Alone proves what that soul without earth's dross
Could be, and this, through time's far-searching fire,
Hath proved thine white beneath the deepest scan.
A woman's tribute, 'tis a tiny dot,
A merest flower from a frail, small hand,
To lay among the many petaled wreaths
About thy form,--a tribute soon forgot.
But if in all the incense to arise
In fragrance to the blue empyrean
The blended sweetness of the womens' love
Goes pouring too, in all their heartfelt sighs.
And if one woman's sorrow be among them too,
One woman's joy for labor past
Be reckoned in the mighty teeming whole,
It is enough, there is not more to do.
Within the hearts of heroes small and great
There 'bides a tenderness for weakling things
Within thy heart, the sorrowing country knows
These passions, bravest and the tenderest mate.
When man is dust, before the gazing eyes
Of all the gaping throng, his life lies wide
For all to see and whisper low about
Or let their thoughts in discord's clatter rise.
But thine was pure and undefiled,
A record of long brilliant, teeming days,
Each thought did tend to further things,
But pure as the proverbial child.
Oh, people, that thy grief might find express
To gather in some vast cathedral's hall,
That then in unity we might kneel and hear
Sublimity in sounds, voice our distress.
Peace, peace, the men of God cry, ye be bold,
The world hath known, 'tis Heaven who claims him now,
And in our railings we but cast aside
The noble traits he bid us hold.
So though divided through the land, in dreams
We see a people kneeling low,
Bowed down in heart and soul to see
This fearful sorrow, crushing as it seems.
And all the grand cathedral silence falls
Into the hearts of these that worship low,
Like tender waves of hushed nothingness,
Confined, nor kept by human earthly walls.
A STORY OF VENGEANCE.
Yes, Eleanor, I have grown grayer. I am younger than you, you know, but
then, what have you to age you? A kind husband, lovely children, while
I--I am nothing but a lonely woman. Time goes slowly, slowly for me now.
Why did I never marry? Move that screen a little to one side, please; my
eyes can scarcely bear a strong light. Bernard? Oh, that's a long story.
I'll tell you if you wish; it might pass an hour.
Do you ever think to go over the old school-days? We thought such
foolish things then, didn't we? There wasn't one of us but imagined we
would have only to knock ever so faintly on the portals of fame and they
would fly wide for our entrance into the magic realms. On Commencement
night we whispered merrily among ourselves on the stage to see our
favorite planet, Venus, of course, smiling at us through a high, open
window, "bidding adieu to her astronomy class," we said.
Then you went away to plunge into the most brilliant whirl of society,
and I stayed in the beautiful old city to work.
Bernard was very much _en evidence_ those days. He liked you a great
deal, because in school-girl parlance you were my "chum." You
say,--thanks, no tea, it reminds me that I'm an old maid; you say you
know what happiness means--maybe, but I don't think any living soul
could experience the joy I felt in those days; it was absolutely painful
at times.
Byron and his counterparts are ever dear to the womanly heart, whether
young or old. Such a man was he, gloomy, misanthropical, tired of the
world, with a few dozen broken love-affairs among his varied
experiences. Of course, I worshipped him secretly, what romantic, silly
girl of my age, would not, being thrown in such constant contact with
him.
One day he folded me tightly in his arms, and said:
"Little girl, I have nothing to give you in exchange for that priceless
love of yours but a heart that has already been at another's feet, and a
wrecked life, but may I ask for it?"
"It is already yours," I answered. I'll draw the veil over the scene
which followed; you know, you've "been there."
Then began some of the happiest hours that ever the jolly old sun beamed
upon, or the love-sick moon clothed in her rays of silver. Deceived me?
No, no. He admitted that the old love for Blanche was still in his
heart, but that he had lost all faith and respect for her, and could
nevermore be other than a friend. Well, I was fool enough to be content
with such crumbs.
We had five months of happiness. I tamed down beautifully in that
time,--even consented to adopt the peerless Blanche as a model. I gave
up all my most ambitious plans and cherished schemes, because he
disliked women whose names were constantly in the mouth of the public.
