"Alas! for earthly joy, and hope, and love,
Thus stricken down, e'en in their holiest hour!
What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove,
Who live to weep the blasted tree or flower.
Oh, wo! deep wo to earthly love's fond trust,
When all it once has worshiped lies in dust!"
Time glided on--days dawned and waned--weeks came and went--soon
months were numbered with the ruins of the past, and when the old
year, with sober meekness, took up his bright inheritance of luscious
fruits, a pomp and pageant filled the splendid scene. The yellow maize
and golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and the fading meadow, like
a crushed flower, gave out a dying fragrance to the fresh, cool winds,
that, sporting playfully amongst the tree-tops, swept downward from
their high communion, and stooped to dally with its sweet decay. Then
the apple-boughs were heavily laden with crimson fruit, peeping like
roses from their garniture of woven foliage; the purple grape-clusters
dotted the creeping vine, half transparent in their tempting
lusciousness; the red cherries seemed, in the distance, like the
burning brilliancy of a summer sunset struggling through the branches
and tangled leaves that intervened; and the downy peach peered
provokingly from amongst the sheltering green, where, all the summer
long, it had stolen the first blush of saffron-vested Aurora, when
seraph hands unbar the gates of morning, and the last ray of golden
light that paused at the flame-wrought portals of expiring day to look
reluctant back. Another change came over the face of nature, and
delicate-footed spring seemed to have come again with her lap full of
leaves and blossoms. The trees cast aside their long-worn garniture of
green, and flaunted proudly in gorgeous robes of gold and crimson. The
blushing rose once more sought the thorny stem that had slept so long
desolate; and the changeful-hued touch-me-not looked up smilingly from
the pallid grass, where nestled thousands of purple violets peeping
out timidly from their shady nooks; and the waning year smiled--smiled
as smiles the dying man, when the life-blood quickens in his veins,
for almost the last time to linger on the cheek and lip, brighten in
the eye, and give a joyous swell to the heart that lies in ruins. The
gorgeous pageant went by, and the trees put on their robes of
mourning--anon, tossed their huge branches to the sky, leafless and
desolate, save where the ivy, creeping gracefully up the twisted
trunk, or the sacred mistletoe, luxuriant on the dying bough, wore a
fadeless green amidst the desolations that surrounded them. The clear,
unsullied sky assumed a deeper, peculiar blue; the night reigned with
a clearer, intenser brilliancy, and the thronging stars beamed with an
almost unnatural brightness; the cold, hurrying winds awoke from their
sluggishness, and took their way over hill and meadow with a dismal
tone, like the midnight howl that comes to the ear of the dying with
hideous tales of the noisome grave; and the fleecy mass of trooping
clouds, driving wildly before every ice-winged impulse of the wintry
storm, seemed like sheets of floating snow dotting the vast cerulean.
Still another change--the earth was clad in a robe of spotless ermine,
and the gray dawn opened her pale eye on iciness and desolation; men
hurried to and fro as nature were a plague, and they its victims; the
sparkling, tripping, garrulous brooks, whose sweet voices had so long
gone up like a spirit's on the air, now sped their way with a faint
and death-like gurgle; the laurel, pine, and cedar, disdaining to be
poor pensioners on the bounties of a gushing sunshine, or, with a
cringing obsequiousness, to yield conformity to the golden mutations
of a passing hour, expanded their foliage of living green, unchanged
amidst the bleakest ruins of winter, while the stern-browed year, old,
wrinkled, and hoary, drew nearer and nearer his death-time. Ere long
spring came. As the grim darkness flees before the many-tinted dawn,
until at last she stands blushing upon the eastern horizon in perfect
beauty, so fled the stern winter before the radiant footsteps of this
flower-goddess. At her approach the wooing south-winds swept downward
from their sky-built thrones, and stooping to the hill-tops, laid
their soft fingers on the expanding buds, stealing a fragrance, and
whispering their heaven-taught melody amongst the gnarled old
branches; then crept stealthily into the valleys below, and drinking
in their rich gush of pleasant sounds, glided back exulting to their
high communion. The merry-voiced waters, freed from their icy fetters,
and sparkling like a sheet of silver sheen, went dancing and leaping
on--on with a winged impetuosity to their ocean home. Anon, the yellow
violets shook off their winter slumbers, and opened their smiling cups
to the arrowy sunshine; then came a wealth of painted flowers, and
soon the life-breathing spring had attained its zenith. A thousand
glad voices rose and swelled amid the forest's leaf-wrought canopy;
its breezes were awake with spicy odors, and the bird warbled as life
were new, and this creation's morn. In the orchards, the peach-trees
were glorious with pink blossoms, sprinkling the tall, waving grass
with rosy flakes at every gush of the wooing zephyr, which, laden with
sweetness, swept sighing across the meadows.
Anon, a spring sunset came on. The lurid disc of the sun wheeled
slowly down to the western horizon. Pile on pile of clouds, heaped up
in gorgeous magnificence, varying from red to purple, and from purple
to gold, gathered fantastically in the sky--now like a molten ocean
with uplifting rocks, and then like toppling steeps whose summits
reached the stars. Gradually the day went down behind the everlasting
hills, and the brilliant hues insensibly died away through all the
variations of the many-tinted rainbow, until only a faint golden
mellowness suffused the western sky, slowly fading into a deep azure
as it approached the zenith. At length twilight, twin sister to the
cold, gray dawn, shrouded the heavens in misty dimness. Universal
silence seemed to pervade the whole face of nature. The voice of the
feathered songsters was hushed in the grove, and the breeze, which all
day long had refreshed the deep woods with its joyous ministrations,
lulled into stillness, as if its kind office were now completed. Then
the brighter stars came out, one by one, and assumed their sapphire
thrones in the vaulted cerulean, and the round, bright front of the
full moon floated over the eastern mountains, whose dark umbrage
glowed with the silver glories of the thronging night--the night whose
morrow had but its dawn for David White, the condemned felon. Ten
long, weary months had come and passed away with their pomp and
mutation, finding and leaving him within a prison's walls; and now,
the lapse of a few short, rapid hours would behold a tenement in
ruins, and a soul set free. Another day-break, and he would know the
untried and unimaginable realities of a shoreless eternity, from whose
everlasting portals men have so often shrunk back appalled. Oh, what a
bewildering rush of thoughts crowded upon his mind. He stood by the
prison-window, through whose iron bars came trooping the silent
moonbeams, lighting up his countenance, ghastly and contracted with
anguish, then flashing along the darkness, rested upon the floor in
mellow radiance. At the farthermost verge of the western horizon, just
where the gray outlines of the mountains stood forth like shadows
against the deep blue of the sky, huge masses of clouds piled
themselves up into strange and fantastic forms, indistinct and dark,
from whose bright centre, ever and anon, leaped the fierce lightning,
like the tongues of a thousand adders forked in flame, and boomed the
loud thunder as the din of a far-off battle. While he gazed, old
memories thronged from the past; the fount of tears sent up its
gushing libations, and he buried his face in his hands, and strove to
pray. Oh, how sorrow, and suffering, and solitude, and the certainty
of a near death bow the strong spirit! It may have become darkened by
fierce and unruly passions; grown callous and crime-stained amidst the
roll of years, and almost destitute of a single virtuous impulse, yet,
for a time, under such circumstances, a softness will gather about the
heart; a thousand little harps, untuned before, quiver with a rich
gush of melody, and the angel in our nature spring up and assert its
influence. But no one, in whom the mind has not been crushed or
debilitated by the decay of the body, has stood upon time's furthest
brink in perfect consciousness, as David White did at that moment,
without thinking with an aching intenseness on the dread hour when
life must end; and as he leaned his head against the iron bars of the
narrow lattice, the balmy breeze laying its cool hands upon his
feverish brow, and the soft moonlight playing upon his wan features
like the kiss of a tender bride, his soul was wrought with a stern
agony, and his frame with a shudder--for dark thoughts and sad images
of death and eternity came thronging--for no JESUS was there to light
the breathless darkness of the grave--no HOPE stood by to point
exultant to a sinless heaven!--for him, futurity was a dark and
impenetrable gulf, without a wanderer or a voice.
Suddenly he started. An overpowering, yet unutterable awe crept over
him--a fearful but undefined sensation--a presentiment that something
terrible was about to happen. He strove to shake it off, but could
not--like an icy thrill it ran, slow and curdling, through his veins.
A low rustling, as of silken drapery, struck upon his ear. He turned
to know the cause, and leaned eagerly forward. A shriek, wild and
agonizing, burst from his pallid lips; his hair stood upright, and his
arms fell nerveless to his side--his blood ebbed back upon the heart,
returned with tenfold violence throughout his system, seemed to
thicken, and then stagnate; his pulses bounded, staggered and ceased;
cold moisture bathed his wan forehead, and his whole frame appeared
stiffening with the death-chill. A few feet distant, by a window the
very counterpart of the one near which he stood, loomed forth a
shape--a substance, yet it cast no shadow--the moonlight shone through
it, resting on the floor like slightly tarnished silver. He looked on
speechless and motionless; his whole soul concentrated into an intense
and aching gaze. At first, it floated before his fixed and dilating
vision, indistinct and mist-like; but, as he gazed, it assumed the
outline of a human form--then the features of Mary White, the
foster-sister whom he had murdered. The apparition grew still plainer.
The ghastly countenance; the fallen lip; the sightless eye, dull and
open with a vacant stare; the deep, solemn, mysterious repose which
ever accompanies the aspect of death; the deep wound near the heart,
from which gushed life's crimson torrent, falling at her feet without
a sound--each--all, for one short, passing, fearful, agonizing moment,
trembled into terrible distinctness. Then she lifted an arm reeking
with blood, and pointing through the window at a new-made gibbet and
its dangling rope, smiled a faint and sickly smile, and vanished as a
dying spark. The trance passed from his spirit, and nature recommenced
her operations like the clanking of a vast machinery. Yet his eye, as
if it could not recover from its vision of terror, remained glaring
upon the spot where the spectre had been; and it was not until several
minutes had elapsed that the sharp agony which had contracted his
features died away. He sprung forward with a wild cry, but the echo
alone replied. No voice but his own awoke the awful stillness,
pulseless it reigned around him. The stars glittered as brightly, the
moon shone as gloriously, and, as he held his breath, the faint and
confused murmur of the distant water-fall, and the caroling of the
night-wind in the gnarled old forest, almost seeming to be a part of
the silence, came up through the window to his ear as distinctly and
steadily as ever--every thing belied the scene he had just witnessed.
Was it a dream? He grasped his arm until it pained him--he was
awake--there was no change--all appeared as it had been. He attempted
to shake the iron bars of the lattice--they were firm in their
sockets. He groped his way to the other side of the room, passed his
hands along the walls--nothing but darkness was there. He stood where
first he had stood when he beheld the apparition--the unearthly
visitant was there no longer. He bent forward, and strained an aching
gaze--in vain; nothing underwent a change. Then he felt that he had
seen the dead--the murdered. His mind recoiled upon itself, and the
very marrow in his bones crept at the thought. He flung himself upon
his pallet, and for the hundredth time strove to sleep. Black despair
had eaten down into his very heart's core, and remorse, like an old
vulture, gnawed at his vitals; yet for a few brief, agonizing moments
he slept, but only as the fiends of hell might be supposed to sleep. A
dream, a series of change and torture, bewildering and terrible, came,
like a blight, over his spirit.
