friend; “struggling to feel that if indeed I accomplish _good_, I shall
not live in vain; and my own personal loneliness and sorrow will be of
little consequence. But, oh! how different it is to write merely for the
good of others, to the same efforts, to the same goal, pursued under the
influence of sympathy and affection! Because a woman has _mind_, she is
supposed to have no _heart_, and has no occasion therefore for the sweet
charities of life; when by her, if possible more than any other, they
are imperatively needed. Others may find pleasure or satisfaction in
foreign excitement; to her, home is all in all. If there be one to love
her there—be it parent, husband, or friend—she needs no more; the
yearnings of her heart are stilled, the mind provides her with unfading
flowers, and her lot is as inexpressibly happy as without such domestic
ties it is inexpressibly sad. Do not wish me, as you have sometimes
done, dear Mary, to love, for it would be unreturned; simply, because it
is the general belief that an authoress can have no time, no capability
of any emotion save for the creations of her own mind.”
So wrote Clara; though, at the time, she knew not how soon her words
would be verified. As soon as the term of mourning had expired, though
little inclined for the exertion, she conquered her own shrinking
repugnance to asserting and adopting her own rights; and, to the
astonishment of Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, she accepted some of the
invitations which courtesy had sent her. Though entered into merely as a
duty, society gradually became a source of pleasure, in the discovery
that all her aunt’s circle were not of the same frivolous kind; and then
slowly, but surely, the pleasure deepened into intense enjoyment from
the conversation and attentions of Granville Dudley, whom she met
constantly, though he did not visit her uncle. Clara was so very unlike
her cousins, whose endeavours to gain husbands were somewhat too broadly
marked, that Dudley had been irresistibly attracted towards her; a fancy
which every interview so strengthened, that he began very seriously to
question his own heart as to whether he really was in love.
As Miss Stanley’s name was not generally known to the literary world,
and the lady, at whose house Granville mostly met her, was herself
scarcely aware that she was anything more than an amiable, sensible and
strongly feeling girl, Granville Dudley knew nothing of her claims to
literature and authorship till his conversation with Charles Heyward,
near the close of the season, revealed them as we have said. The very
next time they met, Dudley, half fearfully, half resolutely, led the
subject to literature and literati, and drew from Clara’s own lips the
avowal he dreaded. In the happy state of feeling which his presence
always created, she at first imagined he thus spoke from interest and
sympathy in all she did; and enthusiastic, as was her wont in
conversation with those who she thought understood her, she said more on
the subject, its enjoyment and resources, than she had ever done in
London. Granville said nothing, in reply, which could have chilled her
at the time. Yet, when the evening was over, Clara’s heart sunk within
her; she knew not wherefore, save that a secret foreboding whispered
within her _that_ conversation had sealed her fate. Dudley would not
trust his happiness with her.
At one other party she was to meet him, ere the season closed, and the
veriest devotee to balls and _soirées_ could not have longed for it more
than poor Clara; who looked forward to it as the confirmer or dispenser
of her fears. The morning of the day on which it was to take place,
little Emily, the youngest of the family, was seized with a violent
attack of fever, which increased as evening advanced. It so happened
that all the Barclay family who were “out” were engaged that evening;
Mr. and Mrs. Barclay, and their two elder daughters, at a card and
musical _soirée_; the other two, and their brothers, under the
_chaperonage_ of Mrs. Smith, the _gouvernante_, at the ball to which
Clara looked forward with so much eagerness. What was to be done? The
child could not be left; and without Mrs. Smith, what was to become of
her sisters? It was impossible for them to go alone, and equally
impossible for mother, father, or either sister of the little sufferer,
to give up a fashionable party for the dreadful doom of sitting by a
sick bed.
Looks and hints of every variety were levelled at Clara; who, with her
usual benevolence, had stationed herself close by her little cousin,
ever ready to administer kindness or relief. At any other time, she
would not have hesitated a moment; but with the restless craving to see
Granville Dudley again, the giving up her only chance, for a time at
least, was so exquisitely painful, she could not offer to remain. Mrs.
Barclay, however, seeing hints of no avail, at length directly entreated
that, as she was less fond of going out than any one else, she might be
glad of the excuse, to give the time to her books and writing, and it
would really be doing her (Mrs. Barclay) an especial favour if she would
stay and nurse Emily. Clara’s high spirit, and strong sense of selfish
indulgence, obtained such unusual dominion, that she had well-nigh
proudly refused; but the little sufferer looked in her face so
piteously, and entreated her so pleadingly to remain, that, ever awake
to the impulse of affection, Miss Stanley consented.
The disappointment was a bitter one, though Clara’s strong sense of
rectitude caused her to reproach herself for its keenness, as uncalled
for. What did Granville Dudley care for her, that she should so think of
him? but vain the question. Every backward glance on their intercourse
convinced her that he had thought of her, had singled her out, to pay
her those attentions, that gentle and winning deference, which, from a
man of honour, such as the world designated him, could not be
misconstrued. There was one comfort, however, in her not meeting him; if
he knew what kept her at home, he would scarcely continue to believe
that her only thoughts were of literature and authorship.
Little did she know that, before they departed on their several ways, it
was settled in the Barclay parliament that nothing whatever was to be
said of little Emily’s illness, lest people should fancy it contagious,
and send them no more invitations, so closing their chances of matrimony
for that season, before it was quite time.
“If Clara is asked for, my dears—which is not at all likely—you can say
you know that she could not leave her writing, or correcting a proof, or
some such literary business. I leave it to you, Matilda; you are sharp
enough, particularly in framing excuses for a rival, whom I know you are
glad to get out of your way. Folks say Granville Dudley had a literary
mother; he is not likely to wish for a literary wife.”
The young lady answered with a knowing nod; and performed her mission so
admirably, that after that evening Granville Dudley disappeared. Power
she certainly had to separate him from Clara, but to attach him to
herself was not quite so easy. The answer she had given to Granville’s
inquiries after her cousin was so carelessly natural—that Clara, as an
authoress, a literary character, had so many superior claims, that
parties and everything else must be secondary, and this followed up by a
high encomium on her great talent, she should say genius; but it was,
she thought, almost a pity to be so gifted, as it incapacitated her from
common sympathies and duties—that it confirmed Granville’s previous
fears. And while it made him almost turn sick with disappointment and
anguish, for it seemed only then he felt how completely she had become a
part of himself, he vowed to tear himself from her influence ere it was
too late, and the very next morning left London.
“You were right, Heyward. I suppose I shall be a happy man again some
day or other, but not now; so do not try to philosophise me into being
so.”
“But, my good fellow, perhaps after all we have been frightened at
shadows; and, hang it! but I am sorry I said so much at first. That
Emily Barclay has been very ill, and was so that eventful night, are
facts; and, in my opinion, Clara stayed to nurse her, because the others
were all too selfish.”
“A sentimental excuse to obtain time for dear, delightful, solitary
musings, or some such thing. It is too late, Heyward; she _is_ literary,
and so she cannot be domestic. I will not think of her any more.”
This was not quite so easy to do as to say; but Granville Dudley was a
man of the world, far too proud and resolute to bow, or seem to bow,
beneath feeling, particularly when he believed himself on the point of
loving one who was utterly incapacitated from giving him any heart in
return. He went abroad, travelled during the remainder of the summer,
joined the first Parisian circles in the autumn, and before the year
closed was a married man.
II.
Eight years have passed, and Clara Stanley is still unmarried; yet she
is happy and contented, for she is once more amid the scenes of her
childhood; once more the centre of a domestic circle, who vie with each
other who can love her best. Two years after she heard of Granville
Dudley’s marriage, finding a London life less and less suited to her
tastes, and not conceiving any actual duty bound her to reside with her
uncle’s family, she resolved on making her home with an intimate friend
of her mother’s, who was associated with all the happy memories of her
own childhood and youth. Reduced circumstances had lately compelled Mrs.
Langley to take pupils; a fact which had instantly determined Clara’s
plans. She was the more desirous for retirement and domestic ties, from
the very notoriety which the constant success of her literary efforts
had flung around her. She did not disdain or undervalue fame; but all of
expressed admiration, all public homage, was so very much more pain than
pleasure, that she shrunk from it; longing yet more for some kindly
heart on which to rest her own. Let us not be mistaken: it was not for
love, in the world’s adaptation of the word, she needed; it was a
parent’s fostering care—a brother’s supporting friendship—a sister’s
sympathy, or one friend to love her for herself, for the qualities of
_heart_, not for the labours and capabilities of _mind_. From the time
she heard of Dudley’s marriage, all thought of individual happiness as a
wife faded from her imagination. Her only efforts were to rouse every
energy to supply objects of interest and affection, and so prevent the
listlessness and despondency too often the fate of disappointed women.
This had, at first, been indeed a painfully difficult task; for her
heart had whispered it was because she was different from her fellows,
because she was what the world termed literary and learned, Granville
had shunned her; and a few words, undesignedly and carelessly spoken by
Charles Heyward, relative to Dudley’s dislike to female literature, from
its effects on his mother, confirmed the idea, and made her shrink from
her former favourite pursuits. But she, too, had a character to sustain;
and once more she compelled herself to work, believing that her talents
were lent her to be instruments of good, not to lie unused. And yet, to
a character of strong affections and active energies, mental resources,
however varied, were not quite sufficient for happiness; and therefore
was it she formed and executed the plan we have named.
So seven years had sped, and there was little variation in the life of
our heroine for her biographer to record. Her constant prayer was heard.
Her name had become a household word, coupled with love, from the pure
high feelings and ennobling sympathies which her writings had called
forth. Her works had made her beloved and revered, though her person,
nay, her very place of residence and all concerning her were, as she
desired, utterly unknown. This in itself was happiness, inexpressibly
heightened by her present domestic duties, lightening Mrs. Langley’s
household cares; giving part of every day to that lady’s pupils;
teaching them not only to be accomplished and domestic, but to be
_thinkers_; training the _heart_, even more than the mind; making nature
alike a temple and a school: all the sweet charities of home were now
hers, and her heart was indeed happy and once more at rest.
And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten? When we say that Clara might
have married more than once, and most happily, but that she had refused,
simply because she could not permit an unloved reality to usurp the
place of a still loved shadow—all doubts, we think, are answered.
Of Granville Dudley she could never hear; all trace of him seemed lost.
Within the last few years the newspapers had indeed often teemed with
the praises and speeches of a Sir Dudley Granville; but, though the
conjunction of names had at first riveted her eye and made her heart
turn strangely sick, she banished the thought as folly. It was a
Granville Dudley, not a Dudley Granville, whom she had too fondly loved.
Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs. Langley, when
application was made to the latter lady to receive the only child of Sir
Dudley Granville as her pupil. The child was motherless, and in such
very precarious health, that the milder climate of Devonshire had been
advised, as, combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her
to womanhood. Mrs. Langley’s establishment was full, six being her
allotted number, which no persuasion had as yet ever induced her to
increase. There was something, however, in the appearance of the little
Laura which so unconsciously won upon Clara, that she could not resist
pleading in the child’s behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave
the next half year, Mrs. Langley acceded. Clara’s name, however, had not
been mentioned in this transaction. The lady who had the charge of Laura
had indeed conversed with her, and had been charmed with her manner; but
little imagined she was enjoying the often-coveted honour of conversing
with an authoress, and one so popular as Clara Stanley. She said that
Laura, though eight years old, literally knew nothing. Lady Granville
had been the belle of her time, but one who had the greatest horror of
all learning in woman, and in consequence possessing nothing of herself
but showy accomplishment, which told in society. She had neglected the
poor child, wasted alike her own health and her husband’s income in the
sole pursuit of pleasure, and hurried herself to an early grave. Laura’s
health had been so delicate since then, that her father feared to
commence her studies, even while he was most anxious she should become a
sensible and accomplished woman, with resources for happiness within
herself.