In fact, I became quiet, sedate, dignified, renounced too some of my
best and dearest friends. I lived, breathed, thought, acted only for
him; for me there was but one soul in the universe--Bernard's. Still,
for all the suffering I've experienced, I'd be willing to go through it
all again just to go over those five months. Every day together, at
nights on the lake-shore listening to the soft lap of the waters as the
silver sheen of the moon spread over the dainty curled waves; sometimes
in a hammock swinging among the trees talking of love and reading
poetry. Talk about Heaven! I just think there can't he a better time
among the angels.
But there is an end to all things. A violent illness, and his father
relenting, sent for the wayward son. I will always believe he loved me,
but he was eager to get home to his mother, and anxious to view Blanche
in the light of their new relationship. We had a whole series of parting
scenes,--tears and vows and kisses exchanged. We clung to each other
after the regulation fashion, and swore never to forget, and to write
every day. Then there was a final wrench. I went back to my old
life--he, away home.
For a while I was content, there were daily letters from him to read;
his constant admonitions to practice; his many little tokens to
adore--until there came a change,--letters less frequent, more mention
of Blanche and her love for him, less of his love for me, until the
truth was forced upon me. Then I grew cold and proud, and with an iron
will crushed and stamped all love for him out of my tortured heart and
cried for vengeance.
Yes, quite melo-dramatic, wasn't it? It is a dramatic tale, though.
So I threw off my habits of seclusion and mingled again with men and
women, and took up all my long-forgotten plans. It's no use telling you
how I succeeded. It was really wonderful, wasn't it? It seems as though
that fickle goddess, Fortune, showered every blessing, save one, on my
path. Success followed success, triumph succeeded triumph. I was
lionized, feted, petted, caressed by the social and literary world. You
often used to wonder how I stood it in all those years. God knows; with
the heart-sick weariness and the fierce loathing that possessed me, I
don't know myself.
But, mind you, Eleanor, I schemed well. I had everything seemingly that
humanity craved for, but I suffered, and by all the gods, I swore that
he should suffer too. Blanche turned against him and married his
brother. An unfortunate chain of circumstances drove him from his
father's home branded as a forger. Strange, wasn't it? But money is a
strong weapon, and its long arm reaches over leagues and leagues of land
and water.
One day he found me in a distant city, and begged for my love again, and
for mercy and pity. Blanche was only a mistake, he said, and he loved me
alone, and so on. I remembered all his thrilling tones and tender
glances, but they might have moved granite now sooner than me. He knelt
at my feet and pleaded like a criminal suing for life. I laughed at him
and sneered at his misery, and told him what he had done for my
happiness, and what I in turn had done for his.
Eleanor, to my dying day, I shall never forget his face as he rose from
his knees, and with one awful, indescribable look of hate, anguish and
scorn, walked from the room. As he neared the door, all the old love
rose in me like a flood, drowning the sorrows of past years, and
overwhelming me in a deluge of pity. Strive as I did, I could not
repress it; a woman's love is too mighty to be put down with little
reasonings. I called to him in terror, "Bernard, Bernard!" He did not
turn; gave no sign of having heard.
"Bernard, come back; I didn't mean it!"
He passed slowly away with bent head, out of the house and out of my
life. I've never seen him since, never heard of him. Somewhere, perhaps
on God's earth he wanders outcast, forsaken, loveless. I have my
vengeance, but it is like Dead Sea fruit, all bitter ashes to the taste.
I am a miserable, heart-weary wreck,--a woman with fame, without love.
"Vengeance is an arrow that often falleth and smiteth the hand of him
that sent it."
AT BAY ST. LOUIS.
Soft breezes blow and swiftly show
Through fragrant orange branches parted,
A maiden fair, with sun-flecked hair,
Caressed by arrows, golden darted.
The vine-clad tree holds forth to me
A promise sweet of purple blooms,
And chirping bird, scarce seen but heard
Sings dreamily, and sweetly croons
At Bay St. Louis.
The hammock swinging, idly singing,
Lissome nut-brown maid
Swings gaily, freely, to-and-fro;
The curling, green-white waters casting cool, clear shade,
Rock small, shell boats that go
In circles wide, or tug at anchor's chain,
As though to skim the sea with cargo vain,
At Bay St. Louis.
The maid swings slower, slower to-and-fro,
And sunbeams kiss gray, dreamy half-closed eyes;
Fond lover creeping on with foot steps slow,
Gives gentle kiss, and smiles at sweet surprise.
