CHAPTER V.

Baïla felt her confidence vanish; a single revelation from the prisoner

would be a decree of death to her, and concealing her paleness beneath

the redoubled folds of her veil, she awaited the examination with a

palpitating heart, fixing her curious gaze upon the prisoner.

“Why did I risk my life to listen to a sermon from this mournful

preacher?” she said to herself. “Why did they not kill him when I

commanded? Why did he not fall beneath the blow of the guard?”

Seeing him, however, with his body furrowed by bluish stripes, his flesh

swollen and bloody, standing in that saloon as if he had never left it

to be handed over to executioners, as he did before the arrival of the

pacha, with the same air, the same timid look, which he dared not raise

toward her, she felt an emotion of pity.

“Christian,” said the pacha, “what motive brought thee hither?”

“Her salvation,” replied the captive, turning his eyes for a moment to

the sofa on which the odalisk was seated, and then letting them fall on

Djezzar, he added, “and thine, perhaps.”

“What, dog, and son of a dog, as thou art, didst thou think to make a

vile Nazarene of me, and to convert me to the sect of the accursed, by

taking advantage of my absence?”

“I have said the truth,” replied the young man, “as true as that Jesus

Christ is the redeemer of the world.”

“Thou liest,” replied the pacha, “as true that there is no God but God,

and that Mahomet is his prophet.”

After this outbreak he appeared to endeavor to restrain his anger. He

replaced himself more at his ease upon the knees of his favorite, passed

his hand, as a motion of caress, through the mane of his lion, and when

he had taken two or three whiffs of his batakie, resumed.

“See that thou art sincere, and do not aggravate thy crime. Thou knowest

well that a Mussulman cannot become a Christian, as a Christian cannot

become a Jew. The law of Moses paved the way for that of Jesus; that of

Jesus was but the precursor to that of Mahomet. On this ladder men never

descend—they mount upward.”

“I had hoped, at least,” said the captive, “to render thee more

favorable to my brethren.”

“Are, then, all those bands of rascals who gnaw each other—all those

races of infidels, who are forgetful of their own law, thy brethren? Of

what do they complain? Of some I have made good Christians by martyrdom;

of others, good Musselmen by persuasion. Besides, art thou one of their

priests? No, far from that. Thou art but one of those frivolous

Europeans, who seek to propagate their impious usages among us. Lay

aside trick and falsehood. Thou hast heard of the beauty of this slave,

(turning his head toward Baïla,) and thou hast desired to satiate thy

eyes at the price of thy life. Is it not so?”

The young man made a sign of negation; the pacha heeded it not, and

proceeded.

“Well, art thou satisfied? Thou shouldst be, for thou hast seen her. Are

your women of Europe so to be disdained, that you must come among us to

carry off ours? Until now you have coveted our horses only. How didst

thou find means to correspond with her? Who was thy guide? How did she

first see thee?”

Like a tiger, which with eye and ear watches for the least cry, the

least motion of the prey it is about to seize, Djezzar watched for a

word of avowal—a denunciatory sign on the part of him whom he

interrogated. He obtained none from him, but he felt the knees of Baïla

tremble.

“Christian,” he resumed, “I repeat to thee, be sincere. Tell me what

hope thou hast conceived; tell me who introduced thee into this place;

name thy accomplice, and whatever may be thy fault I will place in the

other scale thy youth and thy consular title, although thy presence in

the midst of my harem at night gives me a right to forget it. But I will

consider what thou hast already endured, and, like Allah, I will be

merciful. Speak; I listen.”

He inhaled again the odorous smoke of his pipe, and appeared to await a

reply; but the captive remained silent and motionless.

“Speak, Christian, speak! There is yet time. At this price alone canst

thou purchase thy life—by abjuring thy idolatry, of course.”

At this last sentence the young man raised his head—a noble blush

mounted to his face.

“To denounce and apostatize,” said he; “is such thy clemency, pacha?

Have thy executioners forgotten to tell thee who I am? Art thou, who

hast thyself honored me with the title of Christian, ignorant of the

duties which this title enjoins? Dost thou think that the disciples of

Christ care so much for this mortal life, as to plunge their souls twice

into ineffaceable pollution?” and his eye sparkled, and his whole

countenance assumed an expression of sublime beauty.

“It is said,” said Djezzar, forming, from his apparent imperturbability,

a fine contrast with the exaltation of the young Frank. “Thou wishest to

die, and thou shalt die. But dost thou know for what an end I reserve

thee?”

“Be it what it may, I am ready,” replied the captive.

“Then thou regrettest nothing of this mortal life?” and the pacha

followed his look attentively, which he thought he would fix on Baïla.

“Nothing,” said the young man, with his eyes cast down, “but the not

being assisted at my last moments by a priest of my religion.”

Djezzar appeared to reflect; a slight smile then contracted his lips.

“If thy wishes go no farther,” he said, “they shall be gratified.”

The Mangrebian reappeared at his call. A few moments afterward an old

man, with a bald head, a long white beard, and a severe countenance,

entered. He trembled violently at the sight of the pacha, as if he

thought his last hour was come.

He was a poor Maronite monk, sent recently by the patriarch of Mount

Libanus to replace the superior of the convent of Perkinik, who was

dead. The pacha had, whilst passing on that day through this Catholic

village, in the environs of Shivas, wished to make an exaction on this

miserable convent, in which a few monks, covered with rags, lived by the

labor of their hands, in the midst of a population as miserable as

themselves. Djezzar, unable to extort the money which they had not, had

carried off their superior with him, to detain him as a hostage until

the sum demanded was paid.

“_Kaffer_,” he said to him, “thou hast refused to pay the taxes of

_Miri_ and _Karadj_.”

“The Christians of Libanus are exempt from them since the capitulation

of the holy King Louis,” replied the unfortunate man, whose voice

betrayed a violent emotion. “The Vice Roy Mehemet Ali regarded us as

exempt.”

“To hell with the old rascal!”

“But the sultans themselves have recognized this law, your highness.”

“There is no law here but my will,” replied the pacha.

“What can I do to disarm thy severity,” blubbered out the old man,

fixing his terrified look upon the lion crouched beside Djezzar, and of

which he already considered himself the prey. “I have nothing in the

world which thou canst take from me, but my life.”

“Which I will do if thou dost not obey me at once.”

“But, to acquit this impost—”

“By the koran, who is now speaking to thee of imposts? Of _Karadj_ and

_Miri_ I hold thee acquitted, thou and thine, forever, and thou art

free, and shalt leave here carrying with thee more piastres than I

demanded of thee; but before we separate thou must call down the curses

of thy God on that dog there.” Then, turning to his other captive, he

continued: “Yes, thou art about to die, and die accursed by a priest of

thy religion. Inch Allah, wilt thou speak now?”

With an heroic resignation Ferdinand, as his only reply, kneels and bows

his head, devoted at once to the sabre and anathema, when he hears the

old Cenobite of Libanus, raising his trembling hands above his head, say

to him, in a soft voice,

“If thou art a Christian, I bless thee, my son.”

These holy words were scarcely pronounced when the old man fell, shot

dead. Baïla fell backward with a movement of horror, and the pacha, with

unbounded impassibility, replaced his pistol in his belt. He interrupted

this movement suddenly to restrain his lion by the mane, which, animated

by the sight of blood, was about to spring with a roar on the body of

the Maronite.

“Carry off that corpse,” said Djezzar to the Mangrebian, “and leave us.”

The dead body carried off, the Mangrebian gone, turning to the lion,

which, with open mouth and thirsty and trembling lips, was uttering low

growls and darting his brilliant glance toward the prey which was

carried from him, Djezzar, restraining him by voice and gesture, said:

“Be patient, Haïder; thy part shalt soon come—thou shalt not lose by

the exchange.”

He then resumed his first position, and whilst the lion, restrained by

him, continued its low roaring, with its eyes fixed on a large spot of

blood on the carpet, and addressing Baïla, without appearing to notice

the emotions of terror by which she was agitated, said:

“Yes, the giaour is for us three—for each a part. For me, his head; for

the lion, his body; and for thee, my beautiful rose of Incour—my

faithful, for thee, his heart. Has he not given thee that heart? Well,

go take it.”

Baïla, undecided, troubled with horror, knew not what meaning to attach

to his words.

“Go, take it,” repeated Djezzar. “look, behold! powerless to defend

himself, does he not appear himself to offer it to thee? Go, my soul,

and if thy dagger is not enough for the work, use mine.”

The odalisk bent toward him—“Thou art sporting with me, Ali—is it not

so?” she murmured in his ear.

“Dost thou not hear me, or art thou unwilling to understand me?” he

replied, in a formidable tone. “This man dies—dies at once, by thy

hand, or I shall believe thee to be his accomplice, and thy head shall

fall before his. I swear it, by Mahomet and the four caliphs.”

Baïla, having to choose between inflicting or receiving death, felt an

icy coldness in her veins; her forehead became lividly pale.

“Thou hesitatest!” said the pacha.

She carried a trembling hand to her dagger.

“Take mine,” he said.

The hand of Baïla fell on the shoulder of Djezzar, and remained there as

if paralyzed; her troubled eyes were raised furtively toward the young

Frank, even on that very evening the object of her reveries of love;

toward that young martyr, who by a word could destroy her, and who was

about to die—to die for her, for being unwilling to pronounce that

word.

“Wilt thou obey?” said the executioner, with a gesture of impatient

rage.

The hand of Baïla descended from the shoulder of Djezzar and played

inquisitively among the arms which formed an arsenal at his belt.

“Thou tremblest—thou art unwilling to do it? Thou lovest him then!” he

exclaimed at last.

