Hatred for a time; but we will let it pass, and strive to forget it; I
have been trying to ever since; I hope I shall succeed better in future.
It is pleasant if we can think that the results of our evil passions do
not extend beyond ourselves; and to me, it is pleasant to think that I did
not break my gentle cousin's heart, by letting her know that she had
nearly driven me mad.
It was a month after this. How the intervening time had been spent, in
what thoughts, and hopes, and fears, it would not be profitable to tell,
or to recollect. I was sitting one evening by my cousin's side; it was
growing late, and we were alone. I had been heated, as though with wine,
and had probably talked incoherently. The conversation turned on that
never-failing theme, love. She delighted to hear me speak on that subject;
she said I spoke eloquently. If eloquence consists in earnestness, no
doubt I did. It began in sportiveness, but before long became deeply
serious and interesting.
'And you do not believe, my grave cousin,' said she, in her own
half-jesting, wholly earnest way, 'that a woman can love as deeply and
long as the man who loves her?'
'Bah!' said I, bitterly, 'women sometimes, like men, are revengeful,
proud, or ambitious, but it is on a smaller scale. Every thing about them,
every feeling and impulse is on a small scale. Very good objects they make
for men to love; because, when one _will_ be such a fool, it doesn't much
matter where he places his affection.'
The poor girl looked grieved, but responded with a semblance of gaiety
nevertheless: 'Ah, you think so now, but you will be just such a fool
yourself, one of these days; and then you will find out that it is
necessary for a woman to have a soul; and more than that--that she has
one.'
'Much obliged for your flattering opinion,' said I. 'But see here, my
bonny Jane, did it never enter into your innocent little heart to think
how _you_ would love?'
'Oh yes,' she answered quickly; 'but that is all guess-work. I don't know,
because I haven't yet found a man to my taste.'
Of course I knew that I could not be to her taste; but a plain man does
not like to be told that he is ugly, though he may be perfectly conscious
of the fact. And so this avowal, which was made with the most unthinking
honesty and simplicity, while it added weight to my despair, by a very
usual consequence, made me desperate.
'You are certain,' I asked, after a pause, 'that you do not know what love
is by experience?'
'Perfectly,' she answered, half laughing.
'And that you mean to know, some time?'
'To be sure,' said she, 'when the right man and the right time come.'
'I do not know,' said I, beginning slowly and calmly; but before the
sentence was half completed, my voice and thoughts had escaped from under
my control; 'I do not know who the right man for you may be, but I--_I_
love you--love you--love you!'
She looked at me for a few seconds, with a countenance filled with
astonishment, not unmingled with alarm. She would have thought it a jest;
but my manner probably convinced her that I was far from jesting. She
tried to smile, but it was a painful effort, and she found it much easier
to conceal her face in her hands and weep.
My recollection of the subsequent events of that evening is extremely dim.
There was a confused crowd of flying thoughts; many tears and much
friendship on one side, and much love on the other. She had received me as
I knew she would, and though by the confession there was a great weight
removed from my breast, the anguish was not less intense. One thing,
however, among the hurried occurrences of that hour, I did not lose sight
of, and that was pride. She did not suspect at the time how much of my
heart, not to say existence, was bound up in her, or how greatly both were
affected by her answer.
The closing scene of the interview is the one which I most love to
remember. We were standing at the door, her hand in mine, a mournful smile
on her lips, and a tear in her eye. That bright, gentle face was pale with
sorrow, and pity, and pain, and above all with fear. I gazed on it a
moment, but in that moment the picture was graven indelibly on my memory.
The 'good night' was spoken; and that is the last time I ever saw my
cousin Jane.
The next morning I sat down at an inn by the way-side, several miles
distant from home, and sent back a few lines of farewell:
'My only beloved! You must pardon me for this note. The adieu of last
evening was only for the night; I wish to say good bye this morning, for a
longer time. Your answer to my suit was not unexpected; in fact, I knew it
would be as it was; and it was only a fatality, a blind impulse, that
drove me to make that disclosure. I fear that it has given you pain, and I
beg you to forgive my thoughtlessness. And in turn, you may rest assured
that I forgive you for all the anguish and sickness of spirit that I have
suffered on your account. There is nothing to be forgiven; I know that you
would not cause unhappiness to any one, and it has been my own folly and
madness. But I promise not to lay it up in my heart against you. I promise
that in future years, wherever my lot may be cast, you shall be in my
memory, only my pure, sweet, innocent cousin. And so, blessings be on your
head! I go forth a vagabond and a wanderer on the face of the earth. It is
probable that you will never hear from me again; and I pray you to forget
our last interview, that your thoughts may be only peace. I would live in
your remembrance as I was when we first met. And do not think, because
long years of silence and wide lands and many mountains divide us, that
your cousin has forgotten you. Your image lives in his heart and can never
die!'
