first chapters of French history. The vast court of the palace is lined
with colossal statues; and thus we enter the vestibule through a file of
pale and majestic sentinels, summoned, as it were, from the tomb to guard
the trophies of nationality. Our pilgrimage through such a world of
effigies begins with Clovis and Charlemagne, and ends with Louis Philippe:
the place itself is the ancient home of royalty; the gardens, visible
from every window, have been trod by generations of monarchs and
courtiers; the ceilings bear the arms of the noble families of the
kingdom; while around are the faces and figures of the men of valor and of
genius that consecrate her history. Through this panorama move peasants,
workmen, citizens, and foreigners, gazing unrestricted, as upon a
procession evoked from the inexorable past, in which are all those of whom
they have heard or read as illustrious in France; they see the battles,
the leaders, the kings, the poets, the human material of history. This
grand conception, which has of late years been mainly realized by the last
king, is certainly one of the most grand and significant of modern times.
Even in this, our one day's observation, how many ideas are revived, how
many characters brought into view; what events, associations and people
throng upon our consciousness, as slowly gazing, we tread the interminable
halls and scan the countless memorials of Versailles!
Taking up the thread of reminiscence when looking at the old moldy mortar
that belonged to the knights of St. John when at Rhodes, the expiring
chivalry of Europe gleams fitfully upon us, once more, to provoke a
mortifying comparison with the not yet completed pictures of the capture
of Abd-el-Kader and the last siege of Rome; thence turn to the "Jeu de
Paume," where the ardent figure of Mirabeau represents the genius of the
Revolution, and from it to "Louis XVIII. and the Charter," emblematic of
the Restoration; how shines on this canvas the "helmet of Navarre" in the
"Battle of Ivry," as in Macaulay's spirited lyric, and chastely beautiful
in its stainless marble, stands the heroic Maid of Orleans; while,
appropriately in the midst of these historic characters, we find the bust
of that ideal of picturesque narrators, Froissart. The modern rule of
France is abruptly and almost grotesquely suggested amid such
associations, by the figure of De Joinville on the deck of a man-of-war,
well described by Talfourd, as "the type of dandified, melodramatic
seamanship." The cycles of kingly sway is abruptly broken by the meteoric
episode of Bonaparte: first he appears dispersing the Assembly, and then
in his early victories, wounded at Ratisbon, at the tomb of Frederick the
Great, distributing the Legion of Honor at the Invalides, quelling an
insurrection at Cairo, engaged in his unparalleled succession of battles,
and at the altar with Maria Louisa. The divorce from Josephine and the
murder of the Duc D'Enghien, are events that only recur more impressively
to the mind of the spectator because uncommemorated. From the career of
military genius which transformed the destinies of France, we pass to
apartments where still breathes the vestiges of legitimacy as in the hour
of its prime. The equestrian statue of Louis XIV. in the court-yard, his
bed and crown, his clock and chair in the long suite of rooms kept sacred
to his memory, typify the age when genius and beauty mingled their charms
in the corrupt atmosphere of intrigue and profligacy. The noble expanse of
wood, water, and meadow; the paths lined with stately myrtles and ancient
box, spread as invitingly to the eye from this embayed window, as when the
_grand monarque_ stood there to watch the graceful walk of La Vallière, or
the staid carriage of Maintenon. The abandonment and quietude of these
chambers, mirrored, tapestried, and solitary, owe not a little of the
spell they exercise over the imagination, to the vicinity of the galleries
devoted to the men of the Revolution and the campaigns of '92; amid the
smoke of conflict ever appears that resolute, olive face with the dark eye
fixed and the thin lip curved in decision or expectancy. We mechanically
repeat Campbell's elegy as we mark "Hohenlinden," and linger with
patriotic gratitude over "Yorktown," notwithstanding the absurd
prominence given to the French officers; Condé, Turenne, Moreau, Lannes,
Massena, and Lafayette fight over again before us the wars of the Fronde,
the Empire, or the Republic. The monotony of these scenes of destruction
is only relieved by the individual memories of the chiefs; they link a
certain individuality with the flame and shroud of war, the fragmentary
conquests, and the struggles that make up so large a portion of external
history; and we emerge from the crowd of warriors into the company of
statesmen, wits, and poets, with a sensation of refreshment. Each single
triumph of thought, each victory of imagination and memorial of character,
has an absolute worth and charm that the exploits of armies can never
emulate.
