Himself the greatest king. The monarchy
That he held o’er the nations was his own.
It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye—
It was the monarchy of soul, that beamed
From every chiseled feature—till command,
With a strange power upon the spirit, seemed
To speak as with a voice from loftier land;
And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown,
To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!
It was a golden crown—its iron band
The brows had girdled of a race of kings;
He bore it to his own with his white hand,
As some ringed bauble of those weary things
Great hearts despise—e’en when they spell the world
With their poor lustre. As he lifted it,
His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,
And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—
“GOD _gave it me. Beware who touches_,” fell
On the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!
It had been lifted to the warrior head
Of the whole line of Lombardy; and now
It towered above the marbles of the dead
Upon the unchanging paleness of a brow
That frowned on worlds in mastery. It shone
With sapphire and with emerald without,
In bravery of its radiance alone:
Within that iron band went dark about,
Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuries
Had fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.
And how tradition gathered as you gazed!
What relic of such holiness has man
Beheld, with spirit silenced and amazed,
Since awful story of the past began!
It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nail
Of the red Cross on Calvary, for kings
Was fashioned thus! And as we read the tale
E’en now, some memory like an echo rings
Thro’ the astonished heart, until we feel
A reverence with the mystery about us steal!
Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He,
On whose aspiring brow it sat, had felt
And fought the spirits of his Destiny!
Then had a palsied world beheld him melt
In tears for mortals, where he strode in blood,
And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier path
Had been above the dashing of that flood
That broke about the highway of his wrath,
And Glory, like an angel, beckoned on
To summits nobler than the proudest that he won!
O, had he felt that that which then did bind
His beating temples with its iron band,
Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind,
That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand;
Had vision wafted him to those dim years,
When Christ was bowing to the Agony,
And pouring upon Man his farewell tears,
Ere His triumphal parting for the sky—
What then had been the story of thine eye,
Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”
Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,
In the mad morning of his opening days,
And his best music was the voice of Fame,
Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—
How changed along the ice-path of that land,
The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,
Had that stern spirit strode—the loud command
Sunk to that suasion that makes captive men,
By its great moral harmony, and pours
New light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!
Then—ere the earthquake summons of red War
Had lured him to that passion-field, where Man,
Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for,
Ended in blackness what in blood began—
Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer,
From citadel to wilderness, his way
Had lain through paths of Solitude and Care.
The forest midnight and the glare of day—
Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue,
The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!
Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust—
And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet—
Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst,
And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat!
Then had the gilded helm and warrior steed
Been banished, as the necromance of dreams—
The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed,
Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems!
Then had the world seen rest—and with its years
Virtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!
Then had that mighty creature, that no prayer
Could stay upon his mountain-march to win
All that he dreamt of—for no mercy there
Would breathe her whisper mid the tramp and din
Of shaking armies—with a reverence, then,
Had he looked up to God, and asked of Heaven
What in his broad companionship with Men,
Of loftier Duty with his Power was given—
What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies,
All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!
THE BARLOW KNIFE.
BY ROBERT JONATHAN.