STANZAS WRITTEN IN INDISPOSITION.
BY THE LATE WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.
I.
The Spring is fair, when early flowers
Unfold them to the golden sun;
When, singing to the gladsome hours,
Blue streams through vernal meadows run;
When from the woods and from the sky
The birds their joyous anthems pour;
And Ocean, filled with melody,
Sends his glad billows to the shore.
II.
The Spring is sweet: its balmy breath
Is rapture to the wearied breast,
When vines with roses fondly wreathe,
Fann'd by soft breezes from the West;
When, opening by the cottage eave,
The earliest buds invite the bee;
And brooks their icy bondage leave,
To dance in music toward the sea.
III.
The Spring is gay: but to my heart
The glorious hues she used to wear,
As sunset clouds in gloom depart,
Have vanish'd in the empty air:
They move not now my spirit's wing,
As in the stainless days of yore:
The happy dreams they used to bring
Have pass'd--and they will come no more.
IV.
Not that those dreams have lost their sway--
Not that my heart hath lost its chords;
Still with affection tuned, they play,
And leap at friendship's kindly words;
But 'tis that to my languid eye
A _newness_ from life's scene hath flown,
Which once upon the open sky,
And o'er the teeming earth, was thrown.
V.
Yes! there IS _something_, which no more
In Nature's gorgeous round I find;
Something that charm'd in days of yore,
And filled with Sabbath peace my mind;
Which added lustre to the flower,
And verdure to the field and tree,
And wings to every sunny hour,
While roseate health remained with me!
VI.
But Time's stern wave hath roll'd along,
And now on Manhood's waste I stand,
And mourn young Fancy's faded throng
Of radiant hopes and visions bland;
Yet, kindling o'er my onward way,
The light of love divine I see,
And hear a voice which seems to say:
'Pilgrim! in Heaven there's rest for thee!'
_May, 1832._
DISGUISED DERIVATIVE WORDS IN ENGLISH.
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
Derivative words in English, as in other languages, are usually formed on
regular principles. Some few of them, however, especially those derived
from foreign languages, and coming into extensive use, are so corrupted or
disguised, as greatly to obscure the derivation.
The following are examples:
1. CHURCH and KIRK: (Anglo-Sax. _circ_ and _cyric_, Germ. _kirche_, old
Germ. _chirihha_, Gr. [Greek: kyriakon], as if _the Lord's house_, derived
from [Greek: kyrios], _the Lord_, and this from [Greek: kyros], _power_,
_authority_;) a Christian temple.
2. CLOWN: (Lat. _colonus_, from the root _col_, to cultivate;) a rustic.
Compare Germ. _Koeln_ from Lat. _Colonia Agrippina_; also Lat. _patronus_
from _pater_.
3. DROPSY: (Fr. _hydropisie_, Portug. and Span. _hidropesia_, Ital.
_idropisia_, Lat. _hydrops_ and _hydropisis_, Gr. [Greek: hydrops],
derived from [Greek: hydor], water;) a corruption of _hydropsy_, an
unnatural collection of water in the body.
4. PARCHMENT: (Fr. _parchemin_, Portug. _pergaminho_, Span. _pergamino_,
Ital. _pergamena_; also Germ. and Dutch _pergament_; Lat. _pergamena_,
scil. _charta_, Gr. [Greek: Pergamene], scil. [Greek: Charte], from
_Pergamus_, a city of Asia Minor;) skin prepared for writing.
5. PERIWIG and PERUKE: (Fr. _perruque_, Span. _peluca_, Ital. _parruca_;
also Germ. _perrucke_, Dutch _parruik_, Swed. _peruk_, Dan. _perryk_, Tr.
_percabhaic_, Gael. _pior-bhuic_; from Lat. _pilus_;) an artificial cap of
hair.
