Produced by Curtis Weyant, Sankar Viswanathan, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images produced by the Wright
American Fiction Project.)
GIFTS OF GENIUS:
A Miscellany
OF
PROSE AND POETRY,
BY
AMERICAN AUTHORS.
NEW YORK:
PRINTED FOR C.A. DAVENPORT.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1859, by
C.A. DAVENPORT,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTORY,
OUT AT ELBOWS.--THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE. BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE,
MY SECRET. (_From the French._) BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW,
A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. BY H.T. TUCKERMAN,
ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE. BY GEORGE S. HILLARD,
ON RECEIVING A PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS FROM A FRIEND.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ,
THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END. BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO,
SEA-WEED. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL,
TREFOIL. BY EVERT A. DUYCKINCK,
MISERERE DOMINE. BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH,
THE KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD.--A SHORT ESSAY ON THE 148th
PSALM. BY C.A. BARTOL,
TRANSLATIONS. BY THE REV. CHARLES T. BROOKS,
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN.
BY THE REV. ROSWELL D. HITCHCOCK, D.D.,
POEMS. BY JULIA WARD HOWE,
EARTH'S WITNESS. BY ALICE B. HAVEN,
THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. BY THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, D.D.,
SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS. (_From Goethe's Faust._) BY GEORGE P. MARSH,
A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO. BY ROBERT TOMES,
TRANSLATIONS. BY THE REV. THEODORE PARKER,
PAID FOR BY THE PAGE. BY EDWARD S. GOULD,
WORDS FOR MUSIC. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS,
"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS." (_Passages from a Manuscript Sermon._)
BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.,
THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN. BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY,
THE ERL-KING. (_From the German of Goethe._) BY MRS. E.F. ELLET,
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D.,
POEMS. BY MRS. GEORGE P. MARSH,
A STORY OF VENICE. BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS,
THE TORTURE CHAMBER. BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER,
THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË. BY FRANCIS WILLIAMS,
THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. BY REV. E.A. WASHBURN,
JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE. BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND,
NO SONGS IN WINTER. BY T.B. ALDRICH,
BENI-ISRAEL. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES,
BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT,
TO THE PUBLIC.
At the desire of MISS DAVENPORT, for whose benefit this collection of
original Miscellanies by American authors has been made, I write this
brief Preface, without having had time to read the contributions which it
is designed to introduce. The names of the writers, however, many of which
are among the most distinguished in our literature, and are honored
wherever our language is spoken, will suffice to recommend the volume to
the attention of the reading world.
If this were not enough, an inducement of another kind is to be found in
the circumstances of the lady in whose behalf the contents of this volume
have been so freely contributed. A few years since, she was a teacher in
our schools, active, useful, and esteemed for her skillful communication
of knowledge. At that time it was one of her favorite occupations to make
sketches and drawings from nature, an art in which she instructed her
pupils. A severe illness interrupted her duties, during which her sight
became impaired, and finally lost. A kind of twilight came over it, which
gradually darkened into utter night, shutting out the face of nature in
which she had so much delighted, and leaving her, without occupation, in
ill health. In this condition she has already remained for five years.
To this statement of her misfortunes, which I trust will commend her to
the sympathies of all who are made acquainted with them, as one who was
useful to society while Providence permitted, I have only to add the
expression of her warmest thanks to those who have generously furnished
the contents of the volume she now lays before the public.
W.C. BRYANT.
NEW YORK, _June, 1859_.
INTRODUCTORY.
This volume speaks so well for itself that it does not need many words of
preface to commend it to a wide circle of readers. Its rich and varied
contents, however, become far more interesting when interpreted by the
motive that won them from their authors; and when the kindly feeling that
offered them so freely is known, these gifts, like the pearls of a rosary,
will be prized not only severally but collectively, because strung
together by a sacred thread.
The story of this undertaking is a very short and simple one. Miss
Davenport, who had been for many years an active and successful teacher in
our schools and families, especially in the beautiful arts of drawing and
painting, was prostrated by a severe illness, which impaired her sight and
finally terminated in blindness.
The late Benjamin F. Butler, in a letter dated October 13, 1858, which
will have peculiar interest to the many readers who knew and honored that
excellent man, writes thus:
"Miss Davenport has for several years been personally known to me. She is
now blind and unable to follow the calling by which, before this calamity
befell her, she obtained her living. Having lost her parents in early
life, and having few relatives, and none able to assist her, she is
dependent for her support on such efforts as she is still capable of
making. These, were she a person of common fortitude, energy and
hopefulness, would be very small, for to her great privation is added very
imperfect general health. Yet she has struggled on in the hope of gaining
such a competency as should ultimately secure 'a home that she may call
her own.' I commend Miss Davenport to all who feel for the afflicted and
who wish to do good."
