“And I also,” said Fleurange calmly. “And that is a point to be

considered. I must not only cease to be a burden to your parents,

but I must aid them. How happy that will make me! I thank Heaven

for the very thought that I may now be able to do something for

them to whom I owe everything. This hope relieves my very sadness.”

She rose and held out her hand. “Good-night, cousin. To-morrow I

will tell you what inspiration I have received from my good angel

during the night.”

He silently pressed her hand, and allowed her to leave him without

a word.

The night was cloudy. If Clement caught any glimpses of his

cousin’s features during their conversation, it was because, seated

beside her, and even favored by the obscurity, he ventured to look

at her more closely than he would have done elsewhere. Now, the

stars rose only to disappear beneath the sombre clouds. He was

no longer afraid of being seen. He remained where Fleurange left

him, and, burying his face in his hands, gave vent at last to the

tears that for two hours had been suffocating him--tears of sorrow,

regret, and affection, which he must shed to keep his young heart

from breaking.

But he soon surmounted this violent emotion, and rose up ashamed of

his weakness. At that moment he heard a window open above his head.

It was Fleurange, who soon appeared on the balcony. He could see

her white dress and the regular outline of face against the light

from her chamber. He saw her soft glance lost in the darkness. Then

she folded her hands and bent down her head. She was praying, but

not alone to-night. Clement, kneeling unperceived in the shade,

prayed with her. He was in the very place where he heard her say to

Felix: “Clement is my brother, and you are not.” He recalled the

words now, and renewed in his heart the solemn promise to be for

ever faithful to all the obligations they imposed.

XIII.

If the happy inmates of the Old Mansion had been told a month

previous they only had a few weeks more to pass within its walls,

they would have been greatly dismayed by the prediction, and asked

how such a trial could be borne. But there is in life--even in the

happiest life when it is ordered aright, that is, when its duties

are daily considered and faithfully accomplished--there is, I say,

in such a life a latent preparation for the most violent shocks of

adversity, and, when they suddenly come, it is surprising to find

that they who seemed to enjoy more than others the good things they

possessed are the best able to resign themselves to their loss

with firmness and serenity. And yet they are not insensible to

the calamity. It falls on them with its full weight, but it comes

alone, unaccompanied by the two scourges which generally follow in

the train of a misfortune resulting from misconduct--trouble and

confusion of mind.

Neither of these followed ruin into Ludwig Dornthal’s house.

Externally the disaster was complete, but peace and order were

maintained within. All their decisions--even the most painful--were

made deliberately, and executed calmly and without delay. They

did not dissemble the greatness of their sacrifice; they made no

pretence to an insensibility they did not feel; but they quietly

made their preparations--tears often blinding their eyes the

while--like a brave and worthy crew wrecked by a tempest and forced

to abandon their vessel.

It was thus they made all the arrangements for leaving their dear

home and disposing of their library, paintings, and objects of

_virtu_, which the professor had selected with so much care and

pride, and were his only source of pleasure apart from the society

of his family and friends. And from the latter also he was to be

separated. When Ludwig Dornthal announced his intention of resuming

the career he abandoned twenty years before, positions were offered

him on all sides, especially in the city where he resided. But on

account of the strict economy he must henceforth practise, as well

as a secret repugnance to a different social position in a place

where he had been so prosperous, he decided, after some hesitation,

to leave Frankfort, and accept a modest situation offered him at

the University of Heidelberg. He succeeded in purchasing a small

house in that place at a low price--somewhat rustic, it is true,

but situated without the city walls, on the banks of the Neckar,

and surrounded by a garden. He could easily walk to the university

every morning, and the perspective of the rural repose that awaited

him at the end of the day would enable him to endure its labors

more cheerfully. He therefore decided to take possession of it as

speedily as possible, and all the necessary arrangements had to be

made during the few weeks they were to remain in the Old Mansion

before leaving it for ever.

Clement took charge of all the preliminaries of the somewhat

extensive sale that was to take place. He wished to relieve his

father from so sad a task, and perform the painful and fatiguing

business without any assistance, but it was made much easier for

him than he anticipated. Fleurange insisted on his accepting her

aid. She set herself to work, silently going to and fro with her

sleeves turned back, carrying the rare china carefully from one

place to another with her small but efficient hands, and dusting,

arranging, and numbering the books according to her cousin’s

directions. Of course she greatly lightened his labors. In the

evening they seated themselves in the library, now nearly stripped

of its treasures, and wrote lists or inserted notes in the large

registers concerning the precious manuscripts and books that were

to be disposed of. It was, in short, a work that required the vigor

and activity of youth, as well as much thought and assiduous labor.

To say that, while performing this double task, they never found it

tiresome, that no shade ever came over their brows, and that their

eyes were never tearful while handling so many objects they were

never to see again, would be false; it would be equally so to say

that Clement, in spite of the fatigue, was greatly to be pitied

during these days.

There came a time, long after, when, looking back on the past, it

seemed to him that these hours passed in the light of Fleurange’s

beautiful eyes, sometimes cast down as she bent over the large

registers, and anon raised to ask a question or give him a friendly

glance--it seemed to him, I say, that these vanished hours were

among the most delightful of his life.

At length came the day their task would be completed, and, while

they were working together for the last time, Fleurange raised her

eyes. “Clement,” she said, “we are nearly done. I have been waiting

for this moment to tell you something.”

Clement dropped his work at once, and looked up interrogatively.

“No, no; finish what you are doing, and I will tell you afterward.”

Clement soon finished. Fleurange closed the great book before her,

and resumed: “Do you remember our conversation in the garden a

fortnight ago?”

“I do, most assuredly.”

“Well, after leaving you that evening, I passed the night in

reflection, and ended by writing to the best, and, indeed, the only

gentleman-friend I have in the world out of this house.”

“Dr. Leblanc?” said Clement, aware, of course, of all the

circumstances that preceded his cousin’s arrival.

“Yes, Dr. Leblanc. I wrote him all I had just learned. I made known

the situation my uncle and his family would soon be in, and my

desire, my ardent desire, not only to cease to be a burden, but to

fulfil a daughter’s duty with regard to them. His own daughters

have other duties, now they are married, but I have only this, and

it is one so precious--so precious,” repeated Fleurange in the soft

tone that sometimes made her simplest words penetrate to the depths

of the listener’s heart, “that I shall consider my life happy and

well-spent if I can consecrate it entirely to this duty!”

Clement bent down his head, and took up his pen as if to correct a

mistake on the paper before him. She must not see the effect of her

words on his countenance--no! she must not.

“Well,” said he presently, without looking up, “what did Dr.

Leblanc say?”

“Here, Clement, read the letter I received from him two days ago.”

Clement took the letter, but, while reading it, he was all at once

filled with a similar anguish to that he experienced after the

conversation that night in the garden which Fleurange had just

alluded to. He was obliged to make a violent effort to restrain

his feelings, and not tear the letter in his hands into a thousand

pieces. Fortunately he succeeded, for it would have been the most

foolish act he ever committed. And there was really nothing in Dr.

Leblanc’s letter to justify such a mad desire. It read as follows:

“MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND: I cannot tell you how much I am at once

distressed and edified by the sad account you have given me. I

have long known what kind of a man your uncle is. I now see there

are but few to be compared with him, even among the best, and I

never had a keener desire than to make his acquaintance. You know

I have always hoped for this gratification. It will probably be

afforded me sooner than I anticipated. And this leads me to the

second part of your letter.

“I understand your wish, and would like to second it. Besides, I

have not forgotten my promise to aid you in gaining a livelihood,

should it ever be necessary. Poor child! I hoped never to be

called upon to fulfil it, but, as things have come to that

pass, I must tell you of a letter I received yesterday which,

coinciding with yours, seems to be a providential indication.

This letter is from the Princess Catharine Lamianoff, a Russian

lady, who is one of my patients. She is now at Munich, and has

sent for me to go there. I have already prescribed for her with

success, and, from what she tells me of her state, I think my

visit may be beneficial. I have therefore decided on the journey,

and shall be absent a fortnight. I shall go by the way of

Frankfort on purpose to see you. But, first, I must tell you what

there is in the letter to interest you. The princess earnestly

requests me to find a young lady, carefully educated and with

good manners, to be her _demoiselle de compagnie_. She is an

invalid and requires to be entertained, so the office would be

a charitable as well as a lucrative one. We will talk all this

over before another week. Meanwhile, rely always, as you have the

right to do, on my sincere and affectionate devotedness. I say

nothing about my sister, as she is writing you in a similar tone

by the same mail.

“P.S.--The princess has been married twice, but is again a widow.

She is very wealthy, and offers the young lady she commissions me

to find one hundred and fifty louis a year.”

Clement remained silent for some time. “And you think of accepting

such a proposal?” said he, at length, in a tone of irritation quite

at variance with his usual manner. “What folly!”

“No, it is not folly,” replied Fleurange mildly. “If, after talking

with Dr. Leblanc, I discover no reason for declining the situation,

I cannot possibly see the folly of accepting it.”

“Gabrielle,” said Clement, without changing his tone, “you know the

course you wish to take is insupportable to me! This _rôle_ belongs

to me--me alone. It is my place to labor for my parents, my brother

and sister, and for you. If you had the least regard for me, you

would feel this is a favor you have no right to refuse me.”

“Come, Clement,” said Fleurange calmly, “let us talk it over in a

reasonable manner. When everything is sold, and your parents are

settled in their new home at Heidelberg, you are perfectly aware

that your father’s small salary, even with what you can add to it,

will barely enable them and Frida to live comfortably. You will

remain at Frankfort, where, notwithstanding your youth, you have

the choice of several situations. But Fritz--have you forgotten our

calculations yesterday? Will you have sufficient means to send him

to the excellent gymnasium you were so desirous he should enter,

that he might be enabled to become independent in his turn? No,

Clement, you know well you could not do it. Whereas,” she continued

with animation, “if this good lady likes me, I can send all my

salary, with the exception of a small part, to my dear brothers.

This will ensure Fritz’s education, and my dear aunt will be freed

from all anxiety about him as well as me. And do you not see,

Clement, that I shall be a thousand times happier far away from

you all, even though treated like a slave by this princess, than

among you, useless, inactive, and adding by my presence to your

difficulties, instead of aiding to diminish them?”

Clement, with his elbows resting on the table, and his face buried

in his hands, did not answer a word.

“Come, come, dear Clement, put off that frown,” said Fleurange in a

caressing tone, taking him softly by the hand. “We shall see each

other, like school-children, during our vacations. From time to

time we shall meet on the banks of the Neckar! That will always be

our home, where we shall all gather around the hearth, as here, on

great festivals.”

What reply could poor Clement make? What objection could he offer?

Must he not for ever conceal all he had hoped in his vanished

dreams to confess some day? Was he not now reduced to constant

labor for subsistence? Had not his life henceforth a single aim

that nothing must turn him from? And were it otherwise, did she not

look upon him as a mere boy? Was he not destitute of every quality

that could please her? And had he not always foreseen that his

enchanting dreams would vanish at the very first breath of reality?

He took his cousin’s small hand in his, and, with his usual frank

and cordial look, said: “You are right, Gabrielle, forgive me. I

appear ungrateful, but I am not. May God reward you! You are an

angel!”

