
Something must be done, however, and that right quickly, for they both
felt certain that it was the duke’s intention to see Lidia with his own
eyes, and that the journey of the following day was to Charomonte’s
house. Hastily Giovanni decided upon sending his serving man that night
with a letter to Lidia. In this letter he told her that the duke, his
uncle, had heard of her, and her beauty, and was about to seek her he
feared, with unlawful love. “If he see you, as you are, fair Lidia,” he
concluded, “my hoped-for happiness will be changed into an everlasting
night. Let your goodness find some means to prevent my uncle seeing you,
and thus you will save two lives, your own and the honorer of your
virtues, Giovanni.”
Giovanni’s messenger found the young Lidia in the midst of her father’s
household, who with the kind, old Charomonte, were devising all manner
of merry-makings, in order to divert the sadness which had hung over her
since the departure of the young prince. She received the letter with
joy, and retired to read it in secret, that no one might witness her
emotion. So soon as she read his request, the very means of
accomplishing it flashed quickly into her mind. As the duke had never
seen her, she resolved upon presenting to him another in her place. Her
maid, Petronilla, was the person decided upon. This girl was
ill-favored, coarse and rude. The only difficulty she had to surmount,
would be her father’s opposition, but she thought she would contrive
with the servants’ aid, to have Petronilla presented to the duke when
her father was not present. This difficulty the duke unconsciously
relieved her from, for he came to Charomonte’s mansion in anger; and so
soon as he arrived he dismissed his train, desiring to see Charomonte
alone. Then he upbraided him with treason—for he suspected the old man
of dishonor. He feared that Giovanni had become entangled with this
Lidia, and not knowing Sanazarro’s suspicions, he attributed Giovanni’s
double dealings, to a dishonorable illicit connection with this girl,
connived at by her father.
Poor old Charomonte listened to his royal master’s reproaches with angry
amazement. So soon as the duke had ended, he replied with words that
proved how his loyalty and outraged feelings contended for mastery. In
speaking of his daughter, the light of his eyes, the comfort of his
feeble age, he described her so lovingly and tenderly that the duke
commanded she should be shown to him.
“But,” said he, “you shall not prepare her to answer these charges. We
will see her immediately, and to prevent all intercourse, we do confine
thee close prisoner to thy chamber, till all doubts are cleared.”
Lidia was summoned, and in her place came Petronilla, escorted by
Giovanni and Sanazarro, followed by the servants, bearing a sumptuous
banquet. At the sight of her coarse appearance the duke felt that the
manners of her mind must be transcendent to defend so rough an outside.
She received him boisterously, and at the banquet, behaved rudely and
indelicately, and drank so freely of the wine, that she had to be
carried away from the duke’s presence. The imposture, however, was so
gross, that the duke began to suspect some cunning deceit or trick had
been played upon him; but he dissembled this suspicion, and sent out
Giovanni and Sanazarro with his train, saying he would soon join them;
that he wished first to see the Signor Charomonte in private, that he
might, with a few kind words of comfort, take leave of the poor old man.
It appeared to him unlikely that both Charomonte and Contarino, his old
secretary, could be so blinded. “It may be,” he said to himself, “that
the daughter, for some ends unknown, has personated this rude behaviour,
which seems so ridiculous and impossible. Whatever be the riddle,
however, I will resolve it, if possible.”
Charomonte, on being summoned, came to him; but when he heard the duke’s
pitying description of the pretended Lidia, he instantly went to his
daughter’s chamber, where she was feigning illness, and forced her into
the presence of Cozimo. The beautiful Lidia trembling, and in tears,
knelt before him and besought his mercy.
“Ah,” exclaimed the duke, “this is the peerless form I expected to see;”
then turning to Charomonte, he commanded that Sanazarro and his nephew,
Giovanni, should straightway be imprisoned in separate chambers,
guarded, until he should pronounce sentence against them as traitors.
In tender, touching language, Lidia pleaded for the prince, and asked
that whatever punishment he deserved, to inflict it on her, as she was
the sad cause of his offence.
“I know,” she said, “that the prince is so far above me that my wishes
even cannot reach him, and to restore him to your wonted grace and
favor, I’ll abjure his sight forever, and betake myself to a religious
life, where, in my prayers, I may remember him, but no man will I ever
see but my ghostly father. Be not, O sire, like the eagle that in her
angry mood destroys her hopeful young for suffering a wren to perch too
near them.”
Cozimo listened with admiration, and raising her tenderly put her suit
off with courteous compliments, telling her that if she would cheer her
drooping spirits, bring back the bloom of health to her pale cheek, and
let him see the diamond of her beauty in its perfect lustre, there could
be no crime that he would not look with eyes of mercy upon if she
advocated it.
Already in his mind had he thought of a fitting punishment for his
nephew. He resolved to make them all believe that he intended himself to
wed the fair Lidia, and acted accordingly.
Poor Sanazarro, in the solitude of his prison, awakened too late to a
sense of his wicked, disloyal treachery. He remembered the duke’s
kindness and love, in making him almost his second self. The influence
of Lidia’s charms faded away, and he recalled the loving favors he had
received so carelessly from the beautiful Duchess Fiorinda. Now, he
stood without friends, and no one dared or even cared to make
intercession to the duke for him. As he thought of the Duchess
Fiorinda’s love and past kindness, he resolved to appeal to her, and
sent a message to her, begging her mediation in his favor, although he
acknowledged himself most unworthy.
But true love forgetteth and forgiveth all injuries, and so soon as the
lovely Fiorinda heard his sad plight, she repaired to the duke and
entreated of him to be merciful and gracious to his poor servant,
Sanazarro. Cozimo reminded her of his infidelity to him, his kind
master; and then, to move her still more to anger, he recalled how
coldly Sanazarro had always received her courtesies, and how easily he
had yielded to the charms of another, and that other beneath her in
rank.
The poor lady for a moment struggled with her pride, which whispered to
her that, to endure a rival, and one also who was an inferior, betokened
poverty of spirit, but her noble heart obtained the mastery, and she
replied,
“True love must not know degrees or distances. Lidia may be as far above
me in her form as she is in her birth beneath me; and what I liked in
Sanazarro he may have loved in her. Vouchsafe to hear his defense.”
The duke consented, and said that both Sanazarro and the young prince
should have a speedy trial, in which he would not only be judge, but
accuser; and then expressed himself in such courteous, gallant words
about the fair Lidia, that Charomonte and the courtiers stared in
amazement. They could scarcely credit what he wished to make them
believe—that he, the faithful, mourning widower, who had remained
constant so many years, purposed a second marriage with this young
maiden, so unfit for him in station and age.
The trial commenced, and the prisoners, almost hopeless of mercy,
presented themselves, with their lovely advocates, the duchess and
Lidia, before the duke. Cozimo, at the sight of Lidia, professed to
forget every thing in the rapture her beauty caused him; and after
exhausting love’s sweet language in describing her charms, he turned,
with looks of rage, to the prince and Sanazarro, and told them they
knelt too late for mercy. But Lidia and the duchess reminded him he had
promised a gracious hearing to his prisoners, before passing sentence.
Duke Cozimo descended from the chair of state, and placing the two
ladies in his seat, told them they should be his deputies; but they must
listen to his accusation which would justify the sentence he was about
to pronounce on these traitorous heads. First, he reminded Sanazarro of
his cold indifference to Fiorinda’s condescending love, and his
unfaithfulness to her; but the duchess interrupted him, and told him
that charge was naught; she had already heard the count’s confession,
and had freely pardoned him.
The duke courteously bowed, but continued and upbraided Sanazarro with
his treachery to him, his indulgent master. Then he turned to Giovanni
and reminded him of how careful of his interests he had always been; how
he had remained unwedded, to secure to a thankless nephew a throne. “We
made you both,” continued the duke, “the keys that opened our heart’s
secrets, and what you spoke we believed as oracles. But you, in
recompense of this, to us, who gave you all, to whom you owed your
being, with treacherous lies endeavored to conceal this peerless jewel
from our knowledge. Look on her,” he said, pointing to the blushing
Lidia, “is that a beauty fit for any subject? Can any tire become that
forehead but a diadem? Even should we grant pardon for your falsehood to
us, your treachery to her, in seeking to deprive her of that greatness
she was born to, can ne’er find pardon.”
As the duke finished, the ladies quickly descended from the chair of
state, and kneeling, with the prince and Count Sanazarro before him,
besought his mercy, which Charomonte reminded him, was more becoming in
a prince than wreaths of conquest. The courtiers and old councillors
united their entreaties, but the duke remained inflexible. Turning to
Charomonte, he said,
“You, Carolo, remember with what impatiency of grief we bore our Duchess
Clarinda’s death, and how we vowed—not hoping to see her equal—never
to make a second choice. We did not know that nature had framed one that
did almost excel her, and with oaths, mixed with tears, we swore our
eyes should never again be tempted. Charomonte, thou heardest us
sware—are those vows, thinkest thou, registered against us in heaven?”
Charomonte told him that if he were to wed a woman who possessed all
woman’s beauties and virtues united, he had already sworn so deeply,
that the weight of his perjury would sink him.
“This is strong truth, Carolo,” replied the duke, “but yet it does not
free them from treason.”
“But,” answered the good old Charomonte, who began to suspect the duke’s
design, “the prince, your nephew, was so earnest to have you keep your
vows to heaven, that he vouchsafed to love my daughter.”
The duke turned to Lidia, as if for assurance of this, who blushingly
replied, “He told me so, indeed, sire.”
“And the count has averred as much to me,” said the Duchess Fiorinda,
with a playful air and a merry laugh, for she saw by the duke’s manner
that he had only been feigning this stern severity as a punishment to
the young men.
“Ah,” said Duke Cozimo, smiling, “you all conspire to force our mercy
from us.”
Then he placed the gentle, lovely Lidia’s hand in Giovanni’s, and as he
pronounced the pardon of the prince and count, he told them they must
merit their forgiveness by service and love to their mistresses, the
duchess and the beautiful Lidia.
Thus ends this story, courteous reader, and
“May the passage prove,
Of what’s presented, worthy of your love
And favor, as was aimed, and we have all
That can in compass of our wishes fall.”
* * * * *
LINES
WRITTEN AT NIGHT IN CAVE HILL CEMETERY.
BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.
One evening, dear Virginia, in thy life,
When thou and I were straying side by side
Beneath the holy moonlight, and our thoughts
Seemed taking a deep hue of mournfulness
From the sweet, solemn hour, I said if thou,
Whose young years scarcely numbered half my own,
Should’st pass before me to the spirit-land,
I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon,
Shining in heaven as it was shining then,
Go forth alone to lay me by thy grave,
And render to thy cherished memory
The last sad tribute of a stricken heart.
Thine answer was a sigh, a tear, a sob,
A gentle pressure of the hand, and thus
My earnest vow was hallowed. A thin cloud,
Like a pole winding-sheet, that moment passed
Across the moon, and as its shadow fell,
Like a mysterious omen of the tomb,
Upon our kindred spirits, thou didst turn
Thine eye to that wan spectre of the skies,
And, gazing on the solemn portent, weep
As if thy head were waters.
Weary years
Since then have planted furrows on my brow,
And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon,
That shone around us on that lovely eve,
Is shining now upon thy swarded grave,
And I have come, a pilgrim of the night,
To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keep
My unforgotten vow.
Dear, parted one,
Friend of my better years, dark months have passed
With all their awful shadows o’er the earth,
Since this green turf was laid above thy rest,
’Mid sighs and streaming tears and stifled groans,
But oh! thy gentle memory is not dim
In the deep hearts that loved thee. We have set
This sweet young rose-tree o’er thy hallowed grave,
And may the skies shed their serenest dews
Around it, may the summer clouds distil
Their gentlest rains upon it, may the fresh
Warm zephyrs fan it with their softest breath,
And daily may the bright and holy beams
Of morning greet it with their sweetest smile,
That it may wave its roses o’er thy dust,
Dear emblems of the flowers that thou so oft
In life didst fling upon our happy hearts
From thy own spirit’s Eden. Yet we know
’Tis but an humble offering to thee,
Who dwellest where the fadeless roses bloom,
In heaven’s eternal sunshine.
To our eyes
Thy beauty has not faded from the earth;
We see it in the flowers that lift their lids
To greet the early spring-time—in the bow
The magic pencil of the sunshine paints
Upon the flying rain-clouds—in the stars
That glitter from the blue abyss of night—
And in the strange mysterious loveliness
Of every holy sunset. To our ears
The music of thy loved tones is not lost;
We hear it in the low, sweet cadences
Of wave and stream and fountain, in the notes
Of birds that from the sky and forest hail
The sunrise with their songs, and in the wild
And soul-like breathings of the evening wind
O’er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyres
Of grove and forest. Yet no sight or sound
In all the world of nature is as sweet,
Dear, lost Virginia, as when thou wast here
To gaze and listen with us. The young flowers
And the pure stars seem pale and cold and dim,
As if they looked through blinding tears—alas!
The tears are in our eyes. The melodies
Of wave and stream and bird and forest-harp,
Borne on the soft wings of the evening gale,
Seem blended with a deep wail for the dead—
Alas! the wail is in our hearts.
Lost one!
We miss thee in our sadness and our joy!
When at the solemn eventide we stray,
’Mid the still gathering of the twilight shades,
To muse upon the dear and hallowed past
With its deep, mournful memories, a voice
Comes from the still recesses of our hearts
“_She is not here!_” In the gay, festive hour,
When music peals upon the perfumed air,
And wit and mirth are ringing in our ears,
And light forms floating round us in the dance,
And jewels flashing through luxuriant curls,
And deep tones breathing vows of tenderness
And truth to listening beauty, even then,
Amid the wild enchantments of the hour,
To many a heart the past comes back again,
And, as the fountain of its tears is stirred,
A voice comes sounding from its holiest depths,
“_Alas! she is not here!_” The spring-time now
Is forth upon the fresh green earth, the vales
Are one bright wilderness of blooms, the woods,
With all their wealth of rainbow tints, repose,
Like fairy clouds upon the vernal sky,
And every gale is burdened with the gush
Of music, free, wild music, yet, lost one,
Through all these wildering melodies, that voice
As from the very heart of nature comes,
“_Alas! she is not here!_” But list! oh, list!
From the eternal depths of yonder sky,
From where the flash of sun and star is dim
In uncreated light, an angel strain,
As sweet as that in which the morning stars
Together sang o’er the creation’s birth,
Comes floating downward through the ravished air,
“_Joy! joy! she’s here! she’s here!_”
’Tis midnight deep,
And a pale cloud, like that whose shadow fell
Upon our souls on that remembered eve,
Is passing o’er the moon, but now the shade
Falls on one heart alone. I am alone,
My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe’er
In the vast universe of God thou art,
I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hour
To the dark earth from thy all radiant home,
And hold communion with thy weeping friend
As in the hours departed.
Ah, I feel,
Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer!
I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumes
About me and around—the very air
Is glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts,
Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star—
A hand from which the electric fire of heaven
Seems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine—
Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tones
Softened to more than mortal melody,
Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voice
Of the lost Pleiad calling from its place
In the eternal void—and our two souls
Blend once again as erst they used to blend—
The heavenly with the earthly!
Fare thee well!
Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed words
That thou, this night, hast whispered to me here,
Above the mound that hides thy mortal form,
Will purify my soul, and strengthen me
To bear the ills and agonies of life,
And point me to an immortality
With thee in God’s own holy Paradise.
* * * * *
A SONG FOR A DOWN-TRODDEN LAND.
BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.
Air—“Some love to roam o’er the dark sea-foam.”
Fill high to-night, in our halls of light,
The toast on our lips shall be
“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,
Our homes and our altars free.”
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail,
And sleep in his chains for years,
The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth
With balm for a nation’s tears.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold,
A smile for the girls we love;
And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need,
A home in the skies above.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
We have asked the page of a nobler age
For a hope secure and bright,
And the spell it gave to the stricken slave
Was in one strong word—“Unite.”
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Though the wind howl free o’er a single tree
Till it bends beneath its frown—
For many a day it will howl away
Ere a _forest_ be stricken down.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled,
By all that man deems divine,
Our patriot band, for our own dear land,
Like brothers shall all combine.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Then fill to-night, in our halls of light,
The toast on our lips shall be—
“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,
Our homes and our altars free.”
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
* * * * *
LUCY LEYTON.
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
I have been induced to a brief series of heart-histories by a remark of
Longfellow, in Kavanagh. In speaking of the ever sanguine yet irresolute
schoolmaster, who was “forced to teach grammar when he would fain have
written poems,” he says, “Mr. Churchill never knew that while he was
exploring the Past for records of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his
own village, ——, the romance he was longing to find and record, had
really occurred in his neighborhood, among his own friends.” Again,
Emerson says, “Every roof is agreeable to the eye until it is lifted,
and then we find tragedy, and moaning women, and hard-eyed husbands, and
deluges of lethe.”
There is truth in this. Beneath every roof-tree some romance is at
work—some heart-history compiling. The evening lights twinkle from
cottages sleeping peacefully upon the hill-sides and valleys—music and
mirth break on the air from brilliantly illuminated dwellings—then the
night wears on—the cottage-lights no longer gleam—silence wraps the
abode of wealth—and from out the majesty of the heavens encircling all,
the gentle moon and bright, flashing stars look down alike on sheltered
cot or marble dome. Yet, “lift the roof,” lay bare the heart which
pulsates in every bosom, and we shall find each has its own tale of
romance woven from life’s mingled threads of grief, of love, of
happiness—perhaps of shame.
Let me, then, from out the “simple annals” of a quiet country town,
sketch, with a faithful pen, these heart-histories—these romances from
real life.
The little village to which they may be traced, I must forbear to name.
That it does not exist merely in the imagination, let it suffice the
incredulous reader. There are bright, dancing rills spangling its broad
meadows—the “sweet south wind” plays over innumerable fields of billowy
grain, and the tinkle of the cow-bell is heard within the sweet-scented
pine forests which crown the summit of each rising hill. The roots, some
of which I am about to “lift,” cover no costly edifices. They are for
the most part humble and unpretending, yet so embosomed among fruit and
forest-trees as to render each cottage of itself a coup d’œil of beauty.
There are, to be sure, two or three exceptions; the large, three-story
brick house of Judge Porter, for instance, with its long, winding
avenues, and, as Mrs. Malaprop would say, its “statutes” placed in awful
frigidity about the grounds, frightening the children of the
neighborhood as so many sheeted ghosts. The beautiful villa, too, of Dr.
Bartine, (these names are, of course, fictitious,) which stands on a
gentle eminence somewhat remote from the village. It was built by a
gentleman of wealth and cultivated taste, who lived only to see it
completed. It was then knocked down under the hammer of Tom Pepper, the
village auctioneer, to the highest bidder, a worthy farmer, with as many
children as barn-door fowl. For six months, droning spinning-wheels, and
rattling looms, made music in the classic rooms—squashes and
red-peppers hung on the frescoed walls, while the conservatory, with its
marble fount, served admirably for the dairy of the notable Mrs.
Grimes—pots of butter, and round, yellow cheeses, taking the place of
rhododendrons and fragrant jessamines. Fortunately for the preservation
of this tasteful dwelling, at the end of six months, it was purchased by
young Doctor Bartine, who, after putting it in complete repair, and
removing the unseemly pig-stye and other excrescences from the face of
the beautiful lawn, brought hither his pretty young bride. There is the
parsonage sequestered from the street by elms a century old; and the
venerable church, from whose well-worn portals a narrow foot-path
conducts to that peaceful spot where, “when life’s fitful fever ended,”
the villagers come one by one and lie down to their dreamless rest.
There all is hushed. The wind, as it softly sweeps the pliant willow,
seems to whisper a requiem for the peaceful dead; a few birds flit
noiselessly about, but no song of gladness trills from their little
throats, their notes are low and plaintive, as if they mourned for the
hand which once fed them, but will never feed them more.
Such are the prominent local features of the little village, into whose
quiet precincts I have wandered. And there are many such primitive towns
nestling among our hills and valleys, some even less pretending; and
there are lone cottages scattered by the road-side, and huts of squalid
poverty, and the thrifty homestead of the farmer, all of which have
their heart-histories.
Love’s autocrasy must form the theme of my first romance from the real;
and, indeed, if the truth was known, there are but few heart-histories
in whose compilation that troublesome little sprite has not more or less
interfered.
Lucy Leyton, with that bright, roguish eye of hers, and her sunny smile
shall attest the truth of my words.
The proprietor of the great Leyton farm which covers more than a hundred
acres of the richest land in New England, is a true specimen of her
stalwort sons, her independent, industrious farmers—a noble race,
uniting integrity, sound sense, and a high standard of moral worth,
under manners the most plain and unpretending—keenly sensitive for the
public weal, hospitable, kind, and thrifty—not over generous, not over
prodigal of their means, yet far removed from that selfish avarice which
would refuse a helping hand to those who would rise in the world if they
had the means to start with, (and how many such there are,) or close
their doors upon the weary wayfarer, vagrant though he might be. Of this
class is Andrew Leyton.
A few words upon the domestic economy of Leyton farm. Mr. Leyton is a
widower, and my little heroine, Lucy, his only child. People wondered,
as people always will, why such a young-looking, hale, hearty man as
Andrew Leyton, did not take a second wife; but when asked about it, he
always had two answers ready—first, he was too much hurried about his
farm-work to spend time in courting and marrying; second, old Dinah, who
had lived with his father before him, though she was old, was a
first-rate manager; and Heaven forbid he should unloose her tongue by
talking about bringing a second Mrs. Leyton into the house. And so year
after year old Dinah stood her ground, holding undisputed sway in
kitchen and hall, doing pretty much as she pleased with her master,
looking, in fact, upon the strong, athletic, six-foot Andrew Leyton as a
mere child, “_the boy_,” as she termed him, when speaking to her
cronies; and as for Lucy, she would have held her in leading-strings to
this day probably, if Mr. Leyton had not sent her from home to acquire
more advantages of education than the village-school could offer.