The Rev. Dr. S. Storrs writes: "Miss Davenport is a Christian woman, of
great excellence of character, and of many accomplishments, whom God in
his providence has made totally blind within a few years past."
We need add but two remarks to these statements--one in reference to the
volume itself, and the other in reference to her for whose welfare it is
contributed.
The volume is one of the many proofs which have been gathering for years,
of the alliance between literature and humanity. Every good and true word
that has been written from the beginning has been a minister of mercy to
every human heart which it has reached, whilst the mercy has been twice
blessed when the word so benign in its result has been charitable in its
intention, and the author at once yields his profits to a friend's need,
and his production to the public eye. Thackeray has written well upon
humor and charity, but should he undertake to carry out his idea and
treat of literature and humanity in their vital relations, he would have
his hands and heart full of work for more than a lifetime. Princes who
give their gold to generous uses are worthy of honor; but there is a
coinage of the brain that costs more and weighs more than gold. The
authors of these papers would of course be little disposed to claim any
high merit for their offerings, yet any reader who runs his eye over the
list of contributors will see at once that they are generally writers
whose compositions are eagerly sought for by the public, and among them
are some names whose pens can coin gold whenever they choose to move. All
these articles are original, and nothing is inserted in this book that has
been before published. We are confident that it deserves, and will command
wide and choice circulation.
A word as to the lady for whose benefit these gifts are brought together.
The preface of Mr. Bryant and the letter of Mr. Butler, tell her story
with sufficient distinctness, and the readiness with which our men and
women of letters have so generally complied with her request, shows what
eloquence she bears in her presence and statement. Some certificates from
her pupils in drawing, who testify to her love of nature and her delight
in sketching directly from nature, so greatly to their improvement in this
beautiful art, give peculiar pathos to her case. The organ that was the
source of her highest satisfaction is closed up by this dark sorrow, and
the gate called Beautiful, to this earthly temple no longer is open to
scenes and faces of loveliness. What a fearful loss is this loss of
sight--on the whole the noblest of the senses, and certainly the sense of
all others most serviceable, alike to the working hand and the creative
imagination. The eye may not be so near the fountains of sensibility as
the ear, and no impression reaches the sympathy so profoundly as the
pathos of living speech, but the eye has a far wider range than the ear
and fathoms the heavens and sweeps the earth and sea, whilst the ear hears
distinctly but within a very narrow limit, hardly a stone's throw. When
the eye, then, loses its marvellous faculty and sees no longer the light
of day and the countenances of friends, let the ear do what it can to make
up for the loss by every cheering word of sympathy and hope. In God's
Providence there is a principle of compensation that aims to balance every
privation by some new privilege, as for instance by giving new acuteness
to the senses which are called to do the work of the senses lost. But
genial humanity is the great principle of compensation, and by this God's
children glorify the Father in Heaven. May this volume serve his merciful
will, and may the light shed from the stars of our literary firmament do
something to lessen the night upon every dark path.
S.O.
GIFTS OF GENIUS.
OUT AT ELBOWS.
THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE.
BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA.
I.
How good a thing it is to live! The morn is full of music; and Annie is
singing in the hall!
The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields and forests, burning
with the golden splendors of the autumn--the variegated leaves of the
mighty oaks are draped about the ancient gables, like a trophy of banners.
The landscape sleeps; all the world smiles--shall not I?
I sat up late last night at my accounts; to-day I will take a holiday. The
squire has bidden me good morning in his courteous, good-humored way, and
gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his brother magistrates:--I am
away for the time from my noisy courts--the domain is mine--all the world
is still!
No;--Annie is singing in the hall.
She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morning, and would not like to
be interrupted. I will therefore take a ramble--and you shall accompany
me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant lands, but beside me still!
Whither shall we go? It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely.
Shall we go to my favorite woodland? It skirts the river, and I love the
river; so we pass into the forest.
How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves! A thousand brilliant
colors charm the eyes--the eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty
oaks reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome us!--how their
ponderous shoulders bear aloft the imperial trappings--trappings of silk
and velvet, all orange, blue, and purple! The haughty pines stand up like
warriors--or call them spears of nordland heroes, holding on their summits
emerald banners! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with flowers in their
hair, who bend and welcome you with gracious murmurs; the slender elms
sway to and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood; and sigh, and
smile, and whisper, full of the charming grace of youth, and tenderness,
and beauty.
I salute my noblemen, and queens, and princesses; they bow in return to
me, their king. Let us wander on.