And he added in a tone too low for her to hear: “An angel from whom

I am more widely separated than from the angels in heaven!”

XIV.

From that day forth Clement displayed no more interest in his

cousin’s project: at least, he never alluded to it, and the plan

was discussed before him without his taking any part in the

conversation.

Madame Dornthal, capable herself of the most generous devotedness,

knew also how to accept it from others--a rarer gift, but perhaps

not less noble. She thoroughly understood Fleurange’s disposition,

and was unwilling at such a time to deprive a heart like hers of

the most exquisite joy it can taste.

“Yes, dear child,” she said, folding her in her arms, “I accept the

aid you offer me, and with gratitude. Thanks to you, I shall be

relieved from all anxiety respecting two of my children, and, if

Dr. Leblanc reassures me as to my Gabrielle, I shall let her follow

the generous impulse of her heart.”

But Madame Dornthal kept to herself, or only communicated to her

husband, another motive for her consent. Fleurange would thus be

preserved from some of the privations of their new life. “She would

continue to enjoy comforts we could no longer give her. She would

be happier and more cheerful away from us, the poor child! than

with us at such a time.”

“Yes,” replied the professor, “it would indeed be a pity to bury

her youth in a cottage. I could not bear it. I have so often

blessed God within a month for having assured the destiny of our

dear daughters! And yet,” added poor Ludwig, sighing, “their young

faces were so cheering around us!”

“We shall soon see them again, Ludwig. Hilda and Karl are awaiting

our visit, and Clara will pass the winter near us, Julian having

received a great number of orders from the vicinity of Heidelberg.

O my dear Ludwig! as long as God leaves us these blessings, let us

resign, not only without a murmur, but without regret, all he has

taken from us!”

Those who are absorbed in the acquisition of wealth, and make it

the special object of their lives, are no less liable to misfortune

than others. Indeed, it may be said, they are more frequently

overtaken by adversity. Would it not be well, then, for them to

reflect a little beforehand on the means of singularly modifying

the features of this stern visitant, and giving it the aspect it

now wore in the Old Mansion? It is true, to do this they must begin

by thinking of something higher than the mere acquisition of riches.

Dr. Leblanc arrived, as he promised, about ten days after his

letter. His visit at the Old Mansion coincided with the last days

its inmates were to pass within its walls, and this circumstance

would have made him hesitate to come, had not the professor

cordially encouraged him. They had long wished to know each other,

for in their different spheres they were equally renowned, and

Fleurange, under so many obligations to both, was a tie between

them. The doctor was therefore received by M. Dornthal quite

otherwise than as a stranger. The tendency of their minds, the

nature of their studies, and even the prominent features of their

character, were very dissimilar, but there was the same foundation

to their nature, and they aimed at the same end by different means.

They therefore soon discovered that, though their lives were

drawing to a close without even having met before, they were born

intimate friends.

How many unknown friends thus pass their whole lives without ever

meeting, or even suspecting the sympathy that unites them! Who can

tell how many ties of this kind will be discovered in heaven? And

who knows but this discovery may be one of the sweetest surprises

of another life, and, like all the joys we have a foretaste of here

below, and perhaps more abundantly accorded to those who on earth

were the most destitute?

The hospitable doors of the Old Mansion were closed, the library

shelves bare, the panels stripped of the rich paintings that

adorned them, and all was now humiliation and sacrifice where once

reigned satisfaction and enjoyment, and yet Dr. Leblanc probably

would not have felt so lively a sensation of respect and emotion

had he visited the Dornthals for the first time during the days of

their prosperity.

As to them, this new friend seemed to have always occupied the

place he now took in their midst, and, in spite of the sadness

of the present as well as of the future, Fleurange enjoyed the

satisfaction of seeing them brought together for a few brief hours,

and, though on the eve of leaving her friends, did not find the

last days she spent among them the least happy.

Madame Dornthal gathered nothing from her conversations with Dr.

Leblanc that was unfavorable to Fleurange’s project; but she

learned that the Princess Catharine was only making a temporary

visit at Munich on her way from a watering-place where she passed

her summers and would soon leave for Florence, where she owned a

palace which was her residence in winter.

After some correspondence, it was decided Fleurange should accept

the princess’ offer, and go to Munich under the doctor’s care. She

would thus have the double advantage of her old friend’s protection

during the journey, and his presence during the first days of her

new career among strangers.

While all this was being decided, the time passed sadly and rapidly

away, and the last day they were to spend in the Old Mansion

came--the last day their eyes would linger on the venerable walls

which had witnessed all the happiness of the past, the garden with

its velvet sward, the borders of flowers, and the wide alleys

through the overshadowing trees, full of remembrances they would

not another spring be able to retrace, or indeed any spring of

their future lives.

Clement, silent as he often was, but more agitated than usual,

hastily collected the small number of books which were to form part

of his luggage the following day. His cousin’s generous sacrifice

enabled him to fulfil his wishes at once with regard to Fritz. This

only left him the more completely alone--the care of the child

would have added to the young man’s difficulties and become later

a serious burden; but Clement loved his little brother, and had

looked upon the necessity of keeping him with him as a consoling

feature of his future life. This necessity no longer existed.

Clement, left free, decided to make choice of the most laborious

career offered him--the one least conformed to his tastes, but the

best adapted to second his desire of aiding his parents.

Wilhelm Müller proposed he should enter a large commercial house

where M. Heinrich Dornthal’s worthy and intelligent clerk himself

had found a situation similar to that he recently occupied at the

banker’s. Clement accepted it. He was at first to receive only a

small salary, but it would be increased from year to year. “And

later,” explained Wilhelm, “you may have your share in the profits

of the house. You are young. Who knows, whatever you may say,

that you will not some day become rich again, and as happy and

prosperous as you were destined to be?”

Nothing in Clement’s heart responded to this encouraging prophecy,

but he did not the less follow Müller’s advice. Moreover, he

accepted the kind clerk’s offer of renting him a small chamber in

the house he himself occupied.

“Poor Monsieur Clement,” he said, “what I offer you is only a

garret, but it is under our roof, and you will feel you have

friends around you. My wife is a good housekeeper, and will always

be ready to render you a service. The little ones are good children

also, though somewhat noisy, and will sometimes divert your sad

thoughts.”

“It is all well enough,” said Clement. “Your offer suits me every

way, and I thank you, Wilhelm, with all my heart.”

Thus matters were arranged between them.

Fleurange made her appearance in the library while Clement was

diligently packing his books. She remained awhile, and learned by

questioning him all that has just been related, not omitting the

kind clerk’s offer to become his host as well as his colleague.

“Oh! so much the better,” cried Fleurange. “The Müllers are

excellent people. I know Bertha, who is an amiable little woman.

You can talk with her about me.”

Bertha’s name recalled Fleurange’s journey, which they discussed.

This naturally led to her arrival on Christmas Eve, the Midnight

Mass, the festival of the following day, and all the other happy

days that succeeded.

All these reminiscences were too touching, too poignant, at such

a time. Fleurange at last became unable to utter a word. She

turned her face away, and started as if to leave the room. But she

stopped at the threshold, and remained leaning against the garden

window, which at that season was surrounded by honeysuckle. Clement

followed, and both stood gazing at the thousand objects gilded by

the brilliant rays of the setting sun. There was nothing wanting in

the melancholy beauty of that evening hour, either in the sweetness

of the air, the clearness of the sky, the perfume of the flowers,

or anything that could in their eyes add an unusual charm to all

they were about to leave for ever.

And she! how did she appear in the sight of him who feared he

might never, after this hour, behold her again as she now stood

beside him? What did he think of the effect of the golden lights

upon her fair brow and on her black and silky hair?--on the pale

azure of her eyes, now so smiling and soft, and again so grave and

thoughtful, but in which tenderness was overruled by a will that

would ever remain dominant?

We will not state what were his unuttered thoughts. The mingling

of sweetness and energy which heightened the attraction Fleurange

inspired he was equally gifted with, and what he ought to conceal

within his own bosom he knew how to prevent his mouth from uttering

or his eyes from ever betraying. He therefore remained near her,

calm in appearance, while his heart was a prey to such grief as

in youth changes the entire aspect of nature, and makes it almost

unendurable to live.

“To-morrow!--to-morrow I shall no longer behold her,” he repeated

to himself, with a sensation that one might have in sharpening

the instrument of his execution, and the thought deprived him of

enjoying the few hours that remained to him.

Fleurange, on her side, dwelt on the fatality that always separated

her from those she loved. She recalled the day when the bare

thought of ever leaving this spot caused such a painful contraction

of the heart. And now, that prophetic anguish was justified!--the

frightful dream had become a reality! Sad thoughts crowded on her

mind. Another moment, and she would be unable to restrain them, all

her firmness was about to give way in a flood of tears, when an

effort of her will made her triumph over the emotion, or, at least,

prevented her from manifesting it. Putting a stop to her long

reverie, she raised her head, and turned toward her cousin:

“Here, Clement,” she said softly, drawing a small book from her

pocket, “here is my Dante we have so often read in: keep it, dear

friend, in memory of our favorite study, and do not forget our

habit of daily reading a canto in it.”

“No, I shall never forget it. Thank you, Gabrielle: the gift is

very precious. I shall always prize this little book.” He opened

it: “But write my name on this blank leaf. Here is my pencil.”

She took the pencil and wrote: “_To Clement._”

“One word more,” said Clement in a supplicating tone. “Pray write

also a word, a line, a stanza if you will, from our favorite poet.”

“What shall I write?” said she, turning over the leaves.

“There, that in the second canto,” said he, pointing it out. She

wrote it immediately, and then read it over:

“To Clement.

“L’amico mio e non della Ventura.”[58]

“That is right,” said Clement. “Thank you.”

“That is a sad line: I should have chosen a different one.”

“It is appropriate to the present occasion. Now add your name.”

She was about to write it when he stopped her.

“Your real name,” said he. “Write your other name, to-night--the

name that suits you so well--Fleurange!”

Fleurange smiled, and shook her head. “Oh! no,” she said. “I gave

it up with regret, but I should not have thought of such a thing

had I previously known you all. But I have been so happy since I

have borne the name of Gabrielle--and you were the first to call

me so, Clement--so happy that I no longer love the name associated

with the sadness of the past, and, were I to hear any one call me

Fleurange now, I should imagine it an ill omen.”

Clement made no reply, but, when she returned the book, he retained

her hand a moment: “Gabrielle, one word more--perhaps my last

before your departure. Listen to me. Wherever you may be, if you

ever need a friend--a friend, do you understand?--that would value

no sacrifice for your sake, do not forget that your brother is

ready to aid you, not only willingly, but with a pleasure you have

no idea of.”

Clement’s voice was grave and solemn, but at the same time

agitated and tremulous, as he uttered these words. They were so in

conformity with what Fleurange had reason to expect from him that

they touched her, but excited no surprise.

“Yes, Clement,” she replied frankly, casting an affectionate glance

toward him; “I promise to have recourse to you. I feel I have no

better friend in the world than you, and doubt if I ever shall

have.”

Were these words sweet or bitter? He hardly knew. The sadness that

overwhelmed him it seemed impossible to increase, and equally

impossible to alleviate. And yet!--she was still there--beside

him--with an air of serenity and hope. There was not a single

sentiment of her heart he did not share. She called him her friend,

and there was no other she preferred to him. The moment, so full of

anguish, was yet a happy one, and he regretted at a later day not

having known how to profit more by it.