There was one event of my boyish days which is the cause of such amusing
reminiscence in my later years, that I cannot refrain, dear reader, from
making you acquainted with it. It happened upon a time, after I had worn
out my first frock coat, and got tired of trundling hoops and wagons,
and drawing sleds, that I felt, as many boys do, an inordinate desire to
experience the comforts of _whittling_; but I had no knife—always
excepting an old _case-knife_ which mother used to lend me. But then,
this was not _the thing_; for, besides being inconvenient, I could not
_shut it up_, and put it in my pocket, and walk about with the proud
consciousness that it was _my own_—not _borrowed_ from any one, but
MINE—sacred to _my_ individual use and behoof. However, believing that
my youthful happiness depended upon the gratification of this desire, I
treated with mother to negotiate with father upon the subject of
procuring me a knife. This was on a Saturday afternoon in the month of
July. Mother told me that, if I would be a good boy, and _keep_ that
night and the next day (Sunday) as I ought, and go to school every day,
and study hard, and mind the schoolmistress, and divers other
conditions—to all of which I eagerly consented without considering the
possibility of fulfilling them—on these conditions, I say, she, on her
part, promised to ask father to give me a _knife_. Accordingly, in
pursuance of our stipulations, I kept Saturday night very well—went to
bed early—went to sleep, and straightway to dreaming of the glorious
fruition of all my hopes. I dreamed that I had a new knife—that I
“_sharpened it up_” until it would _cut a hair_—that I had a soft piece
of seasoned white pine—that, in fact, I was _whittling_! And how
inexpressible was the delight which I experienced! Surely moral
philosophers should give mankind—at least the _boy_ part of it—credit
for a new and additional sense, which they should term _Whittleation_,
and upon which they should base a new science and denominate it
_Whittleology_. For what natural sensation is there which can be
compared with that which is experienced while drawing the keen-edged
blade through the delicate fibres of some soft, well-seasoned wood? So
far as my boyish experience extends, there is no enjoyment so deep, so
soothing, and so satisfactory as that derived from _whittling_; whether
it be upon a shingle or a school-bench—upon the squire’s picket-fence or
the village sign-post. But to my dream. All things went on charmingly
until an unfortunate turn of my shingle brought my knife-blade in
contact with one of my fingers, and the pain of the wound thus
inflicted, dispelled the delightful vision which had enthralled me. And
so impatient was I to have Monday morning come round, that I could sleep
no more that night, and, although it was but an hour before daybreak,
still it appeared to me that weeks were crowded into that short period,
while I was waiting and watching for the blessed dawn of the Sabbath.
Finally, daylight appeared; and with its earliest dawn I arose and began
to whistle “Heigh Betty Martin,” in great glee; but on recollection of
my treaty with mother, I ceased whistling and walked down into the
sitting-room with all the assumed gravity of a Friar Tuck, and with a
face long as a grape-vine, and sombre as a dying cypress. I attended
church all day, and did not take my eyes off the minister, except during
prayers; but sat up in the pew straight as a new pin, the big drops,
(not _tear_ drops, however,) following each other down my cheeks and
neck at stated intervals, much as though a frozen squash was _thawing_
on my head. After returning from church I took up my catechism, and when
I thought mother’s eyes were on me, my own were on the book; but when
she was out of the room I amused my little brother Dick, by telling him
in a whisper sufficiently loud to be heard over all the room, that
“In Adam’s fall
We made stone-wall,
But ever _sense_
We’ve made brush-fence.”
And
“By Washing_ton_
Great deeds were done
When he did run
With his big gun
’Gainst the Hes_shun_,” etc. etc.
But as mother did not hear me, my youthful conscience was perfectly at
ease—considering, of course, that there was no wrong done when there was
no knowledge, on her part, of any transgression.
At length, after many weary hours, _sun-down_ was proclaimed through the
house by my little sister Mary, who had been watching its approach, for
an hour or more, from one of the garret windows. I then made noise
enough to remunerate me for keeping half a score of Sabbaths. I mounted
my Eclipse broomstick with a determination to run him on the course for
the last time, previous to giving up the pleasures of the chase for the
quiet comforts of _whittling_. And, indeed, it _was_ the last time; for,
in the last quarter of the third heat, in the exuberance of my spirits I
reared up, and, my foot slipping, I came with such force on to my
wayworn charger that I broke him down, and into two pieces besides; and,
in addition, I got a severe thump on my cranium, which sent me weeping
to bed, where I slept quietly until Monday morning. On that morning I
was, of course, in very good spirits, and did not fail to give mother a
gentle hint touching her part of the contract, by taking _particular
pains_ to have her _accidentally_ discover that the handle to the
clothes-pounder had come out, and by _carelessly_ observing, in a very
_emphatic_ manner, that _if_ I had a penknife, I would make a wedge and
fasten in the pounder handle, etc. However, that day and the following
night were doomed to be hours of anxious suspense to me—hope and fear
holding alternate sway in my excited breast. But words have not power to
express the fulness of my joy when, after breakfast on Tuesday morning,
father called me to him, and, taking a new knife from his pocket, placed
me on his knee, after which he gave me several sections of good advice
and kind admonitions, to which I listened with all the attention
bestowed by a barn upon a whirlwind, so deeply was I engaged in
scrutinizing the new object of my desire.