Now he felt the cold hand of death upon his brow, and his whole body
seemed to be encompassed in a mass of ice. His blood waxed thick in
its courses; his heart staggered, fluttered, gave one agonizing throb,
and for a moment ceased to pulsate; cold dews gathered on his brow,
and a stinging sensation pervaded his whole system; his eyelids
trembled, and the balls rolled, gave out a dying lustre, glazed, grew
fixed and sightless in their sockets--then came the last convulsive
and impotent contest with the King of Terrors--the groan, the gasping
breath, the half-uttered words upon the quivering lip--the
death-rattle, the soulless face, and the pulseless silence. He
recovered. Above him was a sky of livid flame, upon whose high zenith
dread darkness sat enthroned. Around him spread a shoreless ocean of
molten fire. No wave agitated its placid bosom--no sound--no wind
breathed over its fearful stillness. A lone rock, cold, barren, and
dismal, yet like an oasis in a desert, lifted its gray summit from the
sluggish surface. Upon this he stood, rigid and motionless, like a
marble statue on its pedestal; and, ever and ever, around and above
him, rushed to and fro shadowy forms, upon whose countenances was
engraven unutterable anguish. Suddenly, over the vast and dreary
profound, went the low, deep, muffled tolling of a bell, bursting on
the red air like the knell of hope, peace, and mercy, lost forever to
another soul. As it ceased, the boundless sea of ebbless and
unextinguishable flame, that glowed with a lurid but intolerable light
at his feet, began to uplift in one mighty and unbroken mass.
Slowly--slowly it rose up--up--up, until the liquid fire was frothing,
and the sky and ocean seemed to blend--then flowed back, returned, and
closed hissing around him. A groan, deep, intense, and fearful,
bubbled up in a gush of blood, and echoed in the distance like
fiendish laughter. Higher and higher rose the living flames. They were
about to close over him--his head sunk upon his bosom, and a
voice--the voice of her whom he had murdered, shrieked in his
ear--"THE OCEAN OF REMORSE!"
"A change came o'er the spirit of his dream."
He stood upon the narrow verge of an awful precipice. Night, black,
rayless night, enshrouded the yawning gulf below, save that, ever and
anon, hideous and fleshless forms--skeletons wrought in lurid and
undying flame--strode to and fro within the thick panoply of gloom;
while, at intervals, howls of despair came up from its midst, like
howls from the lips of the damned in hell. With a thrill of horror, he
turned hurriedly from the scene, and cast his despairing eyes
heavenward. In the centre of a massive cloud, burning with the
brilliancy of a summer sunset, appeared a vast city, with domes and
palaces of pearl and ruby, and whose gates were gates of burnished
gold. As he gazed, they were flung open on silent hinges, and a host,
clothed in spotless white, entered their portals, welcomed with
swelling anthems and seraphic songs. Then the toppling precipice began
to reel and stagger beneath his feet--a fierce bright flame burst from
amidst the night below, more brilliant than the sun's intensest ray.
It drank up the darkness, and filled the gulf with liquid fire. It
flashed through his eye-balls like a glance of lightning. He felt his
foothold totter on the eve of its awful rush of destruction, and
turned to flee, but started aside with a wild cry. The same voice was
in his ear, and it shrieked in exulting tones--"THE MURDERER'S DOOM!"
But where was the mother during these fearful and agonizing moments!
Had _she_ forgotten the son that once nestled on her bosom? Had _she_
forsaken the child she bore, now that the dark hour of adversity had
come? Ah! no. It is not a mother's nature to forget or to forsake!
Though crime and infamy enshroud his name; though base heartlessness
and vile ingratitude shut-to the portals of his soul; though he fling
off the hoarded wealth of her affections as the oak the clinging ivy
when the storm comes, yet the mother will love--must love--it is the
thirst of her immortal nature. No, no! Widow White had not forgotten,
neither had she forsaken her son. Villain as he was, and stained with
the blood of her foster-child, her heart warmed toward him--the mother
was the mother still! Though absent, her mind was racked with
agony--stern agony. For hours had she paced up and down her dim-lit
chamber, her hands folded across her breast, and her eyes fixed upon
the floor--thought and feeling were busy. To the casual observer her
features exhibited scarcely an evidence of internal emotion; but the
arched lip, bloodless with pressure, and the swollen veins upon her
high forehead betokened how severe was the struggle going on within.
There are some persons who can stand by the bedside of a dying
relative, and, with an almost unruffled countenance, behold him
stiffened in the cold arms of death--who can look upon the corpse for
the last time, follow it to the grave, and see it laid beneath the
heavy sod with so little apparent concern, that the beholder considers
him heartless; but draw aside the curtain which separates the inner
from the outer being, and the features of the spirit are seen to be
distorted with anguish. To this class of individuals belonged Widow
White. Oh, how she felt as she trod to and fro within that dim-lit
room! Her son--her only son, in the endearing playfulness of whose
infantile smiles she had so often exulted; upon whose boyish accents
she had so frequently hung with transport, and for whom she had
pictured out such a bright and glorious future, was a condemned felon,
and the morrow would open its great eye upon him for the last time.
The lapse of another day!--and that son, so cherished, and so fondly
loved, would fill a murderer's grave, and she would look upon his face
no more. She knew that it was appointed for all to "pass through the
dark valley of the shadow of death," but what a horrible, detestable,
and ignominious death was his! Could it be true? Was he--her son, in
the prime of manhood and enjoyment--the life-blood coursing freely and
strongly throughout his system--unshattered by disease--to die--to be
a sport for the winds--to hang--ay--ay--to hang!--to be cut down--to
be thrust into the coffin, blackened, distorted, and hideous, the rope
still around his neck--to be laid in the ground with infamy around his
name--to rot--to be a banquet for the worms? Horror of horrors! She
would not believe it! Surely it was a dream!
Thus that agony-fraught night lapsed away, and the morning, which,
from the birth of creation, has never failed, dawned once more--dawned
as it ever dawns, bright, glorious, and magnificent, bearing the
impress of a mighty God. That morning witnessed a terrible--a horrible
scene. Another human being took his exit from the transitory splendors
of this decaying world, and entered upon the untried and unimaginable
realities of a futurity, whose secrets none can ever know until the
silver chord is loosened, and the golden bowl is broken. Upon what
state of existence David White entered when eternity closed its
everlasting portals, and the enfranchised spirit went up to the
Eternal Judge, it is not for me to say. God is just, and whatever was
apportioned, it was good and right. Let it suffice to know, that, be
his doom what it may, it is irrevocable--sealed forever.
From that eventful day, Widow White became thinner and paler, and the
expression of her countenance was that of a strong heart in ruins, and
with its energies prostrated. Three weeks went by, and she, too, was
gone. They carried her out from the desolate homestead, and laid her
cold remains beneath the grassy sod, where neither the war of the
elements, nor of human passions could ever disturb her more. Since
then many years have lapsed away into the dim and shadowy past, and
now, a sunken grave alone marks the last resting-place of Widow
White--the victim of a broken heart, and of her own injudicious
education of a son in his infancy and boyhood.
THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.
BY MARION H. RAND.
Alas, the romances! the beautiful fancies!
We fling round our thoughts of a poet;
How can we believe that the web which we weave
Has no solid basis below it?
Youth, beauty and grace--a soul-speaking face,
And eyes full of genius and fire;
The softest dark hair, with a curl here and there;
All this, without fail, we require.
A warm feeling heart, affectation or art
Unknown to its deepest recesses;
A brow fair and high, where her thoughts open lie
To him who admiringly gazes.
But let this bright thought, this idol, be brought
To nearer and closer inspection--
Alas! 'tis a dream! 'tis a straying sunbeam,
Of far more than human perfection.
Then turn for awhile from the heavenly smile
That haunts thy fond fancy, young dreamer;
Turn from the ideal to gaze on the real,
And see if she be what you deem her.
She is young, it is true, her eyes dark and blue,
But sadly deficient in lustre,
While often is seen in one hand a pen,
In the other a mop or a duster.
Her hair, of a shade inclining to red,
Is tied up and carefully braided;
And the forehead below (not as white the snow)
By no drooping ringlet is shaded.
Her little hands write, but they're not always white,
With marks of good usage they're speckled,
While the face, once so fair, has been kissed by the air,
Until 'tis considerably freckled.
She has her full part of a true woman's art,
Her share of a woman's warm feeling!
She knows what to hide, with a true woman's pride,
When the world would but scorn the revealing.
This earth is no place fancy beauties to trace,
Or seek for perfection uncertain;
Then why mourn our fate, when sooner or late,
Reality peeps through the curtain.
But if we _must_ cling to the form lingering
And cherished within us so dearly,
We must gaze from afar, as upon some bright star,
And never approach it more nearly.
THE HUMAN VOICE.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
We all love the music of sky, earth and sea--
The chirp of the cricket--the hum of the bee--
The wind-harp that swings from the bough of the tree--
The reed of the rude shepherd boy:
All love the bird-carols when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into song as they run,
When the stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
And hills clap their hands in their joy.
All love the invisible lutes of the air--
The chords that vibrate to the hands of the fair--
Whose minstrelsy brightens the midnight of care,
And steals to the heart like a dove:
But even in melody there is a choice,
And, though we in all her sweet numbers rejoice,
There's none thrills the soul like the tones of the voice,
When breathed by the beings we love.
VENICE AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS.
[WRITTEN IN 1826.]
BY PROFESSOR GOODRICH, YALE COLLEGE.
Bright glancing in the sun's last rays,
The Fairy City rose to view:
It seemed to "swim in air"--a blaze
Of parting glory round she threw.
Midst silent halls and mouldering towers,
And trophies fallen from side to side,
Awe-struck, I saw a few brief hours,
The grave of Venice' ruined pride.
Light from her native surge she sprung,
The Venus of the Adrian wave;
And o'er the admiring nations flung
The _spell_ of "BEAUTIFUL and BRAVE"
Her Winged Lion's terror shook
The Sultan's throne:--o'er prostrate piles,
"Breaker of Chains," she proudly spoke
Her mandate to a hundred isles.
Astonished Europe saw that hour
Her blind old chieftain guide her wars,
And _twice_, in one brief season, pour
Her fury on Byzantium's towers!
Saw when in Mark's proud porch,
Abased in dust the eastern crown was laid.
And when, with frantic pride, she placed
Her foot on Barbarosa's head!
Gone, like a dream! wealth, pomp and power!
And Learning's toils, so nobly urged!
Doomed 'neath a tyrant's lash to cower,
She gnaws the chain _she_ once had forged.
And still that tyrant bids to stand,
In mockery of her former state,
Those emblems of her wide command,
The three tall Masts where glory sate:
And high upreared on column proud,
And glancing to the wide-spread sea,
Her Winged Lion stands, aloud
To tell a nation's infamy!
Oh, how unlike the day, when round
Those Masts and 'neath that Lion's wings,
Exulting thousands thronged the ground,
And spoke the fate of distant kings.
When brightly in the morning beam
Her galleys, ranged in stern array,
Impatient stood, till PONTIFFS came
To bless the parting warrior's way.
They go beneath the drum's long roll,
The cymbal's clang, the trumpet's breath;
While Beauty's glances fire the soul,
And Honor smooths the road to death.
Tread _now_ that court! The unbended sail
Flaps idly in the passing wind;
And dark below, each dull canal
Is stagnant as its _owner's_ mind!
Yet here, how many a burning soul
Has poured at moonlit eve the song,
While conscious Beauty, panting, stole
To hear the strain _her_ praise prolong!
Hark to that shout! Her nobles come,
In many a galley ranged, and gay
With waving flag and nodding plume,
To grace fair Venice' bridal day.
See! on the foremost prow, a _king_
In form--eye--soul!--again
The exulting Doge has _cast the ring_
That weds him to the Adrian Main!
Mark _now_ that wretch with downcast eye,
And abject mien, once free, once brave!
It is the _People's Doge_! and he
Is now an Austrian tyrant's slave.[4]
And she, the Beautiful One, lies
Fallen to earth; while by her side
Moulder her towers and palaces,
_The grave of_ VENICE' _ruined pride_!