This was their last conversation in the Old Mansion. Clement

preserved the little volume in which she had written the name of

Gabrielle as a memento of this interview, and also a sprig of the

honeysuckle that touched her forehead.

The remainder of the evening passed swiftly away. Soon after light

the next morning came the farewell hour. The Dornthals left their

beloved home without the hope of ever entering it again, and

Fleurange once more left those she loved, to enter upon a new life

that looked a thousand times gloomier and more uncertain than that

which was before her when she left Paris. And Clement bade them

all farewell, to endure as he could isolation, a laborious and

uncongenial life, the privation of the affection and pleasures of

his boyhood, and especially all the pain and love a young heart can

endure.

PART SECOND.

THE TRIAL.

“Era già l’ora che volge il disio

Ai naviganti e intenerisce il core,

Lo di’ c’han detto a’ dolci amici addio!”--DANTE.

It was a beautiful night--brilliant, serene, and starry--a night

the uprising moon would soon render as light as day. A fresh

breeze from the land swelled the sails of a vessel just leaving

Genoa, which, far from impeding its course, only gave it a bolder

and more rapid flight over the waves. There were various groups

of passengers on deck, some conversing in subdued tones quite

in harmony with the mysterious hour of twilight, and others

aloud as if it were mid-day. One was playing on a guitar, as an

accompaniment to a somewhat remarkable voice, one of those airs

everybody knows, sings, or hums as long as they are in the fashion.

The music, in itself indifferent, did not seem so on the water and

at such an hour. It harmonized with the feelings of those who were

sailing over that azure sea, beneath that starry sky, and in sight

of those charming shores which the boat scarcely lost sight of

during its short sail from Genoa to Leghorn.

Apart from all these groups, and belonging to none of them, we

again find Fleurange, who was sitting entirely alone. She had

been here some minutes, attracting general attention from the

first by the gracefulness of her form, which the cloak in which

she was wrapped could not wholly conceal. The hood, half-covering

her head, only added a picturesqueness to the striking beauty

of her regular features. More than one of her fellow-travellers

would gladly have drawn near the place where she was sitting, but,

though she was alone and did not appear to be under any one’s

protection, there was, in the simple dignity of her attitude, in

her evident indifference to the sensation she produced, in her very

want of timidity, which was not boldness, but resolution, and in

her whole appearance, a something undefinable which intimidated

the most lively admiration, and would have disconcerted insolence

itself--a remark _en passant_ to those who regard familiarity as

only a proof of the attraction they inspire. Therefore, in spite

of some whispering, notwithstanding more than one look toward the

charming face distinctly visible in the full light of the moon,

now risen, Fleurange remained quietly in her corner, abandoned to

her own meditations, undisturbed by any one, and without troubling

herself in the least about those who surrounded her. Her thoughts

were various and complex. A strange fate seemed to pursue her and

constantly break the thread of her life, and every time it was

broken she found the severance more painful. It was but recently

she wept so bitterly at leaving Paris, and Dr. Leblanc, and the

dear Mademoiselle Josephine. But the tears were much more bitter

she shed at leaving the Old Mansion, and the loved circle where she

had first known and tasted in all their fulness the sweet joys of

family life.

After leaving Frankfort, Fleurange’s firmness, which had never

faltered before, suddenly gave way to such a degree as to make

Dr. Leblanc resolve to take her back to her friends if, after his

short stay at Munich, he did not find her more resigned to her

lot. But Fleurange was not a person to be easily subdued. Her

natural strength of character soon asserted itself, and enabled

her to persevere in the path she had chosen. Her resolution was

strengthened by the very circumstances which would have discouraged

many others. At their arrival at Munich, they found the Princess

Catharine confined to her bed by a violent attack of her malady,

and it was as nurse that Fleurange entered upon her duties. Her

complaint, all the physicians declared, was not dangerous, but it

was not the less painful, nor the easier to be relieved. That Dr.

Leblanc was again successful in his treatment was partly owing to

the sudden and lively fancy of his patient for the young companion

he had brought her. To tell the truth, the doctor, knowing the

princess, had foreseen this attraction, but he knew Fleurange was

fully able to justify and sustain this first impression, and he

sincerely hoped by bringing them together he had done something no

less useful and beneficial for his wealthy patient than for his

young _protégée_.

However this might be, nothing could have been better adapted

to dispel the burden of grief that weighed on Fleurange’s heart

than the immediate necessity of forgetting herself in active and

assiduous care for another. It was rather a sad beginning to pass

a succession of days and nights at the bedside of a sick stranger,

but in the actual state of her mind it was the best thing she

could have done. She possessed all the qualities that constitute

an efficient nurse, and, to a degree that excited Dr. Leblanc’s

surprise, firmness and promptitude, ease and gentleness in all her

movements, vigor and skill, and seasonable attentions--nothing was

wanting, and the result was--the never-failing effect of her beauty

and grace, added to the sentiments of lively gratitude sick people

generally feel for those who know how to relieve them. The princess

did not cease thanking the doctor, and the latter, quite pleased

with the result of his inspiration, left Fleurange not only without

anxiety, but with the most favorable hopes as to her position.

Though scarcely able to travel, the Princess Catharine insisted on

leaving Munich, and by easy stages she succeeded in reaching Genoa.

Now she was on her way to Leghorn, and thence would go to Florence

without delay, as she was eager to arrive at the palace which was

her real home, having long been obliged by her health to absent

herself from Russia, or at least to live there only during the

brief portion of the year known as the pleasant season.

For the first time, almost, since she left her friends, Fleurange

was now absolutely alone, and at liberty to indulge freely in her

own reflections. She began by recalling the cherished memory of her

distant friends, from whom she was every moment drifting away with

frightful rapidity. It was the hour sung by the poet:

“The hour that wakens fond desire

In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart,

Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell”;

and Fleurange’s thoughts for a long time dwelt upon the recent

events of her life, so rapid in their current as now to be

numbered among the things for ever vanished--upon the happy family

now scattered; the days--so few--in which she was permitted to

be a member of it and finally, her present isolation, for,

notwithstanding the kindness of the princess, she felt extremely

isolated. By a singular exchange of _rôles_, it was she--the

unprotected orphan, who now seemed to have become the support of

her protectress; and the lady of rank--the rich princess, the poor

woman spoiled by fortune--who seemed to seek aid and consolation

from her. Fleurange’s kind heart found unexpected relief in these

cares, the very success of which was ample reward. She felt her

affection increase for the object of these attentions in proportion

as she lavished them, but it was rather a feeling one has for a

child or an inferior, than one it would have seemed natural to have

for a person on whom she was dependent, and to whom she actually

owed respect and obedience. She therefore felt solitary, and

this loneliness was depressing. And yet in spite of herself--in

spite of her melancholy (though this may seem contradictory)--an

irresistible sensation of joy quickened the pulsations of her heart.

Who has not experienced this joy that has once seen the beautiful

sky of Italy, and left it, and then beheld it again? Who has not

greeted with transport the charming and sublime features of its

glorious scenery as it appears anew on the horizon, as if beholding

once more the face of a beloved friend? And who, after being long

deprived of hearing the sweet accents of its musical language,

has not heard them again with emotion? All these impressions must

have been more deeply experienced in Fleurange’s case than in many

others. And as the wind went down, and the moon ascended the clear

sky, reflecting a train of light that grew brighter and brighter on

the sea, like a pathway of diamonds leading to an enchanted abode,

Fleurange, with her eyes fixed on the dazzling waters, felt for a

moment transported with joy! All the sadness of the past as well as

of the present vanished: she only realized the infinite pleasure

of living, of being young, of being here under this sky, on this

sea, near that coast whose odors were perceptible; and when she

remembered that that coast was Italy, that she would be there in a

few hours, a throng of poetic dreams and confused presentiments of

happiness added their vague hopes to the secret joy with which she

felt, as it were, intoxicated.

Dreams--half-understood dreams of youth--which are seldom realized,

and which at a later day, according as the soul triumphs over or

yields to the dangers of life, are transformed into divine and

powerful aspirations, or into deceptive and fatal realities!

At this same hour, what was Clement dreaming of, seated at his

garret window, and likewise gazing at the starry sky? Ah! if he

could have followed her whose image filled his soul, he would now

have been beside Fleurange as she was thus wafted away from him,

lulled by her confused dreams. His reverie, too, was sad, but there

was nothing vague or indefinite about it, and the manly tenderness

of his look expressed firmness and resolution rather than softness.

The future was clearly defined in his mind. Yes, though he was

only twenty years old, he felt capable of cherishing a fond memory

in his heart without ever being unfaithful to it. Yes, she should

remain there, as in a sanctuary, and, after God, he would offer

her the labors, the studies, the poetry, and the purity of his

life! Every talent he had received should be cultivated, and bring

forth all that was required on the part of the Giver. This motive

should quicken his mental faculties, and refresh him after the

exertions of the day; stimulate him to arduous labor--sacred in his

eyes--which he would pursue with energy and constancy, for it was

the source of his parents’ comfort and support, and the reliance of

their old age. And if at length!--Perhaps some day!--But when the

sudden revival of a forbidden hope gave him all at once a thrill,

he repressed it. His judgment, his reason, a painful and invincible

presentiment, had for a long time assured him this hope was vain.

“_Garder l’amour en brisant l’espoir_” was his aim and _devise_--a

task painful, difficult, and perhaps even impossible. But at this

time such was his fancy and such his dream!

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTE:

[58] “A friend, not of my fortune, but myself.”

TENNYSON: ARTIST AND MORALIST.[59]

No English voice in the world of letters wakes the pulses of our

age to the thrill of joy which greeted _Childe Harold_ and _Rob

Roy_. Those monarchs of the popular heart left no successors; or if

their mantle hung for a moment on the shoulders of another, it is

now buried in the grave of Dickens. We have yet several novelists.

We have many poets. But none has obtained universal appreciation;

to none has been awarded with general consent the palm of paramount

renown. Yet it will not be questioned that few living writers

command a larger following, are remembered with more affection, and

heard with greater eagerness than the author of “In Memoriam.”

There are few studies more delightful than the growth of a poet’s

mind. In the case of Tennyson we witness the whole process of

development. We have seen him in his timid beginnings and in his

brilliant prime. More than forty years have passed since a slender

volume of poems introduced a young graduate of Cambridge to the

English-reading world. The modest offering fell upon a time which

had garnered larger and riper fruit. There were giants in those

days. Byron indeed was dead, but his fame, although it had passed

its zenith, still shone the brightest in the firmament. Shelley had

preceded him, but the reputation of that sweet singer and genuine

artist was growing, and has not ceased to grow. The lovers of

Campbell had not surrendered their faith that the _Pleasures of

Hope_ and the story of _Gertrude of Wyoming_ were but a prelude to

loftier strains. From the grave of _Adonaïs_ men’s eyes had turned

with regret and wonder to the bold outline of _Hyperion_ and the

rich shadows of _St. Agnes’ Eve_. Coleridge was a wreck, but the

finger of his _Ancient Mariner_ pointed many a thoughtful gaze

toward the untravelled country which fringes the visible world.