“Yes, I love him,” replied the Mingrelian, and bounding suddenly forward

she sheathed the blade of the yataghan full in the breast of the pacha.

Though mortally wounded he still made an effort to seize his other

pistol, but, at a gesture from Baïla, the lion Haïder, excited anew by

the sight of the flowing blood, springing on his master did his part.

Whilst Ferdinand, alarmed at what was passing, was closing his eyes,

stretching out in terror his bound arms, the Mingrelian, endowed with

wonderful presence of mind, gathered quickly into one corner of the

saloon the light furniture and stuffs which were in it; she set them on

fire, and seizing the young Frank, who was more dead than alive, by his

bonds, led him toward a secret outlet, which conducted them to the

sleeping chamber of the Abyssinian negress.

The palace of Kizil-Ermak, which was of Turkish construction—that is,

built of wood—was almost entirely consumed.

On the next day the news mongers of Shivas endeavored to define the

causes of this great event. Some said that the pacha had been strangled

by his lion, and that, in the struggle between these two fierce beasts a

torch was upset, which was the cause of the fire. Others, reasoning from

the usage of the ancient Ottoman regime, and claiming to be better

informed, said that a man, wearing the dress of a Frank, after having

sojourned in the city long enough to avert suspicion as to the object of

his secret mission, had introduced himself into the presence of the

pacha in the very interior of his harem; when the latter had ordered his

slaves to behead him, the pretended Frank, who was no other than the

_capidgé-bechi_ of the sultan, had shown his _katcherif_, and that the

head of Djezzar had alone fallen. The fire had broken out in the midst

of the disorder, and the _capidgé-bechi_, taking advantage of the great

crowd attracted thereby, had escaped, in a new disguise.

Twenty other versions were in circulation, almost all of which were

repeated by the journals of Europe.

Whilst in Shivas, Rocata, and other cities of the pachalick, they were

thus indulging in explanations more or less truthful, Baïla and

Ferdinand, who had been enabled to escape in disguise from the palace,

thanks to the confusion and the crowd, concealed themselves at first in

the mountains to the south of Shivas, where some Kurdish brigands took

them under their protection, exacting a very moderate ransom; they then

found an asylum in a convent, then twenty others in the caverns or

depths of the woods of Avanes, always, however, continuing their path

steadily up the Red River. Having finally entered the dominions of the

Shah of Persia, they returned to France in the train of the last

embassy.

In these wanderings Ferdinand lost some of his ardor for proselytising.

He had traveled across mountains and valleys by day and by night,

carrying temptation with him; Baïla had really become to him the demon

which he had fancied her.

With the beautiful Mingrelian, his liberator, and the companion of his

flight, walking at the same pace, in the same pathway, sleeping under

the same shelter, cared for and watched over by her, it had been

difficult for him to prevent his heart from beating under other

inspirations than those of divine love. Ferdinand was twenty-five years

old, and gratitude has great sway over a generous soul.

Still in the first days of their common flight he had converted his

schismatic companion, who, from her indifference to matters of religion,

was easy to persuade; but it was said that in her turn she had soon

converted him. What is positively known about it is, that the young man

did not return to France alone, but that when his passport was exhibited

at Marseilles, it provided for M. Ferdinand Laperre, consular cadet,

traveling _with his sister_.

My friend, the illustrious traveler, had already furnished me with all

the details of the history I have recounted; but my curiosity was not

yet fully satisfied. I wished to know the fate of the lovers after their

arrival in France. I pressed him with questions on this point, and at

first uselessly. We were breakfasting in the open air, on the lawn at

the Butard, and my botanist, in an exultation difficult to describe, was

fully occupied with a godsend he had found beneath the table we had

used. It was a small plant with shaggy and lanceolate leaves, with

flowers of pale yellow, marked with a violet spot at the base of their

five petals.

“_Cistus guttatus! Helianthemum guttatum!_” he exclaimed, with cries and

gestures impossible to describe to any one who has not the heart of a

botanist. “I thought it only existed in the mountains of Anti-Taurus,

from whence I brought away so carefully an unique specimen. It was my

finest vegetable conquest, and lo I find it here at the Butard at

Luciennes, a suburb of Paris, beneath the table of a tavern. How can

this be? Taurus and the Butard rivals in their productions? I am

nonplussed! Do you believe in Asia Minor?”

“But of Asia Minor?” said I, interrupting him with tenacity, with

obstinacy; “you have related to me a story, the parties to which

interest me strongly—I beseech you tell me more of them!”

“They are perfectly well, I thank you,” he replied.

“I do not inquire after their health, but their fate.”

“Ah! what has become of them? Yes, I comprehend;” then looking at me

with an air of mockery, and laughing loudly, he continued, “as they

have, like us, a habit of chatting much when eating, they breakfast near

by.”

“How! What!” I exclaimed, “those people at the fountain of the priest?”

“Truly. You now discover that you are no diviner. The alledged

confectioner, the lemonade seller, is no other than my friend, Ferdinand

Laperre, our Christian martyr; and his companion, by you so lightly

qualified as a chambermaid, or a countess without prejudices, is Baïla,

the ex-favorite of Djezzar, the pacha of Shivas; Baïla, the Mingrelian,

the rose of Incour, the dove in the talons of the hawk.”

After having inflicted this mockery upon me, which was doubtless well

merited, my friend determined finally to finish the story.

“Having arrived in Paris, events of a more vulgar nature than those

which had signalized their sojourn in Shivas, proved the young Frenchman

and the Mingrelian. Their money gave out. The ornaments, presents from

Djezzar, which the odalisk had carried off in her flight, were, most of

them, false. Pachas even are no longer to be trusted. Ferdinand must,

above every thing, seek for a lucrative employment. He entered the royal

printing office as a proof-reader of Oriental works. This resource being

insufficient for the wants of the household, Baïla sought also to be

useful. Having never handled a needle, she could not become a seamstress

or an embroideress, or a dressing-maid, or a female companion. She has a

charming voice, and might, at a pinch, challenge all the Italian,

French, and other singers, in warbling and trilling; but understanding

none of the European languages, she could only sing Arabian _mouals_ or

Turkish _gazels_. Fortunately she dances also; and dancing is a language

spoken and understood in all countries. She now figures in the ballet

corps of the opera, where she is remarkable for her lightness, her

mildness, and her modesty.”

As my illustrious friend finished his recital, we saw Ferdinand Laperre

and his handsome companion walking arm-in-arm toward the Butard. Now,

better informed, I admired the rare beauty of the Mingrelian, and the

wonderful and graceful suppleness of her figure. My eyes were directed

curiously toward the lower extremities of the ex-consular cadet, to

examine the form and dimensions of his feet, so as to verify one of the

details of this history. I found them much as usual. He had doubtless

confided to Baïla the connection of friendship existing between him and

my companion, for when we again met, she made him a slight wave of the

hand, saying, “_Bojour mocha_.”

“_Salem-Alai-k_,” replied my illustrious traveler.

I saluted her profoundly.

* * * * *

A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Ye, who follow to the measure

Where the trump of Fortune leads,

And at inns a-glow with pleasure

Rein your golden-harnessed steeds,

In your hours of lordly leisure

Have ye heard a voice of wo

On the starless wind of midnight

Come and go?

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence

Rides the higher roads of Time,

Hark, how from the troubled distance,

Voices made by wo sublime,

In their sorrow, claim assistance,

Though it come from friend or foe—

Shall they ask and find no answer?

Rise and go.

One there was, who in his sadness

Laid his staff and mantle down,

Where the demons laughed to madness

What the night-winds could not drown—

Never came a voice of gladness

Though the cups should foam and flow,

And the pilgrim thus proclaiming

Rose to go.

“All the night I hear the speaking

Of low voices round my bed,

And the dreary floor a-creaking

Under feet of stealthy tread:—

Like a very demon shrieking

Swings the black sign to and fro,

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“On the hearth the brands are lying

In a black, unseemly show;

Through the roof the winds are sighing

And they will not cease to blow;

Through the house sad hearts replying

Send their answer deep and low—

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“Tell me not of fires relighted

And of chambers glowing warm,

Or of travelers benighted,

Overtaken by the storm.

Urge me not; your hand is blighted

As your heart is—even so!

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—

For I go.

“Tell me not of goblets teeming

With the antidote of pain,

For its taste and pleasant seeming

Only hide the deadly bane;

Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,

How they curse thee in their wo!

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“I will leave your dreary tavern

Ere I drink its mandragore:

Like a black and hated cavern

There are reptiles on the floor;

They have overrun your tavern,

They are at your wine below!

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,

For I go.

“There’s an hostler in your stable

Tends a steed no man may own,

And against your windy gable

How the night-birds scream and moan!

Even the bread upon your table

Is the ashy food of wo;

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,

For I go.

“Here I will not seek for slumber,

And I will not taste your wine:

All your house the fiends encumber,

And they are no mates of mine;

Nevermore I join your number

Though the tempests rain or snow—

Here’s my staff and here’s my mantle,

And I go.”

Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—

(Pain hath made us more akin)

Trust not to the strength of others,

Trust the arm of strength within;

One good hour of courage smothers

All the ills an age can know;

Take your staff and take your mantle,

Rise and go.

* * * * *

SONNETS:

SUGGESTED BY PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE.

I.—THE ERA OF DISCOVERY.

The darkest storm-cloud oft upon its breast

Weareth the bow of promise. In the hour

Of deepest anguish, words of healing power

Are whispered to the spirit—“Peace!” and “Rest!”

Praise to our God! if e’en Death’s shadow lower,

Hope lightens all the gloom, with radiant crest—

Oh! Joy is, oft, in garb of sorrow drest,

And direst grief brings rapture as its dower.

