devotions, Flemming did not remain long; but he took his leave
with regret. There was something impressive in the scene he had
witnessed;--this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the
open window, in the bright summer morning; the labor of life
accomplished; the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet;
thinking it was angel’s music when he heard the church bells
ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, he
thought within himself whether he likewise might not accomplish
something which should live after him;--might not bring something
permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit
down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in
silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he
could no longer go to church, but must sit at home, and read the
Bible in large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings,
mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of
life; regret that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had
felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth
passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after mid-summer,
when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear.
Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest; and after the
harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.”
Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last drawing, done when he
was extremely old, represented
an angel guiding an aged man from the grave,
and pointing to him the opening heaven.
It was a beautiful occupation to
console the last days of
this truly Christian
artist’s
life.
[Illustration]
When a good man dies,--one that hath lived innocently,--then
the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the
conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God,
and owns so much integrity that it can hope for pardon and
obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the
soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty
and then into glory.
JEREMY TAYLOR.
[Illustration]
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
That way look, my infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall!
Withered leaves--one, two, and three--
From the lofty Elder-tree!
--See the kitten! how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow!
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty kitten, from thy freaks,
Spreads, with such a living grace,
O’er my little Laura’s face!
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine;
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I wall have my careless season,
Spite of melancholy reason;
Will walk through life in such a way,
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
--Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten’s busy joy,
Or an infant’s laughing eye,
Sharing in the ecstasy.
I would fare like that, or this;
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake;
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life’s falling leaf.
* * * * *
His sixty summers--what are they in truth?
By Providence peculiarly blest,
With him the strong hilarity of youth
Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest.
His sun has veered a point toward the west,
But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet,--
That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,
Where truth and manly tenderness are met
With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set.
HENRY TAYLOR.
[Illustration]
DR. DODDRIDGE’S DREAM.
Dr. Doddridge was on terms of very intimate friendship with Dr.
Samuel Clarke, and in religious conversation they spent many happy
hours together. Among other matters, a very favorite topic was the
intermediate state of the soul, and the probability that at the
instant of dissolution it was not introduced into the presence of
all the heavenly hosts, and the splendors around the throne of God.
One evening, after a conversation of this nature, Dr. Doddridge
retired to rest with his mind full of the subject discussed, and,
in the ‘visions of the night,’ his ideas were shaped into the
following beautiful form. He dreamed that he was at the house of
a friend, when he was suddenly taken dangerously ill. By degrees
he seemed to grow worse, and at last to expire. In an instant he
was sensible that he exchanged the prison-house and sufferings
of mortality for a state of liberty and happiness. Embodied in
a splendid aerial form, he seemed to float in a region of pure
light. Beneath him lay the earth; but not a glittering city or
village, the forest or the sea, was visible. There was naught to be
seen below save the melancholy group of friends, weeping around his
lifeless remains.
Himself thrilled with delight, he was surprised at their tears, and
attempted to inform them of his change; but, by some mysterious
power, utterance was denied; and, as he anxiously leaned over the
mourning circle, gazing fondly upon them, and struggling to speak,
he rose silently upon the air; their forms became more and more
distant, and gradually melted away from his sight. Reposing upon
golden clouds, he found himself swiftly mounting the skies, with a
venerable figure at his side guiding his mysterious movement, in
whose countenance he remarked the lineaments of youth and age were
blended together with an intimate harmony and majestic sweetness.
They travelled through a vast region of empty space, until at
length the battlements of a glorious edifice shone in the distance;
and as its form rose brilliant and distinct among the far-off
shadows that flitted across their path, the guide informed him,
that the palace he beheld was for the present to be his mansion of
rest. Gazing upon its splendor, he replied, that while on earth
he had heard that eye had not seen, nor had the ear heard, nor
could it enter into the heart of man to conceive, the things which
God had prepared for those who love him but, notwithstanding the
building to which they were then rapidly approaching was superior
to anything he had ever before seen, yet its grandeur did not
exceed the conceptions he had formed.
They were already at the door, and the guide, without reply,
introduced him into a spacious apartment, at the extremity of which
stood a table covered with a snow-white cloth, a golden cup, and a
cluster of grapes, and there he said he must remain, for he would
receive in a short time a visit from the Lord of the mansion, and
that, during the interval before his arrival, the apartment would
furnish him with sufficient entertainment and instruction. The
guide vanished, and he was left alone. He began to examine the
decorations of the room, and observed that the walls were adorned
with a number of pictures. Upon nearer inspection, he found, to
his astonishment, that they formed a complete biography of his own
life. Here he saw, upon the canvas, that angels, though unseen,
had ever been his familiar attendants; that, sent by God, they had
sometimes preserved him from immediate peril. He beheld himself
first as an infant just expiring, when his life was prolonged by an
angel gently breathing into his nostrils. Most of the occurrences
here delineated were perfectly familiar to his recollection, and
unfolded many things which he had never before understood, and
which had perplexed him with many doubts and much uneasiness.