[Footnote 4: I have here used the license, in order to carry out the
contrast, of supposing that the Office of Doge, like most of the
institutions of Venice, is preserved by the Austrian government;
though I believe it has been abolished.]
SONG.--THOU REIGN'ST SUPREME.
Thou reign'st supreme, love, in my heart,
O'er every secret thought;
Thou canst not find the smallest part
Where thou abidest not.
All blest emotions, every sense
Are consecrate to thee;
Would that affection so intense,
But filled thy heart for me!
Thou reign'st supreme, love, eyes that burn
With the soul's restless fire,
Their liquid glances on me turn,
Yet no fond thoughts inspire.
E'en in that hour for thee I long,
Like a wild bird set free;
Ah! would that love so true and strong
But filled thy heart for me!
Thou reign'st supreme, love, while I live
Thine shall be every breath;
And be thou near me to receive
My last fond sighs in death;
Thus to expire were joy, were bliss,
May such my portion be!
Oh! would that love as deep as this,
But filled thy heart for me! C. E. T.
THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL.
A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE.
BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.
For naught its power to STRENGTH can teach
Like =Emulation=--and ENDEAVOR. SCHILLER.
(_Concluded from page_ 292.)
CHAPTER III.
THE RETURN--THE LOSS.
How vexatious is delay of any kind when one's mind is prepared for a
journey, "made up to go," as a good aunt used to say. Mary grew
anxious and almost impatient as April passed and found her still an
inhabitant of the city of looms and spindles. The more so, that spring
was the favorite season, and she longed to watch its coming in the
haunts of her childhood; and in the busy, bustling atmosphere by which
she was surrounded, none gave heed to the steps of "the light-footed
maiden," save that our heroine's companions availed themselves of the
balmier air to dress more gayly. In our larger cities the ladies are
the only spring blossoms. It is they who tell us by bright tints and
fabrics, that the time has come when nature puts on her gay
appareling; yet it is in vain that they imitate the lilies of the
field, there is a grace, a delicacy in those frail blossoms, that art
never can rival.
Mary had so longed for the winter to pass, she had even counted the
days that must intervene before she could hope to see her mother, and
all the dear ones at home. The little gifts she had prepared for them
were looked over again and again; and each time some trifle had been
added until she almost began to fear she was growing extravagant. But
she worked cheerfully, and most industriously, through the pleasant
days, and when evening came, she would dream, in the solitude of her
little room, of the meeting so soon to arrive.
"A letter for you, Mary--from home, I imagine," said her gay friend,
Lizzie Ellis, bursting into her room one bright May morning. "I called
at the post-office for myself and found this, only. It's too bad the
people at home don't think enough of their sister to write once a
month; but I'm not sorry that your friends are more punctual. There's
good news for you, I hope, or you'll be more mopish than ever."
"Mary's lip quivered as she looked up. The instant the sheet was
unfolded in her hand, she saw that it bore no common message. There
was but a few lines written in a hurried, nervous manner; and as her
eye glanced hastily over the page, she found that she was not
mistaken.
"Poor little Sue is very ill," said she, in reply to her friend's
anxious queries; "mother has written for me to come directly, or I may
never see her again"--her tone grew indistinct as she ceased to
speak; and leaning her face upon Lizzie's shoulder, a burst of tears
and choking sobs relieved her. Poor Sue--and poor Mary! It would not
have been so hard could she have watched by her sister's bedside and
aided to soothe the pain and the fear of the dear little one who had
from the time of her birth been Mary's especial care.
Delay had before been vexatious, but it was now agony. The few hours
that elapsed before she was on the way, were as weeks to Mary's
impatient spirit; and then the miles seemed _so_ endless, the dreary
road most solitary. The night was passed in sleepless tossing, and the
afternoon of the second day found her scarcely able to control her
restless agitation. She was then rapidly nearing home. Every thing had
a familiar aspect; the farm-houses--the huge rocks that lifted their
hoary heads by the road-side--the dark, deep woods--the village
church--were in turn recognized. Then came the long ascent of the
hill, which alone hid her home from view. Even that was at last
accomplished, and she caught a glimpse of the dear old homestead, its
rambling dark-brown walls, half-hidden by the clump of broad-leaved
maples that clustered about it. Could it be reality, that she was once
more so near all whom she loved? There was no deception; it was not
the delusive phantom of a passing dream; her brother's glad greeting
was too earnest; her mother's sobbed blessing too tender. After the
hopes and plans of many weeks, even months, such was her "welcome
home."
"You are in time to see your sister once more," said Mrs. Gordon, as
she released Mary from a fond embrace; and a feeble voice from the
adjoining room, a whisper, rather than a call, came softly to her
ears.
"Dear Susie--my poor darling!" were all the spoken words, as she
clasped the little sufferer in her arms. The child made no sound, not
even a murmur of delight escaped her wan lips. She folded her thin,
pale hands about her sister's neck, and gently laying her head upon
the bosom which had so often pillowed it, lay with her large spiritual
eyes fixed upon those regarding her so tenderly, as if she feared a
motion might cause the loved vision to vanish. Fast flowing tears fell
silently upon her face, but she heeded them not; then came fierce
pain, that distorted every feature, but still no moan, no sound.
"Speak to me, Susie, will you not!" whispered Mary, awed by the
fixed, intense gaze of those mournful eyes.
"I knew you would come, sister, to see me once more before I go," was
the murmured reply. "I knew God would let me meet you here, before he
takes me to be an angel in heaven. I am ready now, for I said good-by
to mother and Jamie, and all, long ago. I only waited for you, dear
Mary. Kiss me, won't you--kiss me again, and call mother--I feel very
strangely."
Her mother bent over her, but she was not recognized; her father took
one of those emaciated hands within his own, but it was cold, and gave
back no pressure. Awe fell upon every heart in that hushed and
stricken group; there was no struggle with the dark angel, for the
silver chord was gently loosened. The calm gaze of those radiant eyes
grew fixed, unchangeable--a faint flutter, and the heart's quick
pulsations forever ceased--wings had been given that balmy eve to a
pure and guileless spirit.
Mary calmly laid the little form back upon the pillow. Her mother's
hand closed the already drooping lids; a sweet smile stole gently
round the mouth, and its radiance dwelt upon the marble forehead.
"It is well with the child," said the bereaved parent--and her husband
bending beside the bed of death, prayed fervently, while the sobs of
his remaining children fell upon his ears, that they might be also
ready.
"Oh, mother, how can I bear this! how can you be so calm and
resigned!" said Mary, as her mother sat down beside her in the
twilight, and spoke of the sorrowful illness of their faded flower. "I
had planned so much for Susie; I thought as much of her as of myself,
and here are the books, and all these things that I thought would make
her so happy; she did not even see them. Why was she taken away, so
good, so loving as she always was?"
"And would you wish her back again, my child; has she not more cause
to mourn for us, than we for her? Think--she has passed through the
greatest suffering that mortal may know; she has entered upon a world
the glory of which it 'hath not entered into the heart of man to
conceive of;' and would you recall her to this scene of trial and
temptation? Rather pray, dear Mary, that we may meet her again in her
bright and glorious home. I, her mother, though mourning for my own
loneliness and bereavement, thank God that my child is at rest."
"If I could only feel as you do, mother; but I cannot. Poor Susie!"
and Mary's tears burst forth afresh.
She begged to be allowed to watch through the night beside the form of
the lost one, even though she knew the spirit had departed. But her
mother would not allow this--some young friends whom Mary could not
greet that night, though she loved them very dearly, claimed the sad
duty. And again, after a year of new and strange life, she found
herself reposing in her own quiet room, with sighing trees, the voice
of the brook, and the low cry of the solitary whippo-wil, to lull her
to sweet sleep.
* * * * *
It was Sabbath morning, calm and holy. The bell of the little village
church tolled sadly and reverentially, as the funeral train wound
through the shaded lane. All the young people for miles around had
gathered in the church-yard; and as the coffin was borne beneath the
trees that waved over its entrance, they joined in the procession. It
passed toward the place of worship, and for the last time the form of
their little friend entered the sacred walls.
The simple coffin was placed in the broad central aisle, the choir
sung a sweet yet mournful dirge; then the voice of music and of
weeping was hushed, for the man of God communed, with faltering voice,
with the Father in heaven, who had seen fit in his mercy to take this
lamb to his bosom; and when the prayer was ended, and an earnest and
impressive address was made to those who had been bereaved, and those
who sympathized with them, the friends and playmates of the little one
clustered about the coffin to take a farewell glance of those lifeless
yet beautiful features.
The pure folds of the snowy shroud were gathered about the throat, and
upon it were crossed the slender hands, in which rested a fading sprig
of white violets, placed there by some friend, as a fit emblem of the
sleeper. Her sunny curls were smoothly bound back beneath the cap, and
its border of transparent lace, threw a slight shadow upon the
deeply-fringed lids that were never more to be stirred. Oh! the
exceeding beauty and holiness of that childish face, in its perfect
repose! None shuddered as they gazed; the horror of death had
departed; but tears came to the eyes of many, as they bent down to
kiss that pure forehead for the last time.
Aye, "the last time!" for the lid was closed as the congregation
passed, one by one, once more into the church-yard, shutting out the
light of day from that still, pale face forever. The mother gazed no
more upon her child--brother and sister must henceforth dwell upon her
loveliness but in memory--the father wept--and man's tears are
scalding drops of agony.
Many lingered until the simple rites were ended, and then turned away
under the shade of sombre pines, to think of the loneliness that must
dwell in the hearts of those from whom such a treasure had been taken;
and they, as they turned to a home that seemed almost desolate, tried
in vain to subdue the bitterness of their anguish. _They had seen her
grave_--and who that has stood beside the little mound of earth that
covers the form of some one loved and lost--has forgotten the crushing
agony that comes with the first full realization that all is
over--that hope--prayer--lamentation--is of no avail, for the "grave
giveth not up its dead until such a time as the mortal shall put on
immortality."
The dark hearse, with its nodding plumes, bears the rich man from his
door, to a grave whose proud monument shall commemorate his life, be
its deeds good or evil. Perhaps an almost endless train of costly
equipages follow; and there are congregated many who seem to weep, but
I question if in all that splendor there lingers half the love, or
half the regret which was felt for the little one whose mournful
burial we have recorded; or if the grave, with its richly wrought pile
of sculptured marble, be as often visited, and wept over, as was the
low, grassy mound marked only by a clambering rose-tree, whose pure
petals, as they floated from their stems, were symbols of the life and
death of the village favorite.
It was many days before the household of Deacon Gordon regained any
thing like serenity; but the business of life must go on, come what
may, and in the petty detail of domestic cares, the keenness of grief
is worn away, and a mournful pleasure mingles with memories of the
past. It was in this case as in all others; gradually it became less
painful to see everywhere around traces of the child and the sister;
they could talk of her with calmness, and recall the many pleasant
little traits of character which she had even at so early an age
exhibited. The robin that she had fed daily, came still at her
brother's call to peck daintily at the grain which he threw toward it.
The pet kitten gamboled upon the sunny porch, or peered with curious
face over the deep well, as if studying her own reflection,
unconscious that the one who had so loved to watch her ceaseless play
was gone forever. Even Mary could smile at its saucy ways; and though
the memory of her sister was ever present, she could converse without
shedding tears, of her gentleness and truth, thanking God she had been
taken from evil to come.
Then she felt doubly attached to her mother. She was now the only
daughter; and though Mrs. Gordon seemed perfectly resigned, and even
cheerful, she knew that many lonely and solitary hours would come when
Mary was once more away. And James had so much to tell, for he, _too_,
was home for a few days of the spring vacation, the rest being passed
in the poor student's usual employment--school teaching. They would
wander away in the pleasant afternoon to the depths of the cool green
wood, and sit with the shadows playing about them, and the wind
whispering mystic prophecies as it wandered by, recalling for each
other the incidents of the past year, and speculating with the
hopefulness of eager youth, on the dim and unknown future.
