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HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
VOLUME III.
JUNE TO NOVEMBER, 1851.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
NOS. 329 AND 331 PEARL STREET,
(FRANKLIN SQUARE.)
1852.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This Number closes the Third Volume of HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. In
closing the Second Volume the Publishers referred to the distinguished
success which had attended its establishment, as an incentive to further
efforts to make it worthy the immense patronage it had received:--they
refer with confidence to the Contents of the present Volume, for proof
that their promise has been abundantly fulfilled.
The Magazine has reached its present enormous circulation, simply
because it gives _a greater amount of reading matter, of a higher
quality, in better style, and at a cheaper price_ than any other
periodical ever published. Knowing this to be the fact, the Publishers
have spared, and will hereafter spare, no labor or expense which will
increase the value and interest of the Magazine in all these respects.
The outlay upon the present volume has been from five to ten thousand
dollars more than that upon either of its predecessors. The best talent
of the country has been engaged in writing and illustrating original
articles for its pages:--its selections have been made from a wider
field and with increased care; its typographical appearance has been
rendered still more elegant; and several new departments have been added
to its original plan.
The Magazine now contains, regularly:
_First._ One or more original articles upon some topic of historical or
national interest, written by some able and popular writer, and
illustrated by from fifteen to thirty wood engravings, executed in the
highest style of art.
_Second._ Copious selections from the current periodical literature of
the day, with tales of the most distinguished authors, such as DICKENS,
BULWER, LEVER, and others--chosen always for their literary merit,
popular interest, and general utility.
_Third._ A Monthly Record of the events of the day, foreign and
domestic, prepared with care and with the most perfect freedom from
prejudice and partiality of every kind.
_Fourth._ Critical Notices of the Books of the Day, written with
ability, candor, and spirit, and designed to give the public a clear and
reliable estimate of the important works constantly issuing from the
press.
_Fifth._ A Monthly Summary of European Intelligence, concerning books,
authors, and whatever else has interest and importance for the
cultivated reader.
_Sixth._ An Editor's Table, in which some of the leading topics of the
day will be discussed with ability and independence.
_Seventh._ An Editor's Easy Chair or Drawer, which will be devoted to
literary and general gossip, memoranda of the topics talked about in
social circles, graphic sketches of the most interesting minor matters
of the day, anecdotes of literary men, sentences of interest from papers
not worth reprinting at length, and generally an agreeable and
entertaining collection of literary miscellany.
The object of the Publishers is to combine the greatest possible VARIETY
and INTEREST, with the greatest possible UTILITY. Special care will
always be exercised in admitting nothing into the Magazine in the
slightest degree offensive to the most sensitive delicacy; and there
will be a steady aim to exert a healthy moral and intellectual
influence, by the most attractive means.
For the very liberal patronage the Magazine has already received, and
especially for the universally flattering commendations of the Press,
the Publishers desire to express their cordial thanks, and to renew
their assurances, that no effort shall be spared to render the work
still more acceptable and useful, and still more worthy of the
encouragement it has received.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME III.
Adventure with a Grizzly Bear 101
Ally Somers 610
American Notabilities 834
Anecdotes of Curran 108
Anecdotes of Paganini 39
Application of Electro-Magnetism to Railway Transit 786
Autobiography of a Sensitive Spirit 479
Bear-Steak 484
Blind Lovers of Chamouny 68
Bookworms 628
Bored Wells in Mississippi 539
Breton Wedding 87
Brush with a Bison 218
Captain's Self-Devotion 689
Chapter on Giraffes 202
Coffee-Planting in Ceylon 82
Conversation in a Stage Coach 105
Cricket 718
Convict's Tale 209
Daughter of Blood 74
Deserted House 241
Eagle and Swan 691
Eclipse in July, 1851 239
EDITOR'S DRAWER.
Preliminary; Word-painting; Grandiloquence; Memories of
Childhood; Good-nature, 282. Englishman's independence; Parodies;
Done twice; Punctuation; Epitaph; Personification, 284. Small
courtesies; Home California; Grumblers; Rachel Baker, 421. Take
physic, doctor; Moralizing; Curiosity, 422. Sabbath morning;
Pictures of Napoleon; Libraries; Booing; Childlike temper; Pretty
spry, 423. The sea; Old Eben; Harvest time; Long Island ghosts,
571. Alleged lunatic; Musical elephant, 572. The Bible; New use
of a note of hand; The Ship of Death; Taste in tombstones;
Tennyson's Word-painting, 573. Western eloquence; John Bull of
old; Interrupting conversation, 575. Ollapod on October; The
Virtues too cheap, 704. Charms of the incomprehensible; Harriet
Martineau on love; The fire annihilator, 705. Originality;
Eccentricities of Swift; The Iron Duke in Rhyme; On
reminiscences, 706. Taking an interest; Determination of the
Will, 707. In France without French; Mrs. Ramsbottom; The
Disbanded Volunteer, 851. Baron Vondullbrainz; Domestic Remedies;
Dr. Johnson on Scotland, 852. Hopeful Pupils; Lord Timothy
Dexter; Adjutant-birds, 853. Dinner-giving; Keep cool; Peter
Funk; Titles of songs; John Bull as a beat-ee, 854.
EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR.
Ex cathedra; The commercial and romantic way of telling a thing,
707. The winning loser, 708. Equestrianism as a beautifyer, 709.
Advent of autumn; Retrospective and prospective; Hard times; The
Arctic expedition, 849. Catherine Hayes; Madame Thillon; Mrs.
Warner; Healy's Webster; The Art Union; Leutze's Washington
Crossing the Delaware; American clippers, 850. French gossip;
Borrel and his wife, 851. Albert Smith, 852.
EDITOR'S TABLE.
The indestructibleness of the religious principle in the human
soul, 701. Night as represented by the Poets: Homer, Apollonius
Rhodius, Virgil, Byron, Job, 702. Pedantic fallacies on
education, 703. Progression of Ancestry and Posterity, 704.
Westward course of empire, 851. Marriage: the nuptial torch,
woman's rights, divorces, 846. True Charity: St. Augustine
thereupon, 848.
Episode in the Life of John Rayner 510
Escape from a Mexican Quicksand 481
Execution of Fieschi, Pepin, and Morey 76
Fairy's Choice 800
Faquir's Curse 375
Fashions for June 143
Fashions for July 287
Fashions for August 431
Fashions for September 575
Fashions for October 719
Fashions for November 863
Feet-Washing in Munich 349
Floating Island 781
Fortunes of the Reverend Caleb Ellison 680
Francis's Life Boats and Life Cars. By JACOB ABBOTT 161
French Cottage Cookery 369
Frenchman in London 236
Gallop for Life 802
Hartley Coleridge 334
Highest House in Wathendale 521
Household of Sir Thomas More 42, 183, 310, 498, 623, 757
Hunter's Wife 388
Ice-Hill Party in Russia 66
Incident during the Mutiny of 1797 652
Incidents of Dueling 630
Incident of Indian Life 80
Infirmities of Genius 327
Joanna Baillie 88
Jeweled Watch 96
Joe Smith and the Mormons 64
Josephine at Malmaison 222
Joys and Sorrows of Lumbering 517
Lamartine on the Restoration 685
Last days of the Emperor Alexander 565
Last Priestess of Pele 354
LEAVES FROM PUNCH.
Tired of the World; Pleasure Trip of Messrs. Robinson and Jones;
A Perfect Wretch, 141. Facts and Comments by Mr. Punch;
Comparative Love; Taking the Census; Mysterious Machine, 285.
Experimental Philosophy; The Interesting Story; Elegant and
Rational Costume for Hot Weather; A Wet Day at a Country Inn;
Scene at the Sea-Side; Affecting rather; Real Enjoyment; A Taste
for the Beautiful; Singular Optical Delusion; A most alarming
Swelling; Sunbeams from Cucumbers; Much Ado about Nothing; Little
Lessons for Little Ladies, 425. Holding the Mirror up to Nature;
A Bite; Much too considerate; A Lesson on Patience; Development
of Taste, 717. Brother Jonathan's First Lesson in Shipbuilding;
Not a difficult thing to foretell; Curiosities of Medical
Experience; Retirement, 861.
Lima and the Limanians 598
LITERARY NOTICES.
Philosophy of Mathematics; Life of Algernon Sidney; Journal and
Letters of Henry Martyn; Cooper's Water Witch, 138. Mayhew's
London Labor, 139, 281, 856. Barry's Fruit Garden; Female Jesuit;
The Wife's Sister; Poems by Mrs. E.H. Evans; Dealings with the
Inquisition; Opdyke's Political Economy; Harper's New York and
Erie Railroad Guide, 139. Tuckerman's Characteristics of
Literature; The Gold-Worshipers; Mrs. Sigourney's Letters to my
Pupils; Maurice Tiernay; Willis's Hurry-Graphs; Eastbury;
Episodes of Insect Life, 280, 568, 855. Arthur's Works, 140.
Memoirs of Wordsworth; Hitchcock's Religion of Geology; The
Glens; Abbott's Cleopatra; Mrs. Browning's Poems, 280. Cosmos;
Martin's Ortheopist; The Heir of West-Wayland; A Grandmother's
Recollections; Ida; Colton's Land and Sea; De Felice's
Protestants in France; Warren's Para; Herbert's Life and
Writings, 281. Caleb Field; Dr. Spring's First Things; Yeast;
Taylor's Angel's Song; Stuart of Dunleath; Shakspeare's Heroines;
The Solitary of Juan Fernandez; Bulwer's Not so Bad as We Seem,
282. The Parthenon; Lady Wortley's Travels in America; Hudson's
Shakspeare; Abbott's Josephine; Fresh Gleanings; Lossing's
Field-Book; The Daughter of Night, 419. James's Fate; Inventor's
Manual, 568; Memoirs of Bickersteth; Lamartine's Stone-Mason of
Saint Point; True Remedy for the Wrongs of Woman; The Literature
and Literary Men of Great Britain and Ireland, 569. Arthur
Conway; Odd-Fellows' Offering; Loomis's Algebra; the Christian
Retrospect and Register; Anthon's Roman Antiquities; Hildreth's
History of the United States; Carpenter's Travels and Adventures
in Mexico, 570. Sprague's Phi Beta Kappa Oration; Farmer's
Every-Day Book; The Nile Boat; The Iris; The Dew-Drop;
Willow-Lane Stories; Drayton; Lord's Epoch of Creation, 710.
Theory of Human Progression; Forest Life and Forest Trees;
Semme's Service Afloat and Ashore; The Lady and the Priest; The
Attache in Spain, 711. Scenes and Legends of the North of
Scotland; Miss Benger's Mary Queen of Scots; Motherwell's Poems;
Memoirs of the Buckminsters; Plymouth and the Pilgrims; St.
John's Geology; Ware's Sketches of European Capitals; Lamartine's
Restoration; Rule and Misrule of the English in America; Poore's
Life of Napoleon, 712. Bayard Taylor's Romances, Lyrics, and
Songs; Margaret; Abbott's Young Christian; Spooner's Dictionary
of Artists; Memoirs of Chalmers; The Bible in the Family; The
Scalp Hunters, 855. The Human Body in its Connection with Man;
Ladies of the Covenant; Alban; Fifteen Decisive Battles; Queens
of Scotland; The Lily and the Bee; London Labor; Malmiztic the
Toltec; The Mind and the Heart, 856.
London Sparrows 258
Lord Brougham as a Judge 622
Love and Smuggling 378
Madames De Genlis and De Stael 59
Mary Kingsford 121
Maurice Tiernay, the Soldier of Fortune.
By CHARLES LEVER 28, 171, 360, 471, 635, 767
Memories of Mexico 461
Mems for Musical Misses 488
Misers 614
MONTHLY RECORD OF CURRENT EVENTS.
UNITED STATES.
POLITICAL AND GENERAL NEWS.--Rumored descent upon Cuba;
President's Proclamation; arrests, 127. Legislature of New York;
the Canal Enlargement bill; close of the session; addresses to
the political parties, 127. Quick passages across the Atlantic,
128, 275, 564. Emigrants from abroad, 128, 275, 561. May
Anniversaries in New York, 128. Opening of the Erie Railroad,
128. Mr. Webster and Faneuil Hall, 129. Storm in New England,
129. Secret Ballot in Massachusetts, 129. Message of the Governor
of Connecticut, 129. Southern Rights Convention at Charleston;
Messrs. Cheves and Rhett, 129. Constitutional Convention in
Virginia, 129, 277, 414, 558. Miscellaneous Intelligence from the
Northwest, 129. Texas, 130, 277. New Mexico, 130. From
California: Extra-judicial executions; death for larceny; tax on
miners: Indian hostilities; population; gold; Japanese; thermal
springs, 130. Abstract of the census, 273. Dispersion of Cuban
expedition, 273. Speeches of Mr. Webster at Buffalo and Albany,
274. Methodist Book Concern suit, 274. Presbyterian General
Assembly at Utica, 275. At St. Louis, 275. Ocean steamers, 275.
Extra session of the New York Legislature, passage of the Canal
Enlargement bill, 275. Address of framers of the Constitution
against the bill, 275. Riot at Hoboken, 275. Legislature of
Massachusetts, principal bills passed, 276. Mr. Sumner's letter
of acceptance, 276. Maine and Massachusetts, 276. Liquor-law in
Maine, 276. Northern Eldorado, 276. Message of Governor Dinsmoore
of New Hampshire, 276. New Constitution in Maryland, 276.
Politics in Georgia, 276. In South Carolina, 276. In Mississippi,
276. Indian hostilities in Texas, 277. From California, 277. From
Oregon, 277. Whig and Democratic Conventions in Vermont, 411.
Democratic State Convention in New Hampshire, 411. Whig and
Democratic Conventions in Pennsylvania, 412. Whig Convention in
Ohio, 412. State Rights Convention in Mississippi, 412. Whig
Convention in California, 413. Mr. Webster's Fourth of July
speech at Washington, 413. Legislature of New York; Canal bill;
apportionment of representatives, 413. Position of Mr. Fish, 413.
Legislature of Rhode Island, 413. Acceptance of new Constitution
in Ohio, 413. Widows in Kentucky to vote, 413. Celebration of the
battle of Fort Moultrie at Charleston, 414. Senators Clemens and
King of Alabama, 414. Compromise resolutions in Connecticut, 414.
Legislature of Michigan, 414. Mormon trials, 414. Mr. Webster at
Capon Springs, 414. From California: fire at San Francisco;
quartz mining; Lynch law; Chinamen; abortive expedition against
Lower California, 415. Indian treaty in Oregon, 415. Miscellanies
from the Northwest, 415. Trial of General Talcott, 415. American
traveler imprisoned in Hungary, 415. College commencements, 415,
560. August elections, 557. State of parties, 557. Cuban
expedition sets out, 557. Progress of crime, 557. Prospects of
the harvest, 557. Indian hostilities along our frontiers, 557.
Meeting for co-operative resistance in Charleston, 557. Southern
Rights meeting, 558. New Constitution of Virginia, 558.
Democratic Convention in Ohio, 558. From California: new route;
another conflagration; T.B. McManus; vigilance committee, 559.
Joint call for a Whig Convention in New York, 559. Judge Bronson
on the Canal Enlargement bill, 560. Dinner to Archbishop Hughes,
560. Return of the steamer Atlantic, 561. Western Railroad
Convention, 561. Colored Convention in Indiana, 562. Sioux
treaty, 562. Steam to Ireland, 562. Letter from Kossuth, 562.
Fourth of July at Turks Island, 562. Emancipation of slaves by
Mr. Ragland, 562. Soundings in Gulf of Mexico, 562. Fugitive
slaves in Mexico, 562. Expedition to Cuba fails, 692. Excitement
in the United States, 693. Whig and Democratic Conventions in
Massachusetts, 693. Whig and Democratic Conventions in New York,
693. Severe storm, 694. From Texas: crops; trade; Indian affray;
Boundary Commission, 694. Fugitive slave cases, 694. Union
victory in Mississippi, 694. Slaves liberated by Mr. Caldwell,
694. From California: subsidence of Lynch law; mining; Indians;
politics, 695; more executions; conflict of authorities;
miscellaneous, 841. Meeting of the New York State Agricultural
Society, 840. Railroad celebration at Boston, 840. Return of the
Arctic Expedition, 840. Legislature of Vermont, 840. Accidents
and Shipwrecks, 840. Duels, 841. Michigan conspiracy trials, 841.
Bishop in New York, 841. From New Mexico: Indians; Col. Sumner's
command; Catholic Church, 841.
ELECTIONS.--Mr. Sumner in Massachusetts, 128. State officers in
Connecticut, 129. Congressional representatives in Massachusetts,
276. State officers in New Hampshire, 276. August elections for
members of Congress and State officers in several States, 557. Of
delegates to State Convention in Mississippi, 694. Of Governor
and Members of Congress in Georgia, 840.
SOUTHERN AMERICA.
Mexico: The revenue; Indian hostilities; meditated revolution,
130. Brazil and the Argentine Republic, 131, 277, 416, 697, 842.
Excitement in Cuba, 131. Hayti, 131. From Mexico; financial
difficulties; Indian hostilities; claims upon the United States,
277. From Peru: Election of President; disturbances, 277.
Disturbances in Chili, 277. Central America, 278. Financial
projects in Mexico, 416. Tehuantepec survey prohibited, 416.
Chili and Peru, 416. General Rosas, 416. Uruguay, 416. New
Constitution in Bolivia, 416. New Granada, 417. Plot in
Venezuela, 417. Proposed confederation in Central America, 417.
Cholera in Jamaica, 417. Cuba, 417. Santa Cruz, 417. Hostilities
in Hayti, 417. Gloomy state of affairs in Mexico, 562. Statement
of the Tehuantepec question, 563. Insurrectionary movements in
New Granada, 563, 697. Scarcity of labor in Jamaica; colored
emigrants solicited, 563. Riot at Kingston, 563. Abortive
insurrection in Cuba, 564. Failure of the expedition and
execution of Lopez, 692. Disturbances in Guayaquil, 696. Affairs
in Chili: Election of Montt as President; revenues; railroads;
storm, 696. Peru, 697. Mexican affairs: Financial schemes; Church
property; Tehuantepec difficulties; proposed South American
confederacy; disturbances; Payno's mission to England, 697.
Decline of the slave-trade in Brazil, 697. Peace in Hayti, 697.
Volcanic Eruption in Martinique, 697. Continued troubles in
Mexico, 842. Revolution in the Northern departments, 842.
Disturbances in Central America, 842. War between Brazil and
Rosas, 842. Chili and Peru, 843.
GREAT BRITAIN.
Opening of the Exhibition, 131. Duke of Wellington and the
statuette of Napoleon, 131. Proceedings in Parliament: Sundry
motions; Jews' bill; model lodging houses, 131. Speech of Sir
William Molesworth on the Colonies, 132. Lord Torrington as
Governor of Ceylon, 132. Aylesbury election vacated, 132. Dinner
to Lord Stanley, 132. Troubles in the Established Church, 132.
The Kaffir war, 132, 417. Manifesto of the Chartists, 132.
Emigration, 132, 843. Legal nicety, 132. Progress of the
Exhibition. 278, 417, 565, 698, 843. American contributions, 278.
Parliamentary proceedings, 278. Copyright decision in favor of
foreigners, 278. Protectionist meeting at Tamworth, 278.
Thackeray's lectures, 278. Mr. Cobden's peace motion, 417. Census
of Great Britain, 417. Steam between Ireland and United States,
417. Prince Albert on the American revolution, 418. Balloon
accident, 418. Passage of ecclesiastical titles bill, 564.
Jewish disabilities bill, 564. Mr. Salomons denied a seat in
Parliament, 564. Chancery reform, 565. Secret ballot, 565.
Bishops' revenues, 565. Decline of the slave trade, 565.
Depopulation of Ireland, 565. Opposition to copyright decision,
565. The queen and the corporation of London, 565. Mr. Peabody's
entertainment, 565. The Crystal Palace as a winter garden, 566.
Prerogation of Parliament, 597. The yacht races, 698. Catholic
meeting in Dublin, 698. Condition of laboring classes, 698.
Artistic defects, 698. Persistance of Mr. Salomons, 698. Speeches
of Lord Palmerston, Bulwer, Mr. Hunt, and Mr. Disraeli, 843.
Return of the Arctic Expedition, 843. Tour of the American
minister in Ireland, 843. Submarine Telegraph, 843.
FRANCE.
Difficulties in the way of revision, 133. New Provisional
Ministry formed, 133. Newspaper politics, 133. Troubles at Lyons,
133. Disturbances in the University, 133. Prosecutions against
the press, 133, 279. Bread society, 133. Refugee dinner, 133.
Holy week, 133. Hostilities in Algeria, 133. The President and
Abd-el-Kader, 133. Question of revision, 279, 418. Defeat of the
Kabyles, 279. Appointment of committee on revision, 418. The
President at Dijon, 418. Report of the committee on revision,
sketch of debate, and rejection of proposition, 566. Censure upon
and proffered resignation of ministers, 567. Free-trade motion
lost, 567. Fete to Exhibition commissioners, 567, 699.
Adjournment of Assembly, 699. Preparations for presidential
election, 699. Plots at Lyons, 699. Casualty at funeral of
Marshal Sebastiani, 699. Government and the press, 843. Progress
toward despotism, 843. Speech of the President, 844.
GERMANY.
Resuscitation of the Frankfort Diet, 133. Position of the Powers,
134. Refugee loan, 134. Close of the Dresden Conference, 279.
Meeting of sovereigns, 279. Speech of the King of Prussia, 279.
The Diet, 418. Affray at Hamburg, 418. English and French
protests against Austrian projects, 567. Press ordinance in
Austria, 567. Amnesty granted in Hesse Cassel, 567. Absolutism
predominant, 699. Political persecutions of musicians, 699.
Repression in Hungary, 700. Confiscation of the Allgemeine
Zeitung, 715. Extension of the Zollverein, 844. Progress of
Despotism in Austria, 844. Austrian loan, 844.
SOUTHERN EUROPE.
Insurrection in Portugal, and overthrow of the Thomar Ministry,
134, 279. Dissolution of the Spanish Cortes, 134. Railroad
commissioners appointed, 134. From Italy: Death of _Il
Passatore;_ books prohibited; Emperor of Austria at Venice;
anniversary of the battle of Novara, 134. Elections in Spain,
279. Concordat with Rome, 279. Disturbances in Madrid, 279.
Opposition to tobacco in Italy, 279, 418. The French at Rome,
279. Austrians in Italy, 418, 567. Banishment of Count
Guicciardini, 418. Mr. Gladstone on political prisoners at
Naples, 567. Portugal, 567. Arrests and Espionage in Italy, 699.
Foreign publications examined, 700. Inundations in Switzerland,
700. Catastrophe at Moscow, 700. Reply of the Neapolitan
Government to Mr. Gladstone, 844. Affairs at Rome, 844.
Excitement in Spain on the Cuban question, 844. Spanish Tariff,
844.
THE EAST.
Insurrections in Turkey, 134. Hungarian exiles, 134. Earthquake
in Anatolia, 134. Railroad across the Isthmus of Suez, 134.
Revolt in Egypt, 134. Affairs in India, 134. Plot against the
Nepaulese embassador, 134. Insurrection in China, 134, 567, 700.
Russian losses in Circassia, 567. Hurricane in India, 567. The
Governor-general, 567. Anti-mission movement among the Hindoos,
567. Cholera in the Canary Islands, 567. Kossuth to be liberated,
700. Annexation in India, 700. Affairs in Siam, 700. Massacre in
Formosa, 700. Release of Kossuth, 844. Difficulties between
Turkey and Austria, 844. Unsettled condition of Turkey, 845.
Difficulties between Persia and Russia, 845. From India, 845.
Discoveries of gold in Australia, 845.
LITERARY, SCIENTIFIC, AND PERSONAL.
UNITED STATES.--Visit of the President and Cabinet to the North,
135. St. George's Society, speeches of Mr. Bulwer, and Celtic
wrath, 135. W.L. Mackenzie, 135. American meeting for the
Advancement of Science, at Cincinnati, 135. Prussian medal to
Professor Morse, 135. Return of Jenny Lind, 135. Art-Union, 135.
Leutze's Washington Crossing the Delaware, 136. Woodville's Game
of Chess, 136. Power's La Dorado, 136. Mr. Whitney, 136. Golden
newspaper, 136. Philadelphia Art Union, 136. Chilly McIntosh,
136. Mr. Brace arrested in Hungary, 415. Talvi, 415. Mr. B.A.
Gould, 415. Commencements of colleges, 415, 560. Dinner to
Archbishop Hughes, 560. The Art Union, 561. Thorwaldssen's
models, 561. Statue to De Witt Clinton, 561. Huntington, Gray,
Page, 561. Greenough's Pioneer, 561. Release of Mr. Brace, 562.
Indian chiefs, 562. First book printed in New York, 562.
Education Association at Cleveland, 694. Anticipated trial of Mr.
Brace, 700. Kossuth to be liberated, 700. Small lions at Soirees,
713. Literary strategy, 713. New work of Jonathan Edwards, 716.
Catherine Hayes, 716. Father Mathew, 841. Monument to Cooper,
841. Methodist Book Concern, 860. W.G. Simms, 860. Works of
Andrews Norton, 860. Stockhardt's Agricultural Chemistry, 860.
FOREIGN.--Sir Charles Lyell on rain-drop impressions, 136.
Chapman on cotton in India, 136. Artificial gems, 137. Pensions
to J.S. Buckingham, Col. Torrens, and Mrs. Jameson, 698. Mr.
Jerdan, 698. Haynau at home, 698. Notices of Tuckerman and
Ungewitter, 713. Present state of copyright question, 713.
Railroad literature, 714. Estimation of Andrews' Latin Lexicon,
714. The Bateman children, 715. De Soto's Conquest of Florida,
715. Gavelkind, 715. Lingard's library, 715. Latham's Ethnology,
715. Complete Works of Frederick the Great, 716. Eugene Sue, 716.
Gasparis, 716. Reboul, the baker poet, 716. Shakspeare abroad,
716. Cayley's Dante, 857. Tupper's Hymn, 857. Thomas Cooper, 857.
Thackeray's forthcoming novel, 857. English Records, 857.
Parkman's Pontiac, 857, 860. Carlyle's Life of Stirling, 858.
Comte's Philosophy, 858. Layard's Investigations, 858. Monument
to Wordsworth, 858. Achilli, Mazzini, 858. Thier's Consulate,
858. De Cassagnac, 858. Cheap publications, 858. St. Just, 858.
Proudhon, 858. Spinoza, 859. Dumas, 859. Eugene Sue, Jules Janin,
859. De Maistre, 859. Unacknowledged translations, 859. Brentano,
Metternich, 859. Monument to Muller, 859.
OBITUARIES.
Philip Hone, 137. Hon. David Daggett, 137. Hon. William Steele,
137. Gen. Hugh Brady, 137. Stephen, Olin, D.D., 695. Hon. Levi
Woodbury, 695. James Fenimore Cooper, 695. Thomas H. Gallaudet,
696. Sylvester Graham, 696. Prof. Beverley Tucker, 696. Dr.
Paulus, 700. Mr. Gibbon, 713. Harriet Lee, 713. Lady Louisa
Stuart, 713. Daniel O'Sullivan, 715. Dr. Lorenz Oken, 715. John
Godfrey Gruber, 716. M. Dupaty, 716. James Richardson, 860.
William Nicol, 860. B.P. Gibbon, 860. John Kidd, 860.
Morbid Impulses 181
My Novel; or, Varieties in English Life.
By SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON 111, 256, 394, 541, 665, 816
Napoleon Bonaparte. By JOHN S.C. ABBOTT 289, 433, 577, 721
Never Despair 651
New Proofs of the Earth's Rotation 99
Our National Anniversary. By BENSON J. LOSSING 145
Oriental Saloons in Madrid 335
Pearl Divers 46
Pedestrian in Holland 351
Peep at the Peraharra 322
Personal Habits of the Walpoles 79
Phantoms and Realities 49, 187, 337
Pie Shops of London 392
Pools of Ellendeen 466
Postal Reform--Cheap Postage 837
Poulailler the Robber 489
Race Horses and Horse Races 329
Recollections of the Author of Lacon 648
Reminiscences of An Attorney 314
Scene from Irish Life 832
Scientific Fantasies 496
Seals and Whales 764
Scottish Revenge 836
Shots in the Jungle 527
Shadow of Ben Jonson's Mother 810
Siberia as a Land of Exile 782
Sight of An Angel 25
Sketches of Oriental Life 805
Solar System 207
Somnambule 304
Somnambulism 196
Spanish Bull Fight 359
Stories of Shipwreck 62
Story of an Organ 754
Story of Reynard the Fox 742
Student Life in Paris 373
Summer. By JAMES THOMSON 1
Syrian Superstitions 839
The Flying Artist 761
The Right One 619
The Stolen Rose 787
The Town-Ho's Story. By HERMAN MELVILLE 658
The Treason of Benedict Arnold. By BENSON J. LOSSING 451
The Two Roads 61
The Usurer's Gift 232
Thomas Moore 791
Tobacco Factory in Spain 326
Village Life in Germany 320
Visit at Mr. Webster's. By Lady EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY 94
Visit to Laplanders 248
Visit to Robinson Crusoe 530
Visit to The North Cape 102
Warnings of The Past 391
Waterspout in Indian Ocean 469
Weovil Biscuit Manufactory 487
White Silk Bonnet 533
Widow of Cologne 815
Woman's Emancipation.--A letter from a strong-minded American
Woman 424
Woman's Offices and Influence 654
Wordsworth, Byron, Scott, Shelley 502
Work Away 231
Worship of Gold 252
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1. Refulgent Summer comes 1
2. The meek-eyed dawn appears 2
3. From some promontory's top 3
4. Approach of evening 4
5. Reclined beneath the shade 5
6. Infancy, youth, and age 6
7. Hay-making 6
8. Sheep-washing 7
9. Slumbers the monarch swain 8
10. A various group the flocks and herds 8
11. A thousand shapes majestic stalk 9
12. An ample chair, moss-lined 10
13. Birth of the Nile 12
14. From steep to steep he pours his urn 12
15. Sad on the jutting eminence he sits 13
16. The mother strains her infant 13
17. Pouring forth pestilence 15
18. Stricken with plague 15
19. Thunder-storm 16
20. Young Celadon and his Amelia 17
21. A blackened corpse was struck the maid 17
22. The soft hour of walking 19
23. View on the Thames 19
24. The sailor's farewell 20
25. Shepherd and milkmaid 22
26. At eve the fairy people throng 22
27. Evening yields the world to night 23
28. Philosophy directs the helm 24
29. Rotation of the earth--Diagram 1 100
30. Rotation of the earth--Diagram 2 100
31. Tired of the world 141
32. Robinson and Jones pleasuring 141
33. Robinson and Jones on Deck 142
34. Robinson before and after a Voyage 142
35. A perfect Wretch 142
36. Costumes for early Summer 143
37. Evening dress 144
38. Head-dress 144
39. Bonnet 144
40. Portraits of Adams, Sherman, Livingston, Jefferson, and
Franklin 145
41. Portrait of Earl of Bute 146
42. Portrait of James Otis 147
43. Portrait of Patrick Henry 148
44. Independence Hall, Philadelphia 151
45. Portrait of John Hancock 152
46. Portrait of Robert Morris 152
47. Portrait of Richard Henry Lee 153
48. Portrait of John Dickinson 153
49. Portrait of Edward Rutledge 154
50. Portrait of Samuel Adams 154
51. Portrait of John Witherspoon 155
52. The Liberty Bell 157
53. Fac-simile of the Signatures to the Declaration of
Independence 158
54. Hauling the Life-car 161
55. The Life-car--Diagram 1 162
56. The Life-car--Diagram 2 162
57. The Life-car--Diagram 3 162
58. The Life-car--Diagram 4 162
59. Seizing the Cask 163
60. Firing the Shot 164
61. The Hydraulic Press 165
62. The Surf-boat 168
63. Climbing the Rope 169
64. The Tent 170
65. The Eclipse of 1851--Diagram 1 239
66. The Eclipse of 1851--Diagram 2 239
67. The Eclipse of 1851--Diagram 3 239
68. The Eclipse of 1851--Diagram 4 240
69. The Eclipse of 1851--Map 240
70. The Eclipse of 1851--enlarged Map 241
71. The Eclipse of 1851--Digits 241
72. Comparative Love 285
73. Taking the Census 286
74. A strange Machine 286
75. Costumes for Summer 287
76. Bonnets 288
77. Turkish Costume 288
78. The Birth-house of Napoleon 290
79. The Home of Napoleon's Childhood 292
80. Napoleon at Brienne 293
81. The Snow Fort 295
82. Lieutenant Bonaparte 299
83. The Water-excursion 303
84. Varieties of Bloomers 424
85. Experimental Philosophy 425
86. The interesting Story 425
87. Costumes for the Dog-days 425
88. A wet day at a Country Inn 426
89. Scene at the sea side 426
90. Affecting--rather 427
91. Real Enjoyment 427
92. A Taste for the Beautiful 428
93. Singular optical Delusion 428
94. A most alarming Swelling 429
95. Sunbeams from Cucumbers 429
96. Much Ado about Nothing 430
97. Little Lessons for Little Ladies 430
98. Costumes for August 431
99. Jackets 432
100. Boy's Dress 432
101. The Attack upon the Tuileries 435
102. The Emigrants 436
103. The Volunteer Gunners 440
104. Night Studies 443
105. Napoleon before the Convention 448
106. The Amazon discomfited 450
107. Portrait of Benedict Arnold 451
108. Portrait of Major Andre 453
109. Portrait of Sir Henry Clinton 453
110. Portrait of Beverley Robinson 453
111. Robinson's House 454
112. Smith's House 455
113. Arnold's Pass to Andre 456
114. Map of Andre's Route 457
115. Place of Andre's Capture 457
116. Breakfast Room at Robinson's House 458
117. View at Robinson's Dock 458
118. Washington's Head Quarters at Tappan 459
119. Andre's Pen-and-Ink sketch of himself 459
120. Andre's Monument 460
121. Paulding's Monument 460
122. Van Wart's Monument 460
123. Artesian Wells in Mississippi 539
124. The Auger for boring 539
125. Auger rods 539
126. The Pump 540
127. Bits for boring through Rock 540
128. Boring Apparatus complete 540
129. The Couter 540
130. Pump-logs 541
131. Section of Logs 541
132. Fashions for September 575
133. Bonnet and Head-dress 576
134. Chemisette 576
135. Napoleon and Eugene Beauharnais 578
136. Napoleon and his Generals 583
137. Napoleon on Mount Zemolo 585
138. Passage of the Bridge of Lodi 590
139. Napoleon and the Courier 593
140. The Burning of Banasco 595
141. Peruvian Cavalier 600
142. Limena at Home 602
143. Cholitas or Indian Women of Peru 603
144. Coming from Mass 604
145. Holding the Mirror up to Nature 717
146. A Bite 717
147. Much too considerate 717
148. A Lesson on Patience 718
149. Development of Taste 718
150. Costumes for October 719
151. Carriage Costume 720
152. Caps and Under-sleeve 720
153. The Encampment before Mantua 721
154. The Little Corporal and the Sentinel 725
155. The Solitary Bivouac 726
156. The Dead Soldier and his Dog 728
157. The Marshes of Arcola 733
158. The Exhausted Sentinel 739
159. Reynard at Home 743
160. Reynard as a Hermit 744
161. Sir Tibert delivering the King's Message 745
162. Reynard brings forward the Hare 746
163. Reynard on his Pilgrimage to Rome 747
164. Reynard attacks the Rabbit 748
165. Brother Jonathan's First Lesson in Shipbuilding 861
166. Not a difficult thing to foretell 861
167. Curiosities of Medical Experience 862
168. Retirement 862
169. Costumes for November 863
170. Opera Dress 864
171. Head-Dresses and Caps 864
HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
NO. XIII.--JUNE, 1851.--VOL. III.
SUMMER.
BY JAMES THOMSON
[Illustration: Refulgent Summer comes]
From brightening fields of ether fair-disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent SUMMER comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth:
He comes attended by the sultry hours,
And ever-fanning breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth, and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.
Hence, let me haste into the mid wood shade,
Where scarce a sunbeam wanders through the gloom
And on the dark-green grass, beside the brink
Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak
Rolls o'er the rocky channel, lie at large,
And sing the glories of the circling year.
Come, Inspiration! from thy hermit-seat,
By mortal seldom found: may fancy dare,
From thy fix'd serious eye, and raptur'd glance
Shot on surrounding heaven, to steal one look
Creative of the poet, every power
Exalting to an ecstasy of soul.
And thou, my youthful muse's early friend,
In whom the human graces all unite;
Pure light of mind, and tenderness of heart;
Genius and wisdom; the gay social sense,
By decency chastis'd; goodness and wit,
In seldom-meeting harmony combin'd;
Unblemish'd honor, and an active zeal
For Britain's glory, liberty, and man:
O Dodington! attend my rural song,
Stoop to my theme, inspirit every line,
And teach me to deserve thy just applause.
With what an awful world-revolving power
Were first the unwieldy planets launch'd along
The illimitable void! thus to remain,
Amid the flux of many thousand years,
That oft has swept the toiling race of men
And all their labor'd monuments away,
Firm, unremitting, matchless, in their course,
To the kind-temper'd change of night and day,
And of the Seasons ever stealing round,
Minutely faithful: such the All-perfect Hand
That pois'd, impels, and rules the steady whole.
When now no more the alternate Twins are fir'd,
And Cancer reddens with the solar blaze,
Short is the doubtful empire of the night;
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint-gleaming in the dappled east--
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow,
And, from before the lustre of her face,
White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step,
Brown night retires. Young day pours in apace,
And opens all the lawny prospect wide.
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top,
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue, through the dusk, the smoking currents shine;
And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps, awkward; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes,
The native voice of undissembled joy,
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Rous'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells;
And from the crowded fold, in order, drives
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn.
[Illustration: The meek-eyed dawn appears]
Falsely luxurious, will not man awake;
And, springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy
The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour,
To meditation due and sacred song?
For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise?
To lie in dead oblivion, losing half
The fleeting moments of too short a life;
Total extinction of the enlighten'd soul!
Or else to feverish vanity alive,
Wilder'd, and tossing through distemper'd dreams
Who would in such a gloomy state remain
Longer than nature craves; when every muse
And every blooming pleasure wait without,
To bless the wildly devious morning-walk?
But yonder comes the powerful king of day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud,
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow
Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and color'd air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad;
And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays
On rocks, and hills, and towers, and wandering streams,
High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, light!
Of all material beings first, and best!
Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe!
Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapp'd
In unessential gloom; and thou, O sun!
Soul of surrounding worlds! in whom best seen
Shines out thy Maker! may I sing of thee?
'Tis by thy secret, strong, attractive force,
As with a chain indissoluble bound,
Thy system rolls entire; from the far bourn
Of utmost Saturn, wheeling wide his round
Of thirty years, to Mercury, whose disk
Can scarce be caught by philosophic eye,
Lost in the near effulgence of thy blaze.
Informer of the planetary train!
Without whose quickening glance their cumbrous orbs
Were brute unlovely mass, inert and dead,
And not, as now, the green abodes of life--
How many forms of being wait on thee!
Inhaling spirit; from the unfetter'd mind,
By thee sublim'd, down to the daily race,
The mixing myriads of thy setting beam.
The vegetable world is also thine,
Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede
That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain,
Annual, along the bright ecliptic-road,
In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime.
Meantime the expecting nations, circled gay
With all the various tribes of foodful earth,
Implore thy bounty, or send grateful up
A common hymn; while, round thy beaming car,
High-seen, the Seasons lead, in sprightly dance
Harmonious knit, the rosy-finger'd hours,
The zephyrs floating loose, the timely rains,
Of bloom ethereal the light-footed dews,
And soften'd into joy the surly storms.
These, in successive turn, with lavish hand,
Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower,
Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch,
From land to land is flush'd the vernal year.
Nor to the surface of enliven'd earth,
Graceful with hills and dales, and leafy woods,
Her liberal tresses, is thy force confin'd--
But, to the bowel'd cavern darting deep,
The mineral kinds confess thy mighty power.
Effulgent, hence the veiny marble shines;
Hence labor draws his tools; hence burnish'd war
Gleams on the day; the nobler works of peace
Hence bless mankind; and generous commerce binds
The round of nations in a golden chain.
The unfruitful rock itself, impregn'd by thee,
In dark retirement forms the lucid stone.
The lively diamond drinks thy purest rays,
Collected light, compact; that, polish'd bright.
And all its native lustre let abroad,
Dares, as it sparkles on the fair one's breast,
With vain ambition emulate her eyes.
At thee the ruby lights its deepening glow,
And with a waving radiance inward flames.
From thee the sapphire, solid ether, takes
Its hue cerulean; and, of evening tinct,
The purple streaming amethyst is thine.
With thy own smile the yellow topaz burns;
Nor deeper verdure dyes the robe of Spring,
When first she gives it to the southern gale,
Than the green emerald shows. But, all combin'd,
Thick through the whitening opal play thy beams;
Or, flying several from its surface, form
A trembling variance of revolving hues,
As the site varies in the gazer's hand.
The very dead creation, from thy touch,
Assumes a mimic life. By thee refin'd,
In brighter mazes the relucent stream
Plays o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt,
Projecting horror on the blacken'd flood,
Softens at thy return. The desert joys
Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds.
Rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep,
Seen from some pointed promontory's top,
Far to the blue horizon's utmost verge,
Restless, reflects a floating gleam. But this,
And all the much-transported muse can sing,
Are to thy beauty, dignity, and use,
Unequal far; great delegated source
Of light, and life, and grace, and joy below!
[Illustration: From some promontory's top]
How shall I then attempt to sing of him,
Who, Light himself! in uncreated light
Invested deep, dwells awfully retired
From mortal eye, or angel's purer ken,
Whose single smile has, from the first of time,
Fill'd, overflowing, all those lamps of heaven,
That beam forever through the boundless sky;
But, should he hide his face, the astonish'd sun,
And all the extinguish'd stars, would loosening reel
Wide from their spheres, and chaos come again.
And yet was every faltering tongue of man,
Almighty Father! silent in thy praise,
Thy works themselves would raise a general voice
Even in the depth of solitary woods,
By human foot untrod, proclaim thy power;
And to the quire celestial thee resound,
The eternal cause, support, and end of all!
To me be Nature's volume broad-display'd;
And to peruse its all-instructing page,
Or, haply catching inspiration thence,
Some easy passage, raptur'd, to translate,
My sole delight; as through the falling glooms
Pensive I stray, or with the rising dawn
On fancy's eagle-wing excursive soar.
[Illustration: Approach of evening]
Now, flaming up the heavens, the potent sun
Melts into limpid air the high-rais'd clouds,
And morning fogs, that hover'd round the hills
In party-color'd bands; till wide unveil'd
The face of nature shines, from where earth seems
Far stretch'd around, to meet the bending sphere.
Half in a blush of clustering roses lost,
Dew-dropping coolness to the shade retires,
There, on the verdant turf, or flowery bed,
By gelid founts and careless rills to muse;
While tyrant heat, dispreading through the sky,
With rapid sway, his burning influence darts
On man, and beast, and herb, and tepid stream.
Who can, unpitying, see the flowery race,
Shed by the morn, their new-flush'd bloom resign,
Before the parching beam? So fade the fair,
When fevers revel through their azure veins.
But one, the lofty follower of the sun,
Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves,
Drooping all night; and, when he warm returns,
Points her enamor'd bosom to his ray.
Home, from the morning task, the swain retreats;
His flock before him stepping to the fold:
While the full-udder'd mother lows around
The cheerful cottage, then expecting food,
The food of innocence and health! The daw,
The rook, and magpie, to the gray-grown oaks
(That the calm village in their verdant arms,
Sheltering, embrace) direct their lazy flight;
Where on the mingling boughs they sit embower'd,
All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise.
Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene;
And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,
The housedog, with the vacant grayhound, lies
Outstretched and sleepy. In his slumbers one
Attacks the nightly thief, and one exults
O'er hill and dale; till, waken'd by the wasp,
They, starting, snap. Nor shall the muse disdain
To let the little noisy summer race
Live in her lay, and flutter through her song,
Not mean, though simple: to the sun allied,
From him they draw their animating fire.
Wak'd by his warmer ray, the reptile young
Come wing'd abroad; by the light air upborne,
Lighter, and full of soul. From every chink,
And secret corner, where they slept away
The wintry storms--or, rising from their tombs
To higher life--by myriads, forth at once,
Swarming they pour; of all the varied hues
Their beauty-beaming parent can disclose.
Ten thousand forms! ten thousand different tribes!
People the blaze. To sunny waters some
By fatal instinct fly; where, on the pool,
They, sportive, wheel; or, sailing down the stream
Are snatch'd immediate by the quick-ey'd trout,
Or darting salmon. Through the greenwood glade
Some love to stray; there lodg'd, amus'd, and fed
In the fresh leaf. Luxurious, others make
The meads their choice, and visit every flower,
And every latent herb: for the sweet task,
To propagate their kinds, and where to wrap,
In what soft beds, their young, yet undisclos'd,
Employs their tender care. Some to the house,
The fold, and dairy, hungry, bend their flight;
Sip round the pail, or taste the curdling cheese:
Oft, inadvertent, from the milky stream
They meet their fate; or, weltering in the bowl,
With powerless wings around them wrapp'd, expire.
But chief to heedless flies the window proves
A constant death; where, gloomily retir'd,
The villain spider lives, cunning and fierce,
Mixture abhorr'd! Amid a mangled heap
Of carcasses, in eager watch he sits,
O'erlooking all his waving snares around.
Near the dire cell the dreadless wanderer oft
Passes, as oft the ruffian shows his front.
The prey at last ensnar'd, he dreadful darts,
With rapid glide, along the leaning line;
And, fixing in the wretch his cruel fangs,
Strikes backward, grimly pleas'd: the fluttering wing,
And shriller sound, declare extreme distress
And ask the helping hospitable hand.
Resounds the living surface of the ground.
Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum,
To him who muses through the woods at noon;
Or drowsy shepherd, as he lies reclin'd,
With half shut eyes, beneath the floating shade
Of willows gray, close-crowding o'er the brook.
[Illustration: Reclined beneath the shade]
Gradual, from these what numerous kinds descend,
Evading even the microscopic eye!
Full nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass
Of animals, or atoms organiz'd,
Waiting the vital breath, when Parent-Heaven
Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen,
In putrid streams, emits the living cloud
Of pestilence. Through the subterranean cells.
Where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way,
Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf
Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure,
Within its winding citadel, the stone
Holds multitudes. But chief the forest boughs,
That dance unnumber'd to the playful breeze,
The downy orchard, and the melting pulp
Of mellow fruit, the nameless nations feed
Of evanescent insects. Where the pool
Stands mantled o'er with green, invisible
Amid the floating verdure millions stray.
Each liquid, too, whether it pierces, soothes,
Inflames, refreshes, or exalts the taste,
With various forms abounds. Nor is the stream
Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air,
Though one transparent vacancy it seems,
Void of their unseen people. These, conceal'd
By the kind art of forming Heaven, escape
The grosser eye of man: for, if the worlds
In worlds inclos'd should on his senses burst,
From cates ambrosial, and the nectar'd bowl,
He would abhorrent turn; and in dead night.
When silence sleeps o'er all, be stunn'd with noise.
Let no presuming impious railer tax
Creative Wisdom, as if aught was form'd
In vain, or not for admirable ends.
Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce
His works unwise, of which the smallest part
Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind?
As if upon a full-proportion'd dome,
On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art!
A critic fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads
An inch around, with blind presumption bold,
Should dare to tax the structure of the whole.
And lives the man whose universal eye
Has swept at once the unbounded scheme of things,
Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord,
As with unfaltering accent to conclude
That _this_ availeth naught? Has any seen
The mighty chain of beings, lessening down
From Infinite Perfection to the brink
Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss!
From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns?
Till then, alone let zealous praise ascend,
And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power,
Whose wisdom shines as lovely on our minds,
As on our smiling eyes his servant-sun.
Thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways,
Upward and downward, thwarting and convolv'd,
The quivering nations sport; till, tempest-wing'd,
Fierce Winter sweeps them from the face of day
Even so, luxurious men, unheeding pass,
An idle summer-life in fortune's shine,
A season's glitter! thus they flutter on
From toy to toy, from vanity to vice;
Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes
Behind, and strikes them from the book of life.
[Illustration: Infancy, youth, and age]
Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead
The rustic youth, brown with meridian toil,
Healthful and strong; full as the summer rose
Blown by prevailing suns, the ruddy maid,
Half-naked, swelling on the sight, and all
Her kindled graces burning o'er her cheek.
Even stooping age is here; and infant hands
Trail the long rake, or, with the fragrant load
O'ercharg'd, amid the kind oppression roll.
Wide flies the tedded grain; all in a row
Advancing broad, or wheeling round the field,
They spread the breathing harvest to the sun,
That throws refreshful round a rural smell;
Or, as they rake the green-appearing ground,
And drive the dusky wave along the mead,
The russet haycock rises thick behind,
In order gay: while heard from dale to dale,
Waking the breeze, resounds the blended voice
Of happy labor, love, and social glee.
[Illustration: Hay-making]
Or rushing thence, in one diffusive band,
They drive the troubled flocks, by many a dog
Compell'd, to where the mazy-running brook
Forms a deep pool; this bank abrupt and high,
And that, fair-spreading in a pebbled shore.
Urg'd to the giddy brink, much is the toil,
The clamor much, of men, and boys, and dogs,
Ere the soft fearful people to the flood
Commit their woolly sides. And oft the swain,
On some impatient seizing, hurls them in:
Embolden'd, then, nor hesitating more,
Fast, fast they plunge amid the flashing wave,
And panting labor to the farther shore.
Repeated this, till deep the well-wash'd fleece
Has drank the flood, and from his lively haunt
The trout is banish'd by the sordid stream,
Heavy and dripping, to the breezy brow
Slow move the harmless race; where, as they spread
Their swelling treasures to the sunny ray,
Inly disturb'd, and wondering what this wild
Outrageous tumult means, their loud complaints
The country fill--and, toss'd from rock to rock,
Incessant bleatings run around the hills.
At last, of snowy white, the gather'd flocks
Are in the wattled pen innumerous press'd,
Head above head; and rang'd in lusty rows
The shepherds sit, and whet the sounding shears.
The housewife waits to roll her fleecy stores,
With all her gay-dress'd maids attending round.
One, chief, in gracious dignity enthron'd,
Shines o'er the rest, the pastoral queen, and rays
Her smiles, sweet-beaming, on her shepherd-king,
While the glad circle round them yield their souls
To festive mirth, and wit that knows no gall.
Meantime, their joyous task goes on apace:
Some, mingling, stir the melted tar, and some,
Deep on the new-shorn vagrant's heaving side
To stamp his master's cipher ready stand;
Others the unwilling wether drag along;
And, glorying in his might, the sturdy boy
Holds by the twisted horns the indignant ram.
Behold where bound, and of its robe bereft,
By needy man, that all-depending lord,
How meek, how patient, the mild creature lies!
What softness in its melancholy face,
What dumb, complaining innocence appears!
Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 'tis not the knife
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you wav'd;
No, 'tis the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who having now, to pay his annual care,
Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again.
[Illustration: Sheep-washing]
A simple scene! yet hence Britannia sees
Her solid grandeur rise: hence she commands
The exalted stores of every brighter clime,
The treasures of the sun without his rage;
Hence, fervent all, with culture, toil, and arts,
Wide glows her land; her dreadful thunder hence
Rides o'er the waves sublime, and now, even now,
Impending hangs o'er Gallia's humbled coast;
Hence rules the circling deep, and awes the world.
'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun
Darts on the head direct his forceful rays.
O'er heaven and earth, far as the ranging eye
Can sweep, a dazzling deluge reigns; and all,
From pole to pole, is undistinguish'd blaze.
In vain the sight, dejected to the ground,
Stoops for relief; thence hot ascending streams
And keen reflection pain. Deep to the root
Of vegetation parch'd, the cleaving fields
And slippery lawn an arid hue disclose,
Blast fancy's blooms, and wither even the soul.
Echo no more returns the cheerful sound
Of sharpening scythe; the mower, sinking, heaps
O'er him the humid hay, with flowers perfum'd;
And scarce a chirping grasshopper is heard
Through the dumb mead. Distressful nature pants.
The very streams look languid from afar;
Or, through the unshelter'd glade, impatient, seem
To hurl into the covert of the grove.
All conquering heat, oh, intermit thy wrath!
And on my throbbing temples potent thus
Beam not so fierce! Incessant still you flow,
And still another fervent flood succeeds,
Pour'd on the head profuse. In vain I sigh,
And restless turn, and look around for night:
Night is far off; and hotter hours approach.
Thrice-happy be! who on the sunless side
Of a romantic mountain, forest-crown'd,
Beneath the whole-collected shade reclines,
Or in the gelid caverns, woodbine-wrought,
And fresh bedew'd with ever-spouting streams,
Sits coolly calm, while all the world without,
Unsatisfied and sick, tosses in noon.
Emblem instructive of the virtuous man,
Who keeps his temper'd mind serene, and pure,
And every passion aptly harmoniz'd,
Amid a jarring world with vice inflam'd.
Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!
Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks!
Ye ashes wild, responding o'er the steep!
Delicious is your shelter to the soul,
As to the hunted hart the sallying spring,
Or stream full-flowing, that his swelling sides
Laves, as he floats along the herbag'd brink.
Cool, through the nerves, your pleasing comfort glides;
The heart beats glad; the fresh-expanded eye
And ear resume their watch; the sinews knit;
And life shoots swift through all the lighten'd limbs.
[Illustration: A various group the flocks and herds]
[Illustration: Slumbers the monarch swain]
Around the adjoining brook that purls along
The vocal grove, now fretting o'er a rock,
Now scarcely moving through a reedy pool,
Now starting to a sudden stream, and now
Gently diffus'd into a limpid plain,
A various group the herds and flocks compose
Rural confusion! On the grassy bank
Some ruminating lie; while others stand
Half in the flood, and often bending sip
The circling surface. In the middle droops
The strong laborious ox, of honest front,
Which incompos'd he shakes; and from his sides
The troublous insects lashes with his tail,
Returning still. Amid his subjects safe,
Slumbers the monarch swain: his careless arm
Thrown round his head, on downy moss sustain'd:
Here laid his scrip, with wholesome viands fill'd;
There, listening every noise, his watchful dog.
Light fly his slumbers, if perchance a flight
Of angry gadflies fasten on the herd;
That startling scatters from the shallow brook,
In search of lavish stream. Tossing the foam,
They scorn the keeper's voice, and scour the plain
Through all the bright severity of noon;
While, from their laboring breasts, a hollow moan
Proceeding, runs low-bellowing round the hills.
Oft in this season too the horse, provok'd,
While his big sinews full of spirits swell,
Trembling with vigor, in the heat of blood,
Springs the high fence; and, o'er the field effus'd,
Darts on the gloomy flood, with steadfast eye,
And heart estrang'd to fear: his nervous chest,
Luxuriant and erect, the seat of strength!
Bears down the opposing stream; quenchless his thirst,
He takes the river at redoubled draughts:
And with wide nostrils, snorting, skims the wave.
Still let me pierce into the midnight depth
Of yonder grove, of wildest, largest growth;
That, forming high in air a woodland quire,
Nods o'er the mount beneath. At every step,
Solemn and slow, the shadows blacker fall,
And all is awful listening gloom around.
These are the haunts of meditation, these
The scenes where ancient bards the inspiring breath,
Ecstatic, felt: and, from this world retir'd.
Convers'd with angels, and immortal forms,
On gracious errands bent: to save the fall
Of virtue struggling on the brink of vice;
In waking whispers, and repeated dreams,
To hint pure thought, and warn the favor'd soul
For future trials fated to prepare;
To prompt the poet, who devoted gives
His muse to better themes; to soothe the pangs
Of dying worth, and from the patriot's breast
(Backward to mingle in detested war,
But foremost when engag'd) to turn the death:
And numberless such offices of love,
Daily and nightly, zealous to perform.
[Illustration: A thousand shapes majestic stalk]
Shook sudden from the bosom of the sky,
A thousand shapes or glide athwart the dusk,
Or stalk majestic on. Deep-rous'd, I feel
A sacred terror, a severe delight,
Creep through my mortal frame; and thus, methinks.
A voice, than human more, the abstracted ear
Of fancy strikes, "Be not of us afraid,
Poor kindred man! thy fellow-creatures, we
From the same Parent-Power our beings drew--
The same our Lord, and laws, and great pursuit.
Once some of us, like thee, through stormy life
Toil'd tempest-beaten, ere we could attain
This holy calm, this harmony of mind,
Where purity and peace immingle charms:
Then fear not us; but with responsive song,
Amid those dim recesses, undisturb'd
By noisy folly and discordant vice,
Of nature sing with us, and nature's God.
Here frequent, at the visionary hour,
When musing midnight reigns or silent noon,
Angelic harps are in full concert heard,
And voices chanting from the wood-crown'd hill,
The deepening dale, or inmost sylvan glade;
A privilege bestow'd by us, alone,
On contemplation, or the hallow'd ear
Of poet, swelling to seraphic strain."
And art thou, Stanley, of that sacred band?
Alas, for us too soon! Though rais'd above
The reach of human pain, above the flight
Of human joy, yet, with a mingled ray
Of sadly pleas'd remembrance, must thou feel
A mother's love, a mother's tender woe;
Who seeks thee still in many a former scene,
Seeks thy fair form, thy lovely beaming eyes,
Thy pleasing converse, by gay lively sense
Inspir'd--where moral wisdom mildly shone
Without the toil of art, and virtue glow'd.
In all her smiles, without forbidding pride.
But, O thou best of parents! wipe thy tears;
Or rather to parental Nature pay
The tears of grateful joy--who for a while
Lent thee this younger self, this opening bloom
Of thy enlighten'd mind and gentle worth.
Believe the muse: the wintry blast of death
Kills not the buds of virtue; no, they spread.
Beneath the heavenly beam of brighter suns,
Through endless ages, into higher powers.
Thus up the mount, in airy vision rapt,
I stray, regardless whither; till the sound
Of a near fall of water every sense
Wakes from the charm of thought: swift-shrinking back,
I check my steps, and view the broken scene.
Smooth to the shelving brink a copious flood
Rolls fair and placid; where collected all,
In one impetuous torrent, down the steep
It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round.
At first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad;
Then whitening by degrees as prone it falls,
And from the loud-resounding rocks below
Dash'd in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft
A hoary mist, and forms a ceaseless shower
Nor can the tortur'd wave here find repose:
But, raging still amid the shaggy rocks,
Now flashes o'er the scattered fragments, now
Aslant the hollow'd channel rapid darts;
And falling fast from gradual slope to slope,
With wild infracted course, and lessen'd roar,
It gains a safer bed, and steals at last,
Along the mazes of the quiet vale.
Invited from the cliff, to whose dark brow
He clings, the steep-ascending eagle soars,
With upward pinions, through the flood of day,
And, giving full his bosom to the blaze,
Gains on the sun; while all the tuneful race,
Smit by afflictive noon, disorder'd droop,
Deep in the thicket; or, from bower to bower
Responsive, force an interrupted strain.
The stockdove only through the forest coos,
Mournfully hoarse; oft ceasing from his plaint,
Short interval of weary woe! again
The sad idea of his murder'd mate,
Struck from his side by savage fowler's guile
Across his fancy comes; and then resounds
A louder song of sorrow through the grove.
Beside the dewy border let me sit,
All in the freshness of the humid air:
There on that hollow'd rock, grotesque and wild,
An ample chair moss-lin'd, and overhead
By flowing umbrage shaded; where the bee
Strays diligent, and with the extracted balm
Of fragrant woodbine loads his little thigh.
[Illustration: An ample chair, moss-lined]
Now, while I taste the sweetness of the shade,
While nature lies around deep-lull'd in noon,
Now come, bold fancy, spread a daring flight,
And view the wonders of the torrid zone
Climes unrelenting! with whose rage compar'd,
Yon blaze is feeble, and yon skies are cool.
See, how at once the bright-effulgent sun,
Rising direct, swift chases from the sky
The short-liv'd twilight; and with ardent blaze
Looks gayly fierce o'er all the dazzling air:
He mounts his throne; but kind before him sends,
Issuing from out the portals of the morn,
The general breeze to mitigate his fire,
And breathe refreshment on a fainting world.
Great are the scenes, with dreadful beauty crown'd
And barbarous wealth, that see, each circling year,
Returning suns and double seasons pass:
Rocks rich in gems, and mountains big with mines,
That on the high equator ridgy rise,
Whence many a bursting stream auriferous plays;
Majestic woods, of every vigorous green,
Stage above stage, high waving o'er the hills,
Or to the far horizon wide-diffus'd,
A boundless deep immensity of shade.
Here lofty trees, to ancient song unknown,
The noble sons of potent heat and floods
Prone-rushing from the clouds, rear high to heaven
Their thorny stems, and broad around them throw
Meridian gloom. Here, in eternal prime,
Unnumber'd fruits, of keen, delicious taste
And vital spirit, drink amid the cliffs,
And burning sands that bank the shrubby vales,
Redoubled day; yet in their rugged coats
A friendly juice to cool its rage contain.
Bear me, Pomona! to thy citron groves;
To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclin'd
Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,
Fann'd by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit.
Deep in the night the massy locust sheds,
Quench my hot limbs; or lead me through the maze,
Embowering, endless, of the Indian fig;
Or thrown at gayer ease, on some fair brow,
Let me behold, by breezy murmurs cool'd,
Broad o'er my head the verdant cedar wave,
And high palmettos lift their graceful shade.
Oh! stretch'd amid these orchards of the sun,
Give me to drain the cocoa's milky bowl,
And from the palm to draw its freshening wine;
More bounteous far than all the frantic juice
Which Bacchus pours. Nor, on its slender twigs
Low-bending, be the full pomegranate scorn'd;
Nor, creeping through the woods, the gelid race
Of berries. Oft in humble station dwells
Unboastful worth, above fastidious pomp.
Witness, thou best ananas, thou the pride
Of vegetable life, beyond whate'er
The poets imag'd in the golden age:
Quick let me strip thee of thy tufty coat,
Spread thy ambrosial stores, and feast with Jove!
From these the prospect varies. Plains immense
Lie stretch'd below, interminable meads,
And vast savannas, where the wandering eye,
Unfix'd, is in a verdant ocean lost.
Another Flora there, of bolder hues
And richer sweets, beyond our garden's pride,
Plays o'er the fields, and showers with sudden hand
Exuberant Spring; for oft these valleys shift
Their green-embroidered robe to fiery brown,
And swift to green again, as scorching suns,
Or streaming dews and torrent rains, prevail.
Along these lonely regions, where, retir'd
From little scenes of art, great Nature dwells
In awful solitude, and naught is seen
But the wild herds that own no master's stall,
Prodigious rivers roll their fattening seas;
On whose luxuriant herbage, half-conceal'd,
Like a fall'n cedar, far diffus'd his train,
Cas'd in green scales, the crocodile extends.
The flood disparts: behold! in plaited mail,
Behemoth rears his head. Glanc'd from his side,
The darted steel in idle shivers flies:
He fearless walks the plain, or seeks the hills;
Where, as he crops his varied fare, the herds,
In widening circle round, forget their food,
And at the harmless stranger wondering gaze.
Peaceful, beneath primeval trees that cast
Their ample shade o'er Niger's yellow stream.
And where the Ganges rolls his sacred wave,
Or 'mid the central depth of blackening woods
High-rais'd in solemn theater around,
Leans the huge elephant; wisest of brutes!
Oh, truly wise! with gentle might endow'd,
Though powerful, not destructive. Here he sees
Revolving ages sweep the changeful earth,
And empires rise and fall; regardless he
Of what the never-resting race of men
Project: thrice happy! could he 'scape their guile,
Who mine, from cruel avarice, his steps,
Or with his towery grandeur swell their state,
The pride of kings! or else his strength pervert,
And bid him rage amid the mortal fray,
Astonish'd at the madness of mankind.
Wide o'er the winding umbrage of the floods,
Like vivid blossoms glowing from afar,
Thick-swarm the brighter birds. For Nature's hand.
That with a sportive vanity has deck'd
The plumy nations, there her gayest hues
Profusely pours. But, if she bids them shine,
Array'd in all the beauteous beams of day,
Yet frugal still, she humbles them in song.
Nor envy we the gaudy robes they lent
Proud Montezuma's realm, whose legions cast
A boundless radiance waving on the sun,
While philomel is ours; while in our shades,
Through the soft silence of the listening night,
The sober-suited songstress trills her lay.
But come, my muse, the desert-barrier burst,
A wild expanse of lifeless sand and sky,
And, swifter than the toiling caravan,
Shoot o'er the vale of Sennaar, ardent climb
The Nubian mountains, and the secret bounds
Of jealous Abyssinia boldly pierce.
Thou art no ruffian, who beneath the mask
Of social commerce com'st to rob their wealth,
No holy fury thou, blaspheming Heaven.
With consecrated steel to stab their peace,
And through the land, yet red from civil wounds,
To spread the purple tyranny of Rome.
Thou, like the harmless bee, may'st freely range,
From mead to mead bright with exalted flowers,
From jasmine grove to grove; may'st wander gay,
Through palmy shades and aromatic woods,
That grace the plains, invest the peopled hills,
And up the more than Alpine mountains wave.
There on the breezy summit, spreading fair
For many a league; or on stupendous rocks.