--Ah! that is well; my river view! Of all my broad domain, I think I like
this part the best. Is it not beautiful? That clump of dogwood, however,
obstructs the view somewhat; I must cut it down. Let us move a little to
the right. Ah! there it is! See my lovely river; surely you must admire my
swan-like ships, flying, with snowy canvass spread, before the fresh
breeze. And see that schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is that
a telescope which the captain of my vessel points toward us? He salutes
me, does he not? But I fear the distance is too great; he could hardly
recognize me. Still I shall bow--let us not neglect the laws of courtesy.
My ship is sailing onward. In earlier days I had many barks which sailed
from shore; they were freighted with the richest goods, and made me very
anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but they never came again. One bore
my poem, which I thought would make me very celebrated, but the ship was
lost. Another was to bring me back a cargo of such beautiful
things--things which make life delightful to so many!--pearls, and silks,
and wines, and gold-laced suits--garters, rosettes, and slips of ribbon
to be worn at the button-hole. This, too, was lost, and yet it did not
grieve me much. The third caused me more regret; I do not think I have yet
wholly recovered from its loss. It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the
tenderest, sweetest eyes! She said she loved me--yes a thousand times! and
I--I loved her long and dearly. But the ship in which she sailed went
down--the strong, good ship, as I regarded it. She died thus,--did she
not?--or is it true that she was married to a richer suitor far away from
me in foreign lands?... These are foolish tears--let me not think of her
with want of charity; she was only a woman, and we men are often very
weak. ONE over all, is alone great and good. So, beautiful
ship!--I say--that sailed across my path in youth, sail on in peace and
happiness! A lonely bark, lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the
distant, happy seas, and the pennon floats from the peak in amicable
greeting and salute. Hail and farewell! Heaven send the ship a happy
voyage, and a welcome home!
This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is ended. Let us sail for an
hour or so on the silver wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here
beneath in the shadow of the oak. She is built for speed. See how
gracefully she falls and rises, like a variegated leaf upon the
waves--how the slender prow curves upward--how the gaily-colored sides are
mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous stream! Come, let us step
into the little craft, and unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking! I have
left my boat key at the hall; another day we will sail. Let us stroll back
to the good old house again.
Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are bringing in my wheat, which
stretches, you perceive, throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly
arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent--my servants enjoy this
season, and its occupations. They will soon sing their echoing "harvest
home"--and over them at their joyous labor will shine the "harvest-moon,"
lighting up field and forest, hill and dale--the whole "broad domain and
the hall." The affection of my servants is grateful to me. Here comes
Cato, with his team of patient oxen, and there goes Cæsar, leading my
favorite racehorse down to water. Cato, Cæsar, and I, respectively salute
each other in the kindest way. I think they are attached to me. Faithful
fellows! I shall never part with them. I think I will give this coat to
Cæsar; but, looking again, I perceive that his own is better. Besides, I
must not be extravagant. The little money I make is required by another,
and it would not be generous to buy a new coat for myself. This one which
I wear will do well enough, will it not? I ask you with some diffidence,
for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea has occurred to me that the
coolness and neglect of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by
my coat being shabby. Even Annie----, but I'll not speak of that this
morning. 'Twas the hasty word which we all utter at times--'tis forgotten.
Still, I think, I will give you the incident some day, when we ramble, as
now, in the fields.
From the fields we approach the honest old mansion, across the
emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds are singing, around the sleepy-looking
gables, and the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in sign of
welcome.
'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think he's smiling.
II
My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable taste. I am glad they built me
that wing for my books; my numerous children cannot disturb me when I am
composing, either my speech to be delivered in the Senate, or my work
which is destined to refute Sir William Hamilton.
Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes from the sitting-room,
and I recognize the exquisite air of "Katharine Ogie" which Annie is
singing. Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we pass.
What a stately head my old grandfather had! He was president of the King's
Council, a hundred years ago--a man of decided mark. He wears a long
peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders--a gold-laced waistcoat--and
snowy ruffles. His white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests on a
scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke. He must have been a resolute
old gentleman. How serene and calm is his look!--how firm are the finely
chiselled lips! How proud and full of collected intelligence the erect
head, and the broad white brow! He was a famous "macaroni," as they called
it, in his youth--and cultivated an enormous crop of wild oats. But this
all disappeared, and he became one of the sturdiest patriots of the
Revolution, and fought clear through the contest. Is it wrong to feel
satisfaction at being descended from a worthy race of men--from a family
of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not. I trust I'm no absurd
aristocrat--but I would rather be the grandson of a faithful common
soldier than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I would rather
trace my lineage to the Chevalier Bayàrd, simple knight though he was,
than to France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.