A new friend sometimes joined them in their woodland walks. The young
pastor of the village church, who had sorrowed with them at their
sister's death, and who, having made Mary's acquaintance in a time of
deep affliction, felt more drawn toward her than if he had known her
happy and cheerful for many years. Somehow they became less and less
restrained in his presence, and at last James confided to him his
hopes and prospects. Mary was not by when the disclosure was made, or
she would have blushed at her brother's enthusiastic praise of the
unwavering self-denial which had led her away from home and friends,
and made her youth a season "of toil and endeavor;" and she might have
wondered why tears came to the eyes of their friend while he listened;
and why he so earnestly besought James to improve to the utmost the
advantages thus put before him. Allan Loring was alone in the world,
and almost a stranger to the people of his charge, for he had been
scarce a twelvemonth among them. Of a proud and somewhat haughty
family, and prejudiced by education, he had in early youth looked upon
labor of the hands as a kind of degradation; but the meek and humble
faith which he taught, and which had chastened his spirit, made him
now fully appreciate the loving and faithful heart, which Mary in
every act exhibited, and he looked upon her with renewed interest when
next they met.
Again the time drew near when Mary was to leave her home. A month had
passed of mingled shadow and sunshine within those dear walls. It was
hard to part with her mother, who seemed to cling more fondly than
ever to her noble-minded daughter; her father and Stephen, each in
their blunt, honest way, expressed their sorrow that the time of her
departure was so near at hand; but still Mary did not waver in her
determination, though a word from her mother would have changed the
whole color of her plans. That mother saw that for her children's sake
it was best that they should part again for a season--and she stifled
the wish to have them remain by her side. So Mary went forth into the
world once more with a stronger and bolder spirit, to brave alike the
sneers and the temptations which might there beset her pathway; with
the blessings of her parents, the thanks of an idolized brother, and
"a conscience void of offence," she could but be calmly happy, even
though surrounded by circumstances which often jarred upon her pure
and delicate nature, and which would have crushed one less conscious
of future peace and present rectitude.
Beside, Mr. Loring had seemed, she knew not why, to take a deep
interest in all her movements. He had begged permission, at parting,
to write to her occasionally; and his letters, full of friendly advice
and inquiry, became a great and increasing source of pleasure. There
was nothing in them that a kind brother might not have addressed to a
young and gentle sister; and Mary's replies were dictated in the same
spirit of candor and esteem. So gradually her simple and child-like
character was unfolded to her new friend, who encouraged all that was
noble, and strove to check each lighter and vainer feeling which
sprung up in her heart. At times she wondered why one so wise and so
good should seem interested in her welfare; but gradually she ceased
to wonder why he wrote, so that his letters did not fail to reach her.
Still noisy and fatiguing labor claimed her daily care; but in the
long quiet evenings she found time for study and reflection; thus
becoming, even in that rude school, "a perfect woman, nobly planned."
CHAPTER IV.
THE REWARD.
Are you fond of _tableaux_, dear readers? If so, let me finish my
simple recital by placing before you two scenes in the life of our
little heroine--something after the fashion of dissolving views.
Four years had passed since first we looked in upon that quiet country
home. Four years of cheerful toil--of mingled trial--despondency and
hope to those who then gathered around that blazing hearth. One, as
we have seen, had been taken to a higher mansion--others had gone
forth into the world, strong only in noble hearts, firm in the path of
rectitude. We have witnessed the commencement of the struggle,
followed in part its progress--and now let us look to its end. No, not
the end--for life is ever a struggle--there may be a cessation of care
for a season, but till the weary journey be accomplished, who shall
say that all danger is passed.
It was the annual examination at one of our largest New England female
schools. The pretty seminary-building gleamed through the clustering
trees that lovingly encircled it, and its snowy pillars and
porticoes--vine-wreathed by fairy-fingers--gave it an air of lightness
and grace which village architecture rarely shows. Now the shaded path
which led to its entrance was thronged, as group after group pressed
upward. Carriages, from the simple "Rockaway" to equipages glittering
with richly plated harness, and drawn by fiery, impatient steeds,
stood thickly around. It was the festival-day of the village, and each
cottage was filled to overflowing--for strangers from all parts of the
Union were come to witness the _debut_ of the sister, the daughter, or
the friend.
Many were the bright eyes that scarcely closed in sleep the night
preceding this eventful anniversary. There was so much to hope--so
much to fear. "If I _should_ fail," was repeated again and again; and
their hearts throbbed wildly as the signal-bell was heard, which
called them to pass the dread ordeal. Such a display of
beauty--genuine, unadorned beauty--rarely greets the eye of man. More
than a hundred young girls, from timid fifteen to more assured
one-and-twenty, robed in pure white, with tresses untortured by the
prevailing mode, decorated only by wreaths of delicate wild flowers,
or the rich coral berry of the ground-ivy, shaded by its own
dark-green leaves. A simple sash bound each rounded form, and a knot
of the same fastened the spotless dress about the throat. Then
excitement flushed the cheeks which the mountain air had already
tinged with the glow of health, and made bright eyes still brighter as
they rested on familiar faces.
The exercises of the day went on, and yet those who listened and those
who spoke did not weary. The young students had won all honor to
themselves and their teachers; and as the shadows lengthened in the
grove around them, but one class remained to be approved or censured.
"Now sister--there!" exclaimed a manly-looking Virginian, as the
graduates came forward to the platform. "Who is that young lady at
their head. I have tried all day to find some one that knew her, but
she seems a stranger to all."
"With her hair in one plain braid, and large, full eyes? Oh, that is
Miss Gordon; she has the valedictory, though why, I'm sure I don't
know, for she has been in school but about a year, and Jenny Dowling,
my room-mate, has gone through the whole course. Miss Gordon entered
two years in advance. She was a factory girl, brother--just think of
_that_; and worked in Lowell three or four years. Miss Harrison
wished me to room with her this term--but not I; there is too much
Howard spirit in me to associate with one no better than a
servant-girl. Some of them seem to like her though; and as for the
teachers, they are quite carried away with her. Miss Harrison had the
impertinence to say to me only last week, that I would do well to take
pattern by her. Not in dress, I hope--" and the young girl's lip
curled, as she contrasted her own richly embroidered robe with the
simple muslin which Mary Gordon wore.
Clayton Howard had not attended to half that his sister said, for with
low and earnest voice Mary had commenced reading the farewell address
which she, as head of her class, had been chosen to prepare in its
behalf; and his eyes were riveted on the timid but graceful girl. We
have never spoken of our heroine's personal attractions, choosing
first to display if possible, the beauty of heart and character which
her humble life exhibited. The young Southerner thought, as he eagerly
listened, that the flattered and richly attired belle of the
fashionable watering-place he had just left, was not half as worthy of
the homage which she received, as was this lowly maiden. If beauty
consists in regularity of features, Mary would have little in the eye
of those who dwell upon outline alone; but there was a high
intelligence beaming from her full, dark eyes, a sweet smile ever
playing about the small exquisitely formed mouth, and a mass of soft,
rich hair, smoothly braided back, added not a little to perfect the
contour of her queenly head.
Her voice grew tremulous with deep feeling as she proceeded, her eyes
were shaded by gathering tears, and when, in behalf of those who were
about to leave this sheltered nook, she bade farewell to the
companions whose love and sympathy had made their school days
pleasant; the teachers who had been their friends as well as guides;
scarce one in that crowded hall deemed it weakness to weep with those
now parting. Never more could those cherished friends meet again; they
were going forth, each on a separate mission, and though in after
years, greetings might pass between them, the heart would be utterly
changed. The unreserved confidence, the warm affection of girlhood
passes forever away, when rude contact with the world has chilled
trust and child-like faith. And they knew this, though it was _felt_
more fully in after years.
But tears were dried, as the enthusiasm which lighted the face of the
reader--as her topic turned to their future life--was communicated to
those who listened. She spoke to her classmates of the duties which
devolved on them as women; of the strength which they should gather in
life's sunshine, for the storm and the trial which _would_ come. That
their part in life was to shed a hallowed but _unseen_ influence over
its strife and discord--
"Sitting by the fireside of the heart
Feeding it flames."
"In that stillness which best becomes a woman,
Calm and holy."
And when she ceased, and the gathered crowd turned slowly from the
threshold, many hearts--beating in proud and manly bosoms--felt
stronger and purer for the words they had that hour listened to, from
one who, young as she was, had learned to think, and to act, with a
sound judgment, and bold independence in the cause of truth, which
shamed them in their vacillation.
Young Howard was leaning behind a vine-wreathed pillar, to watch the
one in whom he had that day become strangely interested. His heart
beat fast as she approached his hiding-place, and then sunk within
him, as he noted the warm blush which stole over her face, as two
gentlemen, whom he had not before noticed, came to greet her.
"Dear sister," said one, kissing her burning cheek, "have I not reason
to be proud of you."
The other, older by ten years than the first speaker, grasped the hand
which she timidly extended to him, and whispered, "I, too, am proud of
my future wife."
Howard did not hear the words, but the look which accompanied that
warm pressure of the hand did not escape him. It destroyed at once
hopes, which he had not dreamed before were fast rising in his breast,
and he turned almost sadly away from that happy group to join his
sister.
"See," said the young girl, as she took his arm, "there is Mr. Loring,
one of the finest-looking men I know of, and belongs to as proud
family as any in Boston, yet he is going to throw himself away on Mary
Gordon. To be sure he is only a poor country clergyman, but he might
do better if he chose, I'm sure."
Her brother thought _that_ was hardly possible, though he did not say
so; neither did he add--lest he should vex his foolishly aristocratic
sister--that but for Mr. Loring the chances were that she would be
called upon, so far as his inclinations were concerned, to receive
Miss Gordon not as a room-mate, but as a sister, before the year was
ended.
CHAPTER V.
THE BRIDE AND THE WIFE.
A stranger would have asked the reason of the commotion in the
village, though every one of its inhabitants, from highest to lowest,
knew that it was the morning of their pastor's bridal. None, not even
the oldest and gravest of the community, wondered--or shook their
heads in disapprobation of the choice. They had known Mary Gordon from
her earliest childhood--they saw her now an earnest and thoughtful
woman, with a heart to plan kind and charitable deeds, and a hand that
did not pause in their execution. They knew, moreover, that for two
years she had refused to take new vows upon herself because she felt
that her mother needed her care; but now that health once more reigned
in the good deacon's dwelling, she was this day to become a wife, and
leave her father's roof, for a new home and more extended duty.
Again we look upon the village church, but it is no mournful
procession that passes up its shaded aisles. There are white-robed
maidens thronging around, and men with sun-burned faces. Children,
too, scarce large enough to grasp the flowers which they tear from the
shrubs that climb to the very windows of the sanctuary; and through
the crowd comes the bridal train. Mary Gordon, leaning upon the arm of
her betrothed, is more beautiful than ever, for a quiet dignity is now
added to the grace that ever marked her footsteps; and he, in the
pride of his manhood, looks with pride and tenderness upon her.
The deacon is there, with his heavy, good-natured face, lighted by an
expression of profound content; and his wife is by his side, looking
less calm and placid than usual, though she is very happy. It may be
that she fears for her daughter's future welfare, though that can
scarcely be when the dearest wish of her heart is about to be
fulfilled; or, perhaps, as her eye wanders from the gay group around
her, it rests upon a little grassy mound not far away, and she is
thinking of one who would have been the fairest and the best beloved
of all.