Lucy was a bright, darling little child, saying and doing a thousand
witty things; and Mr. Leyton made up his mind that she was a perfect
prodigy even at four years old—parents are pretty apt to imagine just
such things—so he determined, from the time she could first lisp her
letters, that she should have the very best education his means would
afford; and when in process of time she came to know more than the
schoolmaster, (in farmer Leyton’s opinion,) he resolved to part with his
darling for a little while, that she might have the benefit of a
fashionable boarding-school. In selecting the establishment of Mrs.
Tracy, situated some thirty miles from Leyton farm, he proved himself
more fortunate than many who send forth their children to gather “apples
of wisdom,” but who return with thistles.
At the end of two years Lucy was pronounced “finished,” and returned
home. If Mr. Leyton had thought her a prodigy at four years old, what
must he have considered her at seventeen, for she had contrived to store
away a goodly amount of knowledge in her little head, even if she was at
times a little flighty. Yes, and notwithstanding she must have been so
hurried at Mrs. Tracy’s with her algebra, and her French, and her
philosophy, and her history, she had somehow managed to commence a
little heart-history of her own; but then she did not let any one read
it, not she. Farmer Leyton himself never knew a word about this
unbargained for accomplishment.
* * * * *
One day when Lucy had been at home about a week, Mr. Leyton had occasion
to go down into the village with a load of his renowned potatoes for
Judge Porter.
“Dear father, will you please see if there is not a letter in the
post-office for me?” cried Lucy, running out to the gate.
“Ha! ha!—a letter for you! that’s a new idea! Yes, but come and kiss
me.”
And poising one little foot upon the hub of the cart-wheel, Lucy sprang
lightly to the side of her father, gave him a hearty smack upon each
sunburned cheek, and then alighted again like a bird upon the soft,
green turf.
Now the farmer was no great scribe. Unless to announce a marriage or a
death, it was a rare thing for him either to indite or receive a letter.
The post-office revenue of Uncle Sam was but little benefitted by Andrew
Leyton. He was somewhat pleased, therefore, that his Lu should expect a
letter; so, after unloading, he brought his team to a stand-still in
front of the tavern, which, beside offering entertainment for man and
beast, served also for the post-office. Sure enough, there was a
letter—a very thick one too—for “Miss Lucy Leyton,” directed in an
elegant flowing hand—a gentleman’s hand.
“Hum!—What does this mean!” thought Farmer Leyton, turning the letter
over and over, and looking at the seal,—“_L’Amour_,” “_Fidelité_.”
Lucy was watching for his return; and as soon as she saw the well-known
team rise the hill, she flew swiftly along the road to meet it. Her
father held up the letter. Ah! what a bright, happy face was hers, as
she caught it from his hand; and seating herself under a shady tree by
the road-side, she eagerly tore off the envelope, and pressed the
insensible chirography to her lips.
“Hum!—what does this mean!” again thought the farmer, eyeing Lucy
keenly. “Gee-haw, Darby—Gee-up, Dick!” he cried, sweeping his cart-whip
above the sleek hides of his oxen, yet all the time noting uneasily the
bright blush, the happy smile of Lucy, all absorbed as she was in the
contents of her letter.
In less than a week there came another.
“Hum!” said Mr. Leyton, putting it in his pocket, “I must see what this
means.”
He went home, foddered the cattle, and then walked into the house.
“Come here Lu, sit down by me.”
Lucy laid aside her work, and drawing a low foot-stool to the side of
her father, folded her dimpled hands upon his knees, and looked up
smiling into his face.
“Well, Lu, you had a nice time, didn’t you, at Mrs. Tracy’s?” said Mr.
Leyton, smoothing back the long, golden curls from her white upturned
brow.
“Indeed I did, my dear father. I am sure, although I was so anxious to
see you, I was sorry to come away.”
“Hum! Mrs. Tracy used to keep you pretty strict, I suppose—never let
you go out, did she?”
“O yes, we walked every day—an hour in the morning, and an hour after
school at night; it was very pleasant, sometimes Mrs. Tracy would go
with us, and sometimes—O, it was _so_ pleasant!” and Lucy heaved a sigh
as she concluded.
“I take it for granted you never saw any boys there, Lu, did you?”
Lucy blushed, and wondered what in the world possessed her father to
talk so; at last she answered, very demurely:
“Why, father, it was a school for girls you know; it would have been
very strange, I am sure, to have seen a set of rude boys in our pleasant
school-room.”
“That is not what I mean, you little puss you—did any young men ever
visit at Mrs. Tracy’s?”
“Mercy, no, Mrs. Tracy would not even let Edward invite—”
“Edward—who is Edward?”
“Mrs. Tracy’s nephew, father,” replied Lucy, stooping to tie her little
slipper, which just at that particular moment it seemed necessary for
her to attend to.
“Hum—and I suppose Edward walked with you, didn’t he?” said Mr. Leyton.
“Yes, father, when Mrs. Tracy could not go.”
“I thought so. Who is he? What is he? What is his name—this Edward?”
Poor Lucy, how she tried not to blush, and yet what a glow instantly
suffused the tell-tale countenance she averted from the scrutinizing
glance of her father.
“His name is Bartine—Edward Bartine—he is a very fine young man,
father—every body loves him.”
“Hum!”
“All the girls loved him, just like a brother.”
“And you loved him just like a brother, I suppose.”
“Sir.”
“Hum—well go on—what was this very fine young man doing at a young
ladies’ boarding-school?”
“He only came up from New Haven to pass a few months with Mrs. Tracy,
and to pursue his studies with Dr. Heber—he is going back to college
very soon, I suppose.”
“Going back to college! Ah, I understand, I understand—some wild
scapegoat, I’ll be bound, suspended for misdemeanor—never will be worth
a straw—never will be good for any thing, not he—wasting the money
which his father has toiled hard to earn, I’ll warrant you!”
“No, indeed, father, Edward Bartine is no such person, indeed he is
not!” eagerly interposed Lucy.
“How do you know? I tell you he is. See here Lu—who is this from?” and
putting his hand in his ample coat-pocket Mr. Leyton drew forth the
letter, holding it up, however, at arm’s length.
“O, dear, dear father, please give it to me, please do—that’s a dear
father!” cried Lucy, springing up, her face radiant with joy, and
extending her hand for the precious missive.
“Not so fast, little Miss Lucy Leyton—sit down again—there is your
letter—now open it and read it to me,” said Mr. Leyton, passing his arm
around her waist to prevent her flight.
“O, father, please let me go—indeed I cannot read it to you!” urged
Lucy, the tears trembling like dew-drops on her long fringed eye-lids.
“Well, then, I’ll read it myself—it must be very fine; I should like to
read a letter from such a nice young man,” said Mr. Leyton, attempting
to take it.
“Father, please don’t, it is only about—about—”
“Never mind, I will see what it is about. Lucy, you must either give me
the letter or read me the contents—_I must know them_!” and this time
Mr. Leyton spoke sternly.
The poor girl dared not disobey. With a trembling hand she broke the
seal, and, in a voice scarcely audible, read:
“My dearest, sweet Lucy.”
“Hum—puppy! go on.”
“My dearest, sweet Lucy—To-morrow—to-morrow I leave for—for—” Lucy
could proceed no further, but covered with blushes hid her face in her
father’s bosom.
“Well, well Lu, don’t cry; I don’t want to hear any more of such silly
stuff. There give me the letter, it will serve nicely to light my pipe,”
said Mr. Leyton, twisting it in his fingers.
“Father, wont you let me have the letter—wont you, father?” pleaded
Lucy.
“No, Lucy. Now go and get pen, ink, and paper; this must be answered.”
Quite pale and frightened, Lucy brought her little desk and placed it on
the table.
“Are you ready?” said Mr. Leyton, “well then, begin, Mr. Edward—what’s
his name—Bartine—”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are a base designing young man—”
“Must I say so, father? indeed, he is no such thing!” interrupted Lucy,
looking up all in tears.
“I say he is—go on—‘you are a base designing young man, so, although I
am but a farmer’s daughter, never presume to address another letter to
me.’ Have you wrote that—very well, now add, ‘My father desires his
compliments, and would like to try the strength of his new raw-hide upon
your shoulders.’”
Lucy sobbed aloud.
“Now, say, ‘Respectfully, very, Lucy Leyton.’”
Mr. Leyton took up the blotted page, read it, sealed and directed it,
and put it in his pocket. Then taking Lucy in his arms and kissing her,
he said:
“My darling, I would not grieve you for the world; what I am doing is
for your good, my child, though I know you think me very cruel, but you
will thank me one of these days. There—now go to your chamber and lie
down awhile; kiss me, dear Lu.”
Lucy pressed her lips to his with a loud sob, and then hastening to her
little chamber, she bolted the door, and throwing herself upon the bed,
gave way to her affliction—for the first time a tear had blotted her
heart-history!
* * * * *
“What the mischief ails the girl I wonder? she don’t eat—she don’t
sleep, and half the time there are tears in her pretty eyes; her rosy
cheeks are all gone, and every now and then she sighs enough to break
one’s heart! Hang me if I can stand it! she thinks I don’t see it—when
I am by she tries to smile and sing as she used to—she thinks I haven’t
any eyes—but I have. Confound that fellow—I wish I had kept her at
home—well, well, poor Lu—something must be done, or else she’ll die!”
Thus soliloquized Andrew Leyton, a few weeks after the scene just
related. Now, Mr. Leyton was neither a severe nor an obstinate
man—there was never a more tender father, nor a kinder master. He was
little connusant of the great world, it is true, but enough so to render
him keenly apprehensive for his daughter. He knew there were
unprincipled young men enough, who solely from vanity, and for
self-gratulation would not scruple to win the affections of a young,
artless girl like Lucy, and his jealous fears imputed the same unworthy
motive to the professions of young Edward Bartine. Thus it was his love
for his only child, amounting almost to idolatry, which had caused him
to take the perhaps somewhat hasty step he had done—he was a father,
and who can blame him? Yet it cut him to the heart when he saw how
deeply poor Lucy suffered from his well meant kindness.
“Something must be done!” again exclaimed Mr. Leyton, slowly pacing to
and fro the little porch, and watching, with a sad, perplexed
countenance, the slight figure of Lucy strolling pensively through the
garden, and at length the “something” took upon itself a shape which
mightily pleased his fancy.
Mr. Leyton had one sister who, in his boyhood, had emigrated, together
with almost every member of the Leyton family, to the far west. She had
married there, but had been early left a widow, with one son. Andrew had
several times offered her a home in his house; but the distance was
great—new friends and associations had been formed to supplant earlier
ties, and the widow, though grateful for her brother’s kindness,
preferred the banks of the Ohio to the fertile vale of the Connecticut.
Now, Mr. Leyton had no son, and a vague idea had now and then seized him
to unite Lucy to his sister’s child. Thus the great Leyton farm would be
continued in the family, when he was dead and gone. True, he had never
seen him—but what of that—he was certain he must be a fine fellow, a
good honest lad, for all the Leytons were so from the beginning.
“Yes, I will write this very night!” said Mr. Leyton, stopping suddenly
in his walk, as this bright thought suggested itself. “I’ll just invite
Reuben to come on and see the old homestead, where his grandfather, and
his great grandfather lived and died, and then if he only takes a fancy
to Lu, which of course he cannot fail of doing, I shall be happy as a
lord—he will soon drive this college scape-grace from her mind!”
“Lu, how do you like your Cousin Reuben?” said Mr. Leyton, knocking the
ashes from his third evening pipe.
Lucy looked up from her work and smiled faintly, as she replied:
“My dear father, you know I have never seen him.”
“True, true, neither have I, but I tell you what, Lu, I am going to
write out to Reuben to come on and make us a visit, and bring his mother
too, if she will; how should you like it?”
“Very much, indeed, I shall be delighted to see Aunt Richards, whom you
have so often talked to me about.”
“And Cousin Reuben too?”
“Yes, of course I should.”
“Well, Lu, I hope you will like Reuben, for do you know I have quite set
my heart upon having him for a son-in-law—what say you?” said Mr.
Leyton, abruptly.
Lucy at once burst into tears, and went on to protest, in the most
earnest manner, that she should never marry—she would not marry for the
world, she could never love anybody—she wished her father would not
talk so—she was very happy as she was—O, very happy, indeed!
However, Mr. Leyton wrote the letter, and it took him three good hours
to do so. Then in the morning, as he was very busy, for it was haying
time, he told Lucy he wished she would walk down into the village and
put it in the post-office.
What could have put it into Lucy’s little head to do as she did, I am
sure I don’t know. I will not pretend to exculpate such a piece of
mischief, not I, I will only state facts.
“_Dear Mr. Edward Bartine_,—I have thought of you a great many
times since I wrote those few lines to you, which you must have
considered very strange. My father made me write them, for he
does not know you, or I am sure he would never have done so. You
will forgive him, wont you? If you would like to come here
during the vacation, as you said you should, I shall be very
happy to see you, and I dare say my dear father will like you
very much; I don’t see how he can help it. If you have a wish to
come, please take a hint from the enclosed letter to my Cousin
Reuben Richards.
“Lucy Leyton.”
“P. S. If you have no use for the enclosed, please forward it to
the address.”
Just think, now, of Lucy Leyton writing such a letter—but she did! And
then she neatly folded it, and enclosing the one designed for Mr. Reuben
Richards, with a glowing cheek, and palpitating bosom, she directed it
to Mr. Edward Bartine, Yale College, New Haven, and putting on her
bonnet and shawl, tripped fleetly to the office and deposited it.
“Ah, she’ll come round—all right yet!” said Mr. Leyton, a few days
after, as he overheard Lucy caroling one of her lively songs.
* * * * *
In due time, allowing for the speed of steam-boats, rail-cars, and
stages all the way from the Ohio, a young man, with a ponderous leather
trunk, alighted at Mr. Leyton’s gate. It was after dinner, and the
farmer was enjoying his afternoon pipe, while Lucy, sitting very quietly
by his side, was reading the village news. But all of a sudden, as she
saw the young man approaching, she sprung up in the strangest confusion
and ran into the house. Mr. Leyton rose up, put down his pipe, and
hastily advanced to meet the youth.
“This must be my dear nephew, Reuben!” he said, extending his hand; “I
know the true Leyton look. I am glad to see you, my lad!”
“Thank you, Uncle Leyton, how are you—how is Lucy?” replied the
stranger, warmly shaking hands.
“She is well, Reuben, and will be very glad to see you; come into the
house—you must be weary after such a long journey. Lucy! Lucy! why
where has she flown to? Lucy! O, here she comes. Well Lu, we have got
him at last—this is your Cousin Reuben—give her a kiss—that’s right.”
Lucy turned very pale when she first cast her eyes upon her cousin, who,
with very red hair and a somewhat limping gait, advanced to salute her,
then a rosy blush, and an arch smile, but half suppressed, stole over
her pretty face. But she blushed still deeper, and drew back timidly
from the tender embrace her young relative would fain have bestowed upon
her.
“My own, dear Lucy!” was softly whispered in her ear.
“So your mother wouldn’t venture with you,” said Mr. Leyton, “well, I am
sorry, for it is many a long year since we met; I hope she is strong and
healthy, Reuben.”
“Not very, she is greatly troubled with the rheumatism.”
“That’s bad. And how are all the rest of the folks—how is Uncle Bill,
and Deacon Gracie?”
“Dead.”
“Bless me, dead! you don’t say your poor Uncle Bill is dead!” exclaimed
Mr. Leyton, aghast at such news of an only brother.
“N—not exactly dead—half killed with the rheumatism, I mean, and the
deacon, O, the deacon has gone to California.”
“What! Deacon Gracie gone to California—well that beats all! I’ll
warrant old Mr. Stubbs is living!”
“Dead, a year ago.”
“Dead, is he? what killed him? I should like to know, for I thought him
good for a hundred years.”
“Rheumatism, uncle.”
“Rheumatism again! what in the world do you live in such a climate for?
Well, Reuben, how do you like your Cousin Lucy’s looks? I think she is
some like your mother, who resembled the Darlings more than the
Leytons.”
“I think Lucy is a decided Darling!” replied Cousin Reuben, with a
mischievous glance at the fair object in question.
“But you look more like the Leytons, all but your hair; none of the
Leytons ever had red hair!” continued the farmer, “and, excuse me, but I
must say I could never abide it; however, I guess you will reconcile me
to it. What makes you limp so, nephew, nothing serious I hope.”
“O, no, nothing but rheumatism, Uncle Andrew.”
“Good gracious, rheumatism again! Now make yourself at home, will you,
for I must go and look after my men. Lucy take good care of your cousin,
I will soon be back.”
“Don’t hurry, uncle, I am quite at home!” and as Mr. Leyton closed the
door, Cousin Reuben sprung to the side of Lucy, and stealing his arm
around her waist, imprinted a kiss upon her blushing cheek.
“I say, nephew, we must bathe your rheumatics in beef-brine,” said Mr.
Leyton, re-opening the door. Then hastily closing it again, he snapped
his fingers, exclaiming, “Ah, it will do! it will do! he is a fine young
fellow, I see, only that confounded red hair—he got that from the
Richards.”
A week and more passed on. Lucy and her cousin agreed wonderfully, and
Mr. Leyton was in perfect ecstasy at the recovered bloom and spirits of
his daughter.
“Ah, Lu,” said he one day, slyly pinching her cheek, “what do you think
of Cousin Reuben now; a’nt he worth a dozen of your college fellows?”
and Lucy protested she really liked Reuben just as well as she had ever
done Mrs. Tracy’s nephew.
Cousin Reuben, who was now perfectly domesticated, made himself not only
very agreeable, but useful to his Uncle Leyton in various ways, and the
farmer regretted more and more every day that he had not known him
before. Reuben was a geologist, and he explained to Mr. Leyton how some
portions of his farm, which he had thought the most unproductive, might
be made to yield good crops; he was an architect, and he drew the plan
of the new house which Mr. Leyton designed to erect in the spring. He
was a botanist, a geometrician, an astromer,
“And Latin was no more difficile,
Than for a blackbird ’tis to whistle.”
“Why, how in the world did you pick up so much learning out West? I
should think you had been to college by the way you talk!” said Mr.
Leyton, one evening, addressing his nephew, who had just been expounding
some knotty point.
“Yes, uncle, and I have just taken my degree,” replied Reuben, looking
at Lucy.
“_You_, the deuce you have. Why where did your mother raise the money to
send you to college?”
“My education was provided for by my grandfather’s will.”
“It was, eh! well, I am glad of it, and so the Richards family were a
good stock after all. I am sure I never dreamed you had been to college,
though I thought from the first you knew considerable for your years.”
“Thank you, Uncle Andrew.”
“And what are you going to do now?”
“My dear uncle, I shall soon receive my diploma for the practice of
medicine; then, if you will give me dear Lucy for a wife, I will buy
that pretty cottage at the foot of the hill, and commence business.”
“You buy it! No, no, I am able to buy it myself, and give it to Lucy on
her wedding-day. I am sorry you don’t like the farm better, for I had
set my heart upon seeing you settled upon the old family estate, but no
matter. Come here Lu, will you marry your Cousin Reuben? Ah, I see you
will; here take her nephew she is yours—God bless you!”
Lucy burst into tears, and for a moment her lover also appeared much
agitated. He then took Mr. Leyton’s hand:
“Then you really like me, uncle?”
“First rate, lad.”
“And you don’t know of any one else whom you would prefer for a
son-in-law!”
“Always had my eye upon you, Reuben.”
“But suppose you have been imposed upon; suppose that I am not your
nephew after all!”
“Ho, ho! imposed upon—not my nephew! don’t talk to me—imposed upon,
pooh, don’t I know the Leyton look—all but the red hair—I wonder where
you got that from!”
“I bought it of Frizeur and Frizette, French barbers, Broadway, New
York, it is a capital wig, don’t you think so?” replied the young man,
coolly taking it off, and handing it for the inspection of Mr. Leyton.
“Hey! why, what’s all this—who are you—what does this mean?” exclaimed
Mr. Leyton, starting up in astonishment, wig in hand, and staring at the
fine looking youth with dark-brown locks, who was now bending so
tenderly over Lucy.
“Mr. Leyton, why should I hesitate to confess who I am,” was the answer,
“since you have already assured me of your affection, and of your
willingness to bestow upon me this dear hand. My name is Edward
Bartine.”
“Bartine—Bartine—why, that is the same fellow—”
“That you was going to try your new raw-hide upon, my dear sir!”
“Hum, and if I had it here I would try it now!”
“O, no, you wouldn’t, father!” interposed Lucy.
“Grant me your patience a moment, Mr. Leyton,” resumed Edward, “with
your prejudice against me, I was very certain you would never allow me
to visit Lucy. You must believe me, when I assure you that the
imposition I have practiced upon you has been most repugnant to me, and
nothing but the hope of gaining your favor, under the guise of your
nephew, could have tempted me to act the part I have.”
“My nephew! but how did you know any thing about my nephew? Lucy, did
you—”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say, Mr. Leyton, will you forgive me, will you still confer upon me
your dear Lucy, may I, as Edward Bartine, again receive the priceless
gift you but now bestowed upon ‘Cousin Reuben?’”
“You have deceived me, young man,” replied Mr. Leyton, “although I
acknowledge I was wrong to harbor such prejudice against a stranger.
Would there was not so much depravity in the world as to warrant my
suspicions—but so it is, and upright, noble-minded young men must
sometimes suffer for the unprincipled libertinisms of those who best
serve the devil by beguiling the purest and fairest of God’s creatures!
But I forgive the deception. You were no less a stranger to me as Edward
Bartine than as Reuben Richards, and I have learned to love you. Yes,
you shall have Lucy, and the pretty white cottage to boot. Once more I
give her to you, and again I say, God bless you and make you both happy,
my dear children!”
In a few moments Lucy raised her head from her father’s shoulder, and
looking archly in his face, said:
“Dear father, here is that letter for Cousin Reuben, shall we send it?”
“Ah, you little jade, now I understand! send it, yes, and we will have
them all here to the wedding; if—_the rheumatism will permit_! ha, ha,
what a lame concern you made of them, _eh_!”