So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave and truthful gentleman--that
grandma yonder, smiling opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not
remember her, but she must have been a beauty. Her head is bent over one
shoulder, and she has an exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are
blue--her arms round, and as white as snow--and what lips! They are like
carnations, and pout with a pretty smiling air, which must have made her
dangerous. She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa, who was then
poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely courteous to remain thus covered in
presence of a lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my best bow,
saluting my little grandmamma of "sweet seventeen," who smiles and seems
graciously to bow in return.
All around me I see my family. There is my uncle, the captain in Colonel
Washington's troop. I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the French
wars, who afterward became General Washington of the American
Revolution--though my uncle, the captain, knew him very well, I am told,
and often visited him at _Mount Vernon_, the colonel's estate, where they
hunted foxes together, along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel
Washington who fought so nobly in North Carolina. My uncle died there. His
company was much thinned at every step by the horrible hail-storm of
balls. He was riding in front with his drawn sword, shouting as the column
fell, man by man, "Steady, boys, steady!--close up!"--when a ball struck
him. His last words were "A good death, boys! a good death! Close up!" So,
you see, he ended nobly.
Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and kin of the wars, you see,
yonder, a row of beauties, all smiling and gay, or pensive and
tender--interspersed with bright-faced children, blooming like so many
flowers along the old walls of the hall. How they please and interest me!
True, there are other portraits in our little house at home--not my hall
here--which, perhaps, I should love with a warmer regard; but let me not
cramp my sympathies, or indulge any early preferences. I must not be
partial. So I admire these here before me--and bow to them, one and all. I
fancy that they bow in return--that the stalwart warriors stretch vigorous
hands toward me--that the delicate beauties bend down their little heads,
all covered with powder, and return my homage with a smile.
Why not? Can my shabby coat make the lovely or proud faces ashamed of me?
Do they turn from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined line? Do they
sneer at my napless hat, and laugh at my tattered elbows? I do not think
of them so poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but I think, at
least I hope, that it covers an honest heart.
So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and again they smile in return.
I seem to have wandered away into the past and dreamed in a realm of
silence. And yet--it is strange I did not hear her--Annie is still singing
through the hall.
III.
I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat, the unfortunate coat
which I sometimes think makes the rich folks visiting the hall look
sidewise at me. It is strange! Am I not _myself_, whether clad in velvet
or in fustian--in homespun fabric, or in cloth of gold? People say I am
simple--wholly ignorant of the world; I must be so in truth.
But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even saw, and alluded to it; it
was not long after my arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the
neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie.
They were standing on the portico, and I was leaning against the trunk of
the old oak beneath, admiring the sunset which was magnificent that
evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turning round toward the young
ladies, saw them laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the hole in
my elbow, and I could not fail to understand that she was laughing at my
miserable coat.
I was not offended, though perhaps I may have been slightly wounded; but
Annie was a young girl and I could not get angry; I was not at all
ashamed--why should I have been?
"I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my elbow," I said, calmly and
quietly, with a bow and a smile; "I tore it by accident, yesterday."
Annie blushed, and looked very proud and offended, and it pained me to see
that she suffered for her harmless and, careless speech. I begged her not
to think that my feelings were wounded, and bowing again, went up to my
room. I looked at my coat, it _was_ terribly shabby, and I revolved the
propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up the idea with a sigh. She
needs all my money, and my mind is made up; she _shall_ have the black
silk, and very soon.
I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the little scene on the
portico. During all that evening, and the whole of the next day, Annie
scarcely looked at me, and retained her angry and offended expression. I
was pained, but could add nothing more to my former assurance that I was
not offended.
Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon the portico, when Annie
came out of the parlor. She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated,
but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She came quickly to my
side, and holding out her hand said frankly and kindly, with a little
tremor in her voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:
"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Cleave, indeed I did not, sir;
my speech was the thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very sorry
that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will you pardon me, sir?"
I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the white little hand which lay
in my own, slightly agitated,--
"I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie," I said, "if you will let me call
you by your household name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was
shabby; had it been a new one, you would never have observed it, and I
should have lost these sweet and friendly accents."
And that is the "incident of the coat."
IV.
The week that has just passed has been a pleasant one. I have thought, a
hundred times, "how good a thing it is to live!"
I must have been a good deal cramped and confined in the city; but I enjoy
the fair landscapes here all the more. The family are very friendly and
kind--except Mrs. Barrington, who does not seem to like me. She scarcely
treats me with anything more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire and
Annie, however, make up for this coldness. They are both extremely
cordial. It was friendly in the squire to give me this mass of executorial
accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his entire satisfaction;
and the payment for my services is very liberal. How I long for money!
