her collection of exquisite fac-similes, and her father labored
diligently in the cause to which he had devoted his life. He did
not obtain the result he so ardently desired; but his perseverance
was not without reward. On two occasions he discovered works of
great importance, in a literary point of view, covered over with
a mass of old law transactions; and the sums he obtained for them
enabled him greatly to increase his stock of manuscripts. He soon
became so well known to all who dealt in such articles, that every
new importation was offered to him, before it was shown elsewhere.
Meanwhile Marcelline received increasing pleasure from the visits
of Hyppolite. She began to suspect that the trivial chat uttered
in that fresh young voice, with occasional peals of ringing
laughter, possessed for her a greater charm than the noble words
of her father, always teeming with knowledge and interest of
various kinds. She shrunk from admitting this to herself. She would
not believe it, but she had an uneasy suspicion of it. As for
Hyppolite, his walk of two or three miles, to visit his new-found
relatives, became his greatest pleasure. He found innumerable
opportunities of making the Rue Cassette the shortest cut to one
or other of the distant quarters of Paris, where the business of
his employers carried him, though in fact it was often miles out
of his way. To gratify Marcelline’s peculiar taste, he frequently
brought her ornaments cut from the pages of old illuminated
manuscripts. When asked where he obtained them, he would merely
laugh, and say he would bring some more soon. Dubois began to
remonstrate against the barbarism of mutilating manuscripts in that
way; but Hyppolite would point to the piles of manuscripts from
which he had washed both ornaments and writing, and would put on
such a comic look, and laugh so merrily, that his uncle could not
help laughing, too.
One calm summer evening, Dubois had gone to the busy part of Paris,
and Marcelline sat at the window, busily employed in copying a
noble group of illuminated letters from a gorgeous manuscript of
the twelfth century, which stood on the desk before her. The window
was open, and the air gently moved the leaves of crisp vellum, with
their antique writing and their curious enrichments. The massive
silver clasps of the great folio hung back and glistened in the
evening light. As the young artist looked up at her model, she felt
tempted to make a drawing of the whole superb volume, instead of
the especial group of letters she was copying. The foliage of the
lime-trees moved gently in the warm evening breeze, and a linnet,
hidden in its recesses, was singing his vesper hymn. Marcelline
felt very happy. The balmy hour, the congenial employment, and
the bright halo of her twenty young years, threw around her an
atmosphere of soft, pure, gentle pleasure. Thoughts of more homely
things mingled with her poetic mood. She thought of the choice
little supper Madeleine was preparing for her father, and she tried
to conjecture when he would arrive.
The current of her ideas was interrupted by the ringing of the
bell on the landing, and Madeleine announced the arrival of
Monsieur Hyppolite. An uncontrollable thrill lifted her heart
with one great bound. For a moment the illuminated volume, the
sweet summer breeze, the tuneful linnet, and the little supper for
her father, were all forgotten. By a strong effort she recovered
herself, however, and received Hyppolite as usual; perhaps a
little more coolly, for she was inwardly shocked to find that his
presence had power, even for a moment, to obliterate the pleasures
and affections she had always deemed so sacred. He brought two
beautifully illuminated letters, that had evidently formed part
of a very fine Italian manuscript. Being in an unusual style of
art, they attracted her attention, and diverted her thoughts from
the channel they had taken. She reseated herself at her work;
and while he watched her skilful pencil tracing the intricate
interlacings of various and many-colored lines and branches, he
sought to entertain her with his usual light chat. But Marcelline
did not respond so gayly as she was accustomed to do, and he
grew unwontedly silent; so silent, that the song of the linnet
was heard again, and no other sound disturbed the stillness. At
last, Hyppolite, with a great effort, and as if something choked
his usual clear utterance, said, “Marcelline, you must have long
perceived that I--” she rose hastily, exclaiming, “O don’t say that
word! _Don’t_ say it! To break the holy spell of filial affection
which has always bound my heart, would be sacrilege.” But Hyppolite
knelt at her feet, and poured forth the fervid language that comes
to all when the heart is kindled by a first love. Marcelline turned
away her head and wept. The bitter tears, not without sweetness,
relieved the deep trouble of her heart. She resumed her seat,
and told her cousin decidedly, but kindly, that he must never
speak to her of love while her dear father lived; that she could
never allow any earthly affection to come between her and him.