“And she shall be, if I can make her so,” was Clara’s inward thought, as
she looked on the sweet face of the child, and a new chord in her heart
was touched she knew not wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the
feeling, even to one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara gave
it up in despair; but affection and interest alike clung round the
child, who gave back all she received. Her weak health prevented her
entering into all the routine of the schoolroom, and she became Clara’s
constant companion and pupil. Repeatedly the artless letters of the
child to her doting father teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the
tenderness of Miss Stanley; soon convincing Sir Dudley how quick and
ready were her powers of comprehension, and filling his heart with
gratitude towards that kind friend, whom he knew not, guessed not was
the authoress of the same name whose gentle eloquence in her sex’s cause
had even now his admiration.
Laura Granville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight months, when she
became extremely ill, from an epidemic that had suddenly broken out in
the village; all Mrs. Langley’s household were attacked by it in a
greater or less degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal.
Careless of her own fatigue, Clara devoted herself, day and night, to
the young sufferer. Her affections had never before been so warmly
enlisted; not one of her young friends had ever become so completely
part of herself, and as she watched and tended her morning prayers for
her recovery, it seemed as if the child must be something nearer to her
than in reality she was.
An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville; but, from his
having gone unexpectedly to visit a friend in Germany, it was
unavoidably delayed on its way, and nearly three weeks elapsed ere the
baronet reached Ashford. From the haste with which he had travelled, no
account of her progress could reach him; and it was in a state of agony
and suspense no words can describe that the father flung himself from
his carriage at Mrs. Langley’s gate, and rushed into her presence.
“Your child lives; is rapidly recovering—may be stronger than she has
been yet,” were the first words he heard, for his look and manner were
all-sufficient introduction; and the benevolent physician, who had that
instant quitted his little patient, grasped Sir Dudley’s hand with
reassuring pressure. The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but
his quivering lip could only gasp forth an ejaculation of thankfulness,
and sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his hand.
“Let me see this incomparable young woman, the preserver of my child!”
he passionately exclaimed, as Dr. Bernard and Mrs. Langley, after
describing the progress and crisis of Laura’s illness, attributed her
unexpected recovery, under Providence, to the incessant care and
watchfulness of Miss Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill
had been, without it, of no avail whatever. Being assured his appearance
would not injure Laura, who was, in truth, daily expecting him, he
eagerly followed Mrs. Langley to the room, and paused a moment on the
threshold unobserved.
Laura was sitting up in her little bed, supported by pillows, looking
pale and delicate, indeed, but smiling with that joyous animation
which, in childhood, is so sure a sign of returning health; and
dressing, with the greatest zest, a beautiful doll, which, with its
plentifully-supplied wardrobe, lay beside her. Near the bed, and
seated by a small table, covered with books and writings, was Clara,
who, by the rapid movement of her pen, and her immovable attention,
was evidently deeply engrossed in her employment. Sir Dudley could not
see her face, for it was bent down, and even its profile turned from
him, but a strange thrill shot through him as he gazed.
“Oh! look, Miss Stanley, how beautiful your work shows, now she is
dressed. How kind you were to make her all these pretty things. I can do
it all but these buttons, will you do them for me?”
Clara laid down her pen with a smile, to comply with the child’s
request; and as she did so, Laura laid her little head caressingly on
her bosom, saying, fondly, “Dear, dear, Miss Stanley, I wish papa would
come; he would thank you for all your goodness much better than I can.”
“I wish he would come, for your sake and his own, dearest—not to thank
me, though I shall not love you the less for being so grateful, Laura,”
was the reply, in a voice, whose low, musical tones brought back, as by
a flash of light to Sir Dudley’s heart, feelings, thoughts, memories, of
past years, which he thought were hushed for ever.
“Miss Stanley! Clara! inscrutable Providence!—is it to you I owe my
child?” he exclaimed, springing suddenly forward, and clasping his
little child to his heart—one moment covering Laura’s upturned face with
kisses, the next turning his earnest, grateful gaze on the astonished
Clara.
For an instant her heart grew faint, for the fatigue of long-continued
nursing had weakened her; nor could she realize in that agitating moment
the lapse of ten years, since she had last looked on his face, or
listened to its richly expressive voice. Time had passed over her heart,
leaving its early dream unchanged, and vainly she strove to feel how
long a period had flown. All seemed a thick and traceless mist; but when
she succeeded in shaking off that prostrating weakness, forcing herself
to remember it was Sir Dudley Granville, not Granville Dudley, who had
thus addressed her, still one fact was certain, the object of her first,
her only affection was at her side once more—it was his child her care
had saved.
Day after day did Clara Stanley and Sir Dudley Granville pass hours
together by the couch of Laura. Though conscious her secret was still
her own, and grateful that, after the first burst of natural feeling,
Granville’s manner to her was only that of an obliged and appreciating
friend, Clara’s peculiarly delicate feelings would have kept her from
Laura’s room during the visits of her father; but the child was restless
and uncomfortable whenever she was absent, and Granville so evidently
entreated her continued presence, that to keep away was impossible. It
was during these pleasant interviews Sir Dudley related the cause of his
change of name. He had become, most unexpectedly, the heir to his
godfather, Sir William Granville, who had left him all his estates, on
the sole condition of his adopting, for himself and his heirs, the name
of Granville—Sir Granville Granville, he added, with a smile, was not
sufficiently euphonious, and so he had placed the Dudley first instead
of last. He alluded in terms of the warmest admiration to her works, and
wondered at his own stupidity in never connecting the Miss Stanley of
his Laura’s letters with the authoress he had once known. A very
peculiar smile beamed on the lips of Clara as he thus spoke, but she did
not say its meaning.
One day, some six or seven weeks after Granville’s appearance at
Ashford, Clara had just comfortably seated herself at her desk, after
seeing Laura ensconced in her little pony chaise, when she was startled
by hearing Sir Dudley’s voice, in accents of unusual seriousness, close
beside her.
“Will you tell me, Miss Stanley, how you can possibly contrive to unite
so perfectly the literary with the domestic characters? I have watched,
but cannot find you fail in either—how is this?”
“Simply, Sir Dudley, because, in my opinion, it is impossible to divide
them. Perfect in them, indeed, I am not; but though I know it _is_
possible for woman to be domestic without being literary—as we are all
not equally endowed by Providence—to my feelings, it is _not_ possible
to be more than usually gifted without being domestic. The appeal to the
heart must come from the heart; and the quick sensibility of the
imaginative woman must make her _feel_ for others, and _act_ for them,
more particularly for the loved of home. To _write_, we must _think_,
and if we think of duty, we, of all others, must not fail in its
performance, or our own words are bitter with reproach. It is from want
of thought most failings spring, alike in duty as in feeling. From this
want the literary and imaginative woman must be free.”
Granville’s eyes never moved from the fair, expressive face of the
gentle woman who thus spoke, till she ceased, and then he paced the room
in silence; till, seating himself beside her, he besought her to listen
to him, and pity and forgive him, and _prove_ that she forgave him; and,
ere she could reply, he poured forth the tale of his earlier love—how
truly he loved her, even when his idle prejudices against literary women
caused him to fly from her influence, and enter into a hurried
engagement with one, beautiful indeed, but, from having no resources
within herself, the mere votaress of pleasure and outward excitement.
How bitterly he had repented through seven weary years the misery he had
brought upon himself—how constantly he had yearned for a companion of
his home and of his mind—and how repeatedly, as he glanced over her
pages, where pure fresh feeling breathed in every line, and the love of
home and its sacred ties were so forcibly inculcated, he had cursed his
own folly. How he had sought to drown thought in a public career, but
had still felt desolate; and now that he looked on her again, not only
in her own character, but as the preserver of his child, how completely
he felt that happiness was gone from him for ever, unless she would give
it in herself!
Clara’s face was turned from him as he spoke, but, ere he concluded, the
quick, bright tears were falling in her lap; and when she tried to meet
his glance and speak, her lip so quivered that no words came. It was an
effort ere she could tell her tale; but it was told at length, though
Granville’s ardent gratitude was for the moment checked by her serious
rejoinder.
“It is no shame now, dear Granville, to confess how deeply and
constantly I have returned your affection; but listen to me ere you
proceed further. I do not doubt what you say, that your prejudices are
all removed; but are you certain, quite certain, that a woman who has
_resources of mind_ as well as of heart can make you happy, as you
believe? At one-and-twenty you could have moulded me to what you
pleased. I doubt whether I should have written another line, had you not
approved of my doing it. At one-and-thirty this cannot be. My
character—my habits are formed. I cannot draw back from my literary
path, for I feel it accomplishes good. Can I indeed make your happiness
as I am? Dearest Granville, do not let feeling alone decide.”
“Feeling! sense! reason! Clara—my own Clara—all speak and have spoken
long. Make my child but like yourself, and with two such blessings I
dare not picture what life would be—too, too much joy.”
* * * * *
And joy it was. Joy as it seemed. Granville has felt that for once
imagination fell short of reality, for his path is indeed one of
sunshine; and as Lady Granville, the authoress, continues her path of
literary and domestic usefulness, proving to the full how very possible
it is for woman to unite the two, and that our great poet[3] is right
when, in contradiction to Moore’s shallow theory of the unfitness of
genius to domestic happiness, he answered—“It is not because they
possess genius that they make unhappy homes, but because they do not
possess genius enough. A higher order of mind would enable them to see
and feel all the beauty of domestic ties.”
-----
Footnote 3:
Wordsworth.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Helon._
A FRAGMENT FROM JEWISH HISTORY.
“Joy! joy! Spring hath come!
Bounding o’er the earth,
Laughing in the insect’s hum,
In the flow’ret’s birth.
Ere his spirit springs above,
Summer’s wreath to twine,
Oh, what joy for me, my love!
Then thou wilt be mine!
“Joy! joy! though awhile,
Dearest, we must part,
Warmly will thy sunny smile
Rest upon my heart.
Spring the earth is greeting, love,
With a crown of flowers;
For the hour of meeting, love,
Sweeter hopes are ours.”
SO sung, in a rich, mellow, though somewhat subdued voice, a young man,
as he stood beneath the window of a grim old mansion. The sun had but
just risen, and sky and earth seemed still bathed in his soft rosy glow.
Flowers of delicate form and many a brilliant tint were gemming the
greensward, which looked fresh and bright as emerald. Fringed with hoary
rocks and thick dark woods, lay the deep blue waters of the lovely
Rhine, seeming as if the spirits of the early morning had flung on them
a rich robe of golden sheen. Even the black forest in the far distance,
and the old, apparently half-ruinous mansion itself, all but laughed in
the glowing light; hailing, as they did, the new birth of nature, as
well as that of the day. Spring had, within the last few days, leaped
from the arms of winter; and flowers and birds, and earth and sky,
welcomed his birth, as with a very jubilee of gladness.
The deep seclusion of the scene, however, was remarkable: castles and
towns, convents and monasteries, generally studded the banks of the
Rhine, even as early as the close of the eleventh century, the period of
our narrative; but here there was not a habitation of any kind visible,
save this one old house and its out-door offices.