There was a splendid party at the hall on Tuesday. It reminded me of old
times, when we, too,--but that is idle to remember. I do not sigh for the
past. I know all is for the best. Still, I could not help thinking, as I
looked on the brilliant spectacle, that the world was full of changes and
vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and delightful one; the dancing
quite extravagant. Annie was the beauty of the assemblage--the belle of
the ball--and she gave me a new proof of the regret which she felt for the
speech about my coat. At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of
half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and promenade out on the
portico.
"Do you ever dance?" she said.
"Oh, yes," I replied; "that is, I did dance once; but of late years I have
been too much occupied. We live quietly."
"You say 'we.'"
"I mean my mother and I; I should have said 'poorly,' perhaps, instead of
'quietly,' And I am busy."
She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:
"But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll not think me forward, I will
reverse the etiquette, and ask you to dance with me."
"Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure."
"Are you sure?"
"Could you doubt it?"
"I was so _very_ rude to you!"
And she hung her head. That, then, was the secret of her choice of my arm.
I could only assure her that I did not think her rude, and I hoped she
would forget the whole incident. I was pleased in spite of all--for I like
to think well of women. The cynical writers say they are all mean, and
mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie? She had left many finely-dressed
gentlemen, faultlessly appointed, to dance with a poor stranger, quite out
at elbows.
I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and when Annie took my arm to go
into supper, the gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been
refused, made me smile. When the party was over, Annie gave me her hand at
the foot of the staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mischievous
eyes, as she glanced at the departing gallants; her rosy cheeks dimpled,
and she flitted up, humming a gay tune.
It is singular how beautiful she is when she laughs--as when she sighs. Am
I falling in love with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I think
that my pride and self-respect will keep me rational. Pshaw! why did I
dream of such nonsense!
V.
So--a month has passed.
My coat, it seems, is to be the constant topic of attention.
A day or two since, I was sitting in my chamber, reflecting upon a
variety of things. My thoughts, at last, centred on the deficiencies of my
wardrobe, and I muttered, "I must certainly have my coat mended soon;" and
I looked down, sighing, at the hole in my elbow.... It had disappeared!
There was no longer any rent. The torn cloth had been mended in the
neatest manner; so neatly, indeed, that the orifice was almost invisible.
Who could have done it, and how? I have one coat only, and--yes! it must
have been! I saw, in a moment, the whole secret: that noise, and the voice
of Sarah, the old chambermaid.
I rose and went out on the staircase; I met the good crone.
"How did you find my coat in the dark?" I said, smiling; "and now you must
let me make you a present for mending it, Sarah."
Sarah hesitated, plainly; but honesty conquered. She refused the money,
which, nevertheless, I gave her; and, from her careless replies, I soon
discovered the real truth.
The coat had been mended by Annie!
I descended to the drawing-room, and finding her alone, thanked her with
simplicity and sincerity. She blushed and pouted.
"Who told you?" she asked.
"No one; but I discovered it from Sarah; she was unguarded."
"Well, sir," said Annie, blushing still, but laughing, "there is no reason
for your being so grateful, I thought I would mend it, as I formerly
laughed at it--and I hope it is neatly done."
"It is scarcely visible," I said, with a smile and a bow; "I shall keep
this coat always to remind me of your delicate kindness."
"Pshaw! 'twas nothing."
And running to the piano, the young girl commenced a merry song, which
rang through the old hall like the carol of a bird. Her voice was so
inexpressibly sweet that it made my pulses throb and my heart ache. I
did not know the expression of my countenance, as I looked at her, until
turning toward me, I saw her suddenly color to the roots of her hair.
I felt, all at once, that I had fixed upon her one of those looks which
say as plainly as words could utter: "I love you with all the powers of my
nature, all the faculties of my being--you are dearer to me than the whole
wide world beside!"
Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did not know that I loved Annie--I
was not conscious that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpressible
tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up everything like a flash of
lightning--I rose, set my lips together, and bowed. I could scarcely
speak--I muttered "pray excuse me," and left the apartment.
On the next morning I begged the squire to release me from the completion
of my task--I had a friend who could perform the duties as well as myself,
and who would come to the hall for that purpose, inasmuch as the account
books could not be removed--I must go.
The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did not ask my reasons for this
sudden act--he simply inclined his head--and said that he would always be
glad to serve me. With a momentary pressure of Annie's cold hand, and a
low bow to the frigid Mrs. Barrington, I departed.
VI.
Five years have passed away. They have been eventful ones to me--not for
the unhoped for success which I have had in my profession, so much as for
the long suffering which drove me, violently as it were, to seek relief in
unceasing toil.
The thought of Annie has been ever with me--my pain, though such a term is
slight, was caused by my leaving her. I never knew how much I loved her
until all those weary miles were thrown between us. My days have been most
unhappy, my nights drearier still; for a long time now, I have not thought
or said "how good a thing it is to live!"
