midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver
covered with glasses, and bottles of wine.
“At last we shall have a piano, Sophie,” said she, turning toward her
mistress to drink.
“Not yet, my good Marianne,” replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which
contradicted her reply.
[Illustration]
Such was the _début_ of the gifted woman who has written so many
charming romances. Late in life she commenced a work on Education; but a
cruel malady surprised her in the midst of her labor, and after three
months of suffering, which were, however, alleviated by the tenderness
of friends, and the consolations of religion, she died on the 25th of
August, 1807, aged thirty-four years.
* * * * *
THE GENTLE STEP.
BY HARRIET J. MEEK.
Hearts somewhere beat, from which it cannot pass;
Earth has no sunshine left, nor time nor place,
But a new scene slides o’er the magic glass,
And _we_ forget the space.
Light, and still lighter seemed that step to fall;
I scarce could tell you when it ceased, or how;
A breathing spirit walked the earth—’tis all—
That does not walk it now.
I think sometimes upon the sunny floor
I see the shadow of her golden hair;
And turn half-dreaming to the open door,
To look if she is there.
And then I mind. Life’s rough and thorny round
Would long ere this have torn the folded wing
Whose downy waving glided over sound,
And left it slumbering.
Death came, when flowers were passing from the earth;
We thought to hear the clanking of his chain,
But the light step one evening left the hearth,
And came not back again.
* * * * *
BARBARA UTTMAN’S DREAM.
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
In the little hamlet of Anneberg, far up among the Erzberges or Copper
Mountains of Saxony, there dwelt, once upon a time, a gentle child named
Barbara. She was so fair, with such soft blue eyes, such long golden
curls, and withal wearing a look of such exceeding sweetness, that the
people of the hamlet, who were all miners, or workers in metal, called
her by a name that signified the “Lily of the Mines.” Barbara was an
orphan, a little lone creature, whom no one claimed, but whom every body
loved. Her father had been a delver into the depths of the earth, and
when she was only a tiny little baby, he had kissed her round cheek, and
gone to his daily labor at early dawn; but ere the shadows of the dark
trees fell toward the eastern slope of the hills, he was brought home
mangled and lifeless. The “fire-damp” had seized him and his companions;
or, as the simple peasants believed, the demon of the mine had arisen in
his might, and torn to pieces the daring spoilers of his treasure-house.
Barbara’s mother did not long outlive the dreadful sight. She pined
away, with a dull aching at her heart, and one morning a kind neighbor
found the child sleeping calmly on the cold bosom of her dead mother.
From that moment the little Barbara became the nursling of the whole
hamlet. The good women of the village remembered that she had been born
on a Sunday morning, and according to their tender and beautiful faith,
the “_Sabbath-child_” had received a peculiar blessing, which was
shared, in some degree, by all who ministered to her wants. So Barbara
was the foster-child of many mothers, and found heart-kindred in every
cottage. But chiefly did she dwell, after she had grown beyond the
swaddling-bands of infancy, in the house of the good Gottlieb, the
pastor of this little mountain flock of Christians. Barbara grew up a
gentle quiet child, rarely mingling in the noisy sports of the
villagers, and loving nothing so well as to steal away to some forest
nook, where she would sit for hours looking out upon the rugged face of
nature, and weaving dreams, whose web, like that of the wood-spider, was
broken by a breath.
Some said—“little Barbara is moping for the lack of kindred.” Others
said more truly—“Nay, is she not a blessed Sabbath-child? It may be
that the spirit of her dead mother is with her in the lonely places
where she loves to abide; hinder her not, therefore, lest ye break the
unseen bond between the living and the dead.” So Barbara was left to the
guidance of her own sweet will, and long ere she had grown beyond
childhood she was familiar with all the varied aspects of nature in the
wild and beautiful country of her birth. It seemed as if some holy charm
had indeed been bestowed on the little orphaned Sabbath-child, for every
living thing seemed to recognize in her a gentle and loving companion.
All the children of the hamlet loved her, and it was wonderful to see
the little shy birds hopping about her feet to pick the crumbs which she
always scattered for them in her wanderings.
