of life and death. How differently all questions connected with the
subject presented themselves now! As he sat beside that darling son,
the pride of his life, his only hope on earth, oh, how he longed for
words of fire, to plead that his young existence might be spared for
repentance and amendment! How well he remembered the juryman’s plea for
youth and intoxication! and with what an agony of self-reproach he
recalled his own hard answer! With intense anxiety he watched the
countenance of the jury for some gleams of compassion; but ever and
anon, a pale young face loomed up between him and them, and gazed at him
with fixed despair. The vision of other years returned to haunt him; and
Joseph, his best beloved, his only one, stood beside it, pale and
handcuffed, as _he_ had been. The voice that pronounced his son guilty
sounded like an awful echo of his own; and he seemed to hear Mary
Williams whisper, “And _my_ son also was very young.”
That vigorous off-shoot from his own existence, so full of life and
feeling, and, alas, of passion, which misguides us all--he must die! No
earthly power can save him. May the ALL MERCIFUL sustain that poor
father, as he watches the heavy slumber of his only son in that dark
prison; and while he clasps the cold hand, remembers so well the dimpled
fingers he used to hold in his, when little Joe sat upon his knee and
prattled childish love.
And the ALL MERCIFUL _was_ with him, and sent influences to sustain him
through that terrible agony. It did not break his heart; it melted and
subdued him. The congealed sympathies of his nature flowed under this
ordeal of fire; and, for the first time, he had a realizing sense that
_every_ human being is, or has been, _somebody’s_ little Joe.
“How kind you are to me!” said the prisoner, in answer to his soothing
words and affectionate attentions.
He replied meekly, “Would I had _always_ been so!” Then turning his face
away, and earnestly pressing Joseph’s hand, he said, in an agitated
voice, “Tell me truly, my son, does it ever occur to you, that I may
have been to blame for this great misfortune that has befallen you?”
“_You_, dear father!” he exclaimed. “I do not understand what you mean.”
Still keeping his face turned away, and speaking with effort, Mr. Barker
said, “Do you remember once, when I was beating my horse cruelly, (you
were a boy of twelve then) neighbour Goodwin remarked to me, that I was
giving a bad lesson to my son? I was angry with him at the time; and
perhaps that resentment helped to make me hard toward a poor young
fellow who is dead and gone; but his words keep ringing in my ears
_now_. May God, in his mercy, forgive me, if I have ever done or said
any thing to lead you into this great sin! Tell me, Joseph, do you ever
think it might have happened otherwise, if you had had a less violent
father?”
“My poor father!” exclaimed the prisoner, pressing his hand
convulsively, “it almost breaks my heart to hear you thus humble
yourself before me, who so little deserve it at your hands. Only forgive
me _my_ violent outbreaks, dear father! for in the midst of them all, I
always loved you. You have always sought to do me good, and would rather
have died, than have led me into any harm. But since I have been here in
prison, I have thought of many things, that never occurred to me before.
The world and all things in it are placed before me in a different
light. It seems to me men are all wrong in their habits and teachings. I
see now that retaliation and hatred are murder. I have read often, of
late, the exhortation of Jesus to forgive our brother his offences, not
only seven times, but seventy times seven; and I feel that thus it
_ought_ to be with human beings in all their relations with each other.
What I have done cannot be undone; but if it will be any satisfaction to
you, rest assured that I did not intend to kill him. I was wretched, and
I was fool enough to drink; and then I knew not what I did. Violent as
my temper has been, I never conceived the thought of taking his life.”
“I know it, my son; I know it,” he said; “and that reflection consoles
me in some degree. While I have a loaf of bread, I will share it with
the mother and sister of him you----” he hesitated, shuddered, and added
in a low deep tone--“you murdered.”
“I was going to ask that of you,” replied the prisoner; “and one thing
more, dear father; try to bear up bravely under this terrible blow, for
the sake of my poor patient mother.”
“I will, I will,” he answered; “and now my dear misguided boy, say you
forgive your poor father for the teachings of his violent words and
actions. I did not foresee the consequences, my child. I did it in my
ignorance. But it was wrong, wrong, all wrong.”
The young man threw himself on his father’s bosom, and they had no other
utterance but tears.