When father had finished his lecture, it was _school-time_; so, after
_greasing_ the spring of my new knife, grasping it firmly in my right
hand, and thrusting said hand into my pantaloons pocket, I started for
school, anticipating a “glorious triumph” in exhibiting my
newly-acquired property to my less fortunate playmates. But, just as I
stepped on to the school-house green, the schoolmistress _rattled the
window_ and called the children in; and thus my thrilling hopes were
prematurely blighted. Still firmly holding my knife in my pocket as I
entered the school-house, I took my seat on the “_big bench_” where I
usually sat, and after the school operations had fairly commenced, I
turned round to the desk with my back to the mistress and my book before
me. I then took out my new knife for the purpose of examining it more
particularly than I had hitherto done. It was of that kind commonly
called _Barlow_ knives, one half of the handle being of polished iron
and the other half of bone; the blade about four inches long, half an
inch wide near the handle, and tapering to a point. Bill Williams, who
sat next to me, soon got a glimpse at it, and we soon got _whispering_
about it; and the consequence was, we both got shut up in the _dungeon_,
and were kept there until noon. Great was my joy during the _noon-spell_
in exhibiting my new treasure; and many were the congratulations which I
received upon the pleasure of possessing it. In the afternoon, not
profiting at all by my morning’s experience, I took it out in
school-time and tried its shaving powers by cutting the bench; which the
schoolmistress happening to discover, she took it away from me, gave me
a feruling, kept me half an hour after school was out; then, after
giving me a long lecture, and at the end of it my knife, she sent me
home. There I had a fine opportunity to indulge my whittling
propensities during the whole evening; but finding my knife rather dull,
I stole into the dining-room and stole out of a drawer in the sideboard
my father’s razor-hone, which I took out under the wood-house and there
gave my knife a grand rubbing. Unfortunately for me, however, the more I
sharpened it the duller it grew, and the more it spoiled my father’s
hone; for, on bringing this latter to the light, I found it was a good
deal worn and very much scratched. Here was a new difficulty; a good
scolding, and perhaps a “_dressing_,” for spoiling a nice razor-hone.
However, I put it slyly back into the drawer and determined to say
nothing about it, knowing that father would discover it the next time he
shaved himself; at which time I should endeavor—accidentally, of
course—to be _absent_.
I next tried to sharpen my knife upon a scythe-stone; but, as Dan
O’Rourke would say, “the more I tried to give it an edge, the more it
would ‘not take one,’” until, finally, from desperate necessity, I came
to the grievous conclusion that my knife was good for nothing.
Consequent upon this conclusion, was a determination to get rid of it as
soon as possible. But, alas! here was only the beginning of my sorrows,
as the sequel will show.
My first attempt was to _swop_ it away; but as none of the boys had such
a knife as I wanted, this could not be done. I next called my younger
brother Dick to me, and asked him if he did not want a _present_? He, of
course, answered in the affirmative. Thereupon, after showing him my
knife, how well it was _sharpened up_, etc., and making him promise to
carry my books to and from the school-house during the remainder of the
summer, I made him a _present_ of the knife. He was exceedingly
delighted with this acquisition to his personal property, and
immediately ran into the yard to find something to whittle. I looked
through the window to watch his success. He first picked up a decayed
mullen stalk, and attempted to cut off the end; but, instead of
_cutting_ it off, the pressure of his knife _broke_ it off close by his
hand. He next picked up the end of an ox-goad, and tugged away at it,
turning his head sidewise, and twisting his tongue and mouth into all
manner of shapes, but _not a shaving could he raise_! He then found a
piece of pine shingle, which he succeeded in splitting lengthwise, but
could neither _sharpen_ nor _round_ it. Just then, two of his playmates
coming along with a ball, Dick put his knife into his pocket, and went
to join them in a game of “_one-old-cat_.” I thought to myself, as I was
almost bursting with laughter, “I was _very_ fortunate in getting rid of
_that_ knife at any rate.” On the following morning, father went to get
his shaving apparatus, and, of course, discovered his ruined hone.