It was a Hebrew school or college, the origin of which was so far
removed into the past as to be involved in mystery. From its extreme
seclusion it had remained undisturbed, when elsewhere every trace of
Israels locality had been washed out in blood. Century after century
beheld it occupied by a succession of venerable teachers, learned in all
the mysteries of their law, and faithful to its every ordinance; by some
few Hebrew families who, from being pupils, loved its peaceful seclusion
too well to exchange it for the dangers of towns; and by some youths,
brought there by anxious parents, or there own will, to learn such
lessons as would bid them live to glorify their faith, or die to seal
its truth with blood.
The young minstrel, whose song we have given, had been one of these
pupils since the age of ten, and was about returning to Worms, his
native city, to see his widowed mother, from whom he had been parted
fourteen years, obtain her blessing on his choice (the daughter of one
of his teachers), and then return for his betrothed, either to dwell in
this safe retreat or elsewhere, as circumstances might be.
A knapsack was on his shoulder, and in his eager look upward as he sung,
his cap had fallen off, and one of those countenances which, once seen,
rivet themselves upon the heart, was fully displayed. It was purely
spiritually noble; expressive of every emotion which can elevate and
rejoice, and utterly devoid of that abject mien and fearful glance, the
brand which persecution laid on the Israelites of towns.
A sweet face appeared for a minute at the window as the song ceased; a
smile whose sunny warmth the poet had, not too glowingly described, a
fond wave of the hand, and then the window was tenantless again, and the
young man turned away, still humming—
“For the hour of meeting, love,
Sweeter hopes are ours;”
when he was joined by the companion for whom he had waited: a man some
ten years his senior, dark and stern in aspect, as if every human
emotion had been battled with and conquered.
“Joy—hope! Have such words meaning for an Israelite?” he said, bitterly.
“Art thou of the doomed and outcast race, and canst yet sing in the vain
dream of joy? Knowest thou not the fate of Israel, when once looked on
by man? The rack, cord, death! Hast thou not heard, that in this new war
of the accursed Nazarene, their holy war, the signal for marching is the
death-shriek of the slaughtered Jews? Spires, Metz, Cologne, Treves,
Presbourg, Prague, ask them the fate of Israel, and sing if thou canst.
Ask yonder river, from whose kindly waters those who had sought their
calm repose, rather than wait the cruelty of man, were drawn forth and
butchered on the blood-reeking land. Ask yon river the fate of the
hundreds who threw themselves within it—and then sing of joy!”
“I do know these things, Arodi,” was the calm reply, though the flushed
cheek denoted some feeling of pain. “I know that for Israel there is
only such joy as may be resigned at a moment’s call; only such hope as
looks beyond this world for perfection and fulfilment. Think you
because, with a grateful heart and joyful song, I breathed forth a dream
of earthly happiness, that I am less fitted than yourself to give up all
of joy, hope, and love, if such be the will of God?”
“It cannot be. You love, you are joyful. You have woven sweet dreams,
whose destruction will bow you to the dust. Human affections fetter your
soul to earth. How can it give itself to God?”
“Through the blessings He has given; blessings which so fill my heart
with love for Him, that without one murmur I would resign them at His
call.”
“You think so now; beware lest this, too, prove a dream. For me, hope
and joy are as far from me as yon blue arch from the cold earth on which
I see but my brethren’s blood.”
“Look beyond it, then,” answered Helon, fervently. “Why should there not
be joy for Israel? Dark as is his present, so bright will be his future.
As both have been prophesied, so both will be fulfilled.”
He spoke in vain; as well might he have striven to pour forth sunshine
on the dark bosom of night, as infuse his spirit in the heart of his
companion.
Their way being long, and travelling tedious, from the trackless forests
and mountain torrents which they were repeatedly compelled to cross,
they found they had miscalculated their time, and that the solemn
festival of the Passover, which they had hoped to celebrate in Worms,
would fall some few days before they reached it. Remembering that a kind
of hostelry, kept by one of their brethren, lay but a few roods out of
their way, they determined on abiding there till the festival was over.
It was on the fourth day that a man rushed into the court, covered with
dust and mud, and so exhausted as barely to be able to tell his horrible
tale. Massacre and outrage again menaced the hapless Jews. He stated
that, on the first day of Passover, as the procession of the Host had
passed down the Jewish quarter of Worms, a cry arose that it had been
insulted by two Jews, who had vanished directly afterwards. That, were
not the real criminals given up, the whole Jewish population should be
exterminated, without regard to age, sex, or rank. Seven days were
allowed them to determine their own fate; a useless delay, for when all
were innocent, who could avow guilt? The city gates were closed; not a
Jew allowed egress from the town, and, at the imminent risk of his own
life, the bearer of these horrible tidings had alone escaped.
Darker and sterner grew the countenance of Arodi, as he heard. He had
neither relative nor friend amid the doomed, but once more the curse had
fallen on his people, and he burst forth in fearful execration.
“Ye sang of joy,” he exclaimed, turning fiercely towards Helon, on whose
face, though pale as marble, a strange yet beautiful light had fallen.
“Sing on! a joyous song to greet a mouldering home and murdered parent.
Ye dared hope—ye dared be joyful—’tis the wrathful voice of the
avenger!”
“Peace, Arodi; they shall yet be saved.”
“Saved! bid the ravening wolf release the lamb, the hungry lion his
fought-for prey.” Helon’s sole answer was so thrilling in its low brief
words, that Arodi started several paces back, gazing on him, as if he
had doubted or understood not the meaning of his words. “Canst
thou—wouldst thou—what! resign all?” he rather permitted to fall from
his lips than said.
“I do not resign them—’tis but their exchange for bliss which is
unfading.”
“And Admah—Helon, hast thou thought of _her_?”
“Thought of her!” and the strong convulsion passing over Helon’s face
and frame was indeed sufficient answer. Yet he added calmly, after some
minutes’ pause, “For this she, too, would resign me. Her spirit speaks
within me, bidding me do what my full soul prompts. What is the
happiness of one compared with the lives of hundreds?”
The soul of the dark, stern man shook within him. He battled with
emotion for the first time in vain. Falling on Helon’s neck, these words
broke forth in sobs: “Forgive me, oh, forgive me, brother! I despised,
contemned thee; yet from thee I learn my duty. ‘Whither thou goest, I
will go,’ What thou doest, I will do. Brother, make me as thyself.”
But one night intervened, and the wretched Jews of Worms, in the stern
stillness of utter despair, awaited their fearful doom. The festive
rejoicing which, even in the darkest era of persecution, ever attended
the Passover, was changed into deepest mourning. Not one ray of human
hope illumined this horrible darkness. The similar fate of hundreds,
aye, thousands, even millions, yet rung in their ears. He who alone
could save had turned His face in wrath from his afflicted people. They
had but one consolation, and mothers clasped closer their unconscious
babes, and husbands their trembling wives, in the one glad thought that
none would be left to lament the other—they should die together.
Night fell, calmly and softly; oh who that looked up on those radiant
heavens, losing all of earth in the thoughts of the hundreds and
hundreds of unknown worlds filling the vast courts of trackless space,
can imagine without a shudder, the mighty mass of human passion and
human suffering which one little corner of the globe contains? Who that
feels for one brief minute the pressure of infinity upon his soul,
speaking, as it will, in the solemn stillness of spiritual night, can
come back to earthly things, without shuddering at the awful amount of
countless cruelties worked by insect man, without feeling that we have
indeed
“Need of patient faith below
To clear away the mysteries of such woe?”
There was one lone watcher of the silent night, but he thought not of
these things. For above an hour a tall muffled figure had been standing
without the window of a lowly Jewish dwelling, gazing within, and wrapt
up in the strong emotions which the gaze called forth. A lamp was
burning on a table, round which a mother and her children sat. Years had
passed, long years, since the lone watcher had been among those loved
ones, save in dreams; and now, while his whole heart yearned to fling
himself upon that mother’s neck, and feel her kiss, and claim her
blessing—to clasp hands once more with those loved companions of his
childhood, now sprung into sweet blooming youth—he dared not follow
feeling’s impulse. Better his own heartsick yearning, the agonized throb
of human love and human fear, than the momentary bliss of meeting, to
part again for ever.
He had seen the burst of terror, of the wild clinging to life, even such
life as theirs, natural to youth, soothed by a mother’s prayer. He had
seen them twine hand in hand with hers, and lift their bright heads to
heaven in that meek, enduring constancy, the undying attribute of
persecuted Israel; and then the mother was alone, and the watcher beheld
the calm a brief while give way, and natural anguish take its place.
“My God! thou wilt spare one,” fell on the hushed air, “my firstborn,
first-loved, my beautiful Helon! I had thought to look on him again, but
I bless thee that thou hast refused my prayer. Bless him, oh, bless him,
Father! my own bright boy!”
Was it her own low sob she heard, or its echo, that she so started even
from so much grief and looked fearfully round? There seemed a shadow
between the window and the faint moonlight, but ere she could trace it
to a human form it had gone.
The morning was clothed in dull, leaden clouds; and, flocking from their
dwellings, as was their wont, on the seventh day of Passover, in holiday
attire, and with composed appearance, every Jewish family sought the
synagogue. Divine service commenced, proceeded, and was concluded
without interruption. Scarcely, however, had they reached the outer
court to return to their homes, than fearful shouts smote the ear,
waxing louder, hoarser, more terrible with every passing moment. On came
the infuriated crowd, a dark impenetrable phalanx, increasing in every
street, and fearfully illumined with blazing torches held aloft; blades
gleaming in the red flame; clubs, axes, pitchforks, every weapon that
first came to hand. On they came, wrought into yet wilder frenzy, yet
deeper thirst for human blood, by their own mad shouts, and the lurid
flames that, as they rushed down the Jewish quarter, marked their
progress. And how stood their victims? So firm, so motionless in the
shadow of their house of prayer, that even the wild mob, when they first
beheld them, fell back a moment powerless. Formed in a compact square,
woman, children, and tottering age in the centre, youth and manhood
stood around, with arms folded and head erect; not a limb, not a muscle
moved; not a sound broke forth, even when their fiendish foes poured
down and faced them. It was an awful pause; lasting not a minute, yet
seeming to be hours; and then, with brandished arms and wilder cries,
they rushed on to the work of death.
“Back!” exclaimed a voice not loud nor stern, but so thrillingly
distinct and sweet, that it was heard by every individual of both
parties, and involuntarily compelled obedience. “Back!—touch not the
innocent. Ye have demanded the criminals, BEHOLD THEM! Ye have sworn
their lives shall suffice—take them, torture them as ye list; but touch
not, on your peril, touch not these!”
Two strangers stood suddenly between the murderers and the victims, as
the unknown voice spake, the one in the loveliest bloom of youth, the
other in manhood’s prime. With an appalling yell of disappointed malice,
hate, and aggravated wrath, the fierce crowd rushed forwards, and closed
round the voluntary martyrs. And here we pause, for how may the pen
linger on the horrible tortures, the agonizing death inflicted on these
noble men; or the horror of the stunned yet liberated Israelites, in
being forced by their tormentors to witness the fate of their
preservers? Yet no groan escaped the victims, to glut the long pent-up
fury of their foes; no word to reveal to their brethren whence they came
or who they were, or that they had spoken but to save.
The poet’s prophecy was fulfilled: “Ere spring had changed to summer,”
Helon and his faithful Admah had met again, where hope was lost in
fulfilment, temporal joy in an eternity of bliss. The summer flowers had
twined their clinging tendrils round a lowly tomb of pure white marble
in the grave-yard of that old mansion, Helon’s home so long, and half
hiding the single word “Admah” with their radiant clusters, whispered in
sweet breath to the passing breeze the bliss of a pure spirit, so early
freed from the detaining fetters of a broken heart.