But I acted wisely, and honorably; did I not? I did my duty, when the
temptation to neglect it was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from
the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and respected my own name and
honor, too much to remain. It was better to break my heart, I said, than
take advantage of my position at the hall, to engage a young girl's heart,
and drag her down, in case she loved me, to the poor low sphere in which I
moved. If her father had said to me, "You have abused the trust I placed
in you, and acted with duplicity," I think it would have ruined me,
forever, in my own esteem. And would he not have had the right to say it?
So I came away from the temptation while I could, and plunged into my
proper work on earth, and found relief; but I loved her still.
Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued between the squire and
myself? 'Twas a somewhat singular one, and revealed to me something which
I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath my hand; let us look at
it. It passed soon after my departure:
"Barrington Hall, Nov. 20, 18--.
"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND:
"Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered that
event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned by
a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family. I
saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look
upon you with as much favor as I hoped. If any word or action
of mine has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it.
"Your friend,
"C. BARRINGTON.
"P.S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was
many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine."
My reply was in the following words:
"MY DEAR MR. BARRINGTON:
"Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat
hasty departure: 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any
member of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable
circumstances. You will not think me wanting in candor or
sincerity when I add that I think these circumstances were
better not alluded to at present.
"Truly and faithfully,
"ST. GEORGE CLEAVE."
Thus ended then our correspondence. Three years afterward I received
another letter, in a handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It
contained simply the words:
"I am very ill; if your convenience will permit, may I ask
you to come and see me, my young friend?
"C. BARRINGTON."
I need not say that I went at once. As I approached the old manor house a
thousand memories knocked at the door of my heart. There were the fields
over which I had rambled; there was the emerald lawn where so often I had
wandered in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great oak against
which I had leaned on that evening to watch the sun in his setting, and
where Annie had whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still raised its
head proudly, and embowered the old gables in the bright-tinted foliage of
autumn.
I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed to smile; they saluted me
sweetly, as in other hours; the old mansion appeared to welcome me--I saw
no change, but Annie was not singing in the hall.
All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep; my heart beat violently,
and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to
meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days? I held the small hand,
and looked into the deep eyes for some moments without uttering a word.
She was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed a grace and
elegance a thousand times finer than before. Her eyes were filled with the
strangest sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed at me.
"Papa has been waiting impatiently for you, Mr. Cleave," she said, in a
low, sad voice; "will you come up and see him at once? he is very ill."
And turning away her head, the fair girl burst into uncontrollable sobs,
every one of which went to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield
to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led the way into the
parlor, where I was received by Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but
much more subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce my arrival to her
father, and soon I was alone with the old man.
I was grieved and shocked at his appearance. He seemed twenty years older.
I scarcely recognized in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country
gentleman whom I had known.
The motive for his letter was soon explained. The executorial accounts,
whose terrible disarrangement I had aided, five years before, in
remedying, still hung over the dying man's head, like a nightmare. He
could not die, he said, with the thought in his mind, that any one might
attribute this disorder to intentional maladministration--"to fraud, it
might be."
And at the word "fraud," his wan cheek became crimson.
"My own affairs, Mr. Cleave," he continued, "are, I find, in a most
unhappy condition. I have been far too negligent; and now, on my
death-bed, for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, that I
am well-nigh a ruined man!"
He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in vain, attempted to impress
upon him, the danger of exciting himself.
"I must explain everything, and in my own way," he said, with burning
cheeks, "for I look to you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr.
Cleave, my chief executor; but, above all, I rely upon you, I adjure you,
to protect my good name in those horrible accounts, which you once helped
to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like the ghost of a murdered
man!"
The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in spite of all which I
could say. It led him to make me a singular revelation--to speak upon a
subject which I had never even dreamed of. His pride and caution seemed
wholly to have deserted him; and he continued as follows:
"You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call upon you. You are young.
But I know very well what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is
sufficient guaranty that you are competent to perform the trust--my
knowledge of your character is correct enough to induce me not to
hesitate. There is another tie between us. Do you suspect its nature? I
loved and would have married your mother. She was poor--I was equally
poor--I was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy when your mother's
pride made her refuse my suit. I married--I have not been happy. But
enough. I should never have spoken of this--never--but I am dying! As you
are faithful and true, St. George Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be
untarnished!"
There the interview ended. The doctor came in, and I retired to reflect
upon the singular communication which had been made to me. On the same
evening, I accepted all the trusts confided to me. In a week the sick
gentleman was sleeping with his fathers. I held his hand when he died.