The master-hand that had swept the chords of Scottish minstrelsy

had not yet lost all its original vigor. And Wordsworth’s voice

gave loud and clear the signal of poetic reform, and all who were

ready to desert the out-worn moulds of classic thought and classic

imagery had begun to close around his banner.

Into that circle of splendid names no youthful aspirant could

win admittance without a challenge. More fortunate, however,

than Keats, Tennyson secured through university friendships some

indulgence from the reviews. A few were eager to crown him. It is

now acknowledged that their unwinnowed praise discovered less of

the judge than of the partisan. The conservative temper of Wilson

was provoked by the cordial welcome accorded the new-comer in

certain quarters to assume an attitude of repression that was, to

say the least, ungenerous. A measured severity might have been

amply justified. This first venture was indeed superior to those

_Hours of Idleness_ which had drawn the sneer of the _Edinburgh

Review_. But he would have been a bold prophet who in 1830 from

“Claribel” and the “Mermaid” would have foretold the “Idylls of the

King.”

Tennyson ripened slowly. His next volume was published two

years later. It was enriched with the “Lady of Shalott,” the

“Lotus-Eaters,” and the “Palace of Art,” but many of the poems

were disfigured by his earlier mannerisms, and some discovered an

affected mysticism and a hankering after novel expression that was

not indicative of health or strength. The poet, too, had betrayed a

sensitiveness to criticism that augured ill for the discipline of

his powers. It was still an open question whether the great gifts

which he unquestionably possessed would be burnished by patient

labor, or after some idle brandishings rust in satisfied repose.

Nor would he have been the first for whom victory too early and

lightly won has twined the poppy with her laurel. A silence of ten

years followed, and it seemed probable that another name must be

added to those of Campbell and Coleridge on the roll of splendid

disappointments.

But during this long interval he had not been idle. He had thought

and he had suffered. He had learned much and discarded much. On

a sudden, his treasury was opened, and the fruits of energy and

discipline fell in glistening showers at the feet of a public which

had almost forgotten him. The “Morte d’Arthur,” “Dora,” “Love and

Duty,” “Ulysses,” “Locksley Hall,” appealed in divers tones to a

charmed and astonished audience. By one sweep, and with no feeble

hand, he had planted his standard in many and widely different

fields. The bright forecast of his college friends was justified.

He had sprung at a bound into the front rank of living poets.

We pass over the “Princess,” which added little to his reputation,

and reach 1850, a cardinal point in his career. In that year it

is just to say that “Lycidas” and “Adonaïs” were eclipsed by “In

Memoriam.” This remarkable work, at once the noblest monody and

most impressive of heart histories, interpreted the author’s

life and consolidated his fame. “Maud” came next, and, morbid,

incoherent, structureless as it is, would have severely tried a

credit less firmly rooted. “Maud” indeed seems to owe its origin

rather to the blind impulse of crude intemperate youth, or the

promptings of some delirious fever, than the deliberate, healthful

movement of the poet’s higher faculties. It marks the single break

in the progress of his mind.

Not a few of Tennyson’s admirers had always affirmed the “Morte

d’Arthur” to be the strongest of his works. That fragment was

published in 1842, but it was not until 1859 that four kindred

poems were drawn from that Arthurian romance which had early

haunted his fancy and has chiefly employed the energies of his

riper years. The “Idylls of the King” have had several successors,

and the “Last Tournament” completes the cycle.

An effort has lately been made in certain quarters to depreciate

Tennyson. We do not object to comparisons if they are fruitful in

suggestion, and are instituted in a candid spirit. But perhaps

analysis affords the surer test. We ourselves hold Tennyson to

be the first of living English poets, and incline to rank him

above Byron and beside Wordsworth. In the course of an attempt

to indicate his place in literature, we shall quote wherever

quotations may sustain or illustrate our ideas. We shall draw

mainly from those works which exhibit a writer at his best. The

height of mountain ranges is gauged by their loftiest peaks,

and the merit of a public benefactor by his virtues, not his

shortcomings. A poet is a public benefactor. Not his failures, but

his masterpiece, should supply the materials of an honest judgment.

I.

_Vision_, in the old Roman conception, was the distinguishing

faculty of the poet. And indeed _vates_, not _poeta_, marks the

fundamental condition of his art. The _seer_ precedes the _maker_.

It is not indispensable that he should see more than other men, but

he will see more clearly. His perceptions are acute and nimble;

his sensations are intense. The retina and ear-drum deliver with

peculiar speed and precision their messages to his brain. His

glance tracks the eagle in his circles, and numbers the hues of

the western sky. He catches the whisper of fainting winds, and

spells the cadence of the rippling stream. To him all outlines are

sharp and crisp, every tint is vivid, every tone is clear. Senses

exquisitely organized are the first essential of the poet.

Sensations are fraught with countless degrees of pleasure, with

infinite shades of pain. Those objects whose ideas awaken a

feeling of delight we call beautiful. To register the beautiful

is an instinct of the poet. With a nice reference to the pleasure

imparted, he discriminates forms, divides the chromatic scale,

graduates the gamut of sound. In a word, his æsthetic judgment is

wakeful and unerring. But the keenest joys of the mind are not

begotten by beauty pure and simple. There is a fuller and sweeter

satisfaction than that derived from kaleidoscope combinations of

color, arabesques without significance, and _fantasias_ without

text or theme. Wherever _design_ emerges, the notion of _fitness_

is born. The Greek found it in the human body. We can trace it in

the flower and the star. When we contemplate those things of which

design may be predicated, there is blended with the feeling of

pleasure a perception of inward adaptation. The idea of perfection

is married to the idea of beauty. The ideal is their offspring.

Upon it the æsthetic judgment unaided dares not pronounce. The

complex faculty, whose province is the ideal, is _taste_. It is the

second requisite of the poet.

Most persons of culture and refinement have taste in some degree.

They are no strangers to the pure delight evoked by a smiling

landscape. In the human form they enjoy the beauty of outline and

proportion, and recognize the nice adjustment of structure to a

central aim. But their joys are transient. The flower fades; sunset

yields to moonlight; autumn touches with her pencil the canvas of

the spring; one graceful attitude melts into another; emotions

course across the countenance like winds over standing wheat.

The poet comes. His mission is to chain the fleeting, to fix the

evanescent, to reproduce the past. He brings you a rose with the

bloom on it; calls up the buried friend; stays the sinking sun on

the edge of his western bed. His life is a long revolt against

the law of change. Nor is he confined to imitation. His sphere

transcends realities. He may play with nature, if he will not

violate her. His memory is not a store-house only, but a crucible

as well, where the phenomena of sense lie fused in a glowing

golden mass. Through his brain float airy shapes surpassing and

yet suggesting the grace of earthly forms; ideals strange and

fantastic, yet bound by subtle ties of relationship to types of

the actual world. His fancy is ever in labor. Incessant gestation,

incessant parturition, engage her energies. Reproduction, creation,

is a law of the poet’s being. It is this which vindicates his right

to the noble name of _maker_.

Keen senses, a just taste, creative force, compose the common dowry

of artists. But art is threefold--plastic, pictorial, poetic.

To each species belongs a peculiar medium in which memories are

embalmed and fancies embodied. The media are solids, colors, words.

In language lie certain powers and certain limitations. The poet

divines them. He produces a speaking picture, but he remembers that

much of a picture cannot be spoken. He demonstrates that much also

may be told that cannot be painted. On his canvas vivacity and

intensity do duty for light and shade. Elaboration, suggestion,

silence, are the elements of his perspective. He borrows from

sculpture the significance of _isolation_, and the incisive

lesson of the _group_. Images, metaphors, similes, are the poet’s

graving-tools. He learns their latent capacities and their inherent

flaws. He secures subtle effects by climax, antithesis, evolution.

He plays the chemist with ideas, and presents them in every stage

of development, now vaporous, now congealed. He weighs words,

detects their finer applications, and fathoms the deeper meanings

which are coiled about their roots. And, finally, he masters the

mechanism of speech, the organic structure of sentences, the joints

and vertebræ of his native tongue. One step remains, to seize the

principles of metre, the secrets of rhythm and cæsura, the march

and music of verse. His panoply is finished. He is a poet.

Let us apply some of these tests to Tennyson. And, first, his power

of simple imitation. At first sight this seems no lofty triumph of

the poet’s art. And yet how much it implies! To translate substance

into the unsubstantial. To portray the visible and tangible in that

which has neither color nor dimension. Above all, to transfuse

through the spirit of man the spirit of nature. It behooves him

who would compass this to purge the heart of emotion, abjure

self-consciousness, and forget, like the Pythian priestess, his

own identity. He is not to steep his landscape in sentiment of his

own, nor ascribe to it a fictitious sympathy with human moods and

passions. The outward beauty he contemplates must traverse his

mental atmosphere, untinctured, unrefracted, like white light. We

must catch in his work the soul of the scene, a spirit rising from

it like an exhalation, not drenching it with alien dews. We find a

happy instance of right treatment in this cool upland valley from

“Œnone”:

“There lies a vale in Ida lovelier

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills;

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen,

Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,

And loiters slowly drawn. On either hand

The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down

Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars

The long brook falling thro’ the cloven ravine

In cataract after cataract to the sea.

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus

Stands up and takes the morning; but in front

The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal

Troas and Ilion’s columned citadel.”

Beside this place the rank luxuriance of a tropic island where

“Enoch Arden,” shipwrecked, waited for a sail:

“The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns,

And winding glades high up like ways to heaven,

The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes,

The lightning flash of insect and of bird,

The lustre of the long convolvuluses,

That coiled around the stately stems and ran

Even to the limits of the land, the glows

And glories of the broad belt of the world--

All these he saw.”

Of pure imitative art Scott and Wordsworth are the great modern

masters. Yet we shall all acknowledge that the passages quoted

exhibit a rare excellence. It would be hard to match in Theocritus

the breezy freshness of the “Brook.” As we listen, we lose

ourselves, and seem to penetrate the joyous heart of nature. We

too are in Arcadia. It is the morning of the world, and the infant

god of some slender streamlet hums his naïve song to Pan, who lies

along the sward:

“I wind about, and in, and out,

With many a blossom sailing;

And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling.

* * * * *

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance

Among my skimming swallows,

I make the netted sunbeams dance

Against my sandy shallows.”

We have dwelt at length on the sincerity with which Tennyson

interprets nature. It is the stamp of the true poet. The

dilettante, however cunning, cannot counterfeit it. He cannot keep

himself out of the picture, but invests it with his own sentiment,

and tricks it out in the whims and caprices of the hour. It is

otherwise with Wordsworth. That high-priest of nature enters her

presence reverently, with humble and candid heart. He puts off the

vanities and weaknesses of man on the verge of her holy ground.

From his lips her lessons fall with a simple earnestness, like

oracles from the mouth of a child. Her truths he incarnates, but

does not presume to clothe.

While it is false art to attribute to nature a conscious sympathy

with man, it is true that she at times discovers an unconscious

harmony with his moods. Our emotions are deepened by the accord.