That from the sun-redoubling valley lift,
Cool to the middle air their lawny tops;
Where palaces, and fanes, and villas rise,
And gardens smile around, and cultur'd fields;
And fountains gush; and careless herds and flocks
Securely stray; a world within itself,
Disdaining all assault: there let me draw
Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales.
Profusely breathing from the spicy groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts, that sweep
From disembowel'd earth the virgin gold;
And o'er the varied landscape, restless, rove,
Fervent with life of every fairer kind.
A land of wonders! which the sun still eyes
With ray direct, as of the lovely realm
Enamor'd, and delighting there to dwell.
How chang'd the scene! In blazing height of noon.
The sun, oppress'd, is plung'd in thickest gloom.
Still horror reigns, a dreary twilight round,
Of struggling night and day malignant mix'd.
For to the hot equator crowding fast,
Where, highly rarefied, the yielding air
Admits their stream, incessant vapors roll,
Amazing clouds on clouds continual heap'd;
Or whirl'd tempestuous by the gusty wind,
Or silent borne along, heavy and slow,
With the big stores of steaming oceans charg'd.
Meantime, amid these upper seas, condens'd
Around the cold aerial mountain's brow,
And by conflicting winds together dash'd,
The thunder holds his black tremendous throne;
From cloud to cloud the rending lightnings rage;
Till, in the furious elemental war
Dissolv'd, the whole precipitated mass
Unbroken floods and solid torrents pours.
[Illustration: Birth of the Nile]
The treasures these, hid from the bounded search
Of ancient knowledge; whence, with annual pomp,
Rich king of floods! o'erflows the swelling Nile.
From his two springs, in Gojam's sunny realm,
Pure-welling out, he through the lucid lake
Of fair Dembia rolls his infant stream.
There, by the naiads nurs'd, he sports away
His playful youth, amid the fragrant isles
That with unfading verdure smile around.
Ambitious, thence the manly river breaks;
And gathering many a flood, and copious fed
With all the mellow'd treasures of the sky,
Winds in progressive majesty along:
Through splendid kingdoms now devolves his maze;
Now wanders wild o'er solitary tracts
Of life-deserted sand: till glad to quit
The joyless desert, down the Nubian rocks,
From thundering steep to steep, he pours his urn.
And Egypt joys beneath the spreading wave.
[Illustration: From steep to steep he pours his urn]
His brother Niger too, and all the floods
In which the full-form'd maids of Afric lave
Their jetty limbs; and all that from the tract
Of woody mountains stretch'd through gorgeous Ind
Fall on Cormandel's coast, or Malabar;
From Menam's orient stream, that nightly shines
With insect lamps, to where aurora sheds
On Indus' smiling banks the rosy shower;
All, at this bounteous season, ope their urns,
And pour untoiling harvest o'er the land.
Nor less thy world, Columbus, drinks, refresh'd
The lavish moisture of the melting year.
Wide e'er his isles, the branching Orinoque
Rolls a brown deluge; and the native drives
To dwell aloft on life-sufficing trees--
At once his dome, his robe, his food, and arms.
Swell'd by a thousand streams, impetuous hurl'd
From all the roaring Andes, huge descends
The mighty Orellana. Scarce the muse
Dares stretch her wing o'er this enormous mass
Of rushing water; scarces she dares attempt
The sea-like Plata; to whose dread expanse,
Continuous depth, and wondrous length of course,
Our floods are rills. With unabated force,
In silent dignity they sweep along;
And traverse realms unknown, and blooming wilds,
And fruitful deserts--worlds of solitude,
Where the sun smiles and Seasons teem in vain,
Unseen and unenjoyed. Forsaking these,
O'er peopled plains they fair-diffusive flow,
And many a nation feed, and circle safe,
In their soft bosom, many a happy isle;
The seat of blameless Pan, yet undisturbed
By Christian crimes and Europe's cruel sons.
Thus pouring on they proudly seek the deep,
Whose vanquish'd tide, recoiling from the shock,
Yields to this liquid weight of half the globe;
And ocean trembles for his green domain.
But what avails this wondrous waste of wealth,
This gay profusion of luxurious bliss,
This pomp of Nature? what their balmy meads.
Their powerful herbs, and Ceres void of pain?
By vagrant birds dispers'd, and wafting winds.
What their unplanted fruits? what the cool draughts,
The ambrosial food, rich gums, and spicy health,
Their forests yield? their toiling insects what,
Their silky pride, and vegetable robes?
Ah! what avail their fatal treasures, hid
Deep in the bowels of the pitying earth,
Golconda's gems, and sad Potosi's mines?
Where dwelt the gentlest children of the sun!
What all that Afric's golden rivers roll,
Her odorous woods, and shining ivory stores?
Ill-fated race! the softening arts of peace,
Whate'er the humanizing muses teach;
The godlike wisdom of the tempered breast;
Progressive truth, the patient force of thought;
Investigation calm, whose silent powers
Command the world; the light that leads to Heaven;
Kind equal rule, the government of laws,
And all-protecting freedom, which alone
Sustains the name and dignity of man:
These are not theirs. The parent sun himself
Seems o'er this world of slaves to tyrannize;
And, with oppressive ray, the roseate bloom
Of beauty blasting, gives the gloomy hue,
And feature gross; or worse, to ruthless deeds,
Mad jealousy, blind rage, and fell revenge,
Their fervid spirit fires. Love dwells not there,
The soft regards, the tenderness of life,
The heart-shed tear, the ineffable delight
Of sweet humanity: these court the beam
Of milder climes; in selfish fierce desire,
And the wild fury of voluptuous sense,
There lost. The very brute creation there
This rage partakes, and burns with horrid fire.
Lo! the green serpent, from his dark abode,
Which even imagination fears to tread,
At noon forth-issuing, gathers up his train
In orbs immense, then, darting out anew,
Seeks the refreshing fount, by which diffus'd
He throws his folds; and while, with threatening tongue
And dreadful jaws erect, the monster curls
His flaming crest, all other thirst appall'd,
Or shivering flies, or check'd at distance stands,
Nor dares approach. But still more direful he,
The small close-lurking minister of fate,
Whose high concocted venom through the veins
A rapid lightning darts, arresting swift
The vital current. Form'd to humble man,
This child of vengeful Nature! There, sublim'd
To fearless lust of blood, the savage race
Roam, licens'd by the shading hour of guilt,
And foul misdeed, when the pure day has shut
His sacred eye. The tiger, darting fierce,
Impetuous on the prey his glance has doom'd;
The lively-shining leopard, speckled o'er
With many a spot, the beauty of the waste;
And, scorning all the taming arts of man,
The keen hyena, fellest of the fell:
These, rushing from the inhospitable woods
Of Mauritania, or the tufted isles
That verdant rise amid the Libyan wild,
Innumerous glare around their shaggy king,
Majestic, stalking o'er the printed sand;
And, with imperious and repeated roars,
Demand their fated food. The fearful flocks
Crowd near the guardian swain; the nobler herds,
Where round their lordly bull, in rural ease,
They ruminating lie, with horror hear
The coming rage. The awaken'd village starts;
And to her fluttering breast the mother strains
Her thoughtless infant. From the pirate's den,
Or stern Morocco's tyrant fang, escap'd,
The wretch half-wishes for his bonds again;
While, uproar all, the wilderness resounds,
From Atlas eastward to the frighted Nile.
[Illustration: The mother strains her infant]
[Illustration: Sad on the jutting eminence he sits]
Unhappy he! who from the first of joys,
Society, cut off, is left alone
Amid this world of death. Day after day,
Sad on the jutting eminence he sits,
And views the main that ever toils below;
Still fondly forming in the farthest verge,
Where the round ether mixes with the wave,
Ships, dim-discovered, dropping from the clouds.
At evening, to the setting sun he turns
A mournful eye, and down his dying heart
Sinks helpless; while the wonted roar is up,
And hiss continual through the tedious night.
Yet here, even here, into these black abodes
Of monsters, unappall'd, from stooping Rome,
And guilty Caesar, Liberty retired,
Her Cato following through Numidian wilds;
Disdainful of Campania's gentle plains
And all the green delights Ausonia pours--
When for them she must bend the servile knee,
And fawning take the splendid robber's boon.
Nor stop the terrors of these regions here.
Commission'd demons oft, angels of wrath,
Let loose the raging elements. Breath'd hot
From all the boundless furnace of the sky,
And the wide glittering waste of burning sand,
A suffocating wind the pilgrim smites
With instant death. Patient of thirst and toil,
Son of the desert! even the camel feels,
Shot through his wither'd heart, the fiery blast.
Or from the black-red ether, bursting broad,
Sallies the sudden whirlwind. Straight the sands,
Commov'd around, in gathering eddies play;
Nearer and nearer still they darkening come,
Till, with the general all-involving storm
Swept up, the whole continuous wilds arise;
And by their noonday fount dejected thrown,
Or sunk at night in sad disastrous sleep,
Beneath descending hills, the caravan
Is buried deep. In Cairo's crowded streets
The impatient merchant, wondering, waits in vain,
And Mecca saddens at the long delay.
But chief at sea, whose every flexile wave
Obeys the blast, the aerial tumult swells.
In the dread ocean, undulating wide,
Beneath the radiant line that girts the globe,
The circling Typhon, whirl'd from point to point,
Exhausting all the rage of all the sky,
And dire Ecnephia reign. Amid the heavens,
Falsely serene, deep in a cloudy speck
Compress'd, the mighty tempest brooding dwells
Of no regard save to the skillful eye,
Fiery and foul, the small prognostic hangs
Aloft, or on the promontory's brow
Musters its force. A faint deceitful calm,
A fluttering gale, the demon sends before,
To tempt the spreading sail. Then down at once,
Precipitant, descends a mingled mass
Of roaring winds, and flame, and rushing floods.
In wild amazement fix'd the sailor stands.
Art is too slow. By rapid fate oppress'd,
His broad-wing'd vessel drinks the whelming tide,
Hid in the bosom of the black abyss.
With such mad seas the daring Gama fought,
For many a day, and many a dreadful night,
Incessant, laboring round the _stormy cape_;
By bold ambition led, and bolder thirst
Of gold. For then, from ancient gloom, emerg'd
The rising world of trade: the genius, then,
Of navigation, that in hopeless sloth
Had slumber'd on the vast Atlantic deep
For idle ages, starting, heard at last
The Lusitanian prince; who, heaven-inspired,
To love of useful glory rous'd mankind,
And in unbounded commerce mixed the world.
Increasing still the terrors of these storms,
His jaws horrific arm'd with threefold fate,
Here dwells the direful shark. Lur'd by the scent
Of steaming crowds, of rank disease, and death,
Behold! he rushing cuts the briny flood,
Swift as the gale can bear the ship along;
And from the partners of that cruel trade
Which spoils unhappy Guinea of her sons,
Demands his share of prey--demands themselves.
The stormy fates descend: one death involves
Tyrants and slaves; when straight their mangled limbs
Crashing at once, he dyes the purple seas
With gore, and riots in the vengeful meal.
When o'er this world, by equinoctial rains
Flooded immense, looks out the joyless sun,
And draws the copious steam; from swampy fens,
Where putrefaction into life ferments,
And breathes destructive myriads; or from woods,
Impenetrable shades, recesses foul,
In vapors rank and blue corruption wrapp'd,
Whose gloomy horrors yet no desperate foot
Has ever dar'd to pierce--then, wasteful, forth
Walks the dire power of pestilent disease.
A thousand hideous fiends her course attend,
Sick nature blasting, and a heartless woe,
And feeble desolation, casting down
The towering hopes and all the pride of man.
Such as, of late, at Carthagena quench'd
The British fire. You, gallant Vernon, saw
The miserable scene; you, pitying, saw
To infant weakness sunk the warrior's arm;
Saw the deep-racking pang, the ghastly form,
The lip pale-quivering, and the beamless eye
No more with ardor bright; you heard the groans
Of agonizing ships, from shore to shore;
Heard, nightly plung'd amid the sullen waves,
The frequent corse--while on each other fix'd,
In sad presage, the blank assistants seemed,
Silent, to ask, whom fate would next demand.
[Illustration: Pouring forth pestilence]
[Illustration: Stricken with plague]
What need I mention those inclement skies
Where, frequent o'er the sickening city, plague,
The fiercest child of Nemesis divine,
Descends? From Ethiopia's poison'd woods,
From stifled Cairo's filth, and fetid fields
With locust-armies putrefying heap'd,
This great destroyer sprung. Her awful rage
The brutes escape. Man is her destin'd prey,
Intemperate man! and o'er his guilty domes
She draws a close incumbent cloud of death;
Uninterrupted by the living winds,
Forbid to blow a wholesome breeze; and stain'd
With many a mixture by the sun, suffus'd,
Of angry aspect. Princely wisdom, then,
Dejects his watchful eye; and from the hand
Of feeble justice, ineffectual, drop
The sword and balance: mute the voice of joy,
And hush'd the clamor of the busy world.
Empty the streets, with uncouth verdure clad.
Into the worst of deserts sudden turn'd
The cheerful haunt of men--unless escap'd
From the doom'd house, where matchless horror reigns,
Shut up by barbarous fear, the smitten wretch,
With frenzy wild, breaks loose, and loud to Heaven
Screaming, the dreadful policy arraigns,
Inhuman and unwise. The sullen door,
Yet uninfected, on its cautious hinge
Fearing to turn, abhors society.
Dependents, friends, relations, Love himself,
Savag'd by woe, forget the tender tie,
The sweet engagement of the feeling heart.
But vain their selfish care: the circling sky,
The wide enlivening air is full of fate;
And, struck by turns, in solitary pangs
They fall, unblest, untended, and unmourn'd.
Thus o'er the prostrate city black despair
Extends her raven wing; while, to complete
The scene of desolation, stretch'd around,
The grim guards stand, denying all retreat,
And give the flying wretch a better death.
Much yet remains unsung: the rage intense
Of brazen-vaulted skies, of iron fields,
Where drought and famine starve the blasted year;
Fir'd by the torch of noon to tenfold rage,
The infuriate hill that shoots the pillar'd flame;
And, rous'd within the subterranean world,
The expanding earthquake, that resistless shakes
Aspiring cities from their solid base,
And buries mountains in the flaming gulf.
But 'tis enough; return, my vagrant muse:
A nearer scene of horror calls thee home.
Behold, slow-settling o'er the lurid grove,
Unusual darkness broods; and growing gains
The full possession of the sky, surcharg'd
With wrathful vapor, from the secret beds,
Where sleep the mineral generations, drawn.
Thence nitre, sulphur, and the fiery spume
Of fat bitumen, steaming on the day,
With various-tinctur'd trains of latent flame,
Pollute the sky, and in yon baleful cloud,
A reddening gloom, a magazine of fate,
Ferment; till, by the touch ethereal rous'd,
The dash of clouds, or irritating war
Of fighting winds, while all is calm below,
They furious spring. A boding silence reigns,
Dread through the dun expanse; save the dull sound
That from the mountain, previous to the storm,
Rolls o'er the muttering earth, disturbs the flood,
And shakes the forest leaf without a breath.
Prone, to the lowest vale, the aerial tribes
Descend: the tempest-loving raven scarce
Dares wing the dubious dusk. In rueful gaze
The cattle stand, and on the scowling heavens
Cast a deploring eye; by man forsook,
Who to the crowded cottage hies him fast,
Or seeks the shelter of the downward cave.
'Tis listening fear, and dumb amazement all:
When to the startled eye the sudden glance
Appears far south, eruptive through the cloud;
And following slower, in explosion vast,
The thunder raises his tremendous voice.
At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of heaven,
The tempest growls; but as it nearer comes,
And rolls its awful burden on the wind,
The lightnings flash a larger curve, and more
The noise astounds--till overhead a sheet
Of livid flame discloses wide, then shuts
And opens wider, shuts and opens still
Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze.
Follows the loosen'd aggravated roar,
Enlarging, deepening, mingling, peal on peal
Crush'd horrible, convulsing heaven and earth.
[Illustration: Thunder-storm]
Down comes a deluge of sonorous hail,
Or prone-descending rain. Wide-rent, the clouds
Pour a whole flood; and yet, its flame unquench'd
The unconquerable lightning struggles through,
Ragged and fierce, or in red whirling balls,
And fires the mountains with redoubled rage.
Black from the stroke, above, the smouldering pine
Stands a sad shatter'd trunk; and, stretch'd below,
A lifeless group the blasted cattle lie:
Here the soft flocks, with that same harmless look
They wore alive, and ruminating still
In fancy's eye; and there the frowning bull,
And ox half-rais'd. Struck on the castled cliff,
The venerable tower and spiry fane
Resign their aged pride. The gloomy woods
Start at the flash, and from their deep recess,
Wide-flaming out, their trembling inmates shade
Amid Caernarvon's mountains rages loud
The repercussive roar; with mighty crush,
Into the flashing deep, from the rude rocks
Of Penmaenmawr heap'd hideous to the sky,
Tumble the smitten cliffs; and Snowdon's peak,
Dissolving, instant yields his wintry load.
Far-seen, the heights of heathy Cheviot blaze,
And Thule bellows through her utmost isles.
Guilt hears appall'd, with deeply troubled thought,
And yet not always on the guilty head
Descends the fated flash. Young Celadon
And his Amelia were a matchless pair;
With equal virtue form'd, and equal grace,
The same, distinguish'd by their sex alone:
Hers the mild lustre of the blooming morn,
And his the radiance of the risen day.
[Illustration: Young Celadon and his Amelia]
They lov'd: but such their guileless passion was,
As in the dawn of time inform'd the heart
Of innocence, and undissembling truth.
'Twas friendship heighten'd by the mutual wish,
The enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow,
Beam'd from the mutual eye. Devoting all
To love, each was to each a dearer self;
Supremely happy in the awaken'd power
Of giving joy. Alone, amid the shades,
Still in harmonious intercourse they liv'd
The rural day, and talk'd the flowing heart,
Or sigh'd and look'd unutterable things.
[Illustration: A blackened corpse was struck the maid]
So pass'd their life, a clear united stream,
By care unruffled; till, in evil hour,
The tempest caught them on the tender walk,
Heedless how far, and where its mazes stray'd,
While, with each other bless'd, creative love
Still bade eternal Eden smile around.
Heavy with instant fate, her bosom heav'd
Unwonted sighs, and stealing oft a look
Of the big gloom, on Celadon her eye
Fell tearful, wetting her disorder'd cheek.
In vain assuring love, and confidence
In Heaven, repress'd her fear; it grew, and shook
Her frame near dissolution. He perceiv'd
The unequal conflict; and, as angels look
On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed,
With love illumin'd high. "Fear not," he said,
"Sweet innocence! thou stranger to offense,
And inward storm! He who yon skies involves
In frowns and darkness, ever smiles on thee
With kind regard. O'er thee the secret shaft
That wastes at midnight, or the undreaded hour
Of noon, flies harmless; and that very voice
Which thunders terror through the guilty heart,
With tongues of seraphs whispers peace to thine.
'Tis safety to be near thee sure, and thus
To clasp perfection!" From his void embrace,
Mysterious Heaven! that moment, to the ground,
A blacken'd corse, was struck the beauteous maid,
But who can paint the lover, as he stood,
Pierc'd by severe amazement, hating life,
Speechless, and fix'd in all the death of woe!
So, faint resemblance, on the marble tomb
The well-dissembled mourner stooping stands,
Forever silent, and forever sad.
As from the face of heaven the shatter'd clouds
Tumultuous rove, the interminable sky
Sublimer swells, and o'er the world expands
A purer azure. Nature, from the storm,
Shines out afresh; and through the lighten'd air
A higher lustre and a clearer calm,
Diffusive, tremble; while, as if in sign
Of danger past, a glittering robe of joy,
Set off abundant by the yellow ray,
Invests the fields, yet dropping from distress.
'Tis beauty all, and grateful song around,
Join'd to the low of kine, and numerous bleat
Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clover'd vale.
And shall the hymn be marr'd by thankless man,
Most-favor'd; who with voice articulate
Should lead the chorus of this lower world?
Shall he, so soon forgetful of the hand
That hush'd the thunder, and serenes the sky,
Extinguish'd feel that spark the tempest wak'd,
That sense of powers exceeding far his own,
Ere yet his feeble heart has lost its fears?
Cheer'd by the milder beam, the sprightly youth
Speeds to the well-known pool, whose crystal depth
A sandy bottom shows. Awhile he stands
Gazing the inverted landscape, half-afraid
To meditate the blue profound below;
Then plunges headlong down the circling flood.
His ebon tresses and his rosy cheek
Instant emerge; and through the obedient wave,
At each short breathing by his lip repell'd,
With arms and legs according well, he makes,
As humor leads, an easy-winding path;
While, from his polish'd sides, a dewy light
Effuses on the pleas'd spectators round.
This is the purest exercise of health,
The kind refresher of the summer heats,
Nor, when cold Winter keens the brightening flood,
Would I weak-shivering linger on the brink.
Thus life redoubles; and is oft preserved,
By the bold swimmer, in the swift illapse
Of accident disastrous. Hence the limbs
Knit into force; and the same Roman arm
That rose victorious o'er the conquer'd earth,
First learned, while tender, to subdue the wave.
Even, from the body's purity, the mind
Receives a secret sympathetic aid.
Close in the covert of an hazel copse,
Where winded into pleasing solitudes
Runs out the rambling dale, young Damon sat;
Pensive, and pierc'd with love's delightful pangs.
There to the stream that down the distant rocks
Hoarse-murmuring fell, and plaintive breeze that play'd
Among the bending willows, falsely he
Of Musidora's cruelty complain'd.
She felt his flame; but deep within her breast,
In bashful coyness, or in maiden pride,
The soft return conceal'd--save when it stole
In sidelong glances from her downcast eye,
Or from her swelling soul in stifled sighs.
Touched by the scene, no stranger to his vows,
He fram'd a melting lay, to try her heart;
And, if an infant passion struggled there,
To call that passion forth. Thrice-happy swain!
A lucky chance, that oft decides the fate
Of mighty monarchs, then decided thine.
For, lo! conducted by the laughing Loves,
This cool retreat his Musidora sought:
Warm in her cheek the sultry season glow'd;
And, rob'd in loose array, she came to bathe
Her fervent limbs in the refreshing stream.
What shall he do? In sweet confusion lost,
And dubious flutterings, he awhile remain'd.
A pure ingenuous elegance of soul,
A delicate refinement known to few,
Perplex'd his breast, and urg'd him to retire;
But love forbade. Ye prudes in virtue, say,
Say, ye severest, what would you have done?
Meantime, this fairer nymph than ever bless'd
Arcadian stream, with timid eye around
The banks surveying, stripp'd her beauteous limbs
To taste the lucid coolness of the flood.
Ah! then, not Paris on the piny top
Of Ida panted stronger, when aside
The rival goddesses the vail divine
Cast unconfin'd, and gave him all their charms,
Than, Damon, thou; as from the snowy leg,
And slender foot, the inverted silk she drew;
As the soft touch dissolv'd the virgin zone;
And, through the parting robe, the alternate breast,
With youth wild-throbbing, on thy lawless gaze
In full luxuriance rose. But, desperate youth,
How durst thou risk the soul-distracting view,
As from her naked limbs, of glowing white,
Harmonious swell'd by Nature's finest hand,
In folds loose-floating fell the fainter lawn,
And fair expos'd she stood--shrunk from herself,
With fancy blushing, at the doubtful breeze
Alarm'd, and starting like the fearful fawn?
Then to the flood she rush'd: the parted flood
Its lovely guest with closing waves received,
And every beauty softening, every grace
Flushing anew, a mellow lustre shed--
As shines the lily through the crystal mild,
Or as the rose amid the morning dew,
Fresh from Aurora's hand, more sweetly glows.
While thus she wanton'd now beneath the wave
But ill-concealed, and now with streaming locks,
That half-embrac'd her in a humid vail,
Rising again, the latent Damon drew
Such maddening draughts of beauty to the soul,
As for a while o'erwhelm'd his raptur'd thought
With luxury too daring. Check'd, at last.
By love's respectful modesty, he deem'd
The theft profane, if aught profane to love
Can e'er be deem'd, and, struggling from the shade,
With headlong hurry fled; but first these lines,
Trac'd by his ready pencil, on the bank
With trembling hand he threw: "Bathe on, my fair,
Yet unbeheld save by the sacred eye
Of faithful love: I go to guard thy haunt;
To keep from thy recess each vagrant foot,
And each licentious eye." With wild surprise,
As if to marble struck, devoid of sense,
A stupid moment motionless she stood:
So stands the statue that enchants the world:
So bending tries to vail the matchless boast,
The mingled beauties of exulting Greece.
Recovering, swift she flew to find those robes
Which blissful Eden knew not; and, array'd
In careless haste, the alarming paper snatch'd.
But when her Damon's well known hand she saw
Her terrors vanish'd, and a softer train
Of mix'd emotions, hard to be describ'd,
Her sudden bosom seiz'd: shame void of guilt,
The charming blush of innocence, esteem
And admiration of her lover's flame,
By modesty exalted. Even a sense
Of self-approving beauty stole across
Her busy thought. At length, a tender calm
Hushed by degrees the tumult of her soul,
And on the spreading beech, that o'er the stream
Incumbent hung, she with the sylvan pen
Of rural lovers this confession carv'd,
Which soon her Damon kiss'd with weeping joy:
"Dear youth! sole judge of what these verses mean,
By fortune too much favor'd, but by love,
Alas! not favor'd less, be still as now
Discreet, the time may come you need not fly."
[Illustration: The soft hour of walking]
The sun has lost his rage; his downward orb
Shoots nothing now but animating warmth,
And vital lustre; that, with various ray,
Lights up the clouds, those beauteous robes of heaven
Incessant roll'd into romantic shapes,
The dream of waking fancy! Broad below
Cover'd with ripening fruits, and swelling fast
Into the perfect year, the pregnant earth
And all her tribes rejoice. Now the soft hour
Of walking comes: for him who lonely loves
To seek the distant hills, and there converse
With Nature; there to harmonize his heart,
And in pathetic song to breathe around
The harmony to others. Social friends,
Attun'd to happy unison of soul--
To whose exalting eye a fairer world,
Of which the vulgar never had a glimpse,
Displays its charms--whose minds are richly fraught
With philosophic stores, superior light--
And in whose breast, enthusiastic, burns
Virtue the sons of interest deem romance,
Now call'd abroad enjoy the falling day:
Now to the verdant _portico_ of woods,
To Nature's vast _lyceum_, forth they walk;
By that kind _school_ where no proud master reigns,
The full free converse of the friendly heart,
Improving and improv'd. Now from the world,
Sacred to sweet retirement, lovers steal,
And pour their souls in transport, which the Sire
Of love approving hears, and _calls it good_.
Which way, Amanda, shall we bend our course?
The choice perplexes. Wherefore should we choose?
All is the same with thee. Say shall we wind
Along the streams? or walk the smiling mead;
Or court the forest glades? or wander wild
Among the waving harvests? or ascend,
While radiant Summer opens all its pride,
Thy hill, delightful Sheen? Here let us sweep
The boundless landscape; now the raptur'd eye
Exulting swift, to huge Augusta send,
Now to the sister-hills that skirt her plain
To lofty Harrow now, and now to where
Majestic Windsor lifts his princely brow.
In lovely contrast to this glorious view,
Calmly magnificent, then will we turn
To where the silver Thames first rural grows.
There let the feasted eye unwearied stray;
Luxurious, there, rove through the pendent woods
That nodding hang o'er Harrington's retreat,
And stooping thence to Ham's embowering walks,
Beneath whose shades, in spotless peace retir'd,
With her the pleasing partner of his heart,
The worthy Queensbury yet laments his Gay,
And polish'd Cornbury woos the willing muse,
Slow let us trace the matchless vale of Thames--
Fair-winding up to where the muses haunt
In Twit'nam's bowers, and for their Pope implore
The healing god, to royal Hampton's pile,
To Clermont's terrac'd height, and Esher's groves,
Where in the sweetest solitude, embrac'd
By the soft windings of the silent Mole,
From courts and senates Pelham finds repose.
Enchanting vale! beyond whate'er the muse
Has of Achaia or Hesperia sung!
O vale of bliss! O softly swelling hills!
On which the power of cultivation lies,
And joys to see the wonders of his toil.
[Illustration: View on the Thames]
Heavens! what a goodly prospect spreads around,
Of hills, and dales, and woods, and lawns, and spires,
And glittering towns, and gilded streams, till all
The stretching landscape into smoke decays!
Happy Britannia! where the queen of arts,
Inspiring vigor, liberty abroad
Walks, unconfin'd, even to thy farthest cots,
And scatters plenty, with unsparing hand.
Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime:
Thy streams unfailing in the Summer's drought
Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float
With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks
Bleat numberless--while, roving round their sides,
Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves.
Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd
Against the mower's scythe. On every hand
Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth
And property assures it to the swain,
Pleas'd and unwearied in his guarded toil.
Full are thy cities with the sons of art;
And trade and joy, in every busy street,
Mingling are heard: even drudgery himself.
As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews
The palace-stone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports,
Where rising masts an endless prospect yield,
With labor burn, and echo to the shouts
Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves
His last adieu, and, loosening every sheet,
Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind.
[Illustration: The sailor's farewell]
Bold, firm, and graceful, are thy generous youth
By hardship sinew'd, and by danger fir'd,
Scattering the nations where they go; and first,
Or in the listed plain, or stormy seas.
Mild are thy glories too, as o'er the plans
Of thriving peace thy thoughtful sires preside;
In genius, and substantial learning, high;
For every virtue, every worth, renown'd;
Sincere, plain-hearted, hospitable, kind;
Yet like the mustering thunder when provok'd,
The dread of tyrants, and the sole resource
Of those that under grim oppression groan.
Thy sons of glory many! Alfred thine,
In whom the splendor of heroic war
And more heroic peace, when govern'd well,
Combine; whose hallow'd name the virtues saint,
And his own muses love--the best of kings.
With him thy Edwards and thy Henrys shine,
Names dear to fame, the first who deep impress'd
On haughty Gaul the terror of thy arms,
That awes her genius still. In statesmen thou,
And patriots, fertile. Thine a steady More,
Who, with a generous though mistaken zeal,
Withstood a brutal tyrant's useful rage,
Like Cato firm, like Aristides just,
Like rigid Cincinnatus nobly poor--
A dauntless soul erect, who smil'd on death.
Frugal and wise, a Walsingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee mistress of the deep,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then flam'd thy spirit high; but who can speak
The numerous worthies of the maiden-reign?
In Raleigh mark their every glory mix'd;
Raleigh, the scourge of Spain; whose breast with all
The sage, the patriot, and the hero burn'd.
Nor sunk his vigor when a coward reign
The warrior fetter'd, and at last resign'd,
To glut the vengeance of a vanquish'd foe.
Then, active still and unrestrain'd, his mind
Explor'd the vast extent of ages past,
And with his prison-hours enrich'd the world;
Yet found no times, in all the long research,
So glorious, or so base, as those he prov'd,
In which he conquer'd, and in which he bled.
Nor can the muse the gallant Sidney pass,
The plume of war! with early laurels crown'd,
The lover's myrtle, and the poet's bay.
A Hampden too is thine, illustrious land,
Wise, strenuous, firm, of unsubmitting soul,
Who stemm'd the torrent of a downward age
To slavery prone, and bade thee rise again,
In all thy native pomp of freedom bold.
Bright, at his call, thy age of men effulg'd;
Of men on whom late time a kindling eye
Shall turn, and tyrants tremble while they read.
Bring every sweetest flower, and let me strew
The grave where Russell lies; whose temper'd blood,
With calmest cheerfulness for thee resign'd,
Stain'd the sad annals of a giddy reign--
Aiming at lawless power, though meanly sunk
In loose inglorious luxury. With him
His friend, the British Cassius, fearless bled;
Of high determin'd spirit, roughly brave,
By ancient learning to the enlighten'd love
Of ancient freedom warm'd. Fair thy renown
In awful sages and in noble bards
Soon as the light of dawning science spread
Her orient ray, and wak'd the muses' song.
Thine is a Bacon, hapless in his choice;
Unfit to stand the civil storm of state,
And through the smooth barbarity of courts,
With firm but pliant virtue, forward still
To urge his course. Him for the studious shade
Kind Nature form'd, deep, comprehensive, clear,
Exact, and elegant; in one rich soul,
Plato, the Stagyrite, and Tully join'd.
The great deliverer he! who from the gloom
Of cloister'd monks, and jargon-teaching schools,
Led forth the true philosophy, there long
Held in the magic chain of words and forms,
And definitions void: he led her forth,
Daughter of heaven! that slow-ascending still,
Investigating sure the chain of things,
With radiant finger points to heaven again.
The generous Ashley thine, the friend of man;
Who scann'd his nature with a brother's eye,
His weakness prompt to shade, to raise his aim,
To touch the finer movements of the mind,
And with the _moral beauty_ charm the heart
Why need I name thy Boyle, whose pious search,
Amid the dark recesses of his works,
The great Creator sought? And why thy Locke,
Who made the whole internal world his own?
Let Newton, pure intelligence, whom God
To mortals lent, to trace his boundless works
From laws sublimely simple, speak thy fame
In all philosophy. For lofty sense,
Creative fancy, and inspection keen
Through the deep windings of the human heart,
Is not wild Shakspeare thine and Nature's boast?
Is not each great, each amiable muse
Of classic ages, in thy Milton met?
A genius universal as his theme,
Astonishing as chaos, as the bloom
Of blowing Eden fair, as heaven sublime.
Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget,
The gentle Spenser, fancy's pleasing son,
Who, like a copious river, pour'd his song
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground;
Nor thee, his ancient master, laughing sage,
Chaucer, whose native manners painting verse,
Well moraliz'd, shines through the Gothic cloud
Of time and language o'er thy genius thrown.
May my song soften, as thy daughters I,
Britannia, hail! for beauty is their own,
The feeling heart, simplicity of life,
And elegance, and taste; the faultless form,
Shap'd by the hand of harmony; the cheek,
Where the live crimson, through the native white
Soft-shooting, o'er the face diffuses bloom,
And every nameless grace; the parted lip,
Like the red rose-bud moist with morning dew,
Breathing delight; and, under flowing jet,
Or sunny ringlets, or of circling brown,
The neck slight-shaded, and the swelling breast,
The look resistless, piercing to the soul,
And by the soul informed, when dress'd in love
She sits high-smiling in the conscious eye.
Island of bliss! amid the subject seas
That thunder round thy rocky coasts, set up,
At once the wonder, terror, and delight
Of distant nations; whose remotest shore
Can soon be shaken by thy naval arm;
Not to be shook thyself, but all assaults
Baffling, like thy hoar cliffs the loud sea-wave.
O Thou by whose almighty nod the scale
Of empire rises, or alternate falls,
Send forth the saving virtues round the land,
In bright patrol: white peace, and social love;
The tender-looking charity, intent
On gentle deeds, and shedding tears through smiles
Undaunted truth, and dignity of mind;
Courage compos'd, and keen; sound temperance,
Healthful in heart and look; clear chastity,
With blushes reddening as she moves along,
Disorder'd at the deep regard she draws;
Rough industry; activity untir'd,
With copious life inform'd, and all awake;
While in the radiant front, superior shines
That first paternal virtue, public zeal--
Who throws o'er all an equal wide survey,
And, ever musing on the common weal,
Still labors glorious with some great design.
Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees,
Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds
Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train,
In all their pomp attend his setting throne.
Air, earth, and ocean smile immense. And now
As if his weary chariot sought the bowers
Of Amphitrite and her tending nymphs,
(So Grecian fable sung) he dips his orb;
Now half immers'd; and now a golden curve;
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears
Forever running an enchanted round,
Passes the day, deceitful, vain, and void;
As fleets the vision o'er the formful brain,
This moment hurrying wild the impassion'd soul,
The next in nothing lost. 'Tis so to him,
The dreamer of this earth, an idle blank:
A sight of horror to the cruel wretch
Who, all day long in sordid pleasure roll'd,
Himself an useless load, has squander'd vile,
Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheer'd
A drooping family of modest worth.
But to the generous still-improving mind,
That gives the hopeless heart to sing for joy,
Diffusing kind beneficence around,
Boastless, as now descends the silent dew--
To him the long review of order'd life
Is inward rapture, only to be felt.
Confess'd from yonder slow-extinguish'd clouds,
All ether softening, sober evening takes
Her wonted station in the middle air;
A thousand shadows at her beck. First this
She sends on earth; then that of deeper dye
Steals soft behind, and then a deeper still,
In circle following circle, gathers round,
To close the face of things. A fresher gale
Begins to wave the wood, and stir the stream,
Sweeping with shadowy gust the fields of corn;
While the quail clamors for his running mate,
Wide o'er the thistly lawn, as swells the breeze,
A whitening shower of vegetable down
Amusive floats. The kind impartial care
Of Nature naught disdains: thoughtful to feed
Her lowest sons, and clothe the coming year,
From field to field the feather'd seeds she wings.
[Illustration: Shepherd and milkmaid]
[Illustration: At eve the fairy people throng]
His folded flock secure, the shepherd home
Hies, merry-hearted; and by turns relieves
The ruddy milkmaid of her brimming pail;
The beauty whom perhaps his witless heart,
Unknowing what the joy-mix'd anguish means
Sincerely loves, by that best language shown
Of cordial glances and obliging deeds.
Onward they pass, o'er many a panting height,
And valley sunk, and unfrequented; where
At fall of eve the fairy people throng,
In various game and revelry to pass
The summer night, as village stories tell.
But far about they wander from the grave
Of him, whom his ungentle fortune urg'd
Against his own sad breast to lift the hand
Of impious violence. The lonely tower
Is also shunn'd; whose mournful chambers hold,
So night-struck fancy dreams, the yelling ghost.
[Illustration: Evening yields the world to night]
Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,
The glow-worm lights his gem; and, through the dark,
A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields
The world to night; not in her winter robe
Of massy Stygian woof, but loose array'd
In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray,
Glanc'd from the imperfect surfaces of things,
Flings half an image on the straining eye;
While wavering woods, and villages, and streams,
And rocks, and mountain tops, that long retain'd
The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven
Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft
The silent hours of love, with purest ray
Sweet Venus shines; and from her genial rise
When daylight sickens, till it springs afresh,
Unrival'd reigns, the fairest lamp of night.
As thus the effulgence tremulous I drink
With cherish'd gaze, the lambent lightnings shoot
Across the sky; or horizontal dart,
In wondrous shapes--by fearful murmuring crowds
Portentous deem'd. Amid the radiant orbs
That more than deck, that animate the sky,
The life-infusing suns of other worlds,
Lo! from the dread immensity of space
Returning, with accelerated course,
The rushing cornet to the sun descends;
And as he sinks below the shading earth,
With awful train projected o'er the heavens,
The guilty nations tremble. But, above
Those superstitious horrors that enslave
The fond sequacious herd, to mystic faith
And blind amazement prone, the enliven'd few,
Whose god-like minds philosophy exalts,
The glorious stranger hail. They feel a joy
Divinely great: they in their powers exult,
That wondrous force of thought which mounting spurns
This dusky spot and measures all the sky,
While from his far excursion through the wilds
Of barren ether, faithful to his time,
They see the blazing wonder rise anew,
In seeming terror clad, but kindly bent
To work the will of all sustaining Love;
From his huge vapory train perhaps to shake
Reviving moisture on the numerous orbs
Through which his long ellipsis winds--perhaps
To lend new fuel to declining suns,
To light up worlds, and feed eternal fire.
With thee, serene philosophy, with thee,
And thy bright garland, let me crown my song!
Effusive source of evidence, and truth!
A lustre shedding o'er the ennobled mind,
Stronger than summer noon; and pure as that
Whose mild vibrations soothe the parted soul,
New to the dawning of celestial day.
Hence through her nourish'd powers, enlarg'd by thee,
She springs aloft, with elevated pride,
Above the tangling mass of low desires
That bind the fluttering crowd; and, angel-wing'd.
The heights of science and of virtue gains,
Where all is calm and clear; with nature round,
Or in the starry regions, or the abyss,
To reason's and to fancy's eye display'd:
The first up-tracing, from the dreary void,
The chain of causes and effects to him,
The world-producing Essence, who alone
Possesses being; while the last receives
The whole magnificence of heaven and earth,
And every beauty, delicate or bold,
Obvious or more remote, with livelier sense,
Diffusive painted on the rapid mind.
Tutor'd by thee, hence poetry exalts
Her voice to ages; and informs the page
With music, image, sentiment, and thought,
Never to die! the treasure of mankind,
Their highest honor, and their truest joy!
Without thee, what were unenlighten'd man?
A savage roaming through the woods and wilds,
In quest of prey; and with the unfashion'd fur
Rough-clad; devoid of every finer art,
And elegance of life. Nor happiness
Domestic, mix'd of tenderness and care,
Nor moral excellence, nor social bliss,
Nor guardian law, were his; nor various skill
To turn the furrow, or to guide the tool
Mechanic; nor the heaven-conducted prow
Of navigation bold, that fearless braves
The burning line or dares the wintry pole,
Mother severe of infinite delights!
Nothing, save rapine, indolence, and guile,
And woes on woes, a still revolving train!
Whose horrid circle had made human life
Than non-existence worse; but, taught by thee,
Ours are the plans of policy and peace:
To live like brothers, and conjunctive all
Embellish life. While thus laborious crowds
Ply the tough oar, philosophy directs
The ruling helm; or, like the liberal breath
Of potent heaven, invisible, the sail
Swells out, and bears the inferior world along.
Nor to this evanescent speck of earth
Poorly confin'd--the radiant tracts on high
Are her exalted range; intent to gaze
Creation through; and, from that full complex
Of never-ending wonders, to conceive
Of the Sole Being right, who _spoke the word_,
And nature mov'd complete. With inward view
Thence on the ideal kingdom swift she turns
Her eye; and instant, at her powerful glance,
The obedient phantoms vanish or appear;
Compound, divide, and into order shift,
Each to his rank, from plain perception up
To the fair forms of fancy's fleeting train;
To reason then, deducing truth from truth,
And notion quite abstract; where first begins
The world of spirits, action all, and life
Unfetter'd, and unmix'd. But here the cloud,
So wills Eternal Providence, sits deep.
Enough for us to know that this dark state,
In wayward passions lost, and vain pursuits,
This infancy of being, can not prove
The final issue of the works of God,
By boundless Love and perfect Wisdom form'd,
And ever rising with the rising mind.
[Illustration: Philosophy directs the helm]
THE SIGHT OF AN ANGEL.
'Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image.
The date of the year was--no matter what; the day of the month was--no
matter what; when a great general undertook to perform a great
victory--a great statesman undertook to pass a great political
measure--a great diplomatist undertook a most important mission--a great
admiral undertook the command of a great fleet; all which great
undertakings were commanded by the very same great monarch of a very
great nation. At the same time did a great nobleman give a great
entertainment at a great house, and a great beauty made a great many
great conquests. On the same day, in the same year, in a very small
room, in a very small house, in a very small street, in a very small
town in Germany, did a very poor mason commence a very rude carving on a
very rough stone. All the public journals of the day told a thousand
times over the names of the great general, the great statesman, the
great diplomatist, the great admiral, and the great monarch; all the
fashionable papers of the day did the same of the great nobleman, the
great company, and the great beauty: but none of them spoke of poor
Johan Schmit, of the little town of ----, on the Rhine.
Many years had passed away, and the date of the year was--no matter
what; but history was telling of a great general who, with consummate
wisdom, courage, and skill, and at the cost of numberless nameless
lives, gained a great victory, which determined the fate and fortune of
a great monarch and a great nation; consequently affecting the fate and
fortunes of the world. It entered into minute detail of how his forces
were disposed; where lay the right wing, where lay the left; where the
cavalry advanced, and how the infantry sustained the attack; how the
guns of the artillery played upon the enemy's flank and rear; and how
the heavy dragoons rode down the routed forces, and how, finally, the
field was covered with the enemy's dead and wounded, while so few of
"our own troops" were left for the kite and the carrion crow. Then did
history speak of the honors that awaited and rewarded the triumphant
hero, of the clamorous homage of his grateful country, and the approving
smiles of his grateful monarch; of the _fetes_, the banquets, the
triumphal processions, all in his honor; of the new titles, the lands,
estates, and riches poured upon him; of the state and luxury in which he
lived: until the tolling of every bell throughout the kingdom, the
eight-horse hearse, the mile-long procession, the Dead March in "Saul,"
and the volley over the grave, announced that a public statue, on a
column a hundred feet high, in the largest square of the largest town,
was all that could now record the name of the greatest general of the
greatest nation in the world.
History then spoke of a great statesman who on a certain day in a
certain year, passed a certain most important measure, affecting the
interest of a great nation, and consequently of the whole world. It
spoke of his wisdom and foresight, the result of great intellect, energy
and labor, giving a biographic sketch of his career from cradle to
coffin; dismissing him with a long eulogium on his talents, integrity,
and activity, and lamenting the loss such great men were to their
country. Then came the name of the great diplomatist whose services had
been equally important, and who was dismissed with a similar memoir and
eulogium. Then the great admiral, who lived through a whole chapter all
to himself, and had his name brought in throughout the whole history of
the great monarch whose reign had been rendered so brilliant by the
great deeds of so many great men. Of the great feast given by the great
nobleman, and the conquests of the great beauty, there remains to this
day a record, of the former in the adulatory poems of his flatterers,
though the giver was gone--no matter where; of the latter many fair
portraits and many fond sonnets, though the object had gone--no matter
where. But no scribe told the history, no poet made a sonnet, no artist
drew the portrait of poor Johan Schmit, the mason, who made the rude
carving on the rough stone in the little town of ----, on the Rhine.
This task remains for an historian as obscure as himself, who now begins
a rude carving on the rough stone of a human life.
After the example of the great historian already alluded to, I shall
touch but lightly on the early history of my hero; merely stating that
thirty years before the present date, Johan Schmit was born to Johan
Schmit the elder, by his wife Gretchen, after a similar presentation of
five others; that he got through the usual maladies childhood is heir
to, and was at the age of fifteen apprenticed to Herman Schwartz, a
master-builder in the town of Bonn. There, after some years of
hod-carrying, mortar-spreading, and stone-cutting--ascending steadily,
both literally and metaphorically, the ladder of his profession--honest
Johan took a prudent, diligent woman to wife, who lost no time in making
him the father of three thriving heirs to his house and his hod. Johan
was in tolerably good work, lived in the small house in the small street
already mentioned, and kept his family, without much pinching on the
part of the thrifty Gertrude, in their beer, thick bread, and
sauerkraut. His work, his wife, his children, and his two companions,
Karl Vratz, and Caspar Katzheim, with whom he drank very hoppy beer at
the "Gold Apfel," just round the corner of the street, comprised the
whole interests which occupied the heart and brain of Johan Schmit, of
the little town of ----, on the Rhine. Johan had no other idea in his
head when he rose in the morning than the day's work, the same as it was
yesterday, and would be to-morrow; no other thought when he returned
from it in the evening than that Frudchen had his supper ready for him,
that little Wilhelm and Johan would run to meet him, and that little
Rosechen, the baby, would crow out of her cradle at him, if awake, and
that after his supper he would just walk down to the "Gold Apfel," and
smoke a pipe with Karl and Caspar as usual. But Johan went to church
occasionally with his wife, going through his routine of crossings,
genuflexions, and sprinklings with holy water as orderly as any man. He
heard the priest speak of doing his duty and obeying the church. Johan
believed he did both; his duty--hard work--lay plainly before him; he
was honest, sober, and kind to his family, and had certainly no idea or
intention of disobeying the church. Thus, in a monotonous task of hard
labor for daily bread and the support of an increasing family, plodded
contentedly away the life of Johan Schmit of the little town of ----, on
the Rhine.
But there is an era in the life of every one, even the most plodding and
homely; and so it was with Johan Schmit. It happened one day that he was
sent for to repair a broken wall in the chateau of the Count von
Rosenheim, situated not far from the town where Johan lived, on the
Rhine; and having completed his job, the housekeeper (the count being
absent) took the poor mason through the splendid rooms as a treat. Here
he beheld what he had never seen in his life before; velvet curtains,
silken sofas, crystal mirrors, gilded frames, paintings, and sculpture;
until his eyes were more dazzled than they had been since the first time
he entered the cathedral of Bonn. But after gazing his fill upon all
this gorgeous spectacle, his eyes happened to fall upon a small bronze
statuette of an angel, which the housekeeper informed him was a copy of
the Archangel Michael, from some church, she knew not where.
Here was Johan arrested, and here would he have stood forever; for,
after looking upon this angel, he saw nothing more: every thing vanished
from before him, and nothing remained but the small bronze statuette.
Johan had seen plenty of angels before in the churches, fresh-colored,
chubby children, and he often thought his own little Rosechen would look
just like them if she had wings; but this was something far different. A
youth under twenty, and yet it gave no more idea of either age or sex
than of any other earthly condition. Clad in what Johan supposed would
represent luminous scale-armor, something dazzling and transparent, like
what he had heard the priests call the "armor of God"--the hands crossed
upon the bosom, the head slightly bowed, the attitude so full of awe,
obedience, and humility; and yet what attitude of human pride or
defiance was half so lofty, so noble, so dignified? The sword hung
sheathed by the side, the long wings folded; but the face--oh, how could
he describe that face, so full of high earnestness and holy calm? so
bright, so serious, so serene! He felt awed, calmed, and elevated as he
looked at it.
"You must go now," exclaimed Madame Grossenberg; and Johan started from
his reverie, made his bow, replaced his paper cap, and went home, with
his head full of the angel instead of his work. He saw it there instead
of stout Frudchen and the children, who climbed about, and wondered at
his abstraction. He went to bed, and dreamed of the angel--glorified it
seemed to be--and, perhaps for the first time in his life, recalled his
dream, and saw the beautiful vision before his waking eyes all the next
day at his work--even in the "Gold Apfel," the most unlikely place for
an angel; and again when he closed his eyes to sleep. In short, the
angel became to him what his gold is to the miser, his power is to the
ambitious man, and his mistress to the lover: he saw nothing else in the
whole world but the angel; and this now filled the heart and brain of
poor Johan Schmit, of the little town of ----, on the Rhine.
There are some things we desire to possess, and other things we desire
to produce; the former is the feeling of the connoisseur and collector:
the latter, of the artist. The first requires taste and money; the
latter--we won't say what it requires, or what it evinces, for enough
has been said on the subject already. Johan Schmit had no money; taste
he must have had, or he could not have admired the angel; he was no
artist, certainly; he had never drawn a line, or cut any thing but a
stone in his life; and yet he felt he must do something about that
angel. He saw it so plainly and so constantly before him, that he felt
he could copy it, if he only knew how. Now, as he could not draw, he
could not copy it in that manner; but as he could cut stone, no matter
how hard, he did not see why he might not attempt to cut the angel upon
a large stone, which he procured, and brought quietly up to a small
garret at the top of his house for that purpose.
It was at this time that the general, the statesman, the diplomatist,
and the admiral, all severally planned their great undertakings; and it
was at this time that a strange thought passed through the brain of
Johan Schmit, as he sate looking at the great rough stone before him.
Johan was, as we have seen, quite an uneducated man; he hardly knew
enough of writing to spell his own name; and as to reading, he had never
looked into a book since he left school, at the age of twelve; he
therefore hardly knew the nature of his own ideas. His thoughts, never
arranged, were but like vague sensations passing through his mind, which
he could not define; but if he could have defined them they would have
taken something like the following expression:
The angel seemed to have awakened a new world within him; not that he
thought of the legend of the Archangel Michael, which he had heard long
ago, and forgotten; but of the first idea of the artist who designed
that particular angel: what must have been his thoughts! what image
must he have had before him as he made that form grow from the marble
block into living beauty! Whence could such an idea have come? It must
surely have been a visitation from God--a spark of his own creative
power. And how must the artist have felt as, day by day and hour by
hour, he saw his work developing and perfecting before him, until at
last it stood up, a sight to make men wonder and almost worship--an
embodiment of all that was pure, lofty, and holy. Then came the contrast
of his own sordid work, so low, so slave-like, so brute-like. What human
idea could be put into hod-carrying, mortar-spreading, and
stone-cutting? Could not an animal or a machine do as much? For the
first time, perhaps, in his life, Johan felt that he had a soul not to
be bounded by the limits of his work or the daily necessities of
existence; and in his rough way he asked himself: How can the higher
aspirations of that soul be reflected in man's every-day life? and
whether a human mind should be bounded by the narrow routine of plodding
toil, for the supplying of common wants? And all these thoughts, vague,
unformed, a dim and undefined sense of something, passed through Johan's
brain as he sate cutting away at the stone, and trying to form the angel
in his little garret, in the little town of ----, on the Rhine.
Patiently he labored at it after his day's work was over; patiently he
bore all his failures, when he saw in the indistinct outline that the
angel's arm was too short, its right leg crooked, its wings shapeless,
and its head, instead of bending gracefully, stuck upon its breast like
an excrescence; patiently he bore the scoldings of his wife for his
dullness and abstraction, and the tricks of his children to arouse him;
patiently he listened to the remonstrances of Karl and Caspar, for his
bad companionship at the "Gold Apfel;" and patiently he bore the still
more serious remonstrances of his master, at the careless and negligent
manner in which he often performed his work, when a vision of the angel
chanced to flit with more than usual vividness before him. Time wore on;
and if Johan did not progress rapidly with his angel, Gertrude was far
more active and diligent in presenting him with images in another
material, and urging loudly at the same time the necessity of working
hard for an increasing family. Poor Gertrude: she was a good woman, and
loved her husband without understanding him; but she had a quick temper,
and was what is commonly called a shrew. She thought Johan wanted
rousing; and to rouse him she rated him: he bore it all patiently, and
thought of the angel--it was strange how that angel soothed and consoled
him! Caspar, his fellow-workman, fell from a scaffold, and broke his
leg. Caspar, too, had a wife and children: Johan undertook his work--he
worked double hours, and divided his wages with Caspar.
Karl revealed to him in confidence over his pipe at the "Gold Apfel,"
that he was in debt, and had been threatened with a jail: Johan lent him
the money unknown to Gertrude, and worked hard to make it up; as he knew
Karl could never pay him.
He had now no time to work at the angel; and time was going on with him.
By his little broken looking-glass he could see his beard growing gray;
but strange to say, the angel, though less distinct in form than when he
saw it, was still firmly fixed in his memory; and though it seemed to be
etherialized, he could always call up its image before him; and still,
every moment he could spare, did he hasten to his garret, and cut away
at the rough stone. But these hours were stolen from his natural rest,
and nature punished the theft; his strength visibly declined. Yet he
could not abandon his work--and this not from any ambitious ideas of its
success, for he never dreamed of succeeding--he felt his own inability
too much to hope for it;--but there was something in the exercise of
will, mind, and heart--something which seemed to elevate him in spite of
himself, while at his employment, that balanced all other feelings of
disappointment and weariness, making him a happier--no, that is not the
word, but a nobler--man. And now Johan Schmit had contrived to
apprentice his eldest son, send his second to school, pay the doctor's
long bill for two children, and bury another; besides having helped
Caspar during his illness, and paid Karl's debt. Thrifty Gertrude
managed to keep things together; and in her cleaning and bustling had no
time to observe the wan face and wasted frame of her husband. The stone
had been gradually cut into a form which was nearly as shapeless as
before Johan touched it; and yet, to his eyes, it did bear some rude
resemblance to the angel of his inspiration--which appeared before his
eyes so vividly as he returned from an unusually-long and hard day's
work to his home, that he thought he could just put one or two finishing
strokes before going to bed which would recall his dimly-remembered
model. Without touching supper or pipe, he embraced his wife and
children, and went to his garret. He looked long on the rude block
before him, and then took up his hammer and chisel to complete his work.
After two or three attempts, an unwonted languor stole over him; the
tools dropped from his hands, and he worked no more; but the vision of
the angel before his eyes grew stronger and stronger, and of something
brighter and more glorious than the angel, but he did not attempt to
carve it.
In the early morning Gertrude awoke, and was surprised not to see her
husband. Thinking he might have risen to his work earlier than usual,
she arose and went down stairs; the door was bolted, and there were no
signs of Johan. She called; no answer: then, becoming alarmed, she
roused the children to look for him. The small house was soon searched,
but no Johan discovered; when Wilhelm, remembering the garret he had
seen his father steal away into, ascended the ladder leading to it--and
there, on his knees, his head resting on the rude block of stone, lay
the lifeless body of Johan Schmit. The last thing his eyes beheld on
earth was _that_ angel;--but who can say on what vision they opened.
His wife and children removed to Bonn, to her father; who had saved
money, and promised to take care of them. His body was laid in the
little cemetery of the little town: his widow placed a wooden cross at
the head of his grave, which in time, rotted and fell down; so that the
place is now left unmarked by any thing. That stone, on which a human
heart had carved itself out, was broken up to mend the town wall. And
thus, while a large marble slab, with a long inscription, covers the
remains of the great general, the great statesman, the great
diplomatist, the great admiral, the great nobleman, and the great
beauty--not even a piece of wood or a block of stone tells of the mere
existence of poor Johan Schmit, of the little town of ----, on the
Rhine.
They could work out their idea of life, and the objects for which it was
given, by their successful dedication of it to pride, ambition, vanity,
and coquetry. _He_ could not; but who can tell what effect that futile
effort, that unknown and profitless toil, may have had upon the fate of
his soul where it now is?
MAURICE TIERNAY,
THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.[1]
CHAPTER XXIX.
"THE BREAKFAST AT LETTERKENNY."
Early the next morning, a messenger arrived from the Cranagh, with a
small packet of my clothes and effects, and a farewell letter from the
two brothers. I had but time to glance over its contents, when the tramp
of feet and the buzz of voices in the street attracted me to the window,
and on looking out I saw a long line of men, two abreast, who were
marching along as prisoners, a party of dismounted dragoons, keeping
guard over them on either side, followed by a strong detachment of
marines. The poor fellows looked sad and crest-fallen enough. Many of
them wore bandages on their heads and limbs, the tokens of the late
struggle. Immediately in front of the inn door stood a group of about
thirty persons; they were the staff of the English force and the
officers of our fleet, all mingled together, and talking away with the
greatest air of unconcern. I was struck by remarking that all our
seamen, though prisoners, saluted the officers as they passed, and in
the glances interchanged I thought I could read a world of sympathy and
encouragement. As for the officers, like true Frenchmen, they bore
themselves as though it were one of the inevitable chances of war, and,
however vexatious for the moment, not to be thought of as an event of
much importance. The greater number of them belonged to the army, and I
could see the uniforms of the staff, artillery, and dragoons, as well
as the less distinguished costume of the line.
Perhaps they carried the affectation of indifference a little too far,
and in the lounging ease of their attitude, and the cool unconcern with
which they puffed their cigars, displayed an over-anxiety to seem
unconcerned. That the English were piqued at their bearing was still
more plain to see; and indeed in the sullen looks of the one and the
careless gayety of the other party, a stranger might readily have
mistaken the captor for the captive.
My two friends of the evening before were in the midst of the group. He
who had questioned me so sharply now wore a general officer's uniform,
and seemed to be the chief in command. As I watched him, I heard him
addressed by an officer, and now saw that he was no other than Lord
Cavan himself, while the other was a well-known magistrate and country
gentleman, Sir George Hill.
The sad procession took almost half an hour to defile; and then came a
long string of country cars and carts, with sea chests and other stores
belonging to our officers, and, last of all, some eight or ten
ammunition wagons and gun carriages, over which an English union-jack
now floated in token of conquest.
There was nothing like exultation or triumph exhibited by the peasantry
as this pageant passed by. They gazed in silent wonderment at the scene,
looked like men that scarcely knew whether the result boded more of good
or evil to their own fortunes. While keenly scrutinizing the looks and
bearing of the bystanders I received a summons to meet the general and
his party at breakfast.
Although the occurrence was one of the most pleasurable incidents of my
life, which brought me once more into intercourse with my comrades and
my countrymen, I should perhaps pass it over with slight mention, were
it not that it made me witness to a scene which has since been recorded
in various different ways, but of whose exact details I profess to be an
accurate narrator.
After making a tour of the room, saluting my comrades, answering
questions here, putting others there, I took my place at the long table,
which, running the whole length of the apartment, was indiscriminately
occupied by French and English, and found myself with my back to the
fire-place, and having directly in front of me a man of about
thirty-three or four years of age, dressed in the uniform of a chef de
brigade; light-haired and blue-eyed, he bore no resemblance whatever to
those around him, whose dark faces and black beards, proclaimed them of
a foreign origin. There was an air of mildness in his manner, mingled
with a certain impetuosity that betrayed itself in the rapid glances of
his eye, and I could plainly mark that while the rest were perfectly at
their ease, he was constrained, restless, watching eagerly every thing
that went forward about him, and showing unmistakably a certain anxiety
and distrust widely differing from the gay and careless indifference of
his comrades. I was curious to hear his name, and on asking, learned
that he was the Chef de Brigade Smith, an Irishman by birth, but holding
a command in the French service.
I had but asked the question, when pushing back his chair from the
table, he arose suddenly, and stood stiff and erect, like a soldier on
the parade.
"Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied with your inspection of me," cried
he, and sternly addressing himself to some one behind my back. I turned
and perceived it was Sir George Hill, who stood in front of the fire,
leaning on his stick. Whether he replied or not to this rude speech I am
unable to say, but the other walked leisurely round the table, and came
directly in front of him. "You know me _now_, sir, I presume," said he,
in the same imperious voice, "or else this uniform has made a greater
change in my appearance than I knew of."
"Mr. Tone!" said Sir George, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
"Ay, sir, Wolfe Tone; there is no need of secrecy here; Wolfe Tone, your
old college acquaintance in former times, but now chef de brigade in the
service of France."
"This is a very unexpected, a very unhappy meeting, Mr. Tone," said
Hill, feelingly; "I sincerely wish you had not recalled the memory of
our past acquaintance. _My_ duty gives me no alternative."
"Your duty, or I mistake much, can have no concern with me, sir," cried
Tone, in a more excited voice.
"I ask for nothing better than to be sure of this, Mr. Tone," said Sir
George, moving slowly toward the door.
"You would treat me like an emigre rentre," cried Tone, passionately;
"but I am a French subject and a French officer."
"I shall be well satisfied if others take the same view of your case, I
assure you," said Hill, as he gained the door.
"You'll not find me unprepared for either event, sir," rejoined Tone,
following him out of the room, and banging the door angrily behind him.
For a moment or two the noise of voices was heard from without, and
several of the guests, English and French, rose from the table, eagerly
inquiring what had occurred, and asking for an explanation of the scene,
when suddenly the door was flung wide open, and Tone appeared between
two policemen, his coat off, and his wrists inclosed in handcuffs.
"Look here, comrades," he cried in French; "this is another specimen of
English politeness and hospitality. After all," added he, with a bitter
laugh, "they have no designation in all their heraldry as honorable as
these fetters, when worn for the cause of freedom! Good-by, comrades; we
may never meet again, but don't forget how we parted!"
These were the last words he uttered, when the door was closed, and he
was led forward under charge of a strong force of police and military. A
post-chaise was soon seen to pass the windows at speed, escorted by
dragoons, and we saw no more of our comrade.
The incident passed even more rapidly than I write it. The few words
spoken, the hurried gestures, the passionate exclamations, are yet all
deeply graven on my memory; and I can recall every little incident of
the scene, and every feature of the locality wherein it occurred. With
true French levity many reseated themselves at the breakfast-table;
while others, with perhaps as little feeling, but more of curiosity,
discussed the event, and sought for an explanation of its meaning.
"Then what's to become of Tiernay," cried one, "if it be so hard to
throw off this 'coil of Englishman?' _His_ position may be just as
precarious."
"That is exactly what has occurred," said Lord Cavan; "a warrant for his
apprehension has just been put into my hands, and I deeply regret that
the duty should violate that of hospitality, and make my guest my
prisoner."
"May I see this warrant, my lord?" asked I.
"Certainly, sir. Here it is; and here is the information on oath through
which it was issued, sworn to before three justices of the peace by a
certain Joseph Dowall, late an officer in the rebel forces, but now a
pardoned approver of the Crown; do you remember such a man, sir?"
I bowed, and he went on.
"He would seem a precious rascal; but such characters become
indispensable in times like these. After all, M. Tiernay, my orders are
only to transmit you to Dublin under safe escort, and there is nothing
either in _my_ duty or in _your_ position to occasion any feeling, of
unpleasantness between _us_. Let us have a glass of wine together."
I responded to this civil proposition with politeness, and after a
slight interchange of leave-takings with some of my newly-found
comrades, I set out for Derry on a jaunting-car, accompanied by an
officer and two policemen, affecting to think very little of a
circumstance which, in reality, the more I reflected over the more
serious I deemed it.
CHAPTER XXX.
A SCENE IN THE ROYAL BARRACKS.
It would afford me little pleasure to write, and doubtless my readers
less to read my lucubrations, as I journeyed along toward Dublin. My
thoughts seldom turned from myself and my own fortunes, nor were they
cheered by the scenes through which I traveled. The season was a
backward and wet one, and the fields, partly from this cause, and partly
from the people being engaged in the late struggle, lay untilled and
neglected. Groups of idle, lounging peasants stood in the villages, or
loitered on the high roads, as we passed, sad, ragged-looking, and
wretched. They seemed as if they had no heart to resume their wonted
life of labor, but were waiting for some calamity to close their
miserable existence. Strongly in contrast with this were the air and
bearing of the yeomanry and militia detachments, with whom we
occasionally came up. Quite forgetting how little creditable to some of
them, at least, were the events of the late campaign, they gave
themselves the most intolerable airs of heroism, and in their drunken
jollity, and reckless abandonment, threatened, I know not what--utter
ruin to France and all Frenchmen. Bonaparte was the great mark of all
their sarcasms, and, from some cause or other, seemed to enjoy a most
disproportioned share of their dislike and derision.