“Yes, my dear sir, but the plot has not proved a lame one!” replied
Edward, laughing.
* * * * *
Dr. Bartine and the charming Lucy, reside in the beautiful villa noticed
in the commencement of this sketch, which, however, Edward insisted upon
purchasing himself.
Mrs. Richards, and her son Reuben, accepted the invitation of Andrew
Leyton, and now reside altogether at the farm. Reuben is a great
favorite with his uncle, who, however, acknowledges that Edward pleases
him best for a son-in-law. It is said Reuben will soon be married to a
pretty girl in the neighbourhood, and will, without doubt, succeed to
the Leyton farm.
* * * * *
TO JENNY LIND:
ON SEEING HER PORTRAIT FOR GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
BY J. R. FRY.
World-worshiped Jenny! if this counterfeit
Of woman be not only Art’s ideal;
If when in ecstasy we gaze on it
We know that all its loveliness is real—
That in this face, by guileless rapture lit,
We see the reflex of thy living features;
And if thy voice this seraph-face befit,
No marvel ’tis that over genial natures
Thy power is felt as more than of the earth—
A gift, among the myriads of God’s creatures,
To prove how much may spring from human birth
Of attributes, which faith or fancy blendeth
With visions only of celestial worth!
Not impiously then the warm heart bendeth
In homage at the altar of thy fame,
Where Virtue jealous of thy smile attendeth,
To watch the burning of its vestal flame
And share with Art the honors of thy name!
* * * * *
[Illustration: EDITOR OF GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE
_Geo. R. Graham_
Engraved by W.G. Armstrong from a painting by T.B. Read]
* * * * *
GEORGE R. GRAHAM
[WITH A PORTRAIT.]
BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.
When a man, left a friendless orphan in boyhood, overcomes every
obstacle of fortune, and rises to wealth and station, we justly conclude
that he is possessed of no common abilities. But when the same
individual, beggared by unforeseen events, retains still the confidence
of his fellow men, and finally conquers fate a second time, and resumes
his lost position, we do not exaggerate if we call him an extraordinary
man. Yet such, unless the partiality of friendship deceives us, is
George R. Graham.
The father of Mr. Graham was a gentleman of education and fortune,
resident in Philadelphia, where he was known, about thirty years ago, as
an enterprising shipping merchant. At one period he was a partner of the
late Robert Fleming, then carrying on an active trade between Charleston
and Ireland. Subsequently he entered largely into commerce on his own
account, but disastrous times approaching, he shared in the general
ruin, and ultimately, not only his fortune, but his life sunk under the
blow. He left two children, of whom the eldest, the subject of our
memoir, was born on the 18th of January, 1813. The early death of the
father materially affected the interests of the son. Mr. Graham had been
designed for the bar, and all his studies were directed to that end; the
preliminary arrangements had even been made for him in the office of the
Hon. Charles Jared Ingersoll; but the reverses and death of the parent
frustrated the scheme, and the young orphan, who had been born
apparently to a life of comparative ease, was left penniless and almost
friendless, to carve his way to distinction alone.
But, even at this early age, he did not despair. Of a sanguine
temperament and determined will, he resolved to re-construct the
shattered fortunes of his family. He had been placed, on his father’s
death, and when only fifteen years of age, with his maternal uncle, Mr.
George Rex, an opulent farmer of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, after
whom he had been named; and with this gentleman, and in the country he
remained until he was nineteen. The time, however, was not lost. On the
contrary, it was to this period of his life he is indebted for that
robust constitution which afterward enabled him to endure the severe
application to which he addressed himself. During these four years he
omitted no opportunity to improve his mind. He read every thing that
came in his way. But books, fortunately, were not so abundant then as
now, so that what he read he digested, and thus acquired habits of
correct thought, so rare among the hasty students of the day.
In 1832, Mr. Graham returned to the city, and commenced to learn the
trade of a cabinet-maker. But he had already resolved that he would yet
be a lawyer, as his father had intended; and accordingly, to effect this
object, he now addressed himself with that untiring energy which has
ever characterised him. His first object was to discipline his mind, to
improve his tastes, and to enlarge his stores of knowledge. For this
purpose he began a course of literary study, and, for three years,
prosecuted it with undiminished ardor, exhibiting, during the entire
period, a perseverance amid difficulties which entitles him to a high
place among self-taught men. His trade requiring his attention for ten
or twelve hours daily, he had but a short interval to spare for
recreation and sleep, but having resolved to devote six hours out of the
twenty-four to literary pursuits, he rigidly adhered to his plan,
gaining the time, when necessary, by rising before dawn.
At the age of twenty-two he made the acquaintance of a son of the late
Judge Armstrong, of Philadelphia, and by him was introduced to the
judge, who at once arranged to receive him as a student. For the three
years, during which he studied law, he continued laboring at the bench,
devoting the early morning hours and the evening to Coke and Blackstone.
By the regulations of the Pennsylvania courts, the last year of a
student’s course has to be spent in the office of some practicing
attorney; and this he was enabled to effect by rising at four o’clock in
the morning, laboring until nine, then visiting the office, and often
returning to the bench in the evening. The writer of this happened to be
a student with the same preceptor at this period, and writes of facts to
which he was an admiring eye-witness.
The natural bent of the mind, in all well-balanced natures, triumphs in
the end over the plans of parents and the exigencies of circumstances
alike. Under the influence of a commendable pride, Mr. Graham had
resolved notwithstanding his early misfortunes, to fulfill his father’s
wish, and become a member of the bar; but now, he discovered that his
tastes led him toward a literary life. He accordingly began to
contribute a series of papers to the Philadelphia press, which, at once
attracted attention by the vigor of their thought, not less than the
freshness of their style. He persisted, however, in his intention of
entering the bar, and, in 1839, was admitted to practice.
His inclination for literature continuing instead of diminishing, he
resolved to abandon the active pursuits of his profession, and embark in
avocations more suitable to his tastes. Accordingly, in the same year he
became editor of the Saturday Evening Post, a well-known weekly journal,
at that time published by Samuel C. Atkinson. In the following year, he
became joint proprietor as well as editor. He continued, in connection
with his partners, to publish this journal for several years, but
finally, in 1846, parted with his entire interest in it.
It is as a magazine editor and publisher, however, that Mr. Graham has
made himself especially famous. In 1839, at the time he became editor of
the Post, he purchased of Mr. Atkinson the Casket, a monthly magazine of
respectable ability and circulation. This periodical he continued to
publish, under its old name, until December, 1840, when he bought the
list of the Gentleman’s Magazine, and united the two monthlies as
Graham’s Magazine, issuing the first number in January, 1841. The
success of this new enterprise was unprecedented. Having spared no
expense to procure able writers and elegant embellishments, the result
was that he produced a periodical of unexampled merit and beauty; and,
at once, thousands were added to his list. A new spirit was infused into
magazines. Before this period, the monthlies had been filled with
second-hand English stories, or indifferently written original tales;
while their poetry, except what was taken from well-known authors, was
such as “both gods and men abhor.” The illustrations were few and
indifferent.
The freshness, beauty, and ability of Graham’s Magazine at once placed
it before all others in the popular favor, and though its rivals
hastened to imitate the example it had set, it continued to maintain,
and maintains to this day, the supremacy.
The success of Mr. Graham’s Magazine was such, that, by January, 1842,
it had attained a circulation of more than thirty thousand. Meantime no
expense was spared to increase its excellence, both literary and
pictorial. Mr. Sartain, the celebrated engraver, was kept busily
employed in furnishing mezzotints for it: and some of the engravings
then executed by that artist, and by Smillie, Rawdon and Tucker, have
certainly never been since surpassed. The most eminent authors in the
United States were, at the same time, sought for its pages. At first,
these writers were incredulous that any American magazine could afford
them adequate remuneration; but the success which had already attended
Mr. Graham’s improvements convinced him that the public would sustain
him in his effort to raise the character of our periodical literature,
and accordingly he persevered in his design. No sooner were Longfellow,
Bryant, Cooper, and others of our leading authors, discovered to be
permanent contributors to Graham’s Magazine, than thousands, who had
heretofore looked with contempt on an American monthly, hastened with
their subscriptions, to encourage the enterprising publisher. The
benefit thus done to popular literature cannot be calculated. But it was
such that it will be long, perhaps, before any one man will have it in
his power to do again as much.
The demand of a large business, and the watchfulness necessary to keep
the lead, left Mr. Graham but little time for literary composition. He
had, however, increased his own reputation as a writer, of occasional
articles contributed to his newspaper and magazine, but principally to
the latter. Thoroughly read in Bolingbroke, Addison, Burke, and others
of the classic authors of the language, his style was distinguished by a
finish, yet an idiomatic force such as is rarely found among the
careless writers of the day. A clear, sound thinker; with a fervid
imagination; possessing a keen sense of the ridiculous; and having a
great command over the resources of language, he always wrote to the
point, in a racy, nervous style, mingling eloquence and satire by turns,
and never, as hackneyed writers so often do, drowning the idea with
“excess of words.” His choice of terms was singularly felicitous. He
wrote the language as the translators of the Bible wrote it, with a
large mixture of Saxon derivations, yet with purity. In invective, as in
sarcasm, he was especially powerful. A series of editorial articles
contributed to the newspaper under his management, and still remembered,
are instances of the former: his letters to Jeremy Short, are examples
of the latter. In a word, as a terse, and even eloquent writer, Mr.
Graham holds a high rank. As a critic his judgment is always generous,
but just.
In 1846, Mr. Graham purchased the North American, a daily newspaper of
standing and influence in Philadelphia. He had no sooner embarked in
this new enterprise than it exhibited proofs of his energy and tact:
and, in a very short while, the ability with which the journal was
conducted made it a name throughout the entire Union. In 1847, he still
further extended the influence and reputation of his newspaper, by
purchasing, in connection with his partners, the United States Gazette,
and consolidating it with the North American. But he had now attained,
at least for awhile, the summit of his successes. Having been induced to
engage in certain stock speculations, he entered into them with all the
ardor of his character, and though for a time successful, eventually
impaired his fortune to such a degree that he was forced to part
temporarily with the Magazine and North American. This misfortune
happened in July, 1848. A man of his energy, however, could not be kept
down: fortune might depart, but failed to overcome him. He continued to
edit his Magazine, even after parting with the proprietorship of it,
until March, 1850, when circumstances having induced the retirement of
Samuel D. Patterson, he succeeded in regaining his interest in his
favorite periodical; and from that period has added the duties of
publisher to those of editor. This restoration to his old position is
the result of indomitable energy, which he possesses in a degree that is
as rare as it is praiseworthy. With men of his stamp nothing is
impossible.
As a man Mr. Graham inspires general affection. The warmth of his heart,
and the frankness of his manners make for him friends wherever he goes.
Generous to a fault, forgetful of injuries, conciliating in his
deportment, he is one to be alike popular with the many and loved by the
few. His faults, where he has them, are those of a noble nature. His
sense of honor is keen. He could do no man wrong intentionally. In all
his actions, even to the most trivial, the energy of his character, and
the kindness of his heart are equally discernible.
* * * * *
THE GENIUS OF BURNS.
BY HENRY GILES.
In a cottage on the banks of Doon, near the town of Ayr, in Scotland, in
1759, Robert Burns, one of the world’s sweetest poets, first saw the
light of life. The peasant-child soon learned to know existence in toil
and sorrow; torn at an early age from study to labor, grief went hand in
hand with glory through his remaining years. We find him amidst the wild
eccentricities of an irregular youth, without any settled aim, as he
himself declares, but with some stirrings of ambition, that were only as
the blind gropings of Homer’s Cyclops around the walls of his cave. With
characteristic ardor, and with more zeal than wisdom, he mingled in the
theological and political squabbles of the times, and by the destructive
boldness of his satire, and the shafted power of his ridicule, he
created many enemies whom it was easier to provoke than to propitiate.
Nor must we hold him blameless. In the prodigality of wit, and the
wildness of laughter; in the madness of merriment, and the pride of
genius, he treated opinions and persons with an unsparing levity which a
more thoughtful experience would have taught him to regard with
reverence or forbearance. That his genius went too frequently in company
with his passions, and that the glory of the one was sometimes wrecked
in the delirium of the other, it is not allowed us to deny; but these
follies had their penalties; and if it were possible, they were better
now forgotten in the ashes of his early grave. Burns was a man that
sinned, and one that suffered; but he was not a man that sinned
callously, or that suffered meanly; and it is not for the living to
write in marble errors which the departed repented in tears.
Incidents of romance and anguish checker the opening of his poetic fame
with sadness as well as sunshine. His “Highland Mary,” the love of his
youth, and the dream of his life is wrenched from his heart by death.
Then comes the melancholy episode of his attachment to Jean Armor, with
its heavy retribution of wretchedness. His name has begun to gather
honor among his native hills; the small provincial edition of his poems
is hailed with proud enthusiasm; but yet, with poverty and a bleeding
spirit, he looks across the ocean to foreign exile. Suddenly his purpose
is turned aside, and we behold him in Edinburgh among the exclusives and
magnates of the land. There, as at the plough, we find him still the
true and sturdy man. In the throng of Highland chieftains and border
barons, in the full blaze of pride and beauty, he felt within him a
humanity beyond the claim of titles; genius had given him a
superscription more impressive than device of heraldry; the patent of
nobility was written with fire in his heart, and the proud ones of earth
became poor before the aristocrat of heaven. In that day of classic
propriety, a poet from the plough, full of passionate earnestness, must
have been in Edinburgh a startling phenomenon. But nature made herself
heard in the very citadel of art; cavil was silent, and admiration
offered willing homage. The wealthy marveled at the inspired peasant;
and wherever the eloquent ploughman appeared, there were the nobles
collected together. Dukes gave him their silken hands; duchesses
received him with sweetest smiles; earls pledged him in the wine-cup;
and for the moment, the haughty and the high-born recognized the
presence of a greatness superior to their own. But Burns was not a man
to hold popularity long in circles such as these. He was too stoutly
individual for the apathy of elegant mediocrity, and he was too sternly
independent for the sensibility of patronizing grandees: he saw nothing
to venerate in a title when it was but the nickname of a fool; and he
was undazzled by a star when it glittered on the breast of a ruffian or
a dunce. But though Burns escaped the danger of aristocratic delusion,
he did not escape the danger of aristocratic feasts. These were the
times of night-long carousals, and pottle-deep potations. Burns had
neither the firmness to resist such dissipation, nor the constitution to
endure it; and he carried from it impaired health and impaired
habits—an irritable discontent with his condition, and an instability
of purpose fatal to a life of labor. Having placed a tomb over the
neglected remains of poor Ferguson, the poet, he retired to the country,
shared his success with his brother Gilbert, met his mother steeped in
tears of honest joy, married his Jean, and gave peace to a wounded
spirit.
From this era of light in his course; from this day, bright with fame
and conscious virtue, we trace him along a path devious and clouded. We
follow him through the toil of a profitless farm, to the struggles of a
country gauger, and from these to a destitute death-bed. In all his
follies and his sufferings, we behold him true to a manly nature, loyal
to noble principles; and however seamed and deformed may have been the
surface of his life, virtue remained unshaken in the centre of his soul.
With a large family, and only seventy pounds a year, he had an open hand
for the poor, and a hospitable roof for stranger and for friend; and
although he died owing no man any thing, yet he has been stigmatized as
a prodigal and a spendthrift. He gave the world his immortal songs
without money and without price; and with the generosity of benignant
genius, he sympathized with every effort of the humble men around him
for a nobler life, he ministered to their intellectual wants, and he
aided their intellectual struggles. Accordingly, we observe him at a
time when he was harassed with cares and overcome with toil on a barren
farm, establishing a book club in his neighborhood, forming its rules,
and directing its operations. To estimate this in the true spirit, we
must remember that it was sixty years ago, when as yet there had been no
“Mechanics’ Institutions” in the land, and when Lyceums were not; when
cheap editions of standard works had not arisen even on a printer’s
dream, and “Societies for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge” were
enfolded, as the poets say, in the mighty womb of futurity. Dr. Currie,
of Liverpool, a genial and eloquent (though patronizing) biographer of
Burns, in narrating this portion of his life, questions the utility of
literary studies for the great masses of the people. Strange questioning
this, in a life of Burns—the cottage-boy, whom the little knowledge of
a rustic school awakened for eternity; raised from the clods of the
valley to a place among the stars, a burning and imperishable light; and
who, but for that little knowledge, might have been as nameless clay as
any that nurtures the grass of a village church-yard.
The ideas of Currie have almost vanished with his times; still even yet
we occasionally hear some small-souled cynic, some snail-shell
philosopher, who thinks himself of those sages with whom wisdom is to
perish, sneer scornfully at popular knowledge. Popular knowledge, it is
true, is not the wisdom of Solomon; it has not the depth of Bacon, or
the sublimity of Newton; still, so far as it goes, it is a good, and
though the pedant may deride, the philanthropist will rejoice. And what,
after all, is the ground of Mr. Pedant Wiseacre’s pride? Perhaps some
learned investigation on the contraction of the Greek kai, or the tail
of the Greek gamma. Seriously, the critic and the scholar, when true to
their noble office, deserve our admiration and our gratitude; but those
who grub merely for withered roots, which never produce either fruits or
flowers; and, then, with insect vanity, give themselves airs of scorn,
are themselves saved from contempt, only because all creatures have
their uses. It is well for society that there should always be men of
great and solid learning; and evil would be the day when slight
acquirement should be a substitute for laborious thought; but it is also
desirable that these accumulated treasures should be widely and
bountifully distributed. It is good to have deep fountains in our
munitions of rocks, but it is not good that these fountains should waste
themselves in darkness; it is not good that they should merely feed the
gorgeous river, and the mighty cataract, they should also steal along in
the sunny streamlet, and give beauty to the secluded nook. Let there be
rich men, and let them rejoice in their riches; let there be great men,
and let them exult in their greatness; let there be men of strong
intellect, but let them in their strength be merciful; it is not,
however, the great, the noble, or the strong, that are ever of
destructive nature; it was the lean kine of Egypt that became the
devourers—and yet were as skinny as before; so there are poor, lean,
hungry animals of the critic species—unproductive as they are
voracious, that are naturally the most unsparing and the most ferocious.
When Burns went first to Edinburgh he was the rage, and homage to him
became the cant of certain circles. But it is seldom that such homage
survives a season. Poor Burns lived not long; but he lived long enough
to understand in bitterness the hollowness of drawing-room applause. On
a second visit to the Scottish metropolis, the enthusiasts of the first
had disappeared. It is ridiculous enough now to us to think of any lord
or lady of bedizened mediocrity supposing they could do honor by their
notice to such a man as Robert Burns; but ridicule deepens to contempt,
when we read of paltry provincials in Dumfries looking ascant at their
mighty townsman, our indignation chokes our laughter at the record of
treatment which small fashionables could offer to a great poet. Mr.
Lockhart gives an anecdote from a gentleman who told him that he was
seldom more grieved than when riding into Dumfries, one fine summer’s
evening, to attend a country ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the
shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side
was gay with successive groups of gentlemen and ladies, all drawn
together for the festivities of the night—not one of whom appeared
willing to recognize him. The horseman dismounted and joined Burns, who,
on his proposing to him to cross the street, said, “Nay, nay, my young
friend, that’s all over now,” and quoted, after a pause, some verses of
Lady Grizzle Baillie’s pathetic ballad.
Burns, amidst poverty and sorrow, when needful comforts had almost
failed him in his sickness, and his children nearly wanted bread, in the
thirty-eighth year of his age, quitted a world that was not soon to look
upon his like again. Burns, the gladdener of so many hearts, was at last
outwrestled, and the mighty fell—Burns, who had so deeply felt the
rapture of genius, and the misery of life.
The retribution with which the errors of Burns chastised him, holds out
impressive warning to all who are capable of drawing wisdom from
example. If happiness could have found a resting-place in one of the
most honest hearts that ever struck against a manly bosom; if happiness
had been with noble poetry, with an eloquence that never failed, with an
imagination rich as the breast of nature, and bright as the stars in
heaven; if happiness could have been brought down from the sky by lofty
and aspiring sentiments, or fixed upon earth by generous and gentle
affections; then happiness would have been the lot of Burns. But Burns
had contracted habits to which peace soon becomes a stranger; and he who
has such habits, be he bard, or be he beggar, has already entered on the
evil day; he may say in all the bitterness of his soul, “Farewell the
tranquil mind.” It would seem as if Burns pictured by anticipation his
own sad fate when he wrote the Bard’s Epitaph. “Whom did the poet
intend?” asks Wordsworth, as quoted by Allan Cunningham, “who but
himself—himself anticipating the too probable termination of his own
course. Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a public declaration from
his own will—a confession at once devout, poetical and human—a history
in the shape of a prophesy!” What more was required of the biographer
than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding
had been realized, and the record was authentic.
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, or hot to rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals, the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by,
But with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.
Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life’s mad career,
Wild as the wave;
Here pause, and through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame,
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name.
Reader, attend, whether thy soul
Soars fancy’s flights beyond the pole,
Or darkly grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit,
Know prudent, cautious, self-control
Is wisdom’s root.
Thus much I thought I might venture on our poet’s life; I shall now
proceed to offer some remarks upon his genius.
Burns was a true child of nature; thence his growing power, and thence
the promise of his lasting fame. But though the child of nature, he was
not the offspring of mere rude or uncultivated nature. The Scottish
peasantry were a class of men among whom such a mind as that of Burns
could perhaps receive its most fitting development. Without the
refinement which tends to repress spontaneous expression, they had
sufficient of moral and intellectual education to give that expression
variety and strength. Their country, their history, and their religion,
were all such as to train a serious and reflective imagination.