To this day the names of the martyrs rest unknown; but the two lamps
still kept burning to their memory, in the synagogue of Worms, testify
the truth of this fearful tale, and bear witness to a faith, a
self-devotedness in scorned and hated Israel, unsurpassed in the annals
of the world!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Lucy._
AN AUTUMN WALK
IT was a lovely afternoon, in the fall of the year; that season by many
deemed the most melancholy of them all. The fallen leaves, the decay of
vegetation, the absence of flowers, the trees shorn of their summer
glory, are to some such painful emblems of man’s estate, that they
shrink in strange and melancholy trembling from the calm and pensive
aspect of autumn, as if the death of nature whispered of their own. Yet
it is not so. Autumn, even in its sadness, looks beyond the grave, and
breathes of immortality. The shorn tree will put on its gala dress
again; the withered hedge will send forth the loveliest flowers. Earth,
burdened now in seeming with its emblems of decay, in reality derives
thence her nourishment and strength, and will spring up again, bright
and beautiful, strong and smiling in her reawakened joy. And shall man
alone, amid the creation of Omnific love, pass hence for ever? No, oh,
no! As a flower to bloom and be cut down, so as a flower will he burst
forth again in a lovelier world and never-ending spring.
The day was well suited for such consoling musing; there was a balmy
freshness in the air, a clearness in the atmosphere, in the cloudless
expanse of azure, stretching above and around; a warmth and glow in the
sun, even as he approached the west, unusual to the season. And there
was beauty, too, in the landscape; or the fountain of enjoyment which
Nature had unsealed in our hearts, bathed the scene in its own bright
colouring, as in those exquisite lines of Coleridge:—
* * * “We receive but what we give,
And in our hearts alone does Nature live;
Ours her wedding garment, and ours her shroud,
And would we ought receive of higher worth
Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd?
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud,
Enveloping the earth.”
The trees lifted up their graceful heads to the circling heaven; every
branch and every spray clearly defined against the blue; so still, so
moveless, they looked like pencil-sketches of exquisite delicacy and
softness. Then often, as in beautiful relief, started up a gigantic
holly, every leaf green and glossy as in the richness of summer, with
clusters of its bright scarlet berries standing out against the dark
leaf, like sprays of coral. Ever and anon, a break in the hedge
displayed towering hills and far-stretching meadows, green and
glistening from the late rains; while bold crags, chained by the grey
lichen and golden stonecrop, and patches of gloomy firs, frowning like
grim shadows in the sunshine, proclaimed the mountainous district to
which we were approaching, and heightened, by contrast, the beauty all
around. There was something in the whole aspect of Nature so calm, so
cheerful, bereft as she was of every flower and leaf, and all her rich
summer hoards, that made us compare her to one on whom affliction has
fallen with a heavy hand, whose flowers of life are withered, but who
can yet lift up heart and brow, with serene and placid faith, to that
heaven where the vanished flowers wait her smile again.
The very sounds, too, were in unison with the scene. The sweet note of
many an English bird, not in full chorus of melody, as in the warmth and
luxury of summer, but one or two together, answered by others as they
floated to and fro in the field of azure, or paused a moment on the
quivering spray. Then came the twinkling gush of a silvery stream,
seeming, by its blithesome voice, to rejoice in its increase of waters
from previous heavy rains. Then, sparkling and leaping in the glittering
rays, like a shower of silver, a rustic watermill became visible through
the trees; the music of its splash and foam bringing forth the voice of
memory yet more thrillingly than before, for it was a sound of home. We
paused; when suddenly another sound floated on the air, of more mournful
meaning. It was the solemn toll of a church bell, distinct though
distant, possessing all that simple sanctity peculiar to the
country—that voice of wailing which comes upon the heart as if the
departed, whom it mourns, had had its dwelling there, claiming kindred
alike with our sorrows and our joys. We hurried on, and just as we
neared the ivy-mantled church, the solemn chanting of a psalm by several
young and most sweet voices sounded in the dim distance, and becoming
nearer and more near, proclaimed the approach of the funeral train. The
peculiar mode of tolling the bell, as is customary in those primitive
districts of the north of England, had already betrayed the sex of the
departed, and with foreboding spirits we listened for the age. We
counted twenty-one of those mournful chimes, and then they sunk in
silence solemn as their sound.
The church was situated midway on the ascent of a hill, or rather mount,
guarded by a thick grove of yews and firs, their sad and pensive foliage
assimilating well with the olden shrine. The ivy had clambered over the
slender buttress, clustering round the old square belfry, decking age
with beauty, and moss and lichen pressed forth in fantastic patches on
the roof. The green earth was filled with lowly graves, thickly twined
with evergreen shrubs and hardy flowering plants. Headstones and marble
tombs there were; some so crusted over by the cold finger of Time, that
even the briefest record of those who slept beneath was lost for ever;
and others gleaming pure and white in the declining sun, seeming to
whisper hope and faith in the very midst of desolation and death.
The clergyman stood at the churchyard gate, waiting the arrival of the
corpse. He was leaning against the stone pillar which held the hinges of
the gate, his head buried in his hands, and his bowed and drooping
aspect breathing a more than common love. His figure was so peculiarly
youthful, we wondered at his full canonical costume.
The psalm continued; now low, as mourning the departed—now in solemn
rejoicing that a ransomed soul was free. The snow-white pall which
covered the coffin, the white dresses and hoods of the bearers and the
young girls, who, to the number of eight or ten, headed the train,
confirmed the mournful tale which the bell had already told. A young
girl of one-and-twenty summers was passing to her last long home. There
were but few chief mourners, and these seemed struggling to subdue their
grief to the composed and holy stillness meet for such an hour. As the
train entered the last winding path of the ascent, the bell began again
to toll, and the sound seemed to rouse the young minister from his
all-absorbing grief. He started, with a visible shudder, and the
expression of agony that his face revealed haunted us for many a long
day. There was a strong effort at control; and he turned to meet the
corpse, repeating, as he did so, in low impressive tones, part of the
burial service. He walked at the head of the train to the place
appointed—the centre of a little cluster of yews; and there, in silent
awe, we watched the ceremony of the interment.
An aged minister had been among the train of mourners, and, as they
entered the churchyard, had approached the officiating clergyman,
evidently entreating to perform the melancholy office in his stead. The
reply was merely a strong grasp of the hand and a mournful shake of the
head; and the old man fell back to his place, his eyes still fixed on
his young brother, and gradually they filled with large tears, which
fell unconsciously, and seemed more for the living than the dead. Once
only the service was wholly inarticulate, and the old man drew near
hurriedly, as fearing the calm of mental torture must at length give
way; but still he struggled on, though the tone in which the awful
words—“earth to earth, and dust to dust,” now at length pronounced, was
as if the very spirit had been wrung to give them voice. Never did the
sound of filling in the grave fall with such cold and heavy weight on
our hearts as at that moment; yet still, spell-bound, we lingered.
The early twilight of autumn had deepened the beautiful blue of the
heavens, as the service concluded, and with low, subdued chant the
mourning train departed. The slender forms of the young girls, in their
snowy robes, gleaming strangely and fitfully through the darkening
shadows of the winding paths; their sweet, young voices sounding almost
like spirit music, as they faded, fainter and more faint in the far
distance.
Still the young clergyman remained, pale, rigid, moveless, gazing on the
newly-turned earth, till he fancied he was alone with the homes of the
dead; and then, with a low, smothered groan of anguish, he flung himself
on the damp grave, clasping it with his outstretched arms, pressing his
cold lips upon it, his whole frame quivering with the effort to restrain
his bursting sobs. The old man hurried forwards and laid his trembling
hand on his arm, the tears streaming down his furrowed face the while,
and with faltering accents conjured him to take comfort, for his poor
mother’s sake.
“I will, I will,” was the agonized reply. “Leave me, leave me to my God.
He will bring peace. I see but the cold grave now; but faith will come
again. She is free, rejoicing. She will know now how much, how
faithfully—but leave me, leave me now.” And the old man turned
sorrowingly away; and softly and sadly, for such grief might not bear a
witness, we departed also—our last lingering glance revealing the
youthful mourner kneeling in voiceless supplication on the sod.
To the aged minister so often mentioned we were indebted for that true
English hospitality, still so warmly proffered in these “nooks of the
world,” and in listening to the following sad and simple story, the
evening hours sped on.
Lucy Lethvyn was the daughter of a rich merchant, in one of our large
commercial cities of the north of England. The village of Elmsford had
been the site alike of her childhood and happy school-days; and so
associated was it with hours of peace and joyance, far removed from the
strife and confusion around her city home, that her wonted summer visit
to its shades and flowers was ever welcomed with delight.
At the Vicarage of Elmsford, then occupied by our venerable host, Mr.
Evelyn, Mrs. Lethvyn and her daughters were constant visitors; and there
it was that Nevil Herbert, the young clergyman who had so deeply
interested us, again met Lucy after a lapse of seven years. Formerly
they had been frequent companions, from the near relationship of their
parents; and Nevil had been accustomed to think of Lucy as the gentle,
artless, affectionate little girl of ten summers, he had last beheld
her. Her occasional letters, breathing the same fresh, child-like
spirit, increased this illusion. She had called him brother, and often
wished he had indeed been such; and he had laughingly acknowledged and
promised to value the relationship. In those seven years of separation,
however, Nevil’s lot had changed. At eighteen he lost his father, and
the same stroke cast him and his mother penniless on the cold world. A
rich relation promised to give him a collegiate education, preparatory
to his taking orders, a living being in his gift. The offer,
benevolently made as it was, might not be rejected; though to Nevil, the
parting with his mother, for her also to endure the miseries of
dependence, was fraught with such anguish, that he would willingly have
worked for her in the meanest capacity, so that she might still feel
free.
Mrs. Herbert was, however, much too unselfish to permit this; she
soothed, urged, and in part comforted him, by the anticipation of the
time when they might be once again together, assuring him that to
contribute to that joyful end, much more painful alternatives could be
borne than the one that she had chosen.
On all that Nevil Herbert had to endure in college, we have no space to
linger. Suffice it he was poor—he was dependent; and however lavish may
be the kindness and benevolence bestowed, it will not take away the
sting contained in these two words, or permit the taking that station in
the world for which such spirits pine. It is strange how often poverty
will change to reserve, and bitterness, and pride, dispositions which in
affluence would have been humble, and loving, and open as the day. And
sad, oh! how bitterly sad it is that the cold, heartless world should
fling such scorn and contempt upon that word, and shrink from the
children of poverty, noble-gifted though they be, as they would from
crime, and, by a thousand nameless slights and petty provocations, add a
hundred-fold to the misery already theirs. Philosophy may preach, and
religion soothe; but while such things are, poverty must ever be
regarded as a doom of horror and of dread.
Nevil Herbert’s peculiarly sensitive nature caused him to feel these
evils even more keenly than the multitude so situated; and therefore the
rest and peace of the vicarage of Elmsford was, indeed, to him almost
heaven upon earth. There nothing ever galled him, but all around
breathed the balm of that true sympathy and appreciation, which, raising
the drooping spirit to its proper level, restores its self-esteem, and
consequently its happiness.
Nevil was just two-and-twenty when his ideal of female loveliness and
innocence burst upon him in most exquisite reality, through the
child-like loveliness and artlessness of Lucy. Alike the favourites of
the vicar, he rejoiced to see them together, and never dreamed that to
his petted Nevil danger might thence accrue. To him Lucy was still a
child, as so she was to herself and all around her, but to one, and that
one, unhappily, was Nevil. He guessed not her influence till he returned
to his solitary studies, and then he felt, too keenly, that, despite his
every resolution, he loved—and loved in vain; not only from their
different stations, but that it was still only as a brother she regarded
him.