At first it required some effort of constraint on my part to listen to
this ribaldry in silence; but prudence, and a little sense, taught me
the safer lesson of "never minding," and so I affected to understand
nothing that was said in a spirit of insult or offense.
On the night of the 7th of November we drew nigh to Dublin; but instead
of entering the capital, we halted at a small village outside of it
called Chapelizod. Here a house had been fitted up for the reception of
French prisoners, and I found myself, if not in company, at least under
the same roof with my countrymen.
Nearer intercourse than this, however, I was not destined to enjoy, for
early on the following morning I was ordered to set out for the Royal
Barracks, to be tried before a court-martial. It was on a cold, raw
morning, with a thin, drizzly rain falling, that we drove into the
barrack-yard, and drew up at the mess-room, then used for the purposes
of a court. As yet none of the members had assembled, and two or three
mess-waiters were engaged in removing the signs of last night's debauch,
and restoring a semblance of decorum to a very rackety-looking
apartment. The walls were scrawled over with absurd caricatures, in
charcoal or ink, of notorious characters of the capital, and a very
striking "battle-piece" commemorated the "Races of Castlebar," as that
memorable action was called, in a spirit, I am bound to say, of little
flattery to the British arms. There were to be sure little compensatory
illustrations here and there of French cavalry in Egypt, mounted on
donkeys, or revolutionary troops on parade, ragged as scarecrows, and
ill-looking as highwaymen; but a most liberal justice characterized all
these frescoes, and they treated both Trojan and Tyrian alike.
I had abundant time given me to admire them, for although summoned for
seven o'clock, it was nine before the first officer of the court-martial
made his appearance, and he having popped in his head, and perceiving
the room empty; sauntered out again, and disappeared. At last a very
noisy jaunting-car rattled into the square, and a short, red-faced man
was assisted down from it, and entered the mess-room. This was Mr.
Peters, the Deputy Judge Advocate, whose presence was the immediate
signal for the others, who now came dropping in from every side, the
President, a Colonel Daly, arriving the last.
A few tradespeople, loungers, it seemed to me, of the barrack, and some
half-dozen non-commissioned officers off duty, made up the public; and I
could not but feel a sense of my insignificance in the utter absence of
interest my fate excited. The listless indolence and informality, too,
offended and insulted me; and when the President politely told me to be
seated, for they were obliged to wait for some books or papers left
behind at his quarters, I actually was indignant at his coolness.
As we thus waited, the officers gathered around the fire-place, chatting
and laughing pleasantly together, discussing the social events of the
capital, and the gossip of the day; every thing, in fact, but the case
of the individual on whose future fate they were about to decide.
At length the long-expected books made their appearance, and a few
well-thumbed volumes were spread over the table, behind which the Court
took their places, Colonel Daly in the centre, with the Judge upon his
left.
The members being sworn, the Judge Advocate arose, and in a hurried,
humdrum kind of voice, read out what purported to be the commission
under which I was to be tried; the charge being, whether I had or had
not acted treacherously and hostilely to his Majesty, whose natural born
subject I was, being born in that kingdom, and, consequently, owing to
him all allegiance and fidelity. "Guilty or not guilty, sir?"
"The charge is a falsehood; I am a Frenchman," was my answer.
"Have respect for the Court, sir," said Peters; "you mean that you are a
French officer, but by birth an Irishman."
"I mean no such thing;--that I am French by birth, as I am in
feeling--that I never saw Ireland till within a few months back, and
heartily wish I had never seen it."
"So would General Humbert, too, perhaps," said Daly, laughing; and the
Court seemed to relish the jest.
"Where were you born, then, Tiernay?"
"In Paris, I believe."
"And your mother's name, what was it?"
"I never knew; I was left an orphan when a mere infant, and can tell
little of my family."
"Your father was Irish, then?"
"Only by descent. I have heard that we came from a family who bore the
title of 'Timmahoo'--Lord Tiernay of Timmahoo."
"There was such a title," interposed Peters; "it was one of King James's
last creations after his flight from the Boyne. Some, indeed, assert
that it was conferred before the battle. What a strange coincidence, to
find the descendant, if he be such, laboring in something like the same
cause as his ancestor."
"What's your rank, sir?" asked a sharp, severe-looking man, called Major
Flood.
"First Lieutenant of Hussars."
"And is it usual for a boy of your years to hold that rank; or was there
any thing peculiar in your case that obtained the promotion?"
"I served in two campaigns, and gained my grade regularly."
"Your Irish blood, then, had no share in your advancement?" asked he
again.
"I am a Frenchman, as I said before," was my answer.
"A Frenchman, who lays claim to an Irish estate and an Irish title,"
replied Flood. "Let us hear Dowall's statement."
And now, to my utter confusion, a man made his way to the table, and,
taking the book from the Judge Advocate, kissed it in token of an oath.
"Inform the Court of any thing you know in connection with the
prisoner," said the Judge.
And the fellow, not daring even to look toward me, began a long,
rambling, unconnected narrative of his first meeting with me at Killala,
affecting that a close intimacy had subsisted between us, and that in
the faith of a confidence, I had told him how, being an Irishman by
birth, I had joined the expedition in the hope that with the expulsion
of the English I should be able to re-establish my claim to my family
rank and fortune. There was little coherence in his story, and more than
one discrepant statement occurred in it; but the fellow's natural
stupidity imparted a wonderful air of truth to the narrative, and I was
surprised how naturally it sounded even to my own ears, little
circumstances of truth being interspersed through the recital, as though
to season the falsehood into a semblance of fact.
"What have you to reply to this, Tiernay?" asked the Colonel.
"Simply, sir, that such a witness, were his assertions even more
consistent and probable, is utterly unworthy of credit. This fellow was
one of the greatest marauders of the rebel army: and the last exercise
of authority I ever witnessed by General Humbert was an order to drive
him out of the town of Castlebar."
"Is this the notorious Town-Major Dowall?" asked an officer of
artillery.
"The same, sir."
"I can answer, then, for his being one of the greatest rascals
unhanged," rejoined he.
"This is all very irregular, gentlemen," interposed the Judge Advocate;
"the character of a witness can not be impugned by what is mere
desultory conversation. Let Dowall withdraw."
The man retired, and now a whispered conversation was kept up at the
table for about a quarter of an hour, in which I could distinctly
separate those who befriended from those who opposed me, the Major being
the chief of the latter party. One speech of his which I overheard made
a slight impression on me, and for the first time suggested uneasiness
regarding the event.
"Whatever you do with this lad must have an immense influence on Tone's
trial. Don't forget that if you acquit him you'll be sorely puzzled to
convict the other."
The Colonel promptly overruled this unjust suggestion, and maintained
that in my accent, manner, and appearance, there was every evidence of
my French origin.
"Let Wolfe Tone stand upon his own merits," said he, "but let us not mix
this case with his."
"I'd have treated every man who landed to a rope," exclaimed the Major,
"Humbert himself among the rest. It was pure 'brigandage,' and nothing
less."
"I hope if I escape, sir, that it will never be my fortune to see you a
prisoner of France," said I, forgetting all in my indignation.
"If my voice have any influence, young man, that opportunity is not
likely to occur to you," was the reply.
This ungenerous speech found no sympathy with the rest, and I soon saw
that the Major represented a small minority in the Court.
The want of my commission, or of any document suitable to my rank or
position in the service, was a great drawback; for I had given all my
papers to Humbert, and had nothing to substantiate my account of myself.
I saw how unfavorably this acknowledgement was taken by the Court; and
when I was ordered to withdraw that they might deliberate, I own that I
felt great misgivings as to the result.
The deliberation was a long, and as I could overhear, a strongly
disputed one. Dowall was twice called in for examination, and when he
retired on the last occasion, the discussion grew almost stormy.
As I stood thus awaiting my fate, the public, now removed from the
Court, pressed eagerly to look at me; and while some thronged the
door-way, and even pressed against the sentry, others crowded at the
window to peep in. Among these faces, over which my eye ranged in half
vacancy, one face struck me, for the expression of sincere sympathy and
interest it bore. It was that of a middle-aged man of an humble walk in
life, whose dress bespoke him from the country. There was nothing in his
appearance to have called for attention or notice, and at any other time
I should have passed him over without remark, but now, as his features
betokened a feeling almost verging on anxiety, I could not regard him
without interest.
Whichever way my eyes turned, however my thoughts might take me off,
whenever I looked toward him, I was sure to find his gaze steadily bent
upon me, and with an expression quite distinct from mere curiosity. At
last came the summons for me to reappear before the Court, and the crowd
opened to let me pass in.
The noise, the anxiety of the moment, and the movement of the people
confused me at first, and when I recovered self-possession, I found that
the Judge Advocate was reciting the charge under which I was tried.
There were three distinct counts, on each of which the Court pronounced
me "NOT GUILTY," but at the same time qualifying the finding by the
additional words--"by a majority of two;" thus showing me that my
escape had been a narrow one.
"As a prisoner of war," said the President, "you will now receive the
same treatment as your comrades of the same rank. Some have been already
exchanged, and some have given bail for their appearance to answer any
future charges against them."
"I am quite ready, sir, to accept my freedom on parole," said I; "of
course, in a country where I am an utter stranger, bail is out of the
question."
"I'm willing to bail him, your worship; I'll take it on me to be surety
for him," cried a coarse, husky voice from the body of the court; and at
the same time a man dressed in a great coat of dark frieze pressed
through the crowd and approached the table.
"And who are you, my good fellow, so ready to impose yourself on the
Court?" asked Peters.
"I'm a farmer of eighty acres of land, from the Black Pits, near
Baldoyle, and the Adjutant there, Mr. Moore, knows me well."
"Yes," said the Adjutant, "I have known you some years, as supplying
forage to the cavalry, and always heard you spoken of as honest and
trust-worthy."
"Thank you, Mr. Moore; that's as much as I want."
"Yes; but it's not as much as _we_ want, my worthy man," said Peters;
"we require to know that you are a solvent and respectable person."
"Come out and see my place then; ride over the land and look at my
stock; ask my neighbors my character; find out if there's any thing
against me."
"We prefer to leave all that trouble on _your_ shoulders," said Peters;
"show us that we may accept your surety and we'll entertain the question
at once."
"How much is it?" asked he, eagerly.
"We demanded five hundred pounds for a Major on the staff; suppose we
say two, Colonel, is that sufficient?" asked Peters of the President.
"I should say quite enough," was the reply.
"There's eighty of it any way," said the farmer, producing a dirty roll
of bank notes, and throwing them on the table; "I got them from Mr.
Murphy in Smithfield this morning, and I'll get twice as much more from
him for asking; so if your honors will wait 'till I come back, I'll not
be twenty minutes away."
"But we can't take your money, my man; we have no right to touch it."
"Then what are ye talking about two hundred pounds for?" asked he,
sternly.
"We want your promise to pay in the event of this bail being broken."
"Oh, I see, it's all the same thing in the end; I'll do it either way."
"We'll accept Mr. Murphy's guarantee for your solvency," said Peters;
"obtain that and you can sign the bond at once."
"Faith I'll get it sure enough, and be here before you've the writing
drawn out;" said he, buttoning up his coat.
"What name are we to insert in the bond?"
"Tiernay, sir."
"That's the prisoner's name, but we want yours."
"Mine's Tiernay too, sir, Pat Tiernay of the Black Pits."
Before I could recover from my surprise at this announcement he had left
the Court, which, in a few minutes afterward, broke up, a clerk alone
remaining to fill up the necessary documents and complete the bail-bond.
The Colonel, as well as two others of his officers, pressed me to join
them at breakfast, but I declined, resolving to wait for my name-sake's
return, and partake of no other hospitality than his.
It was near one o'clock when he returned, almost worn out with fatigue,
since he had been in pursuit of Mr. Murphy for several hours, and only
came upon him by chance at last. His business, however, he had fully
accomplished; the bail-bond was duly drawn out and signed, and I left
the barrack in a state of happiness very different from the feeling with
which I had entered it that day.
CHAPTER XXXI.
A BRIEF CHANGE OF LIFE AND COUNTRY.
My new acquaintance never ceased to congratulate himself on what he
called the lucky accident that had led him to the barracks that morning,
and thus brought about our meeting. "Little as you think of me, my
dear," said he, "I'm one of the Tiernays of Timmahoo myself; faix, until
I saw you, I thought I was the last of them! There are eight generations
of us in the church-yard at Kells, and I was looking to the time when
they'd lay my bones there, as the last of the race, but I see there's
better fortune before us."
"But you have a family I hope?"
"Sorrow one belonging to me. I might have married when I was young, but
there was a pride in me to look for something higher than I had any
right, except from blood, I mean; for a better stock than our own isn't
to be found; and that's the way years went over and I lost the
opportunity, and here I am now an old bachelor, without one to stand to
me, barrin' it be yourself."
The last words were uttered with a tremulous emotion, and on turning
toward him I saw his eyes swimming with tears, and perceived that some
strong feeling was working within him.
"You can't suppose I can ever forget what I owe you, Mr. Tiernay."
"Call me Pat, Pat Tiernay," interrupted he, roughly.
"I'll call you what you please," said I, "if you let me add friend to
it."
"That's enough; we understand one another now, no more need be said;
you'll come home and live with me. It's not long, maybe, you'll have to
do that same; but when I go you'll be heir to what I have: 'tis more,
perhaps, than many supposes, looking at the coat and the gaiters I'm
wearin'. Mind, Maurice, I don't want you, nor I don't expect you to turn
farmer like myself. You need never turn a hand to any thing. You'll have
your horse to ride--two if you like it. Your time will be all your own,
so that you spend a little of it, now and then, with me, and as much
divarsion as ever you care for."
I have condensed into a few words the substance of a conversation which
lasted till we reached Baldoyle; and passing through that not
over-imposing village, gained the neighborhood of the sea-shore, along
which stretched the farm of the "Black Pits," a name derived, I was
told, from certain black holes that were dug in the sands by fishermen
in former times, when the salt tide washed over the pleasant fields
where corn was now growing. A long, low, thatched cabin, with far more
indications of room and comfort than pretension to the picturesque,
stood facing the sea. There were neither trees nor shrubs around it, and
the aspect of the spot was bleak and cheerless enough, a coloring a dark
November day did nothing to dispel.
It possessed one charm, however, and had it been a hundred times
inferior to what it was, _that_ one would have compensated for all
else--hearty welcome met me at the door, and the words, "This is your
home, Maurice," filled my heart with happiness.
Were I to suffer myself to dwell even in thought on this period of my
life, I feel how insensibly I should be led away into an inexcusable
prolixity. The little meaningless incidents of my daily life, all so
engraven on my memory still, occupied me pleasantly from day till night.
Not only the master of myself and my own time, I was master of every
thing around me. Uncle Pat, as he loved to call himself, treated me with
a degree of respect that was almost painful to me, and only when we were
alone together, did he relapse into the intimacy of equality. Two
first-rate hunters stood in my stable; a stout-built half-deck boat lay
at my command beside the quay; I had my gun and my grayhounds; books,
journals; every thing, in short, that a liberal purse and a kind spirit
could confer--all but acquaintance. Of these I possessed absolutely
none. Too proud to descend to intimacy with the farmers and small
shopkeepers of the neighborhood, my position excluded me from
acquaintance with the gentry; and thus I stood between both, unknown to
either.
For a while my new career was too absorbing to suffer me to dwell on
this circumstance. The excitement of field sports sufficed me when
abroad, and I came home usually so tired at night that I could barely
keep awake to amuse Uncle Pat with those narratives of war and
campaigning he was so fond of hearing. To the hunting-field succeeded
the Bay of Dublin, and I passed days, even weeks, exploring every creek
and inlet of the coast; now cruising under the dark cliffs of the Welsh
shore, or, while my boat lay at anchor, wandering among the solitary
valleys of Lambay; my life, like a dream full of its own imaginings, and
unbroken by the thoughts or feelings of others! I will not go the length
of saying that I was self-free from all reproach on the inglorious
indolence in which my days were passed, or that my thoughts never
strayed away to that land where my first dreams of ambition were felt.
But a strange fatuous kind of languor had grown upon me, and the more I
retired within myself, the less did I wish for a return to that struggle
with the world which every active life engenders. Perhaps--I can not now
say if it were so--perhaps I resented the disdainful distance with which
the gentry treated me, as we met in the hunting-field or the
coursing-ground. Some of the isolation I preferred may have had this
origin, but choice had the greater share in it, until at last my
greatest pleasure was to absent myself for weeks on a cruise, fancying
that I was exploring tracts never visited by man, and landing on spots
where no human foot had ever been known to tread.
If Uncle Pat would occasionally remonstrate on the score of these long
absences, he never ceased to supply means for them, and my sea store and
a well-filled purse were never wanting, when the blue Peter floated from
"La Hoche," as in my ardor I had named my cutter. Perhaps at heart he
was not sorry to see me avoid the capital and its society. The
bitterness which had succeeded the struggle for independence was now at
its highest point, and there was what, to my thinking at least, appeared
something like the cruelty of revenge in the sentences which followed
the state trials. I will not suffer myself to stray into the debatable
ground of politics, nor dare I give an opinion on matters, where, with
all the experience of fifty years superadded, the wisest heads are
puzzled how to decide; but my impression at the time was, that lenity
would have been a safer and a better policy than severity, and that in
the momentary prostration of the country lay the precise conjuncture for
those measures of grace and favor, which were afterward rather wrung
from than conceded by the English government. Be this as it may, Dublin
offered a strange spectacle at that period. The triumphant joy of one
party--the discomfiture and depression of the other. All the exuberant
delight of success here; all the bitterness of failure there. On one
side festivities, rejoicings, and public demonstrations; on the other,
confinement, banishment, or the scaffold.
The excitement was almost madness. The passion for pleasure, restrained
by the terrible contingencies of the time, now broke forth with
redoubled force, and the capital was thronged with all its rank, riches,
and fashion, when its jails were crowded, and the heaviest sentences of
the law were in daily execution. The state trials were crowded by all
the fashion of the metropolis; and the heart-moving eloquence of Curran
was succeeded by the strains of a merry concert. It was just then, too,
that the great lyric poet of Ireland began to appear in society, and
those songs which were to be known afterwards as "The Melodies," par
excellence, were first heard in all the witching enchantment which his
own taste and voice could lend them. To such as were indifferent to or
could forget the past, it was a brilliant period. It was the last
flickering blaze of Irish nationality, before the lamp was extinguished
for ever.
Of this society I myself saw nothing. But even in the retirement of my
humble life the sounds of its mirth and pleasure penetrated, and I often
wished to witness the scenes which even in vague description were
fascinating. It was then in a kind of discontent at my exclusion, that I
grew from day to day more disposed to solitude, and fonder of those
excursions which led me out of all reach of companionship or
acquaintance. In this spirit I planned a long cruise down channel,
resolving to visit the Island of Valencia, or, if the wind and weather
favored, to creep around the southwest coast as far as Bantry or
Kenmare. A man and his son, a boy of about sixteen, formed all my crew,
and were quite sufficient for the light tackle and easy rig of my craft.
Uncle Pat was already mounted on his pony, and ready to set out for
market, as we prepared to start. It was a bright spring morning--such a
one as now and then the changeful climate of Ireland brings forth, in a
brilliancy of color and softness of atmosphere that are rare in even
more favored lands.
"You have a fine day of it, Maurice, and just enough wind," said he,
looking at the point from whence it came. "I almost wish I was going
with you."
"And why not come, then?" asked I. "You never will give yourself a
holiday. Do so for once, now."
"Not to-day, any how," said he, half sighing at his self-denial. "I have
a great deal of business on my hands to-day; but the next time--the very
next you're up to a long cruise, I'll go with you."
"That's a bargain, then?"
"A bargain. Here's my hand on it."
We shook hands cordially on the compact. Little knew I it was to be for
the last time, and that we were never to meet again.
I was soon aboard, and with a free mainsail skimming rapidly over the
bright waters of the bay. The wind freshened as the day wore on, and we
quickly passed the Kish light-ship, and held our course boldly down
channel. The height of my enjoyment in these excursions consisted in the
unbroken quietude of mind I felt, when removed from all chance of
interruption, and left free to follow out my own fancies, and indulge my
dreamy conceptions to my heart's content. It was then I used to revel in
imaginings which sometimes soared into the boldest realms of ambition,
and at other strayed contemplatively in the humblest walks of obscure
fortune. My crew never broke in upon these musings; indeed old Tom
Finnerty's low crooning song rather aided than interrupted them. He was
not much given to talking, and a chance allusion to some vessel afar
off, or some head-land we were passing, were about the extent of his
communicativeness, and even these often fell on my ear unnoticed.
It was thus, at night, we made the Hook Tower; and on the next day
passed, in a spanking breeze, under the bold cliffs of Tramore, just
catching, as the sun was sinking, the sight of Youghal Bay, and the tall
headlands beyond it.
"The wind is drawing more to the nor'ard," said old Tom, as night closed
in, "and the clouds look dirty."
"Bear her up a point or two," said I, "and let us stand in for Cork
harbor, if it comes on to blow."
He muttered something in reply, but I did not catch the words, nor,
indeed, cared I to hear them, for I had just wrapped myself in my
boat-cloak, and stretched at full length on the shingle ballast of the
yawl, was gazing in rapture at the brilliancy of the starry sky above
me. Light skiffs of feathery cloud would now and then flit past, and a
peculiar hissing sound of the sea told, at the same time, that the
breeze was freshening. But old Tom had done his duty in mentioning this
once; and thus having disburdened his conscience, he closehauled his
mainsail, shifted the ballast a little to midships, and, putting up the
collar of his pilot-coat, screwed himself tighter into the corner beside
the tiller, and chewed his quid in quietness. The boy slept soundly in
the bow, and I, lulled by the motion and the plashing waves, fell into a
dreamy stupor, like a pleasant sleep. The pitching of the boat continued
to increase, and twice or thrice, struck by a heavy sea, she lay over,
till the white waves came tumbling in over her gunwale. I heard Tom call
to his boy, something about the head-sail, but for the life of me I
could not or would not arouse myself from a train of thought that I was
following.
"She's a stout boat to stand this," said Tom, as he rounded her off, at
a coming wave, which, even thus escaped, splashed over her like a
cataract. "I know many a bigger craft wouldn't hold up her canvas under
such a gale."
"Here it comes, father. Here's a squall," cried the boy, and with a
crash like thunder, the wind struck the sail, and laid the boy
half-under.
"She'd float if she was full of water," said the old man, as the craft
"righted."
"But maybe the spars wouldn't stand," said the boy, anxiously.
"'Tis what I'm thinking," rejoined the father. "There's a shake in the
mast, below the caps."
"Tell him it's better to bear up, and go before it," whispered the lad,
with a gesture toward where I was lying.
"Troth it's little he'd care," said the other; "besides, he's never
plazed to be woke up."
"Here it comes again," cried the boy. But this time the squall swept
past ahead of us, and the craft only reeled to the swollen waves, as
they tore by.
"We'd better go about, sir," said Tom to me; "there's a heavy sea
outside, and it's blowing hard now."
"And there's a split in the mast as long as my arm," cried the boy.
"I thought she'd live through any sea, Tom!" said I, laughing; for it
was his constant boast that no weather could harm her.
"There goes the spar," shouted he, while with a loud snap the mast gave
way, and fell with a crash over the side. The boat immediately came head
to wind, and sea after sea broke upon her bow, and fell in great floods
over us.
"Cut away the stays--clear the wreck," cried Tom, "before the squall
catches her."
And although we now labored like men whose lives depended on the
exertion, the trailing sail and heavy rigging, shifting the ballast as
they fell, laid her completely over; and when the first sea struck her,
over she went. The violence of the gale sent me a considerable distance
out, and for several seconds I felt as though I should never reach the
surface again. Wave after wave rolled over me, and seemed bearing me
downward with their weight. At last I grasped something; it was a
rope--a broken halyard--but by its means I gained the mast, which
floated alongside of the yawl as she now lay keel uppermost. With what
energy did I struggle to reach her. The space was scarcely a dozen feet,
and yet it cost me what seemed an age to traverse. Through all the
roaring of the breakers, and the crashing sounds of storm, I thought I
could hear my comrades' voices shouting and screaming, but this was in
all likelihood a mere deception, for I never saw them more.
Grasping with a death-grip the slippery keel, I hung on the boat through
all the night. The gale continued to increase, and by day-break it blew
a perfect hurricane. With an aching anxiety I watched for the light to
see if I were near the land, or if any ship were in sight, but when the
sun rose nothing met my eyes but a vast expanse of waves tumbling and
tossing in mad confusion, while overhead some streaked and mottled
clouds were hurried along with the wind. Happily for me, I have no
correct memory of that long day of suffering. The continual noise, but
more still, the incessant motion of the sea and sky around brought on a
vertigo, that seemed like madness; and although the instinct of
self-preservation remained, the wildest and most incoherent fancies
filled my brain. Some of these were powerful enough to impress
themselves upon my memory for years after, and one I have never yet been
able to dispel. It clings to me in every season of unusual depression or
dejection; it recurs in the half nightmare sleep of over fatigue, and
even invades me when, restless and feverish, I lie for hours incapable
of repose. This is the notion that my state was one of after-life
punishment; that I had died, and was now expiating a sinful life by the
everlasting misery of a castaway. The fever brought on by thirst and
exhaustion and the burning sun which beamed down upon my uncovered head,
soon completed the measure of this infatuation, and all sense and
guidance left me.
By what instinctive impulse I still held on my grasp I can not explain,
but there I clung during the whole of that long dreadful day, and the
still more dreadful night, when the piercing cold cramped my limbs, and
seemed as if freezing the very blood within me. It was no wish for life;
it was no anxiety to save myself that now filled me. It seemed like a
vague impulse of necessity that compelled me to hang on. It was, as it
were, part of that terrible sentence which made this my doom forever!
An utter unconsciousness must have followed this state, and a dreary
blank, with flitting shapes of suffering, is all that remains to my
recollection....
Probably within the whole range of human sensations, there is not one so
perfect in its calm and soothing influence as the first burst of
gratitude we feel when recovering from a long and severe illness! There
is not an object, however humble and insignificant, that is not for the
time invested with a new interest. The air is balmier, flowers are
sweeter, the voices of friends, the smiles and kind looks, are dearer
and fonder than we have ever known them. The whole world has put on a
new aspect for us, and we have not a thought that is not teeming with
forgiveness and affection. Such, in all their completeness, were my
feelings as I lay on the poop-deck of a large three-masted ship, which,
with studding and top-gallant sails all set, proudly held her course up
the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
She was a Dantzig barque, the "Hoffnung," bound for Quebec, her only
passengers being a Moravian minister and his wife, on their way to join
a small German colony established near Lake Champlain. To Gottfried
Kroeller and his dear little wife I owe not life alone, but nearly all
that has made it valuable. With means barely removed from absolute
poverty, I found that they had spared nothing to assist in my recovery;
for, when discovered, emaciation and wasting had so far reduced me that
nothing but the most unremitting care and kindness could have succeeded
in restoring me. To this end they bestowed not only their whole time and
attention, but every little delicacy of their humble sea-store. All the
little cordials and restoratives meant for a season of sickness or
debility were lavished unsparingly on me, and every instinct of national
thrift and carefulness gave way before the more powerful influence of
Christian benevolence.
I can think of nothing but that bright morning, as I lay on a mattress
on the deck, with the "Pfarrer" on one side of me, and his good little
wife, Lyschen, on the other; he, with his volume of "Wieland," and she
working away with her long knitting-needles, and never raising her head
save to bestow a glance at the poor sick boy, whose bloodless lips were
trying to mutter her name in thankfulness. It is like the most delicious
dream as I think over those hours, when, rocked by the surging motion of
the large ship, hearing in half distinctness the words of the
"Pfarrer's" reading, I followed out little fancies--now
self-originating, now rising from the theme of the poet's musings.
How softly the cloud shadows moved over the white sails and swept along
the bright deck! How pleasantly the water rippled against the vessel's
side! With what a glad sound the great ensign flapped and fluttered in
the breeze! There was light, and life, and motion on every side, and I
felt all the intoxication of enjoyment.
And like a dream was the portion of my life which followed. I
accompanied the Pfarrer to a small settlement near "Crown Point," where
he was to take up his residence as minister. Here we lived amid a
population of about four or five hundred Germans, principally from
Pomerania, on the shores of the Baltic, a peaceful, thrifty, quiet set
of beings, who, content with the little interests revolving around
themselves, never troubled their heads about the great events of war or
politics; and here in all likelihood should I have been content to pass
my days, when an accidental journey I made to Albany, to receive some
letters for the Pfarrer, once more turned the fortune of my life.
It was a great incident in the quiet monotony of my life, when I set out
one morning, arrayed in a full suit of coarse glossy black, with buttons
like small saucers, and a hat whose brim almost protected my shoulders.
I was, indeed, an object of very considerable envy to some, and I hope,
also, not denied the admiring approval of some others. Had the
respectable city I was about to visit been the chief metropolis of a
certain destination which I must not name, the warnings I received about
its dangers, dissipations, and seductions, could scarcely have been more
earnest or impressive. I was neither to speak with, nor even to look at,
those I met in the streets. I was carefully to avoid taking my meals at
any of the public eating-houses, rigidly guarding myself from the
contamination of even a chance acquaintance. It was deemed as needless
to caution me against theatres or places of amusement, as to hint to me
that I should not commit a highway robbery or a murder, and so, in
sooth, I should myself have felt it. The patriarchal simplicity in which
I had lived for above a year, had not been without its effect in
subduing exaggerated feeling, or controlling that passion for excitement
so common to youth. I felt a kind of drowsy, dreamy languor over me,
which I sincerely believed represented a pious and well-regulated
temperament. Perhaps in time it might have become such. Perhaps with
others, more happily constituted, the impression would have been
confirmed and fixed; but in _my_ case it was a mere lacker that the
first rubbing in the world was sure to brush off.
I arrived safely at Albany, and having presented myself at the bank of
Gabriel Shultze, was desired to call the following morning, when all the
letters and papers of Gottfried Kroeller should be delivered to me. A
very cold invitation to supper was the only hospitality extended to me.
This I declined on pretext of weariness, and set out to explore the
town, to which my long residence in rural life imparted a high degree of
interest.
I don't know what it may now be: doubtless a great capital, like one of
the European cities; but at the time I speak of, Albany was a strange,
incongruous assemblage of stores and wooden houses, great buildings like
granaries, with whole streets of low sheds around them, where open to
the passer-by, men worked at various trades, and people followed out the
various duties of domestic life in sight of the public; the daughters
knitted and sewed; mothers cooked and nursed their children; men ate,
and worked, and smoked, and sang, as if in all the privacy of closed
dwellings, while a thick current of population poured by, apparently too
much immersed in their own cares, or too much accustomed to the scene,
to give it more than passing notice.
It was curious how one bred and born in the great city of Paris, with
all its sights and sounds, and scenes of excitement and display, could
have been so rusticated by time, as to feel a lively interest in
surveying the motley aspect of this quaint town. There were, it is true,
features in the picture very unlike the figures in "Old World"
landscape. A group of red men, seated around a fire in the open street,
or a squaw carrying on her back a baby, firmly tied to a piece of curved
bark; a Southern-stater, with a spanking wagon-team, and two grinning
negroes behind, were new and strange elements in the life of a city.
Still, the mere movement, the actual busy stir and occupation of the
inhabitants, attracted me as much as any thing else; and the shops and
stalls where trades were carried on were a seduction I could not resist.
The strict puritanism in which I had lately lived taught me to regard
all these things with a certain degree of distrust. They were the
impulses of that gold-seeking passion of which Gottfried had spoken so
frequently; they were the great vice of that civilization, whose
luxurious tendency he often deplored; and here, now, more than one-half
around me were arts that only ministered to voluptuous tastes. Brilliant
articles of jewelry; gay cloaks, worked with wampum, in Indian taste;
ornamental turning, and costly weapons, inlaid with gold and silver,
succeeded each other, street after street; and the very sight of them,
however pleasurable to the eye, set me a-moralizing, in a strain that
would have done credit to a son of Geneva. It might have been, that in
my enthusiasm I uttered half aloud what I intended for soliloquy: or
perhaps some gesture, or peculiarity of manner, had the effect; but so
it was: I found myself an object of notice; and my queer-cut coat and
wide hat, contrasting so strangely with my youthful appearance and
slender make, drew many a criticism on me.
"He ain't a Quaker, that's a fact," cried one, "for they don't wear
black."
"He's a down-Easter--a horse jockey chap, I'll be bound," cried another.
"They put on all manner of disguises and 'masqueroonings.' I know 'em!"
"He's a calf preacher--a young bottle-nosed Gospeller," broke in a
thick, short fellow, like the skipper of a merchant ship. "Let's have
him out for a preachment."
"Ay, you're right," chimed in another. "I'll get you a sugar hogshead in
no time;" and away he ran on the mission.
Between twenty and thirty persons had now collected; and I saw myself,
to my unspeakable shame and mortification, the centre of all their looks
and speculations. A little more _aplomb_ or knowledge of life would have
taught me coolness enough in a few words to undeceive them: but such a
task was far above me now; and I saw nothing for it but flight. Could I
only have known which way to take, I need not have feared any pursuer,
for I was a capital runner, and in high condition; but of the locality I
was utterly ignorant, and should only surrender myself to mere chance.
With a bold rush, then, I dashed right through the crowd, and set off
down the street, the whole crew after me. The dusk of the closing
evening was in my favor; and although volunteers were enlisted in the
chase at every corner and turning, I distanced them, and held on my way
in advance. My great object being not to turn on my course, lest I
should come back to my starting point, I directed my steps nearly
straight onward, clearing apple-stalls and fruit tables at a bound; and
more than once taking a flying leap over an Indian's fire, when the mad
shout of the red man would swell the chorus that followed me. At last I
reached a network of narrow lanes and alleys, by turning and winding
through which, I speedily found myself in a quiet secluded spot, with
here and there a flickering candle-light from the windows, but no other
sign of habitation. I looked anxiously about for an open door; but they
were all safe barred and fastened; and it was only on turning a corner I
spied what seemed to me a little shop, with a solitary lamp over the
entrance. A narrow canal, crossed by a rickety old bridge, led to this;
and the moment I had crossed over, I seized the single plank which
formed the footway, and shoved it into the stream. My retreat being thus
secured, I opened the door, and entered. It was a barber's shop; at
least, so a great chair before a cracked old looking glass, with some
well-worn combs and brushes, bespoke it; but the place seemed
untenanted, and although I called aloud several times, none came or
responded to my summons.
I now took a survey of the spot which seemed of the poorest imaginable.
A few empty pomatum pots, a case of razors that might have defied the
most determined suicide, and a half-finished wig, on a block painted
like a red man, were the entire stock in trade. On the walls, however,
were some colored prints of the battles of the French army in Germany
and Italy. Execrably done things they were, but full of meaning and
interest to my eyes in spite of that. With all the faults of drawing and
all the travesties of costume, I could recognize different corps of the
service, and my heart bounded as I gazed on the tall shakos swarming to
a breach, or the loose jacket as it floated from the hussar in a charge.
All the wild pleasures of soldiering rose once more to my mind, and I
thought over old comrades who doubtless were now earning the high
rewards of their bravery in the great career of glory. And as I did so,
my own image confronted me in the glass, as with long, lank hair, and a
great bolster of a white cravat, I stood before it. What a contrast!--how
unlike the smart hussar, with curling locks and fierce mustache! Was I
as much changed in heart as in looks. Had my spirit died out within me.
Would the proud notes of the bugle or the trumpet fall meaningless on my
ears, or the hoarse cry of "Charge!" send no bursting fullness to my
temples? Ay, even these coarse representations stirred the blood in my
veins, and my step grew firmer as I walked the room.
In a passionate burst of enthusiasm I tore off my slouched hat and
hurled it from me. It felt like the badge of some ignoble slavery, and I
determined to endure it no longer. The noise of the act called up a
voice from the inner room, and a man, to all appearance suddenly roused
from sleep, stood at the door. He was evidently young, but poverty,
dissipation, and raggedness made the question of his age a difficult one
to solve. A light-colored mustache and beard covered all the lower part
of his face, and his long blonde hair fell heavily over his shoulders.
"Well," cried he, half angrily, "what's the matter; are you so impatient
that you must smash the furniture?"
Although the words were spoken as correctly as I have written them, they
were uttered with a foreign accent; and, hazarding the stroke, I
answered him in French by apologizing for the noise.
"What! a Frenchman," exclaimed he, "and in that dress; what can that
mean?"
"If you'll shut your door, and cut off pursuit of me, I'll tell you
every thing," said I, "for I hear the voices of people coming down that
street in front."
"I'll do better," said he, quickly, "I'll upset the bridge, and they can
not come over."
"That's done already," replied I; "I shoved it into the stream as I
passed."
He looked at me steadily for a moment without speaking, and then
approaching close to me, said, "Parbleu! the act was very unlike your
costume!" At the same time he shut the door, and drew a strong bar
across it. This done, he turned to me once more--"Now for it: who are
you, and what has happened to you?"
"As to what I am," replied I, imitating his own abruptness, "my dress
will almost save the trouble of explaining; these Albany folk, however,
would make a field-preacher of me, and to escape them I took to flight."
"Well, if a fellow will wear his hair that fashion, he must take the
consequence," said he, drawing out my long lank locks as they hung over
my shoulders. "And so you wouldn't hold forth for them; not even give
them a stave of a conventical chant." He kept his eyes riveted on me as
he spoke, and then seizing two pieces of stick for the firewood, he beat
on the table the ran-tan-plan of the French drum. "That's the music you
know best, lad, eh?--that's the air, which, if it has not led
heavenward, has conducted many a brave fellow out of this world at
least: do you forget it?"
"Forget it! no," cried I; "but who are you; and how comes it
that--that--" I stopped in confusion at the rudeness of the question I
had begun.
"That I stand here, half-fed, and all but naked; a barber in a land
where men don't shave once a month. Parbleu! they'd come even seldomer
to my shop if they knew how tempted I feel to draw the razor sharp and
quick across the gullet of a fellow with a well-stocked pouch."
As he continued to speak, his voice assumed a tone and cadence that
sounded familiarly to my ears as I stared at him in amazement.
"Not know me yet," exclaimed he, laughing; "and yet all this poverty and
squalor isn't as great a disguise as your own, Tiernay. Come, lad, rub
your eyes a bit, and try if you can't recognize an old comrade."
"I know you, yet can not remember how or where we met," said I, in
bewilderment.
"I'll refresh your memory," said he, crossing his arms, and drawing
himself proudly up. "If you can trace back in your mind to a certain hot
and dusty day, on the Metz road, when you, a private in the seventh
Hussars, were eating an onion and a slice of black bread for your
dinner, a young officer, well-looking and well-mounted, cantered up, and
threw you his brandy flask. Your acknowledgment of the civility showed
you to be a gentleman; and the acquaintance thus opened, soon ripened
into intimacy."
"But he was the young Marquis de Saint Trone," said I, perfectly
remembering the incident.
"Or Eugene Santron, of the republican army, or the barber at Albany,
without any name at all," said he, laughing. "What, Maurice, don't you
know me yet?"
"What, the lieutenant of my regiment! The dashing officer of Hussars!"
"Just so, and as ready to resume the old skin as ever," cried he, "and
brandish a weapon somewhat longer, and perhaps somewhat sharper, too,
than a razor."
We shook hands with all the cordiality of old comrades, meeting far away
from home, and in a land of strangers; and although each was full of
curiosity to learn the other's history, a kind of reserve held back the
inquiry, till Santron said, "My confession is soon made, Maurice; I left
the service in the Meuse, to escape being shot. One day, on returning
from a field manoeuvre, I discovered that my portmanteau had been
opened, and a number of letters and papers taken out. They were part of
a correspondence I held with old General Lamarre, about the restoration
of the Bourbons, a subject, I'm certain, that half the officers in the
army were interested in, and, even to Bonaparte himself, deeply
implicated in too. No matter, _my_ treason, as they called it, was too
flagrant, and I had just twenty minutes' start of the order which was
issued for my arrest, to make my escape into Holland. There I managed to
pass several months in various disguises, part of the time being
employed as a Dutch spy, and actually charged with an order to discover
tidings of myself, until I finally got away in an Antwerp schooner, to
New York. From that time my life has been nothing but a struggle, a hard
one, too, with actual want, for in this land of enterprise and activity,
mere intelligence, without some craft or calling, will do nothing.
"I tried fifty things--to teach riding, and when I mounted into the
saddle, I forgot everything but my own enjoyment, and caracolled, and
plunged, and passaged, till the poor beast hadn't a leg to stand on;
fencing, and I got into a duel with a rival teacher, and ran him through
the neck, and was obliged to fly from Halifax; French, I made love to my
pupil, a pretty looking Dutch fraulein, whose father didn't smile on our
affection; and so on I descended from a dancing-master to a waiter, a
_laquais de place_, and at last settled down as a barber, which
brilliant speculation I had just determined to abandon this very night;
for to-morrow morning, Maurice, I start for New York and France again;
ay, boy, and you'll go with me. This is no land for either of us."
"But I have found happiness, at least contentment, here," said I,
gravely.
"What! play the hypocrite with an old comrade! shame on you, Maurice,"
cried he. "It is these confounded locks have perverted the boy," added
he, jumping up; and before I knew what he was about, he had shorn my
hair, in two quick cuts of the scissors, close to the head. "There,"
said he, throwing the cut-off hair toward me, "there lies all your
saintship; depend upon it, boy, they'd hunt you out of the settlement
if you came back to them cropped in this fashion."
"But you return to certain death, Santron," said I; "your crime is too
recent to be forgiven or forgotten."
"Not a bit of it; Fouche, Cassaubon, and a dozen others now in office,
were deeper than I was. There's not a public man in France could stand
an exposure, or hazard recrimination. It's a thieves' amnesty at this
moment, and I must not lose the opportunity. I'll show you letters that
will prove it, Maurice; for, poor and ill-fed as I am, I like life just
as well as ever I did. I mean to be a general of division one of these
days, and so will you too, lad, if there's any spirit left in you."
Thus did Santron rattle on, sometimes of himself and his own future;
sometimes discussing mine; for while talking, he had contrived to learn
all the chief particulars of my history, from the time of my sailing
from La Rochelle for Ireland.
The unlucky expedition afforded him great amusement, and he was never
weary of laughing at all our adventures and mischances in Ireland. Of
Humbert, he spoke as a fourth or fifth-rate man, and actually shocked me
by all the heresies he uttered against our generals, and the plan of
campaign; but, perhaps, I could have borne even these better than the
sarcasms and sneers at the little life of "the settlement." He treated
all my efforts at defense as mere hypocrisy, and affected to regard me
as a mere knave, that had traded on the confiding kindness of these
simple villagers. I could not undeceive him on this head; nor what was
more, could I satisfy my own conscience that he was altogether in the
wrong; for, with a diabolical ingenuity, he had contrived to hit on some
of the most vexatious doubts which disturbed my mind, and instinctively
to detect the secret cares and difficulties that beset me. The lesson
should never be lost on us, that the devil was depicted as a sneerer! I
verily believe the powers of temptation have no such advocacy as
sarcasm. Many can resist the softest seductions of vice: many are proof
against all the blandishments of mere enjoyment, come in what shape it
will; but how few can stand firm against the assaults of clever irony,
or hold fast to their convictions when assailed by the sharp shafts of
witty depreciation.
I'm ashamed to own how little I could oppose to all his impertinences
about our village, and its habits; or how impossible I found it not to
laugh at his absurd descriptions of a life which, without having ever
witnessed, he depicted with a rare accuracy. He was shrewd enough not to
push this ridicule offensively, and long before I knew it I found myself
regarding, with his eyes, a picture in which, but a few months back, I
stood as a fore-ground figure. I ought to confess, that no artificial
aid was derived from either good cheer, or the graces of hospitality; we
sat by a miserable lamp, in a wretchedly cold chamber, our sole solace
some bad cigars, and a can of flat, stale cider.
"I have not a morsel to offer you to eat, Maurice, but to-morrow we'll
breakfast on my razors, dine on that old looking-glass, and sup on two
hard brushes and the wig!"
Such were the brilliant pledges, and we closed a talk which the
flickering lamp at last put an end to.
A broken, unconnected conversation followed for a little time, but at
length, worn out and wearied, each dropped off to sleep--Eugene on the
straw settle, and I in the old chair--never to awake till the bright sun
was streaming in between the shutters, and dancing merrily on the tiled
floor.
An hour before I awoke he had completed the sale of all his little stock
in trade, and, with a last look round the spot where he had passed some
months of struggling poverty, out we sallied into the town.
"We'll breakfast at Jonathan Hone's," said Santron. "It's the first
place here. I'll treat you to rump steaks, pumpkin pie, and a gin
twister that will astonish you. Then, while I'm arranging for our
passage down the Hudson, you'll see the hospitable banker, and tell him
how to forward all his papers, and so forth, to the settlement, with
your respectful compliments and regrets, and the rest of it."
"But am I to take leave of them in this fashion?" asked I.
"Without you want _me_ to accompany you there, I think it's by far the
best way," said he, laughingly. "If, however, you think that my presence
and companionship will add any lustre to your position, say the word and
I'm ready. I know enough of the barber's craft now to make up a head 'en
Puritan,' and, if you wish, I'll pledge myself to impose upon the whole
colony."
Here was a threat there was no mistaking; and any imputation of
ingratitude on my part were far preferable to the thought of such an
indignity. He saw his advantage at once, and boldly declared that
nothing should separate us.
"The greatest favor, my dear Maurice, you can ever expect at my hands
is, never to speak of this freak of yours; or, if I do, to say that you
performed the part to perfection."
My mind was in one of those moods of change when the slightest impulse
is enough to sway it, and more from this cause than all his persuasion,
I yielded; and the same evening saw me gliding down the Hudson, and
admiring the bold Kaatskills, on our way to New York.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Continued from Vol. II. p. 747.
ANECDOTES OF PAGANINI.
Paganini was in all respects a very singular being, and an interesting
subject to study. His talents were by no means confined to his wonderful
powers as a musician. On other subjects he was well-informed, acute, and
conversible, of bland and gentle manners, and in society, perfectly
well-bred. All this contrasted strangely with the dark, mysterious
stories which were bruited abroad, touching some passages in his early
life. But outward semblance and external deportment are treacherous as
quicksands, when taken as guides by which to sound the real depths of
human character. Lord Byron remarks, that his pocket was once picked by
the civilest gentleman he ever conversed with, and that by far the
mildest individual of his acquaintance was the remorseless Ali Pacha of
Yanina. The expressive lineaments of Paganini told a powerful tale of
passions which had been fearfully excited, which might be roused again
from temporary slumber, or were exhausted by indulgence and premature
decay, leaving deep furrows to mark their intensity. Like the generality
of his countrymen, he looked much older than he was. With them, the
elastic vigor of youth and manhood rapidly subsides into an interminable
and joyless old age, numbering as many years, but with far less both of
physical and mental faculty to render them endurable, than the more
equally poised gradations of our northern clime. It is by no means
unusual to encounter a well developed Italian, whiskered to the
eye-brows, and "bearded like the pard," who tells you, to your utter
astonishment, that he is scarcely seventeen, when you have set him down
from his appearance as, at least, five-and-thirty.
The following extract from Colonel Montgomery Maxwell's book of Military
Reminiscences, entitled "My Adventures," dated Genoa, February 22d,
1815, supplies the earliest record which has been given to the public
respecting Paganini, and affords authentic evidence that some of the
mysterious tales which heralded his coming were not without foundation.
He could scarcely have been at this time thirty years old. "Talking of
music, I have become acquainted with the most _outre_, most extravagant,
and strangest character I ever beheld, or heard, in the musical line. He
has just been emancipated from durance vile, where he has been for a
long time incarcerated on suspicion of murder. His long figure, long
neck, long face, and long forehead; his hollow and deadly pale cheek,
large black eye, hooked nose, and jet black hair, which is long, and
more than half hiding his expressive Jewish face; all these rendered him
the most extraordinary person I ever beheld. There is something
scriptural in the _tout ensemble_ of the strange physiognomy of this
uncouth and unearthly figure. Not that, as in times of old, he plays, as
Holy Writ tells us, on a ten-stringed instrument; on the contrary, he
brings the most powerful, the most wonderful, and the most heart-rending
tones from one string. His name is Paganini; he is very improvident and
very poor. The D----s, and the Impressario of the theatre got up a
concert for him the other night, which was well attended, and on which
occasion he electrified the audience. He is a native of Genoa, and if I
were a judge of violin playing, I would pronounce him the most
surprising performer in the world!"
That Paganini was either innocent of the charge for which he suffered
the incarceration Colonel Maxwell mentions, or that it could not be
proved against him, may be reasonably inferred from the fact that he
escaped the galleys or the executioner. In Italy, there was then, _par
excellence_ (whatever there may be now), a law for the rich, and another
for the poor. As he was without money, and unable to buy immunity, it is
charitable to suppose he was entitled to it from innocence. A nobleman,
with a few _zecchini_, was in little danger of the law, which confined
its practice entirely to the lower orders. I knew a Sicilian prince, who
most wantonly blew a vassal's brains out, merely because he put him in a
passion. The case was not even inquired into. He sent half a dollar to
the widow of the defunct (which, by the way, he borrowed from me, and
never repaid), and there the matter ended. Lord Nelson once suggested to
Ferdinand IV. of Naples, to try and check the daily increase of
assassination, by a few salutary executions. "No, no," replied old
Nasone, who was far from being as great a fool as he looked, "that is
impossible. If I once began that system, my kingdom would soon be
depopulated. One half my subjects would be continually employed in
hanging the remainder."
Among other peculiarities, Paganini was an incarnation of avarice and
parsimony, with a most contradictory passion for gambling. He would
haggle with you for sixpence, and stake a rouleau on a single turn at
_rouge et noir_. He screwed you down in a bargain as tightly as if you
were compressed in a vice; yet he had intervals of liberality, and
sometimes did a generous action. In this he bore some resemblance to the
celebrated John Elwes, of miserly notoriety, who deprived himself of the
common necessaries of life, and lived on a potato skin, but sometimes
gave a check for L100 to a public charity, and contributed largely to
private subscriptions. I never heard that Paganini actually did this,
but once or twice he played for nothing, and sent a donation to the
Mendicity, when he was in Dublin.
When he made his engagement with me, we mutually agreed to write no
orders, expecting the house to be quite full every night, and both being
aware that the "sons of freedom," while they add nothing to the
exchequer, seldom assist the effect of the performance. They are not
given to applaud vehemently; or, as Richelieu observes, "in the right
places." What we can get for nothing we are inclined to think much less
of than that which we must purchase. He who invests a shilling will not
do it rashly, or without feeling convinced that value received will
accrue from the risk. The man who pays is the real enthusiast; he comes
with a predetermination to be amused, and his spirit is exalted
accordingly. Paganini's valet surprised me one morning, by walking into
my room, and, with many "_eccellenzas_" and gesticulations of respect,
asking me to give him an order. I said, "Why do you come to me? Apply to
your master--won't he give you one?" "Oh, yes; but I don't like to ask
him." "Why not?" "Because he'll stop the amount out of my wages!" My
heart relented; I gave him the order, and paid Paganini the dividend. I
told him what it was, thinking, as a matter of course, he would return
it. He seemed uncertain for a moment, paused, smiled sardonically,
looked at the three and sixpence, and with a spasmodic twitch, deposited
it in his own waistcoat pocket instead of mine. Voltaire says, "no man
is a hero to his valet de chambre," meaning, thereby, as I suppose, that
being behind the scenes of every-day life, he finds out that Marshal
Saxe, or Frederick the Great, is as subject to the common infirmities of
our nature, as John Nokes or Peter Styles. Whether Paganini's squire of
the body looked on his master as a hero, in the vulgar acceptation of
the word, I can not say, but in spite of his stinginess, which he
writhed under, he regarded him with mingled reverence and terror. "A
strange person, your master," observed I. "_Signor_," replied the
faithful Sancho Panza, "_e veramente grand uomo, ma da non potersi
comprendere_." "He is truly a great man, but quite incomprehensible." It
was edifying to observe the awful importance with which Antonio bore the
instrument nightly intrusted to his charge to carry to and from the
theatre. He considered it an animated something, whether daemon or angel
he was unable to determine, but this he firmly believed, that it could
speak in actual dialogue when his master pleased, or become a dumb
familiar by the same controlling volition. This especial violin was
Paganini's inseparable companion. It lay on his table before him as he
sat meditating in his solitary chamber; it was placed by his side at
dinner, and on a chair within his reach when in bed. If he woke, as he
constantly did, in the dead of night, and the sudden _estro_ of
inspiration seized him, he grasped his instrument, started up, and on
the instant perpetuated the conception which otherwise he would have
lost forever. This marvelous Cremona, valued at four hundred guineas,
Paganini, on his death-bed, gave to De Kontski, his nephew and only
pupil, himself an eminent performer, and in his possession it now
remains.
When Paganini was in Dublin at the musical festival of 1830, the Marquis
of Anglesea, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, came every night to the
concerts at the theatre, and was greatly pleased with his performance.
On the first evening, between the acts, his Excellency desired that he
might be brought round to his box to be introduced, and paid him many
compliments. Lord Anglesea was at that time residing in perfect privacy
with his family, at Sir Harcourt Lees' country house, near Blackrock,
and expressed a wish to get an evening from the great violinist, to
gratify his domestic circle. The negotiation was rather a difficult
one, as Paganini was, of all others, the man who did nothing, in the way
of business, without an explicit understanding, and a clearly-defined
con-sid-e-ra-ti-on. He was alive to the advantage of honor, but he loved
money with a paramount affection. I knew that he had received enormous
terms, such as L150 and L200 for fiddling at private parties in London,
and I trembled for the viceregal purse; but I undertook to manage the
affair, and went to work accordingly. The aid-de-camp in waiting called
with me on Paganini, was introduced in due form, and handed him a card
of invitation to dinner, which, of course, he received and accepted with
ceremonious politeness. Soon after the officer had departed, he said,
suddenly, "This is a great honor, but am I expected to bring my
instrument?" "Oh, yes," I replied, "as a matter of course--the Lord
Lieutenant's family wish to hear you in private." "_Caro amico_,"
rejoined he, with petrifying composure, "_Paganini con violino e
Paganini senza violino,--ecco due animali distinti_." "Paganini with his
fiddle, and Paganini without it, are two very different persons." I knew
perfectly what he meant, and said, "The Lord Lieutenant is a nobleman of
exalted rank and character, liberal in the extreme, but he is not
Croesus; nor do I think you could, with any consistency, receive such an
honor as dining at his table, and afterward send in a bill for playing
two or three tunes in the evening." He was staggered; and asked, "What
do you advise?" I said, "Don't you think a present, in the shape of a
ring, or a snuff-box, or something of that sort, with a short
inscription, would be a more agreeable mode of settlement?" He seemed
tickled by this suggestion, and closed with it at once. I dispatched the
intelligence through the proper channel, that the violin and the _gran
maestro_ would both be in attendance. He went in his very choicest mood,
made himself extremely agreeable, played away, unsolicited, throughout
the evening, to the delight of the whole party; and on the following
morning, a gold snuff-box was duly presented to him, with a few
complimentary words engraved on the lid.
A year or two after this, when Paganini was again in England, I thought
another engagement might be productive, as his extraordinary attraction
appeared still to increase. I wrote to him on the subject, and soon
received a very courteous communication, to the effect, that, although
he had not contemplated including Ireland in his tour, yet he had been
so impressed by the urbanity of the Dublin public, and had, moreover,
conceived such a personal esteem for my individual character, that he
might be induced to alter his plans, at some inconvenience, provided
always I could make him a more enticing proposal than the former one. I
was here completely puzzled, as, on that occasion, I gave him a clear
two-thirds of each receipt, with a bonus of L25 per night, in addition,
for two useless coadjutors. I replied, that having duly deliberated on
his suggestion, and considered the terms of our last compact, I saw no
possible means of placing the new one in a more alluring shape, except
by offering him the entire produce of the engagement. After I had
dispatched my letter, I repented bitterly, and was terrified lest he
should think me serious, and hold me to the bargain; but he deigned no
answer, and this time I escaped for the fright I had given myself. When
in London, I called to see him, and met with a cordial reception; but he
soon alluded to the late correspondence, and half seriously said, "That
was a curious letter you wrote to me, and the joke with which you
concluded it, by no means a good one." "Oh," said I, laughing, "it would
have been much worse if you had taken me at my word." He then laughed,
too, and we parted excellent friends. I never saw him again. He returned
to the Continent, and died, having purchased the title of Baron, with a
patent of nobility, from some foreign potentate, which, with his
accumulated earnings, somewhat dilapidated by gambling, he bequeathed to
his only son. Paganini was the founder of his school, and the original
inventor of those extraordinary _tours de force_ with which all his
successors and imitators are accustomed to astonish the uninitiated. But
he still stands at the head of the list, although eminent names are
included in it, and is not likely to be pushed from his pedestal.
THE HOUSEHOLD OF SIR THO^S MORE.[2]
LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE, QUINDECIM ANNOS NATA, CHELSEIAE INCEPTVS.
"Nulla dies sine linea."
Hearde mother say to Barbara, "Be sure the sirloin is well basted for
y^e king's physician:" which avised me that Dr. Linacre was expected. In
truth, he returned with father in y^e barge; and they tooke a turn on
y^e river bank before sitting down to table; I noted them from my
lattice; and anon, father, beckoning me, cries, "Child, bring out my
favorite Treatyse on Fisshynge, printed by Wynkyn de Worde; I must give
the doctor my loved passage."
Joyning 'em with y^e book, I found father telling him of y^e roach,
dace, chub, barbel, etc., we oft catch opposite y^e church; and hastilie
turning over y^e leaves, he beginneth with unction to read y^e passage
ensuing, which I love to y^e full as much as he:--
He observeth, if the angler's sport shoulde fail him, "he at y^e best
hathe his holsom walk and mery at his ease, a swete ayre of the swete
savour of y^e meade of flowers, that maketh him hungry; he heareth the
melodious harmonie of fowles, he seeth y^e young swans herons, ducks,
cotes, and manie other fowles, with theire broods, which me seemeth
better than alle y^e noise of hounds, faukenors, and fowlers can make.
And if the angler take fysshe, then there is noe man merrier than he is
in his spryte." And, "Ye shall not use this forsaid crafty disporte for
no covetysnesse in the encreasing and sparing of your money onlie, but
pryncipallie for your solace, and to cause the health of your bodie, and
speciallie of your soule, for when ye purpose to goe on your disportes
of fysshynge, ye will not desire greatlie manie persons with you, which
woulde lett you of your game. And thenne ye may serve God devoutlie, in
saying affectuouslie your customable prayer; and thus doing, ye shall
eschew and voyd manie vices."
"Angling is itselfe a vice," cries Erasmus from y^e thresholde; "for my
part I will fish none, save and except for pickled oysters."
"In the regions below," answers father; and then laughinglie tells
Linacre of his firste dialogue with Erasmus, who had beene feasting in
my Lord Mayor's cellar:--"'Whence come you?' 'From below.' 'What were
they about there?' 'Eating live oysters, and drinking out of leather
jacks.' 'Either you are Erasmus,' etc. 'Either you are More or
nothing.'"
"'Neither more nor less,' you should have rejoyned," sayth the doctor.
"How I wish I had," says father; "don't torment me with a jest I might
have made and did not make; 'speciallie to put downe Erasmus."
"Concedo nulli," sayth Erasmus.
"Why are you so lazy?" asks Linacre; "I am sure you can speak English if
you will."
"Soe far from it," sayth Erasmus, "that I made my incapacitie an excuse
for declining an English rectory. Albeit, you know how Wareham requited
me; saying, in his kind, generous way, I served the Church more by my
pen than I coulde by preaching sermons in a countrie village."
Sayth Linacre, "The archbishop hath made another remark, as much to y^e
purpose: to wit, that he has received from you the immortalitie which
emperors and kings cannot bestow."
"They cannot even bid a smoking sirloin retain its heat an hour after it
hath left the fire," sayth father. "Tilly-vally! as my good Alice
says,--let us remember the universal doom, 'fruges consumere nati,' and
philosophize over our ale and bracket."
"Not Cambridge ale, neither," sayth Erasmus.
"Will you never forget that unlucky beverage?" sayth father. "Why, man,
think how manie poore scholars there be, that content themselves, as I
have hearde one of St. John's declare, with a penny piece of beef
amongst four, stewed into pottage with a little salt and oatmeal; and
that after fasting from four o'clock in the morning! Say grace for us
this daye, Erasmus, with goode heart."
At table, discourse flowed soe thicke and faste that I mighte aim in
vayn to chronicle it--and why should I? dwelling as I doe at y^e
fountayn head? Onlie that I find pleasure, alreadie, in glancing over
the foregoing pages whensoever they concern father and Erasmus, and wish
they were more faithfullie recalled and better writ. One thing sticks by
me,--a funny reply of father's to a man who owed him money and who put
him off with "Memento Morieris." "I bid you," retorted father, "Memento
Mori AEris, and I wish you woulde take as goode care to provide for y^e
one as I do for the other."
Linacre laughed much at this, and sayd,--"That was real wit; a spark
struck at the moment; and with noe ill-nature in it, for I am sure your
debtor coulde not help laughing."
"Not he," quoth Erasmus. "More's drollerie is like that of a young
gentlewoman of his name, which shines without burning." ... and, oddlie
enow, he looked acrosse at _me_. I am sure he meant Bess.
Father broughte home a strange gueste to-daye,--a converted Jew, with
grizzlie beard, furred gown, and eyes that shone like lamps lit in dark
cavernes. He had beene to Benmarine and Tremecen, to y^e Holie Citie and
to Damascus, to Urmia and Assyria, and I think alle over y^e knowne
world; and tolde us manie strange tales, one hardlie knew how to
believe; as, for example, of a sea-coast tribe, called y^e Balouches,
who live on fish and build theire dwellings of the bones. Alsoe, of a
race of his countrie-men beyond Euphrates who believe in Christ, but
know nothing of y^e Pope; and of whom were y^e Magians y^t followed y^e
Star. This agreeth not with our legend. He averred that, though soe far
apart from theire brethren, theire speech was y^e same, and even theire
songs; and he sang or chaunted one which he sayd was common among y^e
Jews alle over y^e world, and had beene so ever since theire citie was
ruinated and y^e people captivated, and yet it was never sett down by
note. Erasmus, who knows little or nought of Hebrew, listened to y^e
words with curiositie, and made him repeate them twice or thrice: and
though I know not y^e character, it seemed to me they sounded thus:--
Adir Hu yivne bethcha beccaro,
El, b'ne; El, b'ne; El, b'ne;
Bethcha beccaro.
Though Christianish, he woulde not eat pig's face; and sayd swine's
flesh was forbidden by y^e Hebrew law for its unwholesomenesse in hot
countries and hot weather, rather than by way of arbitrarie prohibition.
Daisy took a great dislike to this man, and woulde not sit next him.
In the hay-field alle y^e evening. Swathed father in a hay-rope, and
made him pay y^e fine, which he pretended to resist. Cecy was just about
to cast one round Erasmus, when her heart failed and she ran away,
colouring to y^e eyes. He sayd, he never saw such pretty shame. Father
reclining on y^e hay, with head on my lap and his eyes shut, Bess asked
if he were asleep. He made answer, "Yes, and dreaming." I askt, "Of
what?" "Of a far-off future daye, Meg; when thou and I shall looke back
on this hour, and this hay-field, and my head on thy lap."
"Nay, but what a stupid dream, Mr. More," says mother. "Why, what woulde
_you_ dreame of, Mrs. Alice?" "Forsooth, if I dreamed at alle, when I
was wide awake, it shoulde be of being Lord Chancellor at y^e leaste."
"Well, wife, I forgive thee for not saying at the _most_. Lord
Chancellor quotha! And you woulde be Dame Alice, I trow, and ride in a
whirlecote, and keep a Spanish jennet, and a couple of grey hounds, and
wear a train before and behind, and carry a jerfalcon on your fist." "On
my wrist." "No, that's not such a pretty word as t'other! Go to, go!"
Straying from y^e others, to a remote corner of the meadow, or ever I
was aware, I came close upon Gammer Gurney, holding somewhat with much
care. "Give ye good den, Mistress Meg," quoth she, "I cannot abear to
rob y^e birds of theire nests; but I knows you and yours be kind to dumb
creatures, soe here's a nest o' young owzels for ye--and I can't call
'em dumb nowther, for they'll sing bravelie some o' these days." "How
hast fared, of late, Gammer?" quoth I. "Why, well enow for such as I,"
she made answer; "since I lost y^e use o' my right hand, I can nowther
spin, nor nurse sick folk, but I pulls rushes, and that brings me a few
pence, and I be a good herbalist; and, because I says one or two English
prayers and hates y^e priests, some folks thinks me a witch." "But why
dost hate y^e priests?" quoth I. "Never you mind," she gave answer,
"I've reasons manie; and for my English prayers, they were taught me by
a gentleman I nursed, that's now a saint in heaven, along with poor
Joan."
And soe she hobbled off, and I felt kindlie towards her, I scarce knew
why--perhaps because she spake soe lovingly of her dead sister, and
because of that sister's name. _My_ mother's name was Joan.
* * * * *
Erasmus is gone. His last saying to father was, "They will have you at
court yet;" and father's answer, "When Plato's year comes round."
