timbers, how many small timbers, how many thick timbers, how
many thin timbers, how many round timbers, how many square
timbers, how many straight timbers, how many crooked timbers,
were used in building up the tower of Babel! How many large
stones, how many small stones, how many round stones, how many
square stones, how many rough stones, how many smooth stones,
how many white stones, how many red stones, how many common
stones, how many marble stones, were needed to build and adorn
the tower of Babel! It is nearly the same with a woman. What
taffeta stuffs, what silken stuffs, what worked stuffs, what
embroidered stuffs, what flowered stuffs, what wide stuffs,
what narrow stuffs, what colored stuffs, doth she not require;
and all to be beautiful, to be thought beautiful, to be called
beautiful!'
But Death is blind to all their beauty:
'This rude fellow saith, 'I never learned respect for beauty,
I never practised it, I never used it! He who will look for
modesty in a peacock, honesty in a fox, and fasting in a wolf,
may look for respect in me; not a pound, not a half a pound,
not a quarter of a pound, not an ounce, not a grain of respect
is to be found in all my stock!''
From the maiden we pass to the matron, under which head we find an
unhappy married life described with a pungency which savors rather of
an experienced husband, than of a bare-footed bachelor:
'As odious as is a lyre, wherein the strings do not accord,
so is marriage, where tempers do not agree. What is such an
union but a disunion, a battle-ground, a school of affliction,
a scolding-match, a grind-stone, a nest of hedge-hogs, a rack,
a briar-bush, a clock always striking, a mental harrow, a
pepper-mill, a summing up of all wretchedness!'
On the other hand, take his description of a happy marriage:
'It is known how vast was the temple of Solomon. In the first
place, there were assembled there seventy thousand laborers,
eighty thousand masons and stone-cutters, three thousand
overseers. But the most wondrous part is, that during the work,
not a stroke of steel or hammer was heard; _nec ferrum audie
batur_. This was a miracle! Some say that this was clearly
through God's work and aid; others, that Solomon caused to
be got a store of the blood of a certain beast, by which the
hardest stones were split in twain, without need of hammer or
steel; be this as it may, true it is, that in all the work,
neither blow nor stroke was heard.
'To this house of God can we compare the house of two loving
spouses, where no sound of strife is heard, but every thing
fits itself into place without struggle or labor. Such an union
is a clock which always stands at _one_; a garden wherein
nothing grows but hearts'-ease; a grammar in which nothing is
conjugated but _amo_, and _rixa_ is declined; a calendar, whose
chiefest saints are St. Pacificus and St. Concordia.'
The following veracious tale we earnestly recommend to the attention
of the ladies of the present day, without, however, meaning to
insinuate for a moment that they have fallen away in the least from
the conjugal devotion of the fair Francisca Romana:
'The holy lady Francisca Romana valued such quietude above all
things else; wherefore one day, while she was devoutly, as was
her wont, reading the history of our blessed Lady, being called
away by her husband to perform some domestic duty, she laid
aside her book, leaving the verse she was reading, unfinished,
and having fulfilled her lord's commands, hastened back to her
devotions, when lo! the verse at which she had broken off had
been changed by an angel into letters of gold.'
The necessity of holding the rod over children, he thus illustrates:
'So long as Aaron, at Pharaoh's court, held the rod in his
hand, it remained a rod; but when he cast it on the ground, it
became a serpent. Remember this, ye parents! and cast it not
away.'
Next comes the turn of the rich man, at whom our worthy apostle
hammers away without mercy:
'MARK--RICH MAN!'
'If it were allowed to Samson to propound a riddle for the
delectation of his guests, it will perhaps be not ill taken
in me to question my hearers as follows: What is it? It hath
not feet, yet travelleth through the whole world; it hath no
hands, yet overmasters whole armies; it hath no tongue, yet
discourseth more eloquently than Bartolus or Baldus; it hath no
sense, yet is more mighty than all the wise men of the earth:
'tis a thing which, both in its German and Latin names, comes
near to God. Well now what is it? Crack me this nut, if you
can. It is nothing else than Gold. Take away the L from it, and
we have God, and in Latin _numen_ is God, and _nummus_ money,
which two names are near akin.