However, as soon as I saw him start for the sideboard drawer, I started
for the wood-house chamber, where I lay concealed until school-time. I
went to school with the determination not to go home at noon, and
supposed that by night the hone business would all be got along with.
But my hopes were again doomed to disappointment; for when father came
home in the evening, he asked me if I had “been using his hone?” Now, as
I had been taught that, let consequences be what they might, I must
never tell a _lie_; true to _such_ instructions, I promptly
answered—“Yes, sir.” “For what purpose?” he inquired. “To sharpen my
knife,” I answered. “Well,” said he, “as you are so fond of sharpening
knives, go get the case-knife your mother lends you, and sharpen that.”
Accordingly, I got the case-knife, and he got the hone, and I went to
_honing_, and he went to reading the newspapers. Now, the case-knife was
a good deal like my Barlow knife; the more you _sharpened_ it, the
_duller_ it grew. After rubbing it about half an hour, being somewhat
tired, I took it to father, and told him “it would not come sharp.” “Oh,
well,” said he, “you have not honed it long enough; it is a knife, and,
of course, can be sharpened. Try it again.” So at it I went once more;
and, after rubbing it until my mouth was dry as a cotton-bag, and my arm
almost exhausted, I took it again to father, and, with tears in my eyes,
told him “it would _not be sharpened_.” “Well, my son,” said he, “when I
questioned you about the hone, you promptly told me the truth; for this
I commend you, and I have made you hone the case-knife as a punishment
for spoiling my hone. Now the next time you want a razor-hone to sharpen
a Barlow knife upon, you must ask for it.” I made divers promises on the
subject, and fully resolved, in my own mind, that I never would use his
hone again without permission.
On the following Sunday morning I put on my best suit to attend church;
and, after I had got down into the parlor, I unconsciously thrust my
hand into my coat pocket, and great was my surprise when I drew from it
my _Barlow knife_. “Dick,” said I, “did you put _your_ knife into my
pocket?” “That’s not _my_ knife,” said Dick. “Don’t you want it?” I
asked. “No!” he answered. “Why not?” I inquired. “Because it will not
_cut any_,” rejoined Dick; “and I shall not carry your books this summer
for _such_ a knife as that,” and thereupon he hopped out of the room.
The next day, while up in the orchard, back of the school-house, I
contrived to have it slip out of my pocket, and satisfied my conscience
by telling myself that I had lost it. More than a week had I passed in
the enjoyment of this quiet, pleasing consciousness of having lost my
knife, when, one morning as I was going to school, Bill Williams ran up
to me, saying, “Bob, here’s your knife: I found it under the big sweet
apple-tree.” “Botheration take the knife,” I thought, as I put it into
my pocket. After school was out at night, I went up the road some
distance from the school-house, to a _sand-pit_, from which the
neighbors occasionally got a load of _scrubbing-sand_. Here I dug a hole
as deep as I could, threw in my knife, buried it up, and went away,
rejoicing in the belief that I should never see it again.