The young man, in the midst of his disappointment, could not but
wish that his uncle might live long; for he truly loved his genial
nature, and regarded his great learning with almost superstitious
veneration. He held out his hand, saying, “My cousin, it is the
hand of friendship.” She pressed it kindly, and gently admonished
him that his visits must be less frequent. After a brief struggle
he resigned himself to her guidance, and recovered his equanimity,
if not his usual gayety. All was peaceful and pleasant when Dubois
returned, and Hyppolite was urged to stay and partake of the choice
little supper.
The household continued to go on in the old quiet way, varied
occasionally by visits from antiquarians and learned men. On
such occasions, it was charming to hear Dubois descant on his
favorite topics with the enthusiasm and beautiful flow of language
which they always excited. Marcelline was often appealed to in
these discussions; for her intimate knowledge of the beauties
of illumination enabled her to judge the age of a manuscript,
by delicate peculiarities in its ornaments, more readily than
learned men could do by the character of the writing or the nature
of the subject. Hyppolite, who was sometimes present by special
invitation, would sit apart, drinking in every delicate epithet and
daintly selected word uttered by his cousin, as though they were
heaven-distilled drops of nectar.
One morning, Dubois rushed into his daughter’s apartment, eagerly
exclaiming, “Eureka! Eureka! I have found it! I have found it! My
name will go down to posterity joined with that of Livy! At last
I have found The Lost Books!” Joyfully, he drew his daughter into
his study, and there, spread upon the floor, were several sheets of
vellum still wet from the action of his sponge. The more recent
writing had been removed, and traces of a nearly erased manuscript,
apparently of the tenth century, was gradually becoming more
distinct under the influence of a preparation he had applied. The
old man drew himself up as he pointed to it, and looking proudly at
his daughter, said, “The labor of my life has been well expended.
It will be _my_ great privilege to be the first among moderns to
read the whole of the noble history of Livy; for I believe the
_whole_ is there.” He insisted that Hyppolite should be sent for to
hear the glad tidings. The good-natured youth hastened to the Rue
Cassette, and congratulated his uncle upon his great discovery. He
did not, indeed, understand the importance of the recovered annals,
for he thought we had a tolerably complete history of Rome without
these famous Lost Books, but he cordially sympathized with the joy
of his uncle and cousin. It was a day marked with “a white stone”
in the annals of the quiet little family. In honor of the occasion,
a bottle of the choice wine called Chateaux Margaux, was placed
on the generally frugal little dinner-table, and the sun traced
upon it bright lights and shadows through the branches of the
lime-trees, as if to aid in the celebration.
Day by day, more pages of the _palimpsest_ were prepared, and the
ancient text developed itself so well, that the exulting Dubois
resolved to invite his most learned friends to a grand evening
reunion, in honor of his discovery. A lithographed circular was
accordingly prepared, and sent round in due form. It brought
together a select party of the knowing ones in such matters. Dubois
was all smiles and urbanity. In the fluent language, of which he
had extraordinary command, he related the successive details of
his discovery. He deemed himself the most fortunate of men. His
heart was running over with enthusiasm. His hearers were charmed
with the copious flood of eloquence that he poured forth without
stint, full of the deepest erudition, yet warmed and embellished by
a pervading gleam of amiable exhilaration, and innocent exultation
over the triumphant result of his life-long labors. The sheets of
the recovered manuscript were placed in a good light, and eagerly
examined through many pairs of glittering spectacles and powerful
microscopes. It obviously related to that portion of Roman history
lost from the books of Livy, but many doubts were expressed
whether it were written by that great historian. Peculiarities of
orthography and style were adduced to prove that the writer must
have been a monk. But Dubois ingeniously converted every objection
into an additional proof that they had before them the identical
Lost Books of Livy.
The animated discussion was interrupted by the entrance of
Madeleine, who said that two men were at the door, with old
manuscripts to sell. Dubois could never resist the temptation
to examine musty vellum, and he ordered them to be shown in. The
manuscripts did not prove to be of any value; and Madeleine was
very glad to close the door upon the intruders, for she did not
like their looks. A similar impression seemed to have been made on
the company; for several of them remarked that it was hazardous to
introduce men of that stamp into a room filled with books clasped
with silver, and with many other ancient articles of curious
workmanship, some of them in the precious metals. But Dubois
laughed at the idea that anybody would think of robbing a poor
book-antiquarian of his musty treasures, though some of them were
clasped with silver.