Thus, on the night of ages, flashed a light

Of wondrous power and splendor, Learning came

Forth from the cloisters. Welcome to the sight,

A breath from Heaven relit religion’s flame.

’Twas then, his sail the great Discover furled,

’Twas then, was born, as ’twere, this western world.

II.—THE EARLY LIFE OF COLUMBUS.

Amid a glorious city, woke to light

He who threw back a double radiance pure;

And that blue sea! ’Twas as an angel bright,

Beck’ning the child to fame and fortune sure.

How lovingly its waters kissed his feet!

How graceful yielded, as to lure away

The young enthusiast! Should he fail to meet

The ceaseless chime, forbidding him to stay.

The _man_, the _hour_ were found, and from that time

His soul was girded for its task sublime:

To struggle on, through error’s endless maze;

To bear contempt, and poverty, and pain;

To wait for royal favor’s fickle rays;—

To find a world beyond the western main!

III.—COLUMBUS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PAVIA.

Here was the manna for his hungry soul;

And here the fount for which he’d thirsted long.

Though yet his years were few, none might control

His mighty yearnings, or his purpose strong.

Ah! it is joy to watch the spark divine,

To feel it struck, as thought encounters thought!

What deep, exulting happiness was thine,

When to thine aid long-hidden lore was brought,

And thou, Columbus! didst believe the skies

Stooped down to nerve thee for thy high emprise!

’Twas well thou hadst the witness in thine heart,

Or thou hadst fainted in thy weary way;

Though hope “deferred,” though anguish were thy part,

Faith shed a halo round thee day by day.

IV.—COLUMBUS ARRIVES IN SPAIN.

What veiléd glory, and what strange disguise,

We meet in by-ways of this wondrous earth!

How oft the “angel” to our scaléd eyes

Seems but a “stranger” guest of mortal birth!

Met with cold words, or, haply, careless mirth,

Known only when he’s passed into the skies.

Columbus asks for bread![2] None see the ties

Which link him to the future home and hearth

Of unborn millions. Thus, the glorious day

Oft dawns in clouds, while the cold, ceaseless rain

Fills up each pause in the wind’s moaning strain,

And forms of evil seem to haunt our way.

The sky seems brightest when the clouds depart!

Earth-woes make heaven still dearer to the heart.

-----

[2] On his first arrival in Spain, Columbus asked for bread and water

for his child, at the convent of La Rabida.

V.—COLUMBUS BEFORE THE COUNCIL.[3]

A silver lining to on ebon cloud;[4]

A diamond flashing in Cimmerian cave;

A Lazarus, up-rising from the grave,

Bursting the cerements of the straitened shroud;

To all true men Columbus calls aloud.

He scans the past, with all its priestly lore,

But, Janus-like, beholds the future’s shore.

What glorious scenes, what teeming wonders crowd!

What though the church behold him with a frown!

What though the crosier point toward the rack,

When heresy is near, as to the track

Of precious gold the magic hazel leans?

He heedeth not the mitre, cowl, or gown;

A new creation on his spirit beams.

-----

[3] Irving speaks of the ignorance of this body on all _scientific_

subjects, causing the opinions of Columbus to be regarded as heretical.

[4]

Was I deceived, or did an ebon cloud

Turn forth its silver lining on the night? MILTON.

VI.—COLUMBUS AT COURT.

The crescent wanes within Granada’s walls;

The Moorish standard bows into the dust;

The hour hath come when proud Boabdil must

Yield to Castilian prowess. In the halls

Of the Alhambra hymns of praise and trust

Ascend to Heaven. On the glad ear there falls

A mighty shout of triumph. Each one calls

“Rejoice! the Cross hath conquered—ever just!”

Who cometh ’mid the throng? One who hath learned

To hope, when hope hath died within the breast;

Fainting, to hold right on, though scoffed and spurned—

Amid that jubilation he is blest.

Man’s eyes are holden, but proud Woman’s name

From that good hour shares the Discoverer’s fame.

VII.—THE EMBARKATION.

Oh! sweet as is the voice of one most dear,

And balmy as the welcome breath of heaven

To the sick soul, long “cabined, cribbed, confined,”

Is the blesséd wind, that on his high career

Now wafts the man to whose high trust is given

A world unknown, save to his mighty mind.

The last deep prayer is said—the mystic rite

Hath brought new strength unto his awe-struck heart,

He who long struggled with the diver’s might,

Who oft the waves of error did dispart,

And gasped for breath amid those shades of night,

Now with the aim unerring of a dart

Strikes for the pearl, bright gleaming to his eyes—

What mortal man e’er brought up such a prize!

VIII.—THE DISCOVERY.

The morning dawns, and to th’ enraptured eye

Appears a land, glorious beyond compare,

Save that the dreamer saw in vision fair,

When to the Holy City he drew nigh.

The long-drawn veil e’en now is rent in twain!

Well may he enter in, with grateful prayer,

And bathe, as ’twere in a diviner air.

Well may the tears flow down—a blesséd rain!

And Spain’s broad banner proudly rise on high.

What scenes unknown—what beings from the sky,

May wait his coming, or his glory share,

And sing his praise in a celestial strain?

Methinks his soul might now depart in peace!

Well had it been had he then found release!

IX.—THE RETURN TO SPAIN.

Joy! for the Victor cometh! He hath won

A prouder triumph than the great of eld;

The tempest-tossed, within whose bosom swelled

Bright hopes, that changed to fears, now sees the sun

Shine on the fair and fertile land of Spain,

Which hails his name with proud enraptured strain.

All press to gaze on th’ anointed one,

Whom the Most High within his hand has held—

While peals again the long and loud refrain;

And for “Castile and Leon’s” chosen son,

A full-orbed glory shineth in the West.

Oh! if Life’s sands e’en then had ceased to run,

Bright visions of those “islands of the blest”

Had soothed him to his last and dreamless rest.

X.—COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.

In chains! in chains! homeward once more he came!

Life’s sky is veiled in midnight drear and dark;—

And this is his reward! They leave no mark

Those shameless fetters on his own fair fame.

The shaft may pierce his soul, but yet no shame

Bows that proud head; he is the victor still;

He triumphs in a stern, unconquered will.

His ’scutcheon fair was dimmed by breath of blame;

The stain is washed away by woman’s tears;

His patron-queen forbids his anxious fears—

Her gracious sweetness brings him to the dust.

The pledge of royal favor now he hears.—

But, oh! too long it waited—_to be just_;

While care and grief led on the lingering years.

XI.—COLUMBUS PROPOSES A NEW CRUSADE.

The evening sky is bright with blended hues;

A soft, mild radiance, borrowed from on high,

Seems, to our view, to bring e’en heaven nigh,

And its pure essence in our souls infuse.

Thus, to that noble heart, as from the sky,

There came a presence, in life’s slow decline;

He viewed it as a holy seal and sign—

The Cross must crown the city of the Jews!

Like the pure incense-flame he soars from earth;

In fancy sees the prophet’s page unroll,

And reads therein the presage of his birth,

The mighty mission of his single soul!

Life’s pathway bears for him a healing balm,

Which cheers his heart and nerves his fainting arm.

XII.—THE DEATH OF COLUMBUS.

He cometh to the shore of that vast sea,[5]

Whereon he never yet hath spread his sail;

His last, last voyage. Now every chart must fail,

Save that, our Father! he received of Thee!

With an unwavering trust he meets the wave,

Which bears him onward to the dread unknown;

From man’s injustice to that mighty Throne,

Supreme in power, Omnipotent to save.

Ah! ne’er from that far land shall he return!

His dust shall mingle with his mother-earth

In that fair isle to which his skill gave birth.[6]

That mighty soul! where doth it “breathe and burn?”

What worlds hath it discerned beyond the tomb,

Which to our eyes are all enwrapped in gloom?

-----

[5]

“The shore

Of that vast ocean we must sail so soon.”

[6] The remains of Columbus were deposited in the convent of St.

Francisco, but repeatedly removed, and, finally, on the 15th January,

1796, transferred, with almost regal pomp, to the island of Cuba.

* * * * *

TO A FRIEND—WITH A BUNCH OF ROSES.

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

Go forth in beauty blushing to the one I love so well—

Let this dewy fragrance gushing to his spirit softly tell

How a secret, sweet revealing from a gentle kindred heart,

Far through his bosom stealing, comes to seek its nobler part.

Oh! there’s not a spell so glowing in this lovely world of ours,

As when Feeling’s tones are flowing through the voices of the flowers,

When Affection’s thoughts are wreathing in a murmured melody

Round their dewy petals breathing forth a music-mystery.

There are angel voices given in their delicate perfume,

Which will lead us up to Heaven where the fadeless roses bloom,

They have come unto us glowing with a beauty from the skies,

They are gifts of God’s bestowing, from a blessed Paradise.

Let a bright and lovely vision from our sunny Southern bowers,

A dream of joy elysian be awakened by these flowers,

For a wealth of bliss is filling all the loveliness they wear,

And their tiny leaves are thrilling with the messages they bear.

Where the velvet bud uncloses to the morning’s golden beam

Be thy life like summer roses floating o’er a summer stream,

And amid its sunny bowers may a gentle heart be thine,

To bring thee back the flowers which thou hast thrown o’er mine.

Yes—a gentle heart to bring them—leaves from out the distant past,

O’er thy path in life to fling them—all unfading to the last,

In itself the sweetest blossom which a “God of love” has given,

To be worn within thy bosom—and to bloom for aye in Heaven.

* * * * *

MUSIC.

BY HENRY GILES.