The happy are the happier for sunshine. The sad are saddest in

the night and the rain. To aim at this mystic unison, to strike

one note from feeling and from circumstance, is legitimate and

delightful. Let us contrast an example of such treatment with the

less truthful method to which we have referred. We ought always to

study a theory in some felicitous expression of it, and therefore

we take these graceful lines from Dr. Holmes. The stars and flowers

touched by the woes of fallen man have conspired to watch and warn

him. The flowers cannot bear the sight of human misery.

“Alas! each hour of daylight tells

A tale of shame so crushing,

That some turn white as sea-bleached shells,

And some are always blushing.

“But when the patient stars look down

On all their light discovers,

The traitor’s smile, the murderer’s frown,

The lips of lying lovers,

“They try to shut their saddening eyes,

And in the vain endeavor

We see them twinkling in the skies,

And so they wink for ever.”

At the first glance this moves, and pleases; because the emotion

of the moment veils the extravagant hyperbole. The writer is an

artist, and makes us see, as it were, through tears. But the

lines do not grow upon us like the truly beautiful. As we read

them a second time, there comes over us a feeling of annoyance,

almost of pain, that the flowers should be misinterpreted, the

stars misconstrued. We tremble before nature’s shocks and storms,

and cannot afford to darken her brightest bloom or trouble her

sweet serenity. Look now at this figure of “Mariana,” weeping,

forsaken, “in the moated grange!” There is no pathetic prelude, no

preliminary appeal to human sympathies. A neglected garden and a

lonely house. A reach of level waste, colorless, silent, cold. The

desolation is contagious, and just as the heart is sinking into a

state of depression and despair, the moan of the stricken girl

falls quivering on the ear.

“With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all;

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden wall.

The broken sheds looked sad and strange:

Unlifted was the clinking latch:

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ‘My life is dreary!

He cometh not!’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’”

We are very far from saying that Tennyson is everywhere free from

the pathetic fallacy. But his sins of the kind occur chiefly in

some vein of sportive apologue, like the “Talking Oak,” or in

the mouth of Maud’s morbid lover, half distraught by temper and

wholly crazed by crime. And, indeed, if any could be pardoned for

beholding in all things one image, it would be, no doubt, the

lover. In the old myth, love guided the hand of art; but Pygmalion

was a sculptor, not a landscape painter.

The portrayal of the human form is one of the painter’s triumphs,

as it is the sole province of plastic art. Poetry, for the most

part, evades a description of personal beauty, and is content with

a suggestion. Yet there are two or three etchings in the “Palace of

Art” which seem to us not unworthy of a place in that gallery of

Philostratus which a poet’s hand repeopled:

“Or sweet Europa’s mantle blew unclasped,

From off her shoulder backward borne;

From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped

The mild bull’s golden horn.

“Or else flush’d Ganymede, his rosy thigh

Half buried in the eagle’s down,

Sole as a flying star shot through the sky

Above the pillared town.”

These are mere outlines. But Tennyson has drawn one figure with

almost pictorial finish and force. It is Aphrodite revealing

herself to Paris on Mount Ida:

“Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful,

Fresh as the foam, new bath’d in Paphian wells,

With rosy, slender fingers, backward drew

From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair

Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat

And shoulder: from the violets her light foot

Shone rosy white, and o’er her rounded form,

Between the shadows of the vine-bunches,

Floated the glowing sunlight as she moved.”

This is genuine _painting_. There is form and color in it, and,

withal, the _spirit_ of beauty bathing the whole, untainted by the

faintest suggestion of wanton love.

In the temple of outward nature poetry is only the acolyte of

painting. But one shrine is more exclusively her own. She is

mistress of the heart. Over that ocean no other wing sustains

continuous flight. There are waves of impulse which canvas cannot

reflect, and currents of emotion untraced by the limner’s skill.

There are dainty joys and fears that mock his grasp, and gust of

passion that confound his cunning. Pictorial art must read the soul

in the face, and the face is at best a clouded mirror. From the

poet we hide nothing. The growth of character, the drift of habit,

the pressure of inherited tendencies, springs of motive, stings of

appetite--he discerns and deciphers all. But he must not speak in

riddles: he is bound to make his meaning clear. He owes a duty to

the humblest. They look to him to lend thought a form, shadow a

substance; to explain the strange by the familiar, and flood the

whole with the mellow flight of fancy. The poet is, in a certain

sense, what Sidney would make him, the right popular philosopher.

On the success of Tennyson in this field there is some difference

of opinion. The fervor of his sympathies within a certain range

and the delicacy of his intuitions are unquestioned. His style

is allowed to be rich in color, and often fraught with incisive

force. Let us glance at some passages which depict the finer

shades of feeling, or are conspicuous for felicitous expression. We

will then look at the charges, so often brought against Tennyson,

of obscurity and a want of dramatic power.

It is a fact of common experience that quite opposite emotions,

wrought to intensity, reach a state of fusion. They move, as it

were, in converging lines, and their vanishing point is pain; or

rather, they have what physicists would call a common dew-point.

Thus we hear of the luxury of sorrow and of love’s sweet smart.

Coleridge has touched this psychic truth with extreme tenderness in

“Genevieve.” He shows us the young girl rapt in a troubled wonder

before the strange feeling that storms her gentle breast. Her heart

flutters like a snared bird:

“Her bosom heaved, she stept aside;

As conscious of my look she stept:

Then suddenly, with timorous eye,

She fled to me and wept.”

So in one of Tennyson’s “Idylls,” the eyes of the happy Enid are

suffused with tears. It is hardly possible to read the lines

without loving human nature:

“He turned his face,

And kissed her climbing; and she cast her arms

About him, and at once they rode away.

And never yet, since high in Paradise,

O’er the four rivers the first roses blew,

Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind

Than lived through her who in that perilous hour

Put hand to hand beneath her husband’s heart

And felt him hers again. She did not weep,

But o’er her meek eyes came a happy mist,

Like that which kept the heart of Eden green.”

Most persons have known those transient attachments which are born

of “accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving.”

In the “Gardener’s Daughter” some one alludes in this playful

fashion to the dethroned darling of his salad days:

“Oh! she

To me myself, for some three careless moons,

The summer pilot of an empty heart

Unto the shores of nothing. Know you not

Such touches are but embassies of love,

To tamper with the feelings ere he found

Empire for life?”

Few who have read the new “Maid’s Tragedy” have forgotten “Elaine.”

There is no sweeter face in story. We trace a master’s hand in the

passage where a passionate sympathy holds her from her sleep, and

the deep lines of Lancelot’s countenance are mirrored in her white

soul:

“As when a painter, poring on a face,

Divinely through all hindrance finds the man

Behind it, and so paints it that his face,

The shape and color of a mind and life,

Lives for his children ever at its best

And fullest: so his face before her lived.”

Lancelot is always gracious to her, and grateful for her tender

care, but he is moody and absent, and instinct tells her that his

love can never be hers. She bears home a heavy heart:

“She murmured, ‘Vain! in vain! it cannot be;

He will not love me! how, then, must I die?’

Then, as a little, helpless, innocent bird,

That has but one plain passage of few notes,

Will sing the simple passage o’er and o’er

For all an April morning, till the ear

Wearies to hear it; so the simple maid

Went half the night repeating, ‘Must I die?’”

One more. A song of Tristram’s, rife with the graceful gayety that

masks and half-redeems a faithless heart. It might have been made

by Ronsard, and sung by Bussy d’Amboise. The husband of “Isolt of

Brittany” and the lover of “Isolt of Britain” gives the _rationale_

of broken vows:

“Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that bend the brier!

A star in heaven, a star within the mere.

Ay, ay, O ay, a star was my desire;

And one was far apart, and one was near!

Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that bow the grass!

And one was water, and one star was fire.

And one will ever shine, and one will pass;

Ay, ay, O ay, the winds that move the mere!”

The admirers of Byron and the poets of the Georgian era find

Tennyson obscure. By obscurity they ought to mean a darkness born

of confusion, the cloud of fallacy, the vagueness of incoherence.

Crude thoughts, unfledged fancies, halting metaphors, are obscure.

Poetasters are commonly dark, and it would be easy to show that

Byron himself in his best work, the fourth canto of _Childe

Harold_, is sometimes guilty of obscurity. And it must be admitted

that some poems of Tennyson’s youth, and likewise “Maud,” are open

to this objection. But if, as we believe, the charge is pointed at

“In Memoriam,” “Love and Duty,” or the “Palace of Art,” then we

deny its force. It may be that they who find enigmas in _Paradise

Lost_ and “In Memoriam” mistake the source of their difficulties.

We incline to depreciate what we fail to comprehend. We forget

that deep waters are not necessarily turbid; that novelty is not

obscurity. As we climb a mountain, we gain new views of the valley

beneath, yet the novel landscape may be no less vivid than the old.

There is, indeed, a dulness of the ear that detects no clue to the

myriad threads of harmony. There is a myoptic disease which sees

nothing but indistinctness beyond its narrow horizon. In such cases

the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that

we are mystified.

We have said that the poet owes a duty to the humblest. That duty

is fulfilled when he has conjured his fancies into visible shapes,

and given truth a concrete form. He is not called upon to find eyes

for the blind, or learning for the ignorant. It is enough if at his

banquet there is food for all stomachs. The poet owes a duty not to

the humble only.

There are, for example, two methods by which poetry may illuminate

history. It may invest personal character with the truth and vigor

of life, and portray detached scenes in correct and brilliant

colors. Or it may reveal to the imagination by exact and felicitous

metaphor the sequence of events, the march of knowledge, the drift

of opinion, and the “long result of time.” Thus Lucan poetized

a narrative, Lucretius thinks in imagery. We recall no better

illustration of the former treatment than the fine stanza from

_Childe Harold_:

“When Athens’ armies fell at Syracuse,

And fettered thousands bore the yoke of war,

Redemption rose up in the Attic muse,

Her voice their only ransom from afar.

See as they chant the tragic hymn, the car

Of the o’ermastered victor stops; the reins

Fall from his hands; his idle scymitar

Starts from its belt; he rends his captive’s chains,

And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strains.”

The anecdote is a noble one, and has gained nobility in the

telling. But anecdotes after all are not the marrow of history.

Something may be learned from Montesquieu as well as from

Marmontel. Two lines from “Locksley Hall” exhibit the other method

of interpreting history. The lines aim at nothing less than at once

to condense and illumine the most pregnant epoch of modern times,

the eighteenth century. This looks certainly like a preposterous

abuse of that definition assigned to the drama, “an abstract and

brief chronicle of the time.” Let us recall for a moment the period

of Louis Quinze. The feudal system has fallen. The flowers are

withered, the chains remain. The nobles have become courtiers,

municipal privilege has perished, the peasant is a slave. Dishonor

on the throne, bankruptcy in the treasury, the poor starving,

the rich corrupt. Oppression tightening his grasp, and knowledge

learning to realize the woe and to divine the remedy. On one side,

despair that has begun to think of vengeance; on the other, blind

arrogance that does not dream of retribution. And now, is not the

whole story told with almost terrible simplicity in the compass of

these lines?

“Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher

Glares at one that nods and blinks behind a slowly-dying fire.”

It may be said that Byron was well-read in history; but he held

that only romantic characters and striking facts were fit subjects

of poetic treatment. That is not our opinion. We believe Byron gave

the best he had. Moreover, it is not true that poetry may borrow

nothing from history but personal traits and isolated events.