The dimensions of the table were enlarged by piles of huge folios,
and Madeleine spread it with choice viands, in the discussion
of which the style and orthography of Livy were for a while
forgotten. The lively sallies of Hyppolite, his funny anecdotes,
and descriptions of practical jokes, began to entertain the guests
more than their own conversation. His merry, thrilling laugh became
infectious. First, his pretty cousin joined in with her silvery
treble; then Dubois; then all of them. No one, listening to this
hilarious chorus, would have supposed the company consisted of
the most profound scholars that ever enlightened the halls of the
Institute or the Academy.
Dubois went to sleep that happy night dreaming of new discoveries
among the as yet unrestored leaves of his precious _palimpsest_. He
was wakened very early in the morning by a loud knock at his door,
and heard the voice of old Madeleine crying out, “Monsieur Dubois!
Monsieur Dubois! Get up! Pray get up immediately!” He hurried on
his dressing-gown, and found Madeleine in the middle of his study,
her eyes streaming with tears. The room where he had heaped up so
many treasures, where he had spent so many hours of calm happiness,
where he had the last evening enjoyed so much, was empty. The pile
of folios, the rows of richly-bound manuscripts, with the velvet
covers and silver clasps, his precious _palimpsest_, and even the
bundles of musty vellum, had all disappeared. The window was open,
and the little curtain torn; plainly indicating how the robbers
had obtained entrance into his sanctuary. The linnet was singing
a morning song in the lime-trees, and the early sun checkered
the empty floor with bright light and quivering shadows of the
foliage. It seemed as if the sweet sounds and the brilliant rays
were rejoicing over a scene of gladness, instead of such utter
desolation and wretchedness.
No words can describe the pangs which wrung the heart of poor
Dubois, thus suddenly and strangely deprived of the treasure which
he had spent all the energies of his life in discovering. For a
moment, his eyes glared with rage, like those of a tiger deprived
of her young. Then he clasped his trembling hands, and fell
heavily, nearly fainting, into his chair. Alarmed by the sound
of his fall, Marcelline came running in. It was long before she
and old Madeleine could rouse him from his lethargy. At last, his
stupefied senses were awakened and concentrated by his daughter’s
repeated assurances that the lost treasure would be recovered if
an immediate pursuit were instituted. “It is not likely,” said
she, “that we shall recover the richly-illuminated manuscripts, in
their valuable bindings; or the carved ivories; or those codices
written in gold upon grounds of purple; but the sheets of that old
_palimpsest_, with its half-obliterated characters, and the old
volume containing the rest of the work, cannot possibly be of use
to anybody but yourself. Those can surely be recovered.”
A flood of passionate tears came to her father’s relief. His usual
calmness was restored; and after drinking a cup of coffee, urged
upon him by the kind old Madeleine, he hurried forth to give
information to the police, and to make all possible efforts to
recover his treasures.
Some fragments of parchment were found under the lime-trees, but
no further traces were discovered, till late in the forenoon it
was ascertained that one of the richly-bound manuscripts had been
offered to a dealer for sale. In the afternoon, another clew was
obtained from a waste-paper dealer, who described a quantity of
parchment brought to him that morning, which he had not, however,
purchased. From the description, it appeared that the precious
_palimpsest_ was among these bundles. Dubois’s hopes were kindled
by this information. He was recommended to go to the establishments
of various dealers in such articles in remote quarters of the city,
and, accompanied by the police, he made diligent search. Only one
more remained, and that was close to the Barrière du Trone.
Arrived at this establishment, Dubois was surprised to see his
nephew mounted aloft at a desk in the inner warehouse; for he had
never inquired concerning the nature of the factory in which he
was employed. As soon as Hyppolite perceived his uncle, he hurried
forward to welcome him, and told him he had intended to call at
the Rue Cassette that day, for he had just obtained possession of
two illuminated letters that he wished to present to Mademoiselle
Marcelline. He took two slips of vellum from his desk; “See,” said
he, “these are very much in the style of that old Roman History you
were exhibiting to the company last night.”