Therefore it is that no peasantry have furnished so much to national
literature as the Scottish, and especially to national poetry. Within a
period by no means extensive in their annals, they have given to the
world such writers as Ferguson, simple and full of music; Allan Ramsay,
in his “Gentle Shepherd,” the very genius of pastoral poetry; Tannahill,
a lowly spirit of melody and pathos, a sweet voice of truth and
tenderness; Hogg, the glorious wizard of the mountains, coming down from
his shepherd’s wilderness, his memory peopled with all olden legends,
and his fancy teeming with all fairy dreams. Burns, then, though
mightiest, is but one of an honorable family; though greatest and
grandest among them, they are his kindred; of some he is the heir, of
others, he is the progenitor.
Burns is a poet true, as I have said, to nature, and therefore true to
art. Burns is not mechanically artificial, but he is patiently
artistical. He had none of that indolent vanity which shrinks from
careful preparation, which trusts all to sudden excitement, and
undigested emotions. He looked, as every man of genius does, to the
ideal; he knew it was not to be comprehended in a passing glance, or
reached in a rapid bound, or embodied in a single effort; and he knew
that in the endeavor to unfold it, no execution could be too thoughtful,
and no labor too great. It is not the consciousness of power, but the
conceit of vanity, which relies presumptuously upon momentary impulse,
which mistakes the contortions of a delirious imbecility for the
movements of celestial agitation. The very creation of God, which
required but the will and word of Omnipotence for instant and perfect
existence, has been gradually constructed—the earth on which we stand,
so fair to look upon, so robed with beauty, so radiant with life and
light, has been evolved from chaos through innumerable formations and
even the thunder so astounding in its crash, and the lightning so sudden
in its stroke, have long been generating in the womb of heaven. The man
of genius, the man of creative power, is at once inspired and
industrious; at once a man of passion and a man of patience; at once a
constructor and analyser, a man of enthusiasm, but also a man of wisdom.
Genius is not intoxication, and it is even more than rapture; it is
capacity subject to the law of truth and beauty; the intense action of
the soul, exalted, harmonious, and illuminated. The dash of noble
thoughts may come suddenly on the brain; the torrent of enkindled
feeling may rush upon the heart, but the spirit of order and of art must
move over the face of this brilliant chaos, ere it is shaped into that
perfection which the world does not willingly let die. All mighty souls
know this; the rustic Burns knew it, not less than the godlike Milton.
The genius of Burns is now, by that instinctive appreciation which forms
the supreme tribunal, placed in the highest order. Whence is this? All
he has written may be contained in a moderately sized volume. If
quantity of production therefore were needed to exalt a writer, which it
is not, Burns should remain in the region of mediocrity. Neither has he
composed as critics would seem to require, a work of elaborate and
faultless excellence; for he has not even attempted a tragedy or an epic
poem. But critics cannot decide this point, and that common heart which
decides for all has decided for Burns. The depth and extent of his
humanity has gained him his distinction, and it is that humanity which
gains distinction for any who outlive their age. It is this spirit of
love and sympathy which evinces the kindred that all men recognize; it
is this spirit that reaches the truth of nature below all changes,
custom and convention; below all colors which climates paint upon the
skin; it is this which outlives all facts and fashions, and abides
forever in the immortal heart. Whoever has this spirit must live;
whoever has it not must die; whoever has this spirit must live, defiled
though he may be with many evils; whoever has it not must die, no matter
how excellent he may be besides; no matter what his brilliancy, his
sagacity, his talent, the generations will outlast them all; will give
them to as deep oblivion as they do the tongues of Babel. The world
cherishes Boccacio, notwithstanding the offences of his tales; so it
likewise preserves Chaucer; Rabelais and old Montaigne continue in
literature despite of their impurities; and to think of Shakspeare dying
would be to conceive the extinction of letters or our race. All these
men are deathless brothers, and Burns is amongst them. His poetry is
thoroughly human; a poetry which reproduces as we read it all the
feelings of our wayward nature; which shows how man was made to be
merry, and how he was made to mourn; which enters the soul on its sunny
or its gloomy side, expands the heart with laughter or chastens it with
melancholy.
In knowledge of man, Burns strikes us with wonder unspeakable, when we
consider the narrow circle in which he lived, and the early age at which
he died. A single song is like a compressed drama; and within the circle
of these songs we have impulses from every stage of life, from the
perturbations of youth to the chill of age. To every shade of sentiment
and affection; to every change and turn of inward experience, to every
oddity and comicality of feeling, he has given a voice of musical and
energetic utterance.
Man, and man directly—man in the play of all his passions, is, with
Burns, the great object of interest. The descriptive and the picturesque
for their own sake have therefore no place in his writings. A picture
with him is never more than the drapery of a passion. The chivalric past
has none of his veneration; and the past, in any form, only kindles him
when he associates it with the movements of humanity or the struggles of
liberty. The conflicts of feudalism, the rivalry of dynasties, the
gorgeous falsehoods of departed ages, had no enchantment to warm his
fancy or to rule his pen. In this respect, the writings of Scott and
those of Burns are as opposite as are their characters. The brilliancy
of descriptive narrative glows over the poems of Scott—the strong life
of passion throbs in those of Burns. Even in the record of a tour this
contrast is observable. Scott has the eye of an antiquarian and a
map-maker united. Burns glances along as if space were a tiresome
obstruction to his fiery nature: Scott surveys every baronial castle,
and notes all its chronicles. Burns raves with inspired fury on the
field where the invader was struck down, where “tyrants fell in every
blow.” Scott imagined that genius owed homage to rank; Burns gave the
obligation another version, and conceived that rank should do reverence
to genius. Peasant-born, he was too proud in his humanity to covet
titles: almost morbidly jealous of individual independence, hereditary
aristocracy was not to him poetically impressive; its outward glare
provoked his scorn, and its deeper abuses sickened his imagination.
Two most _human_ qualities in all poets are pre-eminent in Burns—I mean
pathos and humor.
His pathos is profound but kindly. No writer is less gloomy than Burns,
and yet none for the extent of his compositions has more pathos. No
writer within the same compass has grander thoughts or deeper beauty;
and, by some magic of the heart, grand thoughts and deep beauty are
always allied to melancholy. The canopy of the blue heavens, when not a
cloud swims in its brightness, makes our rapture sad: so it does when
the stars stud it with ten thousand lights: the mountain’s majesty and
the ocean’s vastness subdue our souls to thought, and in this world of
ours thought has ever something of the hue of grief. It would seem as if
a mysterious connection existed between great objects and pensive
feelings, between lofty sentiments and deep regrets, a kind of struggle
in our higher nature against the limits of its condition: a
disappointment at the long interval that separates our aspirations from
the ideal, tinges with sorrow all our sensations of the beautiful.
Pathos such as this imbues all the graver poetry of Burns. Scarcely is
there a wo which wrings the bosom between the cradle and the grave which
has not an expression in the solemn music of his verse, from the
gentlest whisper of feeling to the frenzies of every pain and the
agonies of every passion. But though deep, his melancholy is not morbid.
It is the melancholy of great capacities and of real suffering; of error
reacting on itself a just infliction; or glorious desires yearning for
their congenial objects. The muse of Burns was a rustic maiden; a maiden
healthful and hardy. Fits of vapors she might occasionally have, but the
heather of her native mountains soon restored the elasticity of her
step, and the breeze of her pleasant valleys quickly recalled the bloom
to her cheek and the lustre to her eye. At times she sought the
solitudes; but she returned ere long to human homes, and sang her wild
and simple songs to the friendly circle. She loved, it is true, to
meditate under the green shadow of the forest, and to look up in
raptured spirit to the lurid and darkened heavens; but she loved no less
the blessed sunshine on the harvest hill, and the cottage smoke that
floated in the evening sky. If occasionally she wept amidst the graves
of her heroes, she came from the places of the dead, more boldly to
proclaim liberty in the places of the living.
This pathos is neither maudlin nor misanthropic. It does not make the
head giddy with paradox; nor whirl the heart upon a wild and chaotic
tempest of doubt and selfishness; it does not dissect out the evils of
human nature, and gloat over them with a diseased voluptuousness; it
does not lead you to sit at the feast of despair, with the spectres and
skeletons around you of unsocial horrors. It is no mawkish pretence of
sentiment. Burns is true to what he feels; and, right or wrong, he
speaks it as it is. He maintains this course in his good and his evil.
It saved him from groveling and bombast; it saved him from intellectual
cant, and from literary quackery. No language is so eloquent as honest
language. Truth goes direct to its purpose, while affectation is
crawling around its petty circumlocutions; and, as the straight line is
the shortest, the most sincere words are the most resistless. As the
poet had honesty in himself, he had faith in others. His appeal was
weakened by no skepticism in the capacity of humble men to appreciate
the noble and the beautiful. He spoke to them as beings whose hearts
were of the same substance as his own; he spoke confident of the result,
and he was not disappointed. The first auditors of his verses were the
obscure dwellers among Scottish hills and hamlets, and to his words he
received as true a response as poetic enthusiasm could have desired. The
sons and daughters of toil proved to him, that he had not trusted them
in vain. He gave them his faith, and they paid back the trust with a
priceless love.
I have said that the pathos of Burns is not morbid—and I have said
truly. In its lowest depths, it is not dark—in the uttermost sadness,
it is not despairing. He grieves, but he never whines; and when he
utters forth tones the most plaintive, they are yet so vigorous and so
full, that, by the strong sound of them, you feel that they come out
from the stalwort struggle of a manly bosom. He has pathos, too, of
every variety. He has the pathos of sympathy—and this sympathy is often
so intense, as to amount to a passionate indignation. As thus, in the
poem—“_Man was made to Mourn_:”—
Many and sharp, the numerous ills—
Interwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame.
And Man, whose heaven-created face,
The smiles of love adorn,
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.
This is a large and noble eloquence, condensed into a soul-fraught
poetry; yet is it but one out of the many stanzas of which the whole
consists, of equal power. So, likewise, he has the pathos of pity, of
tenderness, in their finest modulations. The chords of his own heart
were most delicately attuned to “the soft, sad music of humanity;” and
the breathings of its sorrow were of that genuine humanity, to which
other hearts cannot but respond. How much of such pitiful gentleness
have we constantly in his poetry, often coming near to gusts of
anger—like the song of a mourner in a stormy midnight—or, the moan of
the tempest after its rush. But sometimes we have low and melancholy
plaints, without one tone of harshness, in such exquisite verses, as
those on “The Mouse,” and “The Mountain Daisy”—in “Poor Mailie’s
Elegy”—and “The Farmer’s Address to the Old Mare on New Year’s Day.”
Illustrations of this point are in all his writings, prose as well as
poetry; but I will only mention one other—his “Lines on a Wounded
Hare.” Burns has, in an eminent degree, the pathos which springs from
contemplation of our mortal life; and not less, that which comes from
those solemn questionings of the spirit, to which experience and the
Past, give only accusing answers. A man of genius may do wrong; he may
lose himself in the mazes of the passions; he may forget himself in the
excitement and turbulence of the senses—but all this is at a deadlier
cost than it is to any other man. Let no puny-copyist of genius only in
its errors and its wanderings, doubly deceive himself—first, by
supposing that he _has_ genius, and then, more fatally, deceive himself
by inferring that genius has impunity. True, it is, that genius, like
charity, covereth a multitude of sins—and for the delight and the
beauty which a great soul showers upon the world, the world does
abundantly forgive. But, genius does not forgive itself. A strong moral
sensibility—though, it may be, not strong moral principle—is mostly a
concomitant—if not an essential element—in the nature of a man of
genius, and, therefore, when such a man does violence to his higher
sentiments, his very genius becomes his punishment. The grandeur of his
ideal—the innate love that he must have to the good and to the
beautiful—the extent of his moral associations—the tenacity of his
moral memories—the vitality of his imagination, calling back again, and
back again, the thoughts which had only disappeared, but were not
dead—all conspire to chastise him, and to chastise him by the faculties
which enchant and move the world. The depth and the compass of his
sympathies afflict him; and, as the fountains of thought and feeling are
full within him, so much the greater are the agitations that shake him.
These remarks concern mainly those men of genius whose nature is that of
a comprehensive humanity. Men there have been, and are, that might be
adduced to contradict the position I have ventured here to take: for
they were capable of much that was unworthy—and yet they did not suffer
or repent. Some were deniers, and some were sensualists—the deniers had
fine art, and the sensualists had fine sentiments—and all were men of
genius. I have no reply to make, except that, in such men, their genius,
as their humanity, was of partial, though intense development; and that
such was a class to which Burns did not belong. He was neither a denier
nor a sentimentalist. He was a _man_—take him for all in all—and he
was a poet in the whole compass of the _man_. The man spoke through the
poet, not in gladness only, but, also, in every note of sorrow and
compunction. What sombre power in his Ode to Despondency.
Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care,
A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim, backward, as I cast my view,
What sick’ning scenes appear!—
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly, I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here, shall close ne’er,
But with the closing tomb.
See this again, in the affection with which he loved the sombre phases
of external nature, and the force with which he painted them. Thus he
meditates in Winter:
The sweeping blast—the sky o’ercast—
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please—
Their fate resembles mine.
Then passing from this low-breathing despondency, we have lyric tragedy
shouting down despair in a kind of reckless ecstacy. Bold and brave is
this “Song of Death:”
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun;
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
Our race of existence is run.
Thou grim King of Terrors—thou life’s gloomy foe—
Go, frighten the coward and slave;
Go, teach _them_ to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave!
In the pathos of love Burns has no superior. What poet in ancient or
modern times, short of Shakspeare, has sung with more varied inspiration
than Burns, the agitations with which love convulses the heart of man,
and breaks the heart of woman? In a few compressed, but simple-meaning
lines, he reveals the passion in all its regrets and agony. And here
also, we can see the force, the simplicity—the vehement sincerity of
his poetry: and we can see exactly the same characteristics in his life.
Allan Cunningham, in his biography of Burns, tells a very affecting
anecdote, which I may here fairly adduce in illustration. Jean Armor was
lying ill in the house of her parents. Burns had arranged to quit the
country for ever, but wanted, once before he left, to see his Jean.
Burns attempted to go into the house, but her father stood in the door
to exclude him. Burns, maddened by his grief, pushed the old man aside,
rushed up to his daughter’s chamber, and throwing himself across the
bed, wept as if his heart would burst. And, with regard to his verses to
“Mary in Heaven,” if any thing could be more pathetic, than the verses
themselves, it was the circumstances in which he composed them. It is
now familiar to all who read the least of literary history, that this
sublimely pathetic ode, was composed on the anniversary of the maiden’s
death, while the poet lay abroad in the field during a bright harvest
night, recalling the images of past affections, and out from this dream
of the wakeful and troubled heart came that dirge of music which the
noblest humanity inspired, and which the rudest humanity must love. It
is so familiar to every one, that I will not dare to profane it, by
repetition. But here are a few lines of a song, lyrical with all the
melody of sadness.
Ae fond kiss and then we sever!
Ae farewell—alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee—
Wailing sighs and groans I’ll wage thee—
Who shall say that fortune grieves him—
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
. . . . .
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never lovéd blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.
The humor of Burns, too, is full of humanity. It is affluent with all
the rich and laughing juices of the heart, and has only just so much of
acid as adds pungency to sweetness. Burns has the humor most
characteristic of his country; but beyond that, he has a humor belonging
to himself—a humor which, while it distinguishes the individual,
endears him to his kind. In common with his countrymen, he has the
cautious innuendo—the sly allusion—the insinuated sarcasm—the shrewd
but mocking suggestion—the implied irony—the dextrously concealed and
quiet fun—the sober joke—but he goes beyond all this—and has a
humor—which can make men of every nation shake their sides—a humor
that often unites the broadness of Rabelais with the sentiment of
Sterne. Such a humor demands not only extraordinary wealth of
imagination, but also, extraordinary force of intellect—a very uncommon
fancy and a very strong common sense. And, it was the union of these in
Burns which so well enabled him to be at once comic and satirical—which
enabled him so happily to combine the sarcastic and the ludicrous—and
he does this in such a way, that while his victims writhe before us, we
discern no malignity in their torturer. But, it is in jocund, queer,
joyous humor—humor reckless in its gladness, that Burns the most
excels. In this species of humor he has scarcely an equal. Few of the
greatest masters in humor come near him; and in what we may call the
comic-lyric, he stands almost alone. The humor that makes richest melody
in the heart; that sings for very joy; that by every note in which
laughter can sing out its ecstacy—swells the choruses of mirth and
merriment—the humor that is a jubilee in the bosom, that gives widest
liberty to fancy—a saturnalia, in which no thought of care or labor,
dares intrude—a carnival, in which all kindly oddities of conception
play their parts—a humor that combines imagination and feeling into
numberless bright varieties, to exhilarate our life—of this humor,
Burns in his laughing moods is the potent wizard—of this enlivening
magic his gayer songs are the resistless spells.
This humor, too, is generously and jovially human, and although Burns’
ridicule is often coarse, it is rarely cruel. He strikes, but it is with
the arm of a man, and not with the blasting of a fiend. Gall he does
sometimes mingle with the cup of satire, but never the deadly
night-shade; the barb he sharpens keenly, but he does not steep it in
poison. He painted, it is true, with a breadth and richness of coloring
that made men hold their sides and set the table in a roar, the
fooleries and absurdities of individuals; the pretensions of sects, and
the bitterness of factions; the vanities of professions; the motley
trivialities of presumptuous and stolid nonsense; but in the very storm
of his sarcasm, he spares our common nature. There is a ridicule which
properly may be called diabolical; which desecrates every thing endeared
and noble; which laughs not in festivity of spirit, but in bitterness of
heart; which like the witches in Macbeth, around the midnight cauldron,
shrieks in the irony of satanic mirth over the degradation of humanity.
This temper is realized in the writings of Swift, and affected in those
of Byron; but we discover no trace of it in the compositions of Burns.
Burns would give even to Satan himself the grace of repentance, and a
chance of heaven. Burns, like Byron, can pass rapidly from the grave to
the grotesque, but altogether in a different spirit. In the one it is
the prodigality of fun; in the other it is willfulness of scorn; in the
one, it is sport; in the other it is derision; the one as friend to
friend mocks humanity pleasantly; the other makes it a Sancho Panza,
tosses it in a blanket, and laughs the louder, the more it is
humiliated. I believe the spirit of Byron was naturally a fine one; but
it was spoiled, if not utterly ruined, as to all its higher capacities
and sympathies. I say not that his moral humanity was extinguished,
because that would be uncandid; but I do say, that he became fantastic
and capricious to such a degree as to fail in the charities which not
only soften life, but dignify literature.
Attributing humor to Burns, I do not estimate it as the slight matter
which many seem to think it. If we trust some persons, we should
conceive that length of face was length of wisdom, gravity of look, the
veil of oracles; thickness of skull the safeguard of knowledge; and
rigidity of muscle, the solemn surface of an unfathomable philosophy.
But humor in its higher form is the quality, not only of a liberal, but
of a cultivated spirit. It requires that the mental powers be vigorous
as well as genial. It requires imagination and intellect, as well as a
heart in the right place, and the juices of the body in a good
condition. Humor as well as pathos is the result of sympathy—of
sympathy that embraces man in the most brotherly cordiality—weeps with
those who weep, and rejoices with those who do rejoice. This is the
humor of Shakspeare; it is the humor of Hogarth; it is the humor of
Burns. And many a noble use has this honest faculty—often is it more
effective than sermons, to make life lambent, to clear the sky, that was
becoming too heavy around us, to warm social intercourse, to nurture our
socialities, to dissipate evil passions, and by its pleasant mockeries,
to shame us out of nonsensical miseries.
Time would now fail me to refer to the poetry of Burns with any special
detail; but for pages so well known, a few brief reminiscences will be
sufficient. How full of beauty is “The Vision,” the poem in which, with
a self-conscious greatness, almost Miltonic, he celebrates his own
consecration to the glory of his country; we read it in delight, in
wonder, and with sorrow, and with joy; we verily admit, that, “the light
which led astray was light from heaven.” With what solemn pleasure we
recall the “Cottar’s Saturday Night.” No other poem in the language
shows how much the eye of a poet can see, how much the heart of a poet
can feel, where another heart is dull, and another eye is blind. To the
prosaic nothing familiar is exciting, but to the inspired all existence
is full of glory. Here upon a cottage floor we have placed before us,
the most pure, and the most noble virtues; the piety that looks to
heaven; the patriotism that dignifies earth; here we have the father
returned from his toil, with his “wee things” circling his knees, his
clean hearth stone; his “thrifty wifie’s” smile; his soul made glad with
Sabbath hopes and with holy thoughts; here are brothers and sisters
gathered from the work-day world around the parents that shielded, and
that blessed their infancy; here are the pleasant face, and the heart’s
own smile; here the homely feast with a joy which luxury refuses, and a
gratitude which no luxury inspires; here is first love with maiden
blushes, shames and fears; here are all the sublimities of the
affections, all in the shades of unnoticed life. How noble is that
father and that peasant-priest, as he bares his “haffit locks,” and “let
us worship God he says with solemn air;”
Then kneeling down to Heaven’s eternal King—
The _saint_, the _father_, and the husband prays—
Hope “springs exultant on triumphant wings,”
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
Thus ever bask in uncreated rays—,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their _Creator’s_ praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in on eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor! religion’s pride
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display to congregations wide,
Devotion’s every grace, except the _heart_!
The _Power_ incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some _Cottage_, far apart,
May hear well pleased the language of the soul,
And in his _Book of life_ the inmates poor enroll!
And how exalted that love of country which utters this fine
supplication:
O Scotia, my dear, my native soil,
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent,
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and pence, and sweet content.
And O, may heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury’s contagion weak and vile,
Then, howe’er crowns end coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace will rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire round their much loved isle.