Racine's portrait revives the long controversy between the classic and
romantic schools; that of La Bruy re the art of character-painting now one
of the highest functions of popular literature; that of Bossuet the pulpit
eloquence of France and the persecution of Fenelon, and that of Saint Cyr
the Jansenist discussion. A blank like that which designates the place of
Marino Faliero in the Ducal palace at Venice, is left here for Le Sage, as
the nativity of the author of Gil Blas is yet disputed. We look at
Rousseau to revert to the social reforms, of which he was the pioneer; at
La Place to realize the achievements of the exact sciences, and at St.
Pierre to remember the poetry of nature. Voltaire's likeness is not
labelled for the same reason that there is no name on the tomb of Ney;
both are too well known to require announcement. How incongruous become
the associations as we proceed; old Père la Chaise cheek by jowl with the
American Presidents; Cagliostro, who died before the word his career
incarnated had become indispensable to the English tongue--the apotheosis
of humbug; Marmontel, dear to our novitiate as royal leaders; and near to
the original Pamela; Chateaubriand's ancestor the Marshal; Bisson going
below to ignite the magazine, rather than "give up the ship;" and the
battered war dog, with a single eye and leg, beneath whose fragmentary
portrait is inscribed that Mars left him only a heart.
It is with singular interest that we look upon the authentic resemblance
of persons with whose minds and career literature has made us familiar,
and compare what we have imagined of their appearance with the reality. Of
such characters as Gluck, Klopstock and Madame Le Brun, whose ministry of
art has excited a vague delight, we may have formed no very distinct
image; but associated as is the name of Madame Roland with courage,
suffering and affliction, we naturally expect a more dignified and less
vivacious expression than here meets us, until we remember the earlier
development of her rare and sympathetic intelligence. Count Mirabeau has a
look of mildness and _sang froid_ instead of the earnestness we fancied.
Who would have supposed the fair assassin of Marat such a thin, delicate
and spirituelle blonde? The sensuous face of George IV. and the tragic one
of Charles I., in the ever recurring Vandyke, with Sheridan's confident,
handsome and genial physiognomy, seem grouped to make more elevated, by
comparison, the noble abstraction of Flaxman. Talleyrand resembles a keen,
selfish, humorous and gentlemanly man of the world, in an unexceptionable
white wig. Richelieu is piquant and Madame de Staël impassioned and
Amazonian. What decadence even in the warlike notabilities is hinted by
glancing from Soult to Oudinot! I thought of the French fleet in the
memorable storm off Newport, as I recognized the portrait of the Count
d'Estaing; and realized anew the military instinct of the nation in the
preponderance of battle-scenes and heroes, and marked the interest with
which groups of soldiers lingered and talked before them.
THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS.
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn,
And cheeks all bright from rapture of the way,
But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn,
She comes to me to-day.
Does she forget the trysts we used to keep,
When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground?
Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep
With threats of silver sound?
Does she forget how shone the happy eyes
When they beheld her?--how the eager tongue
Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies,
To reach her where she sung?
How at her sacred feet I cast me down?
How she upraised me to her bosom fair,
And from her garland shred the first light crown
That ever pressed my hair?
Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring
Their freshness back: why lingers she so long?
The pulseless air is waiting for her wing,
Dumb with unuttered song.
If tender doubt delay her on the road,
Oh let her haste, to find that doubt belied!
If shame for love unworthily bestowed,
That shame shall melt in pride.
If she but smile, the crystal calm will break
In music, sweeter than it ever gave,
As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake
And laughs in every wave.