“Very much in the style!” exclaimed Dubois, his eyes glistening
with delight. “They are identical! Where did you get them?”
“Our foreman sent them down to me,” rejoined Hyppolite. “We
purchase enormous quantities of old parchment, and frequently a few
painted letters are found in the mass. Our manager, in compliance
with my request, cuts them out and reserves them for me.”
“Then the vellum from which they were cut is here?”
“Yes, it is, uncle; but why are you so agitated?”
Dubois briefly related the circumstances of the robbery; and
wiping the cold perspiration from his brow, he added: “But all
is safe now! I would not walk twenty paces to recover all the
silver-clasped volumes, if I can only hold once more the musty
_palimpsest_ which contains that priceless treasure,--The Lost
Books of Livy!”
The flush faded from Hyppolite’s ruddy cheek. “There is not a
moment to be lost!” exclaimed he. “Follow me, dear uncle.”
Away he ran across court-yards, through long warehouses filled
with merchandise, and up flights of stairs, two steps at a bound.
Dubois, highly excited, followed with the activity of youth. They
reached a small room adjoining an enormous mass of lofty chimneys,
from which heavy columns of smoke rolled away before the wind.
“Where is the lot of old vellum that came this morning?” gasped
Hyppolite, all out of breath.
A man who was busy checking off accounts, asked, “Do you mean the
lot from which you cut those two letters?”
“Yes, yes,” replied Hyppolite. “Where is it? Where is it? It is
very important!”
“Let me see,” said the man. “It was lot number fourteen, purchased
at eight o’clock this morning. We happened to be very short of
vellum, and I gave out that new lot directly.” He opened a creaking
door, and called out, “Pierre! Pierre! what was the number of the
lot you put in last?”
“Number fourteen,” replied a deep voice within; and the door closed
again, with dinning rattle of rope and weight.
“It is too late,” said the foreman, turning to Hyppolite. “It went
in at eleven o’clock.”
“Went _in_? Went in _where_?” exclaimed Dubois, turning first to
Hyppolite, and then to the foreman, with a look of haggard anxiety.
“Into the boiler,” replied Hyppolite, taking his uncle’s hand.
“This is a gelatine manufactory. We boil down tons of old parchment
every year.”
* * * * *
It was long before Dubois recovered from the shock he had
received; but he did finally recover. He began to accumulate fresh
bibliographical treasures around him, and many pleasant evenings
were spent in those old apartments. But his former enthusiasm never
returned. Any new discovery in the field of his research no longer
excited a rapid flow of ardent words, but was merely indicated by a
faint smile. He was always kindly and genial, and was only roused
to an occasional word or look of bitterness when some circumstance
happened to remind him of the treasure he had lost. “To think that
what I had been hunting for all my life should be found only to be
lost in a pot of gelatine!” he would exclaim, indignantly. Then he
would fall into a silence which no one ventured to disturb. But,
with a slight sigh, and a quiver of his gray locks, he would soon
dismiss the subject from his mind, and change the conversation.
If he ever felt regret at having expended all the energies of his
life among the dim shadows of the past, no one ever heard him
express the feeling. And this was wise; for his habits were too
firmly fixed to be changed. He lived with his dear old volumes as
with friends. The monotony of his life was soothed by a daughter’s
love, and cheered by the kind attentions of his gay young nephew.
His uncommon talents and learning left no traces behind them,
and his name passed away as do the pleasant clouds of twilight.
Hyppolite’s constant love was rewarded by the heart and hand of
Marcelline; and the two
who most reverenced the old man’s learning,
and most tenderly cherished the memory
of his genial character, lived to
talk of them often to each
other, and to teach
them to their
descendants.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TO ONE WHO WISHED ME SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.
BY ALICE CARY.
Suppose your hand with power supplied,
Say, would you slip it ’neath my hair.
And turn it to the golden side
Of sixteen years? Suppose you dare,
And I stood here with smiling mouth,
Red cheeks, and hands all softly white,
Exceeding beautiful with youth,
And that some tiptoe-treading sprite
Brought dreams as bright as they could be,
To keep the shadows from my brow,
And plucked down hearts to pleasure me,
As you would roses from a bough.