But Barbara was not a merry, light-hearted maiden. Cheerful she was and
gentle, but not gay, for a cloud had fallen upon her earliest years, and
a shadow from Death’s wing had thrown a gloom over her infant life,
darkening those days which should have been all sunshine. True, she had
found friends to shield her from want, but never did she see a child
nestling upon its mother’s bosom, without feeling a mournful loneliness
of heart. Therefore it was that she loved to steal away to the green
foldings of the hills, and hold companionship with the pleasant things
of earth, where, in the quietude of her own pure nature, she could
commune with herself. She had early learned to think of her mother as an
angel in heaven, and, when she looked up to the blue sky, gorgeous in
its drapery of gold and purple clouds, or shining with its uncounted
multitude of stars, she never forgot that she was gazing upon the outer
gates of that glorious home, where dwelt her long lost parents. Yet she
was not an idle or listless dreamer in a world where all have their
mission to fulfill, and where none are so desolate as to have no duties
to perform. She learned all the book-lore that the good pastor chose to
impart to the little maidens of the hamlet, and no hand was more
skillful than hers with the knitting-needle and distaff. Thus she grew
up, delicate and fair, with eyes as blue as summer skies, and long
golden locks, hanging almost to her feet, for she was as tiny as a fairy
in stature.
There came sometimes to the cottage of Father Gottlieb, a dark-browed
man, whose towering form and heavily-built limbs gave him the semblance
of some giant of the hills. His voice was loud and as clear as a
trumpet-call, and his step was bold and firm, like that of a true-born
mountaineer. He was the owner of vast tracts in the mine districts, and
stores of untold wealth lay hidden for him in earth’s deep caverns. Herr
Uttman was stern of visage, and bold—it may be rough—in his bearing,
but his heart was as gentle as a woman’s. He loved to sit at Gottleib’s
board, and, while partaking of his simple fare, to drink in the wisdom
which the good pastor had learned in far-off lands. The wonders of
Nature—the mystic combinations that are ever going on in her
subterranean laboratory—the secret virtues, or the equally secret
venom, which is found in her humblest plants—the slow but unfailing
process of her developments, by which the small and worthless acorn
grows into the towering oak, and the winged seed lifts its broad pinions
in the new form of leafy branches toward the skies—all these things
Herr Uttman loved to learn from the lips of the wise old man. Therefore
did he seek the pastor’s cottage whenever he had leisure to listen to
his teachings.
Uttman’s kindly heart had early warmed toward the orphan child of
Gottlieb’s adoption. He won her infantine love by telling her wild tales
of the dark mines, and the fantastic spirits of the nether world. He had
tales of the Fire-Demon, and the Water-Dragon, of the Mocking-Imp, who
led poor miners to their destruction, by mimicking the voice of a
companion, and of the dazzling Cavern-Queen, the flash of whose diamond
crown, and the gleam of whose brighter eyes, lured the poor workman to a
frightful death. To sit on his knee, twining her small fingers in the
black curls which fell unshorn upon his shoulders—to look in his great
dark eyes as they gleamed with the enthusiasm of that half-poetic nature
which is the inheritance of a high-hearted mountaineer—to feel herself
nestling like a dove on his broad breast, and clinging to him half in
terror, half in delight, as his strong words brought all those fearful
shapes vividly before her eyes—these had been Barbara’s pleasures when
a little child.
But Barbara could not always remain the petted child, and the time came
when the budding maiden sat on a stool at Uttman’s feet, and no longer
leaned her head upon his bosom while she listened to his wild legends.
At first Herr Uttman was troubled at the change in Barbara’s manner,
then he pondered over its meaning, and at last he seemed to awaken to a
new perception of happiness. So he asked Barbara to be his wife, and
though his years doubly numbered hers, she knew that she loved no one
half so well, and, with the affection which a child might feel for a
tender parent, she gave him the troth-pledge of her maiden faith. Nor
was Barbara mistaken in her recognition of his real nature. A rough and
stern man did he seem to many, but his heart was full of kindness, and
his affections, though repressed and silent, yet, like a mountain
stream, made for themselves only a deeper channel. He had an abiding
love for Nature. He defaced not her fair bosom with the scars of the
plough or the pick-axe, but following the course of the dark ravine, and
entering into the yawning chasm, he opened his way into earth’s
treasure-house, leaving the trees to tower from the mountain’s brow, the
streams to leap down their rocky beds, and the green sward to stretch
down the sunny slopes. Barbara was as a dove nestling in the branches of
a stately tree. No wonder her husband worshiped her, for his affections
were like a full, deep stream rushing through a mine, and she was like
the star, which, even at noonday, may be seen reflected in its depths.