The mere capacity in man of perceiving sound, renders the musical

element a necessity in nature and in life. Discord, as a permanent

state, is as inconceivable as a permanent state of chaos. The

combinations of sounds, therefore, in the audible creation, if not all

in detail musical, are pervaded by the musical element: No ear is

insensible to the music of the air in the branches of a tree; to the

groaning of it in the hollow cave—to its whistle in the grass, or to

its spirit-voices in a stormy night around the dwelling. No ear is

insensible to the trickling melody of the stream, to the deep song of

the river—to the solemn anthem of the torrent, to the eternal harmonies

of the ocean. Birds are peculiarly the musicians of the animal world.

But how skillful and how rich their music is, we must learn, not from

the printed page, but in the sunny grove. Though other creatures have

not, as birds, the gift of song, yet are they not unmusical, and have

their parts in the mighty orchestra of living nature. Musical sounds are

grateful to the sense—and all beings that hear listen to them, enjoy

them, and need them. In music man has a common medium of sympathy with

his fellow animals. The charger prances to the sounds that swell the

heart of his master—for he, too, has a heart which they can enter and

dilate. A melody can soothe the lion’s rage. The elephant treads

delighted to the measure of the band. The dog bays gladness to the

shepherd’s flute. The cow stands in placid rapture while the milk-maid

sings. Man is scarcely ever so rude as to be beyond the reach of music.

It was a myth, containing as much truth as beauty, that feigned Apollo

with his lyre as the early tamer of wild men. If music is the first

influence which the race feels, it is also the first which the

individual feels. The infant opens its intelligence and love to the

mother’s song as much as to the mother’s face. The voice, even more than

the look, is the primitive awakener of the intellect and heart. Every

mother ought to sing. A song will outlive all sermons in the memory. Let

memories that begin life have songs that last for life.

As a mere sensation, music has power. A little maid I have known, who

would sit on her cricket by her father’s knee until he had read the

whole of Christobel—of which she did not know the meaning of a line. It

was melodious to her ear, and merely in its music there was fascination

to her infant spirit. The songs which primitive people sing—in which

they have their best social interchange, are frequently poor in diction

and bald in sentiment. It is the music that gives the words a life; and

this life can transfuse energetic inspiration into the meanest words.

Early melodies are, of necessity, most simple. They are the instincts

seeking to put themselves into measured sound—yet with little to fill

the ear, and less to reach the mind. Nevertheless, they are good for the

mind and pleasant to the ear. A rude musical sensation is of value; of

how much more value is a refined musical sensation. But a musical

sensation is of its very nature a refined one. It is among the purest of

sensations. It may, indeed, be associated with coarse and base emotions.

This, however, is not in itself. It is in the imagination or the

word-music simply, as music presents nothing to the sense that is either

coarse or base. The conception is from the mind to music, not from music

to the mind. Speaking of music as a sensation, I speak relatively—for

to man there is no music without soul. In music soul and sense both

mingle—and become _one_ in its inspired sound.

Yet the least part of music is the mere sensation. It is not on the ear

but on the heart that its finest spirit dwells. _There_ are the living

chords which it puts in motion, and in whose vibration it has the echoes

of its tones. The heart, after all, is the instrument with which the

true musician has to deal. He must understand that from its lowest note

to the top of its compass. The true test of music is the amount of

feeling it contains. The true criterion of a love for music is the

capacity to appreciate feeling in music. Music properly is the language

of emotion. It is the language of the heart. Its grammar, its rhetoric,

its eloquence, its oratory, is of the heart. The evidence of its power

is in the calm or the quivering pulsation. Feeling in music is a memory,

a sympathy, or an impulse. Nothing can recall with such vividness as

music can a past emotion—a departed state of mind. Words are but the

history of a by-gone thought—music is its presence. All our profoundest

feelings are in their nature lyrical. Whatever most deeply affects us,

we do, in some way, link to tune, or they are by tune awakened. The

feelings sing of themselves, and make an orchestra of the brain. Persons

utterly incapable of putting the simplest combination of sounds

musically together, will make melody in their hearts of the

reminiscences that strongly move them. And these will commonly be sad,

as all is that is connected with the Past—sad, however, with various

degrees of intensity—some, but calm regrets—others, dirges and

requiems. Therefore it is that the most affecting melodies belong to the

Past—to the past in the life of a man—to the past in the life of a

nation. Such melodies come not from prosperity or power. They come from

those who have missed a history, or whose history is over. Such melodies

are voices of sadness—the yearnings over what might have been but was

not—the regret for what has been but will never be again. And thus,

too, it is with the most affecting eloquence. That which agitates the

breast with force resistless is the word which is fraught with the

passions of its sorrow. Life in power is Action—Life in memory is elegy

or eloquence. A nation, like a man, dreams its life again—and until

life is gone or changed it soliloquizes or sings its dreams. The music

of memory lives in every man’s experience; and the excellence of it is,

that it binds itself only to our better feelings. It is the excellence

of our nature, also, that only such feelings have spontaneous memories.

The worst man does not willingly recall his bad feelings: and if he did,

he could not wed them to a melody. Hatred, malice—vengeance, envy,

have, to be sure, their proper expressions in the lyric drama, but of

themselves they are not musical, and by themselves they could not be

endured. It is not so with the kind emotions. They are in themselves a

music—and memory delights in the sweetness of their intonations. Love,

affection, friendship, patriotism, pity, grief, courage—whatever

generously swells the heart or tenderly subdues it—or purely elevates

it—are, of themselves, of their own attuning and accordant

graciousness, of a musical inspiration. With what enchantment will a

simple strain pierce the silence of the breast, and in every note break

the slumber of a thousand thoughts. It is a positive enchantment. Faces

long in the clay bloom as they did in youth. An inward ear is opened

through the outward—and voices of other times are speaking—and words

which you had heard before come to your soul, and they are pleasant in

this illusive echo. Your spirit is lost in the flight of days, and

insensible to the interval of distance; it is back in other hours, and

dwells in other scenes. Such are the mysterious linkings by which music

interlaces itself with our feelings—and so becomes an inseparable

portion of our sympathy. But sympathy exists only when music answers to

the spirit. Give not a merry carol to a heavy heart; although you may

give a grave strain to a light one. Music, as rightly used, is, as some

one calls it, “the medicine of an afflicted mind.” Joy is heightened by

exultant strains, but grief is eased only by low ones. “A sweet, sad

measure” is the balm of a wounded spirit. Music lightens toil. The

sailor pulls more cheerily for his song: and even the slave feels in

singing that he is a man. But, in other forms of labor, we miss in our

country the lyric feeling. Most of our work is done in silence. We hear

none of those songs at the milking hour, which renders that hour in

Europe so rich in pastoral and poetical associations. We hear no

ploughman’s whistle ringing over the field with a buoyant hilarity. We

have no chorusses of reapers, and no merry harvest-feasts. But if such

things can not be naturally, it is vain to wish for them—and it may be

even useless to mention them. Better things, perhaps, are in their

place—grave meditation and manly thought—and I merely allude to them

as elements that accord pleasingly with certain modes of life in

countries to whose habits and history they are native. Music in social

intercourse is a fine awakener of sympathies, and a fine uniter of them.

A violin or a piano is often not less needed to soothe the ruffled

spirit of a company, than the harp of David was to calm down the fiend

in the turbulent breast of Saul. Music, as we see in the customs of all

nations, is used as an antidote to the sense of danger, as well as a

stimulus to the passion of combat. And as embattled hosts move with

measured tramp to the field of death, music is the magic that is trusted

to charm away fear or to call up courage.

Largely are men indebted even to the music of ballads and of songs.

Difficult it would be to measure the good which such music has done to

mankind. To multitudes in days of yore songs were the only literature,

and by the bards they had all their learning. Songs were their history;

their romance; their tragedy; their comedy; their fire-side eloquence,

giving utterance and perpetuity to sacred affections, and to noble

thoughts—and keeping alive a spirit of humanity in both the vassal and

the lord. Men have not yet ceased to need such influences, nor have such

influences lost their power. They still add purer brightness to the joys

of the young—and are a solace to the memory of age. They are still

bonds of a generous communion. They banish strangeness from the rich

man’s hall: they add refinement to the rich man’s banquet: they are joy

in the poor man’s holyday, they express lovingness in the poor man’s

feast. What so aids beneficent nature as such music does, to remove

barbarism and to inspire kindness? How dear amidst all the toils of

earth are the songs which were music to our infant ears—the songs of

our hearth and of our home—the songs which were our childhood’s spells,

a blessedness upon our mother’s lips, a rapture and delight! What

solaces the exile, while it saddens him? What is it that from the ends

of ocean turns him with wistful imagination to the star which overhangs

his father-land? What is it that brings the tear to his eye, and the

memory of other days, and the vision in the far-off west; that

annihilates years and distance, and gives him back his country, and

gives him back his youth? Song—inspired song—domestic song—national

song—song that carries ideal enthusiasm into rudest places—with many a

tale of marvel and magnanimity—of heroism in the soldier, and sanctity

in the saint—of constancy in love, and of bravery in war.

Man is a social being. Unselfish society is the harmony of humanity:

loving interchange is the music of life; the music which lifts the

attuned soul above discordant passions and petty cares—and song is the

voice in which that music breathes. These are the strains that have

memories in them of all that true souls deem worthy of life or

death—the purities of their homes, the sacredness of their altars, the

hopes of their posterity—all for which martyrs suffer—all for which

patriots bleed—all that give millions a single wish and a single

will—all that make the cry of liberty as the trump of judgment, and the

swords of freemen as the bolts of heaven. Glorious names, and glorious

deeds, and honorable feelings, are always allied to the lyric spirit.