Among others, he was particularly struck with a picture in which he
was represented as falling from his horse, when death would have
been inevitable, had not an angel received him in his arms, and
broken the force of his descent. These merciful interpositions of
God filled him with joy and gratitude; and his heart overflowed
with love as he surveyed in them all an exhibition of goodness and
mercy far beyond all that he had imagined.
Suddenly his attention was arrested by a rap at the door. The Lord
of the mansion had arrived. The door opened and he entered. So
powerful and so overwhelming, and withal of such singular beauty,
was his appearance, that he sank down at his feet, completely
overcome by his majestic presence. His Lord gently raised him from
the ground, and taking his hands led him forward to the table. He
pressed with his fingers the juice of the grapes into the cup, and
after having drank himself, presented it to him, saying, “This is
the new wine in my Father’s kingdom.” No sooner had he partaken,
than all uneasy sensations vanished. Perfect love had cast out
fear, and he conversed with his Saviour as an intimate friend.
Like the silver rippling of the summer sea, he heard fall from
his lips the grateful approbation: “Thy labors are over; thy work
is approved; rich and glorious is thy reward.” Thrilled with an
unspeakable bliss, that glided into the very depth of his soul,
he suddenly saw glories upon glories bursting upon his view. The
Doctor awoke. Tears of rapture from this joyful interview
were rolling down his cheeks. Long did the
lively impressions of this charming
dream remain upon his mind, and
never could he speak of it
without emotions of joy
and tenderness.
[Illustration]
Death can only take away the sorrowful from our affections.
The flower expands; the colorless film that enveloped it falls
off and perishes. We may well believe this; and, believing
it, let us cease to be disquieted for their absence, who have
but retired into another chamber. We are like those who have
overslept the hour: when we rejoin our friends, there is only
the more joyance and congratulation. Would we break a precious
vase because it is as capable of containing the bitter as the
sweet? No: the very things which touch us the most sensibly
are those which we should be the most reluctant to forget. The
noble mansion is most distinguished by the beautiful images it
retains of beings passed away; and so is the noble mind.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
[Illustration]
THE OLD PSALM-TUNE.
BY HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
You asked, dear friend, the other day,
Why still my charméd ear
Rejoiceth in uncultured tone
That old psalm-tune to hear.
I’ve heard full oft, in foreign lands,
The grand orchestral strain,
Where music’s ancient masters live,
Revealed on earth again:
Where breathing, solemn instruments,
In swaying clouds of sound,
Bore up the yearning, trancéd soul,
Like silver wings around;--
I’ve heard in old St. Peter’s dome,
When clouds of incense rise,
Most ravishing the choral swell
Mount upward to the skies.
And well I feel the magic power,
When skilled and cultured art
Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves
Around the captured heart.
But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,
That old psalm-tune hath still
A pulse of power beyond them all
My inmost soul to thrill.
Those tones, that halting sound to you,
Are not the tones I hear;
But voices of the loved and lost
Then meet my longing ear.
I hear my angel mother’s voice,--
Those were the words she sung;
I hear my brother’s ringing tones,
As once on earth they rung;
And friends that walk in white above
Come round me like a cloud,
And far above those earthly notes
Their singing sounds aloud.
There may be discord, as you say;
Those voices poorly ring;
But there’s no discord in the strain
Those upper spirits sing.
For they who sing are of the blest,
The calm and glorified,
Whose hours are one eternal rest
On heaven’s sweet floating tide.
Their life is music and accord;
Their souls and hearts keep time
In one sweet concert with the Lord,--
One concert vast, sublime.
And through the hymns they sang on earth
Sometimes a sweetness falls,
On those they loved and left below,
And softly homeward calls.
Bells from our own dear fatherland,
Borne trembling o’er the sea--
The narrow sea that they have crossed,
The shores where we shall be.
O sing, sing on! beloved souls;
Sing cares and griefs to rest;
Sing, till entranced we arise
To join you ’mid the blest.
* * * * *
O, thus forever sing to me!
O, thus forever!
The green bright grass of childhood bring to me
Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above!
O, sing them back as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,--
The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,
Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
Through and through the old time!
J. R. LOWELL
[Illustration]
THE LOST BOOKS OF LIVY.
[It is well known that all the books of the Middle Ages were
written by monks, and preserved in manuscript; printing being
then an unknown art. These patient scribes had plenty of
leisure, and not unfrequently an eye for artistic beauty,
especially in the gorgeous style. Hence many monastic
manuscripts were richly illuminated, as the phrase is, with
Initial Letters of silver or gold, often surrounded with quaint
devices, painted in glowing tints of blue, crimson, and purple.
