Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger moth’s deep damask’d wings.
And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded ’scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings.
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon:
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed,
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;
Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray,
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a rose again.”
And now, when the maiden is all asleep, her lover steals from his hiding
place, and mixing a charm, kneels by her bedside, and while his warm
unnerved arm sinks in her pillow, he whispers to her that he is her
eremite, and beseeches her for sweet Agnes’ sake to open her eyes. But
the maiden, lying there in her holy sleep, awakes not. At length he
takes her lute, and kneeling by her ear, plays an ancient ditty. She
utters a soft moan. He ceases—she pants quick—and suddenly her blue
eyes open in affright, while her lover sinks again on his knees, pale as
a sculptured statue. And Madeline awakening, and thinking that her
blissful dream is over, begins to weep. At length she finds vent for her
words, and are they not sweet as the complainings of a dove?
“Ah! Porphyro!” said she “but even now
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
Made tunable with every sweetest vow;
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
O leave me not in this eternal woe,
For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go.”
If you have ever been young, and heard, for the first time, the blushing
confession of her you loved in doubt and danger, you can form some
conception of the bewildering joy which seized Porphyro at this. Egad!
sir, I would give ten years of my life—old as I am—to enjoy such
rapture. But no tongue except that of the poet can even shadow forth his
ecstacy. Ah! to be loved is bliss, but to be loved by a Madeline—!
“Beyond a mortal man impassioned far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star
Seen ’mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odor with this violet,—
Solution sweet:”
You can see the end of all this as well as I can, for though never has
other mortal than Porphyro breathed the language of love into the ears
of one like Madeline, yet we have all pleaded more than once in the ears
of angels only one remove less beautiful. Shut your eyes, and fancy you
see the lover kneeling by the bedside of that white-armed one, fragrant
and pure as a lily in the overshadowed brook—lovelier than an Imogen,
whose very breath perfumes the chamber. Hear her low complainings when
she fancies that her lover is about to desert her. Are they not more
musical than the zephyrs sighing through the moonlit pines? And then how
soothing is Porphyro, and how delicately he allays her fears. Ah! the
moon is down, and the chamber is in darkness—and there, as I live, the
rain-drops are pattering against the casement. Now is thy time, bold
Porphyro—St. Agnes will befriend thee—urge, urge that sweet lady, with
all thy eloquence, to seize the chance and fly amid the confusion. We
know how it will end! Love ever wins the day—and is not Madeline yet
all blushing with her dream? And so—and so—hear the rest!
“She hurried at the words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found,—
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-dropp’d lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horsemen, hawk, and hound,
Fluttered in the besieging wind’s uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side:
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones;
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin worm,
Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.”
Who, after that, will say that Keats was not a genius? But “Hyperion,”
though less complete than this poem, evinces—let me tell you—even more
of the “_mens divinior_.” “The Eve of St. Agnes” is warm, voluptuous,
luxuriant, yet pure as a quiet pool with silver sand below—but
“Hyperion” is bold, impassioned and colossal, Miltonic even in its
grandeur, overpowering at times as a thunder-storm among the mountains.
Would God that Keats had lived to finish it! With many faults, it
evinces more genius than any poem since written in our language. Hear
the speeches of the Titans!—read the description of Apollo!—drink in
the intoxication of its less sublime but more beautiful passages! It
often exhibits a redundant fancy—the style is at times affected, and
the choice of words bad—the execution is careless, though less so than
that of Endymion—and, above all, the plan of the poem, so far as it has
been developed, bears an unhappy resemblance to Milton’s Paradise Lost.
Yet it displays such extraordinary genius, that we will never forgive
the Quarterly for having disheartened Keats from the completion of this
poem. Ah! sir, what has the world lost?
I repeat it, I am an Epicurean. Fame!—immortality!—what are they? We
wear out our lives for a bauble, and coin our souls away to purchase
dross. We dig our own graves and call it GLORY. Away with such
sophistry! Go over the melancholy list of unfortunate genius—White,
Collins, Keats, Chatterton and the rest—and tell me what they reaped
except thorns! Ah! sir, it melts my heart with pity—I must take a glass
on it. But, I declare, the bottle’s out, and—by my halidome!—here is
Oliver asleep.
J. S.
* * * * *
THE AFFAIR AT TATTLETOWN.
BY EPES SARGEANT.
It is very questionable whether the reader has ever heard a true and
impartial account of the affair at Tattletown. So many exaggerated
versions have been put forth—so many garbled and malicious reports in
regard to it, have been propagated—that the world is likely to be
either unduly prejudiced against one of the parties, or wholly in doubt
as to the merits of both. It is with an emotion of pride, that I take up
my pen with the consciousness of being able to throw light upon this
interesting, but mysterious subject.