About two weeks after this, Peleg Bunce, my father’s hired man, was
sent, by mother, to get a load of scrubbing-sand; and when I came home
from school Peleg said to me, “Robert, here’s your knife,” at the same
time reaching it to me. “My knife!” I exclaimed, in a manner and with
feelings compounded of sanity and insanity. “_Divil_ burn the knife,” I
whispered to myself, not wishing to speak a bad word distinctly. Peleg
found it in the sand-pit; and he knew it was mine, for he once borrowed
it of me to make a _bow-pin_ for old _Brin_—but returned it, of course,
without accomplishing his object. Once more I put it in my pocket, and
began to reflect how I should ever get entirely rid of it. At last, a
plan occurred to me, which I conceived to be faultless. There was a
_pond_ near my father’s house, at the outlet of which stood a large
blast furnace. I determined to _drown_ my knife. Accordingly, lest its
own weight should not be sufficient to keep it at the bottom, and to
make “assurance doubly sure,” I got from the barn a piece of halter with
which I tied a pretty good sized stone to my knife, and threw it into
the furnace-pond. And great was my joy to see it turn and turn around
until it sank out of my sight. Soon as it had fairly disappeared, I
fetched a heavy sigh of mingled joy and suspense—then turned home with a
light and happy heart. Sweet was my rest that night, and pleasant were
my dreams. Week after week passed away, and my old knife likewise passed
into oblivion.
One bright and beautiful morning in October, old Russell Case and his
two sons came down from the mountain on which they lived, to fish in the
pond; and as they were notorious fishermen, they generally had quite a
company of boys to watch their operations. As it was not yet
school-time, Bill Williams and myself went to see them draw their seine.
They took a good sweep into the pond with their boat, then came on shore
and commenced hauling in. We were all anxiously watching for the fish,
and nearly the whole of them had been emptied on the beach, when Bill
Williams exclaimed, “Why, Bob, _there’s your knife_!” And sure enough,
on hauling in the last joint of the seine, what should be hanging to it
but my knife with the string and stone attached to it! Perfectly
astounded at this discovery, I could almost have prayed that the waters
might rise and overwhelm seine, fishermen and all! However, the thing
was easily explained; for the piece of halter which I used happened to
have been made of _hemp_, and the _knife_ not being as heavy as the
string, while the stone lay on the bottom, _that_ was elevated some
inches from it, and so the fishermen caught it.
Once more, with a heavy heart, I put that old knife in my pocket. A deep
feeling of disappointment and melancholy took possession of my mind, and
long and seriously did I ponder upon the best means of ridding myself of
this tantalizing treasure. In vain had I endeavored to _give it away_—in
vain, to lose it—in vain, to drown it. Light, at last, seemed to dawn
through the gloom that had gathered upon me, and my resolution was soon
taken. I repaired one evening to the furnace—went into the top-house,
and there waited until they began to put in their hourly supply of coal
and ore. I then thrust my knife into the box of ore which I thought the
_filler_ would put in first. I did not wish to throw it directly into
the top myself, for this would seem like doing an evil deed, and such a
one I did not wish to do. Strongly and quickly did my heart beat as I
watched the baskets of coal disappear; and, finally, my whole frame
shook with agitation when I saw the filler take the box of ore which
contained my knife, and toss its contents into the furnace! A long-drawn
sigh gave vent to the conflicting emotions which had agitated my mind,
and I turned homeward with a feeling of deep, almost overwhelming
satisfaction and delight, that my eyes had certainly beheld, for the
last time, my old BARLOW KNIFE!
GERTRUDE.
BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,
STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
List to the passers by!
They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,
To scenes of pleasure. To the thronged _soirée_,
The brilliant party, or the festive dance,
The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet.
In each will wand’ring glances oft be turned
In search of her, the gifted, lovely, young,
And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night.
Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7]
On which her brow reposes? Th’ other rests
Upon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheet
Was filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves;
For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now!
Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not like
A being of the earth. We almost feel
’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that face
Where thought, emotion, beauty, love, all strive
For the expression.
Hark! she touches now
The strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice,
Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—
“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!
Yet I know he is constant and true,
Still my path is illumed by love’s ray,
Which though absent, brings him to my view.
Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beam
Which his presence flings over me still;
When with Ernest, why should I not deem
That the world contains nothing of ill?
“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away!
Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear.
Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay,
And e’en happiness linger to hear.
When with Ernest, why should I not lose
All thoughts of the world and its hum?
And his smile above fame ever choose?
He will come! he will come! he will come!”
Her song is done!
Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped.
It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.
SODUS BAY.