Stephen seemed to feel a little out of place, as he stood there with a
gay, laughter-loving maiden clinging to his arm; but the happiest of
all, if we may judge from the exterior, was James; arrived but the
night before, after an absence of nearly two years. He had just been
admitted to the bar, and Mr. Hall, who was present at the examination,
said it was rare to meet with a young man of so much promise, and
knowing his untiring industry, he had little doubt of his success in
after life. So James--now a manly-looking fellow of three-and-twenty--was,
after the bride, the observed of all observers; and not a few of the
bride's white-robed attendants put on their most witching smile when
he addressed them.
Despite of all the sunshine and festivity at a bridal, there is to me
more of solemnity, almost sadness, in the scene than in any other we
are called upon to witness, save that more mournful rite, when dust is
returned to dust. There is a young and often thoughtless maiden,
taking upon herself vows which but few understand, in the depth of
their import, vows lasting as life, and on the full performance of
them depends, in a great measure, the joy or misery of her future
years. Then, too, in her trust and innocence, she does not dream that
change can come, that the loved one will ever be less considerate,
less tender, than at the present hour. True, she has been told that it
may be so--but the thought is not harbored for an instant. "He never
could speak coldly or unkindly to me," she murmurs, as eyes beaming
with deep affection meet her own. Then, too, the proud man that stands
beside her, may be but taking that gentle flower to his bosom, to cast
it aside when its perfume may have become less grateful--leaving it
crushed and faded; or, worse still--and still more improbable, though
it is sometimes so--there may be poison lurking in the seemingly pure
blossom, that will sting and embitter his future life. Oh, that woman
should ever prove false to the vow of her girlhood!
All these thoughts, I say, and many more scarcely less sorrowful, come
to my mind when I look upon a bridal; and tears will start, unbidden
it is true, when the faces of those around are radiant with smiles.
But perhaps few have learned with me the truthful lesson of the poet--
"Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers--
Things that are made to fade, and fade away,
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours."
How could I call up such a train of sombre thought when speaking of
Mary Gordon's marriage? None doubted her husband's truth, her own deep
devotion, as they crowded around when the simple rite was ended to
congratulate them, and breathe a fervent wish that their joy might
increase as the years of their life rolled onward. They went forth
from that quiet church with new and strange feelings springing up, and
as Mary looked upon the throng who still reiterated their friendly
wishes, she felt an inward consciousness that God had blessed and
sustained her through those years of trial and probation.
"Who _would have thought_ that the deacon's Mary would ever have grown
up such a fine woman?" said Aunty Gould, as she wiped her spectacles
upon the corner of her new gingham apron. "The deacon himself ain't
got much sperit in him, and as for _Miss Gordon_, I don't believe she
ever whipped one of them children in her life. She always let 'em have
their own way a great deal too much to suit me. Jest think of her
letting Mary go off to Lowell, in the midst of that city of iniquity,
and stay three or four years, jest because James must be college
larned. As if it warn't as respectable to stay to home and be a
farmer, as his father and his grandfather was before him. I haven't
much 'pinion of _him_, but Stephen Gordon is going to make the man.
Steddy and industrious a'most as the deacon himself."
So we see the differences of opinion which exist in the narrowest
community; for Mrs. Hall, as she turned toward her own bright home,
said to her husband that Mary Gordon was a pattern to the young girls
now growing up in the village. But for her honest independence and
hardihood in braving the opinion of the world, her family might have
been living without education, and without refinement. Now she had won
for herself the love of a noble heart--could see her brother
successful through her efforts, and knew that their parents were happy
in feeling that they were so. "She has been the sun of that
household," replied her husband, "and I doubt not will ever be the
happiness of her own."
They were sitting alone--the newly made husband and wife--on the eve
of their marriage-day. They were in their home, which was henceforth
to be the scene of all their love and labors. The last kind friend had
gone, and for the first time that day they could feel the calm,
unclouded serenity which the end of a long and often wearisome toil
had brought.
The moonlight trembled through the shaded casement, and surrounded as
with a halo the sweet, serious face that looked out upon the night;
and far around, even to the rugged mountains that rose as sentinels
over the green valley, earth and air were bathed in that pure and
tender radiance. The flowering shrubs that twined about the little
porch seemed to give forth a more delicious perfume than when scorched
by the sun's warm kiss. The neighboring orchards almost bending
beneath the clusters of buds and blossoms that covered the green
boughs, waved gently in the light breeze that showered the sunny
petals as it passed upon the freshly springing grass beneath. The low
cry of the whippo-wil came now and then from a far-off wood; save
that, and the rustle of the vines clinging about the casement, no
sound broke the sabbath-like repose. The church--scarce a stone's
throw from the little parsonage--stood boldly relieved by the dark
trees which rose beside it; and not far away--not too far for them to
see by day the loved forms of its inmates--they could distinguish the
sloping roofs and brown walls of Mary's early home.
The young bride turned from the scene without, and when she looked up
into her husband's face he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Are you not happy, my Mary?" said he, as he drew her more closely to
his bosom.
"Happy! oh, only too happy!" was the murmured response, as he kissed
the tears away. "I was but thinking of my past life; how strange it
seems that I should have been so prompted, so guided through all.
Then, stranger than the rest that you should love one so humble, so
ignorant as myself. I may tell you now--now that I am your own true
wife, how your love has been the happiness of many years. Ere I dared
to hope that your letters breathed more than a friendly interest--and
believe me I would not indulge the thought for an instant until you
had given me the right so to do--though the wish would for an instant
flit across my mind--I knew that one less wise, less noble than
yourself would never gain the deep affection of my heart. I almost
felt that I could live through life without dearer ties, if so you
would always watch my path with interest, awarding, as then, praise
and blame.
"But, strange as it may seem, you did love me through all, deeply,
devotedly. Oh, what is there in me to deserve such affection! and when
I read those blessed words--'I love you, _Mary_, have loved you from
an early period of our correspondence,' it seemed as if my heart were
breaking with the excess of wild happiness which rushed like a flood
upon it. How could you love me? what was there in me to create such an
emotion?"
Allan Loring thought that the wife was far more beautiful than the
maiden, as she stood encircled by his arms, gazing with deep
earnestness, as if she would read his very soul.
"I cannot tell you all there is in you to love and admire," said he,
tenderly, "and, indeed, my little wife would blush too deeply at a
recital of her own merits and graces. But this I now recall, that the
first emotion of deep interest which I felt for you, arose as I
listened to your brother's recital of your wonderful self-denial, and
persevering effort for his sake. I saw, young as you were, the germ of
a high and noble nature, best developed, believe me, in the rough and
untoward circumstances by which you were surrounded. I wrote to you at
first, thinking, perhaps, to aid you in the struggle for knowledge and
truth; and as your mind and heart were laid open before me, how could
I help loving the guileless sincerity which every act exhibited.
I knew that the good sister, the affectionate child, could but make a
true and gentle wife. So I thought myself fortunate, beyond my own
hopes even, when I found you could grant me the only boon I asked, a
deep and steadfast affection."
What heart is there that would not have been satisfied with such
praise; and who, witnessing the calm spirit of content which animated
both the husband and the wife, could have prophesied evil as the
result of such a union.
We might follow our heroine still farther--might show her to you as
the companion and assistant in her husband's labors of love, as he
fulfilled the high mission to which he had been appointed--as the
mother, training her little ones to usefulness and honor. But we will
leave her now, assured that whatever storms may cloud the unshadowed
morn of her wedded life--and all know that in this existence no home,
however lofty or lowly, is exempt from suffering and trial--she bore a
talisman to pass through all unscathed--strength, gained by patient
endurance, and the knowledge of duties rightly performed.
It may be, dear lady--you who are now glancing idly over these
pages--that you are surrounded by every luxury wealth can command. You
are lounging, perhaps, upon a softly cushioned divan, with tiny,
slippered feet half buried in the glowing carpet. There are brilliants
blazing upon the delicate hand which shields your face from the warm
sunlight, and as you glance around, a costly mirror reveals at full
length your graceful and yielding form.
"I have no interest in such as these," you say, as the simple
narrative is ended.
I pray, in truth, that you may never learn the harsh lessons of
adversity; but remember, as you enjoy the elegancies of a luxurious
home, that change comes to all when least expected. And if misfortune
should not spare even one so young and so beautiful; if poverty or
desolation overshadow the household, it may be your part to sustain
and to strengthen, not only by words, but by deeds. Well rewarded
should I feel, if words from this pen could aid in removing one pang,
could give a tithe of the strength of mind and heart such a lesson
would call forth. God shield you, dear lady; but if the storm come,
_remember that honest labor elevates rather than degrades_; and those
whose opinions are of value will not hesitate to confirm the truth of
the moral.
LINES TO ----.
BY W. HORRY STILWELL.
A sister's love I did not ask from thee,
Though that were much--oh, more than earth hath given;
None live to bear that gentle name for me,
Though one may lisp it now, perchance, in Heaven.
I know not even, for I never felt,
The quiet yearnings of such love as this;
Thou should'st have known a deeper feeling dwelt
In the rapt glow of that impassioned kiss!
"I had no wish a _brother's_ love to share"--
I did not read thy features dreamingly,
And peer into thine eye's deep azure, there
Searching _another's_ depths, in revery!
I did not press, all passionless, thy hand
Or idly dally with thy taper finger,
Or coldly gaze, for I could not withstand
The high and holy hope which bade me linger!
I was not thinking of _another_ then,
In thy sweet face her features imaging,
Tracing each thought-print o'er them--watching when
Hope's earnest breathings to my lips might spring;
Nor this--nor fame--though her ascending star
Might shed its glory in a halo o'er me;
No thought like this, that moment, rose to mar
The vision that in beauty stood before me!
But it was marr'd, for even then the feeling
Came o'er me, that thou never couldst be mine!
And in the cloud of sadness, gently stealing
Like a dim shadow o'er that brow of thine,
I read my destiny. Oh! life can bring
No darker doom--no wo that may inherit
So much of bitterness--no rack to ring
With deeper agony, my fainting spirit.
To dwell, in thought, upon one image still,
Till it becomes a portion of our being,
Hath fix'd its features in the eye, until
It hath become a part of sight--thus seeing,
Even in tree, and rock, and rill, and flower,
A form of borrow'd beauty, and a spell--
A spirit of unspeakable heart--power--
To move the waters in our soul's deep well!
Till every thought, that like a wavelet, breaks
Upon the surface of life's charmed pool,
Circling instinctively, unbidden, takes
Form, hue, direction, from that magic rule!
What is it but the yearning of the soul
Toward one allied to it by heavenly birth?
And seeking to unite, blend, melt the whole
Into one miracle of love on earth!
Such have my feelings been--thy soul to mine
Came robed in radiance of such heavenly hue,
My spirit clasped it as a thing divine;
And while I dreamed they into oneness grew,
I suddenly awaked, to know that vision
Had not appeared to any one but me!
Why did I learn, waked from that dream elysian,
A sister's love was all I shared with thee!
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.
BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE "DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE," ETC.
There was no inhabitant of all the East more favored by nature and by
fortune than Adakar, son of Benhadad, of the famous city of Damascus,
which Musselmen call the Paradise of the earth. He was young, rich,
and beautiful; and being early left without parents, had run the race
of sensual pleasures by the time his beard was grown. He became sated
with enjoyment, and now passed much of his time in a spacious garden
which belonged to him, through which the little river Barady, which
flows from Mount Hermon, meandered among beds of flowers, and groves
of oranges, pomegranates, and citrons, whose mingled odors perfumed
the surrounding air.