6. PRIEST: (Anglo-Sax. _priost_, _preost_, Germ. and Dutch _priester_,
Iceland _prestr_, Dan. and Swed. _praest_; also old Fr. _prestre_, Fr.
_pretre_, Portug. _presbytero_, Span. _presbitero_, Ital. _prete_, Latin
_presbyter_, Gr. [Greek: presbyteros], comparative of [Greek: presbys],
old;) one who officiates in sacred offices.
7. RICKETS: (Fr. _rachitis_, Portug. _rachitis_, Span. _raquitis_, Lat.
_rachitis_, Gr. [Greek: rhachitis], from [Greek: rhachis], the back or
spine;) a disease of children.
8. SCIATICA: (Fr. _sciatique_, Portug. _sciatica_, _ciatica_, Span.
_ciatica_, Ital. _sciatica_, Lat. _ischias_, gen. _adis_, Gr. [Greek:
ischias], gen. [Greek: ados], from [Greek: ischion], the hip;) the
hip-gout.
9. SUCH: (Anglo-Sax. _swilc_, Meso-Goth. _swaleiks_, old Germ. _solih_,
Germ. _solcher_; composed of _swa_ or _so_, the ancient modal case of the
demonstrative pronoun, and the ancient form of Eng. _like_;) a
demonstrative adjective of quality, denoting _of that kind_ or _sort_.
10. WHICH: (Anglo-Sax. _hulic_, _hwylc_, _hwilc_, _hwelc_, Meso-Goth.
_hweleiks_, or _hwileiks_, old Germ. _huelih_, Germ. _welcher_; composed
of _hwe_ or _hwin_, the ancient modal case of the interrogative pronoun,
and the ancient form of Eng. _like_;) properly an interrogative adjective
of quality, denoting _of what kind_ or _sort_? but in use an interrogative
partitive adjective.
11. WIG: a mutilation of the word _periwig_; see _periwig_ above.
NEW-ENGLAND'S SABBATH BELLS.
I.
How sweet upon the morning air, the chime of Sabbath-bells,
As full and clear upon the ear the solemn music swells!
From many a church in sunny vale, and on the green hill side,
The jewels of New-England's crown, her glory and her pride.
II.
The busy hum of busy men, this morn forgets to wake,
In quiet deep the hushed winds sleep, as fearful they shall break
The holy silence which o'erspreads all nature like a spell,
With which in music sweet accords the Sabbath-morning bell.
III.
Those Sabbath-bells--they call us not to piles of mossy stone,
Temples of yore, with age now hoar, and ivy overgrown,
Through whose stained windows softly creeps a dim religious light,
Seeming as it were sanctified unto the Christian's sight.
IV.
Nor do they tell of royal courts, in which to worship GOD,
Where nobles gay in bright array bend to their monarch's nod;
No costly paintings please the eye, nor trappings rich and rare,
To draw the humble Christian's heart from sacred praise and prayer.
V.
But to the simple, hallowed fane, we turn our willing feet,
Where, rank unknown, the free alone in humble worship meet;
While 'Holiness unto the LORD' upon the walls we read,
No other ornament than this, no other record need.
_New-Haven, May 10, 1844._ A.
A PASSAGE
FROM A LEGEND OF THE SUBJUGATION OF SPAIN.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.
While the veteran Taric was making his wide circuit through the land, an
expedition under Magued the renegado proceeded against the city of
Cordova. The inhabitants of that ancient place had beheld the great army
of Don Roderick spreading like an inundation over the plain of the
Guadalquiver, and had felt confident that it must sweep the infidel
invaders from the land. What then was their dismay, when scattered
fugitives, wild with horror and affright, brought them tidings of the
entire overthrow of that mighty host, and the disappearance of the king?
In the midst of their consternation, the Gothic noble, Pelistes, arrived
at their gates, haggard with fatigue of body and anguish of mind, and
leading a remnant of his devoted cavaliers, who had survived the dreadful
battle of the Guadalete. The people of Cordova knew the valiant and
steadfast spirit of Pelistes, and rallied round him as a last hope.
'Roderick is fallen,' cried they, 'and we have neither king nor captain:
be unto us as a sovereign; take command of our city, and protect us in
this hour of peril!'