The next recess found them again together, more closely than before, for
Lucy was the old man’s guest equally with himself; but a change had come
upon her—not towards Nevil, but in herself. The child had sprung into
the woman—the incipient germs of thought and feeling burst into the
full-blossomed flowers. There was a deeper tone in her sweet voice, a
more intense light in her radiant eye, a fuller sentiment in her bright
smile. Yet to Nevil’s eye alone these things were visible. None other,
even of those who loved her best, saw the change; but Nevil read by the
light of his own feelings, and they told him she, too, loved—and loved
another.
It was even so, and from her own lips the artless tale was poured into
his ear. She called and felt him brother, and claimed his sympathy as
such; feeling that, did she conceal anything which concerned her
happiness from one so true, and kind, and good as Nevil Herbert, she
wronged him, and deserved to lose his friendship altogether; and even at
such a moment Nevil’s martyr spirit did not forsake him. The hand,
indeed, was cold and damp which pressed the fairy one held out to him,
as she spoke, but the lip did not quiver, nor the voice falter, in which
he assured her that her confidence was not misplaced—that her happiness
and interest were dear to him as his own.
A few weeks brought Mr. and Mrs. Lethvyn and Mordaunt Lyndsey to the
vicarage. Handsome, intelligent, and animated, there was much in the
latter to possess and win. He had been Lucy’s partner at her first ball,
and by the magic charm of his varied conversation, the magnetic power
which fascinates at a first interview, and calling forth the yearning to
know more, gradually changes into earnest and lasting love, fixed that
evening indelibly on her mind and heart.
It is in vain to argue either on the birth, the nature or the duration
of love. It may spring into existence unconsciously; becoming so
completely part of our being, that it remains unknown until some sudden
shock of joy or grief awakens us from our rest, and dooms us to an
almost overpowering sense of joy or an equal intensity of grief; or one
little hour may reveal depths within the human heart, whose existence
was never known before—will awaken restless, baseless imaginings, that
linger, strengthening with every interview, till the earthly fate is
fixed for ever. And how may we argue on this, how seek its explanation?
Yet who, that hath once opened the wide, mysterious volume of the human
heart, will deny that so it is?
It was so with Lucy. She who had remained free and child-like in her
intercourse with Nevil Herbert (though her character assimilated with
his far more than with Lyndsey’s), was chained and bound for ever
beneath the magic of Mordaunt Lyndsey’s voice and smile. The spell of
their first interview lingered to the second, and each day, each week
strengthened Lucy’s love.
Mordaunt Lyndsey was an orphan, and not rich enough to wed a portionless
bride; but, unlike Nevil, as he knew not the privation and bitterness of
dependence, so was he utterly ignorant of those finely organized
feelings which could debar his association with the wealthier than
himself. He made his way in the world, for he had good connections,
well-sounding friends, and so was courted and received. It was some
little time before Mr. Lethvyn could give his consent to their union,
his ambition looking higher for his Lucy, but his paternal affection was
stronger than his ambition; and perceiving how completely her happiness
was bound up with Mordaunt’s, for whom he himself felt prepossessed, he
not only gave unqualified approval, but settled on his darling a portion
almost startling in its profuseness, and promised his influence to get
Mordaunt entered as partner in the firm. Lucy was still so young, that
her parents prevailed on Lyndsey, though very much against his
inclination, to wait six months, and celebrate their nuptials with the
completion of her eighteenth year.
It had been with perfect sincerity that Nevil Herbert had promised Lucy
to comply with her artless entreaty; and, like Mordaunt, not only for
her dear sake, but from the same honourable and religious principles
which actuated all his conduct. Why, he asked himself, should he hate
and shun a fellow-creature because he was happier than himself? and
could he have esteemed as he wished, and hoped to do, young Lyndsey,
this principle would have been followed by a friendship as disinterested
as was felt by man.
But this could not be. Rendered watchful and penetrative by his pure and
most unselfish affection, a very, very brief interval of intimate
association convinced him that Mordaunt was not a character worthy of
one like Lucy. She would need, as a wife, tenderness as unvarying as it
was exclusive, sympathy in all her high, pure feelings, as in
detestation of all worldliness and art; encouragement in her simple
duties and tastes; in a word, love as faithful, as clinging, as constant
as her own, and this Nevil saw Mordaunt could not give. Even now, Lucy
was not the world to him as he was to her, and Herbert could not argue
that such difference was but in nature, that man could not love as
woman; for his own aching spirit told him the creed was false.
Time passed. The Lethvyns and Mordaunt returned to their city homes, and
Nevil to his solitary studies. Weeks sped on to months, the eventful day
was near at hand, and Lucy’s bridal attire nearing its completion. The
nuptials were to be on a scale almost princely; for as princes did
Lethvyn’s ambitious spirit regard the merchants of England, forgetting,
in his vast schemes and golden visions, that the wealth of yesterday may
be poverty the morrow. The expected bridal was the talk of the city;
anxiety for her child’s happiness the only thought of the mother; love
for Mordaunt the sole existence of Lucy; and therefore it was not very
strange that by these severally interested parties Lethvyn’s unusually
harassed countenance and excited manner were unnoticed. Ten days before
that appointed for the bridal, however, the blow fell—the firm failed.
Lethvyn was utterly and irretrievably ruined, unable, by the dishonest
conduct of one of the partners, even to pay one shilling in the pound.
The usual excitement which such events in provincial cities always
create, was heightened by the universal sympathy for the principal
sufferers. Lethvyn’s profuse benevolence and affability having made him
generally beloved, many pressed forward eager to prove what they felt;
but the unfortunate man turned from them with a heart-sickness, a
loathing of himself and the whole world, which no human consolation
could remove.
That her father should be so prostrated by his failure was a matter of
grief, but scarcely of surprise, to Lucy; but that it could in any way
affect Mordaunt, was a mystery she could not solve. Loving him, and him
alone, with such love that she cared not how lowly was their
dwelling—nay, rejoicing that she could now prove her love in a hundred
little caressing ways, which in a wealthier and more influential station
would be denied her—how could the thought enter her pure mind, that in
_his_ affection her wealth had equal resting with herself?—that his
ardent desire for the speedy celebration of their marriage originated as
much to possess her dowry as herself? the insecure tenure of merchants’
wealth never having for one instant faded from his mind.
To Elmsford, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Evelyn, the ruined family
retired; but vain were all exertions of his friends to rouse Mr. Lethvyn
from his despondency; he drooped and drooped, and there were times when
he would fix his eyes on his Lucy with such an expression of intense
suffering, of foreboding misery, that she would fly to him, fold her
arms about his neck, and weep, and then conjure him to tell her what he
feared; and then he would fold her closer and closer, the big tears
rolling down cheeks on which the furrows of age had been hollowed in a
single week, but the cause of such emotion never found a voice.
Too soon, however, did the cause reveal itself. With every manifestation
of strong feeling and real affection, Mordaunt Lyndsey confessed that to
give Lucy the home and comforts which he felt she so deserved and
needed, he had not the adequate means. They were both still young, and
he would go abroad, seek his fortune in India, where a lucrative
situation had been offered him; and if, indeed, his Lucy would love him
still, through absence, and distance, and time, he would in a few brief
years either send for her to join him, or return for her himself, as
circumstances would permit.
Pale, rigid, almost breathless, Lucy sat while her lover spoke, her
hands pressed tightly one over the other, and every feature still almost
to sternness; but as he fixed the full glance of his eyes on hers—and
they seemed to glisten in tears as he called her name in that accent of
love which ever thrilled through her heart and frame—she fell upon his
bosom, and, with a passionate burst of weeping, besought him not to
leave her. Were there not some sweet spots in England—oh! surely there
were—where they might live, even with his moderate means, in comparative
affluence? Solitude, privation—all more welcome, rather than part with
him.
“And so sacrifice your first bloom, your glowing youth my Lucy, and
struggle on through life, wasting your best years, buried in a wild,
amid rude boors, who could neither understand nor love you.”
“What care I for others? Have I not you, dearest Mordaunt? Do I seek,
ask for, need aught else?”
“For that very love I would not so sacrifice you, sweet one; and—and—oh!
Lucy, forgive me—man is different to woman. My spirit is restless and
ambitious. I could not live in the retirement of an English cottage, and
restlessness might seem like irritability; and then—then, Lucy, you
would—you must cease to love me!”
She lifted up her sweet face, and, oh! the expression of unutterable
sadness upon it. A chill had fallen on her yearning heart, stagnating
its every bounding pulse—a sickness and dread, more agonizing than
parting’s self; for, for the first time, she felt “he does not love as I
love;” but she spoke no word, she uttered no sigh—it was but the shadow
on that lovely face which betrayed the cloud that had buried the
sunshine of her heart; and when with words of repentant agony, almost in
tears, Mordaunt flung himself on his knees before her, covering her cold
hand with kisses, and imploring her not to doubt his love, his truth,
because he had thus spoken, she tried to smile, to forget herself for
him, drawing from him with such sweet gentleness his plans and wishes,
that his spirits returned, and he forgot even the fancy that he had
given her pain, or that the word of a moment could break the fond dream
of months.
Mordaunt Lyndsey went to India. We may not linger on that bitter
parting, or on the feelings of either save to say, that with Mordaunt
sorrow was so transient, that ere the long voyage was completed, new
scenes, new hopes, new wishes had obtained such dominion there was
scarcely a void remaining. With Lucy could this be? Alas! she was a
young and loving woman; and in those words we have our answer. Nor was
she one who had ever so sought outward excitement and enjoyments, as to
find in them relief from anxiety, or rest from sorrow. The simple,
trusting religion of her own heart—the refreshing and soothing
influences of nature—the calm repose of seeking the happiness of others,
of devotion to all who gave her the sweet meed of affection; these were
her consolations, and enabled her to meet her heart’s deep loneliness
with cheerfulness and smiles. And when Mr. Lethvyn sunk gradually away,
it seemed not only with individual and present sorrows, but with dim
forebodings of his child’s future, it was Lucy who soothed and comforted
her mother, and, by her meek and gentle influence, restored peace and
serenity to their lowly cottage, and robbed even the memory of death of
its lingering sting.
And towards Mordaunt, what were her feelings? Though the conviction that
his love was not as hers never left her mind, her affection was too pure
and true to know the shadow of a change. She thought it was but the
diverse nature of man and woman; that the varied pursuits, the very
strength of the one prevented the exclusiveness, the devotedness of the
other, and her gentle spirit turned longingly to the time when she
should be all his own; and, when, perhaps, tired of excitement and
ambition, his heart would turn to his home and to herself for rest and
peace, and she would be to him, indeed, almost as he had ever been to
her.
His truth she never doubted. Deception, fickleness, or caprice,
unkindness or neglect, were things unknown to her; and how then could
she associate them with the earthly idol her soul enshrined? She had
carried the guilelessness, the innocence, the freshness of the child
into the deeper feelings, the clinging devotedness of the woman. Her
being was wrapt in the beautiful halo her fancy had flung round another,
and did a storm disperse that halo, it would have crushed her in the
same destroying blast.
It was this child-like confiding spirit, the rays of her own heart,
which shed such warmth and glow over Mordaunt’s letters; for by spirits
more exacting and suspicious, the vital spark from the heart, giving
life to the words of the head, would have been found wanting.
In the second year of their separation, Mr. Evelyn was raised to a
deanery in one of the adjoining counties, and his former living became
the property of Nevil Herbert, who had just received his ordination.