The spirit of hilarity has never been so admirably blended with the
gloomy and the tender, as in the tale of “Tam O’Shanter.” Heroic and
immortal Tam will stand his ground while the name of witch or warlock
has a place in language. This marvelous mixture of fun and fancy; this
chronicle of midnight revelry; this record of wit and waggery, of good
fellowship and ghosts, has now a lodgment in every mind that relishes
drollery and genius. Here we have the sublime with the ludicrous; images
most delicate with images most homely; subtle analogies with grotesque
incongruities; touches of sorrow with strokes of glee; all coming in
such rapid succession, that, while the broad grin is on the lip, the
tear is starting to the eye. “The Jolly Beggars” gives us the very
saturnalia of low life; jovial poverty frolics away in the full
abandonment of extravagance, dashed over, however, here and there, with
those shadings of regret which obtrude the sadness of life, when men try
to forget it most. The “Halloween,” pictures the poor man’s carnival,
such as it used to be in Scotland, with all its superstitions and its
sports. “The twa Dogs,” is a genial exposition of the poor man’s
philosophy. The dog of wealth, laying aside his master’s pride in his
master’s absence, meets the peasant dog with very kindly courtesy; and
both sitting tranquilly on their haunches, with nose to nose, and most
sagacious phizzes, discuss the comparative merits of riches and poverty,
pity the folly of their two-legged fellow creatures, congratulate each
other on their canine superiority, and bless their stars for being dogs
instead of men. Cæsar, the dog of high life, with an air of peculiar
respectability and most complacent compassion, wonders how poor folks
can live at all. Luath, his humble friend, knows that poor folks not
only live, but live with very many pleasures; and this Luath was a dog
of sympathy; he shared the cottage sorrow; he shared also the cottage
joy; he rattled away among the dancers; wagged his tail in the highest
glee of his honest heart, and gave his chorus to the merry sound. When
adversity was on the hearth, his face grew long; when better times
returned, it was broad again.
My heart hae been sae fain to see them
That I for joy hae barkit wi them.
The whole of this poem is fraught with the noblest and the most
endearing humanity—a humanity most varied and most musical in its
tones—running quickly along all the chords of sadness and of merriment,
throwing forth a harmony of charity and heart-breathing kindness, in
which grave sounds and gay mingle together, but not one vibration
ungenial or discordant. That Burns should give to dogs sentiments thus
characteristic of a sweet and generous temper, corresponds entirely to
the feelings with which he regarded that animal, as illustrated in a
passage which I have lately found, taken from a newspaper.
The following original anecdote of Burns is in a work entitled the
“Philosophy of the Seasons,” by Rev. Henry Duncan:
“I well remember with what delight I listened to an interesting
conversation which, while yet a school-boy, I enjoyed an opportunity of
hearing in my father’s manse, between the poet Burns and another poet,
my near relation, the amiable Blacklock. The subject was the fidelity of
the dog. Burns took up the question with all the ardor and kindly
feeling with which the conversation of that extraordinary man was so
remarkably embued. It was a subject well suited to call forth his
powers, and when handled, by such a man, not less suited to interest the
youthful fancy. The anecdotes by which it was illustrated have long
escaped my memory; but there was one sentiment expressed by Burns with
his characteristic enthusiasm which, as it threw a light into my mind, I
shall never forget. “Man,” said he, “is the God of the dog. He knows no
other; he can understand no other; and see how he worships him! With
what reverence he couches at his feet; with what love he fawns upon him,
with what dependence he looks up to him, and with what cheerful alacrity
he obeys him. His whole soul is wrapped up in his God; and the powers
and faculties of his nature are devoted to his service; and these powers
and faculties are exalted by the intercourse. It ought just to be so
with the Christian: but the dogs put the Christians to shame.”
It is thus, that the spirit of human love, the truest element of poetic
beauty, can ennoble and consecrate all it touches; it is thus that Burns
elevates the most lowly objects; the farmer’s mare, proud in her age and
services; the little cowering mouse, houseless and frightened; the dying
ewe; the wounded hare; the simple daisy; rustic sweethearts and rustic
beggars; all were endeared to his generous imagination, and over them,
while words have meaning, there will be laughing eyes, and serious
faces.
Burns has been great in whatever poetry he attempted, but in lyric
poetry, he is greatest of all. The songs of Burns, in every point of
view, are truly wonderful compositions. We are at a loss which most to
admire, their number and variety, or their individual perfection. The
lyre of Burns incessantly changes its tone, and in every change it
throws forth a flood of new inspiration. Great indeed is the task to
give poetic and condensed expression to those thousand impulses that
ever heave within us, and are evanescent as the ocean wave; to furnish
fitting words for the ideal and fervid longings which millions feel, but
cannot utter for themselves; to embody in lasting form, innumerable and
undefined desires; to touch chord after chord of memory and emotion, and
to awaken the divine music that slumbers in the soul; in a word, to give
melody and speech to the complicated heart of man: great is the task,
but Burns has accomplished it.
Burns—great in sadness and great in humor; so human in his melancholy,
so loving in his laughter. When we hear the pleasant peal of his hearty
mirth, our bosoms dilate, until we could embrace our species in
affection. When, changing his tone, we feel the breath of his
indignation or listen to his cry against oppression, our pulse beats
quicker and our blood flows faster. Burns, bard of the brave and fervent
soul, destined to move humanity as long as language shall endure; as
long as the love of liberty, of independence, of fearless honesty, or
patriotic courage, shall have a refuge in our world.
Burns is a nobleman of nature;—a man for the toilsmen of earth to look
upon and hope. In humble, rustic life, under the thatched roof, which
gave the peasant his shelter; in the field where the heir of labor in
the sweat of his brow fulfilled the original destiny of man, Burns fed
inspired thoughts, and laid the foundation of a deathless fame. True,
his life was short in years; but how passing long was it in emotions, in
capacious and crowded fancies. His spirit was goaded, no doubt, with the
vulgar cares of poverty, and the worse results of passion; but it was
glorified also with conscious genius; he could retreat from the
vexations of the world to the sanctuary of his enriched imagination, and
there, amidst all the evils of his outward condition, he could find in
poetry its own exceeding great reward. Through all the sorrows that
overspread his short but rapid course; amidst all the clouds that hung
heavily over his path, glimpses of joy were ever and anon bursting on
his enraptured eye, which it is given only to the favored ones to
behold. And who would not, if he could, have a soul so adorned with the
beautiful, rather than without it, be overburdened with the load of
external fortune? Had Burns been merely a man of title, he had been
forgotten as all titled dust since the days of Nimrod; as unknown as the
dukes of Edom; a pompous funeral and a lying epitaph would have given
him to oblivion. As it is, the recollection of him is garnered in the
choicest corners of the heart, and his name is linked forever to the
music of sweetest sounds.
I am now at the close of my task. I have gone through it lovingly, and
with reverence; sensible along the way of much goodness in my subject,
and not forgetful, either, of some evil also. That many faults are in
the compositions of Burns, I apprehend most clearly; and that sad
irregularities were in his life, it requires small trial of candor to
confess; but to have spread them out in ostentatious commentary would
have served no purpose of this article, and gratified no desire of the
reader. I am not blind to those errors; I propose no excuse; I deprecate
no just condemnation, and I have been forbearing from no moral
indifference, no moral insensibility. But dealing with the memory of
genius, I reflected that the _man_ was before his God, and the _poet_
had met the sentence of the world. For wisdom, or for warning, the
events of his life are sufficiently familiar—he that runs may read,
their moral meaning let him read and ponder—let him learn, and let him
be better. But I have no sympathy with that vampire-like spirit which
disentombs the faults of the illustrious dead to feed the nauseous
appetites of itself or others; I tread upon the grave with caution and
compassion; and while I do not regard genius as repealing the law of
virtue, neither do I regard it as beyond the law of mercy. We need, all
of us, great tenderness from those who surround us; we need much, too,
from those who survive us. If we require charity from men, who give them
nothing, let us grant it to those who have enriched us, and enriched the
ages. In the noble and eloquent verses of Halleck, we, too, say of
Burns:
His is the language of the heart,
In which the answering heart would speak;
Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start,
Or the smile light the cheek.
And his, the music, to whose tone
The common pulse of man keeps time,
In cot or castle’s mirth or moan,
In cold or sunny clime.
. . . . . .
Praise to the bard, his words are driven,
Like flower seed by the far wind sown,
Where’er beneath the sky of heaven
The birds of fame have flown.
Praise to the man! a nation stood
Beside his coffin with wet eyes,
Her brave, her beautiful, her good,
As when a loved one dies.
And still, as on his funeral day,
Men stand his cold earth-couch around,
With the mute homage that we pay
To consecrated ground.
And consecrated ground it is
The last, the hallowed home of one,
Who lives upon all memories,
Though with the buried gone.
Such graves as his, are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to no creed or sect confined,
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.
* * * * *
THE GAMBLER’S DAUGHTER.
BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD.
If the reader has ever passed along the banks of the Susquehanna, or
floated down its waters, he has not failed to admire the beautiful
_coves_ which are here and there formed by the bending hills on either
side. With a mountain border sweeping round in the shape of a half moon,
and the river flowing in a straight line in front, these terrestrial
crescents form a series of most charming landscapes. In one of the most
charming of them all lived an old gentleman whom we shall call Richard
Parkett.
Many years before the period of the following incidents, the wife of Mr.
Parkett had died, committing to his care with her dying words, an infant
daughter. They called her, after her mother, Lucy; she grew up like a
wild flower in her sequestered home, and, at the time we speak of, was
just budding into womanhood. And surely no opening rose could be more
lovely. The bloom of health was on her cheek; her step was free and
elastic as that of the fawn on the neighboring mountain, and her spirits
as bounding and joyous as those of the birds which “warbled their native
wood-notes wild” around her dwelling.
“My child,” said Mr. Parkett, to her one day, “there is to be an
arbitration in the neighborhood to-morrow, to settle some matters in
dispute between myself and a neighbor, and we will need you for a
witness.”
“For a witness—what does that mean?”
“Why they will make you swear a terrible oath to tell the truth,” said
the old gentleman, smiling affectionately; “and then two or three
lawyers will endeavor to puzzle you so as to prevent your doing it.”
“And who are these puzzling lawyers?”
“One of them, whose particular business it will be to puzzle you if he
can, is a young man named Burton.”
“Burton?—Sidney Burton? He is the young gentleman who called here last
winter to see you on business, is he not?”
“Really, you seem to have an excellent memory for young gentlemen’s
names.”
Lucy blushed slightly, but made no answer. However, she was much more
sober and thoughtful than usual all that day.
The arbitration came on, and Lucy was sworn as a witness. Her story was
short and simple, and referred merely to a conversation which she had
heard, and about which the parties could not now agree. As Burton was
counsel on the other side, he then proceeded to cross-examine her. It
was of great importance to his cause that he should shake her confidence
in what she had said; and he therefore proceeded (with great delicacy,
however) to ply her with an infinite variety of perplexing questions.
But, although she was artless as a child, her quick apprehension, and
her clear, ready answers filled him with admiration; which was not at
all diminished by an occasional volley of mischievous satire which
raised a smile at his expense. He even continued the examination for
some time after he saw that it was useless, for the pleasure it afforded
him. At length, all parties being satisfied, the dispute was amicably
settled, and Mr. Parkett invited the company to his house.
Nothing could have pleased Burton better than such an invitation; he
wished to see more of this charming witness, and to present himself
before her under more favorable circumstances than in a
cross-examination. Lucy, on her part, was equally pleased with this
arrangement, for Burton’s image had never ceased to haunt her
imagination since the day she had first casually seen him at her
father’s house some months before. She could not explain the mystery to
herself, but she felt an indefinable interest in every thing that
concerned him, and her heart beat warm and quick at the sound of his
voice.
On the following morning Burton was urged to stay a day longer, and join
a fishing excursion which had been projected. He readily consented; the
necessary “tacklings” were soon collected; the party embarked in two
canoes, and Burton found himself in one of these small and crazy vessels
with Lucy, a young gentleman, her cousin, being in one end to direct its
course. Some distance above was one of those “falls” which in so many
places obstruct the navigation of that beautiful river, but which
furnish among their rocks the most excellent of fishing grounds. Hugging
the shore until they had passed above the rapids, they proceeded to drop
their boats down upon those rocks which were known to furnish the finest
eddies. The current was rapid, and the young man who was steering the
boat in which we are chiefly interested, in attempting suddenly to
change its course, lost his balance, and fell headlong into the water.
The boat swung rapidly round, and, being borne sideways among the
breakers, soon capsized. Lucy and Burton both disappeared beneath the
foaming torrent; but our hero quickly rose, and, being an expert
swimmer, watched eagerly for the appearance of Lucy; then grasping her
dress, he buffeted the waves with a strong arm, and succeeded in landing
her safely on a rock which projected above the water. To his
inexpressible alarm, she seemed to be entirely helpless and inanimate.
He commenced chafing her forehead, when in a few minutes she opened her
eyes, and the crimson tide of life bounded into her face, neck, and
bosom. She stood up and looked anxiously round for her father. In a few
minutes the other canoe approached, (having first picked up the young
man who had occasioned the accident,) and the whole party immediately
returned home.
What more could be wanting to bring these two young hearts together.
This romantic little incident sealed their fate; and although their
tongues were yet silent, their eyes spoke eloquently of love. On the
following morning Burton departed, but he soon returned; and at length
the good people of the neighborhood began to wonder whether it was
arbitrations that brought the young lawyer so often amongst them.
In a village some miles from Mr. Parkett’s residence, lived a young man
of great wealth and little principle, named Lander, who had been
fascinated by Lucy’s beauty, and exasperated on finding that her
affections were bestowed upon another; Mr. Parkett had been much in the
habit of visiting this village of late, for the purpose of indulging an
unfortunate passion for gambling, which had almost ruined him in his
youth, but which for many years he had entirely restrained. This
passion, however, had been lulled, not extinguished; a slight indulgence
was sufficient to rekindle it, and it soon raged more fiercely than
ever; and he became an easy prey to a brace of gamblers who were the
intimate associates of Lander.
“How now,” said Lander, to one of these gamblers, one morning, “what
success had you last night.”
“Better than ever. The old man is completely infatuated, and grows more
desperate every day. If his daughter is as easily won as her father’s
money, your siege will be a short one—she will soon surrender.”
“She will not surrender while she can help it,” said Lander; “but go on
as you have begun, and I will have her yet. I will have her, or I will
crush the whole family to the earth; they shall learn that the hand of
Charles Lander is not to be spurned with impunity. But how do his
accounts stand now?”
“We have won all the money he could raise, and he has commenced giving
us his notes.”
“Good! bring me the notes and I will cash them for you. But have you
followed my instructions, and let him win occasionally, to keep up his
courage? Remember, you have no claim on me until you have brought him to
the brink of ruin.”
“We have taken care of that, and he has the most unbounded confidence in
his own skill. He attributes all his losses to ill-luck, when the silly
old fool could not win a dollar if we chose to prevent him.”
Thus was this unfortunate man led on from one stage of ruin to another,
by the constant hope of retrieving his past losses until his obligations
to pay were no longer worth receiving. Lander, in the meantime, had been
lifting these notes, and so disposing of them that he could use them for
the accomplishment of his purposes. Without appearing as a party
himself, he caused Mr. Parkett to be urgently pressed for payment.
Harassed and threatened with exposure, the old man endeavored to borrow
money to pay off the most urgent of these claimants; but rumors had got
abroad of secret embarrassments and doubtful titles, which made it
impossible for him to obtain a loan on any terms.
During all this time Lander had been assiduous in his attentions to
Lucy, and employed every artifice to make a favorable impression upon
her and upon her father. But Mr. Parkett was far from admiring his
character, and above all he knew that Lucy’s heart was wholly devoted to
Burton. Having brought affairs to this crisis, Lander one day said to
Mr. Parkett, in a tone of great delicacy,
“I understand, sir, that you have been endeavoring to negotiate a loan;
and I have been sorry to learn that you were not successful. Now, sir, I
have means under my control which are entirely at your disposal.”
“You are very kind, sir,” said Mr. Parkett; “but you must excuse me for
saying that it would not be proper for me to accept of such a favor at
your hands.”
“I hope, sir,” said Lander, biting his lip, “that you do not consider me
unworthy of the privilege of doing you a kindness.”
“It is painful for me to explain,” replied Mr. Parkett, “but after what
has passed between you and my daughter, although we shall both always
take pleasure in treating you as a friend, common delicacy forbids that
we allow you to place us under any obligation.”
“But there is now a weight of obligation on the other side; and you must
allow me to make some return for the many acts of kindness I have
received under your roof. You have heretofore treated me as a friend;
treat me so still, and allow me to serve you.”
Mr. Parkett felt that in honor he could not accept this offer; but ruin
stared him full in the face, and he saw no other means of escaping the
exposure which he dreaded—for when his bankruptcy became known, the
cause could not be long concealed. He therefore no longer absolutely
refused, but took time to consider. This Lander felt confident would
lead to acceptance; and he returned home triumphing in the successful
progress of his plot, and sanguine of final success. But Burton came
again to mar his prospects. He, too, had heard of Mr. Parkett’s
difficulties, and tendered his services. It was finally agreed that he
should raise several thousand dollars, to be secured by mortgage; and
that in the following autumn, when he and Lucy were to be married, the
establishment should be delivered over to them. Burton, by turning his
means (which were not great) into cash, and borrowing on the credit of
his future prospects, succeeded in raising the necessary sum, and placed
it in Mr. Parkett’s hands. Lander’s offer was, of course, declined.
With this money in his possession the old gentleman went to the village
to make arrangements for the payment of the most importunate of his
creditors. As he walked along the street, he came in front of the house
which had been the scene of his ruinous losses. An irresistible
temptation seized him to make one more effort to retrieve his fortunes.
He would try his luck; if fortune smiled, all would yet be well; if she
frowned, after losing a small sum, he would abandon the gambling-table
forever. With this resolution, he entered, and was soon wholly absorbed
in the chances of the game. Fortune _did_ smile, and, with unwonted
success, he became bold and desperate. The stakes grew heavy, and he
fearlessly increased them. His wily competitor marked his time, and made
them still higher; Parkett again increased them. His competitor doubled
them. Parkett, now mad with excitement, threw down all that he had
brought, and all that he had won. There was a breathless pause. The
result was announced—and he had lost! For several minutes he stared
vacantly around him, then, pulling his hat over his brows, he rushed
from the house.
His ruin was now complete; but what explanation could he give to Burton?
and, what would become of his darling child? He returned home, and going
directly to his private room, sent for Burton, who, observing his
extraordinary emotion, remained a wondering and anxious listener.
“You asked me for my daughter’s hand,” said he, “and I gave it to you,
because I thought you worthy of her. You then supposed me to be an
honest man, and the owner of valuable possessions. It is my duty now to
inform you, that I am a villain and a beggar.”
“I beg you will compose yourself,” said Burton, believing that his mind
had become disordered; “you allow your pecuniary difficulties to affect
you too deeply. However they may result, they cannot affect either your
honor, or my affection for your daughter. She has given me her heart,
and I ask nothing from you but her hand.”
“My honor, it is true, is beyond the reach of circumstances,” said
Parkett, bitterly. “You this morning loaned me five thousand dollars, to
pay the most pressing claims against my property. That money is gone—no
matter how—and the claims are not staid. I have not only brought ruin
upon myself, but upon you also. My property will be sacrificed, and your
money lost; What say you now? Am I not a villain?”
“I must again entreat you to compose yourself,” replied Burton; “and, I
repeat, that I love your daughter for herself alone; and, if all that
you have said were true, I would not the less claim her for my wife.”
“Young man,” said Parkett, seizing Burton eagerly by the hand, “she is
yours; and may God Almighty bless your union. The dread of bringing
sorrow and wretchedness upon my innocent lamb wrung my heart most of
all. You have relieved me from that care, and the grave will soon hide
my shame.”
To prevent the property from being sacrificed, it was thought best to
advertise it for private sale. Lander came forward and became the
purchaser, at a price which, after paying off the prior claims, left a
very small balance to reimburse Burton; who, however, soon became rich
in the possession of Lucy. Mr. Parkett lived to see his daughter
married, and soon after went down to a peaceful but melancholy grave.
“This is an humble dwelling, Lucy,” said Burton, when they had moved
into their new home, “but, it is said, that happiness is oftener found
in the cottage than in the palace. So philosophers teach, but I believe
women generally think differently.”
“You shall represent the philosopher, and I the woman,” said Lucy, “and
we’ll see.”
“In spite of philosophy,” continued Burton, “I confess that I would
prefer a somewhat larger house, and furniture of a better quality than
this.”
“And I confess,” said Lucy, “that in spite of your opinion of women, I
shall be happier as it is.”
“Alas! my sweet wife,” said Burton, “you have never known what care or
trouble was; you have lived all your life amongst happy friends, and
been the gayest of them all; every wish of your heart has been gratified
as soon as formed. Heaven grant it may be as you now think!”
“But you doubt it. Really, for a philosopher, you know but little of
woman’s heart. To have all her frivolous wishes gratified, to live in
the midst of gayety and idleness, and be free from care, and, I suppose,
from all reflection, seems to be your opinion of her highest state. But
you do her injustice; her heart throbs with ambition as well as man’s,
though its object may be different.”
“Ambition is not formed of such habitations as this,” said Burton,
sadly.
“Woman’s ambition may be,” said Lucy. “Suppose she were able to make
this humble cottage a more delightful dwelling than the most luxurious
mansion, to smooth her husband’s brow, and cause him to forget poverty
and toil? Would not this be an object worthy of ambition?”
“It is,” said Burton, kissing her affectionately, “and you have gained
that object already. When I spoke of women, I should not have included
_all_ women, and you shall prove that there are exceptions.”
At this moment there was a knock at the door, one of the sheriff’s
officers entered and handed Burton a paper. The latter read it, then
calmly folded it, and put it in his pocket. But his wife’s eye had been
on him, and when the officer had withdrawn, she said:
“This is some new calamity; do not conceal it from me, Sydney; your
cheek grew pale as you read that paper—let them take all we have, for
whilst you are spared I shall be happy.”
“My matchless wife,” said Burton, “you have borne our past trials so
bravely, that I am not afraid of your sinking under this new misfortune:
but summon up all your fortitude, for you will need it. Our persecutor,
Lander, has not exhausted his arts yet, but is determined to humble us
still more. He has power over us now, and employs it to gratify his
cowardly malice. But let him beware! That power may one day change
hands, and then, so help me Heaven! I will bruise his serpent head
beneath this heel;” and he stamped his foot fiercely on the floor.