The ripples of awakened song shall die
Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain,
Until, as once, upon her breast I lie,
Pardoned and loved again.
ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE.
BY GEORGE S. HILLARD.
Against all institutions for the diffusion of knowledge among the
community, an objection is often urged that they can teach nothing
thoroughly, but only superficially, and that modest ignorance is better
than presumptuous half-knowledge. How frequently is it said that "a little
learning is a dangerous thing." This celebrated line is a striking
instance of the vitality which may be given to what is at least a very
doubtful proposition by throwing it into a pointed form. If anything be a
good at all, it is a good precisely in proportion to the extent in which
it is possessed or enjoyed. A great deal of it is better than a little,
but a little is better than none. No one says or thinks that a little
conscience, or a little wisdom, or a little faith, or a little charity is
a dangerous thing. Why then is a little learning dangerous? Alas, it is
not the little learning, but the much ignorance which it supposes, that is
dangerous!
We also frequently hear it said, that the general diffusion of popular
knowledge is unfavorable to great acquisitions in any one individual. This
is a favorite dogma with those persons whose views are all retrospective,
who are ever magnifying past ages at the expense of the present, and who
will insist upon riding through life with their faces turned toward the
horse's tail instead of his head. "We have smatterers and sciolists in
abundance," say they, "but where are the giant scholars of other days?"
Dr. Johnson once said, in reply to a remark upon the general intelligence
of the people of Scotland, that learning in Scotland was like bread in a
besieged city, where every man gets a mouthful, but none a full meal. He
also observed in a conversation held with Lord Monboddo, that learning had
much decreased in England, since his remembrance; to which his lordship
remarked, "you have lived to see its decrease in England; I, its
extinction in Scotland." The fallacy of views like these consists in
taking it for granted that there is always just about the same aggregate
amount of knowledge in the world, and that only the ratio of distribution
is changed. But there is no such analogy between learning and material
substances. The wealth of the mind is not like gold, which must be beaten
out the finer, as the surface to be covered by it is more extensive. As
to the alleged superiority of past ages, in anything essential, I am more
than skeptical. I hold rather that of all good things, learning included,
there is as much in the world now as there ever was--not to say more. The
great scholars of Europe in our time are not inferior to the greatest of
their predecessors. Even in classical literature and antiquities, the
searching, analyzing and investigating spirit of our age has poured new
light upon the remote past, and rendered the labors of former generations
useless. By elevating the general standard, it is true that there is less
distance between the common mind and the deeply learned. The scholars of
the middle ages seem the higher, from the low level of ignorance from
which they rise. They are like mountains shooting abruptly from the plain.
Our scholars seem to have reached an inferior point of elevation, because
the level of the general mind has come nearer to them, as mountain peaks
lose somewhat of their apparent height when they spring from a raised
table land.
ON RECEIVING A
PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS
FROM A FRIEND.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
A modest bud matured mid secret dews,
May yield its bloom beside some hidden path,
Full of sweet perfumes and of rarest hues
While few may note the beauty which it hath--
And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there,
May bend beside it with a loving look,
Or by the streamlet place it in her hair;
And smile above her image in the brook.
A bird with pinions beautiful, and shy,
May sing scarce noted mid the noisier throng;
Or 'scaping earth, take refuge in the sky
And though concealed still charm the air with song.
Yet haply some enamored ear may hark,
And deem it sweetest of the birds that sing;
Or in his heart still praise the unseen lark
That leads his fancies toward its heavenward wing.
A star in some sequestered nook on high,
In its deep niche of blue may calmly shine,
While careless eyes that wander o'er the sky,
May only deem the brightest orbs divine.
But there are those who love to sit and trace
Between all these some shy retiring light,
For such, they know, shed through the veil of space
The general halo that adorns the night.
Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed
By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar,
The few may deem as worthy to be named,
(As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star!
THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END.
BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO.