The heart of Pelistes was free from ambition, and was too much broken by
grief to be flattered by the offer of command; but he felt above
everything for the woes of his country, and was ready to assume any
desperate service in her cause. 'Your city,' said he, 'is surrounded by
walls and towers, and may yet check the progress of the foe. Promise to
stand by me to the last, and I will undertake your defence.' The
inhabitants all promised implicit obedience and devoted zeal: for what
will not the inhabitants of a wealthy city promise and profess in a moment
of alarm? The instant, however, that they heard of the approach of the
Moslem troops, the wealthier citizens packed up their effects and fled to
the mountains, or to the distant city of Toledo. Even the monks collected
the riches of their convents and churches, and fled. Pelistes, though he
saw himself thus deserted by those who had the greatest interest in the
safety of the city, yet determined not to abandon its defence. He had
still his faithful though scanty band of cavaliers, and a number of
fugitives of the army; in all amounting to about four hundred men. He
stationed guards, therefore, at the gates and in the towers, and made
every preparation for a desperate resistance.
In the mean time, the army of Moslems and apostate Christians advanced,
under the command of the Greek renegado, Magued, and guided by the traitor
Julian. While they were yet at some distance from the city, their scouts
brought to them a shepherd, whom they had surprised on the banks of the
Guadalquiver. The trembling hind was an inhabitant of Cordova, and
revealed to them the state of the place, and the weakness of its garrison.
'And the walls and gates,' said Magued, 'are they strong and well
guarded?'
'The walls are high, and of wondrous strength,' replied the shepherd; 'and
soldiers hold watch at the gates by day and night. But there is one place
where the city may be secretly entered. In a part of the wall, not far
from the bridge, the battlements are broken, and there is a breach at some
height from the ground. Hard by stands a fig tree, by the aid of which the
wall may easily be scaled.'
Having received this information, Magued halted with his army, and sent
forward several renegado Christians, partizans of Count Julian, who
entered Cordova as if flying before the enemy. On a dark and tempestuous
night, the Moslems approached to the end of the bridge which crosses the
Guadalquiver, and remained in ambush. Magued took a small party of chosen
men, and, guided by the shepherd, forded the stream, and groped silently
along the wall to the place where stood the fig tree. The traitors, who
had fraudulently entered the city, were ready on the wall to render
assistance. Magued ordered his followers to make use of the long folds of
their turbans instead of cords, and succeeded without difficulty in
clambering into the breach.
Drawing their scimitars, they now hastened to the gate which opened toward
the bridge; the guards, suspecting no assault from within, were taken by
surprise, and easily overpowered; the gate was thrown open, and the army
that had remained in ambush rushed over the bridge, and entered without
opposition.
The alarm had by this time spread throughout the city; but already a
torrent of armed men was pouring through the streets. Pelistes sallied
forth with his cavaliers and such of the soldiery as he could collect, and
endeavored to repel the foe; but every effort was in vain. The Christians
were slowly driven from street to street, and square to square, disputing
every inch of ground; until, finding another body of the enemy approaching
to attack them in the rear, they took refuge in a convent, and succeeded
in throwing to and barring the ponderous doors. The Moors attempted to
force the gates, but were assailed with such showers of missiles from the
windows and battlements that they were obliged to retire. Pelistes
examined the convent, and found it admirably calculated for defence. It
was of great extent, with spacious courts and cloisters. The gates were
massive, and secured with bolts and bars; the walls were of great
thickness; the windows high and grated; there was a great tank or cistern
of water, and the friars, who had fled from the city, had left behind a
good supply of provisions. Here, then, Pelistes proposed to make a stand,
and to endeavor to hold out until succor should arrive from some other
city. His proposition was received with shouts by his loyal cavaliers; not
one of whom but was ready to lay down his life in the service of his
commander.
For three long and anxious months did the good knight Pelistes and his
cavaliers defend their sacred asylum against the repeated assaults of the
infidels. The standard of the true faith was constantly displayed from the
loftiest tower, and a fire blazed there throughout the night, as signals
of distress to the surrounding country. The watchman from his turret kept
a wary look out over the land, hoping in every cloud of dust to descry the
glittering helms of Christian warriors. The country, however, was forlorn
and abandoned, or if perchance a human being was perceived, it was some
Arab horseman, careering the plain of the Guadalquiver as fearlessly as if
it were his native desert.