Again, therefore, was this noble-hearted young man thrown into the
closest intimacy with the gentle object of his ill-fated attachment, and
in circumstances which could not fail to strengthen its endurance and
its force. The barrier between wealth and poverty had been shivered—Lucy
was now but his equal; nay, circumstances had rather placed him above
her. An unexpected legacy, and some recovered debts of his late father,
had given him not only independence, but competence; and he could now
have offered her the home, the simple comforts and enjoyments which the
more he knew her, the more he felt were all she needed for her
happiness. Her friendship, the regard of her poor widowed mother, the
delight with which ever the young Margaret welcomed his visits, the
consciousness that he was of use to them, all prevented his keeping
aloof, as perhaps would have been better for his peace: besides, how
could he do so without some cause?—he, whose adversity their prosperity
had soothed and blessed! No, better the torture of lingering in her
presence, feeling she was the property of another, and that other, one
who loved not, valued not as he did, than be, even in seeming, one of
the butterfly crowd, who sport in the sunshine to fly from the storm.
And though repeatedly alone together, though thrown in constant
association, intimate and affectionate, in very truth as a brother with
a sister, never once in those eighteen months did Nevil Herbert, by sign
or word, betray to Lucy or to any other, even to his much-loved mother,
the dread secret which bowed his heart and paled his cheek, and dashed
his youth with the calm seriousness—the quiet hush of age.
It was three years after Mordaunt Lyndsey’s departure that the
longed-for summons came. He could not return for her himself, his
situation would not permit his absence for so long a time; but if,
indeed, she loved him still sufficiently to encounter the miseries of a
long voyage, of a life in India, the banishment from mother, sister,
friends—all for him alone, the sooner their term of suffering and
separation closed, the happier for them both; but if time had cooled the
enthusiasm of her love—if one feeling of regret, however faint, bound
her to England—one emotion of dread accompanied the idea of the voyage,
or the thought of dwelling in a strange and dangerous land—he released
her from her engagement. She was free. He besought her to think well ere
she decided; that he could not, dared not, urge her to make such a
weighty sacrifice for him. He did not dilate on his own feelings, but if
Lucy marked the omission, she believed he had done so purposely, that no
thought of him should bias her decision. Yet even what appeared to her
guileless spirit his unselfish resignation of personal happiness for her
sake, could not remove the bitter anguish it was to feel, that even now,
tried as she had been through absence and time, he did not, could not,
understand the might, the devotedness of her love.
“I will go to him—he shall learn how much I love him, if he know it not
now,” was her inward ejaculation; and at that moment Nevil Herbert
entered the room. She welcomed him gladly, for she needed him even more
than usual; and in agitated accents entered at once on the subject which
engrossed her, pausing, in sudden fear, as she beheld Nevil’s very lips
grow white, and the damp drops standing like beads on his high forehead.
“Nevil, dear—dear Nevil, you are ill; and I, selfish as I am, prevent
your going home to rest. You are more than tired. Pray let me get
something for you.”
She laid both hands on his arms as she spoke, looking up in his agitated
face with an expression of such anxious affection, that it was with
difficulty Nevil could restrain himself from snatching her to his bosom,
and pouring forth the agony which at that moment well-nigh prostrated
mind and frame; but he did not. Even at that moment religion and virtue
were triumphant; he conquered the wild impulse of passion, assured her
it was but passing faintness, which a glass of water would remove; and
when she flew to fetch it, he bowed his head upon his hands in prayer,
and, on her return, received it with his own meek, soul-felt smile.
With all the artless confidence of her nature, Lucy imparted every
feeling which that letter caused, except its pain, for that would seem
reproach on Mordaunt. She would depart herself for answer—to write first
would be but waste of time. The term of parting known, it was better for
her mother as for herself to be spared the suffering of anticipation;
besides, her uncle only waited for her to set sail for India;—his wife
went with him, and such an opportunity might not occur again.
And what could Nevil Herbert answer? Could he reiterate Mordaunt’s own
counsel, and beseech her to ponder well ere her final decision? A chill
for her had fallen on his heart. He bade her repeat again and again that
part of Lyndsey’s letter which she had confided to him; and each time
confirmed the dread conviction, that it was in no spirit of
self-sacrifice Mordaunt had written, but that the engagement hung upon
him as a weight and chain, from which he longed to be released, yet
shrunk from the dishonour of breaking it himself. In vain Nevil
struggled with the idea; it would force itself upon his mind, regard it
which way he would. Could he but have believed she was going to
happiness, he would not have paused till all in his power was done to
forward it; but, as it was, the chaos of that fond and faithful heart no
words are adequate to describe. He felt she was going to misery, which
he was denied all power, all possibility of averting—nay, which he was
compelled, by a stern peremptory destiny, to advise and forward.
A few words must suffice to narrate Lucy’s departure from her native
shores, and uneventful voyage. Doting as she did upon her mother, yet so
strong, so omnipotent, was that young girl’s love for her betrothed,
that even this pang was assuaged by the intense delight which even to
think of gazing on his face, of listening to his voice again, never,
never more on earth to be divided, emanated over her whole being. The
long weary months of the voyage were beguiled by such fond visions; they
told of dangers, of hovering storms, and she smiled, as if love could
guard her even from these; and the fond fancy was realized, for she
reached India in safety.
To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy’s departure was indeed desolation;
and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort by the anticipation of her
happiness—oh! what a storm of contending feelings crushed his very
heart. He heard her mother bewail that love had not sprung up between
her Lucy and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form the
happiness of the other, fate had so divided; and, though his very spirit
trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition, soothed the momentary
irritability by a reference to that wiser, kinder Providence, from whom
all things, even the darkest, have their source in love.
From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two hundred miles from
her destined port, the anxious friends of Lucy received intelligence of
her safety thus far; and Nevil nerved his heart and frame to receive,
without any visible emotion, the intelligence expected in her next—her
arrival and her marriage.
The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail came in; and when
he saw by the papers that it had, and the postman passed the vicarage,
evidently on his way to the widow’s cottage, Nevil felt as if all
physical power had departed from him. How long he thus sat he knew
not;—the papers on which he had been writing notes for his next sermon
were before him, and his mother fancied he was still busied with them. A
hurried step aroused him, and Margaret Lethvyn rushed into the parlour,
every feature betraying agitation.
“Oh! Mr. Herbert, come—pray come with me to poor mamma. Lucy, our own
dear, injured Lucy! That wretch—that villain Mordaunt! Oh! that I were
but a man, that I could but seek revenge!”
“Margaret!” exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat, and convulsively
grasping her arm, his face livid as death, while that of the young,
high-spirited Margaret glowed like crimson; “revenge! for what? on
whom?—what of—of—speak, for God’s sake!”
“He has deceived, has dealt falsely and foully with her—our own Lucy;
who left friends, home—all, all for him; and loved him with such love!
Oh! Mr. Herbert, do not chide me for the sinful feelings, but I must
hate him—must pray for vengeance on him. He has deceived her. Even when
he sent for her, he was MARRIED—MARRIED to another!”
Nevil Herbert sunk back on his seat with a groan so deep, a shudder so
convulsive, that his mother and Margaret flew to his side in terror. It
was long ere he could rouse himself; his forebodings all were realized;
the blow had fallen; and for Lucy—who may tell the agony of Nevil’s
heart, when he thought of its effect on her?
It was but too true. Incapable of any strong or enduring emotion, still
seeking and loving worldly aggrandizement above all other consideration,
Mordaunt Lyndsey had not been a year in India before he felt his
engagement with Lucy as a heavy chain, which he longed to cast aside. He
found himself courted and followed; and could he but have stifled the
voice of conscience, would have married before the termination of
eighteen months. A nature heartless as his own could neither appreciate
nor understand the depth of Lucy’s. He purposely became colder and
colder in his letters, but the warmth and trust of her own heart
prevented her perceiving it. He magnified the miseries, the dangers of
an Indian life, particularly to a female so thoroughly English as Lucy;
but all was in vain;—every post brought him letters full of love and
confidence, as at first. His feeble affections had been transferred to a
wealthy heiress, caught by the diamonds which had sparkled in her ball
costume. Dazzled into forgetfulness of all the past, conscience became
drowned in the mad excitement and hilarity with which he pursued his
advantage, and not till he was irretrievably engaged, did he remember he
was the betrothed of another.
In one part of her statement Margaret was wrong. Mordaunt was not
actually married when he last wrote to Lucy. In vain even his heartless
nature struggled to write those words which could separate her from him
for ever. For the first time the full extent of her love seemed to rush
upon him, and he started up, and cursed his evil stars for making him
such a wretch. For a moment, the idea of dissolving his present
engagement entered his mind; but ere he reached the door, a vision of
gold and gems, of untold wealth, came upon him, and the demon triumphed.
His better angel fled; and he wrote to Lucy, as we have seen, believing,
with pertinacious self-delusion, that his meaning would be so evident
that she would break off the engagement herself—she _must_ read that he
was changed. At least she would write again ere she decided on leaving
England, and then it would be easy for him to prevent it; and confiding
in this, not a month after his letter had been despatched, the heiress
became Mordaunt Lyndsey’s wife.
Our tale is well-nigh done, for to breathe one word of Lucy’s feelings
would be profanation. In vain her aunt and uncle conjured her to remain
with them in India, and prove how little Mordaunt’s baseness had
affected her, by a speedy marriage with another, above him alike in
birth, wealth, and station; for such unions in India were easily
accomplished. By some, perhaps, the proposal would have been seized with
avidity, and a broken heart effectually concealed beneath an outward
show of prosperity and pride. With Lucy this could not be. The storm had
burst, the halo was dissipated; its beauty and its sunshine, its purity
and truth, vanished like falling stars in the dark abyss of fathomless
space; and the gentle spirit, folded in the glowing halo, lay shrined
’neath the shock. Her yearnings were now for home, for a mother’s
tenderness, a sister’s caressing love, a brother’s supporting
friendship, which would lead her failing heart up to the only fount of
peace. And, after a long and weary interval—a voyage, whose many
dangers, delays, and all but shipwreck, were, it seemed, as unfelt as
unnoticed—those yearnings were at length fulfilled.
Again was Lucy Lethvyn an inmate of her mother’s lowly roof; but oh! how
unspeakably changed, yet still so exquisitely, so radiantly lovely, that
the eye turned again and again upon her, first in delight, and then with
such a strange quivering of the lip and eyelid, betraying that tears
were nigh. The smile—oh! what a history gleamed from it, of a woman’s
heart broken, yet even from its every shivered fragment reflecting the
quickness and confidence—aye, and deep heavenly love, which had
descended on it from above. Not a bitter word, not an unkind reflection,
not a selfish murmur ever escaped those lips. Those who loved and tended
her alone occupied her thoughts and deeds. There were times, indeed,
when a paroxysm of mental agony came upon her, bowing her fragile frame
even to the dust; but of these intervals no earthly eye was witness.
They were only marked by a rapid increase of exhaustion, and all the
fatal evidences of decline and death; and so months passed. And Nevil,
may we write of him, as day by day he watched over the fading form of
one so long, so secretly, so unchangeably beloved. Alas! for him, even
as for Lucy, silence is the most eloquent. We do not give such feelings
words.
Autumn had come with a mildness and beauty unusual and most soothing.
Lucy’s couch had been drawn to the window at her own request, and her
eyes wandered over the landscape with a pleased and quiet smile. Nevil
Herbert was alone beside her; he had been reading from that blessed book
which had given comfort and strength to both, but had paused, seeing her
inclined to speak.