“Now you distress me, indeed,” said Lucy; “but, oh, Sydney! you will not
forget your promise, that there shall be no violence between you and
that wicked man.”
“Forgive me,” said Burton, “I forgot myself; that promise is sacred, and
never will I grieve your gentle heart by breaking it. But see what this
villain has done! He has managed, by some artifice, to get possession of
claims against me, which I never dreamed would be pressed, until I
should be able to pay them without inconvenience. He has brought suit,
and we must prepare to surrender up even the poor remnants that are left
us.”
“I understand it all,” said Lucy. “Oh, my poor father!”
“Let him rest in peace,” said Burton; “if he acted unwisely he paid the
penalty of a broken heart: let us not disturb his ashes.”
Lucy threw her arms around her husband’s neck, and wept like a child.
“You forgive him then,” she said, “for the sake of his daughter’s love
and duty. Oh, Heaven will bless you for your generosity.”
“Heaven has blessed me,” said he, fondly embracing her; “and I would not
give one throb of this loving heart for all the gold Lander ever owned.”
But the sad reality at length came, and their relentless creditor
advertised the poor furniture of their cottage for sale. Burton found,
as is usual under such circumstances, that his friends had grown
remarkably polite and formal; but they kept at a distance, and no one
offered him assistance; nor could he ask it, as the claims were much
greater than he could possibly pay, and his income from his profession
little more than afforded him a subsistence. He was, therefore, “sold
out,” all but the scanty articles which the law allows the poor.
But although the world had grown cold, his own fire-side was still as
bright as ever; and when he thought of Lucy, as he had first seen her—a
gay, mischievous girl, raised in the lap of luxury, and then looked upon
her as his wife—serene and cheerful in the midst of poverty and worldly
disgrace, he admired and reverenced the depths of woman’s affection. And
this deep, pure fountain of love flowed only for him! Well might he
prize it above rivers of gold!
* * * * *
Some time after, Burton was one day searching among the old records in
one of the public offices, when his eye fell upon a time-worn, mutilated
will, which bore the name of Thomas Parkett inscribed on the back.
Knowing that Lucy’s grandfather had borne that name, his curiosity led
him to open the paper, and examine its contents. After reading on for
some time, deciphering the words with great difficulty, he suddenly
started back, as if he had seen the ghost of his wife’s ancestor. Then
returning to the paper, he eagerly read it over again, pausing and
reflecting long upon each sentence. Then carefully making a copy of it,
he returned the papers to their place, and went directly home with a
rapid step and a beating heart.
Whilst Burton was reading the paper which produced so strange an effect
on him, there sat near him one of those wretched men who disgrace an
honorable profession by hanging upon its outskirts, gaining an infamous
livelihood by stirring up litigation, and practising schemes of fraud
and villany. Dissipated and unprincipled, Witherman was equally reckless
in his means of getting money, and prodigal in spending it. He was
consequently at times reduced almost to starvation, and ready for any
desperate enterprise. Happening to look up at the moment, he observed
Burton’s emotion, and watched his subsequent movements until he left the
room. Then taking down the same bundle of papers, he began to look
through them to see if he could find what had so much interested Burton.
The name of Parkett soon attracted his attention, for he knew that that
had been the name of Burton’s father-in-law. Opening the will,
therefore, he read on until he came to the part which had startled
Burton:
“Aha!” he exclaimed to himself, “I see the game now, and I’ll find some
means to have a hand in it. So much for reading men’s looks and motives;
I shall make a good day’s work of this.”
* * * * *
“Lucy, my dear,” said Burton, after he reached home, “how would you like
to become mistress again of the old homestead?”
“Ah, Sydney, why do you ask me such a question? you know that I am
reconciled to living here, but then I don’t like to think of my old
home.”
“It is certainly a delightful place, especially at this season of the
year, with its green fields and blooming orchards. Suppose we go and
spend the summer there?”
“I have no wish ever to see it again.”
“Suppose you could call it your own, would it have none of its former
attraction?”
“As that can never be, it is hardly worth while to answer your question.
But what is the matter with you? You seem to be strangely excited; tell
me what it is, I can bear it.”
“Prepare yourself then, for startling news; you _are_ the mistress and
owner of the old homestead.”
“Oh, why do you mock me with such a tale,” said Lucy, tears starting
into her eyes; “do let me forget that ever I lived there.”
“I should be sorry to trifle with you on so tender a subject,” said
Burton, “but I mean what I say. You have borne adversity like a heroine;
let us now see what effect prosperity will have. Here is copy of your
grandfather’s will, which I have just seen for the first time. By it his
property is _entailed_, as lawyers call it; that is, it is settled upon
your father and his immediate descendants, to pass from one generation
to another, according to the English rule of primogeniture. Your father
could not sell it in the way he did, (of which he was no doubt
ignorant,) and you, being his only child, have a full and perfect right
to it under the will.”
“But if it was sold and paid for, would it be right for me to claim it
from the purchaser?”
“It will be right, at all events, to defend yourself from persecution.
The property is yours by the law of the land, and if Lander obtained it,
as we have good reason to believe he did, he ought not to be allowed to
keep it. I will advise you to nothing that is not becoming in a dutiful
child. Better this poverty than the consciousness of having acted
unjustly: but we will consult with some discreet friend, and then do
what we may conclude to be right.”
Lucy was grave and thoughtful; she had long been accustomed to suppress
her feelings of vanity and pride, and had become entirely reconciled to
her humble fortunes; but her heart fluttered at the thought of being the
owner of ample possessions, and of those scenes, too, from which she had
never been able entirely to wean her affections. But then came other
reflections. Was it possible that her father had practiced a fraud for
her benefit? And, if so, would it be right for her to take advantage of
it? The law might give her the property, but would truth and justice
allow her to take it?
After careful inquiry, it was deemed proper that suit should be brought;
and Burton, remembering the maxim that “the lawyer who pleads his own
cause has a fool for his client,” employed counsel to conduct it for
him.
No sooner had this suit been brought, than Witherman hastened to Lander:
“I see, sir,” said he, “that Burton has brought suit in the name of his
wife for the recovery of the property you purchased from her father.”
“He has; and what can it mean? The claims which I had against him were
notes given at the gambling table, but they had been put in circulation,
and I understood you, that he couldn’t dispute them in my hands. Or has
he discovered that I knew for what they were given?”
“He has made a worse discovery than that.”
“What! do you really think he has the means of supporting his claim?”
“I am sure of it, unless you choose to employ my skill to baffle him. If
you had entrusted the investigation of the title and the papers to me, I
might have saved you from this difficulty; but you preferred a bungler,
who gave you a title that expired with Parkett himself. For this want of
confidence you must now either lose the property or pay me my own price
for saving it.”
“You know that I never scrupled to pay you well when an emergency
required your services; but what is the defect in this title?”
“By the will of Parkett’s father, which Burton has recently discovered
among the old papers in the office—for it has never been recorded—and
which I have seen, it appears that Parkett himself merely held the
property as tenant in tail. A particular kind of deed was therefore
necessary, under our laws, to convey a complete title. Your deed is in
the common form, and conveyed only a life interest; and the instant
Parkett died the property became vested in his daughter.”
“In his daughter! Oh, miserable blunderers! then all my schemes of
vengeance recoil on my own head. But stay; you say that your skill can
provide a remedy; if you can save me from the humiliation of this
defeat, you _shall_ have your own price. What is your plan?”
“Among the modes of barring an entail is a deed of warranty with assets;
that is, if Parkett gave you a deed warranting the title for himself and
his heirs, and on his death left to his daughter other property equal in
value to that which he sold you, then her claim cannot be sustained, but
your title is good.”
“This is excellent consolation! He gave me a deed of warranty, it is
true, but you know that he left his daughter and her husband only the
privilege of paying some thousands of dollars which Burton had borrowed
for him a few months before.”
“I know all that; and if he had left them the necessary property you
would not need my services to enable you to baffle them.” Then taking up
a pen, and writing a few lines, Witherman continued: “There, sign that,
and I pledge myself to make your title good.”
“When I promised that you should have your own price,” said Lander, “I
did not expect such a demand as this; but I will stand to what I have
said, and see that you keep your pledge;” and he signed a note for an
exorbitant sum.
* * * * *
The day of trial at length came; and Burton repaired to the Court with
the confidence of a man who knows that his cause is good, and his
evidence conclusive. The _law_ was well settled, and the _fact_, a
matter of record. His cause was, therefore, quickly and triumphantly
made out, by simply reading the will in evidence. Nothing could be more
satisfactory: the court, the jury, the by-standers, all saw at a glance
that the question was settled; and nothing was now wanting but the
formality of a verdict.
“Gentlemen,” said the judge to Lander’s counsel, “I suppose it is hardly
necessary to pursue this matter any further.”
“I beg your honor’s pardon,” said one of the leading members of the bar,
whose services Witherman had secured, and who acted under his
instructions, and in perfect good faith; “our defense shall be brief,
but I hope decisive.”
He then proceeded, to Burton’s utter amazement, to declare that he was
prepared to prove, that Mr. Parkett, on his daughter’s marriage, had
settled property on her far exceeding in value that which was now in
controversy. That the settlement had been drawn by a member of the bar,
now dead, and was recently found among his papers, duly signed, sealed
and witnessed; that Mr. Parkett had been reputed a man of wealth, and
yet, to the surprise of every body, died poor. Here, then, was the
explanation of this great wonder. He and the present plaintiff alone
knew that the property now in controversy was entailed. He might,
therefore, sell it for its full value, and yet, on his death, it would
pass by descent to his daughter. It was necessary, however, that he
should leave no property behind him; for if his daughter should receive
_other_ property of equal value from him, it would bar her claim to
this. His other property was, therefore, clandestinely conveyed to her,
and he died apparently without possessing any.
Fully believing this statement, as he did, the learned counsel followed
it up with a stream of burning invective. Turning upon Burton, he
scourged him with a whip of scorpions. He represented him as the
contriver and adviser of the infamous project, and the recipient of all
the benefits, if it should be successfully accomplished. Being perfectly
honest and sincere, he believed that in covering Burton with infamy, he
was only vindicating the honor of his profession. The evidence which
Witherman had put into his hands was then produced. The hand-writings of
Parkett and of the subscribing witness, were satisfactorily proved by
several unexceptionable witnesses, who, as is usual in such cases, were
as positive as if they had seen the names written. The manner in which
the paper had been found, and many other circumstances, so strongly
corroborated this view of the subject, that the opinions of all present
were soon reversed; and Burton, whom they had lately considered a
wronged and persecuted man, now stood before them a sordid villain,
baffled and unmasked. The judge indulged in some sharp reflections on
the iniquity of the plaintiff’s claim, and the jury promptly and
indignantly rejected it. Witherman had kept his promise, and Lander was
again triumphant.
Burton was almost stupefied by this new and unexpected blow, and sat for
some time gazing vacantly at the clerk who announced the verdict; then,
quietly leaving the court house, and avoiding all observation, with a
heavy heart and a gloomy brow he hastened homewards. His wife had been
impatiently awaiting his arrival, and hastened to receive him and
congratulate him on his victory—for she never had dreamed of any other
result. But a single glance of his eye was enough to fill her heart with
dismay, and cause her to turn from him in tears. She read there the
emotions of a soul in torture, and knew that his strong mind and
regulated passions could not be _thus_ moved by any thing else than what
he deemed a signal calamity. Burton silently threw himself into a chair,
and struggled hard to recover his usual serenity of mind and
countenance. But all in vain. The anguish of his spirit was
insupportable. At length he groaned out,
“Lucy, I am a ruined man.”
“Alas! Sydney, why do you speak thus? Why do you look thus? If your
hopes of wealth are defeated, surely there are other sources of
happiness left to us, far more precious than this. Have we not been
happy in this little cottage? and if we lose it, we shall be happy in
one that is humbler still. If they have robbed us of our property, they
cannot at least deprive us of our good name. Whilst you continue to be
loved and respected by the whole community you are more than rich. Your
talents and known integrity will soon bring you riches and honors. Oh,”
continued she, unconscious that her words went like poisoned arrows to
his heart, “if you could have heard the language of praise that has so
often made my heart beat high with pride, you would feel that a
reputation for truth, honor, and a high and noble spirit, does not need
the ornament of wealth to make it honorable.”
Burton covered his face with his hands, as Lucy continued her loving but
torturing exhortation:
“Suppose,” said she, “that instead of a paltry loss of money, your
reputation had been stained, your character blackened, your name
dishonored; how trifling would then have seemed such a loss as that you
have now suffered? Think, then, of what you still possess, rather than
of what you have lost or failed to gain; and let us be grateful to a
kind Providence for having spared you at least an unsullied reputation.”
“Ay,” said he, mechanically pursuing her train of reflection, “you are
right. Reputation, reputation, reputation! all the rest is dross
compared with that. I would not have exchanged the good opinion of one
honest man for all the property I have been contending for; I would not
have forfeited the esteem of the community in which I live, for millions
of acres. Disappointment has been my portion from childhood; I have
often groaned and wept in sorrow; to-day, for the first time, I have
blushed and hung my head in shame. Reputation! it has been the balm of
my wounded spirit; the light of my life, the star of my hope. This
morning it was mine by the agreement of all the world; but where is it
now?”
At this moment an officer of the court entered and handed him a slip of
paper. He glanced at it for a moment, and then handed it to his wife,
repeating, “Ay, where is my reputation now?” It was an order of court,
directing him to appear and show cause why his name should not be
stricken from the roll of attorneys for dishonorable and fraudulent
conduct. Lucy had no sooner read it, than, with a sharp cry, she sunk
insensible on the floor. Burton flew to her assistance, reproaching
himself with want of consideration in subjecting her to so sudden a
shock, and feeling a new sense of desolation come over him at the
prospect of losing his dearest, best, only remaining friend. He began to
fear, too, that his conduct had caused even her to conceive suspicions
of his integrity; and this reflection was the bitterest drop in all the
cup. She presently revived, and he hastened to assure her of his
innocence. He explained to her all that had happened. The signature
which had been produced in court as her father’s, was so much like it
that, under other circumstances, he would himself have sworn to it
without hesitation. He could not tell how it was, but he was entangled
in a net from which he saw no hope of escape. Every thing was against
him; the testimony of respectable witnesses, all appearances, and all
opinions.
“Sydney,” said Lucy, at length smiling through her tears, “there are two
great subjects on which I have often heard you discourse with more
enthusiasm than on any other—the one was faith, and the other moral
courage. In such moments I sometimes thought that your eye pierced
through the mists of time, and realized the glories of eternal truth and
justice; and I believed, (for such was your language,) that your heart
would never quail before the presence of men, so long as you possessed
an approving conscience. Have you forgotten these principles, or were
they mere flights of imagination?”
“They were great truths; but, alas! the clouds of adversity have
darkened even my moral perceptions.”
“Oh, Sydney,” she continued, “I have heard you maintain, that adversity
was the chief agent in developing the human soul; that virtue was not
worthy of the name, until it had been tried in the furnace of
affliction; and how often have I heard you say, that the highest and
truest courage, was that which calmly and firmly sustains itself against
the current of popular opinion.”
“Very true! very true!” said Burton, his countenance almost relaxing
into a smile.
“Why,” continued Lucy, “there have been times when I almost wished to
see you under such circumstances, that I might apply your glorious
pictures to yourself; that I might behold in you the hero, the
philosopher, the man whose faith never wavered, though friends betrayed;
whose heart never failed, though all the world opposed him. I dreamed
that you were all these; and, oh! how my heart swelled with love and
admiration. Nay, it was not a dream; you were, you _are_ all these, my
own brave and true-hearted Sydney.”
Burton’s eye recovered its wonted fire, and, as he paced the room with a
firm and energetic step, he felt his spirit return unto him.
“Sweet monitor,” he said, “you have recalled me to myself. Alas! that I
should have forgotten my philosophy, the moment an opportunity occurred
for putting it in practice. This is my first practical lesson. It is a
stern one; but, (thanks to your cheering voice,) I am now prepared to
receive it and to profit by it. Whilst all continues right here, (laying
his hand upon his heart,) I am prepared for any extremity of fortune.
When the sky is curtained with clouds, men say that the stars have gone
out, because they can no longer see them; but, in truth, they shine on
with the same calm, steady light, whether seen or unseen by mortal eyes.
And so it is with virtue; though calumny may render it invisible from
without, it never ceases to warm and illuminate the heart in which it
dwells.”
* * * * *
When the time came for Burton to appear before the court and answer the
charge of fraudulent and dishonorable conduct, he found himself wholly
unable to combat the array of arguments that were brought against him.
It was manifest, too, that every body looked on him as a fallen and
ruined man. His former friends saluted him with cold civility; as he
passed along the way closed before him; wherever he went he found
himself alone. He had nothing to oppose to the charge but his own solemn
declaration; and that, of course, in a case so clear, could avail him
nothing. The forms proper to the occasion were gone through with as an
appointed ceremony; and the judge proceeded to pronounce the sentence,
which he had written out beforehand. After dwelling on the importance of
the legal profession; on the necessity of unsullied integrity in those
who practice it; on the infamous character of Burton’s offence, and the
indisputable certainty of his guilt, he was about to pronounce sentence
of expulsion from the Bar, when he was interrupted by the confusion
created by some one forcing his way in great haste through the crowd. It
proved to be the venerable clergyman of the village, who begged that the
judge, before proceeding further, would allow him to say a few words.
“I come,” said he, “from the death-bed of a member of this bar, Mr.
Witherman, and I bring to your honor a message of grave importance.
Though fearfully tortured with the pangs of a guilty conscience, I
believe that he was perfectly sane; and with his dying voice he implored
me to hasten hither and assure your honor, on the word of a dying
penitent, that the charge you are this morning trying against Sydney
Burton is wholly false; that being skillful in the imitation of
hand-writing, he had himself forged the papers which bore the name of
Richard Parkett, and contrived all the other circumstances which seemed
so conclusive of Burton’s guilt. He then bade me hand your honor this
paper, which he said would enable you to unravel the whole conspiracy;
and these were his last words. I have thus discharged my mission; and I
hope its urgency will excuse my unceremonious interruption of your
proceedings.”
The cause was immediately adjourned for further consideration.
* * * * *
“I have just been thinking of it, Lucy,” said Burton, one bright spring
morning, as they walked together in the garden at the old homestead,
“to-morrow is the anniversary of our first fishing excursion. It is an
epoch in our lives worth commemorating. Let us, therefore, get up
another, as much like it as possible; except, indeed, the upsetting of
the canoe—which answered a very good purpose, then, but there would be
no occasion for it now. With a little stretch of imagination we can
easily go back some years and fancy it to be the same day and the same
occasion. You are again the mistress of this beautiful home; troops of
friends will again come at our bidding; nature is clad in the same green
mantle; the birds sing the same songs; and the waters murmur the same
tunes. A kind Providence has also turned our darkness into light. One
short hour ago, and yonder mountain was robed in mist to its very base;
see, now, how it sparkles in the sunshine! But, Lucy, why are you
plucking all those beautiful flowers?” Lucy pointed in silence to a
distant enclosure, which contained her father’s grave. A feeling of
sadness passed like a shadow over their hearts, reminding them that life
is a checkered scene of joy and sorrow. And here we shall leave them, to
the indulgence of those contending emotions of regret, gratitude, and
bright anticipation.
* * * * *
A REQUIEM BY THE SEA.
BY HELEN IRVING.
I hear the sea-waves dashing
And roaring on the shore
But a voice is in their chorus
That I never heard before;
A voice whose sound hath power to fill
My listening soul with dread—
A voice that moans unceasingly,
A wail above my dead.
Moans of a summer midnight
Beneath a foreign sky,
When in the hush of murmuring winds,
Was heard a last, low sigh—
And a noble soul—a soul I loved,
Took flight for the starlit heaven,
And a noble form—a form I loved,
To the starlit deep was given.
Cold is the sea, but colder yet
Is the brow that its waters lave,
And the tide is still in the breast that heaves
To the rock of the restless wave:
The bloom is gone from his glowing cheek
And the love from his pleasant eye,
And none there heed on his pallid lips
_The smile that could never die_.
Oh, I pine, beloved, to hear once more
Thy cheerful loving tone,
And I pine to feel thy living heart
Throb once against mine own!
I pine for all thy brother-love,
The noble, fond and true—
And my soul is weary for the rest
That in thy heart it knew.
Ah! “nevermore and nevermore”
I hear the sea-waves moan,
And evermore, oh, evermore,
My heart repeats the tone—
And sorrow’s surges rise and fall,
And ebb to flow again,
And each returning billow sounds
Anew the wild refrain.
Oh, Thou, who wept at Bethany,
And in that anguished hour,
Drew near to heal the broken heart
With thy celestial power;
Above the moaning waves of wo
Let me not list in vain,
To hear Thy voice of love divine,
Say “He shall rise again!”
* * * * *
WOODCOCK AND WOODCOCK SHOOTING.
BY FRANK FORESTER.
[Illustration]
The American Woodcock, _Scolopax minor_, or, as it has been
subdistinguished by some naturalists, from the peculiar form of its
short, rounded wing, the fourth and fifth quills of which are the
longest, _Microptera Americana_, is, as the latter title indicates,
exclusively confined to this hemisphere and continent. It is much
smaller than its European namesake, being very rarely killed exceeding
eight or nine ounces in weight, and sixteen inches in extent from tip to
tip of the expanded wings; whereas the European cock averages full
twelve ounces, being often found up to fifteen, and measures twenty-five
or twenty-six inches.
In general appearance and color they bear a considerable affinity each
to the other; the upper plumage of both being beautifully variegated,
like the finest tortoise-shell, with wavy black lines on a rich brown
ground, mottled in places with bright fawn color and ash-gray; but the
breast and belly of the American bird are of a deep fulvous yellow,
darkest on upper part and fading to a yellowish white at the vent, while
its European congener has all the lower parts of a dull cream color,
barred with faint dusky waved lines, like the breast feathers of some of
the falcons.