There have been many changes in Tattletown during the last twenty years.
Of this fact I became assured the last summer, when, by the way of a
parenthesis in a tour to the White Hills, I branched off from my
prescribed route to visit the little village where I had spent so many
pleasant days in boyhood. What a change! It used to be one of the
quietest, greenest, most sequestered nooks in the world, with its single
wide street, bordered by venerable elms, and its shady by-roads
radiating in every direction, and dotted with white cottages embosomed
in clouds of verdure.
And then its inn! its single, unpretending inn, with its simple
flag-staff, its modest piazza, and its cool, clean parlor, with the vase
of asparagus upon the freshly reddened hearth-stone! Its sleeping-rooms
with their snow-white curtains and coverlets, and the rustling foliage
against their windows—what a temptation it was to enter them of a warm
summer afternoon! Now, forsooth, the respectable old tenement is
replaced by a hotel. I beg pardon—a _house_, built after the style of
the Parthenon, its sides painted very white, and its blinds very green.
The bar-room is floored with tesselated squares of marble, and there is
a white marble counter, behind which presides a spruce young man with
long dark hair plastered over his right ear, and an emerald breast-pin
on his shirt bosom. Nay, it is rumored that the landlord has serious
designs of introducing a gong in the place of the good old-fashioned
bell of our forefathers. What is the country coming to?
Within my remembrance, the people of Tattletown were the best natured,
most industrious and contented people alive. Every evening in summer
their patriarchs might be seen sitting in front of their
woodbine-covered porches, smoking their pipes and talking over old
times, while groups of ruddy, riotous children, flaxen-haired and
blue-eyed, danced to the strains of some village Paganini. Poor,
deluded, miserable Tattletonians! What a sight was it for the
philanthropist to grieve at! Little knew they, of the errors and vices
of the social system! They had not read Miss Martineau’s tracts; knew
nothing of Owenism, nothing of Grahamism, nothing of transcendentalism,
nothing of Fourierism, nothing of Mormonism. The “Society for the
promotion of every thing,” had not established a branch among them. They
were benighted, uninitiated; contented to live as their fathers had
lived before them; to pluck the rose and leave the thorn behind; to keep
their linen and their consciences clean, and to remain at peace with all
mankind.
Then the belles of the village—how beautiful they were! how artless!
how adorned with every sylvan grace! Now they all seem to have lost the
heritage of loveliness. They look didactic, sedentary and precocious.
There is not the same bloom on the cheek—the same sparkle in the
eye—the same ruby mischief on the lip. Instead of cultivating their
music and their flower-gardens, working flags for the Tattletown
“Guardians of Liberty,” and teaching the children their catechisms on
Sundays, they are meddling with matters that they have not the means of
comprehending, establishing _anti-everything_ societies, and fussing
over phrenology and other newfangled heresies. Instead of a vase of
freshly gathered flowers upon their shelves, you are now greeted by a
vile plaster bust, with the skull phrenologically mapped out, and
figured. I never encounter one of the odious things, without putting my
fist in its face.
A religious revolution has, of course, been introduced among the other
mutations. Instead of one well-filled church, where all the villagers
may meet as members of one family, Tattletown can now boast of half a
dozen sectarian societies, which are eternally at war with one another.
Poor old Dr. Balmwell, who is still the meekest of God’s creatures, and
whose annual salary would not equal the one night’s wages of a
second-rate theatrical star, is denounced as a “haughty, over-fed
prelate,” “the advocate of an established church,” and a “vile minion of
the aristocracy.” Many a fair maiden is content to go with holes in her
stockings, in order that she may contribute to the “society for the
support of indigent young men intended for the ministry!”
“Dear smiling village! loveliest of the lawn!
Thy joys are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn.”
As for politics—but here I approach the subject which was uppermost in
my mind at starting. All the world knows that there are, or rather used
to be, two rival newspapers published at Tattletown, the editors of
which manage to keep the poor people in a perpetual ferment. There is
the Tattletown Independent American, edited by Mr. Snobb! and the
Tattletown _Free_ and Independent American, edited by Mr. Fobb. The
former is the longer established of the two, and, as the public are well
aware, is conservative in its tone. Fobb’s hebdomadal, on the contrary,
is characterised by the spirit of innovation. If a doctrine be new,
startling, incredible, abrupt, violating all preconceived notions and
prejudices, it commends itself at once to Fobb’s acceptance. He will
urge it with a boldness and pertinacity that confound the unthinking. To
incur his opposition, it is only necessary that a principle should be
old and well established. His morality would seem to resemble that of
the tribe, with whom it is a custom to kill all their old men and women.