Here he would recline on a sofa in listless apathy, or peevish
discontent, sometimes half dozing, and, at others, inwardly
complaining of the lot of man, which seemed to have ordained that the
possession of that wealth which it is said can purchase all which is
necessary to human enjoyment, should yet be incapable of conferring
happiness. He became the victim of spleen and disappointment; and as
he watched the butterflies flitting gayly about among the groves and
beds of many-colored flowers, sipping their sweets, without labor or
satiety, he often wished that he was like them gifted with wings to
cut the trackless regions of the air, and freed from all the miseries
of disappointed hope, inflamed imagination, and memory, which too
often brings with it nothing but the sting of remorse. By degrees he
rendered himself still more miserable by envying the happiness of
these gilded epicures, and it became the dearest wish of his heart to
become a butterfly, that he might pass his life among the flowers, and
banquet on their sweets like them.
One day as he sat buried in these contemplations, his attention was
attracted by a butterfly more beautiful than any he had ever seen
before. Its body was of imperial purple, glossy and soft as velvet;
its eyes shone like the diamonds of Golconda; its wings were of the
color of the deep blue skies of Damascus, sprinkled with glittering
stars; its motions were swift and graceful beyond all others, and it
seemed to revel in the bliss of the dewy roses and honeysuckles, with
a zest which made Adakar only repine the more, that he had lost the
capacity of enjoyment by abusing the bounties of fortune.
"Allah!" exclaimed he, "if I were only that butterfly!" At that moment
the luxurious vagrant, in the midst of its careless sports, and
voluptuous banquet, became entangled in a web woven by a great black
spider, which sat with eager impatience waiting until it had wound
itself into the toils by its fruitless exertions, that he might seize
and devour his prey. The heart of Adakar melted with pity; starting up
from the spot where he was reclining, he gently seized the little
glittering captive and rescued it from the fangs of the spider, which
at the same instant disappeared among the foliage of the orange trees.
Adakar sat down with the butterfly in his hand, and was contemplating
its beautiful colors with increasing envy as well as admiration, when
he thought he heard a low silvery whisper come from he knew not
whither. He gazed around wistfully, but could see no tiny thing but
the little captive in his hand, and was about setting it free, when
another whisper, more distinct met his ear. "Adakar," it seemed to
say, "thou hast saved me from the jaws of a devouring monster. I am a
fairy transformed for a time by the malice of a wicked enchanter, and
fairies are never ungrateful. Ask what thou wilt and it shall be
granted. Wealth thou hast already more than enough. Thou art in the
enjoyment of youth, beauty and a distinguished name, for thou art
descended from the Prophet, and wearest the green turban. Dost thou
wish to be any thing more? If so thou hast only to ask and it shall be
given thee."
"Make me a butterfly like thee!" exclaimed Adakar with eager
impetuosity; and at one and the same moment the butterfly disappeared,
while he became transformed into its likeness.
At first his astonishment rendered him incapable of estimating the
immediate consequences of the change, and he remained on the spot
where it was accomplished, until seeing the great black spider
cautiously emerging from his retreat and coming toward him, he spread
his glittering wings, and mounting over the tops of the minarets of
Damascus, at length settled down among the flowery meadows that
environ the city. Here, for a time, he was delighted with his change
of being, and eagerly enjoyed the freedom of thus roaming at will, and
sipping the flowery banquet. But while he was thus solacing himself, a
little boy, who had approached unseen, suddenly covered him with his
cap, and he became a prisoner. The boy was however greatly puzzled to
secure his prey, and while slipping his hand under the cap, raised it
sufficiently to permit Adakar to escape.
From this time Adakar encountered unceasing perils from wanton boys,
who sought the meadows to sport or gather flowers, and soon learned
that his safety depended on perpetual watchfulness. If he lighted on a
flower he felt his heart beating least some secret enemy was near, and
the honeyed dew, sweet as it was, became embittered by the
apprehension of being caught at the banquet. In short, he lived in
continual terror, and soon learned from experience that a life of fear
is one of unceasing misery. Every living thing that approached was an
object of dismay, and at length Adakar, who, though transformed in
appearance, was not divested of the consciousness of his identity,
resolved to leave the haunts of men, for the purpose of seeking refuge
in some unfrequented solitude, where he might repose in peace, enjoy
his freedom and his flowers, and spread his gilded wings without the
great drawback of perpetual apprehension.
Accordingly, he once more mounted high into the air, and spreading his
silken wings directed his course toward Mount Horeb, at the foot of
which lies the city of Damascus, in whose deep recesses he sought to
escape from the dangers that beset him in the neighborhood of man.
Here he sported among the flowers that nodded over the precipices
which border the little river Barady, as it plunges its way through
the gorges of the mountain.
"Here," thought he, "I shall surely be safe, since the foot of man can
never reach these inaccessible cliffs." Scarcely, however, had the
thought passed over his mind, when hearing a whistling noise in the
air, he cast his eyes fearfully upward and perceived a bird darting
toward him with such inconceivable swiftness, that he had scarcely
time to shelter himself from its talons by crouching into a hole in
the rock, where he remained throbbing with fear, not daring to look
out to see whether his enemy was still on the watch.
"There is no safety for me here," exclaimed Adakar, who at length
gathered sufficient courage to look out from his retreat, and seeing
the bird had disappeared, once more flitted away. He visited the
recesses of the forest, the cultivated plains, and the solitudes of
the desert, but wherever he went he found enemies watching to make him
their prey, and his life was only one long series of that persecution
which strength ever wages against unresisting weakness. "What,"
thought he, "is the use of my wings, since they only enable me to
encounter new dangers, and to what purpose do I sip the dews of the
opening flowers, when death is every moment staring me in the face,
and enemies beset me on every side? O, that I were a man again; I
would willingly resign the unbounded freedom I enjoy, for that slavery
which is accompanied by security."
Thus he continued to become every day more discontented with his lot,
until by degrees the autumn came, and the flowers withered and died.
The frosts, too, began to shed their hoary lustre over the green
fields that gradually changed their hue to that of melancholy brown,
and Adakar became pinched with both hunger and cold. The brilliant
colors of his body and wings faded, as if in sympathy with the waning
beauties of nature; his strength and activity yielded to the approach
of expiring weakness; he had provided neither food nor shelter against
the coming winter; and once more death stared him in the face with an
aspect more dreary and terrible than it had ever presented before. The
bare earth afforded no shelter, and the withered fields no food. "O,"
thought he, as he felt himself dying, "O, that the fairy would once
more change me into a man!"
He had scarcely uttered these words when he found himself transformed
according to his wish, and the fairy butterfly once more in his place.
"Adakar," said she, in her whispering, silvery voice, "thou hast first
played the butterfly as a man, and now as an insect. In both
situations thou didst pursue the same course. As a man thou livedst
only for the present moment, regardless of the consequences of
reveling in perpetual sweets, without looking to the period when the
frosts of age would chill thy imagination, and the ice of winter
freeze up thy capacity for those enjoyments of sense which constituted
thy sole happiness, if happiness it may be called. As a butterfly thou
didst sport through the spring-time and summer without for a moment
thinking of providing food and refuge against the wintry barrenness
and wintry cold. Thou hast learned that the beings which live in air,
sport among gardens, groves, and flowers, and traverse the climes of
the earth at will, are not necessarily happier than man, since they
live in perpetual fear. Be wiser in future. Be content with thy lot,
assured that the only way to be happy in this and every other state of
existence, is to use the blessings bestowed on us by a beneficent
Providence with sober moderation, and share them among others with a
chastened liberality. Thou hast been a benefactor to me, and I have
repaid the obligation by enabling thee thus to learn wisdom from
bitter experience. The lesson has been dearly bought, but is fully
worth the price. Go, and be thankful that thou wast created a man
instead of a butterfly."
The fairy disappeared, and Adakar took his way toward Damascus, where
his appearance caused great surprise, most especially to a hump-backed
cousin, who had taken possession of his estate, after having convinced
the bashaw of Damascus, by twelve purses of gold, that he was
certainly dead. Adakar was obliged to appeal to the bashaw for the
restoration of his property, but failed to establish his identity. He
could only account for his absence by relating his transformation into
a butterfly, of which the bashaw, being blinded to the truth by the
glitter of gold, would not believe one word. He decreed the estate to
the cousin, and consoled the other for his loss by inflicting the
bastinado. Adakar passed several years as a water-carrier, until the
benevolent fairy, finding that he had completed the circle of his
experience by drinking at both extremes of the fountain, wrought a
second transformation, by which Adakar became changed into the
likeness of his cousin, and the latter into that of Adakar, who thus
regained his estate at the expense of his beauty. He became a wise as
well as a good man; and devoting himself to the study of philosophy,
wrote a famous treatise, in which he clearly demonstrated that men
were at least as well off in this world as butterflies.
CINCINNATI.
BY FAYETTE ROBINSON, AUTHOR OF "THE ARMY OF THE UNITED STATES," ETC.
When Columbus discovered the new world, he was in search of a western
route to Cathay and India, whence he expected to bring back, if not
treasures of gold and gems, intelligence of the wonderful land Marco
Polo had described. It was not until long after the discovery of the
continents of North and South America, that it was ascertained that a
new region, broad as the Atlantic, lay between the ocean and the
Indian Sea, as the Pacific was then called. So deep-rooted was this
belief that the French colonists in Canada, long after they had begun
to be formidable to their English and Hollandish neighbors, in spite
of many disappointments, followed the tracery of the Ohio and
Mississippi in the full confidence that this mighty current could end
only in the Western Sea. They could not realize that nature in America
had always acted on a grander scale than they were used to, and would
have laughed, if told that not far above the mouth of the Ohio was
another great artery which, by its tributaries, watered one valley,
the superfices of which was larger than all Europe.
They, with their limited views, were the discoverers to Europe of the
_Ohio_, which, in the language of the tribe that dwelt on the bank
from which the white man first beheld it, signified _Beautiful Water_.
This the French translated into their own language, and by the term of
_La Belle River_ it was long known in the histories of the Jesuit and
Franciscan missions, which, until the land the Ohio watered became the
property of the second North American race, were its only chronicles.
Not until a later day did it become known to the English colonists,
and then so slightly, that even in the reign of Charles II. authority
was given to the English governor of Virginia, Sir William Berkeley,
to create an hereditary order of knighthood, with high privileges and
brilliant insignia, eligibility to which depended on the aspirant
having crossed the Alleghany Ridge, and added something to the stock
of intelligence of the region beyond, the title to all of which had
been conferred by royal patent on the colony at Jamestown.
Possessed of Canada, with strongly defended positions at Fort Duquesne
(Pittsburg) and Fort Chartres, near the confluence of the Ohio and
Mississippi, with the even then important city of New Orleans, the
wily statesmen of the reign of Louis XIV. conceived the plan of
enclosing the English colonies in a network of fortifications, and
ultimately of controlling the continent. So cherished was this policy
that treaties made in Europe between the crowns of France and England
never extended their influence to America, and for almost a century
continued a series of contests, during which Montcalm, de Levi, Wolf
and Braddock distinguished themselves and died. The result is well
known, Canada became English, the northern point _d'appui_ of the
system was lost, and the Ohio was no longer under their control. This
prologue to the beautiful engraving of Cincinnati is given because,
though Pittsburg and Louisville are important cities, Cincinnati is
the undoubted queen of the river.
It was not, however, until the war of the Revolution that serious
attention was generally directed to the Ohio, for the brilliant
expedition of Clarke against Kaskaskia (which is almost unknown,
though in difficulty and daring it far exceeded Arnold's against
Quebec,) was purely military. Immediately on the termination of the
war, emigrants began to hurry to the Ohio, and by one of the hardiest
of these, Cincinnati was commenced in 1789. By the gradual influx of
population into the west Cincinnati throve, and soon became the chief
city of the region.
For a long while Cincinnati was merely the depot of the Indians and
fur trade, the most valuable of the products of which required to be
transported across the mountains and through forests to the seaboard.