That narrow view of the poet’s province was corrected for English

literature by the _Paradise Regained_. Poetry is no mendicant,

to be put off with the stale scraps and shallow gossip of the

servants’ hall. Her seat is at the high table, beside the masters

of the house.

Tennyson, we are told, has no dramatic power. It is true that he

has written no drama. Does it follow that he is wanting in dramatic

power?

Derivation often tells us more of words than of men. A drama is

something done, not told or sung; neither narrative nor ode, but

something _done_. First, then, we must have _doers_; or, if you

please, actors. Our actors must prove themselves alive, they

must be impelled to move. The impelling force is _incident_. But

detached scenes illustrative of character do not make a drama,

incident is not _plot_. The action which develops character must

at the same time tend toward a certain end, the catastrophe of the

piece. A drama, then, in the strictest sense is this: a development

of character in situations which excite to action in a particular

direction.

Where the evolution of plot is subordinate to the portrayal

of character, the drama is loose and inorganic, like many of

Shakespeare’s plays. Where the elaboration of personal traits is

merged in the accomplishment of the event, the drama leans toward

the epic, like a tragedy of Æschylus. Perfect equimarch in the

development of character and plot stamps the ideal drama. Dramatic

power in this sense is one of the rarest of human gifts, and

perhaps has been exerted nowhere but in the plays of Sophocles.

The phrase has, in English criticism, a much narrower meaning, and

points simply to the exhibition of character by action.

We acknowledge that those poems of Tennyson which preceded the

“Idylls of the King” gave little evidence of dramatic talent. Like

the works of Byron, they are for the most part lyrical, reflective.

In them the “beings of the mind” are rather analyzed than animated.

The poet interprets them. They do not speak for themselves. Even

dramatic insight, which is another thing than dramatic power,

seems at times to be wanting. Thus his “Ulysses” is a modern

soul grappling with the framework of Homeric times. “Margaret,”

“Madeleine,” “Isabel,” are lovely dreams, not lovely women. In the

“Princess,” if anywhere, we should look for the development of

character. But as the persons of the tale pass across the stage, we

incline to suspect with the prince that they are but shadows, “and

all the mind is clouded with a doubt.” Indeed, little Lillia, whose

burst of pretty petulance suggests the theme, is by far the most

lifelike figure.

But the judgment passed upon living poets is at best provisional,

and subject to reversal on appeal. The writer of pastorals will

perhaps produce an _Æneid_ in his riper years; “L’Allegro” and

“Lycidas” may be succeeded by an epic. In the cluster of poems

which embodies the Arthurian legends, there is much discrimination

of character. The courtly flippancy of “Gawain” is distinguished

from Tristram’s joyous levity. “Etarre” is vicious, “Vivien” is

base. “Enid” is not a gentler being than “Elaine,” yet her meekness

is finely contrasted with the latter’s emotional nature. In

“Lancelot” we have a noble spirit in the toils of a great crime.

In “Arthur,” the perfect equipose of _character_, illumined by a

sublime resolve.

Nor are the foremost persons of the poems mere portraits. They

are actors as well. They approach for the most part unheralded.

Their temper and motives are self-betrayed, or hinted with a wise

reserve. Their personal traits are evoked by incident or emphasized

in dialogue. Here certainly is dramatic power of a certain kind.

Not the highest which creates a drama--is it high enough for an

epic? We incline to doubt. At least, it has produced none. We

cannot allow that the “Idylls” which are grouped around the figure

of the king constitute an epic poem.

The epic--we speak of the _Æneid_--is distinguished from the drama

by this, that the development of character is subordinate to the

evolution of plot, the actors are merged in the action. And as

the drama may lean toward the epic, so the epic may lean toward

history. That the poet unites in his own person the functions of

scene-painter, machinist, and _chorēgus_, is only a difference of

form.

Now, it is not so much grasp of character as _nexus_ of plot that

we miss in the “Idylls.” Scott’s _Rokeby_ is an epic, yet Bertram

Risingham is not more lifelike than “Lancelot.” But in _Rokeby_

the story grows; one event generates another, the catastrophe

is inevitable. Episodes are admitted in the epic, but they must

be natural growths, or at least successful grafts. For example,

“Elaine” and “Guinevere” stand in true organic relation, but “Enid”

and “Vivien” have nothing in common with the rest of the cycle but

their social atmosphere and casual reference to familiar names. In

the poet’s mind, no doubt, the old Arthurian romances have been

fused into a kind of unity. They present to him a coherent picture;

discover a central thought. It is the soul at war with flesh,

aspiration foiled by appetite, the eagle stung by the serpent. But

he has conveyed the idea by short and random strokes. We catch only

glimpses of it, and are not permitted to watch the progressive

development. In the “Idylls of the King” there is the matter of an

epic, but not the form. We should prefer to place them in a class

apart, which might include the _Faerie Queen_.

On the range, finish, and accuracy of Tennyson’s diction, we

need not dwell. But no view of a poet’s artistic powers would be

complete without a glance at his command of melody and rhythm.

For sweetness and clearness of tone, the choral hymn in the

“Lotus-Eaters,” and the “Bugle” and “Cradle” songs which beguile

_entr’actes_ in the “Princess” are excelled by few English lyrics.

In grasp of rhythm Tennyson yields to no recent poet, except

Shelley. There is a striking instance of rhythmic effect in the

“Palace of Sin.” A strain of music floats in upon the ear, deepens,

swells, and at length bursts forth in an orchestral symphony.

Most of Tennyson’s later poems have been written in unrhymed

pentameter, and his management of the verse suggests a comparison

with his master. In dignity of movement, Milton has never been

equalled by any English poet. It seems that no line but his could

express the lost archangel, or embody that vision of imperial Rome

where sonorous names load as with cloth of gold the march of the

stately iambics. Yet nothing could stoop more awkwardly to the

quiet talk and joys of the married pair in Eden. While Tennyson’s

blank verse falls short of his model in majesty and serried force,

we must allow it to be more flexible. We cannot imagine the little

novice using the Miltonic line. Her gentle thoughts would have been

drowned in the mighty current, whereas Tennyson’s tripping vocables

deliver with easy grace her artless prattle.

We can only allude to those experiments in metre which amuse the

leisure of an artist, although one of them deserves attention. It

is an ode to Milton:

“O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies,

O skilled to sing of time and eternity,

God-gifted organ-voice of England,

Milton, a name to resound for ages!”

Let the reader compare these lines with some familiar model

of Alcaics like “Vides ut altâ,” and then ask himself whether

_quantity_ has hitherto had fair play in English verse.

II.

What has art to do with morals? With what propriety shall a poet

play the moralist? His purpose is distinct, his method is radically

different, is his object ever identical? We know that it is not

always so. In the face of outward nature the truthful artist is

forbidden to read humanity. Hardly is Wordsworth suffered to

discover here divinity. The Greek sculptor sought beauty, not

goodness, in the daughters of men, and the lines that grew beneath

his fingers breathe the harmony of grace, not the harmony of

character. Does the application of these rigorous principles bound

the sphere of genuine art? Do the good and the beautiful nowhere

cohere and interfuse? They may--in the _ideal_. For what is beauty

in things which disclose design but the reflex of perfection?

And what is goodness but the perfection of the heart? In the

scheme of ethics, vice is ugliness, error a discord, and weakness

disproportion, character means equipoise, and virtue expresses

harmony. But how shall art or ethics discern a moral symmetry, and

crown a spiritual perfection, without a right conception of man’s

nature, of his place and purpose, his relation to the universe

and to God? So far as he portrays the heart, the poet must be a

moralist. Within this domain the truest art will utter the purest

morals.

It is a blessed law by which he who aims to please is constrained

to edify. For reason is a disinherited prince, and the estate is

too often squandered before he comes to his own. Pride rears the

head against precept. The imagination flutters and beats her bars,

until experience has clipped her wings. The ideal republic could

ill afford to dispense with poets, for there is no lesson like the

modest lesson of a lovely life. To our gaze perhaps the influence

seems wholly lost, and yet may be only latent. This is sure, that

virtue has still a foothold in the heart that keeps an altar to

the beautiful. We know how many seeds of goodness, what germs of

aspiration, are flung broadcast by the poet’s hand. Who will say

that his random sowings may not stir in a genial hour, strike root

in the depths of motive, and blossom in act and life? No thoughtful

mind has failed to recognize the insight of Sidney’s words in his

_Defence of Poesy_: “For even those hard-hearted evil men who

think virtue a school name, and know no other good but _indulgere

genio_, yet will be content to be delighted, which is all the

good-fellow poet seems to promise, and so steal to see the form

of goodness, which, seen, they cannot but love ere themselves be

aware, as if they had taken a medicine of cherries.”

The ethical standard is sensitive to the influence of climate and

of race. The Italian and the German recognize the same virtues, but

write them in different scales referred to a national key-note.

The growth of knowledge and the expansion of sympathy determine a

deeper change. From the age of Pericles to the age of Napoleon,

the ideal of character has undergone alterations which have

penetrated the essence and affected the type. Of certain virtues

which fired the heart of an Athenian, we have kept nothing but the

names, and we have canonized others of which he had no conception.

The attitude of the individual man toward nature and society is

constantly shifting under the pressure of ideas. The wave of

inquiry which rose in civic revolution has swept in widening

circles over the whole surface of opinion, and now dashes on the

primal verities which declare the origin and destiny of man. The

mind is active, but the heart of the age is perplexed and sad. She

ponders painfully the riddle of the painful earth. She is lost in

the great forest, the new paths are uncertain, the old to her seem

overgrown. She is troubled with a vague unrest, beset with dark

misgivings, by results she loathes to accept, doubts which she

longs to silence, and hopes she dare not forego. Her mood is too

grave and earnest for blithe and heedless carol. She cannot pause

to hear the idle singer of an empty day. The music which holds

her ear must be attuned to serious sympathy, must echo her own

self-questionings, and breathe her aspirations. She puts aside from

her lip the cup of distilled water, and turns to the mineral spring

that savors of the rugged earth.

De Musset is not more essentially a child of the age than Tennyson.

Both inherited in rare perfection the exquisite sensibility and

high tension of the nervous system which are developed by modern

life. In both the violence of emotion is succeeded by prolonged

depression. Their joy is often rapture, and their sorrow anguish,

but the prevailing tone is a dreamy languor that betrays fatigue.

Their intellects were plunged in the same bath of learning, and

tempered in the furnace of the time. They unite in regretting the

trustful past, and complain that they were born too late into a

sick and decrepit world. They pace together the shore of life,

and gaze with wistful eyes over the expanse of ocean. But here

the parallel ends. Their roads diverge in youth. Each obeys a

different impulse, and learns a different lesson. The one hears

a growing harmony in the voices of science, and perceives an

increasing purpose in the movement of mankind. The other bows the

head in stupor before the howling storm. Tennyson has a kindly

glance and a cheery word for his fellow-men, they are his brothers,

his co-workers, ever reaping something new. De Musset loads the

heart with a sense of utter misery, and paralyzes the will by the

infusion of his self-contempt. He is half-indignant that his spirit

should be still haunted by a sublime aspiration, and confesses

almost with a groan:

“_Une immense espérance a traversé la terre._”[60]

It is in another mood that Tennyson hails the promise which he sees

in the aspiration of the soul:

“What is it thou knowest, sweet voice? I cried,

A hidden hope, the voice replied.”