By degrees the provisions of the convent were consumed, and the cavaliers
had to slay their horses, one by one, for food. They suffered the wasting
miseries of famine without a murmur, and always met their commander with a
smile. Pelistes, however, read their sufferings in their wan and emaciated
countenances, and felt more for them than for himself. He was grieved at
heart that such loyalty and valor should only lead to slavery or death,
and resolved to make one desperate attempt for their deliverance.
Assembling them one day in the court of the convent, he disclosed to them
his purpose.
'Comrades and brothers in arms,' said he, 'it is needless to conceal
danger from brave men. Our case is desperate: our countrymen either know
not or heed not our situation, or have not the means to help us. There is
but one chance of escape; it is full of peril, and, as your leader, I
claim the right to brave it. To-morrow at break of day I will sally forth
and make for the city gates at the moment of their being opened; no one
will suspect a solitary horseman; I shall be taken for one of those
recreant Christians who have basely mingled with the enemy. If I succeed
in getting out of the city, I will hasten to Toledo for assistance. In all
events I shall be back in less than twenty days. Keep a vigilant look out
toward the nearest mountain. If you behold five lights blazing upon its
summit, be assured I am at hand with succor, and prepare yourselves to
sally forth upon the city as I attack the gates. Should I fail in
obtaining aid, I will return to die with you.'
When he had finished, his warriors would fain have severally undertaken
the enterprise, and they remonstrated against his exposing himself to such
peril; but he was not to be shaken from his purpose. On the following
morning, ere the break of day, his horse was led forth, caparisoned, into
the court of the convent, and Pelistes appeared in complete armor.
Assembling his cavaliers in tie chapel, he prayed with them for some time
before the altar of the holy Virgin. Then rising, and standing in the
midst of them, 'God knows, my companions,' said he, 'whether we have any
longer a country; if not, better were we in our graves. Loyal and true
have ye been to me, and loyal have ye been to my son, even to the hour of
his death; and grieved am I that I have no other means of proving my love
for you, than by adventuring my worthless life for your deliverance. All I
ask of you before I go, is a solemn promise to defend yourselves to the
last like brave men and Christian cavaliers, and never to renounce your
faith, or throw yourselves on the mercy of the renegado Magued, or the
traitor Julian.' They all pledged their words, and took a solemn oath to
the same effect before the altar.
Pelistes then embraced them one by one, and gave them his benediction, and
as he did so his heart yearned over them, for he felt towards them, not
merely as a companion in arms and as a commander, but as a father; and he
took leave of them as if he had been going to his death. The warriors, on
their part, crowded round him in silence, kissing his hands and the hem of
his surcoat, and many of the sternest shed tears.
The gray of the dawning had just streaked the east, when Pelistes took
lance in hand, hung his shield about his neck, and, mounting his steed,
issued quietly forth from a postern of the convent. He paced slowly
through the vacant streets, and the tramp of his steed echoed afar in that
silent hour; but no one suspected a warrior, moving thus singly and
tranquilly in an armed city, to be an enemy. He arrived at the gate just
at the hour of opening; a foraging party was entering with cattle and with
beasts of burthen, and he passed unheeded through the throng. As soon as
he was out of sight of the soldiers who guarded the gate, he quickened his
pace, and at length, galloping at full speed, succeeded in gaining the
mountains. Here he paused, and alighted at a solitary farm-house to
breathe his panting steed; but had scarce put foot to ground when he heard
the distant sound of pursuit, and beheld a horseman spurring up the
mountain.
Throwing himself again upon his steed, he abandoned the road and galloped
across the rugged heights. The deep dry channel of a torrent checked his
career, and his horse, stumbling upon the margin, rolled with his rider to
the bottom. Pelistes was sorely bruised by the fall, and his whole visage
was bathed in blood. His horse, too, was maimed and unable to stand, so
that there was no hope of escape. The enemy drew near, and proved to be no
other than Magued, the renegado general, who had perceived him as he
issued forth from the city, and had followed singly in pursuit. 'Well met,
senor alcayde!' exclaimed he, 'and overtaken in good time. Surrender
yourself my prisoner.'
Pelistes made no other reply than by drawing his sword, bracing his
shield, and preparing for defence. Magued, though an apostate, and a
fierce warrior, possessed some sparks of knightly magnanimity. Seeing his
adversary dismounted, he disdained to take him at a disadvantage, but
alighting, tied his horse to a tree.