At that time Cincinnati presented a strange appearance; the houses
were of logs, and here and there through the broad streets its
founders so providentially prepared, were seen the hunter, in his
leathern jerkin, the Indian warrior in full paint, and the husbandman
returning home from his labors. Almost from the establishment of the
northwest territory Cincinnati had been the home of the governor; and
it was the residence of St. Clair, long the only delegate in congress
of the whole northwest--a wilderness then, but now teeming with three
million of men, and sending to Washington thirty-four representatives.
Cincinnati was the _point de depart_ of many of the expeditions
against the Indians between the revolution and the war of 1812. When
that war broke out it acquired new importance. Military men replaced
the hunter and Indian, and every arrival brought a reinforcement of
troops. From it Taylor and Croghan marched with Gen. Harrison
northward, and to it the victorious army returned from the Thames.
When peace returned, a new activity was infused into Cincinnati; the
vast disbursements made by the government had attracted thither many
adventurers. Then commenced the era of bateau navigation, and the
advent of a peculiar race of men, of whom now no trace remains. Rude
boats were built and freighted with produce, which descended the river
to New Orleans, where the cargo was disposed of, and the boat itself
broken up and sold. The crew, after a season of dissipation, returned
homeward by land, through the country inhabited by the Chactas and
Chickasas, and the yet wilder region infested by thieves and pirates.
It was no uncommon thing for the boatmen never to return. Exposure
to danger made them reckless; and they were often seen floating down
the bosom of the stream, with the violin sounding merrily, but with
their rifles loaded, and resting against the gunwales, ready to be
used whenever an emergency arose. All the west even now rings with
traditions of the daring of this race; and the traveler on the waters
of the west often has pointed out to him the scene of their bloody
contests and quarrels.
[Illustration: VIEW OF CINCINNATI OHIO.]
The era of steam began, and this state of things passed away. The
mighty discovery of Fulton created yet more activity in the west; and
a current of trade, second in importance to none on the continent,
except, perhaps, those of New York and Philadelphia, sprung from it.
As the States of Kentucky and Ohio began to fill up, the farmers and
planters crowded to Cincinnati with their produce, and the character
of the population changed. The day of the voyageur was gone, and lines
of steamboats crowded its wharf. The peculiar character of the country
around it, teeming with the sustenance for animals and grazing, made
it the centre of a peculiar business which, unpoetical as it may seem,
doubled every year, until in 1847 it amounted to more than the value
of the cotton crop of the whole Atlantic frontier.
Other branches of industry also grew up. Ship-yards lined the banks of
the river, and more than one stately vessel has first floated on the
bosom of the Ohio, in front of Cincinnati, been freighted at its
wharves, and sailed thence to the ocean, never again to return to the
port of its construction.
Long before the reign of merchant princes began, stately churches,
colleges, and commodious dwellings had arisen, and replaced the hut of
the early settlers, so that Cincinnati, with the exception of
Philadelphia, is become the most regular and beautiful city of the
Union. The scene of the accumulation of large fortunes, cultivation
has followed in their train, so that it is difficult for one who first
visits it from the east to realize that he is seven hundred miles from
the seaboard.
Fulton had by his discovery overcome the difficulties of
communication, and opened a market for its immense products; but yet
another discovery was to contribute to its prosperity. By means of the
magnetic telegraph communication between the seaboard of the Atlantic
and the lakes is more easy than between New York and Brooklyn, and
with the whole west Cincinnati has acquired new importance. It can not
but continue to advance and acquire yet more influence than now it
has.
CLEOPATRA.
BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.
Enchantress queen! whose empire of the heart
With sovereign sway o'er sea and land extended,
Whose peerless, haunting charms, and syren art,
Won from the imperial Caesar conquests splendid;
Rome sent her thousands forth, and foreign powers,
Poured in thy woman's hand an empire's treasures;
Was _Fate_ beside thee in those gorgeous hours
When monarchs knelt, slaves to thy merest pleasures?
When but a gesture of thy royal hand
Was to the proud Triumvirs a command.
O, bright Egyptian Queen! thy day is past
With the young Caesar--lo! the spell is broken
That thy all-radiant beauty o'er him cast;
His eye is cold--wo! for thy grief unspoken!
Yet thy proud features wear a mask, which tells
How true thou art to thy commanding nature:--
Once more, in all thy wild bewildering spells,
Thou standest robed and crowned, imperial creature:
Thy royal barge is on the sunny sea,
Oh! sceptered queen--goest thou victoriously?
But hark! a trumpet's thrilling call "to arms!"
O'er the soft sounds of lute and lyre ringeth.
Doubt not thy matchless sovereignty of charms,
But haste--the victor of Philippi bringeth
His shielded warriors and lords renowned--
With spear and princely crest they come to meet thee,
Arrayed for triumph, and with laurels crowned,
How will their stern and haughty leader treat thee?
He comes to conquer--lo! on bended knee
The spell-bound Roman pleads, and yields to thee!
Once more the world is thine. Exultingly
Thy beautiful and stately head is lifted;
He lives but in thy smile--proud Antony--
The crowned of empire--he, the grandly gifted.
The spoils of nations at thy feet are laid--
The wealth of kingdoms for thy favor scattered:
Oh! Syren of the Nile! thy love has made
The royal Roman's ruin! crowns were shattered
And kingdoms lost. Fame, honor, glory, power,
Were playthings given to grace thy triumph-hour.
Another change!--the last for thee, doomed queen,
Now calmly on thine ivory couch reclining--
The impassioned glow hath left thy marble mien--
And from thine night-black eyes hath past the shining.
But _still_ a queen! that brow, so icy cold,
Its diadem of starry jewels beareth--
Robed in the royal purple, and the gold,
No conqueror's chain that form imperial beareth.
To grace _Death's_ triumph was but left for thee,
Daughter of Afric, by the asp set free!
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_An Universal History of the Most Remarkable Events of
All Nations, from the Earliest Period to the Present
Time, forming a Complete History of the World. Vol._ 1.
_Ancient History. William H. Graham: New York._
This is one of the most useful works now issuing from the American
press. Its publication has been commenced in this country somewhat in
advance of the London and Leipsic editions, which have been previously
advertised; thus securing an immediate circulation in the three great
reading nations of the world. The entire work will embrace about
twenty numbers, appearing at intervals of a month. The first four of
these, two numbers of which are before us, are devoted to Ancient
History, extending to the Fall of the Roman Empire.
No province of literature has been so modified by the vast increase of
books as the writing of History. While the republican idea, which has
struck such deep root into the world's politics, seems to tend toward
an equalization of human intellect, it has, perhaps, made the deeps of
thought shallower, and weakened the concentration and devotion of mind
which marked the scholars of former centuries. The fields of
knowledge, once but a small manor, have broadened into a kingdom; and,
grasping at total possession, men prefer the shortest and easiest ways
of obtaining it. Works of the imagination, and fictions, illustrative
of life and society, which are now multiplied to an indefinite extent,
unfit the common mind for those grave and serious studies which were
once almost the only road to literary distinction.
The consequence of this is, that books are written with a view to
their being _read_; and where the subject is addressed to the
understanding alone, polished and classic language, or more frequently
an assumed peculiarity of style, is used to hold the ear captive, and
through it the intellect. The modern writers of history especially,
seize upon scenes and situations which involve strong dramatic effect,
endeavoring, as it were, to reproduce the past, by painting its events
with the most vivid colors of description. They do not give the
polished, stately _bas-reliefs_ of the old historians, but glowing
_pictures_, perhaps less distinct in their outlines, but conveying a
stronger impression of real life. The works of Prescott, (who has
maintained, however, a happy medium between these styles,) Michelet,
Lamartine, and Carlyle, furnish striking examples of this.
The present work fills a blank which has long existed among historical
works--that of a Universal History, which, embracing the prominent
events of all ages, placed before the reader in a clear and
comprehensive arrangement, shall yet be so simple and brief as to
command the perusal of the great laboring classes, who would shrink
from the study of Rollin or Rotteck, as a task too serious to be
undertaken. The abridgment of Schlosser's "Weltgeschichte," which we
believe has never been translated, contains these qualifications in an
eminent degree; yet its high philosophical tone is rather adapted to
the scholar than the general reader. Gibbon's great work, from its
magnificence of language, long retained a place in popular favor, and
will always be read by the diligent historical student, but of late
years it has ceased to be in common use. Our knowledge of ancient
history has been wonderfully extended by the study of the modern
Asiatic languages, and the restoration of tongues, which had been
forgotten for centuries, and the Roman Empire, which once included in
its history that of the greater part of the ancient world, is almost
equaled in interest and importance by the records of Egypt, India,
and China. What is wanted, therefore, is a concise abstract, which
shall embody the labor of all former histories and the discoveries of
modern research.
The author of this work, judging from that portion of it already
published, is equal to this task. He comes to it prepared by twenty
years of study, and a familiar acquaintance with all the necessary
authorities, not only those to whom we look for the solid record of
fact, but those who have gone beneath the surface of events, and
tracked the source of political convulsions by a thousand pulses back
to the hidden heart of some great principle. This Philosophy of
History, which has become almost a distinct branch of literature,
gives vitality to the narrative, by leading us to causes which may
still exist; thus connecting our interest in the Present with the fate
of the Past. In this country, where every man is more or less a
political philosopher, a history possessing merit of this character,
is likely to become exceedingly popular.
The utility of the present work to the general reader is greatly
increased by the geographical and statistical accounts of the
countries, which are given in connection with their history. In fact,
some knowledge of their physical character, climate, and productions
is necessary to a comprehensive idea of the people who sprung up and
flourished upon them. These descriptions would become still more
valuable if they were accompanied with maps; and we would suggest that
this defect be remedied, if possible, in the succeeding numbers.
The author has chosen the epistolary form, as combining ease of style
with a certain familiar license of language, and therefore better
adapted for popular instruction. Commencing at the traditionary period
from which we date the origin of man, he describes the gradual
formation of society, and marks out the first broad divisions of the
race from which sprung the great empires of Egypt and the East. The
geographical account of these countries is extended and complete,
embracing also a graphic view of their modern condition. We notice
that in common with several distinguished German historians, the
author gives to the Hindoos the distinction of being the earliest race
of men. "Above all the historical records of other nations," says he,
"the Hindoos have brought forth the best evidence of the highest
antiquity, and the earliest civilization. Therefore the supposition of
those may be correct, who presume that man's first abode was somewhere
in the neighborhood of the Himalaya mountains, which are the most
stupendous on the globe."
The two remaining numbers devoted to Ancient History, will bring us
down to A. D. 476. The author dedicates his work to M. A. Thiers, as
the "orator, statesman, historian, and friend of liberty."
* * * * *
_Lectures on Shakspeare. By H. N. Hudson. New York:
Baker & Scribner_. 2 _vols_. 12_mo_.
We suppose that few of our readers are unacquainted with Mr. Hudson,
the lecturer on Shakspeare, and the writer of various brilliant and
powerful articles in the American Review. The lectures which compose
the present volume have been delivered, at various times, in the
principal cities of the Union, and have everywhere been welcomed as
productions of the highest merit in one of the most difficult
departments of critical art. The author has delayed the publication
until the present time, in order that they might be subjected to
repeated revision, and every opinion they contain cautiously scanned.
Many of the lectures have been re-written a dozen times; and probably
few books of the size ever published in the country, have been the
slow product of so much toil of analysis and research. Almost every
sentence gives evidence of being shaped in the "forge and
working-house of thought." All questions which rise naturally in the
progress of the work are sturdily met and answered, however great may
be their demand on the intellect or the time of the author. Every
thing considered, subtilty, depth, force, brilliancy, comprehension,
we know of no work of criticism ever produced in the United States
which equals the present, either in refinement and profundity of
thought, or splendor and intensity of expression. Indeed, none of our
critics have devoted so much time as Mr. Hudson to one subject, or
been content to confine themselves so rigidly to the central sun of
our English literary system. We doubt, also, if there be any work on
Shakspeare, produced on the other side of the Atlantic, which is so
complete as the present in all which relates to Shakspeare's mind and
characters. It not only comprehends the highest results of Shaksperian
criticism, but it is a step forward.