The independence of a country may seem to be utterly lost: the ruin of a

nation may appear decided: indeed, its external destiny may be

accomplished; but the character of a people is never absolutely degraded

until the lyric fire is dead upon the altar, and the lyric voice is

heard no longer in the temple.

Music is not exhausted in expressing feeling, though some persons are so

constituted as not beyond this to understand or to enjoy it. But music

of more profound combination is not, on this account, without meaning

and without value. The higher forms of music, like the higher forms of

poetry, must, of course, if tested by mere instinct, seem remote and

complicated. Music, too, is susceptible of more multiplied combinations

than poetry; and, without the restraints of arbitrary signs and definite

ideas, can expatiate in the region of pure imagination. In the true

sense of the word, it is infinite. Not bound to form, not bound to

color, not bound to speech, it is as unlimited as the capacity of the

soul to exist in undefinable states of emotional being. And into these

it can throw the soul with inconceivable rapidity of change. The great

master of even a single instrument appears, indeed, a wizard. He seems,

in truth, to be the only artist to whom the designation of wizard can

with any correctness be applied. Men of other genius may be creators,

but the musician is the wizard. His instrument is a talisman. It is full

of conjurations—out from it he draws his witchery; he puts his spell

upon all around him; he chains them in the slavery of delight; and he is

the only despot that rules over willing captives. No other power on the

imagination is so complete—so uncontrollable. The fiction or the poem

you can lay aside; the picture or statue moves you but calmly; the actor

is at the mercy of an accident; the orator may fail, by reason of your

opposition to his sentiments or opposition to his person; but the

musician draws you from every thing which can counteract his charm, and

once within his circle you have no escape from his power. Emotional

conceptions—solemn, gay, pathetic, impassioned—are as souls in all his

sounds. But in the case of an executive musician, the art seems

incarnate in the artist. We associate the personality of the artist with

the effects of his art. We are not yet within the limitless domain of

imaginative music. The great instrumentalist is, indeed, a wizard—a

cunning necromancer; but he is before us while he works his spells, and

though we cannot resist the enchanter we _behold_ him. In a great

composer there is a higher potency, and it is one that is not seen. The

action of his spirit on our spirits, though exercised by means of

intermediate agents, is yet that of an invisible incantation. The great

composer is an imperial magician—the sovereign of genii and the master

of wizards. He is a Prospero, and _Music_ is his _Enchanted Island_. The

creative musician, and the region in which he dwells, can have no

analogy more correct than that presented to us in Shakspeare’s

extraordinary play of “The Tempest.” There we have the loud-resounding

sea; at one moment the sun bright in the clear sky, at another hidden by

the mist or breaking through the blood-red cloud; now the heavens are

full of stars, and in an instant they are thick with gloom; the elements

gather into masses, they clash together, and the thunder and the waves

fill up the chorus. Then the day dawns softly, and the morning breaks

into summer songs. Caves are there and pleasant dells; solitudes are

there, dark and lonely; spots beautiful as well as terrible; barren and

blasted heaths, where goblins hold their revels; and labyrinthian walks,

where sweet-hearts, not unwilling, lose themselves and linger. The

earth, the atmosphere, shore, stream, grove, are filled with

preternatural movements, with sweet voices and strange sounds. There are

Ariel-melodies, there are Caliban groanings; there are the murmurings of

manly passions, and the whisperings of maiden-love; there are

Bacchanalian jovialities, high and mysterious monologues, fanciful and

fairy-ditties, the full swellings of excited hearts, and the choral

transports of all nature, made living and made lyrical. But the Prospero

who rules in this island, dwells in a lonely cell, and yet commands all

the voices of the universe to do his bidding. Have I not, by this

analogy, described a grand imaginative composer? Without intending it, I

have described Beethoven. I speak, I admit, only as one of the

appreciating vulgar—as one of the impressible ignorant; I am able only

to express a sensation, not to pronounce a judgment. In listening to

Beethoven’s music there is a delight, for which, no doubt, the learned

artist can give a reason. I know nothing of art, and with me the

listening is an untutored, a wild, an almost savage joy or sorrow, or a

mixture of emotions that cannot be defined. The music of Beethoven, if I

can judge from the little that I have heard of it, is _unearthly_; but

the unearthliness of this music is of a compound nature. Like Spenser’s,

Beethoven’s imagination is unearthly; and, like Spenser’s, it is

unearthly in the supernaturally grand and beautiful. Like Milton’s

imagination, also, Beethoven’s is unearthly; but here it is unearthly in

the mysterious and the solemn. The union of these elements in the

wholeness of Beethoven’s genius, have given to us that singular, that

most original music, which seems to belong to the ideal region, which

eastern fancy has peopled with genii and fairies. What a wonderful thing

is a symphony of Beethoven’s! But who can describe it, in either its

construction or its effects? You might as well attempt to describe, by

set phrases, the raptures of St. Paul or the visions of the Apocalypse.

It always seems the utterance of a mighty trance, of a mysterious dream,

of a solemn ecstacy. The theme, even the most simple—so simple that a

child, as it might appear, could have fashioned it, is one, however,

that genius of a marvelous peculiarity only could have discovered—a

genius that worked and lived amidst the most ideal analogies by which

sounds are related to emotions. And this unearthly theme is thrown at

once into an ocean of orchestral harmony, and this orchestral harmony is

as unearthly as the theme. Thrown upon the orchestra it seems to break,

to divide itself, to scatter itself upon the waves of an enchanted sea,

in a multitude of melodies. It seems as a tune played by a

spirit-minstrel, on a summer night, in the glade of a lonely wood, to

which all the genii of music answer, in chorusses of holy, sad,

enchanting modulation.

And of Mozart! What shall we say of him—of Mozart, less only than

Beethoven in those strains which linger amidst remote associations, but

versatile beyond most composers in the romance and reality of the comic

and the tragic in actual life. If ever a genius lived with which all its

work was play, that genius was the genius of Mozart. Constantly he made

the merest play of genius. At ten years old he could astonish the most

critical of musical audiences in Paris, and before their rapture had

approached within many degrees of moderation, he would be romping in the

crowd of his companions. Nor was it different in his maturity. He could

compose a piece, in which he was himself to take a part. He would

distribute the score, perfectly arranged for the several performers. As

they played, he would turn page after page over along with them, always

in the spirit of the music and its harmony; but the emperor, looking

over his shoulder, could see that not a note had he written down. Mozart

seemed to combine in his genius all the sweetness of Italy with all the

depth of Germany. But on these themes I have no authority to speak. All

I can say is, that what I have heard of his compositions, and most of

what I have learned of his life, have led me to think of him with

admiration as a musician, and with affection as a man.

Music, it is sometimes said, is not an intellectual art. _What does this

mean?_ Does it mean that music employs no intellect in the artist, and

excites none in the hearer? The assertion in both cases is untrue.

Music, as a study, must, I think, be profoundly intellectual. In the

oldest universities it has always had a place among the abstract

sciences. But, considered as an enjoyment—considered in relation to the

hearer—we should first need to settle what we understand by an

intellectual enjoyment. To work a problem in algebra, or to examine a

question of theology, may be each an intellectual pleasure; but the

pleasure, it is manifest, is, in each case very different. These both,

it is true, agree in taxing the _reasoning_ faculty; but is nothing

intellectual but that which formally taxes this faculty? Is nothing

intellectual but that which involves syllogism—but that which implies

demonstration or induction? Prayer is not intellectual, if we identify

intellectuality with logic; and if we do this, it is _not_ intellectual

to feel the merits of a picture, but peculiarly so to understand the

proportions of its frame. According to such a theory, it is intellectual

to analyze with Aristotle, but it is not so to burn and to soar with

Plato. To speculate with Jeremy Bentham is intellectual, but it is not

so to be enraptured by the divine song of Milton. Assertions which lead

to such conclusions must be radically false. Whatever puts man’s

spiritual powers into action, is intellectual. The _kind_ of action

engaged will, of course, be ever according to the subject and the

object. The intellectuality of a statesman is not that of a bard; the

intellectuality which concocts an act of parliament, is not that which

composes a “Song of the Bell.” Music is neither inductive nor

raciotionative. It is an art; that is, it is an inward law realised in

outward fact. Such is all art. In this music agrees with all arts, for

all arts are but the outward realities of inward laws. But some of these

are for utility, others for delight. Music is of those arts which spring

from the desire for enjoyment and gratify it. It bears the soul away

into the region of the infinite, and moves it with conceptions of

exhaustless possibilities of beauty. If ideas, feelings, imaginations,

are intellectual, then is music; if that which can excite, combine,

modify, elevate—memories, feelings, imagination—is intellectual, then

music is intellectual.