I shall not describe the grief and suffering of every one. I shall not
trust myself, especially, to speak of Annie. Her agony was almost
destructive to her health--and every throb which shook her frame, shook
mine as well. The sight of her face had revived, in an instant, all the
love of the past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now,
passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might win her love in
return, I thrilled with a vague delight.
Well, let me not spin out my story. The result of my examination of Mr.
Barrington's affairs, was saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined.
Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts, had mortgaged his
entire property. When it was settled, and the hall was sold, his widow and
daughter had just enough to live upon comfortably--scarcely so much. They
gladly embraced my suggestion to remove to a small cottage near our own,
in town, and there they now live--you may see the low roof through the
window.
I am glad to say that my reëxamination of the executorial accounts, which
had so troubled the poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite
unfounded. There was mere disorder--no grounds for "exception." I told as
much to Annie, who alone knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and
filled with thanks, was my sole executorial "commission."
VII.
I have just been discarded by Annie.
Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and recall what she said to me. My
head is troubled to-day--it is strange what a want of self-control I have!
I thought I was strong--and I am weaker than a child.
I told her that I loved her--had loved her for years--that she was
dearer, far, to me than all on earth beside my mother. And she answered
me--agitated, but perfectly resolved:
"I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave."
A long pause followed, in which she evidently labored with great
distress--then she continued:
"I will frankly and faithfully say _why_ I cannot. I know all--I know your
feelings for me once. You went away because you were poor, and you thought
I was rich. Shall I be less strong than yourself? I am poor now; I do not
regret it, except--pardon me, sir, I am confused--I meant to say, that
_you_ are now the richer. It humbles me to speak of this--why did you
not"--
There she stopped, blushing and trembling.
"Why did I not? Oh! do not stop there, I pray you."
She replied to my words in a broken and agitated voice:
"I cannot finish. I was thinking of--of--the day when I mended your coat!"
And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, as she gazed timidly at
me. I shall not prolong the account of our interview. She soon left me,
resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly miserable.
What shall I do? I cannot live without her. My life would be a miserable
mockery. To see her there near me, at the window, in the street; to see
her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it flits through the
flower-enveloped gate; to feel that she is near me, but lost to me! Never
could I endure it! But what can I do? Is there anything that can move her?
--Ah! that may! Let me try it. Oh, fortunate accident. To-morrow, or very
soon--very soon!
VIII.
A week after my rejection, I went up to my chamber, and drew from the
depths of my wardrobe, the old coat which Annie had mended. I had promised
her to preserve it. I had kept my promise. Yes, there it was, just as I
had worn it at the hall--my shabby old coat of five years ago! I put it
on, smiling, and surveyed myself in a mirror. It was strangely
old-fashioned; but I did not think of that. I seemed to have returned, all
at once, to the past; its atmosphere embraced me; all its flowers bloomed
gaily before my eyes.
I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were Annie's stitches--her
fingers had clasped the worn, decayed cloth--the old garment had rested on
her arm!
I think I must have gazed at the coat for an hour, motionless in the
sunlight, and thinking of old days. Then I aroused myself, suddenly, put
on my hat, and, with a beating heart, went to ask if Annie remembered.
I shall not relate the details of our interview. She remembered! Oh, word
so sweet or so filled with sadness! with a world of sorrow or delight in
its sound! She remembered--and her heart could resist no longer. She
remembered the poor youth who had loved her so dearly--whom she, too, had
loved in the far away past. She remembered the days when her father was
well and happy--when his kind voice greeted me, and his smile gave me
friendly welcome. She remembered the old days, with their flowers and
sunshine--the old hall, and the lawn, and the singing birds. Can you
wonder that her soft, tender bosom throbbed, that her heart was "melted in
her breast?"
So she plighted me her troth--the dream and joy of my youth. We shall very
soon be married. The ship which I sent from the shore long ago has come
again to port, with a grander treasure than the earth holds beside--it is
the precious, young head which reclined upon my heart!
--And again I can say, as I said long ago: "how good a thing it is to
live!"
MY SECRET.
(FROM THE FRENCH.)
BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery,
A love eternal in a moment's space conceived;
Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history,
And she who was the cause, nor knew it, nor believed.
Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,
Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely,
I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only
Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.
For her, though God has made her gentle and endearing,
She will go on her way distraught and without hearing
These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,
Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,
Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,
"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.
A LEAF
FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK.
BY H.T. TUCKERMAN.