* * * * *
The lengthening shadows tell that eve is nigh,
And fragrant zephyrs cool and calmer grow,
Yet still the lover lingers, and scarce breathed sigh,
Bids the swift hours to pause, nor go,
At Bay St. Louis.
NEW YEAR'S DAY.
The poor old year died hard; for all the earth lay cold
And bare beneath the wintry sky;
While grey clouds scurried madly to the west,
And hid the chill young moon from mortal sight.
Deep, dying groans the aged year breathed forth,
In soughing winds that wailed a requiem sad
In dull crescendo through the mournful air.
The new year now is welcomed noisily
With din and song and shout and clanging bell,
And all the glare and blare of fiery fun.
Sing high the welcome to the New Year's morn!
_Le roi est mort. Vive, vive le roi!_ cry out,
And hail the new-born king of coming days.
Alas! the day is spent and eve draws nigh;
The king's first subject dies--for naught,
And wasted moments by the hundred score
Of past years rise like spectres grim
To warn, that these days may not idly glide away.
Oh, New Year, youth of promise fair!
What dost thou hold for me? An aching heart?
Or eyes burnt blind by unshed tears? Or stabs,
More keen because unseen?
Nay, nay, dear youth, I've had surfeit
Of sorrow's feast. The monarch dead
Did rule me with an iron hand. Be thou a friend,
A tender, loving king--and let me know
The ripe, full sweetness of a happy year.
THE UNKNOWN LIFE OF JESUS CHRIST.
A new gem has been added to sacred literature, and this is the
accidental discovery by Nicolas Notovich of a Buddhist history of a
phase of Christ's life left blank in the Scriptures.
Notovich, an adventurer, searching amid the ruins of India, delving deep
in all the ancient Buddhistic lore, accidentally stumbles upon the name
of Saint Issa, a renowned preacher, ante-dating some 2,000 years. The
name becomes a wondrous attraction to Notovich, particularly as he
learns through many Buddhist priests, Issa's name in juxtaposition with
the Christian faith, and later, has reason to believe that the Jesus
Christ of our religion and the Saint Issa of their tradition are
identical.
Through a seemingly unfortunate accident, Notovich sustains an injury
to his leg, and is cared for most tenderly by the monks of the convent
of Himis. Despite his severe agonies, he retains consciousness and
curiosity enough to plead for a glimpse of the wonderful documents
contained in the archives of the convent, treating of the life of Saint
Issa and the genealogy of the House of David. This he has translated and
gives to the public.
Just whether to take the history seriously or not is a subject that
requires much thought; but whether it be truth or fiction, whether the
result of patient investigation and careful study of an interested
scholar, or the wild imaginings of a feeble brain, it opens a wild field
of speculation to the thoughtful mind.
The first three chapters of this history, contain a brief epitome of the
Pentatouch of Moses. Though contrary to the teachings of tradition,
Moses is said not to have written these books himself, but that they
were transcribed generations after his time. According to this theory,
then, the seeming imperfections and inconsistencies and tautological
errors of the Old Testament as compared with the brief, clear, concise,
logical statement of the Buddhists may readily be explained by the
frailty of human memory, and the vividness of Oriental imagination.
Prince Mossa of the Buddhists, otherwise Moses of the Jews, was not, as
is popularly supposed, a foundling of the Jews, or a protege of the
Egyptian princess, but a full fledged prince, son of Pharaoh the mighty.
This abrupt over-throw of the tradition of ages is like all
disillusions, distasteful, but even the most superficial study of
Egyptian customs and laws of that time will serve to impress us with the
verity of this opinion. The law of caste was most rigidly and cruelly
adhered to, and though all the pleadings and threatenings and weepings
of the starry-eyed favorite of the harem may have been brought to bear
upon this descendant of Rameses, yet is it probable that a descendant of
an outcast race should receive the care and learning and advantages of
a legally born prince? Hardly.
The condition of the ancient Israelites in the Christian Scriptures and
in the Buddhist parchment are the same, yet there is reason to believe
that the former was transcribed many centuries after the hieroglyphics
of the latter became faded with age, hence, perhaps, the difference in
the parentage of Moses.
"And Mossa was beloved throughout the land of Egypt for the goodness and
compassion he displayed for them that suffered, pleaded with his father
to soften the lot of these unhappy people, but Pharaoh became angry with
him, and only imposed more hardships upon his slaves."