Age is with him the worst of crimes, and the most penal. Novelty is the
first of charms.
Strange as it may seem, Fobb has his devoted admirers and active
supporters. As for Snobb, I am credibly informed, that, disgusted with
the supineness of the Tattletonians, he had at one time resolved to
relinquish the publication of the “Independent American,” when,
unexpectedly, the field was invaded by Fobb with his “Free and
Independent.” Then it was that the patriotism and disinterestedness of
Snobb’s character shone conspicuous. He was, to use his own vigorous
expression, determined to stand to his guns, and however great might be
the pecuniary sacrifice, to remain in the village to combat the
pernicious influence, which, “like the Bohon Upas,” I quote Snobb’s own
words—“would spread poison and desolation among families and
communities.” Snobb wound off his appeal, by calling upon all, who
valued their liberty and their lives; who would save their country from
intestine confusion and slaughter; who would keep unstained the altar of
domestic felicity, and transmit unimpaired that glorious fabric of
constitutional right, cemented by the blood of martyred ancestors—to
rally round him and the Independent American. “Any person obtaining five
subscribers,” said he in conclusion, “shall receive a sixth copy
gratis.”
It is difficult to conceive of the degree of excitement produced in
Tattletown by this fulmination, on the part of Snobb, and the subsequent
establishment of the “Free and Independent American,” on the part of
Fobb. Such a thing as neutrality could no longer exist. Great and vital
principles were at stake; and from the squire to the tinman’s
apprentice, it was necessary that every man should take one side or the
other—should be either a Snobbite or a Fobbite. Both journals were
benefited by this agitation. New subscribers poured in daily, and a fund
was raised by the partisans of each establishment for the more effectual
prosecution of the war. And what was the war about? To this day nobody
can tell.
Personalities now began to be interchanged. Snobb gave Fobb the lie
direct, and defied him to prove a statement which had appeared in the
“Free and Independent,” accusing Snobb of highway robbery, arson and
other little peccadilloes. Fobb treated Snobb’s defiance with an easy
irony, which bewildered the good people of Tattletown, who began to
think that Fobb must know a good deal more of Snobb than other people.
The following answer appeared in the “Independent American:”
“We must apologise to our readers for again polluting our columns with
an allusion to the reckless traducer, whose journal of yesterday came
forth reeking with slanders against ourselves. It would be charitable,
perhaps, to attribute to a diseased intellect, rather than a malicious
temper, these ebullitions of mendacity, but the motive is too obviously
bad. We can assure this poor creature, this beggarly reprobate and
unwashed scribbler, that mere declamation is not proof, and that
assertion carries no weight when unsustained by evidence. If he can keep
sober long enough, let him reply to the question which we once more
reiterate, ‘where are your proofs?’”
It was with intense anxiety that the citizens of Tattletown looked for
the next number of the “Free and Independent.” Never before had Snobb
been so severe, so savage. Fobb’s rejoinder excited public interest in
the quarrel, to a painful degree. It was as follows:
“The guilty fugitive from justice, whom it is with shame we acknowledge
as our contemporary, attempts to invalidate our charges by clamoring for
proofs. We beg him to reflect a moment before he repeats his call. If he
has sincerely striven to make reparation for past misdemeanors, by a
life comparatively guiltless—if there be any hope or prospect of
reformation in his case—most reluctantly would we be instrumental in
re-consigning him to the States-prison or the gallows. Before,
therefore, we come out with any statements, that shall be universally
admitted as final and conclusive as to the character of this man, we
will put a few questions which he will understand, however enigmatical
they may be to others. Did Snobb ever make the acquaintance of Miss
Amanda W——? Did he ever see a white crape scarf that used to belong to
that ill-fated young lady? Does he remember the circumstance of an old
pruning-knife being found beneath a cherry-tree? Has he still got _that
red silk hankerchief_?”
I must leave it for some more graphic pen—to the author of “Jack
Sheppard” or “Barnaby Rudge,” to depict the consternation and horror
produced among the Tattletonians by this publication. Could it be that
Tattletown harbored a murderer? What other interpretation could be put
upon the diabolical insinuations in Fobb’s paper? For a week and more
nothing was talked of but this article. At the post office—the tinman’s
shop—the grocer’s—on the steps of the meeting-houses, no other topic
was broached. With unprecedented eagerness the next number of Snobb’s
paper was looked for and purchased. The only allusion it contained to
Fobb’s ferocious attack was in these simple lines: “As we shall make the
insinuations contained in the last number of the Tattletown Free and
Independent the subject of a judicial investigation, it is quite
unnecessary for us to bestow any farther notice upon the miserable
calumniator, who is striving to get into notice by means of the
attention he may provoke from ourselves.”