* * * * *
After his only strong link to life was broken by the violent arm of the
law, Mr. Barker was a changed man; silent, and melancholy, patient,
gentle, and forgiving to all. He never complained of the great sorrow
that wasted away his life; but the neighbours saw how thin and sad he
looked, and the roughest natures felt compassion for him.
Every year, she who had been Mary Williams received a hundred dollar
note. He never whispered to any mortal that it was sent by the juryman
who helped to condemn her son to death; but when he died, a legacy of a
thousand dollars to her showed that he never forgot the pale despairing
face, that for years had haunted his dreams.
THE FAIRY FRIEND.
Spirit, who waftest me where’er I will,
And see’st with finer eyes what infants see;
Feeling all lovely truth,
With the wise health of everlasting youth.
LEIGH HUNT.
In these rational days, most people suppose that fairies do not exist;
but they are mistaken. The mere fact that fairies have been imagined
proves that there are fairies; for fancy, in her oddest freaks, never
paints any thing which has no existence. She merely puts invisible
agencies into visible forms, and embodies spiritual influences in
material facts. It seems a wild fiction when we read of beautiful young
maidens floating in gossamer, and radiant with jewels, who suddenly
change into mocking old hags, or jump off into some slimy pool, in the
form of a frog; or like the fair Melusina, doomed to become a fish on
certain days of the year, and those who happened to see her in that
plight could never again see her as the Fair Melusina. Yet who that has
grown from youth to manhood, who that has been in love and out of love,
has not found the fairies of his life playing him just such tricks?
In the fascinating ballet of Giselle, so poetic in conception, and so
gracefully expressed in music, there is deep and tender meaning for all
who have lived long, or lived much. Is not Memory a fairy spirit, like
Giselle, dancing round graves, hovering between us and the stars,
flitting across our woodland rambles, throwing us garlands and
love-tokens from the past, coming to us in dreams, so real that we clasp
our loved ones, and gliding away when morning gleams on the material
world?
Oh yes there _are_ fairies, both good and bad; and they are with us
according as we obey or disobey their laws of being. One, with whom I
made acquaintance as soon as I could run alone, has visited me ever
since; though sometimes she pouts and hides herself, and will not soon
come back. I am always sad when she is gone; for she is a wonder-working
little sprite, and she takes all my wealth away with her. If you were to
gaze on a field of dandelions, if _she_ were not at your elbow, you
would merely think they were pretty posies, and would make excellent
greens for dinner. But if _she_ touches you, and renders you
clairvoyant, they will surprise you with their golden beauty, and every
blossom will radiate a halo. Sometimes she fills the whole air with
rainbows, as if Nature were out for a dance, with all her ribbons on. A
sup of water, taken from a little brook, in the hollow of her hand, has
made me more merry than would a goblet of wine. She has often filled my
apron with opals, emeralds, and sapphires, and I was never weary of
looking at them; but those who had wandered away from the fairy, and
forgotten her treasures, sneered at my joy, and said, “Fie upon thee!
Wilt thou _always_ be a child? They are nothing but pebbles.”
Last Spring, my friendly little one guided me to a silver-voiced
waterfall at Weehawken, where a group of German forget-me-nots were
sitting with their feet in the water. Their little blue eyes laughed
when they saw me. I asked what made them smile in my face so lovingly.
They answered, “Because we hear a pleasant song, and _you_ know what it
says to us.” It was not I who knew; it was the fairy; but she had
magnetized me, and so I heard all that was said to her.
A wealthy invalid passed by, afflicted with dyspepsia. He did not see
the flowers smile, or hear the waterfall singing his flowing melody of
love to the blue eyes that made his home so beautiful. He had parted
from the fairy long ago. He told her she was a fool, and that none would
ever grow rich, who suffered themselves to be led by her. She laughed
and said, “Thou dost not know that I alone am rich; always, and every
where, rich. But go thy ways, vain worldling. Shouldst thou come back to
me, I will ask if thou hast ever found any thing equal to my gems and
rainbows.” She gazed after him for a moment, and laughed again, as she
exclaimed, “Aha, let him try!”