At this period in our Scriptures, the Lord communicates with Moses, and
inflicts the plagues upon the nation, while in the manuscript of the
Himis monks, the annual plague brought on by natural causes falls upon
Egypt, and decimates the community. Here is a strange reversal of the
order of things. In India, for ages the home of superstition and idol
worship, that which has always been regarded by the Christians, the
sworn enemies of the supernatural, as an inexplicable mystery, is
accounted for by perfectly natural causes.
From that time, the fourth chapter of the chronicle of St. Issa
corresponds exactly in its condensed form to the most prominent
chronology of the Old Testament. With the beginning of the next chapter,
the Divine Infant, through whom the salvation of the world was to come,
appears upon the scene, as the first born of a poor but highly connected
family, referring, presumably, to the ancestry of Joseph and Mary.
The remarkable wisdom of the child in earlier years is chronicled in our
ancient parchment with as much care as in the vellum-bound volume of our
church scriptures. At the age of twelve, the last glimpse we have of
Jesus in the New Testament, is as a precocious boy, seated in the
Temple, expounding the Scriptures to the learned members of the
Sanhedrin. After that, we have no further sight of him, until sixteen
years later, he re-appears at the marriage in Cana, a grown and serious
man, already with well-formulated plans for the furtherance of his
father's kingdom. This broad lapse in the Scriptures is filled by one
simple sentence in the gospel of St. Luke. "And he was in the desert
till the day of his showing into Israel." Where he was, why he had gone,
and what he was doing are left to the imagination of the scholar and
commentator.
Many theories have been advanced, and the one most accepted, was that he
had followed the trade of his terrestrial father, Joseph, and was near
Jerusalem among the tools of carpentry, helping his parents to feed the
hungry mouths of his brothers and sisters.
But there appears another plausible theory advanced by the Buddhist
historians, and sustained by the Buddhist traditions, that as Moses had
fled into the wilderness to spend forty years in fasting and preparation
for his life work, so Jesus had fled, not to the wilderness, but to the
ancient culture and learning and the wisdom of centuries to prepare
himself, by a knowledge of all religions for the day of the redemption.
Among the Jews of that day, and even among the more conservative
descendants of Abraham yet, there existed, and exists a law which
accustoms the marrying of the sons, especially the oldest son, at the
age of thirteen. It is supposed that Issa, resisting the thraldom and
carnal temptation of the marital state, fled from the importunities of
the wise men, who would fain unite their offspring with such a wise and
serious youth.
"It was then that Issa clandestinely left his father's house, went out
of Jerusalem, and in company with some merchants, travelled toward
Sinai."
"That he might perfect himself in the divine word and study the laws of
the Great Buddha."
For six years he kept all India stirred to its utmost depths as he
afterward kept all Palestine stirred by the purity of his doctrines, and
the direct simplicity of his teachings. The white priests of Bramah gave
him all their law, teaching him the language and religion of the
dwellers of the five rivers. In Juggernaut, Rajegrilia, Benares, and
other holy cities he was beloved by all. For true, here, as elsewhere,
to his theory of the universal brotherhood of man, not only did he move
among the upper classes, but also with the wretched Vaisyas and Soudras,
the lowest of low castes who even were forbidden to hear the Vedas read,
save only on feast days. Just as among the Jews, he was tolerant,
merciful and kindly disposed towards the Samaritans, the Magdalens, the
Lazaruses as to the haughty rabbis.
His impress upon the home of Buddha and Brahma was manifested by the
hitherto unknown theory of monotheism, established by him, but
gradually permitted to fall into desuetude, and become confounded with
the polytheistic hierarchy of the confusing religion. Just as the grand
oneness and simplicity of the Christian religion has been permitted to
deteriorate into many petty sects, each with its absurd limitations, and
its particular little method of worshipping the Great Father.
The teachings of Issa in India bear close relation in the general trend
of thought to the teachings of Jesus among the multitudes about
Jerusalem. There is the same universal simplicity of man's brotherhood;
the complete self-abnegation of the flesh to the mind; the charitable
impulses of a kind heart, and the utter disregard of caste, whether of
birth, or breeding, or riches.
Of miracles in India, Issa says, "The miracles of our God began when the
universe was created, they occur each day, each instant; whosoever does
not see them, is deprived of one of the most beautiful gifts of life."