An art which, like music, is the offspring of passion and emotion, could

not but take a dramatic form. The lyrical drama, secular and sacred,

civilized humanity could not but produce. Nothing is more natural than

that the gayety and grief of the heart should seek the intense and

emphatic expression which music can afford. It would, indeed, be

extraordinary if a creature like man—so covetous of excitement, so

desirous of varying his sensations—did not press into his service,

wherever it could be used, an art which has no other equal to it for

excitement and variety. The opera, both comic and tragic, is a genuine

production of this desire. The burlesque, the odd, the merry, the

absurd, and, still more, pity, love, jealousy, vengeance, despair, have

their music in the rudest states of society; it is only in the order of

things that they should in cultivated states of society have a

cultivated music. Such music, as a matter of course, would connect

itself with a story, a plot, with incident, character, scenery, costume,

and catastrophe. It would thus become dramatic. Thus it has become; and

as such, it has a range as ample as that of human life, as deep as human

passions, as versatile as the human fancy and the human will. Hence we

have the opera. The opera is that form which the drama assumed among a

people musically organized—among a people whose love of music was,

therefore, intense, constitutional and expansive. But no art remains

within the limits of its native space, and the opera is now as extensive

as civilization; as extensive, certainly, as modern civilization. The

ballad is the first comedy or tragedy. There are germs in the words of

the ballet for the genius of Shakspeare—there are germs in the air of

it for the genius of Rossini. Many object to the opera. First, they say,

it is expensive. All our amusements are expensive—expensive as they

ought not to be—expensive as they would not be with a higher and a

purer social culture. Artistic amusements are expensive, especially, by

the want of taste, which hinders the many from sharing in them—by the

want of taste, which makes _expense_ itself distinction. True taste

coincides with true feeling; true feeling delights in beauty, as it

delights in goodness, for its own sake; and true feeling being wide as

nature and humanity, the more widely its delight is shared the greater

its own enjoyment. Were there among the people a diffusive taste for

elevated music, we cannot but feel that music could be cheap as well as

noble. But, secondly, many say that the opera is unnatural. It is

absurd, they quizzically aver, that persons should sing their love-talk,

their madness, their despair, etc., and grieve or laugh, and die or be

married, in sharps or flats, in major or minor. And yet, this is exactly

what nature does. Nature sings all its stronger emotions. The moment

expression becomes excited it has rhythm—it has cadence; and the tune

of Rossini is nearer to instinct than the blank verse of Shakspeare. Who

will say that genuine passion is not in this wonderful blank verse? But

who is it that could impromptu speak it? So in the tones and harmonies

of music. In both nature is carried into the region of art, out from the

region of the actual; and within the region of art the musical utterance

of nature is no more strange than the poetical utterance of nature. The

moral view of the opera I do not here pretend to deal with. My purpose

is to speak on music as an element of social culture; and it is not

beyond the range of possibility that beautiful truths can be united

dramatically to beautiful tones. If they cannot, then society has an

immense loss; and if a noble story cannot be told by music—cannot be

told to a moral purpose, then music ceases to be an art, as it has

always been considered as associated with the divinest impulses of our

nature. The abuses of which the opera is susceptible, are the abuses of

which every form of art is susceptible. The artist stands—he has ever

stood—upon a point between the human and divine. He may carry his art

into gross sensualities of the human, or into lofty spiritualities of

the divine. With the purification of society we shall have the

purification of art and of the artist; and, therefore, I can see no

reason why the opera might not be made effective in the best culture of

social humanity. The lyrical expression of humanity is not less human

than it is religious.

The sacred lyrical drama, or oratorio, seems to be a remnant of the old

mysteries. In those old mysteries a scriptural subject was exhibited to

the people in a theatrical manner. The scriptural subject is all that

remains of the old mystery in the modern oratorio. Stage, scenery,

costume, have departed, and music takes their place. Music, therefore,

in the oratorio, must, by its own power, indicate character, sentiment,

passion; it must unite grandeur and diversity with unity of spirit; it

must unite them with unity of expression. Yet even the oratorio has not

escaped objection. But, if it has been wrongly attacked, it has been as

unwisely defended. What, it is triumphantly asked, can inspire deeper

devotion, more fervent piety, than the sacred composition of Handel? The

mistake of the artiste on this side of the question, has its only

measure in the mistake of the ascetic on the other. The strains, even of

Handel, may be in unison with the highest and purest aspirations of the

mind; but, in his divinest dramas, they are not of themselves—devotion.

But, if high music confers a pleasure that harmonizes with the mind’s

best faculties; if it prepares the mind’s best faculties for their best

exercise; if by lifting the mind up into the sphere of great emotions

from that of mean ones; if by withdrawing it from attention to selfish

desires, it carries it into lofty thought, music exercises for the mind,

even in the temple, a sacred power, though its power should yet only be

artistic. No mind, for instance, can be in a low or degraded condition,

while it is in sympathy with the pure and delectable genius of Haydn. No

mind can have communed with him through his oratorio of the “Creation,”

can have drunk in its liquid melodies—its gladdening hymns of

praise—its soft and heart-soothing airs—its songs, which seem to

sparkle with the light which they celebrate—with the dew that bathed

first the flowers of Paradise—with its anthems of holy exultation, such

as the sons of God might have shouted—with the whole breathing in every

part as it does—with the young soul of goodness and beauty—no mind, I

say, can be in such communion, and for the time be otherwise than

transported beyond all that can belittle or defile. But Handel excites a

profounder sentiment. He is not so cheerful as Haydn. He could not be;

for this he is too massive and austere. He does not, like Haydn, lead

the mind out to nature, he turns it in upon itself. Not loveliness, but

mysteries make the spirit of his music. We find in Haydn the

picturesqueness and the buoyancy of the Catholic worship; in Handel, the

sombre, the inquiring, the meditative thoughtfulness of the Protestant

faith. By Haydn’s “Creation” we are charmed and elated; by Handel’s

“Messiah” we are moved with an overcoming sense of awe and power. Though

nothing can surpass the sweetness of Handel’s melodies, yet interspersed

amidst such masses of harmony, they seem like hymns amidst the billows

of the ocean, or songs among the valleys of the Alps. Handel’s genius

was made for a subject that placed him in the presence of eternity and

the universe. His moods and movements are too vast for the moods and

movements of common interests or the common heart. They require the

spaces of the worlds. They require interests coincident with man’s

destiny, and with man’s duration. Though Handel’s airs in the “Messiah”

are of sweetest and gentlest melody, they have majesty in their

sweetness and their gentleness. We can associate them with no event

lower than that with which they are connected. In such tones we can

conceive the Saviour’s birth celebrated in the song of angels; in such

tones we can fancy the Redeemer welcomed in hosannas by those who

ignorantly dragged him afterward to Calvary. And then the plaintiveness

of Handel in the “Messiah,” has its true horizon only in that which

girds the immortal. It is not simply plaintive, it is mysteriously

awful. It is not a grief for earthly man, it is a grief for him who bore

the griefs of all men—for Him who carried our sorrows—who was wounded

for our transgressions—who was bruised for our iniquities, who was

oppressed and afflicted, and who bore the chastisement of our peace. It

is not a grief in which any common spirit dare complain. It is fit only

for Him who had sorrows to which no man’s sorrows were like. It does not

cause us to pity, but to tremble. It does not move us to weeping,

because there lie beneath it, thoughts which are too deep for tears. And

then, in unison with this dread and solemn pathos, is the subdued but

mighty anguish of the general harmony. When the victory is

proclaimed—the victory over the grave—the victory over death—the

victory in which mortality is swallowed up of life—we are lost in the

glory of a superhuman chorus; our imagination breaks all local bounds;

we fancy all the elements of creation, all glorified and risen men, all

the hosts of Heaven’s angels united in this exultant anthem. Handel

truly is the Milton of music.

The grandest office of music, however, is that in which, no doubt, it

originated—that in which, early, it had its first culture; in which,

latest, it has its best—I mean its office in religion. In the sanctuary

it was born, and in the service of God it arose with a sublimity with

which it could never have been inspired in the service of pleasure. More

assimilated than any other art to the spiritual nature of man, it

affords a medium of expression the most congenial to that nature.

Compared with tones that breathe out from a profound, a spiritually

musical soul, how poor is any allegory which painting can present, or

that symbol can indicate. The soul is invisible; its emotions admit no

more than itself of shape or limitation. The religious emotions cannot

always have even verbal utterance. They often seek an utterance yet

nearer to the infinite; and such they find in music. You cannot

delineate a feeling—at most you can but suggest it by delineation. But

in music you can by intonation directly give the feeling. Thus related

to the unseen soul, music is a voice for faith, which is itself the

realization of things not seen. And waiting as the soul is amidst

troubles and toils, looking upward from the earth, and onward out of

time, for a better world or a purer life, in its believing and glad

expectancy, music is the voice of its hope. In the depression and

despondency of conviction; in the struggles of repentance; in the

consolations and rejoicing of forgiveness; in the wordless calm of

internal peace, music answers to the mood, and soothingly breaks the

dumbness of the heart. For every charity that can sanctify and bless

humanity, music has its sacred measures; and well does goodness merit

the richest harmony of sound, that is itself the richest harmony of

heaven. Sorrow, also, has its consecrated melody. The wounded spirit and

the broken heart are attempered and assuaged by the murmurings of divine

song. A plaintive hymn soothes the departing soul. It mingles with

weeping in the house of death. It befits the solemn ritual of the grave.

The last supper was closed with a hymn, and many a martyr for Him who

went from that supper to his agony, made their torture jubilant in songs

of praise.

An essay equal to the subject on the vicissitudes and varieties of

sacred music, would be one of the most interesting passages in the

history of art. In their long wanderings to the land of promise, sacred

music was among the hosts of Israel; and in that great temple of nature,

floored by the desert, and roofed by the sky, they chanted the song of

Miriam and of Moses. It was in their Sabbath meetings—it resounded with

the rejoicings of their feasts, and with the gladness of their jubilees.

When Solomon built a house to the Lord, it was consecrated with cymbals,

and psalteries, and harps, with the sounds of trumpets, and the swell of

voices. As long as the temple stood, music hallowed its services; and

that music must have been supremely grand which suited the divine poetry

of the inspired and kingly lyrist. Israel was scattered—the temple was

no more. Silence and desolation dwelt in the place of the sanctuary.