The gay little spirit spoke truly; for indeed there is nothing so real
as her unrealities. Those who have parted from her complain that she
made them large promises in their early time, and has never kept them;
but to those who remain with her trustfully, she more than fulfils all.
For _them_ she covers the moss-grown rock with gold, and fills the
wintry air with diamonds. It is many years since she first began to tell
me her fine stories. But this very last New Year’s day she led me out
into the country, and lighted up all the landscape as I went, so that it
seemed lovelier than the rarest pictures. The round bright face of the
moon smiled at me, and said, “I know thee well. Thou hast built many
castles up here. Come to them whenever thou wilt. Their rose-coloured
drapery, with rainbow fringes, is more real than silken festoons in
Broadway palaces.” I was glad at heart, and I said to my fairy, “The
sheriff cannot attach _our_ furniture, or sell _our_ castles at
auction.” “No indeed,” she replied. “He cannot even _see_ them. He has
forgotten me. He thinks all the gems I show are only pebbles, and all my
prismatic mantles mere soap-bubbles.”
This simple little sprite says much richer things than the miracles she
does. Her talk is all alive. She is a poet, though she knows it not; or,
rather _because_ she knows it not. She tells me the oddest and most
brilliant things; and sometimes I write them down imperfectly, as well
as I can remember them. Matter-of-fact persons shake their heads, and
say, “What on earth does the woman mean? I never see and hear such
things.” And grave people raise their spectacles and inquire, “Can you
point me out any moral, or any use, in all this stuff?” “There is no
sense in it,” says one; “The writer is insane,” says another; “She’s an
enthusiast, but we must pardon _that_ weakness,” says a third, more
magnanimous than others. The fairy and I have great fun together, while
we listen to their jokes and apologies. The frolicsome little witch
knows very well that it is _she_ who says the things that puzzle them;
and _she_ knows the meaning very well; but she never tells it to those
who “speer questions.”
She is a philosopher, too, as well as a poet, without being aware of it.
She babbles all manner of secrets, without knowing that they _are_
secrets. If you were to propound to her a theory concerning the relation
between tones and colours, she would fold her wings over her face and
drop asleep. But sound a flute, and she will leap up and exclaim, “Hear
that beautiful, bright azure sound!” And if oboës strike in, she will
smile all over, and say, “Now the yellow flowers are singing. How pert
and _naïve_ they are!” It was she who led the little English girl to the
piano, and put a melody of cowslip meadows in her brain; and as the
child improvised, she smiled, and said ever to herself, “This is the
tune with the golden spots.”
But this genial little fairy is easily grieved and estranged. Her
movements are impulsive, she abhors calculators, and allows no
questions. If she shows you a shining gem, be careful not to inquire
what would be its price in the market; otherwise its lustre will fade
instantly, and you will have to ask others whether the thing you hold in
your hand has any beauty or value. If she beckons into blooming paths,
follow her in simple faith, whether she leads to castles in the moon, or
lifts up a coverlet of leaves to peep at little floral spirits sound
asleep, with their arms twined round the fragrant blossoms of the
arbutus. She carries with her Aladdin’s lamp, and all the things she
looks upon are luminous with transfigured glory. Take heed not to
inquire where the path will lead to, whether others are accustomed to
walk in it, or whether they will believe your report of its wonderful
beauty. Above all, be careful not to wish that such visions may be kept
from the souls of others, that your own riches may seem marvellous and
peculiar. Wish _this_ but for a single instant and you will find
yourself all alone, in cold gray woods, where owls hoot, and spectral
shadows seem to lie in wait for you. But if with a full heart you crave
forgiveness for the selfish thought, and pray earnestly that the divine
Spirit of Beauty may be revealed to all, and not one single child of God
be excluded from the radiant palace, then will the fairy come to you
again, and say, “Now thou and I are friends again. Give me thy hand, and
I will lead thee into gardens of paradise. Because thou hast not wished
to shut up _any_ thing, therefore thou shalt possess _all_ things.”
Instantly the cold gray woods shine through a veil of gold; the shadows
dance, and all the little birds sing, “Joy be with thee.” A spirit nods
welcome to you from every cluster of dried grass; a soul beams through
the commonest pebble; ferns bow before you more gracefully than the
plumes of princes; and verdant mosses kiss your feet more softly than
the richest velvets of Genoa.