To me he gave a copy, how precious! of his Testament. "You are an
elegant Latinist, Margaret," he was pleased to say, "but, if you woulde
drink deeplie of y^e well-springs of wisdom, applie to Greek. The Latins
have onlie shallow rivulets; the Greeks, copious rivers, running over
sands of gold. Read Plato; he wrote on marble, with a diamond; but above
alle, read y^e New Testament. 'Tis the key to the kingdom of heaven."
To Mr. Gunnel, he said, smiling, "Have a care of thyself, dear Gonellus,
and take a little wine for thy stomach's sake. The wages of most
scholars nowadays, are weak eyes, ill-health, an empty purse, and shorte
commons. I neede only bid thee beware of the two first."
To Bess, "Farewell, Bessy; thank you for mending my bad Latin. When I
write to you, I will be sure to signe myselfe 'Roterodamius.' Farewell,
sweete, Cecil; let me always continue your 'desired amiable.' And you,
Jacky,--love your book a little more."
"Jack's deare mother, not content with her girls," sayth father, "was
alwaies wishing for a boy, and at last she had one that means to remain
a boy alle his life."
"The Dutch schoolmasters thoughte _me_ dulle and heavie," sayth Erasmus,
"soe there is some hope of Jacky yet." And soe, stepped into y^e barge,
which we watched to Chelsea Reach. How dulle the house has beene ever
since! Rupert and William have had me into y^e pavillion to hear y^e
plot of a miracle-play they have alreadie begunne to talk over for
Christmasse, but it seemed to me downrighte rubbish. Father sleeps in
towne to-nighte, soe we shall be stupid enow. Bessy hath undertaken to
work father a slipper for his tender foot; and is happie, tracing for
y^e pattern our three moor-cocks and colts; but I am idle and tiresome.
If I had paper, I woulde beginne my projected _opus_; but I dare not ask
Gunnel for anie more just yet; nor have anie money to buy some. I wish I
had a couple of angels. I think I shall write to father for them
to-morrow; he alwaies likes to heare from us if he is twenty-four hours
absent, providing we conclude not with "I have nothing more to say."
* * * * *
I have writ my letter to father. I almoste wish, now, that I had not
sent it.
Rupert and Will still full of theire moralitie, which reallie has some
fun in it. To ridicule y^e extravagance of those who, as the saying is,
carry theire farms and fields on theire backs, William proposes to come
in, all verdant, with a reall model of a farm on his back and a windmill
on his head.
* * * * *
How sweete, how gracious an answer from father! John Harris has broughte
me with it y^e two angels; less prized than this epistle.
* * * * *
July 10.
Sixteenth birthdaye. Father away, which made it sadde. Mother gave me a
payr of blue hosen with silk clocks; Mr. Gunnel, an ivorie handled
stylus; Bess, a bodkin for my hair; Daisy, a book-mark; Mercy, a saffron
cake; Jack, a basket; and Cecil, a nosegay. William's present was
fayrest of alle, but I am hurte with him and myselfe: for he offered it
soe queerlie and tagged it with such.... I refused it, and there's an
end. 'Twas unmannerlie and unkinde of me, and I've cried aboute it
since.
Father alwaies gives us a birthdaye treat; soe, contrived that mother
shoulde take us to see my Lord Cardinal of York goe to Westminster in
state. We had a merrie water-party; got goode places and saw the show;
crosse-bearers, pillar-bearers, ushers and alle. Himselfe in crimson
engrayned sattin, and tippet of sables, with an orange in his hand helde
to 's nose, as though y^e common ayr were too vile to breathe. What a
pompous priest it is! The archbishop mighte well say, "That man is drunk
with too much prosperitie."
Between dinner and supper, we had a fine skirmish in y^e straits of
Thermopylae. Mr. Gunnel headed the Persians, and Will was Leonidas, with
a swashing buckler, and a helmet a yard high; but Mr. Gunnel gave him
such a rap on the crest that it went over y^e wall; soe then William
thought there was nothing left for him but to die. Howbeit, as he had
beene layd low sooner than he had reckoned on, he prolonged his last
agonies a goode deal, and gave one of y^e Persians a tremendous kick
just as they were aboute to rifle his pouch. They therefore thoughte
there must be somewhat in it they shoulde like to see; soe, helde him
down in spite of his hitting righte and lefte, and pulled therefrom,
among sundrie lesser matters, a carnation knot of mine. Poor varlet, I
wish he would not be so stupid....
After supper, mother proposed a concert; and we were alle singing a
rounde, when, looking up, I saw father standing in y^e door-way, with
such a happy smile on his face! He was close behind Rupert and Daisy,
who were singing from y^e same book, and advertised them of his coming
by gentlie knocking theire heads together; but I had the firste kiss,
even before mother, because of my birthdaye.
* * * * *
It turns out that father's lateness yester-even was caused by press of
businesse; a forayn mission having beene proposed to him, which he
resisted as long as he could, but was at lengthe reluctantlie induced to
accept. Length of his stay uncertayn, which casts a gloom on alle; but
there is soe much to doe as to leave little time to think, and father is
busiest of alle; yet hath founde leisure to concert with mother for us a
journey into y^e country, which will occupy some of y^e weeks of his
absence. I am full of carefulle thoughts and forebodings, being
naturallie of too anxious a disposition. Oh, let me caste alle my cares
on another! Fecisti nos ad te, Domine; et inquietum est cor nostrum,
donec requiescat in te.
* * * * *
'Tis soe manie months agone since that I made an entry in my libellus,
as that my motto--"nulla dies sine linea--," hath somewhat of sarcasm in
it. How manie things doe I beginne and leave unfinisht! and yet, less
from caprice than lack of strength; like him of whom y^e scripture was
writ--"this man beganne to build and was not able to finish." My _opus_,
for instance; the which my father's prolonged absence in y^e autumn and
my winter visitt to aunt Nan and aunt Fan gave me such leisure to carrie
forward. But alack! leisure was less to seeke than learninge; and when I
came back to mine olde taskes, leisure was awanting too; and then, by
reason of my sleeping in a separate chamber, I was enabled to steale
hours from y^e earlie morn and hours from y^e night, and, like unto
Solomon's virtuous woman, my candle went not out. But 'twas not to
purpose y^t I worked, like y^e virtuous woman, for I was following a
Jack-o-lantern; having forsooke y^e straight path laid downe by Erasmus
for a foolish path of mine owne; and soe I toyled, and blundered, and
puzzled, and was mazed; and then came on that payn in my head. Father
sayd, "What makes Meg soe pale!" and I sayd not: and, at y^e last, I
tolde mother there was somewhat throbbing and twisting in y^e back of
mine head like unto a little worm that woulde not die; and she made
answer, "Ah, a maggot," and soe by her scoff I was shamed. Then I gave
over mine opus, but y^e payn did not yet goe; soe then I was longing for
y^e deare pleasure, and fondlie turning over y^e leaves, and wondering
woulde father be surprised and pleased with it some daye, when father
himself came in or ever I was aware. He sayth, "What hast thou, Meg?" I
faltered and would sett it aside. He sayth, "Nay, let me see;" and soe
takes it from me; and after y^e firste glance throws himself into a
seat, his back to me, and firste runs it hastilie through, then beginnes
with methode and such silence and gravitie as that I trembled at his
side, and felt what it must be to stand a prisoner at the bar, and he
y^e judge. Sometimes I thought he must be pleased, at others not: at
lengthe, alle my fond hopes were ended by his crying, "This will never
doe. Poor wretch, hath this then beene thy toyl? How couldst find time
for soe much labor? for here hath been trouble enow and to spare. Thou
must have stolen it, sweet Meg, from the night, and prevented y^e
morning watch. Most dear'st! thy father's owne loved child;" and soe,
caressing me till I gave over my shame and disappointment.
"I neede not to tell thee, Meg," father sayth, "of y^e unprofitable
labour of Sisyphus, nor of drawing water in a sieve. There are some
things, most deare one, that a woman, if she trieth, may doe as well as
a man; and some she can not, and some she had better not. Now, I tell
thee firmlie, since y^e first payn is y^e leaste sharpe, that, despite
y^e spiritt and genius herein shewn, I am avised 'tis work thou canst
not and work thou hadst better not doe. But judge for thyselfe; if thou
wilt persist, thou shalt have leisure and quiet, and a chamber in my new
building, and alle y^e help my gallery of books may afford. But thy
father says, forbear."
Soe, what could I say, but "My father shall never speak to me in vayn!"
Then he gathered y^e papers up and sayd, "Then I shall take temptation
out of your way;" and pressing 'em to his heart as he did soe, sayth,
"They are as deare to me as they can be to you;" and soe left me,
looking out as though I noted (but I noted not), the clear-shining
Thames. 'Twas twilighte, and I stoode there I know not how long, alone
and lonely; with tears coming, I knew not why, into mine eyes. There was
a weight in y^e ayr, as of coming thunder; the screaming, ever and anon,
of Juno and Argus, inclined me to mellancholie, as it alwaies does: and
at length I beganne to note y^e moon rising, and y^e deepening
clearnesse of y^e water, and y^e lazy motion of y^e barges, and y^e
flashes of light whene'er y^e rowers dipt theire oars. And then I
beganne to attend to y^e cries and different sounds from acrosse y^e
water, and y^e tolling of a distant bell; and I felle back on mine olde
heart-sighinge, "Fecisti nos ad te, Domine; et inquietum est cor
nostrum, donec requiescat in te."
Or ever the week was gone, my father had contrived for me another
journey to New Hall, to abide with the lay nuns, as he calleth them,
aunt Nan and aunt Fan, whom my step-mother loveth not, but whom I love
and whom father loveth. Indeede, 'tis sayd in Essex that at first he
inclined to aunt Nan rather than to my mother; but that, perceiving my
mother affected his companie and aunt Nan affected it not, he diverted
his hesitating affections unto her and took her to wife. Albeit, aunt
Nan loveth him dearlie as a sister ought: indeed, she loveth alle,
except, methinketh, herself, to whom, alone, she is rigid and severe.
How holie are my aunts' lives! Cloistered nuns could not be more pure,
and could scarce be as usefulle. Though wise, they can be gay; though
noe longer young, they love the young. And theire reward is, the young
love them; and I am fulle sure, in this world they seeke noe better.
Returned to Chelsea, I spake much in prayse of mine aunts, and of single
life. On a certayn evening, we maids were sett at our needles and
samplers on y^e pavillion steps; and, as follie will out, 'gan talk of
what we would fayn have to our lots, shoulde a good fairie starte up and
grant eache a wish. Daisy was for a countess's degree, with hawks and
hounds. Bess was for founding a college, Mercy a hospital, and she spake
soe experimentallie of its conditions that I was fayn to goe partners
with her in the same. Cecy commenced "Supposing I were married; if once
that I were married"--on which, father, who had come up unperceived,
burst out laughing and sayth, "Well, dame Cecily, and what state would
you keep?" Howbeit as he and I afterwards paced together, juxta fluvium,
he did say, "Mercy hath well propounded the conditions of an hospital or
alms-house for aged and sick folk, and 'tis a fantasie of mine to sett
even such an one afoot, and give you the conduct of the same."
From this careless speech, dropped, as 'twere, by y^e way, hath sprung
mine house of refuge! and oh, what pleasure have I derived from it! How
good is my father! how the poor bless him! and how kind is he, through
them, to me! Laying his hand kindly on my shoulder, this morning, he
sayd, "Meg, how fares it with thee now? Have I cured the payn in thy
head?" Then, putting the house-key into mine hand, he laughingly added,
"'Tis now yours, my joy, by Livery and Seisin."
* * * * *
Aug. 6.
I wish William w^d give me back my Testament. Tis one thing to steal a
knot or a posie, and another to borrow y^e most valuable book in y^e
house and keep it week after week. He soughte it with a kind of
mysterie, soe as that I forbeare to ask it of him in companie, lest I
s^d doe him an ill turn; and yet I have none other occasion.
The emperor, the King of France, and Cardinal Ximenes are alle striving
which shall have Erasmus, and alle in vayn. He hath refused a
professor's chayr at Louvain, and a Sicilian bishoprick. E'en thus it
was with him when he was here this spring--the Queen w^d have had him
for her preceptor, the King and Cardinal prest on him a royall apartment
and salarie, Oxford and Cambridge contended for him, but his saying was,
"Alle these I value less than my libertie, my studdies, and my literarie
toyls." How much greater is he than those who woulde confer on him
greatness! Noe man of letters hath equall reputation or is soe much
courted.
* * * * *
Yestereven, after overlooking the men playing at loggats, father and I
strayed away along Thermopylae into y^e home-field; and as we sauntered
together under the elms, he sayth with a sigh, "Jack, is Jack, and no
More ... he will never be any thing. An' 'twere not for my beloved
wenches, I should be an unhappy father. But what though!--My Meg is
better unto me than ten sons; and it maketh no difference at harvest
time whether our corn were put into the ground by a man or a woman."
While I was turning in my mind what excuse I might make for John, father
taketh me at unawares by a sudden change of subject; saying, "Come, tell
me, Meg, why canst not affect Will Roper?"
I was a good while silent, at length made answer, "He is so unlike alle
I esteem and admire ... so unlike alle I have been taught to esteem and
admire by you."--
"Have at you," he returned laughing, "I knew not I had been sharpening
weapons agaynst myself. True he is neither Achilles nor Hector, nor even
Paris, but yet well enough, meseems, as times go--smarter and comelier
than either Heron or Dancey."
I, faltering, made answer, "Good looks affect me but little--'tis in his
better part I feel the want. He can not ... discourse, for instance, to
one's mind and soul, like unto you, dear father, or Erasmus."
"I should marvel if he could," returned father gravelie, "thou art mad,
my daughter, to look, in a youth of Will's years, for the mind of a man
of forty or fifty. What were Erasmus and I, dost thou suppose, at Will's
age? Alas, Meg, I should not like you to know what I was! Men called me
the boy-sage, and I know not what, but in my heart and head was a world
of sin and folly. Thou mightst as well expect Will to have my hair,
eyes, and teeth, alle getting y^e worse for wear, as to have the fruits
of my life-long experience, in some cases full dearly bought. Take him
for what he is, match him by the young minds of his owne standing:
consider how long and closelie we have known him. His parts are,
surelie, not amiss: he hath more book-lore than Dancey, more mother wit
than Allington."
"But why need I to concern myself about him?" I exclaymed, "Will is very
well in his way: why s^d we cross each other's paths? I am young, I have
much to learn, I love my studdies--why interrupt them with other and
lesse wise thoughts?"
"Because nothing can be wise that is not practical," returned father,
"and I teach my children philosophie to fitt them for living in y^e
world, not above it. One may spend a life in dreaming over Plato, and
yet goe out of it without leaving y^e world a whit y^e better for our
having made part of it. 'Tis to little purpose we studdy, if it onlie
makes us look for perfections in others which they may in vayn seek for
in ourselves. It is not even necessary or goode for us to live entirelie
with congeniall spiritts. The vigourous tempers the inert, the
passionate is evened by the cool-tempered, the prosaic balances the
visionarie. Woulde thy mother suit me better, dost thou suppose, if she
coulde discuss polemicks like Luther or Melancthon? E'en thine owne
sweet mother, Meg, was less affected to study than thou art--she learnt
to love it for my sake, but I made her what she was."
And, with a suddain burste of fond recollection, he hid his eyes on my
shoulder, and for a moment or soe, cried bitterlie. As for me, I shed,
oh! such salt teares!...
FOOTNOTE:
[2] Continued from the May Number.
THE PEARL-DIVERS.
At the commencement of the last year's fishery, there was a man whom, go
wherever I would, I was always certain to meet. Like myself, he was a
diver, and like myself moreover, he pretended to have no surname, but
went simply by the name of Rafael. At the cleansing-trough, beneath the
surface of the sea, no matter where it was, we were always thrown
together, so that we quickly became intimate; and his remarkable skill
as a diver had inspired me with considerable esteem for him. Alike
courageous as skillful, he snapped his fingers at the sharks, declaring
his power to intimidate them by a particular expression of the eye. In
fine, he was a fearless diver, an industrious workman, and, above all, a
most jovial comrade.
Matters went smoothly enough between us, till the day when a girl and
her mother took up their abode at the island Espiritu Sante.[3] Some
business that I had to transact with the dealers in this island afforded
me an opportunity of seeing her. I fell desperately in love; and as I
enjoyed a certain amount of reputation, neither she nor her mother
looked with an unfavorable eye on my suit or my presents. When the day's
work was over, and every body supposed me asleep in my hut, I swam
across to the island, whence I returned about an hour after midnight
without my absence being at all surmised.
Some days had elapsed since my first nocturnal visit to Espiritu Sante,
when, as I was one morning going to the fishery just before daybreak, I
met one of those old crones who pretend to be able to charm the sharks
by their spells. She was seated near my hut, and appeared to be watching
my arrival. As she perceived me, she exclaimed, "How fares it with my
son, Jose Juan?"
"Good morning, mother!" I replied, and was passing on, when she
approached me, and said, "Listen to me, Jose Juan; I have to speak to
you of that which nearly concerns you."
"Nearly concerns me!" I repeated, in great surprise.
"Yes. Do you deny that your heart is in the island of Espiritu Sante, or
that you cross the strait every night to see and converse with her on
whom you have bestowed your love?"
"How know you that?"
"No matter; I know it well. Jose Juan, for you this voyage is fraught
with a twofold peril. The foes whom my charms can hold harmless during
the day only lie in wait for you each night beneath the waves; on the
shore, foes more dangerous still, and over whom my arts are powerless,
dog your steps. I come to offer you my aid to combat these double
dangers."
My only answer was by a loud laugh of contempt. The old Indian's eyes
sparkled with fiendish fury as she exclaimed, "And because you are
without faith, you deem me without power? Be it so; there are those who
believe in the influence you but scoff at."
As she spoke, she drew from her pocket a little case of printed cloth,
and producing amid pearls of inferior value one of a large size and
brilliant water, she replied, "Know you aught of this?" It was one I had
given to Jesusita; for such was the girl's name.
"How came you by it?" cried I.
The witch gave me a look of hatred.
"How came I by it? Why, 'twas given me by a damsel the fairest that ever
set foot on these shores; a damsel who would be the glory and happiness
of a young man, and who came to crave my protection--that protection you
hold so cheap--for one she fondly loves."
"His name!" I exclaimed, with a fearful sinking at my heart.
"What matters it," jeeringly returned the hag, "since _his_ name is not
the one you bear?"
I hardly know how I resisted the impulse to crush the cursed witch
beneath my feet; but after a moment's reflection, I turned my back to
her that she might not read in my face the anguish of my soul, and
coolly saying, "You are a lying old dotard," I walked on to the fishery.
On the evening of that day, which seemed as if it would never close, I
went as usual to Jesusita, and the welcome she gave me soon dispelled
all lurking suspicions. I felt no doubt but that the old woman, in
resentment of my contemptuous treatment, had purposely deceived me as to
the name of him for whom Jesusita had craved that protection which I had
despised.
I had utterly forgotten my scene with the witch, when, one night, I was
as usual crossing the strait on my return home. The sky was dark and
lowering, yet not so cloudy but that I could distinguish amid the waves
something which, from its manner of swimming, I could make out to be a
man. The object was alongside of me. The old crone's words rushed upon
my memory, and I felt a thrill of agony convulse my frame. For an enemy
I cared but little; the idea that I had a rival unnerved me at once.
I determined to ascertain who the unknown might be; and not wishing to
be seen, I swam under water in his direction. When, according to my
calculation, we must have crossed each other, he above and I below the
surface, I rose above water. The blood had rushed to my head with such
violence as to render me unable for some time to distinguish aught
amidst the darkness beyond the phosphorescent light that played upon the
crest of the waves; unerring signs of a coming storm. Nevertheless, I
held on my course in the direction of Espiritu Sante. Some few minutes
elapsed ere I again beheld the swimmer's head. He clove the waves with
such rapidity that I could scarce keep pace with him. But one alone
among all I knew could vie with me in swiftness; I redoubled my efforts,
and soon gained so much on him as obliged me to strike out less quickly.
In short, I saw him land upon a rock and ascend it; and as a flash of
lightning played upon sea and shore, I recognized the face of Rafael.
Here, as elsewhere, were we doomed to cross each other's path. A feeling
of hatred, deadly and intense, was busy at my heart, and methought it
were well we met but once again. However, we were destined to meet on
one more occasion than I had reckoned upon.
At first I determined upon calling him by name and discovering my
presence; but there are moments in one's life when our actions refuse to
second the will. Spite of myself, I suffered him to pursue his way,
while I gained the eminence he had just quitted. Thence was it easy for
me to watch his course. I observed him take the same direction I was so
wont to take, then knock at the door of that hut I knew so well. He
entered, and disappeared.
I fancied for one moment I heard, borne along the howling of the gale,
the old witch's scoffing laugh as she croaked out, "What matters it to
you, since _his_ name is not the one you bear?" and, looming amid the
darkness, methought I saw her shriveled and withered arm stretched out
in the direction of Jesusita's dwelling; and I rushed forward, knife in
hand. A few strides, and I stood before the door, and stooped down to
listen; but I heard naught beyond indistinct murmurings. I had now
partially recovered my _sang-froid_, and bent my whole thoughts upon
revenge.
I drew my knife, and passed it along a stone to assure its edge; but I
did so with such carelessness or agitation that it shivered to the hilt.
Thus deprived of the sole weapon that I could rely upon for my revenge,
I felt that I had not an instant to lose. I ran in all haste to the
beach, and unmoored a boat that lay alongside. My rage renewed my
energies: I crossed the strait, rushed to my hut, procured another
knife, and again set out to Espiritu Sante. The gale increased in
violence. The sea gleamed like a fiery lake. The gavista's[4] wailing
cry re-echoed along the rocks; the sea-wolf's howl was heard amid the
darkness. All at once sounds of another kind broke upon my ear: they
seemed to proceed from the very bosom of the ocean. I listened; but a
sudden squall overpowered the confused murmurings of the waves, and I
fancied my senses had deceived me, when, some seconds afterward, the cry
was repeated. This time I was not mistaken: the cry I heard was that of
a human being in the very extremity of anguish and despair. As the voice
proceeded from the direction of the island, I at once conjectured it was
Rafael who was calling for help. I looked out, but looked in vain; the
obscurity was too thick, and I could distinguish nothing. Suddenly, I
again heard the voice exclaim, "Boat ahoy, for God's blessed sake!"
It was Rafael's voice. 'Tis all very well to have sworn to do your enemy
to death, to wreak your just revenge on him who has so bitterly
aggrieved you; yet when, on a night murky and dark as that his tones
arise from forth a sea swarming with monsters, and when those tones are
uttered by a fearless man, and, albeit, wrestling in mortal peril, there
is in that cry of last anguish somewhat that strikes awe to the very
soul. I could not repress a shudder.
But my emotion was of short duration. I heard the sounds of a strong arm
buffeting the waves, and I rowed in that direction. Amidst a luminous
shower of spray and foam I discovered Rafael. Singular enough, instead
of availing himself of his strength to gain the boat, he remained
stationary. I quickly perceived the cause. At some distance from him, a
little below the surface of the water, there was a strong phosphoric
light; this light was slowly making way toward Rafael. Right well I knew
what that light portended; it streamed from a _tintorera_[5] of the
largest size. One stroke of the oar, and I was close to Rafael: he
uttered a cry as he perceived me, but was too much exhausted to speak.
He seized the gunwale of the boat by an effort of despair, but his arms
were too wearied to enable him to raise his body. His eyes, though
glazed with fear, yet bore so expressive a glance as they encountered
mine, that I seized his hands in my own, and pressed them forcibly
against the sides of the boat. The _tintorera_ still gradually advanced.
For a moment, but one brief moment, Rafael's legs hung motionless; he
uttered a piercing shriek, his eyes closed, his hands let loose their
hold, and the upper part of his body fell back into the sea. The shark
had bitten him in two.
Ay! I might, perchance, have grasped his limbs too firmly in mine,
possibly I prevented him from getting into the boat, but my knife was
innocent of his blood; besides, was he not my rival--perchance my
successful rival? However, scarcely had he disappeared than I plunged
after him; for although the _tintorera_ had ridded me of a hated foe,
still I bore it a grudge for its brutal proceedings in thus summarily
disposing of poor Rafael. Besides, the honor of the corporation of
divers was at stake. Having once tasted human flesh, the shark would
doubtless attack us in turn. Well, nothing so much excites the ferocity
of the _tintorera_ as such tempestuous nights as the one that bore its
silent testimony to my rival's fate. A viscous substance that oozes from
porous holes around the monster's mouth diffuses itself over the surface
of the skin, rendering them as luminous as fire-flies, and this
particularly during a thunderstorm. This luminous appearance is the more
visible in proportion to the darkness of the night. By a merciful
dispensation of nature, they are almost unable to see; so that the
silent swimmer has at least one advantage over them. Moreover, they can
not seize their prey without turning on their backs; so that it is not
difficult to imagine that a courageous man and a skillful swimmer has
some chances in his favor.
I dived to no great depth, in order to husband my wind, and also to cast
a hasty glance above, beneath, and around me. The waves roared above my
head, loud as a crash of thunder; fiery flakes of water drove around
like dust before the winds of March; but in my immediate vicinity all
was calm. A black and shapeless mass struck against me as I lay
suspended in my billowy recess; 'twas all that was left of Rafael.
Surely it was written in the book of doom that I should always find that
man in my path.
I surmised that the brute I was in quest of would be at no great
distance, for the fiery streak I had perceived waxed larger and larger.
The _tintorera_ and myself must, I inferred, be at equal depths; but the
shark was preparing to rise. My breath began to fail, and I was
unwilling to allow the monster to get above me, as then he could have
made me share Rafael's fate without troubling himself to turn on his
back. My hopes of obtaining the victory over it depended upon the time
it required to execute this manoeuvre. The _tintorera_ swam diagonally
toward me with such rapidity that at one time I was near enough to
distinguish the membrane that half-covered its eyes, and to feel its
dusky fins graze my body. Gobbets of human flesh still clung around the
lower jaw. The monster gazed on me with its dim, glassy eye. My head had
that moment attained the level of its own. I drank in the air with a
gurgle I could not suppress, and struck out a lusty stroke in a parallel
direction and turned round: well for me I did so. The moon lighted up
for a single instant the whitish-gray colored belly of the
_tintorera_--that instant was enough for as it opened its enormous
mouth, bristling with its double row of long pointed teeth, I plunged
the dagger I had reserved for Rafael into its body, and drew it
lengthwise forth. The _tintorera_, mortally wounded, sprung several feet
out of the water, and fell striking out furiously with its tail, which
fortunately did not reach me. For a space I struggled, half blinded by
the crimson foam that beat against my face; but as I beheld the huge
carcass of the enemy floating a lifeless mass upon the surface, I gave
vent to a triumphant shout, which, spite of the storm, might be heard on
either coast.
Day-light began to dawn as I gained the shore, in a state of utter
exhaustion from the exertion I had undergone. The fishermen were raising
their nets, and, as I arrived, the tide washed upon the coast the
_tintorera_ and Rafael's ghastly remains. It was soon spread abroad that
I had endeavored to rescue my friend from his horrible fate, and my
heroic conduct was lauded to the echo. But one person, and one alone,
suspected the truth--that person is now my wife.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Island in the Gulf of California, famous for the quantity of
oyster-beds and the quality of the pearls.
[4] Seamew.
[5] Species of shark most especially dreaded by divers for pearls, whose
intrepidity is such that they fearlessly attack all other species.
PHANTOMS AND REALITIES.--AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.[6]
PART THE SECOND--NOON.
IX.
Things happen in the world every day which appear incredible on paper.
Individuals may secretly acknowledge to themselves the likelihood of
such things, but the bulk of mankind feel it necessary to treat them
openly with skepticism and ridicule. The real is sometimes too real for
the line and plummet of the established criticism. It is the province of
art to avoid these exceptional incidents, or to modify and adapt them so
that they shall appear to harmonize with universal humanity. Hence it is
that fiction is often more truthful than biography; and it is obvious
enough that it ought to be so, if it deal only with materials that are
reconcilable with the general experience.
But I am not amenable to the canons of art. I am not writing fiction. I
am relating facts; and if they should appear unreasonable or improbable,
I appeal, for their vindication, to the candor of the reader. Every man,
if he looks back into the vicissitudes of his life, will find passages
which would be pronounced pure exaggeration and extravagance in a novel.
When I met Astraea the next morning, I could perceive those traces of
deep anxiety which recent circumstances had naturally left behind, and
which the flush and excitement of the preceding evening had concealed.
She was very pale and nervous. She felt that the moment had come when
all disguises between us must end forever, and she trembled on the verge
of disclosures that visibly shook her fortitude.
The day was calm and breathless. Scarcely a leaf stirred in the trees,
and the long shadows slept without a ruffle on the turf. The stillness
of the place contrasted strangely with the tempest of emotions that was
raging in my heart. I longed to get into the air. I felt the house
stifling, and thought that I should breathe more freely among the
branches of the little wood that looked so green and cool down by the
margin of the stream. There was a rustic seat there under a canopy of
drooping boughs, close upon the water and the bridge, where we could
enjoy the luxury of perfect solitude. Requesting her to follow me, I
went alone into the wood.
The interval seemed to me long before she came; and when she did come,
she was paler and more agitated than before. I tried to give her
confidence by repeated protestations of my devotion; and as she seemed
to gather courage from the earnestness of my language, I again and again
renewed the pledges which bound me to her, at any risk our position
might demand.
"It is that," she exclaimed, "which gives me hope and comfort. You have
had time to reflect on these pledges, and weigh the consequences they
involve, and you now repeat them to me with an ardor which I should do
you a great wrong to doubt. I entirely trust to you. If I am deceived, I
will try still to be just, and hardly blame you so much as the world,
which few men can relinquish for love."
There was a pause, during which she gradually recovered her
self-composure. I felt that these expressions gave me a nobler motive
for surrendering every thing for her sake. She seemed to make me a hero
by the penalties my devotion enforced upon me; and I was eager to prove
myself capable of the most heroic sacrifices. In the abyss of an
overwhelming passion, where reason is imprisoned by the senses, every
man is willing to be a martyr.
"You have required of me, Astraea," said I, "no, not required; but you
have placed before me the possibility of sufferings and trials resulting
from our union--loss of friends, the surrender of many things that enter
into the ordinary scheme of married life, and that are considered by the
world indispensable to its happiness. I am ready to relinquish them all.
I have looked for this end. I know not why it should be so, nor does it
give me a moment's concern. I only know that I love you passionately,
and that life is desolation to me without you. Let us therefore have no
further delay. All impediments are now out of our path. We have our
destinies in our own hands. Let us knit them into one, and disappoint
the scandal and malignity which, from that hour, can exercise no further
influence over us."
"You spoke," returned Astraea, looking with a calm, clear gaze into my
face, as if she penetrated my soul, "you spoke of married life."
The question surprised me. It was her look more than her words that
conveyed a meaning, indistinct, but full of terrible suggestions. It was
a key to a thousand painful conjectures, which flashed upon me in an
instant, leaving confusion and giddiness behind, and nothing certain but
the fear of what was to follow. I could not answer her; or, rather, did
not know how to answer her, and merely tried to reassure her with a
smile, which I felt was hollow and unnatural.
"One word," she proceeded, in the same tone, "must dispel that dream
forever. It is not for us that serene life you speak of. It is not for
me. Our destinies, if they be knit together, must be cemented by our own
hands, not at the altar in the church, but in the sight of heaven--a
bond more solemn, and imposing a more sacred obligation."
I will not attempt to describe the effect of these expressions. A cold
dew crept over my body, and I felt as if a paralysis had struck my
senses. Yet at the same moment, and while she was speaking so quietly
and deliberately, and uttering words, under the heavy weight of which
the fabric I had reared in my imagination crumbled down, and fell with a
crash that smote my brain--a crowd of memories came upon me--isolated
words and gestures, the dark allusions of the dwarf, and the warnings of
Astraea herself--a crowd of things that were all dark before were now
lighted up. As the stream of electricity flies along the chain,
traversing link after link and mile after mile, with a rapidity that
baffles calculation, so my thoughts flashed over every incident of the
past. I now understood it all--the mystery that lay buried in Astraea's
words and abstractions--the vacant heart--the hope that looked out from
her eyes, and then fled back to be quenched in silent despair--her
yearnings for solitude and repose--the devotional spirit that, blighted
in the world, and condemned to be shut out from seeking happiness in
social conventions, had fallen back upon its own lonely strength, and
made to itself a faith of passion! It was all plain to me now. But there
were explanations yet to come.
"Astraea!" I cried, hoarsely, and I felt the echoes of the name moaning
through the trees. "Astraea! What is the meaning of these dreadful words?
Have you not pledged your faith to me?"
"Irrevocably!" she returned.
"Then what new impediment has arisen to our union?"
"None that has not existed all along. Have you not seen it darkening
every hour of our intercourse? Have you not understood it in the fear
that has given such intensity to feelings which, had all been open
before us, would have been calm and unperturbed?--that has imparted to
love, otherwise sweet and tranquil, the wild ardor of obstructed
passion? Your instincts must have told you, had you allowed yourself a
moment of reflection, that the woman who consents to immolate her pride,
her delicacy, her fame, for the man she loves, must be fettered by ties
which leave her no alternative between him and the world. Why am I here
alone with you?"
This was not said in a tone of reproach, but it sounded like reproach,
and wounded me. It was all true. I ought to have understood that
suffering of her soul which, now that the clouds were rolling back from
before my eyes, had become all at once intelligible. But to be surprised
into such a discovery, to have misunderstood her unspoken agonies and
sacrifices, jarred upon me, and made me feel as if my nature were not
lofty enough to comprehend, by its own unassisted sympathies, the
grandeur of her character. I imagined myself humiliated in her presence,
and this consideration was paramount, for the moment, over all others.
It stripped my devotion of all claim to a heroism kindred to her own,
and deprived me of the only merit that could render me worthy of her
love. Yet in the midst of this conflict, other thoughts came flooding
upon me; and voices from the world I was about to relinquish for her
rung like a knell upon my ears. There were still explanations to come
that might afford me some refuge from these tortures.
"Yes, Astraea, I was conscious of some obstruction; but how could I
divine what it was? Even now I must confess myself bewildered. But as
all necessity for further reserve is at an end, you will be candid and
explicit with me. What is the impediment that stands in the way of our
union?"
I did not intend it, but I was aware, while I was speaking, that there
was ice in my voice, and that the words issued from my lips as if they
were frozen.
"You mean," she replied, coldly, but in a tone that conveyed a feeling
of rising scorn, "you mean our marriage?"
"Certainly."
"I never can be your wife."
As I had anticipated some such statement, I ought not to have betrayed
the amazement with which I looked at her; but it was involuntary. I did
not ask her to go on; seeing, however, that I expected it, she added,
"I am the wife of another!"
I started from my seat, and, in a paroxysm of frenzy, paced up and down
before her. I did not exclaim aloud, "You have deceived me!" but my
flashing eyes and flushed brow expressed it more eloquently than
language. She bore this in silence for a few minutes, and then addressed
me again,
"I said I would try not to blame you. I blame only myself. Like all men,
you are strong in protestations, and feeble, timid, and vacillating in
action. You are thinking now of the world, which only last night you so
courageously despised. A few hours ago, you believed yourself so
superior to the common weaknesses of your sex, that you were ready to
make the most heroic sacrifices. What has become of that vehement
resolution, that brave self-reliance? Vanished on the instant you are
put to the proof. Believe me, you have miscalculated your own
nature--all men do in such cases. A woman whose heart is her life, and
who shrinks in terror from all other conflicts, is alone equal to such a
struggle as this. The world is your proper sphere; do not deceive
yourself. You could not sustain isolation; you would be forever looking
back, as you are at this moment, for the consolations and support you
had abandoned."
"No, Astraea!" I exclaimed; "you wrong me. My resolution is unchanged;
but you must allow something for the suddenness--the shock--"
"I give you credit," she resumed, "for the best intentions. It is not
your fault that habit and a constitutional acquiescence in it have left
you no power over your will in great emergencies. You are what the world
has made you; and you should be thankful that you have found it out in
time. For me, what does it matter? By coming here, I have violated
obligations for which society will hold me accountable, though they
pressed like prison-bars upon me, lacerating and corroding my soul. It
will admit no excuse for their abandonment in the unutterable misery
they entailed. I am as guilty by this one step as if I had plunged into
the depths of crime. The world does not recognize the doctrine that the
real crime is in the admission of the first disloyal thought; it only
looks to appearances which I have outraged. I have compromised myself
beyond redemption. I can not retrieve my disgrace, though I am as pure
in act as if we had never met. But I have done it upon my own
responsibility, and upon me alone let the penalty fall. From this hour I
release you."
Her language, and the dignity of her manner, stung me. She seemed to
tower above me in the strength of her will, and the firmness with which
she went through a scene that shattered my nerves fearfully, and made me
equally irresolute of speech and purpose. While I was harrowed by an
agony that fluttered in every pulse, she was perfectly calm and
collected, and, rising quietly from her seat, turned away to leave me.
This action roused me from the stupor of indecision. The situation in
which she was placed--making so new a demand upon my feelings--gave me a
sort of advantage which I thought might enable me to recover the ground
I had lost. By the exercise of magnanimity in such circumstances, I
should vindicate myself in her estimation, and prove myself once more
worthy of the opinion she had originally formed of me. It was something
nobler, I thought, to embrace ruin at this moment for her sake, than if
I had known it all along, and had come to that conclusion by a
deliberate process of reasoning. This train of subtle sophistry, which
has taken up some space to detail, struck me like a flash of light on
the instant I thought I was about to lose her. I could bear all things
but that, and could suffer all things to avert it. And so again I became
her suitor, in a kind of proud generosity, that flattered itself by
stooping to gain its own ends. How mean and selfish the human heart is
when our desires are set in opposition to our duties!
I sprang forward, and clasped her eagerly by the hands. I flung myself
on my knees before her. Tears leaped into my eyes. I told her that I had
wronged her--that we had wronged each other--that I had never wavered in
my faith--that we were bound to each other--and that we could commit no
crime now except that of doubting, at either side, the truth of the love
which had brought us there, and for which I, like her, had relinquished
the world forever.
She had a woman's heart, full of tenderness and pity; and it is the
tendency of woman's nature to forgive and believe where the affections
are interested, without exacting much proof or penalty. She bent over
me, and raised me in her arms. The storm had passed away, and she
trusted in me implicitly again.
Her history? What was it? We shall come to it presently.
X.
The storm had passed away; but it left traces of disorder behind, such
as a tempest leaves in a garden over which it has recently swept. The
collision had set us both thinking. We felt as if a mist had suddenly
melted down, and enabled us, for the first time, to see clearly before
us. We felt this differently, but we were equally conscious of the
change.
"I am the wife of another!"
The words still throbbed in my brain. I could not escape from the images
they conjured up. I could not rid myself of the doubts and distrusts,
shapeless, but oppressive, thus forced upon me. I could not recall a
single incident out of which, until these words were uttered, I could
have extracted the remotest suspicion of her situation. To me, and to
every person around her, Astraea had always appeared a free agent. She
bore no man's name. She acted with perfect independence, so far as
outward action was concerned; and the only restraint that ever seemed to
hang upon her was some dark memory, or heavy sorrow, that clouded her
spirit. Here was the mystery solved. She was a bond-woman, and had
hidden her fetters from the world. In our English society, where usages
are strict, and shadows upon a woman's reputation, even where there is
not a solitary stain, blot it out forever, this was strange and painful.
It looked like a deception, and, in the estimate of all others, it was a
deception. This was the way in which it first presented itself to me. I
had not emancipated myself from the influence of opinion, or habit, or
prejudice, or whatever that feeling may be called which instinctively
refers such questions to the social standard. The recoil was sudden and
violent. Yet, nevertheless, I felt rebuked by the superiority of Astraea
in the strength of purpose and moral courage she displayed under
circumstances which would have overwhelmed most other women. Her
steadfastness had a kind of grandeur in it, that seemed to look down
upon my misgivings as failings or weaknesses of character. And she sat
silently in this pomp of a clear and unfaltering resolution, while I,
fretted and chafed, exhibited too plainly my double sense alike of the
injury she had inflicted on me, and of the ascendency which, even in the
hour of injury, she exercised over me. It was the stronger mind, made
stronger by the force of love, overawing the weaker, made weaker by the
prostration of the affections.
And she, too, had something to reflect upon in this moment of mutual
revolt.
She loved me passionately. She loved me with a devotion capable of
confronting all risks and perils. The profound unselfishness and
truthfulness of her love made her serene at heart, and inspired her with
a calmness which enabled her to endure the worst without flinching.
There was not a single doubt of herself in her own mind. Her faith gave
her the fortitude needful for the martyr. When a woman trusts every
thing to this faith, and feels her reliance on it sufficient for the
last sacrifice, she is prepared for an issue which no man contemplates,
and which no man is able to encounter with an equal degree of courage or
confidence in his own constancy. With her it is otherwise. By one step,
the ground is closed up behind her forever; no remorse can help her, no
suffering can make atonement, or propitiate reconciliation; she can not
retract, she can not retreat, she can not return! No man is ever placed
in this extremity, though his sin be of a ten-fold deeper dye. Such is
the moral justice of society. He has always a space to fall back
upon--he has always room to retrieve, to recover, to reinstate himself.
But she is lost! The foreknowledge of her doom, which shuts out hope,
makes her strong in endurance; the magnitude of her sacrifice enhances
and deepens the idolatry from which it proceeded; she clings to it, and
lives in it evermore, as the air which she must breathe, or die. But he?
He has ever the backward hope, the consciousness of the power of
retracing his steps. The world is there behind him, as he left it, its
eager tumult still floating into his ears from afar off, its reckless
gayeties, its panting ambition, its occupations, and its pleasures; and
he knows he can re-enter it when he lists. He, then, if he consent to
commit the great treason against a confiding devotion, can afford to be
bold; that boldness which has always an escape and safeguard in reserve!
But it is this consideration which makes him irresolute and infirm--it
is this which dashes his resolves with hesitation, and makes him
temporize and play fast and loose in his thoughts, while his lips
overflow with the fervid declamation of passion. He may believe himself
to be sincere; but no man understands himself who believes that he has
renounced the world. The world has arranged it otherwise for him.
The whole conditions of her position were clear to Astraea. She had not
now considered them for the first time; but the mistrust, not of my love
for her, but of my character, was now first awakened; and if she
trembled for the consequences, it was not for her own sake, but for
mine. Men can not comprehend this abnegation of self in women, and, not
being able to comprehend it, they do not believe in it. It requires an
elevation and generosity rare in the crisis of temptation, and, perhaps,
also, an entire change of surrounding circumstances and
responsibilities, to enable them to estimate it justly; the power of
bestowing happiness through a life-long sacrifice, instead of the
privilege of receiving it at a trifling risk.
When we had become a little more at our ease, and I had endeavored by a
variety of commonplaces to revive her faith in me, Astraea, with the most
perfect frankness, entered upon her history. I will not break up the
narrative by the occasional interruptions to which it was subjected by
my curiosity and impatience, but preserve it as nearly entire as I can.
"There is a period," said Astraea, "in all our lives when we pass through
delusions which an enlarged experience dispels. We too often begin by
making deities, and end by total skepticism. I suppose, like every body
else, I had my season of self-deception, although it has not made me an
absolute infidel."
And as she said this, she looked at me with a smile so full of
sweetness, that I yielded myself up implicitly to the enchantment.
"I was devotedly attached to my father," she continued; "he educated me,
and was so proud of the faculties which his own careful tending drew
into activity, that it was the greatest happiness of my life to deserve
the kindness which anticipated their development. There was no task my
father set to me I did not feel myself able to conquer by the mere
energy of the love I bore him. The education he bestowed upon me was not
the cultivation of the intellect alone--I owe him a deeper debt, fatally
as I have discharged it--for it was his higher aim to educate my
affections. He succeeded so well, that I would at any moment have
cheerfully surrendered my own fondest desires, or have sacrificed life
itself, to comply with any wish of his. You shall judge whether I have a
right to say that I loved him better than I loved myself.
"My mother was a beauty. A woman of whom one can say nothing more than
that she was a beauty, is misplaced in the home of a man of intellect.
One can never cease wondering how it is that such men marry such women;
but I believe there are no men so easily ensnared by their own
imaginations, or who trouble themselves so little about calculating
consequences. They make an ideal, and worship it; and, as your true
believers contrive to refresh their motionless saints by new draperies
and tinsel, so they go on perpetually investing their idols with
fictitious attributes, to encourage and sustain their devotions. But
that sort of self-imposition can not last very long; and the best
possible recipe for stripping the idol of its false glitter is to marry
it! My father made this discovery in due time. He found that beauty
without enthusiasm or intellect is even less satisfying than a picture,
which is, at least, suggestive, and leaves something to the imagination.
There was no sympathy between them. She existed only in company, which,
from the languor of her nature, she hardly seemed to enjoy. Change, and
variety, and the flutter of new faces were as necessary to her as they
were wearisome to him; and so gradually and imperceptibly the distance
widened between them, and his whole affections were concentrated on me.
This may in some measure account for the formation of my character. I
was neither weakened nor benefited by maternal tenderness; and my
studies and habits, shaped and regulated by my father, imparted to me a
strength and earnestness which--now that they avail me nothing--may
speak of as existing in the past.
"It is nearly ten years since my mother died; she went out as a flower
dies, drooping slowly, and retaining something of its sweetness to the
end. My father outlived her several years. That was the happiest period
of my life. There was not a break in the love that bound us together.
But there came a struggle at last between us--a struggle in which that
love was bitterly tried and tested on both sides.
"I made a deity to myself, as most young people do, especially when they
are flattered into the belief that they are more _spirituelle_ and
capable of judging for themselves, than the rest of the world. It was a
girlish fancy; all girls have such fancies, and look back upon them
afterward as they look back upon their dreams, trying to collect and put
together forms and colors that fade rapidly in the daylight of
experience.
"One of our visitors made an impression upon me; perhaps that is the
best way to describe it. He had a sombre and poetical air--that was the
first thing that touched me--an oval face, very pale and thoughtful, and
chiseled to an excess of refinement; a sensitive mouth; dark, melancholy
eyes; and black, lustrous hair. I remember he had quite a Spanish or
Italian cast of features; and that was dangerous to a young girl steeped
in the lore of history and chivalry. You think it strange, perhaps, I
should make this sort of confession to _you_; you expect that I should
rather suffer you to believe that, until we met, I had never been
disturbed by the sentiment of love; yet you may entirely believe it.
This was a mere phantasy--the prescience of what was to come--the
awakening of the consciousness of a capacity of loving which, until now,
was never stirred in its depths. It merely showed me what was in my
nature, but did not draw it out.
"The fascination was on the surface; but, while it lasted, I thought it
intense; and such is the contradiction in the constitution of youth,
that a little opposition from my father only helped to strengthen it. In
the presence of that sad face, into which was condensed an irresistible
influence, I was silent and timid, frightened at the touch of his white
hands, and so confused that I could neither speak to him, nor look at
him: but in my father's presence, when we talked of him, and my father
hinted distrusts and antipathies, I was bold in his defense, and soared
into an enthusiasm that often surprised us both. It was evident that I
was in love--to speak by the card--and that the admonitions of
experience were thrown away upon me.
"My father was grieved at this discovery, when it really came to take a
serious shape of resistance to his advice. As yet, we had only flirted
round the confines of the subject, and neither of us had openly
recognized it as a reality. The action of the drama was in my own brain.
The hero of my fantastic reveries regarded me only as a precocious
child: was amused, or, at the utmost, interested by my admiration of
him, which he could not fail to detect; and it was not until he imagined
he had traced a deeper sentiment in my shy and embarrassed looks, that
he began to feel any emotion himself. But the emotions which spring out
of vanity or compassion, which come only as a sort of generous or
pitying acknowledgment of an unsought devotion, have no stability in
them. It is more natural, and more likely to insure duration of love
that they should originate at the other side. Woman was formed to be
sued and won; it is the law of our organization. Men value our affection
in proportion to the efforts it has cost to gain them. The rights of a
difficult conquest are worn with pride and exultation, while the fruits
of an easy victory are held in indifference. These things, however, were
mysteries to me then.
"There was a kind of love-scene between us. I can hardly recall any
thing of it, except that I thought him more grand and noble than ever,
and full of a magnificent patronage of my nerves and my ignorance. He
was several years older than I was, which made a great distance between
us, and made me look up to him with a superstitious homage. I remember
nothing more about it, only that when I left him, I felt as if I had
suddenly grown up into a woman.
"And now came the beginning of the struggle.
"We had other visitors who were better liked by my father. I could not
then understand his objections to my Orlando. I have understood them
since, and know that he was right in that, if he erred in the rest.
"Among our visitors was one whom I can not speak of without a shudder.
There was in him a combination of qualities calculated to inspire me
with aversion, which grew from day to day into loathing. I do not
believe my father really liked that man. Circumstances, however, had
given him an influence in our house, against which it was vain for me to
contend. His family was closely connected with my mother; and my father
had acquired an estate through his marriage, with which these people
were mixed up as trustees; they had, in fact, a lien upon us, which it
was impossible to shake off; and by this means maintained a position
with us which was at once so familiar and harassing to me, that nothing
but my devotion to my father restrained me from an open mutiny against
them.
"This man, who was not much my senior in years, but who seemed to have
been born old, and to have lived centuries for every year of my life,
entertained the most violent passion for me. I had no suspicion of it at
first; and as the closeness of our relations threw us constantly
together, I was feeding it unknowingly for a long time before I
discovered it. I will spare you what I felt when I made that
discovery--the horror! the despair!
"When I compared this man, loathsome and hideous to me, with him who was
the Orlando, the Bayard, the Crichton of my foolish dreams, it made me
sick at heart. So deep was the detestation he inspired, that, young as I
was, I would have gladly renounced my own choice to have escaped from
him. But there was one consideration paramount even to that; it was my
father's desire that I should marry him.
"By some such sorcery as wicked demons in the wise allegories of fable
obtain a control over good spirits, the demon who had thus risen up in
my path obtained an ascendency over my father. It was impossible that he
could have persuaded my father, who was clear-sighted and sagacious,
into the belief that he possessed a single attribute of goodness; it
must have been by the force of a fascination, such as serpents are said
to exercise over children, that he wrought his ends. And the comparison
was never applied with greater justice, for my father was as guileless
as a child in mere worldly affairs, while the other was a subtle
compound of cunning and venom, glazed over with a most hypocritical
exterior.
"He worked at his purpose for months and months in the dark, by
artifices which assisted his progress without betraying his aim. He
adroitly avoided an abrupt disclosure of his design, for he knew, or
feared, that if it came too suddenly, it would have shocked even my
father. He saw that my fancy was taken up elsewhere, and the first part
of his plot was, to prejudice and poison my father's mind against his
rival. In this he effectually succeeded. But it was a more difficult
matter to bring round his own object, and he never could have achieved
it, with all his skill, had he not been so mixed up with our affairs as
to have it in his power to involve my father in a net-work of
embarrassments. The meshes were woven round him with consummate
ingenuity, and every effort at extrication only drew them tighter and
tighter.
"Had I known as much of the world then as I do now I might have acted
differently. But I was a girl; my sensibility was easily moved; my
terrors were easily alarmed; and I loved my father too passionately to
be able to exercise a calm judgment where his safety was concerned. It
was this devotion--impetuous and unreflecting--that gave an advantage to
the fiend, of which he availed himself unrelentingly, and which threw
me, bound and fettered, at his feet.
"I will not dwell on these memories. My heart was harrowed by a terrible
conflict. I know not how it might have been, had I not gathered a little
strength from wounded pride. A circumstance came to my relief which
crushed my enthusiasm, and from that instant determined my fate.
"My father had often thrown out doubts of the sincerity of him to whom I
looked up with so much admiration; and at last he spoke more explicitly
and urgently. He told me that the hero of my dreams was merely trifling
with my feelings, and amusing himself at the expense of my credulity--in
short, that he was no better than a libertine. I revolted against these
cruel accusations, and repelled them by asserting that he was the
noblest and truest of human beings. But my father knew more of him than
I did. Even while these painful discussions were going on between us,
news arrived that he had been detected in a heartless conspiracy to
entrap and carry off a ward in chancery--a discovery which compelled him
to fly the country.
"I was stunned and humiliated. The dream was over. The idol was broken,
and the shrine degraded forever. What resource should women have in such
cases if pride did not come to their help--that pride which smiles while
the heart is bleeding, and makes the world think that we do not suffer!
They know not what we suffer--what we hide! Our education trains us up
in a mask, which is often worn to the end, when the secret that has fed
upon our hearts, and consumed our lives, day by day, descends into the
dark grave with us! My sufferings at the time were very great--I thought
they would kill me. What mattered it to me then how they disposed of me.
Poor fool! I looked in on my desolated fancy, and gave myself up for
lost.
"It was in this mood the machinations of that man whom I abhorred
triumphed over me. My father's affairs had become hopelessly entangled
in his, and a proposal to avert chancery suits and settle disputed
titles by a union between the families of the litigants presented the
only means of adjustment. My father listened to this insidious proposal
at first reluctantly; then, day by day, as difficulties thickened, he
became more reconciled to it; and, at length, he broke it to me, with a
deprecating gentleness that never sued in vain to the heart that
idolized him. I had nothing left in the world but my father to love.
Under any circumstances my love for him would have made me waver. As it
was, wounded and hopeless, galled, deceived, and cast off--for I felt as
all girls do, and was thoroughly in earnest in my sentimental misery--my
love for him lightened the sacrifice he prayed, rather than demanded at
my hands.
"Girl as I was. I could see the change that had passed over my father.
The strong man was subdued and broken down. His clear understanding had
given way; even his heart was no longer as generous and impulsive as it
used to be. I could not bear to witness these alterations; and when I
was told that it was in my power to relieve him from the weight that
pressed upon him, what could I do?
"There were many violent struggles--many fits of tears and solitary
remorse; but they all yielded to that imperative necessity, to that
claim upon my feelings, which was paramount to every thing else. The
first step was a contract of marriage, which I was simply required to
sign. I was too young then to marry! This consideration was thrown in as
a sort of tender forbearance to me, which, it was hoped, would
propitiate my reluctant spirit. And from that hour, the demon, claiming
me for his own, was incessant in his attendance upon me. I had hoped by
that act to shake him off my father; but he was the Old Man of the
Waters to his drowning victim, and at every moment only clutched and
clung to him more closely.
"At last my father fell ill. First, he moped about the house, with a
low, wearing cough. None of his old resources availed him. He couldn't
read; the pleasant things he used to talk of--books, character,
philosophy--no longer interested him. The placid mind was growing carped
and restless. He was absorbed in his ailments. Trifles vexed him, and
instead of the large and genial subjects which formerly engrossed him,
he was taken up with petty annoyances. Oh, with what agony I watched
that change from day to day! Then from the drawing-room to the bed, from
whence he never rose again.
"It was in his last sickness--toward the close--when the wings of the
Angel of Death were darkening his lids, and his utterance was
thickening, and his vision becoming dimmer and dimmer, that he called me
to his side. He knew the horror that was in my thoughts; but I was
already pledged, and it was not a time for me to shrink, when he, in
whom my affections were garnered up, besought me to make his death-bed
happy by completing the sacrifice. There were those around us who said
that it was merely to ease _his_ mind, that he might feel he did not
leave me behind him alone and without a protector; that the marriage
would be performed in his presence; that we should then separate, and
that my husband--oh, how I have hated that word! what images of wrong
and cruelty are condensed into it!--would regard that ghastly ceremony
only as a guarantee that when my grief had abated, and the signs of
mourning were put off, I should consent to become his wife before the
world. I believed in that and trusted to it. It was all written down and
witnessed, that he would not enforce this marriage till time had soothed
and reconciled me to it; and as the realization of it was to depend upon
myself, I thought I was secure against the worst. Upon these conditions
I was married beside the death-bed of my father.
"The plot was deeply laid. The snare was covered with flowers. I was
nominally free. I was the wife, and not the wife, of him who, when a
little time had passed away, and my father was in the grave, and I was
at his mercy, assumed the right of asserting over me the authority of a
husband. I did not then know the full extent of my dependence. Upon the
failure of my consent, the whole property was to devolve upon him. Of
that I thought little; it was a cheap escape from a bondage I abhorred,
if, by surrendering all I possessed, I _could_ escape. There was nothing
left in my own hands, but the power of withholding my consent, and I did
withhold it; and my aversion increased with the base, unmanly, and
vindictive means he used to wring it from me.
"Years passed away; he was ever in my path, blighting me with threats
and scoffs. My life was one continued mental slavery. He had the right,
or he usurped it, of holding me in perpetual bondage--hovering about me,
watching my actions, and subjecting me to a persecution which, invisible
to every body else, was felt by me in the minutest trifles. And all this
time my heart, shut up and stifled, felt a longing, such as prisoners
feel, to breathe the free air, to find its wings and escape. I was
conscious of a capacity for happiness; I felt that my existence was
wasting under a hideous influence--that my situation was cruel and
anomalous--that it was equally guilty to stay and feed the rebellion of
my blood, that might at last drive me mad, or to fly from the evil
thoughts that fascinated and beset me;--and long contemplation of this
corroding misery convinced me that the greater guilt was the hourly
falsehood--the constant mutiny of my soul--the sin I was committing
against nature by continuing to tolerate the semblance of an obligation
that made me almost doubt the justice of heaven!
"Again and again he renewed the subject, only to be again and again
repulsed with increased bitterness and scorn. The sternness of my
resolution gradually obtained a victory over his perseverance. No man,
be his devotion as intense as it may, can persist in this way, when he
is thoroughly assured that a woman hates or despises him; and _he_ had
ample reason to know that I did both. Threats failed--hints of scandal
and defamation failed--prayers and entreaties failed--he tried them all;
and he saw at last that my determination was irrevocable. I would not
redeem my pledge. I took all the consequence of the perfidy. I submitted
to the ignominy of his taunts and reproaches, and even admitted their
justice, rather than stain my soul with a blacker crime. What was left
to him? His arts were baffled--his pride turned to dust--his love
rejected? What was left to him out of this ruin of his long cherished
scheme? REVENGE!
"Although he could not force me to fulfill the contract, he could blast
my life in its bloom--wither the tree to the core--make a desert round
it--poison the very atmosphere that gave it nourishment and
strength--and wait patient--to see it die, leaf by leaf, and branch by
branch, This was his devilish project. Love--if ever so sacred a passion
had found its way into his soul--was transformed into hate, deadly and
unrelenting; the red current had become gall; and the same slow,
insatiable energy, with which he had before urged and forced his suit,
was now applied to torture and distract me. I wonder it did not drive me
to some act of desperation!
"And all this time I moved through society like others. Nobody suspected
the vulture that was at my heart; and I had to endure the wretched
necessity of acting a daily lie to the world. It gave a false severity
to my manner--it made me seem austere and lofty, where I only meant to
avert approaches which it would have been criminal to have admitted and
deceived. And I had need of all that repellant armor; and it served me,
and saved me--till I met you!
"Shall I proceed any farther? Shall I tell you how a new state of
existence seemed insensibly opening before me?--how the want in my heart
became unconsciously filled?--and that which had been a dream to me all
my life long, vague, flitting, and undefined, was now a reality, clear,
fixed, and distinct? What that sympathy was it is needless to ask, which
made me feel that your history was something like my own--that you, too,
had some discontent with the world, that made you yearn for peace and
solitude, and the refuge of love, like me. I fought bravely at first.
You know not how earnestly I questioned myself--how I probed my wounded
spirit, and battled with the temptation. All that was hidden from you;
but it was not the less fierce and agonizing. The blessed thought and
hope of freedom, of a happiness which I had never trusted myself to
contemplate, was a strong and blinding fascination. I saw my
wretchedness, and close at hand its perilous remedy. Doomed either way,
which was I to choose? The world?--my soul? All was darkness and terror
to me. Calamity had made me desperate; yet I was outwardly calm and
self-sustained. But I was goaded too far at last; _he_ goaded me; and my
resolution was taken; it was one plunge--and all was over. I fled from
the misery I could no longer endure, and live; and I know the cost--I
know the penalty--I see before me the retribution. Let it come--my fate
is sealed!"
XI.
This narrative occupied a longer time in the relation than in the shape
to which I have reduced it, for it was frequently interrupted by
questions and exclamations, which I have not thought it necessary to
insert here. When she concluded, the day was already waning, and the
long shadows from the woods were stretching down the stream, and the
setting sun was, here and there, blazing through the trees, like focal
rays caught on the surface of a burning-glass. The haze of evening was
gathering round us, and settling over the little bridge which was now
slowly fading into the distance.
Astraea had confided her whole life to me with the utmost candor. The
strong emotions she exhibited throughout afforded the best proof, if any
were wanted, of her perfect sincerity. There was nothing kept back--no
_arriere-pensee_--no false coloring; her real character came out
forcibly in this painful confession. Few women would have had the
requisite fortitude to submit to such an ordeal, and take their final
stand upon a position which marked them out as Pariahs in the eyes of
the world. I felt how great the misery must have been from which she
sought this terrible escape; and how much greater was the strength of
will that sustained her in the resolution to embrace it. Her wild sense
of natural justice had risen in resistance against laws which it
appeared to her more criminal to obey than to violate. It was not a
paroxysm of the passions--it was not the sophistry that seeks for its
own convenience to arraign the dispensations of society; it was a strong
mind, contending in its own right against obligations founded on force,
and violence, and wrong--asserting its claim to liberate itself from
trammels to which it had never given a voluntary assent--recoiling from
a life of skepticism and hypocrisy, and the frightful conflicts it
entails between duty and the instincts of reason and the heart--and
prepared, since no other alternative was left, to suffer in itself
alone, and in the consequences of its own act, all obloquy, all
vengeance the world could inflict. That there lay beneath this a grave
error, undermining the foundations upon which the whole social
superstructure rested, was, in a certain large and general sense,
sufficiently obvious to me. But who could argue such questions against
convictions based upon individual and exceptional injuries? Who could
require, in the very moment and agony of sacrifice, that she who had
been thus wronged and tortured, and who had never, of her own free
action, incurred the responsibility from which she revolted, should
offer herself up a victim to laws that afforded her no protection, and
condemned her to eternal strife, and the sins of a rebellious
conscience? I would have saved her if I could. It was my first
impulse--my most earnest desire. But of what avail was the attempt?
Where was she to find refuge? Only one of two courses lay before her--to
return and fulfil her contract, or to renounce the world: the first was
doubtful, perhaps impossible; the second, she had resolved upon. Even if
I were to hold back on the brink of the precipice, it would not shake
her determination.
In this extremity and in the last resort, I felt myself bound to her by
every consideration of love and honor. Honor! When that element enters
into our casuistry, the peril is at its height!
"Have you never endeavored to release yourself from this contract?" I
inquired.
"He would not release me."
"Have you explicitly demanded it of him, so that you should have the
satisfaction of feeling that you had tried all other means before you
broke the bond yourself?"
"I have demanded and besought it of him--prayed to him--appealed to him,
by his soul's hopes here and hereafter, to release me. I have laid my
own perdition on his refusal--and he still refused. I gave up all;
offered to leave England forever; to give him security that, be my fate
what it might, neither he nor his should be troubled with me. To no
purpose--he was iron. He could have procured a separation, which I could
not. I gave him the means, and would have borne any humiliation to
obtain my freedom. He would not release me; he held me bound, that he
might gloat his vengeance upon my sufferings."
"And this man--this fiend--you have not told me, Astraea, who he is."
While I was speaking, I observed her looking keenly through the mist
that was collecting about us. Some object had attracted her attention.
My eyes followed the direction hers had taken, and I discerned a figure,
apparently wrapped up in a cloak, about the centre of the bridge, on the
near side. We watched it in silence for a space of two or three minutes,
when it moved slowly from its position, and winding down among the
trees, took the path that led directly to the spot where we were seated.
She grasped my arm, and cried in a whisper--
"Stand firm. Speak not. It is my deed, not yours. The hour I have looked
for through long years of anguish is come at last. Fear nothing for me!"
The figure approached, still enveloped in a cloak, and stood exactly
opposite to us. For a moment--the most intense I ever remember--not a
word was uttered. At last, the stranger spoke.
"It is, then, as I expected. I have tracked you to your hiding-place,
and I find you with your paramour."
It was the voice of the dwarf! The blood leaped in my veins, and, hardly
conscious of what I was doing, or meant to do, I sprang from my seat.
Astraea rose at the same moment, and interposed.
"If you have the least regard or respect for me," she said, "do not
interfere. For my sake, control yourself."
"For _your_ sake!" echoed the dwarf. "Do you glory in _his_ shame, as
well as your own?"
"Shame!" cried Astraea. "Take back the foul word, and begone. You have no
authority, no rights here. The shame is yours, not mine--yours, unmanly,
pitiful, and mean, who have taken advantage of a contract wrung from a
girl to doom the life of a woman to misery."
"Have I no authority?" quoth the dwarf. "Listen to me--you must--you
shall--if it kill you in your heroics. I am your husband--my authority
is law. I can command you to my foot, and you must obey me. You think
you are secure; but I will show you that you have committed an egregious
mistake. Believe me," he added, in a tone of supercilious mockery, for
which I could have inflicted summary chastisement--"believe me, you only
deceive yourself, as you have tried to deceive me."
"In what have I tried to deceive you?" she demanded. "I have been so
explicit with you, that none but the most contemptible of your sex would
have persisted at such a sacrifice of pride and feeling. Pride? You have
none. Where you proffered love--oh! such love!--you found
aversion;--where you sought, sued, and threatened, you received nothing
in return but loathing and scorn. And now, henceforth and forever, I
break all bonds between us. Since you will not do it, I will--I _have_
done it! Obey you? I owe you no obedience. Be wise; take my answer, and
leave me."