Last from the church came the organist, Daniel Summerman. He was less
hurried than others; to him it was not, as to people in general, a day of
increased social responsibility. His great duty was now performed. Done,
whether well or ill. He descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so
light you might have taken it for a child's. No need for him to haste; the
precious moments would go fast enough--he wished not to lose one.
In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his woollen gloves, and button
his great coat, and for something besides. Perhaps the person who laid the
wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was somewhere about, and had
some criticism to offer in respect to the choir's performance.
But he descended the church steps without having met even the sexton;
somewhat disappointed, it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger
standing in the churchyard among the graves; by the grave, it chanced, of
a child who died in October, five years old. When the organist perceived
this, a purpose which he would have formed later in the day, anticipated
itself, and led him to the little mound. He would leave the cedar wreath
on Mary's grave.
He was not ashamed of his gracious purpose when he had drawn near. His
gentle heart was glad to do this homage to the dead, in the presence of a
stranger who had never seen the living child. Stooping down, he smoothed
the frozen grass, and laid the wreath upon it; and when he saw the
stranger watching him, he said:
"She was the prettiest child in the village; if she had lived, we should
have had one singer in the choir. I would have taught her. She loved music
so much."
Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordinary man. At least the
organist thought so. But when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that
he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that face, and still less in
the voice that asked,
"Will you leave the wreath here? Where did it come from?"
The organist replied as though he did not perceive the indifference with
which the questions were asked:
"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the children left it, may be.
Any way this is the best place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to
think that she was really down there."
"Where, then?" asked the stranger.
"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As Summerman spoke, he stepped
from the frozen ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on the
stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.
The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, followed him. He was a
well-dressed person; indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with
the rough garments of the little organist. His fine broadcloth cloak was
trimmed profusely with rare fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost
half as much as the church paid Summerman for playing the organ a
twelvemonth. He was a noticeable person, not merely on account of his
dress. His bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not indifferent
to the eyes of others; that of a man somewhat cautious of the reflection
he should cast in a region of shadows and appearances. But, moreover, the
face of this Redman Rush was the face of misery. If ever a wreck came to
shore, here was the torn and battered fragment of a gallant craft.
"Were you in the church this morning?" asked the organist, struggling
with himself, speaking with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the
stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was beyond his power to walk
by the side of any man cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least
a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.
"Yes," was the brief answer.
"How did the singing go?"
"Tolerably."
"That's a comfort," said the organist, looking more pleased than the
occasion seemed to warrant. But he was not a vain man; he merely supposed
that the gentleman's reply promised criticism worth hearing.
"Didn't you hear it yourself?"
"Oh, yes, after a fashion. I play the organ. It isn't the best situation
for hearing. I thought it decent. Particularly the _Gloria in Excelsis_. I
was most anxious about that. How did it sound to you, sir?"
"Well."
"But, after all, they didn't understand it."
"Understand what?"
"The meaning. It opens with the song of the angels, you know. 'Glory be to
God on high; on earth, peace, good will toward men.' They couldn't tell,
coherently, what the Peace and Good Will meant. That's the worst of it.
How can they sing what they don't understand?"
"Surely. Why don't you teach them?"
"Why don't I teach them!" exclaimed the organist. "I'm not a brain-maker;
that's the reason, I suppose."
"Then, you've tried it?"
For a minute Summerman seemed vexed by this question; but for no longer
than a minute.
"What's the use? what's the use?" he said to himself, and his answer to
the question was a laugh.
The laugh, though neither loud nor boisterous, but merely a mild evidence
of good-nature that was not to be clouded by vexations, had a disagreeable
sound to Redman Rush. He looked contemptuous, and felt more than he
looked, so that it was really surprising to see him linger for such
conversation as this of the organist, and to hear him ask,
"How do you teach your choir? Whose fault is it that they cannot learn?"
"Their own fault," answered Summerman. "They've got to learn more than the
notes. So they complain. You can't make a singer out of a note-book. I've
tried that enough. Now I try to show them that peace means a riddance of
selfishness, and that selfishness is the devil's device for holding the
world together. Not God's; for his idea is love, and was in the beginning.