Tattletown was disappointed in this rejoinder, and began to entertain
its suspicions as to the truth of Fobb’s intimations. The old women of
the place began to shake their heads and look wise, when the subject was
broached. “They _must_ say they always thought there was something
wrong—something not altogether _easy_ about Mr. Snobb. They hoped for
the best, but there _were_ things—however murder will out.” The fate of
the injured “Amanda” was a topic of endless speculation among the more
youthful of the feminine inhabitants; and there was a delightful mystery
about the “white crape scarf,” which afforded an exhaustless pabulum for
curiosity. Snobb must certainly clear up his character. He must explain
the circumstances in regard to that “ill-fated young lady.” He must tell
the public what became of “that red silk handkerchief.” Above all, he
must satisfactorily account for the horrible fact of the old
pruning-knife being found under the cherry-tree.
In the meantime Fobb declared that he was daily and hourly environed
with the perils of assassination. He was obliged to go armed, to protect
himself from the minions of the culprit Snobb. His fearless devotion to
the cause of truth and justice had “sharpened daggers that were
thirsting for his blood—but what was life compared with the proud
satisfaction of having maintained the cause of the people,
‘Unmoved by flattery and unbribed by gain?’”
In the midst of the excitement produced by this war of words, Tattletown
was electrified one fine morning in December, by the report, that Snobb
and Fobb had gone over to the neighboring village of Bungville to settle
their differences by mortal combat. Two spruce young men from New York
had arrived in the stage-coach the night before, and put up at the
Tattletown house. _They had brought guns with them_; and early that
morning the two editors, similarly armed and equipped, had started off
with the strangers in a wagon belonging to the latter, in the direction
of the village already named. As these facts became currently known
among the Tattletonians the sensation was prodigious. A meeting of the
“select men” was instantly called, and a committee of five, consisting
of Mr. Fuzz, the retired “squire of the village,” Mr. Rattle, the
tinman, Mr. Ponder, the celebrated lecturer on matters and things in
general, Mr. Rumble the auctioneer, and Mr. Blister the apothecary, were
appointed to proceed on horseback to Bungville, and prevent if possible
the duel—or, if that had transpired, to arrest the survivor and the
seconds.
Headed by Mr. Fuzz, the cavalcade started off in gallant style, followed
by the prayers and anxious entreaties of the gentler sex to prevent if
possible the “effusion of blood.” Miss Celestina Scragg, the poetess of
the village, and the author of the celebrated ode to that beautiful
stream, the Squamkeog, came very near being thrown under the hoofs of
the squire’s horse, as she appealed to Mr. Fuzz, and besought him to
rescue Albert, as she tenderly designated Mr. Fobb, or “perish in the
attempt.”
After riding hard for about an hour, the committee approached the
Bungville house, where they determined to make their first inquiries as
to the fate of the editors and their seconds. Mr. Buzz, the landlord,
was a brisk, officious little man, who always knew before you spoke what
you were going to say, and rarely listened to more than the two first
words of any question you might put to him. He was, moreover, a little
deaf, so that the habit of anticipation was, perhaps, as much a matter
of necessity as of choice.
“Have we arrived too late?” asked Fuzz.
“Oh, by more than an hour. It is all over,” replied Buzz, who supposed
that the inquiry had reference to the dinner hour.
“It is all over, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, in a magisterial tone, turning
to his awe-stricken companions. “Has any one been killed or wounded?”
continued he, addressing the landlord.
“Killed, indeed? I guess you would think so,” exclaimed Buzz. “They have
shot one fine, plump fellow.”
“It is probably Snobb. He is the plump one,” said Fuzz, contracting his
lips, and looking sternly round at the members of the committee. “Did he
fall dead on the spot?” he rejoined.
“Dead as Julius Cæsar—I may say very dead,” replied Buzz.
“Serious business this, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, dilating with importance.
Here Mr. Rattle, the tinman, was seen to mount his horse and gallop off
in the direction of Tattletown. He was determined to be the first to
communicate the news of the catastrophe.
“There will be no need of your services, Mr. Blister,” said Fuzz,
bestowing a patronizing glance upon the apothecary. “Have the seconds
escaped, Mr. Buzz?”
“Yes, the second one escaped, but with a bullet in his neck. They
tracked him a mile or two by his blood.”