“Yes!” she exclaimed, the fervour of her spirit flushing her cheek with
sudden crimson, “yes! His words and works alike proclaim Him Love! Oh,
Nevil! God has heard my prayer. He has spared me till I could realize
the beauty and goodness, and the glory of this world. There was a time
when, outward and inward—all was dark. Not a ray illumined the sluggish
depths of misery and despair. Beauty had vanished with truth. I prayed
for death; and once, as I stood alone upon the deck, the dread
temptation was upon me to end misery and life together. It was but one
plunge, one little moment’s resolution, and all would be over. All! Oh,
what a flash of bewildering and awful light burst upon my mental
darkness, sent as an angel of mercy to my soul! I had loved a mortal,
and not God! The world was beautiful with human love—not with His, from
whom it sprang;—and the light of human love was quenched, to teach me
other things: and then it was I prayed, in the deep agony of remorse, my
God would spare me, even in suffering, till even this world were lovely
to my heart once more; till I could feel His love more deep, more
precious, than the love of man. And he has done this, Nevil, dearest
Nevil. A few, a very few hours, and I shall be with Him whose all is
joy, and loveliness, and love, for ever and ever.”
There was no answer, and Lucy turned with difficulty towards him. His
face was buried in his hands, and his whole frame shaken as with
convulsion.
“Nevil,” she said, softly, “dearest Nevil, you are in sorrow, and I can
do nothing to relieve it; I—to whom you have been such a true consoling
friend. I have long feared you had some secret grief; not in the
selfishness of my joy, but since—since I have returned. Oh, that I could
be to you what you have been to me!”
It was too much for Nevil. In the passionate emotion of that moment, he
flung himself on his knees beside the couch, poured forth the torrent of
that overwhelming love—how it had lingered with him through years of
hopelessness and misery; and he besought her, in agony, to say that she
would live—live to bless him yet; and, as he spoke, the pious, the
strong-hearted Nevil Herbert wept, till, as an infant, his very soul
seemed powerless within him.
“And you have loved me thus!—you, the good, the noble, the exalted! Oh!
I thought human love was all an idle dream—a vain delusion; but it is
not—it is not. Even this may be beautiful and true,” murmured Lucy,
raising herself with difficulty till her head rested on the bosom of
Nevil. “Do not—do not weep, Nevil! Our Father will bring peace and love.
And, oh! if the pure and ransomed spirits may hover beside those still
lingering on this earth, be it mine the blessed task of bringing you the
comfort I would give you now. I was never worthy of such love—and from
you, dearest Nevil!—how much less worthy now, that even, were life
granted, I could give but a broken heart, whose all of life and energy
had been devoted to another. You must not weep for me, Nevil! You must
not let my memory blight your path of holiness and good. Think of all
you have been to me, have done for me; and—and if that will comfort you,
oh! believe all—all of love this aching heart may yet give to earth,
Nevil, dearest Nevil! is your own!”
She raised that sweet face, which had become suddenly pale and dim, as
if a shadow had stolen over it. Nevil clasped her convulsively to his
heart, and struggled vainly to speak; his white and quivering lips
pressed hers with a long, lingering kiss, and she shrunk not from them.
It was his first and last; for sleep stole upon her, and bowed her head
more heavily, more caressingly upon his bosom. And Nevil stilled his
heart’s full beating, and hushed his very breath, lest that calm slumber
should be broken. He yearned to look once more in those lovely eyes, to
drink in once, but once again, the gushing music of that thrilling
voice; but vain those mortal yearnings. Human love, the purest,
mightiest, has no power to chain the heaven-born spirit from its soaring
flight. She never woke again!
* * * * *
And Mordaunt Lyndsey—was there no vengeance, no retribution for him? Did
justice indeed so slumber? Long years rolled on ere aught could be
distinguished to mark his prosperous path from that of his fellows; but
some twenty years after our “Autumn Walk” in the lovely vales of
Westmoreland, we learned that the hand of Heaven had dashed his lot with
poison. A blooming family had sprung up around him; but each more or
less touched by the malady of their mother. He had wedded madness!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_The Spirit’s Entreaty._
FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE.
THERE was a pause in the courts of heaven. Seven times had the voice of
the Eternal resounded through the vast realms of space, and from the
very centre of chaotic darkness a world of beauty had sprung forth.
Thousands of angelic spirits floated round and round the new-born globe,
tending the innumerable sources of loveliness and life, which had burst
at once into perfected being at the all-creating word. With every new
creation, an increased effulgence flashed over the angelic hosts; and
richer tones of mighty harmony proclaimed the power, and the glory, and
the mercy of their God.
Deep in the unfathomable abyss of formless space hung the new-formed
world, suspended from its parent heaven by chains of diamond light,
visible only to the pure spirits, who on them ascended and descended, in
performance of their newly-assigned employments.
Myriads of celestial beings stood in dazzling files without the veil,
which in unapproachable and indescribable splendour concealed the throne
of the Creator; whence issued that Eternal voice which spake, and
creation was! None, not even the highest and the purest, the most
etherealized amidst those spiritual ranks, could gaze on the ineffable
glory piercing through the effulgent veil; nor dared approach it,
without covering his face with his glittering pinions, and falling low
in prostrate adoration. In their several ranks they stood, the glorious
archangels to whom the ways, clearly as the works of the Eternal, were
revealed. Hierarchs, who had penetrated deeper and deeper the mysteries
of infinity, and by longed-tried obedience, and faithfulness, and love
had won the glorious privilege of commune with the Ineffable Majesty of
the Supreme. Even to the young seraph, commencing his heavenly career,
satisfied to labour and to love, till he should pass through the
intermediate ranks, and rising higher and higher in angelic intellect,
and the beatified nature of his tasks at length attain the archangelic
goal.
Seven times had gone forth the Omnific Word, and seven times had the
Eternal pronounced it good; and each time of that approving Word, had
the resplendent pinions of the hosts of heaven fluttered in
irrepressible rejoicing, till space itself seemed lost in one vast flood
of glistening and iris-coloured light, and music, soft, spiritual, and
thrilling, marked every movement of the radiant wings, and filled up
each pause of song.
And then, midst the deep stillness which succeeded, again spake the
Eternal voice: “Let us make man!” and the mandate with the velocity of
light rushed through the angelic-peopled courts; and every spirit of
every rank, and every host, caught up the Omnific Word, and, in the full
song of adoration, testified their joy. But suddenly a hush sunk on the
rejoicing myriads; for, darting at the same instant from their
respective ranks nearest the Eternal’s throne, three glorious spirits
met together before the resplendent veil, and prostrated themselves in
supplication.
They were of the highest order of the archangels, each intrusted with an
attribute of his Creator to uphold its glory and its beauty amidst the
celestial and spiritual worlds. And one spake, and his wings of
sapphire, his dazzling brow, his radiant eye, before whose single look
the mists of error passed; his crystal spear, before whose slightest
touch, falsehood fled trembling and self-abhorred; alike proclaimed the
gift of which he was the guardian. The Spirit of TRUTH implored—
“Father, create him not—life will be overshadowed by deceit!” and the
spirit bowed his effulgent brow upon his wings in grief.
And then the second spirit spake,—akin to Truth, but sterner. His
glorious brow was shaded by a glittering helm, and his right hand
grasped an unsheathed sword; a raiment, resembling an hauberk of golden
light, clothed his graceful limbs, and the rich full voice, in its
entreaty, breathed his name.
“Father and Lord, create him not! He will destroy yon beautiful world by
his unrighteousness; and I, unto whom thou hast entrusted thine
attribute of JUSTICE, will seem to him, in his darkened light, as the
avenger. Father, create him not!”
And then spake the third archangel,—his pure white pinions fluttered
tremulously around him, and the exquisite beauty of his youthful face
seemed disturbed by the intense ardour of his supplication; a wreath of
amaranths bound back his flowing hair from a brow of such transcendent
loveliness, that one look upon it filled the soul with balm; he held a
bough of emerald, resembling the olive-leaf, but radiant with a liquid
lustre unknown to the plants of earth.
“Create him not, oh, Father!” implored the spirit, and the brightness of
his meekly expressive orbs was dimmed; “create him not! he will chase me
from the earth. Peace will be but a name amidst the awful scenes of
internal and external war, with which man’s passions will devastate yon
beautiful world. Father, create him not!”
The spirit ceased; and, hushed to a solemn stillness, the listening
myriads waited the answering Word. The effulgence piercing through the
veil, appeared slightly shadowed, as if the Almighty presence had
withdrawn his immediate glory, and the entreaty of his favoured angels
would be granted. But far, far, in the unfathomable distance, a
resplendent star seemed floating towards the veil, and faint yet
thrilling melody proclaimed the rapid advance of angel wings. On, on—and
the semblance of a star gave place to the form of a beatified spirit,
whose dazzling loveliness irradiated space itself, and heightened the
glory all around; and every rank he passed hailed him, even in that
awful hour, with an irrepressible burst of song, and drew closer and
closer round; and watched him with such love as only angels feel; and he
smiled on them, but paused not in his rapid course, and the smile
kindled hope anew, and confidence and joy banished the momentary shade.
It was the Spirit of LOVE; the best beloved of the Eternal; the guardian
essence of the whole angelic hosts; angels and archangels, heirarchs and
seraphs, alike acknowledged him, and bowed before his sway, as the
representative of the Supreme. And on he floated in his indescribable
beauty, and every court of heaven sent forth increased effulgence as he
passed. He neared the veil, and bowed down before it, and then he spake,
and his low soft tone penetrated the farthest limit of that immeasurable
space.
“Create him, oh, Father!” he prayed; “create him to love, and be
beloved! What if he err? what if he sin? Thou wilt pardon him; for thy
love is greater than his sin!”
A burst of bewildering glory flashed through the veil upon him, as he
knelt, and darted its dazzling rays through the thousand ranks of heaven
at the same moment. It was the assenting sign of the Eternal; and again
the Omnific Word went forth: “Let us make man!” and millions and
millions of voices swelled the glad chorus, that another and yet
mightier creation should bear witness to the loving mercy of their God.
And TRUTH, and JUSTICE, and PEACE joined in the thrilling strain, for
the Spirit of LOVE had touched them with his quivering breath, and they
felt his words were true. Man might still err, but created in love, the
immortal spirit breathed into the shell of clay; the angelic hosts gave
vent to the full song of rejoicing; for the Spirit of LOVE hovered over
the new-born world, as over theirs, endowed by the measureless
compassion of the Eternal to purify and pardon.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Idalie._
THE STORY OF A PICTURE.
NO place is more calculated to call forth all the vagaries of the
imagination than an old half-ruined castle, surrounded by wood and
mount, hoar from many centuries, and lying in such deep seclusion, as to
be unseen by the mere casual traveller. On such a spot, completely
circled by a branch of the Cevennes, in the ancient district of
Auvergne, it was once my hap to light. Trees of such gigantic growth,
that they appeared bending beneath the weight of ages, frowning rocks,
and overgrown brushwood formed so close a fortification, that the
building might have been passed and repassed within a mile of its
vicinity undiscovered.