It has generally been believed that the large cock of the Eastern
continent is _never_ found in America; and all analogy would go to
strengthen that belief, for neither of the birds range on their
respective continents very far to the northward, whereas it is those
species only which extend into the Arctic regions, and by no means all
of them, that are common to the two hemispheres. Some circumstances
have, however, come recently to my knowledge which lead me to doubt
whether the large woodcock of the Eastern hemisphere does not
occasionally find its way to this continent, although it is difficult to
conceive how it should do so, since it must necessarily wing its way
across the whole width of the Atlantic, from the shores of Ireland or
the Azores, which are, so far as is ascertained, its extreme western
limit.
A very good English sportsman resident in Philadelphia, who is perfectly
familiar with both the species and their distinctions, assures me that
during the past winter a friend brought for his inspection an undoubted
English woodcock, which he had purchased in the market; it weighed
twelve ounces, measured twenty-five inches from wing to wing, and had
the cream-colored barred breast which I have described. The keeper of
the stall at which this bird was purchased did not know where it had
been killed, but averred that several birds had previously been in his
possession, precisely similar to this in every respect. It is not a
little remarkable that the same gentleman who saw this bird, and
unhesitatingly pronounced it an European cock, was informed by a
sporting friend that he had seen in Susquehanna county a cock, which he
was satisfied must have measured twenty-five inches in extent, but which
he unfortunately missed. There is likewise, at this time, in the city a
skull and bill of a woodcock of very unusual dimensions, of which I am
promised a sight, and which, from the description, I am well nigh
convinced is of the European species.
It is possible that these birds may have been brought over and kept in
confinement, and subsequently escaped, and so become naturalized in
America; and yet it is difficult to conceive that persons should have
taken the trouble of preserving so stupid and uninteresting a bird as
the woodcock in a cage, unless for the purpose of transporting them from
one country to another in order to the introduction of new species.
This might be done very easily with regard to some species, and with
undoubted success; and it has greatly surprised me that it has never
been attempted with regard to our American woodcock, which might
unquestionably be naturalized in England with the greatest facility;
where it would, I have no doubt, multiply extraordinarily, and become
one of the most numerous and valuable species of game, as the mildness
of the winters in ordinary seasons would permit the bird to remain
perennially in the island, without resorting to migration in order to
obtain food.
The woodcock and snipe can both be very readily domesticated, and can be
easily induced to feed on bread and milk reduced to the consistency of
pulp, of which they ultimately become extremely fond. This is done at
first by throwing a few small red worms into the bread and milk, for
which the birds bore and bill, as if it were in their natural muddy
soil.
In all countries in which any species of the woodcock is found, it is a
bird essentially of moderate climates, abhorring and shunning all
extremes of temperature, whether of heat or of cold.
With us, it winters in the Southern States from Virginia, in parts of
which, I believe, it is found at all seasons of the year, through the
Carolinas, Georgia and Florida to Louisiana and Mississippi, in the
almost impenetrable cane-brakes and deep morasses of which it finds a
secure retreat and abundance of its favorite food, during the inclement
season, which binds up every stream and boggy swamp of the Middle and
New England States in icy fetters.
So soon, however, as the first indications of spring commence, in those
regions of almost tropical heat, the woodcock wings its way with the
unerring certainty of instinct which guides him back, as surely as the
magnet points to the pole, to the very wood and the very brake of the
wood in which he was hatched, and commences the duties of nidification.
I am inclined to believe that the woodcock are already paired when they
come on to the northward; if not, they do so without the slightest
delay, for they unquestionably begin to lay within a week or two after
their arrival, sometimes even before the snow has melted from the
upland. Sometimes they have been known to lay so early as February, but
March and the beginning of April are their more general season. Their
nest is very inartificially made of dry leaves and stalks of grass. The
female lays from four to five eggs, about an inch and a half long, by an
inch in diameter, of a dull clay color, marked with a few blotches of
dark brown interspersed with splashes of faint purple. It is a little
doubtful whether the woodcock does or does not rear a second brood of
young, unless the first hatching is destroyed, as is very frequently the
case, by spring floods, which are very fatal to them. In this case, they
do unquestionably breed a second time, for I have myself found the young
birds, skulking about like young mice in the long grass, unable to fly,
and covered with short blackish down, the most uncouth and
comical-looking little wretches imaginable, during early July shooting;
but it is on the whole my opinion that, at least on early seasons, they
generally raise two broods; and this, among others, is one cause of my
very strong desire to see summer woodcock shooting entirely abolished.
Unless this is done, I am convinced beyond doubt, that before twenty
years have elapsed the woodcock will be as rare an animal as a wolf
between the great lakes and the Atlantic sea-board, so ruthlessly are
they persecuted and hunted down by pot-hunters and poachers, for the
benefit of restaurateurs and of the lazy, greedy cockneys who support
them. There is, however, I fear little hope of any legislative enactment
toward this highly desirable end; for too many even of those who call
themselves, and who ought to be, true sportsmen, are selfish and
obstinate on this point, and the name of the pot-hunters is veritably
legion. Moreover, it is to be doubted whether, even if such a statute
were added to our game-laws, it could be enforced; so vehemently opposed
do all the rural classes, who ought to be the best friends of the game,
show themselves on all occasions to any attempt toward preserving them,
partly from a mistaken idea that game-laws are of feudal origin and of
aristocratic tendency; and so averse are they to enforce the penalties
of the law on offenders, from a servile apprehension of giving offense
to their neighbors.
At present, in almost all the States of which the woodcock is a summer
visitant, either by law or by prescription July is the month
appropriated to the commencement of their slaughter; in New York the
first is the day, in New Jersey the fifth, and in all the Middle States,
with the single exception of Delaware, where it is deferred until
August, some day of the same month is fixed as the termination of close
time. Even in Delaware the exception is rendered nugatory, by a
provision permitting every person to shoot on his own grounds, whether
in or out of season, in consequence of which the birds are all killed
off early in June.
It may now be set down almost as a rule, that in all the Atlantic
seaboard counties, and, indeed, every where in the vicinity of the large
cities and great thoroughfares, the whole of the summer hatching is
killed off before the end of July, with the exception of a few scattered
stragglers, which have escaped pursuit in some impenetrable brake or
oozy quagmire which defies the foot of the sportsman; that few survive
to moult, and that the diminished numbers, which we now find on our
autumn shooting-grounds, are supplied exclusively by the northern and
Canadian broods, which keep successively flying before the advancing
cold of winter, and sojourning among us for a longer or a shorter
period, ere they wing their way to the rice-fields of the Savannah, or
the cane-brakes of the Mississippi.
If my method could be generally adopted, of letting the fifteenth day of
September, after the moulting season is passed, and when the birds are
beginning again to congregate on their favorite feeding-grounds, be the
commencement of every sort of upland shooting, without any exception,
the sport would be enormous; the birds at that season are in full vigor,
in complete plumage, in the perfection of condition for the table, and
are so strong on the wing, so active and so swift, that no one could for
a moment imagine them to be the same with the miserable, puny,
half-fledged younglings, which any bungling boy can butcher as he
pleases, with the most miserable apparatus, and without almost as well
as with a dog, during the dog-days of July.
The weather is, moreover, cool and pleasant, and in every way
well-suited to the sport at this season; dogs have a chance to do their
work handsomely and well, and the sportsman can do his work, too, as he
ought to do it, like a man, walking at his proper rate, unmolested by
mosquitoes, and without feeling the _salt_ perspiration streaming into
his eyes, until he can hardly brook the pain.
But no such hope existing as that state legislatures, dependent, not on
rational but on brute opinion, should condescend to hear or listen to
common sense, on matters such as game laws, are we, or are we not, to
abandon our plan, to sacrifice our knowledge and enlightened views on
this subject to obstinate ignorance; or shall we not take the better
part, and decide, according to Minerva’s lesson in Tennyson’s
magnificent Ænone,
. . . For that right is right to follow right
Where wisdom is the scorn of consequence.
We shall resist and persist; at least I shall—I, Frank Forester, who
never in my life have killed a bird out of season intentionally, and who
never will—who am compelled by sham sportsmen, cockney and pot-gunners
to shoot woodcock in July; who have been invited, times out and over
again, to shoot cock _on men’s own ground_, and therefore within the
letter of the law, in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, and Maryland,
before the season; who have ever refused to take the advantages, which
every one takes over me; and who still intend to persist, though not to
hope, that there may be sense enough, if not integrity, among the
legislatures of the free states, to prevent the destruction of all game
within their several jurisdictions.
As the thing stands—and by the thing I mean the law—woodcock are to be
shot on or about the first day of July; and if, dear reader, you try to
shoot any where within fifty miles of New York, or twenty-five of
Philadelphia, much later than the tenth of June, I am inclined to think
that you will find wonderfully little sport; before the season, do not
fire a shot, if you will take my advice, if poachers will violate the
law, and the law will not enforce itself against poachers, abstain from
becoming a poacher yourself, and do not shoot before the season fairly
commences.
At this period of the year woodcock are almost invariably found in the
lowlands; sometimes, as, for instance, at Salem, in New Jersey, and many
other similar localities along the low and level shores of the Delaware,
in the wide, open meadows, where there is not a bush or brake to be seen
for miles; but more generally in low, swampy woods, particularly in
maple woods, which have an undergrowth of alder; along the margin of
oozy streamlets, creeping through moist meadows, among willow thickets;
and in wet pastures trampled by cattle, and set here and there with
little brakes, which afford them shade and shelter during the heat of
the day.
Of the latter description is the ground, once so famous for its summer
cock-shooting, known as “the drowned lands,” in Orange County, New York,
extending for miles and miles along the margins of the Wallkill and its
tributaries, the Black Creek, the Quaker Creek, and the beautiful
Wawayanda. Many a day of glorious sport have I had on those sweet level
meadows, enjoyed with friends long since dispersed and scattered, some
dead, untimely, some in far distant lands, some false, and some
forgetful, and thou, true-hearted, honest, merry, brave, Tom Draw; thou
whilom king of hosts and emperor of sportsmen, thou, saddest fate of
all, smitten, or ere thy prime was passed away, by the most fearful
visitation that awaits mankind—the awful doom of blindness! never again
shall I draw trigger on those once loved levels—the rail-road now
thunders and whistles close beside them, and every man and boy and fool,
now sports his fowling-piece; and not a woodcock on the meadows but,
after running the gauntlet of a hundred shots, a hundred volleys, is
consigned to the care of some conductor, by him to be delivered to
Delmonico or Florence, for the benefit of fat, greasy merchant-princes;
and if it were not so, if birds, swarmed as of yore in every reedy
slank, by every alder-brake, in every willow tuft, the ground is haunted
by too many recollections, rife with too many thick-succeeding memories
to render it a fitting place, to me at least, for pleasurable or gay
pursuits.
But, as I have said before, summer cock-shooting on the Drowned Lands of
Orange County, is among the things that have been—one of the stars that
has set, never to be relumed, in the nineteenth century; and the glory
of “the Warwick Woodlands” has departed.
In Connecticut, in some parts, there is very good summer cock-shooting
yet; and also in many places in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, in the
rich alluvial levels around the Delaware, the Schuylkill, and their
tributary rivers; but the sportsman, who really thirsts for fine
shooting—shooting such as it does the heart good to hear of—must mount
the iron-horse, whose breath is the hissing steam, and away, fleeter
even than the wings of the morning, for Michigan and Illinois and
Indiana, for the willow-brakes of Alganac, and the rice-marshes of Lake
St. Clair; and there he may shoot cock till his gun-barrels are red-hot,
and his heart is satiate of bird-slaughter.
It is usual at this season to shoot cock over pointers or setters,
according to individual preference of this or that race of dogs; for
myself, of the two, I prefer the setter, as in cock-shooting there is
always abundance of water to be had, and this rough-coated, high-strung
dog can face brakes and penetrate coverts, which play the mischief with
the smooth satiny skin of the high-blooded pointer.
In truth, however, neither of these, but the short-legged, bony, red and
white cocking-spaniel, is the true dog over which to shoot summer
woodcock; and no one, I will answer for it, who has ever hunted a good
cry of these, will ever again resort either to setter or pointer for
this, to them, inappropriate service.
The true place for these dogs is the open plain, the golden stubble, the
wide-stretching prairie, the highland moor, where they can find full
scope for their heady courage, their wonderful fleetness, their
unwearied industry, and display their miracles of staunchness,
steadiness, and nose.
In order to hunt these dogs on cock, you must unteach them some of their
noblest faculties, you must tame down their spirits, shackle their fiery
speed, reduce them, in fact, to the functions of the spaniel, which is
much what it would be to train a battle-charger to bear a pack-saddle,
or manage an Eclipse into a lady’s ambling palfrey.
The cocking-spaniel, on the contrary, is here in his very vocation. Ever
industrious, ever busy, never ranging above twenty paces from his
master, bustling round every stump, prying into every fern-bush, worming
his long, stout body, propped on its short, bony legs, into the densest
and most matted cover, no cock can escape him.
See! one of them has struck a trail; how he flourishes his stump of a
tail. Now he snuffs the tainted ground; what a rapture fills his dark,
expressive eye. Now he is certain; he pauses for a moment, looks back to
see if his master is at hand; “Yaff! yaff!” the brakes ring with his
merry clamor, his comrade rushes to his aid like lightning, yet pauses
ever, obedient to the whistle, nor presses the game too rashly, so that
it rise out of distance. Up steps the master, with his thumb upon the
dexter hammer, and his fore-finger on the trigger-guard. Now they are
close upon the quarry; “yaff! yaff! yaff! yaff!” Flip flap! up springs
the cock, with a shrill whistle, on a soaring wing. Flip flap!
again—there are a couple. Deliberately prompt, up goes the fatal
tube—even as the butt presses the shoulder, trigger is drawn after
trigger. Bang! bang! the eye of faith and the finger of instinct have
done their work, duly, truly. The thud of one bird, as he strikes the
moist soil, tells that he has fallen; the long stream of feathers
floating in the still air through yonder open glade, announces the fate
of the second; and, before the butt of the gun, dropped to load, has
touched the ground, without a word or question, down charged at the
report, the busy little babblers are couched silent in the soft,
succulent young grass. Loaded once more, “Hie! fetch!” and what a race
of emulation—mouthing their birds gently, yet rapturously, to inhale
best the delicate aroma, not biting them, each cocker has brought in his
bird, and they and you, gentle reader, if you be the happy sportsman who
possesses such a brace of beauties, are rewarded adequately and enough.
For the rest, a short, wide-bored, double-barrel, an ounce of No. 8
shot, and an equal measure of Brough’s diamond-grain, will do the
business of friend _microptera_, as effectually, at this season, as a
huge, long, old fashioned nine-pounder, with its two ounce charge; and
it will give you this advantage, that it shall weigh less by three
pounds, and enable you to dispense with a superfluous weight of shot,
which, on a hot July day, especially if you be at all inclined to what
our friend Willis calls _pinguitude_, will of a necessity produce much
exudation, and some lassitude.
By the time these lucubrations shall be in thy hands, kind and gentle
sportsman, the dog-days will be, and July cock-shooting; and that, where
thou shootest soever, thou mayest find the woodcock lying as thick and
as lazy as in the cut above, is the worst wish in thy behalf, of thy
friend and servant at command,
Frank Forester.
* * * * *
THE SHARK.
A NEW PAGE OF NATURAL HISTORY.
BY L. A. WILMER.
[Illustration]
Of all marine animals (except midshipmen and second-lieutenants in the
navy) the shark is, perhaps, one of the most unpopular. In general, it
is difficult to give reason for the unpopularity or popularity of any
thing, but with reference to the shark, there is much reason to suppose
that he has, by cruel misrepresentation, been exposed to unmerited
dislike. Had he been altogether bad, it is most likely that he would
have found a zealous advocate long ago; whereas, we are the first, we
believe, who ever undertook to say a word in his defense. As a shark is
thought to have many counterparts among the human species, we must be
extremely careful how we launch our invectives at him, lest by direct
implication we should abuse some of our most respectable
fellow-citizens. But, without affectation, we have always felt a high
degree of respect for this inhabitant of the deep, to whom we may justly
ascribe some very estimable and admirable qualities. In the first place,
he is the great controversialist of the watery world. “If he cannot
always convince,” as some one said of a renowned American orator, “he
never failed to silence his opponent;” and this, in the tactics of
disputation, is almost as grand an achievement as convincing itself. We
read that Tycho Brahe had his nose bitten off in a controversy with
another distinguished mathematician. But, although the shark—provided
as he is with a jaw as effective as a broad-axe—is well qualified to
“chop logic,” we doubt if he would be satisfied with such a paltry
exploit as that which has been accredited to Tycho’s snappish adversary;
and, indeed, we see no use in mincing the matter when it becomes
necessary to “use up” an opponent. The best advice we can give in such a
case is to “go the whole hog” at once. But it is not with the
controversial abilities of the shark that we have to deal at present. It
was the chief design of this sketch to speak chiefly of his business
habits—on which we intend to found a certain comparison that we have in
our eye—and so (as Bottom, the weaver, says) “to grow to a conclusion.”
The shark is a great speculator in his way. He follows in the wake of
the ship for days and weeks together, looking out for “a good chance.”
His industry and perseverance are rewarded at last, if a poor Jack Tar
happen to fall overboard; but if disappointed in his expectations of
such an auspicious event, he is obliged to console himself with Jacob
Faithful’s excellent maxim, “better luck next time.” If, in pursuit of
his object, instead of catching a jolly fat sailor, he should be hooked
or harpooned himself, he philosophically considers it as a fair business
transaction; for, in every speculation, somebody must suffer—the great
object of all speculating skill being to decide _who_ is to be
victimized. Speculation, therefore, is pretty much the same thing in
substance, whether it be terrene or aquatic.
Shakspeare, with his customary acuteness of observation, declares that
there are “both land-rats and water-rats.” Some other immortal genius
has made the startling discovery that there are both water-sharks and
land-sharks; and we find that in each of these generic divisions there
is more specific arrangement than we have leisure or inclination to
discuss. The engraver has supplied us with a specimen of one variety of
the land-shark, which may be distinguished at a glance by the globular
symbols at the end of the tail—the use or meaning of which has never
been clearly explained, though the world has been favored with many
ingenious hypotheses in relation to the subject. The common opinion is
that the three balls are significative of the fact, that should the
animal get possession of any of your property, it is _two to one_ that
you will never recover it. Others say that as balls have a remarkable
facility in going down hill, they significantly point out the route you
are likely to take should you venture to have any dealings with this
formidable creature.
The least observation of the picture will convince you that there is
speculation in the eye of this land-shark. Mark the eager expression! so
much like that you may have observed in the glance of his maritime
brother, as he ogled you from his billowy alcove. See the open mouth,
and teeth displayed, as if prepared for a “bite.” Judging from the
“valence” (as Hamlet calls it,) at the bottom of the visage, we opine
that this animal does not shave _himself_—though he is said to shave
his victims rather closely. The beard, by the way, is regarded as a
hereditary characteristic of this devouring race—the origin of which is
traced to Lombardy. The ancient inhabitants of that country were called
_Longobardi_, which name some etymologists derive from Latin words,
signifying long-beards. Among these unshaven gentry, it appears,
pawn-broking, the most remorseless kind of shaving, was first
established. From this seminary of shavers, the whole world was supplied
with professors—fellows remarkable for great latitude of conscience as
well as longitude of beard; benevolent fellows, too, always ready to
accommodate the needy with a loan, “on the most agreeable terms”—as
some of them promise to do, _per_ advertisement, at the present day; the
phrase, “most agreeable terms,” being understood to signify one hundred
and fifty per cent. per annum! This moderate rate of interest is
continued down to our own times, showing that the pawn-broker is piously
attached to the usages of his ancestors, while others, in the race for
improvement, are constantly trampling, with profane feet, on the ashes
of the venerable dead.
“My Uncle,” as the pawn-broker is affectionately called by his
customers, honors the assumed relationship by loaning out his dollars to
every applicant who can comply with his stipulations. In this
particular, some gay, frolicksome nephew would propose him as a model
for uncles in general; especially because he never requires an exact
account of how the cash loaned is to be expended, nor does he seem to
take it for granted that you are on the direct road to ruin because you
happen to stand in need of pecuniary assistance. On the contrary, he
speaks of money-borrowing as one of the finest strokes of policy, and
professes his willingness to lend any imaginable sum—if you are
prepared to deposit some “collateral” worth about four times the amount.
This being done, your generous creditor never harasses you for
repayment, you may abscond, if you choose, and proceed to California, or
any other remote region celebrated for gold, or brimstone—assuring
yourself that your kind “uncle” will not interfere with your departure
or inquire after you when you are gone.
With all this liberality and generous forbearance, the pawn-broker is
regarded as one of the most voracious of predatory animals; but be it
understood that there are land-sharks compared with which he is a mere
minnow, inasmuch as his operations are all on a small scale, and the
figure he makes among the speculating leviathans of the day is
comparatively insignificant.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey. Edited by his
Son, Rev. Charles Cuthbert Southey, M. A. To be completed in Six
Parts. New York. Harper & Brothers._
The Harpers are printing this entertaining work as fast as the volumes
are received from England. The English price is about three dollars and
a half a volume; the American twenty-five cents. As a record of
Southey’s life, character, and opinions, and as conducting us into the
workshop of the greatest of book-makers, the work has great value, apart
from its attractive qualities of literary and personal gossip. The
impression it leaves of Southey is, on the whole, a favorable one. It
makes him appear as an honest, just, active, persistent, independent
man,—one who can “toil terribly,”—a staunch friend, a direct and open
opponent,—with a good deal of bigotry but no deviltry,—and altogether
a person with few of the vices which most commonly beset writers by
profession. His letters are admirable, both in themselves and as true
specimens of epistolary composition. They show Southey just as he was,
quick in forming opinions, confident in expressing them, thoroughly
convinced that he had no intellectual superior in England, freed from
envy by self-esteem, and ready to settle every question that is started,
by a few dogmatic sentences, which sparkle “like salt in fire.” The
singular perfection of his character, considered in respect to its
capacity for active intellectual labor, came from his almost miraculous
confidence in his faculties and content with himself. He has so high an
opinion of Robert Southey as to be unconcerned about any thing which
lies beyond the grasp of his powers, and, accordingly, however much we
may find reason to doubt or deny many of his statements, they ever have
a joyous raciness which tingles pleasantly on our perceptions.