This may to some appear extravagant praise, but for its justice we
confidentially appeal to the record. The plays which have most
severely tried the sagacity of Shakspeare's critics, are Hamlet,
Macbeth, Lear, and Othello. We do not hesitate to say that Mr.
Hudson's analysis and representation of these are the most thorough,
accurate, and comprehensive which exist at present either in English
or German. Compare him or these tragedies with Goethe, with Schlegel,
with Coleridge, with Hazlitt, with Ulrici, and it will be found that
he excels them all in completeness. It is needless to add that he is
able to excel them only by coming after them; and that it is by
diligently digesting all the positive results of Shaksperian criticism
that he has been enabled to advance the science. He has grasped the
principles which Schlegel and Coleridge established, and applied them
to the discovery of new truths. By the most patient and toilsome
analysis he has fully brought out many things which they simply
hinted, and distinctly set forth conclusions which lay dormant in
their premises. And in the analysis of individual character, meaning
by that the resolving each Shaksperian personage into its original
elements, and indicating the degree of general truth it covers, our
countryman has hardly a rival. Few even of Shakspeare's diligent
readers are aware of the vast stores of thought and knowledge implied
in Shakspeare's characters, because the fact is so commonly stated in
general terms. Mr. Hudson proves that the characters are classes
intensely individualized, by showing how large is the number of
persons each character represents, or of whom it is the ideal. He thus
indicates the extent of Shakspeare's range over the whole field of
humanity, and the degree of his success in _classifying_ mankind. No
one, therefore, can read Mr. Hudson's interpretative criticisms
without new wonder at the amazing reach and depth of Shakspeare's
genius.
It would be impossible in the space to which we are necessarily
confined, to do justice to Mr. Hudson's powers of analysis and
representation, as exercised through the wide variety of the
Shaksperian drama. The volumes swarm with strong and striking thoughts
on so many suggested topics, that it is difficult to fix upon any
particular excellence for especial praise. The first quality which
will strike the reader will be the author's opulence of expression and
profusion of wit. Analogies with him are as cheap as commonplaces are
to other men. He has no hesitation in announcing his analysis in a
witticism, and condensing a principle into an epigram. His page often
blazes and burns with wit. South, Congreve, and Sheridan are hardly
richer in the precious article. In Mr. Hudson, also, the quality has
an individual character, and is the racier from its genuineness and
from its root in his intellectual constitution. This wit is, perhaps,
the leading characteristic of his style, though his diction varies
sufficiently with the varying demands of his subjects, and often
glides from the tingling concussion of antithesis into the softest
music, or rises from sarcastic brevity and stinging emphasis into rich
and sonorous amplification. The analysis of Iago, and the analysis of
the Weird Sisters, indicate, perhaps, the extremes of his manner.
Throughout the volumes, whether the subject be comic or tragic,
humorous or sublime, there is never any lack of verbal felicities.
These seem to grow spontaneously in the soil of his mind; and there is
no American writer whose style is more wholly free from worn and
wasted images, phrases, and forms of expression. He is neither
mediocre in thought nor expression.
We cannot resist the temptation to give a few of Mr. Hudson's
sentences, illustrative of his manner of stinging the minds of his
readers and enforcing their attention. Speaking of Sir Thomas Lucy, on
whose manor Shakspeare is said to have poached, Hudson remarks: "This
Warwickshire esquire, once so rich and mighty, is now known only as
the block over which the Warwickshire peasant stumbled into
immortality." Referring to those purists who regard words more than
things in their strictures on licentiousness, he calls them persons
"whose morality seems to be all in their ears." Speaking of Hume, "an
exquisite voluptuary among political and metaphysical abstractions,"
he puts him in a class of men who "study art as they study nature,
only in the process of dissection--a process which, of course, scares
away the very life which makes her nature; so that they get, after
all, but a _sort of post-mortem knowledge of her_." Again, he
observes--"Pope, for example, was the prince of versifiers, and Hume
the prince of logicians: with the one versification strangled itself
in a tub of honey; with the other logic broke its neck in trying to
fly in a vacuum. It is by no means strange, therefore, that the
thousand-eyed philosophy of Shakspeare should have seemed a perfect
monster to the one-eyed logic of Hume." Perhaps the finest answer to
the charge that Shakspeare was an unregulated genius, full of great
absurdities and great beauties, is contained in Hudson's ironical
statement of it: "He has sometimes been represented as a sort of
inspired and infallible idiot, who practiced a species of poetical
magic without knowing what he did or why he did it; who achieved the
greatest wonders of art, not by rational insight and design, but by a
series of lucky accidents and _lapsus naturae_; who, in short, went
through life stumbling upon divinities, and blundering into miracles."
By the publication of these lectures Mr. Hudson takes his place among
the first thinkers and writers of the country. He has that in his
writings which will make him popular, and that which will make him
permanent. It is unnecessary to say that a book so strongly marked by
individuality as his is calculated to provoke criticism. It contains
many things which will be severely assailed by those whose opinions on
certain theories of government and society are in exact opposition to
those of the author. Some positions, critical and political, which he
confidently states as settled, are still open to discussion. But take
the work as a whole, as an embodiment of mental power, and there are
few men in the country on whom it would not confer honor. It needs but
a very small prophetic faculty to predict for a work so fascinating
and instructive a circulation commensurate with its merits.
* * * * *
_The Military Heroes of the Revolution. With a
Narrative of the War of Independence. By Charles J.
Peterson. Philadelphia: Wm. H. Leary._ 487 _pp.
octavo_.
This is one of the most elegant books which has ever been issued from
the American press. The type is large and clear, and the paper is of
the finest quality. It is embellished with nearly two hundred
engravings, consisting of portraits of all the chief actors of the
Revolution, spirited representations of almost every engagement, with
numerous views of noted places. This, together with the picturesque
style in which the book is written, gives a peculiar charm, and leaves
on the mind of the reader impressions more vivid and lasting than any
other work which we have seen on the same subject.
The design of the work is to furnish brief analytical portraits of
those military heroes who, either from their superior ability or
superior good fortune, played the most prominent part in the war of
independence. The volume contains thirty-three biographies. Of these
Washington's, Putnam's, Arnold's, Moultrie's, Warren's, Marion's,
Hamilton's, and Burr's, are, in our opinion, the most spirited. The
biography of Washington affords a keen analysis of that great hero's
character, and conclusively proves, we think, that he was not only a
great patriot, but a great general. This is a somewhat new view of his
character, the fashion having been to exalt his undoubted goodness at
the expense of his skill, the result of positive ignorance of his
character during the war of independence. Those were no weak
achievements which Napoleon acknowledged to have been the examples
which first fired him with the spirit and plan of his own victories!
And our author justly remarks, that "if four generals in succession,
beside several entire armies, failed to conquer America, it was not on
account of want of talent or means on the part of the enemy, but
because the genius of Washington proved too gigantic for any or all of
his competitors."
The most of these biographies are, as it were, the frames to battle
pictures: thus, in the history of Putnam, we have a graphic
description of the contest on Bunker Hill; in that of Moultrie, of the
defence of Fort Sullivan; and in that of Washington, of the battle of
Trenton. The actions from the skirmish at Lexington to the surrender
of Cornwallis, are all admirably and graphically told in a style
animated without being florid, and chaste without being stiff. The
straight forward honesty of the diction, leaves the mind of the reader
to be carried on with the simple but intense spirit of the action, as
if he were a spectator rather than reader. The description of the
battle of Trenton is the most complete ever published.
The author, in his preface, says he does not claim exemption from
errors, that no one can who writes on a subject so obscure in many
respects as that of the Revolution. We think his decisions, however,
are generally unimpeachable. Wherever we have been able of testing
them, we have found them accurate; and this induces us to believe that
in other cases he is correct. But we should like to have seen his
evidence of the second battle of Assunpink, for Hull, in his diary,
mentions nothing of it. We think, too, that Arnold was not personally
present at Stillwater, though Burgoyne was of opinion that he was, for
he complimented him for his behaviour on that occasion. We notice some
misprints in the volume, a thing almost unavoidable in a book of this
size; one or two are glaring ones--but these can be corrected in a
second edition.
The narrative of the war, in all its relations, is well told. It gives
a comprehensive picture of the rise and progress of the contest, and
abounds with much new matter, showing a thorough knowledge of the
great history of that period. We notice many anecdotes which we have
never before seen in print.
The public has long needed a good popular history of the Revolution;
for Batta's, and others of that stamp, are too long; and, beside, much
new light has been lately thrown on that portion of our annals. We
have such a book here, and it is for this reason that we hail it with
peculiar pleasure.
We cannot close this notice without quoting the following somewhat
remarkable passage from Mr. Peterson's preliminary chapter, which was
evidently written long before the late events in Europe--more than two
years ago, according to the preface.
"It is evident," he says, "that the old world is worn out. There are
cycles in empires as well as dynasties; and Europe, after nearly two
thousand years, seems to have finished another term of civilization.
The most polite nation in the eastern hemisphere is now where the
Roman empire was just before it verged to a decline--the same system
of government--the same extremes of wealth and poverty--the same
delusive prosperity characterizing both. _Europe stands on the crust
of a decayed volcano, which at any time may fall in._ The social
fabric in the old world is in its dotage." Part of this prediction has
already been verified, and we wait with impatient expectation for the
fulfillment of the rest.
* * * * *
_Old Hicks, the Guide; or Adventures in the Camanche
Country in Search of a Gold Mine. By Charles W. Webber.
New York: Harper & Brothers_. 2 _parts_.
Here is a book "to stir a fever in the blood of age"--full of wild
adventure, and running over with life. It seems to have been composed
on horseback. The sentences trot, gallop, leap, toss the mane, and
give all other evidences of strength and activity in the race of
expression. The author fairly gives the reins to his thoughts and
fancies, and they sweep along the dizziest edges of rhetoric with a
jubilant hip! hip! hurrah! We have rarely known so much daring
rewarded with so much success. The critic is expecting every moment to
see the author break his neck by a sudden descent from the sublime to
the ridiculous, but is continually disappointed. The vigor of old
Kentucky bounds in the veins and "lives along the heart" of this most
stalwart and defiant Kentuckian. He charges critical batteries with
the force of Harney's dragoons. We accordingly surrender at
discretion. Captain Scott need but to point his rifle, and the coon
comes down at once.
Seriously, Mr. Webber's book is one of the most captivating of its
kind ever produced in the United States. It shows the scholar and the
practiced writer amid all its rampant energy, and many passages are
full of eloquence. The scenery and events are of that kind most
calculated to fasten on the popular imagination. The author has a
singular faculty of condensing narration and description, and bringing
the scene and deed right before the eye, without any of the tedious
minutiae in which most descriptive writers indulge. Consequently his
observations are flashed upon the mind of the reader rather than
conveyed to it, piece by piece. If Mr. Webber would soften a little
the ravenousness of his style, and treat his subjects with a little
more regard to artistic propriety, he might produce a work of fiction
of very great merit, both as regards plot and characterization. The
present volume indicates a vitality of mind, to which creation is but
an appropriate exercise. It evinces more genius than Typee or Omoo.
* * * * *
_Cookery in America. Illustrated by Martin the Younger.
Wm. H. Graham, New York_.
Fair and funny. It is time that the _lex talionis_ should be applied
to those who have so often made themselves merry at our expense.
Transcriber's Note:
Several characteristic spellings and instances of punctuation were
left as in the original, as representing the usage of the times--while
a number of obvious printer's errors and omissions were corrected
silently.