She was the angel of his life, the bright and beautiful spirit of truth
and love within his household.
Years passed on and Barbara had but one ungratified hope within her
heart. God had given her no children, and the tenderness of her nature
found no vent save in her kindly charities. To the poor, and needy, and
sorrowful, she was the friend and benefactress, but her heart sometimes
thrilled with a vain repining, and she felt a thirst for those pure
waters which spring up only in a mother’s pathway. One night she was
oppressed with sadness, and ere she yielded herself up to sleep, she
prayed that this vain longing within her heart might be quenched for
ever, or find some solace in the duties which lay around her.
Scarcely had she closed her eyes in slumber, when her couch was visited
by a wild and wonderful dream. She dreamed she was standing within the
porch, when a lady clad in shining raiment, emerged from the foldings of
the hills and slowly approached her. The lady’s face was hidden beneath
a snow-white veil of some transparent fabric, which though it seemed as
translucent as water, yet, like water, gave an indistinctness to the
object seen through it. But when the strange visitant spoke, her voice
thrilled through Barbara’s inmost heart, for it was the spirit-voice
which she had so often heard in her childhood—the voice of her dead
mother. It seemed to Barbara that the lady stood close beside her, and
then, without fear Barbara laid her head on the stranger’s bosom and
clasped her arms around her tall form, while she rather _felt_ than
heard these words:
“Daughter lift up thine eyes, and behold the children which the Lord
hath given unto thee.”
Barbara raised her head and beheld a train of young maidens clad in the
simple costume of the Saxon peasant, and linked together as it seemed by
webs of the same transparent texture as that which veiled the lady’s
face. Slowly they passed before her wondering eyes, fading into thin air
as they became lost in the distance, but still succeeded by others,
similarly clad and holding webs of the same delicate fabric, until
Barbara’s brain grew giddy as the troop swept on and on unceasingly.
Weary with gazing she closed her eyes, and when she re-opened them the
maidens had vanished; only the strange lady in her shining garments was
beside her, and she heard a low, silvery voice saying:
“They who are called to fulfill a mission among nations must find their
sons and their daughters beneath the roof-tree of the poor and the
oppressed. Childless art thou, Barbara, yet the maidens of Saxony
through yet uncounted ages shall call thee mother.”
Barbara awoke from her dream, but so strongly was it impressed upon her
memory, that she could not banish it from her thoughts for many days.
But it had done its work upon her gentle spirit, for from that hour she
felt that Heaven had some recompense in store for her, and though
utterly unable to interpret her vision, she endeavored by redoubling her
charities to find for herself children among the needy and sorrowful.
But year after year fleeted on, and the Herr Uttman’s coal-black locks
had become almost silver-white, while Barbara’s cheek had lost nothing
of its smoothness, and her golden locks, though gathered beneath a
matron’s coif, were still as glossy and sunny as in her girlhood. (For
time seemed to have spared her gentle beauty, as if in reverence for the
gentle spirit which it had so long clothed in a fitting garb.) She had
long since forgotten her youthful repinings, for from every cottage in
the hamlet had blessings gone up to heaven upon her who was the friend
of the friendless, and, though her dream was still vivid in her
remembrance, she fancied that she had already attained its fulfillment
in the gratitude of the poor.
“Come with me, sweet wife, and I will show thee a new wonder in the
mines,” said the good Herr Uttman, one summer’s morning.
Barbara looked up with a pleasant smile:
“Have I not threaded with thee all the mazes of the dark mountains, and
gathered the glittering spar, the many-tinted stone, and the rough gem?
Are there yet more marvels in thy dark domain?”
“Nay, don thy wimple and hood, and thou shalt see.”