Fresh from Italy, we enter the gallery of the Louvre with a feeling that
it is but a grand prolongation of the glorious array of pictured and
sculptured trophies, scattered in such memorable luxuriance, through that
chosen land of art; but the sensation is that of delightful surprise when
we have but recently explored the dim chambers of the National Gallery, or
obtained formal access to a private British collection. To cross the now
magnificent hall of Apollo, with its grand proportions flooded by a
cloudless sun, expands the mind and brightens the vision for their feast
of beauty. Here too, a magic improvement has been recently wrought, and
the architectural renovation lends new effect to the ancient treasures, so
admirably preserved and arranged. I stood long at one of the windows and
looked down upon the Seine; it was thence that the people were fired upon
at the massacre of St. Bartholomew; there rose, dark and fretted, the
antique tower of Notre Dame, here was the site of the Tour de Nesle, that
legend of crime wrought in stone; gracefully looked the bridges as they
spanned the swollen current of the river; cheerfully lay the sunshine on
quay and parapet; it was a scene where the glow of nature and the shadows
of history unite to lend a charm to the panorama of modern civilization.
And turning the gaze within, how calm and refreshing seemed the long and
high vistas of the gallery; how happy the artists at their easels;--girls
with their frugal dinners in a basket on the pavement, copying a Flemish
scene; youths drawing intently some head of an old master; veterans of the
palette reproducing the tints born under Venetian skies; and groups
standing in silent admiration before some exquisite gem or wonderful
conception. It is like an audience with the peers of art to range the
Louvre; in radiant state and majestic silence they receive their reverend
guests; first smiles down upon him the celestial meekness of Raphael's
holy women, then the rustic truth of Murillo's peasant mothers, and the
most costly, though, to our mind, not the most expressive, of all his
pictures--the late acquisition for which kings competed at Marshal Soult's
sale; now we are warmed by the rosy flush of Rubens--like a mellow sunset
beaming from the walls; and now startled at the life-like individuality of
Vandyke's portraits, as they gaze down with such placid dignity and keen
intelligence; at one point, we examine with mere curiosity the stiff
outlines of early religious limning; and, at another, smile at the homely
nature of the Dutch school; Philip de Champagne's portraits, Wouverman's
white horses, Cuyp's meadows and kine, Steen's rural _fêtes_, Claude's
sunsets, Pannini's architecture and Sneyder's animals; David's
melodramatic pieces, Isabey's miniatures, Oudny's dogs, Robert's "Harvest
Home," all hint a chapter, not only in the history of art, but in the
philosophy of life and the secrets of the beautiful--enshrined there for
the world's enjoyment, with a liberal policy yet more aptly illustrated by
the vast and lofty colonnades, the courteous custodes, and the provisions
for students in the drawings of successive schools.
In order to exchange the fascinations of the moment for the lessons of the
past, one cloudy morning we drove through the avenue of the Champs
Elysées, by the triumphal arch of Napoleon, to the palace of St. Cloud,
and from the esplanade gazed back upon the city, over the plain below, to
the dense mass of buildings surmounted by the domes of the Invalids, and
the Pantheon and the towers of Notre Dame. To the eye of contemplation it
is one of the most memorable of landscapes; a stand-point for historical
reverie, which attunes the mind for subsequent and less discursive
retrospection. Enter the apartment where Bonaparte dispersed the assembly
of five hundred--the initatory act of his rule; it is now a conservatory,
whence rising terrace walks, statues and fountains only are visible; in
the fresh silence of morning, they offered a striking contrast to that
eventful scene. In an adjacent room a picture representing Maria de
Medici's interview with Sully after the death of Henry IV., carries us
back to an earlier era. Here Blucher had his headquarters, and here was
settled the convention by which Paris was yielded to the allies. The
saloon of Vernet, the well-trimmed vine-trees of the garden, the vivid
hues of the tapestry, the newly waxed floors, the hangings and couches of
Lyons silk, the elegant Sèvres vases, and Florentine tables of _pietra
dura_, the velvet cushions of the chapel, and late publications on the
library desks--all free of speck or stain--proclaim this summer palace as
great a favorite now as when resorted to by the princes of Orleans. In
this hall the two Napoleons were proclaimed; and the brilliant memory of
those summer festivals that lately made St. Cloud dazzling with light and
beauty, was reflected from mirror, cornice, and tinted fabric; from this
gilt on the iron chain of usurped dominion, a glance through the window
revealed its origin: a throng of people were on their way to mass and a
regiment was on parade--the one illustrating the blind exaction of bigoted
authority, the other the machinery of brute force--the church and the
army, the mitre, and the sword, superstition and violence; with these, in
all ages, have the multitude been subdued; and between these two
representations of elemental despotism, clustered on a high wall, stood a
crowd to watch the meek procession of worshippers, and the exactitude of
the manual, or admire the spirited, yet controlled, evolutions of the
officer on his noble charger. The whole scene typified France as she is;
uneducated devotees, a military organization at the beck of its chief, and
a surplus of curious, intimidated or acquiescent spectators.