There are few words more painful to read than the prayer in

“L’Espoir en Dieu.” The passionate queries are wrung from a

breaking heart. We offer a rude but passably close translation of

two stanzas. The poet demands:

“Wherefore in a work divine

So much of discord tarrieth?

To what good end disease and sin?

O God of justice! wherefore death?

“Wherefore suffer our unworth

To dream, and to divine, a God?

Doubt hath laid desolate the earth,

Our view is too narrow or too broad.”

Compare the rooted faith and serene calm of the poem to “In

Memoriam:”

“Thine are these orbs of light and shade,

Thou madest life in man and brute,

Thou madest death, and, lo, thy foot

Is on the skull that thou hast made.

“Thou wilt not leave him in the dust,

Thou madest man, he knows not why,

He thinks he was not made to die,

And thou hast made him, thou art just.”

Much, no doubt, of the peculiar spirit that pervades the work of

either poet may be traced to the social atmosphere in which he

moved. Much also is only to be explained by the history of his

life. Behind the “In Memoriam,” an unselfish and ennobling sorrow

weeps and prays above a cherished grave. “In Rolla,” remorse sobs

bitterly amid the ruins of a wasted life. The song has betrayed the

singer. The one is the laureate of hope: the other, a prophet of

despair. Tennyson is a night-worn pilgrim whose kindling eye has

caught the glimmer of a lovely dawn; De Musset, a tired swimmer

whose drowning cry leaps toward us from the gates of death. The

poetry of De Musset is a convex lens which draws to a fiery focus

the doubts and longings of the time; Tennyson’s, a stained

rose-window, that subdues the flaring sunlight to a mild and tender

radiance.

While man’s moral nature is developed and determined by his

attitude toward society and his Maker, it is also profoundly

affected by his attitude toward women. The relative position of

woman has been rather raised than lowered by the movement of

modern thought. Much has been deciphered by speculation, and much

dissected by science, but the deep significance of the female

character remains intact. In the fine atmosphere which nourished

the musings of Richter, two earthly forms move freely, the maiden

and the wife. In the long process of comparative anatomy, the

beautiful first reveals itself in the sweet instinct that binds a

mother to her offspring. Then first does the fire of Prometheus

fairly catch the clay. The noblest instinct and the noblest

aspiration have one element in common--the abnegation of self.

Perhaps the one is but a reflex of the other. It is certain that

the highest art has done the fullest justice to women. Let us

measure Byron and Tennyson by this standard. To Byron, woman was

an exquisite instrument which responds in perfect tune to the

master-touch of passion. To Tennyson, she is an embodied spirit,

who inspires and tempers man while she seems to obey his impulse.

It is a shallow criticism which would excuse Byron’s low conception

by an unfortunate experience. If personal experience be narrow,

why not look beyond it? If the feet stumble in the mire, the eyes

may still be lifted. The fact is, an irresistible instinct compels

a genuine artist to discern and to preach the truth. His life may

prove a rebel, but his work will pay tribute to Cæsar.

The author of “Godiva,” of “Enid” and “Elaine” is eminently the

poet of woman. It is especially worthy of remark that he should

have maintained a distinct and lofty ideal throughout the Arthurian

cycle. In the mediæval myths, the lineaments of the female

character were sometimes clouded by the admixture of masculine

traits. Through the Carlovingian romance that lives in Ariosto’s

verse, there roves an unsexed and warlike virgin, whom the poet

means us to admire; at whom we smile in secret. Tennyson has read

woman’s nature with an insight too fine and delicate to place her

in so false an attitude. There is no Bradamant in the “Idylls of

the King.”

The unswerving justice of true genius finds consummate expression

in the treatment of “Guinevere.” The wrong-doing of imperial beauty

was a dangerous theme, and we may guess how it would have been

handled by the author of “Parasina.” In the original legend the

queen commanded sympathy, but she is now positively degraded by her

preference for a meaner soul. It is Arthur’s doom, and no merit of

hers, that he loves her still. There is little likelihood that a

modern Francesca will borrow impulse or pretext from her story. It

is amusing to find the lovers of Haidee and Gulnare scandalized by

“Vivien.” If ever a vile nature was scorched and shrivelled by the

flame of an honest wrath, that poem affords the spectacle. In wily

Vivien, vice is neither condoned nor glozed, but simply stripped

and gibbeted. The pure air which breathes throughout the “Idylls”

is condensed in the lines of “Guinevere,” which declare the great

purpose of the king. We may say with assurance that no other

English poet, except Wordsworth, would have written them.

Tennyson has spoken words of comfort to many English hearts, and

inspired with a noble purpose many English lives. His spirit has

crossed the seas. To him and Wordsworth the youth of America owe

much that they will not speedily forget. Other benefactors may

receive some form of recompense, but how shall we repay a poet?

It is not praise, but thanks we would offer Alfred Tennyson. Rare

artist, and high teacher, sweet voice, pure heart, there are many

who admire, and not a few who love him.

FOOTNOTES:

[59] _The Last Tournament._ Boston, 1871. J. R. Osgood & Co. _The

Poetical Works of Alfred Tennyson, Poet-Laureate._ We have already

printed in this magazine a review of Tennyson’s poems which aimed

to indicate the Catholic aspects of his mind. The following article

covers different ground.

[60] “A vast hope has passed over the earth.”

HOW THE CHURCH UNDERSTANDS AND UPHOLDS THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN.

SECOND ARTICLE.

AGES OF THE FATHERS OF THE CHURCH.

When the Christian religion had triumphed over idolatry, the

principle of evil took refuge in heresy, and vigorously began a

new attack upon the church. As women had once sealed their faith

with their blood, so now they came eagerly forward to preach it

by their learning. The centuries which produced the fathers of

the church produced women also, to whom these great lights of the

true faith were mainly indebted for their early education. The

same circumstances also created women who, on the throne and in

the council-chamber, governed turbulent nations and guided fierce

passions, according to the rules of justice, honesty, and religion.

The mother of St. Gregory Nazianzen, Doctor of the Church, was

Nonna, and is honored as a saint. Butler, in his _Lives of the

Saints_, says: “She drew down the blessing of heaven upon her

family by most bountiful and continual alms-deeds; ... yet, to

satisfy the obligation of justice which she owed to her children,

she, by her prudent economy, improved at the same time their

patrimony.”

Here, therefore, in the fourth century, we find a woman commended

for her practical knowledge of business and her skill in managing

property. Ventura relates that, as soon as her son Gregory came

into the world, she placed the Scriptures in his infant hands,

and ever after inculcated in her teaching the greatest love and

reverence for sacred learning. Nonna’s other children were both

canonized, one of them, Gorgonia, having led the most exemplary

life in the holy state of matrimony. (_La Donna Cattolica_, vol.

i. pp. 431, 432.) St. Basil, who counted among his ancestry

many martyrs of both sexes, was the son of St. Emelia, and the

great-nephew of St. Macrina the Elder, of whom he says himself that

he “counts it as one of the greatest benefits of Almighty God, and

the truest of honors, to have been brought up by such a woman.”

His elder sister, also named Macrina, was greatly instrumental in

conducting his education. When after his death his brother, St.

Gregory of Nyssa, went to visit their sister, and open his heart

to her concerning their common sorrow, he found her dying, it is

true, but so vigorous in mind that her discourse on the providence

of God and the state of the soul after death was no less striking

than comforting. He could hardly believe, says Ventura, that it

was not a doctor of the church, a learned theologian, who was

speaking to him; and so much did he treasure his sister’s words

that he compiled his admirable _Treatise of the Soul_ and _The

Resurrection_ chiefly from the matter furnished by her discourse.

Macrina’s funeral was an ovation, and the bishop of the diocese

held it an honor to be present thereat.

Olympias, the widow of Nembridius, the treasurer of the Emperor

Theodosius the Great, flourished about the end of the fourth

century, and was the friend and helper of St. John Chrysostom. His

letters to her are part of his published works, and Nectarius,

his predecessor in the Patriarchal chair of Constantinople,

often consulted her on matters of ecclesiastical importance.

When Chrysostom was persecuted and banished, she did not escape

vexatious notice from heathen and heretical rulers; but through

all, her fortitude would have done credit to the bravest man. The

great patriarch charged her to continue, during his absence, “to

serve the church with the same care and zeal” (Ventura, _Donna

Cattolica_, p. 443), and elsewhere in his works says emphatically

that “women, as well as men, can take part in any struggle for the

cause of God and of the church.” (_Epistle 124, to the Italians._)

In a letter to her, he says that her presence was _required_ at

Constantinople to encourage the persecuted brethren, and in another

he bids her exert all her resources to _save_ the Bishop Maruthas

from the abyss (he having given signs of yielding to heresy).

Further on, in the same letter, he gives her instructions, almost

amounting to a diplomatic and official mission, with regard to

the request of the King of the Goths for a bishop and missionary

in place of Aubinus the Apostle, who had just died, after

converting many thousand of these barbarians. When St. Chrysostom

sent a messenger to the Pope St. Innocent, at the beginning

of the persecutions at Constantinople, he gave him letters of

recommendation to none but a few Roman ladies--Proba, Juliana, and

Demetrias.

The influence of Monica, the mother of St. Augustine, upon her

wayward son, is so well known that it is almost superfluous

to dwell on it; and St. Jerome, eminently a learned saint, was

scarcely less connected with holy and well-taught women. He himself

tells us that it was especially his friend and spiritual daughter

Paula who engaged him in the study of the Old and New Testaments,

and who induced him to translate the former from the original

Hebrew. Rohrbacher, in his _Ecclesiastical History_, corroborates

this statement; and Capefigue, in his _Four First Ages of the

Church_, says that “the pure society of women had imparted to

Jerome a heartfelt exaltation, a deep enthusiasm for all purity

and nobility in themselves.” We learn from Butler (_Lives of the

Saints_) that Marcella, one of the many matrons under St. Jerome’s

instruction in Rome, made great progress in the critical learning

of the Holy Scriptures, and learned in a short time many things

which had cost him abundance of labor (vol. ix.). Other women, of

whom we shall speak hereafter, were collected under his guidance;

almost all are now canonized saints, and were celebrated even in

their own day for their skill and erudition. The great Paula was

the most illustrious among them, and he tells us of her as also of

five or six others that they were as well acquainted with Hebrew

as with Latin and Greek. To the daughter-in-law of St. Paula,

Jerome wrote a letter full of minute and seemingly trivial details,

concerning the education of her little daughter, who afterwards

became St. Paula the Younger. It is of such quaint interest, and

so calculated to give a high idea of the importance attached by

the great doctor of the church to the minutiæ of a little girl’s

daily life, that we cannot resist the temptation of quoting a few

extracts from it:

“Let her be brought up as Samuel was in the temple, and the Baptist

in the desert, in utter ignorance of vanity and vice; ... let her

never hear bad words nor learn profane songs; ... let her have an

alphabet of little letters made of box or ivory, the names of all

which she must know, that she may play with them, and that learning

may be made a diversion. When a little older, let her form each

letter in wax with her finger, guided by another’s hand; then

let her be invited, by prizes and presents suited to her age, to

join syllables together.... Let her have companions to learn with

her, that she may be spurred on by emulation.... She is not to be

scolded or browbeaten if slower, but to be encouraged that she

may rejoice to surpass, and be sorry to see herself outstripped

and behind others, not envying their progress, but rejoicing at

it while she reproaches herself with her own backwardness. Great

care is to be taken that she conceive no aversion to studies, lest

their bitterness remain in after-years. A master must be found for

her, a man both of virtue and learning: nor will a great scholar

think it beneath him to teach her the first elements of letters....