At last, according to the chronicles of the Buddhists, Issa was recalled
from his labors in India to the land of Israel, where the people
oppressed as of old by the Pharaohs, and now by the mighty men from the
country of the Ramones, otherwise the Romans.
Here Pilate appears in a new light. Heretofore he has always been a
passive figure in the story of the crucifixion. Indeed he is entirely
exonerated from all blame by some of our religious bibliographers and
made to appear in a philanthropic light, but the priests of Egypt,
undeceived by the treacherous memories and careless chronicling on the
disciples of old, place Pilate before us as a thorough Roman, greedy,
crafty, cruel, unscrupulous. According to them he places a spy upon the
actions of Jesus in the beginning of his three years teachings, who
follows him in all his journeys, and in the end betrays him to the
Romans. This person can be no other than Judas, the betrayer. And here
we are permitted to view his seemingly inexplicable actions in a new
light, and from being Judas, a sorrowing misanthrope, the erstwhile
friend of Christ, he becomes merely a common enemy, the tool of the
Romans.
Then we have the trial and death of Issa, strongly similar to our
accepted version, and the chronicle briefly ends with the statement of
the subsequent work of the disciples. The story of the Buddhist was
written very shortly after the Passion of the Cross; the New Testament
was transcribed years after the chief actors were dust.
We are so steeped in tradition, and so conservative on any subject that
touches our religious beliefs that it is somewhat difficult to reconcile
ourselves to another addition to our Scriptures. But if we should look
at the matter earnestly, and give deep thought to the relative
positions, lives, and endings of these two noble men, Issa and Christ,
we could scarcely doubt that they are one. Without trying, as does the
author, to break down with one fell swoop, the entire structure of the
Bible, we cannot but admit the probability of the new theory.
It may be claimed that the remarkable personality of Christ would have
left more of an impress upon India than it did, and that Christianity
there and in India would have been synchronous, but we must remember,
that there among the idols of Bramah and Vishnu, the way was not
prepared, the people unexpectant of a new prophet, unwarned of him and
unheeded. There he seems to have had no close personal followers to take
up the work just where he left it, and continue. The dwellers of India
were more happy in their entirety and more comfortable than the Jews,
hence there was no Deliverer to impress them forever with the gigantic
sacrifice of human frame and Divine soul.
St. Issa, one of the most revered prophets of the Buddhists, Jesus
Christ, the Man and God of all other men, the divine incarnation of the
ideal, are they the same? Why not?
IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD.
The Harts were going to give a party. Neither Mrs. Hart, nor the Misses
Hart, nor the small and busy Harts who amused themselves and the
neighborhood by continually falling in the gutter on special occasions,
had mentioned this fact to anyone, but all the interested denizens of
that particular square could tell by the unusual air of bustle and
activity which pervaded the Hart domicile. Lillian, the æsthetic, who
furnished theme for many spirited discussions, leaned airily out of the
window; her auburn (red) tresses carefully done in curl papers. Martha,
the practical, flourished the broom and duster with unwonted activity,
which the small boys of the neighborhood, peering through the green
shutters of the front door, duly reported to their mammas, busily
engaged in holding down their respective door-steps by patiently sitting
thereon.
Pretty soon, the junior Harts,--two in number--began to travel to and
fro, soliciting the loan of a "few chairs," "some nice dishes," and such
like things, indispensable to every decent, self-respecting party. But
to all inquiries as to the use to which these articles were to be put,
they only vouchsafed one reply, "Ma told us as we wasn't to tell, just
ask for the things, that's all."
Mrs. Tuckley the dress-maker, brought her sewing out on the front-steps,
and entered a vigorous protest to her next-door neighbor.
"Humph," she sniffed, "mighty funny they can't say what's up. Must be
something in it. Couldn't get none o' _my_ things, and not invite
_me_!"
"Did she ask you for any?" absent-mindedly inquired Mrs. Luke, shielding
her eyes from the sun.
"No-o--, but she'd better sense, she knows _me_--she ain't--mercy me,
Stella! Just look at that child tumbling in the mud! You, Stella, come
here, I say! Look at you now, there--and there--and there?"
The luckless Stella having been soundly cuffed, and sent whimpering in
the back-yard, Mrs. Tuckley continued,