What could I do then? Idly wear,
While all my mates went on before,
The bashful looks and golden hair
Of sixteen years! and nothing more?
Nay, done with youth are my desires,
Life has no pain I fear to meet;
Experience, with its dreadful fires,
Melts knowledge to a welding heat.
And all its fires of heart and brain,
Where purpose into power was wrought,
I’d bear, and gladly bear again,
Rather than be put back a thought.
So, sigh no more, my gentle friend,
That I am at the time of day
When white hair comes, and heart-beats send
No blushes through the cheeks astray.
For could you mould my destiny,
As clay, within your loving hand,
I’d leave my youth’s sweet company,
And suffer back to where I stand.
* * * * *
THE SILVERY HEAD.
Though youth may boast the curls that flow,
In sunny waves of auburn glow,
As graceful, on thy hoary head,
Has time the robe of honor spread,
And there, O, softly, softly shed
His wreath of snow.
FELICIA HEMANS.
[Illustration]
GROWING OLD.[I]
ADDRESSED TO UNMARRIED WOMEN.
[I] From Miss Muloch’s “Thoughts about Women.”
It is a trying crisis in life to feel that you have had your fair
half at least of the ordinary term of years allotted to mortals;
that you have no right to expect to be any handsomer, or stronger,
or happier than you are now; that you have climbed to the summit
of life, whence the next step must necessarily be decadence. The
air may be as fresh, the view as grand, still you know that, slower
or faster, you are going down hill. It is not a pleasant descent
at the beginning. It is rather trying when, from long habit, you
unwittingly speak of yourself as a “girl,” to detect a covert
smile on the face of your interlocutor; or, when led by some
chance excitement to deport yourself in an ultra-youthful manner,
some instinct warns you that you are making yourself ridiculous;
or, catching in some strange looking-glass the face you are too
familiar with to notice much, ordinarily, you suddenly become
aware that it is not a young face, and will never be a young face
again. With most people, the passing from maturity to middle age
is so gradual as to be almost imperceptible to the individual
concerned. There is no denying this fact, and it ought to silence
many an ill-natured remark upon those unlucky ones who insist upon
remaining “young ladies of a certain age.” It is very difficult
for a woman to recognize that she is growing old; and to all, this
recognition cannot but be fraught with considerable pain. Even the
most sensible woman cannot fairly put aside her youth, with all it
has enjoyed, or lost, or missed, and regard it as henceforth to be
considered a thing gone by, without a momentary spasm of the heart.
To “grow old gracefully” is a good and beautiful thing; to grow
old worthily is a better. And the first effort to that end is to
become reconciled to the fact of youth’s departure; to have faith
in the wisdom of that which we call change, but which is in truth
progression; to follow openly and fearlessly, in ourselves and
our daily life, the same law which makes spring pass into summer,
summer into autumn, and autumn into winter, preserving an especial
beauty and fitness in each of the four.
If women could only believe it, there is a wonderful beauty even in
growing old. The charm of expression, arising from softened temper
or ripened intellect, often atones amply for the loss of form and
coloring; consequently, to those who could never boast of either of
these latter, years give much more than they take away. A sensitive
person often requires half a lifetime to get thoroughly used to
this corporeal machine; to attain a wholesome indifference both to
its defects and perfections; and to learn at last what nobody would
acquire from any teacher but experience, that it is the _mind_
alone which is of any consequence. With good temper, sincerity,
and a moderate stock of brains, or even with the two former only,
any sort of a body can in time be made a useful, respectable,
and agreeable travelling-dress for the soul. Many a one who was
absolutely plain in youth, thus grows pleasant and well-looking in
declining years. You will seldom find anybody, not ugly in mind,
who is repulsively ugly in person after middle life.
So it is with character. However we may talk about people being
“not a whit altered,” “just the same as ever”; the fact is, not
one of us is, or can be, for long together, exactly the same. The
body we carry with us is not the identical body we were born with,
or the one we supposed ours seven years ago; and our spiritual
self, which inhabits it, also goes through perpetual change and
renewal. In moral and mental, as well as in physical growth, it
is impossible to remain stationary. If we do not advance, we
retrograde. Talk of being “too late to improve,” “too old to
learn”! A human being should be improving with every day of a
lifetime; and will probably have to go on learning throughout all
the ages of immortality.