'In the days of Noah, when the weary waters were deluging
the world, the patriarch sent forth a dove to see how the
rains stood upon the earth. This pious and simple bird, more
obedient than the raven, returned speedily, and lighted on the
ark. After a time, he sent her forth again, and she returned
with an olive branch in her mouth; and here the holy book doth
not say that Noah this time laid hands on her, and took her
into the ark; whence it is reasonable to conclude that she flew
in the second time of her own accord, wherein lies no small
mystery. The first time, Noah was obliged to draw her into the
ark by force, the second time she flew freely in. Reason: the
first time, the dovelet had nothing; the dovelet was a poor
devil, and durst not venture into the ark,
Si nihil attuleris, ibis, Homere, foras.
The second time, it had an olive branch, and flew straight
in, well knowing that door and portal stand open to him that
bringeth any thing.'
'Here can I not omit to berate the miser a little. Dearest
reader! thou hast doubtless seen somewhat beyond the hedge of
thy father's garden, and wandered through many provinces and
regions; tell me then, if thou hast ever seen a living purse
of money? Such a rarity you have scarcely encountered. But lo!
in Matthew, xvii. 23, it is described, how our blessed Lord
and his disciples arrived at Capernaum, and the tax-money was
demanded of them, and as neither our Lord nor Peter had any
silver, he ordered the apostle to cast into the sea, and in
the mouth of the first fish he caught he would find money--as
indeed it happened, and thus the fish's mouth became a living
purse. It is with misers as with this fish; they have nothing
but gold in their mouths. They snap at gold, they talk of gold,
they fight for gold, they sing of gold, they praise gold, they
sigh for gold, they forget not gold, even on their death-bed.
Yea, we have an instance in that bold scoffer, who, when the
priest visited him in his last hour with the solemn rites of
the church, said to him: 'Sir parson, I need not what the
cup contains, but if you would have me loan you money on the
golden cup itself, I am at your service;' and with these wicked
words, gave up the ghost. So that we see that gold, gold is the
miser's only thought. O ye fools! ye toil and ye moil, ye chase
and ye race, ye sweat and ye fret, ye hurry and ye worry, ye
wear and ye tear--and all for gold! Ye drink not, ye eat not,
ye sleep not--for gold; till your eyes sink in your head like
two hollow nut-shells, till your cheeks are pale as a lawyer's
parchment, your hair ragged as a plundered swallow's nest, your
legs covered only with skin, like an old drum-head!'
After despatching the misers in this style, he draws to a conclusion,
and apostrophizes the world at large, telling them that all their
misfortunes arise from sin, a text which he illustrates in this wise:
'I seem to see in fancy holy Bachomius in the wilderness,
where he chose him a dwelling among hollow clefts of rocks,
which abode consisted in nought but four crooked posts, with a
transparent covering of dried boughs. And he, when wearied with
singing psalms, resorting to labor lest the old serpent should
catch him unemployed, and weaving rude coverings of thatch,
sits by a rock, wherefrom flow forth silver veins of water,
which make a pleasing murmur in their crystal descent, while
around him on the green boughs play the birds of the forest,
who with their natural cadences, and the clear-sounding flutes
of their throats joining _pleno choro_, transform the wood into
a concert; and the agile deer, the bleating hares, the chirping
insects, are his constant companions, unharmed and unharming,
all which furnishes him with solace and contentment. But it
seemeth to me that our devout hermit delighteth himself more
especially in the echo which sends him back his loud sighs
and petitions, as when the holy anchorite cries, 'O merciful
Christ!' the echo, that unembodied thief, steals away the
words, and returns them back to him. But is he too sorely
tempted, and doth he exclaim, in holy impatience, 'O thou
accursed devil!' the echo lays aside its devout language and
sounds back to him, 'Thou accursed devil!' In a word, as a man
treats Echo so does Echo treat him.
'Now God is just like this voice of the woods. For it is an
unquestioned truth, that as we demean ourselves toward God, so
he demeaneth himself toward us.'
In the opinion of our author, and he is not singular in it,
procrastination is the great foe to piety and repentance:
'By permission of the Almighty, I knock at the door of hell,
and ask this or that one the reason of his condemnation.
Holla! thou who art boiling in red hot iron, like a pea in a
hot kettle, what was the cause of thy condemnation? 'I,' said
he, 'was given to wild lusts, but resolved to leave off my
wicked life, and repent, but was suddenly cut off, so that
procrastination caused my eternal death.
'The same answer I received from a hundred thousand wretched
sinners. Oh how true is it, as the poet says:
'The raven _cras_ oft closes the pass
Unto our souls' salvation;
The fatal 'to-morrow' produceth sorrow,
And final condemnation.'