The present work commences with a delightful autobiography, which
Southey carried down to the age of fifteen. His son then takes up the
narrative. This, however, is little more than arranging the
correspondence, and explaining allusions in it. The great charm of
Southey’s style is its stimulating simplicity; and this is felt
throughout the present “Life.” We have marked, in reading the work, a
number of passages, which seem to us especially characteristic, and
cannot refrain from quoting a few of them. He tells us, in his
autobiography, that his elder brother was very beautiful; “so much so,
that, when I made my appearance on the 12th of August, 1774, I was sadly
disparaged by comparison with him. My mother, asking if it was a boy,
was answered by her nurse, in a tone as little favorable to me as it was
flattering, ‘Ay, a great ugly boy!’ and she added, when she told me
this, ‘God forgive me! when I saw what a great red creature it was,
covered with rolls of fat, I thought I should never be able to love
him.’” This is the most perfectly dramatic statement of the most
important event which can happen to a person, ever given in a biography;
and it conciliates the reader at once.
The record of his early life is given with much amusing details. His
parents were rather illiterate, and he depended on chance to gratify his
thirst for books, with nobody to select what were proper to his age. He
read Beaumont and Fletcher through before he was eight years old,—a
most curious book for a child, when we consider the obscenity,
licentiousness, and slang which mingle with the romantic beauty of those
dramatists. He says they did him no harm, for the reason that he was so
young. In Mrs. Rowe’s Letters he read her version of the stories of
Olendo and Sophronia, and the Enchanted Forest, from Tasso, and
despaired at the time of ever reading more of the poem until he was man,
“from a whimsical notion that, as the subject related to Jerusalem, the
original must be in Hebrew;” and there was not learning enough in his
father’s house to set him right on the point.
Perhaps the most interesting peculiarity of books like the present, is
their expression of the private opinions which their subjects
entertained of contemporary men and events. This certainly is the
raciest element in the Correspondence of Southey, and his letters are
next in attractiveness to a cosy chat with himself. Of Bentham, he
remarks—“It has pleased the
metaphysico-critico-politico-patriotico-phoolo-philosopher Jeremy
Bentham, to designate me, in one of his opaque works, by the appellation
of St. Southey, for which I humbly thank his Jeremy Benthamship, and
have in part requited him.” His hatred of Jeffrey, and contempt of
Reviews, provoke many a sardonic remark, replete with his peculiar
humor. “Turner,” he writes to Rickman, “complained heavily of Scotch
criticism, which he seems to feel too much. Such things only provoke me
to interject Fool! and Booby! _seasoned with the participle damnatory_;
but as for being vexed at a review—I should as soon be fevered by a
flea-bite! . . . I look upon the invention of reviews to be the worst
injury which literature has received since its revival.” Of Coleridge he
says—“His mind is in a perfect St. Vitus’s dance—eternal activity
without action.” Jeffrey, according to Southey, is a bad politician, a
worse moralist, and a critic, in matters of taste, equally incompetent
and unjust. It is unfortunate that his criticism on himself and on
others, in these letters, is not of a kind to entitle him to condemn the
editor of the Edinburgh Review. “Cowper,” he asserts, “owed his
popularity to his piety, not to his poetry, and that piety was
craziness.” His opinion was altered, of course, when he afterward edited
an edition of Cowper’s works. Of Walter Savage Lander’s poem of Gebir,
he says—“I look upon Gebir, as I do upon Dante’s long poem in the
Italian, not as a good poem, _but as containing the finest poetry in the
language_.” His power of appreciating Wordsworth may be estimated by his
remark, in a letter to Scott, on the “Ode on the Intimations of
Immortality from the Recollections of Childhood.” “The Ode on
Pre-existence,” he says, “is a dark subject darkly handled. Coleridge is
the only man who could make such a subject luminous. The Leech Gatherer
is one of my favorites.” We might quote many other critical judgments,
“equally incompetent and unjust,” but if the last does not satisfy the
reader, it is impossible to quote any thing that will.
The following passage, from a letter written in 1812, gives so vivid an
impression of Shelley in his enthusiastic youth, that we cannot refrain
from extracting it. The style is very characteristic of Southey’s manner
throughout the letters.
“Here is a man in Keswick, who acts upon me as my own ghost would do. He
is just what I was in 1794. His name is Shelley, son to the member for
Shoreham, with £6000 a year entailed upon him, and as much more in his
father’s power to cut off. Beginning with romances of ghosts and murder,
and with poetry at Eton, he passed, at Oxford, into metaphysics; printed
half-a-dozen pages, which he entitled “The Necessity of Atheism;” sent
one anonymously to Coplestone, in expectation, I suppose, of converting
him; was expelled in consequence; married a girl of seventeen, after
being turned out of doors by his father; and here they both are, in
lodgings, living upon £200 a year, which her father allows them. He is
come to the fittest physician in the world. At present he has got to the
Pantheistic stage of philosophy, and, in the course of a week, I expect
he will be a Berkleyan, for I have put him upon a course of Berkley. It
has surprised him a good deal to meet, for the first time in his life, a
man who perfectly understands him, and does him full justice. I tell him
that all the difference between us is that he is nineteen and I am
thirty-seven; and I dare say it will not be very long before I shall
succeed in convincing him that he may be a true philosopher, and do a
great deal of good with £6000 a year; the thought of which troubles him
a great deal more at present than ever the want of sixpence (for I have
known such a want) did me. God help us! the world wants mending, though
he did not set about it exactly in the right way.”
This Life of Southey promises to be an important addition to the
biographical treasures of English literature, and we look with great
expectation for the remaining volumes, which will record his quarrels
with Byron, his coldness to Coleridge, and the publication of his most
important works.
* * * * *
_Historic View of the Languages and Literature of the Slavic
Nations: with a Sketch of their Popular Poetry. By Taloi. With a
Preface by Edward Robinson, D. D., LL.D. 1 vol. 12mo._
This work is a real addition to English literature, containing a
succinct view of a subject which has heretofore been treated by those
English scholars, who have treated of it at all, in a fragmentary and
unsatisfactory manner. The Slavic nations contain a population of
seventy millions, and it is strange that a work like the present has not
been produced before, the subject being rich in matter both to interest
and instruct the better class of readers.
“Taloi,” as we presume is well known, is the name assumed by Mrs.
Robinson, the learned wife of the learned gentleman who prefaces the
present history. Few living women can be said to excel her in the rare
combination of erudition with heartiness. This volume owes much of its
attractiveness to the feminine qualities which sometimes guide and
sometimes relieve her erudite researches. Her selection of anecdotes,
illustrative of national character, is very happy. In speaking of the
submission with which the Slavic Nations received Christianity, the
people readily following their superiors, she remarks, that “Vladimir
the Great, to whom the Gospel and the Koran were offered at the same
time, was long undecided which to choose; and was at last induced to
embrace the former, because ‘his Russians could not live without the
pleasure of drinking.’”
There are many poetical translations in the volume of much excellence,
some of them having such a marked peculiarity that, without knowing the
originals, a critic might pronounce them to be true versions. Two or
three poems, relating to the desolate condition of motherless orphans,
are introduced by a reference to a Danish ballad, which we trust that
Longfellow will search after and translate. “The Danes,” says Taloi,
“have a beautiful ballad, in which the ghost of a mother is roused by
the wailings and sufferings of her deserted offspring, to break with
supernatural power the gravestone, and to re-enter, in the stillness of
the night, the neglected nursery, in order to cheer, to nurse, to comb
and wash the dear little ones whom God once entrusted to her care.” The
following translation of a ballad, written in the Upper Lusatian
language, we extract:
THE ORPHAN’S LAMENT.
Far more unhappy in the world am I,
Than on the meadow the bird that doth fly.
Little bird merrily flits to and fro,
Sings its sweet carol upon the green bough.
I, alas, wander wherever I will,
Everywhere I am desolate still!
No one befriends me wherever I go,
But my own heart full of sorrow and wo!
Cease thy grief, oh my heart, full of grief,
Soon will a time come that giveth thee relief.
Never misfortune has struck me so hard,
But I, ere long, again better have fared.
God of all else in the world has enough;
Why not then widows and orphans enough?
The _naïveté_ of this is similar to a little quotation which the author
gives from a Servian elegy. A poor girl sings: “Our Lord has of every
thing his fill; but of poor people he seems to have greater plenty than
of anything else!”
The following description, from a Servian lyric, we commend to
contributors to Albums. It will keep them in comparisons for a
life-time:
Never since the world had a beginning,
Never did a lovelier flow’ret blossom,
Than the flow’ret in our own days blooming;
Haikuna, the lovely maiden flower.
She was lovely, nothing e’er was lovelier!
She was tall and slender as the pine-tree;
White her cheeks, but tinged with rosy blushes,
As if morning’s beam had shone upon them,
Till that beam had reached its high meridian.
And her eyes, they were two precious jewels,
And her eyebrows, _leeches from the ocean_,
And her eyelids, they were wings of swallows;
And her flaxen braids were silken tassels;
And her sweet mouth was a sugar casket,
And her teeth were pearls arrayed in order;
White her bosom, like two snowy dovelets,
And her voice was like the dovelet’s cooing;
And her smiles were like the glowing sunshine;
And her fame, the story of her beauty,
Spread through Bosnia, and through Herz’govina.
The simplicity of the ballads which Mrs. Robinson has so copiously
translated, will win many readers who take but little interest in
intellectual history. But it is as a history of literature that the book
is deserving of most attention, and as a historian the author displays
great learning, gracefully managed. The criticism is conducted on
enlarged principles of taste, and the diction is uniformly clear,
condensed, and elegant. The publisher has done his part towards making
the volume attractive, by printing it in large type on good paper.
* * * * *
_Indiana. By George Sand. Translated by one of the Best French
Scholars in this Country, a member of the Philadelphia Bar.
Philadelphia. T. B. Peterson. 1 vol. 12mo._
We cannot divine the publisher’s object in engaging the services of “one
of the best French Scholars in this Country,” and moreover “a member of
the Philadelphia Bar,” to translate this miserable trash into bad
English. Some of the later works of George Sand, undoubtedly evince
genius, but the novel under consideration, one of the first products of
her unregulated passions and speculative profligacy, has nothing in
plot, character, incident, or style, to give piquancy to its coarseness.
It is licentious, but then it is so stupid, that its perusal would be a
penance to a _roué_. Its immorality and falsehood might have a charm to
some minds, but the raciness of these qualities is spoiled by the
detestable and yawn-provoking sentimentality by which they are pervaded.
The publication of such books is an offence equally to taste and morals,
and tends to corrupt the intellect as well as the conscience of such
readers as are foolish enough to buy them, and bad enough to read them.
One of the worst signs of the times is the systematic degradation of
literature into a mere handmaid of profligacy, as exhibited in the
numberless manufactories of cheap damnation spread all over the
land—manufactories which send out an incessant stream of ugly looking
pamphlet novels, whose leading claim to notice is their brazen
brainlessness and stupid indecency. We have been informed that these
things are read, but on what principles of human nature the assertion is
made is a mystery to us. They are so absolutely unreadable, according to
the worse view ever taken of the human mind by misanthrope or
metaphysician, that we must be allowed to doubt the fact, and to
congratulate the philanthropist that the devil, in this case, has
underrated the taste even of our blackguards and flats. We do hope for
the credit of the species, that if the popular heart and conscience are
doomed to be corrupted by a cheap literature, it will not be done by
such wretched stuff as forms the staple of George Sand’s “Indiana.”
* * * * *
_Women in America: her Work and her Reward. By Maria J.
McIntosh. Author of “To Seem and To be,” etc. New York: D.
Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo._
The author of this volume has already distinguished herself as the
writer of two popular novels, in which a distinct moral purpose is
connected with well drawn characters and interesting events. In the
present work she makes woman the reformer of social evils, and views her
as she appears at the North, the South, and the West. There are many
opinions expressed for which Miss McIntosh can only give what logicians
call “the lady’s reason,” but, as a whole, the book is calculated to do
good, and can be safely commended to the attention of “Women in
America.”
* * * * *
JENNY LIND’S AMERICAN POLKA.
COMPOSED BY
N. STEENCKEN,
AND RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO
MRS. A. WATSON.
Presented by Lee & Walker, 162 Chestnut Street.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
* * * * *
DETAILS OF THE NEW FASHIONS IN SACQUES AND MANTELETS.
[Illustration: NO. 1.—ESMERALDA.]
[6]_Pardessus_ of silk fitting closely to the shape, open before,
trimmed with lace, which is held by a trimming of the sleeve and skirt.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO. 2.—RIMINI.]
Little Spring Cloak of _taffetas_ trimmed with a double ruche of the
same.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO 3.—FORNARINA.]
Tight fitting _pardessus_, bordered with gimp, and trimmed with a thin,
loose fringe, twisted at the end. The sleeve is formed by the stuff
folded on itself; but it is not separate from the body.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO. 4.—FALIERO.]
Spring Cloak, half open, trimmed with galloon and twisted fringe.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO. 5.—OPHELIA.]
_Mantelet of taffetas_, with _ruches_ of quilled ribbon separated in the
middle by a little puffing. Trimmed with white _blonde_.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO. 6.—HERMIONE.]
Shawl-shaped _Mantelet of taffetas_ with fringe.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO. 7.—MIRANDELLA.]
_Mantelet of taffetas_, trimmed with black lace and figured ribbon.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO. 8.—STELLA.]
_Pardessus_ for the house, of _taffetas_ trimmed with _ruches_ and
pinked or scalloped trimmings.
-----
[6] _Pardessus_—a sort of sacque or little silk coat.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze LE FOLLET Paris, Boulevart S^{t}. Martin,
69. _Coiffures de_ Ferdinand Hamelin—_Robes_ Camille—_Lingeries_
Schreiber _Style of Goods at_ Stewart's _New York and_ L.J. Levy &
C^{o.} _Philadelphia_ Graham’s Magazine 134 Chestnut Street]
* * * * *
EDITOR’S TABLE.
_Cruising in the Last War. By Charles J. Peterson, Author of the
Reefer of ’76, etc. Philadelphia: T. B. Peterson._
Many thousands of the readers of Graham’s Magazine, will be glad to
welcome in this form this admirable sea novel, which was published in
this Magazine in 1840. It was one of the most popular articles that ever
appeared in this country, and now that the author avows himself, he will
justly be placed among the foremost writers of the age for directness
and energy of style, graphic force of description and skillful
delineation of character. Cooper, in his palmiest days, never excelled
the splendor of some of the descriptive passages of this writer. Many of
the incidents we learn, for the first time, are taken from events that
occurred during the war, and the whole story is drawn from the original
log-book of a privateer of 1812, now in the possession of the author.
It is refreshing to turn to the natural, patriotic tone of this work,
after wading through the sea of indifferent books, which now-a-days make
up the marketable cheap literature; and we thank Mr. Peterson, on this
account, for allowing the Cruisings to appear. It will find a welcome
and a response in the hearts of all pure men; and purchasers wherever a
spark of patriotism lingers. It is sold at the cheap rate of twenty-five
cents, and by the hundred at a still lower price.
* * * * *
Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts.—We had hoped to be able to notice
the Spring Exhibition of this Society, but cannot do justice to the
splendid array of home and foreign talent on the walls of its Galleries,
in the present number; our comments must, therefore, be delayed until
next month. A large number of paintings have been received from Europe,
in competition for the prizes offered by the Academy. Among these, we
may enumerate the following: “Ahasuerus, King of the Medea and Persians,
exalting Mordecai,” by P. Van Schendel, of Brussels; “Wrecking and
Succour,” and “The Schelde in a fresh gale,” by P. T. Schotel, of
Mendembled, Holland; “The Auspicious Moment,” and “The Recovery,” by
Carl Hubner, of Dusseldorf; “An Auction Scene,” by A. W. Wedeking, of
Bremen; two “Views in the High Alps,” by G. F. Diday, of Bremen;
“Amphitrite and Diana,” after Moreto’s Spanish comedy, “El desden con el
desden,” by J. Schoppe, of Berlin; “Ruins of Castle Teck on the Suabian
Alps,” by H. Herdtle, of Stuttgard; “Judith and Holofernes,” by E.
Jacobs, of Gotha; “The Marseillaise first song by Rouget de Lisle,” by
Godefri Gaffens, of Antwerp; “A Lake Scene,” by Ildephonse Stoequart, of
Antwerp; “Abraham receiving the Divine Promise,” by J. A. Kruseman;
“Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife,” by François Vinck, of Anvers, Belgium;
“Tobias Receiving his Wife,” and an “Italian Peasant Girl,” by Edward
Ihlee, of Cassel; “The Judgment of Solomon,” by Jh. Van Severdonck, of
Brussels; three panels, “Adam and Eve finding the dead body of Abel,”
“Abel carried to Heaven by an Angel,” and “Cain in the power of Satan,”
by Edward du Jardin, of Antwerp; “The Penny of Cæsar,” by Joseph
Belleman, of Antwerp; “A Roman Aqueduct at Alcala-la-Real in Spain, with
a Caravan of Muleteers,” by F. Bossuet, of Brussels; and several others.
The productions of our own artists are numerous, and will challenge a
favorable comparison with these. Rothermel’s latest work will add
greatly to his reputation.
* * * * *
Chromo Xylography.—The very beautiful title-page, for the July volume,
which we furnish our readers in this number, is the work of Mr.
Devereux, an accomplished artist of this city. This style of art is
known as “Chromo Xylography,” and Mr. Devereux has certainly, thus far
excelled all other artists in the beauty and delicacy of his pictures.
The Lake of Como—the central design of our picture—is printed in eight
different tints; and the blending of colors has all the purity of
painting. When it is considered that this effect is produced by
_printing_ from eight different blocks, we may consider this picture an
achievement, and highly creditable to its designer.
* * * * *
True Paris Fashions.—We resume with this number, our Paris Fashions,
which our subscribers will at once see are far superior in beauty of
design and coloring to any that have appeared in Graham for a long time.
The order for this plate we sent to Paris the moment we ascertained that
we should again become the exclusive conductor of “Graham,” and our
agent is instructed to forward _one each month_, from the best houses
there, to appear _simultaneously_ with the same designs in Paris. We
thus furnish our colored plate—_one month_ in advance of even wood-cut
fashion plates—and at least _two months_ earlier than those which are
re-engraved and colored in this country. This single feature of “Graham”
renders it superior to any work in this country, in regard to
embellishments.
* * * * *
OURSELF.
If blushes were transferable, our face in the magazine for this month,
should, we suppose, be like a maiden’s before the ardor of her first
lover—but steel is as unsusceptible as brass, we find; so, with a very
unconscious air, we shall brave the battery of bright eyes, impervious
to a frown.
As to our Memoir, by Mr. Peterson—the veritable Jeremy Short—it is
done in his most amiable vein; and though not exactly the history of the
Wandering Jew—being rather that of Barnaby Rudge’s Raven, crying
continually, “Never say die”—our readers may take it with the grains of
allowance which should be given to a vigorous writer with a fine
imagination, who is determined to make a hero.
We had written a long article, commemorative of other days, but have
since thought it better to let by-gones be by-gones. That we feel proud
of our reinstation in this Magazine—the child of our happier days—we
shall not deny. The gold that bought it for us—if estimated by the
happiness it has diffused—must have dropped from heaven, baptized for
good. The dark shadows—the regrets and heart-burnings of the past are
over. A bright future is before us, high hopes and determined resolves
are ours now—light leaps over the mountain-tops, and the “good time” so
long a coming, rushes joyfully to meet us—is here.
“Graham.”
Our thanks are due to our brethren of the quill throughout the entire
Union, for the very general, and very generous welcome we have received
on coming back to the profession. While we shall never forget their
kindness, and have small hopes of ever being able to repay a tythe of
it, we shall endeavor so to act as not to dishonor their endorsement, or
to forfeit their good opinion.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Archaic spellings and hyphenation have been retained as well as some
spellings peculiar to Graham’s. Punctuation has been corrected without
note. Other errors have been corrected as noted below. For
illustrations, some caption text may be missing or incomplete due to
condition of the originals used for preparation of the ebook.
page iii, Strength. Hy Mrs. ==> Strength. By Mrs.
page 4, as the real _savan_ ==> as the real _savant_
page 5, mere experimentors, surprised ==> mere experimenters, surprised
page 8, up. You hav n’t ==> up. You haven’t
page 8, of the the lads did ==> of the lads did
page 13, weather-side of the bark ==> weather-side of the barque
page 17, singers was diposed ==> singers was disposed
page 19, symphonies of Beethooven ==> symphonies of Beethoven
page 24, same instincts leads her ==> same instincts lead her
page 27, services, Captain Dundas ==> services, Captain Dunbar
page 33, these succint narrations ==> these succinct narrations
page 38, whisper a requium ==> whisper a requiem
page 45, a country guager ==> a country gauger
page 45, was harrassed with cares ==> was harassed with cares
page 46, no more deficile, ==> no more difficile,
Page 50, the cautious inuendo ==> the cautious innuendo
page 52, the amiable Blocklock ==> the amiable Blacklock
page 55, payment. Harrassed and ==> payment. Harassed and
page 56, to smoothe her ==> to smooth her
page 58, an exhorbitant sum ==> an exorbitant sum
page 65, ready to accomodate ==> ready to accommodate
page 67, The _naïvete_ of ==> The _naïveté_ of
page 67, Than the flowret ==> Than the flow’ret
page 67, degradation of literarature ==> degradation of literature
page 72, Herdtle, of Suttgard ==> Herdtle, of Stuttgard
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVII, No. 1, July 1850" ***
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