Trust the good little fairy. Be not disturbed by the mockery of those
who despise her simple joys. She said truly, “I alone am rich; always,
and everywhere, rich.”
WERGELAND, THE POET.
The busy bees, up coming from the meadows
To the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,
Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.
LEIGH HUNT.
Wergeland was one of the most popular poets Norway has ever produced. He
rhymed with wonderful facility, and sometimes, when a rush of
inspiration came upon him, he would write verses during a whole day and
night, with untiring rapidity, scarcely pausing to eat, or to rest his
hand. In the poems which expressed his own inward life there was often
something above common comprehension; but, in addition to those higher
efforts, he wrote a great number of verses for the peasantry, in all the
peculiar dialects of their various districts. The merest trifle that
flowed from his pen is said to have contained some sparkling fancy, or
some breathing of sentiments truly poetic. He was an impassioned lover
of nature, and in his descriptions of natural objects was peculiar for
making them seem alive. Thus in one of his poems he describes the winds
coming through clefts of rock, forming a powerful current in the fiord,
driving white-crested waves before them, like a flock of huge
storm-birds. A lawyer, who passes through the current in a boat,
imagines the great waves to be angry spectres of the many poor clients
whom he has wronged. He throws one ten dollars, another twenty, another
fifty, to pacify them. At last, a wondrous tall wave stretches forth his
long neck, as if to swallow him. The terrified lawyer throws him a
hundred dollars, imploring him to be merciful. Just then, the boat turns
a corner of the rock, out of the current. The great wave eagerly bends
his long arm round the rock, and tries to clutch him; then retreats,
disappointed at his escape.
Wergeland had a strongly marked head, full of indentations, like a bold
rocky shore. He was an athletic, earnest, jovial man, and enjoyed life
with a keen zest. His manner of telling a story was inimitably funny and
vivacious. While he was settling his spectacles, before he began to
speak, a smile would go mantling all over the lower part of his face,
announcing that something good was coming. His soul went forth with warm
spontaneousness to meet all forms of being; and this lively sympathy
seemed to attract both men and animals toward him magnetically. He was
accustomed to saddle his own horse, which stood loose in the barn, among
pet rabbits, pet pigeons, pet birds, all sorts of poultry, and a
favourite cat. These creatures all lived in the greatest friendship
together. They knew their master’s voice perfectly well; and the moment
he opened the door, they would all come neighing, purring, cooing,
singing, crowing, capering and fluttering about him. His cottage was a
picturesque place, ornamented with all sorts of mosses, vines, and
flowers. Under it was a grotto made of rocks and shells, in which were
an old hermit, with a long beard, and various other grotesque figures,
carved in wood. The grotto was occasionally lighted up in the evening,
and the images, seen among flickering shadows, excited great awe in the
minds of peasant children.
This gifted and genial man, who lived in such loving companionship with
nature, was called away from the earth, which seemed to him so cheerful,
before he had passed the middle term of human life. The news of his
death was received with lamentation by all classes in Norway. Crowds of
people went to Christiana to bid farewell to the lifeless body of their
favorite poet. While in the last stage of consumption, in May, 1845, he
wrote the following verses, which were read to me by one of his
countrymen, who translated them literally, as he went along. Even
through this imperfect medium, my heart was deeply touched by their
childlike simplicity and farewell sadness. The plaintive voice seemed to
become my own, and uttered itself thus, in English rhyme, which
faithfully preserves the sense of the original:
SUPPLICATION TO SPRING.
Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!
Bring healing on thy balmy wing!
I loved thee more than all the year.
To no one hast thou been more dear.
Bright emeralds I valued less,
Than early grass, and water-cress.
Gem of the year I named _thy_ flower,
Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower.
The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,
Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes;
But _they_ were far less dear to me,
Than _thy_ simple wild anemone.
Bear witness for me, little flower!
Beloved from childhood’s earliest hour;
And dandelions, so much despised,
Whose blossoms more than gold I prized.
I welcomed swallows on the wing,
And loved them for their news of Spring.