'And even, silly souls, if you are not cut off by sudden death,
but have time to repent given you on your death-bed, still
such late repentance seldom availeth much in the sight of God;
as Saint Augustine saith, 'The repentance of a sick man, I
fear, is generally sickly; that of a dying man, generally dies
away. For when thou canst sin no longer, it is not that thou
desertest sin, but that sin deserts thee.'
'God in the Old Testament has admitted all kinds of beasts as
acceptable offerings; but he excludeth the swan alone, though
the swan with its white vesture agreeth well with the livery
of the angels, because this feathered creature is the image of
a sinner who puts off repentance till death; for the swan is
silent through his whole life, and doth not sing till his life
is at its close.
'When Eve let herself be led astray so foolishly by the
serpent, God reproved the malice of the enemy with the words:
'Thou shalt bruise the heel of Eve and her seed.' * * * Why
then is it said that the serpent shall bruise man's heel? It
is here to be observed, that every thing in the Scripture is
not to be taken according to the letter, for if so, almost
every man would be a cripple; for the Bible telleth us, 'If
thy foot offend thee, cut it off.' But often in such words,
the Holy Spirit concealeth the profoundest doctrine. So in
this passage, as Lorinus wisely expoundeth it, we are not to
understand by the heel, the lower part of the human body, but
the last hours of man, which Satan pursueth most earnestly.'
Now for the conclusion:
'There are doubtless but few to be found among you so simple
that they cannot count three. And if heaven has been so
gracious as to endow you with wit enough to count three and
upward, I still hope ye cannot go so far as to count among ye
three-times-three, that is nine, I mean those nine, who were
cured by the healing hand of Christ, and of whom only one
returned to render to the Lord his _Deo Gratias_, while the
other nine made off with themselves.'
The peroration runs on in this strain of quaint allusion at some
length, but we are admonished that it is time to bring our labors to
a close. The candle is flickering away its little life in uncertain
flashes, and the quiet that surrounds us, warns us of like repose.
Farewell then, Pater Abraham! Back to thy old abode, in yonder
nook of our library, where few will disturb thee, save some prying
book-worm like ourself. Thy quaint conceits have beguiled us of more
than one hour of weariness; nor while we love thee the more for
thy fun, do we respect thee less. Thou wert a true apostle of thy
Master. The pestilence that ravaged the city, found thee laboring
in thy calling, carrying the consolations of religion, and the hope
of another life, to those to whom all other comfort and hope were
denied, as fearlessly as ever stood a soldier of an earthly captain
while his comrades were dropping round him. Far thee well! and may
posterity think none the worse of thee, that with thy talents and thy
piety were mingled some of the weaknesses of our nature; weaknesses
which were but the overflowings of a merry and a kindly spirit. Would
that all thy cloth had no other or worse foibles than thy bad jokes,
thy cumbrous learning, and thy plethora of wit!
LINES.
'TINNIT, INANE EST!'
THY bark, a coffin; helmsman, death--
A narrow shroud, the sail;
Thy freight corruption; and the breath
Of parting life the gale:
This makes all sense and sight disclose
Contemptible and mean;
But Faith, like ocean, riches knows,
Exhaustless, but unseen.
And, as that ocean wild, the moon,
With silver sceptre guides,
And, tranquil on her distant throne,
Controls the raging tides;
So Faith, from her celestial height,
Consoles the troubled breast,
And calm, from consciousness of might,
Rebellion awes to rest.
C.
STANZAS.
STILL falls the boatman's oar,
Faint comes the ev'ning bell,
As from off the dusky shore
The cool night-breezes swell:
How sweet at such an hour,
The yellow sands to rove;
The spirit wrapt within the power
Of dreaming love.
How sweet, when youth has gone,
And manhood's eye looks dim,
To waken up in Memory's tone,
Love's own vesper hymn;
To bring back every note,
In early hours we knew,
And, as old voices round us float,
Believe them true.
Thus shall the buried joys,
The dreams, the hopes, the fears,
The all that cruel time destroys,
Come back to bless our years:
Thus shall the affections come,
Our raptures to restore;
Thus shall the sad heart bloom
In youth once more.
G. B. SINGLETON.
THE FOSTER-CHILD.
A DOMESTIC TALE OF ENGLAND, FOUNDED ON FACT.
'TEN years to-day! Mercy on us! Time does fly indeed! It seems but
yesterday, and here she sat, her beautiful fair face all reddened by
the heat, as in her childish romps she puffed with might and main
the fire in that very grate. Dear heart!--how sweet a child it was,
surely! Well, David, say what folks will, I'm convinced there was a
fate about it.'