Paper was not then invented, and parchment was scarce. Monks
generally held Greeks and Romans in contempt, as heathen, and
therefore did not scruple to supply themselves with writing
material by erasing the productions of classic authors. Early
in the nineteenth century it was announced that Signor Maio,
an Italian librarian, had discovered valuable Greek and Latin
fragments concealed under monkish manuscripts, and that, by
chemical processes, he could remove the later writing and bring
the ancient to the surface. In this way, “The Republic,” of
Cicero, deemed one of his finest works, was brought out from
under a Commentary of St. Augustine on the Psalms of David.
Such parchments are called _Palimpsests_; from two Greek words,
which signify erased and re-written. The discovery was very
exciting to the scholastic world, and many learned men entered
into it with absorbing interest. Several of the books of Livy’s
lively and picturesque History of Rome are lost; and it was a
cherished hope among scholars that they might be discovered by
this new process. This explanation is necessary to help some
readers to a right understanding of the following story, which
is abridged and slightly varied from an English book, entitled,
“Stories by an Archæologist.”]
My dear friend, Dubois d’Erville, whose talents might have rendered
him remarkable in any walk of literature, allowed the whole of his
faculties to be absorbed in days, nights, years of research, upon
one special point of literary interest. At school, he had become
imbued with a love for classic authors, which, with regard to
his favorite Livy, kindled into a passion. He sought eagerly for
accounts of discoveries of lost works in _palimpsest_ manuscripts.
Finally, he relinquished all other objects of pursuit, and spent
many years traversing Europe and Asia, visiting the public
libraries and old monasteries, in search of ancient manuscripts.
After a long time, when he was forgotten by family, friends,
and acquaintances, he returned to Paris. Little was known of
his wanderings; but there was a rumor that he formed a romantic
marriage, and that his devoted wife had travelled with him among
the monasteries of Asia Minor, encountering many hardships and
dangers. No one but himself knew where she died.
When he returned to Paris, he brought with him an only child, a
girl of nineteen. She had memorable beauty, and great intelligence;
but these were less noticed than her simple manners, and tender
devotion to her father, whom she almost adored. He took a suite
of apartments in the third story of a house, which, before the
Revolution, had been the hotel of a nobleman, and surrounded by
extensive gardens. It was in the old and solitary Rue Cassette. The
gardens had been let out to cow-keepers; but within the enclosure
of the house remained some noble trees and flowering shrubs. These
apartments had been selected by his daughter Marcelline, on account
of the graceful branches of the old lime-trees, which reached
close to the windows, and furnished a pleasant shade in summer,
when birds chirped gayly among the green foliage. Even in winter,
a robin would sometimes sing snatches of song, among the naked
branches, as if in return for the crumbs which his pretty patroness
never failed to place on the window-sill.
Beyond Marcelline’s chamber was a little sitting-room, and then
came a rather large apartment, where Dubois pursued his studies,
surrounded with piles of old vellum, and dusty and worm-eaten
manuscripts of all descriptions. The floor was thus littered in all
directions, except in a small semicircle near one of the windows,
where an open space was preserved for a few chairs and a table.
They had but one servant, an old woman, who had been cook
in Dubois’s family in the days of his boyhood, and whom he
accidentally met when he returned to Paris. Old Madeleine formed a
pleasant link between the present and the past. Often, when she
passed through his study, he would remind her of some prank he had
played in early days, and ask her if she remembered it, with such
a frank, good-natured smile, that the old servant would smile too;
though there was always a tinge of melancholy in her recollections
of his boyish roguery. Often, when she left the room, she would
shake her head, and mutter to herself, “Ah, young Monsieur Armand
was so good, so kind, so gentle! Only to think that he should leave
all his family and friends, and pass his life nobody knows where!
Ah! it is very mysterious. And the bright, curly hair, that I used
to pat with such fondness, to think that I should never see him
again, till all that is left of it is a few silver locks about his
temples!” She tried to gain from Marcelline some particulars about
her mother; but the young girl had only a vague recollection of a
form that used to press her to her heart, during journeys through
strange countries, and who had long disappeared. She remembered
something of a time when her father’s tall, upright figure suddenly
bent under the weight of some great sorrow, from which it never
rose erect again. Then, when she grew older, they lived for years
in Italian cities, where there were great libraries; whence they
came to Paris.
Nothing could be more delightful than the affectionate congeniality
between father and daughter. Their favorite pursuits, though
different, had a kind of affinity which rendered their quiet
existence very pleasant. Marcelline had a taste for painting; and
her father’s mania for old manuscripts furnished her with many
opportunities for examining the exquisite miniatures and ornamental
illuminations, with which monkish manuscripts were frequently
enriched. When new manuscripts arrived, which they did almost
daily, her first impulse was to examine whether they contained any
illuminations worthy of note; and if so, to copy them with the
utmost care and accuracy. She had thus formed a very beautiful
collection, in which she felt an interest almost as enthusiastic as
that of her father in his long pursuit of a treasure, which, like
the horizon, seemed always in sight, but was never reached.