That is not to be contemned without which nothing great can be

acquired. The very sounds of letters and the first rudiments are

very different in a learned and in an unskilful mouth. Care must

be taken that she be not accustomed by fond nurses to pronounce

half-words, as it would prejudice her speech. Great care is

necessary that she never learn what she will have afterwards to

unlearn. The eloquence of the Gracchi derived its perfection from

the _mother’s_ elegance (of speech). No paint must ever touch her

face or hair.” He is no less sensible and moderate in physical

instructions than strict in things of the spiritual order. He

says: “She should eat so as always to be hungry, and to be able to

read or sing psalms immediately after meals. The immoderate long

fasts of many displease me. I have learned by experience that the

ass, much fatigued on the road, seeks rest at any cost. In a long

journey, strength must be supported, lest, by running the first

stage too fast, we should fall in the middle. In Lent, full scope

is to be given to severe fasting.” He advises the young girl, when

old enough, to read the works of St. Cyprian, the epistles of St.

Athanasius, and the writings of St. Hilary. These are grave and

abstruse studies, requiring much time and application, and as fully

up to the standard of a modern _male_ education as any woman could

desire. St. Jerome himself was living at Bethlehem when he wrote

this letter, and while recommending her mother to send little

Paula to St. Paula the Elder for her later education, he himself

promises to instruct her, adding that “he should be more honored

by teaching the spouse of Christ than the philosopher [Aristotle]

was in being preceptor to the Macedonian King.” It was the elder

Paula who built St. Jerome the monastery of Bethlehem, in which

he spent a great part of his life. She governed a monastery of

women not far from it. St. Jerome, in his panegyric of her life,

addressed to her daughter Eustochium, expresses himself in the

following unequivocal language: “Were all the members of my body

to be changed into tongues, and each fibre to utter articulate and

human sounds, even then I could not worthily celebrate the virtues

of the holy and venerable Paula.” As soon as her husband’s death

left her the free use of a magnificent fortune, she liberated all

the numerous retinue of slaves that formed not only her household

but her possessions. Hundreds of Christian masters and mistresses

did the same, and treated their freed retainers as brethren and

sisters in the faith, long before the philanthropy of modern times

had begun to envelop in a halo of unusual heroism the sacrifice of

slave property. From a noble Roman matron, placed by her birth in

an assured position of great prominence, she became a voluntary

exile and wanderer for the sake of planting the faith more firmly

in the East. St. Jerome describes, in words full of sympathetic

admiration, her pious visits to the Holy Places of Judea. She also

made a pilgrimage to the home of monasticism, the Thebaïd and the

Lybian desert. Humble as she was, fame followed and surrounded her.

Pilgrims to Jerusalem counted her as one of the most consoling and

admirable of the objects that claimed their devotion. Macarius,

Arsenius, Serapion, famous lights of the church and patriarchs of

the eremitical life, came from long distances and inaccessible

solitudes to confer with her. At Jerusalem, she founded places

of shelter and entertainment for the many pilgrims who flocked

there; both at Rome and in the East, she was the mother and the

idol of the poor, whose wants she relieved untiringly, and for

whose sake she was often not only penniless, but in debt. Her

last illness was like a royal levee, and bishops and patriarchs

hastened to her bedside; her funeral, says Ventura, was almost a

canonization. Bishops carried her body to its tomb, and for seven

days sacred hymns and psalms echoed ceaselessly in the church

of the Holy Grotto at Bethlehem, where the funeral service was

performed in Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Capefigue calls her the

“most remarkably erudite woman of her age,” and her instincts

of faith and learning alike made her intuitively aware of the

artifices of the heretic Palladius, whose well-concealed Origenism

she unmasked and denounced in presence of St. Jerome, when the wolf

would have put on sheep’s clothing and deceived her simple nuns.

Paula’s daughters--Blesilla, the learned and accomplished widow;

Eustochium, the celebrated virgin to whom many of St. Jerome’s

works are addressed or dedicated; Paulina, the model wife to whose

influence over her saintly husband the first hospitals in the West

are due--and their sister-in-law, Læta, the happy mother of the

younger St. Paula, are all canonized saints of the church, and each

of them the just pride of their sex in the respective walks of

life to which they were destined. Fabiola, another of St. Jerome’s

scholars, was the foundress of the first hospital absolutely

established in Rome.

The church has never been chary of tendering graceful homage to

the influence and ability of woman, and perhaps no more singular

or flattering proof of this can be found than the pictorial honor

which, Ventura assures us (_Donna Cattolica_, vol. i. p. 466), was

offered by St. Gregory the Great to St. Sylvia, his mother. She was

represented as sitting by his side, robed in white, and crowned

with the mitre worn by doctors of theology, while the left hand

held an open Psalter, and the right was raised with two fingers

extended, in the attitude of benediction.

St. Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan, who was born and died in the

fourth century, owed his early training of piety and solid

learning to his mother, who was left a widow during his infancy,

and to his elder sister Marcellina, to whom later on Christendom

became indebted for the three admirable books he wrote on _The

State of Virginity_. Another of his famous works is a treatise

on _Widowhood_. In one of his books on _Virginity_ he meets the

common though worn-out argument that virginity is a foe to the

propagation of the human race. As this bears upon our general

subject, though it be not immediately akin to it, we will stop to

quote it. “Some complain,” he says, “that mankind will shortly

fail if so many are consecrated virgins. I desire to know who ever

wanted a wife and could not find one? The killing of an adulterer,

the pursuing of waging war against a ravisher, are the consequences

of marriage. The number of people is greatest where virginity is

most esteemed. Inquire how many virgins are consecrated every

year at Alexandria, all over the East, and in Africa, where there

are more virgins than there are men in this country [Italy].” And

Butler, in his _Life of St. Ambrose_, goes on to explain: “May not

the French and Austrian Netherlands, full of numerous monasteries,

yet covered with populous cities, be at present esteemed a proof

of this remark? The populousness of China, where great numbers

of new-born infants are daily exposed to perish, is a terrible

proof that the voluntary virginity of some is no prejudice to the

human race. Wars and the sea, not the number of virgins, are the

destroyers of the human race, as St. Ambrose observes; though the

state of virginity is not to be rashly engaged in, and marriage

is not only holy, but the general state of mankind in the world.”

Not only did St. Ambrose occupy his mind and pen with the concerns

of holy and spotless women, but he did not think it beneath his

dignity to write for those unhappy virgins who had fallen from

their vows and thus been reft of their most precious heirloom. In

the third book of his work on _Virginity_, he pays the following

homage to Christian woman, such as she was in his age: “I have

been a priest but three years,” he says, “and my experience has

not been long enough to teach me what I have written. But what

my own experience could not teach, the sight of your conduct has

suggested. If, in this work, you find any flowers of thought, know

that I have gathered them from your own lives. I do not so much

give you precepts, as I draw examples from the behavior of living

virgins, and set them before the eyes of the world. My discourse

has only reproduced the image of your virtues. It is but the

portrait of your own life, so grave and earnest, which you will

see here, beaming with light as reflected from a mirror. If you

find grace in these words, it is you who have inspired my mind with

it. All that is good in this book belongs to you.” (Third book on

_Virgins_.) What more graceful tribute, more appreciative homage,

could man render to the opposite sex? Yet he who wrote this was a

great and powerful bishop, a doctor of the church, a profoundly

learned man, whose influence was spread through kingdoms, and whose

advice was sought and followed by emperors. Here is yet another

example of the distinguished part played by woman in affairs of the

highest public importance. Capefigue, in his _Four First Ages of

the Church_, says that in the churches of Rome might be seen the

most noble matrons of the city, “who gave the first and greatest

impulse to all Christian sentiments.” This was at the end of the

fourth century, and the two Melanias were then foremost among the

active and energetic women mentioned. The elder Melania, whose

fortune was immense, and who was married early by her father, the

Consul Marcellinus, became a widow after a few years of married

life, and thereafter devoted herself to the church. She travelled

to Egypt and Palestine in the interests of the persecuted Patriarch

Athanasius, whom she protected and supported with all the moral

influence and temporal means at her command. The zealous and open

protectress of more than five thousand Christians, the harborer

of priests and bishops driven from their sees and parishes during

the Arian persecutions of the Emperor Valens, she was herself cast

into prison by the Governor of Jerusalem, to whom she spoke thus

boldly and fearlessly: “Do not think to despise me because I wear

poor garments: I might wear the robes of a princess, did I choose

to do so. Do not think to intimidate me by your threats, for I have

sufficient influence to protect me against the slightest aggression

on your part. I tell you this, and give you this advice, that you

may not through ignorance commit any error that might lead you

into danger.” The courageous woman was released, and continued her

ministrations of mercy. Her granddaughter, St. Melania, married

young to a noble Roman, the descendant of the great Publicola, and

the son of the Prefect of Rome, was even a more prominent personage

than the elder Melania. After the birth and death of two children,

she and her husband renounced their high position, freed eight

thousand slaves, and sold their immense possessions in several

parts of the Roman Empire for the benefit of the poor. They then

retired to a quiet country solitude in Campania, and with several

associates began leading “the perfect life” which we have so often

seen attempted in vain in this age by refined and earnest souls

without the bosom of the church. Here, their chief occupation was

the study and the propagation of the Scriptures and other solid

works of learning and faith. The works of the fathers were foremost

among the latter, and Ventura says with truth that we may well

thank woman when we read these admirable treatises, for without her

help, care, and zeal they would be considerably less in number than

they are. The love of the Scriptures and of Biblical lore seems

thus to have been a distinctive mark of the sex in the early days

of the church.

Melania and her companions after a time left Italy, and settled in

Africa near Hippo, and there became the most active allies of St.

Augustine. They also journeyed through Spain, Palestine, and Asia

Minor, always in the interests of the faith, founding monasteries

and schools, and assisting the poor and the persecuted. After her

husband’s death, Melania, having been wrecked on the coast of

Sicily, and having found several thousand Christians in bondage to

barbarian idolaters, she redeemed and freed them all. At one time

she held a high post at court, and exerted herself successfully

in favor of orthodoxy. When the Nestorian heresy was making great

progress in Asia and Africa, she uncompromisingly combated it by

her influence and social talents, by the persuasion of her manner

and the force of her arguments, as Ribadeneira testifies in the

sketch he wrote of her life. Ventura asserts that she confounded

Pelagius himself, who by all manner of arts endeavored to win her

to his side; and it is known that, when St. Augustine failed to

convert Volusian, the Prefect of Rome, and uncle to Melania, this

heroic woman, according to Baronius, undertook to convince him, and

succeeded most triumphantly. Melania’s funeral at Jerusalem was

the occasion of lavish homage to the power and influence of her

sex; bishops and confessors were eager to show their respect and

admiration, and the Christian world proved once more that “precious

in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”