Before I relate how far David cöincided in this opinion of his 'gude
wife,' I will mention to whom and what she alluded, and how I had an
opportunity of declaring a similar conviction.
Seated, after a kind reception by the master and matron, in the best
room in the work-house of L----, in Kent, at my request they were
proceeding to gratify my curiosity, raised by a picture which hung
between the windows. The subject and execution were striking. It
had been hit off at one of those luckiest moments for the artist,
when, all unconscious, the study presented that inspiration to the
task, which so rarely occurs in what is termed a 'sitting for a
likeness.' On a three-legged stool, with one foot raised upon the
fender, and an old pair of bellows resting on her lap, in the act
of blowing the fire; long clustering locks, the brightest yellow
that ever rivalled sunbeams, flowing from a head turned toward her
right shoulder, from which a coarse Holland pin-a-fore had slipped,
by the breaking of one of the strings that had fastened it, sat a
child, apparently eight or nine years old, in whose face beamed more
beauty, spirit, and intelligence, than surely ever were portrayed on
canvass. Well might the good dame cry, 'Dear heart! how sweet a child
it was!' Never before or since have I beheld its equal; and the vivid
recollection of the wonder I then felt, will never cease to throw
its light upon the page of memory, till time turns over a new leaf
of existence. What admirable grace--how exquisitely free! She seemed
indeed to inhale the breath that panting look bespoke a lack of. What
joyous fire in her large blue eyes! And then the parted laughing
lips, and small teeth; the attitude, how careless and most natural!
All appeared as much to live, as if all actual. But little do I
hope, gentle reader, to excite in you as lively an interest for the
original, by my weak tints of simple black and white, as the glowing
colors of the picture roused in me. I will not attempt it, but at
once proceed with the story appertaining to the object of my inquiry,
as narrated by my host and his wife.
'Do you tell the tale, Bessum,' said honest David, addressing his
spouse, whose name, from Elizabeth and Betsey, had undergone this
farther proof of the liberties married folks take with one another;
'do you tell the tale; and if needs be, I can help you on, where you
forget any part of it.'
'Ah, you're a 'cute fellow, David,' said the vainly-christened
Elizabeth; 'you know how to set an easy task, as well as any one,
'specially when it's for yourself to go about; but never mind, I wont
rate 'e for 't, for I know 'tis a sad subject for you to deal with.'
Bessum was evidently right; for the tear that stood trembling for a
moment in the corner of David's eye, as she spoke, rolled unheeded
down his cheek; while the handkerchief that seemed to have been taken
from across his knees, for the purpose of concealing the simplicity
of the tribute his honest heart was paying, was employed, for at
least the tenth time that day, to brush the dust from the picture of
his 'poor dear child.' I was affected to a degree for which I was
unable to account, by the touching sigh poor David heaved, as he
replaced the handkerchief on his knees, and resigned himself to the
pangs my curiosity was about to inflict on him. There was a tender
melancholy in the kind creature's face, that seemed to mark the
lacerated feelings of intense affection. I could have pressed him to
my breast, in sympathy of his sufferings, for I was already a sharer
of his grief, before I knew the cause of it. It was at this moment
that the dame began her story, in the words of my commencement.
'Ten years to-day,' said she, 'since that picture was painted,
Sir----'
'Ah! my poor dear child!' sighed David; from which ejaculation I
inferred that I was about to hear a tale of which his own daughter
was the heroine; but I was soon undeceived by his wife, who thus
proceeded:
'It be n't necessary to go farther back in the dear child's life,
than the day she was first placed with me to nurse; who she is, has
nought to do with what she is, or the story of her life; certain sure
it is, she was the loveliest babe I ever saw, and I and David were
as proud of her as if she were our own. Bless her dear heart! how
every body talked about her, and how all the folks _did_ love her,
too, surely! I can't tell you, Sir, how beautiful she was; and as she
grew, her beauty kept good pace with her years, I promise you. She
was nine years old the very day the painter came to make a likeness
of her for her father; here she sat in this very room, just as you
see her in the picture, Sir. She had run in from the garden, where
she had been at romps with poor George, and was puffing away at the
fire with an old pair of bellows, which she found among the lumber in
the tool-house, when the gentleman, who she didn't notice at first,
was arranging his matters for the painting of the picture. It was at
the moment that she turned round to see who was in the room, that, as
he said, he was so struck with her lovely face, that he could have
taken her likeness, if he had not seen her an instant longer; and
sure enough he was not out much in his reckoning, for he had scarcely
taken his pencil in his hand, before the little madcap bounded out of
the room, and ran off to her play-mate in the garden. That is a copy
of the picture, Sir; and if the poor dear child were sitting here as
she was on that day, she couldn't look more like herself than that
painting does to me.'