It was a gothic chateau of the olden time, just sufficiently ruinous to
give it the interest of age, yet containing costly tapestried chambers,
panelled halls, long rambling galleries, secret rooms, and those deep
dark dungeons, where many a brave man has languished and died unknown,
save by his ruthless captor, all still in sufficient preservation to
fill the mind with visions of the past as with the breathing realities
of the present. There was a small chapel in the building, which had once
been evidently richly adorned, but whose shrines and hangings were now
all crumbling to decay. It was a melancholy visionary place, yet infused
with a charm impossible to be resisted, and day after day my wanderings
turned to the chateau; contented at first with rambling over chamber,
hall, and gallery, imagination feasting on the thoughts of what had been
the life, the stir, the pageantry, where all was now the solitude of
silence and neglect. There were still some pictures hanging from the
walls, but seemingly so resigned to the cobweb and the dust, that I had
heeded them little, till one day the sun gleaming upon an antique frame,
unobserved before, attracted me to the picture it enshrined, and in a
moment heart, mind, and fancy were irresistibly enchained.
To attempt description of that face, to say why it haunted me for days
and nights, as something almost unearthly, would be a hopeless task; yet
turn from it as I would, or seek amusement in other objects, still it
rose before me, pale, shadowy, yet so lovely, baffling every effort to
dismiss it from my mind. Stars and braids of diamonds seemed still
literally to glisten in the long jetty tresses, falling as a veil around
her. Hands small, thin, and delicately white were crossed upon her
bosom; the large dark eyes were raised, and the pale lips parted as in
prayer; she seemed standing near an ancient altar; but every other
object in the picture time had rendered wholly indistinct.
That I could obtain any information from the half-blind, wholly deaf
guardian of the chateau was little probable; but the old man, to my
astonishment, volunteered the tradition of the portrait, even before I
had sufficiently rallied from its effect to look into its past. This
tale, when separated from the garrulous annotations of his age and
office, was simple and brief enough, yet to resist its spell was
impossible. The beings of whom I heard seemed to breathe and move around
me, the old castle to resume the state and order which had characterised
it nearly three centuries ago, the very woods to lose their wild
appearance, and blending in beautiful keeping with mount and rock, and
richly-cultured lands, seemed to teem with the innumerable retainers of
the proud nobles to whom they had once belonged. Under the influence of
such dreamy visions the following papers were hastily written.
Pretensions to a connected romance they have none; they tell but the
story of a picture, which I would fain bring before the mind’s eye of
the reader, even as its remembrance still so vividly lingers on my own.
I.
It was the third day of the brilliant show, yet was there no relaxation
of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that lords and gentles were wearied
with martial sports, or that the galaxy of beauty which the ornamented
galleries presented had in aught diminished of loveliness and grace.
Never had the fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more
spirit-stirring interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re-echoed
more martial sounds than on the day which witnessed the last tournament
of France. The lists extending through the most central parts of Paris,
flanked on one side by the terrific towers of the Bastile, were adorned
by pavilions and tents of every variety of colouring and material. Heavy
brocades, velvets, and silks, adorned with the devices of their owners,
betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh all the nobility of France.
Over one, whose silver covering glittered so resplendently in the July
sun that the aching eye turned from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of
France’s banner, the _fleur de lis_, which, combined with the splendid
accoutrements of esquires and pages lingering around, proved that
majesty itself was amongst the combatants. The light breeze sporting
with the many standards, at times gave their devices to view, at others,
laid them idly by their staves. Streamers and pennons in gay relief
stood forth against the clear blue sky; while the brilliant armour, the
glittering spears, and stainless blades so multiplied the dazzling rays,
there seemed a hundred suns.
France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of which last these
jousts were given, were all marshalled in the lists, for none chose to
remain mere spectators of games in which their chivalric spirits so
heartily sympathised. The princes of the lordly house of Guise vying, in
richness of apparel and number of retinue, with royalty itself.
Montmorenci, Coligny, Andelot, Condé, Nemours—names bearing with them
such undying memories, their mention is sufficient—all were this day
present; for the blood-red standard of intolerance and persecution as
yet remained unfurled. The very sounds that stirred the air added to the
excitement of the scene. There were the proud neighings, the hurried
snort of eager chargers impatient for the onset; the pealing shouts of
welcome as each knight was recognised, marching at the head of
well-trained bands to his pavilion; the answering cheers of the
men-at-arms; the trampling of many steeds; the frequent clash of steel,
as the knights passed and repassed in the lists ere they formed into
bands; now and then the loud voice of the herald, or the shrill
prolonged blast of the trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling burst of
martial music, lingering awhile in its own rude tones, then subsiding
gently into the softer song of minstrelsy and love, more fitted to the
ears of beauty than the wilder notes of war.
And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries erected round the
lists. Even had there been no Catherine de Medicis, whose character was
not yet fully known, and who now, as the queen consort, claimed and
received universal homage; no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful
bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though most
expressive features accorded little with the heavy gorgeousness of her
jewelled robes; no retiring yet much-loved Margaret, the sister of Henri
and bride of Savoy; no Anne of Este, whose regal beauty and majestic
mien would have done honour to a diadem—had there been none of these,
there was yet one in the royal group who, though girlhood had barely
reached its prime, fascinated the gaze of every eye and fixed the homage
of every heart. The diamond coronet of _fleur de lis_ entwining the
sterner thistle, that lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her
rank; and the simple mention of Mary of Scotland, the queen dauphine, is
all-sufficient to bring before the reader a fair, bright vision of
loveliness and grace, that imagination only can portray. She sate the
centre of a fair bevy of young girls, indiscriminately of France and
Scotland, all bearing on the smooth brow, the smiling lip, the unpaled
cheek true tokens of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early
youth.
The trumpets breathed forth a prolonged flourish, echoed on every side
by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and Henri himself entered the
lists. Clothed in the richest armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian,
and still wearing across his breast the black and white scarf in homage
to Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the bravest
warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Excited by the presence of
his distinguished guests, he appeared this day urged on by an ardour and
impetuosity which, while it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a
female heart to tremble.
“Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is he so wearied from the
exertions of the last two days he has no strength or will for more?”
asked the queen dauphine of one beside her, whose large dark eye and
soul-speaking beauty betrayed a birth more southern than Scotia’s colder
shores.
“He enters not the lists, royal madam,” she answered, in a lowered
voice, “for, he fears the challenge of the king—fears not defeat, but
conquest. The king has skill as yet unrivalled, courage none dare
question; but the practice of a soldier brings these things to greater
perfection than monarchs ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign
challenges the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the count
avoid the lists.”
“Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy father bears himself;
disease hath worked him but little, or rusted his sword within its
scabbard. I would trust myself to the men of Montemar, Idalie, with
better faith than to many of those more courtly-seeming bands. And who
is yon gallant, bearing thy colours? Is the young esquire of thy father
a rival to the goodly count?”
“Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and I are cousins in kindred,
friends in affection, and playfellows from infancy. I broidered him the
scarf he wears as token of my love, when he doffed the page’s garb and
donned the squire’s. When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will
be of little value.”
“Thinkest thou so? Methought the lowly homage that he tendered spoke
humbler greeting than that of a brother. But there is some stir below;
the trumpets sound the king again as challenger.”
A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of the
spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on the part of
their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of France, Gabriel de
Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run three courses with the lance or
spear, and do battle with the same. Thrice was the count challenged
according to form, but there was no answer.
A deadly pallor spread over the flushed cheek of Idalie de Montemar,
and, clinging to the dauphine’s seat, she exclaimed, “Lady, dearest
lady, oh, do not let this be! in mercy speak to her grace the queen,
implore her to avert this combat!”
“Thou silly trembler, what evil can accrue? Nay, an thou lookest thus, I
must do thy bidding,” and Mary hastily approached the seat of Catherine
de Medicis, whom, however, she found already agitated and alarmed, and
in the very act of despatching an esquire to implore the king to leave
the lists. Somewhat infected with the terror she witnessed, yet unable
to define it, the dauphine returned to her seat, seeking to reassure the
trembling Idalie, and watch with her the effect of the queen’s
solicitation.
At the moment of the esquire’s joining the knightly ring, the Comte de
Montgomeri, unarmed and bareheaded, had flung himself at the king’s
feet, imploring him in earnest accents to withdraw his challenge, and
not expose him to the misery and danger of meeting his sovereign even in
a friendly joust. It was no common fear, no casual emotion impressed on
the striking countenance of Montgomeri; he was not one to bend his knee
in entreaty, even to his sovereign, for a mere trivial cause. The
princes and nobles round were themselves struck by his earnestness,
knowing too well his great valour and extraordinary skill in every
martial deed to doubt them now. The king alone remained unmoved.
“Tush, man!” he said, joyously; “what more harm will your good lance do
our sacred person, than those whose blows yet tingle on our flesh? we
have run many a gallant course to-day, and how shall we be the worse for
a tilt with thee? Marry, thou art over bold, sir knight, we will not do
thy courage such dishonour as to tax it now; yet, by our Lady, such
presumption needs a check. Come, rouse thee from this folly, and don
thine armour, as thou wouldst were our foes in Paris; my chaplet is not
perfect till it hath a leaf from thee.”
“It may not be, my liege. I do beseech your grace to pardon me, and seek
some opponent more worthy of this honour.”
“I know of none,” replied the king, so frankly and feelingly, that the
warrior’s head bent even to the ground; “and Montgomeri will obey his
sovereign, if he will not oblige his friend. Sir Count, we COMMAND your
acceptance of our challenge.”
Sadly and slowly the count rose from his knee, and was reluctantly
withdrawing, when the king again spoke—
“We would not, good my lord, that you should prepare to accept our
challenge even as a criminal for execution; therefore, mark you lords
and gentles, and bear witness to our words—whatever ill or scathe may
chance to us in our intended course, we hold and pronounce Gabriel de
Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, guiltless of all malice, absolving him from
all intentional evil, even if he work us harm. How now, sir squire, what
would our royal consort, that ye seek us thus rudely?”
The esquire bent his knee, and delivered his message.
The king laughed loud and lightly.
“By our Lady, this is good,” he said. “Heard ye ever the like of this,
my lords? What spell doth our brave Montgomeri bear about him, that we
may not meet him even as others in friendly combat? Back to your royal
mistress, Conrad; commend us in all love and duty to her grace, and say
we will break this lance unto her honour. Would she have our noble
guests proclaim Montgomeri so brave and skilful that Henri dared not
meet him even after his challenge had gone forth? Shame, shame, on such
advisers!”
The esquire withdrew, and the king taking a new lance, and mounting a
fresh charger, slowly proceeded round the lists, attended by pages and
esquires, and managing his fiery steed so gracefully as to rivet on him
many admiring glances. He paused beneath the queen’s gallery, doffing
his deep-plumed helmet a moment in the respectful greeting of a faithful
chevalier; then looking up, he smiled proudly and undauntedly. At that
moment the trumpets proclaimed the entrance of the challenged, and the
king hastily replacing his helmet, clasped it but slightly, and galloped
to his post.
A loud shout of welcome greeted the appearance of Montgomeri, and as the
spectators marked the pink and white scarf across his shoulder, and the
opal clasp that secured the deep plumes of his helmet, all eyes
involuntarily turned to see the fair being to whom those colours
proclaimed him vowed; nor when they traced the bandeau of opals on the
pale high brow of Idalie de Montemar, her flowing robes secured by a
girdle of the same precious stones, and discovered it was to her service
the knight was pledged, did they marvel that at length the cold, stern,
unbending Gabriel de Lorges had bowed beneath the spell of love.
The lists were cleared, and deep silence reigned amidst the assembled
thousands. The combatants, ere the signal sounded, slowly traversed the
lists, meeting at both extremities, and greeting each other in all
solemn and chivalric fashion. Montgomeri’s lance sank as he saluted the
queen’s pavilion, but it was to Idalie his lowest homage was tendered.
She sought to smile in answer; but her lip only quivered, for her eye,
awakened by love, could trace his deep reluctance to accept the
challenge.