So Barbara went forth with her husband, and he led her to the yawning
mouth of a dark cavern in the mountains. Carefully enfolding her in a
thick cloak, to protect her from the jagged points of the rocks, he took
her in his arms, (for he had lost none of his gigantic strength,) and
bore her like a child, into the cavern. For a time they wended their way
in what seemed to her total darkness, and she was only conscious of
being carried along winding passages, where she felt the spray of a
subterranean torrent, and heard the dash of its waters in some
unfathomed chasm. At length her husband, setting her feet upon a broad
ledge of rock, lifted the cloak from her face and bade her look upon the
scene before her.
Barbara found herself at the entrance of a long gallery in the mine, in
the roof of which an aperture had been made up to the outer surface of
the mountain, and through which a flood of sunshine was pouring down
into what seemed a glittering corridor, hung with festoons of the most
exquisitely wrought tapestry. Never had Barbara beheld any thing so
fantastically beautiful. The sides of the shaft were covered with a half
transparent fabric, enwrought with patterns like rich embroidery,
through which the gleam of the metal shone like gold, as the sunbeam
danced into the cavern depths.
It was a gallery in the mine, which years before had been closed up and
forgotten. The workmen, while digging an air-shaft, had struck into the
disused chamber. Cut in the solid ore, the pillars which supported its
roof were carved into grotesque shapes, as the whim of the old miners
had directed the stroke of their tools. During the years that it had
been closed, the spiders had taken possession of its walls, and their
webs, spun over and over again, for more than half a century, had
produced a tapestry richer in design, and more airy in fabric than ever
came from the looms of Ispahan. It needed but little stretch of
imagination to behold the vine with its tiny tendrils and drooping
fruit, the rose with its buds and leaves, the fantastic arabesque
border, and the quaint devices of ancient emblazoning in that
many-tissued yet translucent web. No where else could the same humble
material have worn the same magical beauty, for the mingled colors of
the ore which formed the walls, and the golden sunshine pouring in
through the roof, tinted the woven tracery with all the hues of the
rainbow.
Barbara stood entranced before this strange spectacle, but while she
gazed, dim and vague recollections came thronging upon her mind. At
length all was clear to her. In the webs which adorned the walls of the
mine, she recognized the beautiful drapery which had veiled the face of
her dream-visitant, and had linked together the band of dream-children
in former years. A cry of wild surprise broke from her lips, and from
that moment she felt that there was a mysterious connection between her
fate and this haunted chamber of the mine.
Now when Barbara returned to her home, and sat down amid her workwomen,
she told of this wondrous fabric woven by the little fairy spinners in
the mine. It happened that among the pensioners of her bounty was
numbered a certain woman from Brabrant who had been driven from her home
by the cruelties practiced by the Duke of Alva in the Low Countries. In
her own country she had learned to weave a coarse kind of lace, and when
she heard her lady describe the delicate texture of the spiders’ webs,
she drew forth some flaxen threads, and wove them into meshes resembling
somewhat the drapery which Barbara had so admired. This was all that was
wanting to give purpose and definiteness to Barbara’s vague fancies.
They who look with most pleasure on a finished work, are oft-times most
easily wearied with tracing the slow footsteps of the patient laborer.
The reader would tire of this faithful chronicle if called to watch the
gradual progress of Barbara Uttman’s schemes of wide spread good. By
unwearied toil she made herself acquainted with the means of perfecting
the new manufacture, which offered to her prophetic spirit a means of
livelihood to the feebler portion of the poor. Going on from one
improvement to another, she finally invented the cushion, the bobbins,
and the pins, by which hand-woven lace is wrought with such perfect
symmetry and regularity of fabric and design as make it, even now, the
costliest of all the trappings of wealth. Then—when the invention was
perfected—by offering premiums to those who would engage in the work,
by establishing manufactories in her own domain, by precept and example,
and all the varied means of influence which wealth and virtue had placed
within her power, she established the weaving of lace as the especial
employment of the women of Saxony. Thousands of maidens have found their
sole support in this employment, and for nearly three hundred years the
name of Barbara Uttman has been revered as the “mother” of many
daughters, and the benefactress of the women of more than one nation in
Europe.