Zion heard no longer the anthems of her Levites. A new word that was

spoken first in Jerusalem had gone forth among the nations; and that too

had its music. At first it was a whisper among the lowly in the

dwellings of the poor. Stealthily it afterward was murmured in the

palace of the Cæsars. In the dead night, in the depths of the catacombs,

it trembled in subdued melodies filled with the love of Jesus. At length

the grand cathedral arose, and the stately spire; courts and arches

echoed, and pillars shook with the thunder of the majestic organ, and

choirs, sweetly attuned, joined their voices in all the moods and

measures of the religious heart, in its most exalted, most profound,

most intense experience put into lyrical expression. I know that piety

may reject, may repel this form of expression, still these sublime

ritual harmonies cannot but give the spirit that sympathizes with them,

the sense of a mightier being. But sacred music has power without a

ritual. In the rugged hymn, which connects itself, not alone with

immortality, but also with the memory of brave saints, there is power.

There is power in the hymn in which our father’s joined. Grand were

those rude psalms which once arose amidst the solitudes of the Alps.

Grand were those religious songs, sung in brave devotion by the

persecuted Scotch, in the depths of their moors and their glens. The

hundredth psalm, rising in the fullness of three thousand voices up into

the clear sky, broken among rocks, prolonged and modulated through

valleys, softened over the surface of mountain-guarded lakes, had a

grandeur and a majesty, contrasted with which mere art is poverty and

meanness. And while thus reflecting on sacred music, we think with

wonder on the Christian Church—on its power and on its compass. Less

than nineteen centuries ago, its first hymn was sung in an upper chamber

of Jerusalem; and those who sung it were quickly scattered. And now the

Christian hymn is one that never ceases—one that is heard in every

tongue; and the whisper of that upper chamber is now a chorus that fills

the world.

Music is an essential element in social life and social culture, and our

times have few better movements than the increasing introduction of

vocal music into popular education. The higher kinds of music might be

included in all the higher kinds of education for men as well as for

women. Milton so teaches in his great tractate; and so the Greeks

practiced, in whose training no faculty was wasted or overlooked. The

music which is now most wanted, however, is music for the common heart.

If education will give us the taste for such music, and give us the

music, it will confer upon us a benefit, a blessing. It is not desired

that music in the home, or in the friendly circle, should never wander

out of the sphere of the home or the friendly circle, only let not these

spheres of feeling be without any strains peculiarly suitable to

themselves. Let the theatre have its music; let the camp have its music;

let the dance-room have its music; let the church have its music; but

let the home and the friendly gathering also have their music.

We have for the cultivated, music of rare powers and in great abundance;

but we need a music for the people—and no music can be music for the

people, but that which answers to simple and direct emotion. It is a

most important need. The music of the opera, granting it were ever so

pure, and had no resistance to encounter, can be had only in cities, and

can never reach the scattered masses of the population. The music of the

oratorio must have a limitation even still more restricted. Popular

music must be domestic, social music. We have it not; therefore we are a

silent people, and our writings have no lyrical inspirations. The finer

and deeper elements of popular life have no true medium of exposition.

These subtle, delicate, wordless idealities of the soul, which the

rudest have, are without music; that alone, which can take them from the

confining bosom, and give them to the vital air. Our rural life is

gladdened by no song—is the subject of no song; and our social life is

almost as silent as the rural. National music we have none: and our

political songs are, generally, a shame to doggerel, and a libel upon

tune. Complaining on the want of social and domestic music, will not, I

am aware, supply it; and yet it is no less a want. We want it on the

summer’s evening, when our work is done, to rest the spirit as we rest

the body; and while the eye is filled with visible beauty, to bring the

soul into harmony with invisible goodness. We want it in the winter’s

night, by the winter fire, to cheer us while the hours pass, and to

humanize in amusing us. We want it in our friendly re-unions, not for

delight alone, but also for charity and peace, to exclude the demon of

idle or evil speaking, and to silence the turbulence of polemical or

political discussion. We want it in our churches. Christianity is the

home-feeling and the social-feeling made perfect. The music of it should

be the home-feeling and the social-feeling consecrated. As it is, our

Protestant churches at least have either a drawling psalmody with the

monotony of a lullaby, or they have patches of selections that want

unity, appropriateness, or meaning. A music is wanted in our Protestant

churches such as Christianity ought to have; a music, simple yet

grand—varied but not capricious—gladsome with holy joy, not with

irreverent levity, not sentimental, yet tender, solemn but not

depressing—not intolerant to the beauties of art, and yet not scornful

of popular feeling. If a true and natural taste for music should spring

up and be cultivated through the country, not in cities only, but in

every village and district, it would be an auspicious phenomenon. It

would be a most vital and a most humanizing element in social life. It

would break the dullness of our homes; it would brighten the hour of our

meetings; would enliven our hospitality, and it would sublime our

worship. “Let who that will make the laws of a people,” some one said,

“but let me make their songs;” to which a great and patriotic composer

might add, Let who that will supply the words of a people’s songs, if I

shall be allowed to give these words to music.

* * * * *

SPRING LILIES.

’Neath their green and cool cathedrals,

In the garden lilies bloom,

Casting on the fresh spring zephyr

Peal on peal of sweet perfume;

Often have I, pausing near them

When the sunset flushed the sky,

Seen the coral bells vibrating

With their fragrant harmony.

But within my quiet dwelling

I have now a lily fair,

Whose young spirit’s sweet spring budding

Watch I with unfailing care.

God, in placing her beside me,

Made my being most complete,

And my heart keeps time forever

With the music of her feet.

I remember not whilst gazing

In her earnest eyes of blue,

That the earth holds aught of sorrow,

Aught less innocent and true.

And the restlessness and longing

Wakened by the cares of day,

With the burden and the tumult,

In her presence fall away.

Shield my Lily, Holy Father!

Shield her from the whirlwind’s might,

But protracted sunshine temper

With a soft and starry night;

’Neath the burning sun of summer

Scorched and shrunk the spring flower lies,

Human hearts contract when strangers

Long to clouds and tearful eyes.

Give her purpose strong and holy,

Faith and self-devotion high;

These Life’s common by-ways brighten,

Every hope intensify.

Teach her all the brave endurance

That the sons of earth require;

May she with a patient labor

To the great and good aspire.

Should some mighty grief oppress her

Heavier than she can bear,

Oh! sustain her by Thy presence,

Hear and answer Thou her prayer.

And whene’er the storms of winter

Round my precious Lily reign,

To a fairer clime transplant her

There to live and bloom again.

M. G. H.

* * * * *

THE EARTH.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

As one who walks with eyes upon the ground,

Arrested slow beside a dusty mound,

Where swarms of ants are bustling in the sand,

As if they had a Universe on hand,

Surveys their nothings with a quiet smile,

And stops to muse and meditate a while—

Even so the sage with philosophic mind

Looks down upon the earth and all mankind!

And yet withal this little orb is grand,

With its circumference of sea and land:

The Ocean girds it with a belt immense,

Heaving in billowy magnificence

Round Continents with all their subject lands,

A thousand sceptres in their giant hands!—

And mountains loom majestical on high,

And lift their foreheads in the blank of sky,

Bathed in its brightness, while their robes of snow

Trail o’er the tallest pines, and far below,

Poured from their urns, the streams divide the plain

And bear their tributes to the sounding main.

And the round hills and verdant solitudes

That slumber in the heart of trackless woods;

The broad champain, the hollow vale and mead,

And the green pastures where the cattle feed

Deep in the daisies; and the silver brooks,

And the long winding lanes, and grassy nooks,

All, all, are clothed in loveliness and light,

The various beauty of the day and night,

While the great Earth, as when its flight begun,

Wheels like a mighty eagle round the Sun!

Yes! Earth is beautiful in every phase,

Covered with glory and perpetual bays;—

What pomps and pageants fill the glowing east,

Hung like a palace on a bridal feast,

When clouds of purple standards are unrolled,

And morning lifts its diadem of gold!

What streams of radiance flood the azure field,

When the Noon marches with his shining shield

And scales the eternal steep of Heaven alone,

And looks o’er Nature from his burning throne!

What dreamy softness in the melting west

When Evening sinks in holiness to rest,

And the young crescent moon, an argent barque,

Drifts up the starry ocean of the dark!

And how sublime the black tempestuous cloud,

Where thunders shout their prophecies aloud

With tongues of fire, that flash from sphere to sphere,

While congregated nations quake in fear!

How glorious all! how changeless and serene

Where generations vanish from the scene.

Yet what is Earth in Nature’s wondrous whole,

Which mirrors dimly its Creative Soul?

Less than ant-hill, even the smallest one,

Whose gates thrown back exclude the summer sun.

A single grain of sand from out the sea,

The deep of Chaos and Eternity,

Whose bubbles are The Ages dim and vast,

Melting into the dark abysmal Past!

A mote in the cerulean space of air,

One of the innumerous myriads floating there,

Wafted of old from God’s eternal seat,

Where stars and suns lie thick as dust around his feet!

* * * * *

ALONE—ALONE!

BY MRS. I. W. MERCUR.

“Her friends had one after one departed, and in her mind

continually rang the monotonous words, alone, alone!”

I am alone, oh God! alone—alone!

Yet thousands round me crowd life’s busy mart,

Whose ceaseless hum is as a deathless moan

Forever falling on my weary heart—

I am alone!

I am alone—around me press the gay,

The light of heart, they who have never known

The blight of sorrow, or the sure decay

Of every joy the spirit here has known—

I am alone!

I am alone—yet memory oft doth bring

Back the sweet visions of life’s sunny day,

Of friends unchanged, who in my early spring

With smiles of love illumed my joyous way—

I am alone!

I am alone—alas! stern death has won

Hearts that I cherished, and fond eyes of light;

Kind tones are hushed, and brows I gazed upon

In life’s full glory greet no more my sight—

I am alone!

Alone—alone!—for unto me no more

The living turn with thought or feeling’s flow.