In the midst of the charming, harmonious routine of this little
household, slight contentions would sometimes arise; but they
were sure to end, like the quarrels of lovers, in a renewal of
love. Sometimes a manuscript arrived which contained exquisite
illuminations; but Dubois, thinking it might be a _palimpsest_,
regarded the ornaments as so many abominations, concealing some
treasure of classic literature. So the mediæval romance, with
its matchless miniatures, and intricate borderings, glowing with
gilding, purple, and crimson, would soon disappear beneath the
sponge, soap, and acids of the indefatigable seeker after The Lost
Books of Livy. These occasions were sad trials for Marcelline. She
would beg for a week’s delay, just to copy the most beautiful of
the illuminations. But if Dubois thought he could perceive traces
of erasure under the gorgeous ornaments, he was as impatient as
a miner who fancies he sees indications of a vein of gold. When
Marcelline saw the sponge trembling in his hand, so eager to
commence the work of obliteration, she would turn away with a
painful sense of what seemed to her a cruel desecration. She felt
that the sacrifice was due to the cause in which her father had
enlisted all the energies of his life; but the ruthless destruction
of all those quaint and delicately beautiful works of art caused
her a pang she could not quite conceal. In spite of herself, a tear
would glisten in her eye; and the moment her father perceived it,
his resolution melted. He would place the manuscript in her hand,
and say, “There, there, my child! a whole week if you want it; and
then bring it to me, if you have quite done with it.” Then she
would reply, “No, no, dear father. Your object is too important
to be hindered by the whims of a foolish girl.” He would press it
upon her, and she would refuse it; and as the combat of love went
on, the old man’s eyes would fill with tears. Then Marcelline would
give way, and take the proffered manuscript; and Dubois, with all
the attentive politeness of a young lover, would arrange her desk,
and her pieces of new vellum, and place the volume in a good light.
Not till he had seen her fairly at work at her charming task,
could he tear himself away; and then not without pressing her hand,
and nodding to her, as though they were going to part for some long
period. She would nod too; and then they both nodded together,
smiling at their own affectionate folly, with tears glistening in
their eyes. Then Dubois would go to his study, and among his heaps
of manuscripts, bound and unbound, rolled or folded, he would soon
be immersed in the intricacies of his old pursuit.
After a while, the even current of their happy life became varied
by the visits of a third person. When old Madeleine came to live
with them, Dubois often questioned her concerning the relatives and
friends he had known in his boyhood. Her answer was, invariably,
“Dead.” It seemed as if all the old he inquired for were dead,
and all the young either dead or scattered. During one of these
conversations, he said, “What has become of Uncle Debaye, who used
to prophesy that I should be a member of the Academy, and one of
the illustrious men of France? Ah, he was a pleasant specimen of
the old bachelor and the _bon vivant_! Where is he?” “He is dead,
too,” replied Madeleine; “but he did not remain an old bachelor and
a _bon vivant_. He married, some two and twenty years ago, and gave
up his old luxurious habits for the sake of supporting his pretty
young wife. He even left off cigars and snuff, to supply her with
little luxuries. She is dead, too. But they had a very pretty
child, little Hyppolite, who is a young man now.” “Then it seems
that I have one relative remaining,” said Dubois; “but I suppose
he has gone off to America, or Australia, or somewhere.” “No,
Monsieur,” rejoined Madeleine, “he is in Paris. He got a situation
out by the Barrière du Trone, where he has two thousand francs a
year, and apartments in the factory to live in besides. I often
meet him on a Sunday, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, and many a
forty sous has he given me.”
Dubois was pleased to find that he had one relative left,
and Madeleine was commissioned to tell him that his father’s
brother-in-law, his uncle by marriage, had returned to Paris, and
would be glad to see him. The young man came soon after, and father
and daughter were both pleased with their new-found kinsman. He was
not very intellectual or learned; but he was lively, good-natured,
and good-looking. He brought the living, moving world of the
present into those secluded apartments, so entirely consecrated
to the works and thoughts of ages long past. His free-and-easy
conversation, without a single phrase smacking of libraries, or
art-galleries, or any kind of learning, seemed a bright sparkling
stream of young careless life. His uncle listened willingly to
his gossiping anecdotes, told with a certain appreciation of the
comic, in a clear, ringing voice, and with good-natured laughter.
Hyppolite became a very welcome visitor; and, after a while, if he
did not appear on the days when he was regularly expected, a shadow
of disappointment was cast over the little household in the Rue
Cassette.