"Not at your bidding, madam. I did not come here to visit you in your
retirement, and be turned away so unceremoniously. It is not my
intention to leave you. Where you are, there must I be too."
The insolent coolness with which this was spoken, rendered it very
difficult for me to submit to the injunction Astraea had imposed upon me.
I began to feel that _I_, too, had rights, and that the course this
husband-in-law was pursuing, was not the best calculated to induce me to
surrender them.
"Where I am you shall never come again!" returned Astraea. "That is over.
A gulf yawns between us. Do not tempt it any further."
"I will not be critical about words with you," said the dwarf. "If I am
not to come where you are, you shall come to me. It is the same thing.
You are only wasting your fine speeches. I have come here to take you
back to London."
"To take me back?" she echoed. "Are you mad? Do you believe such a thing
credible? I have chosen my own course; and no power, authority, or force
can turn me from it. Take me back! Even were I willing to go--suppose I
were weak enough to repent the step I have taken--can you not see--have
you not eyes and understanding to see and comprehend, that it would be
to your own eternal dishonor--that it would only bring upon you the
contempt and derision of the world?"
"It is for me to judge of that. Come--we are losing time, and it is
growing dark already."
"Then why do you stay? Why do you not go as you came. I have given you
my answer; and if you were to stand here forever, you will get none
other. Have you no particle of self-respect left?"
"Whatever self-respect or pride I had," returned the dwarf, in a low and
bitter tone, "you have trampled upon, and raised up a demoniac spirit in
this place. It might have been otherwise once. I loved you--ay! writhe
under the word--I loved you; but I was ill-favored, misshapen, stunted,
and loathsome to look upon. You thought that love and ambition and high
thoughts could not take up with such a frame as this--that they all went
with straight limbs and milky faces. Nature could not condescend to
endow the dwarf with the attributes of humanity. But I was a man as well
as they--had the passions and hopes of a man, the capabilities of good
and evil. You never sought the good; you never felt it to be your duty
to seek and cultivate the better qualities which my own consciousness of
my outward defects made irresolute and wayward in development. You only
looked upon the surface: and in the selfishness of your heart you
spurned me from you. You never thought of asking yourself whether it was
in your power to redeem and elevate, for noble ends, the human soul that
was pent up in this weak and distorted body. You never stopped to
reflect whether, by your contumely and pride of beauty, you were not
destroying the germs of all self-respect, perverting the virtuous
instincts into poisonous fangs, and shattering to the core the best
resolves of a human being who might be better than yourself. A word of
kindness in season--a generous construction of my character--an effort
to call my moral strength into action, might have raised me to the
dignity of the manhood it was your pleasure to disdain and
degrade--might have given me the fortitude and the compensating motive
to resign you--might have saved us both! But that word was never on your
lips--that effort you were not generous enough to try. What I am, then,
you have made me--bitter to the dregs, engrossed by one thought, living
but for one object. Life is a curse to me. Every new day that rises upon
me, humiliation and despair are before me. Do you believe I will suffer
this tamely? What have I to lose? You hate me--I return you hate for
hate, loaded with the recollections of years of scorn and defiance.
Defiance? Ha! ha! It is my turn now, and no remorse shall step in
between us to mitigate my vengeance!"
His voice rose almost into a shriek at the close, he had worked himself
up to such a height of fanatic excitement; yet, notwithstanding the
denunciation with which he ended, it was impossible not to be touched
with pity for the real suffering that had reduced him to this condition.
A great sorrow had converted this wretched man into a human fiend; and I
never before believed that there were the elements of tenderness in him
which these references to the past seemed dimly to light up. Astraea
heard it all very calmly.
"We are not answerable for our likings or antipathies," she replied;
"and I am no more accountable for my feeling than you are for your
shape. Had you possessed the instincts you speak of--the manhood you
claim for yourself, you might have long since secured, at least, my
gratitude, and spared us both the ignominy of this night. But it is
useless to look back. I have nothing more to say. Let us part--in hate,
if you will. I am indifferent alike to your opinions and your vengeance.
Avail yourself of whatever power the law gives you; but here we now
part, never to meet again!"
As she said this, she moved away, and I still lingered behind to protect
her retreat, if it should be necessary.
"No, madam; not so easily. We do not part. I command you to leave this
place, and go with me. It is my pleasure. Do not compel me to enforce
it."
Seeing him rush forward to follow her, I placed myself between them.
"I charge you," cried the dwarf, "to stand out of my path. It will be
dangerous."
"You have threatened me before," I exclaimed; "and it is full time that
you and I should understand each other. I have an advantage over you
which I do not desire to use, except in extremity; be careful,
therefore, how you provoke it. Advance no further, or I will not answer
for the consequences!"
"So, then, you champion her in her guilt," he cried.
"I know of no guilt," I replied. "I have not interfered hitherto; I had
no right to do so. But I will not suffer any violence to be committed
toward her; she must be free to act as she pleases!"
"And what right have you to interfere now?"
"The right which every man has to protect a woman against outrage."
"I warn you for the last time!" exclaimed the dwarf, his eyeballs
flashing fire. "It is you who have done this; you who have tempted and
destroyed her--destroyed us both. Do not urge me to the retribution I
thirst for. Put your hand upon me; there is my outstretched arm--only
touch it with your fingers, and put me on my defense!"
Astraea was standing at my side.
"I charge you," she said, "to leave him, and go into the house. He will
not dare to follow me!"
"I will dare the depths of perdition, and follow you wherever you go.
See how he shrinks from me!--this champion and bully, for whom you stand
condemned and branded before the world!"
"Bully!" I cried, "if you were not the feeble, wretched thing you are, I
would strike you to the earth. It is you, not I, that have worked out
this shame for your own fiendish ends. Did you not tell me that you
helped and encouraged our intercourse--that you saw feelings growing up,
and used all your arts to heighten them into an attachment which you
knew would bring misery upon us all? For what purpose, devil as you are,
did you do this?"
"To break her heart--for she had broken mine!"
"Be content, then, with what you have done, and leave us. You have
placed me in a position which no fear of consequences can induce me to
abandon. I will protect her to the last. Look upon us henceforth as
inseparable, and rid us of your presence, lest I lose all self-command."
Grasping Astraea's hand, and controlling myself by a violent effort, I
turned from him to lead her toward the house.
Perhaps it was this action which suddenly infuriated the demon, who now
looked more horrible in the contortions of his unbridled rage than ever;
and as I turned I felt, rather than saw, that he had coiled himself up
to spring upon me. Relieving myself from her, I instantly faced him. His
motions were as quick as light. One hand was upon my chest, and the
other was fumbling under his cloak. Suspecting his intention, I seized
his right arm and dragged it out. There was a pistol in his hand. It was
not a time to exercise much forbearance in consideration of his physical
inferiority, and by desperate force I wrenched the pistol from his
grasp, and, tossing it over his head, flung it into the river. In the
struggle, however, it had gone off, and, by the cry of pain he uttered,
I concluded that he was wounded. But I was too much heated to think of
that; and, in the fierceness of the conflict between us, I lifted him up
by main strength, and flung him upon the ground.
Leaving him there, I hastened to Astraea, and we both went into the
house, taking care to lock and bar the door, so that he could not follow
us. The windows of the sitting-room went down close to the gravel-walk
outside, upon which they opened. These were already secured, and we were
safe.
As we sat there, half an hour afterward, a low, piteous voice came
wailing through the shutters, uttering one word, which it repeated at
intervals, in a tone that pierced me to the soul. "Astraea! Astraea!
Astraea!" It was a voice so freighted with sorrow, that, had not evil
passions intervened to shut our hearts to its petition, we must have
relented and shown mercy to him out of whose despair it issued. But we
held our breaths, hardly daring to look in each other's faces, and moved
not!
God! all the long night that wailing voice seemed repeating, in fainter
tones, "Astraea! Astraea! Astraea!" and she to whom it was addressed, and
to whom it appealed in vain--let me not recall the memory! Many years
have since trampled out other recollections, but that voice still seems
to vibrate on my heart, and the name still surges up as I heard it then,
sobbing through tears of mortal agony!
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
FOOTNOTE:
[6] Continued from Vol. II. p. 762.
MADAME DE GENLIS AND MADAME DE STAEL.[7]
Before the Revolution, I was but very slightly acquainted with Madame de
Genlis, her conduct during that disastrous period having not a little
contributed to sink her in my estimation; and the publication of her
novel, "The Knights of the Swan" (the _first_ edition), completed my
dislike to a person who had so cruelly aspersed the character of the
queen, my sister in-law.
On my return to France, I received a letter full of the most passionate
expressions of loyalty from beginning to end; the missive being signed
Comtesse de Genlis: but imagining this could be but a _plaisanterie_ of
some intimate friend of my own, I paid no attention whatever to it.
However, in two or three days it was followed by a second epistle,
complaining of my silence, and appealing to the great sacrifices the
writer had made in the interest of my cause, as giving her a _right_ to
my favorable attention. Talleyrand being present, I asked him if he
could explain this enigma.
"Nothing is easier," replied he; "Madame de Genlis is unique. She has
lost her own memory, and fancies others have experienced a similar
bereavement."
"She speaks," pursued I, "of her virtues, her misfortunes, and
Napoleon's persecutions."
"Hem! In 1789 her husband was quite ruined, so the events of that period
took nothing from _him_; and as to the tyranny of Bonaparte, it
consisted, in the first place, of giving her a magnificent suite of
apartments in the Arsenal; and in the second place, granting her a
pension of six thousand francs a year, upon the sole condition of her
keeping him every month _au courant_ of the literature of the day."
"What shocking ferocity!" replied I, laughing; "a case of infamous
despotism indeed. And this martyr to our cause asks to see me!"
"Yes; and pray let your royal highness grant her an audience, were it
only for once: I assure you she is most amusing."
I followed the advice of M. de Talleyrand, and accorded to the lady the
permission she so pathetically demanded. The evening before she was to
present herself, however, came a third missive, recommending a certain
Casimir, the _phenix_ of the _epoque_, and several other persons
besides; all, according to Madame de Genlis, particularly celebrated
people; and the postscript to this effusion prepared me also beforehand
for the request she intended to make, of being appointed governess to
the children of my son the Duc de Berry, who was at that time not even
married.
Just at this period it so happened that I was besieged by more than a
dozen persons of every rank in regard to Madame de Stael, formerly
exiled by Bonaparte, and who had rushed to Paris without taking breath,
fully persuaded every one there, and throughout all France, was
impatient to see her again. Madame de Stael had a double view in thus
introducing herself to me; namely, to direct my proceedings entirely,
and to obtain payment of the two million francs deposited in the
treasury by her father during his ministry. I confess I was not
prepossessed in favor of Madame de Stael, for she also, in 1789, had
manifested so much hatred toward the Bourbons, that I thought all she
could possibly look to from us, was the liberty of living in Paris
unmolested: but I little knew her. She, on her side, imagined that we
ought to be grateful to her for having quarreled with Bonaparte--her own
pride being, in fact, the sole cause of the rupture.
M. de Fontanes and M. de Chateaubriand were the first who mentioned her
to me; and to the importance with which they treated the matter, I
answered, laughing, "So Madame la Baronne de Stael is then a supreme
power?"
"Indeed she is, and it might have very unfavorable effects did your
royal highness overlook her: for what she asserts, every one believes,
and then--she has suffered _so_ much!"
"Very likely; but what did she make my poor sister-in-law the queen
suffer? Do you think I can forget the abominable things she said, the
falsehoods she told? and was it not in consequence of them, and the
public's belief of them, that she owed the possibility of the
embassadress of Sweden's being able to dare insult that unfortunate
princess in her very palace?"
Madame de Stael's envoys, who manifested some confusion at the fidelity
of my memory, implored me to forget the past, think only of the future,
and remember that the genius of Madame de Stael, whose reputation was
European, might be of the utmost advantage, or the reverse. Tired of
disputing I yielded; consented to receive this _femme celebre_, as they
all called her, and fixed for her reception the same day I had notified
to Madame de Genlis.
My brother has said, "Punctuality is the politeness of kings"--words as
true and just as they are happily expressed; and the princes of my
family have never been found wanting in good manners; so I was in my
study waiting when Madame de Genlis was announced. I was astonished at
the sight of a long, dry woman, with a swarthy complexion, dressed in a
printed cotton gown, any thing but clean, and a shawl covered with dust,
her habit-shirt, her hair even, bearing marks of great negligence. I had
read her works, and remembering all she said about neatness, and
cleanliness, and proper attention to one's dress, I thought she added
another to the many who fail to add example to their precepts. While
making these reflections, Madame de Genlis was firing off a volley of
courtesies; and upon finishing what she deemed the requisite number, she
pulled out of a great huge bag four manuscripts of enormous dimensions.
"I bring," commenced the lady, "to your royal highness what will amply
repay any kindness you may show to me--No. 1 is a plan of conduct, and
the project of a constitution; No. 2 contains a collection of speeches
in answer to those likely to be addressed to Monsieur; No. 3, addresses
and letters proper to send to foreign powers, the provinces, &c.; and in
No. 4 Monsieur will find a plan of education, the only one proper to be
pursued by royalty, in reading which, your royal highness will feel as
convinced of the extent of my acquirements as of the purity of my
loyalty."
Many in my place might have been angry; but, on the contrary, I thanked
her with an air of polite sincerity for the treasures she was so
obliging as to confide to me, and then condoled with her upon the
misfortunes she had endured under the tyranny of Bonaparte.
"Alas! Monsieur, this abominable despot dared to make a mere plaything
of _me_! and yet I strove, by wise advice, to guide him right, and teach
him to regulate his conduct properly: but he would not be led. I even
offered to mediate between him and the Pope, but he did not so much as
answer me upon this subject; although (being a most profound theologian)
I could have smoothed almost all difficulties when the Concordat was in
question."
This last piece of pretension was almost too much for my gravity.
However, I applauded the zeal of this new mother of the church, and was
going to put an end to the interview, when it came into my head to ask
her if she was well acquainted with Madame de Stael.
"God forbid!" cried she, making a sign of the cross: "I have no
acquaintance with _such people_; and I but do my duty in warning those
who have not perused the works of that lady, to bear in mind that they
are written in the worst possible taste, and are also extremely immoral.
Let your royal highness turn your thoughts from such books; you will
find in _mine_ all that is necessary to know. I suppose monsieur has not
yet seen _Little Necker_?"
"Madame la Baronne de Stael Holstein has asked for an audience, and I
even suspect she may be already arrived at the Tuileries."
"Let your royal highness beware of this woman! See in her the implacable
enemy of the Bourbons, and in me their most devoted slave!"
This new proof of the want of memory in Madame de Genlis amused me as
much as the other absurdities she had favored me with; and I was in the
act of making her the ordinary salutations of adieu, when I observed her
blush purple, and her proud rival entered.
The two ladies exchanged a haughty bow, and the comedy, which had just
finished with the departure of Madame de Genlis, recommenced under a
different form when Madame de Stael appeared on the stage. The baroness
was dressed, not certainly dirtily, like the countess, but quite as
absurdly. She wore a red satin gown, embroidered with flowers of gold
and silk; a profusion of diamonds; rings enough to stock a pawnbroker's
shop; and, I must add, that I never before saw so low a cut corsage
display less inviting charms. Upon her head was a huge turban,
constructed on the pattern of that worn by the Cumean sibyl, which put a
finishing stroke to a costume so little in harmony with her style of
face. I scarcely understand how a woman of genius _can_ have such a
false, vulgar taste. Madame de Stael began by apologizing for occupying
a few moments which she doubted not I should have preferred giving to
Madame de Genlis. "She is one of the illustrations of the day," observed
she with a sneering smile--"a colossus of religious faith, and
represents in her person, she fancies, all the literature of the age.
Ah, ah, monsieur, in the hands of _such people_ the world would soon
retrograde; while it should, on the contrary, be impelled forward, and
your royal highness be the first to put yourself at the head of this
great movement. To you should belong the glory of giving the impulse,
guided by _my experience_."
"Come," thought I, "here is another going to plague me with plans of
conduct, and constitutions, and reforms, which I am to persuade the king
my brother to adopt. It seems to be an insanity in France this composing
of new constitutions." While I was making these reflections, madame had
time to give utterance to a thousand fine phrases, every one more
sublime than the preceding. However, to put an end to them, I asked her
if there was any thing she wished to demand.
"Ah, dear!--oh yes, prince!" replied the lady in an indifferent tone. "A
mere trifle--less than nothing--two millions, without counting the
interest at five per cent.; but these are matters I leave entirely to my
men of business, being for my own part much more absorbed in politics
and the science of government."
"Alas! madame, the king has arrived in France with his mind made up upon
most subjects, the fruit of twenty-five years' meditation; and I fear he
is not likely to profit by your good intentions!"
"Then so much the worse for him and for France! All the world knows what
it cost Bonaparte his refusing to follow my advice, and pay me my two
millions. I have studied the Revolution profoundly, followed it through
all its phases, and I flatter myself I am the only pilot who can hold
with one hand the rudder of the state, if at least I have Benjamin for
steersman."
"Benjamin! Benjamin--who?" asked I, in surprise.
"It would give me the deepest distress," replied she, "to think that the
name of M. le Baron de Rebecque Benjamin de Constant has never reached
the ears of your royal highness. One of his ancestors saved the life of
Henri Quatre. Devoted to the descendants of this good king, he is ready
to serve them; and among several _constitutions_ he has in his
portfolio, you will probably find one with annotations and reflections
by myself, which will suit you. Adopt it, and choose Benjamin Constant
to carry out the idea."
It seemed like a thing resolved--an event decided upon--this proposal of
inventing a constitution for us. I kept as long as I could upon the
defensive; but Madame de Stael, carried away by her zeal and enthusiasm,
instead of speaking of what personally concerned herself, knocked me
about with arguments, and crushed me under threats and menaces; so,
tired to death of entertaining, instead of a clever, humble woman, a
roaring politician in petticoats, I finished the audience, leaving her
as little satisfied as myself with the interview. Madame de Genlis was
ten times less disagreeable, and twenty times more amusing.
That same evening I had M. le Prince de Talleyrand with me, and I was
confounded by hearing him say, "So your royal highness has made Madame
de Stael completely quarrel with me now?"
"Me! I never so much as pronounced your name."
"Notwithstanding that, she is convinced that I am the person who
prevents your royal highness from employing her in your political
relations, and that I am jealous of Benjamin Constant. She is resolved
on revenge."
"Ha, ha--and what can she do?"
"A very great deal of mischief, monseigneur. She has numerous partisans;
and if she declares herself Bonapartiste, we must look to ourselves."
"That _would_ be curious."
"Oh, I shall take upon myself to prevent her going so far; but she will
be Royalist no longer, and we shall suffer from that."
At this time I had not the remotest idea what a mere man, still less a
mere woman, could do in France; but now I understand it perfectly, and
if Madame de Stael was living--Heaven pardon me!--I would strike up a
flirtation with her.
FOOTNOTE:
[7] This curious piece has recently appeared in the "Gazette de France,"
and has excited much remark. It is given out to be the production of
Charles X. when Monsieur, and was communicated to M. Neychens by the
Marquis de la Roche Jaqueline.
THE TWO ROADS.
It was New-Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised
his mournful eyes toward the deep-blue sky, where the stars were
floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then
he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself
now moved toward their certain goal--the tomb. Already he had passed
sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his
journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his
mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The
days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the
solemn moment, when his father had placed him at the entrance of two
roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile
harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; while the other
conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no
issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed
and crawled.
He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony, "O youth, return!
O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may
choose the better way!"
But the days of his youth and his father had both passed away. He saw
wandering lights floating far away over dark marshes, and then
disappear--these were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall
from heaven, and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem of himself; and
the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. Then he
remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who,
having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now happy and honored
on this New-Year's night. The clock in the high church tower struck, and
the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him,
their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had
offered up on his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no
longer look toward that heaven where his father dwelt; his darkened eyes
dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, "Come
back, my early days! come back!"
And his youth _did_ return; for all this was but a dream which visited
his slumbers on New-Year's night. He was still young; his faults alone
were real. He thanked God, fervently, that time was still his own, that
he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to
tread the road leading to the peaceful land, where sunny harvests wave.
Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to
choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on
the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: "O youth,
return! O give me back my early days!"
STORIES OF SHIPWRECK.
The Magpie, commanded by Lieutenant Edward Smith, was lost during a
hurricane in the West Indies, in 1826. At the moment of the vessel going
down, a gunner's mate of the name of Meldrum struck out and succeeded in
reaching a pair of oars that were floating in the water; to these he
clung, and, having divested himself of a part of his clothing, he
awaited, in dreadful anxiety, the fate of his companions. Not a sound
met his ear; in vain his anxious gaze endeavored to pierce the gloom,
but the darkness was too intense. Minutes appeared like hours, and still
the awful silence remained unbroken: he felt, and the thought was agony,
that, out of the twenty-four human beings who had so lately trod the
deck of the schooner, he alone was left. This terrible suspense became
almost beyond the power of endurance; and he already began to envy the
fate of his companions, when he heard a voice at no great distance
inquiring if there was any one near. He answered in the affirmative;
and, pushing out in the direction from whence the sound proceeded, he
reached a boat to which seven persons were clinging; among whom was
Lieutenant Smith, the commander of the sloop. So far, this was a subject
of congratulation; he was no longer alone; but yet the chances of his
ultimate preservation were as distant as ever. The boat, which had been
placed on the booms of the schooner, had, fortunately, escaped clear of
the sinking vessel, and, if the men had waited patiently, was large
enough to have saved them all; but the suddenness of the calamity had
deprived them of both thought and prudence. Several men had attempted to
climb in on one side; the consequence was, the boat heeled over, became
half filled with water, and then turned keel uppermost; and, when
Meldrum reached her, he found some stretched across the keel, and others
hanging on by the sides.
Matters could not last long in this way; and Mr. Smith, seeing the
impossibility of any of the party being saved if they continued in their
present position, endeavored to bring them to reason, by pointing out
the absurdity of their conduct. To the honor of the men, they listened
with the same respect to their commander as if they had been on board
the schooner; those on the keel immediately relinquished their hold, and
succeeded, with the assistance of their comrades, in righting the boat.
Two of their number got into her, and commenced baling with their hats,
while the others remained in the water, supporting themselves by the
gunwales.
Order being restored, their spirits began to revive, and they
entertained hopes of escaping from their present peril: but this was of
short duration; and the sufferings which they had as yet endured were
nothing in comparison with what they had now to undergo. The two men had
scarcely commenced baling, when a cry was heard of "A shark! a shark!"
No words can describe the consternation which ensued; it is well known
the horror sailors have of these voracious animals, who seem apprised,
by instinct, when their prey is at hand. All order was at an end; the
boat again capsized, and the men were left struggling in the waters. The
general safety was neglected, and it was every man for himself; no
sooner had one got hold of the boat than he was pushed away by another,
and in this fruitless contest more than one life was nearly sacrificed.
Even in this terrible hour, their commander remained cool and collected;
his voice was still raised in words of encouragement, and, as the
dreaded enemy did not make its appearance, he again succeeded in
persuading them to renew their efforts to clear the boat. The night had
passed away--It was about ten o'clock on the morning of the 28th: the
baling had progressed without interruption; a little more exertion, and
the boat would have been cleared, when again was heard the cry of "The
sharks! the sharks!" But this was no false alarm; the boat a second time
capsized, and the unhappy men were literally cast among a shoal of these
terrible monsters. The men, for a few minutes, remained uninjured, but
not untouched, for the sharks actually rubbed against their victims,
and, to use the exact words of one of the survivors, "frequently passed
over the boat and between us while resting on the gunwale." This,
however, did not last long; a shriek soon told the fate of one of the
men: a shark had seized him by the leg, dyeing the water with his
blood; another shriek followed, and another man disappeared.
But these facts are almost too horrible to dwell upon; human nature
revolts from so terrible a picture; we will, therefore, hurry over this
part of our tale.
Smith had witnessed the sufferings of his followers with the deepest
distress; and, although aware that, in all probability, he must soon
share the same fate, he never for a moment appeared to think of himself.
There were but six men left; and these he endeavored to sustain by his
example, cheering them on to further exertions. They had, once more,
recommenced their labors to clear out the boat, when one of his legs was
seized by a shark. Even while suffering the most horrible torture, he
restrained the expression of his feelings, for fear of increasing the
alarm of the men; but the powers of his endurance were doomed to be
tried to the utmost; another limb was scrunched from his body, and,
uttering a deep groan, he was about to let go his hold, when he was
seized by two of his men, and placed in the stern-sheets.
Yet, when his whole frame was convulsed with agony, the energies of his
mind remained as strong as ever; his own pain was disregarded; he
thought only of the preservation of his crew. Calling to his side a lad
of the name of Wilson, who appeared the strongest of the remaining few,
he exhorted him, in the event of his surviving, to inform the admiral
that he was going to Cape Ontario, in search of the pirate, when the
unfortunate accident occurred. "Tell him," he continued, "that my men
have done their duty, and that no blame is attached to them. I have but
one favor to ask, and that is, that he will promote Meldrum to be a
gunner."
He then shook each man by the hand, and bade them farewell. By degrees
his strength began to fail, and at last became so exhausted that he was
unable to speak. He remained in this state until the sun set, when
another panic seized the men from a re-appearance of the sharks; the
boat gave a lurch, and the gallant commander found an end to his
sufferings in a watery grave.
The Anson was lost, in 1807, off the coast of France. The ship was no
longer an object of consideration; Captain Lydiard felt that he had done
his utmost to save her, but in vain, and that now every energy must be
put forth for the preservation of human life. The tempest raged with
such fury, that no boat could possibly come to their aid, nor could the
strongest swimmer hope to gain the shore. It appeared to Captain
Lydiard, that the only chance of escape for any of the crew was in
running the ship as near the coast as possible. He gave the necessary
orders, and the master ran the vessel on the sand which forms the bar
between the Loe Pool and the sea, about three miles from Helstone. The
tide had been ebbing nearly an hour when she took the ground, and she
broached to, leaving her broadside heeling over, and facing the beach.
The scene of horror and confusion which ensued, on the Anson striking
against the ground, was one which baffles all description. Many of the
men were washed away by the tremendous sea which swept over the deck;
many others were killed by the falling of the spars, the crashing sound
of which, as they fell from aloft, mingled with the shrieks of the women
on board, was heard even amidst the roar of the waters and the howling
of the winds. The coast was lined with crowds of spectators, who watched
with an intense and painful interest the gradual approach of the
ill-fated vessel toward the shore, and witnessed the subsequent
melancholy catastrophe.
Calm and undaunted amidst the terrors of the scene, Captain Lydiard is
described as displaying, in a remarkable degree, that self-possession
and passive heroism which has been so often the proud characteristic of
the commander of a British ship-of-war under similar harassing
circumstances. Notwithstanding the confusion of the scene, his voice was
heard, and his orders were obeyed with that habitual deference which,
even in danger and in death, an English seaman rarely fails to accord to
his commanding officer. He was the first to restore order, to assist the
wounded, to encourage the timid, and to revive expiring hope. Most
providentially, when the vessel struck, the mainmast, in falling
overboard, served to form a communication between the ship and the
shore, and Captain Lydiard was the first to point out this circumstance
to the crew. Clinging with his arm to the wheel of the rudder, in order
to prevent his being washed overboard by the waves, he continued to
encourage one after another as they made the perilous attempt to reach
the shore. It was fated that this gallant officer should not enjoy in
this world the reward of his humanity and his heroism. After watching
with thankfulness the escape of many of his men, and having seen, with
horror, many others washed off the mast, in their attempts to reach the
land, he was about to undertake the dangerous passage himself, when he
was attracted by the cries of a person seemingly in an agony of terror.
The brave man did not hesitate for a moment, but turned and made his way
to the place whence the cries proceeded. There he found a boy, a protege
of his own, whom he had entered on board the Anson only a few months
before, clinging, in despair to a part of the wreck, and without either
strength or courage to make the least effort for his own preservation.
Captain Lydiard's resolution was instantly taken: he would save the lad
if possible, though he might himself perish in the attempt. He threw one
arm round the boy, while he cheered him by words of kind encouragement;
with the other arm, he clung to the spars and mast to support himself
and his burden. But the struggle did not last long; nature was exhausted
by the mental and physical sufferings he had endured; he lost his hold,
not of the boy, but of the mast, the wild waves swept over them, and
they perished together.
JOE SMITH AND THE MORMONS.
BY PROF. JAMES F.W. JOHNSTON.
In the future history of mankind, if present appearances are to be
trusted, the counties of Wayne and Ontario, N.Y., are likely to derive
an interest and importance, in the eyes of a numerous body of people,
from a circumstance wholly unconnected either with their social
progress, or with their natural productions or capabilities. In these
counties lie the scenes of the early passages in the life of Joe Smith,
the founder of the sect of the Mormons.
Born in December, 1805, in Sharon, Windsor County, State of Vermont, he
removed with his father, about 1815, to a small farm in Palmyra, Wayne
County, New York, and assisted him on the farm till 1826. He received
little education, read indifferently, wrote and spelt badly, knew little
of arithmetic, and, in all other branches of learning he was, to the day
of his death, exceedingly ignorant.
His own account of his religious progress is, that as early as fifteen
years of age he began to have serious ideas regarding the future state,
that he got into occasional ecstasies, and that in 1823, during one of
these ecstasies, he was visited by an angel, who told him that his sins
were forgiven--that the time was at hand when the gospel in its fullness
was to be preached to all nations--that the American Indians were a
remnant of Israel, who, when they first emigrated to America, were an
enlightened people, possessing a knowledge of the true God, and enjoying
his favor--that the prophets and inspired writers among them had kept a
history or record of their proceedings--that these records were safely
deposited--and that, if faithful, he was to be the favored instrument
for bringing them to light.
On the following day, according to instructions from the angel, he went
to a hill which he calls Cumorah, in Palmyra township, Wayne County, and
there, in a stone chest, after a little digging, he saw the records; but
it was not till four years after, in September 1827, that "the angel of
the Lord delivered the records into his hands."
"These records were engraved on plates which had the appearance of gold,
were seven by eight inches in size, and thinner than common tin, and
were covered on both sides with Egyptian characters, small and
beautifully engraved. They were bound together in a volume like the
leaves of a book, and were fastened at one edge with three rings running
through the whole. The volume was about six inches in thickness, bore
many marks of antiquity, and part of it was sealed. With the records was
found a curious instrument, called by the ancients Urim and Thummim,
which consisted of two transparent stones, clear as crystal, and set in
two rims of a bow"--a pair of pebble spectacles, in other words, or
"helps to read" unknown tongues.
The report of his discovery having got abroad, his house was beset, he
was mobbed, and his life was endangered by persons who wished to possess
themselves of the plates. He therefore packed up his goods, concealed
the plates _in a barrel of beans_, and proceeded across the country to
the northern part of Pennsylvania, near the Susquehannah river, where
his father-in-law resided. Here, "by the gift and power of God, through
the means of the Urim and Thummim, he began to translate the record,
and, being a poor writer, he employed a scribe to write the translation
as it came from his mouth." In 1830 a large edition of the _Book of
Mormon_ was published. It professes to be an abridgment of the records
made by the prophet Mormon, of the people of the Nephites, and left to
his son Moroni to finish. It is regarded by the Latter-day Saints with
the same veneration as the New Testament is among Christians.
The Church of the Latter-day Saints was organized on the 6th of April,
1830, at Manchester, in Ontario County, New York. Its numbers at first
were few, but they rapidly increased, and in 1833 removed to the State
of Missouri, and purchased a large tract of land in Jackson County. Here
their neighbors tarred and feathered some, killed others, and compelled
the whole to remove. They then established themselves in Clay County, in
the same State, but on the opposite side of the river. From this place
again, in 1835, they removed eastward to the State of Ohio, settled at
Kirtland, in Geauga County, about twenty miles from Cleveland, and began
to build a temple, upon which sixty-thousand dollars were expended. At
Kirtland a bank was incorporated by Joe and his friends, property was
bought with its notes, and settled upon the Saints, after which the bank
failed--as many others did about the same time--and Ohio became too hot
for the Mormons. Again, therefore, the Prophet, his apostles, and a
great body of the Saints, left their home and temple, went westward a
second time to the State of Missouri, purchased a large tract of land in
Caldwell County, in Missouri, and built the city of the "Far West." Here
difficulties soon beset them, and in August, 1838, became so serious
that the military were called in; and the Mormons were finally driven,
unjustly, harshly, and oppressively, by force of arms, from the State of
Missouri, and sought protection in the State of Illinois, on the eastern
bank of the Mississippi. They were well received in this State, and
after wandering for some time--while their leader, Joe Smith, was in
jail--they bought a beautiful tract of land in Hancock County, and, in
the spring of 1840, began to build the city and temple of Nauvoo. The
Legislature of Illinois at first passed an act giving great, and,
probably, injudicious privileges to this city, which, in 1844, was
already the largest in the State, and contained a population of about
twenty thousand souls. The temple, too, was of great size and
magnificence--being 128 feet long and 77 feet high, and stood on an
elevated situation, from which it was visible to a distance of 25 or 30
miles. In the interior was an immense baptismal font, in imitation of
the brazen sea of Solomon--"a stone reservoir, resting upon the backs of
twelve oxen, also cut out of stone, and as large as life."
But persecution followed them to Illinois, provoked in some degree, no
doubt, by their own behavior, especially in making and carrying into
effect city ordinances, which were contrary to the laws of the State.
The people of the adjoining townships rose in arms, and were joined by
numbers of the old enemies of the Mormons from Missouri. The militia
were called out; and, to prevent further evils, Joe Smith and one of his
brothers, with several other influential Saints, on an assurance of
safety and protection from the Governor of the State, were induced to
surrender themselves for trial in respect of the charges brought against
them, and were conducted to prison. Here they were inconsiderately left
by the Governor, on the following day, under a guard of seven or eight
men. These were overpowered the same afternoon by an armed mob, who
killed Joe Smith and his brother, and then made their escape. After
this, the Mormons remained a short time longer in the Holy City; but the
wound was too deep seated to admit of permanent quiet on either part,
and they were at last driven out by force, and compelled to abandon or
sacrifice their property. Such as escaped this last persecution, after
traversing the boundless prairies, the deserts of the Far West, and the
Rocky Mountains, appear at last to have found a resting-place near the
Great Salt Lake in Oregon. They are increasing faster since this last
catastrophe than ever; and are daily receiving large accessions of new
members from Europe, especially from Great Britain. They form the
nucleus of the new State of Utah, this year erected into a Territory of
the United States, and likely, in the next session of Congress, to be
elevated to the dignity of an independent State. So rapidly has
persecution helped on this offspring of ignorance, and tended to give a
permanent establishment, and a bright future, to a system, not simply of
pure invention, but of blasphemous impiety, and folly the most insane.
The _Book of Mormon_, which is the written guide of this new sect,
consists of a series of professedly historical books--a desultory and
feeble imitation of the Jewish chronicles and prophetical books--in
which, for the poetry and warnings of the ancient prophets, are
substituted a succession of unconnected rhapsodies and repetitions such
as might form the perorations of ranting addresses by a field preacher,
to a very ignorant audience.
The book, in the edition I possess, consists in all of 634 pages, of
which the first 580 contain the history of a fictitious personage called
Lehi and that of his descendants for the space of a thousand years.
This Lehi, a descendant of Joseph the son of Jacob, with his family left
Jerusalem in the beginning of the reign of Zedekiah, six hundred years
before Christ, and, passing the Red Sea, journeyed eastward for eight
years till they reached the shore of a wide sea. There they built a
ship, and, embarking, were carried at length to the promised land, where
they settled and multiplied. Among the sons of Lehi one was called Laman
and another Nephi. The former was wicked, and a disbeliever in the law
of Moses and the prophets; the latter, obedient and faithful, and a
believer in the coming of Christ. Under the leadership of these two
opposing brothers, the rest of the family and their descendants arranged
themselves, forming the Lamanites and the Nephites, between whom wars
and perpetual hostilities arose. The Lamanites were idle hunters, living
in tents, eating raw flesh, and having only a girdle round their loins.
The skin of Laman and his followers became black; while that of Nephi
and his people, who tilled the land, retained its original whiteness. As
with the Jews, the Nephites were successful when they were obedient to
the law; and, when they fell away to disobedience and wickedness, the
Lamanites had the better, and put many to death. At the end of about
four hundred years, a portion of the righteous Nephites under Mosiah,
having left their land, traveled far across the wilderness, and
discovered the city of Zarahemla, which was peopled by the descendants
of a colony of Jews who had wandered from Jerusalem when King Zedekiah
was carried away captive to Babylon, twelve years after the emigration
of Lehi. But they were heathens, possessed no copy of the law, and had
corrupted their language. They received the Nephites warmly, however,
learned their language, and gladly accepted the law of Moses.
This occupies 158 pages. The history of the next two hundred years
follows this new people, and that of occasional converts from the
Lamanites--called still by the general name of Nephites in their
struggles with the Lamanites, and the alternations of defeat and success
which accompany disobedience or the contrary. This occupies several
books, and brings us to the 486th page, and the period of the birth of
Christ. This event is signified to the people of Zarahemla by a great
light, which made the night as light as mid-day. And thirty-three years
after there was darkness for three days, and thunderings and
earthquakes, and the destruction of cities and people. This was a sign
of the crucifixion. Soon after this, Christ himself appears to this
people of Zarahemla in America, repeats to them in long addresses the
substance of his numerous sayings and discourses, as recorded by the
apostles; chooses twelve to go forth and preach and baptize; and then
disappears. On occasion of a great baptizing by the apostles, however,
he appears again; imparts the Holy Spirit to all, makes long discourses,
and disappears. And, finally, to the apostles themselves he appears a
third time; and addresses them in ill-assorted extracts and paraphrases
of his New Testament sayings.
The account of these visits of our Saviour to the American Nephites, and
of his sayings, occupies about 48 pages. For about 400 years, the
Christian doctrine and church thus planted among the Nephites had
various fortune; increasing at first, and prospering, but, as
corruptions came in, encountering adversity. The Lamanites were still
their fierce enemies; and as wickedness and corrupt doctrine began to
prevail among the Christians, the Lamanites gained more advantages. It
would appear, from Joe Smith's descriptions, that he means the war to
have begun at the Isthmus of Darien--where the Nephites were settled,
and occupied the country to the north, while the Lamanites lived south
of the isthmus. From the isthmus the Nephites were gradually driven
toward the east, till finally, at the hill of Cumorah, near Palmyra, in
Wayne County, western New York, the last battle was fought, in which,
with the loss of 230,000 fighting men, the Nephites were exterminated!
Among the very few survivors was Moroni the last of the scribes, who
deposited in this hill the metal plates which the virtuous Joe Smith was
selected to receive from the hands of the angel. This occupies to the
580th page.
But now, in the Book of Ether, which follows, Joe becomes more bold, and
goes back to the tower of Babel for another tribe of fair people, whom
he brings over and settles in America. At the confusion of the
languages, Ether and his brethren journeyed to the great sea, and, after
a sojourn of four years on the shore, built boats under the Divine
direction, water-tight, and covered over like walnuts, with a bright
stone in each end to give light! And when they had embarked in their
tight boats, a strong wind arose, blowing toward the promised land, and
for 344 days it blew them along the water, till they arrived safe at the
shore. Here, like the sons of Lehi, they increased and prospered, and
had kings and prophets and wars, and were split into parties, who fought
with each other. Finally, Shiz rose in rebellion against Coriantumr, the
last king, and they fought with alternate success, till two millions of
mighty men, with their wives and children, had been slain! And, after
this, all the people were gathered either on the one side or the other,
and fought for many days, till only Coriantumr alone remained alive!
This foolish history is written with the professedly religious purpose
of showing the punishment from the hand of God which wicked behavior
certainly entails; and, with some trifling moralities of Moroni,
completes the _Book of Mormon_.
Joseph Smith does not affect in this gospel of his to bring in any new
doctrine, or to supersede the Bible, but to restore "many plain and
precious things which have been taken away from the first book by the
abominable church, the Mother of Harlots." It is full of sillinesses,
follies, and anachronisms; but I have not discovered, in my cursory
review, any of the immoralities or positive licentiousness which he
himself practiced, directly inculcated. He teaches faith in Christ,
human depravity, the power of the Holy Ghost, the doctrine of the
Trinity, of the atonement, and of salvation only through Christ. He
recommends the sacraments of baptism and the Lord's Supper; and,
whatever his own conduct and that of his people may be, certainly in his
book prohibits polygamy and priestcraft.
The wickedness of his book consists in its being a lie from beginning to
end, and of himself in being throughout an impostor. Pretending to be a
"seer"--which, he says, is greater than a prophet--he puts into the
hands of his followers a work of pure invention as a religious guide
inspired by God, and which, among his followers, is to take the place of
the Bible. Though an ignorant man, he was possessed of much shrewdness.
He courted persecution, though he hoped to profit, not to die by it.
Unfortunately, his enemies, by their inconsiderate persecution, have
made him a martyr for his opinions, and have given a stability to his
sect which nothing may now be able to shake. It was urged by Smith
himself that the New World was as deserving of a direct revelation as
the Old; and his disciples press upon their hearers that, as an
_American revelation_, this system has peculiar claims upon their regard
and acceptance. The feeling of nationality being thus connected with the
new sect, weak-minded native-born Americans might be swayed by patriotic
motives in connecting themselves with it. But it is mortifying to learn
that most numerous accessions are being made to the body in their new
home by converts proceeding from England.[8] Under the name of the
"Latter-day Saints," professing the doctrines of the gospel, the
delusions of the system are hidden from the masses by the emissaries who
have been dispatched into various countries to recruit their numbers
among the ignorant and devoutly-inclined lovers of novelty. Who can tell
what two centuries may do in the way of giving a historical position to
this rising heresy?
FOOTNOTE:
[8] It has been recently stated that the Mormon emigration from
Liverpool alone, up to the present year, has been 13,500, and that they
have, on the whole, been superior to and better provided than the other
classes of emigrants. Of course, many more of his sect must have
emigrated from other ports, and many even from the port of Liverpool,
whose faith and ultimate destination was not known.
AN ICE-HILL PARTY IN RUSSIA.
The reader, I hope, will have no objection to quit his comfortable
fire-side, put on his furs, and accompany me to a sledge, or ice-hill
party.
An army of about ten or fifteen sledges start from a house where all the
party assemble, the gentlemen driving themselves, and each family taking
some provisions with them. After about an hour and three-quarters'
drive, the whole caravan arrives at the house of a _starosto_
(president) of the work-people employed by the foreign commercial houses
in Russia. The _starosto_ is usually a wealthy man, and mostly looked up
to by his neighbors, as he has by some most extraordinary means acquired
some few townish manners, which suit _his_ country appearance as much as
glazed boots, and a polka tie would suit the true English country
farmer.
After having warmed themselves before a good hot Russian stove, the
party begin operations by getting the sledges ready, and ascending the
ice-hills. The hills are made of a wooden scaffold, covered with huge
bits of ice, all of an equal size, placed side-by-side, so as to fit
closely together. By being constantly watered, they gradually become one
solid mass, as smooth as a mirror. The hill, which usually is of a
considerable height, and rather sloping, ends in a long, narrow plain of
ice called the run, which is just broad enough for three narrow sledges
to pass each other, and long enough to carry you to the foot of a second
hill.
The sledges are usually of iron, long and narrow, and covered by
cushions, often embroidered by the fair hand of a lady. They are low,
and so constructed that they can hold one or two persons, as the case
may be. Both the run and the hill are bordered by fir trees on each
side, and on such evening parties are illuminated with Chinese lamps
placed between the branches of the trees. Fancy yourself on the top of
the hill looking down this illuminated avenue of firs, which is
reflected in the mirror of the ice, as if determining to outshine the
lights in the clear sky, and the gay laughing crowds moving up and down
the hills, and you have before you the finest and most perfect picture
of sorrowless enjoyment, as a striking contrast to the lifeless nature
surrounding it. The briskness of the movement, and the many accidents
happening to the clumsy members of the party, keep up the excitement,
while the contest of young men to obtain this or the other lady for
their partner on their down-hill journey (not in life), never allows the
conversation or the laugh to flag for one moment. I remember once
getting into what school-boys would call an awful scrape with one of the
ice-hill heroes. We both started together from the second hill on a
race, and I, having a faster sledge, overtook him by the length of my
conveyance, and arrived at the top of the hill before him. Seeing that
the _belle_ of the evening was disengaged, I approached her with all the
formality with which the newly-admitted youth requests the queen of a
ball-room for the pleasure and honor to dance a polka with her, and
asked her to go down. Forgetting a previous appointment with my former
antagonist, she accepted my offer, and the latter just arrived in time
to see us start from the hill. In his rage he determined to do me some
mischief by upsetting my sledge, as soon as he had an opportunity of
doing so without any damage to another party. He soon had an occasion,
but, unfortunately I had a sledge with a lady before me; passing me, he
hit me, and I, hitting against the sledge before me, without being able
to avoid it, at the same time getting hold of his legs, upset all three.
Luckily, no injury was done, as the whole lot were upset into the snow,
to the great enjoyment of all spectators.
Gradually the time to retire approaches. The lamps begin to go out, and
the hills, divested of their beauty, appear like the ruins of a
magnificent city of olden times. Here and there you see a single lamp
peeping out from the branches of the trees, wistfully looking round in
search of its brothers, as if it wanted to assure itself of the absence
of any other enlightening object.
The party go in to refresh themselves with tea and other warm beverages.
The gentlemen wait on the ladies, and a new contest begins, as each
tries to surpass the other in politeness and quickness. If it is a
supper, you see these youthful and useful members of society running
about with plates of sandwiches, or steering along with a cup of
_bouillon_ in one and a glass of wine in the other hand, through the
intricate passages formed by the numberless tables occupied by members
of the fair sex. And then having, after a great deal of danger, at last
arrived at their destination, they find the lady they wanted to serve
already provided with every necessary comfort; and, perchance, she is so
much engaged in conversation with their more fortunate rival, that she
can not even give them a grateful smile for their trouble. Now the
ladies adjourn, and the field of action is left to the gentlemen. All
restraint seems to have gone. The clatter of knives, the jingling of
glasses, the hubbub of voices, all this makes such a chaos of strange
and mysterious noises, that it has quite a deafening effect. At last a
cry of order is heard from the top of the table. One of the directors of
the party, after having requested the audience to fill their glasses, in
flowery language proposes the health of the ladies, which, of course, is
drunk with tremendous applause, manifested by acts, such as beating with
the handles of knives and forks on the table, and clapping hands.
After several other toasts, the party adjourn to join the ladies.
Merry-making now begins, and an hour or so is passed in social games,
such as hunting the slipper, cross-questions, crooked answers, and
others. At last, the parties wrap themselves up again in their furs, and
prepare to go home. On their homeward tour, one of the finest phenomena
in nature may, perchance, appear to them. A streak of light, suddenly
appearing on the horizon, shoots like lightning up to the sky. One
moment longer, and the whole sky is covered by such streaks, all of
different colors amalgamating together, and constantly changing and
lighting up the objects as bright as daylight. This is the Aurora
Borealis, one of the numerous spectacles of nature, which the common
people regard with astonishment, while the cultivated mind finds sermon
on the glory of our Maker in every object he meets on his journey
through life; looks at it with admiration and reverence.
THE BLIND LOVERS OF CHAMOUNY.[9]
It was during a second visit to the beautiful and melancholy valley of
Chamouny that I became acquainted with the following touching and
interesting story. A complete change of ideas had become absolutely
necessary for me; I sought, therefore, to kindle those emotions which
must ever be awakened by the sublime scenes of Nature; my wearied heart
required fresh excitement to divert it from the grief which was
devouring it; and the melancholy grandeur of Chamouny seemed to present
a singular charm to my then peculiar frame of mind.
Again I wandered through the graceful forest of fir-trees, which
surrounds the Village des Bois, and, this time, with a new kind of
pleasure; once more I beheld that little plain upon which the glaciers
every now and then make an in-road, above which the peaks of the Alps
rise so majestically, and which slopes so gently down to the picturesque
source of the Arveyron. How I enjoyed gazing upon its portico of azure
crystal, which every year wears a new aspect. On one occasion, when I
reached this spot, I had not proceeded very far, when I perceived that
Puck, my favorite dog, was not by my side. How could this have happened,
for he would not have been induced to leave his master, even for the
most dainty morsel? He did not answer to my call, and I began to feel
uneasy, when, suddenly, the pretty fellow made his appearance, looking
rather shy and uncomfortable, and yet with caressing confidence in my
affection; his body was slightly curved, his eyes were humid and
beseeching, he carried his head very low--so low, that his ears trailed
upon the ground, like those of Zadig's dog; Puck, too, was a spaniel. If
you had but seen Puck, in that posture, you would have found it
impossible to be angry with him. I did not attempt to scold him, but,
nevertheless, he continued to leave me, and return to me again; he
repeated this amusement several times; while I followed in his track
till I gradually came toward the point of his attraction; it appeared as
if a similar kind of sympathy drew me to the same spot.
Upon a projection of a rock sat a young man, with a most touching and
pleasing countenance; he was dressed in a sort of blue blouse, in the
form of a tunic, and had a long stick of Cytisus in his hand; his whole
appearance reminded me strongly of Poussin's antique shepherds. His
light hair clustered in thick curls round his uncovered throat, and fell
over his shoulders, his features wore an expression of gravity, but not
of austerity, and he seemed sad, though not desponding. There was a
singular character about his eyes, the effect of which I could scarcely
define; they were large and liquid, but their light was quenched, and
they were fixed and unfathomable. The murmur of the wind had disguised
the sound of my footsteps, and I soon became aware that I was not
perceived. At length, I felt sure that the young man was blind. Puck had
closely studied the emotions which became visible in my face; but as
soon as he discovered that I was kindly disposed toward his new friend,
he jumped up to him. The young man stroked Puck's silky coat, and smiled
good-naturedly at him.
"How is it that you appear to know me," said he, "for you do not belong
to the valley? I once had a dog as full of play as you, and, perhaps, as
pretty; but he was a French water-spaniel, with a coat of curly wool; he
has left me, like many others--my last friend, my poor Puck."
"How curious! was your dog called Puck, too?"
"Ah, pardon me, sir!" exclaimed the young man, rising, and supporting
himself on his stick. "My infirmity must excuse me."
"Pray sit down, my good friend; you are blind, I fear?"
"Yes, blind since my infancy."
"Have you never been able to see?"
"Ah, yes, but for so very short a time! yet, I have some recollection of
the sun, and when I lift up my eyes toward the point in the heavens
where it should be, I can almost fancy I see a globe, which reminds me
of its color. I have, too, a faint remembrance of the whiteness of the
snow, and the hue of our mountains."
"Was it an accident which deprived you of your sight?"
"Yes, an accident which was the least of my misfortunes. I was scarcely
more than two years old, when an avalanche fell down from the heights of
La Flegere, and crushed our little dwelling. My father, who was the
guide among these mountains, had spent the evening at the Priory; you
can easily picture to yourself his despair when he found his family
swallowed up by this horrible scourge. By the aid of his comrades, he
succeeded in making a hole in the snow, and was thus able to get into
our cottage, the roof which was still supported on its frail props. The
first thing which met his eyes was my cradle, he placed this at once in
safety, for the danger was rapidly increasing; the work of the miners
caused fresh masses of ice to crumble, and served rather to hasten the
overthrow of our fragile abode; he pushed forward to save my mother, who
had fainted, and he was afterward seen for a moment carrying her in his
arms, by the light of the torches which burnt outside; and then all gave
way. I was an orphan, and the next day it was discovered that my sight
had been destroyed."
"Poor child! so you were left alone in the world, quite alone!"
"In our valley, a person visited by misfortune is never quite alone, all
our good Chamouniers united in endeavoring to relieve my wretchedness;
Balmat give me shelter, Simon Coutet afforded me food, Gabriel Payot
clothed me; and a good widow who had lost her children, undertook the
care of me. She still performs a mother's part to me, and guides me to
this spot every day in summer."
"And are these all the friends you have?"
"I have had more," said the young man, while he placed his finger on his
lip in a mysterious manner; "but they are gone."
"Will they never come back again?"
"I should think not, from appearances; yet a few days ago I imagined
that Puck would return, that he had only strayed, but nobody strays
among our glaciers with impunity. I shall never feel him bound again at
my side, or hear him bark at the approach of travelers," and he brushed
away a tear.
"What is your name?"
"Gervais."
"Listen, Gervais; you must tell me about these friends whom you have
lost;" at the same time I prepared to seat myself by his side, but he
sprang up eagerly, and took possession of the vacant place.
"Not here, not here, sir; this is Eulalie's seat, and since her
departure nobody has occupied it."
"Eulalie," replied I, seating myself in the place from which he had just
risen; "tell me about Eulalie, and yourself; your story interests me."
Gervais proceeded:
"I explained to you that my life had not been devoid of happiness, for
Heaven compensates bountifully to those in misfortune, by inspiring good
people with pity for their wretchedness. I lived in happy ignorance of
the extent of my deprivation; suddenly, however, a stranger came to
reside in the village des Bois, and formed the topic of conversation in
our valley. He was only known by the name of M. Robert, but the general
opinion was, that he was a person of distinction, who had met with great
losses, and much sorrow, and consequently had resolved to pass his
latter years in perfect solitude. He was said to have lost a wife, to
whom he was tenderly attached; the result of their union, a little girl,
had occasioned him much grief, for she was born blind. While the father
was held up as a model for his virtues, the goodness and charms of his
daughter were equally extolled. My want of sight prevented me from
judging of her beauty, but could I have beheld her she could not have
left a more lovely impression on my mind. I picture her to myself
sometimes as even more interesting than my mother."
"She is dead, then?" inquired I.
"Dead!" replied he, in an accent in which there was a strange mixture of
terror and wild joy! "dead! who told you so?"
"Pardon me, Gervais, I did not know her; I was only endeavoring to find
out the reason of your separation."
"She is alive," said he, smiling bitterly, and he remained silent for a
moment. "I do not know whether I told you that she was called Eulalie.
Yes, her name was Eulalie, and this was her place;" he broke off
abruptly. "Eulalie," repeated he, while he stretched out his hand as if
to find her by his side. Puck licked his fingers, and looked pityingly
at him: I would not have parted from Puck for a million.
"Calm yourself, Gervais, and forgive me for opening a wound which is
scarcely yet healed. I can guess the rest of your story. The strange
similarity of Eulalie's and your misfortune awakened her father's
interest in you, and you became another child to him."
"Yes, I became another child to him, and Eulalie was a sister to me; my
kind adopted mother and I went to take up our abode in the new house,
which is called the Chateau. Eulalie's masters were mine; together we
learned those divine strains of harmony which raise the soul to heaven,
and together, by means of pages printed in relief, we read with our
fingers the sublime thoughts of the philosophers, and the beautiful
creations of the poets. I endeavored to imitate some of their graceful
images, and to paint what I had not seen. Eulalie admired my verses, and
this was all I desired. Ah! if you had heard her sing, you would have
thought that an angel had descended to entrance the valley. Every day in
the fine season we were conducted to this rock, which is called by the
inhabitants of this part 'le Rocher des Aveugles;' here too the kindest
of fathers guided our steps, and bestowed on us numberless fond
attentions. Around us were tufts of rhododendrons, beneath us was a
carpet of violets and daisies, and when our touch had recognized, by its
short stalk and its velvety disk, the last-named flower, we amused
ourselves in stripping it of its petals, and repeated a hundred times
this innocent diversion, which served as a kind of interpretation to our
first avowal of love."
As Gervais proceeded, his face acquired a mournful expression, a cloud
passed over his brow, and he became suddenly sad and silent; in his
emotion he trod unthinkingly upon an Alpine rose, which was, however,
already withered on its stalk; I gathered it without his being aware of
it, for I wished to preserve it in remembrance of him. Some minutes
elapsed before Gervais seemed inclined to proceed with his narrative,
and I did not like to speak to him; suddenly he passed his hand over his
eyes, as if to drive away a disagreeable dream, and then turning toward
me with an ingenuous smile, he continued.
"Be charitable to my weakness, for I am young, and have not yet learned
to control the emotions of my heart; some day, perhaps, I shall be
wiser."
"I fear, my good friend," said I, "that this conversation is too
fatiguing for you; do not recall to your mind circumstances which appear
so painful. I shall never forgive myself for occasioning you such an
hour of grief."
"It is not you," replied Gervais, "who bring back these recollections,
for these thoughts are never absent from my mind, and I would rather
that it was annihilated than that they should ever cease to occupy it;
my very existence is mixed up with my sorrow." I had retained Gervais's
hand; he understood, therefore, that I was listening to him.
"After all, my reminiscences are not entirely made up of bitterness;
sometimes I imagine that my present affliction is only a dream--that my
real life is full of the happiness which I have lost. I fancy that she
is still near me, only, perhaps, a little further off than usual--that
she is silent because she is plunged in deep meditation, of which our
mutual love forms a principal part. One day we were seated as usual on
this rock, and were enjoying the sweetness and serenity of the air, the
perfume of our violets, and the song of the birds; upon this occasion we
listened with a curious kind of pleasure to the masses of ice which,
being loosened by the sun, shot hissingly down from the peaks of the
mountain. We could distinguish the rushing of the waters of the
Arveyron. I do not know how it was, but we were both suddenly impressed
with a vague sensation of the uncertainty of happiness, and at the same
time with a feeling of terror and uneasiness; we threw ourselves into
each other's arms, and held each other tightly, as if somebody had
wished to separate us, and both of us exclaimed eagerly, 'Ah, yes! let
it be always thus, always thus.' I felt that Eulalie scarcely breathed,
and that her overwrought state of mind required to be soothed. 'Yes,
Eulalie, let us ever be thus to one another; the world believes that our
misfortune renders us objects only of pity, but how can it possibly
judge of the happiness that I enjoy in your tenderness, or that you find
in mine? How little does the turmoil and excitement of society affect
us; we may be regarded by many as imperfect beings, and this is quite
natural, for they have not yet discovered that the perfection of
happiness consists in loving and in being loved. It is not your beauty
which has captivated me, it is something which can not be described when
felt, nor forgotten when once experienced; it is a charm which belongs
to you alone--which I can discover in your voice, in your mind, in every
one of your actions. Oh! if ever I enjoyed sight, I would entreat God to
extinguish the light of my eyes in order that I might not gaze at other
women--that my thoughts might only dwell upon you. It is you who have
rendered study pleasing to me--who have inspired me with taste for art;
if the beauties of Rossini and Weber impressed me strongly, it was
because you sang their glorious ideas. I can well afford to dispense
with the superfluous luxuries of art, I who possess the treasure from
which it would derive its highest price; for surely thy heart is mine,
if not thou couldst not be happy.'
"'I am happy,' replied Eulalie, 'the happiest of girls.'
"'My dear children,' said M. Robert, while he joined our trembling
hands, 'I hope you will always be equally happy, for it is my desire
that you should never be separated.'
"M. Robert was never long absent from us, he was ever bestowing upon us
marks of his tenderness. Upon this occasion he had reached the spot
where we were seated without our having been aware of his presence, and
he had heard us without intentionally listening. I did not feel that I
was in fault, and yet I was overwhelmed, embarrassed. Eulalie trembled.
M. Robert placed himself between us, for we had withdrawn a little from
each other.
"'Why should it not be as you wish?' said he, as he threw his arms
around us, and pressed us close together, and embraced us with more than
usual warmth. 'Why not? Am I not sufficiently rich to procure you
servants and friends? You will have children who will replace your poor
old father; your infirmity is not hereditary. Receive my blessing,
Gervais, and you, my Eulalie. Thank God, and dream of to-morrow, for the
day which will shine upon us to-morrow will be beautiful even to the
blind.'
"Eulalie embraced her father, and then threw her arms round me; for the
first time my lips touched hers. This happiness was too great to be
called happiness. I thought that my heart would burst; I wished to die
at that moment, but, alas! I did not die. I do not know how happiness
affects others, but mine was imperfect, for it was without hope or
calmness. I could not sleep, or rather I did not attempt to sleep, for
it seemed to me a waste of time, and that eternity would not be
sufficiently long to enjoy the felicity which was in store for me; I
almost regretted the past, which, though it lacked the delicious
intoxication of the present moment, was yet free from doubts and fears.
At length I heard the household stirring; I got up, dressed myself,
performed my morning devotions, and then went to my window, which looked
out upon the Arve. I opened it, stretched forth my head in the morning
mists to cool my burning brow. Suddenly my door opened, and I recognized
a man's footstep; it was not M. Robert; a hand took hold of mine--'M.
Maunoir!' exclaimed I.
"It was a great many years since he had been to the Valley; but the
sound of his footstep, the touch of his hand, and something frank and
affectionate in his manner, brought him back to my remembrance.
"'It is indeed he,' observed M. Maunoir, in a faltering voice, to some
one near him, 'It is indeed my poor Gervais. You remember what I said to
you about it at that time.' He then placed his fingers on my eyelids,
and kept them up for a few seconds. 'Ah,' said he, 'God's will be done!
You are happy at any rate, are you not Gervais?'
"'Yes, very happy,' replied I. 'M. Robert considers that I have profited
by all his kindness; I assure you I can read as well as a person who is
gifted with sight; above all, Eulalie loves me.'
"'She will love you, if possible, still more if she should one day be
able to see you.'
"'If she sees me, did you say?'
"I thought he alluded to that eternal home where the eyes of the blind
are opened, and darkness visits them no more.
"My mother, as was her custom, brought me here, but Eulalie had not
arrived; she was later than usual. I began to wonder how this could have
happened. My poor little Puck went to meet her, but he returned to me
again without her. At length he began to bark violently, and to jump so
impatiently up and down on the bench, that I felt sure she must be near
me, though I could not hear her myself. I stretched myself forward in
the direction she would come, and presently my arms were clasped in
hers. M. Robert had not accompanied her as usual, and then I began at
once to feel sure that his absence, and Eulalie's delay in reaching our
accustomed place of rendezvous, was to be attributed to the presence of
strangers at the Chateau. You will think it very extraordinary when I
tell you that Eulalie's arrival, for which I had so ardently longed,
filled me with a restless sensation, which had hitherto been unknown to
me. I was not at ease with Eulalie as I had been the day before. Now
that we belonged to each other, I did not dare to make any claim on her
kindness; it seemed to me that her father, in bestowing her on me had
imposed a thousand restrictions; I felt as if I might not indulge in a
word or caress; I was conscious that she was more than ever mine, and
yet I did not venture to embrace her. Perhaps she experienced the same
feelings, for our conversation was at first restrained, like that of
persons who are not much acquainted with each other; however, this state
of things could not last long, the delicious happiness of the past day
was still fresh in our minds. I drew near to Eulalie, and sought her
eyes with my lips, but they met a bandage.
"'You are hurt, Eulalie?'
"'A little hurt,' replied she, 'but very slightly, since I am going to
spend the day with you, as I am in the habit of doing; and that the only
difference is, that there is a green ribbon between your mouth and my
eyes.'
"'Green! green! Oh, God! what does that mean? What is a green ribbon?'
"'I have seen,' said she, 'I can see,' and her hand trembled in mine, as
if she had apprised me of some fault or misfortune.
"'You have seen,' exclaimed I, 'you will see! Oh! unfortunate creature
that I am! Yes, you will see, and the glass which has hitherto been to
you a cold and polished surface, will reflect your living image; its
language, though mute, will be animated; it will tell you each day that
you are beautiful! and when you return to me it will make you entertain
only one feeling toward me, that of pity for my misfortunes. Yet what do
I say? you will not return to me; for who is the beautiful girl who
would bestow her affection on a blind lover? Oh! unfortunate creature
that I am to be blind;' in my despair I fell to the earth; she wound her
arms round me, twined her fingers in my hair, and covered me with
kisses, while she sobbed like a child.
"'No, no! I will never love any one but Gervais. You were happy
yesterday, in thinking we were blind, because our love would never be
likely to change. I will be blind again, if my recovery of sight makes
you unhappy. Shall I remove this bandage, and cause the light of my eyes
to be for ever extinguished? Horrible idea, I had actually thought of
it.'
"'Stop, stop,' cried I, 'our language is that of madness, because we are
both unnerved and ill--you from excess of happiness, and I from despair.
Listen,' and I placed myself beside her, but my heart felt ready to
break. 'Listen,' continued I, 'it is a great blessing that you are
permitted to see, for now you are perfect; it matters not, if I do not
see, or if I die; I shall be abandoned, for this is the destiny which
God has reserved for me; but promise me that you will never see me, that
you will never attempt to see me; if you see me, you will, in spite of
yourself, compare me to others--to those whose soul, whose thoughts may
be read in their eyes, to those who set a woman fondly dreaming with a
single glance of fire. I would not let it be in your power to compare
me; I would be to you what I was in the mind of a little blind girl, as
if you saw me in a dream. I want you to promise me that you will never
come here without your green bandage; that you will visit me every week,
or every month, or at least once every year;--ah! promise me to come
back once more, without seeing me.'
"'I promise to love you always,' said Eulalie, and she wept.
"I was so overcome that my senses left me, and I fell at her feet. M.
Robert lifted me from the ground, bestowed many kind words and embraces
upon me, and placed me under the care of my adopted mother. Eulalie was
no longer there; she came the next day, and the day after, and several
days following, and each day my lips touched the green bandage which
kept up my delusion; I fancied I should continue to be the same to her
as long as she did not see me. I said to myself with an insane kind of
rapture, 'my Eulalie still visits me without seeing me; she will never
see me, and therefore I shall be always loved by her.' One day, a little
while after this, when she came to visit me, and my lips sought her eyes
as usual, they, in wandering about, encountered some long, silky
eye-lashes beneath her green bandage.