I gave a feast for the earliest one,
As if a long-lost child had come,
Blest harbingers of genial hours,
Unite _your_ voices with the flowers!
Dear graceful birds, pour forth your prayer,
That nature will her poet spare!
Plead with the Maker of the rain!
That he will chilling showers restrain;
And my poor breast no longer feel
Sharp needle-points of frosty steel.
Thou beautiful old maple tree!
For my _love’s_ sake, pray _thou_ for me!
Thy leaf-buds, op’ning to the sun,
Like pearls I counted ev’ry one.
I wished I might thy grandson be,
Dear, ven’rable old maple tree!
That my young arms might round thee twine,
And mix my vernal crown with thine.
Ah, even now, full well I ween,
Thou hast thy robe of soft light-green.
I seem to hear thee whisp’ring slow
To the vernal grass below.
Stretch thy strong arms toward the sky,
And pray thy poet may not die!
I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet,
And pour out wine upon thy feet.
Blessings on the patriarch tree!
Hoarsely he intercedes for me;
And little flowers, with voices mild,
Beg thee to spare thy suff’ring child.
Fair season, so beloved by me!
Thy young and old _all_ plead with thee.
Oh, heal me, with thy balmy wing!
I have so _worshipped_ thee, sweet Spring!
The following lines, written two days before he died, were addressed to
a fragrant, golden-coloured flower whose English name I cannot
ascertain.
TO THE GULDENLAK.
Sweet flower! before thy reign is o’er,
I shall be gone, to return no more,
Before thou losest thy crown of gold,
I shall lie low in the cold dark mould.
Open the window, and raise me up!
My last glance must rest on her golden cup.
My soul will kiss her, as it passes by
And wave farewell from the distant sky.
Yea, _twice_ will I kiss thy fragrant lip,
Where the wild honey-bee loves to sip.
The _first_, I will give for thy _own_ dear sake;
The _second_, thou must to my _rose-bush_ take.
I shall sleep sound in the silent tomb,
Before the beautiful bush will bloom;
But ask her the first fair rose to lay
On her lover’s grave, to fade away.
Give her the kiss I gave thee to keep,
And bid her come on my breast to sleep;
And, glowing flower, with sweetest breath,
Be thou our bridal torch in death!
THE EMIGRANT BOY.
’Tis lone on the waters,
When eve’s mournful bell,
Sends forth to the sunset
A note of farewell.
When, borne with the shadows
And winds, as they sweep,
There comes a fond memory
Of home o’er the deep.
HEMANS.
In the old town of Rüdesheim, on the Rhine, is one of those dilapidated
castles, which impart such picturesque beauty to the scenery of Germany.
Among the ruins, Karl Schelling, a poor hard-working peasant, made for
himself a home. With him dwelt his good wife Liesbet, and two blue-eyed
children, named Fritz and Gretchen. A few cooking utensils, and wooden
stools, constituted all their furniture; and one brown-and-white goat,
was all they had to remind them of flocks and herds. But these poor
children led a happier life, than those small imitations of humanity,
who are bred up in city palaces, and drilled to walk through existence
in languid drawing-room paces. From moss-grown arches in the old ruins,
they could watch boats and vessels gliding over the sparkling Rhine,
and see broad meadows golden with sunshine. On the terrace of the
castle, the wind had planted many flowers. It was richly carpeted with
various kinds of moss, tufts of grass, blue-bells, and little pinks.
Here Karl often carried his goat to feed, and left the children to tend
upon him. There had been a stork’s nest on the roof, from time
immemorial; and the little ones were early taught to reverence the
birds, as omens of blessing. Their simple young souls were quite
unconscious of poverty. The splendid Rhine, with all its islands--the
broad pasture-lands, with herds peacefully grazing--houses nestling
among woody hills--all seemed to belong to them; and in reality, they
possessed them more truly than many a rich man, who
“One moment gazes on his flowers,
The next they are forgot;
And eateth of his rarest fruits,
As though he ate them not.”
On their little heaps of straw, brother and sister slept soundly in each
other’s arms; and if the hooting of an owl chanced to wake them, some
bright star looked in with friendly eye, through chinks in the walls,
and said, “Go to sleep, little ones; for all little children are dear to
the good God.”