David was in the very act of again converting his handkerchief into a
duster, but after a momentary struggle, for once in a way, he pressed
a corner of it to his eyes, and kept his seat.
'Of all those, barring myself and David,' continued the dame, 'who
loved the sweet child, as to be sure every body did, more or less,
none seemed to doat on her so much as the young gentleman who was
then our village doctor's assistant, and poor George.'
'And pray who was poor George?' said I.
'Ah, Sir, his is a sorry story, too; but of that anon; he was a
gentleman born, Sir--bless his dear soul!--but before he was barely
out of his teens, study and such like turned his wits, and poor
George was placed in our care, an idiot. Oh, how he would watch and
wait upon his young mistress, as he used to call the dear child; and
'Harri,' for so we called our little Harriet, for shortness, seemed
to look up to him for all her amusements and happiness. Good heart!
to see him racing round the garden, till he was fairly tired and beat
for breath, trundling her in the wheel-barrow, and fancying himself
her coachman; and then how he'd follow her wherever she went, as if
to protect her; always at a distance, when he fancied she did not
wish him with her, but never out of sight. She appeared to be his
only care; his poor head seemed filled with nothing but thoughts of
her. His friends used to send him trinkets and money, and baubles to
amuse him; and his greatest pride was to take little 'Harri' into
his room, and show her his stores, hang his gilt chains and beads
about her neck; seat her in his large arm-chair, and stand behind
it, as if he were her footman; and play all kinds of pranks, to make
her laugh; for he seemed pleased when _she_ laughed at him, though
he would not bear a smile from any body else at the same cause. His
senses served him at times, and then he would fall into fits of the
bitterest melancholy, as he sat looking in our sweet child's face,
as if reflecting how much he loved her, and how little his wandering
mind was able to prove his affection. Ah, poor fellow! it's well his
sufferings ended when they did, for they would have been terrible
indeed, if he had lived till now; but all who loved her best, fell
off from her, either by death or desertion, when her day of trouble
came.'
David's resolution was plainly wavering, as to the application of his
handkerchief, when Bessum gave it the turn in favor of the picture,
on perceiving her husband's emotion, by adding:
'As for David and myself, you know, Sir, we are nobody; it would be
strange indeed if we could ever have turned our backs upon the dear
child.'
'God forbid!' said David, and little Harri's portrait received the
extra polish breathed upon it by a deep sigh previous to the ordinary
one, emanating solely from the handkerchief, 'God forbid!' repeated
David, and Bessum added a hearty 'Amen!' as she resumed her story.
'As the sweet child grew up,' continued she, 'she was the talk of all
tongues, far and near; and before she was fifteen, Sir, gentlefolks
came from all parts to see her. A fine time we had of it, surely;
first one pretence and then another kept us answering questions and
inquiries about her, all day long. As for Dame Beetle, who kept a
little shop, and sold gloves over the way, just facing this window,
she made a pretty penny by the beauty of our dear child; though the
old simpleton thought it was the goodness of her gloves that brought
her so many gentlemen customers. Why, I have known no fewer than five
or six of the neighboring squires, ay, and lords too, so difficult
to fit, that they've been standing over the little counter by the
hour together; but I warrant not to much purpose, as far as the real
object of their visit was concerned. No sooner did horse, or gig, or
carriage stop in the village, than dear Mr. George--that is him that
was with the Doctor, you know, Sir----'
'Oh, his name was George too?'
'Yes, Sir, that it was; and down here he would run as fast as legs
could carry him; and his first question was always, 'David, where
is little Harri? Take her into the garden.' And here he would sit
till the gentry opposite were gone away. If ever one creature did
doat upon another, Mr. George loved that sweet child. Ah! would to
heaven he had lived to make her his wife! But it's all fate, and so I
suppose it's for the best as it is; though I would have died, sooner
than things should have fallen out as they have, if that could have
prevented it.'
'A thousand times over,' responded David, with a fond glance at the
picture; 'I'd rather never have been born, than have lived to weep
over the ruin of such heavenly beauty and goodness.'