"'Ah!' exclaimed I, 'if you were likely to see me.'
"'I have seen you,' said she, laughingly; 'what would have been the good
of sight to me, if I had not looked upon you? Ah! vain fellow, who dares
set limits to a woman's curiosity, whose eyes are suddenly opened to the
light?'
"'But it is impossible, Eulalie, for you promised me.'
"'I did not promise you any thing, dearest, for when you asked me to
make you this promise, I had already seen you.'
"'You had seen me, and yet you continued to come to me; that is well;
but whom did you see first?'
"'M. Maunoir, my father, Julie, then this great world, with its trees
and mountains, the sky and the sun.'
"'And whom have you seen since?'
"'Gabriel Payot, old Balmat, the good Terraz, the giant Cachat, and
Marguerite.'
"'And nobody else?'
"'Nobody.'
"'How balmy the air is this evening! take off your bandage, or you may
become blind again?'
"'Would that grieve me so much? I tell you again and again, that the
chief happiness I have in seeing, is to be able to look at you, and to
love you through the medium of another sense. You were pictured in my
soul as you now are in my eyes. This faculty, which has been restored to
me, serves but as another link to bring me closer to your heart; and
this is why I value the gift of sight.'
"These words I shall never forget. My days now flowed on calmly and
happily, for hope so easily seduces; our mode of life was considerably
changed, and Eulalie endeavored to make me prefer excitement and variety
of amusement, instead of the tranquil enjoyment which had formerly
charmed us. After some little time I thought I observed that the books
which she selected for reading to me were of a different character to
those she used to like; she seemed now to be more pleased with those
writers who painted the busy scenes of the world, she unconsciously
showed great interest in the description of a fete, in the numerous
details of a woman's toilet, and in the preparations for, and the pomps
of a ceremony. At first I did not imagine that she had forgotten that I
was blind, so that though this change chilled, it did not break my
heart. I attributed the alteration in her taste, in some measure, to the
new aspect things had assumed at the Chateau; for since M. Maunoir had
performed one of the miracles of his art upon Eulalie, M. Robert was
naturally much more inclined to enjoy society and the luxuries which
fortune had bestowed upon him; and as soon as his daughter was restored
to him in all the perfection of her organization, and the height of her
beauty, he sought to assemble, at the Chateau, the numerous travelers
that the short summer season brought to the neighborhood.
"The winter came at length, and M. Robert told me, after slightly
preparing me, that he was going to leave me for a few days--for a few
days at the most--he assured me that he only required time to procure
and get settled in a house at Geneva, before he would send for me to
join them; he told me that Eulalie was to accompany him; and at length,
that he intended to pass the winter at Geneva; the winter which would
so soon be over, which had already begun. I remained mute with grief.
Eulalie wound her arms affectionately round my neck. I felt they were
cold and hung heavily on me; if my memory still serves me she bestowed
on me all kinds of endearing and touching appellations; but all this was
like a dream. After some hours I was restored to my senses, and then my
mother said, 'Gervais, they are gone, but we shall remain at the
Chateau.' From that time I have little or nothing to relate.
"In the month of October she sent me a ribbon with some words printed in
relief, they were these: 'This ribbon is the green ribbon which I wore
over my eyes--it has never left me; I send it you.' In the month of
November, which was very beautiful, some servants of the house brought
me several presents from her father, but I did not inquire about them.
The snow sets in in December, and, oh! heavens, how long that winter
was! January, February, March, April, were centuries of calamities and
tempests. In the month of May the avalanches fell every where except on
me. When the sun peeped forth a little, I was guided, by my wish, to the
road which led to Bossons, for this was the way the muleteers came; at
length, one arrived, but with no news for me; and then another, and
after the third I gave up all hope of hearing from my absent friends; I
felt that the crisis of my fate was over. Eight days after, however, a
letter from Eulalie was read to me; she had spent the winter at Geneva,
and was going to pass the summer at Milan. My poor mother trembled for
me, but I smiled; it was exactly what I expected. And now, sir, you know
my story, it is simply this, that I believed myself loved by a woman,
and I have been loved by a dog. Poor Puck!" Puck jumped on the blind
man.
"Ah!" said he, "You are not my Puck, but I love you because you love
me."
"Poor fellow," cried I, "you will be loved by another, though not by
her, and you will love in return; but listen, Gervais, I must leave
Chamouny, and I shall go to Milan. I will see her. I will speak to
Eulalie, I swear to you, and then I will return to you. I, too, have
some sorrows which are not assuaged; some wounds which are not yet
healed." Gervais sought for my hand, and pressed it fervently. Sympathy
in misfortune is so quickly felt. "You will, at least, be comfortably
provided for; thanks to the care of your protector, your little portion
of land has become very fruitful, and the good Chamouniers rejoice in
your prosperity. Your prepossessing appearance will soon gain you a
mistress, and will enable you to find a friend."
"And a dog?" replied Gervais.
"Ah! I would not give mine for your valley or mountains if he had not
loved you, but now I give him to you."
"Your dog!" exclaimed he. "Your dog ah! he can not be given away."
"Adieu, Gervais!"
I did not speak to Puck, or he would have followed me; as I was moving
on I saw Puck looked uneasy and ashamed; he drew back a step, stretched
out his paws, and bent down his head to the ground. I stroked his long
silky coat, and with a slight pang at my heart, in which there was no
feeling of anger, I said, so. He flew back to Gervais like an arrow.
Gervais will not be alone at any rate, thought I.
A few days afterward I found myself at Milan. I was not in spirits for
enjoying society, yet I did not altogether avoid mixing in it; a crowded
room is, in its way, a vast solitude, unless you are so unfortunate a
person as to stumble upon one of those never-tiring tourists whom you
are in the habit of meeting occasionally on the Boulevards, at
Tortoni's, or with whom you have gaped away an hour at Favert's, one of
those dressed-up puppies with fashionable cravat and perfumed hair, who
stare through an eye-glass, with the most perfect assurance imaginable,
and talk at the highest pitch of their voice.
"What! are you here?" cried Roberville.
"Is it you?" replied I. He continued to chatter, but his words were
unheeded by me, for my eyes suddenly fixed upon a young girl of
extraordinary beauty; she was sitting alone, and leaning against a
pillar in a kind of melancholy reverie.
"Ah! ah!" said Roberville, "I understand; your taste lies in that
direction. Well, well, really in my opinion you show considerable
judgment. I once thought of her myself, but now I have higher views."
"Indeed," replied I, as I gazed at him from head to foot, "you do not
say so."
"Come, come," said Roberville, "I perceive your heart is already
touched, you are occupied only with her; confess that it would have been
a sad pity if those glorious black eyes had never been opened to the
light."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? why, that she was born blind. She is the daughter of a
rich merchant of Anvers, and his only child; he lost his wife very
young, and was plunged in consequence in the profoundest grief."
"Do you believe it?"
"I should think so, for he quitted Anvers, gave up his mercantile
pursuits, which had never been more profitable to him than at that time,
and, after making magnificent presents to those persons employed in his
service, and pensions to his servants, left his house and occupation."
"And what became of him afterward?" said I, somewhat impatiently, for my
curiosity was gradually increasing.
"Oh! it's a romance, a perfect romance. This good man retired to
Chamouny, where we have all been once in our life, for the sake of
saying that we have been, though, for my part, I can never understand
the charms of its melancholy grandeur, and there he remained several
years. Have you never heard him mentioned? let me see, it's a plebeian
name--M. Robert, that's it."
"Well?" said I.
"Well," continued he, "an occulist succeeded in restoring his daughter's
sight. Her father took her to Geneva, and at Geneva she fell in love
with an adventurer, who carried her off because her father would not
have him for a son-in-law."
"Her father felt that he was unworthy of her," said I.
"Yes, and he had formed a correct opinion of him, for no sooner had they
reached Milan than the adventurer disappeared, with all the gold and
diamonds of which he had been able to possess himself; it was asserted
that this gallant gentleman was already married, and that he had
incurred capital punishment at Padua, so that the law punished him."
"And M. Robert?"
"Oh, M. Robert died of grief; but this affair did not create a great
sensation, for he was a very singular man, who had some extraordinary
ideas; one of the absurd plans he had formed was, to marry his daughter
to a blind youth."
"Oh, the poor girl!"
"She is not so much to be pitied either, but look at her instead of
talking of her, and confess that she has many advantages, with two
hundred thousand francs a year, and such a pair of eyes!"
"Eyes, eyes, curses rest upon her eyes, for they have been her ruin!"
There is a leaven of cruelty in my composition, and I like to make
those, who have caused others suffering, suffer in their turn. I fixed
one of those piercing looks upon Eulalie, which, when they do not
flatter a woman, make her heart sink within her; she raised herself from
the pillar, against which she was leaning, and stood motionless and
tremblingly before me. I went up to her slowly, and whispered Gervais.
"Who?"
"Gervais."
"Ah, Gervais," replied she, while she placed her hand before her eyes.
The scene was so singular that it would have shaken the nerves of the
most composed person, for my appearance there was altogether so sudden,
my acquaintance with her history so extraordinary.
"Ah, Gervais," exclaimed I, vehemently seizing her at the same time by
the arm, "what have you done to him?" She sank to the ground in a swoon.
I never heard any more of her from that memorable night.
I entered Savoy by Mount St. Bernard, and again found myself once more
in the valley of Chamouny. Again I sought the rock where Gervais was
accustomed to sit, but though it was his usual hour for sitting there,
he was not to be seen. I came up to the old spot, and discovered his
stick of Cytisus, and perceiving that it was ornamented with a piece of
green ribbon, on which were some words printed in relief, the
circumstance of his leaving this behind him made me feel very uneasy. I
called Gervais, loudly; a voice repeated Gervais; it seemed to me like
an echo; I turned round; and beheld Marguerite, leading a dog by a
chain. They stopped, and I recognized Puck, though he did not know me,
for he seemed occupied by some idea; he sniffed his nose in the air,
raised his ears, and stretched forth his paws, as if he was going to
start off.
"Alas, sir," said Marguerite, "have you met with Gervais?"
"Gervais," replied I, "where is he?" Puck looked at me as if he had
understood what I had said, he stretched himself toward me, as far as
his chain would permit; I stroked him with my hand, the poor thing
licked my fingers and then remained still.
"I remember now, sir, that it was you who gave him this dog to console
him for one which he had lost, a little while before you came here; this
poor animal had not been eight days in the valley before he lost his
sight like his master."
"I lifted up Puck's silky head, and discovered that he was indeed blind.
Puck licked my hand, and then howled.
"It was because he was blind," said Marguerite, "that Gervais would not
take him with him yesterday."
"Yesterday, Marguerite! what, has he not been home since yesterday?"
"Ah, sir, that is exactly what astonishes us all so much. Only think on
Sunday, in the midst of a tremendous storm, a gentleman came to the
Valley; I could have declared he was an English milord; he wore a straw
hat, covered with ribbons."
"Well, but what has all this to do with Gervais?"
"While I was running to fetch some fagots to make a fire for drying M.
Roberville's clothes, he remained with Gervais. M. de Roberville! yes,
that was his name. I do not know what he said, but yesterday Gervais was
so melancholy; he, however, seemed more anxious than ever to go to the
rock; indeed he was in such a hurry that I had scarcely time to throw
his blue cloak over his shoulders; and I think I told you that the
evening before was very cold and damp. 'Mother,' said he, as we went
along, 'be so kind as to prevent Puck from following me, and take charge
of him; his restlessness inconveniences me sometimes, and if he should
pull his chain out of my hand, we should not be able to find each other
again perhaps.'"
"Alas, Gervais!" cried I, "my poor Gervais!"
"Oh, Gervais! Gervais, my son! my little Gervais!" sobbed the poor
woman.
Puck gnawed his chain, and jumped impatiently about us.
"If you were to set Puck at liberty, perhaps he might find Gervais,"
said I.
The chain was unfastened, and before I had time to see that Puck was
free, he had darted off, and the next moment I heard the sound of a
body falling into the depths of the Arveyron. "Puck! Puck!" shouted I;
but when I reached the spot, the little dog had disappeared, and all
that could be seen was a blue mantle floating on the surface of the
waters.
FOOTNOTE:
[9] From the French of Charles Nodier.
THE DAUGHTER OF BLOOD--A TALE OF SPANISH LIFE.
At Aranjuez, some twenty years ago, there lived a youth of the poorer
class, whose good nature and industry were the proverb of the village.
His name was Julio. His disposition was naturally indolent, morally I
mean rather than physically; and although he was by no means deficient
in understanding, he allowed himself to be guided by any person who, for
any purpose, thought fit to undertake the task. Julio delighted in doing
a kindness and, as his good-nature equalled his ductility, he granted
every request, whether it lay in his power or not. No one was more ready
to play at the village dance than Julio; and though he loved to dance
himself, he never thought of indulging in this predilection until his
companions, knowing his weakness, insisted on his allowing some one else
to take the guitar. It was to him always that damsels resorted who had
quarreled with their sweethearts, or youths who had fallen under the
displeasure of their Chloe; for, on behalf of the first, he was best
able to soften jealousy and extort promises of future amendment, and for
the latter, he would smooth matters by appropriate words, nay, often by
a small gift purchased by a sacrifice of part of his own scanty store,
and presented as though from the culprit. Great were this charming young
man's accomplishments; and not only were his companions, but the higher
class of inhabitants, grieved when his facile disposition brought him
into any scrape. It had always been supposed that Julio was attached to
a young girl, with whom he had been brought up. His patrimonial cottage
adjoined to that of her parents, and he had ever seemed to court her
society more than that of his other fair acquaintances. As for her, she
adored him. She was much of the same disposition as himself, and
undecided; but in her love for him, she had come out of herself; she
would have followed him to the scaffold, and would infinitely have
preferred a disagreeable death in his society, than the most agreeable
life without him. As yet he had scarcely sufficiently reciprocated her
attachment; he liked her society; he perhaps did not object to her
devotion! nay, he wished to marry her; but she had not inspired him with
the same absorbing love she herself felt; she had not sufficient command
over him to draw forth his passion in its full tide; and while that
passion was accumulating, pent up for some event, she was content with
his simmering affection. Her name was Faustina.
But his love was soon to be proved, and poor Faustina's heart was to be
sorely tried. While she confidingly looked up to him who was virtually
her betrothed, she little thought how slight was the bond that attached
him to her. She knew his love did not reach one tithe of that she would
have wished, but she thought it infinitely more than what it eventually
appeared.
An Italian family from Madrid came to reside during the spring months at
Aranjuez. In their retinue came Ursula, an Italian _femme-de-chambre_, a
woman whose name is never uttered in the _pueblo_ but with a curse.
She was older than Julio, who became acquainted with her while employed
in the house in his trade as carpenter; but as she saw his pliable
disposition, and perhaps his nascent passion, her experience and
acuteness taught her to turn them to account; and in a short time she
obtained such an ascendency over him, that he became a perfect plaything
in her hands. He ruined himself in purchasing presents for the artful
woman; he furnished her with all she required; he gave her money; in
fact, had she requested his life, it would not have been considered an
exorbitant demand. Ursula was handsome, tall, dark, and fierce-looking
flashing eyes she had, with heavy arched brows; and considering these
advantages, folks wondered that she would condescend to turn her ideas
so humbly; but after inquiries showed that in her own land, and in
Madrid, her conduct had been so very profligate, that all was now fish
that came to her net, and that, to obtain the consummation of the wishes
of every woman, a husband and independence, she must stoop far below
what must have been her original expectations.
Meanwhile poor Faustina wept and prayed, now scorned by Julio, but
pitied by the little world in which she had lived. She wept and prayed,
but tears seemed to afford no relief to the maiden in her anguish, and
prayers appeared to have lost their efficacy: they brought no success,
nay, worse, no comfort. Still Julio pursued his headlong career,
heedless of the past, the present, or the future. It was dreadful to see
the change in him: he seemed as one possessed. The reckless passion that
had been roused by the wily Italian, burst all bounds, knew no
restraint, no path; it was like a torrent that has been for some time
dammed up, which, when set free, acknowledges no demarkation, no rule of
banks or bed, but tears forward, involving in its impetuous rage the
verdure and bloom that are around it.
Such was the state of affairs that occupied the attention of all the
Aranjovites, when one morning Ursula the Italian disappeared. Julio was
at work when the fact was communicated to him, which being done, he fell
to the ground, as though the intelligence had struck him dead; and when
he recovered from the swoon, he raved, frantic. He wandered to Madrid,
but could discover no intelligence of her; he visited all the
neighboring towns, he inquired of the police, but no trace of the woman
could be found, till at last the reaction of his spirits, after the
tense excitement, the grief, the balked passion, seemed to have
prostrated his senses; he walked as a spectre, taking heed of no
passer-by, callous to all changes, careless of remark and of appearance,
a noonday ghoul preying on his own misery. But now the prayers of the
poor girl who loved him so fondly seemed to her to have been granted.
She had not besought a return of his former lukewarm regard, only an
opportunity of proving her own devotion; and in his dull apathy she
indeed proved herself a loving woman. She followed him in his walks, she
arranged his cottage, sang to him the songs she thought he best loved;
nay, to cheer him, would endeavor to repeat the airs she had at times
heard from the lips of her Italian rival, though the attempt was but a
self-inflicted wound; and in the heat of the day, she would take him
often her own share of the domestic meal, or placing his unconscious
head on her bosom, would tend him like a child, as he lay half sleeping,
half senseless.
Her constancy received a qualified reward--Count ----, an officer having
the chief authority in the royal demesnes, hearing the story, offered to
Julio a good appointment in the gardens, with the proviso that he should
espouse Faustina. To this Julio yielded without a sigh; poverty was
beginning to make itself felt, and having resigned all hope of happiness
he did not anticipate increased misery. His marriage did not alter his
late mode of life. Listless and stupid he wandered about the gardens,
inspecting, with an uninterested eye, the workmen over whom he had been
placed, and he would soon have lost his appointment had it not been for
his wife, who, "tender and true," in addition to her household duties,
executed those which had been committed to his charge, slaving night and
day for him she loved, careless of suffering and of labor, her only
object to win his approbation, and some, however slight, token of
returned affection: but she labored in vain; Julio did not see, or
affected not to see, these exertions; he would enter the house or leave
it, without uttering a syllable, while his wife continued her thankless
office, rewarded only by her conscience. And how disheartening a task it
is to practice self-denial unappreciated, to resign all for one who
deigns not even to bestow a word of kind approval. But thus Faustina
lived her life--one uninterrupted self-sacrifice. Alas! how often are
such lives passed by women in every rank of life! How little can a
stranger tell the heroism that occurs beneath the roofs of the noble or
on the cold hearth of the beggar; at odd times, at sudden epochs, the
world may hear of deeds practiced, that, of old, would have deified the
performer; but often, how often, will noble acts, such as these, receive
a thankless return; years passed as this, acknowledged only when too
late; their premium in life, perchance, may be harsh words or curses, or
transitory tears may moisten the grave when the gentle spirit passes
from its earthly frame. These observations may be just, but they are
somewhat trite.
Thus they lived for five years, one pretty little girl being the only
fruit of this union; a child who, in her earliest days, was taught to
suffer, and who partook her mother's disposition, nay, even her mother's
character, as it appeared, tempered by the grief of womanhood; when one
day, to the horror and disgust of the township, Ursula, the _teterrima
causa_, reappeared at Aranjuez. She was grown much older in
appearance--years and evident care had worn furrows in her cheeks; but
the flashing eye of sin was not yet dimmed, her head not bent, nor the
determination that had of old gained such a baneful influence on the
mind of Julio. One morning Faustina, leaving her house, beheld her
husband in conversation with her rival. That day had sealed her doom.
Morning, noon, and night, Julio was at the side of Ursula, as before,
obeying her slightest command, groveling at her feet, like a slave; his
ancient energy of passion had returned, but only to brutalize his
nature; instead of cold looks to his wife, he now treated her with blows
at the rare interviews he held with her; the cold apathy was changed
into deep hate, and though no direct act of violence caused her death,
the shock, the harshness, added to neglect, soon broke her heart. Poor
Faustina died, blessing with her latest breath, the being who had by his
cruelty killed her, and deprecating even remorse to visit him, she left
the world, in which she had loved in vain.
At her death, Julio found himself comparatively wealthy--wealthy by her
exertion; and ere another moon shone over his roof, his bride, the dark
Italian, beat his child on the spot where the mother had so lately died.
Dark rumors soon spread over the village, a scowling Italian, given out
by Ursula as her brother, came and took up his abode in her
newly-acquired house; curious neighbors whispered tales how, peeping in
at night, they had beheld the three deal heavy blows to poor Faustina's
daughter; screams often were heard from the desecrated habitation, and
the child was never seen to leave the house. Julio had recovered, to a
certain extent, the use of his faculties, and was enabled now himself to
attend to his affairs, but his subordinates soon felt the loss of
Faustina's mild rule, and with the discrimination of the Spanish
peasantry, attributed their sufferings, not to the miserable tool, but
to the fiend-hearted woman.
* * * * *
Julio was walking in the garden alone, during the time usually devoted
to the mid-day sleep; his underlings were reclining beneath the shade of
the trees; and, at last, overcome by the heat, he himself gave way to
slumber; his dreams were troubled, but were not of long duration; for he
had not long laid himself on the sward, when he felt himself rudely
shaken, and, awaking, discovered an officer of justice standing near
him, who desired his society. The alguazil led him to his own abode,
and, on reaching it, what did he behold? His wife, who was then with
child, pinioned, between two villagers acting for the nonce as
constables, one of whom held in his hand a bloody _navaja_; the
brother(!), also pinioned, standing near her; and on the ground,
surrounded by a knot of peasants, glad at the vengeance that was to
overtake the guilty pair, he saw the child of Faustina, decapitated,
dismembered, discovered thus on the floor of the cottage, ere the
murderous couple had been enabled to conceal the mangled remains. A
workman, a near relation of Julio's first wife, who had, by chance,
heard a suppressed scream in passing, hastily summoning assistance, had
arrived in time only to apprehend the assassins, the shedders of
innocent blood. There was no flaw in the evidence, and, ere long, Ursula
and her paramour, for such was the true relative position in which she
stood with the stranger, were sentenced to the doom they so richly
deserved. I have not, however, ended, my narrative, but I will endeavor
to curtail the rest of my history, to me the strangest part of it. Julio
was not disenchanted; by extraordinary exertions to save the mother of a
child, shrewdly suspected not to be his own, he prevailed on his patron,
Count ----, to procure the commutation of his wife's sentence to a term
of imprisonment; and though the murderer forfeited his life, the
murderess escaped after some years' incarceration, having given birth to
a child shortly after her trial, who, innocent, bore on her brow the
mark of the instrument of her mother's crime; and, can it be
credited!--Julio took the woman to his home, his love unabated, his
subserviency undiminished!
They now live in Aranjuez, and the child is left to wander about
unnoticed, except with punishment; my kind-hearted landlady alone feeds
the poor creature, whom all others shun: and even she feels
uncomfortable in the presence of one born under such auspices. Her
fellow-townsfolk, as they pass the scene of virtue and of crime, bless
the memory of Faustina, and curse the life of Ursula, praying for the
peace of the first one and of her child; and, while execrating the
latter, refuse shelter or relief to her innocent offspring, who, in the
universal spirit of poetry that reigns in Spain, is known far and near,
and pointed to the stranger as _La Hija de Sangre_, the Daughter of
Blood.
THE EXECUTION OF FIESCHI, MOREY, AND PEPIN.
About one o'clock on a cold winter night in 1835, a party of four
persons were seated in the coffee-room of the Hotel Meurice, at Paris.
It was chilly, sloppy, miserable weather; half-melted snow, mixed with
the Paris mud, and a driving, sleety rain hissed against the ill-fitting
windows.
Our four convives were drinking--not the wines of sunny France, but
something much more appropriate and homely--a curiously-fine sample of
gin, artfully compounded into toddy, by Achille, the waiter.
When the clock struck one, three of the party made a show of retiring;
but the fourth, a punchy gentleman from Wolverhampton, entreated that
the rest would not all desert him while he discussed one glass
more--nay, perhaps, would join him! But here Achille was inexorable: the
master was in bed, and had taken the keys.
Our four friends have taken their candles, and are moving from the room,
when a cab drives rapidly to the door--there is a smart ring at the
bell, and a gentleman in full evening dress, and enveloped in a Spanish
cloak, hastily enters the room.
"Who is inclined to see Fieschi's head chopped off?" said the stranger,
unfolding himself from the cloak. "The execution is to take place at
daylight--I had it from a peer of France, and the guillotine has been
sent off an hour ago."
"Where?"
Our informant could not tell. It was known only to the police--there was
an apprehension of some attempt at a rescue, and ten thousand troops
were to be on the ground. It will be either the Place St. Jaques, or the
Barriere du Trone--the first, most likely; let us try that to begin
with, and there will be plenty of time to go on to the other afterward:
but we must be early, to get a good place.
We are not of those who make a practice of attending executions with a
morbid appetite for such horrors. Under any circumstances, the
deliberate cutting off a life is a melancholy spectacle. The mortal
agony, unrelieved by excitement, is painful in the extreme to witness,
but worse still is reckless bravado. Rarest of all is it to see the
inevitable fate met with calm dignity. Here, however, was a miscreant,
who, to gratify a political feeling--dignified, in his opinion, with the
name of patriotism--deliberately fired the contents of a battery of
gun-barrels into a mass of innocent persons, many of whom, it was quite
certain, would be killed, for the chance of striking down one man, and,
probably, some of his family. That this family, with their illustrious
father, should have escaped altogether, is an instance of good fortune
as remarkable as the attempt was flagitious. But the magnitude of the
crime invested the perpetrators with a terrible interest, which overcame
any lingering scruples, and the whole party decided upon setting out
forthwith. We made for the nearest coach-stand, which was that upon the
quay, near the Pont Neuf.
In something more than half an hour, we jingled into the Place St.
Jaques, and, pausing at the corner, had the satisfaction to hear the
sounds of hammers busily plied upon a dark mass rising in the centre of
the square--it was the platform upon which to erect the guillotine. On
all sides of this, workmen were busily engaged, their labor quickened by
the exhortations of one who walked about, lantern in hand, upon the top.
This was the executioner, who, seen by the light he carried, bore a
remarkable resemblance to the great English comedian, the late Mr.
Liston. There was the same square form of the countenance, the small
nose, the long upper lip, the mirth-provoking gravity, and the same
rich, husky chuckle. This curious likeness was at once acknowledged by
all present, and an Englishman took the liberty of interrupting the
grave functionary with the information that he was the very image of _le
plus grand farceur que nous avons en Angleterre_, a piece of information
which the French scion of the House of Ketch received, after the manner
of Frenchmen, as a high compliment, being moved to bow and chuckle much
thereat.
By this time, the hammering had roused the dwellers in the place, and
lights were seen rapidly moving about the windows. A cafe-keeper had
opened his saloon, arranged his little tables, and was bustling about
with his waiters attending to the wants of the guests already assembled.
An execution is a godsend to the Place St. Jaques at any time, but the
execution of three great state criminals, such as these, would go far to
pay the year's rent of the houses. As cabs and _fiacres_ began to
arrive, we thought it necessary to make arrangement for securing a room
from whence to see the execution, and chance conducted us to the corner
house, one side of which looked upon the square, directly opposite the
guillotine, from which it was scarcely fifty yards distance; and the
other side fronted the road by which the prisoners were to be conveyed
from their prison to the scaffold.
We found the situation well adapted for our purpose, though only one
window looked into the square, the two others were easily made to
command a view of the scaffold, which was nearly in a line with that
side of the house. Our host had also with much propriety made the bed,
set the furniture to rights, raked up the ashes of the wood-fire, and
put on another block or two; and the fact of meeting with an open
fire-place instead of the eternal stove, made us feel at home at once.
The Wolverhampton man declared that it was dangerous to British lungs to
be out in these raw mornings in a foreign country without something warm
to qualify the air; so a bottle of brandy was sent for to the
neighboring _cafe_, and our hostess had busied herself in producing hot
water and tumblers, as if, through the frequenters of executions, she
had arrived at considerable knowledge of the national tastes. Our
ancient host, being accommodated with a cigar, narrated the particulars
of the many beheadings which had fallen under his observation since his
occupancy of the house. One may be mentioned as exhibiting a rare
instance of irresistible curiosity. The man had been guilty of an
atrocious murder, either of a wife or some near relative, and when his
neck was placed under the ax, he contrived to slue himself partly round
to see its descent, and had a part of his chin taken off in consequence.
About two hours before day-light a body of mounted municipal guards
arrived, and formed round the scaffold. The object of this appeared to
be to hide the proceedings as much as possible from those on foot, who
could only hope for a very imperfect view between the bodies and the
bear-skins of these troops. Soon after the municipal guard the infantry
of the line began to arrive, and were formed in a circle four deep
outside the municipals, and nearly as far back as the houses of the
Place. A considerable crowd had also collected, though extremely orderly
and good-humored; in fact, to see the general hilarity, and listen to
the bursts of loud laughter, it would seem to be regarded in the light
of _fete_. There was certainly no appearance of sympathy with the
criminals. Finding the municipals so materially interfered with the
show, the people soon began to occupy the trees and lamp-posts, the
adjacent walls, and the roofs of the neighboring houses; while the
infantry, having piled arms, waltzed and danced to keep themselves warm.
Soon after daylight the hammering ceased, and the preparations appeared
to be completed; and shortly afterward strong bodies of cavalry began to
take up their positions in all the streets leading into the Place. The
first care of the officer commanding these was to clear the square
entirely of all the people who had collected in rear of the infantry,
and to drive them out along the adjacent streets; an order was also
given to dislodge the people out of the trees, and from the walls and
lamp-posts, and this caused much grumbling and swearing of all
concerned. Some merriment, however, was excited by the discovery of some
women in the trees, and their descent, superintended by the dragoons
below, gave occasion for the exercise of much not over decent wit among
the troopers. It struck me that in their manner of dealing with the
crowd there was much unnecessary harshness on the part of the troops, an
irritability and fretfulness often exhibited by persons doubtful of
their own authority, and very unlike the calm, good-humored superiority
with which our own men are wont to handle the masses.
Presently came two general officers with their staff, and each followed
by a mounted "jockey," lads dressed as English grooms, of whom one, as
well by his fair complexion and honest round face, the whiteness of his
tops and leathers, and the general superiority of his turn-out, as by
his firm and easy seat on horseback, was evidently a native of our own
country.
About an hour after sun-rise three caleches came rapidly down the road,
passing our windows, each carriage containing three persons, the
condemned, and two police officers. The troops opened out, and the men
were landed at the foot of the platform. It may be well to describe the
general appearance of the scaffold.
On a platform about twelve feet square, and seven feet above the ground,
are erected the two upright posts, between which is suspended the ax.
They somewhat resemble a narrow gallows, scarcely more than a foot
between the posts. The ax, which is not unlike a hay-knife, though much
heavier and broader, is drawn up to the top of the posts, between which
it runs in grooves, and is held suspended by a loop in the halyards,
passed over a button at the bottom. The edge of the ax, as it hangs
suspended, is not horizontal, or at a right angle with the post, but
diagonal, giving the instrument a fearful power, in conjunction with its
weight and long fall, of shearing through a resisting substance of many
times more opposing force than a human neck. On the centre of the
platform stands a frame, or large box, much resembling a soldier's
arm-chest, about six feet long by two and a half wide, and probably as
much high. One end of this abuts upon the upright posts, at the other
end is a small frame like a truck, connected about its centre with the
chest by hinges, and with a strap and buckle, to make it fast to the
man's body.
The prisoners having dismounted, were placed in a line on the ground
facing the guillotine, their arms pinioned. They were very different in
appearance. Fieschi had a most sinister and ferocious expression of
face, rendered more so by the scars, scarcely healed apparently,
inflicted by the bursting of his gun-barrels. He was plainly dressed,
and appeared like a workman of the better class; his age about
thirty-five. Morey was a man advanced in life, perhaps seventy; his bald
head was partly covered with a black cap revealing the white hairs
behind, and at the sides: he was a corpulent large figure, dressed
completely in black, with a mild intelligent face, and altogether a very
gentlemanly air and manner. Pepin was a small, thin-faced, insignificant
man.
Pepin was chosen first for execution. Having been deprived of his coat
and neck-handkerchief, and the collar of his shirt turned down, he was
led by the executioner up the steps of the platform. He ascended with an
air of considerable bravado, shook himself, and looked round with much
confidence, and spoke some words which we could not catch, and which the
executioner appeared disposed to cut short. Having advanced with his
breast against the truck, to which his body was rapidly strapped, he was
then tilted down, truck and all, upon his face; and the truck moving
upon small wheels or castors in grooves upon the chest, he was moved
rapidly forward, till his neck came directly under the chopper, when the
rope being unhooked from the button, the ax fell with a loud and awful
"chop!" the head rolling down upon the bare platform. After the
separation of the head, the body moved with much convulsive energy, and
had it not been made fast to what I have called the truck, and that also
connected with the raised platform, would probably have rolled down on
the lower stage. The executioner then held up the head to view for a
moment, and I suspect, from some laughter among the troops, made a
facetious remark. The lid of a large basket alongside the chest was then
raised, and the body rolled into it.
Morey was the next victim. He ascended the steps feebly, and requiring
much assistance; he was also supported during the process of strapping
him. His bald head and venerable appearance made a favorable impression
upon the spectators, and elicited the only expressions of sympathy
observable throughout the executions.
Fieschi came last, and was the most unnerved of the three. He appeared
throughout in a fainting condition, and hung his head in a pitiable
state of prostration. Very little consideration was shown him, or rather
he was pushed and thrust about in a way which was indecent, if not
disgusting, whatever might have been his crimes. Some little difficulty
occurred in placing his head conveniently under the ax, from a recoiling
motion of the prisoner. He was certainly the least brave of the three.
The executioner having rolled his body into the larger basket with the
others, took up that containing the three heads, which having emptied
upon the bodies, he gave the bottom of the basket a jocular tap, which,
being accompanied with a lifting of his foot behind, and probably some
funny and seasonable observation, created a good deal of merriment among
the spectators.
The guillotine is apparently the most merciful, but certainly the most
terrible to witness, of any form of execution in civilized Europe. The
fatal chop, the raw neck, the spouting blood, are very shocking to the
feelings, and demoralizing; as such exhibitions can not fail to generate
a spirit of ferocity and a love of bloodshed among those who witness
them. It was not uncommon at this period in Paris to execute sheep and
calves with the guillotine; and fathers of families would pay a small
sum to obtain such a gratifying show for their children. In such a taste
may we not trace the old leaven of the first Revolution, and the germ of
future ones?
The fate of poor Dr. Guillotin was a singular one. He lived to see the
machine which he had invented, from feelings of pure philanthropy, made
the instrument of the most horrible butcheries, the aptness of the
invention notoriously increasing the number of the victims who fell by
it; and he died in extreme old age, with the bitter reflection that his
name would be handed down to posterity, in connection with the most
detestable ferocities which have ever stained the annals of mankind.
PERSONAL HABITS AND CHARACTER OF THE WALPOLES.
BY ELIOT WARBURTON.
We are not disposed to consider the elder Horace Walpole a great
statesman, or claim for him the consideration accorded to his mere
celebrated brother; but he was superior in talent to many of his
contemporaries who attained a much higher eminence; and his honesty and
zeal would have rendered creditable a much less amount of political
accomplishments than he could boast of. Measured with the diplomatists
of a more modern period, Lord Walpole will probably fall below par; but
he had no genius for that fine subtlety which is now expected to pervade
every important negotiation, and knew nothing of that scientific game of
words, in which diplomatists of the new school are so eager to
distinguish themselves.
In appearance he was more fitted to appear as a republican
representative, than as an embassador from a powerful sovereign to the
most polished court in Europe; his manners were so unpolished, his form
so inelegant, and his address so unrefined. He rendered valuable support
to the English monarchy, and won the confidence of the shrewd and
calculating Queen Caroline, as well as the esteem of the sagacious and
prudent States-general. A trustworthy authority has styled him "a great
master of the commercial and political interests of this country," and
accorded him the merits of unwearied zeal, industry, and capacity. With
such advantages, he might well confess, without much regret, that he had
never learned to dance, and could not pride himself on making a bow.
Though blunt and unpolished, he was extremely agreeable in conversation;
abounding in pleasant anecdote, and entertaining reminiscences; fond of
society, affable to every one, sumptuous in his hospitality, and not
less estimable in his domestic than in his social relations. Though he
wrote, and printed, and spoke lessons of political wisdom, that met with
the fate of entire disregard, it is impossible not to admire the
unselfish zeal that would almost immediately afterward induce him to
write, print, and speak similar instructive lessons, to the same set of
negligent scholars.
There is a statement which having found its way into such an authority
as "Chandler's Debates," has been incorporated in works pretending to
historical accuracy. On a debate arising out of the Bill for the
Encouragement and increase of Seamen, in 1740, Pitt is represented as
attacking Mr. Horace Walpole for having ventured on a reference to his
youth. The fact is, that these debates were imaginary or constructed on
a very slight foundation. Dr. Johnson, as is well known, before he had
obtained his colossal reputation, drew up fictitious reports of what
took place in the House of Commons.
Mr. Walpole having in a discussion been severely handled by Pitt,
Lyttleton, and the Granvilles, all of whom were much his juniors,
lamented that though he had been so long in business, young men should
be found so much better informed in political matters than himself. He
added that he had at least one consolation in remembering that his own
son being twenty years of age, must be as much the superior of Pitt,
Lyttleton, and the Granvilles, as they were wiser than himself. Pitt
having his youth thus mercilessly flung in his face, got up in a rage,
commencing--"With the greatest reverence to the gray hairs of the
gentleman," but was stopped by Mr. Walpole pulling off his wig, and
disclosing a grizzled poll beneath. This excited very general laughter,
in which Pitt joined with such heartiness, as quite to forget his anger.
The younger Walpole always preserved a delicacy of figure, approaching
effeminacy: his dress was simple: his manners studiously courteous: but
his features, though agreeable, were not handsome; the most expressive
portion being his eyes, which, when animated in conversation, flashed
with intelligence. A close observer has stated, that "his laugh was
forced and uncouth, and even his smile not the most pleasing." This may,
perhaps, be attributed to the pain he habitually suffered, since the age
of twenty-five, from the gout, which in the latter part of his life
attacked his hands and feet with great severity. During the last half of
his existence he was not only extremely abstemious, but his habits
indicated a constitution that could brave alterations of temperature,
from which much stronger men would shrink.
His hour of rising was usually nine, and then, preceded by his favorite
little dog, which was sure to be as plump as idleness and good feeding
could render it, he entered the breakfast-room. The dog took his place
beside him on the sofa. From the silver tea-kettle, kept at an even
temperature by the lamp beneath, he poured into a cup of the rarest
Japan porcelain, the beverage "that cheers, but not inebriates." This
was replenished two or three times, while he broke his fast on the
finest bread, and the sweetest butter that could be obtained. He, at the
same time, fed his four-footed favorite, and then, mixing a basin of
bread and milk, he opened the window, and threw it out to the squirrels,
who instantly sprang from bough to bough in the neighboring trees, and
then bounded along the ground to their meal.
At dinner, which was usually about four o'clock, he ate moderately of
the lightest food, quenching his thirst from a decanter of water that
stood in an ice-pail under the table. Coffee was served almost
immediately, to which he proceeded up stairs, as he dined in the small
parlor or large dining-room, according to the number of his guests. He
would take his seat on the sofa, and amuse the company with a current of
lively gossip and scandal, relieved with observations on books and art,
in illustration of objects brought from the library or any other portion
of the house--for the whole might be regarded as a museum. His
snuff-box, filled from a canister of _tabac d'etrennes_ from Fribourg's,
placed in a marble urn at one of the windows to keep it moist, was
handed round, and he frequently enjoyed its pungent fragrance till his
guests had departed--this was rarely till about two o'clock. If earlier,
Walpole was sure to be found with pen in hand, continuing whatever work
he might have in progress, or communicating to some of his numerous
friends the news and gossip of the day.
The whole of the forenoon, till dinner-time, was often employed by him
in attending upon visitors, rambling about the grounds, or taking
excursions upon the river. He rarely wore a hat, his throat was
generally exposed, and he was quite regardless of the dew, replying, to
the earnest solicitude of his friends, "My back is the same with my
face, and my neck is like my nose."
Sometimes of an evening he would go out to pay a visit to his neighbor,
Kitty Clive, and then the hours passed by in a rivalry of anecdote and
pleasantry; for Kitty, like himself had seen a great deal of the world,
and was full of its recollections.
AN INCIDENT OF INDIAN LIFE.
In the year 1848 I found myself traveling through the Mysorean country
of Seringapatam, so familiar to every reader of Indian history, for the
rapid rise of that crafty but talented Asiatic Hyder Ali.
I had been reflecting as I passed through the country on the warlike
exploits and barbarous cruelties by which it has been disfigured, and on
the short space of time in which, from the first settlement by a few
enterprising merchants at Surat, in the year 1612, the English had,
either by force or diplomacy, possessed themselves of the entire
territory from Cape Comorin to the Himalaya mountains; and, by an
anomaly of which history furnishes no parallel, holding and enforcing
their authority in great measure by means of the very natives and troops
they have conquered, and who now lend themselves to enslave their own
country, and rivet the shackles of bondage on their fatherland. I asked
myself the question--was the time approaching when their fame, colonies,
and possessions would be among the things that were? would they in
process of development be swept away before some nation not yet cradled,
or only in its infancy; or--proving an exception to the whole experience
of ages--would they remain imperishably great and renowned till the
final dissolution of nature?
Bewildered at last with these reflections, I left my palanquin; and,
walking forward, with a Manton across my shoulder, accompanied by a
Coolie carrying a double-barreled rifle, was soon busily engaged peering
into the thick grass and underwood that lay on each side of the path,
intent only on scattering destruction among some innocent and tender
little bipeds, with the laudable design of furnishing some trifling
addition to natural history, and a distant hope of perhaps securing a
shot among a herd of deer faintly discernible in the outline.
In the incautious pursuit of a wild boar that had crossed my path, I at
length found myself in the midst of a dense jungle--not the most secure
position in the world, with only a single ebony gentleman at your
side--for on the least indication of danger, this representative of
Lucifer judiciously prefers present safety to future reputation, and
performs a retrograde movement with undignified rapidity, leaving you
alone to apologize for your intrusion to a brute that can not be
persuaded to adopt polite manners, but evinces an unmistakable desire to
exhibit his gratitude for your visit by a passionate and unceremonious
embrace. The tendency of long ages of lost liberty and slavish
superstition to produce national degradation is forcibly exemplified in
the lower castes of the natives, who may truthfully be said to have
acquired all the vices of their various conquerors, without any of their
redeeming qualities.
To return:--tired at last with my exertions and the intensity of the
heat, I dispatched my sable attendant in quest of that peculiar Indian
luxury, the palanquin; and looking round for some sheltered spot to
await its coming up, perceived a wide-spreading banyan tree. Trusting to
its friendly shelter, I was soon stretched beneath a canopy of
densely-clustered foliage, sufficient to exclude all direct rays of the
solar star; and, lighting one of my best Indian pipes, resigned myself
to what brother Jonathan terms a "tarnation smoke."
The scene before me was such as that which Johnson in one of his rich
and genial moods would delight to portray--the image of beauty reposing
in the lap of sublimity was never more aptly applied. The sun had
attained its culminating point, and was showering down its fervid rays
with a scorching influence; not a breath stirred the forest air: all was
hushed in repose, and silent as the last breathings of the departing
soul--while a foreboding sensation o'ershadowed the whole, as that
beautiful couplet in Campbell's "Lochiel" ominously crowded on my
memory,
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I could not account for the oppressive silence, for often before I had
reclined at the foot of some forest giant, and experienced widely
different feelings; all here seemed indescribably grand and ennobling.
The various tribes of baboons, monkeys, and apes, screeching, chattering
and grinning overhead, anon leaping from tree to tree, luxuriating in
all the enjoyment of freedom and revelry; while the jay, the parrot, the
peacock, with minor and sweeter minstrels in every splendid variety of
tropical plumage, might be seen soaring or darting amidst the foliage of
forest verdure, combined with the beauty and number of parasitical
plants and wild flowers. Such a scene of loveliness and life had often
enraptured me, till a second Eden seemed realized; when, as if its
aspect were too beautiful for sinful earth, the illusion was dissipated
on observing the slender and graceful form of a snake gliding swiftly in
mazy folds through the long grass--by that curious association of ideas,
suggesting at once the primal fall, and the probable vicinity of a cobra
couched on the branch of a tree overhead, whose color so closely
approximates its tinge, that it is almost impossible, without careful
scrutiny, to detect its presence, and if unconsciously disturbed in its
leafy cradle, the oscillation is resented by darting its poisoned fang
in the invader's face. These insidious foes, and the probability of a
struggle with some carnivorous denizen of the glen, suggest strong
doubts as to the security of your woodland abode, and damp the pleasure
the scene otherwise might afford. And thus surely do we find that, in
nature as in life, under the most lovely and entrancing aspects often
lurk the most seductive and deadly influences. The prospect loses
nothing at night, when effulgent with the pensive moonbeams, and the
myriads of fire-flies like living stars broke loose from the dominion of
old night, delighted with their new-found liberty, and dancing in a
perfect jubilee of joyous light through the embowering arcades,
illuminating every note of forest life; and on the one side is heard the
amorous roar of the antelope's midnight suitor, as pending to the
crashing march of the gregarious elephant; and on the other the nightly
concert of a pack of jackalls, resembling so closely the music of those
"delightful" babies, that it is only by continuous rehearsals the ear
can receive them with indifference--render the whole indescribably
magnificent, though rather trying to delicate nerves.
All such sublimity and active life, however, were now absent; not a
living creature was to be seen, and actuated by some indefinable
impulse, I involuntarily clutched my rifle. Scarcely had I done so, when
an agonizing shriek re-echoed through the forest; rushing in the
direction, I encountered a sight that struck me with horror and
dismay--for a moment I stood paralyzed!
A Brahmin, with his wife and only daughter, were making a pilgrimage to
the banks of the sacred Ganges. With the characteristic indifference of
their caste, they had incautiously halted in the midst of the jungle to
cook some rice. The little girl, while the mother was occupied in
preparing the frugal meal, had thoughtlessly wandered into the long
grass in quest of some gaudy insect flitting past: on a sudden the
father, who had thrown himself on the ground to snatch a few moments'
repose, was aroused by the screams of his child, and, regaining his
feet, perceived a full-grown cheetah in the act of springing on his
tender girl. To see, and rush to her rescue, armed only with a knife,
was the work of an instant; he arrived too late to arrest the tiger as
he made his rarely missing, and in this case fatal spring on the
beautiful and dark-bosomed maid. A terrible struggle now ensued, the
infuriated animal relaxed its grasp of the child, and fastened on the
father. The tender and loving wife, only now fully awakened to the
extent of the danger, forgetting her sex, insensible to aught but her
husband's peril, recklessly rushed forward; but ere she could reach the
spot to become a third victim to the insatiate monster, the providential
flight of a bullet from a stranger's rifle, penetrating the animal's
brain, stretched him dead at her feet. The brave husband, on approaching
the spot, lay extended on the grass in the last agonies of death,
dreadfully mangled, the brute having torn away the greater part of his
brain and face. The little girl had already expired.
Never can I forget the calmness and apparently stoical indifference of
this Indian woman while her husband lay extended before her, gasping his
last. She supported his head, gently wiping the blood from his face and
lips; no sign of her feelings could be detected in her features. I gazed
upon her with astonishment; but no sooner was it evident that death had
effectually terminated the loved one's sufferings, than she gave way to
the most frantic and heart-rending expressions of grief. The anguish of
that woman death alone can obliterate from my memory--words can not
picture it. I see her before me as I write, alternately embracing the
lifeless and bloody bodies of her husband and child, lavishing over them
the most tender, endearing invocations of affection, then as suddenly
turning round and seizing the crimson knife of her heroic husband,
plunged it again and again into the body of the insensible animal,
uttering all the time the most fearful and violent imprecations of
despair and anguish.
It was with the greatest difficulty she could at length be removed from
the tragic scene, and confided to the care of some neighboring
villagers. I had occasion to revisit the same scenes some few months
after, and found the bereaved wife, but, indeed, how changed! I could
hardly recognize her. Day and night, I was informed, she wandered about,
calling on her husband and child. A deep, settled gloom, beyond any
thing I ever witnessed, was upon her features; her eyes had a wandering,
restless expression. She knew me immediately, and talked in the most
pathetic strain of her hapless child and husband. Poor creature! I tried
to console her, but in vain. She said, her only wish was, as soon as the
monsoon, or rainy season abated, to prosecute her journey to the Ganges,
and die by its sacred stream. I remonstrated with her on this folly,
and, explained to her the divine truths of Christianity. All in vain!
She was fixed in her resolution; and when I pointed to the heavens, and
spoke of the mercies of God and His power, she replied, "that were He
powerful, He could not be merciful, or He would not have taken her
husband and child away without taking her also." All I could say made no
impression, nor seemed to abate her determination, and time would not
permit my stay, nor did I ever chance again to traverse the same scenes;
but I have no doubt, from my knowledge of Indian character, she
subsequently carried her resolution into effect.
COFFEE PLANTING IN CEYLON.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.--CHAPTER THE FIRST.
In the month of September, 1840, I started from Kandy, the ancient
capital of Ceylon, to visit a friend who was in charge of one of the
many new coffee clearings then in progress. I was accompanied by a young
planter well acquainted with the country and the natives, and who had
offered to act as my guide. The clearing was distant about twenty-five
miles. The route we took has since become famous. Rebellion and martial
law have stalked over it; and concerning it, the largest blue books of
last session have been concocted.
We mounted our horses a good hour before day-break, so as to insure
getting over the most exposed part of our journey before the sun should
have risen very high, an important matter for man and beast in tropical
countries. Toward noon, we pulled up at a little bazaar, or native shop,
and called for "_Hoppers and Coffee_." I felt that I could have eaten
almost any thing, and, truly, one needs such an appetite to get down the
dreadful black-draught which the Cingalese remorselessly administer to
travelers, under the name of coffee.
The sun was high in the horizon when we found ourselves suddenly, at a
turn of the road, in the midst of a "clearing." This was quite a novelty
to me; so unlike any thing one meets with in the low country, or about
the vicinity of Kandy. The present clearing lay at an elevation of fully
three thousand feet above the sea-level, while the altitude of Kandy is
not more than sixteen hundred feet. I had never been on a Hill Estate,
and the only notions formed by me respecting a plantation of coffee,
were of continuous, undulating fields, and gentle slopes. Here it was
not difficult to imagine myself among the recesses of the Black Forest.
Pile on pile of heavy, dark jungle, rose before my astonished sight,
looking like grim fortresses defending some hidden city of giants. The
spot we had opened upon was at the entrance of a long valley of great
width, on one side of which lay the young estate we were bound to.
Before us were, as near as I could judge, fifty acres of felled jungle
in thickest disorder; just as the monsters of the forest had fallen, so
they lay, heap on heap, crushed and splintered into ten thousand
fragments. Fine brawny old fellows some of them; trees that had stood
many a storm and thunder-peal; trees that had sheltered the wild
elephant, the deer, and the buffalo, lay there prostrated by a few
inches of sharp steel. The "fall" had taken place a good week before,
and the trees would be left in this state until the end of October, by
which time they would be sufficiently dry for a good "burn." Struggling
from trunk to trunk, and leading our horses slowly over the huge rocks
that lay thickly around, we at last got through the "fall," and came to
a part of the forest where the heavy, quick click of many axes told us
there was a working-party busily employed. Before us, a short distance
in the jungle, were the swarthy, compact figures of some score or two of
low country Cingalese, plying their small axes with a rapidity and
precision that was truly marvelous. It made my eyes wink again, to see
how quickly their sharp tools flew about, and how near some of them went
to their neighbors' heads.
In the midst of these busy people I found my planting friend,
superintending operations, in full jungle costume. A sort of wicker
helmet was on his head, covered with a long padded white cloth, which
hung far down his back, like a baby's quilt. A shooting-jacket and
trowsers of checked country cloth; immense leech-gaiters fitting close
inside the roomy canvas boots; and a Chinese-paper umbrella, made up his
curious outfit.
To me it was a pretty, as well as a novel sight, to watch the felling
work in progress. Two ax-men to small trees; three, and sometimes four,
to larger ones; their little bright tools flung far back over their
shoulders with a proud flourish, and then, with a "whirr," dug deep in
the heart of the tree, with such exactitude and in such excellent time,
that the scores of axes flying about me seemed impelled by some
mechanical contrivance, and sounding but as one or two instruments. I
observed that in no instance were the trees cut through, but each one
was left with just sufficient of the heart to keep it upright; on
looking around, I saw that there were hundreds of them similarly
treated. The ground on which we were standing was extremely steep and
full of rocks, between which lay embedded rich veins of alluvial soil.
Where this is the case, the masses of stone are not an objection; on the
contrary, they serve to keep the roots of the young coffee plants cool
during the long dry season, and, in the like manner, prevent the light
soil from being washed down the hill-side by heavy rains. My
planter-friend assured me that, if the trees were to be at once cut
down, a few at a time, they would so encumber the place as to render it
impossible for the workmen to get access to the adjoining trees, so
thickly do they stand together, and so cumbersome are their heavy
branches. In reply to my inquiry as to the method of bringing all these
cut trees to the ground, I was desired to wait until the cutting on the
hill-side was completed, and then I should see the operation finished.
The little axes rang out a merry chime--merrily to the planter's ear,
but the death-knell of many a fine old forest tree. In half an hour the
signal was made to halt, by blowing a conch shell; obeying the signal of
the superintendent, I hastened up the hill as fast as my legs would
carry me, over rocks and streams, halting at the top, as I saw the whole
party do. Then they were ranged in order, axes in hand, on the upper
side of the topmost row of cut trees. I got out of their way, watching
anxiously every movement. All being ready, the manager sounded the conch
sharply: two score voices raised a shout that made me start again; forty
bright axes gleamed high in air, then sank deeply into as many trees,
which at once yielded to the sharp steel, groaned heavily, waved their
huge branches to and fro, like drowning giants, then toppled over, and
fell with a stunning crash upon the trees below them. These having been
cut through previously, offered no resistance, but followed the example
of their upper neighbors, and fell booming on those beneath. In this way
the work of destruction went rapidly on from row to row. Nothing was
heard but groaning, crackling, crashing, and splintering; it was some
little time before I got the sounds well out of my ears. At the time it
appeared as though the whole of the forest-world about me was tumbling
to pieces; only those fell, however, which had been cut, and of such not
one was left standing. There they would lie until sufficiently dry for
the torch that would blacken their massive trunks, and calcine their
many branches into dusty heaps of alkali. By the time this was
completed, and the men put on to a fresh "cut," we were ready for our
mid-day meal, the planter's breakfast. Away we toiled toward the
_bungalow_. Passing through a few acres of standing forest, and over a
stream, we came to a small cleared space well sheltered from wind, and
quite snug in every respect. It was thickly sown with what I imagined to
be young lettuces, or, perhaps, very juvenile cabbage-plants, but I was
told this was the "Nursery," and those tiny green things were intended
to form the future Soolookande Estate. On learning that we had reached
the "Bungalow," I looked about me to discover its locality, but in vain;
there was no building to be seen; but presently my host pointed out to
me what I had not noticed before--a small, low-roofed, thatched place,
close under a projecting rock, and half hid by thorny creepers. I
imagined this to be his fowl-house, or, perhaps, a receptacle for tools;
but was not a little astonished when I saw my friend beckon me on, and
enter at the low, dark door. This miserable little cavern could not have
been more than twelve feet long by about six feet wide, and as high at
the walls. This small space was lessened by heaps of tools, coils of
string, for "lining" the ground before planting, sundry boxes and
baskets, an old rickety table, and one chair. At the farther end--if any
thing could be far in that hole--was a jungle bedstead, formed by
driving green stakes in the floor and walls, and stretching rope across
them. I could not help expressing astonishment at the miserable quarters
provided for one who had so important a charge, and such costly outlay
to make. My host, however, treated the matter very philosophically.
Every thing, he observed, is good or bad by comparison; and wretched as
the accommodation appeared to me, who had been accustomed to the large,
airy houses of Colombo, he seemed to be quite satisfied; indeed, he told
me, that when he had finished putting up this little crib, had moved in
his one table and chair, and was seated, cigar in mouth, inside the
still damp mud walls, he thought himself the happiest of mortals. I felt
somewhat curious to know where he had dwelt previous to the erection of
this unique building--whether he had perched up in the forest trees, or
in holes in the rocks, like the wild Veddahs of Bintenne.
I was told that his first habitation, when commencing work up there, was
then suspended over my head. I looked up to the dark, dusty roof, and
perceived a bundle of what I conceived to be old dirty, brown paper, or
parchment-skin. Perceiving my utter ignorance of the arrangement, he
took down the roll, and spread it open outside the door. It turned out
to be a huge _talipot-leaf_, which he assured me was the only shelter he
had possessed for nearly two months, and that, too, during the rainy
season. It might have measured ten feet in length, and possibly six in
width; pretty well for a leaf; it was used by fastening a stout pole
lengthways to two stakes driven in the ground; the leaf was hung across
this ridgepole, midway, and the corners of it made fast by cords: common
mats being hung at each end, and under the leaf.
The "Lines," a long row of mud huts for the coolies, appeared to be much
more comfortable than their master's dwelling. But this is necessarily
the case, for, unless they be well-cared for, they will not remain on a
remote estate, such as this one was then considered. The first thing a
good planter sees to is a roomy and dry set of "Lines" for the people:
then the "Nursery" of coffee plants; and, thirdly, a hut for himself.
The superintendent assured me that none but those who had opened an
estate in a remote district, could form any idea of the difficulties and
privations encountered by the planter. "Folks may grumble as they like,
down in Colombo, or in England," said my friend, "about the high
salaries paid to managers, but if some of them had only a month of it up
here, in the rains, I suspect they'd change their notions."
He had had the greatest difficulty at first in keeping but a dozen men
on the place to clear ground for lines and nurseries: so strong is the
objection felt by Malabars to new and distant plantations. On one
occasion he had been quite deserted: even his old cook ran away, and he
found himself with only a little Cingalese boy, and his rice, biscuit,
and dried fish, all but exhausted. As for meat, he had not tasted any
for many days. There was no help for it, he saw, but to send off the
little boy to the nearest village, with a rupee, to buy some food, and
try to persuade some of the village people to come up and assist him.
When evening came on, there was no boy back, and the lonely planter had
no fire to boil his rice. Night came on and still he was alone: hungry,
cold, and desolate. It was a Sabbath evening, and he pointed out to me
the large stone on which he had sat down to think of his friends in the
old country; the recollection of his distance from them, and of his then
desolate, Crusoe-like, position, came so sadly upon him that he wept
like a child. I almost fancied I saw a tear start to his large eye as he
related the circumstance.
Ceylon planters are proverbially hospitable: the utmost stranger is at
all times sure of a hearty welcome for himself and his horse. On this
occasion, my jungle friend turned out the best cheer his small store
afforded. It is true we had but one chair among us, but that only served
to give us amusement in making seats of baskets, boxes, and old books. A
dish of rice, and curry, made of dry salt fish, two red herrings, and
the only fowl on the estate, formed our meal; and, poor as the repast
may appear to those who have never done a good day's journey in the
jungles of Ceylon, I can vouch for the keen relish with which we all
partook of it.
In the afternoon we strolled out to inspect the first piece of planting
on the Soolookande estate. It was in extent about sixty acres, divided
into fields of ten acres by narrow belts of tall trees. This precaution
was adopted, I learnt, with a view to protect the young plants from the
violence of the wind, which at times rushes over the mountains with
terrific fury. Unless thus sheltered by belts or "staking," the young
plants get loosened, or are whirled round until the outer bark becomes
worn away, and then they sicken and die, or if they live, yield no
fruit. "Staking" is simply driving a stout peg in the ground, and
fastening the plant steadily to it; but it is an expensive process. The
young trees in these fields had been put out during the previous rains
of July, and though still very small, looked fresh and healthy. I had
always imagined planting out to be a very easy and rough operation; but
I now learnt that exceeding care and skill are required in the
operation. The holes to receive the young coffee-plant must be wide and
deep--they can scarcely be too large; the earth must be kept well about
the roots of the seedling in removing it; and care must be taken that
the _tap-root_ be neither bent, nor planted over any stone or other hard
substance; neglect of these important points is fatal to the prosperity
of the estate. The yellow drooping leaves, and stunted growth, soon tell
the proprietor that his superintendent has done his work carelessly;
but, alas! it is then too late to apply any remedy, save that of
re-planting the ground.
I left this estate impressed with very different notions concerning the
life and trials of a planter in the far jungle, from those I had
contracted below from mere Colombo gossip; and I felt that
superintendents were not so much overpaid for their skill, patience,
privations, and hard work.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
Having seen almost the commencement of the Soolookande Coffee Estate, I
felt a strong desire toward the end of the year 1846, to pay it a second
visit, while in its full vigor. I wished to satisfy myself as to the
correctness of the many reports I had heard of its heavy crops, of its
fine condition, its excellent works, and, not least, of the good
management during crop-time. My old acquaintance was no longer in
charge; he had been supplanted by a stranger. However, I went armed with
a letter from the Colombo agents, which would insure more attention than
a bed and a meal.
I journeyed this time by another and rather shorter route. Instead of
taking the Matelle road, I struck off to the right, past Davy's Tree,
celebrated as the scene of the massacre of a large body of British
officers and troops by the treacherous Kandians, and crossing the
Mahavilla Ganga, at Davy's Ferry, made the best of my way across the
beautiful vale of Dombera, and thence toward the long range of mountains
forming one flank of the Kallibokke Valley. At the period of my former
excursion this long tract of fertile country was one unbroken mass of
heavy jungle; now a dozen large estates, with bungalows and extensive
works, were to be seen, enlivening the journey, and affording a much
readier passage for the horseman; for wherever plantations are formed,
good jungle paths are sure to be made. The ride was a most interesting
one; mile upon mile of coffee lay before and around me, in various
stages of growth, from the young seedling just put out, to the
full-bearing bush, as heavily laden with red, ripe coffee berries as any
currant-bush in England with its fruit.
It was then the middle of November, and the very height of the planter's
harvest. All appeared busy as I rode along, gathering on the old
properties; weeding and "supplying," or filling up failures on the young
estates. I halted but once for a cup of good, wholesome coffee, and
gladly pushed on, so as to reach my destination in good time for
breakfast.
The many lovely prospects opening before me caused some little delay in
admiration; and, by the time I had ridden through the last piece of
jungle, and pulled up at the upper boundary of "Soolookande," it was not
far from mid-day. The sun was blazing high above me, but its rays were
tempered by a cool breeze that swept over from the neighboring
mountain-tops. The prospect from that lofty eminence was lovely in the
extreme: steep ridges of coffee extended in all directions, bounded by
piles of mossy forest; white spots, here and there, told of bungalows
and stores; a tiny cataract rushed down some cleft rock, on one side; on
the other, a rippling stream ran gently along, thickly studded with
water-cresses. Before me, in the far distance, lay outstretched, like a
picture-scroll, the Matelle district, with its paddy fields, its
villages, and its Vihares, skirted by a ridge of mountains and
terminated by the Cave Rocks of Dambool. At my feet, far below, lay the
estate, bungalow, and works, and to them I bent my way by a narrow and
very steep bridle-path. So precipitous was the land just here, that I
felt rather nervous on looking down at the white buildings. The pathway,
for a great length, was bordered by rose-bushes, or trees, in fullest
blossom, perfuming the air most fragrantly: as I approached the
bungalow, other flowering shrubs and plants were mingled with them, and
in such excellent order was every thing there that the place appeared to
me more like a magnified garden than an estate. How changed since my
former visit! I could scarcely recognize it as the same property. The
bungalow was an imposing-looking building, the very picture of neatness
and comfort. How different to the old talipot-leaf, and the dirty little
mud hut! The box of a place I had slept in six years before would have
stood, easily, on the dining-table in this bungalow. A wide verandah
surrounded the building, the white pillars of which were polished like
marble. The windows were more like doors; and, as for the doors, one may
speak of them as lawyers do of Acts of Parliament, it would be easy to
drive a coach-and-six through them.
The superintendent was a most gentlemanly person, and so was his
Bengalee servant. The curry was delightfully hot; the water was
deliciously cool. The chairs were like sofas; and so exquisitely
comfortable, after my long ride, that, when my host rose and suggested a
walk down to the works, I regretted that I had said any thing about
them, and had half a mind to pretend to be poorly.
The store was a zinc-roofed building, one hundred feet in length, by
twenty-five wide; it was boarded below, but the sides upward were merely
stout rails, for insuring a thorough circulation of air through the
interior. It presented a most busy appearance. Long strings of Malabar
coolies were flocking in, along narrow paths, from all sides, carrying
bags and baskets on their heads, filled with the ripe coffee. These had
to pass in at one particular door of the store, into the
receiving-floor, in the upper part of the building. A Canghany was
stationed there to see each man's gathering fairly measured; and to give
a little tin ticket for every bushel, on the production of which the
coolies were paid, at the end of the month. Many coolies, who had their
wives and children to assist them in the field, brought home very heavy
parcels of coffee.