And joy for me I feel on earth is o’er—

I never more shall love or friendship know—

I am alone!

Alone and weary, yet I strive to wear

Ever a look of calm, serene repose,

And smiling seek to hide each galling care

And burning sorrow which my spirit knows—

I am alone!

I am alone—and far, oh! far away

From where my home of happy childhood lies,

From scenes beloved where fountains murmuring play

And smile beneath my own, my native skies—

I am alone!

Alone—alone!—and my crushed heart doth bear

Cold and neglect from those for whom I pour

My full soul forth—whose images I wear

Forever shrined in memory’s sacred store—

I am alone!

I am alone, but in my fevered dreams

Friends throng around me—voices loved I hear.

Light once again upon my pathway beams,

But I awake!—no forms beloved are near—

I am alone!

Alone—alone!—no more the star I see

Of Hope which once illumed my cloudless sky.

And naught is left on this wide earth to me,

Save but to look on Nature’s face and die—

I am alone!

* * * * *

PEDRO DE PADILH.

BY J. M. LEGARE.

(_Continued from page 148._)

SPAIN, AND TERCERA. }

AD. 1583. }

Meanwhile, the Marquis of Santa-Cruz with a hundred sail was steering

from Lisbon to Tercera, bent upon reaching that island before the French

fleet, and moreover settling it in his own mind to hang the Viceroy de

Torrevedros, (who was at that moment taking wine with De Chaste to their

mutual longevity,) for sticking to the landless and luckless King

Anthony of Portugal, in preference to his own master Philip the Second,

sometimes called the Prudent, but by the Protestants, whom he roasted

and otherwise ill-treated, the Demon of the South.

Señor Inique’s vessel was the Doblon, and our acquaintance Don Pedro’s

the Pez-de-mar, but on the day designated, the two maîtres-de-camp dined

together in the Doblon, besides whom were at table some half dozen

cavaliers of more or less note. At the close of the meal, Sir Pedro

said—

“Gentlemen all, this is a day I never let pass without thought of the

brave man whose head fell ten years ago this noon, at Brussels. I ask a

_pater_ of the company here present for the rest of his soul.”

“If you mean Count Egmont,” answered one, “there never was truer knight.

I was near him at the time of his death, and believe him to have been as

loyal as you or I.”

“A doubtful comparison,” cried another, laughing, “since you question

the king’s justice.”

“By no means,” returned the Constable of Castile. “The king acknowledged

as much himself. I was present when the news arrived, and he said with

his usual smile, ‘These two salmon heads are better off than three-score

heads of frogs!’”

“Yes, and the French ambassador wrote to court, ‘I have seen a head fall

which has twice made France quake.’”

“Well,” said the constable, “I was but a stripling at the time, but I

well remember how the count led his lances at St. Quentin. There was not

a—hush! what’s that?” he stopped suddenly and asked.

“What?” demanded most of his audience, who had heard nothing but the

breaking of Don Pedro’s glass upset by his elbow. Perhaps Don Pedro,

sitting next, was the only other who heard the smothered cry from a

partition behind their host, for Don Inique’s face was as usual

inflexible as a mask, and Padilh, turning to the constable, said—

“I interrupted you. You were saying?”

“Count Egmont rode so gallantly, there was not a man in the army had

seen the like before; it was a ballad of the campeador acted to the

life. Even the king, when he came down from the Escurial, praised his

bravery, and afterward presented him a sword, upon which was engraved

‘St. Quentin.’”

The constable may have repeated the last word to satisfy a doubt in his

mind, but if so he was disappointed in his purpose, for no response came

from the partition, although a momentary silence followed the close of

the sentence. I mention this little incident because it was the prelude

to a singular conversation between the two camp-masters, the next

morning, on board the Pez-de-mar.

“I cannot be mistaken, Padilh,” said the other, in his starched way.

“You heard the exclamation yesterday at table, and endeavored to drown

it. You saved me, sir, a pang—for which I am grateful,” he added, with

the air of a man compelled to acknowledge a service.

“I did my best and quickest to forestall curiosity,” answered Sir Pedro

kindly. “The Constable of Castile is the only gentleman in the fleet who

suspects the presence of your—your—son. And that only since yesterday;

he told me as much last evening. For your precautions in Portugal have

been effectual in keeping a knowledge of the matter even from most of

our comrades at St. Quentin.”

“A curse fall on the name,” muttered Inique bitterly. “It is the only

touchstone his memory has, and at its utterance nothing but force can

stay his screams. God pity me: I act it all over in mind whenever the

boy cries out as he did on the field.”

Padilh knew his associate well enough to disguise what commiseration he

felt, and without noticing the interruption continued—

“Thus, señor, your secret is safe still; for as you may readily believe,

the constable got as little information from my tongue as by his own at

table.”

“Do you think he pronounced the name with design?” cried the

maître-de-camp, his brows contracting. “If I—”

“No,” returned honest Don Pedro decidedly, “the constable is a man of

worth, and would pry into no one’s affairs systematically. But his chief

defect is a tendency to say or do whatever comes into his head, and that

he falls into difficulty less often is perhaps owing more to luck than

consideration on his part. Don’t you remember hearing the answer he made

his Holiness, while a mere lad?”

“No,” absently.

“Why,” persisted the knight, regardless of the doubtful attention of his

auditor, and moved by a good-natured wish to lead away from the painful

topic, “the brusquerie of the whole affair made it the talk at court;

where were you that you failed to hear it? The constable was sent to

congratulate his Holiness on his accession to St. Peter’s chair, but the

Pope taking umbrage at the youth of the ambassador, exclaimed

aloud—‘What! has the King of Spain no men in his dominions, that he

sends us a face without a beard?’ Whereupon the fiery boy, stretching

himself up and stroking with forefinger and thumb his upper lip, where a

mustache should have been but was not, said with a frown—‘Sir, had my

royal master known your Holiness measured wisdom by a beard, he would

doubtless have sent a he-goat to honor you!’”

After a pause Inique said—(the capernian episode was evidently lost

upon him)—

“I have no need of any mortal’s sympathy, Padilh, and the man that

pities me openly must answer to my sword for it. You have done neither

to my knowledge, yet you were not far off when I struck the boy,” (he

dropped his voice here, as a weight on the conscience will make people

do.) “If you choose to listen, the secret motives of a man who for

fifteen years has had no thought for his second child, until moved to

avenge her, because the first, an idiot, intervened, may startle your

ears, Pedro Padilh.”

“The recital may ease your breast,” said our knight in some surprise.

“There is no likelihood of what you say,” answered Don Augustino, a

shade of scorn crossing his moody face, “and I wish it otherwise. Why I

choose you, a companion in arms, for confessor, you will learn in time;

perhaps your long friendship and yesterday’s prompt action have their

influence. These things you witnessed or know; the mad blows, their

result, the measures I have taken to be constantly within reach of his

voice? Why? have you, has any one, hesitated to give some cloak, some

color, to so singular a course?”

Each of these interrogatories, rapidly put, Sir Pedro answered in turn

by a slight token of assent; he was about to reply more fully to the

last, when the other stopped him with a gesture.

“Never mind. I know what is said. That I hide away the living reminder

of my crime from the world; that I am remorseful, or doing penance, or

else crazed. Let them prate. Sir Pedro, by all the saints, the boy I

struck is not my son!”

“Poor fellow!” thought the knight, compassionately; “his last plea is

the right one.”

“Don Pedro Padilh, there was a man of good birth and great wealth, but

little or no character, or care for character, whom I saved once from

being hanged. He was grateful, after his headlong fashion, for the

service, and in the end proposed to unite our infant children; he had

one son, and I a son and daughter; and consolidate our joint estates. At

first my soul revolted at the suggestion; an union between my own

offspring and that of a redeemed felon, appeared to me monstrous. But

while I debated the matter, difficulties softened. I knew better than

any one the smallness of my fortune, which extravagance had reduced to

the tatters of its former amplitude; but of this I said nothing, and the

papers were signed in due form. That day was the last I could touch my

breast proudly, and say, ‘Here is the abode of honor.’”

“And this is the soldier whose honor is held up to the world as a

pattern!” Padilh mused.

“Still the degradation of such connection preyed upon my mind. I wanted

the money to perpetuate the wealth of my house; but how be rid of the

bad blood? And about this time my friend went abroad, leaving his boy in

my charge. I confronted the temptation only to be overcome in the end;

sent away my servants, and removing to the mountains chose others; and

when these were assembled, I, myself, took occasion to call the names of

the infants before them, that there might be no mistake—_no mistake_,

you understand—as names may from what they have been. My own boy I

called—”

“Speak, Sir Augustino!” ejaculated Padilh, sharply.

“Hilo de Ladron; the other—”

“Man, man!” cried the knight, rising and standing over against the

speaker, “You have made an idiot of and imprison my own kin—the son of

my half-brother. What reparation can you make?”

“Reparation! Look here, at these premature seams and wrinkles, grizzled

hair and beard. Has that unsteady hand nothing to show of an iron temper

shattered by sorrow?”

“Sir, your selfish sorrow blinds you. These are signs of retribution on

you, not of reparation to the party injured. Don Augustino, I joined

this expedition with the sole purpose of saving from ruin, if I might, a

lad whom I despise for his vices; and do you think I will leave longer

at your mercy the real Hilo, whom, in place of condemning, I can only

pity.”

“That rests with me,” returned the maître-de-camp, with a slight sneer.

“But listen to me, Don Pedro; you judge my case before it is stated.”

“Finish, sir,” answered Padilh, moodily, resuming his seat; “and heaven

grant your conscience proves clearer than it seems to me likely to do.”