Wasn't the world given to understand, that the life which was born was the
love, truth, and beauty of the world, and that by Him all truth and beauty
must live? They can't see it. I can't make a man or woman understand that
an idea must be the centre around which the life will revolve. They come
to practise, not to hear preaching, they say."
It seemed as if at this, and because of this announcement, Redman Rush
drew himself apart and up, loftily, and with a gloomy defiance looked
around him. When Summerman's eyes turned toward him, he seemed gazing into
distance, and gave no indication that he had heard a word of what had been
said. The organist was disappointed. He had hoped again for criticism; but
he went on, perhaps with some suspicion of the correctness of his
convictions--at least he had not said all he wished to say.
"We must have a centre--an idea," said he. "And if that be self, then the
devil's to pay. Christ is the only absolute idea--the only possible giver
of peace, therefore. I mean by Him, His doctrine. He stands for that,
_being_ Truth, as he said, you know. They came out better on the 'good
will to men,' if you noticed. It was easier for them to believe in the
eternal good will of God, this morning. But they failed in the next line,
'We bless Thee, we give thanks to Thee, for Thy great glory!' If they knew
more they would sing better. You know what was said, sir, 'Milton himself
could not teach a boy more than he could learn.' That's the amount of it."
Now and then, during these last words, spoken so evidently by a man who
liked to talk because he looked for sympathy, and hoped for it, the face
of the stranger had changed in its expression; there seemed to be less
fierceness, more sadness in his gloom. But the change was so slight as to
be hardly perceptible, even to the eyes of Summerman. When he paused in
speaking he had still no answer.
They walked on a few paces in silence, when suddenly the organist stepped
up to the door of a house that opened on the sidewalk, and unlocked it.
"This is my shop," said he; "won't you come in, and warm yourself? it is
so cold in spite of the sun."
Redman Rush hesitated, with his foot upon the doorstep. He looked up and
down the street. It was beautiful and bright without, but, oh, how bare
and cold! homely enough within, but the glare of a hot coal fire
suggested comfort, as the skylight did cheerfulness. Did he really wish
for warmth and comfort, for cheerfulness and company? That was the point.
"Come in, I will show you something," said Summerman.
"He invites me as if I were another boy like himself," thought the man.
Perhaps for the sake of that unimaginable boyhood he crossed the
threshold, and allowed Summerman to close the door behind him.
This room was the organist's home. His household goods were all around him
when he stepped into the shop. It was a little place, but so well
arranged, that there seemed room, and to spare. Summerman was hospitable
as a prince--the shade of Voltaire reminds me of the great Frederick's
hospitality! yet, let the word stand.
This shop gave outward and visible signs of the versatility of its owner's
mind. The front part was devoted to the clock and watch making business;
before the large window stood a table, where the requisite tools were kept
for conduct of that business. A few clocks, and frames of clocks, gathered
probably from auction rooms, were ranged upon a shelf, and dust was never
allowed to accumulate around or upon them. Never was housemaid more exact
and scrupulous than the proprietor of this Gallery.
In the back part of the shop, which was lighted by the skylight, stood the
instrument for daguerreo-typing, possession of which would have made the
organist a proud man, if anything could have done so.
When he had invited Mr. Rush to sit down, and the invitation was accepted,
it was by a device of Summerman's that the gentleman found himself
directly facing the machine, and now, if he took an interest in any
earthly thing, or was capable of curiosity, some good would come of it,
thought the organist.
He had promised to show his visitor somewhat, and accordingly approached
him with a miniature case in his hand.
Mr. Rush had removed his fur cap, and Summerman approaching him, was so
struck by his appearance, the dignity, and pride, and trouble his
countenance expressed, that he nearly exclaimed in his surprise, and quite
forgot the intention he had, till Mr. Rush reminded him by extending his
hand for the picture.