Passing on to the floor where the measuring was in progress, I saw
immense heaps of ripe, cherry-looking fruit, waiting to be passed below
to the pulpers. All this enormous pile must be disposed of before the
morning, or it will not be fit for operating on, and might be damaged. I
saw quantities of it already gliding downward, through little openings
in the floor, under which I could hear the noise of some machinery in
rapid motion, but giving out sounds like sausage-machines in full
"chop." Following my guide, I descended a ladder, between some
ugly-looking wheels and shafting, and landed safely on the floor of the
pulping-room. "Pulping" is the operation of removing the outer husk, or
"cherry," which incloses the parchment-looking husk containing the pair
of coffee beans. This is performed by a machine called a "pulper." It is
a stout wooden or iron frame, supporting a fly-wheel and barrel of wood,
covered with sheet copper, perforated coarsely outward, very like a huge
nutmeg-grater. This barrel is made to revolve rapidly, nearly in contact
with two chocks of wood. The coffee in the cherry being fed on to this
by a hopper, is forced between the perforated barrel and the chocks;
the projecting copper points tear off the soft cherry, while the coffee
beans, in their parchment case, fall through the chocks into a large
box. These pulpers (four in number) were worked by a water-wheel of
great power, and turned out in six hours as much coffee as was gathered
by three hundred men during the whole day.
From the pulper-box the parchment coffee is shoveled to the
"cisterns"--enormous square wooden vats. In these the new coffee is
placed, just covered with water, in which state it is left for periods
varying from twelve to eighteen hours, according to the judgment of the
manager. The object of this soaking is to produce a slight fermentation
of the mucilaginous matter adhering to "the parchment," in order to
facilitate its removal, as otherwise it would harden the skin, and
render the coffee very difficult to peel or clean. When I inspected the
works on Soolookande, several cisterns of fermented coffee were being
turned out, to admit other parcels from the pulper, and also to enable
the soaked coffee to be washed. Coolies were busily employed shoveling
the berries from one cistern to another; others were letting on clean
water. Some were busy stirring the contents of the cisterns briskly
about; while some, again, were letting off the foul water; and a few
were engaged in raking the thoroughly-washed coffee from the washing
platforms to the barbecues.
The barbecues on this property were very extensive: about twenty
thousand square feet, all gently sloped away from their centres, and
smooth as glass. They were of stone, coated over with lime well
polished, and so white, that it was with difficulty I could look at them
with the sun shining full upon their bright surfaces. Over these drying
grounds the coffee, when quite clean and white, is spread, at first
thickly, but gradually more thinly, until, on the last day, it is placed
only one bean thick. Four days' sunning are usually required, though
occasionally many more are necessary before the coffee can be heaped
away in the store without risk of spoiling. All that is required is to
dry it sufficiently for transport to Kandy, and thence to Colombo, where
it undergoes a final curing previous to having its parchment skin
removed, and the faulty and broken berries picked out. Scarcely any
estates are enabled to effectually dry their crops, owing to the long
continuance of wet weather on the hills.
The "dry floor" of this store resembled very much the inside of a
malting-house. It was nicely boarded, and nearly half full of coffee,
white and in various stages of dryness. Some of it, at one end, was
being measured into two bushel bags, tied up, marked and entered in the
"packed" book, ready for dispatch to Kandy. Every thing was done on a
system; the bags were piled up in tens; and the loose coffee was kept in
heaps of fixed quantities as a check on the measuring. Bags, rakes,
measures, twine, had all their proper places allotted them. Each day's
work must be finished off-hand at once; no putting off until to-morrow
can be allowed, or confusion and loss will be the consequence. Any heaps
of half dried coffee, permitted to remain unturned in the store, or not
exposed on the "barbecue," will heat, and become discolored, and in that
condition is known among commercial men as "Country Damaged."
The constant ventilation of a coffee store is of primary importance in
checking any tendency to fermentation in the uncured beans; an ingenious
planter has recently availed himself of this fact, and invented an
apparatus which forces an unbroken current of dry, warm air, through the
piles of damp coffee, thus continuing the curing process in the midst of
the most rainy weather.
When a considerable portion of the gathering is completed, the manager
has to see to his means of transport before his store is too crowded. A
well conducted plantation will have its own cattle to assist in
conveying the crop to Kandy; it will have roomy and dry cattle-pens,
fields of guinea-grass, and pasture grounds attached, as well as a
manure-pit, into which all refuse and the husks of the coffee are
thrown, to be afterward turned to valuable account.
The carriage of coffee into Kandy is performed by pack-bullocks, and
sometimes by the coolies, who carry it on their heads, but these latter
can seldom be employed away from picking during the crop time. By either
means, however, transport forms a serious item in the expenses of a good
many estates. From some of the distant hill-estates possessing no
cattle, and with indifferent jungle-paths, the conveyance of their crops
to Kandy will often cost fully six shillings the hundred weight of clean
coffee, equal to about three pence per mile. From Kandy to Colombo, by
the common bullock-cart of the country, the cost will amount to about
two or three shillings the clean hundred weight, in all, eight or nine
shillings the hundred weight from the plantation to the port of
shipment, being twice as much for conveying it less than a hundred
miles, as it costs for freight to England, about sixteen thousand miles.
One would imagine that it would not require much sagacity to discern
that, in such a country as this, a railroad would be an incalculable
benefit to the whole community. To make this apparent even to the
meanest Cingalese capacity, we may mention that, even at the present
time, transit is required from the interior of the island to its
seaports, for enough coffee for shipment to Great Britain alone, to
cause a railroad to be remunerative. The quantity of coffee imported
from British possessions abroad in 1850, was upward of forty millions of
pounds avoirdupois; and a very large proportion of this came from
Ceylon. What additional quantities are required for the especially
coffee-bibbing nations which lie between Ceylon and this country,
surpass all present calculation; enough, we should think, sails away
from this island in the course of every year, the transit of which to
its sea-board, would pay for a regular net-work of railways.
A BRETON WEDDING.
The customs and habits of the Bretons bear a close and striking
resemblance to those of their kindred race[10] in the principality of
Wales.
When a marriage in Lower Brittany has been definitely resolved upon, the
bride makes choice of a bridesmaid, and the bridegroom of a groomsman.
These, accompanied by an inviter, or "bidder," as the personage is
called in Wales, bearing a long white wand, invite the members of their
respective families to the wedding. On so important and solemn an
occasion, no one is forgotten, however humble his condition in life may
happen to be; and in no country in the world are the ties of kindred so
strong as in Lower Brittany.
These consequently include a very large circle; and it happens that the
task of "bidding" very frequently occupies many days. A thousand persons
have been known to assist at the wedding of a prosperous farmer.
On the Sunday preceding the wedding-day, every one who has accepted the
invitation must send some present to the youthful pair, by one of their
farm servants, who has been very carefully dressed, in order to produce
a high idea of their consequence. These gifts are sometimes of
considerable value, but for the most part confined to some article of
domestic use, or of consumption on the wedding-day, which is usually
fixed for the following Tuesday.
At an early hour of that day the young men assemble in a village near to
the residence of the bride, where the bridegroom meets them. As soon as
they are collected in sufficiently imposing numbers, they depart in
procession, preceded by the _basvalan_ (embassador of love), with a band
of music, of which the bagpipe is a conspicuous instrument, to take
possession of the bride. On arriving at the farm, every thing, save the
savage wolf-dogs, is in the most profound silence. The doors are closed,
and not a soul is to be seen; but on closely surveying the environs of
the homestead, there is sufficient indication of an approaching
festivity, chimneys and caldrons are smoking, and long tables ranged in
every available space.
The _basvalan_ knocks loudly and repeatedly at the door, which at length
brings to the threshold the _brotaer_ (envoy of the bride's family),
who, with a branch of broom in his hand, replies in rhyme, and points
out to some neighboring chateau, where he assures the _basvalan_ such a
glorious train as his is sure to find welcome on account of its
unparalleled splendor and magnificence. This excuse having been
foreseen, the _basvalan_ answers his rival, verse for verse, compliment
for compliment, that they are in search of a jewel more brilliant than
the stars, and that it is hidden in that "palace."
The _brotaer_ withdraws into the interior; but presently leads forth an
aged matron, and presents her as the only jewel which they possess.
"Of a verity," retorts the _basvalan_, "a most respectable person; but
it appears to us that she is past her festal time; we do not deny the
merit of gray hair, especially when it is silvered by age and virtue;
but we seek something far more precious. The maiden we demand is at
least three times younger--try again--you can not fail to discover her
from the splendor which her unequaled beauty sheds around her."
The _brotaer_ then brings forth, in succession, an infant in arms, a
widow, a married woman, and the bridesmaid; but the embassador always
rejects the candidates, though without wounding their feelings. At last
the dark-eyed blushing bride makes her appearance in her bridal attire.
The party then enters the house, and the _brotaer_, falling on his
knees, slowly utters a _Pater_ for the living, and a _De Profundis_ for
the dead, and demands the blessing of the family upon the young maiden.
Then the scene, recently so joyous, assumes a more affecting character,
and the _brotaer_ is interrupted by sobs and tears. There is always some
sad episode in connection with all these rustic but poetic festivals in
Brittany. How many sympathies has not the following custom excited? At
the moment of proceeding to church, the mother severs the end of the
bride's sash, and addresses her: "The tie which has so long united us,
my child, is henceforward rent asunder, and I am compelled to yield to
another the authority which God gave me over thee. If thou art
happy--and may God ever grant it--this will be no longer thy home; but
should misfortune visit thee, a mother is still a mother, and her arms
ever open for her children. Like thee, I quitted my mother's side to
follow a husband. Thy children will leave thee in their turn. When the
birds are grown, the maternal nest can not hold them. May God bless
thee, my child, and grant thee as much consolation as he has granted
me!" The procession is then formed, and the cavalcade proceeds to the
parish church; but every moment it is interrupted in its progress by
groups of mendicants, who climb up the slopes bordering the roads--which
are extremely deep and narrow--to bar the passage by means of long
briars, well armed with prickly thorns, which they hold up before the
faces of the wedding party. The groomsman is the individual appointed to
lower these importunate barriers; which he does by casting among the
mendicants small pieces of money. He executes his commission with good
temper, and very frequently with liberality; but when the distance is
great, these fetters become so numerous that his duties grow exceedingly
wearisome and expensive.
After the religious ceremony, comes the feast; which is one of the most
incredible things imaginable. Nothing can give an idea of the multitude
of guests, of all ages, and of each sex; they form a lively, variegated,
and confused picture. The tables having been laid out the previous day,
at the coppers, which are erected in the open air, all the neighbors,
and the invited, who have any pretension to the culinary art, are ready
with advice and assistance. It is curious to see them, in the blazing
atmosphere of the huge fires, watching enormous joints of meat and other
comestibles cooking in the numerous and vast utensils; nevertheless,
however zealous they may be, there are few who do not desert their post
when the firing of guns and the distant sound of the bagpipes announce
the return of the wedding procession.
The newly married couple are at the head of the train, preceded by
pipers, and fiddlers, and single-stick players, who triumphantly lead
the way; the nearest relatives of the young pair next follow; then the
rest of the guests without order, rushing on helter-skelter, each in the
varied and picturesque costume of his district; some on foot, some on
horseback, most frequently two individuals on the same beast, the man
seated upon a stuffed pad which serves as a saddle, and the wife, with
arm around his waist, seated upon the crupper;--an every-day sight, not
many years ago, in the rural districts of England, when roads were bad,
and the gig and taxed-cart uninvented. The mendicants follow at their
heels by hundreds, to share the remnants of the feast.
As soon as the confusion occasioned by the arrival of such a multitude
has subsided, the guests place themselves at the tables. These are
formed of rough and narrow planks, supported by stakes driven into the
ground, the benches constructed after the same fashion; and they are
raised in proportion to the height of the tables, so that you may have
your knees between your plate and yourself; if, in a real Breton
wedding, you happen to be supplied with such an article--for a luxury of
this description has not yet reached very far into Brittany: the soup is
eaten out of a wooden bowl, and the meat cut up and eaten in the hand,
or, as the phrase goes, "upon the thumb." Every individual, as a matter
of course, carries his own case or pocket knife; the liquids are served
in rude earthenware, and each drinks out of a cup apportioned to five or
six individuals. It is the height of civility to hand one's cup to a
neighbor, so that he may assist in emptying it; and a refusal would be
considered extremely rude and insolent.
The husband and his immediate relatives are in waiting, and anticipate
every one's wants and wishes--pressing each to take care of himself:
they themselves share in no part of the entertainment, save the
compliments which are showered, and the cups of cider and wine which
civility obliges them to accept. After each course music strikes up, and
the whole assembly rise from the tables. One party gets up a
wrestling-match; the Bretons are as famous as their cousins in Cornwall
at this athletic game--or a match at single-stick; another a foot-race,
or a dance; while the dishes are collected together, and handed to the
hungry groups of mendicants who are seated in adjoining paddocks. From
the tables to rustic games, reels, gavottes, and jabadoos; then to the
tables again; and they continue in this manner till midnight announces
to the guests that it is time to retire.
The company having diminished by degrees, at length leave the groomsman
and the bridesmaid the only strangers remaining, who are bound to
disappear the last, and put the bride and bridegroom, with due and
proper solemnity, to rest: they then retire singing "Veni Creator." In
some districts they are compelled, by custom, to watch during the whole
night in the bridal chamber; in others, they hold at the foot of the bed
a lighted candle, between the fingers, and do not withdraw until the
flame has descended to the palm of the hand. In another locality the
groom's-man is bound during the whole long night to throw nuts at the
husband, who cracks them, and gives the kernel to his bride to eat. The
festivity which a marriage occasions generally lasts three days, and, on
Friday, the youthful wife embraces the companions of her childhood and
bids them farewell, as if she never meant to return. Indeed, from the
period of marriage, a new life commences for the Breton, whose days of
single blessedness have been days of festivity and freedom; and it would
seem that when once the wedding-ring has been placed upon the finger,
her only business is the care of her household--her only delight, the
peace of her domestic hearth.
FOOTNOTE:
[10] Pitre-Chevalier says, in his "Brittany," ("_La Bretagne_") "We
Celts of Lower Brittany require nothing more to recognize as brothers
the primitive inhabitants of Wales, than the ability to salute them in
their maternal tongue, after a separation of more than a thousand
years."
[From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.]
JOANNA BAILLIE.
Joanna Baillie was born in the year 1762, at the manse of Bothwell, in
Lanarkshire. Her father had just been translated from the parish of
Shotts to that of Bothwell; and on the very first day of the family's
removal into the new manse, while the furniture still lay tied up in
bundles on the floors, Mrs. Baillie was taken ill, probably from
over-fatigue, and was prematurely brought to bed of twin-daughters, one
of whom died in the birth, and the other, named Joanna--after her
maternal uncle, the celebrated John Hunter--lived for eighty-nine years,
and became the most celebrated of her race, and one of the most
celebrated women of her time.
Those who like to trace the descent of fine qualities, will be
interested to know that Joanna's mother--herself a beautiful and
agreeable woman--was the only sister of those remarkable men, William
and John Hunter; and that her father, a clergyman of respectable
abilities, was of the same descent with that Baillie of Jarviswood who
nobly suffered for the religion and independence of his country.
Although Mrs. Baillie was forty years of age when she married, she gave
birth to five children. Of these, three grew up: the eldest, Agnes who
still survives; the celebrated Matthew physician to George III.; and
Joanna.
When Joanna was seven years old, her father removed to Hamilton. There
he was colleague to the Rev. Mr. Miller, father to the well-known
professor of law at Glasgow of that name, whose daughters were
throughout life among Joanna's most intimate and cherished friends. All
that is known of her before she quitted Bothwell seems to be, that she
was an active, sprightly child, fond of play, and very unfond of
lessons--the difficulty of fixing her attention long enough to enable
her to learn the alphabet having been in her case rather greater than it
is with ordinary children. At twelve years of age, though still no
scholar, she was a clever, lively, shrewd girl, and even then showed
something of the creative power for which she was afterward so
remarkable. Miss Miller well recollects being closeted with her and
other young companions for the purpose of hearing her narrate little
stories of her own invention, which she did in a graphic and amusing
manner.
After being seven years at Hamilton, Mr. Baillie was promoted to the
chair of divinity in the University of Glasgow. There Joanna attended
Miss M'Intosh's boarding-school, and made some proficiency in the
accomplishments of music and drawing; for both of which she had a fine
taste, though it was never fully cultivated. A constant residence in the
crowded and smoky town of Glasgow would have proved very irksome to
those accustomed, like the Baillies, to the sweet, healthful seclusion
of a country manse; but they were never condemned to it. William Hunter,
then accoucheur to Queen Charlotte, and in good general practice as a
physician, was in possession of the little family property of Long
Calderwood in Lanarkshire; and being himself confined to London by his
professional duties, he invited his sister and her family to reside at
his house there during the summer months. Nothing could have been more
agreeable or beneficial to Joanna than this manner of life, had it
continued. Her father had now a sufficiently large income to enable him
to give his children the full advantage of the best teaching, and he was
most anxious that they should enjoy it. Unfortunately, he only survived
his removal to Glasgow two years; and by his premature death, his widow
and family were left not only entirely unprovided for, but in very
involved circumstances. The living at Hamilton had been too small to
admit of any thing being saved from it; and the expense of removing, the
purchase of furniture suitable to their new position, the repairing and
furnishing of the house at Long Calderwood, besides the increased cost
of living in a town, had in combination brought their family into an
expenditure which two years of an enlarged income were by no means
sufficient to meet. Dr. William Hunter came immediately to their
assistance. He was at that time fast acquiring the large fortune which
enabled him to leave behind him so noble a monument as the Hunterian
Museum in Glasgow. He generously settled an adequate income on his
sister and her family, and offered to relieve her mind by entirely
discharging her husband's liabilities. Here the widow and her
high-spirited young people had the opportunity of manifesting the true
delicacy and respectable pride which have ever distinguished the family.
They carefully avoided disclosing to their generous relative any thing
more than was unavoidable of these obligations, preferring, with noble
self-denial, and at the expense of being looked down upon as niggardly
and poor-spirited by neighbors who knew nothing of their motives, to pay
the remainder out of their moderate income. Such a trait as this is
surely well worth being recorded.
Even after they were clear with the world, Mrs. Baillie and her
daughters continued to live in the strictest seclusion at Long
Calderwood. Soon after his father's death, young Matthew obtained a
Glasgow exhibition to Oxford; and having studied successfully there for
some years, joined his uncle William in London, for the purpose of
assisting him in his lectures. John Hunter, who had been originally
intended for a humbler occupation, had long before this time been called
to London by the successful William--had been brought forward by him in
the medical profession--and had, in a few months, acquired such a
knowledge of anatomy, as to be capable of demonstrating to the pupils in
the dissecting-room. His health having been impaired by intense study,
he had gone abroad for a year or two as staff-surgeon, and served in
Portugal. On his return to London, he had devoted his powerful energies
to the study of comparative anatomy, and before Matthew Baillie came to
London, had erected a menagerie at Brompton for carrying on that useful
branch of science. By his extraordinary genius, he subsequently rose to
be inspector-general of hospitals and surgeon-general, and became one of
the most famous men of his age.
Agnes, the elder sister--Joanna's faithful and beloved companion through
a long life; and to whom, on entering her seventieth year, she addressed
the exquisite poem of the "Birthday"--which no one will ever read
unmoved--was very early an accomplished girl. Unlike Joanna, she had
always been a diligent, attentive scholar; and unlike her also, was
possessed of a remarkably retentive memory. In her companionship, and in
the entire leisure of her six years' seclusion among the picturesque
scenery of Long Calderwood, it may be supposed that Joanna's powerful
intellect would have been awakened, and her wonderfully fertile
imagination begun to assume some of those varied forms of truth and
beauty which have since impressed themselves so vividly on the hearts
and minds of her contemporaries. But like the graceful forms which the
eye of the young sculptor has only yet seen in vision, those divine
creations of her genius, before which the world was afterward to bow,
still slumbered in the marble. Her genius partook of the slow growth, as
well as the hardy vigor, of the pine-tree of her native rocks; but it
had inherent power to shoot its roots deep down in the human heart, and
to spread its branches toward the heavens in green and enduring beauty.
In these years (from her sixteenth to her twenty-second), the only
tendency she showed toward what afterward became the master-current of
her mind, was in being a fervent worshiper of Shakspeare. She carefully
studied select passages; delighted in getting her two favorite young
friends--Miss Miller, and the lively Miss Graham of Gairbraid--to take
different parts with her, and would so spout through a whole play with
infinite satisfaction. Still she was no general student; and we are
doubtful if at any time of her life she can be considered to have been a
_great_ reader.
About a dozen years previous to his death, which took place in 1783, Dr.
William Hunter had completed his house in Great Windmill-street. He had
attached to it an anatomical theatre, apartments for lectures and
dissections, and a magnificent room as a museum. At his death, the use
of this valuable museum, which was destined ultimately to enrich the
city of Glasgow, was bequeathed for the term of twenty years to his
nephew Matthew, who had for some time past assisted him ably in his
anatomical lectures. Besides this valuable bequest, the small family
property of Long Calderwood was also left to Matthew Baillie, instead of
his uncle, John Hunter, who was the heir-at-law. William had taken
offense at his brother's marriage--not finding fault with his bride, who
was an estimable woman, the sister of Dr., afterward Sir Everard
Home--but, as it was whimsically said--disapproving of a philosopher
marrying at all! But, however this may have been, young Matthew, with
characteristic generosity, disliking to be enriched at the expense of
those among his kindred who seemed to him to have a nearer claim,
absolutely refused to take advantage of the bequest. The rejected little
property thus, after all, fell legally to John; and only on the death of
his son and daughter, a few years ago (without children), descended to
William, the only son of Dr. Matthew Baillie, as their heir.
Soon after his uncle's death, Matthew, who had succeeded him as lecturer
on anatomy, and was rising fast in the esteem of his professional
brethren, prevailed on his mother and sisters to join him in London.
Their uncle had left them all a small independence, and there they lived
most happily with their brother in the house adjoining the museum, from
about the year 1784 to 1791, when he married Miss Denman, daughter of
Dr. Denman, and sister of Lord Denman, the late admirable lord
chief-justice. This marriage was productive of great happiness to
Joanna, as well as to her brother and the rest of the family.
Throughout their lives the most tender affection subsisted among them
all. Mrs. Baillie and her daughters now retired to the country--at first
a little way up the Thames, then to Hythe, near Dover; but they did not
settle any where permanently till they located themselves in a pretty
cottage at Hampstead--that flowery, airy, charming retreat with which
Joanna's name has now been so long and so intimately associated. How
long she there courted the muses in secret is not known. Her reserved
nature and Scottish prudence at all events secured her from making any
display of their crude favors. Toward the end of the century she first
appears to have been quietly feeling her way toward the light. In
sending some books to Scotland, to her ever-dear friend Miss Graham, she
slipped into the parcel a small volume of poems, but without a hint as
to the authorship. The poems were chiefly of a light, unassuming, and
merry cast. They were read by Miss Graham, and others of her early
associates--freely discussed and criticised among them, and certainly
not much admired. Though light mirth and humor seem to have been more
the characteristics of her mind then than they were afterward, and
though Miss Graham remarked that there was a something in the little
poems that brought Joanna to her remembrance, still so improbable did it
seem, that no suspicion of their true origin suggested itself to any of
their thoughts. The authorship of this little volume was never claimed
by her; but some of the best poems and songs it contained, which were
afterward published in one of her works, at last disclosed the secret.
In 1799, her thirty-eighth year, she gave to the world her first volume
of plays on the Passions. It contained her two great tragedies on love
and on hatred--"Basil" and "De Montfort;" and one comedy, also on
love--the "Tryal." They were prefaced by a long, plausible introductory
discourse, in which she explained that these formed but a small portion
of an extensive plan she had in view, hitherto unattempted in any
language, and for the accomplishment of which a lifetime would be
limited enough. Her project we must very shortly describe as a design to
write a series of plays, the chief object of which should be the
delineation of all the higher passions of the human breast--each play
exhibiting in the principal character some one great passion in all the
stages of its development, from its origin to its final catastrophe; and
in which, in order to produce the strongest moral effect, the aim should
be the expression and delineation of just sentiments and characteristic
truth, rather than of marvelous incident, novel situation, or beautiful
and sublime thought.
Although published anonymously, this volume excited an immediate
sensation. In spite of theoretical limitations, it was found to be as
full of original power, and delicate poetical beauty, as of truth and
moral sentiment. Of course the authorship was keenly inquired into. As
the publication had been negotiated by the accomplished Mrs. John
Hunter--herself a follower of the muses, and the author of several
lyrical poems of great sweetness and beauty, which were set to music by
Haydn--the credit was at first naturally given to her. But Joanna's
incognito could not be long preserved; and the impression already made
was deepened by the discovery, that this skillful anatomist of the heart
of man, who had bodied forth creations bearing the stamp of lofty
intellect and most original power, was a woman still young, unlearned,
and so inexperienced in the world that it must have been chiefly to her
own imagination and feeling she owed the materials which, by the force
of her genius, she had thus so wonderfully combined into striking and
lifelike portraits.
The band of distinguished persons--poets, wits, and philosophers--with
which the beginning of the century was enriched, now crowded eagerly to
welcome to their ranks this new and highly-gifted sister, and were
received by her with simple but dignified frankness. The gay and
fashionable also would fain have wooed her to lionize in their fevering
circles; but her well-balanced mind, and intuitive sense of what is
really best and most favorable to human happiness and progress, seem
from the first to have secured her youthful female heart from being
inflated by the incense offered to her on all sides. Though touched, and
deeply gratified by the warmly-expressed approbation of those among her
great contemporaries whose applause was fame, she could not be won from
the quiet healthful privacy of her life to join frequently even in the
brilliant society which now so gladly claimed her as one of its
brightest ornaments. Equally unspoiled and undistracted, she kept the
even tenor of her way. The tragedies contained in her first
volume--among the greatest efforts of her genius--were undoubtedly
written by her in the fond hope of their being acted. "To receive the
approbation of an audience of her countrymen," she confesses in the
preface, "would be more grateful to her than any other praise."
Believing that it is in the nature of man to delight in representations
of passion and character, she regarded the stage, when properly managed,
as an admirable organ for the instruction of the multitude; and that the
poetical teacher of morality and virtue could not better employ his high
powers than in supplying it with pieces the tendency of which would be,
while pleasing and amusing, to refine and elevate the mind. Mrs. Siddons
was then in the very zenith of her power; and it was a glimpse of that
splendid presence--
"So queenly, so commanding, and so noble"--
as it accidentally flashed upon her in turning the corner of a street,
to which Miss Baillie has always fondly ascribed her first conception of
the character of the pure, elevated, and noble Jane de Montfort. In
1800, the tragedy of "De Montfort" was adapted to the stage by John
Kemble, and brought out at Drury-lane theatre; and the gratification may
well be imagined with which the high-hearted poetess must have listened
to
"Thoughts by the soul brought forth in silent joy--
Words often muttered by the timid voice,
Tried by the nice ear delicate of choice;"
as with their loftiest meanings heightened and spiritualized, she now
heard them poured forth in the deep eloquent tones of that incomparable
brother and sister!
Her second volume of plays on the Passions appeared in 1802, and with
her name. It contained four plays: "The Election," a comedy upon hatred;
and two tragedies and a comedy on ambition--"Ethwald," in two parts, and
the "Second Marriage." Hitherto the fair authoress had received almost
unqualified praise. She was now to undergo the other ordeal of almost
unqualified censure. Since the publication of her first volume, the
"Edinburgh Review" had been established, and its brilliant young editor
had been suddenly, and almost by universal consent, promoted to the
chair, as the first of critics. Jeffrey's real gentleness of heart, and
lively sensibility to every form of literary beauty and excellence, are
now too generally admitted to require vindication here; but the lamblike
heart and kindly-indulgent feelings which in his middle and declining
years seemed to warm and brighten the very atmosphere in which he lived,
were at the beginning of his literary censorship carefully, and only too
successfully, concealed under the formidable beak and claws, as well as
the keen eye of the eagle.
Starting with the idea that, above all things, it was his duty to guard
against false principles, the hymn of a seraph would probably have
jarred upon his ear if composed upon what he supposed to be mistaken
rules of art. He regarded Miss Baillie's project of confining the
interest of every piece to the development of a single passion as a
vicious system, by which her young and promising genius was likely to be
cabined and confined; and that if such fallacy in one so well calculated
to adorn the field of literature were met with indulgence, the result
might be to narrow and degrade it. It seemed to him little better than a
return to that barbarism which could unscrupulously extinguish the
eyesight, that the hearing might be more acute. His faith was too
catholic to brook the sectarian limitations which were involved in the
theory she had so boldly propounded. He therefore waged war against the
formidable heresy, cruelly, unsparingly; and if with something of the
heat and petulance of a boy, yet with an unerring dexterity of aim, and
a subtle poignancy of weapon, that could not fail to inflict both pain
and injury. Gentler practice would probably have been followed by a
better result. It is certain that Miss Baillie was hurt and offended by
the uncourteous castigation inflicted on her by her countryman, rather
than convinced by it that her notions were wrong. But the time happily
came when--with that clairvoyance which, though it may be denied for a
season, time and experience of life seldom fail to bestow in full
measure upon true genius--these two fine spirits were able to read each
other more clearly.
A single volume of miscellaneous plays containing two tragedies and a
comedy by Miss Baillie's pen, appeared in 1804. These dramas--"Rayner,"
"The Country Inn," and "Constantine Paleologus"--had been offered singly
to the theatres for representation, and been rejected. Though full of
eloquence, knowledge of human nature, and tragic power, they were found,
like all her plays, deficient in the lifelike movement and activity
indispensable to that perfectly successful theatrical effect which,
without an experimental acquaintance with the whole nature and artifices
of the stage has never been attained to even by the most gifted of pens.
The first time Miss Baillie revisited her native country after her name
had become known to fame was in 1808. After exploring with a full heart
the often-recalled scenery of the Clyde, and the still dearer haunts of
the sweet Calder Water, she passed a couple of months in Edinburgh,
dividing her time between her old friends Miss Maxwell and Mrs. John
Thomson. She was somewhat changed since these friends had seen her last.
Her manner had become more silent and reserved. Mere acquaintances, or
strangers who had not the art of drawing forth the rich stream--ever
ready to flow if the rock were rightly struck--found her cold and
formidable. In external appearance the change was for the better. Her
early youth had neither bloomed with physical nor intellectual beauty;
but now, in her fine, healthy middle life, to the exquisite neatness of
form and limb, the powerful gray eye, and well-defined, noticeable
features she had always possessed, were added a graceful propriety of
movement, and a fine elevated, spiritual expression, which are far
beyond mere beauty.
She had now the happiness of being personally made known to Sir Walter
Scott, who had always been an enthusiastic admirer of her genius, as she
of his. They had been too long congenial spirits not to become
immediately dear, personal friends. His noble poem of "Marmion," which
appeared during her stay, was read aloud by her for the first time to
her two friends Miss Miller and Miss Maxwell. In the introduction to the
third canto occurs that splendid tribute to her genius which, well-known
as it is, we can not resist quoting once more. The bard describes
himself as advised by a friend, since he will lend his hours to
thriftless rhyme, to
"Restore the ancient tragic line,
And emulate the notes that rung
From the wild harp, which silent hung
By silver Avon's holy shore,
Till twice an hundred years rolled o'er;
When she, the bold enchantress, came,
With fearless hand and heart on flame!
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure,
And swept it with a kinder measure,
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love,
Awakening at the inspired strain,
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again."
Deeply gratified and touched as she must have been, the strong-minded
poetess was able to read these exquisite lines unfalteringly to the
end, and only lost her self-possession when one of her affectionate
friends rising, and throwing her arms round her, burst into tears of
delight.
As she did not refuse to go into company, she could not be long in
Edinburgh without encountering Francis Jeffrey, the foremost man in the
bright train of _beaux-esprits_ which then adorned the society of the
Scottish capital. He would gladly have been presented to her; and if she
had permitted it, there is little doubt that in the eloquent flow of his
delightful and genial conversation, enough of the admiration he really
felt for her poetry must have been expressed, to have softened her into
listening at least with patience to his suggestions for her improvement.
But in vain did the friendly Mrs. Betty Hamilton (authoress of "The
Cottagers of Glenburnie") beg for leave to present him to her when they
met in her hospitable drawing-room; and equally in vain were the efforts
made by the good-natured Duchess of Gordon to bring about an
introduction which she knew was desired at least by one of the parties.
It was civilly but coldly declined by the poetess; and though the
dignified reason assigned was the propriety of leaving the critic more
entirely at liberty in his future strictures than an _acquaintance_
might perhaps feel himself, there seems little reason to doubt that
soreness and natural resentment had something to do with the refusal.
In 1809 her Highland play, the "Family Legend"--a tragedy founded on a
story of one of the M'Leans of Appin--was successfully produced in the
Edinburgh theatre. Sir Walter Scott, who took a lively interest in its
success, contributed the prologue, and Henry Mackenzie (the "Man of
Feeling") the epilogue. It was acted with great applause for fourteen
successive nights, and gave occasion for the passage of many pleasant
letters between Sir Walter and the authoress, afterward published by Mr.
Lockhart. In 1812 followed the third and last volume of her plays
illustrative of the higher passions of the mind. It contained four
plays--one in verse and one in prose on fear ("Orra" and the "Dream");
the "Siege," a comedy on the same passion; and "The Beacon," a serious
musical drama--perhaps the most faultless of Miss Baillie's productions,
and generally allowed to be one of the most exquisite dramatic poems in
the English language. This fresh attempt, at the end of nine years, to
follow out, against all warning and advice, her narrow and objectionable
system of dramatic art, was certainly ill-judged. Of course it brought
upon the pertinacious theorist another tremendous broadside from the
provoked reviewer. But though we can sympathize in a considerable degree
with him in denouncing her whole scheme--and more bitterly than ever--as
perverse, fantastic, and utterly impracticable--it is not easy to
forgive the accusation so liberally added as to the execution--of
poverty of incident and diction, want of individual reality of
character, and the total absence of wit, humor, or any species of
brilliancy. That Miss Baillie's plays are better suited to the sober
perusal of the closet than the bustle and animation of the theatre must
at once be admitted; but we think nobody can read even a single volume
of these remarkable works, without finding in it, besides the good
sense, good feeling, and intelligent morality to which her formidable
critic is fretted into limiting her claims, abundant proof of that deep
and intuitive knowledge of the mystery of man's nature, which can alone
fit its possessor for the successful delineation of either wayward
passion or noble sacrifice--of skillful and original creative power--of
delicate discrimination of character--and of a command of simple,
forcible, and eloquent language, that has not often been equaled, and,
perhaps, never surpassed.
But our limits forbid us to linger, and a mere enumeration of her
remaining productions is all they will permit. This is the less to be
regretted, that our object is rather to give a sketch, however slight
and imperfect, of her long and honored life, than to attempt a studied
analysis of works to which the world has long ago done justice. In 1821
were published her "Metrical Legends of Exalted Character," the subjects
of which were--"Wallace, the Scottish Chief," "Columbus," and "Lady
Griseld Baillie." They are written in irregular verse, avowedly after
the manner of Scott, and are among the noblest of her productions. Some
fine ballads complete the volume. In 1823 appeared a volume of "Poetical
Miscellanies," which had been much talked of beforehand. It included,
besides some slight pieces by Mrs. Hemans and Miss Catherine Fanshaw,
Scott's fine dramatic sketch of "Macduff's Cross." "The Martyr," a
tragedy on religion, appeared in 1826. It was immediately translated
into the Cingalese language; and, flattered by the appropriation, Miss
Baillie, in 1828, published another tragedy--"The Bride," a story of
Ceylon, and dedicated in particular to the Cingalese. Of the three
volumes of dramas written many years before, but not published till
1836--though they were eagerly welcomed by the public, and greatly
admired as dramatic poems--only two, the tragedies of "Henriquez" and
"The Separation," have ever been acted. These, besides many charming
songs, sung by our greatest minstrels, and always listened to with
delight by the public, and a small volume of "Fugitive Verses," complete
the long catalogue of her successful labors. They were collected by
herself, and published, with many additions and corrections, in the
popular form of one monster volume, only a few weeks before her death.
To return, for a brief space, to the course of her life. It was in the
autumn of 1820 that Miss Baillie paid her last visit to Scotland, and
passed those delightful days with Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, the
second of which is so pleasantly given in Mr. Lockhart's life of the
bard. Her friends again perceived a change in her manners. They had
become blander, and much more cordial. She had probably been now too
long admired and reverently looked up to, not to understand her own
position, and the encouragement which, essentially unassuming as she
was, would be necessary from her to reassure the timid and satisfy the
proud. She had magnanimously forgiven and lived down the unjust severity
of her Edinburgh critic, and now no longer refused to be made personally
known to him. He was presented to her by their mutual friend, the
amiable Dr. Morehead. They had much earnest and interesting talk
together, and from that hour to the end of their lives entertained for
each other a mutual and cordial esteem. After this Jeffrey seldom
visited London without indulging himself in a friendly pilgrimage to the
shrine of the secluded poetess; and it is pleasing to find him writing
of her in the following cordial way in later years: "_London, April_ 28,
1840.--I forgot to tell you that we have been twice out to Hampstead to
hunt out Joanna Baillie, and found her the other day as fresh, natural,
and amiable as ever--and as little like a Tragic Muse. Since old Mrs.
Brougham's death, I do not know so nice an old woman." And again, in
January 7, 1842--"We went to Hampstead, and paid a very pleasant visit
to Joanna Baillie, who is marvelous in health and spirits, and youthful
freshness and simplicity of feeling, and not a bit deaf, blind, or
torpid."
About two years after her last visit to Scotland, Miss Baillie had the
grief of losing her brother and beloved friend, Dr. Matthew Baillie,
who, after a life of remarkable activity and usefulness, died full of
honors in 1823. He left, besides a widow, who long survived him, a son
and daughter, who with their families have been the source of much
delightful and affectionate interest to the declining years of the
retired sisters. In the composition and careful revisal of her numerous
and varied works--in receiving at her modest home the friends she most
loved and respected, a list of whom would include many of the best-known
names of her time for talent and genius--in the active exercise of
friendship, benevolence, and charity--ever contented with the lot
assigned to her, and as grateful for the enjoyment of God's blessings as
she was submissive to his painful trials--her unusually complete life
glided calmly on, and was peacefully closed on the 23d of February last.
It will be easily believed, that in spite of all the natural modesty and
reserve of Miss Baillie's character, the impression made by the
appearance of one so highly gifted on those who had the happiness of
being admitted to her intimacy, was neither slight nor evanescent.
"Dear, venerable Joanna!" writes one of those, "I wish I could, for my
own or others' benefit, recall, and in any way fix, the features of your
countenance and mind! The ever-thoughtful brow--the eye that in old age
still dilated with expression, or was suffused with a tear. I never
felt afraid of her. How could I, having experienced nothing but the most
constant kindness and indulgence? I had heard of the 'awful stillness of
the Hampstead drawing-room;' and when I first saw her in her own quiet
home (she must have been then bordering on seventy, and I on twenty), I
remember likening myself to the devil in Milton. I felt 'how awful
goodness is--and virtue in her shape, how lovely!' One could not help
feeling a constant reverence for her worth, even more than an admiration
of her intellectual gifts. There was something, indeed, in her
appearance that quite contrasted with one's ideas of authorship, which
made one forget her works in her presence--nay, almost wonder if the
neat, precise old maid before one could really be the same person who
had painted the warm passion of a Basil, or soared to and sympathized
with the ambition of a Mohammed or a Paleologus."
In a little tract, published about twenty years before her death, she
indicates her religious creed. After studying the Scriptures
carefully--examining the gospels and epistles, and comparing them with
one another, which she thinks is all the unlearned can do--she
faithfully sets down every passage relating to the divinity and mission
of Christ; and, looking to the bearing of the whole, is able to rest her
mind upon the Arian doctrine, which supposes Him to be "a most
highly-gifted Being, who was with God before the creation of the world,
and by whose agency it probably was created, by power derived from
Almighty God." That she was no bigoted sectarian in religion, whatever
she may once have been in poetry, is pleasingly shown by the following
sentences. They occur in a letter to her ever esteemed and admired
friend Mrs. Siddons, to whom she had sent a copy of this tract. They do
honor to both the ladies:--"You have treated my little book very
handsomely, and done all that I wish people to do in regard to it; for
you have read the passages from Scripture, I am sure, with attention,
and have considered them with candor. That after doing so, your
opinions, on the main point, should be different from mine, is no
presumption that either of us is in the wrong, or that our humble,
sincere faith, though different, will not be equally accepted by the
great father and master of us all. Indeed, this tract was less intended
for Christians, whose faith is already fixed, than for those who,
supposing certain doctrines to be taught in Scripture (which do not,
when taken in one general view, appear to be taught there), and which
they can not bring their minds to agree to, throw off revealed religion
altogether. No part of your note, my dear madam, has pleased me more
than that short parenthesis ('for I still hold fast my own faith without
wavering'), and long may this be the case! The fruits of that faith, in
the course of your much-tried and honorable life, are too good to allow
any one to find fault with it."
A VISIT AT MR. WEBSTER'S.[11]
We have been much charmed with our visit to Green Harbor, Marshfield,
the beautiful domain of Mr. Webster. It is a charming and particularly
enjoyable place, almost close to the sea. The beach here is something
marvelous, eight miles in breadth, and of splendid, hard, floor-like
sand, and when this is covered by the rolling Atlantic, the waves all
but come up to the neighboring green, grassy fields. Very high tides
cover them.
This house is very prettily fitted up. It strikes me as being partly in
the English and partly in the French style, exceedingly comfortable, and
with a number of remarkably pretty drawing-rooms opening into one
another, which always is a judicious arrangement I think; it makes a
party agreeable and unformal. There are a variety of pictures and busts
by American artists, and some of them are exceedingly good. There is a
picture in the chief drawing-room of Mr. Webster's gallant son, who was
killed in the Mexican war. The two greatest of America's statesmen each
lost a son in that war, Mr. Clay and Mr. Webster. There is also a fine
picture of Mr. Webster himself, which, however, though a masterly
painting, does not do justice to the distinguished original. It was
executed some years ago; but I really think it is not so handsome as the
great statesman is now, with his Olympus-like brow, on which are throned
such divinities of thought, and with that wonderful countenance of might
and majesty.
The dining-room here is a charming apartment, with all its windows
opening to the ground, looking on the garden; and it is deliciously
cool, protected from the sun by the overshadowing masses of foliage of
the most magnificent weeping (American) elms. These colossal trees stand
just before the house, and are pre-eminently beautiful: they seem to
unite in their own gigantic persons the exquisite and exceeding grace of
the weeping willow, with the strength and grandeur of the towering elm.
I was told a curious fact last night. Every where, through the length
and breadth of the States, the sycamore trees this year are blighted and
dying.
The walls of the dining-room are adorned chiefly with English
engravings, among which there is one of my father. My bed-room is
profusely decorated with prints of different English country houses and
castles. The utmost good taste and refinement are perceptible in the
arrangements of the house, and a most enchanting place of residence it
is. All the domestics of the house are colored persons, which is very
seldom indeed the case in this part of the United States. Mr. Webster
tells me he considers them the best possible servants, much attached,
contented, and grateful, and he added, he would "fearlessly trust them
with _untold gold_." They certainly must be good ones, to judge by the
exquisite neatness and order of every thing in the establishment.
Mr. Webster's farm here consists of one thousand five hundred acres: he
has a hundred head of cattle.
Mr. F. Webster has been a good deal in India, and he was mentioning the
other evening that he was struck, in several of the English schools in
that country, by the tone of some political lessons that were taught
there. For instance, with regard to freedom and representation of the
people, &c.; the natives were forcibly reminded of their own
unrepresented state, by questions bearing on the subject--the United
States being instanced as an example of almost universal suffrage; Great
Britain itself of a less extensive elective franchise; France, of
whatever France was then; and Hindostan _especially_ pointed out as
having nothing of the kind, as if they really wished to make the poor
Hindoos discontented with their present state. To be sure they might as
well go to Persia and Turkey for their examples. Mr. F. Webster seemed
to think the Hindoos were beginning a little to turn their thoughts to
such political subjects.
While we were at dinner a day or two ago, a new guest, who had arrived
rather late from New York, walked in, being announced as a general. He
was a very military-looking man, indeed, with a formidable pair of
mustaches. Some turn in the conversation reminding me of the Mexican
war, I asked if General ---- had served in Mexico. Mr. ---- laughed, and
told me he was in the militia, and had never smelt powder in his life.
What enterprising travelers American ladies sometimes are! My
Atlantic-crossing performances seem very little in comparison with some
of their expeditions. It would not surprise me that any who have ever
gone to settle in the far-off portions of the country, and been doomed
to undergo such rugged experiences as those described in the American
work (by a lady) called "A New Home, Who'll Follow?" should laugh at
hardships and discomforts which might reasonably deter less seasoned and
experienced travelers; but it must be a very different case with those
habituated only to refinements and luxuries. Mr. Webster had told me he
had expected for some little time past the arrival of a lady, a relative
of his, who had lately left China for the United States; she was to
leave her husband in the Celestial flowery land, her intention being, I
believe, to see her relatives and friends at home, and then to rejoin
him in the course of some months in China.
Like the gallant chieftain spoken of before, he arrived late, and during
dinner the doors were thrown open and "Mrs. P----, from China," was
announced. She came in, and met her relatives and friends, as quietly as
if she had merely made a "petite promenade de quinze jours" (as the
French boasted they should do when they went to besiege Antwerp). She
seated herself at table, when a few questions were asked relative to her
voyage.
"Had you a good passage?"
"Very--altogether."
"How long?"
"About one hundred and three days" (I think this is correct, but I can
not answer to a day).
"Pleasant companions?"
"Very much so, and with books the time passed very agreeably."
All this was as quietly discussed as if the passage had been from Dover
to Boulogne, and the length of the time of absence a fortnight.
Mr. Webster was good enough to drive me out yesterday, and a most
splendid drive we had. At one part, from a rather high eminence, we had
a glorious panoramic view: it was really sublime: ocean, forest, hill,
valley, promontory, river, field, glade, and hollow, were spread before
us; altogether they formed a truly magnificent prospect. One almost
seemed to be looking into boundless space. We paused at this spot a
little while to admire the beautiful scene. How meet a companion the
giant Atlantic seemed for that mighty mind, to some of whose noble
sentiments I had just been listening with delight and veneration, and
yet how far beyond the widest sweep of ocean, is the endless expanse of
the immortal intellect--time-overcoming--creation-compelling!
However, while I was thus up in the clouds, they (condescendingly
determining, I suppose, to return my call) suddenly came down upon us,
and unmercifully. St. Swithin! what a rain it was! The Atlantic
is a beautiful object to look at, but when either he, or some
cousin-german above, takes it into his head to act the part of
shower-bath-extraordinary to you, it is not so pleasant. My thoughts
immediately fled away from ocean (except the _descending_ one), forest,
hill, dale, and all the circumjacent scenery, to centre ignominiously on
my bonnet, to say nothing of the tip of my nose, which was drenched and
drowned completely in a half second. My vail--humble defense against the
fury of the elements!--accommodated its dripping self to the features of
my face, like the black mask of some desperate burglar, driven against
it, also, by the wind, that blew a "few," I can assure the reader.
How Mr. Webster contrived to drive, I know not, but drive he did, at a
good pace too, for "after us," indeed, was "the deluge;" I could
scarcely see him; a wall of water separated us, but ever and anon I
heard faintly, through the hissing, and splashing, and lashing, and
pattering of the big rain, his deep, sonorous voice, recommending me to
keep my cloak well about me, which no mortal cloak of any spirit will
ever allow you to do at such needful moments--not it! "My kingdom for a
pin."
When we arrived at Green Harbour, we found Mrs. Webster very anxious for
the poor rain-beaten wayfarers. She took every kind care of me, and,
except a very slight _soupcon_ of a cold, the next morning, I did not
suffer any inconvenience. Mr. Webster had complained of not being very
well before (I think a slight attack of hay-asthma), but I was glad to
meet him soon afterward at dinner, not at all the worse for the
tempestuous drive; and for my part, I could most cordially thank him for
the glorious panorama he had shown me, and the splendid drive through
what seemed almost interminable woods: and (since we had got safely
through it), I was not sorry to have witnessed the very excellent
imitation of the Flood which had been presented before (and some of it
into) my astonished eyes. Mr. Webster told me the drive through the
woods would have been extended, but for the rain, ten miles!
I can not describe to you the almost adoration with which Mr. Webster is
regarded in New England. The newspapers chronicle his every movement,
and constantly contain anecdotes respecting him, and he invariably is
treated with the greatest respect by everybody, and, in fact, his
intellectual greatness seems all but worshiped. Massachusetts boasts,
with a commendable pride and exultation, that he is one of her children.
A rather curious anecdote has been going the round of the papers lately.
It appears Mr. Webster was at Martha's Vineyard a short time ago, and he
drove up to the door of the principal hotel, at Edgartown, the capital,
accompanied by some of his family, and attended, as usual, by his
colored servants. Now, it must be observed that Mr. Webster has a
swarthy, almost South-Spanish complexion, and when he put his head out
of the window and inquired for apartments, the keeper of the hotel,
casting dismayed glances, first at the domestics of different shades of
sable and mahogany, and then at the fine dark face of Mr. Webster,
excused himself from providing them with accommodation, declaring he
made it a rule never to receive any _colored persons_. (This in New
England, if the tale be true!). The great statesman and his family were
about to seek for accommodation elsewhere--thinking the hotel-keeper
alluded to his servants--when the magical name of "glorious Dan"
becoming known, mine host, penitent and abashed, after profuse
apologies, intreated him to honor his house with his presence. "All's
well that ends well."
One can not wonder at the Americans' extreme admiration of the genius
and the statesman-like qualities of their distinguished countryman, his
glorious and electrifying eloquence, his great powers of ratiocination,
his solid judgment, his stores of knowledge, and his large and
comprehensive mind--a mind of that real expansion and breadth which,
heaven knows, too few public men can boast of.
FOOTNOTE:
[11] From Lady Emeline Stuart Wortley's "Travels in the United States in
1849-50," in the press of Harper and Brothers.
THE JEWELED WATCH.
Among the many officers who, at the close of the Peninsular war, retired
on half-pay, was Captain Dutton of the --th regiment. He had lately
married the pretty, portionless daughter of a deceased brother officer;
and filled with romantic visions of rural bliss and "love in a cottage,"
the pair, who were equally unskilled in the practical details of
housekeeping, fancied they could live in affluence, and enjoy all the
luxuries of life, on the half-pay which formed their sole income.
They took up their abode near a pleasant town in the south of England,
and for a time got on pretty well; but when at the end of the first year
a sweet little boy made his appearance, and at the end of the second an
equally sweet little girl, they found that nursemaids, baby-linen,
doctors, and all the etceteras appertaining to the introduction and
support of these baby-visitors, formed a serious item in their yearly
expenditure.
For a while they struggled on without falling into debt; but at length
their giddy feet slipped into that vortex which has engulfed so many,
and their affairs began to assume a very gloomy aspect. About this time
an adventurer named Smith, with whom Captain Dutton became casually
acquainted, and whose plausible manners and appearance completely
imposed on the frank, unsuspecting soldier, proposed to him a plan for
insuring, as he represented it, a large and rapid fortune. This was to
be effected by embarking considerable capital in the manufacture of some
new kind of spirit-lamps, which Smith assured the captain would, when
once known, supersede the use of candles and oil-lamps throughout the
kingdom.
To hear him descant on the marvelous virtues and money-making qualities
of his lamp, one would be inclined to take him for the lineal descendant
of Aladdin, and inheritor of that scampish individual's precious
heirloom. Our modern magician, however, candidly confessed that he still
wanted the "slave of the lamp," or, in other words, ready money, to set
the invention a-going; and he at length succeeded in persuading the
unlucky captain to sell out of the army, and invest the price of his
commission in this luminous venture. If Captain Dutton had refused to
pay the money until he should be able to pronounce correctly the name of
the invention, he would have saved his cash, at the expense probably of
a semi-dislocation of his jaws; for the lamp rejoiced in an eight
syllabled title, of which each vocable belonged to a different
tongue--the first being Greek, the fourth Syriac, and the last taken
from the aboriginal language of New Zealand; the intervening sounds
believed to be respectively akin to Latin, German, Sanscrit, and Malay.
Notwithstanding, however, this _prestige_ of a name, the lamp was a
decided failure: its light was brilliant enough; but the odor it exhaled
in burning was so overpowering, so suggestive of an evil origin, so
every way abominable, that those adventurous purchasers who tried it
once, seldom submitted their olfactory nerves to a second ordeal. The
sale and manufacture of the lamp and its accompanying spirit were
carried on by Mr. Smith alone in one of the chief commercial cities of
England, he having kindly arranged to take all the trouble off his
partner's hands, and only requiring him to furnish the necessary funds.
For some time the accounts of the business transmitted to Captain Dutton
were most flourishing, and he and his gentle wife fondly thought they
were about to realize a splendid fortune for their little ones; but at
length they began to feel anxious for the arrival of the cent.-per-cent.
profits which had been promised, but which never came; and Mr. Smith's
letters suddenly ceasing, his partner one morning set off to inspect the
scene of operations.
Arrived at L----, he repaired to the street where the manufactory was
situated, and found it shut up! Mr. Smith had gone off to America,
considerably in debt to those who had been foolish enough to trust him;
and leaving more rent due on the premises than the remaining stock in
trade of the unpronounceable lamp would pay. As to the poor ex-captain,
he returned to his family a ruined man.
But strength is often found in the depths of adversity, courage in
despair; and both our hero and his wife set resolutely to work to
support themselves and their children. Happily they owed no debts. On
selling out, Captain Dutton had honorably paid every farthing he owed in
the world before intrusting the remainder of his capital to the
unprincipled Smith; and now this upright conduct was its own reward.
He wrote a beautiful hand, and while seeking some permanent employment,
earned a trifle occasionally by copying manuscripts, and engrossing in
an attorney's office. His wife worked diligently with her needle; but
the care of a young family, and the necessity of dispensing with a
servant, hindered her from adding much to their resources.
Notwithstanding their extreme poverty, they managed to preserve a decent
appearance, and to prevent even their neighbors from knowing the straits
to which they were often reduced. Their little cottage was always
exquisitely clean and neat; and the children, despite of scanty
clothing, and often insufficient food, looked as they were, the sons and
daughters of a gentleman.
It was Mrs. Dutton's pride to preserve the respectable appearance of her
husband's wardrobe; and often did she work till midnight at turning his
coat and darning his linen, that he might appear as usual among his
equals. She often urged him to visit his former acquaintances, who had
power to befriend him, and solicit their interest in obtaining some
permanent employment; but the soldier, who was as brave as a lion when
facing the enemy, shrank with the timidity of a girl from exposing
himself to the humiliation of a refusal, and could not bear to confess
his urgent need. He had too much delicacy to press his claims; he was
too proud to be importunate; and so others succeeded where he failed.
It happened that the general under whom he had served, and who had lost
sight of him since his retirement from the service, came to spend a few
months at the watering-place near which the Duttons resided, and hired
for the season a handsome furnished house. Walking one morning on the
sands, in a disconsolate mood, our hero saw, with surprise, his former
commander approaching; and with a sudden feeling of false shame, he
tried to avoid a recognition. But the quick eye of General Vernon was
not to be eluded, and intercepting him with an outstretched hand, he
exclaimed--"What, Dutton! is that you? It seems an age since we met.
Living in this neighborhood, eh?"
"Yes, general; I have been living here since I retired from the
service."
"And you sold out, I think--to please the mistress, I suppose, Dutton?
Ah! these ladies have a great deal to answer for. Tell Mrs. Dutton I
shall call on her some morning, and read her a lecture for taking you
from us."
Poor Dutton's look of confusion, as he pictured the general's visit
surprising his wife in the performance of her menial labors, rather
surprised the veteran; but its true cause did not occur to him. He had
had a great regard for Dutton, considering him one of the best and
bravest officers under his command, and was sincerely pleased at meeting
him again; so, after a ten minutes' colloquy, during the progress of
which the ex-soldier, like a war-horse who pricks up his ears at the
sound of the trumpet, became gay and animated, as old associations of
the camp and field came back on him, the general shook him heartily by
the hand, and said--"You'll dine with me to-morrow, Dutton, and meet a
few of your old friends? Come, I'll take no excuse; you must not turn
hermit on our hands."
At first Dutton was going to refuse, but on second thoughts accepted the
invitation, not having, indeed, any good reason to offer for declining
it. Having taken leave of the general, therefore, he proceeded toward
home, and announced their rencontre to his wife. She, poor woman,
immediately took out his well-saved suit, and occupied herself in
repairing, as best she might, the cruel ravages of time; as well as in
starching and ironing an already snowy shirt to the highest degree of
perfection.
Next day, in due time, he arrived at General Vernon's handsome temporary
dwelling, and received a cordial welcome. A dozen guests, civilians as
well as soldiers, sat down to a splendid banquet. After dinner, the
conversation happened to turn on the recent improvements in arts and
manufactures; and comparisons were drawn between the relative talent for
invention displayed by artists of different countries. Watch-making
happening to be mentioned as one of the arts which had during late years
been wonderfully improved, the host desired his valet to fetch a most
beautiful little watch, a perfect _chef-d'oeuvre_ of workmanship, which
he had lately purchased in Paris; and which was less valuable for its
richly jeweled case, than for the exquisite perfection of the mechanism
it enshrined. The trinket passed from hand to hand, and was greatly
admired by the guests; then the conversation turned on other topics,
and many subjects were discussed, until they adjourned to the
drawing-room to take coffee.
After sitting there a while, the general suddenly recollected his watch,
and ringing for his valet, desired him to take it from the dining-room
table, where it had been left, and restore it to its proper place. In a
few moments the servant returned, looking somewhat frightened: he could
not find the watch. General Vernon, surprised, went himself to search,
but was not more fortunate.
"Perhaps, sir, you or one of the company may have carried it by mistake
into the drawing-room?"
"I think not; but we will try."
Another search, in which all the guests joined, but without avail.
"What I fear," said the general, "is that some one by chance may tread
upon and break it."
General Vernon was a widower, and this costly trinket was intended as a
present to his only child, a daughter, who had lately married a wealthy
baronet.
"We will none of us leave this room until it is found!" exclaimed one of
the gentlemen with ominous emphasis.
"That decision," said a young man, who was engaged that night to a ball,
"might quarter us on our host for an indefinite time. I propose a much
more speedy and satisfactory expedient: let us all be searched."
This suggestion was received with laughter and acclamations; and the
young man, presenting himself as the first victim, was searched by the
valet, who, for the nonce, enacted the part of custom-house officer. The
general, who at first opposed this piece of practical pleasantry, ended
by laughing at it; and each new inspection of pockets produced fresh
bursts of mirth. Captain Dutton alone took no share in what was going
on: his hand trembled, his brow darkened, and he stood as much apart as
possible. At length his turn came; the other guests had all displayed
the contents of their pockets, so with one accord, and amid renewed
laughter, they surrounded him, exclaiming that he must be the guilty
one, as he was the last. The captain, pale and agitated, muttered some
excuses, unheard amid the uproar.
"Now for it, Johnson!" cried one to the valet.
"Johnson, we're watching you!" said another; "produce the culprit."
The servant advanced; but Dutton crossing his arms on his breast,
declared in an agitated voice, that, except by violence, no one should
lay a hand on him. A very awkward silence ensued, which the general
broke by saying: "Captain Dutton is right; this child's play has lasted
long enough. I claim exemption for him and for myself."
Dutton, trembling and unable to speak, thanked his kind host by a
grateful look, and then took an early opportunity of withdrawing;
General Vernon did not make the slightest remark on his departure, and
the remaining guests, through politeness, imitated his reserve; but the
mirth of the evening was gone, every face looked anxious, and the host
himself seemed grave and thoughtful.
Captain Dutton spent some time in wandering restlessly on the sands
before he returned home. It was late when he entered the cottage, and
his wife could not repress an exclamation of affright when she saw his
pale and troubled countenance.
"What has happened?" cried she.
"Nothing," replied her husband, throwing himself on a chair, and laying
a small packet on the table. "You have cost me very dear," he said,
addressing it. In vain did his wife try to soothe him, and obtain an
explanation. "Not now, Jane," he said; "to-morrow we shall see.
To-morrow I will tell you all."
Early next morning he went to General Vernon's house. Although he walked
resolutely, his mind was sadly troubled. How could he present himself?
In what way would he be received? How could he speak to the general
without risking the reception of some look or word which he could never
pardon? The very meeting with Johnson was to be dreaded.
He knocked; another servant opened the door, and instantly gave him
admission. "_This_ man, at all events," he thought, "knows nothing of
what has passed." Will the general receive him? Yes; he is ushered into
his dressing-room. Without daring to raise his eyes, the poor man began
to speak in a low hurried voice.
"General Vernon, you thought my conduct strange last night; and painful
and humiliating as its explanation will be, I feel it due to you and to
myself to make it--"
His auditor tried to speak, but Dutton went on, without heeding the
interruption. "My misery is at its height: that is my only excuse. My
wife and our four little ones are actually starving!"
"My friend!" cried the general with emotion. But Dutton proceeded.
"I can not describe my feelings yesterday while seated at your luxurious
table. I thought of my poor Jane, depriving herself of a morsel of bread
to give it to her baby; of my little pale thin Annie, whose delicate
appetite rejects the coarse food which is all we can give her; and in an
evil hour I transferred two _pates_ from my plate to my pocket, thinking
they would tempt my little darling to eat. I should have died of shame
had these things been produced from my pocket, and your guests and
servant made witnesses of my cruel poverty. Now, general, you know all;
and but for the fear of being suspected by you of a crime, my distress
should never have been known!"
"A life of unblemished honor," replied his friend, "has placed you above
the reach of suspicion; besides, look here!" And he showed the missing
watch. "It is I," continued he, "who must ask pardon of you all. In a
fit of absence I had dropped it into my waistcoat pocket, where, in
Johnson's presence, I discovered it while undressing."
"If I had only known!" murmured poor Dutton.
"Don't regret what has occurred," said the general, pressing his hand
kindly. "It has been the means of acquainting me with what you should
never have concealed from an old friend, who, please God, will find some
means to serve you."
In a few days Captain Dutton received another invitation to dine with
the general. All the former guests were assembled, and their host, with
ready tact, took occasion to apologize for his strange forgetfulness
about the watch. Captain Dutton found a paper within the folds of his
napkin: it was his nomination to an honorable and lucrative post, which
insured competence and comfort to himself and his family.
NEW PROOF OF THE EARTH'S ROTATION.
"The earth does move notwithstanding," whispered Galileo, leaving the
dungeon of the Inquisition: by which he meant his friends to understand,
that if the earth did move, the fact would remain so in spite of his
punishment. But a less orthodox assembly than the conclave of Cardinals
might have been staggered by the novelty of the new philosophy.
According to Laplace, the apparent diurnal phenomena of the heavens
would be the same either from the revolution of the sun or the earth;
and more than one reason made strongly in favor of the prevalent opinion
that the earth, not the sun, was stationary. First, it was most
agreeable to the impression of the senses; and next, to disbelieve in
the fixity of the solid globe, was not only to eject from its pride of
place our little planet, but to disturb the long-cherished sentiment
that we ourselves are the centre--the be-all and end-all of the
universe. However, the truth will out; and this is its great distinction
from error, that while every new discovery adds to its strength,
falsehood is weakened and at last driven from the field.
That the earth revolves round the sun, and rotates on its polar axis,
have long been the settled canons of our system. But the rotation of the
earth has been rendered _visible_ by a practical demonstration, which
has drawn much attention in Paris, and is beginning to excite interest
in this country. The inventor is M. Foucault; and the following
description has been given of the mode of proof:
"At the centre of the dome of the Pantheon a fine wire is attached, from
which a sphere of metal, four or five inches in diameter, is suspended
so as to hang near the floor of the building. This apparatus is put in
vibration after the manner of a pendulum. Under and concentrical with
it, is placed a circular table, some twenty feet in diameter, the
circumference of which is divided into degrees, minutes, &c., and the
divisions numbered. Now, supposing the earth to have the diurnal motion
imputed to it, and which explains the phenomena of day and night, the
plane in which this pendulum vibrates will not be affected by this
motion, but the table over which the pendulum is suspended will
continually change its position in virtue of the diurnal motion, so as
to make a complete revolution round its centre. Since, then, the table
thus revolves, and the pendulum which vibrates over it does not revolve,
the consequence is, that a line traced upon the table by a point
projecting from the bottom of the ball will change its direction
relatively to the table from minute to minute and from hour to hour, so
that if such point were a pencil, and that paper were spread upon the
table, the course formed by this pencil would form a system of lines
radiating from the centre of the table. The practiced eye of a correct
observer, especially if aided by a proper optical instrument, may
actually see the motion which the table has in common with the earth
under the pendulum between two successive vibrations. It is, in fact,
apparent that the ball, or rather the point attached to the bottom of
the ball, does not return precisely to the same point of the
circumference of the table after two successive vibrations. Thus is
rendered visible the motion which the table has in common with the
earth."
Crowds are said to flock daily to the Pantheon to witness this
interesting experiment. It has been successfully repeated at the Russell
Institution, and preparations are being made in some private houses for
the purpose. A lofty staircase or room twelve or fourteen feet high
would suffice; but the dome of St. Paul's, or, as suggested by Mr.