* * * * *
Gentle reader, I have beguiled you with no fictitious tale. In the
church-yard of the little mountain hamlet of Anneberg lie the remains of
Barbara Uttman, who was born in 1514, married in 1531 to Christopher
Uttman, a rich mine-owner, and died a widow in 1575. A visit to a
long-disused shaft in a mine, where the spiders’ had woven their webs
for fifty years, gave her the first idea of that beautiful fabric,
which, under the various names of Mechlen, Valenciennes, and Brussels
lace, makes the choicest of all additions to a lady’s toilet. It is said
that since her establishment of its manufacture in 1560, upwards of a
million of women are supposed to have obtained a comfortable livelihood
by this species of employment. Notwithstanding the general introduction
of a much inferior kind of lace, which is woven by machinery, at least
twenty thousand women in Europe, annually obtain their support from the
manufacture of hand-woven lace. With the far-seeing spirit of true
philanthropy a woman thus solved for her country the problem which
statesmen yet cavil over, and by affording the poor a means of humble
independence, rescued the females of her own land from want and
destitution. Yet how few of those who deck themselves with lace, only
less costly than diamonds, have ever heard the name of Barbara Uttman!
* * * * *
SUNSET UPON “THE STEINE-KILL.”
BY KATE DASHWOOD.
[The Steine-Kill is one of the sparkling tributaries of our American
Rhine, the Hudson, and signifies “Stony River.”]
Our own bright “Steine-Kill!” once more, once more!
Thy wavelets steal the glowing hues of Heaven,
And now with stranger glory than before,
The gold-encrimsoned clouds melts into even.
One soft-veiled rose-cloud floateth slowly on,
Mirrored in thy calm bosom; rainbow-dyes
All radiant, vie with glowing hues like morn;
While far amid the deep’ning west, arise
Strange giant-forms, that seem to guard the skies.
Ay, giant-clouds!—from out the vestibule
Of Heaven’s vast, dark’ning dome, what mighty train
Comes forth!—a cavalcade of kings—whose sceptered rule,
The whole broad realm of Heaven! Lo, again
Their host they marshal—where the God of Day
Sinks, like a wearied conqueror, to his rest,
They have usurped his throne; with proud array
Of gold and purple canopy o’er thy breast—
A gorgeous couch!—rest captive conqueror!
The orient guards thy bright triumphal car.
But, lo, another scene—a battle-plain—
The deep-toned roar of Heaven’s artillery!
’Mid iron hail and lightning-flash, again
The shattered hosts rush fiercely to the fray!
’Mid foaming steed, and flashing shield and spear,
And waving oriflame, those warrior-clouds
Surge onward like the sea!—a mighty bier
Yawns to receive them—for the darkness shrouds
Them, as a tomb, and solemn twilight’s reign
Broodeth o’er Heaven’s ensanguined battle-plain.
Thus, change the scenes of thy great drama, Life!
Love, Hate, Pride—the fever-dreams
Of restless energies, warring with the strife
Of bigot Ignorance; while brightly gleams
The radiant light of Hope! Ah! are not all
These passions mirrored from our hearts, in those
We love and influence?—ever may their thrall
Be like the _secret fount_ the lap-wing knows,[3]
E’er pure, and calm, and holy—as thy breast—
Oh, Steine-Kill! whereon the twilight rests.
-----
[3] It is known that the “hud-hud,” or lap-wing, possesses the instinct
to discover subterranean springs.
* * * * *
A SONG.
FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.
BY GIFTIE.
Oft when the evening sun is low,
Along the billowing sea
Is heard the echoing sound of bells,
Ringing harmoniously.
Ringing the call to vesper prayer,
With muffled tone and low,
From the towers of that old “wonder-town,”
Submerged so long ago.
And as the billows dance and play
Beneath the lingering light,
The sailor sees far in the sea
A strange and fearful sight;
For temple, tower and palace gleam
I’ the sunset’s golden sheen;
And ghostly people walk the streets
Like a crowd of living men.
Oh, human heart! art thou not like
That city lost of old
With all thy glittering towers of pride,
And buried joys untold.
The tides of life rush over thee,
But cannot sweep away
The temples of thine early hopes—
Thine halls of imagery.
And from thy depths there comes a tone—
A music sad and low;
The requiem of thy buried loves,
That perished long ago.
And gloriously thy visions gleam
I’ the light of memory;
Oh, human heart! art thou not like
That city of the sea.
* * * * *
THE OLD NEW HOUSE.
BY H. HASTINGS WELD.