Sylvestre in the _Times_, the transept of the Crystal Palace, offers the
most eligible site. The table would make its revolution at the rate of
15 deg. per hour. Explanations, however, will be necessary from lecturers
and others who give imitations of M. Foucault's ingenuity, to render it
intelligible to those unacquainted with mathematics, or with the laws of
gravity and spherical motion. For instance, it will not be readily
understood by every one why the pendulum should vibrate in the same
plane, and not partake of the earth's rotation in common with the table;
but this could be _shown_ with a bullet suspended by a silk-worm's
thread. Next, the apparent horizontal revolution of the table round its
centre will be incomprehensible to many, as representative of its own
and the earth's motion round its axis. Perhaps Mr. Wyld's colossal globe
will afford opportunities for simplifying these perplexities to the
unlearned.
The pendulum is indeed an extraordinary instrument, and has been a
useful handmaid to science. We are familiar with it as the
time-regulator of our clocks, and the ease with which they may be made
to go faster or slower by adjusting its length. But neither this nor the
Pantheon elucidation constitutes its sole application. By it the
latitude maybe approximately ascertained, the density of the earth's
strata in different places, and its elliptical eccentricity of figure.
The noble Florentine already quoted was its inventor; and it is related
of Galileo, while a boy, that he was the first to observe how the height
of the vaulted roof of a church might be measured by the times of the
vibration of the chandeliers suspended at different altitudes. Were the
earth perforated from London to our antipodes, and the air exhausted, a
ball dropped through would at the centre acquire a velocity sufficient
to carry it to the opposite side, whence it would again descend, and so
oscillate forward and backward from one side of the globe's surface to
the other in the manner of a pendulum. Very likely the Cardinals of the
Vatican would deem this heresy, or "flat blasphemy."
To clearly appreciate the following popular explanation, it will be
necessary for the reader to convince himself of one property of the
pendulum, viz., that of constantly vibrating in the same plane. Let it
be imagined that a pendulum is suspended over a common table, _the parts
bearing the pendulum being also attached to the table_. Suppose, also,
that the table can move freely on its centre like a music-stool: the
pendulum being put in motion will continue to move in the same plane
between the eye and any object on the walls of the room, although the
table is made to revolve, and during one revolution will have _radiated_
through the whole circumference. A few moments' reflection are only
necessary to prove this.
[Illustration: FIGURE 1. Rotation of the earth--Diagram 1]
The above figure represents a plane or table on the top of a globe, or
at the north pole of the earth. To this table are fixed two rods, from
which is suspended a pendulum, moving freely in any direction. The
pendulum is made to vibrate in the path _a b_; it will continue to
vibrate in this line, and have no apparent circular or angular motion
until the globe revolves, when it will appear to have vibrated through
the entire circle, _to an object fixed on the table and moving with it_.
It is scarcely necessary to say the circular motion of the pendulum is
only apparent, since it is the table that revolves--the apparent motion
of the pendulum in a circle being the same as the apparent motion of the
land to a person on board ship, or the recession of the earth to a
person in a balloon. The pendulum vibrates always in the same plane at
the pole, and in planes parallel to each other at any intermediate
point.
[Illustration: FIG. 2. Rotation of the earth--Diagram 2]
Fig. 2 represents the earth or a globe revolving once in twenty-four
hours on its axis (S N). It is divided, on its upper half, by lines
parallel to each other, representing the latitudes 60 degrees, 30
degrees, and the equator, where the latitude is nothing. The lines _a
b_, at 90, 60, 30, and 0 represent the planes of those latitudes; or, in
more familiar terms, tables, over which a pendulum is supposed to
vibrate, and moving with them in their revolutions round the axis (S N).
This being clearly understood, the next object is to show how the
pendulum moves round the tables, for each of the latitudes; also to show
the gradual diminution of its circular motion as it approaches the
equator (E E), where, as was before observed, the latitude is nothing.
A pendulum vibrating over the plane, or table (_a b_), on the top of the
globe, has been already shown (by Fig. 1) to go round the entire circle
in twenty-four hours; or to have an angular velocity of 90, or quarter
of a circle, in six hours. The plane (_a b_), at 60, has an inclination
to the axis (S N), which will cause a pendulum vibrating over it to move
through its circumference at a diminished rate. This will be shown by
reference to the figure. The globe is revolving in the direction from
left to right; the pendulum is vibrating over the line _a b_, which, at
all times during its course, is parallel with the first path of
vibration. The plane may now be supposed to have moved during six hours,
or to have gone through a quarter of an entire revolution, equal to 90;
but the pendulum has only moved from _c_ to _a_, considerably less than
90. Again, if the plane is carried another six hours, making together
180, the Figure shows the pendulum to have moved only from _c_ to _a_,
considerably less than 180. The same remarks apply to the lower latitude
of 30, where, it will be seen, the circular, or angular motion of the
pendulum, is considerably slower than in the latitude of 60, continuing
to diminish, until it becomes nothing at the equator, where it is
clearly shown by the Figure to be always parallel to itself, and
constant over its path of vibration through the entire circle.
ADVENTURE WITH A GRIZZLY BEAR.[12]
I now took a long farewell of the horses, and turned northward,
selecting a line close in by the base of the hills, going along at an
improved pace, with a view of reaching the trading-post the same night;
but stopping in a gully to look for water, I found a little pool,
evidently scratched out by a bear, as there were foot-prints and
claw-marks about it; and I was aware instinct prompts that brute where
water is nearest the surface, when he scratches until he comes to it.
This was one of very large size, the foot-mark behind the toes being
full nine inches; and although I had my misgivings about the prudence of
a _tete-a-tete_ with a great grizzly bear, still the "better part of
valor" was overcome, as it often is, by the anticipated honor and glory
of a single combat, and conquest of such a ferocious beast. I was well
armed, too, with my favorite rifle, a Colt's revolver, that never
disappointed me, and a non-descript weapon, a sort of cross betwixt a
claymore and a bowie-knife; so, after capping afresh, hanging the bridle
on the horn of the saddle, and, staking my mule, I followed the trail up
a gully, and much sooner than I expected came within view and good
shooting distance of Bruin, who was seated erect, with his side toward
me, in front of a manzanita bush, making a repast on his favorite berry.
The sharp click of the cock causing him to turn quickly round, left
little time for deliberation; so, taking a ready good aim at the region
of the heart, I let drive, the ball (as I subsequently found) glancing
along the ribs, entering the armpit, and shattering smartly some of the
shoulder bones. I exulted as I saw him stagger and come to his side; the
next glance, however, revealed him, to my dismay, on all fours, in
direct pursuit, but going lame; so I bolted for the mule, sadly
encumbered with a huge pair of Mexican spurs, the nervous noise of the
crushing brush close in my rear convincing me he was fast gaining on me;
I therefore dropped my rifle, putting on fresh steam, and reaching the
rope, pulled up the picket-pin, and springing into the saddle with
merely a hold of the lariat, plunged the spurs into the mule, which,
much to my affright produced a kick and a retrograde movement; but in
the exertion having got a glimpse of my pursuer, uttering; snort of
terror, he went off at a pace I did not think him capable of, soon
widening the distance betwixt us and the bear; but having no means of
guiding his motions, he brought me violently in contact with the arm of
a tree, which unhorsed and stunned me exceedingly. Scrambling to my feet
as well as I could, I saw my relentless enemy close at hand, leaving me
the only alternative of ascending a tree; but, in my hurried and nervous
efforts, I had scarcely my feet above his reach, when he was right
under, evidently enfeebled by the loss of blood, as the exertion made it
well out copiously. After a moment's pause, and a fierce glare upward
from his blood-shot eyes, he clasped the trunk; but I saw his endeavors
to climb were crippled by the wounded shoulder. However, by the aid of
his jaws, he just succeeded in reaching the first branch with his sound
arm, and was working convulsively to bring up the body, when, with a
well-directed blow from my cutlass, I completely severed the tendons of
the foot, and he instantly fell with a dreadful souse and horrific
growl, the blood spouting up as if impelled from a jet; he rose again
somewhat tardily, and limping round the tree with upturned eyes, kept
tearing off the bark with his tusks. However, watching my opportunity,
and leaning downward, I sent a ball from my revolver with such good
effect immediately behind the head, that he dropped; and my nerves being
now rather more composed, I leisurely distributed the remaining five
balls in the most vulnerable parts of his carcase.
By this time I saw the muscular system totally relaxed, so I descended
with confidence, and found him quite dead, and myself not a little
enervated with the excitement and the effects of my wound, which bled
profusely from the temple; so much so, that I thought an artery was
ruptured. I bound up my head as well as I could, loaded my revolver
anew, and returned for my rifle; but as evening was approaching, and my
mule gone, I had little time to survey the dimensions of my fallen foe,
and no means of packing much of his flesh. I therefore hastily hacked
off a few steaks from his thigh, and hewing off one of his hind feet as
a sure trophy of victory, I set out toward the trading-post, which I
reached about midnight, my friend and my truant mule being there before
me, but no horses.
I exhibited the foot of my fallen foe in great triumph, and described
the conflict with due emphasis and effect to the company, who arose to
listen; after which I made a transfer of the flesh to the traders, on
condition that there was not to be any charge for the hotel or the use
of the mule. There was an old experienced French trapper of the party,
who, judging from the size of the foot, set down the weight of the bear
at 1500 lbs., which, he said they frequently over-run, he himself, as
well as Colonel Fremont's exploring party, having killed several that
came to 2000 lbs. He advised me, should I again be pursued by a bear,
and have no other means of escape, to ascend a small-girthed tree, which
they can not get up, for, not having any central joint in the fore-legs,
they can not climb any with a branchless stem that does not fully fill
their embrace; and in the event of not being able to accomplish the
ascent before my pursuer overtook me, to place my back against it, when,
if it and I did not constitute a bulk capable of filling his hug, I
might have time to rip out his entrails before he could kill me, being
in a most favorable posture for the operation. They do not generally use
their mouth in the destruction of their victims, but, hugging them
closely, lift one of the hind-feet, which are armed with tremendous
claws, and tear out the bowels. The Frenchman's advice reads rationally
enough, and is a feasible theory on the art of evading unbearable
compression; but, unfortunately, in the haunts of that animal those slim
juvenile saplings are rarely met with, and a person closely confronted
with such a grizzly _vis-a-vis_ is not exactly in a tone of nerve for
surgical operations.
FOOTNOTE:
[12] From Kelly's "Excursion to California."
A VISIT TO THE NORTH CAPE.
Having hired an open boat and a crew of three hands, I left Hammerfest
at nine P.M., July 2, 1850, to visit the celebrated Nordkap. The boat
was one of the peculiar Nordland build--very long, narrow, sharp, but
strongly built, with both ends shaped alike, and excellently adapted
either for rowing or sailing. We had a strong head-wind from northeast
at starting, and rowed across the harbor to the spot where the house of
the British consul, Mr. Robertson, a Scotchman, is situated, near to the
little battery (_faestning_) which was erected to defend the approach to
Hammerfest, subsequently to the atrocious seizure of the place by two
English ships during the last war. Mr. Robertson kindly lent me a number
of reindeer skins to lie on at the bottom of the boat; and spreading
them on the rough stones we carried for ballast, I was thus provided
with an excellent bed. I have slept for a fortnight at a time on
reindeer skins, and prefer them to any feather bed. Mr. Robertson warned
me that I should find it bitterly cold at sea, and expressed surprise at
my light clothing; but I smiled, and assured him that my hardy wandering
life had habituated me to bear exposure of every kind with perfect
impunity. By an ingenious contrivance of a very long tiller, the pilot
steered with one hand and rowed with the other, and we speedily cleared
the harbor, and crept round the coast of Qual Oe (Whale-Island), on
which Hammerfest is situated. About midnight, when the sun was shining a
considerable way above the horizon, the view of a solitary little rock,
in the ocean ahead, bathed in a flood of crimson glory, was most
impressive. We proceeded with a tolerable wind until six in the morning,
when heavy squalls of wind and torrents of rain began to beat upon us,
forcing us to run, about two hours afterward, into Havoesund; a very
narrow strait between the island of Havoee and the mainland of Finmark.
As it was impossible to proceed in such a tempest, we ran the boat to a
landing-place in front of the summer residence of Herr Ulich, a great
magnate in Finmark. This is undoubtedly the most northern gentleman's
house in the world. It is a large, handsome, wooden building, painted
white, and quite equal in appearance to the better class of villas in
the North. The family only reside there during the three summer months;
and extensive warehouses for the trade in dried cod or stockfish, &c.
are attached. My crew obtained shelter in an outbuilding, and I
unhesitatingly sought the hospitality of the mansion. Herr Ulich
himself was absent, being at his house at Hammerfest, but his amiable
lady, and her son and two daughters, received me with a frank cordiality
as great as though I were an old friend; and in a few minutes I was
thoroughly at home. Here I found a highly accomplished family,
surrounded with the luxuries and refinements of civilization, dwelling
amid the wildest solitudes, and so near the North Cape, that it can be
distinctly seen from their house in clear weather. Madame Ulich and her
daughters spoke nothing but Norwegian; but the son, a very intelligent
young man of about nineteen, spoke English very well. He had recently
returned from a two years' residence at Archangel, where the merchants
of Finmark send their sons to learn the Russian language, as it is of
vital importance for their trading interests--the greater portion of the
trade of Finmark being with the White-Sea districts, which supply them
with meal and other necessaries in exchange for stockfish, &c. Near as
they were to the North Cape, it was a singular fact that Herr Ulich and
his son had only once visited it; and the former had resided ten years
at Havoesund--not more than twenty-five miles distant--ere that visit
took place! They said that very few travelers visited the Cape; and,
strange to say, the majority are French and Italians.
I declined to avail myself of the pressing offer of a bed, and spent the
morning in conversation with this very interesting family. They had a
handsome drawing-room, containing a grand colossal bust in bronze of
Louis-Philippe, King of the French. The ex-king, about fifty-five years
ago, when a wandering exile (under the assumed name of Mueller) visited
the North Cape. He experienced hospitality from many residents in
Finmark, and he had slept in this very room; but the house itself then
stood on Maas Island, a few miles further north. Many years ago, the
present proprietor removed the entire structure to Havoee; and his son
assured me the room itself was preserved almost exactly as it was when
Louis Philippe used it, though considerable additions and improvements
have been made to other parts of the house. About sixteen years ago,
Paul Garnard, the president of the commission shortly afterward sent by
the French government to explore Greenland and Iceland, called on Herr
Ulich, and said he was instructed by the king to ask what present he
would prefer from his majesty as a memorial of his visit to the North. A
year afterward, the corvette of war, _La Recherche_, on its way to
Iceland, &c. put into Havoesund, and left the bust in question, as the
express gift of the king. It is a grand work of art, executed in the
finest style, and is intrinsically very valuable, although of course the
circumstances under which it became Herr Ulich's property add
inestimably to its worth in his eyes. The latter gentleman is himself a
remarkable specimen of the highly-educated Norwegian. He has traveled
over all Europe, and speaks, more or less, most civilized languages. On
my return to Hammerfest I enjoyed the pleasure of his society, and his
eager hospitality; and he favored me with an introduction for the
Norwegian states minister at Stockholm. I merely mention these things to
show the warm-hearted kindness which even an unintroduced, unknown
traveler may experience in the far North. Herr Ulich has resided
twenty-five years at Havoesund; and he says he thinks that not more than
six English travelers have visited the North Cape within twenty
years--that is to say, by way of Hammerfest; but parties of English
gentlemen occasionally proceed direct in their yachts.
Fain would my new friends have delayed my departure; but, wind and tide
serving, I resumed my voyage at noon, promising to call on my return. In
sailing through the sound, I noticed a neat little wooden church, the
most northern in Finmark. A minister preaches in it to the Fins and Laps
at intervals, which depend much on the state of the weather; but I
believe once a month in summer. The congregation come from a circle of
immense extent. If I do not err, Mr. Robert Chambers mentions in his
tour having met with the clergyman of this wild parish.
Passing Maas Oe, we sailed across an open arm of the sea, and reached
the coast of Mager Oe, the island on which the North Cape is situated.
Mager Oe is perhaps twenty miles long by a dozen broad, and is separated
from the extreme northern mainland of Finmark by Mageroesund. Although a
favorable wind blew, my crew persisted in running into a harbor here,
where there is a very extensive fish-curing establishment, called
Gjesvohr, belonging to Messrs Agaard of Hammerfest. There are several
houses, sheds, &c. and immense tiers of the split stockfish drying
across horizontal poles. At this time about two hundred people were
employed, and one or two of the singular three-masted White-Sea ships
were in the harbor, with many Finmark fishing-boats. The water was
literally black with droves of young cod, which might have been killed
by dozens as they basked near the surface. My men loitered hour after
hour; but as I was most anxious to visit the North Cape when the
midnight sun illumined it, I induced them to proceed.
On resuming our voyage, we coasted along the shore, which was one mass
of savage, precipitous rock, until the black massive Cape loomed very
distinctly in the horizon. I landed at a bluff headland called Tunoes,
and collected a few flowers growing in crevices in the rock. A little
beyond that, in Sandbugt, a fragment of wreck was discernible, and I
ordered the boat to be pulled toward it. It proved to be a portion of
the keel of a large ship, about fifty feet long, and much worn. It had
evidently been hauled on the reefs by some fishermen, and the fortunate
salvors had placed their rude marks upon it. I mused over this fragment
of wreck, which was mutely eloquent with melancholy suggestiveness. How
many prayers had gone forth with the unknown ship! how many fathers,
brothers, sisters, lovers, and unconscious widows and orphans, might at
that moment be hoping against hope for her return! To what port did she
belong? In what remote ocean had she met her doom? Perchance this keel
had been borne by wind and tide from some region of thick-ribbed ice,
and was the only relic to tell of the dark fate of a gallant bark and
brave crew! Alas, what a thrilling history might that weed-tangled piece
of wood be linked with, and what food did it supply for the wanderer's
imagination!
Resuming the voyage, we came to a long promontory of solid rock,
stretching far into the sea, where it tapers down to the level of the
water. It is called Kniuskjoerodden; and I particularly draw attention
to it for the following reason: at Hammerfest the consul favored me with
an inspection of the charts recently published by the Norwegian
government, from express surveys by scientific officers of their navy.
The instant I cast my eye over the one containing Mager Oe, I perceived
that Kniuskjoerodden was set down _further north than the North Cape
itself_! The consul said that such was the actual fact, though he will
not consent to its disputing the legitimacy of the ancient fame which
the Cape worthily enjoys; since it is merely a low, narrow projection,
of altogether insignificant character. I walked to its extremity, and
narrowly escaped being washed by the roaring breakers into the deep
transparent sea.
Rounding Kniuskjoerodden, the North Cape burst in all its sunlit
grandeur on my delighted view. It was now a dead calm, and my vikings
pulled very slowly across the grand bay of Kniusvoerig, to afford me an
opportunity of sketching the object, which is one enormous mass of solid
rock, upward of a thousand feet in elevation. I can compare it to
nothing more fitly than the keep of a castle of a tremendous size; for
it very gently tapers upward from the base, and presents a surface
marvelously resembling time-worn masonry. The front approaches the
perpendicular, and so does much of the western side also. The color of
this mighty rock is a dark, shining, speckled gray, relieved by dazzling
masses of snow lying in the gigantic fissures, which seem to have been
riven by some dread convulsion. The impression I felt as the boat glided
beneath its shadow was one of thrilling awe; for its magnificent stern
proportions--its colossal magnitude--its position as the lonely,
unchanging sentinel of nature, which for countless ages has stood forth
as the termination of the European continent, frowning defiance to the
maddening fury of the mystic Arctic Queen--all combine to invest it with
associations and attributes of overpowering majesty. My ideas of its
sublimity were more than realized; and as I landed on its base, in the
blaze of the midnight sun, I felt an emotion of proud joy, that my
long-feasted hope of gazing upon it at such an hour, and under such
circumstances, was literally fulfilled.
The only place where a landing can be effected is on the western side,
about a mile and a half from the head of the Cape; and it is usual for
those who ascend it to go many miles round from this starting-place to
gain the summit, because a direct upward ascent is considered
impracticable. But having much confidence in my climbing capabilities, I
resolved to adventure the latter feat; and although burdened with my
sea-cloak and other things, I instantly commenced the task, leaving the
crew to slumber in the boat until my return. I found the whole of the
western side, opposite the landing-place, clothed with the most
luxuriant vegetation to the height of about a hundred yards. There were
myriads of flowers, including exquisite white violets with hairy stems;
purple, red, and white star-flowers; the beautiful large yellow
cup-flower, growing on stems two feet high, and called by the Norwegians
_knap-sul-len-oeie-blomster_ (literally, button-sun-eye-flower); and many
other varieties of species unknown to me. There were also several kinds
of dwarf shrubs, including the juniper, then in green berry. Butterflies
and insects flitted gayly from flower to flower. After resting on a
ledge of rock to take breath, and look down on the glassy waters and the
boat at my feet--now dwindled to a speck--I resumed my clambering; but
to my extreme mortification, when I had ascended two-thirds of the way,
at no small risk to my bones, I was mastered by overhanging masses of
rock, all trickling with slimy moisture from the congealed snow above.
Here I had a narrow escape from being killed by a fragment of loose rock
giving way beneath me, and drawing down other pieces after it; but I
clung tenaciously to a firm part, and the heavy stones bounded
harmlessly over my head. I descended with difficulty; and after
carefully surveying the face of the rocks, tried at a more favorable
place, and even then I was above an hour in gaining the summit. I
understand that I am the first adventurer who has scaled the Cape at
that place; and I certainly was thankful when I could throw my weary
frame down, and eat some frugal fare, slaking my thirst with a handful
of snow from the solid patch by my side. Though I had been more than
forty-eight hours without rest, bodily fatigue was little felt. I could
behold from my airy elevation many miles of the surface of the island.
The higher peaks and the sheltered hollows were clothed with snow,
glittering in the midnight sun, and several dark lakes nestled amid the
frowning rocks.
Resuming my progress, I passed over the surface of the Cape. It is
covered with slaty _debris_, and, what struck me as very remarkable,
quantities of a substance resembling coarse white marble, totally
different from the Cape itself. The only vegetation on the summit is a
species of moss, which bears most beautiful flowers, generally of a
purple hue, blooming in hundreds and thousands together. These dumb
witnesses of nature's benevolent handiwork filled my soul with
pleasing, grateful thoughts, and uplifted it to the Divine Being who
maketh flowers to bloom and waters to gush in the most desolate regions
of the earth. In the bed of a ravine, crossed in my way toward the end
of the Cape, I found a rapid stream of the purest water, which proved
deliciously refreshing. I wandered along; and, after skirting much of
the western precipice, drew nigh the bourne of my pilgrimage. The Cape
terminates in a shape approaching a semicircle, but the most northern
part swells out in a clear appreciable point. About a hundred yards from
the latter I came upon a circle of stones, piled nearly breast high,
inclosing a space some dozen feet in diameter. This had evidently been
erected by a party of visitors as a shelter from the winds. Not far
distant, a block of black rock rises above the level, which is otherwise
smooth as a bowling-green, and covered with minute fragments of rock.
Within two or three yards of the extreme point is a small pole,
sustained in the centre of a pile of stones. I found several initials
and dates cut on this very perishable register, and added my own. I
believe it was set up by the government expedition three or four years
ago as a signal-post for their trigonometrical survey.
I can not adequately describe the tide of emotion which filled my soul
as I walked up to the dizzy verge. I only know that, after standing a
moment with folded arms, beating heart, and tear-dimmed eye, I knelt,
and with lowly-bowed head, returned thanks to God for permitting me to
thus realize one darling dream of my boyhood!
Despite the wind, which here blew violently, I sat down by the side of
the pole, and wrapping my cloak around me, long contemplated the grand
spectacle of nature in one of her sublimest aspects. I was truly alone.
Not a living being was in sight: far beneath was the boundless expanse
of ocean, with a sail or two on its bosom, at an immense distance; above
was the canopy of heaven, flecked with snowy cloudlets; the sun was
gleaming through a broad belt of blood-red horizon; the only sounds were
the whistling of the wind, and the occasional plaintive scream of
hovering sea-fowl. My pervading feeling was a calm though deep sense of
intellectual enjoyment and triumph--very natural to an enthusiastic
young wanderer upon achieving one of the long-cherished enterprises of
his life.
With reluctant and wildly-devious steps, I bade what is probably an
eternal adieu to the wondrous Cape, and effected a comparatively easy
descent to the place whence I had started. My men had dropped grapnel a
considerable distance from the rock; and being unwilling to disturb
their slumber, I spent some further time in exploring the western base.
There is a very curious cavernous range of rock washed out by the
terrific beating of wintry storms, so as to form a species of arcade.
The sides are of immense thickness, but the sea has worn them open at
the top. The water here, as along the whole coast of Norway and Finmark,
is marvelously transparent. Weeds and fish may be seen at a prodigious
depth clearly as in a mirror.
On the return voyage, we ran into a creek near Sandbugt, and the crew
went ashore to a Lap _gamme_ (hut) to sleep; but as I had no desire to
furnish a dainty fresh meal to the vermin with which every gamme swarms,
I slept soundly on my reindeer skins in the boat, although it was now
rainy and intensely cold. After the lapse of a few hours I joined them
at the gamme, and bought a fine _poesk_ or tunic of reindeer skin from
an old Lap; and learning that his herd of reins was in the vicinity, I
had a long ramble in search of them, but without avail; for they had
wandered far away, influenced by that remarkable instinct which impels
reindeer to invariably run _against_ the wind. I gathered some fine
specimens of sponge in marshy hollows. In the course of our subsequent
voyage, I made another pause of a few hours at Giesvohr, where I
examined the works for curing the fish and extracting the oil, but
declined taking any repose. Next morning, being favored with a powerful
wind, our little craft fairly leaped over the waves; and I noted her
dextrous management with the eye of an amateur receiving a valuable
lesson. The old pilot kept the sheet of the lug-sail constantly ready to
slip, and another hand stood by the greased halyard to let all go by the
run; for there are frequent eddies and squalls of wind along this very
dangerous coast, which would upset a boat in an instant, were not great
tact and unremitting vigilance exercised. The sea ran exceedingly high,
and we shipped water from stem to stern every time we settled in its
trough, in such a way that the baling never ceased. Safely, however, did
we run into Havoesund once more at about eight o'clock.
Young Ulich welcomed my unexpectedly early return at the landing-place,
and I was delighted to again become the eagerly-welcomed guest of his
house. Happily, and only too quickly, did the time speed. I chatted in
my sadly-broken Norwegian--the first to laugh at my own comical
blunders; and the eldest young lady sweetly sang to me several of the
most ancient and popular of her native ballads, accompanying them on her
guitar--the fashionable instrument of music in the North, where many
things which have fallen into desuetude with us universally flourish. As
she could understand no other language, I in return did my best to chant
the celebrated national Danish song, _Den tappre Landsoldat_, the fame
of which has penetrated to the far North. So popular is this song in
Denmark, that its author and composer have both recently received an
order of knighthood for it. In the library were translations of Marryat,
and other English novelists; and they showed me a copy of--Cruikshank's
_Bottle_! I thought that if that gifted artist could have thus beheld
how his fame and a genuine copy of his greatest work has penetrated, and
is highly appreciated in the vicinity of the North Cape, he would have
experienced a glow of enviable, and not undeserved satisfaction. The
only teetotaller, by the way, whom I ever met with in Scandinavia, was
one of the crew of the boat with me. He invariably declined the
_braendiviin_, as I passed it round from time to time, and assured me he
drank only water and milk.
The young ladies had about a score of pretty tame pigeons; and to my
extreme regret a couple were killed, to give me an additional treat at a
dinner served in a style which I should rather have expected to meet
with in an English hotel than at a solitary house on an arctic island.
They afterward conducted me to their--garden! Yes, a veritable garden,
the fame of which has extended far and wide in Finmark; for there is
nothing to compare to it for at least four hundred miles southward. It
is of considerable size, inclosed by high wooden walls, painted black to
attract the sun's rays, which are very fervid in the latter end of
summer. Potatoes, peas, and other table vegetables, were in a thriving
state, but only come to maturity in favorable seasons. I had some
radishes at dinner, and excellent they were. Glazed frames protected
cucumber and other plants, and many very beautiful and delicate flowers
bloomed in the open air. The young ladies gathered some of the finest
specimens of these, including large blue forget-me-nots, and placed them
within the leaves of my Bible. Highly do I treasure them, for they will
ever vividly recall a host of pleasant and romantic associations.
Most pressing were they all to induce me to stay some days with them,
and gladly indeed would I have complied had circumstances permitted; but
I felt compelled to hasten back to Hammerfest. In the afternoon,
therefore, I bade adieu to a family which had shown me a degree of
engaging kindness greater than any I had experienced since I left my
warmly-attached Danish friends.
The remainder of our return voyage was wet and tempestuous. We sailed
and rowed all night, and reached Hammerfest at eight A.M. on July 5,
much to the astonishment of the good folks there, who had not
anticipated seeing us again in less than a week or ten days. The consul
and many others assured me that my voyage had been performed with
unprecedented speed, the whole time occupied being not quite three and a
half days.
A CONVERSATION IN A KENTUCKY STAGE COACH.[13]
I can not refrain from giving a conversation which I heard as we came by
the coach to Louisville. One of the speakers was a very agreeable and
apparently well-informed gentleman, who seemed to have seen a great deal
of the world. When he first entered the "stage," it would seem it was
with the benignant intention of giving a sort of _converzatione_ in the
coach, in which, after a few preliminary interrogatories to the various
passengers (as if to take the size and measure of their capacities), he
sustained all the active part, not calling upon them for the slightest
exercise of their conversational powers. He varied the entertainment
occasionally, by soliloquizing and monopolyguizing; and ever and anon it
appeared as if he addressed the human race generally, or was speaking
for posterity in a very elevated tone indeed, and seemingly oblivious of
that fraction of the contemporaneous generation who were then largely
benefiting by his really most animated and amusing discourse--for he was
thoroughly original and very shrewd and entertaining.
Where had he not been? What had he not seen? what not met, tried,
suffered, sought, found, dared, done, won, lost, said? The last we could
give the most implicit credence to, no matter how large the demand. Now
he told us, or the ceiling of the coach, how he had been eighteen months
in the prairies (which keep very open house for all visitors), shooting
herds of buffaloes, and with his cloak for his only castle, and all his
household furniture, and how he had been all this time without bed or
bread: and he described the longing for the last, much in the way Mr.
Ruxton does in his account of prairie excursions; and now--but I will
not attempt to follow him in all his wondrous adventures.
Suffice it to say, Robinson Crusoe, placed in juxtaposition with him,
was a mere fire-side stay-at-home sort of personage, one who had never
left his own comfortable arm-chair, in comparison. In short, the
adventures were marvelous and manifold, and all told in the same
agreeable, lively, Scheherezade-like sort of a manner--so agreeable,
indeed, that I am sure had Judge Lynch himself had any little account to
settle with him, he would have postponed--_a la_ Sultan of the
Indies--any trifling beheading or strangling, or unpleasant little
operation of the sort, to hear the end of the tale.
After these narratives and amusing lectures had been poured forth
continuously for a length of time, it chanced that a quiet
countryman-like person got into the coach, bundle and stick in hand.
After a few questions to this rustic wayfarer, our eloquent orator left
off his historic and other tales, and devoted himself to drawing out,
and "squeezing the orange of the brains" of this apparently
simple-minded and unlettered man. The discourse that ensued was a
singular one--to take place, too, in the United States between
Americans.
The new-comer was a Kentuckian by birth, who had not very long ago gone
to settle in Indiana. He called himself a mechanic--these facts came out
in answer to the queries put to him by our unwearied talker--but he had,
as I have said, much more the appearance of a respectable country
farming man--and, indeed, I believe, mechanic means here, in a general
sense, a laborer. He seemed a fine, honest-hearted, straight-forward,
noble-spirited son of the plow; and his lofty, earnest, generous
sentiments were spoken in somewhat unpolished but energetic and good
language; and what particularly struck me was a really beautiful and
almost child-like simplicity of mind and manner, that was combined with
the most uncompromising firmness and unflinching adherence in argument,
to what he conceived to be right.
His features were decidedly plain, but the countenance was very fine,
chiefly characterized by great ingenuousness, commingled with gentleness
and benevolence; and yet bearing evident traces of strength,
determination, and energetic resolution. It was rather a complicated
countenance, so to say, notwithstanding its great openness and
expression of downright truth and goodness.
After opening the conversation with him, as you would an oyster, by the
introduction of a pretty keen knife of inquisitorial questions, the
chief speaker began to hold forth, capriciously enough, on the
essentials and distinguishing attributes of a gentleman. He declared,
emphatically, that one qualification alone was necessary, and that money
only made a gentleman, according to the world, and, above all, in the
United States (quite a mistake is this, I fully believe). "Let a man,"
said he, "be dressed here in every thing of the best, with splendid
rings on his fingers, and plenty of money to spend at the ends of them,
and he may go where he will, and be received as a gentleman; ay, though
he may be a gambler, a rogue, or a swindler, and you, now, _you_ may be
a good honest mechanic; but _he_ will at once get into the best society
in these parts, which you would never dream even of attempting to
accomplish--"
"But he would not be a gentleman," broke in the Kentuckian, indignantly.
"No, sir; nor will I ever allow that money only makes the gentleman: it
is the principle, sir, and the inner feeling, and the mind--and no fine
clothes can ever make it; and no rough ones unmake it, that's a fact.
And, sir, there's many a better gentleman following the plow in these
parts than there is among the richer classes: I mean those poor men
who're contented with their lot, and work hard and try no mean shifts
and methods to get on an' up in the world; for there's little some 'ill
stick at to get at money; and such means a true gentleman (what _I_ call
a gentleman) will avoid like poison, and scorn utterly."
"Now, that's all very well for you to talk so here just now; but you
know yourself, I don't doubt, that _your own_ object, as well as all the
world's around you, is to make money. It is with that object that you
work hard and save up: you do not work only to live, or make yourself
more comfortable, but to get money: and money is the be-all and end-all
of all and every body; and that only commands consideration and
respect."
"That _only_, sir, would never command _mine_, and--"
"Why, how you talk now! if you meet a fine dressed-out gentleman in one
of these stages, you look on him as one directly--you don't ask him did
he _make_ or _take_ his money--what's that to you?--there he is, and it
is not for you to busy or bother yourself to find out all the private
particulars of his history; and if you find him, as I say, well dressed
in superfine, and he acts the gentleman to you, he may be the greatest
rogue in existence, but he will be treated by you like a gentleman--yes,
even by you."
"Yes, sir, that maybe while I know nothing of him--while, as you say, he
acts the gentleman to me; but let me _once find out_ what he is, and I
would never show him respect more--no! though he had all the gold of
California."
"Ah, California! just look at _that_ now--look at people by scores and
thousands, leaving their families, and friends, and homes--and what for
but for gold? people with a comfortable competence already; but it's
fine talking. Why, what are _you_ taking this very journey for?--why, I
can answer for you--for gold, I doubt not; and every other action of
your life is for that object: confess the real truth now."
"I will, sir--I am come here from Indiana, for though I'm a Kentucky
man, I live in the Hoosier State. I'm come here to see a dear brother;
and instead of _gaining_ money I'm _spending_ it in these stages to get
to see him and 'old Kentuck' agin. So you see, Sir, I love my brother--I
do, more than money, poor man as I am; ay, and that I do, too."
"Well, I dare say you do; but come now, just tell me--haven't you a
little bit of a _speculation_, now, here, that you're come after, as
well as your brother--some trifle of a speculation afoot? You know you
have now. You _must_ have. Some horse, perhaps--"
It was quite delightful to see and hear the indignant burst of eager
denial which this elicited from the ingenuous Kentuckian.
"No, sir! _no_, I have _not_--none whatever, indeed I have not:" his
voice quivered with emotion; the earnest expression of his countenance
was more than eloquent. If his interrogator had accused him of a serious
crime he could hardly more anxiously and more earnestly have disclaimed
it. To him, I thought the bare suspicion seemed like a coarse
desecration of his real motives, a kind of undervaluing even of his
"dear brother," to suppose he must have had a "little speculation on
hand" to make it worth his while to go to see _him_.
He went on in an agitated, eager tone:
"And look ye here; I am _leaving off_ my work and money-making for some
days on purpose--only for that, and spending money at it, too!"
His somewhat case-hardened antagonist looked the least in the world
discomfited; for that angry denial was a magnificent burst, and uttered
in a tone that actually seemed to give an additional jolt to the rough
coach; and I might say it had really a splendid theatrical effect, but
that I should hesitate to use that expression with reference to one of
the most beautiful natural exhibitions of deep feeling and generous
sentiment I ever witnessed.
"Where are you going to?" at last inquired the other, apparently about
to commence a little cross-examination.
"About twenty miles beyond Munsfordville," replied Kentucky, in his
simple direct manner, "to"--I forget the name.
"Why, you're come by the wrong stage, then," exclaimed the other, "you
should have waited till to-morrow, and then taken the stage to ----, and
then you would have gone direct."
"Well, yes, sir; it's true enough, sir; but you see--in short, I
couldn't _wait_--no, that I couldn't. I was so anxious, and I felt so
like seeing my brother; and I was in such a mortal hurry to get to him."
"Hurry, man! why how will you see him any sooner by this? Why, you might
as well have walked up and down Main-street till to-morrow; it would
have advanced you just as much on your journey."
"You're right, sir, I know that; but I really _couldn't_ wait: I wanted
to feel I was going ahead, and getting _nearer_ my brother at any rate;
I got so impatient-like. No, sir; I couldn't have staid till the morning
any how you could fix it."
"You'll have to walk for your folly, for you'll get no conveyance this
way, I tell you."
"I'll have to walk the twenty miles to-night, I suppose," said Kentucky,
with the most imperturbable smiling composure; "but never mind that! I
shall be getting near my brother, then. Ha," he said, after a pause,
"you see I _do_ love my brother, sir, and I don't regard trouble for
him. I'll have to walk the twenty miles to-night with my bundle, I dare
say, and spending money at that, too, perhaps, for a bit of food; but I
couldn't have _waited_--no! not another hour at Louisville--I felt so
like getting _nearer_ to my brother."
At the end of the argument about money-making being the all in all, one
or two of us signified briefly that we thought Kentucky was right. You
never saw any body so surprised. He had evidently entertained a deep
conviction that all in the stage-coach were opposed to his opinions, and
that he stood alone in his view on the matter. He replied he was glad
any body thought as he did, and reiterated with strong emphasis to his
opponent:
"I'm sure, sir, I'm right; it is the principle, and the manners, and the
mind, and _not_ money that makes a gentleman. No, no; money can never
make half a one."
I shall feel a respect for "old Kentucky" forever after for his sake.
FOOTNOTE:
[13] From Lady Emeline Stuart Wortley's "Travels in the United States in
1849-50," in the press of Harper and Brothers.
ANECDOTES OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.[14]
CURRAN'S START IN LIFE.
After toiling for a very inadequate recompense at the sessions of Cork,
and wearing, as he said himself, his teeth almost to their stumps,
Curran proceeded to the metropolis, taking for his wife and young
children a miserable lodging upon _Hay Hill_. Term after term, without
either profit or professional reputation, he paced the hall of the Four
Courts. Among those who had the discrimination to appreciate, and the
heart to feel for him, luckily for Curran, was Mr. Arthur Wolfe,
afterward the unfortunate but respected Lord Kilwarden. The first fee of
any consequence which he received was through his recommendation; and
his recital of the incident can not be without its interest to the young
professional aspirant whom a temporary neglect may have sunk into
dejection. "I then lived," said he, "upon Hay Hill; my wife and children
were the chief furniture of my apartments; and as to my rent, it stood
pretty much the same chance of liquidation with the national debt. Mrs.
Curran, however, was a barrister's lady, and what she wanted in wealth
she was well determined should be supplied by dignity. The landlady, on
the other hand, had no idea of any gradation except that of pounds,
shillings, and pence. I walked out one morning to avoid the perpetual
altercations on the subject, with my mind, you may imagine, in no very
enviable temperament. I fell into the gloom to which, from my infancy, I
had been occasionally subject. I had a family for whom I had no dinner,
and a landlady for whom I had no rent. I had gone abroad in
despondence--I returned home almost in desperation. When I opened the
door of my study, where _Lavater_ alone could have found a library, the
first object which presented itself was an immense folio of a brief,
twenty golden guineas wrapped up beside it, and the name of _Old Bob
Lyons_ marked upon the back of it. I paid my landlady--bought a good
dinner--gave Bob Lyons a share of it--and that dinner was the date of my
prosperity." Such was his own exact account of his professional
advancement.
SINGULAR ATTEMPT UPON CURRAN'S LIFE.
In one of Curran's professional excursions, a very singular circumstance
had almost rendered this the termination of his biography. He was on a
temporary visit to the neighboring town of Sligo, and was one morning
standing at his bedroom window, which overlooked the street, occupied,
as he told me, in arranging his portmanteau, when he was stunned by the
report of a blunderbuss in the very chamber with him, and the panes
above his head were all shivered into atoms. He looked suddenly around
in the greatest consternation. The room was full of smoke, the
blunderbuss on the floor just discharged, the door closed, and no human
being but himself discoverable in the apartment! If this had happened
in his rural retreat, it could readily have been reconciled through the
medium of some offended spirit of the village mythology; but, as it was,
he was in a populous town, in a civilized family, among Christian
doctrines, where the fairies had no power, and their gambols no
currency; and, to crown all, a poor cobbler, into whose stall on the
opposite side of the street the slugs had penetrated, hinted in no very
equivocal terms that the whole affair was a conspiracy against his life.
It was by no means a pleasant addition to the chances of assassination
to be loudly declaimed against by a crazed mechanic as an assassin
himself. Day after day passed away without any solution of the mystery;
when one evening, as the servants of the family were conversing round
the fire on so miraculous an escape, a little urchin, not ten years old,
was heard so to wonder how _such an aim_ was missed, that a universal
suspicion was immediately excited. He was alternately flogged and coaxed
into a confession, which disclosed as much precocious and malignant
premeditation as perhaps ever marked the annals of juvenile depravity.
This little miscreant had received a box on the ear from Mr. Curran for
some alleged misconduct a few days before; the Moor's blow did not sink
into a mind more furious for revenge, or more predisposed by nature for
such deadly impressions. He was in the bedroom by mere chance when Mr.
Curran entered; he immediately hid himself in the curtains till he
observed him too busy with his portmanteau for observation; he then
leveled at him the old blunderbuss, which lay charged in the corner, the
stiffness of whose trigger, too strong for his infant fingers, alone
prevented the aim which he confessed he had taken, and which had so
nearly terminated the occupations of the cobbler. The door was ajar,
and, mid the smoke and terror, he easily slipped out without discovery.
I had the story verbatim a few months ago from Mr. Curran's lips, whose
impressions on the subject it was no wonder that forty years had not
obliterated.
CURRAN AS A CROSS-EXAMINER.
At cross-examination, the most difficult and by far the most hazardous
part of a barrister's profession, Curran was quite inimitable. There was
no plan which he did not detect, no web which he did not disentangle;
and the unfortunate wretch, who commenced with all the confidence of
preconcerted perjury, never failed to retreat before him in all the
confusion of exposure. Indeed, it was almost impossible for the guilty
to offer a successful resistance. He argued, he cajoled, he ridiculed,
he mimicked, he played off the various artillery of his talent upon the
witness; he would affect earnestness upon trifles, and levity upon
subjects of the most serious import, until at length he succeeded in
creating a security that was fatal, or a sullenness that produced all
the consequences of prevarication. No matter how unfair the topic, he
never failed to avail himself of it; acting upon the principle that, in
law as well as in war, every stratagem was admissible. If he was hard
pressed, there was no peculiarity of person, no singularity of name, no
eccentricity of profession at which he would not grasp, trying to
confound the self-possession of the witness by the, no matter how
excited, ridicule of the audience. To a witness of the name of
_Halfpenny_ he once began: "Halfpenny, I see you're a _rap_, and for
that reason you shall be nailed to the counter." "Halfpenny is
_sterling_," exclaimed the opposite counsel. "No, no," said he, "he's
exactly like his own conscience--only _copper washed_." This phrase
alluded to an expression previously used on the trial.
To _Lundy Foot_, the celebrated tobacconist, once hesitating on the
table: "Lundy, Lundy--that's a poser--_a devil of a pinch_." This
gentleman applied to Curran for a motto when he first established his
carriage. "Give me one, my dear Curran," said he, "of a serious cast,
because I am afraid the people will laugh at a tobacconist setting up a
carriage, and, _for the scholarship's sake_, let it be in Latin." "I
have just hit on it," said Curran; "it is only two words, and it will at
once explain your profession, your elevation, and your contempt for
their ridicule, and it has the advantage of being in two languages,
Latin or English, just as the reader chooses. Put up '_Quid rides_' upon
your carriage."
Inquiring his master's age from a horse-jockey's servant, he found it
almost impossible to extract an answer. "Come, come, friend, has he not
lost his teeth?" "Do you think," retorted the fellow, "that I know his
age, as he does his horse's, by _the mark of mouth_?" The laugh was
against Curran, but he instantly recovered: "You were very right not to
try, friend, for you know your master's a _great bite_."
Having one day a violent argument with a country schoolmaster on some
classical subject, the pedagogue, who had the worst of it, said, in a
towering passion, that he would lose no more time, and must go back to
his scholars. "Do, my dear doctor," said Curran, "but _don't indorse my
sins upon their backs_."
Curran was told that a very stingy and slovenly barrister had started
for the Continent with a shirt and a guinea: "He'll not change either
till he comes back," said he.
It was well known that Curran entertained a dislike and a contempt for
Downes. "Bushe," said he, "came up to me one day with a very knowing
look, and said, 'Do you know, Curran, I have just left the pleasantest
fellow I ever met?' 'Indeed! who is he?' 'The chief justice,' was the
answer. My reply was compendious and witty. I looked into his eye, and
said '_hum_.' It required all his oil to keep his countenance smooth."
A very stupid foreman once asked a judge how they were to ignore a bill.
"Why, sir," said Curran, "when you mean to find a _true_ one, just write
_Ignoramus_ for self and fellows on the back of it."
A gentleman just called to the bar took up a pauper case. It was
remarked upon. "The man's right," said Curran; "a barber begins on a
beggar, that when he arrives at the dignity he may know how to shave a
duchess."
He was just rising to cross-examine a witness before a judge who could
not comprehend any jest that was not written in _black letter_. Before
he said a single word, the witness began to laugh. "What are you
laughing at, friend--what are you laughing at? Let me tell you that a
laugh without a joke is like--is like--" "Like what, Mr. Curran?" asked
the judge, imagining he was nonplused. "Just exactly, my lord, like a
_contingent remainder_ without any particular _estate_ to support it." I
am afraid that none but my legal readers will understand the admirable
felicity of the similitude, but it was quite to his lordship's fancy,
and rivaled with him all "the wit that Rabelais ever scattered."
Examining a country squire who disputed a collier's bill: "Did he not
give you the _coals_, friend?" "He did, sir, but--" "But what? On your
oath, wasn't your payments _slack_?"
It was thus that, in some way or other, he contrived to throw the
witnesses off their centre, and he took care they seldom should recover
it. "My lard, my lard!" vociferated a peasant witness, writhing under
this mental excruciation, "I can't answer yon little gentleman, _he's
putting me in such a doldrum_." "A doldrum! Mr. Curran, what does he
mean by a doldrum!" exclaimed Lord Avonmore. "Oh! my lord, it's a very
common complaint with persons of this description: it's merely a
_confusion of the head arising from the corruption of the heart_."
To the bench he was at times quite as unceremonious; and if he thought
himself reflected on or interfered with, had instant recourse either to
ridicule or invective. There is a celebrated reply in circulation of Mr.
Dunning to a remark of Lord Mansfield, who curtly exclaimed at one of
his legal positions, "O! if that be law, Mr. Dunning, I may _burn_ my
law-books!" "Better _read_ them, my lord," was the sarcastic and
appropriate rejoinder. In a different spirit, but with similar effect,
was Mr. Curran's retort upon an Irish judge, quite as remarkable for his
good-humor and raillery as for his legal researches. He was addressing a
jury on one of the state trials in 1803, with his usual animation. The
judge, whose political bias, if any judge can have one, was certainly
supposed not to be favorable to the prisoner, _shook his head_ in doubt
or denial of one of the advocate's arguments. "I see, gentlemen," said
Mr. Curran, "I see the motion of his lordship's head; common observers
might imagine that implied a difference of opinion, but they would be
mistaken: it is merely accidental. Believe me, gentlemen, if you remain
here many days, you will, yourselves perceive that, when his lordship
_shakes his head_, there's _nothing in it_!"
PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND HABITS OF GRATTAN.
Grattan was short in stature, and unprepossessing in appearance. His
arms were disproportionably long. His walk was a stride. With a person
swaying like a pendulum, and an abstracted air, he seemed always in
thought, and each thought provoked an attendant gesticulation. Such was
the outward and visible form of one whom the passenger would stop to
stare at as a droll, and the philosopher to contemplate as a study. How
strange it seems that a mind so replete with grace and symmetry, and
power and splendor, should have been allotted such a dwelling for its
residence. Yet so it was; and so also was it one of his highest
attributes, that his genius, by its "excessive light," blinded the
hearer to his physical imperfections. It was the victory of mind over
matter. The man was forgotten in the orator. Mr. Grattan, whose father
represented the city of Dublin in Parliament, and was also its recorder,
was born in the year 1746. He entered the Middle Temple in 1767 and was
called to the Irish bar in 1772. In the University of Dublin he was
eminently distinguished, sharing its honors, in _then_ amicable
contention, with Fitzgibbon--not merely the antagonist, but the enemy,
and the bitter one of an after day. We have a record, more authentic
than usual, of his pursuits while at the Temple. The study of the law
occupied but little of his attention. He never relished it, and soon
abandoned the profession altogether. Of the theatre he was very
fond--little wonder in the zenith of Garrick--and it was a taste he
indulged in to the last. I well remember, somewhere about the year 1813,
being in Crow-street when he entered with Catalani leaning on his arm.
The house was crowded, and he was hailed with acclamations. In vain he
modestly consigned them to the lovely siren his companion. His name rang
wildly through the theatre. I think I still hear the shouts when his
person was recognized, and still behold his venerable figure bowing its
awkward gratitude. No one knew better the true value of that bubble
tribute. Another of his amusements, if indeed it was not something more,
when he was at the Temple, seems to have been a frequent attendance in
both houses of Parliament. He sketched the debates and the speakers by
whom he was most attracted.
O'CONNELL'S DUEL.
Living, as he did, in constant turmoil, and careless, as he was, to whom
he gave offense, O'Connell of course had a multitude of enemies. Of
this, himself the cause, he had no right to complain; but he had a right
to complain of the calumnies they circulated. Most rife of these was a
charge of want of courage--in Ireland a rare and very detrimental
accusation. O'Connell, during his latter years, declined dueling, and
publicly avowed his determination. The reason given, and given in the
House of Commons, was, that having "blood upon his hands, he had
registered a vow in heaven." To this there could have been no possible
objection had he included in the registry a vow not to offend. The real
charge to which he made himself amenable was his perseverance at once in
insult and irresponsibility. The truth is, O'Connell's want of courage
consisted in his fighting the duel in which the vow originated. The
facts of the case are few and simple. In one of his many mob speeches he
called the corporation of Dublin a "beggarly corporation." A gentleman
named D'Esterre affected to feel this as a personal affront, he being
one of that very numerous body, and accordingly fastened a quarrel on
the offender. It is quite true that O'Connell endeavored to avoid the
encounter. He did not do enough. He should have summoned D'Esterre
before the tribunals of the country, after failing to appease him by a
repeated declaration that he meant him no personal offense, and could
not, he being a total stranger to him. However, in an evil hour, he
countenanced a savage and anti-Christian custom--the unfortunate
D'Esterre paid for his perverseness with his life, and the still more
unfortunate O'Connell expiated his moral timidity with much mental
anguish to the day of his death. The perpetration of a duel appears to
me no proof whatever of personal courage; the refusal, in the then state
of society, would have shown much more. However, on the occasion in
question he showed a total absence of what is vulgarly called fear;
indeed, his frigid determination was remarkable. Let those who read the
following anecdote remember that he most reluctantly engaged in the
combat; that he was then the father of seven children; and that it was
an alternative of life or death with him, D'Esterre being reputed an
unerring marksman. Being one of those who accompanied O'Connell, he
beckoned me aside to a distant portion of the very large field, which
had a slight covering of snow. "Phillips," said he, "this seems to me
not a personal, but a political affair. I am obnoxious to a party, and
they adopt a false pretense to cut me off. I shall not submit to it.
They have reckoned without their host, I promise you. I am one of the
best shots in Ireland at a mark, having, as a public man, considered it
a duty to prepare, for my own protection, against such unprovoked
aggression as the present. Now, remember what I say to you. I may be
struck myself, and then skill is out of the question; but if I am not,
my antagonist may have cause to regret his having forced me into this
conflict." The parties were then very soon, placed on the ground, at, I
think, twelve paces distance, _each_ having a case of pistols, with
directions to fire when they chose after a given signal. D'Esterre
rather agitated himself by making a short speech, disclaiming all
hostility to his Roman Catholic countrymen, and took his ground,
somewhat theatrically crossing his pistols upon his bosom. They fired
almost together, and instantly on the signal. D'Esterre fell, mortally
wounded. There was the greatest self-possession displayed by both. It
seemed to me a duty to narrate these details in O'Connell's lifetime
wherever I heard his courage questioned, and justice to his memory now
prompts me to record them here.
FOOTNOTE:
[14] From "Curran and his Contemporaries" by CHARLES PHILLIPS, just
published by Harper and Brothers.
MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[15]
BOOK V.--INITIAL CHAPTER.
"I hope, Pisistratus," said my father, "that you do not intend to be
dull!"
"Heaven forbid, sir! what could make you ask such a question? _Intend!_
No! if I am dull it is from innocence."
"A very long Discourse upon Knowledge!" said my father; "very long. I
should cut it out!"
I looked upon my father as a Byzantian sage might have looked on a
Vandal. "Cut it out!"
"Stops the action, sir!" said my father, dogmatically.
"Action! But a novel is not a drama."
"No, it is a great deal longer--twenty times as long, I dare say,"
replied Mr. Caxton, with a sigh.
"Well, sir--well! I think my Discourse upon Knowledge has much to do
with the subject--is vitally essential to the subject; does not stop the
action--only explains and elucidates the action. And I am astonished,
sir, that you, a scholar, and a cultivator of knowledge--"
"There--there!" cried my father, deprecatingly. "I yield--I yield. What
better could I expect when I set up for a critic! What author ever lived
that did not fly into a passion--even with his own father, if his father
presumed to say--'Cut out!' _Pacem imploro_--"
MRS. CAXTON.--"My dear Austin, I am sure Pisistratus did not mean to
offend you, and I have no doubt he will take your--"
PISISTRATUS (hastily).--"Advice _for the future_, certainly. I will
quicken the action, and--"
"Go on with the Novel," whispered Roland, looking up from his eternal
account-book. "We have lost L200 by our barley!"
Therewith I plunged my pen into the ink, and my thoughts into the "Fair
Shadowland."
CHAPTER II.
"Halt!" cried a voice; and not a little surprised was Leonard when the
stranger who had accosted him the preceding evening got into the chaise.
"Well," said Richard, "I am not the sort of man you expected, eh? Take
time to recover yourself." And with these words Richard drew forth a
book from his pocket, threw himself back, and began to read. Leonard
stole many a glance at the acute, hardy, handsome face of his companion,
and gradually recognized a family likeness to poor John, in whom,
despite age and infirmity, the traces of no common share of physical
beauty were still evident. And with that quick link in ideas which
mathematical aptitude bestows, the young student at once conjectured
that he saw before him his uncle Richard. He had the discretion,
however, to leave that gentleman free to choose his own time for
introducing himself, and silently revolved the new thoughts produced by
the novelty of his situation. Mr. Richard read with notable
quickness--sometimes cutting the leaves of the book with his penknife,
sometimes tearing them open with his forefinger, sometimes skipping
whole pages altogether. Thus he galloped to the end of the volume--flung
it aside--lighted his cigar, and began to talk.
He put many questions to Leonard relative to his rearing, and especially
to the mode by which he had acquired his education; and Leonard,
confirmed in the idea that he was replying to a kinsman, answered
frankly.
Richard did not think it strange that Leonard should have acquired so
much instruction with so little direct tuition. Richard Avenel himself
had been tutor to himself. He had lived too long with our go-ahead
brethren, who stride the world on the other side the Atlantic with the
seven-leagued boots of the Giant-killer, not to have caught their
glorious fever for reading. But it was for a reading wholly different
from that which was familiar to Leonard. The books he read must be new;
to read old books would have seemed to him going back in the world. He
fancied that new books necessarily contained new ideas--a common
mistake--and our lucky adventurer was the man of his day.
Tired with talking, he at length chucked the book he had run through to
Leonard, and, taking out a pocket-book and pencil, amused himself with
calculations on some detail of his business, after which he fell into an
absorbed train of thought--part pecuniary, part ambitious.
Leonard found the book interesting; it was one of the numerous works,
half-statistic, half-declamatory, relating to the condition of the
working classes, which peculiarly distinguish our century, and ought to
bind together rich and poor, by proving the grave attention which modern
society bestows upon all that can affect the welfare of the last.
"Dull stuff--theory--claptrap," said Richard, rousing himself from his
reverie at last: "it can't interest you."
"All books interest me, I think," said Leonard, "and this especially;
for it relates to the working class, and I am one of them."
"You were yesterday, but you mayn't be to-morrow," answered Richard,
good-humoredly, and patting him on the shoulder. "You see, my lad, that
it is the middle class which ought to govern the country. What the book
says about the ignorance of country magistrates is very good; but the
man writes pretty considerable trash when he wants to regulate the
number of hours a free-born boy should work at a factory--only ten hours
a day--pooh! and so lose two to the nation! Labor is wealth: and if we
could get men to work twenty-four hours a day, we should be just twice
as rich. If the march of civilization is to proceed," continued Richard,
loftily, "men, and boys, too, must not lie a-bed doing nothing _all
night_, sir." Then with a complacent tone--"We shall get to the
twenty-four hours at last; and, by gad, we must, or we shan't flog the
Europeans as we do now."
On arriving at the inn at which Richard had first made acquaintance with
Mr. Dale, the coach by which he had intended to perform the rest of the
journey was found to be full. Richard continued to perform the journey
in post-chaises, not without some grumbling at the expense, and
incessant orders to the post-boys to make the best of the way. "Slow
country this, in spite of all its brag," said he--"very slow. Time is
money--they know that in the States; for why, they are all men of
business there. Always slow in a country where a parcel of lazy, idle
lords, and dukes, and baronets, seem to think 'time is pleasure.'"
Toward evening the chaise approached the confines of a very large town,
and Richard began to grow fidgety. His easy cavalier air was abandoned.
He withdrew his legs from the window, out of which they had been
luxuriously dangling; pulled down his waistcoat; buckled more tightly
his stock: it was clear that he was resuming the decorous dignity that
belongs to state. He was like a monarch who, after traveling happy and
incognito, returns to his capital. Leonard divined at once that they
were nearing their journey's end.
Humble foot-passengers now looked at the chaise, and touched their hats.
Richard returned the salutation with a nod--a nod less gracious than
condescending. The chaise turned rapidly to the left, and stopped before
a smart lodge, very new, very white, adorned with two Doric columns in
stucco, and flanked by a large pair of gates. "Hollo!" cried the
post-boy, and cracked his whip.
Two children were playing before the lodge, and some clothes were
hanging out to dry on the shrubs and pales round the neat little
building.
"Hang those brats! they are actually playing," growled Dick. "As I live,
the jade has been washing again! Stop, boy." During this soliloquy, a
good-looking young woman had rushed from the door--slapped the children
as, catching sight of the chaise, they ran toward the house--opened the
gates, and, dropping a courtesy to the ground, seemed to wish that she
could drop into it altogether, so frightened and so trembling seemed she
to shrink from the wrathful face which the master now put out of the
window.
"Did I tell you, or did I not," said Dick, "that I would not have these
horrid disreputable cubs of yours playing just before my lodge gates?"
"Please, sir--"
"Don't answer me. And did I tell you, or did I not, that the next time I
saw you making a drying-ground of my lilacs, you should go out, neck
and crop--"
"Oh, please, sir--"
"You leave my lodge next Saturday: drive on, boy. The ingratitude and
insolence of those common people are disgraceful to human nature,"
muttered Richard, with an accent of the bitterest misanthropy.
The chaise wheeled along the smoothest and freshest of gravel roads, and
through fields of the finest land, in the highest state of cultivation.
Rapid as was Leonard's survey, his rural eye detected the signs of a
master in the art agranomial. Hitherto he had considered the Squire's
model farm as the nearest approach to good husbandry he had seen: for
Jackeymo's finer skill was developed rather on the minute scale of
market-gardening than what can fairly be called husbandry. But the
Squire's farm was degraded by many old-fashioned notions, and
concessions to the whim of the eye, which would not be found in model
farms nowadays--large tangled hedgerows, which, though they constitute
one of the beauties most picturesque in old England, make sad deductions
from produce; great trees, overshadowing the corn, and harboring the
birds; little patches of rough sward left to waste; and angles of
woodland running into fields, exposing them to rabbits, and blocking out
the sun. These and suchlike blots on a gentleman farmer's agriculture,
common-sense and Giacomo had made clear to the acute comprehension of
Leonard. No such faults were perceptible in Richard Avenel's domain. The
fields lay in broad divisions, the hedges were clipped and narrowed into
their proper destination of mere boundaries. Not a blade of wheat
withered under the cold shade of a tree: not a yard of land lay waste;
not a weed was to be seen, not a thistle to waft its baleful seed
through the air: some young plantations were placed, not where the
artist would put them, but just where the farmer wanted a fence from the
wind. Was there no beauty in this? Yes, there was beauty of its
kind--beauty at once recognizable to the initiated--beauty of use and
profit--beauty that could bear a monstrous high rent. And Leonard
uttered a cry of admiration which thrilled through the heart of Richard
Avenel.
"This _is_ farming!" said the villager.
"Well, I guess it is," answered Richard, all his ill-humor vanishing.
"You should have seen the land when I bought it. But we new men, as they
call us--(damn their impertinence)--are the new blood of this country."
Richard Avenel never said any thing more true. Long may the new blood
circulate through the veins of the mighty giantess; but let the grand
heart be the same as it has beat for proud ages.
The chaise, now passed through a pretty shrubbery, and the house came
into gradual view--a house with a portico--all the offices carefully
thrust out of sight.
The post-boy dismounted and rang the bell.
"I almost think they are going to keep me waiting," said Mr. Richard,
well-nigh in the very words of Louis XIV.
But that fear was not realized--the door opened; a well-fed servant out
of livery presented himself. There was no hearty welcoming smile on his
face, but he opened the chaise-door with demure and taciturn respect.
"Where's George? why does not he come to the door?" asked Richard,
descending from the chaise slowly, and leaning on the servant's
outstretched arm with as much precaution as if he had had the gout.
Fortunately, George here came into sight, settling himself hastily into
his livery coat.
"See to the things, both of you," said Richard, as he paid the post-boy.
Leonard stood on the gravel sweep, gazing at the square white house.
"Handsome elevation--classical, I take it--eh?" said Richard, joining
him. "But you should see the offices."
He then, with familiar kindness, took Leonard by the arm, and drew him
within. He showed him the hall, with a carved mahogany stand for hats;
he showed him the drawing-room, and pointed out its beauties--though it
was summer the drawing-room looked cold, as will look rooms newly
furnished, with walls newly papered, in houses newly built. The
furniture was handsome, and suited to the rank of a rich trader. There
was no pretense about it, and therefore no vulgarity, which is more than
can be said for the houses of many an honorable Mrs. Somebody in
Mayfair, with rooms twelve feet square, chokeful of buhl, that would
have had its proper place in the Tuileries. Then Richard showed him the
library, with mahogany book-cases and plate glass, and the fashionable
authors handsomely bound. Your new men are much better friends to living
authors than your old families who live in the country, and at most
subscribe to a book-club. Then Richard took him up-stairs, and led him
through the bedrooms--all very clean and comfortable, and with every
modern convenience; and, pausing in a very pretty single gentleman's
chamber, said, "This is your den. And now, can you guess who I am?"
"No one but my Uncle Richard could be so kind," answered Leonard.
But the compliment did not flatter Richard. He was extremely
disconcerted and disappointed. He had hoped that he should be taken for
a lord at least, forgetful of all that he had said in disparagement of
lords.
"Pish!" said he at last, biting his lip--"so you don't think that I look
like a gentleman! Come, now, speak honestly."
Leonard wonderingly saw he had given pain, and with the good breeding
which comes instinctively from good-nature, replied--"I judged you by
your heart, sir, and your likeness to my grandfather--otherwise I should
never have presumed to fancy we could be relations."
"Hum!" answered Richard. "You can just wash your hands, and then come
down to dinner; you will hear the gong in ten minutes. There's the bell;
ring for what you want."
With that, he turned on his heel; and descending the stairs, gave a look
into the dining-room, and admired the plated salver on the sideboard,
and the king's pattern spoons and forks on the table. Then he walked to
the looking-glass over the mantle-piece; and wishing to survey the whole
effect of his form, mounted a chair. He was just getting into an
attitude which he thought imposing, when the butler entered, and being
London bred, had the discretion to try to escape unseen; but Richard
caught sight of him in the looking-glass, and colored up to the temples.
"Jarvis," said he mildly, "Jarvis, put me in mind to have these
inexpressibles altered."